Innocence Revisited

Blogger's Note: The launch of this site in December of 2003 marked my return to writing following several decades of writer's block. My debut entry "Return to Innocence," had been an ambitious undertaking both in length and heart. For over thirty years, my mind has consistently returned to the wonder and events that transpired in a small Connecticut campground. Fantasy Island (Mr. Rourke and Tattoo, "De plane, De plane") had been a television staple back then and during the time immediately following that 1975 Labor Day weekend, I had often longed for the prospect of a real life Fantasy Island and the opportunity to relive those events unchanged and in their entirety. Years passed, names and faces faded, yet the place vividly remained in full living color, not buried in my sub-conscious, but somewhere in the very forefront of my mind. It is so much more than just a collection of fond childhood memories. Nelson's Family Campground has literally become a part of my soul, and the wonder and magic of this small piece of northeastern real estate extends well beyond those boundaries. The legacy created by Nelson Gustine, his recently departed wife Mildred and their extended families have brought many smiles and warm memories to more people than they could ever have imagined, while making my life long dream of being published a reality. Shortly following my debut blogging endeavor, I submitted the unedited entry as a writing sample to a local magazine. An e-mail immediately followed, welcoming me as a new staff member to the recently launched Forest Hills Celebrity & Entertainment magazine. Having had a few years now to perfect my craft, an updated re-write of this early tale was inevitable. It is with a sense of love, honor and sincere thanks that I humbly dedicate this to the entire Gustine family.

1. Dreams Begin Here
I was but a mere 12 years old during the summer of ‘75, a teenage misfit whose favorite band was still the Partridge Family. It was a season that would have been considered wholly unremarkable had it not been for our recent interest in camping. Labor Day marked the third trip of that inaugural year for our brood of five and a dog whose tongue was too long for her mouth. Tooling along Connecticut’s I-84 in a 1973 gold Station Wagon ala a semi-dysfunctional Brady Bunch, my whining put well to rest any thoughts of a family type sing-a-long.
“Nelson’s”, I complained bitterly. “I can’t believe we’re spending the last camping trip of the year...”
Ever the cynic, this had become my mantra as I repeatedly voiced an opinion over my parent’s poor decision-making process. Following on the heels of two successful excursions, this trip should have marked a climactic end to our summer vacation before the dreaded return to school. Of course planning vacations back then wasn’t as easy as it is today. In 1975 neither computers, nor the Internet were even remotely accessible, forcing us to resort to the well-known literary travel guru, Rand McNally. Similar in most respects to the Yellow Pages, this in depth guide would list camping destinations alphabetically by state with only a scant few campgrounds taking out actual ad space. Choosing a place could more likely be compared to simply flipping a coin, or throwing a dart at a wall map. In our case the state of choice that summer had been nearby Connecticut. Hidden Acres, with a quarter page ad that dominated the Constitution State’s campground pages proved unattainable due mostly in part to poor planning, something I made sure my parents would never forget. I nearly salivated every time my eyes fell upon the black and white pictured promise of a camping paradise featuring lake front wooded sites, two sand beaches, swimming pool, bicycling, boat rentals and all the fun an overactive teenage mind could possibly comprehend. The far inferior Nelson’s advertisement pictured on the opposite page served more as a keep out sign to my skeptical mind, rather than an enticement to consider any type of visit. Movies on weekends, crafts for children and rock hunting could only spell disaster.
Rock hunting? Really?
Held prisoner in the rear of the family wagon, I solemnly watched the trees rush past the window in a blur, gloomily accepting the fact that the summer would end uneventfully and in pitiful disappointment. Finally exiting the highway after several hours spent in traffic and bordering on starvation, I silently cursed our great leader as he cruised past McDonalds without blinking an eye. His mission, to arrive at the campground before dark with the hope of pitching camp by sunlight rather than flashlight would soon be in jeopardy. Small towns, winding roads and a lake with an Indian name I had problems pronouncing brought us within minutes of planting our feet on solid ground again. Well aware of dad’s tendency for overshooting important landmarks, all eyes were peeled for signage indicating the entrance with the hope that the time consuming and primarily unsafe procedure of backing up an undersized pop-up camper attached to an over sized station wagon would be avoided at all costs. I had envisioned finding the wooden sign depicted in the Rand McNally ad as a beacon rather than the two large oil drums (my mind saw garbage cans) displaying the name of the campground hastily written in yellow paint. I perceived this as an inevitable sign of things to come. Driving in on a rough gravel road, A hilltop view offered little more than a small pond in the distance just beyond a grass challenged field. An imposing skeleton of a structure on the right, simply nothing more than a large roof over dirt sealed my first impression. Suddenly, the idea of backing up, then backing out seemed completely logical. Our assigned campsite in the field section rather than a wooded area only added to my disenchantment. Long after darkness had fallen and with the site finally secured we opted to backtrack thirty minutes to the same McDonalds I had pined for hours earlier. Located alongside a movie theater showing The Gumball Rally, my tired, but still sarcastic frame of mind briefly pondered, then dismissed the ridiculously titled flick as an utter waste of time. Nearly four decades later, the movie ranks as one of my all time favorites, a small piece of irony I’ve never forgotten.
Summer’s demise clearly made itself known that evening in the form of rapidly falling temperatures. Following my dad’s expert advice, which was never in short supply, my brother and I zipped into sleeping bags wearing nothing but underwear, putting his theory to the test that our body heat alone would more than compensate for the frigid cold outside our tent. While the rest of them snored fitfully in the comfort of our beloved pop-up, I chattered the night away dreaming of the warmth and safety that awaited me in a classroom back home, while silently berating my parents yet again, this time for not splurging on a better-constructed bag

2
I experienced a sudden and unexpected change of heart immediately upon waking the following morning to the intriguing sight of a female next door that was clearly my type. Granted, at the age of thirteen, I was not exactly sure what that type consisted of, but the fact that she looked to be around my age definitely worked for starters. There had been some awkward eye contact all morning long, two young teens playfully averting each other’s glances, waiting in anticipation for someone to make the dreaded first move. I silently cursed the gale force breeze that sent her indoors for breakfast, then cheered aloud when nature’s fury proved too much for their screen house in which they likely would have convened for the morning meal. Under the guise of a concerned neighbor, this minor misfortune provided the perfect opening for me to march next door and alert them before further damage might occur. Knowing that my window of opportunity could close at anytime, I tried to gather the nerve to move, but felt myself inexplicably anchored to the relative safety of our picnic table. Courage came in the form of my brother’s incessant chiding and ridicule. Slowly rising, I unsteadily made my way across the not so great divide. Passing the point of no return, I knocked lightly on the door, hoping that it would go unnoticed. The abrupt silence that followed guaranteed that they were well aware of my presence. The birds and insects seemed to follow suit, waiting in hushed expectation. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the campground drilling through my back, locked on my rapidly beating heart. Time stopped when her smiling face appeared at the door.
“Uh, your screen house fell,” I nervously stammered.
Her uneasy laughter and half hearted thank-you sent me running home for cover. Dejectedly I sat at our picnic table watching her dad and older brother re-secure the unit, knowing that this time it would take nothing less than a hurricane to knock it down again. The relentless tormenting coming from the other side of the table provided the brainstorm for putting my brother’s undeniable talent for mischief to work. The picture of him deviously unearthing the stakes danced in my head, the fantasy nearly becoming reality before good fortune once more smiled upon me. An unexpectedly furious gust rocked our trailer and simultaneously ripped the stubborn stakes next door from their earthbound mooring. I wondered if she had been experiencing the same degree of angst, or any measure of hope at all that fate might bring us together one more time. Reluctantly, I fought the relentless force of doubt and indecision, not quite propelling myself forward across the great abyss once more. My knock, definitely lighter this time was met with roaring female laughter from within. Her red face on the other side of the screen door in direct contrast to the paleness of my own smiled back at me uneasily. Overcoming a similar amount of teasing and scorn from her sister and two brothers, she stepped outside this time. Uneasily at first, we sat at her picnic table paying little attention to the men in her family returning to the chore of anchoring the troublesome enclosure, while we clumsily made small talk. Her name was Sue. The rest is a blur. Later that afternoon we cozily sat together on what loosely passed for a beach. I contemplated which of the many planned activities might prove helpful to this awkward teenage mating ritual in which I had now found myself deeply embroiled. Softball, Scavenger Hunts, Hay Rides, Bingo and something called the Honey Wagon were but a few of the many events to choose from. While the hayride seemed the obvious choice for romance, my thoughts centered on the Honey Wagon, hoping that we were old enough to partake in its untold wonders. The weekend would culminate with the big end of summer dance to be held in the Pavilion for which I unbelievably had a date. Feelings of shyness long behind us, we proudly walked hand in hand that first night, aimlessly circling the campground with a large number of new found friends, sullenly breaking that bond at the approach of curfew and our adjacent campsites. Too excited to return to the dank confines of the tent, I sat outside basking in glory, impatiently wishing the nighttime hours quickly away. “Psst,” she whispered from her bedside window. I looked up in gleeful surprise, wondering if she had somehow altered her inside sleeping arrangements. Peering slyly past the front of her camper where I could see our parents gathered around the fire, I grabbed a lawn chair, stealthily tiptoed to her and unsteadily climbed atop it so we could converse at eye level. “I had fun today,” she said quietly “Me too.” “I’m glad we met,” she added “Me too.” Squinting in the darkness at some point during the late showing of The Gumball Rally, we locked eyes, and with a hungry teenage passion our lips indirectly met, separated only by the mesh of the small ventilation window. “Susan,” her mom called with an uncanny sixth sense, bringing a swift end to the timeless moment. “Time to get to sleep now,” Mortified, yet still unfulfilled, I indulged in one last stale taste of window screen before my lawn chair and I sheepishly said goodnight. 3. I arose the next morning, the unsuspecting sole attendee to an A cappella rendition of Glen Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy as performed by Sue’s older brother from the not quite sound proof pup tent he had been sleeping in. Sitting outside our trailer euphorically awaiting the object of my affection to make her appearance, my creative side considered that this seemed almost like the soundtrack to a movie. It had been one of the significant summer songs that year and never fails in bringing me back to that late August morning. The day, filled with promise had been marred only by my obsessive compulsion to kiss her again, this time without the metallic aftertaste. I had worried briefly that we might be off to an awkward start following the magical event of the night before, but her knowing smile and our lingering first eye contact quickly dispelled any fears. I was relatively hopeful that the opportunity for a kiss would arise at the dance that evening, yet thoroughly convinced that I would somehow blow the chance if it presented itself. The wary sidelong glances I was sure her mother had been throwing in my direction did nothing to boost my confidence level. Trying to exude a sense of poise I did not feel, I swaggered next door to bid good morning. Her mom’s seemingly innocent query regarding our plans for the day felt more like the third degree. “I’d like to go on the Honey Wagon,” I mistakenly blurted aloud, having crumbled under her line of questioning. The immediate silence that followed shattered my dream. Sue’s look of astonishment turned to one of confusion when her mom burst into laughter and briefly educated us on the proper use of the Honey Wagon, which was nothing more than a portable unit used for cleaning the waste disposal systems of the larger trailers. Realizing I was more clueless than harmless, she disappeared inside leaving the two of us to continue our romantic journey, an odyssey that would be ending almost as quickly as it had begun. I envied Sue for her close proximity to this paradise, a place that only a couple of days ago my unknowing mind had considered a wasteland. For the first time in my life I came to a complete understanding of the old adage about judging a book by its cover. Living less than an hour away, she had spent several summers camping there. I had little interest in visiting the rock hunting area, known to seasoned veterans as the Rock Quarry, but Sue enjoyed showing off her notable skills as a competent guide. The idea of traipsing into the unknown deep, dark woods did not sit well with me. I am sure that my fear of possibly getting lost had been more than apparent, but stoically I pressed on. Crossing the raging brook (which now in hindsight was more likely a rippling stream) without getting our feet wet seemed impossible, but the chance to hold her hand and help her across far outweighed any risks. Had it not been for the presence of a few recent acquaintances, this natural hideaway would have served as the perfect location for the kiss that I so longed for. While my list of future pen pals grew too numerous to mention, I would be remiss in not bringing up one significant other. Cora, another long time resident and the unofficially adopted daughter of the owners, worked in the campground store. Five years my senior, Cora was sweet, beautiful and exceptionally patient in dealing with a pesky pre-teen hanging around while his true love had temporarily been unavailable. With a confidence level having recently reached a stratospheric plateau, I had been determined to share with her at least one slow dance later that evening. Barring the exceptionally chilly temperatures on our first night, the weather had provided for a perfect end of summer weekend. I don’t know how it would have been possible for the dance to commence otherwise had it not cooperated. Underneath the mammoth Pavilion roof on a dirt floor unprotected by walls on any side, the music carried through most of the campground. If Rhinestone Cowboy had not been considered a suitable theme song for the weekend, then James Taylor’s How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) had certainly sufficed. Too young to harbor the inhibitions I do today where dancing is concerned, we laughed, smiled, and loudly proclaimed our feelings during the chorus. We frenetically danced to the upbeat tunes and probably insulted the waltz generation during the slower numbers, my father jokingly comparing us to an old fashioned water pump with the rhythmic up and down motion of our clasped hands. Cora too partook in the pleasure of a slow dance, although looking back upon this now, painful would more likely be the operative word. I literally dragged her onto that dirt floor, and fear now that the experience for her bordered on humiliating. I could have been a little more sensitive, having witnessed her shyer side earlier that afternoon during the infamous Battle of Mott Hill, a re-enactment of a fictional civil war era skirmish. Self consciously dressed in garments representing that tumultuous period in our country’s past, she had been exceptionally camera shy thwarting my every effort at snapping a photo. A lot of time and energy had been put into this yearly tradition as was clearly evidenced by the men in full uniform, firing authentic rifles and cannons. Not really a history buff, this campground activity never rated as one of my favorites. My pre-teen boredom in witnessing the event had helped to slow the passage of time a little bit. Walking hand in hand following the conclusion of the dance, Sue and I opted for the longest way home we could conceive of without getting into trouble. The long moments of awkward silence echoed those of our earliest conversations that now seemed a lifetime ago. We were well aware of what the following day would bring and what the current evening had not. Winding our way back towards the field section, I chose the last opportunistic moment to halt any further progress. “Um,” I stammered, something I had perfected seemingly overnight. “So uh, do you wanna…you know, do what we did last night…again…sort of?” I am truly not ad-libbing here. She exploded into a brief fit of uncontrolled laughter, something I had also grown accustomed to. “I can’t believe you just said that.” Stunned, I had no idea what to say. Thankfully, she fully understood the gist of what I had just proposed. Bathed in the harsh glow of the spotlight atop the Area C bathrooms, she leaned in and I felt the brush of her lips for the very first time, which tasted a whole lot better than the night before. 4. Thirty-five years have passed since that all-important rite of passage in my life. I am grateful that I still possess the faculties with which to reiterate this tale as if it happened only a short time ago. Most of the names and faces remain as clear to me today as they were when Rhinestone Cowboy sat untouchable atop the Billboard charts. Incredibly, through the wonder of modern technology, I have been able to re-connect with some of those who were integral in making that time of my life so memorable. I have retained very little of that final day within the hallowed halls of my mind. What remains, in my heart however, will stay with me forever. Simply, it was life’s first real anguish, the absolute feeling of despair causing what felt like a lump in my throat that would literally stay there for most of the long ride home, and I would not have missed it for the world. Today it fills me with a sense of warmth, melancholy and yearning for a return to that time of innocence.

Addendum to Innocence
Of course the story does not end there. As I began composing this tale the first time around, my mind had been whirling in overdrive. Long forgotten names, faces and events had suddenly surfaced unbidden and without warning. I possess this incredible talent for often remembering some of the most minute and inane details. If you take the time to go all the way back to the beginning of this site and read the tale as it had originally been written you will see exactly what I am talking about. For this updated version I left out a good number of the finer details, which for the most part were wholly unimportant to the story. It's called editing. While it seemed incredible at the time, I realize now that most of those long buried memories have always been there. We returned to Nelson's on several occasions in the years that followed. There had been an innocent game of Spin the Flashlight (how quickly we had grown) on our triumphant return for the 1976 Memorial Day weekend, some new friendships forged too. Anything beyond that escapes my memory. Growing up however meant giving up camping in lieu of more exotic locales that began with places like the Jersey Shore before moving on to Spring Breaks in Florida followed by cruises through the Caribbean, yet during all of those years, Nelson's Family Campground remained in my heart, often returning to me in dreams. I remember waking up several times with a smile on my face following an unexpected overnight return to the campground, which always looked exactly as I had remembered it. I often wonder if there are others out there with that very same affliction. It's something I am researching now in preparation for a book I am writing with owner Nelson Gustine, something that neither one of us could ever have imagined thirty-five years ago. The story of my teenage romance and that all important first kiss has longed to find its way to the written page. This website however is not where Nelson's made its first debut. There were two far shorter stories written for a creative writing class somewhere around '78 or '79 that will never see the light of day again. I still have them tucked away for sentimentally archival purposes and cringe every time I take them out. Unseasoned and barely blossoming in my writing aspirations, both were hastily cobbled together from a wide assortment of fresh recollections sans any true emotion. (I think I was too shy to embellish anything about girlfriends or kissing). For the record, the first story was titled, "Nelson's Family Campground: The Truth Speaks Out (Almost)," the second simply called "Nelson's Family Campground II." Neither of them contributed much to the contents of this version. I had managed to keep in touch with several of my Nelson's acquaintances for a few years before sadly growing out of the pen-pal stage. It's always easy remembering how someone comes into your life, difficult in trying to recall how they'd gone out. It was in September of 2001 when the wonder of the Internet and classmates.com put Cora and I back on track. It was on the morning of September 11th when I had unexpectedly found her excited response in my inbox. I had been in the process of furiously filling her in on the last three decades of my life before all hell broke loose downtown. Thankfully, we remain in touch today and it was through Cora's intervention that my original blog entry found its way to the Gustine household. I am forever grateful and enamored that Mrs. Gustine had been able to enjoy it before her passing in March of 2009. During that summer, I made a thirty year journey back in time to begin anew an odyssey detailing the surprisingly comedic beginnings of how this place of wonder came into existence through the present day. I see a lot of hope for this book in the future. New friends will be made, old ones reacquainted and for some, a chance to see their own Innocence Revisited. - Tom Mortensen May 2010

 
    Justin.
    A little tyke on his little trike, making his way in a world he knew nothing about. A five-year-old, my five-year-old on our nightly trek to trigger remote controlled spotlights that illuminated driveways and garage entrances in the back alleys of our neighborhood home in Forest Hills, New York, just a few clicks east – as the goose flew – over the once great city named Manhattan, a place more known to most as simply, New York City.
    Justin was enamored with the magic, the childlike charm of spotlights illuminating him on center stage as he pedaled past. For me, forty-five at the time, living in a world I thought I had known enough about, it was a moment of peace, tranquility and pure innocence. Disney could not have provided the pure, unadulterated joy of a child simply engaging sensors that set his senses alight.
    Alive.
    I smiled.
    A lot.
    A lot more than I do now in these troubled times in which we remain entrenched.
    Once upon a time, we knew peace, and upon that time, I believe that we never truly acknowledged that amity as we could have,
    Geese are peace.
    Untroubled, it seems, they travel in harmony, sunshine bound in synchrony.
    A fair-weathered friends symphony.

    One April eve as the sun had nearly set and the garage lights provided our light at nearly night, Justin pedaled on, his eyes aglow with the wonders of technology that made him a magician, I looked above to the fading pink sky, my eyes alight with wonder as an endless cadre of geese returned home, signaling the onset of summer, my forever favorite season.
    For me, there is no greater peace than the music of geese.

 

Sidewalks

 

A Tennessee sidewalk – when you can find one that is – is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it, at least where its physical asphalt attribute is concerned. Until recently, it never dawned on me just how important a sidewalk can be. Like its counterpart, the road that often runs right alongside, sidewalks too can take you anywhere. I remember hearing a comedian quip one time that ‘everywhere is within walking distance; it just depends upon how far you want to walk.’

I love to walk. I do my best thinking when I’m walking. Often, I find my mind in overwalk as the miles accrue. It’s amazing how many great ideas come as I breathe in and subsequently go on the exhale, each one an endorphin wafting away on the wind.

Wait! Here’s one that I managed to hold on to. Dodging the oncoming Dodge. There are a lot of pickup trucks down here. Granted, not every make is a Dodge, but I do digress.

Driving is different down here. Actually, it’s a lot like boating. I’m not talking about the insane rain that comes, causing widespread flooding, but more the smiling and waving that comes from the unwritten maritime law. Boaters are exceptionally friendly folks. They wave to everyone, whether it be other boaters or maybe landlubbers along the shoreline, maybe some who long for sidewalks.

Tennessee drivers do that too, at least where passing pedestrians are concerned. Driver’s wave to me all the time. ‘Hey, thanks for walking on this scenic, winding country road,’ they tell me with a smile. ‘With little room for error for both of us,’ they warn already in passing, but I don’t hear that part. I’m too busy reveling in the glow of southern hospitality of which I am convinced really does exist.

Tennessee traffic lights are equally friendly. Here I am, driving down a country road and just ahead, the light is red, yet as I approach, this friendly little signal changes to green, almost like it knew that I was not from around here. ‘Welcome, to Tennessee, Tom from New York,’ it tells me with its brightest smile. I have never seen a traffic light smile, but what do I do? I smile back and utter aloud a heartfelt, “Thank-You.” I love Tennessee traffic lights.

A hawk hovers high overhead and I pause in step to admire its effortless flight. Where Hawk sightings were more of a treat in my former New York City area home, here they are in abundance. Admittedly, in the past, I rarely noticed, or maybe never took the time to admire something as simple and majestic as a bird in flight, but now in my quieter country surroundings, I slow down and bask in the moment of that beautiful sight.

And then I take a second to think to myself that maybe I am just growing old. After all, in my younger years, the only time I had probably taken note of any type of fowl was when I was wiping away the foul excrement dropped from above. Take note, by the way, that the ancient adage of good luck coming from this unfortunate incident is more likely legend.

Like the Old West.

Yes, I have taken another pause to ponder a moment from my unlikely sidewalk vantage point. I’m standing in what I might perceive as the center of Historical Downtown Algood. This tiny part of town reminds me a little bit of the old west. There are no stoplights here, only two stop signs. The main street aptly called Main Street bisects a raised walkway on each side. This elevated portion runs only a few hundred feet and is lined with a number of buildings that have obviously been around a while. Here is where you can feel maybe a tad of the history in historical. Most of the businesses appear mostly vacant most of the time with the exception of Red Oak Roasters, a trendy Starbucks like store that does a robust business. There is also the almost ancient Algood furniture store – housed in two separate, sizable structures – which does not. I admire the perseverance of
the proprietor, however, a kindly white-haired gentleman who is open for business six days a week; he smiles and waves at me each time I amble by. An infrequently used train track runs parallel behind the buildings on the south side before curving slightly east where it crosses over Main Street at an actual railroad crossing sans the safety crossing gates one from, say a busier metropolitan area might expect. There are red lights that blink and a bell that sounds to warn

drivers of an oncoming train. I’ve seen and heard this many times in my short time here but have yet to see an actual train. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s sort of a railroad version of the Emergency Broadcast System, the clanging bell tolling, ‘this is a test. This is only a test. Had there been an actual train coming…’ I shrug, and move along thinking that the only thing missing here would be hitching posts for horses. That would be a sight to surely complete my urban east coast take of the old west.

Just a few klicks north as the horse trots, alongside State Route 111, the great Davy Crockett once hosted a real life base camp. Personally, I always pictured the King of the Wild Frontier residing a bit further west of here. Looking across this parcel, one can almost imagine the rugged hardships he must have endured.

I can’t.

There are too many houses around.

Instead, I picture the humble man with the coonskin cap ringing a nearby doorbell. Having removed said hat, he then says something like, ‘pardon me, ma’am, but might I trouble you for the use of that there electric stove to heat up this ol’ possum.’ He holds the dead thing proudly before him. Mr. Crockett is smiling; the woman is screaming and the rest as they say is history.

On one of my longer walks, a five mile trek to nearby Cookeville, a quasi-college town that is home to Tennessee Tech, I make a pitstop at Books-A-Million, a Barnes and Noble type true book emporium. There is nothing really remarkable about this sort of superstore that I would consider to be noteworthy with the exception of an entire section devoted to Westerns. I am an avid reader, one who proudly boasts that I read everything from Steinbeck to Star Trek. This includes westerns, one of my favorite genres and one that is often overlooked in the New York City area. On more than one occasion, I would find myself in a Big Apple bookstore asking someone where I can find the Westerns. The reply always came with that confused puppy look, the tilted head that shows that they are really making an effort to comprehend. One college kid thought long and hard, stroking his chin with professorial expertise before asking me, ‘Dude, do you mean like Western Philosophy?” I sighed, shook my head and responded, ‘no, I mean like cowboys and Indians. You know, Yee-haw,” I screeched in my best cowboy dialect. ‘Yippe Kai Yay, Git Along, Little Doggies.’ It was at this point that I was about to raise my flat palm to my lips and offer up my best Indian part of the impression before I steadfastly stopped myself, erring on the side of politically correct caution in these super sensitive times.

I am still getting used to this idea of living in the country. Sometimes, I find myself feeling like a tourist. I was headed to work one morning when I found myself stopped beneath the overhead highway behind an oversized (maybe a Dodge) pick-up truck hauling a livestock trailer. What do I know about livestock trailers? I have passed them on an interstate more than once or twice on assorted road trips, I’m sure, but never took true notice. While waiting for the light to change, my eyes widened with such wonderment that only a kid at a circus might display. In that very trailer, a bull eyed me warily.

Well, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, I shined with delight.

The bull thought otherwise. ‘You’re not from around here,’ his wide oversized eyes beginning to squint in derision accused.

I looked myself over.

My wide eyes of glee told me, it’s time to flee.

I stammered, make that whined, “It’s the red shirt I’m wearing, isn’t it?”

He nodded, the eyes thinning even further. He may have snorted too. He stomped his front right leg and began sliding his hoof along the metal floor of his temporary mobile housing. I was frozen in place, Carl Denham staring upon the great Kong tearing at his chains. I contemplated running the light, my love affair with Tennessee traffic lights now short-lived and finished.

And that was when it hit me.

I pointed forward. “The light, the light is red too, you stupid bull…oh, not stupid, I didn’t say stupid, who said stupid? Maybe it was the person behind me,” I pointed back with my thumb, risking the quickest glance at the woman in my rearview mirror.

She was putting on makeup.

Wow, I thought. People here do that on the morning commute too.

Something boomed.

I screamed.

The rest, however, was not history, but only a truck roaring past on the highway above, having hit a bump or pothole. It didn’t faze the bull though. He remained poised and ready. No southern horsepitality here.

The light turned green, truck and trailer turned left to enter the highway and I continued on to my posting of the day at a local elementary school as a substitute teacher. This is a new thing for me. My background as a production person in media back in New York is pretty far removed from the idea of now being an educator. Granted, my title comes with the caveat of uncertified, yet, I am so excited and grateful to stand before a classroom of kids and just be me (while I am trying to teach of course). It’s a learning process for all of us, teacher and student, though, I am sure that it is me doing most of the learning. Every day is different. Every school is different. At this point, I have reached the conclusion that being an uncertified substitute teacher is the same thing as being an uncertified farmer. Walking into a classroom for the first time seems to me the equivalent of showing up at someone’s farm for the first time. The farmer greets me with a smile, saying little more than, ‘thanks for comin’. Here’s the keys to the tractor. It’s right around back there,’ he points. ‘You can just take it on up to the field.’ Gracious, he nods and I’m left standing there with a blank stare and two words upon my lips.

‘And then?’

If I ever decide to write about my ongoing substitute teacher vocation, be it temporary, or maybe something more permanent, I am convinced that the title of the tale would simply read, ‘And Then?’.

Winding down the end of another long walk on another winding road, I decide that maybe a pit stop at the trendy coffee place in historic downtown may be in order. The window boasts fresh baked goods, and having hit the pavement for many miles and several hours, I have earned my reward in some form of confectionary delight. My feet may be growing tired, but my mind continues along its similar circuitous path and spins out another random musing. The New York contingent that I left behind has tried to convince me that there is no doubt that I will miss the two most basic elements of my former metropolitan existence, Pizza and Bagels. This is probably one of the oldest and overused axioms in the book of leaving New York. In the several months that I have been here in Tennessee, I have managed to sidestep this particular culinary cliché. Perusing the disappointingly limited array of bakery choices within Red Oak Roasters, I approach the kid behind the counter who is more than friendly enough and really wants to help me make an informed and satisfied decision before leaving. I sigh, already knowing the answer to the question that I am about to ask.

“You wouldn’t by chance have any Linzer Tarts, would you?”

He tilts his head, that confused puppy look etched so evident on his face, lifts his right hand to his chin and begins stroking it with professorial expertise thinking long and hard.

“Do you mean, like…from the Italian Renaissance?” he asks.

A Tennessee college kid is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it.

 

Random thoughts on roaming walks.

Sidewalks not required.

Tom M

Apr 2022

MP Broadway Intro Event

April Showers Bring...

          As a child, April was never my favorite month, probably due directly to that well-worn adage that states April is a rainy month. I dislike rain as much as I despise winter, especially when the moisture seems to fall on the weekends.
          Okay, that may not be entirely true. That statement is something that the harried commuter who always misses the subway train by seconds feels. You always remember the train you missed.
          A classic case of the glass (always) half empty syndrome.
          As I matured, I didn't think about things like April showers. When the warmer weather came, April was okay after all.
          As a writer? Not so much.
          APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
          April is allergy month too...or marks the beginning of allergy season for most.
          I'm allergic to poems. Maybe afraid of them is more likely.
          Recently, through a writing program offered by the Queens Public Library, an assignment (challenge for the poetry challenged) was given.
          Write three Haiku styled poems
          AND three Tanka styled poems.
          Haiku I remember from grade school.
          Tanka? Trucks come to mind.
          I don't do poems...but tried anyway.
          You be the judge.

A traditional Japanese haiku is a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count. Often focusing on images from nature, haiku emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression.

(While I hit the syllable count, I definitely missed the nature part of this, but then again as a kid, I'm sure I did the same).

Like Riding A Bike

Not since the third grade

Have I written a Haiku

It still comes easy

Heaviest Sigh (Ella Serenade)

Looking at the sky

Not a single day goes by

Always asking why

Centenarian Super-Hero

He’s my grandfather

World’s greatest storyteller

He is my hero

The Japanese tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song," and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.

Haiku Super-Sized

A longer Haiku

Whatever am I to do?

Counting syllables

The goal to reach, thirty-one

Here it comes, wait for it. Bam!

Ella Serenade (Reprise)

Her smile so warm

A love like theirs never wrong

The heartache so strong

Every star he wished upon

Wishing every wish were gone

The First Kiss

Unexpected Love

Camping trip, seventy-six

He’s only thirteen

Yesterday so far away

Yet still on his mind today