Seasons in the sunset - A seventy (+3) year old looks ahead and back

Seasons in the sunset - A 80 year old
looks ahead and back

Monday, April 15, 2013

A Be-In

A Be-In

It was a balmy Saturday morning in the spring of 1963 when I woke with the sun hitting my eyes and a strange sound, the gentle strumming of a string instrument, coming from outside the window.

We, girlfriend Donna and I, had stayed the night at Bud Allison’s apartment, the bottom floor of an historic stone structure in downtown Bethlehem, PA.

I got up first, squinting into the sun. Donna was still asleep when I took a first breath and caught a sweet scent, her perfume, gathering in the air next to me. I was not conscious of this but somewhere inside the cells of my body, as I inhaled, there was a sense that my blessings were many. 

We had come in late and the lone bed was, as Bud, told us, a couch that would convert to a cot-like-pallet given the proper rocking and shaking.

“You’ll hear a click,” Bud assured us, which was the essential –and only - detail of his instruction.  
It took the better part of a half hour, an effort not helped by fits of hysteria that finally ended with the couch miraculously unfolding into its intended flat berth, ostensibly room for two, and us collapsing on top. 

We slept like college kids.

I got up once, pre-dawn, wanting air. I opened a window eye level with the couch (bed) and inches from our heads. Like the college kids we were we had no plans to stir before noon. With the night air on my face and the melodic clanking of steel mills like music to my ears I fell back into a deep Saturday night sleep.


                                     1963 be-in site. Grass lot foreground, and hotel background
 
As dawn came the dark curtain peeled back and sunlight rose above the two story buildings across Main Street, until at mid-morning it flooded the grass lot outside our window. The lot separated our building from the bustling Hotel Bethlehem which was filled with weekend guests. The guitar plunking sound that I heard was from this lot and as I looked now I saw that there was a crowd of sorts. I tried to think. What was this? What was the intention of this group – maybe twenty – mingling outside, on the grass?

The group had the look of a cocktail party and I immediately marked them as the leftovers from a declared frat-party-all-nighter. “All-nighters” were often announced in those days, just about always proffered at the height of the night’s intoxication with a raised fist and a room shaking shout for all ears – All-Nighter!!!  This brought a loud chorus of approval from every soul in the room – i.e. a bar.

But there was little clamor among this morning-after-gathering. Subdued might be a more apt description. The age or the crowd was ... well ... ours ... but a middle aged person or two (approaching 30) was also visible. I stepped lightly across the room to the door, careful not to awaken Donna. I slipped on my loafers – otherwise I was already dressed – and ventured outside.

 I drifted through the crowd, aimlessly, trying to appear like I belonged. Despite my anonymity I felt comfortable. I was, after all, an American college kid, and in my mind the owner of a permanent Ameri-pass. I saw myself as universally belonging – welcome everywhere by any and all. This was only fitting for one such as I, age twenty-three and naively - and precariously- perched along with all of my friends, at the very top of the world’s cultural pyramid. I moved fluidly over the lawn, brushing past others like a gentle wind, the dew's cool moisture against my ankles.

Finally I tendered a question.

“What’s going on?” I said to a girl next to me.

I thought the girl's attire was toga-like, or thereabouts, a loose white linen blouse and wheat colored jeans and bare feet. I immediately wondered, was this a toga party? *

Not

“It’s a be-in,” she said.    

I nodded as if this was my one-hundredth be-in this month. I was familiar with the phrase, of course; though, to my knowledge, I had never used it in a sentence.       

I saw here in a brief moment my special status - a man-child, and yes, welcomed everywhere, and now effortlessly stepping through the old culture into the new. And true, be-ins were doubtless old hat in New York or San Francisco, but here in the eastern end of Pennsylvania, on this bright spring morning they were new, and the fit was perfect.

I drew a be-in-style look of pleasant serenity onto my face as I eased my way among the crowd. People waltzed by. It was then that I looked up and saw Donna, the sun painting her hair, standing in the open doorway of the apartment. 

Had I been more astute I might have seen that I had never been happier than at this moment, nor perhaps, would I be again. Instead I allowed that this – the morning sun on glistening dew, the grinding sound of steel mills, the gentle murmur of people, the melodic string instruments, and the beautiful girlfriend – that this was all a part of life's timeless mosaic for me. I was a blessed child of the universe and I had no reason to think that I was not immortal.
 
 
* Toga parties were at the top of the fantasized sensual merriment scale in 1963. It is worth noting that, despite the existence of Playboy magazine and an occasional news note about loose morals, toga parties, in their dreamed up form, never materialized. The fantasy was sarong like sheets for clothing and scant undergarments. The reality was sheets draped over your everyday regular clothes. That's if there ever was a toga party, which, honestly, I cannot recall.       

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Johnny He's a Joker

Johnny He's a Joker

Just talked to daughter Ashley. She said that, last night “Johnny (age 6) asked Eddie (age 9), ‘Ed do I have money in the bank to go to college?’”


Ed said, “I don’t know – where do you want to go?”

John's answer: “Clown College.”

Eddie was in one of his mature moods. Other moods as they relate to little brother are "torment mood" and "ignore mood."  Mature mood, I also think of as sweet and loving.

Ed: “OK, that - probably yes.”

John: “Actually I don’t want to go there – I want to go to Brown.”

The family, with various roots in Rhode Island, once toured the Brown campus. Emma, 12 maintains that she and cousin Anna are going there. Go for it is all I can say.

Ed: “That’s a big difference.

John: "Why?"

Ed: "Brown costs a lot.”

John: “Can I get a scholarship?”

Ed: “No.” Practical Ed here.

John: “If I practice?”

Ed: “Practice what?”

John: “Basketball.”

Ed: “You better practice a lot.” Realistic Ed.

John: “When Papa comes home I’ll practice 5 hours every day.”

Ed: “ You've got to be smart too.” 

John: “I’m smart.”

I think it ended there, but the part I liked best was “When Papa comes home … ” I was visiting daughter Brett in California when this conversation took place. Happy that they had not forgotten me.

And I was also impressed with Ed's thoughtfulness. 

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Senior Lead Foot

 Senior Lead Foot

It’s early, on a Saturday morning; the first week of February in Southern California. We’re looking for Interstate 405 leading to San Diego.

I’m the designated driver for daughter and granddaughter. Our destination is a girls’ soccer tournament, ages 10-11. It's called the State Cup. The title, I’m told, is a bit of an overstatement as the implication that the winner is State Champion or best in California is – well – not.

Interstate 405, in these parts, is called The 405. That highway language applies to all of CA as far as I know. Not true however in the rest of the country. Take route 78 going east to west through northern New Jersey. Spoken CA style it would be, take The 78.

Weird.

At age 73, I travel somewhat slow by CA freeway standards. Cars wiz by us as I roll onto the 405. Daughter Brett, age 43, gives me a look. I apply the "old" lead foot – teenage-like. Before long I am up to speed, though not winning any races.

Our conversation keeps pace. I urge Brett to get a Master’s in Nursing (She’s a RN with a Bachelor’s). The usual caveats: time and money. Change of subject,Brett remarks about a funny episode on the “Ellen Show.” Girl in mall deadpans to old guy the spoken lyrics of “We’re never, ever getting back together.” The bemused old guy says, "Do I know you?"

Ha. Ha.

Next topic: Grandson Mike’s telling of his teacher popping popcorn as a demo of volcano pressure. When teacher offers all students a taste, he brags,“No butter or salt,” then warns, “Both those things will kill you.”
 OK.
Another teacher anecdote: Teacher's neighbor had their car battery stolen and thieves left an apologetic note along with four Lakers tickets as compensation. That's LA Lakers - basketball.
Got it.
Neighbors, somewhat happy about the trade-off, went to the game. Seats were great.
Really?
When they got home, as Mike (age 12) tells it, “Whole house gone!!!” 

We laugh out loud at Mike’s rendition, especially his sweeping arms and the words, “Whole house gone!” Meaning everything stolen. For miles afterward I randomly go into hysterics at 65 MPH, laughing so hard that my eyes shut. Each time I fight to get a grip. Every so often Brett simply repeats, "Whole house gone!" waving her arms, and my hysteria is triggered again. This goes on for the remainder of the trip.

Moving on, we pass Camp Pendleton which leads to comments about war and anti-war. Change of subject.

A few more route changes and we arrive at our destination – Marriott.

At the front desk Brett says, “I forgot the confirmation email.”  

The clerk says, “No problem.” She looks for my name.

"Edward?" he says.

Miracle, I think.

Annie disappears into a stairwell, racing off with friends. I hear someone say, “Let’s play hotel tag,” and I think “State Hotel Tag Champs.”

 For sure.