Here I shall write my though
It was Korean War time. The Draft Board was approaching my name! My father, who was a successful businessman and knew many executives in Fort Wayne decided that he did not want his son to be drafted. To encourage college and university students, the draft board waived the draft choice if they were in higher education. Immediate, my father pulled me out of Culver and I found my self entered into Colgate University in Hamilton NY. I was distressed because I loved Culver and I had just been elected into the senior Cadet Club. With this honur came a beautiful shoulder patch and a private clubroom in the Student activities building. I remember being thrilled as I entered the room for the first time and saw a Wilton{?} carpet with the Club patch woven into a deep blue background. Sadly I only entered the room a few times. Instead, I was chosen to be a member of Alpha Tau Omega fraternity at Colgate. During our first year we had to do silly things like paint the names of everyone in the fraternity on a rock face in the freezing cold and smoke a cigarillo at lunchtime {I was a non smoker}. My college career began with an interview with the Dean who looked at my records and said ‘You needn’t work too hard. You’ll get through’. This made me angry [probably because I had always been told that I was very capable and should do well. I studied English Literature and French…and many more subjects. I graduated in 1951- and went immediately into the US Air Force [this was a condition of my draft board–two years military service after graduation.] Many happenings for me at Colgate. I was asked to join The Colgate Thirteen, a three quartet plus a leader singing group. We travelled in three cars all over the east–New York and West to Chicago. Our job was to sing concerts at high schools as an advertisement for the students to come to Colgate. It was great fun. But the best part of the trips came in the evenings when we were at universities and women students used to join us in a pub for a few beers. We proudly wore maroon jackets with a Colgate 13 patch on the breast pocket. We sat in a quiet group around a pub table. At some point the leader took out his pitch pipe, gave each part their starting note Then we started singing very softly. As people in the pub began to notice our singing we increased the volume, our rhythm and our enthusiasm. Bottles of beer began to appear out of nowhere. The Colgate 13 made a recording with our picture on the jacket. Because Colgate was a men’s university [then] we had to drive several hundred miles East to Vassar, Holy Oak and other women’s universities for weekend pleasures.
So, I went to San Antonio, Texas and Randolph Air Base–the best place to train pilots because there were 300 flying days each year. I was a lieutenant and flew a desk for two years {because I had poor eyesight for flying}. Because I was caught up in the academic career race to get higher qualifications I applied to Chicago University for post graduate study. It was one of the best academic universities at the time in North America. What a presumptioiu attempt. Surprised that I was accepted I left the US Air Force and entered a dormitory in South Chicago. I was a member of the Humanities Committee–an interdeoartments=al study group which included pphilophosy, litersture, language{French for me} Art and Music. My professor was Dr Maclean who specialised in Literary Criticism [and who also wrote a book entitled ‘The River Runs Through {which was later made into a film}. He had a facial grimace or a twich but he was very real even though his lectures seemed unreal. He said ‘All, grimace, grimace, Just go to Montana and get yourself a mice grimace a good teaching job in a small college’. He was right, but I didn’t! Chicago was very exciting and stimulating both on campus and in nearby Chicago town. I had a French seminar with Marc Chagall who was in town. I frequently visited the Chicago Art Museum to see the Haystacks of Manet and I went to a Swedish where in a small mock theatre where a small puppet orchestra rose up and played the overture to the opera and then puppets operated from under the floor sang the operas to the recordings by famous singers.
After I received my MA from Chicago I could not stop. {no Phd yet} My next port of call was Cornell University in New York State. I spent one year in Carnell and then moved again to the State University of Iowa to continue my post graduate studies–by this time in the 17th century. Briefly, may I say that I had an inspirational professor, Dt Zuberi. He would walk onto the stage, put his armload of note on the rostrum, open the notes and speak for two hours without looking at the notes or turn the pages. One day he said to me ‘Mr Jacobs, the best place to finish your Phd is in England where the literary sources are located.’ Off I went!
As an American in London I marched up the Strand to Kings College, a most prodigious college in the University of London. Knocked on the door and said ‘Here I am. When do I start?’ ‘Mr Jacobs, we don’t have any places and besides we have started our teaching already. However, I suggest that you go up past Senate House to a small college called Birkbeck.’ Which I did!
Not quite! A few near misses and stumbles marked my early athletic career.
I was big guy. At one school sports day for all schools in Fort Wayne I was able to participate. And participate I did. First I threw the shot put–only 8 pounds in those early days. I felt ‘good’ while I was ‘warming up’. I hefted the shot on to my right shoulder cradled in my open hand. I took the required number of circles and thrust my shot high into the air…just missing a passing student. At the same event I was again ‘warming up’ but in the centre of the track. I was sure that everybody was watching me. So I bounded toward a low hurdle which was standing in the centre grassed area. Gracefully I took off showing my mastery of hurdling, caught my foot on the top of the hurdle and gracefully plummeted myself and the hurdle over onto the ground. The demonstration of my skill was more extraordinaire because the hurdle was facing the wrong way with its feet facing the direction I was running.
When I rowed for Burbeck College I was part of another sports scene extraordinaire. This big guy rowed number 4 in the boat. We practiced for the Head of the River race day. The varsity crews of Oxford and Cambridge raced in the afternoon. We were given boat numbers in the sequence of participants There were 126 boats that day. despite our enthusiasm, one of our crew arrived at the boat house–late. We couldn’t take our place–our number had already passed. So we were given the last boat place in the race. The crews rowed up river on the outside. Then they turned and raced down the centre of the river. We were progressing up river when we suddenly came to the shore. The stroke had broken his oar on the rocks. He had a friend in this boathouse , ran up to borrow an oar and we continued–later than ever. What’s more our stroke decided to row up the centre and we received many angry shouts from the referee boats. We did turn around. We did row like there was going to be no tomorrow—and came in as 126th best boat. What laughts we had when we regaled our heroic story over a few beers.
Next I was able to play tennis. Ray Disch and I played together for a year at Teddington Sports area. I had a wicked serve which I couldn’t control. 6’3 Ray had an altitude advantage At the end of our season he had won 131 sets and I had won 13.
My real sport is golf. I love it and really regret that I cannot play anymore. My parents and I played many wonderful courses in America. One course had a mountain facing each hole. One hole had a mountain that looked like an old man on his back. When it snowed he aquired a white beard. At Baniff golf course the first hole teed off to a green 85 feet below. Then Boccaraton in Florida had an amazing club house, but my favourite was Hots Springs, Virginia. To play the ‘Goats course’ on the side of a hill one needed one leg shorter than the other. The Homestead was a colonial style building with valley views, a cinema, a dance floor and lots of black staff to look after our every need.
I played golf from the age of 9 on the Country Club in Fort Wayne. Another lovely club house with restaurant, swimming pool tennis courts, a bar and a golf practice area. My parents were part of a Saturday Bridge club which met each week at someone’s home, set out four tables and played bridge, changing partners and discussing the finer techniques of playing. Their children and I made a group who partied, swam, played tennis and golf together. Lights in the pool made great evening swimming in the Summer.
One day I was playing with Phil Anabus. Not the brightest day . He was smaller than myself, but he was a better golfer and won tournaments at the Club. However, his game was not going as well as he wanted on this day. On the 7th green he missed hi s put. He putted first and then it was my turn. I took my putting stance, set my putting grip and started to bend over the ball when–wham–a putter dropped out of the sky and only missed my head by inches. Phil had lofted his putter in anger without realizing where it might land. It was a very near miss. I never played with Phil again!!
Still I continued to love golf requiring lots of individual skill on infinite ground positions and guessed distances, into the wind, with cross winds, etc. At Pebblebeach Golf Course , Californa there is a short hole that tees straight toward a small green in the sea. What a challenge! Many professionals miss the green and drop into the water.
This gives some idea of my sports prowess. {?} Next time we’ll return to ‘Culver and beyond.’
What day is it? right, you guessed it! I was going to offer a box of cigars to those who got it right–but my attempt to buy a tobacco plantation is still ‘in process’. So, I must disappoint you. No box of Havanas today.
Yes, I did have a life before Culver. Lets go way back and see what made or saved my life.
I went to kindergarten age five. My first gigantic humiliation at the hands of a beautiful woman!! One day in our classroom the teacher asked us to move our chairs to the edges of the room so that we sat side by side around the walls. Then she asked the innocent question: ‘How many of you can tie your shoes? Raise your hand.’ Some hands shot up, others raised hesitantly and slowly, but I –a bit late–shot my truthful, masculine-boy , aggressively proud up!! ‘O.K. everyone that can tie your shoes please do itnow’. I leaned over to my shoes with a positive motion. Ah er well..and I couldn’t. Perhaps the teacher will show me. No. ‘Mary will you show him how to tie his shoe, please.’ So, began my real and first humiliation by a GIRL. I’ll not go into my other humiliations by girls/women.
A really frightening event came while I was playing with ‘Henry’ my friend and neighbour. In those days around late 1930’s people were changing from Ice fridges to modern electric fridges–as did my parents. The old icebox was stored in an open garage. This huge fried=ge five or six feet high had four compartments with say two foot square doors. I can remember the ice man who used to deliver large blocks of ice for the fridge, He used some fascinating tongs which gouged into each side of the iceblock as he lifted it. Anyway, Henry and I were playing ‘war’ and we desperately needed a place to hide. We ran into the garage. I encouraged Henry to get into the top door {and I closed it}. Then, of course, I crawled into the bottom..but when I gently pulled the door towards me to be hidden from the dangerous troops just around the corner–I pulled the door too far and a latch caught. Oh my goodness what do I do now. I tried to get my fingers through the gap. No dice. My parents were out of town and ‘Sue’ was ‘baby sitting’. As it got darker she came out looking for me and calling my name. when I heard her I started SHOUTING. Much to her horror shoe followed the cries. Opened the door and pulled us out. Of course we were alright I reasoned. We could breath through the gap in the door. This thought reduced the horrors I had at being so close to tragedy. { I never was allowed to play with Henry again.}
But this one is even worse! [Don’t leave. The stories grow up later] I was brought up as a Congregationalist. Our family went to church every Blogday. I went to sundayschool while my parents went into the church for ‘the Word’. I was good at bible stories and one Blogday I won a prize–a frogstaber. I’m afraid that it has always been a puzzle to me why the prize was appropriate for a religious knowledge. Anyway, I had another friend named Sammy. We lived next to a long field where a few years later we would play football and softball before going to one of the gangs basketball hoops. On one sunny day Sammy. We were lazing about. At one side of the field was a telephone hut and an apple tree which we enjoyed climbing. Sammy lay down on the grass and put his hands over and under his head. I was carrying my Blogday prize. occasionally we played mumbli-peg which was a skills game. We placed an open pocket knife {not a frogstaber} about 12 inches above the ground. with a flip of the hand the knife would turn in the air and, if we were good enough, stick in the ground. So, this quiet sunny day I took out my prize, opened the blade and thought I’d be clever and stick it the knife into a telephone pole next to the shed.
Bad idea { you can skip this section if you don’t want to know what happened} A distance away from the pole, I raised my right arm and threw the knife. It hit the pole alright–but not square on. Of course, the pole was dense and hard. The knife glanced to the right where Sammy was snoozing with his hands behind his head. Too quickly the knife went into Sammy’s chest and out again. I cannot recall exactly what happened next, but Sammy did not live very far and he ran home. He was taken to the hospital where the doctor said that if the knife had been a few inches lower it would have hit his heart.. Woe!. I was never allowed to play with Sammy again.
This one is amusing. My grandfather had a department store. As a child I used to go to the store, get out my toy truck and play on the ground floor. When the lift came down and the door opened I would push my truck straight at the customers and enjoy the startled expressions on tier faces. Grandfather wanted to encourage my commercial skills. One Christmas time I ask for a box of Tussy Handlotion. I would go door to door in my neighbourhood and try to sell each one a bottle. I set off with the box on my sled. I sold a few but after an hour in the freezing weather I looked at my box and each bottle had frozen and the tops had popped up![I lost a lot of money in my first commercial enterprise] undaunted, I started to sell SATURDAY EVENING POST magazines. An agent brought me the week issues and shared the money with me. It was a wonderful magazine and occasionally had spoonerisms–
Marden me padam , this pie occupued. May I sew you to a sheet in the jack of the burch.
I went to a school with a gym that had a ceiling about 12 feet high. I was tall at an early age–5’9” and possibly one of the tallest boys in the school basketball league. Two problems interfered with my excellence –first the low ceiling. In Fort Wayne Fred Zollinor, an industrialist, started a professional basketball team. They played in our coliseum with a very high ceiling. I used to watch them and they would arch the ball very high in the air and drop it straight through the hoop. We couldn’t do that. We had to shoot the ball almost straight at the basket. The other hinderance was that the gym brick walls were 2 feet from the basketball side line. Th Zollinor Pistons had at least 6 feet and could lunge out while throwing the ball back into the court. However, I had my time for glory. I played in the city tournament. To this day I can remember standing at the foul line for a throw–sn missing it. Quite a few times. The game starts with a throw in the air by the referee and a member of each team jumps. I had a plan with our best player that I would out jump and tip the ball to him. This time I did it and he scored!
Finally, for now–I learned a ‘speech. The best in the class would say it to the parents at the ‘graduation ceremony’. I was chosen along with Connie, a girl that I ‘admired’ and had chased around a classroom after school. Anyway, I practiced in our small hall in the afternoon. I had been told to look just over the audience’s head and I wouldn’t be putoff if I recognized my parents or grandfather. I decided that I would put a large chalk mark between the windows in the back of the hall . Then I coud concentrate on it. And I went home for tea. I was called to speak in the middle of the ceremony. I started confidently , but when I looked to the back of the hall there was no mark. Someone had cleaned it off!! However, I carried on and enjoyed my performance [or the praise I received afterward] and I have been performing ever since.
I don’t want to deceive you. So, I better tell you that the titile is last Sunday. However, the clever blok who made the calendar included lots of Sundays . And so, you will understand why the title of this blog is both right & incorrect [I hope]. In fact this blok was really clever because he did the same for every day including Thursday which is rubbish collection day and Friday which is Barry’s day and Saturdays which are ‘no football’ days on the telly. Enough….
From my vintage years I seem to look back and see groups of happenings which become episodes and walk chapter-like through my life. One of the most important to me is my Culver Experience! This episode fits into my unravelling between what my father said to me under the apple tree and my escape to a most rewarding British Life.
Culver is a Military Academy which teaches highschool subjects which are necessary for the students to get into college or university. At the same time there are military drills, uniforms, parades and disciplines. I loved it–infact I often said that I wanted to return to teach one day. {Not Yet, however}
I was in the Band Company. I played the trombone. I can’t recall how I chose the Bone, but I loved the tone and I loved being in the front row of the band during our Sunday Parades on the football pitch . We played in all kinds of weather. Our job was to play marches for lunch and dinner to accompany the other troops in the school as they marched into the mess hall. When it was very cold the trumpet valves and my Bone slide froze. So I put some coldcream on the slide. We had band practice in the afternoons while the other troups drilled with M1 rifles [in those days] on their shoulders. Nicotine Ed was our band teacher; he had large brown marks on his first and second smoking fingers. II was at Culver for three and one half years and became th 1st bonist and played a solo in the graduation concert.
One student named ‘Jim Kitts’ played the bassoon [I think he played the flute while marching]. He used to practice his bassoon in the communal bathroom in our barracks. It was completely white tiled. The accoustics were amazing. He sat on the toilet from which the wooden seats had been removed. Mozart never sounded better. The other horn I loved was the baritone with a large bell and a mellow tone.
So many stories. I rowed crew for the Band–a four man shell. We practiced in some rough weather. Culver is on Lake Maxinkuci, the second largest in Indiana. During the Winter we wore Eisenhauer Jackets and lined gloves. It was great fun
I always wanted a varsity letter to sew on a varsity sweater which we could wear to the on limits Inn and to the senior common building. I was never a good enough athele to get on a varsity team So I decided to be ‘a manager’. The only sport available at the time was {believe it or not} wrestling! I did get a letter but I left Culver before I had time to sew it on. However, one afternoon a small member of the team decided to show me a head-spin. He quickly raised me over his head and started turning around. I don’t know what pleading language I used but he only threw me onto my back.
Next time–why did I leave Culver early.
I’ve returned (! perhaps). Three years wandering life, multiple experiences and lots to tell you. I’ll start with my birthday next week…only 86 years down the road {and 15 to go}. My life appears to trundle along each day at a time {As it were}. Yet from this point I can see groups [or I can organize concept groups} of my time into ‘lots’. 8 years in university; 15 years teaching in London; 40 + years farming in Wales; some 50 years living in the UK; a few years beyond 50 years of marriage; about 15 years leading book group meetings in West Wales; and 56 years of conjugal bliss {so far} with Carole!!
So, what have I been doing with my mind–you should ask. I tried to get a doctorate in my ‘worst subject ‘ English Literature’. The prospect of a further few years studying 16th century printing methods, plus getting married with a need to bring home the bacon changed my course {ha} of life. My teaching was in the subject of Liberal Studies as spooned out in Twickenham College of Technology [as it was called in those days]. Lots of happenings there. However, the M25 compulsory purchased our comfortable bunlgalow –‘The Beeches–next to a safe woods [in those days] for our children to play in unfettered. We moved because Allen had an inspiration one day on a farm holiday in Wales. I had often felt that a person could have several different jobs in life, but Allen went extreme. As I sat on a stone wall on a farm viewing Snowdon Mountains I dredged up the idea of ‘becoming a farmer!”‘ and I raced into breakfast excitedly shouting–‘We’re going to be farmers!’.’ Oh my god’, said Carole with her hands covering her face. ‘You must get some training’ advised the farmer. At 45 I duly intered Hertfordshire College of Agriculture and Horticulture. All the students in the class were third or fourth generation family farmers. I wrote down EVERY word the teacher said. I had massive ring binders full of ‘knowledge’. The day I finished the course I said good-by to one of the students. ‘What shall I do when I get to my farm?’ ‘First, he said ‘I was ditch all of those ring binders.’ Ouch.’ So, I went to the teacher who had poured information into me, — feed formulas, animal care, and business management as well as {weather activities that have become particularly important in Wales! He said Well Allen when you get to your farm open the front door and if you hear a tractor going ion the neighbouring field you get out and get on your tractor as fast as possible and do the same. After all that academic masticating to learn farming — all I had to do was do like my neighbours did. His advice was excellent. I have been trying to honour it ever since. During the farming time my brain was bursting with the challenges of living in a new world–Welsh Language & how to milk a cow. Working outside is quite different from an inside classroom or office. Weather rules! The seasons have their own patterns and vague perdicabilities. I loved the masculine roar of my diesel tractor on the hills of our farm, but I missed teaching. So, I started book discussion groups. Eventually, I had five meetings in different cities to which I drove each week {and now I can’t. Woe!} For twelve years I led these groups and Carole and I gathered many friends from these meetings. My mind stretched and added the operation of a tiny tour company wich I called– the ARTS exclursion company. Our friends and their friends travelled to Cardiff to see operas and to the Stratford Shakespeare Theatre to enjoy stimulating productions. We also travelled to Liverpool to visit various Art museums. My brain arranged everything and Carole and I were rewarded by the pleasures everyone had. But they got older and fewer in numbers and so we stopped {Woe!} Since then we have book meetings in our home–Broniwan occasionally. The same friends come each time. The rest of my mental joys during my absent 3 years have in the research into Jazz and its early Afro-American years. I’ll reveal more in my unravelled with Jazz blog–soon. If you wish to read more about any of my experiences which I’ve mentioned so far, please let me know.
I’ve been fascinated by ‘implications’. They’re all verbal. Everything that we experience is described verbally in my head. Extra meanings can be layered by the multiple implications that I convey or that others perceive in my syntax–my word ordering. In fact, most of my life has been ‘by implication’, I suppose.
It’s the great game of literature.
How I got to the end of 1990 I shall fill in later. Right now,[1998] I was teaching for the University of Wales Extra mural Department . Its ‘Outreach’ program was offered in Cardigan. I enjoyed teaching ‘The American Western’ films. I used the information I had gleaned from the BFI when we lived in London. Some evenings I exposed people to ‘Art Appreciation’ which was based upon my years in University. The important course was An Appreciation of Literature at 7:30m on Tuesdays. A mixed group in all ways, but mostly mature individuals. The University summoned me in 1998 to say that I had to get essays and to give exams to my students.
‘They don’t want degrees; the want just to read and to understand [the implications] books.’
I had come from America with an acquaintance with The Great Books Foundation at The University of Chicago. While I was earning a Masters in The Humanities there, I decided to adopt its aims: to share each person’s thoughts about the texts. I set up a free-lance organization which I called ‘Reading for Pleasure’. My main working principle was to read The Classics in English literature ; to encourage everyone to share their own thoughts about the texts and to lead the group with provocative as well as ‘devilish’ questions. In a few years I increased to 5 groups with a dream at my age of 56 to make this a world-wide or at least a UK organization. I have always been a good starter with more ideas than I could possibly develop–I wanted to open up a chain of donut coffee bars. These I wanted to call ‘The Holy Donut’ shops–well my dad was a punster and sometimes I feel it was genetic. I had remembered a visit with my dad in New York City to a place called ‘The Hamburger Heaven’ which was decorated like heaven with angels and all.
The next idea made us different from most book clubs–we meet once a week for two and one half hours of BOOK TALK! Sometimes enthusiasm wins the day and the discussions run overtime. We decided to read 100 pages each week and have a detailed discussion of those pages only. It took two, three, sometimes four weeks to complete a book. People declared:
‘A great book. I understand it better now. It’s a book I never would have picked up off of a shelf to read’–and more.
As I told everyone, ‘I want to hear YOUR interpretation, YOUR own questions which we all can share and try to answer. I tried to balance the inputs so that no one dominated the discussions. I started the meetings with a ‘devil’s advocate’ question and then watched the ideas flow. A few well phrased questions from the leader kept the discussion on track.
Another problem was the texts. People often wanted to read from a page to support their findings. If they all had different publishers it would be time-consuming and awkward. So, I bought all of the books and sold them to the readers at the cover price. Now, individuals purchase their own books on the internet from Abe, Waterstones or Amazon.
Many years and many satisfied people have played the game of literary implications and I dare say will continue ad infinitum.
Two issues were not covered initially–modern novels [since 1900] were not being read. Also people who were working during the week could not come. So, we organized ‘Broniwan Literary Saturdays’ at our home on our farm.. This group has been meeting once a month in the Winter. We’re limited to 8 or 9 people. A morning discussion punctuated by coffee and around noon –cherry. An organic lunch with wine is provided. Socializing is extensive and if the weather is fine a stroll around the farm ins included before more afternoon discussions.
These groups have given endless opportunities to examine our ‘implications’. Our greatest Reading for pleasure year was tough. We read : The Epic of Gilgamesh which is a Mesopotamian poem about a King who journeys the world looking for immortality. It pre-dates Homer by 1500 years; Beowulf in translation by Seamus Heaney; Plato’s Symposium; Gearld of Wales Journey and finally J. Joyce’s Ulysses. A high-powered achievement for all of the readers.
One more benefit for the members of R for P for the past 13 years has been ‘the ARTS excursion company’. Two or thee excursions each year–usually to Cardiff– Wales millennium Centre to watch the performances by The Welsh National Opera. Then, in mid summer, an excursion to Stratford-upon-Avon to see two plays. This excursion includes a visit to a National Trust House & Garden. One year we organized an Art excursion to Liverpool to see 5 museums.
Oh Where Oh Where Can It Be?
With my tail too short and my hair too long
Read on and on and you shall C!
Ask Mr Google www Oh Where–and you’ll find the ‘real’ text
I started this unfolding of my life because I was told it would be permanent. I want my great, great, great-grandchildren to read it soon. At the same time I wanted to share my favourite moments– shuffling, stomping and shotin’ with my jazz. My little life taught me serious lessons about the other half of the Homo sapiens–girls, of course, at least 76 years ago . So, I’ll continue ‘my little life’ along that theme.
In my kindergarden I was a quiet, fatty boy . Each playtime we raced out to run, dance and pretend our PE activities. Henry and I snuck off, if we could reach it, to the sand box in a corner of the playground. Many days we were chased all over the space by ‘Amazon girls’ until we ran inside the school to hide behind the teacher. Thos–my first she-enccounter blotted my existence for 24 years!
Shakespeare said “Woman, thou art the [or ‘an’ –your choice] architect of humiliation”. He must have said it because he said everything else in the English language. Anyway, I was sent to a Kindergarden. The school room was bright and full of light. There was a large wooden block house in which we played various games–moms & dads, cowboys and indians, etc. Our teacher who seemed three stories tall liked ‘group games’.
‘ Alright children. Take your chairs and line them around the room.’ Which we did. I was sitting between two girls.
‘ Now, how many of you can tie your shoes?
‘ So many of the others raised their hands that I felt it was the thing to do. I raised mine. The real reason was that I DID NOT know how to tie my shoes but I wanted to plaster over this empty crack of knowledge.
‘Wonderful’ she said. Now lets ALL tie our shoes.’
I fumbled knowingly. When everyone else had finished and I was still all thumbs, fingers and loose laces my embarrassment started.
My tall teacher [by then five feet tall] said with what seemed like a snile in her voice.
‘Oh, Susie, show him how to tie his shoes’
. She knelt in front of me and while the WHOLE class watched showed me how to tie my shoes [Velcro wasn’t available in the children’s shoe market then]. What Humiliation!!! Spelt with a capital haish!! I have never forgiven that she-experience and I wear velcro today.
A few years later in the third grade we had penmanship lessons. Picture a barren classroom with chairs spaced out and with armdesks on the right side for practicing handwriting. Miss Jones with her grey hair knotted on the back of her head used to warn us
‘Point you pen-top towards your left ear’.
‘Roll your hand over, Jacobs.’ [Never once did she say ‘Mr’ or ‘ Please’!] For hours , it seemed, I made circles on my pen notebook. I guess it was to develop a rhythm in our joined-up writing. But she never played any Jazz! It would have helped us to make some amazing letters. Imagine a Louis Armstrong C [for cornet] which started at the top and swirled about with lots of ‘moneybusiness’ [as Louis called it] until it came to the end of the C with an extremely long top note to link to the next letter D for Dixieland or Dizzy G. She would have had some inspirational letters for Erroll Garner, Dave Brubeck, the cool Chet Baker and my favourite Oscar Peterson.
But I digress–More like a ‘road up’ escape from my experience with the other children with long hair and no tails at all!
My writing teacher walked with a cane. It had no rubber tip. She used it in two ways–as a psychological weapon to arouse fear and as a knuckle knocker — if you forgot and made two Salvador Dali ‘hanging watches’ for an ‘M’. So, she used to bang the floor with her cane as she approached us from behind. If the noise stopped, then everyone sucked in air. When she continued down the row between the chairs, many pens went astray, out of control. One day she rapped me on the sensitive joints of my writing hand and positively ruined my style forever.
I grew from Fatty to almost 6 feet during the next three years and was ready, so I hoped, for my next encounter with the fairer {ha} sex. Constance was her name. One day after school we were the last ones to leave our ‘classroom for final year students’. Having avoided my biological lessons and not been allowed to join the playground discussions which were bursting with information about skill development in this subject area –I advanced toward Connie. Equally fast she stepped backward. This game turned into a race around the classroom with an occasional hurdle over a chair which had been pulled into my path. She escaped. ‘She doesn’t want me’– I philosophized and added the event to my list of she meetings with the dangerous sex. It so happened that my class had a Declamation Contest. We memorised a declamatory speech like say Edmund Burke or more like The Declaration of Independence. Our contest final was held in our classroom and my declamatory form was good. But Connie WON. Pow, Pow, Double Pow –yet another piece in the jigsaw puzzle of women. To add to this we were to declaim before an audience in a Parent’s evening. It was suggested that we should not look directly at the audience. ‘Look over their heads’. Wonderful. So after our practice rehearsal I went to the middle of the back of the auditorium and put a large chalked X on the wood patricians between the windows. Confidently, I had dinner at home. The auditorium was buzzing in anticipation of our performances. I was looking forward to standing on the stage [I still do] and startling them with wonder. The wonder was mine! When I stood up– My X was gone!! Who removed it? Too late to ask anyone. I knew –as one does with accurate assumptions–it was my woman teacher.
The final determining factor in my developing attitude about women occurred on a glorious sunshiny day when I was about 14. I believe that my mother had said to my dad–‘Allen, you should talk to our son about sex’. What a dangerous suggestion!. We lived in a large wood framed house which had four ancient Oak trees in the front lawn. I used to lie [or lay, if you prefer] under them on the humid, extremely hot August afternoons when there was no relieving breeze on the ground. I could see a gentle movement of the large Oak leaves. Beside the house was a crabapple tree which taught me that I should not take a large bite out of a crabapple while I was thinking that it was a sweet apple.
This was a positive house to live in. I learned a lot. On a day of explorations, Susie [ a different Susie] looked at me exposed and said ‘What’s that THING?’ I don’t recall my explanation but I did notice of the fact that she did not have a THING. Well, I deduced that that was why girls acted the way they did. I was O.K because I was not alone as I had observed in the post match shower rooms. Another positive in our house was that I learned to play golf which is still my favourite game. With my parents I played many golf courses–Boca Raton in Florida where I had a caddy from Puerto Rico whom I could not understand a word, Banff in Canada where the first green was 75 feet below the first tee and a challenge to judge what flight to make, In Vermont the golf course had been designed with a mountain in view from each tee. One hole was called ‘The Old Man’ because when it snowed his beard became white Also. I played the golf course in California where the Bing Crosby Tournament is held [Pebble Beach Golf Club]. It had a hole where the golfer shot out over water to the green on a small bit of land. When the wind blew in from the sea it was almost impossible to reach the green. I’ve seen professionals drop into the water. At the same time, I was a teacher and warden in a very small private school in the 17 mile drive. I used to take my little boys out to play on this famous course. The school had a cutting in the pine trees where we played soft ball. It was well cared for and the three bases were set so there was plenty of out field for our ‘long hitters’. One sunday afternoon I looked out of my window . Cars full of women with picnic baskets and ground cloths and men all dressed in white drew up. What ever is going on? This is OUR baseball field! I’m afraid they spoiled the out field by cutting a long strip of grass and playing an incomprehensible game which I later learned was cricket.
Another informative moment at this time took place in my singing teacher’s lesson. He had a very small room with an upright piano and an outside window. He was teaching me to breathe.
‘Take a breath as if you are smelling a rose. The pressure in your lungs is less than the air pressure outside. It will push its way in and fill yor lungs without you raising your shoulders and gulping it in.’
‘Now, take a breath and sing a note without making the flame on this candle move. That will be an efficient tone.’
I tried–many times.
During our stay in the wooden house I learned to play the piano. My teacher had a studio with two grand pianos in it. My claim to fame was that one afternoon before a concert with our symphony orchestra I met John Browning who was an up and coming pianist. He practiced in our studio. I had another experience when I visited my piano teacher years later in Arizona. Her house had grapefruit trees in the garden. The area had been a fruit farm. Around the house was a small earth mound about 18 inches high. During the night it flooded and the next morning we walked out of the front door, picked a fresh grapefruit and ate it for breakfast.
My last digression in our wonderful wooden house concerns my mother’s father. Grandfather Groth was a large man and very good to me. He used to allow me to go to the basement of his store. I used to take out a small toy van and sit in front of the elevator. When the door opened my toy raced in and sent the customers fluttering. He had set up and managed an exclusive women’s clothing store.
A lot older but still she-shy I had another encounter. As training, I was asked to stock-take the nylon stockings behind the hoserie counter. This was during the war and stockings were a luxury. I enjoyed my responsibility and my examination of the different styles. One style had artificial pearles sewn in a pattern above the black heels of the stockings. One day a lady came to the counter and complained that her stockings were faulty and had a runner in them! ‘Yes, Madam’ I said. However, there must have been a tone of disbelief in my voice. She came the break between the counters and raised her skirt far too high for proof of faulty stockings. I was so startled that I very quickly handed her a new box –hoping that she would exit happily. Whew!
As a hobby he had three small farms nearby. One had an American Guernsey herd; one had belted Hampshire pigs and the third raised the feed for cows and pigs. Grandfather Groth had farm sales. There is a picture of fatty Jere with a piglet under each arm and sitting on a hay bale which was used as advertising. But what I remember is that he gave a box lunch to each attending farmer. After the sale I was asked to pick them up. The boxes had sandwiches, fruit and a chocolate/nut bar. My reward was to keep as many chocolate bars as I could find. The farm taught me a few things. One day the pig herdsman brought a guilt and a boar into a passageway in our timber barn. He did not tell me what was happening. The boar mounted the guilt and entered. You may not know it. but a boar has a corkscrew applicator. The guilt was not having it and ran forward stretching the corkscrew out to the full length of the boar. This did not seem to bother any body least of all the boar and the herdsman encircled the withdrawing applicator with his hand to clean off any dirt that might have been picked up. This brings me back to my story.
Finally, in our back garden there was a very old apple tree which was leaning and rotting from the inside outwards. Next to this tree was a small wooden bench. pn this momentous day, my dad beckoned me to sit down and look out over the fields and our V for Victory vegetable garden. He started to talk in ‘fatherly tones’. I’m afraid I do not remember the details which he might have given to me [which I had already learned in the after match shower rooms anyway]. However, I do remember very clearly his parting advice
‘Remember, Jere, always treat girls as you would treat your mother’ .
This warning stilted my ‘Him’ development for many, many years! It seemed to round off my She-experiencce diary and to isolate me from the excitement and real joys of my life until I migrated to Great Britain; my dad’s advice had territorial boundaries.
I must say that my whole life was changed when I met Carole. I realized that my American she-attitude had been a misinterpretation. My she-learning experience since 1963 has been my most treasured revelation for over the past 50 years. Carole has understood me better than I do myself and she has been a partner, wife, mother to our children as well as my manager and confidant. She has sacrificed a very promising teaching career to do as she was taught–‘follow your husband whatever’. She followed me into a hair-raising, naive attempt at farming when I was 45. She lost herself in our farming life and created at the same time a loving, comfortable. very clean home and escape from the cities for our children and grandchildren. Throughout our life together various kinds of love have been enjoyed which now is reaching an ideal almost poetic quality. I have been enriched by her creativity as a poet, painter and conversationalist on all topics. Our life together is so wonderful now that I am coming to believe that what I have written as my ‘she-experiences’ has been subsumed in a literary context and is hardly believable.
So much shouting, screaming, flailing of arms and wiping away tears with linen handkerchiefs. I must save their hysteria and physical health. I left off without revealing my secrets–without unfolding my bread and jazz–so,in spite of he weather, follow me.
My Life Unravelled 