"Mr. Tippet."
I'm smiling as I write this. I'm smiling because when I think about every young man who grew up in
Longmeadow, Massachusetts during the 60's, then into the 70's ... and I think about them hearing those words uttered today, my hunch is that as soon as the sound waves hit their ears, their minds immediately make a shift. And when that shift occurs, hunch #2 leads me to believe that the following words then follow, flowing from their mouths in a long, drawn out, monotone-like voice:
"Boys. Step away from the vices."
I hated metal shop. Wood shop, I enjoyed. But metal shop? No
friggin' way. While the girls in middle school went to their home economics classes, it was two varieties of shop and mechanical drawing for us. I don't know how it's done these days but, back then, it was all about gender separation when it came to those so-called career-skills classes.
With wood-shop, at least Mr.
Shube's classroom presented a lighter, more cheery environment. Was it the light pine or oak? Perhaps it was the smell - I loved the smell of the freshly cut wood, the feathery shavings coating the gray concrete floor. But metal shop? Whoa. Dark and grayish black, the stink of rust - that metallic odor wafting it's way up my nostrils every time I entered
that place. It always smelled like something was burning in that room which, to me, always seemed a lot more dangerous than good ole' Mr.
Shube's work space. I was always thinking a blow torch was going to sear off my eyebrows or a soldering iron was going to melt my fingers into the table top.
Trip To Bountiful - Okay. So it's not as though I think about metal shop a lot these days. But while home for Emma's birthday a few weeks ago, I had a chance to take a look around the old neighborhood - actually
two old neighborhoods. I've done this kind of thing before but, for some reason, never seemed to have a camera handy. This time, with the Canon by my side, I decided to drive through Springfield and
Longmeadow to take
some photos. I figured it might be nice to share a few on here.
I loved the Springfield house. Whereas my younger brother remembers the next (
Longmeadow) home better,
this is the house I connect with my childhood. To me, this is
the house. As I drove by to snap these photos, I opened the windows to let some of the crisp, cold winter flow into the car. I smelled burning timber - a familiar smell. I'm not sure, but I think there was always some kind of controlled burning area in Forest Park, located right across the street from our house. I
remember that from when I was very little and smiled when I thought that now, some 45 years later, the burning apparently still happens, in that very same spot. As I closed my eyes, it could have easily been 1963 again. The birds chirping, the soft hum of the cars driving by on the noisier
Dickinson Street side, the sound of melting ice cracking and dripping ... Yep. This is where I grew up all right. And there was the house - 499
Trafton Road.
I circled around to the other side and, after snapping off a few more photos, headed toward Tiffany Street and then past my elementary school, originally
called, aptly, Tiffany Street School. Now it's named after a woman, Alice
Beal, but, other than the name change, the place looks exactly the same. A quick memory: I was what? Five? Six? What age are you when you're in kindergarten? There was a hill outside, with a playground (
both are still there, of course). I remember one day back then, heading back into school after recess and something about the lining around one window caught my attention. The building was brand spanking new and I discovered some kind of gummy sealant around the edge of the window, where glass met concrete. Of course, I started to play with it, digging my finger in as far as it could go; it was kind of
like "Silly Putty." I made all kinds of designs in the gooey, mucky stuff and I'm sure they appreciated my arts & crafts contribution to the building. I remember checking out a number of the school's windows in the days that followed; it's a good thing the whole building didn't fall down with the chunks I was taking out of the place. Come to think of it, that's probably the single most destructive thing I've ever done in my life. And now, it's 2008 and I remember those windows; that's funny to me. Part of me wanted to get out of the car, walk over to the side of the building to see if my artwork was still in place. But I didn't go and proceeded to head to my next stop. Anyway, I'm guessing there have been some new
windows installed since 1963.
"Well, We're Movin' On Up ... " - My family moved to
Longmeadow when I was in the 4
th grade. That was a strange year for me which I won't get into here. New home, new school, new friends - a lot happened in a very short time. 4
th ... then 5
th ... then on to 6
th grade - it was time for a shift. But not just
any shift - a pioneer-like shift, in a manner of speaking. That was the year Massachusetts changed their school structure with the concept of junior high becoming a thing of the past. 5
th grade graduation meant it was time to head to ...
middle school.
So, don't worry. I'm not going to recount every memory from my childhood on here. So, it's time to go back to the two words that triggered this entry - "Mr.
Tippett."
As I approached
Williams Middle School, I decided to take the turn down the familiar long driveway, lined by the ball fields where I played some of my first baseball games, with the Senators. I remember the navy hats with the big red "L." And as I drove up to the building, I found myself drawn to one side of the school, in particular. Then, I
drove the car up to one door on that same side. Stepping from the car, I pulled out the camera and, after walking up to one of the entrances, carefully placed the camera lens up against the door window.
There it was. The hallway. This was the same hallway where I remember walking to gym a few times a week, yes. But that's not the reason I was peeking through
this window, staring at
this view. No, no, no. This was all about the route to a very different destination. This was all about that dark place. That gloomy, rusty gray-scale of a dungeon room.
"Mr.
Getzov, where are your safety glasses? How many times do I have to warn you boys about your safety glasses."
I snapped off a few photos, then turned the camera to get another angle.
"And, don't forget the rivets. The rivets, boys."
For some reason, that line about the rivets popped into my head. I think it had something to do with a spatula which was, from I can remember, my first metal shop project. I'll have to ask her later, but I think my mom actually used that spatula in the house every now and then - to flip burgers or pancakes.
My contribution to the family. Manufactured with fire, sweat and yes ... rivets.
Thank you, Mr. Tippet.
I haven't listened to Pandora in such a long time. But, for some reason, last night - it was Pandora for me. And it was good. First of all, for those of you not familiar with it, Pandora.com is an innovative radio station website - created as part of the Music Genome Project. Without getting overly technical here, they have somehow concocted a site that plays music according to your particular tastes. The user creates different radio "stations" by genre. And once the user sets up various stations, the system then selects songs that fit pretty much within each particular genre. The whole system is based on the actual make-up of the music and production - (e.g., guitar and bass lines, string arrangements, etc...) One 
thing I particularly love about Pandora is that I can have it on and be piddling around in my apartment or doing work and all of a sudden I'll hear something I like and have no idea what it is. I'll glance at the laptop and see what's playing and the system gives me the complete info injection - title, band, writers, album , etc ... That's all a throwback to me. I remember the days of listening to the radio when the good DJ's used to actually tell you all kinds of info about the last played song. Remember that? It doesn't happen any more. Then again, how would I know? I haven't listened to music on the radio in a about a decade.
Traveling Wilbury's came on - "End Of The Line." I love that song and haven't heard it in a long time. And, one by one, first it was George Harrison's voice. Then Tom Petty's, followed by Jeff Lynn and then, of course, Roy Orbinson. I know Dylan was in there some place, but I don't think he had any solos on that track. Anyway that, of course, got me thinking about how much I miss the Beatles and how I especially loved George Harrison and his writing. Nothing against Lennon and McCartney, or Ringo for that matter. But there was something special about George ... the "quiet" one. Something spiritual that seemed to shine through.
