THANKS, UNCLE JOE!

  CHAPTER 10.

                     “UNCLE JOE’S LESSON.”

On Veterans Day Weekend 1973(for a time during the early ‘70s, it was one of the five Monday holidays), I learned that my Uncle Joe had been hit by a car down in Marshfield(my summer home).  He was seriously injured and wouldn’t recover; he’d be dead the next night.

It was very tough for me to digest it right away, because it came as a shock to me.  You see, Uncle Joe was born with what was referred to as “mental retardation.”  I never knew about that until years later.  Which meant that he had a really tough life.  But that didn’t stop him from working hard and making a living for himself and for the family.

He was employed at the City Incinerator in Boston and worked hard every day.  He and I bonded especially.  I saw in him a very special man who was able to live and be productive in the world despite his troubles.  His other brother Francis, who I know as Uncle Franny, worked for Boston Edison and was up at the crack of dawn jogging.  They were very friendly towards me in spirte of their hardships.

Did you know that my Mother’s Dad died when she was 9 years old?  Yes, that left Nana(as we liked to call her) with the difficult task of raising 5 children alone.  It affected them a lot, especially Franny, who ended up becoming an alcoholic and died as a result of it In the winter of 2005.  I know how that must have felt, being the object of Franny’s anger whenever I did something out of the ordinary, but never mind about that.

Yeah, Uncle Joe was a really tough guy, but he was very gentle with all the kids.  He’d always come down to the cottage on Marshfield with us on weekends during the summer and through the rest of the year.  And he’d find time to relax with us.  My brother Coleman was very close to him, too.  And indeed, we all were.

I guess my best memories of him were when he spent New Year’s Eve with the kids!  Yes, we’d watch the ball drop on TV while we were having a party.  Yes, we’d watch Guy Lombardo, and then Dick Clark, count down to a New Year while we had soft drinks and snacks.  It was a great experience.

A few days ago was his birthday(at the time I’m writing this), and I was talking with Uncle Jack, My Aunt Betty and Mary Theresa, one of my cousins.  And I heard Mary Theresa give a very tough observation.  She said, “If that car hadn’t hit him, he’d still be alive today.”  I know that very well; when I heard the morning after the accident, I couldn’t really grasp the meaning.

It was probably one of the first times in my life that I’d experienced death.  I think the first time was a year earlier, when my Aunt Dolly had fallen off of a porch in Dorchester and was in a coma for weeks.  When she finally got taken to Heaven, it was a shock.  But it wasn’t until Uncle Joe got hit by the car that I really learned what grief was.

I saw Uncle Joe later that week at the funeral home, but I didn’t bother going to the funeral Mass the next day.  I wasn’t really knowing how to deal with it, but I believe that the dam broke on Thanksgiving Day when I was watching the end of a CBS Thanksgiving program and hearing William Conrad sing a Christmas song at the end

And that’s when I burst into tears!  I was crying my eyes out for…well, I can’t remember how long.  But I finally realized that Uncle Joe was gone and wouldn’t come back.  However, I knew that his memories would stay in my heart and that his spirit would always guide me in everything I did.  The lesson that he taught me was to always have love in your heart and a childlike faith.  And most importantly, I would be willing to share what I had with those who didn’t have much of anything.

This lesson came home to me on Christmas Night of 2000.  It was a cold and windy night, and we were just winding down our day.  All of a sudden, a man knocked at our door and asked if he could call his wife.  His car had broken down and he needed to get a ride from her.  We let him in and allowed him to warm up.

We gave him some of our Christmas dinner and we talked a little about him and his family.  He had a daughter whose name was Noel.  Noel, the French word for Christmas!  And he told us about his struggles and everything; I don’t remember exactly what the conversation was all about.

Before he left, I gave him one of my winter coats so he wouldn’t freeze on the way home and we gave him and his daughter some food to take home with them.  And what an epiphany I had that night.  I learned a lesson about how to share what my family and I had with those who needed something that they didn’t.

Uncle Joe taught me that lesson and, on that cold millennium Christmas night, I seemed to put it into good use.  Every family like my own has their struggles, so it’s up to us to look out for each other.

Thanks, Uncle Joe.

HOW I REMEMBER CAMP FATIMA!

     CHAPTER 9.

       “WHAT A SHOCK!  FATIMA TORN APART!”

In the summer of 2003, the Boston Herald reported on a very shocking and upsetting story.  There’d been reports of allegations of sexual abuse by priests and counselors at Camp Fatima in Gilmanton Iron Works, New Hampshire.  The reports that some boys were assaulted at the camp by the camp director at the time, Father George Dowd, and a priest named Father John Martin.    I was horrified by this! 

I was particularly shocked by this, because Father John had been a friend of mine up at Camp Fatima.  He was a very jovial man who always like to make kids feel at home, especially kids with special needs.  It was during the regular camp sessions with the boys that he might have gone off his rocker.  Another priest I know, Fr. Jim Nyhan, was a very good friend and my counselor during 1974’s EC week.  He has denied any of those allegations of sexual abuse himself.

As you know, the Boston Archdiocese was rocked by the sexual abuse scandal in 2002, which had certain people accuse priests of sexually abusing them in the 1960s and 1970s.  This caused a falling out of people from the church and forced Bernard Cardinal Law to resign as Archbishop of Boston.  Well, this has become an international controversy, since women in Ireland were abused by priests and nuns in the 1960s whenever they were punished for their immorality.  Look, we all have immoralities to struggle with, but sometimes certain members of the clergy can take it too far.

I went there in 1974 and 1975 on the Last Week in August each of those 2 years.  And those weeks were dedicated to Exceptional Children’s Week: a time when those who have special physical and mental needs are welcome to enjoy camp.  Yes, there are all the trimmings there: arts and crafts, swimming, baseball, softball, games and horse riding.  And what a time those 2 weeks were.

During the 1974 week, the theme was Raggedy Ann and Andy.  And all of their friends, Marcella, Mimi the French Doll, the tin soldiers, and Fido the Dog….and so much.  They were spending the week “singing and dancing with counselors, campers and all.”  During that week, the kids were caught up in celebrations of Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine’s Day.  We had a re-enactment of the Pilgrims landing at Camp Fatima and a Thanksgiving Day turkey dinner.  We also had a Christmas in August celebration with Archbishop Medeiros visiting the camp and celebrating Mass for us.  And we had a Valentine’s Day carnival with kissing booth, games and all.  And each evening, we would have entertainments such as fireworks, talent shows, games and dances.

In 1975, we had Mother Goose and all her storybrook friends: Little Bo Peep(whom I had a crush with), Jack Be Nimble, Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffett, and so many more!  We had a few story lines that really made the week big: Little Bo Beep’s sheep being stolen by the Frito Bandito who needed some winter coats for the winter.

“I get some from the sheep!” the Frito Bandito said.

“You can’t get them from the sheep,” said Fr. John(who was dressed as Old King Cole).  “They belong to Little Bo Peep.”

Yes, Little Bo Peep really lost her sheep that afternoon, but we went into the woods and found them that same evening.  In fact, in the Mass that was celebrated that afternoon, we heard about the lost sheep and how Jesus goes out to find them and bring them home.

I was acting a bit rambunctious that afternoon because I had a bad habit of crying every time that the priest sang “Through Him, With Him, In Him…” which is the Doxology of the Catholic Eucharistic Prayers.  And I sometimes put my fingers in my ears in order to keep from bursting into tears.  I won’t go into anymore details.  Still, I managed to get the message into my heart.

Later in the week, we met Old Mother Hubbard who invited her to her shoe where she lived.  And we saw Humpty Dumpty get himself broken after falling off a wall.  But Mother Goose’s magic feather was able to heal him after Old King Cole and the Wizard of Rhyme failed.  And we had a parade to celebrate the event.

The week ended with a “graduation” celebration for all of us receiving diplomas for “memorizing Mother Goose’s rhymes.”  And we had a farewell dance that evening, celebrating what Camp Fatima’s Exceptional Children’s Week symbolizes: Love In Action!

Yes, those 2 weeks up there were Heaven.  Still, I wonder if I want to return up there after what I heard about the abuse up there.  I felt shattered by what happened up there, but I have learned that those priests have been removed, as well as those who were responsible for what happened.  God willing, I will return one of these days to visit Fatima and re-accquaint myself-if only for the visitors day-of the joy of what Camp Fatima’s message to all truly is: Love In Action.

And…who knows?  Maybe I might see Little Bo Peep or Mimi The French Doll again.

SPEAR SCHOOL? TELLME ABOUT IT!

                             CHAPTER 8.

      “SPEAR SCHOOL?  TELL ME ABOUT IT!”

So I ended up leaving St. Coletta’s School in 1974 and started that summer at Spear Educational Center in Arlington.  It was a strange learning place because half the day would be devoted to reading, writing, math and other subjects, while the afternoon would be devoted to recreational classes such as typing, sports and games.

What was really shocking was the restrictive diet that it had: no dairy or meat products, bacon could not be sugar cured, and no sweets.  Everyone was given a small packet of vitamins that they took with their snack.  And God, taking all those vitamins made me gag!  No wonder it did a doozy on my stomach.

Anyway, some of the students I remember from my 3 years there include a young lady named Karen Caprizzio, who was having trouble with her math and sometimes got emotionally upset.  Then there was a kid named Jeff…something or another.  I forget his full name.  Anyway, he liked to sing songs like “Barney The Bashful Bullfrog” and “My Heart’s In The Highlands.”  He was from Fernald School, which was a learning institution for those with mental disabilities.  And there was a doozy named Mike Exellbert, who lived in Roslindale and would sing silly songs like “Allerettes And Cigarettes” and say stuff like “You Just Can’t Beat 12 Noon!  12 Noon for breakfast and 12 Noon when the sun gets down.”  Or how about a kid named Albert Tobin?  He was the bully of the school; he’d always say things to upset Karen and he used to tease me by calling me names like Richie.  (In fact, one afternoon when he started teasing me about being called Richie when I was younger, I started a fight with him.  They had to break it up, but for a week I ended up being on the outs with him.)

There was one kid named Carl Foley, who was a patient at the Massachusetts State Hospital.  When we picked him up each day, he’d be talking like a runaway locomotive.  He’d be swearing and saying this like “Carl, Get In The Car” and “Okay.”  Unbelievable.  Most of the children who attended the school lived at home, but some would come in from institutions like the ones I mentioned. 

I would be there all day from 9 a.m. until 4 or 5 p.m. in the afternoon, except Wednesday when we were let go at 12 Noon so the teachers there would have their weekly conference.  Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, we’d be taking classes from 9 a.m. until 2 p.m., with the last 3 hours given over to recrecation.  And sometimes, when one of my class mates make me laugh, I’d have to stand up and turn around.

Yeah, that was something.

However, it was while I attended Charles River Academy that I learned how to use a typewriter.  And it’s given me this long love of writing things.  In fact, in 1982 and 1983, I worked on a long epic novel called “A Natchez Wedding,” which was about two kids trying to get married in Natchez, Mississippi, a place I’ve never been to.

Another time, I started working on a book called “The Coronation Of Mother Goose,” which I modeled after the Mark Twain book “The Prince and the Pauper.”  But it never got anywhere, since I set the book out on the West Coast.  And I once tried to tackle the science fiction project called Xenon vs. Xepilon, which was the story of a space war.

Yeah, it’s good to dream and imagine.  But when you’re writing a book like this, you have to be practical.  You have write about things you know and experiences you’ve been through.  Nothing’s wrong with creating something fantastic, but you always want to get your facts straight.  At least when you’re writing your first book, like I’m doing with this one.

Still, I’m thinking of starting the 2 again as soon as this book’s finished.  Who knows?  May I’ll work on them as well.

When first I went to Spear School, we were renting out the classroom of an Armenian Apostolic Church in Belmont.  Our place was across the street from a Greek Orthodox Church where we’d hear the bells ring out every hour on the hour.  I remember the first year I was there because when it was hot, we’d have the windows open and at the top of the hour, the church bells across the street would ring the hour.

One time, while we were at class, a funeral was taking place across the street.  The bells tolled solemnly once for each year the decedent was on the Earth.   It did so twice: first, when the funeral was beginning, and second, when it was ending.  I always knew that everyone has a short time on this Earth, and we must make it a better place when we leave than when we first came.

In the fall of that year, we moved to a new location in Arlington, this time next to a Methodist Church or something.  I forget what kind of church that was.  Anyway, the structure continued with the same hours: 9 to 5 each day(except Wednesdays) and 9 or 10 to 4 during the summer.  This was a year round school, so kids went through the year, except for holidays and scheduled vacations.

Early in 1976, we moved to Framingham, where we were located in a former Catholic Monastery.  That’s where we stayed until I left the school in August of 1977.  They had a swimming pool(which we never used) and a tennis and basketball court, where we played during the spring and summer months.  Also, we’d do some running around the school for special points, because the teachers had started something called Reward Store.  We started carrying checkbooks in class that would record how many checks we had for good behavior.  If we had good behavior, we could earn checks for certain things we could play with later that afternoon like games, record players, skates and more.  Someone who screwed up would have their checks taken away from them.

I had that happen to me a few times, but a couple of the students would lose all their checks or their book.  Or, in the case of one of them whose name I’ll not mention, he had the words “No Reward Store Today” written on his book.

I will tell you that he had a bad habit of talking about his day and picking up on that “Allerettes And Cigarettes” song.  

MY FIRST TRIP TO IRELAND!

CHAPTER 7.
“MY FIRST TRIP TO IRELAND….WHAT A TRIP!”

In August of 1972, Mom, Dad, Coley and I took a trip to Ireland. It was a very interesting 4 weeks. And it was such a shock to see it.
When we took off on Sunday July 30th.(I guess t hat was the night), we were going on a charter with the Irish Music Club. And I got scared as the plane took off. I’d never been on a plane before(well, I’d been on 2 planes before when I’d gone to League School, but this is the first time I was actually flying in one). And I was a nervous wreck.
I still am a nervous wreck every time I’m on a plane. When I made my 3rd. trip in 1996, I had a panic attack just before we took off. Earlier in the day, one of the staffers at Mullen & Company(the predecessor of McGladrey, where I still work today) asked me if I was flying on ValuJet. A ValuJet plane had crashed earlier in the month and that really got me upset.
Hey, I get upset easily when I get teased; being autistic makes me prone to teasing. I’ve never known whether one is kidding or deadly serious.
Well, we got over to Ireland early the next morning(their time) and we took a long 2 or 3 hours journey to Killarney. While everyone regards it as a tourist trap, it’s where my Dad came from in 1949. Growing up in Ireland was tough for him and his family. Most of the people lived in poverty back then while Europe was growing into a massive industrial and artistic machine. In the 1840s, the potato famine came to Ireland, killing over a million people and forcing another million to emigrate across the seas.
When many of these Irish immigrants arrived in Boston or New York, people would insult them and put up signs that said “No Irish Wanted Here!” They would be the ones doing the hard labor and long hours. But thanks to gentlemen like John Boyle O’Reilly and Richard Cardinal Cushing, the Irish would prosper and become an important force in American society. All this climaxed in the election of John F. Kennedy to the Presidency in the year 1960, months before I was born. Mom told me that she went to his JFK’s final campaign rally the night before the election…and I was developing in her belly.
In the 4 weeks I was over in Ireland, I can remember some fantastic times that defined my love for my Dad’s ancestral country: traveling the Ring of Kerry, driving cross country to Dublin, playing those one armed bandits-yes, I’m talking about slot machines-at the arcades in the Salthill section of Galway, having dinner at some of the country’s best restaurants at the time: the Colleen Bawn in Killarney, the Harp in Dublin, and some other great places I can’t recall at the top of my head.
For the first few days there, all I could eat was grilled cheese sandwiches(I was so homesick, since this was my first trip out of the USA). And my brother Coleman always says that there’s a statute of me having grilled cheese sandwiches in the centre of Killarney. I’ve yet to find it.
Traveling through Ireland was an experience altogether different: they drive on the left side of the road, they call soft drinks “minerals,” and, at the time, TV didn’t broadcast until the evening. Also, in many towns, there’s a singing pub that does business with talented musicians from around the areas they live in.
My brother once joked, “They sing from opening to closing and in the morning they wake up with laryngitis!” I don’t know if that’s true, but…
One of the highlights of my trip was going to Dublin where we walked down O’Connell Street and soaked in the city center of the Irish capital. On the Friday night, the whole family and I saw an Irish revue called “Gaels Of Laughter,” which starred comedian and actress Maureen Potter. What a fantastic experience that was with music, comedy and dance. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
The next day, we went to Bray on the Northern edge of the city itself. And what was a big highlight was when Dad, Coley, Dicko and I climbed 1,000 feet up Mt. Brayhead. It was a very long and difficult climb; you have to be really fit and sturdy to climb up the mountain. Anyway, when we got up to the top, we had a spectacular view of the ocean and the surrounding area.
I remember bringing down some bushes to my mom as a birthday present. As I gave them to her, I said, “Happy Birthday from Mount Brayhead!” She was delighted with them. And then we went back into town to see a movie.
Several times while we were in Dublin, we went to the General Post Office where the Irish Rebellion started. It is a working post office, but it’s also the place where the Irish began their ill-fated campaign to drive the English out of Ireland. It was there that Padaric Pearse proclaimed Ireland as “a sovereign, Independent State.”
“The only thing that can stop Irish Independence,” he said that day, “is the destruction of the Irish race itself.” And thank God we haven’t been destroyed. We never will be. Like the Jews, the Irish have been persecuted for no reason whatsoever by the British. And still, Northern Ireland is under British control. I look forward to the day when they’ll head home from the North and let the two sides become one.
On our final day in Dublin, I went to Croke Park where we saw an All Ireland fooball playoff between the counties of Offaly and Donegal. Mom and I cheered for Offaly, while Dad, Coley and Dicko cheered for Donegal. I can’t believe how passionate the Irish are at their Gaelic sports. Like the Americans who love baseball and football, and the English who cheer at soccer matches, the GAA is the sporting force that binds the Irish together. It’s a combination of rugby, soccer and football, but it’s a style that’s altogether different from all the other sports in the world.
By the way, the match ended in a draw.
The night before I left for home, I shared with my cousins in Killarney a fantastic song called “Let There Be Peace On Earth.” This song was performed at a youth conference in 1955 when the attendees all walked arm in arm up a mountain in California and shared that song with each other.
The simple lyrics of peace on Earth beginning with each of us is fantastic. I first learned it the previous winter at St. Coletta’s and decided to share it with Uncle Dicko’s family. The song had only been 15 years old when we first learned it, but it had already made an impact around the world.
When we flew home the next morning, Dad said a tearful goodbye to his brother Dicko, not knowing it would be the last time he would see him again. He would see him many times when he came over to America in the intervening years, but he was always worried he’d never see him again. After all, when the Irish came over to America in the 19th. century, the families and friends of those who were leaving would send off with an American Wake party. Although those immigrants would probably never see their families again, it was clear that they were part of each other for all eternity.
Because I had a summer job in 1985 with the Massachusetts District Commission, I wasn’t able to go with my parents to Ireland that summer. It would be the last time that Dad would ever go over, since he’d been diagnosed with mesothelioma, an incurable cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. 3 years later, he’d die of the disease on July 23rd., 1988. Ironically, it would be less than 24 hours after I’d been fired from Putnam Investments, a world famous financial firm headquartered in Boston.
I won’t go into that part of it, or the MDC job I worked on for the 2 summers of 1984 and 1985, because those kids were spoiled brats who got their jobs as special favors by their friends in the government. No wonder the Commonwealth is so screwed up these days! And ever since Governor William Weld introduced “privatization” of State government in the 1990s, it’s only gone from bad to worse.

MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME! MARSHFIELD!

CHAPTER 6
“MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME.”

Christy Moore once said that everybody deserves a break. And every summer, I’ve gone down to Marshfield. A small beach town with a big heart. Our first cottage was on Foster Avenue, which faces the beach. Every morning, the sun rises out of the Atlantic Ocean and brings another great summer day to our family. A few years later, we’d move to the cottage that we occupy today at 22 9th. Road, just a little ways from the beach.
And we still have a great view of the sunrise. Unless of course, there’s wind and rain on the beach. And then we see the waves whip up with the whitecaps ready to strike the sand. The summer is a short season down there. Although summer officially begins on Memorial Day, down in Marshfield, it doesn’t begin until the Night Before The Fourth. That’s the night when they set off firecrackers on the beach. The humidity and the cool of the night make for an explosive cocktail of color and patriotism.
Up until the mid-1980s, there would also be bonfires on our beach. All the trash and timber of the winter would be rushed up the beach and piled onto towering pyramids at each entrance to Sunrise Beach(where I’ve been living all through my now about 50 years). At sunset, lighter fluid would be doused on the piles and they would be set aflame! It was wonderful; combining bonfires with fireworks made it a fantastic night!
I remember that I would stay up late to enjoy the action(in 1976, I stayed up all night and was exhausted the next day, the Glorious Fourth). And in a few instances, I’d get up before sunrise and try to pick the beer bottles and cans that I treasured getting money for at the liquor store. (Unfortunately, I had to contend with those goddamned mosquitoes, who come out at dusk and dawn on the beach area. Ouch!)
Unfortunately, sometime in the 1980s, the bonfires were responsible for a number of house fires on the road. As a result, the Marshfield Town Meeting passed an ordinance saying that it was illegal to light fires on the beach without a special permit. And in 1988, the bonfires were cracked down and all but ended.
When my Dad was on his deathbed on his last Fourth of July in 1988, Mom went down to see what was going on there, and, to her shock, she caught the cops trying to arrest one of my cousins for setting up a bonfire on the beach. She nearly got arrested herself when she tried to intervene on his behalf, saying that her brother was a lawyer and would stop them in any possible way.
3 weeks later, when my Dad died, we had to come back up here for the funeral, and boy was it raining. I’ll get to that in a little while, though. But back to the bonfire habit, it attracted the wrong kind of people; folks who didn’t live in the beach area drove from miles to watch them. And they’d bring dozens of six packs of beer, wine and alcohol. There’d be fist fights and wild parties that went on until 2 or 3 in the morning(maybe later). No wonder there were a lot of arrests at that time.
Since the end of the bonfires, the celebrations have become more subdued, yet are still festive. It’s more than a family affair now, with everyone enjoying that special night when summer really comes alive. Of course, the cops are still patrolling the beach on the 3rd. and the 4th. to see that no one gets out of hand.
Still, I miss the bonfires. They were a very special part of the Night Before the Fourth.
(And you know what? I used to make about $50 to $60 picking up empties and brining them back to the liquor store. Now, I’m lucky to make $20 to $30 on the Fourth.)
You know, I enjoy the time I’m down at the Beach. From the Night before the Fourth to Labor Day Night, it’s one big party with beach time during the day and parties at night. But when the sun goes down on Labor Day night, everyone packs up and heads home. The rest of Marshfield continues in business during the winter, but the beach area becomes deserted and austere. After all, we never know on Labor Day night what will happen in the year to come…or whether we’ll see our friends or neighbors again.
I always say that during the last two weeks of summer, the long hot days and steamy nights become a precious commodity. So why can’t it be like summer all year ‘round? I had a dream one night that everybody was down the beach for New Year’s Eve shooting off fireworks and lighting bonfires. And the weather was that of a warm summer night….
Ah, Summer in New England. It’s such a fleeting time.

CAN'T FORGET DR. YERKES!

CHAPTER 5
“DOCTOR YERKES!”

My psychiatrist, Dr. Raymond Yerkes, has been more than a great psychologist. He’s been a great friend. Ever since I started seeing him in the Putnam Center in Roxbury when I was a kid, he’s helped me out through all the 4 decades he’s been my doctor.
I first met him at the Putnam Center and we’d get together for talks about how I was doing. I told him some of the juicy details of growing up and what was going on. And I found those days with him a blessing.
He was there when I had significant losses in my family: my Uncle Joe(who died after being hit by a car in 1973), my Dad(when he died of mesothelioma in 1988), my nephew Ryan(who died of meningitis in 1996) and my Mom(who died of congestive heart failure in 2008). He helped me deal with the loss of my closest friends. And he was always there to encourage me to continue moving forward.
From the Putnam Center, I followed him to Beacon Street in Brookline, then to Andover(where he had 2 different offices over the 20 years he was there), and finally up to Newburyport, where he lives now. And believe me when I tell you this, traveling to my appointments with him have given me opportunities to experience life around New England.
After our appointments in Andover, for example, Mom and I would go up to New Hampshire where we would shop at Kmart in Salem. I enjoyed buying stuff without any sales tax. After our Putnam Center visits, Mom and I would go over to a nearby shopping mall and have a hamburger at a place called Kemp’s. And after my appointments in Newburyport, on days when the weather is fine, I spend the afternoon walking around the town and seeing what’s up.
Getting back to the Putnam Center, when Dr. Yerkes told me “it’s time to stop,” I’d go ballistic and go running around all over the center. I’d throw tables and chairs down, mess up the books and magazines….and on one occasion, I even woke up all the kids in the nursery school who would take a nap there.
Yes sir, if there’s a man who’s got a seat of honor in the better world, it’s Dr. Raymond Yerkes.

MY EARLY YEARS OF SCHOOLING!

CHAPTER 4.
“I COULDN’T FIT INTO THE SCHOOL.”

My first memories of schooling was going to kindergarten at Patrick Ahern School, which was up the street from me on Dorchester Avenue. We’d mostly sing songs, do crafts, dance around the maypole, anything the teacher thought up.
After we pledged allegiance to the flag, we’d so some singing starting with the National Anthem. Then we’d move to “3 Cheers for the Red, White and Blue,” after which everybody would do “hip hip horray” 3 times. After that, my memory drifts…
Depending on what time we’d begin our class, we’d sing either:
“Good morning! Good morning!
And a cup of good cheer!
Good morning! Good morning!
And A Happy New Year!”
Or:
“Good afternoon! Good afternoon!
Good afternoon today!”
Well, there’s another memory committed to paper. After a while of singing, we’d do crafts of different sorts. And we went home to watch TV. Growing up in Dorchester, it meant “Ultraman,” “Astro Boy,” “The Mischief Makers,” “Prince Planet,” “Colonel Bleep, “Q.T. Hush,” or “Clutch Cargo.” It was an amazing time to be a kid, since the art of children’s TV was perfect before I grew up. I was born too late for “Howdy Doody” and “Super Circus,” and too early for “Sesame Street,” which premiered in November of 1970. During this time, Mom and Dad tried to find programs that would fit my needs.
And it was in 1968 or 1969 that they found one for me-The League School in Newton. It was located on a hillside overlooking the town. The classes were small and we were able to work on the basics or reading, math, writing, spelling and some science. We had music during lunch, including one songs named “Let Everyone Clap Hands Like Me,” which would make me cry a lot.
One of my teachers named Lynne was a very kind and gentle teacher, except when someone got a test on math wrong. Then she’d mark an X, tear the paper up, and tell the offending teacher to “put your head down.”
And then we had a lady from the Phillippines(whose name I can’t remember), but one who was very friendly and helped us do our lessons very well. And of course, I loved the recess periods where we could run around and play in the fresh air. Although there were times when the high winds around the Newton hills made me feel scared.
Another scary time I had was when I almost got hit by a car(not once, but twice!). As Lynne and my class were walking back to school from a field trip, a car screeched in front of me and I was pulled back by Lynne back onto the sidewalk. “Richard, you almost got hit by a car!” she screamed. “Yes,” I said helplessly.
“And she had to hold the breaks down….what does stop mean?”
As she chewed me out, everybody was watching helplessly. I believe that they were like a crowd witnessing the execution of an innocent man. Many times in my life this scene would be repeated. Whenever I did something wrong-walking home from the YMCA without permission, painting a sweat shirt, etc.-people would stand around watching me as I was being chewed out.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but Lynne rebuffed me.
“Being sorry is for doing stupid things…now you have to hold the grown-up’s hand! It’s over!”
I had to be walked up with my hand being held by her. And as we neared the school I asked what time it was.
“It’s time you considered yourself lucky you weren’t being hit by a car!” Lynne screamed.
And as I entered the school and Lynne let my hand go, I burst into tears. I was crying my eyes out without restraint. I had been scared into crying that day. And for countless times, whenever I did these wrong things, that’s how it would end up.
Years later, when I told Dr. Yerkes, whom I’ll talk about in the next chapter, about the incident that day, he told me that he’d talked with Lynne and she said that if I had been hit by the car, she’d never have forgiven herself. I believe that the reason she did this was out of fear that I’d lose my life before it’d even begun.
I think it’s because of these incidents that I would be punished. And when I woke up the next morning, I would feel regret and fear. Even though I’d learned my lesson, there would still be the fact that I’d missed out on what I loved-watching TV, listening to the radio, or anything else.
It sucks, but that’s the way it is. And the morning after I’d come off punishment was a time of pain. Even though it was a new day, I would be dwelling on what I’d done. On one occasion, the morning after I’d been punished for walking home from the YMCA instead of staying on the Camp bus, I’d ask my Dad, “Am I still on punishment?”
I wonder if we still are….

Anyhow, looking back on that incident, I believe that if I’d been hit by that car, I wouldn’t be telling you this story today.
I left League School in 1971 to go to St. Coletta’s in Braintree. It was a Catholic school for special needs children run by the Cardinal Cushing Center. And believe me, that was a new experience: dressing up in a suit and clean clothes, going to Mass on a Friday morning, participating in the Special Olympics, it was one of the most amazing schools in the South Shore.
Of course, I didn’t like going to Mass on Fridays, because the priests sang the Doxology at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer, which caused me to burst into tears. And I had a bad habit of putting my fingers in my ears when the priest sang. One of the nuns there at the time, Sister Mary Roger, told me that putting my fingers in my ears was “love of the devil.” Well, I hate the devil; I just didn’t want to cry when I heard the priest sing.
Of course, Sister Mary Roger is to be commended because she helped me make my first Holy Communion at the school! And it’s the faith of communion that has kept me faithful to the Catholic Church. Up until that time, I was too afraid to go to Mass on Sundays; I’d spend it watching cartoons on TV all morning, going only once at Easter.
I owe it to Sister, because as tough as she was, she really helped me discover something that I’d been living only casually in my early years: the faith that is the Roman Catholic Church. Another nun I had whose name escapes me at the moment was just as strict. When I was having a string of bad behavior while at St. Coletta, I had to be put on punishment for a time. And one of the things that I had to tackle on my own was a course on the Lexicon(what you and I know as a dictionary).
But in time, I’d get the hang of it and enjoy the school.
Among my favorite times was going to Rindge Arena on Tuesday mornings, where we would spend the morning skating and getting ready for an ice show that we would put on for our parents in May of that year. However, in one year, I suffered a stomach ache before the show and couldn’t go on. Sitting there watching the spectacle really put a bad taste in my mouth.
I would get to take part, however, the following year, and it was a doozy of a time. Playing hockey, learning some figure moves, and having a time on the ice was a great thing that I looked forward to each Tuesday during the fall and winter months.
I also remember going with the school to a matinee performance of the local production of “Godspell!” It was a very moving and fun-filled experience seeing the gospel of St. Matthew put to music with songs like “Day By Day,” “On The Willows,” “You Are The Light Of The World,” “We Beseech Thee,” and of course, “All Good Things.” It was a wonderful experience that brought the house down.
And of course, in May of 1972, our school participated in the Special Olympics for the South Shore. It was a great joy to be involved in competiton with athletes from all over the South Shore. I won a bronze medal in the 50 yard dash and I felt excited being on the podium.
You know, their oath seems to say it all: if we can’t win, we want to be brave in the attempt. It was a marvelous thing to participate that day.