Deadly on the Breeze

With apologies to Housman 

              Deadly on the breeze the pollen now

              Blows in my face from every bough,

              Swelling eyes and nostrils wide,

              Burning them red at eventide.

 

              Of my three-score snorts and ten

              Hundreds always come again

              To make my coughing twenty score

              And give me fifty sneezes more.

 

              And so to hide from thugs in bloom

              I haunt my air-conditioned room.

              About each window I will go

              To see the spring and bear the woe.

                                                            Summer Love

“What’s your hurry, love?” she seemed to ask,

As wincing I stood wounded by her grasp.

The more I tugged, hoping to pull free,

The more she gripped my pant leg near the knee.

“I always hurt the ones I love,” she sighed.

Now I, the one, alarmed at being tied,

Reached to free her grip from off my side.

But then she clutched with lovesick might

My shoulder with a stinging bite,

And rapt with ecstasy she held me tight.

 

The more I fought the more her claws dug in.

“Let loose, Tar Babe!” I called. “I’m stuck again.”

“I’d love to hold you longer,” she replied.

But gingerly with pain I deftly pried

Away those thorny-fingered, clinching arms

And wrestling free I slipped outside her charms.

 

I left her flailing there in helpless search

Of other wayward beaus within her perch.

And looking back I saw her lurch and sway,

As if the wind might help her break away

To curse the dirt that dared to hold her bound.

And then she swung and curled herself around.

 

I watched and listened as I backed away,

And with amazement stopped to hear her say:

“As time goes by you’ll watch for blooms of white

That flourish on me almost overnight.

Oh you’ll be fondling me in warmer weather.

By then you’ll want to stick with me forever—

When suns of summer bake my beauties black

And crafts a taste so pure to bring you back,

And forms them round in almost perfect spheres,

Curing them soft with juice as autumn nears.

You’ll disregard my prickly tines of love

To mouth delicious fruit from up above.”

 

I walked awhile beyond her sound and view

And as I tramped I thought and then I knew

That I’d return into her arms again.

Ah, well I knew that this was not the end,

For lovers bear the pain they have to face

To taste the joy in some secluded place.

They suffer but give in to their desires,

And rush to know the splendor in the briers.

 

And so I’ll go again to suit my wishes,

                                    And suck my thumb in pain for dark-lipped kiss

 

Double Dating – Autumn, 1950

You know how it is on a late October day, when the morning chill makes you think you're two months into December, and makes you pull last March’s sweatshirt over your shoulders and hug yourself for warmth. But then, by early afternoon, before you have time to think about it, cosmic batteries charge the eastern floodlight, so that beams of magic radiance warm the earth, taking you back two months into August and making you chuck that sweatshirt and fling open your arms with delight.

It was one of those days that Saturday, that Saturday in 1950 when I was fourteen, so many years ago. Let me take you back to that day, that day filled with youthful bewilderment and uneasy anticipation. I promise to return you to the present, and leave you tainted only temporarily by the tender turbulence of those teenage times. It all started in our eighth grade science class. Temple Smith and I were pretty good buddies at that time, and he and I were fooling around — talking and having fun with Libby Jean Powell and Betty Fasbenner, trying to sweet-talk them, I guess, if we had the knack or even the inclination to sweet-talk at that age.

Now, wistful reader, think back to your early high school years and, whether you lived in Chesapeake City or China, think of how those adolescent yearnings were especially active, sort of in a jitterbugging frenzy throughout your body. Well, that was our condition that day as he and I bantered with those pretty girls. Anyway, it was Friday, near the end of class, and at one point during the interplay, either Libby or Betty said, "Hey, why don't you two come out to see us tomorrow? We can have more fun together away from school."

Well, we talked it up and decided that Temple and I would meet Libby and Betty at Churchtown, just past Mr. Foard's big brick general store on the corner and near the historic Saint Augustine Church, not far from where the girls lived. It was settled: we'd meet at 1 p.m. the next day, Saturday. I was to meet Temple at his Uncle Sam Caldwell’s farm, which was on the way to Churchtown. From there we’d cycle to meet the girls. I pedaled home from school that afternoon with all kinds of thoughts swirling through my mind: "Should I bother to go? Did Temple like Libby or Betty? Where would we go when we got there? What would we do, anyway? I always make fun of girls. What's going on here?"

Saturday morning I got up before dawn to hunt ducks along Long Creek, up above the Marine Construction Company (where the Delaware Responder is now at Capt. Dan’s). But my heart wasn't in it. I was turning over in my head what that double date was going to be like, and whether I was bold enough to even ride out there. So I tied off my boat at Borger’s Wharf (now the Chesapeake Inn) and trudged on home the back way: up Mount Nebo, past Mallory Toy’s fish pond, and through the woods to our farm.

I shot baskets for a while and then checked the clock and sure enough I had almost enough time to get to my double date. So I got on my bike, pedaled around McNatt's corner, and labored up that long, steep hill to Temple's farm. But I didn't pedal with much enthusiasm, sort of meandered along. I rolled into Temple's lane and up to his big farmhouse—nobody in sight. I went out to the barn—nothing but cows. I rode my bike around the house several times and made a few circles out in the road. Then I said, "Aw, what the heck!" and headed out to Churchtown.

But, when I arrived, nobody was there, not even old Mr. Foard, the owner of the general store. So I spun over by the graveyard and rode out a little towards Cayots Corner—still nobody, not even any cars went by. Why did I think I might see Libby or Betty in the distance, waving with happy excitement to see me? But it was the quietest, most deserted area I had ever seen. And so, relieved and disappointed at the same time, I sped on back home, glancing over at Temple's deserted farm on my way past.

And do you know that in school the next Monday none of us said a word about the previously planned date? It was as if that Friday conversation never took place. To this day I don't know what went on that afternoon. Could it have been that, because I was late, Temple had the company of both girls that day? Geez, I hope not! More than likely, I'll bet that Libby Jean, Betty, and Temple don't remember even the slightest thing about the planned date. I thought of my Uncle Ernest, and how he said all the beautiful girls found him irresistible, and here I was not even able to get girls to meet with me to talk. Oh, I was to have some nice double dates when I grew older, but none as memorable as the one I had with myself on that special late October Saturday in 1950.

 

Self-Restraint

I’ve been around religious folks all my life. My mother was a Methodist who attended the Trinity Methodist Church on Chesapeake City’s Bohemia Avenue. Services are still held in the beautiful church, which was constructed with stone at the end of the nineteenth century. The church has a belfry and a sexton who pulls the rope that rings the large bell, and as a boy I remember being alerted by the sound of the tolling bell on Sundays at 10 a.m. for Sunday school, and at 11a.m. for the adult service. My family lived on a small farm about a half mile from Chesapeake City. Echoing clearly across the field, the peal of the rhythmic chimes would always give me pause, stirring in me, somehow, a comforting feeling. And, sure, it tolled for me a lament on the occasional Sundays when I didn’t make it to Sunday school. On most Sundays, however, my mother took me in, making sure I wore shoes and a clean shirt.

I have a vivid memory of my first day in Sunday school; I was five years’ old. My first Sunday school teacher was impressive as well. His name was T. H. Johnston. His lesson was impressive because, even after seventy-eight years I’m still thinking, talking, and writing about its value. T.H. surely didn’t concern himself with self-restraint, because soon after I had entered the room, he wrestled me down to the floor and dragged me under the table amongst the dust bunnies. His sermon made up in physical dexterity for what it lacked in Spiritual refinement.  Yes, indeed, I learned to manipulate my jabbing elbows, knees, and feet almost as well as he did before his mother and mine broke it up. So, folks are stretching the truth when they say that a little religion won’t hurt, because I found out that it did. Even so, from that point on I understood why church going was so appealing, and that, dang gone, I was going to like it.

But that stimulating event is really not what I intended to tell you about . . . so don’t pay any attention to what I just wrote. In fact, clear it from your mind and be ready for the story I’m about to relate. Let me take you back to about the year 2005 with my friend, Walter Watson. I won’t keep you long.

I made friends with Walter after I became interested in the history of Chesapeake City and its canal. I would visit him at his home in town about once a week. He would let me copy his vintage pictures of the old town and canal. He was especially knowledgeable and articulate. He told stories about his escapades as a boy and young man. One of his reminiscences took place when he was eight years’ old. He explained that he was playing by the top, open window of Ralph Rees’ enormous granary that was built on pilings that extended into the canal. The building was located where the creamery is today (2019).

Well, Walter (he was 85 when he told me this) said that jumping and fooling around as kids will do, caused him to tumble through the open window and fall thirty feet into the canal. He fell head-first, hit the water, and submerged to the muddy bottom and got his head stuck in mud. Just his feet were sticking above the water as he struggled to free his head. Animated and shaking as he described the occurrence, he told me that, if it had not been for a worker who had seen him fall, he would have drowned.

Obviously I enjoyed my conversations with Walter very much. On every occurrence, he would work in his favorite little joke. It never failed that, as he spoke about quirky people and peculiar events from Chesapeake City’s past, at some point in my visit he would show and tell his favorite witticism. Grinning as he looked at me, he would raise his arm towards his face, with his thumb and forefinger held a half inch apart (as if to say “I missed it by this much”) he would declare, “My memory is only this long.” And, grinning, he’d deliver his zinger: “And that’s not the only thing that’s this long.” Even though I had heard the quip many, many times, I would smile and giggle acknowledgement. Then he would continue to show me pictures that would remind him of stories about the old canal and town.

At this point, patient reader, you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with self-restraint. Well, sit back and relax. Put your feet up, take a sip from your highball and brace yourself. I’m going to tell you. One Sunday, back when I had been visiting Walter frequently, my wife and I went to a service at Chesapeake City’s Trinity Methodist Church. At that time the minister happened to be a young lady. After her stimulating sermon, by chance my wife and I, the minister, and two other women were assembled in the small antechamber attached to the church proper.

Well, as we all chatted, Walter strode in and joined the conversation. We talked about the sermon and the beautiful church. Walter said that he remembered the church before the fellowship hall was built. Years ago, he explained, the lawn contained grave markers. Well, at this point my eyes got big and I steadied myself for what was to come. And, sure enough, Walter held out his hand with his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart and, loud and clear, stated, “You know, my memory is only this long.”  Then he paused as I glanced at the preacher and my wife . . . but he didn’t deliver the punch line. Instead, he nodded to us and said, “Lovely day we’re having” and stepped out the door. Impressed (and relieved), I marveled at the self-restraint it must have taken to leave his favorite, oft-uttered punch line hanging in the air – squandered.

 

Harry Alston

Back in high school in the early 1950s, in a town called Chesapeake City, we teenage boys used to watch Harry Alston perform at our Friday night dances. The school sponsored the activity after the basketball games that were held in the early evening. Harry was a local man who had recently been discharged from the service. I’d like to tell you about him, as well as some other things that happened back then.

Those evenings of music in the gym would give the older teenaged students, as well as young adults of the town, a chance to socialize. On most Friday nights, Harry Alston and Maggie, his wife to be, would dance to the great pop music emanating from the jukebox. Well, believe me, Harry and Maggie used to steal the show. Maggie would be attractively dressed in bright colors. She was resplendent with her fluffy, coiffured hair and her lips painted fire-engine red. And her partner, Harry? Why, he was the best dressed dancer on the floor. Princely thin, he was dazzling in white shirt, dark-blue tie, and stylish, powder-blue suit. And his black shoes were so finely polished that you gave them only a quick glance for fear of hurting your eyes.

But their attire was secondary compared to the way they danced. They glided gracefully around the floor. Sometimes they danced cheek-to-cheek, and sometimes Harry would sort of fling her out and they would dance apart, hand-in-hand. And all the time Harry would display a serene smile, his long, thin, sun-tanned face would radiate with delight, as if his enjoyment of the music filled him with immeasurable pleasure. 

But, now, let me tell you about how Harry Alston entertained us in quite a different way. I used to hang out with a group in the early 1950s when I was a know-it-all teenager. There would be maybe seven or eight boys standing around in front of Luther Postell’s soda shop and newsstand. We all called it Postell’s Corner, where store patrons had to filter through the cluster of boys in order to enter and exit the store. I never heard Mr. Postell complain about the nuisance; but it must have given him pause.

 In those times, in provincial Chesapeake City, there was little else for boys in our age group to do. Of course, we would do and say the standard, dumb teenage things: one of the boys would get in another boy’s face and say, “God, you’re ugly.” Then he would raise his fist as if to strike him, and if he flinched, the first boy would say, “Ahh, you flinched.” Then he would sock the flincher on the arm with enough impact to raise a lump. This was an activity that occurred fairly often whenever a group of us goofy teenage boys got together back then.

I, of course, was a participant in this idiocy, being a recipient as well as a perpetrator. Each boy contributed his special talent to the fragmented banter.  A lot of unsavory language prevailed. Certain boys were experts in scatological cursing; others had it in for the various deities. And some just listened and watched because there was nothing better to do. The chat would be varied, for sure. Girls and their relative attractiveness would be covered. The comments would deal with which girls were shy, which ones were friendly, and which ones would tell you to get lost if you talked to them. And there was usually a Romeo in the group who would brag about how popular he was with the ladies.

Another topic of conversation was professional sports. We had followed the teams on radio and later on black and white television. Since Baltimore did not have the Orioles until 1954, many of us were fans of the New York Yankees, whose Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle were heroes. In pro basketball, the Boston Celtics were powerful. We all admired Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, and big Bill Russell. And in pro football, we praised the feats of the great Johnny Unitas and Gino Marchhetti. And all of us boys who adorned Postell’s Corner at the time, discussed the abilities of the top professional boxers: Joe Lewis, the brown bomber (heavyweight), classy Sugar Ray Robinson (middleweight), and the most elusive heavyweight, Jersey Joe Walcott.

          Often the corner talk would be about souped-up cars and their owners. Oh, we looked up to the older boys who installed enormous horsepower engines in their Chevys and Fords. Local boy, Shorty Stafford, just home from the service, augmented his 1952 Chevy engine so he could race it. We talked with envy about how we wished we could tear down Route 40 at a hundred miles an hour. Yet the last time we talked (quietly) about Shorty, was just after he was killed by crashing his Chevy into a stone wall next to a Glasgow church. At this writing the damaged wall, with its dislodged, contrite fieldstones, can still be seen.

          One time, while we were all standing around on the corner, being simple as usual, a man in a shiny new Ford drove past us up George Street. As he passed he glanced over at us assembled boys. He continued on until he was about thirty feet beyond us. Then he slammed on his brakes and backed up furiously until he was just next to us. He then flung open his car door to the hinges’ limits and stared at us. At that point I recognized him as Harry Alston, the superb dancer at our Friday night events. I was amazed at the transformation of his appearance. Now, Instead of that confident expression of pleasure and serenity on his face, there glared at us a distorted one of utter anguish and contempt.

He then swaggered a few steps towards us (at this someone whispered, “Uh oh; it’s Harry again.”). Then, in a raucous voice, Harry would shout, “I can whip all of you. I can take all of you at once, or take you one at a time. And, if I beat you, I’ll thank you. And if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” We boys were all quiet standing there and kind of glancing furtively at each other. “Didn’t you all hear me,” he yelled. And, as he swayed back and forth swinging his arms, his car, with its door still swung open to its limit, started drifting backwards ever so slowly down George Street (the emergency brake must have been only partially engaged). And Harry, paying not the slightest attention to his moving car, shouted again, “All of you! I’ll trounce all of you! And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me, I’ll still thank you.”

All this time his car was creeping down towards the canal barrier where the lift bridge used to be. After a few more taunts, he would finally notice it moving and get in and jerk up the brake, with the door still gaping open. Stumbling out, he lurched back to confront us. “What’s the matter with you heroes?” he roared. “I’ll whip each one of you at a time. And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” Temple, one of the new boys in town, called sheepishly, “But I don’t know you, Bud.” To this an older boy half whispered, “You stoop. What’s wrong with you? Shut up!” Soon after that Harry called us heroes again. Then he went through his harangue once more before he slumped into his car, slammed the door and, with the emergency brake squealing, drove slowly up George Street.