12-1 TUCSON TO THOMPSONVILLE
After
a thousand miles my hands were numb from the noise of my engine and my mind
blank from the ceaseless revolutions of my tires. The yellow lined road points
to some distant towers and spring grasses of early April, freshly greened the Texas
and Oklahoma countryside's. The rivers in Missouri were running high with
snowmelt caused by recent rains.
Riding
the great open spaces between Midwestern cities, structures loomed far off down
the road as if the road would end when entering this great palace. I continued
to head straight for them. They were glistening and futuristic----with a touch
of grey, reminding me of the Hollywood backdrop for the Land of Oz. What
Dorothy saw off in the distance at the end of the yellow brick road and all
that stood between her and the Wizards castle was a field of poppies.
The
Towers. Who cared that they looked a little fake. They lured Dorothy and the
others and drew me in too. Even when I drove by the massive grain towers it was
not a disappointment…because seeing America was mysterious and magical.
****************************************************
As
many people know America is divided into ten growing zones. Zone 10 being Miami
and Zone 2 the Boreal Forest in Canada.
Some configurations gauge their results from the lowest winter
temperatures and some use the date of the last frost. Either way there is a
general agreement as to where these zones are.
Zone
10 includes Miami and Sand Diego that are frost free. Zone 9 runs up the
Pacific coast out to the Mojave Desert and into the Sonoran Desert where Tucson
and Phoenix are located. Zone 9 also includes the Texas town of Corpus Cristi
and areas north of Miami and up to Orlando, higher along the coasts. Averaging
less than five days of frost with minimums of 20 degrees.
My
trip from Tucson to Thompsonville begins in zone 9. I entered zone 8 only five
hours into the trip. Zone 8 is north of Phoenix and through the mountains of
New Mexico and going through lower central Texas and across the south to South
Carolina. As I headed north of Alamagordo in New Mexico I hopped over zone 7
quickly. Alamagordo is 4300 feet above sea level and lies at the western edge
of the mountains.
I
maintained a path through zone 6 as I got to 6,000 feet in Northeast New
Mexico. I continued in a northeasterly direction to Amarillo Texas, central
Oklahoma, and the beautiful mid western state of Missouri. Zone 6 covers a wide
band, including Kentucky Tennessee, northern Virginia New York City and Newport
Rhode Island.
Zone 6
had just been waking up fom the winter. I suspected zone 5, which had seen a
snowstorm of epic proportions that early April winter day, was still frozen and
asleep. In Missouri I skirted the line between 5 and 6, and up till that point
had seen no precipitation. Up ahead on the drive across country was Illinois
Indiana and Ohio at the lower edge of the heavy snow areas. After leaving
Tucson when it was 75 degrees, I wouldn’t feel any temperatures above 40
degrees. Had I left too soon? In Illinois it was 38 degrees when the rain
started.
******************************************************
November
in Tucson is not always pleasant. November is when the coldest temperatures hit
Tucson. It was the month I saw the only snowfall over one inch. It was the month
of the coldest temperature I experienced in Tucson---18 degrees. November ’83
was no exception. From upper 80’s at the beginning of the month to frost and 35
and frost or 45 degrees and rain. On my job as an electricians helper I was
digging 10 foot wide ditches 3 feet deep. These would fill up with rain and
collapse.
My
friend and boss Jeff Schombert was letting his friend, Jesus, run a job by
himself for the first time. The illustrious dumb-fuck macho queen, Jesus (Hey
Zeus)Romero made many mistakes. It was a job with 160 apartments led by the
primary contractors---the Valley Carpentry crew. I was stuck in the ditch while
other beginners were shown how to do electrical
installation.
However,
as the Motorhead song says, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” as I never
let them. As time went by I had to grit my teeth and survive with my principles
and convictions intact. There was six months to go before we moved back to New
England and many times our trip back could have been halted or delayed. The
plan was to leave Tucson just before the summer started and in New England as
the spring was at its flowerful best. I had a month long house sitting job in Enfield.
Many
people who move to Tucson miss the four seasons. It’s hot for 5 months and
moderate for 7 months, but on the other hand many Tucsonans would be happy with
a year round summer. “Don’t like the cold. No sir, I don’t.” When the
temperatures turn from moderate to looking into the hot oven warm, there are collective groans and
cheers across the valley.
Where
would we end up? Boston was a good idea, a return to tradition and intensity.
Boston---culture, history, and activity. I was ready to move but my bank
account wasn’t. Unlike many Tucsonans who empty their bank accounts to take
yearly trips back “home,”I had no desire
to visit Connecticut. Living in Arizona gave me the opportunity to see America
and meet people from fifty states. Native people, Pacicific coast people,
disgruntled Floridians looking to flee the humidity and arthritis. Mexicans
Guatamalans, Detroiters, Minnesota people, Vermonters Texans.
I
became a global citizen there and now I live in New England not because I was
born here but because I choose to. In fact we almost become Marylanders. My
girlfriends brother was a muffin executive at Thomas English Muffins. He could
hire me for 12 an hour which was a lot for me never making more than 5 an hour.
We would be rich and all I have to do is poke the muffins with toothpicks.
The
factory was in the beautiful Maryland countryside, 35 miles from D.C. My
potential boss ended up getting a promotion and moving to the god-awful cold
city of Chicago.
After
five years in Tucson it felt like the city was a bit of an island. Isolated and
out of touch, beautiful young and strong
with hints of class. Yet somehow boring. Or was it just the people? So there I was in November of 1983 with
a dream about getting back to New England. It kept raining like a Connecticut spring, and some weeks I
only worked 20 hours, at 4 dollars an hour.
Through
December we never got out of the 200-400 dollar range with savings. I had decided not to
tell anyone in town about the plan till we had 500 dollars solidly in the
savings.
There
is an old movie called the seven trials of Hercules. To escape the beasties,
Hercules had to endure seven major tribulations before he could be set free.
That’s how I saw myself once again, nose to the grindstone trying to endure.
The first trial was the chronically small savings account but still knowing
this was going to get done. The February plan was scrapped and then the March
date of escape. Then I picked April 11th as the day of departure.
January
progressed and we were solidly above 500 and we told people about our plans.
Why? They all asked. When I left Connecticut in 1978 I got the same question---why?
At
that point the van was 92% repaired. Engine overhaul carberator overhaul, fuel
pump front end and much more. Then Memere Bellemare pledged 500 dollars for our
effort.
Then
came the second trial. Since I was concentrating so much effort raising
cash---getting a raise, selling and trading our extraneous possessions, I
neglected my work on my, work for rent situation. The Kingstons our landlord
and boss demanded a major effort. They suggested I was complacent and said we
should leave if we can’t do the job right.
It
seemed like they wanted to fire us but we squeaked by knowing we weren’t ready
to tell them we were leaving in two months anyways. Moving into an apartment at
this point would cost us too much in deposits, first and last months rent.
Ah but
Tucson. How COULD we leave? January 10th was the last day it rained
till at least March 10th. High temperatures ranged from 64 to 82
degress which is ideal for most people. When I left with my whole life packed
into an Econoline Van on April 11th I knew that for three months I
had experienced the most beautiful weather on the planet. I found out later
from a weather buddy that Tucson had its warmest May on record.
Jesus,
the macho turdball, returned to the story to present the fourth trial. He had
finished the Valley Carpentry Crew job and joined us at the Mission Road
Apartments. I had gotten a raise to $4.50 while I was there working with Jeff
the owner and boss. My nemesis blandly stated upon our first meeting that his
intention was to fire me. But I prevailed.
As
Jesus tried to provoke arguments that would lead to a fight and the inevitable
deceptive descriptions of events, so I approached my boss and
friend about this problem. But Jesus was his business partner. If Jesus could
direct a lot of people, Jeff could expand the business. A good business partner
is hard to find.
Calmly
I discussed the problem. Unbeknownst to me, Jeff had suspected a problem and
was aware of the loss he took at the Valley Carpentry job. Jesus Wormtongue was
one of those gossiping sorts, saying bad shit about a lot of people frequently.
Jeff concluded from the mountains of paperwork that it was more than lazy
workers that ballooned his expenses. A lot was spent on supplies and fuel and
miscellaneous.
The
worm became a mouse
and I became the Cheshire Cat, by doing nothing more than telling the truth.
Motherfucker never said shit to me after that, and Jeff didn’t scapegoat me in
any way, he told Jesus that he was inefficient and should spend more time
watching himself instead of the workers. Jesus was demoted back to the crew for
more “seasoning”. Patience is rewarded.
The fourth/fifth trial arrived about two or three weeks after
the Jesus fiasco. It appeared this time as the flu. We were struggling to save, and I needed every paycheck. Stumbling around the job site, I tried not to fall
off the second floor. It was a killer flu, and it took an extreme effort to
work.
Not even a week or two later came the fifth trial. At 10
o’clock one evening my tooth inflamed and massive pain became my bane. My
girlfriend said to call the hospital for pain killers. Mouth pain I could have
survived but the tooth needed work, over 500 dollars worth---a punch in the stomach
for our savings effort. The grimmest outlook had us leaving for New England at
the onset of this coming winter,
Memere sent another 500 and my parents had sent a 300
dollar birthday present. People were eager to have the Prodigal Son back. The
only one they knew in recent memory to move out of Connecticut. The Vagabond,
the wanderer.
I really got to know the weather of the desert and it’s
imprinted on my mind like childhood memories in Wethersfield. The flooding
arroyos, the random dust devils spinning nearby, the baking hot dryness, and
the sacred rain, never repeating a pattern and always different. The Robins
arrived in their flocks much earlier than usual and this indicated to a weather
watcher that an early spring would commence.
The weather was more boring in Connecticut and New
England with it’s tedious, never ending light rain. But there was the big trees and the fine old
homes, the beaches and small quaint towns, rude people and every extreme of
individuality and conformity.
Three weeks before the trip I organized a weekend outing
to New Mexico. Why would I take a long drive three weeks before a cross country
trip? There were logical reasons like checking out if there were any places to
get gas and food. From Tucson to Las Cruces (275 miles), there were sporadic
stops for travelers. No phones that I could see and very small towns like Bowie
and Deming. These towns roll up the sidewalks at six o clock, I’m sure.
The first gas stop would be only 75 miles outside of
Tucson in Willcox. Belly up to the pump with the engine running to get every
teaspoon I could in there. I could make it to las Cruces but what about
Alamogordo (375 miles) and Roswell (525). No one wants to run out of gas in the
desolate mountains of New Mexico. I’m sure. There were two 24 hour stores in
Alamogordo as it turns out as I asked around more.
Hopefully the mountains would have gradual grades and I
wouldn’t waste gas. So the little weekend in New Mexico allowed me to listen to
the van carefully to see if there were any sort of problems. I hadn’t take any
strenuous trips in the aging van in the last two years.
Her performance was sluggish at best and became downright
dreadful on the little trip. I went to Tuneup Masters where they did a lot of
replacing. A complete tuneup was needed. I DID NOT want to break down in the
middle of the country with everything I owned. Well it ran better and was solid
with the recent front end work I got done on it.
The New Mexico getaway psyched me for being on the road
again and this time, to another new place. I took the trip with Steve who was
the one who was responsible for me moving out of Connecticut in the first
place. I stayed at his place when I first moved out there and my two room mates
joining me later in the month.
I hadn’t seen much of Steve the last two years because of
his chaotic marital situation. We played in bands together back in Wethersfield
and wrote songs together. We made up some pretty complicated jazz rock fusion
progressive music. At the White Sands National Monument we let our imaginations
run free and pretended to be filming different movies from that location.
After that weekend I was ready and resolute. Chance of
snow at 5500 to 7000 feet where much of the road lay. Once I got to Amarillo
there would be plenty of places to gas up and gobble down.
The sixth trial was of course another surprise. The
girlfriend was going to stay behind and leave on the 27th and fly to
meet her brother in Chicago. Well on April 5th, which was 10 days
after we’d given our notice, we suddenly had to move by the 11th. She couldn’t
wait to bring in the new people even though she originally liked our plan which
gave her time to screen a lot of people. Mrs. Kingston said there were 125
people that applied for the job that we got and we thought it would take a
while.
We had to super pack since I was going to leave between
the 12 and 16th as per the plan and casually pack. Luckily I scored
six ounces. So the girlfriend scrambled staying mostly with Cheryl who was Jeff
the bosses wife. The last picture of me in Tucson is with my arm around Cheryl
standing by the black van. I set sail from there at 4 in the afternoon and
drove the 18 hours to Amarillo without sleeping.
Our packing was rushed and so were our farewells. The
40 acre ranch we were caretakers of was
a great place for friends to hang out. Nearby looming in the eastern sky was
8400 foot Mt. Rincon. The Catalinas, topping out at 9200 feet were due north.
The pool was like 40 feet long and 8 foot deep and many enjoyed the scene.
People would visit with their pet tarantulas among other memorable people.
Pregnant friends relaxing in the pool because it made their joyous burden less
heavy to carry.
I was leaving a career in electrical construction and
leaving a very desirable living situation. These moves have to be made and I
lost out, took one for the team. Actually electrician work was boring and the
Kingstons and us had had enough of each other. Like pruning back a rose to
watch it grow. we made the break from the comfort zone.
I patted and hugged Sally and Sammy, our most wonderful
dogs. We would miss each other. The long hikes in the foothills of the Rincon
Mountains. The time we were in a small canyon and coyotes were on both cliffs.
I had a beating stick and Sammy regularly chased coyotes out of the yard. The
times the Javelinas tried to dig under the stone wall to get at the dog food.
Sammy was more wary of the wild pigs. You know you stand there and all you can
say was “bye you guys”.
The Kingstons took pictures of us and the heavily weighted
down Ford Van and we said good bye. No tears or regrets we would spend the
night at the Holiday Inn about 8 miles away. It was hot enough at 85 degrees
and the black van attracted the sunny heat. The van swayed as it picked up
speed going down Broadway, I was completely over loaded.
The starting mileage was 160,353. It was hot enough with
a reminder of the summer to come at 85 degrees. It had yet to hit 90 that spring but it was hot in that van when
the 7th trial reared its ugly head. As I approached the intersection
of Pantano and Broadway and the…..van……..died! Holy fuck, it wouldn’t start for
anything. I know the battery is good so what was wrong. We were now officially
homeless waifs all our belonging stuffed into one vehicle.. A dead vehicle.
Luckily I had AAA road service and the driver dude discovered a thin wire that
had worked itself loose. Phew!!
At the motel I was still organizing the truck that night
and the next morning. The girlfriend would stay at our friends home and they helped prepare my launch. I had fixed
heater hoses, ignition switch, gotten gas shocks and new tires all in the last
week. I only had one more thing on my list to get and that was a couple of
flares because of the desolate area I was going to drive through.
>>>>STATE OF THE
INTERSTATE<<<<
I WAS TRAVELLING ON Grant road to catch I-10 from there.
Too many things on my mind and I drove right past Checker Auto Parts. I cursed because I couldn’t just turn
around. Tucson has a No Crossing Rule between 4:00 to 6:00 and I drove down a
bunch of back roads to get back to Grant. Grant Rd. goes under I-10 and goes
further west of town.
Five o’clock and I was finally getting on the Interstate
after going to get flares then getting caught in a traffic jam. I inched my way
up, then finally I was on the entrance ramp with its smooth concrete sides.
Vehicular conveyance merges brain unit relaxes and I am plugged into the
Interstate Zone.. Happily I thrust my elbow out the window as the warm day
began to cool off. I drove by the power company and I drove by the new IBM
headquarters and was soon on the quiet stretch of highway to Vail Arizona.
On my journey to Arizona on August 18-25 1978, my
favorite cat of all time, Mary Lou, accompanied me on the trip. She made the
journey enjoyable and the memories golden. She died in a coyote attack living
free as she wanted but now I am missing her a lot. As the Catalina Mountains
faded in the distance that April 12th 1984, I reminisced. I would
look at a spot on Mt Rincon and say a prayer to her and now I was passing that
spot but closer than usual from the southern angle.
I always hoped she could hear my messages, so I
concentrated them in one spot to give me better odds. Losing her to the desert
ways was one of the saddest days in my life because we interacted so much we
were really close friends.. I looked at the spot one last time and yelled out,
“Come on Mary Lou, let’s go. Let’s get back to New England, you can be my
travelling companion again on these lonely interstates. I’m leaving Tucson,
let’s go.
Sixty miles later I pulled into Willcox. One last fuel
stop before the long empty ride to Las
Cruces. One thing I was looking forward to doing was keeping track of the gas
mileage. It has to be wild estimates at first till more mileage data rolls in.
At the 250 mile mark I took my first estimate. Which was 15.5 MPG. I had a tape recorder to play cassettes to
relieve boredom but also was recoding my own tape of the journey.
Just as I was talking into the tape recorder about 15 and
a half MPG I went under a bridge that said 15’6”. Just one of those good luck
coincidences I told myself. I’m getting
ahead of myself here. I went by Bowie Arizona and then San Simon then Lordsburg
New Mexico. After that came the most desolate 125 mile stretch of road you ever
want to see. For you New Englanders that would be like driving from Danbury
Connecticut to Cape Cod without seeing any people. Well…except for Deming New
Mexico which couldn’t be seen from the highway but the signs assured us it was
there.
No phones no services and truckers and travelers knew
they would get gas somewhere, but Deming was in the muddle of nowhere. A nearly
full moon rose and its luminescence lit up my dashboard and I could see the
things I needed to keep me entertained. There’s boredom and a disease called
white line fever. I paced myself, a little music then I’d turn that off and
have some snacks. I saw some deer and this truck with 10,000 lights on it
coming towards me and flashed his killer beams before and after he passed me.
Then I would smoke something and then check my thermos.
Coffee was still hot and it was good. Some time later and 313 miles into the
trip I came up on Las Cruces. I filled up my thermos at the McDonalds in
Willcox and stretched. Four pumps outside a food oriented 24 hour fast food
place. I got back on the highway and started the revolving stimuli again. A
little of this a little of that.
Now I have put in 34.1 gallons and that is divided into
313 miles or about 9 MPG. I can estimate safely that I will get 250 miles from
this tank which would bring me to 563 miles or about 19 MPG. Three or four cops
drove by slowly because you know….black van.
Don’t need to get arrested either
with 6 Units.
I was glad to be back on the highway and I was one alert
dude with my mission fully actualized.
No clouds and a nearly full moon was traversing the sky at about 1 P.M.
The I got to Alamogordo and stopped to top off the tank for the ride through
the mountains. A couple of guys yelled out some indecipherable comment. You can
bet I didn’t blithely give the finger. You don’t fuck around like that when
you’re traveling by yourself. Just like the way you don’t drive 50 MPH in a
30MPH zone in these small western towns. Even after driving for an hour at 80 you
obeyed speed limits because small town cops don’t got much to do but pull over
tourists and travelers.
Let’s leave the details behind and get rolling
here.. The second phase of this leg of
the trip. I’d be over 6,000 feet in elevation for over 75 miles and a storm
could pop up anytime though unlikely in that arid climate.. It seemed very cold
when I stopped to pee. Probably 25 to 35 degrees. But I saw 6 deer hopping
across the road. This highway was nicely surfaced but there were no towns or cars or trucks or
people.
My thermos had broken so I had two giant 85 cent coffees.
One I drank right away and one I insulated with a towel and it was still hot
two hours later. The night was clear and
I was very awake considering it was 3 in the morning. Everything was going okay but I could
completely trust the ten year old, 160,ooo mile veteran of the party wars.
Could I stay awake? I was on the way to Portales New
Mexico. 590 miles into the trip and 46 gallons purchased. It was about 5 in the
morning and you know you get a little tired and sleepy. You tell yourself you
won’t accidently fall asleep and hit a bridge but you never know. I was closing
in on a new time zone and calculated I was averaging 47 MPH even with the
brakes and the overloaded truck I didn’t dare drive over 60.
At 6:00 I jumped ahead an hour and was being kept awake
by a beautiful sunrise. Slowly, the sunrise took an hour and a half before the
sun came over the mountain. Then it stayed real low at the bottom of the sky
for an hour. No clouds but this mysterious weak sunrise managed to make me feel like I had just woken
up and a new day was upon us.
A time and temperature clock in Portales said 36 degrees
at 7:32. And then I got back on 70 with only 125 miles to get to Amarillo.
Lost in Texas green, cold,
corn, lotta silos. Zone 7 grass
is up. The ride from Lariet to Bovina was gorgeous reminding me to take a trip
someday on the back roads like I did on other trips Farm roads 3333 and 1731
which I took are basically lush Midwestern farm roads. Active fertile pump
engines running for the 300 foot irrigation devices the only trees are the ones
near houses.
All kinds of machinery many water tanks fields turned
over ready for planting. Warm looking brown dirt. Tractors plows and pick ups.
All new all vital all outdoors unlike the south and north this flat Midwestern
area has only 10 to 20 inches of rain a year. Machines left outdoors won’t rust
as readily though
Canyon Texas headed for Amarillo. 721 miles into the trip
15 hours later. Seeing the sun rise woke me up all over again. Not tired just a
little spaced out. Rt 60 ended and I got on Interstate 27. It was one of the
most absolutely beautiful exits I’ve ever seen. Masters of motion. A 270 degree
turn so graceful it puts connecticuts exits in a clearly inferior category.A
marvel of engineering. Sweeping and guiding me with no defects. Purple flowers
on the side of the road.
In Amarillo I searched for a pizza place, I had a desire
for pizza. An insatiable desire. No luck at 1030 they were all closed. I ate at
Wendys and got back on the highway. 50 miles outside Amarillo I finally took a
nap. I went 805 miles in 18 hours at 44 MPH. A half ton van with ¾ ton of shit.
Mostly my musical equipment. I rarely went over 55.
A three hour stop in Amarillo. Till this point I don’t
recall seeing any roadside pullovers. At 300 I was on the road again. At 430 I
called Sherry and she was surprised I was in Ol;ahoma. After 26 hours on the
road with 2 hours of sleep I began getting tired again. And since I was in safe
pullover country I took a 3 hour stop outside of Oklahoma City.
There was a knock on the wndow. I didn’t feel threatened
with so much life and activity nearby so I rolled down the window. Two youg
dudes They needed a hanger, they locked themselves out of their car. Two Okies they were also ‘riggers’. They
worked on an oil rig. They drove three hours to work and three hours back. It
was a job.
On through Oklahoma and Missouri. Full tank of gas in
Joplin and 1200 miles into the trip. Some reflections half way through the
trip. Where else n this world can you travel 2700 miles unfettered and
unmolested on safe fast dry roads? Places to pull over to tighten the straps of
the two bicycles on the back check tire pressure stretch and all that? No hairy
eyeballs from KGB spies or Libyan terrorist police. How are the roads in China,
impassable during rainy periods. People in Moscow need a permit to travel
outside the city.
I hate plastic but these countries still wrap their food
in paper. Cheap toxic ink spotting your leg of lamb or hunk of beef. Give me
the USA anytime.Where is your Arizona passport comrade?
I ate ¼ pounder and grapefruit juice. Las Cruces—ham and
cheese. Shaklee energy bars throughoutAmarillo bacon cheeseburger Okla pecan
maple candies and Stuckeys coffee (yuck). Unlike Europes inconsistent food and
South Americas bug ridden fare Americas corporate feeding is an advantage for
travelers. Did need some Tums however. Throat burn with all that coffee,
Stuckeys candy and sesame chips.
Too many trucks going by and they blow me around. I weave
in all kinda directions when they roar by. Always something to see or think
about. I’m reminded of the trip to Tucson. Totally joyful and totally awesome.
I love this country.
Headed to St. Louis with a full tank of gas. 5:00
Wednesday the 11th of April. Friday afternoon. Rolling down the
interstate I was thinking about Oklahoma. Red dirt red and green from early
spring grass. The barns and farms were bigger and older than the ones in Texas.
Oklahomas rivers erwe as big as Missouris streams. Many billboards in Missouri like darlenes
antiques and needlecraft, insuranc, advertising doesn’t cost it pays says the
empty one. Roads are quick and steep.
Three shits in two days. No problems with THAT. Ah yes St
louis. Stopped at the information bureau. Noted food spots so I didn’t drive
two hours looking for one. Closest call for smoking came shortly before St.
Louis. I was pulling on a number and around the corner a cop had someone pulled
over. As I drove by he was just getting back on the highway and so I
extinguished the stick and slowed down. He was going agonizingly slow behind me
6 miles at 52 MPH. Keep in mind I had 6 ounces in one of my suitcases and
driving I noted the gas was $1.05 on the average. Many caves, caverns and
historic side. I can see where a person would be proud of their state and at
the very end was the Mississippi River.
The big muddy. Big big. Standing next to it was like
looking at a lake. Slate blue, serge blue? Blue brown yellow? Metallic light
blue lack. Hard to describe the color and I pulled over and noted many black
people fishing. I clambered out of the van to stretch my road weary body. With
an eye on the truck I jogged along the river to get fresh air in my lungs. I
drove around Bellefontaine and found a Steak and Shake.
I was about needing a dose of vegetables and got a big
salad and read the Time magazine I had brought with me. Shortly before dinner arrived I noticed
people gathering around a dead guy in the street. Too many bacon cheeseburgers
I suppose.
THIS IS NOT FINISHED WHERE IS THE REST OF IT?????
12-2
“ENVIROMENTAL LEGISLATION
DESTROYED MY FIRST
CAREER”
The
paperboy of yesteryear was a wonderous option for boys in the 60's. Girls broke
in during the seventies. It was a skill building, freedom loving occupation;
with the obvious benefits that came from learning about small business
at a young age. If you were never a paperboy, there was also a social
component involved with this job that was critically important.
When I had to go collecting for the weekly bill, I went to nearly everybody’s
house, exchanging pleasantries then enjoying talking with the many different
kinds of people and listening to what they had to say and always adding in my
youthful two cents. Now it’s funny to look back and realize I had my own small
business with 40 customers such a long time ago, one of the last of the door-to-door
peddlers.
By
1971, I was 17 years old and getting many questions; derisive questions from my
peers wondering when I would get a real job. You see, being a 17-year-old
paperboy was so uncool to them, just arrived from the misery of South Hartford.
The minimum wage back then was $1.25 an hour and when I got the second paper
route in tenth grade, I made 40 dollars in about 13 hours a week. Over three
dollars an hour! It would be like making 16 dollars an hour today, in 10th grade!
I thought I had it going on, because work and school were over at 3:10, and
when that school bell rang; I was free! “Tell me when you’re making forty
dollars a week” I told my peers, “From your real job.” They spent 20 hours a
week in the hot Connecticut sun, working shade tobacco, to make 22 dollars.
I
spent three hours of the thirteen total collecting what was due, but that
turned into 6 hours a week, with all the diversions and wanderings I pursued,
but fun didn't count as work hours. I was a young teen running loose in
the morning and in the dark delivering papers. On Friday and Saturday evening
I didn’t have to account for any of my time with my parents. Nice to be
trusted. Now it’s like, “why were you at the store so long?”
Eventually,
I did get curious to see what a “real job” was like. You know, a first step
towards that corner office. Remember my work was done by 7 in the morning. So I
had time to be a “soda jerk” at Dougherty Drugs after school. I only made 20
dollars a week there, in about 16 hours from 4 to 8, 4 days a week. Who needed
that, not even half of what I made as a paperboy? I’m glad I didn’t give
up my
morning job.
Back
even further to 1965 when I was 11, my very first paper route was for the
afternoon paper. Back in those days there was a competition in all the cities
between the morning and afternoon paper and the paperboys were active selling
the product, and there was no advertising needed. My parents approved of this
activity, and thought if this worked out, I could start my own college fund. I just
wanted to make ten dollars a week and ended up having more fun than I expected.
Back in those days, banks gave between 5 and 6% interest. Today most “banks”
don’t deal with savings accounts that are small, and they get away with the
legal corruption of eliminating many savings accounts for young people. They did
this by instituting the "Inactive Account" scam throughout the
nineties.
People thought they had put aside 400 dollars, for instance, for a newborn
child’s future, only to go back 10 years later to see that there was nothing
left in the account! Inactivity fees. Today, banks never pay more than 1%
interest in savings, stifling the teen entrepreneur at the very least. In fact,
if you do not have a minimum of $400 in the account these days, there is a
penalty.
In the old days, you could put money in the bank and every quarter you would
check how much interest accrued, so my mother set aside 8 dollars every week to
go in the bank and I kept the rest. I got a few new customers and got my income
up to 11 or 12 dollars a week which gave me some jingle jangle in my pocket. I
had 3 dollars a week to spend as I chose from the time I was 11 onwards and 7
dollars a week by the time I was 16. Usually for bicycle parts or sports
equipment that wasn’t available in the paperboy contests, but I can say I’ve
been buying my own shit since then.
My bundle of papers was dropped off at the apartments where half of the
customers were with the Hartford Times route. Sure enough, I was up and down
those elevators thousands of times. Friends seemed to like to help
deliver the papers if they got to mess around with the elevator. "Dude,
that's the last time" I'd tell them as the elevator opened up to a
generally friendly old person. "How are you fellas doing
today?" “Great Sir, we forgot a paper on the third floor and we’re going
back. Rodney Kolodny here (pointing to a friend) still doesn’t know how to
operate an elevator.”
I had
businesses on the Silas Deane Highway; along with a couple remaining residences
on the Silas Deane that refused to sell to developers. Customers included the
gas station at the light, Western Auto (where I got tires, spokes, and ball
bearings) and a wide variety of other customers. A place called Carlin Inc. had
the WORLDS MOST PERFECT BIKE JUMP.
I had a stretch of customers down the other side of the light including a hardware store. Burger Chef, the first fast food
to arrive in Wethersfield, was where I would give 25 cents now and then to the
teen age panhandlers Tony and Tommy. Every day I cruised through
the Carlin INC. loading dock, setting up for the jump. I only had to fall once
at the beginning, to be much more careful.
Back
when we could have unsupervised rough play.
Then I'd drive over the tracks and over to Mill St. A wooded
swampy area with some very dilapidated housing. They were very poor
families, much like you’d see in Appalachia; people that still had outhouses.
One generation removed from potato sack clothes, they were former mill workers
and it was a stark atmosphere that was hard to forget. The mill had been closed
more than ten years and these families were impoverished by the paltry pay from
the predatory capitalist fat cats, no doubt, and became desperate minimum wage
workers.
The Mill Street Appalachia was demolished a
year or two later and there was a rumor something different was coming to that
site. Something we’d never seen before. During the summer of ‘66 I was 12 and
decided I couldn’t go another school year working the afternoon paper and miss
all those baseball and football games after school. I made the phone call to
sign up with the morning newspaper, The Hartford Courant, which was established
in 1764. Their motto was and still is, “Older than the nation, newer than the
news.”
Two weeks later came the phone call; route #406 was available, was I
interested? “Yeh!” Dude named Gorski was giving up his route, being 14, a
big kid who was going to get a “real job” working tobacco. In Connecticut we
know about “working tobacco”. Shade grown for cigar wrappers, it was hot
and horrible work, but what a pile of cash at the end of the week and 14-year-olds
were allowed to work it though you had to be 16 for the full-time work. 50
dollars! In one week! All you had to do was resign yourself to exhaustion,
sunburn and summer fun only on the weekends.
Gorski told me about the customers he liked on the route and made sure I
treated them right and they WERE great people. I went with him for three mornings
and that was it. He passed on the collection book and told me I’d make 14 a
week from it. This route was in historic Old Wethersfield and I did make 14 a
week and built it up a little bit to 16, and then something big happened at the
former Appalachia site.
Eventually, there were sixteen buildings and 64 living units on the site. What
a bonanza, so many potential customers in such a small area. I could drop five
papers in a minute. Mill St. Appalachia gave way to something I’d never seen
before. It looked like the Jordan Lane Nursing Home, but everyone grew to
love it despite its bricky nothingness for architecture. These homes were
called “condos”. Condominiums.
I
had been like any other fierce, territorial CEO. As they were being built, I
hovered around them territorially while letting Izard and Joe, the two closest
paperboys, that this uncharted Hartford Courant territory was mine, because,
after all, I had customers on both side of the project. Permanent residents I
once had on the Hartford Times afternoon paper route that I strategically converted
to the morning paper, the Hartford Courant.
So,
Gorski went off to work tobacco in the blazing sun and humid summer heat. 50
bucks! 44 after taxes… he had big dreams. For the full
timers. Under 16 was limited to 25 hours a week. Saving up his pennies
saving up his dimes to buy him a 409.
The Hartford Courant had good contests for getting new customers, and I often
won basketballs and gloves and bats and newfangled collecting books. With these
condos; I got enough new customers to qualify for numerous day trips to New
York City. In the winter, the Courant took us to a ski lodge in Massachusetts
and when I had gotten enough new customer points; there were the three-day
trips to D.C. or Cape Cod.
When things go well and sales are up, everybody prospers.
Customers were all pretty nice, and everyone had their own little gig to talk
about, and it was fun getting a peek into other people’s lives, and there were
lots of people to talk about the issues of the day.
“We buy our milk from the store now," I remember people telling me things
like this as we were transitioning into the modern age. The local dairies began
having trouble competing with the avaricious new dairy corporations bent on
excessive profits and converting the family farm into the factory farm.
“The fruit peddler used to stop here," was another comment I
remember. He had a rolling fruit stand, and when I was about 12 He had
10 or 15 customers on our street and I would wave to him, though he was a
grumpy sort. He’d about had enough of punk ass kids. A couple years
previous he even had a horse that pulled his cart, for real, with
horse poop (road apples) in the road and everything. Nobody cared; you went
around road apples in those days. Today you sue the horses’ owner.
Business was bad since
the A&P opened up in 1964 and by 1970 he was gone. Mrs. Gangi, who was
handicapped, was his last steady customer and one or two others. A & P
became the place to shop. Then Popular Market in 67 across the other side
of the Silas Deane Highway opened up and all the small stores in town be
closing down.
Now instead of fresh market produce and
locally sourced goods, we would all drive to the store instead of walking to
the corner store or common market.
Two small business institutions I saw fade away in my youth; the milkman and
the fruitman, and eventually the paperboy also disappeared.
But I
was thriving by 1969, making about 20 to 24 dollars a week and I think my
mother was making me save a minimum of 16 dollars per week at this point. She’d
show me the passbook now and then. Astonishing, approaching 2,000 dollars when
I was 15! The 5.5% interest helped the savings build faster. In this world of
2022, you need to save thousands of dollars in long term notes, to barely get
1%. Did I hear someone say ‘pit of
vipers?’
What then of the milkman and fruit peddler now? Our local dairy
was probably 8 miles away in Rocky Hill. Every 20 miles or so, there was a
dairy, I’m sure. Locally grown eggs and milk from cows you could wave to as you
drove by. "John-get your head back in the car!" “Hi Cows!”
One of
my jobs was leaving out the milk bottles to be picked up; then bringing in what
the milkman left, since I was the first one to wake up in the morning. Looking
back, what was the greatest generation thinking when they let progress trample
over this and other old fashioned but useful traditions? Predatory capitalism
has torn apart the social fabric with the greatest generation as willing dupes.
The small market economy was crushed as Boomers languidly tried to halt the
corporatization of America.
How old are our eggs now and how far have they traveled? What
chemicals have been applied to feed? How crowded are conditions with the
chickens? Our modern food production kept food prices artificially low, but at
what social and moral cost? Too
much lost…landmarks, wetlands, ancient forests, and the fine network of small
brooks and streams were compromised or destroyed as the greatest generation
ravaged resources such as Southern Forests for cheap homes in the fifties and
sixties, and the Atlantic Ocean for fish on Friday.
That white Cadillac, so many aspired to, symbolized purity and wealth and the
façade of prosperity. Corporations tore apart the family farm and the
self-sufficient homestead during the alleged post war prosperity. Much of what
makes a community tighter was destroyed by the Greatest “can’t do anything
about it” Generation. “Can’t stop progress” the cathode ray instructed them.
Where are the paperboys now? I don’t think I’ve seen a real paperboy for 20
years. What a great way for children to learn about profits, and loss,
productivity, and efficiency along with customer relations. Something has most
definitely been lost. Now our pollution spewing death wagons are used in paper
delivery. I could always throw a newspaper within two feet of the door. No one
wants to get dressed to go get their paper at the end of the driveway like we
do today. The death wagons spew carbon monoxide in the early morning
stillness. Some customers demanded I put the paper inside the screen
door, and usually these people tipped pretty well.
I was deadly accurate, even at 15 MPH on the bike, so my customers opened the
door just a crack to get their news instead of walking down to the street in
their jammies. A lot of youngsters like me had an income and my money
circulated through the economy via Western Auto and Mad Magazine and Nestles
chocolate, while saving 4,000 dollars by my senior year in 1972. Take
that … real job.
Before being a paperboy. I
had my first career picking up soda bottles. It was 1964 and littering had
gotten out of control. People thought nothing of just throwing out garbage of
any sort as they drove, the Greatest Generation, right? The privileged 'we
defeated Hitler' generation. Unbelievable now to think how our roadsides used
to look like garbage at the dump. Most frequently littered were soda bottles.
Some were worth 2 cents, bigger ones were 5 cents.... America was discovering
soda in a big way and we brought in bottles frequently.
Business got really slow in
’65 because of the littering laws that were being passed and ironically; environmental
legislation drove me out of my first business. It was worth it though;
a new consciousness was arriving, questioning the strictures of the Old
Society. The Greatest Generation felt they deserved anything they could
get, and the resources of this country and planet was theirs to use: seven
generations worth of consumption in one. Consume they did and dumps became
landfills.
One day, to make some
money, me n' Richie got the notion of picking blackberries and selling
them to the produce manager at Popular Market. With a spaghetti saucepot half
filled with berries, we walked into the store figuring we could possibly make
75 cents. It would be like finding more than 20 bottles, all at
once.
The produce manager looked at our fruit and for perhaps for a second, a bemused
smile crept over his face as he thought about tasty local fruit…………………..but
then he looked at our crud encrusted fingernails and said, “I appreciate this
fellas……….but uh, I'd need to see a business license.” What hath the
corporate world wrought?
*****************
-12-3-FROM 1973
non
existent career ends
Today, I feel like
recalling and recording my "musical career"
I
must have been 19 when I wrote this and couldn't admit my chops were not good
enough for steady playing in a metal band.
Just never quite fast enough either. This never discusses the Fusion
years with Frank Marzano or Gigolos Dream with Steve Merski or the Robot City
Years in the 80's with Bernie and Cliff.
Haven't been in a band in 30 years though and I am going to put
something together with the songs I like to play.
Back
to 73. “My Musical Career" is now
nearly over and I am transposing hand written things to computer document. This
is that old. 1973. The best year of all time for music and I was ready to give
up. So fascinating to find something like this untouched for 40 years. Me just
pack ratting it so now I can feel free once it is in a document and on a
physical copy.
hERE
is the remainder of the story.
Today, I feel like recalling and recording my "musical
career". The reason is because this is the end of it. I don't regret the
fact of course. It enriched my life at many different points.
I'll never play an instrument again, unless tinkering around, or
if one last project comes up such as playing with Anne Austin in the
studio. That will be the end of playing
music as far as I can see.
Music first entered my life when I was around 8 years old. Of
course there was music before that, but when I was 8 music had its first
impact. Me and Richie Casasanta got to be really good friends and he and I were
walking down his driveway when a song blasted out the small kitchen window. The
song was the one by that Austrailian guy in 1962 about tie me kangaroo down. I
thought that was the funniest thing I had every heard.
"Tan me hide when I'm dead Fred. Tan me hide when I'm
dead." Richie asked what radio station we listened to at home. It was
WTIC and they were determinably Squaresville.
IN 1962 there was a rivalry
between WDRC and WPOP as they converted to pop rock formats. He told me to
listen to WDRC and I did and I liked it.
What was popular then? The Shirelles, The Orlons, The Martian
Hop. The Twist wwas dying, surf music being born with The Beach Boys
popularity. Sugar Shack by Jimmy Gilmer was metal to me with my 8 year old
ears. Dat bass. The Four Seasons had a big year in 1963 and they spoke for a
lot of us.. Puppy Love by the Essex had come and gone as we tried to define
real love.
Then the Beatles got into everyones life. What was my personal
reaction to the Beatles? It was November and I want to hold your hand was out
and I had bought it without my parents permission or they bought it at Kinbgs
or Topps or something. I like the Beatles in a less frantic way than most
people did with the much discussed hysteria. Beatlemania.
I remember when I saw them on television in February and was
then awe-struck. They were just boppin' around but I was awe-struck. Clearly
there was an energy here to contend with.
I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND b/w I SAW HER STANDING THERE WAS THE
FIRST RECORD I EVER BOUGHT. We had a 4 string Tenor Guitar. I tried playing
along with I want to hold your hand and that was my first instrument. Then came
an unsuccessful attempt at the BaSS vIOLIN. I couldn't press down the big fat
strings good enough. He was testing to see if I had some musical talent because
playing bass was always his second job.
Then my dad tried me with the harmonica and maracas which were
some other instruments he had. The
harmonica was fun because it always made noise and sometimes what sounded like
music.
Throughout sixth grade, me and Rich and Lavallee and some other
people wanted to start a group. We
figured we could all take up an instrument and start a band. How hard could it
be to play the drums? We had fun thinking about how famous we could be. It was
nice to have imagination.
We made up names for the group. The Fleetfoots since we was all
good runners, an adaption of a band name known as the Fleetwoods. Then on my 12th birthday I got a 40 dollar
Kay guitar. Every year I would learn a little from the Mel Bay books but I only
learned to read a few notes. That was it.
Finally
when I was 16, I started again in earnest. MTAG was making movies and we had finished
"The Snorff" at that time. We
filmed it at Wakefields house since we needed The Snorff to jump out of an oven
and run out of the front door. Our parents would think we were too crazy, but
Peter Thorsells older friend had a house .
I was interested in the amp they had there. 20 bucks. Practically new!
It cost 40. It looked to me then. That nice sky blue that I also chose for my
bass amp. I remember distinctly that I learned my first chord (C) in June.
It was the
summer of 1970 and Maury and Ayers created a group and wanted Steve Merski on
bass. He had never played before, except piano. He was really bad, but then
there is Maury McCarhy who had his unique version of bad. They recruited Rich Carling to be the drummer,
and off they went. Steve always told me
not to learn chords but just play lead like Maury, all lead.
By that
time I knew 25 chords or so near the end of the year. Then I started going out
with Anne Austin who was an influential person in my life. A fun naughty
girlfriend, she was good enough on some blues guitar. It was a musical
adventure playing songs out in the back yard, both of us plugged into a
completely inadequate amp. Gary Smith
got us a drummer named Mark Privetera, who died young at age 40.
Anne and I
played with Drew Kendrick who had learned a few things but was in a lower level
like us. Sometimes we had Steve to play bass because he started making sense of
it. He had a lean rockers stance and this was important in Maurys band.
The party
was fairly big, Ralph Arenas 18th birthday at Marks house. Got some pictures I
should scan. We were beginners; we shouldn't have played a party. We did
alright considering and Bob Geiser helped us out with his mature style of
playing on a couple songs. I remember Marks mom loved the song Sunrise , Sunset
so we played it 3 times.
Bob Geiser
was in Freedom Train at the time and we were offered a chance to play
Incarnation Church which meant a certain level of expertise was sexpected. We
didn't have it. I objected and so did
Steve, Anne and Dippo thought we were ready and we weren't.
We kept
arguing about this issue and soon our practices started sounding worse than
better. We kind of made Anne quit and then Steve went to play exclusively with
Maury. Suddenly me and Dippo were alone and Gary Smith got us to play with Jeff
Gedutis and that worked out fairly badly.
I just wasn't that good and had a good rhythm but sloppy and slow.
As the summer of 71 came along Bob Geiser jammed with us when he
was available. We played at Dippos sisters party at his house with Tony
Deliscio. There was a Three Arts
Festival I was heavily involved in. The sabotage night I think. Greg Hall and
now Larry Tamiso. He ended up taking my gal, Donna Franklin, who was dismayed at my ignorance of relationships. Then came Ralphs 18th birthday Party. That
was kind of big and was a really great show with pictures.
So Dippo,
Larry and various guest guitarists, like the albino, dude would play in my back
yard or meet us at Marks house. When I strted 12th grade in September I became
better friends with Steve Merski and I joined the band with Maury Rich and
Steve. We played New Years Eve at A
PARTY AT Rich's house. When we practiced beforehand I remember Trying to learn
Funk #49 by the James Gang. Fitz was friends with Rich the drummer and had
started practicing guitar and had a knack for funky rhythm guitar.
In
February, there was the historic Battle of the Bands where we played as Dr.
West's Delight. We smashed a dummy amp,
I broke a crappy old guitar and we threw Yodels and squirted shaving cream.
Some of the greatest mayhem I was ever involved in.
We almost
broke the good PA system we borrowed while we screamed and fell in the audience. We wore suits
(before anybody in metal) and had prominent carnations thanks to Rich Carling
stepmom Mrs. Morton as she sent us off to the show. "You sure you don't
want another brownie?"
"Thanks
Mrs. Morton, no one knows how metal I am with my short hair and Poindexter
glasses but I am ready for the show." By April we had muscled Maury out of
the group. Seriously what fucking planet did he live on? His guitar playing
never sounds good except in that freaky space music way of Sun Ra or someone
from another planet.
We played a
bit with Dave Jacques but that didn't work out.
Fitz had practiced a lot while he was away at school and joined up with
us in late May. It was a fun summer of playing. I had graduated. The drinking
age was lowered to 18 and the song by Alice Cooper "18" was a big hit
early in the year. The draft for war ended the year before so I was clear for
takeoff.
As I said it was a fun summer and we practiced a lot
with Fitz but he became a senior and Steve was a senior at Wethersfield High. I
had college at 4:00. Rich did get us a job at High Meadow for 120 bucks, I
think, in October. We had become an extended family of musicians. Bruce Gorman
(Dusty Roads) was always in on a jam or a gig. Pete Thorsell lived nearby when
I lived in the barn with Bruce a couple of weekends. Later in the spring I lived in Steves Merski
barn on and off.
When I
wrote this it was 1973 and I wrote something about Plaut and Maury and Steve.
Then a group with Pete Ed? And Bruce. I
was feeling like groups didn't seem to work and maybe I was wasting my time. I
had another burst of reading and research as I took jazz lessons for guitar and
went back to the guitar but switched back to bass in a year or so.
But with
this document I found that I was describing how I was done with it all. Except
if I do something with Anne Austin.
Maybe when I'm 30 or something I'll pick up the piano but never another
guitar.
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