It is mid-March and Spring is making progress from misery toward a blossom of crocuses and daffodils in Dorchester. Dot Ave's cherry trees and magnolias will soon be in full bloom. The ground is firm but not solid enough to stop flowers from raising thier heads. The breeze of Dorchester Bay smells clean. It blows with a hint of April freshness.
Dorchester, Boston's best neighborhood, is bounded on one side by a bay made up of pure ocean water that laps the shore like a baby nuzzling and licking a teat. The Neponset River leaks accumulated nutrients into Dorchester Bay. The fish are feisty. The shellfish are meaty. Crabs are particulary robust and hearty. Seals who wander into Dorchester Bay eat like starved Vikings at a smorgasbord and they depart fattened and satisfied, ready to take on the challenges other, stingier harbors have to offer.
A curious anatomical fact: amniotic fluid has the same density as seawater. We are all nourished for nine months in a bath that mimics the ocean. Unlike Hyde Park, Roxbury, West Roxbury, Allston or Brighton, Dorchester stays in touch with the source of all evolutionary life, that richest of breeding grounds, the broad, deep breast of the sea.
Dorchester is home to the fruit of the womb. This statement applies to the citizens as well as to the formerly freestanding town itself. You have to be tough and street smart, savvy, cagey, and canny, to make your mark in the Dot. An individual needs to be able to steer through shallow, treacherous currents the way Dorchester itself has had to navigate unmappable shoals and rough spots in order to be the best part of Boston that it undeniably is.
Some people are lucky enough to be born in Dorchester and they have tenacity and grit in their genes. Others come here by choice. They gather the Dot's best attributes by osmosis after constant exposure to Dorchester's trace elements. The slag gets pounded and smelted away from the ore. After enough beatings, they shine with a polish that rivals the gleams off the pot of gold at a rainbow's end.
Live in Dorchester a year and you will be content. Live here longer and you become more ecstatic, more proud, and more assured with every passing day. You can't help but inhale promise when you spend time in Dorchester. The flavor of hope will stick to your ribs.
Balaenius Rex!
Showing posts with label allston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allston. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Cherry Pie
Subject: Farrah Mint. Age: 27. Height: 65". Weight: 137 lbs in full gear including full face helmet. Mount: Silver 2004 Kymco People 150.
When Farrah Mint was inducted into the Peppermint Squad in the spring of 2006, the other members bestowed a fitting code name on her. Ms. Mint first encountered the squad while they were patrolling Blue Hill Avenue ranking burrito shops. Intrigued by the pack of motor scooters steering in tight formation, Ms. Mint pulled her People 150 into the rear of the line and followed to el Munchito Express on the corner of Morton Street. Introductions were made and after a period of probation and indoctrination, Ms. Mint was invited to join this jolly fellowship.
Ms. Mint is a militant, lesbian feminist. Her scooter is festooned with stickers that trumpet her interests, proclivities and beliefs. She doesn't live in Dorchester. Her home is in the Allston section of Boston, on the other side of the city. When she attends Peppermint Squad rallies she usually has a companion holding on tightly and it is rarely the same companion twice. Farrah Mint likes the company of students from the Berklee Music School. She stops by Berklee's neighborhood and entices new acquaintances when en route to Peppermint Squad hijinx. She uses the lure of motorscootering adventure as bait and drives like a madwoman so that her passengers have to squeeze the driver with all their might. Haven't we all done this more than once?
In Dorchester, while on official squad business, Farrah Mint is known as Cherrypicker. The name is proudly embroidered on her jacket.
One day at the squadhouse, Peanut Jones was once again reapainting the legshield of his little Metropolitan. Cherrypicker pulled into the bay door, kicked down her stand, shed her helmet and coughed at the fumes from Peanut's spray can. "Peanut," she said, "You paint that bike every day. That paint will kill you like the chemicals killed Duane Hanson. I've got a better idea for you."
Peanut stopped spraying. He was a little woozy from the fumes.
Cherrypicker popped her seat and rummaged in the trunk underneath. She said, "I've been thinking. You know how I've got my bike covered with stickers? I get a scratch and I put a sticker over it. You can do the same thing and still keep your color scheme." She pulled a roll of packing tape out of her trunk and said, "Voila! Your problems are solved."
Peanut said, "When I paint, I feel like an artist."
Cherrypicker scoffed, "Look at this bike. You're no artist, Peanut Jones. Besides, I stole this roll of tape from the FedEx store. Think of how much money you'll save."
Peanut was woozy but not too woozy to save a few bucks. His scooter has slowly been mummified with unispiring, brown packing tape since that day.
When Farrah Mint was inducted into the Peppermint Squad in the spring of 2006, the other members bestowed a fitting code name on her. Ms. Mint first encountered the squad while they were patrolling Blue Hill Avenue ranking burrito shops. Intrigued by the pack of motor scooters steering in tight formation, Ms. Mint pulled her People 150 into the rear of the line and followed to el Munchito Express on the corner of Morton Street. Introductions were made and after a period of probation and indoctrination, Ms. Mint was invited to join this jolly fellowship.
Ms. Mint is a militant, lesbian feminist. Her scooter is festooned with stickers that trumpet her interests, proclivities and beliefs. She doesn't live in Dorchester. Her home is in the Allston section of Boston, on the other side of the city. When she attends Peppermint Squad rallies she usually has a companion holding on tightly and it is rarely the same companion twice. Farrah Mint likes the company of students from the Berklee Music School. She stops by Berklee's neighborhood and entices new acquaintances when en route to Peppermint Squad hijinx. She uses the lure of motorscootering adventure as bait and drives like a madwoman so that her passengers have to squeeze the driver with all their might. Haven't we all done this more than once?
In Dorchester, while on official squad business, Farrah Mint is known as Cherrypicker. The name is proudly embroidered on her jacket.
One day at the squadhouse, Peanut Jones was once again reapainting the legshield of his little Metropolitan. Cherrypicker pulled into the bay door, kicked down her stand, shed her helmet and coughed at the fumes from Peanut's spray can. "Peanut," she said, "You paint that bike every day. That paint will kill you like the chemicals killed Duane Hanson. I've got a better idea for you."
Peanut stopped spraying. He was a little woozy from the fumes.
Cherrypicker popped her seat and rummaged in the trunk underneath. She said, "I've been thinking. You know how I've got my bike covered with stickers? I get a scratch and I put a sticker over it. You can do the same thing and still keep your color scheme." She pulled a roll of packing tape out of her trunk and said, "Voila! Your problems are solved."
Peanut said, "When I paint, I feel like an artist."
Cherrypicker scoffed, "Look at this bike. You're no artist, Peanut Jones. Besides, I stole this roll of tape from the FedEx store. Think of how much money you'll save."
Peanut was woozy but not too woozy to save a few bucks. His scooter has slowly been mummified with unispiring, brown packing tape since that day.
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