There is a Reason

Some sixteen or seventeen hundred years ago, someone claiming to be the son of David and the king over Israel in Jerusalem, penned somewhat of a sonnet entitled, "Qoheleth." Better known to most of us as, "Ecclesiastes." The title itself supposedly means, "to gather."

Although quite pessimistic in nature, this dissertation does exactly what each and every one of us tends to do from time to time. And that is to question the senselessness of whatever this life is supposed to be all about anyway. The lessons within become the stepping stones to our cognitive mortality. Within the context of this post I have every intention of explaining what I mean by that.

Back in the 1950's, famous American songwriter, Pete Seeger, composed "Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)", in which he adapter the words directly out of "Ecclesiastes 3" to music. The song became a huge hit for the Birds during the latter 1960's Hippie era.

When it comes to the scriptures, we can argue until we're blue in the face as to the validity, the historical accuracy, or to the actual interpretations intended as written. Even so, a wealth of enlightenment awaits you there. And contrary to popular belief, it doesn't take an opened mind to find it.

Everything that has ever come to pass, in one form or another, exists within those scriptures. Nobody needs to tell you what any of those scriptures mean. For as they say "One man's meat is another man's poison." Whatever you learn from the scriptures was meant for you and you alone.

The conflict begins as soon as somebody else tries to dictate what it's all supposed to mean to you. We may all be looking at the very same words, but they may mean something completely different to each and every one of us.

The pieces to my puzzle will not fit into your equation. And neither will yours fit into mine. For you see, we all have our own unique reason and purpose for being here. Life is the journey "you" make to discover what that is.

And yes, you're free to seek advice and counsel along the way. Just be sure to take everything you hear or read under advisement until you fully weigh its adaptability to your situation. Be the master of your own destiny. Let no one dictate the path that you choose.

You're bound to make mistakes along the way. You'll sometimes fumble the ball on the one yard line and make a complete fool of yourself. It happens. Just don't ever give up, or think that it's too late to start all over again. The very fact that you're still here means that your reason and purpose for being is still playing itself out.

The third verse of Ecclesiastes begins as such.

"To every thing, there is a season,
and a time for every purpose under heaven."

In so many ways the "Book of Ecclesiastes" reminds me of that profound opening line to Theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr's "Serenity Prayer" he penned back in 1934 that goes like this. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference."

Fundamentally simple, for sure, but if we were to keep such words of wisdom in mind as we suffer through our trials, and rejoice in our tribulations, we would never grow unsure of ourselves, or ever get too full of ourselves.

So what has spawned all this in the first place, and what, in God's name, has all this got to do with growing up in Everett? I thought you'd never ask.

Within the past two years I've told you just about everything there is to know about my family. I suppose there a very few secrets left to tell. My life growing up in Everett has become somewhat of an opened book to you all.

January 17th marked our second anniversary, and I didn't even make mention of that. February 15th marked my 56th birthday and I made no mention of that either. Even still, I cannot believe how many of you actually remembered my birthday anyway. Your thoughtfulness not only took me by surprise, but it also touched me ever so warmly.

My recent forgetfulness is the result having too many things going on in my life at one time. Isn't it supposed to slow down as you approach the sunny side of Sixty? I suppose Roseanne Rosannadanna said it best when she said, "If it's not one thing; It's another."

My mother, who is now well into her eighties, called me a few weeks back to say "Did you know that Julie's still in the hospital?"

My immediate response was, "What do you mean by still? Nobody told me that Julie was in the hospital."

As it turns out, my big sister, the very one who taught me how to read and write before I ever got into kindergarten, has spent over five weeks in the hospital with some kind of serious pulmonary something or other. Five weeks in the hospital nower days is serious. Heck, they send you home the next day after a major back operation.

Now I'll be honest with ya. The whole time she was in intensive care, which was a considerable length of time, I was beside myself. There was actually a moment there when we thought we might lose her. On the very day they moved her out of the intensive care unit, I finally got a chance to talk to her on the phone.

There's going to be some seriously life-altering changes in her life now. She's already accepted that. What was really so special about our conversation was the tone of our voices as we spoke. We sounded like two best friends who hadn't seen each other in years.

They tell me that "Blood is thicker than water." And I suppose in so many ways that's true. But I honestly believe there is more to it than that. It's not so much hereditary as it is the bond that builds between people. There are those who grow up orphaned and yet establish relationships in their lifetimes that easily surpass those bonds that are based on nothing more than genetics.

The bond between my sister and I goes way beyond just that of genetics. For as far back as I can remember, and you'd be shocked how far back that goes, hers was the face that always seemed to be there. She was always in my picture.

My sister and I have been to hell and back over the years. And it all began way before I ever stepped into Miss Cook's kindergarten class up at the Horace Mann school. One of my earliest memories of my big sister is that of the very first "Fourth of July" that I was old enough to know that something of significance was going on around me.

The images in mind's eye begin with a carefree ride in a stroller uphill on Arlington Street and rounding the corner onto Foster. Julie was pushing the stroller and Martha was walking along side of her. They couldn't have been any older than about six or seven themselves.

That was the day we encountered a clown walking along Foster Street. He smiled at me and bent down to give me a lollipop. It was one of those lollipops with a looped rope-like handle. Do you remember those?

Embedded in my mind's eye is the surrounding landscape as it was at that precise moment fifty-four years ago. I can still see the exact shade of sunlight as it filtered through the leaves rustling ever so softly in that gentle summer breeze. And I can still see those puffy bellowing clouds that drifted ever so slightly across that deep blue sky.

I remember that so vividly as if it only happened yesterday. Foster Street always stood out as some kind of utopia to me when I was a little kid. There was just something about it that felt so quaint and homey. Maybe that's because my second recollection of that day was of the very long line up at the Horace Mann playground to get a free Hoodsie.

It's funny how I have no recollection whatsoever of the "Fourth of July" parade itself that day, but I do remember that clown on Foster Street, and I do remember that Hoodsie. As I got older I used to run around from playground to playground with my friends to score as many free Hoodsies as possible on the "Fourth of July."

Another early on memory of my big sister that comes to mind was the very first time that my mother allowed her to take me up to the Horace Mann school ground to play. It happened during the summer just before I started kindergarten. So now we're talking the summer of 1957.

All the way up Arlington Street Julie kept heightening my anticipation by telling me all the great things we were gonna do up at the playground. She was going to show me how to twist three swings together to make an airplane. Then she was going to show me how to hang upside down with no hands from the top of the monkey bars.

Even after all that we were going to sit around at the top of those cement steps that led out onto Foster Street with all the other kids and play "Go to the Head of the Class." Whatever that is. "And you're gonna love Marsha, our school ground teacher," she assured me. "She's the greatest."

Julie was right. Marsha was the greatest. She lived diagonally across the street from the school grounds. I still remember exactly what she looked like right down to the most precise detail. She seemed so much larger than life to a five year old. She was little more than a child herself at sixteen. That's how old you had to be to be a school ground teacher.

No sooner had I got up to the playground did I break away from my big sister and start running around with all the other kids. It was my first day away from the front of the house without any adult supervision. I had seized the day. Life was never the same again.

By the summer after the third grade the whole social landscape of my neighborhood had changed. Cassie died a few years back so Manny took over that little variety store in Gray's apartment building there on Ferry Street. Coppin's little grocer on the corner of Ferry and High closed down and reopened as a Laundromat a few months later.

Also that summer they strung up barbed wire across the gate to the opening of the Storm Shield building at the bottom of Arlington Street. That was supposed to keep us from climbing over the fence at night to steal all of their empty boxes. It didn't work.

One summer afternoon after the Storm Shield Company had closed for the day, Julie, Martha, and I scaled that fence and threw a bunch of empty boxes out onto the sidewalk. Amongst those boxes were these long skinny ones that fit perfectly up over your legs. We'd slide those on and walk around peg legged.

When Martha slid hers on this ungodly look of shock came over her. She immediately yanked that box back off of her leg and screamed at the top of her lungs. There was a shard of sharp metal down inside that box and it opened her leg right down to the bone. Julie ran screaming frantically over to Martha's mother and father who were sitting out on the front porch.

God only knows how many stitches it took to close that horrendous sight. Only the doctors up at the Whidden ER really know for sure. That was the last time any of us ever slide one of those up over our legs, let me tell ya.

Julie had now reached the age where she was getting invited to all kinds of dance parties. That inspired her to take it upon herself to teach me all of the latest dance crazes. She just wanted me to be cool when my turn came, I guess. We'd spark up that table top AM radio in the kitchen and she'd teach me what dance would go with what song. She taught me the mashed potato, the bogalloo, the monkey, the shout, and of course, the twist.

By the time I reached party age myself the social landscape had gone through yet another dramatic change. Half of the kids I grew up with went one way, and the rest went another. There were still those who adhered to the more traditional demeanor of teenagehood. You know, going to dances, school proms, and things like that.

There was another faction of Everett teenagers who had broken off from the mainstream and went their own way. I kind of joined up with that crowd. Oh, don't get me wrong, they partied. Man, did they party. They weren't all that big on dancing, mind you, but the kind of parties they threw were not the kind you'd go back home and tell your parents about. I can assure you of that.

Going back to my earlier childhood, another fond memory I have of my big sister is all those cold rainy afternoons we sat together on the couch and watched "Soupy Sales" and the afternoon "Boston Movie Time" before supper. Doesn't sound very exciting on the surface, I know, but it was more spending quality time with somebody you love than it was anything else. We'd sometimes shut the sound off to the movie and speak our own dialogue to the characters on the TV screen.

The first time I got to go to Canobie Lake Park with the Everett Parks Department was because Julie had assured my mother that she would stick by my side the whole time. And she did, too. Her and Martha took me on the roller coaster. It frightened the daylights out of me, but I would never let anybody know that.

Just as that car rolled over the top of that steep drop and began to plummet downhill, Martha stood up, thew her hands into the air and shouted "Your mother loves ya!" What a character, I'm telling ya.

Years later when Julie was old enough to date boys who drove cars she'd take me along sometimes when they were just heading out for a night on the town. That's how I got to go up to the "Adventure Car Hop" up on route one. When you shouted "Woo Woo Ginsberg" into the mic they'd give you a free 45. By "45" I mean, a free record. If I have to explain it to you any more than that than believe me, you're way too young to relate.

There are so many things I could tell you about how my big sister played such an influential role in my growing up that it would take volumes. Just by what I've told you so far, I'm sure you get the picture. If there's one thing I can say about the kids in my family it's that we stuck together. If you fought one of us, you'd have to fight us all. By the same token, if you befriended anyone of us, we welcomed you into the family with opened arms.

Along the way you've heard me mention Martha several times. Well, let me tell ya something. Martha will always be another big sister to me no matter what. For as far back as I can remember, Martha was always right there for me, too. We may not be connected by genetics, but our hearts are bound so closely together that you'd never know the difference.

It makes me laugh when I think about the time, many years later, when Julie confided to me that "Once I found that you and Billy had a reputation for fighting I used that to my advantage all the time. If any guy gave me a hard time I'd say, "I'll get my brothers after you" and they immediately backed off."

To which I responded, "I have a reputation for fighting? How come nobody ever told me?"

I guess a reputation for fighting comes with the territory when you grow up in Everett. It may not have been all that effective against another Everett kid, but I'm sure "out of towners" became a bit apprehensive knowing the reputation Everett kids had about them. It just seems like whenever you went anywhere and a fight broke out, there was an Everett kid in the middle of it somehow.

So was her theory ever put to the test? Well, as a matter of fact, it was. It didn't happen until I was up into my thirties. I was over my big brother, Billy's house up on Russell Street sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee when the telephone rang. It was Julie and she sounded frantic.

Apparently there was a bit of family conflict going on between her husband and brother-in-law over their mother's estate. Her husband, who was a truck driver, was out on the road at the time. She called because her brother-in-law came barging into her house, mad about something that she didn't fully understand. In the process he had threatened both her and her children. She was frightened.

You don't need a reputation when somebody threatens your family. You don't even need to be tough. All the faculties you'll need to muster up to protect your family will be there for you when you step up to the plate. Trust me on that.

Minutes later my big brother, Billy and I were at the scene. I commenced to pound the living daylights out of this guy right there in the middle of the street. I didn't stop until the cops pulled me off of him. They were going to arrest me for fighting, but Julie's brother-in-law explained to them that it was all a family misunderstanding.

"What kind of family do you people have?" The cop asked with somewhat of a surprised look on his face. "Look." He said, "I can't let you people stand out here pounding the daylights out of each other in the middle of the street. Let me see you two shake hands. If not, I'm gonna run you both in." We shook hands.

"I didn't mean to threaten anybody," he explained. "Julie misunderstood."

"It doesn't matter," I told him. "Women get nervous when a guy starts throwing his weight around. That's threatening. Your troubles are with your brother, not with my sister. Leave her out of this." He agreed.

He really was a nice kid when you got to know him. It's just that he had overstepped his bounds that day. That really was kind of a bad day for him all around. While I was banging him back and forth across the street, Billy shouted at him, "When he's through with you it's gonna be my turn." So I guess you could say that whoever it was that called the cops that day really did him a favor.

I get the feeling those people in that Winthrop community weren't accustomed to the way we settle our differences in Everett. What a bunch of squares - right? I mean really. How else do you get your point across?

Let me get back to that verse in Ecclesiastes that says, "To every thing there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven." There's no better time to talk about the scriptures than after you've just beaten the tar out of your fellow man. Know what I mean, Vern?

That is exactly what I meant about how the lessons within the scriptures become the stepping stones to our cognitive mortality. Things happen in our lives sometimes that don't make very much sense. Years later you'll look back on it and all of a sudden the light will come on. You may not understand it right now, but you will. Trust me, you will.

So when my big sister was floundering in the intensive care unit I threw back that sliding glass door and stepped out onto the patio under the stars. Throwing my hands out in frustration I looked up into the midnight sky and cried out, "Okay, so what's this all about?"

"I mean honestly. Here's a kid who's been like a second mother to me. She's one of the finest daughters any set of parents could ever ask for. She's dedicated her life to nursing for no other purpose than to help other people. When duty called she worked tirelessly around the clock going many nights without sleep to take care of her dying brother."

"She been dedicated to her family all her life. She's even put a kid through college for God's sake. What more can you ask from this kid? So what's the big idea, huh? What are you picking on her for? She didn't do nothing to you. Lighten up, buddy. Don't make me get up out of this chair."

It meant the world to me to hear her voice again. Yeah, we talked about her troubles and how all this was going to drastically change her lifestyle from here on in. What really took me by storm was when she said, "I'm gonna be all right as long as I have you by my side."

Those are powerful words, especially coming from the very person that I always felt that way about. It certainly defines one of my reasons for being. You see what I'm saying? When you've got family, you've got everything. It's as simple as that.

So now I've gotta go back out onto the patio, look up into the midnight sky and say, "Thanks for hearing me out. I take back what I said about getting up out of that chair. I know I didn't really scare ya none even if I do come from Everett."

Family isn't just genetics. It goes way beyond that. Once somebody touches your heart they become part of your family. The bond grows that much stronger with each infinitesimal thread that connects between the two of you. Just like you and me. We're family now.

Think about all the things we've been through together. We grabbed a snack at Kresge's down the Square. We bought some shoes at Weiner's on Norwood Street. We rode the 110 Wonderland trolley down Ferry Street. We had coffee at Vargis. We went Christmas shopping in Grant's down in Glendale Square. And we tore our popcorn boxes into goggles down at the Park Theatre.

Maybe we didn't actually do it all at the very same time, but as you read the stories and relived the experience, it was just the same as if we had lived through the memories together. So tell me. Does it tell you anything about your unique reason and purpose for being here? Does it say anything at all to you to help you discover what your journey is all about? It certainly does mine.

With every passing year the reasons behind many of the things I didn't understand before come sharply into focus. Oh, if I knew then what I know now. But I didn't know it then because I wasn't supposed to. Sorting it all out was what this journey was all about in the first place. You've got to live through the experience before you can really understand it.

I love that line in Shakespeare's Hamlet that says, "There are far more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." We may never understand it all. And I rather doubt there is any "one-size-fits-all" philosophy that can ever fulfill every missing piece to everyone's individual puzzle.

Step back from your puzzle every once in a while and get a gander at the overall picture. You're gonna find out that some of the pieces to your puzzle look just like some of the pieces in Gracie's puzzle, and Walter's puzzle, and Kathy's, and Peter's, and Hilda's, and Joe's, and Joanne's, and Bobby's, and Lynne's, and Camille's, and Earl's, and Christine's, and George's, and the list goes on and on and keeps growing larger every day.

Laugh at me if you want to, but I'm telling ya right now that one of my many reasons for being here was to grab your attention so you'd hear what I had to say. And what I wanted to say is "Regardless of all of the uncertainties, we are making this journey together. We grew up in a remarkable place surrounded by very special people. You must realize that by now"

"There is no reason for any of you to ever feel alone. So don't be afraid. Somebody cares about you. A lot of people care about you. You belong here. You mean the world to us. We are not distant strangers. We are your family. We love you that much."

And last, but by no means least ... "We're from Everett!"

In My Next Life

"In my next life I'm going to do the exact opposite of what I did this time. Believe you me, if I knew then what I know now..." That's a direct quote from my mother. She's used to say that on every school morning when the four of us kids were running helter skelter all over the house looking for socks and fighting over the bathroom.

Thinking about that reminds me of that day I had to run back into the house because I forgot that note she was supposed to sign. There she stood bent over the kitchen sink behind a pile of breakfast dishes that were teetering on the brink of disaster. She turned around to look back at me with her hair all a mess; her nerves all frazzled, and asked, "What's the matter now?"

"You've gotta sign this note for school."

"What did you do now?"

"Nothing really. Everybody was talking in class and the teacher singled me out."

"Don't give me that. I know Miss Blake. She doesn't single anybody out unless they deserve it. Now what did you do?"

"I was talking out of turn," I shrugged my shoulders and tilted my head as if to dismiss it as a minor infraction of the rules.

"Why, all of a sudden, are telling me about this now?"

If there's one thing an Everett kids learns early on in life it's how to cover your tracks and lie like a politician. Hey, let's face it. We grew up with an awesome role model. When it comes to lying and covering your tracks you've got to stand in awe of Senator Ted Kennedy - right? Who best to learn the ins and outs of the trade other than from the master himself?

Yeah, I could be stupid and tell my mother the truth. All I'd have to say is "I waited until now so you'd be too worn out to yell and scream at the top of your lungs and there wouldn't be enough time for you to put me through another one of those "straighten up and fly right" lectures."

Should I elect to tell the truth I can guarantee you this. She'll be waiting for me to get home from school with that strap in her hand. You mark my words. It is the consequences we come to expect that usually dictate the course of our actions. That's why that old adage of "honesty is the best policy" doesn't really make very much sense most of the time to a kid.

Don't get me wrong. I honestly do believe that "honesty being the best policy" has its merits. It just doesn't seem to work for politicians running for election, or for kids whose mothers tend to overact to something so simple as having your teacher unexpectedly walk back into the classroom while you're tap dancing on top of your desk.

I suppose I should have read that note before I came up with such a lame explanation. There's just not enough time to keep track of all those countless insignificant details that clutter up your daily life. By the time you finish seven innings of punch after school, play a game of "hide-and-go-seek" before the streetlights come on, eat supper, finish your arithmetic homework, and then take your bath, it's time for bed.

"The teacher caught you dancing on top of your desk?" She shouts.

It's times like these that test your mettle. You've got exactly one and a half seconds to squirm your way out of that one. "It's not as bad as it sounds," I shake my head and throw up my hands.

"What in the hell are you talking about?" She's fuming now.

"A mouse ran under my desk."

God only knows where that came from. It's funny how these outlandish things just pop into your head when you're under pressure. If nothing else, this was my last desperate attempt to escape the inevitable wrath that's sure to follow.

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"Everybody else jumped up on top their desk, too," I explained. "It's just that I was the only one still on top of my desk when the teacher came back into the room. So I got in trouble."

"Look me in the eye and say that," she demanded.

As if that's a hard thing to do. Hey, it's not like I'm standing tall before the man or anything. When I get to the Golden Gates, I'll come clean. But for right now, I'll do whatever it takes to keep that strap from coming down across my backside.

It's funny how you unconsciously pick up little tidbits of information while the teacher drones on and on about all that boring nonsense those teachers seem to go on endlessly about. Here's something I remember my teacher once saying. "If you repeat something often enough, people will begin to belief it even if it isn't true." The other thing I remember hearing once is, "The bigger the lie; the more believable it becomes."

Now I'll be honest with ya. I'm taking those quotes out of context and have no idea how they fit into the lesson the teacher was trying to get across. What I do know is that if those theories really do work, there's no time like the present to put them to the test.

"This is your last chance to tell me the honest truth, or so help me God, I'll tan your hide, but good." She's towering over me with both hands on her hips now. When she does that I know I'm up the creek without a paddle.

I'm sticking to my original story because if I switch lanes now she's gonna know I'm lying through my teeth. Once she finds out I lied in the first place, I'm dead. This is one of those catch 22's you hear people talking about. You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't.

"Ma, I'm telling you the truth."

"Okay then," she says. "I'm gonna call the school and ask your teacher myself. If I find out you're lying that strap is gonna be hanging right there across the back of that kitchen chair just waiting for you when you get home. And don't you forget it, buddy boy."

"I hope you do, Ma. Then you'll find out for sure that I'm telling the truth. The teacher will tell ya how she had to call the janitor because there was a mouse in our classroom."

"You just better hope you're telling the truth. That's all I gotta say." She then signed the note and sent me off to school.

Why did I add to the lie? Because "the bigger the lie; the more believable it becomes." Besides that, I know she's not gonna call the school. How do I know that? I've been through this a dozen times before.

That type of parental psychology worked when I was in the lower grades. By the time I got into the sixth grade I figured it all out. She used to pretend that she called the school and then said that she was told the exact opposite of what I told her. I'd confess everything and then got a spanking for lying. Now I dare her to call the school claiming that it will confirm my lie. She never does. Once she signs that note, I'm home free.

So now you're probably wondering if, as I look back on it all, whether or not I feel a pang of guilt for having lied to my mother. My answer is a resounding, "No." And I will give you my reasons.

From the very start I never wanted to go off to school. I emphatically told them several times that I liked my life just the way it was. Even still, they insisted that I go off to school. They made that decision without taking any of my concerns into consideration. So as I see it, they got what they asked for.

Why couldn't they have just left well enough alone? Why do people have this need to stir everything up? Why do people have to fix things that aren't broken? And why is it that everyone else thinks that they know what's best for me?

To further illustrate my point, let me share with you a seemingly insignificant moment lodged in my memory banks from back in the days before I ever went to school. For the sake of argument, I'm going to say this happened just before the summer school vacation prior to the fall in which I was to begin kindergarten at the Horace Mann elementary school.

Let's say it's early June of 1957. I had just turned 5 in the previous February. I have this image in my head of rocking back and forth on the living room couch to the music coming from the record player. My mother was humming along to the tune while dusting off the nick-nacks on her shadow box. The song playing at that moment was "You've got that magic touch" by the Platters.

For but a brief moment I stopped to marvel at the cloud of dust twinkling in the sunlight that filtered in through the venetian blinds. At that precise moment, my mother turned to me and said, "You like that record, don't you?"

Oh, and I did. I liked it very much. As a matter of fact, it was my favorite out of all of her records. I did also like "Sixteen Tons," Chain Gang," and "Party Doll," but there was just something about "You've got that magic touch" that seemed to encompass the whole world around me every time I heard it.

"Well, I'm going to let that be your record. Would you like that?"

I can't even begin to describe what a monumentally milestone that was in my life. "You've Got That Magic Touch," by the Platters was the very first grown up record I ever owned. And I couldn't wait for my older siblings to get home from school that day so I could show off my very own grown up record.

Now here's where I really appreciated having an older sister. Girls have a natural sense of warm understanding about them that just seems to radiate straight from their hearts. That's probably why God chose them to become mothers.

When you fall down and scrape your knee, a girl will coddle you, and pamper you, and make you feel almost as if you're glad you got hurt in the first place. A boy will carelessly look back at you and tell you to "suck it up and rub some dirt on it."

As soon as Carl stepped in through the front door I shouted, "Hey Carl, this is my very own grown up record."

"Oh, la tee dah," he said throwing his sweater down onto the couch and dashing out into the kitchen to see what he could find in the fridge for an after school snack. First graders have more than likely already experienced something as monumental as this so it's probably no big deal at this stage of their lives.

Not more than a minute later, Billy came barging in through the back door. I say "barging" because Billy was about as noisy as a boy gets. He stamped all the way up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. "Billy, for crying out loud, take it easy. You're going to knock the house down one of these days," my mother often scolded him.

"Hey Billy, guess what?" I couldn't wait to share my good fortune.

"What's the problem?" He asked while guzzling straight from the water bottle out of the fridge.

"This is my very own grown up record," I was beaming with pride.

"Hey, that's great, squirt. I gotta go," he said slamming the refrigerator door. He then slammed the back door behind him and stamped all the way down the back stairs. After a split second of silence you heard the back door down on the first floor slam. And then you could hear him stamp all the way across the back porch and down those stairs, too. So I guess that's about as much of a reaction as I could ever hope to get from a fifth grader. By this stage in life they must've seen and heard it all.

The last, but by no means least, one to step in through the door was my big sister, Julie. She was in the fourth grade. She loved her teacher, Miss Dyer, and talked about her all the time. "She's gonna love you," she used to always say. "I tell her about you all the time."

Julie always seemed like the oldest of the crowd even though she wasn't. Having Julie in my life was like having two mothers. She had not only taught me the whole alphabet, but had also taught me how to spell the word "hot."

"Hey Julie, this is my very own grown up record," I held it up for her to see.

"It is?" She lit up like a Christmas tree. "That is so exciting. You should write your name on it so everyone will know that it's yours." What a wonderful idea that is. Now why didn't I think of that?

"I don't know how to write my name," I lamented.

"Sure you do. You already know the whole alphabet. All you've gotta do now is write out four letters. Your name is spelled "P-A-U-L." That's all it is."

I never knew that. My name only has four letters. Isn't that great? Thank gawd they didn't name me something like Orglethorpe. That's all I gotta say.

"Ma, ma, I need a pen and a piece of paper. I gotta practice writing my name." I sat at the kitchen table writing my name over and over again a bazillion times covering both sides of that sheet of notebook paper. And when I knew I was ready, I carefully laid my new grown up record down on top of a clean sheet of paper so not to scratch it, and then carefully wrote my name across the label.

By now Julie had already gone out to play with Martha. I could hear them down there on the sidewalk playing jump rope. Carl and Frannie were out in the backyard building a fort out of the boxes they stole from the Storm Shield building across the street. And God only knows where Billy ventured off to. He rarely ever stayed around the house.

I'll tell ya one thing, though. They were all in for one big surprise when they came home for supper. This was one very special day for me. Not only did I acquire my very first grown up record today, but I also learned how to write out my name.

All of the excitement began to build as soon as my dad came from work. Not a day went by when he didn't bring me home something from work. Nothing out of the ordinary, mind you, but he always had something. Sometimes it was a pencil that said "Tufts University" on it. Sometimes he had a pile of scrap paper for me to draw on.

He once bought he home a couple of powerful magnets. What a blast and half those things were. I'd hold one up inside my shirt to make the other one crawl around the outside of my shirt until it dropped down inside my pocket and disappeared. I honestly believed that everyone thought I was magic.

As each member of the family sauntered into the kitchen to sit down for supper I'd announce, "I have something special to show everybody."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Billy laughed. "What is it this time, a drawing of a dog with a foot for a head?"

"No, it's way more important than that," I said. "You're not going to believe this."

"Well, you can show it to us after we eat," my mother said. "Now it's your turn to say grace."

We always said Grace before supper. It went like this.

"Give us this food for now we take, to do us good for Jesus' sake, Amen."

Don't ask me where that came from. That's what we always said. Years later when we grew up and became cynics we'd say "Rubber a dub dub, thanks for the grub." And then we'd all shout "Yay God!"

God only knows what we had for supper that night, but I know I licked the platter clean. What I had to show everyone was way too important to let something so mediocre as supper get in the way.

"Can I show you my surprise now?"

"Yes, show us your surprise," my mother said.

"Don't anybody go anywhere," I said hopping up from the table and scurrying into the living room to get my record. When I came back into the kitchen, I held it behind my back and said "Everybody close your eyes," which they did.

Holding that record straight armed out in front of me I announced, "Now open your eyes."

"Oooh, you're new record. How nice," Julie smiled.

"No, not just that. Look at the label. I wrote my name on it."

"Let me see that," Billy said. He took one close look at that label and burst out laughing. He then passed it around for everyone else to see. My whole family doubled over with laughter. Now I'll be honest ya. This was not quite the reaction I had anticipated.

Julie, however, took pity on me. "Paul, look closely at how you wrote your name. Do you see anything wrong?"

So I looked at it real carefully like. For the life of me, I couldn't see anything wrong. All four letters were there just like Julie told me. And they were in the right order, too.

"No, I don't see anything wrong."

"It's all my fault," she laughed. "I should have told you to always write from left to right."

Sure enough, in big bold letters I had written "L-U-A-P" across my record label. For the longest time after that they all called me, "Lop." There's nothing like humiliation to get you to see the error of your ways, let me tell ya.

Do you see my point? Before I went to school whenever I did something wrong everyone thought it was cute and everyone laughed. Nobody got mad at me because I made a mistake. Nobody got angry when I acted unusual because they knew that weird was normal for both an artist and a little boy. That all changed the moment they sent me off to school.

So I agree with my mother. In my next life I'm going to do it all so differently then I did this time. For one thing, I'm never gonna grow up. I'm just gonna stay 5 years old for the whole ride.

Oh, but there are some things I'm not gonna change. I still want the same family and I still want to grow up poor on Arlington Street. I still want to be one of the prestigious proud, and the few, who has earned the right to boldly shout "We're From Everett!"

The Agony of Defeat

Okay, now let's get one thing straight for once and for all. Just because the Patriots blew a perfect season and threw everything away on a game they should have easily won is no reason for you to hang your head down low. You didn't lose anything. They did.

Now that all depends on what you consider a loss. Let me ask you something. If I beat you at a game of stick ball in the middle of Swan Street Park, but somebody hands you a $100 bill just for playing the game anyway, did you actually lose anything?

After all is said and done, Tom Brady still walks away with a million dollar check, a Rolls Royce parked in his driveway, and one of the sexiest models on the planet waiting for him under the covers. And you think he lost? Wake up and smell the coffee, people.

It makes me think back to those days when my dad used to point and laugh at Liberace every time he saw him on TV. Liberace sauntered out into the limelight all decked out in his shimmering tux with a 24-carat diamond ring on each finger and my dad pointed at him and said, "Look at that loser."

Liberace had the perfect comeback for people like my dad. He used to say "I know people point and laugh at me all the time, but guess what? I'm laughing all the way to the bank."

That's what they mean by keeping things in the proper perspective. My dad sat there on an old worn out couch, with his big toe sticking out through the hole in his slipper, wondering where the money's coming from to cover this month's bills. Liberace, on the other hand, was worried over whether or not the diamonds on his lapel were going to weigh him down when he walked out on stage. And my dad thought Liberace was a loser. Give me a break. Give me a break. Break me off a piece of that KitKat bar.

I cannot believe all the different theories I've heard as to why the Patriots lost. Please, I don't want to hear anymore "they should have this" or "they should have that." What it comes right down to is that the Patriots lost for two very distinct reasons. And yes, I'm going to tell you what those two indisputable reasons are.

Reason #1. They ARE NOT from Everett.
Reason #2. They ARE NOT even from New England.

Let's talk about that, shall we?

I don't remember playing tag rush with Randy Moss down behind the Parlin. Do you? And when was the last time you saw Tom Brady running patterns down Glendale Park? Anybody? I didn't think so.

What you've got here is a bunch of prima donnas who got so full of themselves that they forgot to protect their blind side. You can tell they didn't grow up in Everett. If they had they wouldn't go sashaying around thinking they were completely invincible. Kids from Everett know better.

Everett kids know adversity lurks around every street corner. They expect it. That's why adversity rolls right off an Everett kid like water off a duck's back. They don't go walking around with their hands in their pockets expecting everybody else to genuflect as they pass by. What they do expect is to be called on the carpet for everything they hope to achieve. And that's why they're so well groomed to take on any challenge.

18 and 1? Big deal. Everett High School now stands at something like 25 and 0. Everett kids face adversity every day of their lives out on the sidewalks. They learn a valuable lesson from each and every one. And because of that they've got their faculties down pat by the time their will gets put to the test.

If you guys are gonna spy on anybody, never mind the Jets. Go down there and spy on the Crimson Tide of Everett High. They'll show you how to get the job done.

When was the last time you walked home from a Thanksgiving Day football game with your head hung low? Not very often - right? So why do you suppose that is? Simply put, it's because Everett kids "ARE" New Englanders.

So just let me say this to those so-called New England Patriots. You want to represent us? Then become New Englanders. Here's how it's done.

The first thing you do every time you step outside your door is to stop by Dunkies and grab a cup of cawfie. And never mind doing lunch at the Ritz either. When you get hungry pull into the Stop & Shop and grab yourself a can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee raviolis. Then rip it open and eat em cold, right out of the can.

When you're stuck in traffic, yell at the guy in front of you whether he's doing anything wrong or not. Then flip the guy behind you the bird in your rear view mirror just for the heck of it. When the traffic light turns yellow put the pedal to the metal. There's still enough time for three more cars to get through that intersection even after the light turns red so don't come around here bucking our system cuz you'll only screw things up.

Don't you dare go into a restaurant and order spaghetti. Call it pasta. And don't just sit there like a bump on a log if you've ordered Tortellini and they bring you Cavatelli. Know the difference. And don't call it sauce either. It's gravy.

Don't ever park in your driveway. We don't do that. Defend the spot in front of your house as if your life depended on it. Make that the highest of your priorities. Shovel that out first before your front steps and then mark your territory with trashcans and kitchen chairs.

And don't ever let us hear you say that you're cold. We don't even know the meaning of the word. The only people on the planet that can take the cold better than we can are the Newfies. That's why we call em goofy Newfies. Did you catch that, Sherri?

I've got one last word of advice for ya. Don't ever think that you're so big and so bad that you can just stroll into New England and rule the roost. Here in New England there's always somebody somewhere that's bigger and badder than you are. You mark my words. Big has nothing to do with size. It's all a state of mind.

Let me tell ya how I learned that lesson about how being big enough is only a state of mind. It happened one day after school up at the Horace Mann playground. We were playing punch ball. Just as I was stepping up to the plate and bouncing the ball with one hand to warm up, this kid named, Ernie, had the audacity to snatch the ball in mid bounce. "I'm up, not you" he said as arrogantly as all get out.

I could not believe the nerve of this kid. This kid was nowhere near me in the social pecking order of our neighborhood. Besides, he barely stood up to my shirt pocket. What in gawd's name ever made this kid think that he could stand up to me like that is a complete mystery.

Now you know I'm not gonna stand for something like that from a little squirt like him - right? So anyway, he starts that one-handed warm up ball bouncing thing at the plate so naturally, I snag the ball in mid-bounce. He looks at me and says, "Hey, what tha?"

Being the mister big stuff that I thought I was, I put the palm of my opened hand flat against his face and pushed him back out of the batter's box and said, "Step aside little man. Let a real man in here to get the job done."

That kid hauled off and socked me a good one right in the jaw. Normally I'd have given that kid a good TV beating after something like that, but it was the nature of that sock that caused me to quickly evaluate the situation. I never once thought that kid could pack so much power in one punch. He actually staggered me back. One more sock like that and I'd be spitting Chiclets.

I looked back at Ernie with this really confused look on my face and said, "For cries sakes Ernie, what is your problem? You want me to come down on you over a silly game of punch ball?"

"You started it," he yelled back. "It was my ups and you pushed me out of the batter's box by slapping me in the face."

"I didn't slap you in the face. I just pushed you back out of the way because I'm up."

"You're not up, I am. I'm always up after Nelson. You're up after me."

I look over at first base and, sure enough, Nelson's standing there on base. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. I thought it was my ups," I said lobbing the ball to him. "But I'm telling ya right now. You ever hit me like that again and I'll beat you to within an inch of your life."

"You started it, I didn't."

"Go on take your ups," I waived him off.

That was the end of it right there. It had to be. For if I were to push the matter any further I knew that our established neighborhood pecking order could change drastically. It was already in my favor as it was. Why change that?

People just accept your position in the social pecking order sometimes without challenging it. They only challenge it when you corner them and give them no escape route. Don't ever be so full of yourself that you don't give your opponent and opportunity to save face. Just remember that the one who may wind up on the dirty end of the stick may very well be you.

You don't win anything until you give it your all. Your "all" isn't just your technical skills and knowledge in any one focused concentration. It's the combined total of everything that you're made of. That's why they call it "Your All."

Hardship and adversity are necessary evils of life. And I'm not so sure that I should even call them "evils" when you take into consideration what they actually do. Because let's face it. If everything you've ever wished for was easily granted you'd have nothing to strive for. A life without goals is as boring as watching paint dry.

It's those irritating winds that force you to hold that rudder steady. It's the adversities that make you stay the course. We are creatures of will. After achieving any one goal we rally in its glory for but a fleeting moment. Every accomplishment diminishes in luster once we've attained it. We soon discover that it was act of the pursuit that kept the dream alive.

Like the blink of an eye your accomplishment becomes your laurel. Time stands still for no one. There is always another dream just beyond the horizon. That's the way it must always be for your character to become whole.

Hardships teach you how to improvise. That's how the Giants won the Superbowl. With only a minute left to the game, three Patriots had Eli Manning in their clutches for a sack. So what happens? He breaks free and throws a long bomb down field and connects with his receiver who was smother by two defenders.

Lucky break? Yeah, you could call it that. But in all actuality, it was a prime example of somebody reaching down deep into their intestinal fortitude to step up to the plate against overwhelming odds with everything they've got. They do what they have to do to get the job done. That's exactly what the men and women of our armed forces do every moment of their lives to protect our freedoms.

So as ironic as it may sound, I stand in praise of adversity. And believe you me, I sure have seen enough of it during my childhood growing up on Arlington Street. We were as poor as church mice and had to compensate for the lessor of two evils all our lives. That meant that we had to settle for nothing more than a bowl of lima beans for supper sometimes. We learned to count our blessings and be thankful that we at least had that. There's always somebody somewhere with more troubles than you.

Take my brother, Carl, for instance. Every waking moment of that kid's life was dogged by Grand Mal Epilepsy. He so wanted a normal life like the rest of us that he refused to submit to that debilitating malady. Hardly a day went by when he didn't fall down unconscious in the middle of the sidewalk only to wake up out of his seizure at the hospital a few hours later without any idea as to where he was or how he got there.

You're gonna think I'm making this up when I tell you this, but as God is my judge this is so true. Carl takes about 130 pills every day. Can you imagine? Man, that's like swallowing a one pound bag of M & M's. To date that kid's had six brain operations and a heart attack. And here I sit feeling sorry for myself because I've gone six months without any teeth, of which I finally do get next Tuesday. If only he had my troubles - right?

The reason I'm telling you about Carl is because that kid never ceases to amaze me. Obviously, Carl doesn't have the mental capacities that you and I have. Because of his disability he had to drop out of school at an early age and never could achieve gainful employment. It is difficult for him to learn new things because by the time he starts to get the grasp of something, the electrolytes in his brain go haywire, he has a seizure, and it totally wipes out his memory banks.

He did try to navigate the internet once using Web TV, but every time he started to get the hang of it he'd suffer another seizure and have to go through the same learning curve from scratch all over again a few days later. It was just too much for him.

But here's what gets me. That kid is a living calculator when it comes to basic math. Granted, he can't handle things like probability and statistics, or analytical geometry, but when it comes to basic arithmetic I'll stand that kid up against Texas Instruments any day of the week.

There was many a time when I wish I could have stuffed that kid into my shirt pocket to take him to school with me. That kid can add multiple numbers, subtract decimal equivalents, multiply mixed fractions, and divide uncommon denominators in his head faster than I can on paper. And he comes up with the right answer every time. I can't even do that with a calculator.

Another thing about Carl that amazes me is his love for American history. He loves to read. If you want to see that kid smile from ear to ear all you've gotta do is buy him a new history book. That kid is so easy to go Christmas shopping for that it's almost sinful.

The things he retains about American history absolutely floors me sometimes. What reminded me of that was a couple of weeks ago when Camille forwarded one of those lists of the coincidences involved with the assassinations of both President Lincoln and President Kennedy. I sat at the kitchen table reading that list to Carl when they first published it in the newspaper shortly after President Kennedy's assassination.

One by one Carl rebuked just about every one of those coincidences. I can still hear his voice as if it happened only yesterday. "Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln, but Lincoln didn't have anyone on his staff at all named Kennedy. So that's wrong. And neither Lee Harvey Oswald, nor John Wilkes Booth were known by their three names, other than in the media. So that's wrong, too." He even pointed out how the similarities in dates were not so astronomical when you consider how the presidential election is held on the very same date every four years.

See what I mean? Here's a kid who's had to stand against all odds just to enjoy the simple pleasures we take for granted. Regardless of how many times that affliction knocked him down; he got back up and shrugged it off. And if that don't beat all, he's got one of the funniest senses of humor on the planet.

Next September he'll celebrate his 58th birthday. I know many a soul who were never sick a day in their lives who will never be able to say that. Now that's an Everett kid for ya.

It is adversity that drives people to rise above their limitations, especially Everett people. We grew up in the shadows of American history. Right here is where the birth of our nation took root. We grew up only a stone's throw from the Boston Tea Party, the Boston Massacre, and where the Battle of Bunker Hill took place.

Yeah, yeah, I know we lost the Battle of Bunker Hill. But it stands as an icon in American history as a true example of the New England fighting spirit. Against overwhelming odds they stood their ground and held their fire until they could see the whites of their enemy's eyes. They fought so valiantly that after the battle, British General Henry Clinton wrote in his diary that "A few more such victories would have surely put an end to British dominion in America."

And that's what being a New Englander is all about. You want to represent us? Then become one of us. You want to find out how it's done? Ask any one of us. We know what it means to face defeat and rise above it. Believe me, we know. "We're from Everett!"

Every picture

Every picture tells a story. That's what they've always said. They say it because it's true. Whenever my mother pulled that box full of old family snapshots down from the upper shelf in her closet we'd gather round the kitchen table and laugh until we cried. She held us spellbound for hours on end with all sorts of yarns about her childhood growing up in Newfoundland.

We heard all about Daphne, and Clive, and Edgar, and Eleanor, and people we wouldn't know from a hole in the wall. And man, could my mom tell a story. She'd bring these people back to life so vividly you'd swear you were right there living the experience as it unfolded. Many years later when I finally did get to visit Newfoundland and meet some of those people I felt like I've known them all my life.

It never seemed to fail that she'd come across a picture of someone she held dear to her heart who no longer walked among us and her eyes would edge with tears. "That's my girlfriend, Daphne," she'd say in broken tones. She'd just sit and stare at that photograph without saying a word. Her mind would drift a million miles away. Some memories are just so large that's there's too much to say so you sit there quietly reliving the memory in your heart.

"And that's my old elementary school," she'd say with a reminiscent smile. "They tore that down years ago. And see those three windows right there? That was my second grade. Daphne and I sat right next to that middle window," and again she'd drift off into another silent memory.

A lot happens along this journey. I know you don't need me to tell you how fast and short this journey actually is. People come and go so quickly sometimes that your life feels like a revolving door. Every so often something comes along and forces you to stop dead in your tracks to take it all in.

That's exactly what happened to me the other day when Ron sent me some photographs his mother had taken of my old elementary alma mater. Those photographs not only encompass some of my most cherished memories, but they also define the end of an era in the historic time line of Everett, Massachusetts.

The photograph of the front of the Horace Mann school at the top of this page was scanned from an old postcard. And whenever I look at that picture the first thing that comes to mind is remembering when I was too little to go off to school with my older siblings. I used to marvel at that building. It looked like some kind of majestic castle in my eyes and only the privileged older kids could venture beyond her splendid archways.

When my turn did finally arrive I felt so unworthy that my knees knocked together while standing there waiting for those doors to swing wide open to welcome me inside. The world is such a different place from what it was when I was only five years old. Let me tell you a little bit about that world.

There was no FM dial on our kitchen radio. And there was actually some dead air space between radio stations. They played songs like "Love Letters in the Sand" by Pat Boone, "Honeycomb" by Jimmie Rodgers, "Wake Up Little Susie" by Everly Brothers, and "Jailhouse Rock" by Elvis Presley. "The Bridge on the River Kwai" was showing down at the Park Theatre and there was hardly a kid who didn't whistle that unforgettable melody while swinging on the swings up at the playground.

At night we all gathered in the living room around the only TV we owned. The dial only had 12 channels on it (there was no number one) and only about five them worked. What I learned from our TV is that Perry Mason never lost a case in his life and his clients were never guilty. Mister Dillon's gun smoked while Chester hobbled along behind him. "Have Gun Will Travel" read the card of a man. And a severed head in a box could say "sall right" on the Ed Sullivan Show. If you stayed up long past your bedtime you'd hear the national anthem just before all the radio and TV stations went off the air for the night.

Our telephone had a rotary dial. And yes, we only had one phone, and you couldn't take it with you. Once you stepped out that door you were completely disconnected from the home front. You could drop a nickel in the pay phone in the booth down on Ferry Street right in front of Spencer's gas station and hear a live operator ask, "Number please?" To which you would respond with a seven-digit phone number that began with DU7.

Whenever my mother sent me down to Vinnie's at the corner of High and Ferry for a loaf of bread she'd give me two dimes and I'd get a penny back. She'd let me keep the penny so I'd get two malted milk balls. Not bad, huh?

She sometimes sent me down to the corner of High and Ferry to drop a letter in the mailbox. It only had a three-cent stamp on it, unless of course, she sent it by airmail. An airmail stamp cost six cents. Sounds reasonable, I know, but you must remember that my dad only made about a buck twenty-five an hour.

That, in a nutshell, was the world as I knew it on a global scale. It all began to change at a hectic pace the moment I stepped beyond those doors to the Horace Mann school. All that was so very long ago now, but it all comes so vividly back to life in my mind's eye looking at these photographs.

You're looking at the outside entrance I walked through to go in and out of Miss Blake's sixth grade class. This photograph was taken just before they tore it down. See those four windows to the left of the building that are still intact? Well, the windows just above those lined the back wall to Miss Blake's homeroom. I got caught, red-handed, throwing Miss Blake's spelling paper out one of those windows. Man, did I catch it good that day, let me tell ya.

Just behind the second window in from the left is where this really heavy kid was sitting when the cast iron support to his chair suddenly snapped. He landed ass over teakettle on his back. The whole room shook from the impact. Miss Blake sternly scolded me for laughing at someone else's misfortune. And I'll never forget the day that happened. It happened on November 22nd, 1963. How could I ever forget that?

This was the classroom I was in when Eddie ran past my desk and broke off more than half of my Hershey bar my mother had unexpectedly packed in my lunch. Finding a Hershey bar in my lunch bag was such a rare occurrence that that is the only time I remember it happening. That's why I went so completely berserk when he ran by and stole half my candy bar.

When I looked up at him and yelled, "Hey," he stuffed it in his mouth and laughed. I immediately jumped up and chased him halfway across the room. Grabbing a hold of his shirt, I spun him around and socked him right in the mouth. He stood there in somewhat of a daze holding his hand up over his mouth. There was chocolate all over his face.

Miss Blake stood up and yelled, "Paul Huffman! You apologize to Edward right now!" She was actually mad at me and not him. Do you believe it? That made me even madder. So I turned to Eddie and said, "I'm sorry I punched you in the mouth, Eddie. I meant to sock you in the eye." And yes, she made me stay after school for that.

No, Eddie and I didn't get into a big scuffle over it. Eddie and I were actually good friends. He thought he was being funny. I just didn't see the humor in it at the time. Years later, Eddie and I became hippies and partied together in the back hills of Glendale Park. He has since passed beyond the far horizon. I think of him often. He was a really funny kid.

Getting back to that archway they're about to destroy, one Halloween night we peppered that with so many eggs it looked like a hen house had exploded. It must have taken Mister Dolan several days to clean that mess up. My mother was livid when she discovered a whole dozen eggs missing from the refrigerator. I don't blame her one bit. Eggs cost just as much back then as they do today. If the price of eggs had kept pace with inflation like everything else they'd cost somewhere in the vicinity of about twelve bucks per dozen.

To the right of that archway is Mister Divenuti's office windows. He was our principal. What an absolutely wonderful guy he was. Whenever I got in trouble he'd sit me down at a large table in his outer office with a bottle of milk, a bag a chips, and a pile of books to thumb through until my teacher cooled off. Now that's what I call making the punishment fit the crime.

Above Mister Divenuti's office was our auditorium. We probably used that place about three or four times during my entire seven years at the Horace Mann. It also served as our gymnasium on rainy days. For the life of me I cannot recall our gym teacher's name. He always showed up wearing a long trench coat and a Stetson. The guy was about as friendly as a Gestapo officer and about as much fun as a toothache.

Down at the ground level directly behind that pile of debris is the window to the boy's bathroom, or lavatory as it was so commonly called back then. We flooded that place out once by standing up on the edge of the sink to see how far we could leap across the room. The sink snapped off the wall, and the pipes right along with it, just as Nicky was about to make his epic leap for the final event. I forget how many afternoon sessions we won for that one, but I'm sure it set some kind of Everett school record. Come to think of it, I believe we still owe them a couple of afternoon sessions for that infraction.

Okay, the above is another snapshot taken from an old postcard. I wanted you to see the side door I went in through the day I started kindergarten before showing you the inside of the classroom. My kindergarten classroom were those four large windows to the right of that side entrance. The four smaller windows to the left of that doorway was the boiler room. It also served Mister Dolan's work area. Just as you stepped in through that door you faced the bottom of the stairway leading up to the second floor.

In the corridor to the left of that stairway is where they stacked the cartons of milk bottles waiting to be delivered to each classroom for lunch. Two sixth grade boys served on the milk detail. Mister Dolan would award each of them a free bottle of chocolate milk for all their hard work. Well worth the effort if you ask me.

What you're looking at now is the last known photograph of my kindergarten classroom. That's the room on the ground floor that's filled with all the rubble. The opened door you're seeing up on the second level went to Miss Jarvis' fourth grade classroom. This picture, alone, opens a floodgate of memories for me.

Look at that very first window right after Miss Jarvis' demolished classroom up on the second floor. That was Miss Martinelli's third grade classroom. So if you count to the sixth window from the ragged edge of the demolished outer wall you'll put your finger on a very memorable window indeed.

That was the corner Miss Martinelli made me stand in one day for not completing my morning letters. Some of you may remember how we had to sit at our desk in the morning and arrange those little yellow letters into words. Those who completed the task in the allotted time frame got a star next to their name on the blackboard. Rarely ever earning the coveted gold star, my name was at the bottom of the list.

On this one particular day Miss Martinelli really came down on me for not getting my work done so she made me go stand in the corner. I stood there gazing out that window as the storm clouds gathered on that very dreary day. All of a sudden the lightening flashed and a booming clap of thunder shook the whole room. I sarcastically turned to Miss Martinelli and said, "That wasn't me." The whole class erupted in laughter.

"I know that wasn't you. Do I look like an idiot?" she shouted. "Get away from the window." She let me go back to me seat after that. I guess she couldn't have disliked me all that much if she was afraid to let me stand next to the window during a thunderstorm. Of all the criticism I've laid on Miss Martinelli in my writings, I must admit, that I do so lovingly. She was actually a very good teacher. I, on the other hand, was not all that good of a student by a long shot.

The bottom four windows to the extreme right of the building was my first grade classroom. That was the year my Sunday School class at the First Methodist Church up on Norwood Street appeared on the "Big Brother, Bob Emery" program. A fascinating story in itself, you can read all about it in my 3/21/2006 posting entitled "A Very Special Lady."

My first grade teacher was Miss Nigro. And even though I was only six going on seven, that lady was so pretty that you could watch my heart pound right through my shirt every time she spoke. She got angry with me once for not liking the butter that the bigger kids up in the second grade made for a project. Had she asked before sending me off on that taste test she would have known that I didn't like butter in the first place.

There was a girl named Christine in my class that year who used to blow kisses to me from across the classroom. And yes, I'd blow them back to her. My big sister caught us doing that out in the playground at recess one day and ran home and told the whole family. I denied the accusation feverishly.

I only vaguely remember what that girl looked like and have no idea as to whatever became of her after the first grade. Knowing my luck, her family probably whisked her off to some remote place like Timbuktu to keep her from getting tangled up with that space shot from Arlington Street.

In the foreground where all that rubble lies was the girl's playground. God only knows why they got the smaller of the two playgrounds. It doesn't seem fair because I do believe there were far more girls than boys when I went to the Horace Mann. I could be wrong, but it did seem like that. It has to make you wonder as to why they separated the boys from the girls anyway.

That eight-foot high stone wall with the wrought iron fencing that bordered Foster Street held a significant challenge to every little kid in our neighborhood. You were nothing until you walked the entire length of the outside ledge of that wall while holding onto that wrought iron fence. You had to complete that task by the time you entered into the first grade or you'd go through life without any dignity or respect whatsoever.

These pictures depict the demise of the Horace Mann elementary school that once stood at the intersection of Prospect and Lexington. I have shared with you only a fraction of the memories these snapshots have conjured up. You can just imagine how many memories those walls once held after eighteen generations of children had graced her corridors.

She was a beautiful building. It broke my heart when they tore her down. Nothing felt so empty as to stand at the corner of Prospect and Lexington and see clearly all the way over to the houses on Foster Street. Every instinct told me that something was missing. It didn't seem natural. My mind's eye kept blocking my field of vision with the superimposed ghost of the old Horace Mann school.

The Horace Mann had gone more than a decade without serving any useful purpose. The entire social landscape of the City of Everett had changed and they just didn't need her any more. So there she sat ever so quietly, completely neglected, gently aging and withering into obscurity.

And even though it saddens me that they tore down such a beautiful building, I can't help but think that at least they did something worthy with her landscape. In her stead now stands a playground where the neighborhood children can play. I like that. I like that very much.

One thing that will live on is the spirit of the children who so happily play where my elementary alma mater once stood. That plot of land that began its epic journey in servitude to the children, shall uninterruptedly continue its legacy to serve our children, and hopefully their children, and their grandchildren, and so on, and so forth.

As the laughter of the children playing in that park echoes across the landscape, it will mingle with the memories and laughter of so many generations of children who have passed this way before. There is a poetic justice to all of this that is written on the wind. Generations come and go so quickly, but as they do they leave behind an indelible imprint that somehow influences the shape of things to come.

I believe that not only because I am an artist, but because I feel it in the spirit of the things that people tell me when they write to me about growing up in Everett. Make no mistake about it. There is a thread that runs so true through our veins that binds our hearts together for all time. And we can sum it all up in only three little words. And those three little words are "We're From Everett!"