Merry Christmas

I feel so overwhelmed that I don't even know how to begin. For you see, the spirit of Christmas lies deep within your heart. It's all how you look at it. Everyone says that to see the real magic in Christmas you've got to look at it through the eyes of a child. But I'll be honest with ya. You don't have to be a kid to experience the wonder of Christmas. And I'm gonna tell you why.

Every one of us started out on this journey as a kid. Everything we needed to know to find our way through this meandering maze we call "life" we learned growing up on the sidewalks of Everett. We learned things that they'd never teacher you in school. Don't get me wrong, book learning is of the utmost importance, but it can't hold a candle to what you've learned through your real life experiences.

You know what I say? I say "Once a kid, always a kid." If you're trying to get through this life without ever getting in touch with your inner child every once in a while then you're just wandering around in the dark. You don't need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows. You need a kid. And if you think you're on the short end of the stick because you don't have a kid nearby then you've got another think coming. All you've gotta do is go take a gander in the bathroom mirror and you'll see a kid.

Now, take that kid into your heart and come along with me on a journey through the historic timeline of "Growing up in Everett." Let me be your "Spirit of Christmas Past" if you will. What I want to share with you is a typical Christmas Eve with that zany Everett family down on Arlington Street we've all come to know and love as the "Huffmans."

With a mere waive of my hand the whole scene changes. We're standing right outside that six-family apartment house across the street from the Aluminum Storm Shield building. Take a look around. You can tell by the trolley passing by on Ferry Street, and by the cars parked along the curb that you've journeyed back in time. It just so happens that this is Christmas Eve in 1959.

That 7 year-old kid you're looking at in the front yard all bundled up in a snorkel and mittens is none other than the one and only Paul Huffman. Move in and take a closer look at that kid, will ya? Believe me when I tell ya, I know this kid like the back of my hand. Chances are, he's up to some sort of mischief, even on Christmas Eve. You can't trust this kid any further than you can throw him. I say that affectionately, of course.

There you see him completely absorbed in his favorite past time, which is building up a stockpile of snowballs. He ain't doin that for his health, trust me. This kid's up to no good. More than likely, he's either spotted Christine on her way down the street, or he sees Mrs. Day's cat out on the prowl. You just wait. Somebody somewhere is about to get nailed with a snowball. You mark my words.

Regardless of what's going on in that crazy little kid's head right now, it's what's going on in his heart that counts. He's just waiting for his dad to get home from work. That's all he really cares about right now. When his dad gets home Christmas comes alive at his house. And Christmas Eve is just as much fun as Christmas morning at his house.

Wouldn't ya know? Here comes his dad now putting along down Arlington Street in that broken down jalopy of his. He'll pepper that car with snowballs all the way into the driveway. And the very moment his dad steps out of that car, his entire world comes to life.

"Are you ready for Christmas or what?" His dad asks.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

"Where's all the other kids?" He means my brothers and sister.

"Everybody's upstairs waiting for you."

"Well, let's go upstairs and get the party started," he says.

Walking along side of that guy is about the happiest moment in this little kid's life. He worships the ground that guy walks on. "I'm gonna be just like you when I grow up," he always tells his dad.

"Oh man, don't grow up to be like me. Get a college education and make something of yourself," his dad often laughs.

That little kid already knows deep down inside that his dad's shoes will be hard to fill. The man's hardly got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, but he's got a heart the size of Jupiter. It's gonna take a lot more than just a college education to follow in those footsteps.

He's gotta first learn how to count his blessings, smile in the face of adversity, and to love the world around him with a passion that's hard to hide before even attempting to measure up to the standards of man who is so humble and kind-hearted that every one who knows him loves him. That's a mighty tall order right there.

You can measure the worth of a man by the way everyone greets him when he steps in the door. Our house lights up when my dad comes home from work. Even when this guy just steps out for a quick run down to the Stop & Shop, we all rally around in jubilation as soon as he gets back home. We're like a litter of little puppies with waggley tails every time my dad comes home.

"When do we eat?" That's the first thing he always asks my mom. Now you know why the guy's as big as he is. And I'll say another thing about him that I'll never forget. He never once stepped into the house without giving my mom a peck on the cheek. As much as they fought sometimes, that guy worshiped that woman.

Us kids gathered around as he flopped down onto his favorite kitchen chair. He was all wet and dirty from crawling under and fixing the snowplows at Tufts College all day. We'd help him get his boots off and set them next to the stove, which was burning hot from the my mother cooking that turkey all morning long.

"Let me go take my bath and then we'll start Christmas," he'd say. We'd sit around the kitchen table and gabbed while waiting for him to finish his bath. We'd bust a gut listening to him sing his heart out in there. What is it about a bathtub full of water that makes everyone think they're the next Pavarotti?

As soon as we heard the water draining out of the tub we went running helter-skelter to get the table all set for our Christmas Eve dinner. Our dinners were a ball of confusion. Everybody talked at once and it was nearly impossible to get a word in edgewise. You were forever getting somebody's elbow in your face because everyone reached across the table at once to grab a platter of something to fill their plates with. And Carl was always worried that somebody was going to get more on their plate than him whether or not he even liked what we were eating. Yeah, it was crazy all right, but I wouldn't have any other way.

After dinner we piled all the dishes up in the sink and left the whole kit and kaboodle for my mom to clean up. Sounds selfish, doesn't it? Funny as it sounds, she insisted on it. She claims we only got in her way. So after woofing down supper, we all headed into the living room to start the festivities.

Take a look around this living room will ya? Our Christmas tree takes up about half of the room. When those lights come on it's like standing inside a neon sign. Up one side of the doorway and down the other is where my mother taped up all those Christmas cards that people sent us. And the way the streetlight outsides shimmers so colorfully through the frost on the window pane adds to the festive beauty of it all. Man oh man, do I love Christmas.

The first thing we did was haul out the graphinola. What, on earth, is a graphinola - right? Well, actually, it's our record player. My great aunt Grace always called it a graphinola. Don't ask me why. But once you say something silly in front of an Everett kid they'll never let you forget it. So that's why we called it a graphinola.

We had a bazillion Christmas records. Besides the traditional Mitch Miller, Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and all those other old fogies, I had a whole bunch of kiddie records. You know the kind I'm talking about. I'm talking about those plastic records you could see through that come in all different colors.

My mother used to buy me one or two of those records every time she headed out Christmas shopping. We've now incorporated them into our Christmas Eve celebration with all the Christmas standards. So after Bing Crosby nearly lulled you off to sleep with that long drawled out "White Christmas" of his, you'd perk back up listening to the likes of "Frost the Snowman" and "I'm Getting Nuttin For Christmas."

As the dark of night started closing in, we'd switch off the old graphinola and gather around the TV. Christmas Eve was when they played all those classic specials like "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," "It's a Wonderful Life," and "Miracle on 34th Street." And that's when my dad would hall out that big spaghetti pot and we'd fill a Stop & Shop bag with freshly popped buttered popcorn.

Towards the end of the evening, my dad would switch off the TV and we'd just sit around the coffee table digging into that bag of popcorn and take turns telling everybody what we were hoping Santa Claus was gonna drop off under the Christmas tree for us. Being the youngest of the crew, they always sent me off to bed first.

"How come everybody else gets to stay up later than me?" I'd complain.

"Your day will come," my dad would say. "The youngest always comes first in Santa's eyes so you need to get to sleep or he'll never show up."

"But what if everyone else is still up when he comes?" I had to ask.

"He'll come so long as you're asleep," he'd say.

Now the last thing I want to do is throw a monkey wrench into the works on Christmas Eve. Even as unfair as it sounds, I'm not gonna go bucking the system now. After all, I've got a tall order hanging in the balance. I'll argue you my case some other time.

I'm hoping with all my might that those tinker toys are gonna be under that Christmas tree when I wake up in the morning. If I start a big brouhaha over the scales of justice on Christmas Eve I might wind up on the short end of the stick. There's no way on earth I'm gonna risk that.

Do you remember how hard it was to fall asleep on Christmas Eve? I mean, really. How can you doze off knowing that Santa Clause is up in the sky somewhere with a giant bag of toys that he's giving away for free? What's even more exciting is that some of those toys have my name on them. Just try to go to go to sleep with all that racing through the back of your mind.

A few hours later when Billy snuck into the room to get something out of his drawer, I whispered out to him. "Pssst! Hey Billy?"

"Aren't you asleep yet?" He asked.

"Do me a favor?"

"What?"

"If you're up when Santa comes, wake me up so I can see him, okay?"

"I can't do that. Santa will put me on his naughty list," he laughed.

"I'll tell you what," I bargained. "If you do that for me I'll give you all the malted milk balls I get for Christmas." How could he possibly turn down an offer like that?

"Okay, if I'm still up when Santa comes, I'll wake you up," he agreed. I knew the malted milk balls would do the trick. After all, who wouldn't sell their soul for a bag of malted milk balls - right?

You've got to wonder how it is that Santa pulls this off every year. Think of it. It never seems to fail that he knows precisely when it is that you fall asleep. And as soon as you do -- "bingo bango" -- that guy comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Simply amazing, is it not?

And here's another thing that gets me. I never seem to dream on Christmas Eve. It's almost if time warps into the future as soon as I close my eyes. I no sooner pass out when my sister, Julie, shakes me frantically saying, "Paul, wake up. It's Christmas."

I stagger out into the living room rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Billy, and Carl, and my mother, and my father are already there. Now I'm not that stupid. Hey, I'm from Everett. There's no way those people ever went to sleep last night. I should have read the writing on the wall when my father said, "He'll come so long as you're asleep."

So now I get all hot and bothered when I look over at Billy and demand to know why he didn't wake me up when Santa came. "He told me not to wake you up," he explains.

Let me get this straight. We're talking about the ultimate rebel here who bucks the system with every breath he takes. I've never known this kid to kowtow to authority of any kind. He argues with his teachers, he snubs the police, and he fights with my parents. Now all of a sudden he tows the line because Santa Clause said so. Give me a break.

I'll tell ya one thing right now. He's not getting so much as one of my malted milk balls. I can't believe he betrayed me like this. I'm not gonna forget this, believe you me. Just wait until he needs a favor. He can go kiss my fanny for all I care. Man, am I pissed.

And don't feed me that line about how Santa won't leave you anything if you catch him sorting out the presents. I already know better than that. I've seen it happen on TV a dozen times. All he does is shush you to be quiet, gives you a wink, and then dashes back up the chimney.

There is one specific reason why I wanted to catch Santa Claus in the act of weaving his magic. We don't have a chimney. I wanted to see how he got in and out so quickly. When he lands up on my roof he's still got to climb in through a narrow skylight and then walk down two flights of stairs to get to our apartment. I'm dying to see how he pulls that off.

Now that I've got all that out of my system, and the sleep rubbed out of my eyes, it's time to get down to the real nitty gritty. Let's go see what's under the tree, shall we?

Freeze this frame. This what I wanted to show you all along. I'm kneeling down on the living room floor surrounded by my family. Let me introduce you to them. First, let me show you my dad. Look at the smile on that guy's face. He's got more troubles then you can shake a stick at, but by the look on his face right now you'd swear this guy was sitting smack dab in the kingdom of Heaven.

And do you know what? In his frame of mind right now, he is. Just watching the excitement in our eyes as we rip open those gifts tells him that all the blood, sweat and tears he toils through every day of the year is all worth his while. What he gets in return is a family that loves him with all their heart and soul. Who could ask for anything more than that?

Okay, now take a look over there at my mom. That's not just a smile on her face that you're looking at. That smile twinkles in her eyes and radiates through her heart. At a time when everyone else in the neighborhood has one of those new-fangled automatic washing machines, she still doing our laundry bent over the kitchen sink pulling our wet clothes by hand through the wringers of that old wash tub machine. She got the bruises on her knuckles to prove it.

You couldn't make that woman happier than she is right now. When her children are happy, she's happy. That's what life is all about to her, making her children happy. When you've got a mother who loves you that much, you can't help but be happy. It comes with the territory.

Over there standing next to my dad is my oldest brother, Billy. You talk about a rebel without a cause? This kid's the ultimate. Challenging authority is this kid's middle name. I'll tell ya one thing about this kid though. His family means everything. This is one kid who never hesitates to roll up his sleeve and ball up his knuckle bone when it comes time to take care of his own. He loves his family. Make no mistake about that.

Next, is my big sister, Julie. She's always been like a little mother to me. She's the one who taught me how to read, to write, and to dance, long before they ever covered such things in school. I'd be totally lost without her in my life. Whenever I needed anything, if it was within her power to give, all I ever need do is ask.

And then there's my brother, Carl. That poor kid has struggled through life saddled with the debilitating burdens of Grand Mal Epilepsy. Hardly a day ever goes by when he isn't raced off to the hospital because of passing out on the sidewalk from a seizure. They've got him on so much medication that poor kid can barely function. Because of the support of a family who loves him, he's able to reach out beyond his limitations and find things to smile about. That love gives him an inner strength to cling to when the going gets tough.

And last, and yes least, there's me. If God has graced anyone on this earth with good fortune, he has certainly graced me. I have more blessings then I can shake a stick at. I often wonder, "What is it that God has planned for me? How do I fit into his scheme of things?" Sometimes I think I know. Sometimes I don't.

Don't get me wrong. I have known hard times. In my lifetime I've known homelessness and hunger. I've had my dreams dashed against the rocks more times than I care to admit, and my heart has broken many times over. But all of my misfortunes have been lessons. And if anyone were to ever ask me "What have you learned from it all?" I would honestly have to say that I have learned this.

There is no power on this earth stronger than love. It is the lesson we must continually learn every step along the way from the cradle to the grave. Under the heading of love comes charity, forgiveness, and understanding. The world gets ugly when it becomes devoid of such virtues. And whenever any of those gifts are bestowed upon you it touches your heart in ways that changes your whole outlook on life. It not only makes Everett a better place in which to live, but the entire whole wide world. And not just for ourselves either, but for our children's children as well.

That's what growing up in Everett is all about, isn't it? We began as separate families, in separate houses, on separate streets, in separate neighborhoods, and have grown into a worldwide fraternity of people who grew up in Everett. We're one big family now. Who could ask for a better Christmas gift than that?

Merry Christmas, Everybody. Thank you for being my friends. Now let's all go and enjoy the holiday with our family and friends. We deserve it. After all, "We're from Everett!"

To Our Grandchildren's Grandchildren

Having just knocked myself out running from one mall to another in a frantic effort to find things that don't exist even though "you-know-who" has them on her list, I'm just gonna mosey on over here and set a spell to watch the rest of the world go by.

Come to think of it, this is my third mall today and right over there across the way is yet another mile-long line of little kids waiting ever so anxiously to see Santa Claus. And that is the third Santa Claus I've seen today as well. And I'll be honest with ya. I've got this sneaking hunch like there's something kinda fishy going on here.

Okay, I know this guy is like magic. And I know it's no sweat for him to get to every mall just before I do. But what I don't understand are the drastic changes in his appearance every time he shows up at a different mall. Look at that Santa over there right now. The guy's as bald as he can be. When I saw him at the last mall he had a head full of hair. Go figure - right?

Another thing I noticed is that all the scenic Christmas decorations portray the simpler romantic images of the latter 1800's. I don't see any elves wearing doo rags with skulls and crossbones tattooed on their necks. And none of the gentleman who are tipping their top hats to the ladies are sporting ear rings and neck bling.

We idolize Christmas by fantasizing the environment of an age gone by. We imagine the quaint image of the humble watchmaker diligently working by candlelight, and of the loving couple so innocently holding hands while enjoying a horse drawn sleigh ride through the drifting snow. That's what we imagine, but when we open our eyes we see doo rags and neck bling.

It makes me wonder if our children's children will ever look back at us and romanticize about the times we lived in. They may, you never know. Take into consideration that their cars, more than likely, will hover above ground, and they will take for granted many technologies that we never thought would ever exist.

On such a premise, I'd like to take this opportunity to address that generation who will one day rule this roost. The generation I'm talking about is our grandchildren's grandchildren.

They will take for granted such things as a much cleaner environment due to a ban on fossil fuels, 3D hologramed visual communications, and cloning for medicinal purposes. Oh yeah, and lucky for them, they will be born long after the second American Revolution. The very one you are about to partake in.

So rather than sit here and talk about all of the things that you already know, this post is for them. This is an open Christmas letter to our grandchildren's grandchildren.

So to my grandchild's grandchild, you will know, just by reading this, that it was written a very long time ago. You see us as we see our grandparent's parents. We marveled at the quaintness of their times just as you do us. Many things will surprise you about us, just as our great grandparents do at times impress us.

We can only hope that when you get into the spirit of Christmas, you do so by fondly looking back at us with an air of heart felt nostalgia. We lived during uncertain turbulent times in comparison to yours, much like our great grandparents did in comparison to ours. It is important to know that growing up in Everett fueled a passion in our hearts that instilled a spirit of good fellowship that nobody can deny.

In the time frame within which I write, we are confined to fossil-fueled vehicles that move ever so erratically along the earth's surface. That overgrown network of pathways beneath you are the roads along which we traveled. And our communications network is a far cry from what you are accustomed to.

When we look back on our great grandparents we picture a world in which they traveled along cobblestone roads with horse and buggy. Having that image so deeply rooted in our mind's eye, it astonishes us when we discover how some of the modern conveniences of our era actually took root in their day.

For example, Joseph Nicéphore of Paris, using a sliding wooden box camera, took the first permanent photograph in 1826. Even more astonishing is the fact that Johann Zahn built the first camera compact enough to be practical for photography in 1685.

I know you laugh every time you visit a museum and see one of those fossil-fueled monstrosities we drove around in on the ground. It's hard for you to imagine, I know, but there were those amongst us who went deeply in debt just to show off in one of these fashion statements in mobility. Our great grandparents did the same thing with their lavish buggies and pedigree Clydesdales.

And as ancient as our grandparent's mode of transportation may seem, there were many significant innovations unfolding in their time. Joseph Cugnot of France built the first steam powered automobile in 1769. More closer to home for me is that Christopher Cockerell invented the hovercraft (which is, in fact, the prototype for your present day cruisepods) in 1956 when I was only 4 years old.

I know you shudder to think about all the pollution and toxins we suffered through during the waning days of the criminal corporate government that once ruled our great nation. It was, in fact, that criminal element of our society that inspired the second American Revolution of 2017 that you learn about through the Common Academy. Even still, many of the innovations made in medical science in our time became the forerunners for your good health.

Something very significant happened in 1952 besides my birth. That was the year the first animal, a tadpole, was cloned. It was almost another century before any serious milestones in medical research were established because of the narrow mindedness that permeated our era. Because of that, many people needlessly suffered and expired from infections that were easily curable through cloning.

At the time of this writing, we have just begun to move out of the sluggish age of print media, television, and radio, onto the Internet. What we call the Internet is a somewhat clumsy forerunner of the communications system that is so integrated with your everyday lives that you have no name for it.

Most importantly, I want to tell you what Christmas was really like for us kids growing up in Everett. At present (my timeline) the traditions of Christmas are seriously threatened for the second time in the history of these United States. Back in the early to mid 1600's the Puritans looked upon celebrating Christmas as blasphemy. As such, celebrating Christmas was outlawed from 1659 to 1681 in Boston. It carried a fine of six shillings.

After the 1st American Revolution the colonists frowned upon many British customs, including celebrating Christmas. Congress actually held session on December 25, 1789, which would have been the first Christmas under America's new Constitution. Christmas wasn't declared a federal holiday in America until June 26, 1870.

From that point on Christmas flourished. It took over every aspect of our lives after Thanksgiving. And you should have seen what it did to that little corner of the world we so affectionately called, Everett. The Township of Everett was also established in 1870. It didn't become a city until 1892. So for as far as the City of Everett is concerned, there was always Christmas.

Back here on my timeline we live in an age where everything an American holds dear has become somewhat of a dirty word. We're not allowed to say "God bless you" or "Merry Christmas" anymore out of fear that it may offend somebody. It's only our public servants who get on with all that nonsense and not the common citizenry. Coming from Everett and having the characteristics that we do, if we offend you with our heart felt convictions then we're more apt to tell you where to go and how to get there.

My only regret is that the advent of the temporal displacement unit is still about 23 years into the future. If only I could gather my fellow Everettites and whisk them off into the future so they could see the wonder of the Everett that you now know. It is hard for them to imagine an Everett fully restored. Even more so because they'd never recognize any of the notable landmarks that dominate the landscape in your time.

Now that the wonder of the Tipler Sinusoid induced Temporal Displacement Unit is a reality, I cordially invite you to come and experience the wonder of Christmas in Everett for yourself on my timeline. Look me up when you get here. Don't be afraid. For as you say on your timeline, "It's okay to contact those in the know."

Call me an old romantic if you will, but there is something about those old brick and mortar structures that strikes my fancy. They have a homey quality about them that your semi-stationary homepods never do achieve. Even the laboratory sterile environment of your domed landscape seems somewhat impersonal to me. I'll never get used to an Everett without sidewalks, roads, and a least a little bit of trash matted down in the gutters.

I'd love nothing more than to hitch a ride in one of your cruisepods. Just be careful when you first get here because we still have telephone poles, streetlights, and wires stretched across the landscape. They are just about at eye level to the height at which you normally cruise.

To feel the full effect of the Christmas spirit in Everett you'll need to cruise down here at the street level. I know you feel a bit out of sorts with that, but trust me, perspective means everything. Looking down at something just doesn't have the same effect as being down in the middle of it.

Down here at the street level you get to experience how the spirit of Christmas seeps into every nook and cranny of our lives. Let's start here at the big Christmas tree in front of the Parlin Library. On the surface, our tree lighting ceremony is nothing compared to the one in Rockerfeller Center, but only on the surface, mind you.

Look beneath the masquerade and you'll see a kindling of that true Everett spirit that I'm always getting on about. While the city workers scramble about checking bulbs and hooking up wires, the crowd swells in anticipation. I call it a crowd, but it's never really more than a couple of dozen people. Some do go out of their way to be here for this, but most just happen to be in the area at the time.

We put on airs as if this is no big deal really, but what I've always enjoyed most was watching everyone's face the moment that tree lights up for the first time. There is a magic in those twinkling lights that sends a chill right down to the marrow of your bones.

It touches our hearts in monumental ways. Everyone turns to each other with a smile that ignites that warmth we feel for each other. And we do feel a warm sense of good-fellowship towards each other because we live and breathe next door to each other. We're more than just neighbors. We're an integral part of each other's lives.

We do have much to be proud of. We are just a little tiny city in the middle of a large network of major conglomerates. But for as little as we are, we have made an indelible impact on the world around us. We've sent more football players to the pros than any of the other surrounding cities. We've produced world-renowned actresses, musicians, scholars, and entrepreneurs.

Hey, and get this. I graduated with this girl who was one of the quietest kids you'd ever meet. We chatted after class a few times. You could tell she was one of those silent types where the waters run deep. You know what I mean? I always thought that she was just a tad too shy for her own good.

Well, guess what happened to her? She became the CEO and President of a very successful international manufacturing firm. Okay, now if that ain't enough to stagger you back a bit, wait until you hear this. She's not only listed on the "Who's Who Register," but she received an achievement award from President Bush.

You'd think that should just about wrap it up right there. No way, Dude. This shy little kid goes even way beyond that. She's gone and gotten her name added to the National Aviation and Space Exploration Wall of Honor at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Washington D. C. Give me a break - right? Oh wait, there's still more. She is also a Research Partner with the American Diabetes Association.

We're talking about one of the kids I graduated from Everett High School with. So what have I accomplished in my lifetime? Well, I learned how to finger pick "Blackbird" by the Beatles. Oh yeah, and I know how to hand code javascript rollovers on a web page. And my name does appear in the phone book. That just about wraps it up for me.

What it really comes right down to is the fact that behind the rich and famous stand the little people who make up the essence of what it really means to grow up in Everett. People like Leo Brotman, who magically transformed the Park Theatre into world of wonder for every little kid in Everett. For just a quarter we crowded into that theatre to see a Three Stooges short, two cartoons, and a feature length movie.

During intermission you'd go up on stage for a balloon-breaking contest if you had a star on the back of your ticket, while the rest of us excitedly screamed and chanted at the top of our lungs in shear delight. By the end of the afternoon we were exhausted. There's no doubt about it. We had more fun partaking in the festivities at the Park Theatre than we did watching the movie.

Leo took the humdrum out of every Saturday afternoon and created a dream come true that enhanced our childhood beyond your wildest imagination. That man will undoubtedly live on in our hearts forever. That's the kind of people who made Everett so special.

Oh, and hey, we had this teacher at the Parlin Jr. High named Anthony Sarno. He was, at the very least, the archetypical prototype of all that a teacher could ever be. The guy was not only as suave and sophisticated as they come, but he was such a down to earth guy as well. In so many ways he was more like a trusted friend than he was a teacher.

He had a knack for reaching out to his students and igniting a passion for learning that stuck with us for the rest of our lives. He could easily get through the most impenetrable barriers amongst his more problematic students. Trust me on that one. The guy was all heart.

And of course, there was Lenny, the singing bus driver. He could brighten the darkest day with nothing more than a simple melody. And then we had people like Rosie. She was Boston's first and foremost independent female cab driver. She not only taxied us around from one end of the city to the other, but as an elected member of our city council she stood strong in the face of adversity against every injustice. She fought so hard for us because she truly did love us so.

And don't let me forget to mention all of the independent storekeepers that dotted the landscape throughout our fair city. They offered us far more than just a neighborhood store to run down to for a loaf of bread. Back in our day if you were a little short on cash you didn't have to go without. All you had to do was pop in, pick up your groceries and say, "Put it on my tab," and they did.

They extended you no-interest credit until payday without filling out triplicate forms that prodded into your personal affairs. They didn't add your name to the naughty list with the credit bureaus. And they certainly didn't treat you any differently just because you were a little down on your luck.

That's the kind of people I'm talking about. And believe you me, there are far too many more for me to ever mention here. Those are the very people who collectively made Everett an extraordinary place for a kid to grow up in. Surrounded with genuine neighbors like these, you couldn't help but feel the magic in Christmas all over the City of Everett. That's how I know there really is good in the world. These people put it there.

There's something else I'd like to point out to you about our Christmas in Everett. If you ever want to confuse a little kid out of his mind back in the late fifties and early sixties, all you had to do was take them for a spin through Everett during the Christmas holiday season. Now you know how small Everett is, right? Well, within the time it takes you to drive the length of Broadway from Everett Square down to Glendale Square, you'd see no less than a half a dozen different bell-ringing Santa Clauses.

When I was a little kid, I couldn't help but wonder, "Which one of these is the real Santa Claus?" Was it the big fat jolly one standing in front of Kresge's, or was it that tall thin one out in front of the Waldorf? Maybe it's the one in Gorins because he's the one who lets you sit up on his knee.

The one down in Glendale Square has dark eyebrows. I find that a little strange, don't you? I have my serious doubts about that one staggering around out in front of the Brown Derby. And the one standing out in front of the Stop & Shop is always leaning up against building puffing on a cigarette. That just doesn't cut it as a genuine Santa Clause in my book.

I rather doubt they'd stoop so low as to stick the real Santa Clause down in Glendale Square anyway, but you never know. I just hope they straighten this mess all out before Christmas Eve. The last thing I need is a half a dozen phony Santa Clauses jammed up in my chimney when the real one shows up. That'd be just my luck, I'm telling ya.

So yeah, the scenery, the decorations, the chiming church bells in the background, the sidewalk shoppers smiling to themselves as they walk to and fro across Broadway with arm loads of gift wrapped bundles do help set the stage for the Christmas spirit here in Everett. But above all else, it's sharing the magic of the moment with ordinary people, who under ordinary circumstances, come together as a community in an extraordinary way to instill a sense of good fellowship amongst themselves.

You couldn't ask for a better reason to celebrate Christmas. If it truly is all about sharing, and caring, and giving, then the people of Everett is what Christmas is really all about. So you see, Christmas in Everett is special because Everett, and her people, are special. Being one of them is all I could ever hope to ask of Santa Clause for Christmas. Having been granted that, I'll just go ahead and ask God to bless each and every one of my fellow Everettites.

So now, my children's children, you have transcended the historic timeline of Christmas in Everett. Hopefully, you have discovered what it is that puts the spirit of Christmas in Everett. For as politically incorrect as the message my sound, it is loud and clear.

There is a God. And within each and every one of us he has instilled a reason and a special purpose for our being here. Just by the way we have reached out and touched each other's lives tells me so. That's why I celebrate Christmas. And among the many other reasons include the opportunity to get my name written in the "Book of Life," and to give thanks for the simple truth that "We're from Everett!"

Promise Her Anything

One of the biggest thrills associated with Christmas is the mystique of the unknown. The curiosity factor will drive a little kid completely out of his mind. Who amongst us has never once gone snooping around the house trying to find out what we were getting for Christmas? Oh sure, once or twice I did uncover the mystery behind one of my smaller gifts, but I never once found any of my major ones.

Years later my mother let the cat out of the bag when she told us that, "Whenever we bought anything really big for any one of you kids we kept it at Aunt Grace's house up in Wilmington until Christmas Eve. Whatever we didn't store up at Aunt Grace's house we hid upstairs in Mr. McGlauphlin's apartment.

Other than that, Julie did find her Easy Bake Oven hidden up on the top shelf out in the back hall closet under some rags. Billy found his portable Philco Radio hidden behind a pile of old shoeboxes in my mother's closet. All I ever found was a couple of stocking stuffers wedged in behind my mother's record albums. With a record collection consisting largely of Tennessee Ernie Ford, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline, I wasn't prone go thumbing through my mother's albums as an idle past time so it really was a good hiding spot.

My mother was just as bad as us kids when it came to snooping around looking for hidden Christmas gifts. She never found one either. There's a good reason for that. Most times there wasn't one to find until just hours before all the stores closed on Christmas Eve. My dad was the ultimate procrastinator. Besides, he had so many gift ideas to sift through he couldn't seem to make up his mind until he was forced into it.

So where did all these conflicting gift ideas come from? From TV, where else? When those Christmas specials came on TV, the four of us kids gathered around on the living room floor, my mom settled back in that over-stuffed easy chair of hers, and my dad always sprawled out on the couch. They'd shush you death if you started talking during the program, but there were no holds barred when the commercials came on.

They always showed those real neat toy commercials during Frosty the Snowman, Suzie Snowflake, and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. You know, things like that awesome "Mister Machine," the "Give a Show" Projector, and the "Fanner Fifty." My mother's favorite commercials were the ones they showed during the Ed Sullivan show, Loretta Young, and the Mitch Miller Christmas special.

That's when you'd see those ads for expensive jewelry and things like that. And man, would she make with the subtle hints. Well, to be honest with ya, they were more like sarcastic remarks than they were subtle hints. She'd say things like, "Boy, that'd be the day when I'd get a bracelet like that. Those days of wine and rose sure went by with the blink of an eye."

"Oh, here she goes," my dad would groan.

The truth of the matter is that this really is the one time each year when it's important for a guy to focus all of his attention on showing his better half how much she truly means to him. It's hard to know what the little lady really wants for Christmas sometimes. Unless, of course, she's an Everett girl.

If you're lucky enough to have settled down with an Everett girl, you're not gonna have to sit and guess at all kinds of subtle hints as to what she really wants for Christmas. Not only will an Everett girl come right out and tell ya what she wants, but she'll let you know right from the very start that she'll break your neck if you don't get it for her. And she'll do it, too. You mark my words. That's what so precious about Everett girls. There are no gray areas. It's all cut and dry.

Now, for all you Sad Sacks from Everett who ran off and got yourself hitched to a gal from Malden or Chelsea, well, that's a whole nuther ball game. If your gal's from Malden, then you can just run down to your local Army & Navy and pick her out a good stocking cap. If she's from Chelsea you can pick her up a sub on your way home.

I'm teasing, of course, but I've got to laugh sometimes when I think about some of the things my dad bought my mother for Christmas over the years. That guy simply had no clue as to how to treat a lady. Don't get me wrong. He loved that woman with all of his heart. He just had no idea whatsoever as to how to express the way he felt.

Before I go any further, I've got to tell ya something about my mother and father. They were too funny for words. My sister, Julie, will back me up on this. My mother and father were the spitting image of the Honey Mooners. My dad even looked like Raplh Cramden. In all fairness, they were ten times funnier than the Honey Mooners ever dared to be.

My dad always called my mom a "clean freak." Well, I suppose he would, given the fact that he was probably the biggest slob on the planet. By the time he finished cooking breakfast there was egg running down the front of the stove, bread crumbs from his toast all over the kitchen floor, and milk rings from his glass stamped all over the counter. And believe me when I tell ya, you'd more than likely step on a pat butter or two on your way into the bathroom.

Every Sunday morning he'd wake my mother up out of a sound sleep with all of the racket he made cooking breakfast. And the first thing she'd see after rubbing the sleep out of her eyes was a stack of dirty pots and pans piled up so high in the kitchen sink that they'd teeter on the brink of toppling over.

"What, in God's name, is going on out here?" She'd shout.

"I'm just cooking some breakfast," he looked back at her as if she was out of her mind.

"What, on Earth, did you cook?"

"I just made two scrambled eggs and a piece of toast."

"That's not possible," she'd yell back at him. "You mean to tell me that you've got two frying pans, a spaghetti pot, two dishes, a bowl, and a casserole dish piled up in the kitchen sink for just two scrambled eggs and a piece of toast?"

"Well, what did you expect?" he'd say as if that was normal. "What's the big deal anyway? I'll clean it up when I'm done."

And he would, too. The only thing is that when he finished washing the dishes there was still butter grease and egg yoke stuck to the bottom of the pans, and finger prints all over the spoons and forks. Not to mention that you were still crunching bread crumbs under your feet when you walked across the kitchen floor.

Even after he finished cleaning up it took my mother another hour and a half to clean up the mess he made from cleaning up. She'd come back out into the kitchen about half an hour later to find him sitting down at the table making a peanut butter sandwich.

"Don't tell me you're eating again," she'd snap at him.

"What of it?"

"And you wonder why you can't lose any weight," she'd say sarcastically as she started picking up after him before he even finished spreading the peanut butter on his bread.

"For crying out loud, Grace. Can't you wait until I'm done before you start cleaning up?"

"When are you ever gonna be done? Tell me that, will ya? When will you ever stop eating?"

"That woman," he'd mumble on his way into the living room with his sandwich in one hand and a big glass of milk in the other. "You're in for a rude awakening one of these days."

"One of these days?" She'd snap back. "I got my rude awakening the day I said, "I do."

My aunts and uncles up in Newfoundland tell me that these two were once a passionate couple. I guess they'd have to be to survive being penned up in a small apartment with four wild kids - right? And I suppose it only stands to reason that it takes passion to have four kids in the first place.

As I see it, when you add four kids into the equation on top of all those hard knocks life dishes out, passion takes a back seat after a while. The love was still there. You could see it in an ironic sort of way. As for the passion, well, that must have happened before I came along.

So like I said, the love was still there. And my dad was hell bent on expressing those sentiments come Christmas, let me tell ya. Now you wouldn't expect a barefoot farm boy from Indiana to really have his finger on the pulse of what pleases a lady in the first place, now would ya? Trust me, I know these Hoosiers. They don't. They can rope a steer, or shuck an ear of corn with the best of em, but when it comes to charming the ladies they are way out of their league.

Today, the internet offers a wealth of knowledge to the clueless. No matter where you live you can keep abreast with what's going on in the world. It's an open-source two-way medium so it gives you the ability to add input, to challenge, and to verify any of the information published on it. Such was not the case back in the fifties and sixties.

Newspapers, radio, and television are closed-source one-way mediums. They offer the recipient no input, and no way to challenge, or verify, the information they disseminate. As such, these mediums give its publishers full reign over controlling the message they broadcast.

Knowing this, advertisers effectively take unfair advantage using the uncontested messaging system inherent in one-way communications to manipulate the mindset of their listening, viewing, and reading public. Bombarding the recipient with the same message repeatedly becomes hypnotic over time. Using this method they can trick their audience into believing that many a falsehood is, indeed, true.

By using the word "meltdown" instead of "explosion" no one gets all hot and bothered when things go seriously wrong at a nuclear power planet, even though a "meltdown" is in fact, a nuclear "explosion." Using this unchallenged form of disseminating information they've convinced many a younger generation that they'd look cool if they polluted their lungs with cigarette smoke. And they also convinced many a naive young man that the best way to express his true affections to his better half over the Christmas holiday was to surprise her with a brand new ironing board.

My father fell serious victim to that school of thought. He must have dozed off during the "Diamonds are forever" and "Promise her anything, but give her Arpege" commercials. Funny how he never seemed to miss those "On Christmas Morning she'll be happier with a Hoover" ads. They must have shown them during the two-minute warning.

Let me tell you another thing I've noticed over the years. Wall calendars should come with a stern warning on the December page that reads "Warning: dates are actually closer than they appear!" All through the month of December my mom would keep badgering my dad about how he had better not disappoint her again this year. And my dad would continually assure her that "I've got something extra special in mind for you this Christmas."

Having something in mind and having something bought and wrapped are two very different animals. As they say, "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." And at the rate my father moves on his Christmas shopping list, he's not likely to get anywhere near anything more than a promise for a very long time.

You've got to give credit where credit is due. I've seen quite a few Everett guys pull a rabbit out of their hat at the very last possible moment sometimes. On the other hand, I've seen them fumble the ball on the goal line more often than not. If you ever want to see what I mean by that all you've got to do is take a walk down to Grants or Liggets in Glendale Square on Christmas Eve.

That's where you'll find all those guys who snoozed through the "Diamonds are forever" commercials. You can forget all about the old "Say it with flowers" jingle with these guys. These are the guys who think that they can pull it off in the last ten seconds of the game with a Hail Mary on fourth down from their own goal line.

The funny thing is that they'll come strolling out of Liggets at 4:59 on Christmas Eve with this great big "you-know-what" eating grin on their face thinking they've got it all figured out. Thanks to all those compounded mixed messages those deceitful advertisers snuck in at half time, these guys honestly think that Handy Dandy Carpet Sweeper they scored for a saw buck is actually going to spark the fire of passion in their little lady's eyes on Christmas morning. Oh, they're gonna see fire all right. You mark my words.

My dad has sure seen the passion in my mother's eyes a couple of times on Christmas morning over the years. It was rarely the variety of passion he was anticipating, but hey, beggars can't be choosers - right? Let me tell ya a little bit more about these moonstruck parents of mine.

It should come as no surprise that my artistic and musical talent had to come from somewhere. My great aunt used to tell me that my mother was an accomplished artist. I somehow gathered that already because when my mother doodled on the back of envelopes, the drawings were so beautiful that it seemed a shame to throw them away.

When she was a little girl, my mother used to sit up in her bedroom and paint beautiful landscapes with oils on her mirror. She painted gathering clouds across deep blue skies above rolling hills complete with a flock of sheep, a shepherd, a country farmhouse, and groves of trees. My aunts and uncles told me the paintings were far superior to the ones they saw in any art gallery.

"So, why didn't she become an artist?" I'd ask. They said she would never let anyone see her paintings. As soon as anyone entered her room, she took a rag and wiped the painting off the mirror so no one would see it. What a funny kid - no?

During my first trip up to Newfoundland, my Uncle Jack asked me to play something for him on my guitar. Knowing Uncle Jack didn't want to hear anything by the Rolling Stones or the Beatles, I played my rendition of "Wonderland By Night."

With a somewhat astonished look on his face, he said, "Paul, that was beautiful. I've never heard anyone play guitar like that. I did not expect anything like that to come out of you. I suppose I should have, knowing your mother's musical talent."

"My mother's musical talent? My mother has musical talent?" I surprisingly asked.

"You don't know about your mother's musical talent? Haven't you ever heard her play the violin?"

"Are we talking about the same person here?" I had to ask.

"Paul, your mother plays the violin ever so beautifully."

When I asked my mother about that she said, "Oh, your Uncle Jack is exaggerating. I never could play very well."

Modesty was always her stronger suit. Naturally, I would take her word over Uncle Jack's, but then her sister, her other brother, her mother, and her father backed up Uncle Jack on this one.

The truth is, you'd never suspect any of this if you really knew my mother. She's religiously agnostic, politically conservative, and sees the artistic value in nothing. My mother is materialistic right down to the core. She's so practical it scares me.

Having learned about her hidden musical tendencies, it came as no surprise that when Casio came out with their first line of compact organs featuring both organ and piano modes, they really caught her attention. That was the year she emphatically told my father, "That's what I want for Christmas."

As practical as she was, the five-hundred dollar price tag was no deterrent on this matter. It really was a beautiful instrument. It featured full sized ivory keys, a rock maple console, a twenty-four instrument sound bank, and an auto-accompaniment rhythm section. This instrument was a giant leap in technology for its time.

Now, let me tell you about my Dad. My father was born and raised on the farmlands of southern Indiana. He had a streak of religion in him, but my mother kept talking it down. My dad could talk to anybody about anything. And he did.

What also surprised me about my Dad was the knowledge that came out of this country boy sometimes. Thumbing through a copy of the Art Journal at the kitchen table one day, I came across an article about American painters. Without even reading the article, he looked at the picture and said, "That's Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, by John Singer Sargent. He was an impressionist." My jaw dropped.

As a country boy, he possessed none of the required social skills when it came to wooing the ladies. My mother always said that came as no liability to him because he was such a good-looking young man. Well it became quite the liability for him this year on Christmas - I'll tell ya.

Now here's where we get to the funny side of the continuing saga of Bill and Grace. For months my mother did not hint, she outwardly said, "I want that organ for Christmas." She said it day after day for months. What would you do if the love of your life kept saying over and over again exactly what it is she wanted for Christmas?

You know what's coming - right? Sure enough, come Christmas morning when we all gathered around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts, my mother took one look at that box my father had all wrapped up for her and said, "That doesn't look like the organ I wanted. I'm telling you right now if that isn't the organ I wanted, you're in big trouble."

What a way to start the holy observance of the birth of our savior - right? I'm telling you - my family would make the funniest situation comedy in the history of television. Anybody else would have played it a little more tactfully - I'm sure. Not my mom, she tells it like it is regardless of anyone else's feelings.

Here's how their conversation went that Christmas morning.

(dad) "Now, just hold on a minute, Grace. Wait until you see what it is. You're going to be pleasantly surprised."

(mom) "I'm telling you right now, Bill. That box isn't big enough to hold the organ I wanted. If that organ isn't here, you're life isn't worth a nickel. Believe me, that organ better be here."

(dad) "Go ahead and open your gift. I think you'll really appreciate this," he said passing her the gift.

I knew all hell was about to break loose. I didn't dare fetch my tape recorder, but I knew I was about to miss out on the recording of a lifetime. Okay, enough monologue already. Let's get back to enjoying our loving family Christmas moment with the Huffmans in Everett.

She ripped the wrapping off the box in one fell swoop.

(mom) "You've got to be kidding me. You got me a stupid shoe rack for Christmas?"

(dad) "Yeah, I thought you'd really appreciate that to organize all your shoes in the closet."

(mom) "Are you serious? Do I look like some kind of social butterfly to you? I've only got three pairs of shoes. What would I want with a stupid shoe rack?"

(dad) "I though you'd appreciate a more practical gift."

(mom) "I've been telling you exactly what I wanted for the past six months. I cannot believe you gave me a shoe rack for Christmas. I didn't hint. I came right out and told you exactly what I wanted. How could you possibly be so stupid?"

(dad) "For crying out loud, Grace. It's Christmas."

(mom) "Don't give me that - it's Christmas routine. If I meant anything at all to you, you'd have bought me the only thing I ever asked for. How could you possibly imagine I would even remotely want anything so impersonal as a stupid shoe rack?"

(dad) "It's not stupid. Look what it says on the box."

(mom) "You read the stupid box. I couldn't care less what it says. Do yourself a favor. Get dressed, take this shoe rack out of my sight before I hit you with it, and go buy me that organ."

(dad) "I can't now. It's Christmas morning. Let's just settle down and enjoy our Christmas."

(mom) "You don't honestly think I'm celebrating Christmas with the likes of you, do you?"

She stood up, stormed off into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. My dad went over and knocked on the bedroom door and said, "Come on now, Grace, It's Christmas. Let's try to have a happy holiday."

"Get away from my door before I lose my temper," she shouted. She spent the rest of that Christmas day locked in her room. Try to compare that to the Brady Family Christmas - why don't ya? And to think, I didn't catch any of that on my tape recorder.

She did eventually unlock the door and forgive him. Why should she not? After Christmas he went right out and bought her that organ. It makes you wonder why he didn't just do that in the first place. The irony here is that she never once sat down to play that organ. It stayed up on the shelf in her closet for years. She eventually gave it to me.

Let that be a lesson to all you guys out there. Here's how it usually works. When you're out shopping with your better half, forget about whether or not the Patriots are gonna break the Dolphin's record. Keep your eye on the little lady. When something catches her eye and her face lights up and she says, "Isn't that lovely?" That's it, dude. That's all you need to know.

So what am I getting Carol for Christmas? I thought about the shoe rack, but I haven't really decided yet. Maybe she'd like a new carpet sweeper, or an ironing board, instead. She really does need a new mop and bucket. And it's getting harder and harder to find a quality scrub board nower days, even at Christmas.

Thanks for stopping by and sharing some of my Everett Christmas memories. I've got to run along now and get some shopping done. I can't tell you what I got Carol for Christmas because it's a secret. Besides that, she reads my blog.
And why does she read my blog? Because, "She's from Everett!"

My Aluminum Christmas

Okay, in my last posting I told you a little bit about shopping for a Christmas tree down at the Stop & Shop parking lot in Glendale Square when I was a little kid. And let's face it, no matter how many decorations they throw up in those storefront windows, it doesn't feel like Christmas until you go shopping for your tree.

Back in 1961 artificial Christmas trees became all the rage, and largely because of all the advertising hype. My dad was always somewhat of a technology freak, but my mom was a dyed in the wool traditionalist. She always insisted on a scotch pine Christmas tree because of the fullness of its branches.

I must admit, the scotch pines do have a fullness to them that make the traditional fir pines look somewhat bare in comparison. On the other hand, you can't fit as many bulbs and lights on the scotch pine because of the fullness of its needles.

When they started coming out with those artificial trees, my dad wanted one in the worse way. My mom was dead set against it. "It won't feel like Christmas without the alluring scent of evergreen filling up the house," she said.

"You can get the smell of the evergreen in a spray can now," was my father's argument.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Bill. How more phony can you get? An artificial tree and imitation smells are the exact opposite of what Christmas is supposed to be about. The next thing you know we'll be wrapping gifts in wax paper and sending our Christmas greetings out on notebook paper. I want a real Christmas tree and that's final."

Let me tell you something I learned about women over the years. Sometimes they drop subtle hints and we guys don't pick up on it. They get pissed and we wind up sleeping on the couch. Even still, us guys are always complaining about how women don't always come right out and say what they mean. Am I right?

That being the case, when they do come right out and say what they mean, it is our responsibility to respond in kind, even if it means giving them our undivided attention at the two minute warning during the Superbowl. For as they say, "The man who gives his wife no peace during the day will get no piece at night."

So even after my mother insisted on a real Christmas tree, my dad couldn't help himself. Those sparkling new aluminum Christmas trees down at J.M. Fields tugged at his heartstrings with a force far too strong to deny. I have my dad to thank for showing me how to treat women. Whenever in doubt, I always think, "What would my dad do in a situation like this?" And then I do the exact opposite.

1961 was the year my father came home from work lugging that big long box from J.M. Fields with the aluminum Christmas tree in it. As he was pulling it out of the box he said, "Let's keep it all organized so we can pack it all back up in the box after Christmas."

"Don't bother," my mother replied. "After Christmas that thing's going out in the trash where it belongs."

That was our funniest Christmas ever. Even my mother had to laugh. You know how things get so screwed up that the frustration overwhelms you so you just bust out laughing? It's crazy I know, but it does happen. Well that's what happened to my mother that year. Christmas went so wrong that she just shook her head and laughed.

Not only did we have that big ugly aluminum Christmas tree in our living room, but to add insult to injury, it came with this rotating 4-color wheel balanced over a spotlight that threw color on that aluminum tree like a giant disco dance ball. That was also the year my father bought one of those "Magic Color Screens" for our TV down at Grants. Now there's an item I'll never forget.

The Magic Color Screen was a strip of acetate that stuck over your TV screen. It was hyped up to magically transform your b&w TV to color. It was just a square transparent sheet of plastic with a strip of red along the top, a strip of yellow along the middle, and a strip of blue along the bottom.

When you watched Bob Copeland give the weather on WBZ, his hair and forehead were red. His face and neck were yellow. And his torso was blue. When they did a close-up of Jack Chase on the news, his big giant forehead was red, from his eyebrows to his chin was yellow, and from his neck down was blue. 30 seconds of that was enough to drive you out of your mind.

So there we sat in the middle of our living room while the whole room changed from Blue, to red, to yellow, and then green because of that stupid Christmas tree spotlight while watching our TV with a 3-color overlay. It was like being trapped inside of a bad LSD trip. Timothy Leary would have loved Christmas at our house in 1961, let me tell ya.

So now it's time to decorate our aluminum Christmas tree. There's a challenge and half for ya right there. You can just imagine how difficult it is to highlight an aluminum Christmas tree with tinsel. "That's the beauty of this tree," my dad said. "With this tree you don't need any tinsel." And how right he was.

What you did need with this tree was a pair of sunglasses. As soon as you plugged in those blinking Christmas tree lights they reflected off the aluminum with a vengeance. It was like staring into a strobe light at point blank range. Too bad Led Zeppelin hadn't come along yet because they'd have been the perfect background music for this scenario, believe you me.

Our living room got so bright you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. I'm sure I would have fancied the experience more during my hippie days, but for now I had to stand out on the sidewalk to comfortably enjoy it. It was either that or run the risk of going blind.

I recall sitting at my desk in Miss Martinelli's third grade class up at the Horace Mann that year. She asked how many of us had decorated our Christmas trees so far. And of course, I was one of the many kids who raised his hand.

Then she asked, "Does anyone have one of those new artificial trees this year?" I wasn't gonna say anything, but then Karen, who lived next door, spoke out and said, "Paul Huffman does."

See how obvious it was? Even the neighbors had to shut their blinds when we lit up our Christmas tree. And it's not because the houses are so close in Everett either. That thing shimmered like a cobalt thermonuclear bonfire. I think I got a tan from our Christmas tree that year.

One thing I do miss about our old fashioned Christmas traditions is the kind of lights we used to hang on our trees. Nower days we've got these strands of mini blinking lights. Yes, they are far less of a fire hazard, but they just don't give off the warm glow that those big old-fashioned lights did. And I miss those lights that looked like an eyedropper filled with colored water that bubbled. Remember those? I loved those things.

Another problem we ran into was that the aluminum wasn't strong enough to support the angel we traditionally placed at the top of our tree. Our angel was a beautifully hand-made doll my mother had since she was a little girl up in Newfoundland. That thing meant the world to her. It truly was a work of art in itself.

To solve this dilemma my dad ran back down to Grants and bought a cheap looking plastic star with a bland looking light bulb smack dab in the center of it. As if this tree needed another light bulb, right?

You can only imagine my mother's disappointment over our holiday decorations that year. "This is the ultimate," she complained. "I don't have a real tree. I can't enjoy my Christmas angel. And that stupid rotating colored spotlight makes the room look like it's spinning around. I feel like I'm trapped on the carousel at the hippodrome on Revere Beach. It's making me so dizzy I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"Oh, it's not that bad, Grace," my father replied. "Don't you like to experience something new and exotic once in awhile?"

"New and exotic doesn't have to be repulsive," she argued. "Just because I've never eaten raw fish doesn't mean I should run right out an order a bowl of Sushi if I already know that I won't like it. New and exotic should be something I know I'd enjoy, not something I don't care to experience in the first place."

1961 turned out to be a designer's curse for the Christmas decorating aficionados. Even the storefront windows featured aluminum Christmas tree decorations complete with those rotating color wheels. You couldn't get away from those things that year. Gorins, Grants, Kresge's, and even some of Jordan Marsh's windows in downtown Boston had them.

"I think Senator Joseph McCarthy was right," my mother said. "The commies have infiltrated Christmas." Of course, I had no idea what a commie was, but I'm sure it had something to do with aluminum.

I do remember when Senator McCarthy accused Lucille Ball of being a "left winger." When I asked my dad what a "left winger" was he said, "It's a position played in hockey." So for years I couldn't get over the fact that Lucille Ball played hockey. Even more amazing was the fact that some wild-eyed senator on TV was all hot and bother over it.

Man, you talk about chauvinistic? What business is it of his if a girl wants to play hockey anyway? Hey, the way I see it is that what she does on her own time is nobody else's business. "Live and let live," I always say.

Now, if my memory serves me well, this was also the very first time my dad drove us out to that ritzy neighborhood in Saugus where they decorate their houses for Christmas with such fanfare that it puts the Enchanted Village to shame. That too, was an experience in itself I'll never forget.

Here we come putting along in our broken down Ford leaking oil all over the street, and spewing thick black smoke out of the exhaust pipe into everybody else's face. And it only seems fitting that since all of us kids in the back seat were only dressed in our pajamas that that old jalopy of ours would break down smack dab in the middle of that ritzy neighborhood.

Make no mistake about it, the Huffman's from Everett have arrived. What a sight to behold, I'm telling ya. Us four kids stood out on the sidewalk shivering in the cold in our pajamas while my dad crawled under the car to fix our dangling muffler, which sounded more like a motorcycle by the way, with a bent up piece of a clothes hanger. My mother was mortified, to say the least. I couldn't tell which was more of the spectacle, the Christmas displays or the down trodden Huffmans.

To make matters worse, you don't honestly think that four little barefoot kids in the snow are going to behave, now do ya? You've got to remember that these kids come from Everett. Not more than a minute into this scenario and we're running barefoot through everybody's Christmas decorations having a major snowball fight.

Next thing you know, Julie's yelling out, "Hey Ma, Billy tripped over some wires and knocked out Santa's sleigh."

"You kids get over here, stand next to this car, and behave yourselves before I snap and crucify the whole lot of ye." Yeah, my mother says "ye" because she's a Newfie.

"Ma, I gotta pee my brains out."

"For Cry's Sake, Paul. Every time there's a crisis you've gotta pee your brains out."

"I can't help it."

"Haven't you got that stupid thing fixed yet, Bill?"

"For crying out loud, Grace, I'm lying on my back in a puddle trying to fix a broken muffler without any tools and you want me to hurry up. It can't be done," he snaps back.

"What have I done to my life?" She throws up her hands.

Minutes later we're piling back into the car and putting off down the road. You'd think the worse was over, but you couldn't be further from the truth if you tried. Not more than a minute after my mother had to turn around in her seat to give us all a whack for fighting over territory, one of our tires blew out. We barely made it up around the corner and here we are standing out on the side of the road again.

By the time we got back home it was well after midnight. It took us about four and a half hours to take a twenty minute ride. Now we all need baths again because our feet are filthy from running around barefoot in the snow. When she finally does get us all in bed for the night she does so with these final words.

"Don't you dare let me hear so much as another peep out of any one of you or I'll come storming in here with the belt, and I swear I'll beat you all to a pulp. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"For heaven's sake, Grace, it isn't their fault," my father scolds her.

"Don't say it. Don't even open your mouth," she snaps back at him.

He doesn't either. He knows better. They say women are the weaker sex, but there comes a time when every man knows not to turn the heat up any higher under a boiling pot.

You call these hard times? I call em precious. I'd give anything to journey back in time and live through those heart-felt memories all over again. Nah, we didn't have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, but we had each other. Not all the money in the world can buy that.

What makes these stories so funny is that they are true-life experiences. They are a reflection of what life really is all about. We don't laugh about the normal things that happen in our lives. In all actuality, we tend to forget the normal things as soon as they pass. It's when things go haywire that life gets interesting.

Now this is what I call a dysfunctional family Christmas, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's moments like these that tug at my heartstrings. For you see, it's the hard times that draw people closer together. It's like what legendary motivational speaker, Les Brown, once said. "When times are profitable you put it in your pocket. But when times are hard, you put it in your heart."

The clock is always ticking. Nothing is ever cut in stone, and this journey is just a passing fancy. I can only hope that you all do realize that I am ever so grateful for the opportunity to have shared my time on planet Earth along side of you. We may never pass this way again. It gladdens my heart dearly that I made this journey with you. I dare say, you truly are God's gift to me.

And don't ever lose sight of the fact that you never have to go it alone. You are one of a proud and loyal fraternity. That's exactly why that email link is right there, just in case you feel the need to reach out and touch someone.

You belong. You're family. "You're from Everett!"

With Your Heart

Perhaps far more times than I could possibly ever remember, both my parents and my teachers at school have often said "You only hear what you want to hear." Oh, if I were to give you a for instance I suppose the best example would be the time when Miss Blake, who was my sixth grade teacher at the Horace Mann, gave us a homework assignment to write a brief biography of a well-known American author. Simple enough instructions -- right?

On the day the assignment was due, she called upon us, one by one, to stand beside our desks and read our compositions out loud to the rest of the class. As I sat and listened to some of the other kids read what they had written, I knew that I had missed the mark by more than a mile. For I had not written a brief biography about a well-known American author at all. Instead, I wrote about something that happened to me over the summer vacation.

Now let me explain something to you here and now. It's just a theory, but I have reason to belief that not all of my marbles are in the right order. I say that because you may try to explain something to me that is as simple as a pencil, but something in my frontal lobe goes haywire and I just don't grasp the concept. On the other hand, all I have to do is look at a the schematics of an electronic synthesizer and I'll understand it as if it were as simple as "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." Go figure.

That being as it may, I survive by feeling my way through this complex maze using the trial and error method on everything I do. From experience I know that when Miss Blake calls on me, the best thing for me to do is to offer no explanation whatsoever before standing up in front of the whole class and making a complete fool of myself. You'd probably think otherwise I know, but trust me, I've been through all this before.

Here's how it works. Not matter how hard I try to line up my head directly behind Tommy's so she can't see me, she'll call on me after she's listened to the two smartest students in the class. I always wind up third. It never fails. And that's exactly how it happened on that particular day.

She said, "Paul Huffman, let's hear what you've written."

"Yes, Miss Blake." I said with complete confidence as if what I'm about to read will fit the bill even though I knew better. By the end of the second sentence she stopped me saying, "Hold it right there, young man. That doesn't sound anything like what I gave out as the assignment. Would you please explain to me how what you did over the summer vacation has anything to do with the biography of a well-known American author?"

"Ohhh," I replied. "You wanted a biography of an author? I thought you said, "write as if you were a well-known American Author." I'm sorry. I'll have to rewrite my assignment. My apologies." Then, I sat down.

"Why is it that you are the only one in this entire class that misunderstood such a simple assignment?" She asked with the most befuddled look I've ever seen upon her face. "Your problem is that you only hear what you want to hear, instead of what people are actually saying to you. Isn't that right?"

"I am so sorry, Miss Blake. For some reason I misunderstood. My rewrite will be exactly what you're looking for. I'll make you proud of me. I promise."

"See that you do," she said with that presumptuous air of authority.

What you do is appeal to their pride. Let them know that you respect their authority and are willing to conform to their rules. You stroke their ego, is what you do. You do that and you'll get away with just about anything. I'm telling ya right now, it's the basic law of survival in the Everett public school system. It works every time.

I'll be honest with ya, though. Miss Blake was right. You would not believe how many times in my life that I screwed up a homework assignment because of the way my brain waves deciphered what the teacher had said. My ears heard every word in the proper order, but for some reason my brain reached a completely different interpretation of the message intended.

What I've boiled it down to is that I have a cognitive flaw in my consciousness somewhere. This doesn't just happen with verbal instructions. It also happens when I look at things. I don't always interpret what I see at face value. And although I've never heard anybody say, "You only see what you want to see," I remember times when someone else and I looked at the very same thing, and yet our interpretations of what we were looking at were worlds apart.

That flaw in my cognitive intellect may very well be the reason I perceive my growing up in Everett as an extraordinary experience. Thumb through my archives. See if you actually do find any spectacular adventures in my life. You're not going to find me dangling by my thumbs off the ledge of a skyscraper, or free falling towards the steeple of the Immaculate Conception from an exploding dirigible, or being chased through the Rockwood Auditorium by Russian spies. Nothing as spellbinding as that ever happened to me.

What you will find is common everyday occurrences that have touched me in monumental ways. And they did so because of my frame of reference at the time they happened. Like that cold wintery morning when Joey and me were walking home from Sam's Spa. I remember it as if it happened only yesterday.

It happened on a Saturday. The clouds had already darkened the morning sky. With the cuffs of our jacket sleeves yanked down over our knuckles, and our hoods pulled up over our heads to shelter us from that biting wind, we sauntered ever so casually along the sidewalks of Ferry Street. While nibbling away at our Turkish Taffy, we pondered such noteworthy issues as to whether or not Killer Kowalski could beat up Zorro, or if Jack Lalane was strong enough to pin Haystack Calhoun in a headlock.

These are the kinds of paradoxical concepts inquisitive minds like ours scrutinized on a daily basis. Since we're dealing with hypothetical concepts here, it is important to carefully weigh the facts before drawing any biased conclusions. What you don't want is to get into a heated argument in the middle of the playground and wind up looking like a fool in front of the whole neighborhood because you failed to take the situation under advisement beforehand.

It does happen. You'll be standing around the playground arguing over who the fastest man alive is so you pipe up and say something stupid like, "Oh yeah? Well, Superman can fly faster than a speeding bullet." Somebody in the crowd will definitely rip your theory to shreds by simply saying, "Bullets are real and Superman is fictitious, you nincompoop." You'll feel like pulling a bag down over your head and hiding under the monkey bars until the streetlights come on.

So anyway, now that I've returned from going off on that little tangent, let me get back to my original story line. As Joey and I passed Coppin's variety story (what eventually became the Laundromat) on the corner of High and Ferry, we came upon that small opened lot that separates Coppin's from Henry Gray's Auctioning office. That's when we noticed a somewhat faint, yet colorful light surrounding those model ships and old cash registers displayed in his store front windows.

"Look at that," Joey pointed and laughed. "That's about as much of the Christmas spirit as that guy has." What Joey was criticizing was the fact that all Henry Gray did was throw up a simple string of lights to decorate his storefront windows. He was probably right, but that's not what I saw at all.

What I saw was the first sign of Christmas in Everett. Nobody else had yet decorated anything for Christmas. The city still hadn't hung the wreaths on the streetlights. There was still nothing hung up in the fire station windows. Not another single storefront window had so much as a hint of Christmas. Henry Gray was the first.

While we're on the subject of Henry Gray, let me tell you a little bit about this guy. Beside the fact that he was a very successful auctioneer, he really was a wonderful human being. You wouldn't think so looking at this guy. He kind of looked like a gangster, always wearing a long overcoat, sporting a Stetson, and chomping down on a big cigar that hung from the corner of his mouth. He kind of reminded me of Al Capone.

Both my big brothers worked for Henry and his brother, Chicky, loading trucks and setting up auctions. They paid them well and treated them like valued employees. Seeing we're now into the holiday season, this is good time to tell you this little story I know about Henry Gray. My mother told me this one. I was too young to know about it when it happened.

You see, Joey's family lived in one of Henry Gray's apartments. Their family was just as poor as ours. Coming into the holidays, Joey's family was a little short on cash. So short that his mother was worried about paying her rent. Rather than to wear her nerves down to a frazzle, she went downstairs to Henry's office and explained her situation to him.

"This isn't the first time you've struggled to meet the rent. Is it?" He asked her.

"No, it isn't," she embarrassingly admitted.

"How much am I charging you each month?"

"It's only 48 dollars. It's just that I've got Christmas this month that's making things so tight," she explained.

"Well let's knock ten dollars a month off your rent and see if that helps," he said.

"Oh, I would be much obliged. And I could pay you the full amount next week if you would allow," she pleaded.

"Oh no," he said with a waive of his hand. "The new rate starts in January. This month is free. This is Christmas. Nobody should have to struggle through Christmas."

And that's what landlords in Everett were like back in the late 1950's. You'd be hard pressed today to find a landlord like Henry Gray, or even Gertie Nee for that matter. Everybody longs for the good old days, but nobody wants to open up their hearts to each other like the way people used to do back in the good old days.

Now getting back to Henry Gray's storefront window, what really added to the wonder of it all was that as we stood there looking at those lights, it started to snow. Those lights, and that gentle drift of random snowflakes, ignited the spirit of Christmas down deep into my soul. It did cause me to question as to whether I was honestly evaluating the situation realistically as Joey was, or was I looking at it with my heart instead of my eyes?

Then again, you should look at Christmas with your heart instead of your eyes. Shouldn't you? Think about it. When we look at Christmas with just our eyes all we see is the crass commercialism of it all. That's when we say, "Christmas is a scam by retailers to get people to spend money they don't have to buy things that nobody needs." And yes, that really is one ugly reality of Christmas. Now, isn't it?

In all actuality, there are probably a hundred and one different ways to look at Christmas. On one end of the spectrum you've got people working overtime, no parking spaces at the Stop & Shop and Grants down in Glendale Square, and traffic jams at the intersection of Broadway and Chelsea in Everett Square.

On the other end of the spectrum, where you'll always find me, you've got Christmas in Everett. And if you've never seen the magic of Christmas in Everett, then my good people, allow me to take you there.

If you were to stand with me now in the middle of Everett Square, you'd see the cop standing out in the middle of Broadway trying to make sense out of that tangle of traffic going every which way. You'd hear horns honking, brakes squealing, and see clouds of exhaust fading off into the atmosphere. Any other time of the year that cop would be waiving his white gloves frantically, blowing his whistle like a freight train, and shouting at somebody to wake up.

For some strange reason, regardless how hectic that mish-mosh of traffic gets, he's smiling. Christmas makes people smile even under the most adverse conditions. Even the city workers up on the ladders hanging the wreaths over the streetlights are chatting back and forth with a laughter in their voice.

And if you're having a little trouble getting into the spirit yourself, just hop aboard the next bus that comes by and maybe you'll be lucky enough to get Lenny, the singing bus driver. He'll lift your spirits. I've missed many a destination because of Lenny. It was easy to do. I'd get caught up in the moment listening to him sing "Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow" while cruising along the streets of Everett watching the sidewalks fill up with snow. They should build a monument to that guy.

There are a million and one things for a kid to experience in Everett this time of year. I even get a boot out of watching my neighbors fight over parking spots in the snow. They guard them feverishly with kitchen chairs, and trashcans, and broom handles, and God knows what else. If you happen to be in one of those moods when you'd like a good scrap, all you gotta do is hop out of your car, move one of those blockers, and pull right into that space. Just be ready to roll up your sleeve cause you'll be in it for the long haul, believe you me.

Hey, wait a second. Do you hear that? That's the church bells ringing out the Christmas spirit amidst all the traffic and the noise. Isn't it beautiful? And look at all the shoppers criss-crossing through the traffic on Broadway all bundled up against the chill of Old Man Winter with colorful gift wrapped packages tucked under the arms.

Here's another image that has embedded itself in my mind's eye. It's that look in the eye of a pretty Everett girl as she walks into the wind while clenching her scarf around her face trying to hide from the bitter sting of that winter wind howling down the corridors of Norwood Street. You remember that look, don't cha?

You can tell, just by her eyes alone, even though they're edged with tears, that she's smiling. I know I'm a bit partial. And I know I see it with my heart and not just with my eyes, but to me, Everett girls have the prettiest smile on the planet. I melt like butter in their hands.

You could learn a lot from an Everett girl. They have a cunning tactfulness that never ceases to achieve its objective. If you stand here long enough you'll see what I mean.

Keep your eye on Jeffrey Jewelers over there. At the same time, look around for a young couple weathering the storm by cuddling close together as they window shop. It's not hard to find loving couples in Everett Square during the holidays. This place is a magnate for them.

You mark my words. They'll go into the record shop on Norwood Street. Then they'll cross over to Weiner's Shoes. They may even stop in at the sewing shop before ducking into Kresge's. Before long they'll go in one end of Gorin's and come out the other. After that, it never seems to fail that somehow that girl manages to get that guy smack dab in front of Jeffrey Jeweler's window. They'll do it every time. It's a game, but they get away with it because they're so adorable.

Oh, and there's so much more for a kid in Everett this time of year. For one thing, we can go sledding at break neck speeds down the back hills of Glendale Park. I could spend hours standing in the gutter out in front of my house squishing the slush up between my boots and watching it turn white. Hey, while we're at it we may as well build up a stockpile of snowballs for when the trolley stops in front of White Hill Pharmacy at the corner of Nichols and Ferry.

And when it's time to get in out of it all, I'll run upstairs to hear Perry Como sing "It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" while my mother puts the kettle on for a mug of hot cocoa. My dad will be sitting there at the kitchen table in his stocking feet singing along with the Christmas records. And my big sister will be dragging those boxes of Christmas lights out from the back hall closet trying to convince my dad that it's time to take a ride down to the Stop & Shop parking lot to pick out a Christmas tree.

Don't ask me why, but we never seem to get down there to pick out a Christmas Tree until after dark. And it's always bitter cold when we do. The tree guy is always cupping his hands together and blowing on them to keep warm. And my dad always complains about the price until he chews the guy down a few bucks.

"Just once," I can hear my mother now saying, "I'd wish you'd pick out a Christmas tree with your head instead of your heart. That thing is never going to fit inside this tiny living room." It always does, though. Sure, we've gotta saw a bit off the top, and cut a foot off the stump at the bottom, but we always manage to make that thing fit. Hey, "the bigger the better," I always say.

So you see, if you really want to see the magic of Christmas in Everett, you've got to look at it with your heart. When you do, you'll see what I see. And if you see what I see, you'll know why I cherish the most precious gift that God has granted me.

"What is that?" You ask. God gave me you. He granted me the privilege of growing up amongst you in Everett. I didn't ask for it. I don't even feel worthy of it. But I do cherish it with all my heart.

Maybe now you have a better understanding as to why I'd rather look at things with my heart instead of my eyes. It's a choice you're free to make. Oh, I know, you can be crafty, and cunning, and strategic, and maybe you will wind up ahead of everybody else if that's what you want.

As for me, I'd rather take my time and enjoy my journey here with all of you. It will all be over soon enough. And when I do reach the edge of that far horizon, I want to look back on it all and know I had a good time. You can only do that when you look at it with your heart instead of just your eyes.

That's another reason I feel such a strong kinship with all the kids I grew up and went to school with. No matter how brief the moment was when we crossed each other's path, I cherish that moment dearly. There is a common thread that runs so true through our veins that binds our hearts together for all time. And that thread is the fact that we are all from Everett.

No matter how old and gray we get, when I look at these kids all I see are those same smiling faces when we were walking through the corridors at school. They will never grow old in my mind's eye.

Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't we kick off our Holiday Season in Everett by letting me introduce you to all the kids I went to school with? Maybe if you get to meet all these kids you'll see why I think Everett people are so wonderful. So if you're up to it, and you'd like to meet more than 400 kids who grew up in Everett, then all you've gotta do is click your mouse button right HERE.

Don't be shy. We don't bite. After all, "We're from Everett!"