Song book: Lyrics with Words

In My Life 

John Lennon

John, Judy & Joslyn

John Lennon wrote about them; Judy Collins sang about them, places I’ll remember in my life.

I remember the staff lounge at the Economics Institute at CU, Boulder, the small, bare classroom where someone had set up a coffee machine.  I remember my first thought when she walked in. “I wonder if she’d marry me.”

I knew that she was coming on board that day, the new staff member.  We all did.  The faculty at the university’s prestigious Economics Institute was growing day by day.  Econ, math, business and English teachers were arriving daily.  Many of the instructors were noted professors who had taken on this teaching gig because of the connections, the location and the fun for which the Institute was known.  After meeting a series of stuffy, dry old men and women of the dismal science, I was not prepared for the shoulder length, shining black hair or the clear brown eyes.  Nor was I prepared for the tan, deep, smooth and rich, set off by her flowered blue mini dress.  Nor the smile, the legs, the body, the breath of aloha.  It was all over.

“I wonder if she’d marry me.” That’s exactly what I thought as Barbara, our secretary, introduced her.

“Gentlemen, this is Joslyn, our new English instructor.  Joslyn, this is Dr. Conroy, Bob, one of our program coordinators, and Mike, one of our English faculty.”

“Joslyn,” said Dr. Bob.  “Welcome!  We’ve been waiting for you.”  (Bob had no idea how true his words were.)  “Ready to get goin’?” Yes, she was.

I should have started with hello, but instead I asked, “Why did you move all over Georgetown?” The question came as a natural follow-up to – and replacement for – ‘will you marry me.’  It was plain from her expression, though, that my greeting had taken her completely by surprise.  To tell the truth, it took me by surprise as well, but it was all I could think to say at that moment.

As a graduate student at the university, I had had a campus job to help cover expenses.  I’d worked in the university alumni office.  Keeping alums connected is a fulltime job.  Especially if they keep moving from place to place.  Before spreadsheets and the Internet, it was a full time, manual job.  My job was to pull the 5 x 7 index cards which held all the information there was to know about a former student.  A very important, very active grad might even have 2 cards.

Joslyn had only one card, but it was especially interesting to me.  And I saw it often.  Joslyn and I shared a common undergraduate degree, from different universities in different parts of the country, but the same degree.  We were also pursuing the same graduate degree.  However, we had switched locations.  She was where I had been; I was where she had been.    While a student in Washington, D.C., Joslyn had moved often, from one address to another around Georgetown.   That’s how I had come to know her.  Every time she moved, the Postal Service let the Alumni Office know.  With each new address, there was a card pull and an address change.  Then there was a card refile.  In addition, Joslyn was from Hawaii; I wasn’t.  However, I was Irish; Ireland is an island.  Her name was beautiful, lyrical: Joslyn Kalaulani.  Mine was basic: Mike.

I loved pulling her card.

Now, I wondered if she’d marry me.  And all I could think to say nearly scared her off.

After my brief explanation, she was less put off. That was a relief because within the Institute, we shared an office space.  We both taught English.  We both had island roots.  So much in common.   I, however, was smitten and just a bit scared.  What scared me was the fact that, along with our stodgy old econ and math faculty, the Institute was staffed with young, healthy, friendly, outdoorsy men and women.  A lot of young men. Competition.

We did a lot together over the summer.  We, in this context, meant all those young, friendly, healthy, outdoorsy colleagues – and included our students.  Many of the students were also young.  But they were presidents, ministers, princes and servants-of-princes; they were wealthy, high ranking people from 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd world countries all over the world.  They were rich, eager to learn and anxious to enjoy the freedoms and the culture of university life in America.  They were fun.  Competition.

“You better make your move,” my buddy, Jim, a fellow faculty member had warned about mid way through the summer.  “If you don’t, I’ll take your place!  Or George.  Or Mark.  Somebody will.  Get movin’, guy!”  I wasn’t quite sure why he was giving me that nudge, but I was glad. I took his advice.

Rather than ask Joslyn to marry me right away, I started with a date – dinner and a play.  I had planned to get tickets to “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead’ and had made reservations at a popular restaurant in downtown. When I showed up at her door alone, Joslyn asked where everybody else was.  After all, we most everything together as a faculty, and here I was alone.  Doing something alone was — unusual.

The place we had chosen for dinner was a restaurant called Fondue Champenois.  The food was excellent.  The date, itself, was a disaster.  Although we had gotten to know each other fairly well as teachers, office mates, and participants in a lot of group activities, I was still scared to be alone with her.  Afraid of saying the wrong thing, of messing up, I said nothing.  At all.  At one point during the evening, Joslyn went to the restroom to talk to someone.  To anyone.

The play didn’t work out either.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, my hope for salvation, were not only dead but sold out. How there were any next steps after that, I do not know.

But the summer went on. The Institute was full of activities beyond classes. There were field trips into the Rockies, games on the quads between dorms, movies, parties and more. There was always a group of us working and having fun together. Later that summer, Joslyn was offered an excellent job at a prestigious education agency in yet another place, Portland, Oregon.  It would have been unfair for me to hold her back; on the contrary, I encouraged her to opt for the opportunity.  That was wise.  It made up for all the non-conversation on our one and only date.  She took the job while I remained in Boulder. At the end of the summer, she left for the Northwest.

Her position in Portland required a lot of travel throughout the region they served.  Somehow, though, she always seemed to have to travel through Denver.  Portland to Anchorage through Denver.  Portland to Palo Alto through Denver.  Even Portland to Honolulu – through Denver. (She had an amazing assistant!) Places I’ll remember all my life.

On one of these passes through Colorado, Joslyn and I sat in the back seat of a roommate’s beat up VW wagon. It was a chilly Rocky Mountain fall evening; we were alone on the car waiting for him to grab something from his apartment.  As we waited, spontaneity dropped in. In the cool of that evening, I wondered aloud, “Would you marry me?”  She said, “Yes.”

All these places have their moments with lovers and friends.

Later, though, as she continued her travels and had a chance to think over what had happened, she thought to herself, “I wonder if he knew what he was saying.”  She gave me an out.  “I won’t hold you to it,” she said gently.  “I’m not sure you really meant to ask me that.”

For Christmas that year, I invited Joslyn to travel to Pennsylvania to meet my family.  She said, “Yes.”  It was cold, snowy, far from her own family, and filled with my large extended Irish family whom she did not know at all.  On New Year’s Eve, amid Guy Lombardo, noisemakers, and partying cousins, I asked her again, “Will you marry me?”  She said, “Yes.”  This time there was no turning back.

Over the years, I remember so many places: Hawaii, Oahu, Kauai’i, The Big Island; I remember Pennsylvania, my mother’s house, our favorite Italian restaurants. I remember Boulder, moving to Washington, working in Seattle. I remember hospitals in Redmond, Seattle, and Boston. I remember traveling all over the state – and the country – for kids’ sports events. I remember our wonderful trip to Ireland.

It has been over forty years.  We have experienced good times and bad, sickness and health, life and death. Though children have grown, and grandchildren have come into our lives, though other people and places have come and gone, memories deepened and faded, I still see the shiny black hair, the deep brown eyes. I even see the flowered sun dress.  Though I know I’ll never lose affection for people and places that went before, I know I’ll often stop and think about them.  Now I think to myself, “I wonder if she would marry me…again?”

Just have to find the right place to ask….

Mr. Bojangles

    Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Mr. Bojangles and Tim

Our last Christmas Break was almost over. We decided to head to Tommy’s In Crowd, a favorite bar just across the Erie Lackawanna railroad tracks in New York State.  Park in PA, walk across the tracks, drink in NY.

As we walked in that January night, I saw Tim standing in a darkened corner, alone, holding a beer close to his chest. ‘Mr. Bojangles’ was playing on the jukebox, and he was quietly mouthing the lyrics. I passed by him as I headed toward the bar with our other friends. I nodded and tipped an invisible toast his way. He gave a small smile of recognition in return. But he made no effort to speak or join us. Somewhere in the next few minutes, he left. Quietly and alone.

“What’s up with Tim?” I asked the other guys. “Hell if we know,” was the general reply. “He’s just being weird tonight.”

Tim was a guy we all knew well. Most of us at the bar had quite literally grown up with him. Our parents had been friends since well before we were born. We lived in the same small, interconnected towns, and had gone to school together since kindergarten. Birthdays, First Communions, holidays, church choir, Little League, Sister Eymard. We’d done it all – together.  This wasn’t the buddy we knew.

The guy we knew was a life-of-the-party type. Not that he was overly wild and crazy, but he did know how to have fun. In the process, he made damn sure that everybody else did too. He was a small in stature. As we were growing up, he often got the “Tiny Tim” thing tossed his way, especially during the holidays. He didn’t like it; he wore it well, though.

He was cute, too. Cute. Cute is fine when said in certain ways, but Tim was cute to both guys and girls. In the same way. Not sexy. Not boyfriend, turn-on cute. Rather he was curly haired, blue eyed, snuggle-him-like-a-puppy cute. Over time, we had tell him that was good, that in time the baby-face sweetness would grow into the studly, hulky kind of cute he wished it was then.

But that night, he looked sad and alone. None of us knew why, and now he was gone.

We were getting closer and closer to college graduation. That meant that our days of guys going to bars would soon be coming to a close. Jobs, grad programs, the draft, and several other possibilities were ahead of us. It was the era of the Viet Nam war. Maybe that was the problem. It was not that these things had gone unspoken; on the contrary, we had often discussed our futures with one another. Our futures and our fears. But hypotheticals over beers and impending reality were different animals.

The evening ended. The weekend ended, and we headed back off to college. A little over three and a half years down. Our final semester was upon us.

Back at school, Tim appeared to be his old, cute self again. Initially, anyway.

By that time in our college careers, our course loads were essentially made up of any and all of those courses we had to finish up to meet university or major requirements. There were no surprises, and most of us had those things under our belts anyway. In some cases, there was even room for a course or two just for the enrichment value of taking them.

As it turned out, Tim and one or two others in our group, had one final university-required course to take. An Ethics course, if my memory serves me correctly. It was taught by one of the most popular and well-respected professors on campus, a Jesuit priest who had taught many of us the same course over time. The professor was clear; material was well-delivered, and well-resourced. Course standards and expectations were clearly spelled out. With several graduating seniors enrolled, the bottom line in those pre-Nike days was simply “just do it!”

The semester rolled on. Graduation loomed closer and closer. Murmurs began. Rumor had it that Tim was in trouble. For some reason, it looked like he may not complete the required Ethics course. No details. Then details emerged. One detail, at any rate. Tim was not going to have his required term paper done in time to turn it in. In fact, he had not yet started it. He was refusing to do it. No term paper meant an incomplete for the course. No pass, no credit. Thus, no graduation.

We tried to intervene. We encouraged, nudged, prompted, outlined, and all-but-wrote him forward. Joe, his 4-year college roommate, pleaded. The professor-priest, popular and well-respected, also tried to intervene. At one point, he told Tim that the quality of the paper was of little concern to him at that point. What was of concern was that something – almost anything – get turned in. He told Tim that even if the paper, itself, got an “F”, he would have met the course requirement to submit a paper. His overall grade would not be the best, but he’d at least have met the minimum for graduation. Tim refused. As a result, he did not pass. He did not meet university requirements. He did not graduate.

We were blown away at his behavior and stunned by the consequences. The professor was shocked. Tim’s parents, understandably, were devastated. None of this made any sense at all.

I remembered that Bojangles night at the bar.

For the rest of us, graduation was a time of celebration and a commencement to the rest of our adult lives. But as he had done that night in the bar, Tim walked away.

That is not hyperbole. He literally disappeared. No good-byes. No last shots. No hugs and kisses.  No Tim. For years, there was speculation: he was living and working at some menial job somewhere in the Midwest. No one saw or heard from him, however. No calls, no letters, no indication that he was OK.

Over time, his younger sister married and moved away. His parents died. Word has it that he did acknowledge the death of one of them. But he didn’t come to either funeral nor to his sister’s wedding.

During the intervening decades, with the advent of the internet, a friend located him. As suspected, he was living somewhere in the Midwest. It took a few more years before any semblance of real correspondence would take place. Basically, he eventually let the friend know that, yes, he was alive. Yes, he was fine. No he had never married. And no, he was not coming home. And no, there was no need to share his contact information with anyone else.

Again after several more decades, I received an email from Tim’s sister. As she was a few years younger than I, we’d never been close growing up. Somehow, though, she’d found my contact information as our friend had previously found Tim’s. Her news was not good. Tim was dying. He was in the final stages of a very aggressive pancreatic cancer. At that time, he was living with her and her family somewhere in the New England. She was reaching out to old friends to ask for prayers. Of course, she got them. He got them. Then, in short order, he passed. Again, disappearing quietly in the night. This time, though, not alone.

What had happened so many years before? What had caused Tim to fight so hard to refuse the help we were all there to give? No one knew, not even his sister. He’d shared very little with the friend who’d found him so many years before. From that little, it had apparently been something between him and his mom and dad. But what, we will never know. What we do know is that he died with his family.

I sometimes think back on our college days and the old friends I have not seen in way too many years. I think of that winter night at Tommy’s, our once popular, long-gone hangout. I think back on seeing Tim standing alone in the corner, cradling his beer. We never saw him leave. We didn’t know where he went.

Mr. Bojangles always brings him back.

One Toke Over the Line

        Michael Brewer, Tom Shipley

The Line

“Do you want some advice,” Chuck asked. “No, better yet, let me just give you a piece of advice.”

Chuck was a couple years older than I, and he had been around the islands a couple years longer than I had. We had become friends in Palau when I’d arrived to start my Peace Corps in-country training. He was in an earlier group, maybe Micro V or VI; mine was Micro VIII. The Micro part was short for Micronesia so all the Volunteers who had served across all the island groups of the US Trust Territory were “Micro-“. Each group was then assigned a number; all the PCVs in a given year had the same number. Groups differentiated from another by the region it was assigned to. My group was Micro VIII-Palau, US Trust Territory of the Western Caroline Islands.

After his initial two-year commitment to the Peace Corps, Chuck had re-upped. He’d volunteered for another 2 years. By the time we met, he was working as a contractor with the territorial government. He had returned home between his stints as a volunteer. He also knew scores of PCVs, as we were known, old and new, come and gone, from the years he’d lived in Palau. He’d become a good friend, my ‘cholei’, my good friend. Maybe “chudelei” was a better word, my wise old friend, as he was wise in the ways of different worlds.

My two years were coming to a close. At the moment, we were sitting in the Boom Boom Room having a couple beers.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll take whatever you have to offer. Ngarang?” (What?)

“Nobody’s gonna give a shit.” That was blunt. “Nobody will care. Nobody will ask you. So don’t expect anybody to.”

“Whoa, cholei,” I reacted. “What are you talking about? Who’s not going to care about what?”

And with that, he went on to explain that he knew that I’d had a wonderful, powerful, life-changing experience living there on those tiny islands. He knew that I would never be the same kid I had been just two years earlier. He also knew that I wrestled with the prospect – the opportunity, actually – of remaining in Palau for another two years. But no one else would care. No one would ask. No one would, as he said, give a shit.

I asked why he was telling me this. I had never thought about it before, but now it was in my face and in my head. Two things were in my face and head right then, actually. One was the wonderful experiences I had had. The other was now being told I would not be able to share those experiences when I got home.

“I am telling you this so you won’t be disappointed, so you won’t get angry. I am telling you this so that you can prepare your heart and be able to tell folks the story they want to hear.”

Yes, Chuck was a wise young man.

He went on to explain in a bit more depth. It was clear that what he was sharing was what he had experienced, and what others had also experienced and shared with him.

“There’s a line you will cross. Maybe the Date Line. Maybe international boundaries. Maybe when you get back into the States. Maybe just some night when you are out with friends – andhave one too many brews. But there is a line, and when you come to it, you’ll know. You’ll have to cross it. There’ll be no choice, and no turning back. Life has to go on, and you have to live yours. The difference is that you will be able to look back and remember. You can take what you’ve learned and use it. Just know that there is a line.”

We talked a little longer. Chuck predicted that I’d most likely be asked about the food and what I’d eaten. About ‘island fever’ and living on a really small rock in the middle of the ocean. Maybe the weather. And almost surely, there would be questions about those bare-breasted island ladies. Especially the bare-breasted island ladies. He suggested that I have some stock answers ready to feed ‘em back. I thought about that.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added as our conversation was coming to an end. “You’ve changed, but back home a lot of things have probably changed, too. Things you’ll discover in time. But there will also be a lot of stuff which hasn’t changed. Same old, same old, no matter what. Be prepared.  Also – don’t be surprised if someday, you forget about all of us.”

I thanked him for the advice, but I also worried a bit.

Before too much longer, I was on my way home. I was leaving the beautiful islands I had come to think of as home and was heading back to where I’d been raised. It was a 14,000 mile trip broken up by prearranged stops in a couple of the other island groups in Micronesia, finally changing planes in Hawaii before flying to the east coast. We crossed the International Date Line and lost a day; we crossed international boundaries and landed in Honolulu. By the end of the next leg of the trip, I’d be home.

It was late-middle June when I got back. I’d left in early June two years before. Getting back, I noticed that not much had changed; most everything seemed to have remained the same. I thought about what Chuck had said and figured the changes would show up in time.

My family was thrilled that I was home. My mother, brother, and cousins had planned a big homecoming get together at one cousin’s house. It was a hot, humid day in late June. So many relatives and friends showed up that I was a little overwhelmed, but genuinely happy to see everybody. We grilled hamburgers and hotdogs on the barbeque, ate potato salad and baked beans, and of course we drank lots of cold beer. For dessert, there was a big welcome home cake. A great catch-up time!

I got a lot of questions about my previous two years. How was it? What did I do while I was there? Did I like it? It was great! I taught and worked with teachers. I sure did!

Going a little deeper, what was the food like? How hot was it? How did I get so tan?

We ate a lot of fish and rice. It was hella hot and humid! Well, I was out in the sun almost all the time – on an island in the middle of the Pacific. We’d go into the water and it was so warm that we’d have to come out to cool off. I was ready to expand the answers, to go deeper. But that was about as deep as it got on that first day with all those people.

Then one recurring question was asked for the first time. “What did you like best?” Wow! That was a harder question to answer than I thought. I liked learning a new language. I loved my family. I loved the beautiful setting. It was great being immersed in a totally new and different culture. My list of “bests” went on and on. My challenge was finding a starting point, a place to jump into telling my stories. But it became obvious pretty fast that short answers were better than in-depth ones. “Say something in Palauan,” someone would say. The first thing that came to mind was to speak the lyrics of the kid song, Tal Morael. Someone would say. “What does it mean?” So I told them that it was a sort of kid song about how fish swim. Cute! End of conversation. Today, I sing that song to my grandbabies as a lullaby.

“Who’s your family?” This question was asked as if to suggest that I had abandoned my family at home. I wanted to say that my first family was “ar chad era Markup” – the people of Markup – in Ngarenlengui. I lived with them during our weeks of PC training. They taught me a lot; I was lucky to have had them as my adopted family. Later, in Koror, I lived with Malomis and Yashiro Ngiraialild and their kids, relatives of Markup’s wife, Matilitae.  I wanted to say more about the family and family life, but with the polite nods, I saw that that conversation was over.

And so it went. Although I was back home and among family and friends I had known all my life, there was a sense of estrangement, of being alone, like I was a stranger among those I loved and who loved me. I knew that no one was trying to be uncaring or unwilling to hear about many of the things I had experienced. They were just happy to have me home, busy, and continuing to move on with their own lives.

I saw Chuck’s line. I was approaching it.  I was crossing it.

Occasionally, usually after a few beers with the boys, I’d get the bare-breasted-island-girls question. “Sorry, guys. Nope. That’s not the way it was.” They were disappointed. The closest it ever came to that was during a ngaseche, the ceremony that takes place a month after the birth of a child. The baby is introduced to the community, and the mother is welcomed back into public life. It was a big celebration, mom all oiled up, wearing a grass skirt and shell beads, feet not touching the ground, baby held high.  But that wasn’t the story my buddies wanted to hear.

One Friday evening, a bunch of old friends were planning to get together. We’d have dinner at a favorite Italian restaurant, maybe see a movie and go out to a bar after that. I was really tired, but I said OK, knowing full well that I had no intention of joining them. They would wonder where I was when I didn’t show. But I had said OK. That’s when I found myself saying, “Lak o melingmess!” to myself. There’s no real English translation or American equivalent to what I was doing. Basically, it means something akin to being polite by saying what you think somebody wants to hear. A kind of a white lie to be kind. In Palau, friends would have understood, but I was not there anymore. I was crossing the line. So I went to meet my friends.

At the restaurant, we ordered pizza with everything on it. The only thing I asked to not be on it was anchovies. I do not like anchovies. “What! You don’t like fish? It’s Friday. We gotta have a little fish for old times sake.” they teased. In fact, I loved fish. Back in the day, before meatless Fridays disappeared, Friday was the day when we had to eat fish, or mac-n-cheese. Maybe we’d have tuna salad, tuna noodle casserole, maybe fish sticks. Only on Fridays. Rarely did anybody eat real, heads and scales fish. In our little town, there was no sashimi or sushi, and actual fish was not in our food repertoire. Anyway, even in the old days, I never liked anchovies. “Actually, I love fish,” I retorted. “In Palau, we ate fish every day, three times a day. Fish and rice. Unless, your family was a taro family. Then it was fish and taro. Or maybe there was no fish that day, and we just ate rice with soy sauce and sugar.” 

That got one hell of a reaction. “That’s a whole lot of cans of tuna, Bro! Three times a day! Didn’t you get sick of it?” I explained that it wasn’t canned tuna; it was always fresh fish. I also explained that there were so many kinds, textures, colors and flavors of fish in the ocean that we never got sick of it. Most families had their favorite variety, but even then it would be cooked in lots of different ways. “Think about beef,” I suggested. “How many different kinds and ways can you think of to cook beef?” “Yeah, right.” And I knew that I’d lost them.

“But didn’t you ever have meat?”

“Oh sure. For special times, we might have chicken. And on really special times, once in a while we might even have turtle, or crocodile. Turtle is killer good!” That always got a rise.  Once in a while, I’d tell my Spam story, too. There were times when I really craved meat. I’d stop by the little store and buy a can of Spam. I’d open it and eat it straight out of the can as I walked home. Since most of my friends had never eaten Spam, but had heard horror stories, their reaction was one step shy of disgust. (Actually, although the story is true, my reaction to that memory is also one of near disgust even today.)

Once home, over time, my tan faded. It was a gradual process taking about 2 full weeks toward the end of summer. I have never been as tan again as I was when I came home. There was a fading remnant of a tan line as fall set in. With no more constant sunshine and no reflected sunlight off the sea and sand, there was no way to keep that glow. I hadn’t been fully aware of how deep my tan was until it left. Being a fair-skinned Irish kid, it was burn, blister and brown a bit as I grew up. Two years on an island hadn’t changed the past, but somehow, the burn and blister part got passed by, and the brown became deep bronze. I missed the tan. All I had left were fading lines.

“What did you do all day?” was a fairly common question. “Didn’t you get bored? Ever have island fever?”  Hell no! There was no time to get bored. We did our work during the regular work week. Teaching and training teachers to teach English to Paluan kids took time and energy. That’s a whole other set of stories to tell. After work and on weekends, though, there was an ocean to play in, friends to play with, and rock islands to explore. There were many stories to tell if anyone was interested.

One of my favorite stories happened in the middle of the ocean, miles from any land at all. My friend Craig and I were out on a Fisheries Department boat which he’d borrowed for the weekend. We were snorkeling out on a far portion of a reef away from any islands. Snorkeling in the waters around Palau was amazing, but on that day, as we were in the water, a storm was brewing miles away. When we surfaced, we could see if off in the distance, but we also saw a rainbow. In fact, as we looked, we realized that we were square in the middle of that rainbow. The bright colors reflected off the blue water. The reflection started on one side of our boat, spread for miles across the surface of the sea, went up into its beautiful arch. It came down, reflecting back again from the point where it hit the water, across the surface to our boat. Even Craig, who spent all of his life on and under the water, had never seen a sight like that. It was spectacular. I learned that I could tell the story, but it was all but impossible to capture its impact.

There were cultural experiences, personal experiences and a slew of other things I’d like to be able to tell. Most are on the far side of the line but every once in a while, they just pop up unexpectedly. Remember my tan. I loved it. As a pale chad re nebard (Amercan), nobody paid any attention. It taught me an important cultural reality. A good friend of mine was a young man named Harper. He was a teacher and one of our students in our language teaching classes. He was a good teacher, very funny, and a good friend. Harper had a sister who was exceptionally beautiful. She, too, was in some of our classes. Although it was a little awkward, my Peace Corps friends and I commented to Harp on how attractive his sister was. He was surprised. Not just because he was her brother and didn’t look at her that way. He was surprised that we thought she was pretty because her skin was so dark. That had never crossed our minds. Culturally, lighter was better than darker. And heavier was better than lighter, as well. Lighter skin and heavier weight correlated to prosperity. They translated into less time to work in the sun and more food on the table.

Some historical events took place while I was in Palau. It was during our training period in Ngaremlengui when John Glen stepped onto the surface of the moon. The anniversary of that event brings back the memory of where I was at that very moment – stranded during a typhoon in a Quonset medical dispensary in the village of Ngchesar on the opposite side of Babeldaob. I have told the story over the years, but my retelling doesn’t capture it very well at all. The reaction is usually a smile and a comment like, “Neat.” 

There is still so much to tell. Things still come up on this side of the line which are new to me – things which happened or started while I was in Palau which I didn’t know about at the time. I knew of weddings of family and friends, and of important historical events. Even today, every now and then, a song will come on the radio or be played on the 70s channel of Pandora which I have never heard before.

There have been many times when I’ve remembered my conversation with Chuck over the years. He was right; I was not the same person coming home as I was when I left. I crossed the line. I am not disappointed, and not angry that others have not been able to understand all that my Peace Corps friends and I had experienced. Much of that, I am sure, can be chalked up to my lack of ability to tell good stories. I was able to prepare my head and my heart.  Many changes have stayed with me; many, I hope, have made me a better person. A better husband and father.

Chuck was a wise young man. I am ever grateful that he prepared me to cross the line.

Up on Cripple Creek

The Band

Cop, The Eddy, and Me

I just heard the DJ on the radio play “Up on Cripple Creek.” I love The Band and I love that song, but this time when it came on, I started laughing so hard I all but had to pullover.

What came to mind was driving down Route 6 in PA, The Grand Army of the Republic Highway, between Wyalusing and Tunkhannock. You pass through Laceyville and Meshoppen. Don’t blink. Between Laceyville and Meshoppen, you pass by Skinners Eddy. It is hard to know whether you pass by, pass through, or simply pass.  There is the town of Laceyville, and there is an eddy.  The town, on a good day, used to have as many as almost 200 people – from time to time. It has not been included in a census count in a while, though. The eddy, itself, is on a bend in the long, languid Susquehanna River.  It is easy to pass both the town and the eddy without much notice.

On the side of the road, in the center of town, was a tavern called “Eddy’s”.  Some might say the tavern was the town.   In 1792, Ebenezer Skinner first erected the tavern as a stopping place for river boatmen. The establishment, along a bend in the road, had been set aways back from the bend in the river which swirled around a little island – which created the eddy. Later came the railroad; it followed along the bend as well, between the river and road. The bend in the river created the eddy requiring a curve in the road and the tracks of the Lehigh Valley Railroad. With the river, the tracks, and the road, the tavern sat in the middle of the old town right on the edge of Route 6.   My friends and I had driven past “Eddy’s” at Skinners Eddy for years on our way to or from college.  We had always been curious, but neither curious enough, brave enough, nor old enough to stop.

But one day a few years after college….

My best friend Jason, better known as Cop, and I were driving down Route 6.  Up Route 6, actually.  For some unknown reason, we had driven to Scranton.  I have no possible explanation as to why we might have done that at the time.  There was absolutely nothing compelling us to Scranton, to Wilkes-Barre, or anyplace else in anthracite country.  We were, however, on our way home because we had a double date planned for that evening.  That much I do know.

The relationship between Cop and me was one of those rare friendships that had no beginning and will have no end.  Conversations never required words.  A look, a glance, or an expression carried more meaning and generated more laughter between us than a Woody Allen movie, a Johnny Carson monologue, or a George Carlin routine ever could.  Our homes were about 15 miles from each other across state lines. We had grown up in different states, attended different elementary schools, had attended rival high schools in Elmira, NY.  When we first met, though, there had been a spark of recognition between us: “I know that guy.” To this day, however, we have never pinned down the time or place where our paths first crossed.  We had met at the regional airport in Elmira, NY., as we were both leaving home for a two-year adventure in the Peace Corps.  Oddly enough, both of us were headed to Micronesia. What were the chances that two young men who had never known each other would be departing at the same time, on the same flight for the same, unusual location?  We met, started laughing together for no apparent reason, bonded, became fast friends and shared much.

So, a few years later, after our separate Peace Corps experiences, up Route 6 we drove.  Passing through Wyalusing, the idea came to both of us at about the same time.  “Eddy’s. We have to stop,” we both said.  No problem.  We had plenty of time.  We had miles to go so we wouldn’t – couldn’t – drink much.  One beer – then back on the road.  We had dates for dinner and at least 2 more hours of drive time. But we’d always have rights to say, “We stopped at Eddy’s,”

Rounding the bend in the road by the eddy, rather than straightening the wheel, we rolled into Eddy’s parking lot.  The place was old.  It had been old during the Civil War.  Electrification from the WWI era had been upgraded during WWII.  Depression era paint was fading.  Stale smoke from God knows when hung in the air.  The interior was wood.  All wood.  The bar looked to be original, although that was probably not the case.  It was tall, too.  It’d probably been built for stand-up only service, but as time passed and the regulars aged, tall bar stools had been brought in.  Vinyl and aluminum, they didn’t match the rest of the “décor.”  All in all, the exterior of the Skinners Eddy tavern was old and weathered but solid; the interior was old, grubby, dark and homey.  We loved it.

The bartender mirrored the interior.  He was old, grubby and homey.  Not so dark, though.  Pasty is probably a better descriptor, although the darkness of the room made that hard to test.  “Gentlemen,” he started.  “What’ll it be?”  There was no asking for ID.  It was not that we looked old enough to be in a bar, but I suspect nobody really cared how old we were.  The chances of an LCB inspection were about as unlikely as getting a single malt scotch.

Cop shot me a look. The Look. There was a slight lift of an eyebrow. I gave one in response.  The game was on.

“Whatcha got on tap?” Cop asked.  The fact that he was asking the question defined our roles.

“Bud, Genny, Rolling Rock, Schlitz…you name it, we got it.”

“Bud.”

“And you, my friend?” he said, nosing toward me.

Cop said something incomprehensible to me.  I responded.  The exchange had been between friends, but loud enough for the barkeep to hear.

“He’ll have the same,” Cop told the old man.

Two beers appeared.  We each climbed up onto tall stools at one corner of the bar and started to sip our cold brews.  The old man slipped a bowl of pretzels toward us and nodded to a large jar of pickled eggs.  “On the house.  Eggs are two bits a piece.”

Cop again said something incomprehensible; I shook my head no.

About that same time, a younger man came through the door.  Younger than the bartender; maybe a couple years older than the two of us. He had one of those innocent looks of someone who had probably never traveled farther than Wyalusing.  Maybe Towanda.  In fact, probably Towanda.  (Although it’s not a particularly polite thing to say, the guy had the stereotypical look of a Poole.  But that’s another story for another time.)  He came in with the biggest dog I had ever seen in my life.  A boxer.  Huge.  Enormous.  The young Poole hauled himself onto the stool next to me on one side; his dog sat on the floor on the other.  The dog was so big that our faces were at the same level; we looked at each other eye to eye.  He slobbered.

“What’s that you’re talkin’,” the bartended asked Cop as the Poole settled in.  The game was moving.

Cop explained that, since I did not speak English, he had to translate for me.  He went on to say that I was not from here.  The broader ‘here’.  I was from a place called Micronesia; in fact, I was Micronesian nobility. Cop explained that my mother had been an American, but she’d died shortly after I was born.  Cop and I had met when he, Cop, traveled to Micronesia while working and studying there.  He had learned the language; we had become friends.  Upon leaving, he’d promised my royal father that he’d have me come to America to learn English and go to school.  Maybe find some long-lost family members. My father, the high chief, had been thrilled with that idea, and…here I was.

In truth, there is no “Micronesian” language. I had lived in Palau and did speak Palauan pretty well.  However, Cop had spent his Peace Corps years not in Palau, but in Ponape.  In fact, he was not even on Ponape, proper, but on a remote island called Pingelap.  He spoke neither Palauan nor Ponapean, but he was fluent in Pingelapese.  As we played our game, one of us was the foreigner and the other was the friendly, translating American.  If we were to speak to each other in our respective languages, there would be no comprehension at all.  But nobody picked ever up on the fact that the languages were completely different and mutually unintelligible. We played that to our advantages.  It had bought us a lot of beer over time.

The Poole jumped in. The game rolled on.

We talked for quite a while. The barkeep and the Poole would ask questions, Cop would translate. I’d respond. Cop would translate. The bartender and the Poole would marvel. Sometimes, I would ask a question. Although he had no idea what I had said, Cop would still translate. They would respond. Cop would translate. I would laugh, nod, and acknowledge that I’d gotten their meaning. They bought us beer. We talked some more. We ate pretzels, pickled eggs, and a few other things which the bartender had stashed away.

Time passed. It was well past time for us to leave. Our dates would be waiting, and we had miles to go.

When Cop started to say our good-byes, the Poole asked a favor. “Can you guys give me a ride home?” he asked. “It’s not far. My wife dropped me off and went home. She was gonna pick me up, but hey! I can ride with you.” Then he added, “She speaks French. Took it in high school. Maybe she can talk to the prince here.”

We had not anticipated this turn of events, but he assured us that he didn’t live far. Far, though, is a relative term, especially in the back woods and lost roads of rural Pennsylvania. It was getting dark and late. Our dates would be less than happy – and in the pre-cell phone days, there was no way to call them. Cop did try for a long distance, collect call, but to no avail. But we agreed to give the guy a ride.

So we left Skinner’s Eddy in Cop’s small pick-up truck. There had been plenty of room for the two of us, but now we had the Poole and his giant boxer. Why the dog didn’t ride in the bed of the truck is as mysterious to me as why we’d gone to Scranton in the first place. That part didn’t translate.

The Poole directed us to his house. For all intents and purposes, we were lost, but we chose not to go inside to meet his French speaking wife. The game was over. We knew it, even if he did not. It took us an additional hour to find our way back to Route 6, the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. Needless to say, we were late.

As we headed north through Laceyville, on to Wyalusing and into Towanda, being late was not on our minds. We laughed as we had never laughed before. We stopped to pee more than once at wide spots in the road. And we recounted the day’s events many times over. We had stood up our dates; that was not good. Maybe they would understand, but probably not. It had been one hell of a day. We had had a great time.

Whether the old tavern still sits on the edge of the GAR highway, I do not know. Forever more, though, I do know that Cop and I can say that we are, indeed, among the chosen few who stopped in along the way at the tavern at Skinner’s Eddy.

“Now me and my mate were back at the shack
We had Spike Jones on the box
She said, “I can’t take the way he sings
But I love to hear him talk”

Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?

The Lovin’ Spoonful

Jimmy’s Conundrum

Jimmy was in love.

We were about 19 years old; it was the summer of 66, between our freshman and sophomore years in college. We were all home working at whatever summer job we had found that year. I had a factory job working night shift. I’m not quite sure what I started doing, but whatever it was, my job functions changed when my boss realized that I knew the alphabet and could type. He moved me off the night assembly line and put me in an office where I finished up work which the day shift clerical staff hadn’t gotten to. I liked working nights, but it did cut into my social life. Not that it mattered. I had no girlfriend to speak of.

I have no idea what Jimmy was doing that summer, where he was working. I do know it was a day job, and I suspect he got it through a family connection. That’s about how we all got our summer jobs. That’s all I know. Our shifts made it harder to get together, so when we did, we all had to make the most of it.

Jim did not have a girlfriend either. But he did have his eye on someone. Jimmy was smitten with the beautiful daughter of a prominent, old family in the community. She was a year or so older than we were. All of our families had known each other for decades. But different towns, different schools, different interests, and different ages had kept us socially apart. Her family was well known in the area. Her parents, aunts and uncles were close friends of my parents, aunts and uncles. They were a close-knit family, hard-working, and Irish. There was something else about them, as well, something which nobody who did not know the backstory would ever suspect. They were filthy rich. I mean filthy. Rich.

As the story goes, back in the day, during the Great Depression, their grandfather, a hard-working machinist, had been given a piece of advice by a friend. The friend had told Grandfather to scrape together every penny he had, any way he could, and buy up as much of a certain stock as he possibly could. The grandfather’s friend said that the stock was going for just pennies, but that it was guaranteed to grow later on.  Grandfather took his friend’s advice and did just that. No one knows just how much he got together, but it was a lot, given the circumstances. The stock was going for a couple cents at the time. He purchased all that he could afford. Over time, the Depression ended, and the stock grew in value. The company was Coca Cola. The family was loaded.

Somehow that summer, Jimmy met Kathy, the old man’s granddaughter.  She was beautiful and petite, with long, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was as nice and friendly as could be – and unattached. Jim fell in love. Fell hard; fell deep; fell head over heels. He was giddy from that point on.

“Sometimes there’s one with deep blue eyes, cute as a bunny
                 With hair down to here, and plenty of money…”

We, of course, teased the hell out of him. Was he nuts? Why would a girl like Kathy fall for a guy like him? She was too nice a person to ever be mean to anyone, but she probably did not really know that he was even alive.

Jim was not a jock, not a stud or natural-born chick magnet. What he was, though, was brilliant, funny, and cool. Blond, sharp-witted, and charismatic, he was a natural-born leader simply with his presence.  People loved to be around him. That established his prominence in our friend community. His natural confident all but guaranteed that Kathy would fall in love with him.

We gave him hell all summer long over the dilemma he had gotten himself into. In the evenings, after our summer jobs, the guys would cross the PA border into NY, and hit our current favorite bar, Tommy’s In Crowd. All the guys and several of the girl friends would commiserate with him and share their best advice. All that advice was based on our collective world of experience, of course.  And all while the Lovin’ Spoonful played on the AM dial and on the juke box. I joined whenever I could. Working night shift, I was always caught up on the latest news on the weekends.  By then, there was always a lot to catch up on.

By this time in our lives, we were all well old enough to drive. That helped Jim’s situation. Having summer jobs provided a bit of cash, and our proximity to New York state allowed us to go into bars for a drink.  As I remember, Kathy was working at the same plant where I was working but had a day-shift job like most of our friends. It will forever be a mystery, but somehow, somebody invited Kathy to meet up with friends at our favorite pub, Tommy’s. And somehow, Jim happened to be there, too.

As the story went, they had a drink with the group and got to know each other a bit. Kathy had no idea that it had all been planned. She was there with friends and enjoying herself. Almost unimaginably, Jim was one step shy of tongue tied. But he pulled it together and they talked.

With work the next day, Kathy and her friends left early. Jim and the boys stuck around – to debrief, as it were. The guys were having a great time giving him hell, but he was numb. All he could think about was the next night. For sure, she would be back the next night. He had be better prepared the next night. And so it went for a few nights.

One night, after the initial shock wore off and he’d had a couple drafts, Jim gathered enough courage to ask Kathy to go out on a date, a real, just-the-two-of-us date. She said yes. When I heard about it, I volunteered to double with them. That way they’d each have backup if the conversation lagged or anyone felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t surprised when he declined my offer, though.

They set a time and planned to go to dinner at someplace nicer than Tommy’s. Jim borrowed his sister’s car, a light blue, unsafe-at-any-speed Chevy Corvair. He washed it, gassed it up – and did just about those same things to himself. He was primed and ready for the first real date with the love of his life.

That was just before disaster struck.

Jim drove to Kathy’s house, parked the Corvair and went to the door. Kathy’s sister Ann answered and let him in. Ann and Jim had not met previously. Like her sister, she was beautiful. Petite. She, too, had a sincere, warm smile. And as she was another year older than Kathy, she had just a touch more ‘maturity.’ Jimmy was in love. Again.

“Sometimes you really dig a girl the moment you kiss her
  And then you get distracted by her older sister…”

Jim and Kathy went out on their date and had a good time. It was only good and not great because Jim, now, had a real conundrum to deal with. Which sister did he want to like more? Which one would he have the better chance of wooing over? That was cause for some heavy discussion at Tommy’s for many nights to come.

“When in walks her father and takes you in line
And says “Better go home, son, and make up your mind.”

Kathy and Ann’s dad did not step in and take Jim aside. The only people who knew about his problem were Jim, every guy in town, half the girls, and, of course, Tommy, the bartender. Tommy, though mature and experienced in the ways of the world, did not step in with any advice.

Summer was coming to a close. Jim was no closer to a solution top his predicament than he had been all season. Remember, this whole thing played out over the course of not much more than one month. Six weeks, max. Jim went from not knowing Kathy to falling desperately in love to having a real date to meeting Ann to falling desperately in love again to, to, to – to who knows what! School would be starting up for the fall semester soon. Jim, Kathy and Ann would all be heading back to their separate universities spread up and down the east coast. Jim’s big predicament then was deciding which sister to write to or to call once everybody had split. If he wrote or called one, the other would know. And vice versa.

Over beers at Tommy’s, we finally persuaded him to just let it – let them – go for now. If it was meant to be with Kathy or Ann, somehow he’d know. Somehow. And there was always Christmas break. With one long semester in the middle.

That September, we all made it back to school. Jim had not made up his mind; Kathy and Ann were both out of his life, at least temporarily. And that’s when the Fates stepped in one more time.

It was the first party of the year. We had all gathered in a pair of rented rooms at the back of a local motel. Although we were in PA, people knew people who were 21. We had secured enough ‘stuff’ to make a bucketful of our special party blend which we called Sneaky Pete. A couple of the girls who had helped Jim survive the summer brought a new friend, Melody, with them that evening. She was beautiful, petite, with long blond hair. She was friendly and outgoing without being outrageous. She fit right into the group. As it turned out, she had no sisters, only two younger brothers.

Before we’d made a dent in the bucket of Sneaky Petes, Jim was smitten. It was going to be one hell of a semester.

“There’s so many changes, and tears you must hide
Did you ever have to finally decide?”

Coda: Ultimately, Kathy married the son of a prominent dentist in our hometown. Ann married an attorney and moved away, as I remember. Jim and Mel dated for a year or two before they broke up. Jim never married.  

Sure, he dated; he had girlfriends. 

But he never made up his mind about anyone after that summer.

My Little Town

Simon & Garfunkle

My Little Town

They say you can’t go home again. I tried once. It’s true.

It had been about 15 years since I was last home. The last time before that was a rugged week when my brother and I cleared and cleaned out our old family home. And before that…. Hard to believe that it has been yet another 5 years since I was last there.

I was born and raised in Sayre, Pennsylvania. My home town. My little town had once been a big deal. And for me and my friends growing up, Sayre was still the center of the known universe. Life was good.

Most of town was nicely laid out on a grid of streets running north to south, east to west. Our family lived on the corner North Elmer Avenue and Stevenson Street. Elmer Ave. ran north and south for the entire length of town. And for the entire length of the street, every house along the many blocks and blocks of Elmer Ave. had a pair of beautiful Dutch Elm trees in its front tree border. In the summer, these trees formed a natural canopy which all but covered the street. Stevenson Street ran east from the Lehigh Valley Railroad yards west about as far as the town would allow. The corner of Elmer and Stevenson was one short block from Lehigh Ave. and the RR yards.

We lived in a nice, big house, the same house in which my mother and her family had grown up in. By the time we all moved out, the family had been in the house for almost 100 years. As it was a corner lot, the house had a big yard and sidewalks on two sides. There were lots of trees and bushes, but plenty of room for my neighborhood friends and I to play.

The yard, trees, and sidewalks ensured seasonal chores. Mowing, raking and shoveling. Summer, fall, and winter.

Across the street from the house was the 1^st Baptist Church of Sayre. In all the years of living in our house, I never once entered that church. We were Catholic. Enough said. Next to the church, was Mr. Burch’s house; Mr. Burch had the first TV in the neighborhood.  After Mr. Burch passed, a new family moved in. from New Your City.  (Another story for another day!)

Looking left from the front porch toward the church, down the street toward downtown, our first neighbor was Mrs. Creighton’s house. Shingled in multi-colored siding, and less than well cared for, it was a sight to behold. Next to Mrs. Creighton lived the Gaileys, Arthur and Edith. They were nice people and excellent neighbors. Then came the Ayers house, and then Epiphany School, my elementary school.

Looking right, up the street, after crossing the short beginning of Stevenson Street, the first house belonged to an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw. The house and yard were tidy and well kept; the front and side yard were surrounded by a low, well-trimmed hedge. The hedge was repeated in the Callabuccis’ house, and the Alexanders’ house. There it ended. Next to Alexanders’ was “Angie’s”, our neighborhood grocery store. Angie had been in business since about 2 weeks after Columbus arrived. I was sent to Angie’s for a loaf of bread and a quart of milk several times a week. I jumped the hedges as I went up the street – until I got to Alexander’s hedge. That one was too high.

I didn’t mind running to Angie’s. Each time I went, I got a penny to spend on whatever I wanted from the candy case. Next to Angie’s store was the Nittinger house.

Looking off our back porch, across the back yard, was the short block which started Stevenson Street. Across the back yard, on Stevenson, was the Boritz house. Interestingly, that house was not small, but also not all that big for the large Boritz family. Not only were there several kids, but they were all pretty big people. Mrs. Boritz prepared meals for her family on an old wood burning stove. She was from the Old Country, and that’s the way things were done.

Moving down the short, back block, next came the alley. The alley ran north from downtown almost to the end of Elmer Ave. It was everything an alley should be, narrow, dirty, rutted, and dark. Every once in a while, The Ragman drove his horse-drawn cart up or down the alley collecting rags and junk. No one seemed to know who he was, where he came from or where he went. As kids, we were both intrigued by and scared of The Ragman.

Continuing the short block toward Lehigh Ave, the next place was a funny sort of house/apartment/store. The store was long gone, but people did live in the 2 or 3 apartments in the building. The next house faced Lehigh. And across the first block of Stevenson St., also facing Lehigh, was the Steiger house.

Across Lehigh Avenue were the railroad yards and shops. Although they were busy, they were not nearly as busy as they had been when Sayre really was a big deal town. The yards were the place where trains came for maintenance. Growing up, trains still did come and go. Time was told by shift-change whistles. Workers came and went through a tunnel entrance which led them under the acres of tracks and roundhouses to the shops where they worked. (Sometimes family or friends would come to our house to visit. “Doesn’t the noise from the trains drive you nuts?” they’d ask. “What noise?” we’d reply. We had become deaf to all that.)

All this is context setting. Within that small, small-town space, I grew up. My friends and I played. I went to school.

The second floor of Mrs. Creighton’s house had been turned into an apartment well before I was born. One of my first best neighborhood friends, Tommy, lived in that upstairs apartment with his growing family. Tommy and I were best buds. Looking back, I know that his life was quite different from my own. Tommy’s dad wasn’t around a lot, it seemed. And when he was, he was abusive. Of course, nobody talked about that much; people just didn’t do that. Tommy’s mom was always pregnant, too. How the family lived in the small, dumpy space, I don’t know. But they did for several years.

Dickie Nittinger lived in the house next to Angie’s store.  Dickie was the youngest of 7. His oldest  brother and 2 oldest sisters were actually half-siblings; their mom had died many years earlier, and his dad had remarried Catherine. Together, they had three more sons and one daughter. All the guys in that family were big – tall and athletic. For his early years, Dickie was sometimes referred to as Little Dick. Once he became Big Dick, the adjective part of his name was dropped!

Tommy, Dick and I played together all the time. We were joined by others in our neighborhood. Laura and Artie Steiger lived in the corner house on Lehigh Ave. Louie and Mark Alexander lived on the other side of Angie from the Nittingers. Louie John Angelo’s grandparents lived next door to the Nittingers. Louis John was at his grandparents’ house a lot; he joined in with the rest of us. Sometimes, the Gailey’s grandson, who was also about our age, came to visit and played with us, as well. Once the Boritz family outgrew their house, the Smiths moved in, and they had lots of kids, a coupled of whom were our age, as well. That was our core. Since we all had cousins and other friends, other kids were also frequently in the group.

We played all kinds of kid games. There was a lot of hide-and-seek. Whoever was “it” would use the telephone pole in the tree border on the side of our house as goal. As that person counted 5-10-15-20-25-30…to 100, the rest of us found places to hide. Once the ‘it’ person got to 100, he or she would call out, “Apple, peaches, pumpkin pie, who’s not ready, holler ‘I’”, and the rest of us had better have found our hiding place. Then it was a race to find the hiders or to reach the goal safely. The game was especially fun as it got darker in the summer.

We also played in the street. Yes, in the street. We played touch football, and giant hopscotch games. Someone was designated as the official car spotter – even as he played the game. Once a car was spotted turning onto Stevenson from either end of the short street, the spotter yelled, “CAR!” as loud as possible, and everyone would run to one side of the street or other until the car passed.

On adventurous days, we’d wander the alley. Within a few houses up and down the alley, it was pretty safe, but if we headed too far, it got pretty iffy. We didn’t go too far.

If my mother needed something from the store, or if was getting close to dinner time and I needed to come home, she would stand on the back porch and blow her whistle. Everybody knew the whistle. If I missed it, myself, someone would be sure to tell me that my mother was calling. Once I heard it, I’d yell at the top of my lungs, “Coming, Mother!” as I busted home as fast as possible. Going to the store meant earning a penny to buy any kind of candy I wanted!

As we got older, we also rode our bikes – all over town. This extended our reach, both physically and socially. As Sayre was the center of the known world, exploring the outer reaches of that world was exciting. A favorite destination was Spanish Hill, a spot on the western-most edge of town known for its buried treasures, arrow heads, and lost coins. Not that we ever found any of these, but that didn’t stop us from searching.

Bikes also gave us a kind of freedom lost today. Our friends would meet in the morning, start our ride, explore town, and not return until late in the afternoon. Did we eat? Did we carry water. Mostly no. But we did have the freedom to stop off at little stores to buy candy bars.

Life was good.

As we all moved through school and entered high school, our street play ended. Many of us had gone to elementary school together. Moving into high school changed a lot of dynamics. I went to a private high school in a different town. I did remain close to some of my closest friends, but many of the old neighborhood group went their separate ways. Some of my elementary friends attended my high school, but by and large, there were new friends to make.

After high school, as it so happened, many of my old elementary school and my new high school friends attended the same undergrad college. The groups mixed and mingled; a couple intermarried. But as is natural, things changed.

From the old neighborhood group, Tommy’s family had moved about 2 blocks away, up Stevenson Street. I have not seen him since 8^th grade. I haven’t seen Dick since 8^th grade, either, although in the small town, small world scheme of things, his sister Joannie married my cousin Bernie – who lived 2 blocks down the street. I have no idea whatever happened to Laura and Artie. No idea whatsoever. The same can be said of Louie and Mark Alexander. Louie John, however, became a dentist with a prominent practice in town.

The day of my college graduation was a beautiful, early summer June day. I drove home from school for the last time. I was preparing to leave again for a 2-year stint as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Driving up Elmer Avenue and approaching our house, I noticed something. Leaves on the ground. Elm leaves. It was the beginning of Dutch Elm Blight. It was killing all the stately old elm trees.

By the time I returned home 2 years later, all the beautiful elm trees which had lined Elmer Avenue for generations were gone. Totally gone.

I lived in Sayre for another 2 years, teaching in the same town in which I’d gone to high school. When I left home again, like the elms, I was gone. It has been decades now. Of course, over the years, I visited my family from time to time. The old family house is still there. Like the town, it is now fairly run down. There are still a few family members close by, and a few old family friends. But like the elms, most of my little town, my family, and most of the old friends I knew are gone.  And so it goes.

You can’t go home again.

Life goes on. The center of my universe has changed. Change is a part of life. My own family has grown. Family connections have grown; friendships have expanded.

Life is still very, very good.