If you’re a traveler and an architecture enthusiast, you may have been on the Chicago River architectural boat tour. It is splendid, with good stories about the Windy City’s fine buildings.

You may be surprised to learn that Boston also has an architectural river (and harbor) trip. You’ll also be surprised to find

that you don’t know as much as you think you do about Boston’s development and history.

As a history and architecture buff, I took the tour this summer on the Henry Longfellow with about 80 other people to find out what Boston was all about. The excursion boat is owned by the Charles Riverboat Company, which berths across the river at the CambridgeSide Galleria basin.

The boat was comfortable. A bar offered up refreshments. But the best thing was the guide, a volunteer with Boston by Foot named Terri Evans. She knew a lot more than I did.

As we crossed under the Bunker Hill Zakim Bridge she pointed out the diamond shaped cut-outs that allow sunlight to shine on the water. Apparently without sunlight the alewives will not migrate up the Charles since darkness signals to them the end of upstream.

North Point Park, across from the Suffolk County Jail and the former Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, looks as if it is in Cambridge. But Boston and Cambridge drew a line down the middle of the river long ago to divide the two cities. Cambridge filled in so much of the river over time that a small section jutted over the line, so it is now technically in Boston.

Terri told us that during the construction of the new Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital in Charlestown, the crews discovered ancient buried timbers preserved in the filled land. They unearthed the timbers and now use them for repairs of Old Ironsides and historic structures.

When we passed the Converse company’s sign on its waterside building, now undergoing renovation, Terri told us of a happy coincidence. A man named Mr. Converse ran the first ferry across the Charles near that location. I’ll bet not even the Converse company knows that.

She knew all about ancient tidelands, the wharves, the old canals and the shoreline in the eras of sailing and industry.

Getting a view of the shoreline from the water revealed details and surprises not obvious from the mainland. The underneath sections of the decks of the bridges are lined with dozens of pipes. You probably knew that, but it is still impressive to see them.

Much of the shoreline is attractive, and many fixtures such as the Longfellow Bridge are undergoing renovation. But there are bad spots. The old DCR buildings adjacent to the West End need attention badly. The locks, which the boat goes through, need sprucing up. The Science Museum and its parking structure from the river are, frankly, terrible. With all that waterfront, the Science Museum doesn’t use it. If you were a Science Museum, wouldn’t you take advantage of the outdoor science in a riverine environment? That is first on my list of institutions degrading our shoreline.

But it’s not the only scofflaw. The Aquarium too is a big blob from the water. What are they thinking when an Aquarium ignores the water right next to it? There might be more opportunity to remake this institution to embrace the harbor since Don Chiofaro’s proposed development is adjacent to it and will probably affect it in some way. But right now both of these entities are blights.

From the water, the Northern Avenue bridge looks even worse than it does landside. Harbor Towers juts into your face. Several yachts tied up at the end of Commercial Wharf look positively menacing — are they owned by drug dealers, Russian oligarchs, mafia types? They will give you the shivers. The Moakley Courthouse is rather nice, and the ICA looks better from the water than its blank wall does from land. The people crowding the park in the North End look busy and happy. The new residential buildings along the wharves are fine.

The trip was a lovely way to spend an afternoon and to satisfy my interest in Boston. The tours are partly sponsored by the Boston Society of Architects. They leave mostly twice a day on extended weekends until October 12, so you have time to indulge. You can book online on the Charles River Boat website.

By the way, did you know that Boston is windier than Chicago? And did you know that Chicago was dubbed the Windy City because of its bigmouth politicians, not its weather?

I love it when one person decides to do a good deed for the rest of us just because he or she is interested in a topic.

Vincent Licenziato, 64, of Phillips Street on Beacon Hill, decided to celebrate art, social justice and education by calling attention to the many statues and memorials around the city that honor those who helped free enslaved people. But there are also nods to many groups who have faced discrimination or a less-than-equal status. He leads walks, gives talks and, with the help of several contributors, has published a free guide, “Emancipation Trail: Civil Rights For All,” that individuals and families can use to help them appreciate and discuss the rich culture of emancipation to which Bostonians and others have contributed.

The trail he has devised goes beyond the Black Heritage Trail, which is mostly confined to Beacon Hill. It complements the Boston Women’s Heritage Trail, and dips into the American Revolution, when America was “emancipated” from England, and expands the celebration of black emancipation to the Back Bay, the South End, Roxbury, Mattapan and Boston City Hall Plaza with its towering statue of Bill Russell, who, I guess one could say, helped emancipate basketball.

“We have a complicated history in our country,” Licenziato said. “Each section tells a story that encourages people to have a dialogue.”

Licenziato became intrigued with the public art of emancipation when he listened to African Americans complain about the paternalistic statue of Abraham Lincoln with an enslaved man in Park Square, a replica of an original in Washington, D. C. The figure of Lincoln is majestic and dignified. The figure of the African American is less so, only partially clothed and in a subservient position.

Black Americans paid for the statue about a decade after Lincoln’s assassination, but it was designed by white guys more interested in what whites had done for blacks than what blacks had done for themselves, said Licenziato.

He began to research statues and what they portrayed. In doing so he found many statues beyond the Black Heritage Trail that portrayed history-makers in many ways—perfect for the kind of conversations he wanted to provoke. His narrative describes people as well known as the intrepid and persevering Harriet Tubman, whose statue is in the South End, to lesser known figures as A. Philip Randolph, a labor organizer for railroad workers in the 1920s.

Licenziato did not begin as a trail maker. His career has involved stints at several defunct companies, Filene’s, Bay Banks and Shawmut Bank. Now he works in curriculum development in the pediatric department at Boston Medical Center. His department uses the hospital complex’s research results to develop manuals and educational materials for its users. With that background the “Emancipation Trail” was easy for him to envision and put together.

His descriptions tell the history of the person portrayed, and questions that provoke discussion follow the descriptions.

Licenziato drops a chilling thought into his talks. The first enslaved African arrived in America in 1619, a year before the Pilgrims landed. It will be 2111 before Americans of African descent will have been free as long as they were enslaved.

Licenziato is available for talks and will lead groups on the trail for a fee, which goes to support the printing of his guides. He wanted to thank his friends in the Beacon Hill Scholars, as well as the United South End Settlements, which has helped pay for the guide’s printing costs.

He likes to quote Walt Whitman’s view of America: “Here is not merely a nation, but a teeming nation of nations.”

You can get your own version of the guide by printing the PDF that is on the web site, UnityFirst.com. Click on DiverseCity and then on Tours. Licenziato is reachable by phone, 617-720-2839 or his email at Licenziato@aol.com.

Karen is taking her first break since beginning to write in this space. She is offering some of her most remarked-upon columns for you to enjoy again.

August is the melancholy month, and I’m glad it’s over.

It’s all about ends. The end of the tomatoes, fresh home-grown basil, and corn on the cob. The end of Esplanade concerts, outdoor swimming, and listening to people laugh as they dine outdoors on the sidewalks. It’s during August that the ferns dry up and the sun-scorched leaves on the trees turn the color of toast, especially this year. In fields in the country the yellow mustard has long passed, the St. Johnswort is gone and even the goldenrod has lost its gold.

In New England we plan for summer like no other season, but it is short and slippery, and as the days slide into fall, it is the sounds of season’s end that symbolize the feeling of loss more than any other attribute.

The cicadas start the elegy at the beginning of the month, but by the end the katydids are outperforming them. The jay’s squawk has replaced the finch’s tune. With the windows open in summer we’re in touch with the street—the kid on the skate board shooting down a hill, the police or ambulance siren, the car’s motor as it backs up and inches forward with a driver who hasn’t learned to parallel park on the first try. In the summer I’ve enjoyed the flute player across the street who, sadly for me, moved away. I’ve heard babies crying, and though they may be sad, their cry makes me happy. Another family is beginning; they are living in the city; I hope they stay so I can listen for their shouts in the playgrounds when they grow older.

I’m particularly fond of the crank I hear when the car in front of my house is hoisted up on the tow truck, and then I listen for the mechanical street cleaner’s swish. It’s the sound of clean—at least for a little while.

The summer means the crack of the bat hitting a ball at Fenway. It’s the hospital helicopter transporting the injured, the coast guard helicopter cruising the coast or the river, or the news helicopters covering activity at the State House or on the Waterfront. The sounds are my favorite part of living in a busy city—even if I’m cooped up inside my house I’m always in touch with the outside world.

The sounds of fall are fewer and less noticeable because the windows are closed. In the country, people listen for the sounds of leaves being stepped on or raked. And to some extent we can listen to people stepping on leaves on the sidewalk, but it is not the same. It isn’t until winter that sounds signifying a season return. We hear the scrape of the snowplow or the scratch of the snow shovel when our neighbor—bless him—shovels our 17 feet of sidewalk. It’s then too we hear cars in a different way, when the drivers rev their motors and spin their tires trying to extricate themselves from a snowbank. But before the sound of snow removal, we can’t hear the snowfall since its silence is the opposite of sound.

Not everyone enjoys sounds and their symbolism the way others do. Some people enjoy listening to music on an iPod, but I don’t because it makes me claustrophobic to blot out the world’s sounds. Many successful restaurants have the decibel level of a rock concert—Scampo at the Liberty Hotel is one. I don’t understand the attraction of that noise. The food is wonderful, but one can’t hear the waiter when he is reciting the specials on the menu. I want to go to restaurants in which I can hear my dinner companions. After all, I’m out with them because I like them and want to learn about what they are doing, thinking, predicting and complaining about. (Secret to evading the sounds at Scampo—get a table on the terrace, where all you can hear is the traffic on Storrow Drive, a welcome relief from the inside cacophony.)

But even at restaurants that provide relief from noise, it all ends just after August. It’s not the cold. It’s not the dark I mind. It’s the sounds I’ll miss until next May.

Dear Readers,

As some of you know, I was asked to create Legendary Locals of Beacon Hill, a book of photographs and stories about the people who have helped Beacon Hill begin, grow, prosper and make it the historic, walkable, friendly, quirky place I have lived in for more years than I ever thought possible. I finished the book in March, and it will be out in early September, published by Arcadia Publishing.

Some of you are in the book. Some of you helped me with facts, history and access to photos. Some of you lent me your photos, which I will now return since I know the photos I submitted worked. I had a marvelous time interviewing residents, hearing their stories and putting them and their antecedents into 128 pages.

During the month of September I will present the book in several places and in different formats. These events are free, and the public is invited.

• Thursday, September 11 from 5:30 to 7:39 pm. The first is a launch party at Blackstone’s of Beacon Hill. I’ll be signing books there. Owners Jennifer Hill and Mark Duffield are generously donating the net proceeds to the Beacon Hill Civic Association, the staff of which helped me over several days with gathering material for the book.

• Sunday, September 14 from noon to 4 pm. Beacon Hill Civic Association’s Neighborhood Block Party at the intersection of Charles and Mount Vernon streets.. I’ll be selling books at a table with Jeanne Burlingame, who will offer up the Beacon Hill Garden Club’s Hidden Gardens of Beacon Hill: Creating Green Spaces in Urban Places.

• Thursday, September 25 at 6:30 pm. West End Branch Library. I will give a talk illustrated with photos and stories from the book and some photos I didn’t use.

Karen

Karen is taking her first break since beginning to write in this space. She is offering some of her most remarked-upon columns for you to enjoy again.

Recently, in another part of the country, I found myself in an unusual conversation. One person told us about buying his Rolex, which he then showed off. Another person mentioned her “baby Mercedes.” A third person described the house he was building—the island in the kitchen could seat 17 people, so you can imagine what the rest of the house might be like.

In downtown Boston, the scene would have been considered so down-market. Rolexes are ugly, and car makes are insignificant, since no one knows the kind of car you drive because you can rarely find a space to park in front of your house. Besides, some have no car. As for the island seating 17 people—most of our homes would probably fit into that speaker’s kitchen, but then our tiny space is probably worth more than his whole house.

After having that snarky thought, I pondered our local snobbery. It’s there, but not in makes of cars, fancy jewelry or house size. I checked with my friends, just to see what people knew about status symbols in downtown Boston. They knew a lot.

Take cars. We agreed it’s not the kind of a car you drive, although probably foreign is still better than domestic. Vehicle status here is measured by the number of neighborhood parking stickers that grid your back window. The more stickers, the longer you’ve lived here. Bingo.

Other vehicle stickers can advertise your successes or that of your offspring. Although alma maters still matter, prep school and college names on your car are the heavy-handed way to do it. Just leave your college alumni magazine around when visitors come.

A more subtle up-market attachment to your car, should anyone recognize the vehicle as yours, are those stickers from your yacht club, country club or the town dump where you own your second home. You don’t have a choice—you must display them, so you can’t be accused of trying to show off. The island towns probably carry more status weight than does a Maine, New Hampshire or Vermont town sticker. All of them show that you’re shelling out thousands of dollars a year for these privileges, which lets people know you can afford such entertainments.

Even a lowly land-line telephone number has something to say. In the Back Bay, it’s the prefix 266, on Beacon Hill it is 227, or in Charlestown it is 241 or 242. Those prefixes show you’ve been in the neighborhood a long while, but then again sometimes they are simply handed out to new folks.

Downtown buildings can have front or back gardens, window boxes, roof terraces and visible balconies. If yours is planted beautifully, that is status. If yours is planted beautifully and you did it all yourself, it’s a status home-run.

Interesting or illustrious ancestors used to bestow status, but these days, it’s hard to tell who is who. And after “Clark Rockefeller,” a certain suspicion settles on any newcomer with a historic name.

The part of the Back Bay nearest the Public Garden is considered a better address than near Mass. Ave. although not all the buildings live up to expectations. The front or South Slope of Beacon Hill is still favored over the back or North Slope. Charlestown around the Monument holds more caché than the slope running down to the Mystic. And the Waterfront has more status than the interior of the North End. But all these distinctions are nuanced, because ratty buildings exist in the places with more status and nice ones in the parts of the neighborhood with less status.

Two items stand out in status, however, above all else. One is the ability to get many things done and still make it seem like you have a lot of free time for friends, family and frippery.

Another is, if you are biologically eligible, to have three or more children. It implies you can afford to house them and send them to the pricey schools that downtown children attend or have the leisure time to negotiate with the Boston Public Schools over matters concerning them.

One wonders if the recent royal wedding will have an influence on Boston status. We may never go in for hats like the Brits do, but perhaps the newly named Catherine Mountbatten-Windsor, Duchess of Cambridge has brought back small bosoms as opposed to the silicon-enhanced kind and lace-coverings that frame the face rather than bare unflattering strapless gowns as the most status-filled way to look on one’s wedding day.

I don’t think, however, that my acquaintances from other parts of the country will ever understand why my collection of neighborhood parking stickers trumps any car they could ever drive.

Karen is taking her first break since beginning to write in this space. She is offering some of her most remarked-upon columns for you to enjoy again.

(This probably applies to gubernatorial candidate Charlie Baker as well.)

Our guy Mitt has met trouble lately in his effort to become next year’s Republican presidential candidate. First Michele Bachmann, then Rick Perry, then Herman Cain threatened his front-runner status. Because of ignorance, inarticulateness and womanizing these three are finished. Now Newt Gingrich is on an upswing. Everyone already knows how mean, hypocritical and unfaithful Newt is, so it‘s hard to imagine any new information that could rout him. Newt could wreck Mitt’s dream of becoming president.

That’s sad. Mitt seems like a good guy who has been running for public office since 1994, almost twice as long as he ran Bain Capital. We hate to see a man with a dream disappointed.

But Mitt made a regrettable decision about his affiliation early in his political career. He probably chose the Republican Party because both his parents had run for office admirably on that ticket. But children often reject their parents’ choices. When Mitt saw the direction his parents’ party was going, he should have become a Democrat. He might have had a lot more to show for his efforts than he has now.

Consider this. Mitt is stiff, polished, well-educated, lacking in humor and out of touch with the common man. Sounds like a Democrat to me.

Democrats don’t take umbrage at a Harvard education or lack of humor. Mitt fits in well with Mike Dukakis and John Kerry, two stiff, polished, well-educated men. Mike Dukakis rode the T. Some interpreted this behavior as being holier than thou. His affection for the T paradoxically showed how out of touch he was with the common man. Mitt’s out of touch too. But Democrats can handle such paradoxes.

Democrats would have welcomed Mitt’s views. He was an advocate for choice and he said gay couples were fine with him. At one point Mitt said human activity contributed to global warming. That point of view seemed to reflect his good education and good sense.

But as the Republican Party changed, Mitt was left high and dry. He had to make up stories about his beliefs. He looked less serious as his positions changed.

If he had been a Democrat, he wouldn’t have had to abandon his principles, especially in trying to weasel out of his role in passing Massachusetts’ health care law. Democrats would applaud the law and Mitt for making Massachusetts’s infant mortality rate the lowest in the nation. That’s got to be the outcome any “Christian” would praise. Moreover, because of Mitt’s mandate that everyone has to buy insurance, we no longer have to subsidize the uninsured free-loaders who went to hospitals anyway, raising costs for the rest of us. Mitt could have gotten credit.

Mitt’s Mormon ties get him in trouble with the Republican religious right. He would have had it easier as a Democrat since Democrats don’t care what your religion is or even if you have one. All Democrats care about is that you treat the poor, the unemployed, returning veterans and the disabled with compassion and a leg up. In Christianity, that’s known as the Golden Rule. Mitt’s religion probably subscribes to that notion whether or not it is Christian.

Republicans in general have a problem running for office. Since they don’t like government, it’s hard for them to explain why they want to be part of it. Mitt tries to put a good face on this, talking about smaller government and lower taxes. While he didn’t raise taxes as governor, he did raise fees—a lot. And most people think it’s nit-picking to distinguish between those things. Maybe that’s why Mitt looks anxious on television. Maybe the stress of his contradictions is the reason he talks so fast.

If Mitt were a Democrat he could be proud of running for office and spending almost 20 years doing so. Democrats believe that serving in government is patriotic. And Democrats like experienced politicians, likening them to experienced surgeons. Those are the kind you want when times are tough.

I don’t know what will happen in the Republican primaries in Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and Florida, after which the race is apparently over. But if Mitt loses, he ought to seriously consider becoming a Democrat. He’d be only 69 years of age in 2016, young enough to run again.

But it might be too late. If he had jumped ship long ago, that would have been his only flip-flop. Besides, in 2016, there’s a guy named Andrew Cuomo. How could Mitt handle an effective, appealing governor of New York if he can’t handle weirdo Newt?

Karen is taking her first break since beginning to write in this space. She is offering some of her most remarked-upon columns for you to enjoy again.

I could handle A-Rod. I managed to get through Bernie Madoff, especially since I wasn’t rich enough for him to have targeted me. I listened without too much fuss to the MBTA’s claim that the Silver Line was rapid transit, even though it is pretty obvious to any of its riders, especially when it is stalled in a lane of traffic, that it is only a bus. I could endure the myth that your airline trips earned free travel miles, even after finding out you could never use them because the airlines had so many restrictions and now charge real money for “free” travel.

I was even mildly amused when it turned out that the CEOs of banks, insurance companies, automobile companies and a lot of other titans of industry turned out to have no more idea of how to run a big company than my friends did. (I think my friends could have done a better job.)

I didn’t lose it until last spring whenI started to order my seeds. The Vermont Bean Seed Company turned out to be in Wisconsin.

Is nothing sacred anymore? Is anything real?

The whole world, or at least 80 percent of it, has turned out to be fake. The fakery may be impeding a recovery. How can you trust your investment company if you can’t trust the Vermont Bean Seed Company?

Speaking of seeds, they aren’t real either. Monsanto and other large “seed” companies now produce genetically modified, patented “seed.”

You know what seeds are. You plant them. They produce flowers that turn into seeds. You plant the seeds. You give them to your friends. They grow into plants that produce flowers that turn into seed and so on. It’s been like that for billions of years.

But not Monsanto seeds.

First of all, some of them won’t grow into plants that make seeds. And, like most real seeds, Monsanto’s seeds have a tendency to be blown about by wind and carried by birds. But if the crop you are growing with your own seed gets mixed with Monsanto’s seed and grows into a plant on your land, Monsanto will sue you, as they did a hapless Canadian farmer, for using their seed, even though it seems to me like your seed. It sounds like Monsanto isn’t producing seeds then, but something else. It also sounds un-American, but that’s another story.

So if A-Rod’s prowess, your investments, a bus line, airline miles, CEOs’ talents, and beans and seeds are a sham—and that’s just the tip of the iceberg—what’s a reasonable person to do?

I know what we can’t do. We can’t hand this problem to Obama, since he has enough on his plate and shouldn’t be fixing airline miles, no matter how important they are to me.         Congress isn’t up to the task either, since they keep hauling in sports stars to question them and nothing happens. (One could ask, even one who believes in government intervention, what Congress is doing mucking about in a private business enterprise that so far hasn’t asked for a handout, but never mind.)

I don’t have all the answers but I do have a few to get you started on planning your own strategy to avoid fakery.

First of all, grow your own plants from seeds that you get from a friend. That’s sort of hard to do in downtown Boston when you have no soil. So if you don’t have a window box where you can grow peppers instead of petunias, patronize the farmer’s markets. For the most part, even though I’m skeptical of everything, I think they are real farmers with real vegetables.

Second, put your money only with bankers who live on your street. That’s what I’ve done. I can watch my banker, and she can watch me. As far as I know, she doesn’t own a Rolex watch or drive a Jaguar so I don’t think she has fantasies about using my money to invest in mortgage-backed secured bond and stock derivatives or whatever those unfortunate things are called that gave the financial establishment their big bonuses and us the shaft.

Finally, as a wizened old newspaperman (my uncle) once told me, if you don’t understand something it’s because someone’s not telling you the whole story. So if you don’t understand something, don’t go after it.

That’s a start. If you’ve got other ideas about how to avoid the fakers, I’d like to hear them. We’re not going to get out of this mess until we have a real, not a counterfeit society.

Karen is taking her first break since beginning to write in this space. She is offering some of her most remarked-upon columns for you to enjoy again.

For the first time since I was 18 years old, I have spent a month in the country.

And what a beautiful country it is. Fifty shades of green complimented by the bluest sky ever. Puffy clouds ranging from gray to bright white. Dozens of goldfinches, which my father-in-law called “cornfield canaries,” soar around with their undulating flight.

Grass won’t grow beneath the dense hemlocks, but their gray-green needles are still intact. The ash tree sprawls over the perennial beds, shading them, but not too much. Acorns fall on your head as you walk through an oak forest, but it is not yet clear that it will be a mast year. The maples are at least 100 years old, gnarled, rutted and pitted, their trunks sometimes looking like old faces. No one taps them for syrup, but a farmer down the road has lined his woods with bright blue plastic tubes that deliver sap from hundreds of trees. The pines tower over everything.

The town beach is Scobie Pond, sometimes called Haunted Lake. The water looks like tea and tastes like leaves when you swim in it. Sometimes minnows or snakes glide by, giving everyone a thrill.

This is not Disney World, a mall or anything that reeks of corporate, homogenized America. It’s called the simple life, but there is nothing simple about it.

Instead this is profound New England, much like “la France profonde,” the phrase that calls up a place’s truest, deepest culture. People have had to work hard to make the land the “simple” place it is. Dozens of stone walls, piled up by 18^th or 19^th century farmers, run deep into the woods, where ancient apple tree remains can be found. An old pine stands thick, reaching out with many large branches, signaling that this was once a cleared field, probably used for grazing. Out in the woods, sometimes an old cellar hole becomes obvious. The first Europeans who settled here endured a physically demanding life, not like me whose biggest exertion is hiking up a mountain or weeding the garden.

This is a land of my ancestors—some of them. This is the land they left to find a longer growing season, deeper soil, fewer rocks in the field, a better life. They ended up in the Midwest, as did so many other New England farmers, carrying with them New England names. The Peabody Coal Company was down the road from the farm I grew up on. Its founder lived in Chicago, but his mother and father came from Maine and New Hampshire. Now I’m back, grateful for the early settlers’ efforts.

Autumn is the season for which New England is known, but I’d argue that for New Englanders, summer is the high point. We increasingly have hot days, but many are cool and refreshing. We have enough rain most summers to keep the grass green and the gardens producing.

Painters from the gnarled ocean side of Maine to the green hills of the Berkshires have celebrated summer. Edith Wharton wrote a book with that season’s title, and she did not write books with titles of the other seasons. Summer is the season of Shakespeare’s plays performed outside, music played in tents and parks, of overdosing on sweet corn, pesto, and gazpacho because in a couple of months those treats that are at their best in August will be gone.

There are still blueberries at the top of mountains. Tiny wild dianthus grows among the grasses in the meadow, at times making it glow in vivid pink. Michaelmas daisies have popped out along the edges of the walls and the lanes.

Beavers are in the marsh. Leeches, bullfrogs and big snapping turtles are there too, scaring and delighting the children. Warblers, cedar waxwings and sparrows I have a hard time identifying lurk in the shrubs, making binoculars more important than a frying pan. Deer peek out of the forest. Flocks of turkeys strut across the lawn and balance on the stone walls.        It’s as busy as a street in downtown Boston.

There are dangers here. Bears and fisher cats pose risks to pets. Global warming has caused the hemlocks to be vulnerable to the wooly adelgid. The ash borer is creeping up this way. The spruce budworm has again done in some of the spruce, and the maples and oaks have potential problems too.

But I know we are lucky to be able to spend this month in the country, and I don’t take it for granted. It’s not Syria or other fragile countries in Africa and the middle east, where the world has gone crazy. It is a place of beauty and peace. I hope it stays this way forever.

You’ll soon realize I like this man very much so I’ll say it up front.

I first met Bob O’Brien, the retiring executive director of the Downtown North Association, when he showed up, uninvited, in 1990, to a meeting of the what we called the Cambridge Street Study Committee—“study” because we didn’t want anyone to think we were actually going to do anything. You know how people fear change.

Bob suggested that we redo Cambridge Street—straighten it, plant it, unify it. So we did. Somehow it got on a list of capital projects. It got funded. It took years, but finally it got reconstructed, and it looks pretty good now. All because Bob had a good idea.

After I got to know him, I realized this is how Bob operates. He pays attention to what’s going on in Boston. He represents the interests of Downtown North, but he also promotes the welfare of the whole city. He participates, invited or not. He has good ideas, so people welcome his participation. His written comments can be a bit wordy, but so what. He gets them in and on time.

But he’s a lot more than that. He grew up in northern New Jersey, the oldest of six kids. He came to Boston in 1960 to attend Boston College. “That’s where I met my wife of 49 years,” he says proudly. His wife, Annette, who hails from East Boston, is no slouch either. She was president of her senior class in college, a nurse, a naval officer, a business woman, a director of non-profits. You get the idea that someone should be writing about her, but this is not the place for her biography.

Bob and Annette had four daughters, who now live in Pennsylvania, and six grandchildren. Meanwhile, Bob got an MBA from Columbia and went to work for Xerox as manager of financial planning. But, caught up in the conscience questioning of the 1960s, he left the corporate world and earned a degree from the Harvard Divinity School.

Afterward he meshed his business side and his proclivity toward social action by leading various community service agencies—deputy director of the Kennedy Center in Charlestown and later the founder/manager of the Charlestown Economic Development Corporation. “This was the period of busing,” he said. “It was a contentious time and provided an introduction to politics at the neighborhood and city level that was invaluable.”

He was then appointed by Governor King as executive secretary of the Massachusetts Consumer Council, later becoming director of the North End Union, a social service agency whose work got him involved in Central Artery planning. In 1989, he was hired as the executive director of the Downtown North Association.

Some players have regretted the name of that area, bestowed by Kevin White, between City Hall and the river, with its edges at Beacon Hill and the North End. At the time, White couldn’t call it the West End, since those who had been moved out considered that name theirs.

The Downtown North Association is perhaps like no other neighborhood association in its diversity. Its members are big businesses—Delaware North—small retailers, architects, real estate brokers, hospitals, government agencies, real estate developers, doctors, condominium associations and residents.

Bob’s early concern was whether the West End, which he now identifies as the former Charles River Park, North Station and the Bulfinch Triangle, would survive the Central Artery construction. In the beginning, many ramps to the surface were planned. We’ve seen how hard it is to build on the ramps and how much space they remove from the Greenway. Because of Bob’s work and that of others, only three ramps were eventually built, and Downtown North has benefitted, with several developments of new housing built where the Central Artery once loomed.

His other effort has been to improve the quality of life in that neighborhood, which has been growing fast. A new elementary school is scheduled across Washington Street. Bob hopes a new supermarket will also materialize.

The O’Briens first lived in houses in East Boston, then Winthrop, but since have preferred multi-family housing—Longfellow Place, Harbor Towers, and now Surfside Lofts in Revere. For a time Bob commuted to Boston from a converted stone barn in Pennsylvania, where he and Annette lived while helping a daughter care for an ill child, their grandson, who eventually died. Bob’s loving and articulate tribute to that little boy, which he sent around to his “list,” made one think perhaps he should have become the pastor divinity school must have been training him for.

So now you know about the list. Bob keeps emails—it must be hundreds—to which he daily sends articles gleaned from both popular and obscure sources about architecture, city planning, real estate development, transportation—topics that city nerds love. It’s invaluable to those of us on the list, but he’s giving it up along with his day job.

He plans to do consulting, spend time with his daughters and their families, hole up in Stuart, Florida, during the bad season and still spend time in Boston, although not as much.

With a new mayor and a completed Greenway, Bob says now is a good time for the Downtown North Association to bring on a new director.

He may not be the most famous person in Boston, but Bob is what you’d want every Bostonian to be—a good citizen, a likable man, with the interests of the city at heart.