***Out In The American Neon Wilderness-In The Beginning

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

 

This is the way that I heard the story one bar stool night from Josie Little, a young woman in the troubled last throes of a dying love that would not quite quit whom I had met in Cambridge while trailing a story. We had met in an earlier different bar several weeks before, and I had become immediately interested in her and she, with qualifications, interested in me. Qualifications that Josie would not disclose until this night despite the fact that we had shared a bed together on several occasions. Yeah, this is the way I heard a story out in the American neon wilderness. Another one of those in a long line of stories of a still not quite finished love that nevertheless had nowhere to go, a story she felt needed to be told just then, just that one long sad, rainy, bluesy Cambridge bar stool night in late 1977, the Miller Hi-Life sign blinking off and on making strange shadows on Josie’s sad brown eyes world as she spoke: 

 

…she, Josie Little (Anglicized from Litvinov a couple of generations back, back around the turn of the 20^th century, by paternal Jewish grandparents from Russia seeking Americanization as well as by the sleight-of- hand of immigration officials at Ellis Island who could not spell the old country name correctly), had been at her wit's end, or maybe that was too harsh a term to express her condition giving her need, but she had been unhappy in the early 1970s, a few years before this Miller-Hi-Life sign-etched bar stool conversation took place. Unhappy after years, her growing up years, of being the dutiful daughter, the New York Jewish middle-class gentile-emulating dutiful daughter. No JAP princess she although she had dreamed of that exalted position when she was young and had hung out with some serious JAPs when she attended Hunter College High School in Manhattan where she had been an outstanding student, and they, well, they attended the school and that name looked good on the future husband-hunting resumes. Just that early 1970s then though she had been unhappy, having just finished an internship (via Boston University) with Doctor Thaddeus Telly, yes that Telly, the big up and coming quantum sociologist who at the time was on the cutting edge of the next big thing in the field (now superseded by about twenty-seven newer cutting edges), and she was also exhausted from study, research and her gofer existence on his team..

Having been the dutiful daughter, striving to please her parents as she accumulated each new degree and award, Josie had missed the turmoil on the campuses in the 1960s (her undergraduate campus the volatile radical hotbed University Of Wisconsin, although given her dogged attention to her studies she said she might as well have been at North Dakota State or some such Podunk school). She had only found out about half the anti-war, anti-establishment, anti, well, anti- everything, every not student thought of stuff that went on there when she had come to Boston, and her fellow doctoral program students kept quizzing her about this and that thing, the demonstrations, the shuts-downs, the music and dope, that had happened in Madison and had she been she involved in it once they knew where she was from. More importantly, she had missed that new wave breeze that had come through the land in those days, the palpable sense of jailbreak from what pleased (or didn’t please) parents, professors, police, employers , or anyone else who got in the way. She was ready, all twenty-five years of her ready, to break out, break out and check out what he had called the American neon wilderness.

The he in question, that not quite finished love with nowhere to go, Allan Murphy, her boyfriend, companion, partner, lover whatever term of art, relationship art you wished to use in those topsy-turvy times, had told her about the search for the American neon wilderness one night when they had been together for while (not living together, that came later), the night when she first tried some mescaline with him. And how after that night she had been frantic to get out and see the American countryside and make her own estimate about what was going, or not going, on. As part of that mescaline dream night Allan had steadily tried to coax her into travelling with him on that journey, a journey that would probably last six months to a year depending, depending on what pleased them, what they wanted to see, what happened on that far-flung road and she had gotten getting rid of enough hesitations in order to get rid of that wit's end condition, or whatever it was that was eating at her to buy into his plan. But as she said this she said she was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t explained to me how she had come to be entranced by Allan, how she had begun to smell those open roads wherever they might lead and to dream of them, and to begin to think of a defensive barrage against her parents’ seventy-seven wishes, expectations, and disappointments when explanation time came.

Sometime after she had come to Boston in late 1970 she had settled into the student ghetto across the river in Brighton with her own little first- floor apartment off of Commonwealth Avenue, and after she had settled into her studies, those Telly-inspired studies that she was exhausted from, she had become interested in what was then to be the last stages of the anti-Vietnam war movement. That interest was sparked (along with some square-baiting by some fellow interns when she expressed her previous basically un-political nature) on a couple of dates with a guy whom she met through a girl in her Advanced Quantum Sociology seminar, Lucy, who was something in the Socialist Workers Party or their youth group, the Young Socialist Alliance, organizations that at the time were involved in a last push to end the war in Southeast Asia before President Nixon blew the places to kingdom come. Those organizations were also involved (as were other groups) in trying to corral in or contribute to the burgeoning anti-war fever among the U.S. soldiers, both in America and in Vietnam. The rank and file soldiers of the Army, in particular, were half in mutiny over the pace of withdrawal and other issues related to their in- your- face cannon-fodder existence.

One night, one Monday night, she attended a meeting here in Cambridge, at the Harvard Divinity School, where there was to be planning for a retreat to help organize that anti-war G.I. movement. A lot of those in attendant were ex-servicemen, including Allan. Allan had just been released from an Army stockade after about a year for refusing to fight in Vietnam (or anywhere else for that matter, although Josie did not know that at the time) and as the meeting progressed and it was his turn to speak he was explaining the ins and outs of his struggle to get out of the clutches of the military, the complicated legal case that was waged to get him out, and the absolute (his word) necessity of continuing to directly cramp the military’s style by going right to the source, the soldier, the cannon fodder(his term that is where she got it from having had absolutely no experience or knowledge about the military). He said all of this in a slow, steady style with a wicked Boston accent, you know that “pahk the cah in Harvard Yahd” goof stuff that the slain President Kennedy had made everybody aware of a few years previously when they were growing up and coming of age, combined with a little working-class twist. While he was addressing the audience she, sitting not twenty feet away from him, noticed that he had some very fierce blue eyes. She, from a brown-eyed, brown hair, brown everything world (including all brown herself) had never seen such blue eyes, and fierce too. She was mesmerized.

After Allan finished his talk and the audience broke into groups that were split up according to what task one wished to participant in to help organize that upcoming anti-war G.I. retreat she gravitated toward the group where he was sitting, the contacting GIs group. When the members introduced themselves she noticed that he was kind of staring, well, not staring but he kept looking in her direction, and gave a little smile her way. She responded with little smiles too, and a little confusion too because while she considered herself nice, and maybe pretty, she was not some “movement” heavy or anything like that, as were some of the other women in the room. She tried to see if he was smiling at anybody else, at any other woman there. She did not think so.

At the close of the meeting Allan went up to her and softly, very softly, shook her hand and said that he hoped that she would be able to make the retreat to be held at a site, a well-known retreat site, just over the New Hampshire border that had been donated to the cause by some anonymous people who wanted to make sure that “the movement” had a place to put on such events. People, according to Allan and others were always doing stuff like that then. It was part of that wave that she had missed most of by being the dutiful daughter. That was all that happened that night though. A hand-shake. Damn, that was it.

The retreat was to be held two weekends after that meeting and Josie had originally planned to attend the event even before the talk with Allan, if she got her studies completed by then. After “meeting” Allan she knew she would be going and as it turned out she would be going up in the same car as him. That retreat Friday night as they met in Harvard Square with those who would drive them up on the trip north she noticed Allan looking at her in that same way he had looked at her at that first meeting with that little smile when they greeted. After arriving at their destination in New Hampshire (Brookline)  and while waiting in line to register he asked her, expressing a hope, a fervent hope he said later, that she would spare some time to talk to him if she had a chance.

This comment disarmed Josie a little, most of the guys she had dated (and slept with, while she may have been dutiful daughter she was no prude, not since back in Hunter College High days when those Jewish princesses told her, and showed her, what was what with guys), mostly Jewish guys from Long Island or places like that, not the city, when she went to Wisconsin, had been, maybe sensing something in her, kind of pushy, kind of bossy and took the lead, like it was a manly right. And in the boy and girl wars then those were kind of the rules, at least that is what she thought and everybody else did too, new breeze coming through or not. Here though was a guy who was asking her if she had time for him, like he didn’t take that local poster boy of the anti-war GI struggle role assigned to him all that seriously. At least with her. With a dry throat and barely getting what she had to say out Josie remembered she said she hoped that he might have some time to talk to her. She blushed, red-brown blushed, and he, sensing the oddness of the moment just squeezed her hand, squeezed it almost as softly as at their first meeting. Then he said with those blue eyes sparkling, not fierce but devilishly sparkling , showing his little blarney Irish side (his term, explained later), he would not have bothered to come up if he hadn’t expected to talk to her. And then he blushed, and out of nowhere she squeezed his hand. Whether it was softly done or not she could not remember but it was a squeeze. Just then someone yelled out the first call for the meeting to start and they parted, him turning back to her with that quizzical smile as they did so. And that was how they had started and maybe why she was ready later to chance things, to chuck everything to travel with him wherever the winds might take them.

Josie kept coming back to that first mescaline-edged night when Allan laid out his puff dream scenario, scenarios really, since they were, drug-induced, up all night and half the next day. Allan had said all along, or from pretty early on in their affair, that he had a childhood dream that he wished to tell her about, wished to bring her in on, wished her to make part of her dreams too but that he felt that he should wait until the proper moment to discuss it. The proper moment being understood as a time when they were comfortable with each other, comfortable enough that he could spill what he had to say and not be dismissed out of hand. And also, to be in some drug –induced state, not weed but mescaline which she had never tried, that they could feel totally honest with each other and then he changed his mind and said she could dismiss the thing out of hand if the whole enterprise felt too crazy to her.

Josie had not experimented with drugs while she was at drudge Wisconsin although she (or anybody else ) could not walk into a dorm or most any place on campus, or its immediate environs like the Rathskeller, the big hip local drink, drug, and  rock and roll hang-out, without getting at least a second-hand high (she did not know what that meant then but only learned what it meant subsequently) from some pungent mary jane, weed, herb or whatever somebody called those substances on any given day or reflecting any given local moniker for the stuff. She had heard, as well, that peyote buttons, mescaline, a little LSD (for the advanced heads but not as widely used as on the East and West coasts), and more and more, cocaine were becoming favored recreational drugs de jus but no, she had not partaken of those pleasures.

When she had come to Boston some people in one of her classes, Advanced Quantum Sociology (a seminar taught by Professor Telly himself), organized a party and that was where she had her first drug encounter as a big old joint was passed around and she felt she had to be cool and so took a few hits and coughed, coughed like crazy for a while when the harsh smoke hit her throat and everybody laughed. [Join the club, sister.] She liked it, like the way it relaxed her, like the odd feeling and strange moods that she felt while high but had seldom imbibed in while she was in her drudge phase before Allan.

Strangely sometime after that first experience she had kept some hash, given as a gift from some guy who took her fancy one night at the Kasbah Grille in Harvard Square when she was “on the hunt” with her girlfriends. He had spent the night with her at her apartment after he had introduced her to the bong of hashish (and its far less harsh throat-tickling and more vivid sweet dreams than weed) that next morning, since he was heading out of the hitchhike road to D.C. for some anti-war demonstration and knew, especially in Connecticut knew, that if he did not want to spend some hard time, some very hard time, in the pokey that he better not be “holding.” And thus the gift (fired up when Allan and she were looking for a different kick when he said he had never tried the stuff).

Allan and she, started, discreetly, to smoke more weed (his term, she always had called it pot from what she heard it called in her Wisconsin days but she picked up his more street-wise term for some reason) both to relax, relax while having sex, and just to kind of catch up with their generation and its predilections. The discreet part was necessary because he, and to a lesser extent she, had a high political profile doing that anti-war G.I. work that placed them square in the sights of the state, its military, and the federal cops. Once he had been hauled in for questioning by the feds in Boston and that clinched the discreet part. So no smoking in the Wild West streets of Boston, or at parties, and such. Their connection was through an interesting  third party, Sam Stevens, who had a millions connections for dope, mostly weed, going all the way down to high-grade Mexico and back, although he, himself was not a dealer but an angel of mercy, a guy who passed the stuff on to his friends. He lived like a lot of Boston student ghetto denizens off a very hefty trust fund and so not only did he have the capacity to show largesse, but did so.  A real cool guy.

Allan admitted to her that he had not previously been much of a drug user; he said maybe he would do a little speed on exam prep nights to catch up on that reading he had put off until the last minute at school, before his army stint, before he got “religion” on what the American state was all about. Until then he  had been, as an official member in good-standing of the working-class, of the Irish working-class, a heavy drinker, whisky mainly, with a beer chaser when he was frisky, water chaser when he was broke, and had done just a little dope in the service, some passed joints.  He said that he didn’t like the taste of the stuff, the way the smoke bothered his throat, although he was a tobacco smoker, or the way it made him feel, feel out of control, in another place without kicks. And that was how they got to the idea of trying mescaline and other drugs, but mainly mescaline to help express eternal truths or whatever they thought would come from such experimentation. Naturally Sam was the friendly provider for the stuff, and also to insure that it was righteous since in that period of time lots of awful stuff was being put into drugs by street dealers who were looking to make quick scores and blow town, and let the rubes figure out the stuff of dreams, or of dream puffs.

So that first mescaline night Allan told of his child dream, his dream to escape the damn world that he was born into and hadn’t any say in creating, or being asked about. Josie could see when Allan talked like that, in that Jehovah righteous tone why he would be a prime candidate for some foreboding army stockade or the bastinado when the deal went down, although his decision to confront the Army head-on was a closer thing than one might think as he explained one night, one non drug-induced night. Allan mentioned that “had not being asked about stuff” had bothered him since about age ten or eleven. He related some stuff about his family, as she did about hers but that was later, about how he was in a constant civil war with his mother from as early as he could remember. His poor, hard-working when he could find work father, with no breaks in the world, straight from the hard scrabble world of coal mine Appalachia, was a shadow figure somewhere in the background. The main bouts were with “Ma,” over money, over going, or not going here or there, of breathing, breathing too much to hear him tell it. Kids’ stuff but big on some kid horizon. So that around ten or eleven he started dreaming, first started dreaming about escaping from his tumble- down working poor boy fate, starting dreaming about the big jail breakout from the old ways.

Where Allan lived growing up was near the water in Hull, about fifteen or twenty miles from Boston. He said he could see across to Castle Island on a good day and so he could see the tankers and other ships coming into the bay to leave off their product or pick up stuff. That is where he then got the idea to build a raft and go out to join a ship moored in the channel and flee to the big wide world parts unknown. In the end it didn’t work out since his reach exceeded his grasp, he could not, not being very good mechanically even then, even with brother help get a sea-worthy, a channel-worthy raft together. But that escape idea, that idea of seeing the great big world, of seeing in person the places and persons that he had heard about, from teachers and others heard about, read about, big sassy book poured over and thumbed over until he was exhausted read about, and seen too on that old black and white television screen we all were glued to which crowded his brain.

That failed raft experiment, in any case, was not the end of his strivings although it ended his physical break-out end for a while. He spoke one night of sneaking out the back of the family house (he called it a shack and when he took me there on one ill-advised meet with his mother I had to agree with him although I was always too polite to say anything bad about the place) on midnight runs to Harvard Square at sixteen. Of walking a couple of miles to catch a local all-night bus to then catch the subway at Fields Corner in Dorchester and to rumble, tumble, amble his way over to Cambridge, to the all-night open Hayes-Bickford. Being there just to feel the air of the place when things were beginning to happen in 1962, to just be around the new thing, the jailbreak out thing that he sensed was coming. And then rumble, tumble, amble back on that subway before dawn to avoid mother worries, mother hassles and mother penalties. And then one thing led to another and he put the dream on hold, put it on hold through college, through whisky nights, through some personal political dream etched out in Kennedy days splendor, in short  “to get his” while helping others to get theirs. And so his horizon narrowed, his fervent desire to see, hear, read, be with everything, everybody, to see how things ticked is what he said he called it faded, childhood, young manhood faded.

And then came the Army. Allan didn’t like to talk about it, talk about it all that much, especially when early on Josie would go on and on about what the experience was like in order to get a feel for who she was getting tied up with, about what happened while he was in the military, the Army. He would cut her short with this- “he did what he had to do, did it, and he was not sorry, nor sorry for a minute, that he did what he did.” He added, chuckling, the worst of it was when they threw him in solitary for a while and wouldn’t let him smoke cigarettes in those days when he was a fairly heavy smoker (although the system worked out among solitary prisoners allowed him to cadge a few puffs while in the rest room, oh no what did he call it, oh yeah, the latrine). He had begun to smoke more after he was inducted when there was so much dead time that the trainees would just stand around smoking one cigarette after another to kill time until some jackass (his word) sergeant sadistically decided he wanted his charges to double- time with full backpack somewhere for some reason known only to that self-same sergeant, for some odd national or personal security reason.

Mainly though Allan said he would go back and forth in his mind about whether before he went in he should have decided differently and not allowed himself to be inducted. The back and forth really centered on that faded dream, that faded break out dream that he let fall on the back burner at a time when having it front and center would have counted . See, he came from working-class people, no, working poor, a notch below that, his poor be-draggled father, from down in Podunk (his term) Kentucky, down in white hillbilly Appalachia, down among the poor white trash of literature. The just poor that she knew needed help from when she read Michael Harrington’s The Other America for a sociology class that she took as an under-graduate where he described the white folks left behind in the go-go America of the 1950s.

Allan had turned red one time when Josie mentioned that book and that she knew, book knew, of what his father, and his people were all about, “the wretched of the earth” in America. He related a story, a school story, about how his high school,  Hull High, was going to reach out to the victims in Appalachia by sending food, clothing and money down there, down to Hazard, Kentucky. Jesus, he said when the headmaster announced the program over the loudspeaker, that was where his father was born (Allan had shown her that fact listed on his birth certificate one day). In any case his father was always out of work, out of luck, and out of Allan’s frame of reference especially when he got older and started drifting away from the family and started to develop his own political perspective and his own jailbreak way out of the scene he grew up with.

But that was exactly the problem, that from hunger bringing up, that hand-me-down-where-is-the-rent-money-coming-from-keep-your-eyes-to-the-ground-shame and sorry combined with three thousand pounds of plain ordinary vanilla 1950s all ships rising teen angst and teen alienation, that came between Allan and all his decisions in those days. Along with some very standard American idiotic patriotic my-country-right-or- wrong local mores and customary Roman Catholic subservience to authority, Rome or D.C.(in this life he said, all was to be milk and honey in the next) in that Irish neighborhood that he grew up in. That and his very real appetite for going for the main chance in politics. That was what he had been aiming for, a career, a regular career in politics, “helping his people while helping himself,” is the way he put it.

Allan told Josie that he had spent most of 1968 working that main chance idea as he was getting ready to graduate from school and had some time to “build his resume.” He started out that fateful year holding his nose and committed to backing Lyndon Johnson for re-election until Eugene McCarthy (Irish Gene he mentioned, a poet and a dreamer and thus worthy of support) pushed the envelope and Johnson backed out. He went wild for Robert Kennedy, his idea of a beau political animal then, ruthless to political enemies, young or old, and not forgetful about old wounds either, and this beautiful patrician vision of “seeking a newer world.” When Bobby was assassinated he went over to Humphrey and would up there under the principal that Richard Noxious, uh, Nixon was the main enemy of the people of the world (and of his political advancement). So not the profile of a guy who was going to chance charging windmills, or crush dreams of bourgeois break-outs, no way.

So Allan went, sullenly went when drafted. After about three days he realized that he had made a mistake, a serious mistake and that he should have chanced draft- dodger jail instead. But see, it was hard for a guy hard-wired for a political career to shift gears like that, so he fumbled and bumbled with the problem for a while. He had always been anti-war in kind of an abstract way; kind of an “all men are brothers” way. He told Josie that he had first expressed that opinion on the Boston Common back in the fall of 1960 when he attended a small demonstration at the Park Street Station with a bunch of little old angel ladies in tennis sneakers and stern-faced Jehovah-etched Quakers who were calling for nuclear disarmament. He also told her as if to express the Janus nature of the times, of himself, that the next week he was working the streets of Hull passing out Jack Kennedy presidential literature. Jack who was crying out loud about the “missile gap,” nuclear missiles to be sure. So he stumbled and mumbled fitfully through the problem.

Of course if you were part of the military, down in some boondock (Allan’s term) southern town out in nowhere far from northern gentility, even rough-edged northern working- class gentility, you were up the creek without a paddle (Josie’s expression), and also surrounded by guys, maybe sullen, maybe gung-ho, but mainly who like you were kind of committed to their fate (and afraid, afraid like hell of that constant threat, Fort Leavenworth, the main Army penal threat) then stumbling and mumbling is what you did, and did it for a while. But the military fates were not kind, not wartime kind, not 1969 wartime kind, when the Vietnam war was eating up men and material at prestigious rates, while the world clamored for shut-down and so Allan’s fate was to be a grunt, a foot soldier, and the only place that foot soldiers were being gainfully employed in those days was in sweaty, sullen Southeast Asia. And in the normal course of events after training he was so ordered there.

And still he mumbled, stumbled, and tumbled. He, political animal he, tried to work around it administratively, pulling some chips dues in with his cronies, no go. He tried to do an end- around by claiming conscientious objector status, although he was uneasy about it since he believed that there were some just wars and that position was not a ground for discharge then, no go. Then one night, one night, a Sunday night, a hot and sweaty Sunday night, sitting in the base PX after the library had closed he decided, decided that some form of resistance was the only way out. Personal resistance since he saw no other kindred.

He went out in the sultry night and started walking and planning, and half-hesitating. He would make a public display; he would go AWOL and then make a splash at some public civilian anti-war. (That AWOL, absent without leave part was important for him, and later Josie, since he stayed away just long enough from the Replacement Center at Fort Lewis in Washington state to be  “dropped for the rolls,” meaning that he could turn himself in at Fort Devens about forty miles from Boston and stay there pending new orders. The importance for Josie was, unknowingly, or half knowingly, that she had been one of the demonstrators clamoring for his release in a rally in front of the fort after he was incarcerated.) Other soldiers he had heard had done such stunts prodded on by those same Jehovah Quakers who formed the backdrop of his political coming of age in Boston Common as a boy. No. As his resolve firmed up, and as he got courage, some well-spring of Appalachia hunker- down father genes- bought courage he thought later when he had plenty of time to think, he decided that he would make a showing in front of his fellow soldiers.

So one Monday morning as the base gathered for its weekly gathering of troops on the parade ground for inspection (and to see who was missing, if anybody) he walked out, walked out of his nearby barracks in civilian clothes, carrying a simple homemade sign “Bring The Troops Home.” He was immediately seized and man-handled by some what he called ‘lifer’ sergeants (who, when he thought about it later probably didn’t know if he was soldier or just a damn hippie protester trespasser and he therefore should have been in uniform with his sign). And the rest was mainly legal proceedings, and doing the time, doing that almost a year in the base stockade. (Under the outside civilian parallel legal proceedings on his behalf then in effect they couldn’t sent him to Fort Leavenworth without violating a civilian judge’s order.) Like Josie said, he didn’t like it talk about it all that much, except he had plenty of time to think, think those ancient break-out thoughts that had him (and her as he told his story) in its thrall.

Josie realized that the way she told the story, told Allan’s childhood dream story, all cold sober, no sweet dream drug haze, no colors, no pizzazz, sounded as straight narration like a good description for why he wanted to see the world, or at least the continent which was what his preliminary plan had entailed, but did not half-explain how she was inflamed by his fire that night, or thereafter. Or why he was either. That night as she remembered it Allan was in what he called (and she started to get a drift sense of it more and more after that drift snowdrift night they connected up in New Hampshire) his high blarney Irish lost land poet and prophet mood, a mood for him enhanced not by the color dream sequences going through his mescaline-fueled brain but ancient memory longing to understand the world, the fellahin world that she associated, via her fervent Zionist parents, with the Palestinian refugee camps but he associated with his own bog Irish, his mill town Lowell, Nashua, Lawrence, Saco, his Iowa farmhands, his Nova Scotia Grand Banks hearty and hellish fisherman, his Woody Guthrie okie and arkie dust- blown refugees, his bracero mex, or flip (Filipino) grape-picking field hands, and mex dark home land village runaways when the land gave out or the federales got too close. And that was just on this continent. He wanted to understand, as well, what made people tick, why they worked so hard to keep in one place, in order to keep from going backwards.

And why too in certain spots, in certain cultural oases she called them (and he yelled at her, faux yelled at her although as she thought back on the moment he probably was serious, to stop with the “soc” jargon that was destroying the common language of explanation, almost like a damn church that has spent too much time in the wilderness and developed a secret coda among the elect but had only generals, no corporals, no followers), new forms of expression, new words to explain life’s struggles were developed and nowhere else. Places like Frisco town (his always usage for that place after he heard Memphis Minnie’s song of the same name) with its beat down, beat around, beat beatitude beat scene and later its summer of love, like L.A. and its characters out of central casting, cast really on the beaches of Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and surfer- ready Malibu, like New Jack City (although that locale, her hometown and his place of a thousand times, was not scheduled except to end at and to dump whatever was to be dumped at her parents’ place when they finished up), like Boston even to some extent. So that was what was on his mind but that was just the outline, they talked for hours (and other days after that first extended outline they continues talking about it, about what was remembered, tip of tongue remembered since color, and other less ancient dreams also snuck into that night).

Strangely he started talking about stone cold jetties, the ones up in Hampton, up in New Hampshire (not their first bonding New Hampshire old converted farmland homestead night but the seacoast, by the water, that drove a lot of his imaginings) and how a man could sit for hours and watch the seas come and go, crashing against that rock-strewn jetty, ripping the face of the stone and shipping it express back to the shoreline sands. He had actually done such sitting one time when they first started going together, before they lived together, and he ran up there to see some old anti-war G.I. buddy, a kooky guy, a wild monk guy all caped up, for real, named Magic Mick, who was transforming himself into some kind of groupie zen master. He had heard from Magic Mick that up in mill town Saco, up in Maine there was a jetty that made Hampton look like dry land slumbers, stretching out to Motherland Sea, the homeland, the place where we started from. Allan said they could check that out as they headed up the coast. See the vague outline of the trip was to head north before it got too cool, head west before the cold Denvers hit, California about November and then south to Mexico for the winter and then back east. There was no need to stop at Hampton though as those stones were, as he said, passé, they needed new adventures, new sittings for hours druid Stonehenge by the sea stones.

Josie did not learn until later, later when the trip was well under way, that while he was addicted to ocean edges, tepid waters running to shore, fetid marshes to feed mother oceans’ starving denizens, and mephitic smucks at low tide fetching earthbound clams for human hungers, he feared, deathly feared, and rightly so mother sea’s fury. Feared since childhood being on the water, being boat-stirred or swim- stirred since he had logged drifted out to sea and almost three dip drowned and so he searched, searched longingly for succor from the ocean depths by getting landward as far out as possible.

He expected to see from that Saco jetty vantage point as well the fellaheen lobster boatmen plying the waters off the coast, plying their lobster trap trade. Fierce men fiercely defending their flash- colored pots against all-comers, all comers except King Neptune with his quirky habit of dumping a certain percentage of them on land as tribute to his generous nature at other times. Allan knew, childhood knew, the mucky gypsy clam muckers down at Hull’s Hell’s End (real gypsies who worked the carnivals by night, their women the old  wilting rose for the lady trick, and maybe the night sweat trick as well for a lonely carnival fortune wheel losers, pay up, pay up twice, brother). Swarthy, dark heathens, gruff, gruff even to homeland ocean boys and gruff about who could and could not ply the mudflats seeking clam bits to spice up some off-hand spur-of-the-moment family barbecue before it all, the family, fell apart and went about six different ways. So he wanted to know their brethren, their swamp yankee down east brethren brought up in small seacoast villages harsh learning life against the Atlantic gales, out in the creeping boats, seaworthy or not, fully-equipped or not, at dawn, if not before, coffee-filled, some stone cold breakfast so they could get a little extra sleep, maybe rum brave when all was said and done. Knowing fair shares of “oh yah jim, he fell overboard a few years back, they have his name over on the seamen’s memorial in town if you want to know, a fine lobster man, Sam well, Sam never, was right after that boom hit him, hit him square on the noggin, maybe his name should go up there too,” and such.

When Allan got his fill of sitting and viewing, and viewing and sitting they would move on up the coast, maybe picking blueberries along the way for fresh fire- side breakfast pancakes, or just pop it in with the oatmeal, and head to Bar Harbor and the swells, and some Arcadian delight. And of sweetening it up with thoughts of midnight love-makings on the secluded rocks all naked and free and away from prying eyes and with the sea playing some kind of sea symphony to the rhythm of their love. [Yes, I could see what she meant about his blarney, myself full of blarney, although she smiled when she mentioned the rocks, mentioned the love-making on the rocks and maybe thought back to nights of risings and falling of the sea and of them, or as she related another time, when she told me a story about them in Perkin’s Cove also up in Maine, that she had started that whole idea of nakedness and fucking  with her delight at the sea that day and had suggested that very idea.]

Josie had to laugh as she told of Allan’s dream, Allan’s get out in the wide world dream for he was, like her, strictly a city dweller even if he grew up in the working-class suburbs. When he started going on and on about being some mountain man she cut him short. It must have been the honesty brought forth by the drugs that she chirped up that she at least had been to camp when she was a kid and remembered how to pitch a tent, work camp fires, and hike a freaking trail without needing first aid or a bevy of hospital services. He stopped for a moment, for a candid moment. He confessed, confessed that come the first night of camp, that he would be fearful when he was away from city lights, lamp posts, when the only light was from some blinking star (she shared part of that fear, not for dark nights, but what lurked, lurked for a woman, in an untamed world), and that while he was the ocean’s own nature boy, some son of Neptune his oceans always bordered land, sighted land. That was all prelude he confessed to pre-excuses for any difficulties when they traversed (what the heck was traverse he asked) some small trail headed up to the summit of Cadillac Mountain in Arcadia National Park.

Allan then, as if to change the subject, got back to his point about the beauty of seeking nature’s course like some latter day Thoreau rising with the dawn, rising with the sun, rising to the sound of birds, to keep faith with the handiwork of nature especially when they hit the summit and could see all of the ocean for miles around that he had seen in pictures.  (And Magic Mick had told him about one desperate hashish night when they were preparing for some protest, or something and needed new age “rum bravery” to see them through. They were going to distribute some anti-war material on an army base, Daniel Ellsberg’s The Pentagon Papers she thought, and had been arrested and thrown off the base and told in no uncertain terms not to come back, sixty days in the some stinking federal pokey, if they did. So maybe that courage was necessary).

Allan got on his high-horse about natural wonders, which while he didn’t understand he could appreciate. Like that idea behind television and transistor radios when he was a kid, and the red scare cold war sputnik, about how did they do that stuff. That drove him mad (although when she explained a couple of things to him, things picked up at Hunter College High, to dispel his “heathen seeing silver flying birds” theory of the universe, he waved it off, “too heavy” waved it off, and she relented. What drove him crazier though was the idea of natural stuff, stuff like the reversing falls at Saint John’s up in New Brunswick, or craters come down to earth and then just sit there. Old Faithful out in Wyoming or someplace out there on the prairie was the end though, imagine something blowing off steam every ninety minutes or something like that, He had hoped they would get to see that on their way to Denver if the thing moved along okay and it was not too late to chance a detour if it looked like the snow squalls didn’t block them in late October or so. But the Bay of Fundy and its funny tides had him flipped, he said maybe that would be worth watching for hours like that Saco jetty (and coming back on her about that afternoon they rocked the rocks in old Perkin’s Cove, maybe they could start an international trend like some new edition of the Kama Sutra).

Then Allan got serious again, real serious, which meant that he was going to go onto some political thing, some political-etched thing. Then he started reciting from memory Longfellow’s Evangeline the one about the French in Arcadia being pushed out of their ancient land by the bloody British after the various world- wide battles those two European powers fought throughout the eighteenth century, and about love, land love, ocean love, love love being uprooted and they were exiled sent down to swamp Cajun country. Jesus he almost cried. He said he wanted to stand in solidarity with another victim of John Bull’s tyranny, to stand with the lost fellahin long suffering on another of history’s long marches to oblivion and the death of the Arcadian dream then, and now. Josie  still remembered the half-lilt in his voice when he did that recital (how the hell did he do that, she thought). She could see in the way that he spoke that he was thinking his own fellaheen thoughts, his old neighborhood thoughts about how his people had been displaced (like her own, although she did not identify as strongly with that diaspora sentiment as he did, after all her people, her parents, their kin too, had made the grade  in America, as had she) and about some nagging, festering sore that would not quit him, about those small dream days, about how everybody pushed hard to stay in the same place (some of the kindred had been in the neighborhood for four generations, a long time in go-go America), He named a spot, Grand Pre where he wanted to stop and express his solidarities and so that was plotted onto their ever- expanding itinerary.

Allan floored her after that recital and gabfest  with a thing he picked up from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, which he said he had read again in the stockade along with a bunch of his other books, Desolation Angels, Dharma Bums, Big Sur, and a couple of others she didn’t remember. She had read On The Road as an undergraduate although it didn’t make a big impact on her since she felt that it was mainly a man’s book, a book about guys doing what guys always do, try to screw women and then take off for some other adventure, or other women. She thought he was going to go on and on about the beauty of the relationship between Sal and Dean, about some mystical lost kindred spirit, about the wide open spaces, and of a man’s need (or woman’s, Allan was pretty good about including women in the road, and real worlds, without making a big deal about it although a couple of times she had to take him up quick on the subject of a women’s place ) to break-out of convention, to explore stuff, and to observe human nature in the raw, and do something about it, if only to write about it.

Instead he berated the characters of On The Road for not stopping at some youth hostels where they could have stayed for cheap, or little dough, in clean (you helped keep it that way as part of the fee), rooms or dorms instead of sleeping in the back seats of cars, on the side of the road, in some freaking corn field, or something like that. Besides they could have met better people, better ride-sharing and expenses people, and people with some dough, since there usually were people from Europe or places like there who had traveler’s cheques and such, than at the Traveler’s Bureaus or u-ride places. See when he was in the stockade there was a guy he used to talk to (before that guy got shipped to Leavenworth, he was doing some big time for the same kind of things Allan was in for but without his civilian legal backing), Bruce, from New York City who had done some on the road travelling and “hipped” him to that scene.

It sounded kind of hokey to Josie, since she expected that they would either tent or stop at an occasional bed and board. Josie also thought they were a little too old to be sitting in some dorm thing, like they were at college, with a million people who maybe didn’t speak English (or French, her college language) and they might not even, from the way he told it, depending on the hostel, be able to sleep together. She didn’t like that idea since she had gotten used to them sleeping in their double bed. He said the one in Halifax, the first one that he figured they would try was co-ed, and had private rooms so they should try it, try, he laughed to be more “progressive,” road progressive than Jack and his crowd. There would be time enough to sleep on the sides of roads, or in some lazy cottage, or with friends dotted at spots over the American landscape. And with that, after many fretful hours, they drifted off to sleep.    

That next late afternoon at “breakfast” Allan started up again about the trip to end all trips. That breakfast Josie was at pains to point out had been made by Allan since he was then in, as a lot of young men were at the time, his women’s “lib” moment. While she and Allan had more than a few battles later over who was to do, and not do, what in sharing household chores she thought his initiative in requesting to feed her breakfast was, well, charming. In those days when a lot of what women, including Josie, were growling over had been the male king in his castle thing and so any slight effort to off-set that mystique was taken as good coin. Later when things got more political, when the question of real power came up a lot of guys went into the tank. So in those early days the easier way to show one’s male liberation from mother’s apron strings fetch-all was to make and serve meals to milady, Josie remember that menu, eggs, bagels and lox, some juice and coffee like it had come down from the mountain…      

…while Allan was cleaning up the dishes (added points if a man did the cooking and the cleaning up) he mentioned that he was crazy to go to Neil’s Harbor and Peggy’s Cove up in Cape Breton and could hardly wait to get on the road out of Halifax and push north unless we were somewhat behind in our schedule, our rough schedule, to try to head west and then south before the winter set in. He wanted to take in the beauty, the hills rising above the ocean along the road that encircled the whole place, and the separate circle that enveloped Cape Breton, Nova Scotia beyond that Arcadia notion. Moreover a friend had told him that the provincial parks, unlike the state parks in the states were cheap, were well kept-up, provided firework and hearths, and had decent showers facilities (except in the few “primitive” sites which we might be confronted with at certain points where you had to backpack in and take your chances, ugh) He had hoped to get his fill of ocean views to strengthen him against the mid-American continent bump where you might be lucky to see a lake or something.

They would head west when they were both heartily tired of endless seas, endless looking at seas, although not of walking them, sitting and listening to the ocean, or making love as the waves rolled in if they had the chance. His thing was to chart things like the furthest point in all directions they hit on the trip, how many of this and that they saw, how many that and this, things they did, you could tell he was a real numbers and geography guy. Not where those places were in the world so much, no, so he could said, sometimes brag, brag a little, but mostly say, well, he had been this far  in case somebody might think he was a rube if he hadn’t been far enough from home.

 

 

 

Funny too because Josie said in his politics, his political moment that he would be  suppressing a little on the trip for her sake, he was always talking, and doing something about it which is where they were beginning to differ, about the struggle in against the American government in Vietnam, the struggle against apartheid in South Africa, the fate of the Palestinians (the one major point where she, a half-hearted Zionist, daughter of Zionists, and he would have a few blow-ups including one night in Boston before the trip when they, drunk and stoned, were at some party which was being attended by something like the central committee of the Zionist movement in Boston, although neither of them originally knew that was the case. They were raising money for something in Israel, and he started talking his liberation talk, talking about the Irgun gang, about the King David Hotel, about Deir Yessin, jesus, stuff Josie didn’t even know about. He got heated, got heated at her, most of all, for half-defending the infidels at the party, or just their right to support Israel, something like that.

When they got back to her place, they weren’t living together then he was living in a commune down the road, she threw him out, after they had probably woken up half of the student ghetto in Allston. Then around four o’clock Josie said she was missing “my sweet walking daddy” [I blushed when she said that.] and called him up to come on back over. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to because he was sleepy, and they had another row over that. He, when Josie propositioned him, propositioned him with a little secret thing that that she did to him with her mouth (expecting me to know what that was without further description, which I did and made a mental note on), a thing that as he said, or as he had heard on some blues song, maybe David Bromberg, maybe Muddy Waters she couldn’t remember, that curled his toes, he came over, but it was not a good night, not a good omen at all.

It’s funny because Josie was, and Allan later admitted that he was too, very provincial, not in the sense of being some hayseed thing out in Iowa but provincial in the way they interpreted Saul Steinberg’s sardonic  New Yorker cover, the one where his map of America started in Manhattan big and then the rest of America was about one inch of space. She related to that sense of the world and would tell him, at his request, endless things odd-ball things about growing up in Manhattan what she had seen, and did. He said he felt the same about Boston and maybe that is why he had to have charts and lists and a stuff like that, his stuff in the world.                              

…A lot of what Josie said that sad rainy Cambridge night, after she had a few scotches, neat, got mixed-up, not purposefully mixed-up but mixed between the great Allan dream stretch and events that occurred when they actually did get out on the neon wilderness road. I confess too that I having had that same liquor concoctions that I was mixed-up prone. What follows is to the best of my recollection the real travelogue of the trip. Like I say it was a long rainy Cambridge night but she wanted to talk, and I wanted to listen. Let us continue:   

…Josie’s feelings about Peggy’s Cove, Cape Breton, and the like when they got there though was (besides the great view and friendly huge immense rocks they could sit on and get splashed by the sea and feel clean although she was never an ocean freak like him) that since this was to be the eastern most point of their trip (and they thought at the time it would be the northernmost as well) they could stay in a bed and breakfast place. Indoors with an indoor shower, private, or not wait in line, or anything like that. Maybe something just off the main road, “Mrs. Miller’s Bed and Breakfast” or something like that. And if that name of the places and who ran it sounds like something out of about 1947 then you are right because that is exactly what it was like, and what she was like when they found themselves looking for such a place. Of course out in the provinces, the gentle provinces, among the folk who live in the little off-the-road places, the places where times stands still, they depend on the travelling peoples of the world who want to see great natural beauty, and relax against the craziness of the world depend on making their, what did Allan call it, their harsh lonely winter tide-me-over money, in season. But these people, and Josie and Allan ran into many, on the outskirts of civilization, have their limits, and have their own mores, and good for them. Except not good for them, almost. Mrs. Miller wanted to know if they were married, and they, thinking they were in Boston or New York, said, well no, and, essentially, what of it. She kind of flipped out and did not want to let them stay in her “home.”  So they, tired for a long day on the road, sometime in the rock-bound sea sun, and not sure where the next B&B was, if  any started back-tracking, started  talking about their travels, about tires, about using this trip to see if they should get married. (That contribution was by Josie so you could see Allan’s blarney side rubbing off.) Mrs. Miller didn’t like it, but as a good Christian woman, she had to welcome us. It was close though, very close. See too though they had intended that this indoor scene would allow them to have a freshen up, a shower, have a nice dinner, maybe some wine to get a little high (they had no intention of doing reefer, no way), and then some serious gentle sex. They were both tired of hard-scrabble dirt, of rocks, of fleas, gnats and every other bug taking the edge off their love-making. So they had to debate whether to do this deed in this good Christian woman’s house. They did but did it so quietly that both of them thought afterwards that this is the way that they are forced to do it in Chinese villages and working- class neighborhood where everybody is packed in together. But here is the best part, the next morning Mrs. Miller made the best pancake-waffle-eggs-anyway you wanted them-ham-hash-home fries- muffins-juice- and whatever for them the best breakfast that they had ever had. And to top it off a big old fresh baked blueberry pie for them to eat on their travels. Josie said, smiling, a remembrance smile, a good Christian angel woman, indeed, she has her place reserved in heaven, if such a place was worthy of her.

 

Although Josie lived on the island of Manhattan growing up she never had an occasion to ride the Staten Island ferry which people who don’t come from Manhattan don’t understand, especially since it was only a nickel then. Allan said that his mother told him when she was a girl that she would take boat from Boston down to New York via the Cape Cod Canal and the two things that he remembered that he said she went on and on about were the cheap-jack Automat, the cafeteria where you inserted coins and got your food via the cubicles, a far out thing in the 1930s Josie guessed, and the ride on the cheap Staten Island (and the view of downtown Manhattan from the Staten Island side). So Allan told her that the first time they went down to New York City together to face the fireworks from her parents and they wouldn’t, no way, let us stay together in her room he actually spent the night riding the ferry back and forth, a very cheap way to keep out of the cold and away from harm and copper eyes. So when they made the turn past Neil’s Harbor and headed west, the first real west move they had made on the trip Allan said remembering the Staten Island Ferry experience “let’s take the ferry over to Prince Edward Island,” and so they did and while Josie thought it was interesting to be on the water with their funny old Datsun it wasn’t anything like the big deal Allan made of it. Josie said to me “Let’s put it this way I still haven’t taken the Staten Island Ferry.” Prince Edward Island certainly had its charm, small fishing and farming villages dotted the highway around the island but Josie was getting a little antsy about moving on to see some different scenery from the boats and cows.

The one thing that stuck out in her mind though was this incredible beach on the north side, this Brackley Beach which extended for miles jutting out into the Saint Lawrence, and which if you can believe this up that far north had no qualms about allowing nude bathing. They had it right on the sign, the sign that reserved the area for nude bathers. They were kind of shocked, or she was but Josie said to Allan that she was game, although she had a swim suit along. Allan was kind of funny about that though, some Irish Catholic working- class hang-up about public exposure, or something. He used to hang around the various water spots they landed on with a light- weight long sleeve shirt, his jeans and sandals, he refused to wear a bathing suit, and as it turned out didn’t even have one with him. This get-up thing he said he wore because of the bugs, bugs that really did seem to draw a bee-line to him. That day though Josie coaxed him out of his jeans and all when she whispered in his ear that I was kind of horny, horny like down in Maine that time at Perkin’s Cover when she had given him the first blow job she had given him (she said to me that “thing she did with her mouth” but we all know what she meant) and she said maybe she was up for giving a little skull that day too. That perked him up as they headed to some private area of the dunes, put down a big towel, maybe a small blanket and she went to work on him. Josie said he was all smiles when she “curled his toes” for him.                                  

Down river flow that is what Allan kept practically chanting as they drifted down the Saint Lawrence River headed to Quebec City. But along the way they had stopped at seemingly twenty different towns, Trois this and that kind of towns, three river places, all the same place as far as Josie was concerned, but one town that they stopped in she said could stand for her little road story for that leg  of the trip because it really could stand in for all of them. The story also can stand as testimony to the cool, kooky, kinky stuff that made the days go by nicely, and too fast with her sweet walking daddy. All of these river towns had like a lot of towns they had seen, a small main street, a few stores, maybe a library, a school showing here and there, and all had churches, but not the New England big steeple white simple church gathering in the pious brethren on Sunday to hear some big top theology from some learned Harvard-trained minister praise big bad Jehovah, or something like that.

What these towns had was heavy stone-etched imposing cathedral-like edifices with plenty of artwork, devotional stuff, and dank, dark, and smelling of death about them, or really the readiness for death that the Catholics are always hankering for. Really though just like the New England pine-box churches once you have seen one you have pretty much gotten all you need to know about the damn things. And Josie would have left it at that but something about the whole sanctified, sacred, scented scene, kind of took Allan off his moorings. She had mentioned before that he was off the church thing but like he said such things when so intense die hard, die out only after some kind of sacred exorcism, and so that is how he schemed (schemed in the good sense of planning something out) to do a mock exorcism at the church in Trois Rivieres, a couple of hundred miles from Quebec City. Now this was not some churchy thing he was thinking of but rather as was their first thought thing then, a little sexual escapade. See his idea was that he and Josie would do some hanky-panky in that dark church (dark, because like the New England white steeple church brethren the parishioners were deep in work on the farms or in the cotton mill that provided some work for the town folk). So they snuck over to the chapel at least that is what she thought they called it, Allan did anyway (like maybe he knew that was the best place , although he swore, swore after they were done that he had never done it there, or even though about it until the ride down the Saint Lawrence). Josie had been afraid to take her clothes off, and insisted that she wouldn’t so they settled on her giving him some head, but he said that for once they would use a condom and leave the residue there as a burnt offering for the sins of the world. Josie said that she did not usually like condoms (rubbers) in her mouth because they taste funky but this time she kind of didn’t notice it so much because frankly, as they got started she got so turned on by the idea they were doing it in church, a sacred place, that she just went about her work, and she could tell by his little moanings that Allan was appreciating  her efforts, although after a bit she said started thinking about how maybe they should “do the do” (their little term for love-making courtesy of  a Howlin’ Wolf song) and she suggested that to him but once he got into her “giving head”  thing that usually was what he wanted. Well, Allan  came, after she had given him the best blow job she thought she had ever given him until then, and least he had a big grin on his face after she took the condom off and we placed it carefully in front of the altar. She  told him she was still turned on and so they went back to that secluded area and did “do the do”, twice. Josie, the little tease, one of the reasons I was interested in her, said she would tell me more, a couple of little extra things that happened that day at that church but she said she could  tell I are getting turned on and so she left it at that. I was too.                 

 

    

 

After the farms, field and rivers coming down the Saint Lawrence all of a sudden out of the river mist, out of the river turn around Ile de Orleans there came into view the great fortress city of Quebec City, a city that Allan and Josie both confessed that they knew about mainly from the Plains of Abraham, bloody deaths of Montcalm and Wolfe in some 18^th century part of the world-wide battle for world supremacy, for the ports, the commercial ports of entry. Quebec to her though was mainly a matter of about ten million churches, Gallic Roman Catholic churches fit for the lame, halt, and crippled it seemed by their names or names associated with each parish, with all grey stone, all gothic, all forbidding, foreboding and frankly hostile, hostile to whatever Jewish identity she felt, felt being among those who not that long before (or maybe they still did) called her people Christ-killers and did stuff about it. Allan, a long lapsed, lapsed  since about fourteen when he started reading some stuff , some stuff by Jews like Karl Marx and Sartre, Catholic, and feeling out of sorts and oppressed by the Catholic-ness of the place (except for those bloody Plains of Abraham alongside the Saint Lawrence and really beautiful), for his own reasons, stated categorically that he would defend me, my honor, the bones of my forbears, even my fussy parents, if anybody, anybody under cloak of clerical authority, or just any lay person who got crazy, tried any rough stuff, and that kept her in check (and made her love him even more, and ready then to show some him decidedly non-Catholic loving out of wedlock, and out of procreation’s way too).

Also despite the architectural beauty of the city, the gothic old time sense of some very much earlier age, some age when men and women were not afraid to come out and face the wilds, the hostile Indians, the even more hostile wildlife and stake their claim to new world riches and pay homage to the providence that spared those who survived put paid to that good wind by those incredible churches, nunnery and chapel (and the vast number of personal to service them), the current crop of  French-Canadians who just then dominated the very nationalistic times were short with Anglos, including sympathetic Anglos like Allan and Josie. This was the heyday of Quebec independence movement and the tensions were still in the air against the Anglo government which had at one point before they came declared martial law in the province. The way that edge came out was when they would go into restaurant in Old Town and try to order lunch or something (admittedly, Josie said, her  my high school and first year of college long past French and later Allan’s Spanish in Mexico were too Anglo to fake anybody out that they  were anything but Americanos) and be snubbed at every turn, deliberately snubbed by waiters, slumming while students like was almost universal then, maybe now too) who you could overhear speaking perfectly usable English among themselves when they wanted to make some obscure point. Allan would get on his high- horse about the heathens (his term for any high-hat snub anywhere usually followed by-“well, my people were creating great culture when their forbears were trying to figure out how to use a spoon, or what it was useful for)  While Allan wasn’t happy about snubs, or any other of the small change of people, people like his Irish forbears, who couldn’t respond to their oppression any other way he was more tolerate than Josie was toward what he called his fellahin brethren . 

Josie asked him, asked him seriously one time when they were driving out of Quebec City toward Montreal what he meant by fellahin, where he had heard or seen the word, was it in Jack Kerouac’s On The Road where she had seen it as part of Jacks’  trip in southern California in describing the places, the night after hard day fields places the mex places, where he and his lady of the time, his little mex whore, landed on that famous trip, and the people and their mores, his kindreds. Allan said no he had learned it in seventh grade over at Hull Junior High School when some history teacher, a Jewish guy if he remembered correctly, held the class in awe with stories about the Jewish struggles in the Middle East with the Palestinians, including labor Zionists, and Allan had held the word like a lot of odd-ball words that interested him in his head since then. What Allan meant, maybe like Kerouac, and like that history teacher, was life’s dispossessed, those left behind in the dust who, until their judgment day (not that foolish religious one) when they were liberated, maybe generations, would forget that bondage times but until then he wanted to be very indulgence toward them, even if we got poor wait staff service, ouch. Yeah, the fetid fellaheen night was what was in store for, Josie wondered that night for the first time could she take it …              

…It started to go bad, not the bad bad of their being together bad, but trip bad, after Quebec City as they were heading down to Montreal. Allan began to doubt the whole purpose of the trip, expounding on the bourgeois nature of the thing, the dilettante thing they were doing while the people’s struggles was going on all around them. That night in Quebec City that she had mentioned before when they stood in solidarity with the students fighting the national liberation struggle kind of set things off in his head. He was going through something of an ocean change in his head, something more in line with his slightly changed political views as he moved away from peaceful rallies and sweet reason conferences and workshops like the one when we first met up in New Hampshire, something that had been gnawing at him since that time down in Washington, that May Day 1971 time when she had refused to stay with him to participant in a mass civil disobedience action on that day to try to shut down the government in order to shut down the Vietnam War.

They had had arguments over the correctness of that series of actions as they were hitch-hiking down with a couple of her work friends to attend a mass rally that Josie had helped organize the Boston part of and which Allan called hopelessly futile. He was staying for the civil disobedience and she and her friends were heading back to Boston directly after that rally. What bothered Allan after he came back about a week later after having been incarcerated in the RFK stadium for a few days was how futile that action was, how they, mainly students and young unaffiliated radicals, had been easily defeated military by the cops and guardsmen. Swept up like the rubbish and with less fuss it seemed to him. He got into a mood like it didn’t matter what they did, those brethren students and unaffiliated radicals, without some other force to help them out they would stay just as isolated and defeated as if they had just stayed with those like her who called for more massive peaceful marches as a strategy.

So Allan read, really read when he got off of whatever temporary job his was doing to help they get the dough to make the trip (he said he had not read so much, with so much purpose since the stockade days), and went to different political meetings to try to see if anybody else knew what the hell way that the wars could be stopped, or some rough economic and social justice could be brought into this wicked old world. After several months he finally gravitated toward some socialist stuff, some stuff by Marx, but the big thing was that massive three-volume set by Leon Trotsky the assassinated Bolshevik leader, History of the Russian Revolution. I knew enough about Trotsky, and about Allan, to get secretly stirred inside when he lost himself in that “project” (Allan’s term) In the span between that night when he laid out his dream trip and the actual start of the several months later he thus found “religion.”

Now one of the things about Josie, one that she saw as a positive trait, was that she was a drone when it came to research, that was why Professor Telly liked her, worked with her closely. It turned out that Allan was the same way about things, a drone when he got into something, not necessarily academic things but things that he thought important and so he began reading everything he could about the socialist movement, revolutions, the labor movements and all that. (She had never told Allan this because although it was before she had met him she was not sure how he would take it but a couple of times the Professor and her got high on dope and went over to his house on Commonwealth Avenue when his wife was out of town and did the “do the do.” Telly was looking for sex and she was looking for good grades and a nice recommendation so it was a fair trade-off. She still thought so, although a couple of my girlfriends had raised their eyebrows when she told them.)

 Allan would read his books as well on the trip, which was fine sometimes but a few times when she did not want him to when she was feeling kind of lonely and looking attention from him. Looking for him to do stuff with and to her me. Especially when they were in cities and not the long lost shadow campers. So that was what made Montreal, a perfectly beautiful city sitting there on the Saint Lawrence with nice clean, busy, happy streets and great scenery, kind of a bummer, kind of a turning point. They had rented a small room with a kitchenette near the student ghetto for a week and for that week he almost hibernated there reading, reading, reading one political book after another.

One night, maybe their third night there, she said, “hey, we are in the city, if you don’t want to go out I do.” He said go ahead and returned to his book. So Josie left and walked down Saint Catherine’s Street which was only a few blocks from where their room was. Now since she was in the city she had dressed up a bit, wore a mini-skirt which Allan had said that he liked and that showed her legs to good effect. While she was walking a young guy, Jean Bon she called him, maybe a little older than her, asked her (in French) if she was looking for company. She said yes. They stepped into a café for a drink, maybe a couple and without too much coaxing by then he brought her to his studio apartment. He went to a bowl, rolled a couple of joints, passed her some of the dope and that got her going a little. Well maybe a lot, because she said he was pretty good- looking and she had always had a fantasy about making it with a stranger the first night (she said he had great technique but that she would tell me about that some other time since she had already told me enough about the specifics of her sex life back then).  When they were done and she was ready to leave he handed her fifty-dollars (Canadian). Josie asked what that was for and he explained that he assumed that she was a prostitute (although he was more delicate than that) since she was on Saint Catherine Street and was an easy pick up and that was the going rate for good hookers then. She started to protest but then stopped quickly and said to herself well why not keep the money. It made her a little wet thinking about it as she walked the streets back to her room although while she had that stranger fantasy she never before that night had a working street girl fantasy.

When Josie got back to the room she told Allan about her “date” (except the money part). He said, as he always said they weren’t tied up like some bourgeois parents nonsense, and then went back to reading. She was furious and to take her revenge she went to Jean Bon’s place a couple more times before they left Montreal. And, both of them smiling, took her fifty-dollar fee each time (and it really was the going rate as he said because she had asked a couple of streets girls on Saint Catherine’s about it after that first time, she didn’t want to be some cheap whore. They looked at her strangely when she asked in her Americanized French since to them she did not look like she was in the “trade,” strictly an amateur slumming, if anything). After those sessions then not so furious she also bought herself a nice dress with her “earnings” before they left Montreal. Allan did say she looked sexy in when she tried it on in front of him, and she did. He took the dress off of her fast enough when he saw her swaying gently (and suggestively) in that slinky thing. The wages of war.                   

Josie said that really after Montreal a lot of the rest of the trip got kind of blurry, Allan blurry because what had started out for him as some fulfillment of a childhood quest turned to ashes, turned in on itself after he got “religion” and began to think more about how he was going to fit into the “new world” after the end of the trip. He and Josie had both agreed that they could see signs, definite signs that the big wave that had risen in the 1960s to smite the giants had lost steam, had begun to fade as the war in Vietnam, and America’s central role in the fiasco, diminished. Frankly Josie was less concerned about what to do in the post-revolt world since she had not been washed as much by the phenomenon but she knew the events piling up weighed on Allan’s mind. He after all had staked his political future on some kind of people’s victory in the ongoing struggles to right the world’s wrongs. They would argue over that future a bit, more and more as time on the trip went on and Allan kept thinking almost daily that the travels should be shortened and they should get back to the “real world.” The effect of all this was that after Montreal the former leisurely pace of a hundred or two hundred miles a day, max, went by the boards as they travelled from Montreal to Detroit, really Ann Arbor in one day (skipping right through Toronto, which had been part of the original trip plan but was scuttled since Allan s said they had been there the year before anyway. Josie did not mind the skip although she hated the fast pace that Allan pushed that day to hit Ann Arbor before dusk).        

Ann Arbor in 1972 represented all that Allan feared about what was happening to that big splash 1960s wave. Since Josie had gone to fellow Michigan Big Ten Wisconsin and had made connections on that campus that way and had also gone to high school with several women who went Michigan school and had kept in touch they stayed at the house of one of those of high school friends. Or rather the house, the doctor’s house, outside of town, that her girlfriend (and her boyfriend) were house-sitting while the doctor’s family was in Europe. During their stay there were several parties, nothing too wild but enough to be entertaining, except for Allan.

He was shocked by the lack of any political talk from people who Josie had assured him had been big wheels in the burgeoning Ann Arbor radical and anti-war movements of the late 1960s. He did make Josie laugh when he said they could have been in Tea Neck or Newburgh given that scene that night. Worse much, worse was when they went down to the Quad and around the streets surrounding the campus and Allan remarked (although Josie did not laugh this time) about the place turning into a den of “cockroach” capitalists. The week they expected to spend in friendly Ann Arbor (and that Josie’s friend expected as well) turned into four days and Allan got antsy. That quick departure was also the first time that Josie found Allan had done, or someone had done, some suspicious things in that doctors’ house. But that did not come out until much later, a couple of years later when she saw that high school girlfriend who told her some things, valuable things, had gone missing from the doctor’s house. But that latter information was not part of the trip story that night and she did not, in any case, want to go into those sordid Allan details.          

After Ann Arbor there were mad spurs through big cities, small towns and plenty of prairie, rock formations, and dry desert as Josie and Allan had mapped out as at Allan’s insistence they had decided to get to the West Coast in a far shorter period than they had originally planned. That grasping between Chicago and the Coast, San Francisco was to take two month, with the proviso that if the weather in the Rockies got bad early they would push on faster. In any case the new plan called for them to be on the Coast in two week. Josie said most of it was kind of a blur between racing between points and ignoring many point that she wanted to see in the Western desert night. She did mention a couple of interesting stops and what happened, or almost happened in a couple of places. Some tinged with disputes others just signifying that the writing was on the wall.

That rainy Cambridge night she also felt comfortable enough with me to pass me a sheath of type-written pages that she wanted me to read over later since she was too tired then to speak about those blur days and nights. What she had done was converted her woes into short stories and fictionalized those adventures. Her name in the stories was Angelica and they were told in Allan’s voice although Josie insisted that the important point for me to take from the stories was not the facts, although the locales were true, but the feeling about how things had changed between her and Allan.

That neon wilderness travelling talk night (and the next day) and what followed on the trip, the ups and downs, and Josie  said the sideways too, was their beginning, Her and Allan’s real beginning, their love time with all the bumps, maybe despite all the bumps. She said she could no longer be with him, didn’t want to go beyond the details of their love and their failings that she had spoken of already, that he had gone to a place that she could not follow, had cut her too badly by his careless love actions with other women, by his waywardness, by his angers and hatreds, by his deceits and lies, so no way, there had been too much sorrow between them. She said that every once in a while though on wind-swept nights, or when she was near some ocean, or some raggedy scruffy guy selling some left-wing newspaper passed her by she would get all misty about her sweet walking daddy. Would try to reach out again for that love that had passed them by, that he, her be-bop sweet walking daddy when he was in the mood, had never known how to handle. Would wonder to herself when she was in that mood if he ever found that neon wilderness that he wandered after, and which they together had not found. She said I would have to know that, know that up front, on that rainy, sad, bluesy night. And that was our beginning… 

 

 

***An Old Geezer Sighting In North Adamsville -Another 50^thAnniversary, Of Sorts –With A North Star-Gazer In Mind    

 

 

A YouTube clip of Johnny Cash’s I Still Miss Someone to set the mood for this sketch.

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

My old friend Peter Markin and I have over the years sat down in some locale, in the old days usually a bar, and told each other stories, some true, some stretched.  I first met Markin  down at the Surf Ballroom in Hull in the summer after we had graduated from high school (he from Hull High) when we chased the same girl on the dance floor (a girl who eventually dumped both of us, me first). One afternoon last fall over lunch I told him the story of my 50^th anniversary “jog” around the old North Adamsville cross-country course which I had done a few weeks earlier. I insisted he write something up about the event. He did so but left the piece in a folder and forgot about it until now.  Here are Markin’s recollections from that afternoon:   

Writers, or at least people who like to write, know, know deep in their souls, or hell, maybe only know by instinct that some things should not be written. Or if written then discarded (and in the age of cyberspace one can just press the DELETE button, praise be). That was my initial response when my friend from the old days, Frank Jackman, hell just Frank which is what everybody except nerdy girls called him, when he insisted that I write a little something for him. That “little something” that he was all exercised about was “jogging” in the fall of 2013 on the old North Adamsville cross-country course in celebration of the 50th anniversary of the last time he ran it as a member of the team in 1963. Jesus.

Yes I know, although these days the media and others on slow news days are prone to commemorate all kinds of anniversaries of events including odd-ball years like 30^thand 40^th, this was a weird request. But that afternoon Frank argued his case as he does when he is exercised about something and I had to hear him out. He said that if he had actually run that course after 50 years of statutory neglect I should tout that fact to all who would listen.

Frank had told me previously that he had taken up jogging a few years before to while the time away and keep the extra pounds off. I remember looking at him then like he had three-heads. I said that personally I would have a hard time running one hundred yards (or meters, whatever the short distance is they run these days) without crying out desperately for oxygen and many other medicals services.

Frank then went into high gear. He mentioned that a few years back, it must have been about 2010, he had written a sketch about his current running prowess to commemorate the 50^thanniversary of when he began running as a sport. Yeah, it was 2010. He had run a mile over at some practice field, the “dust bowl” he called it which gives you an idea of the condition of the track to prove that he was not over the hill, or something like that. Yes, I know again, like this was some fleet-footed ancient marathon feat worthy of notice. His point was that the sketch which he wrote was well received by the AARP-worthy audience in need of elderly care he was addressing thus throwing down the gauntlet about my ability to match that result. No sale, brother, no sale.

That negative response on my part set him off, had him seeing red. He went into his classic “you owe me” rant. That “you owe me” stems from way back in the summer of 1964 when we first met down in my hometown of Hull which is about twenty miles south of North Adamsville. We had met at the Surf Ballroom where there was a weekly live band dance (rock and roll, of course, now called classic rock, damn) and I “stole” a girl from him that we were both interested in. The girl eventually faded but our friendship began. And with that little tidbit he won his argument. Not on the merits of his case, and not even to shut him up, but because I told him that if I wrote something now about his silly anniversary then next year, next summer, I would get to write the real story about the 50th anniversary of the night that I supposedly “stole” that girl from him. And that will not be pretty, brother, it will not be pretty.

So here goes.

Frank had mentioned to me before, maybe several years ago, that this North Adamsville cross-country course had a storied past. The reason for that distinction was that his best friend, his running mate in both senses, running around the track and running around town, was Bill Cadger. Bill was a great runner who over his career won many races on the course and for many years held the course record. Frank stood in his shadow, stood deep in his shadow. That fact is neither here nor there now, except that this course of two and one-half miles which they had run together in practice many times was laid out along the streets of old North Adamsville in a way that Frank had not noticed back in the day when he was seriously try to run the thing. There were many landmarks of his youth as he ran it this time, this time when he was running, oops, jogging slowly enough to see things. To reflect on things, to remember. And those recollections, that filler, is what I will finish this sketch with. Except to now tell anybody who will listen, anybody who wants to know, that yes Frank finished the course, and did not, I repeat, did not need medical attention, none.

The first part of the course started on the side of the high school, the East Squantum Street side. Just seeing the old high school again reminded Frank of the tough times he had getting through the place. Not academically, not even socially, except a little, a little shy and unknowing about girls, no knowledge shy with three boys and no girls in the family to ease the way. And a deep-crusted Catholic studied ignorance of things sexual, how to deal with the subject, okay. He was moreover, and Bill too, which is why they got along, filled with all kinds of teenage angst and alienation, feelings of being isolated, and feeling out of sorts with the world. He said he laughed as he thought about that, thought about how someday, now someday he might get over that angst and alienation. Yah, Frank said he had to laugh about that, about how they all said back in the day he would get over it when he got older. The only thing better now was that he had a small handle on it, and some helpful medication.

The first leg continued down East Squantum onto Bayfield Road, the cross street before strewn with houses of relatives, some that he liked and some, who later when he joined, joined with abandon (as did I), the “youth nation” that was a-borning in the late 1960s shut their doors to him, called him renegade, called him in the parlance of the times, “red,” “commie,” and “monster.” Jesus. But those street also had houses filled with budding romances, or flirtations in that close- packed community, romances and flirtations. Flirtations that he, girl-shy, had trouble picking up on when the boys’ “lav” Monday morning before school bull- sessions (emphasis on the bull) and he came up on the radar as someone that Sally, Susie, or Marie “liked” on that preternatural teen grapevine that had Facebook beat six ways to Sunday. He wondered as he passed some cross streets after Bayfield what had happened to Sally, Susie, and Marie. Did they too fade from the town’s memory like he had, Had they, like many in their nomadic generation, shaken the dust off of the town unlike their parents, his parents, and definitely his grandparents who stayed anchored to the town and took a certain pride in that fact. He had to laugh again, why not, he was moving slow enough to laugh and look and feel something about things, that even now it always came down to girls, oops, women, even after two marriages and a million short- haul things. And he still was trying to figure them out. Jesus  

 

The second leg brought him along what is now Adamsville Shore Boulevard, along the ocean, along the one piece of geography that has defined his life; the old days remembrances of running along in the beach sand, a task too tough now with those wobbly knees and aching ankles, with Bill running a mile ahead, and him, Frank, getting all red from the sun; summer afternoons spent on the beach between the Squantum  Yacht Club and the Wollaston Boat Club the “spot” to hang in waiting around for, what else, that certain she you had had your eye on in school, or just what came in on the ocean; Saturday night parking steamed cars with the roar of the ocean drowning out love’s call; end of night stops at Joe’s for burgers and fries to placate a different hunger. Thoughts of  later walks (not runs, hell, no) along Pacific beaches, Malibu, Carlsbad, LaJolla, Magoo Point, with love Angelica, Angelica from Indiana and ocean-deprived, her almost drowning in some riptide not knowing the fierceness of Mother Nature, of Uncle Neptune when the furies were up; solo walks, lonely walks in the 1970s when the booze and dope almost broke him (and he called me, desperately called me for help, and I said “I’ll meet you in Malibu and we’ll get you dried out, brother”).

Much later solitary walks along endless Maine beaches trying to figure out what went wrong with that second marriage, and why his current relationship had run out of steam several years before. Simple stuff as the rush of the foam-flecked waves called out for serenity. As he made the third leg down Atlantic Boulevard  heading back toward  the school he laughed again, twice laughed, first that he was going to finish running the whole course and secondly that no matter what somebody better make sure that he was not buried in some ocean-less place like Kansas when his time came. He had come from the muck of the sea and let him lay his head down there.

As Frank travelled that last leg, the leg that brought him to the corner of his old neighborhood he cringed, cringed at the thought of all the misbegotten things that had happened in that vanished shack of a cramped house that he came of age in and of his estrangement from his family, a shame, a crying shame (and I, Hull–born twenty miles away from the same kind of neighborhood, with the same family grievances will not go into detail about that here -see we do not “air our family linens in public,” got it). But he also had a certain nostalgia, a certain sadness as he remembered the various generations of cats that helped make life a little bit bearable when cursed mother got on her sway, father silent, silent as the grave. Joy Smokey, Snowball, Blackie, Big Boy, Sorrowful, Grey Boy, Calico, and many others. Making him think too of later manhood long gone beloved Mums who had helped him get through drugs, booze, depression, angst, a bad marriage and about seven other maladies. And just then recently gone and still filled with sorrows and sadnesses his companion shadow Willie Boy as he shed a tear for him, and them all.

Then past Atlantic Street onto Newbury Street and remembrances of many miles walked getting up the courage to talk to Lydia the first girl he fell hard for, and wonder, wonder too what happened to her, doing well he hoped. And last stop before the finishing hill and kick to the line Grandma’s Young Street house, savoir sainted (everybody agreed, sainted especially with devil Grandpa) Grandma who saved his tender teens from total despair, from starvation too and blessed memories. And regrets, regrets too that he had not been better at the end for her. Sorrows there, joys too.

Ah, streets, all known streets, all blessed streets (not church-blessed but still blessed), all ocean-breezed streets, all memory streets, as he chugged up that Newbury Street hill which led back on to East Squantum and back the school. A hill where in memory time, fifty- years ago time, he would put a rush kick to the finish. This day he ambled across the ancient imaginary finish line, fist in the air like some Olympic champion. Done.

********

Well I suppose since I wrote this sketch that I should wish Frank a happy 50^thanniversary and I do so here. But remember brother that other 50^thanniversary coming up this summer, and that story will not be pretty, no, not at all.

***Out In The 1950s Romantic Comedy Night-Lauren Bacall’s Designing Woman

DVD Review

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Designing Woman, starring Lauren Bacall, Gregory Peck, directed by Vincent Minelli, 1957    

The last time the name Lauren Bacall was mentioned in this space was when I was reviewing the film To Have And Have Not where she scorched the screen in her film debut joining Humphrey Bogart in doing a hot sex tango of a film-with all their clothes on. Of course that was the wild and wooly wartime 1940s when anything could go, or almost anything, as long as the bad guys go theirs. In the tepid red scare Cold War 1950s thought the role of the myriad romantic pillow talk comedies featured, after a few scraps of course, married domestic tranquility in all its suburban splendors. The film under review, Vincent Minelli’s Designing Woman, puts paid to that premise, except the suburban part, as Ms. Bacall goes through very different paces.  

Here is the skinny. Marilla (played by Ms. Bacall), a fashion designer, meets Mike (played by Gregory Peck), a top notch sports writer in California at some ill-defined party. It must be the California water or something because these two professional from New York City turn into teenage mush and rush off and get married after a couple of days of knowing each other. The problem is when they get back to New York City and their professional lives they find they do not really know each other, really have nothing in common. But fear not love will out. See Mike is one of those crusader reporters who is hot on the trail of corruption in the boxing arena. And the guy who controls that action does not like being under the microscope, not at all. Since he can’t get to Mike (he is in hiding) then he orders his boys to snatch Marilla. That does it as Mike finds that he loves his Marilla despite their lack of common interest. Ditto Marilla. See it was easy, very easy to resolve. And they lived happily ever after.   

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Alfred, Condoleezza Rice Backs Out of Commencement Speech at Rutgers Sitting in at the Rutgers University President's office. Months ago, almost 400 faculty at Rutgers said they were "outraged and offended" that Condoleezza Rice, former National Security Advisor and Secretary of State for the Bush Regime, was invited to give the commencement speech at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, NJ.  They cited Rice's role in distortions and lies justifying the US war on Iraq, and her support for so-called "enhanced" interrogation techniques, or torture. Last Monday, 50 students sat in at the University President Barchi's office, demanding the cancelation of her speech and $35,000 fee. Friday, 100 students interrupted the University Senate meeting, with the same demands. Saturday morning, Rice posted a statement on her Facebook page saying she will not speak. In an open letter to Rutgers University President Barchi this weekend, the student activists said: "Iraq is not a land confined within our imaginations, but a country of millions whose destruction came at the hands of the Bush administration and was enabled by our tax dollars. An estimated hundreds of thousands of lives were destroyed and 4.5 million children were orphaned. Rice signed off to give the CIA authority to conduct their torture tactics for gathering information from detainees as well. These are clearly human rights issues. By inviting her to speak and awarding her an honorary degree, we are encouraging and perpetuating a world that justifies torture and debases humanity. Yet, you insist on the arbitrary decision to invite Rice to speak and to alienate the countless students and faculty that have been affected by her policies and disagree with you. It is time for that to change." NO War Criminals on Campus! #NoRice #CancelCondi were slogans as students with several groups including Students for Justice in Palestine, got involved in the struggle for principle.  Congratulations to all who achieved this victory! Watch video from the protests - hear the students take on the administration with substance, morality and humor. Now, let's watch out that another apologist for war crimes is not invited.  A group of students will meet with President Barchi on Monday; and a teach-in by faculty will go ahead on Tuesday. Teach-In in protest against honoring Condoleezza Rice Not only does the Board of Governors' decision amount to an erasure of history, but there is a widespread assumption, at Rutgers and elsewhere, that we do not or cannot really know what happened 11 or 12 years ago with respect to the Iraq war, the adoption of torture practices, and Dr. Rice's role in both. We are happy, therefore, to announce an educational teach-in about what is in fact known – and about what this knowledge implies, in our current predicament, for the Rutgers community. 5:30 - Keynote: Jumana Musa, Deputy Dir., Rights Working Group.  Introduced by Prof. Jackson Lears. 6:30-9:30 - Panels of professors on Torture, the Iraq War and on Academic Values. With live music, food and beverages. Followed by video clips and live commentary. The evening will end with the screening of “Taxi to the Dark Side.” Student Activities Center 613 George St., New Brunswick btw. Bishop Pl./Stone St. & Huntington St. map Find more public appearances of war criminals collected at WarCriminalsWatch.org. Contact War Criminals Watch to find out more. Protest Complicity in War Crimes The University of California continues to employ torture advocate John Yoo to teach constitutional and international law courses. Failure to investigate charges of misconduct against the professor compels us to act on behalf of those who have suffered the consequence of Yoo's legal opinions. An ideology that justifies crimes of arbitrary detention and vast domestic surveillance has no place inside or outside Boalt Hall. Berkeley Law Graduation 2014: End the Silence Saturday morning May 10 Meet up at Kroeber Plaza fountain, Bancroft  & College Avenue, 7:30 am Flyer Commencement guests, Hearst Greek Theatre, 8:00 - 9:00 am Fire, Disbar, and Prosecute John Yoo and All the Torture Lawyers Protesting Drones at the White House Watch the video. Brilliant sunny skies set the stage for CODEPINK’s All American Wedding at the White House, Sunday. Dressed for the occasion, activists dawned tuxedos, gowns of bright spring colors, hats and, of course, pink. Palpable energy emanated as the ceremony approached and was underway. Onlookers participated both as guests and an attracted crowd, as the ceremony was conducted by a Roman Catholic priest. About half way through the action Sunday, the buzzing noise, underlying throughout the matrimonial ceremony, was spotted by a guest, paired with a drone. A loud “BOOM!” was heard, whereupon many of the guests crashed to the ground, dead. Demonstrated by injury-painted sheets, CODEPINK took Sunday’s opportunity to educate White House tourists about America’s Drone Program. The secrecy of the Program, and the 2400 innocent lives it has killed, were some facts included. Sunday’s All American Wedding, was fueled specifically by a wedding in Yemen, last December. On December 13th, 2013, 17 civilians were killed and dozens injured, after leaving a wedding in their cars. The American Government has yet to compensate the victims’ families, much less recognize responsibility for this atrocity. “Stop killer drones” was chanted at the end of the action, followed by activists coming together holding hands in a circle for a moment of silence for those who’ve been killed by the American President’s order, since its inception. Nothing can justify the killing of innocent civilian lives. Purposely targeting weddings and funerals is horrendous. We must dutifully continue working for peace while taking action to stop killer drones! Share this message: World Can't Wait Conversations: 10pm Eastern / 7pm Pacific On May 15: Conversation with Carlos Warner, a federal defender and attorney for Guantanamo prisoners, as we prepare for protests May 23 to Close Guantanamo NOW. REGISTER for conference calls. CALENDAR OF WAR CRIMINAL PROTESTS Here's the list of war criminal appearances for the month of May. There has been an uptick in protests of war criminals, esp. 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From The Marxist Archives -The Revolutionary History Journal-Against All Odds –True to the Ideals of his Youth-A Tribute to Kazimierz Badowski

 

Click below to link to the Revolutionary History Journal index.

http://www.marxists.org/history/etol/revhist/backissu.htm

Peter Paul Markin comment on this series:

This is an excellent documentary source for today’s leftist militants to “discover” the work of our forebears, particularly the bewildering myriad of tendencies which have historically flown under the flag of the great Russian revolutionary, Leon Trotsky and his Fourth International, whether one agrees with their programs or not. But also other laborite, semi-anarchist, ant-Stalinist and just plain garden-variety old school social democrat groupings and individual pro-socialist proponents.

Some, maybe most of the material presented here, cast as weak-kneed programs for struggle in many cases tend to be anti-Leninist as screened through the Stalinist monstrosities and/or support groups and individuals who have no intention of making a revolution. Or in the case of examining past revolutionary efforts either declare that no revolutionary possibilities existed (most notably Germany in 1923) or alibi, there is no other word for it, those who failed to make a revolution when it was possible.

The Spanish Civil War can serve as something of litmus test for this latter proposition, most infamously around attitudes toward the Party Of Marxist Unification's (POUM) role in not keeping step with revolutionary developments there, especially the Barcelona days in 1937 and by acting as political lawyers for every non-revolutionary impulse of those forebears. While we all honor the memory of the POUM militants, according to even Trotsky the most honest band of militants in Spain then, and decry the murder of their leader, Andreas Nin, by the bloody Stalinists they were rudderless in the storm of revolution. But those present political disagreements do not negate the value of researching the POUM’s (and others) work, work moreover done under the pressure of revolutionary times. Hopefully we will do better when our time comes.

Finally, I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution straight up than some of the “remedies” provided by the commentators in these entries from the Revolutionary History journal in which they have post hoc attempted to rehabilitate some pretty hoary politics and politicians, most notably August Thalheimer and Paul Levy of the early post Liebknecht-Luxemburg German Communist Party. But part of that struggle for the socialist revolution is to sort out the “real” stuff from the fluff as we struggle for that more just world that animates our efforts. So read, learn, and try to figure out the
wheat from the chaff. 
******** 

Against All Odds –True to the Ideals of his Youth-A Tribute to Kazimierz Badowski

(1994)

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From Revolutionary History, Vol. 6 No. 1, Winter 1995/96, pp. 47–51.
Oritinally published in Zdanie, no. 1/1994, pp. 14–16.
Transcribed by Alun Morgan for the Revolutionary History Website.
Marked up by Einde O’Callaghan for the Marxists’ Internet Archive.

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This moving tribute to Kazimierz Badowski appeared in Poland in Zdanie, no. 1/1994, pp. 14–16, a journal published by Socialist intellectuals in Cracow. Further details of Badowski’s activities in Belgium can be found in the history of the Belgian Trotskyists by Nadia de Beule, Het belgisch trotskisme de geschiedenis van een groep oppositionale kommunisten, 1925–1940 (Ghent 1980). A resumé of this by Catherine Legien was published by the Cahiers de CERMTRI, no. 27, December 1982, entitled Contribution à  l’histoire des trotskystes Belges avant la dernière guerre mondiale. We have translated this latter text, and hope to publish it in a future issue of Revolutionary History. Cf. also his obituary in the Cahiers Léon Trotsky, no. 46, July 1991, pp. 125–6.

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WHEN IN mid-January 1966 a brief note appeared in a few dailies, including Trybuna Ludu, which said that the Court in Warsaw had sentenced Kazimierz Badowski (and two others, also mentioned by name and surname) [1] to three years’ imprisonment, for ‘spreading untrue information which could cause public unrest’, the name of the chief accused probably meant nothing to the vast majority of readers. Even after a quarter of a century a well-known journalist on legal affairs, Stanislaw Podemski, in an extended note ‘In the Name of the PRL’ in the pages of Polityka (no. 10, 10 March 1990, p. 5), mentioned amongst other cases ‘the sentencing of K. Badowski ... [and two others] to three years’ imprisonment’, where the Ministry of Justice had wrongly ‘not prepared an urgent appeal’.

This lack of public reaction to both mentions of his name in the pages of the press was significant – as for year after year for several decades in this country, dozens of books and hundreds of studies, articles and memoirs had appeared about the history of the workers’ movement between the wars – whilst he was completely forgotten, though in the autumn of 1927, when he was only 20 years old, the Poznan press widely reported him to be one of the leading members of the revolutionary movement there. Later he was one of the first, within this movement, who stood up against its Stalinist degeneration, and, until his death, he remained true to those ideals. But, under Bierut and Gomułka, [2] such was the propaganda about the history of this movement, despite the country being ruled by the party which apparently continued its tradition. But this is no accident.
Kazimierz Badowski, son of Konrad and Balbina (née Wosatko), was born on 15 August 1907 in Rogów village, near Kozienice. This was the date on his birth certificate, but in reality – as he said himself – he was a year older; the delay in the registration, according to his parents, was meant to delay his later conscription into the army. The future revolutionary came from a typical family of the Polish intelligentsia, which was also apparent in the fate of his brother and sister. His sister became a village teacher in the north-east. Becoming ill with tuberculosis, she died young. His brother, an officer in the Polish Army, during the Second World War found himself in the Middle East in Anders’ army, where he suffered many humiliations because of his left wing views.
Kazimierz attended the gymnasium in Kielce. Here he made friends with Maksymilian Meloch, an older pupil (born on 2 August 1905), the future historian, and then a member of the Union of Communist Youth in Poland (UCY), for which he was imprisoned in 1924–26. The younger boy followed the example of the older one, and Badowski established his first contacts with the Communist movement, becoming an organiser amongst the school youth and in the extreme left wing of the United Free Scouts. As a delegate from Kielce he took part in its third rally in Helenowo, near Warsaw, on 1–3 August 1924. On the last day of the meeting, he, together with other participants, was arrested. A search carried out in his flat did not find anything incriminating. Only an old, prewar edition of the Communist Manifesto, published in Warsaw, was discovered, and a few similarly dated Socialist pamphlets. This christening by the police therefore did not stop him from returning to school, and Kazimierz matriculated the following year.
Soon after he became a member of the Communist Party of Poland (CPP), which sent him to carry out party work in the difficult area of western Poland. In Poznan, to justify his stay in the city, he enrolled in the autumn of 1925 at the university to study law and economics. In the conservative capital of Wielkopolska he energetically embarked on consistent left wing organisational and political activity. He became the secretary of a few local trade unions which were not part of the Polish Socialist Party Trade Union Central Commission. At the same time he taught at the Workers’ University, a cultural and educational association in competition with the Workers’ University Society run by the Polish Socialist Party, and he was also one of the leaders of the unemployed workers’ movement there, speaking at their rallies. At the same time he secretly organised the CPP’s cells, and he was also one of the founders of the CPP’s Regional Committee of Poznan-Pomorze. Together with Alfred Bem, seven years older than him – he very quickly became a left wing workers’ leader in Wielkopolska. Soon he was appropriately ‘honoured’, for on 12 November 1926 he was arrested and accused of anti-state activity. He was one of the accused in the biggest trial of Poznan Communists in the 1920s, and in the prosecution files he was, apart from Bem, the most incriminated. After a three week long court case (7 September–3 October 1927), he did not confess to Communist activity. The court acquitted him, along with eight others accused (including Bem), but the other five were sentenced to between six and 30 months imprisonment.
Released from prison, Badowski was moved to another area by the leadership of the CPP to Zaglebie Dabrowskie, one of the most powerful bastions of the party. In Zawiercie he became the Secretary of the Chemical Workers and Allied Trades Union, which was already under party influence. But he was not active there for long. Already in the summer of 1928 the party leadership told him that a decision had been taken for him to relinquish the post – as he recounted many years later – ‘to a worker formed politically in Eastern Galicia’, and, as he himself also was known to the police, he left to study abroad. He managed to maintain himself there partly because of help from the party, and partly due to his family. This ‘politically formed worker’ was Władysław Gomułka, and in mid-August he took over the position of Regional Secretary from Badowski in the Chemical Workers Union. Badowski began his studies at the Academy of Commerce in Antwerp, and at the same time – as ordered by the CPP – became a member of the Communist Party of Belgium. In Poland, Badowski, as a practical organiser, must have heard very little about the inner-party struggle, which began after the military coup in May 1926, and was still not resolved when he left the country. [3] The struggle was between the ‘majority’ and the ‘minority’ faction, the latter more and more supported by the Stalinist leadership of the Communist International. On the one hand, this struggle around secondary issues, and on the other the underground activity made necessary by the legal position of Communism in Poland, together absorbed the attention and the energy of the membership of the CPP to such an extent, that for a long time the real principled disagreement, which soon permanently divided the revolutionary movement, and by the Stalin’s will drew the line of division in blood, remained outside its field of vision. The disagreement was around basic questions such as the possibility of ‘building Socialism in a single country’, the formation of a privileged layer of bureaucracy in the workers’ state, inner-party democracy, and the right to have ideological and political factions inside the party. The removal from its ranks of the sympathisers of Trotsky, and the sentencing to exile and imprisonment of others, including Trotsky himself, using an administrative measure by the decision of the Fifteenth Congress of the Soviet Communist Party in December 1927 caused this inner-party disagreement to become one inside the international Communist movement. In the West the supporters of ‘the no. 2 man of the October Revolution’ began publishing their own journals in opposition to the leadership of the Communist parties, and the Communist oppositionists gradually felt the bite of party repression.
Badowski, emotionally and organisationally linked with the Communist movement since he had been at his school desk, could not remain on the sidelines of this principled ideological and political dispute. He found himself in the group of the first Trotskyists in Belgium, or, in the terminology used then, the supporters of the Left Opposition. The International Secretariat of the Left Opposition soon drew the first Polish Trotskyist into work aimed at publicising the views of this dissident current in Poland. At the beginning of 1932 Badowski took part in the preparation of the first issue of the Polish Trotskyist periodical, Proletariat: Polish Organ of the Communist Left Opposition. This 12-page issue, dated May 1932, appeared to have been published in Brussels, according to the name and address of the editor and the name of the printshop. In reality, Badowski, who after finishing his studies was returning to Poland, smuggled a master copy of Proletariat there, which was then used to make more copies, and which was distributed (according to police records) in Bielsko-Biala.
Kazimierz moved to Cracow, and combined his professional life (earning his living as a teacher in secondary schools) with his political activity, first in the ranks of the CPP, as a leader of its Trotskyist opposition in Cracow and Zaglebie Dabrowskie. Now his actions had to be hidden, not only from the police, but also from many party comrades. After all, the Stalinist leadership of the party was increasingly sharpening the struggle against Trotskyism in its ranks. Its supporters were not only expelled, but also terrorised, and even threatened with physical assault. This verbal abuse happened daily. Some Trotskyists at that point broke down, and either became obedient party members, or withdrew from political activity. To uphold one’s views meant breaking off party friendships, which were so valuable in conditions of illegality and conspiracy. Burning powerful conviction and a steeled spirit were needed not only just to uphold one’s views, now so sharply attacked by yesterday’s comrades in struggle, but also to continue to spread them. Kazimierz Badowski was one of the few who did not crack, but continued his activity. After 1933, when the Trotskyists broke with the Communist International and formed their own organisation – the Union of Communist Internationalists in Poland, later the Bolshevik-Leninists – Badowski was active in it. Privately he maintained contact with his political friends in Belgium and France.
In the years of Hitler’s occupation he worked as a chemist in Cracow. After 1944 it turned out that hardly any of his comrades from the interwar period were alive, but he did not lose his conviction in the victory of the ideals to which he had dedicated so many years of his life. He did not give up the thought of rebuilding the Trotskyist organisation in Poland. He therefore renewed his contacts abroad. But the Polish Stalinists did not forget about their old opponent. He was arrested in 1946 and brought to Warsaw, where he was imprisoned for four years. He was interrogated by the infamous Różański [4], who never managed to extract a denunciation of Trotskyism from him. After he was released, despite the danger it involved, he did not hesitate to get in touch with the leading organisations of the Fourth International in Paris. From then on they maintained a loose contact with him, for instance he received, by various means, its theoretical journal Quatrième Internationale, of which he kept a file, disregarding any possible unpleasant consequences for himself.
When at the beginning of the 1960s an embryonic Trotskyist organisation established contact with Paris, they told the old activist. Immediately he came to Warsaw, and collaborated with those who continued his work. Gomułka’s team, becoming more and more repressive, decided in the early spring of 1965 finally to deal with the Communist oppositionists. Kazimierz Badowski was arrested on 25 March in his flat in Cracow, and was again brought to prison in Warsaw. This incident was mentioned recently in the press. [5] It needs to be stressed that the old activist of nearly 60 years gave a certain direction to the court proceedings which lasted from 24 December 1965 to 10 January 1966 in Warsaw. He convinced the other accused that the trial should be turned into a political demonstration of the continuity of Trotskyism in Poland, and the correctness of its conceptions and principles. An outstanding speaker and debater, he accomplished this himself in the course of giving evidence lasting several days. He presented his political biography, without any evasions and tactical grovelling to the ruling Stalinists. On Kazimierz’s initiative, the accused, probably for the first and only time in the courts of the Polish People’s Republic, addressed each other during the proceedings as ‘comrade’, which gave the trial taking place in ‘People’s Poland’ a peculiar overtone. The judges did not have the courage to interrupt this political demonstration which took place in the presence of many young people. The accused won – against the opinion of their defending counsel – the demand that the court trial be open to the public. In his closing speech the prosecutor, Lech Pietrasinski, described the behaviour of Badowski and others as a conscious political education of the university students listening to the trial.
The court’s verdict on 10 January 1966 was three years imprisonment for each of the accused. The Supreme Court on 28 June upheld the verdict. After serving three-quarters of his prison sentence, Kazimierz Badowski was conditionally released. Even these experiences did not undermine his belief in the ideas to which he had sacrificed so much of his life. Soon afterwards he came to Warsaw to discuss with the accused the burning question of ‘What Next?’. He remained true to his convictions.
In the 1980s the old fighter had a small satisfaction – he saw the appearance on the Polish scene of the next generation of Trotskyists, the Revolutionary Left Current. The young did not forget about their senior comrade, they visited him, and they gave him their modest publications. Trotskyists from abroad also visited him, wrote of his experiences, and discussed with him.
Kazimierz Badowski died on 6 July 1990 in Cracow, up to the very last moment true to the path he chose in his youth. Political obituaries appeared in two Polish Trotskyist papers, Kret and Platforma. On 22 October 1990 the Supreme Court considered the appeal from the Minister of Justice of 15 January 1990, and annulled the sentences of 1966, so the condemned – he as well as his other two comrades from the trial – were pronounced ‘innocent of the alleged crimes’.
The author of these words can only add one thing. Honour the memory of this firm fighter for the cause of the liberation of the world of labour from the fetters of capitalism.

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Notes

1. One of these was, of course, Ludwik Hass. [Editor’s note]

2. Boleslaw Bierut (real name Krasnodebski) (1892–1956) joined the Communist Party of Poland in 1918, and was active in the apparatus of the Communist International. In the Soviet Union from 1938, he returned to Poland in 1943, becoming President in 1947, Secretary of the Polish United Workers Party in 1948, and Premier in 1948. Władysław Gomułka (1905–1982) joined the CPP in 1926. He became the Deputy Premier in 1945, and Secretary of the PUWP, only to be purged for ‘nationalist deviations’ in 1949, and was replaced by Bierut. Returning as the PUWP’s Secretary on a wave of discontent in 1956, he was replaced by Edward Gierek during the huge strike wave of 1970.

3. Cf. note 18, p. 13.

4. Jacek Różański served under Stanisław Radkiewicz, the NKVD-trained Minister of Security who was known as the ‘Polish Beria’, and after his fall in 1954 was himself purged in 1955, and sentenced to five years for ill-treatment of prisoners.

5. See G. Soltysiak, The Hass Group, in this issue, pp. 69ff.

 

NATIONAL DAYS OF ACTION

NO KILLER DRONES!  NO SPY DRONES!

TUESDAY, MAY 6, NOON – 2:00 PM

MIT MAIN ENTRANCE, 77 MASSACHUSETTS AVE., CAMBRIDGE

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Eastern Massachusetts Anti-Drone Network & Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom

Contact: Info@justicewithpeace.org, UJP: (617) 332-9016     

 

 

Thousands of innocent people have been killed by U.S. drones.  We will read the names of victims and speak out against the new forms of warfare and the surveillance state.  We are gathering at MIT, a major center of drone research.