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Reverend Higgins was his usual dry self as he delivered a solemn message to the Pilgrim Church congregation. I always found him a bit dull, but he had good intentions. After all, he was the parson.

I visited ‘the old neighborhood’ recently, and, surprisingly, it began with a Sunday morning service. My sister joined me, unexpectedly. Our father, who never attended service, encouraged us to attend church, made us go, actually.

We usually walked home together after service and today was no different. Like an earlier time, we were expecting mother had a traditional roast leg of lamb ready for Sunday dinner. Ohhh, the skin, always crunchy and tasty, but not so healthy, was a favorite part.

Lucky day, the aroma of cooked lamb guided us past the Boling sisters’ house and down the long blacktop driveway to the screened back door of our ‘three decker’ house. Our big yellow house stood out from others because dad maintained it well, scraping and painting wherever necessary, every summer. Three families lived here, the ‘landlord’ on one floor and renters on two and three. Dad was the ‘landlord’, the first floor was ours.

‘Three deckers’ were typical of New England and Hollywood Street was lined with them, like old ships cleated to the dock. Front porches and big backyards, long driveways and spinning clothes lines attached to the enclosed back porch, these houses were working class domiciles in every sense of the word.

A small market store anchored the our street to the corner. Fresh cold cuts and ground beef, ground on demand, were staples there. The red cooler, filled with ice cold water, always had a variety of tonics* bobbing for the taking. A quarter more than covered the cost. The proprietor was busy, so I’ll catch him next time…

While old neighbors were stirring about, it seemed odd that no one acknowledged me with anything more than eye contact. The Sullivans, a good Catholic family of six kids, a mother and grandmother, were coming home from church. The dad, would come later, from a bar, drunk as usual. Sad to see.

Next door, old man Gibson is going about his property, head down, probably still looking for evidence of last night’s disturbance when some kids threw firecrackers and it sounded like gunshots. A long string of crackers would do that.

There’s my father tending his small tomato garden alongside the neighbor’s fence. It’s Sunday evening, now, and he’s waiting for mother. They’re going bowling, something they enjoy together in their retiring years. I’d love to talk but don’t want to make them late. Next time, maybe…

I saw a lot more today than I could recall, I’m certain. They say we don’t remember all of our dreams. I realized that when I snapped awake in my bed this morning, hundreds of miles and many years removed from Hollywood Street and Worcester, Massachusetts.

It was an enjoyable ‘visit’ home, albeit short, but more nights and chances to dream await me. I’m excited about it. Maybe I’ll visit Beaver Brook Park where I saw the circus, played ball and went to summer day camp. I’ll do that the next time, maybe…

You know, I should call my sister…

Steve (August 2019)

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*a common New England word for soda, pop, etc.

Mosquitoes! We talked about mosquitoes. Sober and provocative conversation has never been a priority at ‘Bar Night’. We’re just content to gather, wish each other well, have a cold beer, and talk about whatever! When we leave, we’re relaxed, a little smarter, happy and ready to sleep.

A warm July summer evening found us around a wobbly wooden table, by the screen door at Caverly’s Irish Pub. This was our 25th gathering and what began for two of us as a night to ‘howl at the moon’, two years ago, has become a relaxing evening of beer, brotherhood and BS for six of us, although only four tonight, a ‘quorum’.  We reached high to the center and touched our glasses in a toast, then began.

Sometimes, it’s a slow beginning. But we up the tempo a bit, find a topic, hash it around, then move on.

Books, underground cities, poetry, UFOs and the paranormal, Asian worms, ants, first jobs, wives (how we met them), and more, Aristotle, Fibonacci and recalling our favorite teacher. We’ve touched it all, but no politics. You might say that we’re an ‘eclectic’ group, but that would be presumptuous.

I’ve heard the same tale more than once with the same funny lines and same embellishment, nevertheless, we listen and drink. We’re Seniors, when telling and retelling is a right of passage.

As for Caverly’s, it’s become our favorite watering hole. Relatively quiet, if there’s such a thing for a bar, I like the intimacy. It’s small with old hardwood floors, old furniture and even old dogs. A perfect setting for old guys. I hope you visit it and are impressed with its wide assortment of beers and excellent prices.

I had hoped to plan something more exciting than just picking up the guys, driving to the pub, ordering a round, talking and going home. However, we enjoy getting picked up, driving together, ordering a beer, talking and driving home. So, we kept the routine. Order and familiarity are comforting to Seniors.

As for the mosquitoes, well, it’s been a warm and buggy summer, lots of pesty insects and nasty bites. One of us* suggested a fan to repel them, after all, and here’s tonight’s takeaway, a mosquito’s top speed is ‘1 1/2 mph’.

Not too many can get excited about tonight’s adventure or this story, but I know a few who will…might.  Until next time, Happy 25th to my ‘Bar Night’ friends.

Steve (July 2019)

*reads The NY Times

The more time I put between my youth and today, the more challenging it becomes to remember that youth and its many halcyon moments. But then something happens to jog my memory, filling it with vivid pictures from that time. People, places and events will flash through my mind with clarity and detail.

Summertime begets a beehive of activities in neighborhoods around town. The better weather invites folks outside to work on their grounds and homes, to beautify and repair. Recently, I saw a hired painter wearing the stock and trade white bib overalls of his profession, and I couldn’t help but recall my father, a painter himself, and how important his overalls were to him.

A businessperson wears a suit, a doctor dons scrubs, a teacher a tie, well, not as much nowadays. My father, a painter, wore bib overalls. He had several pair, and wore one proudly, every working day of his career, representing the company that bore his father’s name.

I remember him beginning the week on Monday mornings, on the job site in a clean, creased pair of the white bib overalls. Overalls are not worn as a fashion statement, mind you, they are utilitarian, functional, worn for a purpose, and comfortable. However, when my father put them on over a white, long sleeved button-down shirt, he presented a handsome, confident and professional figure.

Overalls, clean and creased? How? It was a process, a production. And it was a team effort, husband and wife. In the early days, she scrubbed them by hand over a scrub board, my sister recalls. Later, a washer with wringer and then a fully automatic washer. The smell of lye, the ‘secret’ ingredient added to the wash for whiter than white overalls, permeated the house on ‘overall wash days’.

Washing was followed by drying on an outside clothesline, even in winter. The crease was made by a taut wire frame inserted in each leg. When they dried, those overalls were almost too clean and ‘pressed’ to wear painting. but he wore them on every job.

A proper uniform, or suit, tells the world who you are and what you do. About a painter wearing anything less, he would scoff, sarcastically,

“Look at that guy! You want him painting your house?”

‘That guy’ would not work for my dad.

A former sales executive once mused to me,

“If you want to wear a sport coat, go work for someone else!” (Bob R)

Fortunately. I was wearing a suit that day. But the message is the same one my father would send by his own code: dress for success! And he did.

Do you?

Steve (July 2019)

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My sister and I enjoyed recalling the scenes around our household during our youth. ‘Overall’ wash day brought back wonderful memories of our parents on such an ‘important’ event. I hope you enjoy reading it and it tickles your own memory of good family affairs.

Did you know that two of the US ‘Founding Fathers’, John Adams, second President of US, and Thomas Jefferson, 3rd US President, political arch enemies for much of their lives, died on the same day, July 4th, 1826, the 50th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence (7/4/1776).

Today the US celebrates its 243rd year of Independence and, as a proud American, I’m happy to bring you this bit of historical trivia.

Steve

July 2019

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To all proud Americans

Whatever possessed me to buy a pair of ‘skinny pants’? Make that two pair, last summer.

Skinny pants’ are the popular pants that fit evenly at the waist, slightly snug at the hips, and taper down the legs where the hem wraps narrowly around your ankle area. Not the skin tight, stretchy style, mind you, but still ‘skinny’. They can be seen on a variety of young men, everywhere ….. young, slim men.

They’re not seen on ‘old men’, anywhere ….. old and ‘filled out’ men. Define ‘old men’ as you please, but when you reach a stage in life when your hair is gone, your ears are long, your skin is saggy and your waist is baggy, you’re fittingly described as old, or older, and too ‘mature’ for skinny pants’.

Me, I exercise and eat a healthy diet. My weight is well managed. However, Mother Nature has won the body battle, albeit in a slow and deceiving, maybe even cruel, way. One day, you wake up and you’ve changed: the little roll around your waist is permanently problematic, it takes longer to get up and go, and you ache, even if you’ve done nothing, you ache.

Yet, here I was, browsing through the pant rack. And I saw them, khaki ‘skinny pants’ and I was feeling young. So, naturally, I felt even younger when the dressing room clerk complimented my selection and the cashier doubled down on it. Have you ever heard a sales clerk tell you otherwise?

I’m an easy mark for sales people, especially those who compliment me. I swiped the credit card, and walked out with a hop in my step.

Fast forward to today, a year later, a new summer. My life long critic (in a good way) finally found it in herself to bring me back to reality, “You know, those pants really aren’t meant for you”. As if I didn’t know. I knew a year ago, when I bought them. But I was feeling young.

Now, back to the drawing board for this summer’s fashion buys. Probably will be the old standby, blue jeans. One thing for certain, it won’t be the pants that hang halfway down your backside, unless of course, the sales clerk compliments me.

Incidentally, I haven’t discarded my ‘skinny pants’, yet. I’ve been doing a lot of yard work and my waist line seems to have shrunk ever so slightly, enough to make me look respectable. I’m thinking about keeping them, at least through the gardening season.

Steve

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June 2019

To all men young at heart, slim or not!

There she sits, maybe she stands, I don’t know, I don’t see her. But she’s there, I’m aware of her, ‘the angel on my shoulder’. She’s not heavy, not a burden, just a presence when needed.

She’s my big sister. She’s older, but it wouldn’t be prudent to say it that way, now would it? ‘Big’ is proper.

You wouldn’t think I’d want her there after all the times she harassed me as a kid, growing up in the same household, antagonizing me in the way big sisters do.

But times change. This is the sister you get after the growing up is behind you, maybe way behind, the one who eventually assumes the role and becomes your ‘angel’, helping you tack through the headwinds of Life, and doing it so naturally.

It’s a good role for her and it’s made a difference for me. Where I could have behaved recklessly, my ‘angel’ showed me a better way, a cautious, not impetuous, way. And I admit, begrudgingly, I’m better for it. Where do they get the grace to do that?

The same sister who poked and prodded me into arguments years ago is now a person I can listen to for advice. How does that happen?

Miles separate us, but she’s there, sitting on my shoulder, trying her darnedest to help me make good décisions. Not by telling me what to do, but rather by suggesting how she would do it. I’m thankful for her. Of course, I would never tell her that. Can’t let a big sister think she’s doing right.

But, something tells me, she knows. She always knew.

Happy Birthday, Big Sister!

Steve

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June 2019

For my wonderful ‘big’ (and older) sister, June, and ‘big’ sisters everywhere, ‘angels’ on their brothers’ shoulders.

The ‘chorus’ joined in, the ‘maestros’ led, the ‘audience’ smiled and a good time was had by all. We’re the ‘pretenders’, middle and high school students and a crossing guard, letting our joyful, if off key voices be heard while waiting to make our way across four lanes of busy blacktop on the way to begin the last school day of the week.

“Oh, what a beautiful morning,

Oh, what a beautiful day.

I’ve got a beautiful feeling,

Everything’s going my way!”

Whatever the reason, a Friday, a beautiful daybreak for a change, or the last few weeks of school, it was a morning to sing, and we did. Well, I did. A few kids knew the words from the Broadway show, ‘Oklahoma’, and accompanied me. The more we sang, the louder we sang.

This magnificent morning, with its cloudless blue sky, was a time to break out in big smiles and we did that, too, even the ‘sophisticated’ Seniors joined. Some early rising real ‘seniors’ from the neighborhood, who were beginning their daily ‘10,000 steps’, showed some spirit by singing along as they crossed and mingled with students.

What a glorious way to end the school year. And quite a year it’s been at the ‘curbside classroom’. From quizzes to quotes, word games and jokes, anagrams and acronyms, new words and old history, inventions and inventors, we learned a lot of ‘stuff’ from each other. I hope some of it sticks.

But what I really hope is that our mornings, which began with ‘have a great day’, helped these youngsters to really have a great day.

I’ve enjoyed their company and camaraderie on sunny days, on cold snowy and rainy days. I wish the best of success and happiness to those who are graduating and look forward to seeing returning and new students next September.

I’ll be there, at the ‘curbside classroom’ with more facts, new challenges, brain teasers and general conversation. Look for the guy in bright yellow.

Steve (June ’19)

To all the students of the ‘curbside classroom’. Continued successes!