***Man’s Fate-Redux-What Frank Jackman Learned About The World-Kind Of
The song playing as the story begins ....
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
He, Frank Jackman, didn’t know exactly how he was talked into attending his fourth, or was it fifth, anti-war conference in the space of three weeks. “Jesus,” Frank said to himself, “I just got out of the stockade a few weeks ago and I have been going non-stop ever since.” The details of that Army stockade time need not detain us here, except to say, as Frank said to anybody who asked, that he did what he had to do to stop that “goddam war in Vietnam (exact quote),” he would do it again, and the clincher that closed the conversational point, “next”. And if that was all Frank needed to say about the subject then that was all that needed to be said, next.
That next though was the “come on” that brought Frank up to the foothills of the White Mountains of New Hampshire for that conference that snowy February weekend of 1971. Unlike most “movement” events, unlike the previous four (five?) conferences that he had attended (and maybe from time immemorial), he was going to be given a stipend, small but actual dough, for his work, a bed, an actual bed and not some hard-pressed upon sympathizer’s vacant floor, and said bed would be in his own single room. Beyond that he heard that there would be some interesting people coming, and before you get your notebook out to write down the movement worthies that were coming, Frank’s hearing centered on the hard fact that some interesting women were coming. After all Frank had been in the stockade, and after all in 1971 we were only on the cusp of the women’s liberation movement at a time before such thoughts, at least in public, or in the public prints, became very dicey, very dicey indeed.
And so Frank began hitch-hiking that snow-covered February day U.S. 93 to save some dough, although as part of that “come on” he actually had been given money for a bus ticket as well. But he wanted to get a “feel” for the country and who and what was out there, especially the plethora of yellow brick road school buses and VW’s converted into love mobiles that he had heard about while inside. After a couple of interesting rides and one, well, scary one he arrived at his destination.
As he approached the entrance to the main building, the conference center itself, he could hear inside Elizabeth Cotten’ s Freight Train, in an upbeat Peter, Paul and Mary-style version complete with Bleecker Street reference, being covered just then near the well firewood- stocked, well-stoked fireplace of the great room of this old time religious order assembly hall by some upstart urban folkie a long way from his home and a long way from that 1960s folk revival minute that Frank remembered. Yes, this was the right place, the right place indeed.
Meanwhile, in the front hall entrance that he was then approaching adjacent to that great room where that old-time folkie and his old-time tune were being heard by a small early-bird arrival gathering crowd who never tired of the song, and who this night certainly did not tire of being close by the huge well stocked, well-stoked fireplace where the old brother, hell, let’s give him a name, Eric, Eric from Vermont, okay, was holding forth was starting to fill with more arrivals to be checked in and button-holed. The place, for the curious: the Shaker Farms Peace Pavilion (formerly just plain vanilla Shaker Farms Assembly Hall but the “trust fund babies” who bought and donated the site, and paid for Frank’s stipend, ah, insisted in their, of course, anonymous way on the added signature) the scene of umpteen peace conferences, anti-war parlays, alternative world vision seminars, non-violent role-playing skits, and personal witness actions worked out. A handy hospice for worn-out ideas, ditto frustrations, and an off-hand small victory or two.
And Frank, fresh from the stockade or not, was starting to be a picture of his tribal brothers seen at this gathering of the faithful and determined. A young ruddy-complexioned man, twenty-something, brown hair starting to fill out on the sides and down the back, a brown beard starting to go beyond wisp, sporting slightly scuffed high-top black boots, hell army boots, denim bell-bottomed trousers, army-jacket one size too large, always one size too large, stared across the great hall. The garment “style” just described obviously reflecting a recent discharge from some army, some shooting army, that aimed to join another less rigid army, if less rigid are the right words for the explosion among the young of his generation, the generation of ’68.
But all that was so much off-hand description, so much political foreplay. Frank was watching, watching carefully for those interesting women “promised” during the “come on” pitch that brought him to these damn snowy outback hills. He, no question, a city boy was unconformable being more than five feet away from city lights, asphalt city streets (the snowy road up to the farm entrance was rutted, dirt rutted), and a bookstore. As he panned the conference room that he just entered Frank eyed, fierce piercing blue-eyes that spoke of ancient sadnesses and a little treachery eyed, a young woman on the other side of the room. A dark-haired, pert, petite young woman, who was also present at that same umpteenth helter-skelter workshop in order to save this or that part of this wicked old world. And she eyed him right back. They both would laugh later and call it kid hide-and-seek eying. But that was later.
Just then though they kept up their “war” of peek and half- peek (and half whimsical smiles thrown in) until Frank was called up by Stanley Bloom, yes, that Stanley, well-known for his organizing exploits the year before when he almost single-handedly organized the student strikes after Kent State. After firing up the crowd with the need to think “outside the box,” up the ante and finish the job of ending the damn war (exact quote) Frank moved to the side to talk to Marge Goodwin, the organizer of this confab. In between the political back and forth he inquired about that dark-haired young woman. Marge replied, “Oh, Joyell Davin, she is from the Peace Action committee, they spear-headed the rallies out in front of Fort Shaw last year trying to get you out of the stockade.” Bingo.
Needless to say that at intermission Frank drew a bee-line for Joyell. As he approached her he simply shook her hand gently and said in a half-whisper (a half whisper that they would remember later, although they did not laugh at that one), “Thanks, for your work last year at Fort Shaw on my behalf, I appreciated it and it helped me get through the time.” And that was that. Joyell blushed profusely but something in that simple introduction started an avalanche of conversation about this and that. Who remembers except that it was incessant as if to stop would start the impending world madness outside of that little space between them. What did stop it was the call back to the second session. But before they parted Frank, half-sheepishly, a little kid-like said, “Maybe we can talk later, after the session is over.” And Joyell, usually no shy violet, although a little intimidated by Frank’s “movement” heavy-footstep heroics, blurted out instantly, “We’d better.” Frank shot back just as quickly, “Well I guess that is an order, right?” They laughed, laughed an adventures ahead laugh.
And, of course, they did meet later. Later came, came, evening session complete, as they were sitting across from each other in the great room, the great fireplace room where Eric was going through his second rendition of Freight Train to get the room revved up for his big stuff. Frank came over and asked, back to whisper again asked, if Joyell would like to go outside for a breath of fresh winter air. Or maybe somewhere else, another room inside, if she didn’t like the cold or snow. No second request was necessary, and no coyness on her part, as she quickly went to the coat rack and put on her coat, scarf, and boots. .
They talked, or rather she talked a blue streak, a soft-spoken blue streak like Frank’s manner was contagious and maybe it was, and then he would ask a question, and ask it in such a way that he really wanted to know, know her for her answer and not just to ask, polite ask. As they walked, and walked, and as the snow got deeper she kind of fell, kind of helpless on purpose fell. On purpose fell expecting that he might kiss her. But all he did was pick her up, firmly, held her in his arms just a fraction of a second, but a fraction of a second enough to let her know, and let her feel, that they had not seen the last of each other. And just for that cold, snow-driven February night, as war raged on in some distance land, and as she gathered in her tangled emotions after many romantic stumbles and man disappointments, that thought was enough.
And they kept eying each other through immediate snows, immediate back to the city safe-haven snows, gentle first kisses and downy beds, leafy spring bike rides on suburban trails (safe asphalt trails), be-bop dead of night drug hazes (better left unrecorded just in case the statute of limitations has not run out), east coast hitch-hike trips to some forlorn demo for this or that cause in a world increasingly full of hurts and oppressions in need of mending and someone to do something about them, massive explorations of the blue-pink great American West night in army-like pup tent and surplus sleeping bags, some misunderstandings, some serious misunderstandings, some rages against the night, some double rages against the day and night, some fitful irresolute break-ups, some infidelities (agreed to, or not), some two-roads-taken, and then, strictly reflecting that young man’s, Frank’s, broken-down sense of the world, silence, no more words spoken, in anger or otherwise.
Except later, much later, some cosmic message spoken by him speaking of that helter-skelter meeting, the snowy night, the walk, and the “moment” when he first held her firmly, to keep her from falling, without a kiss, but with an understanding that their stars had crossed, and he, they, knew some high adventure was ahead. The unadorned cosmic message was all that was left. Why hadn’t he had the sense to have a sense of her needs and kiss her right there in those immediate falling snows?
The song playing as the story begins ....
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
He, Frank Jackman, didn’t know exactly how he was talked into attending his fourth, or was it fifth, anti-war conference in the space of three weeks. “Jesus,” Frank said to himself, “I just got out of the stockade a few weeks ago and I have been going non-stop ever since.” The details of that Army stockade time need not detain us here, except to say, as Frank said to anybody who asked, that he did what he had to do to stop that “goddam war in Vietnam (exact quote),” he would do it again, and the clincher that closed the conversational point, “next”. And if that was all Frank needed to say about the subject then that was all that needed to be said, next.
That next though was the “come on” that brought Frank up to the foothills of the White Mountains of New Hampshire for that conference that snowy February weekend of 1971. Unlike most “movement” events, unlike the previous four (five?) conferences that he had attended (and maybe from time immemorial), he was going to be given a stipend, small but actual dough, for his work, a bed, an actual bed and not some hard-pressed upon sympathizer’s vacant floor, and said bed would be in his own single room. Beyond that he heard that there would be some interesting people coming, and before you get your notebook out to write down the movement worthies that were coming, Frank’s hearing centered on the hard fact that some interesting women were coming. After all Frank had been in the stockade, and after all in 1971 we were only on the cusp of the women’s liberation movement at a time before such thoughts, at least in public, or in the public prints, became very dicey, very dicey indeed.
And so Frank began hitch-hiking that snow-covered February day U.S. 93 to save some dough, although as part of that “come on” he actually had been given money for a bus ticket as well. But he wanted to get a “feel” for the country and who and what was out there, especially the plethora of yellow brick road school buses and VW’s converted into love mobiles that he had heard about while inside. After a couple of interesting rides and one, well, scary one he arrived at his destination.
As he approached the entrance to the main building, the conference center itself, he could hear inside Elizabeth Cotten’ s Freight Train, in an upbeat Peter, Paul and Mary-style version complete with Bleecker Street reference, being covered just then near the well firewood- stocked, well-stoked fireplace of the great room of this old time religious order assembly hall by some upstart urban folkie a long way from his home and a long way from that 1960s folk revival minute that Frank remembered. Yes, this was the right place, the right place indeed.
Meanwhile, in the front hall entrance that he was then approaching adjacent to that great room where that old-time folkie and his old-time tune were being heard by a small early-bird arrival gathering crowd who never tired of the song, and who this night certainly did not tire of being close by the huge well stocked, well-stoked fireplace where the old brother, hell, let’s give him a name, Eric, Eric from Vermont, okay, was holding forth was starting to fill with more arrivals to be checked in and button-holed. The place, for the curious: the Shaker Farms Peace Pavilion (formerly just plain vanilla Shaker Farms Assembly Hall but the “trust fund babies” who bought and donated the site, and paid for Frank’s stipend, ah, insisted in their, of course, anonymous way on the added signature) the scene of umpteen peace conferences, anti-war parlays, alternative world vision seminars, non-violent role-playing skits, and personal witness actions worked out. A handy hospice for worn-out ideas, ditto frustrations, and an off-hand small victory or two.
And Frank, fresh from the stockade or not, was starting to be a picture of his tribal brothers seen at this gathering of the faithful and determined. A young ruddy-complexioned man, twenty-something, brown hair starting to fill out on the sides and down the back, a brown beard starting to go beyond wisp, sporting slightly scuffed high-top black boots, hell army boots, denim bell-bottomed trousers, army-jacket one size too large, always one size too large, stared across the great hall. The garment “style” just described obviously reflecting a recent discharge from some army, some shooting army, that aimed to join another less rigid army, if less rigid are the right words for the explosion among the young of his generation, the generation of ’68.
But all that was so much off-hand description, so much political foreplay. Frank was watching, watching carefully for those interesting women “promised” during the “come on” pitch that brought him to these damn snowy outback hills. He, no question, a city boy was unconformable being more than five feet away from city lights, asphalt city streets (the snowy road up to the farm entrance was rutted, dirt rutted), and a bookstore. As he panned the conference room that he just entered Frank eyed, fierce piercing blue-eyes that spoke of ancient sadnesses and a little treachery eyed, a young woman on the other side of the room. A dark-haired, pert, petite young woman, who was also present at that same umpteenth helter-skelter workshop in order to save this or that part of this wicked old world. And she eyed him right back. They both would laugh later and call it kid hide-and-seek eying. But that was later.
Just then though they kept up their “war” of peek and half- peek (and half whimsical smiles thrown in) until Frank was called up by Stanley Bloom, yes, that Stanley, well-known for his organizing exploits the year before when he almost single-handedly organized the student strikes after Kent State. After firing up the crowd with the need to think “outside the box,” up the ante and finish the job of ending the damn war (exact quote) Frank moved to the side to talk to Marge Goodwin, the organizer of this confab. In between the political back and forth he inquired about that dark-haired young woman. Marge replied, “Oh, Joyell Davin, she is from the Peace Action committee, they spear-headed the rallies out in front of Fort Shaw last year trying to get you out of the stockade.” Bingo.
Needless to say that at intermission Frank drew a bee-line for Joyell. As he approached her he simply shook her hand gently and said in a half-whisper (a half whisper that they would remember later, although they did not laugh at that one), “Thanks, for your work last year at Fort Shaw on my behalf, I appreciated it and it helped me get through the time.” And that was that. Joyell blushed profusely but something in that simple introduction started an avalanche of conversation about this and that. Who remembers except that it was incessant as if to stop would start the impending world madness outside of that little space between them. What did stop it was the call back to the second session. But before they parted Frank, half-sheepishly, a little kid-like said, “Maybe we can talk later, after the session is over.” And Joyell, usually no shy violet, although a little intimidated by Frank’s “movement” heavy-footstep heroics, blurted out instantly, “We’d better.” Frank shot back just as quickly, “Well I guess that is an order, right?” They laughed, laughed an adventures ahead laugh.
And, of course, they did meet later. Later came, came, evening session complete, as they were sitting across from each other in the great room, the great fireplace room where Eric was going through his second rendition of Freight Train to get the room revved up for his big stuff. Frank came over and asked, back to whisper again asked, if Joyell would like to go outside for a breath of fresh winter air. Or maybe somewhere else, another room inside, if she didn’t like the cold or snow. No second request was necessary, and no coyness on her part, as she quickly went to the coat rack and put on her coat, scarf, and boots. .
They talked, or rather she talked a blue streak, a soft-spoken blue streak like Frank’s manner was contagious and maybe it was, and then he would ask a question, and ask it in such a way that he really wanted to know, know her for her answer and not just to ask, polite ask. As they walked, and walked, and as the snow got deeper she kind of fell, kind of helpless on purpose fell. On purpose fell expecting that he might kiss her. But all he did was pick her up, firmly, held her in his arms just a fraction of a second, but a fraction of a second enough to let her know, and let her feel, that they had not seen the last of each other. And just for that cold, snow-driven February night, as war raged on in some distance land, and as she gathered in her tangled emotions after many romantic stumbles and man disappointments, that thought was enough.
And they kept eying each other through immediate snows, immediate back to the city safe-haven snows, gentle first kisses and downy beds, leafy spring bike rides on suburban trails (safe asphalt trails), be-bop dead of night drug hazes (better left unrecorded just in case the statute of limitations has not run out), east coast hitch-hike trips to some forlorn demo for this or that cause in a world increasingly full of hurts and oppressions in need of mending and someone to do something about them, massive explorations of the blue-pink great American West night in army-like pup tent and surplus sleeping bags, some misunderstandings, some serious misunderstandings, some rages against the night, some double rages against the day and night, some fitful irresolute break-ups, some infidelities (agreed to, or not), some two-roads-taken, and then, strictly reflecting that young man’s, Frank’s, broken-down sense of the world, silence, no more words spoken, in anger or otherwise.
Except later, much later, some cosmic message spoken by him speaking of that helter-skelter meeting, the snowy night, the walk, and the “moment” when he first held her firmly, to keep her from falling, without a kiss, but with an understanding that their stars had crossed, and he, they, knew some high adventure was ahead. The unadorned cosmic message was all that was left. Why hadn’t he had the sense to have a sense of her needs and kiss her right there in those immediate falling snows?
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