Poetry – NEARING THE END OF THE LINE

THE AMERICA THAT MADE AMERICA FAMOUS

“We were the kids that made America famous, the kind of kids that long since drove our parents to despair.

We were lazy long hairs dropping out,lost confused, and copping out, convinced our futures were in doubt and trying not to care…

We all lived the life that made America famous. Our cops would make a point to shadow us around our town…”

— from Harry Chapin’s “What Made America Famous”

If you taught high school English in public schools for at least as long as I did and (for the most part) enjoyed it, you’ve likely found your mind traveling back from time to time to a parade of remembered faces you once ended up reacting with every weekday (for nine months at a pop). And then… well, just imagine the range of expressions that must have drifted across your face at one time or another. I mean, English being a required subject and all meant that every single kid in the school had to populate those English department classrooms, from the infamous Welcome Back Kotter “sweat hogs” to la crème de la crème. So yeah, that’s a lot of faces.

But if by chance you didn’t (for the most part) enjoy it, if you perhaps felt compelled to erect some ironclad emotional barrier between yourself and, say, those really challenging Kotter kids you felt you had nothing in common with, the ones for whom a college-they-could-never-afford-anyway loomed as the last possible thing on earth they could expect in their seemingly, already-cement-hardened futures, then I believe you may really have missed out on something. Something big perhaps.

Sure, it’s a common thing: teachers vying and hoping for the “best classes.” And I admit it, that’s the way I started out. I mean, being handed the list of the English classes you’re being assigned to teach each year is like Draft Day in the NFL. Of course you want the winners. Because they’ll be the ones most like you, won’t they. The ones you’ll feel the most comfortable with, the ones you’ll better understand and can more easily identify with and who, in turn, will most likely understand and more easily identify with you. The ones more likely to put up with your English Grammar and Composition, your Shakespeare, and your Poetry.

But… what the hell are you ever supposed to do with all those hands-on kids? Those shop-boys-with-the-grease-under-their-fingernail ‘English classes (well, besides wheedling them into grease-and-oil-changing your car over in the shop for cheap)? And those desperate and unhappy girls for whom the only seeming path out of the continuing hell of their blue-collar parents’ captivity is to get themselves pregnant and married as fast as they can? Or with all those future blue-collar hamburger-flippers and lifetime-convenience-store-clerk boys and girls, those future fathers and child-bearing mothers who will continue re-populating the town by making even more hamburger-flippers and lifetime-convenience-store-clerk boys and girls?

I’m talkin’ all the probable poetry-and-classic-literature-haters here. What do you have that they’ll ever need or find useful? But especially, whatever the hell do you have to offer to that one particular, rogue, all-boy class of junior members of the local biker gang, the Exiles, that I had to deal with?

You see what I mean? You feeling me?

Well, turns out the answer to that is… only yourself. You as the real person you are. That’s what you have to offer. Because that’s all you really have to work with, isn’t it. I mean it. And that begins by first having to sort of surrender to them right at the beginning. Surrendering and just embracing the fact that… well, of course they’re poetry-and-classic-literature-haters. Why wouldn’t they be? You’d be too, if you were in their shoes. And you and them? You’re stuck with each other.

Remember this? “In order to begin working out a solution to any problem, first you have to clearly identify and state exactly what the problem is.”

My advice to would-be public high school English teachers? Rather than beginning by going all-out NAZI on these more-experienced-than-you little ‘soldiers’ in the cold war against teachers (and oh I pity you if that’s gonna be your style) (which wouldn’t work anyway unless, that is, they were in the Army Basic Training and you just happened to be their Drill Instructor), you’re gonna be much better off beginning by actually listening to their bitching about the school. And about English classes in general.

And let that be your starting point, your springboard. Surprise’em by letting’em know you enjoy hearing about how much they despise school and your subject. That’ll throw’em off-guard. And besides, their honest, unvarnished opinions on the subject really can be… entertaining sometimes. Especially if you encourage them to be really honest at it. And you know what?

You’ll likely end up discovering that you honestly do harbor some common ground with them, despite what you’d perhaps prefer to think. Because all human beings do have common denominators. So yeah, in the long run I found it best to get to get right to work, digging down, and finding out just what those are. Tell them stories (talkin’ honest stories here) about your life and the bitching you did in school about your teachers and your crappy classes. Get’em to tell you some of their stories, assuring them that what they have to tell you… well, you know … “whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” (with the very big exception always being, of course, that by law, if it turns out that anything that’s divulged happens to include information indicative of some possible harm to themselves or others, etc. that has to be reported— yeah, you have to make that perfectly clearly to them right up front). But…really listen. Their stories are bound to be crazy-interesting. Probably a lot more interesting than yours. At least, that was my experience.

And you know what then? You’ll be on your way to respecting their points of view. And once you begin showing them your respect, you’ll already have begun garnering some of theirs. And then voila: I promise you that walking in through that damn classroom door each and every morning won’t feel nearly as much like such a real chore any more. Because you just might’ve started to (drum roll, please!) like them. It’s amazing.

And something else: I accidentally discovered that my particular kids (talkin’ my junior Exiles who, by the way, are featured exclusively back in one of my earlier posts titled “Bummer”– you should go back and read it) had a lot to teach me with their eventual honesty. Plus, I found those kids all pretty damned humorous and entertaining as well, if you want to know the truth.

Now yeah, yeah, yeah— sure, I know I’m coming across like some Yoda here, some wise old owl blowing his own horn and purporting to have all the answers. Truth is… it took me some years and many failures to wind up with the amount of the answers I finally did learn. I was pretty mistake-prone in all of the above in my first years. But way back, some very wise and passionate home economics teacher/colleague taught me this wise, old adage that really helped to set me on the path to sanity as a public school teacher: “No one cares how much you know until they know how much you care.” Yeah. Sounds corny. But think about it.

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BRAT PACKS

Cafeteria Duty with its Breakfast Club diversity

was always so much more vibrant than the

funereal dining doldrums of the faculty lounge,

what with the geek squad, the cheering squad,

the Romeos and Juliets, the Bettys and Veronicas,

the Dungeons and Dragons die-hards, a Ferris Bueller

or two thrown in, and possibly even a

future Stephen King seated at those tables

All those God’s-little-gifts-to-teachers whose

youthful honesty and sit-down-stand-up comedy

kept me in stitches and my aging soul decades

younger over the long career years

me, with half my life already slipped behind,

but them still with the Big Promise of Everything,

the whole damn shootin’ match, still looming

like some mirage in the desert up ahead–

yes, all of us unique salt-of-the-earth

stereotypes… breaking bread together

around the salt and pepper shakers,

spicing up each other’s lives…

from TO DIVERSITY AND DEMOCRACY: A TOAST!

Here’s to those too few and far-between bastions of diversity we’ve occasionally stumbled

upon over time… those vibrant, spice-of-life oases of heterogeneity in our deserts of

conformity: our talk-like-us flocks, our act-like-us herds, our pre-fab, chameleon-career lives—

And here’s to the public schools
of years gone by where slide-ruled, pocket-protectored

eggheads communed in cafeterias across the tables from Streetcar-Named-Desire Stellas

in the Archie-and-Jughead-hijinks melting pot, all waiting together in the lunch line of life

for the big segregation crapshoot of becoming somebody… some day…

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But for now, back again to these particular song lyrics (which you’ll be invited to listen to shortly) from my featured singer/songwriter’s song, “What Made America Famous”:

“We were the kids that made America famous, the kind of kids that long since drove our parents to despair.

We were lazy long hairs dropping out,lost confused, and copping out,
convinced our futures were in doubt and trying not to care…

We all lived the life that made America famous. Our cops would make a point to shadow us around our town…”

Listening to these lines has always sent a crooked, sardonic smile crawling across my face. Because they’ve always reminded me of some of the more challenging little Kotters I had at Mexico (ME) High School throughout the 70’s. Me, watching from a distance the little on-going cold war between the boys in blue and a number of my rebel-without-a-cause ‘students.’ Yeah. No love lost there.

See, weekends and after school my boys insisted on hanging out on downtown street corners, the most popular being the one right out in front of a pastry shop. Which of course was where the cops habitually roosted. And which consequently was where said cops were kept their busiest, busting up and dispersing just such “unlicensed assemblies,” mostly on the grounds that, well, it just didn’t look good for the town. And OK, truth be told those boys did make some shoppers nervous, of course.

Actually I have to admit they made my wife a little nervous. You know, we’d be strolling down the sidewalk on a sunny afternoon and up ahead we’d spy between eight and a dozen toughs leaning up against a store front like something straight out of Marlon Brando’s The Wild One (well, with the exception of that one biker-dude who usually had his cute, 12-inch-tall, curly-tailed pug-on-a-leash (rather than the pit bull guard dog you might expect to see accompanying a badass like him ).

“UH-oh,” she’d whisper in my ear, “think maybe we oughtta turn back around? Or cross the road?”

“Nah,” I’d tell her, “you’re with me, so you’re safe. Me? I’m protected by The Mark of the Phantom. They won’t bother us.”

Right after which a couple of the bigger ones (looking pretty ominous, sporting their shades and tattoos) might just playfully block our way for a moment and challenge, “Now just where do you two think you’re going…?”

To which my quick and witty comeback would always be something like, “Oh, I dunno. Straight through you if you decide not to move and instead wanna end up pickin’ broken glass outta eyes for the next two hours.”

And then of course there’d be the light-hearted little shadow-boxing horseplay between me and them (you know, that dumbass male bonding thing) but we’d always end up sailing right through them unscathed. And why? Because they’d learned to like me by then. And why was that? Because they’d realized that for some unfathomable… whatever-reason, they could tell I’d honestly taken a shine to them. Which in their world… for a teacher… was unheard of.

But anyway, after the near-daily shepherding-of-the-kids-off-the-sidewalks routine, the cops would mosey themselves on into the pastry shop, ostensibly turning a deaf ear to the retreating catcalls behind them referencing the ‘fat-ass’ physiques of a couple of those doughnut-devouring stereotypes.

However, that’s just what the kids would do overtly.

Covertly, the retaliation strategies they’d come up with could’ve earned them a place among the French Resistance Forces during World War II. The worst one being (in my opinion) to move their gathering on down the street to where the patrol cars were parked in order to (wait for it) set that poor, shivering, little pug right onto the hood of one of them— specifically the one with the drug-sniffing German shepherd left waiting inside.

Because oh, that canine locked in there didn’t like that little pipsqueak “hood ornament” rattling its toenails on the patrol car paint job one bit! And according to them (I never witnessed it myself, of course) that dog would be going bat-shit wild in there, leaping amok around the interior, and trying to bust out of the car to get at the lot of them, his berserk talons all the while just a-tearing the old stuffing right out of the upholstery!

Oh I’m sure they were exaggerating in their glory… but they sure loved telling me all about it.

However the most devious (or should I say most deviant) strategy they’d come up with was the ‘secret seeding’ of the police station flower garden with marijuana seedlings at night. The custodian there, who also served as the part-time gardener, ended up unwittingly watering and caring for them for quite some time. Right up until the moment one of Mexico’s finest eventually spotted the embarrassing extracurricular green and glorious growth among the camouflage.

Now that one made the Police Log in the local paper. And I’ve gotta say, they were oh so proud of themselves!

Vive la resistance!

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Now of course this Harry Chapin song that I’m honestly dying to share with you in a moment, “What Made America Famous,” isn’t about my little biker friends, per se. Rather it’s about America’s signature civil conflict between the “hard hats” and the “long hairs” that indelibly marked the 1960’s and ‘70’s. Think of the musical Hair. Think Easy Rider. But no, more than that, this ballad is all about about human decency. Pure and simple.

But first, allow me to share this particular little memory I’ve been holding onto over the decades:

So… I’m sitting in a warm, old-fashion barber shop on a frigid night in January, 1965. Whenever another customer sidles in through the door, an icy gust sparkled with blowing snowflakes shoulders its way in right behind him. There are five or six of us waiting to have our ‘ears lowered.’ I’m the youngest here, a college kid matriculated at the local state teachers college, the only one there not balding or with a head of white hair. It’s busy, but there are two barbers buzzing and clipping away, so my wait won’t be long.

So I’m just sitting back and contenting myself with listening to the old gents jawing away. Cackling about that ‘new streaker craze.’ Ruminating over the shipping off of American troops to Viet Nam. Weighing in on Muhammed Ali’s defeat over Sonny Liston, and who the hell does he think he is anyway, calling himself Muhammed like that, for Christ’s sake? This is much livelier than sitting me just sitting alone in my dorm room, poring over my World History text.

Suddenly whoosh! The door blows open. And standing half-in and half-out is a smiling young man with almost shoulder-length, snowflake-flecked hair. And he’s wearing a faded old Army field jacket.

“What’re the chances of getting a haircut tonight?”

I catch both barbers glaring at him. “Zero!” the older says. “Now get the hell outta here and close that fucking door!”

I’m shocked. But the young man acknowledges that he’s letting the weather in so, still all smiles, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “No, seriously.”

“What? I don’t look serious? You didn’t hear me say ‘No?‘”

“But c’mon, why not?”

“Jesus, look around. Can’t you see the crowd we got in here tonight?”

“Well, if that’s it, I don’t mind waiting…”

“Beat it, kid!”

“Hey, come on. I gotta get a haircut. How much will it cost? I’ll be glad to even pay extra. Just tell me how much.”

The old guy studies him. “Fifty bucks.”

“What? Fifty…”

“And that’s only if. If… you take a bath, and shampoo the lice outta your hair first.”

“Lice?” No longer smiling now.

“See, we don’t do hippies in here, pal. Now beat it!”

The kid looked around the shop. At the grinning old men. At uncomfortable me. And then back at the barber. The kid’s got a pretty good glare going himself now. “Jesus Christ. I just wanted to get a fucking… Hippie!? Alright then! Fuck YOU!”

He turns on his heel, yanks the door open, and storms back out into the snow, purposely leaving the door open. Open wide.

I’m feeling bad for the kid. But I realize too that where the old fellas are coming from is their definition of patriotism. It leaves me feeling uneasy. Kinda confused. I mean, my dad flew missions in a B-29 during World War II and, man, I’m super-proud of him. And you know… I’m only a sophomore, but I’ve been entertaining some thoughts about perhaps enlisting myself, in the Air Force after college.

But this whole thing just leaves me feeling… not knowing what to think.

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So anyway, the song and lyrics I’ve got waiting for you below I feel skillfully and emotionally capture the conflict I came to know back then as the long hairs vs. the hard hats. And there’s a recurring single line in the lyrics that pretty much kinda sums up my little barbershop example in a nutshell:

“There’s something burning somewhere.”

Please. Take a listen and follow along. I believe you will find it a powerful experience. I know I always do…

Home

“LOOKIN’ FOR THE OLD BLUE OX…”

You know who I envy in this life? Let me tell you. The Songwriters. And yes, I just capitalized the word Songwriters because I hold them in such high esteem. But at the same time, who I don’t envy so much are the so-called ‘songwriters’ (lower case ‘s‘). I’m talkin’ those ‘songwriters’ who are in it solely (and often soullessly) for the money and quick fame. See, I sorta need to feel the signature of the writers’ souls along with their unique talents in their offerings. Not that I can blame anybody for just wanting to earn a living. You know, live and let live. I just don’t find myself envying anybody who writes crap, even crap that sells big. That’s all.

Take the Beatles. The Beatles began as songwriters (small ‘s‘), not Songwriters. In my humble opinion. Oh, and I’m the first to admit, they became Songwriters Extraordinaire. “Eleanor Rigby.” “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” “A Day in the Life.” “Being for the Benefit of Mister Kite.” “In My Life.” Because hey, please know I grew to love the Beatles.

But what an overwhelming disappointment it was when the very the first song I heard by them in November of ’63 was “I Want to Hod Your Hand.” I mean, really, just how creative are these lyrics?

Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something,
I think you’ll understand,
Then I’ll say that something,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand.

Oh please say to me
You’ll let me be your man,
And please say to me,
You’ll let me hold your hand,
Now let me hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand.

And when I touch you
I feel happy inside,
It’s such a feeling
That my love I can’t hide,
I can’t hide, I can’t hide.

Yeah, you got that something,
I think you’ll understand,
When I feel that something,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand.

And when I touch you
I feel happy inside,
It’s such a feeling
That my love I can’t hide,
I can’t hide, I can’t hide.

Yeah, you got that something,
I think you’ll understand,
When I feel that something,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand.

“Nuff said.

In my life, (now there’s a real Beatles’ song) I’ve tried my hand at poetry. I was inspired by the so many poets and poems I’d fallen in love with. But, to become a poet, you pretty much have to start out at the bottom, don’t you.

So I was clerking at the local library, when this sweet little old lady began pestering me every other week to join her poetry writers group. And yeah, sure, I’d been struggling with… ‘my poetry’ for a long while, but only privately. I had no self-confidence. I had never shared any of it. The thought of sharing felt… risky.

But one day I just threw in the towel, gave in to her persistence, and said “OK, OK OK!” I showed up with a very humble poem. But a safe (for me) poem. And by safe, I mean I felt it was a somewhat fairly clever little thing I’d concocted… but mostly because it rhymed. Because I just for some reason assumed that all these oldsters would exclusively be into the rhyming poems. OK me, I’d moved pretty much exclusively into free verse by then, but… I mean,hey, I didn’t know who the hell these old buzzards were, circled around the library table like a séance. And I definitely didn’t want to risk having one I really cared about getting shot down.

And then, finally: it was my turn to read. So OK, I cleared my throat three or four times; took, and held, the required deep breath; and then nervously proceded headlong to read what I’d brought.

When done, I looked up. Everyone was silently looking at me, and some were nodding, which made me sigh in relief. But then that little old poetry mistress who ran the group locked onto me with her suddenly mischievous, beady little eyes and said, “Why, that’s… doggerel,” followed by “and doggerel is poetry written by dogs!“

To my chagrin and terror, everybody burst out laughing!

Turned out, this lady had pulled the same stunt on everybody who ever joined the group. It was sort of a first-day initiation of hers. And (who woulda thunk it?) after a little period of adjustment, it turned out that this lady and I were destined to become a great lifelong friends. I even dedicated my first full-length memoir to Anne Kucera.

But she was right, wasn’t she. So much so-called ‘poetry’ really is doggerel. And if I had known this poetry-written-by-dogs expression back in 1963, that’s exactly how I would’ve assessed the Beatles’ “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” And yes, sure, I got it that that particular little ditty sounded pretty lively and all, and I noted that sure, all the girls were doing the Elvis thing, screaming and fainting, so they were definitely a phenom, but… I mean, just look at those pathetic lyrics. I’m sorry, but the Beatles began as doggerel songwriters (lower case s). Case closed.

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Now… here we go. And OK… I admit it. I’m still on my juke box kick. So here comes a song. Hey, I can’t help it. I’m really just very passionate about the special singer/songwriter music I’ve meticulously collected over my lifetime because… well, because of the effects that music has had, and still has, on me. So I’m not going to apologize for wanting, actually needing, to share some of the best of it.

And right now, please trust me– I have a songwriter, and a song of his, in mind that I want to share with you, hoping you’ll be willing to give it a shot. But first, allow me to refer you back to the song, “Christmas in the Trenches,” featured in one of my recent posts titled “A Single Song for All Humanity.” The lyrics of that song tell of something big and important, something unusual and truthful and heartfelt… something well worth experiencing. Which is what I look for in the music I collect. And I’d be willing to bet real money that those of you who did listen to “Christmas in the Trenches” were also pretty powerfully moved. As I was. Because lyrics like those in that piece are a humane and generous gift… to you, to all of us, from a real bona fide (capital ‘S‘) Songwriter. A rare gift.

However, today’s gift isn’t about some big and important 3-day event that has established its place in the annals of world history. Rather it’s about a seemingly small five-minute encounter. And it’s not really about the encounter per se as much as it is about what this little, universal encounter reveals.

Today’s gift is a unique, poignant piece, composed by one of the more talented singer/songwriters catalogued in my vast juke box: the international singer/songwriter David Mallett from Sebec, Maine. Dave’s compositions have been recorded by a number of famous recording artists from John Denver, Kathy Mattea, Emmylou Harris, to Arlo Guthrie. You’ll likely know him from his signature song, “The Garden Song,” (a.k.a. “Inch by Inch”) popularized and sung (in a number of languages) throughout the world.

But he’s composed so many other long-time perrenial favorites as well, such as “Fire,” commemorating the Mallett family’s long ago loss of their homestead in a calamitous conflagration; and then of course “The Ballad of the Saint Anne’s Reel,” which has been happily adopted as the official folk anthem of Prince Edward Island and the surrounding Maritimes provinces of Canada.

Famous American singer/songwriter David Mallett

Now, I gotta admit this one comes with a title that’s a little bit unexpected, one that might raise the eyebrows of someone scanning the playlist of songs on Dave’s The Artist in Me CD for the first time. It’s titled “The Old Blue Ox.” However (much needed spoiler alert here) the title is definitely not referencing the famous, fictional tall tale of Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Big Blue Ox, which is more than likely the only “blue ox” most Americans would be familiar with. And like me, you may never have realized that there really is such a thing as a ‘blue ox.’ I mean, I had to look it up for myself: “Blue Ox: a blue brindle cow or ox which is usually the result of a roan Shorthorn which is bred to a black and white Holstein.”

OK. Yeah. I mean, Who knew?

Well, the apparent answer to that is… farmers (and alas, no farmer, me). But yes, farmers are very likely to know of this breed.

OK: time to relax. So breathe… and now lean back to get comfy in your chair and try to imagine you’ve just been puttering about your house for the afternoon, a house situated in a rural part of Maine’s farmlands, when suddenly there comes a knock at your door. You open it to find… on your doorstep… one sad, confused, little old gentleman leaning on his cane…

"THE OLD BLUE OX"

"Good afternoon, I'm lookin' for
the old blue ox," he said,

And he said, "I don't believe it,
but I heard my father's dead.

And just where is the Curtis place?
My God how things have changed!"

He was a little ol' man, he was almost blind,
and he was walkin' with a cane.
 
"Now I know this is the place,
because I climbed the Severance Hill,

I'd know that hill in a hundred years,
and how her rule and will."

"Earl Parkman moved away," I said, 
"Will Green, he died you know,

And Willis Pratt has grown a man,
and gone on years ago."
 
Now our conversation was quite short,
five minutes at the most,

But he stood before me like a boy,
and conjured up the ghosts

Of friends and kin folk from an older,
and a slower time,

How fifty years, disappeared 
like minutes in his mind.
 
"The blue ox was gone the day I left,
been gone a week or so,

And I've come around to fetch him home,
cause I always did you know.

Pa will be glad." He started off,
and I stood and watched him go,

Down the way to yesterday 
lookin' hard and lookin' slow.
 
Now apple trees just wither,
and barns grow old and fall,

And ancient lady's sit in rockin'
chairs, wrapped in their shawls.

But this old fella does the things,
the things he has to do,

He's lookin' for his past,
he might stop and talk to you.

"Good afternoon, I'm lookin' for
the old blue ox," he said,

He said, "I don't believe it,
but I heard my father's dead.

And just where is the Curtis place?
My God how things have changed."

He was a little ol' man he was almost blind
and he was walkin' with a cane.

What this song does is deliver a bittersweet little punch to my heart, leaving me with a warm and kind of teary-eyed smile every time I listen to it. So no, it’s not exactly a happy song, although the vocals and the jaunty instrumental accompaniment combine to nearly disguise it as such. But yeah… I really love this one.

I love the artful way it’s written. Because in no more than a handful of lyrics, it hands us such an easy-to-grasp foreshadowing of a reality that very likely awaits us, but one we seldom consciously imagine will ever touch us: that some time in the near or far future, maybe right in the middle of us just happily going about our lives, with everything moving pretty much right along all hunky-dory… it’ll eventually come. Very much like a sudden and unexpected knock at the door:

Somebody we know and probably care about, and maybe even love and depend on, will have just been diagnosed with the reality of dementia. Because shit happens…

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Our extended family has owned a lake-front cottage since the 1940’s, the ownership of which has been passed down within the family from generation to generation. One sunny, blue-sky, summer afternoon back fifteen years or so, a number of us were lounging out on the cottage’s porch that overlooks the lake. And all of a sudden my mom said something that didn’t seem very logical at all. “What a beautiful lake this is. It must have a name. So, what’s the name of this lake?”

Suddenly that had us all sitting up a little straighter in our chairs. And after a short pause, someone said the obvious. “Why… Sebec Lake, of course. You know that, Violet. Sebec Lake.”

My mom thought about that and then simply said, “Oh.” But then, after a lengthy pause, she spoke again. “And this is such a nice camp.”

“Yes. It is,” we all agreed.

“So… whose camp is this? Who owns it?”

That question brought a much longer and more uncomfortable silence to the porch gathering, as we all looked to one another in… well, astonishment. Then Dad, flummoxed and nervous, looked her right in the eye and said sternly, “Why, you do, Violet. This is your camp. You own it!”

“What… me?” she laughed in disbelief. “Me? I own it…? Oh no, I don’t think so. How could that be?”

And that was that. Our ‘knock at the door.’ And it was unnerving. Frightful. Oh I mean, sure, looking back, there’d been signs. Of course there had. Road bumps had been coming up in conversations quite a lot with her actually, which we’d find frustrating, but... still… we’d just pooh-pooh them into the background, log them under the category of ‘just natural aging,’ just a little forgetfulness here and there which can be expected.

But… that was our knock at the door. The end of any more hopeful denial.

It took years for her dementia to play out in our lives. Years to go from that first cottage-porch incident to the point of her often confusing our dad, her husband, with her long-dead father. To the point of her packing up her little suitcase at home most nights, parking it right by the front door, and continually asking us when was somebody, anybody, ever going to get around to taking her home, to ‘her house’ so she could go to bed? But once in a while there’d be little periods of time when the old, real Violet would just pop right back in among us. Of course this was all devastating, long past the time we finally had to move her into the local nursing home and right up until the day passed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now I swear I certainly did not decide to write about this topic to depress anybody, and I sincerely hope I haven’t done that. It’s simply that I treasure my collection of unique and creative singer/songwriter recordings so much that I’m kinda driven to share them, because to me they’ve always been such an important lifeline to my inner peace, comfort, sanity, and even knowledge. Because my God, they cover just about all genres. Humor and comedy. Tragedy. Romance. Novelty. Philosophy. Nostalgia. Politics. Protest. Spoken word. History. You name it. And I can’t help feeling that the experience of them is just way too valuable a commodity for me alone to greedily keep, them just languishing here on the dusty CD shelves in my little apartment and in my PC’s digital ‘jukebox vaults.’ They need to be shared. And I feel a real need to put them out there for you, too, to discover.

Yeah. I know. How very Don Quixote of me, right?

But I find the talent and craft of these songwriters irresistable. I mean, just take another look at this one, “The Old Blue Ox.” Look at the dialogue between the little old man and the narrator:

“Now our conversation was quite short,
five minutes at the most,
But he stood before me like a boy,
and conjured up the ghosts
Of friends and kin folk from an older,
and a slower time,
How fifty years, disappeared
like minutes in his mind.”

Yes, clinically it’s just one man conversing with some unfortunate old fella locked in the grip of his dementia, but the tiny encounter is painted within these lyrics with an almost paranormal feel about it. Like one of them is a ghost… or… like they’re both two time-travelers, each ensconsed in his own time-period-‘reality,’ but somehow briefly communicating with one another straight through a… wormhole maybe that has suddenly pierced the nexus of their two worlds?

How spooky is that! And how intriguing…

But that’s what it was like sometimes, talking to my mom. I soon came to understand very well that she was speaking to me from a long-dead world of sepia-toned, black-and-white photographs and the living ghosts of her brothers and sister. And I was speaking to her from a magical science-ficton world of cell phones, iPads, and remote controls lying around all over the living room furniture. How amazing.

But hey, I’m guess beginning to sound like the cursed old seafarer in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” aren’t I. (Can’t shut up.) So let me just sum up with a single statement regarding not only all of the (in my opinion) crème de la crème lyricists I keep in my collection, but especially this particular Dave Mallett’s song, “The Old Blue Ox”:

This song transcends the simple term ‘song’; what it is, actually, is a slice of pure Literature suitable for inclusion in any American literary anthology.

So that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And now I’ll end with some scribbling I penned years ago, having been inspired by “The Old Blue Ox.” Thanks for reading.

“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”

You took it for granted…

just assumed Memory Lane

would forever remain

your Yellow Brick Road…

overlooking, way back then,

those sleepy seeds borne

on the winds of time

sewing themselves

between the cobblestones, and then

all those little spearheads–

the crabgrass, unsheathing itself

underfoot… choking the undergrowth of

Memory Lane in an overgrowth primeval–

and now you’ve gone missing in the outback

of your own hardening cerebral arteries…

all your Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs

disappearing like hourglass-sand

down the little rabbit holes,

leaving you needing a damn macheté

to hack your way in circles

through the foliage of

your own life’s back pages…

unable to find the forest

hiding in your trees

home

A SINGLE SONG FOR ALL HUMANITY

When it comes to me and music, basically I’m a lyrics man. Of course I do love a good melody and I appeciate a skilled and creative arrangement, but my favorite music primarily comes from the recordings of talented singer-songwriters (with the emphasis on songwriters) like Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt, a duo I saw in concert out in Albuquerque years ago; Harry Chapin; Bill Morrissey; Tracy Chapman; David Mallett; Randy Newman; Kate Campbell; Greg Brown; Mary Chapin Carpenter; Arlo Guthrie, Bob Dylan; etc. [and yes, I do live in the past]).

And in the same way I can’t stand watching a poorly scripted movie (where you know fifteen minutes into it what the ending will be, and which feels like some flick you’ve seen a dozen times before), I tend to embrace songs whose lyrics are seriously creative and cleverly written. Lyrics that wake me up and surprise me with their uniqueness, lyrics that take me places either where I have never been before or places I have been but are described in such more perfect ways than I ever could.

Along with this, I discovered long ago that I’m a romantic at heart where lyrics are concerned. And no, I’m not talking about a fondness for boy-meets-girls romances. It’s just that what I hope to find are lyrics that are powerful in some way, lyrics that tell a story or describe a situation that will make me deeply feel something. I want to be punched in the breadbasket and heart by the lyrics.

That being said, the story told in the following narrative ballad is not fiction. It’s inspired by an actual historical event that went down on Christmas Day, 1914, during World War I. You’ve probably read about the senseless and inhumane carnage of the trench warfare that both the British and the Germans endured on a daily basis for so long. Or perhaps, like me, you may have read one or more of the handful of non-fiction books that cover this incredible event. And actually you may, in fact, have already experienced these lyrics before, as the song is a well-known ballad.

After the song plays, I will share a few additional details that I’ve garnered from historical accounts of that unimaginable day (which actually ended up being more like two-and-a-half days) .

The song is titled “Christmas in the Trenches” and was written and recorded by singer/songwriter John McCutcheon circa 1984.

So, are your emotional seatbelts fastened securely?

“CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES”

My name is Francis Tolliver. I come from Liverpool
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear

It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung
The frozen field of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away

I was lyin’ with my mess-mates on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I “Now listen up me boys”, each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear

“He’s singin’ bloody well you know”, my partner says to me
Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony
The cannons rested silent. The gas cloud rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war

As soon as they were finished, a reverent pause was spent
‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen’ struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was ‘Stille Nacht”. “Tis ‘Silent Night'” says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky

“There’s someone comin’ towards us,” the front-line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright
As he bravely strode, unarmed, into the night

Then one by one on either side walked into no-mans-land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave ’em hell

We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photgraphs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeeze box and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men

Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
“Whose family have I fixed within my sights?”

It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they’d kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone for ever more

My name is Francis Tolliver. In Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War One I’ve learned its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we’re the same

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I can barely imagine the sheer human need and relief that the combatants on either side felt when they had tentatively stepped across the barbed wire barriers and into each other’s camps only to find… regular blokes just like themselves! And so both sides did share around their cigarettes and chocolates and souvenirs. And then of course… soccer! Wouldn’t that be a nice way to wage war? With a soccer match?

But the thing that delightfully still surprises me from my reading is the following unbelievable scenario:

While the cats are away, the mice will play. Both war parties (consisting of the privates, corporals, and sergeants) had been virtually left to themselves by their majors and colonels for hours at a time that day, leaving the ‘grunts’ to fight it out as best they could for just a while on their own. I mean, hey, it was Christmas. So it’s pretty likely the superiors were snug and safe, somewhere well enough behind the respective enemy lines, and drinking up their Christmas toasts to one another. Because rank does have its privileges.

But here’s the truth of it: all of the soldiers on both sides, in the name of the Christmas spirit, had deserted their posts! The soldiers on both sides had just committed treason, a crime punishable by the firing squad! But… they had done it anyway because… well, it just seemed like the thing to do. At the time. I guess you just had to have been there. And more importantly, because war is senselss and stupid. And life is precious. And… OK, sure, because the cats were away.

But of course any time “the cats are away,” there’s a risk that the cats might just come back! And guess what! Their superior officers did come back. They came back from time to time to inspect their troops, measure any progress or lack of it, to see how their trench fortifications were holding up, and maybe even to count casualties.

And just what did these superior officers on either side discover?

Absolutely… nothing. Everything… as usual. And why?

(Now, I know this is going to sound like a poorly written, silly episode of HOGAN’S HEROES, but…)

Because the grunts on both sides had posted lookouts just for their officers returning. And when the alarm sounded, alerting them that officers were incoming (!), why the men just scampered right back behind their sandbagged posts like good little boys, manned their rifles and machine guns once again, and opened fire on one another! Funny thing was though, their respective ‘aims’ ‘seem’ to have gotten so bad all of a sudden that they apparently couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

No casualties.

But it LOOKED good. It was theater. And then of course, they all scampered righ back to their little yuletide party after the brass had departed once again.

It. Just. Doesn’t. Seem. Possible…

Does it.

You know in John McCutcheon’s introduction in the above video, I honestly just love his sweet anecdote of that little bevy of ex-German soldiers who “were THERE seventy-five years before,” showing up at John McCutcheon’s concerts to hear ‘their‘ story… being validated… in his song.

Just one of the many books that have covered this most unique military occuerence in the history of the Twentieth Century

What follows below was taken from a page posted on this url: https://blogs.loc.gov/headlinesandheroes/2020/12/good-will-toward-men-the-great-wars-christmas-truce/

The fighting in Europe had been growing for almost five months when Pope Benedict tried to arrange a truce between nations in early December 1914 for Christmas. But his efforts failed when Russia declined the truce. The notorious trenches of World War I were filled with weary, cold soldiers. But along the British and German lines, a sudden rise of the Christmas Spirit among the soldiers created a phenomenon that wasn’t seen for the rest of the war—the soldiers decided not to fight on Christmas. Stories of this unofficial Christmas Truce were published in newspapers around the world.*

The Chicago Herald printed part of a letter from a British soldier describing what took place. “On Christmas eve we were shouting across ‘Merry Christmas!’ The Germans shouted, ‘Don’t shoot till New Year’s day!’ Christmas morning the weather was foggy and there was no firing. We started wandering over toward the German lines. When the mist cleared we saw the Germans doing the same thing.”

Climbing from their trenches onto the battle-scarred “no man’s land,” British and German soldiers shook hands, swapped cigarettes and jokes, and even played football. “We all have wives and children…we’re just the same kind of men as you are,” one German said.

Gifts were exchanged between soldiers: pies, wine, cigars and cigarettes, chocolates, pictures, newspapers. Whatever they had with them in the trenches. Some even exchanged names and addresses to reconnect after the war! “We exchanged souvenirs; I got a German ribbon and photo of the Crown Prince of Bavaria. The Germans opposite us were awfully decent fellows—Saxons, intelligent, respectable-looking men. I had quite a decent talk with three or four and have two names and addresses in my notebook.” (New York Times, December 31, 1914, World War History: Newspaper Clippings 1914 to 1926.)

The day would be remembered and memorialized as a moment of peace during the long First World War. A day when soldiers put aside their orders and listened instead to their common decency and humanity. As one German soldier noted, “You are the same religion as we, and today is the day of peace.”

SIGH !

home

WINGS

In remembrance of our Dad on this Veterans’ Day, Raymond Edward Lyford (1920-2016), who served in the Army Air Force and flew 35 missions as a radar operator on the B-29 Superfortress Bombers in World War II. His B-29 was shot down in a jungle in China. However, the aircraft was patched back together to fly more missions, thus being dubbed “Patches” (pictured below)

strange, me

being past middle-aged

balding

& not just a little insignificant

& still looking up to

my john wayne

ted williams dad–

knowing intellectually that

there are no heroes

not really

but having to plead guilty

to the charge

of hero-worship

of romancing with my

inner schoolboy heart

the mystique of that silver

b-29

terry and the pirates

fly-boy chapter

of your story

where you

flight-suited

& bomber-jacketed

all zippers & insignia

roared the wild blue yonder

in your seat-of-the-pants

roger-wilco world

of cabin pressure

intstruments

radar bogies

mae wests

bomb-bay doors

clamoring hearts

white knuckles

bated breath

curses

prayers

Home

SHE’S INTO NUMBERS

by Tom Lyford 5/12/04

She’s into numbers

I’m into words

Numbers (just to please her)

parade goose-stepping

all spit&polish

columnrank&file to her

drum-major-baton cadence

under the Big Top of her

the 3-ring-binder, 3-ring circus

of her bookkeeper’s spreadsheet mind…

& to her sharp whistle, the digits wheel,

group & regroup smartly into the Good Ol’

Red & Black half-time extravaganza

(rah! rah!),

vault with spectacular precision,

somersault through numeric hoops,

dance on their hind legs

(tails all wagging as 1),

fly the arithmetic trapeze, & with

the greatest of ease, perform the boring

high-wire ledger-balancing “accts.” &

other acts of legerdemain to the polite

applause of all…

Now… put numbers under my command

& in no time they will deteriorate into

a rag-tag band of undisciplined

smoke’em-if-you-got’em goldbricks

forever whining to take 5 —

an unwilling occupational force in a country

of rebel resistance to numbers.

She’s into numbers… but me?

I don’t really care for numbers…

at all. No no, I’m into words…

I’m prejudiced. See…

I don’ need no steenkin’ nombres!

I’m an anti-numerite. I mean, what’s to like?

they’re all the same, they all look alike

You can’t tell’em apart

You seen one 1? Then you seen’em all

(all the 1’s are alike— little letter “i”

wannabes)

“1 is the loneliest number you can ever do…

2 can be as bad as 1: it’s the loneliest

number since the number 1”

& get this: there are just too many

negative numbers, know what I’m sayin’?

Numbers like… minus ten, right?

How’d you like to be a negative 10?

On, say, a scale of 1 to 10?

Oh, and…ever notice how “cosecant“

sounds a lot like “ ’course he can’t ” ?

Makes me wanna shout out, “Why,

of course he can” every time…

Plus… it’s not like there are really any

hot little numbers, you know? (Well,

except maybe 110 degrees in the shade

or Fahrenheit 451

but even those numbers are relative

to the words that must accompany

them… Yes, numbers are just

pathetic little word-wannabes)

But worse, numbers are the Nazis, so

military & rigid, precise & absolute

autocratic, and so class-conscious:

all that emphasis on… greater than

or… less than or equal to !

I’m much too democratic for numbers.

She’s into numbers—I’m into words.

I mean come on! Words have more fun.

Words are the blondes of symbols

(but intelligent blondes) always doing

something creative and different !!!

But with numbers it’s always

same ol’ same ol’S.S.D.D.,

been-there-done that-got-the T-shirt.

Surprise: 2 + 2’s never gonna = 13

& what else are numbers gonna do

besides add …subtract …divide????

Oh, numbers can multiply but they

can’t be fruitful & multiply…

and for stodgy numbers… there’s

no sex, no drugs, no rock’n roll,

Numbers can’t get drunk or buzzed:

(Hey 30, whattaya say we get

factored right ff our asses tonight!)

Jeez, numbers can’t even swear

because there are no dirty numbers

(well, OK, doing #1 #2, but…)

so that’s how boring numbers are

& there’s only 10 of them altogether

10 insubstantial little hen-scratches

count’em— 0 through 9…

3 times more repetitive than the

much more versatile 26 letters of the

superior alphabet from whence cometh

our world of lush and sexy words…

She’s into numbers…I’m into words.

Gotta be a left brain/right brain thing.

Hey, wanna kow something I do? OK.

I actually look up words! In dictionaries!

Hell no, even more: i read dictionaries !

For her, looking up words is like…

cleaning the oven… cleaning the toilet…

I love puns & palindromes;

she loves sales ledgers & sums.

I do onomatopoeia; she does audits.

Me? Metaphors & meter; her? Money matters

Poetry & prose for me;

principal & interest for her.

I can’t help looking upon integers

& interest with extreme dis-interest,

and I am just so nonplussed with

plusses & minuses.

So yeah. She’s into numbers…

Long ago, the numbers body-snatched

her soul, leaving behind her

look-alike pod, hatching integers

like spiders to protect

& to serve her, their Queen

their Numero Uno

All the evil little numbers…

millions of minions to do

her darkest bidding…

home

THUNDER ROAD

home

WITNESS PROTECTION COUNTY BLUES

(And now for something completely different)

WITNESS PROTECTION COUNTY BLUES by Tom Lyford

From the south and the west, they head northeast
born-again zombies, officially ‘deceased’
they come from Nowhere, just any old place
their backtracks, vanished – they’ve left no trace
followin’ the drinkin’ gourd’s cold north star
raisin’ your hackles like an old film noir
raisin’ your hackles like an old film noir

Got a fresh driver’s license, an accent urbane
they land up here in the backwoods of Maine
lookin’ like lost ones just been found
nervous shifty eyes just a-glancin’ all around
got a mortgage on a house sittin’ just up the hill
got a job makin’ fabric up at Guilford Woolen Mill
got a job makin’ fabric up at Guilford Woolen Mill

Buy their frozen pizzas at the local Shop ‘n Save
their kids go to school and they never misbehave
they never go to church and they never join a club
and never hang out at the local grille & pub…
man seems content with his nondescript life
woman kinda acts like a Stepford wife
yeah the woman kinda acts like a Stepford wife

Ask him his name and he’ll smile real polite
but he’s radiatin’ nervousness—he’s real uptight
and you know he’ll be a ‘Jones’ or a ‘Johnson’ or a ‘Smith’
he’s just lip-synchin’ recent memorized myth
and his first name’s ‘Tom,’ ‘Dick,’ or ‘Harry,’ ‘Ed,’ or ‘John’
not a name to call attention, just a name to make you yawn
not a name to call attention, just a name to make you yawn

You wonder what they’re doin’ here and what they did
are they some sorta modern-day Billy the Kid?
were they some kinda Godfather once in the news
makin’ too many offers that you couldn’t just refuse?
did they ever run guns for the CIA?
did they turn state’s evidence in court to get away?
did they turn state’s evidence in court to get away?

From the south and the west, they head northeast
born-again ‘zombies,’ officially ‘deceased’
they come from Nowhere, just any old place
their backtracks, vanished – they’ve left no trace
followin’ the drinkin’ gourd’s cold North Star
they arrive in droves—beneath the radar
got a whole new life and a new used car…

home

THE SAPSICLE KID, 1956

on my faithful steed

that answers to the name of trigger

i cowboy up pleasant street at a gallop

the green & cream columbia 1-speed

on one of those early-spring late afternoons

the temperature sundowning

south of freezing

the icy wind chill feathering my hair

my bare knuckles & ears white

with impending frostbite

& my spring jacket snapping

unzipped like a vest in the breeze

(you never see roy rogers riding

all buttoned up to the neck in three layers

or wearing mittens for his mom)

to whoa-up under the low naked limbs

of the playground maples

inching to a dead stop

feet still on the pedals

upright… balanced…

(trick rider that i am)

easy, fella

& slowly… eversoslightly

cranking myself uprightward & standing

poised precariously in the stirrups

the rodeo crowd applauding as one!

reaching up to pluck

the first of the finger fruit

a long, sap-sweetened icicle

flecked with bits of black bark

& clamp it in my teeth

like a longbranch cheroot

my tongue delighting itself

over the maple-swishersweet surface…

a big forerunner of

the marlboro man

HOME

BUMMER II

USER GUIDE FOR TRANSITIONING MOTORCYCLE-GANG HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH STUDENTS FROM BADASS POETRY TO RELATIVELY GOODASS POETRY IN ONLY A FEW EASY STEPS…

Yes, in BUMMER I, I detailed how I played Pied Piper of Hamelin, nefariously luring my unsuspecting wannabe belligerents (aka the savage junior EXILES biker gang) into conforming to the strict tenets of the high school English curriculum (aka the poetry unit). And yes, it was touch and go there for a while. However, they don’t call me The Dudley Dooright of Poetry for nuthin’ (he always gets his…… men).

And once I had them somewhat “enjoying” my dark Harry Chapin songs, I obviously had to face the fact that there weren’t that many of them. So I had to line up some ammunition for our future 45-minute classes. I knew I would have to try to wean them off music eventually (but by all means gradually and imperceptibly). But in the meantime, an obvious middle step was protest songs. There are so many of those to choose from, and so that’s where I went next. Protest songs would the ideal buffer zone for moseying on over to real poems. The transition couldn’t be too abrupt.

Always I was re-enforcing the point that singer-songwriter’s song lyrics are POETRY. And so far, so good.

This next one, of course, was one of their favorites. OK, it was one of mine. Check it out on YouTube, too. It’s a hoot and a half. And like all protest songs, rather historical.

“I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die Rag” by Country Joe and the Fish

Well, come on all of you, big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He’s got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Vietnam
So put down your books and pick up a gun,
We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun.

CHORUS

And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam;
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

Well, come on generals, let’s move fast;
Your big chance has come at last.
Now you can go out and get those reds
‘Cause the only good commie is the one that’s dead
And you know that peace can only be won
When we’ve blown ’em all to kingdom come.

CHORUS
Come on Wall Street, don’t be slow,
Why man, this is war au-go-go
There’s plenty good money to be made
By supplying the Army with the tools of its trade,
But just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,
They drop it on the Viet Cong.

CHORUS
Come on mothers throughout the land,
Pack your boys off to Vietnam.
Come on fathers, and don’t hesitate
To send your sons off before it’s too late.
And you can be the first ones in your block
To have your boy come home in a box.

Protest songs were pretty easy pickings, practically a dime a dozen. So I used the above song as a springboard. And since the subject of “Fixin’ to Die” is War, I turned to my vast collection of War Poetry. I wasn’t looking for gory blood and guts though. I wanted something with meaning, something with a little tad of philosophical thinking that even they could dig. Stealthy me.

Basically I told them to look at themselves. What follows is not word-for-word, only an approximation of how I chose to begin.

“Look at you guys. You’re so badass, you don’t put up with anything you don’t want. Honestly? I’m impressed. I even envy you with your commitment to defend your beliefs and your goals. You don’t put up with any crap at all, do you. And then if worst comes to worst, you’re willing to face whatever consequences there are. That’s ultra cool. I like that.

“But you’re also very lucky to have been born in an era where protest has become such a thing. It wasn’t always that way, you know. It wasn’t that way when I was your age. We were brought up to toe the line, to accept whatever your parents insisted on, and also of course whatever The Man told you to accept. You didn’t want trouble, you didn’t want to make any waves. How boring, right? I’m sure you look at my generation as a bunch of wimps compared to yourselves.

“Anyway, I’m not exactly certain when this protest spirit started to blossom, but it’s tied right in with the Draft and the Vietnam War. Young people started burning their draft cards. They began poking daisies and daffodils right down the National Guard’s rifle barrels pointed at them.

“Bob Dylan has an odd little song reflecting the early stages of the Big Change, where protestors were finding they had have a voice, they could just say NO to anything, even though it was officially mandated. He called it “Maggie’s Farm.” And whenever you hear “Maggie’s Farm” referred to in these lyrics, just think of it standing for The Parents, The School Principal, The Cop, The Draft, or whatever wannabe power was rubbing you the wrong way.”

Maggie’s Farm by Bob Dylan

Oh I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more
Well, I wake in the morning
Fold my hands and pray for rain
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin’ me insane
It’s a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more

No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more
Well, he hands you a nickel
He hands you a dime
He asks you with a grin
If you’re havin’ a good time
Then he fines you every time you slam the door
I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more

No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks
The National Guard stands around his door
Ah, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more

No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more
Well, she talks to all the servants
About man and God and law
Everybody says
She’s the brains behind Pa
She’s sixty eight, but she says she’s fifty four
I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more

No, I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more
Well, I try my best
To be just like I am
But everybody wants you
To be just like them
They sing while you slave and I just get bored
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more

“Maggie’s Farm”went over fairly well with my little scholar-don’wannabes. It didn’t kill them, at any rate, but they weren’t really all that impressed. They’d all heard it before. But I did sense, after going over the individual lyrics as much as they allowed me to, that they were at least somewhat interested in the interpretation of Maggie’s Farm as a metaphor. Anyway, not bad for a biker gang. And I sensed by this point, they might also have begun to take a stand-offish interest in me, the Ichabod Crane at the front of the room, which couldn’t hurt. Collateral reward. I shamelessly like to think that they perhaps admired my spunk in taking them on in this nearly impossible task: me, a Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, LOL.

So the next step? Continuing on with… well, sucking up to them. And God forbid, trying to slip a pure, unadulterated, non-lyrical “poem” in right under their suspicious noses. And I had one all picked out though, yeah, I knew it was a real longshot. Especially when, as I was passing out the printed lines of the poem I heard one of my biker boys exclaim. “Oh Jesus, guys, this one’s written by somebody called Jack the Pervert! No shit!”

Oh well, what did I expect, really? (After that, things went something, but not exactly, like this.)

Me: “OK, guys. This one’s written by a guy who was your age around 1915 or so.”

Them: “What, they had perverts back then too?”

Me: “Oh believe me guys, they had them way long before this author was around.”

Them: “This guy sounds stupid.”

Me: “He was a Frenchman.”

Them: “Yeah? That too? Well that figures.”

Them: “Christ, I woulda changed my friggin’ name at least, that’s for sure!”

Me: “His last name was actually pronounced prayVARE. In French. Doesn’t mean pervert. He was a famous movie-maker, writer, and poet. Died in 1977.”

Them: “Of What? Embarrassment?”

Them: “Getting beat up by a motorcycle gang?”

Them: “Jack the famous French pervert. Good riddance.”

Me: “Hey, listen up guys. If you can politely put up with me for just the next fifteen minutes, as scary and tough as that might be, I swear to you the next poem after this one is going to be so raunchy it’ll shock even you. I swear it.” (I had a couple of Bukowskis up my sleeve as ammo.)

Them: “You wish.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. And I could be wrong. But. Are you willing to prove me wrong, though?”

Them: “How? You wanna make another deal? Like, unless we fall down and drop dead on the floor of fright, we won’t have to do no more poems?”

Me: “Something like that, yeah? Only not with this poem. The one after this is when we’ll deal.”

Them: “Bullshit.”

Me: “Come on, please, guys. You tried me once. Dare to try me again?”

Anyway, yadda, yadda, yadda, and after more back and forth, I eventually had me a tenuous deal. But they made it clear that I really had to put up, or shut up. I told them I could live with that. So: following is the print out of the poem I was placing on their desks. I insisted on them quietly listening to me read it to them very slowly… and yes, twice (because it was so short and because I believe any poem should usually be read at least twice, if not more), before they could jump in and tell me in no uncertain words what they really thought it, regardless.

THE FAMILY by Jacques Prevert

The mother knits
The son goes to the war
She finds this quite natural, the mother

And the father?
What does the father do?
He has his business

His wife knits
His son goes to the war
He has his business

He finds this quite natural, the father
And the son
What does the son find?

He finds absolutely nothing, the son
His mother does her knitting,
His father has his business

And he has the war
When the war is over
He’ll go into business with his father

The war continues
The mother continues knitting
The father continues with his business

The son is killed
He doesn’t continue
The father and mother visit the graveyard

They find this natural
The father and the mother
Life goes on

A life of knitting, war, business
Business, war, knitting, war
Business, business, business

Life with the graveyard

OK, truth? This experiment was pretty much an utter fiasco, as you can imagine. The common adjective they could all agree on was…STUPID! I bet I heardthe word STUPID! about seventy-five times in the follow-up. And when I asked what any of them thought about what the author was trying to put across with this one, they hooted and sneered. “Can’t you read?!” they asked me. “Jeez! It’s all right there right out in front of you, for cryin’ out loud. I mean, it says it over and over: the wife knits, the son goes to the war, and the father has his business! I mean, wow, isn’t that friggin’ interesting story! Hey, dude, if that’s what a poem is, and you like that stuff, then man, it royally sucks being you more than I thought.”

Ah well. You win some, you lose some, and some get rained out. I’d given it he old college try. I did manage to get a couple of sentences squeezed in afterward, despite all the uproar, but it’s pretty doubtful any of them paid much attention to my explanation of”The Family.” However, in the bigger sense, I had won… in that I had secured for myself a chance for another go-round in that rodeo. In the next class, I had three poems in mind that would zap them like a fully-charged cattle prod. And I couldn’t wait!

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BUMMER III

So after a not-so-successful attempt at instilling the beginning of a love of poetry in the hearts of my little motorcycle EXILES with the poem “The Family” by Jacques Prevert (yeah, Jack the Pervert from my previous BUMMER II episode), I had to reach deep down into the dark recesses of my Poetry Arsenal. And the lethal weapon I pulled out (heh) was as ticklish as nitroglycerin: Bukowski!

A movie based on Charles Bukowsi’s life was aptly titled Barfly. Apparently, that’s pretty much what he was. Mickey Rourke played Hank, “Hank” being Charles’ popular nickname. Most of the film takes place in sleazy barrooms and hotel rooms with his sleazy girlfriend, Wanda (Faye Dunaway). Guess why. Right.

Hank lived his adult life as a functioning alcoholic.

Despite that life, he was a prolific and surprisingly successful writer. According to Wikipedia, “Bukowski published extensively in small literary magazines and with small presses beginning in the early 1940s and continuing on through the early 1990s. He wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books during the course of his career. One of these works he titled Poems Written Before Jumping Out of an 8 Story Window,” (a title that hints at a darkness within the man). Songwriter Leonard Cohen once said of him, “He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”

The Wikipedia article further says, “Bukowski’s work addresses the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work. The FBI kept a file on him as a result of his column Notes of a Dirty Old Man in the LA underground newspaper Open City… In 1986 Time magazine called Bukowski a ‘laureate of American lowlife.’ Regarding his enduring popular appeal, Adan Kirsch of The New Yorker wrote, ‘the secret of Bukowski’s appeal … [is that] he combines the confessional poet’s promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp fiction hero.’” So Bukowski, sleazy drunk that he was much of the time, enjoyed a global popularity, as the number of biographical texts dissecting the man will attest.

The first of his poems I selected for my EXILES (others were soon to follow) is “Me Against the World,” a seemingly appropriate motto for my boys. I’d discovered it serendipitously. One afternoon, browsing the Poetry Section of a Borders’ Book Store, I happened to pluck a random book from a display, flip it open to the middle like cutting a deck of cards and… Jesus, there it was. And it had already had me in its death grip after only the first six or seven lines. It felt as if I were to look into a mirror, I’d discover that I’d just suffered a metaphorical black eye! That was honestly a day I can’t forget.

Now I need to point out that this book was an anthology in the annual Best of American Poetry series, so “Me Against the World” wasn’t one of those elegant, cerebral pieces I apparently was expecting that day. I bought the book immediately. I’d become a Hank Bukowski fan immediately. I was taking my first step on a counterculturally sentimenal journey of a thousand Bukowski poems.

Back in the classroom, I opted to dramatically read the poem aloud first, before passing out the lyrics sheet. I wanted to grab their rapt attention the same way the poem had initially muckled onto mine in Borders. I began with the opening, “when I was a kid one of the questions asked was, would you rather eat a bucket of shit or drink a bucket of piss? I thought that was easy. ‘that’s easy,’ I said, ‘I’ll take the piss.’ ‘maybe we’ll make you do both,’ they told me.”

Now if you happen to be new to Bukowski, you are probably finding yourself as much in a state of shock as I was at first. Even nearly every one of those Exiles’ jaws had just landed in in their laps, not because the language came as a shock, but because the language had occurred spoken out loud by a high school English teacher in a public school classroom. It was an unusual moment indeed. But please, dear reader, please hold on and bear with me. You will be rewarded, I swear.

Back to the poem:

ME AGAINST THE WORLD

by Charles Bukowsky

when I was a kid one of the questions asked

was, would you rather eat a bucket of shit or

drink a bucket of piss? I thought that was easy.

“that’s easy,” I said, “I’ll take the piss.”

“maybe we’ll make you do both,” they told me.

I was the new kid in the neighborhood.

“oh yeah?” I said. “yeah!” they said. there were

four of them “yeah,” I said, “you and whose army?”

“we won’t need no army,” the biggest one said.

I slammed my fist into his stomach. then all

five of us were down on the ground fighting.

they got in each other’s way but there were

still too many of them. I broke free and started

running. “sissy! sissy!” they yelled. “going

home to mama?” I kept running.

they were right. I ran all the way to my house,

up the driveway and onto the porch and

into the house where my father was beating

up my mother. she was screaming. things were

broken on the floor. I charged my father

and started swinging. I reached up but

he was too tall, all I could hit were his legs.

then there was a flash of red and purple

and green and I was on the floor.

“you little prick!” my father said, “you

stay out of this!” “don’t you hit my boy!”

my mother screamed. but I felt good

because my father was no longer hitting

my mother. to make sure, I got up and

charged him again, swinging. there was

another flash of colors and I was

on the floor again. when I got up again

my father was sitting in one chair and

my mother was sitting in another chair

and they both just sat there looking at me.

I walked down the hall and into

my bedroom and sat on the bed.

I listened to make sure there

weren’t any more sounds of

beating and screaming out there.

there weren’t. then I didn’t know

what to do. it wasn’t any good outside

and it wasn’t any good inside. so I

just sat there.

then I saw a spider making a web

across a window. I found a match,

walked over, lit it, and burned

the spider to death.

then I felt better.

much better.

This gut-wrenching piece of creative writing still affects me, to this day. And believe me, did we ever have a great discussion, or what!? A discussion on the significance of this one, on them, and on me; a discussion on poetry, on creative writing. God, I was clam-happy at the end of that class period. Stories were triggered and told. I felt myself really starting to bond with these yahoos. And once again, I was left with the distinct feeling I’d won implicit “permission” to try one more poem. As long as it was written by this dude, good ol’ Hank Bukowski. Or somebody very much like him. You know. No Daffodils, no clouds. But I had a number of them waiting in the wings.

Stay tuned for a few more of my fave Bukowski hits coming up in my next episode, “Bummer IV.”

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LYFORD ON LOVE

PART ONE

(I’m calling this one “Part One,” not because I have a specific Part Two in mind at all. It’s just that, knowing me, I’ll probably have a couple hundred Parts on this theme. I mean, who knows?)

We begin…

As a 34-year teacher (a career that came to an end over two decades ago), I was forever unearthing priceless little tidbits of poetry from the many literature anthologies I’d inherited in whatever classroom I was assigned. That was one of the big English teacher perks, for me. I collected any and all the ones that touched me in one way or another, and now I carry around a gazillion of them in my iPhone (well, technically they’re warehoused in the cloud). But… anyway, sometimes when I’m languishing in a doctor’s waiting room, manning the circulation desk during the quiet moments at the local library, or riding in the passenger seat while my wife, Phyllis, drives the car, I can simply pull out the phone and alter my mood with a poem, just like that. And I have so many genres: love poems, war poems, protest poems, sci-fi poems, beat poems, horror poems, anger poems, hilarious ones, short ones, endless ones… you name it. Strange little things, smart phones. You never really know who’s packing what.

Sometimes there have been these important-to-me poems in my life that I’ve somehow managed to lose and, consequently, I’ve ended up investing a great deal of my years tracking them back down. Which is next to impossible if they’re ancient and especially if you can’t for the life of you conjure up the title or the poet’s name. But if and when I ever do recapture one of those, there’s a little celebration that goes on down deep inside me that flutters my heart (somewhat like A Fib only more fun). I kid you not.

Here’s a true story. About three or four months ago, a TV commercial was advertising an upcoming boxing match featuring a boxer whose last name was Saavedra. I probably shocked my wife when I leapt up of the sofa and shouted, “That’s IT! THAT’S HIS NAME!” Then of course I had to explain to her what the hell I was yelling about.

Well, a little poem that I’d discovered way, way back when had somehow vanished from my collection. It was just a snippet of a thing, a little love poem only a few lines long. Wouldn’t be deemed important to most of the citizens of our planet but, as I often say, we’re all occupying our own little unique spaces on the social spectrum, aren’t we. And yes, it was a love poem. I’m a sucker for love poems if they’re well-and-creatively written. The main reason I was having no luck recovering this one is because of the hard-to-remember-let-alone-pronounce name of the poet: Guadalupe de Saavedra. Plus wrack my brain as much as I could, the title refused to leave the tip of my tongue. For years! And then…

Bingo! There was some unpoetic dumb-ass boxer named Saavedra going to box some other unpoetic dumbass palooka on TV. And finally (and serendipitously) gifted with the boxer’s name, I only had to seek the help of the Great God Google. Ding! Retrieved it in five minutes!

The poem is titled “If You Hear That a Thousand People Love You.” And today is the perfect day for me to share this love poem here, it being Phyllis’ and my 57^th anniversary today (7/30). So that’s got me feeling all warm and fuzzy here. Spoiler alert: I’m such a damn romantic. But now that I’ve talked about it and put it on a pedestal, I imagine you’ll look at this piece off fluff and say, “What the hell does he think is so special about this thing?!” And that’s OK because, right after this poem, I’m going to share two or three poems I’ve written to Phyllis over time and, yeah, sure, they’re bound to be deemed head and shoulders above this one, right?

IF YOU HEAR THAT A THOUSAND PEOPLE LOVE YOU

by Guadalupe de Saavedra

If you hear that a thousand people love you
remember… Saavedra is among them.

If you hear that a hundred people love you
remember… Saavedra is either in the first
or very last row

If you hear that seven people love you
remember… Saavedra is among them,
like a Wednesday in the middle of the week

If you hear that two people love you
remember…one of them is Saavedra

If you hear that only one person loves you
remember…he is Saavedra

And when you see no one else around you,
and you find out
that no one loves you anymore,
then you will know for certain
that… Saavedra is dead

Yeah, not really such a great poem perhaps. But when I first found it, I was smitten. My favorite line is Saavedra is among them, like a Wednesday in the middle of the week. I dunno. I can identify with a love like that.

Story of my life with Phyllis: since I was a high school junior and she my freshman sweetheart in 1962-63, I went crazy writing poems for her, about her, and about us. I was a rhyming fool, a creator of bad doggerel (poetry written by dogs, I was once told). I don’t know why, but I was madly driven to capture The Adventure of Our Old-fashion Crush with all its ups and downs on reams of notebook paper. Each verse was honestly a sonnet in itself. I get this feeling I might still have a few “chapters” of those maudlin verses lying around somewhere, in a box maybe, but I couldn’t find them. Just as well, I imagine. I’m pretty sure I’d be embarrassed by them today.

Funny, immature me, I’d go to the movies and hear how cool Clark Gable or Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart or Jimmy Stewart would speak to women, and then I’d try to model my own ‘lines’ after some of theirs. One time at Phyllis’ home, I was sitting at her kitchen table and watched her making me a cup of coffee. Then, as she brought it over to me, I dunno, the whole scene felt so domestic and she so wifely, that I Abruptly came out with this one: “Hey, you and me? Let’s grow old together.” Now how corny is that?

OK, I’ll tell you how corny it is. It’s laughingly as embarrassing as a Harrison Ford line in the 1973 film, American Grafitti. The year is 1962. Ford plays Bob Falfa, the reckless badass dude driving a hot, souped-up, black ’55 Chevy. Bob wants to prove his car is the fastest car in the valley. So, he’s itching to go up against Paul Le Mat’s character, John Milner, who drives the locally famous yellow 1932 Ford 5-window coupe, the hot rod that had long been the fastest car in the valley. Before the race, however, badass Falfa picks up Laurie (Cindy Williams) who’s virginal, vulnerable, and on the rebound from having just been dumped by her steady, Steve (Ron Howard). Unfortunately she’s about to become the lady-in-distress as Falfa has decided she will accompany him in the ill-advised speed race out on the outskirts of the city. But first, he tries to come on to her, in his way (who wouldn’t) but the way he attempts it is something that is so weird and awkward it caused me to cringe. First he grows all serious, then looks her straight in the eyes, and after a moment (what?) begins ridiculously singing “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific. I know, right?! Don’t believe me? Stream the flick. It’s a wonderful film (with the exception of Ford’s musical come-on). But as awkward as that was, it’s a little bit too similar to my out-of-the-blue “Let’s grow old together” attempt. Oh well, it’s funny now. And of course it’s taken 60+ years, but Phyl and I eventually did succeed in accomplishing just that.

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

you crossed the square heading west on main… we were the yang and the yin

i was the fire & you were the ice, the odds stacked against us had loaded the dice

but we didn’t know that then

i watched you walk with your new friend & talk, unaware i was being reeled in

that was the fateful momentous day in our tinytown lives so mundane

just a fall afternoon with the sun dropping down

autumn leaves underfoot, yelloworange&brown

on the corner of north street and main

i watched you walk with my cousin & talk

(through the drugstore display window pane)

the gambler in me told my heart & my soul: though opposite charges attract

i’d look you in the eye & retain full control…

our fate’s cosmic die rode the crapshooter’s roll

& rolled boxcars— the odds had been stacked

(magnetic north pole & magnetic south)

our futures were processed & packed

the bi-polar pull of our gravities’ force set our orbital paths for collision

inevitable contact… there was no recourse

our hormones alone were our single resource

the dice roll had made its decision

no time for reflection, no room for remorse

the outcome was nuclear fission

when matter and anti-material collide: cataclysmic, the chain reaction

its thunderclap echoes through all space and time

it alters the future’s & past’s paradigm—

twin suns, we were lock-stepped in traction

each destined to fall as the other would climb

the orbital dance of co-action…

you crossed the square heading west on main (we were the yang and the yin

i was the fire & you were the ice

we were starcrossed as soulmates—indelibly spliced

but we didn’t know that then)

i watched you walk with your new friend & talk

aware you were reeling me in

FETCHING

needling your quilt in your lamplight halo

you look over and catch me

your “RCA dog”

gazing into your eyes

my spiritual tail beginning to wag

and me growling some humorous

something or other—

this old dog’s old trick

for fetching me

the biscuit

of your sweet

laughter

THE BIG CHILL

“we got married in a fever hotter than a pepper sprout”

— johnny & june carter cash

you were the spark

that ignited the fuse

for the

big bang

of my hitherto

relatively uneventful

love life

it flashing incendiary

roman candles & rockets

molotov-cocktail love

flame-thrower love burning

magnesium hot

launching me in a straight trajectory

right over lover’s leap at

e=mc²

but that was in my callow youth

today

like the olympic flame

my love for you

still burns

patient now & serene

fireplace cozy

cup of cocoa hot

electric blanket warm

Happy 57th anniversary to us (7/30 /1966 -7/30/2023)

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BUMMER

One of the all-time, proudest little moments of my high school English teaching career was the day I faced-off against a sophomore, all-boy classroom of the junior Exiles Motorcycle Club and announced that we were about to begin the required poetry unit. I’d been dreading the day since they and I first got the chance to look each other over back in September. I was a hell of a lot more intimidated by them than they were of me. Each wore the signature jean jacket with the sleeves torn off, leaving it pretty much a vest, with “EXILES” stenciled in an arc across the shoulder blades.. Despite the lack of the black leather jacket, which I’m guessing was above their pay grade, in my head I was quietly hearing the lyrics of a rousing 1950s song:

Click the YouTube link to enjoy the entire classic 50s ballad: https://youtu.be/TYFfgM78hJY

Black Denim Trousers (1955) by Vaughn Monroe

He wore black denim trousers and motorcycle boots
And a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back
He had a hopped-up ‘cicle that took off like a gun
That fool was the terror of Highway 101

Well, he never washed his face and he never combed his hair
He had axle grease imbedded underneath his fingernails
On the muscle of his arm was a red tattoo
A picture of a heart saying “Mother, I love you”

He had a pretty girlfriend by the name of Mary Lou
But he treated her just like he treated all the rest
And everybody pitied her and everybody knew
He loved that doggone motorcycle best…

from “Black Denim Trousers” –songwriters: Jerry Leiber / Mike Stoller

I was really nervous. However, by then I’d had a few weeks to better get to know the little badass wannabes as the unique and colorful individuals that in reality they were. And I’d been able to use that time to sweat over preparing possible strategies for this High Noon showdown. I’d come up with only one clever, albeit somewhat iffy, plan. It was a gamble. And if I lost, damn, I’d have to kiss my beloved poetry goodbye. Still, it was pretty clever. In the long run, it had been my jukebox brain that handed me the possible key: music! Because as Google tells us today (Google didn’t exist back then), “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast…” Yes, and one day, somewhere between September and November, the ghost of Harry Chapin had stepped forward to potentially save this English major’s ass.

Now, these dudes dwelled on believing (actually knowing) that they were the ones in charge, regardless of who was being paid to be. And in that they could often be very (gulp!) convincing. So when I unsteadily announced, “OK guys. Starting today we’re diving into poetry for a few weeks…” I wasn’t entirely surprised by the volley of snide laughter that interrupted me mid-sentence, though it left me standing on shaky ground.

After the merriment died down, one of the guys (apparently the leader and spokesperson of this little band) mansplained to me (and yes, I realize that the term “mansplain” wasn’t even coined back there in the 70s but, in retrospect, that’s what it was) that no, we wouldn’t be taking part in any… poetry unit. Whereupon I felt obliged as “their teacher” to mansplain back to them that, yeah, I understood how they felt and all yet, still, it was mandated by the curriculum and all so there was really nothing we could do about it. Another volley of laughter!

(OK. Now before I go on, let me mansplain to you, dear reader, the actual reality at play here. Honestly? The administration couldn’t have actually cared less about what went on in my classroom with those particular yahoos, as long as it didn’t bring down any bad publicity on the school district. In other words, the principal himself knew that even he wouldn’t try teaching the appreciation of poetry to this crowd so… if I‘d wanted to (and as long as no one set fire to the classroom, got killed, and we didn’t get found out), I probably could’ve kept them busy all year doing book reports on Playboy. But the truth is, I love poetry, always have, and what I was feeling was the dire need to do something (anything) to save my own my sanity in that particular classroom! Poetry would do that for me, if I could only pull it off.

“No, guys, I’m serious. We don’t have any choice.”

“OK, fine. Go ahead then. You do it. Just wake us back up when it’s over. Or not. See, we don’t care what you do up there at the front of the room, do we, guys. We won’t pay any attention. But hey, whatever floats your boat, man. Have fun.”

I purposely let our give and take play out for a minute or two longer. I wanted to allow their egos to be wallowing in their little victory over The Man, confident they had easily crushed my frilly little poetry plans like a cigarette butt beneath their collective steel-toed boot. I wanted them in a festive, patting-themselves-on-the-back mood similar to the Trojans, drinking it up to excess as they lay beneath the deadly shadow of the infamous Trojan horse. Hopefully all the better to unload my supposed, and-hopefully-not-a-dud “ace” up my sleeve, heh heh. So I hoped anyway. I dunno, perhaps I’m a student of the art of war.

But finally I laid the ace down on the table before them. “OK, men. Looks like you got me. However, if you’re not too chicken to…gamble, I have a little proposition for you.”

“Gamble? You wanna gamble with us? Sorry, homeboy. I mean come on, dude. Poetry? Get real.” Another volley of laughter.

“C’mon on. Hear me out. I mean, if I’m gonna lose my job thanks to you yahoos, the least you can do is listen.”

“Whatever.”

“So. Tell you what. How about this? You let me try one single poem on you. Alright, it’s actually a song. But the lyrics? Lyrics are poetry. So…”

“What kind of music? Lawrence Welk? No, don’t think so.”

“I can’t stand Lawrence Welk either, so no. Feel better?”

“No. Not really.”

“But here’s the deal. All you hafta do is give me one shot. But the stipulation is… a half-hour shot, a full half hour, because I do want you to wait till I’m finished with it, right? No interruptions. At the end of which I call for a vote. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. Totally up to you guys. And I guarantee I will abide by your decision. Guarantee it. And so think about this. A) By doing this I can, in all good conscience, report back to the principal that yeah, I did poetry with you guys. I just don’t need to mention it was just one poem, eh? So you’re saving my bacon,” I lied, “and I won’t forget that. And… well, this is just between you and me, OK? And B) You get to trade away what might’ve turned out to be a three- or four-week unit of the dreaded poetry for you (yeah, sure, I know, just hearing me do it all by myself at the front of the room, but still…) all for a lousy, stinkin’ thirty freakin’ minutes of it. What a deal, right?”

“Yeah, you say guaranteed and all, but what if it turns out afterwards you’re lyin’?”

“Well, the way I look at it is, you’re the fierce biker gang here, right? I’m the Ichabod Crane.”

“The… what?“

“I mean, if I stiff you on this, you guys’ll probably kill me, so…”

“Oh yeah. There is that.”

“’Course I’m one pretty rugged fella…” Another volley. “But remember, I want your attention throughout this. And considering what you’re likely to gain in the deal, I think that’s a fair trade, don’t you?”

The little man in charge looked over his shoulder. “Guys?” There were a number of silent, cautious, almost imperceptible nods. He swung back around. “All right. We’ll give you a shot. But I’m warning…”

“Thank you. For your vote of confidence.”

“We ain’t voted yet.”

“Fair enough. OK. So here’s how it’s gonna work.”

“What’s it called? This so-called song?”

“Bummer.” They all grinned a little. “Yeah, you were imagining “Clouds” or “Daffodils, right?.” But… here’s how this is gonna work. I’ve printed up copies of the words,” I said, holding up a stapled, two-page, two-sided, single-spaced document.

“Jeez. What’s that? A friggin’ book? It’s long enough! I thought you said a poem.”

“It’s long. Yeah. But I believe you agreed to the stipulation that you hafta pay attention…

“Oh, believe me. I’m paying attention all right.”

“Sarcasm is cool. OK. But this song, “Bummer,” has a fairly long instrumental introduction. Sorry about that. It’s kinda gonna sound like some cop show theme, Starsky and Hutch maybe. I’m gonna let that play for a couple of minutes to set the tone. And meanwhile, I’ll be coming around passing out these lyrics to you. I’m asking you to follow along carefully, word for word, OK?”

And when, a moment later, I dropped the needle into the vinyl groove, I heard somebody mutter “Christ!’

(Bythe way, dear reader, do us both a favor and click on this YouTube link to listen along while you read the lyrics. I’m betting you’ll be impressed by both the content and the very creative arrangement. Hopefully, you’ll feel like one of the Exiles, if you do.) https://youtu.be/mL3eXX-na64

And here are the lyrics:

Bummer

by Harry Chapin from Portrait Gallery

His mama was a midnight woman
His daddy was a drifter drummer
One night they put it together
Nine months later came the little black bummer

He was a laid back lump in the cradle
Chewing paint chips that fell from the ceiling
Whenever he cried he got a fist in his face
So he learned not to show his feelings

He was a pig-tail puller in grammar school
Left back twice by the seventh grade
Sniffing glue in Junior High
And the first one in school to get laid

He was a weed-speed pusher at fifteen
He was mainlining skag a year later
He’d started pimping when they put him in jail
He changed from a junkie to a hater

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

They threw him back on the street, he robbed an A & P
He didn’t blink at the buddy that he shafted
And just about the time they would have caught him too
He had the damn good fortune to get drafted

He was A-one bait for Vietnam
You see, they needed more bodies in a hurry
He was a cinch to train ‘cause all they had to do
Was to figure how to funnel his fury

They put him in a tank near the DMZ
To catch the gooks slipping over the border
They said his mission was to Search and Destroy
And for once he followed and order

One sweat-soaked day in the Yung-Po Valley
With the ground still steaming from the rain
There was a bloody little battle that didn’t mean nothing
Except to the few that remained

You see a couple hundred slants had trapped the other five tanks
And had started to pick off the crews
When he came on the scene and it really did seem
This is why he’d paid those dues

It was something like a butcher going berserk
Or a sane man acting like a fool
Or the bravest thing that a man had ever done
Or a madman blowing his cool

Well he came on through like a knife through butter
Or a scythe sweeping through the grass
Or to say it like the man would have said it himself:
“Just a big black bastard kicking ass!”

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

When it was over and the smoke had cleared
There were a lot of VC bodies in the mud
And when the medics came over for the very first time
They found him smiling as he lay in his blood

They picked up the pieces and they stitched him back together
He pulled through though they thought he was a goner
And it forced them to give him what they said they would
Six purple hearts and the Medal of Honor

Of course he slouched as the Chief White Honkey said:
“Service beyond the call of duty”
But the first soft thought was passing through his mind
“My medal is a Mother of a beauty!”

He got a couple of jobs with the ribbon on his chest
And though he tried he really couldn’t do ’em
There was only a couple of things that he was really trained for
And he found himself drifting back to ’em

Just about the time he was ready to break
The VA stopped sending him his checks
Just a matter of time ’cause there was no doubt
About what he was going to do next

It ended up one night in a grocery store
Gun in hand and nine cops at the door
And when his last battle was over
He lay crumpled and broken on the floor

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

Well he’d breathed his last, but ten minutes past
Before they dared to enter the place
And when they flipped his riddled body over they found
His second smile frozen on his face

They found his gun where he’d thrown it
There was something else clenched in his fist
They pried his fingers open— found the Medal of Honor
And the Sergeant said: “Where in the hell he get this?”

There was a stew about burying him in Arlington
So they shipped him in box to Fayette
And they kind of stashed him in a grave in the county plot
The kind we remember to forget

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

I’ve gotta say, it was fun watching their changing expressions as they pored over the handout, following along, and it was especially a real hoot when Mr. Chapin sang the line, “Sniffing glue in Junior High and the first one in school to get laid.” One kid’s head popped right up looking at me wide-eyed, and he almost gasped in wonder, “Can you say that? In school, I mean?” to which I responded, “I dunno. Probably not.” (Keep in mind this was the early 70s after all, years fifty some ago.) But it also gave me a rush of inner joy to witness my kids, already budding outliers in their world, become emotionally affected, probably the very first time, by something at once both so crude and artistic. It felt kinda like one of those To Sir, With Love moments, you know?

Anyway, that was the day I began to fall in love with this little badass biker class.

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URBAN LEGENDS BLUES

“i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed

by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging

themselves through the negro streets at dawn

looking for an angry fix…”

— howl, by allen ginsberg

it was almost practically an honest-to-god fact …

(all the older cool guys confirmed it)

& we could all recite all those well-known anecdotes

seething with that rebel-without-a-cause wildness,

the same walk-on-the-wild-side jazz we’d seek out in

the breathless teen-angst movies like

joy ride… & party crashers:

“a single aspirin swigged down

with a mouthful of coca-cola

will render you staggeringly,

knocked-on-your-ass drunk”

one medicine show demonstration: a normally

“sober” & “respectable” older kid rapidly developing

outrageously slurred speech patterns & flopping with

histrionic helplessness on the playground lawn

where he was reduced to a giggling,

gravity-pinned, dying cockroach

impaled on its back: proof-positive!

so later, in the sanctuary of my room,

after surreptitiously gulping down the

deliciously-illicit white pill with a glass of Coke

(which, as anyone could tell you, can completely

dissolve a steel spike left in it over night!)

& waiting over an hour for the magic…

nothing… happened!

boy, was i ever pissed! it was just like that time

I swallowed the chokecherries & drank the

glass of milk, which everybody swore

would kill you… but it never did.

it just tasted bad.

i didn’t even get sick!

I thought, face it:

there’s no magic in this world—

only lies

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FORTUNE’S FOOL SYNDROME

So once upon a time I found myself on a jumbo jet headed for something called Basic Training. I say found myself, not because I was just waking up from amnesia. And not because I’d been drafted, either. Nothing as exotic as that. And in case you’re wondering, I was stone cold sober. Oh, I could’ve listed off the steps that had placed me on that plane. It’s just that the Big Decisions in my life never seemed entirely real… until, that is, I’d end up landing on both feet in some rock-hard consequence that I might not be too happy with. That’s just the way most of my life was— always sort of discovering myself somewhere or other, involved in doing something I really hadn’t particularly chosen and didn’t necessarily want. Strange, huh. I was born without foresight.

Something other than me seemed to be the force that determined what I was to become, and when. Consequently, I’ve felt a strong kinship with Juliet’s Romeo when he cried out in anguish, “O, I am fortune’s fool!” (act 3, scene 1). Remember, he’d just accidentally executed Juliet’s favorite cousin Tybalt, something he hadn’t planned on doing at all. In fact, it was the last thing on earth he’d wanted to do. But nonetheless, there he was, stuck with the consequences. That was so me of him. Well, I’ve never killed anybody. Still, I see myself suffering from something close to acute Fortune’s Fool Syndrome.

My parents were loving parents. I know they loved me and my siblings dearly. We were blessed. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was me. See, they made the decisions. All the decisions period. And I guess I didn’t always like that so much. For some reason I’d been born downright contentious and I had a dark side. (I wasn’t all bad. Half of me was good… I swear). But as the black sheep of the family, I never saw much fun in practicing responsible-decision-making. There was just something off about me. Dad tried his darndest to teach me responsibility, but all of his lessons just seemed to drip off me like water off a duck’s feathers. My mind was always elsewhere. I dunno, was it my DNA? I often wondered. I really did.

For instance when Disney’s Pinocchio hit our local theater again, I know I identified with Pinocchio. The movie left me feeling guilty for some reason, and chewing on some probing questions about who and what I was, even at age ten…

ON FIRST WATCHING PINOCCHIO

Did the virgin-pure, see-no-evil hearts

of any of those other little boys in the

fllickery moviedark leap up (like mine?)

at all those all-night carnival-barker

come-ons amid the sparkleworks of

Pleasure Island?

Those free Big Rock Candy Mountain

Cigars, say?

That stained-glass church window just

begging you to pitch a brick through it?

The punch-somebody-in-the-face-&-

get-away-with-it “Rough House”?

And the mugs of free draft beer served at

The Pleasure Island Pool Hall Emporium?

Did the NO MORE CURFEWS concept set

their y-chromosomes a-resonating like

little tuning forks? Did Disney’s Pinocchio

arouse the snakes & snails and

puppy-dog tails in

those guys too?

Or (good lord!)

was I the only

donkey boy

in the

crowd?

Anyway, I know I never liked my parents’ lessons and rules, but it was made clear to me from the beginning that I didn’t have to like them. It just was what it was. I always fought against them, but pretty much all my rebellions were firmly and promptly squashed. Dad was military after all, served as an NCO who, a few years prior, saw extreme combat in World War II. So… obedience, and all.

But Ma’s rules were crazy. Her being a fundamental evangelist, she was always on guard and ready to exorcise the devil in me. Would you believe she once made me swear not to get a girl pregnant, simply because some high school girl right up the street had gotten in the family way? And would you believe I was in third grade at the time; knew ZILCH about how to, or how not to, do that particular thing but swore up and down and crossed my heart anyway that I would never do it? Poor Ma. She also made me pledge that I would never fall in love with a Catholic girl. And then one day, my sophomore biology lab partner (a year older than me) said she’d like to meet me at the hometown basketball game that night. With a fluttery heart, you bet I showed up. We sat with our backs against the wall in the top tier of the bleachers and… before I knew what was going on, I found myself lip-locked in a make-out embrace! I know! I came back home from the game later that evening just in time to hear the tail-end of my older brother squealing on me, “…and she’s Catholic too, Ma!” Yep. That was every bit as shameful as when Jerry Seinfeld’s “parents” found out their son had been spotted making out in the movie theater during Schindler’s List! But what the hell. Later in life, yeah, I married myself a good Catholic girl.

So anyway, I ended up just floating down river of my life through the puberty years and beyond like some youthful Long John Silver on The Good Ship Lollipop. I lived only for the moment, totally oblivious to any real decisions and future planning that I needed to be making. They’d take care of themselves when the time came, right? They always had. Somehow. The only gnawing problem was, as time went by, I began feeling this ominous, not-so-far-off-and-getting-nearer metaphoric roar of Niagara Falls up ahead, that drop-off where I’d someday find myself deep-sixed down in Adultsville and on my own..

Back through fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, our teachers would subject us to The Annual Career Planning Unit. Each year the student must select a career that he/she might possibly to pursue for consideration in her/his possible future. The assignment: a three or four week project wherein an encyclopedia entry on the selected career might be painstakingly copied down verbatim (no computers, no Google back then), a worker in the selected field might be contacted for a personal Q&A interview, informative pamphlets might be sent away for, etc. I was excited about this project. If you’d asked me back then I’d say, “I can tell you exactly what I’m going to be when I grow up.” It was gonna be the same thing I’d always wanted to be since giving up being a singing cowboy movie star like Roy Rogers: a bona fide United States Air Force jet pilot ace. So yeah, I hit the old library encyclopedia, sent for some packets, talked to the flyboy down at the local recruiting office, and presented my report to the class as glowingly as the infamous Ralphie of The Christmas Story movie ever delivered his eloquent plea for his Red Ryder BB rifle. But…right off the bat, I had luckily stumbled upon the two most critical keys to becoming America’s next flying ace: simply a minimum height requirement (I wasn’t there yet, but it was still early), and a vision score of 20/20. Bingo! I already had 20/20 vision! Simply grow a few more inches and I’d be in like flint! So there. I was practically flying my Sabre jet already.

By the time I got to high school I had only another inch to grow, so things were looking up. I loved talking about my future in the wild blue yonder. Actually I talked about it too much because as my junior year rolled around, I was abruptly sat down at the dinner table to have the talk with Ma and Dad. (No, not that talk. I never got that talk, actually.) It was a rather grim family meeting. The topic was that my future beyond high school was not up to me. (What?)It was up to them. ( I said, What?!)And it didn’t involve the service. It involved college. (Wait a minute. As Cool Hand Luke was once informed, What we had there was a failure to communicate.) I didn’t want to go to college, I informed them. It was gonna be the Air Force for me. No, I was informed, it was going to be college for me. “We’ve thought about this, your mom and me, and what we’ve decided is… well… you’re going to be the first one in our family ever to graduate with a college degree.”

I was dumbfounded! “Oh. You’ve thought about it, have you? How nice! Funny, I can’t remember me thinking about it. Now why’s that? Oh yeah, now I ‘member: it’s ‘cause: That’s. Not. What. I. Want. Let somebody else do it!” It was for my own good, I was told. No, I argued, it was for my own bad. It would be a waste of my time. Because maybe they didn’t realize it, but (and oh boy, here came my two aces in the hole!) I had just that year met my height requirement (barely) and plus, I already had 20/20 vision.

“What, you think that’s all it takes to be a pilot. I’ll tell you what it takes. It takes a good solid math background for one thing. And your grades in trigonometry aren’t too stellar right now, are they. Listen, I had to take calculus.” Hell, I didn’t even know what calculus was. Whatever it was, it sounded awful. But anyway, long story short— ever hear that song, “I Fought the Law and the Law Won”? I was destined to lose. It couldn’t have gone any other way. Why? Because my whole little lifetime, I’d been brainwashed into knowing that I was under their thumb. Stockholm Syndrome. Losing was all I knew.

Growing up, Dad was “my agent.” He was always getting me jobs I didn’t want. I remember one beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon. I was just sitting on our front steps staring blissfully up at the clouds, chewing on a stalk of grass. Suddenly, dad’s pick-up stormed into the driveway. He rolled his window down and called out, “Get in.”

I was confused. “What’s going on?”

“You’re gonna be mowing lawns at the local cemeteries this summer.” Hey, I didn’t even like having to mow our lawn, let alone somebody else’s, but cemetery plots? Alas, within minutes I found myself a fresh-fish kidnap-ee among a rag-tag brigade of whiskered old scarecrows trundling behind lawn mowers. Another summer he got me two wretched custodial jobs which I thought way too demeaning for the likes of me, as the last thing I wanted to be known as was a friggin’ toilet-cleaning, garbage-hauling “janitor.” But the topper was that evening he came home from work grinning and told me I was now an employee at the local ESSO station. “What!? Hey, I… no offense but see, I don’t know the first thing about working at a gas station! I’m…not even qualified.” That seemed to tickle his funny bone as he assured me that the proprietor had personally assured him that, not to worry, he’d turn me into a grease monkey in no time flat. “A grease monkey?”

OK. But before I go on here, allow me to pause and come clean about something. Me wanting to be a flyboy ace? That was stupid. An irresponsible childish fantasy, just as stupid as my once wanting to be a singing cowboy movie star. Very likely I would have washed out of flight school in the first day but of course, I couldn’t see that then. A) I was oh so immature, B) a drama queen, C) a spoiled little brat, and D) a wuss to boot. Ma and Dad were right much more often that I was wrong. It’s true. I was the problem. I’m embarrassed right now traveling back there in my mind and witnessing, in retrospect, my childish behavior. All my whining and complaining would’ve fit right into some black and white 1950s sit-com like Father Knows Best or My Three Sons. Shame on me. OK? OK. There. I feel better now. Young Tom, drama queen extraordinaire.

That being said, my immaturity didn’t do me any favors in my actual young adulthood. Sure, I ended up enjoying a 34-year career in education, but how did that happen? Answer: by default. I’ve said that a thousand times. By default. (I’m smiling to myself now because that just reminded me of a comical quote from Homer Simpson: “Dee Fault Dee Fault!! My two favorite words in the English language!”)

And the fact that I became a teacher by default points right back to that very time I was having the spat with my parents about Air Force vs. College.

When I‘d finally caved on the issue (I always caved), and when it was obvious to all three of us that I’d really caved, Ma and Dad were excited. Me? I was left feeling sad, powerless, bruised, and happily wallowing in self-pity. So when the prodding started as to what I might want for a career and where I might like to apply for school… my martyr’s answer: “I don’t care. Why don’t you pick.” And when they started really pushing it, I’d get passively aggressively sarcastic. “Oh I dunno. Brain surgeon? Maybe a rocket scientist? I figure with my grades, I might as well go to Harvard. Or if I can’t get in there, then Yale is a shoo-in.” Then my Guidance Counselor got into the act of course. Pick a card. Any card. So I ended up picking the Joker, the least expensive card in the deck, which just so happened to be a state teachers’ college. Maine residents like myself were gifted with a seriously much reduced cost of tuition at state colleges. Did it matter to me that it was a teachers’ college? Not in the least. Because who cared? What difference did it make? Bring it on. Oh, pity-party me… So the die was cast by default.

So, off to college I went. And you ask, How was college? Great. I loved being off on my own, away from the parents. I loved living in a dorm. I loved making new friends. Hell, along the way I accidentally fell in love with the courses I was taking, not that I meant to. And of course as time went on I also fell in love with learning to drink and being quite utterly irresponsible. Goes with the territory. But when it was over, boy didn’t it ever used to piss me off when I’d catch Ma proudly telling her friends, “Oh, you know I’ll never forget that exact moment when Tommy announced that he had a calling to be a teacher!” Jeez, Ma. Gimme a friggin’ break.

The first two years passed in those ivy-covered halls. And then, on the second week of my junior year, something life-altering happened. During an educational class on Classroom Management, the professor herded us across the street to the local junior high school (think middle school) where we got to sit in the back of a classroom to watch a real live teacher in action. Two things happened to me. A) I was utterly knocked out by the (wow!) unbelievable mastery in action of that teacher, and B) I was (oh shit!) hit over the head with an epiphany that, once again, I’d ‘found’ myself somewhere. Only this time found myself strapped like a saw mill log on a conveyor belt that was barreling me toward the Big Buzz Saw straight ahead : an actual teaching job! An actual life-long career of teaching, oh my! I was suddenly terrified.

You’ll no doubt find it strange that I’d just lived through two whole years taking classes in a four-years teachers’ college and hadn’t realized, what… the obvious? I know. I get it. So do I, I still find it strange, not to mention embarrassing. I dunno, maybe I have ADHD or something. But the truth is, never in my wildest imagination had I consciously comprehended the cold, hard reality of what the academic motions I was robotically going through actually meant. In my mind, I was still in high school and going to nowheresville. Don’t forget, pity-party me had left high school in a real dark zombie funk, and I’d entered that college feeling like nothing more than a wooden pawn in somebody else’s chess game. And then following that, I’d become way too distracted by the joys and opportunities of campus life to even focus on the fact that my non-decisions carried actual responsibilities.

See? Romeo’s Fortune’s Fool Syndrome.

But long story short, sure enough, I became a teacher. Didn’t like it much that first year. Felt I wasn’t cut out for it. So instead of hanging in for a second year, I joined the Army National Guard instead. Why? Because my best friend had just done that. But then BASIC Training sucked so bad, I took the path of least resistance again and sort of allowed myself to fall back into a second teaching job. Which turned out to be a great thing because… well, I fell in love with teaching there. And then I worked very hard at becoming good at it. So many great memories from the various classrooms…

You know, I’ve heard a lot of people repeat the old adage, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” The ironic thing is…they say it like it’s a bad thing.

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A MAN OF SUBSTANCE

One of the great perks of being the septuagenarian today is that I get to be that guy who harps on and on ad nauseum about the horrors of growing up way back there in the 1940s and 50s…

However, it requires being able to walk a fine line: teetering on the tightrope between being seen as an interesting and entertaining informer (like a Ted Talk guy), and unwittingly coming across as a throwback to the violent caveman days (especially to you of the much younger and more recent generations). In fact, I could be in grave danger of being judged pariah material in these political correctness years. Because let’s face it, a lot of aspects of life in “the good old days” can’t help but be perceived as behaviors shamefully barbaric by today’s standards. I mean, (especially speaking as a male), we really were (shudder) the sexist, wolf-whistling, cancer-stick smoking, firetruck-and-ambulance-chasing, no seatbelt kids of the mid-twentieth century.

And what do I have to offer in the way of a defense? Only this pathetic little bouquet of pathetic, wet-limp-noodle, looking-down-at-our-toes-in-shame alibis. Hey you know, we were just kids—not grown-ups! It wasn’t our fault! We didn’t make the rules. It was the times, you dig? And like… when in Rome, daddy-O, do as the Romans do, right? OK, ya jus’… ya jus’ hadda be there, man!

Perhaps it would be a great idea if, before you read my following, autobiographical poem, you’d try looking objectively back on my decades as one might look upon an ancient anthropology museum diorama. And don’t you worry, I do feel dutifully guilty about having been alive during such a Neanderthal past. Hell, I’m still looking back and apologizing for the hip-hugging bell-bottoms and leisure suits of the disco 70s too. But it’s easy to play armchair quarterback after the game is over. Nevertheless, the times just are what they are, and were what they were.

Anyway, moving right along… and without further ado, allow me share with you this little autobiographical piece of creative writing I penned back around 2001.

rhymes with ‘euphoric’

once upon a time

way back there in the 50’s…

the very minute we started teething

the nursery crib became

baby’s first opium den

mom still marvels

how i’d stop crying & drop right off to sleep

just like that!

after she’d massaged a dollop of her favorite

over-the-counter opiate

into the tender & swollen teething sores of my

poor little five-month-old

gummy-gum-gums

paregoric:

the mom’s best friend

a product that really worked for once—

& my brain

(no dummy, even as early as that)

was as eager to learn as any pavlovian dog

& the old messages started flashing in & among

the axons & dendrites:

brain to gums, brain to gums, come in please

roger, brain, this is gums, go ahead

10-4 gums, that last dose was a beaut.

whatever you do, just keep’em coming. you copy?

roger wilco that, brain. Over & out…

yes, message received:

laugh & the world laughs with you

cry & you cry & get stoned

i try to imagine my cunning little self

in my powder-blue security blanket…

jonesing for my next fix—

bet i did a lot of gratuitous ‘crying’…

wonder if i snored like a banshee

as a swaddled little babe coked to the gills…

hell, i’d have cut excess teeth if i’d known how

True story, I swear. An odd one for sure unless, like me, you were born in 1946 into a generation of “considered-very-respectful-moms-and-dads” who happened to believe in the application of that magic, over-the-counter, no-prescription-required opiate known as Paregoric (yeah, think about what you’ve learned about today’s oxycodone) to the sore gums of toddlers in the throes of teething.

It was the conventional thing to do then, and the humane thing to do, right? I mean, it allowed the child to have a much needed respite from the constant pain, didn’t it. And what parent wouldn’t want that? The baby would stop yowling almost immediately. And the big added plus was: it usually knocked the little twerp right off to sleep in some playpen la-la land. And again, what parents don’t love it when their beautiful baby takes a needed nap, especially one they’ll blissfully be very unlikely to wake up from for perhaps an hour or two?

And yet… it was an opiate. Just think: a pre-rugrat, and I was on the receiving end! Who remembers how often?

Take a look at these two illustrations (with a thumb and finger pinch you can zoom in). Read the labels if you dare. These are the same labels our parents gave the cursory glance at when innocently hauling the little bottle out of the medicine cabinet, from its place among the Vicks Vaporub, mercurochrome, aspirin, and the other wonder drugs of the decade. Check the suggested ages. Check the dosages. How powerful were those doses?

Well, I have a memory of six hyperactive little Connecticut cousins of mine arriving in the dead of night after their long, cramped ride up here to Maine for a week-long visit. I was about nine. They ranged from one to eight and were wound tight as drums after being packed like sardines in their station wagon for so long. A wild and joyous scene immediately ensued, with yelling and laughing and wrestling and telling stories. But 45 minutes later their mom lined them up like little soldiers in a row, had each step forward one by one, and spooned (eye-droppered for the baby) Paregoric into each dutifully opened mouth. Fifteen minutes later there was a dead silence. Every last one of them had fallen sound asleep and was being carried off and away to bed.

And… has it affected me? Well, quite obviously it did at the time I was dosed. I mean I was (to borrow the title of one of my Bob Dylan albums) “Knocked Out Loaded.” Yes, but that was the immediate effect. Did it have a long-term effect on my life? My later life?

Well, first of all, I think we’ll all agree that it’s unreasonable to give an opiate to a 6-month old baby, and it’s hard to imagine there would be no long-term changes. Of course we didn’t have Google (let alone computers). If we had, we might have been interested in this assessment from https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov: “The risk of addiction to opium smoking appears to be somewhat less than to parenteral use of heroin, but appreciably greater than to alcohol. Even in countries where its use is traditional, opium smoking carries substantial risks of harm to health and social functioning…“ And speaking of alcohol by the way, when I related the story of my 1950s infantile brushes with Paregoric to my high school English classes of the 1970s, they confessed to me that many of their parents had dipped the tip of a rag into a glass of whiskey and allowed them to chew on it for gums relief. But I digress.

Who can say what long-term effects this practice has had on my life? I believe that I can argue very convincingly that there have been some direct long-term effects. But how much of that was brought on by DNA? Nature or nurture?

Let me say this, though: my little poem, “Rhymed with ‘Euphoric,’” is the one I chose to be the introductory piece in the last of five poetry chapbooks:

As a whole, the book pretty much stunk. But there are a few winners within, in my opinion. More about this later perhaps, perhaps not.

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