Magazine Street, New Orleans

Magazine Street.  For the life of me I can't remember what they sell.

I was walking down Magazine Street this afternoon and I noticed an Up in Smoke outlet on the Jackson Avenue intersection.  I hadn't noticed it before.  I am interested in all kinds of smoking products, whether I am interested in smoking them or not.  I just find it interesting that this niche market exists after all the anti-smoking hullaballoo I am used to in New England.  Did you know that in Boston, pharmacies cannot sell tobacco products?  Not only is smoking forbidden indoors, in workplaces, in restaurants, and in bars, it is also forbidden on the outdoor patios of said places.  It makes for an interesting culture as people get up, leave their drinks temporarily behind (no drinking on the street in Boston) and walk half a block to have a cigarette.  The city claims this is good for business.  I have no opinion pro or con but I am happier in New Orleans whether I smoke or not.  Live and let live.

While I doubt Up in Smoke carries the kinds of pipes I'm interested in, the shop is worth an investigation just to make sure.

Anyhow, I don't know if this head shop just opened or if it has been there the whole three and a half months I've been passing the storefront since I've moved here.  That's the thing about New Orleans: the city is so thick with details that it takes repeated exposure for me to notice them all.  This isn't true of just Magazine Street; it is every street.

When I posted the photo above of the next sign on our tour down Magazine Street, I couldn't remember what was in the window.  I still can't though I obviously walked by it today.  I was too busy looking in the Aidan Gill window next door.  See?  This is what New Orleans does.  It captivates your imagine with one facet and then reveals another when you aren't paying attention.  Luckily I have another errand to run in the neighborhood tomorrow.

Cheers,
WK
 

Commonwealth Avenue

I've always thought this is one of the more beautiful streets in Boston.  For those who don't know, it has a park running down the middle that is full of trees, benches and statuary.  The houses on either side are town houses, row after crenellated row.  The fronts follow a pattern of advancing and recessing rooms in regular order.

I walked the South End linear park between the Mass Ave T station and Back Bay station.  It's a nice winding, leafy route and while the brick townhouses along it aren't the best examples of South End charm, they is nothing wrong with the atmosphere.  At Back Bay station, we cut over to Commonwealth Ave, through Copley Square in front of the Library, and hit Commonwealth where the firefighters' memorial is.

Quiz:  What would the park in the middle of Commonwealth Avenue be called in New Orleans?
A:  Neutral Ground.

You never forget your first day

You never forget your first day in Dorchester, unless you were born here.  If that's the case, your memory may be a bit fuzzy.  There was a lot going on and not much personal back story for comparison.

My first day in Dorchester was in late spring, the tail end of March or the beginning of April.  The trees hadn't yet bloomed.  They waited for my second visit to shower confetti of cherry blossom and magnolia petals.

My boon companion and I walked down Dot Ave from Savin Hill to Ashmont.  We then took Talbot Ave to Blue Hill Avenue.  From that intersection, we walked to Columbia Road and then onwards around the bend to Dot Ave again.  It took about three and a half hours to navigate that oblong route.  We stopped and rested only once, on some steps on Columbia Road.  Afterward, I remarked that my companion must have been hungry with all that walking in the middle of the day and not stopping for lunch or even a snack.  "I was in love," she replied.

Make that double for me.

The T is not a trash can

Monday, February 1, 2010, 1:00 PM on the E Line between Northeastern and Brigham Circle, Car # 3806B...

An outbound trolley had just passed as I my way to the Northeastern platform.  I moved to sit down an enjoy my magazine while I waited for the next train but as I turned my head I saw it exit the tunnel headed my way.  I didn't make it to the head of the platform where the sign says "First Car Stops Here" but the driver saw I was the only person around so he stopped right in front of me.

One passenger disembarked and a young lady ran up behind me from across the street.  "After you," I said.  Ladies first, after all.

The young lady took the first seat available but I headed down the car a bit, toward the second set of doors.  The backwards facing single seat on the port side was empty and I headed for it, but on my way down the stairs I was struck that this was a remarkably dirty train.

I tried to read my magazine (the current New Yorker!) but I couldn't concentrate.  I kept being distracted by the disheveled surroundings.  I took out my notebook and this is what I recorded:

Tattered and scattered pages of the Metro newspaper like a hamster would leave behind if a hamster were the size of a person....sand and road salt everywhere...crumbs in three consistencies, five colors and six shades...one Hershey's Dark chocolate bar wrapper...one twisted rope of an individual serving Lay's potato chip bag (original flavor)...a Starbucks cup upside down and drooling light brown ichor...a phone card...a shred of cherry flavored Chap Stick wrapper...a golf pencil...a sheaf of lottery tickets uncurling on a bed of three discarded, scratched scratch-offs...wadded up tissues stained and held into their haphazard origami by earth toned, natural glues....a crumbled Chipotle Grill bag...a trail of Chipotle Grill napkins that led from the bag to the door....

The train arrived at Brigham Circle and I had to stop writing.  I don't blame the MBTA for this state of affairs at this time of day.  I'm looking at you, fellow citizen.  Don't be a litterbug.

Both ends of Dudley

I travel from the beginning to the end of Dudley Street twice every day in warm weather.  During the winter I take the T at double the time unless, on a day like last Monday, the weather is unseasonable.  Dudley Street stretches between Upham's Corner and Dudley Square, part of Dorchester and part of Roxbury, both parts of Boston proper.

You cannot think about modern Boston without thinking of Dot and Roxbury.  Do they call Roxbury Rox?  Does it have a congenial nickname?  All I know is that both neighborhoods share a common, fluid boundary and parts of one may be part of the other and vice versa and forever shall the inhabitants disagree but they will do it amicably.

The Both Ends of Dudley blog, a likeminded enterprise without our excessive doses of folderol and pugnaciousness, based in Roxbury rather than Dorchester reports on a Beehive expansion that got the kabosh.  Too bad for Centre Street.  We do have a Centre Street in Dorchester if the Tesla Group wants to regroup in Dorchester.  I don't the Centre Bar will want to relocate, but there's no need for that.  The large space formerly occupied by the Emerald Isle seems to be available.  It is just a short stroll from the Field's Corner T station.  Food for thought.

Why I want Walmart

Dorchester lacks two things: a Walmart and a comic book store.  It lacks some other things too but I notice these two most often and for opposite reasons.

Walmart would mop up the competition in Dorchester the way it has killed innumerable small downtowns across the country.  Whatever snob appeal not having a Walmart lends to Dot, and there aren't a lot of snobs to appeal to, the combination of low prices and exhaustive selection would satisfy a need that is  only partially met by local, vest pocket storefront merchants.  Make is a Super Walmart with the supermarket/department store combo including organic produce...Dorchester doesn't have enough empty land for the parking lot to serve this big box.  That's probably part of what keeps America's biggest retailer away.

Say what you will about supporting Chinese industry, selling ticky-tacky crap that falls apart ,and undercutting small business people; the latter are doing the former two things but without economies of scale.  I'm know I wouldn't mind cutting out my trip time and/or gas expense to buy a shirt and tie in one box for $10.

The lack of a Walmart is a mystery.  The lack of a comic book store is a relief.

The nearest real comic shop is at Coolidge Corner as the crow flies, the kind of shop that has old issues for a dollar in boxes and offers last month's comics at half price, the kind of shop that sells nothing but comics, the kind of shop where the conversations are about whether Batman could beat Spiderman.  Dorchester doesn't have that kind of shop because Dorchester doesn't have a critical mass of fanboys with disposable income and nothing better to do than hang around the comics store speculating what the touch of a woman may be like.

There are college students in Dorchester and there are arrested adolescents, there are plenty of dreamers and there are plenty of readers.  What there aren't is many people who live odd niche hobbies that are supposedly cool.  There aren't a lot of people with too much time to fritter away.  There is room for fun and games in Dorchester and there is room for frivolity, but most of it is of the home grown sort, the communal sort: porch front conversations, stickball in the street, street wide snow shoveling parties, barbecues.  I don't want to paint it to Norman Rockwell, but it is family friendly.  

Coolidge Corner has a comic shop.  Harvard Square has two.  Allston Village has one.  Kenmore Square has one.  Newbury Comics is a different kind of store.  No real fanboy goes there for comics except as last resort, though it is good for collectibles.  Dorchester isn't like those places.  It's demographic skews older and harder working.

If Walmart did decide to locate a store in Dorchester I would welcome it with the caveat that a comic store would open next door to mix the good with the bad, and I'm not hinting which I think is which.  I plead neutrality to gentrification in whatever form it takes.  That said, I can't imagine a photo like the one above being taken outside the McDonald's in Codman Square.  That's pure Walmart and pure comic book fan convention.  I can imagine it being taken in front of the Corita Gas Tank, however.

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.

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.

Monocles and monocle repair

While I was ordering a small soft drink at the Burger King at the corner of Washington Street and Columbia Road, I asked the cashier if many people purchased the "Angry Whopper." She looked at me bemused. "You know we're in Dorchester, sir," she said, "The last time I saw anyone having anything to do with 'angry' anything, it was when Sam Yoon came in third place in the mayoral primary." I asked where she lived. "Lower Mills," she replied, and that explained that.

I filled my small cup with Diet Coke and sat down with Xavier Preval, who had been waiting for me. My motorcycle is in the shop and since this November 1st was the perfect defintion of Indian Summer, I decided to hoof it from Savin Hill to whatever part of Dorchester this intersection belongs to. Four Corners? I'm not sure. It may be the furthest edge of Grove Hall. Anyway, Monsieur Preval seemed pleased to see me. He was just finishing up a Whopper Jr. as I sat down across the booth from him.

"Did you sign the lease?" I asked. He replied no. "The bank closed at noon yesterday and I got there at 11:50. We didn't have time to conclude the deal. I will be there tomorrow, Monday, at 9:30AM sharp."

"So the deal is as good as done?" I asked. He said yes. "The loan is as good as signed. Once that is done I will sign the lease and after that I will renovate the shop and be in business in time for Christmas."

"You are renting the same property we discussed last time?" I asked. M. Preval said, "Yes. It is. You know it. It's just a few blocks further down Washington Street." He pointed in the general direction. "I think it's a prime location," he added.

"You're sure that's the best location for what you've got in mind?" I pressed, "That was built to be a car dealership, not for your line of work."

Xavier Preval looked at me patiently. "Mr. King, I appreciate your misgivings. I have had them myself but America, and Dorchester in particular, is a place to dream big. I read the Wall Street Journal. I know a recession is the best time for entrepreneurs to start a new business. That's why I got such a favorable rental agreement. If I didn't believe in my product, I wouldn't sink my life's savings into it. I know there is a market that nobody else in Boston is satisfying. I'm the man to do it and this building is the place in which to do it."

I had to admit that while I have strolled and window shopped all over Boston, I have yet to have found a monocle shop, let alone one that also offers professional and credentialled monocle repairs. I have been to M. Preval's home and seen his inventory. He brought much of it with him from his native Haiti and since moving to Dorchester four years ago he has amassed an even more extensive stock of monocles, leveraging his cab driver salary through savvy, online auction maneuvers. Xavier Preval's father was the optometrist to the Duvaliers so the son has a good eye for quality lenses and settings.

I asked M. Preval why he was set on opening a monocle shop in Dorchester. He daubed at his lips with his napkin, wiping away the last bit of ketchup from his Whopper Jr. He said, "I thought about a more high-foot-traffic area, maybe Charles Street or next to J. Perotti. Being close to the opera or close to where villains congregate may be better for my trade. Then I realized that I will be the only person selling monocles in all of Boston. It doesn't matter where I set up shop. If I build it they will come. Politicians love Dorchester anyway and, really, they're a class of people who suffer stigmatisms. If they'll come to Dorchester, and they obviously will, the rest will follow."

I asked, "Do you mean you intend to cater to crooks, to dastardly characters, to villains?" M. Preval said no. He said, "I will sell monocles to whoever needs to have their vision corrected in one eye. I understand that the monocle-dependant are stereotyped as belonging to the theatrical, criminal fringe. That isn't always the case. My grandmother, God rest her soul, never swatted a fly let alone a grandchild's behind. She used a monocle to read the newspaper. Using a monocle doesn't make you a criminal. It means you don't have the money to spend on two lenses and a corresponding set of frames. This is another reason I think Dorchester is a good place in which to plant my business. People who live in the neighborhoods along Washington Street are frugal."

I asked M. Preval about the monocle repair aspect of his proposed business venture. "That," he said, "will be my main profit center. How do you repair a monocle? There are no screws, no hardware. It's just a lens. I will take it in the back room, polish it, sip a cup of tea out of sight, and bring it out on a swatch of velvet. That's worth a thirty-five dollar bill, at least. Most lanyards that connect to monocles are made of ribbon. I'll charge an extra seven dollars to iron the ribbon if its too wrinkled." He winked.

I had to admit that M. Preval had considered most of the angles regarding his new monocle and monocle repair shop. I wished him the best of luck in securing he loan and the lease. After all, Dorchester is a fertile ground for improbable niche businesses that eventually succeed.

As I deposited my cup in the trash can and M. Preval dumped the contents of his tray, I asked him what the name of his shop would be so that I could give him a plug on this page. He used both of his good eyes to stare squarely into mine. "I want to keep it simple and descriptive: 'Boston Monocles and Monocle Repair.' That has a nice ring to it and anyone looking it up in the Yellow Pages will know what we sell."

I agreed. We shook hands in the Burger King parking lot. Xavier Preval headed south on Washington Street, to inspect his new storefront perhaps. I headed east on Columbia Road, in the direction where the sun had risen a few hours earlier.

Dorchester Five-O

Cue the twangy guitars. Though it was nothing like tropical weather today (low to mid 50s), proof is offered once again that if Boston were made up of fifty states, Dorchester would be Hawaii.

I was returning a book to the Field's Corner library branch. I prefer it over Upham's Corner though Upham's Corner has a more impressive building and includes a swimming pool. Anyone can reach Field's Corner by the Red Line. The Upham's Corner library can be reached by commuter rail and then a walk of a few blocks. Don't get me wrong, the walk up Dudley Street and Columbia is much more picturesque than the one through the Field's Corner Shopping Center parking lot, it's just a tad longer and, as I say, the weather today didn't invite strolling.

So anyway, I was in the parking lot where the Farmer's Market is on Saturday mornings and there was a police car parked there with the window rolled down. I've always assumed police officers listen to commercial radio while they also listen to their dispatch radios. It probably makes the time pass more pleasantly and, if the patrolmen spend their days chasing criminals, it is probably good for morale to let officers listen to something more soothing than a constant string of crime reports. Music soothes a lawman's breast, and I could hear music coming out of this patrol car's passenger window.

I want to be clear that the volume wasn't overly loud. No noise ordinances were broken. The bass didn't rattle all the panels attached to the Crown Victoria's frame. Quite the opposite, I happened to be passing closely and what I eavesdropped wasn't hip hop nor was it classic rock. The latter seemed more likely when I glimpsed the officer involved. It was a lilting and relaxing, island melody.

Here's what Don Ho had to say (pre-recorded) in the parking lot of the Field's Corner Shopping Center across from the local branch of the Boston Public Library and kitty corner from the old Radio Shack:

"Tiny bubbles.. in the wine... make me feel happy... make me feel fine."

Needless to say the officer in question didn't resemble Jack Lord in the least except in his steely-jawed determination to enforce law and order. We nodded to each other and after I returned my book I went over to the Blarney Stone for a glass of afternoon proseco (for the bubbles). After all, though I didn't see one person wearing a lei today, I did get more than one taste of 'aloha' culture in Dorchester, Mass. Not just from the Don Ho music coming from the police car. The librarian greeted me at the circulation desk by saying, "Aloha."

Whether you are a Dorchester kamaaina (oldtimer) or malihini (newcomer), may you find here that special connection with Dorchester and the rest of Boston that was the essence of what Don Ho held for the islands of Hawaii. It's not all about crime in Dorchester. It's more about easy living, getting along, and enjoying life to its fullest with no regrets.


Aloha.

Prurient data

Ever wonder what your neighbors are up to when you aren't looking? Here's some statistics detailing what Dorechesterites did today:

91.8% of the working age population actively in the job market did exactly what they wanted: they went to work.

8,376 medical appointments were kept today, including chiropractors, dentists, physical therapists, mental health sessions and blood pressure checkups with nurse practitioners, as well as medical doctor visits. 787 appointments were rescheduled. Only 82 appointments went empty without a follow up call either from the patient or the provider. No one reported to any of the neighborhood health clinics or to Carney Hospital with symptoms of H1N1 influenza infection.

As of 4:30PM, America's Food Basket in the Field's Corner Shopping Center sold 425 pounds of yams, 315 pounds of chicken, 334 pounds of pork, and seven boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

The Sugar Bowl in the Polish Triangle sold 188 cups of coffee by 10:10AM. Anna's Donuts in Savin Hill sold 338 cups of coffee by 10:20AM. The Mud House in Neponset sold 228 cups of coffee by 10:35AM. Flat Black in Fields Corner sold 788 cups of coffee by 10:45AM. Flat Black in Lower Mills sold 448 cups of coffee by 11:04AM. The Dunkin' Donuts in Lower Mills sold 1874 cups of coffee by 11:10AM. Dorchester drinks a lot of coffee.

98.6% of all registered public school students under the age of 16 attended class. 93.2% of registered public school students over the age of 16 attended class. 99% of registered public school students over the age of 18 attended class. These figures don't include UMASS Boston or LaBouree College of Nursing students, only those schools under city administration.

ADORE-chester!

Ah! Dorchester! It wakes some people up like a slug from a mug. For other people, it is home to sweet dreams.

In a realm of countless delights, can a discerning topophile whittle down a list of just five things that showcase and show off Dorchester’s inherent, characteristic goodness? It’s greatness? …Goodness gracious! The mind reels, the inner cinema goes dark, the imagination’s flood lights spark and then…all the Dot’s a stage:

One. How many dreamers have climbed the Stairway to Jones’ Hill? When they turn at the summit, they look out over the glittering street lights below and the stars over Dorchester and they know they are a few meters closer to Heaven. From Hancock Street at Jones’ Hill’s base (across from Cameron) 145 steps run up a slope too steep for a roadway. They end at a playground on Downer Avenue, the most inappropriately named street in Dorchester and not just because it’s located so high above sea level. People climb to reach their goals in Dorchester, Mass., a place where human potential is exercised and endurance is tested.

Despite the fact that its territory is vast, Dorchester is a warren of smaller sub-neighborhoods and parishes, each of them self sufficient. Each is interconnected by surreptitious shortcuts that those in the know use to get where they want to be. You can get lost in Dorchester but you will eventually find your way. The infrastructure is in place: stairways and pathways and sidewalks and alleyways. Every dead end has a way out, and you learn to navigate without ever feeling trapped. Every day in Dorchester has its own charm and lessons. Living in Dorchester is more poetic verse than prose sentence, more meander than straight shot.

Two. Dorchester was founded by farmers and its population exploded by the sweat of working men operating according to the schemes of streetcar line financiers. Once the roads were laid out and the houses were built someone had to make use of them. Dorchester is not only home to workingmen. It is home to their mates and the children that inevitably follow. Dorchester holds womankind in a particularly fine regard and that is why a little north of Codman Square, on Washington Street, is a comfortable, welcoming park called Mothers’ Rest.

Dorchester’s landscape is a collection of voluptuous undulations, hills and vales. Mothers’ Rest enjoys a vantage that looks out on the flatter lands at Field’s Corner and the far more expansive flatness of Dorchester Bay farther beyond. The park’s location is between Codman Square, the site of Dorchester’s second civic center which grew into it’s most active commercial node, and the first street downhill to the residential neighborhoods that line Codman Hill’s east face. Naturally, like on Jones’ Hill, Mother’s Rest doesn’t only contain benches and playground equipment. It contains a shortcut to Alpha Road. Alpha Road, though it isn’t much to brag about unless you live there, would be an apt name for Dorchester’s Main Street if Dorchester had a main street. All addresses are equal in Dorchester because all are exemplary.

Three. Dorchester’s boundaries are contentious, its identity is fluid. Being an agglomeration of smaller neighborhoods, the farther you move from Dorchester’s core the more confusing your coordinates. Is Ashmont part of Dorchester? Yes. Is Lower Mills? Yes. Savin Hill? Yes. Then things start to get fuzzy. Dorchester bleeds imperceptibly into Milton and Southie and Roxbury and Mattapan, which used to be considered a part of Dorchester until fairly recently. Is the Franklin Park Zoo part of Dorchester? Some say yes, some say no. I’ll side with yes.

If you go past the active zoo on a back trail through the woods to the southwest, you will come across some abandoned cages far removed from the main gate. There are neglected, concrete habitats, pits ringed with spikes, and a stepped, granite plaza overgrown with weeds and litter. What animals were housed here? I don’t know, but I am pretty sure the main pen held bears. There is a bas relief of two bears flanking the city seal set in the wall of the main pen. Though posed to seem stately, they are lumbering, awkward creatures, carved almost as large as life.

Is it appropriate to superimpose the likeness of a bulky, inarticulate creature of intimidating power flanking the symbol of what is supposed to be the most enlightened city in United States, the Cradle of Liberty, the Athens of America? Sure. This is a democracy.

Four. The puddingstone on Quincy Street that protects Fernald Terrace is the most majestically shaped piece of puddingstone in all of Boston. Whether approaching from downhill or uphill, from Columbia Road or from Bowdoin Street, this puddingstone rears out of the ground like the barnacled humpback of an ancient leviathan cresting in stopped motion as it makes a tectonic journey so lengthy it seems still to a human observer. I pass this stone often, zipping by on a motorcycle or on a bicycle, sometimes in a car, sometimes on foot. It never fails to humble me and define this neighborhood. Quincy Street is a typical street and Fernald Terrace is a tidy cul-de-sac lined with regular-seeming homes with nothing in particular about them. They are special though, graced and guarded by a totem of Dorchester’s bedrock. The puddingstone that underlies the foundations of three deckers and duplexes rears out of the fertile earth. A rounded slab of millennial, sedimentary rock forms a protective barrier for Fernald Terrace and a natural monument that children scamper over and passing motorists admire. Nature, in the rough and at its most raw-boned is present and exposed. Boston and Dorchester are not only human creations. They have had a long prologue.

Five. Between Columbia Road and Blue Hill Avenue, along Quincy Street, is more territory that may be Dorchester or it may be Roxbury. In the end, does it matter? If you ask the people who live there, they’ll tell you it’s Dorchester, and anyone one who is Dorchester by Choice (DBC) is okay by me. In an infinite list of good things, Ma Siss’s place ranks as fifth from the top. Not a bad ranking when you consider the Dot Tavern ranks #477 no matter how fond I am of it.

I admit I know two things about Ma Siss’s Place. It was featured in a series of articles about it in the Boston Globe and that series of articles is one of the few things that has stuck out of all the fluff I’ve read stuffed between the Globe’s pages. The other thing I know is that despite its scruffy appearance, Ma Siss’s mission is vital to this well worn, humdrum part of the city. Change is the only constant in a living metropolis and polyglot Dorchester undergoes a perpetual, quiet revolution.

There is an outdoor Buddhist shrine behind the Field’s Corner library and it represents some of Dorchester’s cultural diversity. It is exotic and eye-catching. Ma Siss’s Place and the church with which it shares space in a converted garage, is just as exotic to some people though it lacks much aesthetic allure. Its role in the community isn’t to be pretty, however. Its role is to nurture the soul of its surroundings. Its role is to add to the well being of anyone who is hungry either in body or spirit. Its role is to make Dorchester more livable, through one small act after another, out of the limelight on the all but invisible corner of Quincy Street and Baker Avenue. It is the little things and the people who do them that make Dorchester good.

Here are a few other people who ADORE-chester! A kaleidoscope of views:

• The Dottie Hottie
• The Dot Matrix
• Dot Boston
• The Dorchester Think Tank
• Lower Dot
• Local Spice
• Candeliera Silva
• Social Butterfly Experiment
• dotmass
• Greening of Dorchester
  
  
  
  dot baby mug by whaleheadking
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Alive and in technicolor

Though full of slapstick, melodrama and overacting, Dorchester, Mass. is no silent movie. Quite the reverse. Firstly, it's real life. Secondly, it's quite noisy.

The heavy rumble of the Red Line rattles Dorchester's spine and, where the Red Line ends at Ashmont, the Mattapan High-Speed Trolley carries on the work. The High-Speed is a tad less loud, but it passes through Cedar Grove Cemetery and the T wouldn't want to wake the dead, would it? At least the T stops running some time after midnight. Dorchester is home to an elevated highway (I-93) that runs at second story height and is clotted and congested with cars and tractor trailers all hours of the clock.

Babies squawl in Dorchester. Kindergartners swear like soldiers. Their pipsqueak voices lend an alarming novelty to trains of connected curses and anatomical combinations they cannot really understand...or can they? After becoming accustomed to the local argot, playground profanity becomes a part of Dorchester's atmosphere, like the sound of flower petals gently patting the pavement when a zephyr blows inland off Dorchester Bay.

Pots and pans clatter over the course of a day. They make as much noise as the shopping carts pushed by the can men and bottle collectors who start their rounds an hour or so before sun-up and continue the rest of the morning until a little after dawn has faded into noon. Garbage day is a busy day in Dorchester as rag men and scrap dealers patrol the curbs. There is treasure to be found in Dorchester.

Coffee shops, diners, lunch counters, fine restaurants, pizzerias, Chinese take-out joints, bakeries, and barrooms buzz with the talk of the neighborhood. Dorchester is anything but silent. It is busy and burbling, percolating with vitality and street smarts, with pep and persistence, with zip and with zing. Silent Dorchester? Far from it. Dorchester is alive and loud . It's also in technicolor.

Vermont Sweetwater

If you've ever scored a maple tree with your Barlow knife and licked your finger after sticking it into the bark's wound, you know the reason why maple sap needs to be boiled down to make syrup. While maple sap has a hint of sweetness and a hint of maple goodness, it isn't anything nearly as concentrated as what Mrs. Butterworth or Aunt Jemimah serve up. Maple sap straight from the tree is as thick as water.

Travelling a little farther afield than usual, we visited City Feed and Supply in Jamaica Plain yesterday. Nice shop and deserving of its reputation and crowds. We were en route to dinner so we didn't try the sandwiches, but we probably will another day when we find ourselves in that part of Boston.

We did pick up a 12 fl. oz bottle of something called Maple Seltzer that sported the official Vermont 'seal of quality.' This was tucked into a backpack and we drained the bottle this afternoon. The verdict: a hint of maple, a hint of sweetness; the way maple sap tastes. An aftertaste review of the bottle's label revealed the reason. The bottle contains "100% filtered and carbonated maple sap. No water added." Brilliant. You can charge a dollar seventy-nine a bottle without all the boiling down in the sugar house. Just add CO2 and you've added value. It works with Coca-Cola, why shouldn't it work with maple sap?

This Vermont Sweetwater is good but I can't say I'll be buying it again. The lady of the house agrees. I understand it isn't exactly cheap to gather, but, while it is a pleasant, sparkling drink I'm not convinced it's worth the price. Of course I don't eat much maple syrup, neither the kind stamped with Vermont's seal of quality nor the kind poured out the top of Mrs. Butterworth's head. I prefer clam cakes to pancakes.

Speaking of which, City Feed also offers some premium, top shelf clam juice. Sorry to say, we didn't purchase any yesterday in order to toast each other this afternoon. That's an errand for another day and another report.

Accidental contentment

I didn't choose Dorchester. It chose me. For that, I am grateful.

I took the train up from New London, Conn. in the spring of 2007. The trees were in blossom and I walked the length of Dot Ave between JFK/UMASS and Savin Hill, detouring along side streets between the T tracks and Upham's Corner. I was hooked. Not all of Dorchester is as nice as the neighborhood I inhabit, but most of them are close.

I had a few hours to kill before the lady I was visiting would be free so I made the most of my time, wandering aimlessly while enjoying the sights and the sounds and the smells. I stepped into the shops, this part of Dot Ave is crowded with tiny, busy storefronts, and I sat in the parks, watching the life of the neighborhood go by with an easygoing rhythm.

On subsequent visits, I drove my motorcycle to Dorchester and I wiled away my visits exploring the all the sub-neighborhoods and parishes and hilltops. Most parts of Dorchester are much like the others. All of them are attractive little nodes of commerce and community bound up into a larger boundary that, itself, is bound up with the life of the greater city beyond the Dot proper. There are varying income levels and different corners have different vibrations, but all in all Dorchester is a tidy place in which to experience a sense of contentment. I know. I've been content since I moved here shortly after my first visit.

Perhaps I have low expectations or, rather, I have high expectations that are easily met. I suppose I would be happy living in Beacon Hill or the North End or the South End or Back Bay. I haven't tried but I have been in all those places and, frankly, I am quite content in Dorchester. If I don't know all my neighbors by name, I know them by face and vice versa. We exchange pleasantries and news as we pass on our errands. I have never been made to feel unwelcome and I never been made to feel I don't belong. I don't think anyone who inhabits Dorchester feels that way. I may be projecting. Dorchester really is a melting pot where dissimilar people of dissimilar backgrounds gather, communicate, and get along.

There is such a thing as a Dorchesterite. It is a certain kind of Bostonian who lives in Dorchester, the city's biggest and most diverse political subdivision. Dorchester was once it's own town and though it is now just a piece of a larger metropolitan puzzle, it retains a unique identity that grows on the people who live here. As home to the first public school, Dorchester respects and encourages lifelong learning, be it book smarts or street smarts. That is why UMASS Boston is located in Boston. It is also why the savviest card sharps play poker in its American Legion halls. It is why small businesses thrive in Dorchester.

Dorchesterites are always learning how to get along. Dorchester is a work in progress. Every generation and every day bring new ideas as much as they bring new people. Dorchester is flexible and adaptable. It is open-minded and affable. I have yet to meet anyone who lives in Dorchester who regrets their address. Some may move away but just as many move in. It is an organic part of Boston, an organism that changes and grows as its decades turn into centuries. It is not a time capsule or set piece as much as a living place that is a setting for life's many, little, individual glories to unfold.

It's not infrastructure that matters so much as the people who make use of it. Dorchester is inhabited by people who have their feet firmly planted on it's pavement. They live in their homes as much as they live in the wider community by extension. There aren't any highrises, there aren't any skyscrapers, there is little glamour. Dorchester is the best part of a city without feeling like a city. When you move to Dorchester, you feel like you've come from the end of the world to your home town.

Home is where the heart is and Dorchester has heart. Home to more than 100,000 souls, it contains more than 100,000 beating, vital hearts. You can't have love without a heart. You can't measure the amount of love contained in a place that is home to more than 100,000 of them. Dorchester is like that. Facets of it can be described, but it cannot be felt except through intuition, a gut feeling, an empathetic instinct, with the animal brain more than reason, with sympathy more than logic, by its aura more than its bones or reputation.

An overlooked minority

Dorchester is a large neighborhood within Boston that contains a kaleidoscope of ethnicities. Most famous and enduring over the past century has been the Irish, but there are others. Vibrant South Vietnamese, Cape Verdean, Haitian, Latino Carribean, African American and WASP communities also have a strong presence. The Native Americans that originally inhabited Dorchester's shorline and hillsides have all but disappeared, but there is another ethnic group that has been here a long time and that has largely escaped notice.

I was strolling Mt. Ida Road that borders Ronan Park in Dorchester's highlands. This is a tidy neighborhood of three-deckers, much like you find elsewhere in the Dot, the main difference being the spectacularly sweeping water views of Dorchester Bay far below the hilltop's summit about a half mile away, if that.

Tacked next to a basement door was a sign written in a curious script, sort of a cross between Norse Runes and Greek. It didn't make any sense to me so I collared a passing teenager and asked him what the sign said. "I can't read it," he told me, "but that's the local soccer club's headquarters. They play in the park on Wednesday nights." He held out his hand and I gave him a quarter for his translation. Then I knocked on the door.

It turns out this cellar is home to Dorchester's own Etruscan-American Football Club. A man with an easygoing smile let me in and I settled onto one of the formica chairs that were arranged around a scattering of formica tables. There were twelve other people in the room, an equal mix of male and female, all of them affable and ready to answer whatever questions I had.

My first question: "I thought Etruscans were extinct. How is it that you are in Dorchester?"

A young lady with a thin nose, dark, curly hair and a complexion like a fava bean, answered, "The Etruscan community has been in Dorchester for over 20 centuries. We don't like to make a big deal over it. We don't have much political interest and so we don't have much political influence. Our community has been based up here on Mount Ida for longer than most of Boston remembers. Nobody bothers us so we don't bother anyone else. Etruscans learned a long time ago that it's easier to keep a low profile and not challenge the majority."

My second question: "How come there isn't a newspaper like the Haitian Reporter or the Irish Reporter available at convenience stores so I can keep up with developments in the Etruscan community?"

An aquiline man in his mid-30s stepped up to answer. He told me that the Etruscan community is well-knit, everyone knows everyone else and that Etruscans, as a rule, don't like to air their business for anyone else to see. "We take care of ourselves," he said, "We don't need a newspaper to know what's going on. After all, as you can see from the sign out front, our letters don't have a regular type font a publisher can pick up at wholesale. Our native tongue doesn't translate easily anyway, so why bother?"

This prompted my third question: "Is Etruscan a dead language?"

An old woman wearing the same beatific smile as everyone else in the room except me stood up with the help of a walker. She curled a limp fist and and tapped it on one of the tables, "As long as one of us breathes, Etruscan will be no more dead than Latin." She sat down again and sipped at a chipped teacup of grappa.

Dorchester is a big neighborhood full of many secrets and many small communities that escape the wide angle lens of the major media. Dorchester's streets are full of surprises. You never know what you'll find in Dorchester, be it the solution to ancient mysteries or the next big boy band. After I left Mt. Ida Road, I headed over to the New Store on the Block in the Polish Triangle. I bought a couple of scratch off tickets, and a Dorchester Reporter. I asked the Dominican guys behind the counter if they knew any Etruscans. The eldest of them answered, "We don't get many Etruscans here. Our customers are mostly Polish and students." His younger apprentice added, "We also have a few Dominican regulars, though."

Where was Ted Kennedy born?

An imposing building stands on the corner of Dudley Street and Columbia Road. Etched in granite are the words "Masonic Hall." Two stories down, the lettering inelegantly split by a flagpole, another legend is carved in another slab of granite: "Columbia Square Building." Since Senator Edward M. Kennedy passed away a more ephemeral sign printed on card stock has been been propped up in the curved, second story window of this building overlooking the intersection. It reads, "Upham's Corner. Birthplace of Senator Ted Kennedy."

I don't know if this is metaphor or documented fact. It may be a mixture of both. If literally true, it suggests that the most recently deceased Massachusetts senator breathed his first breath in Upham's Corner's neighborhood. That would be an invigorating initial taste of the freshest air in Boston, if that's the case; the kind of air that swells the lungs with promise, expectation and seabreeze mingled with a smidge of working class city smells and kitchen aromas. If this is the case, it would explain a lot about the late senator's character and inspiration.

I'm not that interested in doing the research, but if this is true, I extrapolate that Edward M. Kennedy was born at Saint Margaret's Hospital at the summit of Jones' Hill which lies directly southeast of this intersection behind the Strand Theater. There is a building up there that seems to have been built as a small, community hospital that is now operated by Caritas Christi as a "women's health center" that, because of its layout still seems to be an inpatient facility. All of this is passing-by conjecture on my part, again, without research. I know that Blessed Mother of Theresa Church used to be St. Margaret's Church and that the Sisters of St. Margaret lived in a convent nearby. I know there was a St. Margaret's Hospital, so this building on Jones' Hill seems the most likely location.

I know the Kennedy family lived on Ashmont Hill before they were associated solely with Hyannisport. Ashmont is closer to Carney Hospital, but perhaps, at the time, St. Margaret's offered better birthing facilities. All my conclusions are pure speculation and I won't bore the reader with more red herrings that lead me to this conclusion. Connecting the dots without knowing too many facts is a pasttime of mine. My local big picture grows with the more random things I learn and observe. My haphazard understanding of Dorchester becomes a more concrete, never-ending story much like the Columbia Road sidewalk. Is it fact or fancy? Like most things in Dorchester, Mass. it is somewhere in between.

Senator Kennedy certainly worked for the interests of the denizens of Upham's Corner. Whether this is because he was born there or because he felt a natural affinity, I don't know. The citizens and voters who live in this part of Dorchester, and most any other part of Boston, identified with him. Was Ted Kennedy born in Upham's Corner? I don't know for sure. All I know is that he lived here in spirit, and I sit next to the giant pear statue in Edward Everett Square, named after another great statesman, and I think of Senator Kennedy and his legacy.

Bikes and bikes: friends not foes

I stepped into a gentleman's washroom this morning to, well... wash my hands. There was a table in this washroom and on it was a backpack and a bicycle helmet. Someone with bare calves and bicycle shoes was making use of the other facilities available. I put my motorcycle helmet next to one of three sinks and proceeded to go about my business.

His errand completed, a slender gentleman with a bicyclist's body girdled with spandex began washing his hands next to me. He said, "You know, it's cheating when you use a motor." I chuckled and replied that I have heard that before. His comment stuck in my craw, however. When I was done washing up I addressed his reflection in the mirror. "At least we both have two wheels," I said as I reached for a paper towel.

"You're right," he answered, "I guess we are sort of on the same team."

Yes. We are. I don't see any need for rancor or rivalry in what should be a fraternity of two wheel drivers. There is also a sorority, which combined would make everyone a well-balanced family. If we are balanced between two pivot points in the unobstructed wind, it doesn't matter how we get between one end of our journey to the other. We face similar obstacles and dodge the same hazards. Don't make an enemy when you can make a friend of a fellow traveller.

I haven't owned a car since I was eighteen years old and, after many years of being the littlest thing on the public thoroughfare, I know that daily doses of excess adrenaline can make a person battle-hardened, scoffing at those who don't subscribe to the same philosophy about transportation options. That's no way to get through a day. Life's long road beckons and there is room for everyone to share, especially those on two wheels. Two wheels set a person free.

I drive a motorcycle. I also drive a bicycle. For many, many years I drove a motor scooter, which gets the least respect of all after mopeds, which I've never owned (though I someday may). I zip around Boston faster or slower depending on my means of propulsion, but I don't see any need to get upset or to feel better or worse because of what I choose to drive.

My grandfather told me he was a Democrat because he rooted for the little guy. I don't always follow his political persuasion but I tend to side with the little guy too. As someone who navigates traffic on two wheels, how can I not side with the most vulnerable. A motorcycle may be bigger than a bicycle but they are both related. One is no better than the other; both share the same perils.

Having an engine isn't cheating. I can't call something that will propel me over the highway at 110mph a motor, and it is insulting to compare the power train of even the littlest Ninja with what powers a vacuum cleaner. There is no point in disparaging another person's steed. "I guess not walking barefoot is cheating." No, it's not. It is a choice. There are bigger fish to fry than steaming over someone who doesn't travel exactly as you do. If everyone rode bicycles there would be velocipede traffic jams, the fallacy of numbers clashing into the Law of Unintended Consequences. It is better we all get along, looking out for one another and driving safely and responsibly.

Dorchester, Mass. through the ages

Plucky tykes full of vim and vigor gambol along Dorchester's sidewalks and through its playgrounds under their mothers' watchful eyes. As they grow up, they still see the Dot without judgement or rancor. Dorchester is a good place in which to savor your first bites out of life. Innocence begets joy and Dorchester provides plenty of joy for the imps who play in its environs. It is a family-friendly neighborhood, a fecund cornucopia of newborns and just-borns and toddlers and pre-schoolers who find pleasure and adventure in each others' supervised company. Adventure and new discovery await around every corner.

Around age nine or ten, Dorchester's children become a bit more hard-edged. They have seen their share of hard feelings shared in the harshest manner. They have learned to be rude when the occasion calls for it. The can cuss. They can insult in the time-tested manner of street urchins the world over. They aren't jaded yet, they aren't flinty. They just have a taste of the slow corrosion that a city breeds when people are packed tightly together and a knuckle sandwich or a few well-greased greenbacks smooth the way more easily than proper, meritorious civility. It may take a village to raise a child, but a burly city raises adults schooled in hard knocks.

Teenagers in Dorchester think they've got it all figured out and in some ways they do. Sometimes nice people finish last....at least it seems that way. No matter how many priests staff the parishes and how many evangelists take to the street corners; no matter how many social workers intervene and no matter how many politicians bemoan the lack of law and order and do their best to hire more policemen, Dorchester defies good intentions. So many people packed so tightly together invites a contagion of vice and the young, who haven't much immunity, are susceptible to the lures of the easy buck, the cheap sensation, the feeling of being that comes at no apparent cost until the the effects of snowballing actions catch up.

Young families set up house in Dorchester every day. Some are offshoots of more established families that have existed in the neighborhood for two, three, or more generations. Some couples move here cold and inexperienced, warm to the idea of living close to neighbors and sharing a block of three-deckers. Children are born. Children are always born and life begins anew whenever two people love each other and decide to live together. Diplomacy begins on a mattress and hopefully those good intentions and that goodwill will spill out the bedroom window, over the streets and into the schools and courtrooms and convenience stores. Maybe money will grow on trees or maybe wishes will be fishes and all anyone will have to do to eat is think good thoughts and click their heels. Maybe a smile really can serve as an umbrella.

Middle-aged couples spend their excess pocket change dining out and shopping while squirreling away whatever they can salvage for their offspring's college tuition. Few people think of sending their children to Dorchester colleges. There is UMASS Boston at the tip of Harbor Point and there is LaBoure Nursing College, but beyond those options, there aren't any institutions of higher learning. Not officially. Anyone can get a job in Dorchester and learn as much and more working day-to-day in this hustle-and-bustle community. They won't get book smarts, but street smarts. They won't be philosophers unless they choose to think too much but they will know how to navigate the business world and make right by giving good service. What is life, after all, but providing needed services to our fellow human beings?

There are worse places in which to spend a life from cradle to grave than Dorchester, Mass. Generations have travelled from womb to tomb without venturing farther north than Andrew Square or farther south than Lower Mills. The shores of Dorchester Bay was the limits of their eastward horizon and they turned back after venturing too far into Franklin Park's convoluted, wooded pathways.

A spinster has given up hope for a groom and she sleeps contentedly on the second floor flat she's rented for three decades on Pearl Street. Her dry cleaner's wage pays all the bills and she feels entitled to die at this address. An old man, his back bent and aching from laying bricks all his adult life, sits on his front porch on Bowdoin Street, suspended two stories above the traffic on the road and he smiles as he watches the sun set over the buildings as the shrieks of children and the easily tossed, profane curses of adolescents drift up to his rocking chair. He once squealed as a babe on these very streets. He once swore a blue streak for no reason but his anger. He isn't angry now. He is content living in Dorchester where many things begin and many things end.

The Dot week in review

Another busy week in Dorchester, Mass. has drawn to a close. Things happened, as it is their nature to do. In a neighborhood as big and busy as Dorchester, many, many things happened. Shall we recap?

Sunday, August 23rd, 2009: Jimmy McNichol got two silver plated rings out of the gumball machine at Tropical Grocery in Codman Square. Since he had paid his fifty cents for only one randomly selected ring, his mother brought him to the store's manager to turn in the second one that had fallen out of the chute. "But, Mom," he complained, "I like the second one better." "Never mind that," she admonished, "You only paid for the first."

Monday, Aug. 24: There was a murder on Glenarm Street. This led to some soul-searching by some area inhabitants musing on the Dot Conundrum: How can a place with so much tolerant, peaceful coexistence also be home to more than its fair share of naked aggression? There isn't an easy answer as the next day's events proved.

Tuesday, Aug. 25: Another murder, and this one a double. Though police advised people to avoid Norwood Street at the time, some people live there. How do you avoid your own address? Despite the unpleasantness, activities of daily living trundled along aimlessly and amicably for those not found dead in an automobile.

Wednesday, Aug. 26: The ice cream truck on Talbot Avenue played the same song for 25 minutes before the driver drove over a pothole and the tape skipped a loop. Neighbors tired of grooving to Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" were treated to a change in program. "Maple Leaf Rag" played for the rest of the day.

Thursday, Aug. 27: A motorcade delivered a senator to Harbor Point's JFK Library Museum where he spent the night and the following day and night after that. The MBTA provided service above and beyond what it normally does to JFK/UMASS station, and that's saying something since the T is one of Boston's main arteries delivering lifeblood to the city.

Friday, Aug. 28: The senator continued in repose on the shore of Dorchester Bay. People crowded in line to pay their respects and at the same time they were spellbound by the harbor views they soaked in while standing patiently. In other news, someone choked on an olive pit at Tavolo in Peabody Square. The pit was only lightly lodged in their trachea and no Heimlich maneuvers were preformed. All it took to correct the situation was a deep, diaphragm-reflexive cough, though it wasn't pretty to watch or to hear.

Saturday, Aug. 29: Boston's and the major media's attention was drawn to the opposite end of Dudley Street where the President of the United States visited Mission Hill. He isn't reported to have visited Dorchester, though he may have snuck away from the Secret Service the night before to catch the action at Tom English's Tavern on Dot Ave. Despite a lack of dignitary sightings, things happened. Franklin Park hosted the festival at the end of the Boston's annual Caribbean Parade. In Dorchester, people soldier on despite adverse weather or general adversities.

What will next week bring? Hopefully, some fresher Scott Joplin compositions from the ice cream trucks.