Gone Fishin

Okay, so I’m gonna keep my promise to upload a barrage of posts from our original archives that got lost when we moved over to our own domain. I started sifting through my old posts wondering where to begin, and after hemming and hawing over a dozen or so articles, I thought I’d start on a more sentimental note.

This one, originally posted on April 12, 2006, seemed a more appropriate one to get the ball rolling. I hope you agree.

My first year at the Parlin Junior High School was such a disaster that I wound up repeating the Eighth grade altogether. That was the year I had Miss McGrath for homeroom. It was not the fault of the Everett public school system, nor was it my juvenile rebelliousness, for that matter. For you see, there was something troubling me that I really didn't care to share with anyone. It's not that I was trying to hide anything, as it was that I was trying not to think about it.

As you can probably tell, I was always an extremely outgoing person - sometimes to the point of being obnoxious - I'm sure. And because I was always one of the class clowns, no one suspected that behind that mask, the waters ran deep. What I never wanted anyone to know was how sensitive I really was. Funny how so many people knew I was a poet, and an artist, and yet, did not realize I was so sensitive. How could you possibly be that creative without a deep sense of compassion - right?

Although we may think so sometimes, we are not the center of everyone's universe. At that young age, we are accustomed to the attentions of our parents, and teachers, our aunts and uncles, and an occasional girlfriend from time to time, but other than that, we only focus on ourselves. Few people outside our little circle are the least bit interested in what's going on in our lives.

There are special people who do care about us. And it always seems to be the people we least suspect. I found that out in Mr. Athenasia's woodworking class. His shop class was on the basement floor of the Parlin right around the corner from Mr. Kane's Printing shop. On the other side of Mr. Athenasia's classroom was Mr. Chocorelli’s shop class. The two of them used to chase me around the classroom and punch me out whenever they caught me. Don't get the wrong idea. It was all in good fun.

What I'm going to tell you happened three or four weeks before the Christmas vacation. We're talking 1966 here. On this one particular day, Mr. Athenasia asked if I would come to see him after school because there was something he wanted to talk to me about. When I asked if I was in any kind of trouble, he said, "No, not at all, I was hoping we could talk as friends. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

I couldn't imagine what it was he wanted to see me about. It gnawed at the back of my mind that entire school day. I couldn't remember if I had done anything wrong or not. To say I was overly concerned is an understatement.

After school that day, I nervously stepped into Mr. Athenasia's classroom. He was preoccupied with paperwork, so I offered to come back at another time. "Oh no, this can wait," he said. "Grab a chair, let's talk." We sat at his desk and engaged in a small casual conversation, shared a few laughs, nothing serious really. Certainly nothing to worry about.

Then all of a sudden, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Tell me what's troubling you. You can talk to me. We're friends."

I'll almost burst into tears. I told him everything.

It all started a little more than a year ago. My big brother, Billy, came home from boot camp as fit as fiddle. They had even broke him of that nagging stuttering that dogged him his entire childhood. When my mother told me to call Billy home from supper I'd stand out on the front porch and shout, "Hey ba-ba-ba-Billy, come ha-ha-ha-home for sa-sa-sa-supper!" He'd then chase me up and down the hallway stairs to punch me out for embarrassing him like that in front of the whole neighborhood.

When he came home from boot camp, he brought along an army buddy from Texas who had nobody to go home to, so he spent his 30-day leave at our house. For the next thirty days they hooped and hollered all over Boston to celebrate having graduated from boot camp. They even took me along deep-sea fishing one day. We had a blast.

On the last day of his leave my mother kept reminding him to call as soon as he got his orders so she'll know where he's stationed. "I just hope they don't send you off to Viet Nam," she'd say. "President Johnson promised he'd never send our boys to fight in a war that didn't concern us."

We sat down to a big turkey dinner that evening mostly because my mother found out that it was Billy's army buddy’s favorite dish. We all tried our best to make him feel so at home. We all felt so sorry for him over not having a family of his own.

Billy waited until everyone finishing eating before saying, "I've got something to tell you, and it isn't pretty."

No words can describe the look that fell across my mother's face. She already knew what he was going to say. She sat there motionlessly waiting for him to say it. She didn't want to believe what he was about to say. She didn't even want to hear it, but she was just too afraid to move a muscle until he spoke.

"I've got my orders already," he said. "I'm going to Nam."

My mother held her face in her hands and cried her eyes out. Billy took her into his arms to comfort her. "Don't be afraid," he kept telling her. "I gotta do what I gotta do. I'll come back home in one piece. You'll see. I'm gonna be okay. You've got to trust me."

The very next morning, I rode in the front seat with my dad when he drove Billy and his friend to Logan Airport. My mother didn't have the strength to see him off to war. And as strong as men try to be at a time like this, it was still a tearful good-bye at the airport - trust me.

After slinging that duffel bag over his shoulder, he looked back at me and said, "No matter what happens, you be strong for Ma. Don't ever let her catch you crying. And don't be afraid. I'll be back, you banana head." We stood and watched him walk out onto the loading dock. We then raced over to the observatory to wave good-bye.

Neither my Dad, nor me, said a word on the way home. We were just too choked up to talk. You know what we were afraid of. We didn't dare say it.

During the Vietnam War, the soldiers couldn't call home like they can today. Once they went off to war, it was rare if you got one phone call during the entire year they were away. I wrote at least two letters to my brother every week. My heart danced every time I got one back. It was how I knew he was all right.

Another whole year had now passed and we haven't heard from him since before Thanksgiving. That's about four weeks worth of no letters, no phone call, nothing. I couldn't help but imagine the worst. We all did everything in our power to keep my mother's spirits up. She was a mess. So were we, but we refused to let it show.

The whole time he was away, I started a scrapbook of all the news items in the local papers about the Vietnam War so he could see how we saw the war when he got home. After telling Mr Athenasia all that, I broke down in tears.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have every right to worry, but remember this. There really is something to that old saying that no news is good news. If anything was wrong, your family would have been notified. Your brother may be on a secret mission and is unable to make contact with his family. You're forgetting that his tour of duty is almost over. He'll be coming home soon. Try focusing more on that instead of on the negative."

"So, how are you doing on the scrapbook?" he asked.

"I really don't have enough. We only get the Record American at our house," I said.

"Well, why don't you pop over to my place on Saturday. I've got tons of old Boston Globes. You're welcome to them. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here, okay?"

"Okay."

I did pop over to his house on Saturday. He lived right behind the Immaculate Conception on Clinton Street back then. He gave me enough newspapers to build a scrapbook the size of an encyclopedia. I often wondered if he ever knew how much he strengthened my faith in the human race that day. He certainly did that.

The Christmas school vacation finally arrived, and still no word from Billy. The only thing that gave us the strength to face life was that my sister now had a little toddler that we could all fuss over for Christmas. Having a little kid in your life helps you relive the childhood magic in Christmas all over again.

My nephew's name is Ritchie. He couldn't say "Paul," so he called me, "Ba." The name stuck forever with all my nieces and nephews. What was really cute about him is that he hated it whenever I went out at night with my friends. I used to bribe him so he wouldn't cry when I left the house.

I'd tell him, "Ba's going to get meemees for Dittie." That meant, "Paul was going to get candy for Ritchie." and instead of saying "good-bye" when I went out the door, we'd say, "Ditnah." That kid was just too cute for words.

It was now only three days before Christmas, and still no word from my brother. We dreadfully feared we were about to face the inevitable. On this one particular night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I was lying on the couch watching another rerun of "It's A Wonderful Life." Halfway into the movie, I noticed the front door knob begin to jiggle. No doubt about it, someone was trying to break into my house.

Leaping up, I grabbed the baseball bat I kept underneath the couch for emergencies - just in case. You never know when you're going to need a close-range fanatic stopper. That baseball bat was mine.

Walking quietly over to the door, I slowly unlatched the bolt. Then, I jerked the door open.

"Wow man, you got huge while I was away," Billy said.

I just stood there with my mouth hung wide open, staring at my brother, Billy, in total disbelief.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. Stupid question - no?

"I live here, you banana head."

He looked so small compared to the way I remembered him last.

"So, can I come in, or are you gonna whack me with that baseball bat?"

"Yeah dude, come in. I'll hit ya with the bat later. Let me go wake everybody up."

"Don't do that. Let everybody sleep. We got any coffee?"

"Yeah, I just brewed a pot."

We sat at the kitchen table and gabbed and laughed about old times. My life felt so complete. I never realized before how good it felt to have a big brother. We talked until we were blue in the face.

About an hour later, I heard my mother coming towards the kitchen.

"Paul, what in God's name is all that noise about?" she asked.

"Come into the kitchen and see."

"What in the hell have you got going on now?" She thought I had friends over in the middle of the night.

You should have seen the look on her face when she stepped into the kitchen. She could not believe her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands and she actually said, "Am I dreaming?"

Billy stood up and reached out for her. "Do I get a hug or what?"

She broke down in tears. At least this time they were happy tears.

I could now hear my Dad coming out towards the kitchen saying, "What's all the racket about?" The same thing happened to him when he stepped into the kitchen. Minutes later, my other brother, Carl, my sister, Julie, and even my little nephew were all out in the kitchen. We had a nice little family reunion going on at four o' clock in the morning.

We talked, and laughed, and cooked, and ate, until almost noon. Then we all went back to bed. We were never so happy in all our lives. The bond that runs so true through a family's veins showed its true colors that night.

Christmas had a very special meaning that year. For Christmas, Billy went out and bought this big electric robot for his little nephew that walked, the eyes lit up, and it beeped whenever it changed direction. It scared the hell out of little Richie.

Billy came home from the war a changed man. Over the years, he and my father grew to become the best of friends. They did everything together. Whenever Billy took his family away on vacation, he took my parents along with them.

He's done his fair share for our family - let me tell ya. He stood by my Dad and helped him through every phase of kicking his habit with the bottle. That man went through pure hell and back to beat that affliction. You gotta give him credit. He never fell back off the wagon once.

When Billy was sixteen years old, a full-grown man threatened my family. I don't know the whole situation, but this guy told my sister that he was going to beat up every boy in our family - starting with my father and working his way down the line to the baby - meaning me. I think it was the fact that he had mouthed off to a fourteen-year-old girl that really ruffled my brother's feathers.

A few days later, I was sitting out on the front steps and Billy was leaning up against the post smoking a cigarette. This guy came walking by. I honestly believe he was going to just pass by and ignore us, until Billy called out to him.

"Hey mister, you got something you wanna say to me?"

"I don't talk to punks." He said.

Billy stepped down onto the sidewalk and walked right up to the guy. The guy towered over him, and probably out weighed him by 60 pounds. He jabbed the guy in the chest with his pointer finger and said, "Well, you're gonna talk to me."

The guy turned to walk away, but Billy grabbed him by the collar.

"If you so much as ever walk down this street again, I swear, I'll hurt you mister. I'll hurt you bad."

Again, the guy turned to walk away, but Billy jerked him back around.

"If you ever so much as look at any of my brothers or sister again, they'll find you dead. I will not stop until you are dead. Do we understand each other?"

My brother was so angry he was shaking. I knew that guy saw the fire in Billy's eyes. I could tell by the expression on his face. Billy released his grip, and the guy just turned and walked away. I never saw that guy again.

Billy was always there for me when I needed him. He came all the way down to Rhode Island in the middle of the night to get me when the Staties impounded my Volkswagen because it didn't have a windshield. It got broken during a brawl outside a nightclub in Providence, and I wasn't even involved in the brawl. I just happened to have parked in the wrong spot at the wrong time.

He drove up to Reading in the middle of the night because while I was out on a date, I embarrassingly locked my keys in the car. And again he came through for me when he had to drive all the way up to Kittery, Maine, because I seized the engine in my other Volkswagen. And yes, he called me a banana head that night too.

What was most important to Billy was his family, his friends, and his motorcycle, and in that order, too. His personality was one in a million. He'd break your neck if you crossed him, but he'd give you the chance to make up for it first. He was slow to anger and quick to forgive.

You couldn't get more down to earth, than this guy was. There was nothing phony about him. He called it as he saw it. And he lived by the philosophy, "You gotta do what you gotta do."

Everybody still talks about his hamburgers. When he cooked a hamburger, he used up two pounds of ground beef for each one. They were about the size of a pizza. You needed two or more buns to hold onto just one of them. He'd hand you one of these monstrosities and ask if you wanted another one before you even bit into that one.

He had a bazillion friends. I found that out the last time we said good-bye. It happened In 1991 when he was only 46 years old. I hadn't seen Billy in a while. We all gathered as a family at my great aunt Grace's funeral in Wilmington. I couldn't get over how much weight Billy had lost since I'd seen him last. We even went so far as to joke back and forth about which one of us was going to die next.

That's when Billy said, "I'm gonna die next."

"What makes you so sure," I laughed.

"Because I'm dying," he answered. "I've lost all this weight because I can't swallow food any more."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"No," he said. "I don't need a doctor to tell me what I already know."

A few weeks later he finally went to see the doctor. He was right. He was dying.

The next three months would prove to be a heart wrenching family ordeal with Billy getting rushed back and forth to the hospital while he continued to dwindle away to almost nothing. On this one particular Sunday morning, I stopped by my mother and father's house to install a new trash compactor before going to visit Billy at the Mass General. And just as I started to demonstrate this new fangled contraption for them, my sister, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law came walking into the kitchen. They had just come home from visiting with Billy.

"So how's Billy doing today?" I asked.

"Billy's gone," my sister said.

Even to this day, the image of my mom and dad collapsing in each other's arms crying their hearts out still takes it's toll on me. It's times like these that make us wonder what this is really all about. I couldn't help but think, "Is this the reward you get for all the sweat and toil you exert over the years? Surely there must be more to it than that. There's just got to be."

I gotta tell you though, through that whole ordeal Billy remained strong and always put his best face forward. I never once saw him cry. He was the ultimate soldier.

My father lost his best friend when Billy died. A few years later, he joined him beyond the far horizon. You can see their little white military gravestone just to the left inside the front gate of the Glenwood cemetery. Together forever.

Their gravestone is there, but they are not. I know these two. They've gone fishin.

Such are the trials and tribulations we face as we meander down this long and winding road we call, life. We've known times that we've laughed so hard that we cried. And times when we've cried so hard that our hearts broke. One thing is certain. We make this journey together as lifetime members of a fraternity with a common thread that runs so true through our veins. Simply put, that common thread is that - "We're from Everett!"
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