***The Bard Of The North Adamsville High School Class Of 1964, “Say What?”
For Linda, Class Of 1964
Frank Jackman, Class Of 1964, comment:
For a while now since this the 50th anniversary of the year I graduated from North Adamsville High School (Massachusetts) in the Class of 1964 I have been producing little sketches, not really much more than that, about different people, places and events back in those days which might be worthy of remembrance, my remembrance anyway, for a class website which the reunion committee established for just such a purpose. Well, maybe not quite that purpose but rather for one and all to make comments in the Message Forum section. Of course the average 60s refugee whether he or she was soaked by what happened when that new beginning wave hit our generation, a generation I call the generation of ’68 to separate us out from the generation before ours, our parents that sloshed through the 1930s Great Depression and shed blood during World War II, and the generations after us, the assorted “me”, X,Y,Z and millennial generations, was only on the edge of the communications technological revolution and so the average comment there is a couple or three sentences. Sentences centered on the wow of grandchildren, the aches and pains of growing old, the travelogues of retirement and a nod, a mere nod to the old times that fellow classmates remember, remember truthfully or not.
So naturally nobody was ready for someone who was ready, willing, and able to spout forth for cyber-pages about some long forgotten Thanksgiving football rally, the class sweethearts at fifty years of togetherness, the do’s and don’ts of watching the “submarine race” down at Adamsville Beach at midnight, the celebration of the Fourth of July in the 1950s, Ida’s Bakery, Jesus, Ida’s Bakery for God’s sake, and the like. That deluge is what prompted one well-meaning (I assume) fellow classmate who suffered from scroll-itis and eye strain from the work she endured to finish reading the stuff to write me and inquire what the heck I was doing to disturb the domestic tranquility of the site. And this is how I replied- on the website of course:
Recently someone from my high school class, Linda, whose last name shall be omitted not out of consideration for her sensibilities but rather to avoid the long litigation which I am sure would ensue if I mentioned her last name and others clamored on and on about why their names were not included, wrote an e-mail, a friendly e-mail I assume, asking me if I, with this never-ending (my word, she just said “a lot of”) stream of stories about the old days at early 1960s North Adamsville High, was trying to be the bard (her word, not mine) of the Class of 1964. I rapidly replied with this short answer- “What, are you kidding?”(Although I wish I had said the faux- hip, “say what?,” used in the headline to this entry). Later though, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that I did (and do) mean to be ONE of the latter-day voices of our class. Why? I have, with all due modesty, the perfect resume for the job. Here it is:
I belonged to no in-school clubs. You know those old time organizations meant to keep kids building their resumes for whatever purpose. For those who maybe don’t know, or can’t quite remember those activities pursued were things like the intramural (and sex segregated if you can believe that) bowling leagues at the two alleys in our side of town (I am still scratching my head over that sex-segregated thing like some off-hand hanky-panky was going to occur in the benighted alleys. I guess I will still have to keep scratching on that one), the chess club where the dweebs (I am not sure we called them that then but you know who I mean) went nutty over the latest Russian chess master’s move, and the stamp club, Christ, the stamp club where that crew went crazy if they received some letter from a foreign country to collect the stamp.
The only club that I might have been interested in would have been the Glee Club although not for the reasons that you might suspect. Problem was I couldn’t (can’t) sing, sing outside the shower or the third floor of my house which in the interest of being merciful to the neighbors I am relegated to so that club was out. Although I was tempted to join, low-voice, whisper-voice join, white shirt, string tie, black chinos and all because a certain Rosemary I had eyes for sang a very sweet alto, or whatever they call that sing-song voice that made me think of flowered-fields, picnic baskets and, well, it never worked out so I will just say I was smitten, lonely smitten. I don’t remember how serious I was about that prospect but I had in sixth grade gladly low-voiced joined the church choir, the austere and high holy Catholic church choir down at Blessed Sacrament solely (or was it soully) because one Theresa Green sang a very sweet alto in that choir and I was prepared to move heaven and hell to show her I was worthy of consideration. And moreover backed that up by placing a very hard-earned dollar in the collection box which she was in charge of passing to the members to impress her.
(By the way let me leave it at Rosemary, no last names, again since I am still wary of that litigation from certain Susans, Lindas, and Anns who might still feel hurt not to see their names in lights here. Even though if I had approached them in those days I would have received the deep-freeze, a big time deep-freeze, and been dismissed out of hand.)
The same was true for the school newspaper, the unlamented North Star (unlamented not from memory’s window but from a recent view of a faded and yellowed copy which was kind of embarrassing to read since although the material was well-written the subject matter made me wince, you know, some half-baked review of the school play, some suck up job on some now best forgotten teacher, the latest on the doings of the prom committee, the thrill of the senior bake sale, and a profile of some prominent student who we were supposed to bow down to), although in that case it was a Carol whom I would have joined in order to cub report next to (ditto, on leaving out the last name, okay). Except in her case she had a big bruiser of a boyfriend who just happened to play right tackle for the championship Red Raiders school football team. And he made it very clear one time when I actually talked to her for more than about a minute that unless I had an interest in doormats I had better take my ragamuffin, low- rent act elsewhere. (I will use no first or last name for him, maybe I had better not use gender either although I want no misunderstanding about his sexual orientation, for that monster, six three and about two hundred and forty weight-lifted pounds, a brute even now by high school standards who colleges were looking at except his main claim to scholastic achievement was getting caught looking at somebody else’s quiz in English class, even now and not because I fear litigation, no because I fear for my life, and rightly so He must have had other attributes not readily apparent Carol, a very smart young woman, appreciated.) Moreover, I doubt, very seriously doubt, that after about two days I could have kept a straight face while performing my duties as a cub reporter reporting on such hot spot topics as the latest cause bake sale, the latest words of wisdom from Miss (Ms.) Sonos, the newspaper’s faculty advisor, about whatever was on her dippy mind, or “shilling” to drum up an audience for the next big school play. Not “the world is my beat” Frank Jackman. No way.
I, moreover, belonged to no after-school organizations like the art appreciation club, science club, bird-watchers or any of those other odd-ball activities that couldn’t rate enough to get the school-day activity period imprimatur. See, after school was “Frankie’s time,” Frankie Riley held forth inside, in front of, and sometimes behind, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor “up the Downs” (remember that term?) and I was none other than one of Frankie’s corner boys. Not only that but I was his “shill,” his scribe, busy promoting every scheme, every idea, every half-idea, and every screwy notion that made its way into his ill-formed brain. So I had no time to think about whether Titian was a better painter than Botticelli (no) or whether abstract expressionism truly expressed the plight of modern humankind (yes), to create some chemistry experiment that might blow the whole school to smithereens, or the esoteric of macaws and parrots. Nor would I have had time come to think of it to run around for a news “scoop” on the amount raised at some bake sale, what that nutty Sonos had to say on astrophysics or U.F.O’s, or the virtues of some ill-conceived, poorly-acted school play when Frankie beckoned. Even if I had accepted that monsters’ doormat challenge.
I freely admit, freely admit now, after a lifetime of turmoil, of struggle over ten thousand ideas, the fire of a thousand half-ideas, and a few thousand thought-provoking books that had I known about the Great Books Club held after school I might have been drawn to that activity. (As it turned out I would have, once again, been shut out since that club was a “private” invited only affair by the activity advisor who wanted to give his smart kids a leg up and no others.) I spend much time later in life struggling with ideas that could just as easily have been thrashed out then. And, of course, the other problem was that if I had known about the club the only girl that I remember that might have been a member of the club and that I might have wanted to talk to was Sarah (remember we are not using last names in case you forgot), and she was, well, just a stick although I liked to talk to her in class. A lot. (As it turned out she did belong to that club, being one of the advisor’s English pet students, although I knew her from History classes. She also turned out to have been a late-bloomer from a photograph she recently sent me and also learned from her that she was very disappointed that I had not “asked her out” then. Ah, the vagaries of high school!)
Nor did I belong to church-affiliated clubs, Christ no, I was on that long doubting Thomas road away from churchly concerns. (Sorry Brother Ronald although I appreciate that you have done great good in this wicked old world in your churchly organization I lost the faith long ago although I have tried to live my life on the right side of the angels just in case.) Oh, except for one Minnie, yah, sweet Irish rose Minnie, whom I used to sit a few rows behind at 8:00 AM Mass at Sacred Heart and stare at her ass on Sunday. But I could have done that anywhere, and did according to her best friend, Jean, who sat behind me in class and has stated for the record in public as recently as a couple of years ago that I did it every time I could in the corridor and that Minnie knew about it, and kind of liked the idea although a lot of good that knowledge does me now. Moreover Phil Larkin (it’s okay to use his last name because I have already talked about “Foul-Mouth” Phil before, plenty, and he is in no position, no position this side of a four by six cell, to even spell the word litigation in my presence), yah, Phil Larkin moved in on her way before I got up the nerve to do more than watch her sway.
Ditto organizations like the YMCA, Eagle Scouts, or any of those service things. Corner boy life declared such things as strictly corn- ball. Not that I had anything, per se, against joining organizations. What I was though, and this was the attraction of rough-edged, snarly corner boy-ness for me, was alienated from anything that smacked of straight up, of normal, of, well square. Everything mentioned above, except for the girl part. And in that girl part maybe not including a stick like Sarah although I really did like to talk to her in class. She had some great big ideas, and knew how to articulate them. I know she still does. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Instead of watching Minnie sway 24/7 I could have been cheek to cheek with Sarah, discussing stuff and... Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that, Christ?
I also played no major sport that drove a lot of the social networking of the time (I am being polite using that term here: this is a family-friendly site after all. Isn’t it? If it isn’t then upon notice I will be more than happy to “spill the beans” about what was said, how it was said, and by whom about who "did" what every school day Monday morning before school in the boys’ “lav,” or the girls’ “lav” for that matter. And, again I will not worry in the least about litigation. Hey, the truth is a powerful defense.). The sports that did drive me throughout my high school career, track and cross-country, were then very marginal sports for “nerds,” low-rent fake athletes, and other assorted odd-balls, and I was, moreover, overwhelmingly underwhelming at them, to boot. I have recently moved to have my times in various track events declared classified information under a national security blanket just so certain prying eyes like ace-runner Bill Bailey and, naturally, that nemesis Frankie Riley do no gain access to that information for their own nefarious purposes.
Some other qualifications. I did not hang around with the class intellectuals, although I was as obsessed and driven by books, ideas and theories as anyone else at the time, maybe more so. I was also, to be polite again, painfully shy around girls, as my furtive desire for Minnie mentioned above attests to, and therefore somewhat socially backward, although I was privately enthralled by more than one of them. Girls, that is. And to top it all off, to use a term that I think truly describes me then, I was something of a ragamuffin from the town's wrong side of the track, the notorious Bloor Street section over by the bridge to Boston. Oh, did I mentioned that I was also so alienated from the old high school environment that I either threw, or threatened to throw, my yearbook in the nearest river right after graduation; in any case I no longer have it.
Perfect, right? No. Not a complete enough resume? Well how about this. My family, on my mother’s side, had been in the old town since about the time of the “famine ships” from Ireland in the 1840s. I have not gone in depth on the family genealogy but way back when someone in the family was a servant of some sort, to one of the branches of the presidential Adams family. Most of my relatives distance and near, went through the old high school. The streets of the old town were filled with the remnants of the clan. My friends, deny it or not and I sometimes did, the diaspora "old sod" shanty Irish aura of North Adamsville was in the blood.
How else then can one explain, after a forty plus year hiatus, this overweening desire of mine to write about the “Dust Bowl” that served as a training track during my running days. (The field situated just across the street from North Adamsville Middle School, of unblessed memory. Does anyone really want to go back in early teen life? No way.) Or write on the oddness of separate boys’ and girls’ bowling teams during our high school years, as if mixed social contact in that endeavor would lead to s-x, or whatever. Or my taking a “cheap” pot shot at that mysterious “Tri-Hi-Y” (a harmless social organization for women students that I have skewered for its virginal aspirations, its three purities; thoughts, acts, and deeds, or something like that). Or the million other things that pop into my head these days.
Oh yah, I can write, a little. Not unimportant for a bard, right? The soul of a poet, if somewhat deaf to the sweetness of the language. Time and technology has given us an exceptional opportunity to tell our collective story and seek immortality and I want in on that. Old Walt Whitman can sing of America, I will sing of the old town, gladly.
Well, do I get a job? Hey, you can always “fire” me. Just “click” DELETE and move on. Okay, Linda
For Linda, Class Of 1964
Frank Jackman, Class Of 1964, comment:
For a while now since this the 50th anniversary of the year I graduated from North Adamsville High School (Massachusetts) in the Class of 1964 I have been producing little sketches, not really much more than that, about different people, places and events back in those days which might be worthy of remembrance, my remembrance anyway, for a class website which the reunion committee established for just such a purpose. Well, maybe not quite that purpose but rather for one and all to make comments in the Message Forum section. Of course the average 60s refugee whether he or she was soaked by what happened when that new beginning wave hit our generation, a generation I call the generation of ’68 to separate us out from the generation before ours, our parents that sloshed through the 1930s Great Depression and shed blood during World War II, and the generations after us, the assorted “me”, X,Y,Z and millennial generations, was only on the edge of the communications technological revolution and so the average comment there is a couple or three sentences. Sentences centered on the wow of grandchildren, the aches and pains of growing old, the travelogues of retirement and a nod, a mere nod to the old times that fellow classmates remember, remember truthfully or not.
So naturally nobody was ready for someone who was ready, willing, and able to spout forth for cyber-pages about some long forgotten Thanksgiving football rally, the class sweethearts at fifty years of togetherness, the do’s and don’ts of watching the “submarine race” down at Adamsville Beach at midnight, the celebration of the Fourth of July in the 1950s, Ida’s Bakery, Jesus, Ida’s Bakery for God’s sake, and the like. That deluge is what prompted one well-meaning (I assume) fellow classmate who suffered from scroll-itis and eye strain from the work she endured to finish reading the stuff to write me and inquire what the heck I was doing to disturb the domestic tranquility of the site. And this is how I replied- on the website of course:
Recently someone from my high school class, Linda, whose last name shall be omitted not out of consideration for her sensibilities but rather to avoid the long litigation which I am sure would ensue if I mentioned her last name and others clamored on and on about why their names were not included, wrote an e-mail, a friendly e-mail I assume, asking me if I, with this never-ending (my word, she just said “a lot of”) stream of stories about the old days at early 1960s North Adamsville High, was trying to be the bard (her word, not mine) of the Class of 1964. I rapidly replied with this short answer- “What, are you kidding?”(Although I wish I had said the faux- hip, “say what?,” used in the headline to this entry). Later though, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that I did (and do) mean to be ONE of the latter-day voices of our class. Why? I have, with all due modesty, the perfect resume for the job. Here it is:
I belonged to no in-school clubs. You know those old time organizations meant to keep kids building their resumes for whatever purpose. For those who maybe don’t know, or can’t quite remember those activities pursued were things like the intramural (and sex segregated if you can believe that) bowling leagues at the two alleys in our side of town (I am still scratching my head over that sex-segregated thing like some off-hand hanky-panky was going to occur in the benighted alleys. I guess I will still have to keep scratching on that one), the chess club where the dweebs (I am not sure we called them that then but you know who I mean) went nutty over the latest Russian chess master’s move, and the stamp club, Christ, the stamp club where that crew went crazy if they received some letter from a foreign country to collect the stamp.
The only club that I might have been interested in would have been the Glee Club although not for the reasons that you might suspect. Problem was I couldn’t (can’t) sing, sing outside the shower or the third floor of my house which in the interest of being merciful to the neighbors I am relegated to so that club was out. Although I was tempted to join, low-voice, whisper-voice join, white shirt, string tie, black chinos and all because a certain Rosemary I had eyes for sang a very sweet alto, or whatever they call that sing-song voice that made me think of flowered-fields, picnic baskets and, well, it never worked out so I will just say I was smitten, lonely smitten. I don’t remember how serious I was about that prospect but I had in sixth grade gladly low-voiced joined the church choir, the austere and high holy Catholic church choir down at Blessed Sacrament solely (or was it soully) because one Theresa Green sang a very sweet alto in that choir and I was prepared to move heaven and hell to show her I was worthy of consideration. And moreover backed that up by placing a very hard-earned dollar in the collection box which she was in charge of passing to the members to impress her.
(By the way let me leave it at Rosemary, no last names, again since I am still wary of that litigation from certain Susans, Lindas, and Anns who might still feel hurt not to see their names in lights here. Even though if I had approached them in those days I would have received the deep-freeze, a big time deep-freeze, and been dismissed out of hand.)
The same was true for the school newspaper, the unlamented North Star (unlamented not from memory’s window but from a recent view of a faded and yellowed copy which was kind of embarrassing to read since although the material was well-written the subject matter made me wince, you know, some half-baked review of the school play, some suck up job on some now best forgotten teacher, the latest on the doings of the prom committee, the thrill of the senior bake sale, and a profile of some prominent student who we were supposed to bow down to), although in that case it was a Carol whom I would have joined in order to cub report next to (ditto, on leaving out the last name, okay). Except in her case she had a big bruiser of a boyfriend who just happened to play right tackle for the championship Red Raiders school football team. And he made it very clear one time when I actually talked to her for more than about a minute that unless I had an interest in doormats I had better take my ragamuffin, low- rent act elsewhere. (I will use no first or last name for him, maybe I had better not use gender either although I want no misunderstanding about his sexual orientation, for that monster, six three and about two hundred and forty weight-lifted pounds, a brute even now by high school standards who colleges were looking at except his main claim to scholastic achievement was getting caught looking at somebody else’s quiz in English class, even now and not because I fear litigation, no because I fear for my life, and rightly so He must have had other attributes not readily apparent Carol, a very smart young woman, appreciated.) Moreover, I doubt, very seriously doubt, that after about two days I could have kept a straight face while performing my duties as a cub reporter reporting on such hot spot topics as the latest cause bake sale, the latest words of wisdom from Miss (Ms.) Sonos, the newspaper’s faculty advisor, about whatever was on her dippy mind, or “shilling” to drum up an audience for the next big school play. Not “the world is my beat” Frank Jackman. No way.
I, moreover, belonged to no after-school organizations like the art appreciation club, science club, bird-watchers or any of those other odd-ball activities that couldn’t rate enough to get the school-day activity period imprimatur. See, after school was “Frankie’s time,” Frankie Riley held forth inside, in front of, and sometimes behind, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor “up the Downs” (remember that term?) and I was none other than one of Frankie’s corner boys. Not only that but I was his “shill,” his scribe, busy promoting every scheme, every idea, every half-idea, and every screwy notion that made its way into his ill-formed brain. So I had no time to think about whether Titian was a better painter than Botticelli (no) or whether abstract expressionism truly expressed the plight of modern humankind (yes), to create some chemistry experiment that might blow the whole school to smithereens, or the esoteric of macaws and parrots. Nor would I have had time come to think of it to run around for a news “scoop” on the amount raised at some bake sale, what that nutty Sonos had to say on astrophysics or U.F.O’s, or the virtues of some ill-conceived, poorly-acted school play when Frankie beckoned. Even if I had accepted that monsters’ doormat challenge.
I freely admit, freely admit now, after a lifetime of turmoil, of struggle over ten thousand ideas, the fire of a thousand half-ideas, and a few thousand thought-provoking books that had I known about the Great Books Club held after school I might have been drawn to that activity. (As it turned out I would have, once again, been shut out since that club was a “private” invited only affair by the activity advisor who wanted to give his smart kids a leg up and no others.) I spend much time later in life struggling with ideas that could just as easily have been thrashed out then. And, of course, the other problem was that if I had known about the club the only girl that I remember that might have been a member of the club and that I might have wanted to talk to was Sarah (remember we are not using last names in case you forgot), and she was, well, just a stick although I liked to talk to her in class. A lot. (As it turned out she did belong to that club, being one of the advisor’s English pet students, although I knew her from History classes. She also turned out to have been a late-bloomer from a photograph she recently sent me and also learned from her that she was very disappointed that I had not “asked her out” then. Ah, the vagaries of high school!)
Nor did I belong to church-affiliated clubs, Christ no, I was on that long doubting Thomas road away from churchly concerns. (Sorry Brother Ronald although I appreciate that you have done great good in this wicked old world in your churchly organization I lost the faith long ago although I have tried to live my life on the right side of the angels just in case.) Oh, except for one Minnie, yah, sweet Irish rose Minnie, whom I used to sit a few rows behind at 8:00 AM Mass at Sacred Heart and stare at her ass on Sunday. But I could have done that anywhere, and did according to her best friend, Jean, who sat behind me in class and has stated for the record in public as recently as a couple of years ago that I did it every time I could in the corridor and that Minnie knew about it, and kind of liked the idea although a lot of good that knowledge does me now. Moreover Phil Larkin (it’s okay to use his last name because I have already talked about “Foul-Mouth” Phil before, plenty, and he is in no position, no position this side of a four by six cell, to even spell the word litigation in my presence), yah, Phil Larkin moved in on her way before I got up the nerve to do more than watch her sway.
Ditto organizations like the YMCA, Eagle Scouts, or any of those service things. Corner boy life declared such things as strictly corn- ball. Not that I had anything, per se, against joining organizations. What I was though, and this was the attraction of rough-edged, snarly corner boy-ness for me, was alienated from anything that smacked of straight up, of normal, of, well square. Everything mentioned above, except for the girl part. And in that girl part maybe not including a stick like Sarah although I really did like to talk to her in class. She had some great big ideas, and knew how to articulate them. I know she still does. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Instead of watching Minnie sway 24/7 I could have been cheek to cheek with Sarah, discussing stuff and... Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that, Christ?
I also played no major sport that drove a lot of the social networking of the time (I am being polite using that term here: this is a family-friendly site after all. Isn’t it? If it isn’t then upon notice I will be more than happy to “spill the beans” about what was said, how it was said, and by whom about who "did" what every school day Monday morning before school in the boys’ “lav,” or the girls’ “lav” for that matter. And, again I will not worry in the least about litigation. Hey, the truth is a powerful defense.). The sports that did drive me throughout my high school career, track and cross-country, were then very marginal sports for “nerds,” low-rent fake athletes, and other assorted odd-balls, and I was, moreover, overwhelmingly underwhelming at them, to boot. I have recently moved to have my times in various track events declared classified information under a national security blanket just so certain prying eyes like ace-runner Bill Bailey and, naturally, that nemesis Frankie Riley do no gain access to that information for their own nefarious purposes.
Some other qualifications. I did not hang around with the class intellectuals, although I was as obsessed and driven by books, ideas and theories as anyone else at the time, maybe more so. I was also, to be polite again, painfully shy around girls, as my furtive desire for Minnie mentioned above attests to, and therefore somewhat socially backward, although I was privately enthralled by more than one of them. Girls, that is. And to top it all off, to use a term that I think truly describes me then, I was something of a ragamuffin from the town's wrong side of the track, the notorious Bloor Street section over by the bridge to Boston. Oh, did I mentioned that I was also so alienated from the old high school environment that I either threw, or threatened to throw, my yearbook in the nearest river right after graduation; in any case I no longer have it.
Perfect, right? No. Not a complete enough resume? Well how about this. My family, on my mother’s side, had been in the old town since about the time of the “famine ships” from Ireland in the 1840s. I have not gone in depth on the family genealogy but way back when someone in the family was a servant of some sort, to one of the branches of the presidential Adams family. Most of my relatives distance and near, went through the old high school. The streets of the old town were filled with the remnants of the clan. My friends, deny it or not and I sometimes did, the diaspora "old sod" shanty Irish aura of North Adamsville was in the blood.
How else then can one explain, after a forty plus year hiatus, this overweening desire of mine to write about the “Dust Bowl” that served as a training track during my running days. (The field situated just across the street from North Adamsville Middle School, of unblessed memory. Does anyone really want to go back in early teen life? No way.) Or write on the oddness of separate boys’ and girls’ bowling teams during our high school years, as if mixed social contact in that endeavor would lead to s-x, or whatever. Or my taking a “cheap” pot shot at that mysterious “Tri-Hi-Y” (a harmless social organization for women students that I have skewered for its virginal aspirations, its three purities; thoughts, acts, and deeds, or something like that). Or the million other things that pop into my head these days.
Oh yah, I can write, a little. Not unimportant for a bard, right? The soul of a poet, if somewhat deaf to the sweetness of the language. Time and technology has given us an exceptional opportunity to tell our collective story and seek immortality and I want in on that. Old Walt Whitman can sing of America, I will sing of the old town, gladly.
Well, do I get a job? Hey, you can always “fire” me. Just “click” DELETE and move on. Okay, Linda
****************
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