Happy Mother's Day

Here in the middle of nowhere it has rained non-stop for days on end. Although I do fancy the melancholy creative mood that rainy days invoke, it has gone on for so long now that I’ve sunk into somewhat of a deep despondency. Please forgive me, but I’ve got the blues.

On our first Mother’s Day together back in 2006 I sent out personalizes Mother’s Day greetings to each and every one of the Everett girls on my email list. Things were so much simpler then. I only had about three-dozen email contacts at that time.

Since then my database has grown into the thousands. I couldn’t possibly undertake such a task now. Oh, I know, I could send out a mass email message with hundreds of cc:’s attached, but that would seem so cold on something so personal as a Mother’s Day greeting. Don’t ya think?

I’m finding an unexpected drawback to the growing popularity of my "We’re from Everett" blog. It feels like the larger my audience gets, the less up-close and personal it becomes. What once felt like an intimate conversation now feels more like addressing a huge crowd.

It’s funny that I should say that because when I sit down to write the images of those of you whom I do know personally flash before my very eyes. If I’ve never actually met you, but have made your acquaintance since starting this project, then something you’ve told me about yourself comes forward as I write.

So in a sense, writing these posts feels like writing a letter to you personally. I’m conversing with you just as if you were sitting across from me having a cup of coffee. And I don't see myself as sitting across the table from a crowd of people. For fleeting moments, and at different intervals, it’s just me and you.

That’s where my inspiration comes from. It comes from you personally. You actually inspire these writings. You are that special.

Just to give you a small example of what I’m talking about, at this very moment I’m picturing Martha standing out on her front porch shouting across the street at me saying, "You best watch your mouth, Paul Huffman, or I’ll come over there and pull your pants down and smack your ass so hard you won’t know what hit you." I’m laughing to myself right now because I know that she’d actually do it, too.

Now I’m seeing that tree house in Hilda’s back yard on High Street. The images of her whole family flash by, including Linda, and Frankie, and Gordon, and even her mother and father. Oh yeah, and her grandmother from Newfoundland as well.

I’ve known Hilda since kindergarten. She was in my homeroom all through Everett High. That’s mainly because both our last names begin with "H." And if you know Hilda then you cannot even picture her without remembering her very best friend, Kathy. I sat behind Kathy in homeroom. Was there ever a day that you and I didn’t gab about something, Kathy?

For as long as I’ve known Kathy, she dated John. They seemed inseparable. So here it is thirty some odd years later and they’re still together. So are Gloria and Ronnie, and Janet and Charlie, and Stevie and Denise, and God only knows who else.

Many kids who started out on this journey together from Everett High have eventually gone their separate ways. People sometimes grow apart. Life is a maze filled with many unexpected twists and turns. Each of our individual journeys is somewhat different.

And then there are those amongst us who have lost their soul mate because God called one of them home. I feel uncomfortable saying that they lost them because that only pertains to the physical aspect actually. What they had between them is never lost. If their faith, and their love, is strong enough they can still share quality moments together. And many of them do.

It all depends on what you believe. If you limit your beliefs, you’ll limit your ability to tap into your extra sensory metaphysical abilities. And you do have them. Trust me on that. We’ll delve more deeply into that some other time.

So now Gracie comes sharply into focus. While I was downstairs at the First Methodist Church on Norwood Street with Joey attacking the Boston Crème pie they baked for the Demolay, she was upstairs singing, "How Great Thou Art." Gracie and her brother used to ride their bikes all the way over to the Stoneham pool.

And now Camille, who grew up on Elmwood Street, comes to mind. She hung out at Sargent's Drug at the corner of Oakes and Main. She also worked at Art's Cleaners on Main Street just after KK Terrace. I have yet to meet Camille, personally, but I have this sneaking hunch that day will come.

I could sit here and rattle off hundreds of names and they would all mean something personal to me. Joanne, Stephanie, Kathy, Donna, Julie, Linda, Adele, Lynne, Terry, Debbie, Roseanne, Phylis, Denise, Lillian, Paula, Diane, Magda, Patty, Carol, Sandy, Christine, Alice, Gilda, Janet, Dorothy, Kelly, Venie, Margarette, and Terry all mean something to me. I either know them personally, or they’ve told me something special about their childhood growing up in Everett.

I’ve only begun to scratch the surface. It would take pages to list just the first names alone without even saying any more about them. So please forgive me if I’ve failed to list your name. Rest assure that something about you has flashed across my mind’s eye. And I do mean something up close and personal.

Have you noticed anything yet? Every name mentioned belongs to a girl. Most of them have grown up to become either somebody’s mother, or somebody’s stepmother. Those who have not have grown up to become somebody’s aunt, somebody’s sister, somebody’s babysitter, somebody's friend, or even somebody’s romantic interest for that matter.

Either way, each and every one of them has made a monumental impact on the world we live in. They can’t help it. That’s an integral part of just being a girl.

On Mother’s Day we focus on only one aspect of the influential role a girl plays in shaping the world around us. And although the sanctity of motherhood is one to be revered with all due respect, I’ve often felt that Mother’s Day should expand to encompass even those girls who never became mothers. Their influence on the world certainly deserves honorable recognition as well.

Think about it from a man’s perspective. Just for starters, if it weren’t for our mothers we wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for our sisters we’d never know how to act properly in mixed company. It was my sister who taught me that farting out loud and hawking looeys were completely inappropriate in a more sophisticated social setting.

My sister taught me how to spell my very first word. That wasn’t very long after I first hopped up over the crib rails. Heck, she had me spelling words before I could wipe my own bum. And the very first word she taught me to spell was "h-o-t."

By the time I was in the third grade I knew how to dance every dance going on in the teenage world at that time. She’d snap on the kitchen radio and teach me the Mash Potato, the Shout, the Monkey, the Watusee, and the Peppermint Twist, just to name a few. She even taught me how to properly ask a girl to dance so not to come across sounding like a clumsy goofus, or a self-centered conceited jerk.

My big sister looked out for me since the very first day they brought me home from the Whidden hospital wrapped in a blanket. Girls were a total mystery to me. Lucky for me, I had a big sister to help me sort it all out.

When I was just a little kid growing up on Arlington Street I was more occupied with trying to kick a football up over the telephone wires, or knocking a pigeon off the clothesline with a rock than I was with anything else. That was until my best friend, Joey’s cousin from California came to visit. Her name was Donna.

This happened during the summer between kindergarten and the first grade. That was fifty-one years ago when I was only six years old. We were standing around in my backyard on the day that she first arrived. I remember not being able to take my eyes off of her. There was just something about her that totally captivated me.

So all of a sudden she pipes up and says, "Let’s play kiss tag. If we tag you then you’ve got to let us kiss you. That’s how it’s played." She then pointed right at me and said, "I wanna kiss him." My heart skipped a beat right then and there.

For some funny reason I couldn’t run very fast that day. She caught me at least a dozen times. I remember hoping that day would never end. Needless to say that felt like one of the shortest days of my life. Go figure - right?

Donna and I became somewhat of an item that summer. She’d lean out the kitchen window at the back of Henry Gray’s apartment building on Ferry Street and throw kisses to me as I stood out on my back porch. And of course I threw them back. All the grownups got a big kick out of the two of us carrying on like that.

To this very day I still feel the heartache I suffered when she had to go back to California. It felt like my whole world had come to an end. What a bitter pill that was for a six-year-old kid to swallow. I never again laid eyes on that girl.

I was on kind of a roll that year. A month or so later in Miss Nigro’s first grade class at the Horace Mann there was a girl who sat at the far side of the room who blew kisses to me every time I looked at her. And yes, I’d blow one back. God only knows how all that came about, but it soon spilled out onto the playground at recess.

My big sister caught me in the act at recess one day and couldn’t wait to run home to tell everybody. "Hey, guess what?" She blurted out as soon as she got in the door.

"What?"

"I saw Paul blowing kisses back and forth to a girl at the playground."

"I did not, you liar." I denied the accusation vehemently.

And then there was Ann Marie who saved me from total humiliation in Miss Martinelli’s class in the third grade. We’re talking 1961. How do I remember that? Because that was the year that Miss Martinelli explained to us that 1961 read the same way upside down as it did right side up. And that’s the only reason I remember that.

What happened is that we were supposed to spell out the names of the numbers from one to ten with those little yellow letters on top of our desks before class. Those who completed the task in the allotted time frame got a gold star next to their name on the blackboard.

My name was always at the very bottom of the list. Even the kid whose name was just above mine had a dozen more stars than I did. I was a lost cause altogether. I just couldn’t get the hang of this thing.

I’ll never forget the day that Miss Martinelli grabbed a hold of my ear and yanked me up to the blackboard. She was furious over having caught me daydreaming out the window instead of getting my work done like I was supposed to.

"Do you know what’s going on here?" She shouted.

To be honest, I had no idea.

"Look how many stars everybody else has next to their name. Do you know what your problem is? Well, do you?"

"No, Miss Martinelli." And I didn’t either.

"You are a lazy daydreamer. Now go stand in the corner."

There I stood with my face to the wall for most of that day. I remember it well. It was one of those dark and gloomy rainy days. All of a sudden there was a loud burst of thunder that shook the whole classroom. I looked back at Miss Martinelli and said, "That wasn’t me." The whole class erupted in laughter. I could have sworn that Miss Martinelli was less than an inch away from killing me that day.

What happened was that on my way home after school that day in the pouring rain I heard someone call out my name as I crossed Foster Street. It was Ann Marie. She ran right up to me and said, "Hold out your hands." She then dropped a handful of little yellow letters into my hands.

"Those are the only letters you’ll ever need to complete the morning assignment. Keep them separated from all of your other letters and you’ll be able to complete the morning assignment in no time flat. Okay?" That’s exactly what she said.

"Yeah, okay."

She then smiled ever so sweetly before she turned and walked away. The stars began to pile up next to my name on the blackboard after that. Even Miss Martinelli complimented on the big change that had come over me. Little did she know that it was the sympathetic act of an Everett girl that set me straight.

And it was also on Foster Street a few years later when the casual glance from another very pretty Everett girl would catch my eye and send me off on a romantic whirlwind that would last for the rest of my life.

I could go on almost indefinitely talking about Everett girls who made a profound impact on me. Some were girlfriends; some were just friends, and some were passing acquaintances that said or did something that changed my whole outlook on life.

That’s why I honestly believe that if you dig a little deeper you’ll discover how all of those little idiosyncrasies we commonly associate with women that men so often complain about actually do us a lot of good. And I know the guys are gonna cringe as soon as I say that, but in their hearts they know I’m right.

Not a man amongst us stands with any sense of pride or confidence without first earning the approval of a girl somewhere along the way. And earn it we must because they don’t just hand it out at will either. They make us work hard for it.

They nag us into conformity. They interrogate us into honesty. And they hound us into cleanliness. Step out of line and they’ll pull the rug out from under you so fast it will make your head swim. You mark my words.

If it weren’t for those Everett girls us guys would amount to little more than knuckle dragging Neanderthals. We’d eat over the sink without ever using a plate. We’d leave our dirty laundry scattered all over the floor. We’d talk with our mouths full. And we’d run down the stairs with scissors. We’re that clueless without them.

And when I say "Everett girl" I do not mean that you had to be born and raised in Everett to be one. You can marry into this clique. Not only that, but if you truly want to be counted amongst us then all you need to do is stretch out your hand in friendship and you’ll be considered a native by the rest of us. Our hearts are open and our welcome spreads wide. When you’re here you’re family.

So on this special day let us pay homage to all of those girls who grew up to become somebody’s mother. For without them none of us would even be here. Let us also pay homage to every girl who became somebody’s stepmother, somebody’s sister, somebody’s baby sitter, somebody’s aunt, somebody’s friend, and somebody’s acquaintance.

Because girls are born with a natural instinct to heal and nurture, the human race survives. It is not wars, or treaties, that sustain the continuity to the natural rhythm of life. It comes from the hearts of women, and only from the gifts that they bring to the table does our very existence hang in the delicate balance for all time. And in your heart you know I’m right.

Happy Mother’s Day. And Happy Girl’s Day. There are no words to honestly express the gratitude we feel in our hearts for all that you mean to us. So please accept our humble thanks. You deserve so much more.

Because we are mere mortal men, we haven’t the faintest idea as to how to express ourselves any better than that. We know you’ve taught us better, but you know us, we hardly ever listen.

I’ll tell you one thing, though. We do appreciate you. We do respect you. And we do love you. Honestly, we do. And you know we’re telling you the truth because – “We’re from Everett!”