The Everett Code

One compelling thought resonates repeatedly in so many of the emails that I get from people who grew up in Everett. They feel sorry for their kids for never having experienced the kind of camaraderie that we enjoyed growing up in Everett. I'm not surprised. Think about it. How many times have we heard outsiders say, "What is it about you kids from Everett anyway?"

What was it they used to say? "Fight one kid from Everett and you've got to fight them all." Whenever a fistfight broke out up at Canobie Lake Park, all anybody had to say is "Hey, that kid's from Everett," and we'd crowd around en masse. Nobody interfered so long as it was a fair fight, but God have mercy on your soul should you pull a low down, dirty, fast one to get the upper hand.

For those of you who have ever wondered what was so special about growing up in Everett, and for those of you who have parents, or grandparents, or aunts, or uncles, who grew up in Everett, I dare say, go to the bathroom one last time. Take the telephone off the hook. And stockpile an armload of snacks around your monitor. You are about to find the answer to an age-old paradigm that has eluded the greatest analytical minds since the discovery of the "Big Bang." We are about to unlock the mystery behind "The Everett Code."

01000101011101100110010101110010011001010111010001110100 is the binary machine code for "Everett." That is as basic as it gets in today's digital age. To even begin to understand what it was like to grow up in Everett, you really must analyze the basic fabric of Everett's existence. To effectively do that we must travel back in time to see Everett for what it was rather than what it is today.

Let me ask you something. How many times have you looked back at your mother or father and thought to yourself, "What do they know anyway?" Now let me tell you something. If they grew up in Everett then they have seen, and heard, and experienced it all long before you were ever born. No matter what it is, in one form or another, they've been there and done that.

Nobody ever said that Everett was a magical place. Unique, yes, but in no way magical. Everett was a lot like so many other smaller communities that border a major metropolis, but with one significant difference. Most smaller communities relied heavily on the commerce generated from within the major metropolis they bordered. Because of that, they took on the characteristics of that major metropolis. That wasn't so for Everett.

There was once a time when Everett ranked second only to Pittsburgh in manufacturing on this side of the Mississippi. Can you possibly grasp the magnitude of such a claim? Have you ever seen Pittsburgh? Have you ever seen Everett? The contrasts between the two stagger the imagination.

Wilkinsburg sets along the eastern outskirts of Pittsburgh. It lives and breathes on the commerce generated from Pittsburgh. I site Wilkinsburg because, like Everett, it was once a densely populated and bustling community with an integrity all to its own. It is where the first powering photocell for television cameras, known as the iconoscope, was invented. In recent years it has plunged into the depths of economic ruin and social decay. I find that rather ironic for what was once a staunch religious community.

Because of its size and population, we'd be more apt to compare Wilkinsburg to Everett than we would Pittsburgh to Everett. Having seen Pittsburgh, I'd be more inclined to compare it to Boston, or even New York City for that matter, than I would to Everett. And that is precisely my point.

For such a small community like Everett to take on the stature of a major metropolis like Pittsburgh is a truly remarkable feat. So unique, that no other community in these entire United States could stake such a claim. Not even larger cities like Lowell, or Springfield, or even Portsmouth, New Hampshire, could boast such a wealth in commerce and trade.

So from the very start, we're talking about a very small community with the economic strength of a major metropolis. The wealth generated from Everett's magnificent manufacturing foundation ensured its independence. From a business standpoint, Everett stood firmly on her own two feet.

This strong manufacturing base provided an abundance of jobs for its community. Everett's booming businesses financed a strong sociopolitical infrastructure. So much so, that Everett could afford the luxury of a low real estate tax. She could also afford to provide the best of public services for her citizenry, including an exceptional education system, an excellent law enforcement network, an outstanding fire fighting complex, as well as an all inclusive parks and recreational department.

Add all that to the fact that Everett borders Boston and surely you can see the overwhelming advantages to settling down in Everett. That is precisely why so many people chose to do just that. By the end of World War Two, Everett had become a densely populated bustling mini metropolis.

Literally thousands of Veterans flocked to settle down in Everett. The lower income families could enjoy the wealth of amenities that Everett had to offer because rents were so cheap. By the 1960's, the Veteran's Housing Projects provided even more opportunities for those families who could never afford the luxury of home ownership.

For those who could afford such a luxury, Everett had it all from some of the most beautiful New England houses to the more modest of homes. Even those who teetered on the brink had the option to buy multifamily dwellings. The incoming rents helped them finance their little piece of the American dream.

Because Everett had become such an ideal family oriented community, our public servants lived within the community they served. They were our neighbors. Tom next door was a firefighter. Carl's father, who lived just a little ways up the street, was a policeman. Bobby's father collected our trash. And Miss Moscaratollo who lived down around the corner on Ferry street taught up at the Parlin Junior High.

It is also interesting to note how the diversity of Everett's population made it a perfect role model for the very principles on which our nation stands. Everett welcomed everyone regardless of nationality, religion, race, or economic station. Therein lies one of Everett's most enduring strengths. Diversity breeds knowledge, understanding, and opened mindedness. I don't care what they say. Amongst civilized people, familiarity does not breed contempt. It breeds peaceful coexistence.

Anyone who talks down the characteristic traits of others comes through like a narrow-minded ignoramus. Insecurity stands out like a sore thumb amongst those who take themselves too seriously. The ability to laugh at oneself is a sure sign of confidence and self-respect. Those who make fun of their own kind exhibit the uncanny ability to make you laugh so hard that the milk will run out of your nose.

I'll never forget how hard we laughed at the supper table that night when Ray told us what you got when you cut fifty bras in half. Please don't tell me you've never heard that one. I'm really not sure now if what made that joke so funny was the fact that Ray was Jewish, or because his mother whacked him across the back of the head after he told it. Either way, I doubled over in my chair and couldn't catch my breath.

Another similar example that comes to mind is when Tony started bragging about how one of his uncles was a kingpin in the Mafia. And we fell for it, too. That is until he told us how his uncle got seriously injured while trying to blow up a car. When we asked him what exactly happened to his uncle, he said "He burned his mouth on the tailpipe."

We saw each other as friends. Nobody cared if you were black, or white, or Catholic, or Protestant, or Jewish. It just never entered into our minds. Because of the diversity of our neighborhoods, we all got the chance to sample a little bit of everything. Kids from Everett have eaten just about anything that has a name. We've eaten everything from a knish, to sauerkraut, and from quackamoli to tortellini. And we knew what you were saying whether you called us a "putz" or a "pi'san."

You might suspect that such a densely populated community would take on an inner city disposition. When it comes to Everett, nothing could be further from the truth. For within that crowded network of heavy traffic and large manufacturing plants, Everett was a big city with a small town personality.

Up until now, I've been showing you Everett from up above at a distance. Let's zoom down onto the street level. Observing Everett through a microscopic eyepiece will expose you to a wonder of social science that is no less fascinating than that of the subatomic particle. Now that you've got a general idea of the many conditions that factor into the overall equation, let's take a closer look at how it all comes together.

Within this diverse melting pot we rubbed elbows with every imaginable extreme of the spectrum. We had everything from derelicts to scholars, from atheists to theologians, and from the morally prudent to the criminally insane. Even still, we had little to fear. For you see, Everett was a network of tightly knit communities. Each neighborhood was somewhat like an independent municipality unto itself. Perhaps I could explain it better if I were to show it to you as I saw it from the very beginning.

My earliest recollections of growing up in Everett begin somewhere back around 1956 when I was about four years old. I was still too young to go off to kindergarten but not too young to play out on the sidewalk. I didn't wander far from the front of my house back then. More than likely, I probably didn't venture off any further than the front of Stanley's house next door.

I did go through somewhat of a phase that year when I'd suddenly, without warning, run off all the way down to Ferry Street. My mother resorted to tying me to the back fence like a dog. On this one particular episode, Stanley and I worked on that knot for a good portion of the morning. We did eventually figure it out. As soon as we got that knot untied from the fence, I took off like a bat out of hell.

As I look back on that now, I shake my head and laugh to myself thinking about what it must have looked like to the grownups passing by. Here was this little kid running out into the middle of the traffic on Ferry Street with ten feet of clothesline dragging along behind him. About a half a dozen older kids frantically chased after him right through the traffic and all the way down Nichols Street. What a spectacle that must have been to behold.

Freeze that frame. This is exactly what I'm talking about. One little kid runs off and all the bigger kids take it upon themselves to look after him. God forbid that anyone should entertain the notion to cause any harm to that defenseless little kid. One false move and a half dozen kids would swarm all over you. They'd bite you, and kick you, and scratch you into oblivion.

You can talk all you want about "Skull and Bones" and the "Bilderbergs" but when it comes right down to it, there is nothing else on the planet quite like the fraternal bond amongst the kids from Everett. Now that's an alliance.

It's in our blood. You begin to sense that spirit of camaraderie from the very first day you start playing out on the sidewalk. The kids on your street form a bond. When somebody moves into the neighborhood they've got to earn their trust into the pack. Once in, they're in for life.

We'll lie, cheat, and steal for each other. We watch each other's back. And although we may squabble amongst ourselves sometimes, we become one as soon as an outsider tries to step into our inner circle. Come in peace and we'll open up to you. Come in war, and you'll get more than you bargained for. We don't know the meaning of backing down. Never heard of it. That's just the way we are because we're from Everett.

The inner circle grows when you venture off to elementary school. It's no longer just your street now. All the streets that surround your elementary school come together. We're talking about streets that have dozens of kids. I remember this one time when we had over two dozen kids playing "Hot Beans" in my backyard alone. Just ask Martha if you don't believe me.

Hot beans? Now that's gotta be an Everett original if there ever was one. Out of the many emails I've received from all the people who never lived in Everett, not one of them ever mentioned playing Hot Beans. Here's how you play Hot Beans.

Somebody hides a belt somewhere in the backyard. When he's ready, he calls you all in to look for it. The only clue he'll offer is to whether you're hot or cold while you're searching high and low for that belt. As soon as somebody finds it, they hold it up over their head and yell, "Hot Beans!" Then they chase you out onto the sidewalk whacking you as hard as they can across the legs with it. The sidewalk is gools. Now it's their turn to hide the belt.

Your elementary school becomes the center point for your newly expanded inner circle. All the kids from Arlington, High, Hampshire, Oliver, Cottage, Autumn, Villa Ave, Pleasant View Ave, Foster, Prospect, Dern, Chestnut Hill, Reed Ave, Hillside Ave, Hall Ave, Franklin, Upper Elm Street and all the other little streets in between now come together as one in the Horace Mann elementary school district. And just as it was on our own separate streets, we may squabble amongst ourselves, but we'll band together as one should an outsider from the Hamilton, or the Hale, or the Center school show up and start throwing his weight around.

And so it was with every other community and with every other elementary school. Each was a mirror reflection of the other. I'm telling ya right now. If you're an outsider and you pick a fight with any one of those kids from any one of those separate communities you had better be bad to the bone because you're gonna have to fight them all. And should any adult ever try to harm one of those kids, he'd get his eye knocked out with a rock. Those kids fight to win.

You would expect that a citywide camaraderie would not develop until we all came together at the Parlin Junior High, but that wasn't the case at all. You see, during the summer months the City of Everett hired playground teachers to supervise the smaller kids who played at the neighborhood parks. That also helped to reinforce that fraternal neighborhood spirit. At the end of the summer, the city sponsored a day trip for all the parks and playgrounds. That's when we all came together.

In my day, that trip was usually up to Canobie Lake Park in New Hampshire. You can read all about my experiences on that trip HERE. Many other cities showed up at Canobie Lake Park on that day as well. And as you would suspect, from time to time, confrontations ensued. That's when Everett earned its reputation.

That wasn't the only thing that brought us all together. We had our Thanksgiving Day football games in which we rarely ever lost to our archrivals, the Chelsea Red Devils. Few of us ever paid our way into the games. Hopping the fence became a moral imperative. If anything solidified the fraternal order of Everett's kids, this was it.

There was something else that was so very special that it added another whole dimension to growing up in Everett. It was such a rewarding experience that it made our hometown like no other place on this Earth. We had Leo.

Leo Brotman managed the Park Theatre on Chelsea Street. That man had such a warm glow in his heart for children that we could feel it right down to the marrow in our bones. He made Saturday afternoons worth living for. Ask any kid who grew up in Everett.

None of us will ever forget those balloon breaking contests for as long as we live and breath. Everett's charisma and charm multiplied ten thousand times ten thousand because of what Leo so selflessly gave back to our community. He made that big of an impact on us kids.

So you see, the seeds of fellowship were planted deep within my soul at a very impressionable age. It began the very first time I stepped outside to play on the sidewalk. It was nurtured by the attachments that permeated my immediate surroundings. It grew as I grew. At first, it only involved my street. Then it grew to incorporate all the other streets that attended my elementary school. And it eventually enveloped the entire City of Everett.

If you need any more of a description of what made Everett so special then just you click onto the We're From Everett Archive Guide and read to your heart's content. That's what growing up in Everett was all about.

Like so many other cities that were once rich in commerce and trade, Everett is locked in the turmoil of economic depression brought on by the transition of going from the booming "Industrial Age" to the digital "Age of Information." In the process, many of us who were born and raised in Everett have moved on to New Hampshire, Maine, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, North Carolina, Tennessee, Florida, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Texas, California, Indiana, Canada, and even all the way over to England.

Even to this day, as the Labor Day weekend approaches, it conjures up in my mind's eye the agony of having to go back to school after a summer long vacation free from teachers, books, and dirty looks. By the same token, the time has come to gather once again in the classroom with all of those new friends I've made on the streets next to mine. Let's face it, we sometimes had more fun in school than we did on the sidewalk even if we did have to stand in the corner all afternoon because of it.

No matter how old we get, where we go, or what we do, we bring with us that fighting Everett spirit of camaraderie that is so deeply rooted within our moral fibers. We will never change. It is the thread that runs so true through our hearts that binds us all together for all time. When outsiders look upon us, they know there's something different that sets us apart from everyone else. And there's only one way to describe it. And that is, that "We're from Everett!"

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Here's another analytical challenge for ya. Try to rearrange the letters in "DEAR VIRGINS" to spell out yet another historical Everett landmark. Go ahead. Give it shot!

It's That Time Again

What do you say we take another trip down Everett's memory lane to a time when we saw the whole world as a magical place through the eyes of a child. Let's go back to the days when we thought dragon flies could sew your mouth shut. Back to when the most important thing in life was trying to wrap a swing with just one hand. And back to when you sat in the bathtub playing with your toys until your skin wrinkled up like a prune.

I was just sitting here thinking about that day I happened to glance up at the calendar while sneaking a drink from the cold water bottle in the refrigerator. That's when I realized there was only two more weeks left to summer before school starts. You talk about stress? That's the ultimate.

It's not only the threat of going back to school that you've got to worry about. Sure it's an issue, but look at this way. It hasn't happened yet. You've still got two more weeks to play stickball in the middle of the street until the streetlights come on. Two weeks to a little kid are like an eternity. So if that's not the real issue then what is?

Well, maybe I'm imagining this, but every year around this time everybody's mother starts acting weird. It's almost as if their antennas go up and they become keenly focused on one thing and one thing only. I'm not really sure if this only happens in Everett, but all of the mothers in my neighborhood suddenly became of like mind and spirit. It's almost robotic in a sense. It used to scare the daylights out of us.

I remember talking about this with some of the other kids in my neighborhood. They all said the same thing. You know what else was weird? As soon as one mother found something out, they all knew it simultaneously. We wondered whether or not they could communicate telepathically.

And let me tell you something else. You can't trust any of the girls in your neighborhood either. Don't ever forget that. Little girls are nothing more than mothers in training. That's right. They're student mothers. Go watch em play if you don't believe me.

Girls are born with a virus of some sort. They call it "cooties." It makes them think, act, and talk like a mother before they can even tie their own shoes. It's actually scary sometimes.

Picture this. Let's say you're with your sister and the two of you are coming out of Bill's Variety down there on Nichols Street. Just as you unwrap your Tootsie Roll, you accidentally drop it on the sidewalk. So what do you do? You kiss it up to God and eat it - right?

So how does your sister react to that? She glares at you with this look of disgust as if you've just popped a pooh pooh in your mouth and says, "Eww, that's disgusting. You're a filthy pig."

There's no use in arguing the point with a girl. She just doesn't get it. The only response to that is, "Hey, it takes one to know one."

Picture the same scenario. Only this time, you're with one of your friends instead of your sister. Again, just as you unwrap your Tootsie Roll, you accidentally drop it on the sidewalk. Instead of picking it up and eating this time, you kick it into the gutter.

So how does your friend react? He looks at you as if you've just lost your mind and says, "Hey, if you don't want that I'll eat it." After picking it up out of the gutter, he brushes the wet leaves and ants off of it and pops it in his mouth. He doesn't even give it a second thought.

Hey, don't get me wrong. You can't trust every boy. There is such a thing as a "defective boy." You gotta watch out for them too. How do you know if there's one in your crowd? One of the easiest ways to detect a defective boy is to find out how he conducts himself when he goes to bed at night.

My brother, Carl, was one of those. When he got ready for bed he went through this whole ritual that took about a half an hour or so. First, he'd take off his shoes and place them neatly under his bed. Then, he'd take off his shirt and hang it methodically on a clothes hanger in the closet. After putting his pajama top on, he'd take his pants off and hang them systematically in the closet next to his shirt. After getting his pajama bottoms on, he'd neatly fold back the covers and climb into bed.

Okay, now here's how I got into bed. First, I scuffed off my shoes and kicked them under my bed. I didn't aim and I couldn't care less whether or not they wound up together. Then, I whipped off my shirt and flung it down onto the end of my bed. Next, I yanked down my pants and kicked them off onto the end of my bed on top of my shirt. After that, I tore back my covers and hopped into bed in my underwear. Total elapsed time was somewhere in the vicinity of about nine and a half seconds.

Okay, now that you've got a better idea of the mindset of a non-defective boy, let's get back to that mother problem I was telling you about before I go off on another tangent.

This is the time of year we'd all secretly meet under the forsythia bush in my front yard after supper. We'd wait there for about ten minutes or so just to make sure the coast was clear. Only after we were completely certain that all systems were go, we'd head out into the middle of the street for a game of stickball.

What's going on is that our mothers keep following our fathers all around the house saying the same thing over and over again. You know what they keep saying? They keep repeating, "We've gotta go shopping for school clothes. We've gotta go shopping for school clothes. We've gotta go shopping for school clothes."

There's nothing worse than hearing your mother hang out the window yelling, "Hey Paul, it's time to go shopping for school clothes," when you're smack dab in the middle of a stickball game. And it always happens when it's your turn at bat. Either that or when you're running down the middle of Arlington Street stretching to catch a fly ball while shouting, "I got it - I got it - I got it!"

One by one it catches up to each and every one of us eventually. There we are sitting out on my front porch having a game of knuckles when all of a sudden, Tommy's mother and father came rolling up along the curb. "Hope in, Tommy. We're going shopping for school clothes."

"Aw, do we have to?" He whines.

"Shh, be quiet, man. You're caught. Accept it. Just hurry up and go before you ruin it for the rest of us," I whisper to him.

What I'm afraid of is that opened window up there on the second floor. If my mother hears a lot of commotion going on down here she's gonna poke her head out that window. The last thing I need right now is for Tommy's mother to go putting any crazy ideas in my mother's head.

Misery loves company so to get back at me Tommy stands up and shouts, "OKAY MA, I'M READY TO GO SHOPPING FOR SCHOOL CLOTHES."

"I'm telling you right now, Man. If my mother leans out that window and tells me I gotta go shopping you may as well swing by Glenwood and pick yourself out a plot."

Let me tell ya something. Tommy is one of those "defective boys" I was telling you about. Yeah, that's right. He hangs his clothes up in the closet and he wears pajamas to bed. Believe me when I tell ya, you can't trust these guys any further than you can throw them.

There's a reason why Tommy's always the first kid to go shopping for school clothes near the end of every summer. Well actually, there's a couple of reasons. The first one is because he's an only child. What difference does that make? Let's face it. Many times the wealth of the family is directly proportionate to how many kids there are in the household.

Okay, so what's the other reason? Like I said. Tommy's one of those "defects." More than likely, even though he hems and haws about going shopping when he's out with the guys, I've got this sneaking hunch it's another whole ball game when he's back home with his parents. So why do I think that?

You mark my words. Tommy will get back from shopping before the streetlights come on. It doesn't take forever to go shopping for just one kid. And you just wait until you hear the way he carries on when he gets back.

He'll come strolling up to my front steps and take his rightful place in the pecking order with the rest of the gang. "Deal me in," he'll say. We'll all be giving each other a sly glance while we're checking out our cards because let's face it, the whole time he was gone we were talking behind his back. Trust me, we're no different than anybody else who grew up in Everett.

"So how was your shopping trip," Jacky asks without showing the slightest of emotions.

"Ah, it wasn't so bad," he says and leaves it at that. That's a dead give away right there. Any other kid would have made the international gag sign and said, "It sucked."

"So what did you get?" Joey asks. You talk about entrapment? That's the equivalent of asking your grandfather to tell you one of his old war stories. Tommy falls for it too.

Anybody else would have said, "I got some clothes," and that would be the end of it. Not this kid. Asking Tommy what he got is like opening a can of worms. Once he starts he can't stop. And he won't just say he got a shirt either. He'll tell you what color it is and what kind of buttons it has on it as if you really cared.

He won't stop there either. He'll go on to tell you all about his string tie, his underwear, and his new lunchbox in vivid detail. You see what I mean? Think about it. How many kids in the fourth grade bring their lunch to school in a lunchbox? Not too many - right?

And let me tell ya something else right now. Tommy is one of those kids who can make you so mad sometimes that you'd like to hold a pillow down over his face until he stops kicking. Let me give you two examples.

The first one was during that hot summer day when we stole a whole bunch of funny books from Manny's. We sat out on my back steps swapping funny books and having a good old-fashioned lazy afternoon for ourselves. At one point in time, Joey's mother stepped out onto the back porch after having a cup a tea with my mother upstairs.

"So how are you boys getting along?" She asked.

"Fine."

"Where'd you get all the funny books?"

"We stole them from Manny's." That's exactly what Tommy said. Do you believe it? Is that kid for real? Of course we covered our tracks by laughing it off as if what he said was a joke. Then I added, "This is my old collection. We've read them about a dozen times already."

"Don't stay out in the hot sun too long," she said as she went on along her merry way.

That's when I looked at Tommy and snapped, "What's wrong with you, man? Are you retarded or something?"

"I couldn't think of anything else to say," he explained. "I got nervous."

"Well just keep your mouth shut next time. We'll take care of it."

The second time was when he and Joey got into a fight over gawd only knows what. As soon as Tommy saw his dad pull up along the curb in his car, he slapped Joey open handedly across the face. Trust me, Tommy was in no position to ever slap Joey across the face unless he was honestly sick and tired of living. He then ran towards his father screaming, "Dad, dad, Joey's after me!"

Tommy's dad stood in front of him like a formidable shield. He then verbally tore into Joey as if he was the one who started the whole thing. He even called Joey a worthless piece of trash. If that don't beat all, he said Joey was just like his father.

Joey went ballistic. He let loose with a barrage of obscenities that would embarrass a truck driver. So guess who got the dirty end of the stick out of that one? You guessed it. Joey did.

Tommy's father called Joey's parents on the phone and told them every single word that Joey had screamed out into the middle of the street. He did, however, refrain from explaining what infuriated Joey to unleash such a barrage of obscenities in the first place. Joey never got the opportunity to defend himself. He never got a fair trial. They grounded him for two weeks.

After having paid his debt to society, we welcomed Joey back into the fold with opened arms. He just looked over at Tommy and said, "Don't worry, I'm not coming after you. Let's just forget about it." They shook hands.

We even told Joey how impressed we were with the level of maturity he showed by forgiving Tommy for what he'd done. He just looked back at Jacky and me and said, "I figured it all out. The quicker this thing blows over the quicker I'll catch him off guard. And when I do I'll beat him to within an inch of his life. Trust me, the next time I lay my hands on that kid they won't lock me up in my bedroom. They'll lock me up in Alcatraz."

I really gotta tell ya something else about these two guys that you'd never suspect. Just wait until you hear this one. About twelve years later, sometime around 1975, Tommy got married. Guess who his best man was? Yep, it was Joey. Go figure - right?

Okay, so let's get back to my predicament. It eventually catches up to me when my mother can't contain herself any longer. In her warped sense of reality the clock is ticking. Hiding under the forsythia bush no longer becomes an option when she leans out the window and yells, "Paul, you've got one minute to get upstairs or you're gonna be the sorriest kid on the planet."

They call that the "Executioner's Song." My mother is not known for making idle threats. When she gives you the back of her hand you feel it. Given the choice, I'll take going shopping for school clothes over a whack across the lips any day.

The inevitable has arrived. It's my turn to face the music. I cannot believe it's time to go shopping for school clothes again already. Didn't we just do this? Where does the time go?

Like the blink of an eye I'm standing in the middle of Grants and my mother's asking me what kind of underwear I like. All I can think of is "What kind of question is that?" I mean really. What kind of underwear do you like? I like the kind you pull up over your legs. Don't you? Other than that I really don't know how else to answer that question.

Mothers have no sense of humility whatsoever. They think nothing of making you stand in the middle of the isle with your hands stretched out like an airplane while they hold underwear up to your bum to see if they fit. My mother couldn't care less if any of the girls from my class are in there shopping for school clothes or not. It doesn't even enter into the equation in her book.

"Ma please, can we do this in the dressing room?"

"What for?"

"So nobody sees me."

"What difference does that make?"

What difference does that make? Is she serious? Consider this. What do you think the chances are that one day I'm gonna ask an Everett girl for a date? I'd say the chances are pretty good. Wouldn't you?

Looks never were my strong suit. If you think I'm just being modest then consider this also. I'm the guy whose mother kept telling him that he was the ugliest baby she's ever seen. She said that I was so ugly that she asked the doctor if I was going to be alright. My mother actually said that. According to her I looked like a wrinkled up little red monkey. That's exactly what she said.

So aside from suffering from this seriously ugly facial complex, she doesn't think I should worry about anybody seeing me trying on underwear in the middle of the isle. Believe me, the last thing I need is for the very girl I'm gonna ask out someday to see me trying on underwear in the middle of Grants.

I can hear it now. Just as I finally get up the nerve to ask some girl out she's gonna come back with, "Gee, I'm sorry Paul, but every time I think of you all I can picture in my mind's eye is seeing you standing in the middle of Grants in your underwear. Maybe some other time." This is a no-win situation going on here. There's just no two ways about it.

And just when you think you've got your mother all figured out, she throws you a curve. Out of nowhere while walking up and down the isles in Grants she pipes up and asks, "Who do you like best? Major Mudd or Bozo?"

"What are you talking about?" Did you ever get the feeling like your mother smokes that funny tobacco in the closet sometimes?

"What kind of lunchbox would you like for school? Major Mudd or Bozo?"

"Ma, I'm in the fourth grade."

"Yeah? So?"

"I can't go off to school with a lunchbox in the fourth grade."

"Why not?"

"Because my emotional well being relies heavily on it, trust me. Skip the lunchbox, okay?"

"What about a pencil box?" She asks.

"What am I gonna do with a pencil box?"

"How are you going to organize all of your school supplies?"

"The same way I organize my clothes. I throw everything into one big pile so I'll know where it is when I go looking for it."

My mother honestly thinks that's a poor organizational plan. She couldn't be further from the truth if she tried. You can doubt me if you want to, but I rarely lose anything. Everything I own is right over there in that great big pile. Sure I've got to dig my way to the bottom sometimes, but it's all there. I'll find it when I have to.

The other major obstacle I have to contend with whenever we go shopping for clothes is the significant differences in our tastes. My mother's a country music buff. When she thinks fashion she visualizes people like Roy Rogers and Hank Williams. She honestly thinks I'd break a million hearts if I showed up at the Horace Mann wearing a string tie just like the one Tennessee Ernie Ford wears. She's serious. That's what scares me.

She picks out the kind of clothes you'd normally wear when you're strumming a ukulele on the back of horse riding off into the sunset. And I'm telling you right now. If you show up for school in Everett dressed like that, you're gonna wish you rode off into the sunset.

I'll be honest with ya. Once you get your school clothes out of the way you can coast for the rest of the summer. You won't even have to remotely think about that stuff again until the night before your first day of school. It's one of those necessary evils one must endure at the end of every summer vacation.

And that's the way it was growing up in the big city back in our day. You learn to take the good with the bad if you're gonna survive the pitfalls of childhood. Don't worry about us. We can't handle it. We've got it all under control. After all, "We're from Everett!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, since it's almost time to go back to school we may as well start sharpening up on those analytical skills. Here's your challenge. Take these words "THE GOTHIC SHOVELER" and rearrange the letters to spell out a famous Everett landmark. Give it a shot!

Common Sense

The more I think about the way things used to be when I was a little kid growing up in Everett, the more I think about the way it's supposed to be right here and now. It has nothing to do with the way the ball bounces, or the way the cookie crumbles. What it has to do with is the way we live our lives. Sounds kind of crazy -- doesn't it?

Tell you what. What say we set a spell, you and me? Let's see if we can't make any sense out of all this insanity going on in the world today. Maybe somewhere along the line we'll figure out where it was we took that wrong turn. I still say we should have taken that left onto Linden Street.

If we take the time to try to sort it all out and analyze the situation, we may be able to figure out how to get back on the right track. You never know. It's worth a shot.

Let's take a look at the here and now for a minute. I'm watching this heart broken father cry his heart out on CNN. There is nothing out of the ordinary about this guy except that he hurts so badly that you can feel his pain. He looks like any one of the more than 250 million hard working Americans who ask for nothing more than what he's entitled to from his community and his government for playing by the rules.

He looks a few years younger than me. His voice is breaking up trying to hold back the tears. Looking out through the television screen at the rest of us, he pleads for answers. In every instance, the system he has remained loyal to has let him down and he wants to know why.

In just a few short weeks his son was about to go off to college to acquire the necessary skills and knowledge to work towards the great American dream. That dream will never come true. The little boy who once sat upon his father's lap to play "patty cake" will never do that with a child of his own. His little boy will never have children. And that heart broken father will never have grandchildren.

His son and three of his friends gathered at the local schoolyard to share a few laughs and a good old fashion gab amongst themselves. They've known each other since kindergarten. They were all going off to college together. These were lifelong friends.

On the other side of the spectrum stands a gang of mindless savages with no respect whatsoever for human life. They came from another country. They hate everything this country stands for and they're trying to tear it apart. They threaten to kill every law abiding citizen who unwittingly crosses their path in the process. They've said so time and time again whenever they gather in the streets to shout at the news cameras.

The very politicians who were elected by the law-abiding citizens to protect and serve them are working double over time to sneak provisions in through the back door to protect and serve those more than twenty million insane savages they've snuck into our country. As it stands right now, those savages have more rights and privileges than the law abiding citizens do. That is precisely why those criminally demented psychotics did what they did.

From out of the dark of night, those savages sauntered over to those four innocent college bound children. At gunpoint, they lined them up against a wall and shot them, one by one, in the back of the head at point blank range. There was no motive other than their hatred for human decency. Now, they are coming after you. They are going to kill you. They have said so.

These criminally insane savages are executing innocent children and law abiding citizens day after day all over our country in communities who have designated themselves as "safe havens" for these demented crack pots. They've unlawfully invaded our country by the millions. And they are committing these atrocities with the blessing and support of the politicians you have elected to protect and serve you.

Try to make sense out of any of that. You can't -- can you?

Thinking back to my childhood days down there on Arlington Street, I can remember hearing my mother say, "What is this world coming to?" as she leaned over the backyard fence talking with the neighbors. I can think of a hundred different reasons as to why she kept asking that question.

The world was always crazy. I just naturally assumed that we'd eventually mature, learn our lessons, and work together to ensure that everyone enjoyed the four basic freedoms that President Roosevelt promised us. I guess I was wrong.

Aaron, and his wife Dora, lived most of their adult life in a first floor apartment down on Chatham Road. That's where they settled down to raise their family. Everyone tells me that Aaron was one of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. What I do know about him is that when he came to America, he brought with him a determination and a commitment to become an American in every sense of the word. He succeeded.

Aaron was born on foreign soil. He learned how to speak, read, and write the native language of his newly adopted homeland. Respectfully, he embraced all of the principles that made this land the passion of his dreams. And he observed and obeyed all of her laws. In the process, he became one of America's very many adopted sons.

Perhaps you'd have a better understanding as to why becoming an American was such a dream come true for Aaron if you knew where he came from in the first place. You see, Aaron was a survivor of the Nazi Holocaust. If anyone knows the true value of liberty and justice for all, trust me, it is the survivors of the Holocaust.

Hate is a deadly poison. It does just as much damage to the culprit as it does to the victim. People who hate spend their lives all twisted up and miserable inside. And history proves that those who act upon that hate, and inflict misery upon others because of it, will eventually suffer the wrath of their own hatred. You do reap what you sow. Make no mistake about that.

Just about every kid's father that I grew up with had fought in the Second World War. Many suffered from life long injuries and disabilities as a result of having made that commitment. One of my friend's fathers had lost a leg. Another one lost one of his eyes. And yet another had lost his left hand.

The Second World War seemed like ancient history to me and my friends. It had ended seven years or more before we were born. That is precisely why we grew up not knowing what it was like to live in constant fear. Our parents risked life and limb to ensure that their children would never know that kind of fear. Many paid the ultimate price.

They tried to teach us about it in school, but we really didn't listen. The message came through more like yet another daily lesson so we hemmed and hawed all the way through it. I guess it's true what my dad always said. "You don't really learn anything from an experience until you've actually lived through it."

I can only imagine the things that Aaron must have seen and endured in his lifetime. He didn't witness the horrors of Nazi Germany by thumbing through pictures in a history book or by munching on a box of buttered popcorn while watching newsreels at the Park Theatre. He lived the experience.

Try to imagine the scenario if you can. Picture yourself standing around having a heartfelt chat on a calm summer afternoon with three of your best friends. All of a sudden, you are surrounded by a gang of thugs waiving handguns. Of course you're frightened. You don't dare move.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of one of those thugs grabbing a hold of your friend's arm and bending it up behind his back. Just as you're about to lunge forward to help your friend, you hear a "click." When you look in the direction of that "click," you're looking down the barrel of a loaded gun pointed right between your eyes. Behind that gun stands a wild-eyed lunatic.

The next voice you hear belongs to that thug who was beating up on your friend. He yells, "You! Get down on your knees!" Your friend complies. You can hear your friend tearfully pleading, "Please, I'll give you anything."

You're even willing to surrender any and all of your possessions to save your friend, but nobody gives you the chance. You stand there watching the whole thing unfold as if it's all a bad dream. It doesn't seem real. Another thug walks up behind your friend and points the barrel of his gun against the back of his head. From the fear alone you can't exhale.

Before you can even open your mouth a trigger clicks. You hear the bang. Your friend falls face down onto the pavement. The moment you make the slightest move the thug with the gun to your face says, "Go ahead, I dare you." You don't dare make a move. You have no options.

"You!" Get down on your knees," that same lunatic shouts at another one of your friends. Your friend fearfully complies. And just as you mouth the word, "Please," you hear the second shot ring out. Two of your friends now lay face down in a pool of blood.

You look back at the loaded weapon pointed at your face. You swallow hard. The nut behind the gun shows no emotion. All you can see is that far away look of dementia in his eyes. In the background you hear their ringleader shout, "You!" Get down on your knees."

You're much too afraid to watch the last of your friends get violently kicked and dragged to the ground. A few seconds later another shot rings out. By now you are only all too familiar with the sound of a lifeless body falling face down onto the pavement.

It doesn't make any sense. None of you did anything wrong. You've known these kids since the day you first crawled over the side of your crib. You've eaten supper over each other's houses. You've played "hide and go seek" out on the sidewalk together until the streetlights came on. And now they're all dead. That's when you hear the ringleader yell out, "Hey you!"

When you turn to look off in his direction you realize that he's pointing his gun at your face from across the playground. The lifeless bodies of your three best friends lay face down in pools of blood all around him. Then, with a look of sadistic pleasure in his eyes he shouts at you, "Get down in your knees!"

Those are the very kinds of things that Aaron witnessed in Nazi Germany. Who ever thought that very scenario would ever unfold in a local schoolyard right here in these United States?

It never seems to fail that just when you think it can't get any more crazy than it already is - it does. So let me ask you something. "Where did we go wrong?"

When was the cut off date for our children to be able to stroll down to the local candy store by themselves without having to fear for their lives? When did the criminals start having more rights than their victims? And when was it that you no longer qualified for any rights or benefits because you were born in this country?

The answers to these questions are rather complex. Trying to unscramble the web of deception that has dragged us so far down into this living hell hole is much like trying to untangle a web of wire coat hangers with a pair of mittens pulled down over your handcuffs.

This didn't just happen over night. It's been building up for quite some time. It has a lot to do with the way the mass media slants the truth. It has a lot to do with how our elected officials play an elaborate shell game with the laws they supposedly pass within the guidelines of our Constitution. And it certainly has a lot to do with who is holding onto the strings that control our corporate media government.

I'm now thinking back to that day I was walking home from school all by myself. You could do that back then without worrying about some deranged killer hauling you off into a dark alley somewhere. This was one of those school days when my mischievous behavior had caused me to stay after. Unlike any other afternoon, the streets were bare. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. There wasn't another soul to be found.

Just as I was crossing Arlington Street, one of the other neighborhood kids leaned out of his front door to retrieve a letter from his mailbox. That's when I asked him if everybody was getting together for a game of "Rough N Tumble" down the park.

"Not today," he replied.

"Why not today?"

"Don't you know what's going on?"

I'll never forget the look on his face. It's almost as if he couldn't believe I had just asked that question in the first place. Something uncommonly weird had to be going on. I mean really. Never before had I ever seen the streets so quiet after school.

"No, what's going on?"

I know I've told you this before, but for as long as I live I'll never forget what he said next. And I'll never forget the way that he said it, or even the exact sound of his voice. He said, "President Kennedy's Dead."

We've come a long way since that dreadful afternoon. Have we not? Just reliving that moment edges my eyes with tears. It says so much.

Like everyone else, I leaped for joy when Jack Ruby gunned down Lee Harvey Oswald. Hey, I was just a little kid. I didn't stop to think about how that act of revenge could possibly turn out to be an integral part of a much larger equation. But that was then. This is now.

It wasn't until the year 2002 that a declassified White House recording from 1972 revealed the voice of President Nixon saying how "The Warren Commission pulled off the greatest hoax ever perpetuated." I began to pick up on many other suspicious facts that have seriously opened my eyes. Like back in 1947, a young Congressman named Richard Nixon got Jack Ruby excused from testifying before a congressional committee investigating the Mafia. We're talking about the very same Richard Nixon who attended a so-called business meeting in Dallas on the day they killed President Kennedy.

My guess is that's why presidentual candidates try to sequester information before upcoming elections. You wouldn't want to confuse the voters any more than they already are -- right?

Those are the kinds of things that are running through my mind as I sit here watching video clips and newsreels about President Kennedy's assassination on Youtube. Have you done that yet? By all means do that.

You'll sit there flabbergasted watching the commanding officer dismiss his secret servicemen from President Kennedy's motorcade as it turns onto Elm Street. One of the servicemen throws up his hands in utter frustration and disbelief. That's when you'll realize that if that secret service agent had taken his proper position at the back of that motorcade, no one would have got a clear shot at President Kennedy from that sixth floor school book depository window.

Hey, and while you're there, do a search for Keith Olbermann. He'll open your eyes to what's really going on in this crazy world of ours. I promise you that.

Did you ever think you'd see the day when they'd jail our border guards for stopping a convicted drug smuggler from coming into our country? Did you ever think you'd see the day when our government would turn its back on our veterans and treat them like second class citizens? Did you ever think you'd see the day when our children needed to carry bulletproof book bags to school?

Hey look. All I'm saying is that there's no reason on Earth why our children shouldn't feel safe enough to play out on the sidewalks in front of their house just like we used to do. It breaks my heart to no longer hear that sound of happy feet skipping over a jump rope outside my window. I worry that I may never again hear the sound of children singing, "A - my name is Alice."

You know what else I miss? I miss seeing a little kid staring bug eyed through a plate glass candy counter saying, "I'll take one of those, and one those, and two of those." I miss hearing the sound of a baseball card whack against the spokes of a bicycle tire. And I miss hearing two boys standing toe to toe poking each other in the chest shouting, "Did not. Did too. Did not."

I miss hearing someone express their religious opinion without some dingbat named something like "Rama Lama Dingdong" screaming holy jihad (whatever that is). I miss seeing all the signs and documents posted in our government buildings written in a language that I understand. And I miss being able to celebrate Christmas without being chastised for offending somebody.

You know what? I think I'll just go ahead and keep doing those things anyway. If they offend you then just call my complaint line at "1-800-EAT-DIRT" okay? Do we understand each other better now?

All I'm asking from my elected representatives is some good down to earth common sense. If you can't give me that -- what good are ya?

Hey, here's one for ya. Let's do a little experiment. Let's say all of you elected representatives start protecting and serving the people who elected you for a change. Just for the sake of argument, let's pass a health care plan that wipes out privatized health insurance and provides health care for all legal American citizens. That would be a switch, huh?

Oh yeah, and just for the heck of it, let's give the victim more rights than we do to the criminals. Let's just see how that works out. And here's another one for ya. Let's start executing murderers and child molesters. And don't be so selfish about it. We love reality TV. Let's televise those executions right before the Monday Night Football games. I'll bet cha ten to one they'll draw higher ratings than anything else they show on TV. I'll just bet cha.

Wait a minute, I've got another idea. Let's deny all social services to illegal aliens and see if we can't starve them out of the country. Maybe they'll get the hint when they start dwindling down to nothing. It's worth a shot. And let's round up all of those politicians and civil servants who have declared their communities as "safe havens" for illegal aliens. Then let's strip them of their citizenship and deport them as well. That makes all the sense in the world to me.

Oh yeah, and one last thing before I go. Just for the heck of it. Let's do this.

Let's Pledge our Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation, UNDER GOD, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Let's do that. Because if we don't start rolling up our sleeves, balling up our knuckle bones, and start taking care of our own, the next thing you know, they're gonna forbid you to say, "We're from Everett. And no one can be prouder. And if you cannot hear us, We'll yell a little louder!"

Everett Diplomacy

Politics is heartless and unforgiving. It takes no prisoners. That is just as true in a small city like Everett as it is on the national scale. You gotta laugh sometimes when you hear all these politicians talking about integrity and values. News items about their scandalous behavior spread across the media like wild fire, but that never stops them from getting back up in front of yet another crowd to preach as if they've never committed a sin in their lives.

Politicians must think they're invisible to the public eye when they step down from the podium. Either that or they think we're so simple minded that we haven't the ability to retain any serious information. You can't blame them for that now can you? Think about it. We keep electing them.

Another thing that troubles me is how so many voters are so naive as to think that they can trust these politicians to represent them after hearing all the venom they spew out at one another during their campaigns. Let's look at it from a kid's perspective. As soon as they hear one of the other neighborhood kids badmouthing everybody else behind their back, they automatically know that kid's gonna badmouth them when they're not around -- right? So how come adults can't figure that out?

Hypocrisy stands out like a sore thumb to the kids on the sidewalks. It's virtually invisible to grownups. We doubled over in laughter that night out on my front steps down on Arlington Street when Arty called Nixon a crook. Of all people, Arty had been arrested for stealing cars, breaking and entering, and possession of stolen property by the time he was sixteen years old.

Donny looked back at him and asked, "Hey Arty, did your mother ever have any kids who lived?" That's what I mean about kids from Everett. You've gotta think before you open your mouth. They'll call you on the carpet every time.

By all indications, had Arty lived beyond early adulthood, he would have become a choice candidate for either political party. In his few short years he had acquired all of the necessary qualifications to lead his party to a landslide victory in any election. He had certainly mastered the art of lying through his teeth. Breaking and entering was his specialty. They'd have never uncovered the Watergate cover-up had they hired Arty to pull off. And the only possessions Arty had ever accumulated in his lifetime were all ill-gotten gains.

When it comes to politics, Arty was a natural. He would have put every last one of these better known politicians to shame. He'd be a shoe in for the presidency nower days. Arty was no amateur. He was from Everett.

As close as the Kennedy vs. Nixon election turned out, many still believe it was Eisenhower's response to a reporter's inquiry that really turned the tide. When asked what contributions Vice-president Nixon had made to his administration, Eisenhower answered, "Give me a week or two and I may be able to come up with something." Kennedy supporters really enjoyed a good belly laugh over that one.

Shortly after that was the first time I ever heard political satire in my life. It happened on the sidewalk in front of my house on Arlington Street when I was about eight years old. My brother, Billy, and his friend, Arty, were sitting out on my front steps slapping their knees singing, "Winstons taste sour just like Eisenhower."

Political satire knows no boundaries, even amongst kids. I'll never forget how angry my mother got at Billy only a month after President Kennedy's assassination. We were sitting around the supper table when Billy piped up and asked, "Hey Ma, guess what John Boy got for Christmas?"

"What did he get?"

"A Jack in the box." That certainly got him a whack across the back of the head.

"Jeez, take it easy," he chuckled. "I wasn't the one who named that new drink after President Kennedy."

"What drink is that?" She asked.

"Three shots and you're dead," he laughed. She gave him another whack for that one, too.

Even my father got into the act when Ted Kennedy was running for re-election. My mother, who always voted for the democrat, wanted to know one good reason why my dad wasn't going to vote for Ted Kennedy.

"I suppose you're right," he conceded. "There are many similarities between him and his brother."

"Like what?" My mother asked.

"Well," he answered. "John Kennedy risked everything to save his fellow soldiers when his ship sank in the South Pacific. And Ted Kennedy risked everything to save himself when his secretary was drowning in his Oldsmobile." She wasn't amused.

Back in 1968, after Nixon had narrowly defeated Hubert Humphrey to win the presidential election, I asked Billy what he thought about our new president. He looked back at me and said, "Nixon and Spiro add up to zero."

And as for jokes about Hubert Humphrey, the best one I ever heard came from Senator Barry Goldwater while poking fun at Hubert Humphrey's public speaking traits. He said, "Hubert Humphrey talks so fast that listening to him is like trying to read Playboy Magazine with your wife turning the pages."

Local politics gets crazy. When the locals get down and dirty it's no holds barred. They'll even badmouth each other's families. Only once was I ever involved with politics when I lived in Everett. It happened when I was in the fifth grade at the Horace Mann school. My homeroom teacher was originally Miss Walsh, but she left halfway through the school year.

The rumor going around at the time was that she had a nervous break down, but I rather doubt there was any truth to that at all. The poor woman was elderly. I was willing to bet that she was just too old to continue teaching. From a kid's point of view, she looked like she was already starting to decompose as it was.

Her replacement was a much younger teacher whose name completely eludes me now. She was nice, but she really didn't have much use for me. Whether or not I actually did anything to influence her sentiments I honestly don't recall, but I wouldn't put it past me.

At any rate, in an attempt to breathe new life into a classroom that was lacking any enthusiasm whatsoever, she decided to hold elections for class officers. Halfway into the nominations, she looked at me and asked, "Don't you want to run for one of the class offices?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I make a better voter than I do a politician."

"Don't you want to contribute to the welfare of your class?" She asked.

"Yes, as a citizen, not as a politician."

"You're a very selfish person," she exclaimed. "I'll bet you come from a family of do nothings."

That did it. There was no reason on earth for this lady to go after my family. I wasn't all that stupid as a kid. Even at that young age I knew how schoolteachers got their jobs in the public school system. It had nothing whatsoever to do with credentials. If you didn't know somebody, or weren't related to somebody in the city of Everett, then you didn't get a full time teacher's position. That's just the way it is.

"And I'll bet you got your teaching job because you're related to somebody," I shot back.

She went ballistic. I must have a hit nerve. She then demanded that I partake in the class elections by running for office or face serious consequences. Now that's what I call an open democracy. Not wanting to get into any more trouble than I already was, I got my friend, Eddy, to nominate me for class treasurer.

Each of the four candidates had to get up in front of the class and give a campaign speech. Tommy really wanted that position. He gave an excellent presentation. Nicky was running for the fun of it. There was nothing wrong with his presentation. It just didn't have the polish that Tommy's did.

Linda was shy and said she didn't think she'd make a good class officer. Our teacher then announced that Linda, by admittance, had disqualified herself. She told Linda to sit down and withdraw from the election. It was now my turn to get up to speak.

Keep in mind that I did not want to run for this class office in the first place. There was no doubt in my mind that the only reason I was forced into it was so that the teacher could berate me after I lost the election. Knowing this before hand, I figured the only way to get back at my teacher was right here and now while I had the undivided attention of the entire class.

Standing before the class, I fixed my tie and cleared my throat. Then I said, "I'd like to thank Miss So and So (I still forget her name) for this rare opportunity to experience the democratic election process in our classroom. We will learn much from this experiment."

"For one thing," I continued, "in adult elections the common citizen is not threatened into running for political office. And the politician's families are not disrespectfully insulted to influence the outcome of the election. Those two major differences from this classroom experiment clearly demonstrates the distinction between a democratic society, and a communist one."

"I don't think anyone should vote for you," the teacher said angrily.

"Your opinion shouldn't matter if you can't vote," I replied.

"No responsible person would ever vote for a hooligan like you," she retorted.

"So why are you making me do this in the first place?"

"To teach you a lesson," she shouted. "I want you to see how foolish you look to your fellow classmates. You'll realize that when you don't get any votes. I'll have no respect whatsoever for anyone who votes for you."

She said it right there, didn't she? She just showed her true colors. What it comes right down to is that if you raised your hand to vote for me, she'd put you on her "undesirable" list. What kid was going to go out on a limb to vote for me now? Needless to say, I lost the election by a landslide.

Whether or not the rest of my fifth grade year got any worse than that I really don't recall. I never ran for an elected office again until I grew up and ran for the Vice Presidency of my union local, which I did win. I'll be honest with ya though. I wasn't so flippant with my mouth the second time around.

Political diplomacy goes a long way. That is just as true out on the sidewalk when you're a kid as it is in the adult world. Should you ever mouth off to another kid the way politicians do to each other, you'll wind up with more than just a sharp come back. You'll get a fat lip and black eye.

Kid diplomacy is an exact science in itself that you seldom hear anyone talk about. It's not only a requirement to survive life on the sidewalks of Everett, but you also needed to master the art to endure the rigors of school sometimes. Let me tell you what I mean.

A perfect example is whenever the teacher called upon you to answer a question when you were off in another world somewhere smack dab in the middle of a daydream. If you didn't want to stand there like a dummy listening to an irate teacher belittle you in front of the whole class for the next fifteen minutes, you had to come up with something fast.

That's when it really paid off to fully understand your teacher's frame of mind. My sixth grade teacher at the Horace Mann, Miss Blake, took great pride in her appearance. It showed. She was always well dressed. Her hair was combed to perfection. And she always sported the latest fashion in eyeglasses.

It was that kind of insight that pulled me out of a potentially undesirable situation one day. There I sat staring out the window dreaming about being stranded on a deserted island with Annette Funicello in the middle of the South Pacific somewhere when all of a sudden I heard, "Paul Huffman."

"What?"

"Are you paying attention?"

"Yes."

"Then explain to the class what influenced Queen Isabelle to finance Christopher Columbus' expeditions," she demanded.

Standing up, I faced the class with complete confidence and came up with, "Queen Isabelle knew that Christopher Columbus' expeditions could bring back great wealth. That was important because image is everything. It commands respect. More wealth would allow Queen Isabelle to continually wear stylish clothes to impress her subjects. It's much like the way we deeply admire and respect Miss Blake because she dresses so fashionably."

"Well, thank you, Paul," she replied, "but that wasn't quite the answer I was looking for. How about you, Ann Marie? What do you think influenced Queen Isabelle's decision?"

Even though I was wrong, the flattery got me off the hook. Rather than scold me for not knowing the answer, she thanked me for my input and posed the very same question to someone else. If that isn't diplomacy, I don't know what is.

My Everett high school English teacher, Jim Malloy, would never have fallen for something like that. The guy was just too quick. If you tried to pull something like that over on him he'd say, "Wrong answer. All you get for that is a great big goose egg. You just won a zero."

Kid diplomacy also works wonders when you're about to get your teeth knocked out. Like that time in the eighth grade when I was standing out in the middle of the Parlin school ground at recess badmouthing a ninth grader who was about twice my size. I had no idea this kid was standing right behind me when his name came up in a conversation.

Stupid me, I piped up and said, "Thank gawd he's too dim witted to know his ass from his elbow. That's why he rolls up his sleeve every time he goes to the bathroom." My tune sure changed when he spun me around and cocked back his fist.

"What are you mad at me for?" I asked before he could unload that devastating blow.

"I heard what you said about me," he shouted.

"We weren't talking about you."

"I heard your friend over there mention my name."

"Nah, we weren't talking about you. We were talking about another kid named Jimmy."

"Oh yeah, and I suppose he has the same last name as me, too?"

"We didn't mention anybody's last name."

"I'm not stupid, Huff. That kid said my whole name."

"Man, if I thought he was talking about you I'd have slapped him around myself. I didn't hear him say your last name. I just naturally assumed he meant that other kid."

Jimmy let go of my shirt. "If I ever find out you were talking about me I'll track you down and beat you to pulp. You got that?"

"No way, Man. I would never talk about you like that. I always thought you and me was tight."

"Okay then," he walked away.

When I was absolutely, positively, sure that kid was well out of hearing range, I turned back around to everybody else, smiled and said, "See what I mean? They've got his picture next to the word "simple" in the dictionary." The crowd roared.

Putting your foot in your mouth is something we pick up early on in life from watching politicians double speak their way out of a corner. There isn't one amongst us who hasn't done that a few times in our lives. It's human nature.

The truth is, it's not really an issue of whether or not you're guilty. What it boils down to is how skillful you are at talking your way out of it. When it comes down to copping a good alibi under the most despicable circumstances, you've gotta stand in awe of Ted Kennedy. That man is the greatest bullshit artist who ever lived.

Only once do I remember a time when I had to come up with a believable alibi on the fly after getting caught red handed doing something unquestionably wrong. When I was in third grade, Nicky and I were in the boy's room clowning around at the Horace Mann. You know how boys tend to get out of control for no reason at all sometimes - right?

Well anyway, in the course of our clowning around, I hopped up and stood on the edge of one of the small hand washbasins. When I did, it pulled away from the wall about a half of an inch. That's when I realized the thing was kind of loose. I stood on top of it shifting my weight back and forth to make it wiggle. It started to leak. That made us laugh even harder.

You'd think I'd be smart enough to get while the going was good. No way. The more it leaked the harder I wiggled it. At first, the water spread out across the floor at a snail's pace. Soon afterward, it started spraying a steady stream from out under the sink. That's when it finally dawned on me it was time to flee the scene of the crime.

Just as I crouched to take a flying leap across the room to clear the puddle, the whole thing snapped off and crashed to the floor. I landed on my keister in the middle of that huge puddle. When I looked up I saw Nicky doubled over from laughter, and Mister Dolan, our janitor, standing right there behind him with his hands on his hips. He was madder than hell.

"What have you done?" he shouted.

"Oh, Mister Dolan," I whimpered. "The sink started leaking so I thought I could fix it by standing up on top of it to force it back down tightly into the pipe."

"You could have broken your fool neck," he shouted. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm really sorry."

"The next time something like that happens you come and get me. That's my responsibility. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," I sniffled.

"Go on back to your classroom. I'll take care of this."

I never got in trouble for that. And do you know why? Because when it comes to talking your way out of a corner, nobody beats a good old-fashioned "dyed in the wool" New Englander. We've more than mastered the art of the savoir-faire. Why else would they have established the world's most renowned school of diplomacy right here in Boston?

Diplomacy is what it takes to survive in this cold cruel world we live in. We begin to hone those skills from the very moment we first set foot out on the sidewalks. One thing is true. Nothing is more difficult than trying to swindle an old swindler. And you certainly have to get up pretty early in the morning to even think about pulling one over on one of us because - "We're from Everett!"

On Second Thought

This article was modified from its original post. The reason I re-edited this post is because I wrote it after getting all riled up by a political commentary I read elsewhere. As a result, this posting became hotheaded and overly political.

It is difficult not to become politically motivated sometimes in view of all the turmoil going on in our world today. Even still, the "We're from Everett" experience should be a place to get away from all that. This is where we come to kick back and reminisce about the good old days without any controversy to spoil the fun.

Almost every article I write gets tainted with politics. After my first draft, I usually go back and cross out all of the politics so you rarely ever get to see that. Carol keeps telling me to keep all the material I discard in case I ever get up the urge to write a political blog someday.

It never fails that whenever I get political in my writing, I always regret it later. I spent the better half of Friday regretting having posted a politically motivated piece. There's nothing wrong with politically motivated inspiration. I, for one, honestly believe that if we don't soon get our act together, we'll be saluting a different flag and pledging our allegiance in another language in no time flat.

All things considered, I will post my political views on another blog that shall remain separate from the "We're from Everett" nostalgic web sites. That seems more appropriate and I won't have to suffer through these pangs of guilt.

Those of you who wish to sample my political views will have the option to click on over to that when the times comes. And those of you who choose otherwise won't have to get all riled up when all you wanted to do in the first place was to kick back and take a load off.

Does that sound fair enough? Okay then; let's get back to our regularly scheduled program.

The next time somebody tells you that something happened for no reason at all, you should naturally assume that person doesn't know all of the facts. Everything happens for a reason. If you take the time to sort it all out and analyze the equation, you'll uncover the mystery behind the phenomenon. It's as simple as that.

For example, there is a definite reason why everyone says; "They don't make anything the way they used to." The reason they say that is because it's true. And that is just as true today as it was when we were little kids growing up in Everett.

One instance of that that comes to mind is the time I was kneeling down on the kitchen floor in our little Arlington Street apartment, playing with a couple of miniature toy cars my mother had picked up for me while shopping at Kresge's.

You probably remember those miniature friction powered cars I'm talking about. They were about the size of a salt shaker. You pushed down onto them and kept rubbing their little wheels back and forth against the floor to build up momentum. As soon as you got those back wheels spinning like crazy, you'd let them go and they'd zoom all over the place until they crashed into table leg, flipped over onto their backs, and then spun like a top until they ran out of kinetic energy.

One of them cost ten cents and was definitely much heavier and the superior of the two. That thing sped across the floor with lightning speed. It spun so fast that whenever it crashed into a table leg it flipped up into the air, landed back down onto its wheels, and took off in the opposite direction. It kept zooming across the floor until it either got lodged under the fridge or just ran out of steam.

The other one, however, only cost a nickel. It weighed relatively nothing at all and it certainly didn't wind up as easily as the first one. The friction coil inside kept jamming and as soon as it banged into a table leg it just stopped dead in its tracks.

In an effort to propel that cheaper one beyond its apparent limitations, I pushed down onto it with all my might to give it one good super thrust. Its friction coil sprung and the back axle broke off. It literally fell into pieces in the palm of my hand. You can just imagine how disheartening that is to a little boy.

"I don't believe it," my mother exclaimed. "I just bought those. Let me have a look at them."

Sure enough, stamped on the bottom of the superior car was that age-old reassurance that it was in fact "Made in the USA." On the cheaper one that fell apart it said, "Made in Japan." "I might've known," she said.

As the cost of labor goes up, manufacturers look for ways to offset that cost so not to cut into their profit margin. No matter how far back in history you go, that basic rule drives the economy. It always did; it always will.

As time passed, more and more products became "Made in Japan." All of a sudden we were starting to say, "They don't make things the way they used to," far more often then not. When your TV went on the blink you used to run out and buy a new tube for 68 cents and "bingo bango" you were back in action in seconds flat. You can't do that anymore.

With every modern convenience comes a trade off. I guess that's where the old proverb "to get what you want -- you sometimes lose what you have" comes in. We don't have to wait a minute or two for the TV to warm up any more. Solid state circuitry took care of all that. By the same token, if your TV goes on the blink now you may as well throw it away. It costs as much to fix it as it does to buy a new one. And every television I've ever had repaired burned out within a month or two later anyway.

The next thing to disappear from view was all the soda counters in the neighborhood pharmacies and small variety stores. It seems like it happened in one fell swoop. People no longer popped into White Hill pharmacy for a bag of chips and a vanilla coke. Why was that? Because something new was happening here.

Back in the 1960's when I was teetering on the brink of becoming a hippie, the new buzzword around Everett was that the Big Burger on the Parkway had become a McDonald's. You could get a hamburger, a french fry, and a coke for only 45 cents. Can you imagine?

We headed on down to the new McDonald's in droves. We stood in awe of those giant golden arches. We gathered at the tables and gabbed for hours on end. It was like having a Vargis Diner and a Whitehill Pharmacy all rolled into one.

Nobody cared how long we loitered at the tables. We didn't have to sit and wait for service. You went in there, grabbed your food, and sat down in seconds flat.

Ah, but how good was the food? Back then McDonald's food was awesome. The burgers were real meat without cereal fillers and they were charcoal grilled, not microwaved. The buns were toasted. The fries were crispy. And they served real All-American Coca-Cola instead of those second-rate imitations like Pepsi, A&W, or Dr. Pepper.

You could tell this new phenomenon was catching on. It said so right up there on the sign. The sign read, "Over One Million Served." Now that's a lot of customers.

Back on the home front, the small corner variety stores were dropping like flies. Those soda fountains and snack bars they so haphazardly dispensed with had once served as vertical markets to woo customers. They no longer offered a casual atmosphere where the local yokels could hang out for a neighborly chat with one another. The only reason for taking a quick run down to the corner store now was when you ran out of milk at the supper table.

Vinnie's on the corner of High and Ferry closed shop only to reopen under new management several months later as an office machine repair shop. They gutted out Copin's on the opposite corner to turn it into a Laundromat. And Tommy Gear closed down his little variety store in Henry Gray's auctioneer apartment complex on Ferry Street to reopen one year later as the newly renovated Tee Gee's sub shop.

The final straw that broke the corner variety store's back was when larger corporations began franchising larger convenience stores. Because they collectively bought goods in huge volume they could under price the smaller independent corner variety stores. Not only that, but they also never ran out of anything. There were times I had to come back home from Vinnie's without the mayonnaise my mother sent me down there for because he ran out. That never happened at the larger convenience stores.

So what was it that we gave up to acquire the convenience of these fast food chains and larger convenience stores? We lost the informal community meeting grounds where neighbors stopped to chat with one another. There wasn't a McDonald's or a Seven-Eleven on every street corner. Cecil Johnson didn't bump into Mister McGlauphlin on a daily basis anymore. He had no way of finding out who moved into the Skane's house when they moved out.

Before very long, we didn't bump into our neighbors anymore like we used to. We began to lose track of each other. Nobody knew what was happening on their very own street. We became isolated. Not knowing each other, we stopped talking to each other. We stopped caring about each other. And most notably, we stopped helping each other out. Now that we stood divided, we became easy prey for the evil influences that lurked beneath the surface of our society.

Along with that sense of isolation, the division between the youth and its elders became wider. Our parents used to lean over the backyard fence and ask each other, "What the matter with these kids today?" They'd talk it out amongst themselves, come to some sensible conclusions, and in that way they kind of helped each other out in coping with the turbulent changes their kids were going through.

I know it sounds like I'm putting a lot of emphasis on a trivial matter. Obviously, soda fountains are not the major reason our society as a whole began to fall apart. They were, however, another brick in the wall. Keep taking bricks out of any wall and it will eventually collapse.

By the time the hippie generation came along, the gap between our youth and their elders had grown so wide that a social revolution of sorts had exploded. Unlike what they suffered through when their teenagers became beatniks and greasers, our parents really didn't have each other to help them cope with the turbulent sixties. They felt isolated.

Yes, they were turbulent times. There isn't one amongst us from that era who hasn't lost somebody close through either the Vietnam War or drug abuse. To say we were disillusioned is an understatement, but in all honesty, it goes much deeper than that.

We didn't fully realize it at the time, but the hippies were just as much manipulated by the media as any other age group. President Kennedy's assassination was a shock to our system that we still feel today. President Johnson won a landslide victory over Barry Goldwater because he promised never to send our boys to fight a war in Southeast Asia that didn't concern us.

When our loved ones started dropping like flies in a war our representatives promised would never happen, we turned our back on our elders and blamed them all. We raised our collective fist in a victorious salute when the Yippies rioted at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. We swore to it that we'd never wind up like our parents.

Capitalizing on that credibility gap, Timothy Leary convinced us to "Turn on, Tune in, and Drop out." Even the Beatles were smoking pot. By the time I graduated from Everett High, I knew three kids who had died from drugs. I look back on all that now and shake my head in disbelief.

Where did we go wrong?

When you really take the time to sort it all out, you'll realize that it really wasn't our fault. So whose fault is it? It's the media's fault.

Think about it.

When we were hippies, we scoffed at Elvis Presley because he was from the old school. That dude wasn't hip by our standards. Man, he was square. When it finally came out that after all those years Elvis stood up on stage with a guitar strapped over his shoulder, but didn't know how to play it, that confirmed it to us. As far as we were concerned, that dude became just another example of the ongoing credibility gap.

As we got older, graduated from school, got out into the working world, and started rubbing elbows with the older generations on a more leveled playing field, we realized how small the differences between us really were. People like Elvis Presley, and the Beatles, played a lesser influential role in our lives. It was the people we worked with who now made a bigger impact on our lives than did those idolized icons they flashed across the TV screen.

We came to realize that to turn out like our elders wouldn't be so bad after all. There were some changes we wanted to make and we did. Just like they did in their time. It's an ongoing social evolution.

That became so vividly apparent to me on the day that I sat down and had a good gab with Charlie Marenghi. At the time, he was in his early seventies and I was in my twenties. For years, he served as the director of the Parks Department for the city of Everett. He made me realize how much alike we actually were. It's funny because he used to laugh about all the times he got mad at me for wrapping the swings up at the Horace Mann playground when I was a little kid. I lost a close friend when Charlie passed away.

So you see, not everything our elders did was wrong. For example, it made all the sense in the world to me how they divided our public schools into three major categories. Those categories being elementary (kindergarten through sixth grade), junior high (grades seven through nine), and high school (tenth through twelfth grade).

I felt those divisions appropriate because they seemed more in tune with the natural phases of physical and psychological maturity I experience growing up. For me, it created more of a sense of accomplishment to progress through those distinct phases of public education. And they seemed to happen at the appropriate time in accordance to my maturity level.

The way they've broken up the grade levels today seems unbalanced. I've read about countless incidences that suggest that our younger children are sometimes exposed to inappropriate behavioral patterns of the older age groups. One incident that comes to mind is a news item I once read where elementary school aged children witnessed lewd behavior by older eighth graders on a school bus. That is completely unacceptable.

What was seriously wrong with our older school system was the way they separated the boys from the girls. It was okay that they divided us up into two different lines while filing through the corridors on our way to the washrooms. What wasn't okay was how they even kept us apart from one another out on the playground at recess during our elementary school years.

When we got into junior high school, neither one of us knew how to properly interact with one another when we all came together in the same playground at recess. We had acquired absolutely no experience with which to polish our social skills. Sure we caught on, but it took us awhile and the going was a bit awkward at first.

What brought all this on was when I recently read an article depicting the Baby Boomers as self-indulgent, spoiled-rotten crybabies. That's the way the media portrays us to the younger generations. Why do they do that? They're capitalizing on their power to influence the younger generations for no other reason than to capture the imagination of another round of brainwashed consumers.

The sad reality is that they've actually got our youth believing that the Baby Boomers are a bunch of self-indulgent, spoiled-rotten crybabies. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Every generation of Baby Boomers strongly influenced the shape of our society today. The kids from the fifties gave us Rock N Roll. They brought forth such influential legends as Elvis, Chuck Berry, and Fats Domino. The hippies built on that foundation and brought forth many legendary bands that are still dominating the music scene today, including Aerosmyth and the Rolling Stones. In our own way, every segment of the Baby Boomer generation did its part to break down racial barriers and discard many of the hypocrisies that tainted our society.

The spirit to fight for what you truly believe is an inbred trait amongst native Everettites. Is there one amongst you who has never witnessed that theory in action? Ask anybody from the surrounding communities who ever got into a scrap with a kid from Everett. I'll tell ya one thing. We didn't always win, but the other kid took such a beating in the process that he was never quite sure if he won or not. That's what it means to grow up in Everett.

The only reason the media tries to discredit the Baby Boomers is because, collectively, we overwhelmingly outnumber every other voting segment in these United States. For if our spirit of protest ever regained momentum, those in control would face serious consequences. The Baby Boomers have the power to topple these sacred cows. The future of these United States is in our hands.

What it really boils down to is that as we mature, the difference between our age groups diminishes. You'll know you've finally grown up once you realize that every generation goes through much of the same changes. We all rebelled against our parents. They got their revenge when our kids rebelled against us. Just as we'll get our revenge when our grandchildren rise up and rebel against our children.

In the end, we all mature, and come back together again with a deeper understanding, and a mutual respect for one another. Beneath it all is a thread that runs so true through our veins that binds us all together. And that is that - "We're from Everett!"

Top Priority

Must we always look at the world through the eyes of a child to see the wonder in the most simple of things? I question that sometimes. When we were little kids, it seemed like just about everything looked larger than life. Maybe that's because our minds are so blank when we first get here that we need to take it all in before we can properly relate to the outside world. But then again, maybe it was just me.

You know what was such a big deal to me? As soon as it got dark, I used to drag a chair across the floor so I could climb up and stand in the kitchen sink to look out the window. If you looked out our kitchen window at night, you could see the flame on the torch over near the fuel tanks on the other side of Everett. That was one great big thrill and a half for me.

Another thing that strikes me as interesting is how the candy counter at the store no longer makes much of an impression on me. One reason is because Cracker Barrel is the only store today with a candy counter that looks anything at all like the kind we grew up with. Another reason is because I now have to look down at the candy counter. When I was little, it was at eye level. That does make a difference.

Remember how big that candy counter used to look? Man, there were so many choices right there at the Summer Street Market alone that I'd stand there mesmerized for hours at a time by it all. They had bubble gum, Mint Juleps, Bit O' Honey, licorice, malted milk balls, and Bonomo Turkish taffy just to name a few. How many of you still remember that TV commercial that went, "Oh, oh, oh, it's Bonomo?"

I don't know how many times I've said, "If I had a million bucks the first thing I'd do is run down to Vinnie's on the corner of High Street and buy all the candy in the candy counter." Candy doesn't even enter into the picture any more. I'm more interested in Tums than I am candy now.

It is upon such memories that I can confidently conclude that the world truly is a magical place for a little kid. Laugh if you want to, but that's exactly how I felt about the City of Everett. Growing up in Everett was like living in paradise to me. Can you imagine?

It's funny, but I'll never forget the day when my oldest son looked up at me and asked, "Hey Dad, what year were you born?" He was only about 12 years old at the time. You should have seen his eyes pop out when I said, "1952." Good Lord, now that I think of it, that happened more than 20 years ago. Hold on a minute, I gotta go take a nap.

So anyway, after telling him what year I was born, he actually had the audacity to ask, "Wow, did they have cars back then?" What was this kid thinking? I can only imagine the picture in his mind's eye. He was probably visualizing some knuckle dragging Neanderthal yanking his woman around by the hair in a cave somewhere.

That also reminds me of the time we took a drive down Arlington Street so I could show him the house I grew up in. He took one look at that apartment house and asked, "Where was your swimming pool?"

Is he serious? Man, you talk about spoiled? My swimming pool was a porcelain tub on four legs filled with cold water. That's how we dealt with the hot August heat when those window fans couldn't do the trick.

In so much as he was completely out of tune with my era, so was I with my mother's. I can distinctly remember asking my mother what year she was born. And I do remember the shock wave when she said, "1926."

"1926? Did they have cars back then?"

Her family had one, yes, because they were wealthy. Most people didn't back in 1926. The irony here is that her father owned a car back in the 1930's, but her husband didn't in the early 1950's. My mother is the perfect riches to rags story if there ever was one.

So whenever I asked her if they had cars back in her day, she'd smirk at me and say "Of course we had cars back then. Don't talk so gawd dam foolish." I can still hear her sarcastic voice mimicking me in the background so clearly that you'd swear she was standing right here behind me. In reality, she's back home in Everett.

Did you catch that? Did you hear what I just said? I said, "She's back "HOME" in Everett."

That's exactly what I'm talking about. When I first I arrived on this planet, I was smack dab in the middle of the City of Everett. I'm one of Doctor Corkery's original Whidden Hospital deliveries. And that's precisely why my childhood experiences while growing up in Everett seem larger than life to me. No matter how old I get, or where I live, Everett is the only place I will ever call, "home."

It is so true that "a house is not a home." For I can confidently say that I will never feel at home in a place where everything works perfectly and nothing is out of place. And that's primarily because I'm from Everett.

To me, growing up in Everett means you've got get up off the couch every once in a while to give the TV a good whack with the cuff of your hand to knock those jagged lines out of the picture. Either that or you've got to wedge a folded matchbook cover in under the horizontal hold to keep the picture from jumping up and down.

Do you remember that? Nothing drives you up a wall faster than watching Hugh Downs on the "Today" show with his neck and tie at the top half of the screen and his entire head at the bottom. Trying to frame that picture squarely within the TV screen took hours of blood, sweat, and tears sometimes.

Turning the horizontal hold just a fraction of an inch to the left made the picture continually roll upward at somewhere around 24 frames per second. Slightly turning it the other way only achieved an equal and opposite effect. When you did finally stabilize that frame, it teetered on the brink.

Just when you finally got to a point when you could sit back down in your chair, that darn thing would creep up just enough to piss you off. That's when you stamped your foot flat down onto the floor and yelled, "Gawd dammit!" That actually did the trick sometimes.

Now you know why we preferred to go outside and play "off-the-wall" with a pimple ball. It took less effort to run next door and yell, "Hi yo, Stanley. Coming out?" Than it did to stand there fighting with a pair of rabbit ears just to watch Dorothy Kilgallen on "What's My Line." Believe it or not, watching TV used to be a great big pain in the ass.

None of my kids ever had to experience that. My first child was born in 1975. He's thirty-two years old and he's never owned a television with a horizontal knob. He's never had to thaw out an icebox with a pot of hot water. And he's never owned a record player.

Even still, no matter when you were born, there was once a time in every one of our lives when even the littlest of things looked larger than life. I'm talking about small insignificant things that we so often take for granted. We sometimes lose perspective, even as adults, and put more emphasis on things that really shouldn't matter at all. For an example, let me tell you the story about my mother's living room table lamps.

As you certainly know by now, my family was one of very modest means. There wasn't very much in our house to show off about. Almost everything we owned was a "hand-me-down." We always had the oldest car on the block. And yet, there is one thing I feel compelled to tell you. Whenever we went anywhere as a family, we were neatly dressed and well behaved. It wasn't by choice either, believe you me.

We knew whenever my mother expected us to be on our best behavior, and we knew better than to betray that trust. My mother had a backhand that stung like a bee. She would never whack you around in public, but she had this look in her eye that said, "You're in deep "you-know-what" when I get you home." And man, were you ever.

I distinctly remember this one Sunday afternoon when my mother was completely out of sorts about something. She just wasn't herself. We were sitting around the kitchen table having a quiet dinner when my dad piped up and asked," Okay Grace, what is it? What's bothering you?"

"Nothing really," she replied while looking down into her dinner plate like a little girl holding back tears.

"We've been together long enough for me to know when something's wrong," he said. "If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

With eyes edged in tears she looked back at him and said, "Reverend Staples is coming for dinner next Sunday and our house looks so plain and simple. We don't have any nice things to make the place look presentable. I feel like a failure."

"What kind of things?"

"Just the kind of things most people have to make their house look like a home," she answered. "We don't have any lamps on our end tables in the living room. All we've got is that bare light bulb with an ugly pull chain dangling down from the ceiling. And I don't even have a simple shelf on the wall to display any of my knick-knacks. This place looks so drab."

"Well, let's go take a ride down to the stores after dinner and see if we can't dress the place up a little bit," he said.

"Can we afford it?" She asked with a spark of hope in her eyes.

"Every once in a while you've got to do something extra for yourself even if it means going out on a limb. You work hard. You deserve it. Let's do it."

Her whole outlook changed. She was smiling again. That's all it took.

Now, I know I've told you many times before how much I hated to go shopping as a kid. Even now, I get bored out of my wits whenever Carol drags me along on one of her shopping sprees. So I really haven't changed all that much in fifty years. I'm the guy you see half-asleep on the bench in the middle of the mall all the time.

This time was different. My mother was so enthusiastic about going out shopping that she was even getting me all worked up about it. That's when I realized how important it is for a guy to pay attention to his other half's wants and needs. My dad was a regular guy. He couldn't care less about lamps, and doilies, and curtains, but during that ride up to Sears on Route One, he listened attentively to her every word. And she said plenty.

It's almost as if a whole new outlook on life had come over her. She carried on about things that she'd been holding in for quite some time. It made her feel so good that I remember her casting a fleeting smile at the little Stop & Shop in Glendale Square as we drove by. "Some day I'd like to get one of those food processors," she said. "You know, the kind that slices and dices everything up at the push of a button."

"One of these days we'll get all of those things," my dad promised her.

We never did make it all the way over to the lamps and curtains. On our way through the furniture department she saw a shadow box that absolutely tugged at her heartstrings. Let me tell ya about this thing.

It looked somewhat like a recessed box full of shelves with an elaborate frame around it. Mounted on the back was a mirror. All you do with these things is hang em on the wall to display your knick-knacks. She went gaga over this thing. Her heart dropped when she looked at the price tag. They were asking over a hundreds bucks for this one. She just stood there with stars in her eyes and said, "One of these days."

My dad called the salesman over. "That's an outrageous mark up for a shadow box," he said. "What kind of deal can you give me on that?"

"I'll see what I can do," the salesman said.

"There's no way we can afford something like that," my mother whispered after the salesman got out of earshot.

"Let's just see what he can do."

Don't ask me why, but I will never forget this seemingly insignificant day. Seeing the excitement on my mother's face was what got me all wound up over such a trivial thing. It's like when you watch your best friend open a birthday gift to discover the very thing he's always wanted. You care so much for the person that their happiness makes you happy. You know what I mean?

So anyway, that salesman came back and said, "The best we can do is to come down to Eighty-nine Ninety-nine." You could see the disappointment all over my mother's face. That is until my father said, "I'll take it." My mother's jaw dropped open.

"But Bill," she cried, "We can't." He held up his hand to stop her before she said another word.

"I can and I am," he said. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, I watched him peel off nine ten-dollar bills and hand them over to the salesman without so much as batting an eyelash. "See to it you wrap it securely. We're taking it home in the trunk of our car."

The very next image that comes to mind is that of one very happy woman standing in the middle of our living room down there on Arlington Street gazing up at that shadow box. It's almost as if it had m