The View From Here

The view outside my bedroom window after we moved up onto Foster Street was so spectacular that it inspired me artistically in monumental ways. We moved into the house right next door to Al Vega. Now there’s an old Everett name that needs no introduction, I’m sure.

Our house was one house in from the corner of Foster and Chestnut. We faced downhill towards Ferry Street. From my bedroom window I could see above the treetops all the way over to the Whidden Hospital. The view was breathtaking this time of year.

If only once I could show you the view from that window in autumn. You’d see how those otherwise common earth tones that permeated our everyday lives ignited into a blaze of contrasts and shadows. And you’d get to see how something so simple as a gentle breeze could touch off a convulsive chain reaction amongst the rustling leaves. They’d work themselves up into a such a frenzy that they sounded like a round of applause echoing all the way down through the corridors of Chestnut Hill.

And if you were to peek out that window in the early morning hours, just after first light, you’d see a tinge of cobalt blue in the nighted sky that would absolutely blow you away. The only other way I can think to describe the beauty of such a color is to tell you what that color feels like.

It feels like that brisk morning chill that awakens your senses. It’s not so cold as to make you shiver or anything like that, mind you. It’s more like the gentle touch of frost that makes everything sparkle so brilliantly in a somber light. And just like that gentle frost, that deep cobalt blue sky vaporizes into tiny fragments and molts right back into the landscape as the sun comes up over the Boston skyline.

Whoa, dudes, did I just say all that? Where’s my guitar? Somebody get me a pencil and something to write on. Man, if that doesn’t sound like a song waiting to happen then I don’t know what does.

So you see, you really don’t have to travel halfway around the planet to enjoy the magic and wonder of our mechanical universe. All you’ve gotta do is take a step back from all of the chaos and the noise and pay more attention to what’s really going on in the background. Once you learn how to do that you’ll find yourself letting go of more and more of your inhibitions.

If you keep traveling along that path towards inner tranquility you’ll soon wind up out on the sidewalk kicking all of the neighbor’s leaf piles back out into the middle of the street just for he heck of it. And that is the major difference between adulthood and childhood right there.

Maturity is measured in degrees of how much you submissively succumb to your inhibitions. Surrendering to your inhibitions is what takes all of the fun out of your life, and the innocence of childhood out of your heart.

The fountain of youth is not some kind of enchanted river that flows from a mountaintop way off in the Far East somewhere. It’s right there inside of you waiting for you to draw from the well. And that's all there really is to it.

I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Heck, you already knew that just from growing up in Everett. You learned that the moment you stepped out onto the sidewalk. Here, let me prove it to you with a simple quiz.

Which is more fun? Saving a dollar twenty-six on a leg of lamb down at the Stop & Shop? Or stuffing a handful of wet autumn leaves down the back of your best friend’s pants?

Okay, here’s another one. Now be honest here. Which would you rather have for supper tonight? Would your prefer a boiled dinner with a fresh glass of water, or a Pu Pu platter down at the Kowloon? You get the idea – right?

Only a grownup can keep a straight face when they order a Pu Pu platter. Regardless of how that term translate in any other language, they should have changed its name when they ported it over to the American market. I'm just glad they didn't come out with a Pee Pee bowl to go along with it.

You would suspect that someone sophisticated enough to run a restaurant would chose their words wisely when it comes to naming the items on their menu. And they usually do back east, but here in the Midwest they just don’t get it at all. We’ve got a place just down the road apiece with this great big sign out front that reads “Our “Bucket of Spaghetti” will feed the whole family.”

“Bucket of Spaghetti” sounds appetizing, doesn’t it? Are these people serious? I can just picture Ma and Pa Hoosier with all their younguns jumping up and down in the back of their broken down pickem-up truck shouting at the top of their lungs for a “Bucket of Spaghetti.” I don't imagine you'll ever find a "Bucket of Spaghetti" listed on the menu at Anthony’s Pier 4.

The words you choose say a lot about you. When you’re trying to make a point the last thing you need is to waste any time beating around the bush. Nobody should have to sit and ponder what it is you’re trying to say. Most people have far too many things going on in their lives to waste any time trying to figure you out.

That’s why you want to sum it all up in as few words as possible. And that is precisely why we have all of those colloquial clichés hanging around. My mother, a native Newfoundlander, really was one for old maxims and proverbs, let me tell ya.

The first time she saw me wearing bell bottoms she thought back to the day her big brother, Jack, came home from the Navy after the war and said, “The more things change – the more they stay the same.”

When I slammed into the doorway trying to get away from Carl after whacking him across the back of the head with my underwear she said, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

And when I started bellyaching over all the after school sessions I got for skipping school one day up at the Parlin she turned to me and said, “You made your bed, buddy boy. Now you lie in it.”

In writing, and in public speaking, we avoid using colloquial cliches because common rules of etiquette dictate that it’s just not kosher. Don’t ask me why, because if you did I’d say that was one of the silliest rules ever written into Strunk’s “Elementary Principles of Composition.”

When it comes to breaking the common rules of writing and speaking, I’m unmerciful. For one thing, you should try to avoid beginning sentences with the words “and” or “but.” And I do that in almost every other paragraph. But it’s not my fault because I write the way I speak. If I wrote by the traditional rules of convention you’d be fast asleep at the monitor by now.

Nothing hits home like an old saying. Think about it. You can’t argue with adages like, “There’s no fool like an old fool,” or “Easy come – easy go,” or “It takes one to know one.” Now can you?

Politicians are relentless when it comes to using clichés. This being a major election year, we’re hearing quotations and proverbs to the point of the absurd. I thought this year’s presidential election was going to be a bore. Man, was I wrong or what?

This year’s campaign is an editorial cartoonist’s dream come true. Not to take sides or anything, but the one popular song that does come to mind that accurately sums up this year’s campaign is “Send in the Clowns.” Just listen to some of the ridiculous innuendos and accusations they’re slinging. It’s a riot.

One candidate has accused the other of being a terrorist. The laughable improbability of that accusation lies within the fact that the accuser forgot to research the supposed timeline of that accusation. If that accusation were true, then the culprit would have engaged in terrorist activities when he was eight years old in the second grade.

Come to think of it, I was somewhat of a terrorist myself when I was in the second grade. Just ask Miss Martinelli up at the Horace Mann. She’ll tell ya. I’ll give her credit, though. She knew how to knock the shenanigans out of a fidgety distempered little boy, let me tell ya.

She'd stand me in the corner until my knees buckled. After an hour or so of that I begged for the opportunity to the follow the rules. I don’t care how creative you are, you can only take so much of staring at a blank wall.

What it all boils down to is that you’ve got to keep your eye on those rebel-rousing second graders. They think nothing of flicking a booger on your windshield, or stamping in a puddle to splash mud all over your new shoes, or dishing out fifty-two noogies at the drop of a hat. Second graders are a ticking time bomb.

So I propose that we introduce the new “Miss Martinelli Law.” It will specifically state that any candidate who wastes our valuable with frivolous accusations, instead of focusing on the issues that matter, must stand in the corner and stare at a blank wall until they crack. Hey, it worked on me.

I only wish my dad were here to enjoy this year’s presidential election. He thrived on this stuff. I never knew he was such a political enthusiast until we got cable TV. Our whole world changed when cable TV came into our lives.

I’m mind traveling back to the fall of 1966. There was a lot going on that year. We had already moved into that house up on Foster Street. I began my stint in Mr. Barbati’s ninth grade homeroom up at the Parlin. That was room nine on the basement floor just to the right of the back entrance that led out onto Dern Street.

“A Man For All Seasons” was playing down at the Park Theatre. “"The Ballad of the Green Berets" by Sgt. Barry Sadler was playing on the radio. And “Hogan’s Heroes” made its debut on prime time TV.

You could buy a loaf of Wonder Bread for twenty-two cents at Anna’s Variety on the corner Cherry and Ferry. A gallon of gas cost thirty-three cents down at Spencer’s on Ferry Street. If you were really strapped for cash you could fill your tank at “C&C’s” on the Parkway for under a buck.

There was this really cute girl named Carol in my homeroom that year. We used to catch each other’s eye and squint our noses up at each other from time to time. Everybody said she liked me, but I just couldn’t see it because she was so pretty and I was so plain. I’d make it a point to cross her path in the corridors between classes just to talk with her. Funny how it never dawned on her that it happened every day. I never got up enough nerve to ask her out.

My brother Billy came home from Vietnam last Christmas and was now scurrying all over the place getting ready for his upcoming marriage to Debbie Sawyer from Ferry Street. He chose little Mikey Smith as his best man.

My big sister, Julie had tied the knot more than a year or so ago and had a little one running back and forth all over the house already. And after only a few days into our new school year I met this really funny kid at recess who lives down on Malden Street.

That’s an interesting story in itself. A friend of mine came running up to me and said, “Hey, Paul, get a load of this kid’s neck tie.” At first glance it was just a plain black tie with a detailed white pin striping running down the front of it. After closely examining it, I discovered that pin striping was a mirrored image of a naughty word they never would have allowed in school. Needless to say, that kid and I became the best of friends.

So anyway, the big topic of conversation going on around town was this new cable TV service they got going on. We all said “That’ll be the day when I pay to watch TV.” Everybody knows that television is advertiser financed anyway. They even tell you that every five minutes or so on any given TV show.

“Mutual of Omaha” brings you “Wild Kingdom.” “Gerital” pays for “To Tell The Truth.” And “Rinso Blue” sponsors Art Linkletter’s “People Are Funny.”

The fundamental principle behind the whole concept is that they spend big bucks producing interesting entertainment so millions of us will watch. In return, they get the opportunity to promenade their line of goods in front of our eyes. That’s the trade off for both sides and yes, it’s a fair proposition.

Paying to watch TV was just not a concept we were ready for back in the later 1960’s. One by one our neighbors started buying into this service and we couldn’t fathom as to why. That is until we started hearing about all the things they had to offer, including commercial-free entertainment. Hey, if I’m paying for it I don’t expect to have to watch any commercials. You know what I’m saying?

When Jack Thomas told my dad that they had this channel called HBO that showed feature length movies without any commercials, he called up and ordered cable. It wasn’t until the technician came to install the box that we found out that you had to pay extra to get the movie channel. Not to worry, people. We’re from Everett.

As soon as everybody else found out we had cable the TV hackers came out of the woodwork. If anybody knows how to manipulate the system it’s Everett people. More than a dozen different neighbors were more than willing to crowd around our living room that night to show us all of the hidden wonders behind this new technology.

This great big “hack-away-at-the-cable-box” party somehow materialized out of nowhere in the middle of our living room. Even neighbors we hardly knew showed up for the main event. That’s what I mean about Everett people.

Let’s face it. If you’re from Everett, and I’m from Everett, then you may as well say we’re joined at the hip. We stand united. As soon as just one of us finds out how to buck the system in any way, shape, or form, the word spreads throughout our ranks like wildfire. We’re that close.

Sure enough, somebody in the crowd knew how to tap into the movie channel system. First, they hooked up a length of antenna wire to the back of the cable box. Then they spread it out across the floor and started chopping it off an inch at a time until the signal came in loud and clear. That’s all it took. So just like every other cable subscriber in Everett, we had free HBO.

It wasn’t HBO that really took my dad by storm anyway. It was “C-span.” I don’t think they actually called it that back in those days, but it was more or less the same type of thing. You could sit and listen to congressional representatives blow hot air for hours on end if you wanted to.

My dad ate this stuff up for breakfast. He’d sit for hours on end yelling at the television. He’d drive my mother up a wall with all of his ranting and raving. And whenever she asked what was getting him all riled up he’d say “This politician, who is tied in with that other bunch, keeps talking about all that nonsense they think we’re stupid enough to believe.”

That is the only explanation he ever gave whenever she asked him what was getting him so all hot and bothered. It sounds silly on the surface, I know, but consider this. My dad’s been gone for more than a decade now and you could apply that very definition to just about any politician you pick out at random today. I kid you not.

As for me, it wasn’t so much the thrill of this new technology that made such a memorable impact on my life, as it was how all the neighbors crowded around our living room like one great big family to reverse engineer the system.

I’m sorry, but I like people, especially Everett people. I can’t help it. Everett people make me feel like a kid again. They have this harmless air of mischievous about them that makes me laugh. And as they say, “Laughter is the best medicine.”

I’ve often wondered what it would be like if we all got back together again at the age we are now. I'll bet ya, ten to one, we’d all revert back to acting the way we did when we were little kids growing up in Everett. And what a spectacle we’d make of ourselves in the process.

I can just see us now trying to boost each other up over the stadium fence down on Cabot Court. Instead of chasing after us in all directions under the bleachers, the cops could just stand there and wait for us old fogies to limp up to them.

So along with the sound of the rustling autumn leaves against the backdrop of a brisk morning chill, and that gentle touch of frost that makes everything sparkle so brilliantly in a somber light, flows an avalanche of childhood memories of growing up in Everett.

I so fondly remember seeing every other kid I knew from Everett running back and forth from sidewalk to sidewalk dressed up as goblins, and ghosts, and witches, carrying pillow cases full of candy on Halloween night. And most of all I remember how all the kids from the many different neighborhoods all came together at the bottom of Cabot Court to help each other up over the stadium fence to get into the football game.

We weren’t just a bunch of kids. We were – no - we “ARE” a lifelong fraternity of special people with a common thread that runs so true through our veins that it binds our hearts together for all time. If one of us hurts – we all hurt. If one of us cries – we all cry. It's a "one for all and all for one" kind of thing we've got going on here.

If I start to tell you about sitting in the bleachers at an Everett High football game it comes to life in your mind’s eye. That’s because your mind’s eye invokes a cherished memory you’ve held onto for all of these years.

And if I take you back to 1971 you’d be sitting in the bleachers with all of the kids I graduated from Everett High School with. Down at the bend in the horseshoe where all the hippies from the back hills of Glendale Park party down you’d see Bobby, his brother, Geno, and Syke, and I could go on and on until I named each and every one.

And if you come back around the bleachers, on the Everett side of course, to where the band plays you’ll see a whole bunch of the kids from Swan Street Park. Freeze that frame, okay? I want you see the genuine smile on these kid’s faces. Just take one look at Joanne, and Roseanne, and Stephanie, and Diane, and you’ll know what I mean.

They’ve all got that right down to the center of their heart contented with life look about them. Why should they not? They are sharing this memorable moment with their lifelong friends. And if I can turn your attention for a moment out onto the cheerleaders I can point out to you another one of their lifelong friends. Her name is Marilyn, but everyone calls her “Mal.”

These kids from Swan Street Park were a “clique” in themselves. Ah, but they were a good “clique” at that. They’d never look their nose down at you, or talk about you behind your back, or ever turn you away if you reached out to them. I can honestly attest to that. I personally knew each and every one of the kids I just named.

Roseanne and Stephanie were in Mr. Barbati’s ninth grade homeroom with me and Carol up at the Parlin. Roseanne sat right behind me in the row along the windows. Diane was in Anthony’s Sarno’s eighth grade homeroom with me. And as a matter of fact, she sat right behind me, too.

As for Joanne, I really didn’t know her all that well in high school. I knew who she was. How could I not? Her smile radiated like sunlight and lit up the whole school. Every kid who knew her absolutely loved her and now I know why. Make friends with Joanne and you’ve got yourself a true blue friend for life. I know that as a fact now.

As for Mal, we’ve never spoken to one another. I only knew her from seeing her laughing it up with her friends in the corridors of Everett High. What I could tell from just that alone is that she must be someone special to be included with that crowd.

And when Joanne emailed the pictures of our class reunion from back in 2006 there was Mal standing amongst her lifelong friends with that very same heartfelt smile we all knew and loved since high school.

My wife, Carol, knew her well. They shared many a class together. Carol said she was a funny kid you couldn’t but help to love.

I tell you this because Joanne sent me an email just the other day. All she said was, and I quote, “Mal passed away today. We went to see her this morning, and she passed about 3 hours later."

Those words pierced my heart. We are never prepared for the toll it takes when God calls one of our own home. These kids lost their lifelong friend. And we all know only too well how much that hurts. And we feel their pain because they are all very much a part of our “Growing up in Everett” family.

Make no mistake about it. Mal no longer walks among us, but do not think for one solitary moment that she no longer lives. For nothing could be further from the truth. It’s like what Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “There are far more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

I’ve said this many times before. And I’m saying it again now.

Like the caterpillar, we live this life with folded wings. When the caterpillar rolls itself up into a cocoon, it thinks it’s dying. It hasn’t the vision to foresee that it will experience yet another birth, and reemerge as a more beautiful creature, spread its wings, and take flight with far more freedom than it could possibly ever imagine.

And that is the very secret that awaits us all beyond the far horizon. And for each and every loved one who crosses over before us, we add their name to the ever growing list of those who wait to welcome us home when our turn comes.

Mal carries with her the reflection of all the love and friendship that she so selflessly bestowed on others. It stands as a testimony to the quality and strength of her character.

So to Mal’s loving family and friends, and to her many sisters around the world in the Red Hat Society, I dare say, someone very special waits to welcome you back home. For another precious angel has joined our extended “We’re from Everett” family just beyond the far horizon.

The day will come when we will all gather again beyond the far horizon. Until that day, we will hold dear the memory of those amongst us who God has already called home. And we take comfort in knowing that there really is far more to this life than we could ever fully comprehend. And we take comfort in knowing that we do not make this journey alone. That is especially true for us because, “We’re from Everett!”

When It Rains

In so many ways, I remind myself of my father. I’m mind traveling back to my stint in Miss Nigro’s first grade class at the Horace Mann. Sometimes I really like rainy days. They induce a sense of poetic melancholy that makes me creative. This just happened to be one of those days that was so dark and gloomy you just wanted to roll over and pull the covers up over your head.

One of the reasons I felt so out of sorts on this particular morning was because everything seemed so out of whack. For one thing, when my mother woke me up to get ready for school my dad was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee. He’s usually long gone off to work by the time I get up for school.

For another thing, my dad wasn’t his usual self. We’re talking about a guy who gets up at the crack of dawn and cheerfully sings “Beautiful Dreamer” while he’s shaving, but not today. He just sat there like a bump on a log staring down into his cup of coffee without saying a single word to anybody. This was a troubled man. You could see it in his eyes.

To add insult to injury, I was the only one going off to school this morning. Both Julie and Carl were bedridden with fevers after coming down with a terrible cold. Because of that fever Carl’s epileptic seizures were becoming more intense and more frequent. My big brother, Billy, wasn’t going off to school either. He had recently been diagnosed with Ostiomilitis. It’s a form of bone cancer that commonly strikes children.

Besides suffering with agonizing pain in his legs, Billy’s only mobility is when my mother or father lift him from his bed to sit him up in his wheelchair. To hear this otherwise happy-go-lucky strong-willed kid whimpering in pain late at night really tugs at my heartstrings.

With all of this going on nobody had any real time for me right now. Oh no, don’t worry, it didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I could see that my mother was worn to a frazzle from running back and forth taking care of everybody. I only wished there was something I could do to help.

That’s what was going on in the back of my mind as I sat quietly at the breakfast table wolfing down my bowl of Cheerios. As I sat there listening to my mother and father talking back and forth all I could think of was “How come God doesn’t answer people’s prayers sometimes?”

From the gist of their conversation I found out that my dad’s car had conked out for good. I’m willing to bet it was the oldest car in the neighborhood. Come to think of it, it was probably the oldest car in Everett. That old jalopy only existed on borrowed time anyway.

When the pull choke linkage fell apart my dad fixed it with a length of wire coat hanger. When the rear passenger door fell off he bolted it back on. It didn’t open or close or anything, but at least it was still there. When the front passenger door handle fell apart he wired it permanently shut with another length of wire coat hanger.

Whenever the whole family had to go anywhere together we looked like the Keystone Cops piling into that old jalopy. We all had to slide in across the seats from the driver’s side. If that wasn’t bad enough, that car clunked and sputtered and farted all the way down the street. Every few days or so my dad had to crawl under and wrap another coffee can around that big hole in the muffler. Laugh if you want to, but at least we had a car.

A couple of weeks ago all of the plumbing let go in that six-family apartment house we live in down on Arlington Street. Everybody’s bathroom flooded out and rained down onto the apartments underneath. The toilets stopped flushing, the bathtubs stopped draining, and everybody’s ceilings crashed down onto the floor. It was a mess beyond your wildest imagination.

At the time, that apartment house was owned by my very own great uncle Ed, and great aunt Grace, who lived up in Wilmington. Knowing my dad’s plumbing skills, and being such a miserable skinflint with all of his money, my great uncle Ed made my dad an offer he couldn’t refuse. “You fix the plumbing and the ceilings and I’ll pay you for it.” That’s exactly what he said. I know. I was right there when he said it.

My dad spent his two-week vacation from his job at Tufts working morning, noon, and night to fix up that horrible mess. He did an admirable job if I do say so myself. It was a bit of a thrill to work along side of him on some of those projects. I was the “Hand Me” guy. I was the guy who handed over whatever it was he needed when he was sprawled out under the bathroom sink waving his hand around saying, “Hand me that open end wrench,” or “Pass me one of those washers.”

So anyway, on the night before he was to go back to work at the end of his vacation, his old jalopy gasped its last breath. He telephoned my great uncle Ed and asked if he could collect on that money he owed him because he needed a car to get to work. My great uncle Ed told him that he'd drop by sometime later this afternoon to make good on his promise. That’s where it stood as I headed towards the front door to go to school.

My mother stopped me at the front door to apologize for not spending any time with me this morning. I told her not to worry because I was gonna come up with a plan to solve all of our troubles. I can still see that sympathetic smile on her face when she said, “If anybody ever does I have no doubt that you’ll be the one to do it someday.”

That was a one of the slowest walks to school that I remember. And let me tell ya something. I had a knack for walking to school at speeds slower than the seven-year itch. There was a lot to divert my attention that day.

First, there were all of those big puddles just lying there waiting for a pair gators to come along and splash them all over the sidewalk. Besides that, who can resist dropping a fallen maple leaf into the streaming gutter to see if it’ll get past Marjorie’s house and make it all the way down to the storm drain just past Ronnie’s driveway? I know I can’t.

It didn’t get any better when I finally did get to school. Besides having forgotten my lunch, I lost my milk money along the way. When Miss Nigro asked me where my lunch was, I lied and said I ate it on my way to school. Don’t ask me why I did that.

So Miss Nigro wouldn’t push the issue when lunchtime came I pretended I wasn’t hungry because I had supposedly already eaten my lunch. “You’ll know better next time, won’t you?” she asked. I nodded in agreement. If she only knew – right?

Nothing seemed any better when I got back home. My great Uncle Ed did pop by that afternoon. For all of his hard work he gave my dad a ten-dollar bill. I kid you not. Being the gentleman that he was, my dad didn’t say a word. He just thanked him and took it.

Here we are so many hours later and my dad’s still sitting at the kitchen table with that far away look in his eyes. My mom’s still running back and forth like a chicken with her head cut off taking care of three sick kids. And my dad did look up from his cup of coffee to ask, “How did school go today?”

“It was all right. Did you find a new car yet?”

“No not yet, but don’t you worry. We’ll find something, little buddy. We always do.”

There was my lunch bag right there on the kitchen table, and man, was that thing ever calling my name. “I’m gonna eat my sandwich out on the front steps,” I told him. “Okay, little guy,” he smiled. “Just stay out of the rain. The last thing I need is another sick kid on my hands.”

Right on those front steps at 14 Arlington Street is where I sat to devour my long awaited peanut butter and jelly sandwich while watching that torrential downpour pelt the puddles. I know it doesn’t sound all that exciting on the surface, but I’m the kind of guy who can sit for hours on end to watch the test pattern. It helps me think. Getting lost in a world of my own watching the pouring rain helps me dream up ways to make a million bucks so I could take care of my family.

First I came up with the idea of fishing through everybody’s trash barrels to collect enough stuff for a huge sidewalk sale. Then I thought of sending off some of my best drawings to Hallmark Cards to see if they would buy some of them. That’s when I spotted my upstairs neighbor, old Mister McGlauphlin walking up from Ferry Street carrying a bag of groceries.

“Why the long face, Paul?”

“I didn’t know I had a long face,” I admitted. “I’m just trying to think of a way to buy my dad a new car. You got any ideas?”

“Is that why your dad didn’t go to work today, Paul? Because he needs a new car?”

“Yeah, the old clunker gave up the ghost.” I only said that because I heard my dad say it.

“You want to do me a favor and carry these groceries up to my kitchen for me?” He asked. Now there’s opportunity knocking right there. Carrying Mister McGlauphlin’s groceries up to the third floor was always good for a dime, at least. There’s no way I was gonna pass up an opportunity like that.

“Just set them down on the kitchen table,” he said. “I’ll be right up. And by the way, there’s a couple of fudgescicles in the icebox. Eat em up for me, will ya? I need to thaw that icebox out anyway.” Like you’re gonna have to twist my arm to eat a couple of fudgescicles for ya – right?

Mister McGlauphlin kept a small portable TV on his kitchen table. He’d sit and watch “The Wide World of Sports” while chowing down on all kinds of junk food. It was always a treat and half when Mister McGlauphlin invited me upstairs to watch the football games. Neighbors like Mister McGlauphlin make the world a better place.

After grabbing a fudgescicle out of his icebox, I sat down at the kitchen table to thumb through his Sears Catalogue. Seconds later he came walking into the kitchen with my dad following right behind him. “This is great,” Mister McGlauphlin said. “All us guys get to hang out together without any women to boss us around. How about grabbing a couple of beers out of the fridge for me and your dad, Paul?”

“Two beers coming right up.” That’s Mable, Black Label. Carling’s Black Label Beer. That’s all Mister McGlauphlin ever drank when it came to beer. Don’t ask me why because beer all tastes the same to me. I had always hoped somebody would invent a beer that tasted like Coca Cola. That would suit my taste buds just fine.

“Okay, so what happened with the car?” He asked my dad. One question led to another and before very long my dad really opened up and poured his heart out to Mister McGlauphlin. My dad really needed a friend who would listen to his troubles and Mister McGlauphlin fit the bill to a tee.

“It just so happens that a friend of mine has a car that might interest you,” said Mister McGlauphlin. "He hasn’t driven it for months now because he bought a brand new one. It still runs as far as I know. Let me give him a call.”

“How much do you think he’ll ask for it?” My dad had a ray of hope in his eyes for the first time all day. “Oh don’t worry,” said Mister McGlauphlin. “He’ll probably just want somebody to take it off his hands."

My dad and me just sat there quietly looking back and forth at each other with our fingers crossed while listening to Mister McGlauphlin’s side of the conversation on the telephone. It went something like this.

“Hello Jim? Do you still have that old Ford out in the driveway? My good friend, Bill, needs a car. If I can come through for him it would really make me look good. It still runs doesn’t it? Oh, that’s great. Oh yeah, he can do that. When can he pick it up? Thanks Jim. We’ll see ya then.”

He hung up the phone and just grinned at my dad.

“So what did he say?” My dad couldn’t wait. Heck, neither could I.

“You didn’t kick your shoes off yet, did ya?”

“No.”

“Good,” Mister McGlauphlin said. “Because he’s driving it over here in about ten minutes. His son’s gonna follow him in the new car to drive him back home. The car’s yours.”

“How much does he want?” Man, this was like waiting for the second shoe to drop.

“It needs a back seat. May be the one from your old car will fit into it.”

“I’ll see that it does.”

“And it needs a rear view mirror. His son broke the stem right off of it. Maybe you can take the one from your old car and make that fit, too.”

“I’m sure I can,” my dad assured him. “So how much does he want?”

“Other than that, he says the car’s a beauty. There isn’t a scratch on it and it purrs like a kitten.”

“How much does he want? I don’t have much.”

“What are you talking about, Bill?” Mister McGlauphlin laughed. “You don’t have anything.”

“How much does he want?”

“He didn’t say. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Ask him yourself. Be firm and don’t act so desperate. You know how to play the game. Play your cards right and you’ll be able to pull that car out from under him for pennies on the dollar. I’m sure.”

A few minutes later we heard a car horn honking out front. I tried peeking out the window, but I couldn’t see a blasted thing. That was because it had already gotten dark and that darn maple tree was in the way, not to mention that torrential downpour still going on outside.

For the first time today my hopes soared as I followed my dad and Mister McGlauphlin down those three flights of stairs. You should have seen my dad’s eyes light up when he first saw that car. That thing was a beauty to behold, in our eyes anyway.

We were still gonna have the oldest car on the block, but for the first time in our lives we were gonna have one that wouldn’t embarrass the dickens out of us. That is, of course, if my dad could afford it. And Mister McGlauphlin was right. That thing purred like a kitten.

“So how much you asking?” My dad asked right off the bat.

“I thought we had an agreement. Mister McGlauphlin said you’d take it off my hands if I gave you the money to get a back seat and fix the mirror,” he said handing my dad a twenty-dollar bill.

“I don’t need that,” my dad said handing it back. “I’ve got a back seat and a mirror for it already.”

To this day I think my dad had to fight back a tear or two when the man put his hand on my dad’s shoulder and said, “Keep it. Take the kids out for an ice cream in their new car. I’m just glad to find a happy home for it. She’s a pretty good car. She served me well.”

It’s funny how I never noticed that the rain had stopped before this. Even the stars were out. When Stanley stepped out onto his front porch next door I couldn’t help but to yell out, “How do you like our new car?” I just had to brag. I was so happy.

The man who gave my dad the car turned to Mister McGlauphlin and said, “How'd I do?”

“You did great,” Mister McGlauphlin waved back.

“Give me a call if she gives you any trouble,” he told to my dad. “I doubt very much that she will.”

I couldn’t wait to run upstairs to tell everybody about our new car. I should have known they’d all be poking their heads out the front window by now anyway. It was at least an hour or more before my dad came upstairs. He was down there fixing the mirror and switching the back seat over. We all gathered on the couch waiting for him. My mother even got Billy up in his wheel chair for this one.

The whole atmosphere in my house had magically changed. Julie and Carl didn’t seem so sick anymore. Instead of moaning over the pain in his legs, Billy was smiling and laughing along with the rest of us. What really sticks out in my head about this moment is what my dad said when he finally did come upstairs.

My mother asked, “So how’s the new car?”

“That car is a dream come true,” he answered. “But it’s not so much the car that has taken me by storm as it is the man who gave it to me. There are people in this world who thrive on helping their fellow man. And it never seems to fail that just when you’re about to lose faith in the world, one of them comes along and spreads a little charity your way and makes life worth living all over again.” And yes, there was a tear in his eye when he said it.

From the title he signed over to my dad we found out that the man lived on Hancock Street. That’s all I can remember about that guy now. Yes, I do remember what he looked like. He looked more of the academic type than he did the blue-collar laborer. Not the kind I had envisioned to be such a humanitarian. That just goes to show ya how you can’t judge a book by its cover.

It didn't seem like very long after that incident that my brother Billy started getting stronger. He had to wear braces on his legs at first, but after a while he could walk without those as well. We never thought we'd ever see the day.

I know a lot of people are gonna snicker when I say this, but Everett had a lot of people with big hearts. Let’s face it. Everett always had a mixture of just about every kind of people imaginable. Even still, I’ve known some really quality people in my day growing up in Everett.

So why does all this make me think about how I remind myself of my dad? Well, remember when I talked about how my dad kept our old jalopy together with old coffee cans and wire coat hangers? I’ve been kind of doing the same thing with my computer. You’d be flabbergasted if you ever saw my computer.

There’s a big hole in the chassis where the on/off button used to be. That broke a long time ago so I rewired it with another momentary switch I had rolling around in my toolbox. When my space bar broke I yanked the extra "del" key off the key pad and stuck it where the space bar used to be. When the CD drive burned out I replaced it with a used one from another old broken computer I had lying around that wouldn’t boot up anymore.

My computer is so old that it runs on the old Windows Millenium operating system. That’s like banging on a clay tablet with a stone hammer in comparison to Windows XP and Vista. It also sported only 64 MB of RAM. You can just imagine how slow it crawled when working with 3D graphics.

If it wasn’t for Firefox I’d be surfing the web with Internet Explorer 5.0. To make matters worse, this old jalopy only boots up when it wants to. I usually have to slide the side panel off and jiggle all the doohickeys on the motherboard to wake it up. I know I should have bought a new one a long time ago, but I had grown so accustomed to her face. Besides, it usually does boot up after I kick it and slap it around a little bit. So why throw good money after bad – right?

Now you haven’t heard from me in a while, I know. I told you it’d be a while, I just never thought I’d be gone for so long. I’ve had a lot of loose ends to clean up so I’ve been really busy. Many of my current projects involve new things I’m compiling for our “We’re from Everett” experience.

So this is where the “When it rains it pours” theme fits into the over all scheme of things. You saw how despondent my whole family got when everybody came down sick and my father’s car died. We all go through episodes like that, and when we do it feels like the whole world is caving in on top of us – right?

Well, that’s how these past couple of weeks have been for me. Let me see. Where do I start? Oh I know, I lost a good friend because I responded to a forwarded political email. It breaks my heart to lose a friend. I tried to apologize to win that friend back even though I wasn’t the one who started the whole thing in the first place. It didn’t work. That’s politics for ya.

So wait until you hear this one. A relative of mine tried to post a derogatory comment on one of my posts because they misinterpreted something I said. So I wrote to that relative to politely and respectfully point out how they had misinterpreted what I had written. You would naturally assume they would respond in kind. Wouldn’t you? I haven’t heard a word.

Let me be honest and say that I have been called on the carpet many times because of things that I’ve written. It’s easy to go on the offensive because I’m a sitting duck. Hey, I wrote it and it’s out there so you can easily throw it back in my face.

And I’ll be honest with ya. There are times when I really deserved it. There are things that I’m sorry to have said because when I go back and read them again they sound so narrow minded. So tell me. Am I the only kid from Everett who has ever stuck his own foot in his mouth? Tell me if I am.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. This is a two-way street here. There are comment buttons and email links so you can have your say. The only reason I monitor comments is because not a day goes by that I don’t get an automated comment filled with links to offensive material. What I will not post are derogatory comments about other people or swear words. This is a family oriented project. Let’s keep it that way.

Okay, so besides the fact that I lost two friends, when I tried to update my “Growing Up Everett” web site with some really interesting new material, I got a message from AOL. It said, “We are sorry for any inconvenience, but your web space will permanently terminate on October 31st.”

What that means is that our “Growing up Everett” web site with all of its nostalgic photographs of Everett, and media sound files, and downloadable videos, will disappear from view in just two weeks. It also means that our “Everett High School Graduating Class of 1971” web site will disappear also. You can only imagine how much work went into compiling the content, hand coding the necessary scripts, and publishing those web sites.

So now I’m scurrying all over the place trying to find a reliable web host. My free ride on AOL’s web space is over. It was good while it lasted but as they say, “All things must pass.”

Just don’t worry, okay? I’ll sort this out. All it really means is that I’m gonna have to do all that work all over again. I’ll tell you what, though. You just keep your eyes glued to this page. This page ain’t going nowhere (double negatives, I know, but I liked the way it sounds).

This is our gools. From here we link out everywhere else. When our other sites are back up and running again you’ll be the first to know about it right here.

Because of all that, I no longer have any use for AOL whatsoever. My AOL email address will remain the same. I don’t use AOL’s software to access my email anyway. I use Mozilla Thunderbird as my email client. That’s why you don’t see AOL’s cheesy ads at the bottom of my emails.

I’ve set up my email filters to discard any and all emails containing the word “forwarded.” You can keep sending them if you want to. They just won’t make it into my inbox anymore. I just don’t want to lose any more friends over something so trivial as a political point of view. That’s all I’m saying.

So it’s like I said, “When it rains it pours.” I was smack dab in the middle of building a 3D-model replica of both the Park Theatre and of the Immaculate Conception Parish Hall next door when all of a sudden my computer went “Blink!” That’s all it did. I got no warning, no blue screen of death, or anything.

Naturally, I pulled it all apart, unplugged every wire from the motherboard, and alcohol cleaned every nook and cranny in her chassis. When I put her back together again and pushed the button I got nothing. That old jalopy was dead as a doornail, never to run again. And you can only imagine how much work I never backed up.

After walking around in circles flapping my arms and lamenting over what to do next for almost an hour, my better half looked up at me and said, “Why don’t you just go out and buy a new computer?” Now why didn’t I think of that? Thank God I married an Everett girl.

So here I sit typing my brains out on my brand new computer. And all I’ve got to say about the overall experience is “WOW!” This baby is so lightning fast that I keep sticking my left foot out looking for the clutch. I’m just afraid that if I hit a dead link on a web site now that I’ll go flying over the top and out through the window. I better run down to the local Auto Shop tomorrow and get a seat belt or something before I have an accident.

It used to take me around eight or nine minutes to burn a CD. I don’t even have time to blink when I burn one now. I’m multi tasking back and forth between programs so fast that the room around me looks like a blur. They should make you get a license to drive one of these things. This is dangerous.

I just want you to know that it’s going to take some time to set up our “Growing Up Everett” and “Class of 1971” web sites all over again. It’s gonna take a lot more than just pulling the rug out from under us to ever stop the “We’re from Everett” experience from growing and expanding beyond your wildest dreams.

We’re here to stay. Get used to it. Take a look at the illustration below and you’ll see how fast we get back up and running after a major set back. That’s us in a nutshell. We’re determined. We’re in the zone. And – “We’re from Everett!”