u/libertyvillen

So, I pulled into one of the two spots dedicated to the ChargePoint charging station, hoping against hope that it would work because it seemingly never does. I wasn’t disappointed. It didn’t work. I called ChargePoint and they confirmed that the charger has been down since June 2025. That’s not a typo—2025. I asked if ChargePoint intended to get around to fixing it. Apparently, they need the permission of the property owner to fix it, and I was told they’ve attempted several times to contact the property owner and have not received a reply. For 17 months.

“The Mix at Porter Square”—formerly known as The Porter Square Shopping Center—was purchased by TA Realty, a Boston-based real estate investment firm, in May 2022 for $390 million. (Tell your friends that you’re headed to “The Mix” and see what kind of quizzical look you get.) TA Realty has “managed, acquired, or invested” $44 billion in real estate since 1982. That, too, was not a typo. That was billion with a “b”. You’ll remember that one of the first things that TA Realty did was to remove the solar panels that had been there for forever. TA Realty does have a Director of ESG, so they at least give a nod to sustainability. Not going to name him here, because that would be a crappy thing to do.

“The Mix” is managed by Wilder, a real estate management firm. Wilder has a contact for Porter Square on their web site—not going to post it here either, but it’s easily found.

If you’re inclined to ask about why no one cares to work with ChargePoint to fix the EV charger at “The Mix” (I wince every time I write it) then reach out to TA Realty’s ESG Director and/or the Wilder contact. And while you’re at it, ask them why they removed and did not replace the solar panels.

Attention must be paid by our corporate overlords.

When I saw you—a big guy, bending over to leave something tiny in the middle of the street, then stoop over it to photograph it against the pavement—I thought it was odd. When you saw me, after you took the picture, you pocketed your phone, crossed the street into Nathan Tufts Park, and headed down a path into the dark, walking quickly as if you might be able to leave unnoticed. …As if.

After my dog had peed I went to see what you had left—a tiny chickadee. Not a naked bird that had fallen helpless out its nest, but an immature, fully-feathered chickadee—one that had been able to grasp a branch and sing.

When I picked it up it was clear that it might be gone, but it was still warm. It barely filled my palm—its eyes closed, its tiny claws clamped, closed tightly on nothing.

How did this small thing come into your possession? Was it still alive when you picked it up? Did you feel its beating wings inside your closed fist until they stopped beating? Why did you leave it on the pavement in the middle of Powderhouse Terrace? And why did you then stoop to photograph its still body against the pavement?

I picked it up, warmth in my hand, brought it home, and hoped that maybe it could be revived, but it was gone. So are you I, have to guess—far, far, gone.

Tomorrow we will bury the chickadee in our backyard, and after it is buried we will listen to the other chickadees calling to it.