Robert G. Reed

But the third would be my favorite. The third book would be a collection of all his columns about being a boy growing up almost a century ago. Someone else might write about playing baseball in a vacant lot (without adult supervision!), or being dismissed on the last day of school, or getting ready to return to school in the fall, but no one else could make me feel that I was right there with that bunch of kids, doing those things with them. One of my favorite columns was one I felt compelled to cut out and save: Making a willow whistle. If ever there was a story which illustrates how different life was for kids just a few generations ago, this is it. Every little step of the process, every little bit of the boy's thought process, every little reaction to the finished product is described in great detail.

In my mind, no one could bring yesterday into today the way Bob Reed could. I've missed seeing his columns in the Sun for a few years now, and rejoiced on the rare occasions they did appear. I feel lucky to have shared memories with a man who could say he remembers how much fun it was to make a willow whistle.

It was with some sadness that I read of the passing of Bob Reed. I never actually met the man, and yet I felt I knew him. Through his columns he shared himself with anyone who cared to read them. Through his columns, he opened a window to the past and invited his readers to step through and see what life was like in Lowell and its suburbs in another time. I always felt his columns should be collected into a coffee table book, or two or three, actually. One would have to be a collection of his World War II columns, reminding us of heroism which occurred when many of us were infants, or before we were even born. Reading an account of a battle, or of the homesickness of a young soldier, or the activities on the home front to support the 'boys at The Front' made me feel that I was actually there.

Another would have to be his columns about what were the everyday activities of life before the advent of modern machines and conveniences. Some evoked memories of stories my parents had told me, of having milk delivered by a milkman driving a horse-drawn carriage, or of shopping at markets before they were supermarkets, or of teams of men cutting ice on the Merrimack and storing it away for use all summer long. When my parents told me about these things, I heard what they said. When Bob Reed wrote about them, I was there.

But the third would be my favorite. The third book would be a collection of all his columns about being a boy growing up almost a century ago. Someone else might write about playing baseball in a vacant lot (without adult supervision!), or being dismissed on the last day of school, or getting ready to return to school in the fall, but no one else could make me feel that I was right there with that bunch of kids, doing those things with them. One of my favorite columns was one I felt compelled to cut out and save: Making a willow whistle. If ever there was a story which illustrates how different life was for kids just a few generations a

Thank you for your service Rest in peace