New Orleans, Excelsior!

George' Bank herring from off the coast of Canada...

George's Bank is located off the coast of New England.  It is a fabulously fertile fishing ground that gave the Commonwealth of Massachusetts one of its symbols, the Sacred Cod that hangs in the Statehouse.  Can a cold water fish really be at its best when dressed in Louisiana spices?  Some would say yes.  I like to think so.

I was born and raised in Connecticut, a small state many people confuse with a city in Ohio when I travel cross-country.  Whether they it is Cleveland or Cincinnati or whether they there really is a Connecticut, OH, I've never bothered to ask.  Ohio was once a part of Connecticut's Western Reserve, but that is a story for another day.

As I discussed yesterday, I have lived in a number of cities and I would like to spend today's post discussing why I feel New Orleans is best.

Culture clash in New Orleans

When worlds collide...

I've lived in New Orleans since June 9th this year.  That makes four and a half months.  I can't say anyone has been anything but gracious and welcoming.  I can't say anything but that I find New Orleans the most wonderful city I have ever lived in.  To recap my history, I have called the following places home:

What's in a name?

If you look at the top of this page, you'll see the name of this blog is the Dot Matrix.  This is because I've been headquartered the last three years in Dorchester, Mass., the biggest and best of Boston's neighborhoods.  Dorchester is affectionately referred to as Dot by those who live there.  It is a pleasant shorthand turn of name.

It took awhile for me to change the name of the blog to Dot Matrix.  This originally started with the eponymous title Whalehead King, which was fitting enough since articles tended to emphasize the author's exploits tooling around New London, Conn. on a motor scooter.  After a few months, the Dot Matrix title took hold since the focus had changed more to the tessallations of a wide ranging, interwoven sub-unit of a major city.

I find myself in another major city, one far different from the one I left.  I'm not against changing the blog's name once again but I'm not sure what it should be.  Dot Matrix still works fine for me in the idea that my viewpoint is a dot in a wider weave and weft and woof that is New Orleans.  It may take a while before I settle on a masthead.  Nothing is broken but I can't resist fiddling.  A person shouldn't mess with perfection, but this blog is far from perfect.  After a week in New Orleans permanently (today is Day Eight) I am still getting my bearings.  Fools change a name where angels keep conservative?

While I am toying with new names to indicate my new direction, I haven't settled on a compass point yet.  Stay tuned.  Soon enough, ye olde Whalehead King will hit his stride and begin reporting his world as he encounters it: fresh off the griddle.  Until then, I'm afraid these posts will be noodling, stumbling voyages in discovering my surroundings.  I haven't written any gold for a few weeks.

Apologies for the thin gruel and thanks for checking in.  We guarantee shiny nuggets of interesting prose will be forthcoming.  Until then: stay tuned and thanks for showing up.

With a handshake,
WK

Some comparisons

Beautiful and bustling downtown New London, CT

I'm from New England, a land of small states packed with plenty of people.  Here are some comparisons:

Connecticut (where I'm from originally):  Area: 5,543 square miles.  Seems like a lot of space, doesn't it?
Massachusetts (my current legal residence):  Area: 10, 555 square miles.  Even bigger.
Louisiana (where I'm moving to): Area: 51,885 square miles.  Whoa, Nellie!

Population (as of 2008):
Connecticut:  3.518,288 or 703 per square mile.
Massachusetts: 6, 593,587.  It's got twice the space, after all.  That's 809 per square mile.
Louisiana: 4,410,796 or 102 people per square mile.  That leaves a lot of elbow room.

Let's look at the cities I've called home since I find this interesting....  The area is for land only.
New London, CT: 5.5 square miles, 26,174 people which comes to 4,725 people/square mile.
Boston, MA: 48.43 square miles, 620,535 people which comes to 12,813 people/square mile.
New Orleans, LA: 180.6 square miles, 336,644 people which comes to 2,518 people/square mile.

I don't want to say New Orleans seems like a ghost town, because it doesn't.  You'll excuse me though if I don't find it particularly crowded.  There are plenty of people and there's plenty of activity so it doesn't seem as empty as these statistics suggest.  Once I take a tour of the rest of the Louisiana though, I don't know.  I imagine it will seem like the Moon compared to the quiet corners of Connecticut.

Of course, the New Orleans numbers don't include all the tourists and conventioneers that visit the city on a regular basis.  Boston also has its share of visitors.  They tend to come in the summer when all the college students (which these figures include, about a quarter of the total) vacate the city.  Few people stop in New London unless they are lost, so it's numbers are pretty stable.

Another 457 miles: Destination Unknown

I planned to be on the far side of the Volunteer State by this time today but I'm still in the Old Dominion.  I am close to the Tennessee border however.  One wrong turn led to another and I spent the first three hours of the day running an 80 mile circle out of my way and accidentally back again.  Good scenery though and quite the adventure.

First, let's get the statistics out of the way:  I left Lexington, VA with a clean odometer and my first fill up was in Fincastle at 90 miles.  I purchased 1.57 gallons for $4.26 ($2.69/gal).  My next replenishment was after 86 miles for 1.45 gallons at $4.02 ($2.75/gal) in the town of Eagle Rock.  Yes, Eagle Rock is the next town over from Fincastle and no, it isn't eighty miles away.  One wrong turn led to another and they all led me back to start.  It was better after that.  Stop Number Three was in Fairlawn after 89 miles for 1.07 gallons for a total of $3.01 ($2.79/gal).  My final stop before I pulled into the campground was in Abingdon after 102 miles; I bought 1.59 gallons for $4.48 ($2.80/gal).

I spent some time in Jefferson National Forest today and I've seen enough trees up close to satisfy my appetite for that for quite a while.  There were very few fellow travelers on the road which suited me fine.  The roads were very twisty, uphill and downhill.  In motorcycle parlance these are called 'twisties' and navigating a good twisty road on a bike with all the leaning and counterbalancing and letting inertia pull you through a curve can be exhilarating.  I had my share of those roads today, the kind of roads the bike glides along in ethereal zen good karma, but the National Forest Roads weren't this kind.  They were exercises in gear shifting and throttle control.  Up and down, up and down on switchback roads.  It was more tiresome than relaxing, especially the steep grades with a perpendicular drop off at the shoulder's edge.

I spent a lot of time up in the mountains in my pursuit of back roads.  It's a different world up there.  It's pretty to be sure and farmland still.  The farms are smaller and a bit more humble than the Virginia bottomland I passed through yesterday.  Everywhere you look there are more mountains in the distance.  Maybe that makes up for the lack of anything else.  While I am a misanthrope, I enjoy being around other people, meeting in public, hobnobbing...there's none of that on the mountaintops.  What towns there are, were small in their heyday, now half the storefronts are empty and those are the bustling ones, the county seats that have a courthouse to ensure a little business.

A sign said: "Newport 25 miles."  I took that as a good sign that it was important enough to direct me to it.  I wondered why a town so high above sea level would be called Newport, but who am I to judge?  When I finally pulled into city limits at the 25mph speed limit, I was greeted by four commercial buildings, the youngest of which was built in the 20s.  One was occupied by an HVAC technician, the others had soaped up windows.

Running low on gasoline and not having seen a gas station in about 60 miles, I headed back toward the valley.  Route 11 isn't marked on my map but it's the Lee Highway, named after the General, no doubt.  I figured out it runs parallel to the interstate.  It was probably the main thoroughfare before the interstate was built.  Unlike the interstate, it forms the main street of every town it passes through.  I've seen a lot of old Main Streets this afternoon.

I'm in Historic Abingdon, close to Tennessee.  I plan to be passing through Knoxville before noon, but I learned today that forecasting where I'll be, the way I travel, is an inexact science.  The ultimate destination is New Orleans, the intermediate destinations are unknown.

A lot doesn't happen in the mountains and that's not just my impression.  Virginia is buggy with historical markers and Civil War Trails.  Not so much up on the mountaintops.  No doubt the Blue and the Gray didn't want to climb as well as fight, but it doesn't seem many people of note or historical occurrences were hatched on top of the mountains I visited.  Life goes on.

The bright lights of Mission Hill

I was in the Walgreen's at Brigham Circle on Thursday to buy a roll of cinnamon Mentos.  The guy in front of me in line struck up a conversation with the cashier, who is a friendly, chatty chap to begin with, just the kind of upbeat person you would want manning a cash register.

"It's been a while since I've been here last," the customer said.  "It looks a lot brighter.  You didn't change the fluorescent lights did you/"

"Yessir," the cashier answered, "The company changed all the bulbs about five weeks ago.  They came in and replaced all the fixtures.  The electricians told me they're using a new kind of bulb."

I thought so...I thought so," replied the customer, "It really looks good; brings the color out on the labels.  I noticed it as soon as I came in; the store seems so much brighter.  I was thinking that the last time I was here was a month and a half but you're probably right, it probably was only five weeks."

The cashier remarked that Walgreen's is always trying to improve the shopping experience while the man in front of me was counting out exact change for thirty-nine cents using the smallest denomination coins possible.  When the two of them had concluded the transaction, the customer left on his way telling the cashier, "Tell your manager I really appreciate the effort.  The lights look great."  The cashier said he would.

I don't visit this Walgreen's very often but I didn't notice anything except that the Valentine's Day merchandise had been replaced by beach-themed, summer toys.  The man in front of me must have been particularly attentive to his surroundings.  I noticed that he was wearing sunglasses indoors.  Perhaps he is photophobic.  That would explain his attention to ambient light, but not why he thinks brighter lights are better.

Tender trap

You walk beneath the flowering trees,
There's a lilting music to the Bay's easy breeze
You feel kind of smart and your heart goes pit-a-pat!
The trees and the breeze, they're part of a tender trap.

Some starry night, Dorchester will make you tingle.
Then you'll jump the Red Line, sign a lease, and hang up your shingle.

You've moved to place that is so nice,
There's pho and pizza, corned beef and rice;
You've picked a place that's more than just a DOT on a map...
You're hooked and you're cooked,
You're caught in a tender trap.

Some starry night, strolling through Dorchester Park,
You'll know you made a wise choice rather than a foolish lark.

You'll wonder how it all came about,
Not that it matters...there's no getting out.
You've fallen in love and you know what?
Dorchester, Mass. is a tender trap.

(thanks to Cahn and Van Heusen for writing the original version)


Thanks also to the Brattle Theater for playing the original last night before the 9:30 show of "The Friends of Eddie Coyle."

America's best bad writer

'America's Best Bad Writer' isn't yours truly. I don't have that great a claim to fame, though he and I do share some common literary mannerisms. It's none other than H. P. Lovercraft who earned that sobriquet, among others like 'America's Master of Horror.' Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937) deserved the last name he was born with, rather unlike one Whalehead King. He lived all his life in one place except for a brief stint in New York City, which he loathed. Two more dissimilarities.

He loved two cities. One was his beloved Providence, RI where he spent most of his days. The other was Boston. Lovecraft's grave bears this legend: "I am Providence." I will never be audacious enough to put "I am Dorchester" on my tombstone. There are many more people who are more deserving. I've met them. They walk past my porch every day at all hours.

Lovecraft loved nothing more than strolling around Boston long before urban renewal. He loved the crooked streets. He loved the North End. He set a story in Boston called 'Pickman's Model' set near either Copp's Hill or the Granary Burial Ground. I forget which. You'll have to read this bloodcurdling tale to find out. He had the eye of an antiquarian and he loved Boston, like so many people do, because it was so old.

Why is he the 'best bad writer?' Firstly, he is best because he labored over his manuscripts and polished and agonized until they really were a product of his love of craft. The man really could write by the ream and his imagination knew no limits from the bowels of the earth to the farthest reaches of outer space on a time continuum that was infinite. Secondly, he is considered bad, not because he tells a story badly, just in his own way. His plots are tortuous, bogged down with obscure words, piles of adjectives and a style that was old fashioned before 1900. Little happens in a Lovecraft story except the unfolding dreadful, paralyzing realization that in the mindless machinations of the universe, human hopes are not even a flickering mote in a gibbering, blind god's eye. That's a Lovecraftian sentence right there. If you enjoy the way it rolls, Lovecraft may be for you.

'Pickman's Model' is another kind of story written in the same style with a theme that only touches on Lovecraft's obsession with a universe in which man is as much as naught, a flotsam of dimly phosphorescent plankton on the tides of eternity. It is set in his present, around 1920. It captures old Boston quite well through his appreciative eyes and it is a horrible, weird tale. No Dorchester stories, unfortunately, but we make do with what we have. Boston, like Providence, features in many of his stories, and Massachusetts as well. He was the quintessential, weird, New England author, the kind of crank we love.


The first book, from the Library of America, contains everything he wrote. It's more for the confirmed devotee. The second contains 'Pickman's Model' as well as some of his better stories for those on a budget.

Number 411 smells like #4711

Today is an anniversary of sorts, the way every day is another step closer toward extinction. This is post number 411 of the Dot Matrix, which was an eponymously titled blog until a few months ago. We suspect that a year or so from now, the title over this broadsheet will change names again. We are in no rush to hurry circumstances, only aware that constant change is here to stay.

While the title on the masthead changes, we do not start a new blog as our direction dithers. There is a rich, deep archive of entries to be spelunked for those who have the time. People with patience will learn that Whalehead King has committed whatever voodoo he does regardless of setting. His initial entries while he was the Bard of New London, Conn. bear a striking similarity to his observations about his current home in Dorchester, Mass. They will probably differ little wherever our man in the field finds himself encamped.

A man is a person and an upright person lives true to his or her code. Know where you stand. I once took a scoop of Mississippi River water in my hand and sucked it down. It tasted like metal. It tasted like all the effluent of America washed across a continent about to be dumped into the Gulf of Mexico as food for the shrimp. I felt lucky to take a sip even if it burned my throat and gave my gut a touch of dropsy. I had sipped what the continent offered and I had slaked my thirst to satisfaction.

I dipped my palm into the Neponset River today and tasted its nectar. It was clean and dirty at the same time, like salty zinc and leaf dander. What does your city's water taste like? Chlorine? The river that separates Boston and Milton is a brew steeped with bitterness and hope, with woe and joy, with smug satisfaction mixed with small scale horrorsbows. The Neponset brings Massachusetts to the brink of the Atlantic and then the river exhales. To the north, on the shore I was crouched on, lay Boston. To the south was the rest of the world. I tasted the Neponset and I headed back into the heart of Dorchester, Mass. I live in Dorchester. The air is a cologne that clings to my lapels and beard stubble.

A tip of the hat to our advertisers and sponsors. Without them, this archive wouldn't be worthwhile for its author. Hopefully, you, Gentle Reader, investigate the links and recommendations we offer here, tailored to your peculiar tastes. A tip of the cap to you, Gentle Reader. May you be slap-happy to the end or your days after suffering all the slings and arrows Life directs your way.

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.

School without a science teacher

I have volunteered to conduct science experiments with fourth grade students at a local elementary school. The school doesn't have a science teacher. This is in Boston, a city known for its progress in biotechnology, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a science corridor of high-tech companies along the Route 128 beltway. I will be volunteering at a private school but a public school, a block away, is in the same straights and relying on volunteers from the same program to expand their science curriculum because the public school also doesn't have a science teacher on staff.

I am more a romantic, intuitive dreamer than a hard-nosed analyst. If I am teaching science to youngsters, something must be wrong with the system. I would prefer to lead field trips wandering around the neighborhood appreciating abandoned buildings and well-crafted brickface facades, but that is an indulgence that comes secondary to productive, deductive thinking. I understand how electricity works and how density allows for flotation and the biological food chain and whatever else our experiments are supposed to prove. With that background, I have the leisure to appreciate the more ephemeral aspects of my surroundings.

That children who attend schools adjacent to the Longwood Medical/Academic Area don't have a science teacher doesn't pass the smell test for a well-rounded education. Mission Hill and Roxbury are lucky to have responsible corporate neighbors with deep pockets who can pay their employees to lend a helping hand and provide staff, however marginally qaulified, to guide students through a few, pre-packaged experiments. Do Dorchester schools have the same resources available to them?

I assume the corporate entities in Longwood employ more college-educated persons than the businesses in Fields Corner. I don't think Tedeschi Food Mart or Mad Rag are offering their employees to help out at that neighborhood's schools.

Something is broken and that something needs to be fixed. I don't have the answer but I will do my part to shed a little light of enlightenment and the miracles of critical thinking about natural facts for one hour a week in Mission Hill. I can only hope someone else is doing the same in the thick of Dorchester's school system. Boston, and the world, needs more children who will grow into adults, who grasp the basics of the universe's mechanics.

Noumenal Dorchester

Your humble narrator has been accused of not reporting the facts, that the Dorchester reported on here is not the same Dorchester experienced by the majority of the people on this neighborhood's streets and it is not the Dorchsester described in the newspapers. This is true. When Whalehead King writes about Dorchester, or anywhere or anything else, the reader only gets a particular perspective.

Your humble narrator, who has spent countless, untraceable hours criss-crossing not only Dorchester but other Boston ,out-of-the-way, back alleys, has never witnessed a shooting, a drug deal, an interaction between john and prostitute, a knife fight, a police intervention, an arson, a graffito tagging, or even a petty theft more serious than a can man lifting deposit bottles out of a recycling bin left on a curb. He has seen people moving from Point A to Point B, minding their business while being cordial to each other and everyone trying to get through the day with as little friction and tension as possible with good manners and tolerance. These are the facts, if they may not be the reality.

Crimes are committed in Dorchester the same as they are committed on Beacon Hill and in West Roxbury and Hyde Park and in Persia. People will be people, but a few bad apples needn't spoil the barrel nor turn sparkling cider into vinegar. Your narrator's eyeglasses are not tinted and, as often as not, he doesn't wear them though he spent a week's pay on the frames. The lenses aren't rosy but clear. The neighborhood is what it is. Possibilities abound for those with objective eyes to spy them.

Are these dispatches really just a Dorchester conjured out of a fevered mind? Partly, yes, but ultimately and unequivocally: No. Anyone who can google a map can see the landmarks that exist, the poetic street names, the connotative place names and how the convoluted and leafy landscape is laid out in order to breed small scale adventures and philosophical associations. Layers upon layers of cognition and experience in all flavors and grit are piled atop each other in Dorchester.

Are the personalities portrayed in these missives made of from whole cloth? Again, no. They are here, plugging away, trying to get a head of a little spare pocket change, and trying to earn the respect they deserve. Names are changed because not everyone enjoys celebrity, but every personality has been extrapolated from details garnered from personal interviews and direct observation mixed in with a dash of purple and yellow journalistic sleights of hand.

Some people may scoff at Dorchesterites' aspirations. We think they protest too much and may harbor a smidge of envy. Schemes are hatched in Dorchester. Dreams come true in Dorchester. The same story is repeated all over Boston and all over the globe but a Dorchester victory seems to be one of the sweetest of them all.

Why fear?

It is natural to feel fear in certain situations but not when you are just walking down a street. Dorchester unjustly has a reputation that makes drivers' knuckles go white around the steering wheel as they exit I-93 onto Freeport Street. I don't know why. I have lived in Dorchester almost two years and I have never felt my life or property threatened. I've been all over Dorchester, in the classy neighborhoods and in the sketchier ones. Everyone has always been polite and helpful. I have never been approached to be a party to an illegal act, though my manners and dress would lead one to assume that I was in some places for no other reason.

I have been the most pale-skinned person for blocks but I have never felt uncomfortable for that. I have been the oldest person in a knot of young men on a sidewalk who were less well-dressed, less educated, less socially connected, and less law-abiding than myself, but it was never an issue for any of us. I am not boasting, only making deductions based on the available evidence. I ask for directions and they give very accurate ones. One of the toughs wishes me a nice day. I thank the group and respond likewise with good cheer. Have a nice day, sir.

Some places get known as Wild West war zones where might makes right and the black market is the only market. Good news and no news doesn't sell newspapers. If it bleeds, it leads. Plenty of nothing goes on in Dorchester, but most people never get a chance to learn about that. This applies to other parts of Boston. I am thinking of Roxbury in particular and the Dudley Street corridor that connects the two neighborhoods. Dudley Street is a vibrant and interesting avenue though disposable income doesn't slosh around it the way it does in other parts of Boston. People do, and people are what make a city interesting and livable.

It is easy to look down your nose at how the other half lives. It is just as easy to get out and about, saying hello and complimenting the people you pass on the street, gathering greetings and goodwill in return. To be cheerful doesn't make you a mark for hustlers. Common courtesy goes a long way. It is better to live a century as a rube than one day as a snob. I've been a snob. It is comfortable to be smug but it is much better to be open to what the cityscape offers.

Three items of interest

Firstly: Our mailbox contained a letter today from the Executive Director of the Boston Collegiate Charter School. It seems the school has purchased the building at 215 Sydney Street to refurbish it. The plans are to hold classes at this address, after construction is complete, for students in the 5th and 6th grades. Ms. Sullivan, the director, apologizes in advance for any inconvenience and expresses the wish to work with neighborhood residents to minimize trouble the project may cause. The board of trustees operates a middle and high school on Mayhew Street in Dorchester and people of the Sydney Street neighborhood are welcome to contact her with any concerns or to arrange a tour of the Mayhew Street campus to learn of the school's mission and operation. She can be reached at 617-265-1172.

Secondly: Brothers Supermarket II is scheduled to open its doors on Dudley Street, just west of Uphams Corner, on Friday, if one can believe the soap on the front doors. This building has been undergoing renovations for some time and it is nice to finally be able to see inside. The whole affair is remarkably spiffy. There is fresh, unscuffed paint everywhere and the aisles are nicely spaced to allow for maximum traffic flow and minimal reaching around fellow shoppers. The shelves are already fully stocked but there are a few details to attend to before the grand opening date arrives. The original Brothers Supermarket is located on Washington Street, but the digs on Dudley promise to be more modern with more elbow room for who live in the immediate area.

Thirdly: Whalehead King is happy to write for money. It is his preferred means of exchange since a dollar goes far in Dorchester and he wouldn't mind a few extra bills in his pocket. That said, he does not endorse specific businesses for cash payment. If any of our regular readers are business owners, they are welcome to contact the proprietor of this site to schedule a visit and possible mention here. This has not happened yet, but we are happy to entertain the possibility, always looking for fresh material. It would save a lot of legwork and confabulation.

Rather than cash on the barrel head for what may be an endorsement of questionable value, Mr. King requests perquisites instead: 20% off his bill for a month from a dry cleaner, for instance, or a pint on the house the next time he steps up to the bar. Regular readers know we tend to accentuate the positives we encounter and downplay the negatives. In fact, we tend not to see any negatives at all, being happy to be out and about, enjoying our surroundings for all they are worth. You cannot put a price tag on happiness and Whalehead King, your humble narrator, is reasonably content reporting things as he finds them. They are overall good.

New scoot on the block

Oswald Chubb isn't a name anyone would wish to be born with. Oswald Nachtengale fathered Natasha Nachtengale and after she married Felix Chubb their first born son was named in honor of the her father. This is how Oswald Chubb got his name. There but for the grace of the angels go I. At least my legacy name is buried in the middle.

Oswald Chubb looks pretty much like you would expect someone with this name to look. He is a doughy, pasty, lump of a chap with bad skin, a bad haircut, and pants that are too tight for his belly and too short for his inseam. He makes his living in produce. He knows his vegetables. He has worked all the green grocers in Dorchester, serving stints at the bigger operations like Lambert's Rainbow Fruit, the Shaw's Supermarket on Morrisey Blvd, and the Stop & Shop a little farther down Morrisey. He enjoyed the prestige that accompanied employment at these large establishments but as he has gotten older he has used his expertise to improve the vegetable selection at smaller, neighborhood, corner shops. He has worked the oriental groceries along Dorchester's Umami Mile and gained experience with more exotic greens while introducing iceberg lettuce and bell peppers to the shelves.

Romance hasn't been a big feature in Oswald Chubb's life. He has had girlfriends in the past but his relationships were never mutually satisfying for either party. Like many people in Dorchester, Oswald Chubb takes the bus to get around. He thinks he would like to change his image into something a bit sportier and in this way, perhaps, increase his prospects with available members of the fairer sex. With this in mind he visited Scooters Go Green in South Boston, just north of Dorchester on Old Colony Avenue.

Needless to say, a February day with the thermometer topping 17 degrees Fahrenheit isn't a busy day in a motor scooter shop. Oswald Chubb had the staff's full attention. He wasn't planning on driving out of the lot. He was planning ahead toward spring, like every scooterist does. He looked over the showroom models and decided on 'The Rabbit' which is a sporty, retro-styled model priced at a mere $999.00. He tested the feel of the seat and the brakes on the floor. He liked what he felt and he pictured himself speeding down Dot Ave, passing a bus. He made a deposit and purchased a helmet.

Come mid-March Oswald Chubb will dashing through Dorchester on a brand-new, factory-fresh, creamsicle-orange Rabbit. Ladies take notice: there's going to be a new scoot on the block.

Snow on fire

Timmy Tyrole's trick would have been a neat one if his grandmother hadn't put the kabosh on his scheme. The hands of idle boys are the Devil's insturments.

Timmy is a student at Everett Elementary School on Pleasant Street. He lives on Cushing Avenue in N'orchester, but with school being cancelled due to inclement weather, Timmy spent the weekend with his grandparents in Lower Mills, a few miles south and expected to stay until after X-mas. In history class, Timmy has been studying the Eastern Roman Empire and he's been quite taken with the notion of 'Greek fire.' This was a weapon the crafty Byzantines deployed against invading navies, an unknown, petroleum-based product (hypothetically) that set the waves themselves aflame around foreign armadas that couldn't be extinguished. Timmy, though overall a good boy, likes to play with matches. He is like a moth when he is around fire.

Timmy's grandparents live on Old Morton Street in Lower Mills, a few blocks from the Walter Baker Chocolate Factory that has been converted to apartments. Faced with spending a few days exiled in Lower Mills, Timmy brought his history book to pass the time and get ahead on homework. During the recent snowstorm he was puttering around in his grandfather's workshop located in the cinder block garage detached from the main house. He was eyeing the jars and cans of mysterious liquids his grandfather has collected over the decades, and Timmy decided to see if he could replicate Greek fire.

He took an empty spackle bucket and mixed gasoline and kerosene and stirred in a pint of old turpentine that had congealed into jelly. He splashed in a dash of cadmium-based acrylic paint because red is the color of fire. His original thought was to toss the whole load into the Neponset River, the way the Byzantines would, but like a good scientist he considered the consequences and didn't want to see his experiment wash out to sea. Figuring snow, which was everywhere, is also water, he trucked his bucket into his grandmother's back yard and poured it over the snow drifts.

Luckily, Hattie Tyrole was washing the breakfast dishes while Timmy was going about his preparations. She rushed out the kitchen door and said, "What do you think you're doing, young man?" Timmy answered, "I'm making Greek fire."

Even with the wind blowing snowflakes and frigid sea breeze off Dorchester Bay, Hattie Tyrole could smell the fumes off Timmy's concoction. "No you're not,"she scolded, "You're getting yourself inside where I can keep my eye on you."

Hattie made hot cocoa and lectured Timmy while he stirred the marshmallows in his cup. "What sort of fool thing were you up to? Do you want to set the whole neighborhood on fire?" Timmy was sullen. He said, "I wanted to make Greek fire. I wanted to see if it really worked." His grandmother said, "What do you know about Greeks? All they're good for is running diners not setting fires. Why don't you be good and dry these dishes? That will be enough fun for both of us."

Timmy wasn't convinced. While he dried the dishes and handed them to his grandmother to put in the cabinets, he looked out the window at the snowdrift he had stained with his imitation Greek fire. He knew he wasn't going to get to put a match to it, the snowfall was burying it at a rate of two inches an hour. His grandmother said, "You're a smart boy, when you grow up you can experiment all you want. Just don't do it now and don't do it in my back yard."

Selling ice to eskimos

Chauncy Dibble trudged through the snow this morning with a grocery cart packed with a card table, paper cones and bottles of syrup. He believes that today, in the aftermath of yesterday's blizzard, is snow cone weather. "The raw materials are here for the taking."

He set up shop at the intersection of Lithgow Street and Talbot Avenue, not the busiest place for automobile traffic but pedestrians travel back and forth between Codman and Peabody Squares, either to pick up sundries on Washington Street or to catch the T at Ashmont Station. Mr. Dibble unfolded his card table at 9:30 expecting to tuck a tidy profit into the pockets of his down parka. "Sure you can just bend down and scoop up a handful of snow," he said. "I add that little bit of tropical sweetness that makes you forget you're in New England. When you eat a cone, you're happy to have the snow."

Mr. Dibble has an array of bottles on his table: Pomegranate, Mango, Passion Fruit, Watermelon, Sour Cherry, Pina Colada, Banana-Raspberry, Guava, and Clementine. We happened upon him at 2:00 this afternoon while he was filling two paper cones with snow from the sidewalk and drizzling one with Passion Fruit syrup and the other with Guava. Minnie and Millie Blackstone were his customers and both said they would never have thought of enjoying a snow cone today until they saw Mr. Dibble's display. "He's very convincing," Minnie said. "I'm really looking forward to the rest of my walk to Walgreen's," Millie said.

Chauncy Dibble explained that he chose his location because the intersection of Lithgow and Talbot is protected from the splash of plows and passing trucks so the snow retains it virgin quality throughout the day. He is armed with an oversize serving spoon that he uses to pack the paper cones from a pile he keeps replenished from nearby lawns and walkways. He says, "The neighbors don't mind me harvesting their snow for profit. I promise to keep the paths to their front doors clear and they wish me well." How's business? Mr. Dibble is coy about the numbers but he did remark that he expects his children to have a happy X-mas this year.

The Guava cone tastes like real guava.

Where the good eats are

Yesterday was pleasant in Edward Everett Square, 59 degrees on the benches by the giant Clapp Pear Statue. Directly behind the park that sits at the bend where Columbia Road branches off the beginnings of Mass Ave and Boston Street, is a KFC that perfumes the neighborhood with the savory smells of fried poultry and Col. Sanders' special, secret blend of eleven herbs and spices. Taking advantage of the weather, five teen-aged boys were enjoying a ten-piece bucket of the Colonel's extra-crispy thighs, wings and breasts and commenting on their meal.

One boy said, "This chicken is okay but it's not as good as New York Fried Chicken. We could have walked three blocks and gone to New York."

The boy next to him replied, "There's nowhere to sit outside at New York. There's just a traffic island in the middle of Hancock Street. I'm not sitting there."

The boy next to him chimed in, "We could always sit inside. The tables are a little scrubby but the lights are bright. We would see what we're eating." This occured around 5:30 in the afternoon, dark in pre-winter solstice Boston even with the streetlights lit.

The second boy added this rejoinder: "Yeah, it's bright in there. It's bright enough to see the dirt."

The fourth boy said, "They run a clean joint but do you know where I want to go? KFC is okay and New York Chicken is okay but I'd rather be in Fenway. There's a Popeye's in Fenway."

The boy at the end of the last bench took a big bite of succulent breast meat. "Mmmm," he said, "Popeye's, now that's good fried chicken. They're living good in Fenway."

His companions nodded and smacked thier lips in agreement while they polished off the bucket. They made a plan to take the Red Line the next day and then any Green Line train but the "E" to Knemore Square. The first boy rubbed his belly and said, "I can't wait to pop in at Popeye's"

What's a roti?

There is a roti shop in Upham's Corner so I could easily answer the question myself by walking through the front door, but that would detract from the air of mystery about this food. My first thought is that it is some kind of croquet, a ball of dough wrapped around a ball of other ingredients and then deep fried. I don't have any reason to think this. I just do.

I've seen roti shops in Mattapan and other neighborhoods but I was never hungry when passing through so my ingnorance remains unsullied by experience. I like not knowing what this mystery food may be. It makes the future more tantalizing.

I've never been to a party when, during a lull in the festivities, someone shouts out, "Let's get some rotis for take out!" Pizza, yes; Chinese food, yes; a run to McDonalds or Burger King, sadly, yes.

I've never been in a group of friends discussing what to eat and someone fake-coughed into their sleeve while exclaiming, "ROTI!!" I haven't met anyone yet who can tell me what a roti is. I must travel in the wrong circles, and yet a roti shop isn't hard to find. They must be selling them to somebody. Again, I must travel in the wrong circles.

What makes Dorchester so good?

Knowing my love for the Dot, someone posed this question to me today. I didn't have to scratch my head to come up with a witty reply. I spoke from my gut and from my heart. I looked my inquisitor straight in the eye and I said, "You know, buddy, where I'm from people don't ask foolish questions like this, but if you need an answer, I'll tell you."

We were standing on Mission Hill across the street from Mission Church, between Tiny's Flowers and Mike's Donuts. I pointed to the east and I said, "You see that sun rising over yonder? That's Dorchester, my friend, a place where all good things begin. You can lay your head down to sleep in the Dot and when you do, you know you'll wake up to a better day. The future is bright in Dorchester. From Lower Mills to Andrew Square, from Harbor Point to Mattapan and everywhere in between good, honest folk wake up every morning in Dorchester to get to work making thier part of Boston the best part of all."

My companion snuffled a bit into his sleeve. I continued, "You live in Needham so you don't know what it's like to be down on your luck but up to snuff. You don't know what it's like to have the whole danged world against you but you still gather up enough pluck to show up every live-long, ding-dong day to make your mark and make it stick. Boston runs on Dorchester. Its made up of good people with good intentions."

I continued some more: "The road to Hell may be paved with good intentions but the road to Dorchester is paved with hard work, good will and sweat equity. You drive to work every day and pay $30.00 to park so that you can get home to your precious Needham as quickly and as alone as you can. I take the T to get here. Me and thousands of other Dorchesterites. We're a part of Boston. We like each others' company. We like to rub elbows as much as we like to bend elbows and bend each others' ears. We don't use Boston to get a paycheck. We live here. That's what Dorchester is about, pal. It is about living in a city and making it work."

My companion snuffled into his sleeve again. Whether he had a cold or was misty-eyed from my rhetoric, I don't know. He said he needed a cup of coffee. I agreed. I went into Mike's Donuts. He walked to Brigham Circle to Dunkin Donuts.