A Rye Toast to Salem 1691

Yes, I’ve joined the cast of Salem’s Cry Innocent, but I’m tempted to plead Rye Guilty.

As kids, every American hears of Salem’s witch trials, and every October reminds us of them in living black and orange. An official holiday or not, Halloween is Salem’s night to moonshine.

Missing here is why. We know what: An estimated 150 people were imprisoned for witchcraft. At least 19 adults, most of them women, were executed—though we rarely hear of the two dogs also put down.

In lieu of any scientific reasons, all of the hallucinations, the convulsions, “St. Anthony’s Dance,” the skin lesions, the screaming and erratic behavior are attributed to the devil.

I’d say all of the mischief as well, but one theory holds that a Rev. Parris pushed some accusations to acquire vacated land. Another emphasizes the panic caused by a smallpox epidemic. Both, however, may be called pretexts for exploiting or misinterpreting teenage girls acting, looking, and sounding abnormal, often with menace.

For nearly three centuries, no scientific reason was offered until 1976 when a doctoral student at Renssalaer Polytechnic Institute noticed that similar outbreaks occurred earlier in various parts of Europe, all of them with identical symptoms suffered mostly by young girls. What these regions had in common were crops of rye, a grain then far more common to diets, and exceedingly wet seasons prior to the outbreak.

That sent Linnda Caporael, who would complete her doctorate at RPI, into the diaries of Salem villager Samuel Sewall who noted a wet, warm spring of 1691 followed by a hot, stormy summer.

Though it went unnoticed through most of the 18th Century, the excess moisture caused the growth of ergots—small, purple bulbs—on rye grain. Farmers likely thought nothing of it, may not have even noticed it, as they harvested and later milled the crop. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica’s website:

Since medical knowledge was sparse, the presence of darker shoots on rye was probably thought to be the product of overexposure to the sun.

Not only is it toxic, but hallucinogenic. The young girls, with their not-yet-fully-developed immune systems, started acting out late in 1691, and the hysteria was in full swing by year’s end. Almost all of these cases, Caporael found, were on the west side of Salem Village, where there was considerable marsh compared to the rocky east side. Whereas rye was a “common crop,” harvested by and for the immediate community rather than individuals, this fit her theory. Most of the hearings and trials were held in 1692, coming to an abrupt end, Britannica tells us, “quite simply because Salem ran out of ergot-contaminated grain.”

Caporael’s finding has been rejected by some historians who point out that, even in the 17th century, midwives knew how to harness ergot for inducing labor. Says one:

(T)he visions seem to come and go with the afflicted in ways that are more controlled than a hallucination would cause… [E]rgotism leads to gangrene and there is no documentation of the accusers having gangrenous limbs–even while other symptoms (admittedly similar…) are written about with detail.

Since ergotism was unknown at the time, Cry Innocent has nothing to do with it. So I’m well offstage and away from the cast when I ask: Does an outbreak in one place have to duplicate every symptom in another to be considered the same, or even related? As Britannica tells us:

With the exception of a few events likely triggered by groupthink and the power of suggestion, behavior exhibited in 1692 fits the bill of rye-induced ergotism…

Perhaps it was ergotism that triggered the groupthink and manipulation. Perhaps an American strain lighter than that which produced gangrene in Europe. As always, when you mix history and science you get theory, never to be 100% pinned down and always ripe for debate.

No doubt due to the immediate opposition in 1976, Caporael’s report was not widely circulated. There may have been public resistance as well. After all, as any child will tell you—and as any actor or director will quickly agree—villains are the highlight of any story. Satan versus ergot bulbs on rye grain? No contest!

Be that as may, count me as among those who espouse the theory. To a child of the Sixties, the hallucinatory properties seem close enough, and it is more than glaring that no explanation other than Satan has ever been offered.

The tide turned in October of 2012 when Discover Magazine published an essay comparing Salem’s trials to the Vardo trials in northern Norway throughout the 17th Century:

Hundreds of women were accused, and 92 burned at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. Ergot poisoning has also been suspected in several “dancing mania” events in Europe, in which masses of people danced randomly in the street for hours.

Two months later, Live Science offered an irresistible parallel to account for Santa’s annual trips around the world: Hallucinogenic mushrooms in northern Finland, a place with very few people, but many of them shepherds. About as close to the North Pole as you can get, this is where the reindeer, if not the antelope, play. After bites of mushrooms, shephards saw them fly.

Another character we think of as myth, is actually based on a historical figure. According to one of a handful of theories, he used laced bread to entice children to leave a Saxon village in 1284. If true, then for the Pied Piper—my ancestor so to speak—the music was more analogous to taking loaves from the oven than to the baking of the hallucinogenic bread he fed those kids. His flute served as an aural oven mitt.

Medical News Today could have had him in mind when it reported that LSD “is not the same as ergot fungus but contains some similar compounds.” The magazine did include the Salem trials in an extended diagnosis last year, offsetting the poison with a report of extracts with medicinal value for migraines and childbirth–as well as current research for Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.

Even Bon Appetit served up Salem’s contaminated rye, though it should have changed its name to Mal Appetit. One wonders if they were using the story to steer us toward French baguettes.

As for me, my sandwiches between performances will still be on dark rye. After the summer we’ve had, it may be all I need to stay in character.

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Note: Nearly two years after writing this, I chanced upon a 1991 book titled Poisons of the Past by Mary Kilbourne Matossian who explains that ergotism has two strains: gangrenous and convulsive. That Salem’s young girls had no gangrene, therefore, does not rule out that they were afflicted by the latter strain. See: https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300051216/poisons-of-the-past/

Detail of TRIAL OF TWO WITCHES by Howard Pyle (1853-1911).
http://www.granger.com.

Sources:

https://www.britannica.com/story/how-rye-bread-may-have-caused-the-salem-witch-trials

https://www.discovermagazine.com/mind/this-hallucinogenic-fungus-might-be-behind-the-salem-witch-trials

https://www.bonappetit.com/entertaining-style/pop-culture/article/how-a-bad-rye-crop-might-have-caused-the-salem-witch-trials

https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/ergot-poisoning#history

https://www.livescience.com/25731-magic-mushrooms-santa-claus.html

Pay the Piper! A Street-Performer’s Public Life in America’s Privatized Times (2014), page 17.

Don’t It Always Seem to Go

Possibly the most quoted song of all the Sixties classics, it is the target of ridicule in a supermarket where I make my rounds today. Joni booms from the ceiling speakers as I walk in:

They’ve paved paradise and put up a parking lot! Ooooooooooh, ya, ya, ya…

One young deli clerk’s smirking laugh nearly makes his wisecrack redundant: “So, if we don’t pave paradise, where are we supposed to park our cars? Up in trees?”

He appears to be answering someone in a back room, and I do not catch the remark that prompts or follows his car-wrecktorical questions. Indeed, I have no idea If I’m hearing one side of a debate or one half of unanimous condemnation.

Before I can learn which, the clerk is summoned away, leaving me no chance to put my quarter–or my credit card as today’s well-paved world now has it–into any meter of Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.”

Just as well. The comment is so unprecedented, at least to me, that I’m at a loss for words. There’s a reason that it’s been among most quoted musical lines for over fifty years and counting. Just last month, I headlined a blog, “Of Paradise & Parking Lots,” and last week it appeared in my Newburyport Daily News column, “Best-Sellers R Us,” as a metaphor for the recent, indiscriminate, hi-tech-driven practice of “weeding” in public libraries.

At the deli counter today I feel as if I’m hearing JFK’s “Ask what you can do” singed in the cynicism of “what’s in it for me?” There’s no question that the Zeitgeist of the Sixties–from Joni to JFK, or from Kerouac to MLK–seems quaint to those in the thrall of America’s Algorithms-Über-Alles 21st Century, but Joni’s “birds and bees”? Please!

Half a century later, our modern day technocrats keep putting up parking lots without gloating over the loss of paradise, or claiming that those of us wanting to preserve it are a bunch of losers. Rather, they merely insist, no matter the evidence to the contrary, that the more parking lots, the better.

By now, they may be right. When Mitchell wrote that song, shopping malls were a new concept. Up until then, most shopping for clothes, hardware, and household items was done downtown in city or town centers. Groceries were purchased at corner stores in most neighborhoods where you also found barber shops, pizza shops, and fish markets. Most all businesses were owned and run by families who lived in the town; what they spent, they spent in the town. In effect, all of us spent what we spent on each other on each other.

That was the America in which Mitchell, a Canadian, arrived only to see us chain ourselves–in both senses of the word–to shopping malls. They were promoted as convenient under the banner of “one-stop shopping,” and it was easy for the corporate owners in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Tokyo, or anywhere else with skyscrapers to undersell the mom-and-pops downtown and around the corner.

In the winter, there was the added advantage of remaining indoors as you went from store to store. To make it even more inviting, mall designers placed a few chairs in the corridors, and, as my slightly older cousin enthused at the time, “had music coming out of the ceilings” while she and her girlfriends strolled those corridors in a time-honored ritual now facilitated by a controlled environment.

Because so many stores expected so many customers, and because they were all being built on outskirts of towns and cities, massive parking lots were required. No more walking to get a haircut or a pizza or fish-n-chips. No more bus rides downtown.

Often, these were open fields where kids played games, woods with trails where kids went exploring, parks where people of all ages walked, sat, picnicked, romanced, meditated, dreamt, thought long thoughts, asked what they might do for…

This is what Joni Mitchell saw paved.

Not sure if it’s even possible to communicate that to a teenaged deli clerk today. I doubt that such variables would fit any app on his cellphone, nor do I think he’d ever give up the option of one-stop-shopping for a return to mom-and-pop businesses any more than would his parents or his parents’ generation. And, so, yes, he–they, we–must have ample parking.

“Big Yellow Taxi” was a huge, instant hit playing all over the radio, AM and FM, when I was a teenage clerk in a downtown delicatessen. I loved it as much as anyone, especially the line more than one female friend at Salem State liked to sing from time to time:

You don’t know what you got till it’s gone…

Chances are they had in mind the loss of doomed relationships rather than the loss of Mother Nature to concrete and asphalt, but I was so vain, I never thought they sang about me.

That may be why I shouldn’t fault the deli clerk I heard today for laughing at it. The last laugh, after all, is his. Delicatessens such as where I worked were pretty much erased by the supermarkets such as where he works. All made possible by a few football fields’ worth of pavement.

Ridicule?

That’s the fate of all prophets.

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Joni Mitchell performing at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in New Orleans, Lousiana on May 6, 1995. Photo Credit: Ebet Roberts/Redferns
https://www.billboard.com/music/rock/joni-mitchell-book-morning-glory-on-the-vine-8502109/

High on the Rocks of Time

I’m the only person I know who was once hired because the guy choosing from the applications noticed that my birthday, March 18, matched his.

Turned out that the place of employment and the job itself were just as loose, to put it in the parlance of the 1970s. My job was to place large colorful numerals on enormous pieces of just as colorful nylon that, when stitched together, would form spinnakers, or racing sails.

Not the triangular sails that you commonly see on all sailboats, but those huge, billowy, and perfectly symmetrical sails on boats that compete for world cups. Fifty years ago, Ted Hood of Marblehead, Mass., was an annual contender for and at times winner of those cups. Among his advantages was his own sail making company that made them to exact specifications.

Spinnakers are so large that we worked on a floor kept cleaner than the tables of our own college dorms and apartments back in Salem. Knee pads made it easy, as did a rock-and-roll station that played non-stop. Then came the breaks every two hours during which the guy with my birthday would lead his team, all eight of us, out of the building and onto a smooth rock overlooking the ocean to enjoy the sea-breeze and a bit of spray if the surf was up.

Once we were seated and sipping our coffee or soda, he’d reach into his pockets, find a joint, already rolled, strike a match, get it going, and then pass it along. By the time the third person had it, he find another, light it, and pass it on. No one was obliged to partake, though I think we all did. I certainly don’t recall checking a yes or no for marijuana use on the application, but he may have assumed it of a fellow Pisces.

You’re not going to believe this, and even though pot is now legal, it’s probably very bad manners or grossly politically incorrect to say it, but here goes: Our work was easier once we were high. This may be due to so many bright colors being combined, a heightened sense that these were works of art that we weren’t just making, but making possible.

Back in that day of altered consciousness, we’d experienced what we called a “rush,” that might be described as a moment of ecstacy or enlightenment. At Hood Sail this happened whenever the radio station reached back six or so years and played the unmistakable strumming of an autoharp to open a Lovin’ Spoonful song.

Everyone stopped. The women at the machines, the people at the tables, the supervisors in their tracks all looked up as if the band was there attached to the wall in place of the speakers. They all smiled, nodded to each other, and returned to work. I doubt that any of those folk were getting high. First time we, the summer crew noticed this palpable adoration, we must have looked confused. My birthday boss (and drug supplier) noticed:

“He worked here!”

“Who worked here?”

“John Sebastian! The guy singing that song, a song he wrote. He had your job!”

Guess I missed him by at least ten years. I was still in high school when I attended two Spoonful concerts. At one, at my high school–a Catholic high school!–I met and was hopelessly smitten by Donna, an attractive lass who claimed to be drummer Joe Butler’s cousin. But she arrived on a bus from Winnacunnet High, some 30 miles distant, and these were my learner’s permit days before I could drive in the night when, as Sebastian sang, “it’s a different world.”

The Spoonful’s reputation as a folk-rock band was misleading. Sure, Sebastian looked angelic in his granny glasses and picking his autoharp, but they often launched into instrumental riffs led by guitarist Zal Yanovsky that were as kick-ass as what the Beatles and Rolling Stones were putting on albums. To describe it with other common 70s’ expressions, they cooked, they sizzled.

“Do You Believe in Magic?” and “Did You Ever Have to Make up Your Mind?” were my favorites back then, although “Summer in the City” and “Rain on the Roof” have more appeal now. Whichever you pick, “Bald Headed Lena” included, it is one of the crying shames of rock music history that John Sebastian is today remembered more for a televison sitcom’s theme song than for all those great Spoonful hits.* What a day for a…

…Daydream

You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice

Nashville Cats

Darlin’ Be Home Soon

Bald Headed Lena…

…has anybody seen her? Cute as she can be/ She don’t wear no wig ’cause her head’s too big/ But she’s alright with me…

Well, who am I to complain? I recall him more for the best summer job with the most unlikely fringe benefit I’ve ever had. All because my supervisor’s birthday is the day after his.

About twenty years after all that, or thirty years ago, my daughter, then about 15, and I were travelling through Ontario when we put in for the night at a bed and breakfast in Kingston, a very attractive, elegant small city at the east end of Lake Ontario where you can take tours on boats that zig and zag from the lake into the beginning of the St. Lawrence Seaway.

On a table in the lobby were about a dozen menus of downtown restaurants, all within walking distance. I asked Rachel to pick one while I moved luggage into the room. She handed me one for a place she clearly chose for it’s name, Chez Piggy, but I was immediately struck by the name of one of the two proprietors in the top righthand corner:

Zal Yanovsky.

So in character! The restaurant’s goofy name and equally goofy logo of a smiling oinker… It had to be the guy who gave Sebastian a rest by singing lead on “Bald Headed Lena.” Off we went on that mild summer evening to a gorgeous, quaint place with outdoor seating. As soon as we were seated and I ordered a pint of ale, I asked the waiter.

“Oh, yes! And if you arrived just ten minutes ago, you could have shaken his hand.”

In time, I’d learn he was a native of Toronto where he busked Yonge Street with Dennis Doherty before they struck out for fame–Doherty to LA where he joined the Mamas and the Papas, Yanovsky to NYC where he met Sebastian. A fellow busker! The meal, by the way, was delicious, as was the Sleeman Ale.

Occurs to me, as it might to you, that my last blog was about missing Jimmy Buffett when I moved into a South Dakota trailer court about five years after he left. That, as you might guess, was what reminded me of missing John Sebastian by ten years and missing Zal Yanovsky by ten minutes.

Is it merely coincidence or cosmic consolation that the settings for both–a summer job, a restaurant far from home–were as good as it gets?

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Spinnakers made by Hood Sail.
https://www.windcheckmagazine.com/races-and-regattas/4th-annual-storm-trysail-club-ted-hood-regatta-is-on-august-21-23/

L2R: Steve Boone, bass; Zal Yanovsky, lead guitar; Joe Bultler, drums; John Sebastian, autoharp, who also played acoustic guitar as much of the time as well as occasional harmonica. Photo taken in London, 1966: https://forestdweller18285.blogspot.com/2019/10/the-lovin-spoonful.html

*For more about the Lovin’ Spoonful–how they came together, stayed together, and came (abruptly) apart, see bassist Steve Boone’s 2014 memoir, Hotter than a Matchhead, a title taken from the hit song, “Summer in the City.” Some wild surprises, such as their employment as the Beatles’ roadies for the gig at Shea Stadium and driving around Manhattan in an old, beat up station wagon belonging to Bob Dylan who insisted on driving while lighting and passing around joints:

http://www.rebeatmag.com/book-hotter-than-a-match-head-steve-boone/

Beach Bums on the Prairie

So Jimmy Buffet lived for a couple years in Brookings, South Dakota. In a trailer court. Can you guess who else once lived a Brookings trailer court?

To this day I can barely explain how I–a Massachusetts boy always called a “Boston boy” because my state’s name ties western tongues–ever landed in that small college town hard by the Minnesota border.

How a native of Mississippi who grew up on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico landed there is beyond me. How I never heard mention of him after my arrival just six years after he left–two years after the release of “Come Monday” and just months before the release of “Margaritaville”–compounds the puzzle.

At a dead end of my own youthful indirection, if not indiscretion, I was tempted by a classified ad in Editor & Publisher, a trade magazine. Attending South Dakota State University’s graduate school of journalism was the pretext, but the real draw was moving someplace where no one knew me and vice versa.

Compare that Buffett’s description of his move in his 1998 memoir, A Pirate Looks at Fifty (a title that plays on his own song, “A Pirate Looks at Forty”):

The Great Plains looked like as good a place as any to get lost in for a while… The next thing I knew, I was headlining Steak ‘n’ Ale joints all over the Midwest, making five hundred bucks a week, with a free salad bar. At first I loved the wide-open spaces, but one afternoon in a trailer park in Brookings, South Dakota, where I was living, the siren in town sounded a tornado warning. Across the flat, open field to the west came not one but two twisters. I, of course, had been in storms at sea, but this was different.

In the 1970s, $500 bought much more in South Dakota than back here in Massachusetts. Add that adjustment to fifty years of inflation, not to mention all those salad bars, and it’s no surprise that Buffett could sing that he “made enough money to buy Miami.”

On the prairie where towns are tiny and spread out, “Steak ‘n’ Ale joints” tend to be quite large with vast parking lots that fill up on weekend nights with cars carrying in people from miles around. Brookings is a full hour north of Sioux Falls, the biggest city in the Dakotas–as well as in neighboring Wyoming and Montana with Idaho to boot. Barely the size of Providence now, Sioux Falls was more the size of Pawtucket then. Many other towns are under 5,000 population, some of them but crossroads.

According to a 2008 report from my SDSU friend Tom Lawrence, now co-editor of The South Dakota Standard, Buffett was immensely popular throughout the region. Lawrence interviewed the owner of Jim’s Tap, a Brookings bar, and a chef at a local supper club who agreed, as the latter put it, that Buffett “did a good job of packing the house.”

Considering that Jim’s was a favorite watering hole of mine in the Carter years, it’s all the more puzzling that I never heard of Buffett in Brookings.

Buffett enjoyed his time in Dakota. Enough so that when Lawrence was sent to cover a concert in Texas, Buffet took him past security and backstage as soon as my friend blurted out his one allotted (by an “unctuous” security guard) question at a distance: “Did you live in South Dakota?”

Lawrence describes Buffett’s dawning smile of recognition as if it was that of a man who just found that lost shaker of salt. Thankfully, the interview is more of a gold mine than a salt mine, and I’ll add the link below.* But not before I chip away at a nugget as galling as it is satisfying to consider:

In Brookings, Buffett lived in a trailer court. If I was wide-eyed when I saw Brookings in the tributes, I was dropped-jawed by this. Trailer court I lived in was on the western edge of town overlooking alfalfa fields that went on forever. Just eight trailers where we all knew each other and often sat together drinking and smoking weed outside.

My then-neighbor and still-friend Bruce dubbed it the “Easy Livin’ Trailer Court,” a name that stuck. Would have been perfect for a singer-songwriter with a laid-back vibe. Had he stayed anywhere in South Dakota, his fans would be known as “Pheasantheads.”

While there’s no question that his music was escapist, Margaritaville a place to be “wasted away again,” Buffett was as aware as any artist of art’s environment. Come any day of the week in the mid-70s, and you’d hear people sing “in a brown LA haze” when residents of many American cities were living in grayish brown and orange clouds, when papers such as the Denver Post put air quality warnings on their front pages every day. The EPA, brand new at the time, had a mandate of public support that “Come Monday” likely helped galvanize. Those clouds were gone by the mid-80s.

No wonder Buffett was alarmed by the view from his trailer of tornadoes touching down on a “flat, open field to the west.” Wish I could ask if it was an alfalfa field he looked over.

Lawrence reminds me that Brookings, a college town after all, has several trailer courts, all of them much larger. By the time I arrived, Buffett was already in California growing into his beach bum persona. By the time I left, perhaps I was chasing him in some unknowing way.

Where did I wash ashore? Plum Island, and I’ve been here ever since, spending as much or more time on a beach all these years as anyone, provided you do not count the winter months.

Buffett, meanwhile, strolled the beaches of Key West, Florida, where there are no winter months. And where the risk of skin cancer must be high. I was probably spared his fate in 1998 when a dermatologist insisted on removing a spot as soon as he saw it, my plans for boiled shrimp and sponge cake be damned.

Some people claim that there’s carelessness to blame. Yes, as Buffett ended his most beloved song, “I know it was my own damn fault.”

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The slogan at the bottom of this touristy postcard perhaps explains why Mr. Parrothead landed there:
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/112238215688924441/

*From Tom Lawrence, publisher, editor, and writer for The South Dakota Standard, last week:

https://www.sdstandardnow.com/home/farewell-to-jimmy-buffett-the-true-story-of-the-music-legend-with-a-south-dakota-connection?

Adapted from his 2008 report if you care for more detail:

https://www.sdstandardnow.com/home/heres-another-remembrance-of-the-late-great-musician-jimmy-buffett-who-turned-brookings-sd-into-our-own-margaritaville

The Gas of Price

One of the advantages of workouts at the gym is the view you have of television monitors that line the wall where it meets the ceiling.

A sports fan can keep an eye on three or four games at a time. For a news junkie, there’s CNN, CBS, and NBC. For those who need to feed their fear, paranoia, and prejudices, or who just want a free lobotomy, there’s Fox (so-called) News.

Of course, you can’t hear any of them, which is a blessing in that last case, but most have crawls that my septuagenarian eyes can read from the treadmills three rows back.

Since I joined in January, I’ve been reading on the news stations of severe weather caused by climate change, of attempts to repeal reproductive rights, and of investigations and indictments resulting from an attempt to overthrow an election.

On Fox, of course, it’s all about the president’s son’s questionable business dealings, crime rates in cities, “chaos” at the southern border, and inflation.

There is one story the stations have in common, but according to the crawls, they appear to be quite different. On the news stations, it’s about attempts to censor books in school curricula and libraries, threatening teachers and, yes, even librarians with criminal charges. On Fox, it’s all about “violations” of “parental rights” each time censorship is ruled unconstitutional.

Makes you wonder if the First Amendment protects calls to hang the vice-president but not To Kill a Mockingbird–and if a gallows with a noose at the ready on Capitol grounds is patriotic while a rainbow flag hung from a front porch is anti-American.

Tempting to say that the broadcasts seem to be of different worlds, but all news stations have covered Hunter Biden’s legal problems, including his guilty plea. They also cover news from cities and from the Rio Grande. Unlike Fox, they let us know that crime rates are way down, as is illegal immigration.

Inflation? We may be paying more for food, but folks growing it, harvesting it, picking it, preparing it, packaging it, transporting it, cooking it, serving it, and washing the plates and bowls and pans and containers in which it comes to us are making more and are able to afford more. To them, the last two years have made the difference between what we euphemize as “food insecurity” and what we proudly hail as a “living wage.” What kind of people would erase that for the sake of a favorite cheese returning from the $5.49 a block it is now to the $4.99 it was two years ago?

Unlike Fox, real news outlets also report how unemployment is now at its lowest rate since the 1960s, that wages are up, and that factories have been and continue to be built as a result of the CHIPS & Science Act, an initiative of the Biden Administration signed into law a year ago this month.

CHIPS (Creating Helpful Incentives to Produce Semiconductors) is never mentioned on the crawls of Fox. Nor do those crawls say anything of numerous Republican representatives and senators now taking credit for its benefits in their districts–even though every one of them voted against it.

Republicans did the same 13 years ago when Obamacare was passed–taking credit for the benefits after voting against it en mass. But that was long before I joined a gym, so I don’t know how Fox distorted Republican double-talk or if they just ignored it. Like many of my friends, I have over the years made attempts to watch Fox for the sake of understanding it. And, again like friends, I can hold my breath underwater for longer than I can inhale that station’s unrelenting rage. That they mask so much of it as insinuating questions–thereby dodging accountability–just makes it worse.

Fox has been held to account in court. For documented lies about Dominion voting machines, Fox forked out a settlement of $787.5 million. In the world of an “informed citizenry” imagined by Jefferson and Madison, that would be more than enough to put an end to Fox. But when enough of the citizenry depends on Fox to be informed, all the station needs to do is keep the lawsuit off the air. Eventually, the money from advertisements will cover the costs of all guilt–no matter how high the costs or deep the guilt.

As historian Howard Zinn pointed out, the deception is not so much in lies as in emphasis and omission.

Which is why the price of gas is now a dangerous issue. Despite all appearances, gas is not a dependable gauge of inflation. Often, it’s a gauge of corporate greed, as we learn every time Exxon, Mobil, Shell and other companies report record profits as if they are unrelated to the increases at the pump. Also, like the prices of cigarettes and postage stamps, that of gas is subject to geo-political whims and pressures. That’s why it sometimes goes back down.

We’ve all noticed it creeping back up in recent weeks. Those who read the news–from actual, credible sources–know that this is a result of a deal between Russia and Saudi Arabia to squeeze the supply and put pressure on us. Their goal is to keep raising the price to over $5 per gallon next summer when Republicans can ride it as a campaign issue.

Putin wants Trump back in the White House to undo the NATO alliance and let Russia have Ukraine. The Saudi Prince wants Trump back in charge so he can cash in on a loan to son-in-law Jared Kushner so large that it makes Hunter’s laptop look like the shoebox cash register at a child’s lemonade stand.

None of this appears in Fox crawls. Judging from the crawl’s constant attachment of the name Biden to the word inflation–under a barrage of pictures showing signs of prices at gas stations–it’s a safe bet that Fox hosts never talk about it.

Instead, they will emphasize the rising cost while omitting the reason for it. Call it the gas of price.

Their audience will not just believe it, but will grieve about it, loudly and frequently. Problem is that many who don’t watch Fox don’t pay much attention to other sources either. Too many of us won’t hear of higher employment rates if already employed, or of higher wages if working at places where rates are locked in. But the signs will be up at every gas station where the numbers roll up at the pumps.

Only way to counter this is to not let the claim slide.

May be uncomfortable in a group of people you barely know, or at the proverbial holiday dinner table, but there’s no need to attack anyone, any political party, or any bogus news source. No need to raise a voice or argue at all. All we need do is state the reason for the increase in gas prices–and offset complaints of inflation with talk of employment rates, higher wages, and new factories as they appear across the country.

In a word, provide and emphasize what the gas of price omits. Much the way the numbers on a treadmill–distance, time, calories–provide real numbers that all those television monitors tempt us to avoid.

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https://fineartamerica.com/featured/old-time-gas-station-vicki-jauron.html

Comparatively Seeing

Anyone still insisting that no one today can be compared to Hitler needs to see an optometrist. Or a dictionary to tell them that a comparison is not an equation.

So, too, anyone who uses the phrase “apples and oranges” to dismiss comparisons.

Before we get to the mugshot seen round the world, let’s consider these two absurdities that have long passed for conventional wisdom.

Apples and oranges both grow on trees and bear fruit with seeds and peels. Both are nutritious, often the same size, always the same shape (save for the strain of apple called “Delicious” which has a slight taper), and can be turned into juice. The way we use the term “apples and oranges,” you’d think that they were meat loaf and modern drama. Why?

Only reason I can think of is to dismiss comparisons out of hand. Comparisons do require thought, and thought can be taxing. Worst of all, many among us would rather not think at all, resent the very thought of thinking. How else could “woke,” slang for “aware,” become a dirty word?

Reminds me of the English parliament considering a ban on religious satire after a magazine’s Paris offices were bombed due to cartoons depicting the prophet Muhammad. Among those who argued against any ban was Salman Rushdie who carefully but pointedly noted that laughter is a form of thought. Limit laughter and you restrict your ability to think.

Comparisons–whether as metaphors and analogies, or as simple measurements–are likewise a form of thought offering a way to understand a subject. My neighbors who have never been to Annapolis, Maryland, will gain an idea of it when described as “Newburyport on steroids,” as I’ve heard a Newburyport city councilor call it. And if we want to describe home to a friend in New Mexico, we might call our town “Santa Fe with boats,” as did a Chamber of Commerce brochure some years ago.

If I tell you that a tanker on the Great Lakes is 1,000 feet long, you’ll need a moment to conjure up a vague idea. If I say it’s three football fields, including end-zones, it will immediately lengthen right before your mind’s eye.

Of course, this is oversimplified, as these are but hints. Such are comparisons not pretending to be equations. They open doors to understanding and leave us to stand or sit or walk through the room on our own.

The impulse to put Hitler off limits for comparison is understandable. No one has come close to inflicting the horror he brought about. But what of the way he came to power? What of his appeal to so many who followed him no matter what he did? Believed him no matter what he said, no matter how hateful and paranoid his rant and rave?

Would it help to know that, according to his several biographers, he rehearsed his facial expressions and gestures in front of mirrors? Would knowing that have lessened the shock of seeing Donald Trump’s practiced mugshot last week?

Yes or no, it would have prepared us for it.

Just as we might have been prepared for, resisted, and avoided the national nightmare that he has inflicted on us since 2016 had we observed history’s lesson rather than ruling it out of the bounds of polite company. Consider this list:

Not elected by a majority.
Used a direct communication channel to supporters.
Constant blame of others, dividing on racial lines.
Relentless demonization of opponents.
Unceasing attacks on objective truth.
Demonization and ridicule of the press.
Attacks on and distortions of science.
Lies that blur reality–and satisfy bigots who then spread them.
Orchestrations of mass rallies to show status
Extreme nationalism.
Boasting of closing borders.
Embracing mass detentions and deportations.
Using closed borders to protect selected industries.
Cementing rule by enriching elite allies.
Rejecting international norms.
Attacks on democratic processes.
Attacks on the judiciary and rule of law.
Glorify the military and demand loyalty oaths.
Proclaim unchecked power.
Relegate women to subordinate roles.

Now tell me just whom writer Burt Neuborne had in mind when he compiled that list in his book, When at Times the Mob Is Swayed: A Citizen’s Guide to Defending Our Republic: Hitler, Trump, or all of the above?

That’s way more in common than apples have with oranges, and still we might add another formidable, tell-tale list:

Alliances with dictators and contempt for elected leaders of free countries.
Suggested threats of violence against opponents at home.
A constant show of machismo rage.
Constant repetition.
Campaigning with a promise of retribution (vergeltung as one kept saying).
Rehearsing poses, expressions, and gestures in front of mirrors…

Just how much more does anyone want? Most unnerving about Neuborne’s book is that it was published four years ago, and yet we were still under this thrall that allowed for no comparison. Perhaps we still are.

So easy to make jokes about the mugshot. Especially now that it is being sold on shirts and coffee mugs with the boast of “Never Surrender!” when we know that it was taken when he literally surrendered to law enforcement at Georgia’s Fulton County Jail.

And just why did they allow him to state his own height and weight as well as posing for what is now a fund-raising PR prop?

Someone on social media likened it to “The Kubrick Stare,” showing it with similar poses of deranged, violent charcters in his films, Clockwork Orange, Full Metal Jacket, and The Shining. Yes, that’s good for a harrowing laugh–and laughter serves a purpose–but there’s a more helpful comparison to be made.

Within three years of Hitler’s demise, George Orwell wrote 1984. Clearly a cautionary tale against the rise of another Hitler or Mussolini, it described a nation where a stern image of its leader, Big Brother, was posted everywhere the public might look. The expression conveyed almighty power, strength, and control–not just of action, but of thought.

It also conveyed the claim, “I alone can do it,” yet another boast common to both Hitler and Trump.

A cautionary tale? Hate to say it, but 1984 has been taken as a blueprint. Joke about the mugshot all you want, but realize that it already serves them as propaganda. “Never Surrender”? Forget the obvious lie, forget the 215 lbs., and forget the elevator shoes that make 6’3″ possible.

It’s not what the MAGA crowd actually believes, it’s about what they want to believe. Until we lift all bans on comparisons, as well as on laughter, we will have to endure it.

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https://thenewpress.com/books/when-times-mob-swayed

https://www.commondreams.org/views/2019/08/09/leading-civil-rights-lawyer-shows-20-ways-trump-copying-hitlers-early-rhetoric-and

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/world/2017/08/31/germany-nazis-far-right/608798001/

https://www.fruitfulvineministry.com/relationships-are-like-well-apples-and-oranges/

Bombarbied

By far the busiest film for which I’ve popped, bagged, and sold popcorn since Sean Penn reincarnated Harvey Milk in 2008.

All audiences were overwhelmingly female, from pre-teen to gray hair. Save for the kids and teens, that’s not so far beyond typical for an art cinema where audiences tend to be about 2/3rds female.

Ironically, I heard several men among our regular patrons vow to skip Barbie, apparently thinking it would be nothing but child’s play on a relentlessly pink and day-glow screen. Nostalgia for grown women at best.

We screen films that many dismiss as “chick flicks,” but what any honest, objective person with an attention span not dependent on explosions, fist fights,and high-speed car chases would call food for thought. Hence, the female-dominated demographic.

No doubt director Greta Gerwig hoped to reassure male skeptics as well as feminists when she pitched the film as “for those who love Barbie, and for those who hate Barbie.”

As an American male who never gave the doll any thought apart from provoking and then moderating arguments between freshmen in my college classes years ago, I’ll leave that judgement of the film to others–although I wish my text book had the script for the scenes with Barbie creator Ruth Handler played beatifically by Rhea Perlman. I’d have also gotten much mileage out of the tirade late in the film by Gloria, the receptionist at Mattel played by America Ferrera in full emotional range.

Others can tell–or perhaps you can tell me–of the rest of the acting, the cinematography, the music, the coherence and pace of the plot.

I’m more interested in what Barbie puts on America’s dinner table. If you saw the film, just as if you sat at a banquet, there were bowls of all kinds of delights you spooned or forked onto your plate and others on which you passed. A lot of food for thought to pick from, and you can’t think of everything any more than you can eat everything–unless you see it more than once, which is all too easy for a projectionist (or a chef) to say.

As a projectionist, I get a better view of the table, and now that Barbie has left the Screening Room, all I can do is tell those men–and a few women now that I think of it–what they missed.

A lot of spoofs in Barbie starting with the opening scene, a combination of 2001 and Planet of the Apes. My hunch is that the first sight of a giant Barbie causing little girls to smash their baby dolls triggered the far-right reaction. They could have seen the act as a stand-in for abortion.

If not that, it was surely a visual image of young children becoming what they fear as “woke,” but what the rest of us welcome as aware–assuming that we take it as the visual joke intended and not literally.

Before long, Barbie herself becomes aware and falls into a funk until “Weird Barbie” sends off for the Real World to “the state of Los Angeles in the country of California.” Ken stowaways for an unwelcome ride, and the audience may be laughing too hard to notice the spoof of Genesis‘ account of Adam and Eve cast out of the Garden of Eden. It was Eve, after all, who first bit the apple.

This analogy would cast “Weird Barbie” as God, a non-stop hilarious turn by SNL‘s Kate McKinnon in her few scenes, but by mid-film, Barbie is more analogous to Through the Looking Glass, and Weird Barbie is the Cheshire Cat smiling upon Margot Robbie’s Alice.

A character analogous to both God and the Cheshire Cat may be the foremost of many reasons why Barbie is the most inspired film since the Coen Brothers’ Fargo in 1996.

I could keep going. Among numerous references to classic films, Ken’s “horses are extensions of men” offers a strong dose of Gulliver’s Travels. Also, Barbie’s transition to the Real World (capitalized because that’s how it appears on the sign along the road leading out of Barbieland) is an Ugly Duckling story in reverse–which also allowed for a hilarious “memo to director” interruption.

Anyone might find as many spoofs and references as I missed. Says a friend, Barbie is:

A caricature, of course, and a comedy. Not all trivial and heavy-handed. Several jokes hingeing on The Matrix, and questions concerning whether what we experience is real. In the doll world, nearly all the women are named Barbie and all the men are Ken. So, lots of hi Ken, hi Barbie. Lots of sight-gags, bad jokes, & bad boy patriarchy jokes…

My waggish observations: Barbie is like A Clockwork Orange without the ultraviolence. Who are my friends? Is there a cure for my condition(ings)? Who am I? How do I get out of here?

There’s obvious humorous Kubrick references too.

Barbie might fall into film history near Altman’s Popeye and Brooks’ Spaceballs.

Could just as well place it with The Truman Show and The Grand Budapest Hotel. And if Barbie–the doll or the film character–falls far short of the civil rights activist played by Sean Penn in Milk, Sasha, the as-woke-as-it-gets high-schooler played by Ariana Greenblatt, satisfies the appetite.

We probably shouldn’t use the word “reincarnation” for a film about a toy, but Barbie brings so much to life that it’s a mistake to dismiss it as nostalgia for grown women at best. Whether you hate or love the doll, this film fills every appetite for thought about the human condition today as fully as did Network in 1976.

And you will laugh from beginning to end.

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https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-news/greta-gerwig-barbie-premiere-alamo-drafthouse-1234793657/

Such Stuff ASAA

I never talk about dreams, maybe because I have so few. Once a month, if that

Back when I was in college, describing and analyzing dreams seemed a fad, often linked to astrology and horoscopes. I rolled my eyes at all of it. Still do.

Exceptions are made when I hear or read about general tendencies of dreams. One category always mentioned, often top of the list, might be called Unfinished Business.

What few dreams I have fit this category. They take shape of performing some task, running some errand, working a job, only to put things on hold, take a detour, attend to something else–followed by a futile, frustrating attempt to return and finish the original task. Simple enough and hardly worth recounting.

Save one at least ten years ago that remains as vivid if implausible as a video game: I’m driving one employer’s delivery van, and I have my other employer’s 35mm projector rolling and whirring film in the back. I’m racing to return to the cinema where an audience I left awaits the rest of the film, as well as to the chocolate company to return the van.

Beautiful scenery, though, as I daringly take the curves of what appears to be California’s coastal highway, a good 3.000 miles from both destinations. Or are these the cliffs of Nova Scotia’s Cabot Trail, a mere 500 from where I need to be?

No one needs to explain to me how or why the German word for dream, traum, gives us the English word, trauma.

Luckily, I always awake before any real trauma, and I’m almost always glad to be done with it. On rare occasions, the dream’s plot twists more in my favor, perhaps a romance long ago, real or imagined, and I try to remain asleep even when I’m waking up and know it’s but a dream.

Only one exception to unfinished dreams that I can recall. About twenty years ago, I dreamt of the Thanksgiving table where I’d be sitting in a few months among a dozen friends and family. But one chair was empty. Days later I learned of the grandmother who passed peacefully, perhaps five years before her husband who joined us for as many more Thanksgiving feasts.

Call it a dream of premonition. I had another last week,

Once again, I was driving a delivery van, but this time without absurdly impossible cargo such as a movie projector about the size and weight of a family refrigerator. Instead, I was transporting several 60 lb. buckets of corn syrup. Thick, white plastic buckets, about two-feet high. You’ve seen them if you’ve ever been in a restaurant’s kitchen or in the alley by its back door.

Though entirely plausible, since confectioners use it, and since I sometimes pick things up to bring back to the company, this is quite unusual. In fact, I’ve never handled those buckets without having plenty of boxes among and between which to secure them. Last time that happened, the vice-president of the United States was frequenting undisclosed locations.

Disaster began that dream. At least one bucket flipped over, its top flipped off, and waves of thick, gold liquid splashing side to side like the seiche waves that bounce from shore to shore all the way across Lake Michigan. Yes, my dream was in color. Rich color. So rich I thought it real, and wondered how I could conceal it, deny that it ever happened. Started driving home where I’d raid my closet of every article of clothing that hasn’t fit since the previous vice-president was doing the Macarena.

That’s when I awoke and left the problem behind. Or thought I did.

Three days later I arrived for an easy day, just two stops, but one had a post-it note attached: “Pick up corn syrup in Rockport.” Laughed at the coincidence until I realized that the van would be empty once I unloaded in Rockport. Figured I could secure them against the back of the seats with the two-wheeler, but there were four buckets and the wheeler was barely wide enough for two.

So I put them all on one side, letting two lean against a side door in the drop for the step down. The two wheeler, placed sideways, would secure the other two. Also, the covers of these buckets are always quite tight before opened, and three of the four had never been. No choice but to take a chance with the fourth.

What I did not account for were the two rotaries that you take to bypass the city of Gloucester out to the tip of Cape Ann where Rockport sits. Swerve one way, swerve the other, hear the two-wheeler slide, hear a bucket or two slide, hear a bump, a bang, a knock. But don’t turn your head on this road. And anyway, what can you do if it’s spilled? So I wonder, driving in terror to the next stop.

Lucky me! All four buckets remained upright even though two did travel from the seats halfway to the back doors. Perhaps my placement of the two-wheeler saved me on the two rotaries and the tight ramps on and off the Old Yankee Highway known as Rt. 128.

I’ll still erase dreams of disaster ASAA (as soon as awake), but I’ll heed the premonitions.

Must admit that any dream that combines both may well spell the end of me. If not, I’ll tell you all about it.

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Stanley Tucci as Puck in the 1999 film adaptation of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*.
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0140379/mediaviewer/rm65578241

Weeding Shakespeare

Sounds like a statewide lobotomy.

Shockwaves continue to ripple north following reports of Florida teachers censoring Romeo & Juliet to comply with the recent mandates of Gov. Ron DeSenseless to whitewash and dumb down history and literature taught in the state’s public schools, K thru Post-Grad.

Most reactions do little more than exclaim two words that should never be heard together: Censor and Shakespeare. But I wonder if liberal reaction is due more to the choice of play.

Romeo & Juliet, fair to say, is the English-speaking world’s ultimate love story–which masks the fact that it is also the ultimate statement against vengeance. For both reasons, it has had countless adaptations to fit various nations, ethnic groups, and as many generations as have been since 1595 when it first appeared on a London stage.

That includes, of course, West Side Story, as American a tale as any, which itself has spawned a healthy, colorful, vibrant share of adaptations for both stage and film. Conceived and written by my Lawrence homeboy, Leonard Berstein, its songs have lives of their own, something that British rocker Keith Emerson noted when he compiled his “America” pastiche.

His band, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, included everything from the theme of the classic television westerm, Bonanza, to the opening of Hendrix’s “Purple Haze,” from “Camptown Races” to clips of John Philip Sousa. For the warp and woof holding it all together, we keep hearing “Maria” and “I Want to Live in America.”*

To most Americans since 1960, those songs and others from West Side Story–“I Feel Pretty” and the “Jet Song”–are like the very names, “Romeo” and “Juliet,” known even by those unfamiliar with the full story.

Which is why I wonder: Would we be so shocked if the reports from Florida named one of Shakespeare’s lesser known plays, say, Titus Andronicus or King John, or even Twelfth Night or Love’s Labor’s Lost? Would our reaction be mixed if it were a play now deemed tainted by “political incorrectness” such as The Taming of the Shrew or The Merchant of Venice?

Forgive me. My perception has been warped by recent trips to public libraries well north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Up here, “censorship” is a dirty word, and “dumbing down” a crime against humanity, as they should be. Problem is that, when you call them by a harmless sounding name and give them the veneer of technology, the result gives you the very thing you profess to be against.

That name is “weeding,” and it is now a term of art for librarians nationwide as they depend on the algorithms to tell them the frequency of circulation of each book to determine what they keep and what they discard, no thought required.

If you doubt this, here’s a challenge for you: Pick the writer you consider the most consequential in American history (say, pre-1970), walk into a public library, and count the number of volumes by that writer. Then pick a present day author who caters to pop culture and count his or her volumes.

Here, for example, in this northeast corner of deep blue Massachusetts, Danielle Steele wipes the floor with Herman Melville every time: Ipswich PL, 88-6; Newburyport PL, 82-4, Methuen PL, 65-5; Topsfield PL, 62-4; Newbury PL, 49-1.

That one, of course, is Moby-Dick, the only title of Melville’s nine novels that you can count on finding. Likewise, if you pick Willa Cather, you have a fair chance of finding My Antonia, but Death Comes for the Archbishop? Forget it. Steinbeck? Good chance you’ll find Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men, but you’ll likely need interlibrary loan to get In Dubious Battle or The Winter of Our Discontent. So much for browsing.

That last title, coincidentally, is a line from Shakespeare’s Richard III, which brings us back to the question. Good chance that DeSenseless and his thought-police might back off from, or at least distance themselves from that particular play. Far more than any chance of libraries bringing back Cather’s Archbishop, Steinbeck’s Battle, or Melville’s Redburn, the most eloquent, humane, and irrefutable description, explanation, and defense of immigration to America I’ve ever read.

So the question remains: What is the difference between sanitizing Florida schools and weeding American libraries?

The answer, my friend, is negligible, but the implication is huge. Call it a national lobotomy.

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*I first heard ELP’s “America” played by Jethro Tull in a concert in Connecticut 16 years ago. Tull added several quotes that are not in the original. Here’s a recording of it on the same tour, followed by ELP’s own much wilder, hyperventilating version made longer by a drum solo.

Pie O’Clock Somewhere

Today, I trekked to Methuen, a town not quite 25 miles inland, referred for a medical appointment that proved harmless enough.

Had I gone 25 miles in any other direction, I might have come right back, but Methuen sits on the northern border of the city where I was born and raised, a section of it called Tower Hill which sits right on that border within a mile of the doctor’s office.

So I took a nostalgic tour, indulging in memories both fond and melancholy, when I realized that there would be one touchstone of my own distant past that I could find, buy, and take with on the ride home.

Between my junior and senior high school years, I was a clerk at the Harris & Moore Delicatessen in downtown Lawrence, Mass., my first real job unless you count newspaper boy.

Even back in 1967, the store was what today would be called “a treasure,” established in 1904, featuring sausages, meat pies and loaves crafted from recipies just off the boats from Hamburg and Liverpool at the time. Not to mention a German-styled potato salad I make to this day that delights my guests here on Plum Island and has delighted my hosts as far as Colorado–never mind that hard boiled eggs take forever to peel at that altitude. Though I never once made it at Harris & Moore, I watched it put together so often that, twenty years later when I finally had a nostalgic craving, I knew what to do.

But I did make, or at least bake our biggest seller, the item for which we were renowned: Pork Pies. Not much bigger than a baseball, they formed in tin cups that fit 30 on a tray in our large ovens. We had a machine that punched out the dough, another to grind the pork, and spoons to measure the seasoning. I’d tell you what the seasoning was, but I was a 16-year-old who never thought to ask, who thought “Scarborough Fair” was a coming-of-age song about four young women.

On busy days we sold hundreds of them. Lawrence was still a fairly vibrant city in the late 60s with a large and busy downtown, a county courthouse and a city hall just blocks away. A pork pie and a half-pint of potato salad–or a sandwich on Kasanoff’s pumpernickel and a side of coleslaw–made for a quick and satisfying lunch for many retailers, lawyers, secretaries, public officials, clerks. Inexpensive, too; those pies went two for 49 cents.

Harris & Moore, along with much of downtown Lawrence, closed shop in the mid-70s. I was long gone by then, but I stayed in touch with the legendary Joe Collins who worked for the original owners for at least twenty years before he bought the place in the mid-30s. He told me that a mom & pop grocery named Thwaite’s had purchased all of the pork pie tins and trays, as well as the machines that punched out the dough and ground the pork. I would have expected him to say it with regret, but he was genuinely happy to leave it all in good hands.

Located just over the border in Methuen, Thwaite’s has been going strong all these years. When I taught at UMass Lowell back in the 90s, it was hardly a detour to stop there. Since then, not so much, and since the pandemic’s shut down, not at all.

Today, the light bulb was as sudden as it was bright.

If Lake Wobegon is the little town that time forgot, Thwaite’s is the corner store that makes time laugh out loud.

A parking lot for about ten cars has green signs that look rather serious until you read them: “Parking for Pies and Sausage Only.” On the wall: “It’s Pie O’Clock Somewhere.” Small hand-written signs appear on the window, and if that’s not living in the past, the “banker’s hours,” posted at the entry, sure are–as most businesses did back in the Eisenhower and Kennedy years, Thwaite’s closes at noon on Wednesdays.

Luckily, there was a tray of pies just out of the oven, nostalgia’s smell so much more vibrant than all its sights. I figured I was picking up dinner and wouldn’t mind re-heating in the oven on this rainy day. Two would do it, as they did on my way home from Lowell years ago.

After I paid, I couldn’t help but tell the woman at the counter of Harris & Moore and how I once made the pies I just then bought. But I could see she was too young for an old man’s sentiment, so I withheld the detail that she might have mistaken for criticism or complaint and paid the bill without comment:

Two pies for $8.54.

To arrive at the doctor’s on time, I managed no more than a banana and an English muffin for breakfast. Leaving Methuen, it seemed way too early for lunch, but yes, I was hungry, and there I was taking whiffs of two warm pies in a bag beside me.

But that’s for tonight to have with a couple IPAs while watching the Red Sox. Maybe I’ll nibble at the crust…

And just like that, I’m 16 years-old, ready to eat anything within reach. The pies are gone before I’m less than a mile past the doctor’s office, so I consider turning around and going back for more. Well, I said only that they were to take with on the ride home, not that they would necessarily make it home.

Here in 1967, it’s always Pie O’Clock.

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