Edna

Some of us who attended KJHS/LHS in the 60's and 70's may have Edna Van Duzee as their music teacher.

Edna

Though she was long retired from school teacher, she was very active in music and politics well into her 90's in The Village of Round Lake.  Edna passed in 2017.

Now I told you that to show you this.  I was strolling around the Clifton Park, NY Salvation Army store last week. Yes, that's how busy I am.  But I normally stop by once a month looking for the odd baseball caps, t-shirts, and hoodies.  This time, though, I was drawn toward three boxes near the eight track cassettes part of the shop.

Flipping through the stax  of wax there were classical:

And classical:

And classical:

There were many other classical albums in the boxes.   No matter the condition of the album on the outside, the LP within was pristine.  Even if the were Mitch Miller and 100 Strings (kids, ask your grandparents) were in most of the other albums, I couldn't resist these two baby boomer memories:

That's right, K-tel Records brings you the BEST of pop music of the early 1970s, plus a number of bands you have never heard of and never will. That's OK because all the songs are less than two minutes to make sure you can get part of a couple of bars of the Intruders!  Get it now!

BUT WAIT !   THERE'S MORE!

Yes, the heart of pop music for early 1966, and then a TV show, then two post divorce TV  shows, then Sonny went to Congress and skied in to a tree.  Cher lives on in as little clothing as possible.  When I pulled out the album, there seemed to be evidence of more use than some of the classical records (smudges, scratches, that little fast/ slow  showing the LP has been in the sun too long.  But someone must have liked it.

The most important part of this not the music selections, but here was part of one of teachers lives. Also there's recorded organ music from almost a century past.  One of the greatest feats about Edna was her preservation of the magnificent Ferris Tracker organ in the Round Lake Auditorium.  It's still there, and there are programs to bring the Ferris Tracker back to life again.

Edna would have liked that.

Home Part 2

The picture is gone now. That picture of yours truly holding up his 1967 Whipple School graduation pennant, thrilled to be wearing an actual suit and tie. We'd had a cookout at St. Marks  Church House at 116th and 3rd Avenue, hot dogs and juice, and then everybody went home, which took me all of about five minutes. My sister took the picture (Polaroid Swinger) and it was placed in my memory book until it, and a lot of other remnants from long ago was disposed of. In the picture attached, I'm standing as close as I can remember to where I stood 48 years ago. My wife Jackie and I had a chance to look around the yard of 614 1st Ave, on the Lansingburgh House Tour of May 16th. My old home has many tales of its own, and I was amazed to have a neighbor relate many of them to us, some versions of which may show up in a novel soon. I said to Jackie "See, I wasn't making it up!" This place was truly magic. The other picture shows the back door to 614. See those eagles? My father made them. See that rickety wood thingy? Not us. The house is for sale. My sister and I once agreed that when we were old we'd buy 614 and live out our days there. That won't happen. But it was a wonderful time then and an even better May 16th 2015. Thanks for reading.

How to give a Presentation .... Cue the Meltdown

Hi.

Last Thursday was a bit of a breakthrough day as I would be giving a talk about the book I am writing.  This had been scheduled earlier this year at the Herman Melville House in Troy, NY (actually Lansingburgh - I still maintained that Troy is occupying the village where I grew up and has been for the past 124 years, but someday we shall throw off the shackles) and I'd worked damn hard with teaching notes, visual presentations, and my decent communication skills to make a 1 hour talk about Herman Melville, and his association with Lansingburgh, Presidents Chester Arthur and Theodore Roosevelt, and murders and conspiracies, that is, a halfway decent novel.

          Herman                                                 Chester                                                     Theodore

My wife and I arrived a little later than planned (thanks to my shortcut) and the room was filling up with interested folks, most of which I (gratefully) knew.  So after some hellos and hugs, I set upon setting up my Mac with the projector provided by the sponsors, but after some minutes of attaching A to B, it became apparent that it was not going to work, much to the consternation of the org's President who finally threw his hands up and said "It's a Mac. I don't know what to do." The part that made me go Hmmm was that I had sat in the audience here two weeks previous when another speaker used a Mac with no problem.  Sabotage? my bipolar mind asked.  Did he not like me?  What was going on? Making me look bad deliberately?

At this point, the MS leader, Captain Fatigue, stepped into the center ring, and announced the reason it was not working was because I was tired, very tired.  I had been putting in hours on this presentation more from my days at my old job.  I knew, of course, that I was dog tired. Even driving to the site in Lansingburgh using a "shortcut" which seemed to my wife as completely out of the way, I was telling myself to just get through it.  Get through it.

I would have to talk it through.  Fortunately I had a lot of support from friends in the 30 seat room and I stumbled my way through looking at now useless notes and the dragging info from my lesioned brain before Captain Fatigue and Sergeant Bipolar could hide the stories in a brain file labeled Great Kale I Have Eaten.

So I made it. And since that night I'm still slowly recouping energy.  I've started a writing class (three hours Tuesday night for eight weeks) and I need to write stories while continuing the Herman tales.

I hear about marketing and appearances and signings, and I've talked with writers who do a lot of it. Before I get serious on any of those subjects I need to finish the story.  But hyping will be a tough road because the energy that I admire in other authors as they succeed in this area is just not there for me.  Local? Sure.  Big time? Probably not. I will not get better.

Pace myself.  Isn't it odd that pace in Latin is peace? I enjoyed the talk despite the problems and the positive reinforcement never hurts.  Believers can lift you up.  Now I have to make sure I keep up with it.  I will start when I open my eyes tomorrow. Maybe.

Thanks for the 10000 views.  I'm going to move back and forth between this blog and one on writing.
Writing the 1,391st Greatest American Novel in a decade or less! Please take a look should you wish, and my thanks for your support.

 

And Herman Melville and President Martin Van Buren thank you too...

I hate my home town.

We all grew up somewhere, whether it be in US, Canada, France or the Ukraine.  I picked the last two  because I'm hot there, blogger wise.  Bon jour and хороший деньок!

A couple of weeks from now I'll be giving a talk at our local shrine to author Herman Melville, when the Lansingburgh Historical Society is going to host a fete' to this book I am plowing through, or, I mean writing about Herman's time in my hometown about 175 years ago.  The house I grew up in remains on 1st Avenue.  The color has changed, the insides as well, but it is still home, the only true home I have had, except for all my time with my wife.  She is my home.

The stories remain, however, and the continuity of them is as varied as the autumn leaves on that huge maple tree in the back yard.  Those leaves took days to rake up, but I would make leaf roads and my dog would follow the road as I made moved my rake along.  And when we were done, the yard would already be filling up with the next batch.  I walked to school. No one bothered me. I had a sense of peace and happiness, just like I thought everyone had.

That's about the time I started hating Lansingburgh.

We moved from 1st Avenue (the house on First Avenue was too big).  My dog died.  I got bullied at the new school.  My father got sick and died.  My mother revealed her mental illness through her behavior, and her needs that I could not fill (because I was discovering my own bipolar disorder [this diagnosis not confirmed until 2005]) Family crisis after crisis. I could not find a job because I had absolutely no skills after years of taking care of a father who it turned out was going through what I am now doing.  So I got a government job (insert your own joke here).  My mother was very concerned about money, because she gambled it all away, and asked me for money or just took from my savings account, while promising to pay it back.  That never happened.  Then, my sister died.  My mother was devastated, and she turned toward her sons for support and we did what we could.  I'd visit once a week, as long as my tension filled stomach and brain could deal with it.  Even took a month off, which of course made things worse.

When my mother died, Lansingburgh became an anathema to me.  On the day of her funeral, I was driving to my brother's house, pointing out to my wife's family the places my family had lived.  And how rundown the whole town looked.  My stomach still in knots even at the thought of going there.  My brother still lived there, as did some of my sister's family.  My parents and sister are buried there.  All it was to me was misery.  I had enough problems.

Until I got more problems.  In my case medical, or, really neurological, and while I was working at a job that I liked, and with people I loved, it became obvious to me that I needed to change.  So then came Tai Chi, yoga, reiki, and time at a Buddhist monastery (and a few shrinks) and I began to learn forgiveness and relaxation.  My sister's daughter got married and Jackie and I attended the service in Troy.  Using a process I learned from those monks started me on a new road of freeing myself from the anger and sadness of the past.  It's not totally gone but I am a lot better.

So much so that when, once upon a Facebook, a high school friend contacted me and we began having lunch in Lansingburgh with other folks from the village.  From this came stories, and stories became a series of books. And then I walked into the Melville house in Lansingburgh for a book show and a walk about, ending up in the attic which had a unique resemblance to the attic I played in two blocks north.  I had never thought about Herman Melville, even though I had read the historical marker many times.  Just an "oh" , that's all.  Until about a year ago.  I was beginning to dive more into my genealogy  and found cousins and history I never knew.

More stories.  And on came the thought that maybe I could write a big story, talk about this village where amazing people lived and did great things.  And the research began in earnest.  The story is being put to paper.  And it is being welcomed.

So on October 16, I'll talk about these stories.  And yes, my stomach will be in knots, for those there and those that inspired me...Just people living their lives, and doing what he could.

Show up.  I have a story to tell....about my hometown.

Not quite home yet....

Over the last two weeks, I’ve been traveling back to Lansingburgh for some weekend get togethers sponsored by the Lansingburgh Historical Society (proud member) and the Lansingburgh Facebook group.  We look back at the “glory days” of the ‘Burgh, and celebrate what is still pretty gosh darn good about the place.

We’ve also published two books of stories about growing up in semi-small town America from the 1940s-1970s, and I am honored to say I have a couple in each.

All proceeds from the purchase of the book(s) go to Lansingburgh non-profits, including the Historical Society.

We held the first get-together earlier this month when the Historical Society celebrated Herman Melville's 194th Birthday at his home in the Burgh. 

That's Herman's house, and the Historical Society keeps it in good shape.  The day we were there presentations were given on portraits of the author (did I mention he wrote Moby Dick which I am sure many of you tried to get out of reading-not that he wrote that tome here, but some other good sea stories) and the relevance of the time, exchanged by enthusiasts of not just Melville, but American history, which so tired us out we had to have more cake.  I was then so high on sugar that I even read some from the Melville mystery story I'm doing, in the same room where the chapter I read takes place in 1838.  By the way, that's Herman's room on the second floor with the bay window.  And the research continues, which keeps me running on days when Bipolar and MS feel like screwing around with my head.

In fact, because I had such an enjoyable time on Saturday, the evil twins made sure I did not enjoy it at all last week, until about Thursday.  Every drop of energy got sucked away into their vortex, and even some quiet outdoorsy pruning and mowing (trying to get the yard in shape by August 31when I used to have it ready by May 31.  I'll finish in time to start raking leaves which I hope to get done by Christmas 2014).  My writer's group got me back in form for a few days until Saturday again this past weekend.

The two groups noted above (LHS/Facebook Burgh) were having a clam steam fundraiser at a local Veteran's organization.  I would know a few people there, maybe even an ex-sweetheart, but I was looking most forward was seeing my sixth grade teacher, and  And I did, from a distance.  The evil twins found that here was a place they could exploit.  The Veteran's building was not there when I lived in the 'Burgh.  As I got of my car I noticed that I did not recognize anyone, except for a few from the historical society.  I've been away from the village for 30 years.  And my belly does a flip flop and fly every time I go there.  

This time I freaked out.  I did not know most of the people and, after I purchased the most recent book, just stood there by the man who had given my change and said he did not do it correctly. He, of course, did and my brain cued into fight or flight. I walked/ran to my car and got out of there, and missed a chance to say thanks to that sixth grade teacher, and visit with the few folks I do know.

And the nightmares have returned.  Reminding me of the awful times in Lansingburgh. My parents, my sister and the loss of family on that side. Like all that work was a waste of time.  This place was nothing but pain and death.  Yep, it was for many years for me, and apparently it still holds my heart and soul somewhat.  But there's work to do.  If I didn't have the Burgh, I wouldn't have the stories.  I was a lucky American kid growing up in a small town, so much so that when I thought of "Downtown" (Petula Clark's song) I thought of downtown Troy.  Why go anywhere else?

So I'll work this through. And keep writing. The Evil Twins can not stop me...for now.  But I've a huge head start, and maybe they won't catch me. Until all the stories are told.

Thanks for reading.  More soon.

The Halloween Show!

I don't get it.

Never did.  But really, doctor, I think it started in the second grade, in Ms. Wright's class (yeah I know they didn't say Ms. in 1962 but I can't remember if it was Miss or Mrs.). Google says Whipple School was on 5th Avenue (no, the building is on 4th Avenue) and 121st St (this is correct).  A child care center is there now.  But in 1962, that place of red brick and metal fire escapes held Kindergarten through third grade for the Lansingburgh section of Troy, NY. And in the back of the building, on the left, was Ms. Wright's home room.

Halloween 1962.  We had no idea, or a very vague one at best, that the world had just come as close to nuclear war as it had ever come just a few days early with the Cuban Missile Crisis. All we knew was Halloween was coming, and "who were you gonna dress up as?"

I had my plan: 

Yep, right from the department store (J.M. Fields). Mask and costume.  Halloween was the day you could wear your costume to school, and the principal had allowed us to have a party in the afternoon.  Desks were put in a circle and every child had to do a short talk about who they were pretending to be and why.  Now this is 50 years back (wow) so memory of being 7 is a challenge, but I do recall Jim Zlotnick was dressed as an astronaut and he climbed under a desk, curled up in a semi foetal position, back on the floor.. He yelled '10, 9, 8, 7, 6......" and on down to "Blast off!" and then went back to his seat.  I have no idea what anyone else did.  I know what I did.  I got to the middle of the floor and
shouted:

Yabba. Dabba. Do.

Then I went back to my seat.  My first and final public performance until I threw up in Mrs. Hamilton's 4th grade class, but that's another blog (Great Moments in Vomit History).

That night I went trick or treating with some neighbors.  We went to what was soon to be described, in Lansingburgh lore, as the Addams Family House:

I have been in actual haunted houses. Nothing creeps me out like this place does, even 50 years later.  But what did Halloween in for me was a vanilla colored brick house six blocks from my home. I rang the bell, as I was told by my neighbors to do, and waited.  The door was opened by a tall swarthy man with slicked back hair, and a bowling shirt, black slacks and white Hush Puppies. He had a big cigar in his left hand. Loud music came from behind him.

"What the hell do you want?" he said in his best Tony Manero voice.

"Trick or treat?" I said.

He looked at me, and then the rest of the group.  He did one of those "Jeez, can you believe this?" shakes of the head.

"Kid, its my poker night. I don't do no tricks or treats. Get outta here."

Slam.  I suddenly had to go to the bathroom.  I asked to go home.  Sure, I had gotten candy, trolling behind the group (just ahead of the guy in the Charlie Brown ghost costume, who got the rock) and grabbing the dregs.  I went home, and never did go out again.  I went a party, I think, the following year, but then stayed home and answered the door, which soon fell into neglect (the answering, not the door), and now Halloween for me is an annoyance.  My wife answers the door now, and coo-hoos over the kids.

"I don't do no tricks or treats."

Maybe thats why I had problems at my job in a welfare office, doctor.  At age six, I could not understand why I was asking people to give me candy, and I didn't know many of these people at all.  And why were they giving this stuff to me? I was not going to hurt them or play tricks on them if they didn't.  I never went back and egged Tony Manero's house.  But oddly I still look at that place each time I'm in Lansingburgh.  I just never got understood why you go to a building, ask people you don't know for something, and then if they don't do it, threaten them, but if that's what you want to do, fine, have a great time.  Most do.

Now if you're talking spooky stuff, I'll take a HP Lovecraft story anytime.

HP. Born weird. Lived weird. Died weird.  Thanks, Howard.

Isn't weird a great word?

So that's where I'll be going soon. To the book shelf. The weird book shelf, where HP, Mr. Poe and Mr. Bradbury reside in weird bliss, terrifying each other with stories old and new and weird.

Happy Halloween.  Here's something really scary. We are now officially in the "Holiday Season."

Thanks for reading.  More soon.

Close to Home (and Hello Russia!)

Before I get to today's topic, I need to admit something. I do look at how many hits this blog gets, and right now we're closing in on 500. Now a good chunk of them are me checking spelling and doing edits when I need to, but I also look at where the hits come from, and naturally the USA is first, but what really surprised me is that Russia is third on the list. So for all my Russian readers:


                                         Здравствуйте, дорогие друзья!

I hope that my Russian visitors aren't just hackers or porn trollers, but a hit is a hit. There are  people in Eastern Europe with either MS or Bipolar or, lucky them, both.  I'd be interested in how they are coping. 

We're back to 90+ degree weather here in the Great Northeast so I am moving as well as I can in this type of environment, which is verrrrryyy slooowwly.  Air conditioning, fans, the mall and the movies  (This weeks flick:  Salmon Fishing in Yemen).  And using a bit of the air conditioning in the car - my car has over 100000 miles on it and I'm always a little cautious with it.  And gee, this month I'll actually finish paying for the car.

I stayed close to home this week, except for the previous blogged trip to Cooperstown, but I did opt to sit outside for a evening with my kids, er, I mean my former staff from Albany County DSS.  It was a retirement party for Linda, and the whole staff with significant others showed up


View Larger Map

I hope there's a picture up there. Anyway, we had the get together at Philly's in Latham NY, and oddly enough, the place, in its previous incarnation as The Lookout, was where my wife and I had our second date thirty years ago this coming December.

So it  had significance to both my work group, and my home group, and its more that word "home" that I'd like to talk about.  From some of the earlier posts in this series (and you've read them all, right?) it might have become clear that I don't have a great relationship with my family, in that, with the exception of one person, I'm sort of at the maybe you get a holiday card/maybe you don't level.  And that is sad, but it is what it is.  So the people that I've turned to since the diagnosises of bipolar and MS have been work associates, people with similar beliefs, and those that enjoy the written word.  They have become home.  Along with my house.  In the years before I had to retire we'd worked to get the house just like we always wanted it, but then a flood turned everything upside down and, to our surprise, gave us a chance to rip up and lay it down, start over and do it right.  We did.  The house is comfy and welcoming.  The yard is as green as I can make it, and after 20+ years, even that ain't much.  But on a snowy day in February, or during the holidays, there are few places that mean more to me, in fact none.  But in actuality....

My wife is my home.  Where she is, is where I want to be. I've been homeless, lived in a 1976 Chevette with all my clothes, cleaned up where I could, found a cot to sleep on.  And as long as Jackie was with me, it would have been just fine.  Fortunately, she came into my life then. Ain't been homeless since.
The staff I had dinner with last week is home.  We had just 18 months together, but all agree they were the best 18 months of all our careers, though I hope the younger staff gets a chance to do great things, as any proud poppa would want for his children.  For now we get together and I hear the latest in their lives, we trade stories, laugh and raise a glass.  It is good, and I am a fortunate one.

Lansingburgh is home.  Over the last few years I've become the family geneaologist and have studied who we are and where we came from, finding the graves and putting the stories together.  Through Facebook I've gone back to see the 'Burgh through the eyes of those who still live there, and those who once did.  In early August, I'll be having a sit down with some of those folks to honor my sixth grade homeroom teacher.  Yep. She's still around.  I'm looking forward to it. Just from the pictures the Facebook group puts up, I'm already getting an ever deeper appreciation of that place I grew up in and, yes the world moves on and things change, but you keep the spirit within.  For me it's always Summer 1967 and I'm ten years old.  And everything is still possible.

Hey, for those of you who read the Five Keys to Mental Health, you may be seeing some of those keys in place here.  Something to do. Someone to love. Something to look forward to.  Mental health is about strong roots, roots given by family in however you determine it, but having the ability to sway with the winds of time.  When the winds subside, you're still there.  To run a metaphor smack dab into the ground, if your internal house is in a good state of repair, you can weather any storm.

Lyrics from a Billy Joel song:

Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike
Indiana's early morning dew
High up in the hills of California
Home is just another word for you.
                          You're My Home

So home is where the heart is, as someone said.  For those of us with extra challenges, sometimes the doors to that home have been closed and locked, and we spend so much of our time banging on the windows begging to be let in that we forget or ignore the open door and warm hearth waiting for us just down the road.

And maybe that open hearth and home are there so that you can welcome another. 

Stop on by, we've got room.

And to my Russian friends -  До свидания!

More stories soon.  And to whoever the 500th hit is on this site, thanks.  If it's me, I'm welcome.

From Lisa at Brass and Ivory