In Memoriam: Jay S. Hipkins (1968-2018)

By Craig: My twin brother Jay who was the co-author of this blog has passed away after a lengthy battle with GIST cancer. Jay fought the hard battle for almost 9 years before finally succumbing to the disease on February 21. Jay leaves behind his loving wife Tina, along with his mother and father and numerous friends, family and students. Jay was a teacher at the Fletcher School in Charlotte North Carolina before having to retire due to his illness 3 years ago.

Jay was born in Worcester Massachusetts on 03 September 1968. He grew up in Hubbardston, a small town in Worcester county where he attended the Center school, and then Quabbin High in Barre. He was a boy scout, and also served as an alter boy at Holy Spirit Catholic church in Gardner. As boys, Jay and I spent a lot of time riding our bikes around town, and at an early age we started delivering newspapers for the Gardner News. Jay and I started running shortly after being inspired by the 1976 Olympic games in Montreal. Although I am a decent runner, I could never match the speed of Jay. We entered a number of races over the years and I do not believe I was ever able to beat him! People could tell us apart by our posture and our demeanor. He would always stand erect, straight as an arrow, while I was content to sit back and slouch! Sometimes we would skip school. I would go off to the sand pit and shoot at cans with my .22, while he would go off somewhere and read Shakespeare or Dante!

Jay attended the University of North Carolina at Charlotte graduating with a bachelors degree in English. Over the years he developed a mastery of the English language, and studied the classics. He was particularly fond of the works of Victor Hugo, and also took an interest in medieval history, Latin and the medieval church. He moved to New Zealand and earned a CELTA certificate and ended up teaching English to non-English speakers in Hamilton, New Zealand. He moved back to the United States in 2005 where he began teaching at the Fletcher School. He also served as the schools first cross country coach. Jay was a prolific reader and writer. In 2014 he published An Ocean of Stories which is a collection of tales and sketches that he had worked on over the years. Just before his death his novel Astrolabe was published. It is his masterpiece and shows the true genius of my brother. It is the story of a young man, the son of the 12th century scholar Peter Abelard and his lover Heloise. He battles the inner demons within himself, and the conflict of his emotions pertaining to good and evil. At the same time it is a love story that transcends the boundaries of time. Another collection of short stories called A Forest of Stories is forthcoming and should be available sometime in the next few months. It is a collaborative effort that I have joined him in, and he worked on editing the stories with his wife Tina and his sister in law Tracy up until he no longer had the capacity to do so. He has also left some unfinished writings which I will be working on to complete.  However, Jay's biggest achievement was nurturing the young minds of his students.

I loved my twin brother. I will find it hard to move on into the uncertain future without him. When he died, part of me died with him. I was there with him at the beginning, and I held his hand at the end knowing before he took his last breath when it would come. I cannot explain this except to say that I was his twin. We were inseparable, but I know that he will always be there as his essence is a part of my soul that can never be detached from me. I will plod onward toward my own destiny. The ghost of my twin helping me toward the finish line...

                                                                  Craig & Jay (1982)

A Lost Moment in Time: Wacky Packs: BeastBall

By Craig: It is been quite a while since I have updated this blog. There is a reason for this which I shall be revealing sometime in the next few weeks, but for now I shall say that I just haven't been in the frame of mind to write lately...or for that matter...to think. Every now and then I come up with an idea and then presto!...nothing...just a blank.  I was talking to my brother Jay the other day and he asked me if I remembered the wacky pack stickers that we use to get when we were kids. I smiled. I remembered them fondly. Anyone that grew up in the 1970s was familiar with wacky packs. This was probably more true for boys than girls, but I imagine that girls collected them too. Technically they were called "wacky packages", but kids where I grew up just called them wacky packs. I guess it was too much to add the "ages" to the "pack" but I don't really know how we bastardized the real name of them. I suppose it doesn't really matter. A generation of children who are now in the throes of middle age, and rapidly advancing toward old age remember "Crust Toothpaste" Brush teeth twice a month, tastes lousy, or "Beast Ball" Creepy Cards, with shocking bubble gum, or perhaps they might recall the "Weakies," "The breakfast of chumps" or "Blunder Bread,"" Extra heavy bread, build your body just by lifting package"

Wacky Packages came in a pack with 2 or 3 stickers and a puzzle piece. I don't really remember if gum came in the pack like it did with baseball cards, but kids bought them for the stickers not the gum, or the puzzle that you could never find all the pieces for. My brother and I would stick them all over the place. On our bed headboard, our desks, our bureaus, on the wall and basically any place that they would stick. Our mother must have cringed every time we got a pack of this new art deco. I can imagine that a lot of mothers back in the 1970s cursed Topps Chewing Gum Incorporated for this marvelous invention. I can vividly remember attempting to remove a wacky pack from the baseboard on my bed. No such luck. The edges could be peeled back but that was it. It would have taken patience (which I did not possess) and a boy scout jack knife to remove it. Even then it would have been a tedious and laborious task. Once a wacky pack made its mark it was permanent whether your mother liked it or not. I believe that I was about 6 or 7 when I first started collecting them. Some of the artwork was morbid...almost disturbing.  As a child who was still getting use to the world and all its mysteries the wacky packs threw a wrench in it. I can remember pausing and reflecting on the unreal images as if I had entered some parallel universe that was similar, but not quite the same as the one we lived in. What if I fell asleep and woke up in the wacky pack universe? Was it possible? Would I wake up and find myself drinking "Kook Aid" rather than "Kool Aide?" Impossible...or was it? To a 6 or 7 year old anything is possible. The whole world is a mystery.

I was curious to see if there was a market in the 21st century for the ubiquitous 1970s wacky pack. I was amazed to find that they were still being made, and had been brought back on numerous occasions over the past 40 years. You can buy a whole box of them for about $20. Needless to say they are not the same wacky packs that came out in the 1970s. They are knock offs and a cheaper version. The original stickers fetch a tidy little sum if one wanted to start collecting them. Do I regret sticking them all over my bedroom when I was a kid knowing now that I could fetch a few dollars for them? Absolutely not! The memory is what matters, after all, the 1970s were the golden age of wacky packs. I am glad that I was a part of it! I asked my 14 year old son if he had ever heard of a wacky pack and got a blank look... "A wacky what dad?"

A Lost Moment in Time: Harry Truman and the Seedling

By Craig: Recently I sold my house and moved across town where I bought an old Tudor that was built back in the 1970s. This got me thinking about the number of places that I have lived during the 49 years of my existence. I came up with the number 10. I don't have a clue as to the average number of places that a person lives in a lifetime, but if I were to guess, 10 times would probably be on the high side. I have known some people that still reside in the home that they grew up in. I would think, however, that most people would at least move on from their childhood home even if it is down the street, or in the same town. My grandparents on my mother's side were both born in Worcester Massachusetts, which is where I was born. Neither of them ever left. They both died only minutes away from where they had been born. In fact, I don't believe either one of them ever left the eastern seaboard of the United States. Their grandson, however, since leaving Worcester county in 1986 at the age of 17, has traveled around the globe. I have been back home, but only to visit, and only a smattering of times since I left 31 years ago.

When I was born I briefly lived in an apartment in Worcester with my parents and twin brother Jay. We then moved to another apartment for a short while. I was too young to remember either of these places. However, I remember the 3rd place where I lived. It was on Queen Street in Worcester in my grandfathers house. We lived on the 2nd floor of a triple decker, a house that I have previously wrote about on this blog. As it was right across from City Hospital, I associate it with the sound of ambulances and death, as it is also the house where my grandfather died while shoveling snow on his back deck after the blizzard of 78. We had moved out of there when I was five, but the house has always remained in my mind and I think about it often. While I have many memories of going to visit my grandparents there after we had moved out, I have very few memories of actually living there. One of those memories came to the surface just recently after being dormant for a number of years.

A few weeks ago my son and I took a two week road trip across the United States, and one of our stops happened to be the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library in Independence Missouri. I had always been fascinated with Truman. He was the last President to not finish college, and seemed to have ascended to the nations highest political post very quickly and against all the odds. If I were to guess, Truman himself probably didn't quite understand how he managed to become President of the United States. My son and I also went on a tour of Truman's home on Delaware street. It was a humble place for an ex-president to live. The floor in the kitchen was linoleum, and the docent explained that Truman had used thumbtacks to hold the linoleum down in spots that had ripped. These tack were still plainly visible. Truman's library was also a humble affair. A small room with a chair and some book cases. It was about the same size as my library and I couldn't help but notice that some of the books looked familiar. While I was here I thought back to my childhood on Queen Street.

It was late December of 1972. I was four years old. A few days earlier my father had given my brother and I small clear plastic cups with soil in them in which we planted a seed. we were entranced by the small green sprouts that had suddenly appeared like magic. The television was on. It was an old black and white affair, a floor model that sat near a window in the living room. On the screen I recall seeing a flag draped coffin being carried by pallbearers. It seemed to be a solemn and sad procession and as a four year old I was not sure what it meant. I only knew that it was the end of something. I guess my instinct told me that. I must have asked someone what it was, and someone must have explained to me that it was the funeral of Harry Truman. It was a few days later when I looked at the plastic cups and noticed that one of the green sprouts had turned brown while the other was thriving. Death was a finality to this existence, and I guess it occurred to me that week back in 1972 that death was real. Harry Truman and my seedling had taught me this. However, I also perceived that life was quite arbitrary and indiscriminate. Why had one of the seedlings died while the other blossomed into a fine looking flower?

My son and I walked outside into the garden at the Truman Library. We were the only ones out there. As I stood over the burial plot of Truman and his wife Bess I couldn't help but think of that brown withered seedling from so long ago...but at the same time remembered the flower that had bloomed full of life.

Is Time Fake?

By Jay

It seems that everything in this world is fake.  The American Heritage Dictionary defines “fake” as “having a false or misleading appearance; fraudulent…”  So what exactly in this world is fake? 

Well, I’d say just about everything…  But that doesn’t mean everything is bad.  It just means that nearly everything surrounding us is fake.  Let’s take a look at entertainment.  Hollywood spends billions of dollars every year producing movies so that people can vicariously experience something that they will never experience in real life.  Everything is fake about the movies – from the stories to the acting to the wardrobe to the set – everything.  Even movies that purport to be based on real stories are fake.  They are nothing more than actors playing parts on sets spouting words written for them by screenwriters.  Fake.  The entire Hollywood star system and world of celebrities is fake – from popular actors and singers to sports stars and other notables – these people are elevated in the eyes of the public to nearly godlike status with thousands of yellow journalists all over the world exaggerating and reporting details of their private lives.  Yet people love it!

Then there is religion.  From Christianity to Judaism to Mahometanism to Buddhism to Hinduism to all the other countless smaller religions out there – nothing is real.  They are all based on the words of gods or prophets or arcane priestly figures that all purport to know the way of achieving peace for the soul (something else that might be fake).  Christianity is the biggest.  People actually believe that a man who was crucified in circa. 29 A.D. rose from the dead telling a select few individuals in his rather vague way of speaking to spread the truth of his message, which is pleasant enough to read about but rather slight and embarrassingly platitudinous for an omniscient creator.   Yet where I live there is a church on just about every corner, which just goes to show how vital religion is in the lives of many people.  Though the foundations of religion are inherently fake, many of them have spawned some of the greatest literature in the world as well as that of art and architecture.  Christianity alone has produced such brilliant minds as St. Augustine, Anselm of Canterbury, Thomas Aquinas and many more.  And yet all is based on fictions created by certain canny individuals from the world’s past. 

As I sit here in my library writing these words, I look around and see all the fake things that surround me.  Fictional works by various authors such as Hugo, Irving, Hawthorne and others…  Historical volumes by Parkman, Prescott and a host of other early as well as modern historians – all reporting details from various sources which may or may not be true based on who is doing the telling…  Volumes of poetry – mere whimsical images set in a tight and constructive language – nothing more than translated thoughts or visions artistically rendered by the poet…  Christian philosophy and history of over two thousand years – all based on purported divinity…   

                                                        Dr. Frederick Cook's Fake Peak

The world has been full of imposters and frauds since time immemorial – from charlatans to politicians to scam artists – all engaging in fakery of some sort for either profit, publicity or power.  Of course, this doesn’t make us all imposters and frauds; however, I would almost wager to bet that if we really looked hard at the settings and situations in which we live, we would find that just about every facet of our lives has some aspect of unreality about it – from the image we have of ourselves that we try to project to others all the way down to our inmost thoughts and the burdensome doubts that plague our intentions and actions.  But can all of this be labelled under the heading fake?  I don’t know.  I really don’t know anything and am even more in the dark now than I was when I knew everything at age 18.  I should be getting wiser in my later years, yet all that seems to surround me are thoughts and beliefs that grow cloudier and murkier with the passage of time.  I suppose that before I leave this world – if I have the luxury to contemplate my imminent departure – all will appear nothing more to me than confounded nonsense cloaked in some garbled and indistinct mess.      

Yet I am satisfied with the fakeness that surrounds me.  I am perfectly complacent within my fakeness and revel in its overall meaninglessness.  I know that time itself is fake.  It appears to be nothing more than a construct of ours to fathom the past and the future that has not yet arrived; however, I so want it to exist simply for the fact that I wish to reflect upon the past – not only on the hazy details of my own meager existence but also on the events that preceded my inauspicious arrival.  So I believe that it is real, much like the myriad of fakeness that inspires the whole world to throb to the beat of nothing.     

Thomas Hardy: The Return of the Native, and The Name Inside the Book

By Craig: Our time on this earth is fleeting. I sit here tonight listening to the rhythmic ticking of an alarm clock. I never set it, but its tick is soothing and it eventually lulls me to sleep. I usually read a book every night before I go to bed while the clock is ticking. The books pages contain nothing deep or scholarly. It's usually a Louis L'amour novel, or something similar. Lately I have been reading Thomas Hardy. A few months ago it was Gaston Leroux and Jack London. I tried reading War and Peace but found it too dry. In fact, I have tried reading War and Peace off and on for the last 30 years. I never make it past the first chapter. I did manage to get through Dicken's Bleak House. I kept waiting for the meat of the story, but it never came. I guess it was apropos. After all "Waiting" and "Time" are two of the themes of that book. Indeed, Jarndice vs Jarndice (The law case throughout the book) went on in perpetuity through the generations. I guess that is how it is in life. Everything goes on into the future...nothing is ever totally resolved...things change...and time never ends even though you do. Where is the resolution to existence? Is there ever one?

I am in the process of selling my house and have started to pack up some of the books in my library. I own hundreds of books. I should correct myself and say "I am the current caretaker of hundreds of books." A person never really owns anything. The concept of ownership is a specious one. The proof of this is found in every library. A lot of my books are decades old, some of them are centuries old. I have always been fascinated with the names written inside of the books which denote previous ownership. I recently finished Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge. I enjoyed the book so I decided to read his The Return of the Native. The copy that I possess is an old hardback with green boards. It was published by Harper and Brothers in 1922. Where I acquired the book I have long since forgotten. Perhaps I purchased it in a lot when I was selling books back in the early 1990s? Maybe it was given to me by somebody and I have forgotten the when! and the who! I had never read Hardy or had even given him any thought until my late cousin Trevor, in England sent me a book on Wessex Tales by Hardy a number of years ago with a glowing recommendation to read his works.  Well Trevor...I'm just getting around to it now wherever you might be! Anyway, where this book came from escapes me. I opened it up and as I usually do I looked at the front leaf. A simple name was inscribed inside "Louise Kirk." I sat there looking at it wondering who Louise Kirk might have been. The ink was faded with age on the yellowed leaf. It was obviously old as it was written in ink from an inkwell. I guessed that it was probably inscribed by Miss or Mrs. Kirk sometime around 1922. There were no other clues. There was simply the name. Louise Kirk once possessed this copy of Thomas Hardy's The Return of the Native. This was certain as her name was clearly written inside the aging book...The book which I, the latest caretaker, was about to sink his teeth into. I thought about the age of the book. It was 95 years old. How many people have read this copy that once belonged in the library of Louise Kirk? Was she the only one who read it? Did it sit on a shelf collecting dust and yellowing for three quarters of a century after her reading? Did her son or daughter pick it up during the Eisenhower administration and peruse through the leafs?  I Know that I have had the book for at least 20 years...where was it the preceding 70 or 75? Who was the caretaker? I did not know a Louise Kirk or anyone named Louise for that matter yet the book sits here in all its faded glory on my nightstand begging to be read. It seems to breathe..."Please Read Me Craig! You and Louise have neglected me for so long!" I want to ask it some questions. What happened to Louise? She must be long in her grave. The drama that unfolded as she read Hardy's masterpiece dissipated from her mind shortly after the reading as it will from me when I am done with it. I thumbed through the pages and started reading it, but I gave up and flipped back to the front leaf and thought about Louise Kirk. I did a quick Google search but came up with nothing. She could have been one of numerous Louise Kirk's who had lived in the past century. Perhaps she had married and became Louise Jones...or Louise Smith?  She had lived a life...How long I did not know. The only thing that connected me with her was this book...The book, one of many of which I find myself caretaker. I picked up a ball point pen and carefully wrote my name under that of the previous caretaker Louise Kirk. Perhaps in 95 years someone will pull this volume off a shelf somewhere and see two names and wonder...

Victor Hugo et les principaux personnages des Miserables

Victor Hugo et les principaux personnages des Miserables

By Jay

I’ve always been a huge admirer of Victor Hugo, ever since I saw the 1935 film version of Les Miserables when I was eleven years old in 1979.  I finally read an abridged version of the novel in 1984 followed by the unabridged version in 1988.  I’ve subsequently read just about everything of his that has been translated into English and own an antique 30 volume set of his “complete” works that dates from shortly after his death in 1885.  I also own (I believe) all of his biographies that have been either written or translated into English and have copies of many film versions of his novels.  I suppose I could almost consider myself an expert on the “anglo” interpretation of this great writer’s works in English, and my only regret is that I have never read any of his works in his native French.     

Recently, I came across a very short film called Victor Hugo et les principaux personnages des Miserables.  According to a quick internet search, this is the first film version of any of Hugo’s works though it can barely be called a “version” but rather a curiosity.  It was filmed by the Lumiere brothers circa. 1897/98, making it nearly 120 years old.  It’s surprisingly very clear for such an old film – almost as if the footage could have been shot today.  Of course, there were no feature length films in the 1890’s, mere snippets.  The film itself lasts for just over a minute and shows an anonymous impersonator assuming some of the substantial roles within the novel beginning with Hugo himself, white beard and all.  Hugo stares at us as if to say, Wait until you see what I have in store for you, as he gazes directly into the camera, head somewhat loftily raised, arms folded, gaze set with purpose.  Hugo’s character is then followed by the angry looking convict Jean Valjean, beardless and with his prisoner identification number on his stocking hat.  The impersonator then turns around and changes into the identity of the benign and kindly looking Bishop Myriel, bespectacled and with eyes gleaming benevolently into the camera.  The next character that is portrayed is the innkeeper Thenardier with full beard, arms folded, hunched over and almost leering into the camera as if to say, Watch out, or I will take what’s in your pockets!  And the final impersonation is probably his most unique – that of Valjean’s nemesis, police inspector Javert, beardless, police hat, with false broken teeth – leaning back with his hands behind him, his mouth open and expression wild with obsessive determination.  It is a macabre portrait, and one that demands continuous viewing.  On the whole, the entire film demands continuous viewing.  It is one minute captured in time towards the end of the century before last when films were in their infancy.  On Christmas Eve I found myself watching it over and over again.  I cannot explain why I am so fascinated by the film except perhaps that everything about it is in the distant past.  The anonymous impersonator has surely been moldering in his grave for many, many years and yet the sparks of life he brought, however fleetingly, to the various characters forever remain etched in time.

A copy of the film can be seen on You Tube.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9l4H5pe4kaU

Edvard Munch: Melancholy

By Craig: A wise person once said; "live for the moment as if it may be your last." The other day I was reflecting on the passage of time as it related to my existence, and realized that if I doubled the years that I have already lived....I would be 96 years old. It was not really a revelation to me, as I frequently think of things like this, and realize that as the world spins I am merely an object that spins with it. As I sit here in my library and write this, I can hear the revving of a car engine not too far away and wonder if the person behind the wheel is like me and has ever stopped to ponder on the relevance of his existence. Maybe not...But I am certain that this experience is not unique to me. In fact, I am certain of it.

A number of years ago I became fascinated with the artwork of the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch. He is best known for his series of paintings and pastels called The Scream which has become an iconic and sometimes spoofed work. Although The Scream is generally considered his most famous work, I am intrigued by another work that has mostly fallen into obscurity. It is called Melancholy. It depicts a man sitting by the waterside. I don't particularly examine artwork to the high intensive level of a critic. I merely like a work for either its symbolism or its beauty. With Munch's work it is the symbolism that impresses me. The subject of Melancholy sits with his chin resting on his hand in a seemingly pensive mood as if something were bothering him. Is he reflecting on a distressing event in his life that he has just experienced? Perhaps he has just fallen out with his lady love? Or maybe it is a change in his life that he is having a hard time dealing with. Although the artist had his own personal inspiration for the work, another person might look at it in another way. To me, the subject, although seemingly solemn in his thoughts might have reached an epiphany of sorts. Perhaps he has come to that moment of time in his life when he has suddenly realized that he is at a crossroads. He sees time slipping by and the reason for his existence has become lost to him. He desperately seeks it again, but the grandeur novelty of youth has passed him. Beyond him, the endless shoreline disappears into infinity. He is lost...and lonely.

Friedrich Nietzsche might have summed up the man's mood when he wrote: 
"In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the highest and most mendacious minute of "world history", yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die. One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated sufficiently how wretched, how shadowy and flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened."

I can't get worked up about current events like most people do. Perhaps I would if I didn't have time to contemplate the mood of my existence, and the passage of time. It would be out of sheer necessity and the instinct of my survival that I would be forced to forget the luxury (or curse depending on how one sees it) of philosophical meditation and resort to the temporal politics of the day. Does it really matter if Trump or Clinton wins? Or...if this blog post is even written?

 The car has stopped revving its engine. It is quiet now and the sky is getting dark as the sun has slipped below the horizon yet again in the western sky. My mind races back to my youth...I am riding my red Schwinn down Route 68, my bag full of newspapers. It is blistering cold, and I can see my breath as I pedal hard toward the next house where I will launch a newspaper onto the back porch. The world and future stretch out in front of me...Melancholy and infinity are the farthest things from my mind. Another day has passed on this diminutive world that we temporarily inhabit... all the while stretching toward a timeless and measureless forever...