You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Set out in your swimwear and hit the beach for a day in the water and sunning.
It’s too much on the chilly side, for starters. As for the beaches around here? They’re small, pockets of rocks and pebbles, mostly – rarely sand.
Dine out at a different restaurant every night. Not unless you want to drive a distance.
Go out dancing through the night. Midnight is 8 pm.
Just so you know what you’re in for.
Well, the sport does figure prominently in the movie The Big Lebowski and the TV series Surreal Estate, a device that slyly dates the both stories.
That said, here are ten factors to consider.
The weather can be iffy, even in summer. Your week by the beach may be mostly rain and or fog. Plan accordingly. There’s nothing wrong with hunkering down with a good novel when you’re away from everyday distractions.
Where I live the ocean is too cold for swimming. Period. Even before factoring for the currents. Further south and west, this can be iffy.
Black flies. They’re early summer, to mid-July. Inland, especially. You’ve been warned. They’re even worse than swarms of mosquitoes.
As for your expectations? A more laid-back lifestyle perhaps with antiquing is one thing. If you have kids in tow? That’s another. Hope they enjoy the outdoors.
If you go for a whale-watch anywhere, what you wind up seeing is what you are given that day. The best part may be simply the cruise out and back from the prime ocean. There are no other guarantees.
In many destination locations, retailers are faced with a six-week business model. Restaurants, lodgings, and stores have to cover most of their year’s expenses in those few intense weeks and then hold on through the rest of the year, if they stay open at all. Prices will be higher than you might like.
Nightlife may very well mean looking at stars.
Its albums stood apart from many of the others I borrowed from Dayton’s public library, with its fine record collection and its guardian.
Contemporary Records was the name of the company, founded in Los Angeles in 1951 by Lester Koenig and soon a leading advocate of what became known as West Coast jazz, including Chet Baker, Shelly Manne, Art Pepper, Sonny Rollins, Bud Shank, and Andre Previn. It was even the first jazz label to record in stereo.
It also ventured into classical, including guitarist Pepe Romero, perhaps joined later by his brothers and father, all of whom soon became famous.
The company also offered a Good Time Jazz label focusing on Dixieland, plus the Society for Forgotten Music in a classical vein, and a contemporary composers’ series.
I had thought one of its founders was American songbook master Vernon Duke – aka Vladimir Dukelsky, his Ukrainian name, used for his 12-tone pieces – but I seem to be wrong. I vaguely recall that one of the disks presented his work as played by the Hollywood String Quartet, but find no support for that now, either.
I have no idea what brought all of this to mind, all these years later. What I am seeing now is how easily so much falls into oblivion.
Or much else, for that matter.
He was my introduction to philosophy professor, and then a semester of logic.
I expected to learn pithy bits of wisdom but discovered that philosophy is mostly about bottomless questions. I did find symbolic logic enticing, akin to geometry a few years earlier.
He was young, apparently Greek, as I recognize today – that curly hair and beard resembled any of a slew of statues. Rumors were that he was madly in love with his girlfriend and spent most of his nights talking long-distance to her in Europe.
What fascinated us was his clothing, the same cheap gabardine suit and tie and pair of scuffed brown oxfords every time he showed up for class. We assumed it was the same pair of socks and same shirt, too.
The next semester he wore a different suit but only that one to every class.
Later, hearing of his finals question from the previous year, I was grateful I hadn’t had him then.
The question he assigned for the blue-books scribbles was just one word:
“Why?”
Nothing else.
Most of the students labored away, hoping to chance across an acceptable answer.
The “A” grade went to the one who wrote a one-world answer:
“Because.”
And the “B” went to the one who used two: “Why not?”
I was looking at one of our typically outrageous dawns or maybe it was a sunset and realized it was as amazing as an aroura borealis.
One of the joys of blogging has been the way it’s opened connections I wouldn’t have otherwise found.
An example of that came after an email exchange with Paul Glover, who had come across my references to Hub Meeker, who had been the fine arts columnist at my hometown newspaper, the morning one that later gave me an internship as my first professional stint.
Hub had a position that was long my dream job, but a rarity in American journalism. Fine arts coverage is marginal, at best, and these days often limited to press releases rather than performance reviews. Even the Washington Post is a near zero on that front.
And there I was in the same newsroom, sometimes even going to lunch or dinner with him.
You can imagine.
Shortly before my graduation from college, Hub moved on from Dayton and eventually from sight altogether. And his position went to another, more established figure, rather than me, despite my own little fan club in the room. At this point, I’m thinking it would have turned out disastrously.
(I need some time for that thought to sink in.)
~*~
Turns out Paul knew Hub from a different perspective, a stepson of sorts, though falling in that range of family relationships that currently lack an exact word that fits.
He related that Hub had recently died and was wondering if I had any memories
or stories of interest that I could send his way in British Columbia.
So here’s my quick stab.
~*~
Naturally, you’ve stirred up so much more.
For starters, I’m not sure what high school he attended or even college. Ohio University? As for a major? Or even how he got hired at the Journal Herald, though Glenn Thompson had an eye for the unusual. Glenn hired me because of a letter to the editor I had submitted and then talked me into changing my major at Indiana University, from journalism to political science.
I graduated from Belmont in ’66 and gather that you’re a decade or so younger. Do fill me in.
The art institute, as you probably know, was undergoing a major shift at the time, from a collection that had included samurai armor and an Egyptian mummy in its displays to instead focus on picking up first-class works in a particular style or period rather than second-rate works by big names. Hub was happy to proclaim the purchase of pre-Columbian pieces at a time when nobody else was aware of their glories.
The DAI was also on the cutting edge of the arts scene, including its degree-producing art school, which several of my friends attended. Or, as my high school art teacher once said during a visit to her home when I was home from college with my girlfriend (from the other side of town), it was the kind of place that displayed the constructions of my girlfriend’s mother and her close friend slash mentor. Don’t know if she called it rubbish, but she certainly didn’t see it as “painting.”
By the time of Kent State, Dayton was already in a downward economic cycle — National Cash Register had laid off almost all of its workforce and was demolishing its factories, and General Motors’ five divisions were all getting hammered, too. The dysfunctional school board’s refusal to work on racial imbalances led to court decisions that, well, pretty much destroyed public education in town.
You were lucky to escape.
You touch on your parents’ marital difficulties. From meeting Hub’s wife a few times, I got the feeling that their relationship was rocky. Yes, she was British and daffy and likely neurotic — a smoker? — all with their charms, and, yes, quite pretty (brunette?) to my 20-year-old eyes. I later wondered how much of that factored in the decision to move to Rhode Island. Looking back, I do believe she really was hitting on me late one afternoon, though I rather brushed it off at the time. (Gee, I was still virgin. Hard to admit that, even now.) (Ditto, for another encounter, at school a few months earlier.)
I’m also wondered how Hub managed financially after leaving Dayton. Writing is rarely lucrative, even for some major authors, as I’ve learned from one friend who envied my steady income while I envied his New York Times critical acclaim. Well, Paul, you know the arts scene. Did you continue in that vein or find another path?
Being together 50 years, though, is quite an achievement. I always saw Hub as a gentle soul. I hope he was that in your relationship, too. Stepping in as the new male authority figure is rarely smooth, as I found in my own remarriage.
I am impressed by your efforts on the memorial service and hope it brings comfort to your mother, you, and the rest of those closest to you.
Oh, yes, and thank you for visiting the Red Barn. I was surprised to see I had mentioned Hub five times over the past dozen years.
~*~
This must have been in a follow-up dispatch:
Hub had what for me was a dream job on a newspaper. His wasn’t just a column – ideal enough – but one covering the fine arts, all of them – visual, literary, and performing – just as they were becoming important in my own adolescent life.
At the time, Dayton was a thriving industrial hub that also had a heavy Air Force presence. It wasn’t someplace you thought of as having an artsy side, even as the ‘60s took shape.
Glenn Thompson, editor-in-chief of the morning newspaper, one of a moderate Republican stance, believed in raising readers’ visions a bit higher. Somehow, in recognizing Hub’s potential, he created the State of the Arts beat.
For Hub, this was an opportunity to discover creative work in many veins, and in doing so, he nurtured a growing scene. Vanguard Concerts surfaced to bring top-notch chamber music to town; an opera company was formed, presenting some up-and-coming stars along the way; his coverage of new architecture was cited by, I believe, it was Time magazine. The local art museum was hailed by the New York Times as, “Dayton, Dayton, rah-rah-rah,” no doubt influenced by Hub’s columns.
He did get to cover the arts elsewhere, too. Some of his columns reveled in the richness of London, which had all of five symphony orchestras.
Turning to Cincinnati, with its zoo, he opened a report with “Hip, hop, hippopotamus, it’s the zoo. Where …” and then took us behind the scenes with a world we’d otherwise never see. The story was accompanied by a page-wide photo of a giraffe’s neck stretched out to an ice cream cone.
Every fall he and the outdoors writer headed off to the hilly part of Ohio to review the fall foliage. Their columns then ran side-by-side. Fun stuff, seeing the same event from different perspectives.
And then, in my sophomore year of college, I got to intern at the Journal Herald and actually meet the guy, go out to lunch – I remember the open-face cheeseburgers from one of those at an old-fashioned downtown dive, even share a staff party or two.
He admitted feeling he was on thin ice, trying to cover so much. I think the spirit of wonder and curiosity he conveyed made up for any lack of formal expertise. He did come from humble roots on the wrong side of the river, as I recall – well, my part of town wasn’t exactly classy, either. And then there were rumors of a used hearse Hub and his wife drove, perhaps somewhat scandalously.
And then, shortly after I transferred to Indiana University, the paper announced that Hub was off to Rhode Island.
It hit me as a shock. He had been a crucial influence shaping my own artistic tastes and outlook.
~*~
What I learned in return was that Hub had left journalism but done some writing along the way. Spent his later years in Canada and serving in community service of various strands. In the photo that was enclosed, both he and his longtime sweetheart look very happy.
11 – In an American Midwest industrial city during a gray period. Boy Scouts and chemistry were everything in my world. Hiking and camping, especially. Much of the rest was a blur.
22 – My senior year at Indiana University, deeply head-over-heels with my first lover and spinning into hippiedelic as a promising young journalist. But just ahead was an unexpected change of events, pointing my route into Upstate New York and then yoga. See Daffodil Uprising, Pit-a-Pat High Jinks, and Yoga Bootcamp for parallels.
33 – Back in Ohio, in a Rust Belt small city, after four years of what I considered my Promised Land, the interior Pacific Northwest. My marriage was rocky, but I was gaining recognition as a poet, despite the exhausting hours I was working as a management-level newspaper editor in some admittedly exciting work. On the other hand, I was also moving into Wilburite Quaker circles of deep spiritual grounding. See Hometown News for parallels,
44 – Now in New Hampshire after a round in Baltimore and a stint as a field representative for a major newspaper syndicate, I was recovering from a divorce and crushing engagement. But I did have a first novel in print and a trove of manuscripts in hand, along with being active in New England contradance circles and about to explode into my second summer of love – the first having been nearly half of my life earlier. The Quaker practice now had a tinge of Mennonite, too.
55 – At last, I had remarried, this time with children, and relocated to what we called our City Farm in New Hampshire’s seacoast region – the place with my Red Barn. What a whirlwind! I was being widely published as a poet, had a decent income for a change, and enjoyed union representation as a member of a Newspaper Guild local. Both ocean beaches and mountains were at hand. Life had never been better, apart from my getting older.
66 – Finally retired, I could focus what I considered the Real Work of literature, mostly. The blogging was underway, as were the novels as ebooks. I was even applying my Mennonite part-singing abilities to more demanding scores as a founding member of the Boston Revels community chorus. I was amazed to be surrounded by such fine singers and grateful it was not an auditioned choir.
77 – In the throes of downsizing, I’m now residing in a remote fishing village with a lively arts scene on an island in Maine. Yes, I’m feeling my age but not complaining. It’s been a remarkable span, overall. You’re reading about it here on this blog.
88 or 99 – I wouldn’t bet on either. I’d much rather take each day as it comes. However much longer.
Power flickering or kicking out briefly yet the laptops are OK.
One more sign of how times do change.
Back in the day of PCs, that would have created terror.
Jnana's Red Barn 