*** A Pauper Comes Of Age- For the
Adamsville South Elementary School Class Of 1958
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
Fritz Taylor, if he thought about it
at all, probably would have said that he had his history hat on again like when
he was a kid and was crazy to impress everybody with his arcane knowledge of
about two thousand facts nothing before 1900, every girl that is, on that day
in 2008 when out of the blue, the memory time blue, he thought about her,
thought about fair Rosimund. No, before you get all set to turn to some other
thing, some desperate alternate other thing, to do rather than read Fritz’s
poignant little story, this is not some American Revolution founding fathers
(or mothers, because old-time Abigail Adams may have been hovering in some
background granite-chiseled slab grave in very old-time Adamsville cemetery
while the events to be related occurred) or some bold Massachusetts
abolitionist regiment out of the American Civil War 150th anniversary memory
history like Fritz used to like to twist the tail around when you knew him, or
his like.
Fritz, that 2008 early summer’s day,
was simply trying to put his thoughts together and write something, write
something for those who could stand it, those fellow members of his who could
stand to know that the members of the North Adamsville High School Class of
1964 were that year celebrating the 50th anniversary of their graduation from
elementary school. In Fritz’s case not North Adamsville Elementary School like
many of his fellows but from Adamsville South Elementary School across town on
the “wrong side of the tracks.” The elementary school that served “the projects”
where he grew up all rough and tumble and survived to tell about it. And
although, at many levels that was a very different experience from that of the
average, average North Adamsville class member the story had a universal
quality that he thought might amuse them, amuse them that is until the name,
the thought of the name, the mist coming from out of his mouth at the forming
of the name, holy of holies, Rosimund, stopped him dead in his tracks and
forced him to write a different story.
Still, once the initial trauma wore
off, he thought what better way to celebrate that milestone on the rocky road
to surviving childhood than to take a trip down memory lane, that
Rosimund-strewn memory lane. Those days although they were filled with
memorable incidents, good and bad, paled beside this Rosimund-related story
that cut deep, deep into his graying-haired mind, and as it turned out one that
he have not forgotten after all. So rather than produce some hokey last dance,
last elementary school sweaty-palmed dance failure tale, some Billie
Bradley-led corner boy down in the back of Adamsville South doo wop be-bop into
the night luring stick and shape girls like lemmings from the sea on hearing
those doo wop harmonies, those harmonies meant for them, the sticks and shapes
that is, or some wannabe gangster retread tale, or even some Captain Midnight
how he saved the world from the Cold War Russkies with his last minute-saving
invention Fritz preferred to relate a home truth, a hard home truth to be sure,
but the truth. So drugged with many cups of steaming instant black coffee, a
few hits of addicted sweetened-orange juice, and some protein eggs he whiled
away one frenzied night and here is what he produced:
At some point in elementary school a
boy is inevitably supposed to learn, maybe required to, depending on the whims
of your school district’s supervisory staff and maybe also what your parents
expected of such schools, to do two intertwined socially-oriented tasks - the
basics of some kind of dancing and to be paired off with, dare I say it, a girl
in that activity. After all that is what it there for isn’t it. At least it was
that way in the old days, and if things have changed, changed dramatically in
that regard, you can fill in your own blanks experience. But here that is where
fair sweet Rosimund comes in, the paired-off part.
I can already hear your gasps, dear
reader, as I present this scenario. You are ready to flee, boy or girl flee, to
some safe attic hideaway, to reach for some dusty ancient comfort teddy bear,
or for the venturesome, some old sepia brownie camera picture album safely
hidden in those environs, but flee, no question, at the suggestion of those
painful first times when sweaty-handed, profusely sweaty-handed, boy met
too-tall girl (age too-tall girls hormone shooting up first, later things
settled down and even out , a little) on the dance floor. Now for those who are
hopped up, or even mildly interested, in such ancient rituals you may be
thinking, oh well, this won’t be so bad after all since old Fritz is talking
about the mid-1950s and they had Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on the
television to protect them from having to dance close, what with those funny
self-expression dance moves like the Stroll and the Hully-Gully that you see on
old YouTube film clips. And then go on except, maybe, the last dance,
the last close dance that spelled success or failure in the special he or she
night so let me tell you how really bad we had it in the bell-bottomed 1960s
(or the disco 1970s, the hip-hop ‘80s, etc.). Wrong.
Oh, of course, we were all after
school black and white television-addled and addicted making sure that we got
home by three in the afternoon to catch the latest episode of the American
Bandstand saga about who would, or wouldn’t, dance with that cute girl in
the corner (or that Amazon who must have been the producer’s daughter in the
front). That part was true, true enough. But here we are not talking fun
dancing, close or far away, but learning dancing, school-time dancing, come on
get with it. What we are talking about in my case is that the dancing part
turned out to be the basics of country bumpkin square-dancing (go figure, for a
city boy, right?). Not only did this clumsy, yes, sweaty-palmed, star-crossed
ten-year-old boy have to do the basic “swing your partner” and some off-hand
“doze-zee dozes[sic]” but I also had to do it while I was paired, for this
occasion, with a girl that I had a “crush” on, a serious crush on, and that is
where Rosimund really enters the story.
Rosimund see, moreover, was not from
“the projects” but from one of the new single-family homes, ranch-style homes,
that the up and coming middle-classes were moving into up the road. In case you
didn’t know, or have forgotten since North Adamsville High days, I grew up on
the “wrong side of the tracks” down at the Adamsville Housing Authority
apartments. The rough side of town, okay. You knew that the minute I mentioned
the name, that AHA name, and rough is what you thought, and that is okay. Now.
But although I had started getting a handle on the stick "projects"
girls I was totally unsure how to deal with girls from the “world.” And
Rosimund very definitely was from the world. I will not describe her here;
although I could do so even today, but let us leave it at her name. Rosimund.
Enchanting name, right? Thoughts of white-plumed knighted medieval jousts
against some black-hooded, armored thug knight for the fair maiden’s hand, or
for her favors (whatever they were then, mainly left unexplained, although we
all know what they are now, and are glad of it)
Nothing special about the story so
far, though. Even I am getting a little sleepy over it. Just your average
one-of-the-stages-of-the-eternal-coming-of-age-story. I wish. Well, the long
and short of it was that the reason we were practicing this square-dancing was
to demonstrate our prowess before our parents in the school gym. Nothing
unusual there either. After all there is no sense in doing this type of
school-time activity unless one can impress one's parents. I forget all the
details of the setup of the space for demonstration day and things like that
but it was a big deal. Parents, refreshments, various local dignitaries, half
the school administrators from downtown whom I will go to my grave believing
could have cared less if it was square-dancing or basket-weaving because they
would have ooh-ed and ah-ed us whatever it was. But that is so much background
filler. Here is the real deal. To honor the occasion, as this was my big moment
to impress Rosimund, I had, earlier in the day, cut up my dungarees to give
myself an authentic square-dancer look, some now farmer brown look but back
then maybe not so bad.
I thought I looked pretty good. And
Rosimund, looking nice in some blue taffeta dress with a dark red shawl thing
draped and pinned across her shoulders (although don’t quote me on that dress
thing, what did a ten-year old boy, sister-less, know of such girlish fashion
things. I was just trying to keep my hands in my pockets to wipe my sweaty
hands for twirling time, for Rosimund twirling time) actually beamed at me, and
said I looked like a gentleman farmer. Be still my heart. Like I said I thought
I looked pretty good, and if Rosimund thought so well then, well indeed. And
things were going nicely. That is until my mother, sitting in a front row
audience seat as was her wont, saw what I had done to the pants. In a second
she got up from her seat, marched over to me, and started yelling about my disrespect
for my father's and her efforts to clothe me and about the fact that since I
only had a couple of pairs of pants how could I do such a thing. In short,
airing the family troubles in public for all to hear. That went on for what
seemed like an eternity. Thereafter I was unceremoniously taken home by said
irate mother and placed on restriction for a week. Needless to say my father
also heard about it when he got home from that hard day’s work that he was too
infrequently able to get to keep the wolves from the door, and I heard about it
for weeks afterward. Needless to say I also blew my
'chances' with dear, sweet Rosimund.
Now is this a tale of the hard
lessons of the nature of class society that I am always more than willing to
put in a word about? Just like you might have remembered about old Fritz back
in the day when I went on and on about the civil rights struggle down South or
started squawking about nuclear disarmament. Surely not. Is this a sad tale of
young love thwarted by the vagaries of fate? A little. Is this a tale about
respect for the little we had in my family? Perhaps. Was my mother, despite her
rage, right? Well, yes. Did I learn something about being poor in the world?
Damn right. That is the point …but, oh, Rosimund.
************
Rock Around The Clock Song Lyrics
from Bill Haley
One, two, three o'clock, four
o'clock, rock,
Five, six, seven o'clock, eight
o'clock, rock,
Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve
o'clock, rock,
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight.
Put your glad rags on and join me,
hon,
We'll have some fun when the clock
strikes one,
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til
broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around
the clock tonight.
When the clock strikes two, three
and four,
If the band slows down we'll yell
for more,
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til
broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around
the clock tonight.
When the chimes ring five, six and
seven,
We'll be right in seventh heaven.
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til
broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around
the clock tonight.
When it's eight, nine, ten, eleven
too,
I'll be goin' strong and so will
you.
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til
broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around
the clock tonight.
When the clock strikes twelve, we'll
cool off then,
Start a rockin' round the clock
again.
We're gonna rock around the clock
tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til
broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.