Posts by John Clayton
Yes, we in Manchester have been blessed over the years with a high-class class of visitor, but let the record show that George Washington never slept here. Booker T. Washington? Yes. George Washington? No.
You can say chicken soup is the universal remedy for the winter sniffles. But for centuries, the cagey Quebecois have had their own populist remedy for the common cold, and not suprisingly, that remedy found its culinary zenith right here in Manchester.
Everyone loves a parade, and this year will be epic. But who can forget Manchester’s storied parade past, including Jumbo the Elephant’s contribution to Elm Street, or Tippecanoe and Tyler Too?
See, George Copadis has been trying to bribe me into doing a column about Glendi, the big Greek festival that begins on Friday, but you’ll be happy to know I didn’t surrender my journalistic integrity for a couple pieces of baklava. No sir. I held out for some finikia, too.
Can you get at least 10 right on this pop culture quiz? Then congratulations; you’re what we call ‘city literate.’
After an anxious week of false alarms – a week in which hopes had been raised and dashed almost hourly – a radio flash at 7:03 p.m. caught the ear of an unknown soldier. He jumped from his table at the Puritan Restaurant and stepped onto Elm Street. His cry, according to newspaper accounts filed by Cpl. Norman Leighton, was simple: ”The war is over!”
Everywhere I turn, there are hundreds, nay, thousands of architectural-type columns scattered throughout the city. They’re a staple on stately homes. For starters, check out North Elm Street. Then slide up to Hanover Hill. Swing on over to Coolidge Avenue – which we West Siders used to refer to as the French Riviera – then start your own random search. As for me, I keep veering into on-coming traffic as I scope them out through my side window.
Call me a romantic, but the antiseptic aroma of chlorine just can’t compete with the, um, musky scent of the Piscataquog River I knew as a child, and the measly tweet of a lifeguard’s whistle is no match for the blood-curdling scream of a young man who is hurtling toward the water at warp speed, eyes closed in anticipation of the inevitable – striking the fictional wreckage of a B&M freight train that folklore placed somewhere beneath the pilings of The Trestle at Kelley Falls.
At the risk of mixing a metaphor, American shoes are as rare as steak tartare. They’re harder to find than the sunken city of Atlantis, a situation that was unfathomable (sorry) in Manchester as recently as 20 years ago.
After a while – and perhaps this was due to the absence of the National Football – canal suicides developed into a macabre spectator sport.