A Workable System

Has the thought ever occurred to you that we are constantly learning as we go through the usual routines of our everyday lives? That realization came to me as I sat here looking at the mess all over my desk. For once in my life I just wish I'd learn to keep everything organized where it belongs.

Here's a pile of blank CD's I need to format so I can back up all my work files. I've got so many pens and pencils sticking up out of this old coffee mug that I've gotta start filling up another one. And where the heck is that flash drive I bought yesterday?

Maybe I should start sifting through that stack of unopened mail that's been piling up for the past several weeks. I'm getting tired of moving it back and forth across my desk to make room for my scanner. I keep putting it off because I'll have to crawl in under my desk to get all those envelopes that fell down behind my printer every time I've moved that pile.

My intentions are always good. Every so often I get this big burst of energy and spend hours sorting everything out into separate piles. Then I'll go through each pile and sort everything out again in some kind of chronological order that makes sense to me. After that I'll neatly recompile each stack into the order it needs to be addressed.

Now that everything's organized into a workable system it won't be such a big deal to start working my way through this burdensome task. At this stage of the game I'll think I've done enough for today. I'm confident now that I'll zoom right through it all first thing tomorrow morning.

Come tomorrow morning I'll look at all those neatly separated piles and say, "I'll take care of that tomorrow. Today I better write my next post for the "We're from Everett" blog." The day after that we'll go shopping, stop for a bite to eat, and then I'll spend the afternoon weeding in the garden. And the day after that I'll have business and family obligations to take care of. Something always seems to crop up out of nowhere, but don't worry, getting everything organized was half the battle anyway.

Days turn into weeks and the next thing you know I'm throwing away unopened envelopes marked "time sensitive." Their due date has come and gone months ago. And the only reason I discovered that is because I had to move them out of the way to use my scanner again.

What it boils down to is that the only things that ever seem to get done are the matters of life and death. Other than that, I've got a neatly stacked pile of high priority mail right here on the other side of my monitor. I will get to it. That's why I call that my "emergency pile."

You're probably thinking that I'm in such disarray that I can't find anything - right? You couldn't be further from the truth if you tried. If it's that urgent, I'll find it. It's right here in one of these stacks somewhere. Things that need my immediate attention are probably right near the top of my emergency stack anyway. If not, it's probably in my other emergency stack. I know its here somewhere. It always is.

Procrastination is more than just a character flaw. It's human nature. That is unless you suffer from OCD (obsessive-compulsion disorder). Sometimes I think a dose of that would do me some good.

I mastered the art of creative procrastination while growing up in Everett. They taught it to me in the Everett public school system. Just about everything they taught me focused on how to compile and reorganize things into manageable chunks of information.

Whenever we had to do a book report or a research paper they focused far more on the outline then they did the actual polished presentation. They even stressed how the majority of our grade focused on the merit of our outline. And that is precisely why I experience a true sense of accomplishment by just reorganizing everything into a logical order. If I get that far I think I'm done altogether.

I know I'm asking you to think back a long ways, but do you remember how we used to have to headline our school papers? Every teacher added his or her own unique characteristic to the basic structure. And you got penalized if you so much as deviated one iota from that basic heading.

Here's how the layout went on a typical sheet of lined composition paper. If the page didn't have preprinted margins we drew them in lightly with our ruler and pencil at least one-half inch in from the edge of the paper. My name had to go along the left-hand margin on the top line. Opposite from that was the date.

Lined up underneath my name on the second line was my classroom number. Opposite from my classroom number on line two right underneath the date was the name of my school. And finally, centered on the third line down was the subject title, such as English, History, Book Report, or whatever.

Why I had to write the Horace Mann School on my paper is beyond me. It's not as if we turned these papers in at some central location where they could easily get mixed up with papers from the Hamilton school or anything. I never dared to question it because they'd probably bite my head off if I did. You tend to get a little gun shy after spending two-thirds of your elementary school days standing in the corner until your knees buckled.

Even if you did score a 100% on that paper there were more than enough pitfalls inherent in the system to pull the rug out from under you. Depending on the teacher in question you could lose up to five points for each minor infraction to the rules. If they really wanted to get under your fingernails they'd go way beyond just marking you down for a simple misspelling.

You could get penalized just because the word "English" wasn't perfectly centered on line 3. Just ask anyone who had Barry for English at the Fairfield Whitney. If taking the test itself wasn't bad enough, just getting the heading down pat was enough to stress you out to no end. And that's why I felt like I had actually accomplished something just by getting the heading right.

Another organizational flaw of mine that got me into a lot of trouble back in my Horace Mann school days was that ungodly mess inside my desk. It wasn't really all my fault because they never gave me any free time to do any house keeping. From the very moment I planked my butt down they were telling me to take out my history book and turn to page 236. Then they expected me to write down everything the teacher said as fast as she said it. Halfway through writing the last paragraph it was time to put everything away and take out my geography book.

My average school day was like watching one of those old newsreels from the 1930's that made everyone look like they were walking along at 55 miles an hour. We'd take out one book, open it up, and write something down. Then we'd put that away and take out another one and write some more. I felt like a monk trying to copy down the Dead Sea Scrolls.

The pace got so hectic that you could get dizzy from bobbing up and down taking things out of your desk and putting them back. And the repetition seemed endless. You'd think they were trying to prepare us to become contestants on "Beat the Clock" or something. One hour into the average school day and I've already got the panic jitters from a severe case of post traumatic stress.

You talk about a ball of confusion? That was me all over. I don't know how many times I sat there staring at a paragraph in complete bewilderment because it was world's apart from the one the teacher told the kid behind me to read out loud. He's reading something about Ticonderoga, but my paragraph is all about cumulus clouds.

After a few seconds it finally dawns on me that there's no way that kid is reading the same paragraph that I'm looking at. So naturally, I look around the room to try to figure out what's wrong with this picture. At the exact moment I realize that I'm the only one who's reading from his science book, the teacher shouts, "Paul Huffman! Why are you looking around the classroom instead of reading from your book?"

"I took out the wrong book," I sheepishly admit.

"That's because you don't pay attention. Now the rest of us will have to interrupt our progress while you catch up. And how come your pen is still on top of your desk? You were supposed to put that away."

So now I'm nervously shuffling through all of the debris jammed together inside my desk to find my history book. I mean honestly. How can you lose an entire history book in such a small desk - right?

"We're waiting."

The pressure's on. If I don't come up with that history book in the next ten seconds she's gonna storm over here to see what's taking so long. If she sees the mess inside my desk I'm a dead duck. And you can be sure that for the next half hour she's gonna go up one side of me and down the other over the virtues of good organizational skills.

You know what? They were right. Good organizational skills are what it really is all about. Tommy's desk was as neat as a pin. His books were so neatly stacked that they looked like the steps to the ancient pyramids. There was even plenty of room in there to lay out his pens, pencils, eraser and ruler without having to jam all of his schoolwork up into a ball behind his books like I do.

God only knows how he did that. Lord knows I've tried. There just never seemed to be enough time in between everything else they wanted me to do to sort everything out. And that is precisely why Tommy grew up to become a leader in the academic community in the City of Everett, and I did not.

What I did uncover during my tenure at the Everett public school system is that there is a secret code imbedded in the system. That's right. I cracked their code.

You wanna talk about grand conspiracies? Okay, check this out. It finally dawned on me that it was always the same students who were constantly handed the dirty end of the stick within the system. Just as it was the same group of students who always came out on top. And it had absolutely nothing to do with intelligence.

Let me give you an example. I know I told you this story before. This was the time when the aforementioned Tommy was sneaking M&M Peanuts during class. Might I remind you that this was a serious infraction to the rules back in our day, especially if you were one of the "dirty end of the stick" crowd.

Tommy somehow lost control of the situation and spilled his M&M Peanuts all over the floor in the middle of the teacher's lecture. Everyone spun around and burst out laughing. What made it so funny was that the perpetrator was indeed one of the teacher's pets.

Naturally, you would suspect that the teacher came down on Tommy like a ton of bricks - right? Wrong! The teacher immediately shouted "Paul Huffman!"

So naturally I responded with, "What are you yelling at me for?" At this point in time I had done nothing that every other kid in class had done which was to spin around and burst out laughing.

Her immediate response was "Because Thomas knows better!"

Out of a desperate frustration I retorted, "Well, if Thomas knows better, how come he had the (very naughty words goes here) candy?"

To which I was marched directly down to the principal's office with a demand that he expel me from school immediately. Lucky for me, Mr. Devenuti was the kind of school administrator who took all things into consideration before rendering any decision. After hearing the whole story, I was granted a reprieve.

Perhaps if that had been the only incident where one student was targeted because of something that another had obviously done, even I might say it was an isolated incident with little bearings on my grand unified theory. But let's face it. We all grew up in Everett and we all know of at least one incident where a teacher's pet was allowed to run a muck of the rules while others were harshly punished for a minor infraction. Tell me if I'm wrong.

Now, to further corroborate my theory we must define what constitutes a teacher's pet. At first glance you would tend to think that the most dominant factor involved is nepotism. And nepotism does have its merits in the City of Everett, believe you me.

Even still, there are serious holes in the nepotism factor due to the fact that I had known individuals who suffered the stigma of the "dirty end of the stick" caste even though they had immediate family members who taught within the Everett public school system. Therefore, nepotism doesn't always dictate your fate. As a matter of fact, I have actually seen incidences where nepotism was a curse.

If nepotism isn't the answer, then what is? Well, to crack that code I set out to befriend some of those kids who always came out on top. After winning their trust and confidence, they began to open up. Eventually, I discovered what was the most common denominator amongst them. Are you ready for this?

They were all as neat as a pin and organized beyond the point of normal comprehension. So what does that tell you? Obviously, they were the ultimate conformists. They could be controlled. They could be trusted to comply to the rules without questioning the validity of the system.

All you gotta do is plug these people into the system and they'll run like clockwork. Mindless, obedient servants are exactly what the public school system all across America strives to spew out. That was just as true in our day as it is today.

Those who dare to be different, question authority, or seek out alternative schools of thought are cast into the pitfalls of the "dirty end of the stick" order. The underlying principle is that the cycle must not be broken. They rely on generation after generation of obedient workers to maintain the system that feeds itself. It's like a giant social tapeworm. And the scary part is that this is the very foundation of our political infrastructure. Heavy stuff, huh?

So what's the answer? Wait until you hear this one. You ready? There is no answer. You read that right. There is no answer because there is no question.

What it boils down to is that if you want to play their game you have to follow their rules. If you chose to go your own way, so be it. Just don't expect any praise or support from the status quo. That's all I'm saying.

One way or the other you're going to have to plug into the system eventually. Everybody does. That's why you see Peter Fonda pushing Time-Life CD's and Bob Dylan selling Cadillacs on late night TV. You can cry revolution all you want, but the bills gotta get paid and you've gotta put food on the table, whether you like it or not.

It took me two years in the eighth grade to figure that out. I'll never forget that last day of school in Miss McGrath's homeroom at the Parlin when I found out that everyone else was going on to the ninth grade except for me. That's when I finally woke up and took a step back to analyze the overall situation.

You can argue with me until you're blue in the face, but you'll never convince me otherwise. My life took a complete 360 the moment I put that theory to work. Once they think you've plugged into the system they immediately take your name off of the "dirty end of the stick" list. It happened to me.

Another important lesson I learned is that you do not have to compromise your individuality to plug into the system. It's no different than when you go off to work. Once you punch that time clock you're there to perform a function. You do not become the function. Many people confuse the two.

One of my most cherished friends is a carpenter. In his off-hours he is a sculptor. And although I've yet to see any of his work I am sure it is exquisite beyond compare. When we were hippies he was a pen and ink artist who only dabbled in Bic ballpoint pens and yet his work rivaled that of M.C. Escher. I kid you not.

Another of my former Everett hippie friends manages a software development group at Boston University. In his off-hours he is unquestionably one of the greatest guitarists and vocalists I've ever heard in my life. If I can ever convince him to share some of his MP3's with us I assure you that you will be taken aback at such artistry.

So you see, you do not have to compromise yourself to plug into the system. When people meet they tend to ask, "What do you do?" They so often confuse the answer with the question, "Who are you?" What somebody does for a living has nothing at all to do with who they are.

Some of you will remember Vinnie from his little variety store down on the corner of High and Ferry back in the late 50's. If memory serves me well, the last time I saw that place it was some kind of appliance center. And even though it was only a variety store for a couple of years it will always be "Vinnies" in my mind's eye.

His store was as neat as a pin. His deli counter was as clean as a whistle. He always wore an apron when working the store and he always gave you a bag for your candy even if you only bought a stick of Bazooka bubble gum. The guy had ethics galore.

All around the store on the top shelf he displayed his oil and acrylic landscape paintings. They were beautiful. When I was a little kid I'd bring my drawings down to him and he'd critique them for me. He taught me so much. He wasn't a store clerk. That's what he did for work. He was an artist.

Now let me tell you something about my brother, Carl. When we last spoke, Carl was lying in a coma at the Mass General from a massive heart attack. When Carl was a little kid he was so neat it scared me. He couldn't just hang his clothes up in the closet like everybody else. He had to line up the belt loops and collars into a military line. And if either mine or Billy's clothes were one fraction out of line he'd fix them, too. This kid could not tolerate inconsistency of any kind.

We also often teased him for being such a skinflint. This kid held onto a nickel until he rubbed the buffalo off the back. He saved every penny he ever got his hands on. He was both a miser and a neat freak and he lived that philosophy to the max.

Other than his epilepsy, there was nothing unconventional about this kid whatsoever. He took life the way he regarded his money, at face value. You could never talk to Carl about matters of the avant-garde. As far as he was concerned, if he couldn't see it or touch it then it didn't exist. And if it doesn't have a tangible monetary value then it doesn't matter.

Don't bother to talk to Carl about such things as the "here after" because Carl knows that when you die, you're dead. It's all over. If you were to try to debate the matter with him he'd dismiss your argument simply by saying, "Prove it." He'd scoff at me whenever I quoted my favorite Shakespearean quote which is "There are far more things in this heaven and earth than could ever fit into your tiny philosophy (sic)." You don't get any more conventional than that.

That's all changed now. Obviously, it would take something extraordinary to shake the foundations of such a hardheaded mindset. And what I am about to tell you is, indeed, extraordinary.

Never believe that prayers are not answered. Never think that there is not a guiding light somewhere that helps you find your way. And most importantly, don't ever give up hope.

Carl has awakened from his coma. His progress is slow, but steady. It took us a day or two to be able to understand his ramblings, but once we did, a tingle went down our spines. Carl is telling us things that he himself would never believe in a million years, or so we thought.

"I saw Billy," he said. Billy is my oldest brother who passed away back in 1991.

"Where did you see, Billy?" My mother asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "I wanted to stay with him, but he said I couldn't. He said I had to go back home. He told me it wasn't time for me to stay with him yet so I have to go back."

That's all he's said about the incident so far.

I've heard and read about countless such incidences, but I was somewhat of a skeptic myself up until now. Carl grows stronger every day. The color is coming back to his face. His eyes are in focus now and he's feeding himself. His recovery is miraculous.

I do thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for your prayers and well wishes. One thing I never doubted for a moment was that there is more power in one act of love than there is in all the nuclear weapons on earth. Think about it. Who in history has made the bigger impact on human kind, Hitler or Mohandas Ghandi?

So how does all this tie in together and what has it got to do with growing up in Everett? Gee, I really don't know. I did know and I scribbled it down on the back of an envelope somewhere. I kind of forgot which stack I stuffed that envelope into. It's probably in one of the emergency piles behind my printer.

Oh dammit all. That whole pile just toppled over onto the floor. Wouldn't ya know? Now I've gotta crawl in under my desk and get all those loose ends. Maybe I should take the time to sort all of these piles out again. At least then it won't be such an overwhelming task when I get down to the real nitty gritty.

Oh my gosh, here's a video somebody sent me to watch about six months ago. They're gonna kill me. Oh man, I've gotta go. I've got some serious catching up to do. I don't want everybody thinking I'm a wicked procrastinator, especially now that I'm finally getting everything organized. How could they possibly think that anyway? After all, "I'm from Everett!"

Another Lesson Learned

You wanna talk about memories? Man, I've got a million of em. Ha cha cha cha! Okay, that says it all right there. If you know why "Ha cha cha cha" is associated with "I've got a million of em" then you truly are getting on in years.

Don't panic. There's nothing at all wrong with getting on in your years. As a matter of fact, you have only just begun to understand what this "game of life" is all about. Haven't you? Nobody could have spelled this out for you. God knows they've tried. You had to learn this for yourself. Just like the rest of us.

Let me tell you something. I've spent fourteen years (counting kindergarten and 2 years in the 8th grade) in the Everett public school system. After that I spent four more years in college. That's a combined total of 18 years of formal education. And contrary to popular belief, I'll be the last person to ever say "I didn't get anything out of it."

What I learned in school could fill volumes. Heck, what I learned from Miss Blake in the sixth grade up at the Horace Mann school alone could fill an encyclopedia and a half. That's the God's honest truth. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.

Like everyone else I've got my gripes about the academic community. It seems like the more time you spend involved with it the more you find wrong with it. But isn't that just like everything else? The longer you get involved with anything the better you come to understand it. The better you understand something the more clearly its pros and cons come to light.

Well, the same goes for life itself. The longer you live it the better you understand it. I got my first glimpse of that philosophy back in 1969 when I was just a seventeen-year-old hippie hanging out in Glendale Park.

That was the night I shared a heart to heart talk with Elliot on the park bench just before the exit that leads out onto Ferry Street. He was the most dapper gentleman I've ever met in my life. This guy was Eighty-two years old at the time. You can read all about that just by clicking HERE.

The wisdom that Elliot had bestowed upon me that evening took several decades to fully take root. And although his words of wisdom made a profound impact on my life, I didn't fully realize the broad scope of his insight until now. It is because of people like Elliot, and my elderly upstairs neighbor, Mister McGlaughlin, that I realize how important the contributions of every generation benefit every other generation that follows it.

Let us not forget the contribution made by the E.H.S. Class of 1962. They were the ones who staged the infamous "Cafeteria Strike." Because of them the rest of us got to leave the school premises at recess. By the time I got up into high school I thought that was the way it always was. It makes me wonder now if the many generations that followed us are aware of how fervently we protested to break the dress code.

Things exist for a reason. More often than not, they exist because somebody stepped beyond their comfort zone and dared to be different. Hey, you like Rock N Roll - right? Well, guess what? The teenagers in the fifties invented it. And man, you should have heard the flack they suffered through over that.

Senator Joseph McCarthy condemned the entire movement as a communist conspiracy. Many a religious leader of the day swore that it was the work of the devil himself. Then there were those self-proclaimed medical experts who said that the loud hard rhythm of Rock N Roll could lead to possible brain damage. Not to mention all those psychologists who touted that the messages inherent in the lyrics of Rock N Roll songs encouraged disrespect for proper social mores (such as a girl calling a boy on the telephone, or going for a ride in his car without a chaperone).

Every generation of teenagers breaks away from the mores and attitudes of their parent's generation. It's part of the natural process of maturity. It's what gives you the stamina to develop your wings so you can leave the nest.

If there ever was a generation that was forced to mature beyond the limitations of their parent's generation almost over night it was the kids of the 1930's. It became their responsibility to save the entire world from eminent destruction by a crazed lunatic. If not for them we wouldn't even be here right now. Hitler would have wiped out the entire human race. He was that evil.

That brings to mind a story my mother often told me that happened back in the early 1940's. She says that for some funny reason she will never forget the memory of this moment. I've heard the story so many times now that it's even stuck up there in my mind's eye for all eternity.

My mother's father was a strong headed and very successful entrepreneur in Newfoundland. He governed his family on the "tough love" principle. Even though he was as tough as nails, he held a compassionate soft spot in his heart for every one of his children.

On this one particular afternoon, her older brother, Jack, had just come home on furlough from the Navy. As fate would have it, he and his father locked horns that day over something or other that she really can't recall. What she does remember his how her brother, Jack, stormed into the living room and leaned up against the mantle of the fireplace without saying a word.

There he stood nibbling on his fingernails with a deep and troubled far away look in his eyes. All of a sudden, she heard a loud crash. With one fell swoop of his hand, Jack had knocked every knickknack and photograph from the top of that mantle onto the floor and shouted, "He can't talk to me that way. I'm in the Navy now!"

At that very moment, Jack had outgrown the nest. It happens to us all eventually. There comes a time when we all need to rule our own roost. It is most often a time of turbulence, but the rough spots and bumps do smooth out on the road ahead.

As kids we tend to laugh and mock our parent's generation. We know now that we did that out of pure ignorance. I don't meant to use the word "ignorance" in a condescending manner. It was an innocent ignorance on our part. Kids don't take the time to step back to see the whole picture.

Just like us, our parents were the living examples of the signs of their times. Many of the things we enjoy today took root during our parent's generation. What am I saying? Many of these things took root during our great grandparent's generation. Photography was invented in my great grandparent's era. The electric light bulb, the phonograph, the telephone, the automobile, and even airplanes took root during my grandparent's day.

Hey, you wanna hear a good one? Guess what generation started using that ugly slang word "Hello" that we all use today? It was the children of the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock. Their parents actually forbade them to use it. Apparently, it was slang for "God be with you," which was the proper greeting of the day. You know kids. Regardless of what their parent's thought, they used it anyway. That's kids for ya.

The "We're from Everett" experience is so very special to us because we talk about places and people that we knew personally. When you think about it though, every generation of kids who grew up in Everett were an integral part of a much larger equation.

Just as how what was going on in the outside world made a dramatic impact on our lives, many of things that took root right here in little old Everett made an influential impact on the outside world. It was an Everett native who wrote the article for the Atlantic Monthly magazine back in 1945 that inspired the concepts for the computer and internet technologies we enjoy today.

Need more proof? Okay, how about this? One of our own played in Superbowl Sixteen during the 1981 season setting an NFL record with eleven receptions for 104 yards and two touchdowns. That record that stayed intact for fourteen years. More recently, an inspiring actress from Everett was honored in October of 2007, by The National Italian American Foundation in Washington D.C. with the Special Achievement in Entertainment Award.

These are but a very small fraction of the many notable achievements by Everett natives. I dare say, there isn't a generation amongst us who hasn't made an indelible imprint on our society. So don't ever tell me that Everett has not made its mark on the outside world.

Looking back on our lives growing up in Everett explains a lot about what's going on in the world today. Let's face it, if anything made a dramatic impact on our lives it was the advent of television. I had to laugh when one of my kids asked "When did you ever get to see your favorite bands before they had music videos?" He thought music videos didn't come along until the 1980's.

So when did I start watching music videos? I started watching music videos when I was knee high to a grasshopper. Let me take you back in time to when I was only six years old. We're talking approximately fifty years ago. We're talking 1958.

Ask any kid what his or her favorite day of the week is and nine times out of ten they'll say "Saturday." It's not hard to imagine why. There's no school on Saturday.

My dad usually worked on Saturday mornings, but he was back home again by noontime. Of course, by noontime on any given Saturday I've already had a ride on the swings up at the Horace Mann playground, hung upside down from the top rung of the monkey bars, and played two or three innings of "Off-the-Wall" with Stanley next door. It's funny how you couldn't rattle me out of bed on a school morning, but I was up at the crack of dawn on Saturday.

The first thing we did on Saturday morning was to snap on the one and only TV we had. Back in 1958 there wasn't both a UHF and a VHF channel selector either. There was only one and all it had was channels two through thirteen. Only about five of them worked.

"Instant on" televisions were still a few years away. This sucker had to warm up a bit before the picture and sound came on. You could peak into those air vents on the back of the TV to watch the tubes light up and glow brighter and brighter as they warmed up. And you may as well have because there was nothing on the screen to see except for a little white dot for about three or four minutes.

When that tube finally did light up there was a world full of entertainment for a kid to get lost in on a Saturday morning. There were those classic Merry Melody cartoons complete with on screen lyrics and a bouncing ball to help you keep time in your sing along. Come to think of it, that is not too far removed from today's Karaoke, now is it?

Following the cartoons were the "Little Rascals." Watching them was like seeing a mirror reflection of all the kids playing out on Arlington Street. Maybe that's why they were so popular for so many generations. They reminded us of ourselves.

Last, but by no means least was "The Three Stooges." Man, you talk about violence? In one ten minute episode alone you'd see Shemp get pocked in the eye, whacked on the forehead with a hammer, and then get dragged halfway down the street with a giant fish hook stuck up his nose. Let me ask you something. Were you ever traumatized by any of that? We were rolling on the floor in laughter at my house. That was funny to us.

Mixed in between all of that were some of the most memorable television commercials in broadcast history. How many of today's TV commercials stick out in your mind? Not very many - right? Back then we all knew the commercial jingles by heart and sang them as we swung on the swings up at the playground.

What I just described for you was little more than about a half an hour of television viewing. That's about as much TV viewing as we cared to partake in on a Saturday morning. There was just too much else going on in the world outside to get bogged down watching TV. We had something far superior to virtual reality back then. We had "actual" reality.

We partook in all of the things that the kids do today with their video games. We stormed the beaches of Normandy, explored uncharted lands, and sailed the high seas in search of treasures to seize on a pirate ship. The difference was that we didn't do it all by ourselves staring into a television screen. We were outside with all of the other kids in the neighborhood.

Oh yes, and we did find weapons along the way. When we stormed the beaches of Normandy we all had rifles. Granted that they were nothing more than a bent stick, but with little imagination they could fire with an accuracy unheard of in our time. With the flick of an imaginary switch that bent stick transformed from a rifle into a bazooka, or a flame-thrower.

When we sailed the high seas on a pirate ship we all had our trusty swords tucked into our belt loops as we peered through our telescope scanning the ocean waves for our next victim. That telescope was the cardboard tube (commonly called a "doot-dah-dooh") from an old roll of wax paper. My sword was little more than a stick sharpened into a point on the sidewalk. And the ocean waves were the tall grass weeds that grew along the fence in our backyard. Just like video games, all it took was a little imagination to make it all seem so real.

So now my kid wants to know what life was like before music videos. Was there ever a time before music videos? We certainly had them back in 1958, I can tell you that. The difference being that back then most of the things we saw on TV was done in real-time live mode. They couldn't go back and re-edit their performances before you got to see them. You saw them as they happened. If somebody sneezed in the middle of a number you saw it.

Another reason I loved Saturdays so much was because after the streetlights came on, we all gathered around the living room and spent the evening together as a family watching TV. And that's when I got see "live" music videos.

Every Saturday night we watched a show called "Your Hit Parade." Raise your hand if you remember this one. Sporting the same cast of entertainers every week, they staged renditions of the more popular tunes for that week based on record sales and radio plays. As the music scene began to change with the encroaching sound of Rock N Roll, this show lost much of its appeal. It just couldn't keep pace with the changing styles.

"Your Hit Parade" started to look out of sync when they tried to perform hits by the newer performers like Elvis Presley, and the Everly Brothers. They were fine when they were covering tunes by the likes of Perry Como, and Doris Day. That was more their style.

In no way am I criticizing the performers on this show because I really enjoyed them when I was a little kid. There was some really good stuff going on musically in the early fifties that I still appreciate to this very day. One performance on "Your Hit Parade" that really stuck out in my mind was when they performed the Perry Como hit "Hot Diggity Dog."

Keep in mind that I was only six years old when they performed that number, but I enjoyed it so much that I never forgot it. I know that sounds corny coming from a former hippie of the sixties. What I never admitted to anyone back in my Everett high school days is that I really enjoyed Perry Como, Doris Day, Patty Page, and Dinah Shore. I still do.

What was so different about the performances we watched as compared to what they spew out today is that nobody flaunted their naughty parts in your face. You could enjoy these performances without getting embarrassed in front of your whole family. Some of the things they show now would traumatize me if I were a little kid.

I hate to sound "old fashioned," but the one element that's really missing from today's music scene is the "fun" part. "Hot Diggity Dog" was a fun song. It was lively, it was up beat, and it had rhythm. So was "How much is that Doggy in the Window." And so was "There's a muddy road ahead, detour."

As the camera backs away from the stage more of the scenery comes into view. You can see my whole living room now just as it looked in 1958. On the far end of the couch sits my dad with his feet up on the coffee table wiggling his slippers to the beat of the music. Next to him sits my eight-year-old brother, Carl, leaning forward with one hand reaching down into the popcorn bowl while stuffing his face with the other. Does that kid ever stop eating?

On the other side of Carl is my big sister, Julie. She's ten years old in this picture. Like everyone else she's joining in with the sing alongs, but she's also preoccupied with fashioning an endless chain out of chewing gum wrappers. She's always making something.

Sitting on floor at the other end of the coffee table is my twelve-year-old brother, Billy. And I'm sitting right opposite to him because he's my hero. I want to be just like him so I do whatever he does. So as he sits there slapping his lap like a set of bongos to the beat of the music I'm sitting right there drumming right along with him. Tell me. What six-year-old kid doesn't idolize his twelve-year-old big brother?

In the big comfy chair on the other side of the living room sits my mom. She was one of the last women I know to start wearing slacks. She didn't start doing that until I got up into the Parlin. Can you imagine?

Freeze that frame. This is what I wanted to show you all along. This is exactly what life is all about. These are the people who filled my world the very moment I arrived on this planet.

Every person in this picture loves me unconditionally. If I hurt, they hurt. If I'm happy, they're happy. Yes, we've fussed and fought a bazillion times along the way, but when push comes to shove, we cling to each other. We need each other. We love each other.

Seventeen years ago I lost my big brother, Billy. It tore a great big hole in my heart when it happened. Not a day goes by when he doesn't creep into my waking thoughts. Twelve years ago I lost my dad. Somehow you don't notice the years go by when you lose somebody who is that important to you.

At this very moment as we speak, Carl lies in a coma at the Mass General. Little more than a week ago, he was out taking a pleasant day's stroll when he passed out on the sidewalk across from Dunkin Donuts up on Broadway. He has yet to regain consciousness.

Isn't it always just when everything seems to be going your way that life hauls off and deals you a great big sucker punch from your blind side? My poor elderly mother is beside herself. Not a day goes by that she isn't sitting right there at his side, holding his hand, and talking to him to try to bring him out of this.

She's been through this before. 58 years ago when he was only six months old his four-year-old brother tried to pick him up out of his crib to give him a hug. It proved too much for the little tyke and he dropped his little baby brother. That little baby boy suffered massive head injuries from the fall and required extensive brain surgery.

After all that, that little kid suffered through a whole lifetime of daily Grand Mal Epileptic seizures. Those seizures eventually caused a serious heart attack. That poor little kid has been to hell and back. And now he's going through this. How much more can this unfortunate kid endure?

Life has its trials and tribulations. There's no denying that. Seems like you can't have one without the other sometimes. What goes up must come down. And all things must pass.

So what is this life all about anyway? It's all about the moments we share with the people we love most. They are so few and far between that they become the most precious jewels of our lives.

These are not the kind of jewels you wear draped around your neck to flaunt like a shallow icon of wealth and fortune. These jewels cling to your heart where only you can see them, and only you can feel them. These are the jewels you hold onto when you get lost in the dark and can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. They inspire you throughout your waking moments to seize the day, and to appreciate what a true gift this life really is.

I did not learn this lesson from a book. They did not teach it to me in grade school or college. I learned it one tiny fragment at a time through the many people I've encountered, and the many experiences I've had while growing up in Everett.

And now I'm passing this lesson on to you. Not that it will take root right away, mind you. Just like me, you've really got to discover this truth for yourself. And I know you will because ... "You're from Everett!"

Jack of all Trades

Every once in a while some unrelated fragment of a moment gone by creeps forward into my consciousness and I go off on a tangent of sorts. Like this one time up at Everett High when I was quietly sitting off by myself in a study class, minding my own business. I was so preoccupied with what I was doing that I was completely oblivious to all of the chaos and noise going on all around me.

What I was totally absorbed in was the utterly pointless challenge of trying to stack four playing cards into a crude castle on top of my desk. I'm calling it a "castle" for the lack of a better word. In all honesty, it was nothing more than a simple "lean-to." My point is that regardless of what I called it, all I was really doing was keeping myself occupied while passing the time.

To my immediate right sat this "poindexter" type of kid who hadn't said more than two words to me all year. It's not that we were at odds with each other or anything like that. We just came from two completely different schools of thought, and never the train shall meet.

Let me put it this way. Chances are that when this kid leaned on his elbow to stare out the window he was probably pondering the functional relationship between free falling objects and angular velocity. When I do that I'm trying to decide whether or not I like chocolate better than vanilla. You know what I mean?

Sitting directly in front of me was a girl who hadn't so much as spoken a single word to me all year. It's no big deal, really. We just didn't know each other because we obviously didn't hang out with the same crowd. And that's all there was to that.

All I was to these two people was just another face in the crowd. And to be fair, that's all they were to me. We knew absolutely nothing about each other. We didn't know each other's names. We didn't know where each other lived. And we didn't care.

Now let me explain something to ya. I have never once claimed to be anything more than a "jack of all trades and a master of none." Whenever I tried to accomplish anything I was not hell bent on setting a world record. I could never run the fastest, throw the furthest, or jump the highest.

The best sandcastle I ever built down on Revere Beach was nothing more than one unbroken mound of sand molded out of a Dixie cup. So believe me when I tell ya, I feel like I've accomplished something if I make it across Broadway without getting hit by a car. That to me is accomplishing something.

So anyway, here I am minding my own business building a simple "lean-to" with four, count em, four playing cards. It took me about five and a half minutes to get the first two to stand up on end and lean against each other like a tent without falling down. By that alone you've gotta know that the Guinnes Book people are not sitting on the sidelines holding their breath awaiting my next move.

My next strategic move was to lay the third card on its side to lean up against the first two without knocking them down. I successfully pulled it off on my first attempt. And you thought nobody of any significant talent ever came out of Everett. Man, were you wrong.

All I've gotta do now is lean this fourth card up against the other side of that tent and I've accomplished something. Even if I do pull it off on my very first try you're still not gonna hear about this on the six o' clock news tonight. And if I do bother to mention this monumental milestone to any of my friends later this afternoon the most I could ever hope for is a courteous "Gee, that's really good, Paul."

The only people who are gonna partake in the celebration of this impressive victory is me, myself, and I. That's all I'm expecting out of this and that, my good friends, is good enough for me. So hold your breath everybody because here comes the grand finale.

Yes, I'm nervous. Think about it. If I knock those cards down now I've accomplished nothing. This whole study period becomes nothing more than just another failed attempt at greatness by that otherwise common Everett kid from Arlington Street. I've come way too far for that now.

Psychologically, I'm in the zone. Clutching that fourth card tightly in my clenched fist, I zero in on the intended target. It's either now or never, and I know it. So here goes.

Right at the critical moment that girl who has never spoken so much as a single word to me all year spun around, took one look at me, sized up the situation, and said, "That's no big deal. My boyfriend can shuffle a whole deck of cards in one hand."

Then the poindexter on my right jumped in and said, "That's not gonna work because your center of gravity is way off balance. My friend, Bobby, once a built a three story castle using four decks of cards."

"Excuse me? When did you two people realize that I was a living breathing entity?"

That's when I realized that a surefire way to grab some people's attention was to give them the opportunity to watch you screw something up. Some people actually thrive on it. They can't wait to say, "I told you so." And even if you do pull off the "impossible dream" they always know somebody who's better at it than you no matter what it is you're trying to do.

That girl, and that poindexter, really ticked me off. And I'm still ticked off to this very day. And do you know why? Because the very moment I leaned that fourth card up against the other three, they all fell down. And yes, I'm blaming them because it was all their fault. They broke my concentration.

"See, I told you it wasn't going to work," Poindexter laughed.

"I'll have to get my boyfriend to show you how to shuffle cards," the other one giggled.

"I wasn't trying to shuffle cards." I explained to no avail.

Having satisfied their thirst for self-actualization, they both turned around in their seats and paid no more attention to me whatsoever. That is until a day or two later when Poindexter stopped me out on the sidewalk at lunchtime and said, "This is my friend, Bobby. He's the kid I was telling you about."

His friend, Bobby, laughed and said, "I understand you had a little trouble with your four card castle the other day. The most cards I ever stacked at any one time is two-hundred and four."

Well, la dee dah - right?

Don't you just love it when everybody else has a good laugh for themselves at your expense? And if that don't beat all, that girl I was telling you about stopped me in the hallway shortly there after to introduced me to her boyfriend. He just looked at me and smirked. You talk about having the mark of the beast on your forehead? Mine's a big fat "L."

After all that those two people never bothered with me ever again. I'm just hoping that they'll read this post some day so I can get even with them, because I'm not the kind of guy who gives up that easily. After all, I'm from Everett.

The day did eventually come when I successfully stacked four playing cards without knocking them down. Granted, it didn't happen until years after I graduated from Everett High and moved out of Everett, but it did happen. I'm still about two hundred cards shy of Poindexter's friend's record, but I'm still working on it so cut me some slack - okay?

One thing I can verify about growing up in Everett is that I never once had to venture beyond its city limits to find somebody who could out do me at everything I've ever tried. What am I saying? I didn't even have to venture beyond Arlington Street to do that.

There were a lot of kids on my street. Many of them were very talented. Pat Hughes lived just up the street a ways. He hung around with my big brother, Billy. Pat is the greatest football player that I've ever known personally. I mean, come on. Over a decade in the NFL has got to tell ya something. Not only that, but this kid was a refined gentleman in every sense of the word. Yeah, even when he was just a kid.

Then we had the Colosi brothers. They could master the dance floor beyond your wildest imagination. They even won the "Community Auditions" competition. What does that tell ya? The younger one, Ronnie, packed a serious punch. I can attest to that.

When it comes to pugilistic skills nobody can hold a candle to Martha. She lived right across the street, and in so many ways, she was like having another big sister. We were that close. And if it sounds kind of funny to you that I'm calling a girl the toughest kid in my neighborhood then you haven't met Martha. The only person I ever knew that was tougher than Martha was her mother, Mary.

Jacky White lived right down stairs from me and this kid could play electric guitar with best of them. He's about ten years older than me. He was the first person I ever heard whale on an electric. I haven't heard him play since I was ten years old, but if he kept it up with the rate he was going with back then than I'm sure he can play circles around me.

The only thing I ever got really good at was pitching pennies. I practiced for hours on end against the brick wall to the Storm Shield building across the street. That's Joyce's Hair Salon now.

After wiping out the life savings of a handful of the neighborhood kids I started to get a little arrogant about the whole thing. So much so that I started making wagers to my graceless competitors they simply could not refuse. I'd challenge them to pitch their pennies against my nickels. They stood to make a fortune. They lost anyway.

This kid, named Billy, who had moved into our apartment building for a short time, called me on the carpet one Saturday morning. He was about a year or two older than me. I made him the nickel to penny offer, but he refused. "You're gonna need every cent you've got to stand up to me," he boasted.

Sometimes opportunity just floats into your lap. This kid was holding onto a bag of pennies that could choke a horse. All I had was about a fistful of pennies in my pocket when he showed up. That's all I was going to need anyway.

As arrogant as I may have been, this kid had a serious problem in his own right. He refused to believe that somebody smaller than him could beat him at anything. I could tell that's the way he felt just by the way he was acting.

I'll be honest with ya, though. This kid was good. He was real good.

I was even willing to throw the first pitch to give him something to shoot for. "No that's okay," he said. "I challenged you. I'll go first."

His first pitch was flawless. It butted right up against the wall. You can't beat that. That best you can do is match it, unless of course, you get a "leanie." No matter how good you are, "leanies" only happen by chance. Well, guess what? I beat him with a "leanie."

Now, you know I'm from Everett - right? That alone says what? It says, "I'm cool." You know that. I'm cool cuz I'm from Everett. And like Martha always said, "You don't fool with the cool cuz the cool don't fool."

I did not leap up into the air and yell, "All right!" That wouldn't be cool. All I did was saunter on over there and collected my pennies as if I meant to do that. That's how the "cool" conduct themselves. It comes with the territory.

As the competition progressed, all indicators suggested that this kid was going to be wiped out in no time flat. My fistful of pennies had grown exponentially. If memory serves me well, this kid didn't take a single throw until he had lost somewhere in the vicinity of about a buck and half. After that he'd win a throw, and then lose about a dozen in a row before he took another one.

What I didn't realize at the time is that I had wrongly judged this kid. Even though he was losing, he was losing gracefully. He wasn't the least bit frustrated. He just kept trying harder and refused to let it get the best of him. I had to really admire him for that.

What I also came to realize is that this kid wasn't out to prove that he could beat me just because he was bigger and older than me. This kid had made up his mind to go to school on this day. What he was actually doing was paying me to hand over all of my trade secrets. In the process of willfully suffering through this unmerciful beating, he was going through an intense learning curve. And his mentor was none other than the master himself.

By the time I had cut his stash of pennies in half, the tide had turned. He started winning. He started winning big time. This tournament had now dragged on into the latter part of the afternoon. Even the bigger kids crowded around to catch the main event.

As the daylight grew dim, my stash began to dwindle down to threatening proportions. "I don't believe it," Mikey laughed. "I think somebody's finally going to take the master down."

"Come on, you can do it," my brother, Billy, cheered me on. "Don't lay down for this guy. Your reputation is at stake here."

Try as I may, my reign as the king of the penny pitching hill came to a thundering crash on that day. By the time the streetlights came on, I was down to my last penny.

"I'll tell you what," my challenger taunted. "I'll throw my nickel against your last penny to give you one last chance to stay in the game."

Now you know I couldn't stoop to that. If I couldn't fight my way back with my last penny then the time had come to concede like a man and throw in the towel. At least I'd stepped down with dignity. I'd lose all of the respect I worked so hard to build up if I stooped for the very indignant offer I used to insult my challengers with. So I just looked back at him and said, "No thanks. Go ahead, throw."

He calmly and ever so nonchalantly pitched his penny in what very well may be the winning throw that takes the title. And wouldn't you know? He threw a "leanie."

My only hope for survival now was the long shot possibility of knocking his "leanie" down. With every ounce of talent and skill I could muster up I made that last throw. Man, it was close. It butted right up against the wall right next to his "leanie," but it didn't knock it down. I lost it all, never to regain the title again.

The new champion lifted his big bag of pennies amid the roar of the crowd and shouted, "Look at the size of this kitty. Did I kick butt, or what?" That was his moment of glory.

Money had nothing to do with it, really. For you see, all he had really taken from me was a small fistful of pennies. In all actuality, he probably went home with about fourteen pennies more than he started with. That's about all I had on me in the first place.

It was the thrill of the victory that made it so special. He wanted this victory so badly that he could taste it. And he had fought so hard for it that in a funny sort of way, I was actually glad for him. He deserved that victory. He won it fair and square. And even I had to laugh when he danced around me in a circle singing, "I won because you lost and you lost because I won."

I never once thought that he would be the one to take me down. To be honest, I actually thought that I was invincible when it came to pitching pennies. But just like every other swell-headed, conceited, prima donna before me, fate proved that I was nothing more than mortal flesh and bone.

This kid lived on the other side of our apartment house. A solid concrete wall separated his side of the cellar from mine. That's why none of us had any idea as to what he was up to when he wasn't hanging around with the rest of us out on my front steps for about a week. That little son-offa-gun was down in his cellar honing his skills for the big tournament the whole time. And man oh man, did it ever pay off.

So let that be a lesson to ya. It certainly was to me. If all of a sudden somebody who's usually hanging around all the time suddenly fades out of the picture it usually means that they're probably up to something. And that is precisely why the "We're From Everett" blog has been a little bit sluggish over the past month or so. I was up to something.

Now honestly, you must have started to wonder what was going on when you didn't hear a peep out of me on Saint Patrick's Day, or Easter Sunday. After a while the emails started trickling in. People started asking whether or not I was still up to maintaining the "We're From Everett" project at all.

One of my avid readers expressed a concern that I may have lost faith in the "We're From Everett" project due to avalanche of scorn over something that either I, or one of the posted comments to one of my articles might have said. He was kind enough to offer a wealth of reassurance that there are so many people out there who appreciate what I'm doing that I shouldn't let the "nay-sayers" wear me down. I assured him that that wasn't the case at all.

I'll be honest with ya, though. In my lifetime I have said more things that I shouldn't have said, at the exact moment that I shouldn't have said them, than you can shake a stick at. Sticking my foot in my mouth is my modus operandi. I've been doing that ever since I hopped out over the crib rails. Ask anybody who's known me all my life.

Why do you think my mother used to whack me with the belt every once in a while? Why do you suppose it is that my sixth grade teacher, Miss Blake, made me stand in the corner day after day? It was for the very same reason that made Ronnie from up the street finally haul off and punch me in the stomach. It was because I shot off my mouth at the wrong time and they couldn't stand it any more.

So don't ever think that you can't argue with me. But rather than to punch me in the stomach like Ronnie did, I'd prefer that you use that comment button at the end of every one of my posts. This is a two-way street. If you don't agree with something I've said then click on that button and say so. Don't worry. You're not gonna hurt my feelings. I'm from Everett.

And if I don't like what you have to say I'll just get up out of this chair and put my foot down. Whatever that means. My dad used to say that all the time. I'd come strolling into the house long after the streetlights had come on and he'd say, "If you don't straighten up and fly right, buddy boy, I'm gonna get up out of this chair and put my foot down." I ask you now. What kind of a threat is that?

Okay, so here's what I've been up to for the past month or so. Over the past sixth months people have been sending me stuff to share with you. My "Growing Up Everett" web site wasn't properly designed to handle the necessary expansion. I had no other choice but to tear it apart and put it back together again with a whole new infrastructure. So that's where I've been.

The "Growing Up Everett" web site has experienced somewhat of a rebirth. It is now designed in such a way so as to make easier for me to add new content. Its color scheme has changed to make it a lot easier on the eyes, and it reflects a more nostalgic theme in a metaphorical sort of way. All of the old content is still there, but we've now got a whole slew of new stuff to enjoy.

We've got a "media" section now that not only offers free sound file downloads, but we're talking classic videos from when we were little kids growing up in Everett. You're gonna love this. I promise.

And just wait until you see our photo archives. We've got pictures of the Horace Mann being torn down, Vargis Diner, the decorated doll carriage winner in the "Fourth of July" parade, the Blizzard of 78, and so much more. We've even got some classic shots of Everett people as recent as last year, and as far back as 1934. Our photo section has more than tripled in size and we're getting new arrivals every day.

If you check out my source code you'll see that all of my critical content is hand-coded. That means that my web pages are optimized to load quickly regardless of what browser you're using, your screen resolution, your operating system, and even if you're using a slower dial up modem. You will never find any bells and whistles on any of my sites that will slow your system down.

And now it's a whole lot easier for you tell people where to find us. Look up at the top of your browser window and take a gander at the web address you're visiting right now. You read that right. We've got our own domain. That's gotta tell ya something. So if anyone asks, just tell them to go to "werefromeverett-dot-com."

I am really sorry for leaving you hanging for such a long time, and I do hope you will forgive me. You cannot believe how much work is actually involved in putting all of this together. Even still, it is a labor of love. So don't worry. I haven't lost heart. If anything, my passion for bringing the "growing up in Everett" experience to the World Wide Web has grown leaps and bounds.

Oh yeah, and one more thing before I go. Greg Anderson from "americandinermuseum.org" sent me a little note about Vargis diner. There's a brief one and half minute promo for Vargis Diner on YouTube. Somebody bought it. Here's what he said.

"Vintage Massachusetts Diner rescued for Automobile Museum

The American Diner Museum rescues yet another diner with the help of Corky Coker from Coker Tire Company. The former Vargis Diner of Everett, Ma. then Trolley Diner of Marlborough, MA. was rescued from demolition after a fire closed the diner in 2007. Built in the mid 1950's By the Jerry O'Mahony Co. of Elizabeth, NJ."

Clicking HERE will take you to "youtube" so you can watch that video.

So don't worry. If it ever happens again that you don't hear from me for a while it only means that I'm diligently working to improve the nostalgic Everett experience. I'm much better at that than I am at stacking playing cards into a castle on top of my desk.

Now go on over to the Growing Up Everett web site to enjoy the experience. Hey, it's all about us kids anyway - right? Many of your fellow Everettites have opened up and are sharing a part of themselves with you. And why not? After all, "We're from Everett!"