1880 I found the name on a
map when I was a child in Scotland and it came to my mind that that was where I was
going to someday; Wabash, Indiana. I was 17 when I got there and I
found work on the new Presbyterian Church after I told them about my religious
folks back home. One evening, Mr Charles Brush asked that we all meet him at
the Courthouse. That was the night that sunshine came to the city. When he switched
on his electrical lights, the darkness turned to day; we were the first city, anywhere.
1969 It was early evening in Strasburg and the July heat was still causing him suffocation. It took all of the energy he had just to lay still. He counted to ten and then he stood, somehow lifting the window that opened on to South Decatur Street. After hearing someone on the sidewalk shout that Neil Armstrong was just about to step on the Moon, he switched on the hotel TV. He noticed at the window was the face of a little Amish kid smiling in wonder at his television and at a world one quarter of a million miles away.
1976
Everything was red, white and blue except perhaps for the
little crazy man who was singing a Beatles’ song: Eight Days a Week.
Suzie lay
in the warm air listening to the excitement carried in the voices of
others and
waiting for the fireworks to explode over her city. There was something
small
and comforting about DC, yet it represented everything that was big in
the
world. The rockets rose with all the colors and splendors of the
universe and were reflected in the mirror of the Potomac. Her country
was 200 years
old and she couldn’t stop the tears.
1963 I remember fighting
a rather lonely wind as I crossed Central Park on that particular Wednesday
before Christmas; an old faded newspaper flapped in the breeze against a wooden
seat but I could still make out the headline: ‘JFK Dead’. They would be coming
soon, those wise men from the east, the Beatles with their new English beat
music. Perhaps we could stop grieving and begin to move on. I clambered up the
hill, crossed Central Park West sliding in to 72nd Street and as I passed the
Dakota building, a cold chill made me pull my coat in tight.
1930 Hotel
Nevada stood
at the corner of Fremont Street; he’d driven out west in ’29 when things
got
real tough back home. His plan was to head for California where they
were making Talking movies. The problem was that he’d stopped off in
this one horse town, run up a
liquor bill and was working fourteen hours a day to pay off the debt.
Jake, who
worked in the Hotel Apache, had asked to pull their greenbacks and
invest
in a small casino but he had to say ‘no’. Who was going to come to a
place like
Las Vegas?
1948 From that little room in the cold-water apartment you could smell Harlem. The top window being stuck open with the paint that was probably put on around the time of Pearl Harbor. Cooking smells danced in along with thumps and arguments from far off places.I decided that I needed fresh air and I headed down to 8Th avenue where the folks were drinking canned-heat and digging the sex and the sax. In the dark corner of one coffee shop was Ginsberg and Kerouac talking ‘bout this and that and not seeing anything of the outside world; God bless 1948.
1950 The day after he buried his mother, he sat suppin’ on a scalding mug of Java and listening to the World Series on the radio. He didn’t have a plan yet, ‘cept that he’d packed a small bag the night before just in case they chased him from the house. When he’d finished, he picked up the keys to Bill’s old Plymouth then threw his stuff in the rear seat and set off along route 30.He had one final stare from up on the ridge. Tomorrow he’d be in Ohio and everything was gonna change.
1940 The air tasted different; fresher even - perhaps
sweeter. Stan was about to drive himself and his dad to Princeton where he was eager
to study aeroplanes. He drove passed his old high school and the Baptist church,
passed Mary Sweeney’s home and passed the cemetery where Steve lay (although he
would always carry him inside). The sun shone all the way to New Jersey and
both of them wished his mom had been here to see her boy. If the war in Europe
didn’t spread to the US then a brave new world would lie ahead for him.
1966
Somewhere
between Woodstock and Bearsville there had been an accident, he was sure
of
that fact. He was sitting on the wooden steps in Tinker Street waiting
on the
New York City bus. He liked to watch who got on and who got off. Someone
said
that it might have been a motorcycle crash and that you-know-who had
been
involved. What kinda played with his head is that he was almost sure he
had seen you-know-who driving passed in a VW about fifteen minutes
earlier going
in the opposite direction. But this was Woodstock and to hell with the
truth.
1954 Her Daddy says she ain’t to come back into the house until she asks the Lord for forgiveness and that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon given that she ain’t done nothing wrong. The runt, he called, and that hurt real bad. She can see her Mom praying at the window and wishing her youngest would just say the things her husband wants to hear and then they could all get on with their lives. One day she is gonna keep on walking but until then she ain’t gonna listen to no old man tell her she can’t dance to Elvis.
1954 Her Daddy says she ain’t to come back into the house until she asks the Lord for forgiveness and that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon given that she ain’t done nothing wrong. The runt, he called, and that hurt real bad. She can see her Mom praying at the window and wishing her youngest would just say the things her husband wants to hear and then they could all get on with their lives. One day she is gonna keep on walking but until then she ain’t gonna listen to no old man tell her she can’t dance to Elvis.
1943 She remembers the days of them walking passed each
other and the excitement of being in the same room. The nerves when standing
next to him in the canteen and the things she meant to say but never did; cursing
herself that she never took the opportunity to start a conversation. Then she
got moved and only saw him across the courtyard from time to time, finally one
day he just disappeared. Even although his work meant he didn’t have to go
overseas, she’d heard he’d signed up and was somewhere in the Pacific. She could only wait on him.
2013 If you close your
eyes real tight and then do nothin’ but listen you can hear them. I swear to
you, cross my heart and may Jesus never talk to me again. Go on, do it, real
tight now and no peekin’. Listen. You
can hear Annie squealing as she plays on the sidewalk; she used to live in that
soup store across the street with her grandpa. She ran away the day he got took
to hospital and then there’s Eddie chasin’ after his dog he called ‘Spots’ even
‘though it ain’t got any. They're all gone now. Shame.
bobby stevenson 2013
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