Jumping At the Woodside

I had intended to go off in a different direction at the end of my last blog but I started to do a little “Jumping At the Woodside” and I got distracted. I had intended to mention some of my odd summer distractions. You would think that here where I live was rural East Overshoe, New Hampshire instead of the southern sea coast. The other morning at day break there was a deer drinking out of my birdbath. This would have been all right, except he was doing his Gene Gene impersonation all over my Geraniums. After dispersing him, I went back into the house to finish my coffee. I glanced out the window to make sure he had not returned and much to my dismay there is a young woodchuck dining in my cucumber patch. So after a few days of skirmishes, I do believe he has taking up residence down the street in my neighbor’s yard and seems to be quite content. My neighbor however seems to have acquired a slight case of Saint Vitus Dance. A foot note to the ground hog saga. A noted woodchuck aficionado advised me to coexist with the little rodent by serving him a buffet a couple times a day. Needless to say, I filled that suggestion in the circular file.
Last but not the least, a family of Turkeys has taken up residence in the neighborhood. It was interesting to see the mother hen lead her little brood around the neighborhood. How ever as they grew they for their own safety had to find a place to roost at night. Much to my next door neighbors dismay they selected a tree in her back yard. So every evening about a half hour before dark they arrive from their day of foraging proceed to her front yard fly up on her roof and then up into the tree from there. Needless to say this has become a nightly attraction. I suggested that she should sell tickets to the spectacle. She suggested that I do something very difficult and painful to my posterior. So I filed that suggestion along side of the buffet suggestion.
It will be interesting to see where the turkeys move to when all the leaves have dropped. Some spruce thicket I imagine.

Semi Sentimental Journeys

I have not written a blog in awhile, but I promised my children that I would put my thoughts into print. The reason I have not done so lately is because when ever I get the urge to write something, I go back and read my last blog and decide that I have already made a big enough ass out of my self. Thus the gaps between blogs get longer and longer. I think when my kids first urged me to write a blog they were really interested in learning about the Lemp side of the family. As I have previously stated I was remiss in my obligation of enlightening them to their heritage. But I do feel that my blogs in their view point have become their own personal comedy hour. It seems my vocabulary, adages and slang from my youth is foreign to them. Especially when I am with my two youngest, they look at each other roll their eyes, grin and try there damnedest not to start giggling, it seems to tickle their fancy when I unwittingly go into my own personal unknown comic routine. (Here I digress for a bit to say that I first saw the unknown comic on TV, on the Gong show. In my opinion all the current talent shows pale in comparison. Not only was the list of guest judges lengthy it was a virtual who’s who of that era. Not only can I relate to the unknown comic, I also was always a comparable dancer to Gene Gene the dancing machine. It was with out a doubt the fastest half hour in television.) I will admit that my enunciation and or articulation is some times laughable at best. Thank god for the spell check icon. So for their amusement and much to my chagrin, I post a few more thoughts about the Lemp’s
This spring Diana, Lisa, Joe and I decided to take a trip to Arizona. I had mentioned to my son the previous autumn that I would really like to go out there and visit my brother David. So Joe and Diana decided that we would do it. I of course never would have gone on my own, as I am a thinker and ruer not a doer. To me this trip accomplished three goals. I got to visit with my brother and sister in law, who I had feared very much I would never see again. Lisa, Joe and Diana got to finally meet relatives on the Lemp side of the family. And we easterners got to tour the beautiful state of Arizona. All things considered it was a great trip. We actually interacted like a real family as the two half-sibling girls engaged in a few spirited sparing matches. So as this is a blog about the Lemp’s I take the liberty of blaming their minor grievances on their mothers.
This last week Joe took me to Cooperstown New York to visit the MLB hall of fame, take in a minor league baseball game in Troy and visit the Vale cemetery in Schenectady.
Vale cemetery is where my father, Grandmother Clara, Uncle James and his wife Marion are interred. I was always reluctant to make this pilgrimage because of my reluctance to except reality in general. But again my children have steered me in the right direction. Maybe I am starting to mellow out. But more than likely it’s the fact that at my age I am starting to ponder mortality.
Aunt Clara once waxed eloquently about Vale cemetery she described it as a blissful Eden where she and her brothers spent many enjoyable hours. It seems it was used as a park as well as a burial-ground. If you believe the old adage that a person would turn over in their grave if they saw how things are today, then we would have to refer to Clara as “pinwheel Clara” because Vale cemetery has fallen into total disrepair. The neighbor has deteriorated drastically and the cemetery and adjoining park are surrounded by what can only be described as a ghetto. The cemetery it self shows signs of negligible maintenance
vandalism and graffiti. The curator or caretaker assured us that there are corrective measures in the works. This is something I plan to monitor and maybe some where down the road the family might consider donations or some other action. This is a private cemetery and appears to have had mismanagement or poor funding.
Two days ago Diana and I went to visit the grave of our great-grandfather Dr. Hermann Lemp who is interred in Pine Grove cemetery in Lynn Massachusetts. The only similarity I can see between these two burial grounds is that Pine grove is what Clara’s Vale cemetery was in her youth. I have never seen a prettier or better groomed park anywhere. This is a huge beautiful place.
I suppose I should go to North Beverly and visit my mother and brother Noel and complete the circle.

FACEBOOK AND BEAGLES

FACEBOOK AND BEAGLES

Now it is February and time to bore my few blog readers with some more trivial and sometimes facetious thoughts. I tried to reread some of my previous blogs to make sure I was not being repetitious. But I just could not do it. What I try to get across as tongue-in-cheek does not come out as funny ha ha, but more like buffoonery. So with that said I would like to talk today about Facebook.
You would think that being smack dab in the middle of the winter, visiting Facebook would be a good way to fight cabin fever. But I usually come away from a visit there with mixed feelings. The thing that attracted me to Facebook was a chance to communicate with old school mates, Friends, and relatives.
But after the initial hi how are you? Contact. Future contact seems to be spiteful agendas. Everyone seems to be seething. I liken it to road rage. The meekest people who turns into ogres when they get behind the wheel is perplexing, so too are a lot of my Facebook friends (actually the majority should probably be referred to as associates) for every funny cartoon or adage that is posted, there are thousands that are meant to belittle someone or something. Then all the sheep are asked to hit the like icon, to prove that they are just as big a sore ass, as all the other minions. I imagine a dislike icon would really upset the applecart.
Wannabe Televangelist, and political pundits are the most irksome with their holier than thou attitudes. Not to mention other silly little things. For example, hit like if you enjoy a sunny day.
So to my dour Facebook friends, forget about being politically correct and lighten up a little and try not to be like W.C. Fields who once said “I am free of all prejudice, I hate everyone equally”
But on the bright side I really enjoy it when people post photos. Relate little tidbits of what is going on in their lives and actually have original thoughts.
Moving on to more mundane things, two years in a row a flock of Robins swooped down on my Holly shrubs and denuded them of red berries. Sadly there was a meager crop this year as an unseasonably warm spell last spring forced the plants to bloom prematurely and the return to normal temperatures did not bode well for the bulk of the crop. So the Robins did not have a feast. The oddity of this is both years they arrived on the same day as the Patriots were performing their Swan song. I suppose if I was a real die hard fan, I
would uproot these villainous shrubs.
One morning last week it was one below as I ventured out for my morning walk. The boards on my deck made a load cracking noise with every step. So I was shocked when I looked out into the glooming, and saw a buck standing there. He turned waved his flag at me and was gone. As I proceeded on my walk, I thought to my self what a delightful way to start the day. Because everything was frozen I decided to let my curiosity get the best of me and go off the beaten path to a swampy area that was usually impossible to walk in.
By now it was broad daylight. I will not mention how cold I felt. As everybody knows all my lame old adages. Suddenly I heard the old familiar sound of Beagles baying on the trail of a rabbit. (My friend John, called it singing) I stood still and shortly a rabbit came loping by. Taking his time and looking over his shoulder ever now and then. Suddenly the baying grew louder and the rabbit decided to boot it, and that was the last I saw of him. Suddenly two beautiful Beagles came into view, scurrying from side to side sniffing everything in sight, and then they were gone. I never did see their master or them again, but it sure was enjoyable while it lasted.

As much as I hate the winter, something like this could only happen on a winter day

Acrobatic Pests

It’s January and cabin fever is a perfect adage for what ails me. Lack of sunshine and daylight is very depressing to me., I try to keep up my regular walking routine but dressing properly is something that escapes me. I am either sweating my ass off or freezing. This of course takes all the enjoyment out of gadding about.
I thus spend more time in the house dressed up like Nanook of the north as I try to keep Unitil’s utility meters from emulating pinwheels.
This also ushers in my yearly conflict with the bushy tailed rodents know as squirrels. I have battled with these little acrobatic pests at my bird feeders for many years. How anyone could prefer Rocky J. Squirrel over the loveable Bugs Bunny is beyond me. This year I decided that I was getting a little to old to going running around my backyard like a deranged Elmer Fudd, chasing the elusive Rocky away from my feeders. My plan was simple I would create a squirrel feeding station away from the bird feeding station and every one would be happy.
How wrong I was. Not only did it create a much bigger dilemma it also proved to my way of thinking that yes, Bugs is intelligent and Rocky is stupid. Or as Bugs would say Rocky is a real maroon!
I hung the squirrel food on the rail fence that the two backyard squirrels use as their super highway. This being the normal route they use to make plundering raids on my bird feeding stations. For almost a week they blew right past the cornucopia of squirrel delicacies that I had provided for them. Little did I know that these greedy little buggers where so afraid that one of the poor little Chickadee’s might get a seed that they were ignorant of anything else happening in their domain. So I had to more or less stick their noses into their own feeding station. I slathered a mixture of peanut butter and sunflower seeds on the rail right above their catered feast. That day as they sped along the rail and stepped into the peanut butter it dawned on the morons that there was something there that could dine on with out have to hang by their tail at a contorted angle trying to pilfer a tiny seed.
As an avid backyard gardener and lover of the woods there is only two things that I could have done over the years that was stupider than setting out a squirrel feeding station. One would be planting invasive bamboo in a flower bed and the other was a having a wrestling match with a lady friend in a patch of poison ivy. And looking back that would be a stretch because the squirrel feeding station was a much worst disaster. Now it seems as though every gray squirrel with in a thirty mile radius has heard that the buffoon at 39 Norman road is this year’s patsy and has moved into my back yard. And of course that means they can not all be at the squirrel feeder at once. So my bird feeders are really under siege
My friend Bugs must be shaking his head in amazement or disgust at this years patsy!
I should not omit another humbling winter experience. My son-in-law Patrick completely kicked all the other Lemp’s asses in the annual college football pool. Let’s just hope this modestly shy and humble lad does not need to go out and purchase new hats because of it.
At my age I should not be wishing the time to fly by, but the way this winter is progressing the next seventy six days look like an eternity.

Mr. Schadenfreude revisited

My great grandfather was originally from the German speaking part of Switzerland, and was fluent in the German language. I am sure he would snicker at my attempt to pronounce my favorite German word. Which as anybody who has read my previous blogs knows is schadenfreude. This means, “Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.”
In one of my previous blogs, Mr. Schadenfreude, a.k.a Mr. Rattus. I mentioned the old adage “what goes around comes around” I wondered how that could be true as this bully was just running rough shod over his neighbors..
He was the major factor in my decision to try to buy a house and get the hell out of there. Before I did something to him that not only would get me into trouble with the law. But it would also embarrass my family.
As it turns out, that asshole (I was going to refer to him as a son of a bitch, but he would probably take that as a compliment) did me a favor by forcing my hand.
For financial reasons I searched for a house in a rural location. I was thinking about raising a few chickens in an isolated area far away from the likes of Mr. Rattus. But the longer the search ran on, the more reservations I had about leaving this area.
So I did something that I thought I would never do. I bought a mobile home. It is about two miles away from the Salisbury Housing Authority unit. It is also about the same distance to Toll road in Salisbury where I lived for many years.
Financially living in senor housing makes a whole lot of sense. Mentally it was like being a state ward again. I could never get comfortable there. There were a few nice people who I consider to be friends. But the majority of the population was not really people I would want to be involved with. Their favorite pastime was to sit around and bitch and moan and listen to their arteries harden. But it was plain to me that SHA was a huge up grade in their life style. It was practically a free ride for the majority of them.
Owning of course is a lot more expensive with utilities, taxes and maintenance. But it is worth every penny to be away from the likes of Mr. Rattuss. I still get to have gardens, but raising poultry or any small farm animals is out of the question. My neighbors are a huge upgrade over my previous ones. But then are all snobs to a certain degree. It’s all right to have their dogs come over and shit on your lawn or their cats hunt the birds at your feeder. But God forbid, they have to see a couple of hens as they grill their chicken wings.
So again I thank Mr. Schadenfreude for forcing me to make a move. I have ended up in an area that does not look like a trailer park, with large well landscaped lots and more trees than a forest. And the truth of the matter, most of my reservations where, I could not get comfortable with moving a long distance away from my kids or the area where I have lived all my life
Mr.Rattuss finally found out that what goes around comes around. As the legal system finally incarcerated him for ninety days in the county correctional facility, and evicted him from the SHA. During his stay in jail, he found what it was like to be bullied. He took a severe beating and had to be isolated from the other inmates for his own protection.
I’m glad all this transpired after I had moved out. Or I might have remained there.
I moved here in November of 2010 and started to enjoy a much more normal life style. I have only had one little bump in the road. On New Year’s Eve 2011 the weather report called for a bright, sunny and unseasonably warm new year’s day. I decided that I would be at Salisbury beach and start the New Year with photo’s of the sun appearing to rise right out of the ocean. I was standing on a dune snapping pictures when I heard a voice say throw the camera down and give me your wallet. I turned to see a young Hispanic man who was dressed like he did not care if his pants fell off and was not sure if he was coming or going as his hats brim was pointed west as he was facing east. My reply to that was there is no way I am throwing my camera in the sand. Then another voice said, don’t make me take my gun out. Throw the camera down and give us your wallet and anything else you have in your pockets. I turned and saw another taller Hispanic who evidently had the same humorous haberdasher. As he started to repeat this I turned and started walking away at a brisk pace. Peeking over my shoulder I saw that they were keeping pace. I sensed they did not have a gun or it would have come out as soon as I showed reluctance to obey them. Then to my relief there appeared a woman and two huge dogs coming over the dune right at us. The two would be thieves turned and ran off toward the seasonal homes and disappeared. I expressed my relief to the woman and asked her if she had a cell phone that I could use to call the police. Unfortunately she had left hers at home. So right away we had something in common. I told her she should be careful if she planned on walking the beach. Her reply was No! I think my dogs would like nothing better than to meet those two punks. And looking at those two mean looking giants straining at their leashes, I could not help but think she was right.
As I was walking home that morning I was sure that I had just met a couple more assholes who were about to spend a lifetime emulating, Mr. Rattuss.

After reading this blog,my daughter Diana chided me for stretching the truth.
She said she recalls me relating that on my walk home reality set in, and I was on the verge of soiling my trousers. She also recalls that after hearing what had transpired all four of my kids hoped that my stupidity was not heritary.

The Great Pigeon Caper

I have always been a lover of birds and fowl. The sound and movement of them has always fascinated me. The sight and sound of them in a pasture, a woodlot or in my backyard cannot help but cheer me up.

Before I get to the pigeon fiasco, I will relate a couple of recent events that I found amusing. On the first day of spring last year (2011) my Holly shrubs were loaded with a bumper crop of red berries. At about three o’clock in the afternoon these shrubs were ravaged by a large flock of cedar waxwings. Shortly they had devoured every berry in sight. I felt lucky to witness this sight as I hardly ever saw a cedar waxwing in my yard or gardens. I made a mental note to myself to be on the alert for this event to occur again this spring. However on Super Bowl Sunday, while watching the Patriots lose to those dastardly bullies from New York, I was distracted by a flurry of activity in my window boxes. A flock of robins was busy eating the red berries that I had put there with evergreen cuttings. From there they preceded to strip all the red berries off the Holly bushes. This was interesting to me for several reasons. One being they were flocked up, I don’t recall ever seeing robins do that. The second being there is always a few hearty robins that winter over, even in the harshest winters. But this was a large amount of robins to be here in early February. They were probably auguring a mild winter. I don’t think one mild winter is a sign of things to come. We have experienced them before. Only to be followed by a string of winters that only made the snow plower’s and OPEC happy. My son Joe chided me saying, are you going to stand there looking out the window or are you going to watch the game. So I went back to the agony of defeat. But in the back of my mind was the feeling that as the cedar waxwings migrated north this spring they were going to be disappointed when they stopped here for lunch.

On a rainy March 25th afternoon I noticed a lonely cedar waxwing hopping along on the ground near my holly bushes. After he discerned that there were no berries there, he checked out the feeders, shook his head and flew away. I’m sure he was the advance scout and returned to the flock with the bad news.

But I feel lucky to have seen the scouting wax wing and look forward to see who gets the berries next year.

Before, I relate the pigeon caper. I would like to say the commonly held belief that birds evolved from dinosaurs is a myth. It’s a little like believing in jackalopes.

Ever year in early spring, dating back to when I was a little kid I have always had the urge to raise poultry and grow things. Over the years I have done both, many times.

So when I was about fourteen I found out that the Beck’s who lived on what is now known as Shore Terrace near Ober Park in Ryal side were raising racing pigeons I was intrigued.

This particular winter/early spring,Victor Bernson, Richard Locke and I were hanging around together. This was odd because the three of us had nothing in

common. We usually hung around with different crowds. But somehow I convinced them that we should try our hand at raising racing pigeons ourselves. So we went to visit the Beck’s and view their loft (fancy name for a pigeon coop) At that time this area was mostly seasonal summer homes. And the ones that were converted to year round homes could only be classified as seedy. The male Beck’s could only be best described as gaunt and scruffy. But the loft was impressive and immaculate. The family patriarch was very proud of his birds and ran on at great length about the care of the birds and the strategy he used to win races. But what impressed me the most was how he could hold a cigarette in his mouth and talk non stop with out the ash falling off, and how expensive racing pigeons were.

 After checking with the local pigeon racing club, what the Beck’s had told us

was true.If we really scrimped we might have been able to buy one pair of racing pigeons. And hope that they mated and gave us a future brood of potential champions. Of course that was not the instant satisfaction that we were looking for. So we decided we were just going to have to find a better way to get into the game. The Thibedeau’s had a couple of empty chicken coops in the back yard and we decided we would use one as our loft.

So our plan was to wait until it got dark. Then we would go under the Kernwood Bridge and capture the common pigeons that roosted there. The first night, we only brought one gunny sack and captured four birds. The next night we decided we needed it least twelve more birds, so we each brought a gunny sack. The night was unseasonably cold and there was a little sleet falling. On our way to the bridge we all smoked a cigar. Smoking was something we were just starting to experiment with at that age. Richard some how always had cigars and his favorite cigarettes Old Gold filter kings. I never questioned where he got them. But he like the rest of us kids certainly did not have any money. I do recall that it was easy for kids to buy tobacco products, and there were cigarette vending machines everywhere. You would put two dimes in the machine and get a pack with two cents change taped to it. I know I digress but old man Beck’s smoking oddity reminded me of this.

When we got to the bridge it was a real dark night, the wind was howling and it was drizzling. I went under the bridge first and Victor and Richard followed. We were successfully grabbing pigeons when from above someone yelled “Hey what are you guys doing down there”. Now of course there were no-trespassing signs on the bridge, but we never expected the bridge tender to be there at night. We started running towards the ladder on the Beverly side of the bridge. Victor and Richard made it up, but I slipped on the icy creosoted deck and went head first into the river. Fortunately for me the tide was coming in and it was a short distance to the shore. I got out of the river and raced for home. The heavy wool mackinaw and leather brogans I had on felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I took the short cut through the woods but it still took me about fifteen minutes to get home. We always went through the bulkhead into the basement to take off our muddy boots or shoes before going upstairs. At this time of the night there was no one else down there. There was a big washing machine down there and hampers for the dirty clothes., so I was able to find some of my dirty clothes to change into and hang the sopping wet cloths to dry. I then stood near the furnace to warm up and thanked my lucky stars that I was able to get in and change with out Mrs. Thibedeau seeing me, or there would have been hell to pay. About an hour later just as I was getting warm the bulkhead door open up and Victor and Richard came down into the basement. I was just getting ready to tell them about my adventure when Victor came over and punched me in the face and it knocked me on my ass. As it turns out they did not see me get out of the river and they were afraid I had drowned. I think they were more afraid of explaining why they were there and what happened. Then they were about me.

Any way we ended up with a flock of common pigeons. We kept them cooped up, watered and feed for about two weeks. The experienced birders would let their birds out for exercise every evening, and before it got dark they would return to the coop. So we figured two weeks was long enough for our birds to adapt to their new home and would return if we let them out for some exercise. Well we let them out and they flew straight back to the Kernwood Bridge area and we never saw them again. Needless to say that was the end of our pigeon raising and from there we all went our separate ways.

Last of the Lemp Little Bits

I only have three Lemp’s left to talk about. My mother and father and myself.  I had very little contact with my parents that I can recall. The only time I went to visit my mother she rejected me. Saying “you’re not my Herman, my Herman is dead”. I never tried to visit her again. To this day I am bothered by that. I am not bothered that she did not recognize me. I am bothered by the fact that I used it as an excuse to stick my head in the sand and act in a selfish and cowardly way. For years I felt sorry for myself. I felt as though I was abandoned. Then it dawned on me that I was doing the same thing. She was a victim of circumstance. Just like my brothers, sisters, and I.

I only remember seeing my father once when I was a ward at the Thibedeau’s. He showed up with David and Harry, in a dump truck with signage that proclaimed that he was “Thee Olde Yankee Gardener” of Schenectady N.Y. It was very awkward. We all stood around and tried to make small talk. My father appeared to be very uncomfortable and seemed to be on the verge of tears throughout the short visit. Little did any of us know that we would never see him again.

Mrs. Thibedeau was a real good influence on me while I was in her charge, but the day she blurted out “your father is dead, he has hung himself.” that could probably have been done without six kids and as many adults standing around.

I handled this news the same way I handled my mother’s situation. I felt sorry for myself instead of having feelings for the true victims in this tragedy. In retrospect there is no doubt in my mind that my mother Leah and father Herman were the real victims in this saga.

I will be the first to admit that the do-gooders can at times be nauseating with some of their vacuous demands. But their constant demands have raised our society’s social and moral awareness. And I do believe that my parent’s dilemma would be handled completely different in this day and age. At age 71, I’m not as remorseful as I was for so many years but to me “it’s just in time to be too late”!

As you can surmise, my skimpy narrative does not come remotely close to relating what really transpired.

I have stated many times in past blogs that I was coerced into this format by my children. They chided me for not sharing my side of the family’s history with them. So two years ago on Thanksgiving morning they ganged up on me and made me promise to write a blog. This blog would shed some light on my background, the family history, and to them  my whacky way of seeing things in general.  So, I vowed to myself that there would be no fabrications. Whatever I would relate would be true according to my recall. I have stuck steadfast to this principal.

So I have omitted things that I have heard about my parents and siblings. Many of the things I heard would seem to make sense and others not so much. So I have just filed those thoughts as hearsay.

That concludes what little bit I have to say about my immediate side of the Lemp family. For my kids sake I will now bore you with a little bit about me.

His Nibs

On the previously mentioned Thanksgiving, I referred to my son as his nibs. My kids rolled their eyes and grinned at each other. Thinking my different little sayings were figments of my imagination. That and very little knowledge of my past lead my kids into prodding me into this undertaking.

I was born in Lynn Mass. on May 4, 1941. The family lived at the time somewhere near the Saugus River in Saugus Mass. Just a few minutes due northeast of Boston.

I have no recollection of living there. And have no idea where any of my siblings were born. And to reflect on one of my biggest weaknesses I cannot recall their birthdates.

My next memories were of Georgetown, of which I have referred to in the past blogs. The next place I recall was the statehouse in Boston. For some reason the person who took us there thought two little petrified boys would be impressed that the building had a golden dome. To this day I cringe when ever I see that edifice or hear it mentioned.

Why we were taken there is beyond me. We ended up in the New England Home for Little wanderers. It claims to function differently today. But back in the 1940’s it was a very depressing orphanage. We were there for less than a year. But it seemed much longer as it was a very scary place. The inhabitants where all bullies, older, bigger and pissed off at their plight. Everyday there was unpleasant and I’ll leave it at that.

Just before I turned six, Noel and I were placed in the foster home of Helen Thibedeau. In the Ryal side section of Beverly Mass. It is thirty miles northeast of Boston and borders on Salem and Danvers Mass. This turned out to be a step in the right direction for me.

That fall I was enrolled into the Ryal side grammar school. This was another cultural shock for me because my experiences at the orphanage made me tentative about accepting the schoolhouse experience.

Thus I experienced the long lost practice of holding a student back. I was ashamed to take my report card home to Mrs.Thibedeau. For years I would poke fun at my self by saying I flunked because I could not color between the lines. When the fact of the matter is the school system took my reluctance to join in or communicate as stupidity. When in reality it was inferiority and fear. The next six years at that school I made a great many lifetime friends. But I was never a good student. The people who ran the school and the people who ran the Emmanuel Congregational church across the street offended me as much as they were offended by having to deal with a lowly state ward. It was not until my last year there that I finally got a teacher who made me eager to learn. What first attracted me to her was the amazing fact that she could stand up with out tipping over. But as it turned out, as sexy as she was, she actually was a great teacher.

The following year I went to Memorial Junior High school in North Beverly Mass. The only thing of note from that period was that we were the first graduating class from that new school. Like the Ryal side school it is no longer open. Ryal side has been converted to elderly housing and the Memorial school is now some sort of professional building. I cannot imagine a person in his dotage going back to live in the same room where he had attended the first grade.

In 1957, I started my first year at Beverly High School and was a part time clerk at the First National store in Danvers square. The job was at the insistence of a man named Dooley. Mr. Dooley was the state ward councilor in charge of me. In my mind if he was not the biggest asshole I ever met, he was certainly a contender. I understand what he was trying to do. Get me to pay room and board. Of which I had no qualms about. I was well aware that the state had spent a lot of money on me over the last twelve years. What I did not like was his slovenly, smarmy, holier than thou attitude.

I spent three years going to high school working thirty hours a week and idling away what few hours were left in the week at Murray’s Pool room. So it’s safe to say I did not have a distinguished record at Beverly High.

Mr. Dooley made it very clear to me that the day I graduated I would be persona non grata as far as the state was concerned.  I joined the National Guard and was on a bus to basic training the day after graduation. I served in the guard for eight years some active and some inactive. The country at the time was between Korea and before Vietnam. So no matter what you got involved in, you did not qualify for veteran’s status. Some things I got involved with I can expound on, other things I can not, even if I wanted to.

When I got out I worked at Parker Bros. who manufactured board games, most notably Monopoly. I hated that job and returned to First National stores. The rest of my history can be obtained by talking to either one of my two ex-brides. I still love them both and think they deserve some kind of award for putting up with the likes of me.

The little tales of my past and future blogs should fill in the blanks I may have left in this blog about the Thornton’s and Lemp’s

In my next blog I plan to tell a little tale that took place during my junior high school days. I plan to call it “The great Pigeon caper”!