Last week I formed a poem for dverse from this work below. It is included in my unfinished “Memories…Rotten Childhood” and I certainly am old enough to write about my childhood…and some later years. I thought it would be interesting to post the whole piece, and it also serves as a way to clean the palette of the depressing “Plague of Death”. Ugh. Writing such stuff is too close to the bone.
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, fifty 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 lots of 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.
Copyrighted 2009, 2016
Tags: ‘Bob Dylan and Me’ from “Memories of a Rotten Chlldhood”, Adults, childhood, growing up in rural New Jersey, McCarter Theater at Princeton, Princeton, simplier times, the 1960’s., the brutality of High School, The Jersey Pine Barren Devil, WOR radio in NYC
Please don’t read my work from the site: JP at Olive Grove. Jingle Nozelar Yan owns the site and is a thief. She said she doesn’t have to ask permission to revise or post your work. She said she depends upon this. She preys on real poets because she isn’t one. She refuses to follow the US Copyright laws of the US. This behavior is insulting to the entire poetry community. Jingle Bells Yan is no poet. If you love poetry, avoid her like the plague she is.