Trick Or Treat!

When I was a little kid growing up on Arlington Street, watching the weather report never became so important as it did only a few days before Halloween. Nothing spoils a good long night of "trick or treating" like a hard driving rain. God only knows how many Halloween nights I had to book it home in the pouring rain with my makeup running down my face.

We've been talking about what we were going to be for Halloween all along, but nothing was cut in stone until we actually dragged out those boxes of old clothes from the back of the closet. All we ever bought from the store back in my day was a cheap package of makeup from J. M. Fields or Zayre to compliment our costumes.

Zayre? What in the world is that?

Okay, for the young-uns out there, Zayre was nothing more than a modern day K-mart, only cheaper with a lot less quality. They even had a dirty little snack bar where you could get a greasy bag of over-salted stale popcorn from the popcorn machine. And you could wash that down with a warm glass of Coke that was so overloaded with syrup that the bubbles wouldn't tickle your nose.

There were Zayre stores all over the place. Man, you could hardly turn the corner without bumping into a Zayre. There was one in that strip mall just beyond Howard Johnson's at that Wellington Circle Intersection. You can tell I've been away for a while - huh?

I haven't the foggiest idea what they've done with that Howard Johnson's building. I still can't believe they've shut it down. I'm willing to bet that giant Liquor Store at Wellington Circle is still going strong. Now there's a commodity that's not struggling through the recession.

There was another Zayre down on Squire Road in Revere (commonly referred to as Route C1) just behind the Bisutekki Steak house in the Northgate Shopping Plaza. Wow, the Bisutekki Steak house, I almost forgot about that place.

Oh yeah, and there was a Zayre up in that small Plaza where Child World used to be on the south bound side of Route 1 at the Walnut Street off ramp. That was once listed as one of Massachusetts' most dangerous off ramps.

Another Zayre I remember was up on Route 28 (Main St) in North Reading on the left hand side before you got over the hill where the Starlight Drive-in used to be. I told you I've been away for awhile.

Zayre was eventually bought out by Ames. The acquisition drove Ames into bankruptcy. It kind of makes you wonder why a supposedly successful entity would even consider throwing its money away on a failing business - doesn't it?

The reason I got into the whole Zayre thing is because I'm mind traveling back to a time when all the kids in my family were still young enough to go out "trick or treating." My mother used to take us all over to Zayre to buy Halloween makeup. You could get a whole makeup kit for less than a dollar at Zayre.

Let me rephrase that. My mother and father both took us all over to Zayre. If my mother took us anywhere without my Dad, we'd have to take the bus or call Rosie because my mother never got her driver's license. Can you imagine that?

Back in the late fifties and early sixties, it was not all that uncommon for the "lady of the house" not to get her driver's license. That's back when it truly was a man's world. I have no idea whose world it is now. It certainly isn't mine - I can tell you that.

It was the Zayre over there at the Wellington Circle strip mall they took us to. I have no idea why I remember that. I mean, it's not like anything monumental happened during that shopping trip or anything. That's just the way I am.

I just spent fifteen minutes looking for my glasses that I set down somewhere around here. I still haven't found them, but I can remember shopping at Zayre for Halloween makeup forty-five years ago. Go figure - right? They say old hippies suffer from short term memory loss. I forget why they say that. Where was I now?

Oh yeah, the kind of makeup I'm talking about came in one of those plastic vacuum formed plastic packages stapled onto a display card. We're talking long before they heat sealed everything so tight that you need a chain saw to get your product out of the package. Back then, you could easily rip the plastic covering off. Today, they spend more money on the packaging than they do the product.

It's not as if you can steal anything anymore even if you wanted to. They've got those RIFD tabs imbedded in everything so that if you do try to sneak off without paying, you'll set off every bell and whistle from here to Timbuktu before you even get out the door. It makes no wonder everything costs so much. It's not because anybody's stealing anything. It's because of the high cost of surveillance.

Those makeup kits came with about a half-dozen soft wax bullets of different colors, and a couple of thumbnail cans of black and white makeup. It was up to you to come up with a creative way to compliment your costume using that makeup. That was easy enough to do if you were going the traditional route of becoming a clown or a hobo. If you were something entirely different, then it took a little improvising to pull it all together.

When we were kids, nobody went "trick or treating" wearing costumes they bought off the rack at the store - not in my neighborhood anyway. In my house, my parents kept a huge box of old clothes so we'd have something to rummage through to throw a costume together for Halloween.

Yeah, I did do the hobo routine once or twice. How could I not? I certainly had the clothes for it.

My Dad's old dress shirts were so big on me they looked like a wedding gown. His old trousers were so long I had to cut the legs off at the knees and they still dragged along the ground. He had a sport coat that hung all the way down to my ankles. And I was even lucky enough to find an old Stetson down inside that box that was so big it felt like I lost my head somewhere in the middle of the Omni Theatre.

Maybe I'm a little old fashioned. Actually, maybe I'm a lot old fashioned, but I really enjoyed the uncertainty involved with what you were becoming as you creatively threw your costume together on the spot. That was half the fun right there.

I can remember people asking, "And what are you supposed to be?" I honestly didn't know what I was so I'd make something up. There was a lady up on Pleasant View Ave who wouldn't give you any candy unless you told her what you were. So when she asked me, I said, "I'm supposed to be the mysterious stranger."

"Good answer," she laughed and gave me a candy bar.

Getting dressed to go out "trick or treating" was just as much fun as going out "trick or treating" itself. We huddled around that box of old clothes and picked through every article, mixing and matching along the way. Sometime we'd fight over something and have to negotiate a settlement.

We'd do the "I saw that first - No, you didn't - Yes, I did" routine back and forth for a while, but time was off the essence when you're getting ready to go out "trick or treating." You didn't have all night to fuss and fight over something so trivial as an old shirt or a pair of pants. There was just too much to do and so little time.

My big brother, Billy, was about as creative as a stick when it came to dressing up for Halloween. All I can ever remember that kid dressing up as was a ghost. He'd grab an old sheet, cut two eye holes in it, and he was all done. Man, you talk about a party pooper.

When My mother asked, "Don't you want to spend some time and get a little more creative?"

He'd say, "Nope, I'm just in it for the free candy. That's all I care about."

I'm really glad nobody else felt that way. One of my fondest childhood memories growing up on Arlington Street was sitting beside Julie and Carl in front of that big mirror on my mother's bureau, helping each other paint our faces with that Halloween makeup from Zayre.

We'd draw "tic-tac-toes," and stars, and moons, and God knows what else all over our faces. We'd laugh until our sides ached. Most importantly, We had a ball for ourselves.

The last accessory to your costume was what you were going to tote all that candy around in. Today they've got all kinds of fancy blinking plastic pumpkins and things like that to carry your plunder home in. They don't hold much, but then again, people don't give much nower days either.

When we were little kids, our candy bag was an old pillow case. Yep, you heard that right. And not only did we fill that up, but we used to run home, empty it out, and go back out and fill it up again. By the end of the night we wound up with a pile a candy that stacked so high you could hide behind it. Years later, my mother finally fessed up and admitted that she used to throw a lot of it away on us so we wouldn't eat it all. Gee, I feel so cheated.

By this stage of the game it's just starting to get dark outside. We'd take turns watching out the window to see if there were any "trick or treaters" out yet. My mother had this thing about not letting us be the first ones out there. She never was one to break any rules. That is so ironic because I can't remember ever following a rule in my life.

The moment we spotted so much as one kid walking down the street with a costume on, all hell broke loose. We ran down the stairs and out the door in two seconds flat. As soon as you hit the streets you were surrounded by "trick-or-treaters." We're talking a time when it was safe for kids to walk the streets at night, especially in your own neighborhood where you knew everybody.

Woah be it to anybody who dared to bother the kids on Arlington Street. They'd be drawn and quartered by the grownups right then and there in the middle of the street. Trust me, that crowd down on Arlington Street wouldn't bother to call the cops on ya. They'd settle the matter themselves.

Believe me, we knew exactly who gave what on Halloween. There was a lady down at the bottom of Villa Ave who gave out nickels to all the "trick-or-treaters." We always went over there first. About an hour later, we'd switch masks and go back a second time. You could never pull it off a third time because she'd catch on. Yes, I've tried. It didn't work.

My favorite was the people who gave out candy bars like "Three Musketeers," "Hershey's," and "Reese's Peanut Butter cups." I hated it when they handed you a bag of skittles or a lollipop. Jeez, what an ungrateful kid - no?

And don't ya just love those people who come to the door with a big basket full of candy bars and say, "Take as much as you want." That's when you really put your fingers to the test by stretching them out as far and wide as your skin would allow to grab as much as your little hands could grab in one fell swoop. It's funny how the spirit of Halloween knocks the inhibitions out of the shyest kids. Not that I was ever one of those, mind you.

The "trick-or-treaters" weren't the only kids out roaming the streets that night either. It's an age-old tradition that the older kids transform into evil "pranksters" on Halloween night. And we sure had our share of those growing up in Everett, now didn't we?

Come the morning after, you'd see car windshields covered with shaving cream, trees adorned with several rolls of toilet paper, and splattered eggs everywhere. Damn those pranksters. You gotta laugh though because as they say, "What goes around comes around." I'll never forget the morning I woke up to find my Volkswagen covered in shaving cream. Payback really is a "beach." Is it not?

Nothing boosts the spirit of Halloween like those neighbors who go all out and transform their place into a virtual haunted house. I love that. They hang skeletons draped in cobwebs. They've got pumpkins glowing in the dark. And they even dangled dead black cats from the porch lights.

Sometimes they'd play those scary scream recordings to add that special chill to the night. And sometimes they'd hide somewhere on their front porch and leap out at you when you went up to ring the doorbell. Man, I've jumped right out of my skin a few times - let me tell ya.

People gave out so much candy when we were kids that I'd fill up an entire pillow case just in my neighborhood alone. By the time I did Arlington, High, Foster, Villa Ave, and Pleasant View Ave, I'd have to run back home to empty out my pillow case to start all over again.

You can bet your sweet bippy I went back out. I still had Prospect, Chestnut, Villa Ave, Franklin, Hillside Ave, Hall Ave, Lexington, and Dern Street to hit. If it wasn't too late, I'd head out a third time down towards Summer, Oliver, Clinton, and all around that general area as well.

And let's not forget, we even hit the corner stores when we went out "trick-or-treating." Everybody joined in on the fun back then. In my neighborhood, the guys down in Whitehill Pharmacy on the corner of Nichols and Ferry always had a basket full of candy on the counter you could scoop into and grab a handful. So did the people up at the Summer Street Market right there where High Street and Summer connected. Chestnut Hill Pharmacy always gave out candy to all the "trick-or-treaters," and so did Mary's Kitchen further up on Broadway.

So, if all that wasn't enough fun to satisfy your greedy little heart, then gathering around the kitchen table at the end of the night to tally your booty was an adventure in itself. We dumped out all our candy in one giant pile and divided it all up between us. That's when we got to pick and chose and trade favorites amongst us.

Julie loved Mint Juleps and Taffy. Carl loved things like skittles and jaw breakers. Me? I'm a Malted Milk Ball freak. One Malted Milk Ball sends me into an orgasmic frenzy altogether - even to this day.

I've often said, "if I were ever a prisoner of war, the enemy could never beat the truth out of me, no way, no how. But just let them dangle a Malted Milk Ball in front of my face and I'd surrender at the blink of an eye." You can have your Caviar at the Waldorf if that's what you want. I'll take a bag of Malted Milk Balls out on the back porch any day.

Say what you will, but Halloween in Everett when we were little kids was always a good time. It breaks my heart that society being what it is today, has taken all the safety and fun out of Halloween for our children. The future was supposed to be better. Where did we go so wrong?

Okay, that's enough of that. We don't dwell on the negative around here. There's enough of that to go around everywhere else you go on the internet. You came here to have a good time, and that's what you're going to get.

It's Halloween everybody. Let the fun begin. Picture yourself standing on my doorstep. Go ahead, ring my doorbell and shout, "Trick or treat." This year, I'm giving out treats.

To get your treat, go on over to the "Growing Up Everett" web site. Then, click on the "Sound Files" page. When you get there, scroll to the bottom of the page.

I found something that is absolutely priceless. This will definitely bring back those treasured memories of when you used to go shopping with your mother down in Everett Square. You're gonna love this.

Happy Halloween Everybody! Have fun enjoying the spirit of this fun holiday tradition. You deserve it. After all, "You're from Everett!"

I Must Be Crazy

Some people choose their friends for influential and economic reasons. Hey, let's face it. It never hurts to have friends with pull, connections, or money. If you're crafty enough, you can go far in life by surrounding yourself with the right people.

That's probably where I went wrong right there. I never did that. Very few of my friends have either influence or money. Amongst them are some of the most talented writers, musicians, and artists of our time. And also amongst them are some of the craziest people on the planet.

Maybe it's because I grew up with a lot of unconventional types in my neck of the woods, but I do love crazies. They do things that never even enter into the minds of most people. It is their antics that put that smile on my face whenever I get that faraway look in my eyes staring off into space.

Everett sure has had it's share of crazies - let me tell ya. The funny thing about that is, most of them were my friends. And some of them actually thought that I was the crazy one. Man, they've got a nerve - right?

To illustrate my point, I have a friend who used to collect dirty work gloves he found on the ground. He had dozens of them. They were all on display mounted on top of old empty beer bottles in his bedroom. He also had two pet guinea pigs named, Binky and Vareet.

This very same person once set out on a quest to hard boil one hundred eggs. With India ink, upon each one he wrote the Latin equivalence of "I believe it because it is absurd." He then drafted me into helping him execute the final stage of this quest.

In the middle of the night, we stuck a branch in the ground on the front lawn of the Everett High School and placed an old dirty work glove on top of it. We then completely encircled that branch with those eggs. That is what everyone saw the next morning when they showed up for school.

So, what was the purpose in all that? To this day, I still have no idea. He is my friend. He asked for my assistance. And I came through for him because, I love my friends. This individual honestly believes that I'm crazier than he is.

See what I mean?

To further illustrate my point, I once had a friend named, "Scratch." He was one of the wildest, if not the craziest of all the eccentrics from Everett. And I've got to admit, he was definitely one of the most loved, as well. Everybody loved "Scratch."

Every time this kid came into my life, I doubled over in laughter. The word "unconventional" does not do justice when trying to describe this kid's personality. If you were so unfortunate to have grown up in Everett without the opportunity to know Scratch, then let me summarize this kid for you in just a few carefully chosen words.

Scratch was honest, and kind, and caring, and funny. He not only saw the humor in everything, but he was, more than likely, the one who put it there in the first place. He was a daredevil who'd try absolutely anything once without so much as a brief consideration for the possible consequences. And if he was your friend, he was your friend to the bitter end.

One of my earliest memories of "Scratch" goes back to my early junior high school days at a time when Beaver and I were standing on the corner of Chelsea and Broadway in Everett Square. Scratch got off the bus and yelled out, "Hey, I was looking for you guys."

"What's up, Dude?"

"I need a paper cup. I gotta show you something awesome. Wait right here." He then ran into the Piece O' Pizza to fetch an empty paper cup. He came back out of the pizza shop and handed the cup to Beaver.

"Hold that straight out in front of you," he said.

"I don't believe I'm actually doing this," Beaver laughed.

Scratch then stuck his finger up his nose and pulled out a booger. He started rolling it up into a ball with his fingers. "I don't want it to be too sticky," he explained, "But I don't want it to fall off my finger until I'm ready either."

Keep in mind that during this entire ordeal, Scratch was dead serious. Nay, more than that. He was actually enthusiastic about what he was going to show us.

"Okay, I think I'm ready," he said. He took about six or seven paces away from Beaver and then turned towards him. Straightening his arm out forward, he took steadfast aim at the paper cup.

"If that thing hits me, you're dead," Beaver warned.

"Hold still," he said as he steadied his aim. "This won't hurt a bit."

Then, he flicked his finger and yelled, "Bang!"

When Beaver looked into the cup, he burst out laughing.

"There's no booger in the cup," Beaver laughed as he pointed it towards me to verify that there was indeed, no booger in the cup.

"Where did it go?" Scratch was so disappointed. "Help me find it."

"Help you find it?" I asked. "What am I supposed to do, check everyone's back that walks by?"

"Dude, if I can figure out which way it went I can perfect my aim," he explained. "I've been working on that for days."

"You've been working on flicking a booger into a cup for days?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"Dude, you need to get out more," I laughed.

"I'll bet you can't do it? You're probably one of those people who thought it couldn't be done," he said.

"No Dude, I'm one of those people who thought it shouldn't be done."

"See Huff, that's the trouble with you, man. You don't reach out and challenge the unthinkable. You'll never amount to nothin' if you don't break out of that mold, Dude."

"Just because I can't flick a booger into a cup?"

"Listen Dude," he explained. "I just got back from the Commons. There's people juggling things, dancing around in circles, doing magic tricks, and playing instruments while everybody else stands around throwing money into a cup. They're making a fortune. So, I figure I'd come out with something completely different to take the crowd by storm and start cashing in on that windfall. You know what I mean, Dude?"

"Oh yeah, I see what you mean. Just don't forget your friends when you make it to the top, Okay?"

"You never have to worry about that, man. I will never forget you guys. If I ever make it to the top, you're all coming with me," he promised. Believe me, he was serious. He meant every word from the bottom of his heart.

That's a classic "Scratch" story right there - let me tell ya. Every once in a while, this kid just popped up out of nowhere. And when he did, he was always either up to something completely out of the ordinary, or involved with something totally outrageous.

As crazy as it may sound on the surface, Scratch lived one of the most adventurous and colorful lives of anyone I know. He did that without ever really going anywhere. Most of us arrogantly overlooked the excitement and wonder he found in the simplest of things. We'd have to travel half way around the globe just to keep pace with Scratch's spirit for discovery.

Another fond memory of Scratch happened at the Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert at the Hatch Shell on the Charles during my senior year at Everett High. Every single hippie from Everett was there that night. We numbered in the hundreds.

If you got lost in the crowd that night, all you had to do was yell out, "Where's Everett?" And a sea of hands waved you home. When the concert ended, and the crowd dispersed, there was this guy standing out in the middle of the lawn shouting, "Do any of you girl's want to go home with me?"

To be honest, his language was way more forward than that, but what he had actually said was a little too risqué for this article, trust me.

"Aw, come on," he pleaded. "Doesn't anyone want to spend the night with me?" He was shouting at the top of his lungs. This guy was clearly three sheets to the wind. He stood all by himself in the middle of a huge opening in the crowd. That opening was the result of all the girls going out of their way to avoid coming into contact with this lunatic.

It was really quite comical, actually. So, I started to laugh. "Who's laughing at me?" He shouted angrily. He darted towards me with every intention of getting into a fist fight. At such a distance in the dark, I had no idea who this lunatic was. I stood ready to take on my attacker.

Sure enough, it turned out to be Scratch. When he realized it was me, he leaped up into the air and wrapped himself around me shouting, "Huffy, I really love you man. Thank God, I found you."

"Come on, Dude," he said with his arm around my shoulder. "I'm gonna find you a chick."

"Be cool, man," I said. "That's my girlfriend standing right there."

"Oh, are you with the Huff, honey?" He asked my date.

She really wasn't accustomed to the likes of somebody so forward as Scratch. With a somewhat shy smile she nodded a yes.

"Well, you won't mind calling a cab will ya, darling? Me and the Huff are gonna score some skin for the night. He'll call ya later, okay?"

"Dude, don't be saying things like that to my girl. Be a gentleman and act right. Now apologize to the lady," I said.

"Oh honey, I didn't mean to offend you or nothing," he explained. "I mean if you're gonna show my friend a good time tonight, then all right. But if you're just gonna leave him hanging he may as well score something with some promise. If you know what I mean?"

That was Scratch's way of apologizing. It was as true and sincere as you could get from his perspective. There was nothing phony about him. He was genuinely concerned about his friend having a good time. Scratch's approach to life was solely based on the old adage of "You either do your duty or get off the pot."

On our way home that evening, my girl said, "Please tell me you don't have any more friends like that."

To which I replied, "Trust me, there is no one else on the planet quite like Scratch. But you'd be hard pressed to find a friend so loyal and true in your life time."

Scratch grew up in the projects up on the hill behind Glendale Park. His family dates back many generations in the historic timeline of the city of Everett. His family is genuine. These are good people.

Everybody's family has an eccentric. They can't all be from mine. My mother thinks I'm the eccentric in my family. God only knows where she gets that from.

On a more serious note, I remember that one rainy Sunday afternoon when I was driving down Broadway in my Volkswagen. Scratch waived me down and jumped into my car. "Dude, I really need you to come through for me," he said.

"What's the problem?"

"I need some money. Everybody else shot me down. I can't pay you back, but I've got nowhere else to turn. Can you help me?"

"How much do you need?"

"I need fifty bucks, man. I really need it bad."

"Fifty bucks? Man, I don't have fifty bucks."

"Dude, hear me out on this one okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I shrugged.

"The reason we all have friends is because we need each other, man. Sometimes you gotta lean on somebody you can trust to hold you up. I need somebody to hold me up right now. Some day you might really need someone to lean on, and I'm telling ya, man, you can always count on me. I would always come through for you."

"I know that about you, man. I do."

"Can you come through for me, man?" Scratch was desperate. I could see it in his eyes. He'd hit you up for a saw buck every once in a while, but this was really different. I could see that he really needed somebody right now. I know that feeling. I've been there myself.

"Look Dude," I explained. "I don't have fifty bucks. What I got is thirty, and I need five of that for gas money. I can give you twenty-five. That's all I've got."

"I can work with that," he said, "And I promise you this. I'll never hit you up for another dime in my life. If I ever come into some money, man, you'll be the first one on my list. I mean that. This means everything to me."

Slapping the cash into the palm of his hand, I turned to him and said, "Remember now, I'm first on the list. You promised."

"Dude, you were always first on my list anyway. I think the world of you, man. Everybody thinks you're crazy, but I know better. You're an artist, man. Artists are supposed to be crazy. You're not really crazy anyway, man. You're sensitive and compulsive. I know that about you. And I knew you'd come through for me, too."

"Because I'm an easy touch - right?"

"No man, because you care. You're a beautiful person. Remember I said that," he said as he jumped out at the stoplight in front of the Chute library. I watched him run up the street in the rain.

I remember thinking about how, in so many ways, I both envied and felt sorry for this kid. I envied him because he had a childlike innocence about him. When things were going his way, the stars in the heavens pulsated with a unison so harmoniously that it gladdened his heart to the depths of his very soul. I felt sorry for him because when things go wrong, the whole world seemed so out of kilter to him.

You could tell he was never going to find his niche comfortably in society. He just wasn't cut out to play the game by the rules. He never really wanted to be a part of all that in the first place. All he really cared about was taking it all in stride, and having a good time. I ask you now. What is so wrong with that?

The last time I saw Scratch was in the early 70's. Only a few months prior to that encounter, I got married to a girl from Reading and moved into a house up in North Reading. I was on my way home from work when I stopped at the lights on Main Street in Reading Center.

A van pulled up along side of me. The passenger door flew open and I could hear somebody yell, "Huff, wait up." It was Scratch.

He came running up to my car and pulled open the front passenger door and shouted, "Get in and sit beside the Huff." This really pretty girl about my age jumped into the passenger seat beside me. Scratch jumped into the back seat.

He leaned over the seat and said to the girl, "This is the Huff. This is the dude I was telling you about. Give him whatever he wants. He's my bro, okay? I gotta go."

Without so much as the slightest explanation, Scratch jumped out of my car, ran back to the van, and took off. Here I am driving up Main Street with a complete stranger sitting next to me thinking, "What am I going to say if one of my in-laws from Reading drives by and sees me with this strange girl in my car?"

"Can I drop you off somewhere?" I asked. Believe me, the sooner the better. I was willing to let her out right then and there in the middle of the street.

"I'll go wherever you're going," she said.

"You can't go with me. I'm on my way home. I'm married," I explained.

"I know that. I know your wife."

"What do you mean you know my wife?"

"I graduated from Reading High school with her."

"Okay, so what's her name?"

"Her name's Robin."

"How did you know I was married to Robin?"

"I know all about you."

"You do?"

"Yeah, you're Paul Huffman."

"Wait a minute. This is crazy. How do you know so much about me?"

"I used to party with you."

"I don't remember partying with you. When did I ever party with you?"

"Back in High school. I used to show up at all those parties you guys from Glendale Park used to have when you passed the guitar around and everybody sang. I was there. So when we saw you today I told Scratch I was dying to meet you. That's why we jumped into your car."

"Well, that's very flattering, thank you, but I'm married now. I don't run around any more. My hippie days are over."

"Do you want my number just in case?"

"No, I don't want your number. If it's any consolation, believe me, if I was single I'd take it, but I'm tied down now. Thank you, anyway. So, where can I drop you off?"

"Do you know where the Horseshoe Lounge is?"

"Yeah, that's on my way home. I'll drop you off there."

"I'll be there until closing in case you change your mind. Okay?"

"Believe me, I won't change my mind."

Ask just about any married guy on the planet and he'll tell you that things like that always seem to happen about a month or two after you get married. And it never seems to fail that the girl is always a knockout and the temptation is overwhelming.

Women always blame men for these kinds of things. The truth is, we don't go looking for this, it just seems to have a way of finding us. Why is it that women don't seem to want you until they know you're already taken anyway? I'm beginning to believe there's a world wide conspiracy amongst women to test each other's man to see if they're faithful. Trust me, it wouldn't surprise me.

Well anyway, that was my last encounter with Scratch. Was he crazy? Draw your own conclusion.

It was about fifteen years ago now that a co-worker of mine turned to me and said, "I've finally got you all figured out."

"Oh really?" I said. "So, what did you figure out?"

"I know now that you're wild and crazy."

"So how did you come to that conclusion?"

"I was talking to a couple of old friends of yours last night."

"Oh yeah? Who was that?"

"Beaver and Scratch. They told me all about you. They said you're wild and crazy."

"You know what?" I said. "If those two guys say you're crazy, then there's no doubt about it. You're crazy."

What surprises me is that he actually needed a second opinion. He certainly consulted with the experts, I'll give him that. It should have been easy enough to figure out for himself anyway, don't you think?

I mean, really. Consider the facts. Look at the kind of people I associated with. That should tell you something. If not, then consider this. I must be crazy. I'm from Everett!

One Rainy Day At Vargis

I wish I could enjoy just one last cup of coffee at Vargis. My favorite booth was the one to the immediate right of the front door. If you sat with your back to Everett Square, you could watch all the people coming in to set a spell. And if you looked over your right shoulder you could watch the whole world go by on Broadway.

Why I preferred to watch the world go by looking away from Everett Square was two fold. For one thing, you got to see all the pretty girl's coming downhill towards you on their way home from Everett High. That alone was reason enough for me.

The other reason was because you were looking uphill. The cars coming towards you were on the same side of the street as you so you could actually see into them better. What a blessing that is to an artist who makes a habit out of studying people's faces. And some of the expressions on these driver's faces were out of this world.

I've lost count of how many times I've gone into Vargis by myself to sit at that booth with my sketch pad. I'd order a cup of coffee and a side of fries, and sit there for an hour or more sketching quick thumbnails of people's expressions. Most of those rough drafts became the models for many a finished work.

Oh, and I've seen some really classic expressions - let me tell ya. Like that look every one gets when they absolutely lose their cool at the driver in front of them. You know that look don't you? It's that "Aw, come on" look. Another one I like is that wide eyed, opened mouth gawk in the mirror women do when they put on their makeup in the middle of traffic. Now that's a classic.

And last, but by no means least, is when you see somebody singing their heart out to their favorite song on the radio. Let's face it. We've all done that. It's amazing how everyone thinks that nobody else can see in through the windshield whenever they break into a song. I've been caught myself in the middle of that act a few times.

Speaking of songs, I hardly ever dropped a quarter in that little juke box on the table. I had more fun just turning the pages and reading the song titles. It gave me something to do while waiting for my fries. I did actually pay to listen to a song on that juke box once. And I only did that for a joke.

Okay, so now you're thinking, "What kind of prank could you possibly pull off by playing a song on the juke box?" Well, maybe you had to be there. It was funny at the time. Heck, now that I think of it, my whole reason for being there that day was kind of funny.

Today, I'd like to take you back to an interesting moment of my life when I was a kid growing up in Everett. We're not talking about a monumental corner stone in my life here. This is more like a snapshot taken from memory of one of those fleeting moments that somehow gets lodged in the back of your mind and just stays there.

I rather doubt that the other person I shared this moment with even remembers it at all. Perhaps that's because there was far more to the moment from my perspective than there was from hers. None the less, there it remains in the back of my mind.

All this took place when I was in the eighth grade in Anthony Sarno's homeroom. It was around the time when me and my two best friends, David and Jon, were clowning around down David's cellar with some instruments. David lived across the way from me on Foster Street. Jon lived just around the corner about two doors down on Pleasant View Ave. Jon was also in my eighth grade homeroom.

Anyway, down in David's cellar was an upright piano and a set of drums. I brought over my guitar and an opened reel tape recorder. The three of us gathered down David's cellar to record a jam session.

None of us could really play any of these instruments. That wasn't really all that important to us. Our whole intention was to experiment with these instruments hoping to invent a sound the world had yet to hear. And believe me, we certainly did that.

The racket we made down in David's cellar with those instruments sounded more like a stress test on factory machinery than it did music. However, in an avant-garde sense, our sound was rhythmic and had a pattern to it. I dare say, what we had recorded that day was not totally unlike the experimental electronic sound technologies that rocked the music world in the early eighties, some fifteen years later.

Well naturally, we didn't want to call ourselves, "The Band With No Name," so we set out to invent a name for ourselves. We wanted a name that was as unconventional as we were. For several days we went on this brainstorming spree to try to come up with something really eccentric.

It just so happens that a few days later, as Jon and I were on our way back home from the Everett Music Shop on Norwood Street, we finally came up with something. When we rounded the corner onto Summer Street from Broadway, there was a white wooden sign for a funeral home. That's what gave us the idea.

The name of that funeral home was the "Curnane Funeral Service." We didn't want to use that so we came up with "The Christian Funeral Service." Actually, that was our second choice. Our first choice was to name our band after a girl in our homeroom because her initials matched the first two letters on that sign. After much deliberation, our second choice won out.

Now, the reason I told you all that was because that sign was clearly visible from the booth just to the left of the front door to Vargis. And you're right. That was not my favorite booth, but it was the booth I was sitting at when this incident happened.

Just to clarify something for you here and now, that sign doesn't really have all that much to do with what happened. I only threw that in because one memory always triggers another. And now that I've got all that out of the way, I can get on with my story.

Okay, here's the situation. It was a terribly rainy Monday in October. How do I remember that? It says so right here in my journal. It says, "Monday, October 10, 1966 - Under the umbrella to Vargis to listen to "96 Tears." That's all it had to say. That says it all.

I actually thought it was going to rain on the previous Saturday, but it didn't. It was unusually cold and dark that day when I went out collecting for my paper route. And windy? I remember having to push my bike up Walnut Street because the wind resistance was just too much to bear.

On Sunday, it drizzled. I spent the day recording songs off the radio with my opened reel tape recorder. You could record up to 90 minutes of music on each side of a 5 inch reel at three-and-a-half I.P.S. (inches per second). I used up my last blank reel that day. So come hell or high water, I was determined to get down to the Everett Music shop on Monday to buy some blank reels.

The Everett Music shop was awesome for blank open reels. They were actually cheaper than Radio Shack or Lafayette. How many of you remember Lafayette Electronics over in the strip mall in Medford where Howard Johnson's used to be? Radio Shack did eventually buy them out. There was once a time when they carried more equipment with lower prices than Radio Shack.

Anyway, it was a terribly dismal school day. The dreariness of the outside gloom cast a despondent ambience across the classroom. Those buzzing and flickering florescent lights didn't help any either. They only made matters worse.

You know that kind of classroom gloominess I'm talking about - don't you? They happen during those really dark rainy days. If not for the florescent lighting, the classroom would be as dark as night. The contrast between the imposing darkness outside, and that softer lighting inside, creates a somber atmosphere that shrouds the classroom in despair.

It didn't just rain that day, it poured. I remember gazing out the window trying to talk myself out of walking down to Norwood Street in that awful mess. After all, I already got soaked once that morning before school delivering my newspapers. I really wasn't looking forward to going through all that again.

This was the kind of day that makes me want to curl up under a blanket on the couch and take an afternoon nap while listening to the rain beat against the window. But I knew I just couldn't allow myself to do that today.

As far as I was concerned, not having any blank recording tape was far more serious than not having any food in the house. I could live without food, but I could never survive without recording tape. You know what I mean?

That long, drawn out, dismal school day did finally end. Stepping outside was like walking into the shower with your clothes on. That still didn't dissuade me from pulling my jacket up over my head and heading out onto Broadway towards the Everett Music shop down on Norwood Street.

Yes, I must admit, I was envious of all those kids I saw dashing out towards the cars idling along the curb on Broadway waiting to take them home in warmth and comfort. After all, the rain was coming down so hard you could hardly see a foot in front of your face through that wall of mist. By the time I reached the corner of Broadway and High, I was drenched to the bone.

I had to stop at the curb because a couple of cars were turning down onto High from Broadway. That's when I heard somebody behind me say, "Hey Paul? You want to share my umbrella?"

When I turned around, I saw this girl I recognized from somewhere. I only knew her by sight. I had no idea what her name was. I wasn't even sure if it was from passing each other in the hallway between classes that I knew her. That's how little I knew about this girl. It took me by such a surprise that she even knew my name.

"Would you mind?" I asked.

"No, of course not. That's why I offered," she smiled.

"Oh yeah, this is great, Thanks."

"Oh, you're welcome."

I never once ever gave this person a second thought in my life. And it's not because she wasn't pretty or any thing like that, because she was. It's just that so many different people pass through your field of vision every day in the corridors at school that you can't possibly register them all.

I never realized before what a comfort it was to be sheltered from the driving rain underneath an umbrella. I had never owned one. It felt so good that I almost forgot my common courtesies altogether. Suddenly realizing my social obligations as a gentleman, I offered to carry her books.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," she said.

"Oh, I know, but you're holding the umbrella. We'll work as a team. You keep us dry and I'll shoulder the weight of the books. Fair enough?"

"Yeah, okay." After handing me her books, I realized this poor kid must have been straining under the load. I mean really. These books were heavy.

"Wow," what are you preparing for law school?" I laughed.

"Oh, I'm trying to keep up my grades," she explained. "I'm hoping to transfer into a really exclusive private school."

"No kidding? Are you an honor student?"

"Yes, of course," she smiled.

At that very moment, just when I thought it couldn't rain any harder than it already was, the sky opened up and it came down like a torrential downpour. Vargis Diner just across the street looked so inviting at a time like this.

"Dear Gawd, this is unbelievable," I said. "Come on, let's duck into Vargis until the rain lets up."

"I've never been in Vargis," she admitted.

"You've never been to Vargis?"

"No."

"Well, let's go then. The treats on me."

"But I should really get home. I have so much homework," she said.

"Aw, come on. You only live once. You may never get the chance to share a cup of coffee with me at Vargis again in your life. So, live a little. What do you say?"

She laughed and said, "My mother warned me about guys like you."

"I just hope she didn't get through to ya. I'd hate to see you miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity to be seen with me," I laughed.

I took hold of her arm, and we raced across Broadway through the traffic. As soon as we stepped inside, the gum chewing waitress behind the counter snapped, "Don't shake that umbrella off in here. Do that outside."

A couple of truck drivers were chowing down on a giant breakfast dish in my favorite booth. So, we took the booth to the immediate left of the front entrance, instead. She slid into the seat on my favorite side of the table. That meant I had to face down hill looking towards Everett Square. Hey, you can't have everything.

Vargis was filled with people giggling and talking out loud. I always loved listening to the sound of the silverware clanging, and the dishes crashing around to the rhythm of the murmuring crowd. Every so often, the ring of the cash register chalking up another sale pierced the ambience of that mellow wall of sound. Vargis had a life all to its own. It was like another world within a world.

"Do you drink coffee?" I asked.

"Not usually," she said, "but I'll have tea."

"Yeah, me too, for a change. So are you hungry?"

"Oh, I don't know. Let me see how much money I have."

"Oh, no you don't. This is my treat."

"You don't have to pay for me."

"Yeah, I do. I owe you one. So what do you like?"

"I don't know. What are you having?"

"I'm getting the B.L.T. with fries. I'm starved."

"Okay, me too," she said.

That's when that funeral sign caught my eye. So I went on to tell her the story about how we got the name for our little jam session band from that sign. She then asked me if I had ever heard of Robert Moog. At the time, I hadn't. I sat there in awe of her knowledge of electronic music. To say that she enlightened me to a whole new genre in music is an enormous understatement.

The only drawback to our conversation was that there were two older women seated at the booth behind me who were talking very loud. To make matters worse, they were mad at the whole world about everything. All they did was complain. They were putting a serious damper on an otherwise very pleasant afternoon.

At one point in their conversation, one of them said, "I hate that they put these little juke boxes on everybody's table. Whenever anybody plays one of these lousy songs we've all got to listen to it. It ruins my whole day and makes me want to get up and leave."

That's all I had to hear. I looked over at my new friend and said, "You do know what I'm going to do next, don't you?"

"Oh, Paul, you wouldn't," she laughed.

"Oh, yes, I would."

The first thing I did was flip through the pages for the most obnoxious song I could find on the list. They had Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night," but these women were a bit older and I was afraid they might enjoy that. What I found that was perfect for this occasion was "96 Tears," by Question Mark and The Mysterians. Can you imagine listening to that redundant gawd awful song over and over again?

One quarter allowed three plays. You could mix and match to your heart's content. I dropped in two quarters and pushed "B9" six times. Man, even I was ready to jump out the window by the third time that record played. We were killing ourselves laughing over the way those two women carried on over such torment.

At one point, they even asked the waitress if she could shut the music off. The waitress explained she couldn't do that because somebody paid to listen to it. "Well, it isn't right that the rest of us have to suffer like this," she complained. "You shouldn't let teenagers come in here unsupervised anyway," she said. "For now on I'm taking my business elsewhere."

They got up and left halfway into the fifth replay of that very same song. We could now have a calm relaxing chat for ourselves. Well, after "96 Tears" finally played for the last time that is.

"So, what's the story on this private school? When will this all happen?" I asked.

"We might know by tonight," she answered. "If they say "yes," I guess I'll just be transferring over there right away."

"That's terrible," I said. "We're just getting to know each other."

"I'm not moving away," she laughed. "I'll still be around."

It was right there at that point in the conversation that I noticed an ambulance pulling up along the side of the curb on the corner of Summer and Broadway. A small crowd had gathered around that ambulance and I just got that gut feeling. "Oh no," I said. "That's probably my brother."

This was a common occurrence at our house. My brother suffered something terribly from Grand Mal Epilepsy. He'll sometimes go into a seizure and fall down in the middle of the street.

I reached across the table and took hold of her hand. "I've got to go," I apologized. First, I ran up to the cashier and said, "This is an emergency. I need to pay my tab." Then I ran back to the table to leave a tip. Before running out the door I said, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. I hope everything's alright."

"Yeah, me too. Don't forget about me, okay?"

"I could never," she smiled.

The rest of that afternoon was a whirlwind. I remember calling my mother on the pay phone from the lobby at the Mass General to tell her I was at the hospital with Carl. We didn't get back home from the hospital until sometime after midnight. My mother didn't bother to wake me for school the next day. She let me sleep. She even called me in sick for my paper route that morning.

It wasn't until I was pacing back and forth in the lobby of the hospital that I realized that I forgot to ask that girl what her name was. To make matters worse, I never saw her again. All I could think was that she must have made it into that private school. It's almost as if she had just vanished off the face of the planet.

A few years later, when I was a hippie in high school, we staged a big anti-war protest down in Glendale Park. There were thousands of people in that crowd. Well, guess who I saw that night? Yep, that girl.

We didn't get the chance to speak to each other that night. Our eyes met only briefly from a distance. To be honest, I don't even think she recognized me. Then again, I looked a lot different than I did that day at Vargis - let me tell ya. My hair was now down to my shoulders.

If you've never heard the song "96 Tears" by Question Mark and the Mysterians, then let me assure you, you haven't missed much. The singer's voice is horrid and I swear the lead organist only knew how to play the "C," "F," and "G" keys with two fingers. Regardless, every time they play that song on the oldies radio station, I think about that rainy day at Vargis Diner.

It's funny how some people just happen into our lives for but a fleeting moment. You'll run into a complete stranger sometimes and they'll act like a long lost friend. They'll call you by name, and swear you've shared a lot of good times together. The whole time they're talking you'll have absolutely no idea whatsoever as to who in the world that person is.

Some people just don't register into your memory bank. Don't ask me why. And I'm sure there were times that we were the ones who didn't register in somebody else's consciousness. Funny thing that is.

Things like that are bound to happen when you grow up in a crowded city. There's just too many of us to keep track of each other. It feels funny when it happens to you, though - doesn't it? But then again, strange things are nothing new to us, because - "We're from Everett!"

Autumn in Everett

There is one aspect about growing up in Everett that I didn't fully appreciate until I moved half way across the country. Where I now live, we don't experience the full impact of the changing seasons like you do in New England. It never fails, every year at about this time, I get so homesick I could cry.

I recently emailed another Paul, who was in all of my classes back in our elementary school days at the Horace Mann. He now lives in Florida. "You ought to move down here," he said. "It's like summer all year round."

The problem is -- that's exactly what it's like here in Southern Indiana. I don't need to watch the Weather Channel for the "Local on the Eights" to know my weather forecast for the next five days. I already know what it's going to be like without even looking out the window. That's why I'm surrounded with cornfields for as far as the eye can see.

Here is a brief list of the things I no longer own. I don't own an ice scraper for my windshield. Can you imagine that? And wait until you hear this one. I don't even have a snow shovel. There is nothing so disheartening as a Christmas Eve without snow -- let me tell ya. Guess what else I don't own? I don't have a winter coat, a scarf, or even a pair of gloves for that matter. I simply do not need them. I wish I did.

Let me clarify something for you. As soon as the opportunity arises, I'm moving back to New England. It is tearing my heart out to live so far away from home. Oh, I know, the backwoods country lifestyle really is a far more relaxing pace than anything back in New England, but I'm sorry, that's where my heart is.

It's funny how I used to think of New Hampshire as the wide opened country. After living in the Midwest, New Hampshire seems so tiny and crowded. Oh, but don't get me wrong, I do love it so. I used to live in Dover, and in Exeter, years ago. I loved them both.

Today, I hopped on my 15-speed mountain bike and took off to the local grocer. It's the closest store to my house. No, I didn't wear a jacket. I don't need one here until sometime late in December. And believe me when I tell ya, it's nothing more than a windbreaker. And I won't be wearing that any more by the first of March.

That store is as far away from me as Pine Banks is from the Parlin Library. Out here in the middle of nowhere, we think nothing of a five-mile trek to the local store. It's so close we don't even bother to take the car. I've got to admit though, that's what's keeping that middle bulge off that seems to trouble most of my friends back east.

I had to laugh when I was visiting my sister back in Everett during the summer of 2005. Whenever she wanted anything from the store, she hopped into her car and backed out of her driveway into busy traffic. Then, she drove around the corner and had to wait for someone else to come out of the store so she'd have a place to park. Her total distance traveled amounted to about one-sixteenth of a mile. That simple task took more than a half of an hour to accomplish.

When I tell that to the people back in Indiana, they think I'm lying. Those Hoosiers get a big kick out of my telling them all of things you can't get at the store in Massachusetts. Back east, they don't carry pig's ears for your dog to chew on, or bag balm for your cow. You can forget about getting a new feed bag for your horse as well. They just don't carry them. And if you're looking for new saddle straps, or a good strong bit, you're not gonna find any of those either.

It's funny because they'll look at you like you've got two heads and ask, "So, where do you go to get your supplies?" Trust me, they just don't get it.

So, here it is in the middle of October. I'm standing out here on the patio having a morning cup of coffee with the very girl who used to squint her nose up at me back in Mr. Barbati's homeroom in the 9th grade at the Parlin. The sun is hot and all the leaves on the trees are still just as green as they were back in April. As far as the seasons are concerned, nothing's changed.

She turned to me with that same adorable little smile that melted my heart back in junior high school and said, "Remember back home in Everett at this time of year when all those colorful leaves came tumbling down and we'd jump in and make a big mess out of everybody's leaf pile?" Man, do I ever.

That's exactly what's missing from my life - Autumn In Everett.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, especially in Everett. I'll never forget how the leaves on that Norway Maple out in front of our house turned a bright orange, a fiery red, and a lemon yellow. Oh, and that scent of salt water in the east wind as those gusts rattled the leaves outside my window. When those leaves came tumbling down, they highlighted the city sidewalks with specks of color so rich you'd swear God himself had just tapped his brush on the edge of his palette.

Monumental bursts of Cumulus Clouds tumbled across the backdrop of a sky so deep and blue it looks as though Mother Nature herself stole those analogous colors from a pretty girl's eyes. While we slept, Jack Frost wove a magic web of ice crystals across the face of each windowpane that filtered the morning sunlight into a virtual prism of delight. And in the late afternoon, that autumn sun cast a long perspective shadow that shaded the busy streets below with a somewhat melancholy sepia tone.

Only in New England can you breath deep to drink in that clean crisp chill that nips at the tips of your ears when you first step out into the morning light. It makes you take hold of the corners of your collar with both hands to tug it up over the back of your neck. It's almost like an entirely new rebirth of your natural senses.

We're talking a charm in natural artistry so majestic it can inspire a poet to write so spiritually that he could make himself cry. We're talking a fundamental beauty so illuminating it can provoke a fine artist to absolutely lose his mind in creativity. We're talking a tangible wonder so heartwarming that it can motivate a composer to write a song so sincere that it incites those who will listen to rediscover the enchantment concealed within true love.

And believe it or not, we're talking about Everett.

We had a blast on Saturday mornings in October when we were kids growing up in Everett - let me tell ya. The first thing we did was clip a baseball card to the back tire of our bikes to get that constant "thwacking" noise when we sped down the hill on Arlington Street. After that, we'd kick together all the leaves everybody raked up out of their front yards to build a mountain on the sidewalk in front of my house.

You know what happened next, don't you? We'd zoom down the sidewalk from the top of the hill so fast that your pedals no longer had any torsion on the chain. You'd smack into that pile a leaves with such force that they'd scatter like an explosion in a dust factory. Man, those leaves went everywhere.

They'd cover the windshield of every car parked along the curb. They'd get lodged in every square hole in the chain link fence in front of my house. And they go down your shirt, up your nose, and into your ears. Man, I can remember reaching down into the back of my pants to pull em out of my underwear. What a riot!

After each explosion, we'd use our arms and chest like a bulldozer to push those scattered leaves back into another mountain for the next kid's turn. That's when they'd really get down into the front of your shirt. Damn, that got itchy sometimes.

There's got to be no less than at least one-hundred-and-one things you can do with a giant pile of leaves. When we finally picked all the leaves out of our brake cables, chain guards, and spokes, it was time for the leaf diving competition. Now that was fun.

We climbed up onto the top bar of that chain link fence and dived right into that pile of leaves. If you could get that pile deep and thick enough, you could do back flips, belly flops, and ass breakers just like you did off the diving board down at the pool. We never once gave a second thought to the fact that if you smacked your head on that layer of concrete just below the leaves, it would put your lights out for all eternity.

We just didn't worry about those kinds of things when we're little kids. That was our mother's job to worry about such trivial matter. We were way to busy having fun to slow everything down by fussing over things that might never happen - right?

Another thing we did with the leaves was stuff our shirts with them so we'd look big and fat. Then, we'd slam into each other until we knocked the stuffing out of our bellies. And it never failed, that was always the event that triggered the all out leaf fight. By the end of the afternoon, we had a bigger mess all over the sidewalk than before anyone had even begun to rake the leaves up out of their front yards.

The neighbors would come out and rake all the leaves back together again into the gutter for the city truck to come by and suck up. They always let us have our initial day of fun. After that, they'd say, "You had your fun now. Don't go messing up the leaves any more or I'll make you clean them up yourself next time."

We'd be good for the rest of the weekend, but on our way to school on Monday morning we'd start kicking the leaves in each other's face all over again. We just couldn't resist the temptation. Let's face it. Raking up a pile of leaves out in front of your house right where the kids walk by on their way to school is just asking for trouble.

By Monday afternoon, between our shenanigans and that afternoon east wind, those leaves would spread out all over the sidewalk again. And it never seemed to fail, that's when the city workers came by to suck them up. They'd only get about a third of the leaves. The rest just stayed there all over the sidewalk.

Okay, so what's the other big draw in Everett on a Saturday in autumn? Come on, that's an easy one, especially in Everett. Yeah, the football games at Everett Stadium. Everyone went to see the Crimson Tide roll over the opposition when we were little kids. Remember?

I'll never forget this one particular game against Medford when Pat Hughes was playing for Everett High. I remember it so well because Pat was an Arlington Street kid. He was a really good friend to my big brother, Billy.

We were winning by a score of like 22 to 3. I got into a conversation with this kid from Medford because he was wearing a New York Giant's sweatshirt. Not only was I a big New York Giant's fan when I was a little kid, but I find it a bit ironic that Pat eventually played almost his entire professional career for the New York Giants.

Anyway, this kid said to me. "The reason no one can beat Everett is because their whole team is made up of big pasta babies."

So natural I asked, "What do you mean by pasta baby?"

And he said, "Look at the size of these guys. They've been fattened up over the years by eating pasta. They're so big no one can knock them down."

"You people don't eat pasta in Medford?"

"Not like you people do in Everett. You're all Italians."

Well, he's wrong about one thing, but right about the other. We're not all Italians in Everett. But one thing we do learn to appreciate growing up in Everett is that nothing else even comes close to the mouth-watering charm of Italian cuisine. I'm not Italian, but if you were to ask me to list my favorite foods, the first ten items on my list are all Italian dishes. And that's the truth.

They tell me that they actually charged to get into the football games. Raise your hand if you ever paid to get into an Everett High Football game. I thought we were supposed to hop over the fence. I never went in any other way in my whole life. Did you?

Let's face it. It helps to add to the excitement when your home team keeps winning week after week. But there really was a whole lot more to it than that. Wasn't it fun just to take a stroll along the boardwalk at the bottom of the bleachers?

You could gaze up at all the kids from all over the city and watch them yell, and chant, and laugh. Everyone was out to have a good time at the Everett High football games and you could see that in their faces. Hey, and as you strolled along the boardwalk you got a closer look at all the pretty cheerleaders (sigh)!

At the back of my 1971 graduation yearbook is a snapshot of all my hippie friends from Glendale Park sitting up at the horseshoe section of the bleachers screaming their lungs out. It makes me laugh every time I look at that picture. Don't ask me why I'm not in it. I was probably down on the boardwalk gawking at the cheerleaders.

That gang from the back hills of Glendale Park was one party hard crowd - let me tell ya. Long after the game got over and the bleachers cleared out, they'd still be there tying one on well into the night. They didn't budge until the cops came along and told them to "move it or lose it."

Even after that, they'd just move the celebration up onto the hills of Glendale Park. They'd be singing and chanting the "We're From Everett" song right up until first light on Sunday morning. And they'd slur every other word in that song. You know what else was funny? None of them had any idea whatsoever as to whether they won or lost the football game they just watched. They were too busy celebrating.

Football was never a quest to win or lose with them. And neither was it a question of how you played the game. All football ever was to them was a reason to party. That's what I loved about these people. They partied at the drop of a hat. The answer was always the same whenever you asked, "What you guys want to do tonight?" They all cried out in perfect harmony, "Let's party."

You know what else was a big deal during October in Everett? We're only a couple of weeks away from Halloween. Going "trick or treating" in Everett was as much fun as any young heart could possibly imagine. The experience was so big that I'm not even going to go there yet. What I do want to talk about is the excited anticipation we all experienced as the big event drew near.

It became the topic of every casual conversation on our way to school, on the playground, and when we hung around on my front steps. Everybody wanted to know, "What are you going to be for Halloween?"

We had fun rummaging through the costumes at Gorins, but none of us could ever afford to buy one. We wouldn't want to anyway. It was always more fun to pick through our parent's old clothes to throw something unusual together. After all, what they thought was stylish back in their day, we thought was hysterical in ours.

It makes me laugh now when my grandchildren say, "I'm gonna be a hippie for Halloween," and then they dress up in the very clothes I used to wear when I went to high school. It's kind of scary when you think about it though, ain't it?

So, that's what autumn means to me. It touches a special place that lingers deep down inside my soul for those colorful leaves I saw outside my bedroom window down on Arlington Street. It reminds me of that brisk east wind that rattled the trees out in front of my house. I can still hear the festive sound of the crowd chanting at the Everett High school football games. And I can turn to my left and still see that adorable girl who used to wink at me back in the ninth grade at the Parlin.

Next February, I'll turn 55. It's been a long haul. Over the years, I've been through hell and back. I've laughed, I've cried, I've loved, and I've lost. But I have no regrets. For I have something to be truly grateful for. I grew up with the greatest crowd of people one could ever hope to share this journey with. After all, "I'm from Everett!"

And So It Goes

Murphy's law specifically states that, "If something can go wrong - it will." Sometimes that sounds like the story of my life. The very moment I stepped out that front door in the morning on my way to school I wanted everything to be perfect. Making a good impression is of the utmost importance when you're a kid, especially in Everett.

Why more so in Everett? Because the kids from Everett had a knack for pin pointing and focusing on the most infinitesimal quirk they can find about you and hammering away at it until they've totally destroyed every last shred of your self esteem. Ragging on each other was far more than just a favorite past time for Everett kids. We pushed it to the extreme of turning it into an art form.

We could go on endlessly talking about the evils of teasing and picking on each other. And even though we all knew it was wrong, we did it anyway. It's all a part of being a kid, especially in Everett.

Some kids did it because, as they say, "A good defense is a strong offense." Teasing someone else keeps the focus off of you. Some kids did it to boost their own ratings in the hierarchy of social "coolness." And some kids did it for nothing more than a good belly laugh. They really didn't mean anything by it. They were just having fun, even if it was at your expense.

The last thing anybody wants is to look stupid, especially in front of the opposite sex. During our school years, we are at the most vulnerable stage of our social development. Let's face it, we're sensitive. Raise your hand if you enjoyed being the laughing stock of the whole class. Anybody? I didn't think so.

Let me give you an example. There was a family of kids who went to school with us. They were a little bit different. Forgive me for saying that they were a little bit funny looking, but they were. Even still, they were a great bunch of kids. Their parents looked like something out of a grade B comedy movie. But honestly, nobody gets to pick their family, you're born into it.

Believe me, if given the choice, I'd have been born a Kennedy. Instead, I was born a Huffman. So instead of a Rolls Royce, I got 1952 Ford Custom with a hole rotted through the rear rocker panels. Instead of a large estate on Martha's Vineyard, I got a tiny 5 room apartment on Arlington Street. That was my lot in life. It was up to me to deal with it.

Anyway, somebody made up a song about that family. So not to inflict any more unnecessary punishment on those poor kids, I'll just call them the "X" family. The song was sung to the tune of the "Adam's Family" theme song, and it went like this.

"The X family started,
..When Mister X farted,
...They all became retarded,
....The X family."

It's funny, I know, but it's terribly cruel. Now honestly, aren't you glad it wasn't your family that everybody was singing about?

The irony about that story is that I don't know a single soul who didn't honestly like any of those kids in that family. They were nice kids. Everybody liked them. That still didn't stop anyone from singing that song. Go figure - right?

My point is, we spent more time trying to project an outwardly image of perfection for no other reasons than to avoid ridicule. Nobody wants to be the butt of everyone else's joke. It's not only embarrassing, but it's hard to look cool when everybody else is standing around laughing at you.

The best way to avoid becoming the "fool" is not to do anything stupid. That's easier said than done. Sometimes, circumstances arise that are way beyond your control. When they happen, you can see the trouble coming from a mile away. Let me give you an example, and a rather embarrassing one at that.

One day, when I was in fourth grade, just as I was finishing up my morning bowl of Cheerios, my mother said, "I didn't have time to do the laundry last night so you don't have a clean pair of underwear."

"That's okay," I said. "I'll wear what I've got on."

"You can't do that. You wore those yesterday."

"So, who's gonna know?"

"I'm not sending you to school in a dirty pair of underwear. You'll have to wear a pair of Julie's."

Now honestly, there is no way on earth that I'm gonna put on a pair of my sister's underwear. My mother's logic is that if I have to go to the hospital, she doesn't want the family name tarnished by having everyone talk about Paul's dirty underwear. As if they're not all gonna start talking if I show up with a clean pair of girl's underwear on. You talk about a tarnished reputation? That's all I need - right?

So naturally, I respond with, "There's no way that's ever going to happen. Don't even think about it. Perish the thought. You're never gonna get a pair of girl's underwear on my body in your life time. It's either dirty underwear, no underwear, or I'm staying home from school. And that's final."

Sure enough, when she set out my neatly ironed school clothes that morning, there was that "pink" pair of girl's underwear right there on top of the pile.

"Nobody's ever going to know what kind of underwear you've got on. I don't want to hear any more about it. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, okay."

You thought I was going to put up big fight, didn't you? There was no need for that. The solution is as plain as the nose on my face. My mother even said it herself when she said, "Nobody's ever going to know what kind of underwear you've got on."

That means that even she isn't going to know. Oh yeah, she was smart enough to snatch yesterday's underwear out of my possession so I couldn't wear those. What she didn't know is that when I got dressed for school, I just rolled that pair of girl's underwear up into a ball and stuffed them down into my back pocket. No worries - right?

Before school everyday up at the Horace Mann playground, we played a few innings of punch ball before the bell rang. When it was my turn to step up the plate, I did so with complete confidence. I punched that pimple ball way out into center field and took off like a bat out of hell towards first base. After an impressive overthrow from the outfielder to the pitcher, I darted towards second base. I was safe.

All was well until Ernie, who was covering first base, yelled out, "Hey Paul, something fell out of your pocket."

There lying on the ground, right on the base line, was my sister's underwear. Ernie picked them up, examined them, and then yelled out, "How come you had a pair of girl's underwear in your pocket?"

"I had a heavy date last night," I laughed.

"No really, how come you're carrying around a pair of girl's underwear?"

Now I know what it feels like to a deer when he suddenly sees a pair of headlights coming towards him at lightning speed on the highway. I honestly didn't know what to say. This is one of those situations where no matter what you say will be wrong, but you've gotta say something anyway. Everybody's standing there looking at me waiting for the big answer, and I was speechless.

All I could think to come up with was, "How should I know? My mother probably stuck them in there when she was doing the laundry. If you want em, keep em."

"I don't want em," he says. "You can have em back." When he threw them at me, he accidentally hit Jacky in the face with them. Jacky picked them up, chased Ernie across the playground and rubbed them in his face.

Ernie got mad because everyone laughed so he rubbed them in Nicky's face. A total free-for-all broke out and everybody started chasing each other all over the playground trying to rub my sister's underwear in each other's face. This could only happen in Everett, I swear.

As much as I wish the story ended there, it doesn't. Donny, who was about as crazy as they come, brought them into school when the bell rang. When Miss Dyer wasn't looking, he threw them in Joey's face. Joey got teed off and threw them back. Miss Dyer turned around from the blackboard just in time to see Joey standing up out of his seat throwing my sister's underwear across the room.

"Go get whatever that was you just threw across the room and put it up here on my desk," she demanded.

Joey went and got them and brought them up to Miss Dyer's desk.

"What are you doing with a pair of girl's underwear?" She asked.

"They're not mine. They're Paul's."

Miss Dyer looked at me and said, "Paul Huffman, stand up!"

Now look at me. Here I am standing up in front of my entire fourth grade class and my teacher wants to know why I have possession of a pair of girl's underwear. This is exactly what I mean by circumstances beyond your control. The only possible way to save face in a situation like this is to risk detention and lay claim to a crime you didn't commit. So, I told her I brought them to school for a joke.

Everyone thought that was funny. I mean after all, you've gotta be a little bit crazy to bring a pair of girl's underwear to school for a joke - right? Being a little bit crazy is considered "cool" amongst guys. Even if I have to stay after school, I'm still cool. It's the only way out.

As it turned out, Miss Dyer didn't make me stay after school. She did something far worse than that. She wrote a note home to my mother and demanded that I have it signed and returned by tomorrow. You know I'm in really big trouble now, don't you? Just wait until my mother reads that part about all the guys throwing my sister's underwear around the classroom. She's gonna kill me.

So not to ruin my whole afternoon, I waited until we sat down for supper before handing the note to my mother. She threw a fit. My father demanded to know the whole truth. So, I told him everything from beginning to end. I figured I may as well face the music now and get it over with.

My Dad looked at my mother and said, "Don't you ever tell this boy he's going to have to wear a pair of girl's underwear." She was about to speak, but he held up his hand and said, "Don't ever do that to him again."

He then turned to me and said, "What you did was funny. I'm not mad at you one bit. And I don't blame you at all. None of this was any of your fault."

My mother protested by saying, "That's no excuse for throwing those underwear all around the classroom."

"That was your fault," my Dad said. "You caused all this. Don't ever do that to him again."

That's how important it is for a boy to have a Dad. There are just some things women do not understand. Being a boy is certainly one of them. And I don't care how many years of Psychology you study, only a man knows what it's like to be a boy, just as only a woman knows what it's like to be a girl. You can argue until you're blue in the face, but that's the truth. Anyone who says otherwise is full of what makes the grass grow green.

Embarrassing moments happen to us all. As we get older, we're not so self conscious about our shortcomings. When we're young we think we'll never live it down. It's only now I can laugh about that underwear story. When it happened, I was out of my mind with embarrassment.

Doesn't it always seem like it's when you're trying to look your best that it all falls apart? That reminds me of the time in the tenth grade when I finally got up the nerve to ask this girl in my homeroom if I could walk her home from school. It took days for me to get to that stage of the courtship.

First, I had to strike up a conversation with this girl. Trying to find something to talk about with somebody you don't really know is hard enough. I was really biding my time, taking things cool and slow. The last thing I wanted to do was mess this one up.

Things were really working out in my favor. I realized that when another girl in my class, who I had been friends with for years, came over to me at recess and said, "Guess what so and so told me?"

"What did she tell you?"

"Well, first she said, "I think Paul Huffman likes me." So, I said, well no kidding. And then I asked her if she liked you."

"Yeah, okay, so what did she say?"

"She's crazy about you."

Woah, that does it. There's no holding me back now. I didn't waste another nanosecond. I headed right on over to where that girl was standing with her friends and popped the big question. "Can I walk you home after school?"

"I'd really like that," she smiled.

My feet never touched the pavement that whole afternoon as we walked along the sidewalks of Broadway. We sauntered through the crowds in Everett Square as if there wasn't another soul on the planet. All I could hear was the sound of her voice and all I could see was her pretty smile.

I will never forget that very moment we stopped at the edge of the curb on the corner of Norwood and Broadway waiting for the red light to cross the street. Our eyes met. The moment was so right. Even our lips were beginning to take shape.

All of a sudden this inconsiderate pigeon dropped a giant poop out of the sky and hit me square on the forehead. It's even worse then you can imagine, trust me. It was one of those really disgusting wet blueberry looking ones that ran straight down the front of my face.

You really don't think she's going to kiss me now, do you? Believe me - she didn't. And I don't blame her one single bit. I certainly wouldn't want to kiss that.

Sometimes I wonder if God doesn't wait for the most inopportune moments in your life to punish you for all the wrong things you've done. It certainly seems like that to me - let me tell ya.

Which reminds me of an incident that happened during my junior year at EHS. I met this college girl during a concert at the Hatch Shell on the Charles. She was a knock out. Not only that, but she liked me. Can you believe that? Out of all the good looking guys mingling around that night, she chose me - of all people.

So naturally, I'm out to really impress this girl. On our first date, I borrowed my brother-in-law's Chevy Impala to take this girl up to a fine restaurant on Pickering Wharf in Salem. I was dressed to the teeth and so was she.

If things couldn't go any more perfect, the waitress never once asked for my I.D. when I ordered the wine. We sat nibbling on the hors devours, sipping the wine, and enjoying a really romantic evening by candlelight. It doesn't get any better than that.

Besides the fact that I was in seventh heaven, the wine was getting me a little bit dizzy. I didn't want her to know that, of course. She smiled ever so sweetly and said, "You'll have to excuse me for a moment," and picked up her purse. So naturally, I stood up to pull out her chair like a gentleman should.

What I didn't know was that the coaster I had set my glass of wine down on top of was actually the tail end of my tie. When I stood up, the wine went every where, including across the table and all down the front of her beautiful evening gown.

In my frantic attempt to grab a hold of the wine glass, I knocked the bottle of wine off the table with my elbow. It smashed on the floor. You talk about drawing attention to yourself? Who do you think everybody in the restaurant was gawking at now?

You should have seen the look on that poor girl's face when she came back from the lady's room. Her gown was ruined. I felt like the klutz of the century. Especially so after she looked at me through those dreamy eyes and softly said, "This was the most romantic moment of my life until you did that."

That was almost as stupid as the time one of my friends called me over at a party because one of the young ladies seated on the couch asked to be introduced to me. Being the gentleman that I am, I took hold of the pretty maiden's hand, and careful not to lift it (which is the improper thing to do), I bowed to kiss her hand.

When I did, I forgot to steady my other hand in which I was holding my drink. Naturally, I poured my drink all over the very girl who wanted to be introduced to me. Quite the impressive young man, was I not?

Nobody wants to wish their life away, but in a situation like that you'll find yourself wishing for a whole chunk of time to pass by quickly so everyone else will soon forget about the incident altogether.

We may giggle over embarrassing situations when we're in elementary and junior high, but once you reach high school, you're really conscious of the image you project. After all, your future soul mate may be sitting somewhere within view. You never know.

There was one incident during my senior year at EHS at an assembly in the Rockwell auditorium that I'd much rather soon forget. A group of young ladies seated behind us were leaning forward to talk to the group of girls sitting in front of us. Here I am sitting in the middle of all these pretty girls thinking how glad I am to have picked this seat.

One of the girls behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Paul, can you pass me back that note from Diane?" You know me. I'd be more than happy to because that's just the kind of guy I am. So, I stood up and leaned forward to retrieve the note. When I did, this real loud burst of wind came out of nowhere. Well actually, I knew where it came from (so did everybody else). I just had no idea it was on its way. It just happened.

You wouldn't mind if it was one of those S-B-D's (Silent But Deadly), but this one was as loud as a fire cracker. And smell - whew! If that wasn't embarrassing enough, the girl behind me waived her hand in front of her face and yelled out, "Oh Paul, for crying out loud. You did that in my face."

One of the other girls cried out "Oh phew, I'm out of here." They all got up and changed their seats. It's times like these that I could really use a bag to pull down over my head. I swear sometimes, that could only happen to me.

My last story isn't another one of those really embarrassing moments. It falls more along the lines of the "how could you be so stupid?" category.

It happened on a Friday night during my senior year when a whole bunch of us were standing at the bus stop on the corner of Hancock and Broadway. This really slick looking Chevy Camaro pulled up along side of the curb and rolled to a complete stop. Inside was a very pretty girl, indeed. She looked like she was mad at the whole world.

My friend Ronnie and I were standing there having a gab for ourselves. After quite some time, Ronnie turned to me and said, "Dude, that girl is staring right at us." Sure enough, she was staring right at us. When I bent down to see if she wanted anything, she motioned for me to open the car door, which I did.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

All of a sudden, she started yelling at me. She said, "I hope you don't think I'm going to sit by the phone every night waiting for you to call."

"Are you talking to me?" I could have sworn that I've never seen this girl before in my life. I would have remembered this one, honestly.

"What do you mean, am I talking to you? Who else is within ear shot of my voice? What is this, a game with you? You keeping score with your buddies are something?"

"I'm telling ya the truth," I shook my head in disbelief. "If I said I was going to call and I didn't, believe me, I'm the sorriest dude on the planet. Give me your name and number, and I promise, I will call you before the end of the weekend. I give you my word."

"Give you my name and number?" She shouted. "You don't even remember my name?"

"Do you remember mine?" I asked because I was still wondering whether or not this girl had the right person. I mean, after all, I rather doubt that I would totally forget a girl who looked like that.

"Oh really, Paul," she said in a totally disgusted manner. "This is one notch on your belt you're never going to get." She then zoomed off like a bat out of hell. I never saw that girl ever again. What am I saying? I don't even remember ever seeing that girl before in my life.

Ronnie looked over at me and asked, "What was that all about?"

"I wish I knew."

"Who was that?" He asked.

"I wish I knew that, too."

"Dude, you've gotta ease up on your partying. You're having blackouts," he laughed.

"What did she want?" He asked.

"She just wanted to break up with me."

"It sounds like she did that"

"Yeah, I guess she did."

I've got to admit, that was original. They usually go out with me before they dump me. This one bypassed all the formalities and went straight to the punch. Man, that's the shortest relationship I've ever had, and I've had some seriously short relationships in my day, trust me.

Even to this day I have no idea who that girl was - not even the slightest. She certainly left a lasting impression. I'll give her that.

When I think back on many of the dim-witted things I've done growing up as a kid in Everett, I cannot believe that I, of all people, ever made fun of anyone else. So trust me, if I ever made fun of you when we were kids, I take it all back. No one deserves to be made fun of as much as I do, believe you me.

I can only hope that I'm not the only one who has ever stumbled over his own two feet to the degree that I have in my day. In retrospect, I guess what all this really means is that I'm human.

Life doesn't come with a manual. I wish it did. That would certainly help smooth out some of those rough spots along the way. I could see me now quickly thumbing through the index looking for the page that says, "What to say to the girl you don't know when she breaks up with you."

And let's be honest here. If they did publish a handbook to help you navigate through this crazy maze we call life, it would certainly need to be all inclusive to be of any use whatsoever. They would certainly need a whole chapter dedicated to awkward people like myself. I've even got the perfect title for it. They could call it - "We're From Everett!"

Three Coins In The Fountain

I'm thinking back a few years ago when I was enjoying a cookout with my family and friends. Everyone was mingling and gabbing all at once about every topic imaginable under the sun. You could barely hear the oldies playing softly on the radio in the background with all that light hearted chattering going on.

It never seems to fail in a situation like this that somebody in the crowd feels compelled to turn up the radio whenever their favorite song comes on. That always seems to trigger a memory of something that happened to them back when they were in high school. After we all shared a good belly laugh over that story, somebody else said, "Hey, you know what happened to me?" And then that person told another funny one about their high school days.

Conversations like that are addicting. One memory triggers another. Before you know it, everyone's got a story to tell. In a situation like that, everybody's expecting to hear a funny story. If the story you tell isn't all that funny, somebody in the crowd is bound to pipe up and say, "I guess you had to be there."

Stories about our high school days give an honest glimpse at what life was really like in our time. The mores and attitudes of our parents, our teachers, and even the kids themselves help define the signs of our times. Even though I enjoy a funny story just as much as anyone else, I honestly believe it is the human interest stories that paint a more realistic picture of our times.

Well guess what? I've got three stories to tell you that happened to me back in my high school days. Big surprise - huh? Not all of them happened at school. They are more of the human interest type story than they are anything else.

These random snippets span the entire three years of my high school career from my sophomore year beginning in September of 1968, right up until my graduation in June of 1971. Because of the human interest quality of these stories, I honestly believe that they collectively help set the tone for that era in the timeline of American history we so fondly refer to as - "The E.H.S. Class of 71."

The first story is "The Great Whiffle Controversy."

Whiffles (or crew cuts if you prefer) were very popular back in the days of white wall tires and fuzzy dice. Hey, what am I saying? They're even popular again today. But back in the days of the "hippie" generation, sporting a whiffle was way out of synch with what was going on with America's youth. They were considered seriously "uncool."

Whenever somebody with a whiffle passed by a gang of hippies back in the sixties, they'd turn to one another and say, "Sniffle - sniffle, I smell a whiffle." I know that because I was one and I used to say that.

My father always wanted me to get a whiffle, especially after I let my hair grow long. How long did it get? Click here and scroll to the bottom of the page to see what I used to look like back in high school. Now you really can't blame my Dad for trying - can you?

The controversy came to a head one day when I didn't show up at home for a couple of days during my junior year at Everett High. I was out parting with friends. After hoping from one party to the next, we crashed out under the weeping willows along the banks of the pond on the Boston Commons and slept for about a day and half. When I showed up at the doorstep just in time for supper, my father demanded to know where I've been. So, I told him the truth.

"Do you know what you're becoming?" He asked.

"No, what?"

"You're becoming a hippie," he said with an air of disgust.

"You don't really believe that," I replied somewhat sarcastically.

"I just read an article about that," he said. "They say that the length of your hair may adversely affect the way you think."

"So that's your problem right there. Your hair's too short," I laughed.

"That's not what they meant," he said angrily. "They're talking about long hair."

"And I suppose you read that in a peer reviewed medical journal - right?"

"That doesn't matter. The point is - you've changed ever since you've grown your hair long. You're acting like a beatnik."

"Don't you think that maybe I've changed because I'm not a little kid anymore? And beside, I'm an artist. You don't expect a creative artist to look and act like a potential insurance salesman - do you?"

"Just because you're an artist doesn't mean you have to act like one."

"Are you listening to yourself?" I laughed.

"I know what I said," he answered sternly. "Many famous artists lived normal lives. What about Van Gogh?"

"Dad, really, you've got to brush up on your art history. Van Gogh was as unconventional as you could get. The man lived on the street when he wasn't confined to a mental hospital. That's the guy who cut off his ear as a gift to a prostitute. Pick another artist. That one blows your argument all to hell."

"Well, what about Al Capp then," he asked.

"Al Capp is not an artist. He's a cartoonist."

"What's the difference?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious."

"Okay, let's put it this way. You're a mechanic. You fix engines. Does that make you the same as the mechanical engineer who designs the engine?"

"That's not the point."

"What is the point then?"

Okay, let me interject something here. Perhaps boys will relate more to this kind of father-son confrontation. We all seem to go through this phase during our high school years. What's really interesting about these confrontations is that they always branch out into several different unrelated topics.

Keep in mind that all this started over my father wanting to know why I haven't shown up at home for three days. So far we've talked about long hair, beatniks, peer reviewed journals, famous artists, and mechanical engineering. Do you see a pattern developing here? I don't.

What's really going on is nothing more than the typical growing pain that most fathers and sons experience during the natural process of maturity. As the child grows into adulthood, the parent feels their authority slipping away because it is. By the same token, for the child to establish a stronger sense of independence, they must challenge the parent's authority.

It's all a part of the natural process in developing your wings in preparation to leave the nest. The parent is the first threshold of authority the child must overcome to gain independence. The irony is - the parent's authority is the most dominating factor that holds the developing child back. It's nature's defense mechanism.

Only when the child has matured to the point where he can no longer live within the confines of the parent's authority, is it time to leave the nest. Some offspring may never reach that level of maturity. For those who reach it at a young age, confrontation is almost always inevitable.

My Dad honestly believes that if I cut all my hair off, I'll start to think and act differently. He really does believe that. So now finally, we get back to the original discussion.

"My point is that if you stopped looking and dressing like a beatnik, you'll draw a more respectable crowd of friends."

"Respectable to who?"

"If you cut all that hair off you'll find out." Then he said, "If you can give me one good reason why getting a whiffle is a bad idea, I'll stop pestering you."

To which I said, "Let me hear why you think I should get one."

His response was, "With a whiffle you can wash your hair with your face cloth using the same bar of soap that you shower with. It gets your whole scalp nice and clean in only seconds. A whiffle looks neat all the time without having to comb it. It's virtually maintenance free. People will naturally assume that you're on the ball because you look smart with a whiffle."

Man, I'm convinced. Aren't you?

What follows is the reply I gave to my father. Before I begin, let me say that I have nothing against anyone who sports a whiffle. "To each his own," - right? Hey, whatever floats your boat. That's how I look at it. My reply was solely based on why I don't believe a whiffle is right for me.

Even to this day I cannot bring myself to cut my hair like that. That's just the way I am. I would prefer total baldness over a whiffle. A bald head is acceptable to me. I could live with that. I might even enjoy it. To me, a whiffle makes a person look like they couldn't make up their mind.

Okay, enough dialogue. This was my response.

"The reason I don't want a whiffle is because people with whiffles look as artistically creative as Mister Green Jeans. They look as though they've shaved their heads out of frustration. It's almost as if they've surrendered all attempts at trying to attract the opposite sex."

"I don't even want anyone to see me lying in my casket looking like that. Should I ever need major brain surgery, I shall insist that the surgeon go all the way up through the bottom of my foot rather than to give me a whiffle. That's how strongly opposed I am to getting a whiffle."

He looked at me and said, "You may have to go into the Army someday. If you do, they'll give you a whiffle."

"They've discontinued the draft. It's now a lottery. My number is 314. Chances are, I'm a free man. If they call, I'll go and get my whiffle. That is the only way I will agree to get a whiffle. Other than that, it's never going to happen."

He then asked, "What if I said that if you don't get a whiffle you can't live here any more?"

"I will respect your decision and choose not to live here any more."

"Where will you go?"

"I have options. But I will tell you this. Regardless under what conditions I leave the nest, where ever I go, you will always be welcomed. You will always be my Dad."

To which he surprisingly replied, "What is it about you that you always know how to say exactly the right thing at the right time? I get so frustrated with you sometimes and then all of a sudden you come out with something like that. I suppose I'll just have to get used to you looking like a hippie. At least I know that underneath all that hair is a really good kid. You're just a little bit screwy, that's all."

"Dad really, don't go soft on me now. I won't know how to handle it."

"Ah, the hell with it," he laughed. "Let's eat."

What is really ironic about the whole situation is that it wasn't any more than about two years after high school that I went out and got all my hair cut off. No, I didn't get a whiffle. But what I did do was go out of my way to stop in to visit my dad. You should have seen the look on his face. The first thing he said was, "Where's my camera?"

The second story is the "Death Match."

I knew that title would grab your attention, but that's exactly what it was. Because of the nature of the contents of this story, I shall not mention my gym teacher by name.

I will tell you this. This guy was no Charles Atlas - trust me. Rather than a "Body by Jake," he looked more like a "Body by Burger King." I never once ever saw this guy bend over. I rather doubt that he could. He did look some sharp with that whiffle of his though - let me tell ya.

The story I'm about to tell you happened during my sophomore year in gym class. Our gym teacher spent the entire class sitting at his little desk in the corner of the gymnasium reading the newspaper. In the meantime, after dividing the class into two teams, we were on our own. We became mindlessly engrossed in a no holds barred game of "hand soccer" right there inside the gymnasium.

To say that this game was violent is an understatement. Cross body blocks, elbows to the face, and tripping were all very much a part of the game. Without the supervision of the gym teacher, the game got ugly and people got hurt. It was not uncommon to show up for your next class with a bruised cheek, a fat lip, or a bandage.

During this one particular gym class, after the teacher was satisfied that we were all too absorbed in this friendly little game of "hand soccer" to get into any serious trouble, he left the gymnasium. We were now completely unsupervised.

Without any supervision whatsoever, it became far more than just a violent game of "hand soccer." It had transformed into a senseless death match. Punches were thrown. People got kicked, scratched, and bitten. If that sounds barbaric to you, then wait until you hear this.

At one point in the game, the ball rolled freely towards the sidelines. One kid charged after it. Just as he was about to reach down to retrieve the ball, somebody threw a cross body block up against his back. Unaware of the coming blow, he was at the mercy of his attacker and took the full brunt of the blow. He fell forward, smashing his face onto the bleachers.

When he fell to the floor, the blood sprayed from his mouth. He was hurt, and hurt bad. I honestly believe that in all our innocence, we never fully realized the seriousness of our actions until that kid got so severely injured. We all surrounded him in a futile attempt to comfort him. He was conscious, but he was in terrible agony.

Being the elder of the crowd, Beaver took charge and starting giving orders. He pointed at two kids and said, "Go find the gym teacher. Tell him it's serious." Then he pointed at me and said, "Go to the front office and tell Leo. We need an ambulance for this kid."

I ran through the corridor in my gym shorts all the way to the front office. As I passed by Mr. Testa on the main floor, he shouted, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I don't have time for you," I said as I hurried past.

"You get back here mister," he said and then took off after me.

When I reached Mr. Leo's office, I ran inside without knocking. Mr. Testa came in only a split second behind me. Before he could speak, I blurted out with "We've got a kid who's seriously hurt in the gymnasium. We need an ambulance."

"Why didn't you say so?" Mr. Testa said excitedly and took off towards the gymnasium.

"Where's your gym teacher?" Mr. Leo asked.

"We can't find him."

"That's the last straw," Mr. Leo said. "I'll take over from here."

Don't ask me why, but I walked ever so slowly on my way back to the gymnasium. I was in somewhat of a daze. I could not believe that we had carried on so irresponsibly that we actually hurt somebody like that. What were we thinking? I felt so sorry for that poor kid.

In the meantime, the class bell had rung and the corridor had filled with kids changing classes. One of the girls whistled and joked, "Cute legs, Paul." I smiled a courteous smile, but my mind was a million miles away. By the time I got back down to the gymnasium, every one else had gone. The place was empty.

I took my sweet time getting d