In The Dark

Okay, so I come from a funny family. You don't get to pick your family, or so I'm told. So how does that saying go? "You can pick your friends. And you can pick your nose. But you can't pick your friend's nose." That's just another one of the many psuedo-confuscious philosophies I learned while growing up in Everett.

As a matter fact, it was my big sister, Julie, who taught me that. Now don't get the wrong idea. She did, in fact, teach me many good things when I was a little kid.

She taught me all the latest dances of her generation, like the twist, the mash potato, the monkey, and the shout. Her and Martha taught me how to pull taffy. Man, we had that stuff from one end of the kitchen to the other. And before I ever set foot in kindergarten, she taught how to spell my very first word. It was "h-o-t" spells "hot."

My sister and I were inseparable. That is until she started growing up and getting all mature on me. The change was somewhat gradual at first. It all started when she graduated from the Horace Mann Elementary school and headed off to the Parlin Junior High. By the time she graduated from the Parlin and headed on up to Everett High, the change was as extreme as Jeckell and Hyde.

That's when I realized that a girl matures at twice the speed of a boy. They begin to keenly focus on things that guys don't even think about. It reminds me of that cold and dark November afternoon when a bunch of us were heading up to the front lawns of the Parlin for a game of tag rush. Julie was walking home from school with a group of her friends on the opposite sidewalk. So she yells over, "Hey Paul, come here for a minute."

The girls she was walking with were really cute, so yeah, I walked over there. I'm thinking, "Hey, maybe I could turn on the old Huffman charm and impress one of them." My big brother does it all the time. We come from the same stock so maybe they'll fall for my act, too. You never know.

So anyway, one her friends pointed at my feet and laughed, "See, I told you."

Julie was mortified. "I don't believe you," she snapped at me in utter disgust.

"What did I do?" I mean, honestly. Before all of this I was just on my way up the street with my friends to play tag rush. I didn't do anything.

"Do you know how stupid you look?" Now she's rolling her eyes.

"Why do I look stupid?"

"Look at your feet," she said like a scolding mother hen.

So I did. I pulled up my pant legs and looked at my feet. For the life of me, I could not figure out what all the commotion was about. The only thing I was sure of is that this was not going to be my day to make a big impression.

"What's wrong with my feet?"

"Are you serious?"

"Why don't you just tell me what this is all about." Now I was getting mad.

"You mean to tell me that you don't realize that you're wearing one sneaker and one shoe?"

"Oh that?" Yeah, I know that. So what?"

"Why would you even think of leaving the house like that?"

"Because I can kick the football further with a shoe on. That's why, you dummy."

"Then why don't you just wear two shoes?"

"Because shoes have poor traction on the grass. They slip from under you when you're trying to turn a tight corner to get out of the backfield. Don't you know anything?"

"Never mind, Julie," her friend Linda said. "Let him make a jerk of himself. He's too stupid to know any better."

That really pissed me off. That, plus the fact that it was really none of her business anyway. Now was it? Besides that, I got pride you know. I don't appreciate being called stupid in front of all my friends like that.

You do know what happens when that fire wells up inside of you, don't you? That's when you boil over and shout something back that's guaranteed to get your mouth washed out with soap. It happens every time, to me anyway.

So I looked back at her and yelled, "You know something, Linda? You talk about making a jerk out of yourself? Well, yesterday you were as flat as a pancake, but today you look like Gina Lollobrigida. And you don't think anybody knows what happened to yesterday's newspaper? Give me a break."

My friends were slapping their knees with guffaws of laughter. So naturally, when you're on a roll, why stop? Right?

"The only guy you're gonna snag is a somebody who's missing the sports page from his Record American." And of course, with my friends egging me on, I got worse.

"Just keep a magnifying glass handy so your date's got something to look at after he finishes reading the newspaper," I shouted.

Guess how she reacted to that witty barrage of comebacks? She took off running down Arlington Street with tears in her eyes. And even though my friends were patting me on the back saying, "You got her good this time," I felt like the biggest louse on the planet.

"Just wait until I tell Ma what you said," Julie glared at me.

This was not one of better days. Nothing sucks more than being saddled with a conscious. Besides that, my mother's gonna kill me. You know that, don't ya? She's not gonna wait to hear my side of the story. By the time I get home, Julie's gonna have her side of the story down pat. I don't stand a chance.

That was one long afternoon, let me tell ya. I didn't really feel like playing tag rush after that. Knowing my mother was gonna tear me in half was bad enough. But I'll be honest with ya. Nothing feels worse than wanting to say you're sorry to somebody for something you did on purpose. That's the pits.

As the afternoon wore on and the dark of night started closing in, Jacky wanted to call it quits because we were losing by a blowout. The last thing I wanted was for this game to end. I didn't care if we were losing by a million points. It became a moral imperative to convince everybody else to keep this game alive. It was either that or go home to face the music.

"What's the use," Jacky said. "We're losing twenty-four to six. Why drag it out?"

"Yeah, but we're having fun, right?"

"Getting blown away in a game of tag rush is not my idea of a good time, kid. I'm outta here."

The gang broke up and went their separate ways. So there I stood in the middle of the front lawns of the Parlin all by myself watching the streetlights flicker. I figured I'd capture the image in my mind's eye just in case this was my last day on planet Earth.

Man, I never walked so slow before in all my life. It took me about five and a half minutes to walk around to the rear lot behind the Parlin. I turned Dern Street into a ten minute walk. Crossing Prospect Street tacked on another five. Walking across the Horace Mann school ground was good for another ten minutes right there. Add another three to cross Foster Street. And I tell you something else. I was never so glad to live at the bottom of the hill on Arlington Street as I was right now.

You could stretch Arlington Street into an eternity if you really wanted to. I stopped in front of Ronnie's house to tie that kicking shoe on my right foot. Then I paused in front of Pat's house just a few doors down to tie my sneaker. By the time I reached Martha's house, I just there looking across the street at my house trying to come up with an alibi just in case my mother let me get a word in edgewise, which I rather doubt is ever going to happen.

Time is a funny concept. You can stretch it beyond your wildest imagination when you want to. It's just that when you really want to, that's exactly when it flies by like the blink of an eye. You know what I mean?

Now that it's really dark and the streetlights are on, I'm gonna catch hell on two fronts. First, my mother's gonna tear into me for getting home late for supper. And then she's gonna rip me a new "You-know-what" over the Linda thing. I can't win for losing.

Those front hallway steps creaked with such an eerie echo that night that it felt like I was stepping up onto a guillotine platform. The closer I got to the second landing, the more I could hear that distinct murmur of voices inside. What took me by surprise is that I could hear them laughing about something. They sounded happy.

This does not sound like the kind of environment I had envisioned. I did not expect to hear people laughing. What I expected to hear were dishes clanging and my mother shouting, "That boy's in for a rude awakening when he gets home." Instead, I heard my mother tell Julie," Take a look outside and see if you can find Paul."

Julie swung open the front door and startled back a bit when she saw me standing there. "Where've you been?" She didn't say it as if she was mad at me or anything. She kind of said it in a more nonchalant fashion.

"Is Ma mad at me?" I had to ask.

"No, she was just worried about you cuz it's getting dark out."

"What are we having for supper?"

"Dad brought home subs from Angelina's."

Now I've gotta tell ya something right here. Back in our day you didn't just go out to eat or bring home subs as if it was a common every day occurrence. Having subs for supper happens like once or twice in your lifetime. I forgot all about my worries and dashed up those stairs as fast as my one shoe and sneaker could carry me.

"What kind of sub did I get?" I asked peeling off my jacket and throwing it across the back of the kitchen chair.

"You don't get anything until you hang that jacket up where it belongs," my mother scoffed.

What I did I get?" I asked again as I darted towards the back hall to hang my jacket up on my favorite coat hook. Yeah, believe it or not, I had a favorite coat hook out there in the back hall. Don't ask me why. Being creatures of habit, we tend to settle into some of the most silly routines sometimes.

"You got what you always get," my mother answered.

You wanna see me lose it all together? Just put one of Angelina's Italian Subs all wrapped up in that white waxy paper on my plate. I'll get so worked up I'll have to go take a cold shower. Man o' man, that to me is like stepping through the gates of Heaven. I just drooled on my keyboard thinking about it.

So there I sat at the kitchen table tearing into that mouth watering sub while everyone one else sat around the TV in the living room watching Perry Mason win his four millionth case. That's when Julie came out into the kitchen to throw her trash away. She took one look at me and laughed, "For crying out loud, Paul, slow down. Nobody's gonna take it from ya."

Opportunity doesn't always knock twice so I looked back at her and said, "I'm really sorry about insulting Linda today. She hurt my feelings so I got angry."

"Linda got what she deserved," she said. "She's always so critical of everybody else. She thinks she's perfect. It's about time somebody cut her down to size. She shouldn't dish it out if she can't take it. You must have hit a nerve. The truth hurts sometimes."

And to think that all this time I was scared come home. Who would have thought - right? So as much as my sister seems to be going through all those changes that teenage girls go through, what it still comes right down to is that "Blood is thicker than water." Apparently, Julie wasn't too keen on the way Linda came down on her little brother. She did also add, "Do me a favor and give up on the shoe and sneaker thing, okay?" Hey, she's got a deal.

Now, the reason that story came to mind is because of something else that happened during the month of November. This happened about two years later in 1965. This one also involves my big sister. In November of 1965, Julie was a senior at Everett High, and I was in my first year of the eighth grade at the Parlin. Okay, so I stayed back a grade. It happens to the best of us.

I'll tell you one thing though. Staying back did me a world of good. I was a terrible student up until then. From my second year in the eighth grade on, I did quite well in school. But that's another story for another time, okay?

Having a teenage girl in the house makes for some seriously funny situations. Let's face it. If you've got a teenage girl in your house and you've only got one bathroom, you may as well kiss all of your bathroom privileges goodbye. You're never gonna see the other side of that bathroom door again until she grows up and gets married. When it comes to conquering territory, not even Attila the Hun can compete with a teenage girl when it comes to the bathroom.

We didn't have a shower in the bathroom down there on Arlington Street. All we had was one of those white porcelain tubs on legs. So you sat in your own dirty water and washed. The sooner you got out of that thing, the better. You know what I mean?

What we did have was one of those hand-held shower thingies you plugged onto the faucet so you could rinse the soap off before you got out. When the water was really hot you could lean back and relax every muscle in your body in totally ecstasy. It didn't take all that long for the water to get cold so you were lucky if you could stretch a good hot bath into twenty minutes tops.

Not so for my sister, she took three-hour baths. I kid you not. First she took a quick traditional bath. Then, she added all kinds of bubbles, and oils, and fragrances, to a new bathtub full of hot water and soaked in that until doomsday. After that, she washed her hair. During that whole ordeal I'd be standing outside the door hopping from one leg to the other yelling, "I gotta pee my brains out!"

"Well, you'll just have to wait your turn."

Wait my turn, nothin. Thank God for that big forsythia bush in our backyard. That's all I gotta say.

So now that we've established how my sister completely took over the bathroom, let me tell you a little more about what was going on in there. After her three-hour bath, she'd spread out this arsenal of beauty supplies across the bathroom vanity that would rival the munitions dump for the 101st Airborne. You'd have to see this for yourself to believe it.

She had this hair drying apparatus that looked like a canister vacuum cleaner. It had a plastic shower cap type of thing that fit down over her head and attached to a hose that connected to the canister. She had a whole set of miniature electric drills for buffing and polishing her fingernails and toenails. She also had a portable light-up mirror for painting her face. You'd think she was restoring an old Model T with the amount of tools she lugged into that bathroom.

Now if that don't beat all, she called the phone company and had them install a fifty-foot extension cord so she could talk on the telephone the whole time she was in there. She may as well have moved her bed in there, too, because she hardly ever came out.

Keep in mind that we're talking back in the days before ground fault interrupters or circuit breakers. It didn't take much to blow a fuse back then. My sister had knuckles of adapters daisy chained to other adapters all clustered up onto one extension chord. So if you so much as popped one piece of toast in the toaster "whammo" the lights went out.

Hardly a day went by when our whole house didn't erupt into this big uproar with everyone scurrying around for a flashlight and candles so we could get down into the cellar to change the fuse. You'd think we'd wise up and organize a crisis system here - right? But no, even though she was blowing a fuse almost every day like clockwork, we preferred to rely on the old scatter and confusion axiom as is the custom in the Huffman household.

My dad was constantly getting after her for plugging so many things into one extension cord, but would she listen? No! Let's face it. How many teenage girls listen to their father anyway?

Okay, so now that I've set the stage for the next act, let me tell ya what happened. You see, I was falling a bit behind in my math class, so Mr. Wallatta, my math teacher up at the Parlin, was kind enough to give me some extra work to help me bring my grades up. After supper that night, I sat out at the kitchen table plugging away at that work. I was so involved in it that it didn't even bother me that my sister was making all that racket in the bathroom, hammering, and sawing, and sanding, and drilling, or whatever the heck she does in there to make herself beautiful.

All of a sudden, "WHAMMO" the lights go out. "Hey, I got school work to get done here," I shouted. "For crying out loud, Julie, take it easy on the electricity."

My dad was stretched out on the couch singing along with Mitch Miller at the time. "I don't believe it," he said jumping up off the couch. "We've gotta make other arrangements. This has gone too far. Where's the flashlight?"

Here we go again for the umpteenth time this week scurrying around the house looking for a flashlight. It's not as if that's gonna do us any good anyway because the batteries are usually burned out. So after banging the flashlight against the palm of his hand three or four times, my father yells out, "Everybody help me find some matches. What a crowd, I'm telling ya. I'm gonna put my foot down around here one of these days."

This was the darkest I've ever seen our house get. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Everyone was literally feeling their way around. I just played it safe and sat at the kitchen table while everybody else scurried around in the dark. Who's gonna know, right?

About a half-hour later my dad comes up out of the cellar and says, "You really did it this time, Julie. I can't get the fuse box to work." Doesn't it just figure? On the one night I get assigned extra work to help me bring my grades up, my sister trashes the electricity. That's just my luck.

All of a sudden, my brother Billy yells out, "Hey Dad, all the streetlights outside are burned out."

"Wwwwhat?" My dad raced over to look out the front window. "Good God, Julie, what have you done?" Now we're all hanging out the window. Sure enough, every single streetlight on Arlington Street was burned out.

We ran down onto the sidewalk to check this out. Not only were the streetlights out, but so were the traffic lights down on Ferry Street. And so were everybody else's lights. The whole City of Everett was blacked out.

"Oh man, Julie, you knocked out the whole City of Everett," we all started teasing her. Truth is, we actually thought she caused all this. Mister McGlaughlin came down from upstairs carrying his flashlight and said, "I just heard on the radio that the whole Northeastern United States is blacked out." I looked back at my sister and said, "Man, they're gonna lock you up and throw away the key."

People were driving up and down the streets in their cars, mainly because they didn't have any heat in the house. We were lucky. Just a few years earlier they converted our apartment house over from coal to gas fired space heaters in our living rooms. You could light the pilot manually to get them running, so we had heat.

Before long, all the neighbors came out and gathered on the sidewalk in front of our house. Mister Bowser from next door was afraid that maybe the Russians launched a rocket at us from Cuba. One of the other neighbors thought that maybe another one of those Roswell spaceships crashed landed onto the Edison power plant. Cecil Johnson laughed it all off saying, "They're probably gonna find out that some guy fell asleep on the job somewhere and planked his fat ass down on the off switch."

Regardless of what was behind all of this, it was great to get out with all the neighbors in total darkness under the light of the stars. I don't think Stanley and me were ever out running around on the sidewalk this late before. I was hoping this night would never end.

Sometime just before midnight, all the lights came back on. Man, what a disappointment. I hate how good times come and go so quickly, don't you?

Julie was relieved to find out that it wasn't all her fault after all. And I was certain that Mr. Wallatta would let me off the hook for not getting that extra work done. I mean honestly, how could I do my work in the dark, right?

Well, guess what? He refused to give me a break. He said I should have done that work earlier in the afternoon so it was my own fault for not getting it done. Needless to say, I flunked math that year along with English, History, Geography, and Literature. And that's why I spent another year in the eighth grade.

My second year in the eighth grade was a blast and a half anyway. I had Anthony Sarno for homeroom. That guy was one in a million. Besides that, I had a great bunch of classmates that year. Most of them wound up graduating from Everett High with me.

That's another thing I liked about growing up in Everett. You went through all of your formative years with the same group of kids. For the most part, it kind of builds a strong sense of comradery between you.

So there you have it. That's my version of the great Northeast Blackout of 1965. You just spent another day in the life of that screwball family down on Arlington Street. Yeah, we were kind of funny all right. How could we not be? After all, "We're from Everett!"

Another Everett Thanksgiving

"So what does it look like I'm doing?" That's the answer you'd expect from an Everett kid. You don't just walk up to an Everett kid and ask him what he's doing. I mean, you could, just don't expect a courteous answer. That's all I'm saying.

No, it's not because we're rude. It's because we're cynics beyond compare. Now don't get me wrong. Not all Everett kids are alike. There are those who walk amongst us who are perhaps a bit more cultured than the status quo. They just didn't come from my neck of the woods. And if they did they certainly didn't hang around with my crowd.

Giving sarcastic answers to common questions is the forte in Everett. For example, let's say you're standing out on the sidewalk discussing whether to play tag rush or stick ball. Somebody in the crowd pipes up and says, "We don't feel like playing tag rush today."

So naturally you ask, "Who's we?"

You know the typical answer to that one, don't cha? Come on, you gotta know that one if you grew up in Everett. There's only one answer to the question "Who's we?" The answer is... "Me and the mouse in my pocket."

Ask somebody where they're going and they'll say, "Crazy, wanna come?" Ask them the time and they'll tell ya, "Same time as it was yesterday, only a day later." Ask them where something is and they'll tell ya, "If it was up your..." well, you get the idea.

And while I'm on the subject about things that Everett kids say, ever notice how when an Everett kid tells you about something that someone else said, he never uses the word "says." He'll always say, "Then he goes." Here's an example of what I mean.

"My mother goes, "Don't throw your socks undah tha couch." So I goes, "Where'm I supposed ta put em?" And she goes, "Put em in tha hampah where they balong."

See what I mean?

So now that I'm back from going off on that little tangent, let me get back to the original point I'm trying to make here, okay?

I've often wondered what got all this started. When did the kids in Everett officially start with the sarcastic comebacks? And why did they start in the first place?

I've got a theory about all that. You wanna hear it or don't cha? Well, all right then, shuddup and lemme talk.

Growing up in a crowded city like Everett means there's always somebody somewhere that can see what you're doing no matter where you are. So as soon as you start to do anything at all out of the ordinary, some old lady with a head full of curlers throws up her window and hangs out yelling, "Hey, what are you kids doing over there?"

Did you ever have one of those in your neighborhood? You know the type. As soon as you start playing a game of stick ball, this old hag hangs out the window and yells, "You're gonna be sorry if you knock down one of those telephone wires." Like that's ever happened - right?

Just about every neighborhood in Everett had one of these. What gets me is that they all follow the same modus operandi. They only hang out the window when they're in their flowered housecoat with a net full of curlers pulled down over their ears. They're always bullshit about something, and if you ain't doing anything, then they'll just conjure something up out of thin air.

Like the time ours yelled out, "If you don't stop that whistling over there I'm gonna call the cops." I'm telling you a true story here. Stanley came flying out of his yard on his bike and headed off down towards Ferry Street. He didn't even see me standing over there in front of the Storm Shield building so I whistled to him. Now this old biddy is threatening a third grader with possible incarceration for whistling.

I can see it now. All the hard liners down at the Charles Street Jail will certainly step aside when this bad ass comes walking down the isle. "Watch out for that guy," they'll be whispering to each other. "He's the guy who whistled on Arlington Street."

After about a dozen run-ins with that old witch we decided to turn the whole thing into a game of sorts. As soon as we caught her peeking out the window, we'd grab something, like a fat roll of old newspapers, and stuff them up under our shirts. Then we'd run and hide them under the bushes. As soon as she hung out the window yelling "What are you kids up to over there?" We'd all run away.

We'd wait about ten minutes or so and then do it all over again. Don't think it wasn't driving her up a wall, because it was. How do I know that? Well, when the streetlights came on we all had to go in for the night. As soon as I stepped inside my mother asked, "What are you hiding in the bushes across the street?" When I asked how she knew about that she'd say, "Old Mrs. Coolin called me twice about you kids doing something weird across the street."

Old Mrs. Coolin's problem was that she was lonely. She didn't have a life. Getting involved with what was going on in the neighborhood was the only way she ever got any social interaction. Hey, people need that, you know. Nobody can stay completely alone without going completely out of their mind. People need people.

On the other hand, it becomes somewhat of a nuisance to the rest of us. It gets to the point where you start snapping back sarcastic answers to that old buttinski's questions. I completely lost it the time she yelled over at Jacky saying, "Hey, what are you doing over there?" And he yelled back, "I'm trying to pee through a straw."

Hey, sometimes you get what you deserve when you poke your nose into other people's business. You know I mean? Even still, we can't help but wanting to know what's going on in other people's private affairs - right? Let's face it. Everettites are a nosey lot by nature. Are we not?

Come on--admit it. Who amongst us didn't peek out through the venetian blinds every time we heard so much as peep going on outside? Any time you stepped up onto somebody's front porch and wrapped on the door you'd see the venetian blinds part on just about every other second story window in the neighborhood. Am I right?

Let me ask you something else. When you drive down one of those ritzy neighborhood streets where everybody has those big fancy-schmancy cathedral windows without any shades on them, do you try to catch a quick glimpse inside to look at all their stuff? Now honestly, if you said no to that one then you're either lying through your teeth or you didn't grow up in Everett.

We not only love knowing what's going on in the outside world, we're suckers for any inside scoop about what's going on in other people's lives. Everybody bad mouths gossip but let's be honest here. We gobble it up like starving savages - don't we? Hey, if that wasn't so then none of those Hollywood gossip columnist would have a job. Am I right or not?

And another thing, who even cares about Britney Spears? I want to know the story behind the illicit love affair going on between that married lady down on Swan Street and that guy with one leg up on Linden Street. Those are the kinds of things I want to know about. I want to hear all of the dirt going on in my neighbor's lives. Don't you?

And I'll be honest with ya. I'd be tickled pink if I ever get the low down on you. Of course, you'd never know it. Well, now that I think of it, you'd find out eventually, now wouldn't ya? Hey, the way we gossip, anything with any real juicy rumor value spreads like wildfire across the city of Everett in nanoseconds. It always did.

Those are precisely the kind of thoughts that are working their way through my frontal lobe as I sit here going over the last minute details for the new E.H.S graduating class of 1971 web site. I'm looking at photographs of people I once spent just about every day of my entire life with. Many of these people were just passing acquaintances. I knew them by sight, not by name.

A lot of these people I came in closer contact with. We interacted with each other in one way or another if only for a brief moment. And you know my memory. I remember every single episode that ever happened in my life. So within these very many pages full of photographs, I'm also looking at a handful of people here that I once knew like the back of my hand.

All in all, going over these pictures again is like opening a floodgate of memories for me. I could tell you stories that on one end of the spectrum, would touch your heart in monumental ways, and on the other end, will split your sides wide open with laughter. See what I mean? Growing up in Everett was more than just an adolescent experience. It was magic.

So, if you're into quenching that thirst for digging up some dirt on your neighbors growing up in Everett, then pull up a chair and put the kettle on. Because when it comes to spilling the beans, nobody even comes close to an Everett kid.

Over the years, I've read many a social or political dissertation attempting to articulate the multi-faceted ideology of the "hippie" movement of our generation. Much of that dogma has merit in its own right, but when you're talking about Everett Hippies--you're talking a whole nuther breed altogether.

Everett hippies were never politically motivated by any stretch of the imagination. They were party motivated. It's as pure and simple as that. All they wanted to do was have a good time. And man oh man, did they ever. These people held parties that lasted for days on end.

On one such occasion, a band of these Everett hippies gathered along the banks of the second lake up at Breakheart Reservation for a bonfire party. They passed the guitar around, sang songs by Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and engaged in all those crazy things that hippies do, like sat around in a circle, passed the peace pipe, and laughed at common every day objects because they were normal.

As the sun fell behind the tree line, the moonlight cast a blue romantic brilliance upon the night. There came a lull of sorts when everybody had settled down a bit. That's when one of those hippies got up and staggered over to the banks of the second lake to relieve himself.

While in the act, he looked back over his shoulder at all the other hippies and shouted, "You guys are a bunch of losers. Do you know that?'

"Oh, this ought to be good. The guy who's peeing on the fish is telling us that we're a bunch of losers. I can't wait to hear the punch line."

"There ain't no punch line, Dude" he said zipping himself back up. "You're all a bunch of losers."

"So how come we're all a bunch of losers?"

"Because you're all out here in the middle of nowhere carrying on like a bunch of savages while everybody else is enjoying themselves at the junior prom."

"What junior prom?"

"The one at school."

"What school?"

"Are you serious? What school do you go to, man?"

"Everett High School?"

"Yes, Everett High school. Tonight's the night of the junior prom."

"How come nobody told me?"

"Dude, there's signs and paper chains hanging all over the hallways. They've been sending announcements around to the classrooms every day for a month. You're just too spaced out to know what's going on around you."

"Well, how come nobody invited me?"

"You don't get invited, stupid. You buy a ticket. You're supposed to ask a girl to the dance. Of course, you're so spaced out you'd probably wind up asking the fire extinguisher if it wanted to go to the prom."

So now he comes back to the circle and sets down to continue his lecture. "You know what you're problem is, Dude?"

"No Dude, what's my problem?"

"You don't have a steady girl, man. That's your problem right there. Your whole life is nothing but a string of one night stands."

"So what's wrong with that, Dude?"

"Everything's wrong with it, man. You don't even remember any of those girl's names. That ain't love, Dude. And that's why you're a loser."

"So what's your problem, Dude?"

"I ain't got no problem, Dude."

"So how come you ain't got no date for the prom?"

"I got a date for the prom, Dude."

"So what are you doing here, Dude?"

All of a sudden he leaps into the air and shouts, "Oh shit, Dude, I'm dead. She's gonna kill me. I'm supposed to be picking her up for the prom. Oh man, I need to get a ride home, Dude."

At this stage he's standing up and spinning around frantically shouting, "Doesn't anybody have a car? Man, she's gonna drop me like a hot potato, Dude. She told me to stay away from you guys. Now look what you've done."

And as you would suspect, all the other hippies are rolling around on the ground in a fit of knee-slapping hysterics.

"Dude, nobody twisted your arm into coming along with us tonight. Face it, man. You lost that chick. You'll have to get yourself another one. Don't worry, Dude. The school is filled with chicks."

"Oh man, you're useless to talk to," he threw up his hands and darted off onto the beaten path in a frantic search to find a ride back home.

Hours had come and gone, and everyone at that party had long forgotten about that little episode. It's hard sometimes for hippies to keep track of exactly what happened at any given time frame. Hippies have this tendency to warp back and forth through that space-time continuum that Einstein's always talking about.

So anyway, we're now talking sometime around first light. That hippie who took off running for the junior prom many hours ago comes staggering out of the woods. He is clearly three sheets to the wind. Chances are, he ran into another gang of hippies from Everett somewhere and got side tracked, as was so common back in those days.

"Hey Dude, how was the dance?" Somebody asked.

"What dance?"

"The junior prom?"

"What junior prom, man?"

"The one at Everett High school, Dude."

"There's a prom at Everett High?"

"Yeah, man. It was tonight."

"So how come nobody told me?"

And that, my good friends, is exactly what it was like to be a hippie in Everett.

Those of you who never lived through the Everett hippie experience may get a warped view of the hippie mindset. It's not that they were too spaced out to take on the responsibilities associated with a committed relationship, as it was how they perceived the hypocrisy behind the facade.

Okay, I know that sounds a bit rhetorical on the surface, but you must remember that when we were hippies, we were just kids. We had just got our licenses, but none of us owned a car yet. We weren't even old enough to sign up for the draft. We were still in school.

It always amazed me at how from the very moment I first stepped into the halls of E.H.S. that some of my fellow classmates were already engaged to get married. There was this one kid I went to school with named, Billy. I only recently found out that Billy has since passed away. And I can't begin to tell you how much it broke my heart to find that out.

Billy was one of the nicest kids you'd ever want to meet. No, he was never a hippie. This kid was a straight shooter all the way. He played sports, had short hair, and dressed somewhat conservatively for the times. He was a clean-cut All-American boy.

He genuinely cared about people. There wasn't a soul on the planet who had anything bad to say about this kid. And as obnoxious, and as arrogant, as I could be sometimes, this kid took a liking to me to me anyway. I give anybody a lot of credit who could tolerate the likes of me when I was a kid.

So anyway, we'd run into each other from time to time because, hey, we lived in Everett. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and ask, "So Paul, when are you gonna cut your hair and simmer down a bit?"

"I hope never," that's what I'd usually say.

And he'd come back with, "You're a talented kid. I hate to see all that talent go to waste. You need to find yourself a steady girl. One who will support you and help you use your talents to make a name for yourself. A good woman can make a success out of guy with your talents. It's time you started thinking about getting married."

It makes me laugh to think about that now. This kid was the same age as me. We were only in the tenth grade and here he is giving me sound fatherly advice. The kid genuinely cared about me. He was one of the very few people who did.

But Marriage? You gotta be kidding me. I was still watching Willie Whistle after school in the tenth grade. Yeah, I had relationships. I was lucky if they lasted a week or two. I'm telling ya right now, I was so immature that I sometimes forgot I was in a relationship. I had a girl break up with me once and I didn't even realize that we were supposed to be an item. And this kid wants me to think about marriage?

Maybe you're more inclined to think along that kid's line of reasoning. But for the sake of argument, let me show you what I know about marriage at this juncture in my life.

You see, my brother Billy got married as soon as he came home from Vietnam. By the time I was in high school he was living up the projects with a wife and kid. On the weekends he'd have a bunch of buddies over for a round of poker and to blow the suds off a couple, if you know what I mean.

These guys would sit around the table and laugh about whose wife was running around with whose husband in the neighborhood. On this one night, my brother pulled the curtains aside and pointed at a girl who was running to jump into a car waiting outside. "Like clockwork," he laughed.

That girl lived a few streets away and she was married. Here she is leaping into a car to run off for a night of frolic and fun with a guy who lived only a few doors down from my brother. And he was married to someone else.

So when my friend would tell me that I should start thinking about marriage, I'd come back with, "Why should I get married? So the guy next door can have a good time?"

I know it sounds selfish, but it makes more sense to me to be the guy in the car waiting for the girl than it does to be the guy with his nose to the grind stone to feed the girl who's jumping into somebody else's car.

So yeah, I'm thinking about marriage all right. I'm thinking about staying as far away from it as possible. As fate would have it, by the time I was old enough to vote (which was 21 back in our day) I had cut my hair, found a job, and was, indeed, engaged to be married. As they say, "It happens to the best of us."

I'll be honest with ya, though. There was one aspect about marriage that did tickle my fancy, and that was having kids. My brother and sister had the most adorable kids on the planet. Well, so did I, but that wasn't for many years later.

Seeing we're only a few days away from Thanksgiving, I start to think about how the Holiday Season took on a whole new meaning for our family when my brother and sister started having kids. Kids allow you to relive the magic of the holidays. Seeing the smiles on their faces when their eyes light up with wonder sends a warm glow right down to the center of your heart.

When my sister came to spend the holiday, her first born would sleep in my room. We'd push my bureau aside and wedge his crib in there beside my bed. When he got a little edgy and couldn't fall asleep, I'd drag out the old geetar and start finger-picking gentle melodies to calm the savage beast.

This kid was just too cute for words. He'd pull himself up by the rails of his crib and just stand there sucking on his fingers listening to me play. And every time I played "Yellow Submarine" that kid would bust a gut. There was just something about that number that tickled that little kid's fancy. He'd laugh so hard that the drool would run down along his forearm and drip off his elbow.

Eventually, he dropped to his knees and start playing with the drool on his fingers. The softer I played, the more that cute little head of his would droop. Before very long, he was off into dreamland. I'd tuck the little tyke in for the night and gently kiss his little forehead. What an adorable little kid, I'm telling ya.

This is the little kid who gave me the moniker, "Ba." He couldn't say "Paul," so he called me "Ba." You'll see it listed as my nickname in my yearbook. I became "Uncle Ba" to all my nieces and nephews. The name stuck even to this day.

These are thoughts that run through my mind as I sit here compiling our graduation web site. It's reminding me that our Holiday Season is just around the corner. And if there ever was anyone who was never politically correct in his lifetime, well, that would be me.

For you see, I'm a Christmas freak. If that offends you then you better high tail it outta here because I'm telling ya right now, I come to life during the Holiday Season. And I'll tell ya something else. The Holiday Season to me isn't just Christmas. It's Chanukah, too.

Now I know there's people out there who are gonna think, "How can you celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas?" Well, the truth is, over the years my family has grown into a melting pot of many different religions and nationalities. You name it and we've got one in our family by now.

Lasagna belongs right there beside the turkey on our Thanksgiving table. And the Menorah and dreddle are just as much a part of our Holiday Season as is the Christmas Tree and mistletoe. And no, I am not a loser without a Mezuzah, either.

So when I say "Holiday Season," I'm talking about the whole kit and caboodle. It has nothing to do with theological schools of thought in my book. As far as I'm concerned, it's all about people. And people who need people are the luckiest people in the world - right? And this is supposed to be the time of year that we all get together for a giant gang hug - right? So let's get on with it. Shall we?

My biggest drawback in life is that I've got the heart and mind of a little kid. I still haven't figured out what I want to be if and when I ever do grow up. Because of that, I come to life in winter.

It starts to happen when those dark clouds loom large, and that bitter chill coerces you into turning your collar up over the nape of your neck. And just as that last blast of autumn wind sweeps the tattered remains of the fallen leaves from the pavement, something happens to me that defies definition.

Now I know that most of you prefer to vacation in the Bahamas. Sunning yourself on the sand is your idea of getting away from it all, am I right? Well, I say "To each his own." One thing you will never catch me doing is lying out under the blaring hot sun. When the summer comes I become nocturnal. I go into a state of suspended animation until the sun goes down. In the summer time, I only come out at night.

Ah, but winter, now that's another story altogether. I love winter. My motto is..."Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." And the very reason for that is because, like I said, I will always be a child at heart. I loved my childhood. And why shouldn't I? After all, I was blessed with growing up in Everett.

Now this being Thanksgiving, I know you were probably expecting me to write about hopping over the stadium fence to cheer on the Crimson Tide while they pulverize the Chelsea Red Devils into the turf. Having written about that several times already, I felt the need to seriously expand our horizons.

So, with your consent, I chose to take you back and forth through time to show you some random tidbits from my memory banks. For within these memories lies a picturesque exposition of my experiences growing up in Everett.

I do apologize for the recent lull between postings lately. I've been a bit bogged down with things that needed tending to. It happens sometimes.

Get ready for a heart felt Everett Holiday season filled with wonder and magic. I've been working on some things for ya. In the meantime, I do wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving. Let's bow our heads in prayer for our men and women serving overseas. For they give us much to be truly thankful for.

Thank you one and all for the very many emails and comments about the "We're from Everett" project. None of this would be possible at all without you. You are beautiful people in my eyes. I cherish the privilege of being one of you.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. And as politically incorrect as it may sound, May God bless each and every one of you. Friends like you make life worth living.

I dare say, friends like you make me want to stand tall, throw back my shoulders, and boldly shout ...

"We're from Everett,
And no one could be prouder.
And if you cannot hear us,
We'll yell a little louder!"

Growing Up Everett for Dummies

Have you had enough yet? Are you sick and tired of getting mocked and ridiculed every time you open your mouth? Do people often dismiss your point of view as frivolous? Does everyone you grew up with have a hard time remembering your name?

If you answered "yes" to any or all of the questions above, then you probably grew up in Malden, and everybody you know lives a more exciting life than you. And given the opportunity, you'd probably just as soon end it all right now.

Don't panic. Help is on the way. The "Growing Up Everett for Dummies" handbook has helped thousands of pathetic souls, just like you. If you're feeling empty and worthless right now, chances are, it's all because you didn't grow up in Everett. We can help you with that.

Just listen to what some of our enthusiastic readers are saying.

"I was a loser who grew up in Malden. I used to wear my pants so high that my belt buckle was right under my chin. After reading just the first chapter of your book I can recite more than half of the alphabet. By the time I finish the second chapter I'll be so smart that nobody's ever gonna know that I come from Malden" ...Tom, or maybe George, I forget now.

"Everybody thinks us kids from Medford are slow readers, but I finished reading the first page in just one week. I feel different already. As a matter of fact, I even tie my own shoes now and I'm only 43 years old" ...Eddy from Melrose who moved to Medford in the third grade.

"You're not going to believe this, but I grew up in Chelsea. I just want you to know that I like chocolate better than peanut butter, and I walk to work instead of taking a lunch. Ever since I started reading this book I don't think like I used to, but does anyone anymore anyway?" ...Elsie from Chelsea.

The "Growing Up Everett for Dummies" handbook will guide you every step of the way to become more aware of your surroundings. You'll know what day of the week it is. And you'll know where you are and how you got there. You'll experience a complete rebirth of your faculties.

For the first time in your life you'll be somebody. You'll get recognized, develop character, have style, and possess humanistic qualities. Yes, even you can have a real personality. We've even helped people from Revere recover from total brain loss.

We'll show you how to tear a popcorn box into a pair of goggles. We'll also teach you how to rip your Junior Mints box into a whistle. You'll learn how to hop over a ten-foot high stadium fence. In conclusion, you will finally get your hands out of your pockets and your nose off the ground.

If all this sounds too good to be true, that's because it is. You will never be as completely cool as someone who actually did grow up in Everett, but you will rise a step above everyone else in your neighborhood. Please be advised that this book contains two syllable words. If you grew up in Winthrop you may need an interpreter.

Hopefully, all of our friends from the surrounding communities will take the puns as intended, as just good hearted fun. We had many friends from the surrounding communities and we often entertained ourselves by teasing each other.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
So what spawned this "For Dummies" parody? Well, for the past few months I've been working like the dickens to compile a web site for my Everett High School graduating class of 1971. With a graduating class of 435 students, it has become a daunting task so say the least. Allow me to give you just a small indication of what I'm up against, and the lessons I've learned along the way.

My first set back is that I scanned Joanne's yearbook. For those of you who don't know Joanne, let me tell you a little bit about her. Joanne is a very pretty girl with a smile that radiates with a hypnotic trance of warmth and kindness. I dare say, everyone who graduated with us remembers her smile. No matter how gloomy of a day it was outside, after you passed Joanne in the hallway, your whole world filled with sunshine and flowers.

As such, she was probably "THE" most popular kid in our class. Yes, even more popular than Geno, if that's even possible at all. Because of that, nearly every kid in our graduating class signed her yearbook. I know that sounds flattering on the surface, but just let me tell you what all that means to me.

After 36 years of wear and tear, the photographs in your yearbook begin to fade. Scanning them, even with a high-resolution scanner, deteriorates the finished quality of the scan because of that fade. On top of all that, almost every other kid wrote across their own face in an effort to express in words how much they've enjoyed being Joanne's friend.

Knowing Joanne as I do, I completely understand why they did it. A friend like Joanne only happens once in a lifetime. Graduating from EHS is an emotional experience. In a sense, you're saying good-bye to all of the kids you've known since you first leaped up over the crib rails. This is the last opportunity you'll get to express in words how much you cherish someone's friendship before heading out onto the open road.

Try to understand the frame of reference from which I speak. In 1971, communications technologies were severely limited. Once you left the cave you had no verbal contact with the rest of the tribe, unless of course, you pulled over to the curb and hopped on a pay phone.

Ten years down the road when you're thumbing through your yearbook, you'll see the picture of one of your old drinking buddies and stop to think, "I wonder what he's doing now?" So you pick up the phone and dial his number only to hear "that number has been disconnected."

You're thinking that's no big deal because you can always call one of the other guys you used to party with to see if he knows what happened to your long lost friend. Again you hear, "that number has been disconnected." You're at a dead end right there.

Before the Internet we lived isolated lives. After high school we got somewhat cut off from each other. Life being what it is, we scattered with the four winds into every nook and cranny of the planet. Some kids migrated over to the West Coast. Others moved on to Canada or Europe. One thing you can say about Everett kids is that they're all over the place.

When Carol and I first landed in southern Indiana we felt like we had moved to another planet. What we did like about it is that it is so behind the times that it feels like Everett forty years ago. One thing we never suspected is to have the proprietor of the local hardware store look back at me and ask, "Are you from Everett?"

If that wasn't enough to shock the hell out of me, he then said, "I know your brother, Carl." It doesn't get any weirder than that, believe you me. For the next two hours or so we sat and reminisced about growing up in Everett.

That alone tells me what a unique community we grew up in. Talk to anybody. I don't care where they're from. There was never any place on the face of this planet quite like Everett. We are one of a kind.

Because of all that, Carol and I get homesick sometimes. One Saturday morning over our first cup of coffee, we got to laughing about something that happened in elementary school. She was telling me about the time in Miss Curtain's class at the Hamilton school when the teacher was scolding one of her classmates that we both knew well. He looked back at the teacher and said, "I didn't did it, Miss Curtain."

That's when we decided to hop on line to see if we could find anything nostalgic about growing up in Everett. We found nothing. You can only imagine the disappointment we felt. What we realized is that it was our responsibility to see to it that what we had as a community growing up in Everett did not fade quietly into the night. It was far too special of a once in a lifetime experience for that.

Using this new technology, we tried to open the lines of communications that were once unavailable to us. And the rest, as they say, is history. The spirit of growing up in Everett is still very much alive. We've heard from places we never dreamed of, and from people who grew up in just about every neighborhood, and from every generation. It has become the most heartfelt experience of our lives.

The "We're from Everett" project has become our rendezvous with destiny. It tickled me pink when I wrote about the time my best friend and I snuck down into the kitchen of our church on Easter Sunday and stole one of the pies they baked for the Demolay dinner. What I never suspected was that I'd hear from one of the adults who were attending services upstairs while all that was going on. What a small world, huh?

Not a day goes by when we don't hear from somebody somewhere who has discovered the "We're from Everett" experience for the first time. You should hear the excitement they express about reliving their childhood memories. I'm telling ya right now, if I ever did anything worthwhile in my lifetime, this was it.

That's why putting my all into building our EHS class of 1971 web site is so important to me. I want to introduce you to these Everett kids in such a way that they make the same lasting impression on you as they did me. They deserve that. They are that special.

Each and every photo is getting the royal treatment. If they were at the top of the page then the top of their heads were cropped off. Using a process we call "pixel averaging," I'm restoring the tops to everyone's head. Besides that, many of these kids wrote right across their faces. They've said things like, "Remember all those times we ran from the cops down at Swan Street Park."

Those pen lines run straight across their eyes, their lips, and their ears. Pixel by pixel, I am removing them all, not to mention that I'm also adding a sepia tone so they won't look so bland. In addition to doing all that to 435 student pictures, I've got the 73 group photos at the bottom of the page to do as well. Then there's still the student committee photos, the faculty, and the sports teams to do. I've got my hands full.

If that alone doesn't overwhelm you, then wait until you hear this. Beside each kid's picture is a little poem about what that kid hopes to accomplish in life. I was hoping to use character recognition to convert all that to text, but it didn't work out. So I'm actually sitting here retyping every single word in our yearbook.

That reminds me of our senior class picnic down in Canton. One of the girls on our yearbook staff was telling me what a painstaking task it was to write all of those limericks for each of the 435 students. "They're corny, I know," she admitted. "Please don't judge my creative writing abilities on that."

Believe me, Sheryll, I do realize what a tiresome ordeal that must have been. And just in case nobody's ever said it before, we greatly appreciate what all of you on the yearbook committee did for us. So as I sit here guffawing over some of these limericks, I do so with a heartfelt appreciation for the dedicated hard work that went on behind the scenes to put all of this together in time for our graduation.

Another thing I realize is that we really did chose the right people for that job. There's no way I would have maintained my composure long enough to write all of those ditties without throwing in some of my sharp-witted sarcasm along the way.

For example, there was one ditty that went like this...

As it now stands,
Carol has made no future plans.
Do not worry, do not fret,
She'll be a success on that you can bet.

So what are they trying to say? Has Carol proven her unprecedented competency in not being able to make up her mind? Or are they saying that she will succeed at not having any future? In that case, I certainly do hope that she has indeed failed in her quest to not have any future. Everyone deserves a future, especially after putting twelve long years into the Everett public school system. Don't cha think?

Here's another one...

All who know Dennis,
Will be glad to hear,
That Dennis will be a great
Electronic Technician.

Woah, hold on there. Sounds like the yearbook staff was smoking a little bit of that wacky tobaccy, don't it? Is it me, or is there something seriously wrong with the iambic pentameter of that poem? Kind of reminds me of that classic Haiku that goes ...

"Roses Are red.
Violets are blue.
I like peanut butter.
Can you swim?"

We're on a roll here, so let's just pick apart a few more of these humdingers. Shall we? Check this one out...

To be a housewife is Claire's aim,
In this position she'll gain much fame.
She'll look pretty as can be,
Sitting on her husband's knee.

Okay, for starters, grab a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper and list for me all of the people you know who became world renowned for just being a housewife. Could you think of any? I could only think of one, and yes, it's Claire.

Look at it this way. With more than 200 visitors to this blog everyday, Claire is about to become one of the most famous housewives in Everett history--right? So let me take this opportunity to congratulate Claire for achieving her lifelong goal.

I can't help but wonder if she still looks pretty as can be sitting on her husband's knee after all these years. When was the last time your better half flopped down onto your knee? Let me ask you something. Did it knock the wind out of ya?

The next two refer to a girl named, Frannie. They are two different people. I wonder how many graduating classes had two different girls named, Frannie. Our's may well be the only one. Ironically enough, both of these limericks are politically incorrect by today's standards. Here's the first one...

Taking notes from the Boss' knee,
A secretary is what Frannie wants to be.
With her dark hair and sparkling eyes,
She's sure to catch the boss' sighs.

I ask you now. Is that one sexist or what? It says nothing whatsoever about her intellect or talents other than her ability to use her sexual prowess to climb the corporate ladder. That's disgusting. Unless of course, I'm her boss. Then that's okay.

Okay, here's the other one...

Frannie's a girl we'll all remember,
A lot of fun when we're all together.
She's really gay and really sweet,
And as a secretary she'll be a treat.

See what I mean? This one is just as sexist as the other one. Trust me, I know Frannie. She is not gay. Also, what did they mean by treat? Sounds like a sexual harassment law suit just waiting to happen if you ask me. Let me tell ya something right now. Frannie's one of us Everett kids. You lay so much as one finger on that girl and we'll hunt you down like a dog.

One thing I always admired is when somebody has the reserve to think "inside" the box. By that I mean, they set realistic goals. In the following ditty you'll realize that there was nothing of the dreamer in this guy. This is one straight shooter if there ever was one. His poem goes like this...

To be a Meat Cutter is Nick's ambition,
He's a guy who's nice, we all agree,
Because he's the best of the company.

See what I mean?

Okay, this next one really echoes the sign of our times. Listen to this...

An IBM Operator Kathleen will be,
We can watch her buzz that 1403.
With your brains and personality,
Good luck Kathleen, we'll know you'll succeed.

There's really nothing wrong with that one other than the fact that mainframe IBM's became obsolete not more than about a year or two after we got out of high school. They invented the microchip on the eve of our graduation. By the time Kathleen would have graduated college, Random Access Memory rendered those IBM slot cards obsolete. She'd have to turn around and go right back into school after graduation to retool for the new technology.

At the rate of change in the computer industry, Kathleen will never qualify for a job. Man, I'd hate to have to pay back her school loan. It must be up there somewhere in the trillion-dollar range by now. For her sake, I hope Kathleen chucked it all for a wild life of night clubbing and partying with the jet set.

Out of all these limericks, there is really only one that bothers me. It belongs to a kid named, Steve. All it says is...

To be a Mechanic is Steve's only idea,
And we all know he'll go far in this career.

What troubles me about it is that he got the shortest one in the whole yearbook. This kid put three years into our football team, spent three years on our track team, and a year in baseball. All he got was a two-liner. I'd be pissed if that was me.

There were a lot of extracurricular activities to get involved with at EHS. There were sports, the band, the glee club, cheerleading, the majorettes, and the pep squad. On a more acedemic scale there was dramatics, lyceum, French & Italian clubs, various special interest and science clubs, as well as the library staff. Besides all that we had many student governing committees which among other things included the prom committees, class officers, and the yearbook staff.

Many kids were involved in more than just one activity. Some of those kids had a list of activities that are so long that they could choke a horse. Take Gloria, for instance. Here's what she did with her spare time at Everett High.

Dramatics 3,4; Glee Club 2,3,4; Lyceum 2,3,4; Jr. Prom Committee 4; Yearbook Representative 4; Cheerleader 4; Italian Club 3,4; and Pep Squad 2,3,4;

Can you believe that only one person did all that? My gawd, when did this kid sleep? She certainly wasn't out partying with the hippies up in the back hills of Glendale Park, I can assure you of that.

Extracurricular activities? Me? Be serious. Who had any time for extracurricular activities? I had a hard enough time just getting up out of bed in the morning. That was my extracurricular activity. I'll tell ya one thing though. Had they counted partying with the hippies as an extracurricular activity, I'd have given Gloria a serious run for her money, let me tell ya.

Everybody's different. Some kids really enjoyed getting involved with all the extracurricular activities while others enjoyed the more free falling experience of partying with the hippies. And then again, there were those who were already out there working for a living who didn't really have the time for either one. Regardless, high school was the best years of our lives. We were privileged to grow up in a place where we were free to do as we pleased.

We didn't earn that privilege. It was a gift granted to us through the selfless commitment of our Veterans who risked the ultimate sacrifice to protect and preserve our freedoms. And every year on Veteran's Day, we owe it to our Veterans to thank them, from the bottom of our hearts, for stepping up to the plate and paying the ultimate price to protect our way of life.

So on this day, let us take a moment to join hands and bow our heads in solemn remembrance to all of our fallen heroes. And then let's lift up our voices and sing a song of praise to all of the men and women of our armed forces. For if not for them, we'd never have the privilege to chant, "We're from Everett!"

Tinkering With Time

It was not all that uncommon for us kids to tinker around with something that we didn't completely understand. It's in our blood. Growing up in Everett means that intuition is a basic part of your human nature. We acquired that inquisitive mindset after watching our fathers do those odd and end Mickey Mouse repairs on just about every appliance in the house.

We grew up in an era when you could fix or repair just anything from a simple toy to an entire car without really knowing all that much about it. Nobody called an expert when something went haywire back in our day. If a cuff with the heel of your hand against the side of your TV set didn't straighten it out then it was time to drag out the old toolbox and check out what was going on inside.

All my father ever did was fiddle around with all those dojiggers inside for a while and "bingo bango" we'd be back in action in plenty of time to find out who was going to be queen for a day. He had no idea whatsoever as to how to read that schematic they glued to the inside chassis. That guy couldn't tell a diode from a capacitor, but he always got that darn thing put back together again and in good working order to boot.

When my mother's old wringer washing machine went on the blink, my dad pulled that thing apart piece by piece, no questions asked. He tweaked and fiddled with just about anything that wasn't spot welded into place. Sure enough, he got that old gizmo put back together again so my mom could get back to the grind while he crashed out on the couch to watch the New York Giants take on the Green Bay Packers.

When the transmission blew on Billy's Rambler American, he had parts strewn all over our back yard from one end to the other. In less than a week he had that baby purring like a kitten again. The same goes for that old steam boiler down in the cellar. Nobody called the plumber. My dad pulled that bugger apart bolt by bolt and we were as snug as a bug in a rug by the end of the night.

When the derailer fell apart on Carl's 3-speed English Raleigh there was no way my dad was going throw his hard earned cash away at some high priced specialty bike shop. He sat out on the back porch with his pliers in one hand and a Schlitz in the other. That darn thing never shifted so smoothly as it did after he got a hold of it. The guy was a natural.

Kids learn by mimicking their elders. Girls mimic their mothers when they play house. Boys mimic their fathers when they build a go-cart out of their sister's old baby doll carriage. And that is precisely the mindset that inspired me to take apart all those tape recorders I found in the trash. For a smart allecky little kid growing up at the bottom of Arlington Street, I did all right getting those things back together in good working order.

I know I've told you this before, but I got so good at fixing old tape recorders that my house started filling up with these darn things. They took up all the room under my bed, filled up all of the shelves in the back hallway, and were taking over the workbench down in the cellar. I had dozens of them at one time. It got so bad that my mother made me give them all away.

What inspired me to try my hand at fixing these things in the first place was by watching my dad. As soon as something started acting up, he didn't think twice about pulling it apart and putting it back together again. And I could tell that he was having a good time for himself in the process. I never once thought about how maybe it was all those cans of Schlitz he was downing in the process that factored into the overall equation.

Maybe it's a guy thing, but pulling things apart and putting them back together again is a blast and a half. You learn by doing. After watching my father do it to nearly every appliance we ever owned I figured I'd take a stab at it. Hey, why not?

I could tell from the very start that my mother held little faith in my mechanical aptitude. That became so apparent when she turned to me and said, "Curiosity killed the cat" just because I was pulling apart an old tape recorder while it was still plugged into the outlet. I threw up my hands in utter frustration and shouted, "How else am I gonna find out what's rubbing up against the capstan drive to cause all that wow and flutter I'm getting?"

Just like my father before me, I had to learn by doing. You can't be wishy washy about these things. You've got to take the bull by the horns. There comes a time in every little boy's life when he's gotta take a stand and prove he's a man. That doesn't happen until he finally pulls something completely apart and puts it back together again.

My reputation as a little Mr. Fixit spread like wild fire when everybody started getting back all of those old tape recorders they threw out. Before you knew it, kids were bringing all sorts of things down to my house to see if I could fix them. And I'll be honest with ya. I was basking in the limelight.

Those of you who grew up tinkering and pulling things apart know only too well that not everything you take apart goes back together. Even when it does there's always a part left over like a washer, or a screw, or some kind of thingamabob you'll swear you've never seen before that doesn't fit back in anywhere.

Being a typical man, I'd never admit that I have no idea what that left over whatchamacallit actually is. Should anyone ask, I'd just cop the proverbial plea that "We don't need that anyway because it doesn't do anything." I'm forever winding up with one of those.

Sooner or later, you're bound to come up against a machine that defies all of the conventional rules of mechanical physics. That's when you'll learn that just because something can be fixed doesn't always mean that you should be the one to do it. For you see, for every probability involved exists an equal and opposite improbability. It's the improbability factor that will get you every time.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened to me down there at Fourteen Arlington Street when I was about eleven years old. That would place us somewhere in the vicinity of about 1963.

It had to be around this time of year because I distinctly remember seeing that magnificent yellow and orange tint that the afternoon autumn sun casts down onto the leaves of the trees. And man, those leaves were bursting wide open with color. There was a bit of a nip in the air that afternoon and the rooftops were tainted with a thin sheet of frost. You bundle up when you go outside to play this time of year in Everett.

This had to be either a Saturday or Sunday. I really don't remember which. It was definitely a no school day. I do remember that.

I was sitting out on my front steps reading an Archie funny book when Wayne came walking out of my driveway. Wayne was Joey's little brother. They lived in Henry Gray's apartment building down there on Ferry Street. Since our backyards were nothing more than opened parking lots that connected to each other, he wouldn't bother with walking all the way around the neighborhood just to get to my house. He'd just cut through our backyards.

So anyway, he looked over at me and said, "I was just looking for you."

"Oh yeah? What's up?"

"I found this neat radio in the trash. It almost works. I was hoping you'd take a look at it for me."

"What da ya mean it almost works?"

"I'm getting sound but it can't seem to tune into any station completely. Think you can fix it?"

"We can try. Go get it."

"All right!" he shouted throwing his fist into the air. He scurried home to get his radio and I headed off into the cellar to clear off the workbench.

I'll let you in on a little secret. At eleven years old, my expertise in electronics was a bit sketchy to say the least. All of the repairs I made on tape recorders were mechanical based. If there was anything wrong with the electronics involved then I'd save the mechanical parts for other tape recorders and trash all of the electronic components.

That didn't discourage me one bit from getting exciting over trying to fix Wayne's radio. I figured I'd check out all the mechanics first to see if that could solve the problem. If not, then maybe there was a burned out tube in there that was clearly visible to a trained eye. If that doesn't work, maybe it was time to start dabbling in electronics anyway. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

My eyes lit up when Wayne lugged that radio down into my cellar. What a find and a half this kid had. It was one of those Realistic multi-band radios. It had an AM radio band, a police band, a weather band, an air traffic controller's band, and even a short wave radio band. To say I was jealous is an understatement.

"Man, we've gotta fix this sucker," I said. "This thing is beautiful."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He beamed with pride.

Before doing anything, I had to fully evaluate the situation. You can't fix anything until you understand its symptoms. So the first thing we did was plugged it in and turned it on. It worked. You could hear broken fragments on every band, but it was like he said, you couldn't fine tune into anything completely. Thank gawd for that. That means I get to pull this sucker apart to find out what makes it tick.

As soon as we opened the chassis I knew the "burned out tube" theory was out of the question. This thing didn't have any tubes. It couldn't have been all that old because solid state circuitry was actually kind of new by our standard of living.

What I hate most about solid state circuitry is that it completely removes the amateur's ability to fiddle around with any of the components without causing any serious damage. So when somebody starts talking about "state of the art" technology, all they're really saying is that "once it breaks you can't fix it."

So anyway, after making sure the internal antenna was properly wired to the perf board, we checked the mechanics of the radio dial itself to make sure that was working properly. The only thing left to do now was to plug it in while we still had it pulled apart to see if we could twiddle and tweak one of those adjustment screws on the perf board.

Fiddling around with this thing taught me more about the characteristics of electrical currents than you could ever imagine. Somewhere down there in the middle of that complex maze of solder and diodes runs an intricate montage of technology that transforms an alternating household current into a direct current. It won't do me any good to try to decipher the schematic they glued to the inside of the chassis either because I won't understand it any more than my father does. That never stopped him so why should I let it concern me?

I do know that they sell these things called "heat sinks" to disperse the high temperatures given off by your soldering iron so you won't accidentally burn out a diode. They look like little metal crocodile clips. Just to be safe, I figured if I was gonna fiddle around with this thing I should take necessary precautions so not to damage Wayne's radio altogether. I didn't have any heat sinks so I ran upstairs to see if my mother had any of those metal hair clips that woman use. She didn't.

We took a walk down to Whitehill Pharmacy to get one. They wanted nineteen cents for a whole pack of those hair clips. Do you believe it? Do these people think I'm made of money? I only needed one.

When I explained the situation to the pharmacists he asked, "How much do you have?" Between the two of us we only had about three cents.

"What are you going to do with it?" He asked.

After explaining what I wanted to use it for, he opened the package and gave me one for free. "Tell your mother I've got plenty of bandages and ointment for burns," he laughed. What a joker, I'm telling ya.

Back at the ranch I was planning and plotting my strategy. I could see a couple of screws inset to these miniature canister looking doohickeys that looked like they could use a little tweaking. After clipping the imitation heat sink to the outside of that miniature canister, I turned the radio back on. Now we could listen to the reception to see if anything changed as I turned that screw.

Carefully guiding the tip of the screwdriver down in through that intricate maze of twisted wires and components, I made direct contact with the top of that screw. There was a loud "bap" and something sparked. Everything started to smolder and it smelled like a burning mouse. It filled the whole cellar with rancid smoke in seconds flat.

"What we do now?" Wayne shouted.

What could we do? Where there's smoke there's fire - right? How do you put out a fire? I grabbed an empty coffee can and ran over to the utility sink to fill it up. Then I ran back over to the workbench and dumped it down on top of that smoldering radio.

Perhaps this is where I should have paid a little more attention to that science lesson in electronics that Mr. Smith gave us at the Horace Mann school. I should have especially paid attention to the part about opened and closed circuits. When the circuit is closed you cut off the path for the electric current to travel. That puts an end to it all right there. If I had hit the switch on the fuse box that would have closed the circuit. I didn't.

Instead, what I did was open the circuit even more by giving the electrical current a wider choice of pathways in which to travel. For you see, water conducts electricity. So does a metal coffee can. And believe it or not, so does my body.

110 volts of alternating current travels really fast. As a matter of fact, it travels faster than you can blink. That many volts of alternating household current can do a serious job on an eleven-year-old boy. Trust me on that one.

It's hard to describe what 110 volts of household current feels like. It only lasts for a fraction of a second, but you'll feel the repercussions psychologically, if not physically, for the remainder of your natural life. It's not all that unlike having your whole body explode like a firecracker. In an ironic sort of way, it's probably what it would feel like if Godzilla ever had an orgasm.

For what seemed like an eternity, I just stood there in a state of suspended animation. Then I couldn't exhale. All I could do was to keep sucking in air. Wayne figured out I was in trouble by the way I was flapping my arms like a bird while running around in circles. He panicked and did the only thing that made any sense at all to him. He slapped me on the back.

You would suspect that slapping somebody on the back would be the wrong thing to do after they just got the wind knocked out of them. As it turned out, he probably saved my life. After he pounded on my back I could breath again. Even still, I had to go out into the fresh air to regain full consciousness.

So here I am down on my knees out in the backyard gasping for air while the cellar is filling up with smoke that smells like a burning mouse. Wayne just stood there gawking at me to see if I was going to live or die. I still didn't have enough strength to talk yet, but somehow he felt it was the appropriate time to ask, "So are you gonna be able to fix that radio or what?"

If looks could kill - right?

That smoldering radio shorted out the fuse in the cellar, which in turn, cut off the power to the radio. We carried the slab of plywood it was resting on out into the backyard so we could get a good look at it after the smoke cleared away. It looked a lot like what a grilled cheese sandwich looks like when you try to peel it apart while it's still hot. All of the electronic components had melted into one big lump.

You'd probably think I'd learn my lesson about tinkering around with things that I didn't fully understand after something like that. You couldn't be further from the truth if you tried. I did learn the importance of stopping to think twice before plugging anything in. I also got more picky about which things to go out on a limb to try to fix as well.

Those are lessons I still observe to this day. When my DVD player went on the blink I did pull it apart, but I stopped dead in my tracks as soon as I saw that radiation warning inside. There's no way on earth I was ever gonna tamper with that.

If you think getting stabbed in the thumb by a diode, or getting a jolt of household current was a bitch, try to imagine what a sudden blast from a laser passing straight through the retina of your eye might feel like. More than likely, it would continue right on through the wall behind my head and vaporize the old lady next door. That would be just my luck.

Because I grew up in Everett, I tend to get carried away sometimes when I go off on a tangent. So as I sit here telling you this story I'm thinking about how in twelve years from now, Carol's gonna come walking through that door and say, "You've got to do something with that temporal displacement unit. Venie and I went back in time to have lunch with my mother and Sis. We overshot our time zone by forty years."

"I'll see what I can do."

My Everett ingenuity will kick in and I'll set down at the workbench and pull that time machine apart to fiddle around with all those strange little doohickeys inside. All of a sudden I'll see a flash of light and I'll be standing behind myself when I was a little kid down on Arlington Street.

And you know my luck, I won't wind up at a point in time when I'm getting kissed by a pretty girl or anything like that. I'll probably wind up on that day my father took a nap on the couch after refinishing the hardwood floor in my bedroom. The last thing he said before he laid down was, "Stay out of that room until that varnish dries."

After he fell asleep I grabbed my tricycle and an armload of toys and snuck into that big empty room to have a ball for myself. Little did I realize that as I was zooming around in circles on that hardwood floor, I was leaving deep streaks behind in my wake. If that don't beat all, my paper airplane stuck to the floor like super glue and we never did get it all up.

All that never dawned on me until he jerked open the door and shouted, "What are you doing to my newly varnished hardwood floor?" Man, did he tan my hide that day, let me tell ya.

Not wanting to relive that experience too many more times, I'll give that Tipler sinusoid another jiggle and I'll probably wind up just a few days from now looking at yet another sight that will absolutely tug at my heart strings. I'll be looking across the street at the empty shell of the now abandoned Vargis Diner after it suffered some serious fire damage. And it will look exactly like this.


That's gotta jar some memories - no? So now you've gotta be wondering how I got a hold of that picture - right? Well, I was fooling around with my time machine the other day and,... Nah, I'm pulling yer leg.

What really happened was I got an email from a Gregg Anderson. Besides hosting a very interesting nostalgic blog for classic station wagon owners in New England, which you can visit HERE, he's involved with the American Diner Museum.

He told me that Vargis Diner suffered a fire recently and a rescue is underway by volunteers from the American Diner Museum. Fire damage was a little heavy on the roof section. You can check out their web site HERE.

He also said that he was doing research for the American Diner Museum, who may try to find a new home for the diner. If anyone in Everett owns a commercial piece of property that would like to reopen the diner they should get in touch with him.

Hey, just think of the possibilities. We could transform that place into a nostalgic museum shop commemorating the golden age of growing up in Everett. Any angel investors out there? I'll compile a business plan (yes, including a full SWOT analysis) that will knock your socks off. I'll tell you what. You finance it and I'll pack my bags and hop on the next plane home.

Can you imagine? We could all meet for breakfast at Vargis and gab about the good old days, live and in person. What a blast and a half that would be, huh? And I'm telling ya right now. You get us all back together again at Vargis and we'll probably break the sound barrier. Even the kids passing by in their cars won't be able to hear their rap music cuz we'd be drowning them out. All they'd hear is the ear piercing roar of our collective voices chanting, "We're from Everett!"