Not that anyone noticed, but I haven’t written anything in a while. To ease your concerns, which I’m certain none of you have, I am neither ill nor deceased though people oft look at me and assume such. No, I’ve just been on a road trip East and consumed with other distractions. Bottom line … I remain alive and well, or at least as well as a fossil of my advanced years can expect to be.

Part of the aforementioned road trip involved visiting sites associated with my misspent youth and to enjoy, for one more time at least, the vibrant colors of a New England Fall. It was also an opportunity to visit a friend’s granddaughter who is starting at Bates College this year after growing up in England. Then there was the side trip to Quebec City, a lovely destination that somehow had escaped my attention all these years. But this message will focus on my return to Worcester … the place of my youth.

By the way, this also was an experiment to determine if I was yet up to long road trips. I generally enjoyed them in earlier times. Let’s face it, though. I’m no longer a spring chicken. Hell, as an octogenerian, I am looking at the summer of life in the rear view mirror. Still, I found the 3,500 mile trip quite delightful, recalling the joys of hitting the open road. Perhaps I have a few more left in me.

For one thing, the yellows, oranges, and reds laced through the green canvases of eastern forests in New York, the Berkshires, rural Maine, Quebec Province, and the Green Mountains of Vermont were magnificent. They brought back so many memories that reminded me why this time of year is so special. There really is nothing like a New England Fall. For another, visiting my ancestral home of Worcester resurfaced old memories and cemented the veracity of that old quip about not being able to go home again.

My home town is no longer a grimy and forgettable factory town, having transitioned into the modern world in important ways. Perhaps not being able to go home again is a good thing. Finally, I realized that sheparding my vehicle across the country was not as difficult as, say, bounding up a flight of stairs, an effort that likely would result in an immediate cardiac arrest these days. I haven’t lost all of life’s opportunities.

Anyway, in this blog, let me note a few observations about my sentimental journey back in time. First, a caveat. I covered some of what is below in my prior blogs titled The Education of Mr. Tom. No matter, at my age I’m permitted some repetition. At least I have some visuals to share this time around.

The first two pics (below) capture my early years. That’s me in front of my childhood home. We occupied the bottom flat in this 3-decker as they were called. My grandmother (my dad’s old Irish mother) lived in the top flat. I spent a lot of time with her. She seemed to like me while I was never sure of my parent’s feelings, at least during the early years. It always struck me that I was more of an inconvenience to them, interfering with their social lifestyle.

I cannot explain why they haven’t erected some kind of memorial to recognize their most famous past resident … me, of course. But there you have it. Where the white car is parked, there was a  bushy barrier and a large tree that annually spawned a hard nut we kids employed as weapons against one another. The red car occupies what had been a grassy area leading to a quite large back yard where our imagination created western landscapes full of cowboys or battlefields where we defeated the Nazis one more time.  Our games were not for sissies. How we survived remains a mystery.

The 2nd pic is a shot of Ames Street, my world as a child. It is so much smaller than I recall. There was a vast park at the far end of the street. Still, in those early years, the large number of kids who populated these streets seldom ventured that far. We would amuse ourselves for hours playing (as suggested above) war, cowboys and Indians, or simple athletic contests which only needed a tennis ball or football. You know, run to the Ford and I’ll throw you a pass. Inevitably, either the ball, or the intended recipient, would crash into the car. I wonder now how many dents we put in the parked cars back in our day. Now, traffic is one way, then it was two-ways. Ah yes, the street was our world, even if presented us with a cramped venue.

Ames street seemed so much larger in my memory. Even when we went to the official playground, we often amused ourselves with simple, competitive games such as stickball. This was played on the tennis court since no one in this working class area actually played tennis. Stickball was a primitive game that could be played with (no surprise) a tennis ball and a sawed-off broom handle. This was affordable equipment easily available to us.

The next several pics capture my educational preparation for my life as a policy wonk and fake academic. The first pic is of my old grammar school, then called Upsala St. Elementary school, an institution erected in the late 1800s. My older cousin was forced to accompany me to school when I was in kindergarten to ensure I didn’t get lost along the three block journey (I wasn’t the brightest bulb after all). She insists we got a sound education there despite it being situated in a rather downtrodden working class neighborhood.

I can’t dispute her assessment of the school’s quality though their judgment might be suspect. I recall being a thoroughly average student (at best). And yet, they selected me for an advanced class at Providence Street Junior High (next pic). I can still recall the principal (a Miss Carmody, I believe) calling me into her office to tell me of this ‘honor.’ She seemed as surprised at the decision as I was. Then, again, I was totally shocked. What the hell were they thinking? I had no idea what was going on.

Neither institution now serves its original purpose. The Upsala school was converted to elderly apartments long ago while what we called ‘Prov’ Junior High is still used for an educational purpose of some sort, though I’m not quite sure what. What I recall from my experience at Prov was being in this ‘advanced’ class composed of 4 other boys and some 20 or more girls. Apparently, we were the only boys from all the feeder elementary schools not to run afoul of the law. I don’t remember any of the girls (by name or appearance) though I believe they generally outperformed us boys academically as a group. Undoubtedly, they actually studied. We, not so much!

Among the few males (we brave 5), I once again proved to be an undistinguished scholar. I put myself in either 3rd or (more likely) 4th place. Ken (with a long Russian name) was clearly 1st; Andy (with a long Lithuanian name) was 2nd; Eddie (with a French name) was likely 3rd. I slightly trailed Eddie with a boy named John bringing up the rear. In a prior blog I talked about worrying that no one would hire me when I was an adult. Such fears seemed eminently justified during this period where I struggled in the classroom, and in life.

Then it was on to Saint Johns Prep (as it was known in those days). It was my only tenure in a Catholic run educational institution. The Xaverian Brothers ran the place. It was a competitive school where admission was based on how well one did on an entry examination. I shocked myself by not only passing (thus securing admission) but earning a spot in the top Freshman class.

They just began to move the school from the central city to the suburbs during this period. I only attended the fancy suburban school shown in the pic for my senior year (1961-62) … a small part of the fancy new campus can be seen above. It now rivals any bucolic University campus and costs over $20,000 per year to attend. For the majority of my school days, however, we attended classes in decrepit buildings (the oldest dating from the 1800s) located in the worst part of town. I drove by the site during this trip. Nothing remains of the old school, just a parking lot with lots of homeless squatters. Depressing indeed.

It shows that a good education does not require a fancy edifice or modern amenities. The Xaverian Brothers were dedicated and no nonsense educators. You stepped out of line and risked a whack upside the head. You never shared this with your parents since they likely would whack on the other side of your skull. But at least the cranial damage would be symmetrical.

Nor were we coddled. We ate our lunch outside, buying it from ‘Mike’s lunch wagon.’ He would arrive each noon to sell us sandwiches and such. We did this even in winter, when temps were well below freezing. Okay, during blizzards they let us consume our sandwiches in the gym. I can yet envision our headmaster, walking amongst us sans jacket as snowflakes coated our lunches. He was always smiling and telling us what a fine day it was as as our fannies shivered in the cold.

Once again, I did not excel in the classroom. I cannot precisely estimate my rank but it was not in the top-quarter of my class. My self image of a well-meaning but hapless scholar was now firmly entrenched. It would be a script deeply embedded in my psyche, one that would not be erased (even partially) for many decades.

After an ill considered detour into a Catholic Seminary of one-plus years, I stumbled into Clark University. There, as I cover in previous blogs, I blossomed intellectually and broke free from the cultural confines in which I had been imprisoned. My natural inquisitiveness was released. It was as if my mind suddenly exploded with questions and a need to explore the world about me. I owe so much to this institution as I mentioned in earlier blogs. It is where I became me.

As an educational institution, Clark was created in 1887 as the second graduate school in the country, after Johns Hopkins. It had some high points in its history along with some difficulties. Below, my friend Mary stands along side a sculpture of Sigmund Freud, who gave his only American lectures at Clark. The American Psychological Association was also launched at Clark. As one survey of higher education put it, Clark is one of 40 educational institutions that takes somewhat average students and prepares them for careers in top universities. That describes my experience perfectly.

The picture of the golf course below is not a mistake. On this site, the exploration of space had its beginnings. Clark Physics professor Robert Goddard developed and launched the first successful liquid fuel rocket, thereby initiating our exploration of space. He is yet regarded as the godfather or our space program.

It is also the site where I firmly established the fact that I would remain one of the more pathetic practitioners of this noble game. As a kid, I would walk some two (closer to three) miles with my clubs (the last mile uphill) to play golf all day (for $1 buck). Then trudge home with inescapable evidence that I sucked at this game. Seems impossible now since the walk to the bathroom seems equivalent to the Bataan death march.

The trip back to Worcester had a few personal touches. In the Pic below, I am having dinner with Ron and his lovely wife Mary. Ron was a childhood friend who shared his own terrible golf game with me. In other sports, like basketball, he was a star in high school.

Mary still likes to share with me the story about the time I suggested she forego marrying this lug and experience the world before settling down. As I’ve mentioned, I thought marriage was death. She had, fortunately, the good sense to ignore me. Most women do, thank god. They have been together over 55 years and gave 4 kids and many grandkids.

Below is Sharon, and her husband Tom. She is the child of my (late) favorite cousin, the one forced to take me to Upsala St. School. We had a lovely lunch at one of those quaint restaurants in the New England countryside before a ride to Concord where the American revolution started. As you know, I never have had regrets about my decision to forego having children. However, if I had had one, I’d want it to be like her. So sweet. With my luck, though, a kid of mine would grow up to be a Republican. Perish that thought!!!

I am a sentimentalist, one who loves reminiscing about earlier days. I guess that yearning takes on a certain urgency in one’s advanced years. Thus, you must endure my flights into the past. Warning … I may continue other parts of this trip in future blogs.  Fortunately, your delete button is at hand.

Anyway, I hope I have not become too much of a irritant in your lives. I will try to bother you less with my hobby of sharing the various nonsense that wander though my fecund brain.