Sippican Cottage has started to recycle old columns from years ago. Ten years at least I’d guess. Complete with the old comments.
I’d forgotten about this one.
John The River said…
Yes, parts of Boston are that dangerous. After all it’s another long-time Democratically controlled urban “paradise”. I’m very familiar with that station, never stopped there but I’ve seen it. It’s not that far from the spot where an Irish exchange student was hit in the head by a rock thrown by a teenager, he threw it because she was white and looked like the people from South Boston (Southie, think Whitey Bulger) who he hated, and who hated him right back. BTW, the Irish lass died.
As an Telephone worker, in the seventies, I had to work in that part of town. During the day, we all refused to go there at night. Many parts of Roxbury, which is what that section of the City of Boston is named, are quite nice with parks and beautifully designed townhouses built by Jewish and Irish families a century ago. The Irish and the rest moved to the North and South Shores, the suburbs. The neighborhoods and the brownstone and granite houses are not so well maintained now.
One day I was in Roxbury servicing a phone system at a small business. Going in I had dumped the tools out of the truck except my tool belt and some service parts and replacement sets. After going inside and finding the problem, I went back to the truck for a part. As I was bend over going through the parts bin I heard someone behind me. I turned around and found that I was surrounded by neighborhood kids. Most of them were five or six years old. They were all looking at me with enormous brown eyes. The oldest, ten maybe, said to me that their mother had instructed them to come back from the park at a certain time, but not to cross Seaver Street without an adult accompanying them. Without further ado or conversation, one of the children took my left hand (well two of my fingers) and another one took my right hand. Well, what could I do? We crossed the street. All the children stopped and carefully looked left then right and then we crossed. On the other side they let go of my hand, they all (in unison) said “Thank You” and walked away.
Why do children have to grow up? In eight or ten years would any of them be throwing rocks at a white face topped with red hair. Like mine.
I haven’t thought about that day in a very long time.