Sex Education - 1950s - Utica, NY

                                         

     My parents hoped the Sisters of St. Joseph at Sacred Heart Grammar School would educate me in the mysteries of life - especially sex and procreation. It did not happen.  Simultaneously Holy Mother the Church seemed to believe that parents had the responsibility for enlightening children in these matters so fraught with potential mortal sin. (I also feel the need to note that I was never sexually abused.) Whatever sex education I was exposed to registered somewhat imperfectly on my dense psyche. Still by 8th grade I had things pretty much figured out. Life was a perpetual struggle against sexual, carnal  lust. When a man and woman married the struggle intensified. They could sleep together, preferably in twin beds, but never have sex. It was God's test. When God was satisfied with their purity He would allow the wife to become "with child" - a kind of modified immaculate conception for the masses.
     In high school - Utica Catholic Academy - the Sisters of Charity adhered relentlessly to the purity message and occasionally brought in hooded Passionist Priests to stoke up our focus on hell's tortures. After a session with the Priests many of us didn't want to touch a girl for two, maybe three days. When faced with difficult questions the good Sisters also fudged some. A serious sophomore, Jack K. standing next to me asked the Principal, Sister Margaret -  "What does 'masturbation' mean?" Her hands clasped while the sea gulf headgear fluttered. "Well how was it used in the sentence?"
     At noon the school bell would ring and boys with brown bags would rush out the doors, run west on Bleecker Street two and a half blocks, up one flight of stairs and enter the Downtown Billiards pool room. There for twenty minutes we would shoot pool and eat lunch before the dash back. Along with my home and school this eight table pool hall was for four years a critically important educational resource. For instance at some point there was a heated discussion of procreation. My friend Charlie expounded before some fellows a most convincing explanation I thought, of modified immaculate conception. The proprietor of the establishment, Pete P. had even stopped to listen. Charlie concluded with an impassioned question, "IF not with God's direction how could people possibly get here?" Pete, quite incredulous responded, "They fuck!" and walked away. For me an alternative possibility - from an unimpeachable source! This was my "Eureka" moment.
     Around 11:00 PM on a Friday night, Jim, Ronnie and I, after hours of financially unsuccessful labor on the billiard table (unusual in its self) decided to conclude the evening while each of us still had $5.00 remaining (plus 20 cents for bus fare). We left via the backdoor and descended the exterior, wooden staircase, crossed the street under a dim streetlight and knocked on the front door of the brothel. Coke let us in and we began to survey the ladies in the parlor. Then Jimmy surprised us. "Coke, I am a little short of $5.00. Lend me 34 cents - Please!"  Coke's eyes crossed. "Geezzz, now I'm lending them money!" and he reached into his pocket.
     Ten to fourteen minutes later, after making a selection, being examined for STD, then a sexual event, we were out the door and on the corner waiting for the late bus to take us to the west side - home.

A Utica Democrat

                                                     

                                                                       Utica, N.Y
     There was as much chance I would grow up a Republican as there was I would morph into a Klingon. In a household with an Irish, Roman Catholic, Democrat mother and a liberal, Swedish immigrant father - my path was set. Utica was a city of 100,000 citizens, blue collar, with blocks of two family houses on streets shaded by towering elms. We resided on the west side, a neighborhood dominated by Polish, Irish and German ethnics. My very first friend was a blond, blue eyed Polish kid, "Stosch". The NYS Education Department in the 1950s complained that youngsters were graduating from Holy Trinity Grammar School speaking English with a Polish accent. East Utica was Italian, RC and Democrat. (I played basketball briefly for the East Utica Democrats.) WASPs and Jews lived in south Utica, New Hartford and the rural communities of Oneida County - bastions of Republican  power- and almost alien. African Americans had a small enclave in north Utica and voted mostly Democrat. I rarely saw a black face during my first 18 years - mostly at downtown movie theaters - they sat in the balcony.
     America's great presidents; Washington, Jefferson, Jackson had to be Democrats - there were no Republicans yet. In the 1860s, the Democrats lost their way and President Lincoln freed the slaves, saved the Union and unhappily nurtured the Republican Party. T.R. Roosevelt should have been a Democrat, Woodrow Wilson was - but we had to wait through years of mediocrity before the next great Democrat presidents - Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman.
     Utica's mayors were usually WASP or Irish with names like Boyd Golder and Frank Dulan. But the city was led from the east side. Rufus Elefante (1903-1994) political boss and regional legend managed Utica for perhaps 20 years - from Marino's Restaurant - going booth to booth to consult with politicians, bureaucrats and citizens. In the late 1960s I would bring Hartwick College students to Rufie Ventura's Restaurant on the east side to meet and talk politics with the mostly retired Mr. Elefante. He was perhaps 5'4" in a dark, perfectly cut, pin stripe suit. "We would select someone to run for mayor - kind of attractive but not too smart - like your professor there." Students loved him.
     Yes, there was corruption, gambling and brothels - Utica was the "Sin City". Rumor had it that the mobster Lucky Luciano had been scheduled to be "whacked" during a visit to Utica. But the city also had a sense of stability - there were jobs, wonderful parks, a fine zoo and a belief that things could get done - might need Rufie's assistance and a "deal" but good constituent relations mattered - call your councilman and the City at no charge would remove your dying elm tree. 
     At the national level among the pluses (and yes, there were also minuses) Democrats brought about Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Obamacare. I cannot imagine life in the United States without these programs - so I remain a Democrat.

Photo - Jmancuso of EnglishWikipedia

Lt. Col. Donald Marsh, US Air Force and . . .

                                                         

 
      Hartwick College Registrar was Don's title when I knew him four and a half decades ago. A remarkably good man he managed the registrar's office as one moving through a confetti storm of issues and problems at the core of an educational institution; class schedules, registration, class changes, disgruntled faculty, mid-term grades, final grades, disgruntled students, late grades, incompletes, summer courses. Almost always his face showed the contented smile of an innocent
and would occasionally dissolve into laughter when the swirling issues appeared most confounding.
     From afar I would witness and contribute to the flow of minutia and dilemmas wondering how Don handled it. How many times had he heard an anguished student or faculty member announce "I have a problem!" Even I approached Don at least once and uttered that trite phrase.
     "Listen John" he said grinning. "When you can see landing boats on the horizon filled with Japanese soldiers approaching your island intent upon killing you - that's a problem!"
     I understood and still try to never use those four words in that precise order.
     Paradise must certainly be divided into special interest zones. To find Don and wonderful wife Mimi, one would need to visit the US Air Force clouds where they would be found consorting with old comrades. He might also be discovered at a heavenly conference of educational administrators musing about the digital tools now available to manage mind numbing collections of data - but I think not. Don is much more likely to be found tinkering in the celestial auto machine region, an intergalactic space with a limitless but perfectly organized system of replacement parts, a steady, unrestricted supply of acetylene gas - restoring to glory an ancient automobile.

Caribbean Islands

   

     The finest moments of a cruise occur in darkness, standing by a ship's rail watching as a hulled hotel churns forward - the bow creating florescent waves and swirls. Bonuses include stars and a sea breeze. The Caribbean Sea spreads south from the arching Greater and Lesser Antilles, the Bahamas, covering a million square miles before reaching the shores of Venezuela, Columbia, Central America and Mexico. It's average depth is 7,200 feet. At the Cayman Trench the depth collapses down 4.7 miles (25,200 feet). A properly weighted body falling, jumping or shoved over the rail would descend to the silken, muddy bottom in about two hours.
     The Caribbean has islands - 7,000 or so including: 13 independent island nations that of course have their own islands. Cuba possesses 19; Jamaica 26; Martinique, a French dependency 50; and the USA's territory, the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico 142 islands.* To visit many of these islands is simple (sometimes expensive) - to know them far more difficult requiring time (and expense). Through the years I have had the pleasure of visiting perhaps 25 islands and 7 mainland ports of call. As a fact I can unequivocally state that I know abysmally little about these same islands, their people or the Caribbean Sea.
     In January 2016, Carol and I motored in a fine, sea going hotel, the m/s Oosterdam approximately 3,000 nautical miles. The Oosterdam accommodates 2,000 guests. After four island visits the ship tied up at a pier in St. Thomas, USVI. Thereafter another hotel, the something Oasis secured along side. This ship contained a reported 5,000 guests. We joined humanity disgorging from the ships seeking adventure, learning, frivolity and walked the cement pier. At the end a mini mall - diamonds, alcohol, tanzanite, tee shirts - and a center where tourists mustered for their prepaid,onshore excursions. Not inclined to climb into a mini bus packed with other tourists, we hired a minivan and driver. "Vincent" made the good effort - a local fish market, pirate stuff, this and that. We drove up into the hills for the panoramic view. Approaching the peak the inevitable tourist shoppe sign shouted "Home of the World Famous Banana Daiquiri". Thunderstruck! - or simply jolted I remembered being here previously off a different cruise ship. Was this simply inattention? Too much tourism? Too many cruises?  Losing it in the golden years?
     The Caribbean offers splendid experiences: with snorkel and mask I have watched a Jamaican diver entice nurse sharks up off a coral reef with "treats"; from the stern of a Destroyer observed multiple rain storms amid a glorious dawn; on a sailboat in a roiling sea retched into a garbage bag before preparing the crew a delicious breakfast; repeatedly watched the sun sink into a flat sea determined to see the "green flash". No luck yet.
     If you like to shop, eat,  the slots, soak in a crowded pool, fill up a deck chair, see stage entertainment, visit a spa -  take a cruise. If experiencing an island's people and culture is your wish - then arrive on a boat with sails or in an aircraft and plan to stay awhile.
     * See Wikipedia

Hickey's Fishing Lesson

                   

                                                          Flume Falls - AuSable River (flickr.com)

     The AuSable River's two branches originate in the high peaks region of the Adirondack Mountains. Then cutting through sandstone and granite the branches join at AuSable Forks. The unified river flows northeast churning through its creation, the mile long AuSable Chasm and then into Lake Champlain. Its total length is about 95 miles. The AuSable "has been" or "is" one of the finest trout fishing rivers in the nation. It is home to Brown, Brook and Rainbow trout stocked and native.
The West Branch about two miles from Wilmington, NY includes Flume Falls, a brilliant demonstration of nature utilizing rushing water to shape rock. Below the Falls Tom Hickey led me to a stretch of stone ledge above the flume and suggested I try my luck here. He move further down stream.
     Tom is a fisherman - for the AuSable he was always equipped with waders, a couple of fly rods and the tan, multi-pocketed vest containing flies, nymphs, tools, and little things so esoteric only a trout or real fisherman would understand there function. His friends Terby and Tom M. both now deceased - Bruno, Jerry, Luke, Roger, all possessed such vests. Bill L. did not, nor did I.
     As Tom departed I sat down with my back firmly against the granite wall and prepared my spinning rod for action. My belly pack contained sinkers, extra lures and a package of peanut-butter crackers. I decided to begin with live bait. Out of respect for Tom and trout fishing I did not have the worms in a coffee can. The worm, hook and sinkers hit the white foam - I relaxed, a warm sun was heating the ledge - I napped lulled off by the roar of the flume. Tom reappeared - had I caught anything? I reeled up my line - the worm had disappeared. "No" I replied. Well neither had he - just some small stuff that he returned to the deep.
     Fast forward. Another time and place on the West Branch near the Whiteface Mountain Ski Area. Tom and I are on the bank of the river about 50 feet apart. He has equipped me with one of his fly rods, baited with a duplicate of the nymph he was using. For the uninitiated this kind of nymph (as I understand it) was designed to encourage trout action at a depth of 12 inches. Now I am casting with determination, accuracy, then waiting and retrieving. Tom seemed busy - casting, waiting and then pulling in a small trout. He checks the "brookie" and then gently returns it to the stream. A few minutes later he has another, then another that he keeps. Tom and friends eat their catch. He reels in his line and walks over. "How you doing?"
     "No bites, hits or strikes." And I cast again. Tom leads me back to the place where he has been fishing and has me stand in his footprints. "Try it here" and he returns to my previous location and casts out.
     Over the next thirty minutes Tom continues to catch small brook trout. They seem to jump on his hook. To my surprise and some embarrassment I continue my life long record of never knowingly had a bite, hit or strike by a trout. My conclusion - trout specifically, fish generally and people just admire and like Hickey.
     The Scene - a rustic, dark brown, two story camp on a bank of the Schroon River in North Hudson, It is the first night of perhaps the last fishing trip Tom will organize. He is also in charge of the week's menu. Tonight's features steamed clams, Brook's barbecued chicken, Brook's macaroni salad and cold slaw with Foti's Italian bread. Stuffed in around a rectangular table are seven men. Slowly I scan the scene - each has a drink or beer - there are no listeners - all are talking and laughing simultaneously.

The Personal Library - Part 2

                                                 

                                                        Mikhail Bulgakov 1937
                                                        Wikipedia Photo                                                                              


  "Is Donald Trump a fascist?" The conservative analyst Ross Douthat asks this in a New York Times column*. His answer "Yes."* Would the American people ever elect a fascist President? We may soon have a definitive answer. In the meantime one can read Philip Roth's The Plot Against America (2004). Roth explores the "what if" American aviation icon Charles Lindbergh, who also happened to be proto-fascist and anti-Semitic, was elected President of the United States in 1940. How would the nation have been governed? Roth has authored 27 books and numerous short stories and essays. My collection contains but two - the other is American Pastoral (1997) - a father, daughter and the collapsing American dream.
     I feel the need to reiterate - a former colleague Dr. Nathan Cervo, once suggested that for a satisfying and complete life, a personal library of no more than 50 books/authors is required. This post continues to identify the works in my "50" collection. Books I consider "personal friends" - volumes so important their presence is constantly required for re-reading, skimming or reference. My count is now at 48 books by 11 authors.
     I read Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita late in life - twice so far.  I am so attached to this book that it must be in my office, within reach at all times. Written during the late 1920s, Bulgakov burned the manuscript in a rush of fear. Then he decided to rewrite it during Stalin's Great Terror of the 1930s. Set in Moscow this tale is absolutely timeless and is the definitive example of what we now refer to as "magical realism".**
     My Russian collection includes Tolstoy's War and Peace; Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov; Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago; Sholokhov's And Quiet Flows the Don; and Henri Troyat's Chekhov. As a reference source I have Christopher Andrew and Vasili Mitrokhin's The Mitrokhin Archive and the Secret History of the KGB. Upon returning from a showing of the movie "Trumbo" I immediately consulted the Mitrokhin index. Dalton Trumbo is not listed - the KGB cared not.
     The "westerns" section of my collection contains just two titles and they are bookends for the entire genre: Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove (1985, Pulitzer Prize) and Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian (1985). McMurtry's storied cattle drive by Captains Call and McCrae from Texas to Montana is populated with flawed heroes, brutal villains, the unscrupulous, the weak and stupid. It is a hopeful parade of humanity with some to cheer and others to curse. The hit miniseries ran repeatedly on every other TV channel for years. In contrast Cormac McCarthy's novel is one of abject despair - the "kid" and the "judge"and violence that attains pornographic levels in America's Southwest of the 1850s. One reads looking unsuccessfully for a flash of hope. It is a wretched display of humanity. But Blood Meridian does emit the rank odor of obnoxious truth - it is on my book shelf. But may it never become a movie.
     For a post-apocalyptic vision I turn not to McCarthy (e.g. The Road) but to Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker (1980). Riddley is a 12 year old writing a narrative about his smashed and nuclear razed world in a phonetic vernacular. ". . . they got boats in the air and picters on the wind. Counting cleverness is what it were." Riddley's hand-to-mouth society is also on the verge of reinventing gunpowder and religion.
     Working for my biologist daughter Catherine as a field assistant in Costa Rica has dramatically shaped my values - in addition to placing my name in a couple of crucial footnotes. My most cherished book is E.O. Wilson's Naturalist (1994). The tile page has an inscription: "For Catherine Lindell, Fellow teacher and naturalist, Edward O. Wilson" and accompanied by a small, hand drawn ant. OK - this is not my book - it is Catherine's and I am just holding it for her until I die. My naturalist section also includes books by Stephen J. Gould Wonderful Life; Richard Dawkins River Out of Eden;; and previously mentioned Elizabeth Kolbert and Dave Beetle. For reference there are two thick guides to Costa Rica and Carl Zimmer's Evolution. On the reading table is Carl Safina's Beyond Words.
     When in a mood to seek religious succor, I do not consult the Bible or the Quran, though I have owned both in the past. They strike me as confusing. If I desire theological thought I turn to John Milton's Paradise Lost. If my mood is vengeful Dante's Inferno is my volume of choice. For clarity in theoretical matters I usually begin with George Sabine's A History of Political Theory - always within reach.
     The copy of Six by Seuss I am now holding is held together by wrapping tape - still pages struggle to fall away. I have repeatedly read from it: The Lorax; How the Grinch Stole Christmas; And to Think I Saw it in Mulberry Street; to seven grandchildren, their friends and classmates. Next to it on the bookshelf is A.A. Milne's The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh. Not as badly beaten up as Seuss, Pooh's book has also been repeatedly read. It contains clippings inserted from other sources. When Christopher Robin died at age 75, Czeslaw Milosz wrote Themes, that ends with:
    ". . . I had a grey beard, then I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, and then I died. It was probably just a dream, it seemed quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear, and our shared fun. Now I won't go anywhere, even if I am called for an afternoon snack."***
     Sara Mileski at age 11 an aspiring poet, added a drawing of Pooh and a poem The Bear that concludes:
    "So bears are impossible to beat. Listen to this folks that bears are not too scary and hairy but also very kind and sweet."
     These are certainly not the only books I own. But if suddenly whisked off to a prolonged, wintry exile these 70 volumes by 31 authors would hopefully be my companions - plus one copy of Shakespeare's plays.
     What is in your library?

*NYT December 3, 2015 **Translation by Pevear and Volokhonsky 1997.
***NYRB February 6, 1997

The Personal Library - Part 1

                                                                           

                                                  The Rice Portrait claimed to be Jane Austen
                                                                       Wikipedia
                                                     

                                                    National Israel Museum

 Dr. Nathan Cervo, Assistant Professor of English at Hartwick College many years ago and between peaceful challenges to local police authority, emphasized that in life one needed to own a personal library of about 50 books. His reasoning is lost from memory but the number "50" stuck. Further, I am not sure Dr. Cervo who said "books" might also have meant "authors". But the books one keeps do much to define us. The fewer "books" (or is it "authors") the sharper the personal definition - maybe. So curious reader I am about to expose elements of my inner "person" - indications of how my mind works - what authors are ingested, valued and recommended. Be prepared to be shocked.
     Between office and home I once owned possibly three hundred volumes. In academic circles this is a modest amount. One colleague with over a thousand volumes was forced to store boxes of books in my attic. (The record should belong to the great Argentine writer and philosopher Alberto Manguel. He had a personal library of 30,000 volumes.*) In 2000, I began to ruthlessly cull my collection down towards 50 volumes. Selection criteria were simple but stringent. Is the book so critical that I cannot tolerate the thought of not being able to access it immediately? In future years will I re-read or at least consult the book occasionally?
     Multiple books by a single author create an immediate problem. But I have sensibly resolved it by counting books and authors separately. Patrick O'Brian's magnificent Aubrey and Maturin novels of the British Navy fighting the Napoleonic Wars - I own the 20 volumes. Also possessed are Allan Furst's 12 espionage novels centered in the politically claustrophobic Europe of the 1930s - Dark Star is my favorite. I became emotionally over attached to Vilhelm Moberg's The Emigrants. The four novels recount the migration in the 1850s of the family Nilsson from Ljuder Parish in Smaland, Sweden to Chisago Lake Settlement, Center City, Minnesota. I am the son of a Swedish immigrant. So each volume is especially important. Thus revealed - 36 books by 3 authors.
     I own a "Nook" purchased three years ago that now carries a digital collection of 24 volumes. But of these there are only six that I consider part of "my library" and regret not having purchased in paper editions. I have trouble accessing material in digital books even utilizing the "e-bookmarks". Adding and accessing marginal notes is much more complicated than working with a paper volume. Then again the Nook seems to require nearly constant recharging. Finally, I like the feel of a paper book in my hands. The Nook did arrive with a free copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice first
published in 1813. My initial reaction was condescension. A man who inhales Patrick O'Brian and the Napoleonic War at sea could not possibly enjoy Jane Austin. Still, one afternoon with my arrogance and chauvinism locked in I began;
     "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife".
     Great Britain had recently defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. The United States had brazenly declared war and troops of Great Britain would soon be invading the US and burning Washington. But in Jane Austen's England life was focused on a proper courtship resulting in nuptials and an appropriate spouse. I freakin loved the book - cannot be more than two rooms away from it.
     There are five additional books on the Nook that I must now purchase in paper editions:
     Kai Bird American Prometheus 2005 - J. Robert Oppenheimer and the beginning of the atomic age; Stephen Greenblatt The Swerve 2011 - Lucretius, the atom, the "swerve" and the real beginning of the atomic age; Philip K. Dick Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? 1968 - Artificial intelligence and the human species - known by the movie title The Bladerunner. Elizabeth Kolbert The Sixth Extinction 2014 - Anticipating the end of much of earth's biodiversity (and perhaps the beginning of the end of humans and the atomic age); Hilary Mantel Wolf Hall 2009. After reading this account of Thomas Cromwell's life and times I realized that it and successor works would be in my library. In 2012, I purchased a paper edition of Bring Up The Bodies and await the final volume. (See "Character Adjustments; Finch, More, Cromwell and Satan" Musingsfor7.blogspot.com - July 2015).
     My library count is now 43 books by 9 authors - my shadowy, inner character continues to emerge.
     During the mid - 1990s, I experienced an emotional incident - a personal meltdown in the Oneonta office of the NYS Department of Motor Vehicles. What transpired could have been a scene from Franz Kafka's The Castle, The Trial or Amerika, all volumes in my possession. Since that incident my automobile license has read "KAFKA1". It celebrates a magnificent, world class writer while issuing a stinging rebuke to the NYS DMV. It is also hoped that this gesture would cause Kafka
(now certainly stressed by the beatific bureaucracy) to perhaps applaud.
     With 46 books by 10 authors identified this post must close. But critical questions remain to be answered in the next post - Part 2: What about Russian writers? Is there any pornography? Did the bible make the cut?

*Robert Poque Harrison "The Ultimate Reader" New York Review of Books October 22, 2015.