"Under the El Tracks" by Glen Russell Slater (2013)

Glen Slater is a friend of mine; despite the fact that I know almost nothing about baseball. He’s generous in that way. He forgives me my shortcomings. He also writes stories and verse, of which I know a bit more than baseball. That's him in the red shirt in the front row above.

 This poem was written by Glen last year and is a perfect example of the free verse I wish I could write. Of course, Glen thinks it’s no big deal. But that’s because it’s easy for him. He has a blog of his own on Wordpress; though he hates the word “blog.” I hope you will drop in on him sometime at his site;

http://talltalesandtruestories.wordpress.com/

“Under the El Tracks”

by Glen Russell Slater

I feel so naked and awkward

In the sunshine

As if I’m being X-rayed by the stuck-up jerks on Lefferts Boulevard

In the rain I have some shelter

No one sees me.

But not in the sunshine, which exposes me.

Under the el tracks, they share a kind of common misery

Under the el tracks, I don’t feel so alone in my loneliness.

I wish that I lived near the el tracks

that would cover the boulevard

And I could get lost underneath the din and the dark

and the vibrating roar that envelops your ears and your entire body

from your head to your shoes.

Of the el Train of Jamaica Avenue in Woodhaven

Or the el tracks on Brighton Beach Avenue.

Once upon a time,

One Brooklyn winter,

I made sandwiches at Perlmutter’s Luncheonette on Brighton Beach Avenue

Under the el tracks.

I used to screw up the sandwiches and give the wrong change

because I was so nervous as I was scrutinized by the tough guy jerks

who went in there to place bets

On basketball games.

They’d eat sandwiches and drink coffee and talk about the point spread.

And that funny-looking damn little Russian, that genius, wise-ass teenager

who worked there, too.

He made everything look so easy;

I wished the bastard would go back to the Soviet Union.

I’d deliver those sandwiches to those batty Russian broads every day

in that beauty parlor

above Weintraub’s hardware store

That was in the mid-80s.

But I didn’t know how good I had it……..

Lost underneath the el tracks.

"Centerburg Tales" by Robert McCloskey (1951)

This is the 2^nd of the Homer Price books by Robert McCloskey. The book opens in Centerburg, the town which sits just a couple of miles from Homer’s home at the intersection of two highways. Mr. McCloskey has a way of getting right to the heart of the matter when it comes to children’s things, and he starts off with a chapter called "The Hide –A-Ride".

The kids in town all know and love Grandpa Hercules; whom they call Uncle Herc for short; and he is a big part of their lives as they go about their daily lives. He spins stories while they spin tops, and he manages to infuse all of his tales; true or not; with a bit of local history. In this chapter he spins an unlikely, though wonderful tale about a ride he helped to build for the Indian natives way back when.

That endeavor involved a barrel rolling down hill, which had an intoxicating effect on the Indians, but was bad for the barrels. So, Grandpa Herc invented the Hide-A Ride, which was a mechanized way for the barrel to be spun without destroying it each time. It’s kind of a Rube Goldberg contraption, with a wonderful illustration by the author for the more unimaginative. This story would probably be politically incorrect by today’s standard, illustrating just how “enlightened”; or thin skinned; we have become.

In "Sparrow Courthouse" the author spins the yarn about the time the town of Sparrow got their days and nights mixed up by following the time on the Courthouse clock without question. A stranger passing through realizes that the problem is being caused by the sparrows sitting on the hands of the clock, making time move slower in a sense. By the time the stranger is able to convince the town of the cause, they have been living night by day, and day by night. (This story was written at the beginning of the HUACC hearings and I can’t help but wonder if this is a sly poke at blind loyalty.)

Grandpa Herc has had many experiences, all of which he eagerly shares with the kids of Centerburg. Like the time he went hunting for gold in California. His adventures there with Hopper McThud are so enthralling that at one point Grandpa has the crowd so mesmerized that they are all looking at the luncheonette ceiling as he describes a cliff hundreds of feet in the air. This guy is some story teller!

One day Grandpa gets a package from Gravity-Bitties, a breakfast food for champion jumpers. This cereal is so potent that it comes with a chunk of lead to put inside your coat to keep you from jumping too far. But Grandpa is wiser than all of the advertisements and proves his wisdom by not eating the Gravity-Bitties and jumping far anyway. His point was proving that the advertising people don’t know what they are talking about. Heck, he fed the cereal to the chickens!

From Homers experiments at home to the goings on at the barbershop, these stories are emblematic of what life was like in the years after the Second World War. In so many ways we were at the acme of our strength and influence as a nation. Socially there were still kinks to be worked out in the areas of Civil Rights and poverty, but for the most part these was the best of times. And in Robert McCloskey’s books about Homer Price those times are palpable.

Scraps - The Makings of a Blog Post

Where do ideas come from? And, more importantly, where do they go when you don’t write them down? I wish I knew the answer to that one so that I could retrieve all of the wonderful ideas which have gotten away when I didn’t get the chance to jot them down. It’s precisely for that reason that I carry a pen and paper everywhere I go. I’d hate to miss something later on.

I could use the electronic devices I carry to make a note to myself, but that just doesn’t feel natural to me. I’m a pen and paper type of guy. And by paper, I mean anything made from the pulp of a tree, be it a legal tablet, notebook, or even a paper bag; preferably one from the fried chicken place, complete with grease stains. There’s something very Faulkner like about writing on a bag of fried chicken. And that’s especially true when you live in North Carolina.

I have written poetry on napkins, book reviews on tiny pieces of paper which had already been written upon; leaving me only the margins within which to write. Ideas are ethereal and unless it is something conceptual, which can be later recalled, capturing the essence of the idea is imperative. This is especially true of songs, which I consider to be gifts; taken right from the air. There are melodies floating out there just waiting to be received. You just have to be tuned in.

And when committing these ideas to paper I usually throw away the notes; eschewing them for the essence of the original thought; and then just go with it. But it’s always different, and that’s what makes it fun.

I don’t pretend to do any real creative writing on here. Oh, now and again a good story works its way in; but they are becoming more and more rare as the years pass. I suppose I am running out of stories worth telling, and I’m not much for fiction. And things like “The Old Black Man” or “The Lovers” are just gems which fall into your lap. The only responsibility for the writer is to record them as accurately as possible, perhaps with a bit of flair to add some drama; or pathos; that will elicit the empathy of the reader.

Does this little article have a purpose? Not really. But it was on one of the scraps of paper indicating that I had thought about writing something on this subject. And, now that I have, I can’t imagine why. I should have written that part down...

Blogging Without a Plan

You’d think it would be easy to do a short blog like this on a daily basis, but it’s not. Sometimes I stay about 3 or 4 days ahead of schedule, which is why I am often several days behind the news, but somehow I always end up back at a point where I am out of something to say. But, being a verbose person by nature, I feel compelled to post something daily. It wasn’t always that way.

When I began this blog, over 3 years ago, I posted once a week, usually a book review; indeed, that is what this site purports itself to be. But, somehow over the 3 years I have been doing this, I caught the bug, and as a result post each day. Some of the material I post is so bad that this looks easier than it really is.

Oh, I get lucky now and again, with a good story like “The Old Black Man”, or  the one I wrote a few months ago about the Police Gazette, but mostly I just post whatever happens to attract my attention that day. Take today as an example. It’s 7 Pm here in North Carolina, and I had planned on having a book review done for tomorrow, and have actually begun working on it, but, with the grandkids coming on Tuesday night there were things to be done. (Mostly that involved watching Sue get things ready for their visit.)

So, I’m taking it easy on myself today, as usual, and posting this, for what it’s worth. The illustration at the top of the page is actually from the family album. It was done by my Dad, who was a draftsman, which is ironic considering he refused to serve in Korea when called up, but a draftsman he was. He was pretty good at it, too. He drew this the day after I was born. I still remember marveling at it as a kid. It still gives me pleasure to look at.

So, that’s all I got for today. No plan of my own, except to finish the book review for tomorrow. After that it will be a couple of days of winging it while my granddaughters Aliyah and Trinity are here to visit. We’ll be sharing our adventures here a bit. With this blog reaching something like 80 countries, I’m sure that other grandparents will find something of interest in what we do. I’m sure as heck curious myself! Remember, unlike my dad, I’m not working from a plan.