Everett Summer Nights

The stifling humidity of these hot summer nights bring back memories of growing up on Arlington Street that I'll never let go. These images are nothing out of the ordinary, by any means. They're just random reflections of the way life used to be.

Our apartment was tiny. So was the bedroom that slept three growing boys. Along the inside wall we had a set of bunk beds. I slept on top because I was the littlest one of the bunch. Carl slept on the bottom.

Let me tell you about those bunk beds. There was nothing fancy about them. They were those Army style bunk beds that consisted of a simple angle iron frame with nothing more than a wire mesh support under the mattress. And even though those mattresses were only about 5 inches thick, they were far more comfortable than anything else I've ever slept on.

Have you ever slept on one of those old fashioned Army feather mattresses? Every so often, this hard pointy thing stuck up through the mattress and stabbed into you. If you pulled on it, you'd pull this big old feather right out through the mattress. I used to lie there at night pulling feathers through the mattress by their stems. I'd catch hell from my mother when she pulled back my covers to wake me up in the morning and a cloud of feathers would puff up into the air.

One of the funniest memories I have about those bunk beds is when Billy used to lie down on the bottom bunk and Carl and I took turns getting up on the top bunk. Billy then kicked us up into the air as if we were riding a bucking bronco. He'd kick so hard and fast sometimes that he'd bounce us right up out of the bed and onto the floor.

Next to our bunk beds was a simple four-drawer bureau. Carl had the top drawer because he was the neatest one of the bunch. The second drawer down was mine. You could also tell my drawer from Carl's because there was always socks and underwear sticking out of mine and I seldom closed it evenly. I was a typical slob as is customary for a little boy.

Billy had drawer number three. It was hard to tell his drawer from mine other than that the socks and underwear hanging over the top of the drawer were much larger. The bottom drawer was where my mother kept our sheets and things like that. That's also where I hid my jars full of ants and grasshoppers. And now you know why my mother always threw a fit at me. She even had the audacity to actually throw them away on me sometimes.

I'll never forget that day I caught that giant bullfrog out behind Spencer's Sunoco gas station down on Ferry Street. "Don't you dare put that thing in the bottom drawer with my linens," my mother shouted at me. She made me keep him in an old pickle jar.

On the following day while I was outside playing in that blaring hot July summer heat, she decided to go in and tidy up our bedroom. She pulled that pickle jar with my bullfrog in it out from under my bed and placed it on the windowsill. Then she forgot all about it.

For the next four hours or so that poor old bullfrog was trapped inside a glass jar in the direct ultraviolet rays of that blaring hot sun. It turned out to be quite the science experiment. By the way, do you know what happens to a bullfrog after being contained in a glass jar for four hours in the blearing hot sun? He explodes.

My mother thought it was one of the ugliest sights she'd ever seen. You could still make out one of his eyeballs and his little webbed paws. Other than that, it looked like a jar full of some kind of homemade green marmalade.

All was not lost. I still had a lot of fun with it. I chased Mary Ellen all over the Horace Mann playground with it. Apparently, mashed up amphibian guts repulse the dickens out of girls. God only knows why. It wasn't all that ugly, really. To me, it looked more like something you might spread on a bagel or an english muffin to have with a cup of tea.

Now, to give you a better idea of how small our bedroom actually was, there was no more than about an inch between our bunk beds and that bureau. Billy's bed was on the other side of that bureau directly across the room from our bunk beds. There was only about an inch between Billy's bed and that bureau as well.

Our bedroom measured somewhere in the vicinity of about seven feet long and about eight feet wide. It was so small that Billy's bed blocked both the window, and the door that led out onto our front porch up on the second floor. Rather than keep moving Billy's bed out of the way to open that door to get out onto the front porch, we'd just crawl across his pillow and climb out through the window.

That porch had solid railings. You could duck down behind them so no one could see you from down on the sidewalk. It made somewhat of an excellent sniper's nest from which to shoot unsuspecting victims with bobby pins and elastics. Not that I would ever do anything like that, mind you.

Because Billy was so much older than I was, he was still out there hanging around on the sidewalk with his friends long after Carl and I had gone to bed. I'm talking long after the streetlight came on. Now, that's late.

Carl was the kind of kid who drifted off into dreamland the moment his head hit the pillow. I used to sneak over onto Billy's bed and open the blinds so I could draw under the luminosity of the streetlight in front of our house. On those hot summer nights when I didn't have to get up for school the next day, my mother wasn't so militant about making me go back to bed. All she was really concerned about was that I didn't wake up Carl.

My only regret is that I never recorded what it sounded like to sit and draw at that window on a hot summer night. The cornucopia of sounds that filled the air around me harmonized into a tapestry of peculiarity that had Everett written all over it. It's kind of hard to explain, but every element within ear shot somehow played a distinctive role in what I can only think to describe as a natural orchestra of sound. And of all the places I've slept in my lifetime, only that little corner of the world on a hot summer night can compose such a symphony.

Let me tell you what I heard.

Go anywhere in the world, and as soon as you open your mouth, somebody somewhere will ask, "You're from Boston - right?" Go anywhere in Massachusetts, and open your mouth, and chances are that somebody somewhere will say, "Let me guess, either Everett or Eastie, am I right?" Let's face it. We don't sound like the kids on the Cape, and we don't sound like we come from Newton or Wellesley either.

I could sit here and listen to those teenagers outside talk all night long. What a riot and half that was, let me tell ya. It was probably by listening to those kids talk that I realized the importance of learning how to speak well. Our teachers tried to convey that very message all along, but their methods of doing so were, for the most part, ineffective. Listening to these guys mouth off was a far more effective lesson on how not to speak in public.

For example, these guys only had one adjective in their entire vocabulary. It's almost as if they've never heard of words like big, red, or loud. While listening to Mikey tell his story about the day he got caught cheating on a test at school, I had to bury my head in my pillow to keep from waking up Carl because I was laughing so hard.

The following is a simulation of the dialogue as I best remember it.

Mikey: "So anyway, Mr. Turquotte was walking up and down the "effin" isles, making sure nobody was looking at each other's "effin" paper. As soon as he walked past my "effin" desk, I looked over at Billy to get some "effin" answers so I wouldn't have to turn in a blank piece of "effin" paper."

Billy: "I don't believe you don't know the "effin" answers to an "effin" test they give at the "effin" trade school. It's not like you actually gotta "effin" study or anything. The material is so "effin" simple that even an "effin" moron could ace it without "effin" trying."

Mikey: "Hey, for cry sakes, let me finish my "effin" story."

Billy: "Aw right, finish your "effin" story."

Mikey: "So like I was saying, Turquotte just walked by my "effin" desk so I looked over at Billy to get some "effin " answers. Well, guess what? This "effin" jerk has his whole "effin" hand covering his "effin" paper so I can't see so much as one "effin" answer."

Billy: 'It serves you "effin" right for being so "effin" stupid."

Mikey: "Hey, will you shut the "eff" up so I can finish my "effin" story?"

Donny: "Yeah Billy, Shut the "eff" up so he can finish his "effin" story so we can get on with our "effin" lives.

Okay, let's stop right there. Actual number of words in that conversation is 210. The word "effin" is repeated 27 times. Almost every eighth word is the "eff" word. Like I said, it's the only adjective in their entire vernacular. Everything they talk about follows that one golden rule. They simple cannot use any other adjective.

They even follow that rule when they tell a joke. Usually, it's the way they tell the joke that's the funniest part. Here's how they would ordinarily set the stage for a typical joke. "This "effin" guy walks into an bar with an "effin" parrot on his shoulder." See what I mean?

The reason it was so comical is because if you called them on the carpet for it, they'd swear they never used that kind of language. It was such a common part of their inborn dialect that they didn't even realize they were saying it.

My mother and father felt they were right for not allowing Elvis to shake his legs on Ed Sullivan's "really big shoo." They thought it was such a vulgar form of expression. Elvis was nothing compared to the language going on right outside my bedroom window. Now that was vulgar, especially to the virgin ears of an eight-year-old boy in 1960 Everett.

An unmistakable peculiarity unfolds about this whole situation that I must simply tell you about. When it was time for Billy to come in for the night, that adjective virtually disappeared from his vocabulary the moment he stepped inside that front door. That word never once slipped out when he was inside the house. It only happened when he was out with his friends.

As soon as I heard Billy's footsteps clattering up the front steps, I knew it was time to gather my things and head on over to my top bunk. I say "clatter" because that's what it sounded like every time Billy came running up those front steps. It sounded more like a horse trotting on pavement than it did a person walking up a set of steps. You would have sworn this kid had at least four feet.

There was a very distinct reason why Billy made so much noise when he came in for the night. My mother and father had gone off to bed hours ago, but my mother would not go to sleep until she knew we were all home safe and sound. Once she knew Billy had gone to bed, she was out like a light.

Shortly afterwards, Billy got up, got dressed, and slipped back out the front door without making so much as a peep. It's amazing how quiet he can be when he wants to be. Just because Billy was still another year away from getting his license didn't mean he couldn't go out cruising with his friends.

Under the dark of night, he and his friends snuck into my father's car and threw it into neutral. Then they'd roll it down Arlington Street towards Ferry. Before they reached the intersection, they'd all jump into the car, pop the clutch, and drive off into the night. That meant I could hop back onto Billy's bed, open the blinds, and get right back to where I left off on my drawing.

Now we're talking sometime after midnight. This is when you really get to focus on the random sounds that pierced the dark of night. We always had a fan going in one of our living room windows. Rather than give off a steady hum, it sounded more like someone turning a faucet off and on at a really rapid and constant pace. When that gentle east wind picked up, it blew through that fan like some sort of aerodynamic wind tunnel.

I could also hear that gentle easterly breeze rustle the maple leaves on that tree right in front of our house. And on occasion, I could hear that Doppler swoosh of a passing automobile driving along Ferry Street. At one o' clock in the morning in 1960, cars passing by on Ferry Street were few and far between.

Hearing a siren screaming past your window in the middle of the night back then was as rare as a seeing a shooting star. If we did hear one, regardless of what time it was, we all came running out of the house in our peejays and bathrobes to see what was going on. It was that rare of an occasion.

Other sounds I heard include a solitary set of footsteps clopping along the sidewalk. Sometimes it was the police officer walking his beat. Did you hear that? I'm so old that I still remember when police officers walked up and down the sidewalk. Not only that, but they lived right here in the community they served. They were our neighbors. We knew them personally. It makes a difference.

Back then, we also had a lot of crickets. They used to drive my mother nuts. I actually liked them. To me, they are nighttime's answer to the daylight's traffic noise. It wasn't until I moved out to the boondocks in southern Indiana that I remembered how loud they could actually get sometimes.

Here's one thing I don't remember. I don't ever remember hearing an airplane fly over our house in the middle of the night when I was a little kid. They did fly over during the day, and usually at a rate of about two or three per hour, but never in the middle of the night. Times sure have changed.

Sometimes I'd sit drawing at the window right up until first light. Yes, even when I was only eight years old. I liked to hear the sound of night dissolve into the break of day. The crickets seemed to calm down just as Billy and his friends were rolling my dad's car back into the driveway. That's also when I'd hear the brakes on the Hoods milk truck quietly squeal to a halt out in front of our house.

Do you remember the sound those glass milk bottles made when they rattled against each other in the wire basket that the milkman carried them around in? I sure do. Just as I still remember exactly what it sounded like in my house as soon as Billy actually laid his head down onto his pillow.

You talk about perfect timing? That kid had his act planned out to the very millisecond. For it never seemed to fail that just as his head hit the pillow, you could hear my father's slippers scuffing across the floor into the bathroom to get ready for work.

Morning was breaking all over the city of Everett by now. One by one, you could hear car doors slamming, engines firing up, and cars pulling away from the curb and driving off into the rising sun for yet another day at the grindstone. By this time the sandman was beating me to death and I just had to let go.

Not more than a few hours from now, my mother will come into our bedroom, pull the covers off of us and yell, "Rise and shine. It's a beautiful summer day. Don't let it go to waste." And we'd have to drag our sleepy asses out of bed. We both wanted her to think that we got to bed at a decent hour. She'd throw a fit if she knew otherwise.

This would be the last summer I could stay up all through the night to draw. By the very next summer I'd have to get up bright and early to deliver newspapers every morning. Billy wouldn't have to stay up all through the night to sneak off with my father's car by then either. By the following summer, he'd have both his license and his very own car.

In so many ways, it was the end of another era of my childhood growing up in Everett. That's why it was so important to commit so much of it to memory. Somehow I knew that I would never pass this way again.

Every sound of that era, even of the most infinitesimal, is committed to memory. It had to be. For every note I write down on the staff simply must culminate into a piece of music that genuinely reflects the very same ambience that those sounds invoked within my soul. There is no question about it. It is the sights and sounds of my Everett childhood that fuel my creative self.

There was nothing wrong with the way we grew up. We learned many things along the way. Through our foolishness, and our mistakes, and our failures, as well as through our successes, we learned how to navigate this strange maze we call, "life."

We gather to reminisce about that journey along the way in like mind and like spirit because we traveled along similar paths through familiar territory. Keep that in mind. My Fourth of July posting shall prove to be a rabble rouser.

It is time to rekindle that patriotic love for our country and our community. It's time to ignite that spark of inspiration that will enable us to stand together with a united voice to take our country back. We can do it. I know we can. Because "We're from Everett!"

Adventures in Time Travel

I often fantasize (as artists and crazy people do) that I really can travel back in time. And the only reason I want to is so I can tell everyone about the future. So if I ever do get the chance to travel back in time, I intend to have a lot of fun with it.

And why not? After all, we only go this way once. Well actually, if we do start travelling back and forth through time then I suppose we'll be going this way over and over again several times.

Contemplating time travel is fun. Having fun is what life is all about. Life is way too short to take it too seriously. Many of my elementary school teachers have often scornfully looked at me and shouted, "You think this is all one big joke. Don't you?"

Under my breath (so not to cause my teacher to blow a left ventricle) I'd say, "Quite frankly, I do." Because I honestly do believe this is all one big joke. And my experiences growing up in Everett have led me to that conclusion.

I actually know people who refrain from having fun because they worry about what others might think of them. They're always afraid they'll look foolish out on the dance floor, or that everyone will laugh at them if they get up and sing. Let me tell you how I honestly feel about that point of view.

Fifteen million years from now this whole planet is going to be nothing more than a solid block of ice. When that day comes, nobody is going to remember a blessed thing about me whatsoever. If you're the type who worries about what the neighbors are saying behind your back, then consider this. Who amongst you can tell me whether the guy who lived on the second floor at 14 Arlington Street in 1897 was a goober or not? Anybody? I didn't think so.

Whenever I mind-travel back in time, I often go back to the "1963 -1964" school year in Miss Blake's sixth grade classroom at the Horace Mann elementary school. For many reasons, that was the year I reached a plateau of self-actualization. Prior to that year, my shenanigans in school were nothing more than the byproduct of boyhood. It was in the sixth grade that my classroom mischief took root as a form of social protest. It just seemed as though the ironies of everyday life (both in and out of school) warranted such a reactionary response.

A lot of wild things happened that year. Most notably, of course, was the assassination of President Kennedy. Those of you who lived through the experience know only too well how tragically that moment impacted our lives. We lost that innocent mindset the permeated postwar Americana in the 1950's. It transformed us into a society of cynical realists.

Ambiguity and irony are the fundamental building blocks of political science. I never realized that until the sixth grade. It never dawned on me before, but it wasn't until President Kennedy's assassination that I realized how the most blatant example of contradictory politics existed right here in my own house down on Arlington Street.

My mother was both a self-confessed agnostic and a staunch conservative. Those two terms are rarely ever used within the same context. If that isn't strange enough, wait until you hear this one. She always voted for the democrats. It gets even stranger than that, believe me.

My father was both a born-again Christian and an open-minded liberal. Again, we find two terms rarely used within the same context. Okay now, are you ready for the punch line? My father always voted republican. Now you know why I grew up totally confused.

A few days following President Kennedy's assassination, one of the news anchors (either Huntley or Brinkley) made a comment on how, in so many ways, we (as average American citizens) were all responsible for the assassination of President Kennedy. That remark really ticked my mother off and she went ballistic.

"How, in God's name, am I the least bit responsible?" She shouted. "I don't even own a gun."

"That's not what he meant," my father tried to explain. "He's just saying that because we tolerate so much violence on TV and speak in violent tones that we give rise to violent thoughts."

"That doesn't make any sense," she snapped back. "Just because I watch somebody get shot on "Have Gun, Will Travel" doesn't make me want to run out and gun somebody down in the middle of Arlington Street."

For the next three hours they sat at the kitchen table and fought over everything from prayer in the public schools to the price of beans. They never once agreed on any of the topics they discussed. Some of their debates became quite heated. I used to sneak my tape recorder in under the kitchen table sometimes because some of their arguments were hysterical.

Now you know what it was that influenced my political persuasion. So, am I a conservative or a liberal? I honestly don't know what I am. Neither side makes any sense to me. They both focus on issues that totally ignore the needs of the common American citizenry.

Okay, I know, I should get more involved, but life is too short and I'm tired of getting all riled up over things I haven't got the power to change. Besides, none of the current candidates even mention the one issue that I think is most important. And what is that?

In my opinion, the only way to restore normalcy in the world today is to bring back those little wooden spoons they used to give you with your Hoodsie. Go ahead and laugh, but once they stopped including those little wooden spoons -- the whole world fell apart. That's why, come next November, I'm entering a write-in vote for Gracie.

Gracie is an E.H.S. graduate from the class of 1955, and she's an Everett girl. On just those credentials alone she's got my vote. I know she'll restore my faith in America. And you can be damn sure we'll get those little wooden spoons back in our Hoodsies if she wins the election.

What she's going to need is a good running mate. I'd like to take this opportunity to endorse Venie. Although originally from the West End of Boston, she spent most of her Childhood in Everett. You can read all about her in my post dated Apr 16, 2007 entitled "Treasured Memories." So why would she make an excellent Vice President? Because she got heart bigger than Grand Central Station, that's why.

I'll leave it up to Gracie and Venie to choose the rest of their cabinet. I do, however, have an awesome suggestion for Secretary of State. I'd like to endorse Arlington Street's very own, Martha, for that job. Trust me, for those of you who don't know, Martha is a no-nonsense individual who doesn't tolerate any back talk. If you raise your hand against America with Martha in charge, you'll draw back a stump.

That should give you a good indication of how I perceive a woman's ability to right the wrongs in our country today. I said it before and I'll say it again. We've been sending men to govern our affairs for some 230 years now and look at the mess we're in. We've grown so accustomed to letting the women fix every other aspect of our lives that we may as well let them untangle the mess we've made of this government.

Now that you've felt the brunt of my political school of thought, let me focus more on the social atmosphere of my school days back in the 1963 - 64 school year before I go off on another tangent.

That was year that Tommy spilled his M&M's all over the floor and I got in trouble for it. Miss Blake's line of reasoning for yelling at me instead of the guilty party was, "Thomas knows better." So maybe I went a little over the edge when I reacted by saying, "If Thomas knows better than why did "he" have the (very naughty word goes here) candy?" But honestly, do you blame me?

I do realize that for all intent and purposes, it made all the sense in the world (even to me) that she should favor Tommy over me. Tommy was never late for school, always did his homework, and never used foul language in class. Even still, how could I not become cynical? There was no way on Earth that she could justify shouting at me because somebody else broke the rules. It just didn't make sense.

That incident was only one in a long line of many in which I caught hell from the teacher because somebody else did something wrong. For example, that was also the year I got into trouble for laughing at the heavy kid when the cast iron support underneath his chair snapped in half. He slammed to the floor on his back in tears. The reverberation registered about a four and a half on the rector scale. The entire classroom shook like Jello. Everyone else burst out laughing, but only I got punished for it. Do you see a pattern developing here?

Also that year, Eddie ran past my desk and snapped off about three-quarters of the Hershey bar that my mother packed me for lunch so I punched him in the mouth. Yes, I got in trouble, but the kid who stole my food didn't. So I guess it was all right to steal Paul Huffman's food, but it's not all right for Paul Huffman to defend his honor.

Wait, there's more. That was the year that Nicky got mad at me for making fun of his mother while Miss Blake was out of the room so he threw his orange at me. I ducked and it splattered all over the blackboard just as Miss Blake was walking back into the classroom. Guess who caught the brunt of that one as well? Keep in mind that Miss Blake never even asked Nicky why he threw his orange at me.

Then there was the time when Miss Blake really ticked me off for severely laying into me just because I showed up twenty minutes late for school without a note from my mother. I think what got her so riled up is that when she asked if I had a note from my mother, I sarcastically said something to the effect of "How could I get a note from my mother when she doesn't even know I was late? Duh!"

When she stepped out of the room later that day, I flung all of her spelling paper out the window. It never dawned on me at the time that the teachers on the lower levels would see all that paper fluttering down onto the middle of Lexington Street. Try talking your way out of that one.

Donny, who was one of my big brother's friends and about four years older than me, was in the other sixth-grade classroom that year. My circle of acquaintances was never known for its Rhodes Scholars. The other sixth grade class was Mr. Smith's homeroom. During a game of punch ball after school, some bigger kids from the Parlin stole our ball. They told us we wouldn't get it back unless we licked the bottom of their shoe. They had no idea that one of us was not only a year or two older than they, but a lot tougher than they could ever hope to become.

After banging their heads together, Donny threw the biggest one of the bunch down onto his back on top of the slide. With a magic marker he wrote obscenities across that kid's forehead. When he let him up, he said, "Wait until your father sees how you've been shamed. You're not a man unless you defend your father's honor."

That did the trick. He took a swing at Donny. Donny then proceeded to give that kid one of those beatings you used to see in the western saloons on TV. After throwing him down the cement stairs that led out onto Foster Street, he shouted at him, "Remember this the next time you feel like tormenting kids who are smaller than you." It doesn't pay to pick on Everett kids. Trust me.

Not more than about two days after that, that same group of kids from the Parlin caught me walking home from school alone. Seizing the opportunity, they proceeded to give me one of those Western TV beatings right there at the corner of Prospect and Lexington Street. In all honesty, I had absolutely nothing to do with the beating they got at the Horace Mann playground other than that I was there when it happened. So here again, I'm getting punished for something that somebody else did. Is it me? It's gotta be - right?

Nicky had a crush on a girl named, Linda, who was also in our class that year. She, too, grew up to become a teacher in the Everett school system. In an attempt to impress her, we staged a fight out in front of the school so she could see him beat me up. He thought she'd be impressed and think that he was some kind of hero. The whole plan backfired. She took pity on me and scorned him for being a bully. That was a riot.

What wasn't so funny is that Miss Blake saw me wrestling with somebody out in front of the school. The very next day when she sternly questioned me about the incident, I refused to reveal the identity of the other guilty party involved. In retaliation for my stubbornness, she made me stay after school for an entire week.

If truth be told, I stayed after school more times that year than any other. Miss Blake really had her hands full. Staying after school with Miss Blake wasn't all that bad. After everyone else had gone home she'd open up and talk with you like a friend. She didn't pry into your personal family life or anything like that.

Several times she talked about some of the funny things that happened to her when she went to school. Now that I think about it, we actually liked each other. God only knows why we gave each other such a hard time.

The academic atmosphere of our elementary school years saw very little change from the latter forties to the middle sixties. In my elementary school days, which spanned from the late fifties to the early sixties, boys still had to wear a tie and girls couldn't wear slacks. We recited the lord's prayer, then stood up to salute the flag to pledge our allegiance every day before lessons began. You didn't dare leave the room or speak out loud without first raising your hand.

No matter how badly I had to go to the bathroom, I tried to wait until recess rather than raise my hand to ask permission to leave the room. That's a good indication of how vain I actually was. My line of reasoning went along these lines. The only reason anybody raises their hand to leave the room is because they need to go to the bathroom. I hated the fact that everybody knew that I had to go to the bathroom. And there was a good reason behind such madness.

With all the cute girls we had in Everett, chances are that at least a half dozen or more of them were in your classroom at any one given time. Being that as it may, you always wanted to put your best foot forward. Just in case any of those cute girls were sitting there daydreaming about me (which I rather doubt), I'd prefer that they picture me in a leather jacket leaning up against a Jaguar XKE, looking as cool as James Dean, instead of standing up facing the wall peeing my brains out. I know how presumptuous that sounds on the surface, but that's just the way I am.

Nobody knows me like I do. Well, Carol (my better half and fellow graduate from Everett High) knows me pretty well after all these years, but she stays with me anyway. That girl's got character. I'll give her that.

There are so many things I'd like to go back in time to tell everybody that it staggers the imagination. When you think about what we know now as compared to what we knew then, there's little chance anybody's going to take me seriously anyway.

Knowing me as I do, I've already figured out how I'm going to pull this time travel thing off. I'm going to arrive at the bottom of Arlington Street on a school day just before I'd normally wake up for school. That way I can tip toe into my bedroom without waking myself up. It never seemed to fail that I slept my heaviest just minutes before I was supposed to get up for school.

On my pillow I'd tape a note saying, "You must skip school today because our paths cannot cross. I'm you from the future. Just trust me on this." I will believe this note because it is absurd. I know how I think so I know it will work. Hey, I'm an artist.

Next, I'll show up on Miss Blake's doorstep to our sixth grade classroom at the Horace Mann school. With all due dignity and respect, I will request to make a presentation to the entire class. Showing her my laptop, I will explain how computer technology will change your student's lives. She will agree because if know anything about Miss Blake it's that she was a dedicated and concerned teacher who held the education of her children in the highest of priorities.

These are the things I will tell my fellow classmates.

A gentleman from the Nuclear Energy Commission once made a presentation to our sixth grade class. He explained how for just pennies on the dollar they could supply more than enough energy for the whole New England area without polluting the atmosphere by burning fossil fuels. I will certainly take a moment to warn everybody about the things he purposely left out.

After that I will tell them, "If you think television commercials are obnoxious today, wait until you see what they are like after the turn of the millenium. Some of them are so vulgar that they will embarrass you in front of your children."

"Pac Man and Pong will amaze you at first, but Mario will completely blow you away. Just remember what I told you about world 3-1. If you keep jumping on the turtle and banging him up against the step you'll get 128 Marios. I know that doesn't make a lot of sense to you now, but write it down anyway. Knowing that will make you look like a genius in front of your kids someday."

"Because of computers, you'll be able to access all kinds of information on a network of communications we call the internet. If you think you're confused now, wait until you're exposed to more than a hundred conflicting theories on every topic imaginable. In the future, people will still call you foolish if you don't agree with them."

"With so many conflicting theories floating around, it will be impossible to agree with them all. So, in a sense, most of the time, most of the people will call you foolish. Just remember what Plato once said. He said, "Talk sense to a fool and he'll call you foolish." Within that frame of reference, you'll need to talk foolish if you want to be taken seriously. That's what most of our politicians do."

"Information technology will open communications to a degree that Freedom of Speech will become nearly impossible for criminal governments to control. Freedom of Speech is the most important freedom on Earth. Defend it with your lives. Your children's children are depending on you."

"No matter how corrupt your government becomes, remember that you hold the power to change it. That power resides in the written Constitution as set forth by our forefathers. Therefore, never respect any politician who contradicts the fundamental principles of the Untied States Constitution. Never elect any politician who refers to our Constitution as nothing more than a piece of paper."

"Never support any politician who claims that you need to surrender some of your rights and liberties so that the government can protect you. Remember what Benjamin Franklin once said. He said, "He who would surrender his rights in exchange for security deserve neither." Because believe me, you'll wind up without either one."

"Never surrender your right to bear arms. Once they take the firearms away from the law abiding citizens, only the criminals will have guns. Besides, you may need them some day to take your country back. That's exactly what our forefathers had in mind when they wrote that into the Constitution."

"Remember that charity begins at home. Take care of the hungry, the homeless, and the sickly amongst you before casting your charity abroad. Only after the very last amongst you has been cared for, then consider casting your charity abroad. And when you do, insist that the recipients of your charity show their gratitude and respect for your kindness. Let the well run dry on those who don't."

"See to it that you respect, honor, and properly care for our veterans. They are the ones who pay the full cost of freedom. Freedom isn't free and it doesn't come cheap. See to it that a veteran never goes hungry, homeless, or without health care."

"Make sure that you classify any corporation that manufactures its goods beyond our borders as a foreign business. Insist that they pay a tariff on their goods. It does not matter whether or not their executive offices are in this country. If their goods or services do not originate within our borders then classify them as a foreign entity. Tax them unmercifully."

"Insist that all students pledge their allegiance to the flag, and to the United States of America, for which it stands. Those who refuse will never honor the code of conduct as set forth by your community. Those who do not honor the code of conduct of your community will certainly not abide by it. Those who will not abide by it don't belong here. It's a simple as that."

"Never let them remove prayer from your public schools. By making it a silent prayer you remain respectful to all faiths. All faiths pray. Never impose your religious beliefs on others. For it is written that you should display your faith as if it were a lantern on a hill for all to see. Talk is cheap. Shy away from preaching meaningless religious dogma in lieu of performing good deeds. If your character is honest, ethical, and charitable, they will know that your faith is good."

"The most important lesson you should learn in life is to "Love one another." That means to be slow to anger and quick to forgive. That also means not to judge others by the color of their skin, by their religious beliefs, by their station in life, or by their national origin. It's funny how people will judge a group as a whole, but up close they tend to respect each other as individuals. Keep that in mind."

"Never stop talking to each other, or listening to each other, or caring about each other. You come from a unique community. Yours is the only city government in all of America with a bicameral legislature. Be very proud of that. Band together and spread the spirit of Everett to every continent on this planet."

Do that, and people will more than respect you. They will certainly want to know where the likes of you comes from. And when they ask, stand tall, throw back your shoulders, and proudly shout, "We're from Everett!"

Happy Father's Day

On June 17th of 2006, my archive post entitled "Another One From The Heart" was written to honor my dad on Father's Day. This year, however, I chose to honor Father's Day from an entirely different perspective.

Let me take you backward in time, as I so often do. I can just about pick any day or year at random, really. Most importantly, I want to go back to my childhood days down on Arlington Street. Back when I was really young. You know, long before I ever hit Christine in the eye with a snowball.

One fond memory I do have about my father is how whenever he came home from work, he had to stop his car at the edge of the sidewalk to wait for all of us kids to get out of the way so he could pull into the driveway. We'd all run around to the back of his car and jump up onto the trunk to hitch a ride while he slowly rolled into the driveway.

As soon as he got out of the car he'd shout, "Will you kids stop doing that? You're gonna get hurt one of these days and I'll spend the rest of my life burdened with guilt." We had to laugh. That guy didn't even know how to get angry. He was just too easy going for his own good.

Another eccentricity generally associated with my father was his sleep talking. On those hot summer afternoons when he passed out on the couch watching the Red Sox lose to the Yankees, he'd start talking gibberish in his sleep. If you asked him a question, he'd answer you. His answer rarely matched your question, but the results were hysterical. I can remember me and Stanley rolling around on the living room floor in a fit of laughter at some of his answers.

There was this one time when my mother sent me in to wake him up for Sunday dinner. I gave him a shake and said, "Hey Dad, it's time for supper." He snorted and grumbled a few times before coming out with, "Tell your mother to peel my potatoes and put em in the bottom drawer." Another time when I tried to wake him up because his friend, Walter was on the phone, he said, "Go kick that bucket full of whistles down the stairs." Wouldn't you just love to take a peek inside this guy's dreams sometime?

When you're a little kid, you're father looks larger than life. And in so many ways, he really is. It always made a big impression on me how my dad worked around the clock maintaining all of the snow plowing equipment at Tufts University during those blinding Nor Easters on cold winter nights. He'd come home the following day all wore out and soaking wet from head to toe. No matter what that man was going through, he never lost his sense of humor.

Even when the whole world seemed to line up against him, he refused to let the bastards wear him down. He always found something to smile about. Whenever my mother lamented about their troubles, he'd say, "You know what, Grace? We've got our health, a roof over our heads, food on the table, and a happy family. Which one of those are you willing to trade for something else?" She never had an answer for that one.

You don't think you're kids are listening sometimes when you're trying your damnedest to give them the benefit of your life experiences. They do, though. Kids just don't want to admit that the very people who embarrass them in front of their friends really do know best. I know that because I was there and done that myself when I was a kid.

Somehow, even when I was a little kid, I could tell that being a father wasn't all that easy. When you're a kid, you don't see that far off into the future. You don't stop to think about how long it's gonna take to pay off a mortgage or whether or not you're going to wind up with enough money to live on when you retire. All you focus on is what's playing at the Park Theatre next Saturday afternoon, who the Red Sox are playing tomorrow night, and whether or not Mister Glassoff is going to spring that surprise quiz he's been threatening us with for the past week and a half.

I've watched my dad struggle through some seriously troubling times over the years. I've often wondered what it was that kept that man going sometimes. I never once suspected that what I was lookin at was the reflection of things to come. At the time, I couldn't imagine that the day would come when some little kid would race through the house on a big wheel and call me, "Dad."

When we were standing out there in the middle of Arlington Street having a game of stickball, I never dreamed that all of those kids who were fussing and fighting over a foul ball were going to become somebody's dad in just a few short years. I just assumed that we would always be the kids.

Everyone says that the relationship between a mother and her daughter is worlds apart from that between a father and his son. I honestly believe that's true. It's true because of the fundamental differences between a woman and a man.

Don't get me wrong. I am not suggesting that any one sex is any more superior to the other. I would never say that because I know that isn't true. On the contrary, I'm so old fashioned that I still believe that it takes one of each to make a whole. By the same token, I'm still open minded enough not to impose my beliefs on you.

Mothers and daughters have their confrontations just as much as fathers and sons do. There comes a time when every kid matures to the point where they begin to outgrow the nest. They need to spread their wings and fly.

For a boy, that stage always seems somewhat confrontational. A boy eventually gets too big to live in the same house with his father. They reach a plateau where neither one will back off. It's not that they no longer love each other. It's just that when a boy becomes a man he simply must have his own nest to roost. Think about it. How many roosters live in a hen house?

For as long as I live, I'll never forget watching my big brother, Billy, pass through that stage of maturity. We were still living in that crowded little apartment down on Arlington Street. It seemed like no matter what my brother did, it irked the living daylights out of my father. Each passing night brought forth yet another confrontation. There was always yelling and screaming going on in the house. To a ten-year old kid, it seemed as though all of the love had gone out of our family somehow.

Billy was no longer coming along on our Sunday drives. He couldn't be bothered. When he wasn't loading trucks for Henry Gray, he was working down at Tommy Gear's sub shop. It wasn't long before he had a Rambler American parked out front along the curb that he bought with his own money.

There were many telltale signs cropping up that indicated Billy wasn't a kid any more. The one incident that really stands out in my mind was the time when he finally had it out with my father for once and for all. There they stood, toe to toe, shouting at the top of their lungs, when all of a sudden, my brother balled up his fist. You could see that look of fire in his eyes. He drew back his arm, and then fired a full roundhouse right into the bedroom wall.

This was a big kid we're talking about. And this was way before wallboard starting showing up all over the place. These walls consisted of a thick layer of plaster smeared on top of a wire screen mesh attached to a layer of lathing sticks. His fist went right through that solid plaster wall.

With the most sympathetic look I've ever seen come over my father's face, he looked at Billy and said, "I made you so angry that you would actually hit your own father?" Billy dropped to his knees, buried his head in his hands, and cried his heart out in shame.

"Oh dad, I am so sorry. I am so ashamed of myself. Can you ever forgive me?"

My father knelt down, wrapped his arms around him and cried, "Can you ever forgive me?"

It brought tears to all of our eyes. We cried together as a family that day. We were not crying because our hearts were broken. We were crying because of the strain of growing to a new level of maturity together. Things were changing and none of us could do anything to stop those changes from happening.

On that day, we realized how important it is that no matter what fate dared to throw at us, we needed to stick together as a family. Nobody knows when fate is going to sneak up from behind and whack you with a good one along your blind side. It happens sometimes when you don't even deserve it. If you've got family to lean on through times like that, then you've got those unforeseen setbacks just about licked before they even happen. That's what family is all about.

My father and brother made their peace that day, but there was no denying that my brother had outgrown the nest. It was time for him to move on. A few days later when we were sitting around the supper table, Billy made the formal announcement.

"Ma, Dad, I'm moving out."

"What are you talking about?" My mother asked. "You don't even have a good job."

"I've got a good one now," he answered.

"You've got a new job?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Billy, what are you trying to say?"

"I joined the Army."

"When did you do that?"

"This morning."

"Well, you can just call them right back and tell them you've changed your mind," my mother demanded.

"He can't do that, Grace. He's in the Army now," my father said. My mother hung her head and cried. It seemed like not very long after that when he was back home from Vietnam. In even a shorter span than that, he was somebody's dad.

When I was a senior at Everett High school, I still couldn't picture myself as somebody's dad. I mean, really. I was a longhaired, guitar-pickin hippie. Who, in God's name, would want to settle down with one of those?

I couldn't wait to graduate. There was a big wide world out there waiting for me to explore. The last thing on my mind was getting nailed down to the mediocre habit and routine of everyday life. I knew kids who got engaged before they even graduated from Everett High. Can you imagine? They'd look at me and ask, "Don't you want to find a full time job so you can start a family?"

"No Dude, I don't."

For as hard as I resisted, my time did come. I vaguely remember seeing this movie once before. It's the story of man with more debt than his income can bear. He fights rush hour traffic to do the very same thing day after day to put food on the table for these little human beings who keep calling him, "Dad." All he wants is a better life for those little kids than he could ever possibly have had himself. He'd lay down his life to protect them. Life would seem meaningless without them now.

That's why he goes to a place he doesn't want to go to every day so he can pay for all those things he never wanted to buy in the first place. He even laughs to himself sometimes when he gets back home to that girl who once worshipped the ground he walked on. She now gets angry with him because the kitchen sink leaks and he forgot to take out the trash. When he finally takes out the trash, she yells at him for treading mud all through the house.

The years go by like the blink of an eye and that little kid he gave up all of his Saturday afternoons to take to hockey practice, and baseball games, and fishing trips, now looks back at him and says, "What did you ever do for me?" The time had come when even he has outgrown the nest. You could see it coming.

You've got shake your head and laugh at the irony of it all sometimes. You can't help but think to yourself, "His day will come." If you've learned anything through all of this, you've certainly learned that "history repeats itself."

After visiting my parents one Sunday, I stopped off at Dunkey's across from Pope John to scoop a coffee for the ride back home to Exeter, New Hampshire. On my way out the door I heard somebody call out, "Hey Dude, long time no see."

There stood one of my childhood friends from Arlington Street. I hadn't seen him in decades. The last time I'd seen him we got into an argument over whether or not Zorro could beat up Superman. He backed Zorro, especially if he could get his hands on some kryptonite. But let's be honest here. Without the kryptonite, Zorro's a dead man. I still believe that even to this day.

"So what's going on your life, Dude?" I had to ask.

Let me explain something to you. I've known this guy since even before we had permission to cross the street. We rode our tricycles up and down the sidewalks together. Whenever I look at him, I don't see a full-grown man. I look right through that life hardened exterior and see that same innocent little kid who used to steal funny books with me from Manny's Variety down on Ferry Street.

We've got no reason to put on airs with each other. We just about started this journey through this dimension together. We could say anything to each other without ever having to worry about either one of us passing judgement on the other. That's exactly why he felt comfortable enough to look right at me with eyes edged in tears and say, "My wife left me. I'm getting divorced."

"Oh man, I am so sorry. Maybe it's all for the best anyway."

"Maybe it is, but you know how much my kids meant to me - right?"

"Oh yeah, but that doesn't change anything. They will always be your kids. You will always be their dad."

"That may be true, but I won't be there for them every day. I won't be there when they wake up in the middle of the night because the boogey man is hiding under their bed. I won't be there when they want to brag about that star they got on their spelling paper in school that day. And I won't be there to dish out the kind of fatherly advice my dad always handed down to me."

His heart was broken. I've got to tell you about one thing that really did impress me about him. The whole time we talked, he never once said anything bad about his ex-wife. He just kept questioning where he went wrong. For as far as he was concerned, even though he didn't understand why, it was all his fault.

Here stood a dad who had just taken a surprise sucker punch on his blind side from fate, and yet, he pointed no accusing finger at anyone else but himself. The only thing that concerned him now was how to maintain his stature as a father to his children. My heart cried out for my lifelong childhood friend. If only I could have whisked him back to those simpler days when we rode our tricycles together up and down the sidewalks of Arlington Street.

Looking back on everything even makes me think about how some of the teachers I had back at the Fairfield Whitney, at the Parlin, and at Everett High school were somebody's dad. I never looked at them that way before. I never even thought about that until now. If teaching wasn't challenging enough, they still had to go home every night and be somebody's dad.

So what does it mean to be a dad? Well, for one thing, you're going to have to put all of your dreams aside. You'll need to focus all of your attention on things you never once gave any thought to. By the same token, for doing that you're going to find something out about yourself that you never suspected.

If you never thought you were capable of incredible things, just wait until you hear that very first cry from that little human being that you helped breath life into. If you think that's something, just wait until you tenderly touch that tiny lip of that little person with the tip of your finger for the very first time. And you talk about amazing? You'll see an entirely new life form grow to epic proportions in what will seem like time lapse photography. My gawd, the years do fly by.

You will never forget their very first word, their very first step, the first time they went potty all by themselves, and their first day at school. You'll also never forget the first time you got so angry that you said something that you wish you hadn't. They'll forget all about it five minutes later, but you never will. It will torment you all of the days of your life.

Fatherhood ain't easy by a long shot. You've got to play it by ear as you go along. You always try to do what's best, but you won't always be right. You will always second-guess yourself. It comes with the territory.

You will know people who will never have any kids in their lifetime. You'll even get a little jealous of them sometimes. They will have more money than you, visit more exotic places then you will, and have far more time on their hands than you'll ever dream of. But it makes it all worth the while when you feel that warm spark of love that ignites right down in the center of your heart every time you hear that word, "Dad."

Now, you tell me. Would you ever trade that for any other possession whatsoever in your lifetime? Heck, I wouldn't even trade that for the prestigious privilege of saying, "We're from Everett!"

To all of my Everett brothers, I wish you a very Happy Father's Day. You do deserve that. I know your job ain't easy. Nobody ever said it was going to be easy, but I guarantee you this. There is somebody out there somewhere who is truly thankful that you stepped up to the plate to take on the challenge.

Kids Need Summer

Is it just me, or does the on-coming summer make everyone else feel a little bit better about life in general? Even sitting in class at the Horace Mann elementary school didn't seem so bad when I knew the summer vacation was just around the corner.

I can almost hear my fourth grade teacher's voice in the back of my mind right now saying, "Paul and William are going to open the windows so we can all enjoy that gentle warm breeze blowing in off the coast."

And wouldn't ya know? As soon as we threw open those windows that East wind blew across the room and flipped that pile of spelling paper on the corner of Miss Dyer's desk right onto the floor. You can almost hear the sound of giggling school children as we scrambled to gather those papers sliding across the floor under everybody's desk.

Looking out the classroom window makes you long for those no-school summer days that are only a few weeks away. It's hard to concentrate on what goes into what when you can hear those leaves rustling on the trees outside. Since the Horace Mann school was at the top of the hill, you could see all the way down Prospect Street from Miss Dyer's windows. To a little kid, gazing over the rooftops in summer had a look and feel all to its own. It looked and felt like freedom.

So what so special about summer to a little boy growing up in Everett anyway? Oh man, where do I start? After finishing my paper route in the morning, I can take my time and coast along Broadway. That gives me the chance to take in the sights and sounds of Everett coming to life in the morning instead of having to rush home to get ready for school. That alone is worth its weight in gold.

It may not seem like much to you, but watching the City of Everett come to life on any given morning has given me enough creative inspiration to last a lifetime. You want to talk about simpler times? I'll show you simpler times.

When the proprietors of the stores in Everett Square opened up shop in the morning, they greeted everyone passing by on the sidewalk with a warm "Good morning" while cranking open the canopies that sheltered their storefront windows. So did the cop on the corner of Norwood and Broadway, and the window washer at the Waldorf restaurant for that matter.

It's been decades since I've seen a cop standing in the middle of a busy intersection directing traffic. There was always one in Everett Square when I was a kid. His white gloves left steaks in my field of vision as they waived back and forth through the air. I'd actually sit there on my bike right in front of the Waldorf to watch him guide those big trucks through that congested intersection.

Another thing that always amazed me was how those bus drivers must have had the patience of a patron saint to steer those big wide busses through that busy intersection. If that was me, I'd have side swiped every parked car along the curb. I'm sure it was much easier when those smaller trolleys ran along the rails, but once they converted over to those gas-driven monstrosities, it took far more dexterity to navigate that maze.

Rather than peddle all the way up the hill on Broadway, I always coasted down along Chelsea Street. Okay, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Broadway isn't all that steep. What a sissy." And the only reason you think like that is because you're from Everett. I know you people like a book. After all, I'm one of you.

There was a method to my madness, really. Just hear me out, okay? By coasting down Chelsea Street I got to check out what was playing at the Park Theatre. So when any of the kids from Arlington Street wanted to know what was playing at the show that afternoon, all they had to do was ask the paperboy. The "kid" was always "In-the-know," if you know what I mean.

That also gave me the opportunity to swing into Sam's Spa on the corner of Chelsea and Ferry. Sam stood behind the counter ripping off the covers of funny books to pile up on the back shelves. Once he ripped the covers off, he sold them three for a nickel. When was the last time you checked out the price of a funny book?

Getting first crack at the discounted funny books down at Sam's Spa ranked way up there on my list of things to do when I was nine years old. For a quarter I could scoop up enough funny books to keep me busy all week. How much does it cost to buy fifteen funny books today? Kind of staggers the imagination -- doesn't it?

While coasting along Ferry towards Arlington Street, I always got a friendly wave from the barbers down at the Eagle Barbershop. While I'm here I may as well stop in at Everett Springs Hardware. I need another roll of electrical tape to wrap my hockey stick.

Hockey in summer? Yeah, I play more hockey in summer than I do in winter. Know why? I can't skate. That's just between you and me, okay? There's no need to go blabbing that all over the neighborhood. Jeez, can't anybody keep a secret around here anymore?

Playing street hockey is about as much fun as you can get in one lifetime. Using a pimple ball for a puck really tightens up those reflexes. On the up side, you don't loose a front tooth or an eyeball when you get hit the face with the puck at lightning speed. On the down side, a good slap shot will send that pimple ball bouncing out into the middle of the traffic on Ferry Street.

If it doesn't ricochet off any of the cars, it'll bounce all the way down Nichols Street until it rolls into the gutter and falls down into the sewer right there at the corner of Florence Street Park. You may think that's stretching it a bit, but I can't count how many times we gathered around stretching our arms like rubber bands down into a filthy smelly sewer trying to get our ball back.

Come to think of it, fewer fights broke out during a game of street hockey than other sport we played. I suppose it was the nature of the game that made it that way. If somebody threw you over a trashcan in the middle of a game of stickball, all hell would break loose. If they did it in a game of street hockey, you wouldn't take it so personal because you half expected it. Checking somebody into the boards is part of the game. We didn't have boards out on Arlington Street so parked cars and trashcans become reasonable facsimiles.

Some things in life are a given, or at least we suspect so. They're supposed to work in certain ways. And that's the major difference between then and now. That's why the world seems so crazy today. Nothing works the way you expect it to.

Knowing something is coming at you is a big part of why the world seemed so much simpler back in our day. For instance, if you bought something at Grants yesterday, and wanted to bring it back today, you didn't expect to go through the third degree to do so. And you didn't. They didn't ask for your Social Security number, your telephone number, and photocopy your license just to bring back a can opener that didn't work.

Summer is the well-deserved break from the burdens of book learning for a kid. That's the way it's supposed to work in my book anyway. Even my mother admitted that she sighed with a bit of relief whenever school let out for the summer. "I know I'll have less time to myself," she'd say. "But at least I don't have to stay up all hours of the night ironing school clothes, or go rushing around like a nut every morning to get you kids off to school." By the same token, she was sure ready to send us all back by the end of the summer.

Now you tell me. Where in the world is this Senator Kennedy getting the imbecilic idea that our kids need a longer school day and a shorter summer recess? Do you honestly think that shutting a kid up in a classroom all summer long is in the best interest of the child? Get real. All that big bag of wind is gonna do is drive these kids to the brink of disaster.

Kids need a summer vacation. They need to get out amongst their peers. They need to mingle without somebody constantly leaning over their shoulder saying, "Don't do this and don't do that." Don't get me wrong. Every kid needs guidance. Everybody needs a little uniformity, order, and direction in their lives. But even too much of a good thing can go seriously wrong. Hey, a moderation in all things - right?

Give these kids a break. When the summer comes, get them out of that classroom and scatter them all over the sidewalks. Let them spend some uninterrupted quality time with their family and friends. That's where life's learning really takes place.

All these "know-it-alls" really tick me off sometimes. Sure, you can learn all sorts of things through books. But let me tell ya something. There are just some things you've got to learn by living the experience. And you've got to learn it through the eyes of a child or it's never gonna sink in the way it's supposed to.

What am I talking about? Come on. Hop aboard the Everett Time Machine. Let me take you back to the summer of 1961 when I was only nine years old. Just close your eyes, tap your feet together three times and sing, "Keep away from a runaround Sue."

Open your eyes. Take a look around. Never mind gawking at the girls. I've warned you about them. Those are Everett girls. They're knockouts, I know. Trouble is, they it know it, too. They'll wrap you around their little finger and squeeze the daylights out of you.

Come over here. Take a look at this. This is my father's car. It's the oldest car on the street. I love this thing. Here's something I wish they'd bring back. Remember those little fly windows? Those were great on summer days. They blew the fresh air into your car like a powerful ceiling fan.

Look at all the room in this thing. The steering wheel is so big that I can stick my legs through it and sit inside the hoop of the wheel. Now if I jerk on the steering wheel with both hands I can bounce myself back and forth from side to side. Don't worry. I'm not gonna bend or break that steering wheel. If that's plastic it must come from another planet. You'd be hard pressed to find a material that strong and sturdy anywhere else in the known universe.

Right here, inside my father's car, is when I learned to be careful not to touch that stick poking out from behind the steering wheel. Now there's something the teacher never talked about in school. In real life situations, that kind of knowledge is far more important than knowing what year Eisenhower became president.

It happened on one of those days when I was sitting inside the hoop of that steering wheel. I was pretending to navigate a rocket ship through outer space. Sure enough, an enemy craft approached off of our starboard bow. That's why I reached down to pull up on that stick. All I wanted was to fire a laser missile at the enemy.

You've got to picture this. My dad's car was parked along the curb, pointing towards the bottom of the hill. There were about two and a half car lengths in between my father's car and Mister Bowser's. When I pulled up on that stick to fire a laser missile, I heard this big clunky noise. That's when the car started to roll.

On this day, I experienced, first hand, the scientific properties behind inertia. Inertia specifically states that a body in motion tends to stay in motion. In fact, I can attest with the utmost authority, that when a body in motion travels downward on an inclined plane, it tends to accelerate. It will continue to accelerate, and to stay in motion, until acted upon by an equal and opposite force.

While the car accelerated downhill towards Mister Bowser's car, I sat motionlessly in the hoop of that steering wheel holding on for dear life. My jaw had dropped open for as far as my facial muscles would allow. I was relatively incapacitated, partially through fear, and mostly because the accelerating motion of the vehicle prevented me from pulling my legs out from inside the hoop of that steering wheel. All I could do was hope for the best and hold on for the ride.

Which brings us now to the second law of inertia. You know, the part about staying in motion until acted upon by an equal and opposite force. Note the word, "force." Can you think of one example in which to use that word to describe something gentle and soothing?

In this study of the scientific laws of inertia, let us say that my father's car represents the body in motion. Likewise, and for the sake of argument, let's say that Mister Bowser's car is about to become the aforementioned "equal and opposite force." Taking into consideration all of these known variables, I think it only proper that we find a terminology in which to describe the total sum of this equation.

The term that comes to mind is "crash." Yes, I do believe that term accurately describes the outcome of our science lesson for today. Other terms I learned that day include "insurance claim" and "spanking." So don't tell me you learn everything there is to know inside a classroom.

The summer time is when a kid learns how to blow bubbles with chewing gum. How to work a yo-yo. How to fly a kite. How to build a skate board out of old roller-skates. And that's the only time a kid can learn how to wrap the swings up at the playground.

Kids need to know those kinds of things. They can't learn them in school. We need to let our kids have a childhood. Ted Kennedy had one, I'm sure.

Another thing I learned that summer was the power of public opinion. The roadsides are littered with boarded up businesses where the proprietors refused to listen to their customers. It becomes a bitter lesson to those proprietors who refuse to learn from their mistakes.

Tommy Gear was one of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. He had a nice little store going for himself down there in Gray's apartment building on Ferry Street. That was Cassie's store originally. Manny took over when Cassie died. Tommy Gear bought the place after Manny retired.

Not a day went by when just about every kid on Arlington Street didn't stop in for an ice cream cone. All hell broke loose the day he raised the price of his ice cream cones from a nickel to ten cents. We protested so loudly that he honored our demand to buy those ice cream cones for a nickel. He made it known, however, that from this day forward, they were going to cost us a dime.

Every other store was still selling ice cream cones for a nickel. I don't think he ever sold another ice cream. Shortly afterwards, he gutted the place and turned it into a sub shop. His sub shop succeeded where his little variety store fell short. He never could compete with the likes of Angelino's, but he did all right for himself.

You just can't spring things on people without warning them about it first. That's what's wrong with the world today. Nobody gives you any explanation. Rather than to warn you that something's coming, they just surprise you with it and expect you to either like it or lump it. That's not the way it works.

The power of suggestion works wonders. That's why they used to say, "And now a word from our sponsor." They let you know it was coming. Yeah, sure, that was your cue to hop up and raid the refrigerator, but at least you came back to that same show on that same station.

Nower days, they sneak the commercial in when you least expect it. It doesn't work. We're not that dumb. All it does is tick us off. That's the last thing they should ever want to do. We can click through another fifty channels with the slight twitch of our thumb in the blink of an eye. They've got one chance in fifty that we're ever coming back. Tick us off and that probability factor dwindles right down to zero.

That also reminds me of the way they used to hype the food at the concession stands at the drive-in. The first thing the announcer said after welcoming you to the Wellington Circle Open Air Theatre, was to remind you about all the delicious food waiting for you at the snack bar.

Minutes before the intermission, they flashed a warning on the big screen that it was coming. They gave you plenty of time to get dressed and head on over to the concession stand for some mouth watering buttered pop corn, steaming hot coffee, sparkling soft drinks, and sizzling hot dogs.

How well I remember standing in line at the concession stand with my father back then. I kept one eye on the big screen to watch those little cartoon features that advertised all the good food for sale at the snack bar. And just so you wouldn't worry about getting back to your car in time to see the next feature, they displayed a timer on the screen so you'd know how many minutes you had before the next show started. Do you remember that?

It was mostly during the summer months when my family headed off to either the Meadow Glen or the Wellington Circle open air theatres. We didn't get back home until long after midnight. That was always such a special treat for a little kid.

Take the summer vacation away from a child and you'll take the wonder and magic out of childhood. Lengthening the school day, or the school year, is just as damaging as repealing all of the child labor laws. And it wouldn't surprise me one bit if they started talking about that as well. Chained to a factory machine, or chained to a desk at school is one in the same to a little kid.

If we do anything meaningful in our lifetime for our children, and for our children's children, let's protect and preserve their childhood. The problems with the world today are not the children's fault. It's the adults who keep screwing it all up.

We'd never tolerate such shenanigans from the grownups when we were kids. We were way too street wise to put up with anything like that. You know us. "We're from Everett!"

Can We Talk?

We've certainly covered a lot of ground in the past 17 months. By now, I'm sure you can't help but wonder, "Where do we go from here?" I suppose to get a good idea of where you're going, it's good to take a look back at where you've been.

Perhaps the most rewarding experience I've encountered along the way were all of the encouraging email responses I've received. It makes it all worth the while when I hear that sound of excitement and surprise that so many have expressed in their writing voice when they first discover the "We're from Everett" experience.

When I first started the "We're from Everett" project, my goal was to publish a nostalgic journal of what it was like to grow up in Everett during a bygone era. I wanted to give our children's children something warm and personal to remember us by. Like I've asked so many times before, "Wouldn't you have cherished the opportunity to get to know your ancestors to that extent?"

It has become so much more than that. Not only have so many expressed gratitude for my efforts, but so many of you have also confided in me like a trusted long lost friend. That is the most meaningful compliment anyone has ever paid me. It also confirms something that I've been saying all along.

People from Everett have a unique characteristic that sets them apart from the rest of America. Oh, I know, we have many of the personality flaws that everyone else suffers with. We're no different from anyone else when it comes down to being basic human beings. Even so, the only other example of spiritual camaraderie that I've ever found anywhere else in America that even comes close to the inbred character that lives in the hearts of Everett people, is that of our Native Americans.

If you've never attended a Powwow, by all means, do that. You will experience a heartfelt closeness with everyone who dances within the Sacred Circle that will remind you of the spirit of friendship that we grew up with in Everett. I still laugh to myself sometimes when I think back to that night in Glendale Park when this kid from Malden asked, "What is it with all you kids from Everett? Are you all sworn to some kind of Oath of Allegiance to your city or something?"

It makes no wonder how an outsider might come out with something like that. No matter where you ventured off to back when we were kids, whenever a fight broke out, there was a high rate of probability that one of the participants in the altercation was an Everett kid. You know us Everett kids. We respect a fair fight, but don't ever dare gang up on an Everett kid. You'll live to regret it.

It's been a rewarding experience to hear from a lot of people who grew up in the surrounding communities who have also enjoyed the "We're from Everett" experience. One of those emails came from someone who grew up in Medford. I had to laugh when he wrote, "I'll say one thing about Everett. You couldn't just fight one Everett kid and get away with it. You've had to fight them all."

Someone wrote to me about a documentary film made by an Everett native back in the 1980's. I know of the film, but I've never seen it. Some people felt the documentary was a bit insulting to Everett people. Having never seen it, I can't honestly say.

From what I've been told about the film, it sounds more to me as if the filmmaker was trying to portray an objective laugh at ourselves. There is certainly nothing wrong with that. If we don't laugh at ourselves every once in a while, we'll never learn to appreciate the many endearing qualities that make us uniquely "Everett."

For the most part, I steer clear from politics and religion in my writing. I do have political and religious convictions. They just seem so inappropriate here. Nothing divides people more than religion and politics. The last thing I ever want to do is divide us. My whole purpose is to find the common denominators that bring us closer together.

From the bottom of my heart do I thank all of you who have expressed such kind sentiments about my writing, my art and my music. My sole purpose for sharing my humble talents was not to show off. On the contrary, there are way too many people from Everett who are far more talented than I. This was my way of opening up to you so you could get to know me better.

Many of you grew up with me so you already knew all about me. For those who didn't, I thought that by allowing you to get to know me better would help make the "We're From Everett Project" a more personal experience for you as well.

Unlike so many other communities, we have risen above many of the things that normally drive a wedge in between people. It doesn't matter what generation you belonged to, what neighborhood you grew up in, whether you were rich or poor, or had political connections. Everyone is welcomed here.

Just the fact that you're from Everett means that you belong here. I'll even go one step further and say, "If you're enjoying the We're From Everett experience, then you belong here whether you come from Everett or not. " That's Everett people for ya. Ball up your knuckle bone and they'll go toe to toe with ya no matter how big or how bad you think you are. But if you extend your hand in friendship to these people, you've got a friend for life. That's what growing up in Everett is really all about.

Hearing from people who grew up in different neighborhoods, from different generations, and from many different walks of life has really added meaningful depth to the overall "Growing Up in Everett" experience. Don't you think?

Learning about the 3-day "Victory in Europe (VE Day)" celebration that rocked the streets of Everett back in 1945 was an eye opening experience for me. As was the time when Mister McGlauphlin told me about hawking newspapers on the street corners of Everett back in 1901 when President McKinnley got shot. Another moment I will always cherish is that heart to heart talk I had with my old friend, Elliot, down in Glendale Park. Among so many other things, he told me what it was like to grow up during the Prohibition era in Everett. He was Eighty-two years old when he told me that. I was only seventeen.

Hearing from kids who grew up during the fifties really set the tone for that post war baby boom that gave rise to the teenage experience growing up in Everett. The first generation Rock N Rollers soon arrived on the Everett street scene when Dick Clark took over the American Bandstand. When those greasers weren't drag racing from streetlight to streetlight in the middle of the night on the Parkway, they were whistling at the carhops down at the Big Burger. The times they were a changing. For not very long after that, the "hippies" invaded the back hills of Glendale Park.

It really doesn't matter what era of the baby boom you grew up in. The similarities of our teenage years in Everett seem uncanny. We all snuck into the Meadow Glen Drive-in, and stopped in at the Big S or Howard Johnsons afterward; and we all went to the dances at the Parish Hall down on Chelsea Street.

In my day, we hung around the Piece O Pizza in Everett Square to flirt with the girls after the dance. The generation before that did the very same thing. Of course they didn't call it the Piece O Pizza in their day. They called it Mellon's.

Mine was the last generation to enjoy a cup of coffee at Vargis before they hauled it away to make room for a "Jack In The Box" that never did succeed. Dunkin Donuts eventually moved in and the rest, as they say, is history.

Christmas shopping in Everett Square was another special moment to remember. So tell me. Am I the only goober who ever got excited about sitting on Santa Claus' lap at Gorins or what? I still remember spinning around on that stool at Kresge's snack bar when I was a little kid. My mother and I often stopped in for a bite to eat whenever we went shopping in Everett Square.

Writing about the Park Theatre really got a rise out of everyone. How could we ever forget how the kids poured out into the streets from all over the city of Everett to make that pilgrimage to the Park Theatre every Saturday? That balloon-breaking contest was probably "the" most influential experience of our young childhood growing up in Everett. With many thanks to Leo's family, we came to personally know the man responsible for making that happen.

Following the Yankee Division National Guard back to the Armory on Chelsea Street for free food after the Memorial Day Parade was another cherished memory that will always tug at my heartstrings. All of the Fourth of July festivities in Everett were another high point of our childhood that could never be denied.

We got up early on the Fourth of July to snag our fair share of free Hoodsies at the playgrounds before that two-hour parade blanketed Broadway. Then we participated in the bicycle and doll carriage decorating contests and three-legged races at Glendale Park. After that, we got to climb all over the fire engines behind the "Rec." And then Rex Trailer showed up at the stadium to whip us all up into a frenzy before that glorious firework display held us spellbound.

Talking about our school days was also a lot of fun. With all the criticisms we make about how dull and dreary going to school was back in our day, we had some really fun times. We did have a lot of good teachers in Everett. As much as I bellyached about Miss Martinelli and Miss Blake back at the Horace Mann, I really did love them both. I know I have a funny way of showing it.

It broke my heart when I found out that we lost Andy Mastrangello this year. For those of you who didn't know him, he taught Mechanical Drawing up at Everett High. He was one of the many influential teachers I've ever had during my Everett school days. The knowledge he bestowed upon me back in the late 1960's came in very handy when I entered into the realm of 3D computer modeling and animation. I was so impressed by this man that I named my first born son after him.

Andy graduated from Everett High back in 1962. When he first started teaching at Everett High, he fell head over heels in love with Miss Barstow. She was a charming young thing herself who taught Home economics just across the hall from his classroom. It was so adorable to watch the two of them stand out in the hallway to monitor the students together.

We watched that storybook romance unfold before our very eyes. It couldn't have happened to two nicer people. By he time I had graduated from Everett High, they got married. They did eventually raise a family of their own. My deepest condolences go out to Andy's family. I hope it makes the sorrow easier to bear knowing that he made such a positive and influential contribution to so many people's lives in the City of Everett.

Many of our neighbors have gone beyond the far horizon since we first began this "We're from Everett" project. We've recently lost some cherished classmates and influential characters from Everett. Hardest of all to bear is that so many of our friends have lost children of their own. That's about as heart breaking as it gets in my book.

People have confided in me about some of the saddest things imaginable. I must admit, I feel all of your pains and sorrows. Now that I've opened up and let you into my heart -- you mean the world to me. We've grown that close.

Life gets really hard sometimes. To think you can go it alone without the help and support of your family and friends is fruitless. Nothing is worse than that empty feeling of isolation when you feel like you're loosing your grip, and you've got nothing or no one to grab onto to give you strength.

Don't ever feel like that again. We are all here and we all do care. What we need next is a way of communicating openly and getting in touch with each another. We need a way for everyone to find each other. We need to manipulate this new technology to bring us all together for once and for all. It's time to take the "We're from Everett" experience to the next level.

The world we grew up in is gone, never to return again. Hey, things change. We've got to accept that and move along. I know how cold that sounds, but it's true. If we all join hands we can help each other cope with just about anything. With a collective voice we can influence what becomes of the world around us. Don't ever forget that. There's more safety in numbers and more fun too.

If life really is a stage and we are all actors, then I guess it's up to us to decide as to whether we want to sit out in the audience or to climb up onto the stage. What it all boils down to is what you enjoy most. Some of us prefer sitting on the sidelines to watch the show. Others prefer to hop up onto the stage to lay claim to their fifteen minutes of fame. Either way, the choice is yours to make.

The "We're from Everett" experience is growing leaps and bounds. Many new features currently under consideration include moving the entire project to its own domain name web site, adding a wealth of freely downloadable nostalgic content, as well as expanding into a more user interactive experience.

These changes won't happen over night, but they are in the works. I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your encouraging comments and emails. You've made this a rewarding experience for me. You've made this all worth the while. I knew you would because, "You're From Everett!"