an industrial diamond
extracts Villa-Lobos
from spirals lathed into black vinyl
thirty-three and a third
revolutions per minute
surface noise and Segovia
five junior composers
trade hometown stories
over Peak Freens and Red Zinger
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
3/13/2006
3/12/2006
3/10/2006
Flashlight Tag
Puberty had just begun insinuating its fascinations
Sparking daring acts of bravery
Like holding hands with one of my sister’s friends
Under the contrived cover of flashlight tag
As awkward as it was secret
And sweet as breakfast cereal
Better than television
2/06/2006
Tiny Sirens
On hands and knees I enter the loft
Drawn into the slow motion
Of floating dust and bale debris
Leveraging breaths like rubber
Stretched between shoulders and ribs
The price of my admission is asthma
Which is psychosomatic
According to my grandfather
My wheezing is a descant
To the tiny sirens that guide me
Deeper into the straw world
I’m creeping through ochre shadows
To find a crèche of infant kittens
Drawn into the slow motion
Of floating dust and bale debris
Leveraging breaths like rubber
Stretched between shoulders and ribs
The price of my admission is asthma
Which is psychosomatic
According to my grandfather
My wheezing is a descant
To the tiny sirens that guide me
Deeper into the straw world
I’m creeping through ochre shadows
To find a crèche of infant kittens
1/26/2006
The Adhesive is Failing
Cubes of cold marimba
Clatter against the shallow sides
Of a thick-bottomed glass
My grandfather grips the Manhattan
Like a handrail
Beads of condensation
Blink between his tanned fingers
His black Oxfords tread
Worn-out linoleum
Stuck to farmhouse floorboards
The adhesive is failing
Clatter against the shallow sides
Of a thick-bottomed glass
My grandfather grips the Manhattan
Like a handrail
Beads of condensation
Blink between his tanned fingers
His black Oxfords tread
Worn-out linoleum
Stuck to farmhouse floorboards
The adhesive is failing
1/23/2006
Porch Piano
Unboarded for summer
June bugs thumb heavily
Against rusted screens at night
Cigar clamped in his unshaved smile
Cocktail nearby
Eyes the color of sea foam
His right hand pets a melody
While the left strides
Between chord comp and bass line
From a never-tuned piano
Whispering, Stardust, and Blue Hawaii
Drift nightward like spirits
June bugs thumb heavily
Against rusted screens at night
Cigar clamped in his unshaved smile
Cocktail nearby
Eyes the color of sea foam
His right hand pets a melody
While the left strides
Between chord comp and bass line
From a never-tuned piano
Whispering, Stardust, and Blue Hawaii
Drift nightward like spirits
1/18/2006
Groucho
In the Mid-Seventies, I sang and played guitar in a high school rock band called “Storm”. We were dedicated; we rehearsed three nights per week, and we drummed up our own gigs. We built a strong reputation and worked hard to keep it. Our set-list provided a four-hour, danceable, concert-like experience.
In addition to school dances throughout the Mid-Hudson Valley, we played just about any other gigs we could find: Fourth of July picnics, birthday parties, Christmas parties, pool parties... even a Halloween party at the Sawkill Firehouse.
Given the occasion and the era, it made sense that we would play the gig decked out as KISS. As the front man, it fell to me to be Paul Stanley. I didn’t have the chest hair for the role, but I thought that big black greasepaint star might look pretty damn cool painted over my right eye.
As with many of the best-laid rock-band plans, it was a girl that caused this one to go awry. Her name was Leslie; needless to say, she was beautiful. She was also smart. Honestly, she was out of my league. But she was a sophomore and I was a senior, and that evened things out just enough.
Leslie’s grand vision for the Sawkill Firehouse Halloween Party of 1976 was that she and I would attend the event as Harpo & Groucho Marx. It will hardly come as a surprise that my bandmates did not welcome the idea with enthusiasm. Peter Criss on drums, Ace Freely on lead guitar, Gene Simmons on bass, and Groucho fronting the foursome just didn’t strike them as a commanding lineup. But Leslie’s leverage was significant, so that is exactly how we appeared.
“I want to rock and roll every night and party ev-er-y-day…”
While I threw myself into being the Paul-Stanley-est Groucho that ever strutted a stage, Leslie was cavorting with a guy named Joe. He was a confirmed lover-boy, rarely solo, but uncharacteristically dateless that night. I watched them chatting, and laughing, and dancing… And then I watched them leave together. She honked her little bicycle horn and waved to me as they exited. I couldn’t blame him really – she was adorable in that curly yellow wig.
Through the lens of retrospection, train wrecks often seem so cleanly inevitable.
In addition to school dances throughout the Mid-Hudson Valley, we played just about any other gigs we could find: Fourth of July picnics, birthday parties, Christmas parties, pool parties... even a Halloween party at the Sawkill Firehouse.
Given the occasion and the era, it made sense that we would play the gig decked out as KISS. As the front man, it fell to me to be Paul Stanley. I didn’t have the chest hair for the role, but I thought that big black greasepaint star might look pretty damn cool painted over my right eye.
As with many of the best-laid rock-band plans, it was a girl that caused this one to go awry. Her name was Leslie; needless to say, she was beautiful. She was also smart. Honestly, she was out of my league. But she was a sophomore and I was a senior, and that evened things out just enough.
Leslie’s grand vision for the Sawkill Firehouse Halloween Party of 1976 was that she and I would attend the event as Harpo & Groucho Marx. It will hardly come as a surprise that my bandmates did not welcome the idea with enthusiasm. Peter Criss on drums, Ace Freely on lead guitar, Gene Simmons on bass, and Groucho fronting the foursome just didn’t strike them as a commanding lineup. But Leslie’s leverage was significant, so that is exactly how we appeared.
“I want to rock and roll every night and party ev-er-y-day…”
While I threw myself into being the Paul-Stanley-est Groucho that ever strutted a stage, Leslie was cavorting with a guy named Joe. He was a confirmed lover-boy, rarely solo, but uncharacteristically dateless that night. I watched them chatting, and laughing, and dancing… And then I watched them leave together. She honked her little bicycle horn and waved to me as they exited. I couldn’t blame him really – she was adorable in that curly yellow wig.
Through the lens of retrospection, train wrecks often seem so cleanly inevitable.
1/03/2006
Manure & Ice
I don’t remember why I was chasing the butterscotch cat. It darted out of sunlight into the dusty shadows of my cousins’ barn. I followed at breakneck speed.
My grandparents kept a tidy barn with a floor that wasn’t slick with a film of silt, hay, and manure, but my cousins didn’t hold to such standards. So imagine my surprise when my feet slipped from under me and I found myself falling forward with arms outstretched Superman-style. My flight was not sustainable and I hit the floorboards with a smack and a splat and a long, messy skid.
Perhaps surprisingly, it wasn’t the last time I would rush into a place I didn’t need to be, chasing after something that wasn’t mine.
I also had a wintertime adventure at that farm. There was enough of a hill for sledding, and we made the most of it. With a running start, we could get up enough speed to make it across a flat stretch of yard, and then out onto the frozen duck pond.
The more we sledded, the faster the track became, until we were getting as far as halfway across the pond. Late in the day I decided to really throw myself into it and see what would happen. I hit the packed snow at the perfect angle and velocity. I gripped the steering wings of the Flexible Flyer, and held my boots up to keep from dragging on the track behind me. The sled’s red blades kicked up bits of snow and ice that pelted my face and made my eyes water.
When I reached the edge of the pond I could feel that I had enough speed to make it all the way across the ice. I squinted into the stinging draft, scanning for a good place to stop. The far side of the pond was thick with dead reeds that poked up through the mottled ice like big brown straws. It was swampy and not solidly frozen, but this realization crystallized in my mind a blink too late.
I crashed into the reeds and broke through the ice into scummy pond water. Fortunately, it was too shallow for anything disastrous to happen. I was drenched and chilled, and done sledding for the day, but otherwise none the worse for the wear.
Bookend stories of reckless abandon that ended badly, but not catastrophically: I keep retelling them, trying to decipher their meaning. Does wisdom require me to attenuate my adventurous impulses? Should I frame my curiosity within the bandwidth of safe outcomes? Can I touch the sacred without making direct contact with the stuff of the earth? Is there any faith without danger?
My grandparents kept a tidy barn with a floor that wasn’t slick with a film of silt, hay, and manure, but my cousins didn’t hold to such standards. So imagine my surprise when my feet slipped from under me and I found myself falling forward with arms outstretched Superman-style. My flight was not sustainable and I hit the floorboards with a smack and a splat and a long, messy skid.
Perhaps surprisingly, it wasn’t the last time I would rush into a place I didn’t need to be, chasing after something that wasn’t mine.
I also had a wintertime adventure at that farm. There was enough of a hill for sledding, and we made the most of it. With a running start, we could get up enough speed to make it across a flat stretch of yard, and then out onto the frozen duck pond.
The more we sledded, the faster the track became, until we were getting as far as halfway across the pond. Late in the day I decided to really throw myself into it and see what would happen. I hit the packed snow at the perfect angle and velocity. I gripped the steering wings of the Flexible Flyer, and held my boots up to keep from dragging on the track behind me. The sled’s red blades kicked up bits of snow and ice that pelted my face and made my eyes water.
When I reached the edge of the pond I could feel that I had enough speed to make it all the way across the ice. I squinted into the stinging draft, scanning for a good place to stop. The far side of the pond was thick with dead reeds that poked up through the mottled ice like big brown straws. It was swampy and not solidly frozen, but this realization crystallized in my mind a blink too late.
I crashed into the reeds and broke through the ice into scummy pond water. Fortunately, it was too shallow for anything disastrous to happen. I was drenched and chilled, and done sledding for the day, but otherwise none the worse for the wear.
Bookend stories of reckless abandon that ended badly, but not catastrophically: I keep retelling them, trying to decipher their meaning. Does wisdom require me to attenuate my adventurous impulses? Should I frame my curiosity within the bandwidth of safe outcomes? Can I touch the sacred without making direct contact with the stuff of the earth? Is there any faith without danger?
11/19/2005
Shorthairs
The roof of the El Camino’s cab was just high enough to put me out of reach. Two of four riled-up German Shorthairs lunged up at me with teeth bared, frothy pink and black jowls flapping.
The other two were hard after Donny Van Etten. I yelled to him, “Get up on DeWitt’s car!” What I actually screamed was probably not as clear and concise as that, but he got the message just in time. He scrambled to safety atop a car parked a little farther down Codwise Street.
The El Camino and the German Shorthairs belonged to our neighbor, Meatball. It was normal for the one to be out on the street, but not the others. By the time we noticed that the big dogs were loose, they’d already zeroed in on us.
The sharp sting of teeth pinching my rump inspired a new way of thinking. I hadn’t previously seen an El Camino’s roof as a haven of escape, but crisis had caused me to redefine my cognitive categories.
We waited not-so-patiently for the ruckus to rouse Meatball to our rescue. The dogs no doubt expected their master to run out in his plaids, praise them for their work, and neatly despatch us with his thirty-odd-six.
Fortunately, Meatball was our friend so he didn’t do that. Instead, he scolded the dogs and sent them back to their pen confused and sorely disappointed.
As soon as the coast was clear, Donny and I slid down off the cars and ran home. Between sobs, I blurted fragmented details of the ordeal to my parents. Describing the drama to them while they inspected my skin for damage helped me settle down. It began the curative shift toward framing my distress in the past tense.
The other two were hard after Donny Van Etten. I yelled to him, “Get up on DeWitt’s car!” What I actually screamed was probably not as clear and concise as that, but he got the message just in time. He scrambled to safety atop a car parked a little farther down Codwise Street.
The El Camino and the German Shorthairs belonged to our neighbor, Meatball. It was normal for the one to be out on the street, but not the others. By the time we noticed that the big dogs were loose, they’d already zeroed in on us.
The sharp sting of teeth pinching my rump inspired a new way of thinking. I hadn’t previously seen an El Camino’s roof as a haven of escape, but crisis had caused me to redefine my cognitive categories.
We waited not-so-patiently for the ruckus to rouse Meatball to our rescue. The dogs no doubt expected their master to run out in his plaids, praise them for their work, and neatly despatch us with his thirty-odd-six.
Fortunately, Meatball was our friend so he didn’t do that. Instead, he scolded the dogs and sent them back to their pen confused and sorely disappointed.
As soon as the coast was clear, Donny and I slid down off the cars and ran home. Between sobs, I blurted fragmented details of the ordeal to my parents. Describing the drama to them while they inspected my skin for damage helped me settle down. It began the curative shift toward framing my distress in the past tense.
9/06/2004
My Fishing Pole
Flame orange life vest buckled snugly around my chest, I sat in a rented rowboat with my uncle and my father. My new Zebco rod was perfectly sized for me, and its pushbutton spin reel made casting easy. I reeled in the lure with gentle jerks of my wrist meant to make it appear lifelike, then cast it out again.
I wondered how deep the water was where we were. Neither of the grownups could say for sure. I leaned over a little and peered downward. A couple of feet below the surface the water was a cloudy olive drab, and after that it went opaque with shadows.
Snags were an inevitable part of fishing an Adirondack lake. Normally, persistence paid off, but when it didn’t, the line had to be snapped or cut. This time it was really caught, and I couldn’t work it loose. It was a favorite lure, though, and I wasn’t willing to give it up without a fight.
My uncle rowed toward the snag. I kept the line taut so it wouldn’t get tangled in the oars. He circled slowly, thinking we might be able to free the hook from a different angle. It wouldn’t let go.
I miscalculated the effect of the waves on the boat’s motion, and felt a sudden tug. My heart snagged in my throat as I fumbled with the reel to let out more slack. But I was too slow and my prized Zebco was yanked clean out of my hands. It drifted down into the shadows and disappeared.
My Dad was born at home because the hospital was a luxury his parents couldn’t afford. He learned to love the outdoors at an early age, and in due course became a Boy Scout. After high school he joined the Army, where he learned to peel potatoes and fire a bazooka. When he got home he married my mother and went to work bagging groceries. Around the time I was born, he got hired by IBM, and spent the next thirty-some years punching the clock for Big Blue. He was a pipe smoker, a wood carver, and the scoutmaster of my Cub Scout troop. He was and is a Yankee fan, a Ford driver, and a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. At six-foot-two plus, and well over two hundred pounds, he’s rarely been described as graceful. And yet, it was grace I saw in the powerful, implausible quickness with which he shed his clothes and entered the dark water.
Patiently, methodically, again and again, he dove down in search of my lost fishing pole. In between, he’d surface and tread water while he caught his breath. His reddish-blond crew cut and broad, freckled shoulders were almost incandescent, bobbing in the slate-green lake. He kept at it, curling downward and vanishing with nary a splash, like a pale sea lion in Sears skivvies. My eyes must have been saucers. My thoughts were a swirl of despair, wonder, and admiration. My uncle grinned at his big brother, and egged him on.
Long after a less stubborn (and frugal) man would have given up, unbelievably, my Dad found my fishing pole. Up through the airless shadows he surfaced, prize in hand. He swam to the boat, and returned my Zebco to me. As far as I was concerned, it might as well have been Excalibur. He told my uncle and me he’d meet us at the campsite because he wanted to swim in.
We tied the rowboat to a tree trunk, and watched my Dad breaststroke toward us through the waves. Once he reached shallow water, he went flat against the rocky bottom, and pulled himself along like a crocodile up to the edge of our campsite. Thankfully, since his white underpants were obviously not a bathing suit, and since some neighboring campers had become interested, he stayed beneath the cover of the waterline until the last minute. My mother waded out with a beach towel, and wrapped it around him as he stood up.
I wondered how deep the water was where we were. Neither of the grownups could say for sure. I leaned over a little and peered downward. A couple of feet below the surface the water was a cloudy olive drab, and after that it went opaque with shadows.
Snags were an inevitable part of fishing an Adirondack lake. Normally, persistence paid off, but when it didn’t, the line had to be snapped or cut. This time it was really caught, and I couldn’t work it loose. It was a favorite lure, though, and I wasn’t willing to give it up without a fight.
My uncle rowed toward the snag. I kept the line taut so it wouldn’t get tangled in the oars. He circled slowly, thinking we might be able to free the hook from a different angle. It wouldn’t let go.
I miscalculated the effect of the waves on the boat’s motion, and felt a sudden tug. My heart snagged in my throat as I fumbled with the reel to let out more slack. But I was too slow and my prized Zebco was yanked clean out of my hands. It drifted down into the shadows and disappeared.
My Dad was born at home because the hospital was a luxury his parents couldn’t afford. He learned to love the outdoors at an early age, and in due course became a Boy Scout. After high school he joined the Army, where he learned to peel potatoes and fire a bazooka. When he got home he married my mother and went to work bagging groceries. Around the time I was born, he got hired by IBM, and spent the next thirty-some years punching the clock for Big Blue. He was a pipe smoker, a wood carver, and the scoutmaster of my Cub Scout troop. He was and is a Yankee fan, a Ford driver, and a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. At six-foot-two plus, and well over two hundred pounds, he’s rarely been described as graceful. And yet, it was grace I saw in the powerful, implausible quickness with which he shed his clothes and entered the dark water.
Patiently, methodically, again and again, he dove down in search of my lost fishing pole. In between, he’d surface and tread water while he caught his breath. His reddish-blond crew cut and broad, freckled shoulders were almost incandescent, bobbing in the slate-green lake. He kept at it, curling downward and vanishing with nary a splash, like a pale sea lion in Sears skivvies. My eyes must have been saucers. My thoughts were a swirl of despair, wonder, and admiration. My uncle grinned at his big brother, and egged him on.
Long after a less stubborn (and frugal) man would have given up, unbelievably, my Dad found my fishing pole. Up through the airless shadows he surfaced, prize in hand. He swam to the boat, and returned my Zebco to me. As far as I was concerned, it might as well have been Excalibur. He told my uncle and me he’d meet us at the campsite because he wanted to swim in.
We tied the rowboat to a tree trunk, and watched my Dad breaststroke toward us through the waves. Once he reached shallow water, he went flat against the rocky bottom, and pulled himself along like a crocodile up to the edge of our campsite. Thankfully, since his white underpants were obviously not a bathing suit, and since some neighboring campers had become interested, he stayed beneath the cover of the waterline until the last minute. My mother waded out with a beach towel, and wrapped it around him as he stood up.
7/28/2004
Clay
The mound of clay is cool and moist in my hands. It feels primal and grounding. It feels like promise.
I roll it and flatten it repeatedly, removing bits of grit and closing air pockets. The clay responds to the warmth of my hands and becomes gradually softer. When its texture is pliable, strong and consistent, I ball it up and take it to the wheel.
I throw the heavy lump down onto the spinning platter, and firmly cup my hands around it. I guide it into the hub of the wheel’s energy. I touch the clay with water, and begin coaxing the dome into a cylinder. Pulling it up, and pushing it back down until it seems ready for an opening.
What will this pot hold someday? Carnations, coins, cream, coffee… I push my thumbs gently into its center and begin shaping its emptiness. I expand the void slowly, allowing the clay time to adjust.
When it’s right, I stop the spinning and pull a cutting wire through the base of the pot to release it from the wheel. Its shape is perfect, but its structure is tender. It still needs to experience fire.
6/11/2004
The Eighth Man
In the mid-1960s our Zenith was tuned to WPIX-TV at 4:00PM. “Tobor the 8th Man” aired at that time. It was an Anime series about a superhero android with the brain of a slain police detective.
It was low budget, so the producers reused sequences of frames wherever possible. When Tobor ran – which was frequently, as I recall – they used a side profile of the hero, leaning into the draft of his own blinding speed. His entire body stayed stock still except for his piston legs, which pounded up and down like diesel cylinders.
One day during gym class in 1st grade we had to race around the perimeter of the gymnasium. All of the first-graders were there, boys and girls, and everybody was fired up for the contest.
The image of Tobor was vivid in my mind. I believed his running technique would give me the edge I needed over my classmates, so I leaned forward and did my best to emulate the quick, hammering motion of his legs.
The athletic kids pulled away in front of me. I was used to that. Then the average kids started pulling away too. This caused me some concern because it was among them that I normally jostled for position.
Soon, I was looking at the backs of the kids who had difficulty remembering how to put their sneakers on. I didn’t like the way things were going, but I persevered. I had faith that Tobor’s technique would prevail in the end if I stuck with it.
When the frontrunners came up from behind and lapped me for the first time, the chuckling began. By the time the rest of the pack had lapped me, the winners had finished the race. They stood along the wall, pointing at me in amazement, and roaring with laughter.
I felt humiliated, of course, but even worse, I felt betrayed by my hero. Why hadn’t Tobor’s technique worked for me?
I should’ve noted the possible complications relative to my not being a cartoon robot. But even allowing for that slight miscalculation, it’s fair to say that I should’ve considered abandoning my failed strategy before the race ended.
I wonder what I’m doing right now that amounts to the same thing as running like Tobor. What are the illusions I insistently persist in pursuing? What glaring evidences of futility am I ignoring?
Perseverance is not inherently virtuous. Perseverance has to be animated by wisdom; otherwise it’s a robot with no brain.
It was low budget, so the producers reused sequences of frames wherever possible. When Tobor ran – which was frequently, as I recall – they used a side profile of the hero, leaning into the draft of his own blinding speed. His entire body stayed stock still except for his piston legs, which pounded up and down like diesel cylinders.
One day during gym class in 1st grade we had to race around the perimeter of the gymnasium. All of the first-graders were there, boys and girls, and everybody was fired up for the contest.
The image of Tobor was vivid in my mind. I believed his running technique would give me the edge I needed over my classmates, so I leaned forward and did my best to emulate the quick, hammering motion of his legs.
The athletic kids pulled away in front of me. I was used to that. Then the average kids started pulling away too. This caused me some concern because it was among them that I normally jostled for position.
Soon, I was looking at the backs of the kids who had difficulty remembering how to put their sneakers on. I didn’t like the way things were going, but I persevered. I had faith that Tobor’s technique would prevail in the end if I stuck with it.
When the frontrunners came up from behind and lapped me for the first time, the chuckling began. By the time the rest of the pack had lapped me, the winners had finished the race. They stood along the wall, pointing at me in amazement, and roaring with laughter.
I felt humiliated, of course, but even worse, I felt betrayed by my hero. Why hadn’t Tobor’s technique worked for me?
I should’ve noted the possible complications relative to my not being a cartoon robot. But even allowing for that slight miscalculation, it’s fair to say that I should’ve considered abandoning my failed strategy before the race ended.
I wonder what I’m doing right now that amounts to the same thing as running like Tobor. What are the illusions I insistently persist in pursuing? What glaring evidences of futility am I ignoring?
Perseverance is not inherently virtuous. Perseverance has to be animated by wisdom; otherwise it’s a robot with no brain.
6/04/2004
The Virtue Of Cigarettes
My grandmother sat on a large rock, smoking a cigarette and sipping a can of beer while she watched us play in the lake. She was concerned that we keep an eye out for fishing lures and broken glass. Treading on either one could swiftly ruin an entire vacation.
Although the campground boasted one of the finest white sand beaches in the Adirondacks, we opted for the boat-launch that day. It was nearer to our campsite. Rangers kept it clear enough to get a boat in and out of the water, but it wasn’t really meant for swimmers. Aside from the paved launch strip, the bottom was complicated with slippery rocks and fallen branches. Its small beach was pebbly and rough.
My dad was in the lake with my brother and sister and me. My sister stayed close to him for the most part. My brother, on the other hand, swam like an otter, alternately disappearing underwater and popping up where he wasn’t expected.
As a rule, I preferred exploring to swimming. A rotten log bobbing among the lily pads caught my attention. It was heavy, but still had some float left in it. It made a decent submarine when I pushed it lengthwise below the surface.
It was rare for my grandmother to be in the mountains with us, since she was fond of modern conveniences. Not that she was fussy; in fact, she was very comfortable with all sorts of outdoor activities. She was the one who’d taught me how to put a nightcrawler on a fishhook. But I got the impression that she’d “roughed it” enough in her life and wasn’t looking for her leisure time to be rustic.
When we got out of the water I noticed six or seven small reddish-brown bumps on my feet and ankles. I didn’t know what they were, but they made me feel uneasy. My Grandmother took a closer look, and said, “Oh Scotty, you got bloodsuckers on you!”
My instinct was to scratch them off with my fingernails, but she stopped me. In a deliberately calm voice she explained that they had to be removed very carefully; otherwise, their mouthparts might stick in my skin and cause a bad infection. I tried with all my might to cling to my composure.
My dad hustled back to our campsite for the first-aid kit and a saltshaker. My grandmother said she knew what to do. I trusted her, but couldn’t watch. The familiar smell of her smoke comforted me a little.
I remember the heat of her cigarette near my skin as she methodically backed the leeches out of me. Even if I got burned, I thought, it would be better than having those blobby little monsters fastened to my body.
One by one they let go, and were deftly flicked into her beer can for safekeeping. I held still and waited out the eternal seconds. She periodically took a drag to stoke the cigarette. It probably helped steady her hand too. She finished the procedure without once touching the tobacco embers to my skin.
My dad had returned in time to see the last fiend vanquished. He dabbed Mercurochrome on the tiny odd-shaped wounds. Then I could exhale again.
Although the campground boasted one of the finest white sand beaches in the Adirondacks, we opted for the boat-launch that day. It was nearer to our campsite. Rangers kept it clear enough to get a boat in and out of the water, but it wasn’t really meant for swimmers. Aside from the paved launch strip, the bottom was complicated with slippery rocks and fallen branches. Its small beach was pebbly and rough.
My dad was in the lake with my brother and sister and me. My sister stayed close to him for the most part. My brother, on the other hand, swam like an otter, alternately disappearing underwater and popping up where he wasn’t expected.
As a rule, I preferred exploring to swimming. A rotten log bobbing among the lily pads caught my attention. It was heavy, but still had some float left in it. It made a decent submarine when I pushed it lengthwise below the surface.
It was rare for my grandmother to be in the mountains with us, since she was fond of modern conveniences. Not that she was fussy; in fact, she was very comfortable with all sorts of outdoor activities. She was the one who’d taught me how to put a nightcrawler on a fishhook. But I got the impression that she’d “roughed it” enough in her life and wasn’t looking for her leisure time to be rustic.
When we got out of the water I noticed six or seven small reddish-brown bumps on my feet and ankles. I didn’t know what they were, but they made me feel uneasy. My Grandmother took a closer look, and said, “Oh Scotty, you got bloodsuckers on you!”
My instinct was to scratch them off with my fingernails, but she stopped me. In a deliberately calm voice she explained that they had to be removed very carefully; otherwise, their mouthparts might stick in my skin and cause a bad infection. I tried with all my might to cling to my composure.
My dad hustled back to our campsite for the first-aid kit and a saltshaker. My grandmother said she knew what to do. I trusted her, but couldn’t watch. The familiar smell of her smoke comforted me a little.
I remember the heat of her cigarette near my skin as she methodically backed the leeches out of me. Even if I got burned, I thought, it would be better than having those blobby little monsters fastened to my body.
One by one they let go, and were deftly flicked into her beer can for safekeeping. I held still and waited out the eternal seconds. She periodically took a drag to stoke the cigarette. It probably helped steady her hand too. She finished the procedure without once touching the tobacco embers to my skin.
My dad had returned in time to see the last fiend vanquished. He dabbed Mercurochrome on the tiny odd-shaped wounds. Then I could exhale again.
6/03/2004
Richie
Richie saw me as a catcher. His imagination must’ve been keener than his eye for talent. Squatting behind home plate was the last place on the diamond I wanted to be. I wasn’t built like a backstop, and I didn’t have a rifle of a throwing arm. The equipment seemed bulky and stifling. And playing catcher appeared to be an ideal way to get hurt, which I tried to make a point of avoiding.
This was my third and last year of Little League. I’d spent the first on a Minor League team where we had only hats and t-shirts, not real uniforms. Batters often got four or five strikes instead of three, and any ball hit in fair territory had a solid chance of becoming a homerun.
The following year I tried out again and was chosen by a bona fide Little League team. I would wear the maroon pinstripes of the Giants. They were a perennially competitive team, with a manager and bench coach who were bent on winning. They were tough, focused, and frequently mean. They were impatient with skill deficiencies, but uninterested in developing raw talent. They didn’t like weakness.
Because of my asthma I carried an inhaler with me in case I started wheezing. It didn’t occur to me until too late that I might as well have written “BENCH ME” across my forehead in red magic marker. The only action I saw that year was in the last inning or two of a game. When I did get to play, it was in right field: Little League’s dreaded badlands of boredom.
We lost the championship that year to the other winning-is-everything team, the Tigers. Our catcher, who was the bench coach’s son, threw a tantrum in the dugout. I remember being intrigued and confused by the severity of his reaction. It mirrored his father’s, except that the dad managed to contain his tears.
One of the best pieces of news I ever received was finding out that the manager and coach were quitting after that season. Many of our starters had to move on too because they were heading into junior high. Our star catcher was one of them, and nobody had been trained to take his place. We were left with a significant hole in our lineup.
During the off-season, Richie signed on to take over managing the team. He couldn’t have had a more fundamentally different approach to the game. His primary goal was for everyone on the team to make a contribution. He taught us the game, helped us develop our skills, and shaped us into ballplayers. Underscoring everything was the high value he placed on good sportsmanship.
It turned out that Richie was right about me; I was a catcher. I developed a real affection for the position. It didn’t take long for me to see that the catcher got to be involved in every single play on the field. The perspective from behind the plate was unequaled. I loved discovering the idiosyncrasies of different batters, and moving the target to where I thought they were least likely to connect with the ball.
I especially enjoyed the time-honored baseball tradition of chatter. My variation on the theme was to speak softly to the batter, just loud enough for him to hear. I’d narrate the moment, describing his nervousness and his uncertainty of whether or not a strike was on its way. Would he be able to hit it? Probably not. Maybe the pitch would hit him… When he seemed out of sync and edgy I’d shout, “Swing!” and he’d lunge for one in the dirt. What could be more fun than that!
Like most boys, I wanted to hit homeruns. I wanted to swing for the fences from way down on the knob of a big log of a bat. But Richie envisioned me hitting for average. He helped me modify my stance and my grip on the bat. It turned out that he was right about that too. I hit zero homeruns that year, but I hit safely 29 times in 61 at-bats.
The fact that I remember those numbers so clearly might be symptomatic of glory-days-syndrome, but it’s mostly a testament to the impact of being seen in a hopeful light. Richie imagined my potential and coached me toward it.
He did the same for the rest of my teammates, and we deepened our love for the game together. We lost the championship to the Tigers again, but it didn’t ruin our lives. It was a great year to wear maroon pinstripes.
This was my third and last year of Little League. I’d spent the first on a Minor League team where we had only hats and t-shirts, not real uniforms. Batters often got four or five strikes instead of three, and any ball hit in fair territory had a solid chance of becoming a homerun.
The following year I tried out again and was chosen by a bona fide Little League team. I would wear the maroon pinstripes of the Giants. They were a perennially competitive team, with a manager and bench coach who were bent on winning. They were tough, focused, and frequently mean. They were impatient with skill deficiencies, but uninterested in developing raw talent. They didn’t like weakness.
Because of my asthma I carried an inhaler with me in case I started wheezing. It didn’t occur to me until too late that I might as well have written “BENCH ME” across my forehead in red magic marker. The only action I saw that year was in the last inning or two of a game. When I did get to play, it was in right field: Little League’s dreaded badlands of boredom.
We lost the championship that year to the other winning-is-everything team, the Tigers. Our catcher, who was the bench coach’s son, threw a tantrum in the dugout. I remember being intrigued and confused by the severity of his reaction. It mirrored his father’s, except that the dad managed to contain his tears.
One of the best pieces of news I ever received was finding out that the manager and coach were quitting after that season. Many of our starters had to move on too because they were heading into junior high. Our star catcher was one of them, and nobody had been trained to take his place. We were left with a significant hole in our lineup.
During the off-season, Richie signed on to take over managing the team. He couldn’t have had a more fundamentally different approach to the game. His primary goal was for everyone on the team to make a contribution. He taught us the game, helped us develop our skills, and shaped us into ballplayers. Underscoring everything was the high value he placed on good sportsmanship.
It turned out that Richie was right about me; I was a catcher. I developed a real affection for the position. It didn’t take long for me to see that the catcher got to be involved in every single play on the field. The perspective from behind the plate was unequaled. I loved discovering the idiosyncrasies of different batters, and moving the target to where I thought they were least likely to connect with the ball.
I especially enjoyed the time-honored baseball tradition of chatter. My variation on the theme was to speak softly to the batter, just loud enough for him to hear. I’d narrate the moment, describing his nervousness and his uncertainty of whether or not a strike was on its way. Would he be able to hit it? Probably not. Maybe the pitch would hit him… When he seemed out of sync and edgy I’d shout, “Swing!” and he’d lunge for one in the dirt. What could be more fun than that!
Like most boys, I wanted to hit homeruns. I wanted to swing for the fences from way down on the knob of a big log of a bat. But Richie envisioned me hitting for average. He helped me modify my stance and my grip on the bat. It turned out that he was right about that too. I hit zero homeruns that year, but I hit safely 29 times in 61 at-bats.
The fact that I remember those numbers so clearly might be symptomatic of glory-days-syndrome, but it’s mostly a testament to the impact of being seen in a hopeful light. Richie imagined my potential and coached me toward it.
He did the same for the rest of my teammates, and we deepened our love for the game together. We lost the championship to the Tigers again, but it didn’t ruin our lives. It was a great year to wear maroon pinstripes.
4/27/2004
Meatball
Meatball lived in a ranch-style house two doors down from ours on Codwise Street. He was the Superintendent of Highways for the Town of Ulster, and his real name was Ed. I don’t know why he invited us neighborhood kids to call him Meatball; it might have been to ease the intimidation of his presence. His size and saunter, and the bigness of his voice always made me think of John Wayne. In my memory, the two men are one person.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
4/07/2004
Monster Models
The fluorescent lamp poured its wan flicker over the workbench. The window looked out to our backyard at ground level. Its pane faded to black as we worked. Silhouettes of treetops and the slow blink of an occasional Cessna were all I could see from the angle of my four-foot vantage point.
A few incandescent bulbs lit the cavernous, L-shaped basement. The cedar closet and concrete floor, along with dope paint and airplane glue blended their fragrances into a sort of manly potpourri. This was my Dad’s space, and I was here by invitation.
His workbench was a converted ice-cream counter. Its wells were no longer filled with pistachio and chocolate swirl, but rather nuts and bolts, and salvaged bits of stuff that might prove useful someday. To the left was his gray-green toolbox, heavy with neatly ordered tools. The evening’s project was to assemble a monster model.
From time to time, my Grandmother would treat me to lunch at a place called The Bowery Dugout. Their shrimp cocktail was outstanding. The Dugout happened to be near Woolworth’s, where our lunch dates often culminated with the purchase of a new monster model to add to my collection.
My Dad showed me how to trim, glue and paint the molded plastic sections. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, Godzilla, King Kong, and the Mummy came to life in the basement. Once finished, each assumed a place of honor in my bedroom on shelves my Dad built. They were scary, but not too scary for sleeping.
Eventually, the monsters weren’t very scary at all. And as their terror faded, so did their appeal. They actually seemed to shrink. I was only partly aware that it was me that was changing, not them.
Other things were different too. I outgrew my Nehru jacket and tie-died bellbottoms and started wearing frayed jeans and gauze shirts instead. I listened less to my old Monkees records and more to The Association and Jesus Christ Superstar.
The monster models were artifacts of the little kid I didn’t want to be anymore. I wanted clear separation. So I sacrificed them at the altar of the teenager I hoped was inside me. It was time for differentiation, and I went at it with panache.
I drilled a hole in King Kong’s chest with a jackknife, inserted a Black Cat firecracker, and blew him to bits. Godzilla fell to my BB gun, and Dracula to a dowsing of lighter fluid and a match. One by one, the rest of the monster cadre met similar fates.
It was only recently that I stopped to consider the investment my Dad made into those projects. The monster collection was material evidence of his presence in my childhood. They were emblems of his genuine desire to spend time with me, teaching me things and having fun on my level.
Today there’s nothing left to touch – nothing wrapped in old newspaper, waiting to be lifted gingerly from a dusty cardboard box. I regret that. Thankfully, my memories didn’t perish in the plastic shrapnel; they remain vivid, painted in dope.
A few incandescent bulbs lit the cavernous, L-shaped basement. The cedar closet and concrete floor, along with dope paint and airplane glue blended their fragrances into a sort of manly potpourri. This was my Dad’s space, and I was here by invitation.
His workbench was a converted ice-cream counter. Its wells were no longer filled with pistachio and chocolate swirl, but rather nuts and bolts, and salvaged bits of stuff that might prove useful someday. To the left was his gray-green toolbox, heavy with neatly ordered tools. The evening’s project was to assemble a monster model.
From time to time, my Grandmother would treat me to lunch at a place called The Bowery Dugout. Their shrimp cocktail was outstanding. The Dugout happened to be near Woolworth’s, where our lunch dates often culminated with the purchase of a new monster model to add to my collection.
My Dad showed me how to trim, glue and paint the molded plastic sections. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, Godzilla, King Kong, and the Mummy came to life in the basement. Once finished, each assumed a place of honor in my bedroom on shelves my Dad built. They were scary, but not too scary for sleeping.
Eventually, the monsters weren’t very scary at all. And as their terror faded, so did their appeal. They actually seemed to shrink. I was only partly aware that it was me that was changing, not them.
Other things were different too. I outgrew my Nehru jacket and tie-died bellbottoms and started wearing frayed jeans and gauze shirts instead. I listened less to my old Monkees records and more to The Association and Jesus Christ Superstar.
The monster models were artifacts of the little kid I didn’t want to be anymore. I wanted clear separation. So I sacrificed them at the altar of the teenager I hoped was inside me. It was time for differentiation, and I went at it with panache.
I drilled a hole in King Kong’s chest with a jackknife, inserted a Black Cat firecracker, and blew him to bits. Godzilla fell to my BB gun, and Dracula to a dowsing of lighter fluid and a match. One by one, the rest of the monster cadre met similar fates.
It was only recently that I stopped to consider the investment my Dad made into those projects. The monster collection was material evidence of his presence in my childhood. They were emblems of his genuine desire to spend time with me, teaching me things and having fun on my level.
Today there’s nothing left to touch – nothing wrapped in old newspaper, waiting to be lifted gingerly from a dusty cardboard box. I regret that. Thankfully, my memories didn’t perish in the plastic shrapnel; they remain vivid, painted in dope.
4/03/2004
Snowday
I’m wearing two pairs of socks and huge hiking boots. Granted, huge hiking boots are the only sort that fit me. I am doing something that is a little too fast to be called trudging, and considerably too slow to be called running. It’s something in between, and it’s the best I can muster.
The Pacific Northwest doesn’t get much snow – at least, not by the standards of someone who grew up in New York State. On the rare winter days when it snows here, it doesn’t usually stick around for long. Today is different – today we have real snow.
Boomer hails from Wenatchee and shares my appreciation for the genuine article. He turned twelve years old last autumn, but that doesn’t stop him from probing the cold powder like a pup. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s aging, though. For one thing, his hearing has begun to deteriorate. Sometimes he doesn’t hear me when I call him. In fact, that’s why I’m on his trail right now. We need to turn around and head home, but he’s oblivious to my shouts. He cruises unswervingly onward into the west.
As much as I don’t really want to be chugging up this snowy hill, I’m conscious of at least two good things about it. The first is that I am, amazingly enough, gaining on my little canine friend. The second is that my wife has joined us on this walk, and she’s watching me. It occurs to me mid-huff, that (puff…) I’m showing off for her. I’m proving that the old buck can still hoof it on the high places. We’re able to share this unspoken fiction because, to her great credit, my wife chooses to see me through the charitable lens of her imagination.
I’ve closed to within five or six feet of Boomer and he still hasn’t heard me coming up behind him. An old memory flickers into focus. I see myself as a young Scout, furtively following my Dad through the woods. He was helping me earn a merit badge that had something to do with tracking. My challenge was to follow him for a specified period of time without being seen or heard.
It was autumn, so the ground was covered with dead leaves and brittle twigs. That didn’t matter. I moved with the quick, decisive stealth of a Mohawk brave. I remember scampering from tree to tree, crouching behind mossy stumps, and going flat in the undergrowth whenever my Dad looked around. It was so exciting to discover this hidden talent of mine!
At the end of the prescribed span of minutes my Dad stopped walking and called off the hunt. As he checked the box next to the tracking requirement in my Scout book, I asked him how I’d done. With the vaguest trace of a smirk he told me that I’d sounded something like a young buffalo. I was pretty sure “Young Buffalo” wasn’t the name of a famous Mohawk brave from days gone by.
But today I’m panting up a snowy hill after a hard-of-hearing dog. Even with my limited aptitude for stealth, Boomer hasn’t yet perked to my crashing footfalls. From pointblank range I shout his name, and he swivels around in shock. His ears go back, and he curls into a submissive pose. This is unprecedented in his experience with me so he isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He fears it might involve punishment. It doesn’t. I’ve learned lately that his problem isn’t rebellion (well, at least not in this case); his problem is entropy.
I say, “C’mon, let’s go home.” Relieved and chipper he makes for the foot trail that leads toward home. He’s a puppy again for a few more minutes. I let him run a little ways farther before putting his leash back on him.
The Pacific Northwest doesn’t get much snow – at least, not by the standards of someone who grew up in New York State. On the rare winter days when it snows here, it doesn’t usually stick around for long. Today is different – today we have real snow.
Boomer hails from Wenatchee and shares my appreciation for the genuine article. He turned twelve years old last autumn, but that doesn’t stop him from probing the cold powder like a pup. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s aging, though. For one thing, his hearing has begun to deteriorate. Sometimes he doesn’t hear me when I call him. In fact, that’s why I’m on his trail right now. We need to turn around and head home, but he’s oblivious to my shouts. He cruises unswervingly onward into the west.
As much as I don’t really want to be chugging up this snowy hill, I’m conscious of at least two good things about it. The first is that I am, amazingly enough, gaining on my little canine friend. The second is that my wife has joined us on this walk, and she’s watching me. It occurs to me mid-huff, that (puff…) I’m showing off for her. I’m proving that the old buck can still hoof it on the high places. We’re able to share this unspoken fiction because, to her great credit, my wife chooses to see me through the charitable lens of her imagination.
I’ve closed to within five or six feet of Boomer and he still hasn’t heard me coming up behind him. An old memory flickers into focus. I see myself as a young Scout, furtively following my Dad through the woods. He was helping me earn a merit badge that had something to do with tracking. My challenge was to follow him for a specified period of time without being seen or heard.
It was autumn, so the ground was covered with dead leaves and brittle twigs. That didn’t matter. I moved with the quick, decisive stealth of a Mohawk brave. I remember scampering from tree to tree, crouching behind mossy stumps, and going flat in the undergrowth whenever my Dad looked around. It was so exciting to discover this hidden talent of mine!
At the end of the prescribed span of minutes my Dad stopped walking and called off the hunt. As he checked the box next to the tracking requirement in my Scout book, I asked him how I’d done. With the vaguest trace of a smirk he told me that I’d sounded something like a young buffalo. I was pretty sure “Young Buffalo” wasn’t the name of a famous Mohawk brave from days gone by.
But today I’m panting up a snowy hill after a hard-of-hearing dog. Even with my limited aptitude for stealth, Boomer hasn’t yet perked to my crashing footfalls. From pointblank range I shout his name, and he swivels around in shock. His ears go back, and he curls into a submissive pose. This is unprecedented in his experience with me so he isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He fears it might involve punishment. It doesn’t. I’ve learned lately that his problem isn’t rebellion (well, at least not in this case); his problem is entropy.
I say, “C’mon, let’s go home.” Relieved and chipper he makes for the foot trail that leads toward home. He’s a puppy again for a few more minutes. I let him run a little ways farther before putting his leash back on him.
4/02/2004
Crossing the Esopus
Off the beaten paths of my stomping grounds it wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homemade dump. An interesting characteristic of these unsanctioned piles was their power to solicit anonymous contributions.
I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.
At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.
A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.
When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.
With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.
The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.
My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.
I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.
Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.
The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.
I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.
I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.
I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.
My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.
Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.
The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.
“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.
At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.
A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.
When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.
With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.
The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.
My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.
I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.
Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.
The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.
I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.
I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.
I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.
My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.
Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.
The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.
“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
4/01/2004
Shivering Lessons
I was skinny and not very buoyant. Swimming didn’t come naturally to me. I tended to sink, legs first. But breathing was the hardest part, since I battled hay fever and asthma. I had trouble mastering the rotating rhythm of aquatic respiration.
Head swiveled right, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Head swiveled left, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Or was it the other way around…
With a perpetually stuffy nose and wheezy lungs, I always ended up out of sync. I was afraid to exhale through my nose because of what might come out along with the air.
My first stint with swimming lessons took place during that summer’s chilliest week. It was dismal, drizzly and breezy. I have more memories of shivering than swimming. Everyday my mother pitied my blue lips and chattering teeth.
My parents enrolled me in swimming lessons to increase my chances of surviving childhood. I had a simpler motive for enduring the embarrassment and hypothermia. I was after the “I-Can-Swim” badge, which was the rec center’s official pass to the deep end of the pool. Frankly, swimming in the deep end didn’t matter as much to me as the status of access.
So I stood like a stick figure on the poolside concrete, shoulders huddled up under my ears, and shivered while I waited my turn to jump in. Once in the pool, the first challenge was to tread water. For me, this meant frantically flinging my limbs every which way while craning my neck to keep my face in the air. Next, I’d try to swim in a straight line from one side to the other without lapsing into the dogpaddle or sinking or getting snot on my cheek. Afterward I’d shiver beside the picnic table, not needing to chew my sandwich because the chattering of my teeth did the job automatically. And so it went, one day after another, all week long.
Naturally, a series of tests loomed at the end of the week. In addition to displaying our command of the various strokes we’d learned, we had to demonstrate our ability to save ourselves in an emergency situation. Wearing clothes over our bathing suits, we were to jump in, sink to the bottom, push off and shoot back up to the surface. Somewhere in the process we were supposed to shed the dead weight of our clothes. Then we’d tread water until the instructor told us to swim to the ladder and climb out.
We were advised to wear “play clothes” because the chlorine in the pool water might fade the colors. My Mom outfitted me in an old terrycloth shirt that I’d all but outgrown. It was literally made from towel fabric. I can only guess that she thought it would go well with the water theme.
The virtue of towels, of course, is that they absorb water. I jumped in the deep end and my shirt was instantly waterlogged. It might as well have been one of those lead vests you wear at the dentist’s office while they’re taking x-rays. It was so heavy that I couldn’t even peel it off as it lugged me to the bottom. Staring up through ten feet of water at the gray sky, the surface seemed impossibly far away.
The instructor pierced the poolwater like a dolphin and pulled me up. I clambered out onto the concrete and showed off my shivering skills, which were unmatched. I was confident that my Mom would consider my effort worth an order of fries from the snack bar.
Needless to say, there was no I-Can-Swim badge for me that year. I felt I could’ve saved myself (eventually…), but the pool staff was trained not to take any chances. I got over it; there was more to life than the deep end.
Swimming lessons fell during a sunnier week the following year. Somehow I met the requirements and got my badge. I went on to survive childhood. I confess, though, that I haven’t completely shaken my fear of getting snot on my cheek.
Head swiveled right, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Head swiveled left, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Or was it the other way around…
With a perpetually stuffy nose and wheezy lungs, I always ended up out of sync. I was afraid to exhale through my nose because of what might come out along with the air.
My first stint with swimming lessons took place during that summer’s chilliest week. It was dismal, drizzly and breezy. I have more memories of shivering than swimming. Everyday my mother pitied my blue lips and chattering teeth.
My parents enrolled me in swimming lessons to increase my chances of surviving childhood. I had a simpler motive for enduring the embarrassment and hypothermia. I was after the “I-Can-Swim” badge, which was the rec center’s official pass to the deep end of the pool. Frankly, swimming in the deep end didn’t matter as much to me as the status of access.
So I stood like a stick figure on the poolside concrete, shoulders huddled up under my ears, and shivered while I waited my turn to jump in. Once in the pool, the first challenge was to tread water. For me, this meant frantically flinging my limbs every which way while craning my neck to keep my face in the air. Next, I’d try to swim in a straight line from one side to the other without lapsing into the dogpaddle or sinking or getting snot on my cheek. Afterward I’d shiver beside the picnic table, not needing to chew my sandwich because the chattering of my teeth did the job automatically. And so it went, one day after another, all week long.
Naturally, a series of tests loomed at the end of the week. In addition to displaying our command of the various strokes we’d learned, we had to demonstrate our ability to save ourselves in an emergency situation. Wearing clothes over our bathing suits, we were to jump in, sink to the bottom, push off and shoot back up to the surface. Somewhere in the process we were supposed to shed the dead weight of our clothes. Then we’d tread water until the instructor told us to swim to the ladder and climb out.
We were advised to wear “play clothes” because the chlorine in the pool water might fade the colors. My Mom outfitted me in an old terrycloth shirt that I’d all but outgrown. It was literally made from towel fabric. I can only guess that she thought it would go well with the water theme.
The virtue of towels, of course, is that they absorb water. I jumped in the deep end and my shirt was instantly waterlogged. It might as well have been one of those lead vests you wear at the dentist’s office while they’re taking x-rays. It was so heavy that I couldn’t even peel it off as it lugged me to the bottom. Staring up through ten feet of water at the gray sky, the surface seemed impossibly far away.
The instructor pierced the poolwater like a dolphin and pulled me up. I clambered out onto the concrete and showed off my shivering skills, which were unmatched. I was confident that my Mom would consider my effort worth an order of fries from the snack bar.
Needless to say, there was no I-Can-Swim badge for me that year. I felt I could’ve saved myself (eventually…), but the pool staff was trained not to take any chances. I got over it; there was more to life than the deep end.
Swimming lessons fell during a sunnier week the following year. Somehow I met the requirements and got my badge. I went on to survive childhood. I confess, though, that I haven’t completely shaken my fear of getting snot on my cheek.
3/31/2004
Red
Red didn’t belong there in the coarse, sticky green. It caught my eye like a gem, nestled down in the grass under the clothesline. It was a little stub of crayon that had most likely fallen from the pocket of a piece of clothing hanging there.
Ironically, large size crayons were made for small size hands. But I never liked these chubby implements very much because it was impossible to render any real detail with them. I preferred the smaller sort; felt-tip markers were even better.
It was obvious that someone had liked this red log though, since both ends were rounded from use. And both edges of the stiff paper wrapper had been peeled back to expose more color.
I reached down to pick it up. My thumb and index finger closed upon it with an accuracy of pressure perfected by at least seven years of experience with the hardness of crayons. But my squeeze met nearly no resistance at all. The crayon yielded in an entirely unexpected way.
It had melted in the summer sun. Until I squeezed it, the stubby cylinder had retained its form. It was a bewildering, delightful and inexplicably gratifying sensation. In that moment I discovered the potential softness of crayons. And I learned that the faraway sun is near enough to change stuff here on earth.
Not many summers later I was with my gang of friends in one of our favorite unsupervised spots. It was nothing more than a few undeveloped acres of hillocks, bracken and small trees set between two neighborhoods and an apartment complex. Its virtue was that grownups had no reason to go there. We, on the other hand, had an excellent reason for being there: Billy Sass had firecrackers and matches. I think he’d gotten them from a cousin who’d been to South Carolina on vacation.
Firecrackers were a rarity in New York since they had to be purchased out of state. Their detonation was an event to be savored. Earlier that day we’d melted a red candle and molded its wax around the firecrackers. The idea was to make the explosion more dramatic. Blowing stuff up was without question the coolest thing that could be done with a firecracker.
Being boys, we all had to get our hands in on the action of arranging the ordnance and supervising the twisting together of fuses. We watched the red match-head scrape along the matchbook’s rough strip, and heard the successful burst of fire. A pungent whiff of sulfur wafted into the air. We watched the fragile cardboard stick move toward the fuse and hoped no breeze would blow it out. We waited for a spray of sparks from the tips of the fuses to signal us to scamper backward from our tight circle.
This particular braid of fuses burned faster than expected. My hand was the last one to pull back from the blast zone. There was a flash, a bang, a sharp sting, and the alarming sight of red. For a gasp’s length I thought the skin had been blown off of my left hand. Fortunately, it was only covered with wax shrapnel.
Red gets my attention. It usually means something important is happening. After a knock on the head I instinctively touch the injured site and check for blood on my fingers. At times I’ve felt the sweet relief of seeing none there. Other times, when my fingers have returned from the site wet and smudged with red, I’ve felt my anxiety level rising sharply. In both instances the pain might be identical, but my degree of concern differs according to the color I see.
At this time of year, along with most Christians, I look toward Golgotha – “the place of the skull” – and force myself to again behold the horror of my Savior stained red. The written accounts of his anguish create vivid, troubling images in my mind. My faith compels me to believe that Jesus had to suffer as he did, but I remain unable to understand why. I wish from my core that it could have been otherwise.
This year I have the opportunity to view a filmmaker’s depiction of the most disturbing, most humbling, and in a sense the most private scene of my faith. By all accounts, his use of red in the film is copious. If I choose to see it, I expect that it will grab my insides and not let go. It will probably never let go. That’s the cinematographer’s intent.
But with or without the movie’s help, I will think about Jesus over these next few weeks, worn and bloody – exposed and vulnerable, his divine covering peeled back. I’ll remember his softness to my distress and anxiety, and I’ll be reminded that God is near enough to change stuff here on earth.
Ironically, large size crayons were made for small size hands. But I never liked these chubby implements very much because it was impossible to render any real detail with them. I preferred the smaller sort; felt-tip markers were even better.
It was obvious that someone had liked this red log though, since both ends were rounded from use. And both edges of the stiff paper wrapper had been peeled back to expose more color.
I reached down to pick it up. My thumb and index finger closed upon it with an accuracy of pressure perfected by at least seven years of experience with the hardness of crayons. But my squeeze met nearly no resistance at all. The crayon yielded in an entirely unexpected way.
It had melted in the summer sun. Until I squeezed it, the stubby cylinder had retained its form. It was a bewildering, delightful and inexplicably gratifying sensation. In that moment I discovered the potential softness of crayons. And I learned that the faraway sun is near enough to change stuff here on earth.
Not many summers later I was with my gang of friends in one of our favorite unsupervised spots. It was nothing more than a few undeveloped acres of hillocks, bracken and small trees set between two neighborhoods and an apartment complex. Its virtue was that grownups had no reason to go there. We, on the other hand, had an excellent reason for being there: Billy Sass had firecrackers and matches. I think he’d gotten them from a cousin who’d been to South Carolina on vacation.
Firecrackers were a rarity in New York since they had to be purchased out of state. Their detonation was an event to be savored. Earlier that day we’d melted a red candle and molded its wax around the firecrackers. The idea was to make the explosion more dramatic. Blowing stuff up was without question the coolest thing that could be done with a firecracker.
Being boys, we all had to get our hands in on the action of arranging the ordnance and supervising the twisting together of fuses. We watched the red match-head scrape along the matchbook’s rough strip, and heard the successful burst of fire. A pungent whiff of sulfur wafted into the air. We watched the fragile cardboard stick move toward the fuse and hoped no breeze would blow it out. We waited for a spray of sparks from the tips of the fuses to signal us to scamper backward from our tight circle.
This particular braid of fuses burned faster than expected. My hand was the last one to pull back from the blast zone. There was a flash, a bang, a sharp sting, and the alarming sight of red. For a gasp’s length I thought the skin had been blown off of my left hand. Fortunately, it was only covered with wax shrapnel.
Red gets my attention. It usually means something important is happening. After a knock on the head I instinctively touch the injured site and check for blood on my fingers. At times I’ve felt the sweet relief of seeing none there. Other times, when my fingers have returned from the site wet and smudged with red, I’ve felt my anxiety level rising sharply. In both instances the pain might be identical, but my degree of concern differs according to the color I see.
At this time of year, along with most Christians, I look toward Golgotha – “the place of the skull” – and force myself to again behold the horror of my Savior stained red. The written accounts of his anguish create vivid, troubling images in my mind. My faith compels me to believe that Jesus had to suffer as he did, but I remain unable to understand why. I wish from my core that it could have been otherwise.
This year I have the opportunity to view a filmmaker’s depiction of the most disturbing, most humbling, and in a sense the most private scene of my faith. By all accounts, his use of red in the film is copious. If I choose to see it, I expect that it will grab my insides and not let go. It will probably never let go. That’s the cinematographer’s intent.
But with or without the movie’s help, I will think about Jesus over these next few weeks, worn and bloody – exposed and vulnerable, his divine covering peeled back. I’ll remember his softness to my distress and anxiety, and I’ll be reminded that God is near enough to change stuff here on earth.
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