Mmm, luncheon beef

school brown-bag lunches, invariably some kind of luncheon meat (olive loaf, bologna, something salami-ish but very bland, a kind of processed ham -- sold at the First National in a variety four-pack) on generic white bread with mayo or French's mustard, a little bag of Fritos or potato chips or Bugles, and a Hostess or Drake's snack cake. You bought milk to drink from the lunch lady, a six-ounce cardboard carton for somewhere between a nickel and a dime.

The Ring Dings in those days came wrapped in foil. The move was to smooth that wrapper very flat, roll it into a tube, crush the middle, and flatten the bottom into a simulacrum of the Stanley Cup (our fond memories of the Big Bad Bruins still fresh). Once your boys got to admire it for a second, you had to flatten it with a fist-thump. No idea how that tradition got started, but we all did it, every time.

Ask me about the onion on the belt!

Luncheon! I love the word and use it whenever possible if an old-fashioned affectation is needed to spark a particular mood. Luncheon rekindles memories of an occasion—something celebratory and festive, perhaps a bit fancy. It’s definitely more special than lunch, which is something that’s eaten just about every single day. Luncheon is fine (and quite dandy) with me, as long as it’s not followed by the word “meat!”

That house is larger and faces parallel to the street.

But I think you're close.

There used to be a lot of Irish from the Innishowen area of Donegal that lived in the North End, including my gggg-grandparents. Devlin is an Innishowen name.

Don’t leave us hanging!!!!

Oops! Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words.