Category: Life in Cambridge

Lots of you will remember this title from Ralph Nader’s book blasting the Chevy Corvair. I owned two, but one only briefly because a very close friend wrecked it on my 18^th birthday, and before that my dad’s car, and before that a motorcycle I owned, a triple play which I can’t top and will write much about later as I recall the life of one of the best friends I ever had, John Virtue. I maintained a friendship with John through adulthood. He’s been gone quite a few years now and I still miss him a lot. We also stayed as close as we could with John’s wife Carol who finally civilized John as did their two great kids Debbie and Scott. Good friends or not, I was still hesitant to let John drive anything I owned. I did, however, trust him with my life, and now that I think about it, this happened every time I let John drive. Continue reading “Unsafe at Any Speed”

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all Keith Saunders’ fault. That guy, and maybe some pretty bad blocking assignments, cost us all championship jackets. Of course, I don’t really mean this, especially about Keith. He was one of many superior athletes on the 1971 team that could have been champions if not for a great deal of misfortune. Such is life, and brutally hard lessons are all part of it. Continue reading “The Last Football Game”

Everyone in Cambridge who participated in the Boy Scouts for any length of time will have fond memories of Camp Wakpominee. These were often created by a combination of absolutely spectacular natural settings that surrounded a picturesque lake. Equally significant was Camp Wakpominee’s extremely well designed program. But no place this side of heaven is flawless and mistakes were made, a big one occurring when I was hired as a CIT, counselor in training, when I probably should have been breaking rocks in some youth reformatory. Continue reading “How Not to Build a Campfire: More Tales of Troop 62”

I better make it clear straight off that there were two completely different iterations of Cambridge Troop 62 in my tenure with the organization, divided into eras I’ll call with and without Record, this Record being Dick Record, Don’s younger brother. Don at least drew a paycheck to put up with my idiocy where brother Dick did it for free, and for many years too. Scoutmaster Record most patiently taught us bunches of neat stuff every boy needed to learn, from first aid to fire safety.

Mr. Record took us for weekend camping trips, organized and led all sorts of community service projects, and provided a role model few could surpass. Most seriously, I think Dick deserves a statue near the old Cambridge school by the library where he led scout meetings most every Thursday night. Much like his brother Don, Dick had much to do with helping make Cambridge a great place to live by working with and inspiring hundreds of boys who needed guidance to grow and people worth emulating. Mr. Record epitomized every quality expected of a great scoutmaster. Unfortunately, even the best can’t perform miracles. Some scouts rise to eagle status. We were a flock of turkey vultures. Continue reading “A Matter of Record”

We called him “Fearless Phil,” the origins of the nickname unknown but I thought used mostly because in tiny Cambridge we believed the most danger any policeman would face would be a drunken farmhand riding an old dried-up milk cow down Main Street, an event I think that actually did happen, but I got this third hand, so don’t hold me to it. Much of my knowledge of Chief Sica, however, is of the first-hand variety and why I hold him such high regard today.

One of the most important things to known about Mr. Sica is he was, and I’m sure still is, highly intelligent. With kids like us, he was always three steps ahead of the game, and probably with most adults too. I can provide several first-hand examples. From these experiences and others I long ago concluded Mr. Sica did much to help raise a bunch of young and rowdy Cambridge knuckleheads.

My first direct contact with Chief Sica came when I was in the eighth grade after I decided to balance precariously on a narrow concrete bridge railing on Main Street over what we called “The Sewer Brook,” but I believe is more accurately referred to as Rice’s Brook. While doing my best daredevil imitation, Chief Sica pulled over in his patrol car and called out, “ Don’t jump, sir, I’ll marry your daughter.” Continue reading “Fearless Phil”