Category Archives: Boston

Everyone Loves a Parade

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The giant turkey float wearing a blue top hat in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, moving past crowds and tall city buildings.”

Massachusetts: More Parades Than You’d Expect

New Orleans has Mardi Gras — and truth be told, probably a parade for something every other week. They’re America’s party town for sure. But Massachusetts has more parades than you might think. We’ve got the big national ones, yes, but we’ve also got some wonderfully quirky, uniquely‑ours traditions.

A Quick Roll Call of Bay State Parades

Here are the ones that come to mind without much effort:

  1. First Night, Boston (New Year’s Eve)
  2. St. Patrick’s Day, South Boston
  3. Patriots’ Day Parade, Concord
  4. Ducklings Day Parade, Boston
  5. Memorial Day Parades, Every Town
  6. Fishtown Horribles Parade, Gloucester
  7. Fourth of July Parades, statewide
  8. Carnival Parade, Provincetown
  9. Haunted Happenings Parade, Salem
  10. America’s Hometown Thanksgiving Parade, Plymouth
  11. Christmas Eve Parade, Lynn

Championship Duck Boats: Our Modern Victory Marches

And then there are the Championship Parades — our modern‑day victory marches. The crowds gather, the duck boats roll out, and the players ride through Boston like triumphant warriors returning from battle. No chariots, but close enough.

St. Patrick’s Day: Southie’s Biggest Tradition

Boston’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Southie is one of the oldest and largest in the country. Bagpipes, marching bands, Irish dancers, politicians shaking hands, and half the city wearing green — it’s a celebration that feels like Boston down to its bones. If you’ve never seen South Boston on March 17, you haven’t truly experienced St. Patrick’s Day.

Patriots’ Day: A Parade You Won’t Find Anywhere Else

See that Patriots’ Day Parade? That one is truly unique. Patriots’ Day is strictly a Massachusetts holiday — and some years we even get an extra day to file our federal taxes because we’re special like that.

Ducklings Day: Boston’s Sweetest Tradition

One of the sweetest parades is the Ducklings Day Parade, celebrating the Make Way for Ducklings statue. It’s traditionally held on Mother’s Day and is pure Boston charm.

Fourth of July: Cannons, Fireworks, and Local Flavor

Everyone has a Fourth of July parade, but we go one better with the concert on the Esplanade, complete with cannons and fireworks. And up in Gloucester, they celebrate with the Fishtown Horribles Parade — a wonderfully chaotic, satirical tradition where floats poke fun at political figures, local issues, and whatever else needs a good ribbing.

Provincetown Carnival: Color, Creativity, and Community

Head to the tip of Cape Cod and you’ll find Provincetown’s Carnival Parade, a joyful celebration of diversity and creativity that the town is famous for.

Salem’s Haunted Happenings: Halloween Done Right

Rounding out the unusual lineup is Salem’s Haunted Happenings Parade. Other places may have Halloween parades, but there’s no place like Salem in late October for witches, goblins, and costumed chaos.

Plymouth’s Thanksgiving Parade: History Marches On

And while America crowds around the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, our own Plymouth — home of the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving — holds its America’s Hometown Thanksgiving Parade, a tradition all its own.

Take That, New Orleans

So yes, New Orleans may have Mardi Gras, and Disney may have a parade every time someone sneezes — but here in Massachusetts, we do things our own way. Who else has cannons on the Esplanade, championship duck boats rolling through Boston like returning warriors, and a parade for just about every season? Take that, New Orleans.

 

Bagpipes, Kilts, and a World Cup Win: The Tartan Army Arrives

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Boston, the World Cup, and a Surprise Scottish InvasionPlayers from Scotland and Haiti battle for possession in midair during their World Cup match.

A few days ago, I posted an essay on Boston sports and our wonderfully chaotic mix of teams and traditions in Wicked Good Reasons to Love Living in Boston.
>I somehow managed to leave out two things: our Scottish heritage and Boston’s long, stubborn relationship with soccer — or as the rest of the world calls it, football.

Ask any soccer fan and they’ll tell you American football is the upstart, the imitation, the knockoff.
The real thing — and yes, that’s Coca‑Cola’s line — belongs to the rest of the world.

Well, the “real thing” arrived in Boston (okay, Foxborough) on Saturday, June 13, when Scotland beat Haiti 1–0 at Gillette Stadium in their first World Cup match on U.S. soil.

Soccer in Boston: Older Than You Think

Soccer didn’t just show up for the World Cup.
>It’s been here since the 1800s, brought over by Scottish immigrants who played in mill towns, factory yards, and open fields long before anyone thought to build a stadium.

Fast‑forward to 1996:
Robert Kraft — already owner of the Patriots — became the founding investor of the New England Revolution, one of MLS’s ten original clubs. The Revs had a rocky start (including the dubious honor of being the first MLS team to lose to an amateur club), but New England fans stuck with them. Even in the lean years, crowds of 15,000+ proved that soccer wasn’t going anywhere.

June 13: The Cheers Heard ’Round the World

So when the World Cup finally landed at Gillette, Boston showed up — but the Scots showed up louder.

The Tartan Army, Scotland’s legendary fanbase, marched in wearing kilts, waving flags, and playing bagpipes like they were soundtracking their own parade. Young, old, men, women — all proudly tartaned up for the match and for Scottish Heritage Night.

Their cheers didn’t just echo around Foxborough.
>They felt like they traveled the globe — a modern twist on “the shot heard ’round the world,” but this time it was the cheers.

Welcome Back, Soccer

Boston already has Red Sox Nation and Patriots Nation, but on this weekend, the city gained something new:
a joyful, plaid‑covered, bagpipe‑powered visiting nation — the Tartan Army.

And honestly?
They fit right in.

Scottish Update

Boston has officially been adopted by Scotland. Bagpipes on the T, the wave at Fenway, Sweet Caroline sung like it’s a national anthem — and everywhere you look, pure joy. I’m soaking up every second of it.

 

Make Way for Ducklings

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Make Way for Ducklings: Boston’s Most Beloved (and Frequently Kidnapped) Family

If you’ve ever wandered through the Boston Public Garden, you’ve probably met the city’s most famous residents: Mrs. Mallard and her eight ducklings, immortalized in bronze and endlessly climbed on by children, tourists, and the occasional overly enthusiastic adult who should know better.

They’re based on the classic 1941 children’s book Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey — which, in a very Massachusetts move, has been officially declared the Commonwealth’s children’s book. Because of course it has. If we love something, we legislate it (remember the chowder?).

A Duck Family Cast in Bronze

The bronze duck family was created by sculptor Nancy Schön and installed in 1987. They’re lined up in a neat little row — Mrs. Mallard in front, followed by Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack — and they are:

  • rubbed shiny by millions of tiny hands
  • photographed more than the average Kardashian
  • climbed on daily
  • and beloved in a way that borders on civic obsession

If you stand there long enough, you’ll see at least one toddler attempt to ride Mrs. Mallard like a Kentucky Derby contender. 

Years of tiny hands have polished them so shiny they practically glow — and honestly, that tracks. New Englanders love to touch bronze animals for good luck. It’s right up there with eating chowder on a hot day and pretending we don’t mind the weather.

Dressed for Every Occasion

People dress these ducks up more often than most folks I know change their own outfits. Depending on the season, you might find them wearing:

  • Easter bonnets
  • Patriots jerseys
  • Red Sox gear
  • Scarves in winter
  • Pride flags in June
  • Pumpkin hats in October
  • Graduation caps (because Boston has more colleges than Dunkin’ locations, and that’s saying something)

There’s no official “duck stylist,” but somehow the outfits appear like magic. It’s very Boston: no one admits to doing it, but everyone approves.

Honestly, they get dressed up more often than the average Bostonian heading to a Patriots game in January — and we’ll wear anything as long as it’s warm and vaguely team‑colored.

Make Way for Ducklings statues in the Boston Public Garden

The Great Ducknappings of Boston

Here’s the part that always makes people blink:
The ducklings get stolen. Frequently.

Not all eight at once — that would require a level of planning usually reserved for heists — but one or two at a time. Usually it’s:

  • a prank
  • a drunken college student
  • or someone who thought, “You know what my dorm room needs? A 40‑pound bronze duck.”

They almost always get returned, sometimes anonymously, sometimes by a sheepish parent dragging a guilty teenager by the elbow. The city keeps replacement molds on standby because Boston has accepted that this is simply part of life now.

It’s practically a local sport, right behind candlepin bowling and arguing about which place has the “real” clam chowder.

Why We Love Them

There’s something about these statues that hits people right in the heart. Maybe it’s nostalgia for the book. Maybe it’s the charm of a duck family marching through the Garden like they own the place. Or maybe it’s that deep New England instinct to adopt anything small, cute, and slightly chaotic — see also: our weather.

Whatever it is, the ducks are woven into Boston’s identity. They’re whimsical, sturdy, slightly chaotic, and beloved — which, come to think of it, describes the city pretty well too.

 

The Great Molasses Flood

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Boston never does things like the rest of the world. From our wicked different slang to our stubborn pride, we always have to put our own spin on things. Even our disasters can’t be normal. Could we have just had the ocean flood in? After all, half the city is built on landfill. But no — we had to do everyone one better. We flooded our streets with… molasses.

Grandma’s Molasses, the ingredient at the center of Boston’s molasses history, sweet, sticky but oh so deadly

The Great Molasses Flood — Boston’s Stickiest Disaster

Molasses — that thick, sticky, gooey goodness that makes muffins, cookies, baked beans, and BBQ possible. We drizzle it, bake with it, stir it into sauces. It’s comforting. Old‑fashioned. Harmless.

But did you know it can also be deadly?

No, it’s not poison. It’s sticky. Too sticky. Now imagine being buried under a massive wave of the stuff. Not funny. Nothing humorous about that. Yet it really happened — right here in New England.

In 1919, Boston faced one of the strangest disasters in American history: The Great Molasses Flood. By the time it was over, 21 people had died and about 150 were injured. And the story behind it is even wilder than the headline.

A Disaster Waiting to Happen

The giant molasses tank in Boston’s North End belonged to the United States Industrial Alcohol Company (USIA). It stood 50 feet tall and 90 feet across, holding more than 2 million gallons of molasses. From the day it went up, it leaked. Locals even joked that kids scraped molasses off the sides with sticks.

USIA knew the tank had problems. Instead of fixing the leaks, the company painted the tank brown to hide them. Workers reported groaning metal and bulging seams, but management brushed off every warning.

January 15, 1919 — The Day the Tank Burst

The day of the disaster felt unusually warm for January, warm enough to thin the molasses inside the tank. Around 12:40 p.m., the tank finally gave way with a roar that echoed through the neighborhood.

A 25‑foot‑high wave of molasses rushed through the streets at 35 miles per hour. Horses, wagons, buildings, and people were swept up instantly. The force of the wave even knocked a firehouse off its foundation.

Rescuers later described the scene as “drowning in brown glue.”

The Aftermath

Cleanup dragged on for months. Crews used saltwater, sand, and firehoses to break up the sticky mess. For decades afterward, people swore the North End smelled like molasses on hot days.

The Fight for Justice

The Great Molasses Flood wasn’t just a freak accident — it resulted from corporate negligence. USIA had received multiple warnings about the tank’s structural integrity and ignored them. When survivors sued, the company tried to blame anarchists, claiming someone had sabotaged the tank.

The truth came out during six years of litigation and 3,000 witness testimonies. Eventually, a court‑appointed auditor ruled in favor of the victims. USIA paid $628,000 in settlements, the equivalent of about $11 million today. The tank never went back up.

Today, the site is a small park near the Boston waterfront. Almost nothing there marks what happened. You could walk right over the spot where the tank stood and never know the neighborhood was once buried in molasses.

 

Why This Story Sticks With Us

The whole thing sounds like something out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not — and it has appeared there. It’s been featured on TV, in books, and in documentaries. Yet no matter how many times you hear it, the story still feels unbelievable.

A flood… of molasses?

And yet it happened. Sometimes the strangest stories in New England history are the ones that turn out to be absolutely true.

 

 

The Invasive Creatures of Suburbia

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The mongoose may be cute but he is an invasice species in Hawaii

Every Place Has Its Own “Wildlife”

Every place has its invasive species.
Florida has pythons.
Hawaii has the mongoose.
Australia… well, Australia has everything and then some.

And if you’re lucky enough not to share your ZIP code with an actual invasive species, you still have the local wildlife: deer tiptoeing through the gardens, skunks waddling with bad intentions, coyotes trotting around like they’re late for a meeting, maybe even a badger or two if the universe is feeling spicy. Then there are the cute ones — chipmunks stuffing their faces, squirrels plotting whatever squirrels plot, and of course the rogue turkey who thinks he owns the cul‑de‑sac.

I have all of that.
But I also have something… extra.

Meet My Personal Invasive Species

I have Toolman Tim on steroids.

While other invasive species creep in quietly, mine announces himself with the subtlety of a jet engine. If he’s home, something is running. Always. Leaf blower, lawn mower, wood chipper, snow blower, chainsaw — I’m convinced he has a generator just to power the rest of his equipment.

He takes immaculate care of his home, I’ll give him that. His lawn looks like it’s auditioning for a golf tournament. His shrubs are trimmed with military precision. His driveway is so clean you could perform surgery on it.

But the noise.
The noise.

Summer Dreams vs. Suburban Reality

Summer arrives and I think, Ah, fresh air, maybe I’ll open the slider and sit on the deck.

Banner and Balboa hear the slider open and immediately assume the world is ending. Instead of watching the world go by like normal cats, they scatter like I’ve just announced a fireworks show in the living room.

Meanwhile, my neighbor hears the same warm breeze and thinks, What if I ran every motorized object I own… in alphabetical order?

Our landscapers come once a week, roaring through like a NASCAR pit crew. If my neighbor and the landscapers ever coordinated schedules, we’d get one big burst of chaos and then peace. But no. They operate like they’re on alternating shifts, ensuring continuous, rolling noise pollution from dawn to dusk. It’s like living next to a construction site that never actually builds anything — just revs, blows, grinds, and growls for the sheer joy of it.

I swear the birds have started wearing tiny earplugs.
Banner and Balboa would too if they had opposable thumbs.

 

A Little Loud, But Harmless

And yet, I can’t be mad. He’s not rude. He’s not messy. He’s not blasting music at 2 a.m. He’s just… enthusiastic. Overly. Mechanically. Enthusiastically.

Still, if the state ever updates its list of invasive species, I might submit a nomination. Because while the deer nibble, the squirrels plot, and the turkey struts around like he pays the mortgage, my neighbor is the only creature in the ecosystem who seems powered entirely by gasoline and adrenaline.

Sunflower and butterfly 2018

Some people attract birds.
Some attract butterflies.
Apparently, I attract the suburban equivalent of Tim “More Power!” Taylor — and trust me, he lives by that motto every single day.