Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! (40 Days/40 Poems)

book_open-6_op_777x628Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! (40 Days/40 Poems)

Please join me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. You submit the concept, idea, subject, and I’ll do the rest. Please no political rubbish. We are hammered enough by all of that, and I intend to promote that there is life outside of that reality. I will write original poems inspired by your suggestions. Please comment, or message me your ideas this week and next. I’ll accept up until July 17th. The poems will drop on my blog ProCrassTheNation.com from July 23-August 31. 40 Days/40 Poemsfeeling ambitious.

Advertisements

“Is it as clear as mud?”

Mary Campbell

“Is it as clear as mud?”

“Is it as clear as mud?”

Trick question.

Answer: “No, because mud isn’t clear!”

We were often tasked to repeat this answer to our teacher (shown above) when she explained any number of directions which she wanted followed.

Yes, that person up there, that’s Ms. Mary Campbell, she was a Nun, ya’ know ( Sister Mary Damien)?  Or at least she used to be, prior to becoming a lay teacher at St. Francis de Sales Parochial School of Charlestown, MA, during the decade of the 1980’s.

The 1980’s, a time for myself, and many of my peers that was fraught with the obstacles of adolescent development and socialization. A time where we were dependent upon the teachers that taught us at school, and the parents that reared us at home; to be able to sincerely guide us in our pursuit of excellence and discovery.

I knew this woman for a solid eight years, and probably a bit more, and I’m rather conflicted about how to go about recounting my characterization of her during that time.

I mean do I talk about how she was a force to be reckoned with? That both parents and children knew to cut her a wide path. Her large personality, only a second, to our beloved Pastor.

Maybe the physical attributes, then?

When I met her, she was at the back-end of being a  middle-aged woman, moving onto the fall of her life. Very sturdy, and built like a German Frau, despite being Irish-American through and through. She had salt and pepper hair that held a green tint, that’s how steeped in her Irish pride she was. She exuded green. I often thought her hair looked like the slivers that the guys in the Irish Spring commercials cut from the bars of soap during the commercials of that era.

img_5347

Her daily wardrobe consisted of boat shoes or penny loafers, tweed or khaki pants, and any of a variety of polo shirts that was left unbuttoned and exposed her flushed neckline and pale chest.

Very casual, very Butch.

Most of the women, if not all of the women we came into contact during our early years, did not dress like Ms. Mary Campbell. Skirts were generally the rule or slacks and more feminine offerings. Which meant what it meant within the context of the time. I have no idea, truly, what Ms. Mary Campbell identified as, but she seemed comfortable within herself.

She wore a Claddagh Ring which she was always fiddling with.

Her hair cut short, and parted, with a comb over the front. Square featured, weak chinned, bushy eyebrows, and dimples on the smile. She had bony elbows and bigger than average forearms, thighs, and a large barrel breasted chest.

Worth noting in the most immature boyish way, she had a perpetual hard nipple. No, not nipples, nipple. One was always hard and one wasn’t. Talk to the boys, talk to the girls, we all observed this mystery. No matter the time or seasons.

Her voice, congruent with what you might expect of a woman of her age and time. There being a range of inflection and a hint of some accent, that I cannot place. Perhaps, Southern United States?

She used this voice (probably her greatest asset) as a tool to teach, discipline, and from time to time wield sarcasm and sardonic wit upon her charges.

In my experience, what she said was never as grievous as how she said it. Inflection drawn to an extreme, tension drawn out for maximum effect, and the ambiguity of not knowing exactly what was coming, often led to existential fear of her admonishment and reprisals.

The majority of the time I knew her, I engaged her in school, but there was the odd sighting of Ms. Mary Campbell up the Bunker Hill Park, as she liked to bring her dog Erin to the basketball courts to play fetch.

img_5353

Erin was a miniature black poodle, and outside of school, they seemed to be attached at the hip. Erin was fond of fetching a thrown tennis ball. And, on occasion you might be able to get Ms. Mary Campbell to allow you to throw it for Erin to fetch.

After a lot of back and forth, Ms. Campbell would take Erin over to her parked car and open up the hatchback for Erin to jump in.

She owned a light blue Plymouth Horizon, and it could be seen docked at 50 Belmont Street, many a day and night. Tommy Macneil and I used to gather fallen crab apples and gun them at her car from high atop the hill behind her home, that abutted St. Francis’s Cemetery (sorry I outed us bud, but the statute of limitations is up on that crime. in addition, we never did any real damage to her vehicle.)

50belmont

It is also known that for a time in our very young years, she used to babysit for my best friend’s parents. It is alleged that she would bring a small supply of her favorite drink with her when she came to call. Apparently, she was a St. Pauli Girl-Girl.

I like to think of her sitting on the couch of my best friend’s home, slinging back bottles of St. Pauli Girl Suds, and holding down the fort with kids abed.

In school, it was a different tale. Ms. Mary Campbell was the Queen of her domain. By the time you got to her seventh grade class, you had already had six years of her gym class.

Gym class.

Given once a week. It entailed going to your class coat room, and changing into your sneakers, then lining up outside your classroom and waiting for Ms. Mary Campbell to come to escort you to the annex building that abutted St. Francis de Sales. Depending on your grade, you would have to traipse downstairs or through huge silver metal doors in order to get out the side entrance of the school and into the annex.

We would be brought into this structure, and asked to play a variety of sports, and physical activities, on a dirty white tiled floor, with yellow taped put down to mimic any of the many courts that one would play on. These yellow lines would constitute the start and stop points of many activities.

Two of the more memorable activities involved relay races and volleyball.

For relay races, we would divide our class by two and stand behind the yellow line that was closet to the Boston Skyline as seen in the picture above. We would line up on either side of Ms. Mary Campbell as she would say: “on your mark! get set! GOOOOO!”

We would have to race to the other side of the annex, towards Bunker Hill Street, and we would have to touch an old vintage Frigidaire and then race back to the line.

On occasion we would have to do relay wheel barrow races. The added bonus: we had to race up to the fridge and back, and it only counted if the wheel barrow person touched Ms. Mary Campbell’s smelly penny loafer or boat shoe.

Volleyball was another activity through which we were berated for our ignorance for the finer points of the sport. Most if not all of us came to the sport without any knowledge of its inner workings. Well, in short, she thought we all came to her with a working understanding. After many failed attempts to choreograph the proper rotation of players, we eventually got it.

Again, I think that many reading this piece will understand the exclamation:

“ROTATE!”

After every volley and point scored, she would shout this to the group, expecting perfection.

Now, don’t be mistaken, despite outward appearances, in this sport, she was a player/coach, and she participated. She jonesed for the opportunity to get involved in these matches. I have vivid memories of her protecting the net and jumping up to protect a tapped ball from coming over to her side, exposing her pasty beer belly and on occasion the underside of bra cups. We all snickered and giggled, but when the game was on the line, it was on the line, and she was ready to throw down.

On occasion, we would mix classes 8th and 5th grade, and so on and so forth. There was a great rivalry in these activities, but also it served for opportunities for us younger kids to take the lead from our slightly older peers in how to deal with Ms. Mary Campbell. Well, one time, a kid name Brian Howell, known for his comedic talents, and wise-cracking abilities, was given the ball to serve. Well he took a longer than normal time to prepare his serve, so much so that Ms. Campbell grew impatient enough to take the Lord’s name in vain, and told him to “Just serve the Goddamned ball!”

Well, he smirked and did just that. With all of his might, he teed it up and served the ball. It went over the net in a flash of fire and dipped squarely into the face of Ms. Mary Campbell.

I cannot express the level of satisfaction this bestowed upon all but one in that building that day. I can still hear the sound of his hand hitting the ball, and the sound of the leather ball coming to crash upon Ms. Mary Campbell’s face.

It sounded like a pizza dough being handled wildly and then slapped against the torso of an adult walrus.

She was a tough old broad, and despite the disorientation, she walked it off. Class ended, and whispers about Brian Howell’s errant/purposeful served circulated for weeks.

For those of us there that day, it was majestic, magical, and memorable.

Four notable things from being under her direct care and supervision for the entirety of my seventh grade experience in 1987: she was an unapologetic muzz, she enjoyed embarrassing people in front of the class, she used class time to satisfy her want of leisure, and she made a great mistake of underestimating our class resolve.

Unapologetic Muzz -we had a morning break, and a lunch, during these times, if we didn’t have a lunch mother to monitor our class, Ms. Mary Campbell would shuffle around the class and take food taxes from us. If we had a bag of chips, she would insist upon sticking her sausage fingers into the bags to collect her share. Mind you, unwashed hands. For me, it was beyond reproach, as I didn’t like to share snacks. She would always find me, and if I couldn’t get through my bag of Dipsy Doodles img_5369quickly enough, she would fist the bag and pull out the corn, shaking off excess back into the bag, of course. Then she would hold the claimed chips above her tipped head and let them fall into her mouth. She was never satiated. Always on the prowl for more snacks.

Enjoyed embarrassing people in front of the class -being a very large woman, she sat behind a very large desk. She would invite us up to her desk to correct our work. It was very public, and she offered her criticism loud enough for all to hear. When called you would bring your papers and books up to her. You would have to stand on the stage, while she pulled the little shelf out of her desk to correct the work upon, and she would lick her fingers between each page turn and finish with a flourish of her red pen. Also, if the class was reading an assignment, and she determine that you weren’t paying attention, she would call on you to continue reading. Naturally, she knew you didn’t know where we were in the reading, but she liked to see you squirm. She would admonish you by saying something like, “Wake up, Hickey! You’re in Never-never Land”

Used class time to satisfy her want of leisure -during the later parts of the day, we had a study hall, but it was really an excuse to keep us occupied, while she selected a few students to play Scrabble with her. Our classroom was set up in clusters of four, so she would commandeer one of the clusters and choose four students to play. She usually chose one of my best friends, Kenny, to play, and whoever else was not on her shit list. Ultimately, she would Donald Trump her way to victory through lying, making up words, and outright bullying. Any time she was called out on her shenanigans, she would get dismissive and petulant. I remember one time, and one time only, when Kenny called her out on a word not being a word, and he was right. Her concession came, but I do remember her being a bit colder to Kenny after that.

Made the great mistake of underestimating our class resolve -at year-end she made a great theatrical showing of how she had our science final in her hands, and that it was ready to be passed out the following day, and that there was nothing we could do about it, but study hard. She taunted us with the answer key. Literally rubbed it in our faces. She then proceeded to rip up said test and answer key in the most dramatic fashion deposit it into the waste paper basket beside her very large desk, and for effect, wiped her hands together multiple times to show her work was done. Enter scene: Brian Santos. It was his turn to take the discarded trash to the lavatory trash barrels in the basement. I don’t know how we all sort of figured it out, but there was several looks and nods and somehow, as she sat there smug, Brian took the trash to the lavatory, and several of us decided we had to go the bathroom. Somehow, it escaped her satisfied mind. Hubris is great, isn’t it? We would never dare, would we? Well, we convened in the bathroom, ripped open the bag, and retrieved the test and answer key. Our pockets were full, our plans fuller, in truth the hardest part of the whole thing was convincing everyone not to score 100% on the test, that we all had to score within our means, so to speak. I think I got 1 or 2 wrong, hey, I along with Brian took the greatest risk. Happy to say, we all passed that test. The best fuck you we could deliver to her, for such bold pageantry.

The past is the past, but is it? I often wonder how events and instances that occurred in those times, directly came to bear on decisions I’ve made in my lifetime.

This woman contributed, for certain. For better or worse.

Some stats:

Years in School-8

Years with Ms. Mary Campbell as gym teacher: 8

Years with Ms. Mary Campbell as direct teacher: 1 (7th grade)

Years with Ms. Mary Campbell as a part-time teacher: 1 (8th grade)

Times she made me cry: 0

Times she made others cry: 6 or more

Times the she made me uncomfortable: infinite

Times she yelled: infinite

Times she used passive aggressive remarks to discipline: infinite

Times she rolled her eyes, or used excessive dramatic gestures to make her point: infinite

I think you get the picture.

I’m willing to bet a great many people who I know reading this post, would be willing to admit that they fit into any of the categories above, and witnessed firsthand the behaviors alluded to.

Here’s my take:

Despite, the methods, and delivery, I think Ms. Mary Campbell made a lot of us stronger people for having known her, and for having been subjected to her behavioral whims.

She taught us the valuable lesson, that the world does possess people who are hard to get along with, sustain, and not everyone is going to blow sunshine up your ass.

Tough love?

Yes, I think there was that, but I think she operated from a very human perspective, and definitely tried her best to do what she thought was right. After all, she was an educator, and she did spend time with us in preparation for our futures.

There are those of us that liked to shit on her while we were there, and probably those of us that have a hard time forgiving her humanity, but I suggest that in embracing the Ms. Mary Campbell’s of our world for their imperfections is a path to compassion that is much-needed in order to coexist with our fellow travelers to the grave.

She prepared us for that.

“Is it as clear as mud?”

The truth is…

I don’t really know, even after all this time.

“Fah each? Awhr fah two?”

 

“Fah each? Awhr fah two?”

Cabbage Patch Victory Ma

My Mother was a woman of vernacular. She had ways of saying things and words to say them. Over the course of our lives together, it became apparent that not everyone shared these words and expressions. In conversations with others, I’d often say things that would get puzzled looks, or giggles.

The Boston “dropped R” only enhanced and amplified the effect of conversing with her. You might get something like “Hi! Howahya? You comin ovah tommorah? Jaysus Christ, it’s wicked hawt. Christophah! Christophah! I saw a patient at the hospital last night with a broken leg, bone sticking out. Skeevatsah!”

I grew an appreciation for the cadence and dance of conversing with her over the years. She “nevah” used punctuation, but ended most phrases with a “ya know?” Which was pregnant with reflection, concession, and a hint at sought validation; though mostly rhetorical.

My Mother doted on my sister and I to an extreme. Most especially, at Christmas. We were spoiled. It was her thing. It is one of the lasting memorable characteristics of her personality, along with her speech patterns that I remember fondly.

Well, a story she was particularly fond of retelling, or enjoyed hearing others tell of it, was that of “The Great Cabbage Patch Kid Doll Carnage of 1983”

The Cabbage Patch Doll Craze of 1983 was a national phenomena. My sister had it in her lusty child sights. I didn’t care so much about it, except a passing acknowledgement that it was “a thing”, G.I. Joe was more in my wheelhouse. I really don’t recall how it became known to us, but somehow without internet, the message got out. Stores didn’t have them to keep up with the demand. Clandestine shipments, ravaged shelves, my Mother had contacts everywhere, searching high and low for one of these damn dolls. I repeat, this was before internet, yet she managed a network of contacts through landline telephones, a calendar date book, and the yellow and white pages. I’m pretty sure she also enlisted help from the Hood Milkman, Meyer the owner of the Family Shoe Store where we got our bobos (generic shoes mocking name brands), and the entire St. Francis de Sales Parents Guild Association.

As days fell from the calendar, so did my Mother’s hopes of presenting the perfect Christmas morning for my sister.

She was wicked desperate.

I don’t know how, but one of the many leads she had, developed into her taking a bus to Manhattan with my father sometime in December before Christmas 1983. It was a precision operation that involved getting to the correct store, waiting in line, and having the right money for the purchase.

When I think of my father being dragged from his weekend slumber to traipse down to Manhattan on the chance of a hope and a prayer that they might get a doll for my sister, I heartily laugh. I don’t think he was a believer. Ma was, though. My sister’s Christmas joy depended on it.

His only consolation was perhaps a few hurried stops at a bunch of New York Street Hot Dog vendors, so he could stuff a Sabrett’s Hot Dog in his restless maw. Not my mother, she was not to be distracted from her mission.

The Blues Brothers were told by God that they had a mission to complete. Conversely, my Mother told God, she had a mission to complete.

So after the long bus trip, the long city blocks, the foot long hot dogs smothered in relish, they finally arrived at the correct place at the correct time. The line was long, but not impossibly long. Somehow, others knew about the shipment, much to my Mother’s chagrin. They padded along. advancing another few steps. At the pace of one complaint and anxiety at a time. My Mother spent her time in the line giving the gooch and stink face to anyone coming back down the line with a sizable box like brown paper bag in their mitts. Each person coming down the line displayed a satisfaction that my Mother hadn’t tasted as yet, and she grew antsy.

Down the line. People in. Bags out.

Blood pressure rising.

After what must have seemed an eternity to my parents, they finally crossed the threshold and made their way to the counters.

Behind the counters were little brown men screaming and yelling at a fevered pitch. New York was and is the melting pot of America, so it stood to reason that my parents would meet up with some people they were unfamiliar with, having spent most of their lives in an insular community.

So the moment of truth occurs:

Sales clerk: So whatchoo, want, lady?

Ma: How much ah, fah the Cabbage Patch Dolls?

Sales clerk: one hundred dolla.

My Mother turns to my Father, “did he say $100 dollars?”

My father nodded. She didn’t intend on paying $100 dollars for a doll she thought was could be bought for less. Although, desperate times called for desperate measures.

She turned back to the sales clerk and said:

Fah each? Awhr fah two?

 

The clerk looked stunned, then started talking to his associate. My mother, thought she was not heard. Both sales clerks looked bothered and started gesticulating at my mother. Again, she said:

 

Fah each? Awhr fah two?

 

Well that just about did it. The sales clerks said:

Get out, of our store, filthy lady! How dare you talk to us like that!

My father getting a hold of what was going on realized what my mother had said, and put together that they thought she was offering “favors” for the dolls.

Dad: They thought you said you would eat them for two dolls, Kath.

After a good laugh, and some explanations, my Mother reluctantly paid the $100 dollars for the doll.

So 1983 was one of the best Christmases ever for our family. My sister got her doll. My Mother got to see the expression of joy that came of my sister receiving the doll. We all got a story to tell, and two Indian/Pakistani gentleman in Manhattan who had a harder time understanding my Mother’s Boston accent than she had in understanding them, were canonized saints for not having thrown my Mother out of their store before she had the chance to drop her r’s, and some cabbage on some Cabbage Patch Kids.

In my Mother’s version of the story, she believed that the gentleman got it wrong, but if you knew my Mother, you would have heard what they heard, as she had a phenomenal Boston accent. It was wicked pissah! Ya’ know…

Cabbage Patch Kiss Ma

“Bridge Over Troubled Waters”

 

“Bridge Over Troubled Waters”

Many years ago,

when I was fresh and ready to ascend.

I often went with my Mother into the city when she had business to tend to.

We could achieve this via bus, train, taxi cab, or just simply walking.

The town I grew up in was a stone’s throw from Downtown Boston.

If the weather was right, and all things were equal,

Ma would grab the carriage-tank, and we would “hoof it” from Charlestown to Boston.

Crossing the North Washington Street Bridge was the primary path to get us to where we needed to go.

The bridge seemed huge to a small sensibility,

especially, one not familiar with such architecture.

Welded steel, and rusted girders rose up like Erector Sets.

Which in the days of industry and Navy business,

 were placed in the hands of the gods so they could connect Boston to its Northeasterly neighbor.

A metallic menace of purpose and acceptance,

one would note that when you arrived to a certain point of the bridge,

the path was beset on all walking surfaces by see-through grate panels.

You could see the water below, and a sense of dread would fill you as you approached this part of the walk.

A feeling of gravity seemed to reach up and solder our legs to the steel floor.

The crossing of the bridge, what some might term as a brave gesture, inspired momentary but passing paralysis.

More often than not, I requested a lift into the carriage-tank, or I pushed my face into the folds of my Mother’s clothing.

Hoping, that if I didn’t look, no harm would come to me.

My Mother took a more proactive and pragmatic approach.

She issued the challenge of walking over the panels,

but…

by staying steadfast to the steel beams below that gave support to the panels.

Flawless logic.

If the panels failed, then at least you would be grounded on the steel beam girders.

There was a finite amount of tract that needed to be negotiated before you got to the safety of solid ground again.

I recall walking gingerly on the beamed portion of the grates,

concentrating on the water of Boston’s Harbor below.

Upon growing bolder on subsequent trips,  I started to spit loogies through the gaps of the panels in hopes that they would hit the water below and float. Until, fish would come to the surface to consume.

Then, one day, the grates didn’t faze me at all, and the walk became moored in muscle memory.

At times, the old  Stop & Shop bakery if operational, would send baked bread plumes over the water to lead Townies over the bridge to Causeway Street.

Bruins games, and Celtics games always seemed to be releasing the faithful crowds out onto the street and down the way.

Trips to Downtown Boston, when a walking occasion, were special, and eventually looked forward to when all fears of slaying the steel structure were gone.

Since that time, many bridges have been crossed, some see through, others harboring trolls unseen, but if we simply remembered to find the trick of making an unpleasant thing seem more pleasant, then we always came out on the other side.

Ma was good at finding those tricks and getting us to buy into them.

 

 

 

 

 

“Amusement Marks”

img_5483

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Amusement Marks”

This past weekend, my wife and I took the kids on a pilgrimage to Storyland. Storyland for those outside of New England, is a very scaled down version of Disney World and the like. Scaled in acreage, but not price mind you. It is a theme park that subscribes to bringing the stories of childhood to life. Mainly Grimm’s Fairy Tales, with a few others peppered in there. It is nestled within the White Mountains of New Hampshire, just north of North Conway, and you can find many a weary parent trudging the toddler troops through the entrance gates to capture all sorts of moments. Although, there was a fair amount of crying (mostly us adults on the inside), we were able to create a few great memories, that will allow us to practice some selective amnesia, and bring the brood to bear on these environs once more at a future date.

The fan-favorite, yet again, was the Bamboo Chutes Ride. This is your prototypical water flume/chute ride composed of winding turns, a hill or two, and a final ascent with a plunge into the waters below. I don’t know why we didn’t just spend the entire day going on this ride over and over and over. Our first son, Atticus, had previously been on this ride a few years ago, so he was an easy sell.

img_5396

But, our daughter, Lenore, needed a bit more convincing. She had previously been on the raft ride, and didn’t like it very much.

Somehow, We were able to convince her to participate. I like that she is willing to try almost anything, and doesn’t want to be left out . I’d also credit the burgeoning sibling rivalry that has been developing between our kids as a factor in her not being upstaged in the ride tally at the end of the day.

So the three of us went into the waiting lines/stalls and moved along. My wife and toddler son, Paul, were able to view us from a shady bench nearby.

The anticipation was brutal for Atticus, and Lenore’s anxiety was palpable. She kept saying “Daddy, I scared, I scared!”  I convinced her that it would be okay, and started talking about other things to take her mind off of the unknown.

In that moment, it occurred to me that this same conversation had occurred some 32-34 years ago at Canobie Lake, Whalom Park, Paragon Park, Lincoln Park, etc.

My father, Paul Hickey, and Uncle, Mike Hickey, were all-pros at convincing us kids that it was cool to go on the rides, no matter how scared we were. And, the funny thing, was after the elation that ensued upon the ride completing, we were eager to go back on. But, that trust, that trust right there, that was the foundation upon which we knew things would be okay. Simply, because they said they would be. Surely, it stuck, and allowed for us to belly up to anything that carnivals and theme parks could throw at us over the years.

A lightning bolt came out of the sky on Saturday, and hit me in my heart. It reminded me that sometimes the best amusements when at the amusement park, are the ones that are shared with the loves of our lives while waiting to face the certain uncertainty of the unknown.

The secret to life just might be in the conversational subterfuge between family and friends while waiting to get on rides. Those were the times, man. Those are the times, man.

Eventually, we got on the Log, and Atty was having a blast, and Lenore tucked herself into me to be sure that she was shielded from any danger. We made it through the first turn, then onward, and finally up the climbing hill. White Mountains all around us, blue skies, shudders, squeals, and then the final turn putting us into that moment of potential energy before gravity pulled us into the new discoveries of our hearts and joy. The screams were genuine, and full of life, and as we slowed upon our descent into the water below, it gushed all over us and mixed with our laughter and expressions. I felt the ease as the unfamiliar left my daughter, and she gained a bit of confidence that perhaps things aren’t so scary when shared with others.

It was a great day.

img_5486

Hard to see Lenore, but she is there between Atty and I