Bribery will get you everywhere with Clayton, er, a spontaneous plug for GLENDI

read more…: Bribery will get you everywhere with Clayton, er, a spontaneous plug for GLENDI

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.

V-J Day in MHT: Counterfeit breadcrumb confetti, jalopy parade and unplanned pageantry

read more…: V-J Day in MHT: Counterfeit breadcrumb confetti, jalopy parade and unplanned pageantry

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!”

A column on columns: Manchester’s got more columns than, well, than me

read more…: A column on columns: Manchester’s got more columns than, well, than me

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.

Got leeches? Of thrills, spills and death-defying dives into the swimming holes of my youth

read more…: Got leeches? Of thrills, spills and death-defying dives into the swimming holes of my youth

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.

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