The Boston Red Sox are the World Champions of Baseball! This came to pass with the final and necessary achievement of clinching the title by winning a fourth game last evening in their series with the St. Louis Cardinals. The game was played at Fenway Park, the team's iconic and storied home field since 1912. This was the first time since 1918 that they secured the championship while in their beloved home stadium: too long a period for any likely survivors of the event of ninety five years ago to remember it. But joyous remains the occasion, even if celebrated by descendants only, actual and spiritual ones of the so much earlier event. Remembrance must inevitably rely on those willing to transmit the histories of important milestones especially as the lives of primary sources fade and then end.
Many an October has afforded golden memories, particularly regarding bygone glories of our National Pastime. But the month itself seems to have a kind of vivacity that rivals April, though the former sits astride the beauty of autumn's crisp freshness while it seems to remain mindful of the fast approach of mortality that winter represents. Before 1962, I never gave much thought to either month as the epitome of its respective season. Halloween was a gentle time then, limited to a week or so before the date of All Hallows Eve. And there was no obsession with occult matters, just the spooky tales meant to entertain and contrast with the lightness most sought in their lives. Many more people then knew that the day after was All Saints Day, a holy day of obligation for Roman Catholics. But back to the month: the golden orange one with its obvious association with fall leaves that have turned to many different colors: russets, oranges, reds, various browns and yellows together with the harvesting of butternut squashes, pumpkins and other gourds. Earth tones dominate and nature seems to remind us of the cycles of our days as forcefully as Eliot's "cruelest month." In April of '62 I was enjoying the start of another baseball season, reminding me of the sport's annual commencement and conclusion being associated as usual with April and October, respectively. My beloved Dodgers were in contention to win another pennant and the prospect of jet travel for the first time later that summer made for a pleasant time in my life. But then it happened. An international crisis, the discovery of missiles in Cuba aimed at the continental United States quickly evolved into such a dramatic series of events, each leading to ever increasing, unimaginable levels of fear, that the coolest of heads could not assure or promise us that doomsday would be avoided. The fun that had been Halloween was never to return after that October. Horror with no safety net or the believability of a parent's soothing touch is a phenomenon with only one safe aspect: the reliability of the accuracy of its placement in a file marked "traumatic". …To Be Continued
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
G-dd-mn That Gendarme
The thin, pale yellow paper sits on my desk. Its smudges are minimal considering its carbon copy nature. The urge to crumple it into a ball and throw it in the face of the person who handed it to me several days ago has this morning, left even the world of my imaginings. The focus is now on adjudging the worthiness of undertaking the usual steps to schedule a hearing with a referee of New York State's Department of Motor Vehicles motivated by roughly equal parts of strong, if not very righteous indignation and the lifelong inclination to deeply resent having one's pocket picked, especially if the picker of said pocket is neither an impulsive thief nor a highwayman proudly claiming such a job description, but rather, an employee of a government agency, someone whose salary I help pay. "Society's Hired Goons" was the term a friend used to use to describe police officers. It seems a bit harsh on first flush, especially if one let's nostalgia and one's earliest instruction by mothers and teachers about the goodness and reliability of men in blue uniforms (and their helpfulness during our ambulations to and from school, across streets with traffic and other hazards) be remembered as well as it was inculcated. But my earliest memories about law enforcement officers, unlike those of probably most children, included a psychic trauma that has never been fully eradicated. This incident of more than fifty seven years ago plus the education and training of a cop which (despite the relatively recent inclusion of "sensitivity" training for prospective rookies) rarely features the embracing of a compassionate or "good" cop mindset (especially in a one-on-one confrontation) together made for the usual, but a particularly unpleasant personal experience this time. It is never in abundant supply (this elusive compassion) in the quotidian endeavors of these men and perhaps for good reasons. Dealing with truly bad folks with such regularity, a "one size fits all" approach is likely and inevitably part of the way a member of the "fuzz" so often demeaningly interacts with a disobedient motorist (alleged runner of stop signs, for example, moi) or a psychotic mass murderer.
But one does grow more than a little weary. This particular day featured enough bad luck to cause me to wonder aloud whether or not God was testing me or if his chief competitor for souls was given a carte blanche to make sport of me and my hamster-in-a-wheel efforts to avoid certain mundane futilities. Many little details worked their black magic to "screw" me this hectic day, or so it seems, despite being one who often rails against those mired in the muck of victimology. I present herewith, the facts.
Parking my big, old but attractively repainted, full sized '82 Chevy Caprice in a neighbor's large backyard for the last six months or so (and with their permission, for mutually beneficial reasons) and now near the eve of the demolition of their unoccupied, one hundred twenty year old house and sizable surrounding property, was that day, the same one that a major utility (water) was scheduled to be shut off for the building. Specifically asking my neighbor if the removal of my car was necessary for the work to be done, I was assured that this was not the case. When I needed to move the vehicle about an hour later, the work crew and a huge John Deere tractor blocked my path. With a fairly minor delay, my exit was cleared and I was on my way. Returning an hour and a half later, no access was available and the usual scarcity of parking spaces, as well as the fact that alternate side of the street parking rules on the street meant that even fewer spaces were open, caused me to seek a parking spot elsewhere in the neighborhood. This is a situation far too similar to seeking free on-street parking in Manhattan, one of the world's most notorious places for suffering the inconvenience, waste of time, gasoline and the stress of circling and circling ad nauseum in order to secure a space for one's car.
After forty some odd minutes of searching, I espied a possible space about two blocks away. It was at the far right corner of an intersection that I have driven past hundreds if not thousands of times in my forty six years of driving. For at least forty three of those forty six years, there was no stop sign at that intersection for traffic going in the direction that I was that day. The construction of houses on empty and irregular plots of land a couple of years or so ago at this location apparently caused some genius at the city's Traffic Department to install this second sign (one already existed for all these many years at the perpendicular one way street to the left of the two way avenue that I was on). My usual pause (a bonafide stop) may have been fudged as I sought the space at the corner that required a right turn into the northerly continuation of the afore mentioned one way street. Instantaneously a squad car pounced with all the "bells and whistles" at the peace officer's disposal. "No good deed goes unpunished" I thought. After trying for three quarters of an hour to avoid breaking the law and being issued a summons by parking illegally, a calculating flatfoot with a quota to fill, no doubt, for the waning month, was now, with the full backing of the law, preparing to start the process of relieving me of one hundred thirty eight dollars for a vehicular move about as dangerous as brushing against some overhanging leaves while parking near a tree in mid-summer. The intersection is especially quiet; the avenue just beyond the intersection suddenly narrows, then quickly ends and has always been a one way one because of that. Thus, there is no oncoming traffic, only halted traffic (if any) of vehicles waiting to proceed from my left. There was no one coming when my supposed infraction occurred. The fact of dozens or perhaps hundreds of parking spaces occupied at that moment in my neighborhood that would not be filled were it not for illegal aliens with cars but without driver's licenses, darkened my mood considerably as the patrolman approached my window after having announced with his bullhorn that I was not to leave my seat. Just then the image of the burly, uniformed man I met in 1956 came to me and now blackened my musings considerably further, sending them to an especially desolate place. It was on an April day, I somehow remember, that as a kindergartner, I witnessed this large, blue uniformed man push a shorter, smaller man, almost knocking him down. The diminutive man wearing an apron and working in his own store was my father. I was confused and frightened and did not understand. I did not like the big man. I knew he was a policeman but I knew that my father was not a bad man. The sadism and corruption of this particular cop was later revealed, but not in any way that could erase what I had seen.
I too am not a bad man. But the power of a strange man to exercise a dominance over me or the people I love, with the threat of force, with society's approval….all these facts were learned in a very uniquely educational and intimate way on that long ago spring day. I do not hate cops. I just am acutely aware of their ability to abuse their authority. The unpleasantness of a traffic ticket is just one of the many vicissitudes of life and a rather trivial one at that. But one dislikes failure and this sudden "report card" of a kind of societal transgression that is revealed on a public street with a certain degree of humiliation, both infuriates and encourages self-reflection. One can do better. One can be more careful. One can subordinate one's ego to be a safer and better driver. But a very strong instinct to be suspicious of authority is a healthy thing too, I aver…. and a very American one at that. I'm glad it's alive and well in this current age of would-be tyrants, and those who have already succeeded as such bullies.
But one does grow more than a little weary. This particular day featured enough bad luck to cause me to wonder aloud whether or not God was testing me or if his chief competitor for souls was given a carte blanche to make sport of me and my hamster-in-a-wheel efforts to avoid certain mundane futilities. Many little details worked their black magic to "screw" me this hectic day, or so it seems, despite being one who often rails against those mired in the muck of victimology. I present herewith, the facts.
Parking my big, old but attractively repainted, full sized '82 Chevy Caprice in a neighbor's large backyard for the last six months or so (and with their permission, for mutually beneficial reasons) and now near the eve of the demolition of their unoccupied, one hundred twenty year old house and sizable surrounding property, was that day, the same one that a major utility (water) was scheduled to be shut off for the building. Specifically asking my neighbor if the removal of my car was necessary for the work to be done, I was assured that this was not the case. When I needed to move the vehicle about an hour later, the work crew and a huge John Deere tractor blocked my path. With a fairly minor delay, my exit was cleared and I was on my way. Returning an hour and a half later, no access was available and the usual scarcity of parking spaces, as well as the fact that alternate side of the street parking rules on the street meant that even fewer spaces were open, caused me to seek a parking spot elsewhere in the neighborhood. This is a situation far too similar to seeking free on-street parking in Manhattan, one of the world's most notorious places for suffering the inconvenience, waste of time, gasoline and the stress of circling and circling ad nauseum in order to secure a space for one's car.
After forty some odd minutes of searching, I espied a possible space about two blocks away. It was at the far right corner of an intersection that I have driven past hundreds if not thousands of times in my forty six years of driving. For at least forty three of those forty six years, there was no stop sign at that intersection for traffic going in the direction that I was that day. The construction of houses on empty and irregular plots of land a couple of years or so ago at this location apparently caused some genius at the city's Traffic Department to install this second sign (one already existed for all these many years at the perpendicular one way street to the left of the two way avenue that I was on). My usual pause (a bonafide stop) may have been fudged as I sought the space at the corner that required a right turn into the northerly continuation of the afore mentioned one way street. Instantaneously a squad car pounced with all the "bells and whistles" at the peace officer's disposal. "No good deed goes unpunished" I thought. After trying for three quarters of an hour to avoid breaking the law and being issued a summons by parking illegally, a calculating flatfoot with a quota to fill, no doubt, for the waning month, was now, with the full backing of the law, preparing to start the process of relieving me of one hundred thirty eight dollars for a vehicular move about as dangerous as brushing against some overhanging leaves while parking near a tree in mid-summer. The intersection is especially quiet; the avenue just beyond the intersection suddenly narrows, then quickly ends and has always been a one way one because of that. Thus, there is no oncoming traffic, only halted traffic (if any) of vehicles waiting to proceed from my left. There was no one coming when my supposed infraction occurred. The fact of dozens or perhaps hundreds of parking spaces occupied at that moment in my neighborhood that would not be filled were it not for illegal aliens with cars but without driver's licenses, darkened my mood considerably as the patrolman approached my window after having announced with his bullhorn that I was not to leave my seat. Just then the image of the burly, uniformed man I met in 1956 came to me and now blackened my musings considerably further, sending them to an especially desolate place. It was on an April day, I somehow remember, that as a kindergartner, I witnessed this large, blue uniformed man push a shorter, smaller man, almost knocking him down. The diminutive man wearing an apron and working in his own store was my father. I was confused and frightened and did not understand. I did not like the big man. I knew he was a policeman but I knew that my father was not a bad man. The sadism and corruption of this particular cop was later revealed, but not in any way that could erase what I had seen.
I too am not a bad man. But the power of a strange man to exercise a dominance over me or the people I love, with the threat of force, with society's approval….all these facts were learned in a very uniquely educational and intimate way on that long ago spring day. I do not hate cops. I just am acutely aware of their ability to abuse their authority. The unpleasantness of a traffic ticket is just one of the many vicissitudes of life and a rather trivial one at that. But one dislikes failure and this sudden "report card" of a kind of societal transgression that is revealed on a public street with a certain degree of humiliation, both infuriates and encourages self-reflection. One can do better. One can be more careful. One can subordinate one's ego to be a safer and better driver. But a very strong instinct to be suspicious of authority is a healthy thing too, I aver…. and a very American one at that. I'm glad it's alive and well in this current age of would-be tyrants, and those who have already succeeded as such bullies.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Always Welcome
There is an automobile trip that I make several times a year. Most every occasion includes a traveling companion whom I first knew when we were both teenagers in the mid-1960s. We lost touch nearly four decades ago and it was not until my father died five years ago that I attempted to find him without the aid of a computer but armed with several telephone directories and as it proved, a bit of good luck. I wanted to inform him about Dad because his father and mine worked together in the fruit and produce business for nearly thirty years and I knew the mutual admiration of all three men involved.
The only familiar name in a slightly outdated "White Pages" book was that of a woman I remembered was his mother's sister. After seven rings a quavering but alert voice answered my call. She repeated my father's name as well as mine, conveying no sense of hesitation or doubt about who she was speaking with. Informing her about Dad, she offered her own news immediately after that of her condolences. The man I sought, her nephew Vincent, was still in New York, but his father, mother and wife had all died within the last two years.
Well, we reconnected at the wake and soon began our new tradition: journeying to the place where our fathers are buried: the National cemetery less than 100 minutes from our respective homes. A navy man like his WWII veteran father (who had died one month before mine), my old pal had served in Vietnam. His wounds, I learned in time, were not visible ones.
Vincent's aunt's late husband had a long five year hitch in the army during the "Big One" like his brother-in-law and had worked with him and my Dad. And Vincent's wife served too, but "only"on the home front, caring for her ailing mother-in-law after raising two children. She succumbed to cancer between the occasions of her in-laws deaths and while but a "rookie" grandmother with her first little one too young to remember her. They are all sleeping at the edge of a beautiful section of long rows of white gravestones close to trees, a bench and no more than a scant couple of dozen yards from each other. My Dad is several minutes away in a newer section, a sun drenched field that recalls his love of the summer and our small garden. It seems larger than Vincent's family's section, with the trees younger and fewer. Dad's grave's centrality reminds me of his many hardworking years, the natural center of attention in a store pulsating with action, commerce and the many customers he served with unstinting attentiveness, humanity and humor.
There are six other graves that we visit. Returning from Dad's, a five minute stroll brings us to the one of my brother's friend, a fellow poet resting, like Vincent's people, on the edge of a section and like all of them, in sight of the occasional turkey, deer or even a mole. If civilian habits of our great Civil War were revived and modern federal regulations changed, one could picnic in these fields of stone, the serenity and pastoral ambience most conducive to relaxation, meditation, the sharing of bread and the enjoyment of good company. In any circumstance, as visitors we are always welcome; our loving hosts ever patient, obedient and sounding boards for our recollections, our fondest stories of mirth and of the idiosynchratic doings of each of them.
Next, there's my Uncle Angelo who served between the big mid-century wars: WWII and Korea, much of his Army hitch while stationed in that former colony of Japan and then soon to be most sullen land of interminable internecine agony and enmity. He too is on the very corner of a shaded section, a pleasing distance from the road with a bench also near his remains. Just beyond are many tall bushes affording privacy and comfort. Some of the many surrounding tombstones catch one's eye inevitably, as in all the sections…. young men, never to grow old, or taken in the fullness of their years like Dad. So many stories are there, forever untold to us, only hinted at by the birth and death years, the war in which they served, the rank, the medals awarded, and sometimes an epitaph, almost always too brief. After Angelo, we approach a section near the entrance/exit of the huge burial ground. Here are four graves. The parents of a girl that I was hopelessly smitten with nearly half a century ago rest near its northern border. I don't recall how I learned of these plots. The first year that Vincent and I traveled here, the mother was alive. Then she availed herself of the choice, as all spouses of veterans can and most do: to rest beside their beloved. I met the father once. He was kind,"old school" and like Dad and five of my uncles who served, a member of "The Greatest Generation". He was also not sure why I had introduced myself to him one day on his doorstep nearly thirty years ago. I quickly became unsure as well and stifled a strange anger while shaking his hand and mumbling my regards to him as well as his long married, long moved away daughter. I never troubled him again.
Last on our list are my godparents. Another Navy man, rather, a proud member of the Seabees was my convivial, stern, yet affectionate uncle, a bus driver with a booming voice that served him well after the war as a sergeant in the Army Reserves as well as on crowded public buses in New York city. His death marked the first family interment in this cemetery nearly a quarter century ago. The markers then were, and in that section remain, large brass rectangles nearly flush with the grass. I recall that my Uncle Damiano's first name was misspelled and uncorrected for a couple of years after first displayed. It was but a brief indignity for his proud shade; the wonderful happenstance (or did he view a brochure with a map bearing street signs of the new military graveyard?) of the lane running close by his tomb named for his boyhood hero Theodore Roosevelt still brings a smile to my lips when approaching his grave, knowing how proud this would (or does) make him. My aunt died ten years after her husband and they both made the very long journey from their home in Pennsylvania to this melancholy and tranquil spot, a place staked out because of my uncle's yearning to break free, despite his love of family, and to rest near his wartime buddies: a new family that he and his childless bride chose to keep close to their hearts, a tribe formed and nurtured when their marriage was young and a terrible war separated them soon after they exchanged their vows.
The only familiar name in a slightly outdated "White Pages" book was that of a woman I remembered was his mother's sister. After seven rings a quavering but alert voice answered my call. She repeated my father's name as well as mine, conveying no sense of hesitation or doubt about who she was speaking with. Informing her about Dad, she offered her own news immediately after that of her condolences. The man I sought, her nephew Vincent, was still in New York, but his father, mother and wife had all died within the last two years.
Well, we reconnected at the wake and soon began our new tradition: journeying to the place where our fathers are buried: the National cemetery less than 100 minutes from our respective homes. A navy man like his WWII veteran father (who had died one month before mine), my old pal had served in Vietnam. His wounds, I learned in time, were not visible ones.
Vincent's aunt's late husband had a long five year hitch in the army during the "Big One" like his brother-in-law and had worked with him and my Dad. And Vincent's wife served too, but "only"on the home front, caring for her ailing mother-in-law after raising two children. She succumbed to cancer between the occasions of her in-laws deaths and while but a "rookie" grandmother with her first little one too young to remember her. They are all sleeping at the edge of a beautiful section of long rows of white gravestones close to trees, a bench and no more than a scant couple of dozen yards from each other. My Dad is several minutes away in a newer section, a sun drenched field that recalls his love of the summer and our small garden. It seems larger than Vincent's family's section, with the trees younger and fewer. Dad's grave's centrality reminds me of his many hardworking years, the natural center of attention in a store pulsating with action, commerce and the many customers he served with unstinting attentiveness, humanity and humor.
There are six other graves that we visit. Returning from Dad's, a five minute stroll brings us to the one of my brother's friend, a fellow poet resting, like Vincent's people, on the edge of a section and like all of them, in sight of the occasional turkey, deer or even a mole. If civilian habits of our great Civil War were revived and modern federal regulations changed, one could picnic in these fields of stone, the serenity and pastoral ambience most conducive to relaxation, meditation, the sharing of bread and the enjoyment of good company. In any circumstance, as visitors we are always welcome; our loving hosts ever patient, obedient and sounding boards for our recollections, our fondest stories of mirth and of the idiosynchratic doings of each of them.
Next, there's my Uncle Angelo who served between the big mid-century wars: WWII and Korea, much of his Army hitch while stationed in that former colony of Japan and then soon to be most sullen land of interminable internecine agony and enmity. He too is on the very corner of a shaded section, a pleasing distance from the road with a bench also near his remains. Just beyond are many tall bushes affording privacy and comfort. Some of the many surrounding tombstones catch one's eye inevitably, as in all the sections…. young men, never to grow old, or taken in the fullness of their years like Dad. So many stories are there, forever untold to us, only hinted at by the birth and death years, the war in which they served, the rank, the medals awarded, and sometimes an epitaph, almost always too brief. After Angelo, we approach a section near the entrance/exit of the huge burial ground. Here are four graves. The parents of a girl that I was hopelessly smitten with nearly half a century ago rest near its northern border. I don't recall how I learned of these plots. The first year that Vincent and I traveled here, the mother was alive. Then she availed herself of the choice, as all spouses of veterans can and most do: to rest beside their beloved. I met the father once. He was kind,"old school" and like Dad and five of my uncles who served, a member of "The Greatest Generation". He was also not sure why I had introduced myself to him one day on his doorstep nearly thirty years ago. I quickly became unsure as well and stifled a strange anger while shaking his hand and mumbling my regards to him as well as his long married, long moved away daughter. I never troubled him again.
Last on our list are my godparents. Another Navy man, rather, a proud member of the Seabees was my convivial, stern, yet affectionate uncle, a bus driver with a booming voice that served him well after the war as a sergeant in the Army Reserves as well as on crowded public buses in New York city. His death marked the first family interment in this cemetery nearly a quarter century ago. The markers then were, and in that section remain, large brass rectangles nearly flush with the grass. I recall that my Uncle Damiano's first name was misspelled and uncorrected for a couple of years after first displayed. It was but a brief indignity for his proud shade; the wonderful happenstance (or did he view a brochure with a map bearing street signs of the new military graveyard?) of the lane running close by his tomb named for his boyhood hero Theodore Roosevelt still brings a smile to my lips when approaching his grave, knowing how proud this would (or does) make him. My aunt died ten years after her husband and they both made the very long journey from their home in Pennsylvania to this melancholy and tranquil spot, a place staked out because of my uncle's yearning to break free, despite his love of family, and to rest near his wartime buddies: a new family that he and his childless bride chose to keep close to their hearts, a tribe formed and nurtured when their marriage was young and a terrible war separated them soon after they exchanged their vows.
We never come empty handed. Vincent gathers his wife's favorite flowers from their backyard and whatever else is in season, always more than enough for each grave marker. Infrequently, I bring what I have from Dad's garden and we distribute them to adorn all eleven graves: small zinnias, marigolds, "snowballs" or hydrangeas, peace roses, colonial roses and others. Vincent supplies fronds of evergreens and holly in the Christmas season from the big trees near his driveway. One would like to stay much longer. The exigencies of time and distance are almost always pressing and our reveries and remembrances are predictably abbreviated. But again, they, our hosts, are there each time, welcoming and uncomplaining, never with a grievance or a hurt feeling for our absence or its length as we grieve each time, the depth of our feelings varying but our prayers and love never fading like the cut flowers or the sunlight of our winter trips. Once we lingered, caring not about traffic, life's necessary errands, irritants of bills, bureaucracy, worries of the timeliness of pending appointments, and countless other responsibilities of our often tedious days. Time did not seem to matter on this occasion and a dreamless sleep struck me as enchanting, while a calm collection of our thoughts was soon equally appealing and believed attainable. It will all end here someday, with or without a morbid viewpoint regarding the matter. It can be depressing or relieving, depending on one's frame of mind and/or inclination to be calculating or reflective. Vincent will, in fact, be interred here, joining his wife someday. It would be very wonderful, in an indescribable way, to be able to join Dad under his tombstone reading "Sa Benedic" (his greeting in Sicilian whenever he met his parents) and the terse "BSM" and "PH" for his most important awarded medals . But having never served, I must search for another resting place. What could be greater than a place to call home, one close to my parents? My epitaph may refer simply to my joy or sorrow, depending on the distance of my bones from theirs.
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