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I first heard of Joe Queenan when he was guest on the Don Imus on the radio show in the early 1990s. For the uninitiated, he’s a culture critic along the lines of P.J. O’Rourke. I don’t know where I’d place Queenan on the political spectrum, but as far as humorists (a vague term) go he tops my list. I don’t remember what he said on the Imus program, but it was funny enough for me to go out and buy his book, “If You’re Talking to Me Your Career Must Be In Trouble”, a title that demonstrates acumen with pronouns as well as powerful predictive qualities. In it, Queenan skewers the marginally and once famous and people like Barbara Streisand. I like Queenan because he’s funny (very) and he believes, as I do, that American culture has been a landfill for quite some time, like since the early 70s. When movies like McCabe and Mrs. Miller were made. You know, before The Eagles became popular.
In need of laugh recently, I looked to the Queenan catalogue. So, I picked up his piece of cultural criticism from the late 90s, Red Lobster, White Trash and Blue Lagoon. I know, I’m supposed to reading more weighty material but I just put Updike and David Foster Wallace down and I’m reading Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, so I think I’m allowed. I was looking for something breezy and funny and I got it with Queenan. I ripped through the book in three days (which is Evelyn Wood-like for me) and averaged a laugh per page at least.
In Red, White and Blue Queenan sets out to expose himself to the worst that American culture has to offer for a year. Why? Because in Queenan’s words:
“I was beginning to suspect that snobs like me were cutting ourselves off from all the sun in this society, that in our obsession with books by Umberto Eco and concerts by the Kronos Quartet, we had deprived ourselves of the boundless joy to be derived from a quiet evening with Yanni.”
That should give you an idea of the tone of the book. It alternates between savagely hilarious, simply hilarious and, it must be said, mean-spirited.
Culturally speaking the 90s weren’t so bad, especially compared to now. Back then there was a decent independent movie scene, “alternative” rock hadn’t yet turned to self-involved dreck, we weren’t at war, Reality television was the exception more than the norm, Clinton was president. Compared to now, it looks like the Age of Enlightenment.
Queenan doesn’t partake in television because, I presume, he realizes, as I do, that television has almost no redeeming qualities, and is not even worthy of mockery. OK, except for The Wire.
To be sure, the targets Queenan aims for are broad-side-of-the-barn types. A sampling (remember it’s the late 90s) with my own two bits:
- Cats – Never saw it, musicals in general are fraudulent to me. There’s no such thing as a good one.
- Billy Joel – I must admit I fell under Joel’s spell. I actually bought “The Bridge.” I came within an eyelash of seeing him on his tour with Elton John. A great savaging of Joel can be found in this Slate link.
- Mel Brooks – Never got him. His borscht belt, old-time Hollywood, schtick is lame. No, Spaceballs is not funny. Stupid funny yes. Funny, funny no.
- Garth Brooks – Please, my ears are connected to my brain.
- Cannonball Run – Yeah, I’ve seen it and I’ve seen worse.
- Love Story – Two horrible actors in an insipid story. I was hoping for a murder-suicide.
- Geraldo – Of course, could anyone be surprised he ended up at Fox “News?”
- Deepak Chopra – Beware ANY self-help guru.
- Stephen King – Never read him. Don’t intend to. But met him outside a restaurant on Cape Cod.
- Branson, Missouri – I was offered a job at the newspaper in Branson a long time ago and thankfully passed.
Now, my comments are merely snarky, maybe mean. Queenan fire-bombs these people. There are times in Red, White and Blue where Queenan crosses the line. Like when he compares the cast of St. Elmo’s Fire to Nazis. He’s also very tough on the purveyors of trash. He definitely looks down his nose at Peter Tesh and Kenny G fans, who buy their heroes’ “we’re not worthy” act.
This is one of many superb points that Queenan makes amid the roasting. It’s never a good idea for an entertainer to act as if his success is an accident, particularly when you’re charging $75 a head. When you go on and on about how you’re not worthy (as Tesh and “G” do at their concerts) don’t be surprised when people start to believe you.
But hey, I don’t blame Queenan for being cranky, he spends the book watching lousy movies, reading lousy books (the man is a speed reader), going to lousy plays, listening to lousy music, going to lousy concerts, eating lousy food, going to lousy towns (Atlantic City and Vegas in addition to Branson). I’d be a little on edge as well. But here’s what happens to Queenan, he discovers Scheissenbedauern which is the phenomenon of realizing that something, usually a cultural event, is not nearly as shitty as you thought it would be.
Scheissenbedauern eventually takes hold of Queenan and soon he’s learning to appreciate the trash. It hits him at a taping of a Geraldo show and comes to a head in a hilarious scene at a grotto in France.
At times, it’s hard to tell when Queenan is being serious. A great example of this is when he tosses out a reference to Pat Boone’s metal album, which I thought was just an example of hyperbolic sarcasm. It isn’t. It turns out there IS a Pat Boone metal album. Check it out HERE. Play one of the samples. Like Boone singing “Panama” from Van Halen or “Paradise City” from Guns N Roses. With a straight face. I was left wondering how Queenan cold drag Billy Joel naked across broken glass yet somehow absolve Pat Boone—excuse me, Pat Boone’s metal album.
Maybe when you spend so much time surrounded by imposters of drivel you forget what the genuine article looks like. Only Queenan can say.
So, Queenan’s quest leads him to a point where he must get back to a frame of mind where he realizes that crap, is in fact, crap and not find the redemptive qualities of even the worst performers. I won’t give away the ending but here’s a look at a sample of some entries from Red, White and Blue’s index:
Bolton, Michael -likened to ebola virus
Danza, Tony – forming common threat with Tony Orlando
Tesh, John – hepness of
FYI – Queenan’s most recent book is a serious turn – Closing Time, which is a look back at his life with an abusive father when he was growing up in Philaddelphia.
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“The Old Sky Cake Dodge”
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A hilarious clip from Slate V.
Watch it HERE.
It manages to point out how idiotic TV networks think we are.
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I haven’t listened to sports talk radio in a while because, well, because it’s stupid. And I don’t like feeling stupid. I divorced myself from it long before this whole Sports Detox thing but that’s not to say I didn’t spend hours listening to it.* Although, I never actually made the leap across the River Styx and called The “Sports Monster” or “Sports Dude and The Bald Guy” or yet another radio jock who, I was advised, “Told it like it is.” The media landscape is filled with such types. I’d venture to say more tell it like it is, than don’t tell it like it is. There’s not much place on the radio for reason and intellect. Opinions, preferably at high volume (see: Limbaugh, Rush; Hannity, Sean; Beck, Glenn), are what carry the day.
Failing that, rudeness and juvenalia (e.g. Stern, Howard, your local morning show that features a Morning Zoo with Krazy Antix and call-in contests that give the witless a chance to win a gift certificate to The Olive Garden by correctly answering three questions about reality television).
Thanks to satellite radio your radio listening is no longer limited by your place in the world. Should I choose, I could listen to any of several jazz stations in Paris or Radio 4 from the BBC, which I quite often do, thank you very much.
But through the accident of geography I have discovered what can only be called a pair of miracles.
I used to think that the only good indie radio stations were run out of big city universities. (KEXP out of the University of Washington in Seattle, WXPN out of the University of Pennsylvania, WFUV out of Fordham). I have modified that position however based on what I have heard from WNCW It is an independent radio station based out of Spindale (not made up), North Carolina and Isothermal Community College (ditto on the not being made up-ness). Spindale is about an hour north of here and I’d be lying if I said I’d been there or knew how to get there. But I have come to the conclusion that the station could play almost anything.
Visit the WNCW HERE.
Within the space of 15 minutes a DJ recently played Willie Nelson, Jack Johnson and Curtis Mayfield. Now, that, wow that folks is eclectic. When you see those choices presented to you as samples you quite literally have no idea what’s going to be coming out of the kitchen next. Billie Holliday? Sure. Captain Beefheart? Got it. Eminem? Sure, after the news break. I mean WNCW has a Frank Zappa hour. On Friday. Afternoon. When many people are still awake. And sober. Being an indie station they also have a Grateful Dead program.
What makes WNCW one of a kind is that is bridges the gap between Parliament and Brian Eno with bluegrass music. Bluegrass is the default setting for WNCW. I’m imagining a drinking game where drunk college students turn on WNCW and have to correctly predict guess the genre of the next song they’ll hear or drink whatever is in front of them. If you were playing such a game and are inebriated to the point of collapse and couldn’t possibly drink another drop without fear that you would have a Hendrix-like demise then you should select bluegrass. They have an 8-hour blue grass show on Saturdays. An 8 hour show! Of bluegrass!
Now like metal, blues, rap (not hip-hop) and reggae, all bluegrass sounds the same to me. I don’t particularly care for it for this reason. Which means I can’t really call myself a regular listener of WNCW. My alarm clock is set to it. On those rare moments when I’m in my car I listen to it, but, I must confess, the moment I hear bluegrassian pickin’ and grinnin’ I switch to CD mode. I don’t listen to WNCW as much as I probably should but dear lord I’m glad it exists. Like I said, a small miracle.
The other minor miracle comes courtesy of the local NPR affiliate. I don’t know what the call letters are for the station but (I think) all NPR stations in South Carolina are part of a network called ETV Radio. And every weekday morning from 8 to 8:30 something magical takes place. Now 8-8:30 is called Drive Time in the radio biz since it occurs in the heart of rush hour traffic in the morning and, presumably has the most listeners. It is the time when radio stations charge the most for advertising. It is when Howard Stern talks to the porn star/stripper du jour and when Mike and Mike on ESPN Radio talk to or about the jock du jour. While those paragons of low culture are doing their schtick, listeners of public radio in the state of South Carolina can listen to Dick Estell, otherwise known as The Radio Reader. For 30 minutes every morning Estell reads from a recently published book (edited for language and time). He doesn’t offer clever asides or witty commentary or groan over the silly parts, he just reads from the book as he has been doing since 1964. Visit his website here. No really. Check it out HERE. That’s his picture below. If he isn’t grandfatherly then I don’t know who is.
The Radio Reader is not a South Carolina institution. The first time I heard it I thought it was a special broadcast, like a once a year kind of thing. It’s actually based out of Michigan and airs on stations in 19 states—none of which are in the Northeast or on the West Coast. The Radio Reader is a Middle American, mostly Southern phenomenon.
While other stations feature DJs talking about the latest celebrity humiliation or the latest example of greed or faux outrage, Dick Estell reads from a book. I checked the station lineup and of all the stations that air The Radio Reader there are only three that air The Radio Reader in Drive Time. One of which is in South Carolina. So, somewhere in the offices of ETV/South Carolina Public Radio there is a very brave programming manager who I would like to thank.
At present, Estell is reading Dead Weight by Batt Humphries which is the story of a murder that took place in Charleston around the turn of the 19th century. It’s quite good, made better by Estell’s rendering. After finishing Dead Weight, Estell will read Making Rounds with Oscar, a book written by an MD, that tells how a cat lifted the spirits of an Alzheimer Unit. Seriously.
I have to count the Radio Reader as a slightly greater miracle than WNCW, but not by much. They both give me hope for humanity and make me proud to live where I do.
*- Cumulatively this probably adds up to several months of my existence on the planet. Time that can only be called wasted.
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OK, so after the aborted attempt to The Great American Novel SEE HERE I took on something slightly more modern, John Updike’s Rabbit, Run, which was published in 1960.
At the time of its release its depiction of sex was considered frank (I would submit that it still is) and the book stands as a touchstone in that regard. In many respects it portends the upheaval to come in the 1960s as young people became frustrated with the roles society had prescribed for them in post-war America.
The main character is a former high school basketball star in his mid-20s named Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom. Angst-rom get it? Harry sells some sort of vegetable peeler. He’s far removed from his glory days. Mostly though, he’s a misogynist.
He has a pregnant wife whom he leaves for a prostitute. He then returns to his wife after the birth of his daughter. But he leaves his wife again after she refuses to have sex with him, citing the pain from a complicated delivery. After the newborn is accidentally drowned in the bath tub by his wife (who had been drinking) Harry runs away yet again, this time after the funeral. That is basically the book in terms of plot. At separate intervals, Harry is counseled by the family priest, his former high school basketball coach and an elderly neighborhood woman for whom he does some gardening.
So, Harry is a restless soul. Obviously unhappy but ill-equipped to really do anything about it. He does what men do in such circumstances, run. The nature of his first departure has become a cliché. He quite literally went for a pack of cigarettes and didn’t come home.
As I saw it Harry has a few problems. The first of which is that he’s not very bright. He has little understanding of the universe outside of Brewster (a stand-in for Updike’s hometown of Reading, Pennsylvania). This is evident by the fact that he regards Texas, where he did a stint in the army, as a sort of Shang Hai. The reader is put inside Harry’s head throughout the book via the use of third person. In describing what is going on in that cavernous space, Updike’s writing is expansive. We get the sense that Harry is acute in his knowledge of self and observant of his surroundings when in fact there is abundant evidence to the contrary. Updike tells the reader again and again about the physiology of Rabbit’s responses to situations, which can be inferred as the responses of a narcissist which Harry most certainly is. But they could also be taken to give Harry a wisdom he clearly does not have. Updike efforts are incongruous, far too elaborate for the character he has created. He does not over-write so much as fail to parlay Harry’s insights into sensible actions. This is the great flaw of the book.
Apart from being a dim bulb, Harry’s other problem is that he hates women. He does not view women in the binary Madonna-Whore sense. It’s more like Bitch-Whore. Every woman in the book is presented alternate as the cause of Harry’s problems or as a piece of ass for him to have, except for his mother and sister, but even they are viewed primarily as sexual beings.
Rabbit, Run had three sequels that lasted into the 1990s but after being exposed to Harry Angstrom for some 200-plus pages I have no desire to journey with him through the tumult of the 1960s. He’s an asshole.
The level of my distaste for him caught me off guard. As I wrote HERE, part of the reason I have absconded with sports in favor of more literary pursuits, is that, despite my English degree, I felt like I had some serious blind spots in my literary background. One of the most gaping holes is in my knowledge of the great post-war American writers, of which Updike, despite my experience with this book, is most assuredly a member. My impressions of Updike are largely through interviews I’ve seen and a couple of short stories I’ve read. He struck me as a genial, decent fellow with some vaguely Midwestern sensibilities.
There is nothing genial or decent about Rabbit, Run. It’s an angry book, something I would expect from Norman Mailer, not from the vaguely Midwestern Updike.
Harry is roughly the same age as Updike was when he wrote the book. It’s not meant to be an autobiographical story because Updike went to Harvard after graduating from high school and as far as I can tell, never returned for any kind of extended stay. So, is Harry Upike’s alter ago, what he could have become had he stayed behind? Or is he an example of score-settling on Updike’s, how he imagined a lout whom he knew in high school might have turned out? Or is he a representative of the American Male at the time, a mass of confusion sexually and psychologically? I lean towards the last of the these choices.
The book’s setting, as I mentioned above, is based on the area around Updike’s own hometown of Reading, PA. I can’t imagine the town fathers were very happy with the depiction of their region. Updike paints a depressing, lonely picture. Having spent some time in Reading I can side with Updike here and also add with absolutely certainty that the area has only become more depressing and lonely since the publication of this book.
Aside from shining a light on a literary blind spot, reading the book proved helpful in my own writing. The novel I’m writing (whose protagonist is roughly the same age as Harry—though that’s where the similarity ends) is written in the third person. I have struggled with point of view and reading Updike has given me a better idea of how to bring clarity to scenes while still making the thoughts of multiple characters coherent.
That might be the only positive result of reading Rabbit, Run. Still, it was a far better experience for my brain than watching a highlight loop on ESPN or listening to bubbleheads chatter about the NBA draft on sports radio.
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One of the reasons I stopped watching sports is because most of the people involved with it – or who make a living from it anyway – are greedy, self-involved cretins who consider only the planets that populate the tiny universe that is their brain and nothing else. But occasionally evidence emerges that there are a few souls who have an understanding of the Social Contract that Rousseau created lo those many years ago.
The most recent example of this exception (i.e. humanity) occurred earlier this week when baseball umpire Jim Joyce (no relation to The Dubliner) missed the final call of what would have been a perfect game for Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga. Meaning that Galarraga had faced all 26 batters (from the hapless Cleveland Indians) and retired every single one of them. He needed merely to retire the 27th to make history. Even though this feat has been performed twice in the past few months, it is exceedingly rare, having been accomplished only 21 times in all of baseball (or for that matter, human) history. Furthermore, Galarraga is far from a superstar and will probably never find himself in such a circumstance again. Once the call is blown by Joyce, note his response. No hissy fit, no preening, it looks like he didn’t say anything. He even managed a smile in the face of such an absurdity. This puts him in sharp contrast to 90% (to be kind) of the other professional athletes. If you’re one of the seven people who hasn’t seen the play, herewith:
Now, immediately after the game Joyce reviewed the videotape and realized he made a mistake. Rather than hiding behind a publicist or a representative or the umpires union, he immediately apologized to Galarraga, to the the Tigers. He was clearly heartbroken for having (to use Joyce’s own words) “kicked the shit out of the call.” This was a genuine apology, not some phony market-tested, mea culpa (Tiger Woods anyone?). Don’t think Joyce was truly bothered by his mistake? Watch this clip of him before the very next game when Galarraga brings him out the Tigers starting lineup.
This is one of those exceedingly rare times where sports reveals that, within their universe, there still are people who do the right thing and understand there’s a larger picture. There might not be many of them, but a few of them happened to be on the field together the other night in Detroit.
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Recollections from a Memorial Day past. This is a shorter version of a longer essay.
 Pittston on one of its better days Memorial Day, 1992
Across small towns in the northeast like Pittston, Pennsylvania, there was a time that Memorial Day was one the most important days of the year. It still is, but not like it once was. Nominally, the holiday is meant to honor all soldiers who died while serving their country. Though as a boy, I learned that soldiers who served and died during World War II were held in particular regard, particularly in Pittston and particularly in my family. Eventually those who served in Korea and Vietnam received their rightful recognition. But in 1992, in Rust Belt towns like Pittston, Korea was still “The Forgotten War” and Vietnam was a topic to be broached delicately; no one needed Tom Brokaw or any other newsreader to be reminded that the soldiers and citizens of World War II were a great generation.
And it was on Memorial Day of that year that my father and I assembled with my grandmother (his mother) on the eighth floor in the senior citizens’ high-rise that would ultimately be her final home. Her apartment was adequate, bland and unimaginative, and its presence in a town like Pittston was an architectural redundancy. The three of us were waiting, as we often did, for my mother. Once she arrived, we were to go to the cemetery and watch the conclusion of Memorial Day services. My mother had no obligation to attend these annual rituals, especially since she and my father had been divorced for eight years. In hindsight, perhaps it was her continued presence, borne out of respect for her former mother-in-law, which had unintentionally turned Memorial Day into a family tradition.
Like most such services in the rest of the country, there was to be a parade led by awkwardly-dressed Boy Scouts waving miniature copies of Old Glory synched to a series of patriotic numbers played by the sweaty off-key marching band from the local high school. They preceded surviving veterans, dressed in their old uniforms, often with a limp or hitch in their step, en route to the cemetery for the culminating twenty-one-gun salute. I assumed Gram had seen this demonstration many times before, but when I asked if she was going to join us, she acted surprised that I would even propose such a thing. Her tone was unusually surly so I knew not to pursue the matter any further.
When my mother arrived, I tried to intercept her at the door before she suggested Gram join us at the cemetery, but I was too late. My mother asked her, and Gram turned away, whispering, “No. I can’t. Not today.”
Gram would turn 82 in two months and she just had a pacemaker put in, so she understandably could have used her health as a reason to stay behind. Like anyone else her age, she felt better some days more than others, yet her health seemed bound to the presence or absence of the sun on a given day. When she answered my mother’s invitation she was looking out her living room window at the dour, gray clouds in their usual spot above the Susquehanna River. She didn’t elaborate on her reasoning but I suspected her reluctance might be more emotional than physical. We needn’t be reminded that her husband died in the Battle of Iwo Jima in 1945. Neither my father nor my aunt, who is a year older than him, has any memory of him.
Gram stayed behind as Mom, Dad, and I went to the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. We found a smattering of people laying fresh flowers, milling around and studying gravestones. I could overhear some of the conversations; they centered on family and friends. “Did you know Mary’s boy opened his own dental practice?” or “I saw Helen at mass yesterday. She says Phil’s not doing so good.” My Gram was born and raised in Pittston and spent her whole life there. Everyone knew her. Everyone knew that my Gram was widowed at thirty-five with two babies at home.
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The recent fortunes of Pittston had been tied to the temperament of the Susquehanna River. The river—longest in the northeastern United States—starts in upstate New York and makes a circuitous route through the eastern half of Pennsylvania before emptying into the Chesapeake Bay.
Most adults in Pittston in 1992 viewed the river as a Damoclean reminder of their own vulnerabilities since it had played a major role in the two most important events the town had known since the end of World War II.
Even more than being a river town, Pittston was a mining town. It had achieved something close to prosperity thanks to the geological fortune of being placed above a massive Anthracite coal deposit. Anthracite was the highest rank of coal available for extraction and for decades, mining companies raided the area in search of profit. Working as a miner took a terrific toll on a man’s body, but hundreds of houses and college educations were testament to its benefits. It was deemed to be worth the risk until the winter of 1959, when on a directive from management, some miners dug too close to the Susquehanna River. A barrier was punctured and the flooded mine left 12 men dead. Mining in Pittston and the neighboring towns was effectively over.
If mining was the hub of the modest economy, there was still enough other enterprise to keep many people working and within hailing distance of the American Dream. At least until June of 1972. That was when Hurricane Agnes worked its way up the East Coast and took residence over the Susquehanna River for a few days. The ensuing flooding crippled Pittston and plenty of other towns just like it along the river. Numerous jobs in factories and warehouses were washed away, never to return. My grandmother’s job in a dress factory was one of them. When the American economy soured in the late 1970s and into the 1980s, Pittstonians could be forgiven for barely noticing.
As kids, we knew about the mine disaster because there was a marker near where the tragedy took place. My dad was working in radio when Agnes happened and he would point out high water marks whenever we passed them in the car. We knew about the abandoned factories and warehouses because they had an alarming tendency to catch on fire. We would watch details about the latest blaze on the local news where a harried young reporter would inform viewers the fire was deemed suspicious by authorities. Gram often chuckled on hearing the word “suspicious.”
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My Gram’s was the only Irish family on an Italian block. There was no need for gossip since people talked—yelled—to each other from one porch to another across streets, across car roofs. The Italian women who were her neighbors fit every stereotype. They worried openly about whether their families ate enough, talked too loudly and never cared if you knocked on the door before you came into a house. They were always jovial and had food to spare. Their fathers, husbands and brothers were small-time wise guys who gave us kids fireworks for the 4th of July or some cash to go pick up a piece of paper. They told my grandmother where to get her car fixed. They called her by name—“Cathern.” They looked out for her. They looked out for us. It was a neighborhood. If anybody ever got roughed up it wasn’t talked about. People knew what was meant to be kept quiet and what was meant to be shared. If you were foolish enough to cross such proud, burly men, then you probably deserved a good beating.
More than once I had heard that men had offered to marry Gram, if for no other reason than they felt she deserved a husband and her children deserved a father. The story smacked of obsequiousness, but I believed it. That’s what people did for each other around here.
It was during the mid-80s, my teenage years, after I had moved away and my visits to Pittston had become increasingly rare, that I noticed changes to the neighborhood I once knew so well. People didn’t sit on their porches anymore. No kids played ball in the streets. Sunday Mass was sparsely attended. The children who were born in the town, grew up and left, except they didn’t come back, as many had done previously. Many of the changes could be attributed to a scuffling economy and, of course, people simply got old. The neighborhood and the town it was in were tired, weary.
That day in 1992, before I made it to Gram’s high-rise, I took a slow drive through that neighborhood, where she had lived most of her life. Superficially, the houses were still the same—they hadn’t been decimated in favor of townhouses or condominiums. Townhouses and condos are evidence of prosperity, after all. I thought about stopping and saying hello to my former neighbors but that inclination vanished in fear that they might not live there anymore. I thought of how we once gathered in each other’s backyards on the 4th of July. I could still see the little plumes of smoke that lingered after the fireworks had exploded and delighted the onlookers. The clouds seem to suspend for a moment, in quiet anticipation of the next blast of color setting off in the summer sky. Now, I wondered if they even celebrated the 4th at all.
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After stopping to chit-chat with some familiar faces—the cemetery always struck me as an odd place to catch up with friends—Mom, Dad and I gathered around my grandfather’s resting place. I was coughing and sneezing because the weather invoked March more than May. As I battled my allergies, I felt as though I was trying to manufacture some poignant moment. Looking around at the hundreds of American flags by gravesites, it occurred to me that the victims of war weren’t just in the ground; they were standing next to me. The war forced my grandmother to be both father and mother. She had to make sure there was food on the table and clothes on her children’s backs. She worked fourteen-hour days in a dress factory. Besides taking my father and my aunt to church for moral guidance, she had no time to provide any kind of emotional support. I’m certain this affected my own father’s abilities as a parent.
I looked down at the grave and saw my grandfather’s name, Patrick F. Drury, PFC carved in stone; a man whom I had only seen pictures of, who was almost an abstraction. I wondered what my life would have been like if that mortar shell hadn’t exploded in front of him on some beach on an island in the Far East. What was he like? Was he quiet and unassuming, or was he gregarious and outgoing? I wondered if he would take me fishing or tell me about all the old ballplayers, like Ted Williams and Lou Gehrig. He could bring color to a world I had only seen in black and white. I began to miss someone I had never met.
And then I returned to the thought I always had about my grandmother. That day when the knock on the door came and a stranger in a Marines uniform told her that her husband was gone.
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Gram witnessed more in her lifetime than I could ever conceive in mine, although I doubt she thought about it much, since she wasn’t very circumspect. So, I mined her for information. We talked over and over about her first radio or her first television (a Victrola). We talked about John F. Kennedy, whom she loved, if for no other reason than because he was Irish-Catholic like her. For the same reason she loved to watch Notre Dame football on television. We talked about the Civil Rights Movement. We talked about man landing on the moon. We never talked about World War II.
We talked about what she did for fun when she was a young girl. Sometimes, she had trouble describing her feelings at a given time or place. Of the Kennedy assassination, I asked her where she was and how she felt, but her responses seemed rehearsed. Then, I asked her what she thought about all the talk of a conspiracy, and she replied, “What difference does it make? He’s gone and it doesn’t matter who killed him. What matters is that he’s gone and that’s it.”
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At the cemetery we looked at the names and dates on other gravestones. Occasionally, my Dad would recognize a name and say he knew that person’s son or nephew. We waited an awful long time for the parade, until in a piecemeal fashion, we learned that it had already come through and we had missed it.
With that, my father drove back to my grandmother’s apartment to pick her up because my mother and I were going to meet them for dinner in separate cars. My mother had to work and I would take Gram home in my car. On the way back we passed the cemetery where my grandfather lay.
She asked me to stop the car so I did. My grandfather’s grave was in the near corner of the cemetery and was close to the road. My Gram stepped out of the car gingerly and walked over towards the grave. Rain trickled off the clear cap she pulled over her head. She didn’t bother to open the umbrella she carried with her. I stayed in the car. She didn’t go through the main entrance like the others had done several hours earlier. My grandmother and grandfather were separated by the fence that divided the cemetery from the road. It had been nearly fifty years since my Grampa had died. They were kept apart by a chain-link fence and time. We knew about his absence but she felt it. She stood there and I looked away. I didn’t want to watch her or what she did, because I would have felt like an intruder. The intervening years washed away and they were Catherine and Patrick, young lovers with a new family a new house and the world in front of them.
After a minute or so, she came back to the car. She tugged her clear plastic rain cap again and the water drops bounced off while the ones on her cheeks remained. I asked if she was all right. Barely audible, but with a crack in her voice, she said, “I’m fine,” and she stared straight ahead as we drove away.
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A few years later Catherine joined her husband in eternity. And although I have many memories of her, the one that keeps coming back is that day when I saw her pain and her humanity all at once, something that she had kept hidden for so long. On that day she became more than just a history book or an economic statistic, she became Cathern to me—she became a person.
One afternoon, not long before her own passing, I visited my grandmother and tape-recorded our conversation. We talked about our family, small as it is, and the world, big as it is, like we always did. I listen to those tapes now, not to remind me of her or to try to understand her better. I listen to them so I can know what dignity sounds like.
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It’s true. All the great artists are related.
To Kevin Bacon.
At least according to this graph from Lapham’s Quarterly.
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Why it’s the existence of Sarah Palin action figures. No really. These are being sold for $35.95 (plus shipping) at herobuilder.com. There’s plenty more: Scott Brown (anatomically correct!), Joe Biden and of course, the Obamas. But they’re all second fiddle to Sarah.
I’ll take the action figure over the real-life version in a game of Scrabble.
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