In the late summer of 1966, with nothing much to do and, in the words of Chuck Berry, “no particular place to go,” I signed on to the campaign of John J. Buckley, who was running for Massachusetts state auditor.
Read MoreI lugged what seemed like the 800th load of wood to feed the fireplace’s insatiable appetite, shoveled paths to the car, the compost, and the wood pile, endured two frozen pipes, two nights without heat, and two days when the thermometer never got above single digits . . . and that was just a warm-up (if that’s the word I’m looking for) to the “Bomb Cyclone,” which was heading up the coast of Maine with sub-zero temperatures trailing in its wake.
Read MoreLike more than 16 million Americans, I suffer from depression. For many years I took medication to help cope with my mood swings. I also talked off and on for over two decades with a wonderfully helpful man whom I adamantly refused to call my therapist. But he retired, which is what happens when you (and your support group) grow older, which is, needless to say, depressing.
Read MoreMost Americans know about the March on Washington on August 28, 1963, when 250,000 people marched for “Jobs and Freedom.” The march ended at the Lincoln Memorial, where Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered the speech that would define his legacy, with gospel singer Mahalia Jackson standing behind him saying, “Tell ‘em about the dream, Martin, tell ‘em about the dream!” – and he did.
Read MoreIt wasn’t only white people who feared the disruptions that came with young civil rights workers in the 1960s South. Black communities were wary of the violence and retribution they would face after the volunteers had left.
Read MoreIt was a long ride from Boston to Alma, Georgia, in the late spring of 1971, and to be honest, I don’t remember if the bus was integrated or not after we crossed the Mason-Dixon Line. I do remember that Alma wasn’t.
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