These were a few of our favorite things:

“Gortons” [grotons–ground pork pate]

“Tourquee” [tortiere–pork pie]

“Boudin” [blood sausage–really yuk]

“Crepes” [Memere’s fat crispy pancakes cooked in light oil–the recipe faded away with her Alzheimer’s]

“Rhubarb stalks dipped in a cup of sugar” [great for walking around with]

“Pepper steaks” [thin beef grilled with sautéed onions and peppers in a bun, at a Lakeview stand in Dracut, MA]

“Maple Syrup Pie” [leftover pie crust fashioned in a mini-pie plate baked with a thin layer of maple syrup inside]

“Popcorn and ice cream” [a double-guilty Sunday outing treat at Locke’s in Hollis, NH]

“Raw Carrot, Celery and Potato Sticks” [the only way Mom could get us to eat veggies]

“Le mis pi le beurre, mais le croute pantoute” [Pepere’s description of my sister’s habit of eating only the middle of the French bread with butter, and leaving the crust]

“Fig Squares” [at Crosby’s Bakery in Nashua, NH–still available, exactly the same today, amazingly]

 

 

 

 

St. Joseph’s school in Nashua, NH, no longer exists. Today it’s a Catholic Charities office building, and back in 1958 it wasn’t much to look at, either.  But it was just six blocks from my home in the back of Hebert’s Market at 189 Kinsley Street, just two blocks from my Mom’s birthplace at 9 Wason Ave., and only a few more blocks away from Jack Kerouac’s childhood home, deep in the French Canadian ghetto of Nashua.

Back in those days, the concept of kindergarten didn’t exist (at least in my experience), and so I guess my Mom homeschooled me through the kindergarten year. My first language was (Canadian) French [“mon pauvre ‘tit gosse”], but from hanging out with the neighborhood kids, by the time first grade came around, my English was primary.  And so, St. Joseph’s School taught in English to perhaps 90% French Canadian kids from the neighborhood.

The first day of school has long been a dreamy snippet of anxious sweet memory.  Mom walked me the six blocks to the school yard, and after hearing the black-petticoated nun ring the bell, kissed me off into the line.  I vaguely recall marching up one flight of stairs to the first room on the left–Sister Yvette’s class. She was no spring chicken, and as you might imagine, did not smile easily. My tilted desk top held a cigar box (no doubt donated by Mr. Duhamel, the local tobacconist), containing a pair of “chop sticks” (for music making), and a few fat pencils with huge erasers at the end.  Above the black chalkboard were large flashcards pinned to a cork board and arranged in the first French sentence of the year:  “Le cheval noir tire la voiture rouge.”

We stood beside our chairs, and our first duty as a class was to pledge allegiance to the flag (which I knew how to do, thankfully, from years of watching Big Brother Bob Emery on black and white TV).  During that first group act, I summoned my courage to peer around the room a bit.  As I peeked behind me, I made eye contact with Diane Lavoie, complete with pigtails, a gleam in her eye, and a wide smile aimed right at me.

That sweet moment made everything OK.

While Diane Lavoie never became a childhood sweetheart, our paths intertwined. Years later her dad bought Hebert’s market from my dad, and it became Lavoie’s market.  That little market still stands today, though the old apple tree behind it, full of nails, birds nests and broken limbs, has long since passed. And my Mom, turning 90 in a few months, still lives happily just two blocks away…

I’ve had numerous occasions during my life when I dreamed something fantastic…breakthrough…life changing…only to forget it when I woke up (cry cry).  Is it possible, I’ve wondered, to dream something important and useful, and actually realize it?

Well, amazingly, I’ve heard of two instances where that really happened, if the interviewees are to be believed–one Beatle and one Stone!

A few years ago, I heard a radio interview on NPR, I think it was, of Paul McCartney–an intimate affair recorded of Paul in a small club atmosphere,  with Paul at the piano. Toward the end of the interview, he was asked if he had ever written a song in his sleep.  “Why yes,” Paul replied, “I dreamed ‘Yesterday,’ and woke up in time to record it.” (something to that effect).  Needless to say, I was very impressed that one of the great songs written in my lifetime was born in a dream…

Not to be outdone (as you might expect), a Stone has described a similar aha! moment.  Just a few days ago, to commemorate the release of Keith Richards’ latest album, NPR replayed a Terry Gross Fresh Air interview with Keith Richards from a few years ago.  Terry asked Keith if he had ever dreamed any Rolling Stones songs. “Yes,” Keith replied, and proceeded to tell the story of going to bed one evening (without describing what substance accompanied him), clicking record on his cassette recorder, and then waking up the next morning without memory of the night before. “I hit rewind on my recorder, and the first thing I heard was “dum dum, da da da, da da da, dum dum…” [the first several notes of “Satisfaction”], and then 40 minutes of snoring!”