Remembering the Crow

It was the summer before we started Hillsboro. The days were balmy and we were rising freshmen. We didn't know that schools could burn down. One day, a bunch of us gathered at Charlotte Kinnard's house for an afternoon of unsupervised slow dancing to records. The funny thing is, I don't remember any of the other girls there, besides Charlotte. But I do know that Rick Drewry was there.

Rick remembers that, at one point, he went outside and sat down in a swing that was part of a child's swing set. Soon after that, a big, black crow flew down and sat on the top of the swing frame. The crow looked down at Rick and said, "Hello!"

Rick was astonished. A crow had never spoken to him before. He told Charlotte what happened and how it had startled him. Charlotte said that anybody would have been startled by that.

I wish that I had been out there. I could have saved Rick half a century of wondering about it.

I knew this crow. His name was Sam. He was the crow in our family. He lived in a chicken wire cage, the size of a phone booth, that my mother had gotten somebody to build in our yard.

There was a latch on the cage door and Sam figured out how to pull it up and let himself out. So he could fly free whenever he wanted to. But mainly, he followed my brothers and me around. He was often seen at Stokes School, perched on the back corner of the building and making a lot of noise, when any of us were out at recess.

So I’m sure he just followed me down to Charlotte’s house to see what I was up to, and maybe to see if there was anybody there that he could meet.

Good Lew, Good Ralph

Betty doesn't like the Internet and uses as little of it as possible. But when she found out, a few years back, that you could look up people's phone numbers on it, she decided to give it a whirl. The first person she wanted to look up was Kent Washburn.

Kent Washburn, along with Ralph Sandler and Lewis White, used to ride on her bus. They were all a year behind us, but Betty thought that they treated her with just the right amount of awe and respect due a senior. Especially Kent. She recalls that he, alone of the three, actually talked to her. The other two were just along for the laughs. She told me that Kent had names for them: they were "Good Lew" and "Good Ralph". Every time he talked about them, it was always "Good Lew" and "Good Ralph".

I said, "What are you going to do if you find his phone number?"

She said, "I'm going to call him up."

But Yahoo! didn't know him. She was disappointed. I thought I detected a touch of maternal feeling in her concern for the younger man. But I'm probably overstating it - it doesn't take much, really, to wonder what might have happened to Good Lew and Good Ralph and Good Kent.

1709 Memory Lane

For the reunion weekend, Betty and I made reservations with the Daisy Hill Bed and Breakfast on Blair. Check-in time was 4 PM and they meant it. We arrived a little before three; so, with an hour to kill, we decided to take a tour of the roundabout.

It was familiar territory. During my school years, I carried two different paper routes in the area between Belmont Boulevard and Hillsboro road, from Blair all the way to Gale Lane. Every morning and afternoon I would throw all my papers onto people's porches, for free, and then, once a week, I'd go around, asking to be paid for them. It was an odd arrangement, but most of the time it worked.

We came to the intersection of Blair and Hillsboro Road. On one corner, Pee Wee Blankenship had his drugstore and, on the other corner, Mr. Kinnard had his restaurant. Charlotte says that, years ago, Mr. Apple worked as night manager there. And at Blankenship's, one afternoon, the Reverend Savoy treated me to a coke, even though I wasn't an Episcopalian.

Why did they call him Pee Wee?

My mother went to school with him and she told me that, in sixth grade, he wet his pants, one day, while standing before the class. Later on, he did it again.

You're not going to put that in your blog, are you?

When we crossed over Hillsboro Road, still on Blair, we entered the zone where I delivered my papers. Back then, I knew who lived in every house in the whole area, and was on speaking terms with them. Today, I live in a subdivision of strangers. We wave, but we don't speak. It's my fault, actually: I like it that way.

The first house we came to on the left was where little Jimmy Tarver lived. Jimmy was twelve years old and reminded me of Tiny Tim. He wasn't handicapped, but he was little, bright-eyed and eager. If you've ever seen Freddie Bartholomew in one of those old movies, you'll know what I mean. Jimmy had never been out on a date, but he wanted to go on one. He got a girl to say she would go, but then the logistics got complicated. His mother appealed to me for help, and together we devised a plan.

What was the plan?

Don't you remember? You and I went out on a double date with this little kid and his girlfriend. We picked him up and then we picked up his date. He was all dressed up in a suit and tie and had his hair slicked back. I don't remember what she had on, but he gave her a corsage to wear. After the movie, we took her home first and then we drove Jimmy home.

I don't remember that at all.

Most of the people on Blair were old, but not everybody: on the right, three doors up from the end, two grown girls (I didn't know what else to call them) rented the house. When I made my rounds to collect, one of these girls always came to the door in a bikini, rain or shine. It may not seem worth noting today, but in 1956 this was news. I tried to arrange my visits to coincide with the times that she was there.

About halfway between Belmont and Hillsboro, on the corner, Professor Dewey Grantham moved in, one day, with his family. He was in his thirties, then, just starting his tenure at Vanderbilt. He recently died, emeritus.

And down a few more doors, on the same side of the street, at 1804 Blair, Joe Claxton's grandmother lived in a big house. Every week, when I came by to collect, she asked me how Joe was doing.

At the corner of Blair and Belmont was Sterling Court, the apartment complex with its 11 sections, each having 6 units, up three flights of stairs, for a total of 66 small apartments. Built in the twenties, it was grand in its day. Behind it was a long, wooden, ten car garage. Inside one of the garages, written in chalk on the wooden wall, was this inscription: "I'm the Sheik of Araby." Those garages don't exist, anymore.

Sterling Court was a gothic place back then, set well off the street by a large courtyard with tall trees that held back the sun and made the building and yard always seem dark. In the centermost section, down a half flight of stairs, Mr. Collie, the taciturn manager of the complex, had his office: on one side of the narrow passageway, a small room with a desk, covered by architectural drawings; on the other side, through an open doorway, the coal furnace room, which, in winter, was always going. I saw Mr. Collie often. But I never heard him speak. Certainly, not to me, a mere lad of sixteen. As far as I knew, he was there to fix leaky pipes and shovel coal in the furnace. Nevertheless, in my teenage mind, it was easy to see him as an Ayn Randian type of architect-engineer-hero who created great edifices with one hand, while stoking the furnaces of industry with the other. A somber man in a somber place.

Every morning promptly at 5:15 AM, I would come tearing through Sterling Court like a bat out of hell. I would run up and down the stairs of each of the 11 sections, throwing rolled-up papers, left and right, and be out of there in five minutes flat. They called me the Alarm Clock of Sterling Court.

Really?

Of course.

We turned right, onto Belmont from Blair, and passed the Albemarle Apartments, on the left. They were smaller and stranger than Sterling Court, starting with the name. Who calls anything Albemarle, anymore? Maybe it was named after somebody's dog. I don't know.

It was out in front of the Albemarle Apartments that I ran into Jimmy Jeter, one afternoon, going on about the speed of light, which, in his opinion, was not what it was cracked up to be. During that same time, I used the Albemarle's address as a mail drop for letters I wrote, anonymously, to the Nashville Banner. I wrote one letter, comparing Christianity to Buddhism. I thought that I might get a response from an outraged Christian. Instead, I got a response from an outraged Buddhist.

I had a few customers in the Albemarle, but I seldom saw any of them. I would leave the papers during the week and then, on Friday, they would slip envelopes under their doors into the hallway, with my money in them. Around on the side of the building, however, in a basement apartment, there was a guy who paid me in person. He always came to the door in his shorts. I mention that to dispel any notion that my paper route was all fun and games.

At least, he wasn't a criminal.

True.

The criminal, on my route, rented a room around the corner, on Ashwood. He was one of my best customers. He was also on the FBI's Most Wanted List. The landlady told me that, as the police were hauling him away, he slipped her a couple of bucks, "for the paperboy."

One summer day, I saw Larry Stumb on top of a tall ladder, leaning up against a house on my route. It was at the corner of Ashwood and Oakland, and he was painting it. I don't think he went to Hillsboro, but he must have gone somewhere close, because he kept turning up in different places where I was. Years later, he worked for Merrill Lynch and recommended Texaco to my mother.

We drove down Oakland, past where Miss Van Valkenburgh lived - who gave me a tin of cookies at Christmas time, when a quarter would have done - down to the end of the block, where my route ended. The next few blocks were a no-man's-land to me. I didn't know anybody there. I remembered that the cross streets were all named after trees - Ashwood and Linden, which were on my route; then Primrose, Sweetbriar and Rosewood, which weren't. But then we came to Wildwood and the memories began to come again. I knew Wildwood. It was the boundary of my first paper route. Archeologically, it was older than my other route: the memories were buried deeper.

Wildwood led to Brightwood and the place where all the Holzapfels lived. There were twelve of them. The one in the middle, near my age, was always straight with me. We had mutual respect. For years, I thought his real name was "Hosey".

Further up Brightwood, we came to a place where I lived when I was little - 2902 Brightwood. We lived in the back, in a basement apartment - my parents and me. It was hard times, but I didn't know it.

I have a memory of standing out in front of this place, by the mailbox, with Robin Beard. It's like we were waiting for a school bus, but the problem is, when I started to school, I was living on Lealand Lane. Those two memories don't go together. They don't hook up. One of these days, I'm going to sit down, assemble the facts and figure this out.

Am I boring you?

Keep going. You're doing fine. Just don't drive the car into a ditch.

Ah...

I drove the car into a ditch, early one morning, around the corner at the bottom of Gale Lane. Betty and I had been to a dance and to Mrs. Brown's afterward and, after taking her home, I just went straight to my route. It was six AM and I was coming down Gale Lane in my father's Chrysler and woke up with the car in a ditch. I guess I went to sleep.

Further on down Gale Lane was the dry cleaners owned by Ewing Nicholson's father. And then the grocery store owned, in part, by Bobby Martin's father. The other half being owned by somebody we never heard of, named Cooper. Next to the Grocery was Moore's Drugstore. Across the street was Kusan Plastics Co. And next to that was a Dairy Queen.

Back up Gale Lane was where Sally Dykes lived. That was a base for us in the old days. The Class Prophecy was written in Sally Dykes' living room.

Do you think there should be a plaque?

I tell the jokes around here.

Sorry.

We drove back down Belmont to Blair and then up to the Daisy Hill B&B to check in. Later that evening, we were hobnobbing with the swells we used to know. I saw Sally Dykes out on the patio and made for her. When she saw me, she started crying. I took it as a compliment. But she was just happy to see me after fifty years. And I was happy to see her. I told her that we had driven by her old house earlier in the afternoon.

Sally said, "I'm still living there!"

The only thing I could think of to say was, "1709 Gale Lane!"

The Picture of Hale Harris

Somewhere, there must be a portrait of Hale Harris that has been aging over the years. Because the man himself keeps getting younger with each passing reunion. If we ever have another one, my calculations indicate that he will appear as a teenager.



Hale Harris in 2017

Across a Crowded Room

Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger.
You may see a stranger across a crowded room,
And somehow you know, you know even then,
That somewhere, you'll see him again and again.

When we first arrived at Southfork, the big house was full of people. We picked up our name tags in the front parlor and then started looking around the room at all the other name tags. Soon, we were meeting people, left and right. At one point, I looked over the shoulder of the person who was talking to me and instantly recognized someone on the other side of the room who, I noticed, was at that moment instantly recognizing me. It was Dick Abernathy. We both waded toward each other. We shook hands. I told Dick that I recognized him and he said that he recognized me. I told him where his old house used to be and he told me where my old house had been. We slapped each other on the back, and waded off into the crowd.

Later, out on the patio, we ran into each other again. I asked him if he had seen Caleb Wallwork. Much later, after the dinner under the tent and after the program, we ran into each other yet again. This time we didn't speak, but just smiled as we passed by, as though to acknowledge the essential futility of the situation.

I never thought I would get to do this

Betty and I were sitting in a half-circular booth in the Bistro, beneath a soft skylight, Saturday, at lunchtime. Archtypes of our school years were moving all around us. Out of nowhere, Cam Talley materialized in our booth, sitting next to Betty. We exchanged stories...

My mother drove me to my first day of school. I didn't like it one bit. I let Miss McCord know about it. Miss McCord took me to one side and said, "Look at Cam Talley, over there. It's her first day of school, too. But she's having fun, coloring, and getting to know everyone."

And, now, Cam Talley was sitting in my booth. We talked about Alan Cohen.

I said, "Alan told me that you were a cafe singer in Boston."

She said, "I was."

We never much thought

While riding on a train goin' west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I had spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughin' and singing 'till the early hours of the morn’.

By the old wooden stove where our hats was hung
Our words was told and our songs was sung
Where we longed for nothin' and were satisfied
Joking and talking about the world outside.

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold
We never much thought we could get very old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really was a million to one.

As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
And our choices they was few so the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split.

Now many a year has passed and gone
Many a gamble has been lost and won
And many a road taken by many a first friend
And each one I've never seen again.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain
That we could sit simply in that room again
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat
I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.

Bob Dylan

Odell Tucker

There they all are in those eighth grade pictures - children, really. Right now, I'm looking at Johnny Boatman, Odell Tucker and Johnny Jenkins. But there were others, in the other schools. I remember Boatman as an interesting guy, but, in retrospect, you can see his future in his face, in that picture. That's not true of Odell. Look at his picture and what you see is a happy, funny kid.

What I don't understand is how they went from those pictures to hood-dom. That must have been some rite of passage. One that most of us missed out on.

Did they all go to see that Marlon Brando biker movie and get transformed? Did they suddenly see the light in a dark theater?...

Townsman: "What are you boys rebelling against?"

Brando: "Whaddya got?"

Or did they hear their ancestors calling them from Shiloh, Chickamauga and Redoubt Number One in South Nashville, telling them to get free?

The metamorphosis didn't take place overnight. But over the Hillsboro years, one by one, their pictures drop out of the Annuals.

The time we all remember is the week before graduation. We don't know what happened. We can only imagine...

There was no moon that night. The only light was from the houses that lined the streets. Maybe he told his mother he'd be home, soon. Maybe he didn't. He had nowhere special to go. The thing was to get out and ride.

He found the roads where the houses thinned out and opened it up, all the way, a few times. He felt safe and confident in the darker-than-dark night.

On his way home, he decided to make one last run down a road that was long, but lined with houses, half-hidden by trees. At the end of the road, a car was backing slowly out of a driveway. Black on black. Night on night... He racked it all the way back, leaned into the wind... and graduated early.

Reminiscing at the Reunion

I ran into Bill Daniel on the other side of the food line, Saturday night.

He leaned across and said, "You remember that bully I told you about who chased me all over the playground in the sixth grade?"

I said, "Yeah."

Bill said, "He's here tonight!"

I said, "Let's you and me take him outside and straighten him out."

Bill flashed that famous Bill Daniel grin and said, "Deal!"

And we moved on down the line.

When We Was Fab

A note from Alice Ann, today, reminds the Stokesians among us that the big deal is about a week away. If the Stokes contingent is representative of what's going on this time, then there's a lot going on - more than the last two times put together. And those last two times were no slouch, either.

There is a great anticipation, this time - that's what's different. I'm looking forward to this more than I did the last times. I imagine the thing - it's like the song: "I'm going to go 'round, shaking everybody's hand." People I thought I'd never see again.

If I were a crying man, I'd be gearing up about now. I'd be hearing bagpipes in the distance. I'd be thinking about being able to publish nonsense in the United States of America and get away with it. I'd be thinking about Johnny Wilson's Civil War, and Bill Daniel's bullies, and Rick Drewry's Uncle Dean and Tandy, and Caleb Wallwork's amazing data-driven history, and Edward Lyman's Cadillac and Copeland's fancy Texas boots...

We're going to have a good time. We're going to make all them other classes wish they was us.

Amo, Amas, Amat

From my first day in her Latin I class, I was in love with Mrs. Rawls. Besotted is probably a better word. My guess is, every boy in that class felt the same way, but it wasn't something we could talk about.

Because she was a teacher. She was, in fact, the cutest teacher in the school. Maybe, in the history of the school. But that still didn't give us license to harbor sappy feelings. There were only a couple of girls in the whole school that a guy could legitimately be in love with and still be cool...

"You in love with her?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too."

But you couldn't say that about Mrs. Rawls. So we kept it to ourselves, thinking we were the only ones with sense enough to appreciate her rarer qualities.

The strangest thing that ever happened to me with Mrs. Rawls was the summer afternoon she appeared at the door of my house, where I lived with my parents and my brothers. No teacher had ever come to my house, before. And she had on short shorts and a halter top. No teacher had ever had so little on, in my presence, before. I was struck dumb.

There was a perfectly good reason why she came to my house, but I can't remember what it was. I think I invited her in, but I'm not sure. She had some message for my parents. I promised to tell them. And then she was off.

My brother came by the door as she was leaving. He said, "Who was that?"

I said, "Just some girl."

Funny

On page 14 of the 1957 Hillsburro...

Mrs. Thackston is shown watering an array of plants, with the caption, "Blackboard Jungle?"

That's not funny.

Mrs. Price is shown with her eyes closed and holding two phones to her ears, with the caption, "Mrs. Price, Mr. Koen wants you."

That's not funny.

Mrs. Frierson is shown, holding up an empty coke bottle, with the caption, "The pause that refreshes."

That's not funny.

While several students of learning look on, Miss Allen places the tip of her pencil at the top of a conical solid, with the caption, "Let's see if it has grown any."

That's funny!

Thackstonia

In the winter of our discontent, we took up Richard III... And there were old stone walls, covered with snow, while the gentle wind wafted over the new mown hay. Stuff like that.

Midway through the hour, the discussion devolved into a teacher's monologue, which seemed a little off-topic, unless you considered the literary context. Which we didn't.

Walking out, I said to the guy next to me, "What was that all about?"

The guy said, "What?"

I said, "The part where she said there were things in life that we had no knowledge of."

The guy said, "I think she was saying, only teachers can have sex."

"You might be right," I said.

Just then, Felix Perry passed by. I grabbed him and said, "What do you think?"

Felix said, "My kingdom for a B."

Emerson was a Television

Emerson Keaton just sort of turned up one day. At first, we couldn't deal with "Emerson" as a first name. It was delaying his acceptance into the rank and file. Then Mr. Dorris started calling him "Buster" and everybody fell in with that. We knew the real Buster was a famous person, but we didn't know what for. Years later, I went to a Buster Keaton movie and I thought, he doesn't look anything like Buster Keaton.

Buster had blue transparent eyes that reminded me of Wendell Corey. Wendell Corey was in that movie with Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. Jimmy Stewart always reminded me of Billy Cochran.

A Way of Looking at Norfleet

Norfleet had a flair for the dramatic.

One time, I remember, we were at somebody's house with a bunch of people. I was playing cards with a guy and Norfleet was kibitzing. When it was the guy's turn to deal, he started fumbling around and acting stupid, and finally he spilled the cards on the floor. We had to wait while he picked them up. Later on, Norfleet took me to one side and said, "Please, please don't ever do that to me. I'm not psychologically secure enough for you to do that to me. Promise you won't ever do that to me, ever." I said, "What did I do?" And he said, "It was that look! Please don't ever look at me like that!" I said, "I only have one look." We argued for a while about how many looks I had, and then he got down on his knees and clasped his hands and said, "Please promise you won't ever do that to me!"

I remember one other time, when we sat and talked quietly one night, in Norfleet's car, outside the Sweet Shop, while Andrea Horsnell looked on.

I have no idea what happened to him. I guess I saw him as the kind of guy who would leave town and never look back.

A Little Knowledge

Today, kids have it easy: the Internet and the modern search engine have placed everything they always wanted to know about anything at their fingertips. We had to scratch for every little scrap of knowledge we could find.

I remember one time, a bunch of us guys were sitting around after school, desperately trying to further our educations. We were fresh out of ideas. Then somebody said, "My father has some magazines in his closet with pictures of women in them."

Somebody else said, "Are they naked?"

The first guy said, "Almost."

He was hooted down. Almost was not good enough for the likes of us. Then somebody said, "I know where we can get a 16-millimeter movie."

Suddenly everybody was making noise at the same time. When we settled down, I think I spoke for everyone there, when I said, "Now, you're talking."

But then, soberer heads said, "Where are we going to get a movie?"

All eyes turned to the originator of the suggestion. He said, "It's easy - there's a bunch of them in my brother's fraternity house at college."

The rest of the afternoon was spent laying out a general plan and logistics for acquiring this bit of knowledge. In addition to the film, a projector of the right caliber had to be procured, a place had to be found and a date had to be set. We were ready in three days.

That morning, we gathered on the front terrace of the school and synchronized our watches. I got cold feet. I said, "I'm not sure that I want to do this with people I know."

They all said, "Good, we'll give your seat to somebody else." I decided to go.

The plan was to meet at this guy's house, whose mother worked afternoons. After school, we all gathered in his driveway until the guy got there, and then we filed, furtively, into the house. Especially furtive was the guy who had to carry the projector.

It took less than 45 seconds to set everything up: blankets over the windows; sheet up on the wall; film loaded; projector going; fight for the best viewing positions. I stood up in the back.

We looked at the sheet on the wall; at the little square of light coming from the projector. At first, there was nothing; then there were a lot of moving spots, which we took for progress; and finally, these words:

%
CHANGING PARTNERS
%

That was the title. That's what it was all about. We realized that a rite of passage was really about to happen. We sat, silent as carpenters, watching. What came next was not as clear as the title. Mainly, it was more spots, moving around on the screen. Nobody wanted to say anything. A minute went by. Finally, in frustration, somebody said, "What are they doing out in the snow for?"

It was a reasonable question. But we had no time to take it up, because right then the projector went clunk and stopped, but the light stayed on and burned through the film, which was the most interesting thing we had seen yet.

The projector had to be fixed. A quick poll of the group for mechanical aptitude turned up a guy who helped his father work on cars. He was given the job. He looked on all sides of the projector and said, "Where's the clutch?"

Next, we got a guy who had completed a year of shop. He looked at the projector and said, "Here's the problem - somebody spliced the film with friction tape." We found some scissors, cut the splice out of the film, threaded it from that point on and resumed the show.

We saw more spots. But the longer we looked at them, the more they seemed to resolve into moving shadow images of something. We were transfixed. Then, the projector went clunk again as another piece of friction tape went through the gate. This time, there was damage to the projector's delicate mechanism. A couple of guys set about repairing it. We turned the lights on, but left the blankets up. Somebody started doing his homework. One guy went to sleep. I began to think of home.

The next thing we knew, the guy's mother was pulling into the driveway. Chaos ensued. At all costs, we had to hide the projector and the film. Then we all got busy doing our homework. Except for the guy who was asleep.

When the mother came back to where we were, she smiled and said, "All doing your homework - very good!"

"Yes, ma'am," we all said.

"And whose idea was it to put blankets over the windows?" She said. "Was it to help you concentrate on your studies?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The Teachers

I'm thinking about the teachers, and why I had some of them and not the others. Why did I have Allen, Apple, Dorris, Hall, Nicholson, Pistol, Phillips, Rawls, Regen, Sherwood and Thackston, but not Batey, Burnette, Dvorsky, Floyd, Frierson, Harris, Johns, Landiss, Nance, Spalding or Stroh?

How can I possibly relate, at the reunion, to someone who had Frierson, but not Thackston? Frierson was like a foreign country to me. I didn't go there. I was from the country of Thackston. And Nicholson. And Rawls. I feel nostalgic for them now, not so much as people, but as places where I used to live. Each with its own culture and folkways. How can I explain that to somebody who has never been there?

On the other hand, what do I really remember about Thackston? Memory fails.

"Thackston?"

"No. Frierson."

"Sorry."

"Thackston?"

"Yes."

"Thackstonia?"

"Definitely."

"Thackbeth??"

"Extremely!"

"Nicholson?"

"No. Harris."

"Sorry."

Thumbnail Sketches

Mr. Apple

Told us he wanted to run for public office, some day.


Mr. Dorris

Rectitude, Fortitude and Longitude


Mr. Hessey

Ate a crocodile.


Miss Jim Lee Allen

Semper Fidelis


Mr. Nicholson

Told us Castro wasn't what he seemed.


Mrs. Thackston

Told us Shakespeare wasn't what he seemed.

The Google News

Robert Dennis

Robert Dennis was a featured performer at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering ...

Google: "Robert Dennis" "cowboy poetry gathering"


LeRoy Norton

LeRoy Norton, the ex-lumberjack from Bend, Oregon, wiped out three Japanese in a machine-gun emplacement ...

Google: "LeRoy Norton" lumberjack


Cherry Clark

"I think this one is cherry," Clark said, removing yet another carton from the box ...

Google: Cherry Clark

The Beast from Ken Neville's Fingers

Today, they would be called geeks and it would be a badge of honor. Back then, nobody called them anything. Without thinking why, I fell in with them: John Hollis, Ken Neville, Jimmy Jeter, Bunny Michel and Joe Greer - a little club.

I felt a kind of connection with them. They liked to read science fiction and Mad magazine, and so did I. But then, they liked to build and fly model airplanes, and I didn't.

John Hollis was the smartest. Nobody realized this until he was announced a Merit Scholarship Semi-Finalist, our senior year. His father was probably an engineer. That's what everybody said. John was always propounding theories and laughing about them. I first heard about Galaxy Science Fiction from him; and "Childhood's End" by Arthur C. Clarke.

All those guys were smart. They read advanced science and math without being made to. One afternoon, while I was on my paper route, going down Belmont Boulevard, I ran into Jeter, with this wild grin on his face, like he had a great secret in him. He said, "Did you ever wonder why nothing can go faster than the speed of light?" I said, yeah. He said, "Me, too, man," and walked on down the street.

What can I say about Bunny Michel? He was Woody Allen before Woody Allen was. And Joe Greer's pastime of an afternoon was catching flies with his hands.

But Neville was the guy. I used to sit in study hall with him. With his fingers on one hand, he would make a monster - a tentacled beast from 20,000 fathoms - which would lie in wait just beneath the table top. Then, with two fingers of his other hand, he would portray an unsuspecting person, finger-walking right past the spot where the monster lurked. At the last minute, the thing would spring suddenly out and engulf the finger person. Neville worked his digits masterfully to show the beast in the act of devouring his victim. And then it crawled back under the table again to wait.

He did this every day, with the same silly grin when the thing sprang out. And, every day, it was funny.

Two people I would like to see

Caleb Wallwork
Robert Norfleet

Alex Wade

Stokes Days

All my memories of grade school are out on the playground. We spent a lot more time sitting in class, but I don't have a single memory of something happening in a classroom. We might have said our names, out loud, in turn, but we didn't meet anybody. On the playground, we met people.

The playground was a big, open field behind the school, and it was there that I watched Penny Bryan ride pretend horses, up to the far corner and back. I encountered Harold Leffler, upperclassman, on the playground. I don't remember when I met Alex, but I'm sure it was on the playground.

I started out knowing him as Carson Wade. Much later, I learned that his name was Alex Corson Wade IV, but he didn't make a whole lot out of it.

I remember spending an afternoon at his house, something I didn't do often, back then. I remember the French tapestry on the wall, and little rooms off little rooms. It was dark and raining, and I had to catch the bus at the corner to go home. This memory is so dark and vague, I may have dreamed it.

The Chess Set

Everything Alex did or said was heightened. He would get to the punchline, watching, eager-eyed, for my reaction and only when he saw it, would he laugh. Not at the joke, but at me, at the moment of my epiphany.

Once he showed me a bit of business that he had learned at a theater production he was in. I didn't get it, but he laughed anyway.

Alex had a little chess set that zipped into a brown leather case and fit in his coat pocket. The chessboard was a small square of tiny in-laid wooden tiles and the chessmen were simple wood-carved figures with little dowels that fit into holes in the tiles. He said he had gotten it in Europe, where everybody plays chess on trains.

I was fascinated. I thought it had to be the only thing of its kind, anywhere. His skill seemed immense - I got him to teach me the game. He beat me every day for six months, but I didn't care.

End Game

He went his way and I went mine. At the first Hillsboro reunion, we reuned. We went to Alex's house - Betty and I, Alex's wife, and Johnny Wilson and his wife. We sat out on a screened-in porch that was dark except for moonlight and we talked.

At one point, Alex said, "Do you ever think about where you might like to be buried?"

Years later, I heard that Johnny would go over to Alex's house and read to him.

Afterlife

Every now and then, I think about that chess set; and Alex's fingers, when he picked up the chessmen and moved them from one slot to another. I think about his fingers. A kind of Combray moment.

Who's on First?

I started another blog before this one. I thought that I would write little vignettes of general interest. I tried my hand at it. Larry Copeland put it best when he said, "Who wrote this stupid stuff?"

Larry, who now goes by the name, Larry, came to our house last week for a visit; for the first time in forty years. I said, "How've you been?" He said, "How long've you got?" Just like old times.

Betty thought it was confusing, having two people called Larry; so we decided, since Larry is taller than I am, that he would be called "Big Larry" and I would be called "Little Larry."

Familiar Quotations

Over the years, Betty and I have accumulated a wealth of sayings, by ourselves and other people, that have become famous only to us. Every enduring couple must have them - the shared stuff that binds each to each. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Back during our Hillsboro days, we used to go to the Krystal drive-in on West End by the Parthenon. On Friday nights, the place was always packed and you were lucky if you could find a free space. Once, when we were there, we noticed a car full of good old boys, riding around and around, looking for a space. On about their fifth time around, one of the guys leaned half way out the car window and yelled, "WHY DOESN'T SOMEBODY LEAVE?"

For some reason, that tickled us, and we laughed about it all the way home; and we have laughed about it ever since.

Richard Cotten

Richard Cotten and I grew up in the same neighborhood and shared that bond that exists between people who go to grade school together. More than that, we were both chased by Bobby McGriff down the same alley behind Richard's house. After school. Every day. Bobby McGriff was a Shepherdian bully - the name alone puts him in the same league with Scut Farkas.

But Richard and I were like every other kid we knew - we had no concept, then, of what we might do with our lives. Or even later: I remember going to Career Day at Hillsboro and listening to a physician say that it took him twelve years to become a doctor. That one statement saved me from medical school. Richard, one day, came to school with a guitar. After that, I never saw him without it. He practiced playing it during class. I don't know how he got away with that, but that's all he wanted to do.

He went to Vanderbilt, anyway, and took a degree in physics, but had no use for it. He just wanted to play in his band. Bob Dylan once said about himself that he was just a song-and-dance man. Richard would have thought that a very high calling.

Randomly Accessed Memory

Peggy Sue Lauderdale got a prize that night - for being the most, the longest, the farthest, I don't remember. I don't remember what the prize was, either, but she came down front and I presented it to her. She whispered to me, "You've got people on the floor, back there. They're in pain." I took the microphone and said, "Is Doctor John in the house?" Nobody laughed. Except Peggy.

Her name didn't go with her face, but we didn't know that back then. We thought it did. Aristocratic, to the family born, but without pretension. I always wondered what it must have been like to go through high school with your name in a popular song. I mean, "Oh, Lauderdale" was just about my favorite record, back then.

Real Life

Betty is First Reader on this site. She is a good editor and critic, and I'm interested in her opinions; but I can always tell when she didn't particularly like something and I'm about to get a bad review.

She said, "You didn't tell about the time you and I went to that same mansion and saw Alan and Carla, together, when she was just his girlfriend." Actually, I had forgotten about that. Which, I think, was her point. "And", she further said, "you didn't mention his other son or his second wife."

I did remember them, but they didn't fit into the story I was telling. I think that's called Artistic Neglect. Anyway, I promised to write something else and work them in. This is it.

What they do with their lives

Somebody - I don't remember who it was - told me that Holmes Squires became a race car driver. I have tried to conjure that, and I can't. I remember Holmes Squires as this little guy, with a blond flattop, who never said much. He reminded me of a rabbit - a nice one, the kind you would like to have. I liked Holmes, but we probably never said a hundred words to each other, all the way from first grade to Hillsboro. If I could, I'd like to ask him two questions: how did you get that great name, "Holmes Squires," and how, in the pluperfect hell, did you get to be a race car driver?

Alan Cohen

Once, at Hillsboro, Alan and I were both summoned to the office at the same time, where we met with two of the women teachers for what, I remember, was a strange conversation. One of the teachers asked us, "Do you believe in God?" Alan said, "Of course"; I said I wasn't sure. 

Later, I remember us, sitting out in a parapet-enclosed walkway on the second floor of a building on Vanderbilt campus, talking about philosophy and religion. It seemed important to us, in those days, to figure everything out. Alan told me, then, about his plan to take a tour around the world, after graduation. He wanted to go to the UAR, too, but a baptismal certificate was required to get in. I said, "You could become a Christian." We laughed. A couple of weeks later, Alan called me, clearly excited. "I got baptized!" he said. "I'm a Methodist!" I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I blamed myself. 

After school, I didn't see, or hear from, Alan for years. The next time, in the late sixties, we were both living in St. Louis, but neither of us knew the other was there. I don't remember who found out first, but I remember well the afternoon we spent in a Midtown mansion, where Alan was working as a houseboy, while going to medical school. How he came up with these deals, I'll never know. He showed me around the house, pointing out the original Picassos on the walls. We were the only ones there at the time. In the kitchen, we caught up the years, while Alan made himself a sandwich. Then, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet and took me up to a loft on the third floor, where he lived. We sipped the bourbon and talked about everything. Alan had been a programmer for IBM, a yogi in India, had graduated with a divinity degree from the Harvard Theological Seminary, and was then in his third year of medical school. I, on the other hand, had a government job. 

After we covered our curriculum vitae and the bourbon began to take effect, we got around to gossip. Alan asked me if I knew Cam Talley. I revealed that Cam Talley and I had been in first grade together. I asked him how he knew Cam; he said that he didn't know her at all, but somebody had told him that she was a cafe singer in Boston. I made a mental note of that. 

At one point, I reminded Alan of the time at Vanderbilt when we had the talk that led him to become a Christian. He gave me a funny look and then laughed and said, "Was that you?"

Looking back, it was a magical time. Sitting cross-legged on a stool, with just a pair of khaki bermudas on, Alan was easy to picture as a yogi. We talked on, through the afternoon, until the room began to get dark. 

It would be another ten years before we would get together again. Alan became a psychiatrist, married a pediatrician, and had a son, Graham. They all lived in Harvard, Massachusetts, in a really smart-looking house that looked out on a wildlife refuge. I visited them there, during the early eighties. Alan was gone when I arrived on a Friday evening, but his wife, Carla, graciously took me in, fed me and kept me entertained with conversation. After Graham went to bed, we talked into the night, mostly about Alan. The next morning, when I got up, Alan was there, and wife and son were out doing Saturday things. Alan also had things to do, and he didn't let my visit keep him from them. I remember him, keeping up a running conversation from the top of a very tall tree in his yard, which he had scaled with some hooks attached to his shoes, while hefting a chainsaw. I stood by, below, offering encouragement. Later, we took a walking tour of the neighborhood. A beautiful afternoon in fall, it was - a New England fantasy, yellow and orange leaves everywhere and white fences. As we walked, Alan told me the histories of all the houses; some were more than 200 years old, from Revolutionary times. 

Just as I began to wonder who might still be living in them, Alan bounded up the steps to one and knocked on the door. A rotund little man, wearing a red blazer and tie, looked out and, when he saw Alan, he laughed and welcomed him with open arms, calling him by name. We were invited in. The man's wife came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Alan introduced me to them as his friend. They appeared to be in their seventies, but both were lively and quick. Alan told them that I was interested in finding out about their house, so I got the complete tour, including an explanation for why every room had its own fireplace (cold winters, no central heating!). When we had visited all the rooms on all three floors, the man said that he had saved the best for last and went over to what appeared to be the door of a small closet. The door proved to be Dutch in its construction and he opened the top half to reveal a well-stocked bar. This was not just a bar, he allowed, taking his place inside, but a refuge and inner sanctum, in which he was absolute king. "The rest of the neighborhood can go to blazes," he said, "but I will defend the hallowed ground below this spot to the death!" And then he poured a round of Scotch. As we sipped, the man's wife came out from the kitchen with a plate of cranberry bread. I remember thinking, when will there be an afternoon like this, again?

Shape-Shifting Son-of-a-Gun

Now and then, I like to reflect on the fact that Bob Dylan is still alive. And that so little is known about him, since he made up everything about his early days. All that stuff about growing up in Minnesota, for example, was bunk. In fact, Bob Dylan grew up in Nashville and went to Hillsboro his sophomore year. But nobody realized it because he was going by his real name, Edward Lyman.

Afterlog

"Did you ever see him?"

"Sure, lots of times."

"Where would you have been when you saw him?"

"He was in Plane Geometry with me - Mr. Burnette's class."

"You mean he was actually in the school?"

"I sat right behind him. I had to look at the back of that hair."

Afternoon of a Fonz

Afternoons, when it got hot, some of the teachers would open the windows a bit to let a little breeze in; and, along with the breeze, came sounds from the out-of-doors that could be distracting to young minds trying to learn.

One sound, in particular, could be heard almost any afternoon, with such regularity that it was anticipated by many, but with such irregularity that no one could be sure if it would ever come again.

It started out low, like a distant thunder. Some in senior math said that it happened more often after rain. Of course, others said that it never happened after rain. What was denied by no one is that it started out low and then slowly grew.

When it was twice as loud as it used to be, but still too faint for adults to hear, the freshmen, in Latin I, began looking out the windows, foolishly thinking it was imminent. The juniors, on the second floor at the end, in contrast, kept their eyes forward, noting the sound; mentally estimating the distance; secure in the knowledge that there would be plenty of time, later, to look, when all semblance of decorum had broken down and chaos reigned.

Eventually, the sound became so loud that it could not be denied, but still before any visible sign of its source could be seen. It was a sound so nether as to be sublime in its ability to disturb the peace. The freshmen were visibly thrilled; but they thrilled easily. The juniors were not moved. Yet.

Then, just as the sound seemed to reach a level beyond which it could not possibly go, the center of gravity of the whole school shifted toward Hillsboro Road, caused by a rush to the windows on all floors. All eyes were focused then as around the corner a big, black motorcycle came into view, very slowly, going not more than three miles an hour, the rider seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of losing sufficient speed to stay upright.

The freshmen buzzed, restlessly. "Is it him? Is it him?" they asked each other, repeatedly. But it wasn't him. It was the one known as Boatman. Black machine, black boots, black jacket, black hair, black gloves, black shades, black everything. White skin. Although he had seldom been in it, Boatman was well known in the school; and yet, a man of mystery: no one had ever heard him speak. But he wasn't him. He was the herald of him.

When he arrived at a point, precisely two-thirds of the way around the circle, Boatman pulled up and extended his boot to the ground, feathering his motor to a low rumble. Keeping his head facing straight over the handlebars, he did not acknowledge the school. At the windows, just as everyone was craning for a look, an awareness began to spread that another sound was coming on from a distance.

The freshmen, without regard to gender, began to shriek. The juniors, though still manifesting all outward signs of control, began to thrill, inwardly. Soon, another cycle slowly wheeled into view; but it wasn't him either. It was the one, known only by his given name: Harlow Davidson. Slim, wiry, short sleeve shirt rolled up over his deltoids, Harlow Davidson was a combination Phil Everly and Gene Vincent, rolled into one; but you didn't say that to his face. He moved to a point, precisely one-third of the way around the circle, and put his boot down. Another herald.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the idling of the two motors, which, strangely, came to seem like a terrible silence that threatened to throw the whole situation out of equilibrium; but, just when it became intolerable, another low rumble was heard, far off. It took, or seemed to take, twice as long to build. The freshmen were climbing all over themselves, tearing at each other's clothes. Their teacher, whose name and gender have been lost to history, courageously waded into the mob, trying to save as many as possible; although some said that he or she was just trying to get a better place at the window.

After what seemed like a month of study halls, the final cycle appeared. It was him! His machine was big and unfancy. Mud streaked its outer surfaces, the way mud will at 120 miles an hour. He pulled up to the exact midpoint of the circle, gunning his motor once before settling back, which caused some of the older teachers, irrationally, to think of Mrs. Buffwharfington's limousine. But the juniors, without such allusions, were now sobbing uncontrollably.

It was Vance Bulla.

A name Hollywood, in fifty years, had been unable to come up with. Sandy-haired, permanently wind swept, no jacket, no shades, Vance Bulla swung one leg over the tank, lit a smoke, and sat side saddle for a few minutes in repose, oblivious to the sounds of breaking window glass behind him. Then inexplicably as he had come, he swung back into position and slowly rolled his machine out onto Hillsboro Road, preceded by Boatman and followed by Harlow Davidson. Years later, it was still being hotly debated, whether he left before the second floor fire alarm was pulled, or after.

.

I ain't gonna work on Koen's farm, no more

I'm sitting here, wondering if there is going to be another reunion next year. And hating myself for it. Of course, we'll go, but this time it's going to be different: no performing. No jokes. Let's face it, nothing is that funny anymore. Have you noticed? We were lucky that we could have a laugh all those years ago. That night, I thought I was so great I went home and wrote out everything I'd said. Verbatim. I got it out last week and read it. It was godawful. I'm not performing. No way. Tell them I'm mailing it in this year. This is it. This blog.