An Old Box Of Accreted Stuff

I am sitting in the early morning quietness of the house in Alabama. There is only the sound of ceiling fans and some crickets – they are actively chattering. The rooster from the distant neighbor has yet to decide to announce the dawn. I should be asleep, but instead I am awake with the sounds of my thoughts. They are a bit louder than usual this morning.

I am considering a phrase from one of The Dream Songs of John Berryman: “sometimes in the dark of night I am forced to perform operations of great delicacy upon myself.” Ok, this blog may get a bit heavy – be forewarned!

I flew down to Alabama on Tuesday and arrived, as you may already know, without my luggage. It has since been reunited with me and that has eased some tensions with my person and the world outside. Visits to Alabama are always tense only because it brings together two worlds that sometimes feel to me like polar opposites. I want to belong to both and would like that to be a seamless merge. However, there are lifestyles and emotions which make the merge more difficult.

I read a column by Dick Cavett in the New York Times. I am not always a fan of Cavett. I find him to be very “full of himself.” However, I was drawn to the column today by the mention of Arthur Godfrey in the online pitch. Arthur is distinctly tied to my past and my life in Alabama since it was to see him that my father decided to broach the world of television one Monday of my childhood.

But I am not thinking about Arthur Godfrey but of a bit of wording Cavett used in his column. I was struck by the phrase, “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is an apt description of my life: “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is most appropriate in the concrete since my visits to Alabama often mean looking through photos and documents that are stowed in various drawers and closets of the house there. Just last night I was looking at photos that will remain forever a mystery since my only link to their identity was my parents – both now gone. Who are these people? What is my debt to them?

It is also appropriate in the abstract, since thoughts, memories, directions are shaped by the “stuff” of our past. Alabama often jars me; jostles my equilibrium.

This has been a weekend of reunions – you might even say it has been about being re-united with extremes.

The easiest was, of course, the visit from my son and his family. Remember this means time with the youngest of the “Little ones” – the granddaughter who is now two. I had not seen them since February.

When she was told she was going on a trip. She immediately thought she was going to Bethlehem since her concept of a journey involved a donkey and Mary and Joseph. Her book of The Christmas Story is one of her favorites, the other being Curious George. Talk about extremes.

Her father hastened to remind her that this journey was to see her Granddaddy, not the Baby Jesus. The only donkey that would be involved would be at the zoo on Friday. I know what you are thinking - do not even go there!

It has been fun to watch her become acquainted with the Alabama house; roaming through its spaces, beginning to form her own memories. I have even attempted to begin a toy chest for her.

The beginnings of her accreted stuff.

Even as I did I remembered the toy chest in the ill-used attic of my grandfather’s house in Mississippi. There was a drum and an old bugle. There was other stuff that has escaped my memory, but I recall the trek upstairs on each visit.

It is generational. My son discovered toys from his childhood tucked away in the back of the closet of the Alabama house and began sharing them with the little one.

I visited with my sister and her family. We recalled the past often. - remembered stories of our parents.

I lunched with friends from my college days on Friday. Most I had not seen in over 45 years. Time has been good for some; less so for others. I am probably in the “less so” group since I recently had a birthday that was so significant it frightened me. My looks in the mirror each morning reveal an old man.

The reunion was a congenial gathering: thirty or so people who had a shared admiration of a particular professor. One or two seemed ill at ease. The rest of us just laughed it off at the time. But this morning, their discomfort has become part of the “box of stuff.” It is an eye opener to discover that there are old acquaintances – yes, old girlfriends – who requested to be seated as far away as possible. And to think, I was looking forward to catching up on details of lives that had diverged. But instead, I encountered a wall of obvious awkwardness. I was not a cad in college, I promise.

I had thought of returning to a brunch today, but I remember the wisdom of my purple-haired mother. “Don’t impose yourself, it is bad manners.”

I have always regarded myself as inconspicuous on the horizon of life, even shy.

Of the thirty-six or so present, only one or two would be uncomfortable, but that is enough to make me think that my time would be best spent with my granddaughter.

Her box of accreted stuff is relatively empty.

Growing old is no fun! The body sometimes aches and the mind oftentimes does a lot of dissecting. However, if you think about it, the other alternative has far more serious ramifications.

The Lowest Common Denominator

For decades we have encountered delusional talent on one type of talent show or the other. My earliest recollection was the Ted Mack Amateur Hour, which I have learned was a successor to Major Bowes. Arthur Godfrey had a run with “scouting” for talent. We had Chuck Baris on the “Gong Show.” There was “Star Search” and now Simon and Ellen on “American Idol.” As these shows often play out, sad folks who, either through encouragement, incorrect self-assessment, or a combination of both, arrive in front of an audience.

Back at the Bowling Alley in Centralia, they were thought to be better than the rest. They move up the rungs toward a dream. Then, they are given a spotlight in the big time. Some make it there because of talent. Others, because these venues need a “curiosity” to keep the ratings alive and well. Ratings depend upon angst. Frankly, there is so much angst on “Lost” that I have become immune – bored with it all.

But back to the amateur talent shows.

Eunice Harper Higgins of “Feelings” fame was convinced she was destined to greatness. She even warned Ed and Mama not to expect her back in Raytown. Yet, before she was able to get to her spoken monologue, she was “gonged” into oblivion. We all got a big laugh over it. Her delusion and eventual demise had no real impact on anything.

So why have Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, and Sarah Palin escaped the “gong?”

Coulter and Limbaugh eschew mean-spirited, often ill-informed opinions. Yet, they have an impressive following. And Palin is more popular than ever even though her message is essentially the same tired stuff from the failed campaign with John McCain. I had really thought that Ms. Palin’s gong happened the night of John McCain’s concession speech when she was told that her own concession was not to be heard.

She is still "going rogue."

Palin cannot get beyond the bit about the President being a community organizer while she was sitting on her porch becoming an expert on foreign affairs as she peered over into Russia. Wasn’t Jane Addams a type of “community organizer? How about Nelson Mandela? Didn’t Pope John II do similar stuff in Poland as a young cleric? It seems like really good company to me.

Sarah’s mantra for a better world: “don’t retreat, reload.” Along with Ann and Rush, there is nothing but negative ranting. What is their “better solution?” Do their followers and those who are billing themselves as the Tea Party have a plan or is merely enough to rail at those who do?

Has hatred become a common denominator for this country of hope?

Aubergine Bovine

My family had one of the first television sets in our neighborhood. My father purchased it on a Saturday with the understanding that it would be installed and working properly by the start of the Arthur Godfrey Show on the following Monday evening. There was also an understanding, mostly on his part, that having a television would not interrupt the normal routine of our lives. “Preparation for bedtime is still at 8:30 with ‘lights out’’ at 9.”

In those days, the stations that sent television signals via a very tall tower on top of some respectable mountain were not so powerful nor plentiful, so each residence had to have their own antenna perched “searchingly” into the air. Installing a television set meant creating some type of signal receiving tower alongside a window of the room where the big console with the “tiny” screen would reside. It was much more complicated than placing a box from Best Buy inside the luggage compartment of your Honda. (Neither of which – Best Buy or Honda - existed in those days. Luggage compartments did exist but on Chevrolets, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks. There were also Plymouths, Dodges, DeSotos, and a couple of Packards in our town. Lucille Brown drove an older black Cadillac.)

While the Japanese had aggressively attacked our Navy, they and the Chinese had yet to go after our home entertainment business, so televisions were made by Philco, Magnavox, Zenith, and RCA. There were three networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC. There was no such thing as “cable” and PBS along with the National Endowment had yet to spark the ire of the conservatives. There was no “remote control” to lose in the cushions of the sofa. Programs were found by turning a large round knob located prominently on the front of a large bulky wooden box. In time, a small booklet called TV Guide hit the market to help you know what to expect.

The television day lasted from about 6 a.m. until around 11 p.m. You could gain an extra couple of hours if you were bored enough to watch the “test pattern” that was broadcast before and after the close of regular programming. The beginning and end of regular programming was always “announced” by the playing of the National Anthem, and yes, most people stood up in the darkness or the dawning.

I am not working on a history of the late forties and early fifties here. I am merely attempting to set the stage for the events that transpired on the first night of television at our house.

Monday evening television was dominated by two very popular shows: Arthur Godfrey and “I Love Lucy.” Both lasted only 30 minutes, so there were other shows that have escaped my memory. I do recall the news with Douglas Edwards. It was sponsored by Oldsmobile Automobiles and featured a “rocket” blasting off – a metaphor for the power of their engine. (Our local Oldsmobile dealer featured a large red rocket attached to the hood ornament of their 88 model. They almost lost a sale when they attempted to remove the “advertising gimmick” from the vehicle following its purchase. The new owner insisted it was a part of what he had paid for. He proudly rode about town with the curiosity for years.)

Back to “television Monday.”

During dinner, which we hurried so as to not miss any of the precious television time, my Dad again reminded us of our family commitment to a normal evening routine despite the “one-eyed” monster that now sat in our living room. This meant that once Lucy had been caught tricking Ricky and received the “now Lucy” reprimand, we would turn the set off and prepare for bed.

My Dad laughed his curious way at everything Arthur Godfrey said. My mother commented that she also could play the ukulele. (I knew she played a great piano, but was not aware of her ability on the uke.) Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel kept us all in stitches until 8:30.

Then it happened.

The television was “clicked” off.

My mother gave us a look when my father’s back was turned which said, “don’t complain, things may improve.”

As soon as my father was deep into his sonorous snoring, we were all reassembled in front of the big box and deep into a sitcom that featured Stu Erwin. It is probably prophetic that the show was called, “Trouble With Father.” (You do the math!) Anyway, in this first “not supposed to be watched episode,” the younger daughter played by Sheila James, was involved in detective intrigue. In the course of the show, she leaves a cryptic message – the intended recipient I forget – which reads, “the frost is on the pumpkin! Run, little girl, run!”

Because seeing the show was a direct violation of my father’s “Television Rules,” the Erwin daughter’s message became the code phrase within our family to keep something a secret from Dad.

Anytime, in the years following that fateful Monday night breach, that someone was about to reveal something to my Dad that another did not wish to be known, you would hear, “the frost is on the pumpkin.” Yes, even in the middle of July.

When my sister was about to reveal that I had put a dent in the back fender of the pickup truck. I voiced so that she could hear; “the frost is on the pumpkin.” The same happened from her end of the dinner table when I almost spilled the beans that she, as Treasurer, had cleaned out the coffers of her school club.

We had many other code words. Someone not so bright was “a bubble off plumb.” Even in college, when a guy was dating a very plain girl, she would be referred to as a “woman of rare beauty.” A response of “really?” for my crowd was the ultimate mark of total boredom with a topic of conversation. (Did I hear someone say "really?")

So why am I thinking about code words”

My grandchildren in Dallas love a restaurant called “The Purple Cow.” It is bright, noisy, kid-friendly, and serves great burgers and fries. However, because of their young age, to mention the possibility of a lunch or dinner at their favorite spot, elicits an immediate impatience to go. So, in order to avoid triggering their wails of want, and because “P-U-R-P-L-E C-O-W” takes so much longer to convey, my daughter recently mentioned they may have lunch with friends at the Aubergine Bovine.

It took me a second, but then I burst into laughter. Thankfully, I knew Robert Harling’s play or the color of the cow would have been lost on me. “Now tell me, Bob, would you call this color grape or aubergine?”

Many years removed from the first Monday of television, my father was driving me to Birmingham to catch yet another flight back to Chicago. For whatever reason, I decided to come clean with our long-used code.

“Dad, there is a code that we use when we don’t want you to know about something that has happened.”

“Do you mean, ‘the frost is on the pumpkin?’” he replied with a wink.