***Of This And That In The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood-In Search Of….. Things Past  

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

For those who have been following this series about the old days in my old home town of North Adamsville, particularly the high school days as the 50^th anniversary of my graduation creeps up, will notice that recently I have been doing sketches based on my reaction to various private e-mails sent to me by fellow classmates via the class website. Also classmates have placed messages on the Message Forum page when they have something they want to share generally like health issues, new family arrivals or trips down memory lane on any number of subjects from old time athletic prowess to reflections on growing up in the old home town. Thus I have been forced to take on the tough tasks of sending kisses to raging grandmothers, talking up old flames with guys I used to hang around the corners with, remembering those long ago searches for the heart of Saturday night, getting wistful about elementary school daydreams, taking up the cudgels for be-bop lost boys and the like. These responses are no accident as I have of late been avidly perusing the personal profiles of various members of the North Adamsville Class of 1964 website as fellow classmates have come on to the site and lost their shyness about telling their life stories (or have increased their computer technology capacities, not an unimportant consideration for the generation of ’68, a generation on the cusp of the computer revolution and so not necessarily as computer savvy as the average eight-year old today).

Some stuff is interesting to a point, you know, including those endless tales about the doings and not doings of the grandchildren, odd hobbies and other ventures taken up in retirement and so on although not worthy of me making a little off-hand commentary on. Some other stuff is either too sensitive or too risqué to publish on a family-friendly site. Some stuff, some stuff about the old days and what did, or did not, happened to, or between, fellow classmates, you know the boy-girl thing (other now acceptable relationships were below the radar then) has naturally perked my interest.

Other stuff defies simple classification as is the case here in dealing with a private e-mail sent to me by my old friend and running around mate in high school (and running on the track teams as well) Peter Markin who like me was as alienated and angst-filled as Holden Caulfield, and as any North Adamsville classmate. Markin had mentioned in his e-mail that he was adamant that he would not go to the 50^th reunion (as he has steadfastly not gone to any previous ones) not out of some individualistic hubris, not out of some long smoldering resentments (although he had those in abundance at one time going so far as to drive around the old hometown rather than through it even if it meant a longer trip so, yeah, he had them in abundance), not out of his old “beat” persona established back in junior high school which thrilled a few girls but got him a few punches from the boyfriends of those girls who did not like some beatnik beating their time with whoever they were involved with, and not because he was afraid some well-hidden ghosts from the past might beguile him. No, none of that, he left it as you can’t go home again. Meaning, at least I hope this is what he meant, that on some things there is no turning back and to do so only reflects poorly on your subsequent ability to move on.           

Strangely I can agree with a lot of what he said in our e-mail exchanges although my personal take on the reunion is to see if some ghosts that I have buried can stay buried long enough to get through the event. I mentioned above that I hoped that I understood what Peter meant by his term “you can’t go home again” being hinged on that no turning back proposition since he has asked me his old running around buddy to take some of the ideas that he had conveyed to me and write up a little something for the Message Forum page explaining why he would not be attending the reunion. That request by Peter was not accidental since in the old corner boy days up at Salducci’s Pizza Parlor I had been Frankie Riley’s “scribe,” flak-catcher, public relations man or whatever you want to call a guy who in order to hang on Frankie’s corner did duty writing whatever needed to be written to enhance his aura. So almost naturally Peter who was more of an “enforcer,” a grafter and midnight sifter in Frankie’s various operations asked me to write this piece for him based on his notes (by the way if you need to know what a grifter or midnight sifter is then move on since you really do not need to know except that the statute of limitations has run out). So here is my take on what Markin had to say and if it is not quite right then don’t blame me I am only the messenger on this one:    

“You Can’t Go Home Again, Can You”

No he, Peter Paul Markin would not be going after all, not be going to the scheduled 50^th Anniversary North Adamsville Class of 1964 reunion to be held at the swanky Adams Hotel Deluxe over Thanksgiving weekend.  (Apparently that holiday weekend is a very usual occasion for such events across the country, a time when old-time rooted families might still gather together in the old hometowns or just to take advantage of the generally taken long weekend.) He announced the news to me, to the candid world as he called it in his usual odd-ball historical literary snarl, something that I have grown used to, grown to deeply discount, to block out okay, so maybe I did not get the full import of his screed, one night when after we had finished cutting up old torches at our favorite watering hole and the next day he sent me an e-mail giving his perspective and asking me to write the manifesto announcing this earth-shattering event.

That spot these days, the days since Markin and I we have both returned to the Boston area and have re-ignited our old time friendship, is Jimmy’s Bar & Grille over in Centerville a few miles south of the town where we grew up, and about thirty miles from downtown Boston if anybody is asking. We had been talking about the old days, the old high school days when we had met, met down at a rock and roll dance at the Surf Ballroom in Hullsville (although we had seen each other in school before we became corner boys this was before Peter joined the track teams in eleventh grade). Met after pursuing the same girl, ah, young woman who eventually gave both of us the air. But our friendship, close or faraway as times changed, lingered on. Now in the great scheme of things, the great mandala of life out in the real world such a decision as Markin made about not going to some reunion naturally would take a back seat to serious matters like the fight against war and pestilence, the struggle to keep body and soul together that preoccupies most minds most of the time, and being mindfully thoughtful about the three great tragedies of human existence-hunger, sex, and death. (By the way everybody always called him Markin and not that Peter Paul Markin thing that only his mother and, I think, one prissy ex-wife called him, like he was some Mayflower swell rather than to the “projects” born and so Markin.)

Notwithstanding those heavy precedent-takers, no, emphatically no, Markin would not be going back to his old hometown that Thanksgiving weekend to see the old gang. See the old gang collectively for probably the last effective time that clan would be able to gather on a significant occasion what with death, disability, forgetfulness and just plain fright at the idea of a next time taking their toll. That next significant milestone, the 75^th, assuming that the mania for oddball celebration years like 30^th, 45^th, and 60^th, or worst 38^th, 48^th or 68^th has no taken root they would all be at or approaching ninety-three. A very scary thought, the thought of holding a reunion at some assisted living site or nursing home. No thank you then either Markin can safely be quoted as saying that night as well.

Strangely, and I quizzed him on the subject that night, a few years  before I can remember Markin telling me that  under the influence of some old town family members passing on he had returned to North Adamsville after many years absence. As a result of roaming around the old neighborhoods, around the old memory sites, or places that triggered memories he had exhibited a spurt of old town patriotism, some old bleeding of school colors red and black, some old time nostalgia for sacred youth places and quirky roots memories. More, a fervent desire to put together some occasion, not necessarily a tradition-filled full-blown official reunion like has been done since Horace Mann’s time, maybe before, but a collective gathering of those in the area to mark the passing of time, mark some memory mist youthful occasions and, frankly to gather some information, insights, observations on what they had been through back in the day, back in those hectic angst and alienation-filled school days.

Markin had told me at that time, and we had had several good laughs about his answers, that he had actually answered (patiently answered, believe me, unusual for him when it is not his own project), extensively answered a series of questions posed through an Internet classmates site by the chairwoman of the Class of 1964 45^th Reunion Committee (see what I mean by odd-ball year celebrations) to her fellow classmates about a whole range of questions. [And no, he would not be going, did not go to, had had no intention of going to that odd-ball year reunion unlike the 50^th that he was really aiming at with his answers.]You know the usual suspect questions about work history, family history, any distinctions creditable to old North, and the role played by the old school in keeping you off the streets, off welfare and out of prison. He waved those questions off out of hand in maybe a sentence, no more. After all three divorces, a checkered work history, half a dysfunctional family not speaking to you, and maybe wishing you were in jail can be summarily written off with few words.

What he did respond to were more thoughtful questions about dreams and ambitions (Jesus, right in Markin’s wheelhouse), disappointments, thoughts on mortality, and most importantly, questions directly related to the old days like what did you think of certain school clubs, sport teams, school dances (particularly the annual Fall Frolics and the Spring Follies), and several other school- specific events that I had forgotten about and I did not think important before I decided to write this piece for him.

Markin went wild, went crazy, stop the presses, he said. He wrote sketch after sketch, some long some short, about the school dances, his wall-flower status before he got his courage up, his girl-shy courage, at some last dance trigger moment. About his lackluster running career, and the stellar performances of our running mate, Bill Brady, and of our mutual jock-inspired devotion to the football team neither of us could ever come close to making. About his befuddlement over the segregated, boy-girl segregated, bowling teams, the vagaries of the mythical Tri-Hi-Yi, the inanity of white socks and white shorts for gym garb, the sex question, circa 1960 and the role that Adamsville Beach played in resolving that question. Endlessly as well about corner boy life in about twelve varieties, the place of rock and roll in the teenage universe then and so on. Fluff but answered.

Here is the beauty of his answers though, the beauty of Markin really. He answered, or he told me he answered everything put before him by that relentless chairwoman, even making stuff up if he did not remember, or could have cared less about something back then, like Glee Club or the Chess Club. Here was the best one, and I can attest to this one because I was actually present with him that night down at the Surf Ballroom at one of those frequent rock and roll dances we both attended. He felt compelled to write about the senior year Thanksgiving football rally in 1963 held the night before the game against the hated cross-town rival blue and white Adamsville High since he really did bleed Red Raider black and red around the football team. He wrote this long screed that several people thought was an excellent description of the event, that it had brought back some nice memories especially from someone who remembered so many details. Of course as you now will know this sketch was made out of whole cloth since he was not within twenty miles of the event that year since he was dancing the night away at the Surf that year. That’s Markin.                                 

Some answers though were actually thoughtful, another aspect of Markin as well, his beauty if you will. He movingly, if briefly, wrote about the John F.  Kennedy assassination that cast a dark shadow over that senior year, over the fresh breeze brought down that Camelot represented and that I had also felt bereaved by at that time as well. About missing out on the Great Books Club because they were, uh, nerds, about the odd-ball class photographs, before and after, about some teachers, English teachers I think, that he sent delayed kudos too, about his love of the sea (me too). About like I said before, dreams and ambitions. The best one, at least the one I remember him showing me at the time was simply entitled, A Walk Down Dream Street, which dealt with Billy Brady and their habit, penniless, no car, no girl, of sitting on the granite steps of the high school on warm, sultry nights talking about their dreams for the future, their jail-break from the unhappy homes they came from, about how they were going to do this and that to make their marks in the world. Small dream stuff as he recalled, but dreams, nicely written, with the virtue (if it can be called that) that he, they, actually did do that talking as Billy confirmed when I met him for the first time in many years a couple of years ago.         

So you can see that Markin was clearly at peace with himself and ready to go to that reunion based on that box full of memories. Moreover, Markin had put together his own survey at that time looking for more in-depth information although that project kind of died on the vine due to apathy, poor response from classmates, and his own need to push on to a more pressing project at the time. Last year in another spurt of old town devotion he pulled that survey together with much better results since he really worked hard to contact, through the beauty of the Internet, as many classmates as possible working off of the 1964 Magnet yearbook. Then one night in April, as we sat down at Jimmy’s, that local watering hole we have frequented of late, he laid out to me the reasons why he was not going, could not possibly go, what did he say, oh yeah, he empathically could not go. Later I got to thinking about his long trail of reasons and came to agree with his conclusions, if not his decision. My recollections of that night’s conversation, maybe not quite the way he put the matter but close, followed under our once common sign that, unfortunately, after all this time you really cannot go home again.