A Lost Moment in time: Reduced to Pixels

By Craig: Life is short. So says the old maxim. We are lucky to live our three score and ten before passing into eternity. This can't be so bad since millions of people have passed before us, some go out kicking and screaming, while others choose to go out with very little fan fare. I suppose it doesn't matter how it ends with you for we all must one day cross that lonely threshold. I often contemplate what life really means. What is the substance of life? Why are we here? Why do we choose to live a certain way? I never really come up with any substantial answer to these questions. I suppose it is the way we are programed through our natural disposition, and the things that we have experienced during the linear path of our existence. Sometimes I become obsessed with an old photograph that gives me pause for further reflection about life and time.

The photo under inspection was taken in Maine during the summer of 1976 when I was eight years old. It is a closely cropped image of a man standing in profile on a beach. A silhouette, curved and shadowy from a time slowly disappearing from living memory. He is observing the sand pyramid that my father is building. My brother and I can be seen playing in the sand around the pyramid, perhaps digging trenches that will connect to my father's sand art.  The identity of the man is unknown. It was taken from such a distance that the facial features and other possible identifying marks have been permanently eradicated. The only thing that we can infer from the man's profile is the fact that, perhaps, he is not fond of exercise. He appears to be of middle age, and since 39 years have elapsed since this photograph was snapped it is almost a certainty that the man, whoever he was, has succumbed to time. For a few minutes...or perhaps seconds of his life he is engrossed in my father's artwork...Artwork, that has long since disappeared under countless high tides. At the top of the image the ocean can be seen lurking, stalking unconsciously, the temporary action that is happening on the beach. The top of the photograph has begun to deteriorate. It gives the illusion of a giant city rising from the ocean.  Other figures can be seen in the background, mute witnesses of an event now lost in time and threatened by an eroding oblivion of what it has been reduced to, and what we are reduced to for the succeeding generations...Pixels.

William Goldman's Magic and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

William Goldman’s Magic and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

         By Jay:   For as long as I can remember I’ve always been a fan of horror fiction as well as horror films, not the gruesome ax wielding maniacs killing unsuspecting teenagers at a summer camp type stories, but rather stories with a subtle supernatural gothic theme – ghost stories in the realm of a Washington Irving tale.  Some of Irving’s supernatural stories are among the best in American Literature: “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”, “Rip Van Winkle”, “The Adventure of the German Student” and “The Devil and Tom Walker” to name a few.  They are tales told in his matchless beautiful prose.  I am generally not a fan of (for lack of a better term) psychological “horror” though there have been some great examples of these types of stories.  I think the very best of these is Magic by William Goldman, which was first published in 1976.  The story revolves around a magician / ventriloquist named Corky Withers who seems to be afraid of success.  He flees from his agent in New York City, and seeks peace of mind at a remote lake in the Catskills (the setting for many of Irving’s supernatural tales) where an old crush named Peggy Ann Snow and her husband Duke lets out cabins during the vacation season.  As the novel progresses, the relationship between Corky and Peggy grows, for Peggy is having marital problems with Duke.  Without giving away the rest of the plot, Corky is quickly becoming consumed by his dummy, which he calls Fats.  His agent eventually tracks him down, and from there on out, the “horror” begins.  The novel is elegantly crafted with a lot of dialogue mixed with vivid descriptions.  Goldman later adapted it into a screenplay, and it was made into a movie in 1978.  Magic is a vastly underrated novel that needs wider exposure so that it can be appreciated by modern audiences.  It is not the typical ventriloquist / dummy story of a split personality, though on the surface, the plot may seem so.  There is much more to Corky’s personality.  His insecurities, fears, and sense of loss as time passes in a cold and distant world are feelings that everyone can connect with.

            However, I knew nothing of Goldman or his writing in December, 1977 as a nine year old while watching the Rankin and Bass Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  In those far off days before cable, home video and the internet, it was extremely important for a kid to catch the holiday specials when they aired, which was usually at 8:00 p.m. EST about three weeks before Christmas.  They only played it once, so if you missed it, you were out of luck until next year.  And by then, you might be too old to care.  My brother and I were very diligent in getting our Rudolph fix.  We knew that when it came on, it would only be a matter of weeks before our greedy little hands would be tearing open presents under the Christmas tree.  It got us in the so-called spirit of the holidays, and we were not going to let that pass.

            And so it was that Rudolph aired, and we sat glued to the tiny black and white television with our five year old brother probably enjoying the special for the first time.  As it neared the end, we were somewhat disappointed because we knew that it would be another long year before we would get to see it again; however, there were plenty of other Christmas specials that would be airing in the days to come.  As the final credits rolled, my brothers left the room, and I was all alone sitting on my bed curled up under my blanket.  I mildly wondered what was coming on next though I knew that it was almost bedtime, for it was a school night, and nine or nine-thirty was usually the limit. 

            I kept my eyes glued to the television as a few commercials played followed by a brief fuzz out as the t.v. did in those distant days.  And then…

           

“Abracadabra I sit on his knee!

Presto!  Chango!

And now here’s me!

Hocus pocus we take her to bed!

Magic is fun!

We’re dead!”

It was Fats speaking bathed in a dark background – the creepy dummy promoting the upcoming film “Magic” with Anthony Hopkins!  I wasn’t scared.  Horror films have never scared me even at the age of nine.  However, I was intrigued and deeply fascinated.  I had to know about this story.  Who was the dummy?  What was the dummy?  Had it taken on a life of its own?  Was the ventriloquist a raving madman?  These and other questions obsessed me for weeks.  I asked my parents if I could see the movie.  Of course, this request was struck down due to the ‘R’ rating and my father’s chronic aversion to anything that has to do with the macabre.  Though I was a nine year old anomaly, I’ve often wondered how many other kids had the living bejesus scared out of them when a creepy and sinister looking dummy talking about death suddenly appeared on the screen right after the showing of Rudolph! 

            Anyway, after a few weeks I forgot about the trailer, and it was not until I was sixteen years old that I actually picked up a copy of Magic in a bookstore and read it for the first time.  Shortly thereafter, I was fortunate enough to catch the movie on television.  You can no longer find the book at Barnes and Noble or any retailers that I know of (at least where I live).  You’ll be lucky to find a dog-eared copy in a used bookstore.  However, fortunately there is the World Wide Web right at your fingertips, and there are plenty of copies available for pennies from various dealers worldwide.  I find it strange how watching a kid’s Christmas special back in 1977 led to a lifelong appreciation of a work (both novel and screenplay by Goldman are outstanding) that I believe is one of the best psychological “horror” stories of the latter part of the twentieth century.  

A Lost Moment in Time: Hubbardston 1974

By Craig: We had moved from the city the previous summer to the town of Hubbardston, a small quiet New England town. I was six and like all six year old boys I was curious. Every noise, every rock, every tree, every critter in the forest had the same effect on my juvenile brain. I wanted to know more about it. I wanted to understand. I wanted to comprehend the nature of my surroundings. It was all new...but at the same time familiar. I cannot explain this feeling, but it was a feeling that I remember having. It was as if I had experienced it all before, but that was impossible...I was only six.  I was an explorer and would sometimes venture forth into the woods to have a look. There were a couple of large boulders with mica on them. I was fascinated by this and would peel the mica off in sheets. My twin brother would do the same and it became a contest to see who could peel off the largest sheet. My father had bulldozed a trail up a hill, pushing a massive amount of rocks and boulders into what amounted to a large earthwork. It would have been a good defensible position against attack if we were living in the 17th century, but alas, it was 1974 and an attack by Nipmuck warriors or the French was probably not going to happen anytime soon. It was nothing but a pile of unwanted dirt and rocks that my brother and I called "the ruble." Why we called it that I cannot recall. I only knew that if we went beyond the ruble we were in uncharted territory. What lurked behind the ruble? There was a forest that much was certain. We could see the white pines and hemlocks, and could hear the trunks of the trees straining and creaking in the wind which we imagined were monsters and giants. Eventually we gathered up the courage to venture past this landmark into the forbidden zone, but never too far to where we could not see the ruble. This was where the mica was, and the white birch trees. We would later peel the bark and appallingly carve our names and other things into the trunks of these trees, but that was a few years in the future. Sometimes a noise would spook us back into the safety zone.

One day it was different. I was all alone. I believe that it was on the weekend because there was a party going on outside. The men were pitching horseshoes while the women sat outside in lawn chairs smoking and chatting. Everyone smoked in those days. It wasn't the evil thing that it has become these days. It was a different time...a different era. People were less suspicious, or so it seemed at the time. There were hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill and the scent of charcoal and beef wafted through the air. I walked past the ruble and into the forest. For some reason I was not afraid. Perhaps it was knowing that there were a lot of people at the house gave me a sense of false security. I don't know, nor do I remember why my brother was not with me since he usually always was. He was with me the day we emerged from the womb, and usually wherever I was he was not far away. I was an explorer. I can still remember my thoughts from that day. I was going to venture farther into the forest than I had ever gone. I walked on, climbing over fallen branches and the rotted trunks of trees that had probably fallen during the great hurricane of 1938. The leaves were crunching under my feet. I came to a stone wall...An ancient wall which are ubiquitous in New England. Farmers used them in the 18th and 19th centuries as property boundaries and a means to keep livestock from straying too far away. I did not know this at the time of course. It was just another puzzle that I would eventually sort out in time. At the moment it stopped me in my tracks. What was beyond the wall I could not even fathom. I turned around and looked for the landmark, it was not there!! The ruble was nowhere to be seen!! I panicked. I was lost. I had walked so far that I did not even think to look back! I could no longer hear the voices of the men playing horseshoes, or the women laughing to the long forgotten and now irrelevant gossip of the day. I could see the sun through the trees. It was low in the sky. I attempted to retrace my steps. The ruble had seemingly been swallowed up. I was doomed! A giant or a monster of some kind would surely get me. I ran this way! and then that way!, and then the other way! looking desperately for the ruble. The wind whistled through the trees adding to the confusion and it was getting colder. Surely they were looking for me! Then I saw him. An Indian. A Nipmuck warrior. He was looking at me. A stoic expression on a hard but compassionate countenance. It was not real. It was my imagination, but he pointed at the solar disk in the sky and I went that way. I stumbled and fell but instinctively followed the sun. My imagination was taking hold of me. I began to hear things. A humming sound in the distance which I imagined to be some large prehistoric bird that would swoop down from the trees and carry me away to its nest. Then I heard a familiar sound.  It was the sound of metal striking metal. Horseshoes! I followed the sound and the sun. I heard voices...familiar voices that got louder as I approached. I could see the outline of a house through the trees! A man in a blue tee shirt had just scored a ringer! I emerged into the clearing. I was home. My first expedition into the unknown was finished on that day long ago...two score and some in the past... in a time now so remote that I scarcely know whether it happened, or I merely imagined it.