Celebrating Dorchester Day

As poetic Fate would have it, my last full day in Boston is Dorchester Day.  I had to be elsewhere much of the day but I caught the tail end of the parade since I live only a few streets from the end of the parade route (the length of Dot Ave).

My last full day in Boston is also the day that celebrates the part of this fair city that I have enjoyed the most.  I find this as fitting as it is accidental.  I really wasn't paying any attention this year.

As I drive down the Mass Pike tomorrow morning I'll being thinking of Dorchester as I cross the Allston line into Newton (I think it's Newton).  A Huzzah to Dot in it's 380th year!  I wish I could stick around for many more of them.

I kissed a girl

I kissed a girl.  She's really more of a woman.  Well, she's really more of an old woman.  The fact that I'm male and have kissed a few in my day (if I'm forced to blushingly admit) isn't particularly revelatory.  I doubt this report will go platinum, but here it is:

Old Widow McGrue was sitting on her front porch on Aukland Street looking rather glum as I was meandering my way to the Savin Hill T station.  Service has been reliable recently, running on time, so I wasn't rushing in a worry that I would miss a train.  I asked the Widow McGrue what ailed her.

"Today is my wedding anniversary," she said.  "Old Man McGrue and I would have been married 53 years today if he hadn't passed away in 1997."  I happen to know from previous conversations that the old man passed away on the job a few weeks away from retirement as a stevedore at the docks in Southie.  He was crushed to death under a pallet of bananas.  What a way to go.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asked.  "The worst part is that I haven't been kissed since my dear old man left me for a better world."

I walked up the front porch steps and planted a peck on the Widow's forehead.  "It's time to start counting again," I said.

I made my way to the T station.  The Alewife train was pulling in just as I got downstairs to the platform.

Dot manners

Dorchester gentlemen are known all over Boston for their savoir faire.  Sometimes though, some mealy mouthed schlub from another neighborhood shows up and does his best to spoil Dot's well earned reputation.  Good women know Dorchester men are the pillars upon which Boston is held high.  They make attractive mates not just for their good looks but for their virtuous dispositions.

So I was at the Harp and Bard this evening when some pie-eyed rake who had a few too many Bud Lights under his belt leered at one of his fellow patrons and commented, as a kind of introduction, "You have nice breasts."  His Hyde Park accent was unmistakable.  If you closed your eyes, you would picture a young man who may grow up to be mayor of this city once he learns his manners.

The TVs didn't suddenly switch to static, but the conversation around the bar did come to a standstill.   In the sudden hush, one of the old timers at the corner by the lottery ticket machine spoke up.  "Stop right there, chum," he commanded.  "There are ladies present, as you obviously know.  We expect you to behave accordingly."  The rake glared and the other older gents at the corner stood up and shifted on the balls of their feet.  "Apologize," the old timer commanded, "Apologize and make your way home.  We don't cotton to tomfoolery or tom catting around Savin Hill."

The malefactor mumbled his apology and stumbled out onto Dot Ave, presumably to hail a cab.  A delegation from the corner made their way to the young woman's bar stool.  Tom doffed his cap and said, "On behalf of all of us, ma'am and the reputation of good men in Dorchester and Hyde Park, heck the reputation of all the good men in Boston, I offer my most sincere apologies and I promise such a rude compliment will never again be heard here in this room. It is plain to all who can see that your beauty comes from your eyes."

Thoroughly embarrassed by all the attention, the young woman thanked the dignitaries and asked them to return to their seats.

A tip of the fedora to Percy Trout for today's illustration.

Why servicemen love Dorchester

Supporting the troops is a Dorchester tradition that goes back to the French and Indian War.  Dotted with American Legion, AmVets, and VFW posts, Dorchester is an oasis for those who serve in the armed forces.  In a neighborhood full of people who fight for right, those who employ disciplined, strategic violence to further the national interest are respected and admired.

A soldier, a sailor and a marine were out for a little R&R in Dorchester, with special emphasis on the second R.  It was a Sunday, so they went to the First Parish Church on Meeting House Hill for the 11:00 service.  Afterwards they walked down Hancock Street, down Pleasant Street and one block down Savin Hill Avenue.  A quick right on Dot Ave brought them to Shanti, Taste of India, where they enjoyed the seven-day lunch buffet; all you can eat for $7.99.  Some restaurants only offer lunch specials on weekdays.  Not Shanti.  That's not the Dorchester way.  Lunch is lunch and a deal is a deal and never shall the two be torn asunder.  This is one reason why service people like to visit Dorchester on liberty.

With both spiritual and metabolic needs met, these three compatriots were ready round out the experience with a bit of fun in order to call the day complete.  A short down Savin Hill Avenue took them to the Red Line and the Red Line took them to Ashmont Station.  At Ashmont they transferred to the Mattapan High Speed.  Careening between Peabody Square and Mattapan Square was a thrill ride like no other.  The three companions mugged for the cameras as they asked fellow passengers to take snapshots of them enjoying their day away from the cares and stress of active duty.

The day ended at 224 Boston Street, in Dorchester's Polish Triangle.  They enjoyed a contemporary American menu and drinks were on the house in appreciation for volunteer service given to protect democracy and the American way of life.  As one patron weepily said as he bought the servicemen a round, "If it weren't for guys like you, I wouldn't be able to have this whiskey sour tonight.  I'd be drinking a vodka sour served by some Commie bastard in league with Putin."

Perhaps.  One thing is for sure.  Dorchester appreciates the men and women who serve in our armed forces.  Those men and women in uniform return that appreciation.

Worms in the snow

It wasn't too cold but there was still snow on the ground yesterday as I was walking homeways down Tuttle Street.  Passing one house I noticed what appeared to be an unopened bag of sour gummi worms poking out of a snow pile.  It was the worms' neon colors that caught my eye.

I picked up the bag to verify that it was unopened.  I wasn't going to take them, I was just curious why they were there.  As I did so, a voice said, "Hey! Put that down!"  It was a child's voice, very commanding, but I was alone on the street.  Leprechaun?

"Put it down!" the voice repeated and I noticed it came from a window facing me that was cracked open.  The curtains were drawn.  "I was just looking," I told the window, "Why are these worms in the snow?"  The voice said, "I'm chilling them.  They're better that way."

I asked, "Don't you have a refrigerator?" and as I did the front door opened.  A woman glared at me while holding a broom with the business end held high, in swat position.  "Put the candy down and back away, Mister," she said.  I held up my hands and did as I was told.

"You just head on your way.  There's nothing for you here."  As I walked down the street I turned my head.  The lady of the house was standing in the snow where I had been and she was holding up the bag of candy.  "It's okay, Franklin," she said while facing the window, "He didn't hurt anything and I think these are just about right now."

Sheesh!  This was one of my kookiest encounters, even by the usual Dot standards.  Life goes on.

Times change

If we take an informal survey of the half-mile radius around JFK/UMASS station, we find the following communities intermixing:  Irish Americans, Polish Americans, Vietnamese Americans, English Americans (hello), Cape Verdean Americans, African Americans, Latin Americans.  All of these ethnic groups have lived side by side for varying amounts of time.  Alongside the native born and naturalized citizens are recent immigrants for the above places, as well as from many more places, on their way to attaining voting rights.

This polyglot mishmash is partly due to the proximity of the university.  Part of it is due to the vicinity of the T station.  Part of it is due to longstanding population trends, local, national, and international.  This part of Dorchester attracts foreigners, whether from outside America or from outside the Dot.

North Dorchester is uniquely situated.  The Red Line splits at JFK/UMASS, so it is served by double the trains as other stops further down the line.  There is ready access to I-93.  The beach is short walk away. Downtown Boston is a fifteen minute bicycle ride.  Brigham Circle is twenty minutes.  Housing, though not as affordable as further south, is very reasonable compared to just a bit further north or a bit further west along Mass. Ave.

If you figure three apartments for every thirty-five feet of street frontage and conservatively estimate three people per apartment, it is is clear that the population housed in Dorchester's warren of streets is dense.  It is as varied as it is both compact and sprawling.  People of different backgrounds, cultures and income brackets are stacked atop each other and side by side.  There are few fences but there are plenty of good neighbors.  Proximity breed bonhomie.

It is a vibrant place's nature to evolve; sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.  From what I can gather the  most recent sea change hereabouts occurred thirty or so years ago.  That seemed to be the tipping point, but it is completely notional.  Changes happened before and they certainly haven't stopped.  It is neither good nor bad, though regular readers know that my stance is that Dorchester, overall, is good.  These changes were not unique to Dorchester, nor to Boston.  The American fabric was rewoven in one direction: suburban.  Those threads show signs of fraying, but that is a subject for another digression.

Saint William Church at 1048 Dot Avenue has changed denominations.  Previously a longstanding Roman Catholic Church, so longstanding that the adjacent St. William Street is named for it, the Diocese of Boston put the property up for sale.  This was done for a number of reasons, but no doubt declining attendance was a factor in making the decision.

The sign out front now reads, Waymark Seventh Day Adventist Church.  The congregation is mostly black, with many parishioners hailing from the West Indies.  Many of them live in Roxbury, where their church was located before.  Now that their spiritual home base is on Dot Ave and they become more familiar with the surroundings, will it only be a matter of time before Columbia/Savin Hill becomes a Trinidadian Adventist enclave?

Both better and worse things have happened, depending on your point of view.  Embracing the inevitable arrival of newcomers makes a neighborhood strong.  No gated community, the Dot.  It both a part of a larger city and also a small town writ large.  Some parts of Boston resemble a time capsule, preserved and ossified as tourist attractions; a petrified city.

Dorchester's motto matches that of the state of Connecticut: Qui Transtulit Sustinet.  Who transplants sustains.  Who transplants in Dorchester thrives.  It is a land of opportunity where people mainly get along.

Dot by design

Anyone driving down Dot Ave the past few months knows that the Harp and Bard (1099 Dot Ave, at the corner of Savin Hill) has undergone a new look. The place looks downright sophisticated but that is a story for another day. The new logo is what interests me this morning.

The old Harp and Bard had a carved wooden sign looming over its roof. Carved into the wood were images of a harp and of a bard, arranged somewhat haphazardly. It was rustic and, while it had it's charm, its best days, perhaps, had come and gone. It would have been out of place atop the building's new facade.

Someone got to work and designed a new logo for the venerable H&B. The new logo is a classic example of ruler-and-compass graphic design, simple yet clever. It is refreshing in a world that is awash with computer generated graphics and special effects. By manipulating the letters, the designer found a plus sign (+) lodged naturally in the combination of H and B pressed tightly together. The plus replaces the ampersand. H&B becomes H+B. It isn't as elegant as the arrow in the Federal Express logo but it is just as serendipitous.

I'll try to remember to take a picture this morning to post later this evening. If you don't go down Dot Ave, this bit of flash is a nice example of simplicity and graphic clarity. Two things for with Dorchester, Mass. is well known.

The Lech Walesa Bridge

Motorists reaching the butt end of Morrissey Boulevard will find that construction is in progress on the Lech Walesa Bridge. It's understandable if you may not have heard of this bridge. It's not really as prominent a landmark as the Tobin and the Zakim Bridges. Its not as attractive as the footbridge in the Public Garden. In fact, the Lech Walesa Bridge isn't picturesque at all.

I doubt anyone has informed the former President of Poland, a renowned anti-communist and labor organizer, that Boston is home to a bridge named in his honor. It's nothing much to look at. In fact, if there weren't repairs going on, few people would know they were crossing the Lech Walesa Bridge. Because there is commonwealth-funded construction, there needs to be a sign describing what is done and what political authorities are responsible for this feat of civic engineering. The sign has raised awareness of Poland's post-glasnost politics.

Before the repaving, everyone thought of this as the overpass to get from Morrisey Blvd to that annoying Columbia Road rotary.

What majestic geographic feature does the Lech Walesa Bridge cross? Mount Vernon Street, a potholed, utilitarian, urban artery that connects the Harbor Point Shopping Center (a Shaw's supermarket and a liquor store) with the back side of the UMASS Boston Campus. The views from the bridge are as inspiring as its architechture. Function followed form in this case. The Lech Walesa Bridge is no Zakim. Nobody earned any overtime designing this gem. It is a featureless, by-the-numbers, concrete overpass. It was probably named Municipal Overpass #633 in the design stage but some bright legislator got the idea in his head that it would serve as a fitting tribute to the President of Poland.

On behalf of Dorchester as a whole, I would like to formally apologize to Lech Walesa. His life, its struggles, its successes and the effect he has had, not only in Poland but on the world community, deserves better than having his name plopped on any piece of infrastructure that happened to be unnamed at the time. It was only fate that this overpass didn't have a name attached to it. The unintended slight is nothing compared to the Mikhail Gorbachev Sewage Pumping Station located in Lower Mills. The Nelson Mandela Storm Grate on Van Winkle Street is another example of a poorly considered honor.

Dorchester is home to a Ronald Reagan Dog Walk, the Winston Churchill Aluminum Can Drop-Off Center, and the Buzz Aldrin Community Compost Heap. Dorchester knows how to recognize greatness. It's just a little fuzzy on how to commemorate it.

All roads lead to Dorchester

The whole day long an old sweet song keeps Dorchester on my mind. It's a song as old as the ocean, blowing in the breeze.

In Dorchester, arms reach out to me and eyes wink tenderly. In peaceful dreams I see sweet, Dorchester; that sweet, sweet Dorchester that whispers seductively through the trees that line the streets. In the parks after dark there's a melody that's more rhapsody than threnody. Dorchester is that part of Boston that is home to sweet, contented joys.

Oh, Dorchester! Dorchester... I've walked all over Boston and still no peace do I find. The wind blows like an old song and the wind brings Dorchester back to my mind. It's a sentimental feeling that leaves me kind of blue. The song the wind breathes, though, reminds me that all roads lead to you. Be it zephyr or bluster, caress or gust, the light touch of air reminds me I've got to reach Dorchester or bust.

The T may be running late but my heart has no room for hate. I'm in a Dorchester state of mind... a honeyed, nostalgic, sleepy-eyed, fuzzy and snuggly Dorchester state of mind. Oh my. I'm in a perfect Dorchester, ADORE-chester, more-better-Dorchester state of mind. Ah, yes.

Pianists tickle ivories. Dorchester tickles fancies. Footloose without preconceptions, Dorchester weighs on a dreamer's mind. It's an easy feeling to forget and forgetting Dorchester is cause for regret. Rather than sip at a bitter brew, Dorchester, I'm headed home to you.

BOGO: Buy one and get one...free

There is a sale going on in Dorchester, Mass. It's a real estate bonanza. It's not a fire sale and it's not a going out of business sale. It's not a holiday sale except in the sense that every day is Dorchester Day in Dorchester! It's good value honestly negotiated over the barrelhead, sold and bought with only the best intentions for sharing a sound investment. Everyone comes out a winner in Dorchester

You can buy a condo or a house or a loft in Dorchester and you get to own that condo or house or loft if you don't think about the bank that financed the purchase and still holds the deed. You also get something added on for free, an extra value, a bonus...you get a little something that makes the mortage less onerous... You get to live in Dorchester!

Not the Dorchester in England. The Dorchester in Massachusetts is the better Dorchester. That's why the Pilgrims sailed away here. It's the best part of Boston. You don't have to sail across the Atlantic. Just take the Red Line and have your downpayment. Happiness and prosperity will follow.

Living in Dorchester is a two-for-one deal: you get to live in the Dot and you get to be a Bostonian. This is the best of all possible worlds. Most Dorchester real estate brokers have a doctorate in optimism. Most Dorchesterites come upon their panglossian view of the world not through book philosophy but by the street lessons their surroundings impart. You can't live in Dorchester long without going through every following day with a punch drunk, Mona Lisa smile on your mug. Dorchester breeds contentment. Realtors don't lie. They don't even fib in the Dot.

Wise investors know they will get the best return on their dollar when they buy property in Dorchester. This isn't speculation. It's a proven, historical fact. Dorchester may be a neighborhood of booms and busts if you keep your ears and eyes open, but it is also home to a steady climb. Everything goes up in Dorchester. As a rising tide lifts all ships, Dorchester promotes the portfolio and personal growth of everyone it touches. Dorchester excelsior!

Buddy, you can spare a dime. When you buy a gumball in Dorchester, two fall out of the machine's slot. It's BOGO all the time in the Dot.

Vehicular homicide

Two rats were reported missing last night and I heard the news at C.F. Donovan's a half hour before last call. A fellow barfly stumbled in after spending the evening listening to his police scanner. He was breathless, but he managed to pant out to anyone who could hear his gasps, "Two rats are reported missing." Most of us stared into our beers or at the televisions. Laughter unconnected to the news rang out from the dining room. Just the usual boisterous bunch of roustabouts enjoying their cups and plates on a Friday night in Dorchester, Mass.

Old McNulty grumbled, "Two rats, who cares? They deserve what came to 'em"

Big Gut muttered into his shot glass, "Rats! I hate 'em. They give me the heebie jeebies so much that I get the blues. Sometimes I get the shakes just thinking about rats crawling all over me."

Swan Neck Malloy posed the rhetorical question, "Why's the BPD getting involved in missing rat cases? Don't they have enough to do?"

I wasn't too much interested at the time, but this morning I was making my rounds running bicycle errands around the neighborhood, picking up the next week's supply of sundries from area shops, when I peddled past the solution to both the disappearances. The answer: vehicular homicide. These rats had been run over with intent and the intention was that their remains wouldn't be identifiable after the deed was done. Does one rat look like another? These two are obviously different.

I admit, I don't know the rats' names or their original addresses. I suspect they will be missed by someone. That's why their absence was phoned in. I saw one on Elton Street and I saw the other on Savin Hill Avenue.

Witnessing the aftermath of the carnage, I admit I felt a little sad for the little rat babies that will be missing a parent. Being run over is no way to die, ask any bicyclist or pedestrian. Better to die in bed at peace, unless you are a viking. Dorchester knows its share of mayhem and the smallest crimes are comitted in the dead of night. Because it happens after dark and the absence is negligably noticed, doesn't mean a thread of the community's fabric hasn't frayed irrepairably loose. Some basement will be one less rat today. Who will takes its place? For all I know these were honorable rats who caused nobody any trouble beyond the drivers who couldn't bother to swerve.

A corpse is a terrible thing to contemplate.

Some drink champagne

Some drink champagne and some die of thirst. Better bubbles down your gullet than gall.

There is nothing wrong with monomania as long as it brings you joy. While I have not always been delighted by Boston, especially in winter and during prolonged rainy, summer weeks when the temperatures hover in the sixties instead of the more summery 80+plus degrees Fahrenheit, I am quite content to live in Dorchester. The details that unfold as I pass along the now familiar streets day after day continue to pique and satisfy my curiosity. I am glad to be neighbors with the people with whom I gratefully share this neighborhood, full of foibles and friendliness and honesty and hokum on all our parts. I've never had a bad day in Dorchester, though I've had my share of disappointments within the rest of Boston's city limits.

I haven't seen a lot of champagne bottles uncorked in the Dot. I've seen more pint glasses of Bud Light being hoisted in toasts and then drained. Better bubbles down your gullet than gall. I've seen some bitterness, but a swallowful of beer makes the medicine go down and all in all, life seems to be good for the people who spend theirs in Dorchester. Complaints? I've heard a few and they are enough to mention, but now is not the time. Coming home to Dorchester after the rat race through a dog-eat-dog day downtown doesn't put one in the mind for complaining. It is time to relax. Out of Dorchester endlessly rocking on the shores of Dorchester Bay, the surf laps the shore with a sussuruss that hushes frayed nerves and the Bay's breeze is a rum that is balm for an aching head.

Not every sourpuss will turn his or her frown upside down, but it's easier to do so in Dorchester. It's why people move here. It's why people stay. It's why I've stayed I don't regret it a lick. DBC is what they say around here: Dorchester By Choice. Some natives think that by birth is better. I can't really comment on that but I am glad I settled here.

Hope for the best, expect the worst. That worst hasn't come to Dorchester yet. I don't see any signs it will.

A tip of the fedora to Mel Brooks, James Lileks, Mary Poppins, Sinatra and Walt Whitman for providing all the phrases I've recalled and appropriated to write this essay.

A most honestest hero

Truth, justice and the Dorchester way. What is the Dorchester way, exactly? We met "Tubby" Tunlum in his back yard this day after the Fourth of July and he was carrying around a metal garbage can lid painted with a red and white striped target and, instead of a star in its center, a rendition of the all-but-defunct Dorchester seal. You may have seen it. It's a heraldic shield with a schoolhouse and a farmhouse and the Blue Hills in the distance. "What are you supposed to be, Tubby?" I asked.

"I'm Captain Dorchester," he answered while puffing out his chest not quite as far as his belly. "I stand for truth, justice and the Dorchester way! Beware evildoers!"

He was wearing just shorts and a plain tee shirt as well as carrying his shield, not a full superhero uniform. He wasn't wearing a mask to hide his identity. "What's the Dorchester way, exactly?" I inquired.

Tubby struck a pose and flashed his home made shield in my direction as if I were about to fire on him. "It's the right to sit on your front porch unmolested," he said, "It's also the right to be served Smithwick's on tap anywhere you go. And shepherd's pie too. It's the right to buy Asian vegetables at your corner grocer if you choose and the right to speak any language you want to speak at home or on the streets. It's standing up to ignorance and prejudice with a kind of ignorance and prejudice that's better than the kind that tries to beat you down and make you feel like a crumb. Dot pride is an ennobling pride that includes room for everybody. Long live the Dot!" He stuck another pose after pretending to fight off some assailants.

"What flag do you fight for Captain Dorchester?"

"The Star-Spangled Banner is my flag," Tubby replied. "That's my first love. My second is the flag of Dorchester, where I grew up and where the most honestest people on earth need defending. After that, it's the Boston flag and after that its the Massachusetts flag on which the Indian holds his arrow point down in peace." He was serious.

"Is there a Dorchester flag?" I asked.

"I'm working on a prototype right now in my bedroom. It is a Red 'D' on a field of blue. The D is shaped like the Sox B. When I get my mom to sew it, we'll fly it in front of our three-decker with a spotlight on it at night."

Well, graphically, it beats a schoolhouse, a farmhouse and the Blue Hills in the distance.

The Dot's got your goat

A dead goat washed up on the shore of Savin Hill Beach and nobody noticed except a few beach combers and dog walkers. Savin Hill Beach, which isn't much more than a sandy boat launch off to the side of the northbound lanes of Morrissey Boulevard, doesn't attract a lot sunbathers or tourist traffic. Manicured and well maintained Malibu Beach on the opposite side of Morrissey's breakdown lanes, is another matter altogether.

Malibu Beach is connected to Dorchester Bay, and Savin Hill Beach, by a narrow inlet that lets yachts into the Dorchester Yacht Club through a drawbridge that is the bane of commuters. The bridge opens infrequently, but when it does, traffic backs up to Andrew Square to the north and Adams Street Village to the south while sporting types navigate their vessels through the narrow channel. The bridge is an arched one and only the area under the middle span has been dredged deeply enough to accommodate the draught of seagoing vessels. The spaces under the other, adjacent arches have silted in and at low tide you can walk from Malibu Beach to Savin Hill Beach without getting your feet wet if you ignore the signs telling you not to attempt it.

The dead goat, which had a brown and white spotted coat, horns about three inches long, and a lolling tongue swollen by being submerged in seawater for a long time, had landed on Savin Hill Beach close to the bridge. When the tide came in, it rushed under the bridge that connects one side of Morrisey Boulevard to the other and it carried the corpse along with it. A dead goat floated into Malibu Bay and eventually made its way to the opposite shore.

There is a ball field, a boardwalk and a playground at Malibu Beach. To reach there from points inland, you take Playstead Street. The beach and its surrounding parkland is a popular place for families to gather. Those families, naturally, contain children of various ages.

I was sitting on a bench along the boardwalk next to the bubbler that hits everyone who tries to drink from it in the crotch when I heard a tyke yell out, "A goat is swimming!" I looked up and it didn't appear that the goat was even trying to master a dog paddle. These were lackadasiacal strokes. This was a dead goat's float. A group of teenagers gathered on shore and started chanting, "Dead goat...dead goat..." and they pelted it with pebbles and dead periwinkles. It was a gloomy day to begin with but this wasn't the cheerless scene I expected when I decided to relax at Malibu Beach for the afternoon.

A man walking his schnauzer passed me and looked in the water's direction. "Yeah," he said to no one in particular, "That's the dead goat that was on the other side of Morrissey this morning." How long had this goat been drifting along the tides? Where did it come from? It's not every day a dead goat lands in Dorchester, Mass.

Police cars and firetrucks arrived, sirens blaring to clear the way to reach this emergency, and the body was bagged and tagged and hauled off to whatever animal mortuary Boston maintains for situations such as these. Once the commotion had died down, a little girl said, "That goat didn't look very happy. I wonder what his name was."

A teenager within earshot offered, "His name was Billy." I'm not so sure the goat was a he. She may have been named Nanny. I guess no one will know until the coroner makes a positive ID.

Love over money

I was pedalling through the intersection of Dot Ave and Columbia Road today when I saw an off beat panhandler cajoling stopped traffic with a unique sign. He carried a placard of cardboard that read only "Kiss Me." No sob story, no explanation of why he needed a kiss instead of spare change, no photo of his children, just two words: "Kiss Me" written with a blue Sharpie on the blank side of a Budweiser case.

He approached each car stopped at the traffic light and leaned in, with his sign prominently held over his heart. At some cars, he pressed his mug with pursed lips against the rolled up glass. If he approached a car with the driver's window rolled down, he did it cautiously, but in the end he pursed his lips to offer a smooch.

I had to stop and watch. I didn't see any takers for his offer. He wasn't the usual grizzled panhandler with full, dirty beard and dirty sweatshirt who usually occupies this intersection. Neither was he a Hollywood-style model. He was just a regular looking guy with a clear complexion dressed in tee shirt and jeans looking for a kiss. I sat on the curb for ten or fifteen minutes and I didn't see him get what he was asking for. Maybe he should have asked for change. Money is easier to part with, apparently.

A new pizzeria is born

If you live in Boston you are used to pizzeria flyers tucked into your front door. They all seem to use the same format from the same printer with the same layout, the same fonts and the same clip art. I found one of these today in my front door but the front fold was a little different. It wasn't enough to separate it from the pack that arrives over the course of a month, but I tend to read these from front to back closely because I have little else to do. My mail arrives in the afternoon and I've already spent an hour in the morning reading the Wall Street Journal and ten minutes in the morning reading the Boston Globe, so by day's end I'm ready to use my reading skills again and the mail is about all I have.

The logo on this flyer was a bit different. It wasn't set in white space floating above a picture of a choice pizza pie. It was cemented over a photo of a hamburger bun, some wraps full of indistinguishable filling, two disks that looked like pizzas, and assorted whole vegetables. The shop's address is at 856 Dorchester Avenue.

The shop's name is Avenue Grille & Pizza. I looked over the literature and I wondered, "Do I know this place? It's close by judging from the address." Click...click...click...the pieces fell into place: Avenue Grille... Great Ceasar's ghost!...and Pizzeria?

The Avenue Grille was a sit-down restaurant where locals gathered, that offered sandwiches as well as some dishes that required more preparation served on white china plates with a glass of wine or a cocktail. The Avenue Grille didn't have the best food but it did have a restaurant feel when you sat in its dark wood dining room. I knew it was under new management, but not that they were turning a bistro into a pizza joint. Maybe Dorchester does need more pizza joints. Maybe the hunger for pizza cannot be satisfied with pizzerias every half mile or so. 856 Dot Ave is almost equidistant between Pantry Pizza and Andrew Pizza. Maybe some people don't like to walk.

We hadn't been to the old Avenue Grille for a while. It is on the opposite side of Columbia Road from where we live. It's not a wide road, but it is a boundary where, those of us to the south like to think. separates the men from the boys. Maybe we should have crossed that boundary more often. Maybe we will now that there's a new pizzeria open for business. I'll have to give it a try.

Happy people

Happy people make life nicer, even on a gloomy day, even in a neighborhood that doesn't have a reputation for generating good news. Happy people have a secret they are willing to share: when you smile, the world smiles with you.

The Ryan Playground on Dot Ave was a happy place this afternoon. Some neighborhood teens, pleased to escape from school due to the local holiday, had wheeled a portable basketball hoop to the park and they were playing a few sets of pick-up. It was all good sport and clean fun, no machismo or braggadocio, no foul language and plenty of fair play. The wind off Dorchester Bay rippled their tee shirts with hints of last month's abominable weather while they worked themselves into a sweat, passing and feinting, guarding and dribbling.

Over on the swing set, tots tried to touch the clouds with the bottoms of their tennies. The slide was well polished by tiny backsides. Mothers and nannies knit on the benches while their charges squealed between the fences that separate the Ryan Playground's oasis from the busy streets that surround it.

Retired bricklayer "Pudgy" Murphy won a large scratch-off prize while sitting at the bar at Tom English's Tavern. He bought a round for the house. He said, "There's no point in having wealth if you can't spread it around." He was smiling when he said it. Everyone else was too.

Ticket to ride

The realtor stared at me across her desk. "You knew the ride before you bought the ticket, didn't you?" she asked. I answered that I did but I wasn't prepared for the heart-stopping thrills the destination had in store. "Due diligence is the client's responsibility," she replied, "It's not ours. We represented your apartment in Savin Hill as factually as we could under the circumstances."


I'm not complaining. Dorchester is more than I could have expected and more than that besides. The Red Line trains that run through my back yard rock me to sleep and the rattle of my dishes every few minutes has become a lullaby. We spent the night in Roslindale recently and the lack of rumbling, elevated subway cars until 1:00 AM and after 5:00 AM gave my companion and I a fitful sleep. We couldn't tell what time it was. The whole night was a perpetual 3:00 in the morning when nothing is going on in Boston. The T, like roosters or morning songbirds, is a mark on our day's yardstick. Without the the trains, what time is it?

I wasn't there to negotiate my rent but to pay it. In fact, I would be willing to pay a hundred dollars more a month. Lucky are the hapless souls who make Dorchester their home. A big city writ in lower case cursive, where small amenities and conveniences are kept amenable and convenient; all Dorchester's streetscape is a stage and a haven, a honey pot and a larder, a reservoir of good will and fresh air. Nothing stinks in Dorchester except its reputation and that is only because its reputation is moldy. Not enough people visit to provide fresh insights and reportage on developments in the Dot.

If you are not interested in Dorchester, it is just as well. Your neglect keeps everything affordable. I would hate to see the Harp and Bard be bought out by Chili's or the Tom English's become a TGIFridays or Gene & Paul's Market become a subsidiary of Stop & Shop. We already have a Shaw's within walking distance on Morrisey Boulevard.

Dial D for deadly dog fighting

The Boston Globe reports on a dog-fighting arena housed in a first floor apartment on Raven Street in Dorchester. Raven Street is a short, dead end lane off Crescent Avenue in the corner of N'orchester a short stroll from the JFK/UMASS station on the Red Line. It is amazing what things are tucked away in the crannies of a big city. Note that the arena was located in the first floor apartment. You think you have noisy neighbors downstairs?

Dog fighting used to be a fairly common amusement in Boston, along with cock fighting and bear baiting. Bull fights are still popular a few thousand miles southwest of the Boston border and a few thousand miles across the Atlanic on the Iberian peninsula. Overall, blood sports have fallen out of fashion in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Boxing is still respected in Boston and the fine art of pugilism has its practitioners and admirers. When a boxer uses his teeth instead of his fists, the public starts to loose its appetite for one-on-one combat, however. Remember what happened to Mike Tyson's reputation. People fighting each other, man-to-man, mano-a-mano, are acceptable for wagering. Dogs? Not in this civilized city, buddy. We have a society that prevents cruelty to animals.

The Ryan Playground is right around the corner from Raven Street, on Dot Ave between Crescent Ave and Romsey Street. You won't find boxing or dog fights there. The sports run more along the lines of dominoes, pinochle, and mah jong. Even then, tempers run high and violence can break out.

Even dog racing is illegal in Massachusetts now. The proprietors of the Raven Street venue must have known they were breaking the law. All future exhibitions of canine combat are presumed cancelled until further notice.

Making the Dot sweeter

I was enjoying the beautiful weather this morning by taking a constitutional walk around Savin Hill, both the neighborhood and the summit of the hill itself. I entered Savin Hill Park by way of Rockmere Street and strolled between the puddingstone boulders. Savin Hill was originally called Rock Hill.

I came across young Julia Ward who was planting something in Savin Hill's rocky soil. I asked what she was up to. "Ma says its going to rain this afternoon so I thought today would be a good day to try an experiment," she said.

She was armed with a soup spoon and an empty package of assorted fruit-flavored Mentos, the chewy mint from the Netherlands. "I heard my folks talking the other night and they were saying how glad they are to live in Dorchester, how everything has been so nice since we've moved here. My Pa said that the only thing that could make Dorchester sweeter is if Mentos grew on trees. I'm trying to make the Dot nicer for Pa."

It seemed like a noble plan so I didn't bother discussing basic biology. Instead, I wished her good luck. Who am I to judge? Good things grow in Dorchester. We all know Clapp pears are the best pears money can buy when you can find them. I've heard rumors about a pork chop tree that supposedly grows in Dorchester Park.

True to Mrs. Ward's word, it has been raining since early this afternoon and it promises to continue through the night. If Julia's Mentos don't melt, they just might take root. Want to start your own garden? Here's a chance to get enough seeds to start a farm...