Local voices chime in on a variety of topics.
There are so many beautiful things about this city I learned about while I made this video that I had no intention of learning. I just wanted old pics and cool tunes. What I ended up getting was humbled by the beautiful history that surrounds me every single day.
I read somewhere that good writers borrow but great writers steal, so, purely in the interest of advancing my career, I feel totally comfortable – not to mention upwardly-mobile – in saying that now is the winter of our discontent.
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?
Apparently, the decision to erect a Town Pound was a major civic undertaking. It made the current Presidential Primary campaign look like table talk at a poker game. We’re just hoping the Presidential election is resolved more swiftly than the Town Pound debate – it lasted 90 years – or our grandchildren won’t be alive to see Chelsea Clinton’s granddaughter take the oath of office.
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.
The cauldron started to bubble in 1919 when, in a front-page story, The Manchester Union reported that, “Good authority says that some members of the school committee are already planning to institute measures designed to clear the schools of married teachers taken on during the war period.”
After a while – and perhaps this was due to the absence of the National Football – canal suicides developed into a macabre spectator sport.
Middy Proulx died in 1983, and one of Manchester’s more fascinating sports stories was buried with him, until now!
I say the origins of life in Manchester begin with one of its most hideously spectacular natural wonders.