There is only one place in Manchester that has my heart. It’s a place that actually only exists in my heart now that it has been torn down. The old Derryfield Country Club. Oh, yes, a fancier, cleaner and more expansive one has been built in its place. It’s got one of those flashing electronic display signs advertising its prime rib special and Sunday brunch. But it isn’t home.
Let me tell you about my friend, the old DCC.
I started attending reggae Sundays at the deck back in 2002 with my best friends Heather and Stacie. We’d usually be groggy, rolling out of bed after a Saturday night adventure – we’d pull my mattress out to the living room, make some mac ‘n cheese, and flop down and watch the 1 o’clock Pats game on the bed in the living room. Around 4, we would put our hair in pigtails, swap tank tops and make the short drive to the D. Continue reading
This post was originally Published April 3, 2006
I wrote this story in an e-mail for a co-worker back in December 2003.
Background on the story: During the summer of 2003, I was biding time waiting for a job in my field to open up and not wanting to get a “real” job only to have to leave it when my dream position opened.
I painted houses. Exterior. 34-foot ladders. 85 degree weather. Often by myself. One time, I was working by myself on the second story of a house in Merrimack. I’ll wrap up this preface by saying that the ladder came down on the wooden deck with me on it. The corner of a garden style window basically impaled my abdomen on the way down and I had to get 13 stitches. I now have a pretty scar on my belly. (But at least I got a friend out of the deal. Thanks, JD.) Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled to be getting back onto ladders for the rest of the summer. The story below took place a couple weeks after the accident. Continue reading