Mr. Hawxhurst (Part 2)

The decade had turned. I had been in school for five of the six fall/winter/springs since that car ride and the adventure in the bar. The world was a slightly less exotic place, as I had grown up a bit and the wonderment around me receded with routines like homework, going to school, to church, chores, and other tasks along the road dotted with society's frequent signposts pointing toward adulthood and responsibility urging me relentlessly in that direction. Still, looking back, there was an enormous amount of freedom though I did not fully realize it. Taxes, a job, bills, caregiving, maintenance of vehicles, a garden and of a house were all still in the distant future. One could and did, with Mom's or Dad's permission, still climb aboard someone's car and enjoy an outing. That is what I did twice that summer thanks again to Mr. Hawxhurst. He had purchased in May another sedan, his first since the long gone Oldsmobile. This used vehicle was a gray '49 Pontiac with its now familiar (in my catalogue of memories today) fastback styling and the arresting hood ornament of Chief Pontiac's profile shaped from a hard plastic the color of amber. A quick mathematical calculation apprises me of the fact that this car was older than the Olds was on that pre-school summer's day. Mr. Hawxhurst was clearly, not a wealthy man. I had learned, by the time of this pre-pubescent period of my life, that he worked in the city as an elevator operator. The house he lived in was built the summer after the Blizzard of '88 and had been in his wife's family since shortly after the first world war. I did not recall him and the family ever apparently vacationing or leaving the house for any extended trips. But now Mr. Hawxhurst, though his commuting still did not require it, decided to utilize his recent acquisition to, among other things, at last entertain himself and his children, as well as my brother and I during this school-free season. With Mrs. Hawxhurst's blessing, the first journey began with the five of us sallying forth to upper Manhattan and the boyhood haunts of Mr. Hawxhurst.

In this summer of talk about a young senator named Kennedy, an angry man named Khrushchev and a frightening pocket book and movie entitled "On The Beach" ("don't worry, it's fiction…that's make believe, Timmy" Mr. Hawxhurst had assured me) the first stirrings of a sense of mortality, that had been quiescent since just about the time of the first auto trip with Mickey's dad (a precocity and a preoccupation then with death had caused me, for several weeks, to pester my mother while she attempted to dust the furniture and make the beds, giving neither of us much peace until hunger, a nap and Grandpa's cheerful interactions dissolved these worries) returned to interrupt the stream of my usually carefree musings. Mr. Hawxhurst's plans provided a novel diversion that worked as well as Grandpa's games and Dad's sunny personality, and that would probably have brought even the most withdrawn child (which I was not) out of his shell. Like my Dad, George Hawxhurst was a combat veteran of the second world war and the air of confidence that both men exuded was taken for granted by we little ones. For misbehaving we might incur a slap across the fanny, a loud warning or expression of prohibition, but like six years earlier and consistently since, these were rare and loving acts all for the sake of safety and were overwhelmingly outnumbered by equally loving, nuturing and educational examples of how to comport oneself and encouraging ways and attitudes that were simply wise and priceless jewels of child rearing. As in the bar, we were safe and trusting and these feelings were all reinforced by countless other acts and forbearances that revealed the good character of each of our parents. How fortuitous was this state of affairs and how, only relatively recently did I come to fully appreciate it.

We approached Washington Heights, oblivious to any traffic which was no doubt exceedingly light anyway, by 21st century standards. Our first stop was The Museum of The American Indian on Audubon Terrace. Coming here seemed so natural and it dovetailed with so much we had already absorbed. Books, magazines, history lessons in school and of course, western adventure shows on television and in the movies, made us fully cognizant of the native American in our history. The enormous interest his story engendered in our young minds guaranteed that no yawning or crankiness would ensue as may have occurred with a visit to a more conventional museum of fine art, statuary or dry displays of bones, tomes and artifacts devoid of any hoopla or promise of action and danger. The buckskins and clothing of various animals' pelts, the feathers, war paint, the dugouts, the weaponry of tomahawks, arrowheads, spears, and the three dimensionality of imposing mannequins wearing and carrying these items, thrilled us and intensified the fascination with what we had only seen in two dimensions up to that point. The past had now come alive and we were learning as one benefits physically from an exciting, competitive game in sports, unaware of its profit while thoroughly enjoying the process unlike a recitation by rote in a classroom or the monotony of a weightlifting workout. Afterwards, we snacked outside on a bench near the museum's entrance and then a chance for Mr. Hawxhurst to light up from his pack of Oasis filter cigarettes helped us to digest both the meal and our experience. Jamie, the youngest and least inhibited of us, started to whoop like a "redskin" (as his dad had usually described the subjects of our recent attention) recalling the sights and sounds of the dioramas and displays. Political correctness had not been conceived yet in 1960. Mr. Hawxhurst's use of the term, much like "injun", was almost purely descriptive and arguably "shorthand", by one syllable, for that of "indian." The fact of a land completely the domain of Americans of European ancestry and of white skin, was accepted almost unconsciously with neither any animus towards Indians nor any triumphalism over one's race's rule. "The nobility of the redman" was not a patronizing phrase as many a modern day revisionist historian might assert. Among his tattoos, most prominently and just below his left shoulder and near to the bicep, was one of the image of the profile of an Indian brave in full war bonnet and with the year "1934" appearing immediately below the neck of the two dimensional bust. George had been precisely in his mid teens when assumedly this particular body art was created. Mr. Hawxhurst had clearly been no child from a sheltered or pampered world or not without some "street smarts" or at least very strong inclinations to explore the world, its myths and to live out some of the dreams of a thoroughly dynamic American youth. This early rambunctiousness, then a hitch during the big war where he saw action in France, Belgium, Luxembourg and deep inside Germany (preceded by a dream very nearly pursued, but for economic constraints and family ties: to volunteer with the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1940), and now the stature of a mature citizen/civilian and integral part of a Pax Americana, despite a Cold War: Mr. Hawxhurst had reason to be proud of his journey from "wild kid" to decorated veteran to his current role of working husband and father. He was hopeful about the future. It was now a time of peace and stability and it was a good time for America.

Presently we returned to the Pontiac and Mr. Hawxhurst shortly and wordlessly motored away from the museum seemingly lost in his own thoughts and continued thusly when after several minutes he circled and doubled back in an area in view of the mighty Hudson. "Where are we going?" asked Mickey with a slight hint of restlessness in his voice. "You'll see soon, son" answered his dad. Empty lots and weeds, not unlike our own neighborhood across the East river, but larger, more overgrown and with sizable industrial debris strewn about characterized most of the landscape before us. Mickey's dad parked the car. We were now fairly close to the water and tall cliffs nearby mirrored what we saw in the distance and hard by the Hudson's far shore. Looking carefully toward the near distance on the New York side of the river, Mr. Hawxhurst suddenly stood stock still. "There it is" he said, almost to himself as if he had found a valuable possession, the location of which, time had at first, eroded a wee bit his confidence in pinpointing. "What is it, dad?" asked Jamie. "Boys, come with me. Everybody hold hands and watch your step." A narrow path between the piles of loose concrete and rusted parts of automobiles and trucks wended its way closer to the edge of the mostly empty expanse of the urban wasteland we stood in. "Now stay right here with me boys. Jamie, stop fidgeting." The gulf between the area where we were and the sheer cliffs (and also man made walls), was a tremendous artificial canyon, at the bottom of which freight train tracks crisscrossed the entire space while close by, sooty smokestacks belched languorously and intermittently puffs of dark clouds that then drifted speedily away toward the river. "See that big tree growing almost sideways out of that wall? There! Way up but below the red paint along the top….the white letters!" "I see it daddy!" "Yes, I see it too" my brother piped up. There, against the smooth, yet rocky face of the huge verticality of a heavily rust stained retaining wall built to protect the rail yards below, were two gigantic letters painted in white with short drips extending downward not much more narrowly than the characters that read unmistakably: "G.H." "I did that" said Mickey's dad in a tone expressing more thoughtfulness than pride. "It was the summer after I got the tattoos." Several other initials, smaller and further down the facade were translated into the names of his companions of yesteryear. Twice he stated that "he's gone." The second time he mentioned "The Bulge."

A week later, Mr. Hawxhurst invited us again for a ride. My brother did not want to go, but Dad and Mom said that I could if I wished. With his sons and I, we all ventured down to the sea. Always the chatterbox in my early youth, familiarity and curiosity finally emboldened me to ask Mr. Hawxhurst questions, some of which I had long wondered about. "Did you know my Dad during the war? When did you first smoke? Did your parents allow it? How did you paint your initials without falling? Did the police catch you?" "Wait 'til we get to the beach and we're all settled" he quietly advised as he negotiated the rusting sedan through surprisingly thick traffic. Rockaway Beach was our destination. We bathed in the surf, again holding hands as before, but only when we stepped toward deeper water to jump up as a wave crested. Jamie once broke away as we made another advance away from the shore just before lunch, but he stayed closer to the sand as his dad's hortatory cries reigned him in and riveted him to one spot with an intense fatherly glare. Later, French fries and hot dogs were enjoyed and the salt air seemed to further loosen my tongue as I asked him about what each tattoo meant. He said that he didn't remember the reason for every one. The Indian chief's face was based on a cigar store wooden Indian that he loved and that stood forever, it seemed, outside a smoke shop on the corner near where he lived off Convent avenue. A faded image of a clown's face near the opposite bicep was simply picked out from a book that the tattoo parlor proprietor had shown him. A snake entwining a cross with a partially veiled woman weeping next to it covered much of his right forearm. He did not reply to the enquiry about it. In only his bathing trunks, I noticed for the first time droplets of blood falling from the tattoo of the heart over his heart and I pushed my shyness aside again with great effort to ask about it. "Oh, it's the last one I got… France, 1944. My buddy Jimmy on Utah beach had one and I liked it and wanted it to honor Mrs. Hawxhurst. See her name alongside?" "Marlene" was barely visible but decipherable now that it was called to my attention.

To our right while facing the sea the sun began its slow descent in the direction of the city and toward the point where the shore, the ocean and the once wild blue yonder all merged goldenly. The fair skinned Mickey looked quite the lobster despite the use of primitive suntan lotion. "Time to make tracks boys" Mr. Hawxhurst announced. I felt extra sleepy after the long day in the wind and sun and was falling quickly in the corner of the passenger's side of the Pontiac's rear bench seat. Just then Jamie decided to vocalize, long since surpassing his brother's efforts at entertaining. One of the summer's crossover hits from the country & western charts was "Mule Skinner Blues." More than a yodel and less terrifying than a Rebel yell, part of the refrain of the tune was a joyous, guttural yelp which was quickly and often imitated by Jamie who was obviously enamored of its expression of sheer delight, like his Indian war cry of the previous week. The car's radio reinforced his fixation with this melody as the local pop station played it seemingly incessantly while we headed back home. END OF PART 2

Mr. Hawxhurst

George Hawxhurst was the father of Mickey Hawxhurst, a playmate of mine and next door neighbor. George was a handsome man with a vague resemblance to Alan Ladd though brown haired. He was not particularly tall, and had tattoos covering both arms that were fully revealed in the summer in the days when sleeveless undershirts were not uncommon. On an especially sweltering day I first espied the only other example of body art that he apparently sported. It was a small dark purplish heart over his own with an arrow piercing, of course, the former. Mr. Hawxhurst would quietly greet you, in any season, if he saw you playing outside when he was coming home from work via the subway enroute to walking up the steps of his stoop. The Hawxhursts did not own a car for what seemed like the longest time in the perception of a grade schooler like myself. When I was perhaps four years old he did briefly own a shabby Oldsmobile, a kind of chocolaty brown colored one with that roundish body typical of most post war cars before the explosion of the eye candy of aerodynamically improved shapes and forms, sexy and lower to the ground (with joyous, primary colors as well as pastels of two and even three tones) that designers brought forth in profusion and great variety, as the advent of the second half of the 1950s marked the realization, expressed through such exuberant creativity, that peace and prosperity were at last a reality.

Mr. & Mrs. Hawxhurst invited my brother and I to join them along with Mickey and his brother for a ride once in that car. Our Mom gave permission and it was quite the adventure to amble into a strange vehicle and to hold onto leather straps covered in soft gray felt-like material dangling just below the headliner and adjacent to the windlace, while standing on the rear seat as we all headed toward a building several blocks away. Mr. Hawxhurst explained that we would be entering a "bar." In a twinkling we did, and the darkness and coolness of the place was very exciting as it contrasted with the summery brightness of the outside daylight. It must have been a late morning weekday and the tavern owners were likely friends of the Hawxhursts and may have ushered us in before the place's opening time. I was so young that I had no frame of reference for when a bar opened or closed or for what a gin mill crowded with customers was like or how exceptional it may have been: coming to this pub at this time. I only knew that I was in a strange and stimulating place where certain new odors and a very grownup atmosphere seemed to envelop me. There was no fear, but rather the sense that we had been permitted to roam in this new playpen and that there were no severe restrictions or warnings about our behavior or expectations about the same. I guess George and Marlene (his wife) found this place a comfort and a haven and they communicated these feelings to us little ones and in turn, we were equally at ease. I was given, along with the other three boys, a drink from the very big man behind the bar. They were each sparkling little tumblers, not much bigger than a shot glass and were filled with wonderfully fizzy and cold ginger ale. Mickey was the first to notice the raised platform and alcove partially enshrouded by dark curtains in a far corner of the room with objects and other mysterious and beckoning forms within it. We asked, almost in unison, if we could go there and the relaxed adults assented, again communicating a certain confidence in this quiet little universe of shadows, cigarette smoke, beer and perfume.

Mickey's kid brother Jamie discovered the set of drums and my brother and I noticed that the huge "desk" close by was a piano, its keys inaccessible, though we were, again, too tender in years to feel deprived of the opportunity of experimenting with its powers. We did know that we were free to use our imaginations that needed no coaxing at this fertile juncture in our development as our energetic little brains, bodies and, of course, spirits soared with the presence of these "toys" before us. We were more than delighted to mime the act of playing a peppy tune as we tickled phantom ivories while touching the keyboard's heavy cover of dark wood. Now Mickey laid eyes upon the tall stick of silvery metal that stood upright in the middle of this alcove with a black cord attached to it and more shiny metal at the top of it looking like a sort of big lollipop. With mercurial invention he clambered onto a wooden chair with a round thin seat, curved back without spindles but a quasi-concentric inner configuration of more curved wood and legs also slightly curved. This enabled him to bring his mouth level with the "lollipop" and to "green light" aspirations he had been nurturing all week: a chance to belt out "Shake, Rattle and Roll!" It was not his volume, but his less than perfect pitch that turned the adults' heads. They admonished us for the first time, but not with the slightest trace of a scolding spirit in their words. "Mickey, do you know how to hum that song like Mommy does when she's cleaning the house?" Mickey warmed instantaneously to the suggestion and just a bit belatedly Jamie also caught the drift of his mother's little talk and calculated about a new game of strumming his fingers on two chairs identical to the one his brother was standing on, but not before he had indulged the impulse to strike twice with one of the nearby drumsticks onto the taut skin stretched across one of the drums. My brother, the oldest of the four of us, needed no modification of his fun. He had terminated our piano duet a few moments earlier as he happily "conducted" our very merry junior band by sawing the air with regal solemnity. It was the first and only time I rode in that car and it was the last time I was in that building until nearly forty years later when it had become a somewhat snooty restaurant (by the standards of our modest neighborhood) serving northern Italian cuisine (after having undergone several reincarnations as a local watering hole). END OF PART 1

"And We Promise That We'll Remember The Seventh Of December"

On Wednesday, December 7, 2011, the seventieth anniversary of the day that naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan attacked the American naval base at Pearl Harbor and other nearby facilities of the U.S. army and army air force, was marked with solemn ceremonies in Hawaii and across the nation. The day after this occasion it was also announced that the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association was disbanding. How shall we remember, when those alive at the time of any event, even an exceedingly momentous one such as this, are gone? It is done by a kind of alchemy that makes history a living entity though the subject is by definition, the study of things gone by, defunct, in the past, ended. This is challenging, but of vital importance, as mine (like those of most Americans, and one day soon: all Americans), is really only a memory of a memory of the "day that will live in infamy."

The date was remembered. The intention was to attend ceremonies that day at the National cemetery where my father and uncles, all veterans of World War II, are buried. Life intervened. Major renovations on our house, somewhat delayed, were rescheduled on that day at our contractor's convenience and frankly, at mine. Still, I could have noted the anniversary on its day ten days ago, as has been my wont in other cases, on this blog. I've a twinge of personal guilt in this regard. The above title is a lyric from the "Song of the Seabees." The Seabees are the U.S. Navy's Construction Battalion, and their nickname is a delightful and witty homophone of their official name's initials.

A promise is something that I was taught ought not be broken except for reasons of a grave nature. My late uncle and godfather Damiano was a member of the 30th Seabees from 1942-1945. For him, the song and the event had extra dimensions of meaning and were part of a visceral patriotism that was communicated to us (his seven nephews and niece) when we were still very small children and the memories then, again for him, were especially fresh. Once more, the subject of memory and its value in our lives is foremost in my mind. Several years ago I viewed "The Fighting Seabees", a film starring John Wayne and I vaguely recalled the song. Yesterday, I researched its lyrics and the wording did not make complete sense. Two different sources indicated the words as follows: "And we promise that we remember the 'Seventh of December'." That's like telling one's teacher that you promise that you know the answers to the homework questions of yesterday even though the written assignment is due today and you do not have it available for submission. Such a student needs to perform his "promise" then and there to be credible. A promise is, instead, a kind of covenant whereby future behavior is pledged to one who or something which we respect and honor. This line that I read was not so much a typographical error as it was a telling reflection of an unthinking transcription by someone who didn't care and/or couldn't think clearly enough to appreciate the precision that language demands and the respect and simple but intelligent message it can transmit. I decided to seek primary sources, short of a copy of the original sheet music. Two YouTube selections brought relief and satisfaction: one was of an authentic Navy chorus, Seabees members perhaps, and the other was a wartime clip of the great Judy Garland saluting these particular sailors with her rendition. The above title/quote is, in both cases, their exact words, as I heard them, and makes sense while telling with sweet simplicity, the meaning and value of a promise and a remembrance.

Why remember that day? Well, may as well ask, why remember September 11, 2001? Forgiveness is not the subject of this blog entry, nor is hatred or revenge the matter at hand. However, knowing, understanding and retaining the knowledge and fully comprehending, in all its facets, what evil did and can do in the future to what and to whom one loves and holds dear, is well worth, many times over, the effort required to never forget.

About a half century ago, there was a priest in the parish where I lived. His name was Fr. Duffy and he once gave a homily that, for some reason I have never forgotten. He asked us, his congregants, "what does it mean when we say we are 'sorry'?" A long pause was followed by his startlingly sharp answer to his own question: "it means you're not going to do it again!!" Similarly, faithfully saluting the fallen is, though not the avoidance of a sin of commission, a kind of "virtue of commission" and shares the goal of Fr. Duffy's implied strong suggestion of yore: that of "doing good", a much maligned practice in recent decades, as in "do gooder" or "he's a 'goody-goody'." In both cases what is required is a devotion to the practice, yes, the art of remembering. Consciousness and Conscience as Philosopher King and Queen of something called Civilization: too grandiose a concept? Not "cool" enough a world view for the cognoscenti of this planet? Well, Christendom and the wise of all faiths still seek these paths. The anniversary of the birthday of a special child will be celebrated in a few days. It's another event "deep in December" that's more than "nice to remember" and we promise to, because of His promise.

"Deep in December It's Nice to Remember"

"Without a hurt the heart is hollow." So many of the lyrics like those above from "Try To Remember", the unforgettable song from the remarkably long running play "The Fantasticks" (1960-2002), are arrows of joyous sorrow, weapons of deadly delight, striking the heart unfailingly on target and they're not really uncommonly oxymoronic ones for we who incline heavily toward nostalgia and in equal proportions to its "what was" and "what might have been" components. The song is not the gentle semi-cynical take on youth of Maurice Chevalier's "I'm Glad I'm Not Young Anymore" ("Gigi", 1958). Though they're both wistful tunes, "Try To Remember" laments an earlier time and its ghosts as beloved brothers or sisters, forever "tender and callow", whom the old survivor and singer hopelessly longs to caress and somehow protect through remembrance and "following." Contrastingly, the iconic Frenchman's chant is primarily one of relief and liberation from the blunders and anxieties of one's immature days. Whose reminiscences are the truer ones? It would seem that they both partake of authenticity and wisdom, but they each represent a different world view: the former perhaps that of the poet, the latter that of the philosopher.

The past has often been treated, especially throughout much of America's history, with widely varying degrees of respect. As a nation born and bathed in the "hot springs" of revolutionary ardor, change and supposed progress has always been embraced, while dwelling on what was or has been dismantled or "turned upside down", has in many a case held very little interest for us. Short memories have resulted and these have, in many instances, been the enemy of true progress, though modern day "progressives" imagine that their denigration of the past is almost always good and necessary. The hidebound can and do stultify of course, as well. Also, with advancing years memories can fade and this can be a cruel irony of the presumed wisdom of Chevalier's character. Earlier in the film this is touched upon comically but emphatically in his duet "I Remember It Well" with Hermione Gingold. Perhaps it's not so much a matter of senescence gaining ground, but the human need, in constant dramatic tension with its counterpart remembrance, for that of forgetfulness. This may be a healthy psychic mechanism that allows one to "let go" and it surely heals or at least anesthetizes from what, in the past, may be too painful for some in the present. Those of us with the proverbial memory of an elephant are sometimes envied and cause even occasionally thinly veiled reactions that reveal no little irritation as in "How did you remember THAT?" The feelings are sometimes mutual, as the overly sensitive poets/elephants among us are not seldom filled with a longing as in "How did he/she manage to get past that old insult by so-and-so and how could he/she possibly forget it? What energy and drive he/she has to move on like that with his/her life!" This is not to suggest that those who can flush unpleasantness and other traumas from their memories are the only ones who can progress and succeed in the present and future. Some of us, those most depressed and weighed upon with cares and lingering memories (or chemical imbalances in their brains as modern science increasingly asserts), can and do create and serve up a storm of accomplishments, often precisely because of their afflictions. Called to mind are some of the the admirable and courageous known to history and relatively recently, from the entertainment field: Lincoln, Poe, Cole Porter, Christopher Reeve and Dick Cavett. They all soldiered on and gave (give) their best, displaying their demons never, except to share the art or wisdom born from their tormentors' crucibles.

Neither temperament nor nature is necessarily any more or less morally superior to the other. The problems begin perhaps, when either inclination shifts too decidedly towards its respective pole: remembrance or forgetfulness. What brings me down on the side of the "rememberers" is just an ineffable kinship with the past and what has, at least so far, been my possession of a good memory that I use to try to relive certain events because of a hope to learn from them. Admittedly though, there is a tremendous unwillingness to cease remembering and by extension, to discontinue loving someone or something. Honoring our dead and the deeds that helped to forge the world we live in now (not just military heroes) requires that we guard against consigning someone or something to oblivion. In this sense it is quite more than simply "nice" to remember. Still unimpressed by those enthralled by memories? Consider this simple example. What would Facebook and other similar phenomena of cyberspace be, in terms of their awesome power to attract followers without the human capacity to remember? Does someone "friend" you because they have forgotten who you are? No, remembrance, short of an obsessive mania to inhale every subatomic particle of a fond memory, is perhaps the greatest gift we possess as humans. Shared histories, stories and myths that bind a people and a race, events from a formative stage of one's development inextricable from a beloved grandparent or unique character and friend, all these and more comprise an almost unimaginably rich personal tapestry that depends utterly and completely on the life blood of memory. Yes, deep in December, along with a reliable source of physical warmth (whether an ancient hearth or electric blanket), this other warmth is most welcome and something beyond reassuring.