So, I am going out of sequence to tell you a little story. The story of my 40th birthday. Yes, this is my birthday today, but this is 28 years ago.
It was 1984 and I was the smallest I had been in 30 years, down to 250lbs. Yes. And I decided to throw a 40th birthday party for myself.
The evening began with Miss Adrienne and I attending "La Cage aux Folles" at the Palace Theatre. Walter Charles was Albin and I will never forget his performance. It's the best.
And then we went home to my apartment, which was filled with friends. (It gave the appearance of a surprise party - us arriving after everyone else.) Anyway, many friends from Broadway were there. One special friend was Jeanne Schlegel, who had been in the original company of "Guys and Dolls" and was a coaching student of mine. Remember Jeanne.
There was a wonderful birthday cake and the famous Ferncrest Punch. This is a lethal concoction which tastes exactly like Kool Aid but is pure 150-proof Vodka, Champagne, Cold Duck and Cointreau all mixed with confectioners sugar. Needless to say, two glasses and you walk into the walls.
At one point in the party we cut the cake in the dining room. We were all around the table and I could hear someone mumbling in the living room. I wandered in to see who and all I could see was the back of my large wing chair and an arm coming out holding three pussywillows. I inched around and found Jeanne Schlegel sitting in the chair carrying on a conversation with NOBODY and her wig had made one half turn on her head. I asked her, "Jeanne, how many glasses of punch did you have?" "Three" was her reply.
Honey, she was gone with the wind. I'll never forget that. She said she had brought tall pussywillows for a tall man on his birthday. But she left feet-first a very happy lady.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
OH, MAYBELLINE, WHY CAN'T YOU BE TRUE?
It started in my remote youth, like in the middle 50's - my fascination with women's eye makeup. I couldn't get enough of blue eye shadow and arched eyebrows. I took every magazine that came to the house and if I didn't think they women had enough eye shadow, out came the crayons and I put tons of color between the eye lid and the brow. I was obsessed, to say the least. Sometimes I even experimented on my own face when the house was empty and no one was looking. Once, when Mama caught me in "full face" she burst into tears the next morning at breakfast and said, "You did that because you wanted to look like me, right?" Seeing my way out of it, I immediately lied, "Yes." Total lie, I had no desire to look like her. I was just fascinated with eye make up.
Early in the 60's there was talk everywhere of a remake of the movie "Cleopatra". First it was to star Joan Collins. She even made a copycat version called "Land of the Pharoahs" - big flop and hysterically funny. But then the real publicity began: Elizabeth Taylor was announced to play the Queen of the Nile. I was hypnotized by the thought alone. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and she was to play the most famous Queen of all time. The newspapers and magazines were full of the stories. But they got interrupted in 1961 when Elizabeth came down with viral pneumonia while filming the movie. Production halted and our Queen was rushed to a London hospital to die. There were hourly reports on the radio about her condition. We all hovered around our radios waiting, waiting. But, miraculously, Elizabeth made it though and filming resumed on "Cleopatra" - but not for a year. And in the meantime Elizabeth won her first Oscar for "Butterfield 8" - a movie which she owed MGM on her contract and which should be destroyed. And she agreed.
Publicity was everywhere. Liz and Dick became lovers, Liz dropped Eddie Fischer and took up with her Marc Antony. But what I remember most was her eye make up. They piled eye shadow and eye liner on her to look Egyptian. It became all the rage. Of course, I went to my magazines and changed all the women to look Egyptian.
Fast forward now to the car wreck which I wrote about and you'll realize that I had missed so much of my freshman year in college that it was decided I would be better to wait until the next year and pick up where I had left off. So I went home and was immediately told I couldn't stay there. Thanks, Dad. So off I went to Atlanta to work. You won't believe what my job was. I worked in the Seed Germination Lab of the Department of Agriculture for the State of Georgia! I spent my days placing seeds on paper towels, wrapping them up and placing them in a germinater to grow. This process let farmers know their seeds were viable. Don't ask.
The best part of that time in Atlanta was going to All Saint's Episcopal Church on Palm Sunday and hearing a glorious organ and choir, accompanied by brass and tympani singing "All Glory, Laud and Honor". It was like the heavens had opened up and invited me in. Suddenly, church music took on a new meaning. I introduced myself to the organist/choirmaster, Kathleen Quillen, and my life changed. I joined the choir and became her organ student as well. She was the person who taught me to glories of playing a church service. She taught me that all good music is like making love - that it builds up to a wonderful climax, and you have to communicate that to the the listener. I am forever indebted to Kathleen for opening my eyes and ears to the possibilities waiting in my fingers. She was the first teacher to compliment me and NOT try to squeeze me into a cookie-cutter mold.
It was during this year in Atlanta that two remarkable things happened: "Cleopatra" opened at the Roxy Theatre in downtown and I took a trip out of town. First, Cleo. I had two friends from prep school: Kirby and Prissy. I won't tell you Prissy's real name because it is ridiculous and she has never used it. I don't blame her. But I loved her because she let me make up her eyes to look like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.
When I found out the movie was opening, I called Prissy and Kirby and demanded they drive from Florida to attend the movie with me. A ritual necessary to complete my fantasy. So they get in Kirby's sport convertible and travel north. All the while I'm trying to find someplace for them to stay. I asked everyone I knew to put them up, begged complete strangers but to no avail. Finally, I said they could just stay with me in my basement apartment on Collier Rd. I never dreamed the old woman whose house it was would look askance at two teenage girls sleeping in the same room at a teenage boy. Go figure. She caught us. She threw me out of the house. Imagine her consternation the next morning when the Attorney General pulled up in an official vehicle to charm her into letting me stay. (It worked.) Thanks again, Uncle Gene. Always my hero.
The other remarkable thing that happened that year in Atlanta was a bus trip. Yes, a chartered Greyhound. Remember that it was August, 1963. All my beatnik friends (no hippies yet) were going on a trip and they insisted I come along. So I did. And I guess it changed my life. At the end of the ride there we were on the Mall in Washington, DC and up there under the statue of Abe Lincoln was a man of peace: Martin Luther King. Yes, I was one of the thousands on that famous day. Peter, Paul and Mary and Martin Luther King changed my life forever. I have never been a racist and never will, but on that day, I knew why. Thank you, Dr. King. You changed the world.
Early in the 60's there was talk everywhere of a remake of the movie "Cleopatra". First it was to star Joan Collins. She even made a copycat version called "Land of the Pharoahs" - big flop and hysterically funny. But then the real publicity began: Elizabeth Taylor was announced to play the Queen of the Nile. I was hypnotized by the thought alone. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and she was to play the most famous Queen of all time. The newspapers and magazines were full of the stories. But they got interrupted in 1961 when Elizabeth came down with viral pneumonia while filming the movie. Production halted and our Queen was rushed to a London hospital to die. There were hourly reports on the radio about her condition. We all hovered around our radios waiting, waiting. But, miraculously, Elizabeth made it though and filming resumed on "Cleopatra" - but not for a year. And in the meantime Elizabeth won her first Oscar for "Butterfield 8" - a movie which she owed MGM on her contract and which should be destroyed. And she agreed.
Publicity was everywhere. Liz and Dick became lovers, Liz dropped Eddie Fischer and took up with her Marc Antony. But what I remember most was her eye make up. They piled eye shadow and eye liner on her to look Egyptian. It became all the rage. Of course, I went to my magazines and changed all the women to look Egyptian.
Fast forward now to the car wreck which I wrote about and you'll realize that I had missed so much of my freshman year in college that it was decided I would be better to wait until the next year and pick up where I had left off. So I went home and was immediately told I couldn't stay there. Thanks, Dad. So off I went to Atlanta to work. You won't believe what my job was. I worked in the Seed Germination Lab of the Department of Agriculture for the State of Georgia! I spent my days placing seeds on paper towels, wrapping them up and placing them in a germinater to grow. This process let farmers know their seeds were viable. Don't ask.
The best part of that time in Atlanta was going to All Saint's Episcopal Church on Palm Sunday and hearing a glorious organ and choir, accompanied by brass and tympani singing "All Glory, Laud and Honor". It was like the heavens had opened up and invited me in. Suddenly, church music took on a new meaning. I introduced myself to the organist/choirmaster, Kathleen Quillen, and my life changed. I joined the choir and became her organ student as well. She was the person who taught me to glories of playing a church service. She taught me that all good music is like making love - that it builds up to a wonderful climax, and you have to communicate that to the the listener. I am forever indebted to Kathleen for opening my eyes and ears to the possibilities waiting in my fingers. She was the first teacher to compliment me and NOT try to squeeze me into a cookie-cutter mold.
It was during this year in Atlanta that two remarkable things happened: "Cleopatra" opened at the Roxy Theatre in downtown and I took a trip out of town. First, Cleo. I had two friends from prep school: Kirby and Prissy. I won't tell you Prissy's real name because it is ridiculous and she has never used it. I don't blame her. But I loved her because she let me make up her eyes to look like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.
When I found out the movie was opening, I called Prissy and Kirby and demanded they drive from Florida to attend the movie with me. A ritual necessary to complete my fantasy. So they get in Kirby's sport convertible and travel north. All the while I'm trying to find someplace for them to stay. I asked everyone I knew to put them up, begged complete strangers but to no avail. Finally, I said they could just stay with me in my basement apartment on Collier Rd. I never dreamed the old woman whose house it was would look askance at two teenage girls sleeping in the same room at a teenage boy. Go figure. She caught us. She threw me out of the house. Imagine her consternation the next morning when the Attorney General pulled up in an official vehicle to charm her into letting me stay. (It worked.) Thanks again, Uncle Gene. Always my hero.
The other remarkable thing that happened that year in Atlanta was a bus trip. Yes, a chartered Greyhound. Remember that it was August, 1963. All my beatnik friends (no hippies yet) were going on a trip and they insisted I come along. So I did. And I guess it changed my life. At the end of the ride there we were on the Mall in Washington, DC and up there under the statue of Abe Lincoln was a man of peace: Martin Luther King. Yes, I was one of the thousands on that famous day. Peter, Paul and Mary and Martin Luther King changed my life forever. I have never been a racist and never will, but on that day, I knew why. Thank you, Dr. King. You changed the world.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
A DIVINE SINGER HAS PASSED
CAMILLA WILLIAMS, greatly unappreciated in her time because of her race. A brilliant singer.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
MARCH 3, 1963
What a strange experience - going to school with girls! I hadn't been in a class with a girl since 8th grade and here I was in an orange grove in Florida with a bevy of women. At first, I thought they were all tramps. Little did I realize that we were all adolescents with raging hormones. I made peace with it quickly and made lots of friends - even "dated" a girl. We were so "entangled" we got put on date restriction - which meant we couldn't talk to each other for a week. We managed.
The school had a chorus teacher, Lila LaVar. That name always sounded like an opera singer to me. And she was. She sang opera in Orlando and when Opera Orlando presented their annual production, she took me with her and allowed me backstage for the whole production. I met Roberta Peters (who cussed like a sailor) and Mildred Miller (who didn't cuss, but was a perfect lady). I still love her and have her recordings. I don't own a Roberta Peters recording. We used to call her "Becky Sharpe".
There was no Disney World at the time but Orlando was a great place to visit. One of my grammar school chums was there and her family invited me over for many weekends. I even went to Rollins College and saw many productions at the Annie Russell there, as well as visits to the Knowles Chapel, home of Catherine Crozier, Organist.
At Stetson, a couple of prep school friends joined me for higher education. One was my beloved friend Kirby Williams. We were fast friends and one weekend I said "Let's go to the Bach Festival at Rollins!" So we got in her snazzy sports car and ventured to Winter Park connecting with another Howey classmate, Linda Borden. Yes, Borden. She was the Borden milk heiress. I told you it was a school for rich kids.
Well, we didn't stay at Rollins very long. I manipulated everyone to go to a deli in Orlando for pastrami on rye and Cel-Ray colas. While eating lunch, I said, "Let's drive over to Howey and surprise everyone."
Another crossroad. We couldn't all fit into Kirby's sports car so we got in Linda's 1959 Impala coupe. Linda was at the wheel and I am in the passenger seat ratting Kirby's hair in the back seat! Yes. And we are on the notorious Fla Highway 50. There is a light rain falling and we are coming down a long incline. All of a sudden, there is a black Buick (cast iron they were then) spinning in front of us. We couldn't avoid it; we hit them broadside. And our car veered to the left side of the road and stopped. I lost my bowels on impact and started bleeding from the front of my head.
The next thing I remember is opening the passenger door and seeing the highway running red with blood. I looked at Linda at the wheel and she was unconscious. She had gone through the steering wheel and hit the dashboard and her chin was cut and hanging down on her chest. The two girls in the back were unhurt, but crying. Then a state trooper appeared and got me out of the car and put me into his squad car. The girls were put in an ambulance and off we all went to Clairmont Hospital.
Arriving at the hospital, the girls were treated in the ER and I just wandered around sort of in a daze. I called everyone's parents and told them what had happened. I even called my father. His response? "Well, if you'd been where you were supposed to be, that wouldn't have happened." Thanks, Dad. No "How do you feel? or "Are you all right?" So I called my uncle in Atlanta. He got on the phone with the doctors and then he got on a state plane and flew to Clairmont. Thanks, Uncle Gene.
After all those phone calls and taking care that all the girls were all right, I decided to go to the bathroom. Indelicate as this is, I have to tell this part of the story. Upon completing my "business" I went to wipe and realized there were two holes back there, and I looked at the paper and it was blood red.
I walked out of the bathroom and said to the battleaxe charge nurse, "I think something's wrong." So into the ER I go and they put me on the operating table and lower the front and the back portions of the operating table. So there I am with my ass high in the air. They moan, but they take huge surgical tape and spread my ass cheeks wide open and then a giant bulb of peroxide squirts. And the surgeon comes in and I pass out.
The outcome is that I had 185-stitch gash about 1/2 an inch from my rectum. The injury was the size and shape of an ice cream cone and the surgeon started at the bottom and sewed me together. I only felt the last stitch. They take me to a room and proceed to pick glass out of my back for the next 6 hours. They wouldn't let me turn over on my back. They wouldn't feed me anything but morphine, and I wanted food.
The next morning I wake to find the same state trooper standing over me. He questioned me extensively about the accident. I was worried about the girls. Linda had already been transported by ambulance to Orlando. It was then that the trooper told me what had happened. Here goes.
The Buick whirling and spinning in the road was filled with 6 drunk African-American men. And 5 of them were killed instantly by the impact and the 6th was/is a paraplegic completely paralyzed from the neck down for life. And the accident made the front page of the Orlando Sentinel newspaper.
It seems that, sitting sideways with my back on the passenger door, I had gone through the windshield and then took the door handle of the car off with my right ass cheek! The trooper said I had also ruined the leather upholstery in the squad car. But here's the weirdest: no one could find the door handle! No, I don't make a noise when I sit down. And that was March 3, 1963. And the door handle is still missing. One good thing about being fat, the surgeon told me if my butt hadn't been so big, it would have torn my rectum and I would have had to have a colostomy bag for life.
So I guess that's why I rarely ride in cars. I drive or I don't travel. Two tragic accidents brought on by drunks: Mama's death and my near-death experience. Nope, I drive.
But where is that door handle?
The school had a chorus teacher, Lila LaVar. That name always sounded like an opera singer to me. And she was. She sang opera in Orlando and when Opera Orlando presented their annual production, she took me with her and allowed me backstage for the whole production. I met Roberta Peters (who cussed like a sailor) and Mildred Miller (who didn't cuss, but was a perfect lady). I still love her and have her recordings. I don't own a Roberta Peters recording. We used to call her "Becky Sharpe".
There was no Disney World at the time but Orlando was a great place to visit. One of my grammar school chums was there and her family invited me over for many weekends. I even went to Rollins College and saw many productions at the Annie Russell there, as well as visits to the Knowles Chapel, home of Catherine Crozier, Organist.
At Stetson, a couple of prep school friends joined me for higher education. One was my beloved friend Kirby Williams. We were fast friends and one weekend I said "Let's go to the Bach Festival at Rollins!" So we got in her snazzy sports car and ventured to Winter Park connecting with another Howey classmate, Linda Borden. Yes, Borden. She was the Borden milk heiress. I told you it was a school for rich kids.
Well, we didn't stay at Rollins very long. I manipulated everyone to go to a deli in Orlando for pastrami on rye and Cel-Ray colas. While eating lunch, I said, "Let's drive over to Howey and surprise everyone."
Another crossroad. We couldn't all fit into Kirby's sports car so we got in Linda's 1959 Impala coupe. Linda was at the wheel and I am in the passenger seat ratting Kirby's hair in the back seat! Yes. And we are on the notorious Fla Highway 50. There is a light rain falling and we are coming down a long incline. All of a sudden, there is a black Buick (cast iron they were then) spinning in front of us. We couldn't avoid it; we hit them broadside. And our car veered to the left side of the road and stopped. I lost my bowels on impact and started bleeding from the front of my head.
The next thing I remember is opening the passenger door and seeing the highway running red with blood. I looked at Linda at the wheel and she was unconscious. She had gone through the steering wheel and hit the dashboard and her chin was cut and hanging down on her chest. The two girls in the back were unhurt, but crying. Then a state trooper appeared and got me out of the car and put me into his squad car. The girls were put in an ambulance and off we all went to Clairmont Hospital.
Arriving at the hospital, the girls were treated in the ER and I just wandered around sort of in a daze. I called everyone's parents and told them what had happened. I even called my father. His response? "Well, if you'd been where you were supposed to be, that wouldn't have happened." Thanks, Dad. No "How do you feel? or "Are you all right?" So I called my uncle in Atlanta. He got on the phone with the doctors and then he got on a state plane and flew to Clairmont. Thanks, Uncle Gene.
After all those phone calls and taking care that all the girls were all right, I decided to go to the bathroom. Indelicate as this is, I have to tell this part of the story. Upon completing my "business" I went to wipe and realized there were two holes back there, and I looked at the paper and it was blood red.
I walked out of the bathroom and said to the battleaxe charge nurse, "I think something's wrong." So into the ER I go and they put me on the operating table and lower the front and the back portions of the operating table. So there I am with my ass high in the air. They moan, but they take huge surgical tape and spread my ass cheeks wide open and then a giant bulb of peroxide squirts. And the surgeon comes in and I pass out.
The outcome is that I had 185-stitch gash about 1/2 an inch from my rectum. The injury was the size and shape of an ice cream cone and the surgeon started at the bottom and sewed me together. I only felt the last stitch. They take me to a room and proceed to pick glass out of my back for the next 6 hours. They wouldn't let me turn over on my back. They wouldn't feed me anything but morphine, and I wanted food.
The next morning I wake to find the same state trooper standing over me. He questioned me extensively about the accident. I was worried about the girls. Linda had already been transported by ambulance to Orlando. It was then that the trooper told me what had happened. Here goes.
The Buick whirling and spinning in the road was filled with 6 drunk African-American men. And 5 of them were killed instantly by the impact and the 6th was/is a paraplegic completely paralyzed from the neck down for life. And the accident made the front page of the Orlando Sentinel newspaper.
It seems that, sitting sideways with my back on the passenger door, I had gone through the windshield and then took the door handle of the car off with my right ass cheek! The trooper said I had also ruined the leather upholstery in the squad car. But here's the weirdest: no one could find the door handle! No, I don't make a noise when I sit down. And that was March 3, 1963. And the door handle is still missing. One good thing about being fat, the surgeon told me if my butt hadn't been so big, it would have torn my rectum and I would have had to have a colostomy bag for life.
So I guess that's why I rarely ride in cars. I drive or I don't travel. Two tragic accidents brought on by drunks: Mama's death and my near-death experience. Nope, I drive.
But where is that door handle?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
A GREAT LADY PASSES
I met Mrs. Semans many times at lunch at Rue Cler in Durham. She was charming and tiny, but with the biggest smile. She was a sharp as a tac right to the end.
This is from the N & O today.Mary D.B.T. Semans dies at 91
The N&O brings sad news today: Mary Duke Biddle Trent Semans, a Duke descendent who was devoted to philanthropy, education, civil rights and the arts, died today at the age of 91. Semans died this morning at Duke Hospital, said her assistant, Kathy Harrison. Semans was born into extraordinary privilege as a member of the family that founded Duke University. She was great-granddaughter to Washington Duke, granddaughter of Benjamin N. Duke and Sarah Duke, and daughter of Mary Duke and Anthony Biddle. Yet she didn't get caught up in a whirlwind of ball gowns and blue bloods. Instead, she set about living a life of substance in Durham, where she married twice, raised seven children and served in a seemingly endless number of roles, including mayor pro tem of Durham, trustee at Duke University and trustee of several family foundations, including the Mary Duke Biddle Foundation named for her mother. She was a passionate supporter of civil rights, working for affordable housing in Durham and serving on the board of Lincoln Community Health Center, a provider of health care to low-income residents.
We got to know Mrs. Semans a little over the past few years, including an in-depth interview with her in 2009 in which she talked about her family's history, her political and philanthropic endeavors, her support of the arts and more. Here is a transcript. RIP, Mrs. Semans, and thank you for all you did for Durham.
**********
It is not hyperbole to say that Mary Duke Biddle Trent Semans is a pillar of our city. She has used the clout and wealth of her famous family to push for civil rights, support the arts in Durham and across the state and to bridge the town-gown divide. Semans is as sharp as ever at age 89, with amazing recall of all the ways Durham has changed since she moved here at the age of 15. She has been an active administrator of the multibillion dollar Duke Endowment (which is separate from Duke University), as well as a generous patron of the arts. Semans carries herself with a self-assurance that never gives way to even a hint of haughtiness. That, despite the fact she’s amassed a trove of awards and honors. Durham Magazine’s Matt Dees and Dana Lange took the occasion of yet another accolade – a Nov. 14 gala recognizing her pioneering contributions to the Nasher Museum of Art – as an opportunity to chat with this decidedly down-to-earth legend at her Forest Hills office.
GOODBYE, HAPPY VALLEY - HELLO, ANITA BRYANT
So there I am in Happy Valley, a senior just about to get out of prep school and having no clue as to what was going to happen next. Isn't that always the way?
At my prep school, we had classes on Saturday and not on Monday - because they didn't want us mixing with the riff-raff in downtown Lenoir, NC. The school chartered a bus which arrived right after lunch on Monday to take upper school guys into town the afternoon and back by supper.
I usually spent my Mondays at (you guessed it) one of two movie theatres in that mountain town. But one Monday, my friend Jimmy Farnsworth and I wandered into the First Baptist Church and boldly asked if we could see their pipe organ and possibly play it. Nothing ventured - nothing gained, right? Well, the church organist took us into the sanctuary and there was a big Moeller pipe organ. I don't think I had ever seen one with three manuals (keyboards), but there it was.
I sat down and played God-knows-what, probably a hymn. I encouraged Jimmy, a fine tenor, to sing - and he didn't need much encouragement. So we performed something and before we finished, we were offered jobs in the church! This took some doing to make it happen because we had to get permission from the school to be off campus at odd times. Miraculously, we were granted carte blanche by the headmaster. (I think he wanted rid of us. In fact, I know he did. Read on.)
So began my first church job - assistant organist with a big instrument to play and a wonderful adult choir to accompany. I was in heaven.
Jimmy and I were immediately ushered into all the choir activities of that church. One I remember in particular was a Saturday night party in Blowing Rock just up the mountain from Lenoir. Odd, two 17-year-olds being asked to an adult party, but we went. I don't remember much about the party except we ended up staying out till dawn with Betty Miller, the church organist/choir director and one other lady. I can still remember the sun coming up and we were driving around Happy Valley. I "think" maybe those two women were testing to see if we were romantically interested in them. Honest. Of course we weren't. We were just having a good time.
But the thing I most remember was asking the organist, Betty, where I should go after prep school. And she said, "You should go to Stetson University and study with Paul Jenkins." She had known him at the Baptist Seminary in Louisville, KY. I put that thought out of my mind, planning never to ever go to Florida for anything.
Little did I know.
The days went by and one night Jimmy and I decided we were going to leave school and become stewards on the old Queen Elizabeth steamship. Why? God only knows! But we picked up a lamp and walked up to Coach Teaster's house on campus and woke up his wife Maxine and offered her the lamp if we could use her phone. She let us and we called a cab and the cab took us to Betty Miller's house in Lenoir. We stayed about an hour and Betty talked us into returning to school and we agreed.
The headmaster saw his chance. He called a meeting of the student council and Jimmy and I went in separately. When asked if I wanted to stay there I boldly said, "No". Right there was my mistake. I probably should have stayed. But how my life would have been is anyone's guess. Another crossroad encountered, I got thrown out of that school. The headmaster called my father. His reaction? He literally told the headmaster to give me the balance of money in my allowance account and got me on the phone and said, "Son, you can't come home. Don't call me unless you get sick." Thanks, Dad.
So who did I call?, my uncle the Attorney General. He said, "Come here to Atlanta at once." So Betty Miller and I got in her car and we drove to his house, where both he and his wife, my beloved Aunt Julia said, "Of course you come here, we are your port in the storm." So they went the next morning to the Law Department and my Uncle called my father and said, "Bennie, you can't disinherit an adopted child. The boy needs to go to school and Julia and I will find a school for him." What could my father do but agree and said, "Send me the bills." Always with the cash.
So we got out the little red book of private schools and found Howey Academy in Florida and called. The dean of students who took the call from my Uncle was swept away that the Attorney General of Georgia was calling with a request and immediately said, "Send the boy to us. No Problem." Things just kept happening in my favor and in two days I flew to sunny central Florida. And went to a co-ed boarding school for rich kids, right in the middle of an orange grove!
The point of my story is - You Never Know. And it gets better. Stay tuned.
At my prep school, we had classes on Saturday and not on Monday - because they didn't want us mixing with the riff-raff in downtown Lenoir, NC. The school chartered a bus which arrived right after lunch on Monday to take upper school guys into town the afternoon and back by supper.
I usually spent my Mondays at (you guessed it) one of two movie theatres in that mountain town. But one Monday, my friend Jimmy Farnsworth and I wandered into the First Baptist Church and boldly asked if we could see their pipe organ and possibly play it. Nothing ventured - nothing gained, right? Well, the church organist took us into the sanctuary and there was a big Moeller pipe organ. I don't think I had ever seen one with three manuals (keyboards), but there it was.
I sat down and played God-knows-what, probably a hymn. I encouraged Jimmy, a fine tenor, to sing - and he didn't need much encouragement. So we performed something and before we finished, we were offered jobs in the church! This took some doing to make it happen because we had to get permission from the school to be off campus at odd times. Miraculously, we were granted carte blanche by the headmaster. (I think he wanted rid of us. In fact, I know he did. Read on.)
So began my first church job - assistant organist with a big instrument to play and a wonderful adult choir to accompany. I was in heaven.
Jimmy and I were immediately ushered into all the choir activities of that church. One I remember in particular was a Saturday night party in Blowing Rock just up the mountain from Lenoir. Odd, two 17-year-olds being asked to an adult party, but we went. I don't remember much about the party except we ended up staying out till dawn with Betty Miller, the church organist/choir director and one other lady. I can still remember the sun coming up and we were driving around Happy Valley. I "think" maybe those two women were testing to see if we were romantically interested in them. Honest. Of course we weren't. We were just having a good time.
But the thing I most remember was asking the organist, Betty, where I should go after prep school. And she said, "You should go to Stetson University and study with Paul Jenkins." She had known him at the Baptist Seminary in Louisville, KY. I put that thought out of my mind, planning never to ever go to Florida for anything.
Little did I know.
The days went by and one night Jimmy and I decided we were going to leave school and become stewards on the old Queen Elizabeth steamship. Why? God only knows! But we picked up a lamp and walked up to Coach Teaster's house on campus and woke up his wife Maxine and offered her the lamp if we could use her phone. She let us and we called a cab and the cab took us to Betty Miller's house in Lenoir. We stayed about an hour and Betty talked us into returning to school and we agreed.
The headmaster saw his chance. He called a meeting of the student council and Jimmy and I went in separately. When asked if I wanted to stay there I boldly said, "No". Right there was my mistake. I probably should have stayed. But how my life would have been is anyone's guess. Another crossroad encountered, I got thrown out of that school. The headmaster called my father. His reaction? He literally told the headmaster to give me the balance of money in my allowance account and got me on the phone and said, "Son, you can't come home. Don't call me unless you get sick." Thanks, Dad.
So who did I call?, my uncle the Attorney General. He said, "Come here to Atlanta at once." So Betty Miller and I got in her car and we drove to his house, where both he and his wife, my beloved Aunt Julia said, "Of course you come here, we are your port in the storm." So they went the next morning to the Law Department and my Uncle called my father and said, "Bennie, you can't disinherit an adopted child. The boy needs to go to school and Julia and I will find a school for him." What could my father do but agree and said, "Send me the bills." Always with the cash.
So we got out the little red book of private schools and found Howey Academy in Florida and called. The dean of students who took the call from my Uncle was swept away that the Attorney General of Georgia was calling with a request and immediately said, "Send the boy to us. No Problem." Things just kept happening in my favor and in two days I flew to sunny central Florida. And went to a co-ed boarding school for rich kids, right in the middle of an orange grove!
The point of my story is - You Never Know. And it gets better. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
SEVEN AND COUNTING or HAWAIIAN PUNCH
In my day, the school was divided in 2 sections: Grammar School and High School. The grammar school (Grades 1-7) were on one hall and the other side of the complex was high school, beginning with the 8th grade. In the middle were offices and auditorium. The auditorium was my favorite place because there was a stage there - the magic kingdom for me.
Entering the 7th grade, there was Lyn and I in the same room. They had never let us be in the same room for 6 years. Why? We were hellions, best friends and so sophisticated we didn't stink (or so we thought at the time).
We didn't like our teacher very much, I must admit. It wasn't her fault - she was just clueless in the sophistication department. She didn't understand us - for sure.
Lyn and I were both children of 'sink drinkers' and we stayed up late at night watching Jack Parr and shows way beyond our years. One morning we came to school (Lyn was always driven to school by Lovett, their cook and helper. Mind you, school was only one block from her house, but Lovett drove her anyway.) This particular morning Lyn motioned for me to come to the cloakroom in the back of the class, and I went.
She proceeded to tell me the commercial she had seen for the first time the night before. You know it, I am sure. It was a cartoon and in it this funny character sauntered by another character and said, "Would you like a nice Hawaiian Punch?" and the guy says, "Yes". And the first guy just knocks the crap out of him BLAM!.
When Lyn told me this, we both screamed so loudly, the teacher came back and threatened to send us to Mr. Cates, the principal. We sat down immediately, but could not stop laughing. Since we each only lived a block from the school, she finally sent us home. True story.
Later, devious as we were even for the 7th grade, Lyn and I decided that we needed to either have the teacher fired or get transferred to the other section of the 7th grade. So we took a poll of the class, "Do you want the teacher fired?"
Everyone voted yes. I'm not kidding. And we presented the poll to the teacher and, naturally, she cried. Oh well....
But all I remember is that damn Hawaiian Punch - - BLAM!
Entering the 7th grade, there was Lyn and I in the same room. They had never let us be in the same room for 6 years. Why? We were hellions, best friends and so sophisticated we didn't stink (or so we thought at the time).
We didn't like our teacher very much, I must admit. It wasn't her fault - she was just clueless in the sophistication department. She didn't understand us - for sure.
Lyn and I were both children of 'sink drinkers' and we stayed up late at night watching Jack Parr and shows way beyond our years. One morning we came to school (Lyn was always driven to school by Lovett, their cook and helper. Mind you, school was only one block from her house, but Lovett drove her anyway.) This particular morning Lyn motioned for me to come to the cloakroom in the back of the class, and I went.
She proceeded to tell me the commercial she had seen for the first time the night before. You know it, I am sure. It was a cartoon and in it this funny character sauntered by another character and said, "Would you like a nice Hawaiian Punch?" and the guy says, "Yes". And the first guy just knocks the crap out of him BLAM!.
When Lyn told me this, we both screamed so loudly, the teacher came back and threatened to send us to Mr. Cates, the principal. We sat down immediately, but could not stop laughing. Since we each only lived a block from the school, she finally sent us home. True story.
Later, devious as we were even for the 7th grade, Lyn and I decided that we needed to either have the teacher fired or get transferred to the other section of the 7th grade. So we took a poll of the class, "Do you want the teacher fired?"
Everyone voted yes. I'm not kidding. And we presented the poll to the teacher and, naturally, she cried. Oh well....
But all I remember is that damn Hawaiian Punch - - BLAM!
MY BLOG, MY THOUGHTS, MY TRUTHS
This is MY blog.
These are my stories and every word in them is true.
I hold the copywrite on each post.
If you are receiving this and do not want to, let me know and
I will remove your name from the distribution list.
These are my stories and every word in them is true.
I hold the copywrite on each post.
If you are receiving this and do not want to, let me know and
I will remove your name from the distribution list.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
ANOTHER GOOD STORY
Last night at a dinner party, a song played on the stereo and I realized I had to tell this story today for you all.
My friends Jim and Stephen have the most incredible home you can imagine and they are famous for their Christmas decorations and their hospitality. We have been trying to get together all during the holidays and, you know how you just run out of time? Well, it happened again this year. We ran out of time to do the "Christmas" thing. But we were determined to get together. And we did last night.
Being nearly cripple now, it took practically a crane to get me into their building, but my friend Tom figured out a way. Clever man. Takes care of me better than State Farm and Prudential put together. Imagine hauling my 275-pound carcass BACKWARDS up "designer" brick steps some idiot decided to put there! But we managed.
Once inside, I looked up at the decorations and exclaimed, "My God, it looks like Macy's exploded." You really have to see Jim's collection of Christmas ornaments, kitsch, dolls, and creche nativity scenes from everywhere except the lunar surface. Everywhere I looked there was another set of camels, elephants, wise men and baby Jesus. It is wonderful and overwhelming to the max. A feast for the eyes and the senses. There was so much that in the middle of the meal I got up and went to the bathroom and when I came back out I said, "You know, I kinda expected to see baby Jesus in the toilet bowl." Couldn't resist. Never have been able to.
As everyone arrived we were given incredible puff pastries (no pun intended for that crowd) filled with Gorgonzola cheeses and also a tray of homemade cheese straws - which happens to me one of my dessert island foods. And of course, wines of every description were passed around. Conversation began to flow and flowed so well we almost didn't care about dinner. But I digress.
We went into the dining room to a table neither Martha Stewart nor Miss Manners would complain about. The settings were matched Wedgewood china, beautiful linen napkins and decorations in the centerpiece which everyone wanted to (and did) touch. I said, "You know, it takes a fairy to make something pretty," which is right out of "Boys In The Band" and I don't care. There was a gigantic crystal bowl filled with Christmas balls in the center and we all made endless jokes about THAT. I'm not telling those here.
Yes, this was a gay dinner party. Beef Bourguignon, A Root Vegetable Mash, A Corn Pudding from Georgia, a Tomasto Aspic to die for, A Broccoli salad in a trifle bowl, homemade yeast rolls. And for desert not only scratch pecan pie, but an apple crisp perfectly (and correctly) made in a cast iron skillet. You have never seen or tasted such food. Stephen is a master chef, spent all day preparing and reveled in feeding his friends. Why can't I find a man like that? All mine are good for is taking out the trash. Oh well.
Then the conversation flowed again like the Nile. Six gay men. Now that would usually mean everybody trying to be the center of attention. Not last night. Everyone told wonderful stories about everything from weird funeral practices, strange ballerinas, to ways to train a dog. I mean it was so warm and wonderful, and giving and loving. Almost better than any sex I have ever had. Oh yes, we talked about that, too.
As we sat at the end of the meal over second helping of dessert, Stephen came out with a tiny melon scoop and a half gallon of ice cream saying, "I couldn't get it to melt to use on the pies. But here is some." Jim said, "With Stephen as cook, the microwave is used for storage." I replied, "Jim, how do you keep your figure with this man cooking for you?"
It was that kind of evening. And as we sat there at that beautiful table in that incredible apartment, I patted Stephen sitting next to me on the back, quieted the group and said, "What a night, guys! A perfect manhood friends event. You've all made this so special. It's like the old song says,
When my life is through, and the angels ask me to recall the thrill of it all,
I will tell them: I remember you".
My friends Jim and Stephen have the most incredible home you can imagine and they are famous for their Christmas decorations and their hospitality. We have been trying to get together all during the holidays and, you know how you just run out of time? Well, it happened again this year. We ran out of time to do the "Christmas" thing. But we were determined to get together. And we did last night.
Being nearly cripple now, it took practically a crane to get me into their building, but my friend Tom figured out a way. Clever man. Takes care of me better than State Farm and Prudential put together. Imagine hauling my 275-pound carcass BACKWARDS up "designer" brick steps some idiot decided to put there! But we managed.
Once inside, I looked up at the decorations and exclaimed, "My God, it looks like Macy's exploded." You really have to see Jim's collection of Christmas ornaments, kitsch, dolls, and creche nativity scenes from everywhere except the lunar surface. Everywhere I looked there was another set of camels, elephants, wise men and baby Jesus. It is wonderful and overwhelming to the max. A feast for the eyes and the senses. There was so much that in the middle of the meal I got up and went to the bathroom and when I came back out I said, "You know, I kinda expected to see baby Jesus in the toilet bowl." Couldn't resist. Never have been able to.
As everyone arrived we were given incredible puff pastries (no pun intended for that crowd) filled with Gorgonzola cheeses and also a tray of homemade cheese straws - which happens to me one of my dessert island foods. And of course, wines of every description were passed around. Conversation began to flow and flowed so well we almost didn't care about dinner. But I digress.
We went into the dining room to a table neither Martha Stewart nor Miss Manners would complain about. The settings were matched Wedgewood china, beautiful linen napkins and decorations in the centerpiece which everyone wanted to (and did) touch. I said, "You know, it takes a fairy to make something pretty," which is right out of "Boys In The Band" and I don't care. There was a gigantic crystal bowl filled with Christmas balls in the center and we all made endless jokes about THAT. I'm not telling those here.
Yes, this was a gay dinner party. Beef Bourguignon, A Root Vegetable Mash, A Corn Pudding from Georgia, a Tomasto Aspic to die for, A Broccoli salad in a trifle bowl, homemade yeast rolls. And for desert not only scratch pecan pie, but an apple crisp perfectly (and correctly) made in a cast iron skillet. You have never seen or tasted such food. Stephen is a master chef, spent all day preparing and reveled in feeding his friends. Why can't I find a man like that? All mine are good for is taking out the trash. Oh well.
Then the conversation flowed again like the Nile. Six gay men. Now that would usually mean everybody trying to be the center of attention. Not last night. Everyone told wonderful stories about everything from weird funeral practices, strange ballerinas, to ways to train a dog. I mean it was so warm and wonderful, and giving and loving. Almost better than any sex I have ever had. Oh yes, we talked about that, too.
As we sat at the end of the meal over second helping of dessert, Stephen came out with a tiny melon scoop and a half gallon of ice cream saying, "I couldn't get it to melt to use on the pies. But here is some." Jim said, "With Stephen as cook, the microwave is used for storage." I replied, "Jim, how do you keep your figure with this man cooking for you?"
It was that kind of evening. And as we sat there at that beautiful table in that incredible apartment, I patted Stephen sitting next to me on the back, quieted the group and said, "What a night, guys! A perfect manhood friends event. You've all made this so special. It's like the old song says,
When my life is through, and the angels ask me to recall the thrill of it all,
I will tell them: I remember you".
Monday, January 16, 2012
HAPPY VALLEY
I Am Reminded
While listening to the BBC broadcast of Choral Evensong, I am reminded of my days at the Patterson School for Boys in Happy Valley, North Carolina. It was a boy’s school run by the Episcopal Diocese of Western North Carolina and also by a headmaster named George Wiese or “Cap’” as he was popularly known. “Cap” because he had been a captain in the Salvation Army Corps, a necessarily protestant organization. Since my days at Patterson I have aligned myself with the Oxford Movement in the Church of England, a return to catholic thought and practices, i.e., what is known as “High Church” or "smells and bells". I am not going to discuss religion here, but rather my days in that beautiful valley so long ago.
Patterson School was nestled at the foot of a small mountain range just across from the Yadkin River, where, incidentally, I encountered my first cottonmouth water moccasin while swimming. It was my last swim in uncharted waters where I could not see the bottom. Patterson was a typical boys’ school in the mid-20th century south. Most boys were there because of some problem at home. They were either delinquents, misfits or idiots. Sometimes all three. I was there to escape an alcoholic father and his cold, mean second wife. And I was glad of the refuge the school provided. Yes, I was “glad when they said unto me, we will go unto prep school.” My translation!
My principal happiness came from the fact that it was a church school. I love church, mostly because that’s where you find pipe organs and music. Usually pipe organs, but sometimes electronic horrors. But most important, I just love church and ritual and the King James English. So the 1926 Book of Common Prayer, originally written in the 16th century by Mr. Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VIII and later burned as a heretic by Mary I, became my daily friend and ritual at Patterson School.
Our days began at 6am when the electricity was turned on in the dorm. It was turned off every night at 9 to make certain that none of us stayed awake listening to radios or sneaking small lights under the covers of the bed to read. I had a battery-operated radio and spent many a night listening to “Music In The Night” from WCBS-AM in New York: glorious classical music from midnight to dawn every night and sometimes even a complete Broadway show album. I spent much time under the covers and most of my money on batteries.
On rising with the coming of the light, we prepared for the morning rituals. If you had ‘work detail’ as a waiter in the dining room you went out into the cold mountain morning at 6:30 to eat your breakfast and get your tables ready to serve. Many times I walked that path to the dining room and, looking across the valley, would see little streams of smoke rising from the woods. I thought it was poetry seeing such a bucolic wonder amid all that beautiful scenery, and only later realized the smoke was from stills producing demon alcohol! Happy Valley was part of the path of the famous Thunder Road which today is known as NASCAR.
The boys came to breakfast at 7:30. Food was plentiful at Patterson and most of it came from the farm which had originally sported a dairy and employed some students in a work-study environment. In my day we only realized the benefits of the farm and the dairy and did not have to slop the hogs, as it were.
Following breakfast you prepared for classes but not before the entire student body went to Morning Prayer in the Chapel. Here I was elected to play the organ for the service and became fully accustomed to the rituals and practices of the Episcopal Church. Morning Prayer consists of psalms, prayers and holy scripture set aside for each day of the liturgical year. At school we always sang the Canticles for Morning Prayer and some hymns. And I got to play, so I was very happy.
The Prayer Book is so organized that you will read the entire Bible if you follow all the readings for a full year. This Morning Prayer service also served as assembly for the school where Cap Wiese would pontificate any news he had to impart to the student body. The service was conducted by The Rev. Henry D. Moore, a kind and benevolent young priest who was also the supervisor of the junior school dormitory. It was Fr. Moore who prepared me for confirmation into the Church. I had long wanted to become an Episcopalian and was planning to do so with my mother, but she died before we could complete the switch. So I rejoiced in the opportunity to make the transition at Patterson. In later years I thought it odd that the school never contacted my father to ask his permission for this change in my life. But change I did, happily.
All morning was spent in class and noon brought a return to the dining room and lunch. We were joined here by faculty and wives of faculty who, as part of their pay, got to eat the fruit of the fields of Patterson.
After lunch on Wednesday was choir practice. This was conducted by Cap Wiese’s wife, naturally Mrs. Wiese. She was a woman afflicted. Cap often said that she had more wires in her than a radio. She only had one good kidney and it had dropsy. She was regularly taken to Charlotte for kidney treatments. I had a special connection to her because her mother had been the Dean of Women at my mother’s college, Wesleyan Conservatory in Macon. Her name was Lula Comer and I often visited with her up a the Wiese’s house at the top of the hill behind the school. Being up there was like Valhalla and Cap Wiese and his wife were Wotan and Mrs. Fricka Wotan looking down on us mortals below. (Or maybe she was “Erda, The Green-Face Torso”? I borrow from the immortal Anna Russell.)
Mrs. Wiese conducted choir practice and usually played for Sunday services except when the dropsy was on her and I was called into action at a moment’s notice. Jimmy Farnsworth, my friend and tenor and I gave her fits at all times during the choir rehearsals. We were certain that we could do everything better than everyone else, typical for teenagers, and we probably could have, but were rarely given the chance. Later on, we made our chance happen. But that is another tale.
Afternoons were spent in classes followed by sports or activity in your room of your own choosing. I rode a horse up into the mountain twice a week. Yes, there actually was a brood mare large enough to support me and off we would go into the woods and I would sing “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning” at the top of my voice and pretend I was in a production of “Oklahoma!”. Yes, even at that early age I was destined for a life in show business.
After dinner came the hated Study Hall. If you were on Honor Roll you got to study in your room. But the rest of us slobs were corralled into a large classroom and made to study from 7 to 8:30. And you had to study, you couldn’t be caught reading a Tennessee Williams play or a Harold Robbins novel. Somehow I managed both.
It was on the way back to the dorm following study hall that we had Evening Prayer in the Chapel. This time the service was voluntary, but I always went because it was done by candle light and I got to play the organ once again. It is where I learned the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimitis and all the wonderful evening hymns of the church. It is such a pity that both Morning and Evening Prayer are no longer part of the ritual of the Episcopal Church. And that’s yet another story. There is such a beauty in Cramner’s translation of the Nunc Dimitis from St. Luke ii, vs. 29: “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word.”
And the most beautiful prayer in the whole of the Prayer Book:
That is my memory of Patterson School and my wonderful days in that happy and beautiful valley.
C. 2008 Richard C. Wall
While listening to the BBC broadcast of Choral Evensong, I am reminded of my days at the Patterson School for Boys in Happy Valley, North Carolina. It was a boy’s school run by the Episcopal Diocese of Western North Carolina and also by a headmaster named George Wiese or “Cap’” as he was popularly known. “Cap” because he had been a captain in the Salvation Army Corps, a necessarily protestant organization. Since my days at Patterson I have aligned myself with the Oxford Movement in the Church of England, a return to catholic thought and practices, i.e., what is known as “High Church” or "smells and bells". I am not going to discuss religion here, but rather my days in that beautiful valley so long ago.
Patterson School was nestled at the foot of a small mountain range just across from the Yadkin River, where, incidentally, I encountered my first cottonmouth water moccasin while swimming. It was my last swim in uncharted waters where I could not see the bottom. Patterson was a typical boys’ school in the mid-20th century south. Most boys were there because of some problem at home. They were either delinquents, misfits or idiots. Sometimes all three. I was there to escape an alcoholic father and his cold, mean second wife. And I was glad of the refuge the school provided. Yes, I was “glad when they said unto me, we will go unto prep school.” My translation!
My principal happiness came from the fact that it was a church school. I love church, mostly because that’s where you find pipe organs and music. Usually pipe organs, but sometimes electronic horrors. But most important, I just love church and ritual and the King James English. So the 1926 Book of Common Prayer, originally written in the 16th century by Mr. Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VIII and later burned as a heretic by Mary I, became my daily friend and ritual at Patterson School.
Our days began at 6am when the electricity was turned on in the dorm. It was turned off every night at 9 to make certain that none of us stayed awake listening to radios or sneaking small lights under the covers of the bed to read. I had a battery-operated radio and spent many a night listening to “Music In The Night” from WCBS-AM in New York: glorious classical music from midnight to dawn every night and sometimes even a complete Broadway show album. I spent much time under the covers and most of my money on batteries.
On rising with the coming of the light, we prepared for the morning rituals. If you had ‘work detail’ as a waiter in the dining room you went out into the cold mountain morning at 6:30 to eat your breakfast and get your tables ready to serve. Many times I walked that path to the dining room and, looking across the valley, would see little streams of smoke rising from the woods. I thought it was poetry seeing such a bucolic wonder amid all that beautiful scenery, and only later realized the smoke was from stills producing demon alcohol! Happy Valley was part of the path of the famous Thunder Road which today is known as NASCAR.
The boys came to breakfast at 7:30. Food was plentiful at Patterson and most of it came from the farm which had originally sported a dairy and employed some students in a work-study environment. In my day we only realized the benefits of the farm and the dairy and did not have to slop the hogs, as it were.
Following breakfast you prepared for classes but not before the entire student body went to Morning Prayer in the Chapel. Here I was elected to play the organ for the service and became fully accustomed to the rituals and practices of the Episcopal Church. Morning Prayer consists of psalms, prayers and holy scripture set aside for each day of the liturgical year. At school we always sang the Canticles for Morning Prayer and some hymns. And I got to play, so I was very happy.
The Prayer Book is so organized that you will read the entire Bible if you follow all the readings for a full year. This Morning Prayer service also served as assembly for the school where Cap Wiese would pontificate any news he had to impart to the student body. The service was conducted by The Rev. Henry D. Moore, a kind and benevolent young priest who was also the supervisor of the junior school dormitory. It was Fr. Moore who prepared me for confirmation into the Church. I had long wanted to become an Episcopalian and was planning to do so with my mother, but she died before we could complete the switch. So I rejoiced in the opportunity to make the transition at Patterson. In later years I thought it odd that the school never contacted my father to ask his permission for this change in my life. But change I did, happily.
All morning was spent in class and noon brought a return to the dining room and lunch. We were joined here by faculty and wives of faculty who, as part of their pay, got to eat the fruit of the fields of Patterson.
After lunch on Wednesday was choir practice. This was conducted by Cap Wiese’s wife, naturally Mrs. Wiese. She was a woman afflicted. Cap often said that she had more wires in her than a radio. She only had one good kidney and it had dropsy. She was regularly taken to Charlotte for kidney treatments. I had a special connection to her because her mother had been the Dean of Women at my mother’s college, Wesleyan Conservatory in Macon. Her name was Lula Comer and I often visited with her up a the Wiese’s house at the top of the hill behind the school. Being up there was like Valhalla and Cap Wiese and his wife were Wotan and Mrs. Fricka Wotan looking down on us mortals below. (Or maybe she was “Erda, The Green-Face Torso”? I borrow from the immortal Anna Russell.)
Mrs. Wiese conducted choir practice and usually played for Sunday services except when the dropsy was on her and I was called into action at a moment’s notice. Jimmy Farnsworth, my friend and tenor and I gave her fits at all times during the choir rehearsals. We were certain that we could do everything better than everyone else, typical for teenagers, and we probably could have, but were rarely given the chance. Later on, we made our chance happen. But that is another tale.
Afternoons were spent in classes followed by sports or activity in your room of your own choosing. I rode a horse up into the mountain twice a week. Yes, there actually was a brood mare large enough to support me and off we would go into the woods and I would sing “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning” at the top of my voice and pretend I was in a production of “Oklahoma!”. Yes, even at that early age I was destined for a life in show business.
After dinner came the hated Study Hall. If you were on Honor Roll you got to study in your room. But the rest of us slobs were corralled into a large classroom and made to study from 7 to 8:30. And you had to study, you couldn’t be caught reading a Tennessee Williams play or a Harold Robbins novel. Somehow I managed both.
It was on the way back to the dorm following study hall that we had Evening Prayer in the Chapel. This time the service was voluntary, but I always went because it was done by candle light and I got to play the organ once again. It is where I learned the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimitis and all the wonderful evening hymns of the church. It is such a pity that both Morning and Evening Prayer are no longer part of the ritual of the Episcopal Church. And that’s yet another story. There is such a beauty in Cramner’s translation of the Nunc Dimitis from St. Luke ii, vs. 29: “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word.”
And the most beautiful prayer in the whole of the Prayer Book:
“O Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last. Amen.”
That is my memory of Patterson School and my wonderful days in that happy and beautiful valley.
C. 2008 Richard C. Wall
Friday, January 13, 2012
LITTLE BOY LOST or MY FATHER AND HIS &%$#
Little Boy Lost and The Wicked Stepmother or My Father and His &%#@
Yes, I am angry. Don't think I was miserable and unhappy when Mama died. I wasn't at all. Hell, I was 'Lady of the House" overnight and I played that role to the hilt - for a while. At least until I figured out my father was still a drunk.
Actually, daddy was two different people: He was a prince and a bastard all rolled into one frame. I never knew who I was going to encounter for one minute to the next. He was the classic "Mama's boy" and to prove it, let me tell you one little story. My mother wore a diamond ring that was made up of lots of little tiny diamonds clustered together in the shape of a heart, and it had a seam down the middle. I asked her why the ring seemed to be in two parts, and her answer was, "Your father had two rings made. One for his mother and one for me. Each ring was half a heart and we wore them until she died and then he had the two rings put together." True story. Very telling on my father.
My mother was a star in the community and my father was jealous of that. Jealous of her talents and the love the community felt for her. He wanted to be the center of that universe - the man-god fathering progeny to carry on his name. My mother was looked on as a failure because she couldn't conceive. But in his mind, the community thought he was less of a man. And that false shame was doubled when they adopted me and I was walking, breathing proof of his lack of manhood - or so he thought.
I tell you all that to make clear what I'm going to tell you now. Here goes. My father had a mistress for 15 years before my mother died. He saw her every Wednesday afternoon when he was (supposedly) out of town on business. Right. Mama knew about this woman but never uttered a word, not that I knew. After she died, I was told that some of her friends talked with her about this woman. But I'm getting ahead of the story.
Two months after Mama died, Daddy decided he and I would go on a Caribbean cruise out of Miami. So we got in a plane in Macon, Ga to fly down to meet the ship. For some reason the plane made stop in Waycross, Ga. Waycross is where, if God wanted to give the earth an enema, he would stick the tube. And we landed there in a blinding summer rain storm and the plane's front landing gear broke and we had to sit upended in August heat and humidity until another plane could come from Jacksonville to get us. Daddy was drunk and I was 14 dealing with a drunk. Charming. But I had become his keeper, or "The Lady of The House".
The whole cruise was one drunk-a-thon and ended with a return flight to Atlanta instead of Macon and a trip home on The Nancy Hanks. Only in Atlanta, there was this woman in our hotel room. I don't remember her name. But it was this trip which made me know I couldn't stay home with him and go to school. I had to get out of there. So I called my uncle, The Attorney General, and said, "Get me out of here. Get me into GMA." And so I returned to College Park - outside of Atlanta - for the ninth grade.
Now this is where the story gets like a soap opera. My uncle's executive secretary was my father's cousin. And she had a hot line to home and would tell my Uncle and Aunt all the gossip going on with my father while I was away at school. And, of course, my Aunt told me every word. A 14-year-old in 1958, long before there was a show called "Dallas". So I was regularly being filled with the dirt back at South Fork. Here is some of it. All true.
The night my mother died, that woman moved out on her husband of 20 years. Just left a note on the table and took her young daughter and ran. She was making her move. And my father went right along with it. First, she convinced him that her daughter was his child. Time proved her wrong. And she threatened to sue my father for "breach of promise" if he didn't marry her. At Christmas vacation, I told him there were so many fish in the sea, why her? And his answer? "We can teach her." What the hell did I have to teach her? How to be Mama? Please!
So I got myself kicked out of school and he married her in South Carolina within a week. He asked the Methodist minister to marry them and the minister refused saying, "You two have never been seen in public and I cannot marry you." He kept his money of that church for years.
They came home from their honeymoon and the first thing she did, the very first thing, was to defrost some of Mama's spaghetti sauce and serve it. I was horrified. The next thing she did was call the drug store and when they answered, she said, "This is Mrs. Wall." That was the first time she had said that and the first time I heard it. I was sickened.
She didn't like me. She hadn't liked my mother and she knew I was opposed to their marriage. In fact, early on I said to her, "I thought things would be different, but they aren't." I knew I had to get out of there again. And I did. I went away to a wonderful Episcopal Boys school, which I will write about soon.
My father continued drinking very heavily after he married this woman and when it was time to come home for Thanksgiving, I came. He was in the hospital drying out from his latest drunken binge and I was left at home with her.
Sitting in the family room, she said to me the following. And I quote verbatim.
"Your mother knew nothing about raising a child or running a home. You are proof of that. You are the thorn in your father's side and you are not worth the family name. BUT the one thing that makes it all right is that you are not really his son."
Needless to say, I was dumbfounded and just went to bed. The next morning I went to my godfather and told him what she had said. And I told him "I'm afraid to tell Daddy that, I'm afraid he will have a heart attack." "Tell him," my godfather insisted. None of my parent's friend could stand this woman and they literally would not associate with her. She was reviled because she had married him for his money. So I did as I was told.
When Daddy got out of the hospital, we went to his office and I told him exactly what she had said. He thought for a minute and then said to me, again I quote,
"Your mother was the finest woman who ever lived and I will never love anyone the way I loved her.....and you ARE my son."
And he went home and beat the hell out of that woman.
After that fire had calmed, a couple of days later I said to my father, "Daddy, I don't want anything from you when you die but this house. I want to stand here and watch her drive away for the last time." And his reply was, "Son, I don't think she wants this house." And I looked him straight in the face and said, "She married you for it." And that, as they say, was that.
Yes, I am angry. Don't think I was miserable and unhappy when Mama died. I wasn't at all. Hell, I was 'Lady of the House" overnight and I played that role to the hilt - for a while. At least until I figured out my father was still a drunk.
Actually, daddy was two different people: He was a prince and a bastard all rolled into one frame. I never knew who I was going to encounter for one minute to the next. He was the classic "Mama's boy" and to prove it, let me tell you one little story. My mother wore a diamond ring that was made up of lots of little tiny diamonds clustered together in the shape of a heart, and it had a seam down the middle. I asked her why the ring seemed to be in two parts, and her answer was, "Your father had two rings made. One for his mother and one for me. Each ring was half a heart and we wore them until she died and then he had the two rings put together." True story. Very telling on my father.
My mother was a star in the community and my father was jealous of that. Jealous of her talents and the love the community felt for her. He wanted to be the center of that universe - the man-god fathering progeny to carry on his name. My mother was looked on as a failure because she couldn't conceive. But in his mind, the community thought he was less of a man. And that false shame was doubled when they adopted me and I was walking, breathing proof of his lack of manhood - or so he thought.
I tell you all that to make clear what I'm going to tell you now. Here goes. My father had a mistress for 15 years before my mother died. He saw her every Wednesday afternoon when he was (supposedly) out of town on business. Right. Mama knew about this woman but never uttered a word, not that I knew. After she died, I was told that some of her friends talked with her about this woman. But I'm getting ahead of the story.
Two months after Mama died, Daddy decided he and I would go on a Caribbean cruise out of Miami. So we got in a plane in Macon, Ga to fly down to meet the ship. For some reason the plane made stop in Waycross, Ga. Waycross is where, if God wanted to give the earth an enema, he would stick the tube. And we landed there in a blinding summer rain storm and the plane's front landing gear broke and we had to sit upended in August heat and humidity until another plane could come from Jacksonville to get us. Daddy was drunk and I was 14 dealing with a drunk. Charming. But I had become his keeper, or "The Lady of The House".
The whole cruise was one drunk-a-thon and ended with a return flight to Atlanta instead of Macon and a trip home on The Nancy Hanks. Only in Atlanta, there was this woman in our hotel room. I don't remember her name. But it was this trip which made me know I couldn't stay home with him and go to school. I had to get out of there. So I called my uncle, The Attorney General, and said, "Get me out of here. Get me into GMA." And so I returned to College Park - outside of Atlanta - for the ninth grade.
Now this is where the story gets like a soap opera. My uncle's executive secretary was my father's cousin. And she had a hot line to home and would tell my Uncle and Aunt all the gossip going on with my father while I was away at school. And, of course, my Aunt told me every word. A 14-year-old in 1958, long before there was a show called "Dallas". So I was regularly being filled with the dirt back at South Fork. Here is some of it. All true.
The night my mother died, that woman moved out on her husband of 20 years. Just left a note on the table and took her young daughter and ran. She was making her move. And my father went right along with it. First, she convinced him that her daughter was his child. Time proved her wrong. And she threatened to sue my father for "breach of promise" if he didn't marry her. At Christmas vacation, I told him there were so many fish in the sea, why her? And his answer? "We can teach her." What the hell did I have to teach her? How to be Mama? Please!
So I got myself kicked out of school and he married her in South Carolina within a week. He asked the Methodist minister to marry them and the minister refused saying, "You two have never been seen in public and I cannot marry you." He kept his money of that church for years.
They came home from their honeymoon and the first thing she did, the very first thing, was to defrost some of Mama's spaghetti sauce and serve it. I was horrified. The next thing she did was call the drug store and when they answered, she said, "This is Mrs. Wall." That was the first time she had said that and the first time I heard it. I was sickened.
She didn't like me. She hadn't liked my mother and she knew I was opposed to their marriage. In fact, early on I said to her, "I thought things would be different, but they aren't." I knew I had to get out of there again. And I did. I went away to a wonderful Episcopal Boys school, which I will write about soon.
My father continued drinking very heavily after he married this woman and when it was time to come home for Thanksgiving, I came. He was in the hospital drying out from his latest drunken binge and I was left at home with her.
Sitting in the family room, she said to me the following. And I quote verbatim.
"Your mother knew nothing about raising a child or running a home. You are proof of that. You are the thorn in your father's side and you are not worth the family name. BUT the one thing that makes it all right is that you are not really his son."
Needless to say, I was dumbfounded and just went to bed. The next morning I went to my godfather and told him what she had said. And I told him "I'm afraid to tell Daddy that, I'm afraid he will have a heart attack." "Tell him," my godfather insisted. None of my parent's friend could stand this woman and they literally would not associate with her. She was reviled because she had married him for his money. So I did as I was told.
When Daddy got out of the hospital, we went to his office and I told him exactly what she had said. He thought for a minute and then said to me, again I quote,
"Your mother was the finest woman who ever lived and I will never love anyone the way I loved her.....and you ARE my son."
And he went home and beat the hell out of that woman.
After that fire had calmed, a couple of days later I said to my father, "Daddy, I don't want anything from you when you die but this house. I want to stand here and watch her drive away for the last time." And his reply was, "Son, I don't think she wants this house." And I looked him straight in the face and said, "She married you for it." And that, as they say, was that.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
THAT FAMILY STUFF WILL KILL YOU
There's an old Judy Garland lyric that goes:
"At first I just stood and watched from the wings,
That's all my Mom and Dad would allow.
But as I got older, I got a little bolder
And snuck out for their second bow.
They kept me in the act because they needed me to milk applause,
until one night they did a crazy thing:
They left me out there all alone.
Papa said "You're on your own" and Mama shouted,
"This is it kid. Sing"
"At first I just stood and watched from the wings,
That's all my Mom and Dad would allow.
But as I got older, I got a little bolder
And snuck out for their second bow.
They kept me in the act because they needed me to milk applause,
until one night they did a crazy thing:
They left me out there all alone.
Papa said "You're on your own" and Mama shouted,
"This is it kid. Sing"
That last year, my 14th one, began with a guilt trip I carry with me to this day. As my birthday approached, Mama asked me who I wanted at my birthday party. And I said, "Jane, Belle, Ellen, Joanna, Lyn and Genie." And that's who came to an evening dinner for a 14-year old gay boy child. I had a good time. But later, (there's always a 'but later') after everyone had gone, Mama said to me, "You said you wanted everyone at your party, but you didn't say you wanted me."
Damn. There it is. The weight of a guilt trip. I was speechless, but managed to say, "Of course I wanted you there, Mama." But nothing I could say made it any better. Maybe that's where I learned to gravitate to lost causes. But I thought I could fix everything if they'd just let me. It wasn't until I was about 50 that I realized it wasn't mine to fix, those problems. Who knew?
Countless times I was woken up with him beating the hell out of her and then going to bed, leaving her literally under the breakfast room table, just as drunk as he was. She always claimed, "I would drink if it weren't for your Daddy. When he's sober, I'm sober." And, I believed that. Dumb kid wanted to believe it. But there she was under the table talking out loud to nobody in a drunken stupor - refusing to go to bed until the kitchen was clean because she didn't want to wake up to dirty dishes. Hell, they never woke up to start a kid's day off. I learned early on to feed myself and, as most of you know, I have a pretty unhealthy relationship with food. First it was Tony The Tiger and Frosted Flakes. Tony was my best friend. I would devour an entire box of those flakes every morning. The bowl and the spoon kept getting bigger and bigger - and so did my stomach and my ass. But I thought I was filling that empty hole in my gut, that hole which cannot be filled by food. Who knew?
And I would go to school and sit in the classroom with the shakes, literally unable to stop my hands from trembling - because of the damn battles I stood by and watched the night before. And my teachers would always tell me, "You are such a fortunate child." Right. But eventually, I got pretty tired of it and decided to fight back in the only way I knew.
Reel-to-reel tape had just become a common thing in the late 50's. And I would wish every night that I could tape those fights that went on in my house. That I could play them back for Mama and Daddy at breakfast and say, "See what it's like?" And I was certain that would make them change. But hell, they were never at breakfast, so what's the point?
One night in the early part of my 14th year, I hit on a idea. I would get drunk and show Mama what it was like living with that. So I started around 5:30 pretending to be getting sloshed like she did. Little by little my speech slurred and more and more I got drunk - or at least she thought I did. She ran around checking the liquor cabinet to see what was missing. She even called her best friend and said, "I think he's drinking." So my plan was working. At about 9 o'clock I came out of it in the middle of a sentence and said, "See what it's like? Do you see? Do you?" Daddy was not part of this drama because he was in the hospital drying out. But Mama saw it, and it only served to prove to her that I was growing up and becoming her equal, at least in effect. She had to deal with me on an adult level and I think it really confused her that I would talk back and hand back the crap that I was being served.
The night before she died we had an argument about what movie I was going to see. And she demanded I not see "Peyton Place" and I walked out of the house and went right to the Arcade and saw it in complete defiance. It was the last conversation we ever had. Saturday morning when I woke up I went in their bedroom and took money from my father's wallet and went to town. And they got up; he went to work and she went to Macon for that piano - and you've read what happened. My last encounter with my Mama was an argument. Words I can never take back. Words which haunt me to this day. Be careful what you say.
Therapy, very expensive therapy, has taught me to forgive my parents. Forgive them for what? Adopting me? Making me the field on which they jousted nightly? I didn't know any better. I thought that was how it was supposed to be - that I deserved it. I learned to come to terms with by saying "They were great people (and they were) but they had no business adopting a child." That is not a popular statement when I make it to people who knew them. Not my problem. I lived in that for 14 years. And the abuse went on from my father even until he died. He didn't know any better. He didn't understand me. He loved me, but he was embarrassed by everything I did. Again, not my problem. But I fought him long after he died. Kept fighting him until I finally spent his entire financial legacy to me. My psychiatrist said "You won't bury him as long as you have that money." So I spent it.
"And Mama shouted, This is it kid, Sing". Well, this is my song and I'm singing it. How do you like it, Mama? I still love you, old girl. You tried. And I know you loved me. I really do know it. But......(there's always a but)
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY - I Remember Mama
Happy Mother's Day - I Remember Mama
How do you remember your mother? What did you call her? What did she call you? So many unanswered questions. So many puzzles.
Mama was a special girl. In her youth, she was a tomboy, and they actually called her "Willie" after her father. I'm told it was an old southern custom to name girls for their fathers. Mama was the fourth and last child, the baby of the family. And she was the star. She and her brother Gene were the closest of siblings. So close in fact, that Gene became her father when Mama's dad died. He actually became her legal guardian. And they adored each other. Truly.
Mama was athletic, she played tennis and swam in college at Wesleyan. She was president of the Athletic Club. And she was a pianist and studied with "Papa Maerz" who was a descendent pupil of Franz Liszt, no small feat. And Mama was faithful to her piano all her life. She practiced her scales and techniques every day. My earliest memory of her is sitting beside the piano while she played. She would turn and sing "Mary Had A Little Lamb" to me and make silly cartoon faces while she sang. It never ceased to thrill me. Mama was responsible for the Community Concert Association being formed in our town, and she was also responsible for hiring Frank Marynell to come there and be band director and she lead the campaign to buy instrument and uniform for the SHS band.
Of course I wanted to play and she wanted me to play. And I've done pretty well at the keyboard myself through the years and always marveled that I inherited her talent even though I was adopted. She taught me to read music and it's in my baby book (which she kept like a religion) that I read notes and could match them on the piano at age 4.
Mama always wanted another child besides me, but that never happened. She wanted a little girl. Wonder if I became that little girl for her? I don't wonder. I probably did. I'll never forget when she caught me one day wearing her dress and squeezed into her high heels shoes. She cried all night and was even crying the next morning at the breakfast table. Suddenly, she said, "You did that because you wanted to be like me, didn't you?" No, but I grabbed at the excuse she had presented me with and said, "Yes, Mama." And that got me out of that situation.
She didn't like the fact that I was probably gay. She never really admitted it. She would catch me at times doing things that were sissy and she would call me "Miss Wall" in derision. She was of another generation and sexuality was never mentioned anywhere. Later, I had an analyst tell my father that I was effeminate because of my large size, that it was how I managed my huge frame, my physicality. Oh well, somebody was always looking for an excuse.
I was always older than my years, I think that's common with children of alcoholics. I knew things at 10 that most kids don't learn until their 40's. I saw physical violence perpetrated on a defenseless woman at the tender age of 3 - it is my earliest memory of Mama: wearing pink fuzzy mules in the hall outside my bedroom. She was crying and Daddy was beating the living hell out of her (and she always stood there and took it) and I was crawling on the floor hitting his leg to get him to stop. I learned early not to like physical violence, especially to women. He would beat her black and blue, especially on Saturday nights, and she would get up the next morning and put heavy makeup on her face and go right to the Baptist Church and play that organ in front of everyone. She never missed a Sunday. And it was actually the church, or her duty to it, that killed her.
It was a bright May Saturday, I'm 14 years old and we had filled the swimming pool for the summer and I was in the water the minute I got out of bed. And by lunch time, a group of friends were there enjoying the water and having a blast. I distinctly remember Mildred Mayo driving up in the driveway to pick up her daughter Arie. Mildred came over to the swimming pool and spoke to me. She glanced over to the side of the house an noticed a trellis with sweetheart roses growing on it. And she said to me, "Miriam (Mama's name) won't mind if I clip one of these white roses to wear at church tomorrow, will she?" I said, "Go right ahead" I was still in the water. I can still see Mildred holding the white rose she had clipped and saying to me, "Tomorrow is Mother's Day. You wear a white rose when your mother has passed away." I looked over to make sure there was a red rose for me to wear on my lapel the next day at church. Little did I know at that moment.
At sundown, I got out of the pool and went into the house and decided that Mama was late so I would fry up some hamburgers and fries. And I started the process in the kitchen. Daddy was drunk and sitting on the back porch (what we called our family room) and was watching Perry Como Show. Johnny Mathis was singing his latest hit, "The Twelfth of Never" with the words "until the twelfth of never, I'll still be loving you." That is emblazoned in my mind because a car pulled up in the driveway and two of our best friends came into the back porch. I walked in the room to greet them and as they came in the door, Frank Marynell said without warning, "Bennie, Miriam is dead. She's been killed in a car wreck." I'll never forget my reaction: I had a spatula in my hand and I thought, "Oh, we'll need one less burger." I didn't cry and I didn't realized what had happened for about a year, actually. Shock does funny things to our brains, I guess.
It wasn't long before people started arriving at the house. That ritual that goes on in every southern death - people just show up. And I all of a sudden became the Hostess of the House, it was surreal behavior, but there it was.
It wasn't long before the doctor arrived, Pete Newsome. He came in and I was standing there among a group of people and he burst into tears and said, "I've seen Mama, she's dead."
They took me out of that house and to the McElrath's where my next memory is being at the top of their staircase with about 20 of my friends sitting below me offering consolation and on the stereo was playing the Everly Brothers singing "Dream dream dream, when I want you - all I have to do is dream." And that song has always been in my brain that I they were singing to me about Mama. If I wanted her I could dream.
The next day was Sunday and Mary Grace and Tarver came and got me and put me in the car and we drove around during the church hours. The service from the Methodist Church was broadcast on the local radio station and I remember the minister announcing Mama's death to the congregation and hearing people scream out "Oh No".
By the time I got back home, the out of town family began arriving. My uncle arrived with a state trooper escort car because he was the Attorney General of Georgia and always traveled that way. The family gathered outside and I noticed they were all getting into cars going somewhere. My father's business partner came and pulled me by the arm and said, "Come on boy, we're going to the funeral home." And I said, "I'm not going to any funeral home." And he kept pulling me until my uncle Gene, the Atty Gen. yelled out "Leave him alone, he doesn't want to go. I will stay here with him." Gene always looked out for me and became like a father to me for the rest of his life.
It was not long before I left the house again for another drive with someone and when I returned I walked into the kitchen and look into the dining room and there, to my horror, the dining room table had been removed and in its place was Mama's casket! Being "Hostess of the House" and much older than my years, I went and found my father and a said loudly, "What is that doing here?" And in his drunken stupor he cried, "She was coming home and I wanted her to be here with me." I left the house right then.
That facts were that Mama had gotten up on Saturday morning and driven to Macon to buy a piano for a Sunday School room at her church. I had gone to town early to avoid the rush at the barber shop and she had left without me. On her way home she rounded a bend in the road and hit a truck load of pigs. Her Cadillac smashed up under the truck and Mama was beheaded and when they found her part of her body was even in the back seat of the car. How do I know this? Someone told me that. Why, I'll never know. And the person actually got a perverse pleasure in telling me. And they shall remain nameless for eternity. The biggest irony is that years later when I was finally allowed to hear my father's AA testimonial drunk-a-log, he told that he had bought that Cadillac to commit suicide with. Funny how things turn.
I didn't go home that night before the funeral. I came back to dress for the service and as I walked out of my room I can still see them carrying Mama's casket out the front door. As we drove to the church, I noticed that the entire town had shut down. Businesses were closed and at the church were both sections of my 8th grade glass in attendance. Three preachers conducted the service and one of Mama's best friends and students played the organ.
I was in a stupor and just stared at the casket. We went to the cemetery and that's when I cried, but only a little and to myself. My Aunt Julia and I stayed with the casket until it was lowered into the ground. I went home and the dining table had been replaced and the food was laid out along with Mama's best silverware. All I could think of was "These forks need to be lined up before anybody gets here to eat. And on the stove a pot boiled over and Aunt Julia, running into the kitchen to turn it off saying "Miriam would die if she saw this!" And I said quietly to myself, "She did."
How do you remember your mother? What did you call her? What did she call you? So many unanswered questions. So many puzzles.
Mama was a special girl. In her youth, she was a tomboy, and they actually called her "Willie" after her father. I'm told it was an old southern custom to name girls for their fathers. Mama was the fourth and last child, the baby of the family. And she was the star. She and her brother Gene were the closest of siblings. So close in fact, that Gene became her father when Mama's dad died. He actually became her legal guardian. And they adored each other. Truly.
Mama was athletic, she played tennis and swam in college at Wesleyan. She was president of the Athletic Club. And she was a pianist and studied with "Papa Maerz" who was a descendent pupil of Franz Liszt, no small feat. And Mama was faithful to her piano all her life. She practiced her scales and techniques every day. My earliest memory of her is sitting beside the piano while she played. She would turn and sing "Mary Had A Little Lamb" to me and make silly cartoon faces while she sang. It never ceased to thrill me. Mama was responsible for the Community Concert Association being formed in our town, and she was also responsible for hiring Frank Marynell to come there and be band director and she lead the campaign to buy instrument and uniform for the SHS band.
Of course I wanted to play and she wanted me to play. And I've done pretty well at the keyboard myself through the years and always marveled that I inherited her talent even though I was adopted. She taught me to read music and it's in my baby book (which she kept like a religion) that I read notes and could match them on the piano at age 4.
Mama always wanted another child besides me, but that never happened. She wanted a little girl. Wonder if I became that little girl for her? I don't wonder. I probably did. I'll never forget when she caught me one day wearing her dress and squeezed into her high heels shoes. She cried all night and was even crying the next morning at the breakfast table. Suddenly, she said, "You did that because you wanted to be like me, didn't you?" No, but I grabbed at the excuse she had presented me with and said, "Yes, Mama." And that got me out of that situation.
She didn't like the fact that I was probably gay. She never really admitted it. She would catch me at times doing things that were sissy and she would call me "Miss Wall" in derision. She was of another generation and sexuality was never mentioned anywhere. Later, I had an analyst tell my father that I was effeminate because of my large size, that it was how I managed my huge frame, my physicality. Oh well, somebody was always looking for an excuse.
I was always older than my years, I think that's common with children of alcoholics. I knew things at 10 that most kids don't learn until their 40's. I saw physical violence perpetrated on a defenseless woman at the tender age of 3 - it is my earliest memory of Mama: wearing pink fuzzy mules in the hall outside my bedroom. She was crying and Daddy was beating the living hell out of her (and she always stood there and took it) and I was crawling on the floor hitting his leg to get him to stop. I learned early not to like physical violence, especially to women. He would beat her black and blue, especially on Saturday nights, and she would get up the next morning and put heavy makeup on her face and go right to the Baptist Church and play that organ in front of everyone. She never missed a Sunday. And it was actually the church, or her duty to it, that killed her.
It was a bright May Saturday, I'm 14 years old and we had filled the swimming pool for the summer and I was in the water the minute I got out of bed. And by lunch time, a group of friends were there enjoying the water and having a blast. I distinctly remember Mildred Mayo driving up in the driveway to pick up her daughter Arie. Mildred came over to the swimming pool and spoke to me. She glanced over to the side of the house an noticed a trellis with sweetheart roses growing on it. And she said to me, "Miriam (Mama's name) won't mind if I clip one of these white roses to wear at church tomorrow, will she?" I said, "Go right ahead" I was still in the water. I can still see Mildred holding the white rose she had clipped and saying to me, "Tomorrow is Mother's Day. You wear a white rose when your mother has passed away." I looked over to make sure there was a red rose for me to wear on my lapel the next day at church. Little did I know at that moment.
At sundown, I got out of the pool and went into the house and decided that Mama was late so I would fry up some hamburgers and fries. And I started the process in the kitchen. Daddy was drunk and sitting on the back porch (what we called our family room) and was watching Perry Como Show. Johnny Mathis was singing his latest hit, "The Twelfth of Never" with the words "until the twelfth of never, I'll still be loving you." That is emblazoned in my mind because a car pulled up in the driveway and two of our best friends came into the back porch. I walked in the room to greet them and as they came in the door, Frank Marynell said without warning, "Bennie, Miriam is dead. She's been killed in a car wreck." I'll never forget my reaction: I had a spatula in my hand and I thought, "Oh, we'll need one less burger." I didn't cry and I didn't realized what had happened for about a year, actually. Shock does funny things to our brains, I guess.
It wasn't long before people started arriving at the house. That ritual that goes on in every southern death - people just show up. And I all of a sudden became the Hostess of the House, it was surreal behavior, but there it was.
It wasn't long before the doctor arrived, Pete Newsome. He came in and I was standing there among a group of people and he burst into tears and said, "I've seen Mama, she's dead."
They took me out of that house and to the McElrath's where my next memory is being at the top of their staircase with about 20 of my friends sitting below me offering consolation and on the stereo was playing the Everly Brothers singing "Dream dream dream, when I want you - all I have to do is dream." And that song has always been in my brain that I they were singing to me about Mama. If I wanted her I could dream.
The next day was Sunday and Mary Grace and Tarver came and got me and put me in the car and we drove around during the church hours. The service from the Methodist Church was broadcast on the local radio station and I remember the minister announcing Mama's death to the congregation and hearing people scream out "Oh No".
By the time I got back home, the out of town family began arriving. My uncle arrived with a state trooper escort car because he was the Attorney General of Georgia and always traveled that way. The family gathered outside and I noticed they were all getting into cars going somewhere. My father's business partner came and pulled me by the arm and said, "Come on boy, we're going to the funeral home." And I said, "I'm not going to any funeral home." And he kept pulling me until my uncle Gene, the Atty Gen. yelled out "Leave him alone, he doesn't want to go. I will stay here with him." Gene always looked out for me and became like a father to me for the rest of his life.
It was not long before I left the house again for another drive with someone and when I returned I walked into the kitchen and look into the dining room and there, to my horror, the dining room table had been removed and in its place was Mama's casket! Being "Hostess of the House" and much older than my years, I went and found my father and a said loudly, "What is that doing here?" And in his drunken stupor he cried, "She was coming home and I wanted her to be here with me." I left the house right then.
That facts were that Mama had gotten up on Saturday morning and driven to Macon to buy a piano for a Sunday School room at her church. I had gone to town early to avoid the rush at the barber shop and she had left without me. On her way home she rounded a bend in the road and hit a truck load of pigs. Her Cadillac smashed up under the truck and Mama was beheaded and when they found her part of her body was even in the back seat of the car. How do I know this? Someone told me that. Why, I'll never know. And the person actually got a perverse pleasure in telling me. And they shall remain nameless for eternity. The biggest irony is that years later when I was finally allowed to hear my father's AA testimonial drunk-a-log, he told that he had bought that Cadillac to commit suicide with. Funny how things turn.
I didn't go home that night before the funeral. I came back to dress for the service and as I walked out of my room I can still see them carrying Mama's casket out the front door. As we drove to the church, I noticed that the entire town had shut down. Businesses were closed and at the church were both sections of my 8th grade glass in attendance. Three preachers conducted the service and one of Mama's best friends and students played the organ.
I was in a stupor and just stared at the casket. We went to the cemetery and that's when I cried, but only a little and to myself. My Aunt Julia and I stayed with the casket until it was lowered into the ground. I went home and the dining table had been replaced and the food was laid out along with Mama's best silverware. All I could think of was "These forks need to be lined up before anybody gets here to eat. And on the stove a pot boiled over and Aunt Julia, running into the kitchen to turn it off saying "Miriam would die if she saw this!" And I said quietly to myself, "She did."
Monday, January 9, 2012
THE SIXTH GRADE: BE QUIET!
Growing up in a small town in the South, or anywhere for that matter, ain’t easy. Everybody knows everything about everybody: when you’re drunk or sober, when you’re broke or rich; even when you fart. In fact, they know so much that when you do fart, they can tell you what you’ve been eating at ten paces. No privacy in small town America.
When I returned home from the War With The Army (otherwise known as the fifth grade spent at military school) I began more conflicts than I had ever encountered in my 11 previous years.
My town was a One Town. There was one of everything. One Baptist Church, one Methodist, one Episcopal and so on. Most people went to either the Methodist one or the Baptist one, and they were only a block apart. I was adventurous. Since I had a parent at each church, I managed to take in both flavors of Jesus. Sometimes during the same service. I would listen to the music at one and then scramble down the street and catch the choir and the final hymn at the other one, especially if Mama was playing the organ.
And the same process was repeated on Sunday night. I would go to Youth Fellowship at the Methodist Church and then go sit on the front row of the Baptist Church and watch Mama making it with the Hammond organ. Oddly enough, Daddy managed to miss all of this church-going back and forth. He stayed home with Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny and Guy Lombardo.
Returning home after the fifth grade I re-enrolled in both Sunday and Grammar School in the Sixth Grade. I came home from school on the first day and said, “Mama, Miss E is my teacher.” And I came home on Sunday and said, “Mama, Miss E is my Sunday School teacher.” Mama gave me one of those looks and said, “That’s too much Miss E.”
Let me tell you about this sixth grade woman. She was what they called a spinster or, as Clare Booth Luce puts it, “What nature abhors, an old maid., a frozen asset” She was stern, strict and hateful, both at Grammar and Sunday events. Miss E. was that “word that is not used in polite society outside of a kennel.”
She despised me from the moment I walked into her class. Oh, I was precocious to the max, probably obnoxious, actually. And I’m sure I gave her nothing but fits at all times. Her idea of punishment for misdeeds was to have you write something thousands of times. My something was always the phrase “be quiet”. And I probably wrote those two words 60,000 times that year.
Everything was regimented in her class right down to where you put your pencil on your desk. And she constantly checked to see that all objects were in their place. She had a grade book where she kept a constant record of every infraction of the rules. Your name was on the left side of the page and there was a box to the right for every day in the school year. She would sit at her desk and look up and down the aisles to see if you of some offense and if you had erred and strayed (like lost sheep) from her norm she would put a black dot by your name. But she would look over the rims of her glasses at you, put the tip of her pencil on her tongue and make certain that you saw she was putting the dot by your name. And that dot was a passport to hell fire.
My particular dot to hell fire came out at Christmas, normally a time of peace and love. Forget it in that young stable. It was the custom in those days for each child to draw a name for a person you would give a gift. These gifts were placed under the tree which stood just inside the door of the room all lit up and festooned for the season.
One day Miss E made the announcement that went like this: “If you have presents for someone other than the one whose name you drew, do NOT place those gifts under the tree. Leave them in the back of the room and distribute them privately.” I wasn’t there that day and did not hear the latest rule she had set down.
This also happened to be the year they introduced black Christmas wrapping paper sprinkled with glitter. Being a Queen in Training, I thought this was the hottest thing since the hula hoop and I wrapped all my friends’ presents with this trendy new stuff. And then I came to school the next morning, walked into the class and dropped all my gifts right under the tree where I was not suppose to. I was wildly proud of how they looked and very full of myself.
All morning Miss E quietly seethed with rage, a rage I was not aware of until morning recess when we all went out to the baseball park to play games. Arriving at the park she held me back and told me to sit in the bleachers. There she began to lecture me on what I had done wrong by putting those gifts under the tree. Who knew? This is what that woman said to an 11-year-old 6th grader: “Ricky, Jesus drove the money changers out of the temple and I’m going to drive you out of my classroom.” I’m not making this up, you know. She really said that to me.
I was dumbfounded and when I got home I told Mama what she had said to me. Mama dropped her Canasta cards and went straight to the school house and the principal’s office. I don’t know what happened, but Miss E was at least civil to me from then on. Well, sorta.
Years later when she was mowing some grass she cut off her big toe. I was delighted.
And years later my phone rang and someone said, "Miss E" is dead. All I could say was "Good".
It took me years to realize how hateful she had been to me. I have never forgotten nor forgiven. Miss E, I guess I’ll meet you in hell.
This story is true in every sense. Only the names have been shortened to protect the guilty.
When I returned home from the War With The Army (otherwise known as the fifth grade spent at military school) I began more conflicts than I had ever encountered in my 11 previous years.
My town was a One Town. There was one of everything. One Baptist Church, one Methodist, one Episcopal and so on. Most people went to either the Methodist one or the Baptist one, and they were only a block apart. I was adventurous. Since I had a parent at each church, I managed to take in both flavors of Jesus. Sometimes during the same service. I would listen to the music at one and then scramble down the street and catch the choir and the final hymn at the other one, especially if Mama was playing the organ.
And the same process was repeated on Sunday night. I would go to Youth Fellowship at the Methodist Church and then go sit on the front row of the Baptist Church and watch Mama making it with the Hammond organ. Oddly enough, Daddy managed to miss all of this church-going back and forth. He stayed home with Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny and Guy Lombardo.
Returning home after the fifth grade I re-enrolled in both Sunday and Grammar School in the Sixth Grade. I came home from school on the first day and said, “Mama, Miss E is my teacher.” And I came home on Sunday and said, “Mama, Miss E is my Sunday School teacher.” Mama gave me one of those looks and said, “That’s too much Miss E.”
Let me tell you about this sixth grade woman. She was what they called a spinster or, as Clare Booth Luce puts it, “What nature abhors, an old maid., a frozen asset” She was stern, strict and hateful, both at Grammar and Sunday events. Miss E. was that “word that is not used in polite society outside of a kennel.”
She despised me from the moment I walked into her class. Oh, I was precocious to the max, probably obnoxious, actually. And I’m sure I gave her nothing but fits at all times. Her idea of punishment for misdeeds was to have you write something thousands of times. My something was always the phrase “be quiet”. And I probably wrote those two words 60,000 times that year.
Everything was regimented in her class right down to where you put your pencil on your desk. And she constantly checked to see that all objects were in their place. She had a grade book where she kept a constant record of every infraction of the rules. Your name was on the left side of the page and there was a box to the right for every day in the school year. She would sit at her desk and look up and down the aisles to see if you of some offense and if you had erred and strayed (like lost sheep) from her norm she would put a black dot by your name. But she would look over the rims of her glasses at you, put the tip of her pencil on her tongue and make certain that you saw she was putting the dot by your name. And that dot was a passport to hell fire.
My particular dot to hell fire came out at Christmas, normally a time of peace and love. Forget it in that young stable. It was the custom in those days for each child to draw a name for a person you would give a gift. These gifts were placed under the tree which stood just inside the door of the room all lit up and festooned for the season.
One day Miss E made the announcement that went like this: “If you have presents for someone other than the one whose name you drew, do NOT place those gifts under the tree. Leave them in the back of the room and distribute them privately.” I wasn’t there that day and did not hear the latest rule she had set down.
This also happened to be the year they introduced black Christmas wrapping paper sprinkled with glitter. Being a Queen in Training, I thought this was the hottest thing since the hula hoop and I wrapped all my friends’ presents with this trendy new stuff. And then I came to school the next morning, walked into the class and dropped all my gifts right under the tree where I was not suppose to. I was wildly proud of how they looked and very full of myself.
All morning Miss E quietly seethed with rage, a rage I was not aware of until morning recess when we all went out to the baseball park to play games. Arriving at the park she held me back and told me to sit in the bleachers. There she began to lecture me on what I had done wrong by putting those gifts under the tree. Who knew? This is what that woman said to an 11-year-old 6th grader: “Ricky, Jesus drove the money changers out of the temple and I’m going to drive you out of my classroom.” I’m not making this up, you know. She really said that to me.
I was dumbfounded and when I got home I told Mama what she had said to me. Mama dropped her Canasta cards and went straight to the school house and the principal’s office. I don’t know what happened, but Miss E was at least civil to me from then on. Well, sorta.
Years later when she was mowing some grass she cut off her big toe. I was delighted.
And years later my phone rang and someone said, "Miss E" is dead. All I could say was "Good".
It took me years to realize how hateful she had been to me. I have never forgotten nor forgiven. Miss E, I guess I’ll meet you in hell.
This story is true in every sense. Only the names have been shortened to protect the guilty.
THE FIFTH GRADE AND THE THIRD ARMY - strong language
The Fifth Grade Spent with the Third Army
I was thrown out of some pretty good prep schools. And I was thrown out of some prep schools and it was pretty good. I also was thrown out of some crap holes in 50's Americana South-style. The first one was laughingly called a Military Academy because they paid some bucks to the Third Army down the street to come around and shake their Johnson on campus a couple of times each year and scare the living gizzards out of little boys whose parents didn't want them at home so they sent them to West Point South. It was always confusing to me because they threatened us with Third Army discipline, but the Commandant of Cadets was a Navy officer and wore a Navy uniform. His dad owned the joint.
I got special attention because I played the piano for the Glee Club and I didn't have to carry a rifle but instead a clarinet. Big deal. I worshiped the Drum Major of the marching band mainly because he reminded me of Mary Grace, my friend who was the drum majorette at home. I guess he was a majorette, too, if you get my drift. That was long before I knew anything about sexuality of any form..
I also took piano lessons and one night was called from a dead sleep to the piano teacher's room. There were two other cadets there and we were all in our jockey shorts and we just sat around and talked. I guess they were trying to start something sexual or discover if I even knew what sex was. I was as green as a fried tomato and did not learn about sex until the next prep school. (There were lots of schools.)
I got out of this Third Army Hell Pit by setting fire to the dorm. I figured if my father wouldn't let me come home as I had begged, I would get kicked out and he would have to let me come home. I was trying to prevent his marriage to that woman and figured if I got home I could do something against it. I set fire to one little curtain in my dorm room. It burned for about 45 seconds but caused all manner of havoc. Older cadets I have never seen came running from floors in the dorm I had never visited. I convinced them the steam radiator had caused the fire. I had a reprieve on the wanting-to-go-home. They all seemed to believe me for several months.
Then one day an older cadet asked me if I had lit the curtain on fire. I trusted him and immediately said that I had done it. I was in Sandersville within 24 hours and my father was married within the week because he needed someone to take care of me. About like I needed a piano lesson at midnight.
It’s odd that children always pay for the parents’ screw ups - one way or the other. The Sink Drinkers in my case had really been at the sink for about two months when I was presented with the bill for the party. He had also been into morphine with his doctor. They shot up together while they were sink drinking. I was 9 at the time but in full knowledge of what was going on.
The night I got the bill I remember hearing someone crying and someone beating on a door. I got out of bed - they never partied, parted or presented anyone with a bill except in the middle of the night - and there he was banging on the front bedroom door which was locked tight. She was on the other side whimpering. I turned into my bathroom to find a note (the bill) which said that she had thought when they got me "things would be different" but they weren’t, so she was chucking it all and going seaside. Great. Here I am 9 years old and I’ve fucked up their marriage and she’s killing herself and he’s trying to break down a door so he can kill her. I called the doctor, the same one with the morphine. He came and somehow we got the door open. It was light outside by this time and she was fetal in a little ball on the bed shivering and moaning with a complete nervous collapse. I saw him pull a needle out of his bag and I grabbed it and threw it up against the wall. It smashed and left a spot on the wall that stayed there for seven years. No morphine for her that day. Her brother arrived from a nearby town and they carted her there and they shipped me to the Military Academy. So the total bill was I had ruined their marriage, caused him to take morphine and sink drink, given her a nervous collapse and to pay for it I was sent away to the Long Gray Line never more to return.
Odd going to a boarding school in the fifth grade. We had boarders there in the first grade because his dad ran a restaurant and it was “better”. Some bill that kid paid. I was thoroughly indoctrinated into punishment. I figured I deserved to be treated badly, so this was right with the program I was pretty alone in that shit hole but had weekends to look forward to at my uncle’s in Atlanta, or so I thought. The first weekend I went there was a disagreement between him and his son about a TV show. His son locked himself in his room and my uncle, determined the kid wasn’t going to watch a certain TV program and unable to break down the door, went to the basement and pulled the fuse box out of the wall, causing the power to go out for three days. And this was my weekend vacation, but I deserved it, see?
By November my parents came for Thanksgiving and were, apparently, together. I never asked. Christmas was normal and I returned for second semester. It was during second semester that she played a two-piano program with a friend. It had to be postponed because Daddy stabbed her in the eye with a fork during a sink drinking evening.
How do these people do this shit to each other? What motivates them to stay together?
She had no money of her own and she didn’t know anything else but what her life was. He loved her but hated her because she was infertile and I was living proof of that - an adopted kid. Purchased at great price from a young woman in Charleston, South Carolina. Abandoned at birth with papers to prove it. But no longer needed at The Long Gray Line, so I came home for the sixth grade. But the Prep School Agenda didn’t resume until a couple of years later. It would take death to send me back. Later.....
I was thrown out of some pretty good prep schools. And I was thrown out of some prep schools and it was pretty good. I also was thrown out of some crap holes in 50's Americana South-style. The first one was laughingly called a Military Academy because they paid some bucks to the Third Army down the street to come around and shake their Johnson on campus a couple of times each year and scare the living gizzards out of little boys whose parents didn't want them at home so they sent them to West Point South. It was always confusing to me because they threatened us with Third Army discipline, but the Commandant of Cadets was a Navy officer and wore a Navy uniform. His dad owned the joint.
I got special attention because I played the piano for the Glee Club and I didn't have to carry a rifle but instead a clarinet. Big deal. I worshiped the Drum Major of the marching band mainly because he reminded me of Mary Grace, my friend who was the drum majorette at home. I guess he was a majorette, too, if you get my drift. That was long before I knew anything about sexuality of any form..
I also took piano lessons and one night was called from a dead sleep to the piano teacher's room. There were two other cadets there and we were all in our jockey shorts and we just sat around and talked. I guess they were trying to start something sexual or discover if I even knew what sex was. I was as green as a fried tomato and did not learn about sex until the next prep school. (There were lots of schools.)
I got out of this Third Army Hell Pit by setting fire to the dorm. I figured if my father wouldn't let me come home as I had begged, I would get kicked out and he would have to let me come home. I was trying to prevent his marriage to that woman and figured if I got home I could do something against it. I set fire to one little curtain in my dorm room. It burned for about 45 seconds but caused all manner of havoc. Older cadets I have never seen came running from floors in the dorm I had never visited. I convinced them the steam radiator had caused the fire. I had a reprieve on the wanting-to-go-home. They all seemed to believe me for several months.
Then one day an older cadet asked me if I had lit the curtain on fire. I trusted him and immediately said that I had done it. I was in Sandersville within 24 hours and my father was married within the week because he needed someone to take care of me. About like I needed a piano lesson at midnight.
It’s odd that children always pay for the parents’ screw ups - one way or the other. The Sink Drinkers in my case had really been at the sink for about two months when I was presented with the bill for the party. He had also been into morphine with his doctor. They shot up together while they were sink drinking. I was 9 at the time but in full knowledge of what was going on.
The night I got the bill I remember hearing someone crying and someone beating on a door. I got out of bed - they never partied, parted or presented anyone with a bill except in the middle of the night - and there he was banging on the front bedroom door which was locked tight. She was on the other side whimpering. I turned into my bathroom to find a note (the bill) which said that she had thought when they got me "things would be different" but they weren’t, so she was chucking it all and going seaside. Great. Here I am 9 years old and I’ve fucked up their marriage and she’s killing herself and he’s trying to break down a door so he can kill her. I called the doctor, the same one with the morphine. He came and somehow we got the door open. It was light outside by this time and she was fetal in a little ball on the bed shivering and moaning with a complete nervous collapse. I saw him pull a needle out of his bag and I grabbed it and threw it up against the wall. It smashed and left a spot on the wall that stayed there for seven years. No morphine for her that day. Her brother arrived from a nearby town and they carted her there and they shipped me to the Military Academy. So the total bill was I had ruined their marriage, caused him to take morphine and sink drink, given her a nervous collapse and to pay for it I was sent away to the Long Gray Line never more to return.
Odd going to a boarding school in the fifth grade. We had boarders there in the first grade because his dad ran a restaurant and it was “better”. Some bill that kid paid. I was thoroughly indoctrinated into punishment. I figured I deserved to be treated badly, so this was right with the program I was pretty alone in that shit hole but had weekends to look forward to at my uncle’s in Atlanta, or so I thought. The first weekend I went there was a disagreement between him and his son about a TV show. His son locked himself in his room and my uncle, determined the kid wasn’t going to watch a certain TV program and unable to break down the door, went to the basement and pulled the fuse box out of the wall, causing the power to go out for three days. And this was my weekend vacation, but I deserved it, see?
By November my parents came for Thanksgiving and were, apparently, together. I never asked. Christmas was normal and I returned for second semester. It was during second semester that she played a two-piano program with a friend. It had to be postponed because Daddy stabbed her in the eye with a fork during a sink drinking evening.
How do these people do this shit to each other? What motivates them to stay together?
She had no money of her own and she didn’t know anything else but what her life was. He loved her but hated her because she was infertile and I was living proof of that - an adopted kid. Purchased at great price from a young woman in Charleston, South Carolina. Abandoned at birth with papers to prove it. But no longer needed at The Long Gray Line, so I came home for the sixth grade. But the Prep School Agenda didn’t resume until a couple of years later. It would take death to send me back. Later.....
Friday, January 6, 2012
THIRD GRADE: Thank You, Miss Nellie
THANK YOU, MISS NELLIE
My teacher was the wonderful Miss Nellie Herringdine. She has many places in my memory. Most of all I remember that she taught me cursive writing. We would draw those circles until we were blue in the face and somehow that applied to writing words. Before that, the only word recognition I remember learning was in the dreaded first grade. I can distinctly remember looking at the black board and having the teacher point to the words “Jane” and “dog”. I think I was more afraid of the stick she was pointing with that anything else.
But Miss Nellie was always sweet to me in the third grade. I just don’t have any bad memories of that time. Maybe I’ve blocked them out. I still see her these days. She left the Baptist Church when she moved to Athens to be near her son, William. She joined the Anglican Catholic Church (there’s another story!). But I am getting ahead of myself.
The Herringdines lived down the street from us, though I never went into their house. Never was invited. I later learned that they had an alcohol problem just as we had and that made me feel somehow closer to them in later times. Funny how shared bad times come up in your memory quicker than the good times. Good times? What are those?
Anyway, years later when I had returned home to direct a musical, I was at the library and there was Miss Nellie sitting behind a desk just as she had so long ago in the third grade. I was writing something on a piece of paper and the thought suddenly came to me that I was doing what she had taught me to do – write.
So I asked her, “Don’t you think it’s amazing that I’m doing something here that you taught me to many years ago?” And her reply was a droll, “Not especially.” Funny how I was taken aback by that. So I continued by asking a loaded question, “Miss Nellie, have I changed much since the third grade?” “Not one bit,” she said quickly! and continued, “We always kept a dot by your name, Ricky.” (God how I hated that name! Funny, now I like it.) “A dot?” I asked. “Yes, you were always up to something. And we never let you and Lyn Padgett be in the same classroom, either!”
The Padgetts are another tale I will tell one day, and Lyn was my best friend during those times. She was the girl down the street. She and Ray South. The Padgetts were like the Ewing family on "Dallas", but the Souths were my idea of the perfect 50's family. "Ozzie and Harriet" or "Father Knows Best." I was later proved right in both cases. Lyn and I were considered devious for the things we would think up and then express out loud. I can easily now see why they kept us separated! In the seventh grade Lyn and I campaigned out loud to have the teacher removed or for us to be transferred to the other teacher’s classroom. It didn’t work and only served to make our teacher dissolve in tears. Remember, we were seventh graders and hellions for sure.
I don’t see Lyn much these days but when I do she is still the exact same person she was in 1953. And Miss Nellie, while slowed by deafness and infirmities, was still the lovely lady I so vividly remember in that third grade. She's gone now. R.I.P. and Thank you, Miss Nellie. I love you.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
A PIECE OF CANDY?? - The Second Grade
TERRORISM OR A CHILDHOOD SPENT IN FEAR
Take the second grade when I was kept in during recess and grilled incessantly about stealing a piece of chocolate candy off the teacher’s desk.
My theft went like this: I took the little single piece of candy which was wrapped and placed in a jar on teacher’s desk. I was used to this as Mama’s friend Jane always kept candy in a jar for anyone to take. What did I know?
Then she discovered it was missing and that’s when it hit the fan. She made every second grader take out a little piece of paper and write either yes or no depending on your guilt. I wrote yes. And she slowly walked up and down each aisle of the class picking up each piece of paper and reading each one. When she got to mine, you would have thought she had discovered Little Black Sambo in her bedroom. She immediately called “recess” and everyone went outside except the guilty party, me.
She walked around the classroom and kept saying to me, “ I need to hear the words.” I had no damn idea what she was talking about! But she insisted I knew what to say. Don’t forget that at this point I am in the second grade and therefore, age 7. And she is carrying on like Mao-Tse-Tung trying to get a nuclear secret out of a worker in a rice patty.
I didn’t know what she wanted me to say! So I started talking, desperately hoping to hit on the right thing. This was a technique I would learn to perfect and use to my advantage in later years. First I said, “I’m sorry.” And she said, “No.” I went through the entire litany of every apology I could think of. I even said, “I apologize” and that didn’t do any good either. This whole terrorist tactic went on for what seemed like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. I kept ringing my hands because I was in misery because I had figured out that the teacher didn’t like me. This is an idea I carry with me to this very day. If someone is mad at me I think they hate my guts and when they finish raking me over the coals I will never see them again. Of course that isn’t true. Most people don’t carry grudges; notice I said “most people”.
But at that moment during recess I had figured that out. Probably took me forty years to digest that. Still I kept up saying things to the teacher, anything to get through with this terrorist ordeal.
I was in tears and probably had also messed in my pants when I finally hit upon “Please forgive me”. “That’s it”, she said, “that’s what I wanted to hear”. I expected the lights to change, the flag to unfurl up in the front of the classroom and the “Hallelujah Chorus” to come up out of the floor with the heavenly choir. I had already been to a few movies. None of that happened of course.
But I had paid the price. I was shamed into submission to her Christian DogmaTHON, a word I just made up. I was further terrified that she was going to tell Mama, but she never did.
Who ever heard of a second grader in 1950 saying “forgive me”?
It’s funny how those bitches up there on that long hall changed in the way they treated me in later years. When they realized I had some talent and brains, that I could bring pleasure with my music, they all wanted to be aligned in my cheering section. Talk about confusing, I didn’t know what the hell was going on when they later said, “You were the most talented and the best student my classroom. I knew you would be a success.”
Shit, why couldn’t they have given a kid a little encouragement when he needed it? That probably would have cost too much, huh? Never mind what being under their thumbs for all those years cost me.
Forgive? Yeah, mostly. Forget? Never.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
EXPLANATION OF RICHWAH - My Name
Larry ShueOne of my happiest times of my life: great shows, a full orchestra which was mine all mine and wonderful actors, not the least of which was Larry Shue. Brilliant actor, comedian and author, most notably of "The Foreigner" and "Winceslas Square"
Larry was truly a man of the theatre: actor, author, wit, raconteur, ladies man, - you name it, Larry was it. He told me a story one day backstage about himself, which will explain the name RICHWAH:
It seems that when Larry and a friend of his graduated from University, they planned to teach acting in Chicago. The funny part is that they decided they would teach their students to do everything wrong, so they wouldn't become competition for them, the teachers! And the main thing they were going to teach was to have the students "schwah" the end of every sentence they spoke. Such as Hamlet's soliloquy "To be or not to be" would be (in their method) "To be or not to be-WUH" or "Romeo, wherefore are thou?" would become "Romeo, wherefore are thou-WUH?" (Try it, yourself, and you will see how hysterical it is.) Walk up to a friend and say, "Hello-WUH" and you can't help but laugh.
Any way, we all thought this was very, very funny - and everyone in the theatre company started "schwah-ing" everything: such as "Hello-WUH", etc. Pam Bierly became Pamela-WUH (eventually Pamela-WUH Pythis-Smythe-WUH") Anyway, you get the idea.
And I became "Rich-WUH" or as pronounced today "Richwah" - and by certain very dear friends, just WAH. Endearing to me, strange to others, but there it is.
And it occurred to me that every time we do it, we remember Larry Shue. Larry died in a plane crash in 1985 while preparing the script of "The Foreigner" for a Disney Film that never got made.
We will never forget you, Larry. Ever.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
PRESS RELEASE - PRESS RELEASE - PRESS RELEASE
I will digress for this posting and give you a bit of my insanity. Let me explain:
As a pianist and teacher of singers, I have listened to thousands of voice lessons and recitals, and have played most of them on the piano myself.
Way back when, when I was a secretary for a tax law firm on Wall Street, I used to get really bored and would have nothing to do, so I would make up programs and send them through the mail to friends. Most of my friends thought me insane (still do) but a few really "got" what I was trying to do. Cleaning out a closet last night, I found this "review" of a concert which I completely invented and pretended to publish under the name "Trel Rolfang." (Told you I was insane). I hope you "get it" and enjoy this as much as I did writing it and then finding it after so many years - here goes:
It is always a pleasure to be able to say, in the springtime of the year, that we have come upon a joyous occasion for music. It was during our last evening of musical nocturnal musings, that we were pleased to hear Madame Shavime Werl, Soprano drammatica d 'energetico, lately of La Scala Opera Company of Milan, Italy, Teatro Colon of Argentina, and the Lambling Grisleth Downtown Music Listeners Society of Sussex-in-Thames, ENGLAND.
Madame Werl was beautifully costumed in a Cele Chapman Empire-waisted gown with an overlay of silk fishnet, studded with Conch shells and Pop-tops from Budweiser Beer cans. A special feature of her outfit was her unusual shoes, which were twelve- inch platform heels with electric lights and powered by minute batteries placed inside the heels of the shoes. Need I say that Madame Werl presented a dazzling sight to behold, indeed?
Madame Werl has made an extensive study of the music of Heinrich Schuetz-Smythe, descendant of the composer Jakob Fuchs, lately of Stinkenbach-on-Tirol, Switzerland. She has found many cantatas and arias which have never before been performed and is presently preparing an edition of these musical selections for publication. As a special treat to last night's audience, Madame Werl presented fifteen of these pieces for the first group on her recital.
Special attention was paid to the intricate contrapuntal details of the thirteenth and fifteenth arias, using a blackboard showing the illustrative inner workings of the compositions. Madame Werl found it a little difficult to move around, what with keeping the lights working in her shoes and being in the right place at the right time to point out special musical significances at the board, and sing, all simultaneously. She did, however, competently, give an excellent reading of this group. She is, obviously, the only living artiste to have this music in her possession, and for this reviewer's concern, she can keep them.
Following the Schuetz-Smythe group, Intermission was held in the Pilkington-HaIsley Phlox Garden, Directly behind the stage. Members of the audience were served Lizard Tongues en brochette and Vichy water, by Madame Werl, who had prepared the delicious refreshments, herself, before the recital on a Wok stove in the auditorium.
The second half of the evening's program turned out to be a surprise, indeed! A performance of the "Ode on Finding Crabs" was given by Madame Werl. This unbelievable composition, by the late nineteenth-century Serbian composer Ernst Kelbonck, uses actual crab mating calls as a background drone while the singer interpolates her own experiences in vocal forms. Especially interesting are the sounds made by the South Carolina She- Crab during sexual intercourse all of which was recorded on Telefunken Equipment by Audio Research Center of Winsington, Bermuda.
As a constant recital attender, I found that Shavime Werl's concert was a real thrill and excitement. It has been a long time since Yakima has heard any things quite like her and wrongly so, for her artistry and nuance of vocal line and coloring of consonants are so rare in this day and age. We look forward, eagerly, to Shavime Werl's next appearance in Yakima, when she will sing the entire road map of Arkansas and Southern Mississippi.
copyright 1973 by Trel Rolfang
As a pianist and teacher of singers, I have listened to thousands of voice lessons and recitals, and have played most of them on the piano myself.
Way back when, when I was a secretary for a tax law firm on Wall Street, I used to get really bored and would have nothing to do, so I would make up programs and send them through the mail to friends. Most of my friends thought me insane (still do) but a few really "got" what I was trying to do. Cleaning out a closet last night, I found this "review" of a concert which I completely invented and pretended to publish under the name "Trel Rolfang." (Told you I was insane). I hope you "get it" and enjoy this as much as I did writing it and then finding it after so many years - here goes:
The Huntsburger-Xenophonic Humanities Club of Yakima Wisconsin
Presents Foreign Artiste in Recital
Presents Foreign Artiste in Recital
It is always a pleasure to be able to say, in the springtime of the year, that we have come upon a joyous occasion for music. It was during our last evening of musical nocturnal musings, that we were pleased to hear Madame Shavime Werl, Soprano drammatica d 'energetico, lately of La Scala Opera Company of Milan, Italy, Teatro Colon of Argentina, and the Lambling Grisleth Downtown Music Listeners Society of Sussex-in-Thames, ENGLAND.
Madame Werl was beautifully costumed in a Cele Chapman Empire-waisted gown with an overlay of silk fishnet, studded with Conch shells and Pop-tops from Budweiser Beer cans. A special feature of her outfit was her unusual shoes, which were twelve- inch platform heels with electric lights and powered by minute batteries placed inside the heels of the shoes. Need I say that Madame Werl presented a dazzling sight to behold, indeed?
Madame Werl has made an extensive study of the music of Heinrich Schuetz-Smythe, descendant of the composer Jakob Fuchs, lately of Stinkenbach-on-Tirol, Switzerland. She has found many cantatas and arias which have never before been performed and is presently preparing an edition of these musical selections for publication. As a special treat to last night's audience, Madame Werl presented fifteen of these pieces for the first group on her recital.
Special attention was paid to the intricate contrapuntal details of the thirteenth and fifteenth arias, using a blackboard showing the illustrative inner workings of the compositions. Madame Werl found it a little difficult to move around, what with keeping the lights working in her shoes and being in the right place at the right time to point out special musical significances at the board, and sing, all simultaneously. She did, however, competently, give an excellent reading of this group. She is, obviously, the only living artiste to have this music in her possession, and for this reviewer's concern, she can keep them.
Following the Schuetz-Smythe group, Intermission was held in the Pilkington-HaIsley Phlox Garden, Directly behind the stage. Members of the audience were served Lizard Tongues en brochette and Vichy water, by Madame Werl, who had prepared the delicious refreshments, herself, before the recital on a Wok stove in the auditorium.
The second half of the evening's program turned out to be a surprise, indeed! A performance of the "Ode on Finding Crabs" was given by Madame Werl. This unbelievable composition, by the late nineteenth-century Serbian composer Ernst Kelbonck, uses actual crab mating calls as a background drone while the singer interpolates her own experiences in vocal forms. Especially interesting are the sounds made by the South Carolina She- Crab during sexual intercourse all of which was recorded on Telefunken Equipment by Audio Research Center of Winsington, Bermuda.
As a constant recital attender, I found that Shavime Werl's concert was a real thrill and excitement. It has been a long time since Yakima has heard any things quite like her and wrongly so, for her artistry and nuance of vocal line and coloring of consonants are so rare in this day and age. We look forward, eagerly, to Shavime Werl's next appearance in Yakima, when she will sing the entire road map of Arkansas and Southern Mississippi.
copyright 1973 by Trel Rolfang
Monday, January 2, 2012
THE LONG HALL
The Long Hall
In the 50’s coffee came in one flavor, people came in one color and music came in one beat. And you didn’t know any better. First time I heard “Shake, Rattle and Roll” I thought they were singing “Shake, Marilyn Monroe.” What did I know? Up in Atlanta they had a mega-store, Rich’s Downtown, you could get lost in there and never be seen again unless you happened to pass across the glass bridge which connected the two buildings over Peachtree Street. It’s the connections which shine the light on your journey.
My connection started at home, and I knew the few necessary steps to survive in that mine field. Slam a door and open another one. I am at level two holding Mama’s hand and walking down the long hall and smelling something. Smells take you any place quick. Give me a smell and I’m there. Diesel fumes give me Atlanta, wood fire at sundown and I get Carolina in the hills. I smelled pencil shavings walking down the long hall. Fresh wood being cut up into little tiny pieces. I was a little tiny piece that day, already been cut up, though. That walk was scarier than a sinner’s hell fire . I don’t suppose they ever thought we could have gone around to the back of the building and just walked in and there we’d be. Way too easy. Trauma beats tranquil, in spades.
Then I’m standing in front of a door to a world I never knew. Lots of little tiny pieces in there, already cut up, too. I let go of Mama’s hand but I don’t remember how I got to where I ended up. But I sure got there. Still that smell of wood and shavings. I sat at a big low table for six in the back of the room. The only person I remember is the woman up front. She was not what you’d call friendly. Emphasize terrifying. Mean, at least that's how a 5-year-old saw it.. So mean that when you misbehaved she made you dress up like a girl and stand in front of the room for everybody to laugh at you. I never did misbehave enough to put on that dress and I wanted to. Doris Day knew me even then. But I never got to get up there and show off in the dress. That’s how she dealt with the tiny little boy pieces.
I don’t remember her punishing the little girls. I do remember a pretty little blond girl with a smile that made you need sunglasses on a cloudy day. One day, she wasn’t there. I couldn’t find her. In those days nobody talked about anything so I couldn’t find my friend. I turned to another girl friend to ask but she didn’t know anything either. I always held her suspect anyway. She wasn’t home-town and she wiped her dog’s butt with toilet paper out in the yard every time he pooped. They didn’t stay in town very long either. They picked up their toilet paper and their saxophones and moved straight to Disney World.
It was a year before the girl with the smile came back. She came back with more than she left, crutches and a brace on her leg. Polio. So close to me. Flying around in the air on the backs of flies. But none of them landed on me It didn’t seem to affect her, though, the smile was still there. Sometimes it was forced, but she smiled even if it killed her. At the Pastime Theater, they used to pass the tin cup for polio and Sinatra up on the screen would sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” My friend always had the metal under her arm and on her leg. And she never walked alone.
Across the long hall there was another woman who had a much better deal going on than what I had in my room. Across the hall was what you would call a battle axe. She was of indeterminate age, a heaving bosom, orthopedic oxfords and little pince-nez glasses down on her nose. I was terrified of her, but I loved her. She made you bring newspaper every day so you’d have a place to take a nap on the floor. After nap time, she’d give you a little orange pail and you’d march outside and get water for her plants. She was standing in the door one afternoon giving some words of wisdom to us while keeping tabs on the Long Hall. She used an improper word to describe a black person and the maid who was sweeping the hall, herself black, said “Miss Ellen, we don’t use that word anymore, we say “Negroes”. With one huge heave of that bosom, Miss Ellen turned to the woman and said, “There is no ROSE to it. Now you get home and wash your Christmas.” Don’t ask me what it meant, I’m just telling the tale. She continued teaching about 20 years past retirement and when they finally shoved her out the door she went home, made Christmas Brandy and called you up out of the blue to tell you your batch was ready and to bring $7 for it. And you never said no to Miss Ellen.
In the 50’s coffee came in one flavor, people came in one color and music came in one beat. And you didn’t know any better. First time I heard “Shake, Rattle and Roll” I thought they were singing “Shake, Marilyn Monroe.” What did I know? Up in Atlanta they had a mega-store, Rich’s Downtown, you could get lost in there and never be seen again unless you happened to pass across the glass bridge which connected the two buildings over Peachtree Street. It’s the connections which shine the light on your journey.
My connection started at home, and I knew the few necessary steps to survive in that mine field. Slam a door and open another one. I am at level two holding Mama’s hand and walking down the long hall and smelling something. Smells take you any place quick. Give me a smell and I’m there. Diesel fumes give me Atlanta, wood fire at sundown and I get Carolina in the hills. I smelled pencil shavings walking down the long hall. Fresh wood being cut up into little tiny pieces. I was a little tiny piece that day, already been cut up, though. That walk was scarier than a sinner’s hell fire . I don’t suppose they ever thought we could have gone around to the back of the building and just walked in and there we’d be. Way too easy. Trauma beats tranquil, in spades.
Then I’m standing in front of a door to a world I never knew. Lots of little tiny pieces in there, already cut up, too. I let go of Mama’s hand but I don’t remember how I got to where I ended up. But I sure got there. Still that smell of wood and shavings. I sat at a big low table for six in the back of the room. The only person I remember is the woman up front. She was not what you’d call friendly. Emphasize terrifying. Mean, at least that's how a 5-year-old saw it.. So mean that when you misbehaved she made you dress up like a girl and stand in front of the room for everybody to laugh at you. I never did misbehave enough to put on that dress and I wanted to. Doris Day knew me even then. But I never got to get up there and show off in the dress. That’s how she dealt with the tiny little boy pieces.
I don’t remember her punishing the little girls. I do remember a pretty little blond girl with a smile that made you need sunglasses on a cloudy day. One day, she wasn’t there. I couldn’t find her. In those days nobody talked about anything so I couldn’t find my friend. I turned to another girl friend to ask but she didn’t know anything either. I always held her suspect anyway. She wasn’t home-town and she wiped her dog’s butt with toilet paper out in the yard every time he pooped. They didn’t stay in town very long either. They picked up their toilet paper and their saxophones and moved straight to Disney World.
It was a year before the girl with the smile came back. She came back with more than she left, crutches and a brace on her leg. Polio. So close to me. Flying around in the air on the backs of flies. But none of them landed on me It didn’t seem to affect her, though, the smile was still there. Sometimes it was forced, but she smiled even if it killed her. At the Pastime Theater, they used to pass the tin cup for polio and Sinatra up on the screen would sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” My friend always had the metal under her arm and on her leg. And she never walked alone.
Across the long hall there was another woman who had a much better deal going on than what I had in my room. Across the hall was what you would call a battle axe. She was of indeterminate age, a heaving bosom, orthopedic oxfords and little pince-nez glasses down on her nose. I was terrified of her, but I loved her. She made you bring newspaper every day so you’d have a place to take a nap on the floor. After nap time, she’d give you a little orange pail and you’d march outside and get water for her plants. She was standing in the door one afternoon giving some words of wisdom to us while keeping tabs on the Long Hall. She used an improper word to describe a black person and the maid who was sweeping the hall, herself black, said “Miss Ellen, we don’t use that word anymore, we say “Negroes”. With one huge heave of that bosom, Miss Ellen turned to the woman and said, “There is no ROSE to it. Now you get home and wash your Christmas.” Don’t ask me what it meant, I’m just telling the tale. She continued teaching about 20 years past retirement and when they finally shoved her out the door she went home, made Christmas Brandy and called you up out of the blue to tell you your batch was ready and to bring $7 for it. And you never said no to Miss Ellen.
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