Recalling an obscure West Coast vinyl record operation

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.

Quakers, the New England town meeting, and more

One of the items I wish I had pursued more openly in my history Quaking Dover is the evolution of the iconic New England town meeting from its origins in the Congregational churches of Puritan faith, as a means of collective church governance, and then into a more secular democratic ideal.

The presence of Quakers (Friends), with their unique decision-making that achieved unity without taking a vote, would have been pivotal in this evolutionary step both before and after the Revolutionary War.

A town moderator, presiding over the session, and a Quaker Meeting clerk share a number of commonalities in their efforts to balance the voicing of alternative positions, where all are heard equally and respectfully, at least ideally.

Quakers also realized that a minority position, even a single person, could be closer to the Truth than the majority was. Resolution of the differences could lead to a superior synthesis, done right.

A fuller history would be informative.

I do suffer through public meetings that don’t have that underpinning, especially when it comes down to a clash of egos or power plays or showboating.

Nevertheless, there are clues in my book suggesting that the Quaker minority did temper Dover’s town decisions, sometimes humorously.

~*~

Another point that would welcome further research by a dedicated historian would be the three volumes of Dover Meeting minutes dealing with male Friends who enlisted in the American Revolution, contrary to Quaker pacifism as a matter of faith and faithfulness.

It was a struggle, with no guarantee that the new government would recognize the hard-won religious liberty that Friends were finally enjoying.

~*~

After publication of Quaking Dover, I became aware of the influence of the Scottish prisoners of war who were brought to New England after the battles of Worcester and Dunbar. Like the West Country fishermen who settled before the arrival of the Puritans, the Scots became a subculture in the region, embodying a different culture and set of folkways. It seems to have been a factor in the Bean family of Dover Friends Meeting.

Again, it’s another history that needs fuller treatment.

~*~

Reading a history by someone else dealing with details you’re familiar with can also be disturbing.

For instance, Nathaniel Philbrick’s bestselling Mayflower has no mention of William Hilton and his family, who were instrumental in a scandal involving the Reverend John Lyford, an Anglican priest in the Plymouth Bay colony who baptized a Hilton child contrary to the rules of those we call Pilgrims, or more properly Separatists. The plot thickens with the introduction of John Oldham and events leading up to the Pequot War.

The picture takes on a different perspective when you’re concerned with what was happening north of Boston.

William Hilton headed off to Dover, where his brother Edward had already built in what would become the third oldest permanent settlement in New England.

~*~

Leaping ahead two centuries, I’ve had to ask myself if someone else with Dover Quaker roots, John Greenleaf Whittier, was America’s first great polemic poet.

Not just a forerunner of Robert Frost but Allen Ginsberg, too, in fact?

~*~

Quaking Dover is available in paperback through your favorite bookstore or as an ebook in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. You can also ask your public library to obtain it.

Rude awakening? Like at dawn?

All this time spent online is not at all what I anticipated in retirement.

Perhaps, you know, rather than the lingering over coffee and an open newspaper or even a Bible and or deep meditation in front of a candle first thing each day.

I’m still seeking an ideal daily routine, or perhaps even a weekly one.

What are my goals at this stage of my life? I’d still love to have a champion for my literary ambitions.

For that matter, how will the renovations to our dwelling impact me? It should be easier to stay up later or take afternoon naps, for one thing, or even listen to music. Things were getting pretty crowded.

Many of my activities weren’t on the horizon, back when I was thinking ahead to my years of freedom. Blogging, choir, photography, and, for a while, swimming laps all came along after I left the newsroom. As was moving to this remote fishing village on an island in Maine, where 8 p.m. is the local midnight and dawn can start appearing around 3.

One option just might be rediscovering the joys of “simmering” abed in the morning, likely with (decaf) coffee and some light reading or journaling.

Now, if I could only purge some of my deadline-driven dreams that trouble my sleep.

 

Ointment? I was skeptical

When my plantar fasciitis and related ankle pain kicked in again, I assumed that the only real healing required extended rest.

Shoe inserts, a few exercises, and ibuprofen seemed to provide some relief, but I really don’t want to be taking one more pill in my daily regimen and, frankly, I wasn’t so sure that anything that would cover up what my body was trying to tell me was such a good idea.

Finally, I did cave in at my wife’s suggestion of Voltaren nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory ointment. I just couldn’t see how something applied to the surface of the skin could really reach far into the muscles. I guess all that Bengay smeared on me in my childhood hadn’t convinced me.

We buy ours in Canada, by the way, where the tubes that are offered are stronger and longer-acting.

So far, as I’ll crow, my attitude’s changed.

It even has me reconsidering some of the traditional treatments in the healing circles of our neighboring Passamaquoddy tribe. Pine tar, anyone? They say it works wonders.

Let me repeat my fascination with subways

I doubt that I’ll ever get back to New York City in my remaining years. Even Boston seems like a rarity, though far more likely. Yet let me repeat my fascinating with subway trains and their tunnels.

And Manhattan was, after all, the center of publishing, including best-selling novels.

Tackle that from the perspective of where I live now, where the year-round population would fit on a single subway train. Add the flush of summer people and vacationers or even the cruise ships that visit and it still wouldn’t add up much more. Some of the visiting cruise ships would be like three or four trains arriving and totally discharging for a stroll around the village. A hiccup, then, in comparison to a Manhattan underground station.

My playful novel Subway Visions, grew out of my encounters in the Big Apple way back when.

As I once noted, growing up in a Midwestern city that was too small for rail mass transit, or maybe it was from an intellectual awareness of underground as a conduit of counterculture and spiritual wisdom, subways came to define a Big City for me and to symbolize the range of possibilities present therein. A subway transit system separates cosmopolitan from lesser cities. The trains are filled with real people – a cross-section of the populace between many diverse origins and destinations. As an underground, subways also present counterculture and surrealistic currents many of the riders fail to consider. Here, then, were snapshots from that route.

Later, with my wife and kids, came our outings in Boston and its MBTA.

Or my favorite Dover lifeguard’s revulsion and disgust after relocating to Beantown for college and having a drunken passenger vomit on her sandals on a hot, crowded platform.

So much for my perception of a carnival air.

Still, I think of subways the way I think of rollercoasters, even with our small downtown of boutiques, less pressured than the subway station settings of much of Boston.

Just how do those cruise ship passengers view our village, anyway?

You can find Subway Visions in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. It’s also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain it.

It’s a heavy awareness to carry, but it’s one I’ve shared 

Indiana sometimes shows up as a symbolic state. It’s not just a “crossroads of America,” as it likes to tout itself, a blending of North and South or balancing East versus West. It’s an anomaly even in the Midwest, where it’s the only state not bearing an Indigenous name yet it’s named in supposed homage to the Original Peoples – INDIAN-a.

With a capital called INDIAN-apolis. Or Naptown, as it’s known in other parts of the state.

Not that there are any tribes remaining within its boundaries.

It’s not as industrial as Ohio or Illinois nor as agricultural as, say, Iowa or Minnesota – feel free to counter that with hard data, I’m just running on gut feeling here.

And just what is a Hoosier, anyway? There are theories, but it’s certainly not like a buckeye or hawkeye or badger or the Bluegrass State bordering its south or Prairie State on its west or Great Lakes State on its north. You can get a picture in your mind with those.

In short, it rather strives to appear just average, or maybe a level just below. Somehow, that’s what fuels its role as a symbol of America itself, especially the Bread Basket sprawling largely westward, even though it’s rarely in the spotlight, except for Indy 500 week, and even that reflects an earlier glory.

That wasn’t always the case, though. The place gave birth to some leftist progressives over the years as well as some vital inventors. It also gave us the likes of journalist Ernie Pyle, jazz lyricist Hoagie Carmichael, actor James Dean, radio storyteller Jean Shepherd, basketball great Larry Bird, rocker John Mellencamp, late-night host David Letterman. But no U.S. president.

Early on, it had a heavy Southern influence, especially as Quaker families fled the slaveholding economy of North Carolina, as I learned after taking up genealogy and uncovering my roots.

It also has some distinctly different regions, including the once dominant steelmaking crescent along Lake Michigan adjacent to Chicago; the hardscrabble rolling forests and quarries of southern Indiana; and the flat agricultural belt in the middle.

I got to know it first by family camping trips and Boy Scout overnight hiking excursions. Yes, in the southern tracts of the state. We also had journeys when my great-grandmother decided to visit from Missouri or central Illinois; her son and his wife lived in a dreadful corner of Indianapolis and served as the relay point. Later, I finished college, again in the rustic south, and returned four years after as a political science research associate.

I must admit my angst at what’s been happening politically and socially, even though the Indianapolis Star was always a pretty dreadful archconservative voice, proof for me that “liberal” journalism has always been in the minority.

~*~

Not that the state hasn’t had an artistic presence. Just think of the artist Robert Indiana of the iconic LOVE image (born in New Castle).

Novelist Kurt Vonnegut nailed the state for me, though other writers of note include Booth Tarkington, Theodore Dreiser, Ward Just, New Yorker regular Janet Flanner (from Paris), and young-adult superstar John Green. The poets Clayton Eshelman, with his collection Indiana, and Etheridge Knight also have had strong careers.

For my part, my novels Daffodil Uprising and What’s Left are both based in an imaginative reworking of Bloomington – I do play with geography, making the Ohio River a lot closer to Indianapolis, for one thing. My novel Hometown News could also be placed in the upper half of the state, though its setting is more generalized.

My poetry chapbook Leonard Springs definitely reflects the cave country around Bloomington.

I anticipated remaining there much longer than I did, but fate intervened. And after that, I’ve never been back, except in my memories.

 

Ever play with a Proust questionnaire?

For years, Vanity Fair closed each edition with its own Proust questionnaire of a celebrity, which I always read even when it was my introduction to the celebrity in question.

Turns out Proust merely prompted what became a popular party game and perhaps more.

Still, I’ve found that these can be a fine prompt for self-reflections, especially when I was drafting contributor’s notes to accompany my literary appearances in small-press periodicals.

Here goes.

What is your idea of perfect happiness? Being centered in the Holy Now within a circle of those I love and trust.

What is your greatest extravagance? Dining out. Or entry-level boutique wines.

What is your current state of mind? Littered across too many fields.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Actions rooted in a sense of duty or obligation, rather than passion or desire.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Patriotism.

What is your favorite occupation? Deep writing and revision when the act becomes a form of prayer.

What is your most marked characteristic? Serious, with a twist of lime.

What do you most value in your friends? Spiritual warmth.

What do you most dislike / deplore about your appearance? Aging, and all that comes with it.

Which living person do you most despise? Besides Trump and his toadies on the Supreme Court?

On what occasion do you lie? Not lies, exactly, but less than full disclosure under uncomfortable conditions.

Dreaming of literary success versus the reality

Working in the thralls of daily newspaper journalism in the heartland was not my dream. Literary fame was. Of the critically acclaimed sort, as if bestseller status would follow.

Whoa, expressing that so boldly feels harsh, yet true. Even so, I did plod away on both fronts.

And now? I’m a survivor wondering what would have resulted if I had narrowed my focus.

I had no idea how crassly market-driven the shrinking book-publishing world was. So much for idealism.

~*~

Still, I pursued, working on my own into the wee hours.

These days, I have the luxury of revisiting my earlier work and wondering just who wrote it. The pages are so unlike what I’d venture today – wilder, for sure, and more profuse, often leading to an Oh-Wow! of admiration. The dross, fortunately, has been stripped away.

That’s been my reaction in presentations at our monthly open mic night here in town even when I’ve veered toward the edge of embarrassment yet still being warmly applauded.

Passages in both my prose and poetry make references I no longer understand but trust to leave untouched, perhaps for others to reconnect.

Writing? It’s like talking to yourself, ‘cept sometimes you have to get up to allow the rest of you to reply.

~*~

Another recent experience has come in assisting a friend to create a remarkable novel, one he finally presented to a literary agent whose thoughtful response seemed quaint, actually – the perspectives of three people in the agency, even though no. Somebody actually has time these days for such reflection?

It really did feel like an earlier era. I was rather envious.

~*~

I’m also recalling another experience after I had returned “back east” and was reading an essay about Snyder, Whalen, and Kerouac in the North Cascades, I felt sharp pain, knowing the lookout stations and High Cascades were so far behind me and the rest of my generation.

~*~

Add to that the fear of being discovered once your early book approaches publication. How strong are you in its potential storm?

Except, that you instead encounter indifference.

~*~

It can lead to bitterness, considering all the years and lost potential.

As for inscriptions at book signings?

Keep the faith!

Share your Light, too!

I don’t remember his name

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?”