RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

Time of the End of the Season Part VIII

Time of the End of the Season Part VIII

By Bob Hodge

Bob Hodge grew up in Lowell and went on to graduate from Lowell High (1973) and University of Lowell (1990). He was (and still is) one the greatest runners to come out of this region. He’s also a writer whose 2020 memoir, Tale of the Times: A Runner’s Story, is available at lala books in downtown Lowell and in Kindle format from Amazon. The following is an excerpt from his novel-in-progress.

Already published:

Time episode 1

Time episode 2

Time episode 3

Time episode 4

Time episode 5

Time episode 6

Time episode 7

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Still old I go on and remember.

Old man take a look at my life dream on dream on Sadie and MJ on the beach at Chesapeake one old man dream worth having and I do and I don’t give in to my old man, carry on, carry on.

Long ago long gone lust is a many splendored thing but love hey ho there we go.

As I write and remember I know I am in this for the long haul as long as I’ve got.

I remember my young man wistfully his whimsy.

I re visit him often as past and future collide.

Five years after many trials and tribulations I did learn about love when it grabbed me by the nose and kicked me in the ass.

It is a monumental occasion when you give your entire life to someone full of trepidation at first then lasting peace.

We arrived at Sandridge Beach VA on the Outer Banks around 9 P.M. We found a hotel and the girls went to check in. It was a small room with a double bed for the girls I would curl up on the floor in my bag.

We pulled up some lawn chairs by the motel pool and sat for hours talking fueled by a cooler of beer and some wine and snacks. I swam some laps in the little motel pool and did some leg kicks to revive my legs after so many hours stuffed in the back of the Bug.

I left the girls talking and headed in to have a shower and then I got into my sleeping bag with a copy of Kerouac’s “Desolation Angels.”

The girls came in laughing and MJ said “there is plenty of room in this bed for you too Willy.” I just ignored her. Sadie said “Mary Jo, we don’t want Willy getting a woody.”

Hardee har har, silly girls.

I drifted off dreaming of the sea and the beaches just down the road from the hotel where I would run tomorrow and swim in the surf and relax and read and watch the girls go by my oh my.

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and the girls had gone out to get some pastries and juice. “Willy, I hope you didn’t mind us teasing you last night.”

We were blessed with a perfect beach day and strode the half mile to the beach with our provisions. I ran on the beach with a thin running flat on my feet in only a pair of shorts wearing some cheap sunglasses.

I went out just over an hour and then turned around. I stopped to take my shoes off and carried them while I ran by the water’s edge and in a few inches of water my footfalls splashing and I wanted to run all day.

Other than a quick trip to get more sandwiches and beer we stayed on the beach all day. I fell asleep for an hour in the afternoon. I decided to do another short run before leaving and Sadie ran with me for a half hour. “You know Willy Mr. International miler to be, I threw the Javelin and ran cross country in high school.” “But not at the same time, right?”

The girls had been invited to go to a bar with some guys they met at the beach. They wanted me to come but I was not in the mood, I was a good tired and just wanted to hit the feathers early. After they left I worried about them like a parent or sibling would.

I had a good talk with my Dad that night, he had been collecting my mail and sorting out anything looking like they needed attention, especially anything from the AAU or race promoters. It was weird to picture myself back home in Galway in a few days after nearly eight months away.

Passage to India
by Walt Whitman
1
SINGING my days,
Singing the great achievements of the present,
Singing the strong, light works of engineers,
Our modern wonders, (the antique ponderous Seven outvied,)
In the Old World, the east, the Suez canal,
The New by its mighty railroad spann’d,
The seas inlaid with eloquent, gentle wires,
I sound, to commence, the cry, with thee, O soul,
The Past! the Past! the Past!

The Past! the dark, unfathom’d retrospect!
The teeming gulf! the sleepers and the shadows!
The past! the infinite greatness of the past!
For what is the present, after all, but a growth out of the past?
(As a projectile, form’d, impell’d, passing a certain line, still keeps on,
So the present, utterly form’d, impell’d by the past.

I was up early the next morning and out running and had a swim in the pool when I got back. I was beginning to reflect on my time since leaving college and travelling this road. I had begun to keep a journal and had read some of my writing and observations to Sadie and MJ and we got into a discussion about America, the good, the bad and the ugly.

Hypocrisy is rampant, the country was founded in hypocrisy slavery, manifest destiny, trail of tears, civil war, the Alamo, imperialism all underlying the unkept promises and ideas all men are created equal.

It seemed to me at least possible at least here in America you could live more on the edges. You could hike the Appalachian trail and live in a cabin in the woods very simply and not get any more involved than necessary in the daily madness and silliness that is the daily lives of most citizens.

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Yes, we do but it doesn’t follow that we can’t be fulfilled in some ways. Freedom is breaking free of possessions, all the crap shoved down your throat on TV break free of TV step outside and sit and be quiet there is your freedom.

Sadie and MJ were cheering me on as I blathered on from my journal, Willy, the rebel without a clue.

I’m not sure why we were landing in Atlantic City; it was just somewhere that Sadie and MJ wanted to see. At the time we arrived there it had been in serious decline from its heyday as a top resort in the country. Recently gambling had arrived and casinos were going up rapidly. It was like the former gold rush in California to me, reaping where you have not sown.

I only planned to spend a few days with Pete and his wife in NYC before heading home. I had been in contact with some friends who ran for this new club, the Beantown Bombers and their fiery coach.

“Come join us at the Boston State track on Tuesday and Thursday nights.” And I did and so then I was on the chosen path.

We arrived in Atlantic City after dark and found a run-down hotel in a seedy neighborhood but the price was right. I went for a short run just twenty minutes feeling ill at ease.

The next day was wonderful though at Branigan Beach for the entire day and in the early evening we travelled to Brooklyn where Pete and his wife were putting all three of us up for the night.

When we got to their place Pete and I went for a run to Prospect Park while the girls got acquainted. Pete was excited for me and envious, his career as a runner having wound down he was a wealth of knowledge and just a great friend to have.

It was like I had known him my entire life and we hardly even spent much time together before this year.

I told Pete I was going to move to Boston and I had a few leads for a job in a shoe factory. We talked about Coach Gerry and the Beantown Bombers “Willy, wait ‘till you meet the WAC he is a great guy, very knowledgeable has a little trouble sometimes getting his point across but lovely guy, would give you the shirt off his back.”

“Why do they call him the WAC?” “Long story Willy, right now I have got to eat and hit the feathers. I hope you can stay another night I have some more news and information to share.”

“Sure thing, Sadie and MJ will be off to Vermont.”

I stayed up late talking with the girls, Pete’s wife Maria was lovely and I was just very happy for them. I could not ever see myself getting married, of course I was only twenty and knew nothing of that longing nagging pounding in the heart.

Sadie and MJ got the couch and I rolled up in my sleeping bag on the floor. I awoke in the morning long after Pete had left for work at the law office. Maria had the day off and was making a big breakfast. I went for a short run and then came back to eat.

It was tough to say goodbye to Sadie and Mary Jo and I hoped that I would see them again. We went for a walk in Prospect Park and Sadie and I sat for a while on a park bench making out all kissy face fortunately or unfortunately nothing further and later MJ and I did the same thing!

“You better come see me in Vermont Willy.” “I will, I love the mountains and of course you’re gonna make me lonesome when you go.”

I spent much of the next day on the phone with my pals in Boston. Donnie and Neil had an apartment in Cleveland Circle area a two bedroom. But, they were willing to put me up on the couch or a fold up cot if I could help with the rent.

Donnie was working at the local shoe company his job opening letters from people requesting shoes who had sent a tracing of their foot and Donnie would pick out the correct width and package them up for shipment.

Neil was in Graduate School at Boston University and received a stipend from this shoe company being an accomplished runner who had done well in the big one the Boston Marathon. Donnie also received a stipend in addition to his regular pay.

Of course, these payments to amateurs were not really legal but were under the radar of the AAU. The athletes were ostensibly employees of the company and paid for work not directly related to their running prowess.

Alby, the Bombers best athlete a Boston Marathon Champion and Olympian was in the process of opening a running store in Cleveland Circle so I might be able to get a job there as well.

Donnie said, “Willy, you can work in the factory whenever you want to start they are always in need of people, but the work is dirty gluing the shoes together all day breathing the fumes.”

When Pete got home we went for a run and discussed the Boston scene. “Willy, there is a lot of excitement being generated there with Coach Gerry and Alby and some great post collegiate athletes joining the Bombers.” “Pete, how come you never joined the Bombers?”

“I would have loved to but I felt some loyalty to the BAA even though they have gotten old and stodgy at this point.”

“I also spoke with Coach Gerry and he said that they might want me to rabbit that mile race in London. He said if I did a good job they would pay me.” “Yes, Willy you should make at least a few hundred dollars.”

“He is trying to get another race for me in Finland a 5 k.” I’m worried about losing my job at the shoe factory if I miss too much time but Coach Gerry said “listen numb nuts you don’t get these opportunities every day. Would you rather sniff glue or run your balls off in Europe?”

“He is right Willy, I never regretted choosing a running opportunity over work when I was younger but I did regret choosing work over running on some occasions.”

I had a relaxing evening with Pete and Maria and hit the hay early. The next morning, I was on the bus back to Boston, Massachusetts.

Part Two

In part one of our story, Willy leaves college behind and with his limited savings buys a bus ticket, a yearly pass to take him around the country visiting with some of the top athletes and coaches in USA Track & Field circles.

Also, in Part One, Willy gets his oats.

Willy, just nineteen years old, experiences many highs and lows and records his adventures in his journal.

The decision to come back to Massachusetts at this time was made after he was asked to leave his former employer and club Spiridon based in Atlanta.

Willy has a spirit — he is head strong, that is admirable but must be tempered. It is both his great gift and biggest downfall.

Willy has one great performance while based in Atlanta he runs a 3:55 mile and on other occasions shows his all-around potential for greatness.

In Boston Willy will be joining up with a unique coach and impressive teammates in a less formal and just all around more fun group in a dynamic college town where running and road racing in particular are becoming de rigueur.

When I got off the bus in Boston in the early afternoon I heard someone yelling “Hey Elmer, over here.” It was Neil, my new roomie and teammate who came to pick me up. I hadn’t thought much about what I was wearing, a trucker cap, a flannel shirt and some baggy faded jeans. “Willy, you look like you are heading out to hunt rabbits’ tee hee he.” Neil had a very distinctive cackle.

I hadn’t thought about my appearance much being on the road and I never had anyone poke fun at me out there, but I was going to have to get accustomed to jive talking and razzing because my new teammates were relentless.

We headed to the apartment at Cleveland Circle and Neil showed me around, not much to see. Two bedrooms for Donnie and Neil, a bathroom, a hallway , a tiny kitchen and a living room with a couch. We headed to the Aegean Fare to eat and Donnie met us there.

Neil had finished second in the ten k at the AAU Nationals in Knoxville, the race where I crashed and burned, and he would be running in the upcoming dual Track & Field Meet against the USSR in Moscow.

“Willy you have got some brass balls going all kamikaze in Knoxville, Neil said.” “That’s how I run Neil, I only have one way.” “What?!” “That’s how you run, you only got one way.” He said in a mocking tone. Donnie, what are we going to do with this guy?”

Donnie said, “Neil it won’t be long before Willy here is kicking your ass, he got a 3:55 you will never get anywhere near that.” Neil said, “I ran 3:59 on a relay leg in college.” “A friggin relay leg Geezus that’s lame, you know that don’t count Mr. 4:05.”

Well, things went on this way a very lively and animated and comical dialog ensued and I might have joined in but being the new guy, I just sat back and took it all in.

“Willy, we will be heading to the track at four and I need to study, so later.” Neil shut himself up in his room and Donnie and I talked a bit and then I spotted a guitar in the corner.

“Who is the guitar player.” “That would be me Donnie said, you play?” I played a few things, my fingers out of shape not having played for a long while. “Donnie, I will be heading out to Galway tomorrow to visit my family and I will bring my guitar when I come back.”

At four we suited up and ran a few miles over to the Boston State Track. “Wait until you meet the WAC” Neil said. “Why do they call him the WAC?” “It’s just an expression the Coach has his WAC speak.”

About a dozen runners were at the track and Coach Gerry looking dapper in his suit and tie. Neil introduced me to Coach, “Well, if it ain’t the wonder kid. Welcome to the group, we can chat after we get the work done here.

”We did various interval Coach timing us but often neglecting to shout out the split as we passed being busy talking with someone. One of the group, Harold carried a watch and would call splits for us as well as he ran.One thing that was very noticeable was the loose feeling of the group, these guys had fun and worked together not to say there weren’t egos involved.

After the workout I sat in the stands with coach, and we talked about my running and my upcoming race in London. I offered to show him my logs, but he said he got the idea. “Listen Willy you just keep showing up here and we all together will help you and you will help us. I don’t baby sit anyone here, if you don’t follow my instructions fine then go your own way.

You are always welcome to run with this group and benefit.”We talked about my former coaches, “They are good men Willy, good coaches, but I have a feeling this group of more mature runners and this atmosphere will be better for you than being isolated out in Podunk.”

I mentioned my interest in running the Boston Marathon. “What!? The WAC laughed, you think you a tough guy? Willy, track racing is like breaking a finger, the marathon is like breaking both legs. Now let’s go to the clubhouse and have a drink.”

Miracle Sun

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pI4Ah0RGfhc&pp=0gcJCYsCo7VqN5tD&ra=m

A Late 1890s Vacation from a Tense Ministry

A Late 1890s Vacation from a Tense Ministry

By Bradford MacGowan and Bernie Zelitch

Rev. George F. Kenngott and wife, Lucretia Lewis Kenngott, share a loving moment in the late 1890s at their retreat from Lowell in Isle au Haut, Maine. All photos by John Turner, courtesy of Deer Isle-Stonington Historical Society, unless otherwise noted.

In 1895, three years after Rev. George F. Kenngott (1864-1934) arrived at First Congregational Church Lowell, his progressive views became the center of what was surely the city’s most public religious controversy.

Photographs of Kenngott and his wife, Lucretia Lewis Kenngott (1869-1964) show them relaxing during this trying time. They suggest the way they forgot their troubles was very similar to how people do it today: a vacation getaway, in their case, to a small island in the Penobscot Bay, Isle Au Haut. That’s where Lucretia grew up and where much of her family remained, including her uncle John Turner who took these photos.

The photos on this page came from a box of glass plate negatives owned by the Deer Isle Stonington Historical Society. There are no known photos of the Kenngotts while they lived in Lowell.

A December 22, 1895 line drawing of Kenngott (left, Boston Sunday Post) helps us date the portrait of him below in Maine to maybe 1896-97, or the time of his troubles with the old church and founding a new church. Kristin Lewis of the Isle au Haut Historical Society said when he visited, he was called “Kenny” and he filled the local church when he preached. Perhaps in the photo below he is writing a sermon.

In 1892, Kenngott first became pastor at First Congregational, later known as the Smith Baker Center and today the Lowell Center for the Arts. A graduate of Amherst College and Andover Theological Seminary, he appeared destined for a distinguished ministry. During his installation service, Rev. Dr. Nehemiah Boynton of Union Congregational Church, Boston, urged him to carry the church’s mission beyond its sanctuary into “the tenements of the poor as well as the mansions of the rich,” a challenge that foreshadowed Kenngott’s lifelong concern for the city’s working people. His early ministry was widely praised, and both he and his wife, who was noted for her musical abilities, quickly became popular figures within the congregation.

The Kenngotts bicycling on Isle au Haut.

By late 1895, however, newspapers seized on rumors that Mrs. Kenngott’s supposedly fashionable attire had scandalized conservative members, even claiming she had appeared in “a low-necked dress.” Contemporary accounts, however, repeatedly dismissed the story—one paper remarked that it was “nothing of the sort”, and treated it as little more than gossip.

Behind the headlines lay a far more significant dispute: a struggle over leadership, authority, and the future direction of the church. Kenngott’s energetic, reform-minded style of ministry clashed with a small but influential group of church leaders, while contemporary newspapers reported that nearly three-fourths of the congregation, especially its younger members, remained firmly behind him. After months of increasingly bitter meetings and unsuccessful attempts to persuade him to resign, Kenngott stepped down to prevent further division. The schism culminated in the organization of the First Trinitarian Congregational Church in 1896, where many of his supporters followed him, making it one of the most significant splits in Lowell’s church history.

Lucretia Kenngott relaxing on a hammock.

A photo of Lucretia probably taken in California after 1912 shows her flamboyant side. Courtesy Isle au Haut Historical Society.

The controversy proved to be a turning point rather than an ending. Kenngott increasingly devoted himself to studying Lowell’s housing, public health, education, municipal government, labor conditions, and immigrant neighborhoods, work that culminated in Record of a City. Shortly after its publication in 1912, he left Lowell for Los Angeles to become superintendent of the Congregational Church Extension Society. When he died in 1934, the Lowell Sun remembered him not for the church controversy but for his scholarship and progressive vision. Today, his work remains one of the most valuable contemporary accounts of Lowell during the Progressive Era and the challenges faced by its immigrant communities.

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Bradford MacGowan is secretary of Lowell Center for the Arts and Bernie Zelitch is founder and director of by Annie Powell

From Turntable to Touchscreen

From Turntable to Touchscreen

By Leo Racicot

When I was growing up, the radio was one of the few sources of recreation to be had. Not only did it provide entertainment, it offered us music education; we learned who was popular, who the singers of the day were, what the hits were and helped us develop our musical taste. My parents, aunts and uncles were older than those of my peers so my young ears were exposed early on to the Big Band sounds of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman, the singers of The Great American Songbook like Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Peggy Lee. Whether at home or in the car, listening to the radio was the way to pass the time in between meals or on a rainy Saturday.

But wasn’t it exciting then when our mother got Diane and me a record player one Christmas; we finally had the chance to listen to our favorite singers on LP (long playing discs, now called vinyl) or 45 rpm, smaller discs usually containing a hit song on one side, a lesser-known song on the flip (or B) side. To play a 7-inch 45 rpm record with a large center hole on a standard-sized turntable, a small plastic piece called a “45 adapter” or “spider” was snapped directly into the middle of the record to bridge the size difference. With LPs, if I liked a favorite track, I never minded getting up off the bed or floor to lift the needle to that groove, bypassing the less favorite songs. I’d play a record so many times, I’d wear out the grooves and hopefully be able to save up enough of my allowance to buy a replacement. Being uncharacteristically shy and reclusive as a boy, I liked to hide away in my bedroom, door closed, and listen to my records. I’d listen for hours. They were at times the only company I had. If a song, a singer or a band caught my ear, I’d run out and buy their album. Some preferred music was The Beatles, Elton John, Chuck Mangione, All Things Julie Andrews. I really liked the musical remake of Frank Capra’s Lost Horizon, didn’t understand why critics had labelled this Burt Bacharach/Hal David movie a flop; I listened endlessly, singing along. I also sang along at the top of my lungs to the soundtrack albums of my two favorite Broadway musicals, Camelot and My Fair Lady. My poor mother who wasn’t a fan of Broadway musicals would beg me to “Shut that music off!”  I was never what anyone would call musically savvy and a particularly embarrassing moment stands out. We students were in the school lunchroom. The subject of music came up among the boys. John Stewart was asking us to name the latest 45 we’d bought. When it came my turn, my answer was Mellow Yellow by the very mellow folk singer, Donovan. The guys dismissed my answer with a collective scoff and moved on to the next kid. I guess Donovan was never what could be called ‘cutting edge’.

I remember one time riding the train to Boston, I became suddenly, nauseatingly ill. I decided to follow through on my Jordan Marsh record buying trip. In the bins, I spied an all-blue cover of a record by a singer named Joni Mitchell whose face was barely visible on the cover’s artwork. I have no idea what drew me to that album, only that the color of the album mirrored the color of my sick stomach, blue. I took it home, instantly captured by its raw honesty, the poetry of its lyrics, It offered a hiding place for pain. Today, in music history, it’s recognized as a masterpiece of confessional music and turned me into a Joni Mitchell fan for a lifetime.

Recently, yy friend, Dick Howe, made a cogent observation when he called record players a part of every home’s furniture. Indeed, no home I knew in those days was without one, either in the bedroom or living room. I remember going with David McKean into his attic on Edson Street, listening together to Electric Light Orchestra, to Iron Butterfly’s In-a-Gada-Da-Vida with its hypnotic notes, Ron Bushy’s mesmerizing drum solo. And how can I forget the time spent with Anthony Kalil in his basement listening to albums by Moms Mabley, Redd Foxx, Cheech and Chong? We’d discovered comedy albums together downtown at Record Lane; we hadn’t known such a thing existed. Mabley and Foxx were known for what was called blue humor, Cheech and Chong for stoned, bong-fueled laughs. Anthony and I felt very naughty listening/laughing there in the dark, keeping a close eye and ear out for his mom, Doris, to come down with the laundry. This certainly wasn’t Pat Boone music.

Around 1965 or so, the 8-track tape was invented. *8-tracks were large, clunky board-like devices. When placed into the player, they made a noisy, kind of starting kachunk sound, much like a garbage truck. To this day, I don’t know why they were so popular. In fact, they didn’t maintain their popularity long — too big, too ungainly; they didn’t store well and too often they broke after only a couple of plays. Today, they remain the brunt of jokes for being a prime example of old-time faulty technology (I might add here that their movie-watching counterpart, Betamax format, was equally annoying as you felt the whole room would shake when the player sucked them into itself. These, too, went out-of-fashion in short order).

In 1979, a new listening device, the walkman, appeared in the culture. Everybody had to have one. Walkmen were lightweight with lightweight headphones so — easy to manage. They were a private, personal portable way to take music with you wherever you went. Cassette tapes became the rage, replacing record players and 8-tracks. The only glitch became that the fragile, almost thread-like tape could easily break or snap, especially on the rewind. These led eventually to the boombox rage. The boombox caught on because in one machine, it usually contained an AM/FM radio, two cassette tape loaders and powerful sound speakers, enabling the user to carry an entire entertainment center around with him/her. They quickly became status symbols, prestigious in urban areas. I recall photos and footage of the late Jeff Buckley walking New York City with his. No one minded the weight of them because they offered so much in the way of musical amusement and were regarded in the 1980s as the height of cool.

Next up on the market were CDs. A CD was a flat music disc. It could be played either in a small, portable disc-shaped player or a larger compact disc machine. CDs had a pure sound, more pristine than record albums and cassette tapes. They took some getting used to. Even though they eliminated the scratchy sound of record albums, child of The Sixties that I am. I missed the old-timey nostalgia and tones of LPs.

In the rapidly-advancing technological developments of the 21st century, it isn’t easy to keep pace with the many changes in how we listen to music. These days, satellite streaming services such as Spotify, Apple Music, Amazon Music make it possible for music lovers to access literally millions of songs from an invisible or possibly not so invisible ‘cloud’ over the Internet. The subscriber listens. When she/he is done with the tune, it ‘disappears’, creating more storage space for future music. It’s an impressive, even mind-blowing development, sometimes too mind-blowing for me.

As the song lyric goes, “Everything old is new again”. I’ve dug out my old record player and LPs. As I write this, I’m rediscovering the joys of Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd. There’s a quartet, The Johanna Quartet, wherein four voices, singing four different songs, culminates in the fusion of all four melodies into an epiphany that takes the listener straight into heaven. When we were young, Joe and I loved this musical. He could actually sing the three-hours long score from start-to-finish, a cappella. Extraordinary.

I’m finding how much I missed the soft, fuzzy whoosh of the playing needle on an album; the static-y scratch brings a nostalgic twinge, summoning the listening habits of my youth.

_____________________

A radio from the 1960s

Record player

45 rpm record

Sony Walkman

Jeff Buckley with boom box

“The Cloud”

Sweeney Todd poster

Seen & Heard: vol. 35

A weekly report on things I’ve read, heard and seen since last Wednesday. 

Museum visit: Cape Ann Museum: A recent road trip to Gloucester brought me to the Cape Ann Museum which features a big show called “Avery, Gottlieb & Rothko: By the Sea.” It featured works by Milton Avery, Adolph Gottlieb and Mark Rothko who summered in Gloucester in the 1920s and 1930s. Rothko is the only one of the three I was familiar with although the other two have national reputations. It was interesting to see their early work and contrast it with some of their later stuff which was all part of the exhibit. That was especially true for Rothko, whose most famous paintings feature horizontal rectangles of color stacked atop each other. This showed the transition of his work from realist to abstract. For instance, an early painting might be sand, surf, ocean and sky. The next phase was something similar with the lines between sections all fuzzy-ed up but still a seashore, just one viewed through an out of focus lens. Then his late phase was just strips of color but after seeing the earlier two, the resemblance was quite clear. This exhibit is in Gloucester until September 27. 

Obituary: “Don Nelson, Celtics great who won five titles before revolutionizing coaching, dies at 86” by John Powers in Boston Globe, August 9, 2026. My basketball awakening occurred while watching the Boston Celtics in the early 1970s. I had been to a few Celtics games earlier than that and saw Bill Russell and Sam Jones, but I don’t remember much about that era. In 1970, we moved to a new house and erected a basketball hoop in the driveway. I was 12 years old and big enough to have my shots reach the rim consistently (although not necessarily go through the rim), so it was natural to seek out on TV the game we played everyday in the driveway. My era’s Celtics were led by John Havlicek, Dave Cowens and Jo Jo White with Paul Silas and Don Nelson as important supporting players. Nelson had sat on the LA Laker’s bench for a couple of seasons and was about to be cut when Red Auerbach bought his rights for $1000 and he became a Celtic. He won three championships in the final years of the Bill Russell phase, then was a key player in the transition to the next phase of Celtics championships (in 1974 vs the Milwaukee Bucks and in 1976 vs the Phoenix Suns). When Nelson retired, he became an assistant coach in Milwaukee and soon a head coach, a position he held with various teams for 31 years and which earned him a spot in the Basketball Hall of Fame. He retired to Hawaii where he reportedly played a lot of poker and smoked a lot of marijuana until he passed away this month at age 86. 

Article: “Two U.K. Scholars Started a Podcast. ‘The Rest is History.” by Esther Bintliff in New York Times on August 23, 2026. Each morning when I exercise, I listen to a podcast. I avoid shows that are overtly political and lean towards technology and the media (although politics intrudes on both of those topics these days). I tried several history podcasts but didn’t enjoy them. Until I found The Rest is History, which I listen to regularly and with great enjoyment. I’m not alone: this show is the most popular history podcast in the US with 30 million listeners. It features to English historians, Tom Holland and Dominic Sandbrook. Show topics range from the ancient Aztecs to “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland. There are two hour-long episodes each week and a topic typically covers several episodes. (The story of the Titanic stretched to eight episodes). On a typical episode, one host will take the lead and drive the narrative while the other plays off of him with comments and questions. While a tremendous amount of information is conveyed to listeners, so is ample laughter since life, even when tragic, can also be comic. Coincidentally, Holland was urged to try the podcast format by his brother James, another historian and podcast host. His World War II series, “We have ways of making you talk” which is co-hosted by comedian Al Murray, is equally entertaining although the topics are more limited. I don’t do Spotify but I assume the podcast is there, but I get it on YouTube Music and on Amazon Prime. 

Book Review: Fire and Light: How the Enlightenment Transformed Our World by James MacGregor Burns (2013). If you read this column regularly, you know I’ve doing a (moderately) deep dive into the Enlightenment because, as I wrote previously, the regime in Washington seems determined to drag us back to the Middle Ages and I want to recall what helped the world emerge from that period. At the time this book was written, Burns was a history professor at Williams College (in Williamstown, Mass) and had won the Pulitzer Prize for his biography of FDR. Much of the book sketches the major propositions advanced by the major enlightenment figures (Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Hume and many others). But the part of the book I found most interesting and insightful (to me) was the premium our country’s founders, especially John Adams, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, placed on public education. A populace that was uneducated and unread would too easily fall under the sway of a con man since the world is a complicated place and if you don’t have the mental tools to work through those complexities you will default to simple solutions that are untrue but which sound good and feel comforting.