Time and Paddle Balls

Time and Paddle Balls
By Jay

Every fall for the past seven years (except one when I was seriously ill), I go away for two nights and three days to a camp in the Appalachians on the North Carolina / Virginia line.  It is a good two hour ride from Charlotte  --  scenic and pretty along the way as you near your destination on windy, hilly roads.  Situated and secluded at a high elevation, the view from camp can be breathtaking at various times of the day, especially in the morning when the clouds settle on the trees in the valley below and at night when the setting sun assumes various reddish and orange hues on the horizon.  It is the perfect place for a painter to rest his easel and set about delineating the picturesque views that the area has to offer. 

I attend this camp with nearly fifty middle schoolers as well as my colleagues where we participate in various activities from hiking to canoeing to zip-lining.  The camp has been there many years, and of course, my curious eye is always eager to catch something to spark my imagination.  Usually, it is the majestic views of the foothills during the day or perhaps the dark star filled sky at night unhindered by the bothersome lights and noise of the city.  Sometimes, it is the many deer I see grazing in a distant field.  And other times, it might be watching some tiny piece of driftwood glide smoothly down the Neuse river until it disappears completely from my view.  Mostly, it is nature which gets me to thinking and reflecting and appreciating the tiny and precious amount of time available in this sad but beautiful world.  But this time it was different.  This time it was a small plaque that was hanging in the gym beside the stage which set my imagination whirring. 

I had seen this plaque every year since I first started coming to the camp six years before.  I suppose I read it the first year and gazed upon it every succeeding year I came; however, this year I did more than just give it a passing nod.  I stood before it and wondered just what it was all about and why it was in the gym where  dozens of exuberant and energetic middle schoolers were shooting baskets, tossing footballs, and kicking soccer balls, some screaming at the top of their lungs and others just laughing and running around. 

The plaque read:

 

James Emory Gibson Jr.

1920-1963

Y.M.C.A. Camp Council 1960-1963

“A Friend of Youth”

 

I suppose what really struck me at first was the short life span of Mr. Gibson.  Forty-three is not very old.  I wondered what could have possibly happened to him.  He had hardly entered middle age, and was a year younger than my present number.  I thought of myself and my own cancer of three years, and of course, realized that no one was guaranteed their three score and ten.  I don’t know what caused Mr. Gibson’s early death, but I do realize that I’m fortunate to have cancer in 2012 rather than 1963.  With all the advances in research and technology, what would have been a certain death sentence to me a mere fifteen years ago, has extended my life by at least three years!  Hopefully, as long as my body continues to accept the medication that I’m on, I will live another three years  --  perhaps longer.  As I looked upon the plaque, I could not help but empathize with the late Mr. Gibson, and I soon found myself just wondering what kind of a man he was.  Obviously, I knew nothing about him except for what was on the plaque.  I didn’t even think of asking any of the camp counselors, for they were only kids themselves, most of them born over a quarter of a century after Mr. Gibson breathed his last.  Even the older staff at the camp…  Surely, no one would remember him…  Forty-nine years had elapsed since Mr. Gibson had been declared “A Friend of Youth”.  The youth then would now be senior citizens.  And even if I did ask someone, what kind of a look would I get?  Why do you want to know?  Not too many people would understand my curiosity concerning a long forgotten plaque in an isolated gymnasium deep in the Appalachians. 

So I did the next best thing…  I transported myself back in time  --  to the early 1960’s.  But I wondered if even the gym was that old.  So as I looked out at the sprawling hills and grass and cabins which made up the camp, I could almost see a man: tall and fit, with shorts and white tennis shoes,  a blond crew cut and cotton collared shirt with a whistle around his neck…  Could this be James Emory Gibson Jr.?  Of course, I had no idea what he looked like.  For all I knew, he was short, plump and dark-haired with a scraggly beard.  But this was not how I saw him.  There were several children surrounding him – 1960’s style dress – boys in dress shorts and tennis shoes with short crew cuts  --  girls in dresses and pig-tails, and they all seemed to be in the process of playing kick ball or dodge ball or some ball game  --  the image was not clear.

I was awakened by the sound of “Duck, Mr. Hipkins!”  And I squinted and cringed, hunching my shoulders as a basketball came inches from striking me in the back of the head.  This brought me back to reality, and before I knew it, I was in amongst the kids, shooting sky hooks and jump shots and having a grand old time.  “The Friend of Youth” was forgotten, but not for long.

I decided to do a quick Google search when I got home a few days later, not expecting to find anything in regards to Mr. Gibson.  What I did find surprised me, though perhaps it should not have.  Apparently, Mr. Gibson’s father, Gibson Sr. started a company (Fliback) in the early 1930’s based out of, I believe, High Point, North Carolina, specializing in the production of “simple toys such as spinning tops, yo-yo’s, balloons, rubber balls, etc…”  according to Gibson Sr.’s grandson, Gibson III.  When Gibson Sr. retired, Gibson Jr. took over the company and expanded production adding many other toys.  Apparently, Gibson Jr. was on his way to doubling the size of the company by creating a second plant when he unfortunately passed away.  Their greatest achievement though seemed to be the invention, or at least modification, of the paddle ball.  How many times did I play with one of these as a child in the school yard, Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!   I also remember one featured prominently in the Vincent Price movie The House of Wax  -- a fellow standing outside the museum using one to startle the audience of the time, who would have viewed the original movie in 3-D in 1953.  What fun and enjoyment have millions of children had with these over the eighty odd years they’ve been in existence!  A string, a ball, and a piece of wood…  “simple”…  nothing fancy…  nothing complicated or gadget-like about them…  Do children even play with these anymore?  I haven’t seen one in years, but then, have I really been looking?  It seems that all children like playing with these days have to do with computers or game systems  --  electronics and things that go beep, crash and explode. They even watch movies now when they get in the car and go on trips… Of course, they still like to throw balls around and such, but that seems to be only when the electronic gadgets are not available to them…    

The paddle ball…  a different time…  a different era…  a simpler age…  an age where Gibson Sr. and Jr., father and son, like old St. Nick, set about making all kinds of toys in their factory…  simple…  innocent…  imaginative, and fun! 

I can now see the sun going down on the horizon at the camp.  In the twilight, a dim figure emerges from a path in the woods.  He is tall and fit, and a whistle is around his neck.  Yet, lo!  What is in his hand?  I strain my eyes in the distance…  Is it a paddle ball?...  Yes, it is!   Dozens of children are now following him from the path and onto the field where they surround him in a large circle, each holding his and her paddle ball.  He blows his whistle and alas!...  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  The deafening sound echoes into the valley below, perhaps just for the evening…  perhaps for all time, or at least as long as this forgotten plaque has a prominent place in this remote gymnasium within the wild of the Appalachians.   James Emory Gibson Jr.: Truly, “A Friend of Youth”.  

 

  

The Cardiff Giant

By Craig: Since the dawn of recorded history people have been fascinated by giants. The Bible mentions a race of people called the Nephilim who were great warriors of old that were the sons and daughters of the gods. Goliath, the Philistine was said to have stood nearly 10 feet tall. In English mythology, there is the legend of Jack the giant Killer. The Norse speak of the giants from the land of Jotun-heim where Thor walked with his mighty hammer. During the age of Atlantic exploration, giants were said to have been seen by the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan on the coast of modern day Argentina. Even today giants still roam the earth in the guise of Meh-Teh, or the Yeti of the Himalayas, and Sasquatch in North America.

     In the days preceding and following the American Civil War the traveling carnival became a popular roadside attraction in many American communities. People became fascinated by oddities and what at the time were labeled as "freaks." There was the great American showman P.T. Barnum and his circus who at times would send some of his prize showpieces on tour. These included the famed Tom Thumb who stood only 3 feet 4 inches high, and the Fiji Mermaid, an elaborate hoax promoted by Barnum and created by fellow collaborator Moses Kimball. The alleged mermaid was really nothing but a monkey's head sewn onto the back of a paper-mache fish. The mermaid (which was copied by other hoaxers) was sometimes billed as the missing link, or proof that mermaids did exist.

The Cardiff Giant

       During the summer of 1981 my parents took us on a road trip to New York State. We stopped at Cooperstown and visited the Baseball Hall of Fame. We might have spent a few hours touring this shrine to America's great pastime. However, after we left there, we decided to visited a place called the Farmers Museum. To me, the greatest thrill of this day was viewing an ugly looking stone man displayed in a sort of stable. It was the once famed but now forgotten Cardiff Giant. My brother Jay also stood there glaring at it as if it might move or start talking to us. "Hello there" it would say. "Do you know my story?" I would shrug and look at my brother who would do likewise. "I am made of gypsum, but the dummies who lived back in the 19th century didn't know this, they thought that I was the fossilized image of a giant prehistoric man! Can you believe it? Some guy named Stub Newell and his cousin George Hull created me with chisels and hammers and then charged people 50 cents a whack just to get a peek of me! What do you think?"
I would ponder on this question for a few seconds before respectfully responding to the giant. "I can see that you were a fake,but now, you have become something else." The Cardiff Giant would then raise up on it's elbow and slowly move it's stone head in my direction, all the time,and with every slight movement a grating sound along with a fine powdered gypsum would float through the air. "Something else? What do you mean?" It would say.
"Well Mr. Cardiff, you are now a work of art, a piece of history, I should think. Did you know that P.T.Barnum made a fake of you? "
The giant jumped to his feet in a sudden cloud burst of gypsum which startled us so much that we fled to the barn door.
"Wait! don't leave!" the giant pleaded. "I'm sorry I startled you! It's just that, I have been stared at by gawkers for over a century! Oh look at the fake!, they say. Or Oh, look at the fraud! and now this! Is it true? Am I no longer a fake?"
We returned to our place outside of the giant's stable. He stood towering over us. I shook my finger at him.
"Mr. Cardiff, you have become the real thing."
For a minute the giant stood there dumbfounded, staring at us. Suddenly we heard some people outside of the barn and the giant quickly dove to the ground taking his classic pose which he will perform for all eternity, his right arm resting over his stomach, legs seemingly welded together by gypsum. After the gawking nuclear family had left, the giant turned his head slightly toward us and winked. "The real thing you say?"
Once again I shrugged and my brother too. "Don't you know that all people are fakes? We all have masks that we wear, at least I think we do, but you! you are the real deal because you are made of stone! How can you be a fake?" my brother asked.
The Cardiff Giant seemed to ponder over this lame, juvenile reasoning. Once again he raised himself up in a reclining position resting his bald stony head on his stubby stone hand.
"I like you two, can you come back to visit me often?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Cardiff we will return to visit," I replied, knowing that it would be a long time before I would be able to return.

                                               Cardiff Giant Being Exhumed 1869

     The Cardiff Giant was debunked as a hoax shortly after it's arrival on Stub Newell's farm in 1869. This, however, did not prevent opportunists like Barnum from profiting from it. Barnum was so impressed by the hoax that he offered the hoaxers a princely sum if he could display it. He was rebuffed, but this did not stop him from getting in on the Cardiff Giant mania which had spread across New York and most of the northeast. He created his own Cardiff Giant and displayed it to even larger audiences than the original!

      It has been 31 years since I last visited with the Cardiff Giant, but I plan on returning one day to see how he is getting along. Perhaps he will wink at me once again and tell me that "being a fake is not so bad after all."

                                            Jay (left) & Craig at the Farmer's Museum 1981
Update: December 26, 2019
Since I last visited this blog post over seven years ago a lot has happened. My twin brother Jay passed away in 2018 after a long battle with cancer. However, I promised the Cardiff Giant that I would one day return to visit & I kept my promise. Since my previous visit which is now 38 years in the past the giant has been moved inside of the museum. I found this to be a bit incongruous as I knew him to be a lover of the outdoors. After all, he was born out there carved from gypsum. As I strolled to the location of his current resting place I was thrilled to see that there was no one else around. After all, he might be shy and would be reluctant to talk to anyone other than myself. But would he recognize me? I was but a 12 year old boy the last time that I had talked to him. I slowly approached and addressed him quietly.
"Mr. Cardiff? Do you remember me?"
He did not respond so I addressed him again, this time a little louder looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was approaching. What would they think if they saw me talking to a man chiseled from gypsum?
Still, he did not respond. For a short time I just stood there looking at him and then I told him who I was. I perceived a slight turn of his head and his gaze fell upon me.
"You promised me that you would return," he said with a hint of melancholy in his voice.
"And here I am. It took me nearly 40 years, but here I stand."
He rose up on his elbow and shook away over three decades of dust.
"Wow. It's been a long time since I moved," he said. "But tell me...where is your brother?"
"He is here with me, but only his spirit," I said.
He did not know what to say. So I started to tell him the news. what had happened in the world since I had last seen him, and what I had been doing throughout the years. I could see him in deep reflection and finally he interrupted me.
"So I see that you have aged since we last met. Do you still latch on to the reasoning that people are fakes?"
"I do, but I have learned to try and be less cynical of human motives. It does no good. It can only lead to misery."
"And your brother? Did he believe this also?"
"He believed what I believe and vice versa. We are twins and it is impossible to think otherwise."
"And what about me? Do you still believe that I am real?" he asked hoping that I had not changed my mind.
"I do. You are as real as the gypsum from which you are carved from."
He smiled and resumed his eternal state of rest.
"That is good. I can rest again. But promise me that you will return in another 40 years to reassure me again," he said.
I smiled. "Well, I will try. I will be about 90 then so there are no guarantees. But if fate decides that I am still a part of the corporeal world I will come again."
There was no response, but as I started to walk away I looked back one last time at my stone friend and could almost swear that I saw a tear running down his cold cheek.

                                                      Craig with the Cardiff Giant today


   

Cardinal Man & The 9-11 Jumpers

By Craig: A few weeks ago I ran into a wino who I immediately recognized was not a native resident. His thick New York accent gave him away, and I wondered what had brought him south. Of course, he might have wondered the same thing about me. He was a chirpy old fellow with a beak-like nose set in between two ruddy cheeks. His eyes fluttered as he spoke,and he had a habit of jutting his head forward, perhaps a nervous tick, or some other medical condition. He reminded me of a Cardinal, not a St. Louis one like Bob Gibson, or Stan Musial, but the bird type. As absurd as this might sound, he may have been one; a mutant perhaps, showcasing his bird-like features and mannerisms, along with a long sleeved red shirt. I almost expected to see him sprout wings and take off into the trees...Cardinal man, a new superhero in the making!

     Cardinal man was a bridge dweller. He was a denizen of the lower order, one who might have reached for the pinnacle, but had slowly slid into the abyss. I was on the railroad tracks when I happened to stumble upon this strange bird. He was leaning against one of the bridge supports, and he saw me coming. I was surprised that there was no sob story before the punch-line. He got straight to business and asked me for a dollar. I believe that he was surprised when I actually pulled a bank note from my front pocket and handed it to him. He did not say "God bless you!" as they often do. no, he merely took the note and smiled showing a set of ugly nicotine stained teeth that had not seen a proper cleaning in years. It was a devious sort of smile as if he were subtly telling me "Ha! I got one!" I asked him where he was from in New york. The way he said "dollar" had given it away. He, in no way seemed surprised that I had pegged him as a New Yorker. He must have been use to the association between himself and that state. Sort of like the association that I have with New England, though I have not lived in that corner for years. He claimed to have worked as an insurance adjuster in Manhattan, but that he was originally from New London, Connecticut. His father had been in the military; the Navy, or Coast Guard, i forget which. I attempted to determine Cardinal man's age, but like most dwellers of the abyss, it is hard to determine. He appeared to be a lot older than me, maybe in his sixties, but could very well have been younger. He told me that he was married, but had no idea where his wife was, or his daughter. His wife had left him shortly after 9-11. He was an alcoholic, a fact that his ruddy complexion and distended belly showed all too well.

     "I saw the towers crumble" he told me. I asked him if he saw the planes hit. He said that he did not, but he had watched them smoke and burn, and was close enough to see people jumping out of the windows. He said the jumpers looked like little black specks, and at first it did not register with him that they were people. After he realized what he was witnessing he told me that the "specks" turned into "little dolls." I found this to be a rather strange comparison, but who knows what I would have thought had I seen this horror. He told me that after the spectacle had ended he went to a bar and got drunk. I told him that I would have probably done the same had I been a witness. Yes sir! dilute the chaos of irrational madness! the anarchy of the mind and send it to the subliminal world of the tipsy euphoria where dreamers, poets, vagabonds, and drifters dwell. Go ahead Cardinal man! tip the bottle to your lips and take a big swig. it will come out right in the end. He offered me a drink from the paper bag, but I politely declined. Maybe another time I'll join you under this bridge and together we can drink to the goddess of the earth and laugh at the fools who get snared into the trap of idealism, and hate...the realm where the seeds of 9-11 horrors are born. I'm right! your wrong! I'm right! your wrong! What the hell, here you go! Have a drink buddy, come join us in the abyss where nothing is wrong and nothing is right and where you are truly free of the materialism that keeps you captive! I left Cardinal man to his bridge, or should I say, his nest where he seems to have found his peace. I moved along, still searching for mine.

Brownie

Brownie

By Jay

Okay, this is not about the scrumptious sweets that your grandmother baked to perfection.  Though by the title you might be thinking right now about chocolate stained teeth and a gooey center, this particular Brownie was not an edible thing at all.  That is, unless you are a cannibal.  It is about a man. 

Yes, I once knew a man named “Brownie”.  At least, that’s what everyone called him.  I never knew his real name though I’m sure he had one.  He was my next door neighbor  --  an old, balding man with red cheeks who waved to us from various places in his front yard when I was a child.  Now when I say next door neighbor, I mean down the street.  We couldn’t actually see his green house from ours.  We lived in a small New England town out in the country, and from July, 1973 – May, 1979 I saw Brownie nearly every day of my life.  Next to my parents and my two brothers, Brownie was the one person I saw the most often.  I’d be on the school bus, and I’d see Brownie out in his front yard watering the flowers.  Or we’d be driving by and my father would say, “IT’S BROWNIE” as if we didn’t know who he was even though we knew full well, it was indeed, Brownie.  Sometimes, he would say, “WAVE TO BROWNIE” or simply, “LOOK, IT’S BROWNIE.”  The name Brownie took on a majestic air.  Even the thought of Brownie commanded respect though I knew nothing about him.  In my eyes, as well as my brother’s, he was a giant who was on par with the founding fathers, Neil Armstrong, and Sir Edmund Hillary.  He was “BROWNIE” as my parents would say as we waved to him from the car.  And that was enough.  He was an elusive and mysterious figure.  I don’t believe I ever actually met him.  He never came over to the house, and I don’t recall ever going to his except for Halloween.  But it was always his wife who answered the door, a kind elderly woman who graciously dropped some candy in our bags every October 31.  I remember peering inside the house to see what I could see, but it was always dimly lit.  One Halloween, I remember seeing Brownie sitting in a chair, or at least half of him in the shadowy background, his legs crossed.  He may have been holding a magazine or a book, or he may have been taking a nap.  I don’t know.  But I do know that it was quiet.  And I do know that it was an awesome experience to be in the presence of Brownie even if we were just standing in his doorway. 

But for the most part, I remember seeing Brownie in his front yard.  This was Brownie’s domain, Brownie’s element…  Sometimes, he’d be puttering with his flowers.  Sometimes, I’d see him with a spade or shovel in his hand.  Sometimes, he’d be holding some unrecognizable object, and he’d be walking with it.  To where and for what reason, I never knew.  And sometimes…  sometimes, he just appeared to be standing there as if his sole purpose was to stand in his yard and wave to me as I rode by on my bike.  And yes, he waved…  all the time.  I remember quite often he wore a plain white t-shirt in the summer, and a thick coat and muffler in the winter.  But always the arm would raise, and I could see from a distance his red cheeks on a faceless body, a body which to me still has no face, for I only ever saw him from a position of forty yards or more though I knew that sometimes this congenial spirit was smiling. 

And then we moved, and I never saw Brownie again.  There were no more waves.  There were no more “IT’S BROWNIE” from my father or mother.  There were no more sights of Brownie in his yard in all kinds of weather doing what he did best, minding his own business and enjoying the peace and solitude of New England country life.  When we moved, I was ten years old.  Later on, I heard that Brownie had either died or moved or gone off to an old age home…  These reports were given to me so long ago that I can’t say for sure where I heard this information or if, indeed, I heard it at all.  But I do know one thing.  When I passed by the house ten or so years later, Brownie was no longer in his yard.  Most assuredly, Brownie no longer lived there.  There was something that didn’t seem right about the place.   It just didn’t have the Brownie feel to it.

And so, the thought of Brownie was pushed back in my mind.   And as the years passed and I moved to a different part of the country, a bustling city where I fell into the chaos of adult life, Brownie was all but forgotten.  That is, until last Friday.  Brownie exploded into my life once again, nearly four decades since I had seen his last wave. 

Turning forty-four on September 3^rd, I was given a Barnes and Noble Gift Certificate (a classic Craig and Jay gift) from my younger brother and my niece.  Being sentimental and a bit curious, I decided to spend it on purchasing a pictorial book of my old home town from the “Images of America” series.  As soon as I opened up the package, I began devouring the contents, my bookish myopic eyes peering with delight at all the familiar images from a past that had died long ago.  Much to my surprise, I found myself staring at a picture of an old baseball team from 1916.  The old black and white photo showed thirteen men and boys staring at me expressionlessly through the obscurity of decades.  In the front row, two were sitting on the ground indian style.  In the second row, five guys were sitting on a bench or chairs (I can’t tell which) and another was squatting.  And in the back row, most certainly the best of the best,  the last five were standing there with their arms folded, glaring at the camera as if defying anyone to get in their way on the all-American diamond.  But it was the player standing on the far left of the photo that commanded my attention.  Fortunately, the players were named.  All of them had a first and a last name as normal people should.  All that is except the player on the far left, who stood staring at me from nearly a century in the past  --  muscular arms folded, eyes squinting in the sun  --  quiet but commanding presence  --  no question in my mind that he was the captain of the team  --  as if he knew what it was all about.  The name of the player was “Brownie”.  No first name.  No last name.  Just, “Brownie”. 

Could it be?  Could this young man, who looked like he could spank Ty Cobb and send him squealing home to his mother, be the Brownie?  Could this be the same old man with the balding head and the cherry cheeks who waved to me nearly every day for six years of my life?

I began doing the math in my head to see if it would add up.  I knew Brownie was old, but was he this old?  The photo was from 1916.  The Brownie I knew was an old man when I was in my first decade of existence 1973-1979.  If Brownie was eighteen years old in the picture, this would have put his birth about 1898 or so.  He was certainly a young man, perhaps even younger than eighteen.  Even if we were to put his age at twenty in 1916, or sixteen in 1916, this would have put Brownie in his late seventies to early eighties in the years that I knew him.  Definitely conceivable.  Because I never actually saw Brownie’s face up close, and because I was so young myself, he could very well have been that old.  Everyone over sixty may as well be ninety to a child of five or six, or even ten. 

I have no way of knowing for sure whether the Christy Mathewson look-alike in the photo was my old next door neighbor.  Something tells me though that they are one and the same  --  a certain reserved intensity in the face, perhaps  --  something I seemed to understand about the man.  Maybe it’s just the ideal of a legendary figure whose name “Brownie” at one time in my mind’s eye, dwarfed the greatest of American heroes, a time in my life when one has heroes, where the fakers and the letdowns of the world have no business.  I’m quite sure it is him, who has come back to me through the pages of time, telling me that it’s okay to have these heroes again and that myths are real and that everything you imagined in your childhood is true.  Cynics beware.  The message is clear.  Brownie is waving once more, except this time…  I can see him smiling…  And I know that giants still roam the earth.

P.S. Brownie must have been injured as a player, cutting his promising career short.  Because if he had ever made it to the big leagues, Ty Cobb never would have had a chance in hell…            

The Hurricane of '38

The Hurricane of ‘38
by Jay

As a child I heard stories of the great Hurricane of ’38.  This massive storm, which wreaked havoc along parts of the eastern seaboard, particularly New England, was one of the worst natural disasters to hit the U.S. during the twentieth century.  Both of my grandmothers told me where they were when this hurricane struck.  My mother’s mother told me she was working in an office building and remembered trees and branches flying through the air past her window.  My father’s mother, who was seventeen and was still in high school, remembered being in the school yard and having to hold onto various things, including a flagpole as she attempted to make her way into the safety of one of the buildings.  What escapes me to this day is why both of my grandmothers were not home.  It would seem to make sense to close all businesses and schools, yet there they were going about their daily routines as if nothing unusual were happening around them.  Of course, they told me these stories many years after the actual events, so perhaps their memories were a bit clouded.  Perhaps my mother’s mother had actually been at home and observing the storm through the safety of her own windows, and perhaps my father’s mother had actually been in her own back yard and had simply wanted to go out and experience the high winds and then had trouble getting back inside.  Perhaps she lived next to the school yard.  These things I do not know and perhaps never will.  Then again, perhaps my own recollection of my grandmothers’ stories has become shrouded within the obscurity of time.  After all, these accounts were related to me as a child. 

            I remember taking hikes with my father in the woods back in the 1970’s and seeing these large, mossy trees which had fallen during the Hurricane of ’38.  I remember being fascinated, thinking to myself that these trees had been rotting in the woods for nearly forty years.  In a child’s eyes, that was an extremely long time, and yet now, nearly forty more years have passed since I saw those decaying trees.  The time does not seem so long.  Nay, a mere blink in the cosmic eye.  And yet…   I still wonder whether there are any signs out there of that great storm from long ago.  Many of the people who experienced it have long since passed away, my grandmothers included.  Today, one would have to be nearly eighty to remember it.  I’m sure there are still some old timers out there who could keep you enthralled with their eyewitness accounts.  And perhaps if you look close enough, very close…  there yet may be some traces left of a fallen tree that has been nearly annihilated by over seven decades of New England winters.  Perhaps a forgotten old house or barn remains barely standing in some remote field or patch of woods… 

            In the long term however, time will erase all trace and memory of the great Hurricane.  All that will remain will be what was recorded and left behind by those who experienced it.  I suppose in this sense, some storms never die.

  

Here Is The Other Half Of Craig...Well, It's Jay

 

 

From now on this blog will feature two writers; Craig & Jay. Here is Craig and Here is Jay.

CRAIGJAY

 

 

Well, This is how we appeared back in 1975.This is how we appear now.

 

 

 

 



Joseph of Cupertino

Sometimes I have a dream. It is always the same dream. I find myself flying over a field of lush grass with sporadic clumps of hardwood trees. I am like a bird in flight yet I have no wings. I can rise higher, like Icarus, into the clouds by performing a peddling motion with my legs. I have had this same dream for as long as I can remember. I have often heard it said that dreams can be interpreted. I have a vague recollection of Joseph interpreting Pharaoh's dreams in the book of Genesis. I have often wonder if this dream of flight has any subtle or hidden meaning. Am I looking for something? Perhaps wanting to fly away to some utopian paradise that does not exist? My twin brother has the same dream. He peddles just like I do over the same field.

                                              St. Joseph of Cupertino (1603-1663)

    Joseph Desa was his name. He was born at Copertino, or Cupertino in Italy in 1603. He was a poor youth who took to wandering at an early age. In his early twenties he turned to the Franciscan monastery for assistance and he was eventually ordained a priest. It was said that he was so pius that he became inspired by Christ's miracles, especially the ones having to do with levitation. Joseph was said to have been able to master the art, or magic, or whatever power enabled him to accomplish it. One time he was seen by witness' levitating through the air inside of the church. Another time he was in the garden and his fellow brothers were astonished to see him fly into an olive tree and kneel down on a large branch where he proceeded to make annoying shrieks and morbid guttural sounds. This incident among others caught the attention of the Holy Inquisition who tried him in 1634 for attracting great crowds. Why they found this conduct offensive is not known, but they found him innocent of the charges that had been brought against him. He died in September 1663 at the age of 60. He became a Saint in 1767.

     Did Joseph of Cupertino really levitate and fly across fields and churches as the legends say, or were these super-human feats the mere product of some writers imagination? It has been written that most of the stories involving this Saint were told years after his death when all or most of the witness' were dead. It is hard to say. I have never seen a person jump up in the air and fly away. However, just because I have never seen it happen doesn't mean it never happened before, or it can't happen. I am limited by my own experiences and keep an open mind about things. Perhaps Joseph Desa did take to the air like a thunderbird in the sky. Perhaps, just maybe, it was a dream...and dreams are real.

The Ghost of Yesterday: Freeze-Pops

Some people live for the future. I live with the ghost of yesterday. Ok, I have a retirement plan, a pension (although a certain group of thieves in the House of Representatives are trying to take it away from me.) I attempt to look into the future, but what I see I do not like. What lurks, waiting spectre-like in the distance. How far distant I cannot say. Perhaps 40 years from now when I will have passed my life expectancy. Perhaps 20 years from now when I reach retirement age. Hell, perhaps tomorrow. One never knows ones own fate. That is the rub! How can one plan for any contingency? Why would one plan for one? Why do we not let nature take care of itself?

   It does not seem all that long ago that I was a boy spending my summer days fishing at the pond, playing baseball, reading comics, riding bikes, and eating freeze-pops with the neighborhood kids. I can remember those freeze pops well. You would take a pair of scissors and cut one of the plastic ends off and then push the crushed colored ice up from the bottom. I liked the orange ones best. Usually, by the time you got to the end there would only be a residue of colored water left, and you would tip it back drinking the sugared water until the plastic became flat. I bought some for my son recently, and he likes them. Of course I had to try one, probably the first since 1981. It was not the same...maybe I had to be 12 again, I don't know. Those were good times, carefree times that seemed to last forever, but vanished all too soon. One day they were gone. I don't exactly remember when that was, but one day I found myself a full grown man plying at a monotonous trade and waiting for the weekend when I would hope to accomplish all those things that dreams are made of. The weekends would come, but for the most part they would be spent in idle contemplation, or wasted activities like mowing the lawn. By Saturday evening I had lost all of that sense of specious freedom that I had tantalized myself with all week in anticipation.

     So the days, months, and years went by, and one day I decided to get married, and soon had a child of my own to care for. Each day I watched myself get older in selfish pity. The youthful idealism and vigor that I had possessed in my twenties had dissipated as if it had never been. It had been replaced by a more mature philosophy dominated by a sort of Larry Slade-like cynicism and regret for the things I had not yet accomplished. I dreaded the future that seemed to be propelling me forward at warp speed.

    One day an old woman and her daughter were guests at my house. The old woman was in dire form. Her wrinkled face had collapsed in upon itself and from all outward appearances I could not help but wonder if her mouth would one day consume it, unless of course, mercifully, nature would relieve her of this ignominious event. The hump in her back, and the bluish tinge to her elasticized flesh made her appearance that much more grotesque. It was sad to see a human being reduced to this state. She spent the entire weekend sleeping, only occasionally rising to take care of a primary need. However, more times than not she did not concern herself with the dignified aspect of this need, no...she would merely find it more convenient to relieve herself of her bodily wastes wherever she might happen to be. Sometimes, curious, I would watch her sleep. Her wrinkled lips making guppy-like blowing motions through a kind of death-like struggle. The wretched woman would be lying on her back, her eyes closed in deep repose. Her countenance suggesting peaceful bliss and the desire to be free from her earthly burden. I could not help but believe that she was merely practicing death. Would I too one day regress to this state? It was inconceivable...or was it?

    So I live with the ghost of yesterday as I move ever onward to that imperfect but natural state of being. I am happy with that! If a person lives every day with a sort of acceptance of the limitations of their dreams then it is much easier to live. Try to forget your selfish desires and live for the happiness of the day
                                Time, that flake wisp of perception
                                 Cunning in it's betrayal of beauty
                                 It passes without conscience