Every Saturday morning of my high school career I was lucky enough to put on my polyester marching band outfit and head out on to the field.

The blue pants had a wide white stripe that ran down the side of the leg. Each of us wore white Bucs, polished and buffed. The front of the matching jacket had a white breastplate, decorated with gold buttons while fringed epaulets dangled from the shoulders. And the hat, oh the glorious hat! Festooned with a plume and held firmly in place by a plastic chin strap.

Sure, others scoffed. "Band nerds" they called us. But what they couldn't see was behind the polyester uniforms we were having fun. Piles of fun. Heaps of fun.

Ask anyone who has ever been in a marching band what it was like and they'll rave about the uniforms, the bus rides, the slightly off-kilter Drum Major, and their unabashed love of music....

"Marching band is the bacon of school."

Lately, on my daily morning walks, I began to notice a single car parked in the lot next to Telegraph Hill. One day it was covered, literally covered, in Post-It Notes. A week ago someone encased it in wrapping paper. Yesterday small rubber duckies blanketed the hood.

I'm usually not one for practical jokes or pranks. Most of the time I find them to be mean-spirited jabs with a "can't you take a joke?" veneer. But I must admit, the variety of approaches employed made me smile.

Thankfully, I wasn't the one doing the unwrapping.....

"We need radical curiosity and reverent pranks, voracious listening and ferocious thanks." – Rob Brezsny

Ever since I can remember I have loved aquariums. Colorful, serene, bastions of beauty.

Unfortunately, I wasn't as enamored with having fish of my own. After seeing one too many goldfish floating belly up in random pet store displays, I relegated my fascination to National Geographic documentaries and the expansive tanks of giant metropolitan aquariums.

Many years later I got a cat who was bored to tears with my daily routine of going to the office five days a week. I thought about getting him an aquarium, but was afraid he'd fish the fish right out. But then I found a faux version, a clear tube that came with all kinds of plastic fish.

After filling it with water I plugged it in, triggering a stream of bubbles to rise from the bottom of the tube. The "fish," propelled by air pockets, would "swim" for as long as the on button was flipped.

Mr. Stanley watched those fish for hours, happy as a clam with his new toy. Move over catnip. The fish have arrived!

“Aquariums make us realize how beautiful silence is.”

$102,500. That was the price tag back on March 25, 1957.

Elvis took a mortgage of $55,000, plus cash down, to purchase the nearly 14-acre property off Route 51 in Memphis. There were two other suitors for the property; private investors interested in building a high-end restaurant and the deep pockets of Sears, Roebuck Co. Further complicating things, a small church made an offer to buy just 5 acres, located in the northwest corner of the estate. Only Elvis was amenable to having a church as his neighbor. That sealed the deal with the owners.

Graceland was officially his.

Although I was never a big fan of "the King," I have been to Graceland on more than one occasion. I was initially struck by its size, or lack thereof. It is a modest southern home, replete with white columns and an expansive lawn. The interior is pure Elvis; garish, over-the-top, eccentric and indulgent. And yet a soulfulness and sadness still clings to the house, despite the shag carpeting and glittering chandeliers.

Graceland, in some kind of inexplicable way, is Elvis. A magical confluence you can't help but be drawn to.....

"The Mississippi Delta was shining like a national guitar. I am following the river, down the highway, through the cradle of the Civil War. I'm going to Graceland....." – Paul Simon

Every Spring, CVS becomes a pilgrimage destination for hordes of "sweet tooth-ers," just like me. Why you ask? Just a little something called Cadbury Mini-Eggs.

The chocolate interior is to die for. The hard candy shell gives it just the right amount of crunch. The pale pastel colors, a palette of beauty.

Oh those devilish candy makers at Cadbury. They have created the perfect indulgence. All of my self-discipline withers at the mere thought of those eggs.

For the past ten years, the cemetery across the street has hosted our annual Easter egg hunt. We have tucked plastic eggs filled with Cadbury chocolate inside the nooks and crannies of old gravestones, behind potted plants, in the crook of tree branches, and on top of water spigots.

And yet the kids always find them. Every. Last. One.

Sigh.

"How's the diet going?

Not good. I had eggs for breakfast this morning.

Scrambled?

No, Cadbury..."

– Nicole O'Neil

The city of Boston is rife with statuary, landmarks, and monuments of every size and variety.

There are revolutionary era examples, such as the steeple of the Old North Church, Paul Revere astride his horse, or the Freedom Trail's red bricks. Then there are those with a whimsical bent; a line of mallards commemorating the children's classic Make Way for Ducklings or the Mapparium, the three-story stain-glass globe found in the Mary Baker Eddy Library. If you're a sports fan you can check out a pair of Larry Bird's size 13.5 bronzed sneakers in Quincy Market or take a selfie beside Bobby Orr's midair Stanley Cup goal celebration.

But for my money, the city's best statue is tucked discreetly beside the Public Garden. It's of Boston-born wordsmith Edgar Allan Poe. With his billowed cape and hair askew, Poe looks as if he is running down Boylston Street. A raven bursts forth from his briefcase and a tell-tale heart lies on a stack of books behind him. If you stand toe to toe with the statue, you'll notice the sculptor has given him a furtive glance, as if Poe sees something we don't.

Isn't that always the case? Poe shedding light on all the things we dare not see.

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence." – Edgar Allan Poe

All day long I watch people walk their dogs. They stroll in front of the house, frolic on the beach, and make frantic circles once inside the safe and fenced confines of our neighborhood dog park.

Ironically, most of the time they seem out of step with their owners. Some days it's the dog who wants to linger and sniff while the owner is in a hurry. Other times the owner is dragging their poor pooch on a jog the dog would have been just as happy to avoid. Then there are the usual fits and starts, where the dog lunges for something only to be yanked back.

In my next life, I think I want to come back as a cat. Who would trade a nap for a leash?

"Ever wonder where you'd end up if you took your dog for a walk and never once pulled back on the leash?" – Robert Breault

I have a pale blue and white scooter. Her name is Jane.

I bought her after enduring years of circling Harvard Square looking for an open parking space. My Jane requires no such convention. After bypassing lines of traffic, I simply parked her on the sidewalk. No muss. No fuss.

She is the Betty Boop of scooters. All curves with a penchant for coloring outside the lines. Think Jayne Mansfield. Think Jane Russell. An intoxicating mix of fun and sass.

When I would ride her, I would often attract attention. Not me mind you, the scooter. Even the most grizzled motorcycle riders would sidle up to me at traffic lights, look over, and give me a quick wink of approval.

Harley-Davidson, take that.

"It takes 37 muscles to frown. 17 to smile. 7 to twist the throttle."

It's hard to imagine the woman whose name is synonymous with the Iditarod was born amidst the cobblestoned streets of Cambridge. But then again, Susan Butcher always had a knack for surprising people.

During the 1980's and 90's, Butcher won the grueling 1,100+ mile Alaskan dogsled race four times. Not only that, she did it in record time. She was a fierce and gritty competitor, a perfect match for the formidable snow-covered course.

In 2008, then governor Sarah Palin declared the first Saturday in March "Susan Butcher Day," just a few months after Butcher had been elected to the Alaska Sports Hall of Fame. It was a posthumous award. Butcher had died a few years earlier of leukemia.

She was a fighter on and off the sled, giving it everything she had right up to the very end.

"I do not know the word 'quit.' Either I never did, or I have abolished it." – Susan Butcher

As a kid, every Saturday morning I would sit cross-legged on the floor and spread out an old paper bag to catch any errant flecks of shoe polish my weekly chore might create.

My Dad worked on a military base which meant, among other things, that his shoes needed to regularly be shined.

At the end of every work week I was charged with bringing the leather back to life, courtesy of a can of Kiwi Black Polish. First I would smear a light sheen of paste on the leather and then brush and buff like crazy. Once the tops gleamed, I used a bottle of black ink to carefully touch up any scuffs on the heels. Then back into the closet the shoes went, ready for Monday morning.

If you have never polished shoes, this routine might seem hopelessly out of step. Even old fashioned. All the work is undone so quickly. Why even bother?

But acquiring both the patience and eye for detail necessary for such work is valuable. Especially when you're doing it for someone else.

"If both of your shoes are shined, then your best foot will always be forward." – Maryrose Wood

Maya Lin was still in college when she submitted her proposal to a design competition commemorating those who died in the Vietnam War.

Some questioned her inexperience. Some found her vision, the black granite "wound" as she described it, too morose. Still others raised concerns about her Asian descent, despite being born in the U.S. and enrolled in an Ivy League institution.

Now at the end of another bloody week in America, we are left to wonder where these names, and the others not yet identified, will be engraved?

RIP .... Delaina Ashley Yaun, Paul Andre Michels, Xiaojie Tan, and Daoyou Feng.

“Do not diminish who you are. Your gender, your heritage, your identity. That's what makes you unique." – Kailin Gow

The first knot I learned to tie was a bowline, or perhaps a cleat wrap. Either could lash a rowboat to the dock, one of my "jobs" when our family would head to Lake Winnipesaukee for our annual two-week respite.

When I was a tween I was obsessed with those white macrame bracelets everyone was wearing. Oh, and those plastic gymp lanyards girls made at camp. Later on, while working as a lifeguard, I would twirl my whistle endlessly from that homemade lanyard.

But my favorite knot-tying memory came many years later. While working in the dorm, I discovered one of guys next door had finally mustered up the courage to ask another boy to the prom. He was thrilled to have had his "prom-posal" accepted but immediately began to fret about what he might wear.

We bought him a special tie for the occasion, but he was so taken aback when we gave it to him I initially wondered if we had overstepped. Then he told us he had never owned one and didn't know how to tie it. Could I please do it for him?

Standing behind his right shoulder, I gently looped the tie underneath his collar. He watched in the mirror as I showed him how to tie his first Half-Windsor.

That same boy turned 29 yesterday. He's never forgotten that moment. Nor have I.

"We learn the rope of life by untying its knots." – Jean Toomer

Mutton Light stands on the shoals just west of Galway's Salt Hill. For many Irish emigrants, this was the last vestige of their homeland to disappear from the horizon as they headed across the Atlantic, bound for the United States.

Both of my parents' families hail from Ireland. My mother's, from the lush green farmland of Galway. My father's, from the gritty outer rings of Belfast. I was raised to believe that to be Irish was an ethnicity, a culture, a political reference, a religious heritage, a way of mind, and a point of pride.

I have been to Ireland many times, both as a child and as an adult. It speaks to me on a visceral level, as if something in my blood recognizes when I have returned "home."

In honor of St. Patrick, I lift a glass today to all those who said goodbye to Mutton Light so I could have the chance to have everything else.

"An té a bhíónn siúlach, bíonn scéalach." – Irish Proverb

From the Gaelic: "He who travels has stories to tell."

Spring....... FORWARD!

As of yesterday, Daylight Savings Time has officially begun. That extra hour of light in the afternoon makes the day stretch a wee bit further. It doesn't seem like it should make that much difference. But it does.

Go wrestle the beach chairs from the back of the closet. Dig out the sunblock. Move the t-shirts to the top drawer. Summer is coming.

"An extra yawn one morning in springtime, an extra snooze one night in autumn is all we ask in return for dazzling gifts. We borrow an hour one night; we pay it back with golden interest five months later." – Winston Churchill

Denise McNair. Cynthia Wesley. Addie Mae Collins. Carole Robertson.

The bombing of Birmingham's 16th Street Baptist Church took the lives of four teenage girls. The dynamite, placed under the front steps of the church, was detonated at 10:22 a.m. on September 15, 1963, well before the 11:00 a.m. service was to start. But beneath the church, Sunday School teachers and children had already gathered, including Denise, Cynthia, Addie Mae, and Carole.

After the explosion, one stained-glass window survived. It depicted Jesus as the Good Shepherd. Only the face was destroyed by the blast.

Survivors, extolling the details of that day, included the story of the passage the children were reading just before the bomb went off. From the Gospel of Matthew .....

"But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you." – Matthew 5:44

On Boston's South Shore there's a five-mile stretch of sand named Nantasket Beach.

Back in the day, we would split our time between riding its waves and riding the rollercoaster in Paragon Park, located just across the street. The "Giant Coaster," as it was called, had wooden rails and would make this clickety-clacking noise as the car made its way up to the peak. I have no idea what sound it made on the way down. Whatever it was was drowned out by all the screaming.

Once our stomaches had had enough of the coaster, we would filter into the arcade. It was awash with sweating kids, flashing lights, the smell of cotton candy and the sound of quarters dropping. Pac-Man. Space Invaders. Pinball. Air Hockey. The arcade had it all.

I would walk by the crushing horde to get to the back, where the classic games were tucked away. After all, Pac-Man was for videophiles. Bring on the Skee-Ball I crowed. My arm is all warmed up.

"In the early '80s, the arcade game Pac-Man was twice as popular as oxygen." – Charlie Brooker

I had the opportunity to meet Sister Helen Prejean when she was on tour promoting her book Dead Man Walking.

It told the story of her work with those serving time in the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Each was on death row, moving closer to their electrocution with every passing day.

The movie of the same name, starring Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn, had been released by the time Sister Helen and I crossed paths. It garnered Sarandon an Oscar, beating out Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Sharon Stone, among others.

Prejean was at the Academy Awards the night Sarandon won. After thanking the crew and movie glitterati, Sarandon urged those watching to find non-violent ways to end violence, giving voice to Sister Helen's most ardent wish.

All the lives lost through crime and crime's retribution diminish us, Sister Helen warned. She should know. She witnessed the killings.

“People are more than the worst thing they have ever done in their lives.” – Sister Helen Prejean

On March 5th (1963) country singer Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. She was just 30 years old.

As we observe Women's History Month, I am reminded of the many contributions made by Patsy. Remembered not only for what she did, but for how she did it.

She was a musical icon who couldn't read music. A firebrand who broke with convention by wearing pants (unheard of at the time) on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry, and later, the first female solo artist to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Bold. Talented. Fierce. And gone too soon.....

"I'm gonna be something one of these days." – Patsy Cline