Tuesday, March 04, 2014

From The Marxist Archives -The Revolutionary History Journal-On War and Revolution-Loukas Karliaftis’ Speech in the Athens Debate (1946)


Markin comment:

Politics is sometimes a strange business. We all recognize that history does not exactly repeat itself. And it is also true that humankind makes its own history- although not always to its liking. Some things though, like the communist defeat in the Greek Civil War, despite our disagreements with its Stalinist leadership, were definitely not to our liking, but may be capable of reversal. Or at least of a modicum of historical justice. That is the backdrop of today's fight by the working class in the streets of Greece. May they win, and win big.

Avenge the lost in the 1946-49 civil war!

 


Click below to link to the Revolutionary History Journal index.

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


Peter Paul Markin comment on this series:

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

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

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

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

********

On War and Revolution-Loukas Karliaftis’ Speech in the Athens Debate

Due to the conditions of the war and the repression the groups did not unite as instructed by the founding conference of the Fourth International, and in addition differences had developed during the war. There were now, in effect, three tendencies: of Anastasiades, that closest to the position of Pablo, which supported the defence of the USSR, and participation in the resistance, but were unable to do so, and support for it, calling for a Communist/Socialist government and for the withdrawal of British troops; of Karliaftis and ‘Mastroyannis’, which opposed support to the resistance and for a Communist/Socialist government, but supported the defence of the USSR; and of Agis Stinas (Spyros Priphtis, 1920-87), which opposed both the defence of the USSR and support for the resistance and for a Communist/ Socialist government.

The initiative to unite these groups came from the International Secretariat, which sent Pablo and Sherry Mangan to a clandestine unification conference held in a ravine on Mount Pentelicus near Athens in July 1946 (Alan Wald, The Revolutionary Imagination, Chapel Hill, 1983, p.l96; Stinas, Mémoires, pp.275-6). The largest single group was that of Karliaftis, which secured a majority for its views in the conference and on the Central Committee, but when it came to the political bureau the Stinas group voted in favour of the tendency led by Anastasiades. Agreement was gained over the right for all tendencies to express their views in the discussion bulletin (those of Stinas appear on pp.276-83 of his Mémoires), the organisation assumed the name of the International Communist Party of Greece (KDKE), and launched a weekly newspaper, Ergatike Pali (Workers Fight).
In September 1946 an agreement was signed with the Greek Communist Party (KKE) to hold a series of three public debates in a theatre (by invitation only) in October and November in Athens. The first, for which the main speaker from the Trotskyists was Karliaftis, took place on 13 October, and a report appearing in the British Trotskyist press gave the result as being 89 votes cast for the Trotskyist case and 542 for the Stalinists (Greek Debate, in Socialist Appeal (RCP), no.4, Mid-November 1946). The second, for which the chief Trotskyist speaker was Stinas, took place on 3 November (for extracts from Stinas’ speech, cf. his Mémoires, pp.283-9) and the Trotskyists gained 239 votes for the Stalinists’ 453. It should be noted that the majority of votes cast for the Trotskyists’ case came from members of the KKE who were convinced by their arguments. The following year Stinas’ group broke with the International Communist Party, and a report about the trial and deportation of 13 Trotskyists that appeared in the British press alleged that he had disappeared (Class War in Greece, in Socialist Appeal (RCP), no.48, September 1947). As Stinas’ speech has been substantially reproduced in French, but Karliaftis’ has not been available in any Western European language, we print the full text of his contribution to this debate below.
The KKE’s extraordinary decision to debate with people and organisations that they had characterised as “provocateurs” and “in the service of fascist reaction” was primarily an attempt to head off questions that were arising inside the ranks of the KKE and the EAM (the Greek resistance movement). These were a direct result of the sell-outs in Lebanon, Caserta and Varkiza, betrayals that led to the complete ideological, political and military disarmament of the resistance, directly aiding domestic and foreign reaction.
Immediately prior to this debate and on the eve of the second guerrilla war led by Velouchiotis it should be noted that the Stalinists, through the use of their secret police, the OPLA, had already exterminated hundreds of Trotskyists. This was solely due to the fact that they were the only force to fight consistently for the transformation of the Second World War into a civil war, and hence had correctly viewed the advance of British imperialism as reactionary, and not the ‘liberation’ that the KKE claimed.
The slaughter of unarmed civilians in December 1944 by Britain’s General Scobie in Syntagmata Square in central Athens was thus a tragic confirmation of the warnings of the Trotskyists.
A well-intentioned discussion about solving the problems faced by the workers’ movement, about the struggles of the proletariat for their social liberation and that of oppressed classes generally, as well as a settlement of the differences which exist amongst the various tendencies in the workers’ movement, must presume some definitions and the acceptance of certain principles.
For us, for the KDKE (Fourth International), these principles, both the starting point and the method of investigation, are to be found in the acceptance of the teachings of Marx and Engels and of the other great teachers: Lenin, Luxemburg and Trotsky. It consists first of all of the acceptance of their method, historical materialism, and secondly of the laws which characterise capitalist society and economy, and determine its development and decline. Thirdly, it consists in recognising the class struggle, and accepting that this struggle within class society leads unavoidably to the dictatorship of the proletariat. Here is what Marx himself says about this part of his teachings:
As to myself, no credit is due to me for discovering either the existence of classes in modern society or the struggle between them. Long before me, bourgeois historians had described the historical development of this class struggle, and bourgeois economists the economic anatomy of the classes. What I did that was new was to demonstrate: (1) that the existence of classes is merely linked to particular historical phases in the development of production; (2) that class struggle necessarily leads to the dictatorship of the proletariat; (3) that this dictatorship itself only constitutes the transition to the abolition of all classes and to a classless society. [1]
Lenin, in fighting all the traitors to Marxism and in analysing the above quotation from Marx’s letter to Weydemeyer, writes:
In these words, Marx succeeded in expressing with striking clarity, firstly, the chief and radical difference between his theory and that of the foremost and most profound thinkers of the bourgeoisie; and, secondly, the essence of his theory of the state.
It is often said and written that the main point in Marx’s theory is the class struggle. But this is wrong. And this wrong notion very often results in an opportunist distortion of Marxism and its falsification in a spirit acceptable to the bourgeoisie. For the theory of the class struggle was created not by Marx, but by the bourgeoisie before Marx and, generally speaking, it is acceptable to the bourgeoisie. Those who recognise only the class struggle are not yet Marxists; they may be found to be still within the bounds of bourgeois thinking and bourgeois politics. To confine Marxism to the theory of the class struggle means curtailing Marxism, distorting it, reducing it to something acceptable to the bourgeoisie. Only he is a Marxist who extends the recognition of the class struggle to the recognition of the dictatorship of the proletariat. This is what constitutes the most profound distinction between the Marxist and the ordinary petty (as well as big) bourgeois. This is the touchstone on which the real understanding and recognition of Marxism should be tested. [2]
Fourthly, it consists of the recognition of the international character of the struggle of the proletariat.
Rosa Luxemburg, in her struggle against Social Democracy, showed that whoever ignores in theory or practice one of these two principles – the class struggle or the internationalism of the proletarian struggle – invariably becomes a supporter and defender of reactionary capitalist regimes, and turns into an agent of the bourgeoisie inside the proletariat, to use Lenin’s phrase. All the modern history of the proletarian struggle from the epoch of Social Democracy until today is nothing more than a positive or a negative confirmation of this view, which was supported by the consistent pupils of Marx and Engels against every type of revisionist in every epoch.
If anyone asks the leaders of the KKE, they will declare the teachings of Marx, Engels and Lenin to be correct. They will say that they ‘accept’ as correct the teachings of Marx on the capitalist regime and the class struggle under which it, unavoidably according to Marx, leads to the dictatorship of the proletariat. They even ‘accept’ the teachings of Lenin on capitalism and its last imperialist stage. They ‘accept’ the teachings of Lenin (which is but an extension and concretisation of Marx) on imperialist wars and the tasks they pose for the revolutionary vanguard and the working class.
For us, consistent pupils of Marx, Engels and Lenin, there is no need for a new theoretical reaffirmation of their teachings. Our work is inseparable from and scientifically based upon our great teachers. Practically the whole of current history is a great confirmation, positive or negative, of their teachings. The Paris Commune and the victorious October Revolution are their positive confirmations. The latter is the greatest victory for the proletariat, which was made possible by the correct application of these teachings. On the other hand, the Chinese Revolution of 1925-27, the German and Spanish Revolutions and the Second World War are defeats which occurred because of leaders who in practice had negated these teachings.
If we are to be serious, for a sincere debater for the KKE, for world Stalinism, for a debater who respects science, the task is to prove theoretically and in practice why this theory, with its basic premises and its conclusions, does not correspond to our epoch, and why we are faced with the necessity of revising it. A general declaration of changed circumstances is at best a weakness and a subterfuge. At worst, it is conscious deceit and a betrayal of the titanic struggle which the proletariat is waging. The KKE does not lack material means. On the contrary, no other tendency has ever had so many resources at its disposal as does the Stalinist current. For more than 20 years we have waited for this opportunity but in vain. Scientific discussion has been replaced by perfidy, falsity, lies, deceit, sycophancy and physical violence. But these methods have not relieved the KKE of its obligations, it has increased them.
The current political situation can be analysed by a Marxist only from the point of view of its historical connections and development. Every natural or social phenomenon has its history, and only during the process of historical development is it possible for them to be understood clearly and completely. All modern science is a confirmation of this basic view of Marxist teaching. Today was born of yesterday. Tomorrow is determined by the dynamic of today. Only in the light of this investigation is it possible to reveal the correctness or incorrectness of the politics of the different tendencies inside the workers’ movement and to prove their social nature.
War is the most important feature of our epoch. The war of 1939-45 was an imperialist, reactionary conflict between the rich and the ‘hungry’ imperialist powers. The involvement of the Soviet Union in this war was unavoidable, and was determined by the international nature of the world economy. The war waged by the Soviet Union was defensive and progressive, and the international working class had the duty to defend it. But the progressive nature of the war on the part of the Soviet Union (the defence of nationalised ownership) transformed neither the general imperialist character of the war nor the content and obligations of the proletarian struggle for social revolution. The war made nonsense of all the Stalinist ‘theories’ of the peaceful coexistence of the Soviet Union with capitalism and of ‘Socialism in one country’.
All the theoretical work of Lenin and the Communist International and the policies they developed in the first four congresses maintained their importance for the second imperialist war and will continue to maintain it for all the wars which will be waged by imperialism if the proletariat allows it. The existence of the Soviet Union does not change the nature of imperialism. The Soviet Union was thought of by its founders as none other than an advanced outpost of the world workers’ front. This is the teaching of Lenin. All those who deny this revise Marxism-Leninism and break the internationalism of the proletarian struggle with disastrous consequences.
War and revolution are the most important events in human history. The Marxist left wing of Social Democracy – Lenin, Trotsky and Luxemburg – broke off all relations with the Second International precisely on this issue.
The question of war is very important, and it must be given its proper place in any serious discussion amongst the tendencies inside the workers’ movement. Our party proposed this topic for the first of these three discussions.
The outbreak of the second imperialist war was impossible without the defeat of the proletariat. This defeat was not possible but for the abandonment and revision of Marxist teachings by its own leadership. Just as the outbreak of the First World War confirmed the opportunist and treacherous nature of the leadership of the Second International, so the outbreak of the Second World War confirmed the petty-bourgeois degeneration of and the betrayals carried out by the leadership of the Communist International. If the outbreak of war presupposes an absolute weakening of the revolutionary strength of the working class, then the war itself, with its horrors and destruction, forces the working class into the forefront of history, and increases immeasurably its social dynamism and revolutionary strength.
This phenomenon showed itself quite markedly and clearly in Greece. Let us look at the main changes which the war brought about in the Greek economy and in the regrouping of social forces. It dislocated the capitalist economy of the country. The theft of national wealth, of the products of the country by the imperialist occupation in cooperation with the domestic plutocracy, created intolerable conditions of life for the oppressed masses. With inflation it wiped out any savings of the petty-bourgeois layers in town and country, and impelled them to take a decisive turn to the left. The bankruptcy of the bourgeois parties was complete, whilst in the working masses, a passion for a decisive social transformation was brewing. The turn of the masses to the left brought the old revolutionary party of the proletariat, the KKE, into the leadership of their struggle, due to the enormous prestige of the October Revolution which they saw this party as representing.
These developments in the consciousness of the masses led capitalist reaction in the country to make a desperate attempt to maintain its social rule and enter an alliance with both imperialisms – the Allied and the Axis. In the face of revolution, the imperialists are united. This action of theirs led the country into a situation of civil war, and in consequence all but wiped out the power of the capitalist state.
The situation in our country at the end of the civil was definitely revolutionary. But what were the politics of the KKE if not a complete negation of Marxist-Leninist teaching?
In place of the class and of class struggle – the nation and nationalist struggle.
In place of the class struggle – the collaboration of classes and class unity: in other words the subordination of the proletariat and the oppressed masses to the bourgeoisie.
In place of declarations to cultivate international proletarian solidarity – the cultivation of nationalist hatred and nationalist patriotic sentiments.
In place of the struggle against the imperialists – subjugation to Anglo-Saxon imperialism. Hundreds are the victims, militants who died because they opposed the excessive Anglo-friendliness of the KKE leadership, and carried out anti-British and anti-imperialist propaganda. Look at the relevant decisions of the Eleventh Plenum of the Central Committee of the KKE.
In place of the Socialist revolution – the historically defunct ‘Popular Democracy’ with its respect for private property.
All of these things are known – as are Lebanon, Caserta and the National Unity government.
The leadership of the KKE held power in Greece and handed it over to the Greek capitalists and their partners and patrons in Britain.
There was no problem of power for the KKE and the EAM. The opportunity existed to consolidate and maintain power. We ask: why didn’t the KKE struggle to remain in power and implement its Popular Democratic Programme? Why did it bring British imperialism to Greece?
What is the nature of the ‘Popular Frontist’ policy which its ministers carried out when in Papandreou’s government? Was it bourgeois or not? Did it serve capitalist interests or not? Was the stabilisation of the currency carried out against the interests of the oppressed masses or not? Is it true that Porfirogenis [3] was the one who introduced Law 118 concerning the ‘surplus of workers’ in capitalist businesses? And we ask: if all these things are correct, how can we characterise the politics of the KKE?
And December? We must speak out clearly. December was not a revolution organised by the leaders of the EAM but a counter-revolution, an attack by Anglo-Saxon reaction against which the oppressed masses, and especially the proletariat of Athens and the Piraeus, defended themselves heroically.
December was systematically prepared using every possible method: the security forces, civil war, Lebanon and Caserta, with Ralis and Papandreou, with Scobie and Spiliotopoulus, with the court tribunals in the Middle East and Surmata and by Anglo-Greek imperialism.
Why did the EAM’s leaders refuse to form a revolutionary government when 90 percent of the population was under their influence and the whole country under their control? Why did it not declare that no unity could exist with the exploiters and murderers, in other words, with the capitalist class, but instead fought for a ‘New National Government’? With whom? Why did it not call on the natural allies of the Greek oppressed, the world proletariat, to aid it in its struggle? Why did the Stalinist government of the Soviet Union say not a single word of sympathy for the heroic struggle of the Greek masses during the December events?
The Greek proletariat and the other oppressed masses were defeated in December because their defeat was prepared before December and during December.
In December, the endless heroism and courage of the revolutionary proletariat confronted a malicious, crafty, cunning, criminal and historically bankrupt class: world capitalist reaction. This class – dark and criminal – appears strong with its international bonds and its solidarity when it confronts its enemy: the revolutionary proletarian class. The proletariat – militant and heroic and with endless resources of bravery and sacrifice appeared with its international links and its internationalist solidarity broken. Its leadership, however, did not direct it towards a realisation of its historic mission, but placed it under ... a ‘New National Government’.
For this purpose, it appealed to the great imperialist ‘Democracy of the Atlantic’. The ‘leadership’ of the Greek proletariat asked for help from Roosevelt, not from the world proletariat. Without a doubt, the Stalinist leadership had ‘ essentially from 1934 and definitively from 1943 ‘ broken the internationalist links of the proletariat with the dissolution of the Communist International.
Lebanon, Caserta and, in December, Varkiza determined the political line and the social nature of the EAM’s leadership, proving it to be petty-bourgeois, objectively placed within the framework of the capitalist regime serving the bourgeoisie.
If Anglo-Greek capitalist reaction moved towards December, this was not due to fear of or in reaction to the politics pursued by the EAM leadership, but to the direct threat posed by the armed and deeply anti-capitalist disposition of the masses. The question of disarming the masses was, for Anglo-Greek and world capitalist reaction, a question of life and death.
With its victory in December, Greek capitalist reaction, based on the tanks and guns of Scobie, re-established its political rule. Its immediate aim was the re-establishment of its oppressive state machine and the stabilisation of its rule. United and decisive in carrying this out, it was aided and directed by its patron, British imperialism.
With the disarming of the masses (and the amnesty of the EAM’s leaders at Varkiza) the main problem which emerged for the Greek capitalists was and continues to be the ‘rebuilding’ of the economy, for which the oppressed masses have to pay. For this task, the disarming of the masses was insufficient, their spirit had to be broken. Directly or indirectly, their organisations had to be dissolved. The workers had to be broken into isolated and subjugated individuals. This task was undertaken by the various neo-Fascist organisations and gangs. At the same time, an economic offensive was unleashed on behalf of the capitalist oligarchy with the weapon of inflation. Workers’ and employees’ wages were repeatedly wiped out. All the stabilisations of the drachma which took place had as their aim a continuing cut in living standards. And the attack on living standards is continuing with the high prices announced for goods, and the implementation of indirect taxes.
All of this comes at a time when the capitalist government is giving endless grants to bankers, industrialists and traders in the form of loans, which inflation wipes out at one tenth of the initial cost.
While the economic attack is continuing, alongside it is an attempt to ‘legalise’ the dictatorial government which is concealed by a parliamentary façade for external consumption and for the deception of the world proletariat.
World capitalist reaction, from Churchill’s Tories to the pseudo-Socialist lackeys of imperialism, the Labour Party, in England, from the ‘Democratic’ bankers of New York and Washington to the ‘Popular Democrats’ of France, is struggling with deceit and armed force to crush the insurrections of capital’s slaves. And while their cannons, tanks and aeroplanes bombard the slaves of Indonesia, Indochina, India, China and elsewhere, they send their ‘observers’ to Greece to bring the king back to the throne ‘with due regard for the law’.
Greek capitalist reaction, with the support of world capitalism, and completely conscious of its class interests, is advancing towards the realisation of its aims of stabilising its power and its exploitative regime.
What are the polices of today’s leadership of the working class? ‘Peaceful democratic development’, in other words the negation of the struggle to achieve the historic aims of the proletariat, the struggle for Socialism. The leadership of the KKE throughout this period has objectively aided domestic and foreign reaction to achieve its aims. It aided them with its politics, which condemned the working class to inactivity and passivity, or dissipated and squandered the willingness of the masses to struggle, with its slogans and cries of “Don’t! You will provoke a monarchist coup!”, with its denunciation of all those militants who would not disarm at Varkiza – in other words those who would not stand with their arms folded and wait to be slaughtered by the Fascists, and with non-participation in the elections, with the utopia of a ‘Pan-democratic Front’.
Instead of supporting the struggle of the working class in the organisations of the working class on a world scale (according to the teachings of Marx, Engels and Lenin, and according to the global experience of the workers’ movement), it supported attempts at making a deal with bourgeois politicians of the ‘centre’ and the ‘left’, Sofoulis, Kafandaris and Sofianapoulis, as if it was not they who, with every demagogic utterance, were not attacking the mass movement. As if it was not the government of the ‘Democratic Centre’ which had staged an electoral coup in March!
Comrades, are these coincidental mistakes, or even just a mistaken political line? No. There is a complete consistency in the political line of the KKE. The politics of the KKE are determined by a complete denial of the proletarian revolution in Greece, from the abandonment of the old revolutionary programme to the acceptance of the possibility of bourgeois democracy in the epoch of imperialism. We are dealing with politics which are determined by the acceptance of a regime of private ownership. Here, comrades, a basic opposition exists to the revolutionary politics of Marx and Lenin and to the Fourth International which continues to this day.
The plans of domestic and foreign reaction do not stop at ensuring and maintaining their political and economic domination. The anarchy of production impels capitalism to a constant quest for profit and raw materials. This leads unavoidably to imperialist war. Instead of solving the contradictions of capitalism, war intensifies them, impoverishing the masses and forcing capitalism sooner or later into new wars. The historical dilemma of the epoch, ‘Socialism or Barbarism’ is placed decisively in front of humanity.
World capitalism today is emerging from another war. Despite great destruction of the means of production in countries like Germany and Japan, it does so with its productive capacities increased. But the standard of living for the masses fell drastically during the war. Their purchasing power was lowered to half its pre-war level. Capitalism needs new markets for selling its goods. The Soviet Union controls and rules over a significant portion of our planet. And from the point of view of the social nature of the regime, it is an enemy of capitalism.
World capitalism, under the leadership of American imperialism, is preparing an anti-Soviet war. But an outbreak of war is impossible without the previous defeat of the working class. This is what world capitalism is preparing to do. From a strategic point of view, the geographical situation of Greece will give it an important role in any such anti-Soviet war – if the proletariat does not stop it with a social revolution. One of the aims of domestic and world reaction is to turn Greece into an anti-Soviet and anti-working class bridgehead.
From the analysis we have made, we have demonstrated that the interests of Greek and British capitalism, although not identical, generally coincide. Greek capitalism bases its hopes of rebuilding its economy on the support of Anglo-Saxon imperialism. Both domestic and foreign capitalist reaction feel undying hatred for the movement of the masses for their social liberation. They both nurture the same hatred for the Soviet Union.
British imperialism has to defend its interests in the Middle East. The route to India lies through the eastern Mediterranean. The struggle for oil occurs today mainly in the Middle East. These factors force British imperialism to take a particular interest in Greece and Turkey.
These are the aims of imperialism, both domestic and foreign – the stabilisation of capitalist power wherever it has been shaken, the rebuilding of the capitalist economy on the backs of the working masses, the crushing of the mass movement, and assured strategic bases for the anti-Soviet war. The Greek proletariat and the oppressed masses must react and struggle to frustrate the plans of imperialism.
The struggle against Greek capitalism is a struggle against world imperialism, and, conversely, the struggle against world capitalism is not possible without a parallel struggle against Greek capitalist reaction.
The fronts are clearly distinguishable for all those who want to see – world capitalist reaction on the one side and the world working class on the other. This is the only way to pose the problem and the only way it can be tackled correctly and successfully.
The KKE puts the question of the removal of the British foremost, and whatever the oppressed masses may do is derived from this. The removal of the British is not seen as the outcome of the activity of the masses, but as a problem of good will and Allied diplomacy in which bourgeois ‘patriots’ are to be sought. Since these tasks must precede any other forms of struggle, they serve only to postpone the mass struggle.
Our party, as an internationalist party, confronts the problem from an internationalist point of view. Our party has never stopped carrying out the most decisive and irreconcilable struggle against imperialism. In this struggle, it has suffered many losses, among them our best cadres. The expulsion of the British from Greece, and from all the countries they are occupying, is seen as the result of the activity of the masses and chiefly the British working class. Our allies in the struggle to foil the plans of British imperialism will not be found amongst bourgeois politicians, but amongst the British and the world proletariat. We must make a firm distinction between British imperialism and the working masses of Britain. The first is an ally of local domestic capitalist reaction. Every struggle against Greek capitalism is also a struggle against British imperialism. In our struggle for our economic demands, for our trade union and political rights, we must seek and obtain aid from the British proletariat. British soldiers stationed here should side with us. The same British soldiers should ask to return to their homes.
At every opportunity we should seek to fraternise with British troops – just as we should demand fraternisation with the Greek soldiers who are being sent to attack the struggles of our brothers. The arms they are carrying can and must be used against our common class enemy. The British working class must rise up and halt the plans of British imperialism.
Class against class, the old Leninist slogan which paralysed imperialist reaction in the epoch of Red October, must be heard everywhere. It can give us victory and it will – because the working class is all-powerful. It is simply unaware of its strength because every type of confidence trickster confuses its thinking. The historical rôle of the revolutionary vanguard is to dispel confusion and show the path.
The Greek working class has suffered countless significant defeats. But none of these were decisive. That is why the movement intensified on an international scale. The spirit of the masses persists, although not as intensely as before. We have both explained the causes of the defeats and named their architects. Today the economic situation of the working class is dreadful. Inflation is rising. Starvation wages are already losing their value. The working class will enter into struggle in order to defend its livelihood. The organisation of these struggles is the direct and immediate responsibility of the revolutionary vanguard.
In the countryside a number of factors have influenced and determined the development of a significant peasant movement which grew large during the war and the occupation. These are:
  1. The small landholder using primitive methods of cultivation, and the small peasant as well, thus only produce small profits per annum.
  2. There is a large variation in prices between agricultural and industrial goods, due to the monopolistic form of industrial capital, which acts against agricultural produce. This results in the absorbing of a section of agricultural capital by industrial capital.
  3. Agricultural produce is mainly of produce (raisins, olives, figs, etc) for foreign markets. They are distributed by various capitalist concerns or by traders who also take a significant cut from the income.
  4. Taxes. The capitalist class, in order to preserve its exploitative regime, is obliged to maintain a hypertrophic state mechanism. In 1939 this consumed more than half the national income. A significant part of the budget for this weighs down on the peasantry in the form of direct taxation.
These factors, combined with the destruction of war and occupation, created a revolutionary peasant movement and ensured that the position of the poor peasant masses was alongside that of the urban proletariat for the realisation of Socialism.
This is the movement which Greek reaction attempted to annihilate. Unleashing a civil war in the countryside, ELAS guerrillas and other poor peasants rushed into the mountains to defend their lives and the lives of the fellow citizens.
This movement took a most lively form in Thessaly and Macedonia, where the peasant masses were more educated and adopted a class position. But there is another important factor, that of national minorities. The attitude of Greek capitalism was always oppressive to the minorities. After the war, their attitude was criminal. Seeking to realise the imperialist plans in the Balkans, they attempted to eliminate the national minorities.
The new guerrilla movement, which is the defence of the poor peasants, both Greek and foreign-speaking, against the attacks of the capitalist reaction which is trying to put its exploitative and imperialist schemes into practice, became a significant development in Thessaly and Macedonia. All the ‘exterminating missions’ achieved only one thing – they strengthened the movement. But the activity of the guerrillas could not, on its own, crush the capitalist attack. Left on its own and based on its own resources, the new guerrilla movement will sooner or later be forced to submit. The working class of the cities and other oppressed layers must defend the struggle of the poor peasants and the national minorities. They can defend it by organising their own struggles for their economic demands, and frustrating the aims of capitalist reaction. Part of their demands should relate to the slogan for ending the terrorism in the countryside and for a general amnesty for the fighters of the poor peasantry.
Under these conditions, the tasks of the revolutionary vanguard are clearly defined – the abandonment of any utopian idea of ‘stable democratic development’, which cannot be achieved even with the help of a section of the bourgeoisie, its ‘progressive democratic wing’. Such a grouping does not exist within the bourgeois class in the epoch of its decline. The period of democracy has passed. Bourgeois society is facing a period of decline. Today the ruling class must resort to Fascist methods of rule to maintain its regime. Only the Socialist Soviet Democracy can take humanity out of the chaos and barbarism into which capitalism is leading us. Whoever denies this view today becomes, whether they want to or not, a supporter of capitalism. The Socialist Revolution! That must be the main strategic aim of the working class.
But at this juncture in Greece we are about to face the attacks of capitalist reaction. And we can be successful with the immediate organisation of the struggles of the masses. Much time has been lost, and reaction has been winning. Our party declares that its main goal is the unity of the working class and other oppressed layers in a class front to fight for work – for wage rises index-linked to inflation, and for trade union and political freedom.
On the basis of this minimum programme we call on all workers and all the oppressed to organise themselves and to defend their struggle on a national level. Workers’ democracy must be honoured by all.
But if this minimum programme is enough to unite the oppressed in a United Front of struggle, it is not enough in itself for a United Front of the working class. We call on all the workers’ parties – the KKE, the SK-ELD, the AKE – to form a United Front on the basis of the following minimum programme:
  1. The organisation of struggles for the economic demands of workers, of employees and of the peasant masses;
  2. For trade union and political freedom;
  3. For an amnesty for popular militants;
  4. For the organisation of workers’ guards;
  5. For the dissolution of the pseudo-parliament and for the declaration of elections to a Constituent Assembly;
  6. For the ousting of the British by the methods of internationalist struggle; expose the imperialist aims of Anglo-Saxon capitalism and exposing the reactionary anti-working class rôle of British policy in Greece; show the distinction between the British proletariat and British capitalism; distribute fraternising propaganda in the British camps [4]; appeal to the class solidarity of the British and world proletariat through workers’ organisations; oppose every armed intervention against the workers’ movement but without stopping our struggle to fraternise with the armed soldiers; for decisiveness, for commitment to and for the honouring of worker’s democracy.
On the basis of this minimum programme we call in every trade union, in every factory, in every community, in every city and village, for the democratic and proportional election of committees of the workers’ alliance, which will organise and lead the workers’ struggles.
Every party will maintain its independence, its right to propagate its full programme and its right openly to criticise.
Loukas Karliaftis

Notes

1. Karl Marx, Letter to Joseph Weydemeyer, 5 March 1852, K. Marx and F. Engels, Selected Correspondence, Moscow 1975, p.64.
2. V.I. Lenin, State and Revolution, Collected Works, Volume 25, Moscow 1977, p.416.
3. One of the Communist Party’s ministers in Papandreou’s government.
4. An attempt was made to establish contact between British revolutionaries in uniform and the Greek movement, in spite of language difficulties. John Giles Henderson was able to make four contacts with members of the Greek Trotskyist movement who worked in the army stores in the Piraeus. Although hampered by a lack of knowledge of the language, he was able to acquaint them with the positions of the rest of the Trotskyist movement by passing to them copies of the Revolutionary Communist Party’s journals, the Workers International News and Socialist Appeal, and those of the US Socialist Workers Party, The Militant and Fourth International. Trotskyists in the British army in Egypt took considerable risks to leaflet the troops there calling on them to refuse to fire on their Greek working class brothers (Alex Acheson, The Wartime Agitation of a Trotskyist Soldier, appendix 2 of Sam Bornstein and Al Richardson, War and the International, London, 1986, p.247).
***Fragments Of A Treasure Island (Cady Park) Dream #2- A Family Outing



From a Wikipedia entry for Wollaston Beach (called Adamsville Beach in the story). The photo in the entry appears to have been taken from a point not far from Treasure Island (Cady Park).

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:

Do you need to know about all the little family trips over to Treasure Island, a picnic spot down at the Merrymount end of Adamsville Beach that I have threatened to talk about when I mentioned how I “sold out” to my mother for a little Kennedy’s Deli home-style potato salad? Trips, that kind of formed the bookends of my childhood. Jesus, no. A thousand time no, and I say that having lived through them. My childhood memories overall can be best summed up in the words of the now long-departed black rapper extraordinaire, Biggie Smalls. He expressed it best and spoke a truth greater than he might have known, although he was closer to “hip-hop nation” than I ever could be, or could be capable of – “Christmas kind of missed us, birthdays were the worst days.” Ya, that’s the big truth, no question, but not the little Treasure Island truth, wobbly as it might come out. One such episode will give you an idea of what we (meaning me and my two brothers, one a little younger the other a little older than me) were up against but also, in the end, why although there were precious few wonderful childhood memories that are now worth the ink to tell you about, this one serves pretty well. Let me have my say.

******
There was a madness in this country in the 1950s. No, not the Cold War atomic-bomb-is-going-to-get-us-we-are-all-going-to-be-dead-next-week or “better dead than red” kind of madness although there was plenty of that, but a madness for the automobile, the sleeker, the more airplane-like, and more powerfully-engined the better. And, it wasn’t just, deafeningly mad as they were, those guys in the now almost sepia-faded photographic images of tight T-shirt wearing, rolled sleeve cigarette-packed, greased Pompadour-haired, long side-burned, dangling-combed , engineer-booted, chain-wielding, side of the mouth butt-puffing , didn’t care if school kept or not types bent over the hood of some souped-up ’57 Chevy working, sweating pools of sweat, sweating to get even more power out of that ferocious V-8 engine for the Saturday night “ chicken" run.

And it wasn’t even those mad faux James Dean-sneered, "rebel without a cause"-posed, cooled-out, maybe hop-headed guys either. And it was always guys, who you swore you would beat down if they ever even looked at your sister, if you had a sister, and if you liked her enough to beat a guy down to defend her honor, or whatever drove your sense of right. And, of course she, your sister no less, is looking for all she is worth at this “James Dean” soda jerk (hey, what else could he be) because this guy is “cute”. Go figure.

No, and forget all those stereotypes that they like to roll out when they want to bring a little “color” to the desperately color-craving 1950s. This car madness was driven, and driven hard, by your very own stay-at-home-and watch the television, water the lawn, if you have a lawn and it needed watering and sometimes when it didn’t just to get out of the house, have couple of beers and take a nap on Saturday afternoon father (or grandfather, I have to remember who might be in my audience now) who always said “ask your mother” to blow you off. You know him. I know you know him he just has a different name than mine did. And maybe even your very own mother (or grandmother) got caught up in the car thing too, your mother the one who always would say “ask your father. You know her too, don’t say no. I hope by now you knew they were working a team scam on you even if you didn’t have the kind of proof that you could take to court and get a little justice on.

Hell, on this car thing they were just doing a little strutting of their stuff in showcase, show-off, “see what I got and you don’t” time. Come on now, don’t pretend that you don’t know what I am talking about, at least if you too grew up in the 1950s, or heard about it, or even think you heard about it. Hey, it was about dreams of car ownership for the Great Depression-ed , World War II-ed survivors looking to finally cash in, as a symbol that one, and one’s family, has arrived in the great American dream, and all on easy monthly payments, no money down, and the bigger, the sleeker the better and I’ll take the heavy- chromed, aerodynamically-designed, two-toned one, thank you. That was how you knew who counted, and who didn’t. You know what I mean.

Heck, that 50s big old fluffy pure white cloud of a dream even seeped all the way down into “the projects” in Adamsville, and I bet over at the Columbia Point “projects” in Boston too that you could see on a clear day from Adamsville beach, although I don’t know for sure on that, and maybe in the thousand and one other displaced person hole-in-the-walls “projects” they built as an afterthought back then for those families like mine caught on the slow track in “go-go” America. Except down there, down there on the edge of respectability, and maybe even mixed in with a little disrespectability, you didn’t want to have too good of a car, even if you could get that easy credit, because what we you doing with that nice sleek, fin-tailed thing with four doors and plenty of room for the kids in the back in a place like “the projects” and maybe there was something the “authorities” should know about, yes. Better to move on with that old cranky 1940s-style un-hip, un-mourned, un-cool jalopy than face the wrath and clucking of that crowd, the venom-filled, green-eyed neighbors.

Yes, that little intro is all well and good and a truth you can take my word for but this tale is about, if I ever get around to it, those who had the car madness deep in their psyche, but not the wherewithal- this is a cry, if you can believe it today, from the no car families. Jesus, how could you not get the car madness then though, facing it every night stark-naked in front of you on the television set, small as the black and white picture was, of Buicks, and Chevys and Pontiacs and whatever other kind of car they had to sell to you. But what about us Eastern Mass bus dependents? The ones who rode the bus, back or front it didn’t matter, at least here it didn’t matter. Down South they got kind of funny about it.

As you might have figured out by now, and if you didn’t I will tell you, that was our family’s fate, more often than not. It was not that we never had a car back then, but there were plenty of times when we didn’t and I have the crooked heels, peek-a-boo-soles, and worn out shoe leather from walking rather than waiting on that never-coming bus to prove it. And not only that but I got so had no fear of walking, and walking great distances if I had to, all the way to Grandma’s Young Street, “up-town” North Adamsville if I had to. That was easy stuff thinking back on it. I‘ll tell you about walking those later long, lonesome roads out West in places like just before the mountains in Winnemucca, Nevada and 129 degree desert- hot Needles, California switching into 130 degree desert-hot Blythe, Arizona some other time, because it just doesn’t seem right to talk about mere walking, long or short, when the great American automobile is present and rolling by.

It’s kind of funny now but the thing was, when there was enough money to get one, that the cars my poor old, kind of city ways naïve, but fighting Marine-proud father would get, from wherever in this god forsaken earth he got them from would be, to be polite, clunkers and nothing but old time jalopies that even those “hot rod” James Dean guys mentioned above would sneer, and sneer big time, at. It would always be a 1947 something, like a Hudson or Nash Rambler, or who knows the misty, musty names of these long forgotten brands. The long and short it was, and this is what’s really important when you think about it, that they would inevitably break down, and breakdown in just the wrong place, at least the wrong place if you had a wife who couldn’t drive or help in that department and three screaming, bawling tow-headed boys who wanted to get wherever it was we were going, and get there-now.

I swear on those old battered crooked-heeled, peek-a-boo soled shoes that I told you about that this must have happened just about every time we were going on a trip, or getting ready to go on a trip, or thinking about going on a trip. So now you know what I was up against when I was a kid. Like I already told you before, in some other dream fragment, I was an easy target to be “pieced off” with a couple of spoonfuls of Kennedy's potato salad when things like that happened. Or some other easy “bought off” when the “car” joke of the month died again and there wasn’t any money to get it fixed right away and we couldn’t go more than a few miles. I blew my stack plenty and righteously so, don't you think?

So let me tell you about this one time, this one summer time, August I think, maybe in 1956, when we did have a car, some kind of grey Plymouth sedan from about 1947, that year seems to always come up when car year numbers come to mind, like I said before. Or maybe it was a converted tank from the war for all I know, it kind of felt like that sitting in the back seat because as the middle boy I never got to ride “shot gun” up front with Dad so I bore the brunt of the bumps, shakes, blimps, and slips in the back seat. I do know I never felt anything better than being nothing but always queasy back there.

This one, this beauty of a grey Plymouth sedan, I can remember very well, always had some major internal engine-type problem, or telltale oil- spilling on the ground in the morning, or a clutch-not-working right, when real cars had clutches not this automatic stuff, making a grinding sound that you could hear about half way around the world, but you will have to ask some who knows a lot more about cars about than I do for the real mechanical problems. Anyway this is the chariot that is going to get us out of “the projects” and away from that fiery, no breathe “projects” sun for a few hours as we started off on one of our family-famous outings to old Treasure Island down at the Merymount end of Adamsville Beach, about four or five miles from “the projects”, no more. It was hot as blazes that day that’s for sure, with no wind, no air, and it was one of those days, always one of those days, you could smell the sickly sweet fragrant coming from over the Proctor & Gamble soap factory across the channel on the Fore River side.

We got the old heap loaded with all the known supplies necessary for a “poor man’s” barbecue in those days. You know those cheap plastic lawn chairs from Grossman’s or Raymond’s or one of those discount stores before they had real discount stores like K-Mart and Wal-Mart, a few old worn-out blankets fresh from night duty on our beds, some resurrected threadbare towels that were already faded in about 1837 from the six thousand washings that kids put even the most resilient towel through in a short time, the obligatory King’s charcoal briquettes, including that fear-provoking, smelly lighter fluid you needed to light them with in those barbaric days before gas-saturated instant-lite charcoal. For food: hot dogs, blanched white-dough rolls, assorted condiments, a cooler with various kinds of tonic (a.k.a. soda, for the younger reader) and ice cream. Ya, and some beach toys, including a pail and shovel because today, of all days, I am bound and determined to harvest some clams across the way from the park on Adamsville Beach at low tide just like I’d seen all kinds of guys doing every time we went there so that we can have a real outing. I can see and hear them boiling in that percolating, turbulent, swirling grey-white water in the big steaming aluminum kettle already.

All of this stuff, of course, is packed helter-skelter in our “designer” Elm Farms grocery store paper shopping bags that we made due with to carry stuff around in, near or far. Hey, don’t laugh you did too, didn’t you? And what about hamburgers you say, right? No, no way, that cut of meat was too pricey. It wasn’t until much later when I was a teenager and invited to someone else’s family-famous barbecue that I knew that those too were a staple, I swear. I already told you I was the “official” procurer of the Kennedy’s potato salad in another dream fragment so I don’t need to tell you about that delicacy again, okay?

And we are off, amazingly, this time for one of the few time in family-recorded history without the inevitable- “who knows where it started or who started it” -incident, one of a whole universe of possible incidents that almost always delayed our start every time our little clan moved from point A to point B. Even a small point A to point B like this venture. So everything was okay, just fine all the way up that single way out of “the projects,” Palmer Street, until we got going on Sea Street, a couple of miles out, then the heap started choking, crackling, burping, sneezing, hiccupping, smoking and croaking and I don’t know what else. We tumbled out of the car, with me already getting ready to do my, by now, finely-tuned “fume act” that like I told you got a work-out every time one of these misadventures rolled around, and pulled out everything we could with us.

Ma, then knowingly, said we would have to go back home because even she knew the car was finished. I, revolutionary that I was back then, put my foot down and said no we could walk to Treasure Island, it wasn’t far. I don’t know if I can convey, or if I should convey to you, the holy hell that I raised to get my way that day. And I did a united front with my two brothers, who, usually, ignored me and I ignored them at this point in our family careers. Democracy, of a sort, ruled. Or maybe poor Ma just got worn out from our caterwauling. In any case, we abandoned a few things with my father, including that pail and shovel that was going to provide us with a gourmet’s delight of boiled clams fresh from the now mythical sea, and started our trek with the well-known basics-food and utensils and toys and chairs and, and…

Let me cut to the chase here a little. Of course I have to tell you about our route and about how your humble tour director got the bright idea that we could take a short cut down Chickatawbut Street. (This is a real street, look it up. I used to use it every time I wanted to ride my bike over to Grandma’s on Young Street in North Adamsville.) The idea of said "smart guy" tour director was to get a breeze, a little breeze while we are walking with our now heavy loads by cutting onto Shore Avenue near the Merrymount Yacht Club. The problem is that, in search of breeze or of no breeze, this way is longer, much longer for three young boys and a dragged-out mama. Well, the long and short of it was, have you ever heard of the “Bataan Death March” during World War II? If you haven’t, look it up on “Wikipedia.” Those poor, bedeviled guys had nothing on us by the time, late afternoon, we got to our destination. We were beat, beat up, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday, beat every way a human being can be beat. Did I say beat? Oh ya, I did. But Ma, sensing our three murderous hearts by then, got the charcoals burning in one of the fireplaces they provided back then, and maybe they still do. And we were off to the races.

Hey, do you really need to know about mustard and relish crammed char-broiled hot dogs or my brother’s strange ketchup-filled one on white-breaded, nasty-tasting hot dog rolls that we got cheap from Elm Farms or maybe it was First National, or my beloved Kennedy’s potato salad that kind of got mashed up in the mess up or "Hires" root beer, or "Nehi" grape, or "Nehi" orange or store–bought boxed ice cream, maybe, "Sealtest" harlequin (chocolate, strawberry and vanilla all together, see), except melted. Or those ever- present roasted marshmallow that stuck to the roof of my mouth. You’ve been down that road yourselves so you don’t need me for a guide. And besides I’m starting to get sleepy after a long day. But as tired, dusty, and dirty as I am just telling this story… Ah, Treasure Island.

****
***Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach, Circa 1964-In Honor Of Elsa Alva (nee Daley), Class Of 1964


Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:

I have been dedicating some of my sketches to various people. When I first wrote this one in 2008 I had not one in particular in mind but when I recently rewrote it I did have Elsa in mind. I did not know her well at North Adamsville, and do not know her now much better now, but I felt her presence very strongly when I was rewriting this thing. So here it is.
********
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Adamsville Old Sailor’s Home (and cemetery about a quarter of a mile away, closed now but the final resting place for many a sea-faring man, known and unknown). Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in South Adamsville where I came of age surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of desperate, high stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. Almost from my first wobbly, halting first baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me. Moreover, ever since this writer was a toddler his imagination has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much of pirates and prizes but of the power of nature, for good or evil.

Of course, anyone with even a passing attachment to Adamsville has to have an almost instinctual love of the sea; and a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never knew, the sea... But enough of those imaginings. If being determines consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it does not hurt to have been brought up in Adamsville with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides. That said, the focal point for any experience with the ocean in Adamsville centers, naturally, around its longest stretch of beach, aptly, if not ingeniously, named Adamsville Beach.

For those of us of a certain age, including this writer, one cannot discuss Adamsville Beach properly without reference to such spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand (now a woe-begotten clam shack of no repute). For those who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just another ice cream joint I have provided a link to a Wikipedia entry for the establishment. That should impress you of the younger set, I am sure. Know this: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup: frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and the “they don’t make them like they use to” riff, especially for those who only know “HoJo’s” from the later, pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken great American West-searching highway, but at that moment I was in very heaven.

Nor can one forget those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution about the dreaded jellyfish, pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams down toward the Merrymount end of the beach at the, in those days, just slightly oil-slicked, sulfuric low tide. Or the smell of charcoal-flavored hot dogs on those occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies that my father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently constructed old barren old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine, and fully-forested, such is time) that were some of the too few times when my family acted as a family. Or the memory of roasted, really burnt, sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth. Ouch!

But those thoughts and smells are not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be complete without at least a passing reference to high school Adamsville Beach. The sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature, some Zen notions of oneness with the universe, the calming effect of the thundering waves, thoughts of immortality, and so on. But it also brings out the primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but hormonal, as well. Mind you, however, we are not discussing here the nighttime Adamsville Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races." [For the heathens, or those from Kansas or some such place, going to watch the submarine races was a localism meaning going, via car, down to the beach at night, hopefully on a very dark night, with a, for a guy, girl and, well, start groping each other, and usually more, a lot more, if you were lucky and the girl was hot, while occasionally coming up for air and looking for that mythical submarine race. Many guys (and gals) had there first encounter with oral sex that way, if the Monday morning before school boys’ lav talk, and maybe girls’ lav talk too, was anything but hot air.] Our thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will save that discussion for another time when kids and grand-kids are not around. Here we will confine ourselves to the day-time beach.

Virtually from the day school we got out of school for summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the Squaw Rock and Adamsville Heights Yacht Clubs. Now was situating myself in that spot done so that I could watch all the fine boats at anchor? Or was this the best swimming location on the beach? Hell no, this is where we heard (and here I include my old running pal and classmate, Bill Bailey) all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of Beach Blanket Bingo or some such early 1960s Frankie Avalon-Annette Funicillo (sic) teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a “boy meets girl” saga like Avatar, except on the beach...and on Earth.)

Well, for those who expected a movie-like happy ending to this piece, you know, where I meet a youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of Sea of Love, forget it. (That is the original Sea of Love, by the way, not the one used in the movie of the same name sung by Tom Waits at the end, and an incredible cover that you should listen to on YouTube.) I will keep the gory details short, though. As fate would have it there may have been "babes" aplenty down there but not for this lad. I don't know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read: tongue-tied) to get up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute boys here). And on reflection, if the truth were to be known, I would not have known what to do about it in any case. No job, no money and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one of those legendary "submarine races" that we have all agreed that we will not discuss here. But we can hardly fault the sea for that, right?
*****
The above piece came about as a result of a response to some correspondence, via, a manically hard-working and determined North Adamsville High School class reunion committee member who shall remain nameless (except for gender, she) concerning old-time memories of Adamsville Beach which formed one of the backdrops to our high school experiences. In the wake of my commentary everybody and their brother (or sister) who ever came within fifty miles of smelling the sulfuric-flecked sea air at that beach has felt some kind of ‘civic duty’ to bring out his or her own salt-encrusted memories of the place. Below, mainly unedited (who could edit someone’s civic duty), is the traffic in response to the above piece. No one is required to wade through all the blather but to make a New York Times-like offical record seems appropriate under the circumstances.
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Betty Gilroy 1985 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 22 2008 11:00pm PST
In reply to Peter Paul Markin 1964


I grew up close to Adamsville Beach...I used to ride my bike there, runaway there... was a great bike path, I loved it as a kid. I used to hang out with friends from school, had some great jelly fish fights there. Ahhh, my friend and her boy fell asleep on the beach divider {Markin: sea-wall]with his hand on her stomach. How was she going to explain that one to mom and dad? (And, no, you dirty old man, they were not having oral sex or anything like that, although I learned later from my own experience that this was a “hot” spot for such things being so secluded and all. She, maybe they, didn’t know anything about sex then according to her, although later she told me about a couple of things, nasty-sounding things then but nice now, to do with guys. I am blushing now, and getting a little funny-feeling too, when I think about it now but the sound of the ocean in the background was a great place to do those things, those so-called nasty things. I know it got me going.)

I lived in Adamsville Central in the ‘70s to the early 80s and then moved to North Adamsville. I love the views, and the clam shack, the ice cream, all the clam diggers... the pond on the way from Marlboro Street, jumping the fence trying to catch the bull frogs going to the swamp cemetery swinging from the willow tree I think... I live in California and have a son that’s 7 (I hope he doesn't read what I wrote above, about that sex stuff I mean, but the ocean did turn me on, a lot) around the age that I would ride my bike the freedom, the safeness I had skate boarding around losing track of time, I haven't been back since my 10 year reunion I miss it, my friends, but then again I'm older with responsibilities maybe some day again I will take my son and show him Adamsville Beach and throw a few jelly fish his way??

Betty
North Adamsville High 85
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Memories Of Adamsville Beach

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:31am PST
In reply to Betty Gilroy, 1985


Betty- Thanks for the reply. The glint of silver off the Treasure Island Bridge when the sun hit it at a certain time. The early morning winter sun coming up over the horizon on the bay. The Boston skyline at dusk (pre-Marina Bay times when there was an unimpeded view). Well, we could go on and on with our memories but the one thing that caught my eye in your reply was the word “escape.” In one sense I was using Adamsville Beach as a metaphor for that idea in my story. I do not know about you and your family but, to be kind, I had a very rocky time growing up and certainly by the time I got to high school I was in desperate need of a sanctuary. It is no accident that I (and my old running mate, Bill Bailey) spent a fair amount of time there.

I went back to Adamsville last year (2007) while they were doing some reconstruction and cleaning the place up. I wrote about that in a sketch entitled Do You Know Adamsville Beach? that I posted here but then deleted. My original idea was to draw a comparison between the old hazy, happy memories of Adamsville in our youth and looking at it with today's older eyes. Somehow it just didn't fit right as a discussion item with the things I was trying to write then. If you would kindly reply to this message I will place it as a reply to some of what you have mentioned in your message about 'coming home.' By the way the jellyfish are still there in all their glory and please, take mother's advice, do not step on them, they might be poisonous.

Finally, I will not let you off the hook. I won’t comment on the "dirty old man" remark as I will take it as just a cute “fresh,” maybe flirty remark on your part. Yes, and I know as well as you that this is a family-friendly site but how did your friend explain away her 'sleeping' on the old wall to mom and dad? That bit about how she (they) didn’t know anything about sex, oral or otherwise, just doesn’t wash. Everybody “knew,” including parents who probably invented the spot, you only went to that particular spot with one thing in mind. You can send me a private e-mail with the real details if you like and then you can see if I am really a dirty old man or not. Regards, Peter Paul Markin

[Markin: Betty, by the way did send me an e-mail, several in fact, and I am still blushing, blushing profusely over some of her information old and ‘mature’ as I am. Let's put it this way my temperature was rising not a little. Frankly, some of the stuff (various sexual positions) she spoke of have to defy the laws of nature, but so be it. We were young and flexible (in more that one way) then. Forward.]
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Craig Wallace, North Adamsville High,1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:34am PST
In reply to Peter Paul Markin,1964


Peter Paul: I heard from a younger friend, a woman friend (of my ex-wife’s actually) who knew you back in the day Professor Joan Murphy from over at MIT, who used to call you P.P., and that you liked it. [Markin: Tolerated it from her only because she was Frankie Riley’s ever-loving girlfriend. You remember the Riley family, the one with all the great North Adamsville raider red football players, Frankie was my corner boy chieftain up in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor. And she was, well, let's leave it as Frankie's ever-loving girlfriend.]

I don't have an awful lot to say about the beach, since I lived in a few other places while growing up. I do remember walking along the old sea wall and jumping across the openings trying to grab the rail to avoid falling. I once caught the rail, but hit the edge of the concrete wall with my shin. It hurt, but I didn't think it was broken.

Once a friend ran into a guy at the beach, and for some reason began to "exchange words." They were about to go at each other, but the lifeguard told them to take their dispute elsewhere. They went across the street to the grass in front of a stand where clams and other goodies were sold. The friend proceeded to tear the other guy apart. It didn't last that long. The friend was 5'-7" tall and the other guy 6'-3". I heard that some years later they ran into each other again and had a big laugh about the whole thing. Kids do grow up.

When I visited Massachusetts with my wife and two kids in 1983, my brother took us through some of the "old haunts," and we roamed the beach a bit. They got a kick out of a pair of horseshoe crabs skittering along the edge of the low tide line. I also went back there in 2007 and took a few walks along the beach. I did miss the old candle pin bowling alley, which appears to have been replaced by condos as was the old Adamsville Grammar School where I went through 1st grade (Miss Gray) and most of 2nd grade (Miss Lindberg).

Oh, yeah. I believe the Adamsville East Elementary School on Huckins Avenue is still in operation. I read that there's a boundary somewhere in North Adamsville and that kids who live east of the line go to Adamsville East School and those west of that line go to Parker Elementary on Billings Road. What is now North Adamsville High School included grades 7 through 12 till 1958 or 1959. So, even though I lived in 3 or 4 places, I was able to attend all 6 years at the same school.

Overall, most memories of Adamsville Beach are pretty good.

Craig S. Warren, 1957
*********
Peter Paul Markin reply:
Craig

Nobody has to stay on the subject at hand, all information about the old times in North Adamsville is welcome, but did you ever go to the beach? From the way you described it I thought maybe you knew about it from some picture postcard, of any beach, anywhere. Were you one of those, and there were not a few if I recall, who "rode," hot-rod rode the Adamsville Shore Boulevard and never touched down on the sand, or caught a fresh sea breeze on a hot summer day. Just kept cruising, eyes forward or left honed in on the ice cream, bowling alley, clam shack side, looking for the be-bop night, girls, or something. Like old Adamsville was Kansas or some sod town.

Peter Paul Markin,1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 12:51pm PST
In reply to Craig Wallace, 1957

This entry started as a short sketch in this space but I deleted it because it did not fit in with what I was trying to evoke in these pages then. Now the sketch does serve as a decent reply though for Betty Gilroy's,(1985) and Craig Wallace's (1957) comments above. I, moreover, actually am writing about the old-time beach here and not everything else under the sun like hot sex spots and Adamsville school locations. Christ. Peter Paul Markin

*****
Okay, in the sketch above(Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach, Circa 1964) this writer got all misty-eyed about the old days at Adamsville Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at HoJo's, the local king-of-the-hill ice cream stand, the vagaries of clam-digging in the oil-soaked flats and about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs at Treasure Island. And I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. But enough of magical realism. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that memory lane business and take a look at old Adamsville in the clear bright light of day.

Last year, as part of the trip down the memory lane that I have been endlessly writing about in this space, I walked the length of Adamsville Beach from the Squaw Rock Causeway to the bridge at Adamsville Shore. At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, redo the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Adamsville Beach in my youth.

Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten yacht clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read: girls). And, of course, the tattered Beachcomber gin mill in much the same condition is still there as are the inevitable clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean-what I noticed were things like the odd smell of low-tide when the sea is calm, the tepidness of the water as it splashed, barely, to the shore-when a man craved the roar of the ocean-and the annoying gear-grinding noise caused by the constant vehicular traffic on the near-by boulevard. Things that I was, frankly, oblivious to back in the days.

There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Adamsville Beach and the Adamsville of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were things to conquer and now. The lesson to be learned- beware the perils of memory lane. But don't blame the sea for that, please.

.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album). That seems about right.
**********
On Our 'Code Of Honor'

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:42am PST
In reply to Craig Wallace, 1957

Craig- I am very interested in having you fill out this story about the fight between your friend and the other guy down at Adamsville Beach that you mentioned before (see above). I do not need to know the gory details nor what happened years later. What I am looking for is your take on what the whole incident meant at the time. This was hardly an unusual event at then(or now for that matter), right?

I am trying to put together an entry based on our working class “code of honor”- male version- at the time before women's liberation and other social phenomena helped us to expand our sense of the world and how we should act in it. Even “loner” types like me would not back down on certain 'turf' issues (girls, giving way while walking on the street, who you "hung" with, where your locker was, which “lav” you used, etc.) and took a beating rather than concede the point. Enough for now but give this some thought.

Regards, Peter Paul
********
Fight . . . ?

Craig Wallace,1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 28 2008 09:09am PST
In reply to Peter Paul Markin,1964

Peter Paul (I won’t call you P.P., okay). [Markin: Watch it old man. The days of the bogus 'code of honor' may be long gone but every working-class corner boy still has a slight edge on, even fifty years later, okay.]

The scuffle between a friend of mine and a much bigger guy at Adamsville Beach was not really "earth shaking." It started a couple days before when the friend and I were walking along one of the streets leading to the beach, Bayfield Road, perhaps. The "other guy" passed by in a car with some of his friends, including a couple girls. That guy yelled some insult at my friend in reference to his "eye-wear." He probably was trying to impress the girls by showing them he could insult anyone and all could get a good laugh out of it. Of course, my friend yelled something equally offensive at those in the passing car, which kept going. The "incident" appeared to have terminated.

A few days later the friend and I crossed the road to the beach near one of the yacht clubs and there was the guy who had yelled the insulting remarks. Apparently, he thought he could continue the verbal abuse without suffering the consequences, because he yelled something similar again. My friend went after the kid, but was informed by the lifeguard that they better take their "dispute" elsewhere. They went across the road to a grassy area and, encouraged by a small crowd that was gathering around them, proceeded to "get it on." My friend was usually a fairly pacific person, but when "pushed," he was like a cornered wolverine that would take on anybody or anything. The scuffle didn't last long, and the bigger kid got the worst of it. That time was the end of the dispute. Apparently nobody was seriously hurt, but maybe some had a bit more respect for the smaller kids after that. Some years later the two met, and remembering the incident, shared a good laugh over the whole thing.

Then, as now, I saw no esoteric meaning to the "battle." It didn't seem like the medieval days when one would "defend his honor" or that of a "damsel in distress." It was just an exchange of words that developed into a short round of what may be referred to these days as "ultimate fighting" where no rules are observed. I had a couple scuffles in elementary school and my son did in middle school, but we more-or-less outgrew such things. Sadly, nowadays those "scuffles" can become more deadly and end with somebody paying the "ultimate price." Are we reverting to the "Dark Ages." I hope not.

Anyway, enough said of a "juvenile incident."

Craig, 1957
*********
The "Code of Honor"

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Aug 03 2008 11:31am PST
In reply to Craig Wallace, 1957

Craig, thanks for story. It gives me an angle for a story that I will write about on our youthful sense of “honor.” This story that you related, especially the part about impressing the girls, etc. really says something about that code.

Regards, Peter Paul
**********
Day and Night At Adamsville Beach

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:21am PST
In reply to Betty Gilroy, 1985

I mentioned in my original story that all of us would talk about daytime Adamsville Beach (although once the kids are out of sight-the nighttime is the right time- can come into play). I hope that at some point Betty Gilroy will expand on her comment about her girlfriend down at the day time beach and the incident alluded in her comment about her falling asleep. Ms. Gilroy is more than capable of telling her own version of the story. [Markin: She did via e-mail, private e-mail, and it would take a civil war to get the information out of me, or a few bucks. Let me put it this way. I was blushing for days, maybe now even, as I mentioned above]. The only point I want to make here is that some of these day time remembrances are as funny as what might have happened at night. Funny now, that is.

Regards, Peter Paul
********
Anyone Remember Adamsville Beach?

Robina Moore, 1978 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 15 2008 04:35pm PST
In reply to Peter Paul Markin, 1964

Totally agree that growing up on Adamsville Beach was an experience. So natural at the time, but looking back I now see how fortunate I was. I don’t remember the HoJo’s but I do remember the 19 cent hotdogs sold on the beach that was a few blocks from my house. What a treat for the neighborhood kids to get together and go get a dog.

As far the beach was concerned as kids, we followed the tides. Some parent would parade a group us kids and watch over us. Generally for two hours before high tide, and two hours after, and they always had snacks and drinks in tow…just gotta love the moms for that! Swim, dig in the sand, play catch in the water and when finally tired, lay on a towel and listen to WRKO or WMEX on the transistor radio.

Once I hit teenage years, I choose not to venture near the beach. I think my parents knew about the cosmic and hormonal appeal as well as primordial longings going on there. I was taught at a young age, the beach is not a good place at night. I totally thank them for instilling this and letting Adamsville Beach be filled with wonderful childhood memories. With that said, I am thrilled at the revitalization, and hope this generation of children will have a chance to create memories that they can cherished forever.
*******
Back In The Days

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Aug 18 2008 02:49pm PST
In reply to Robina Moore, 1978

Robina-Very nicely told memories. That is the thing that I was trying to evoke in writing this particular commentary. A few points.

*The reason for the boxes in your entry [Markin:since deleted] is that when you transfer from a word processor to the message space here the apostrophes and quotation marks turn into some Serbo-Croatian dialect in the process. It happens to me all the time. You have to change them in this space to avoid that.

* Do you, or anyone else, know when HoJo's left the Adamsville Beach site?

* Did you mean 19 dollars for a hot dog? You put 19 cents but that can't be right. Nothing ever cost 19 cents.

• You realize, of course, that this is a generic North Adamsville site and therefore members of generations X, Y or Z may not be familiar with the term “transistor radio.” For their benefit, that was a little battery-powered gizmo that allowed you to listen to music, the 'devil's music,' rock 'n' roll, without your parents going nuts. And no, sorry, you could not download whatever you wanted. Yes, I know, the Stone Age.

Regards, Peter Paul Markin
*******
The Nighttime Is The Right Time....

Peter Paul Markin, 1964
Posted: Aug 21 2008 08:08am PST
In reply to Robina Moore, 1978

...to be with the one you love. Yes, that classic Ray Charles tune (covered by many, including a steamy tribute version by The Rolling Stones in their 2005 Fenway Park concert) is a good lead in to what I want to mention here. Most of the comments on this entry have concerned day time Adamsville Beach but I have been thinking that it is time to open up to the night time episodes. Here are my reasons:

• Hey, it is entirely possible that some of our fellow alumni never went to Adamsville Beach during the day. They might have a legitimate grip against us for that. Remember we are using this cyberspace so that everyone has their "15 minutes of fame."

• The heck with protecting the kids and grandkids. They know this stuff already. Let's face it, as well, no self-respecting member of the hip-hop/iPod/Sidekick/texting generations (or younger) would dream of reading this far down into the entry. Ugh!

• Frankly, there is only so far we can go with the day-time Adamsville Beach. While there have been some nice comments there is only so far you can go with jellyfish, 19 cent hot dogs, teenage romantic longings and getting sand kicked in your face. We need to spice this up. In short, sex, or the hint of it, sells.

These are all good and sufficient reasons but, as usual, my real reason for arguing inclusion here is personal curiosity. I have been waiting some forty-four years to ask this simple question. Why, while we were driving down Adamsville Shore Boulevard on those cold October nights, let's say, were most of the cars all fogged up? What, were their defrosters not working? Come on, please, tell me.
***The Moment–For Laura, Class Of 1968 Somewhere  
 
 
 
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin
 
A while back, a couple of years ago, my old friend, Peter Paul Markin, my old merry prankster yellow brick road “on the bus” 1960s summer of love, 1967 version, friend came over to Cambridge to visit me. While we had met on Russian Hill in faraway San Francisco and had spent plenty of time on that blessed coast getting to know each other (and learning to stay clear of each other’s love interests of those moments) we were both New England boys, he from North Adamsville on the other side of Boston and me from up in Olde Saco in Maine. We additionally were    both rough and tumble working-class guys and so had drifted after what seemed a lifetime of roller-coaster rides back to eastern shores.
We had in earlier times lost touch for a while, although we never really lost contact for any extended period, but since we now had the time and the inclination to “cut up torches” we have met often lately to speak about the old times. At the last meeting Markin told me (I never called him, and I do not believe anybody else did either except his mother and maybe his first wife, anything but Markin foregoing the pleasure of paying deference to that three-name Mayfair swell moniker he tried to hang on a candid world back in the days) that he had recently gone up to my old home town to take “the waters.” He had been going up to Maine periodically when he was on the East Coast since I had introduced him to Perkin’s Cove down near York in the summer of 1969  (where he met that first wife) so that was no surprise to me . 
Of course any reference to Olde Saco automatically brought back memories for me of Olde Saco Beach, and of Jimmy Jakes’ Diner where my old- time corner boys and me hung out looking, well what else do corner boys do, looking for girls. Especially girls who had a little loose change in their pocketbooks to play Jimmy Jakes’ be all to end all jukebox with all the latest platter from Elvis, Jerry Lee, Chuck, and Bo, Bo Diddley don’t you know. But that is not what I wanted to talk to Peter Paul about just then, although I said we might get back to that subject, the subject of what is now called, if you can believe this, classic rock and roll, some other time. What I wanted to discuss with Peter Paul, why I had asked him over, was how he had, happily, stayed with Laura, his soul mate, all these years. (Laura, decidedly not being that first wife met up in tourista York which is really not Maine but a suburb of Boston if you want my opinion.     
Now this was no abstract question to him on my part for I had just completed the final proceedings on my third divorce. (I won’t even list the number of other non-marital arrangements that I have been part of over the years. I only count the official ones, the ones that cost me dough.) So I was frankly jealous/perplexed that Peter Paul and Laura had survived through thick and thin. And here is what he had to say on the question to the best of my recollection:
 
“Josh, you know as well as I do that in the old days, the old California care-free days that we were nothing but skirt-chasers. Yah, we might have been “on the bus,” might have been hip, might have seen “the woman question” a little better than most guys what with the divvying out of equal work on the upkeep of the bus. Might have been down with Captain Crunch and the “new age” and all that stuff, But I don’t remember a time when a good-looking woman passed by, young or old (old then being maybe thirty, as we both laughed), that we didn’t do a double-take on. And wish we had been fast enough to come up with a line to enhance, enchant, or whatever it was we thought we had in those days. I don’t know about you but I still do those double-takes and I bet you, you old geezer, do too.  [Josh laughs] Jesus, remember Butterfly Swirl when you and I first met and how you “stole” her right from under my nose, Or that high time drug night when the Captain “married” the pair of you and gave you the electric kool-aid acid test as a wedding present. [After the Butterfly Swirl incident, fast New England boys friends or not, we both agreed to avoid future turf wars.] You just never got over the rolling stone thing. And before Laura I was strictly a rolling stone too.” 
“I have already told you a few times about how Laura and I met, met in high civilization Harvard Square, down in some lowdown cellar bar when I was in my vagrant lonesome cowboy minute and we connected from the start. From the Ms. Right start I called it. And about that first handshake that sealed, sealed maybe for eternity, that we were going to stick. Stick like glue. You know that part, that ancient history part, so unless you want me to repeat it I want to talk about sometime  more recent that will give you a better I idea of what I mean. You’ll like this one too because it involves that last trip up to Olde Saco”   
“As you damn well know ever since you brought me up there when we drifted back East after the bus broke up every once in a while I have to journey to the ocean, back to our homeland the sea. It’s part of my DNA, just like yours. It is in the blood and has been since childhood. Usually, over the last several years, I have headed farther up to Olde Saco for a couple of days at a time alone as a change of pace. When I announce that I am going Laura usually asks, “Is it a retreat or a vacation (probably meaning from her, and the cats)?” We usually laugh about it. This time I was going an extra day since we were not going to take a week’s vacation in Maine this summer.”
 
“You also know that Laura had just retired so I figured that she would appreciate the time to collect her thoughts (in between playing 24/7 duty playing house servant to the cats). A couple of days before I was set to go up she said she wanted to come up for a day. I don’t remember whether she said it sheepishly or not, this short-haul Maine thing being “my time” but I said, straight up, “come on up.”  And she did. No big deal; we walked Olde Saco Beach which she liked (new to her since we usually went to Wells together on Maine trips), went to have a seafood dinner and then had our traditional ocean ice cream.”
“That last stop, that ice cream parlor stop, was at Dubois’ on Route One. Was that there when you were a kid? [Josh: no]. Do you know what the place had? It had an old jukebox that played all the old tunes from the 1950s. So naturally we had to, or rather Laura had to, play a few memory lane tunes. I don’t remember them all, except some dreary Rickey Nelson thing, she insisted on playing to rekindle some school girl crush she had on the guy.”
“And that experience, or rather one moment in that experience, explains why we have stuck, stuck like glue, all these years. There we were sitting in some white plastic chairs eating our ice cream (frozen pudding, good frozen pudding for me, butter pecan for her) Laura, looking like a school girl, swaying gently back and forth to the music with a great big winsome smile on her face, a relaxed smile that said it all. I ask you what guy in his right mind would give up that smile, or the possibility of that smile, short of eternity.”               

***For International Women’s Day-Lucy On The Edge Of The World



From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

People, ordinary vagrant night owls, hung-over refugees from the now closed bars and cabarets that dotted high Massachusetts Avenue and low Brattle Street, average vagabond wanderers of the Harvard Square night afraid to go home to face some wrath, the shiftless, the toothless homeless lacking that benighted nickel for subway fare or having made an erroneous judgment in favor of sweet sickly Thunderbird wine, came into the all-night Hayes-Bickford seeking, like him,  relieve from their collective woes with a cup of weak-kneed coffee and steamed, steamed everything. They, whatever their condition, whatever their motives, did not bother Lucy (the first name Lucy was all anybody ever found out about her as far as he knew, at least that was all he turned up upon later  inquiry) sitting alone at her “reserved” table in the back of the cafeteria toward the rest rooms. There she held forth in if not splendor then in quietude as she plied her nightly musings, and as he watched in awkward silence.   

Lucy Lilac, nicknamed that last part by some ancient want-to-be fellow bard perhaps and it stuck. At least she would brighten up and answer to that call when a midnight friend called it out (that moniker’s genesis like her real surname also undisclosed to him by the other regular tenants of the night when he asked around for more information about her). She spent her youthful middle of the nights just then hunched over a yellow legal notepad filling up its pages with her writings. (She was perhaps twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, had just finished college, he had heard through the grapevine, so that age seemed about right). Occasionally she would speak in a melodious sing-song voice some tidbit she had written out loud, not harmful out loud like some of the drunks at a few of the tables, or some homeless wailing banshee cry against a benighted world,  but just out loud.

Some of what she spoke of he thought was beautiful the words glued together in such a way that brought forth images of serious and thoughtful labors, and some was, well, doggerel, words strewn about in fashionable if haphazard free verse, about par  for the course with poets and other writers, But all of her work, whatever he heard of it, was centered on her plight in the world as a woman torn, as a woman on the edge, on the edge between two societies, on a see-saw between her membership in the generic human race and her ragamuffin fate as a woman reduced to second-class human citizenship in a white- bread male dominated world. She spoke of kinship to the fate of the black masses.

Caught between, as one professor put it whom he had asked about it later, two cultural gradients if that term has any meaning beyond the academy. And maybe she had been stuck that way like she said but let’s let him try to reconstruct what it was all about, all about for Lucy Lilac night owl. He had become so fascinated by where she was going with her muse in those 1962 summer nights, about how she was going to go about struggle to resolve that battle between “cultural gradients” and about the gist of what she had to say to a callow world in those days that he turned up many a “two in morning” to try to figure her dream out. He had more than a passing interest in this battle since he was also spooked by those same demons that she spoke of.    

[Oh, by the way, for the curious, Lucy Lilac, was drop-dead beautiful, with long black iron-pressed straight hair as was the style then, alabaster white skin whether from her odd hours of sleep or by genetic design was not clear, big red lips, which he did not know whether were in style then or not, the bluest eyes of blue, always wearing dangling earrings. Usually as well wearing some long dress so it was never really possible to determine her figure or her legs, important pieces of knowledge to him, and not just to him, in those sex-obsessed days, but he would have said slender and probably nice legs too. Since neither her beauty, nor the idea of sex, at least pick-up sex, enter into this sketch that is all that needs to be pointed out. Except this, her beauty, along with that no-nonsense demeanor, was so apparent that it held him, and others too, off from anything other than an occasional distant forlorn smile.]               

What Lucy Lilac would speak of, like a lot of the young in those days, was her alienation from parents, society, alienated from just everything to keep the list from getting out of hand, but not just that. On that she had kindred spirits in abundance. She was also alienated from her race like lot of the young, him included, were in those days as well. Alienated from her nine-to-five-go-by-the-rules-we-are-in-charge-trample on the rest of the world, especially the known black world white race. Part of it was that you could not turn open a newspaper or turn on a radio or television without having the ugly stuff going down south in America (and sometimes stuff in the north too) confronting you headlong. But part of it was an affinity with black culture, mainly through music, through be-bop jazz, electrified blues and flat-out rock and roll blastings  and a certain style, a certain swagger in the face of a world filled with hostility. “Cool,” to use just one word. 

Now this race thing, this white race thing of Lucy’s had nothing to do, he did not think, at least when she spoke that thought never came through, with some kind of guilt by association with the rednecks and crackers down in places like Alabama and Mississippi goddams. It was more that given the deal going down in the world, the injustices, the not having had any say in what was going on, or of having been asked about it either made her feel like she was some Negro in some down trodden shack some place. Some mad priestess fellaheena scratching the good earth to make her mark.

As Lucy expanded her ideas each night (and began to get a little be-bop- edged  flow into her voice as she spoke, a flow that he secretly kept time to), he got a better sense of what she was trying to say. (He later learned though one of her poems, that she had been, as he had, very influenced by Norman Mailer’s 1950s essay in The Partisan Review The White Negro, a screed on what Mailer called the white hipster, those who had parted company with their own culture and moved toward  the sexier, sassy black cultural gradient.) And while Lucy and he were both comfortably ensconced in the cozy Cambridge  Hayes-Bickford  (well maybe not cozy but safe anyway) and had some very white skin to not have to Mister James Crow worry about he began to see what she meant.

And Lucy Lilac really hit home when she spoke of how she had been, to his surprise since she gave every indication of being some cast-off Mayfair swell’s progeny, brought up under some tough circumstances down in New Jersey. She spoke about being from poor, very poor white folks somewhere around Toms River, her father out of work a lot worrying about the next paycheck and keeping him and his under some roof, her mother harried by taking care of five kids on two kids’ money, about being ostracized by the other better off kids, about seeking solace in listening to Bessie Smith, Billie, Muddy Howlin’ Wolf and a ton of other blues names that he recognized. And he too recognized a fellahin kindred since his own North Adamsville existence seemed so similar.

Yes, those nights he knit a secret and unknown bond with Lucy Lilac. Lucy who a few months later vanished into thin air from the Hayes-Bickford night. Lucy from the edge of the world, and wherever she wound up he knew just what she meant by the white Negro hipster-dom she was seeking, and that maybe he was too…

And hence this International Women’s Day contribution.