Click on the title to link to a Wikipedia entry for Wollaston Beach, called Adamsville Beach in the sketch, including a picture for those who have moved away from the area. Damn, thanks Internet technology on this one.
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Okay, okay in an earlier sketch entitled "Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach," this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at North Adamsville Beach. I went on and on about things like impatiently waiting to check out the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end of the beach; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what we then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end.
Furthermore, all be-bop blushing aside I, heroically, allowed us to suffer once against by describing the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. With the sound of the high tide waves roaring against the sand splashed shore. That last bit, my friends, is shorthand for the "parking" ritual and "submarine races," a localism for activities, automobile activities, going on in the deep night, the deep teen hormonal night that we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around.
But now I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that sketch. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Adamsville Beach in the clear bright light of day, warts and all. We all must or should respect Mother Nature, or she will beat us, mercilessly beat us down, but let’s at least not mumble gibberish in old age like some star-struck teeny-boppers.
Last year , as part of the ill-advised trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about with these sketches I walked, hard sneaker-driven walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Adamsville Beach from the Squaw Rock Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts" for the modern reader, I don’t know what frame of reference site would do for the older reader, maybe the old Squaw Rock Elementary School or the long-abandoned Naval Air Base entrance) to the bridge at Adamsville Shore Drive (and the entrance to, the dividing line which should have been etched in high gloss granite stone native to the area stone that separated we pure at heart raider red diehards from the dreaded Adamsville High heathen warriors). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Adamsville Beach in my youth.
Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Squaw Rock and Adamsville Heights Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read: girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" local beach gin mill drunken throw-up night horrors in much the same condition and with that same rutted unpaved parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get into at whatever non-legal age we tried, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean.
What I noticed were things like the odd sulfuric smell of low-tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves in almost every conceivable locale on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic, especially those blasting-engine motorcycles, those Harley hog things and their mad men drivers. Things that, frankly, I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Adamsville as describe in "Visions" and the Adamsville of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.
.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.
Showing posts with label memory lane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory lane. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2011
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
**Busted Visions Of Wollaston Beach- For Diana N., Class Of 1964
Click on the title to link to a Wikipedia entry for Wollaston Beach, including a picture for those who have moved away from the area. Damn, thanks Internet technology on this one.
Originally posted July 2008. Revised and updated March 2010.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
Okay, okay in an earlier entry ( "Daydream Visions Of Wollaston Beach")in this space this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end. And, further, I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. That, my friends, is shorthand for "parking" and "submarine races" this we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around. But today I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that posting. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Wollaston in the clear bright light of day, warts and all.
Last year (2007) as part of the trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about in this space I walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts")to the bridge at Adams Shore (and the entrance to dreaded Quincy High territory). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Wollaston Beach in my youth.
Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Wollaston and Squantum Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" in much the same condition and with that same rutted parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get in at what age, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean. What I noticed were things like the odd smell of low tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic. Things, frankly, that I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Wollaston as describe in "Visions" and the Wollaston of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.
.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.
Originally posted July 2008. Revised and updated March 2010.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
Okay, okay in an earlier entry ( "Daydream Visions Of Wollaston Beach")in this space this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end. And, further, I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. That, my friends, is shorthand for "parking" and "submarine races" this we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around. But today I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that posting. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Wollaston in the clear bright light of day, warts and all.
Last year (2007) as part of the trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about in this space I walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts")to the bridge at Adams Shore (and the entrance to dreaded Quincy High territory). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Wollaston Beach in my youth.
Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Wollaston and Squantum Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" in much the same condition and with that same rutted parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get in at what age, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean. What I noticed were things like the odd smell of low tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic. Things, frankly, that I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Wollaston as describe in "Visions" and the Wollaston of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.
.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
***In Honor Of Miss (Ms.) Rose Enos,North Quincy High English Department, Circa 1964
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Ellen Terry reciting Portia's mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice. Fitting right?
Al Johnson, Class of 1964, comment:
Originally posted in May 2008 on Classmates
"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath" lines from Portia's speech to the court in William Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice"
No, I did not have to look those sentences up. (Okay, I will confess, I did look up to see if there was one or two p's in droppeth) I know those lines and more from the master by heart. Although I am not a fan of rote recital, as was the fashion in my schoolboy days and in earlier times (the great American playwright Eugene O' Neill's father was said to be the master of such Shakespearean recital in the 19th century), it does serve to bring up my point. Literature matters. Words matter. I have, on more occasions than I care to remember, honored those ideas more in the breech than the observance but I have tried to be guided by them. And did those pieces of wisdom just spring forth from the depths of my mind? Hell no, they were planted there by the person whom I wish to honor in this commentary- Ms. Rose Enos, my senior year English teacher.
I have recently come into possession of a friend's copy of our 1964 yearbook (Bill Cadger, the great cross country runner and track man) and in thumbing through the pages I came upon a group picture of the English Department, including Ms. Enos. That brought many things to mind in a hurry. First, and foremost, dread. Dread that I would not be prepared for her weekly ten vocabulary words. Dread that I had not memorized my Shakespeare. Dread that I was not prepared for my book report. You get the picture, right? Dread. And that ain't no lie.
So, that being the case, why is Ms. Enos being honored here today forty-four years after the event? Well, go back to that first paragraph. I was not close to Ms. Enos, certainly not her "pet". Perhaps she did not even know who I was. I do not know about today but back then the classes were very large and there were many minds to feed. I know from my own later experiences that such things occur. So it is possible. Perhaps she did not even like me. That too is possible. I did not display my better side, the "better angel of my nature", in those days. However, I know two things about her-literature matters, words matter. That more than balances things out, don't you think? Miss (Ms.)Rose Enos, wherever you are-thanks.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The following, unedited, is the traffic in response to my post on Classmates
I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he need to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said.
Replies 5 messages
(2) In memory of Miss Rose Enos . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 11:10am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Miss Enos was my 10th grade English Teacher for the 1954-55 school year. It often struck me as somewhat cruel, but some kids used to say it looked like she applied her makeup with a trowel. I struggled in her class, but so did many others. When we had to write our own poems, I wrote something to the effect that "If I had an airplane, I would fly. . . " I didn't think it was on a par with something by Frost or Longfellow, but one of the guys a year behind me said Miss Enos read my poem to their class the following year. Maybe saying "This is how not to write a poem." Who knows?
When I had the mumps that wiped out my 1955 spring track season, I missed a book report in Miss Enos' class. When I returned after missing 2 weeks of school, she let me choose one of the many books she had in her closet. I think it was called "Merril's Marauders" and it was quite interesting. I had to read that book in one night and write 2 facts about each chapter. I squeaked by with a "C" in her class. I think the spelling/vocabulary tests were what saved me. I just wasn't very good at writing things up in those days. I finally did get a "B" in English in my senior year, probably because I was no longer in the "College Prep" program. When I graduated in 1957, I "fled" into the Navy with no intention of ever going to college. Ironically, I spent nearly all of my first year in the Navy in school. I took the Honorable Discharge in 1967 and started college in 1974, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in 1982 from the University of Texas in El Paso. I guess some of us take a bit longer to get with the program. I feel that most, if not all, of the English teachers I had at NQHS made a positive impression, including Miss Rose Enos. That was in spite of my not getting the best of grades. Dave Meaney once asked if I was having problems at home, but I fibbed and told him there were no problems. Anyway, thanks should go out to the teachers who put up with us those many years ago.
Craig S. Warren
(3) Miss Enos
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 01:31pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I am posting the information below that I had originally placed with my commentary to prod Brother James Connolly (and others) to come up with their own Miss Enos stories like the one above by Craig Warren.
"I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he needs to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said."
(4) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:01am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My average for the three English classes I had in 10th, 11th and 12th grades was about a middle "C." 10th-C, 11th-L, 12th-B. Miss Enos may have been the teacher who planted the seed of writing in me, but it probably didn't begin to germinate till I started college in 1974, 17 years after graduating from North. I received three "A's" and a solid "B" for the 4 English classes I took in college and was encouraged by the professors to write more. I also did reasonably well writing up the lab reports for experiments in engineering or science classes. More recently, I have started a fictional "narrative." So far it's reached 142 pages in Spanish. I asked a former NQHS classmate if I should write a parallel English version. She told me it would probably be better to finish the Spanish version first. I don't know when that will be, if ever. I know; "don't give up on anything." The Spanish was probably started at NQHS with the two years of Latin with Louise Fifield and one year of Spanish with Roberta Webstersmith, who was usually a French teacher. After all is said and done, unless we slept through high school, all of the teachers and coaches had some influence on us. Some, of course, more than others. Rose Enos was one of those who may have been somewhat intimidating to many, but that's how good teachers are.
My late wife Elvia, who retired in 1990 after 28 years of teaching primary school for the State of Chihuahua, was that kind of teacher. She was tough on her students, and some of them later thanked her for being so tough, because it made secondary school and beyond less difficult.
Craig S. Warren-1957
(5) Yes, Literary Ambitions....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 12 2008 01:18pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for answering my question about whether Ms. Enos (or any other teacher) sparked any literary ambitions in you. In the interest of getting your 15 minutes of fame (or more) I guess you better keep on writing your autobiography (oops) fictional 'narrative'. Good luck. The reason that I asked you that question in my e-mail is that someone last spring asked me that same question. I answered her with an entry in this space that I subsequently deleted. I have reposted here to give you an idea about my 'literary' ambitions.
*****
A Writer's Monologue
Why is this writer writing all these damn commentaries on these message boards?
I have recently received an e-mail asking this very question, although it was more politely put. I hope. Well, if one reads my answer on the canned Q&A section on my profile page (since deleted, AJ) provided by this site one answer is to network with the old gang. Another is the fact that some of us are still standing and that is in itself a cause for wonder. In earlier ages (there he goes again with that history stuff) people of a certain age (that means us) would be considered old. Can you believe that? So, partially I am also celebrating that fact. Furthermore, a recent series of events in my life have made me aware of my mortality and I, frankly, feel a need to get back to my roots. Fair enough?
Those reasons listed above are all good and sufficient but I will now present the real reason, a confession if you will. I have always liked to write, and I have an inordinate respect for those who do it well. If for one minute I could write like Ernest Hemingway with that sparse, functional language that gets to the bone of social existence I would give much gold. Or if I could write in the savage sardonic style of the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson (Doctor Gonzo) I would add diamonds to the pile.
So mix this love of writing with all of the others. Then put them together with the glorious possibilities of the information superhighway that gives me a targeted audience and here we are. And the best part is that you can read or not read these screeds without any fuss, muss or bother. Nice, right?
(6) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Sep 13 2008 11:17pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Al;
Haven't seen any of your commentaries for a while. Have you continued teaching? Anyway, I hope all's as well as can be with you.
Whenever anyone asks me, "How have you been?," my usual answer is, "In spight of everything, . . . well."
I have done little writing lately, but have done quite a bit of reading. One of my favorite writers is a lady from Chile who has been living in Marin County in Califorfnia for some years with her San Francisco Lawyer Husband. Her name is Isabel Allende, and she has published a goodly number of books, beginning in the early 1980's. She didn't consider herself a writer until she had published two books and begun to write her third. A word she likes to use to describe her writing as well as most of her life is "passion." You seem to feel that a sense of humor is a necesary quality for a writer, and you're quite right in most cases. Ms. Allende definitely has a sense of humor which is evident in most of her books. She writes in Spanish and most of her books have been translated to as many as 40 other languages, including English. Her life has been somewhat of a "roller-coaster," which you and I seem to have experienced to some degree. Maybe that's what is needed to be a credible writer.
I also recently saw a video of a speech Ms. Allende gave to a group of scholars in Monterey, California a year or so ago. She has an accent in English, but not too heavy. No worse than a Boston accent. Again, her sense of humor and passion were evident. Oh, yeah. One of her books, "The House of Spirits," was also made into a movie in the late 1980's or early 1990's. She is, or could be, an inspiration for me, if I would just get off my duff and back to bashing the keys.
That's all for now. I often say to my son and grandson that if they really like to do something, they should "stay with it." Maybe it's time I followed my own advice.
Craig, NQHS 1957
Al Johnson, Class of 1964, comment:
Originally posted in May 2008 on Classmates
"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath" lines from Portia's speech to the court in William Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice"
No, I did not have to look those sentences up. (Okay, I will confess, I did look up to see if there was one or two p's in droppeth) I know those lines and more from the master by heart. Although I am not a fan of rote recital, as was the fashion in my schoolboy days and in earlier times (the great American playwright Eugene O' Neill's father was said to be the master of such Shakespearean recital in the 19th century), it does serve to bring up my point. Literature matters. Words matter. I have, on more occasions than I care to remember, honored those ideas more in the breech than the observance but I have tried to be guided by them. And did those pieces of wisdom just spring forth from the depths of my mind? Hell no, they were planted there by the person whom I wish to honor in this commentary- Ms. Rose Enos, my senior year English teacher.
I have recently come into possession of a friend's copy of our 1964 yearbook (Bill Cadger, the great cross country runner and track man) and in thumbing through the pages I came upon a group picture of the English Department, including Ms. Enos. That brought many things to mind in a hurry. First, and foremost, dread. Dread that I would not be prepared for her weekly ten vocabulary words. Dread that I had not memorized my Shakespeare. Dread that I was not prepared for my book report. You get the picture, right? Dread. And that ain't no lie.
So, that being the case, why is Ms. Enos being honored here today forty-four years after the event? Well, go back to that first paragraph. I was not close to Ms. Enos, certainly not her "pet". Perhaps she did not even know who I was. I do not know about today but back then the classes were very large and there were many minds to feed. I know from my own later experiences that such things occur. So it is possible. Perhaps she did not even like me. That too is possible. I did not display my better side, the "better angel of my nature", in those days. However, I know two things about her-literature matters, words matter. That more than balances things out, don't you think? Miss (Ms.)Rose Enos, wherever you are-thanks.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The following, unedited, is the traffic in response to my post on Classmates
I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he need to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said.
Replies 5 messages
(2) In memory of Miss Rose Enos . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 11:10am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Miss Enos was my 10th grade English Teacher for the 1954-55 school year. It often struck me as somewhat cruel, but some kids used to say it looked like she applied her makeup with a trowel. I struggled in her class, but so did many others. When we had to write our own poems, I wrote something to the effect that "If I had an airplane, I would fly. . . " I didn't think it was on a par with something by Frost or Longfellow, but one of the guys a year behind me said Miss Enos read my poem to their class the following year. Maybe saying "This is how not to write a poem." Who knows?
When I had the mumps that wiped out my 1955 spring track season, I missed a book report in Miss Enos' class. When I returned after missing 2 weeks of school, she let me choose one of the many books she had in her closet. I think it was called "Merril's Marauders" and it was quite interesting. I had to read that book in one night and write 2 facts about each chapter. I squeaked by with a "C" in her class. I think the spelling/vocabulary tests were what saved me. I just wasn't very good at writing things up in those days. I finally did get a "B" in English in my senior year, probably because I was no longer in the "College Prep" program. When I graduated in 1957, I "fled" into the Navy with no intention of ever going to college. Ironically, I spent nearly all of my first year in the Navy in school. I took the Honorable Discharge in 1967 and started college in 1974, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in 1982 from the University of Texas in El Paso. I guess some of us take a bit longer to get with the program. I feel that most, if not all, of the English teachers I had at NQHS made a positive impression, including Miss Rose Enos. That was in spite of my not getting the best of grades. Dave Meaney once asked if I was having problems at home, but I fibbed and told him there were no problems. Anyway, thanks should go out to the teachers who put up with us those many years ago.
Craig S. Warren
(3) Miss Enos
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 01:31pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I am posting the information below that I had originally placed with my commentary to prod Brother James Connolly (and others) to come up with their own Miss Enos stories like the one above by Craig Warren.
"I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he needs to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said."
(4) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:01am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My average for the three English classes I had in 10th, 11th and 12th grades was about a middle "C." 10th-C, 11th-L, 12th-B. Miss Enos may have been the teacher who planted the seed of writing in me, but it probably didn't begin to germinate till I started college in 1974, 17 years after graduating from North. I received three "A's" and a solid "B" for the 4 English classes I took in college and was encouraged by the professors to write more. I also did reasonably well writing up the lab reports for experiments in engineering or science classes. More recently, I have started a fictional "narrative." So far it's reached 142 pages in Spanish. I asked a former NQHS classmate if I should write a parallel English version. She told me it would probably be better to finish the Spanish version first. I don't know when that will be, if ever. I know; "don't give up on anything." The Spanish was probably started at NQHS with the two years of Latin with Louise Fifield and one year of Spanish with Roberta Webstersmith, who was usually a French teacher. After all is said and done, unless we slept through high school, all of the teachers and coaches had some influence on us. Some, of course, more than others. Rose Enos was one of those who may have been somewhat intimidating to many, but that's how good teachers are.
My late wife Elvia, who retired in 1990 after 28 years of teaching primary school for the State of Chihuahua, was that kind of teacher. She was tough on her students, and some of them later thanked her for being so tough, because it made secondary school and beyond less difficult.
Craig S. Warren-1957
(5) Yes, Literary Ambitions....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 12 2008 01:18pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for answering my question about whether Ms. Enos (or any other teacher) sparked any literary ambitions in you. In the interest of getting your 15 minutes of fame (or more) I guess you better keep on writing your autobiography (oops) fictional 'narrative'. Good luck. The reason that I asked you that question in my e-mail is that someone last spring asked me that same question. I answered her with an entry in this space that I subsequently deleted. I have reposted here to give you an idea about my 'literary' ambitions.
*****
A Writer's Monologue
Why is this writer writing all these damn commentaries on these message boards?
I have recently received an e-mail asking this very question, although it was more politely put. I hope. Well, if one reads my answer on the canned Q&A section on my profile page (since deleted, AJ) provided by this site one answer is to network with the old gang. Another is the fact that some of us are still standing and that is in itself a cause for wonder. In earlier ages (there he goes again with that history stuff) people of a certain age (that means us) would be considered old. Can you believe that? So, partially I am also celebrating that fact. Furthermore, a recent series of events in my life have made me aware of my mortality and I, frankly, feel a need to get back to my roots. Fair enough?
Those reasons listed above are all good and sufficient but I will now present the real reason, a confession if you will. I have always liked to write, and I have an inordinate respect for those who do it well. If for one minute I could write like Ernest Hemingway with that sparse, functional language that gets to the bone of social existence I would give much gold. Or if I could write in the savage sardonic style of the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson (Doctor Gonzo) I would add diamonds to the pile.
So mix this love of writing with all of the others. Then put them together with the glorious possibilities of the information superhighway that gives me a targeted audience and here we are. And the best part is that you can read or not read these screeds without any fuss, muss or bother. Nice, right?
(6) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Sep 13 2008 11:17pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Al;
Haven't seen any of your commentaries for a while. Have you continued teaching? Anyway, I hope all's as well as can be with you.
Whenever anyone asks me, "How have you been?," my usual answer is, "In spight of everything, . . . well."
I have done little writing lately, but have done quite a bit of reading. One of my favorite writers is a lady from Chile who has been living in Marin County in Califorfnia for some years with her San Francisco Lawyer Husband. Her name is Isabel Allende, and she has published a goodly number of books, beginning in the early 1980's. She didn't consider herself a writer until she had published two books and begun to write her third. A word she likes to use to describe her writing as well as most of her life is "passion." You seem to feel that a sense of humor is a necesary quality for a writer, and you're quite right in most cases. Ms. Allende definitely has a sense of humor which is evident in most of her books. She writes in Spanish and most of her books have been translated to as many as 40 other languages, including English. Her life has been somewhat of a "roller-coaster," which you and I seem to have experienced to some degree. Maybe that's what is needed to be a credible writer.
I also recently saw a video of a speech Ms. Allende gave to a group of scholars in Monterey, California a year or so ago. She has an accent in English, but not too heavy. No worse than a Boston accent. Again, her sense of humor and passion were evident. Oh, yeah. One of her books, "The House of Spirits," was also made into a movie in the late 1980's or early 1990's. She is, or could be, an inspiration for me, if I would just get off my duff and back to bashing the keys.
That's all for now. I often say to my son and grandson that if they really like to do something, they should "stay with it." Maybe it's time I followed my own advice.
Craig, NQHS 1957
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