50 Years

It is hard to believe that half a century has passed since the day in Dallas when the President was murdered.

I remember the day vividly. Karen Brown. my lab partner, walked into biology claiming the President was shot. I thought it was one of those wild rumors you here in high school. It wasn't. It was Ironic I also learned about 9/11 in much the same way.

The rumor became fact when Mr. Keogen, the principal, came on the speaker system announcing what had happened and began playing the broadcast from a news station. I was stunned. And I reviewed what I knew about John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

The first time I saw him on Television was at the 1960 Democratic Party Convention. I usually ignored politics, but I vividly remember Kennedy's acceptance speech, calling on Americans to join us and promising in that Baaaston accent "And we will win in November."

That was when I was in seventh grade, and it seems that I was the only one in our school who wanted Kennedy to win. At that time, I attended a school in a very upper class area (think horsey set) and so most of my classmates said they wanted Nixon, not because of who the man was, but because he was a Republican. But I wore a button that said "If I were 21 I'd vote for JFK. I bought another one a few years ago when I visited the JFK museum in Hyannis, Massachusetts. Anyhow, my man won and a year later the girls were styling their hair like JFK's beautiful wife, Jackie.

Of course, a year after that, we ninth graders were terrified by the thought of a nuclear war. Since we were young children, we had done "duck and cover" drills and by now we knew that if a nuke hit us the only good that would do would enable us to kiss our ass goodbye.

But we survived. But a part of us died a year later on Nov. 22. For my generation, many of us regarded the murder as a loss of innocence. Kennedy was a man who created in us a desire to serve America. "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country," was something we aspired to. It's ironic that only a few years later half our generation were risking death while serving in the military while the other half protested the government. If JFK lived, I wonder what our involvement in Vietnam would have been.

A moment in history. Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson is sworn in as President abord Air Force One as Kennedy's widow, Jackie (right) looks on. 

There has been a never-ending chain of thought about a conspiracy involving the death. I personally believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, but only because I know Cecil Kirk, a sergeant with the District of Columbia's Metropolitan Police Department, who analyzed a negative of a photo of Oswald holding the same rifle found left in the Texas school book depository building. Every camera's lens leaves certain patterns on the negative and under microscopic examination of the negative, it is certain that Oswald's camera took the picture. And it is certain the photo was never doctored.

And of course, more of my generation's heros were also murdered. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Is it any wonder that by the end of 1968, certainly the most turbulent year of my generation, that we became cynical and apathetic? I often wonder how much we would have become involved with drugs if it wasn't for the trauma.

But that is history and it is 50 years. A day that was so important to us is given a brief note, worth perhaps a half a period,  in the social studies curriculum in New York State where I taught. As our nation becomes older, we must cram more history into the same amount of time. I wonder what people will think of that day in another 50 years when those who lived through it are long dead?

Statue of John Kennedy in front of JFK museum in Hyannis, Massachusetts, where the Kennedy Family had its compound.

Don't let it be forgot

That once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment

That was known as Camelot

-- Lerner & Lowe, from their Broadway musical, "Camelot"

Cats and our lives

The Musical "Cats" isn't for everyone. Some people look at it as a bunch of songs with people dancing and walk away from it. My son's neighbor hated it when he saw a live performance. My friend, Joyce, who rescues cats, didn't even bother to finish watching it with a friend. Others, like myself, look into all the different personalities and realize that they are portraying the folly of humanity. 

"Cats" is based on some poetry by T.S. Elliot and I first became aware of it long before it made its Broadway debut. I was attending a class in advertising copywriting at J. Walter Thompson. It was an in-house course, but open to others via NYU's school of continuing education. I had taken about half a dozen other courses there, and was usually the "star" student simply because I had more experience than most of the other students. But this was different. This was for advertising in the "real" world at what was then the world's largest ad agency. The competition was brutal. 

Anyhow, the agency had a division for Broadway theater and one of our assignments was to create a theme for the incoming musical. One of the women in the class, who was a secretary at the agency, came up with "Cats: Now and Forever" and was offered a full-time gig. The slogan, of course, was the heart of the campaign of the longest-running musical in Broadway history.

There was a movie made of the musical, but it was never a blockbuster. Simply put, the film used a stage just as in the play and cameras changed angles, did close-ups and other fairly standard fare. I never got to see it in person, but saw it via a VHS tape borrowed from my local library. Decades after the class ended, I was working across the street from the theater and on Wednesdays saw it was packed with Japanese tourists. I guess some smart people made it a part of tour groups and made a profit on the tickets as well.

But I digress. Perhaps deliberately. As I write this, I have just recovered from a crying jag. For those of you who don't know the plot, this is the night of the Jellicle moon. and as we are introduced to the cast, we are aware that one will be taken into the heavens to be reborn. 

Perhaps the most pathetic creature is Gruzabella. Once the most glamorous of creatures, the life of the party if you will, she has met life head on and is now disheveled and ancient. All the other cats shy away from her. In the end, she is the one who is taken up. And we sort of suspected she would be the one all along. But prior to ascending, she is once again accepted by all the other cats. And you suddenly realize that they may well be her own children. 

Each cat is given a song that reflects its personality. Gruzabella's song is called "Memory" and it was a monster hit when the show made its debut. And as I listened to the words, I thought of my mother, my marriage, my other relationships and myself. So here are the words, and some of my thoughts about them.

Daylight
See the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses whither away
Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . . 

The ex is named Rosemary. And she loved roses. When we were first married, she would tell me that she would prefer a single rose to a more expensive gift. But they eventually the roses would wilt and die. Towards the end, she didn't want me to give them to her any more because of that. And so, there was one less thing I could offer her, never understanding what she really wanted or needed and certainly not knowing if I was capable of giving it to her. 
Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan 

Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again 

My mother barely knew her father. He was killed in the trenches of France during the First World War. To make ends meet, she became a vaudeville performer named "Baby Peggy," The theater bug never left her. And she often spoke of them. When she drank too much, which was often, she would sometimes do her routines if she thought no one was looking. The smile on her face was one I will always carry with me. She was indeed beautiful then. And I suppose it was a time when she knew what happiness was. Her resemblance to Elaine Page, the actress who plays Gruzabella, is also haunting. In the meantime, the withered leaves collect at my feet where my campsite is. The wind has moaned and rain has attacked in force. There were tornados nearby several times this year and it is fearful when they come.

Every streetlamp
Seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning 


I hate this time of year. The days become shorter and the nights seem to last forever. I will rarely see daylight in the days to come as I will be working in a sealed factory when the sun is out. It depresses me and I seem to be the someone who mutters, mostly about being alone. It soon will be morning, but the morning can't seem to come soon enough. I feel incredibly lonely, knowing that much of it is because of the decisions I have made. And I regret so many of them.

Daylight
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I musn't give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin 

It's a fight. Not only is it dark, but it is cold. It is a wonderful time to look at the stars here in the Kentucky hills. but it's lonesome. You can only pet the dog and be comforted so much. By now, I thought I would have someone to share this adventurous life with, or perhaps have settled down. There is a woman out there I would marry in a moment. But it isn't going to happen. 

Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning 

I feel old, and burnt out. I know my days are coming to an end. My street lamp is beginning to go out. I fight this by exercising and trying to fight off the cravings for food and keeping on a diet. But I have already done a lot of damage to myself. I am now capable of only fighting back and do no more harm to myself. If another day dawns, I am grateful. But still have to deal with it. 

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You'll understand what happiness is 

These are the lyrics that bring me to tears. And I think mom, the ex, and myself all have this need to be touched. It was so easy to leave the insanity of both of them, Yet as I face the endless days of winter, I realize how much it might have mattered if I had reached out with every ounce of myself. I always held back, a lesson from the insanity I lived with, perhaps not realizing that my own insanity was far more destructive. 

Look, 
A new day has begun.

I certainly hope so. 

There's no place like home?

Home is where the heart is, so the cliché goes. But at this point in time, I haven’t a clue where home, or my heart is. Right now, home is where I park it.

As I write this, I am on the road again. I spent about three weeks back in the East, camping in Northern New Jersey and then visiting friends in Western Virginia. Now I am in the hills south of Louisville, Kentucky working for Amazon shipping out holiday season packages until Christmas Eve. After that I haven’t a clue where I’m going, at least for the long term.

The RV Park that is my home until Christmas Eve, located in the Kentucky Hills. Beautiful foliage is at it's peak for the moment.

I’ve been to some of my “homes” of the past on my visit here.

As I visited my friend and high-school prom date Emily in Denville, I stopped by at the house my parents moved to from the city when I was about six. It is a touchstone in a way in that it was really the last place I felt secure before my parents separated less than two years later, leading me on an insane and nomadic life for nearly a decade. Possibly a reflection of the way I am today?  I had met the current owner a couple of years ago on a previous visit and she was gracious enough to permit me to view the inside of the home, which has much changed since the 1950s. But it still has an incredible, wonderful view of the lake that was so much of my life then. The house sort of looked the way my parents hoped it would be.

As soon as I arrived in the area, I arranged to visit with my son, Matthew, on Long Island. I have become quite proud of him, as he has overcome many things to become a productive member of his community in many different ways. He still lives in Ronkonkoma, where my children were raised, and I stopped to look at the old homestead. Not much has changed. Some trees have been knocked down and there have been minor changes in the gardens. The new owners have added a cement walk and driveway instead of the gravel we had. I hope they don’t get too much flooding as a result of water runoff. But as I looked at it, it was as if it was simply a place where I spent about three decades. It wasn’t a home. I suppose I never felt very comfortable there. It was even somewhat nomadic as I moved from the master bedroom to the living room and then to one of my son’s bedrooms after he left for college.

In Port Jervis, NY, I stopped at the senior citizen apartments where I lived until hitting the road about two years ago. I lived there while going through my divorce because it was in the same state and thus made the divorce costs far less expensive. The place reminded me of a prison, with its sameness in every one-bedroom apartment. I had dinner with one of my then neighbors, Donna, who told me the complex had gone down the tubes quite a bit and many people, herself included, moved. I am told the place has been accepting welfare people, and getting more crime and drugs as a result.

For a few days, I stayed the last days of the season at Rockview Valley RV Park, where I spent the summer of 2011 and a month in 2012. In 2011, it was a place of refuge as I stayed off the road and just rested there and used the pool. In 2012, I spent a month there recovering from pneumonia that I caught in the south. The neighbors were nice people who had been there many years and I renewed acquaintances with a couple of them. But as the season ended, I had to move on. Last year, I stayed in a location in the camp I wasn’t comfortable with and though there are more desirable campsites available next summer, I don’t know if I will go there as I may head back to the Dakotas for the summer before returning to Oregon.

Oregon is a wonderful place, but it can also be depressing during the constant winter rains. And while there are places there where I’ve made my home for a few months at a time, it is just as much of a workplace as a home. As for the Dakotas, there are places where I feel more than welcome. But there is a feeling of being solitary. I don’t like being solitary any more.

And so, for the two weeks, I was at a county park in Jefferson Township, NJ. In some ways, this is a home, though the only person I know is the ranger. It is where I camped when the ex and I separated. It is the place where I started trying out my first trailer and went through an incredible rainstorm that turned to snow overnight. It is another place to retreat to. The other day, Emily and I walked along a lake in the park, and took a long hike in the woods. I felt safe, even when we got a little lost and had to backtrack as we were getting close to losing light. But it is not a place I can stay.

One day, I visited my friends Frank and Gina. They helped house me at times during the divorce when I had to be on Long Island for meetings with lawyers and such. They made me welcome, but I always felt uncomfortable accepting their hospitality. And they have moved to North Carolina, like many others unable to afford the cost of living on Long Island. They were in New Paulz, NY to visit their son. They have invited me to spend Christmas with them and I may. It’s a trip of more than nine hours although I haven’t any other plans and being alone on Christmas isn’t something I really want.

And I also visited several high school classmates. We lived in Morristown, NJ but none of us has remained there, though two of them still live near the town. A few years ago, I took a look at the house I lived in when I went to high school. It is a pretty Victorian-era home built shortly after the Civil War. When I returned to college in the 1990s, I took a course in American social history. The house clearly followed the advice of Domestic Diva Katherine Beecher, sister of Harriet Beecher Stowe and the author of many books and editor of a women’s service magazine. She was sort of like the Martha Stewart of her day and was a strong advocate of fresh air, among other things. My old room had a three-sided window arrangement. But it was also a place of high drama as my mother returned to her alcoholic ways.

So I ask myself “What is my home?” and “Where does my heart lie?” I find I don’t know the answers, and that surprises me. If anything, my last three years have been a quest to discover who I am and where I belong. A couple of my friends from Florida call this a long-term visit to “Munzerville.” Its sole resident is getting real tired of being a road warrior. I have seen many wondrous places and have met thousands of people from all over the world. But it is still a solitary life. And I’m sick of it. The other day, I went to Mammoth Cave National Park, and earlier this week I was at Shenandoah Valley National Park. Both places are magnificent, especially during this colorful autumn season. But I felt as if I was simply showing up rather than a sense of wonder.

People who know me well are aware of why I chose to return to the area where I grew up. But the reason for the visit included unrealistic expectations. So that is why I’ll be spending the holiday season working for Amazon in Campbellsville, KY. And, after that, I suppose I will visit another home away from home, a RV park in Georgia. The people there probably saved my life as they got me to their doctor when my April 2012 bout with pneumonia was at its worst. So I will also feel safe and welcome there.

But I’ll still be alone. It sucks. And yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I understand that, but I don’t care. I’ve been doing some binge eating too, gaining back about 5 of the 25 pounds I lost over the summer. Someone I spoke with recently said they admire my plans. Hell, I just don’t have any. Home is where I park it. So, I’ll continue to write about wonderful places with nice pictures because it’s all I can do for now. But my hope for the next year is to find someone to share it with. Is anyone out there listening?

Wild, Wonderful and ?

Tuesday, Oct. 30, 2013

 Follow the yellow brick GPS?

I started the day in Winchester, Virginia. My campground was about 400 yards from Interstate-81, so naturally I figured I would take this main road south, eventually merging into a westbound Interstate highway that would lead me to Campbellsville, Kentucky, my destination.

The GPS had other ideas, and so I headed westbound on a local highway. The West Virginia border was only about ten miles away and I figured: “OK, I’ll take a few state highways.”

Six hours later I finally reached an Interstate. Route 79, I think. And I had travelled about 175 miles over backwoods country roads, mostly along State Route 50, which was usually a two-lane road. And I guess I had a lesson about just how wild West Virginia is.

I’m near Charlestown, the state capital, spending the night at a truck stop as I write this. Hopefully the trucks that are spending the night with me will be on their way before I wake up. Getting lost in the parking lot, I discovered I had moved into a parking spot, only in the wrong direction and will have to back out in the morning.

But though I’ve met only a couple of West Virginians, I’ve had quite an education about a land we think of as hillbilly territory.

As a child, I watched a CBS report on poverty in this area. It spurred a lot of social programs under President Lyndon Johnson. Yet I cannot comprehend if there have been any real improvement over the more than 40-year span since Johnson’s “War on Poverty” was enacted.

As I drove through these wild roads, it was clear that there were many abandoned homes and farms throughout the area. Time after time, I wanted to stop and photograph these dilapidated buildings, but the roads had no shoulders and I was towing a trailer. It was also raining and frequently the clouds reached down to these mountain roads, creating a dense and scary fog. It reminded me of the first day I was on the road with a trailer back in March of 2011 as I drove along I-84 in Pennsylvania. The mountain snows were melting, creating a dense fog and making me unable to see more than a few feet in front of me. I was too terrified to try to pull off because I couldn’t see the shoulder either.

Fortunately, both times, I eventually came out of the fog. At one point, I did find a turn-off in the mountains. It was at the entrance to a coal mine and there were warning signs about blasting with dynamite.

At one point, there was a truck about three vehicles in front of me that seemed determined to go about 15 miles per hour less than the posted speed limit. I’m sure it made the drivers behind him go crazy but it was quite welcome to me. I was on strange roads and difficult weather and in no particular hurry.

Somewhere along Route 50, I went through a small town that had a McDonald’s restaurant in it. It was just about the only fast-food joint along the entire route. And I suppose it featured some downright friendly women too. As I made my order, I was addressed as “Darlin,” “Hon,” “Sweetie” and “Suga,” which I wasn’t quite used to hearing. I also couldn’t understand much of what the women were saying to me. Their accent was strange. I apologized for not understanding, telling them I was a dumb-ass New Yorker and not too bright.

As I continued my journey, I began climbing up into the mountains. Occasionally, the state added a “Truck Land” for people like me to pull over and let those following me pass. This was a good thing because without shoulders, it was the only time they could.

This went on for many miles as I watched my miles per gallon indicator drop from 12 to about 8 miles per hour. You may not think that makes much difference, but think about how you would react if you suddenly lost 1/3^rd of your mileage.

As I reached the top of Allegheny Mountain, elevation 2,850 feet, I also passed into a small area of buildings and found a place to pull over for a while. I was very tired. Even though I was only about 80 miles into the journey, it had taken me nearly four hours and darkness was clearly going to come soon.

As I continued, I passed mountaintop wind farms, and drove through Mongahelia National Forest and civilization became very rare. But finally I reached a state highway that had four lanes and eventually reached the Interstate where I finally was able to pick up gas. I was down to ¼ tank from hauling the trailer over the mountain and wasn’t sure when I would be able to gas up.

And so I drove towards Charleston, the state’s capital. I stopped at a rest stop for a nap and looked at the “you are here” part of the map. It seemed after all that driving, I had barely moved.

But I am a better nighttime driver anyhow as there is less traffic to distract and, especially heading in a west-bound direction, significantly less glare. At twilight, I passed by Annie Oakley Road and was reminded of a rip roaring tale a woman once told me about a shootout her mother had with local hunters. A couple of days later I mailed her a note telling her about my trip and was given a warm response. We hadn’t talked to one another in several years.

About 3 a.m., I found the truck stop, walked Pup and finally fell asleep, exhausted.

Wednesday, Oct. 31, 2013

The next morning, the weather remained about the same with lots of clouds and rain. But the daylight along the Interstate brought some beautiful foliage and I enjoyed it thoroughly, taking just one picture through my car windshield to prove I had been there.

And suddenly, I had crossed the Ohio River and my West Virginal explorations were over. I was both relieved and unhappy. I had just gone through some of the most incredible scenery I’ve ever seen, and never took a picture.

A few miles into Kentucky, I stopped at the welcome center rest stop and walked the dog. I was exhausted and fell asleep for a few hours before moving on. But craziness continued to follow me. Insects swarmed the truck while I slept. Would you believe they were ladybugs? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact it was Halloween, but the darn things were tenacious in holding on even as I was flying along the interstate at 60 miles per hour.