Tuesday, February 03, 2015







As The 100th Anniversary Of The First Year Of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars) Continues ... Some Remembrances-Writers’ Corner-Quiet Flows the Don by
  







In say 1912, 1913, hell, even the beginning of 1914, the first few months anyway, before the war clouds got a full head of steam in the summer they all profusely professed their unmitigated horror at the thought of war, thought of the old way of doing business in the world. Yes the artists of every school but the Cubist/Fauvists/Futurists and  Surrealists or those who would come to speak for those movements, those who saw the disjointedness of modern industrial society and put the pieces to paint, sculptors who put twisted pieces of metal juxtaposed to each other saw that building a mighty machine from which you had to run created many problems; writers of serious history books proving that, according to their Whiggish theory of progress,  humankind had moved beyond war as an instrument of policy and the diplomats and high and mighty would put the brakes on in time, not realizing that they were all squabbling cousins; writers of serious and not so serious novels drenched in platitudes and hidden gabezo love affairs put paid to that notion in their sweet nothing words that man and woman had too much to do, too much sex to harness to denigrate themselves by crying the warrior’s cry and by having half-virgin, neat trick, maidens strewing flowers on the bloodlust streets; musicians whose muse spoke of delicate tempos and sweet muted violin concertos, not the stress and strife of the tattoos of war marches with their tinny conceits; and poets, ah, those constricted poets who bleed the moon of its amber swearing, swearing on a stack of seven sealed bibles, that they would go to the hells before touching the hair of another man. They all professed loudly (and those few who did not profess, could not profess because they were happily getting their blood rising, kept their own consul until the summer), that come the war drums they would resist the siren call, would stick to their Whiggish, Futurist, Constructionist, Cubist worlds and blast the war-makers to hell in quotes, words, chords, clanged metal, and pretty pastels. They would stay the course.  
 
And then the war drums intensified, the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they made of ordinary human clay as it turned out, poets, beautiful English poets (we will speak of American poets when they slip into war footing in 1917)like Wilfred Owens before he got religion, e.e. cummings madly driving his safety ambulance, beautiful Rupert Brookes wondering which way to go but finally joining the mob in some fated oceans, sturdy Robert Graves all blown to hell and back surviving but just surviving, French , German, Russian, Italian poets tooo all aflutter; artists, reeking of blooded fields, the battle of the Somme Muirhead Bone's nothing but a huge killing field that still speaks of small boned men, drawings, etchings that no subtle camera could make beautiful, that famous one by Picasso, another by Singer Sargent about the death trenches, about the gas, and human blindness for all to see; sculptors, chiseling monuments to the national brave even before the blood was dried before the last tear had been shed, huge memorials to the unnamed, maybe un-nameable dead dragged from some muddied trench half blown away; writers, serious and not, wrote beautiful Hemingway stuff about the scariness of war, about valor, about romance on the fly, among those women. camp-followers who have been around  since men have left their homes to slaughter and maim, lots of writers speaking, after the fact about the vein-less leaders and what were they thinking, and, please, please do not forgot those Whiggish writers who once the smoke had cleared had once again put in a word about the endless line of human progress, musicians, sad, mystical, driven by national blood lusts to the high tattoo, went to the trenches to die deathless deaths in their thousands for, well, for humankind, of course, their always fate  ….    

Quiet Flows the Don by
  
3.97 of 5 stars 3.97  ·  rating details  ·  5,802 ratings  ·  149 reviews
And Quiet Flows the Don or Quietly Flows the Don (Тихий Дон, lit. "The Quiet Don") is 4-volume epic novel by Russian writer Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov. The 1st three volumes were written from 1925 to '32 & published in the Soviet magazine October in 1928–32. The 4th volume was finished in 1940. The English translation of the 1st three volumes appeared under this ...more
Posted by at No comments:

The Way Home-For A Moment-With Roy Orbison’s Running Scared In Mind-For Diana Marston Wherever She May Be   



From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Just runnin' scared each place we go
So afraid that he might show
Yeah, runnin' scared, what would I do
If he came back and wanted you

Just runnin' scared, feelin' low
Runnin' scared, you love him so
Just runnin' scared, afraid to lose
If he came back which one would you choose

Then all at once he was standing there
So sure of himself, his head in the air
My heart was breaking, which one would it be
You turned around and walked away with me.

Every once in a while Teddy Martin would wonder, would marvel if that was the right word to use in the situation, at the ability of the Internet, the ability of “social net-working” to bring people who have not seen each other in a while back together, even if that “not seen in a while” reference meant not seen in passing rather than some keen friendship. Take the “friendship,” the e-mail friendship for now, that he had struck up with Diana Marston whom he hadn’t seen, seen in passing, since high school days, days spent at Carver High hard on the ocean about thirty miles south of Boston. See Teddy like a lot of guys, guys like his friends Peter Markin (North Adamsville High), Josh Breslin (Olde Saco High, Maine ), and Larry Larkin (Hullsville High) whose common denominator at first had been that they had been corner boys in their respective towns and all graduated from their respective highs schools in 1962. Teddy had met these guys at various times in his career as a journalist, in the case of Larry Larkin going back almost fifty years to the old Surf Ballroom dances held in Hullsville , and had kept in contact with them since. A while back they had all for their own reasons gotten the “bug,” (although Teddy really set the pace), had gotten all nostalgic or something to do something around their respective 50th anniversary class reunions that were brewing ahead.       

In Teddy’s case this was more than just reconnecting with lost classmates, lost places in his old home town, lost relatives, lost mist of time events which marked him, no, better, branded him for life but rather represented a kind of coming to terms with his past and with his growing up town that he had not dealt with in almost all that time. Being reasonably computer savvy as part of his job, although nothing like the whizz kids who had come of age with the Internet he was able first put together a class page on Facebook and subsequently in connecting with one classmate also looking to reconnect with classmates and find out anything about reunion activity to log on to a class website which an already up and going reunion committee had established as a central planning and “meeting” place.

Teddy had initially made quite a splash, writing mostly humorous little sketches, little vignettes of old time school and neighborhood life, connected with a few old track friends like Bill Collier, and a couple of old flames. Nothing big but Teddy who in those days was Mr. Teen Angst and Alienation, a hard-bitten corner boy in front of Simmy’s Coffee Shop on West Elm Street, and not much of a mixer or school patriot felt he had turned a corner of sorts by the initial positive response until the hammer came down, as he should have wary ex-corner boy that he was expected. Muffy Germaine (really that was her first name which among some of the lewd corner boys got a laugh workout) a social butterfly (dance committee, the obligatory bit as a cheerleader, the school newspaper, the yearbook and about seven other things listed under her class picture in the yearbook), reasonably smart, reasonably pretty, and unreasonable not afraid to let everybody know back in the day (and now as it turned out) that she was the cat’s meow and they were not had made a comment on one of his sketches after he had produced about ten of them to good effect.

In the old days Muffy and her coterie of girls were the arbiters of the social life and those old lines had not faded one shade because the gist of what Muffy had said was who did Teddy think he was-the class bard. He answered in return that while he did not think that he was “the” class bard he intended to be one of them now. That led to a recurring battle with Muffy and her girls, socials butterflies, ex-boyfriends, most of the school jocks and their hangers-on on one side and Teddy, the dweebs, nerds, loners, misfits, corner boys on the other. After a while though Teddy got tired of the useless fight, useless returning to the old day hard-lines and cliques and progressively withdrew from commentary and from the website since he had determined that he had been mistaken about trying to go back home again.                 

And that is when he “met” Diana Marston. Diana had been quietly following the website controversy and had secretly sided with Teddy (secretly here meaning that she made no comment on the site unlike the eighty-seven others who deemed it necessary to weigh in on the controversy). She sent a private e-mail (once a classmate joined the site he or she had access to the private e-mail service in communicating with other classmates) to Teddy telling him that she missed his sketches. Now this was important to Teddy because for one thing he had had a “crush” on the vivaciously Diana going back to the time they sat across from each other all through high school English. More importantly because she had been a social butterfly, the class vice-president, very smart (she went to Radcliffe after high school), and nothing but a fox. So Teddy replied thanking Diana for her kind words and asked her some old-times related questions which she answered and that began their back and forth e-mail “friendship.” She would periodically ask Teddy to write again for the website but he declined telling her that he would rather continue their private correspondence that go back to the “public” prints as he called it. All this time Teddy though was thinking whether he should pursue Diana beyond the e-mail phase. Since this was a big decision that he felt would make or break the relationship he let Larry Larkin look at the e-mail exchanges to see if he should go in that direction. This is what Teddy let Larry see in order to find out his opinion:

July 14, 2012-Teddy wrote:




Diana-thanks for note- I have a couple of things to do out of town for the next few days and will write more later- I like the idea of being e-mail friends since we have Carver and probably other things in common-Frankly I am trying to lessen my profile on this site and certainly not be clicking on as much (I will tell you about that hassle stuff later) so I am not sure whether we should use the private e-mail service here or whether I should sent you my commercial Comcast e-mail address. We can figure that out later. As for your brother Alan if he ran track or cross-country I would know him but he had to have been a sophomore and I don't remember hanging out with him either at Bill's house, mine or on the school. If he did run track or cross country look up in Magnet 1962 for those sports and see if his picture is there. Later Teddy  and thank you for your being, well, nice and take care as well-Sent a note when you get a chance-Later again Teddy

Oh yah, have you always stayed in Carver since high school?
 
 


 
 
 
“The Smells, Ah, The Smells Of Childhood- Ida's Bakery
Teddy Martin , Carver High School Class of 1964, comment:
There are many smells, sounds, tastes, sights and touches stirred up on the memory’s eye trail in search of the old days in Carver. Today though I am in thrall to smells. The why of this thralldom is simply put. I had, a short while ago, passed a neighborhood bakery here on the St. Brendan Street that reeked of the smell of sour-dough bread being baked on the premises. The bakery itself, designated as such by a plainly painted sign-Mrs. Kenney’s Bakery- was a simple extension of someone’s house, living quarters above, and that brought me back to the hunger streets of the old home town and Ida’s holy-of-holies bakery over on Sagamore Street.
Of course one could not dismiss, dismiss at one’s peril, that invigorating smell of the salt air blowing in from Carver Bay when the wind was up. A wind that spoke of high-seas adventures, of escape, of jail break-out from landlocked spiritual destitutes, of, well, on some days just having been blown in from somewhere else for those who sought that great eastern other shoreline. Or how could one forget the still nostril-filling pungent fragrant almost sickening smell emanating from the Proctor &Gamble soap factory across the channel down in the old Carver Housing Authority project that defined many a muggy childhood summer night air instead of sweet dreams and puffy clouds. Or that never to be forgotten slightly oily, sulfuric smell at low- tide down at Carver Beach, the time of the clam diggers and their accomplices trying to eke a living or a feeding out of that slimy mass. Or evade the fetid smell of marsh weeds steaming up from the disfavored Squaw Rock end of the beach, the adult haunts. (Disfavored, disfavored when it counted in the high teenage dudgeon be-bop 1960s night, post-school dance or drive-in movie love slugfest, for those who took their “submarine races” dead of night viewing seriously. And I do not, or will not spell the significance of that teen lingo race expression even for those who did their teenage “parking” in the throes of the wild high plains Kansas night. You can figure that out yourselves.)
Or the smell sound of the ocean floor (or dawn, if you got lucky) at twilight on those days when the usually tepid waves aimlessly splashed against the shoreline stones, broken clam shells, and other fauna and flora turned around and became a real roaring ocean, acting out Mother Nature’s high life and death drama, and in the process acted to calm a man’s (or a man-child’s) nerves in the frustrating struggle to understand a world not of one’s own making. Moreover, I know I do not have to stop very long to tell this retro crowd, the crowd that will read this piece, about the smell taste of that then just locally famous HoJo’s ice cream back in the days. Jimmied up and frosted to take one’s breath away. Or those char-broiled hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on your back-yard barbecue pit or, better, from one of the public pits down at the beach. But the smell that I am ghost-smelling today is closer to home as a result of a fellow classmate’s bringing this to my attention awhile back (although, strangely, if the truth be known I was already on the verge of “exploring" this very subject). Today, after passing that home front bakery, as if a portent, I bow down in humble submission to the smells from Ida’s Bakery.
You, if you are of a certain age, at or close to AARP-eligible age, and neighborhood, Irish (or some other ethnic-clinging enclave) filled with those who maybe did not just get off the boat but maybe their parents did, remember Ida’s, right? Even if you have never set foot one in old Carver, or even know where the place is. If you lived within a hair’s breathe of any Irish neighborhood and if you grew up probably any time in the first half of the 20th century you “know” Ida’s. My Ida ran a bakery out of her living room, or maybe it was the downstairs and she lived upstairs, in the 1950s and early 1960s (beyond that period I do not know). An older grandmotherly woman when I knew her who had lost her husband, lost him to drink, or, as was rumored, persistently rumored although to a kid it was only so much adult air talk, to another woman. Probably it was the drink as was usual in our neighborhoods with the always full hang-out Dublin Grille just a couple of blocks up the street. She had, heroically in retrospect, raised a parcel of kids on the basis of her little bakery including some grandchildren that I played ball with over at Welcome Young field also just up the street, and also adjacent to my grandparents’ house on Kendrick Street.
Now I do not remember all the particulars about her beyond the grandmotherly appearance I have just described, except that she still carried that hint of a brogue that told you she was from the “old sod” but that did not mean a thing in that neighborhood because at any give time when the brogues got wagging you could have been in Limerick just as easily as Carver. Also she always, veil of tears hiding maybe, had a smile for one and all coming through her door, and not just a commercial smile either. Nor do I know much about how she ran her operation, except that you could always tell when she was baking something in back because she had a door bell tinkle that alerted her to when someone came in and she would come out from behind a curtained entrance, shaking flour from her hands, maybe, or from her apron-ed dress ready to take your two- cent order-with a smile, and not a commercial smile either but I already told you that.
Nor, just now, do I remember all of what she made or how she made it but I do just now, rekindled by this morning’s sough-dough yeasty smell, remember the smells of fresh oatmeal bread that filtered up to the playing fields just up the street from her store on Fridays when she made that delicacy. Fridays meant oatmeal bread, and, as good practicing Catholics were obliged to not eat red meat on that sacred day, tuna fish. But, and perhaps this is where I started my climb to quarrelsome heathen-dom I balked at such a desecration. See, grandma would spring for a fresh loaf, a fresh right from the oven loaf, cut by a machine that automatically sliced the bread (the first time I had seen such a useful gadget). And I would get to have slathered peanut butter (Skippy, of course) and jelly (Welch’s grape, also of course) and a glass of milk. Ah, heaven.
And just now I memory smell those white-flour dough, deeply- browned Lenten hot-cross buns white frosting dashed that signified that hellish deprived high holy catholic Lent was over, almost. Beyond that I draw blanks. Know this those. All that sweet sainted goddess (or should be) Ida created from flour, eggs, yeast, milk and whatever other secret devil’s ingredient she used to create her other simple baked goods may be unnamed-able but they put my mother, my grandmother, your mother, your grandmother in the shade. And that is at least half the point. You went over to Ida’s to get high on those calorie-loaded goodies. And in those days with youth at your back, and some gnawing hunger that never quite got satisfied, back that was okay. Believe me it was okay. I swear I will never forget those glass-enclosed delights that stared out at me in my sugar hunger. I may not remember much about the woman, her life, where she was from, or any of that. This I do know- in this time of frenzied interest in all things culinary Ida's simple recipes and her kid-maddening bakery smells still hold a place of honor.


July 20, 2012 Diana wrote:

 Teddy, I understand what you are asking me because I had some trauma in elementary school that I feel shaped my life. To this day, the incident will creep in my mind when I least expect it. And yes, I thought of leaving Carver myself, though I'm still here and pretty happy with my life. I have a great family and the best friends. But I'm sorry you're in the same boat, so to speak. I'm also sorry you're being hassled. You're out there doing a good thing trying to bring people together, etc., so you shouldn't be having problems with anything or anyone.

You mentioned Bill Collier. He was also a friend of my brother's. Did you know my brother, Alan Marston (Class of '65). He was also a brat like me, haha! - turned into a pretty nice guy though.

When you have the time and feel like it, just write me (we can be email pen pals, hahaha). And maybe I'll tell you about my experience too. Thanks much. Take care, DMM

July 27, 2012 Diana wrote:

Hi Teddy (sorry for the small font, don't know how to enlarge it).

No, my brother never ran track and he was three years behind us (a mere youngster, haha), so I guess you didn't know him.

I've been back in Carver for many years now. I'm actually living in my childhood home. But when I was married, I didn't live in Carver, but I missed it just the same. (No world traveler me).

My email address is: DianaM3047@gmail.com when and if you'd like to do more reminiscing. It would be fun and interesting for me and hopefully for you too.

Hope you had a nice and relaxing time out of town.

Ciao

July 30, 2012 Teddy wrote:

Diana - Thank for your note and e-mail address. I will keep it and sent you mine in return if we need to use them in the future. However I have found a way on site here by using the “Contact Me” icon to get messages on my Comcast e-mail address when I get private e-mails from the site (the personal messages icon on Contact Me-try it).That will avoid my having to check the site often to see if I have e-mails and stuff as part of lowering my profile. Also there is no way on the private e-mail section to enlarge the font- only on Message Forum so we will have wear our glasses to read this stuff. How would Alan have known Bill Collier, whom I have known from about second grade on down at Snug Harbor, if he was a freshman when we were seniors? I will have more to say on Bill later.

I would also be interested, very interested in your elementary school experience but let’s save that for when we know each other better. All I know, as I pointed out in that “Dream Street” sketch that a lot of stuff, bad stuff, went on in more Carver families than mine and Bill’s-nobody “aired their dirty linen in public then” as my grandmother used to say.

Now to the main thing for today-I have a question to ask you. When you came on to this site didn’t you expect to see more classmates telling the rest of us some stuff about themselves and what they have been up to? Or exchanges like a few of us did on July 4th-the Thomas Venner Library and Ida’s. There are now close to two hundred people on site but there is very little communication as far as I can see unless people are doing it by private e-mail- which is fine but hard to see as generating any general class sense. I think it also comes out in the response to the reunion-so far only 50 or so classmates (plus some spouses/guests) have signed up. Now I know our generation is on the edge as far as the new technology goes but I wonder about what people are thinking about as reasons for them being on the site. And why.

There is a reason that I am asking about this as I am sure you, since you are perceptive, have figured out. It has to do with this hassle stuff. I am not trying to make this mysterious or a world-shaking thing but it does feed into the observations above. You mentioned in an earlier e-mail about my trying to bring people together with my sketches. You are right about that. For my own reasons having to do with that troubled Carver youth ever since I have been on this site I have tried to do that periodically by posting the sketches on the Message Forum section. Of course some of them are rather long and I have taken heat about that from our webmaster, Donna, who has responded to classmate complaints. (Donna BTW is a crackerjack webmaster and so almost none of this is about her). The other area is content. Occasionally as a literary devise, or just to brighten stuff up I have used what some have called sexual innuendo-you know-using the word “hot” for a female’s appearance (my meaning being nice looking, not the modern youthful “sexy,” “the submarine races,” “parking” stuff like that which was/is common stuff in any girls’ or boys’ lav come before school Monday morning. I had no other motive (meaning I was not “hitting” on anybody or anything like that) but I have been told to “edit” such stuff. In other words let’s act on this like placid proper AARP-ers- let’s as Donna did say to me keep everything “vanilla.” (I do fault her for that.)

There are a couple of other things that I will mention later, one a very personal dispute with a classmate off site around all of this, but what I am trying to say is that throwing myself out there with a high profile has made me something of a target. As I mentioned in a note to you I am a very private person (probably less shy than you but still shy as well) so being out there “without a net” is what bothers me. I thought I “knew” my audience and so have posted things like Ida’s-Dream Street- Thomas Venner- Carver Beach- First day of high school-4th of July to act as a catalyst but apparently not. The proof is in the pudding- if you look at Message Forum as of July 26th you will see that besides Donna nobody but me had put on since my Dream Street on July 14th.

If people would write some stuff then I have tried to do lately I would write something in response and not have to “carry” the burden writing set “mood” pieces (although I like to write them, no question). But that brings us back to the beginning-nobody, a few maybe, is writing much of anything, maybe a couple of sentences. Jesus we have our chance to tell our story, to show the future generations what it was like for people to write for real, hell by the time tweeting and texting become standard writing more than a paragraph for real, and this is where we are-In any case like I said before I am lowering my profile on site for those reasons. We can chit-chat about the old days and this and that and that is good and maybe you can pass stuff on to whoever you are still in contact with in the class that might be interested.

Sorry my e-mail friend for venting but I figured that as someone who appreciates the written word you would have an idea what I am trying to do and say with all of this. Sent me a note about your thoughts on what I have said. I would definitely be interested to what you have to say-Later Teddy

August 2, 2013- Teddy’s message:

Diana-thanks for note and interesting message. Sorry for not getting back to you sooner but I have been “running for cover” as of late. Running for cover in this case meaning trying to get the episodes of the Carver bummer that I have faced recently off my mind. I had not told you previously about what had been an on-going dispute I have had with a female classmate whom I was once close to that kind of exploded in my face a few weeks ago and which has been a factor in lowering my profile on all things Carver. I will fill you in on all the details later if you like. I will get a handle on the situation but for now I want to keep away from anything Carver. Nothing against you, definitely nothing against you, who I hope will be a friend now and in the future. But for right now I just want to let Carver go to the background. I will write you on your commercial e-mail site when I do. Will get back to you as soon as possible. Your friend Teddy      

[At one point Teddy had been frustrated with the way that his work, his little nonchalant sketches were being “overly analyzed, were forcing classmates to take sides like in the old days when if you were not loaded up with a clique, sports figures and their hangers-on, do-gooders, social butterflies, the “intellectuals” you had no “standing” and that was the way he was feeling about things. Worse, worse that the replication of the social structure of the old school was how few people were actually out in the lists doing battle, making comments on anything about anything. He mentioned this to Diana in on private e-mail and got the following response from her.]  

August 5, 2012 Diana’s reply: 

“Hi Teddy - I've too noticed that there are just a handful of people who seem to be interested in this website. But who knows, there could be a lot of private emails going back and forth. And there could be many just like myself, who enjoy this site but are reluctant to say anything.

I do not understand at all why anyone would be offended at what you have to say. "Keep it vanilla." What the heck. "Placid proper AARPers," that one I love, hahaha. Everything you've had to say is to bring back memories of a different time in all our lives, isn't that true? And what on earth is so offensive in what you are saying? I do not feel there is any sexual innuendo in what you say. You don't need to defend yourself at all, so please don't. (Pretty strong words coming from me, huh)? I have no agenda here, so believe me when I say, it's entertaining, interesting and totally fun to read your "blogs," (is that what they're called)?

Well, must sign off for now, it's late and I'm old, hahaha. Always nice to talk with you my new friend!!!”

[Teddy agreed having been there himself on other social network sites that there could like in the old reliable Monday morning before school lavatory talkfest, boys’ and girls’ divisions (reliable that the sessions would be held Monday morning to distribute the lies and half lies about the weekends romantic doings, what did or did not happen), plenty of private e-mails among the old groupings that never would see the light of day in public prints. That traffic was fine by Teddy, after all he and Diana were using the system as well but what rankled  was that subterranean tom-tom that was directed his way for as Diana put it just trying to jump start the old days.] 

The sexual innuendo reference, an important one since he had been, like a schoolboy, “reprimanded” by the webmaster, Donna, about reports to her that Teddy was making such remarks. Here is the gist, no, here is the sum total of what he remarked. A female classmate put a recent photograph of her and her longtime classmate taken out in California, and he commented that they both looked “hot.” Meaning in the current lingo that they had aged well against the usual ravages of time that he had seen in a goodly number of recent classmate photos including his own (and Sam Lowell’s as well). Thus, in the year 2012 Teddy said to Donna in his “defense” to tell an AARP member in good standing that they are “hot,” male or female should make their day. Donna took that remark with good grace. But it still bothered him that in an age when the Internet and just regular films, songs, and other cultural expressions that are really over the top, pornography in many cases and which your average twelve year old is hip to that some old dames were up in arms over such an innocuous term. Jesus, double Jesus.]

August 8, 2012 Teddy replied:

Diana-thanks for note-thanks also for confirming that few seem to be publicly using this site. Thanks also for appreciating my “mood pieces” although blogs seems right as a description now that you have brought it up. Particular thanks for being rationale and not seeing “sexual innuendo or whatever” in my stuff-Jesus we are 67 and 68 and that kind of stuff is off the agenda (I will use your haha here).

Like I said I was venting a bit but I am okay with the situation now since I have decided to lower my profile. I write for plenty of other “blogs,” organizations, publications, and my work, etc. on other topics so I don’t need the hassle here. I will just sent stuff to selected people like you who might be interested and avoid the “vanilla” problem. Of course in return you should write more about your experiences or remembrances and we can have a running commentary going on this private exchange. At this point I like that a lot better. (Good point about maybe people are using the private e-mail but like I mentioned before that does not help the general class spirit business). By the way who are you still in touch with in the class of ‘62-are they on site? Could we bring them into our little “circle?” Did you personally know Bill Collier at school? He says that you and he were in some class together he thought French but he was not sure. He sends his regards in any case.

Thanks for clearing up the “experience” issue since, and this might tell us about the age we live in, I first thought of sexual abuse as the story you had to tell. There was a lot of that going on then, including if various people, mainly women, I have spoken to, are right at the high school. I am sure you have some knowledge on that although the standards for sexual harassment in those days was pretty low and guys and teachers got away with lot of stuff that would not be tolerated today.

To keep things rolling and get away from the now dreary subject matter of the last e-mail I sent you tell me about your Carver Beach experiences if any. I wrote something a while back which is on my profile page in the School Story section to help with memories. You lived (live) around Atlantic Street so I assume that you might have some relationship to the ocean and it lures.

BTW I have kind of kept away from asking you about the more personal stuff about your life (you know like marriage although from what I can figure you are a widow) and telling you about my personal stuff (like my two marriages, etc.) until we communicate more and then I think that it will come out as we write about stuff. Feel free though to ask me anything you want and if I don’t want to answer I will just say so. And the same with you. It will all stay private. Fair enough? Later- an improper non-placid AARPer.”

August  12, 2012 Diana replied:

“Hi there Teddy - Yeah, I have a "personal relationship to the ocean" all right. It reminds me of a second date I had with this really terrific guy. He met me at the marina in his boat, and he had the song "Diana" playing on his CD player. Well, I got seasick and I was so totally embarrassed that I never wanted to see him again. We walked around the marina after and I was a dizzy nut case, and it was such a short boat trip, HA. I didn't let him know how horrible I was feeling and I couldn't wait to get home. And to boot, when I was a kid, I actually drove a boat many times in Lakeville (with my father next to me), so go figure. But my friends and I used to get together on the beach wall in Carver Beach, kind of near Howard Johnson's. It was fun watching all the people and checking out the ‘dudes.’”

No, I'm not a widow, I'm divorced (married twice too, first husband has since died). But my ex and I get along well and keep in contact with each other via phone calls, which is mostly concerning my 35-year-old son who's a policeman down in Virginia. I have four grandchildren but unfortunately never get to see them because my son and his ex don't get along.

I personally never heard of any sexual abuse as a child. But unfortunately it goes on everywhere. Anything to do with child, animal or elder abuse makes my blood boil.

I've been spending an awful lot of time, almost obsessively so, keeping up with what's going on in the world. This world is very scary. Doesn't it remind you of being a senior in high school and worrying about being blown to smithereens by the Russians? I remember sitting in the auditorium where I think the principal was discussing it (I could be wrong) and thinking, "I'm gonna run as fast as I can to get home to my family any minute now." I still cannot get over September 11th. Please don't think I'm a nut case, I just worry a lot.

It's a good idea to lower your profile, I guess. Not that I think you should, but if it's hurtful to you, then it's not worth it. But again, it's awfully entertaining to a lot of us I'm sure. What's wrong with smiling when you're reading about old times, reliving old memories, etc.? Nothing at all I say.

All I know is, you have become my connection to the old days and I'm grateful.

I respect privacy too and I'm loyal, so I mean what I say, it will stay private.

Okay, hope I'm not being a pain in the butt here cuz I seem to be rambling. You have other things to tend to so I won't take any more of your time here. But I'm happy to have you as a friend and look forward to reading your letters. Take care, Diana” 

August 15, 2012 Teddy replied:

Hi Diana -Thanks for note- I too am worried about the situation in the world- I belong to the organization Veterans For Peace and we have issued a statement about the situation. I am also heading to Washington tomorrow morning to a rally at the White House in defense of the Palestinian people as part of a VFP contingent so I will keep this short- If I have time I will write about the points in your last e-mail. That beach stuff is funny-BTW everybody hung around the two yacht clubs right?

August 18, 2012 Diana replied:

Hi Teddy, I was away for a couple of days. Just getting back on line and read about your Washington trip. I caught some of the rally on T.V. I have similar views as you, and some not so similar. It's just a horrendous thing that's going on over there - the poor, innocent people being slaughtered, on both sides. But anyway, hope you accomplished what you wanted. Take good care, Diana”

August 20, 2012 Teddy replied:

“Diana -thanks for note and comments in your recent e-mail. I really believe that you could write some stuff just as well even if it was only addressed to me and your other friends. (It is always good to have an audience in mind when writing something-if not it just kind of gets bogged down). That Marina story about getting seasick but not letting on trying to be brave and keep the relationship going I presume is well worth doing a few paragraphs on. You know a lot of times it is easier to write stuff in the third person so you could try that. Think about it, although like I said in the last e-mail I can’t really ask you to do so beyond sending things to me since I am not writing for the website now either.   

Of course even better than that Marina story is the car story. I really liked that one since we all were crazy for cars in those days, could hardly wait to get our licenses and be able “cruise” Carver Boulevard (now renamed  Carver Shore Drive for some reason), or get out on the open road. Kids nowadays don’t seen as into that notion, or that expectation. Unfortunately I never had dough to have a car but Bill Colllier and I would hang around with guys like Steve Talbot who did have cars just to cadge rides to places. Of course everybody was crazy to get a ‘57 Chevy (Steve had one handed down from his father). That Pontiac was a pretty big car so I could see where you might have trouble navigating it. Funny how we would all go to that Merit station (now Hess) to gas up. We used to pitch in on gas and I know it was about 30 cents a gallon then so we probably put about a dollar each in and we were off.

Who were your girlfriends that you hung around the beach with? I still think that it is ironic that many of us “knew” that between the yacht clubs was the place to hang and yet when I have communicated with those who did we never seemed to have connected with each other. Also strange now that I think about it was how crazy it was that we could not, did not, talk to Carver North High people even though we were part of the same town or if we did we kept it quiet (I have heard a few stories about guys and girls being harassed for not keeping those affairs clandestine). Probably came from the football rivalry and maybe just another one of those teen angst identity things. I know one time I did go out with a Carver North High girl and I told somebody, one of my corner boys so I figured I could say that to him, and I think that he/ they once he spread the word wanted to have me tried for treason. (BTW I never went out with a Carver High girl while I was at the school but only later after I graduated and went to college all of a sudden Carver girls wanted to talk to me. Go figure.) Did you keep your thing with that boyfriend quiet as well? Did anybody call you traitor?     

Sure we used to hang around the Southern Artery, that Leaning Tower of Pizza Place and I think that drive-in restaurant across from it. So I know those spots. But here is the kicker-we went there when we “struck out” on the girl front. Cry a tear for me, us, okay. 

Did you work at the Bargain Center? Bill Collier’s mother did and I know others from our class like Gloria Garfield did. She told me some funny stories about the place back earlier this year when we were talking about stuff. (I caddied up at the old Gloversville Golf Course for my pocket change.) That Bargain Center (the “Bargie,” a pre-Walmart- like deep discount junk merchandise place) was also the place where I, or rather my mother would get our twice yearly new outfits for school and Easter. Tough being poor and having to wear goofy clothes like that. Don’t cry a tear over that though. Do you know others who worked there?  Was it all women who worked there?  

We both seem to be political people but I like the idea of us talking about other stuff as well especially in these e-mails since we both could write reams of stuff about the troubles in this wicked old world.

As far as you “rambling” I don’t see it that way but I would just say that I am not looking for reunion stuff these days so write whatever you want to write about. Writing about the old days though gives us points of connection, frames of reference, and just plain nostalgia so I appreciate when you do sent stuff like that. More later, Teddy 
August 22, 2012 [Teddy wrote in response to why Diana was not  going to the reunion although she still lived in Massachusetts and thus could have travelled to the event without a problem (of course all of this is some much blather since Teddy did not go to the reunion, nor did Sam Lowell, and when he wrote this he had already determined that he was not going]:

Diana -believe me I can understand, and respect, your worries about being too shy to go to the reunion. 
But hear me out. This is our 50th anniversary reunion. Realistically for those of us who have survived thus far this is the last effective time short of some assisted living common room or nursing home day room we will be able to do this event standing up. Or close to it. So think very hard about this and remember there will be at least one other person in that huge room who will be scared too. Later Teddy

And then adding fuel to the fire in a follow up e-mail:    

Diana - just another little note to tell you that you are not alone in this fretting over going to the reunion business. There are others for your and different reasons. I am going to use that little note, or rather the ideas in it, to you minus any reference to you on the Message Forum page to try to calm some nerves. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.

Thanks for the point on Ida‘s Bakery- My big thing besides the cupcakes was the oatmeal bread which I would bring back to grandma’s house on Young Street (right around the corner) and she would make me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches-with milk of course. And I still like that sandwich.

If you have any other thoughts about the old days feel free to use this private e-mail. I would use any stuff you tell on the MF anonymously-you know –“a fellow classmate told me”…. Later Teddy       

Teddy wrote:

Diana -Thanks for note. Thanks too for backing me up on the location of the library. Cathy has agreed to that sequence. By the way isn’t it great that she is getting married if you read her note. You know you can always just go to her personal page and put a note or sent her a private e-mail welling her well.

Now back to business. Thanks for straightening me out about Kendall Park. I was going the wrong way toward the high school on that one assuming that Kendall Park would be off of Kendall Street. I think that field off Newbury (after the Cady Post) is a soccer field, parking lot or something. I know exactly where Kendall is now once you mentioned the doggie park. Too bad about the 24/7 use business. Interesting story on the doctor which if it okay with you I will post up pretty much as is. Let me know.   (BTW did you read my revamped post about going to the reunion on MF-that is the way I would treat all information from you)

What I am still confused on is the kettle hole’s location- is it in the park? Funny I have never heard of it and probably passed that area a million times back in the day. I think it is worth a separate post if I can get more information.

Finally there is something of a “dis-connect” in my mind between your being shy and this torrent of very nice and interesting writing you have been doing the last few days. I am now certain you could hold your own in any situation. I am puzzled. You don’t have to go the reunion- that is your choice- but what gives?  Thanks-Later Teddy

Based on Diana’s e-mail Teddy placed the following about a local institution she told him about which he placed on the Message Forum section of the class website: 


“Does Anybody Remember The Kendall Estate Over Off Atlantic Street?

Here what somebody else who knows has to say about that old institution-

The Kendall Estate was owned by Dr. Walter Kendall. It's called Kendall Park now, but old-timers around the neighborhood always refer to it as "the field." From what is known he was a character of sorts. He was a veterinarian, a history buff, a bicycle enthusiast (remember the huge front tire on the old bikes)? He rode and repaired those types of bikes. He never married. He built his house on that land and also the very large house on the corner of Atlantic and North Streets for his sister.

The doctor grew many plants, vegetables, etc. There were many grapevines lining the fence at the Kendall Estate in the old days. He died back in the 1940s but his home still stood there. One can still see the outline of the house. There was a very nice family that lived in that house back in the '50s. But the house eventually burned down - no injuries, it was vacant. No one is sure on how and why that happened. As far as the location of the Kendall Estate, it's on the corner of Atlantic and North Streets. The land was left by Dr. Kendall for the children of North Adamsville, never to be built on. In old newspapers from the l930s he talks about "North Adamsville’s mothers and their children should always enjoy this park."

The last few years or so, it's being used as a dog park. People from all over bring their dogs there 24/7. But it's is still a very historical place. The back of the lot contains a “kettle hole,” one of many in the USA. The lore told to children in the area was that a meteor landed there centuries ago. College students were brought there to study it back in the day. But the Kettle Hole itself has not been well taken care of by the city these days, so it's pretty much overgrown with weeds - and trash is thrown in it. You can however still walk around it and look down at the Kettle Hole. The city does mow the Kendall Estate itself, so the grass is always decent looking.

Teddy wrote:

Hi Diana -Thanks for note on your shyness and love of the language-if you go to my profile page in the Comment section you can read an appreciation of my senior English teacher which will make the same point as you did. BTW your favorite teacher could be a subject for a posting.

Speaking of postings- I placed your information about the Kendall Estate/Kettle Hole which I edited to leave you anonymous on the “Just For Fun” to see if others have added information. Hope you like the edit job.   

Here are a couple of subjects you might think about- what I call the “long march” from North to Atlantic in the winter of 1959. I have photos which were given to me but since my family did not move back to Carver until March of 1959 I missed the move. Also your take on Carver Beach in the old days if you hung out there. How about the bowling allies down on the boulevard. You should write the stuff thinking you are writing for the CHS62 audience so I don’t have to edit and can just cut and paste to the appropriate place. 

Will be in touch- More later-Teddy  

Teddy placed this on the Message Forum class website page:

On The “Long March” –For Diana N.  

No, today I am not talking about Mao’s famous long march to Yenan over in China in the 1930s but the “long march” from Carver High to Atlantic in the winter of 1959 (see photo in the Atlantic Junior High section of the Schools icon on the home page). My family had moved from Jamestown [low-rent housing project section of Carver] in March of 1959 so I did not take part in the move. I always heard rumors about it though, especially that maybe four or five fellow classmates did not make it, that they got lost along the way and as far as anybody knows were never heard from again. Is that true or just an urban legend? Survivors tell us your stories.

This I do know, now having been informed by Diana about it, which maybe fifty years later should give us pause about those long ago rumors.

Diana wrote back:
“Hi Teddy - I remember that "long march" to Atlantic. I got lost on the way home believe it or not, ha! I actually wrote the school song for Atlantic. I still have the plaque I was given.”

And Teddy responded

Well how about gracing these pages with the words to that song Donna (or anybody), since I do not remember that we had an Atlantic school song. Kudos Diana on writing it though.
*********

So it went for a while. As mentioned above Teddy lessened his profile to zero on the class website, probably to the cheers of Muffy and her crowd. Despite his original intentions, momentary school patriotism and mist of time coming to terms with his never did go to that class reunion. After Larry Larkin had read the e-mail traffic between Teddy and Diana he advised Teddy to back off since nothing she wrote gave him the slightest encouragement on that issue. Teddy took Larry’s advice (for once according to Larry) and backed off, backed off to zero with Diana as the pile-up collision with his past made him regret he ever tried to mend old wounds. But in the back of his mind Teddy thought hey I have her e-mail address maybe someday….    

 

 

 

 
Posted by at No comments:
***Poets' Corner- Langston Hughes-Dream Boogie 



 




From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

February is Black History Month


Dream Boogie

Good morning, daddy!
Ain't you heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream deferred?

Listen closely:
You'll hear their feet
Beating out and beating out a -

You think
It's a happy beat?

Listen to it closely:
Ain't you heard
something underneath
like a -

What did I say?

Sure,
I'm happy!
Take it away!

Hey, pop!
Re-bop!
Mop!

Y-e-a-h!

Langston Hughes




 
[“Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?,” yelled Harry, Harry Simons his goddam building cleaning supervisor, from across the foyer near the elevators on the ground floor who knew damn well that he had done that job, had finished all his jobs in the Acme Trust Building and then some so that he could get off before noon on this Saturday, and every Saturday when he needed his rest before he stepped out for his big Saturday night. It was during those times, those damn Saturday morning work times as if five days were not enough, Sam wished he had stayed in school like his Mama, bless her name, told him to do and get an education so he could apply for a civil service job and take life easier than she had had it as a scrubwoman for the same company, Barclay’s, that he worked for now.
 
But he had to sow his wild oats, do his reefer, do his two-year stretch, do his high hat corner boy routine just like all of his boys who distrusted, seriously distrusted any guy who thought being “book smart” was better than savvy “street smart.” Looked askance at Negro intellectuals, black men like that be-bop poet Langston Hughes who pitter patter poetry he read in Sing Sing just to pass the time. Brother, that Hughes knew all the words, knew the street beat too. But just then Harry came up and told him he was done for the day and his thoughts drifted from be-bop poets to that night’s doing when he would “walk with the king,” and his sorrows would soon be forgotten.]                   



…he, Sam Walker, everybody called him Sam except his mother naturally wanting to proud say his full sired name Samuel Maxwell, Maxwell like the Chicago blues street his father had worked before he hit the long dusty road west, just this moment, this Saturday night high-kicking moment being called by his moniker by Miss Ella from across the street  reflecting his Saturday night time name, Sidewalk Slim (known as such ever since his corner boy days around 125th Street back in the late 1940s when he was really slim and when he ruled, ruled for a moment in time, the sidewalk in front of Sadie Barker’s Pool Hall and guys would listen to him “talk the talk” just to hear him talk the talk and figure out how to some young thing out of her virtue), was, as always on Saturday night, dressed to the nines, yes, the nines. Resplendent in his now well-worn, although serviceable, wide lapel dark brown suit that had seeable pants creases, and off-pink collared shirt to highlight the brown (also well- worn but like the suit serviceable, serviceable Saturday night especially after a few drinks, or some reefer madness kicks, dimmed the lights), a signature string tie reflecting a local hip trend, shoe-shine black shoes, ready to dance almost by themselves. And to top off that resplendent as he walked in the front door of the Red Fez (red to make one think of sunsets, of flaming heats, and fez to make one think back to Mother Africa times and some eternal birth mysteries) was his woman, his lady, Miss Molly, fully gowned, new, new and freely given by a, ah, gentleman friend to show some appreciation for her kindnesses. Sidewalk Slim didn’t like the fact that it was new, that he had not purchased it, and that someone else had. They had argued about it for a bit but as usual Slim was at the losing end of a Molly argument when it came to her looks. Finished.

Moreover, this night, the Molly Red Fez night, Slim was eager to have Molly around as his arm piece in another man’s bought dress or not because none other than the man, Be-Bop Benny and his quartet, Benny (Benny Bartlett) from his old corner boy days, who looked like he and his crew were ready to break out, break out big in the emerging swing bing, bang, bing jazz night, maybe like the Count or the Duke, were playing the house that night and he needed to show he fit in, fit in nicely with the new be-bop, with the hip. So reefer loaded, feeling a little mellow as he sat down at the front table Benny had reserved for him, ordering some high-shelf liquor, a bottle, as befit the occasion Slim for once felt that old time corner boy king of the hill walking daddy feeling that he used to feel around 125th Street. And the night, really the night and the next morning because he and Molly stayed after hours when Benny and other guys from around town after finishing their money gigs for the Mayfair swells and that crowd came by to really blast, worked out just that way. He was beat, beat to hell and back and slept most of the Sunday away.

Come Monday morning, early, in a different suit, the green khaki uniform, complete with his Sam Walker name in white label above the shirt pocket, of the Barclay Cleaning Company, taking the old A-train to work he thought about the day ahead, the long day ahead, and about how his supervisor, Harry, would probably yell to him for the millionth time “Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?” or something like that. Jesus.
 
Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Comments (Atom)