THIS IS MY LIFE STORY! THERE'S MORE TO IT!

Did you ever have a traumatic experience in your life that you can’t get out of your head? Well, I did! And did you know that I’m among the 1 in 50 people who develop Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism?

And did you know that despite this, I’ve been able to live a normal life and have helped to contribute to society?

My name’s Richard Clifford, an administrative assistant of Irish-American descent living in Boston’s beautiful South Shore and this is my story. I hope it will inspire everyone who reads this, especially those of you who are parents of special needs children.

CHAPTER 1.

“WHERE THE TROUBLE STARTED….”

I guess it has to start with the time that I went into the hospital when I was 2 for a hernia operation. When Mom and Dad checked me into Boston’s Floating Hospital that night, they reassured me that everything would be all right. So when I took to my bed that night, I saw the Boston skyline and holding my Bugs Bunny talking doll.

I pulled the talking cord that all kinds of pre-recorded sayings by Bugs including, “What’s Up, Doc?” Little did I know that it would be the start of a traumatic journey.

I woke up in the middle of the night scared as a dog.

That’s all I remember. Mom was around that night and I told her how I scared I was. And I wondered if I would survive it.

Well, I don’t remember the surgery I had that morning.

But I will say this…it shook me up a lot. I spent a few days in the hospital and played around with the other kids who were staying there. And a few days later, I headed home. I remember that Mom, Dad and I were riding on the MBTA home and I was crying all the way through the ride.

Anyway, the T would be a very special part of my life later on. After all, it’s our public transportation system here in Boston, one we love to hate a lot. The delays on the trains, the loud announcements of calling the T if you “See Something,” irate employees who get upset with you every time you have an emergency and rebuff your apologies with angry snarls of “Have A Nice Day,” the politics inside the management, well, you name it.

But when I got back home, something had happened to me. I was screaming all night and keeping my parents awake. I was withdrawn and acting like a nut. So they resolved to take me in and have me checked out.

I was too young at the time, but here I was wondering what was happening to me. Here I was having my brain scanned by neurologists, being interviewed by mental health specialists, having examinations by the doctors, and so much more while they were trying to find out what was wrong with me.

At the time I was growing up, in the 1960s, people like me were being put into mental hospitals(they would later be closed in the 80s and 90s, with their former patients ending up on the street). Educational systems frowned upon people like myself, thinking they’d never amount to much. The world was tailored for “normal” people, not people like me.

I was diagnosed as having autism, a learning disability where a child’s development is stymied by different factors. In my case, it was a case of having a medical procedure being performed. I was too young at the time, but I was wondering why I was having my brain and body being picked at.

It was simple; my Mom and Dad were concerned about me and wanted to plan for my future.

My Dad, Patrick Clifford, was born and raised in Killarney, Ireland and came over to America in 1949. He grew up in that town with several brothers and sisters who later would follow him over. My Uncle Dicko, who was one of his brothers, would later run a food shop on High Street. Another brother, Doney,

would be diagnosed with a similar condition like my own. He had a learning disability that limited his options, as well.

My Mom, Catherine Walsh Clifford, was born here in the USA, but her Mother, who was my Grandmother, was born in County Mayo. She grew up at the time of the Irish Rebellion and was sick one night as British soldiers looked for a gun smuggler associated with the Irish Republican Army. In the end, they gave up and left her alone.

I shall share that story at another time when I get my facts on this straight.

Anyway, Mom and Dad married in 1956 and were married for 32 wonderful years until Dad died in July of 1988, only 24 hours after I’d been canned from a mailroom messenger job at Putnam Investments. The funeral that would follow later that week would be an epic event, one that I’ll return to later.

My sister Peggy was born on May 16th, 1959 and my brother Coleman was born on the day before New Year’s Eve 1959(December 30th., to be exact). I was born on June 19th., 1961(the day that black slaves in Galveston, Texas learned that they’d been freed by President Lincoln). My sister Patrice followed on the Fourth of July in 1963(several months before President Kennedy was assassinated), and my youngest sister Diane was born on Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary of June 23rd., 1970.

And were it not for their support, I wouldn’t be the man I am today, let alone writing this autobiography.

CHAPTER 2.

“WHAT THE DOCTORS THOUGHT…” What the doctors at the time thought was that I wasn’t going to amount to much, and that I should be put into a mental institution. It was a hard thing to take for Mom and Dad after all the specialists that they’d contacted and the advice that they were seeking. That’s what happened to a disabled person in those dark days of the 1960s. Many of these would be put into state schools and institutions like Fernald & Wrentham. Or they were lobotomized, which was a worse fate!

Most parents then would have taken their advice, but not my parents. Absolutely not. They said that they would fight to get me educated, no matter what. They were looking around for schools that would help me get that chance. And they called people in the General Court to find programs for autistic children like myself.

In the meantime, I’d been going to kindergarten at the Ahern School, where we would mostly sing songs, do crafts and such. One afternoon, we were going to see a film at the school, but I got scared and ran away home. I lived in Dorchester at the

time(I was born in St. Elizabeth’s hospital in Uphams Corner a few years back). My neighborhood was a cheerful Irish one with families whose parents came from Ireland(or Canada).

Near Savin Hill I had Doney and Aunt Dotty; down the street I had Uncle Jack and Marion Dalton and their brood; across the street, I had the Thurbide family(who were Scottish and came from Cape Breton in Canada), and downstairs I had Nana and Aunt Franny, who was a little wild. I also had an Uncle named Joe who was mentally handicapped as I was. He was a great man who worked at the City Incinerator and would sometimes bring me a Coke to drink on the way home. We enjoyed his company at the house on Centre Street, as well as at the cottage we had in Marshfield.

At the time he was growing up, Joe didn’t have much of the educational opportunities that my Mom and Dad looked for.

It was a different time, as I already told you beforehand. But Joe did the best he could and helped me to enjoy life to its fullest.

Growing up in Dorchester was like being in Heaven. You knew everybody there, and they would help each other whenever they needed it the most. After all, most of the kids were educated at the parish school, went to Mass at the Church on Sundays, ran the Irish dances and always got away to the beaches during the summer.

We grew up in a time when nothing was open on Sunday, the TV was limited and people would sing and play music to pass the time away. I remember Mom telling me that the time he and Dad were dating, it was forbidden to have dances on Sundays. They’d go to a dance at a club, but if the cops were coming ‘round, someone would get up on a table and sing until they’d gone, then they’d be back up at it. Today, you can almost get away with anything; I won’t get into the gory details.

Mom and Dad were determined that they would get me a decent, quality education for me. Little did they imagine is that while they were trying to get help for me, other children like myself would benefit from their lobbying.

And that’s what gave me the inspiration to write this story, to tell you how anyone can beat the odds and make a life out for himself or herself. And if I can beat the odds, so can anyone.

CHAPTER 3.

“LIVING IN DORCHESTER WAS EXTRA SPECIAL.”

You know, living in Dorchester(where I was born) was a very extra special part of the world. Most of Mom and Dad’s

family lived either downstairs on the first floor or down the street on the corner of Centre Street and Adams Street. Up the street was Dorchester Avenue, that wonderful thoroughfare on which there were stores like Crawford Drug, Cumberland Farms, and Spiro’s Coffee Shop.

And of course, there was St. Mark’s Church, where the family went to Mass on Sundays and holydays. It was where most of the rest of my family were educated(except me, of course). It was the place where we’d go to for their bingo nights, dances, Christmas bazaars, and, of course, the St. Patrick’s Day Shows. All the kids would get together and dress up in Irish style costumes; they’d sing Irish and American songs, there’d be a couple of girls doing Irish step dancing, and there’d be a sing-along for the audience to take part in.

My earliest memory of that kind of show was when my sister Patrice sang “Tora Loora Loora” in a show sometime around the late 60s. And of course the choir of kids sang “It’s a Great Day For The Irish.” We were treated to a couple of Irish step dancers. And we enjoyed the Irish sing-alongs.

I pointed out that my Dad came from Killarney in 1949 and stayed here for the rest of his life(except when he and Mom went on vacation). When he was growing up in his hometown, the only time you heard Irish music was around St. Patrick’s Day; most of the rest of the time, it was American pop music.

He was very ambivalent to all the “Irish” songs composed by Tin Pan Alley writers who didn’t have a drop of Irish in them.

“The Auld Come-All-Yes,” my Dad called them. He preferred the real Irish music performed by artists like Tommy Makem, Liam Clancy & The Clancy Brothers or the Irish showbands who played at the local clubs. And yes, he always had Irish music on the radio every weekend. John Latchford, who was a disc jockey on WRYT radio in Boston(now WROL), would spend hours on air playing the “latest songs from the Republic of Ireland, plus all the old Irish favorites.” Growing up on Centre Street in Dorchester, our weekends were filled with the sounds of Ireland.

For recreation, we’d go down to a park on Victory Road, where we’d play on the swings or seesaws or watch a Little League Baseball Game. We’d go over to a field on Dorchester Avenue in Fields Corner where we’d go skating in the winter or watch baseball games in the summer. During the holidays, I would go into town to see the Enchanted Village and sit on Santa’s lap at Jordan Marsh. Then we’d see all the beautiful lights at the Boston Common. And on St. Patrick’s Day, we’d go to South Boston to see the Parade with marching bands, floats and all kinds of politicians.

Yeah, our St. Patrick’s Day Parade is full of politicians, politicians and more politicians. Every year, the Senate

President presides over that great corn beef and cabbage breakfast where all of them trade jabs with each other or try to say something that’ll get ‘em in trouble.

I remember, also, there was a truck that had a “whip” ride.

Every time it would come around, we’d get on it and take an exciting ride around for 5 or 10 minutes. And what a ride it was. It was only the beginning of more exciting rides that I’d go on at amusement parks that no longer exist. And of course, there was Famous Pizza, where Dad would take me for a couple of pizza slices and a coke from time to time.

You know, my curiosity for the area around me had me wandering around in places like Codman Square or on Morrissey Boulevard. And of course, my parents would get angry at me for doing that.

“You’re on punishment until midnight!” they’d say when I’d done something wrong. Of course, even though that was the case, I’d actually be on punishment until I woke up the next morning. And you know me, crying the night away. But I was very interested in the world around me, especially outside my own neighborhood.

I know you want me to get into the gory details, but if I did, I’d have to put you on punishment until midnight, too.

And you know what that means? No TV tonight, buddy!

CHAPTER 4.

“I COULDN’T FIT INTO THE SCHOOL.”

My first memories of schooling was going to kindergarten at Patrick Ahern School, which was up the street from me on Dorchester Avenue. We’d mostly sing songs, do crafts, dance around the maypole, anything the teacher thought up.

After we pledged allegiance to the flag, we’d so some singing starting with the National Anthem. Then we’d move to “3 Cheers for the Red, White and Blue,” after which everybody would do “hip hip horray” 3 times. After that, my memory drifts…

Depending on what time we’d begin our class, we’d sing either: “Good morning! Good morning!

And a cup of good cheer!

Good morning! Good morning!

And A Happy New Year!”

Or: “Good afternoon! Good afternoon!

Good afternoon today!”

Well, there’s another memory committed to paper. After a while of singing, we’d do crafts of different sorts. And we went home to watch TV. Growing up in Dorchester, it meant “Ultraman,” “Astro Boy,” “The Mischief Makers,” “Prince Planet,” “Colonel Bleep, “Q.T. Hush,” or “Clutch Cargo.” It was an amazing time to be a kid, since the art of children’s TV was perfect before I grew up. I was born too late for “Howdy Doody” and “Super Circus,” and too early for “Sesame Street,” which premiered in November of 1970. During this time, Mom and Dad tried to find programs that would fit my needs.

And it was in 1968 or 1969 that they found one for me-The League School in Newton. It was located on a hillside overlooking the town. The classes were small and we were able to work on the basics or reading, math, writing, spelling and some science. We had music during lunch, including one songs named “Let Everyone Clap Hands Like Me,” which would make me cry a lot.

One of my teachers named Lynne was a very kind and gentle teacher, except when someone got a test on math wrong. Then she’d mark an X, tear the paper up, and tell the offending teacher to “put your head down.”

And then we had a lady from the Phillippines(whose name I can’t remember), but one who was very friendly and helped us

do our lessons very well. And of course, I loved the recess periods where we could run around and play in the fresh air.

Although there were times when the high winds around the Newton hills made me feel scared.

Another scary time I had was when I almost got hit by a car(not once, but twice!). As Lynne and my class were walking back to school from a field trip, a car screeched in front of me and I was pulled back by Lynne back onto the sidewalk.

“Richard, you almost got hit by a car!” she screamed.

“Yes,” I said helplessly.

“And she had to hold the breaks down….what does stop mean?”

As she chewed me out, everybody was watching helplessly.

I believe that they were like a crowd witnessing the execution of an innocent man. Many times in my life this scene would be repeated. Whenever I did something wrong-walking home from the YMCA without permission, painting a sweat shirt, etc.people would stand around watching me as I was being chewed out.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but Lynne rebuffed me.

“Being sorry is for doing stupid things…now you have to hold the grown-up’s hand! It’s over!”

I had to be walked up with my hand being held by her. And as we neared the school I asked what time it was.

“It’s time you considered yourself lucky you weren’t being hit by a car!” Lynne screamed.

And as I entered the school and Lynne let my hand go, I burst into tears. I was crying my eyes out without restraint. I had been scared into crying that day. And for countless times, whenever I did these wrong things, that’s how it would end up.

Years later, when I told Dr. Yerkes, whom I’ll talk about in the next chapter, about the incident that day, he told me that he’d talked with Lynne and she said that if I had been hit by the car, she’d never have forgiven herself. I believe that the reason she did this was out of fear that I’d lose my life before it’d even begun.

I think it’s because of these incidents that I would be punished. And when I woke up the next morning, I would feel regret and fear. Even though I’d learned my lesson, there would still be the fact that I’d missed out on what I loved-watching TV, listening to the radio, or anything else.

It sucks, but that’s the way it is. And the morning after I’d come off punishment was a time of pain. Even though it was a new day, I would be dwelling on what I’d done. On one occasion, the morning after I’d been punished for walking home

from the YMCA instead of staying on the Camp bus, I’d ask my Dad, “Am I still on punishment?”

I wonder if we still are….

Anyhow, looking back on that incident, I believe that if I’d been hit by that car, I wouldn’t be telling you this story today.

I left League School in 1971 to go to St. Coletta’s in Braintree. It was a Catholic school for special needs children run by the Cardinal Cushing Center. And believe me, that was a new experience: dressing up in a suit and clean clothes, going to Mass on a Friday morning, participating in the Special Olympics, it was one of the most amazing schools in the South Shore.

Of course, I didn’t like going to Mass on Fridays, because the priests sang the Doxology at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer, which caused me to burst into tears. And I had a bad habit of putting my fingers in my ears when the priest sang.

One of the nuns there at the time, Sister Mary Roger, told me that putting my fingers in my ears was “love of the devil.” Well, I hate the devil; I just didn’t want to cry when I heard the priest sing.

Of course, Sister Mary Roger is to be commended because she helped me make my first Holy Communion at the school!

And it’s the faith of communion that has kept me faithful to the Catholic Church. Up until that time, I was too afraid to go to Mass on Sundays; I’d spend it watching cartoons on TV all morning, going only once at Easter.

I owe it to Sister, because as tough as she was, she really helped me discover something that I’d been living only casually in my early years: the faith that is the Roman Catholic Church.

Another nun I had whose name escapes me at the moment was just as strict. When I was having a string of bad behavior while at St. Coletta, I had to be put on punishment for a time. And one of the things that I had to tackle on my own was a course on the Lexicon(what you and I know as a dictionary).

But in time, I’d get the hang of it and enjoy the school.

Among my favorite times was going to Rindge Arena on Tuesday mornings, where we would spend the morning skating and getting ready for an ice show that we would put on for our parents in May of that year. However, in one year, I suffered a stomach ache before the show and couldn’t go on. Sitting there watching the spectacle really put a bad taste in my mouth.

I would get to take part, however, the following year, and it was a doozy of a time. Playing hockey, learning some figure moves, and having a time on the ice was a great thing that I looked forward to each Tuesday during the fall and winter months.

I also remember going with the school to a matinee performance of the local production of “Godspell!” It was a very moving and fun-filled experience seeing the gospel of St. Matthew put to music with songs like “Day By Day,” “On The Willows,” “You Are The Light Of The World,” “We Beseech Thee,” and of course, “All Good Things.” It was a wonderful experience that brought the house down.

And of course, in May of 1972, our school participated in the Special Olympics for the South Shore. It was a great joy to be involved in competiton with athletes from all over the South Shore. I won a bronze medal in the 50 yard dash and I felt excited being on the podium.

You know, their oath seems to say it all: if we can’t win, we want to be brave in the attempt. It was a marvelous thing to participate that day.

CHAPTER 5 “DOCTOR YERKES!”

My psychiatrist, Dr. Raymond Yerkes, has been more than a great psychologist. He’s been a great friend. Ever since I started seeing him in the Putnam Center in Roxbury when I was

a kid, he’s helped me out through all the 4 decades he’s been my doctor.

I first met him at the Putnam Center and we’d get together for talks about how I was doing. I told him some of the juicy details of growing up and what was going on. And I found those days with him a blessing.

He was there when I had significant losses in my family: my Uncle Joe(who died after being hit by a car in 1973), my Dad(when he died of mesothelioma in 1988), my nephew Ryan(who died of meningitis in 1996) and my Mom(who died of congestive heart failure in 2008). He helped me deal with the loss of my closest friends. And he was always there to encourage me to continue moving forward.

From the Putnam Center, I followed him to Beacon Street in Brookline, then to Andover(where he had 2 different offices over the 20 years he was there), and finally up to Newburyport, where he lives now. And believe me when I tell you this, traveling to my appointments with him have given me opportunities to experience life around New England.

After our appointments in Andover, for example, Mom and I would go up to New Hampshire where we would shop at Kmart in Salem. I enjoyed buying stuff without any sales tax.

After our Putnam Center visits, Mom and I would go over to a nearby shopping mall and have a hamburger at a place called

Kemp’s. And after my appointments in Newburyport, on days when the weather is fine, I spend the afternoon walking around the town and seeing what’s up.

Getting back to the Putnam Center, when Dr. Yerkes told me “it’s time to stop,” I’d go ballistic and go running around all over the center. I’d throw tables and chairs down, mess up the books and magazines….and on one occasion, I even woke up all the kids in the nursery school who would take a nap there.

Yes sir, if there’s a man who’s got a seat of honor in the better world, it’s Dr. Raymond Yerkes.

CHAPTER 6 “MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME.”

Christy Moore once said that everybody deserves a break.

And every summer, I’ve gone down to Marshfield. A small beach town with a big heart. Our first cottage was on Foster Avenue, which faces the beach. Every morning, the sun rises out of the Atlantic Ocean and brings another great summer day to our family. A few years later, we’d move to the cottage that we occupy today at 22 9th. Road, just a little ways from the beach.

And we still have a great view of the sunrise. Unless of course, there’s wind and rain on the beach. And then we see the waves whip up with the whitecaps ready to strike the sand.

The summer is a short season down there. Although summer officially begins on Memorial Day, down in Marshfield, it doesn’t begin until the Night Before The Fourth. That’s the night when they set off firecrackers on the beach. The humidity and the cool of the night make for an explosive cocktail of color and patriotism.

Up until the mid-1980s, there would also be bonfires on our beach. All the trash and timber of the winter would be rushed up the beach and piled onto towering pyramids at each entrance to Sunrise Beach(where I’ve been living all through my now about 50 years). At sunset, lighter fluid would be doused on the piles and they would be set aflame! It was wonderful; combining bonfires with fireworks made it a fantastic night!

I remember that I would stay up late to enjoy the action(in 1976, I stayed up all night and was exhausted the next day, the Glorious Fourth). And in a few instances, I’d get up before sunrise and try to pick the beer bottles and cans that I treasured getting money for at the liquor store. (Unfortunately, I had to contend with those goddamned mosquitoes, who come out at dusk and dawn on the beach area. Ouch!)

Unfortunately, sometime in the 1980s, the bonfires were responsible for a number of house fires on the road. As a result, the Marshfield Town Meeting passed an ordinance saying that it was illegal to light fires on the beach without a special permit. And in 1988, the bonfires were cracked down and all but ended.

When my Dad was on his deathbed on his last Fourth of July in 1988, Mom went down to see what was going on there, and, to her shock, she caught the cops trying to arrest one of my cousins for setting up a bonfire on the beach. She nearly got arrested herself when she tried to intervene on his behalf, saying that her brother was a lawyer and would stop them in any possible way.

3 weeks later, when my Dad died, we had to come back up here for the funeral, and boy was it raining. I’ll get to that in a little while, though. But back to the bonfire habit, it attracted the wrong kind of people; folks who didn’t live in the beach area drove from miles to watch them. And they’d bring dozens of six packs of beer, wine and alcohol. There’d be fist fights and wild parties that went on until 2 or 3 in the morning(maybe later). No wonder there were a lot of arrests at that time.

Since the end of the bonfires, the celebrations have become more subdued, yet are still festive. It’s more than a family affair now, with everyone enjoying that special night

when summer really comes alive. Of course, the cops are still patrolling the beach on the 3rd. and the 4th. to see that no one gets out of hand.

Still, I miss the bonfires. They were a very special part of the Night Before the Fourth.

(And you know what? I used to make about $50 to $60 picking up empties and brining them back to the liquor store.

Now, I’m lucky to make $20 to $30 on the Fourth.)

You know, I enjoy the time I’m down at the Beach. From the Night before the Fourth to Labor Day Night, it’s one big party with beach time during the day and parties at night. But when the sun goes down on Labor Day night, everyone packs up and heads home. The rest of Marshfield continues going full tilt during the winter, but the beach area becomes deserted and austere. After all, we never know on Labor Day night what will happen in the year to come…or whether we’ll see our friends or neighbors again.

I always say that during the last two weeks of summer, the long hot days and steamy nights become a precious commodity.

So why can’t it be like summer all year ‘round? I had a dream one night that everybody was down the beach for New Year’s Eve shooting off fireworks and lighting bonfires. And the weather was that of a warm summer night….

Ah, Summer in New England. It’s such a fleeting time.

CHAPTER 7.

“MY FIRST TRIP TO IRELAND….WHAT A TRIP!”

In August of 1972, Mom, Dad, Coley and I took a trip to Ireland. It was a very interesting 4 weeks. And it was such a shock to see it.

When we took off on Sunday July 30th.(I guess t hat was the night), we were going on a charter with the Irish Music Club. And I got scared as the plane took off. I’d never been on a plane before(well, I’d been on 2 planes before when I’d gone to League School, but this is the first time I was actually flying in one). And I was a nervous wreck.

I still am a nervous wreck every time I’m on a plane. When I made my 3rd. trip in 1996, I had a panic attack just before we took off. Earlier in the day, one of the staffers at Mullen & Company(the predecessor of McGladrey, where I still work today) asked me if I was flying on ValuJet. A ValuJet plane had crashed earlier in the month and that really got me upset.

Hey, I get upset easily when I get teased; being autistic makes me prone to teasing. I’ve never known whether one is kidding or deadly serious.

Well, we got over to Ireland early the next morning(their time) and we took a long 2 or 3 hours journey to Killarney.

While everyone regards it as a tourist trap, it’s where my Dad came from in 1949. Growing up in Ireland was tough for him and his family. Most of the people lived in poverty back then while Europe was growing into a massive industrial and artistic machine. In the 1840s, the potato famine came to Ireland, killing over a million people and forcing another million to emigrate across the seas.

When many of these Irish immigrants arrived in Boston or New York, people would insult them and put up signs that said “No Irish Wanted Here!” They would be the ones doing the hard labor and long hours. But thanks to gentlemen like John Boyle O’Reilly and Richard Cardinal Cushing, the Irish would prosper and become an important force in American society.

All this climaxed in the election of John F. Kennedy to the Presidency in the year 1960, months before I was born. Mom told me that she went to his JFK’s final campaign rally the night before the election…and I was developing in her belly.

In the 4 weeks I was over in Ireland, I can remember some fantastic times that defined my love for my Dad’s ancestral

country: traveling the Ring of Kerry, driving cross country to Dublin, playing those one armed bandits-yes, I’m talking about slot machines-at the arcades in the Salthill section of Galway, having dinner at some of the country’s best restaurants at the time: the Colleen Bawn in Killarney, the Harp in Dublin, and some other great places I can’t recall at the top of my head.

For the first few days there, all I could eat was grilled cheese sandwiches(I was so homesick, since this was my first trip out of the USA). And my brother Coleman always says that there’s a statute of me having grilled cheese sandwiches in the centre of Killarney. I’ve yet to find it.

Traveling through Ireland was an experience altogether different: they drive on the left side of the road, they call soft drinks “minerals,” and, at the time, TV didn’t broadcast until the evening. Also, in many towns, there’s a singing pub that does business with talented musicians from around the areas they live in.

My brother once joked, “They sing from opening to closing and in the morning they wake up with laryngitis!” I don’t know if that’s true, but…

One of the highlights of my trip was going to Dublin where we walked down O’Connell Street and soaked in the city center of the Irish capital. On the Friday night, the whole family and I saw an Irish revue called “Gaels Of Laughter,” which starred

comedian and actress Maureen Potter. What a fantastic experience that was with music, comedy and dance. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

The next day, we went to Bray on the Northern edge of the city itself. And what was a big highlight was when Dad, Coley, Dicko and I climbed 1,000 feet up Mt. Brayhead. It was a very long and difficult climb; you have to be really fit and sturdy to climb up the mountain. Anyway, when we got up to the top, we had a spectacular view of the ocean and the surrounding area.

I remember bringing down some bushes to my mom as a birthday present. As I gave them to her, I said, “Happy Birthday from Mount Brayhead!” She was delighted with them. And then we went back into town to see a movie.

Several times while we were in Dublin, we went to the General Post Office where the Irish Rebellion started. It is a working post office, but it’s also the place where the Irish began their ill-fated campaign to drive the English out of Ireland. It was there that Padaric Pearse proclaimed Ireland as “a sovereign, Independent State.”

“The only thing that can stop Irish Independence,” he said that day, “is the destruction of the Irish race itself.” And thank God we haven’t been destroyed. We never will be. Like the Jews, the Irish have been persecuted for no reason whatsoever by the British. And still, Northern Ireland is under British

control. I look forward to the day when they’ll head home from the North and let the two sides become one.

On our final day in Dublin, I went to Croke Park where we saw an All Ireland fooball playoff between the counties of Offaly and Donegal. Mom and I cheered for Offaly, while Dad, Coley and Dicko cheered for Donegal. I can’t believe how passionate the Irish are at their Gaelic sports. Like the Americans who love baseball and football, and the English who cheer at soccer matches, the GAA is the sporting force that binds the Irish together. It’s a combination of rugby, soccer and football, but it’s a style that’s altogether different from all the other sports in the world.

By the way, the match ended in a draw.

The night before I left for home, I shared with my cousins in Killarney a fantastic song called “Let There Be Peace On Earth.” This song was performed at a youth conference in 1955 when the attendees all walked arm in arm up a mountain in California and shared that song with each other.

The simple lyrics of peace on Earth beginning with each of us is fantastic. I first learned it the previous winter at St. Coletta’s and decided to share it with Uncle Dicko’s family. The song had only been 15 years old when we first learned it, but it had already made an impact around the world.

When we flew home the next morning, Dad said a tearful goodbye to his brother Dicko, not knowing it would be the last time he would see him again. He would see him many times when he came over to America in the intervening years, but he was always worried he’d never see him again. After all, when the Irish came over to America in the 19th. century, the families and friends of those who were leaving would send off with an American Wake party. Although those immigrants would probably never see their families again, it was clear that they were part of each other for all eternity.

Because I had a summer job in 1985 with the Massachusetts District Commission, I wasn’t able to go with my parents to Ireland that summer. It would be the last time that Dad would ever go over, since he’d been diagnosed with mesothelioma, an incurable cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. 3 years later, he’d die of the disease on July 23rd., 1988. Ironically, it would be less than 24 hours after I’d been fired from Putnam Investments, a world famous financial firm headquartered in Boston.

I won’t go into that part of it, or the MDC job I worked on for the 2 summers of 1984 and 1985, because those kids were spoiled brats who got their jobs as special favors by their friends in the government. No wonder the Commonwealth is so screwed up these days! And ever since Governor William Weld

introduced “privatization” of State government in the 1990s, it’s only gone from bad to worse.

CHAPTER 8.

“SPEAR SCHOOL? TELL ME ABOUT IT!”

So I ended up leaving St. Coletta’s School in 1974 and started that summer at Spear Educational Center in Arlington.

It was a strange learning place because half the day would be devoted to reading, writing, math and other subjects, while the afternoon would be devoted to recreational classes such as typing, sports and games.

What was really shocking was the restrictive diet that it had: no dairy or meat products, bacon could not be sugar cured, and no sweets. Everyone was given a small packet of vitamins that they took with their snack. And God, taking all those vitamins made me gag! No wonder it did a doozy on my stomach.

Anyway, some of the students I remember from my 3 years there include a young lady named Karen Caprizzio, who was having trouble with her math and sometimes got emotionally upset. Then there was a kid named Jeff…something or another.

I forget his full name. Anyway, he liked to sing songs like “Barney The Bashful Bullfrog” and “My Heart’s In The Highlands.” He was from Fernald School, which was a learning institution for those with mental disabilities. And there was a doozy named Mike Exellbert, who lived in Roslindale and would sing silly songs like “Allerettes And Cigarettes” and say stuff like “You Just Can’t Beat 12 Noon! 12 Noon for breakfast and 12 Noon when the sun gets down.” Or how about a kid named Albert Tobin? He was the bully of the school; he’d always say things to upset Karen and he used to tease me by calling me names like Richie. (In fact, one afternoon when he started teasing me about being called Richie when I was younger, I started a fight with him. They had to break it up, but for a week I ended up being on the outs with him.)

There was one kid named Carl Foley, who was a patient at the Massachusetts State Hospital. When we picked him up each day, he’d be talking like a runaway locomotive. He’d be swearing and saying this like “Carl, Get In The Car” and “Okay.”

Unbelievable. Most of the children who attended the school lived at home, but some would come in from institutions like the ones I mentioned.

I would be there all day from 9 a.m. until 4 or 5 p.m. in the afternoon, except Wednesday when we were let go at 12 Noon so the teachers there would have their weekly conference.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, we’d be taking classes from 9 a.m. until 2 p.m., with the last 3 hours given over to recrecation. And sometimes, when one of my class mates make me laugh, I’d have to stand up and turn around.

Yeah, that was something.

However, it was while I attended Charles River Academy that I learned how to use a typewriter. And it’s given me this long love of writing things. In fact, in 1982 and 1983, I worked on a long epic novel called “A Natchez Wedding,” which was about two kids trying to get married in Natchez, Mississippi, a place I’ve never been to.

Another time, I started working on a book called “The Coronation Of Mother Goose,” which I modeled after the Mark Twain book “The Prince and the Pauper.” But it never got anywhere, since I set the book out on the West Coast. And I once tried to tackle the science fiction project called Xenon vs.

Xepilon, which was the story of a space war.

Yeah, it’s good to dream and imagine. But when you’re writing a book like this, you have to be practical. You have write about things you know and experiences you’ve been through.

Nothing’s wrong with creating something fantastic, but you always want to get your facts straight. At least when you’re writing your first book, like I’m doing with this one.

Still, I’m thinking of starting the 2 again as soon as this book’s finished. Who knows? May I’ll work on them as well.

When first I went to Spear School, we were renting out the classroom of an Armenian Apostolic Church in Belmont. Our place was across the street from a Greek Orthodox Church where we’d hear the bells ring out every hour on the hour. I remember the first year I was there because when it was hot, we’d have the windows open and at the top of the hour, the church bells across the street would ring the hour.

One time, while we were at class, a funeral was taking place across the street. The bells tolled solemnly once for each year the decedent was on the Earth. It did so twice: first, when the funeral was beginning, and second, when it was ending. I always knew that everyone has a short time on this Earth, and we must make it a better place when we leave than when we first came.

In the fall of that year, we moved to a new location in Arlington, this time next to a Methodist Church or something. I forget what kind of church that was. Anyway, the structure continued with the same hours: 9 to 5 each day(except Wednesdays) and 9 or 10 to 4 during the summer. This was a year round school, so kids went through the year, except for holidays and scheduled vacations.

Early in 1976, we moved to Framingham, where we were located in a former Catholic Monastery. That’s where we stayed until I left the school in August of 1977. They had a swimming pool(which we never used) and a tennis and basketball court, where we played during the spring and summer months. Also, we’d do some running around the school for special points, because the teachers had started something called Reward Store. We started carrying checkbooks in class that would record how many checks we had for good behavior. If we had good behavior, we could earn checks for certain things we could play with later that afternoon like games, record players, skates and more. Someone who screwed up would have their checks taken away from them.

I had that happen to me a few times, but a couple of the students would lose all their checks or their book. Or, in the case of one of them whose name I’ll not mention, he had the words “No Reward Store Today” written on his book.

I will tell you that he had a bad habit of talking about his day and picking up on that “Allerettes And Cigarettes” song.

CHAPTER 9.

“WHAT A SHOCK! FATIMA TORN APART!”

In the summer of 2003, the Boston Herald reported on a very shocking and upsetting story. There’d been reports of allegations of sexual abuse by priests and counselors at Camp Fatima in Gilmanton Iron Works, New Hampshire. The reports that some boys were assaulted at the camp by the camp director at the time, Father George Dowd, and a priest named Father John Martin. I was horrified by this!

I was particularly shocked by this, because Father John had been a friend of mine up at Camp Fatima. He was a very jovial man who always like to make kids feel at home, especially kids with special needs. It was during the regular camp sessions with the boys that he might have gone off his rocker. Another priest I know, Fr. Jim Nyhan, was a very good friend and my counselor during 1974’s EC week. He has denied any of those allegations of sexual abuse himself.

As you know, the Boston Archdiocese was rocked by the sexual abuse scandal in 2002, which had certain people accuse priests of sexually abusing them in the 1960s and 1970s. This caused a falling out of people from the church and forced Bernard Cardinal Law to resign as Archbishop of Boston. Well, this has become an international controversy, since women in Ireland were abused by priests and nuns in the 1960s whenever they were punished for their immorality. Look, we all have

immoralities to struggle with, but sometimes certain members of the clergy can take it too far.

I went there in 1974 and 1975 on the Last Week in August each of those 2 years. And those weeks were dedicated to Exceptional Children’s Week: a time when those who have special physical and mental needs are welcome to enjoy camp.

Yes, there are all the trimmings there: arts and crafts, swimming, baseball, softball, games and horse riding. And what a time those 2 weeks were.

During the 1974 week, the theme was Raggedy Ann and Andy. And all of their friends, Marcella, Mimi the French Doll, the tin soldiers, and Fido the Dog….and so much. They were spending the week “singing and dancing with counselors, campers and all.” During that week, the kids were caught up in celebrations of Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine’s Day. We had a re-enactment of the Pilgrims landing at Camp Fatima and a Thanksgiving Day turkey dinner. We also had a Christmas in August celebration with Archbishop Medeiros visiting the camp and celebrating Mass for us. And we had a Valentine’s Day carnival with kissing booth, games and all. And each evening, we would have entertainments such as fireworks, talent shows, games and dances.

In 1975, we had Mother Goose and all her storybrook friends: Little Bo Peep(whom I had a crush with), Jack Be

Nimble, Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffett, and so many more! We had a few story lines that really made the week big: Little Bo Beep’s sheep being stolen by the Frito Bandito who needed some winter coats for the winter.

“I get some from the sheep!” the Frito Bandito said.

“You can’t get them from the sheep,” said Fr. John(who was dressed as Old King Cole). “They belong to Little Bo Peep.”

Yes, Little Bo Peep really lost her sheep that afternoon, but we went into the woods and found them that same evening. In fact, in the Mass that was celebrated that afternoon, we heard about the lost sheep and how Jesus goes out to find them and bring them home.

I was acting a bit rambunctious that afternoon because I had a bad habit of crying every time that the priest sang “Through Him, With Him, In Him…” which is the Doxology of the Catholic Eucharistic Prayers. And I sometimes put my fingers in my ears in order to keep from bursting into tears. I won’t go into anymore details. Still, I managed to get the message into my heart.

Later in the week, we met Old Mother Hubbard who invited her to her shoe where she lived. And we saw Humpty Dumpty get himself broken after falling off a wall. But Mother Goose’s magic feather was able to heal him after Old King Cole

and the Wizard of Rhyme failed. And we had a parade to celebrate the event.

The week ended with a “graduation” celebration for all of us receiving diplomas for “memorizing Mother Goose’s rhymes.” And we had a farewell dance that evening, celebrating what Camp Fatima’s Exceptional Children’s Week symbolizes: Love In Action!

Yes, those 2 weeks up there were Heaven. Still, I wonder if I want to return up there after what I heard about the abuse up there. I felt shattered by what happened up there, but I have learned that those priests have been removed, as well as those who were responsible for what happened. God willing, I will return one of these days to visit Fatima and re-accquaint myself-if only for the visitors day-of the joy of what Camp Fatima’s message to all truly is: Love In Action.

And…who knows? Maybe I might see Little Bo Peep or Mimi The French Doll again.

CHAPTER 10.

“UNCLE JOE’S LESSON.”

On Veterans Day Weekend 1973(for a time during the early ‘70s, it was one of the five Monday holidays), I learned that my Uncle Joe had been hit by a car down in Marshfield(my summer home). He was seriously injured and wouldn’t recover; he’d be dead the next night.

It was very tough for me to digest it right away, because it came as a shock to me. You see, Uncle Joe was born with what was referred to as “mental retardation.” I never knew about that until years later. Which meant that he had a really tough life. But that didn’t stop him from working hard and making a living for himself and for the family.

He was employed at the City Incinerator in Boston and worked hard every day. He and I bonded especially. I saw in him a very special man who was able to live and be productive in the world despite his troubles. His other brother Francis, who I know as Uncle Franny, worked for Boston Edison and was up at the crack of dawn jogging. They were very friendly towards me in spirte of their hardships.

Did you know that my Mother’s Dad died when she was 9 years old? Yes, that left Nana(as we liked to call her) with the difficult task of raising 5 children alone. It affected them a lot, especially Franny, who ended up becoming an alcoholic and died as a result of it In the winter of 2005. I know how that

must have felt, being the object of Franny’s anger whenever I did something out of the ordinary, but never mind about that.

Yeah, Uncle Joe was a really tough guy, but he was very gentle with all the kids. He’d always come down to the cottage on Marshfield with us on weekends during the summer and through the rest of the year. And he’d find time to relax with us. My brother Coleman was very close to him, too. And indeed, we all were.

I guess my best memories of him were when he spent New Year’s Eve with the kids! Yes, we’d watch the ball drop on TV while we were having a party. Yes, we’d watch Guy Lombardo, and then Dick Clark, count down to a New Year while we had soft drinks and snacks. It was a great experience.

A few days ago was his birthday(at the time I’m writing this), and I was talking with Uncle Jack, My Aunt Betty and Mary Theresa, one of my cousins. And I heard Mary Theresa give a very tough observation. She said, “If that car hadn’t hit him, he’d still be alive today.” I know that very well; when I heard the morning after the accident, I couldn’t really grasp the meaning.

It was probably one of the first times in my life that I’d experienced death. I think the first time was a year earlier, when my Aunt Dolly had fallen off of a porch in Dorchester and was in a coma for weeks. When she finally got taken to Heaven,

it was a shock. But it wasn’t until Uncle Joe got hit by the car that I really learned what grief was.

I saw Uncle Joe later that week at the funeral home, but I didn’t bother going to the funeral Mass the next day. I wasn’t really knowing how to deal with it, but I believe that the dam broke on Thanksgiving Day when I was watching the end of a CBS Thanksgiving program and hearing William Conrad sing a Christmas song at the end And that’s when I burst into tears! I was crying my eyes out for…well, I can’t remember how long. But I finally realized that Uncle Joe was gone and wouldn’t come back. However, I knew that his memories would stay in my heart and that his spirit would always guide me in everything I did. The lesson that he taught me was to always have love in your heart and a childlike faith. And most importantly, I would be willing to share what I had with those who didn’t have much of anything.

This lesson came home to me on Christmas Night of 2000.

It was a cold and windy night, and we were just winding down our day. All of a sudden, a man knocked at our door and asked if he could call his wife. His car had broken down and he needed to get a ride from her. We let him in and allowed him to warm up.

We gave him some of our Christmas dinner and we talked a little about him and his family. He had a daughter whose

name was Noel. Noel, the French word for Christmas! And he told us about his struggles and everything; I don’t remember exactly what the conversation was all about.

Before he left, I gave him one of my winter coats so he wouldn’t freeze on the way home and we gave him and his daughter some food to take home with them. And what an epiphany I had that night. I learned a lesson about how to share what my family and I had with those who needed something that they didn’t.

Uncle Joe taught me that lesson and, on that cold millennium Christmas night, I seemed to put it into good use.

Every family like my own has their struggles, so it’s up to us to look out for each other.

Thanks, Uncle Joe.

CHAPTER 11.

“ONTO HIGH SCHOOL? I DON’T THINK SO!” In the Spring of 1977, Mom and I started looking into where I could go to high school. We looked at several, including a school in Philadelphia, but it was a boarding school and I couldn’t get my bearings straight if I spent part of the year from my family.

We settled on Charles River Academy in Cambridge, between Central and Harvard Squares. The curriculum was a combination of academic and shop courses in sheet metal, woodworking, car repair and others. Friday mornings, we’d do several courses in arts such as videography, arts and crafts(my favorite, along with Simone, who was a favorite of mine), painting and more.

Mom and Dad considered that I get picked up by a taxi and taken to school, but I insisited on going by way of the MBTA. After all, it was just a 15 minute walk from the T to school. Or I could have taken the T to Harvard and then walked that way.

But the T was a real adventure that I’d gotten into when I took 3 joy rides during the winter and spring of 1972. I’d taken a gallon of milk on the first trip on Ash Wednesday of that year and rode around until midnight. Boy, did I scare my Mom and Dad! I made another trip during school vacation when I took another 15 hour joy ride before being spotted by someone and taken home by cab. The guy drove me to the wrong address before I got him on the right path to my real home. And of course, Mom and Dad were scared but they knew I was all right.

I guess it’s the adventurous side in me that gets the best of me…and as I’ve explained earlier, what’s gotten me in trouble.

I made one last joyride a few weeks later. However, some T cop grabbed me at Government Center and told me that I was being taken to Dudley Station to await my Mom, who’d called the T and told me about what happened. (Thanks a lot, Mom!) By the way, I did something that I’m not very proud of; I stole a TV guide from a vender at State Street, and that’s probably what got me in trouble.

Anyway, the cop who was at the Dudley Square station was a real mean guy. He had an attack dog and threatened to let it loose on me if I did anything out of the way. I thought cops didn’t try anything like that on you. But this man was a very scary man and he threatened me to throw me in an institution.

Mom really chewed the guy out and put him in his place. But I got sent to bed without supper and got myself hit by the belt.

No wonder next morning I was “white as a ghost,” thanks to not having supper last night. That is the first and only time I ever got sent to bed without supper. I really missed out on a good feed.

Well, I ended up going up on the T. From my house on Centre Street, I’d walk up Centre Street up past the Patrick Ahern School up to Shawmut station, where I’d take the Red Line to Central Square and walk up Massachusetts to the school. The motto of that school was “Preparation For Life.”

And what we learned there would take us into our futures.

I met a lot of great people there, such as Dennis Maguire, Joey A. Lewis(whose favorite line was “I’ll bust yo’ Ass!”), Everett Miller, Arnold Clickstein, Leslie Flahive, Mike “Coach” Clark and Paul Fadden, who were great friends of mine.

Between classes, I’d spend time in the reading room(where I had history and Spanish) looking at the large collection of National Geographic magazines. I really enjoyed reading, learning a new language, trying to get my math skills down pat, or going to recreational classes like bowling on Thursday afternoons(that was my favorite part of the week).

During the 70s, while I was there, Central Square had an eclectic amount of shops including a couple of newsstands, which I would frequent each day. There was also a number of restaurants and bookstores that were fascinating to visit. But I think the one place I enjoyed was Cheapo Records, which sells vinyl records and CDs from years past.

I was really enamored by that place. There were records by all kinds of performers from Elvis and the Beatles to rhythm and blues artists of the 1950s and 1960s. During the late 70s, disco also held sway with all kinds of recordings by The Salsoul Orchestra, Silvetti, the Trampps, and more. Ethel Merman and Guy Lombardo’s Royal Canadians tried disco at one time, but it didn’t work out.

And yes, there were some real wowzers there. One of these kids called Joel had a nickname called Nose. Everybody called him that, but Joel told me, “Don’t Ever Call Me Nose!”

Gross! A double standard, you might call it. I wasn’t really among his inside circle of friends, so anybody else who called him that-yours truly included-would be hurting his feelings.

And then there was a character named Jimmy Smith who liked to shoot paper clips into my face. What a bum he was. But who am I to judge?

Anyway, Paul and I used to like to jokes like “Did You Turn Off That Light Switch?” or the radio that started going “MBTA!” all the time and then ended with “This Radio will self-destruct in 5 seconds.” Yeah, that was like that.

During a couple of times in 1978, we had a couple of dances to give everyone a great chance to get to know each other outside the classroom. Another opportunity was the Week Without Walls, in which groups of us would go to different parts of New England and enjoy the natural surroundings of that particular region. In ’78, I went with a group of people up to Vermont, where we did kayaking, white water rafting, hiking, enjoying the scenery and more.

And there were a few times that one of my friends Phil and I came to blows over my leaving my wet clothes on top of his bed. Well, it never came to that, but…

The following year, we were at a campground in Maine(a last minute change of plans, since we were originally going to go to Nova Scotia, but it fell through.) One of my worst parts was going fishing on a boat. The waves were really whipping up and it made me seasick! Well, that’s the way of it sometimes.

And of course, some of us did some climbing on the cliffs nearby. I was too afraid to do that, but all in all it was fun.

During the fall and winter, we’d play football and basketball with either teams from different schools or on an intramural basis. It was mostly flag football, since there was no tackling or injuries. During the fall of the first year I was there, we had a series of rainy days and that meant a cancellation of the final games in the football tournament.

I also was a part of the soccer team for a couple of years.

We’d go on different days to different schools, where we would play their teams and try to get our chance to score at the goal.

This gave me a love for the beautiful game of soccer(which is called football in other parts of the world), a love which I’ve cultivated through watching soccer TV broadcasts from all over the world.

Towards the end of the season, we’d have a sports banquet in which we were given trophies for our athletic prowess during the previous year. And twice yearly, we’d have academic awards for our progress in learning. The June

gathering was our graduation exercises. Those two ceremonies honored the graduating students and celebrated the year’s many achievements in learning.

By the way, there was a basic clause in the graduation ceremony(which was always held at an auditorium on the Harvard Campus); attendance is compulsory and can only be excused by the principal. (And I’m glad I attended everyone, including in June 1980, when I graduated).

During that last year, Paul, Mike and I had a cheer that went “Class of 1980. Here today, gone tomorrow.” I couldn’t agree more.

CHAPTER 12.

“YOUR DAD HAS TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL.”

My Dad worked as a plumber for the John Hancock Company from 1949 until 1981, when he had to take a sick leave. Well, what was there to say?

My Dad, Patrick Clifford was born in 1919 in Killarney, Ireland. That’s where he grew up and wanted to be an opera singer. He used to like to sing a lot of show tunes and religious

songs, as well as the old Irish songs. In fact, he had played in one or two productions over there when he was younger.

A book called “Angela’s Ashes” by Frank McCourt came out in 1998 about life during the years of poverty in Ireland. Dad found time to play games and help run his family’s grocery on High Street with his brother Richard(who was our Uncle Dicko).

In 1949, he left Ireland and flew to America where went to trade school and became a plumber.

He really enjoyed his work helping the Hancock building on Clarendon Street and, later the 60 story tower, which opened in 1976. The reason why it took so long to open was because of all the windows breaking and falling to the ground. The builders needed to put all kinds of plywood and paint covering on the windows that we used to refer to it as “Plywood Ranch!”

During the weekends, he’d go out to dances at Hibernian Hall and spend Sundays at Carson Beach where he’d watch the Irish football and hurling games. And of course, he met my Mom at one of those games. They went steady for several years before he married her. Their wedding was at St. Mark’s Church in Dorchester with the reception at the Fox and Hounds in Quincy(they couldn’t afford a really big wedding).

Sometime around 1981 or 1982, Dad began to feel sick.

He had to retire the next year and decided to make the best of his golden years. Mom and Dad were traveling all over the

place and enjoying life. Suddenly, he got fluid in his lungs and had to make several trips to get it drained. In December of 1984, he went into the hospital for surgery(my brother Coleman was working there at that time). We wondered if he was suffering from cancer, but I learned that it wasn’t.

Dad was a big influence in my life. I know he had his moments of anger and punishment, but he was a very loving man. His Irish-Catholic upbringing back home in Killarney saw to that. And it was he, along with Mom, who helped to lobby for educational opportunities for children with special needs. I told you that he and Mom stayed up all night painting, wallpapering and cleaning the League School building in Newton so that kids like myself would have a place to learn, play and get to know each other.

I started getting worried about him when he had to go to the hospital in ’84. And of course, we were devastated to find out he had mesothelioma, a serious cancer that affects the lungs. We found out that Dad had been exposed to asbestos, a poisonous insulation material which he used in his years as a plumber. There’s no cure for that disease, and it still has no form of effective treatment.

This would affect his health and well-being during the 3 years that he fought the disease. He’d get angry and moody, burst into tears, and complain, “I Can’t Do It Anymore!” It was

a tough thing to see a robust man like Dad become a shell of himself, but that’s the way dying is.

It was during that time that we started looking for a new home. We’d done it on and off through the 1970s, but eventually we moved to a house at 431 Adams Street in Milton, where we’d stay until Mom and I sold it in 2004 and moved down the street to a condominium in East Milton Square. I’ll spare you the gory details about how it happened.

I know that I had my times of conflict with him, but all the chemotherapy that had in ’86 and ’87, combined with the pressure that the cancer put on his lungs was a part of that.

Still, he fought stoically and tried to keep an upbeat perspective on life.

One time, when Mom, Dad and I were going home from a visit to the Cape, Dad started telling a story about his Uncle who used to eat fish on a Friday until he saw a group of priests on a boat eating ham and chicken.

“And then he started eating meat on a Friday,” Dad said.

He felt if those priests could do it, he could to.

Another story he told was about a man who couldn’t afford tablecloth, so he used a newspaper for covering on the table. When a priest commented about it, the man told the priest, “Get out of here! I don’t ever want to see you again.”

I regret not getting more stories about my Dad, but every time I tried to get him to talk in those 3 years, he told me he’d do it some other time. I guess he’ll have time at last when I see him and Mom in Heaven. But there’s one story I remember that I’ll share with you later in the book.

I really didn’t start worrying until his legs started giving way in May of 1988. We knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was going to pass on. During the early summer of 1988, his health began to deteriorate and we had to call in hospice. In the final weeks of his life, we tried our very best to help him out in whatever way we could.

Shortly before he died on July 23rd. of that year, I held his hand and said, “I know what you’re going through. I love you.”

It was my tribute to him for all that he’d done for me, as well as kids like me. I went upstairs to rest and he died while I was up there.

Somehow, I regret not being there at the exact moment of his death, but I know that I left a final message of love and thanks for everything. He made me the man I am today.

CHAPTER 13.

“A TRIBUTE-AND A FLOODED BASEMENT.”

The funeral we had for Dad was on a rainy Wednesday in 1988, Wednesday July 28th., to be exact. The days leading up to it were humid and cloudy. The funeral itself was on a rainy day.

And it was held at St. Agatha’s Church in Milton, where I’ve been a member since I moved from Centre Street in Dorchester in Adams Street in Milton in August 1986. And brother, if you were there like I was, you would’ve been soaked!

At the wake, all of Dad’s friends and associates came and gave their tribute to him and offered us their condolences.

Among them were some of the people I used to work with at Putnam Investments. Tim Sullivan and two or three others came and offered their sympathies to me; obviously they had heard about me getting fired and they were representing the firm there. I’m glad because those 2 bosses I had at the time had prior commitments.

On the day of the funeral Mass itself, Fr. Windham shared our sorrow at Dad not being physically healed. He told us that for those who believe in eternal life, “death is the final healing.”

Yes, we all have to accept death for our sings, but for those of us who believe in Jesus like I do, death doesn’t end life; it only goes on to a newer life. So when you’re gone and in Heaven(like I hope to be someday), you may not be physically

present for the times your family gathers for. But you’re still there in spirit.

And of course, the music by the Clancy Family Singers was a comforting presence that day. Hearing their voices on that rainy Wednesday would inspire me later in the fall to join the Traditional Choir at St. Agatha’s, which I’ve been a part of for nearly a half a century. I’ll discuss that later on. But I’ll tell you one thing: when you commit yourself to the choir, you gotta be there.

Anyway, after the internment, which we held in a heavy soaking rain, we all went back to the house for refreshments.

And surprise! The basement was flooded with water! It seems that the house we bought was next to a small brook, and when there’s a heavy rainstorm in Milton, the water tends to overflow into the basement. We had a similar situation in October of 1996 when an epic rainstorm caused flooding there again.

That was one of the happier memories that I have of that sad day when we paid tribute to my Dad. Of course, the basement was ruined and we had to get someone to pump out the water. And of course, we needed to get a dehumidifier to really get it dried out. And I wonder if we ever got it drained completely. Because when these rain storms happen, you have to do it all over again.

And here’s something really unbelievable: the Southeast Expressway was under water for most of the afternoon and evening and had to be closed for a good chunk of that afternoon and evening. At the end of the day, some of us were thinking, “Dad, where were you when we needed you?”

CHAPTER 14.

“THEIR GREATEST DREAM IS FUFILLED.” Of course, Dad’s greatest dream was to see me graduate from college. In 1980, after looking around different colleges, I entered UMass Boston, which is the big college campus which is located in my old town of Dorchester.

One of my favorite places to hang around between classes was the Disabled Students Center, which was headed up at the time by Andrea Schein. She proved to be one of my greatest friends through the 5 years I was there.

Except for a short time in the Fall of 1981, I went through that college and discovered the rich diversity of its students and its facilities of learning. Learning math, Spanish, history, and lots of other great subjects was a fantastic experience. I also enjoyed watching the college basketball games involving the UMass Beacons team and liked watching a couple of soccer matches there.

I was on the UMass Soccer team during the spring of 1982.

My greatest memory was when we played in a daylong Olympics style tournament and we won the gold medal at the end of it all. It was wonderful to be a part of the team.

I also enjoyed working as a news researcher for WUMBAM(CC), which played a varied amount of music on its closed circuit station, including rock, classical, jazz and poetry. I met Pat Monteith, the station manager, and Tom Callahan, her right hand man, who was a disc jockey. In 1982, they started WUMBFM, which for many years was known as “Boston’s Folk Music Station.” I enjoyed listening to their many programs including “Folk Trails,” “Odyssey,” “Celtic Twilight,” and “Traditional Folk Music.”

Up until around 2007 or 2008, they were the station to tune to for the very best in acoustic music. However, they accepted funding from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting and hired consultants to chart the direction for the station.

They ended up going to a more Triple A(Adult Album Alternative) format, getting rid of most of the folk and roots music. That’s why I don’t listen to it much anymore; I do like to listen to their holiday streams on the internet, though.

In the 80s, they also featured programs for older listeners(“As Young As You Feel”), the black community(“Black Expressions”), the Chinese community(“Dragon Gate”), and the

Hispanic community(“Fusion Latina”). On the AM closed circuit side, they also had programming for the Haitian and Irianian communities. They were a public radio station trying to serve the area they were licensed to. Of course, growing up in Boston in the 1960s and 1970s, most of the radio stations played either top 40, beautiful music, classics, or whatever. And up until they drank the NPR Kool Aid, WUMB did its best to serve their community.

One of my favorite shows on the AM closed circuit side was “Future Shock,” which was dedicated to playing new wave and punk rock music. I know that one of my favorite songs on that show was a song called “88 Lines About 44 Women.” It’s a song that I first heard on that show before any of the local radio stations playted it.

I was a news researcher there, as part of a work study program. I would put together the newscasts that had to be done for the AM student service, as well as cull and cut out public service announcements for the FM station. I also liked to use the studio to spin records and pretend I was a disc jockey. I believe that it was the best part of going to college.

And I made a lot of friends there who were going through the same experience I was. I believe that UMass Boston is without question the most exciting place for someone to go to college without having to travel far away. Of course, one of its

drawbacks was it was a commuter college, meaning that those students from out of town who went there had to rent out an apartment, which was really expensive.

When I graduated in May 1985 with an English major and a Spanish minor, I felt that I’d helped fufill a dream that my parents had for me: getting a college education and being able to live independently. And despite the setbacks, I kept that promise and graduated that year. If I hadn’t proved the cynics wrong, I might be in a sheltered workshop today. Thank God I’m not!

It’s the parents who love you and sacrifice for you that make you the adult you are today. Thanks Mom and Dad!

CHAPTER 15.

“WELL, NOW WHAT?”

After I’d graduated from College in 1985, I had some scrapes that I won’t go into, but I was wondering where I would go for my first job. I’d tried a job traning program called TEETransitional Employment Enterprises, but I was sent home at the end of the first week because I really didn’t fit the profile needed by the group. Also, some of the people in that group

had been a job training program before they’d joined the TEE group, so I’d been at a disadvantage.

My counselor at Mass. Rehabilitation Commission found for me a spot at a job traning program at Children’s Hospital.

Yes, THE Children’s Hospital in Boston. For 8 months, I was a part of the Work Experience Program, where people with disabilities would take part in working various duties in the hospital. Mailroom delivery, filing, messenger service, deliveries of medical files to the doctors…you name it, that’s what I did.

In the 8 months I was there in 1986, I saw various images that would touch me every day. There would be kids who were fighting illnesses like leukemia, clefts on their lips, kidney disease, and more. I would see them every day as I dropped off the mail or did filing. They were kids who had come from all around the globe needing special treatment that they couldn’t get in their home towns. Part of my journeys took me to the Judge Baker Children’s Center, where kids with problems would be staying and going to school, or to the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, where kids would be treated for cancer. (My Dad was undergoing chemo treatments there in 1986, and when he saw those kids and the bravery on their faces, it would reduce him to tears.)

Between jobs, I’d attend workshops on job training skills and discussions on problems at home. All through that time, I met many wonderful people. Among them was Margaret Van Gelder, who was running the Work Experience Program.

Whenever something was bothering me, I’d go and see her first thing in the morning. She’d always help me find a creative solution for what I needed to do.

It is an amazing place where miracles happen each day of the year. And it’s no wonder that WBZ radio has supported the efforts of Children’s Hospital since 1980. They’ve raised millions of dollars to help them over the years. Their purpose is to help kids, renew life, and make it a better world. It’s a place that has made a profound difference in my life.

When I left Children’s Hospital in October of that year, I was looking for some way to get into the workplace for real.

That December, my Mass. Rehabilitation counselor(I’ve had so many of them, I’ve forgotten their names) found for me a job at Putnam Investments, where I would as a mailroom messenger.

It was my first real taste of the corporate world.

I’d spend the whole day in the mail room putting together mail deliveries for the various stockbrokers, delivering them to the secretaries. I’d make 4 rounds a day: 2 in the morning and 2 in the afternoon. After I delivered their mail, I’d pick up the outgoing mail and take it down to the mailroom. After all, it

was very important, since they needed to get the mail to their clients. It was a very big operation, one of the biggest financial firms in the country.

And there were times when I’d be going my own way, much to the ire of the management at the company. Dare I go into the details? I think not! Of course, there were times when the people in the mailroom pulled my chain and I didn’t know how to react to it.

Like any financial and business services firm, Putnam was opening most of the days that the Stock Markets are open.

Good Friday, Presidents Day and the patriotic holidays, as well as Christmas and New Year’s are the only days that they don’t open(as well as the weekends, of course). And of course, they’re so into stocks and bonds, facts and figures and what have you that they can be indifferent to your work life.

My Dad’s illness had a profound effect on my productivity that I was called into question about this a number of times(I’ll resist any thoughts of going into detail), and after a few months at the One Financial Square office, I was banished to their distribution center in Braintree(which was way down in the boondocks!).

Things went well until they instituted a special system that would determine the production of information packages we would get out to the clients who had funds with us. That was a

really big screw up that would throw me for a loop. I got chided out by management because of my not keeping up with the required materials needed. (I goofed up on several orders which didn’t have relevant state funds, for example). My duties were scaled down to special projects like doing information packets and other things I don’t know about.

Anyway, to put a long story short, I was canned on July 22nd., 1988. My Dad passed away nearly 24 hours later on July 23rd. And that plunged me and my family into mourning, because Dad was a very important part of my life. And thanks to him, countless disabled children like myself have been able to receive the educational and vocational opportunities that wouldn’t have been possible were it not for his advocacy, and that of others like him.

And fortunately, after several months on the dole(as they call unemployment over in Ireland), I started working at Mullen and Company, an accounting firm that served small to medium sized clients such as healthcare, construction, education and non-profits. In the 20+ plus years I’ve been with the company, I’ve seen it grow and merge along with McGladrey & Pullen & RSM McGladrey to become one of the most potent and fastest growing accounting firms in the country.

But that’s a story for another time.

CHAPTER 16.

“WHEN YOU SING, YOU PRAY TWICE.”

St. Paul was right when he said that when you sing, you pray twice. That’s how I feel being a member of my parish choir. I’ve been singing with St. Agatha’s Church Traditional Choir since September 1988 when Mom urged me to try out for the choir.

Our director at the time, Sister Corona McDonald of the Sisters of Charity, had a lifetime of experience. When my sister Peggy went to Archbishop Williams High School in Braintree, she was the musical director there. And she was renowned with putting together the great choral programs that took place each year.

The weekly rehearsals would begin with a “yo ho ho ho ho” voice drill, after which we’d tackle the week’s program.

There are 3 choirs at St. Agatha’s: the traditional choir, which I’m part of, which sings at the 10:30 a.m. Mass on Sunday morning, the contemporary choir, which sings at the Noon Mass, and the children’s choir, which sings on selected Sundays at the 9 a.m. family Mass. And we do everything from “Ave Verum” by Guillmant to the “Mass Of Creation” by Marty

Haugen. And believe me, those practices were really workouts for our voice.

Over the years, the choir would members of the Clancy Family singers, including Martha, who had the richest soprano voices in town. We also had several of the brothers in the tenors section. And there’s a few who’ve been there and done that in the choir.

Among the sopranos have been, not only the Clancy sisters, but also a Japanese girl named Kumi Donaghue, who left behind a lucrative singing career back in Tokyo to enrich her musical life here. In the alto section, we’ve had ladies such as Susan Collins and Kathleen Lawlor, who’ve lived and worked locally over the years. The tenors have included people like Noel Schaub, who works for a supply company, and a few of the Clancy guys. We also had a guy named Joe Lamparelli, who ran an oil heat company(I think). And the basses have included Joe McHugh, a Scotsman, and Joe Murphy, who’s been with the choir since he was a childhood.

We even had WBZ radio newsman Rod Fritz for a while, if you can believe it. Anyway, that’s how the choir got me through a tough time in my life. And it’s been a very special place to meet friends who share my love for music.

CHAPTER 17.

“THE RHYTHMS OF SONG.”

Our season goes from September through June and features some fantastic milestones: in November, we have the confirmations. And of course, we have the wonderful liturgies for Christmas with all those sacred carols. In the 4 weeks of Advent, we perform songs like “O Come O Come Emmanuel” and “People Look East.”

During the first decade of my tenure in the choir, we always would have a “Concert Of Christmas Songs” on the Sunday closes to Epiphany, when all of the choirs and many of our favorite soloists would perform. One of my favorites was when Martha would sing “Gesu Bambino,” Mary Ellen would do “O Holy Night” and a trio from the folk group would so “How Far Is It To Bethlehem” and “Dance We All To Bethlehem.” It was an appropriate time to do it, since all the pressure of Christmas was off and we could really get together and enjoy the holiday as it’s been to be celebrated: giving birth to Christ’s birth, good will to all and peace.

We’ve had amazing performances over the years. One of them includes the Traditional Choir and soprano soloist Kumi

Donaghue performing selections from Handel’s Messiah including “Glory To God In The Highest” and “For Unto Us A Child Is Born.” That was done at the start of the 1994 Christmastide concert. Another was “Winter Is Past,” a piece for narrator and choir that opened the 1989 concert, after which the Traditional Choir and myself performed 2 selections from Bach’s “For Us A Child Is Born.” A few weeks before President Bush told the troops to go into Kuwait for Operation Desert Storm, Susan Collins, who is a real estate agent and was part of our alto section for several years, did something special for our 1991 concert when she performed “Someday At Christmas” by Stevie Wonder.

Yes, we’ve had many great concerts through that time, always ending with the traditional “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. It seems to sum up the message of Christmas: the birth of Jesus Christ. How easy it is for us to accept him as a little baby in a manger; how hard it is for us to remember that he bore a cross to Calvary to save us all.

And that’s what leads us to the Lenten season, when we sing songs that are like dirges and mourning. After all, it is the six weeks of preparation for Easter, and we throw ourselves into the heart of the year’s culmination: the paschal triduum. It’s amazing how our songs have changed over the years, but it’s

also wondrous of how the message of Holy Week is never ending.

I believe that the Triduum services are the most moving and most beautiful of them all. We begin with Holy Thursday and the Mass of the Lord’s Supper. All the hymns are drawn towards the Eucharist that Christ instituted at the Last Supper.

As part of the Mass, we have the washing of the feet. Earlier in my tenure, we would sing “The Lord Jesus” with Joe McHugh singing the solo parts. For several years, we’ve been doing “As I Have Done To You” with the changing of the ritual. And we’ve managed to include a setting of “Ubi Caritas” during the offertory.

It’s amazing that during the Mass of the Lord’s Supper, there is no financial collection at the Offertory. I guess it’s the Eucharist that we offer that is more important. And at the end of the service, the Blessed Sacrament is borne through the church to our singing of “Cry Holy,” which was anonymously composed years ago. It is our way of proclaiming our love and thanking our Lord for the gift of the Eucharist. And as the service ends, the church is plunged into mourning.

CHAPTER 18.

“FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.”

Continuing the life cycle of the Triduum, I believe that the most moving service of all of them is the Good Friday Service, in which we honor Jesus’s passing with scripture readings, the Adoration of the Cross and Holy Communion. Over a number of years, we’ve had the youth ministry act out the Passion in dramatic form. For the past few years, however, we’ve had the chanting of the Passion with 3 soloists.

Each year, the Passion liturgy remains unchanged, but it reminds us how the power of the Cross broke the bonds of sin and death. That is why when I go to work on Good Friday, I patiently go about my duties in preparation for the night’s service. We are overcome with emotion and awe as we reenact Christ’s greatest sacrifice for all humanity: the cross on Calvary.

And this serves as the prologue for the Great Vigil of Easter, as the Paschal candle is lit and brought into the church.

We go from darkness into light as we celebrate the mysteries of Resurrection. Over the years, a number of priests have sung the Exsultet themselves, but over the past few years, the priest has been joined by a small ensemble-including myself-joining him in performing excerpts of it with lighted candles in our hands. And the way it’s been worded has changed in the past year(I’m writing this in 2012): the introduction of the new Roman Missal has made the structure more formal and more

poetic, since its text is taken directly from the old wording of the Missal itself. And it has truly enhanced our worship in the short time it’s been implemented.

My favorite part of the Easter Vigil is the blessing of the new water and the initiation of candidates. We have a number of baptisms that evening, as well as members of our Rite of Christian Initiation In Adults(RCIA); these are people who were baptized in another Christian Church, but who’d like to take the next step in their walk with Jesus.

Oh, and here’s something to think about: we don’t offertory collections on Holy Thursday; the one we have on Good Friday is for the Shrines in the Holy Land and the one on Holy Saturday and Easter is for our retired priests. I believe that the Holy Land Shrines provide worship and charity to people in the Middle East, and I think it’s a good thing to help them out in a troubled land. Also, the retired priests have done so much over the years to help the forming of faith amongst us and our children, and we need to thank them for what they’ve done.

My other favorite part is when we have the “Alleluia” party after the Vigil, because it gives us a chance to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as our Savior and our Victor over sin and death. And we can share some time to get to know each other better as we come together as one community.

Over the years, our Choir was sung at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, ordinations to the priesthood, civic gatherings, the celebration of the Sisters of Charity centennial, and interfaith concerts in Milton and beyond. I believe my favorite was when we sang at a Mass for the ELCA Convention, which was held in March of 1991 here in Boston. People who’ve heard our choir have marveled at our style and our ability to reach the worshipping community.

When Sister Corona died in December 2002 on the First Sunday of Advent, I felt my heart break almost in pieces. She was a wonderful servant of God and a soldier of the joy of religious music. This inspired me to take an unpaid day off to sing at her funeral that week. It was our way of saying “Thank you, Sister, for all you taught us and instilling the love of God in song.”

One more thing: Father Nick Ciccone, who was one of our parochial vicars during the late 80s and 90s would celebrate Mass during our times when we were singing at 10:30 a.m., and I’m sure he would be happy to join in our singing at those Masses. On Christmas Day 1990, he publicized our after Christmas concert by saying, “They’re just warming up!”

You got that right!

CHAPTER 19.

“THE HARDEST LENT EVER!”

Have you ever had a time in your life when it was the hardest ever? I can tell you that Lent 1996 was my hardest time ever. I guess it started a week earlier on St. Valentine’s Day. I’d had a hard day at week; my boss had chewed me out for acting out at the Attorney General’s Office in town over trying to get a PC and financial statement for a client, and he told me that I couldn’t go down there again. When I got home that evening, my brother Coleman told me that my nephew Ryan Moore had gotten sick with meningitis the previous evening and had died earlier in the morning at Children’s Hospital in Boston after going into cardiac arrest.

That was a shock! You see, my sister Patrice had given birth to him on the feast of St. Stephen of Hungary, August 16 th, 1995. And now, on the feast of St. Valentine, February 14th., 1996, he’d died of meningitis. I was forced to call in on bereavement leave the next day and spent the next few days mourning his death.

My Mom had been over in Ireland on vacation visiting the country when she heard that Ryan had died. She was on the plane home the next afternoon and we visited Patrice. She was

in total shock and sadness, mourning the fact that she’d lost her best friend. For my niece Deanna, it was a horrible thing to go through. She’d lost a baby brother and I’d lost a lovely nephew.

There are some things you’d rather block out, but a child’s death is the worst of them all.

And when I went into the room where Ryan slept, I could feel the emptiness of that room. This was where he was starting out in life, but now his life had been taken from him. I remembered how I’d seen him over those short months of life.

I looked back at how happy he was to see us-at Christmas, when we visited him and she took him out.

A few days earlier, I’d gotten a card for Patrice to read on his first Valentine’s Day, but little did I imagine the tragedy that would befall him. He’d been sick a few times over his brief life, but the meningitis that killed him was tough to take.

I wrote a poem for his funeral called “I Never Got To Know You Better,” which I read at his funeral a few days later. It was a very snowy day when we had the Mass at my parish church.

The wake before the Mass was a very upsetting experience as I saw many of Ryan’s family and friends(including many small children) visit the funeral home. I was one of the pallbearers at that Mass and I felt many times that I would fall apart, but one of my friends told me, “You’ve got to be strong!” What I wouldn’t have done to fall apart then and there.

The whole funeral Mass was a blur. I remember one line that Father Wyndham, our celebrant said about the occasion.

“On the day a baby is born, we rejoice and he cries. On the day he goes home to God, he rejoices and we cry.” That’s a tough paradox that anyone can take.

We found out later that his death was caused by the mold that was in the house that they had lived in. And because it was a sick house, it had to be totally torn down and replaced.

This is one of the toughest truths in home ownership; materials lying around the house can be toxic to people, especially to small children.

Interestingly, when my niece Mikaela, who was born in November of that same year, got sick in the spring of 1997, Mom made an excuse that she had to go out somewhere. And when she told me about her brush with death, she told me that she was suffering from meningitis herself; however, she survived because the doctors at the hospital got it in time. It could have been a worse tragedy than that. It’s no wonder that some houses can have toxic materials which leave families wrestling with disease and death. I don’t know why the previous owners had let it all build up.

Well, that’s another story for another day. Getting back to Ryan’s funeral, though, one of the songs that was played there was a song called “Tears In Heaven,” a song that Eric Clapton

wrote when he’d lost his son in an accident when he’d fallen out a window in his apartment. I believe that it would apply to anyone who’d ever lost a child. Even though I’ve been a single bachelor all my life, I felt it would apply to me an awful lot.

After all, losing a child is never easy.

Just before we took Ryan to the cemetery, Patrice sang “Don’t Wake The Whale” to his coffin. I learned that it was the song that she’d sung to him each night before he went to sleep in his crib at night. And I felt that she was serenading him to a sleep that he’d wake up from only at the resurrection of the last day. The fact is we live on outside the body, and for those who die in God’s mercy, life isn’t ended but changed. If it weren’t for God’s consolation, and that of family and friends, we’d all be falling apart.

When the funeral and internment ceremonies were over, we went back to the house for refreshments and fellowship. It was a tough house to go back to, since Ryan had graced us with his visit on Christmas Day, and we’d seen him several times after that. It was one of the worst times of our lives, and it would carry over into the Lenten season.

I guess those words “Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return” took special significance for me when I went to Mass on Ash Wednesday. My nephew had returned to the dust a few days earlier and I was reminded that I would myself

someday. Still, that Lenten season taught me to endure, since I had support and consolation from all my friends at work. Even those who’d criticized me for the debacle at the Attorney General’s place where all too willing to express their sympathy to me.

And it is that consolation that helped me throughout that season. We got together with Patrice as much as we could over those weeks. And during that time, she told me she was pregnant again, this time with a girl named Mikaela, who’d be born in November and has been a part of my life ever since.

Somehow, when Easter came about, I felt that my spirit had gone from Heaven to Hell and back again. Ryan’s smile still lives in my mind and heart each day, and there’s not a time during the day that I don’t think about him.

During Christmas of 1996, I got a photo of Deanna and Mikaela posing under Ryan’s portrait with him smiling and relaxing. Babies really have the life and that photo reinforces that belief.

And those visits I had from Mikaela in her first year were a fantastic renewal of hope within me.

You know, I was sitting on the beach on what would have been Ryan’s first birthday and I talked up into the Heavens

saying, “I wish you were here for your first birthday. I’m sure we would have had a lot of fun.” Of course, we’d be doing that when Mikaela turned 1 in November.

And since then, I’ve been blessed with many more nephews and nieces.

CHAPTER 20.

“THAT PIMPLE WAS A CYST!”

You know, one of the most common kinds of skin cancer is melanoma. When I was growing up, I got sunburns almost every other year and it would affect my back a lot. In 1989, I found an ingrown pimple, which turned out to be a cyst. I tried to make it go away during the 90s, but it wouldn’t go away.

Anyway, on Labor Day of 1998, it started to explode and give out all kinds of goo. It got so bad that I had to go to a skin doctor, and I found out it was melanoma.

And later that month, I had the first of 3 operations on my cyst. It really left me feeling weak and I was subject to getting sick a few times during the winter of ’98 and ’99. Another bout of the cyst occurred in June of 2002, meaning another few

weeks of inactivity. And a final shot in January 2005, when I spent another week out of action.

I’m glad I got those 3 operations because if I hadn’t taken care of it, I would be dead today. After all, melanoma is treatable when you get it caught early. But it also means making sure you don’t get it back by using plenty of sunscreen and keeping your back covered during the hot weather.

Another thing I have to get every few years is a colonoscopy, so I don’t have any signs of colon cancer. Too often, people let it go undiagnosed, and by the time they find it, they’re doomed. The test itself is nothing to worry about, but preparing for it is a doozie! Please don’t ask me to go into the gory details.

And here’s a really big thing that happened-on December 12th., 2000, the feast of Our Lady of Guadelupe, I was on my way to work when I slipped off my bus to Wollaston Station and landed flat on my butt! I almost couldn’t breathe and I had to be taken to the hospital. Thank God I didn’t break anything, but I thought I was going to die! I must credit our Lady of Guadalupe for saving me from that thing.

CHAPTER 21.

“A GREAT COMPANY TO WORK WITH.”

In February 1989, I started working as an administrative assistant for Mullen & Company, an accounting firm that was headquartered in the Schrafft Center in Charlestown at the time. My boss was Phil Gaudiano, the firm administrator. He was a great man to work with, but when I forgot to do something or screwed up, he’d get really upset with me. But then again, he always got upset with the whole company.

Among the people I’ve worked with include accountants like Janet O’Neill, Jim Mecone, the Sannella brothers, Lou and John, Tom Mullen(who suffered a stroke in 1994), John Keenan and Alfred Levy. My fellow administrative assistants included Cynthia Kravitz(who was with Tom Mullen at the start), a lovely Irish lady named Lorraine Ormond Kane(whose 3 daughters I became friends with when they were young), Pam LaMarra, Janene Palumbo, Sandy Dean, and so many others. I also know John LoConte and Dawn Mortimer, who were part of the IT department and now work as partners of their own consulting firm.

I enjoyed the Christmas parties and the golf outings with them. And I also enjoyed taking deliveries down to the printers and to the various state offices downtown. Over the years, we would have changes in personnel and in locations. We moved from Charlestown to Burlington in 1996. Our location was on a

side street next to a health club called Mad Maggie’s. And we merged with several other accounting firms over the years, becoming part of McGladrey & Pullen in early 2001.

By the way, on September 11th., 2001, I’d gotten off the bus and was purchasing a spring water at a canteen truck near a company called Goodway Graphics. As I purchased the water, I heard the radio saying that there’d been a plane crash into the World Trade Center. Before I left, there was news that a second plane had crashed into the South Tower. When I got to work that morning, everyone was listening to the news. And the tragedy was a hard thing to take.

We were let go early and I made a quiet way home. Before I got home, I purchased special editions of the local newspapers that detailed the horrible news. I went to a church service across the street after I got home and joined everybody in praying for our land. But this was a day that changed our country and the world forever. And thank God the people at work were understanding towards me. After all, this was one thing that we would have to get through together.

We moved down to the Burlington Mall in 2003, where I stayed until 2005 when we bought out American Express’s services in Boston. I moved to their 101 Federal Street Office, where I met a brand new crowd. And I got to know the people

down in the Quincy office, where I’d go for Professional Assistants Day lunches and Halloween Parties.

In June 2010, we merged with Caturano and Company, one of the regional firms headquartered in Charlestown, where we’d all move into one building in October of that year. And I’ve been there ever since. For me, it was like coming full circle. I enjoy the people I work with(even if I get someone angry at times), and I really enjoy helping the work get out.

All the people I’ve worked with-John Keenan, Jim Mecone, Greg Tremblay, JoAnn Roust, Lucy Macedo-how can I ever forget them. I will explain more at a future date.

CHAPTER 22.

MY FAITH HELPS ME THROUGH.

You know, as a member of the Catholic Church, I find that faith helps me through my life. In the many ways I’ve pointed out so far in this book, I can tell you that in my life, there have been plenty of crisis points.

My beliefs in the sanctity of human life(which I believe is the cornerstone of Catholic social justice) is the only thing that keeps me sane. When someone faces a crisis, one has to rely

on the love of God to see them through. And I rely on God whenever things go wrong.

The loss of my father was one of the toughest in my life.

When I worked for Putnam Investments, people expected you to keep your problems at home. But in the last year, my Dad’s illness was shaking me up. The corporate mindset demands that you perform to your best, but it’s not possible sometimes when you face a family crisis.

I remember at my Dad’s wake, a few of the people I worked with in Putnam’s distribution center in Braintree(I’d been booted out of the Boston office in the spring of 1987) came to his wake and gave me support that I couldn’t have gotten on my own.

But then again, that’s what faith means. Although I didn’t start going to church regularly until the 1970s, I know that Mom and Dad took me to church to see how worship works. When I grew up in the 60s, the church was changing from Latin to English in the Mass, the priest facing the people and folk masses on Sunday morning.

My parents wanted to instill in me the faith of our fathers.

Despite the changes in the Church(and the fact that millions have abandoned the Catholic faith), I still believe that the church’s mission on issues dealing with human life and social justice are important to human life on this Earth. And I believe

that my parents’ activism to help kids like myself was a part of that mission.

The 3 years of being in St. Coletta’s School included going to Mass on Friday mornings. This was putting the Catholic Church’s message in action-not only to teach kids the basics of reading, math, writing and science, but also the great treasures taught by the Prophets in the Old Testament, and fulfilled by Jesus Christ and his apostles in the New Testament.

Whenever I saw the images of the Crucifix when I was growing up, I wondered what they meant. I realize that Jesus’s death and resurrection is a central part of our Church. We are expected to leave this Earth better for the next generation.

Over the years, I’ve attended Masses in English and Spanish at various churches in Dorchester, in downtown Boston and in New York City(where the Masses are longer and more spirit filled). I’ve gone to Mass in Florida where they hold hands at the Lord’s Prayer. I’ve been to Mass in the cathedrals of Dublin and Killarney. And I’ve even attended a Latin Mass in the Extraordinary Form at St. Paul’s in Harvard Square.

It doesn’t matter where I go to Mass(or what language it’s in); despite what Vatican II did(or try to do), Christ’s call to worship him is still persistent in my heart. That’s why I try to make it to Mass every Sunday(and maybe a few times more during the week). It’s a celebration of Jesus’s love for us.

I believe that the Christmas liturgies are very special, because we see the beginning of God’s saving action in history.

The child in the manger is the one who carries a cross to Golgotha and rises from the tomb. The Midnight Masses that I’ve been to bring us to an intimate encounter with the Christ Child in Bethlehem, where we join the shepherds, the angels and the Kings in worshipping the King of Kings.

And at Easter, we follow Jesus’s journey from the “Hosannas” sung by the crowds on Palm Sunday to his Passion and death on Good Friday. I find that the Liturgy of Good Friday is the most moving of all the services, in which we adore the “wood of the cross on which the world’s salvation is hung.” It’s Good Friday that sets the stage for the Resurrection that we celebrate the next evening.

And although there have been times when I’ve doubted its message(please don’t make go through those, please!), I always come back to its loving message of caring for others.

That’s why my faith is important to life.

CHAPTER 23.

“MUSIC IS PART OF YOUR LIFE-AND MINE.”

In the more than 5 decades since I came on this Earth, music has played a very special part of my life. And since I was a kid, the ways of hearing and seeing music has changed a lot. I remember that Mom and Dad would play the radio every day.

WBZ and WHDH were the 2 power house radio stations here in Boston, playing mostly Middle of the Road music and top 40 each day. And at school, I’d hear Mitch Miller’s group perform Mother Goose nursery rhymes, as well as a jazz combo playing “Going To Town.” We also had daily sing alongs at League School, some of which made me cry like “Let Every One Clap Hands Like Me” or “Marching To Pretoria.”

When I went to St. Coletta’s, we’d have Mass every Friday with singing on the guitar. Of course, hearing Father McCarthy sing “Through Him, With Him and In Him” made me cry a lot.

We’d also listen to records like “Hi, God,” which was an early attempt at contemporary Catholic music after the Vatican II reforms. And one record I couldn’t stand where those “Musical Multiplication Tables,” which we played during Math class.

“3 times 1 is…3 times 5 is…3 times 7 is…well, I’ll start first and let you give the answer.”

And of course, on the way to school, and on the way home, I’d listen to top 40 on WRKO or MOR music on WBZ. The personalities on those stations: Carl DeSuze, Jess Cain, Dave Maynard, Alan Dary, Norm Nathan, Dale Dorman, Joel Cash,

Jerry Butler…how can I ever forget them. They had a knowledge for music and a nose for news and other features.

You can’t find most of that today because the radio stations are part of big conglomerates that dictate the songs to be played and what the disc jockeys are supposed to talk about.

I think one of my favorite experiences was seeing the Boston production of “Godspell,” at the Schubert Theater back in 1973. The songs “Day By Day” and “All Good Gifts” are beautiful in their own special way. Because they are inspiring and speaking of God’s love for all of us. How we wish to see God more clearly, love him more dearly, and follow him more nearly each day of our lives.

During the intermission, the cast invited the theater goers to have some wine until they ran out of it. I couldn’t drink that stuff; I’m on medication.

And of course, the FM stations of the time were very interesting: WBCN was the station for progressive rock and roll, while WCRB played classical music. WJIB-FM was well renowned for their beautiful music, WBVF-FM was a top 40 stalwart during the 70s, and WXKS-FM started out as a disco station, quickly embracing new wave and dance music.

I used to record everything on a cassette whenever I heard music and I’ve ended recording more than enough music that I haven’t heard as of late. I have my cassettes stored somewhere

and I hope to get them back when I get a chance. There are sounds that I haven’t heard in years, and I ‘m looking forward to discovering what I’ve been missing.

Earlier, I told you that I had a “Tommy” record in my possession when I got a record player and I ended up playing it endlessly one summer. Coleman also played records on his stereo and I liked to play them as well. We saw a number of concerts including an Aerosmith concert in 1975 on the weekend that the Bicentennial started. It was an amazing experience.

I’ve also had exposure to classical music on records and on the radio. Back when WBZ-FM was at 106.7(that’s where WMJX-FM is located today), they would donate most of their day to classical music and some jazz in the evening. Also, the college stations have given me a love for varied genres of music from folk to heavy metal and rap.

And of course, Mom and Dad would listen to WRYTAM(now WROL-AM) each weekend for Irish music with John Latchford playing the “Latest songs from the Republic of Ireland, plus all the old Irish favorites.” I’d also listen to Tom and Sheila Cummings with their Irish Hour radio program and WUMB’s “Celtic Twilight,” which features traditional and contemporary Celtic music(although there was a time when it was getting into a “Brits Out” attitude).

And of course, every St. Patrick’s Day at St. Mark’s School, the kids would put on their Irish shows singing some of the best in Irish music, as well as some of the best hit songs on the charts. And they’d always end their show with “A Nation Once Again,” a great Republican song that is appropriate and fitting to end an evening of Irish entertainment.

Since 1967, WROL’s Irish show on Saturdays(and now on Sundays) have entertained millions of New Englanders. And now, with the growth of the internet, their digital stream covers the Earth. Also, the Irish Hour on WUNR is now heard worldwide on the web. And with the growth in music sharing services, any and all kinds of music can be shared with people everywhere on the Earth.

And of course, I believe that music dealing with holidays and seasons are very special, too. The songs “My Funny Valentine” and “Be My Love” are beautiful examples of songs for St. Valentine’s Day(by the way, this day is dedicated to St. Valentine, the bishop of Rome and not Dan Cupid). Patriotic songs like “Star Spangled Banner,” “God Bless The USA,” “Stars and Stripes Forever” and “This Land Is Your Land” go well with Memorial Day, the Fourth of July and Presidents Day. “We Gather Together” is a great example of a song for Thanksgiving.

“Jesus Christ Is Risen Today” and “Ye Sons And Daughters” are stirring songs for Lent, Holy Week and Easter.

But I believe that my favorite genre is Christmas music.

Each year, brand new Christmas songs are recorded by some of the greatest artists in the world. However, the so-called “Christmas music” stations only play about 50 to 100 “tried and true” songs, which get on your nerves after a while. Thank God there are internet radio stations that play a wide variety of holiday music all year long. Traditional favorites like “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells,” “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” and “O Tannenbaum” are complimented by new hits like “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” “Christmas In Hollis,” “The Christmas Shoes” and “Celebrate Me Home.” Music is “the soundtrack of your life,” as the late, great Dick Clark once said.

Yes, music plays a big role in my life. I hope it does in yours, too.

CHAPTER 24.

“SAYING GOODBYE TO MY MOTHER.”

My mother was and is the most influential in my life. In 2003, on the night before Presidents Day, she suffered a

reaction to her diabetes medication and crashed her car into a tree near my house. She had to be taken to the hospital and spent a month or so there. Her leg was injured and she suffered some internal damage.

This would start her on a downward spiral in her health.

Over the next 5 years, she would have low blood sugar and have several heart attacks, but she’d always rally back. As Dr. Yerkes put it, she was “like the Energizer Bunny.” Unfortunately, on January 6th., 2008 she went out for dinner and had a massive heart attack.

I was called to the hospital the next morning, and I told my supervisor JoAnn that I had to leave immediately. On the way to Brockton Hospital(where she’d been taken the previous night), my Aunt Marian and I talked about the possibility of her dying this time.

And when I got there, my worst fears were confirmed.

Peggy and Diane told me that Mom had suffered a fatal heart attack and that she wasn’t going to last long. She’d already been dead for hours, but the hospital personnel were trying to keep her alive in the hope that somehow she’d pull out of it.

But we knew it was a hopeless cause. I went through the hospital during the ensuing hours. At around 1:30 p.m., I went for a walk outside. As I walking to the drug store to get a paper,

the sun came out briefly and then went back behind the clouds.

It was at that moment that Mom had died.

For the days leading up to the funeral, we were all in a fog.

Especially me. I’d lost the second best friend in my life(next to my Dad). I went down to my sister Patrice’s house to spend the days leading up to the funeral. While down there, I emailed the musical director that I wanted the choir to sing at my Mother’s funeral. I gave him some suggestions for the music and he got to work on it. And I also sent emails to work and my Yahoo groups notifying them of the sad news.

At the wake on the following Friday evening, all of Mom’s family and friends(including those of my fellow choir members and the visiting nurses, as well as other friends who’d know her) came up and gave us their expressions of sympathy towards us.

She was the glue that kept us together for years, and even though she was gone, it was still keeping us that way.

We had the funeral the next morning at St. Agatha’s with my choir members singing the songs, Father Casey giving the reflection, and Siobhan giving a special tribute about her, including that night when we welcomed a stranger into our house(I already told you that earlier in the book). After the funeral, we all went to a gathering at the American Legion Hall where she shared many happy memories about my Mom.

Even though she has gone home to be with God, Mom is still a very special part of my life. She and Dad taught me to become what I am today. And for that, I have to say “Thanks, Ma.”

CHAPTER 25.

“MY LOVE FOR SPORTS.” In most of the USA, there are sports rivalries a-plenty.

Especially for those fans of college sports. You hear about the USC-UCLA rivalry in Los Angeles, the Ohio-Michigan one in the Midwest, and the Texas-Texas A&M business that dominates the Thanksgiving holiday in the Lone Star state. College football, basketball, baseball, track and field, you name it.

Millions of people across America follow college sports feverishly.

Here in Boston, we’re a very parochial people in our love sports. Here, everything revolves around the Boston Red Sox, the Boston Celtics, the Boston Bruins and the New England Patriots. Football, basketball, hockey and baseball is what we live for here in Beantown. The college teams aren’t even given the time of the day.

And during the season, high school hockey, basketball and football command the attention of students, parents and boosters alike. Every year, on Thanksgiving Day, you find over 100 different high school football games in progress. And weekend nights are full of school boy sports.

I admit that I’ve got a passion for these sports. I’m a fan of all four Boston teams, as well as a fifth-the New England Revolution in Major League Soccer. And I’ve lived and died with these teams.

I always hope that somehow the home team will pull out a win. Because it’s a shame if they don’t win, as somebody once said. I remember all the years of frustration and anguish as the Boston Red Sox wrestled with that infamous “Curse of the Bambino,” which occurred after the Sox traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees so that the owner William Frazee could finance a new musical called “No No Nanette.”

I always remembered the years that they went to the World Series in 1967, 1975 and 1986, only to get beaten by the St. Louis Cardinals, the Cincinnati Reds and the New York Mets, respectively. I remember the joy that I felt when I saw Bill Lee hit the homerun in the 12th. Inning of the 6th. Game of the ’75 Sox-Red series that allowed them to play the next night for all the marbles. I also remember the night in Game 6 of the ’86

series when Bill Buckner dropped the ball between his legs that enabled to get even with the Sox in Shea Stadium.

Several times in the late 20th. Century, the Red Sox came close, only to fall. I remember that that infamous 2003 series when the Sox blew a lead in the 7th. Game of the American League Championship series and lost to the Evil Empire. A few days later, the Florida Marlins beat the Yanks in the World Series by 4 games to 2.

However, in 2004, they did the unthinkable-down 3 to 0 in the ALCS, they made a comeback for the ages. I remember staying up late hours each night watching the games with Mom in her bedroom in the condo we’d moved into back in August.

And with grit and determination(not to mention Curt Schilling’s bloody sock), they came back to win 4-3 in that series before sweeping the St. Louis Cardinals 4-0 in the World Series.

And since then, they’ve done it again twice-in 2007, a few months before my Mother died, and again in 2013 after an inspiring year when they brought the city back from sorrow after the bombings at the Boston Marathon. And each one was more spectacular than the first.

Meanwhile, the Chicago Cubs haven’t won a World Series in over a century; their last one was in 1965 when one of the fans wasn’t allowed to bring his billy goat into the stands. I’d predicted on an online poll that the Cubbies and the Sox would

meet in the 2003 series with Chicago winning 4-3. Of course, when the jerk caught the game in the sixth game in their series with the Florida Marlins, all bets were off!

And of course, I am a great fan of the New England Patriots. They’d only been to the Super Bowl twice in 1986 and 1997-both ending with their being buried by the Bears, and being packed up by the Packers, respectively-when they ended up in the Big Game in New Orleans in 2002. Several weeks had passed since the infamous bombings in New York and Washington, and nerves were at an all time high.

While the Pats were able to take a commanding 17-0 lead in the game, The St. Louis Rams were able to come back in the 2nd. Half, and it looked like it would go into overtime. But Adam Vinateri kicked a field goal that would seal the deal for the Pats, bringing them their first NFL title ever. They’d win back to back again in 2004 and 2005, and they’ve been back in 2008 and 2012, only to lose.

The 2008 loss to the New York Giants was the most shattering, since they’d gone 16-0 during the season and rolled over the opposition in the playoffs that year. My mom had died 3 weeks earlier and I was feeling upset over it, but each win that the Pats had that January really lifted my spirits. And I know that anyone who bet on the Pats to win in that Super Bowl really lost a lot of money.

Oh well.

CHAPTER 26TH. “SPORTS MAKES MY LIFE.” I grew up watching the Boston Celtics take home nearly a dozen of the 18 championships that they’ve won as an NBA team. I was very upset for 2 years in the 70s when they lost the semifinals of the NBA playoffs to the New York Knicks, who would go on to play the L.A. Lakers.

Of course, I was up nearly half the night when they beat the Phoenix Suns in the 6th. Game of the ’76 Finals in triple overtime! What a game that was! And who could forget when they got back to the Finals in 1981? Yeah, those were some memories.

I guess one of my worst feelings was when they lost the 7th.

Game of the Conference Championship in 1982. We were at a Christening party at Marion’s house down the street and we watched people dressed as the “Ghosts of Celtics Past” haunt the stands of the old Boston Garden. But they blew the game in the end and the Celtics fans could only chant “Beat L.A.” to the Sixers.

I wanted the Celtics to beat L.A. that year, not the Sixers!

They managed to bounce back, though. In 1984, they beat the L.A. Lakers 4-3 in the finals. And in 1986, they played the Houston Rockets in the final and won the series in 6 Games.

(They’d lost the finals to the Lakers 4-2 the previous year.) I remember that I was sick the day after the final game and watched the celebration at home.

On the day I turned 25, however, I heard the news that Len Bias had died of cocaine overdose. And this was weeks after winning their 16th. Championship. Len had been drafted in the first round of that year’s draft, and people were anticipating great things out of him. However, he got himself into trouble with cocaine and that was it.

22 years of losing and falling short would take their toll.

However, in 2008, I watched them come back against the Lakers, winning in 6 games. I was in town, having come back from a Lowell Spinners game. And as I came in around 11:30 p.m., I was seeing history in the making as they won that sixth game!

And of course, I have been privileged to see the Boston Bruins win 3 Stanley Cup championships. I was on my way to the beach in Marshfield when we heard on the radio the exciting 4th. Game when Bobby Orr got the win in overtime. 2

years later, I watched them win in Madison Square Garden in New York.

And of course, I can remember their fantastic playoff run in 2011, when they were able to beat the Montreal Canadiens 4 games to 3 before sweeping the Philadelphia Flyers 4-0 and coming back to beat Tampa Bay 4-3 in the Conference Finals.

Many times, during the playoffs, I was walking around the Boston Garden seeing the people come into the games and taunting the opposing teams’ fans telling them their team would lose. Did I make a difference? Who knows? Well, it all climaxed when they beat the Vancouver Canucks 4-3 on their home turf.

I don’t know why the fans out there went ballistic with their rioting. But you know what? 1 million fans and I were treated to a great rolling victory rally the following Saturday(the day before my 50th. Birthday), as we stood in warm and humid conditions to salute our Big Bad Bruins! It was a fantastic day that I weill never forget as long as I live.

Although I’ve seen the New England Revolution get into 3 MLS Cup Games, including the one I saw in October of 2002 at the Gillette Stadium in Foxboro(where I’ve seen my share of soccer games and 2 U2 concerts), they have never won it all. I would like to see them at least one of the MLS Cup finals in my lifetime.

“You know,” Bobby the Brain Heenan said one time on a WWF wrestling show, “Boston’s a town of losers!”

Yeah, right! We’ve won 8 sports championships in the past decade, so we’re doing all right with ourselves. Tough luck, Mr. Weasel!

CHAPTER 27.

“A LEGEND IN HER OWN TIME.”

Getting back to funerals, I’d have a similar experience 4 years later, this time with my Aunt Marian. When I was growing up, she lived down the street from where we were, at 399 Adams Street(we lived at 355 Adams during the years we lived in Dorchester). Just about every other day, I’d go down and visit her and her family. She had a really big one-5 sons and 4 daughters, 9 in all. And what a really big coincidence-4 of her sons were named after the gospel writers!

Her husband Jack worked with the Boston Gas company and helped Marian raise her children. And Marian was a lady who was a saint. She helped many people who were

downtrodden. She’d always volunteer her time for St. Mark’s Parish, including on Thanksgiving, where she’d help serve meals for those who were lonely. She was also a part of a prayer group called the Daughters of Mary, which reached out to people in need.

On summer evenings, Jack would play the guitar and entertain us with songs. He was very talented, and his son John picked up on his talent and is a guitarist and singer himself. He and Marian also welcomed us to their house on Christmas Eve for a great celebration and would stop up to our house on Christmas Day, too. Life with them was like Heaven.

To me, Aunt Marian was my second Mother. And in January of 2012, we had a 75th. Birthday party for her. It was a joyous affair, with all my family(and Marian’s, too) gathered on a cold January Day at the Dorchester Yacht Club(where we held my parents’ 25th. Anniversary party). While I was suffering from a cold and some aches, I enjoyed the party a lot. It was a chance to see all of the family that day.

And I got to meet my cousin Steven’s kids, my brother Coley, John Dalton’s family, including their mentally disabled son John John, my Uncle Jack and Aunt Debbie, and so many more. The day started with Mass at St. Mark’s before we had the party at the club. There were photos of Marian from her

childhood to the present day with very special messages wishing her best wishes.

But something was troubling me that day. Marian was feeling sick that day, even though she had a wonderful celebration. I guess it was all the years of smoking that did it. I heard from her one day that spring that she was sick with lung cancer, but she said that since medical treatment was advanced, she would be all right.

I visited her one day at Loretta’s house, but was I shocked to see what was happening to her. The cancer had weakened her very much and she was very unresponsive to me. I was very shaken at this and wondered what it meant. I found out a few days later that Aunt Marian’s cancer was terminal.

It occurs to me that Kathleen’s husband John had also died of lung cancer a couple years earlier. I went to that wake and felt sad at what happened. Now, I could tell that it was happening all over again. My Mother had been fighting diabetes for 2 decades and my Marian had been smoking a lot during her life, so it really gave me a frightening feeling.

It really affected me a lot. I was staying up late at night and it really shook up my mood. So much that I ticked off one of my fellow workers in the production room and we ended having an argument. I won’t go into any more details, but it was a heated one. Thank God it didn’t come to blows, because

if it, we’d be reported to H.R. and we’d probably have lost our jobs.

Anyway, I kept in touch with Aunt Marian’s family and was told that she always appreciated when I called, even though she wasn’t able to talk to me herself. This gave me the comforting thought that she was still thinking of me. I went down the beach a couple of days before the 4th. Of July to spend my traditional summer kick off watching the fireworks on the beach.

And on the day before the 4th., my sister Diane told me that she’d passed away at half past 8 that morning. As a result, we would be going to her wake on the following Sunday and to her funeral the next day, on Monday. It really throw a cloud of gloom into our celebrations that year. Although I enjoyed the fireworks that night, I really felt sad.

We had to leave the beach on Sunday to take the ride up to Dorchester. And you could have seen the line of people trying to enter the funeral home where she was waked. All the photos that we had from her 75th. Party that January were all there in full glory.

And I met a lot of the people she’d worked with at the parish. All the kids and grandkids were there and they were happy to meet all of them. Memories came back to that cold

January day when I braved the elements and my own ailments to salute her on her 75th.

The funeral was the next morning at St. Mark’s Church where we gathered to say goodbye to Marian before taking her to her internment on the Cape. When I had to go to the restroom downstairs, I was surprised to see it being used as a summer school for the local kids. In the years she’d grown up in St. Mark’s, it had changed from a mostly Irish neighborhood to a multicultural area with Latinos, Haitians, Asians and more. It was a very amazing intimate portrait of how Dorchester(and most of Massachusetts) has changed in the more than 50 years I’ve been on this Earth. And when I leave this Earth, I know that there’ll be many changes occurring there, too.

On our way to the National Cemetery in Bourne, we watched another funeral procession pass by on Route 24. We found out that a State Trooper had been killed, and that her funeral was taking place that same day. On the way, we listened to the radio and talked about extraneous stuff that I won’t get into.

At the burial ground, we all sang “Our Lady Of Knock” as a final goodbye to Aunt Marian. She truly was a legend in her own time, and the people who were there that day, as well as her party, confirmed that. Amazingly, we had the after funeral reception at the Yacht Club where we’d feted her that winter.

And everyone had a great time that day, too. I thank God for all those who’ve played a role in my life. They’ve made me the man I am today.

CHAPTER 28.

“CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.”

You know, I only mentioned in passing my time at Children’s Hospital. In the 8 months I was there from February to October 1986, I got to see the hospital firsthand and how it worked from the inside.

I’d had a bad experience with one job training program and it really annoyed my family. I’ll resist any thoughts of going into that, but my Mass Rehab. Commission came up with a great solution-checking out Children’s Hospital’s Job Experience Program. I met with its director Margaret Van Gelder, who told me about it.

During my time there, I would do several jobs-working in the mailroom, doing filing in the records department, and working in the X-ray department. All through the 8 months, I got a first hand look at the patients, the doctors, and the staff.

And I was moved with a lot of emotions.

I saw kids who were battling leukemia, coming in for treatment of serious illness, dealing with cardiac problems and more. And they came from all over America and around the world. These kids are true heroes because they’ve fought these diseases with courage and hope.

One of my mail runs took me to the Judge Baker Children’s Center, where I saw developmentally disabled kids become nurtured in a environment where learning and compassion went hand in hand. I also visited the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, the nation’s most prestigious cancer treatment center.

There, I saw kids suffering from various cancers and conquering them joyfully. I was convinced that our children are the future of our planet, and no one likes to see them suffer and die at the dawn of life.

The mail that I would handle each day came from all over the world(after all, this is a world class teaching hospital). And looking at the places they came from showed me the importance of how important this place of medical research and treatment is.

Children’s Hospital is a teaching hospital affiliate of Harvard University, and it’s surrounded by the Deaconess Medical Center and Beth Israel Hospital. Its location on Longwood Avenue in Brookline makes it the linchpin of the Longwood Medical Area. Nearby, we have Emmanuel College

and Tufts University. And a short walk leads you to the Mission Hill area of Roxbury. There you can see the Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, better known as the Mission Church.

And I will say that it truly is a place where miracles happen.

And when I look back at those 8 months there, I can tell you that it was Heaven there. You can see it in the kids’ faces when you go there. And you see all the cartoon characters painted on the divisions you visit there.

EPILOGUE

Well, I guess that’s all there is for now. I’m still writing parts of this story as I go along, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I’ll probably need to make a second printing and make changes to it. At the time I was born, autism was unknown as a disease, and most of the kids who were diagnosed with it ended up being institutionalized. But I was able to beat the odds and this story is its result.

You know, when Dr. Yerkes was part of the League School, people criticized him for having a school teach reading and math to kids that would never amount to much. Well, he put them in their place, because he believed-and still does today-

that kids with mental illness have the potential to make something of their lives.

And thanks to him and my parents, I was able to do that.

And I’m really glad about that. I hope that my story will inspire someone who is suffering from any kind of mental illness to keep fighting to succeed in life. I was able to beat the odds, and if I can do it, you can, too. Anybody can.

If you enjoyed this story, you can reach me at this address:

Richard Clifford 577 Adams Street Unit E Milton, Mass. 02186 U.S.A. You can also email me at this address clapperon@hotmail.com Thanks for your time and goodbye for now.