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 DylanMay 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
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 50th 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 51st anniversary celebration. Of course in all the hoopla over the 50th 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 50th anniversary reunion time. I hope that if you want to go to your 50th 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.
…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.
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.
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.
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.
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