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Time of the End of the Season Part Four

Time of the End of the Season Part Four

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

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I toured around the city a bit on foot and then left my ruck sack at a local bus station where I changed into my running gear and went for a long easy run scouting out places where I might be able to camp out for the night.

I found what looked like a nice spot adjacent to a golf course at a public park called Bayou South. New Orleans felt like a foreign country sophisticated but funky at the same time. It was a lot to take in and I just needed some shut eye. When I arrived at the park with a few supplies just as it was getting dark, I spotted a police car that seemed to be watching me.

You know it is difficult to hobo though you are doing nothing wrong just want to lie down for the night under the stars and rest your weary head and be left alone.

Perhaps it was just my paranoia and they left and stopped following me.

I’d had a good sleep that night and woke up early to the sound of the sprinklers on the luxurious grass of the golf course. I put on my running shorts and hid my bag in the woods and then ran barefoot around the edges of the course avoiding the few golfers who were out this early.

When after an hour or so I finished my run, I stood in a sprinkler to cool off and clean off. “Hey, what are you doing?” “Oh, sorry, just rinsing off.” “Where are you from?” “Massachusetts.” “Is that how you do it for their son?”

The groundskeeper told me I could shower at the clubhouse if I wanted and I was surprised by this friendliness and hospitality. “Thank you very much sir, I will do that.”

He watched me as I walked off into the nearby woods to grab my ruck sack. When I got to the clubhouse he pointed the way and handed me a towel. “You been hoboing son?” “Yes Sir, I just wanted to see New Orleans.”

“Of course, but I wouldn’t overstay your welcome.”

I headed to the bus station to catch my ride to Atlanta but missed it by minutes. The next one wouldn’t leave for six hours so I read for a while and then walked around the city.

In the business district close to the French Quarter I spotted a store that seemed to be dedicated to selling mainly running shoes and gear called the Runnery. I checked out some flyer’s in the window one advertising the Ignatius J Reilly five mile road race.

I went inside and met the proprietor Jean Louis a very friendly guy who after a few minutes conversation seemed to know who I was—I then realized why when I spotted the issue of Track & Field News with my photo on the cover.

We talked about the existence of these specialty running shops and Jean pointed out that the big chain stores still refused to carry most of the major brands of running shoes because they did not see any profit in it. As for the Runnery they had been open for two years and seemed to be making a pretty good go of it.

“Willy, why don’t you stay over a few days and you can run the five miler on Saturday and meet some very interesting people who are raising funds to get a statue of Ignatius made and dedicated.” “Are there any prizes? I know that ours is not a professional sport but I still consider myself a pro as it means nothing to me to come here and beat the local hero with no other incentive.”

“Of course Willy, I see your point. If you win wearing my Runnery singlet I will give you $100. Also first prize is $100 gift certificate to Bank’s Meat Market which I will buy from you if you win.”

“You can stay with me here, I have an apartment in the back of the store.”

“Sounds like a plan, Jean.”

“Yes, it will be quite a surprise for the local hero as you say -we have one and he is overdue to be taken down a peg.”

When the store closed at 6 there was a loosely organized group run with around twenty people of varying abilities. We ran together at an easy pace, Jean introducing me to the crowd as a wandering athlete seeking wisdom from his elders.

We ran over parts of the race course that would be used on Saturday so I got a little preview. “Willy, there will be a festival going on in the Quarter and the race will run right through the middle of it. It is a three loop course and the spectators will be jacked up in party mood man.”

After our run we returned to the apartment where I met Michelle, Jean’s girlfriend. “We have an outdoor shower Willy, it’s a garden hose there and you can have a swim in our little pool there.” Michelle and I will grill some barbecue and make a salad. If you want avocado just pick from that tree over there or a ripe one on the ground.”

As I lounged about Jean joined me with two ice cold Dixie beers. “Here’s to you my new friend, I’m so happy you stopped by.” I told Jean of my plans when I reached Atlanta and my new coach Sal Parker. “He’s a good one Willy? He can reign you in? Ha!” “You got me pegged Jean, I’m as stubborn as they come.”

“Willy, your main competition on Saturday will be Fuzzy a very interesting local character—a shrimp fisherman.” “He was a high school phenom setting records at 800M –2 Miles and finishing second at the state cross country championship his senior year running with a broken toe.”

“Very smart as well even though he tried to hide it and apparently scored perfect on his SAT but had no interest in college even though he was recruited by many, many.” “Jean, what is his actual name?” “Alphonse Boudreaux, means “ready for battle man”” “You will see why they call him Fuzzy when you meet him.”

“Sounds like a tough bastard.” “He is like you Willy all heart. When I read about the national cross country race in T&FNews and the quotes from the Broken Arrow coach, it made me smile. Especially your being unavailable for comment.”

After our enjoyable evening I settled down on the couch read for a bit and slept soundly. In the morning Michelle invited me to go on a swamp tour party boat ride with her and her girlfriends. “Hell yes.”

The race on Saturday would be at noon and so it would be very hot and humid. I was beginning to think maybe I got suckered because Alphonse “though he be but little, he is fierce.” I spotted him immediately wearing number one, prancing around, light dark skin, an enormous afro and porno mustache.

I smiled as I ran past him in my Runnery singlet and gave him a quick wave as I did. He stopped and stared.

We lined up and the starter pistol sent us off 300 strong but only the top 100 would make the results. The entry fee was $2.00 and at the finish you got a foot long hot dog from Bank’s Meat Market and a Coca Cola. The top 100 would get a Popsicle stick with their finish place on it and hand that in at a table with your name sticker for the results.

The first quarter mile was straight on and then a hard left for three 1.5 mile loops before finishing the last quarter as we started. Fuzzy went out at suicidal pace just as I thought he would. I tried to pull even with him but he fought me off.

The mile was 4:16 and I was running nearly all out. I was in good shape generally but not prepared for this pace. I figured he had to slow down so I hung with him. I was not going to let him go or gain more than an inch, if I did he might not be coming back to me.

Sure enough he slowed a lot and I pulled alongside as he looked me up and down 2 miles passing in 8:56. “Willy mon ami, you think you got me now? You ain’t got me now.” “Watch me Fuzz mon and I threw everything but the kitchen sink at him and finally broke free at 3.5 or so.”

The unruly crowd reveled in it some staggering onto the course where I had to straight arm a few debauched folk.

As I hit the final quarter mile and made the turn Fuzzy was catching me, inconceivable but here he was and we fought tooth and nail Fuzzy with his crazy hair and me with my beard and sunglasses—it was a dead heat but they gave me the victory and Fuzzy threw his arms around me and said “You was a worthy opponent Willy, that was a good one.”

I’ll never forget this one, Fuzzy this is what it’s all about.

Post race we did a presser and then got our photos taken in front of the placeholder for the Ignatius statue while eating our foot long hot dogs and slugging some Dixie’s.

The party carried on back to the RUNNERY where Alphonse and I had a meeting of the minds.

“Fuzzy ain’t it hard to get out for a run after days out fishing?” “No Willy, fishing is hard, running is easy like going out to play.”

I wondered about all the great potential athletes we might have in our sport with any incentive for them other than glory —Olympics or otherwise.

That night I slept peacefully content. The camaraderie in our sport made it worthwhile. I think.

I felt positively that this excursion of mine was the right thing for me at barely nineteen. Hey nineteen. You don’t find out nothing hanging around Galway that’s for sure.

One of these things first:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vDtsgVgAx6k

A Day in South Boston

A Day in South Boston

By Rich Grady

On March 17th of this year, I drove across the Summer Street Bridge from Downtown Boston toward Southie, heading for Castle Island and the strand along Pleasure Bay. There, I would meet other Minutemen from around New England to muster for a short bus ride to St.

Augustine’s Chapel on Dorchester Street for ceremonies to kick-off the march to the top of Dorchester Heights. This was to commemorate the 250th Anniversary of Evacuation Day when the strategically placed cannons courtesy of Henry Knox and his Noble Train of Artillery, hauled 300 miles from Fort Ticonderoga in upstate New York during the winter of 1775-1776, helped compel the British army of occupation and supporting Royalists to withdraw from Boston. It was a major strategic victory for the fledgling Continental Army and its Commander-in-Chief, General George Washington – and it came more than three months before our Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. As Jonathan Lane, Executive Director of the modern day Rev250 organization, has said, “No Evacuation Day, no Independence Day!”

I felt compelled to participate in this commemoration and celebration for a couple of reasons. One is the obvious significance to our nation’s history. The other is my family’s history and Saint Augustine’s Chapel, where my paternal grandparents were married in 1910. Saint Augustine’s was built in 1818-1819 and is the oldest Catholic church in Massachusetts. It is very small and intimate, and surrounded by the oldest Catholic cemetery in the Commonwealth. When it was built, the Archdiocese of Boston was only 10 years old, and religious tolerance was still more of a concept than a practice. By the time my grandparents were married there in 1910, more than a third of Boston’s population was foreign-born, and almost a third of that portion had come from Ireland, and for the most part, was Catholic.

My grandfather immigrated from County Mayo in Ireland and my grandmother from County Galway, and they met over here in South Boston. They were both Irish speakers – English was their second language. They came to the United States around 1900 for opportunity and to escape British oppression. Prior to the late 1800s and early 1900s, there were not many Irish and not many Catholics in America, and they were not particularly welcome. Nonetheless, America had gained its independence from England, which was meaningful to the Irish, as was the fact that the Continental Army had compelled elite British troops to evacuate from Boston, thereby gaining international credibility for their cause. And symbolically significant, the codeword for the Continental Army on Dorchester Heights in March of 1776 was “Saint Patrick.”

Ceremonies this year officially kicked-off with a Mass in the cozy Saint Augustine’s Chapel, with people overflowing out the narrow doors. Well known politicians – both local and national – were in attendance, as well as regular churchgoers from the neighborhood. After Mass, the procession of Minutemen and Militia units formed outside the walls of the cemetery to begin the march to the top of Dorchester Heights.

I marched with the Acton Minutemen in this year’s Evacuation Day procession. They were the first to confront the British at the Old North Bridge in Concord on April 19, 1775 – now commemorated as Patriots’ Day. Their Captain in 1775 was Isaac Davis, who reportedly said, “I haven’t a man who is afraid to go,” when asked to lead the march to battle against the Redcoats. Sadly, he was shot through the heart and died in that battle. However, the Minutemen won that day, and chased the retreating British Army back to Boston, beginning an 11 month siege of the city that concluded on Evacuation Day, March 17, 1776. Isaac Davis became the inspiration for the famous Minute Man Statue (1875) by Daniel Chester French at the Old North Bridge, which has the first stanza of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poem, the Concord Hymn (1837), inscribed on its pedestal.

I am grateful for this nation of ours and those who paved the way before us. Events that help us remember our history and places that connect our past, present, and future are special and worthy of preservation and contemplation. This year’s Evacuation Day ceremony on the 250th anniversary of the withdrawal of British forces from Boston included a reopening and rededication of the Dorchester Heights Monument, which was built 125 years ago, in

1901-1902, as a national site of remembrance. The commanding views of Boston Harbor and the city below, and the vertical challenge of reaching it with cannon balls from British ships and sea-level artillery, made Dorchester Heights ideal for the Continental Army and its cannon placements and fortifications. This year’s remembrance included cannon fire and musket volleys at the base of the restored monument, after numerous speeches by politicians and dignitaries, while people from the neighborhood and visitors from far and wide endured the frigid winds on a wintery but glorious day for remembrances.

Entrance to St. Augustine’s Chapel & Cemetery

Acton Minutemen marching to Dorchester Heights

Minutemen firing a volley at Dorchester Heights

Artillery Companies on Dorchester Heights

Dorchester Heights Monument (150 feet tall, made of marble)

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

By Leo Racicot

I’m not much for religion, not a churchgoer. Every year though, I try to make it to Palm Sunday services.

I like the literal joy of the proceedings: the priests don bright red vestments for this celebratory day, the incense has a dual sensory effect; the smoke rising from the thurible to the sky of the church could, at times, be so thick, it would envelope the priest completely, the scent of it so strong, it felt like I was going to pass out but it would be a good “passing out”. I like seeing the long procession down the center aisle up to the altar, with congregants waving their lightsome palms. As a kid at Saint Patrick’s School, I well remember kids using palms as swords and old Sister Clare Cecilia trying mightily to corral them while not disturbing the services, not easy to do although, as a teacher, I observed that, with students, the immediate appearance of the principal was enough to strike the fear of God into the wildest of Indians, and into teachers. After all, it was the principal.

There was, and still is, something medieval about the ceremony, something close to primeval. The holy day does have its origins in Late Antiquity, the first Palm Sundays dating back to the 4th century. As a kid, I felt being in the midst of these rituals was a transport to another time, another world. I liked the solemnity of them, the seriousness on the face of the celebrants. It was, for me, a reflective, awe-inspiring Mass as well as a joy-filled one, and remains so. After Mass, as the congregation leaves the church and the bells ring out, I feel exhilarated, anointed, renewed…

I retain what might well be called a palm fetish. I like the tradition of parishioners being handed palms. And though church organizers now feel that one palm per person is plenty, I miss the days when whole bunches of them were handed out. Diane always liked when I could bring home several. and here in the kitchen, to my right, above me, are a few fronds framing a photo of The Last Supper which have been there for many years.  Our good neighbor, Anna, loved weaving palms into crosses and other religious symbols, I liked sitting with her at her kitchen table, watching her patiently weaving chotki (Eastern Orthodox prayer ropes), always the honeyed scent of baklava hovering nearby.   At Ms. Shea’s in Cambridge, sometimes when the grad school guys were leaving after their one-year tour-of-duty with Richard was over, they’d give me gifts as a sort of farewell; a book they thought I’d like, a stereo too big to fit in the back seat of their car. etc. My dear pal, John Dewis, as a goodbye, left me an elaborate palm frond hat he’d woven from many Palm Sunday masses. I still have and treasure it.

The funniest Palm Sunday I recall is the time an Arlington parish recruited, for lifelike effect, a male parishioner to play Jesus and a donkey on which for him to ride around the grounds and into the church. The beast was a tiny, charming, sweet-faced fellow and “Jesus” was, shall we say, a tad on the heavy side. After a while, it became apparent the donkey had had enough of fat Jesus on top of him and stopped in its tracks, refusing to budge another step. To the astonishment of the crowd, “Jesus” leaped down, literally picked the donkey up in his arms and carried him the rest of the way into the church. A memorable Palm Sunday, to say the least…

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Palm Sunday procession

Altar Boys lost in incense smoke

Jesus carrying a donkey

Palm hat made by John

Anna weaving palms at her kitchen table

Seen & Heard: Vol. 12

Obituary: Jurgen Habermas, 96, Thinker Who Heralded ‘Public Sphere,’ Is Dead – Last weekend different online sources I follow mourned the death of Jurgen Habermas with great affection and respect. While I was vaguely familiar with the name, I had no idea who he was, so when his obituary showed up in the March 16, 2026, New York Times, I read it with interest. Habermas was born in Germany in 1929 so grew up under the Nazi regime and its aftermath. He earned a Ph.D. in Philosophy and became a professor and author. In the early 1960s, he introduced the idea of the ‘public sphere,’ a place beyond the control of government where the free exchange of ideas could occur. The model he envisioned were the coffee shops of 18th century England and France where people could congregate to discuss politics and reach an understanding of issues that were of common concern. He also warned of the rise of nationalism and any attempt to forget or diminish the Holocaust. He said Germans had a responsibility to keep alive the memories of the suffering of so many by German hands.

Op-Ed: Social Media Is Hazardous by Tim Wu in the March 15, 2026, New York Times. A law professor and one of the foremost thinkers in the country about the role of the internet in our society, Tim Wu argues that social media companies hide behind the shield of free speech when they are instead a threat to public health. He does this in the context in the in-progress lawsuit against Meta (operator of Facebook and Instagram). The plaintiff’s theory in that case is that social media is intentionally designed to create compulsions and over use, regardless of the content provided. Wu suggests that even if this case goes in favor of the social media companies, it’s just a matter of time before someone holds them accountable for all the hard that they have done.

Blog Post: Living Madly: What Time Is It? – In her monthly Living Madly column on richardhowe.com last week, Emilie-Noelle Provost took on Daylight Savings Time, giving the history of where it came from and all the harmful consequences it has for people. I agree with Emilie. When I was younger, my daily habits, including when I woke up and went to bed, were more random. But as I got older, routines became more important. I get up and go to bed at the same time each day and turning the clock back or ahead messes with that. I’m not alone in feeling the disruption. Each morning I take our dog out for a predawn walk through the neighborhood. It’s always peaceful but in the weeks before the time change, we’d encounter other walkers, a good number of cars driving past, and lights on in most of the houses in the neighborhood. Since the clocks “sprung ahead” those things are mostly absent even though we’re out at the same time according to the clock. 

Earlier in life, I had a couple of memorable run ins with the time change. From May through October 1980, I was stationed at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, for army training. For whatever reason, Arizona did not follow Daylight Savings Time. So part of the time I was there, we were three hours ahead of the east coast and the rest of the time we were four hours ahead. 

The second story also comes from my time in the Army only this happened in Germany. One Saturday I took the train to Munich with some friends. We had a great day and evening and were on a late train home when about halfway through the trip the train stopped in the middle of nowhere. It just stayed stationary for exactly and hour and then resumed the trip. Later I learned that was because our trip straddled the time change and, given the Germanic devotion to good order, the train could not arrive at its destination and hour early which it would have had we not stopped. Yet for those of us aboard, it made for a long journey.

The final story was from my time as register of deeds. In 2001, I was on a subcommittee investigating new computer systems for the registries of deeds throughout Massachusetts. It would be a big contract and we had to get it right, so part of the process was to visit registries around the country that were using the systems offered by the top bidders for our project. One destination was the Cook County Registry of Deeds in Chicago. Coincidentally, the night we would be there the Chicago Black Hawks had a home hockey game and one of my colleagues had bought two tickets and invited me to go. I asked him what time. He said the game was on ESPN at 8pm so we should meet in the lobby at 7:30 and walk to the game. We did, but when we arrived at the United Center, the first period had just ended. It turned out that the 8pm start time for ESPN was for the east coast but the came was in Chicago on Central Standard Time so there was an hour time difference with the game starting at 7pm local time. I assume our tickets had the correct start time but I didn’t see mine until we got to the arena. I enjoyed the rest of the game and the opportunity to visit a famous sports venue, but one local practice I didn’t like was that fans were permitted to smoke in the concourse of the arena and many did, so if you went to get a hot dog, you were engulfed in cigarette smoke. I remember going to the old Boston Garden as a kid and sitting high up in a balcony. Back then, smoking was permitted in the seats. By the fourth quarter, I could barely see the court (or breath) because of the cigarette smoke haze that filled the place.