Chapel Hill 1966
"Great" is in grateful. "Titled" is in, "entitled." Contrast in all things. A chunky wool tweed against end on end shirting and a silk tie. A potato knish for breakfast and later lunch at the Four Seasons. Then there's contrast in words: Grateful and entitled.
We're coming up on the day we're all supposed to be thankful. I didn't want to spend that day with my family in 1966. Dad was in Vietnam and a friend of mine invited me to spend Thanksgiving with his family. He had a lot to be thankful for. His father owned a number of Esso stations and they were rich.
Their ranch house was the length of a football field with a pond in the front and a go kart track around it. The go-kart had a blue and white surrey top and a white vinyl bench seat. And as things go with boys -- his stuff was my mine and my stuff was his.
We tore around the pond lap after lap stopping only once to refill with gas. I assumed it was free. Speaking of words, I just noticed how beautiful the word 'go kart' is. Anyway, the day had the faintest hint of chill and absolutely no humidity. Not an everyday occurrence in the humid swamp that was Chapel Hill most days.
Outside was better than inside.
A formal dining room with one window seemed dark as death and brown as a coffin. Brown was in the turkey, the iced tea, the Queen Anne dining set and death was in the grandmother who sat at the head of the table. No one talked except the grandmother and I never wanted to hear her speak again.
After dinner everyone wandered into the living room where the color TV was turned on with a remote the size of a Montecristo No. 4 box. I don't remember what they watched. I only remember it was time to go. Later in life this would be, "a bad scene." The go kart wasn't worth it.
I walked into my tiny house where neighbors and their children were crammed into every corner. It was loud. Bright with light. Color slides of French gardens from a neighbors recent holiday flashed on a bare white wall and wine bottles littered our Scandinavian dinner table.
I still see it and I still remember knowing it meant something beyond the contrast. I wanted to be in the light and not the dark. I still do and for that I'm grateful.
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23 comments:
That was very nice, and well written. Thanks
You're getting into Bounderby territory here Tintin.
"...a remote the size of a Montecristo No. 4 box...."
And the bastard was a clicker. Meaning that little people fingers played hell getting the thing to click. And it was heavy. The go karts were a lot more fun.
If there's a soul on earth who feels otherwise I wouldn't want to know them.
Epic thoughts Tintin! Well put.
ML
mlanesepic.blogspot.com
Did dude have a train that you can ride into your living room on and a phone shaped like a duck?
Great writing, poor event, better lesson.
Great!
That's very special.
Yes...I have a memory just as important and profound...thank you.
Sounded like the dinners I was forced to have with the ex-inlaws ... I'll bet you anything I felt the same as you did when I got the hell outta there...
Anon, I'm not sure it was well written. But it's a memory that has stuck for 44 years.
Joe- You have me there.
ADG- I had a Fox mini bike. I'm bettin you had a Rupp.
LPC- You'd be surprised how many would take the money and the dark.
M Lane- Speaking of being grateful -- you open to something other than the Door for dinner?
Brohammas- Gas station wealth. Not Richie Rich wealth.
CS Trailer - What's with the alias?
Alice- I dunno. I get the impression most folks would prefer the Friday Belt.
RVS- My memories are not profound but the best thing about writing this blog is reading the stories and memories of others who comment here.
CG- As one of my earliest commenters, I've always enjoyed your stories. Especially about Italian women.
Joe- You have me there.
Tintin: as something of a Literateur I thought you'd be familiar with Mr Bounderby in Dicken's novel Hard Times. He's always telling everyone what a tough childhood he had!
You need to write more about death. I still think about the line "everyone looks Italian when they're dead."
My paternal g'dad used to say he couldn't stand the death on his breath, which is why he replaced it with Gordon's Gin and vermouth come 5 p.m. "Takes my mind off the pine box," he said.
Death is "trad," right?
I can remember the feeling that maybe rich kids had a better life...until I got home.
Sounds like your mother made a wonderful house of light.
Those are good looking kids, Tintin.
Recently, an exquisitely beautiful woman told me about her father and how extraordinarily successful he was as an entrepreneur. She was concerned that she might not possess the same drive to succeed in her own career. Perhaps there was an implication that I didn't either.
I didn't have the space or place during our conversation to tell her I didn't think it mattered, that she was already a different sort of person with different motivations and circumstances.
The passing of my parents was a great lesson to me. I watched as their possessions with their attached meanings were scattered amongst others. Their daily lives folded up and disappeared. The only truly tangible results of a lifetime of effort were the ways in which they touched and comforted the lives of others. They too will eventually disappear. Nothing else was demonstrated to matter. I now don't even think there is anything else in life.
I hope I get the opportunity to share this thought with her, with you it was easy.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Joe- That's what happens when you assume. Like Hemmingway, I haven't read much of Dickens. I know he liked to eat at Rules but other than that...
Trawets- Good advice from your granddad. But I think gin tastes like pine.
Patsy-I've read thinking rich folk are miserable helps the rest of us tolerate them.
Oyster Guy- They're the poor kids.
I hope you can share with your friend what you shared with me and the 80,000 people who read this blog each month. Yep, that's the number of uniques I'm getting. Give or take.
Now you have no reason not to share it with her. That and it's something she needs to know about you. And you'll learn a lot about her.
So - sharing Thanksgiving dinner memories - 1968, I was 8 years old and we went to Igo's in Cambridge - the coolest restaurant around. We were all dressed up and I felt so grown up. I sat next to my favorite great-uncle Charles (I wanted to call him Charlie, but he insisted on Charles, with that Boston accent - a lot like the MASH character. I was intently listening to the adult conversation and the subject of Uncle Charles' brother came up. I knew he had been sick so I very maturely said, "and how is your brother doing?" Every adult head at the table turned to me with horror and Uncles Charles said - "he died a month ago" -- I learned then and there (as I felt like a piece of dirt) that children should be seen and not heard - for our own good! DMW
DMW- You were only eight. You've heard me say stupid things and I never have an excuse. My most recent gaff occured when I met an old aquantance at a party. His wife was standing next to him and without an introduction I held out my hand in greeting and told her how wonderful it was to see her again. She told me I was thinking of wife #1. She was wife #2. I understand there's a wife #3 on the way.
The only way to avoid putting your foot in your mouth today is to not say anything.
I'm just gald we're finally off thatpicture of you smoking in the shower.
Giuseppe- That's exactly how I feel about you in tweed and white bucks in winter. But I was young, enlisted and stupid - - What's your three excuses?
We all have stories about other peoples' lives that put our own in perspective. Your perspective came to you earlier than most, and I think you were almost born to take the jaundiced view first. The nice thing about being an adult is that sometimes you can be grateful by just staying at home with a bag of popcorn and a rental movie.
Nice family photo.
-DB
Cheap, cocky and Italian? does that work?
DB- We've known each other since we were both 17. I never knew you thought that about me. It warms my heart.
Giuseppe- Are you Corsican?
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