In 1999, I landed a job in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It’s a good bit north of El Dorado and just over the
Charles River from Boston. For I while, I was put up in a beautiful gray stone building on Commonwealth Avenue (Com Av) in the historic Back Bay section of Boston in walking distance to Fenway Park and Boston Commons. The Commons is called that because it was a common area where horses could graze while their owners shopped in town.
Right down the sidewalk from my apartment was the Harvard Club of Boston – a private social club restricted to alumni of Harvard and MIT. Strolling past, I could see a lot of Thurston Howell types going in there for lunch meetings. Being born curious; I stepped inside the club and had a brief conversation with their maître de:
Me: Is it okay to eat here?
HM: That depends. Are you a graduate, student, or faculty?
Me: Of what?
HM: Of Harvard. This is the Harvard Club, you knew that right, sir?
Me: Oh sure. The sign outside did give it away. No, I went to La Tech.
HM: Is that a French school?
Me: Haven’t you heard of Terry Bradshaw? Karl Malone?
HM: Are they famous French scholars?
Me: Why, yes, they are! Now may I get a table?
HM: No, I’m sorry sir. We are not very fond of the French. So, I’ll need to ask you to La Leave?
Boston is a very old town loaded with history – the birthplace of a nation – home to Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, Boston Harbor, and on and on. The locals like to refer to Boston as The Hub, as in the point upon which the rest of the world revolves. Inside Boston, there are distinct cultural areas like South Boston (Southie) where Irish tended to settle, the North End for Italians, and Chinatown for the Chinese.
The original New England states are very close together. Someone once asked me how to get to New Hampshire. I told him to take a left at the light and it was two states over. I could easily drive from Boston up to Vermont, Maine, or down to Cape Cod in less than an hour. With its red barns green rolling hills and wooden fences, Vermont is one picture post card of a place. They say there are more cows in Vermont than people – and I believe them.
The only thing that didn’t set well with this ol’ Southern boy was the New England weather. Right after my family made it up from Texas; our realtor invited us over for a Fourth of July picnic. She suggested we bring sweaters. Now my idea of a Fourth picnic was Willie Nelson, over 100 degrees, and sweat between your toes. But she was right. Once the sun went down, it got quite chilly and we were smart to bring our sweaters.
The winters I spent in Boston were not terribly harsh – just long as the dickens. It was my first opportunity to be put on the business end of snow shovel. I didn’t much care for that as it’s hard on my back. The mild summers up there were nice. Unlike Louisiana and Texas, you could sit outside during the day without having a heat stroke or getting West Nile disease.
While I enjoyed my time in New England, I never liked the attention I got being a Southern duck out of water. So here I am, back in the South – back where I belong.
Randy lives in Minden. He can be reached at planorand@yahoo.com.