Teach
04-28-2008, 09:47 PM
When I was a boy, one of my favorite TV shows was called: "I Remember Mama." I can still recall my good buddy, Harry Elliott and I watching the show over at his house on Friday evenings.
The opening went: "I remember the big white house on Steiner Street, and my little sister Dagmar, and my brother Nels, and Papa. But most all, I remember Mama..."
It was the early 1950s. The Korean War was raging. Ike was about to become president. And Harry Elliott and I were best friends in the Dorchester-Mattapan section of Boston.
"I was born here; I’ll be buried here," Harry would always say. Harry was small in stature but large in intellect. He was a Boston boy. And like many of us, he grinded his way through the 1950s. Our families, in those days, were generally poor. In fact, most of my buddy’s families were living from paycheck to paycheck. Few of us lived in houses. Most of us lived in apartments, or in "The Project".
Yes, Harold (call me "Harry") Elliott was a Dorchester boy, or as we called it "Daw-chestah".
Harry was one of the few who actually lived in a modest house. He was a contradiction: a bright guy who rarely studied; a conservative person in dress and demeanor who could also be fun-loving and puckish; and a tightwad who was sometimes a two-fisted gambler.
Some of the most memorable pranks from my childhood involve Harry. Like the time we wanted to have a cookout but didn’t have a kettle or hibatchi. So what does Harry do? He digs a huge hole in his parents’ manicured lawn, tosses some charcoal briquettes in the hole, and then takes a fat-encrusted grill and proceeds to fire up the charcoal.
Well, we were enjoying our burgers and dogs when Harry’s parents drive up. The last I remember, as we all scattered to the four corners of the neighborhood, was Harry running at full speed away from both his parents. "How could you do this, Harry?" his mother was crying out.
Yet, when it came to gambling, Harry was in his element. He was both an excellent card-player and a bowler. Bowling in Boston in the 50s meant candlepin bowling. The pins were small and the ball was light. Perfect for Harry’s size. And he was good. Many was the evening he’d make a week’s pay hanging around the bowladrome and takin' on all comers.
In those days, guys who didn’t know him would take one look at Harry and say, "This guys a pushover." But Harry was deceptively strong and he was also extremely accurate.
Yet, it was when Harry was gambling on the harness races that he particularly shone. I recall at Foxboro Raceway he went 20 consecutive nights without losing. Twenty consecutive nights! How did he do it? Harry did it with parience and discipline. He would often bet just one or two races on the card. During the rest of the time he’d just chat or have a soft drink (we called it "tonic") and a hot dog or hamburger.
As I think back, I believe Harry was an object lesson on how to win at the races. He was one of the most self-disciplined betters I’ve ever seen.
As we Boston boys grew older, many of us scattered; yet, we’d occasionally get together for reunions. We had one not long ago. It was there that I learned that Harry had died in Vegas (I had heard that he moved there). Nobody seemed to know the circumstances, but I was stunned nonetheless when I heard the news.
As I think about Harry and others in our group, I think about wonderful childhood memories: our poker games; schoolyard handball and stickball games; bowling matches and visits to Foxboro Raceway.
Yet, as I think back, I remember most what I had learned from each of my childhood chums. Every one of my friends brought something into my life. As I think of Harry, it was he who taught me the importance of discipline, especially when it came to gambling.
As I look back, I wonder if Harry's prophecy about himself came true: "I was born here; I’ll be buried here." Wherever you are, Harry? Thank you.
The opening went: "I remember the big white house on Steiner Street, and my little sister Dagmar, and my brother Nels, and Papa. But most all, I remember Mama..."
It was the early 1950s. The Korean War was raging. Ike was about to become president. And Harry Elliott and I were best friends in the Dorchester-Mattapan section of Boston.
"I was born here; I’ll be buried here," Harry would always say. Harry was small in stature but large in intellect. He was a Boston boy. And like many of us, he grinded his way through the 1950s. Our families, in those days, were generally poor. In fact, most of my buddy’s families were living from paycheck to paycheck. Few of us lived in houses. Most of us lived in apartments, or in "The Project".
Yes, Harold (call me "Harry") Elliott was a Dorchester boy, or as we called it "Daw-chestah".
Harry was one of the few who actually lived in a modest house. He was a contradiction: a bright guy who rarely studied; a conservative person in dress and demeanor who could also be fun-loving and puckish; and a tightwad who was sometimes a two-fisted gambler.
Some of the most memorable pranks from my childhood involve Harry. Like the time we wanted to have a cookout but didn’t have a kettle or hibatchi. So what does Harry do? He digs a huge hole in his parents’ manicured lawn, tosses some charcoal briquettes in the hole, and then takes a fat-encrusted grill and proceeds to fire up the charcoal.
Well, we were enjoying our burgers and dogs when Harry’s parents drive up. The last I remember, as we all scattered to the four corners of the neighborhood, was Harry running at full speed away from both his parents. "How could you do this, Harry?" his mother was crying out.
Yet, when it came to gambling, Harry was in his element. He was both an excellent card-player and a bowler. Bowling in Boston in the 50s meant candlepin bowling. The pins were small and the ball was light. Perfect for Harry’s size. And he was good. Many was the evening he’d make a week’s pay hanging around the bowladrome and takin' on all comers.
In those days, guys who didn’t know him would take one look at Harry and say, "This guys a pushover." But Harry was deceptively strong and he was also extremely accurate.
Yet, it was when Harry was gambling on the harness races that he particularly shone. I recall at Foxboro Raceway he went 20 consecutive nights without losing. Twenty consecutive nights! How did he do it? Harry did it with parience and discipline. He would often bet just one or two races on the card. During the rest of the time he’d just chat or have a soft drink (we called it "tonic") and a hot dog or hamburger.
As I think back, I believe Harry was an object lesson on how to win at the races. He was one of the most self-disciplined betters I’ve ever seen.
As we Boston boys grew older, many of us scattered; yet, we’d occasionally get together for reunions. We had one not long ago. It was there that I learned that Harry had died in Vegas (I had heard that he moved there). Nobody seemed to know the circumstances, but I was stunned nonetheless when I heard the news.
As I think about Harry and others in our group, I think about wonderful childhood memories: our poker games; schoolyard handball and stickball games; bowling matches and visits to Foxboro Raceway.
Yet, as I think back, I remember most what I had learned from each of my childhood chums. Every one of my friends brought something into my life. As I think of Harry, it was he who taught me the importance of discipline, especially when it came to gambling.
As I look back, I wonder if Harry's prophecy about himself came true: "I was born here; I’ll be buried here." Wherever you are, Harry? Thank you.