I spent about an hour trying to figure out who everyone was in this photo. My friend Suzy Parker thought Michelle Smith started school in 2nd grade. How nice to see her tall and black figure in the second row. Tommy Woods is in the back row on the right looking all twisted. I'm obviously in the front row, right, looking worried. I look that way in all my school photos. That probably means something.
My Aunt Gert wrote to tell me that Ramesh went to work in LA for their subway system and married an Indian woman. There were problems with caste. There are problems with caste here but not so obvious. I knew all the boys except two and I'm sure my memory could be jogged with help.
Time is a strange thing. Photography a trick with light and chemicals. All of us are older. Older than our parents then, older probably then our grandparents. We look worried and clean and dare I say it, eager.
I welcome my fellow Wenonah friends to help me along this path. Who the fuck are all these girls? I only spent time with boys.
When I said that in the office they all made gay comments but of course what self respecting kid in 1958 hung with girl. Ick. So, help!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Weekends at Nonny's
Our weekends with my Grandmother centered on a big meal, either on Sunday or Saturday. It’s important to note that for two reasons I wasn’t used to good food. The first is that while my father was a good provider, we weren’t rich. That meant my mother had to make do with less expensive meals. We're talking hot dogs, hamburgers, meatloaf, the standard hodge podge of middle class cooking in 1958. The second is that my mother was a terrible cook. I don’t know if that’s because she was a product of her age or what but cooking was not her finest moment. We did have fresh milk on the table and in the tradition of the fifties a loaf of white bread and butter. We ate fish every Friday and almost never had chicken because my father hated it.
My Grandmother, my mother’s mother, was a wonderful cook. Everything was fresh and from the butcher or the grocer. Rarely were canned ingredients part of a meal. The table was always full and the desserts were fantastic. Homemade pies and cakes. After the meal the adults would sit and talk. If it was Sunday we watched a bit of television. First Lawrence Welk, then the Ed Sullivan show. I hated both until I was in my early teens. I always hated Lawrence Welk but the toxic mix of European circuses and lounge acts and comedians who appealed to adults on Sullivan bewildered me. At any rate when it was over we’d pack ourselves up in the car and head back to South Jersey. I knew the way so well that when I first got my license I drove there without directions.
We boys were all jammed in the back seat with mom and dad up front. Like most young boys we spent half the way fighting and half gazing out the window. We'd move first through the suburbs of Philly, just off the Main Line. At Christmas you could tell when you moved through a Jewish neighborhood, no lights. Then onto the Schukyll Expressway, past the Sunoco Oil Refinery, the company my father worked for, and over the Walt Whitman Bridge. Going over the bridge was the stink of the whiskey brewery at it's base. Past the bridge and Camden then on through Deptford and into the pig farms of Jericho with their rich smell of garbage to home. Home. Some nights when we came home in the summer the porch was covered in tree frogs. Some nights it was cold with frost. Always it was home.
My brother Ted was always out like a light by the time we got to Wenonah and it was straight to bed. I hadn’t begun the morning ritual of showers yet and so got my bath each night before bed.
I’d go to bed each Sunday, clean, and tired, and ready for a new week of being chased to school by my beloved friends. The rough tough creampuff was me. Each Monday began my torment and it didn’t end till Friday at three. In between were my friends Dick and jane and Far and Away and Here and There and the library in the basement began to beckon. Second and third grades began to open the world to the asthmatic, skinny wretch that was me. Little fool running home chased by two other little fools shouting made up nonsense. The hierarchy of the ignorant. I loved them all; I feared them all; I couldn't wait to grow up.
My Grandmother, my mother’s mother, was a wonderful cook. Everything was fresh and from the butcher or the grocer. Rarely were canned ingredients part of a meal. The table was always full and the desserts were fantastic. Homemade pies and cakes. After the meal the adults would sit and talk. If it was Sunday we watched a bit of television. First Lawrence Welk, then the Ed Sullivan show. I hated both until I was in my early teens. I always hated Lawrence Welk but the toxic mix of European circuses and lounge acts and comedians who appealed to adults on Sullivan bewildered me. At any rate when it was over we’d pack ourselves up in the car and head back to South Jersey. I knew the way so well that when I first got my license I drove there without directions.
We boys were all jammed in the back seat with mom and dad up front. Like most young boys we spent half the way fighting and half gazing out the window. We'd move first through the suburbs of Philly, just off the Main Line. At Christmas you could tell when you moved through a Jewish neighborhood, no lights. Then onto the Schukyll Expressway, past the Sunoco Oil Refinery, the company my father worked for, and over the Walt Whitman Bridge. Going over the bridge was the stink of the whiskey brewery at it's base. Past the bridge and Camden then on through Deptford and into the pig farms of Jericho with their rich smell of garbage to home. Home. Some nights when we came home in the summer the porch was covered in tree frogs. Some nights it was cold with frost. Always it was home.
My brother Ted was always out like a light by the time we got to Wenonah and it was straight to bed. I hadn’t begun the morning ritual of showers yet and so got my bath each night before bed.
I’d go to bed each Sunday, clean, and tired, and ready for a new week of being chased to school by my beloved friends. The rough tough creampuff was me. Each Monday began my torment and it didn’t end till Friday at three. In between were my friends Dick and jane and Far and Away and Here and There and the library in the basement began to beckon. Second and third grades began to open the world to the asthmatic, skinny wretch that was me. Little fool running home chased by two other little fools shouting made up nonsense. The hierarchy of the ignorant. I loved them all; I feared them all; I couldn't wait to grow up.
Weekends at Nonny's
Our weekends with my Grandmother centered on a big meal, either on Sunday or Saturday. It’s important to note that for two reasons I wasn’t used to good food. The first is that while my father was a good provider, we weren’t rich. That meant my mother had to make do with less expensive meals. We're talking hot dogs, hamburgers, meatloaf, the standard hodge podge of middle class cooking in 1958. The second is that my mother was a terrible cook. I don’t know if that’s because she was a product of her age or what but cooking was not her finest moment. We did have fresh milk on the table and in the tradition of the fifties a loaf of white bread and butter. We ate fish every Friday and almost never had chicken because my father hated it.
My Grandmother, my mother’s mother, was a wonderful cook. Everything was fresh and from the butcher or the grocer. Rarely were canned ingredients part of a meal. The table was always full and the desserts were fantastic. Homemade pies and cakes. After the meal the adults would sit and talk. If it was Sunday we watched a bit of television. First Lawrence Welk, then the Ed Sullivan show. I hated both until I was in my early teens. I always hated Lawrence Welk but the toxic mix of European circuses and lounge acts and comedians who appealed to adults bewildered me. At any rate when it was over we’d pack ourselves up in the car and head back to South Jersey. I knew the way so well that when I first got my license I drove there without directions.
We boys were all jammed in the back seat with mom and dad up front. Like my most young boys we spent half the way fighting and half gazing out the window. We'd move first through the suburbs of Philly, just off the Main Line. At Christmas you could tell when you moved through a Jewish neighborhood, no lights. Then onto the Schukyll Expressway, past the Sunoco Oil Refinery, the company my father worked for and over the Walt Whitman Bridge. Going over the bridge was the stink of the whiskey brewery at it's base. Past the bridge and Camden then on through Woodbury and Woodbury Heights to home. Home. Some nights when we came home in the summer the porch was covered in tree frogs. Some nights it was cold with frost. Always it was home.
My brother Ted was always out like a light by the time we got to Wenonah and it was straight to bed. I hadn’t begun the morning ritual of showers yet and so got my bath each night before bed.
I’d go to bed each Sunday, clean, and tired, and ready for a new week of being chased to school by my beloved friends. The rough tough creampuff was me. Each Monday began my torment and it didn’t end till Friday at three. In between were my friends Dick and jane and Far and Away and Here and There and the library in the basement began to beckon. Second and third grades began to open the world to the asthmatic, skinny wretch that was me. Little fool running home chased by two other little fools shouting made up nonsense. The hierarchy of the ignorant. I loved them both.
My Grandmother, my mother’s mother, was a wonderful cook. Everything was fresh and from the butcher or the grocer. Rarely were canned ingredients part of a meal. The table was always full and the desserts were fantastic. Homemade pies and cakes. After the meal the adults would sit and talk. If it was Sunday we watched a bit of television. First Lawrence Welk, then the Ed Sullivan show. I hated both until I was in my early teens. I always hated Lawrence Welk but the toxic mix of European circuses and lounge acts and comedians who appealed to adults bewildered me. At any rate when it was over we’d pack ourselves up in the car and head back to South Jersey. I knew the way so well that when I first got my license I drove there without directions.
We boys were all jammed in the back seat with mom and dad up front. Like my most young boys we spent half the way fighting and half gazing out the window. We'd move first through the suburbs of Philly, just off the Main Line. At Christmas you could tell when you moved through a Jewish neighborhood, no lights. Then onto the Schukyll Expressway, past the Sunoco Oil Refinery, the company my father worked for and over the Walt Whitman Bridge. Going over the bridge was the stink of the whiskey brewery at it's base. Past the bridge and Camden then on through Woodbury and Woodbury Heights to home. Home. Some nights when we came home in the summer the porch was covered in tree frogs. Some nights it was cold with frost. Always it was home.
My brother Ted was always out like a light by the time we got to Wenonah and it was straight to bed. I hadn’t begun the morning ritual of showers yet and so got my bath each night before bed.
I’d go to bed each Sunday, clean, and tired, and ready for a new week of being chased to school by my beloved friends. The rough tough creampuff was me. Each Monday began my torment and it didn’t end till Friday at three. In between were my friends Dick and jane and Far and Away and Here and There and the library in the basement began to beckon. Second and third grades began to open the world to the asthmatic, skinny wretch that was me. Little fool running home chased by two other little fools shouting made up nonsense. The hierarchy of the ignorant. I loved them both.
Weekends 1958
The rest of the weekend in those first few years in Wenonah was bliss. I had yet to get chores assigned to me and my world revolved mostly around my family. I spent many hours just playing in the house with my brothers or watching tv. I can't even tell you what we did. Explored the dark basement, climbed the tree behind the garage, played catch with my father. Not much. No organized ball, no work, no anxieties to speak of.
Many weekends were spent at my Grandmother Glading's. She lived in a suburb of Philadelphia in a nice little house with my Aunt Gersh (short for Gertrude). For a while my Uncle Al and Aunt Gert were also both there though they ultimately moved away as they grew up. This was heaven for me and for my brothers. They doted on us. We got to eat good food. I have a feeling my parents packed us away so they could go have fun but who cares.
We got to stay up late and drink a half a Piels and eat ham and cheese and watch Mike Hammer.
Oh joy. We explored their attic and played in the back and half listened to the alien conversations of adults. My Aunt Gert brought home a boyfriend once who was black. He was from Tanganyika. His name was Ramesh. He was alien and spoke differently and fascinated us.
I never thought how he might have felt or how my grandmother felt. We wanted to hear about lions.
Many weekends were spent at my Grandmother Glading's. She lived in a suburb of Philadelphia in a nice little house with my Aunt Gersh (short for Gertrude). For a while my Uncle Al and Aunt Gert were also both there though they ultimately moved away as they grew up. This was heaven for me and for my brothers. They doted on us. We got to eat good food. I have a feeling my parents packed us away so they could go have fun but who cares.
We got to stay up late and drink a half a Piels and eat ham and cheese and watch Mike Hammer.
Oh joy. We explored their attic and played in the back and half listened to the alien conversations of adults. My Aunt Gert brought home a boyfriend once who was black. He was from Tanganyika. His name was Ramesh. He was alien and spoke differently and fascinated us.
I never thought how he might have felt or how my grandmother felt. We wanted to hear about lions.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Weekends and Catholicism 1958
Weekends were a new thing for me. Before first grade every day was a weekend. Now the week was bracketed by Saturday and Sunday. Saturday was always the best because Sunday marked the long count down to Monday. A pattern that never ends until you retire. Weekends also marked my initiation into the mysteries of Faith. Yes, that’s right, First Holy Communion and the Catechism. Who Made Me. God Made Me.
Every Saturday morning until I was 15 I went to Mantua to learn the vagaries of the Catholic Faith. That first year I was educated so I could accept the body and blood of Christ. Remember, I was six going on seven. Who gave a fuck who made me. I wanted to run in the woods. I wanted to play with my little men. I wanted to annoy my little brother Ted but instead me and about six other little kids from Wenonah were trucked off to Mantua and the Church of the Incarnation so that we could receive the Sacrament of Holy Communion.
We spent about two hours every Saturday morning being tutored by either nuns or the laiety (shorthand for old Italian ladies from Mantua). We recited our Catechism and prepared to accept the Sacrament. It fucked up Saturday like nobody’s business. There were only about six Catholic families in Wenonah so this was an opportunity to learn about diversity. Or more appropriately about difference. Nobody else in my town knew what I was doing. They went to church school on Sunday, then church, then they went home and had fun.
Not me. Not my friends. We went to listen to dour, nasty, old women talk about topics that to a seven year old had almost no value. Pure, unadulterated torment. I know some people profess to love the trappings of the Mass. It’s rituals and robes. The incense. The mysteries. Fuck that shit. I used to gnaw on the back of the pew in front of me. I grew to love the taste of varnish. In summer I would faint. This was before air conditioning after all. The only time the church was nice was Christmas. The Church of the Incarnation was beautiful at Christmas. There was a holiday bazaar and we had a little party with gift giving. Everyone was kind and thoughtful till Christmas day when the priest told us we were assholes for only coming to church at Christmas. I never understood this because I was there every week. Come hell or high water. Sick, well, sad or happy, I was there to worship the Lord.
I should mention there were also no Jews in my town technically when I arrived in 1958. One family, the Parkers, were sort of Jewish. Their father had changed their name from Katz to Parker but they didn’t technically live within the towns borders and they were never brought up within the Jewish faith. For all I know they went to the Presbyterian church. I think this means they were assimilated.
Most people in town were either Methodist or Presbyterian. Wenonah was primarily Methodist. A dour little religion. No gambling, liquor, or cursing. No fun. Wenonah was a dry town because of Methodism. A lot of towns in South Jersey are Methodist, including one of the great shore towns, Ocean City. No liquor could be bought or sold in Ocean City but the largest liquor store I’ve ever seen was right across the bridge in Somers Point. Next to the Dunes till Dawn, one of the great roadhouses of the world. Fun, fun, fun, till your daddy takes the T Bird away.
It was a sin for Catholics to go to another church. At least that was what we were told. You could get dispensation for special circumstances, like camping trips or a funeral. I only went to a service held by another religion once in my young life. I was in Boy Scouts and we attended a Methodist service in the Pine Barrens. Dull as dishwater. Hard to believe but Methodism is kind of like Communism. It was a mass movement founded by urban activists in England and Europe in the 17 hundreds to fight the excesses of drink and gambling caused by the changes in lifestyle brought on by the Industrial Revolution. See George Eliot for more details.
There are also bunches of Quakers in South Jersey. Several of my friends were Quakers and their services sounded interesting. You just get up and talk once in awhile. No host, no wine, no God really. There is a strong pacifist presence in South Jersey and Philadelphia. My town sent lots of young men to war and our local draft board gave out no exemptions but several young men went to Canada in the 60’s because of their Quaker beliefs.
Anyway, that was the first two hours of my weekend. In two days we get the next 46. Ha ha.
Every Saturday morning until I was 15 I went to Mantua to learn the vagaries of the Catholic Faith. That first year I was educated so I could accept the body and blood of Christ. Remember, I was six going on seven. Who gave a fuck who made me. I wanted to run in the woods. I wanted to play with my little men. I wanted to annoy my little brother Ted but instead me and about six other little kids from Wenonah were trucked off to Mantua and the Church of the Incarnation so that we could receive the Sacrament of Holy Communion.
We spent about two hours every Saturday morning being tutored by either nuns or the laiety (shorthand for old Italian ladies from Mantua). We recited our Catechism and prepared to accept the Sacrament. It fucked up Saturday like nobody’s business. There were only about six Catholic families in Wenonah so this was an opportunity to learn about diversity. Or more appropriately about difference. Nobody else in my town knew what I was doing. They went to church school on Sunday, then church, then they went home and had fun.
Not me. Not my friends. We went to listen to dour, nasty, old women talk about topics that to a seven year old had almost no value. Pure, unadulterated torment. I know some people profess to love the trappings of the Mass. It’s rituals and robes. The incense. The mysteries. Fuck that shit. I used to gnaw on the back of the pew in front of me. I grew to love the taste of varnish. In summer I would faint. This was before air conditioning after all. The only time the church was nice was Christmas. The Church of the Incarnation was beautiful at Christmas. There was a holiday bazaar and we had a little party with gift giving. Everyone was kind and thoughtful till Christmas day when the priest told us we were assholes for only coming to church at Christmas. I never understood this because I was there every week. Come hell or high water. Sick, well, sad or happy, I was there to worship the Lord.
I should mention there were also no Jews in my town technically when I arrived in 1958. One family, the Parkers, were sort of Jewish. Their father had changed their name from Katz to Parker but they didn’t technically live within the towns borders and they were never brought up within the Jewish faith. For all I know they went to the Presbyterian church. I think this means they were assimilated.
Most people in town were either Methodist or Presbyterian. Wenonah was primarily Methodist. A dour little religion. No gambling, liquor, or cursing. No fun. Wenonah was a dry town because of Methodism. A lot of towns in South Jersey are Methodist, including one of the great shore towns, Ocean City. No liquor could be bought or sold in Ocean City but the largest liquor store I’ve ever seen was right across the bridge in Somers Point. Next to the Dunes till Dawn, one of the great roadhouses of the world. Fun, fun, fun, till your daddy takes the T Bird away.
It was a sin for Catholics to go to another church. At least that was what we were told. You could get dispensation for special circumstances, like camping trips or a funeral. I only went to a service held by another religion once in my young life. I was in Boy Scouts and we attended a Methodist service in the Pine Barrens. Dull as dishwater. Hard to believe but Methodism is kind of like Communism. It was a mass movement founded by urban activists in England and Europe in the 17 hundreds to fight the excesses of drink and gambling caused by the changes in lifestyle brought on by the Industrial Revolution. See George Eliot for more details.
There are also bunches of Quakers in South Jersey. Several of my friends were Quakers and their services sounded interesting. You just get up and talk once in awhile. No host, no wine, no God really. There is a strong pacifist presence in South Jersey and Philadelphia. My town sent lots of young men to war and our local draft board gave out no exemptions but several young men went to Canada in the 60’s because of their Quaker beliefs.
Anyway, that was the first two hours of my weekend. In two days we get the next 46. Ha ha.
Reading at the Bowery
Hi everyone!
There's more from Wenonah coming today but I wanted to remind everyone I'm reading tomorrow at the Bowery Poetry Club at 2pm. The Bowery Poetry Club is located at 308 Bowery and is a great place to hear poetry. I'm reading as part of the on-going Four Way Books reading series and will be sharing the stage with three other poets of renown and international reputation. They are Ellen Dore Watson, Alexandra Soiseth, and Adria Bernardi. It should be a great afternoon and I hope to see some of you there!
March starts my mad poetry rush with a tour of New England. I'll be teaching High School students in Littleton NH and then doing readings in Maine. Then of course it's National Poetry Month in April. All of which will insure that by May I'll be so sick of poems I'll be the first one on the beach at Sandy Hook on Memorial Day. Here's to a naked summer.
There's more from Wenonah coming today but I wanted to remind everyone I'm reading tomorrow at the Bowery Poetry Club at 2pm. The Bowery Poetry Club is located at 308 Bowery and is a great place to hear poetry. I'm reading as part of the on-going Four Way Books reading series and will be sharing the stage with three other poets of renown and international reputation. They are Ellen Dore Watson, Alexandra Soiseth, and Adria Bernardi. It should be a great afternoon and I hope to see some of you there!
March starts my mad poetry rush with a tour of New England. I'll be teaching High School students in Littleton NH and then doing readings in Maine. Then of course it's National Poetry Month in April. All of which will insure that by May I'll be so sick of poems I'll be the first one on the beach at Sandy Hook on Memorial Day. Here's to a naked summer.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Recess; September 1958
Here we are in the schoolyard of Wenonah Elementary School. Twenty or so spindly kids with our nice clothes on. Girls with peter pan collars and dresses just below the knees. Boys with plaid shirts and khakis, all of us wearing one style Buster Brown's or another, all bought at Ernie's Shoe Post. Standing in line in order of height on the edge of the yard. The schoolyard was yellow gravel with a raised and asphalted section at one end. On the asphalted section there were two basketball hoops, a tennis net and a swing set. Monkeybars too.
We were ready for our first recess. All but one of us is white. The lone black kid, a girl, Michelle Smith, stands out even more as she's the tallest.
Wenonah school is a mish-mosh of three buildings; on each end are the older school buildings dating to the1880's and in the middle is a one story fifties set of classrooms.
Most of us have never met until today. Now we'll spend six years together.
We have recess twice a day. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon. In first grade recess is fairly simple. We play Dodge Ball or we play Kick Ball. No football, basketball, baseball, or track. Both sports are horror shows for kids. They're all about hierarchy and torture and pain. Plus they're good exercise. For someone. Not for me. We pick sides for our games. The boys and girls play separately. Good plan. We're picked by children the teacher names as captain. The captain picks kids who can do well. He picks children based on their physical abilities. While all of us have some limitations a few of us are severely limited. The worst is Tommy Woods. He must have been borderline retarded. One day he got his leg caught in the bars of his chair. His agility rivaled a milk carton. Then there were the one or two fat kids. Then the skinny and half blind. I was skinny, inept, and full of drive. i always got picked close to last.
That didn't mean I wasn't popular on the field. Dodgeball involves hurling a rubber ball as hard as possible at several chowderheads lined up against a chainlink fence. Like an execution but you never die. Kids seemed to like throwing the ball at me, the ball seemed to like hitting me and so Dodgeball became one of the joys of my youth. That and vomiting.
Kick Ball wasn't quite as bad. I just got picked next to last and fucked up repeatedly on the field and then was reminded over and over again by my peers what an idiot I was. Nice.
After recess and our hour of fun we went inside to study. Outside recess took place everyday unless it rained. It never rained often enough. Our studies started simple. The ABC's. Sentences. Then "Fun With Dick and Jane". Oh Spot! Oh Jane! Oh Mother! Oh Father! Oh great stories spun out each day the winter of 1959. The world began to open. Then each day, twice a day, it would close again in an onslaught of brown rubber balls.
I walked to school each morning after that first morning and returned each afternoon with my friends, Terry and Dottie. Over time they found a way to expand the joys of Dodgeball to walking home. They called it Rough Tough Creampuff. Guess who was it?
Next post...what to do with your weekends when you're six.
We were ready for our first recess. All but one of us is white. The lone black kid, a girl, Michelle Smith, stands out even more as she's the tallest.
Wenonah school is a mish-mosh of three buildings; on each end are the older school buildings dating to the1880's and in the middle is a one story fifties set of classrooms.
Most of us have never met until today. Now we'll spend six years together.
We have recess twice a day. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon. In first grade recess is fairly simple. We play Dodge Ball or we play Kick Ball. No football, basketball, baseball, or track. Both sports are horror shows for kids. They're all about hierarchy and torture and pain. Plus they're good exercise. For someone. Not for me. We pick sides for our games. The boys and girls play separately. Good plan. We're picked by children the teacher names as captain. The captain picks kids who can do well. He picks children based on their physical abilities. While all of us have some limitations a few of us are severely limited. The worst is Tommy Woods. He must have been borderline retarded. One day he got his leg caught in the bars of his chair. His agility rivaled a milk carton. Then there were the one or two fat kids. Then the skinny and half blind. I was skinny, inept, and full of drive. i always got picked close to last.
That didn't mean I wasn't popular on the field. Dodgeball involves hurling a rubber ball as hard as possible at several chowderheads lined up against a chainlink fence. Like an execution but you never die. Kids seemed to like throwing the ball at me, the ball seemed to like hitting me and so Dodgeball became one of the joys of my youth. That and vomiting.
Kick Ball wasn't quite as bad. I just got picked next to last and fucked up repeatedly on the field and then was reminded over and over again by my peers what an idiot I was. Nice.
After recess and our hour of fun we went inside to study. Outside recess took place everyday unless it rained. It never rained often enough. Our studies started simple. The ABC's. Sentences. Then "Fun With Dick and Jane". Oh Spot! Oh Jane! Oh Mother! Oh Father! Oh great stories spun out each day the winter of 1959. The world began to open. Then each day, twice a day, it would close again in an onslaught of brown rubber balls.
I walked to school each morning after that first morning and returned each afternoon with my friends, Terry and Dottie. Over time they found a way to expand the joys of Dodgeball to walking home. They called it Rough Tough Creampuff. Guess who was it?
Next post...what to do with your weekends when you're six.
Monday, February 19, 2007
September, 1958 First Grade, First Day of School
I began First Grade that September. I attended Wenonah Public School, which at that time was grades K through 8. After that you would go to Woodbury High School. Because my mother had two small boys she couldn't take me to school my first day so she arranged for the daughter of one of our neighbors to take me. Her name was Peggy Sacca and her family had owned our home before we moved in. Peggy was a grown up in my eyes but actually was an eighth grader. Her father Tony owned the local meat market which was located at the back of Bowker's Grocery Store in the middle of town. Her uncle ran a fruit and vegetable truck that sold produce to stores and also door to door.
I thought Peggy was really beautiful and the walk to school seemed okay to me. We only had to walk a little over 1/2 a mile. Four blocks up to the park in the middle of town where we'd cross Mantua Ave and walk the last two blocks to school. Across the street from the park when I was growing up was Margie's Luncheonette. It would be awhile before I'd cross it's threshold but it was one of the placest I liked best in town.
First grade was taught by Mrs. Kaufman. She lived two blocks down from us on N Lincoln. She was an ancient wizened crone who'd already taught most of the people who lived in Wenonah. Throughout the school year she called Terry, Tim, who was his older brother by nearly ten years. She taught Tim. Eventually she taught my youngest sister. I don't believe she retired until the late 80's. A long time with young children. She taught us to read.
She taught us math as well; beyond that subject matter was kind of vague. But I remember reading as being magical. It was something I could do and do well. She taught us to write.
I had the same children in my classes for nearly six more years. Tomorrow we shall meet them. Preferably at recess.
I thought Peggy was really beautiful and the walk to school seemed okay to me. We only had to walk a little over 1/2 a mile. Four blocks up to the park in the middle of town where we'd cross Mantua Ave and walk the last two blocks to school. Across the street from the park when I was growing up was Margie's Luncheonette. It would be awhile before I'd cross it's threshold but it was one of the placest I liked best in town.
First grade was taught by Mrs. Kaufman. She lived two blocks down from us on N Lincoln. She was an ancient wizened crone who'd already taught most of the people who lived in Wenonah. Throughout the school year she called Terry, Tim, who was his older brother by nearly ten years. She taught Tim. Eventually she taught my youngest sister. I don't believe she retired until the late 80's. A long time with young children. She taught us to read.
She taught us math as well; beyond that subject matter was kind of vague. But I remember reading as being magical. It was something I could do and do well. She taught us to write.
I had the same children in my classes for nearly six more years. Tomorrow we shall meet them. Preferably at recess.
Wenonah, 1958
So here we are at last. August, 1958. Wenonah, New Jersey. I'm 6 years old, about to turn 7 in December. Mick is 5 and Ted a mere 2. My mother is 31 and my father 30. To me they are old. Grown ups. My grandmother Glading was probably younger than I am right now but she was ancient to me. It's late summer and early evening. Summer evenings in August in Wenonah were hot but Mick and I ventured out of the house to meet our new neighbors.
Our house was located on the corner of West Mantua Ave and South Lincoln Ave. Our address was 206 W. Mantua Ave. S. Lincoln was only two blocks long, ending in the Wenonah Woods, then known to me only as "the woods". It was in the woods that I would spend most of my young life. (here's a link to the Wenonah Woods that I found today: http://www.geocities.com/woodsofwenonah/index.html)
Thanks to WW II and the baby boom there were several children my age and Mick's age up and down the street. Our nearest neighbors and the boys and girls who would become our friends were Terry Fleming, Chris DeHart, Gary Condell, Charlie Flitcraft, Robby Cook, Dotty Chattin, and several others we will meet in the months to come. All of our parents were roughly the same age and worked in a variety of trades. My father was a salesman for the gasoline industry, Terry's father was a dentist, Chris' father worked for the family trucking business, Gary's dad worked in the oil refineries along the Delaware. Mr. Flitcraft worked in Philadelphia. I have no idea how he made money. I'm not even sure if Mr. Cook existed. I can't remember him at all but then adults played only a passing role in our lives then. Teachers and other children were the people who made up our world. Everyone else was just part of a larger mystery. One we learned about bit by bit.
This evening Mick and I would meet Gary and Chris, Terry and Charlie. They treated us like the outsiders we were. They wouldn't let us play in any reindeer games. We stood around and watched them play their elaborate games and waited to be invited in; then our mother called us into dinner. We were in bed shortly after. Every night till I was 9 I had to be in bed by 8pm. This was a slow torture because Mick and I would lie in bed and listen to the distant shouts of playing children and the murmur of the TV downstairs, all the time wishing we were older and able to go out like everyone else.
So what was this house like? It was a three story Victorian on a corner lot. All the blocks in Wenonah were the same size; roughly 500' by 300'. Most of the southern part of town and the bulk of the northern part were Victorian homes. They'd been constructed in the late 1880's as a development meant to attract vacationing Philadelphians. The railroad and the nearby man-made lakes were the attraction but it quickly became a bed room community for business men who worked in Philadelphia. Later the oil industry built refineries and tanks along the lower Delaware and the men who worked there came to live in the nearby towns. You'll note I have not once said, men and women. That's because most of the women of that generation stayed home to keep house and raise the children.
At any rate my block had four houses on our side of S Lincoln and of course four on the other. Along Mantua Ave there were also four homes (including our own). We knew the names of everyone on the block and the adjacent blocks. It was a rare house that didn't have a name associated with it. Of course, since we were children, the further you moved from our block the less likely it was for us to know the people there. That would change slowly as we grew.
The street was lined with Black Maples, mature trees all. There were a few oaks and on Cherry St a number of Sycamores. Farther down Mantua Ave, closer to the Mantua Creek, there were taller trees. Not being a naturalist I don't know their names but now and again in a rough summer storm or hurricane they'd come crashing down.
Once tramping through a part of the woods we'd only just discovered we found an immense Elm. So big four of us could just barely encircle it, arms spread. We thought it was the largest tree in the world.
Eventually we became part of Terry and Chris' games. Some of them were familiar, others new and completely made up. Kick the Can, Capture the Flag, yes, but also, He Died at the Foot of the Werewolf Tree, and Who Looks the Deadest. We left the house at 7:30 and ran out to play and play and play. We returned to wolf down peanut butter sandwichs and hershey's chocolate milk and back out again. Talking about it now it sounds idyllic. But idyll's have their hollow cores and children at play aren't just playing.
I was an asthmatic.
I think I left that out.
Mick was as well but only a bit.
Ted eventually was as well and his asthma was severe.
But it was asthma that made games both a joy and a curse.
Our house was located on the corner of West Mantua Ave and South Lincoln Ave. Our address was 206 W. Mantua Ave. S. Lincoln was only two blocks long, ending in the Wenonah Woods, then known to me only as "the woods". It was in the woods that I would spend most of my young life. (here's a link to the Wenonah Woods that I found today: http://www.geocities.com/woodsofwenonah/index.html)
Thanks to WW II and the baby boom there were several children my age and Mick's age up and down the street. Our nearest neighbors and the boys and girls who would become our friends were Terry Fleming, Chris DeHart, Gary Condell, Charlie Flitcraft, Robby Cook, Dotty Chattin, and several others we will meet in the months to come. All of our parents were roughly the same age and worked in a variety of trades. My father was a salesman for the gasoline industry, Terry's father was a dentist, Chris' father worked for the family trucking business, Gary's dad worked in the oil refineries along the Delaware. Mr. Flitcraft worked in Philadelphia. I have no idea how he made money. I'm not even sure if Mr. Cook existed. I can't remember him at all but then adults played only a passing role in our lives then. Teachers and other children were the people who made up our world. Everyone else was just part of a larger mystery. One we learned about bit by bit.
This evening Mick and I would meet Gary and Chris, Terry and Charlie. They treated us like the outsiders we were. They wouldn't let us play in any reindeer games. We stood around and watched them play their elaborate games and waited to be invited in; then our mother called us into dinner. We were in bed shortly after. Every night till I was 9 I had to be in bed by 8pm. This was a slow torture because Mick and I would lie in bed and listen to the distant shouts of playing children and the murmur of the TV downstairs, all the time wishing we were older and able to go out like everyone else.
So what was this house like? It was a three story Victorian on a corner lot. All the blocks in Wenonah were the same size; roughly 500' by 300'. Most of the southern part of town and the bulk of the northern part were Victorian homes. They'd been constructed in the late 1880's as a development meant to attract vacationing Philadelphians. The railroad and the nearby man-made lakes were the attraction but it quickly became a bed room community for business men who worked in Philadelphia. Later the oil industry built refineries and tanks along the lower Delaware and the men who worked there came to live in the nearby towns. You'll note I have not once said, men and women. That's because most of the women of that generation stayed home to keep house and raise the children.
At any rate my block had four houses on our side of S Lincoln and of course four on the other. Along Mantua Ave there were also four homes (including our own). We knew the names of everyone on the block and the adjacent blocks. It was a rare house that didn't have a name associated with it. Of course, since we were children, the further you moved from our block the less likely it was for us to know the people there. That would change slowly as we grew.
The street was lined with Black Maples, mature trees all. There were a few oaks and on Cherry St a number of Sycamores. Farther down Mantua Ave, closer to the Mantua Creek, there were taller trees. Not being a naturalist I don't know their names but now and again in a rough summer storm or hurricane they'd come crashing down.
Once tramping through a part of the woods we'd only just discovered we found an immense Elm. So big four of us could just barely encircle it, arms spread. We thought it was the largest tree in the world.
Eventually we became part of Terry and Chris' games. Some of them were familiar, others new and completely made up. Kick the Can, Capture the Flag, yes, but also, He Died at the Foot of the Werewolf Tree, and Who Looks the Deadest. We left the house at 7:30 and ran out to play and play and play. We returned to wolf down peanut butter sandwichs and hershey's chocolate milk and back out again. Talking about it now it sounds idyllic. But idyll's have their hollow cores and children at play aren't just playing.
I was an asthmatic.
I think I left that out.
Mick was as well but only a bit.
Ted eventually was as well and his asthma was severe.
But it was asthma that made games both a joy and a curse.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
How Wenonah is Laid Out
Wenonah is a small town. Before we join my youthful self in 1958 you should know how it's laid out. It's bisected east and west by the West Jersey Railroad, a now mostly unused railroad line that was in fact the reason the town was built. North and south it's cut in half by Mantua Ave., the main street of Wenonah, which turns into Wenonah Ave. when it rolls into the adjacent town, Mantua. The northern end of town is bordered by Woodbury/Glassboro Road and the southern end by the Mantua Creek which orginates in the Delaware, a few miles upstream.
The town is surrounded on the eastern, southern, and western borders by a small woodland area. This area is called the Wenonah Woods and was purchased through a gift by a local naturalist in the early 1970's. Here is a link to the google map of the town: http://maps.google.com/maps?q=08090+(Wenonah)&ie=UTF8&z=13&ll=39.792051,-75.153351&spn=0.066082,0.154495&om=1
Mantua, the town on the southern edge was a largely Italian working class community. Just past Mantua farms stretched for miles and miles. Tomatoes and peaches as far as the eye could see. The northern, eastern, and western edges were part of Deptford Township. Deptford was an amalgam of small settlements and suburban developments that in the 1960's began to grow. The area directly east of Wenonah in Deptford was known to us as Jericho. It was an African American community with long standing roots. When I was young it was mostly working class black people. People in Wenonah didn't talk to people in Jericho. More on that later.
The next town up the road on the eastern side was Woodbury Heights, then Woodbury. My father lived in Woodbury as a teenager and it was this connection that led us to Wenonah. My father moved our family from a Levittown development outside of Philadelphia in 1957, first to a rental property in Woodbury, and then to Wenonah. None of us live in Wenonah now but all of us carry pieces of it with us. You don't really get to leave Wenonah.
We moved to Wenonah just after my Kindergarten year in Woodbury. Our family consisted of my father, John Sr, my mother, Louise, and my brothers, Ted and Mick. More accurately, Edward and Michael. Ted was the baby and Mick was a year and half younger than I. My father's parents helped him with the downpayment on the mortgage and so we came to Wenonah.
We first saw the house about a month before we moved. My father showed us the treehouse in the back, the yard, the neighborhood, the damp basement, the spacious rooms. We were used to moving (this was our third since I'd been born) so it seemed like no biggie. Mick and I were excited. I have no idea what our parents thought. That brings us then to August of 1958 and my first days in Wenonah. You'll have to wait a bit for more. In the meantime if any folks that lived in Wenonah would like to contribute memories or photos let's find a way to link them up. This isn't just my story. I know my friend Bob Thomas remembers way more than I do and I don't know anything the adults thought about. I hope you'll find a way to mash these things together.
The town is surrounded on the eastern, southern, and western borders by a small woodland area. This area is called the Wenonah Woods and was purchased through a gift by a local naturalist in the early 1970's. Here is a link to the google map of the town: http://maps.google.com/maps?q=08090+(Wenonah)&ie=UTF8&z=13&ll=39.792051,-75.153351&spn=0.066082,0.154495&om=1
Mantua, the town on the southern edge was a largely Italian working class community. Just past Mantua farms stretched for miles and miles. Tomatoes and peaches as far as the eye could see. The northern, eastern, and western edges were part of Deptford Township. Deptford was an amalgam of small settlements and suburban developments that in the 1960's began to grow. The area directly east of Wenonah in Deptford was known to us as Jericho. It was an African American community with long standing roots. When I was young it was mostly working class black people. People in Wenonah didn't talk to people in Jericho. More on that later.
The next town up the road on the eastern side was Woodbury Heights, then Woodbury. My father lived in Woodbury as a teenager and it was this connection that led us to Wenonah. My father moved our family from a Levittown development outside of Philadelphia in 1957, first to a rental property in Woodbury, and then to Wenonah. None of us live in Wenonah now but all of us carry pieces of it with us. You don't really get to leave Wenonah.
We moved to Wenonah just after my Kindergarten year in Woodbury. Our family consisted of my father, John Sr, my mother, Louise, and my brothers, Ted and Mick. More accurately, Edward and Michael. Ted was the baby and Mick was a year and half younger than I. My father's parents helped him with the downpayment on the mortgage and so we came to Wenonah.
We first saw the house about a month before we moved. My father showed us the treehouse in the back, the yard, the neighborhood, the damp basement, the spacious rooms. We were used to moving (this was our third since I'd been born) so it seemed like no biggie. Mick and I were excited. I have no idea what our parents thought. That brings us then to August of 1958 and my first days in Wenonah. You'll have to wait a bit for more. In the meantime if any folks that lived in Wenonah would like to contribute memories or photos let's find a way to link them up. This isn't just my story. I know my friend Bob Thomas remembers way more than I do and I don't know anything the adults thought about. I hope you'll find a way to mash these things together.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Wenonah, now and then
Starting today I'm going to be writing a series of pieces on my hometown, Wenonah. Bear with me. Some of you know a little about my hometown, some a great deal, some more than me. These are my memories of a town that made me.
In order to talk about my town let me say this. I'm going to begin briefly with today, then go back to my first days in Wenonah. It's like a time machine without any distortion except my faulty memory. All of this is past. None is prologue.
I was last in Wenonah about six months ago but more meaningfully three years ago. I left for the second time on January 10th 2004. I arrived the second time October 31st 2001. When I arrived I was fresh from the hospital. I weighed 90 pounds. I still had some hair but that would soon end. I moved into the first floor of a house at number 4 South Monroe Avenue. My landlords were Rachel and Ralph Knisell. They lived next to me in a house on Mantua Avenue. Mantua Avenue is the main street of my town. They were devout Methodists. My apartment was one bedroom, a den, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. I had access to a basement with a washer dryer. When I moved, my brother Mick lived across the street in another apartment on Mantua Avenue. He lived there with his two children, Louise and Doug. The second floor of my building was occupied by a man I'd known since childhood, David O'Connor. His family lived one block away on the corner of Jefferson and Mantua Avenue. I grew up two blocks away on the corner of Lincoln and Mantua Avenue. I knew almost everyone in town.
They all knew me.
The town was built, for the most part in 1888, 1890. A second section was developed in the early fifties by a man named Sinnott. One smaller section was finished in the latter part of the 1960's. Wenonah is one mile square. It's population has been at or around 2000 since it's founding. It was built originally as a vacation destination around the newly built West Jersey Railroad. It became a bedroom community for people working in Philadelphia very soon after it's founding.
It was and is a town of white middle and upper class Americans.
When I moved there I was recovering from complications of AIDS. I was close to dying. Obviously I didn't die. When I moved there the first time it was 1958. No one had AIDS. Homosexuals were invisible. Black people were invisible. The town looked remarkably like it did when I moved back in 2001.
In two days we will go back in time to 1958. Buckle up. It's a wild ride.
In order to talk about my town let me say this. I'm going to begin briefly with today, then go back to my first days in Wenonah. It's like a time machine without any distortion except my faulty memory. All of this is past. None is prologue.
I was last in Wenonah about six months ago but more meaningfully three years ago. I left for the second time on January 10th 2004. I arrived the second time October 31st 2001. When I arrived I was fresh from the hospital. I weighed 90 pounds. I still had some hair but that would soon end. I moved into the first floor of a house at number 4 South Monroe Avenue. My landlords were Rachel and Ralph Knisell. They lived next to me in a house on Mantua Avenue. Mantua Avenue is the main street of my town. They were devout Methodists. My apartment was one bedroom, a den, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. I had access to a basement with a washer dryer. When I moved, my brother Mick lived across the street in another apartment on Mantua Avenue. He lived there with his two children, Louise and Doug. The second floor of my building was occupied by a man I'd known since childhood, David O'Connor. His family lived one block away on the corner of Jefferson and Mantua Avenue. I grew up two blocks away on the corner of Lincoln and Mantua Avenue. I knew almost everyone in town.
They all knew me.
The town was built, for the most part in 1888, 1890. A second section was developed in the early fifties by a man named Sinnott. One smaller section was finished in the latter part of the 1960's. Wenonah is one mile square. It's population has been at or around 2000 since it's founding. It was built originally as a vacation destination around the newly built West Jersey Railroad. It became a bedroom community for people working in Philadelphia very soon after it's founding.
It was and is a town of white middle and upper class Americans.
When I moved there I was recovering from complications of AIDS. I was close to dying. Obviously I didn't die. When I moved there the first time it was 1958. No one had AIDS. Homosexuals were invisible. Black people were invisible. The town looked remarkably like it did when I moved back in 2001.
In two days we will go back in time to 1958. Buckle up. It's a wild ride.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Cornelia Street Reading
Well, I've got my first reading since Bruce Weber's New Years Day gig. I've got to admit I'm a little worried. I haven't read out loud to anyone but Cookie and Milo and Johanna in over a month. More than that I've got concerns about material. I'm going to read some new work. I'll be reading from Fun Being Me because it's my child but I have new poems that I want to hear out loud. I'm hoping to read 3 poems with Mario Infirme. It's got me nervous cuz they're not my normal schtick. Oh well, stick your neck out right?
I hope you can join me tm'w. The room is nice, the open doesn't suck, and I'll be happy as a clam trying to sell my book. Stop by, buy me a drink and listen to Mario Infirme's life lessons.
Ciao
I hope you can join me tm'w. The room is nice, the open doesn't suck, and I'll be happy as a clam trying to sell my book. Stop by, buy me a drink and listen to Mario Infirme's life lessons.
Ciao
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Poetry Magazine John Barr and the World
Hi all,
I read an account today about the tribulations of Poetry Magazine getting boatloads of cash and everyone bitching about John Barr saying poetry doesn't talk to the present.
Duh.
You're upset? Please say no. It's a good thing that someone gave us dough to do what we do and it's good that that opens up debate on what we do. Who gives a flying fuck about what the founder of the mag cared about when she started it. Life was different then. Poetry had a different place in the world of America.
So this is my direct address to John Barr:
John,
There are poets already in the US who write poetry that is accessible, powerful, real and compelling in a variety of styles. Reach out to them. Find a way to bring them under your tent. Poetry is at it's best when it doesn't give a fuck about audience but connects deeply with the audience.
Ginsberg, Auden, Eliot, Frost, and ninety million others. Reach out to poets that care and not to poets who care to publish.
Print is nice. Audience is better.
People need to hear the roar and natter and quiet of poetry. They need our diverse and stupid views and if they have a way to find it they will respond.
God bless Dana Goia and John Barr. Great men who care about the art, not the artist.
They may be dumb chuckleheads and in fact they are but we could all use their cash.
You can make fun of Billy Collins but the man writes poetry people hear and love and it doesn't suck.
He cares about his art and his audience and his soul. Oh, is that so bad?
For every Billy Collins there's a Henry Rollins.
Open the tent.
Make it a real show.
Invite everyone in and show them the magic.
I read an account today about the tribulations of Poetry Magazine getting boatloads of cash and everyone bitching about John Barr saying poetry doesn't talk to the present.
Duh.
You're upset? Please say no. It's a good thing that someone gave us dough to do what we do and it's good that that opens up debate on what we do. Who gives a flying fuck about what the founder of the mag cared about when she started it. Life was different then. Poetry had a different place in the world of America.
So this is my direct address to John Barr:
John,
There are poets already in the US who write poetry that is accessible, powerful, real and compelling in a variety of styles. Reach out to them. Find a way to bring them under your tent. Poetry is at it's best when it doesn't give a fuck about audience but connects deeply with the audience.
Ginsberg, Auden, Eliot, Frost, and ninety million others. Reach out to poets that care and not to poets who care to publish.
Print is nice. Audience is better.
People need to hear the roar and natter and quiet of poetry. They need our diverse and stupid views and if they have a way to find it they will respond.
God bless Dana Goia and John Barr. Great men who care about the art, not the artist.
They may be dumb chuckleheads and in fact they are but we could all use their cash.
You can make fun of Billy Collins but the man writes poetry people hear and love and it doesn't suck.
He cares about his art and his audience and his soul. Oh, is that so bad?
For every Billy Collins there's a Henry Rollins.
Open the tent.
Make it a real show.
Invite everyone in and show them the magic.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Cold, cold, and then colder more
I'm sure that most of you that are reading this are freezing right now. Or sitting in houses burning up as much gas and oil and electricity as you can to fend off the cold.
I know I am.
Johanna, being from El Salvador, is no big fan of chilly weather. Today she decided to go to Bergenline Avenue in Union City to a Botanica. For those of you that don't know what I'm talking about a botanica is a store that sells voodoo stuff. Or Santeria. Or offerings to the saints. Or candles. Anyway, I started getting calls about how cold it was about ten seconds after she left the house. They continued through the whole two hours she was gone.
I of course was already intimately familiar with the chilly weather. First Milo and Cookie had to pee and poop at 6:15am when it was 7 degrees or -15 with the windchill. Then I had to walk from 6th ave to our offices. See any earlier post about the unnatural weather conditions created by the evil architechs who created Madison Square Garden, 1 Penn Plaza, and 33rd St. You could probably leave off 33rd street. The schmuck that designed that just knew the wind would whip in off the river like a whip but it does that everywhere till you get above Lincoln Center.
I arrived at the small but cozy offices of Acme Exterminating to find everyone wearing their jackets and gloves and hats. I wasn't entirely surprised because this is a long-standing tradition at Acme. No heat. When I first returned in 2004 on my third day the temperature dropped to like 7 and the boiler failed. We spent three days shaking in the cold. Our boss bought us the little handwarmer packs you put in your pockets and shoes. They were relatively ineffectual.
Eventually he got us electric heaters. They were sort of effectual.
So I was ready for this.
I'm not entirely certain I did any real work today. I spent most of the day huddled over my heater like some 21st century Bob Cratchit. All of us were sore at days end from hunching over.
The walk back to the PATH was okay. The wind was at my back most of the way except right by the Garden where it goes in six directions. I got home and drank some wine and ate chipotle Welsh Rarebit. I'm tired and a little inebriated.
I don't have to work tomorrow. I'm going to see my Dr to find out if I'll be around a bit longer. I'll spend most of the day in a warm car. I'm hoping to go for a run midday to keep up with my health.
They say it will be like this for three more days.
I need a job where I can travel for my health.
Four days in Aruba would be nice right about now.
I would welcome the opportunity to discuss rodent control measures over a rum punch watching the sun dip into the Caribbean. I did get to see the sun set over the Palisades as I got off the PATH.
In closing let me say you should check out Teresa Carson's great poems on the site, buy my book, and find a way to get me some slimy gig talking about poetry in a near tropical climate. Anyone who can help with this will get a bonus. This is not a joke.
I know I am.
Johanna, being from El Salvador, is no big fan of chilly weather. Today she decided to go to Bergenline Avenue in Union City to a Botanica. For those of you that don't know what I'm talking about a botanica is a store that sells voodoo stuff. Or Santeria. Or offerings to the saints. Or candles. Anyway, I started getting calls about how cold it was about ten seconds after she left the house. They continued through the whole two hours she was gone.
I of course was already intimately familiar with the chilly weather. First Milo and Cookie had to pee and poop at 6:15am when it was 7 degrees or -15 with the windchill. Then I had to walk from 6th ave to our offices. See any earlier post about the unnatural weather conditions created by the evil architechs who created Madison Square Garden, 1 Penn Plaza, and 33rd St. You could probably leave off 33rd street. The schmuck that designed that just knew the wind would whip in off the river like a whip but it does that everywhere till you get above Lincoln Center.
I arrived at the small but cozy offices of Acme Exterminating to find everyone wearing their jackets and gloves and hats. I wasn't entirely surprised because this is a long-standing tradition at Acme. No heat. When I first returned in 2004 on my third day the temperature dropped to like 7 and the boiler failed. We spent three days shaking in the cold. Our boss bought us the little handwarmer packs you put in your pockets and shoes. They were relatively ineffectual.
Eventually he got us electric heaters. They were sort of effectual.
So I was ready for this.
I'm not entirely certain I did any real work today. I spent most of the day huddled over my heater like some 21st century Bob Cratchit. All of us were sore at days end from hunching over.
The walk back to the PATH was okay. The wind was at my back most of the way except right by the Garden where it goes in six directions. I got home and drank some wine and ate chipotle Welsh Rarebit. I'm tired and a little inebriated.
I don't have to work tomorrow. I'm going to see my Dr to find out if I'll be around a bit longer. I'll spend most of the day in a warm car. I'm hoping to go for a run midday to keep up with my health.
They say it will be like this for three more days.
I need a job where I can travel for my health.
Four days in Aruba would be nice right about now.
I would welcome the opportunity to discuss rodent control measures over a rum punch watching the sun dip into the Caribbean. I did get to see the sun set over the Palisades as I got off the PATH.
In closing let me say you should check out Teresa Carson's great poems on the site, buy my book, and find a way to get me some slimy gig talking about poetry in a near tropical climate. Anyone who can help with this will get a bonus. This is not a joke.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Groundhog Day
Well, yesterday was Groundhog Day. A chance to find out how rodents react to the sun and a reference to my favorite movie. That's not entirely true. Groundhog Day with Bill Murray and Chris Elliot and all my dumb friends is not really my favorite movie. I have dozens of favorite movies. Casablanca, Duck Soup, The Shop Around the Corner, Swingtime, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, any movie with Jet Li, ET, who fucking knows. I love movies. But there are those movies that I wll watch no matter what and weep copiously no matter what and Groundhog Day looms large among them.
It wasn't on.
Not on any channel.
My friend Willa said what the fuck is up with that? They show it all through Christmas week but today no Bill Murray? No angels in the snow? No chance at redemption at the beginning of the stupidest month of all? A month that seems to be designed by chumps. You can barely remember how to spell it. It's short. It's cold. It takes longer than any month in the world except maybe May in San Francisco but I don't live in San Francisco I live in the New York metropolitan area and it's the living, breathing, embodiment of hell. No. Purgatory.
Purgatory. A lamented Catholic state that should be brought back with bells on. Purgatory. It's just cold. It rains. It snows. You don't have any fun. Oh, there's the Super Bowl, a horrible media event concocted by chowderheads in the NFL that subverts everything great about football. They put it in a dome or the sun for God's sake! Football from late November to January should have snow and ice and fog and rain and men covered in mud looking foolish. No dice.
There's Presidents Day. A made up holiday to get out of two good holidays celebrating two great Presidents. Washington and Lincoln and gluing them together so they are joined at the hip with Grover Cleveland Alexander and Franklin Pierce and George Bush and US Grant who was a good general but basically ate shit as a president.
So all we do in February, unless you live in Arizona and only old people and curmudgeons and people from "the new southwest" live in Arizona, is freeze your fucking balls off and wipe freezing sleet and rain and snow off your face slogging to work every fucking day of a month that is only technically sort of sometimes 28 days long but seems to last till the end of time. Sometime in early January in New York Willa was complaining. She was coughing and sneezing and it was 50 degrees. She said it's "the bad air". Well, the motherfucking bad air is gone for good and even though the ice caps are melting and no one will be sunning themselves on the slopes of resorts in Switzerland in 75 years it's still just like winter always looked. Nasty. Brutish. Short.
They have Fashion Week now in New York but all I can see is armies of down. Men and women swathed in immense cloaks of puffy material sniffling and trudging slowly in brutish weather.
You'd think I could at least watch Groundhog Day. You'd think I could get some small chuckles when Bill Murray doesn't step in the puddle or when he hugs the oafish insurance salesman but you'd be wrong. All the tv programmers in the world are thinking about the great commercials for the Super Bowl. They're talking happily about K Fed or whatever dopey dot com company is willing to bet the farm that they'll drum up biz by being mildly controversial while we're all downing beers and falling asleep before Peyton Manning crushes the Bears and snow devours the world.
February deserves better. Put the Super Bowl on at 1:00pm. Let the Bears win on a snowy day in Soldier Field. Let Bill Murray hear Cher just one more time and please God, please, find a way to change the wind patterns around Madison Square Garden so that it doesn't resemble the Antarctic even in April. If we can't get that then I'll settle for Jesus coming back for the resurrection; but that seems a way off too.
With luck and seven or eight weeks my opinions and the global climate will have changed. Please God hasten spring. Oh. Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow which means the bad air will be back relatively soon.
In a better world the savior would have been born on February 15th or thereabout and you would get holiday gifts and light trees and treat each other with kindness. In this world we have to wait till he was crucified or whatever and it's Spring. Just a little while. Courage.
It wasn't on.
Not on any channel.
My friend Willa said what the fuck is up with that? They show it all through Christmas week but today no Bill Murray? No angels in the snow? No chance at redemption at the beginning of the stupidest month of all? A month that seems to be designed by chumps. You can barely remember how to spell it. It's short. It's cold. It takes longer than any month in the world except maybe May in San Francisco but I don't live in San Francisco I live in the New York metropolitan area and it's the living, breathing, embodiment of hell. No. Purgatory.
Purgatory. A lamented Catholic state that should be brought back with bells on. Purgatory. It's just cold. It rains. It snows. You don't have any fun. Oh, there's the Super Bowl, a horrible media event concocted by chowderheads in the NFL that subverts everything great about football. They put it in a dome or the sun for God's sake! Football from late November to January should have snow and ice and fog and rain and men covered in mud looking foolish. No dice.
There's Presidents Day. A made up holiday to get out of two good holidays celebrating two great Presidents. Washington and Lincoln and gluing them together so they are joined at the hip with Grover Cleveland Alexander and Franklin Pierce and George Bush and US Grant who was a good general but basically ate shit as a president.
So all we do in February, unless you live in Arizona and only old people and curmudgeons and people from "the new southwest" live in Arizona, is freeze your fucking balls off and wipe freezing sleet and rain and snow off your face slogging to work every fucking day of a month that is only technically sort of sometimes 28 days long but seems to last till the end of time. Sometime in early January in New York Willa was complaining. She was coughing and sneezing and it was 50 degrees. She said it's "the bad air". Well, the motherfucking bad air is gone for good and even though the ice caps are melting and no one will be sunning themselves on the slopes of resorts in Switzerland in 75 years it's still just like winter always looked. Nasty. Brutish. Short.
They have Fashion Week now in New York but all I can see is armies of down. Men and women swathed in immense cloaks of puffy material sniffling and trudging slowly in brutish weather.
You'd think I could at least watch Groundhog Day. You'd think I could get some small chuckles when Bill Murray doesn't step in the puddle or when he hugs the oafish insurance salesman but you'd be wrong. All the tv programmers in the world are thinking about the great commercials for the Super Bowl. They're talking happily about K Fed or whatever dopey dot com company is willing to bet the farm that they'll drum up biz by being mildly controversial while we're all downing beers and falling asleep before Peyton Manning crushes the Bears and snow devours the world.
February deserves better. Put the Super Bowl on at 1:00pm. Let the Bears win on a snowy day in Soldier Field. Let Bill Murray hear Cher just one more time and please God, please, find a way to change the wind patterns around Madison Square Garden so that it doesn't resemble the Antarctic even in April. If we can't get that then I'll settle for Jesus coming back for the resurrection; but that seems a way off too.
With luck and seven or eight weeks my opinions and the global climate will have changed. Please God hasten spring. Oh. Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow which means the bad air will be back relatively soon.
In a better world the savior would have been born on February 15th or thereabout and you would get holiday gifts and light trees and treat each other with kindness. In this world we have to wait till he was crucified or whatever and it's Spring. Just a little while. Courage.
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