Forty-seven years ago. Wow, what a long time! I was twenty-two, a student at Morgan State back then, so, as Morgan was a Black college and I was the only white man in matriculation at the time, there was no way I could avoid the March on Washington and ever show my face on campus again. I had been a student at Morgan long enough to begin to grasp the cancer that was racism. Is racism. Rosa Parks had refused to give up her seat. Courageous students in North Carolina sat in at a whites only lunch counter. I would be on that march. Period. I was determined to make a statement.
Morgan’s campus crackled with anticipation. Busses were hired to carry students to and from D.C. I don’t remember how I got there, but I don’t think I went on a bus from Morgan. Something tells me I went to the bus station downtown and took myself over on a Greyhound. I wore a suit and tie, polished cordovan wingtips, and a fresh haircut. I realized I did not want to be part of a contingent. It wasn’t, I don’t think, the ego’s fear of getting lost in the crowd but the inability to make a statement.because I’d be invisible, and, if I were invisible, what was the point?
I’d been cautioned by my mother in Baltimore not to get involved, however, as I’d been lying to her for most of my remembered life, anyway, I had no trouble assuring her not to worry. I had to go to work; I wouldn’t be there. Don’t worry, ma.
How I got from the D.C. bus station to the march I cannot remember, but I do remember being on the march itself: a nice, naive Jewish boy without a sign in an ivy league suit and button down shirt, all by his lonesome. I felt more exposed than any time before in my life. It was hot, but I kept my tie neatly around my neck and my suit jacket buttoned with the cuffs of my shirt a proper single inch beyond the jacket sleeve, and still I wondered if this was what it felt like to be stark naked facing a pack of snarling dogs? Not that I was. Not that they were. Not yet. That would come, but I have no memory of hecklers that day. I went with the crowd as it pushed towards the Lincoln Memorial and found myself in position to see Dr. King quite well while he gave his legendary speech: “I have a dream…” His words snatched those snarling dogs and shut them up quick. I heard the words clearly and knew I had just witnessed something extraordinary.
I don’t remember going back to Baltimore, but, that evening, my mother asked me how my day was in that way she had when she knew she’d nailed you. I said, “Fine.”
“Work was…?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“You lied to me,” she said, and I knew she knew, though she remained uncharacteristically composed.
“How’d you know?”
“Your cousin, Doris, called from San Diego. Her whole family spotted you today on tv.”
“Yeah?”
“Every network.”
“What’d they say?”
“They said you looked respectable.”
“I guess so,“ I said and wagged my tie.
“Where is this going to lead?” she wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
I wasn’t lying. I really didn’t. I still don’t.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
MORE MAX & SOME ON STONE WALLS
I’ve roamed these woods and fields for more than 27 years now, and still I come across piled stone walls in unexpected places, centuries of grunt work done by hand. Country like this can wear you down. This land grows rocks as easily as it grows spruce trees. You can’t so much as plant a sapling without clearing dozens of rocks from the hole. If there were only a way to make some money off them!
Years ago, the first Winter that we lived here, I was tromping around after a major snowfall when a red fox led me to something odd. The sight of a red fox on virgin snow is rare and very beautiful, a ruby in the rough. He saw me first, I’m sure. Wood creatures usually know you’re there before you do. The fox stood on a small rise looking back at me over its shoulder. I stopped as soon as I saw it, and, nearly the instant I did, the fox took off at a trot towards a configuration of stones I’d never seen before, dove in, and disappeared. It must have been his den. Clear sets of tracks showed his comings and goings, and the piles of stone slabs seemed to be an old foundation. But it was deep in the woods and hard to reach, and made me wonder who had lived there? I figured Max would know. He’s lived most of his 56 years up here and knows about everything there is to know including local gossip. He stopped by later in the week, and I asked him. Turns out local scuttlebutt has it that at one time the insane were housed there. It must have been a cold and miserable place. I’m not superstitious, but now, during a storm when the wind wails and moans, my mind turns to Purgatory and the misery of lost souls. Of course, I don’t believe this, however, if I’d lived a hundred years ago I might have.
One day, Max and I got to talking about these walls. We’d both heard that landscape designers were pillaging them for the owners of second homes. Rocks with lichen were especially valuable, and rocks with lichen were what we had, tons and tons of rocks with lichen. We could take apart some of these hidden stone walls that no one could see and go to market with them. Being the astute businessman that I am, this idea went nowhere. Well, almost nowhere. Max raided a wall behind the barn, trucked the stone slabs to the front of our house, and then spent innumerable days putting them together again. Max would stand there and study the stones with the concentration of a chess player until he saw how best they fit, and now an old stone wall, precisely built and balanced, borders our front lawn. It’s a beauty, impressive as any stone wall is impressive, but, if you look closely to see how perfectly it’s been put together, it’s even moreso. Max is as proud of this construction as any sculptor would be, and the sight of it never fails to give me great pleasure.
Years ago, the first Winter that we lived here, I was tromping around after a major snowfall when a red fox led me to something odd. The sight of a red fox on virgin snow is rare and very beautiful, a ruby in the rough. He saw me first, I’m sure. Wood creatures usually know you’re there before you do. The fox stood on a small rise looking back at me over its shoulder. I stopped as soon as I saw it, and, nearly the instant I did, the fox took off at a trot towards a configuration of stones I’d never seen before, dove in, and disappeared. It must have been his den. Clear sets of tracks showed his comings and goings, and the piles of stone slabs seemed to be an old foundation. But it was deep in the woods and hard to reach, and made me wonder who had lived there? I figured Max would know. He’s lived most of his 56 years up here and knows about everything there is to know including local gossip. He stopped by later in the week, and I asked him. Turns out local scuttlebutt has it that at one time the insane were housed there. It must have been a cold and miserable place. I’m not superstitious, but now, during a storm when the wind wails and moans, my mind turns to Purgatory and the misery of lost souls. Of course, I don’t believe this, however, if I’d lived a hundred years ago I might have.
One day, Max and I got to talking about these walls. We’d both heard that landscape designers were pillaging them for the owners of second homes. Rocks with lichen were especially valuable, and rocks with lichen were what we had, tons and tons of rocks with lichen. We could take apart some of these hidden stone walls that no one could see and go to market with them. Being the astute businessman that I am, this idea went nowhere. Well, almost nowhere. Max raided a wall behind the barn, trucked the stone slabs to the front of our house, and then spent innumerable days putting them together again. Max would stand there and study the stones with the concentration of a chess player until he saw how best they fit, and now an old stone wall, precisely built and balanced, borders our front lawn. It’s a beauty, impressive as any stone wall is impressive, but, if you look closely to see how perfectly it’s been put together, it’s even moreso. Max is as proud of this construction as any sculptor would be, and the sight of it never fails to give me great pleasure.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Please let me know...
Folks, I'd much appreciate it if you'd let me know if you are receiving my blog, Growing Older.
You can reach me:
shf@wildblue.net
stephenhforemanblog@gmail.com
And, if you like it, please pass it on to your contact list.
Thnx
Stephen
You can reach me:
shf@wildblue.net
stephenhforemanblog@gmail.com
And, if you like it, please pass it on to your contact list.
Thnx
Stephen
Spruceton Valley & My buddy, Max
I live 4.6 miles up County Route 6 at the far end of Spruceton Valley in the hamlet of Spruceton, village of West Kill, town of Lexington, County of Greene, the northern edge of the Catskill range, upstate NY. I-phones do not work here. There is no cable. The local market is half an hour away. Sometimes an hour passes without a vehicle coming by the house. There is no rush hour. It is very quiet, and, in Winter when the creek is completely frozen and covered with two feet of snow, there is no sound at all. At some point, a single crow might caw once, brittle in the frigid air. Once swallowed by silence.
The first recorded deed on the property was in 1820. It was a farm and then, when we bought it, a hunting lodge with thirteen bedrooms, each with a sink equipped with spring-loaded faucets that snapped back the instant you let them go. You could lose a finger on one of those things. Changes were made, rooms knocked out. The house gradually became ours. It’s comfortable, and we love it, but don’t think Martha Stewart. High end it’s not. Some might say it needs work. It does. We bought the place complete with every plate, pot, pan, and piece of flatware, and, decades later, we’re still using them. The irony is that these same plates and bowls sell for a fortune now in antique shops and flea markets, and we’ve got service for about forty. Suddenly our stuff is chic instead of curious. . Everything recycles, even our dishes. Nothing short of a sledgehammer can shatter them, and buster, you’d better hit it just right. They will live forever. Certainly, they will outlive me.
My buddy, Max, came by today. I knew he would because we had a big snowfall, and he’d be out plowing people’s driveways. He stops in regularly, snow or not, and drinks two cups of coffee before moving on. We have a deal, Max and I. He can walk into the house any time without knocking then go ahead and make a cup of coffee for himself. Makes one for me, too, but the deal is that if I’m seriously working I’ll stay at my desk and not socialize. Fine with Max. He sits at my dining room table reading catalogues and magazines until the coffee’s gone and it’s time for another lawn or another driveway or a favor to do for somebody. Then he yells, “Burn ‘er, bub” and goes about his business. When he doesn’t show (which happens only when he’s away on vacation or with in-laws for holidays) I’ll often go days without seeing anyone at all. My closest full-time neighbor lives a quarter mile west. My children are in Boston, and my wife works in LA. My job is to write novels and keep the home fires burning. Good thing I like silence because I’ve got it.
Max plows our driveway and mows our fields, and he stops in at random times during the week, basically, to see if I’m still alive. Recently he actually admitted it – “Well, y’know, Steve, you’re getting’ up there. You might not look it but still you’re getting’ up there. I gotta look in on you time to time to make sure, you know…” Yeah, I know, and actually I’ve suspected so for years. His visits have kept me aware of my mortality in a way that nothing else does. We joke that he’ll find me one sub-arctic day stiff and frozen solid standing in the bathroom with my shotgun poked out the open window eternally waiting to ambush the red squirrels chewing the timbers of my house (Unless you have experienced a plague of red squirrels run amuck through your house in biblical proportions, don’t criticize.). More likely he’ll find me at my computer with the usual look of literary anguish frozen on my face, but I don’t tell him that. I’m not going to do anything to diminish my legend. Like a Frederick Remington scout or a Charlie Russell.free trapper I want to be remembered standing tall not hunched over a keyboard.like Scrooge’s clerk who didn’t have a keyboard, I know, but you get the picture.
The first recorded deed on the property was in 1820. It was a farm and then, when we bought it, a hunting lodge with thirteen bedrooms, each with a sink equipped with spring-loaded faucets that snapped back the instant you let them go. You could lose a finger on one of those things. Changes were made, rooms knocked out. The house gradually became ours. It’s comfortable, and we love it, but don’t think Martha Stewart. High end it’s not. Some might say it needs work. It does. We bought the place complete with every plate, pot, pan, and piece of flatware, and, decades later, we’re still using them. The irony is that these same plates and bowls sell for a fortune now in antique shops and flea markets, and we’ve got service for about forty. Suddenly our stuff is chic instead of curious. . Everything recycles, even our dishes. Nothing short of a sledgehammer can shatter them, and buster, you’d better hit it just right. They will live forever. Certainly, they will outlive me.
My buddy, Max, came by today. I knew he would because we had a big snowfall, and he’d be out plowing people’s driveways. He stops in regularly, snow or not, and drinks two cups of coffee before moving on. We have a deal, Max and I. He can walk into the house any time without knocking then go ahead and make a cup of coffee for himself. Makes one for me, too, but the deal is that if I’m seriously working I’ll stay at my desk and not socialize. Fine with Max. He sits at my dining room table reading catalogues and magazines until the coffee’s gone and it’s time for another lawn or another driveway or a favor to do for somebody. Then he yells, “Burn ‘er, bub” and goes about his business. When he doesn’t show (which happens only when he’s away on vacation or with in-laws for holidays) I’ll often go days without seeing anyone at all. My closest full-time neighbor lives a quarter mile west. My children are in Boston, and my wife works in LA. My job is to write novels and keep the home fires burning. Good thing I like silence because I’ve got it.
Max plows our driveway and mows our fields, and he stops in at random times during the week, basically, to see if I’m still alive. Recently he actually admitted it – “Well, y’know, Steve, you’re getting’ up there. You might not look it but still you’re getting’ up there. I gotta look in on you time to time to make sure, you know…” Yeah, I know, and actually I’ve suspected so for years. His visits have kept me aware of my mortality in a way that nothing else does. We joke that he’ll find me one sub-arctic day stiff and frozen solid standing in the bathroom with my shotgun poked out the open window eternally waiting to ambush the red squirrels chewing the timbers of my house (Unless you have experienced a plague of red squirrels run amuck through your house in biblical proportions, don’t criticize.). More likely he’ll find me at my computer with the usual look of literary anguish frozen on my face, but I don’t tell him that. I’m not going to do anything to diminish my legend. Like a Frederick Remington scout or a Charlie Russell.free trapper I want to be remembered standing tall not hunched over a keyboard.like Scrooge’s clerk who didn’t have a keyboard, I know, but you get the picture.
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