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Read "Gone and Also ... A Work in Progress" | Claude Hall
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On the other hand, I wondered how civilized I was myself. I'd once attended a few churches when I was in college, searching, I guess, for one that fit. None fit. Here in the glen, Sam Borwick, truely a man of all trades, held a gathering down on the beach when the weather was nice. Just about everyone attended, including me. It wasn't so much a religious ceremony as sort of community peace movement. If someone had fallen into a dispute of any kind with another resident of the glen, they came on Sunday morning and both would make their apologies and everyone would shake hands. Trikcee and Pixcee loved the singing. But the only spiritual song they ever sang was "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Most of the tunes were either Beatles tunes or a couple of songs by the Grateful Dead. Sometimes, someone would sneak in a Steve Miller or a Bob Dylan. Trikcee and Pixcee preferred Johnny Cash, so they would sing "Battle Hymn of the Republic," almost a tradition of the Sunday morning sessions, and then remain quiet. I loved Bob Dylan. My kind of writer. Well, not actually. Maybe a long time ago. But a lot of things had happened since I came to the glen. Stoney Bill Pearson and his wife and daughter were always at the Sunday morning sessions. They were as much a part of the glen as anyone else. However, Jana thought it prudent that they not be invited to the party. As was the custom, as soon as the sermon was over and the last song sung, everyone would pat the sea serpent and then meander up the trail by the waterfall. This day, most of us gathered in the glen by the old oak tree. How old the tree was, no one knew. But it was huge and served many purposes. The kids played in its branches. People often brought their lunches and dined under the tree. Sam Borwick and Astoria had been married in the shade of the acorns that grew in profusion hither and yon. We basically had two seasons in the glen -- spring and when the acorns fell. Judith had a phenomenal potion made of acorns that was good when rubbed on tired feet. I suppose that all of us loved that oak tree. For some reason, I don't know why, the kid whose parents had made a bomb, stayed with us at the tree. I suppose he enjoyed the peanut butter sandwiches that Pixcee and Trikcee had purloined from Stony Bill Pearson's market up on the highway. It had turned out that the kid's parents were anarchists left over from the 30s. They printed pamphlets, posters, and leaflets and handed these out to migrant Mexican workers who tended the crops of California. They were at every event you could possibly protest in Los Angeles and San Francisco and sometimes even Seattle, sometimes rooting for one side, sometimes for the other. They were against everything known to man. The only thing I could find positive about that man and that woman was that they liked "We Shall Overcome," a song by Woody Guthrie. They couldn't comprehend why every bomb they made fizzled. "Do you know what's going on here?" I asked the kid. "No," he said. "Neither do I," I told him. "But it may get pretty strange. You ready for strange?" "My parents are fairly weird." "Weirder than even that," I said. "I'd like to hangout, though, if you don't mind." "Welcome to the fray," I said. Jana, sometimes but not all of the time, can be a perfect hostess. Today, she was in fine fettle. We had Texas Hots from Rochester, NY, on sourdough bread with spicy mustard. Even the kid gave up one peanut butter sandwich for a Texas Hot. To the best of my knowledge, there are no Texas Hots in Texas. Just in Rochester, NY. The orange juice was fresh and chilled. You couldn't have had a better picnic. And, of course, we had peanut butter sandwiches. Mr. Jake Coogan was guest of honor. Although, to be sure, he didn't know it until he suddenly appeared sitting on the grass beside the kid. He appeared shocked for a moment, but recovered his composure much too fast...just as if he were expecting this to happen. "Who're you?" demanded Jake Coogan. "I'm new here," the kid said. "You strange like all of these others?" "My parents make bombs," the kid said. "I suppose that's sort of unusual. Would you like me to fetch you a Texas Hot?" "What's The Coogan coming to?" Jake Coogan said. He shook his head. White hair flew. "This is not called The Coogan anymore," the kid said. "It's just the glen." "To me, it's a nut ward. What do you do in this nut ward, if I may ask?" "Nothing. I just play games. On computer." "No special talents? You're not like the twins, huh?" "The twins are different," said the kid. "I guess you might say that I'm actually the strange one around here." "Where's that Artie dame?" "I don't know. She wasn't at church this morning. I don't know why. Maybe ghosts don't go to church." "She really a ghost?" "So far as I know," said the kid. "You see her?" "Sure." Jake Coogan seemed a little nervous about that. Jana and I were sitting over by the trunk of the old oak tree. It made a good backrest. We could hear every word, although I doubt if Jake Coogan realized this. "Where did you find the kid?" I asked Jana. "What, dear husband, makes you think he is of my doing?" "Everything else has been of your doing since I arrived in this cozy little glen from the deep and dark wiles of Manhattan. I even thought that my aunt was your creation for a while. All of them." "Not all of them, no," said Jana. "Once or twice, to be sure. And, without question, one or more was painted by Jake Coogan over there." "And the kid? Did he paint the kid?" "Nope. I found him. Just as you surmised." "Looks like a good find," I said. "What is his name? Or am I supposed to know?" "Jackson McCoy." "He really into computers?" "Most definitely," said my wife. "So, you think this kid, Jackson, is going to come in handy, I suppose." "No suppose about it," she replied. "We can't paint everything there is. At some point, we're going to need tech support. High technology, if you will. I've extrapolated this. Don't know when. Or even what. But we're a rather unique little culture and we'll more than likely have to diversify in days to come." "Good thinking," I said. "My children will be proud of you." I wasn't very good at projecting. Not like a painter could do who'd worked on their skills. The kid would age, go to some university, and return. Or maybe not return, but still be a functioning part of the glen. And, yes, I could see where even the glen had to progress...become a part of the world that really existed. I couldn't even imagine what that might be. But I had other skills as a writer. I could see the twins from where I sat, leaning up against the trunk of the oak tree. Both were talking with Lois Halberman, who was imparting history to them. Not so much earth history as the history of Bexutia. The ship. The first settlement in what is now Rome, but back then was just a grove of trees filled with wolves alongside a river. She spoke of a pair of twins raised by wolves. "We have been most favorable of wolves every since." I could hear every word of their conversation, too, and quietly logged everything in my mind. The triplets were dodging in and out of the branches of the oak tree, playing an odd game of tag with a couple of the older children who couldn't fly, but were running up and down the branches like squirrels. Fortunately, the twins had outgrown their flying phase and I expected the triplets soon would settle back to ground. As I had explained to Pixcee and Trikcee, they needed leg muscles. Fly when necessary. But walk most of the time. Run, swim. I enjoyed watching Walsh, Williams, and Winchell, though. Cute kids. And their mother and I thought they were going to be equally as bright and adept as their sibblings. She’d been wrong about just having three kids. I counted five. But, then, what do women know? Do not think that I was ignoring Jack Coogan. I had developed several excellent writing skills during the past months. When you read something such as "The Crystal World" by J.G. Ballard or "The Plague" by Albert Camus, your mind flowers. That is, it opens up and you're now aware of the real world that exists and everything that exists in that world. It's much like the impressionists attempted with their canvases and never quite succeeded in capturing fully...all of the nuances...thoughts...plans...dreams of not only the people, but the trees, the plants near the pond, the stones of the bridge, the sweep of the bay. Mistake! Jake Coogan had dismissed the kid. And quite rudely. Jackson merely nodded his head and got up from the grass and went over to join the twins who were, as you might have guess, munching on peanut butter sandwiches. They immediately offered him one and he settled comfortable on a blanket near the twins and opened up his laptop. It was a Macintosh. Or used to be. Pixcee had asked once what he'd done to the computer and he merely said, "Fixed it." Jake Coogan now looked around. He saw someone and waved. It was my aunt Artie dressed in a light blue business suit. I wasn't surprised. Maybe I should have been. "You seen my aunt lately?" I asked Jana. "Well, she wouldn't be caught dead in that thing whoever that is." I nodded. "Certainly not my aunt. Red, always red. I'm surprised you didn't remember that when you painted her in ski togs." "I didn't have time." "Was it pleasant in the Alps?" "Yes. Ghost or not, your aunt can really ski. First class." "Is that the way we're going to this Delphi place in Spain? You merely paint us there?" "In Greece. Nope. Airplane. Charter, of course. Like family. All of us. As soon as this is done. I didn't want to interrupt your studies. Nor what is going to be known, in days to come, as the great Coogan Conflict." "Of course not," I said. "Nice title, the Coogan Conflict." "The great Coogan Conflict." "Frankly, he doesn't look so villainous at the moment," I said. Jake Coogan was chasing a ball that had escaped from some children beyond the grassy slope. Suddenly, he tripped and fell. The man who scrambled up from the grass, quickly and angrily, was not the same man as who'd fallen. He stood with his feet braced. He stared at me as if I was to blame. Well, to tell the truth, I suppose I was. I didn't move. The shade of the oak tree was quite comfortable. The ground was soft like a chair and the trunk of the tree was soft. A good cushion. It's nice having a woman around who can do that sort of thing. The twins ran over. "Oh, goody. Are we going to have a fight now, Daddy?" "Very soon now," I said. "Let us get some more peanut sandwiches first," Pixcee said. She and Trikcee ran back to their blanket and quickly returned with sandwiches. Jackson McCoy picked up an extra sandwich and followed the twins. "I would not sit too close," I warned them. They sat down on the other side of Jana. "Let's not disturb the triplets," said Jana and gestured at Walsh, Williams, and Winchell high in the branches of the huge oak tree. "They're a bit young anyway for something like this." "So am I," I said. "What about my aunt? The real one. She coming?" "Aunt Artie, the good lord bless her, is very unpredictable," said Jana. "I simply don't know." "If you think she's unpredictable, you should have met my uncle Deevee. Now there was a wild one. Worked in the oil business in the boom days." "He a ghost, too?" "No. For some reason, uncle Deevee stayed dead. Guess he just wasn't wild enough. Not like aunt Artie anyway. She was different. No doubt about that." "Sort of wish she was here," said Jana. "I'd feel a lot better about you fighting Jake Coogan." "The funny thing is that I'd feel a lot better, too. My aunt does, indeed, add a certain flair to just about every occasion. Artie, where are you when I need you?" "I'm here," said my aunt Artie. She was sitting quite casually on one of the branches of the oak tree over my head. The triplets were sitting beside her. "She makes a great babysitter, too," said Jana without glancing up. Jana, too, was watching Jake Coogan. "My aunt? A babysitter?" "Once or twice a week. Sometimes more. She has taken them to the beach for an hour or so...just to get them off my hands. I've been grateful, I assure you." "Well, the twins survived her. Maybe the triplets will, too," I said. "But I must say that my dear aunt doesn't seem all that concerned about her old enemy right now. One Jake Coogan. In fact, she and the triplets seemed to be playing some kind of word game." "That may not be exactly a game," Jana said. No matter. I couldn't be bothered with my aunt Artie at the moment. Jake Coogan was talking with the other "Artie." Was she real? Or just an image he'd painted to confuse the issue? "Whatever," I said. I had to stay focused on Jake Coogan. He finished his conversation with the woman who looked like my aunt and she began to move away from him. They now stood several yards apart. Like bad guys approaching John Wayne in a movie written by Leigh Bracket. Both faced me. I wondered if I should stand up. But I didn't have a chance. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning appeared in the woman's hand. She held it like a spear. Right then, I had a decision to make. Was she real or just an image created by Jake Coogan to throw me off? Turned out it wasn't much a decision after all. She flung the spear and it landed in the tree trunk just to the left of my head. She now held several extra lightning bolts in her other hand. "Never trust a female," I said. "Now what does that mean?" asked Jana. "I don't know. Just something stupid on the spur of the moment, if I may use an old cliché. I thought she was just a image. Turns out she's real enough." "Feel free to cliché all you wish," Jana said. "Just stop her from tossing lightning bolts." So, I rewrote the scene just a little. She disappeared back to that other dimension of the nowhere and Jake Coogan suddenly found it necessary to dance a serious jig in order to avoid the lightning bolts that had fallen at his feet. "How dare you!" he yelled at me. "I dare pretty good," I said. As you can tell, I was not really good at the moment at writing dialogue. Description, yes. Dialogue? Well, even Hemingway had trouble sometimes. Eventually, the sparks from the discarded lightning bolts fizzled out and Jake Coogan ceased his funny little dance. You should have seen his face! The twins had been watching and were still laughing. The triplets Walsh, Williams and Winchell were chattering with my aunt. I wondered what they were talking about. Seemingly, none of them were paying any attention to either me or Jake Coogan. What a strange situation this was! I had no desire to hurt Jake Coogan. Certainly, I did not want to kill him. Even if I could. And that was seriously debatable. The laughter from the kids, however, had changed the man of a few moments ago into a monster. Oh, he looked the same. Except his face was faming red! I even thought I saw steam coming off the top of his head. That was more or less an illusion, I'm sure. But I doubt if I had any chance of compromise with him now. I wasn't going to be able to talk my way out of this! "None," said my wife Jana. "I know what you were thinking. No compromise. The man is warped. There is no way even a writer can confer with a man who is warped." I tried to change the subject. That sometimes helps. "How come we've never had a cat?" I asked. "I don't like cats. Why?" "I don't know. I just wondered. Hemingway was fond of cats. Cats with too many toes, I think. I'm not interested in that sort of cat. Just a regular old tabby cat or something like that." "Now? All of a sudden?" "They seem like useful creatures, I would think." "Cats," she insisted, "are usually not good for anything at all. Dogs, yes. Dogs make good playthings for children. Pixcee and Trikcee have asked. I told them that I would think about it." "We probably should get them a dog at the very least," I said. "I had a dog when I was a kid. The triplets would like a dog, too. Sort of keep them company. Protection not withstanding." "I would think, dear husband, that you have other problems facing you at the moment rather than whether your children should have a family pet." "You're right, of course, good wife that you are," I said. I began climbing to my feet, leaning against the truck of the old oak tree for support. "I wonder if Jake Coogan over there likes dogs." "He probably likes cats," Jana said. Just then, a huge saber-toothed tiger came up the trail from the direction of the waterfall. (continued next week) e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com |
Commentary Strange to have your past make a sneak attack. But that’s what happened when Bill Mouzis sent a whole bunch of people an early review of “The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll.” And I was included in the loop (thanks, Bill!). The date of the Billboard was Mar. 15, 1969, so I was still working from the New York office up behind the Palace Theater. I evidently heard the documentary on WOR-FM because I mentioned Sebastian Stone. But most of my praise – and praise it I did – went to Ron Jacobs, Bill Mouzis, and Robert W. Morgan. I was hesitant to read the review Bill sent me. What if I’d panned it all those years ago? But, fortunately, I had raved about it. Which it deserved. History proved that. You want to hear something funny? If you asked many a radio guy what I did on Billboard, they would mention the Vox Jox column. But, as usual, I believe I wrote the entire radio section of this issue (page 35 and a couple of more pages) and more than likely a dozen stories for other sections of the magazine. Looking back, I note that by this time I’d cleaned up the magazine somewhat…eliminated a so-called circus makeup (the magazine was once aimed at the carney industry), but I was still using AP style on the states. I didn’t change that until I moved a few months later to Los Angeles and worked out of the office there at 9000 Sunset Boulevard. I was big on AP style, but the postal designation made more sense regarding style; it was more official. The headlines were written by copy editor Robert Sobel, in retrospect not so well. For example, the headline on the “history” review makes little sense, says nothing, means little. The adage I advocated was that someone should be able to walk into a drugstore in Debuque and pick up a copy 10 years old and be able to read and understand every story. Thus, showbiz jargon was taboo except in specific industry situations, such as the use of the word “segue,” etc. This enabled us to expand our subscription list to people outside the industry per se, such as bankers. The lead story was a roundup about the NAB, the NAFMB, and the IBS (college radio) convention in Washington. I loved the convention in those days. Colorful! Exciting to some extent. I mentioned Alan Shaw, then in charge of FM for ABC; Jerry Chapman of WFBM-FM in Indianapolis, and Jerry Holly of WIBW-FM in Topeka. Whitney Young, executive director of the National Urban League was a speaker at one of the meetings. A lot of years have come and gone, but I think I once had breakfast with Young. I was very impressed with him at the time. A picture on the page featured Wanda Jackson and her husband Wendell Goodman with Joe Thompson of KTUF in Tucson. A major story on the page was with Les Smith, a man that I not only liked, but respected as a fine radio chain operator. He was a partner with actor Danny Kaye. I never heard anything slightly bad about Les…nor about his radio chain. One sad story on the page was about WMCA in New York cutting back on music for talk 11 p.m.-10 a.m. Terrell Methney Jr. was program director. Buzz Bennett was leaving to become general manager of Bang Records. This, in effect, was a sign of the times. Pity. Great station in its time. I’d been reluctant to phone Ruth Meyer that she was being replaced when Terrell Methney Jr. had been hired. I didn’t have any reluctant when I notified Methney. In what I suppose was a face-saving modus operandi, he wrote a proposal about what the programming needed to be. But, he was on the way out regardless and I’ve always felt that it had little to do with him, but more to do with the political ambition of owner R. Peter Strauss. Just FYI, though talk radio is big right now, WMCA as the initial talk station lost heaps of money for a year or so and Strauss had to sell his station in Utica, NY, to pay the freight. One story was about Mason Dan changing the format at KRUX in Phoenix to “Drake with personality.” In retrospect, that story doesn’t make a whole lot of sense these days. Probably didn’t make much sense back in 1969 either! Ah, Bill…thank you for the memories! e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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