***Out In The Be-Bop, Literally Be-Bop 1960s Night-A Walk Down "Dream Street"- For Jimmy J., Class Of 1966

Click on the headline to link to the North Adamsville High School Graduates page on Facebook for a picture of the current "fake" front of North Adamsville High.

Markin, Class of 1964, comment:

When you were a high school student did you ever sit on the main entrance steps of North Adamsville High and dream of your future?

Ah, literary license. Where would we be without it? At least those of us who, cursed, try to stand under its umbrella and not abuse the language and the reader’s patience too much. This particular license violation revolves around the rather seedy history of this entry. Dreams. But not just any dreams, and not anytime dreams. Those, as I have found out, and you have too, are a dime a dozen, maybe cheaper. No, I am talking about fresh dreams, fresh, creamy, minty dreams from youth, from high school, especially from the 1960s high school be-bop night of youth that I was pitching my question to, and future prospects. And, more importantly, how they, the dreams that is, if not the prospects, worked out.

In line with that question I also needed to know, and maybe that is really what I was looking for, was how hard anyone thought about the subject, and in what way and where. In short, was I among a small or large number of people who were driven to distraction, no, beyond distraction, no, had their sleep disturbed by the question. And, that simply put, was the little, very little, idea that got the ball rolling. Now this wee idea started life in this space about three years ago as a couple of paragraphs, a couple of stretched out paragraphs, ginned up, if you really wanted to know. Over time it blossomed into several paragraphs without really any effort, or any added insight into the question. And now it is going to be expanded, don’t ask me how much longer, with that same core question at the center. That tells me (and the reader) two things; someone has a little time on their hands; and, the little ball be-bop high school night dream thing was (is) of far greater import than my original cavalier notion of the theme when I first presented it would have indicated. For those who are experiencing this blockbuster entry for the first time I have left the previously outlined parameters of the question just below so you will be able to follow along, although I am not sure now if it is the original one or some later mongrel son of the original.

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This now seemingly benighted entry, originally simply titled ,A Walk Down “Dream” Street, started life as an equally simple question posed to fellow classmates in the North Adamsville High School Class of 1964 (although the question is also suitable to be asked of other classes, and other schools, as well) in the year 2008 on some cyberspace class site, a site that finally reconnected me with my old high school friend, Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, be-bop king of the North Adamsville schoolboy night in the early 1960s . I had “discovered” the site that year after having gone through a series of events the details of which need not detain us right now but that drove me back to memories, hard, hard-bitten, hard-aching, hard-longing, mist of time, dream memories, of North schoolboy days and of the need to search for my old high school friend and running mate (literally, in track and cross country, as well as “running” around town doing boy high school things, doing the best we could, or trying to).

Naturally, the question was posed in its particular form, or so it seemed natural at the time for me to pose it that way, because those old, “real”, august, imposing, institutionally imposing, grey granite-quarried (from the Granite City, the unofficial, or maybe official for all I know, nickname of the town, reflecting the Italian immigrant labor-sweated quarries that dotted the outer reaches of the town and that was one of its earlier industries) main entrance steps (in those days serious steps, two steps at a time steps, especially if you missed first bell, flanked by globular orbs and, like some medieval church, gargoyle-like columns up to the second floor, hence “real”) is a place where Frankie and I spent a lot of our time, time when he wasn’t out on a single date with his ever-loving honey, Joanne, Joanne Marion Murphy, the “queen” of the be-bop night although she was never called that, and would have heaped scorn, big scorn on that idea, that was a Frankie-Markin secret shake thing), talking of this and that.

Especially summer night time talk (Joanne, lace curtain Irish, lace curtain working class Irish if you will, Joanne went “summering” with her parents and siblings for several weeks of those summers, the summers that mattered: hot, sultry, sweaty, steam-drained, no money in pockets, no car to explore the great American teenage night; the be-bop, doo-wop, do doo do doo, ding dong daddy, real gone daddy, be my daddy, let it be me, the night time is the right time, car window-fogged, honk if you love jesus (or whatever activity produced those incessant honks in key turned-off cars), love-tinged, or at least sex-tinged, endless sea, Adamsville Beach night. Do I need to draw you a picture, I think not. But we are sitting, sitting hard, granite steps bound, dream fluttering like mad men.

And some more details of that night missed for the less sex-crazed. Say, for the faint-hearted, or good, denizens of that great American teenage night how about a Howard Johnson’s ice cream (make mine cherry vanilla, double scoop, no jimmies, please) or a trip to American Graffiti-like fast food drive-in, hamburger, hold the onions (just in case today is the night that that certain she I had eyed, eyed to perdition, eyed to eyes sore, in school all spring shows her tight-bloused, Capri-panted form in the door), fries and a frappe, not wimpy milk shake (I refuse to describe that frappe taste treat at this far remove, look it up on Wikipedia, or one of those info-sites) Southern Artery night. Lost, all irretrievably lost, and no thousand, thousand (thanks, Sam Coleridge), no, million later, greater experiences can ever replace that. And, add in, non-dated-up, and no possibility of sweet-smelling, soft, rounded, bare shoulder-showing summer sun-dressed (or wintry, bundled up, soft-furred, cashmere-bloused, for that matter), big-haired (hey, do you expect me to remember the name of the hair styles, too?), ruby red-lipped (see, I got the color right), dated-up in sight. So you can see what that “running around town, doing the best we could” of ours mainly consisted in those sweat stairs nights.

Mostly, we spoke of dreams of the future: small, soft, fluttery, airless, flightless, high school kid-sized, working class-sized, North Adamsville-sized, non-world–beater-sized, no weight dreams really, no, that’s not right, they were weighty enough but only until 18 years old , or maybe 21 year old, weighty. A future driven though, and driven hard, by the need to get out from under, to get away from, to put many miles between us and it, crazy family life (the details of which need not detain us here at all, as I now know, and I have some stories to prove it, that condition was epidemic in the old town then, and probably still is). And also of getting out of one-horse, teen life-stealing, soul-cramping, dream-stealing, small or large take your pick, even breathe-stealing, North Adamsville. Of getting out into the far reaches, as far as desire and dough would carry, of the great wild, wanderlust, cosmic, American day and night hitch-hike if you have too, shoe leather-beating walking if you must, road (or European road, or wherever, Christ, even Revere in a crunch, but mainly putting some miles between).

The question, that simple question that I asked above, moreover, did not stand in isolation. As part of that search for “run around” Frankie, king of the night Frankie, for figuring out tangled roots, for hard looking at past, good or evil, for hard longing connectedness to youth, for bleeding raider red days I took advantage of that non-descript North Adamsville Class of 1964 message board to fire off, what now seems like an small atomic bombardment of entries about this and that, some serious, most whimsical. (They are, for the most part, still there if you are interested). Obviously though not every question I intended to pose there, or here, especially not this one, was meant to be as whimsical as the first one that I did about the comparative merits of the Rolling Stones and Beatles. With this long-stemmed introduction the rest of the 2008 original entry is (edited a bit) is, in the interest of keeping with its original purpose of trying give my answer the question posed, posted below:

“Today I am interested in the relationship between our youthful dreams and what actually happened in our lives; our dreams of glory out in the big old world that we did not make, and were not asked about making; of success whether of the pot of gold or less tangible, but just as valuable, goods, or better, ideas; of things or conditions, of himalayas, conquered, physically or mentally; of discoveries made, of self or the whole wide world, great or small. Or, perhaps, of just getting by, just putting one foot in the front of the other two days in a row; of keeping one’s head above water under the impact of young life’s woes; of not sinking down further into the human sink; of smaller, pinched, very pinched, existential dreams but dreams nevertheless.

I will confess here, as this seemingly is a confessional age, or, maybe just as a vestige of that family history-rooted, hard-crusted, incense-driven, fatalistic Catholic upbringing long abandoned but etched in, no, embedded in, some far recesses of memory that my returning to the North Adamsville High School Class of 1964 fold did not just occur by happenstance. A couple of months ago (December 2007) my mother, Arlene Margaret Markin (nee O’Brian), NAHS Class of 1943, passed away. For a good part of her life she lived in locations a mere stone's throw from the school. You could, for example, see the back of the school from my grandparents' house on Young Street. As part of the grieving process, I suppose, I felt a need to come back to North Adamsville. To my, and her, roots. As part of that experience as I walked up Hancock Street and down East Squantum I passed by the old high school. That triggered some memories, some dream street memories, which motivate today's question.

If my memory is correct, and I am not just dream-addled, I had not been in North Adamsville for at least the pass 25 years and so I was a little surprised to see that the main entrance steps of the high school, and central to the question posed here, were no longer there. You remember the steps, right? They led to the then second floor and were flanked by, I think, a couple of lions or some gargoyles. (I have since then, after viewing a copy of the 1964 Manet, found out that they were actually flanked by a sphere and a column on each side. (I was close though, right?) I can remember spending many a summer night during high school, along with my old pal from the class Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, the legendary be-bop, “faux” beatnik king of the night, sitting on those steps talking about our futures. Now for this question I am only using the steps as a metaphor, so to speak. You probably have your own 'steps' metaphor for where you thrashed out your dreams. How did they work out?

A lot of what Frankie and I talked about at the time was how we were going to do in the upcoming cross country and track seasons, girls (although Frankie, when the deal went down always had his ever-loving Joanne to keep him warm against the hard edges of the teen night), the desperate need to get away from the family trap, girls, no money in pockets for girls, cars, no money for cars, girls. (Remember, please, those were the days when future expectations, and anguishes, were expressed in days and months, not years.) Of course we dreamed of being world-class runners, as every runner does. Frankie went on to have an outstanding high school career. I, on the other hand, was, giving myself much the best of it, a below average runner. So much for some dreams.

We spoke, as well, of other dreams then. I do not remember the content of Bill's but mine went something like this. I had dreams for social justice. For working people to get a fair shake in this sorry old world. That, my friends, has, sad to say, not turned out as expected. But enough from me. I will finish this entry with a line from a Bob Dylan lyric. "I'll let you be in my dream, if I can be in your dream". Fair enough?”