School Boy Parade
1953
Warm spring day in Dorchester – watching the boys headed to high school – catching the trolley. Today is special – it’s the school boy parade when all the public high schools in Boston, after a year of military drill – one or two hours a week – march down Commonwealth Avenue in competition for the best marching band in Boston.
“Here, look at my kid,” Red hands me a sketch of Commerce High School Boys doing close order drills in the Armory. “He’s a cadet non-commissioned officer.” He points to one specific boy, “That’s my boy. In a few years he’ll go to college. No roofing for him. A good boy. Studies hard, no smoking or swearing.”
“But you know, Bill sometimes, especially when I come home after a day on the roof, dirty and sweating, and maybe have a couple of beers under my belt, he avoids me. Like he’s ashamed of me, especially since someone told him of my nickname – Malarkey – a bullshit artist.
“Bill, you’rea writer, so you know that words can hurt, maybe more than a bullet.”
“Come on Red,” I answer. “Your kid knows that you love him. In a few years when he has his own family, he’ll think of you as a genius, a great artist.”
Warm spring day in Dorchester – watching the boys headed to high school – catching the trolley. Today is special – it’s the school boy parade when all the public high schools in Boston, after a year of military drill – one or two hours a week – march down Commonwealth Avenue in competition for the best marching band in Boston.
“Here, look at my kid,” Red hands me a sketch of Commerce High School Boys doing close order drills in the Armory. “He’s a cadet non-commissioned officer.” He points to one specific boy, “That’s my boy. In a few years he’ll go to college. No roofing for him. A good boy. Studies hard, no smoking or swearing.”
“But you know, Bill sometimes, especially when I come home after a day on the roof, dirty and sweating, and maybe have a couple of beers under my belt, he avoids me. Like he’s ashamed of me, especially since someone told him of my nickname – Malarkey – a bullshit artist.
“Bill, you’rea writer, so you know that words can hurt, maybe more than a bullet.”
“Come on Red,” I answer. “Your kid knows that you love him. In a few years when he has his own family, he’ll think of you as a genius, a great artist.”