Where have all the heroes gone?

It’s funny how those we admire fall.

Ok, not funny. Tragic? In some cases. Disgusting? Disappointing? All of those could describe some circumstances.

Let’s see. . .

The first hero I remember was someone I knew personally. I saw him every Sunday at church. His name was Bobby Forsyth and in my very young opinion, he was to be much admired. He was a few years older than me, though how many, I couldn’t say.

And what made him my hero?

Bobby could recite every commercial on television. Every slogan. Every jingle. He knew them all. What could be more significant, right?

Over time, over the next few years, Bobby remained the same. Ok, a little larger — both taller and wider — but still, the same.

And since I was by then exposed to more and more worldly viewpoints, compliments of my classmates and those in older classes, the word “hero” was no longer applied.

Why?

Because I learned a word, a word that described Bobby in what were considered more accurate terms: retarded.

Suddenly he wasn’t so admirable, at least not as I heard that word used by my peers. Derogatory? Um, yeah.

Bobby never really “grew up.” He was eventually institutionalized. Later I’d hear other terms: “Idiot savant.” “Autistic.” I didn’t hear those applied to Bobby, not specifically, but as I learned what those meant, as I studied cases and symptoms, I had to wonder. And I wondered if in a different time his end would have been different.

Other heroes. . .

Elvis Presley, of course. He was a simply God-fearing Southern boy who changed the world of music. Films, records, even a military career. I followed those — though not as carefully as did so many others.

But as he aged — not that he ever reached an age that would be considered “elderly” — but as he aged, he put on weight and indulged openly in his vices. Eventually, at the age of 42, he died in a pool of his own vomit.

No more hero.

John F. Kennedy? As an elementary school student, I eagerly devoured the magazine articles about our President and his family, both his wife and children and the larger Kennedy clan. His death kept us home from school and riveted to the television, watching replays and live events. It turned many of us — including a ten-year-old me — into news junkies.

But years later, I heard JFK characterized as a womanizer. I saw the fall of others in the much beloved clan.

There were more — athletes, rock stars, politicians, and those I knew in person. Heroes — created and then fallen. On top and then plunging downward.

So why am I concerned with heroes right now? Why today?

Because yesterday was the first Penn State game of the first post-Paterno season and I sat with my parents in their living room, watching, watching something so familiar and yet with eerie undertones.

No Joe Paterno. No JoePa on the field. No statue of him on campus.

Wow. Heroes do fall, don’t they?

But this leads me back to the beginning and the fall of those we admire. Is it tragic? Disgusting? Disappointing? Finding out about JFK and the slide of Elvis: disappointing. Joe Paterno? The situation surrounding him is disgusting, but was he the evil one or simply weak and trying to present himself as the strong one that everyone expected? And Bobby Forsyth? His story is more tragic than anything else.

In fact, in some ways, whenever one of our heroes falls, it’s tragic.

Why?

Because even if we stop seeing them as heroes, they still are — or were. At some point there was something that we admired in that person, something that was worth emulating, right? Does the fall make the original qualities any less?

What makes a hero? Did any of those people ask to be idolized? Or did it just happen, and then they had to live up to the image?

I don’t know the answers, don’t know what makes a hero.

But I’ve been thinking about it.

King of the Road

Today I did something a little unusual. It’s something I have an opportunity to do just about every weekday, but I don’t.

I gave $5 to a jobless guy.

I don’t know whether he’s homeless, since his sign mentions “job ended, bills didn’t.” Of course, the sign also said, “Happy Holidays,” so the situation could have changed since he first wrote it.

The man’s name is Rick and he works the Shady Grove Road medial strip at the intersection with Frederick Road, right next to the “Welcome to Gaithersburg” sign.

Besides the above messages, the sign also proclaims, “Curb Patrol: I’ll take your car trash.” I like that, since he is at least trying to work instead of simply beg.

As I said, I hardly ever give him anything.

In fact, today was the first time.

I usually have trash in the car, but I don’t always have cash (I tend not to carry any), so I ignore him as I’m stopped there but flash him a peace sign as I drive by (a trademark wave that he also uses). Today I managed to have both, so I figured I’d give it a go.

I pulled up to the traffic light, noted that I had time to complete my business with Rick, and opened my window. When he saw me dangling an old grocery bag, he sprinted over to me, saying, “Be right there, sweetheart.” He held out his garbage bag and took my trash, but seemed surprised when I handed him the money. He leaned forward and said, “I was just talking to those workmen over there. They’re putting in a new red light camera. You drive by here every day, so you be careful to stop so that you don’t get a ticket.” And he walked away.

How about that: $5 trash removal and traffic tips.

So what does this have to do with memories?

Not much.

I remember talk of hobos. That came from grandparents, possibly mentioning once upon a time when one came to a back door looking for a handout. It was still vivid in their memories, though I don’t know that it happened in my lifetime. I never saw a hobo.

I saw hobos in magazines.

And Red Skelton played one on television.

There were songs about them.

But aside from that? No.

I know that there were homeless people.

I know that there were jobless people.

But I never saw them.

Did we live in some time warp or a cocoon? Was Middletown that off the beaten track that we avoided that?

Or did I just not see it?

So long, it's been good to know you

I just checked and I haven’t posted a blog entry since July 31st. It looks as if I’m falling back into my old habits, but there really is a reason for this. You see, during July I made a commitment to write 30,000 words, using both this blog and a novel that I had started. July ended and I moved on to something else: Camp NaNoWriMo. During August I’m trying to write 50,000 words and all of that must be novel. So what I’m typing now doesn’t matter at all. Not a bit.

On the positive side (for me, since the only person who actually reads this is Lynne and I’m not sure how positively she’ll view this news), during September I plan to edit as well as sign on for “Story a Day.” Since the story project has few rules, I figure I can use my blog for the stories, sometimes using the story prompts for the day (if they happen to fit my mood and something I have to say) and sometimes just rambling as I usually do. So if all works out and the world doesn’t end, September should bring more blog entries.

End of the world. . . That reminds me that I really need to finish my day-before-the-end-of-the-world story and find somewhere to submit it. Hopefully I’ll fit that in before December.

Easily distracted lately, can you tell? I posted an ecard to Facebook yesterday that says it all:

And yes, I kept on track long enough to buy and eat ice cream yesterday. Some things keep my attention.

Anyhow, August — the month in which I will write 50,000 words and finish the book The Clockwork Heart. At the moment my total for the month stands at 9974 words. For some people that might sound impressive, an average of 907 words per day for the first eleven days this month. The problem is that I should have reached 17,741 by the end of yesterday. By the end of this day I should be at 19,354 words. That won’t happen. However, in a little while I’m heading to Panera with the goal of 4026 words, ending the day with at least 14,000. That’s at least doable — if I don’t get distracted.

However, I’m not leaving for almost an hour, so I decided it’s time to write this post that I’ve been planning for the past six days and got exactly as far as titling. Procrastinate much?

But I need to move on.

Amazing how I can write over 400 words and say absolutely nothing, isn’t it?

Ok, so back to the topic of choice for today and the past six days: saying “Good-bye.”

Those who know me know that there’s a good reason for this post: after seven weeks in the US, spent visiting me, my daughter returned to her real home, South Korea. Yes, Anjee was born in Pennsylvania, lived in Pennsylvania for most of her life. But for the past almost-six years, she has lived in Jeonju, where she teaches English. When I’m lucky, I see her once a year, though usually for an extended stay. When I’m not lucky, I can go longer without seeing her. Yes, I could go and visit her, but that requires funding that I don’t currently have. Some day. . .

Anyhow, while Anjee was here, we didn’t do anything truly exciting: four trips to Middletown, PA, seven movies. One trip to Hersheypark, a single excursion into the District, many trips to various retailers, and quite a few restaurants. It was fun, relaxing, rewarding to spend time together (at least for me). I also worked during that time, while she went to the gym, wrote her lesson plans, shopped, and watched television with Slink. We fell into a pattern of quiet evenings, busy but usually relaxing weekends, and being comfortable with each other.

Saying good-bye really sucked. Really. I try my best not to cry when my kids leave and mostly succeeded this time — at least while I was with Anjee — but even now, thinking of her leaving makes me sad. The same is true of when Albert is here, even though his stays are shorter and occasionally I manage to find my way to Florida to visit him. I miss my kids. We live separate lives, but they are still a part of me.

Of course, there are plenty of reminder of Anjee when she leaves. She’s quite a traveler and brings me gifts, gifts, gifts when she returns. She’s started me on several collections that remain within sight. The masks:

Most of those were from her, though I purchased a few on my own. The same is true of the marionettes:

There are other things as well.

And she’s left some personal items. Most notable are the shoes:

Pretty scruffy looking and soon to be removed from the living room. You see, while Anjee was here, she’d kick her shoes off in the living room before sitting on the sofa. Slink took to lounging on them. We never did figure out whether he did that because he liked them or to try to annoy her. Whatever the reason, these two pairs were worn out and she decided to leave them here.

For Slink.

Since she left, he hasn’t touched them. It’s probably time to relegate them to Anjee’s bedroom (ok, it’s my guest room, but for months each year it’s hers). I could throw them away, but if I save them she can set them out next time she’s here and save her newer footwear from cat hair and scratches.

But the shoes bring me to the topic of saying good-bye. Part of this for me is setting my apartment back to being just mine, rather than the residence of myself and my child or children. I’ve done this since they were in college, going through a ritual each time they left for their dorms or apartments or wherever. I go through the apartment (or house during those initial good-byes) and pick up bits of trash, forgotten items, empty water bottles, the toothbrush left behind. I strip the beds, wash the sheets, and say good-bye to the traces that mark their presence. There are still reminders, but those are reminder of my children and not of their residence here. Does that make sense?

This particular good-bye got me to thinking about Middletown and my parents and grandparents.

My grandparents never had to say good-bye, at least not to my parents. “Good-bye” meant that their children were traveling the three blocks or five blocks to their own homes. Vacations? For the most part they were taken jointly. Yes, there were those who went into the service and moved away for a while, but then came back. For the most part they stayed in Middletown — or maybe moved to Royalton or Highspire.

And that seems to be the case for many of those in Middletown. So many of my high school friends are still there and so are their parents. A few had moved away and then came back. But Middletown seems to be a magnet, drawing them all home.

Yes, I have relatives who no longer live in Middletown, who live in New Jersey or Tennessee or other places. And my ancestors haven’t always lived in Middletown, but for the most part that’s where they are.

And yet, I live in Maryland — as of next week will have been here for five years and before that hadn’t lived in Middletown since 1981. My kids live in Florida and South Korea.

But if I were to name my hometown, it would be Middletown.

The same is probably true of many of my high school friends, whether they still live in Middletown or not.

And yet, many of their children don’t live in Middletown, or even wherever they are. Kathy lives in Pennsylvania, but her daughter lives in California. Lynne lives in Texas, but her children are in Oregon. We’ve become scattered.

Somewhere along the line, people moved away.

Yes, there was some of that when I was growing up. Middletown was home to Olmsted Air Force Base, which meant that we had classmates whose parents were in the military. These kids usually lived at Meade Heights or Pineford Acres, the military housing sites in Middletown. And occasionally they’d leave.

I can still remember when one of our friends left. His name was Andre and he was wild: always getting into trouble. I don’t know how our teacher felt about him leaving but all of us kids knew that we’d miss him. I’m not sure whether that was because he created so much excitement or because with the focus on him, the rest of us spent less time in trouble. Whatever, we decided to let him know that we’d miss him. Not being well acquainted with good-byes, we chose to sing a song to him, one of the songs that we had learned and sang regularly in our music classes: “So Long.” I can remember standing there, all of us in Mrs. Wilson’s fifth grade class, and singing the lyrics in the required western drawl:

                          So long, it's been good to know yuh;
                          So long, it's been good to know yuh;
                          So long, it's been good to know yuh.
                          This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my home,
                          And I got to be driftin' along.

           I had to search for the words to this because I couldn’t remember the fourth line of the refrain, though I do remember the tune. The verses? I found them but they just don’t ring a bell. And something else I found about the song: it was written by Woody Guthrie. Seriously. Woody Guthrie. Of course, basically all I know about Woody Guthrie is that he wrote This Land is Your Land and that he died of Huntington’s Disease, though I probably saw him perform on one of the musical shows that I watched with my grandparents. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw a picture: I remember him as played by Joseph Boley in Alice’s Restaurant, puffing on a cigarette while dying.

Ok, back on task.

Andre’s good-bye wasn’t the first, just the first I remembered. There were many after that, and for children, we endured more than our share. You see, shortly after Andre’s departure, in 1964, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara announced that Olmsted Air Force Base would be closed. This was devastating because it meant that not just military families but also civilian defense employees started to leave the area. Some stayed, but many left in pursuit of jobs, and our classmates seemed to be leaving in droves.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it hurt.

In fact, when the closing announcement was made, Mrs. Booser, leader of church activities and Girl Scouts, mobilized all of us in our first political action: we went door-to-door one Sunday afternoon, collecting signatures on petitions, begging Mr. McNamara to spare our town and our friendships.

And we had our first taste of being turned down.

Over the years more and more people left.

And more arrived.

Comings and goings. I really think that the base closing opened us up to both. Olmsted moved out. Penn State moved in. People came. People went.

And eventually many of us left for college, more of us each year. Some of us returned, some didn’t.

Sometimes we said good-bye. Sometimes we just drifted apart.

But somewhere along the line, good-bye became a way of life.

Without rhyme or reason

          One of my monthly tasks for my current job is to decide on weekly themes for our classrooms and suggest activity ideas for the teachers to do with the children. Part of me hates doing this — at least the part about deciding on themes. I hate to be fenced in like that and don’t like to impose themes on others. However, I really like researching ideas and then seeing what types of artwork and activities the classes actually do.

Sometimes selecting the themes is easy and sometimes it’s hard. Holidays make it easy. Long summers when we’ve hit just about every hot weather topic make it hard. And it’s been a very long summer.

So for August one of the themes I’ve chosen is nursery rhymes.

Children don’t seem to know rhymes nowadays. Ok, some do, but not all. This idea is so foreign to me, the idea of children not knowing rhymes. I grew up hearing rhymes, reading rhymes, reciting rhymes.

Mother Goose. Seriously, Mother Goose was like an extra grandma. Gammy had several books of nursery rhymes — not that I didn’t have some at home and at Granny’s as well — and Friday nights were spent in reading them (when we weren’t visiting, playing pinochle, or singing along with Mitch). Of course, the prime book, the one that I probably had copies of at all three places, was the Little Golden Book.

These were cheap books, at least cheap as books went at that time. And short. Just the right length for a beginning reader to peruse on her own. Or for grandparents, parents, or aunts who were busy with other things to satisfy a request to read and not spend too much time at it.

I had other Little Golden Books as well:

And when my kids were born we continued the tradition:

That was one of their favorites, though there were books of rhymes as well.

I had other books with those nursery rhymes in them, most notably from the sets of books that came with our encyclopedia set. My parents decided that one of the best things they could do to further our education was to supply us with reference books. Yes, we had other books around (more on that some other time) and we went to the library (more on that as well), but we needed something to help us with our schoolwork. And so, we became the proud owners of a set of Collier’s Encyclopedia.

And it came with two bonus collections: a set of Best in Children’s Books

And The Junior Classics.

Both of these contributed to my knowledge of rhymes and fairy tales. And I guess in more ways than I had guessed. When I was researching for this entry (meaning shamelessly borrowing photos from internet sites), I found a story about one of the Best in Children’s Books, a volume of fairy tales that included The Little Red Hen.

Notice who illustrated it? Andy Warhol. Wow. What impact did that have on my childhood?

Then again, better Andy Warhol than some of the Little Golden Book illustrators.

Can we say creepy?

But the topic of this entry is rhyme.

It wasn’t just nursery rhymes, not by a long shot. No, we knew poetry. Or as I thought it was for my earliest years, “pomes.” After all, that’s how we said it. Each marking period (6 weeks worth of school) brought us a new poem, written on the blackboard in white chalk, in the careful hand of our teachers, which we then copied into our composition books (supplied by the school, by the way, not purchased by our parents), took home with us, and memorized. Each marking period we had to stand in front of the class, standing up straight, not slouching, hands clasped in front of us, as we recited the selected poem, recited it in a sing-song voice.

The Swing

By Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,

Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

Ever a child could do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

Over the countryside —

Till I look down on the garden green,

Down on the roof so brown,

Up in the air I go flying again,

Up in the air and down.

I think that was the first poem I had to memorize, at least it’s the first one that I remember (and I only partially remember it: I had to look it up to find out the exact words). There were others but this was early on and it was relevant, because it really described what I loved to do.

Not that I saw any cattle or rivers from the swing in my grandparents’ yard. But the up and down part — that I got.

At any rate, the rhymes were a part of my childhood, a very important part. And while I searched and printed, I thought back over the rhymes, thought of Mary and Bo Peep with their sheep, of Little Miss Muffet running from a spider, of silly Jack jumping over a candle stick or putting his thumb in a pie. I hear many of them daily, the ones that are set to music, because they are played in the classrooms over and over (much better than kidz bop versions of current songs that are far too mature for the kids).

I hope that a weekly theme of nursery rhymes, even if it is only a week, coupled with all of that background music, will make some impression on the kids. I really want them to grow up with rhyme, with rhyme that may not make perfect sense, that may be nonsensical, but that will be remembered later, when those kids are grown.

Interlude

          During the past two years I’ve been added to a couple of mailing lists for those who graduated with me — or were a part of our classes through the years but didn’t graduate with us. One is for “the girls of ‘71,” those who get together for breakfast periodically. The other is a general list of classmates.

Since I don’t really feel like writing tonight, instead I’ll pass along some information sent by one of the ladies on the “girls” list, Diane. These are life tips that have been proved to be true. Really.

Amazingly Simple Home Remedies

• Avoid cutting yourself when slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold the vegetables while you chop.
• Avoid arguments with the females about lifting the toilet seat by using the sink.
• For high blood pressure sufferers — simply cut yourself and bleed for a few minutes, thus reducing the pressure on your veins. Remember to use a timer.
• A mouse trap placed on top of your alarm clock will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep after you hit the snooze button.
• If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives. Then you’ll be afraid to cough.
• You only need two tools in life: WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn’t move and should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn’t move and does, use the duct tape.
• If you can’t fix it with a hammer, you’ve got an electrical problem.
  

That’s it. Of course, the email ended with a daily thought — which I managed to find in different format.

No more for tonight: feeling too lazy.

You CAN go home again

Just a short entry tonight — I’ve had a difficult time getting started, it’s late, I’m tired. Good reason to be tired: long day, to PA and back, lots going on. Good day.

I met up with my friend Lynne today. I already wrote that we’ve recently re-connected after many years of no contact. In fact, I mentioned her in two separate posts. The one titled Reconnecting had a photo of an unknown occasion — something that involved a Christmas tree and tissue paper dresses. We led a wild life. Seriously. I still have no clue what was going on. I suppose we could ask the others in the photo, but I haven’t seen Steve since the 70’s and Bill died long ago. I suppose this will remain a mystery indefinitely.

I also mentioned Lynne in the post titled Swimmin’. I’ve “borrowed” the photo mentioned in that post, the one I said that I couldn’t copy. It turns out that I could copy it.

Those in the photo are Sharon Campbell, Pam Reider, Jenny Knauer, and Lynne. We really had fun in those days. We knew the town and each other and ourselves.

Lynne sent me another photo that she found, one taken at Band Camp. I suppose I’ll deal with the whole idea of camp some other time, but for now I’ll share the picture.

Shaving cream. Of course. That’s me on the left, followed by Holly Griesemer, Lynne, Sue Hoke, and Sherry Plott. I’m glad that Lynne remembered who was in the picture — with the shaving cream, I probably wouldn’t have guessed.

This weekend Lynne was in Middletown for a funeral and I planned to go there for a birthday party, so we met and went to the Brownstone for brunch. Our time was very short, but we enjoyed catching up. Then we drove around for a bit, looking at the town, remembering.

We were very disappointed that Feaser School no longer exists. I looked for photos of this place a few days ago and couldn’t find any. So I tried a Google satellite search of the area and . . . nothing. Fink Elementary School is still there.

And the stadium.

But no Feaser. We both found that to be extremely sad. Lynne attended from first grade. I went there for fourth and fifth grade, half of sixth, and all of seventh and eighth. That’s a lot of years, a lot of memories.

As we were driving, Lynne made the remark that she doesn’t like change — at least, not in Middletown.

She also said that she likes returning because in Middletown, she’s herself.

I think that’s an interesting and valid observation. When I’m in Middletown, even when things change, there are memories that surface, that remain the same. Middletown was a safe place to grow up, a secure place, a place where we knew what was happening and knew where and who we were. Even when buildings are torn down and new ones erected, there are still places that evoke that sense of safety and security.

We all need a place like that.