Dorchester is a lady. She may be a little bit brawny and bloated, but she is yet elegant, like a ballerina in work boots, a debutante who made her debut in 1630 and married in 1870, a dowager still full of spunk and spitfire. Dorchester, Mass. isn't a widow and or a frustrated wife nor a divorcee, Dorchester is a part of Boston, Mass., the biggest and best part of the city,and any one will agree, and a willing helpmate. Though she's put on a few pounds and her conversation can seem a bit dotty and meandering at times, Dorchester still keeps her wits and her grit. You can't keep a good neighborhood down for long.
A voluptuous temptress, Dorchester, Mass. is skilled in the ways of love and adoration. Fecund and suspended off the body of Boston like a pregnant belly, Dorchester is plump with feminine wiles, emotional wisdom, intuition, and indirect communication skills. In polyglot Dorchester, body language is the lingua franca. Affirmative nods, handshakes, and friendly waves are the most common words spoken. Fourth most common is the knowing wink. After that, the sidelong glance that takes disapproving measure of bad behavior.
No drudge or charwoman, this Dorchester, she works hard nonetheless, thanklessly and thankful for her chance to add to the harlequin, parti-colored tapestry that is Boston, the Athens of America. If Boston is akin to Athens, Dorchester is a match to Thessaly. Scored knuckes, chapped hands, sore elbows, calloused knees and a splitting headache to match, Dorchester gives and gives its best. Enduring legends cut their teeth and make their mark in Dorchester's warren. There are no monsters, no minotaur, no centaurs. A senator was born here. Any monsters are those conjured by the overactive imaginations of people unfamiliar with Dorchester's civil manners. No one eats children in Dorchester, raising children to be responsible citizens is the neighborhood's mission.
Have you been to Dorchester much? Even if you've only been once it takes nerves of steel to resist its charms. Stronger men than you have been sucked into Dorchester's vortex and come out the other side better for it. If you are a woman, have you experienced Dorchester? If you have, you know what it is like to be in the company of supportive friends, a sorority of camaraderie, you and the Dot. Dorchester is the best friend you never had...until now. Nothing bad happens in Dorchester except bad decisions and then you have no one to blame but yourself. You can't blame Dorchester, a neighborhood of milk and cereal and meats cooked so thoroughly there's no chance of contracting salmonella.
Dorchester's enthusiasm is infectious. Once bitten, not a bit shy. Once bitten by the Dorchester bug, it gets under your skin. Though Dorchester is big it can lodge like a chigger producing an invisible itch that demands scratching. The only cure: a return visit. The permanent cure: becoming a Dorchesterite in deed as well as sympathy. Dorchester has experienced a rash of new home buyers descending on properties that a decade ago no one would give a second look. People look twice at Dorchester now. They do double takes and crane their necks as they pass her curves. Dorchester has a hamburger and fries to go with her shake.
A bicyclist passed me on Dot Ave this evening. He was whistling a familiar tune as he pedaled past the Blarney Stone. His phrasing mimicked Sinatra, justly so. The song was "I've Got You Under My Skin."
Come on you fool, you've got to give into the Dot. This lady is no tramp.