Category: Binghamton

The Social Contract

Saturday, a couple friends of mine came over to our house. They didn’t know each other, but they discovered that they had both spent time in the northern plains of the United States, particularly North Dakota, at different times. One had lived in Fargo (yeah, I hear you doing those Frances McDormand imitations), and noted that not only did people keep their houses and cars unlocked 20 to 30 years ago, they often left the keys in the car, in case one of their neighbors had a need to move it. Leave your keys in the ignition now, and someone is likely to to move the auto – to another state.

This reminded me of my childhood in Binghamton, NY. My hometown tended to be cloudy and rainy. When I was walking to school, especially the last three years of high school, I’d see cars with their lights left on. I’d open the car door and turn the lights off. I did this a LOT. One day alone, I did this 22 times. Of course, now I’d have neither the means (automatic locks hinder access), the need (automatic lights now go out) or the nerve (someone would assume I was stealing their vehicle, which actually happened in Jackson Heights, Queens, NYC in 1977).

No one told me to turn off car lights; I just figured that if I were in a similar situation, I’d rather someone turn off my lights rather than let the battery run down. A few people have at least told me that I had left my bike lights on, and perhaps some kind stranger has actually turned the light off.

Of course, one can disagree about what constitutes the social contract. My wife wanted me to not shovel the walk yesterday until the storm stopped so that the freezing rain would sit atop the snow. But my sense of the contract is that if I am able, and have the time, I should remove the four or five inches in the morning, then return to put down deicer as necessary. As we trudged through the snow to and from the bus stop yesterday, I think she appreciated more my point of view. Not only did I shovel our walk, but I also shoveled a pathway all the way to the street in case our newspaper delivery lady needed to use it, and she did.

As it turns out, some bloggers have designated today, December 17, as a day to post their stories about the acts of kindness they have performed recently. I was recalling a conversation on Anthony’s page, especially the comments, as to whether we need to designate a day to give thanks. Well, theoretically no, but in actually, perhaps. In the same manner, we ought not need a day to be kind to others, but if it helps makes the world just a little less hostile, I’m in favor. Whether I’ve done anything recently that would qualify specifically as a kindness, I’m not sure, but I’ll settle with trying to do so every day.

ROG

ROG

"The Place That God Forgot"

That’s the pet name that one of my best friends has for our old hometown of Binghamton, NY. I think it’s a bit harsh, but I do know where she’s coming from.

My sister Leslie flew from San Diego to Albany on August 10, and my mother from Charlotte, NC to Albany on August 12. One doesn’t fly into Binghamton from hardly anywhere; it cheaper to fly into Albany or Syracuse or New York City, then rent a car or take a bus.

Leslie, my mom and I drove down to Binghamton that weekend for my sister’s XXth high school reunion; my mom and I saw friends. I was hanging out with another one of my friends from grade school when three very drunk people approached us about going somewhere on foot at 7 pm; there just isn’t very much to do in downtown Binghamton most evenings, though there are pockets of improvements.

Binghamton is an odd place. Where I grew up in the 1960s, in the First Ward, the housing stock is much the same, and therefore deteriorating or vacant, mixed with these incongruous pockets of yuppie houses with Beemers in front.

But it’s my hometown. More specifically, it’s my mom’s hometown, and she gets joy visiting our old church, her old friends. We’ve done that trip three or four years n a row now. Binghamton’s only 150 miles from Albany, but it feels like a half a lifetime away; for my mom’s sake, it’s worth the trip.

Happy 80th birthday, Mom.
ROG

ROG

Autumnal

There are people who really love the fall; I’m not one of them. I did notice, however, that when the family went pumpkin picking in Feura Bush, only abut 10 minutes from the Albany city line but most definitely rural, the colors were astonishingly more vibrant than any of the pale palate I’ve experienced in the city.

But the past week also had its own specific issues. Elizabeth Naismith, a member until the last couple years of the First Presbyterian choir died a couple weeks back, but her funeral wasn’t until yesterday. Her mother and she had their own cheese shop in Edinburgh Scotland, until her mother died, then she came to the United States to take care of an ailing uncle in Vermont. She finally made her way to Albany, where at age 70, she joined a church, my church, for the first time. She was a lovely, caring woman with a slight brogue. We left an empty chair with a robe draped on it when we sang for her service yesterday. Her obit is here.

Two other First Pres choir members were in the hospital this week, and those two I knew from my previous church, Trinity, as well. After singing all weekend with a shortness of breath, he went into the hospital Monday with pulmonary embolisms (blood clots) of the lung; she had a less serious medical procedure on Friday.

I worried about my sister and niece in the California fires, though that ended up with a good outcome.

Finally, there were a bunch of kids at Binghamton Central High School in the late 1960s who were the anti-war, left of center crowd. But we were all friends as well, partying together, sometimes romancing each other. We dubbed ourselves “Holiday Unlimited”, and our theme was “A splendid time is guaranteed for all”, which we copped from some pop song.

George Hasbrouck was one those folks. He died Sunday, October 7 at his home in Morristown NJ. He was 55. No cause of death was given in the obit in The Binghamton Press a couple weeks ago. We had all lost touch with George, though many had tried; as one friend put it, “he eschewed contact.” His obit is here.

The last time I saw him was probably 17 years ago at the BCHS Class of ’70’s 20th reunion. Yet I still feel quite sad about it.

So, it was a bit of a downer of a week. Sorry.
ROG

ROG

Interview by Dymowski


Gordon writes: As promised, here are my five interview questions for your blog.

1) You’ve discussed Rod Serling multiple times on your blog. My question – what are your favorite Serling-written pieces? (You can pull from anywhere – the Playhouse 90 stuff, Twilight Zone, Night Gallery, et al)

There were some pre-Twilight Zone pieces, and maybe a Night Gallery or two, but I think I’ll stick with Twilight Zone, because there were so many:
“Time Enough at Last” with Burgess Meredith as a man after a nuclear war with time enough to read (finally!), but then who breaks his glasses.
“The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street” with Claude Akins and Jack Weston. The power goes out. Is it the aliens? It turns out the monsters are ourselves. For some reason, in some ways, reminds me of an old EC comics story about the guy who is not saluting the flag, so the crowd beats him to death, figuring he’s a Commie, when, in fact, he lost his sight fighting in the war on our side.
“It’s a Good Life” with Billy Mumy as a very scary, and powerful, kid.
“A Game of Pool” with Jack Klugman, playing the game of, and for, his life.
“Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” with William Shatner. Is there something on the wing of the airplane, or is he crazy? This segment also appears in the Twilight Zone movie, perhaps to lesser effect.
I’m sure there are others: “The Dummy”, “To Serve Man”. There’s one, Little Girl Lost, with a kid going under the bed and ending up in another dimension, that TERRIFIED me in the day. I must also mention “Walking Distance”, that DOES have a carousel that reminds me of Rec Park in Binghamton. There was a segment, Nightmare as a Child, that was also in the Twilight Zone movie; I laughed out loud when I saw it at movie’s world premiere in Binghamton, because it namechecked Helen Foley, his favorite teacher and one of mine, who was in the audience at the time.
BTW, Gordon sent me this link to a bunch of “The Twilight Zone” TV Bumpers; here’s a definition of a bumper. Lots of them are for cigarette ads, especially early on; tobacco killed Rod Serling far too young. Oh, the picture above was purloined from here; when IS that museum going to open?

2) As a relatively new father, what aspect of parenting – or your daughter’s future – are you a little concerned about? Any adjustments that you think you will have to make?

There is always a balancing act between letting her do as much as she wants and making sure she doesn’t get hurt or frustrated or spoiled. She tends to be wary of strangers, which has its good and not-so-good elements. The world can be scary, and I want her to be cautious without being paranoid. It’s a fine line, that.

3) Does your local public library have a summer reading program? And if so, do you participate?

Yes, and as a matter of fact, as a member of the Friends of the Albany Public Library has authorized money to subsidize the program. Do I participate myself? No, but I’m sure we will in the future.

4) What strange, hidden secret of Fred Hembeck do you think the comics-reading public should know?

Interesting. I saw Fred, his wife Lynn, and daughter Julie just yesterday. He is a piler. He has piles of stuff. Reference materials for his blog here, reference materials for his cover redoes there. His Superman DVDs under those for Gilmore Girls. It’s not messy, exactly; it’s rather organized chaos.

5) What is your all-time favorite book?

I once said the World Almanac, and it’s probably true, or maybe one of those Billboard singles or album books. But if you’re talking about books with actual paragraphs, O Albany! by William Kennedy. I know this is sacrilege, but I’ve never gotten through any of Bill Kennedy’s Albany-based fiction, and I’ve tried. But I enjoyed his non-fiction piece. Favorite fiction, and I read very little these days: A Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.

ROG

ROG

Walking Home, Minding My Own Business

I found the experience of being called for jury duty last week to be extremely affecting on me, despite the fact that I never even got to actually sit in the box. It forced me to think about a number of things. By the end of the week, all will be made clear. Maybe.

Part of it involves this story about my childhood, which I could have sworn I had told before. Maybe it’s that I THOUGHT about telling it more than once.

Anyway, so I don’t have to keep mentioning it throughout the story, all of the players in this tale, except for my father and me, are white.

As I’ve described previously, I lived in a predominately Slavic neighborhood in Binghamton, upstate New York, and there were only a handful of black kids in my school. Often, I would walk my friends home before going home myself. Often it included my friend Carol (not to be confused with my wife Carol).

One day, though, when I was 16, my classmates weren’t around for some reason, and I ended walking a girl named Peggy, who lived across the street from Carol, home. We weren’t great friends, but we went to the same elementary school, which was small, so we were friendly.

Just as I get to Peggy’s house, this guy from next door to Peggy’s house started yelling racial slurs at me, and quite possibly at us. He was under the mistaken impression that she and I were dating. Having been trained in the method,of Martin Luther King, Jr., I ignored him. I said nothing, and I did not look at him.

Suddenly, the guy, who has been getting closer and closer, attacks me. I’m not sure that I saw him coming. He was, it turned out, a 23-year-old Marine from Florida who was visiting his father. Don’t remember much except that my glasses flew off. I found them, and retreated to Peggy’s porch. By this time, Peggy’s mother, who must have heard the commotion, was on the porch in a shouting match with the Marine and his family.

Someone had called the police. I explained to the officer what happened; I presume the Marine gave his version, too. The policeman said that I could press charges if I wanted to.

I went home, talked with my folks, and decided to go downtown the next day. The judge, whose name I’ve forgotten, took my paperwork, but made it clear that he thought my actions were silly. He believed – perhaps from the police report – that it was just “some spat over a girl.”

I went home and I was livid. LIVID. I could use a half dozen exclamation marks to express my near rage at being dismissed in that way. So I wrote a letter, a long, angry, nasty letter to the judge, commenting on his lack of listening skills. It wasn’t “some spat over a girl”; this jerk attacked me, and him making light of it was not helpful. Having composed it, I did not feel compelled to mail it. And I didn’t.

Instead, my father hand-delivered my letter to the judge. Obviously, I didn’t ASK him to do it, and now I’ve a bit peeved with him, too.

The judge then called and asked to see me. I complied, and he apologized to me.

There was a trial, with that same judge on the bench. I testified, Peggy and, I think, her mother testified. I’m not sure because I didn’t hear it. They kept me out of the room, to see if our testimonies jibed; my father, who was in the courtroom, assured me that they did.

Then the Marine, his father, and I think his mother and/or his wife or girlfriend testified. This testimony I did hear, and the details were wildly inconsistent.

Anyway, I suppose you’d like to know the results of the trial. So would I. I never got word from the judge or his office as to the outcome. Since I don’t remember the name of the Marine, perhaps I never will. To this day, I appreciate the actions of Peggy and her mother, neither of whom I’ve seen in decades.

First time I ever voted, in 1971, the judge was up for re-election on my absentee ballot. I didn’t vote for him, though; I wrote in my father.

ROG
Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial