“Bob Dylan and Me”, From “Memories of a Rotten Childhood”…..Happy 4th of July!

A few years ago, I started writing  a piece that was only to be a very short story, but it expanded into multiple chapters.  That was “Memories of a Rotten Childhood”, which were basically funny stories of growing up in rural New Jersey a long time ago.  The cast of characters were real people; neighbors, childhood playmates, parents and people that crossed our crooked paths.

A few writer friends told me that “Rotten” didn’t sound too bad, considering their own childhoods, and I thought of changing the title of this (now) developing book, but I usually fly by the seat of my pants on these things and I haven’t come up with a better title yet.

There is a lot of ‘rotten’ in our childhoods:  parents, relatives die, beloved animals die, scary adults with the twist of a word impact our thoughts and memories…..trauma abounds in childhood.  All of us go through  something of ‘rotten’, and we don’t have the discernment and distance until we are well into adulthood to figure it all out.  Of course, adulthood compounds the issues.

Such is life.

I don’t consider myself a humorous writer, but rereading some of these chapters, I laughed out loud.  Perhaps I was laughing in embarrassment, leavened with shame, because childhood is an awkward journey, and anyone who denies the humiliation of this particular period in their own lives is a liar.  Or has very selective memory.

Or Alzheimers.

Lady Nyo

“BOB DYLAN AND ME”

I was fifteen years old and not cool.

Fifteen was after dolls, during horses, and way before boys.  I was a slow learner, combined with a timid manner and a few pimples.  My parents were no help, they were off fighting the war called marriage. We three kids were on the battlefield, carrying water to each side.

At fifteen I was barely holding on to daylight.  Life was getting complicated and I was in a permanent daydream. Now, forty years later, I understand all this was the natural process of growing up.  Then it was just massive confusion with a good dose of shame to leaven it all.

On top of this there wasn’t any real guidelines for parents back then.  No Dr. Spock or if he was around, my parents certainly didn’t read him.  Most fathers back then were WWII  veterans  and had their own view on childhood trauma. Fully half the men in my father’s B-24 squadron were under twenty. Babies flying bathtubs.  “Buck up and take it like a man”, “wrap a rag around it, it’ll stop bleeding” was what most of us heard from our fathers, and the mothers just looked away and dropped another Miltown.

I’m not much of a better parent today, just with more guilt.  Genes hold like superglue.

I remember a few rather ‘beat’ parties at our house, where my mother and father would serve white wines and people would sit on the wide plank pine floors. Each year Halloween masquerades for the adults, my mother in fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, a ballet leotard, and for some reason, cat ears on the top of her head.  I must have been pretty young, because my nursery was set up in the future upstairs bathroom.  I remember her leaning over me and the smell of Woodhue floating off her into my mouth as she kissed me good night.  Must have been some party, because I heard her complain chillingly to my father that he had ‘slipped her a Mickey.’  Apparently she had vomited in the one of the four fireplaces downstairs, and blamed my father for her drunkenness.  My mother never got drunk, so this memory remains strong of my childhood.  These things stick because they are the few times I got noticed. Maybe it’s something sensory with the perfume, but I don’t really know.

I also remember the concrete divisions between adults and children.  There was none of today’s behavior asking kids their opinions around the dinner table.  We didn’t have any. We were trying to swim through the deep waters of childhood and adult issues generally elicited a groan of having to think hard, something we only attempted in math.

High school, sometimes for all four years, was brutal.  Too big, too many stairs and too much distraction complete with cynical teachers who should have retired but were hanging on. Where else could they abuse the unworthy?  They were addicted to the power,  while we, their slaves, went under the wire.  The natural order of life back then.  The time of “squat and hug your knees”, the threat of Commies dropping bombs on our baseball fields- all good training for life.

I had a girlfriend in my sophomore year. I can’t remember her name, but except for getting two tickets to the Bob Dylan concert in McCarter Theater at Princeton University, she was unmemorable. I’ll call her Gloria for this story.

We had no idea who Bob Dylan was except for posters glued to walls calling him a  New York Folk Singer.   Both of us were in band or orchestra, depending upon the need of the teacher.  Violin and clarinet were our only forms of music back then.  Radios were tuned by my parents to classical or their big band music.  In fact, the only time I can remember listening to radio was on a Saturday night, when my brothers and I would listen to WOR in New York, and the crazy dj would try to scare us with stories about the Jersey Pine Barren Devil. Can’t remember his or the Devil’s proper names, though.

So Gloria somehow gets two tickets to a Bob Dylan concert.  We, at fifteen, decide our Sunday best would be appropriate. It’s a concert after all, and this signals dress up. On the afternoon before the event, we curled and sprayed and flipped our hair, put on white dresses with pearls and our white low heeled Sunday shoes and went to McCarter Theater.  I don’t remember much about it, except they set up the stage with chairs, right behind Dylan, for the overflow of audience.  Somebody thought it cute to put the two strange girls in matching white dresses right behind the singer.  I remember sitting there very primly, our hands crossed in our laps, trying to take it all in, watching his ass.

The stage lights of course were glaring in our eyes, and drunken frat boys yelling, “Hey! Bobby! Play Blowing in the Wind!”  “Hey, Bobby, get some singing lessons!” “Hey, Bob, …..”  A couple of cans of something were thrown on the stage, probably beer.

I remember Dylan looking mystified as he turned and looked behind him.  I didn’t know the word then, but now I would say his thoughts were clearly: “What the fuck?”  Each time he turned we would beam and clap. He would bow.  We were his own cheering section as the cans of soda and beer came hurling from the balcony.

As I write this, I am laughing but there is also embarrassment I was such a hick.  I got cooler as the 60s progressed.

Really.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted 2009

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6 Responses to ““Bob Dylan and Me”, From “Memories of a Rotten Childhood”…..Happy 4th of July!”

  1. Margie Says:

    Love these stories of your “rotten” childhood – they remind me so much of my own! It’s especially endearing to picture you and your friend, all dressed up for a party, sitting on the stage at a Bob Dylan concert. Sweet and funny!

    Love ya!

    Like

  2. ladynyo Says:

    Margie…for some reason I couldn’t reply to your comment, until I held my mouth differently. lol.

    I know they remind you so much of your own. We come from the same soil, water and air. And age.

    I hope that these stories will find resonance in other lives…..after all, childhood is pretty much standard issue…..when we were growing up.

    However, I will keep looking at these, and there are some more to come…some poignant, and some that make me cry.

    Thank you, Margie…for reading and for commenting…

    And Happy 4th!!

    love,
    jane

    Like

  3. Malcolm Miller Says:

    This is well-told story of an adolexcent experience. It brings back to me faint memories of many embarrassing moments of my innocent/ignorant youth. No wonder that commerce sees the ‘teenage market’ as a rich mine of ready-made suckers!

    Like

  4. Berowne Says:

    Being a child – or an adolescent – is not easy.
    Or an adult either, come to think of it.
    Happy holidays!

    Like

  5. Joan Price Says:

    What a wonderful story, and so well written! You captivated me from “Fifteen was after dolls, during horses, and way before boys.” I love your writing.

    Like

  6. ladynyo Says:

    Hey Joan, Malcolm, Berowne!

    For some damn reason WordPress.com isn’t allowing my comments after each entry, so I will have to answer you guys here:

    Thank you all for reading and your comments. They make me think about what I am writing.

    Malcolm: I wish this very hot summer made me want to write more…LOL!…it’s a struggle to get thoughts together right now. And I agree about teen markets…what a minefield!

    Joan: Thank you for reading and your comment. Childhood has many similarities, regardless our culture or age: there is that constant longing for SOMETHING to change or happen. Anything!

    Berowne: Thank you, dear friend. Being an adult was long awaited for, and nobody told me that the responsibilities would be overwhelming. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could go back and do childhood…adolescence all over again? With a different outcome? We probably would do the same things, actually, with much of the same outcomes?

    Happy Holidays to everyone here!

    Lady Nyo

    Like

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