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Cardinals

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">"Win?" It was my friend, the Monk, shouting. "There is no winning in life; it's an illusion. A hundred years from now, people will ask? Bill, Wes, what did they win? A childish drinking game? Who cares." Somewhat outraged Bill howled: " I'll care, damn it!" the previous evening, I had attained the exalted rank of Cardinal ( Once a Cardinal, Always a Cardinal!), but Bill had, at last, made Pope. As cardinals – the College of Cardinals – all of us had processed around our favorite bar, the Harvard Gardens, and gotten thrown out and banned. Bill maintained, in his hungover state, that it had all been worthwhile. From that evening forward, when inquired: " are you a Pope?" his response would be – you bet your Gucci clad ass!<br>The depth of our hangover necessitated liberal amounts of freshly prepared cola from Fox's drug store down the street. Foxie had an old-time soda fountain and prepared the drink fresh from the syrup. The secret mixture that Foxie made would eat your stomach out if you had it too often, but would cut the recovery time on a hangover to two hours. We were hitting the two-hour mark, and Bill felt feisty enough to swing back at the Monk's piety.<br>The Teahead of the August Moon chose that moment to pop his head out of his bedroom. Pointing his index finger at us, he declared: "out, and don't come back."<br>Periodically the landlord, other tenants, the current resident feature of the Teahead's affection, caused a general eviction. When this happened, we all packed our bags and decamped for other digs. Eventually, the Teahead relented, and we all dribbled back into a reconstituted Folkie Palace. This time it appeared as though the eviction would stick.<br>After our banning at the Harvard Gardens had been forgiven or forgotten, the entire troupe of evictees gathered to discuss the situation. After a while, we decided that as a unit, we didn't need the Teahead, and could create our own Folkie Palace. The stumbling block to this was the first month's rent and security deposit. The reason we all resided at the Folkie Palace was our total lack of economic status. Bill and I considered ourselves to be Pius Itinerants, brothers of the road – vagrants. The Monk was medically unemployable, Mike the Vike was too involved in illegal substances, and was known to every landlord on Beacon Hill as an undesirable. The others were more irregular in attendance at the Palace and could be re-homed more easily.<br>We decided to send a delegation to the Teahead with peace offerings. Bill and I were elected to go. Me because I was the Palace's resident jongleur or troubadour and Bill because his regularly refreshed murals decorated the halls and walls of the Palace. We arrived with precious gifts of a case of beer, pizza, and donuts.<br>As we arrived, Andy, the Teadhead's longest-lasting girlfriend, was bumping an enormous suitcase down the stairs. We helped her move all her goods downstairs and into a waiting Checker Cab. At the top of the stairs was a forlorn Teahead. We entered, presented the appreciated beer (Narragannett in Giant Imperial Quarts) pizza, and donuts. Of course, we stayed to commiserate with our friend. He was lonely. His love had deserted him. Friends inconsiderately decamped to other places leaving him isolated.<br>We insisted that his friends were waiting for him only three blocks away and that we would send a committee to Andy as soon as things calmed down. Calmly we lead him to a reunion at the Harvard Gardens.“Win?” It was my friend, the Monk, shouting. “There is no winning in life; it’s an illusion. A hundred years from now, people will ask? Bill, Wes, what did they win? A childish drinking game? Who cares.” Somewhat outraged Bill howled: ” I’ll care, damn it!” the previous evening, I had attained the exalted rank of Cardinal ( Once a Cardinal, Always a Cardinal!), but Bill had, at last, made Pope. As cardinals – the College of Cardinals – all of us had processed around our favorite bar, the Harvard Gardens, and gotten thrown out and banned. Bill maintained, in his hungover state, that it had all been worthwhile. From that evening forward, when inquired: ” are you a Pope?” his response would be – you bet your Gucci clad ass!
The depth of our hangover necessitated liberal amounts of freshly prepared cola from Fox’s drug store down the street. Foxie had an old-time soda fountain and prepared the drink fresh from the syrup. The secret mixture that Foxie made would eat your stomach out if you had it too often, but would cut the recovery time on a hangover to two hours. We were hitting the two-hour mark, and Bill felt feisty enough to swing back at the Monk’s piety.
The Teahead of the August Moon chose that moment to pop his head out of his bedroom. Pointing his index finger at us, he declared: “out, and don’t come back.”
Periodically the landlord, other tenants, the current resident feature of the Teahead’s affection, caused a general eviction. When this happened, we all packed our bags and decamped for other digs. Eventually, the Teahead relented, and we all dribbled back into a reconstituted Folkie Palace. This time it appeared as though the eviction would stick.
After our banning at the Harvard Gardens had been forgiven or forgotten, the entire troupe of evictees gathered to discuss the situation. After a while, we decided that as a unit, we didn’t need the Teahead, and could create our own Folkie Palace. The stumbling block to this was the first month’s rent and security deposit. The reason we all resided at the Folkie Palace was our total lack of economic status. Bill and I considered ourselves to be Pius Itinerants, brothers of the road – vagrants. The Monk was medically unemployable, Mike the Vike was too involved in illegal substances, and was known to every landlord on Beacon Hill as an undesirable. The others were more irregular in attendance at the Palace and could be re-homed more easily.
We decided to send a delegation to the Teahead with peace offerings. Bill and I were elected to go. Me because I was the Palace’s resident jongleur or troubadour and Bill because his regularly refreshed murals decorated the halls and walls of the Palace. We arrived with precious gifts of a case of beer, pizza, and donuts.
As we arrived, Andy, the Teadhead’s longest-lasting girlfriend, was bumping an enormous suitcase down the stairs. We helped her move all her goods downstairs and into a waiting Checker Cab. At the top of the stairs was a forlorn Teahead. We entered, presented the appreciated beer (Narragannett in Giant Imperial Quarts) pizza, and donuts. Of course, we stayed to commiserate with our friend. He was lonely. His love had deserted him. Friends inconsiderately decamped to other places leaving him isolated.
We insisted that his friends were waiting for him only three blocks away and that we would send a committee to Andy as soon as things calmed down. Calmly we lead him to a reunion at the Harvard Gardens.

After being evicted from the Gardens due to the Teahead’s loud maudlin behavior, we went back to the Folkie Palace to resume our interrupted life.

“Win?” quoth the Monk. “why it’s nothing if you can’t help a friend.”
“Be quiet ou there!” yelled the newly risen Pope John.

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Walk

The suggestion was that I learn the more popular songs, and add some rock to my gig. Then I’d be like everyone else I suggested back. Yes, she said. That would be a great idea. As you are, she suggested… it’s out of step with the world. Bend a bit, stop all this talk about history, and is it Sociology? It’s Anthropology, I replied. It would be best if you were a business major, she assured me. You can always get an excellent job support a family, a wife.

Uh, I asked, is there anything you like about me just the way I am?

She paused, “You’re super cute, honey.”

“No problem is so formidable that you can’t walk away from it.” 

Charles M. Schulz

And so I did.

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The Unexpected

“You know your Center. Find your Center and the energy within it. Let it flow into the room. Allow me to channel the flow. Great things will happen!” Dishes rattled, a glass of water fell off the table. The candle flickered.

We turned the lights back on, and John, con artist extraordinaire, looked at us “And that’s all there is to it.” ” Yeah. but how did you do it?” asked Bill. “You expect me to introduce you to the secrets of the universe for a quart of cheap beer? Isn’t it enough that you know that this ages-old con is still effective?” I spoke up, “I liked it when the candle flickered.” “That was simple breath control; that’s the freebee of the night. Now I have to get over to Marlboro Street. Edith Stanley needs to contact her departed husband about their stock portfolio.” With that, John decamped to the bathroom to refresh himself before meeting Edith. We sat there thinking about the phony seance. Most in the group were skeptics, but that didn’t prevent us from admiring John’s showmanship, or how convincing the stage tricks had seemed while they were happening. Bill especially looked thoughtful.

John expected to be in town for about two weeks, or until the Bunko Squad realized he was back in town. These things, like where John might pop up next, were deliberately hard to fathom. 

Bill began to study the cards with John. Bill had to actually work hard at our temporary employers to pay tuition; John gave very little away for free; except his smile. I just observed. My main observation was that John was not teaching Bill the cards and card tricks, but was teaching Bill to use his voice, and eyes to focus attention and build trust with the “mark.” 

John decided that Bill’s final exam should be at the Folkie Palace on the following weekend. John had felt a “psychic tug,” telling him that Miami required his services. Bill was to tell the fortune of one of the Palace regulars who John thought was the right candidate.

That Saturday was the exam. Bill got into it, establishing “facts he could not possibly have known about her.” He used his body language, voice, and eyes to show empathy and build trust. Then taking her both hands within his larger ones, he began,” and now I’ll count back from five. When I say one. Expect the unexpected. Five, four, four, three, two…”

The loud banging on the door was unexpected, but the real surprise was the booming voice of Sargent Cappucci hollering out – “Hey Teahead, where’s that no good bunco buddy of yours! If you’re hiding him, you’ll be in jail too.”

Out went the joints, down the toilet went the stash, and out the fire, escape went John. Knowing that Cappucci’s partner would be at the bottom of the fire escape, he went up to the roof and used the plank we had set up to transit between buildings. He bounded from ours to the next and then to number 28. Further, than we normally went.

The Teahead got up, opened the door – “He’s not here. ” The Sargent smiled. “Oh, I know that Pauli’s down in the alley of 28 waiting for him to come down that fire escape, ‘night folks.

We don’t know if John was more than just a scam artiste or also capable of disappearing. It was years before I saw him in his new career as an aide to a politician.

Bill connected with the young lady. She was incredibly impressed with the Unexpected. Bill later admitted that she would never have been so impressed by the silver dollar he was going to slip into her hands.

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Sweepers, Sweepers!

Boats need cleaning, and as general maintenance helper and crew member supreme, it was generally my job to sweep, swab, polish and groom the pride of the Cove; Psyche. I spent a lot of time sitting in the cockpit as the 34-foot ketch swung at her mooring. People don’t believe me when I say that some of the best time I’ve spent on boats has been idly watching the water, the reflections, and the fish. Sailing is fun, but it can be a lot of work. Maintaining a boat was work too, but if you were smart, you took a moment, once in a while, to enjoy the sun, sounds of wavelets on the hull, and to watch the birds.
Lots of time, I didn’t bother keeping cleaning supplies near. Cora never came near the boat, my wife was phobic around boats, and the Cap’n was scarce every time you mentioned the word mop. I had cleaning down to a science. Sweeping, mopping, and checking the varnished wood. Once a week, I’d watch my reflection grow clear as I polished bronze and brass surfaces.
On occasion, one of the lobstermen in the Cove would come over to share a sixpack. That was how I heard that the Cap’n had been hatching a new “Let’s keep Wes in the Cove” program with my wife and Cora. According to Lowell, my boat maintenance skills had been praised to the skies by both the Cap’n and Spinney, a yard owner for whom I was the “Yaahd Cavah.” Spinney genuinely liked me and wanted to keep his source of billetheads, quarter boards, transom banners, and eagles close at hand. The Cap’n appreciated that his son in law was a useful source of free labor whenever there was a project. Cora wanted what was best for her daughter, and her daughter, my wife desperately wanted to stay in the Cove. I wanted to complete grad school.

That evening the scheme was introduced at dinner, then as now, many people from away owned boats that they were too distant from to maintain. Or they lacked skills or desire to take care of. Many wanted only to put on a smart cap, open a drink, and sit at a mooring while the exquisitely detailed boat impressed the visitors. This was the boating public I was destined to serve, maintained Cora, and my wife. It was true that swinging at the mooring on the ketch was not making me any money. Unlike many of the schemes dreamt up by my in-laws this one would make money; so I agreed.

The first thing I found out was that not all owners kept a tidy boat. Everything onboard Psyche got neatly stowed after each use. Generally, this appealed to both the Merchant Mariner in the Cap’n and my Navy training. Not so with other owners. Chain lockers and sail bags filthy, ice chests moldy, and bilges so sour that no amount of cleaning resolved the problem. After a while, on some of the worst jobs, Cora and my wife showed up.
The Cap’n showed up to supervise. Please don’t get me wrong the Cap’n knew how to do anything needed, and would when left to his own devices. Put him in front of a crew, though, and he’d pull out his pipe, and look off to starboard—Master Mariner at work.
We had a big job over to the harbor one week. It was going to be all hands on deck to clean up this party boat after two years undercovers at Spinney’s yard. Spinney said that one of the owner’s sons had made a right mess of it. After a quick survey, I agreed and quoted a price. Work began that Saturday. The Cap’n took up his usual place pipe in hand while the crew polished and cleaned below. It looked like it was going to be the normal routine. Then Lyman showed up. Lyman was the Cap’n’s baby brother. A man I admired greatly.
Lyman was a retired Chief Gunners Mate. He had it down. Nobody could stand around and look impressive like him. He had the Chief’s stance down cold – legs slightly spread against the roll of the ship, thumbs tucked into his belt, belly pushed for’ard, and a look on his face that says ” I ain’t taking any of what you’re dishing out mister. Now get to work.”
Lyman looked around at the debris-laden deck, picked up a broom, and threw it at the Cap’n : “Get to work, Frank!”

Then he uttered words that every Navy man has engraved onto his memory:
“Sweepers, Sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a clean sweep down both fore and aft! Sweep down all lower decks, ladder wells and passageways! Dump all garbage clear of the fantail! Sweepers.”

Posted on

Welcome Mat

The Monk had scoured the Boston Haymarket stalls at closing time for the food. Everything he acquired was free or dirt cheap. Then as now, the amount of edible food wasted was enormous. What wasn’t being provided by the Haymarket trash bins and pushcarts were being scrounged by the habitues of the Folkie Palace. The only needed item that we paid full price for was the beer.
There were yams, potatoes, salad, an entire leg of lamb, and several pies. The Monk himself was a vegetarian but enjoyed cooking for the multitudes. Vegetarian or not. If you asked him about this, he would shrug his massive shoulders, don a beatific smile on his round face, and say his salvation was a personal journey.
While the semi-permanent crew at the Folkie Palace numbered ten to twelve, we expected to feed about thirty. Paper plates, paper towels, and fingers were the finest the Palace could offer for such a group. The beverage was Narragansett beer in GIQ’s ( Giant Imperial Quarts). We had lain in a supply sufficient for everyone to get a mild buzz on.
The feast was in celebration of the rapid departure of Leslie Barnum two nights before. Leslie had claimed to be the Poet Lauriat of the Queens but had proven to be more proficient at playing a cheap psychic.
For several weeks the Poet Lauriat abused our welcome by providing unrequested poetic renderings, drinking up our beer, and using our stairwell as a “consulting parlor.”
The proprietor of the Folkie Palace – the Teahead of the August Moon- thought a poet and psychic would be an exciting addition to our menagerie of odd bits and pieces. He put up with Bill and me, Mike, the Vike, the Monk, and assorted others. It seemed at first that Leslie would prove a worthwhile addition.
Midnight declamations of epic narrative poetry from the roof and stairwell consultations proved unpopular with the neighbors. After a few hints not taken by Leslie, The Teahead decided he needed a sharper lesson. A trip to the roof for a dangle resolved his issues temporarily, but others soon developed. The astrological advice, star charts, healing teas, and communing with spirit guides increased.

As we regularly did, Bill and I departed on a frolicking detour. We decided to explore Montreal, via Portland, Maine. Two weeks later, we returned to find the Palace in crisis. A subdued Teahead was not normal. He refused to come out of his room except for trips to the bathroom. A visit to the Palace from police Sargent Cappucci had strongly suggested that the Bunko squad would be visiting soon to investigate rackets underway at the Palace: ” Clean it up, or go to jail, got it, John?” He got it.
The Teahead asked Mike to take all his funny goods elsewhere and ordered Leslie to find a storefront for his psychic routine. It didn’t matter, knocks at the door at two AM continued. Frantic young women, and men, sought help from hauntings, bad Karma, and nervous disorders.
It all reached a head the evening when the Teahead came home from work to find Leslie closeted with the Teahead’s girlfriend, Andy. They were in the middle of a ritual Leslie maintained was based on Native American medical practice, but looked to the Teahead like ritualized preludes to something more intimate.
We had what these days would be called an intervention. We took Leslie to the roof and explained in straightforward terms that he was ruining a perfect thing for all of us, and if the Teahead evicted us, he’d be back in the Queens. He seemed to agree and agreed to behave. It did not last the night.
At 2 AM, a ruckus started in the lobby. It was Leslie and a client arguing about money paid for a healing ceremony. The amount was for about twice the monthly rent at the Folkie Palace. The Teahead was redfaced with anger, unable to get coherent words out and started pounding walls. The deal at the Palace was everyone pitched in. We all abused the Teahead’s generosity but knew where the line was. Leslie was way over the line.


Leslie had alienated almost every one of us; the complaints were numerous. Most of us had backpacks or suitcases with our possessions in them. None of us owned much. But, Leslie had a colossal steamer trunk. His claims to having attended Fordham University were trotted out regularly as proof of his superiority. And, he had attempted to seduce the Teahead’s girlfriend. Bill, I, Mike and the Monk looked at each other. The Monk counseled forgiveness, but Bill and I sensed blood in the water. We went for the trunk. It took all four of us to get it out the door and over the railing into the stairwell. Glancing up from below, Leslie yelled out for us to stop. We had come too far and suffered too much, and besides, we were losing control of the darn trunk. It slipped from our grasp and careened down the stairwell with pauses at every landing before smashing open at the bottom.
The rest of the night was chaos. The police arrived, screaming neighbors complained, and the landlord wanted to know who’d repair the stairwell. Bill and I went to the roof and used a plank to cross over to the next building, went down the stairs and joined the ogling crowd on the street. By six, the neighborhood was quiet, and the trunk and the Poet Lauriat was gone. The next day so was Andy. She couldn’t take the insanity anymore.

It was the Monk who came up with the idea of a celebration. He also gathered most of the food. Friends around the neighborhood joined in and contributed to the cost of beer. There was a basket placed on the kitchen table for contributions to repair the stairwell railings. With all the guitarists and a fiddler that showed up, we had plenty of musical entertainment. We eventually lured the Teahead out of his room and into the center of the party, where he soon assumed his role of gracious but oddball host.

The last we hear of Leslie was that he went into politics.

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Hidden Countryside

There are three varieties of kale in the garden

 No, they are not relicts of the kale craze of a few years ago. They are there because I learned of kale’s great utility from the Portuguese gardeners I worked with during the 1980s. I also worked with Polish and Italian gardeners as part of developing a program called the Hidden Countryside.

The name Hidden Countryside came from an eighty-year-old Italian American gardener named Annie. The area of the city I was working in was densely built-up and populated. There were no front yards or lawns, and if you didn’t know, you’d believe that this facade was an accurate portrayal of the community. Annie pointed out that all the houses were built directly on the street, but many had generous inner courtyards and yards that could not be seen as you drove by. Inside those hollow squares were the gardens of the residents. As Annie told me: “Luigi, from the outside, it looks very much like a city, but inside is a hidden countryside.”*

It all started with Julia Gelowtsky. 

She invited my lovely assistant and me to lunch. She was not so innocently acting as a matchmaker. Lunch was set on the back porch with a full view of the garden. During lunch, Julia explained that her philosophy of gardening was handed down from her parents, who had immigrated from Poland. Moving up to the second story porch, she pointed out the gardens of her Italian, Portuguese and Irish neighbors. Over the next weeks, the idea of a Hidden countryside program developed as the center of a community program at the library.

I spent several months on the initial research: the Lithuanian priest introduced me to sorrel, I was invited to make wine when the grapes were ripe in one gardener’s arbor. I was instructed in the lore of how to properly plant and care for tomatoes. It was worthwhile work, and what I had been trained to do as an Anthropologist.

My partners in the project, the community members, began to take ownership of the project and direct me into other areas of interest. One Lithuanian lady introduced me to the medicinal uses for rue. She was seconded by Julia on how the Poles used it, and by an Italian gentleman on its use in Italian folk medicine. I was now involved in a new interest in folk medicine and herbology.

I was invited to a local saints day festival. Obtaining a video camera and crew, we plunged into recording and presenting a half-hour documentary to the community.

Eventually, we took an expanded Hidden Countryside and the Saints to Washington

<p value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">In 1988 we all went to the Smithsonian Festival of American Folklife; Taking the gardens, wine making, and the Saints.In 1988 we all went to the Smithsonian Festival of American Folklife; Taking the gardens, wine making, and the Saints.

The Hidden Countryside taught me how to garden, look at plants as medicine, revere the Saints, and eventually gave me a wonderful wife.

All because Julia Gelowtsky wanted to be a matchmaker.

*Just for reference only elderly Italian ladies are permitted to call me Luigi!

Posted on

Connect to the Whole

<p class="has-drop-cap has-normal-font-size" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">It was before email. The web was a very primitive concept barely imagined. Yes, this happened a long, long time ago.<br>I was doing one of my stints with the feds, and the agency I was part of was a small gear inside a more massive machine. I was hired to run cultural programs and do ethnographic documentation. I had a budget, A relatively free hand, and a plan. What could go wrong?<br>Regretfully, over about five years, the program became a wreck in search of an obstacle to stop it. The rock in the middle of the road showed up in the form of the Clinton- Gore plans to "reinvent" government. Reinvention was not a fast whiplash producing sort of accident. It dragged on. Years after we knew programs like mine would get terminated, we continued to function. We looked for homes for our research materials, and conducted programs with diminishing relevance and resources. After a while, I got pissed.It was before email. The web was a very primitive concept barely imagined. Yes, this happened a long, long time ago.
I was doing one of my stints with the feds, and the agency I was part of was a small gear inside a more massive machine. I was hired to run cultural programs and do ethnographic documentation. I had a budget, A relatively free hand, and a plan. What could go wrong?
Regretfully, over about five years, the program became a wreck in search of an obstacle to stop it. The rock in the middle of the road showed up in the form of the Clinton- Gore plans to “reinvent” government. Reinvention was not a fast whiplash producing sort of accident. It dragged on. Years after we knew programs like mine would get terminated, we continued to function. We looked for homes for our research materials, and conducted programs with diminishing relevance and resources. After a while, I got pissed.

In the beginning, I was functioning as a field ethnographer. I ran around with a camera, tape recorder ( remember those?), and notebook in hand. For me, this was living large. I was loose in an ethnographer’s candy shop. Talk to people about their craft, art, or occupation, write it up and turn it into a program or exhibit.
Eventually, I acquired staff, a facility, collections, and programs. Someone had to write all the memos, document the budget, argue with competitive peers, let contracts, and do procurement in the required fashion. Me. Work stopped being fun. Then along came “reinvention.”
It took about two years for us to run hard into the rock in the road. Even then, it took time to cease existing. Despite what the movies show, it’s not just running down the hall to the paper shredder. Some of my stuff may be in the big warehouse with the Ark of the Covenant, but after I left, most of it probably got deep-sixed ( thrown in the trash for you non-sailor types.)

As this process wore on, I became depressed. The depression turned to anger the day I turned in a massive binder with all my memos in it to the executive secretary. Flipping through it, he tossed it back to me, saying: ” Can’t accept this Carreras. It’s not referenced correctly with agency topic codes. Take it back and fix it.” Agency Topic Codes I said? ” sure, didn’t you ever get a copy of CCY 129?” Huh? “Look, take this copy. It’ll make your life easier. Just get it back to me before your program termination date in a month.”
There I stood with the massive binder of the memo’s in one hand, the massive binder of CCY 129 in the other. I desired to find a large shredder and shred both. But, no, I was an obedient federal employee. Off I trotted to my office to survey the agency’s topic codes.

As I’ve explained, the little corner of the governmental universe that my agency occupied was a part of a much larger entity. CCY 129 reflected the needs of that larger universe. So, codes dealing with volcanic eruptions, solid waste disposal issues, existed side by side with the ones I needed. The ones I needed were hard to find because my corner of the universe was so far out of the way in terms of the more significant; we were microscopic.
That night I went home anxious and worried about how I should proceed. As sometimes happens, I had a dream. In my dream, my old friend Bill was talking to me about tying a knot in the devil’s tail. Tying a knot in the devil’s tail always referred to our doing something to an annoying authority figure that was embarrassing. When I woke up, I felt great. I knew what I was going to do.

In the office, I quickly went to work on my Macintosh (Did I ever tell you how I was the only program within my agency to have Mac’s…no? It was an earlier successful effort to tie a knot in the devil’s tail). First, the phony logo; close enough to the real one, but reversed and just off enough; you knew it wasn’t real. Then the false names, telephone, fax numbers, and addresses. At last, the body of the memo – with appropriate memo code from CCY 129.
It ran something like this:


It’s come to our attention that CCY 129 has fallen into disuse among the bureaus, agencies, and commissions peripheral to the Departments Core Mission. CCY 129 was carefully composed to cover the most extensive variety of possible circumstances staff within the Department might encounter or envision. Therefore a committee of specialists was convened to analyze how CC 129 should be utilized going forward by those entities exterior to Departmental core activities. The following are examples. However, they exemplify the objective of increasing the utility of CCY 129. *
( Clearance for novel usages should; however, first be referred to the CCCCY 129 C (Committee Coordinating CCY 129 Compliance))
EXAMPLES:

CCY 129 0pt408 ( Volcanic Activity) – while ostensibly meant for a memo detailing the effect of volcanic activity, this gem can easily be reinterpreted for use in those cases where you are detailing the interaction with an abusive visitor to one of our facilities.

CCY 129 PX29 ( Solid waste disposal issues) originally for detailing massive problems with pollution problems like hog lagoon ruptures on leased federal land, the creative GS12 can use this for problems with the septic system at one of our urban facilities.

The overarching purpose of these suggestions is to connect all the diverse activities of the Department into an entire and uniform whole.

My entire document went on to about eight absurd codes. Chuckling over my wit, I decided to make ten copies and place them in the mailboxes of people I thought might get a laugh out of it. At the end of the day, I went home satisfied with my day’s work.
The next morning I was less satisfied. The entire two administrative floors were in disorder. Someone, enjoying my little joke, made thirty more copies. One of those thirty decided it was too good not to share with Todd in the Regional Office. It was duly faxed there. By noon it was all over half the Department. The Regional Director wanted answers. We were all being interviewed. The usual suspects were duly marched into the superintendent’s office. I was one. I do bemused innocence well.
The fact that the ancient Windows computers available to our corner of the universe ( third-generation hand me downs) would never be able to do the graphics and typography needed for this made all suspect an outside job. Evertone thought my Mac’s were a joke. I slowly walked to my office and disposed of all the files relating to my joke, just in case.
It was my greatest effort to tie a knot in the devil’s tail, and I couldn’t take credit for it. I couldn’t share my victory. But, somewhere, my friend Bill is still laughing his ass off.

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Tip of the Iceberg

Stoney was what we called her. Nobody knew her real name. She certainly wasn’t offering it. Stoney was one of the “weekend hang arounds” at the Folkie Palace. During the week, she lived with parents in the ‘burbs while attending college in the Back Bay. We weren’t sure why she came around. She wasn’t involved with anyone at the Palace. She wasn’t into any of the available chemical substances that passed through in the pockets of regulars like Mike the Vike, and she didn’t drink. She just sat around with her note pad, scribbled and sketched. Occasionally she’d become involved in discussions with habitues of the Palace about the meaning of the Palace and ask, “But, where are you going?” If she made the mistake of asking this of the Teahead of the August Moon ( Teahead by the light of the Moon, account executive by day), she received a monologue on free will that surely was from his theology courses at Boston College.

I like to believe that unlike the later hippie phenomena, Folkies were diverse as a group. At the Palace, the Teahead worked as a white-collar drone during the days, Bill and I worked casually saving for the next Frolicking Detour, Mike the Vike was into the transcendental use of psychotropics in a studied manner. The Monk was a failed Jebbie who looking for his savior while trying to serve the poor. Other regulars had an urge towards a goal, without any distinct method for finding it.
During the weekends, the Palace’s population grew as visitors passed through, and the “weekend hang arounds” hung around. The Monk would put on a massive pot of spaghetti to feed the hungry. Guitars would come out, and by midnight the banging on the ceiling would have started from the apartment below. By one, a few diehards would be gathered around the kitchen table, whispering in the candlelight. I’d be there just picking random melodies, and by three, the conversations ran to the sorts of confessions you choose to reveal only before dawn. Stoney whispered she was studying Anthropology, and we were a research project for her senior thesis.
The reaction was silence. Stoney waited silently for a response that did not come. Mike picked up the thread of his most recent Magic Mushroom trip without pause, and I continued playing. I’m sure that some of us would have loved to tell her you shouldn’t ever try to play a player. Her secret had been out two weeks into the semester. A friend going to the same college dropped the dime on her.

We were sitting at the Harvard Gardens on a Monday evening when Todd told us a fellow student had been telling stories at lunch. She was studying some “Beatniks” and was doing her thesis on them. ” You guys have any idea who these turkeys could be?” Dead silence, followed by rage, followed by laughter.
In the following weeks, the Palace had never been so full of drama, so whacked out with lousy improvised poetry, or so angst-ridden with revelations on “where we were going,” or as the Monk quoth – Quo Vadis. In short, we had never had such a good time. Bill and I even delayed a Froliciking Detour to beautiful Buffalo to see how it played out.
Then came the anti-climax. Stoney had left her notebook after a weekend visit. Now, the only things that were actual private property in the Palace were the Teaheads bed and my guitar. It was just a matter of course we’d use the notes on us for an improvised dramatic reading.
After about four pages of field notes, and five minutes of laughter, the Teahead went silent. Then in a different voice, he began reading the introductory chapter of what had to be a torrid bodice ripper. We were all there. The character playing the guitar was a weak-willed druggy, Bill was in a blazing three-way with Tanya and Celeste ( both of whom were supremely uninterested in men). The Teahead was a sort of lothario luring young women into his lair – well, that was almost true except he struck out more often than he scored.
Stoney had been playing us. The revelations about the Anthropological study covered for her interests in creative writing.
We had been gazing at the tip of the iceberg, never suspecting what was below. How should we respond?

The next weekend when Stoney appeared, she was casually handed her notebook. The rest of us carried on as if nothing had occurred. Stoney sat down in her usual corner and commenced taking notes and making doodles. At some point, she turned to the bodice ripper, and gradually became scarlet. The regular cast of the Palace counted among their number more than a few dropouts and even local university graduates. They had extensively copyedited her bodice ripper, grammar and spelling corrected. The marginal notes, in red, outlined ommissions and errors in content and style. The first page had a jumbo crayon C, and a comment: ” not a bad virgin outing, but please try again!”

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Be Thankful For Friends

“You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” – Robin Williams

My friend Bill is featured in a number of my posts. The quote by Robin Williams would have sparked an immediate “That’s what I always say too!” He knew it was best to fan the fires of madness just enough to keep the coals always alive. His skewed perspective showed up in his artwork.
A favorite piece was a painting of a Baltimore streetscape. It was within a shadow box with lighting effects hidden within the box. Those were the days, in the 1960s when miniature lighting meant grain of rice bulbs or Christmas tree lights. Somehow he managed to keep the lighting effects in scale and complementary to the streetscape. When lit, the street seemed to come alive.
His manic sense of creativity showed up in the Tiki carving company we had one summer. Or, in the impromptu back-alley coffeehouse, he created the night that we were denied entry at a Boston coffeehouse. And then there were the endless murals he painted in almost every apartment that we lived in.
Bill taught me a favorite hobby: tying knots in the devil’s tail – in other words, clogging officialdom with logical seeming idiocy, which was a favored past time of mine when I worked for the government.
The dreadful techniques of the”two bag trick.” were a specialty of his for revenge of the worst type. For the faint of heart, let me say that it required two brown paper bags of fresh dog excrement, some newspaper, a tad of accelerant, two tricksters, and lighters. We reserved it for only the lowest of the low.

From Bill, I learned to value the absurd in life. On our frolicking detours hitching around, we met interesting people, invented the craziest songs waiting for rides, drank down the moon, and clogged officialdom’s cogs wherever we found them.
Be thankful for your friends.

A few Bill posts:
probability Zero: https://loucarrerascarver.com/2020/04/09/probability-zero/

Back Alley Coffeehouse: https://loucarrerascarver.com/2020/04/23/the-alley-coffeehouse/

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Lively Lad

Trail clearance workers and volunteers, of a “certain age,” may be familiar with the term “Lively Lad.” Sometimes the name is erroneously given to the modern weed cutter that looks more like a golf club with a serrated blade attached. No, the original Lively Lad was a substantial tool with a very sharp blade ( about a foot in length) capable of trimming to the ground brush, young trees, and stubborn weeds. It could also wreck boot toes, and if you grew fatigued or careless cut toes. Wielding the Lively Lad with vigor was something you detailed to young men and women who thought they were in prime condition. Then you just strolled behind them with your nippers and watched them wear themselves out.

I was introduced to the Lively Lad in the 1970’s when I joined a group of hikers clearing a long trail in Southeastern Massachusetts. The Warner Trail runs between suburban Boston and suburban Providence. The people who laid it out following the Second World War were in no hurry to get anywhere on their hikes, so they cleared a trail that wandered from a high viewpoint to stream, to a high point. The trail meandered through what was then woodlots, farms, and orchards. The suburban sprawl was to come much later.

 With all this meandering, there was a lot of trail to clear on an annual basis. The Lively Lad was a labor saver, but a hazardous one. We were all members of the Appalachian Mountain Club, and the “Appie” who introduced me to the Lively Lad used the term perfidious to describe it. He then set me to be one of the expendable youngsters assigned to swinging it while he idled along behind snipping once in a while, or calling out “watch your toes now!”, or “not so much force.” The Lively Lad in question was his and dated from the mid-1920s. He had been one of the youngsters assigned to swing the beast while working on trails around Mount Katahdin in Maine. Ron survived long enough to pass the toe slicing duties on to subsequent generations.

When Ron died, his trail clearance equipment got passed onto those of us who regularly cleared the trail. Every spring, it would appear in the back of someone’s truck or in the trunk of a leader’s car. A debate among the leaders would take place – do we need IT? Then the leaders would look around the group that showed up to clear trail to see how many were under forty. If the overgrowth was heavy and we had enough strong bodies with unsuspecting minds, we’d pull out the Lively Lad.

Over the years, it came out fewer and fewer times.

Just today, I found an e-bay auction for a Lively Lad. The description was very brief, and I suspect the owner had little idea of what he was selling.

But the buyer should check the blade for traces of blood and leather from boot toes.

Louis N. Carreras, Woodcarver

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