An Everett Legacy Continues

It's hard to know where to begin sometimes. Most times I just throw out a random thought and go with the flow. Funny thing is, I know exactly where I want to go. I just have no idea of how to get there. And then again, we so often wind up someplace completely different from where we intended to go in the first place. Come to think of it, that seems to be the story of my life.

Over the past two years I've told you about many people from Everett who have become major influences on my life. You'll notice I've rarely mentioned anyone of notable wealth or fame. And even though Everett's had her fair share of worldly achievers, it's been the little people with the big hearts who so selflessly gave of themselves that made Everett such a memorable community to grow up in.

That said, it's time I told you about someone very special from Everett who still walks among us. Those of you who graduated from Everett High with me know this person well. By that I mean, you know who he is, and that's probably about all you know. Truth is, it would be a shame if every one of you from Everett missed out on the opportunity to know this kid the way I do.

I met him for the first time back in 1968 when I was in my sophomore year at Everett High. In the Mechanic Arts department, most of our classrooms were all guys so you kind of let down your guard, relaxed a little, and gabbed about guy stuff without having to worry about offending the girls. The down side was that you didn't get to drool over all the pretty girls for most of the day. You were stuck in a classroom full of ugly guys.

So anyway, that's where I met this kid. There was just something about him that set him apart from everybody else. Just by the expression on his face you'd think he didn't have a care in the world. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He was a regular sort of guy in every sense of the word. He laughed and joked around in class with the rest of us, but on the outside he came across as kind of quiet and shy. We did invite him to come and hang around with us up in the back hills of Glendale Park, but he was more of the lone wolf sort of guy. Going with the flow of the tide was just not his forte. But what an infectious sense of humor this kid had. When he laughed the whole room lit up around him.

He had somewhat of an unusual name, if I do say so myself. He must of thought so, too, because whenever he introduced himself he'd add, "I was named after my grandfather."

Kids named after their grandfather are a dime a dozen, so when somebody says "I was named after my grandfather," it's no big deal - right? Well, in this instance that isn't really true. Because what you're about to find out is how deep those still waters do run sometimes.

Remember how we talked about that because history repeats itself, the further back you delve into the past the better prepared you'd be to foresee the future? Well, by the same token, you can better appreciate the magnificence of the tree once you realize how firmly into the soil its roots grow.

Let's turn on the old Everett Time Machine and go all the way back to the turn of the century. Not this century, mind you, the one before it. I'm taking you back to Charlottesville, Virginia, in the early 1900's. We're talking back to a time when the predominant modes of transportation for most people were bicycles, and horse and buggy. This is where we'll meet up with fourteen year old Hilary Mullins for the first time.

There wasn't much difference between a fourteen year-old kid and a full-grown man back in the early 1900's, there being no child labor laws and all. Kids much younger than Hillary labored all hours night and day with pick and shovel down in the coal mines. It was a hard knock life back then, especially for kids.

Hillary Mullins must have had a vision of sorts because he had no qualms about pulling up stakes and heading out onto the open road in search for something a little more glamorous than a life of hard labor. What he did was hop a box car and rode the freight going north. Simple enough to sum up in one sentence, it's true, but you can just imagine what he must have endured along the way.

I picture him burrowing beneath a bale of hay in one of those stock and grain flatbeds to keep from freezing to death at night while whizzing across the open fields of Pennsylvania. You must remember, there were no highways, or byways, or tourist rest stops along the way. I'm sure the boy curled up in a ball from hunger pangs from time to time. And don't forget, he was a stowaway on a freight train. They might have busted him up a bit if they ever caught him.

Another thought that comes to mind is the many questionable characters his path must've crossed along the way. Something so simple as a ripe apple in his coat pocket could have easily drawn a salivating lunatic in for the kill. The open road doesn't always take so kindly to the young and innocent.

What I do know is that whatever it was he had to endure, he stood up to the challenge and he did survive. It just so happens that he became a pretty good poker player along the way. So much so, that he actually mastered the game. That newly acquired talent set him up kind of comfortably in a financial sort of way, you might say.

We'll fast forward a few years and we'll find Hilary Mullins had raked in enough of the kitty to buy up some choice real estate and businesses that stretched all the way from Lowell right down to good old Everett, Massachusetts. He even scooped himself up a pretty little bride from Nova Scotia.

Like every other community across America, the Great Depression hit Everett pretty hard. By this time Hillary had become the owner and proprietor of the distinguished Prescott House, which sat between the newspaper office and the Elks Club on Church Street. Now here's where you'll catch a glimpse into the soul of a truly remarkable human being.

It just so happens that Hillary was one of the very few people in Everett who had any money during the Great Depression. Because of that, many an Everett resident who found themselves homeless due to the shortcomings of the depression found refuge at the Prescott House. He gave them a place to stay for free until they could get back on their feet.

With the horrors of the Great Depression looming so largely over the financial landscape, many a struggling Everett entrepreneur walked away with more than just a smile after shaking hands with Hilary Mullins. He'd often discretely pass off a small token of his good fortune to his fellow man in the process. What it comes right down to is that his kinship with his fellow man meant more to him than did advancing his own station in life. People like Hilary Mullins only pass this way once in a lifetime.

Decades later, many of the children who attended the Devens elementary school will recall that kindly old gentleman sitting up in his rocker on the front porch of the Prescott House as they passed by on their way home from school. He'd throw pennies out onto the sidewalk for them.

So yeah, that's Hillary Mullins' picture you're looking at up above holding onto his prized possession, a Gibson six-string acoustic he bought for a hundred bucks during the depression. I called it his prized possession, but in all honesty, no inanimate object would ever take precedence over another human being in Hilary Mullins' eyes. That picture was taken sometime in the fifties on the opposite side of Church Street from the Prescott, right in front of the Parlin House.

Take look around the City of Everett today and you won't find any street corners, or public buildings bearing Hilary Mullins' name. There is no plaque anywhere on the Everett landscape that pays homage to this truly remarkable humanitarian. For you see, there was nothing shallow or vain about Hilary Mullins in the first place. He gave out of the goodness of his heart because of his love for his fellow man, not so he could see his name emblazoned on a building somewhere.

Besides leaving behind a legacy of sharing, and caring, and giving back to his community, Hilary Mullins left us with a truly remarkable gift. And that gift serves as a living testimony to the exceptional character bestowed upon the city of Everett by Hilary Mullins.

His daughter, Evelina, honored him with eight grandchildren. The youngest of which was named after him. And that grandson is the living testimony to the exceptional character of the one and only Hilary Mullins.

Now you know the significance of what that kid was talking about in the tenth grade back in 1968 when he turned to me and said, "My name's Hilary. I was named after my grandfather."

Just by the sound of his voice, and that welcoming smile on his face, you knew you could trust this kid to the ends of the earth. This kid would never tell you a lie. It's just not in his molecular structure to do so. Let me put it this way. If Hilary says it's true, then it's true.

Since I sat right behind this kid in our Mechanical Drawing class, we got to talking. I could tell by the look on his face that he got a big boot out of me. "You've got a smile like the Cheshire Cat," he laughed. That's another thing I love about this kid. Whatever he's thinking he comes right out with it.

What really impressed me most about this kid was the depth of his knowledge about so many things. He possessed a deeper wisdom than most of us will ever scratch the surface of in our lifetimes. He sees beyond the normal limitations of our field of vision, and understands things that our finite intelligence finds hard to perceive.

It's almost as if he's lived many lives before and has retained the wisdom of the ages right along with it. He completely blew me away the day we got to talking about the scriptures. This kid missed his true calling in life because I'm telling ya right now, once you hear this kid talk about the scriptures, and the history behind them, and the lessons embedded in them, you'd be willing to follow him aimlessly all over the planet just to hear the sound of his voice.

"Look at it this way," he explained. "The scriptures lay out a blueprint for you to follow if you want to get along in this world."

"How so?" I was dying to hear this one.

"The scriptures say, "Judge not that ye be not judged." And even if you don't believe in the judgment in a Biblical sense, it still holds true in everyday life. Once you start judging people they start judging you back. Once you pass judgment on someone you've lost them as a friend."

I can't argue with that.

"And what about do unto others as you would have them do unto you?" He asked.

"What about it?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it? If I treat you like a friend, you'll treat me like a friend. If I start a fight with you, you'll fight me back. The secret to happiness is all in how you treat people. That's exactly what the scriptures are telling you."

"And most importantly," he added, "is Love One Another. If we don't love each other and help each other out then what is the sense in all this?"

Before I met Hilary I was somewhat of an agnostic. He changed all that. Not only by the way he spoke about the scriptures, but also in the way that he lived his life. Whenever anybody addressed this kid, he lit up and radiated with warmth and friendship. They could feel it. And you could see it in their eyes that they could feel it.

Believe me when I tell you that one five-minute conversation with this kid will change your whole outlook on life. You'll walk away feeling that life is worth living, that people are good, and that there is a uniformity, an order, and a direction to our lives that gives each and every one of us a special purpose for being here.

And man o' man, could this kid play guitar. For as long as I live I'll never forget the day I heard him play. He threw one long leg over the other, leaned forward on that ladder back chair, and I'm telling ya as God is my judge, that boy's fingers danced across the strings. What came out of that instrument was a truly harmonic tapestry of sound that could align the planets in the heavens.

My immediate reaction was a jaw dropping "Wow!"

He was honestly going to hand the guitar over to me saying, "Show me what you can do." Compared to him I felt reduced to sticking with my Mickey Mouse guitar I got from Christmas when I was four years old. It had a little crank handle on the side so when you spun it around it played "Pop Goes the Weasel."

Like I said, I wish I had that wind-up guitar with me right now because I don't dare show this virtuoso how basically simple I am on the guitar. "Come on," he said. "I don't let just anyone touch this guitar."

The guitar I'm talking about is the one pictured in that photograph above. It's Hillary Mullins' Gibson six-string acoustic he bought for a hundred bucks during the depression. And you could tell just by the way his grandson held onto that guitar that he treasured that instrument as if he was holding onto his grandfather's hand.

Oh, and about that guitar. The fingerboard had mounds of dirt packed up behind each fret. "You really need to clean these frets up," I said.

"Oh, I could never do that," he replied. "That's my grandfather's sweat. When I first found that out I cried." He lost his beloved grandfather when he was only in the second grade, but for Hilary his legacy lives on in that the old Gibson guitar.

Another important lesson Hilary taught me was "Don't ever feel intimidated by what someone else can do on the guitar," he said. "If you feel that way you'll never expand your horizons. Never pass up the opportunity to learn."

I learned a lot that day. Besides learning about all of the legendary blues guitarists in American musical history, Hilary scribbled out a series of charts and drawings for me on a scrap of notebook paper completely spelling out the basics of music theory as it pertained to the guitar. Then he took the time to go over it with me, note by note, making sure I understood it all. He broke it down into the most simple of terms and explained it in such an elementary way that even a novice like me could grasp the concept.

I'm not the only one who was ever totally mesmerized by this Everett kid's persona; I can tell you that. Years later I'd be talking to one of the kids I grew up with and I'd ask, "Did you know Hilary Clemens?" If they just knew of him they'd say, "Yeah, he was kind of different wasn't he?" But if they knew him personally they'd say, "I love Hilary Clemens."

As the years passed by I lost contact with my treasured friend. I've lived somewhat of a nomadic existence never staying in any one place for a very long time. When my brother Billy passed away in 1991, I went back to Everett to stay with my family for a short time to be together as a family through this trying experience.

Carol and I were driving along Broadway when all of a sudden I spot Hilary walking along the sidewalk. So I pull over to the curb and excitingly jump out and yell, "Hilary Clemens, I don't believe it." Well guess what he did? He ran right up to me, wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. This kid is just too funny for words sometimes. If any other guy ever did that to me I'd whack him across the teeth.

That was then and this is now. So about six months ago I got an email from a girl named, Lynne telling me how much she enjoyed my "We're from Everett" blog. In the note she wrote, "You might remember my husband because he went to school with you. He was the only kid in Everett named Hilary.

A chill went down my spine and the hairs on my forearm stood on end the moment she said his name. So I wrote back to her and said, "Do I know him? I would lay down my life for Hilary Clemens." And you know what? I honestly would.

So Hilary found himself a soul mate after all. And I'm telling ya right now, he couldn't have made a better choice. I know she loves him dearly. Heck, she still remembers the exact day they first met. It was on March 31, 1989.

Hilary had just bought a futon and not being all that mechanically inclined, he spent the better half of the afternoon putting it all together. After that he celebrated by getting a haircut and stopping in at the French Club on Hancock Street to blow the suds off a couple. That wasn't his usual stomping grounds, but it was convenient at the time.

The French Club had a live DJ that night and they lined the dance floor with those long banquet tables. Thinking it was Karaoke night, Lynne stopped in with a bunch of her girlfriends to watch the hijinks. After sitting and listening to her girlfriends drone on and on about other people, she caught a glimpse of that really cute guy with the Don Johnson beard sitting at the opposite end of the table. Something compelled her to saunter on over there and introduce herself.

He began the conversation with "My name's Hilary. I was named after my grandfather." He then proceeded to tell Lynne his whole life's story. That happens impulsively to guys when they know they've found the right one. After that, she asked him to dance. They got married 9 months later on December 8, 1989.

Now I want to tell you an interesting little tidbit that Lynne passed on to me. All his life Hilary has been introducing himself to people by saying "My name's Hilary. I was named after my grandfather." And Hilary was no stranger in his day to many of the clubs in Boston.

So anyway, on February 28, 1991, Hilary and Lynne settled down for the night to watch one of their favorite TV shows, Cheers. It was the episode where Norm Peterson's wife, Vera (the one you never, ever saw) got a job as hostess in the restaurant upstairs. The episode name was "It's a Wonderful Wife". Apparently, Vera was telling Carla some of the family secrets, one of which was that Norm's real name was Hilary. When confronted with this new revelation, Norm yells out, "I was named after my grandfather!"

I agree with Lynne. That's just too coincidental to happen by chance, especially knowing that Hilary is the kind of character who always stands out from the crowd.

Just a few months back I had the privilege of speaking with my treasured friend Hilary over the phone. Rather than the usual introduction after such a long absence, when he answered the phone I said, "Hey Hilary, what's for supper?

"What's for supper?" He laughed. "I'll tell you that as soon as you tell me who I'm talking to."

Let me tell ya something. We all question our reason for being here from time to time. We all wonder how we fit into the overall scheme of things. But if I could touch just one person's life the way Hilary has touched mine, as he has so many others, my life would feel so complete.

I wanted to tell him what a significant impact he made on my life. The one way I thought of to do so was by showing him the difference he made on my life by that moment we shared with his grandfather's guitar. To do that I arranged a little composition entitled, "Hilary's Gift." And you'll find that at the bottom of my new list of Everett inspired guitar instrumentals that I just posted on my guitar page.

So that's my friend, Hilary. He was named after his grandfather. And what an honored legacy that is in itself right there. If you're dying to see what he looks like you'll find his picture at the bottom of page 61, and at the top of page 12 in our Everett High School Yearbook.

And by the way, you know what else is so special about my friend? "He's from Everett!"

The Everett Zone

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone!

Out of all of the many different introductions they've used for the Twilight Zone over the years, that one was my undisputed favorite. Television never really interested me much. When everyone else gathered around the TV to watch "Sky King," "Father Knows Best," and the "Life of Riley," I sat out at the kitchen table drawing in my sketchbook.

It's not that I was anti-social or anything like that. It's just that getting any quiet time to yourself was a rarity with the six of us crowded into that tiny little apartment down on Arlington Street. And who doesn't want to spend a little quiet time alone every once in a while? Not that you'd want to make a habit of it, mind you, but everybody needs a little corner of the world to get away from it all. I know I do.

On the other hand, situation comedies bore me to no end. They always did. Outside of the "Honeymooners," and "Leave It to Beaver," very few situation comedies ever held my interest. The only modern day situation comedy that did was "Seinfeld." Please don't even ask me about "I Love Lucy," because I, for one, could never stomach that kind of slapstick comedy.

To me, the "I Love Lucy" show tried too hard to get a laugh. So much so that even their second rate studio laugh track always seemed out of sync with what was going on in the story. They sometimes laughed when all Lucy said was, "Hi Ricky." I realize that there are many of you out there who honestly did enjoy the "I Love "Lucy" show. To each his own - right? All I'm saying is that Lucille Ball is just not my cup of tea.

To make matters worse, even after her original show finally went off the air, she kept coming back, season after season, with yet another new show featuring the very same cast of characters and the very same format as the show they just canceled. All they changed was the title. Flop after flop, Lucille Ball refused to give up the ghost.

It never got any better even after she finally did kick the bucket because then they started in with all the repeats. It took another two decades to finally scrape that obnoxious woman off my shoe. My life has been cursed with the ghost of Lucille Ball.

I'm telling ya right now, don't be too surprised if you hear about me on the six o' clock news some night because I shot my television after sitting through yet another "I Love Lucy" repeat. If TCM ever airs a biography on that woman I hope they appropriately entitle it, "The Beast Who Wouldn't Die."

Regardless of how bad television gets, every so often they seem to really hit the nail on the head with something that catches you off guard and holds you spell bound. That's what the "Twilight Zone" did for me. My dad used to say, "The only reason you like that show so much is because you're a space shot. Your mind is always off in a Twilight Zone somewhere." People of the artistic bent frequently get labeled as space shots. Don't ask me why.

So why all this about the "Twilight Zone," "Lucille Ball," and television anyway? And what in God's name has all this got to do with growing up in Everett? I thought you'd never ask.

When you come here, you step beyond the boundaries of your everyday habit and routine to journey back to a simpler place and time when life was easier to deal with. Because let's face it, the world as we know it today is far more unstable than anything we've ever imagined in our lifetimes. The future is always uncertain. It always will be.

Ah, but the past, that we know. We've been there and done that. It happened. There's no guesswork involved, and no problems to solve. It's all been taken cared of because, like I said, it already happened.

So when it comes down to waxing nostalgia about growing up in Everett, this is one place where you are in no way on the outside looking in. This is your comfort zone. This is where you belong.

The historic timeline of humankind is littered with tender heartfelt yearnings for the simpler days gone by. Lauded laureates from all walks of life have penned countless exposés touting the virtues and chivalries of their preceding generations. After all, it was they who fought the good fight, endured the hardships, and stayed the course that formulate the inner code of moral fiber that we, the common people, so steadfastly cling to.

Many of the younger generations, as do some of the older folks (politicians in particular) who harbor hidden agendas, harshly criticize those of us who enjoy a walk through the gardens of our past from time to time. They do so because the past is wrought with common sense. By that I mean, there are far less gray areas between right and wrong.

Since you're looking back on things that already happened you can logically deduce as to why some things were right or wrong by observing their outcomes. Once the boundaries between right and wrong become clearly defined it becomes more difficult to pull the wool down over your eyes. And because history does indeed repeat itself, the further you look back into the past, the further into the future you will be able to foresee.

It really gets under my skin whenever I hear somebody say, "That happened so long ago that it really doesn't pertain to us today." Ironically enough, those are the very same people who quote Aristotle, Confucius, and Benjamin Franklin to support their own far-flung theories. Go figure - right?

That's why it is so important that we hear from every generation that grew up in Everett. Thumb through my archives and you'll read Elliot's account of what it was like to take your date out for a horse and buggy ride through Glendale Square on a cobble stone road. You'll also read Mr. McGlauphlin's personal account of hawking newspapers in Everett Square on the day somebody shot President McKinley.

Those two people no longer walk among us, but their eyewitness accounts bring to life actual events from a time long before we ever graced the streets of Everett. Those first person testimonials will now live on in our hearts forever, and shall remain for our grandchildren's grandchildren to enjoy. The "growing up in Everett" experience becomes more complete as more generations come forward to share their memoirs.

So yeah, coming here is like stepping off into our own little "Everett Zone." You're not reading about people and places you've never heard of before. You're reading about each other. You're revisiting places that were once very much a part of your lives. You know these places.

When I say the Park Theatre, I don't really need to describe it, do I? You already know what it looked like because you actually looked at it every Saturday afternoon during your childhood. Heck, I can even envision seeing "The Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman" written up there on the marquee.

As soon as I say anything at all about the Park Theatre, it comes to life in your mind's eye. Like that soft felt rope they closed off the stairway to the balcony with, for instance. Or walking down those winding stairs to the bathrooms. Or hearing the sound of Leo's voice bellowing out over the loudspeaker, "Put it in your mouth and blow!"

You see it now, don't you? I see at least a dozen kids up on stage blowing their brains out trying to pop their balloon first. Every kid in the audience is jumping up and down and screaming at the top of their lungs to cheer them on. Look at those kids. They are completely out of their minds in total ecstasy right now.

They're wearing popcorn box goggles and blowing noisemakers they made out of their Junior Mints boxes. Man, all you gotta say is "Milk Duds" and I'm thinking "Park Theatre." And who are these kids anyway? That's you and all of your friends from your neighborhood. We're not talking about some remote village somewhere. We're talking about Everett. And it just so happens that "We're from Everett."

No matter what I talk about, you can envision it. In your mind's eye you can see Grants, and Liggets, and the Stop & Shop in that little strip mall on Ferry Street in Glendale Square. I don't even have to mention the liquor store at the end of that chain. You just automatically throw that in for good measure. And how about Gorins, and Kresge's, and the Waldorf up in Everett Square? You can see that, can't you?

Regardless of whatever becomes of Everett, it will always feel like home to each and every one of us. It will always be the only home we know in our heart of hearts. Everett is our Twilight Zone.

That became so apparent to me back in the summer of 2005 when I went back east to visit family and friends in Everett. Not traveling by airplane really helped to bring the experience to life. That trip was very instrumental in my starting the "We're from Everett" project.

Had I hopped on a plane and made the trip in seconds flat, I would have missed out on most of the experience. Now honestly, you must know by now that I'm old fashioned to a fault, but there is reason to my madness. Let me explain.

Ever hop on a plane and head on down to the Bahamas? Within the blink of an eye you're sitting out on the beach sipping on a mint julep thinking, "Ah, this is the life." Snap your fingers and you're standing out in the pouring rain with an armload of luggage waiting for someone to pick you up at Logan. Before you even get the chance to knock all of the sand out of your shoes you're yawning at your desk back at work thinking, "Man, that happened so fast it doesn't even feel like I ever went there." Sound familiar?

I did something that most people cringe at the thought of. I hopped aboard a Greyhound. Laugh if you want to, but I'm telling ya right now, it turned out to be quite the experience. I made new friends, stopped for a bite to eat in a few cities that I never dreamed I'd ever stop over in, and got to experience the thrill of rolling into Boston at the street level after a long absence. I needed that.

You couldn't wipe the smile off my face when I finally reached Wellington Station. For the first time in more than a decade, I stood there waiting for the 110 Wonderland. I felt like a little kid again. When I asked the lady standing next to me how much it cost to ride the bus, she looked at me as if I had two heads. What do I know? Where I come from we don't have any buses.

Riding the 110 back to the old neighborhood was a bigger thrill for me than you could ever imagine. And when I got off at the bottom of Arlington Street, my whole childhood came back to life. I got to see and talk to Charlie Johnson that day. Little did I know that would be the very last time our paths would ever cross in this lifetime. That alone was worth the trip to me.

It's been a couple of years now since I've last seen Everett and I savor every moment of that visit as if they were jewels in a treasure chest. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I walked up and down just about every street in that city just in case I never pass this way again. You never know.

This is Everett. This is my home. Not only do I know all of her street names and landmarks, but I still know all the best hiding spots just in case a nation-wide game of "Hide and go Seek" ever breaks out. It helps to know those kinds of things. And trust me, you'll be calling "Oly oly entry" long before you ever find my hiding spot.

Most of the houses are pretty much the same as they were when I was a little kid. Some are a little more run down, but there are those that have been pleasantly restored. Most of the people who lived in them are long gone now, but the memories linger on. It's the memories that cling to my heart.

When I'm looking at a house where one of my childhood friends grew up I don't see it as all run down, even if it is. To me, it's still Joey's house even though he hasn't lived there for more than forty years. Just as Sam's Spa will always be Sam's Spa in spite of the name it goes by now.

And even if Sam's Spa isn't a variety store anymore, that's what it will always be in my warped little point of view. So don't invite me out for breakfast at the place where Sam's Spa once stood because in the back of my mind that's where I go to buy funny books, okay?

Don't even bother to try to set me straight either because I just won't listen. You're flogging a dead horse. Just let me live my little fantasy. What harm will it do? Two million years from now this whole planet's gonna be a big block of ice and it won't matter what I think anyway.

My problem lies in the fact that Everett's influence goes deep down into the marrow of my bones. You don't grow up in Everett without picking up a little bit of everyone else's culture along the way. Because of Everett I'm a walking replica of the United Nations. Man, I've got Italian, Jewish, Black, Irish, German, Hispanic, and Native American traits embedded right into my persona. And do you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.

Let me tell ya a little story. I went into this sub shop here in Indiana and ordered Chicken Parmesan. Now I don't have to tell you what that is because hey, you're from Everett. So anyway, the girl behind the counter slaps some chicken breast onto a sub roll, sprinkles grated cheese on it, no gravy whatsoever, mind you, and then hands it off to me.

You don't honestly think I'm gonna take that, do ya? Of course not, I'm from Everett. So I says to the girl, "What nationality are you anyway?" And she says, "I'm Italian." So I goes "You gotta be kiddin me. You're a pisan and you don't know what a Chicken Parmesan is?" So she says, "What's a pisan?" Gimmie a break - right?

So being from Everett, I reach over the counter and say, "Here, this is how you make a Chicken Parmesan. You need to get in touch with your roots, honey." I'm not even Italian and I'm showing an Italian how to be one. That's what growing up in Everett does for ya.

The whole time this was going on all the other Hoosiers just stood there looking at me as if I was some kind of bull let loose in a china shop. Do you honestly think that bothered me? No way, dudes. Let me tell ya something. I'm proud as hell of my Everett upbringing. I'm glad to be who I am. You go anywhere and chances are the noisiest one in the bunch grew up in Everett. That's us all over. Am I right? You know I'm right.

Okay, now here's where I lay a little art appreciation on ya just to kick your cultural mettle up a notch or two. Hey, don't ever let anyone say we don't have any culture in Everett. If they do, just give em a cuff upside the head. That'll set em straight, kabish?

Just the other day, Lynne left a comment on my "Another Random Tidbit" posting dated January 9th. It was the last article I wrote. She commented on my illustration saying how it invoked the memory of the smells associated with our elementary classrooms. You know, like the smell of the chalk dust, and of the varnish on those old hardwood floors.

What Lynne had inadvertently discovered was a well-known secret of our trade. Visual artists constantly strive to achieve a balance in the connotation and denotation of the elements comprised in their work. For a simpler explanation, we use the elements we place in our work to not only set the stage, but also to imply, or invoke if you will, other notions not readily apparent.

In the illustration above you see a street corner, at night, with graffiti written all over the wall. That's exactly what the illustration denotes. Now take a closer look at the elements in that illustration. When was the last time you saw an enclosed aluminum phone booth with folding doors?

Did you happen to catch the Ma Bell logo above the door? When was the last time you saw that anywhere? Now look closer at the pay phone inside the booth. It's a rotary dial. And by the way, are there any V W Beetle enthusiasts out there? Check out the front bumper and hood on that Beetle. If that V W doesn't scream 1967 then I don't know what does.

And finally, you must have read the graffiti on the wall - right? So what does that tell ya? We're talking civic pride in our many different neighborhoods here. We're talking Everett.

Okay, so it even goes way deeper than that. For you see, I strive to achieve the same effect in my visuals as I do in my writing. I write about something that happened during my childhood growing up in Everett, and you come back with memories of your own. My memories trigger your memories.

In my visual I show you an old fashioned pay phone. How many memories does that conjure up? For the sake of argument, let me ask you something. How many times did you step into a phone booth to run your finger through the coin return slot looking for spare change when you were a little kid? Heck, I can't remember a time when I passed by a pay phone without ever doing that.

Do you remember what the coin return slot in those pay phones looked like back then? It wasn't just a square hole in the phone. It was this little trap door thingy you had to pull down to scoop your change out. Remember that?

And do you also remember the big thrill we got when they installed those big light panels on the ceiling of those phone booths that lit up when you closed the door? Man, we played with those things for hours on end. Another good thing about those phone booths was that you could duck in there to get out of a sudden downpour if you had to. That really came in handy sometimes when you were out delivering newspapers, let me tell ya.

See what I mean about our childhood memories of growing up in Everett? Don't worry, we've got enough memories to last the rest of our lives. And don't get nervous if I go a few days longer than usual between postings. All that means is that I'm working more diligently on something special to make your nostalgic Everett rendezvous a more rewarding experience, okay?

All in all, we're having fun with this, are we not? Man, what a decade this turned out to be for us, huh? The Red Sox won two pennants, the Patriots go undefeated, and "We're from Everett" is becoming a household word all over the world. Who would have ever thought?

So where do we go from here? We travel through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. We journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Everett Zone.

Don't panic. We can handle it. "We're from Everett!"

Another Random Tidbit

The illustration above depicts a random memory that just popped into my head. Conjuring up this memory, in itself, is a culmination of both the January thaw that's going on right now, and the fact that this is the time of year we're forced to cast off that heart warming holiday spirit we all know and love to get back to the grindstone.

When we were just kids growing up in Everett, that meant it was time to go back to school. Going back to school after the holiday vacation was as traumatic as it was at the end of summer. It was just as hard to get your mind off of snowball fights and sledding down the back hills of Glendale Park as it was lying beneath the summer sun on the sands of Revere Beach. Either way, there was way too much going on in your personal life to have to tear yourself away from it all just to concentrate on things like dangling participles and subtrahends.

Another thing about the January thaw that gets me is that's when I always come down with a terrible head cold. Ever since I was a little kid I always caught a cold after the holidays. My mother used to say it was my own fault because I ran around outside in the snow with my jacket wide open.

Truth is, kids from Everett don't even feel the cold. We'd go out and shovel the front steps off in our shirtsleeves without giving it so much as a second thought. Maybe I'm getting used to the weather here in Southern Indiana in my old age, but now I tend to bundle up as soon as it gets cloudy. Go figure.

Oh yeah, that memory I was telling you about? Well, here's how I wound up recalling that random tidbit in the first place. For the past two weeks I've been compiling my second collection of guitar instrumentals to commemorate moments of my life growing up in Everett. The original collection was posted over two years ago now so you're a bit overdue for some fresh material.

So anyway, as I sit here tweaking guitar tabs behind a messy pile of scribbled upon music sheets (which by now are spilling over onto the floor), I can't help but to start thinking about my big brother, Billy. Man, do I miss that kid something fierce sometimes.

You wanna hear something funny? Not all that long ago I woke up out of a deep sleep thinking, "Gee, I haven't talked to Billy in ages." So I go over to the wall phone in the kitchen, pick up the receiver, and just as I reach out to start pushing buttons I realize "What am I doing? Billy passed away 17 years ago."

It's funny how when I was a little kid, Billy was my hero. As we got older, I became his. No matter what I did, it was perfect in that kid's eyes. Every time I composed a piece of music he praised it as if it was the greatest thing he ever heard. And every time I completed another work of art he'd swear Norman Rockwell couldn't hold a candle to it. As if - right?

When you lose somebody that means that much to you, time stands still. And I'll be honest with ya. There are times when it still hurts so much that it edges my eyes with tears. Like right now for instance. When I think about that day he crossed over beyond the far horizon it seems like only yesterday. And to think, that was almost two whole decades ago.

Another thing that happens to me when I think about Billy is that I tend to forget that we grew up. In my mind's eye I still picture him as that wild and crazy teenager with his hair all slicked back, his leather jacket and tee shirt, and that Lucky Strike tucked in behind his right ear. In the summer he rolled his pack of Luckys up in his tee shirt sleeve.

I have some memories that only he and I shared. With him gone, I'm the only one left to possess those memories. And yes, they are all about Everett because the only time in his life when he didn't live in Everett was when he was off serving in Vietnam. Well actually, he wasn't even born in Everett. He was born in Terre Haute, Indiana. He moved to Everett when he was only six months old and spent the remainder of his 46 years on earth right there in good old Everett, Massachusetts.

When Billy passed away the City of Everett was still one of the very last communities that had yet to contract out its trash collection. They still had those "Keep Everett Clean" trucks long after every other neighboring community had surrendered theirs. As a city, Everett may not possess a competitive edge as a first in anything, but she's fiercely competitive as a noteworthy last. Think about it. She's the only city left in all of these United States with a bicameral city legislature. I pray to God she never gives that up.

Billy never saw the internet. He never saw a cel phone, a digital camera, or an ATM card for that matter. Come to think of it, he never knew a time when everyone had a computer. Heck, he never knew a time when anyone at all had a computer.

So like I said, I have many memories that only he and I shared. That means that there are many things now that only I know. The funny thing about memory is that it is much like having a closet full of old treasures. Many of them are broken and incomplete. You know, like an old VCR without a remote, or an old video game console without any of the joysticks.

Go back to the 50's and you'll remember a time when you found an old bottle of coke in the back of the fridge that you didn't know was there. Now all of a sudden you can't find a church key to pop it open with. Thank gawd for chain link fences. You could always pop open your coke on the twisted points at the top of a chain link fence. I used to be able to use my teeth. Maybe that's why I don't have them anymore.

The real tough guys would just smack their coke bottle against the edge of the curb and break the bottleneck clean off. Then they'd gulp down their coke by putting that broken glass bottleneck right up to their lips. I never did that. The way my luck runs that'd be my last bottle of coke ever. As is so commonly said, "If it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all."

Many memories are like stray kittens. They have no real home. You can recall a minor tidbit of the information, but you just can't seem to put your finger on the whole picture. There's pieces missing to the puzzle, so to speak. It's like when you can remember part of a joke, but not the punch line. Or like when you know that somebody said something really important, but you can't remember who said it, or what it was they actually said.

Things like that come to light whenever someone I swear I've never seen before in my life walks up to me and says, "Hey Paul, I haven't seen you ages." It gets worse when they add something like, "Remember the time we set fire to that trashcan and rolled it down Arlington Street?" That actually happened to me once.

Don't ask me why, but instead of admitting that I didn't remember either him, or that trashcan, I just played along and laughed. After he left I strained every nerve cell in my frontal lobe to recall either his name, or that incident, but drew a complete blank. Now I know I'm not the only one who has ever done that. Chances are, you've done that once or twice in your lifetime as well.

Why do we do that? There have been times when I was honest and said, "Gee, I'm sorry, but I don't remember you." Whenever I did, it always seemed to embarrass the other person. And since I'm only comfortable with embarrassing my closest friends, I shy away from telling people I don't remember them when they approach me.

Now that's a funny thing to say right there, isn't it? You know, the part about how "I'm only comfortable with embarrassing my closest friends." Which brings me full circle back to the random memory depicted in that illustration above. You don't think I went off on a tangent or anything, do ya?

Here's one thing that you simple cannot deny about growing up in Everett. You can measure the value of your friendship by how far someone is willing to go to get a good laugh at your expense. Someone who doesn't really care all that much about you won't exert the effort to put you on the spot for nothing other than a good belly laugh.

Let me explain that in a little more detail. Someone who would put you on the spot to get ahead of you in a game of "one-up-man-ship" is not a true friend. Someone who would put you on the spot for no other reason than to get a kick out of watching you squirm is a true friend. That's how it worked amongst us kids growing up in Everett anyways.

So during my stint in Miss Blake's sixth grade class at the Horace Mann, I got in trouble for not doing my book report over the Christmas Holiday. No, I didn't forget to do it. I just didn't do it. I did try. There was just too much going on at my house over the holidays for me to be able to settle down and read a book that was as boring as watching "Meet the Press."

The book in question was the one and only, "Black Beauty." They even made a movie about it staring Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney when they were little kids about two or three centuries ago. For those of you who don't know, that book, and that movie have less action than actually watching paint dry.

Needless to say, not having completed my homework assignment awarded me an afternoon session in detention. Picture this. We just got back to school after the Christmas Holiday. If the school day doesn't seem long enough as it is, spending another hour alone after everyone else has gone home really completes the picture.

You just know that everybody else is out there enjoying the warm January thaw in typical Everett fashion. That's when you can really make awesome snowballs that turn into solid ice in the palm of your hand. Ice balls increase your distance and accuracy exponentially.

You can knock the trolley hooks off of the overhead wires almost effortlessly with those things. Heck, you could easily knock out a streetlight, break a window, blacken Christine's eye, or even knock a Hoodsie out of the palm of Gracie's hand with a good ice ball.

So as I sat quietly alone with Miss Blake, all of my friends were out there having the time of their lives. They've forgotten all about me by now, or so I thought. And just when that classroom couldn't get any more gloomy or depressing than it already was, I was startled out of my wits by a rapid succession of ice-hard snowballs hitting the windows.

"Bang!" "Bang!" "Bang!" They shook the windows like thunder. I had to bite my lip so not to laugh when Miss Blake jumped up out of her chair. She ran helter skelter over to the window to catch the culprits. It did my heart good to know they hadn't forgotten all about me after all.

She looked back at me and sternly asked, "Do you know who threw those snowballs?"

"No, Miss Blake." Yes, of course I knew who it was. To her, those snowballs said, "Bang-bang-bang!" To me they said, "We're thinking of ya, good buddy."

All fell quiet in that classroom once again. I'm watching the clock. It only has a minute and an hour hand. The minute hand hasn't "click-clocked" now for what seemed like at least two and half eternities. Remember those old school clocks? About ten seconds before the minute hand moved, it clicked as of it was getting ready to do something dramatic. Ten seconds later it finally clocked and jumped another increment.

When Einstein was formulating his "space-time continuum theory" I'll bet he never once took our school clocks into consideration. They have a "space-time" quality all to their own that completely defies all of the known physical laws of our mechanical universe. Stopping time altogether is a rather elementary procedure if you ask me. All you gotta do is take a seat in Miss Blake's classroom and watch the clock. Time will stop. Trust me.

Then all of a sudden ... "Bang!" "Bang!" "Bang!" They did it again.

It would have been hysterically funny had they left it at that. What spoiled it all was when one of them shouted out, "Miss Blake is a blimp!" I looked up at Miss Blake and turned beet red. That's when I realized what a class act she really was.

She looked up at me and said, "You do realize how immature your friends seem right now. Don't you?" Man, I sure did. She didn't get the typical "Yes, Miss Blake" from me this time. I looked her in the eye with the last shred of dignity I had left and said, "I am truly sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, Paul," she answered. "I know you are above that kind if immaturity. What troubles me is why you didn't complete your homework assignment. You had ample time to do it."

For the first time in my life I was completely honest with her. I told her that I did honestly try, but that the book had bored me to tears.

"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" She asked.

"Because I thought you'd get mad at me."

"No Paul, I never get mad at someone for expressing their honest opinion in a mature fashion. I get mad when I think they don't exert any effort. What if I allowed you to go to the library and choose a book of your own liking? Would that help?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt," I told her.

That's about as complete as that memory gets. I don't recall what book I picked out at the library, but I do know that she did approve it. And I don't remember what I got for a grade on that assignment now either, but I think I did all right.

As uncomfortable as I felt when my friend yelled that out, I must say, it did help to break down some of the barriers between Miss Blake and I. Perhaps our embarrassment enabled us to reach out to each other in sympathetic ways. It's funny how things turn out sometimes.

Whenever I write about my former schoolteachers, I try to do so through my inner child, rather than from my adult perspective. It's not always an easy thing to do. In all honesty though, throughout my thirteen-year career in the Everett public school system, I only got one teacher that I truly didn't like. And that teacher was at the Fairfield Whitney during my stint in the seventh grade.

So please don't misconstrue anything I say about my teachers as a critique on how I see them today. For in all my adult wisdom, I would praise those teachers to the ends of the Earth. Most of them have made a profound impact on my life that culminates into all that I am. Gee, I hope somebody says something like that about me someday.

It is how we saw our teachers through the eyes of a child that adds the realism to the experience. The older we get, the more human they become. It reminds me of a story that Sonny once told me.

Having become a teacher himself, he was shopping in a record store one day when he happened upon two of his students. Now we always knew Sonny as one of us Everett kids and not as a teacher. If you knew Sonny you know what a laid back, happy go lucky type of guy he was. His students, of course, see him much differently than we do.

They took one look at him and surprisingly asked, "Mister Joyce, you listen to Rock N' Roll?" They'd probably see their teacher in a new light had they known that he once hung around with hippies and partied at Woodstock. See what I mean?

Which now brings me full circle in getting back to my brother, Billy. This also has to do with a time when I felt like I was out of sight and out of mind. It's funny how you can grow up in crowded city like Everett and still feel like you're isolated from the whole world outside.

On the day before having to go back to school after the Christmas vacation when I was in the 5th grade, I came down with a terrible cold. So on the day I was supposed to go back to school, I got to stay home alone. Not that I was having a grand old time of it, mind you. I was miserable.

That was the year my mother was hospitalized over the Christmas season. We were all doing our part to get along without our Rock of Gibraltar, so to speak. My sister was doing all of the housework, including cooking all of our meals, washing the dishes, and doing our laundry. She had her hands full that year. And aside from all that she still had school and a social life to tend to as well.

Since Billy's bed was up against our bedroom window that looked down onto Arlington Street, I spent the day in his bed. That way I could at least get some rest while peeking out at what was going on in the world. I did try to draw, but I just wasn't up to it. Mostly I just laid there gazing out the window, drifting in and out of consciousness in between coughing and sneezing my brains out.

I remember feeling too weak to get up to fix myself something to eat, even though I was hungry enough to eat a horse. At times like these I really could use someone to wait on me hand and foot, not that I was ever accustomed to such a luxury or anything. After all, I'm from Everett.

So anyway, I kind of got a little excited when I opened my eyes and saw kids start to trickle down Arlington Street. That meant the kids were getting out of school. Before long my house would fill up with kids making sandwiches and stuff like that. This was good.

I dozed off again for a little bit. When I opened my eyes I saw Carl's school clothes folded up on the end of his bed. He had come and gone that quickly. Of course, there's a good chance my sister was home by now, so I crawled out of bed to check that out. Sure enough, she had come and gone that quickly too.

Doomed to life of strife and hunger until my dad got home, I flopped back onto Billy's bed and curled up under the covers. During the winter months my dad didn't get home sometimes until ten or eleven o' clock at night. He was the sole mechanic at Tufts responsible for maintaining all of their snow plowing equipment.

What woke me up out of the deepest sleep I got that day was my brother Billy shaking me like a rag doll. It was starting to get dark outside by this time. "How you doing?" He asked.

"I'm starving."

"Where's Julie?"

"She must have gone out somewhere."

"You feel good enough to take a ride down the beach for some fried clams?"

Like he had to ask. Now honestly, I could go for a plate of clams if my arm was hanging off. Couldn't you?

Nothing ever turns out quite like the way you planned. Halfway down Ferry Street Billy's Rambler started to sputter. "Oh man," he says, "I must be low on gas."

"Didn't you check the gauge?"

"It's broke," he says. "Come on, we'll get some gas. You can be my look out."

Now I'm thinking, "Why on earth does someone need a look out to get gas?"

Sure enough, he rolls into Stop & Shop's parking lot and pulls in between a bunch of parked cars. "Thank gawd it's dark now," he says. Then he grabs a tube from under his seat and says, "Hop out and keep an eye out for me."

I never knew before this that you could suck the gas out of one car and make it go into another one with a tube. This was a new one on me. So here I am sick as a dog with a bad cold and he's got me standing out in the freezing wind playing lookout while he steals somebody's gas.

Halfway through the ordeal some guy comes running towards us from the direction I wasn't looking into shouting, "Hey, what are you doing to my car?"

"Get in the car," Billy yells. We leap into the car, he fires it up, burns rubber, and we take off into the night like a bat out of hell. He runs the light in Glendale Square and takes off up Broadway towards Pope John.

This guy's on my tail," he shouts. "You were supposed to be looking out for me." He's actually pissed off at me for nor covering his ass while he broke the law. Do you believe it? I'm only eleven years old, I'm sick with a cold, and my heart is pounding because this kid's got me running like a fugitive under the dark of night. And he's mad at me. You can't win sometimes. I'm tellin ya.

I don't know how many red lights he ran that night to lose that guy. I lost count. He did lose him though. When we first got down to the beach we couldn't go right over to Kelly's for clams because now he had to cruise up and down the boulevard looking for another Rambler American. Why? Because he left his gas cap back in Stop & Shop's parking lot. And yes, I suppose that was all of my fault too - right?

What I don't remember is whether or not I ever got a plate of clams. We laughed about that night for years afterwards. Right up to the bitter end he still believed it was all my fault because I didn't keep a sharp eye out. Do you believe that?

Is it me? Am I the one who's not getting it? Tell me if it is. I mean honestly. I'm talking back at a time when a tank full of gas would run you somewhere in the vicinity of maybe two, two and half bucks tops. Do you risk your little brother's life in a high-speed chase over two and half bucks? Be honest with me.

I'm never gonna win that argument. You know that, don't ya? What difference does it make now anyway? That Rambler American is gone, the Stop & Shop is gone, and even my brother, Billy's gone. I've got nobody left to argue the point with anymore.

It just goes to show you how time marches on. The time will eventually come when I won't be here anymore either. What I'll leave behind is my version of that story for future generations to ponder. So I guess you could say this is my way of winning that argument once and for all. If my brother has anything he'd like to add, let me him do it now or forever hold his piece.

You know what's gonna happen, don't ya? The moment I step through those pearly gates he's gonna run up to me and say, "You were supposed to be looking out for me. It was all your fault in the first place." I'm telling ya right now. He's not gonna give in on this one ... ever. You mark my words. I know this guy. He's just like me. And ... "We're from Everett!"

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, my fellow Everettites! It's another brand new year already. Do you believe it? How many of these have you seen in your lifetime? Let us hope the hits just keep on coming - right? "The more the merrier," I always say. Of course, it does mean that you're getting on in years.

When I said that to my mother she said, "Don't ever complain about growing old because when you stop growing old you're dead." So when you put it that way, I'll take all the New Years I can get. And I'll be honest with ya. I've always had somewhat of soft spot in my heart for New Years Eve anyway. For me, every New Years Eve echoes those famous lyrics from that Phil Collin's song that goes, "Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in Paradise."

And you know what? This truly is another day for you and me in Paradise. Well, ain't it? Okay, so even if you don't agree that this is paradise, you've got to admit, we've sure seen a lot of New Years Eves in our day. And be honest with me. Doesn't New Year's Eve hold some sort of significance deep down inside even if you're just sitting it out at home staying away from all the hootin and hallerin?

Raise your hand if you couldn't be bothered watching the ball drop in Times Square. I wouldn't miss that for the world. And I hope I never lose sight of the excitement I feel on New Years Eve. The only thing that's changed for me over the years is how I celebrate. For one thing, my nights of praying to the porcelain god are so far behind me now it seems as though things like that only happened in a former life.

Don't get me wrong. I didn't always spend New Years Eve praying to the porcelain god. That era only spanned from my hippie days down in Glendale Park up into my thirties. I tend to refer to that portion of my life as my young and foolish years. After that it began to take so long to recover that it just wasn't worth it anymore. Suffering through an unmerciful banging headache that lasted the entire day afterward was too much to bear for one wild night that I'd never remember anyway.

In my earlier childhood days down there on Arlington Street, New Years Eve always seemed like an extension to the Christmas Holiday. That's when I used to make myself sick on malted milk balls and M&M's. So as I see it, New Years Eve holds somewhat of a tradition for getting sick on something.

When you think about it, you could actually divide your life up into three major stages of New Years Eve celebrations. Stage one happens during your adolescence when you have as much fun as possible with your pants on. Stage two happens during early adulthood when you wake up next to a girl you've never seen before in your life and have no idea as to how you even got there. And stage three is when you strain to keep your eyes open long enough to see the ball drop in Times Square.

If you're sitting here reminiscing about how you used to celebrate New Years Eve instead of going out to make a complete ass of yourself in front of all your friends, then trust me, you're at stage three. Hey, look at it this way. If you're here to reminisce about the good old days anyway then you're at stage three.

Don't let that bother you one bit. We've had our fun - right? And you're not alone by a long shot. We get hundreds of visits to the "We're From Everett" project every day. That's a lot of stage-three people right there. And I don't know about you, but I've made an ass of myself enough times to last me a lifetime. Just thinking about the things I used to do on New Years Eve makes me want to sprawl out on the couch and take a nap.

What better way to kick off a brand new year than by reminiscing about the very many new years observances we experienced while growing up in Everett - right? So everybody gather round and join hands while we tweak the dials on the old Everett Time Machine. Let's zip on back to the Everett we knew and loved on New Years Eve in 1959.

When you're only seven years old and accustomed to nothing other than a year with a five in the tens column, anticipating a brand new year that will change all that holds somewhat of a serious significance. I remember sitting at the kitchen table scribbling in my new sketchbook that I got for Christmas with a brand spankin new charcoal pencil while my big sister, Julie, told me that, "This is going to be a brand new decade. You've lived through a whole decade."

Can you imagine? Me? A whole decade already? I must be some kind of child prodigy. There's no telling what the future holds for me. You just wait until my first grade teacher, Miss Nigro, up at the Horace Mann gets a load of me in this brand new decade. One look at me and I know she'll be impressed. Funny how I didn't realize at the time that everyone else in my classroom held the very same distinction.

New Years Eve in 1959 was the first one that made any kind of an impression on me. For that entire day all of my other siblings were excited about ringing in the New Year, but I was kind of nervous about it. I wouldn't let it show because I didn't want them to think that I was a big baby.

By the gist of their conversations I knew that something big was going to happen at the stroke of midnight. From everything I've ever seen on TV whenever something happened at the stroke of midnight it always produced catastrophic results. Think about it. Cinderella's coach turned back into a pumpkin. And isn't it at the stroke of midnight when all the ghouls come out?

I remember gazing down at Arlington Street through the drifting snow from my living room window up on the second floor wondering if our neighborhood will ever be the same again. And if I wasn't overly concerned as it was already, Billy got me all shook up when he said, "Just wait until you see that giant ball drop on Times Square in New York City."

You mean to tell me that everyone knows a giant ball is going to drop on Times Square and nobody's doing anything about it? Call out the militia. Evacuate the area. Somebody do something. Don't just sit there. Millions of lives are at stake here. This could easily turn out to be the disaster of the century.

As I look back on it now, I wonder how my dad could possibly get excited about anything. He just spent right down to his last penny making sure we had a merry Christmas. For that whole week between Christmas and New Years we ran helter skelter all over the house making an awful racket with our brand new toys. From looking at that smile on his face while watching us play you'd think he didn't have a care in the world. Underneath it all he had more troubles than you could shake a stick at.

What bothered me sometimes is how stingy Santa Claus got when it came time to leave something for my dad under the Christmas tree. For every gift Santa left with his name on it I got three or four. Either he was a very naughty boy last year or Santa Claus has very little compassion towards dads.

If I only got a new pack of underwear, some handkerchiefs, and a new smoking pipe for Christmas I'd be pissed. It makes no wonder why my dad's not hootin and hallerin all over the house with his new Christmas gifts. With what he got for Christmas all he could do was tie a hanky around his face like an old western bandit, run through the house in his new underwear, and shoot the place up using his smoking pipe as a make believe six-shooter.

For some funny reason though, my dad couldn't care less about getting anything at all for Christmas. Presents weren't important to him. It was the true spirit of being with his family that was important to him. He got more of a thrill out of watching you get excited over your gifts. Even in all my youthful innocence I knew that he was an exceptional person. After all, how many people do you know whose genuine happiness depends on making you happy? You don't run into too many people like that in your lifetime.

Knowing that my dad was going to be right here by my side gave me the strength and stamina to face up to whatever it was that was going to happen at the stroke of midnight. I knew this guy would lay down his life to protect me. So no matter how much destruction that ball causes when it drops down on top of Times Square, I know my dad will shelter me from the fallout.

When celebrating New Years Eve back in 1959, we didn't send out for a Peninsula Pu Pu Platter from the Kowloon to stuff our face with. Nobody had that kind of cash back then. Well, not in my house anyway. As the years wore on and our ecomomic station in life improved, my dad started bringing home Angelina's subs for New Years Eve. But before that, you know what we did on New Years Eve, don't ya? Aw come on, you've got to know us pretty good by now. We popped popcorn.

Popping popcorn was more than just a family tradition. It was almost like a religion with us. What was so special about it was how we all gathered around the kitchen stove waiting for it to pop out over the big spaghetti pot. We'd run around frantically trying to catch it all before any of it fell onto the kitchen floor. I didn't really think it was such a big deal if it did fall onto the floor because you could always kiss it up to God anyway. My mother would freak out and demand that we throw whatever landed on the floor away. Oh, ye of little faith - right?

So as night fell, we circled the TV and listened to Guy Lombardo with his Royal Canadians play for their black tie and evening gown audience who cut the rug on the dance floor at New York's famous Waldorf Astoria. The music was nothing that interested us kids at all, but it ignited such a lively spirit in my mom and dad that the feeling became contagious. Whenever they played "Let The world Go By," my mom and dad got up danced around the living room. They always ended that dance with a loving hug and kiss. That was their special song.

And then it happened. They cut away from Guy Lombardo and switched the scene to down town Times Square. You should have seen the crowd. They were shouting, and laughing, and carrying on as if they had no idea that this great big ball was about to come down on top of them. They were blowing noisemakers and waiving pom-poms as if they were celebrating some kind of monumental victory. What fools these mortals be?

Then the countdown began. "Ten, nine, eight, seven," ... and there I stood in the middle of the living room floor so tensed up from anxiety that I couldn't breath. That big ball on TV lit up like a Christmas tree and started sliding down the flagpole. There was no time left to run and hide. "Six, five, four," ... clearly the only one who was frightened out of their wits was me.

I took one last look at my loved ones. I wasn't sure if I should blurt out "I really love you guys" or not. I suppose I'll have plenty of time to say that in Heaven. "Three, two, one," ... oh man, here it comes. "ZERO" ... "HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

That big ball that everybody made such a big fuss about did not fall down on top of the crowd in Times Square after all. All it did was slide to the bottom of the flagpole and light up a great big sign that read, "1960." Nothing happened at the stroke of midnight to cause any alarm. Nobody got hurt.

The only other memorable event to happen at the stroke of midnight was that us kids ran out onto Arlington Street banging pots and pans together yelling "Happy New Year!" Stanley, and Karen, and Martha came running out onto the sidewalk with us. What a blast and a half, I'm telling ya.

That's what happened. Man, what a relief. On that night I learned three things about the changing new year. The first one is that it signals the end of the Christmas vacation and you've got to go back to school. The second one is that it takes some getting used to before you stop writing the old year in the date heading of your homework papers. And last, but not least, I learned you could have a really great time on New Years Eve and nobody has to get hurt. People do sometimes when they get so foolish that they forget to be careful.

I rather doubt that there's anyone amongst us who can't think back to a New Years Eve party that still amazes them to this day that they made it home alive. Back in the mid 1970's when I was in my early twenties I rented a studio apartment down on C1 where Almay's and Zayre's used to be. On this one particular New Years Eve I drove home from a party in Melrose with one eye closed so I could clearly see the road ahead. That's how plastered I was.

So not to get pulled over by the cops, I pulled into Zayre's parking lot to cut through to my apartment building. My line of reasoning was that they wouldn't care about how badly I was zig-zagging through an empty parking lot as opposed to doing that on the opened road. I do remember bumping up and down over the parking curbing so badly that I bounced up out of my seat and banged my head against the hood a few times, but that's all I remember.

What I remember most is waking up the next day. I woke up face down on the middle of my kitchen floor with my arms behind my back all tangled up in my jacket that I obviously couldn't get all the way off due to my inebriated condition. Besides that, my left leg was twisted up in between the rungs of one my kitchen chairs. My pants were down around my knees somewhere so I must have tried to get them off as well.

Here's the clincher. When I got it all together I realized that I had left the door to my apartment wide open all night. Everyone passing by in the hallway, and there were many, could easily look right in and see everything that was going on. So I'm sure I became somewhat of a buzzword amongst my neighbors that night. And if all that wasn't enough to make me look bad, you should have seen the way I parked my car.

By the way the grill and left headlight were all smashed in and pressed right up against my brick apartment building I'd say either one of two things must have happened. Either I slammed into my apartment building when I got home, or the apartment building slid forward into my car while I was upstairs asleep. Not being sure which actually happened, I decided not to file a claim and just paid for the repairs out of pocket. After all, how many times does a brick apartment building just come out of nowhere?

Looking back on all my New Years Eves, I honestly liked the ones I shared with my family best. For me, I had far more fun popping popcorn and watching Guy Lombardo on TV than I ever did getting wasted and making a complete fool of myself. Even getting wasted and making a fool out of yourself gets old after awhile. You wouldn't think so, but it does. What never gets old are those heartfelt memories you shared with your family growing up in Everett. That's what life is really all about.

So what was my favorite way to spend New Years Day itself? Well, back in my younger days, before having to recover from all of my foolishness the night before, I spent most of my New Years Days with my tape recorder and radio. That's why I always put a few empty reels of recording tape on my Christmas list.

On New Years day most of the local radio stations like WMEX, WBZ, WRKO, WCOZ, and WHDH, played the top 100 hundred hits of the preceding year. As a result I wound up with an extensive library that included all of the top hits from 1958 to 1970. Using 7-inch reels of Scotch Premium Gold recording tape at 3-3/4 ips I got as close to optimal sound recording as you could ever hope for back in our day.

And believe me, I wasn't recording through a patch cord connected to an earphone plug either. That sometimes causes static interference. What I did was open the back of the radio and wired my patch directly to the speaker. I wasn't taking any chances.

So for that whole day I sat beside my radio drawing in my sketchbook with my right hand while resting my left hand on my tape recorder's pause button. I only wish now that I recorded every commercial they ever made, but I never could have afforded all of the necessary recording tape, especially not at 3-3/4 inches per second.

Many times over the years I've transferred those recordings onto the latest of storage mediums available. By the late sixties I transferred them over onto cassettes. By the late Nineties I re-recorded them onto CD's. Over the past 5 years I've re-engineered those recordings using the latest software technologies to digitally enhance the sound quality to beyond the bounds of human hearing. Those recordings enabled me to compile the radio MP3 downloads I posted on our "Growing Up Everett" sound page.

Every new year brings an excited anticipation for that which is yet to come. I never thought I'd ever see the day when they would tear down all of those overhead trolley wires. They always bothered me when I was a little kid because I felt so trapped underneath those things. It was a lot of fun to try to knock the trolley hooks off the wire with a snowball. You were lucky if you succeeded at a rate of about one out every ninety-nine throws.

I never thought I'd see the day when it would become legal to add your own phone lines without having to get the okay from Ma Bell first. Another thing I never thought I'd see was the day they broke up Ma Bell into a dozen different competing industries. And whoever thought we'd ever get away from that old party line system?

Who remembers what our streetlights looked like back when we were little kids? They were not these aluminum monstrosities that light up the night like the break of day. What they were was quaint cast iron green poles with a simple light bulb under a corrugated seashell looking shade. That light bulb hung out at the end of a finely detailed scrolled arm and barely lit up the parking spot directly beneath it.

Let me ask you something else. Did you ever think you'd see the day when you'd have no use whatsoever for either a vinyl record album or a cassette tape? And even far more surprising than that, did you ever think you'd see the day when you'd willingly agree to pay a monthly fee just to watch TV? Man, they've sure pulled the wool over our eyes, wouldn't you say?

And how about them Red Sox, huh? Did you ever think you'd see the day when they'd win 2 World Series? And those New England Patriots, wow! Totally unbelievable - no? Not only did they finish the season undefeated, but they've broken just about every NFL record on the books. And now they're well on their way towards their 4th Superbowl victory. I am truly speechless.

Regrettably, not everything about the future turned out as good as we had hoped. I shake my head in disbelief at what's going on in the world today. America's working class people, the very salt of our earth, are quickly getting pushed back into the pre-1930's working conditions when employees had no individual rights, enjoyed no job security, or fringe benefits.

What else bothers me is some of the things they allow on TV nower days. Call me old fashioned if you like, but when the comedy channel airs cartoons that spew out the very four letter words that we used to get our mouth washed out with soap over, then I get offended. Now these cartoons have gone so far as to expose parts of the human anatomy that were once only published in dirty books. It's getting to the point where you can't sit and watch TV with your children anymore without getting embarrassed out of your wits. Is that really entertainment? The only thing the comedy channel seems to lack is anything that's funny.

What disturbs me the most is that it is no longer safe for our children to play unsupervised out on the sidewalk anymore. Come to think of it, it's not all that safe to send them off to school or church by themselves anymore either. You can't trust anyone.

You're afraid to speak up sometimes because the minute you open your mouth you get labeled. They'll call you a narrow-minded bigot because, more than likely, anything you say will offend a handful of people in the middle of East Overshoe somewhere. God forbid that your holiday ornaments should offend some remote sect who believes that the only real living God is a styrofoam cup, or some such nonsense as that.

That sad part is that none of this is any of your fault whatsoever. Your elected officials have betrayed you. Every last one of them have sold your country out from under you. They're cheating our Veterans, and constantly violate our constitutional rights to the point of treason. Both political parties are in cahoots with one another over a hidden agenda that is hell bent on destroying every last shred of everything this country stands for.

What is this world coming to? Where did we go so wrong?

We went wrong the moment we forgot that "We're From Everett." Think about that. What does it mean to grow up in Everett? It means that you ain't afraid to roll up your sleeve, ball up your knucklebone, and take care of your own. It means if that if somebody's got something to say about us then they should come right out with it. Yeah, we'll more than likely call them on the carpet for it, but they should go ahead and say it anyway cuz this is a free country.

Just don't ever think that we're gonna keep our traps shut just cuz you don't agree with us. We demand the same rights as anybody else. Try to deny us of that and we'll fatten your lip and blacken both of your eyes. And one more thing. You touch our kids and we'll break your face.

What's right is right, and what's wrong is wrong. It's as simple as that in our eyes. Never mind all that double-talk going on in the media by the privileged political class. We demand the same health benefits that our elected officials get, and fully subsidized benefits with a sizable compensation for our Veterans. That's what we're looking for in this coming election year. Anything short of that just doesn't cut the mustard.

Thumb your nose up at us if you will. Go ahead and turn your back on us. But I'm gonna show you something that might surprise you. All you gotta do is "click" on that link under my picture up in the right hand column that says "View my complete profile." Take a gander at the number of page views listed there. Then tell me that we don't amount to any serious significance.

Just keep this in mind. We have not yet begun to fight. What we have begun to do is reach out to one another, to get back in touch with our roots, and to come back together again as a community. This is only the beginning. We're growing leaps and bounds. There's no telling what heights we'll reach in 2008. You just wait and see.

So who do we think we are anyway? We know who we are. Make no mistake about that. "We're From Everett! And no one could be prouder!"