***In Honor Of James Connelly On The 100th Anniversary Of The Easter Uprising-Commandant- Irish Citizens Army- A Critical Appreciation Of Easter, 1916

***In Honor Of James Connelly On The 100^th Anniversary Of The Easter Uprising-Commandant- Irish Citizens Army- A Critical Appreciation Of Easter, 1916

 

***In Honor Of James Connelly On The 100^th Anniversary Of The Easter Uprising-Commandant- Irish Citizens Army- A Critical Appreciation Of Easter, 1916

A word on the Easter Uprising.

In the old Irish working-class neighborhoods where I grew up the aborted Easter Uprising of 1916 was spoken of in mythical hushed reverent tones as the key symbol of the modern Irish liberation struggle from bloody England. The event itself provoked such memories of heroic “boyos”  (and “girlos” not acknowledged) fighting to the end against great odds that a careful analysis of what could, and could not be, learned from the mistakes made at the time entered my head. That was then though in the glare of boyhood infatuations. Now is the time for a more sober assessment. 

The easy part of analyzing the Irish Easter Uprising of 1916 is first and foremost the knowledge, in retrospect, that it was not widely supported by people in Ireland, especially by the “shawlies” in Dublin and the cities who received their sons’ military pay from the Imperial British Army for service in the bloody trenches of Europe which sustained them throughout the war. That factor and the relative ease with which the uprising had been militarily defeated by the British forces send in main force to crush it lead easily to the conclusion that the adventure was doomed to failure. Still easier is to criticize the timing and the strategy and tactics of the planned action and of the various actors, particularly in the leadership’s underestimating the British Empire’s frenzy to crush any opposition to its main task of victory in World War I. (Although, I think that frenzy on Mother England’s part would be a point in the uprising’s favor under the theory that England’s [or fill in the blank of your favorite later national liberation struggle] woes were Ireland’s [or fill in the blank ditto on the your favorite oppressed peoples struggle] opportunities.

The hard part is to draw any positive lessons of that national liberation struggle experience for the future. If nothing else remember this though, and unfortunately the Irish national liberation fighters (and other national liberation fighters later, including later Irish revolutionaries) failed to take this into account in their military calculations, the British (or fill in the blank) were savagely committed to defeating the uprising including burning that colonial country to the ground if need be in order to maintain control. In the final analysis, it was not part of their metropolitan homeland, so the hell with it. Needless to say, cowardly British Labor’s position was almost a carbon copy of His Imperial Majesty’s. Labor Party leader Arthur Henderson could barely contain himself when informed that James Connolly had been executed. That should, even today, make every British militant blush with shame. Unfortunately, the demand for British militants and others today is the same as then if somewhat attenuated- All British Troops Out of Ireland.

In various readings on national liberation struggles I have come across a theory that the Easter Uprising was the first socialist revolution in Europe, predating the Bolshevik Revolution by over a year. Unfortunately, there is little truth to that idea. Of the Uprising’s leaders only James Connolly was devoted to the socialist cause. Moreover, while the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army were prototypical models for urban- led national liberation forces such organizations, as we have witnessed in later history, are not inherently socialistic. The dominant mood among the leadership was in favor of political independence and/or fighting for a return to a separate traditional Irish cultural hegemony. (“Let poets rule the land”).

As outlined in the famous Proclamation of the Republic posted on the General Post Office in Dublin, Easter Monday, 1916 the goal of the leadership appeared to be something on the order of a society like those fought for in the European Revolutions of 1848, a left bourgeois republic. A formation on the order of the Paris Commune of 1871 where the working class momentarily took power or the Soviet Commune of 1917 which lasted for a longer period did not figure in the political calculations at that time. As noted above, James Connolly clearly was skeptical of his erstwhile comrades on the subject of the nature of the future state and apparently was prepared for an ensuing class struggle following the establishment of a republic.

That does not mean that revolutionary socialists could not support such an uprising. On the contrary, Lenin, who was an admirer of Connolly for his anti-war stance in World War I, and Trotsky stoutly defended the uprising against those who derided the Easter rising for involving bourgeois elements. Participation by bourgeois and petty bourgeois elements is in the nature of a national liberation struggle. The key, which must be learned by militants today, is who leads the national liberation struggle and on what program. As both Lenin and Trotsky made clear later in their own experiences in Russia revolutionary socialists have to lead other disaffected elements of society to overthrow the existing order. There is no other way in a heterogeneous class-divided society. Moreover, in Ireland, the anti-imperialist nature of the action against British imperialism during wartime on the socialist principle that the defeat of your own imperialist overlord in war as a way to open the road to the class struggle merited support on that basis alone. Chocky Ar La.

"James Connolly"

The man was all shot through that came to day into the Barrack Square

And a soldier I, I am not proud to say that we killed him there

They brought him from the prison hospital and to see him in that chair

I swear his smile would, would far more quickly call a man to prayer

Maybe, maybe I don't understand this thing that makes these rebels die

Yet all men love freedom and the spring clear in the sky

I wouldn't do this deed again for all that I hold by

As I gazed down my rifle at his breast but then, then a soldier I.

They say he was different, kindly too apart from all the rest.

A lover of the poor-his wounds ill dressed.

He faced us like a man who knew a greater pain

Than blows or bullets ere the world began: died he in vain

Ready, Present, and him just smiling, Christ I felt my rifle shake

His wounds all open and around his chair a pool of blood

And I swear his lips said, "fire" before my rifle shot that cursed lead

And I, I was picked to kill a man like that, James Connolly

A great crowd had gathered outside of Kilmainham

Their heads all uncovered, they knelt to the ground.

For inside that grim prison

Lay a great Irish soldier

His life for his country about to lay down.

He went to his death like a true son of Ireland

The firing party he bravely did face

Then the order rang out: Present arms and fire

James Connolly fell into a ready-made grave

The black flag was hoisted, the cruel deed was over

Gone was the man who loved Ireland so well

There was many a sad heart in Dublin that morning

When they murdered James Connolly-. the Irish rebel

"James Connolly"

Marchin' down O'Connell Street with the Starry Plough on high

There goes the Citizen Army with their fists raised in the sky

Leading them is a mighty man with a mad rage in his eye

"My name is James Connolly - I didn't come here to die

But to fight for the rights of the working man

And the small farmer too

Protect the proletariat from the bosses and their screws

So hold on to your rifles, boys, and don't give up your dream

Of a Republic for the workin' class, economic liberty"

Then Jem yelled out "Oh Citizens, this system is a curse

An English boss is a monster, an Irish one even worse

They'll never lock us out again and here's the reason why

My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die....."

And now we're in the GPO with the bullets whizzin' by

With Pearse and Sean McDermott biddin' each other goodbye

Up steps our citizen leader and roars out to the sky

"My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...

Oh Lily, I don't want to die, we've got so much to live for

And I know we're all goin' out to get slaughtered, but I just can't take any more

Just the sight of one more child screamin' from hunger in a Dublin slum

Or his mother slavin' 14 hours a day for the scum

Who exploit her and take her youth and throw it on a factory floor

Oh Lily, I just can't take any more

They've locked us out, they've banned our unions, they even treat their animals better than us

No! It's far better to die like a man on your feet than to live forever like some slave on your knees, Lilly

But don't let them wrap any green flag around me

And for God's sake, don't let them bury me in some field full of harps and shamrocks

And whatever you do, don't let them make a martyr out of me

No! Rather raise the Starry Plough on high, sing a song of freedom

Here's to you, Lily, the rights of man and international revolution"

We fought them to a standstill while the flames lit up the sky

'Til a bullet pierced our leader and we gave up the fight

They shot him in Kilmainham jail but they'll never stop his cry

My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...."

James Connolly-Commandant- Irish Citizens Army- A Critical Appreciation Of Easter, 1916

James Connolly-Commandant- Irish Citizens Army- A Critical Appreciation Of Easter, 1916

http://www.icl-fi.org/english/wh/195/connolly.html


Click on title to link to "Workers Hammer" (International Communist League/Great Britain newspaper) critical appreciation of James Connolly, a hero of the Irish rebellion of Easter , 1916.

"James Connolly"

The man was all shot through that came to day into the Barrack Square

And a soldier I, I am not proud to say that we killed him there

They brought him from the prison hospital and to see him in that chair

I swear his smile would, would far more quickly call a man to prayer

Maybe, maybe I don't understand this thing that makes these rebels die

Yet all men love freedom and the spring clear in the sky

I wouldn't do this deed again for all that I hold by

As I gazed down my rifle at his breast but then, then a soldier I.

They say he was different, kindly too apart from all the rest.

A lover of the poor-his wounds ill dressed.

He faced us like a man who knew a greater pain

Than blows or bullets ere the world began: died he in vain

Ready, Present, and him just smiling, Christ I felt my rifle shake

His wounds all open and around his chair a pool of blood

And I swear his lips said, "fire" before my rifle shot that cursed lead

And I, I was picked to kill a man like that, James Connolly



A great crowd had gathered outside of Kilmainham

Their heads all uncovered, they knelt to the ground.

For inside that grim prison

Lay a great Irish soldier

His life for his country about to lay down.

He went to his death like a true son of Ireland

The firing party he bravely did face

Then the order rang out: Present arms and fire

James Connolly fell into a ready-made grave

The black flag was hoisted, the cruel deed was over

Gone was the man who loved Ireland so well

There was many a sad heart in Dublin that morning

When they murdered James Connolly-. the Irish rebel



"James Connolly"

Marchin' down O'Connell Street with the Starry Plough on high
There goes the Citizen Army with their fists raised in the sky
Leading them is a mighty man with a mad rage in his eye
"My name is James Connolly - I didn't come here to die

But to fight for the rights of the working man
And the small farmer too
Protect the proletariat from the bosses and their screws
So hold on to your rifles, boys, and don't give up your dream
Of a Republic for the workin' class, economic liberty"

Then Jem yelled out "Oh Citizens, this system is a curse
An English boss is a monster, an Irish one even worse
They'll never lock us out again and here's the reason why
My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die....."

And now we're in the GPO with the bullets whizzin' by
With Pearse and Sean McDermott biddin' each other goodbye
Up steps our citizen leader and roars out to the sky
"My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...

Oh Lily, I don't want to die, we've got so much to live for
And I know we're all goin' out to get slaughtered, but I just can't take any more
Just the sight of one more child screamin' from hunger in a Dublin slum
Or his mother slavin' 14 hours a day for the scum
Who exploit her and take her youth and throw it on a factory floor
Oh Lily, I just can't take any more

They've locked us out, they've banned our unions, they even treat their animals better than us
No! It's far better to die like a man on your feet than to live forever like some slave on your knees, Lilly

But don't let them wrap any green flag around me
And for God's sake, don't let them bury me in some field full of harps and shamrocks
And whatever you do, don't let them make a martyr out of me
No! Rather raise the Starry Plough on high, sing a song of freedom
Here's to you, Lily, the rights of man and international revolution"

We fought them to a standstill while the flames lit up the sky
'Til a bullet pierced our leader and we gave up the fight
They shot him in Kilmainham jail but they'll never stop his cry
My name is James Connolly, I didn't come here to die...."

In Honor Of Easter 1916-Karl Marx on Irish Self-Determination

Workers Vanguard No. 1113 2 June 2017 TROTSKY LENIN Karl Marx on Irish Self-Determination (Quote of the Week) Writing when all of Ireland was under British rule, Karl Marx underlined that the fight for Irish independence could deal a heavy blow to the British capitalist order. Based on the understanding that the Irish struggle could act as a motor force to unlocking proletarian struggle in England, Marx stressed that the English proletariat must champion the cause of Irish self-determination as part of fighting for its own interests. All industrial and commercial centres in England now have a working class divided into two hostile camps, English proletarians and Irish proletarians. The ordinary English worker hates the Irish worker as a competitor who forces down the standard of life. In relation to the Irish worker, he feels himself to be a member of the ruling nation and, therefore, makes himself a tool of his aristocrats and capitalists against Ireland, thus strengthening their domination over himself.... England, as the metropolis of capital, as the power that has hitherto ruled the world market, is for the present the most important country for the workers’ revolution and, in addition, the only country where the material conditions for this revolution have developed to a certain state of maturity. Thus, to hasten the social revolution in England is the most important object of the International Working Men’s Association. The sole means of doing so is to make Ireland independent. It is, therefore, the task of the “International” to bring the conflict between England and Ireland to the forefront everywhere, and to side with Ireland publicly everywhere. The special task of the Central Council in London is to awaken the consciousness of the English working class that, for them, the national emancipation of Ireland is not a question of abstract justice or humanitarian sentiment, but the first condition of their own social emancipation. —Karl Marx, “Letter to Sigfrid Meyer and August Vogt” (April 1870)

The Latest From The Struggle In Boston

*   *   *   * Standout for Black Lives Ashmont T Station Plaza ​ Every fourth Thursday April-Oct.  5:30-6:30 pm April 26  *  May 24  *  June 28  *  July 26     August 23  *  September 27  *  October 25 Please hold these dates!  Spread the Word!  All are welcome! Hold our banner and Black Lives Matter signs * Hand out fliers.  Dorchester People for Peace https://www.facebook.com/DorchesterPeopleforPeace www.dotpeace.org     Phone:  617-282-378                           contact:  emmy@emmyrainwalker.com  *   *   *   * ​ SUNDAY, MAY 13, 2018  TOWN FIELD PARK, FIELDS CORNER 1520 DORCHESTER AVENUE DORCHESTER, MA 02122 *   *   *   * Raffle for Peace - To Benefit the Work of DPP Ashmont Hill Yard Sale: May 19, 2018, 9 am – 2 pm FUN AND FABULOUS ITEMS FOR SALE Raffle Drawing at 1:30 at 113 Ocean Street (you do not need to be present to win) Tickets $5 each, or 5 for $20 Five Wonderful Prizes Dine for Peace! A Delicious Bangladeshi Dinner for Four – Your Place or Mine! Home Cuisine you will not find in Restaurants! By “Chef” Hayat! Beautiful Zulu Basket, a collector’s item from South Africa. This is an example of ancestral weaving techniques preserved by skilled craftsmen  Lovely Hand Woven Runner from Guatemala; Indigenous Women find their Voices, while earning Income for their Families Gift Certificate #1: $60.00 THE INDUSTRY, Adam’s Village, Dorchester: The newest and one of the finest restaurants right in our Backyard! Gift Certificate #2: $30.00 ZIA GIANNA, 1739 Dot Ave. Family owned Authentic Italian Bakery!  Best Cappuccino in Dorchester.  3 ways to buy tickets for these great prizes: 1.  Pay Pal:  WRITE “Raffle” in note section. 2.  Stop by 113 Ocean Street, buy tickets & see our booth on May 19. 3.  Send check made out to Dorchester People for Peace to Hayat Imam, 59 Edwin St. Dorchester, MA 02124 (include phone #) *   *   *   * From Jeff Klein, who is traveling in Syria UNDER THE MISSILES IN DAMASCUS A loud and persisant booming woke up everyone here in the early hours of Saturday morning. To this visitor from Boston it sounded like the Fourth of July fireworks we hear every year over the Charles River. But this was Damascus and the thunder was exploding missiles from the long-awaited attack by Trump and US allies Britain and France.  The bombardments started precisely at 4am local time and continued for the better part of an hour. Only the timing was a surprise here, as Trump had been threatening a reprisal attack for the alleged use by the Syrian government of chemical weapons in Eastern Ghouta outside Damascus last week.  Most Syrians and others in the region derided the charge as fake news – and in fact it is hard for anyone to fathom why the Syrian army would use chemical weapons when they were on the verge of military victory in Ghouta.  To the question of “cui bono?” (who benefits) it was hard to avoid the sense that only the so-called rebels and the enemies of Syria could get any advantage from this alleged chemical attack. It was an ironic time for an American to be in Syria.  Arriving earlier that same day from Beirut with a group of international activists, including  three Americans, two Canadians , two Brits, two Irish, two Germans, one and one Dutch, we passed with some tension and delay at the Syrian-Lebanese border but ultimately we received our visas from the government authorities in Damascus. I was the designated translator at the passport control window, responding with some difficulty to the questions of the officer there, especially with the challenge of explaining the occupations of the visitors. “Retired,” “journalist” and “teacher” I knew, but a German choreographer and a Swiss film director became “Theater workers,” the Dutch machinist became an “engineer” and the German head of an HR recruiting firm became a “clerk.” Anyway, we passed muster. Crossing the many security checkpoints on the way into the capital, it was touching to be met with smiles and greetings from the soldiers on duty, even though our countries had been complicit in the near destruction of Syria and were expected to launch a new attack at any moment.. There and in fact everywhere we went  the universal greeting from all Syrians was the only English word many of the knew: “Welcome!” By all accounts, most Syrians were unfazed by the latest missile attack.  There were videos of Damascenes cheering from rooftops as anti-missile rockets were launched over the city to intercept the US, French and British missiles.  Trump’s tweet that the attack had been “perfectly carried out” is likely an overstatement. The Russian and Syrian militaries claim that the majority of the incoming missiles were shot down or diverted electronically from their targets, although this is impossible to verify.  In any case, before and after photos of th e alleged military/chemical research center in Damascus show pretty thoroughgoing destruction.  But the US attacks had been so fully telegraphed – and there were claims that the Russians were informed in advance of the targets - that the buildings were empty and there were no reported fatalities. Of course, if these Damascus targets were actually chemical weapons facilities as charged there would have been massive civilian casualties from the bombing.  There were none. The next morning, after a mostly sleepless night, we were led around the neighborhood by our Syrian translator and guide. Abu Maher, a very jovial Muslim who claimed his family had been Christian until a few centuries before, had been a tourist guide for 25 years.  A strong supporter of the Syrian government, he lived in the neighborhood regarded himself as a patriot rather than a political person.  Like many Syrians, he was passionate about the long history and multi-cultural identity of his country.  Before the war he had been a guide for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.  (He said that Brad was intelligent and asked good question; Angelina, not so much!) Our hotel, Beit al Wali, is a beautifully restored Ottoman period mansion in the Bab Touma quarter of the Old City. Syrians had invested heavily in the tourist sector before the war in the expectation of attracting badly needed hard currency, but of course these days there are hardly any foreign visitors apart from a small number of well-to-do Lebanese.  Beirut is just  couple of hours away and Lebanese do not need visas for Syria. Bab Touma is a traditionally Christian part of town, but the are also mosques here, in some cases directly neighboring churches of the 12 Christian denominations said to exist in Syria.  Orthodox (Greek, Syrian and Catholic Melchite) are the majority, but there are also Roman Catholic, Maronite, Armenian and even evangelical churches. The restaurants are frequented by mixed crowds of Muslims and Christians all happily drinking Arak and smoking shisha (water pipes). Liquor stores and bars are commonplace here and unmolested. We visited more than one (the very old “Abu George” was my favorite). Nearly everyone we met on the streets and in the shops derided Trump’s missile attack.  Locals in Bab Touma were much more focused on the government recapture of Eastern Ghouta, where the neighboring rebel-held town of Jobar had been the source of daily rocket and mortar launched against this part of the city.  We were shown many sites of these attacks on the walls and roads of the area, including the locations where people had been “martyred.” More than a hundred Damascus civilians had been killed by these attacks in recent months – of course little reported in the Western press – and the residents were clearly relieved that their town was now safe.   Compared to this, Trump’s missiles were a minor annoyance, ridiculed by all as a “show” from that American “donkey.”  There were spontaneous demonstrations of support for the government during the past few days and a larger organized rally scheduled for Monday afternoon. The atmosphere in the city was much more relaxed than it had been when I visited two years ago, reflecting a string of government military advances since then.  Of course, the missile attack was derided by many war cheerleaders in the West as “insufficient.” Israel and rebel supporters inside and outside the country also expressed their disappointment.  Saturday night the hotel prepared a festive dinner for us – it was the birthday of Mario, one of the Germans among our group.  Present also was the British journalist Vanessa Beeley, who has exposed much of the phony Western propaganda coming out of Syria – and been vilified for it – together with some locals, including the very colorful Syrian comic who goes by the name of “Treka.”  Treka, who grew up in Nigeria among the Syrian business community there, sports long dreads and speaks in very colloquial but accented English, defies all sterotypes about “Arabs.” He has posted many videos deriding the MSM narrative abroad. His latest, deriding the alleged chemical attack in Ghouta is here.  *   *   *   * ​​ ​MIT CENTER FOR INTERNATIONAL STUDIES         Monday, April 23, 2018 70 Years: Israel-Palestine Reflections & Forecasts   1:30 PM to 4:30 PM MIT Building E15-070 / Bartos Theater 20 Ames St Cambridge Participants include faculty from MIT, Boston University, Boston College, UMASS/Boston, Birzeit University, Ben-Gurion University, Tel Aviv University *   *   *   * Radical New Leaders Are Reviving Martin Luther King's Poor People's Campaign Today's Poor People's Campaign seeks to develop local leadership, including strong representation of the millions of poor people — black, brown, and white — to create a multi-racial, multi-gendered, intergenerational movement to heal the racial and economic divides tearing America apart. More With the Great Return March, Palestinians Are Demanding a Life of Dignity The Nakba is not a just a memory, it is an ongoing reality. We can accept that we all must eventually die; in Gaza, the tragedy is that we don’t get to live. More Israeli Parliament Endorses 'nation-state bill' for First Reading Key Knesset committee approves final draft of 'Zionism's flagship bill' defining Israel exclusively as nation for Jews. More

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-As The 50th Anniversary Year Of The High School Class Of 1968 Rolls Along… “Forever Young” (Magical Realism 101)-With Ritchie Valen’s Oh, Donna In Mind

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-As The 50th Anniversary Year Of The High School Class Of 1968 Rolls Along… “Forever Young” (Magical Realism 101)-With Ritchie Valen’s Oh, Donna In Mind

By Allan Jackson

A Story As Told To Frank Jackman 

[As I have mentioned previously a lot of the throwback to this series got its start via modern technology specifically around the now fabulous ability to “connect” with people from back in the day, at least the people who want to be connected with and have not left “no forwarding address” on their personal lives by keeping under the radar of modern conveniences and ways to grab information. (I won’t even speak here of NSA-type overreaching or social media platform privacy matters although I could. I know I was able to connect with a number of my corner boys still standing via such methods, and was able to connect with those from my high school graduation class when it came time for a too high a number class reunion celebration. That process similar to the story here told to Frank Jackman who as some may know was originally used in this series as a “front.” As the guy who did the modern introductions to the series.      

 A lot of this use of technology to connect with the past I think can be attributed to members of our generation of ’68 having time on our hands to think about the various roads that were, or could have been, taken. To wonder, wonder like we wondered when we were young and the world was fresh, Fitzgerald’s wonder at the fresh green breast of the new world of those ancient Dutch sailors who came up Long Island Sound before everything began to get spoiled and seek to find some answers while we are still standing and the question still has some urgency before we fall under the earth and face the big sleep which makes such inquiries irrelevant. I take special interest in this rather short sketch because, for one flickering moment, all those dreams, what did the teller call them, yes, puff-cloud dreams came back to the ground and made some sense. The wisdom of age might be overrated but not the dream of those puff-cloud dreams. Allan Jackson]        

Forever Young-lyrics by Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Copyright © 1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music

******

 Whee, Am I glad that my own 50^th anniversary reunion at North Adamsville High in Massachusetts is over, done, complete and that the “magic” year 1964 has slipped into 1965 and I, no one, has to worry about an odd-ball 51^st anniversary celebration. Of course in all the hoopla over the 50^th anniversary reunion with some classmates setting up a reunion committee (which I assisted around the edges doing odds and ends chores), setting up a big bang class website to draw everybody still around and computer savvy enough to find the Internet, finding a super place to have the event, and setting up the thing on the fall weekend when it occurred I actually, didn’t, couldn’t go to the event. That is a long story, a story about old time teen angst and alienation, about trying to retrace what could not be retraced in a hundred lifetimes, and about how in words taken from a title of one of Thomas Wolfe’s novels-you can’t go home again.

Nevertheless before I could understand the import of those last words, understand that it was better not tempt the fates an angle that developed in the process of helping the reunion committee I wrote a number of small memory-etched sketches for the class website reflecting specific events like high school dances and football rallies, reflecting on various local customs and places like “watching the submarine races” and corner boy hanging out times, that kind of stuff some specific to the town and class, others more broad-based. The following sketch is a reworking of one from the latter category which is “forever” appropriate as long as somebody, some cohort of people make it to 50^th anniversary reunion time. I hope that if you want to go to your 50^th nothing stands in the way of you doing that, that no dragons from the mist of time come up to bite you for thinking you could do so.            

 *******
…an old man bundled up against the December weathers, dark blue navy skull cap pulled down almost to his eyes , brown cotton gloves because his hands sweat which they conveniently absorb when he has built up a head of steam, black  windbreaker complete with fold-away hood in case of rains or snows zippered up to his neck, long, too long for his body blue all-weather jogging pants, topped off, or better bottomed off with the signature of the AARP set New Balance running shoes which he purchases by the half dozen pairs up in the Kittery, Maine outlet malls begins to run, no, better, jog/shuffle along the Causeway end of Adamsville Beach. For those who have not been in the old town for a while that is by the lights across from the 24hour CVS, formerly the First National supermarket back in the day, the old town being North Adamsville not too far outside of Boston if you want to know. But the old man could have been anywhere where old men try to cheat time, or at least slowdown that race to the end by keeping themselves as fit as circumstances and the ten thousand aches of age allow, could have been trundling along congested city streets consumed by traffic smoke and every other treachery, along soothing rivers flowing to the sea like some later day easy rider looking for the next town, out west in the mountains like some pioneer spirit read in history book, along the plains easier to navigate although in the old hitchhike west days if you were left off there by some kindly driver just going up the road but the old man was ocean born and declared to anyone who would listen one time that he would ocean pass away. And spent the in between time within a stone’s throw.

The old man trying to build up a painfully constructed stride, huffing and puffing, head down and this day full of thoughts triggered by his up-coming 50th anniversary class reunion to held in the fall in this very town. Thinking just then of the irony of running along a section of his old high school cross-country course that he had not run since back then and thinking too as he moved along the boardwalk running parallel to that beach of those mist of times Adamsville Beach days when he longingly looked out at the sea, its mucks, its marshes, hell, even it fetid smells and mephitic stinks, as if it could solve some riddle of existence. Thinking too as he trudged along of times when he was young and flexible, when each step did not require an army of support, salves, pills, knee braces, to move forward, to a time when he could “run in pain,” could fall and jump up, dust off his knees  and shake it off and if not fast then able to run the distance in about half the time it would take him on this day (his fast running friend back then, a friend from back in the old projects elementary school days and best friend through high school now lost in the mist of time if he were still alive, Brad Badger, said he had "the slows," well okay Brad had a point).

As he settled into a pace (he always liked to run early, unlike this day when he on other business which necessitated him passing near the old town when he did not start off until almost noon, when there was little traffic, or run on beach sand, or run on soft felt tracks so that he could hear the pitter-patter of his shoes, could hear the sound of his breathe as it steadied) he began thinking about hanging out around places around town, places like Harry’s Variety over on Sagamore that he had passed by on the way to the beach trying to cadge pin-ball games from the rough and tumble corner boys half hero-worship, half fear and a close thing thinking about putting his well-shod boot on the wall holding up the corner bricks with them; hanging out at Salducci’s Pizza Parlor begging girls to play some latest song that he just had to hear on the jukebox like Oh, Donna the name of his current love, or he wanted to be love, and he needed the repetition so he could learn all the words and sing them to her; and, hanging out on sweaty summer nights on the front steps of North, no money in pocket, no car between them, no girl to sit on those forlorn steps with that same Brad Badger, also penniless, speaking of dreams, small dreams of escape and big puffed-ball cloud dreams of success.

Remembering, an old man’s harmless flash remembering, of standing in corridors between classes day-dreaming of, well, you know, certain now nameless girls and of giving furtive glances to a few which they totally ignored (that furtive glance an accepted acknowledgement of interest as against the dweeb flat-out stare that got nothing but girlish scorn). But that was another story. And remembrances too of sitting in classes, maybe some dank seventh period study hall, wondering about what would happen Friday night when he and his corner boys from Jack Slack’s bowling alleys cruised Adamsville Beach in Digger Jones’ rebuilt Chevy. HoJo’s, the big orange roof operation ice cream place a must stop on hot summer nights, make his cherry vanilla, the Southern Artery  well past the other end of the beach, Marley’s, Pisa’s Tower of Pizza, Adventure Car-Hop, some not the real names but memory fails) , and in a pinch going “up the Downs” to Doc’s Drugstore, looking, looking for adventure, looking for some magic formula to wipe away the teen angst and alienation blues that crept up on him more than was good for him...

...an old woman (Jesus, better not say that in this day in age, maybe never not if you want to avoid that still potent girlish scorn preserved intact since about fifth grade in elementary school, yes, better make that a mature woman) also bundled up, thick woolen scarf providing protection for her head, another scarf almost as thick wrapped around her neck, ear muff against that nagging sound in her ears when the wind was up like that day, a full-length goose down coat against fashion but warm, showing underneath the telltale all-weather running pants with their comfortable strings again against fashion, big almost catcher’s mitt mittens, topped off, or better bottomed off with the signature of the AARP set New Balance running shoes which she had recently  purchased at City Sports against the December weathers, begins to walk, haltingly, but with head up (proper posture just like her mother taught her long ago along with that proper girlish scorn preserved intact taught in that same fifth grade), along Adamsville Beach from the Adams Shore end (having parked her Toyota around what is now Creely Park named after some fallen Marine, although she remembered the place as Treasure Island when her family took their obligatory weekly summer Friday night ventures there for barbecues  so Mother did not have to cook in the nasty heat) thinking thoughts triggered by her up-coming 50th class reunion as well.

Thinking thoughts about old flames, about all those young men who had practically tripped over each other to give her that telltale furtive glance in the corridors that spoke of interest (and too of the fools like Frank Jackman who stared, stared if you could believe that, at her in the hallways like they had just gotten off the boat, or something and she laser-eyed her well know look of scorn to freeze them up). Laughed, or rather tittered about how she had half the boys in the class convinced that she was “unapproachable” once she put the freeze on the heroic captain of the football team and all the girls could not believe he came begging for more. Thought about what had happened to them and as she walked toward the old Clam Shack she began to get creeping in thoughts about that first kiss sitting in the back seat of her girlfriend's boyfriend's car with him right across from that establishment, some old flame now un-nameable, at this very beach and about, she blushed as she thought of it, that first French kiss and how she had felt awkward about it. (Felt awkward about lots of things sexual since while her mother had been an excellent teacher of the fine art of freeze-outs and girlish scorn she never said word one about sex, about the feelings, about what to do, or not do about it, and had learned about sex like every other girl she knew from the experienced girls in the girls’ locker or really from some boy fumbling with her until they figured stuff out.    

Later in her walk thoughts flashed by, funny thoughts, emerged about all the lies she told about those same steamy nights just to keep up with the other girls at talkfest time -the mandatory Monday morning before school girls '"lav" talkfest, boys had theirs' too she found out from a later flame after high school. Laughing now but then not knowing until much later that the other girls too were lying just to keep up with her. And of all the committees she had been on; the senior dance committee which planned the prom, The North Star the school newspaper that she wrote for and which had made her blush when she had recently gone up into the attic looking for her old articles in anticipation of the reunion, Magnet, the class yearbook also found in that same attic, whatever would keep her busy and make her a social butterfly.

Then a mishmash of thoughts flooded her mind as she passed Kent Park near the now vanished Jack Slack’s bowling alleys of the girls’ bowling team and wondering, now wondering, why they kept the boys’ team separate; of reading in that cranky old Thomas Crane Public Library up the Square where she first learned to love books and saw them as a way to make a success of herself and had done so; and, of hot sweltering summer afternoons with the girls down at the beach trying to look, what did Harry call it, “beautiful” for the guys.

Somewhere between the Adamsville Yacht Club and the North Adamsville Boat Club the old man and the mature woman crossed paths on that wide boardwalk. He, she, they gave a quick nod of generational solidarity to each other and both thought despite their bundled up conditions they knew the other from some place but couldn’t quite place where. After they passed each other the old man’s pace quickened for a moment as he heard some phantom starter’s gun sounding the last lap and the mature woman’s walk became less halting as she thought once again about that first kiss (whether it was the French kiss that stirred her we will leave to the reader’s imagination) as each reflected back to a time when the world was fresh and all those puffed-cloud dreams of youth lay ahead of them.