Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the legendary Lavern Baker performing her classic, Jim Dandy.
CD Review
The Rock ‘N’ Roll Era: 1957, Time-Life, 1987
As I have noted in reviewing The ‘60s: Last Dance part of this Time-Life Roll ‘n’ Roll Era series I have spent tons of time and reams of cyberspace “paper” in this space reviewing the teenage culture of the 1950s and early 1960s, especially the inevitable school dance and the also equally inevitable trauma of the last dance. That event, the last dance that is, was the last chance for even shy boys like me to prove that we were not wallflowers, or worst. The last chance to rise (or fall) in the torrid and relentless pecking order of the social scene at school. And moreover to prove to that certain she that you were made of some sort of heroic stuff, the stuff of dreams, of her dreams, thank you very much. Moreover, to make use of that social capital you invested in by learning to dance, or the “shadow” of learning to dance. The following is one such episode in that old time, eternal saga.
As part of the review of the dance sequel that I mentioned above I noted that there were two phases to the old school days dance scene, the high school one when we had all learned, or should have learned, the ropes enough not to be too foolish or too out of line on that social occasion, not if we expected to get a tussle from that certain she or he and the middle school one (formerly known as junior high school but we will use the current usage here on the off chance that someone who only knows the term middle school is reading this). I also noted that one could draw a sharp distinction between the two based on such factors as age, the more convoluted nature of social relationships, physical and sexual growth, changes in musical taste, attitudes toward life and toward the opposite sex (and, nowadays, same sex) all made them two distinct affairs, except the ubiquitous teacher chaperones to guard against all manner of murder and mayhem, or more likely, someone sneaking out for butts, booze or a little off-hand nuzzling (or mercy, all three). I will keep strictly to the middle school dance scene here since the compilation under review includes musical selections that were “hot” in those years.
In a sense the middle school scene is just an earlier version of the high school dance. No, stop, what am I talking about, hell, there is no question that the high school dance was a picnic to detail in comparison. We were light years ahead by then. At the middle school dance we were just wet-behind-the ears (boy and girls alike, although I think the girls were a little ahead of us, or at least we liked the idea that they were). Here though is what I gathered from a fellow middle schooler, Francis J. Murphy, “Frankie”, my best friend in those tormented years, when he heard that the big school dance was coming up in the spring. He merely went into denial, denial that he could care about such a “bourgeois” event (not his word but the idea is there), such a “square” event (his word, although he was probably clueless about what was square and hip in those days) and that he planned to be “out of town” that day. Ya, like he was the President on important business of state.
But here is the funny thing, a few weeks before the big event, as most of his classmates started to get lined up for, and behind the spirit of, this thing he started making noises about being free, maybe, or that he might be able to free up time that day to fit the dance into his schedule. Probably just a snafu of some sort with his appointment secretary previously, I assume. See, here is what he, and every not-nerd, non-dweeb, heck, just breathing young male and female knew, this event would permanently solidify, solidify like stone, the social order of the school, in or out, no questions asked, no prisoners taken. So he too “knew” that signing that world peace treaty that he seemed to be on the verge of signing rather than attend the dance was nothing compared to being in the fight, the furious fight, to gain leverage in the upper echelons of the school pecking order.
All fair enough, all true enough, if only a rather short sketch of the preparations leading up to the preparations, the seemingly endless preparations for the ‘big night.’ A night that included getting into some serious grooming workouts, including procedures not usually included in the daily toilet. Plenty of deodorant, hair oil, and breathe fresheners. Moreover, endless energy used getting worked up about wardrobe, mode of transportation, and other factors that I have addressed elsewhere, and, additionally, factors contingent upon whether you were dated up or stag. All that need not be repeated here.
Damn, whatever physical description I could conger up would be just so much eye wash anyway. The thing could have been held in an airplane hangar and we all could have been wearing paper bags for all we really cared. What mattered, and maybe will always matter, is the hes looking at those certain shes, and vis-a-versa. The endless, small, meaningful looks (if stag, of course, eyes straight forward if dated up, or else bloody hell) except for those wallflowers who are permanently looking down at the ground. And that is the real struggle that went on in those events, for the stags. The struggle against wallflower-dom. The struggle for at least some room in the social standing, even if near the bottom, rather than outcaste-dom. That struggle was as fierce as any class struggle old Karl Marx might have projected. The straight, upfront calculation (and not infrequently miscalculation), the maneuvering, the averting of eyes, the not averting of eyes, the reading of silence signals, the uncomphrehended "no", the gratuitous "yes." Need I go on? I don’t think so, except, if you had the energy, or even if you didn’t, then you dragged yourself to that last dance. And hoped, hoped to high heaven, that it was a slow one.
Ah, memory. So what is the demographic that this CD compilation is being pitched to, aside from the obvious usual suspects, the AARP crowd. Well that’s simple. Any one who has been wounded in love’s young battles; any one who has longed for that he or she to come through the door; anyone that has been on a date that did not work out, been stranded on a date that has not worked out; anyone who has had to submit to being pieced off with car hop drive-in food; anyone who has gotten a “Dear John” letter or its equivalent; anyone who has been jilted by that certain he or she; anyone who has been turned down for that last school dance from that certain he or she that you counted on to make your lame evening; anyone who has waited endlessly for the telephone (now iphone, etc., okay for the younger set who may read this) to ring to hear that certain voice; and, especially those hes and she who has shed those midnight tears for youth's lost love. In short, everybody except those few “most popular “types who the rest of us will not shed one tear over, or the nerds who didn’t count (or care) anyway.
Stick outs here include on this exceptional compilation from this exception year: legendary rocker Jerry Lee Lewis on Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On and Great Balls Of Fire; The Dell-Vikings' Come Go With Me; a surprise classic with The Tune Weavers on Happy, Happy Birthday Baby (that I played about twenty times today never mind fifty years ago); The Everly Brothers on Wake Up Little Susie (yes, they are definitely in trouble); Chuck Willis’ up tempo C.C.Rider: legendary singer and the much underrated LaVern Baker on her classic Jim Dandy; Dale Hawkins on the sultry Susie-Q: The Bobbettes on the snappy, hip-hoppy Mr Lee: Buddy Knox on Party Doll: and, The Dubs on the slow classic (and the one you prayed for to be that last dance) Could This Be Magic. I would not have wanted to have been the dee-jay working off this list at those dances. You would have been hounded, and rightly so, out the back door with requests.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
**Poet's Corner- Bertolt Brecht's "To Those Born After"-In Honor Of Those Who Fought To "Seek A Newer World"
Markin comment:
Old Brecht may not have been from the be-bop generation but he, in his way, knew how to speak truth to power through his poetry and plays.
To Those Born After
I
To the cities I came in a time of disorder
That was ruled by hunger.
I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
And then I joined in their rebellion.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
I ate my dinners between the battles,
I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
I didn't care for much for love
And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
I could do only little
But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
That's what I hoped.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
Our forces were slight and small,
Our goal lay in the far distance
Clearly in our sights,
If for me myself beyond my reaching.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
II
You who will come to the surface
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
That you've not had to face:
Days when we were used to changing countries
More often than shoes,
Through the war of the classes despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
Even so we realised
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
Could never be friendly ourselves.
And in the future when no longer
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
Look back on us with indulgence.
Old Brecht may not have been from the be-bop generation but he, in his way, knew how to speak truth to power through his poetry and plays.
To Those Born After
I
To the cities I came in a time of disorder
That was ruled by hunger.
I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
And then I joined in their rebellion.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
I ate my dinners between the battles,
I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
I didn't care for much for love
And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
I could do only little
But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
That's what I hoped.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
Our forces were slight and small,
Our goal lay in the far distance
Clearly in our sights,
If for me myself beyond my reaching.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
II
You who will come to the surface
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
That you've not had to face:
Days when we were used to changing countries
More often than shoes,
Through the war of the classes despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
Even so we realised
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
Could never be friendly ourselves.
And in the future when no longer
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
Look back on us with indulgence.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
**Once Again-Out In The Be-Bop Night- The School Dance -Last Chance For Romance
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of The Angels performing Till.
CD Review
The Rock ‘N’ Roll Era: The ‘60s: Last Dance, Time-Life, 1991
As I have noted in reviewing The ‘50s: Last Dance of this Time-Life Roll ‘n’ Roll Era series I have spent tons of time and reams of cyberspace “paper” in this space reviewing the teenage culture of the 1950s, especially the inevitable school dance and the also equally inevitable trauma of the last dance. That event, the last dance that is, was the last chance for even shy boys like me to prove that we were not wallflowers, or worst. The last chance to rise (or fall) in the torrid and relentless pecking order of the social scene at school. And moreover to prove to that certain she that you were made of some sort of heroic stuff, the stuff of dreams, of her dreams, thank you very much. Moreover, to make use of that social capital you invested in by learning to dance, or the “shadow” of learning to dance.
Fair, enough, true enough, if only a rather short sketch of the preparations, the seemingly endless preparations for the ‘big night.’ A night that entailed getting into some serious grooming workouts, including procedures not usually a apart of the daily toilet. Plenty of deodorant, hair oil, and breathe fresheners. Moreover, endless energy used getting worked up about wardrobe, mode of transportation, and other factors that I have addressed elsewhere, and, additionally, factors contingent upon whether you were dated up or stag. All that need not be repeated here. What does stand some further inspection is something that has received scant notice in all this welter of detail, with the exception of that overblown coverage of the last dance. Nothing on the inner workings of the dance itself.
Actually, and I will only speak to the late fifties and early sixties but I am sure this observation will hold up for other times as well, there are two school dance sequels, that first tremulous middle school dance series, and the later even more significant high school dances. Age, more convoluted socials relationships, physical and sexual growth, changes in musical taste, attitudes toward life and toward the opposite sex (or nowadays same sex) all made them two distinct affairs, except the ubiquitous teacher chaperones to guard against all manner of murder and mayhem, or, more likely, someone sneaking out for butts, booze or off-hand nuzzling (or, have mercy, all three). I will keep strictly to the high school dance scene here since the compilation under review includes musical selections that were current in the of my high school time.
These musical selections "spoke" to that gnawing feeling in the back of your head, half hidden by massive teenage psychic overlay of the need to take a constant survey of what is going on in your little so-called world. A moment's glazed stare as you wait to get into the dance venue allows you to think through the litany of problems to be addressed as soon as you get a breather. Shall I give examples?
For example; being stood up for a date; or when that certain he or she did not call; or that certain he or she had another date; or that certain "unto death" friend of yours took that certain he or she away from you; or when that certain he or she said no, no for any number of things but you know the real “no”, right?; or, finally, that mournful, pitiful midnight crying time when sometime he or she, did or did not do, or did or did not say, or he or she forget to remember, and so on. But those issues will wait for another day because right now the doors are opening and you have more pressing issues in your heated little mind. Hope drives your every move from here on in.
I don’t have to spend much time on the physical and technical details of the dance, hell, you can describe them in your sleep. And if you can’t do so watch a film like 1973’s American Graffiti, the segment on the local high school dance, as I have noted previously, once you get indoors could have been 1962 anyplace U.S.A. (and I am willing to bet anytime U.S.A., as well. For this baby-boomer, that particular high school dance, could have taken place at my high school when I was a student in the early 1960s). From the throwaway crepe paper decorations that festooned the place placed around the gym by the ever helpful Girls Club or Tri-Hi-Y up to the ever-present foldaway gym bleachers to those evil-eyed chaperones to the platform the local band (a band that if it did not hit it big would go on to greater glory at our future weddings, birthday parties, and other important occasions) covering the top hits of the day performed on it was a perfect replica of my own experience.
Also perfect replica in that film were the classic boys’ attire for a casual dance, plaid or white sports shirt, chinos, stolid shoes, and short-trimmed hair (no beards, beads, bell-bottoms, it’s much too early in the decade for that) and for the girls blouses (or maybe sweaters, cashmere, if I recall being in fashion at the time, at least in the colder East), full swirling dresses, and, I think beehive hair-dos. Wow! Of course, perfect replica were the infinite variety of dances (frug, watusi, twist, stroll, etc) that blessed, no, twice blessed, rock and roll let us do in order to not to have to dance too waltz close. We all owe Chubby Checker and Gary U.S. Bonds a debt that can never be repaid. Mercy.
Damn, my going on and on about the physical descriptions is just so much eye wash. The thing could have been held in a airplane hangar for all we really cared. And everyone could have been dressed in paper bags. What mattered, and maybe will always matter, is the hes looking at those certain shes, and vis-a-versa. The endless small meaningful looks (if stag, of course, eyes straight forward if dated up, or else bloody hell). Except for those wallflowers who are permanently looking down at the ground, and pleased to be doing it. And that, my friends, is the real struggle that went on in those events, for the stags. The struggle against wallflower-dom. The struggle for at least some room in the social standing, even if near the bottom, rather than outcaste-dom. That struggle was as fierce as any class struggle old Karl Marx might have projected. The straight, upfront calculation (and not infrequently miscalculation)of those evil eyes, the maneuvering, the averting of eyes, the not averting of eyes, the reading of silence signals, the uncomphrehended "no", the gratuitous "yes." Need I go on? I don’t think so, except, if you had the energy, or even if you didn’t, then you dragged yourself to that last dance. And hoped, hoped to high heaven that it was a slow one. Ah, to be young was very heaven as old man Wordsworth had it in another context.
Stickouts here include: legendary blue artist Etta James’ Something’s Got A Hold On Me (fast); The Angels’ Till (slow, ouch); Bo Diddley’s Road Runner (fast); and Donnie Brooks’ classic (the one you prayed they would play) Mission Bell. How is that for dee-jay even-handedness?
********
'Till lyrics
Till the moon deserts the sky
Till the all the seas run dry
Till then I'll worship you
Till the tropic sun turns cold
Till this young world grows old
My darling, I'll adore you
You are my reason to live
All I own I would give
Just to have you adore me, oh, oh, oh
Till the rivers flow upstream
Till lovers cease to dream
Till then I'm yours, be mine
instrumental interlude
You are my reason to live
All I own I would give
Just to have you adore me
Till the rivers flow upstream
Till lovers cease to dream
Till then I'm yours, be mine
CD Review
The Rock ‘N’ Roll Era: The ‘60s: Last Dance, Time-Life, 1991
As I have noted in reviewing The ‘50s: Last Dance of this Time-Life Roll ‘n’ Roll Era series I have spent tons of time and reams of cyberspace “paper” in this space reviewing the teenage culture of the 1950s, especially the inevitable school dance and the also equally inevitable trauma of the last dance. That event, the last dance that is, was the last chance for even shy boys like me to prove that we were not wallflowers, or worst. The last chance to rise (or fall) in the torrid and relentless pecking order of the social scene at school. And moreover to prove to that certain she that you were made of some sort of heroic stuff, the stuff of dreams, of her dreams, thank you very much. Moreover, to make use of that social capital you invested in by learning to dance, or the “shadow” of learning to dance.
Fair, enough, true enough, if only a rather short sketch of the preparations, the seemingly endless preparations for the ‘big night.’ A night that entailed getting into some serious grooming workouts, including procedures not usually a apart of the daily toilet. Plenty of deodorant, hair oil, and breathe fresheners. Moreover, endless energy used getting worked up about wardrobe, mode of transportation, and other factors that I have addressed elsewhere, and, additionally, factors contingent upon whether you were dated up or stag. All that need not be repeated here. What does stand some further inspection is something that has received scant notice in all this welter of detail, with the exception of that overblown coverage of the last dance. Nothing on the inner workings of the dance itself.
Actually, and I will only speak to the late fifties and early sixties but I am sure this observation will hold up for other times as well, there are two school dance sequels, that first tremulous middle school dance series, and the later even more significant high school dances. Age, more convoluted socials relationships, physical and sexual growth, changes in musical taste, attitudes toward life and toward the opposite sex (or nowadays same sex) all made them two distinct affairs, except the ubiquitous teacher chaperones to guard against all manner of murder and mayhem, or, more likely, someone sneaking out for butts, booze or off-hand nuzzling (or, have mercy, all three). I will keep strictly to the high school dance scene here since the compilation under review includes musical selections that were current in the of my high school time.
These musical selections "spoke" to that gnawing feeling in the back of your head, half hidden by massive teenage psychic overlay of the need to take a constant survey of what is going on in your little so-called world. A moment's glazed stare as you wait to get into the dance venue allows you to think through the litany of problems to be addressed as soon as you get a breather. Shall I give examples?
For example; being stood up for a date; or when that certain he or she did not call; or that certain he or she had another date; or that certain "unto death" friend of yours took that certain he or she away from you; or when that certain he or she said no, no for any number of things but you know the real “no”, right?; or, finally, that mournful, pitiful midnight crying time when sometime he or she, did or did not do, or did or did not say, or he or she forget to remember, and so on. But those issues will wait for another day because right now the doors are opening and you have more pressing issues in your heated little mind. Hope drives your every move from here on in.
I don’t have to spend much time on the physical and technical details of the dance, hell, you can describe them in your sleep. And if you can’t do so watch a film like 1973’s American Graffiti, the segment on the local high school dance, as I have noted previously, once you get indoors could have been 1962 anyplace U.S.A. (and I am willing to bet anytime U.S.A., as well. For this baby-boomer, that particular high school dance, could have taken place at my high school when I was a student in the early 1960s). From the throwaway crepe paper decorations that festooned the place placed around the gym by the ever helpful Girls Club or Tri-Hi-Y up to the ever-present foldaway gym bleachers to those evil-eyed chaperones to the platform the local band (a band that if it did not hit it big would go on to greater glory at our future weddings, birthday parties, and other important occasions) covering the top hits of the day performed on it was a perfect replica of my own experience.
Also perfect replica in that film were the classic boys’ attire for a casual dance, plaid or white sports shirt, chinos, stolid shoes, and short-trimmed hair (no beards, beads, bell-bottoms, it’s much too early in the decade for that) and for the girls blouses (or maybe sweaters, cashmere, if I recall being in fashion at the time, at least in the colder East), full swirling dresses, and, I think beehive hair-dos. Wow! Of course, perfect replica were the infinite variety of dances (frug, watusi, twist, stroll, etc) that blessed, no, twice blessed, rock and roll let us do in order to not to have to dance too waltz close. We all owe Chubby Checker and Gary U.S. Bonds a debt that can never be repaid. Mercy.
Damn, my going on and on about the physical descriptions is just so much eye wash. The thing could have been held in a airplane hangar for all we really cared. And everyone could have been dressed in paper bags. What mattered, and maybe will always matter, is the hes looking at those certain shes, and vis-a-versa. The endless small meaningful looks (if stag, of course, eyes straight forward if dated up, or else bloody hell). Except for those wallflowers who are permanently looking down at the ground, and pleased to be doing it. And that, my friends, is the real struggle that went on in those events, for the stags. The struggle against wallflower-dom. The struggle for at least some room in the social standing, even if near the bottom, rather than outcaste-dom. That struggle was as fierce as any class struggle old Karl Marx might have projected. The straight, upfront calculation (and not infrequently miscalculation)of those evil eyes, the maneuvering, the averting of eyes, the not averting of eyes, the reading of silence signals, the uncomphrehended "no", the gratuitous "yes." Need I go on? I don’t think so, except, if you had the energy, or even if you didn’t, then you dragged yourself to that last dance. And hoped, hoped to high heaven that it was a slow one. Ah, to be young was very heaven as old man Wordsworth had it in another context.
Stickouts here include: legendary blue artist Etta James’ Something’s Got A Hold On Me (fast); The Angels’ Till (slow, ouch); Bo Diddley’s Road Runner (fast); and Donnie Brooks’ classic (the one you prayed they would play) Mission Bell. How is that for dee-jay even-handedness?
********
'Till lyrics
Till the moon deserts the sky
Till the all the seas run dry
Till then I'll worship you
Till the tropic sun turns cold
Till this young world grows old
My darling, I'll adore you
You are my reason to live
All I own I would give
Just to have you adore me, oh, oh, oh
Till the rivers flow upstream
Till lovers cease to dream
Till then I'm yours, be mine
instrumental interlude
You are my reason to live
All I own I would give
Just to have you adore me
Till the rivers flow upstream
Till lovers cease to dream
Till then I'm yours, be mine
Friday, October 22, 2010
*Out In "The Projects" 1950s Be-Bop Night- For "The Projects" Boys... And Girls
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Tom Waits performing Jersey Girl
Markin comment:
"Ain't Got No Time For The Corner Boys, Down In The Streets Making All That Noise"- The first line from Bruce Springsteen's classic working class love song, Jersey Girl. Although the best version of song is Tom Waits' that you can link to on YouTube above.
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and Snug Harbor School. Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Germantown surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of battles fought off some mist-driven coast by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. But, of course, we know that anyone with even a passing attachment to Quincy has to have an instinctual love of the sea, and 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.
Today I look to the landward side of that troubled housing project peninsula, that isolated expanse of land jutting out of the water and filled with wreckage of another kind. No, this will not be a sociological survey of working class pathologies made inevitable by the relentless struggle to scramble for life's necessities, the culture of poverty, or the like. Nor will it be a political screed about rising against the monsters that held us down, or the need for such a rising. Nor even about the poetic license necessary to cobble pretty words together to speak of the death of dreams, dreamless dreams or, maybe, just accepting small dreams to fit a small life. Rather, I am driven by the jumble of images that passed through the thoughts of a ragamuffin of a project boy as he tried to make sense out of a world that he did not create, and that he had no say in.
Ah, the scenes. Warm, sticky, humid summer nights, the air filled with the pungent, overpowering soapy fragrance from the Proctor and Gamble factory across the channel that never quite left one's nostrils. Waking up each morning to face the now vanished Fore River Shipyard superstructure; hearing the distant clang of metals being worked to shape; and, the sight of flickering welding torches binding metals together. The endless rust-encrusted, low-riding oil tankers coming through the channel guided to port by high whistle-blowing tugs. The interminable wait for the lifeline, seemingly never on time, Eastern Mass bus that took one and all in and out through that single Palmer Street escape route. Or that then imposing central housing authority building where I was sent by my mother, too proud to go herself, with the monthly rent, usually short. Oh, did I mention Carter's Variety Store, the sole store for us all the way to Sea Street, another lifeline. Many a time I reached in Ma's pocketbook to steal money, or committed other small larcenies, in order to hike down and get my sugar-drenched stash.
And the kids. Well, the idea in those days was that the projects were a way-station to better things, or at least that was the hope. So there was plenty of turnover of friends but there was a core of kids, like me and my brothers, who stayed long enough to learn the ropes. Every guy had to prove himself, tough or not, by hanging with guys that were "really" tough. That was the ethos, and thems were the rules. I took my fair share of nicks but also, for a moment, well for more than a moment as it turned out, I was swayed by the gangster lifestyle. Hell, it looked easy. With classmate Rickie B. (who, later, served twenty years for a series of armed robberies) I worked my first "clip" in some downtown Quincy jewelry store. Moving on, I was the "holder" for more expansive enterprises with George H. (who, later, got killed when a drug deal he was promoting went south on him). But that was then, right?
Oh, the different things that came up. Oddball things like Christmas tree bonfires, and annual Halloween hooliganism... Hey, all this is so much eyewash because what, at least in memory's eye, is the driving "projects" image is the "great awakening". Girls. And being ill at ease around them, and being a moonstruck kid, and the shoe leather-wearing out marathon walking, thinking about what to do about them, especially when the intelligence-gatherers told you about a girl who liked you. And the innocent, mostly dreaded, little petting parties, in dank little basements that served as 'family rooms' for each apartment, trying to be picked by the one you want to pick you and, well, you get the drift. Now a lot of this is stuff any kid goes through, except just not in "the projects". And some of it is truly "projects" stuff - which way will he go, good or bad? But this next thing kind of ties it together. Just about the time when I seriously committed to a petty criminal lifestyle I found the Thomas Crane Library branch that was then in the Snug Harbor School. And one summer I just started to read every biography they had in the Children's section. While looking, longingly, over at the forbidden Adult section on the other side of the room for the good stuff. And I dreamed. Yes, I am a "projects" boy, and I survived to tell the tale.
Tom Waits Jersey Girl Lyrics
Got no time for the corner boys,
Down in the street makin' all that noise,
Don't want no whores on eighth avenue,
Cause tonight i'm gonna be with you.
'cause tonight i'm gonna take that ride,
Across the river to the jersey side,
Take my baby to the carnival,
And i'll take you all on the rides.
Down the shore everything's alright,
You're with your baby on a saturday night,
Don't you know that all my dreams come true,
When i'm walkin' down the street with you,
Sing sha la la la la la sha la la la.
You know she thrills me with all her charms,
When i'm wrapped up in my baby's arms,
My little angel gives me everything,
I know someday that she'll wear my ring.
So don't bother me cause i got no time,
I'm on my way to see that girl of mine,
Nothin' else matters in this whole wide world,
When you're in love with a jersey girl,
Sing sha la la la la la la.
And i call your name, i can't sleep at night,
Sha la la la la la la.
Markin comment:
"Ain't Got No Time For The Corner Boys, Down In The Streets Making All That Noise"- The first line from Bruce Springsteen's classic working class love song, Jersey Girl. Although the best version of song is Tom Waits' that you can link to on YouTube above.
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and Snug Harbor School. Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Germantown surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of battles fought off some mist-driven coast by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. But, of course, we know that anyone with even a passing attachment to Quincy has to have an instinctual love of the sea, and 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.
Today I look to the landward side of that troubled housing project peninsula, that isolated expanse of land jutting out of the water and filled with wreckage of another kind. No, this will not be a sociological survey of working class pathologies made inevitable by the relentless struggle to scramble for life's necessities, the culture of poverty, or the like. Nor will it be a political screed about rising against the monsters that held us down, or the need for such a rising. Nor even about the poetic license necessary to cobble pretty words together to speak of the death of dreams, dreamless dreams or, maybe, just accepting small dreams to fit a small life. Rather, I am driven by the jumble of images that passed through the thoughts of a ragamuffin of a project boy as he tried to make sense out of a world that he did not create, and that he had no say in.
Ah, the scenes. Warm, sticky, humid summer nights, the air filled with the pungent, overpowering soapy fragrance from the Proctor and Gamble factory across the channel that never quite left one's nostrils. Waking up each morning to face the now vanished Fore River Shipyard superstructure; hearing the distant clang of metals being worked to shape; and, the sight of flickering welding torches binding metals together. The endless rust-encrusted, low-riding oil tankers coming through the channel guided to port by high whistle-blowing tugs. The interminable wait for the lifeline, seemingly never on time, Eastern Mass bus that took one and all in and out through that single Palmer Street escape route. Or that then imposing central housing authority building where I was sent by my mother, too proud to go herself, with the monthly rent, usually short. Oh, did I mention Carter's Variety Store, the sole store for us all the way to Sea Street, another lifeline. Many a time I reached in Ma's pocketbook to steal money, or committed other small larcenies, in order to hike down and get my sugar-drenched stash.
And the kids. Well, the idea in those days was that the projects were a way-station to better things, or at least that was the hope. So there was plenty of turnover of friends but there was a core of kids, like me and my brothers, who stayed long enough to learn the ropes. Every guy had to prove himself, tough or not, by hanging with guys that were "really" tough. That was the ethos, and thems were the rules. I took my fair share of nicks but also, for a moment, well for more than a moment as it turned out, I was swayed by the gangster lifestyle. Hell, it looked easy. With classmate Rickie B. (who, later, served twenty years for a series of armed robberies) I worked my first "clip" in some downtown Quincy jewelry store. Moving on, I was the "holder" for more expansive enterprises with George H. (who, later, got killed when a drug deal he was promoting went south on him). But that was then, right?
Oh, the different things that came up. Oddball things like Christmas tree bonfires, and annual Halloween hooliganism... Hey, all this is so much eyewash because what, at least in memory's eye, is the driving "projects" image is the "great awakening". Girls. And being ill at ease around them, and being a moonstruck kid, and the shoe leather-wearing out marathon walking, thinking about what to do about them, especially when the intelligence-gatherers told you about a girl who liked you. And the innocent, mostly dreaded, little petting parties, in dank little basements that served as 'family rooms' for each apartment, trying to be picked by the one you want to pick you and, well, you get the drift. Now a lot of this is stuff any kid goes through, except just not in "the projects". And some of it is truly "projects" stuff - which way will he go, good or bad? But this next thing kind of ties it together. Just about the time when I seriously committed to a petty criminal lifestyle I found the Thomas Crane Library branch that was then in the Snug Harbor School. And one summer I just started to read every biography they had in the Children's section. While looking, longingly, over at the forbidden Adult section on the other side of the room for the good stuff. And I dreamed. Yes, I am a "projects" boy, and I survived to tell the tale.
Tom Waits Jersey Girl Lyrics
Got no time for the corner boys,
Down in the street makin' all that noise,
Don't want no whores on eighth avenue,
Cause tonight i'm gonna be with you.
'cause tonight i'm gonna take that ride,
Across the river to the jersey side,
Take my baby to the carnival,
And i'll take you all on the rides.
Down the shore everything's alright,
You're with your baby on a saturday night,
Don't you know that all my dreams come true,
When i'm walkin' down the street with you,
Sing sha la la la la la sha la la la.
You know she thrills me with all her charms,
When i'm wrapped up in my baby's arms,
My little angel gives me everything,
I know someday that she'll wear my ring.
So don't bother me cause i got no time,
I'm on my way to see that girl of mine,
Nothin' else matters in this whole wide world,
When you're in love with a jersey girl,
Sing sha la la la la la la.
And i call your name, i can't sleep at night,
Sha la la la la la la.
*An Old Geezer Sighting At The "Dust Bowl"
*An Old Geezer Sighting At The "Dust Bowl"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjUdtOVdTIA
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Hicham el Guerouj, the Moroccan Knight, setting the one mile run world record in 2008.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
I have written a number of entries in this space about the old days at North, and the like. This one follows in that same tradition, although with this twist- the "old geezer" described in the headline to this entry has requested anonymity for reasons that will become obvious once the tale he has asked me to tell unfolds. I think, however, that the average, above-average, classmates that old North produced can all figure this one out. Right?
For those of us who went to Atlantic Junior High and can remember that far back this year marks the 50th anniversary of our graduation from that school. For the old geezer, a man given to the faux-heroic feat, the odd-ball, off-hand symbolic gesture, and a disturbingly steadfast adherence to the drumbeat of history this called for some action. Since this year also marked the 50th anniversary of his first seriously taking up running as a sport, under the guidance of Coach Lewis, that gesture revolved around an attempt to run one mile around the old "Dust Bowl" track that has served as an 'athletic field' for the North community since Hector was a pup. This, in spite of the fact that he had done no more, at most, than run for the bus for the past quarter of a century, or more. Note also that the distance was one mile he sought to run. Not for him that old "lame" 600 yards around the front driveway circle at North that everyone had to do as part of the old-time President's Physical Fitness Test. No, indeed.
For those not familiar with the location the old "Dust Bowl" is the field the next street over from Atlantic. It served as our field at Atlantic for some sports. It also was the place where the legendary 1964 football team, led by "Bullwinkle", "Woj", Jim Fallon, Charlie McDonald, Tom Kiley, Walt Simmons, Don McNally, Lee Munson and a host of others practiced being mean under Coach Leone in order to beat beleaguered cross town arch-rival Quincy that year. Now I know that some readers "know" that location.
Furthermore, it was also the training ground and meet location for the spring track team where the silky-strided Bill Cadger held forth in distance running, Ritchie McCulley and others in the middle distances, Brooks Maloof in the sprints, Carl Lindholm and Ralph Morse in the hurdles, Al Bartoloni in the pole vault and a host of others who ran around in their skimpy black shorts, including the old geezer who was distinguished by being a consummate well-below average runner. He was not sure on this one, nor am I, but, perhaps, the cheerleaders led by the spunky Josie Weinstein, the sprightly Roxanne Goward, and the plucky Linda Pratt also practiced there. In short, if you are not familiar with the locale then you stand accused of being willfully out of touch with old North reality.
I should also mention that this name "Dust Bowl" is not mere hyperbole on my part. In summer and fall, at least, there was more dust that the EPA would find tolerable these days. Moreover, as the old geezer told me the field 'owed' him. So revenge was also a motive here, as well. Apparently he still has cinders in his left knee from when he fell while running on the track 50 years ago. Ouch! He told me to ask you if you had similar "war stories". Moreover, and this is symbolic in its own way, the track is not the normal quarter-mile one that you only had to go around four times (for the non-Math whizzes out there) but five laps to the mile. That may explain many things about our subsequent lives, right?
Okay, now to the big event. In the interest of accuracy this "event", according to the old geezer's information, occurred at about 9:00 AM on February 6, 2010. Now why he was not in Florida or at least in some warm house instead of being out on the "track" will go a long way to explaining the "inner demons" that plague this sixty-three year-old man's psyche. Moreover, he continued on with his quest despite having to wait upon dogs, and their owners, who seemingly felt such an hour was ripe for a canine national convention at the old bowl. But, we digress.
The old geezer started off okay with the usual burst of adrenaline one gets when the big day finally comes carrying him along for a while, he then settled into a 'pace' and all went well until he started breathing heavily, got light-headed and began feeling cramps in his thigh, and that was only on the first lap. It went down hill from there. But intrepid soul that he is he"dogged" it out. He informed me that his time for the mile has been declared a matter of national security and therefore not available to the public, although he did allude to an unfavorable comparison with the time it takes to get to the moon and back. Nevertheless the gesture is in the books, a member of the class of 1964 has been vindicated, and life can return to normal. Oh, the old geezer did mention this. For those of you with grandchildren under the age of five he is ready to take on all comers. Okay.
****************
Below is some traffic from Classmates on another matter but which deals with some fellow NQHS recollections of the old "Dust Bowl".
Replies 16 messages
(2) . . . Runners
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 13 2008 12:11pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Mr. Johnson;
I agree that "back in the Day" the NQHS Cross Country, Winter Track and Spring track athletes were usually the "forgotten ones." It may have been in part because they were not considered "team sports" like football, basketball and baseball. About the only way a track athlete would be recognised would be if he were a star in at least one of the team sports. I graduated from North in 1957 and was a mediocre cross country runner in 10th and 12th grades, and I was probably close to the last on 1955 team to get a letter. I made a few points in the 1955-56 winter track season and the 1957 spring track season. I probably never would have participated in track at all if it hadn't been for my 9th grade English Teacher Dave Meaney. I guess he thought my being just over 6 ft. tall and just under 150 lbs. I had a possibility of being a distance runner. Bob Gentry was the winter track coach and got me to try the mile after being in a few 1000 yd. races in the old Metropolitan Indoor Track League. What I remember most from those days was that we always seemed to enjoy ourselves and had a lot of laughs, regardless of a meet's outcome. I have often wondered if anyone kept track of North's cross country and track meets over the years. Winter track competitions were not always held indoors. During the 1956-57 winter track season we had a meet against Weymouth which had an outdoor slightly elevated board track. We even had to walk through about 8 inches of snow to get to the track. Those were the days. I'm glad to see you "campaigning" for a former classmate who was such a good runner, and recognizing Ms. Enos who was my 10th grade English even though English may not have been my best subject back then. I took a few walks along Wollaston Beach in 2007 when I went back for my class' 50th reunion. Takle care.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
(3) Runners
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 05:13am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for note and all the good information about the years just before Bill and I ran at North. A couple of information points in my role as Bill’s 'flak'. I noticed from your communities on your profile page that you served in the Navy. Right after high school Bill, for a number of reasons, also joined the Navy and served for four years (1964-68). That was kind of the point in my commentary about Bill's being somewhat before his time as a great runner. Nobody from colleges and places like that was offering track guys much of anything in those days so the Navy was Bill's escape route. I do not know if you save your writings but if you still have your comments about the old days you could either e-mail them or send a note to Bill's bulletin board on the 1964 members list. I know he would be happy to read them and I am sure has some comments from his perspective.
A couple of points for my own information. My family moved back to North Quincy from the Germantown projects in early 1959 so that when I transferred schools it was to the new Atlantic Junior High School. I noticed that you went to North Quincy Junior High. Where was that? Was it part of North? Someone recently told me that during 1959 just before I got to Atlantic that a big move over from North had occurred. Is that true? I also noticed that you went to Squantum Elementary. I believe that is gone now, true? Also that you went to the Quincy Elementary School. I know that is gone, right? My late mother (NQHS 1943) and late younger brother (NQHS 1966) went there.
My career in track and cross country seems to have paralleled yours. A few good races but mainly "the slows". I got letters in all three sports but some of them, frankly, were gifts. My best year in Cross Country was probably in 11th grade. Indoor and Outdoor track nothing memorable. I started running in the 9th grade and thought I was going to be a star. As I pointed out in "A Walk Down Dream Street" that I have today reposted in the All School Discussion Page on this site so much for some dreams. The reason I ran was because I was not, and am not now, good at team efforts yet wanted to do some physical activity. Such is life.
Bill really had the silky stride and the determination to go for it. We used to run Wollaston Beach in the early morning summers. (Our 'exploits' later in the day are commented on in "Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?" also posted on this site.) I would do some running but he was driven to go farther and harder. I certainly remember the old "Dust Bowl" off of Hollis Avenue where we practiced. And running to Long Island during Cross Country season. And the chaotic Met League meets indoors. Anyone who ran winter track cannot fail to remember that damn Weymouth outdoor wooden track where we has 'indoor' meets on what seemed to always be the coldest day of the winter. But enough of that.
Finally, I did not realize that Bob Gentry had been the coach during the 1950's. Bill and I have talked about him and his capacities as a coach. We recognized that track and cross country were 'poor relatives' compared to sexy sports like football and basketball and that we were lucky to get running shoes out of the deal. However Coach Gentry really did fail to appreciate that in Bill he had an exceptional talent and that he should have moved mountains to promote his career. Coach Gentry always acted more like a timeserver than a coach in that regard. Your comments.
(4) Running at NQHS . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:02am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My "running career" at North was only in sophomore, junior and senior years, and was not continuous. As I mentioned before, my 9th grade English teacher Dave Meaney was the reason I considered running. At the beginning of the 10th grade (1954), he called a few of us to his classroom to see if we might be interested in cross country. I took the chance and ended up as the 5th, 6th or 7th kid in most meets that season. That gave me enough to barely get a letter. I didn't compete in the 1954-55 indoor season, because I didn't know it existed. I started 1955 spring track and got as far as running the 880 in the first meet. Sadly, I ran the race with the start of a case of the mumps and ended up missing the rest of the season.
I began working nights at a variety store on Billings Road the summer of 1955 and didn't go out for cross country that year. Then a friend, Ron Coleman, convinced me to try out for winter track in the 1955-56 season. We started running the 1000 and even ran in the State Meet at the old Boston Garden. I was near the end of that race. Running on a 10 or 11 lap board track for the first time was scary. In any given race, Ron was ahead of me, because he was faster and had a good "kick" at the end. If he was 1st, I was 2nd. If he was 2nd, I was 3rd, and so on. Coach Gentry switched me to the mile just past mid-season. I still didn't win a race, but came in second once to Natick's 1000 yd. State Champion. Gentry even tried to get me to break 5:00 during practice around the circle in front of the school. He put 2 or 3 guys who normally ran the 600 to act as "rabbits," but the best I could do was 5:01.5. Somebody later said the Mile wasn't measured right around the circle, but I never knew if it was short or long. I did manage a letter for that season. Somewhere in there coach Meaney had a heart attack and I didn't go out for spring track in 1956.
I started cross country in the fall of 1956 with coach Gentry. We had a bunch of good young distance runners that year, so I was put on the "junior varsity" team, which ran a shorter course. We even ran up and down Huckins avenue in Squantum to get some hill practice, and also ran out to coach Gentry's house in Merrymount where he served refreshments. I barely made it to mid season when I decided to leave the team. I started the 1956-57 winter track season. Then in January I chopped off part of my right index finger slicing bolgna where I worked nights. So much for my senior winter track season. Then came spring track again. That time I tried to give it "my all." We held a "Junior Olympics" in which all competed in all track and field events. I was one of a very few who actually did compete in all events even though I still had my arm bandaged from the January accident. Those who competed in everything were given new uniforms and shoes. I think I was near the top in the overall competition, but probably because I did try all events, though the results were far from spectacular. I ran the 880 all season with Ron Coleman again just ahead of me. The most fun race was the last one against Quincy at Memorial Stadium. Coach Meaney was back and for some reason put Ron in the mile. He also switched Jim Baldwin (jr.) and Russ Landberg (soph.) to the 880. Jim was a good all-round athlete who also played football and basketball. Russ was a good all-round runner. I thought, "Oh,boy. A chance to win a race." We swept the 880 with Russ 1st, Jim 2nd and me 3rd. I was a bit disappointed, but was ecstatic over our sweeping the race. I thought we had won that meet, but Ron didn't think so. Oh, well. At least my last meet was fun and I again managed to get a letter. Memories that made the rest of life in those days bearable.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
El Paso, TX since 1967
(6) Coach Bob Gentry . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 10:24am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
You have mentioned that coach Gentry just seemed to be "doing his time" while you were at NQHS. I first became acquainted with him when I went out for Winter Track for the 1955-56 season. I was told that he was teaching at one of the Junior High Schools while coaching Winter Track at North. I never had any difficulties in my dealings with him. Maybe my expectations weren't very high, because my "running talent" was somewhat limited. He did seem to pay a bit more attention to those of us who needed more guidance and let the more talented kids just "do their thing." He did seem to want to get the most out of the talent he had "for the good of the team" and may have rubbed a few egos the wrong way. He, like coach Meaney, may not have been perfect, but I felt they both were fairly sympathetic to the weaknesses of all of us. In 1955-56 coach Gentry was probably around 50 years old, so by the time you guys dealt with him, he was closing in on 60. His seeming to be just "doing his time" may have been due to other causes outside of school and coaching. Who knows? Teachers and coaches are more-or-less human, too. We had a few who may have been a bit on the "nutty side" or may have had problems with booze or at home. Adolescents, as in most eras, don't really understand adults and vice versa. Sometimes it might just be a lack of "chemistry" between pupil/athlete and teacher/coach. Life isn't always "fair" and some of us may not be as flexible or adaptable as we could be. Anyway, I saw Gentry as a decent coach and we may have actually won a few meets with him. We had one runner who was Class "C" State Champion for the 300 yd. dash (George Doring) one year and later ran for the four years he was at Brandeis University. He told me that in those four years Brandeis didn't win a track meet, but he did end up in their Hall of Fame. However, it is good that you are campaigning for your friend's being recognized. I'm not so sure North has a hall of fame for anything other than football or possibly basketball. It could be time to recognize the "marginal sports," including those of the past. I have tried to keep up with track at North, but it's not easy from El Paso. I even sent a message to the Patriot Ledger a couple years ago asking about High School sports, but they said they were not alloted enough space to cover everything. As I said, life is not always fair and we may not always get what we want when we want it. I constantly tell my 9 year old grandson that he should not let frustration cause him to give up on anything.
Hang in there Alfred!
Craig in El Paso
P.S. While touring the old school last year, I asked a guy who seemed to be a teacher or coach why there was little or no recognition for some of the NQHS teams after 1992, which seemed to have been a banner year. His answer was brief; "Budget."
(7) Track at N.Q.H.S.
Joseph Crowley 1954 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:57am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I ran track in 7th and 8th grade and then moved over to football, basketball and baseball. Track and cross country are fabulous sports but never received much recognition back in my time at North ( class 1954).Dave Meaney was a terrific individual and loved coaching track. He was the reason I found a way to run track in prep school when meets didn't conflict with the baseball schedule.
Track and baseball don't have Hall of Fame status simply because no one has taken charge of an effort to establish one. The football and basketball Hall of Fames are self funded and managed by organizations that were formed to support deserving athletes such as Bill Cadger.I'd love to see track and cross country athletes recieve the recognition they deserve...go for it.
Joe Crowley "54
(11) "Hollis Field" . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 30 2008 07:39am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Sorry 'bout that. I think the "dust bowl" you refer to is still called Hollis Field. The first time I ever set foot on that track was our first or second practice for cross country in the fall of 1954. We started by jogging 5 laps (1 mile) and the legs were hurting for a week, since I had never really run more than a few yards before that. Then there was spring track in 1955 when I ran my first 880. The mumps prevented me from finishing my first season of track. It may have been that same spring pre-season when I tripped over a teammate's heel and fell. I suffered a pretty bad scrape, but I got up and finished the 220 without looking at the wound. It was just practice, and most were trying all events to see where we would fit in on the team. Coach Meaney cleaned up the scrape the best he could with his first aid box. The bleeding soon stopped and I still have a couple cinder chips in my left knee.
Anyway, we did have our home track meets at Hollis Field. I don't remember it as being that "dusty," but it was far from being a good track facility. There were bleachers on both sides of the field, but never many spectators. The 5-lap track made it difficult for me when I had to run on a 4-lap (440 yd./400 meter) track. Most of Us still had fun at Hollis in spite of its failings. Where does North hold its home meets these days? Most tracks these days appear to have a rubberized asphalt surface instead of the old cinder/dirt. I never have run on such a track. My only running after high school was for the Navy's annual physical fitness tests or an occasional jog around the neighborhood.
I tried to get to the field in 2007, but was confused by the way they have one-way streets around it. It was easier when we walked from the school to the field "back in the day."
Craig S. Warren 1957
(12) "The Dust Bowl"
Joseph Crowley 1954 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 30 2008 10:54am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig,
The actual name for what we always referred to as "The Dust Bowl" is Cavanaugh Stadium. If you had practiced football on that surface you would return to the locker room with a dust covered uniform.
Many, such as yourself ,wear the badge of honor from that old cinder track. Those cinders were mean to the body if you were unlucky enough to take a spill.
I have fond memories of my many hours practicing at that field. As poor as that facility was some outstanding athletes were developed on that track and field. Great memories for all of us.
Joe Crowley "54
(14) "The Dust Bowl" Redux
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 01 2008 04:29pm PST
In reply to Joseph Crowley 1954
Sir, thank you for your memory of the "dust bowl". I knew, from a trip over to the old oval last year, that Cavanaugh was its real name. Strangely, after not having seen it for something over forty years it was basically the same. A little better surface on the track (although not much). They had taken out, and not replaced, the old bleachers that were there in 1964.
Now for my "dust bowl" war story. In spring track in the seventh grade at Atlantic Junior High School (now Middle School) I fell down after the start of a dash. I took 'cinders', as you mentioned in your comment. Last year I had a knee replacement operation and noticed that the cinders were still there. I believe that I should get a "purple heart" or something, right? Do you have a 'cinder' story? Regards, Al Johnson
(15) I stand corrected . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 01 2008 07:30pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Folks;
That's what's good about getting more people involved in these messages. I stand corrected concerning the name of the old "dust bowl." Cavanaugh Stadium does ring a bell. Have they put that rubberized asphalt on the track?
I just remembered another incident that could have been fatal to one of our track team mates about the spring of 1957. The team's javelin throwers were practicing one day and one of the other guys took it upon himself to throw the javelin back to them from the other end of the field after each toss. The "returner" was waiting for one of their tosses when it seemed something off the field distracted him. The javelin grazed one of that "returner's" eyebrows, nicking him slightly. Talk about lucky. Another centimeter and the thing would have lodged in his eye socket and probably killed him. He didn't say much for a few minutes and had a very surprised expression on his face. I ran into that guy at our 50th reunion last year and asked if he remembered the incident. He laughed and said, "Oh, yeah. I haven't been the same since." He was another of our good all-round athletes and had a heckuva sense of humor. Good to see he still has it.
As an aside to that incident, I think it may have been Coach Dave Meaney who had told us that most high schools in the western states didn't have the javelin throw as one of their events. That's still true today, at least here in El Paso. That scary incident at Cavanaugh Stadium kind of confirmed what he had said. Curiously, the discus probably isn't much safer.
Anyway, thanks for the correction.
Craig S. Warren '57
(16) "Dust Bowl", Once Again
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:33am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig and Joseph- is there anyone who went on to that track (at least in the old days) who does not still have cinders somewhere on their body as a reminder of their youthful activity? I asked Bill Cadger about it and, naturally, he related his 'cinder' experience. Was this a "rite of passage" from the vengeful track gods and goddesses? I think you could still pick up some these days from what I saw of the track last year. Regards, Al
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjUdtOVdTIA
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Hicham el Guerouj, the Moroccan Knight, setting the one mile run world record in 2008.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
I have written a number of entries in this space about the old days at North, and the like. This one follows in that same tradition, although with this twist- the "old geezer" described in the headline to this entry has requested anonymity for reasons that will become obvious once the tale he has asked me to tell unfolds. I think, however, that the average, above-average, classmates that old North produced can all figure this one out. Right?
For those of us who went to Atlantic Junior High and can remember that far back this year marks the 50th anniversary of our graduation from that school. For the old geezer, a man given to the faux-heroic feat, the odd-ball, off-hand symbolic gesture, and a disturbingly steadfast adherence to the drumbeat of history this called for some action. Since this year also marked the 50th anniversary of his first seriously taking up running as a sport, under the guidance of Coach Lewis, that gesture revolved around an attempt to run one mile around the old "Dust Bowl" track that has served as an 'athletic field' for the North community since Hector was a pup. This, in spite of the fact that he had done no more, at most, than run for the bus for the past quarter of a century, or more. Note also that the distance was one mile he sought to run. Not for him that old "lame" 600 yards around the front driveway circle at North that everyone had to do as part of the old-time President's Physical Fitness Test. No, indeed.
For those not familiar with the location the old "Dust Bowl" is the field the next street over from Atlantic. It served as our field at Atlantic for some sports. It also was the place where the legendary 1964 football team, led by "Bullwinkle", "Woj", Jim Fallon, Charlie McDonald, Tom Kiley, Walt Simmons, Don McNally, Lee Munson and a host of others practiced being mean under Coach Leone in order to beat beleaguered cross town arch-rival Quincy that year. Now I know that some readers "know" that location.
Furthermore, it was also the training ground and meet location for the spring track team where the silky-strided Bill Cadger held forth in distance running, Ritchie McCulley and others in the middle distances, Brooks Maloof in the sprints, Carl Lindholm and Ralph Morse in the hurdles, Al Bartoloni in the pole vault and a host of others who ran around in their skimpy black shorts, including the old geezer who was distinguished by being a consummate well-below average runner. He was not sure on this one, nor am I, but, perhaps, the cheerleaders led by the spunky Josie Weinstein, the sprightly Roxanne Goward, and the plucky Linda Pratt also practiced there. In short, if you are not familiar with the locale then you stand accused of being willfully out of touch with old North reality.
I should also mention that this name "Dust Bowl" is not mere hyperbole on my part. In summer and fall, at least, there was more dust that the EPA would find tolerable these days. Moreover, as the old geezer told me the field 'owed' him. So revenge was also a motive here, as well. Apparently he still has cinders in his left knee from when he fell while running on the track 50 years ago. Ouch! He told me to ask you if you had similar "war stories". Moreover, and this is symbolic in its own way, the track is not the normal quarter-mile one that you only had to go around four times (for the non-Math whizzes out there) but five laps to the mile. That may explain many things about our subsequent lives, right?
Okay, now to the big event. In the interest of accuracy this "event", according to the old geezer's information, occurred at about 9:00 AM on February 6, 2010. Now why he was not in Florida or at least in some warm house instead of being out on the "track" will go a long way to explaining the "inner demons" that plague this sixty-three year-old man's psyche. Moreover, he continued on with his quest despite having to wait upon dogs, and their owners, who seemingly felt such an hour was ripe for a canine national convention at the old bowl. But, we digress.
The old geezer started off okay with the usual burst of adrenaline one gets when the big day finally comes carrying him along for a while, he then settled into a 'pace' and all went well until he started breathing heavily, got light-headed and began feeling cramps in his thigh, and that was only on the first lap. It went down hill from there. But intrepid soul that he is he"dogged" it out. He informed me that his time for the mile has been declared a matter of national security and therefore not available to the public, although he did allude to an unfavorable comparison with the time it takes to get to the moon and back. Nevertheless the gesture is in the books, a member of the class of 1964 has been vindicated, and life can return to normal. Oh, the old geezer did mention this. For those of you with grandchildren under the age of five he is ready to take on all comers. Okay.
****************
Below is some traffic from Classmates on another matter but which deals with some fellow NQHS recollections of the old "Dust Bowl".
Replies 16 messages
(2) . . . Runners
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 13 2008 12:11pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Mr. Johnson;
I agree that "back in the Day" the NQHS Cross Country, Winter Track and Spring track athletes were usually the "forgotten ones." It may have been in part because they were not considered "team sports" like football, basketball and baseball. About the only way a track athlete would be recognised would be if he were a star in at least one of the team sports. I graduated from North in 1957 and was a mediocre cross country runner in 10th and 12th grades, and I was probably close to the last on 1955 team to get a letter. I made a few points in the 1955-56 winter track season and the 1957 spring track season. I probably never would have participated in track at all if it hadn't been for my 9th grade English Teacher Dave Meaney. I guess he thought my being just over 6 ft. tall and just under 150 lbs. I had a possibility of being a distance runner. Bob Gentry was the winter track coach and got me to try the mile after being in a few 1000 yd. races in the old Metropolitan Indoor Track League. What I remember most from those days was that we always seemed to enjoy ourselves and had a lot of laughs, regardless of a meet's outcome. I have often wondered if anyone kept track of North's cross country and track meets over the years. Winter track competitions were not always held indoors. During the 1956-57 winter track season we had a meet against Weymouth which had an outdoor slightly elevated board track. We even had to walk through about 8 inches of snow to get to the track. Those were the days. I'm glad to see you "campaigning" for a former classmate who was such a good runner, and recognizing Ms. Enos who was my 10th grade English even though English may not have been my best subject back then. I took a few walks along Wollaston Beach in 2007 when I went back for my class' 50th reunion. Takle care.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
(3) Runners
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 05:13am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for note and all the good information about the years just before Bill and I ran at North. A couple of information points in my role as Bill’s 'flak'. I noticed from your communities on your profile page that you served in the Navy. Right after high school Bill, for a number of reasons, also joined the Navy and served for four years (1964-68). That was kind of the point in my commentary about Bill's being somewhat before his time as a great runner. Nobody from colleges and places like that was offering track guys much of anything in those days so the Navy was Bill's escape route. I do not know if you save your writings but if you still have your comments about the old days you could either e-mail them or send a note to Bill's bulletin board on the 1964 members list. I know he would be happy to read them and I am sure has some comments from his perspective.
A couple of points for my own information. My family moved back to North Quincy from the Germantown projects in early 1959 so that when I transferred schools it was to the new Atlantic Junior High School. I noticed that you went to North Quincy Junior High. Where was that? Was it part of North? Someone recently told me that during 1959 just before I got to Atlantic that a big move over from North had occurred. Is that true? I also noticed that you went to Squantum Elementary. I believe that is gone now, true? Also that you went to the Quincy Elementary School. I know that is gone, right? My late mother (NQHS 1943) and late younger brother (NQHS 1966) went there.
My career in track and cross country seems to have paralleled yours. A few good races but mainly "the slows". I got letters in all three sports but some of them, frankly, were gifts. My best year in Cross Country was probably in 11th grade. Indoor and Outdoor track nothing memorable. I started running in the 9th grade and thought I was going to be a star. As I pointed out in "A Walk Down Dream Street" that I have today reposted in the All School Discussion Page on this site so much for some dreams. The reason I ran was because I was not, and am not now, good at team efforts yet wanted to do some physical activity. Such is life.
Bill really had the silky stride and the determination to go for it. We used to run Wollaston Beach in the early morning summers. (Our 'exploits' later in the day are commented on in "Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?" also posted on this site.) I would do some running but he was driven to go farther and harder. I certainly remember the old "Dust Bowl" off of Hollis Avenue where we practiced. And running to Long Island during Cross Country season. And the chaotic Met League meets indoors. Anyone who ran winter track cannot fail to remember that damn Weymouth outdoor wooden track where we has 'indoor' meets on what seemed to always be the coldest day of the winter. But enough of that.
Finally, I did not realize that Bob Gentry had been the coach during the 1950's. Bill and I have talked about him and his capacities as a coach. We recognized that track and cross country were 'poor relatives' compared to sexy sports like football and basketball and that we were lucky to get running shoes out of the deal. However Coach Gentry really did fail to appreciate that in Bill he had an exceptional talent and that he should have moved mountains to promote his career. Coach Gentry always acted more like a timeserver than a coach in that regard. Your comments.
(4) Running at NQHS . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:02am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My "running career" at North was only in sophomore, junior and senior years, and was not continuous. As I mentioned before, my 9th grade English teacher Dave Meaney was the reason I considered running. At the beginning of the 10th grade (1954), he called a few of us to his classroom to see if we might be interested in cross country. I took the chance and ended up as the 5th, 6th or 7th kid in most meets that season. That gave me enough to barely get a letter. I didn't compete in the 1954-55 indoor season, because I didn't know it existed. I started 1955 spring track and got as far as running the 880 in the first meet. Sadly, I ran the race with the start of a case of the mumps and ended up missing the rest of the season.
I began working nights at a variety store on Billings Road the summer of 1955 and didn't go out for cross country that year. Then a friend, Ron Coleman, convinced me to try out for winter track in the 1955-56 season. We started running the 1000 and even ran in the State Meet at the old Boston Garden. I was near the end of that race. Running on a 10 or 11 lap board track for the first time was scary. In any given race, Ron was ahead of me, because he was faster and had a good "kick" at the end. If he was 1st, I was 2nd. If he was 2nd, I was 3rd, and so on. Coach Gentry switched me to the mile just past mid-season. I still didn't win a race, but came in second once to Natick's 1000 yd. State Champion. Gentry even tried to get me to break 5:00 during practice around the circle in front of the school. He put 2 or 3 guys who normally ran the 600 to act as "rabbits," but the best I could do was 5:01.5. Somebody later said the Mile wasn't measured right around the circle, but I never knew if it was short or long. I did manage a letter for that season. Somewhere in there coach Meaney had a heart attack and I didn't go out for spring track in 1956.
I started cross country in the fall of 1956 with coach Gentry. We had a bunch of good young distance runners that year, so I was put on the "junior varsity" team, which ran a shorter course. We even ran up and down Huckins avenue in Squantum to get some hill practice, and also ran out to coach Gentry's house in Merrymount where he served refreshments. I barely made it to mid season when I decided to leave the team. I started the 1956-57 winter track season. Then in January I chopped off part of my right index finger slicing bolgna where I worked nights. So much for my senior winter track season. Then came spring track again. That time I tried to give it "my all." We held a "Junior Olympics" in which all competed in all track and field events. I was one of a very few who actually did compete in all events even though I still had my arm bandaged from the January accident. Those who competed in everything were given new uniforms and shoes. I think I was near the top in the overall competition, but probably because I did try all events, though the results were far from spectacular. I ran the 880 all season with Ron Coleman again just ahead of me. The most fun race was the last one against Quincy at Memorial Stadium. Coach Meaney was back and for some reason put Ron in the mile. He also switched Jim Baldwin (jr.) and Russ Landberg (soph.) to the 880. Jim was a good all-round athlete who also played football and basketball. Russ was a good all-round runner. I thought, "Oh,boy. A chance to win a race." We swept the 880 with Russ 1st, Jim 2nd and me 3rd. I was a bit disappointed, but was ecstatic over our sweeping the race. I thought we had won that meet, but Ron didn't think so. Oh, well. At least my last meet was fun and I again managed to get a letter. Memories that made the rest of life in those days bearable.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
El Paso, TX since 1967
(6) Coach Bob Gentry . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 10:24am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
You have mentioned that coach Gentry just seemed to be "doing his time" while you were at NQHS. I first became acquainted with him when I went out for Winter Track for the 1955-56 season. I was told that he was teaching at one of the Junior High Schools while coaching Winter Track at North. I never had any difficulties in my dealings with him. Maybe my expectations weren't very high, because my "running talent" was somewhat limited. He did seem to pay a bit more attention to those of us who needed more guidance and let the more talented kids just "do their thing." He did seem to want to get the most out of the talent he had "for the good of the team" and may have rubbed a few egos the wrong way. He, like coach Meaney, may not have been perfect, but I felt they both were fairly sympathetic to the weaknesses of all of us. In 1955-56 coach Gentry was probably around 50 years old, so by the time you guys dealt with him, he was closing in on 60. His seeming to be just "doing his time" may have been due to other causes outside of school and coaching. Who knows? Teachers and coaches are more-or-less human, too. We had a few who may have been a bit on the "nutty side" or may have had problems with booze or at home. Adolescents, as in most eras, don't really understand adults and vice versa. Sometimes it might just be a lack of "chemistry" between pupil/athlete and teacher/coach. Life isn't always "fair" and some of us may not be as flexible or adaptable as we could be. Anyway, I saw Gentry as a decent coach and we may have actually won a few meets with him. We had one runner who was Class "C" State Champion for the 300 yd. dash (George Doring) one year and later ran for the four years he was at Brandeis University. He told me that in those four years Brandeis didn't win a track meet, but he did end up in their Hall of Fame. However, it is good that you are campaigning for your friend's being recognized. I'm not so sure North has a hall of fame for anything other than football or possibly basketball. It could be time to recognize the "marginal sports," including those of the past. I have tried to keep up with track at North, but it's not easy from El Paso. I even sent a message to the Patriot Ledger a couple years ago asking about High School sports, but they said they were not alloted enough space to cover everything. As I said, life is not always fair and we may not always get what we want when we want it. I constantly tell my 9 year old grandson that he should not let frustration cause him to give up on anything.
Hang in there Alfred!
Craig in El Paso
P.S. While touring the old school last year, I asked a guy who seemed to be a teacher or coach why there was little or no recognition for some of the NQHS teams after 1992, which seemed to have been a banner year. His answer was brief; "Budget."
(7) Track at N.Q.H.S.
Joseph Crowley 1954 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:57am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I ran track in 7th and 8th grade and then moved over to football, basketball and baseball. Track and cross country are fabulous sports but never received much recognition back in my time at North ( class 1954).Dave Meaney was a terrific individual and loved coaching track. He was the reason I found a way to run track in prep school when meets didn't conflict with the baseball schedule.
Track and baseball don't have Hall of Fame status simply because no one has taken charge of an effort to establish one. The football and basketball Hall of Fames are self funded and managed by organizations that were formed to support deserving athletes such as Bill Cadger.I'd love to see track and cross country athletes recieve the recognition they deserve...go for it.
Joe Crowley "54
(11) "Hollis Field" . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 30 2008 07:39am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Sorry 'bout that. I think the "dust bowl" you refer to is still called Hollis Field. The first time I ever set foot on that track was our first or second practice for cross country in the fall of 1954. We started by jogging 5 laps (1 mile) and the legs were hurting for a week, since I had never really run more than a few yards before that. Then there was spring track in 1955 when I ran my first 880. The mumps prevented me from finishing my first season of track. It may have been that same spring pre-season when I tripped over a teammate's heel and fell. I suffered a pretty bad scrape, but I got up and finished the 220 without looking at the wound. It was just practice, and most were trying all events to see where we would fit in on the team. Coach Meaney cleaned up the scrape the best he could with his first aid box. The bleeding soon stopped and I still have a couple cinder chips in my left knee.
Anyway, we did have our home track meets at Hollis Field. I don't remember it as being that "dusty," but it was far from being a good track facility. There were bleachers on both sides of the field, but never many spectators. The 5-lap track made it difficult for me when I had to run on a 4-lap (440 yd./400 meter) track. Most of Us still had fun at Hollis in spite of its failings. Where does North hold its home meets these days? Most tracks these days appear to have a rubberized asphalt surface instead of the old cinder/dirt. I never have run on such a track. My only running after high school was for the Navy's annual physical fitness tests or an occasional jog around the neighborhood.
I tried to get to the field in 2007, but was confused by the way they have one-way streets around it. It was easier when we walked from the school to the field "back in the day."
Craig S. Warren 1957
(12) "The Dust Bowl"
Joseph Crowley 1954 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 30 2008 10:54am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig,
The actual name for what we always referred to as "The Dust Bowl" is Cavanaugh Stadium. If you had practiced football on that surface you would return to the locker room with a dust covered uniform.
Many, such as yourself ,wear the badge of honor from that old cinder track. Those cinders were mean to the body if you were unlucky enough to take a spill.
I have fond memories of my many hours practicing at that field. As poor as that facility was some outstanding athletes were developed on that track and field. Great memories for all of us.
Joe Crowley "54
(14) "The Dust Bowl" Redux
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 01 2008 04:29pm PST
In reply to Joseph Crowley 1954
Sir, thank you for your memory of the "dust bowl". I knew, from a trip over to the old oval last year, that Cavanaugh was its real name. Strangely, after not having seen it for something over forty years it was basically the same. A little better surface on the track (although not much). They had taken out, and not replaced, the old bleachers that were there in 1964.
Now for my "dust bowl" war story. In spring track in the seventh grade at Atlantic Junior High School (now Middle School) I fell down after the start of a dash. I took 'cinders', as you mentioned in your comment. Last year I had a knee replacement operation and noticed that the cinders were still there. I believe that I should get a "purple heart" or something, right? Do you have a 'cinder' story? Regards, Al Johnson
(15) I stand corrected . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 01 2008 07:30pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Folks;
That's what's good about getting more people involved in these messages. I stand corrected concerning the name of the old "dust bowl." Cavanaugh Stadium does ring a bell. Have they put that rubberized asphalt on the track?
I just remembered another incident that could have been fatal to one of our track team mates about the spring of 1957. The team's javelin throwers were practicing one day and one of the other guys took it upon himself to throw the javelin back to them from the other end of the field after each toss. The "returner" was waiting for one of their tosses when it seemed something off the field distracted him. The javelin grazed one of that "returner's" eyebrows, nicking him slightly. Talk about lucky. Another centimeter and the thing would have lodged in his eye socket and probably killed him. He didn't say much for a few minutes and had a very surprised expression on his face. I ran into that guy at our 50th reunion last year and asked if he remembered the incident. He laughed and said, "Oh, yeah. I haven't been the same since." He was another of our good all-round athletes and had a heckuva sense of humor. Good to see he still has it.
As an aside to that incident, I think it may have been Coach Dave Meaney who had told us that most high schools in the western states didn't have the javelin throw as one of their events. That's still true today, at least here in El Paso. That scary incident at Cavanaugh Stadium kind of confirmed what he had said. Curiously, the discus probably isn't much safer.
Anyway, thanks for the correction.
Craig S. Warren '57
(16) "Dust Bowl", Once Again
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:33am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig and Joseph- is there anyone who went on to that track (at least in the old days) who does not still have cinders somewhere on their body as a reminder of their youthful activity? I asked Bill Cadger about it and, naturally, he related his 'cinder' experience. Was this a "rite of passage" from the vengeful track gods and goddesses? I think you could still pick up some these days from what I saw of the track last year. Regards, Al
*On “Now” Photos
Click on the title to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Iris Dement performing "Our Town". Sorry no "After You're Gone" by her that I could find on that site.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
“’Cause I’ve memorized each line in your face, and not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me”-a line from the folksinger/songwriter Iris DeMent’s hauntingly beautiful song, “After You’re Gone”. (You can Google for the rest of the lyrics. Some of her music is on “YouTube but I could not find this one.)
Well, of course, those lyrics only apply to our male classmates. After all Iris is singing about her gone man. I do not, the age of sexual equality or not, want to extend their application to our sister classmates because I do not need to have every cyber-stone in the universe thrown at me. But those same lyrics do bring me to the purpose for today’s entry. As part of getting a 'feel' for writing about old North I peruse the class profiles (on Classmates) and a number of you have placed your current photos there, although a number of people, including myself, are apparently camera-shy. Some, however, like the Chaisson brothers are not. (By the way, Jim and John, and others as well, what is up with the hats? We are Kennedy-era boys and hats were not part of our uniform.). Or like born again "muscle man" Bill Cadger, the star cross country runner and track man our class, who has previously been mentioned in this space as slender-strided and gracefully-gaited. That photo-readiness forms the basis for my comment
I have to admit that I have been startled by some of the photos. Many of them seem to have been taken by your grandchildren just before their naps. Isn’t the digital age supposed to have made the camera instantly user-friendly? Why all the soft-focus, looking through a fish tank kind of shots. And why does everyone seem to be have been photographed down the far end of some dark corridor or by someone about six miles away? Nobody expects Bachrach-quality photos but something is amiss here.
In contrast, a new arrival on this class site (Classmates), Robert Fleming, has found just the right approach. Initially, Robert placed a recent shot of himself on his profile page. Frankly, the old codger looked like he was wanted in about six states for “kiting” checks, and maybe had done a little “time”. More recently his page has been graced with a stock photo provided by the site, a tastefully-shot, resplendent wide old tree. Automatically I now associate Robert with the tree of life, with oneness with the universe, with solidity, with the root of matter in him, and with bending but not breaking. Wise choice. Now I do not have to suppress a need to dial 911, but rather can think of Robert as one who walks with kings, as a sage for the ages. And nothing can ever erase the story that tells to me.
Artist: Dement Iris
Song: After You're Gone
Album: Infamous Angel Iris Dement Sheet Music
There'll be laughter even after you're gone.
I'll find reasons to face that empty dawn.
'Cause I've memorised each line in your face,
And not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me.
I'll miss you.
Oh, how I'll miss you.
I'll dream of you,
And I'll cry a million tears.
But the sorrow will pass.
And the one thing that will last,
Is the love that you've given to me.
There'll be laughter even after you're gone.
I'll find reasons and I'll face that empty dawn.
'Cause I've memorised each line in your face,
And not even death could ever erase the story they tell to me.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
“’Cause I’ve memorized each line in your face, and not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me”-a line from the folksinger/songwriter Iris DeMent’s hauntingly beautiful song, “After You’re Gone”. (You can Google for the rest of the lyrics. Some of her music is on “YouTube but I could not find this one.)
Well, of course, those lyrics only apply to our male classmates. After all Iris is singing about her gone man. I do not, the age of sexual equality or not, want to extend their application to our sister classmates because I do not need to have every cyber-stone in the universe thrown at me. But those same lyrics do bring me to the purpose for today’s entry. As part of getting a 'feel' for writing about old North I peruse the class profiles (on Classmates) and a number of you have placed your current photos there, although a number of people, including myself, are apparently camera-shy. Some, however, like the Chaisson brothers are not. (By the way, Jim and John, and others as well, what is up with the hats? We are Kennedy-era boys and hats were not part of our uniform.). Or like born again "muscle man" Bill Cadger, the star cross country runner and track man our class, who has previously been mentioned in this space as slender-strided and gracefully-gaited. That photo-readiness forms the basis for my comment
I have to admit that I have been startled by some of the photos. Many of them seem to have been taken by your grandchildren just before their naps. Isn’t the digital age supposed to have made the camera instantly user-friendly? Why all the soft-focus, looking through a fish tank kind of shots. And why does everyone seem to be have been photographed down the far end of some dark corridor or by someone about six miles away? Nobody expects Bachrach-quality photos but something is amiss here.
In contrast, a new arrival on this class site (Classmates), Robert Fleming, has found just the right approach. Initially, Robert placed a recent shot of himself on his profile page. Frankly, the old codger looked like he was wanted in about six states for “kiting” checks, and maybe had done a little “time”. More recently his page has been graced with a stock photo provided by the site, a tastefully-shot, resplendent wide old tree. Automatically I now associate Robert with the tree of life, with oneness with the universe, with solidity, with the root of matter in him, and with bending but not breaking. Wise choice. Now I do not have to suppress a need to dial 911, but rather can think of Robert as one who walks with kings, as a sage for the ages. And nothing can ever erase the story that tells to me.
Artist: Dement Iris
Song: After You're Gone
Album: Infamous Angel Iris Dement Sheet Music
There'll be laughter even after you're gone.
I'll find reasons to face that empty dawn.
'Cause I've memorised each line in your face,
And not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me.
I'll miss you.
Oh, how I'll miss you.
I'll dream of you,
And I'll cry a million tears.
But the sorrow will pass.
And the one thing that will last,
Is the love that you've given to me.
There'll be laughter even after you're gone.
I'll find reasons and I'll face that empty dawn.
'Cause I've memorised each line in your face,
And not even death could ever erase the story they tell to me.
*On “The Long March” From North
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Jerry Lee Lewis performing "Whole Lotta Shaking Goin' On"
Markin comment:
No, this will not be one of those everlasting screeds about the meaning of existent, the plight of modern humankind or our trials and tribulations since leaving the friendly confines of North those many years ago. We have been done that road before in this space and, moreover, this is a lite-user site and cannot stand that kind of weighty matter. Nor is it to be an exegesis on the heroic “long march” of the Chinese Red Army in the 1930s, although that is an interesting story. For that you can turn to the old-time journalist Edgar Snow’s eye-witness account, “Red Star Over China”. Today’s entry is much more mundane, although come to think it, in its own way it may have historic significance. The “long march’ in question is the one that some members of the class of 1964 (and 1963) took from North over to Atlantic Junior High (now Middle School) in the 7th grade.
Recently I have sent out a blizzard of e-mails to virtually anyone on the Classmates or North Quincy Alumni class lists that I could by any stretch of the imagination call upon to help me out with a problem that I am having. So some of you already know the gist of this entry and can move on. For the rest, here is the ‘skinny’:
"... I will get right to the point, although I feel a little awkward writing to classmates that I did not know at school or have not seen for a long time. I, moreover, do not want to get tough with senior citizens, particularly those grandmothers and grandfathers out there, but I need your help. And I intend to get it by any means necessary. As you may, or may not, know over the past couple of years I have, episodically, placed entries about the old days at North on any class-related Internet site that I could find. Some of the entries have come from a perusal of the 1964 “Manet", but, mainly from memory, my memory, and that is the problem. I need to hear other voices, other takes on our experience. Recently I have been reduced to dragging out elementary school daydreams and writing in the third person just to keep things moving. So there is our dilemma.
The question of the “inner demons” that have driven me to this work we will leave aside for now. What I need is ideas, and that is where you come in. This year, as you are painfully aware, those of us who went to Atlantic Junior High (now Middle School) are marking our 50th anniversary since graduation. Ouch! So what I am looking for is junior high memories, especially of the “long march” from North over to Atlantic when we were in 7th grade that I remember hearing much about at the time. I was not at the school at that time, having moved back to North Quincy in the spring of 1959 so I need to be filled in again. However any story will do. If this is too painful then tell me your hopes and dreams. Hell, I will listen to your frustrations. From back then. I already ‘know’ your nicks and bruises since graduation; we will leave that for another day. Better still write them up and place them on the message boards on your own.
And what if you decide not to cooperate. Well, then we will go back to that “any means necessary” statement above. Do you really want it broadcast all over the Internet about what you did, or did not do, at Wollaston Beach, Squaw Rock, or wherever I decide to place you, and with whom, on that hot, sultry July night in the summer of 1963? No, I thought not. So come on, let us show future generations of cyberspace-fixated North graduates that the Class of 1964 knew the stuff of dreams, and how to write about them. And seek immortality. Friendly regards, Al Johnson
Whole Lotta Shakin Goin On Lyrics
Sung by Jerry Lee Lewis, 1957
(from the 1957 Sun release)
Come along my baby, whole lotta shakin' goin' on
Yes, I said come along my baby, baby you can't go wrong
We ain't fakin', while lotta shakin' goin' on.
Well, I said come along my baby, we got chicken in the corn
Woo-huh, come along my baby, really got the bull by the horn
We ain't fakin', whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Well, I said shake, baby, shake,
I said shake, baby, shake
I said shake it, baby, shake it
I said shake, baby, shake
Come on over, whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Oh, let's go . . .(Piano break, guitar rift)
Well, I said come along my baby, we got chicken in the barn,
Whose barn, what barn, my barn
Come along my baby, really got the bull by the horn
We ain't fakin', whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
(Talking break) Easy now. Shake.
Ah, shake it baby
Yeah, you can shake it one time for me
Yeah-huh-huh-ha-ha, Come along my baby,
Whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
(Talking break) Now let's get down real low one time now
Shake, baby, shake
All you gotta do, honey, is kinda stand in one spot
Wiggle around just a little bit, that's what you got
Yeah, come on baby, whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Now let's go one time
Shake it baby, shake, shake it baby, shake
Woo, shake baby, come on baby, shake it, baby, shake
Come on over, whole lot-ta sha-kin' go-in' on.
Markin comment:
No, this will not be one of those everlasting screeds about the meaning of existent, the plight of modern humankind or our trials and tribulations since leaving the friendly confines of North those many years ago. We have been done that road before in this space and, moreover, this is a lite-user site and cannot stand that kind of weighty matter. Nor is it to be an exegesis on the heroic “long march” of the Chinese Red Army in the 1930s, although that is an interesting story. For that you can turn to the old-time journalist Edgar Snow’s eye-witness account, “Red Star Over China”. Today’s entry is much more mundane, although come to think it, in its own way it may have historic significance. The “long march’ in question is the one that some members of the class of 1964 (and 1963) took from North over to Atlantic Junior High (now Middle School) in the 7th grade.
Recently I have sent out a blizzard of e-mails to virtually anyone on the Classmates or North Quincy Alumni class lists that I could by any stretch of the imagination call upon to help me out with a problem that I am having. So some of you already know the gist of this entry and can move on. For the rest, here is the ‘skinny’:
"... I will get right to the point, although I feel a little awkward writing to classmates that I did not know at school or have not seen for a long time. I, moreover, do not want to get tough with senior citizens, particularly those grandmothers and grandfathers out there, but I need your help. And I intend to get it by any means necessary. As you may, or may not, know over the past couple of years I have, episodically, placed entries about the old days at North on any class-related Internet site that I could find. Some of the entries have come from a perusal of the 1964 “Manet", but, mainly from memory, my memory, and that is the problem. I need to hear other voices, other takes on our experience. Recently I have been reduced to dragging out elementary school daydreams and writing in the third person just to keep things moving. So there is our dilemma.
The question of the “inner demons” that have driven me to this work we will leave aside for now. What I need is ideas, and that is where you come in. This year, as you are painfully aware, those of us who went to Atlantic Junior High (now Middle School) are marking our 50th anniversary since graduation. Ouch! So what I am looking for is junior high memories, especially of the “long march” from North over to Atlantic when we were in 7th grade that I remember hearing much about at the time. I was not at the school at that time, having moved back to North Quincy in the spring of 1959 so I need to be filled in again. However any story will do. If this is too painful then tell me your hopes and dreams. Hell, I will listen to your frustrations. From back then. I already ‘know’ your nicks and bruises since graduation; we will leave that for another day. Better still write them up and place them on the message boards on your own.
And what if you decide not to cooperate. Well, then we will go back to that “any means necessary” statement above. Do you really want it broadcast all over the Internet about what you did, or did not do, at Wollaston Beach, Squaw Rock, or wherever I decide to place you, and with whom, on that hot, sultry July night in the summer of 1963? No, I thought not. So come on, let us show future generations of cyberspace-fixated North graduates that the Class of 1964 knew the stuff of dreams, and how to write about them. And seek immortality. Friendly regards, Al Johnson
Whole Lotta Shakin Goin On Lyrics
Sung by Jerry Lee Lewis, 1957
(from the 1957 Sun release)
Come along my baby, whole lotta shakin' goin' on
Yes, I said come along my baby, baby you can't go wrong
We ain't fakin', while lotta shakin' goin' on.
Well, I said come along my baby, we got chicken in the corn
Woo-huh, come along my baby, really got the bull by the horn
We ain't fakin', whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Well, I said shake, baby, shake,
I said shake, baby, shake
I said shake it, baby, shake it
I said shake, baby, shake
Come on over, whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Oh, let's go . . .(Piano break, guitar rift)
Well, I said come along my baby, we got chicken in the barn,
Whose barn, what barn, my barn
Come along my baby, really got the bull by the horn
We ain't fakin', whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
(Talking break) Easy now. Shake.
Ah, shake it baby
Yeah, you can shake it one time for me
Yeah-huh-huh-ha-ha, Come along my baby,
Whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
(Talking break) Now let's get down real low one time now
Shake, baby, shake
All you gotta do, honey, is kinda stand in one spot
Wiggle around just a little bit, that's what you got
Yeah, come on baby, whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
Now let's go one time
Shake it baby, shake, shake it baby, shake
Woo, shake baby, come on baby, shake it, baby, shake
Come on over, whole lot-ta sha-kin' go-in' on.
*The Gas Wars, Circa 1964-How Much Was The Price Of A Gallon Of Gasoline?
Click on the headline, but only after you have read this entry and after you have made your guess, to link to a "1960s Flashback" Website for the answer. For those who graduated in other decades you can link from there. Thanks, Internet
This entry was originally posted on the Classmates site in March 2008. Revised and updated March 2010.
How much did it cost for a gallon of gasoline in 1964? In the interest of "speaking" to the wider "North Quincy Graduate" audience on "Facebook" just pick your year of graduation
Oil at $100 a barrel. Gasoline over three dollars per gallon at the pump (Remember this was written in March, 2008. AJ). No, do not worry, this is not intended to be the start of a political screed about the need to bring the 'Seven Sisters' oil monopolists to heel or to break up the international oil cartels, although those are very good ideas. Remember at the beginning of this series of commentaries I promised that I would not be political, at least not overtly so. All I want to ask today is whether, through the mist of time, you remember how much gasoline cost when you went to "fill 'er up" in high school.
Now this question requires some honesty on your part. Please, no Googling the "Quincy Patriot Ledger" or "The Boston Globe" to search their archives of the time. Nor should you use a calculator to factor back the effect of the rate of inflation on oil since 1964 to come up with an answer. Dear readers, this is not some torturous calculus problem. What you basically need to do is to remember some numbers from when you were daydreaming out the window in study hall. Or when you went out the door onto Hancock Street after school.
What is this guy talking about? Just this. Unless you were a total grind and always had your nose in a book then the answer merely requires that you had looked out the window. Directly across the street from the school were two gas stations (I believe somewhere near the MBTA parking lot and the MacDonald's are now) that were always in competition with each other. They, and I am not making this up for I do not have such a vivid imagination, actually were having very public price wars to bring in customers by REDUCING the price of their gas. But enough hints. Your answers, please?
P.S. For later, post-North Quincy MBTA, graduates you are left to your own resources about finding the gas prices.
This entry was originally posted on the Classmates site in March 2008. Revised and updated March 2010.
How much did it cost for a gallon of gasoline in 1964? In the interest of "speaking" to the wider "North Quincy Graduate" audience on "Facebook" just pick your year of graduation
Oil at $100 a barrel. Gasoline over three dollars per gallon at the pump (Remember this was written in March, 2008. AJ). No, do not worry, this is not intended to be the start of a political screed about the need to bring the 'Seven Sisters' oil monopolists to heel or to break up the international oil cartels, although those are very good ideas. Remember at the beginning of this series of commentaries I promised that I would not be political, at least not overtly so. All I want to ask today is whether, through the mist of time, you remember how much gasoline cost when you went to "fill 'er up" in high school.
Now this question requires some honesty on your part. Please, no Googling the "Quincy Patriot Ledger" or "The Boston Globe" to search their archives of the time. Nor should you use a calculator to factor back the effect of the rate of inflation on oil since 1964 to come up with an answer. Dear readers, this is not some torturous calculus problem. What you basically need to do is to remember some numbers from when you were daydreaming out the window in study hall. Or when you went out the door onto Hancock Street after school.
What is this guy talking about? Just this. Unless you were a total grind and always had your nose in a book then the answer merely requires that you had looked out the window. Directly across the street from the school were two gas stations (I believe somewhere near the MBTA parking lot and the MacDonald's are now) that were always in competition with each other. They, and I am not making this up for I do not have such a vivid imagination, actually were having very public price wars to bring in customers by REDUCING the price of their gas. But enough hints. Your answers, please?
P.S. For later, post-North Quincy MBTA, graduates you are left to your own resources about finding the gas prices.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
**Out In The Be-Bop Irish Night- As March 17th Approaches- A Moment In History
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of William Butler Yeats', "Easter, 1916".
Markin comment:
“A Terrible Beauty Is Born”, a recurring line from the great Anglo-Irish poet William Butler Yeats, “Easter, 1916”.
At the corner of Hancock Street and East Squantum Street forming a wedge in front of our old beige-bricked high school, and from that vantage point giving the building a majestic “mighty fortress is our home” look, there is a plaque that commemorates a fallen soldier of World War I, and is officially known as the Frank O’Brien Square. The corners and squares of most cities and towns in most countries of the world have such memorials to their war dead, needless to say far too many. That plaque furthermore now competes, unsuccessfully, with a huge Raider red billboard telling one and all of the latest doings, or upcoming events or honoring somebody or something, and in due course will be relegated to the “vaults" of the history of our town as well. This entry, however, is not about that or about the follies of war, or even about why it is that young men (and now women) wind up doing the dangerous work of war that is decided by old men (and now old women), although that would be a worthy subject. No, the focus here is the name of the soldier, or rather the last name, O’Brien, and the Irishness of it.
A quick run through of the names of the students listed in the “Manet” for the Class of 1964 will illustrate my point. If Irish names are not in the majority, then they predominant, and that does not even take into consideration the half or quarter Irish heritage that is hidden behind other names. And that is exactly the point. If North Quincy in the old days was not exactly “Little Dublin”, the heritage of the Irish diaspora certainly was nevertheless apparent for all to see, and hear. That North Quincy was merely a way station away from the self-contained Irish ghettos of Dorchester and South Boston to the Irish Rivieras of the area was, or rather is, also apparent as anyone who has been in the old town of late will note.
And that too is the point. Today Asian-Americans, particularly the Chinese and Vietnamese, and other minorities have followed that well-trodden path to Quincy. And they have made, and will make, their mark on the ethos of this hard-working working class part of town. So while the faint aroma of corn beef and cabbage (and colorful, red-drenched pasta dishes, from the other main ethnic group of old Quincy, the Italians) has been replaced by the pungent smells of moo shi and poi and the bucolic brogue by some sweet sing-song Mandarin dialect the life of the town moves on.
Yet, I can still feel, when I haphazardly walk certain streets, the Irishness of the diaspora “old sod”. To be sure, as a broken amber liquor bottle spotted on the ground reminded me, there were many whiskey-sodden nights (complete with the obligatory beer chaser) that many a man spent his pay on to keep his “demons” from the door. And to be sure, as well, the ubiquitous pot on the old iron stove for the potato-ladened boiled dinner that stretched an already tight food budget just a little longer when the ever present hard times cast their shadow at that same door. And, of course, there was the great secret cultural relic; the relentless, never-ending struggle to keep the family “dirty linen” from the public eye. But also this: the passed down heroic tales of our forbears, the sons and daughters of Roisin, in their heart-rending eight hundred year struggle against the crushing of the “harp beneath the crown”; of the whispered homages to the ghosts of our Fenian dead; of great General Post Office uprisings, large and small; and, of the continuing struggle in the North. Yes, as that soldier’s plaque symbolizes, an Irish presence will never completely leave the old town, nor will the willingness to sacrifice.
Oh, by the way, that Frank O'Brien for whom the square in front of the old school was named, would have been my grand uncle, the brother of my Grandmother Radley (nee O'Brien) from over on Young Street across from the Welcome Young Field.
Easter, 1916-William Butler Yeats
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Markin comment:
“A Terrible Beauty Is Born”, a recurring line from the great Anglo-Irish poet William Butler Yeats, “Easter, 1916”.
At the corner of Hancock Street and East Squantum Street forming a wedge in front of our old beige-bricked high school, and from that vantage point giving the building a majestic “mighty fortress is our home” look, there is a plaque that commemorates a fallen soldier of World War I, and is officially known as the Frank O’Brien Square. The corners and squares of most cities and towns in most countries of the world have such memorials to their war dead, needless to say far too many. That plaque furthermore now competes, unsuccessfully, with a huge Raider red billboard telling one and all of the latest doings, or upcoming events or honoring somebody or something, and in due course will be relegated to the “vaults" of the history of our town as well. This entry, however, is not about that or about the follies of war, or even about why it is that young men (and now women) wind up doing the dangerous work of war that is decided by old men (and now old women), although that would be a worthy subject. No, the focus here is the name of the soldier, or rather the last name, O’Brien, and the Irishness of it.
A quick run through of the names of the students listed in the “Manet” for the Class of 1964 will illustrate my point. If Irish names are not in the majority, then they predominant, and that does not even take into consideration the half or quarter Irish heritage that is hidden behind other names. And that is exactly the point. If North Quincy in the old days was not exactly “Little Dublin”, the heritage of the Irish diaspora certainly was nevertheless apparent for all to see, and hear. That North Quincy was merely a way station away from the self-contained Irish ghettos of Dorchester and South Boston to the Irish Rivieras of the area was, or rather is, also apparent as anyone who has been in the old town of late will note.
And that too is the point. Today Asian-Americans, particularly the Chinese and Vietnamese, and other minorities have followed that well-trodden path to Quincy. And they have made, and will make, their mark on the ethos of this hard-working working class part of town. So while the faint aroma of corn beef and cabbage (and colorful, red-drenched pasta dishes, from the other main ethnic group of old Quincy, the Italians) has been replaced by the pungent smells of moo shi and poi and the bucolic brogue by some sweet sing-song Mandarin dialect the life of the town moves on.
Yet, I can still feel, when I haphazardly walk certain streets, the Irishness of the diaspora “old sod”. To be sure, as a broken amber liquor bottle spotted on the ground reminded me, there were many whiskey-sodden nights (complete with the obligatory beer chaser) that many a man spent his pay on to keep his “demons” from the door. And to be sure, as well, the ubiquitous pot on the old iron stove for the potato-ladened boiled dinner that stretched an already tight food budget just a little longer when the ever present hard times cast their shadow at that same door. And, of course, there was the great secret cultural relic; the relentless, never-ending struggle to keep the family “dirty linen” from the public eye. But also this: the passed down heroic tales of our forbears, the sons and daughters of Roisin, in their heart-rending eight hundred year struggle against the crushing of the “harp beneath the crown”; of the whispered homages to the ghosts of our Fenian dead; of great General Post Office uprisings, large and small; and, of the continuing struggle in the North. Yes, as that soldier’s plaque symbolizes, an Irish presence will never completely leave the old town, nor will the willingness to sacrifice.
Oh, by the way, that Frank O'Brien for whom the square in front of the old school was named, would have been my grand uncle, the brother of my Grandmother Radley (nee O'Brien) from over on Young Street across from the Welcome Young Field.
Easter, 1916-William Butler Yeats
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
*From The Be-Bop Night -The 'Real' Scoop on "Tri-Hi-Y"- An Investigatory Report- "Inside Edition" Move On Over
*From The Be-Bop Night -The 'Real' Scoop on "Tri-Hi-Y"- An Investigatory Report- "Inside Edition" Move On Over
Click on link to a "YouTube" film Club of the modern doings of one school's Tri-Hi-Y Club. Hey, don't shoot the messenger on this one. I just like to provide a relevant link with my posts</strong>
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycmi8IIUBq4
Josh Breslin comment:
Today I have my investigative reporter's hat on. This is intended to be a light-hearted look at an old school organization. But I have a lawyer in the wings just in case.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. That was good, if unheeded, advice a few thousand years ago. Apparently it is advice that we should have also heeded back in our school days. The subject today is the mysterious, seemingly nefarious, doings of Tri Kappa Phi, colloquially known as Tri-Hi-Y. (I have, as yet, been unable to untangle the relationship between these two names but I suspect the latter is merely a classic front name.) Ostensibly this was a girls' club devoted to public service. Or, at least, that is what they would have us believe. However a glance at page 17 of the 1964 "Manet" belies that story.
According to their own words this organization was committed to furthering "pure thoughts, pure words, and pure actions" among the members. This, my friends, reads, to these old eyes at least, more like the program for the vestal virgins in the temples of pagan Greece than a program for a society then on the edge of a sexual revolution. That should have been the tip-off. Now we live in a more skeptical age and would have had our antennae out when confronted with such shameless hyperbole. Then, naïve as we were, we bought the story hook, line and sinker.
Look, I am a fair person, or try to be. In order to get a grasp on this unfolding story and learn more about the group I, innocently, e-mailed the president of the organization in 1964. Result- Nada, a resounding no reply. I then pursued another avenue that I thought might be more fruitful. I e-mailed the chaplain of the group in her junior and senior year on the North Quincy Alumni site. Now she is not just any fellow classmate but currently the secretary to the headmaster at North Quincy High. Dear readers, she has access to the records!
I, good-heartedly, offered this ex-chaplain the opportunity to place our correspondence under a confidential attorney-client blanket. I further suggested that she might fall under priest- penitent immunity provisions concerning her testimony. Result - Stonewalled, no reply. Apparently, this is one secretary that went to the infamous Richard M. Nixon, ex-President and all-around thug who started the Rosemary Woods Secretarial School for stonewalling missing tapes. Moreover, another closer look at the "Manet" told the tale. The winsome smile and twinkle in her eye of her class picture on page 117 did not jibe with her Cotton Mather-like visage on page 17. I then determined that I needed to investigate this matter further.
Right now, I admit, there are more questions than answers. Little did this pair and their accomplices know that some fifty years later an intrepid alumnus with some time on his hands was going to fall onto their little threadbare operation. I will continue to try to unravel this tangled story to the bitter end.
Here are some questions that I have right now though that you, my friends, can help me with. Why did a so-called 'public service' group in a democratic, secular institution need a chaplain? What deep, dark secrets were being kept from us? Moreover, apparently, from the lack of response to my inquiries, members are sworn to secrecy unto the grave. Why? And here is another little tidbit to feast on. Why was the turnover rate in the organization so high, especially in senior year? Was it impossible to keep to the public "3 purities" slogan mentioned above with a straight face or did a number of members fall afoul of the cabal at the top? Are there any whistle-blowers out there? More later. Tri-Hi-Y, indeed!
Click on link to a "YouTube" film Club of the modern doings of one school's Tri-Hi-Y Club. Hey, don't shoot the messenger on this one. I just like to provide a relevant link with my posts</strong>
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycmi8IIUBq4
Josh Breslin comment:
Today I have my investigative reporter's hat on. This is intended to be a light-hearted look at an old school organization. But I have a lawyer in the wings just in case.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. That was good, if unheeded, advice a few thousand years ago. Apparently it is advice that we should have also heeded back in our school days. The subject today is the mysterious, seemingly nefarious, doings of Tri Kappa Phi, colloquially known as Tri-Hi-Y. (I have, as yet, been unable to untangle the relationship between these two names but I suspect the latter is merely a classic front name.) Ostensibly this was a girls' club devoted to public service. Or, at least, that is what they would have us believe. However a glance at page 17 of the 1964 "Manet" belies that story.
According to their own words this organization was committed to furthering "pure thoughts, pure words, and pure actions" among the members. This, my friends, reads, to these old eyes at least, more like the program for the vestal virgins in the temples of pagan Greece than a program for a society then on the edge of a sexual revolution. That should have been the tip-off. Now we live in a more skeptical age and would have had our antennae out when confronted with such shameless hyperbole. Then, naïve as we were, we bought the story hook, line and sinker.
Look, I am a fair person, or try to be. In order to get a grasp on this unfolding story and learn more about the group I, innocently, e-mailed the president of the organization in 1964. Result- Nada, a resounding no reply. I then pursued another avenue that I thought might be more fruitful. I e-mailed the chaplain of the group in her junior and senior year on the North Quincy Alumni site. Now she is not just any fellow classmate but currently the secretary to the headmaster at North Quincy High. Dear readers, she has access to the records!
I, good-heartedly, offered this ex-chaplain the opportunity to place our correspondence under a confidential attorney-client blanket. I further suggested that she might fall under priest- penitent immunity provisions concerning her testimony. Result - Stonewalled, no reply. Apparently, this is one secretary that went to the infamous Richard M. Nixon, ex-President and all-around thug who started the Rosemary Woods Secretarial School for stonewalling missing tapes. Moreover, another closer look at the "Manet" told the tale. The winsome smile and twinkle in her eye of her class picture on page 117 did not jibe with her Cotton Mather-like visage on page 17. I then determined that I needed to investigate this matter further.
Right now, I admit, there are more questions than answers. Little did this pair and their accomplices know that some fifty years later an intrepid alumnus with some time on his hands was going to fall onto their little threadbare operation. I will continue to try to unravel this tangled story to the bitter end.
Here are some questions that I have right now though that you, my friends, can help me with. Why did a so-called 'public service' group in a democratic, secular institution need a chaplain? What deep, dark secrets were being kept from us? Moreover, apparently, from the lack of response to my inquiries, members are sworn to secrecy unto the grave. Why? And here is another little tidbit to feast on. Why was the turnover rate in the organization so high, especially in senior year? Was it impossible to keep to the public "3 purities" slogan mentioned above with a straight face or did a number of members fall afoul of the cabal at the top? Are there any whistle-blowers out there? More later. Tri-Hi-Y, indeed!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
**Out In The Be-Bop Night-The Bard Of 1964?- Jack Kerouac Where Are You?
Out In The Be-Bop Night-The Bard Of 1964?- Muse Jack Kerouac Where Are You?
Josh Breslin, Class Of 1964, comment:
Recently someone from our class, who shall remain nameless, wrote an e-mail, a friendly e-mail I assume, asking me if I, with this never-ending (my word) stream of messages, was trying to be the bard (her word, oops) of the Class of 1964. I rapidly replied with this short answer- “What, are you kidding?” Later though, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that I did mean to be ONE of the latter-day sainted voices of the class.
Why? I have, with all due modesty, the perfect resume for the job.
Here it is:
I belonged to no clubs, not even after school ones. I played no major sport that drove a lot of the social networking of the time (I am being polite here: this is a family-friendly site after all). The sports that did drive me throughout my high school career, track and cross-country, were then very marginal sports for “nerds” and other assorted odd-balls cluttering up the highways and by-ways of the town blocking traffic and getting catcalls from the citizenry and that was just the guys, the girls were merciless, "fag" baiting us to perdition. I was, moreover, overwhelmingly underwhelming at them, to boot. I did not hang around with the class intellectuals, although I was as obsessed and driven by books, ideas and theories as anyone else at the time, maybe more so. I was, to be polite again, painfully shy around girls and therefore somewhat socially backward, although I was furtively enthralled by more than one of them. Girls, that is And to top it all off, to use a term that I think truly describes me then, I was something of a ragamuffin from the town's wrong side of the tracks.
Oh, did I mentioned that I was also so alienated from the old high school environment that I either threw, or threatened to throw, my yearbook in the nearest river right after graduation; in any case I no longer have it.
Perfect, right? No. Not complete enough? Well how about this. My family, on my mother’s side, had been in the old town since about the time of the “famine ships” from Ireland. I have not gotten that far back in the genealogy but way back someone in the family was a servant of some sort, to one of the branches of the presidential Adams family. Most of my relatives distance and far, went through the old high school. The streets of the old town were filled with the remnants of the clan. My friends, deny it or nor, the diaspora "old sod" of North Quincy was in the blood. How else explain, after a forty year hiatus, this overweening desire to write about the “Dust Bowl” that served as a training track during my running days. Or the oddness of separate boys and girls bowling teams, as if social contact in that endeavor would lead to .....whatever.
Or that mysterious “Tri-Hi-Y” (a harmless social organization for women students that I have skewered for its virginal aspirations). Or the million other things that pop into my head there days. Oh ya, I can write, a little. Not unimportant for a bard, right? The soul of a poet, if not the language. Time and technology has given us an exceptional opportunity to tell our story and seek immortality and I want in on that. Old Walt Whitman can sing of America, I will sing of the old town, gladly.
Well, do I get a job? Hey, you can always “fire” me. Just “click” and move on.
Josh Breslin, Class Of 1964, comment:
Recently someone from our class, who shall remain nameless, wrote an e-mail, a friendly e-mail I assume, asking me if I, with this never-ending (my word) stream of messages, was trying to be the bard (her word, oops) of the Class of 1964. I rapidly replied with this short answer- “What, are you kidding?” Later though, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that I did mean to be ONE of the latter-day sainted voices of the class.
Why? I have, with all due modesty, the perfect resume for the job.
Here it is:
I belonged to no clubs, not even after school ones. I played no major sport that drove a lot of the social networking of the time (I am being polite here: this is a family-friendly site after all). The sports that did drive me throughout my high school career, track and cross-country, were then very marginal sports for “nerds” and other assorted odd-balls cluttering up the highways and by-ways of the town blocking traffic and getting catcalls from the citizenry and that was just the guys, the girls were merciless, "fag" baiting us to perdition. I was, moreover, overwhelmingly underwhelming at them, to boot. I did not hang around with the class intellectuals, although I was as obsessed and driven by books, ideas and theories as anyone else at the time, maybe more so. I was, to be polite again, painfully shy around girls and therefore somewhat socially backward, although I was furtively enthralled by more than one of them. Girls, that is And to top it all off, to use a term that I think truly describes me then, I was something of a ragamuffin from the town's wrong side of the tracks.
Oh, did I mentioned that I was also so alienated from the old high school environment that I either threw, or threatened to throw, my yearbook in the nearest river right after graduation; in any case I no longer have it.
Perfect, right? No. Not complete enough? Well how about this. My family, on my mother’s side, had been in the old town since about the time of the “famine ships” from Ireland. I have not gotten that far back in the genealogy but way back someone in the family was a servant of some sort, to one of the branches of the presidential Adams family. Most of my relatives distance and far, went through the old high school. The streets of the old town were filled with the remnants of the clan. My friends, deny it or nor, the diaspora "old sod" of North Quincy was in the blood. How else explain, after a forty year hiatus, this overweening desire to write about the “Dust Bowl” that served as a training track during my running days. Or the oddness of separate boys and girls bowling teams, as if social contact in that endeavor would lead to .....whatever.
Or that mysterious “Tri-Hi-Y” (a harmless social organization for women students that I have skewered for its virginal aspirations). Or the million other things that pop into my head there days. Oh ya, I can write, a little. Not unimportant for a bard, right? The soul of a poet, if not the language. Time and technology has given us an exceptional opportunity to tell our story and seek immortality and I want in on that. Old Walt Whitman can sing of America, I will sing of the old town, gladly.
Well, do I get a job? Hey, you can always “fire” me. Just “click” and move on.
Monday, October 18, 2010
**Out In The 1960s Beach Be-Bop Night Daydream- Visions Of Wollaston Beach, Circa 1964
Out In The 1960s Beach Be-Bop Night Daydream- Visions Of Wollaston Beach, Circa 1964
Frank Jackman:
I have been dedicating my posts to various people. When I first wrote this post in 2008 prompted by old-time classmate Al "Be-Bop Kid" Johnson who had gotten in touch with me via the Class of 1964 website I had not one in particular in mind but when I recently rewrote it I did have Elizabeth in mind. I did not know her at school , and do not know her now, but I felt her presence very strongly when I was rewriting this thing. So here it is.
Originally posted July 2008 on the Class Of 1964 website. Revised and updated March 2010
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Snug Harbor Elementary School. Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Germantown 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, we know that anyone with even a passing attachment to Quincy 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 Quincy with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides. That said, the focal point for any experience with the ocean in Quincy centers, naturally, around its longest stretch of beach, Wollaston Beach.
For those of us of a certain age, including this writer, one cannot discuss Wollaston 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 “they don’t make them like they use to”, especially for those who only know “HoJo’s” from the later, pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken 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 Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine) 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.
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 Wollaston 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 Wollaston Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races". 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 the summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the Squantum and Wollaston 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 Cadger) all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of "Beach Blanket Bingo" or some such 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 a 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?
*****
Below, unedited, is the traffic from the North Quincy School Classmates site in response to the above post
Replies 11 messages
(2) Wollaston Beach
Bernadette Gil 1985 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 22 2008 11:00pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
I grew up close to Wollaston Beach...I used to ride my bike there, runaway there... was a great bike path, I love 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 with his hand on her stomach, how was she going to explain that one to mom and dad? I Lived in Wollaston in the 70's to the early 80 and then moved to North Quincy. 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 cemetary swinging from the willow tree I think... I live in California and have a son thats 7 around the age I would ride my bike the freedom the safeness I had skate boarding around loosing 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 Wollaston beach and throw a few jelly fish his way??
Bernadette
North Quincy High 85
(3) Memories Of Wollaston
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:31am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
Bernedette- Thanks for reply. The glint of silver off the Long 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). 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 Wollaston 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 Cadger) spent a fair amount of time there.
I went back to Wollaston last year (2007) while they were doing some reconstruction and cleaning the place up. I wrote about that in a commentary entitled "Do You Know Wollaston Beach?" that I posted on this site but then deleted. My original idea was to draw a comparison between the old hazy, happy memories of Wollaston 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 am trying to write on this site. 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. Yes, 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? Regards, Al Johnson
(4) Wollaston beach . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:34am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
While writing the track reply, I realized what you meant about exceeding the site's character limit. I had to chop out some of my message.
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, 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 Quincy Grammar School where I went through 1st grade (Miss Gray) and most of 2nd grade (Miss Lindberg).
Oh, yeah. I believe the Squantum Elementary School on Huckins Avenue is still in operation. I read that there's a boundary somewhere in North Quincy and that kids who live east of the line go to Squantum School and those west of that line go to Parker Elementary on Billings Road. What is now North Quincy 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 Wollaston Beach are pretty good.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
(5) Do You Know Wollaston Beach?
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 12:51pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
This entry started as a discussion comment in this space but I deleted it because it did not fit in with what I was trying to evoke in these pages. It does serve as a decent reply though for Bernedette's 1985 and Craig's 1957 comments. Al Johnson
*****
Okay, in the above entry ( Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?) this writer got all misty-eyed about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at HoJo's, the vagaries of clam digging in the flats and about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs. 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 Wollaston 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 Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway to the bridge at Adams 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 Wollaston 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 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 to the shore-when a man craved the roar of the ocean-and the annoying gear-grinding noise caused by the constant vehicular traffic. Things, frankly, that I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Wollaston and the Wollaston 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.
(6) On Our 'Code Of Honor'
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:42am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- I am very interested in having you fill out this story about the fight between your friend and the other guy down a Wollaston Beach. I do not need to know the gory details nor what happened years later. What I am looking for is your take on the whole incident meant at the time. This was hardly an unusual event at the time (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 to expand our sense of the world and how we should act in it. Even 'loner' types like myself would not back down on certain 'turf' issues (girls, walking on the street, who you 'hung' with, where your locker was, etc.) and took a beating rather than concede the point. Enough for now but give this some thought. Regards Al
(7) Fight . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 28 2008 09:09am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
The scuffle between a friend of mine and a much bigger guy at Wollaston 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 NQHS 1957
(8) "Code of Honor"
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 03 2008 11:31am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig, thanks for story. It gives me an angle for a story that I will write about our youthful sense of 'honor'. This story, especially about impressing the girls, etc. really says something about that code. Regards, Al
(9) Day and Night At Wollaston Beach
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:21am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
I mentioned in my original entry in this space that all of us would talk about daytime Wollaston (although once the kids are out of sight-the nighttime is the right time- can come into play). I hope that at some point Bernadette Gil 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. Gil is more than capable of telling her own version of the story (she has related it to me and I got a real kick out of it). 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, Al
(10) Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?
Robin Menz 1978 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 15 2008 04:35pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Totally agree that growing up on Wollaston 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 transitor 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 Wollaston 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.
(11) Back In The Days
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 18 2008 02:49pm PST
In reply to Robin Menz 1978
Robin-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 is that when you transfer from a word processor to the message space 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 the space
* Do you, or anyone else, know when HoJo's left the Wollaston 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 an all class 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. Yes, I know, the Stone Age. Regards, Al Johnson
(12) The Nighttime Is The Right Time....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 21 2008 08:08am PST
In reply to Robin Menz 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 Wollaston 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 Wollaston 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 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 Wollaston 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 the 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.
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