My dad used to work at the VA clinic on Court Street in downtown Boston. Sometimes on school vacations I’d meet him on his lunch hour and we’d go to the North End. This was pre-Big Dig, so you’d have to walk under the 93 overpass – be glad if you never saw it, it was as ugly as you’d imagine – and it was on these walks that I first remember seeing Sidewalk Sam’s work. It was beauty where you weren’t expecting any at all.
I’m in the habit of giving my students – with their permissions, of course – nicknames. These tend to be unoriginal and not overly inspired: Mad Max, Diamond Dave, Joltin’ Joe, Wild Bill, etc. (For some reason I never seem to give female students nicknames.) But last month I received a faint ray of inspiration and proposed to one Sam that I preface his name with “Sidewalk.” Happily – or, at least, I was happy about it – he accepted.
I was saddened to learn this week of the original Sidewalk Sam’s passing. I was also saddened that I’d pretty much forgotten about him until my silly nickname habit reminded me. We’ll be paying tribute to Sidewalk Sam by reading his obituary next. RIP, sir, and thanks for bringing beauty to a city in need.