Oyster Love

 Because FB will not let me post a direct link to this https://onetruenorthspace.blogspot.com/2008/09/moist-food-and-memory-or-should-it-be.html

On Reading Porn in Public (A Diversion for Pandemic Battered Minds)

 

18 November 2020

When I attended the Michigan State Universe in the mid-1970s the world was a different place.  We still had hope in the future.  We still held the notion dear that we as a people were evolving toward a nation where gender and race would no longer be limiting conditions.  We fully believed that literature’s best moments were still ahead. Clearly this was evidenced by the high quality shown by the writers of letters to Penthousemagazine. 

 

On one occasion several of my fellow MSU students and I pursued a public reading of one of these great works of art.  We did this on a warm and sunny fall afternoon in the public lounge area of our dormitory.  Our simple goal was to promote this uniquely evolving form of great literature.  We just didn’t understand how the Pulitzer literary prize committee failed to acknowledge the talent of these great writers year after year.

 

On one sunny Saturday afternoon we picked a story at random from the September 1976 issue of Penthouse magazine. The particular topic involved was stacks assignation.  Penthouse letters had a number of recurring themes, trysts with a friend’s fiancée’ (or mother), couplings in elevators, and finally encounters with persons with differing personal attributes.

 

Letters on library stacks assignations were particularly interesting to us because we undergraduates were for the most part were barred from the research stacks.  At the Michigan State Universe undergraduates were expressly forbidden to be in the ‘research stacks’, the place where scholarly journals and quarterly publications were all neatly arranged in university bound color coded volumes.  Titles like The University of Alberta Journal of Hydrological Data Assessment were arranged neatly in row after row floor after floor.  Only serious scholars were allowed to wander there among that mixture of thickly bound material and dust, each title having its own unique smell.  

 

Because of the serious reverence for the knowledge in these books very few undergraduate students got there.  (There was a back way in but that is for a different story).  Master and doctoral degree candidates were allowed to roam these oft vacant realms. Decrepit professors could cruise up and down these aisles.  Their numbers were sparse and the stacks remained very quiet day after day, week after week.  A pencil left on the floor in an aisle separating journals could remain there untouched for days. 

 

It was the near vacant nature of the storage space for these learned treatises that gave rise to the stack assignation stories.  These stories followed a pattern.  First, the narrator would specify why they would be in the stacks, always stated to be a deep and scholarly interest.  Next the teller of the tale (always a male) would find out that someone else was in the nearly deserted area. Given it was Penthouse the writer would find a comely member of the opposite sex lingering between the rows of books.  Of course, the person discovered would be observed doing something suggestive. I won’t dwell on the wild variations of the suggestive activities but assume it something like leaning over a sorting cart in a short skirt exposing lace fringed silk undergarments.  Invariably this would lead to a discussion of gymnastic sex worthy of the pliable nature of Olga Korbut’s limbs.

 

Well, there we were in our mixed gender, mixed race group, sitting around the western lounge of Mayo Hall. As I have said we decided to promote public awareness of this great literary form through a public reading. We would accomplish this by handing around an open Penthouse neatly concealed in another mass market publication like Time. Each of the 12 or so of us would read a single paragraph out loud continuing to hand the magazine to the person to our right until the letter concluded.  

 

The first people to read got off relatively unscathed in the endeavor. The first two or three paragraph of these letters, and they were long missives, were ones describing the writer’s work assignment, the locale of the action within the rows of dusty cobweb covered books, and the pink silk underwear of the soon to be member of Olympic fornication squad.  

 

Readers four through ten got the yeoman’s task of reading the descriptions of the sexual athleticism of the writer and his brave cohort. Readers four through ten also got to use the wild and varied adjectives and adverbs contained in the tale.  Moist, sweaty and wildly are about the safest of those words to recount here.  These determined orators also got to use the action verbs like thrust, and all its variants, voicing them in stage voices that would have made Sir John Gielgud proud.  Hand gestures would accompany the narration, mostly staging directions (although sometimes they would be graphic representations of particularly difficult to understand maneuvers outlined in the text of the letter). 

 

I did mention that this was a public reading.  I did mention this was in a ground floor lounge of a dormitory.  What I did not mention was that this ground floor’s suites of rooms had been occupied that year by a bunch of clean-shaven, short haired young men whose purpose, at that moment in their collective lives, was to proselytize to the world at large what they believed was the proper route to salvation.  To those who went to university in the 1970s these were the gents who stood out on the corners in center campus handing out small green copies of their sacred religious texts one day a term.  These were folks who did not drink, dance or smoke.  They also did not believe in having sex standing up because it could lead to dancing.

 

Now as reader seven was in a grave and serious tone describing a sexual maneuver that had about the same difficulty as a gymnast performing a double salto tucked with two full twists, a stranger approached the circle unnoticed by most. The listeners were really engaged in listening to the reading, enrapt perhaps.  The telling had captured their late teen/early twenties minds.  Their heart rates were elevated and there may have been stirrings in their loins.  The listeners were hanging on every word that was spoken with faster and shorter breaths.

 

At this moment, when the narrator was describing two people hanging nude from what must have been an industrial grade light fixture, a young clean-cut gentleman continued his approach from the monasterial region of the dormitory.  The reader having seen the approaching stranger stopped his reading midsentence and closed the Time magazine thus hiding the Penthouse and its racy cover.  The excited listeners looked confused but then they saw the approaching stranger too.

 

Coming to a halt dead center in the half circle of literary enthusiasts, this gentleman (let us call him Barry) produced a religious text from under his arm.  Barry opened his sacred book and asked if the listeners if they would mind if he read what he believed were the holy words related directly to what he saw as a universal plan of salvation.  All twelve pairs of eyes focused on the floor.  Indistinct mummers were heard but there was no overt or unambiguous refusal to Barry’s proposal.  Taking this as acquiescence, Barry spoke with passion. As he spoke the blood that had been pooling in specific places among the twelve listeners dissipated.  Pulses slowed and breathing returned to regular rates. Barry’s stump speech was short and sweet, maybe 3 minutes maximum.  At the end he gently closed his book, thanked the listeners and walked off with a strong steady stride away heading for the lounge of the east side.

 

When Barry was gone the then reader, who had quietly closed the Time/Penthouse combination left the magazines closed.  Giggles came gently at first.  Then came sheepish and guilty laughter.  Then people began falling out of their chairs with guttural laughter and flushed red faces.  I think Barry’s departing comment that the part that burns most in hell is the part that you sin with struck a chord with us.  

 

We did not return to our public promotion of literary talent on this particular day.  Maybe it was shame, maybe it was guilt, but we just didn't pick up where we left off. Instead, we wandered on to other activities like campus movies and cruising through the local downtown looking for posters to decorate our rooms.  Some people might have picked up incense or market spice tea.  Others wandered down to the river to feed the ducks. 

 

Penthouse’s letters never received the literary plaudits we felt they truly deserved.  I think we can only blame ourselves for not further promoting public awareness through additional public readings.

Fall Has Turned Cold; Winter Approaches

 

16 November 2020

As I start this it is about 10:15 AM.  I have had breakfast, oatmeal with blueberry compote and coffee.  Further I have walked 2.4 miles.  Turning my attention to household needs I have ordered several things online.  Within a minute or two I will refill my cup with a warm beverage.  

 

Today the trees were bare along my route.  Also, the wind whipped down the broad highway just north of my home strongly enough to make 35 F feel like 24 F.  Layer upon layer of outerwear was buttoned up and zippered up.  Cold and walking at a brisk pace I got my full walk in.  Over the past week I have been averaging a total of 6.2 miles a day walked. I have met all three of my move/exercise/stand goals for 221 days in a row (7+ months). 

 

Walking out I listened to three podcasts, Up First (Today’s edition), Consider This (Friday’s edition) and Politico Dispatch (Friday also).  The majority of the news focused in equal parts on the drastically increasing Covid-19 numbers and the failure of the Trump Administration to engage in the transition process. There were two others short squib stories.  These touched on a growing war in Ethiopia and the failure of the House and Senate to come up with a plan for, and to engage in distance voting. By the time the walk was over I was craving an SSRI.  I settled for a homemade apple pie bar.

 

A friend recently said that this year was so messed up that she didn’t mind the merging of the holidays.  Her comments indicated that in most years this is something she fought with a passion. Me too. Back to my friend, I believe her comment was something like, “If wearing a Santa Claus hat and listening to carols, while sitting in a bathtub filled with Halloween candy all the while eating a turkey leg makes 2020 more bearable, do it.” As I sit here eating one of the last Rollo candies from Halloween, not a big mover among the East Lansing grade school set, I note I brought up our three Rubbermaid tubs of Christmas decorations. Concurrently I put away two boxes of Halloween decorations. My wife is ordering a turkey online to be delivered to the trunk of our car today or tomorrow.

 

The weekend was cold and wet and miserable.  With Covid on the rise walking in the malls remains off limits.  I read two novels, a Bosch thriller I had missed and the newest Dresden Files.  Both were quick reads and fluffy fun. I also watched a bunch of episodes of a trashy British police procedural called New Tricks.  Elevator description, crusty retired coppers solving cold cases with humor. I can recommend the series as fun if you like all things Brit.

 

At one point yesterday I could no longer bear to stay in the house.  I went out for a twenty-minute walk.  Before I had finished my mile, the wind was blowing hail into me sideways.  Yeah, the high wind warnings were justified. In honor of this weekend’s nasty weather I offer the following song by the irascible Van Morrison.  Great singer, great writer, grouchy old bastard.

 

 

Heavy Frost and Mental Focus

 

14 November 2020

 

Bright day outside but cold.  Freezing is still a few degrees up the thermometer from where things stand right now. Few trees retain any leaves.  Few yards retain any leaves.  Because of the pandemic most of my neighbors have been working from home.  Every day during this week I have heard leaf blowers and raking up and down the blocks surrounding my home. I assume this is my neighbors making use of their lunch hours and break times. Deadlines motivate action. Our local government picks the leaves up and so we must all get our leaves piled out along the curb before November 16, the last day for leaf pickup up.

 

Me, the person who despises yard work, I have been out there too.  I have two lightweight rakes with broad reaches.  I have a device from Toro that both blows the leaves into a pile, but with a snap on/snap off action will suck these little photosynthesis factories up and grind them into a more compact form in a canvas sack. With a number of maples, one elm and one walnut tree I have a fair bit of labor to get the leaves to the curb on time.

 

As I look outside the sun has not warmed up the metal body of the car enough yet to melt the heavy frost from its roof. ‘Tis a sure sign of visible breath cold still abounding. Being retired I don’t have the time pressures my working days imposed on me.  I don’t have to get my walk done at a certain time because I have to be somewhere to do something at a specific hour. Today and most days and I can wait for the warmup. At this juncture of my life I don’t have to face the coldest part of the day.

 

The cold weather is not my friend.  Cold weather is a captor. Cold weather is a prison guard.  While the news of the plague contains some hope, a vaccine within a year, it also contains some despair.  The nation is incurring the highest number of infections per day it has ever had.  Deaths are again rising. Cold weather which forces people inside forces a higher risk of transmission and infection onto all of us.  Trips to the grocery stores during those special hours for the old and the infirm are just not as inviting. Activities in communal spaces are just not attractive.

 

Me, I am going to keep walking for as long as I can.  Layers, I will be wearing lots of layers.  However, I will be continuing my mostly monastic lifestyle. Guess I had better make peace with my active rambling mind. 

 

Life is imperfect.  We are not promised to fully understand all that surrounds us in this world, including the new plague. Yet if we are open to it, deprivations like those Covid-19 has imposed can focus us on what really matters, on what is really core to making the most of our lives. These months of isolation need not be wasted time. Looks like the frost has fled and I must now go.

 

 

Memories

 6 November 2020

 My Uncle Bill

 

My Uncle Bill Huber passed this week.  I have been digging deep into my memories of the man to see what is there.  Inside my head’s vault of the past there are three distinct groups of memories.  One group predates 1960, this was the period when my Mom was teaching and my Aunt Sugar was providing daycare for me.  Back then it was Billy and Jimmy and me. Dot, Mel and John would come later.

 

Most of my memories of that time were of Aunt Sugar, Bill’s wife.  But there are some distinct memories I have of Uncle Bill.  Mostly they are of a man with a measured tone.  I think his role as a mortician imposed a calm demeanor for his dealings with the public in general. His quiet demeanor carried over to his dealings with me.  I know I was confused about his outfits.  He wore dark suits and ties on day that were not Sundays.  What was that about thought my four-year-old brain.  Most men in my life were blue collar factory rats. They were suits on Sunday.  But Uncle Bill would have to put on the dark suit and subdued tie uniform during the week. This aberration from the norm of men in my world that flummoxed my thinking.  Again, he was always a genial man and a calm force during these years.

 

The second group of memories come from a period of time involved the years after the Hubers had moved to Bordentown but before I spent my summers in Ocean City, NJ.  Bill would on major family occasions such as Memorial Day, the Fourth of July and Labor Day would drive down in a big black Cadillac that he had because of his funeral home business.  His growing family would spill out at my Grandmother’s house or the houses of my aunts and uncles’. The arrival was cacophonous. He was always laughing and he always had a smile. And he would come prepared and would make homemade ice cream. If you want to win hearts and minds of the preteen set, make homemade ice cream.  

 

My final group of memories come from the years when I was in my early teens. Yes, I know my Uncle Bill was a Mason and a semi-professional clown, but I really didn’t know much about those parts of his life.  What I did know was that on those days he could steal away from the funeral home he loved being at the beach, by and in the water.  I am pretty sure it was my Uncle Bill and Aunt Sugar who convinced my parents that Ocean City was a great place to rent an apartment for the summer.  Good God, I wish I could thank him for that bit of persuasion.  The beach changed my life, my mind, my values and my world view.  I remember well my Uncle Bill sitting in a beach chair down by the water just reveling in the warmth of summertime. Me, I am pretty sure he would not mind being remembered that way.  There is some joy of a vision of a man in his prime letting the sea breeze tousle his hair as he sat by the never changing, but always changeable, Atlantic.