Dancin' and Romancin' the Fundamentals

Fourth Edit and print 02.1997
All rights & copyrights reserved 1995, 1997 by Bruce Richard Schumacher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dancin’ and Romancin’ the Fundamentals:
The First Stories from Excursion, Situation and Observation
Originating in Yellow Springs
Fifth Edition: new Edit, and print 11.2008

Amazon's Kindle; soon to be released in paperback
All rights & copyrights reserved 1995, 1997 and 2008 by this writer:
Bruce Richard Schumacher :
( Reachable at: brschu1@yahoo.com )




PREPARED..? for What…Really!

To be predetermined,
or augmented by the realms of occasion.
That is the question.

Whether it is more noble to walk down the road one is on,
completely planning one’s steps,
holding only to all which is assured
and carrying on one’s back, and in one’s hands,
the specific tools to get through each circumstance
for that which is all foreseen

Or, is it nobler to walk down the road one is on
with no specific idea of one’s future steps,
and to allow many things to happen
with a free back, and hands,
and to create the tools for each circumstance
as one arrives to the unforeseen.

Life’s Roads which are traveled with a truly open heart,
holding to a truly honest self, and traveled with a wish
and a willingness to create new heart for one’s self,
I have to believe, leads to the freedom to live,
discovering for one’s self a certain essence of living, its self.
Going beyond, living further than that,
which one was, yesterday.

BRSchumacher

~~~~

I wish to dedicate this narrative
to late my mother and father:
Mary Elizabeth Mayhew Schumacher
&
William Raymond Lester Schumacher


I also dedicate this new printing to all
I have—in my life—befriended,
and from whom
I have learned a thing or two.


Thank you all so much.







FOREWORD...!!!

I wish to welcome your eyeballs, interests, energies and ideas to something I have spent a considerable number of hours upon. The subject matter of this bit of writing simply concerns true history. I have taken it upon myself within these pages only to convey the truth, and from actual events and occasions. I actually once was a younger human being and I believe now that I was personally advantaged to have watched all of these occasions unfold, and through this time period in which they did occur. My own participation in these events was possible, only because it happened that I chose to step through a bunch of open doors…and as they’d also happened upon me.
Please remain appreciative, though—as words from these pages fly through your head to form something like a basic drawing of situation—I still haven’t the personal capacities to sketch absolute and complete histories in this writing: I have discovered this infinity a difficult one to achieve. For me, it is as an artist once told me of his own craft: “A painting is never finished,” one can only, finally, give up on it and—maybe then—go to the next (after then, perhaps, editing the whole script into an actual English one more ti…or two, or a few more times); thus, and for other various reasons, there are certainly many parts missing still to each of these stories. I have indeed intended to be quite accurate in my assessment of each circumstance, although there are places within this piece where I may have taken a few liberties as to exact wording or something coming from the thoughts or mouths from one or more of the participants who were surely a part of these histories. These deficits are due mostly to my own memory deficiencies; or, perhaps, due to the life of this pen in my hand accentuating—possibly—the actual vocabulary I might have possessed when I was a younger kid than that what I am today. Please excuse the indefinite interpretations in these particular cases: I possess no old notes from any previous times, only that what is still in my fat head.
I’d like you to enjoy this piece of history, and also to realize that each of the people—who are mentioned here—were (at least) real live human beings, and whom mostly still exist in life to this day of writing. Please understand I have used their real names, so I have chosen (in places within this text) to be slightly careful what I might say about each of them, personally. I wish for my own description of character, from the characters within these pages, to be shown enough simply by the actual activities of which they were a part; I do not wish to try to describe all of the individual’s personalities so much, but rather some of the character-traits only necessarily belonging to them back within this historical era, and showing only those of their expounded characteristics which were necessarily important—and an intricate aspect, perhaps—to this history’s own telling.. These living persons who are mentioned though, could also confirm these stories to be true and could elaborate themselves over their own constitutions if they themselves ever chose to do so. I, of course, will not go into so much detail otherwise in this writing over what “I believe that I know”, personally, about each one of these individuals: You can conclude, I could find myself in a certain liability of circumstance I simply do not wish to be a part.
Perhaps, here, I should expound a bit upon my own disposition encompassing this subject: Through the course of my own life, my own verbal descriptions of the human beings whom I have “personally known” have also rarely been good characterizations of what “I thought that I knew” over these of my friends’ personal idiosyncrasies. In my own form I have tried only to hold telling to factual elucidation of events as I know them to be. There are, though, resulting deficits to this integrity: It’s been a rare occasion where I have been bestowed the first invitation to attend the basic gossips’ parties, so many others were a part of on the more organized basis. There were even occasions (and not even within the most friendly of manners) where I was actually instructed to leave a table which was full of very brisk conversationalists; folks who were very good at the “blah, blah, blah”, and this was simply because I wouldn’t open my own mouth and broadcast to them “what I knew” about mutual “friends” of ours. And, they threw me from the table because they also then thought I might be concealing something consequential about these same people whom they were blabbing about; or that I might now be in cahoots with them..
It is a terrible feeling sometimes not to tell all “I think that I know” about somebody who you know; but, for me, perhaps, it’s better to have this affliction, because I think I would hate it much worse if I were to misinform anyone with my own personal ideas about someone else. Especially “friends.” I suppose that I am a horrible (I mean, not very good at it) gossipper. I simply still choose to believe, the source of the stream invariably provides the clearest water.
Please recognize also, though, that I am not an industrialized-styled writer, and that I may be lacking some of the schooling which might be necessary to write this stuff here in perfectly formed high winded English. Thus, I have had to present these histories to you only within the framework of my own words and dialectic phrasings; what ever that amounts to.. I can only hope I will do to the English language something like a certain poetic justice by the fact that I put this pen to paper: So, please, when you see a comma written, take a slight pause or even a breath of fresh air in your lungs, as if I myself were telling you this story and within the safe confines of your own living room, perhaps by a nice fire, so as to give each of my commas justification for its own existence.. Or, you don’t have to pay any attention to them at all: I don’t really know the correct procedure for you, personally; and this thing might end up—and through its thousand times of editing—being punctuated entirely improperly anyway.
I also have to say that I didn’t know how to write a chapter-1 in this narration here; it’s another long story, and actually complicated. Please excuse this first vacancy: It’s a story, I believe, I haven’t the pen for.. Perhaps if it’s completely obligatory for the reader to have a chapter one, please use this you are now reading, for it; thank you very much.
My true purpose? for setting this text on paper? and then editing it to the point where another human being could actually and easily read it? Well, first, let me say it is not so as to hold high over the reader any high-strung personal philosophies of “great and achieved wisdoms”; though of course there are some of these personal feelings inside these pages. The real reason for this book here; is for me to try to take you on a pleasant journey. A journey which might allow you to feel a few of the interesting moments which, when all put together, only I happened to have been privileged to. I also, perhaps, write with an intention that this particular publication becomes that book which I was personally looking for, back then, when I was “that kid” whom I write through the eyes of today.
Please Enjoy Yourself, and thanks for listening.

I wish, here, to now leave a particularly large note of gratitude to my good in Leutkirch, Deutschland friends (I was there 1992-1995): Especially to my real good friend, Wilhelm Michael Brenner—Chef Metzger and a SumpfBiber—for almost a year’s stay in his home, and in whose house this thing—an interesting theme of stories from small town adventure in the USA—was originally set to paper. I want to thank him here profusely for his—and also his mother’s—incredible hospitality for me there in Leutkirch. Also, of course: Thank You also to the Metzgerei 4-Metzger und 15 Frauen for their friendship with me all those days there. Thanks! to all my friends in Leutkirch and also especially to Nelly Poth whom sweetly took me in to nurse me, and to hold me before-and-after I’d r-ripped three ligaments out of my shoulder while chasing another bicyclist in southern Deutschland on my bicycle. Also thanks so-much to Andrea whose computer, which speaks only a computer-Deutsch, was so graciously loaned to me by her and for the first of this original work: Somehow it is working!
I think, though, that this piece of writing would not have been written at all, had I not gotten rather lost while I was touring my bicycle through Deutschland, and was simply thrust upon these fine people in Leutkirch when I was chased back into this fine little town in the Baden Württembergischer Allgäu by a thunderstorm…but, this is actually another long and excursion ridden story…which, possibly, may be told in its full form, some other day.

From within the 1995 edition, though, I still express a huge appreciation to Roy Eastman for the extensive use of his computers and printers at his Electrical Supply business. I was able then, with his gracious key to his building—and the big edit help from Lynton A. Appleberry—to revise this piece into basic, computerized, modern documentation and into an almost good, readable “English”.

My mighty respect, my voice of large gratitude, and huge acknowledgments must, of course, still go to Lynton and Valeska Appleberry: First, for their immeasurable input into the 1995 version(s) of this text; and secondly, I must also direct immense acknowledgment toward both of them for all the earlier times within my own youth and during those developmental years, and without whom I would never have gained certain of my own civilities and other major aspects now belonging to my overall attitudes towards life, in general: They both, though, have also truly read through most all the changing forms of this script, and enough times to have learned it almost as well as I. They have easily encouraged me in its development; and they have brought about my own understanding—of this new to me formal (or normal) English language—to degrees no others could have accomplished; although I still argued my own “form” of it, with them, those many times.
Thank you Lynton and Valeska! I truly miss you both!
B R Schumacher

~~~~

~ A PREFACE ~

Mark Twain’s characters, Tom and Huckleberry, and the writings from especially two of his Mississippi River, small town characterizations had held it out for me: The brilliant and elegant spirit of adventure. Then, within those late-1960’s, and because of my newfound connections to “my own” Antioch College (and of course, while still being held inside these moments of my having read and experienced that fine ol’ literature), this new-felt adolescent propensity for the achievement of interesting deeds had also ‘now’ become accentuated by a bunch of new, and entertaining human beings and occasions whom had then readily wandered into my own small, hometown world. This simple, whole idea of adaptable endeavor (which was also then becoming actual circumstance inside my young world) easily, and rather readily became representative of a brand new adventurous reality: A reality which was now directly accessible to myownself, and even perhaps opportune for while this kid was still at his very young age.
In these Vietnam war era years of the late-60’s, there existed a fairly-universal focus for many young folks developing there. This “rebellion” simply sent many of us into a new search for alternative paths: avenues (hopefully) taking us to more than the typically homogenized or draft-required militarized versions of life. Within this time period, I happened to have become acquainted with many of the characteristic anti-war-inclined people there; thus, my own personal outlook also became very much affected by, and influenced in this new predilection.
Within these pages, one will simply find written interpretation of diversified occasion directly related to this particular era. The circumstances described, characters encountered, feelings held, and some of the roads traveled through the course of these histories, also simply represent one particular individual’s realities: my own. I have purposely attempted this text as if written from that kid’s account, and from within these markedly acclimated, late-60’s points of view; as these are important ones—of the many ingredients—making up the concrete’s of both my own young character at that time, and of the table from where this script can be naturally written today.
Please note that I do not pretend to have mastered the English language in the ways my favorite writer is entirely accomplished: I fully admit, I am but a novice next to him. The narratives within these pages does, though, represent a dance through many of the human fundamentals (not unlike Twain’s own characters); and with this script being set into the later-60’s, and this young fellow being mostly a bit older than Sawyer or Finn: this kid was traveling perhaps a more modernly diverse river, as Huck’s, but also one joining a flow containing so many bends and new adventure along its rapids and currents: So—by this account—“this young fellow” may have simply been tripping into the more contemporaneous, conceivably even deeper potholes.

Thanks for listening.
BRSchumacher


~ A TABLE OF ITS CONTENTS ~

A Brief Introduction 16
One Barber 20
Young Genius 21
One Story-Tellin’, Pennsylvania, Turnpike Road-Mechanic 27
Women, the Pinnacle; Goddesses 31
Romantic Literature 32
Cigarettes 38
One fellow with an Aeroplane 41
New Hampshire Mountains 45
Yellow Springs Newspaper Co., of 1968 60
Dancin’ 65
Drinkin’ 66
Bushes and Associates 00
The River 59
Neanderthalers and Pigs 61
One Cow Wounded in Battle 62
One Dog in Massachusetts 66
Mike 73
Florida; in a low State 76
One Bug, Ride to a slow Tempo 79
Mach-7 81
Parachute 85
Musical Genius 90
Sports Car 96
One Very Interesting Excursion 99

An appendix (sort of)
My Dad 144
One Fine Violinist of a Mom 149
Earles’ Forks 170
Appleberrys 152
Downtown 155
One “Island?” called Yellow Springs 158

~~~~

~ A Brief Introduction ~

..Reasonable, but certainly, it was a major move for a young mom and her four remaining pre-teen boys from the conservative Minnesota Lutheran pressure-cooker into the proverbial frying-pan over an active open bonfire liberal college town.
Six years old by then, and a long year and a half after the death of my war-hero, B-24 bomber-pilot Dad; and ‘now’ with this new business of our moving to, and now residing three miles outside of this new to us “big town”, Yellow Springs. And this same time, we’re all now discovering the definite new countenance of some rather interesting ol’ characters and college students who are also now firmly a part of this, our new lives here.. “Well this is just a whole other side of life for me, personally”; and it is a, basically…or rather more accurately, very different portrayal of basic livelihood for us little raised-up Lutherans, just arrived here from that small conservative world of big farmlands and lakes which had simply made up our own last well known, 1959 world in the town of Ottertail; population-147.
My Dad’s Folks, Herman and Hatti were still living on our Minnesota acreage, although now almost 1000-miles away. My immediate family also still traveled to there for the next several summers; and for those summer get-togethers, most all the Schumacher family relatives would still come back to the land—to the Folks—and do a bunch of great cookin’ and gabbin’. It was the great place, of course, for most all the basic family reunions. We young cousins would be reminiscin’ with each other there with a bunch of new stories, maybe messin’ around swimmin’, playin’ around on the property or out on the lake or the bay fishin’ in a rowboat with an outboard motor on it.
The Ottertail Lake, 35-acre lakeside property now seemed only to have become the basic Schumacher playground of buildings, machinery and boats though. My Dad had originally bought this place for his own purpose of building up a high class, high income fishing resort. This land and real-property sat perfect along this big lake; and with Dad’s own Minnesota-born hard work ethic, his dreams for it could’ve easily been realized, had he just stayed healthy. Now the land was rather reduced to a stable, but rather a rough way to make a living year-round for Dad’s Folks. It was still a big ol’ summer-season sandy playground for our many relatives though, and especially for us kids; and we were now totaling about 45 first-cousins.
This was a playground that included: Our main house, which was originally the old Saint Paul Hotel facing the highway; The big ol’ three-story 100-foot wooden barn halfway to the lake, and that used to have a bunch of the big ol’ boats in it; There’s the ‘new’ Schumacher-built, large steel boat-shed which used to have a bunch more boats in it; There’s the old unpainted wooden garage—where my brother Dave had once trapped and skinned a skunk, then hung it on one of its big hinged doors, and then he almost had to get those stomach shots for rabies—a garage which had a bunch of other boat and miscellaneous parts and machines in it; There was the remains of the “minnow house” which had burned itself down, with nothing but concrete tanks and floors still standing; My Uncle Lloyd’s cabin sat itself down along the lakeside; And, there’s still Grandpa and Grandma’s little wood house 150-feet from our own, also along the road, and where I’d always remember first learning to tie my own shoes on my 5th birthday (which was a momentous occasion for me, actually, but this was while my Dad was the last time in a hospital with Mom). We kids always had that fine access anytime to boats, though, and we had five acres sitting along the lake’s edge. We could simply fish or play around the lake anytime. Ottertail Lake. Up the road, the other side of town just a piece was my uncle’s field properties, small lake and dairy farm.
Now my Grandma and Grandpa really did love each other, but this was pretty hard to tell sometimes. They’d always seemed in the process of cussin’ each other up and down one wall or other—so I learned to cuss per’ty damn good listenin’ to them—and for one good reason or another. These two had had an interesting life together, and they’d also lived all over the place before they’d finally moved to my Dad’s land there. They’d had seven feisty kids of their own and, I would have to guess, some of their original Deutscher cordiality for each other got lost a little bit in this shuffle somewhere. Each of those summers, though, they’d cultivate a big ol’ garden together in the sandy soil, then they’d sell much of the yield from it from their roadside vegetable-stand built by the driveway of their little house. Their house was a wooden-built—real nice woodwork—three basic rooms, with a porch hung-on-it, tiny house.
I’d spend the many hours with my Grandpa during those early 1960’s summers, and actually learnin’ some good stuff. He’d taught me to drive with his ’49 Chevrolet pickup truck. I’d help him to keep his old Ford tractor runnin’, and we’d used a bunch of bailing-wire to accomplish this. He’d also make me work hard though, hoeing long rows in the garden and pulling out those “goddamn milkweeds”. I was messing around on his grounds in general, working…playing with the dogs sometimes…stuff. Grandpa raised his German Shepherd dogs for sale from there; and I recall him teaching me to shoot a rifle real well. He’d simply have me shootin’ from there, out from his dog feeding shed at a bunch of the sparrows and starlings; both of which—for an unknown to me reason—he hated. He was knockin’ ’em off the top of his favorite swallows’ birdhouses hisownself when he had the opportunity to grab for his rifle; he never did seem too much concerned about any stray lead flyin’ through the air toward the next neighborhood though. In the meantime there, he was workin’ at boiling down the pile of the fish and other parts for the dog-food he’d cook up every day: I’ll never forget the smell from that concoction he’d mix up and boil inside that shed to feed his dogs: Distinct different odor from all other odors I had ever, or since then have experienced,. He clearly had real healthy dogs. He had boats. We’d go fishin’ together sometimes; and I’d still go swimmin’ a bunch.
During previous winter months though, I can also remember that Grandpa had a wooden-built ice-fishing/smokehouse he’d tow out onto the lake with the truck or the tractor. Dad would drive out and onto the middle of the lake-ice with one or more of the cars or the pickup: Grandpa would spear-fish Walleye and then set the fish to smoke for a while. These folks would drive all over the frozen lake, and with whatever vehicle they could get to sliding real good all over the place; and just have a good ol’ time fartin’ around doin’ it.. But that fish was truly the best tastin’ fish in the world; in fact, I have never had fish so good all my life since then.
The totality of the lake, and our own lakeside place there was really beautiful. A large lake; 5-miles by 12-miles, so it set up pretty big waves on a windy day. It was big enough of course to have some good sand and the small-stone beaches, without a bunch of the typical (for the area) water-weeds in it or at its edges; weeds which regularly grew in and around the smaller, more static lakes’ waters. It had huge Northern Pike, big ol’ Walleye, and a bunch of other no-count fish for the basic all around good fishin’. Ottertail lake also had a nice “bay” next to it (maybe half-a-square-mile and shallow), almost connected into it and where one had to pull his boat over the lake-washed sandbar beach to get it into the bay. There was real good fishin’ there too, so it was well worth that slight aggravation and pullin’. The bay was especially good fishin’ for sunfish and bluegill, and you could literally catch a stringer-full of those fish from it, if you were on it for only a few minutes, and even as you were throwin’ back a bunch of the perch.
Ottertail was real different in attitude than was this new Yellow Springs town. Ottertail was simply Lutheran conservative and all white. Men and boys generally had not much more than a half-inch or two of hair on his head, and black people (whom were generally only witnessed there as maybe a part of conversation and during one of the Minnesota Twins, Hamm’s Beer sportscast) were simply referred to as “niggers”. Everyone always tried hard though to simply and categorically show that they were (all cussin’ aside) quite constitutionally religious. The primary school was in the Lutheran church during the week; and this church had no plumbing, only an outhouse a-hundred-and-fifty steps into the typical northwestern Minnesota winter winds.
I’d certainly missed Ottertail, after we’d moved from our place there and to Yellow Springs; especially my wonderful Grandfolks. I’d also very much miss that “gettin’ together”, that simple visiting with our numerous Schumacher relatives and cousins. Those visitin’ occasions ultimately did soon end though, for our own family-unit, and this actually occurred only several years after Mom’s first few 1000-mile summer driving trips back to there.
But, as our overall new condition gradually but firmly became rather my only reality, this change also became rather interesting: This new place, Yellow Springs, it did have more people. It had a bunch of great woods to play in, and there was a (even though funky-polluted) fine ol’ river close by. It certainly had more variety in all the people there; and, in general, the town had a bit more pizzazz..
..and plumbing.
~~~~~~~

~ One Barber ~
Yellow Springs simply held its own populations as a completely mixed breed of people; in race and religion. I’d say around 30% were “black”, around 5% “others”, and then about 65% were “white”. It had a bunch of Catholics, Protestants, Quakers, Jews, Holistics, some other religions I don’t know about, and a bunch of folks there who’d simply never talk about religion. All were part of a population of about 4500 (“Hey, this is a big city..!”) when you’d also include the college students. It had conservative and liberal sides to all these folks’ populations; but every one did seem to get along real good.
I guess the biggest area where Yellow Springs tried to be the most holy, about this time in history, was in the areas of race relations. And, the biggest occurrence I personally can recall—which dealt directly with this subject and had a larger than life display of public unity—was over an incident where a white barber, Mr. Gegner, whose business was in the center of the town, had then taken an attitudinal stand:
He said, he could not cut a black person’s hair.
Well I guess this got advertised, and this stick was certainly now stuck into a friendly hornet’s nest; and what seemed like the whole city came out for a “we shall overcome” type festival out onto the main street, into the center of downtown Yellow Springs for the weekend and with the police all over the place. Me, I was just a kid, so I don’t know exactly how all this came to the planning stages of this festival; but I was also there in the street, and it seemed like about a million people were out there blocking all the traffic on downtown’s Xenia Avenue. Most folks, well they were all packed up against, and in front of Gegner’s Barber Shop; but then they were all up and down the street, lookin’ like everybody was having a good ol’ time and singin’ songs and yellin’ out those wild slogans.
Well this occasion was a big ol’ thing. It was written in the news from all the area newspapers, and shown on the broadcasts of the local television stations, and it was really just a lot o’ fun. My little-brother Carl with his white-blond hair was even famous for a week, because he was shown in a photograph on the front page of the Yellow Springs News jus’ sittin’ on the shoulders of Jim Smith (a tall black man from town), and this was simply to show in the paper how such a white boy and a black man could get along real’ good together.
Everybody was real proud of themselves there that day. All had a good ol’ time, I think. Mr. Gegner soon ran his own business out o’ town, and I believe he took up shop down the road…I think maybe in Xenia.
And afterwards, everything just kind o’ got back to Yellow Springs’ normal.
~~~~~~~

~ Romantic Literature ~
A fellow, Dave Abrahams, from Yellow Springs, maybe 19 or 20 years old and then in school at Antioch College; well, he’d lined up some Antioch College produced coop job for that summer as a counselor at a lake in Michigan. Our families had somehow known each other through some other folks “in town” who’d called themselves Quakers and my mom was attached to all of them as good friends. There was also the Michigan lake, called “Friends Lake,” which was part of a Quaker summer camp. So through a series of events, I’m still not totally familiar with; myself, my brother Carl, and Tom Blanchard (also from my neighborhood, and my age) got the invite to go with Abraham to this Quaker summer camp, at no cost to us, and for the 6 whole weeks he’d be there..
At this camp, the lake was small for Michigan (about 2-kilometers across), the sun shone hot, and the water was warm enough. There was a little fake beach (some sand shipped in over lush grass), the mosquito was the State Bird, and there was a cute little sailboat attached to a short dock.
The four of us camped in a large tent together: and I still don’t understand how Dave Abraham might care to stand 3 feisty kids in his own tent for that whole duration…none were even related to him! It’s possible, though, that his major at Antioch was education: and that he might have been trying to get his’self, uh…educated.
Days past by there, though, and we kids were soon assigned by him to do Abraham’s schedule of “speed endurance training” every day.. This series constituted a bunch of push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups and so on, always done within the same time frame on the stopwatch; and we’d try hard to do a bit more of each exercise in shorter time, every new day. Well, we all did improve greatly. We worked hard at it, and it actually was a lot of fun. We also of course then spent a considerable amount of time in swimming and sport on the lake. I swam across the lake a bunch of times, and was proud of myself each time. We’d hang out around the beach, played games, and I’d really tried to learn to “sail” in that two seat, short sail, cattiwompus little sailboat.

Well, there was also, a really cute, 14-year-old young lady at this lake: and to whom, I’d also became infatuated.
I had decided that I wanted to learn the true essence of love with her. I wanted so much to tell her all that I knew of the Sun, and of the Moon and this beautiful blue planet we touched against our feet. And I wanted for her to fall madly, and passionately, with me, in love.
Every time she was near to me I would…almost, say hello to her and whisper sweet things into her ear. But when I’d come close to her, I’d become completely stupefied...and I’d then had my mouth sitting, down across my knees.
My comrades—and I had to complement them greatly for noticing—well they’d soon perceived this predicament I was in, so they’d try, while I was in such need for great council, to give me the best of their own encouragements—and they’d tease hell right out of me.
So…after a few more days of my own severe internal torture—and against my own better judgment—I then tried to relay to all my best friends there about this affliction: This what was being so bound up inside my own countenance: That which was driving me so crazy..
But I got no reasonable sympathies. My friends only laughed at me for my trying so hard to love an older woman. What they didn’t realize though, is that they were also laughing at this mysterious, and greatest respect I’d held for this purest of art form: this human-being female. I of course was completely crushed by my so-called friends’ critique to my own overwhelming, passionate feelings for such beauty.
These feelings plainly continued—without subsidence—and for weeks..
One day, though, while we were at a grocery store in town to pick up some needed supplies; I was somehow able to talk Abraham into purchasing for me—with my 65 cents—a fine bottle of sweet, well fermented, deep-red wine. And, then…within the darkness of that very evening, I pulled out this bottle—simply for a small social drink—but within these recurrence’s of episodes from my own profound and heartfelt dilemmas, I then proceeded then to drink the whole quart:
It was very.. uh…wholesome..
..well, so…i then also started bababbalin’ about my own true love again. But, somebody then (and I now think this was simply a part of their own efforts to be rid of this sad story of human tragedy), they suggested to me that I should go find this woman…that I should leave this tent and that I “should go out there and win her very heart over”. So…o me, within this very moment, I now believed i could see it within myown very heart...that this was a real good moment “for this very conquer’ance” of my lover’s love: I believed it was a good idea—exactly—to go out and do just that very thing! ..and so I left my own sleeping-bag and the abode ..and, I wandered around for about an hour and a half ..but i couldn’t find her own very tent, which was apparently well camouflaged in the next camping area, a long 20 meters from my own..
[ It is probably best, though, that I did not find her own tent this evening. Because, in my own exuberance—while listening to my friends, and to my own ‘interesting’ internal dialogs to leave on this mission of, uh…concurrence—I hadn’t realized (because my “friends” also simply hadn’t mentioned this fact to me) that I’d left my tent and sleeping bag with no real clothes on. And although I had actually felt that I’d had all the personal power I needed to relay to her, and in fine English words and romantic phrasings, all that I really ~hic~ ..I’d certainly felt for her, there is the chance I could have been slightly embarrassed had I actually found her. It’s also surely possible that I could have fallen into a much deeper psychosis than that, which I had, up until this evening, been in already. ]
..I did, finally, though—and long after I’d begun to try—was able to locate my own tent again. I wrapped my underwear’d butt back into my sleeping bag…and I didn’t dream about anything.
It may have, in fact, though, also been a whole lot better overall circumstance had I not actually found that way back to my own bedroll that previous evening: I awoke this next, uh, afternoon, to a basic impression that I was still among the living, but—and severely—just barely. I was evenly sure though, that hell itself had come out to meet me this day, personally!: There was used, red rotgut wine and other stuff I couldn’t recognize saturating me, my sleeping bag, the tent and whatever else which might have been close to me the preceding night. No one else was anywhere! now to be found.
I became able, though—once my legs would basically hold me into this close-to-upright position—just able, to stumble my way down to the lake and with as much stuff as what I could carry; and I carried my own motion forward, and I threw everything in my arms into the water, in the lake…and I’ve never had much of an appetite for wines, since then.
So…I was not so good for very much—for a few days—after that evening.
But, following those necessarily long next days I’d needed for recovery; and as I still found myself within these same enveloping feelings of need, for my lover’s heart; Abraham then correctly formulated an idea for me (as he also could see that my heart was still in very much that same predicament, and over this young woman, Christie Boulding): Dave said to me—and in no uncertain terms—that I most-assuredly should tell this young lady about the things my heart was feeling and yearning for. He said some mighty words to me which then gave me the perfect avenue to accomplish this deed of love, for my love: “Write her a letter, you idiot!”
Now here, was a true friend.
I sat down within the hour, and I wrote to this woman the most beautiful letter a lady had ever received until that moment in time from her would-be lover. These writings then became my masterpiece to her while I was illustrating for her a great drama and perilous experience. This was a story from my own heart, and of the kind showing the great hero that I could be for her: As a Knight in shining armor with his successes in great battles might also win the heart of his own young princess; I made myself his equal! I then heartily completed this story so as to give my princess in this masterpiece of literary adventure all the love I could bestow upon her.
The letter, really, was beautiful.
I simply knew that this wonderful piece of new literature—this painting of love—would bring her love to me.
I also then wrote to my mother and my brother Duane while I was in such a brilliant and balanced mood, and because they were due a few words from me. I tried to fill Duane in on all the important things I was doing about this woman in a separate paper sheet to him; and that was especially for his own inspection of my last inspired ideas. I also then inquired of him for his expert advice as to what I should do with my to-be lover, after I had won over her very heart.
I sent out the letters the same day. I’d sent them by the dependable US mail, and they had guaranteed a first-class delivery.
I was feeling pretty daggone good.
I was feeling the soaring energies of accomplishment.
I had achieved so much, and in only one day.
I even swam the length of the lake and back just to feel the pride in my own youth. To swim in this newfound strength from my own self-confidence. To relish in this new and courageous part of me which was only, just, completed.
I’d written a fine, well-tuned, choreographed literary dance and I’d sent it to my lover; written there from my own—penciled on paper—new found exhilarating mastery of heroism: It was a mighty, two page, story of sailing in ferocious and treacherous waters in order to get back to her...my love.
I was now watching for Christie’s condition of heart, and for the next few days, and simply to witness how she would become overjoyed by that letter I’d superbly sculpted for her very person (although, still, I could not find enough 12-year-old strength inside of myself to break through the ten tons of gravel which formed in my mouth every time I went to say hello to her): But I knew she’d come to me, and she’d kiss me for perhaps hours on end, after she’d received this masterpiece of new literary form.
I waited…and for a few more days.
Then, and within my own confident expectations, it seemed as though my luck had truly developed: There was a phone call, for me..! I looked around quickly and I could now also see that Christie was not there around the camp area, and I knew her house was over…uh, in Michigan, somewhere.. So I’d hurriedly made it over to the telephone, and now the voice came back to me, sweet: “Hello, Bruce, this is Christie … I love you Bruce.” Well, my heart was gone, and flying a million and more miles! Yes!! And so I began to try and find from my mouth a real sentence for her…and I was so happy inside, and, uh…well? ..and another five seconds ..and then I heard my brothers voice..? ..and laughing..? My brother Duane was on her phone..? … And so, I finally realized that Duane was still at home, and I was now informed—by him—that I had sent the wrong letter home..! and that, my true…—poor Christie—must have then also received the lette…the one I’d written fo.. the letter where I’d divulged to Duane a very large part of my own new tactics?..!
Well.
..I had simply been murdered..
..by my own hand.
And...there was nothing, more, left to do.

The next day I took that funky little sail boat out on glass-calm water. I sat there, in it, for about the whole day, slowly maneuvering myself across the lake and back. Within the same day’s evening, I was truly screaming bloody murder; because, during the daylight, my skin had acquired the worst sunburn I’d ever had ..while sitting ..over water ..where there was no wind ..and no shade ..in that stupid little boat ..all day ..while I’d been contemplating this Earth in my own mouth.
I soon departed for home from this particular lake; and without having experienced that true love, this magic I’d simply been searching for.
It was horrible.
~~~~~~~
~ Cigarettes ~
John Jordan was another one who’d showed up from the East Coast. Maybe twenty years old. And I believe he also was in Yellow Springs to chase around Pat Courtney: Girlfriend, I guess. He kept comin’ around though, always driving some ol’ cattiwompus automobile or another: Matter of fact, he seemed pretty damn interestin’, hisownself and it was also rather unavoidable that all us kids would jump into a feisty friendship with this fellow…in all the ways we could get away with. So between his and our hanging out with the Courtney family, we were soon all ridin’ around, back and forth to town in his car whenever we could find him. He also once let me drive his car—an old blue Ford—one time up the lane: Well, I almost hit that tree by the Appleberry driveway...the front yard tree, a Macintosh apple tree.
I guess, though, in this piece of writing here, I have to give some kind of funky credit to this fellow John Jordan, and Joe Ayres: They both smoked these lousy cigarettes I still hold in my hand and smoke today. John Jordan especially though: he made smoking look real cool to me: Black haired cowboy-lookin’ fellow who’d smoked Marlboros. I don’t know why, but sittin’ on a horse and smokin’ a Marlboro looked real cool and interesting to me; and of course I also knew all the songs, music and characters from most the cigarette commercials by heart. But I think maybe it’s really John’s fault that I smoke: and at this moment of writing, I now intend to really blame it somewhere:
I remember Jordan handing to me the last parts of the cigarettes he would have otherwise thrown out the window of that same blue Ford; when kind of like an ol’ hound, I begged him to: and now I am quite sure that this led me into my own terrible and uncontrollable nicotine addiction…since I’m thinkin’ about it.
I have to recall my first real big smokin’ breakthrough, though, as I was attempting to be cool, and tryin’ to learn some of the things those cool fellows who’d drove these wild cars already knew how to do. So, on that occasion, I’d ridden my bicycle into the college and I found the cigarette machine again. This time I had the 30-cents in my pocket, and I operated the machine. I got me a pack of “real kool” cigarettes. I’d had matches in my pocket—because this was all preplanned—and I opened the pack, and lit me a cigarette. I looked around there then to see if any young college students might now see how cool I was: but I didn’t see any. And so I took my own scrawnybutt back out there, and I rode the 4-kilometers back towards my house: and this is while I was still smoking this cigarette—and inhaling—yes, inhaling the whole damn cigarette..! and while I was continuously peddling that long distance; and for the very first time in my scrawny-lung’ed life!
[So on the way to my house there’s a bridge. This bridge is made of wood planking, built over steel framing. It stands atop of four 5-meter (16ft) wooden posts, and built with a 1-meter angular rise in the middle of it. It’s located at the beginning of my lane and bridges over—what was—the railroad tracks. The Bridge had no real guardrail, though; only posts with two steel cables running through them. This bridge is also situated at the end of the paved road, before the half-mile gravel road going to my house.]
So: I’d just ridden my bicycle very fast a little more than two miles towards home, and with that smoking tube of tobacco still burning in my mouth. I’d also felt no peculiar effects—that I’d taken any account of—and at least until I’d actually stopped pumping the peddles; but really until I’d stopped the bike on the top of the bridge, and while I was then trying to lean on that upper bridge-post and the top cable; but also which stood over a very long drop to the Earth below me:
I think maybe my face may have started to become a rather greenish color, as I moved my hand from the handlebars so as to hold onto the top cable of that skinny bridge-rail and leaning with my butt towards the rail-post while it was still sitting in the seat of my bicycle: I was almost as clear in my head as water in the lowlands’ river after the heavy rains..! I’d simply intended to grab hold the top steel cable with my right hand…but I’d missed: I was dizzy now, so that I flipped ’round this cable, with my body falling into it on the wrong side: and I was grabbing for anything which might save my own livelihood from a certain catastrophe: My right hand had missed, but as I was so close to my own total demise my left arm was able (just able) to grasp a bit of the lower cable and my right hip (to its own serious distaste) now caught hold of a bit more of the steel post; and my feet now were still enough tangled-up in the frame of the bicycle, that my right foot took hold of a little bit of leverage…so, I was able to save my own life: But—more to the truth—I just barely didn’t kill myself!!
I must make a point of saying here: Equilibrium is a wonderful thing, when one feels as though he has none, and he himself is in the middle of such a predicament.
I think maybe, here, I might also have to make some of the strongest criticism to myself, about myself, that perhaps I have ever made about myself. And that is, I may have to say here…that perhaps it is a fact that I, also, sometimes have been capable, on occasion, to be as much of an idiot as many of the other people whom I, sometimes have personally judged to be so…uh, idiots, that is: And, that, this particular moment may have been just such an occasion:
So, ok, I really hadn’t yet understood the total effects of an inhaled cigarette; even directly after this mentioned moment in time. And, I had not really noticed yet—as thoroughly as I should have—some of the most important facts from those last few, very intense moments: Moments where I had almost fallen to my own life’s total demise—and off of a bridge!—because in-fact I had just smoked my first fully-inhaled cigarette, and I had just felt—for the first time—some of the major effects from the poisons which do run through them..
My great, great ignorance in this moment after I’d found myself still to exist among the living, was that I actually was believin’ that I just then had had a great success: because for this first time I had been able to inhale a whole cigarette! And so the funniest thing about this real bad stupidity I was havin’—right there, and this stupidity that has certainly continued congruently with my lifelong smoking habits—is that I was actually real’ proud, boy…and I was feelin’ so cool! and I was simply and immediately forgettin’ or ignorin’ the fact that I’d just almost killed myownself because of smokin’ that stupid, godamn cigarette:
I’m lightin’ a smoke (right now, 27 years later), and thinkin’ about how cool I might have been in that moment of my own history.: Hmmm…now it’s two, three packs a day sometimes: Can’t run and jump like I ought’a be able to.. Coughin’ for fifteen minutes every night and gettin’ the phlegm out before I can get some sleep. Scheiße..! Really! Shit pies..
I actually think now that I’ve not looked back often, or often enough before this writing, to take a good, simple and difficult look at some of my own life’s stupidities:
It is hard to see oneself in such a light; but then, I suppose it’s a good idea on occasion to do so.
~~~~~~~

~ One fellow with an Aeroplane ~
On an interesting day, a bunch of us were sitting around the Appleberry house and the telephone rang. It was a young man from California. He was now standing at a phone booth, four miles up the road by the Springfield airport. He said he’d acquired the Appleberry phone number from some other folks in California whom had known some folks who knew the Appleberry’s: He’d said he’d been told the Appleberry house in Yellow Springs was always open to the good friends of the renowned company of the more notable Appleberry acquaintances; and basically he’d been given a correct information.
He’d said he had arrived at the Springfield airport in his own flying machine, called a Tri-Pacer, and would somebody please pick him up. He said he’d give us all a ride in his aeroplane, so we picked him up.
Actually, he would have been retrieved without such promises made by himself, as the Appleberry house was generally always good for a meal and even a place to sleep for the wandering philosophers of the world. I personally have met some several high caliber and interesting human beings inside this living room of Lynton and Valeska Appleberry’s, and it may have generally been that this’d also occurred by chance, these folks had found themselves sitting there. This fellow, though, who’d just telephoned was retrieved. Soon he was also fed, bathed and had re-wrapped his self in clean clothing, now sitting in the Appleberry living room with a big strong cup of coffee in his hands.
As I personally found him there, I’d held him not to be one of the great philosophers of his age. But he did have an aeroplane, so we all accepted this higher-philosophic necessity as being relieved from this peculiar human being, within the realms now of this particular room.
Well…so we’d soon (the following day) collected about 14 people so we could get good vantage, on this newly collected prize of a human being who was particular to being a pilot; we picked him up and dragged him back off to his own aeroplane.
But as we arrived to look over this “aeroplane”, it appeared now that it only had one good usable seat, besides that one this fellow would need himself to function this flyin’ machine. We could see it was going to be a long day, for him.
Upon further inspection, though, and by all accounts of the observers there, this aeroplane generally seemed to be held together with almost too much duct tape and bailing-wire…and so I looked, and I could now surely see a couple of worried faces on these other potential fly-riders. Well Joe Ayres was there, and anyone who has known this particular fellow would have to agree that Ayres is a damn good judge of mechanical character and the stability of most any mechanical device one might come across: Ayres took another good long inspectional, critical view of this contraption (that still had a label on it which said Tri-Pacer) and said, himself, “I believe, I don’t really think…that I intend to try and fly in this cattiwompus device there, that that fellow, there, still calls an aeroplane” ..and I believe most the others were of the same opinion.
Me, well I was still just a feisty twelve-year-old kid and who was not so much concerned for his own skin. And to me, this thing had enough of all the necessary characteristics to still make it “an aeroplane”. And besides that, here was a fellow who called himself a pilot and he’d said that he could operate this device and make this thing fly. And so I told this fellow, “Ok then, let’s go fly this contraption!”
So this fellow said al’right: took me to the machine, strapped me into the right seat, he hand-turned the propeller while he stood on the ground in front of the aeroplane, jumped into his seat and pushed on a lever there, and started to drive this thing on the ground a little bit…and then we took a runnin’ start almost over at the runway, and—sure enough—this sucker jumped and flew right up into the air!
I’d never been in an aeroplane before that moment, and it was real wonderful. We flapped this flyin’ machine around the air for almost fifteen minutes. He even told me to grab the controls and he let me chase this thing around the sky a little bit myself. Then he took it back and did a couple of those horrible and wacky flight maneuver things which almost made me throw up…and that plainly would’ve been all over the insides of the poor thing; but, somehow I held it down and with difficulty; and I did this emergency hold-down action, only because I knew that throwing-up in that poor ol’ thing would certainly have added a certain insult to the injury that this here machine had, already, certainly sustained.
So he circled the tower when he was ready to come down again, and he next got from the tower guys a green light signal. This meant—he told me—that it was ok to land this flyin’ machine on the tower guys’ runway again (and they wouldn’t again have him arrested for tresspassin’). Well, he’d now lined his machine up for a landing along that visual line of the runway ahead.. I could feel the bottom drop out of the sky abit ..a little bit lower ..and then this aeroplane hit the runway, and pretty hard, and it bounced back…and headed into the sky pretty high again; then he jammed it back toward the runway, hit the wheels and it didn’t bounce so high this time … four skips later, and we were on the ground again situated pretty good and solid this time, rollin’ on the three wheels this flyin’ machine was still privileged to.
He directed it back over to where the other folks were still standing: “TOO WINDY!” he yelled over to the rest of them. Turned the motor off, and opened the door..
No one else would fly this day, ’cause it was “too windy”. So we then threw every one back into the cars and drove again to the Appleberrys’ philosopher’s table to discuss this new day’s events over good, strong coffee.

{I found out, but it was years later—as I’d become a bit of a pilot myself (ATP, 5000hrs)—that the 15mph-wind probably did not have much to do with this fellow’s landing technique on that day.}
~~~~~~~

~ New Hampshire Mountains ~
During the Spring of 1967, my brother David had given me a fine invitation to come up to a piece of land in the mountains, near to Franconia Notch, New Hampshire and for the length of this summer.
Dave had been living on this particular land for the past year or so with a group of young people he’d gotten to know pretty good and while he was in school at the college of Franconia. This piece of a mountain had been purchased by a young woman Jenny, and with the idea in her mind (I assume) for the creation of a communal living co-operative with some other young folks she’d known; those whom she’d specifically held a close association with and had gained a certain respect for. Well, I learned this idea was working pretty well—at least for a few years—and I was then given the privilege of witnessing some of the makings of this developing cooperative, with the invite from my brother and for almost three months:
Man! My first big airplane ride!
I was excited, packed, and soon boarded the airplane which traveled from Dayton to New York’s Kennedy Airport. There, I was supposed to have a quick turnover and boarding into another airplane and the short flight to Manchester. My brother Dave was waiting in Manchester with his girlfriend Jeannie to pick me up. It was a couple hours drive for them from Franconia.
Well, this particular trip got kind of interesting, and fairly hurriedly. It just happened that the airplane I’d gotten into in Dayton, decided it was going to—and without hesitation—fly toward New York City, direct into the middle of one of the largest rain-making weather systems the New York area had experienced for decades. For me—and after our wind-shear caused semi-crash landing, and walking into the terminal—I tediously spent my next 25 hours in this terminal area of the Kennedy airport, and only waiting for some airplanes to be cleared for departure: one which possibly had enough room on it—because of this weather—to accommodate a scrawny, little bit worried 13-year-old from Ohio flying a nineteenth-class standby-grade ticket to Manchester.
I got the terrible feeling, after more than a day of these poster-advertised giant hallways and sleeping not-at-all in those chairs which are built for people who are about four feet tall, that I might be walking airport corridors for maybe the length of the summer. The rains and the winds outside never seemed to subside, and the airplane takeoff schedules looked to me to be in total chaos. I finally picked up the telephone and called my Ma with a cry for help: She said that she'd try to contact Dave, she’d let him know I wasn’t yet murdered in New York and was still on my way.
I felt much better.
I did the best, I could do then, to find every one of the people there who’d looked reasonably important, and I’d tried my best to ask them how I could possibly get out of there. One of the sweet ticket ladies had a great idea and then—of her own accord—she told me: “You should go away” ..and then explained that I should get onto the bus that drove to the other New York airport, LaGuardia. She said that they had a few extra seats from there…then she turned around and returned to her more important businesses. I said, “Thanks, I will try and be on that Aeroplane!” But I was not exactly too sure of the idea of another terminal area I might need to spend some time gettin’ to know.
New York: I still picture it the same.
So I bussed out of there, to LaGuardia airport. And then I flew to Manchester.
I was sleeping very hard on this next aeroplane, and upon our arrival I was awakened by a sweet stewardess. I guess that I also was the last of the passengers to get off the airplane. The stewardess spoke to wake me with a very soothing voice, and then she about had to carry me off snoring and slung by my hips over her shoulder {and from this interesting—but still dreaming, whimsical—position I simply continued to imagine that I could see she was the very proud owner of a fine rear-section}. Dave and Jeannie, to my own amazement were still there and waiting for me. They thanked the sweet stewardess for me, and I rode still sleeping in the back of Dave’s funky old pickup-truck through Franconia, and then up the mountain to the land.
We rolled up that dirt road, which finally became a driveway to this mountainous piece of ground. David parked the truck by the building and we were immediately met by a very small person; and whom—I learned very quickly—was also a great human being in his own character. We now walked together the few steps to the house.
This rough wood, used windows built house held the “communal kitchen” in it. It had a bunch of chairs and a big ol´ potbellied stove. There was bread and peanut-butter, and a big ol’ can of Bugler tobacco on the over-sized oak round table; something now smelled real good coming from the oven of the wood-burning kitchen cookstove. Nick Peck and his wife Laura, Gar Keaton, Jenny, Judy, Beverly, David Coopie (and maybe a few others) were sitting here on this cool morning and in the open side of the room. They were just sittin’ around the wooden and the over-stuffed chairs, talking over a few things needing to be done. A few of them still warming some of their feet by the cast-iron stove.
Allen Strell and my brother both reached for the Bugler tobacco as we’d walked into the room, and they rolled themselves a fat one. I was told to help myself.
I learned—in this first meeting—that the couples here each had their own small houses. I learned that they, this morning, had some cooperative projects which needed to be talked about, and they needed to plan people’s schedules around these enterprises: On the agenda on this day (these moments while the most of them were together), Nick and Laura were building a new log house and the subject of the help Nick was going to need was raised:
So I was simply discovering it, that everyone here basically helped one another where they needed it for their own individual projects, and together they had the community garden and this house we were in; which was basically made into the central house. Everyone seemed to have their own schedules, but also a willingness to get the cooperative work done: The kitchen and the garden needed daily, rather intensive attentions, and there were other small buildings and their contents to attend to. There was much wood which had to be cut, split for kindling. All these were done while basically working as a group.
Things were also generally accomplished with ideas for some of the preservations of their surrounding natural world; and necessarily in mind for the endurable comfort they would need while surviving through the long winter months, when weather and other natural phenomenon tried to make things miserable for them:
All, in this first moment of meeting, seemed rather real cozy, though; comfortable and sociable. It was very pleasant here in this funky ol’ wood room. The occasion soon and easily became punctuated with warm faces and talkin’ a bit of comedy here and there.

As my stay in this land continued, I learned to think of this fellow “Strell” as perhaps one of the more impressive in this bunch: Partly because of the way he handled his size (not much taller than four feet), but his character was also one which seemed to smooth out most of the rough edges the other folks, at times, ruffled between each other. Strell simply showed that he held a natural interest in—basically—everything. He was able to put himself to work too, boy. He had eyeballs constantly looking though, and seemingly always for his easiest ways to improve things (and then mostly for the other characters there playing their parts): He naturally seemed only to try his best to make the situations he was a part of more reliable. Well, it is comfortable that way.
Strell could roll a perfect cigarette; and with his own techniques he was a rather good musician: He could play spoons against each other in 16th and 32nd-notes, and while playing rather nice triplets and quadruplets he would accent this close-to-perfect rhythm by sliding the spoons three-millimeters apart down his spread left hand fingers. He’d create rather sweet sounding rhythmic progressions with good heart and which would slide real good into songs and guitar playing, played by my brother Dave and some of the other musicians who were on or in close proximity to this land. Strell also enlightened me to some of these spoon-playing techniques, and I appreciate it.
I did try to understand the situations here, and I soon could certainly see these folks were trying to live on this land, as much as they could in a down home comfortable way. There also seemed to exist between these particular human beings a rather progressive respect for one another, and I couldn’t witness any real fights between these folks for any physical or mental positioning or for anybody’s personal advantage. The backwoods roughness of this lifestyle, though, created the very real human disposition of simple reserve.
All these folks, though, seemed truly willing to work together and only to make the land a reality for that cooperative self perpetuation of basic and understandable living: Certain qualities—I believe—which most of these young, post-college, and Vietnam war era folks were looking to invent for themselves here. I think that this simple feeling of comfort, and this reaching out for a basic, small community which each person there could count on are only some of those searched-for qualities which had started this endeavor on this mountain side, and now still held this particular bunch of people rather firmly together.
The peak of this New Hampshire mountain was only an hour and few-minutes climb from this acreage. At the top of this climb was a steel-framed with wooden planked platforms and steps, forest observation tower. From there the view of this mountain and its neighboring mountains’ precipices and thick tree grove valleys was real nice. Much in this mountain range was still undisturbed by the heavy hand of us, the industrious human being, and a person could envision from this vantage how only a forest can continue to hold such a great respect for all the life residing within it. This mountain forest was real beautiful. So full of life. These mountains simply stood there for my young frame of mind as great examples for the natural order of things. I then comfortably took many walks through this woods with my brother Dave and often his friends; and I even climbed this mountain alone a couple of times: I could find a certain happiness, and basic heart there, at the top, unique unto itself; and, I could think about these things:
And here, on a side of this mountain, was a bunch of inspired young adults who were now trying their best to live in peace and harmony with the Earth, and with each other: With a nice garden, so they could eat good food. Possess the heart, so as to play good music. Be there with their own loving partner, that they might have good love and great sex. Smoke cheap Bugler tobacco, because it was cheap. Try to learn the lessons this land and the folks here had to teach…and, much of the time, work damn hard with backs and hands, and to try and create a facsimile of that life these slightly idealistic minds dreamed of.

These folks also held out to be very interactive with each other in many health-conscious ‘Earthy’ ways (and also, perhaps, meaning in some ‘ways’ which may not have been looked upon as perfectly normal by general or the more “civilized” populations); but for these folks, rather in ways which were the more natural order of things and maybe of Nature, herself. So that on hot days a bunch of these folks did sometimes run around naked: workin’, playin’…perhaps restin’. ..and for my young eyeballs some of these young ladies were very nice to look at. I believe I may have been caught a few times, simply standing where I was; maybe gawking a bit, and maybe at a few selected specimens. It seemed to me though that these girls really didn’t mind improving my education, as to some of the important parts of the female form. There were also several times where the ladies would intentionally access all parts—I was straining with my directed eyeballs to see—and to give this young boy a visual describing anatomy quite specifically: And for a young man these are very important mysteries to understand. One of the young woman also noticed my respectable interest in such things, and so, while we were in the kitchen area, she’d sat across from me with bare hips. She’d simply had her dress pulled up—more than a bit—and over the top of her knees…then she’d watched me very carefully, as I studied, prodigiously. Although none actually gave to me the bodily stimulations (which of course I wanted for my next lesson), I did understand fairly well how it all physically worked before my leave from there; and of course none of the couples were particularly shy about talking in reference to the subject: They’d speak to this thirteen-year-old me in a manner very particular about any of the details when I might personally choose to pursue such subject matter.
And so partially because of such openness, I stayed easily with these folks with an actual fine open feeling on the insides of myownself. For me, this whole style of living life on such a minimum of resources, and being creative with the small amount that each had here…this simply felt very interesting; even sweet. These people seemed inherently true to their ideas of minimum impact upon their environments; but they also had their premeditated efforts to be true to their own basic human needs of social stimuli. It was simply stimulatin’, an’ rough—both—on this mountain:
A person often worked hard all day and it didn’t show very much. Small houses and each had a cast-iron wood-burner in them but most insulation was missing from the walls and ceilings. A hot stove ½-full of wood and holding a bedroom warm at night was again cool metal in the morning. Entertainment was maybe a movie in town (10 miles down the hill) or possibly something interesting at the college. Maybe there’d be a get-together with friends in the close proximity.
Nobody there did any drinking to speak of, and there was no television to suck up the mind and the hours. Entertainment had to be honestly invented; but in this way also, no one was spoon-fed their own lives. There was a quality of continuous learning which many of us (in the “civilized” world) rarely, if ever get to experience.

Well, speakin’ of entertainment:
There was also one exceptional, but very ornery occasion: We’d all traveled by foot this day to a neighbor’s house. This was purely for a simple and friendly get-together, a big ol´ barbecue and whatever else we could all think of for the evening. There was fine music with my bro’ David’s and other’s great guitar, banjo, dulcimer, rhythm and spoons playin’; some tasty food and all the basic good socializin’...and, on this day, some beer drinkin’. A very pleasant and progressive occasion, for quite a while this evening.
But later, and still quite still in the middle of all these festivities, but while there may have been a slight pause in some of the other more illustrious entertainment, a new idea suddenly struck someone. We all decided then that his was a good idea, and that most of us should next have what he’d called “a treasure hunt”.
So all us predisposed participants proceeded to divide our rather ugly (by this time) selves up, and into a bunch of teams consisting of four people each. Each team then carried this game to their own different creative directions: and there were actually no particular rules to this game, except we were supposed to find—and bring back to this party—something “interesting”: There’d be a final judgment as to the unique character of each of the found treasure after all the teams had again returned here; and within the two hours we had to accomplish this deeds. The most interesting article would plainly “win” the contest.
We all disappeared with our teams into the woods and to do some tactical thinkin’. And so, well…my crew soon discovered that none of us four characters could now think of any real good ideas, or, for that matter, even of any real interesting places to go simply for the hunting of good ideas to find such an object. We’d only needed just one item…one merely having a chance to be in the running for this contest.. Hmm..? Half hour gone by already and we are all feelin’ a bit self-insulted by our own lack of creativity…but, it was about then that someone said, “You know? I do know where there’s a ten-pound can of gunpowder, but I don’t believe that that would be enough.”
So it was rather immediate from this moment, that a real ornery master-plan now came into focus, for these uninspired, now reduced to hooligans like us: We’d decided now that we were going to bring a fabulous ‘spectacle’ to the rest of these people; and for during that same instant in time they were showing each other their own found booty. This plan of ours now became: We’d take this gunpowder with us while climbing to the top of that mountain and to the observation tower; and then..! (we were excited) then burn the “damn” tower! We’d readily had this in our fiery little minds because the tower was in perfect view from where the party this evening had begun. We were now thoroughly convinced that we’d win this competition with such an incredible stunt: “What a fine fire that tower’s goin’ ta’ make for all those eyeballs down thar’ ..har, har”.
We’d suddenly got so damn smart.
So we picked up the ten pounds of black powder, and some kerosene, and excitedly we made the hour-and-a-half climb into the darkness of this late evening: Like bold and hungry hyenas on a fresh-kill food frenzy close to competing lions, we directly chased a super-plan to the top of this mountain.. ..And we’d reached the top. We quickly set out our purpose, and simply to make sure the whole thing would burn. We poured fuel and the black-powder all over the surface of the two platforms and stairs, then laid out the powder in lines down most of the steps to simply fuse these platforms together. Then we set up two or three Camel cigarettes for our five minute fuses and so we could run like hell in making our own escape; and from as much of the top of this mountain as we were able to before the fire erupted. We essentially used the Camel cigarettes on account that they had enough chemicals in them that they never go out after they’re lit.
It was now perfect.
It was all set up.
We were fast in our work, and we had some moments—by all calculations—to admire what we were about to do.
We were so shitferbrains excited! Hanging around up here now; smokin’ cigarettes, laughin’. We now had our fuses in our hands, burnin’, and were makin’ the last of our very serious plans to run for our own lives…and so, he now reached down and set cigarette down along the powder, and the last of the fuses…and, well, so we simply started to run and began our mountain climb escape downward…but now there was something else in the air this moment: ..and we heard the far away but very clear holler running up this incline from down the mountain somewhere … and here it was just luck, and only the good luck of somebody’s timing…some of that good luck had just now actually again happened upon us..:
That night, it had been only three of us who’d climbed this mountain and to do this “mighty” deed. One of us had solely stayed at the bottom so he could “collect our prize" when the deed was done. Our incredible luck tonight, though, was that somehow, somebody had pried that—very important!—information out from this person as to what it was we’d had in our blood-frenzied tiny little minds, and they’d pried from him what this was now in our pyromaniac’ed dirty stupid hands! Jenny’s voice now came pouring up the slope with tone which probably also reached several other mountain tops to the west — and we heard from it: “DON’T do It ... Don’t DO IT! ... PLEASe..! DOn’t ... DO … THAT!
Well the fuses were snuffed per’ty quick and we had a conference ee’mmeeediatly between ourselves: and, so, the deed was never done that night, thank the lucky gods themselves!: Hell, I might have been in jail till I had no teeth in my gums—and I was only 13—had Jenny not had the vocal cords she’d possessed that particular instant in time. We also might’ve started a much more serious fire as well, maybe burned down a couple of other mountains—within only about 15-seconds—if her fine voice had not come ringing up that incline! Hells bells: I grew up in beautiful woods, and I loved the wild plantlife and all those cute and fuzzy animals who’d lived there…and,even though these trees were a little damp from rain earlier in the week, certainly there was no guaranty!: Why..? we’d gone on such a freekin’ feeding frenzy just to win some stupid-assed contest: well, I still don’t know for sure or exactly why, we were, the four of us, really that mush-for-brains stupid…and only just two moments before..!
The three of us now stumbled and climbed down the precipiced steep mountain’s side in the dark: and we were all truly privileged to a very severe vocal thrashing by a very beautiful woman…and:
..we four contestants won no contests that night.

The life went on, on this land above Franconia Notch.
Food was good. Canned tobacco got down for a week or two to re-rolled cigarette butts. David’s guitar playin’ was often, and a pleasure. Work got done.. And I, one day—bein’ the idiot kid I was while lookin’ for new and intrestin’ entertainment—well, I nailed myself to the top of the log wall of Nick and Laura’s new log house.
This was a great trick I did to myself. I just happened to be hanging around there, with my legs straddling the top of one of the new log walls with a hammer in my hand and nails within reach…and I was bored. So I barely nailed the crotch-seam of my blue-jeans, all around and halfway down to my knees from the crotch with about twenty 16-penny framing nails. And so, well? ..this’d now—in not really too long—become pretty apparent to me, within this new reality…it was now truly impossible for me to release myself from this self-made trap…and soon—actually for several hours now—nobody else’d come around. I think, perhaps, I was beginning to contemplate, maybe how sweet it is to be running, perhaps jumping, soft beds...possibly the taste of food…maybe pretty soon.
Finally, and after what seemed to be a rather hopeless long time, two people—Nick Peck and another fellow—did come around and to my own rescue. Although they (after examining and measuring with this claw-hammer…jumping up and down on the wall themselves a few times and still seriously musing and laughing terribly at my own predicament) were now required to again climb this wall, and from positions there of standing on the top cabin wall log, they both now had to lift me up, and out of my pants-that-had-no-choice-but-to-remain-stationary. I am very sure (because I really did try) I could not have made this complicated escape myownself.
Well these people laughed ’till I thought no more tears could come from two sets of eyeballs: And me, I was completely embarrassed but I didn’t have to sleep on the top of a log wall that night.. So that part of it was ok.
So generally, and within a few quarks of interesting nature, all these months were a bunch of fun.

One, from one of my last few days scheduled there, a bunch of us now decided we’d take a drive for a swimming excursion to a rock-quarry in Vermont. I was told it was a very deep quarry, where the excavators had struck a spring and it had then filled itself up with crystal clear water.
There were seven of us who’d jumped into the VW Micro-bus, and we were now off and quite excited for this new adventure. My brother Dave, his girlfriend Jeannie and a few others didn’t go with us though, on account of some other important stuff, or projects, or somethin’ else probably needin’ some other immediate intentions. The weather had been acting up a bit this day, and it was raining part of the morning; but the sun was popping through the clouds occasionally and so this weather itself was even a bit of an adventure: Small thunderstorms rolling through, then much sunshine between them.
An hour and a half on the road through the New Hampshire, some Vermont mountains and we’d found our way.
We now walked up a steep incline, around and through some thick woods and briers, over many boulders sitting at home with themselves, now stepping to a steep edge of this circled ridge and overlooking this quarry. And, as I saw this complete formation of rock the first time, I was thoroughly awe struck.
The water there was absolutely clear.
One could stand on this top edge of this 300-meter wide, 60-meter deep man-dug rock formation half full with water and look down into these giant sculptured granite. You could also see the bottom slabs of stones, almost as clearly as if the 25-meters of water was not being held above them.
The sun was at a southern one o’clock, in an ideal position to give to this place a wonderful visual. It easily threw its light to create an incredible three-dimensional visual casting of the large stone slabs, in and out of the water.
It was truly beautiful.
We took our clothes off.
And we swam.
And played:
In both the sunshine and the later continued rain showers.
There were also the 5 through 15-meter high cliffs over these enclosed waters. Cliffs were perfect for diving; and some of us dove from all the different heights. Of course then a few folks got rather feisty across over there, and they rolled any boulders that could be pried loose into the water to make as big a splash and waves as could be done. Somebody decided to pry a tree loose which had died there trying to grow, shoved it into the water from about ten meters: I don’t know why, particularly.
The water was kind of cold inside this excavation, but this never bothered any of us. While your body stayed in the top area of the water one became adjusted to it and you didn’t really notice the cold. But you could also dive very deep into the water, still see very clearly, but this was the area where it felt real cold: To do this once or twice, then the surface water felt fine warm.
Laura Peck left me with a fine impression.
That day.
In this place:
All her motions as she played there; the moving sculpture of her naked body’s total physique: Her playful movements and while her beautifully formed breasts completed her thin hip, belly, leg, arm and shoulder characteristics. She moved honestly, easily through the inside of this huge three-dimensioned visual. Her style of standing there on a large stone slab beckoned the eye, while three-o’clock Sun was throwing her shadows against the stones behind her: She being dripping wet, playing sometimes, shaking the water drops from the sunlight into the water from her hair. Her arms, she sometimes held together into the air and reaching, all of her uncut dark body hair now accenting this wonderful image.
I still can see this whole photographic movie very clearly, and plainly from those parts of my brain that holds these memorical electrical energies. I guess, maybe, I was a little bit in love with this woman in this particular moment.
The seven of us, though, we all had a real good time.
We played.
We were on the inside of a big and complete moment which was effortlessly alive.
We were living it, easily learning from it.
There in the clear water.
In the midst of so much form and play action.
A bunch of human beings who loved this day of hangin’ out with each other.
In the center of this wonderful dream of a place.
It was great. With and without the Sun. The lightning and thunder—moments before we left—were just like other new accents in this photograph, of play.
The weather simply continued wet as we made our way back through it and in the direction to Franconia. Nick was driving the micro-bus, and this auto was full of exhausted, nicely exhilarated human beings. I effortlessly fell asleep there with my head on the lap of the beautiful wife of my driver.
But then, somewhere between this moment/and the next moment—where I’d awoke to find myself in the midst of as bad a predicament as I’d ever found myself in before that instant in time—a true tragedy had, actually, occurred.
I awoke and found myself underneath this VW micro-bus.
The bus was laying on its side with its two ends bridging the slight ditch along the side of the road. I’d personally been thrown, and then somehow dropped into my own fortunate position of laying in the bottom of this ditch, directly underneath this bridge of an automobile. And now, as I was waking up (from this interesting sleep I was in) I heard the voice of Strell. He was hollering out instructions to someone else and I could now feel myself being pulled on by something. I looked up, and I could see Strell lifting, and then actually holding the topside of this microbus up and off of me so that the other fellow could yank on pieces of my own body and get me from this ugly position. This fellow Allen Strell (his four and [less than] a half foot and his adrenaline) had truly lifted this beat-up machine off of me!
They pulled me onto and up the embankment of this highway. Strell told me: “I thought for sure you were dead. When you were laying there on that rocky embankment, it was the only time I ever remember when I’d offered you a piece of my cigarette, an’ you’d said no.”
I was taken by ambulance (along with most the others) and released the same day from the hospital. I’d sustained no real damage to my own person somehow miraculously, other than requiring three stitches on the surface of my very hard head: and this was quite amazing for the position I’d just been pulled from. Most the others had suffered some sprained joint bones, ankles and wrists, and some cuts.
The true tragedy, though—of this accident, and to this whole story—occurred directly to my good friend and driver for this wonderful rondevúe we’d just made with those great clear waters: Nick’s back was broken. And he had lost the use of his legs, simply, for ever.
The story (as I’d heard it, later): The bus had been traveling down a hill along that road. This road was of course wet from the rains, but also wet-slimy from the organic material and oils, which always end up on the low sides of the road from the cars and the mountainsides, washed down with the rains. The micro-bus had gotten itself into a slight, but still very recoverable slide on this stuff, and Nick was doing a good job of pulling it out from this slide…but then the door from the front-seat passenger-side flew open, and the young lady who was in that seat was clearly on her way out the door opening and at a high enough rate of speed it wasn’t a good idea to be flyin’ out the door! Well she’d grabbed at whatever her arms and fingers could reach in that instant of time, and to try and protect her own well being (as anyone in her position would have done the best they could, like she did). The real problem here though; the thing her fingers had caught hold of—in her attempts to save her own livelihood—was the steering wheel! Nick lost control and the bus rolled four times and it threw about every one of us out of itself: Strell also told me later; “I actually remember bouncin’ and rollin’ around the inside of that automobile and knockin’ out a bunch of the pop-out windows they built into that tháng. That, was a hell of a ride!”

So, my stay with these people had ended with this last excursion with them. I believe I traveled back to Yellow Springs in the following week, and taking the ride there with my brother Dave: But (and for some reason I’m not sure of), I don’t actually recall the details of that journey home..? I don’t know why.
I do know, though: A wonderful part of the next five years was to see Nick and Laura Peck again, when they’d dropped by my family’s house in Yellow Springs.
The two had stayed together all those years.
They’d bore twins.
Nick was obviously pretty feisty, and very much self-dependent again.
He’d pulled into the gravel driveway, driving his Chevy Travel-all. Reached into the back, and yanked his wheelchair to the ground. Turned to me, and he said, “Hey Bruce, how’s things?”
I said, “Pretty damn good, Nick..”
~~~~~~~

~ The Yellow Springs ‘Newspaper Co., Of 1968 ~
The Miehle was this rather beautiful old, 1905 cast-iron, flatbed press.
This press had some great ol’ rhythm.
It about always seemed to work just about perfect.
I ran this press much of the time at the News, and I generally had a good ol’ time up there, while I was leaning on the huge wooden paper-feeding platform and watching the rest of the shop, listening to the Miehle’s rhythms as I fed it the paper sheets. I really did like the way this thing operated and sounded as I ran it; especially when I was able to manage it at its top-notched speed. But the situation was, the owner to this press wanted the Miehle run at a speed two notches down from its capacities. This owner fellow, though, well he’d get plenty angry with me whenever he’d found again that I’d set it where I liked it; fellow’d start running around in a huff and he’d simply make me change the controls down again.. That Miehle though, it really hummed nice at full speed: and so I’d have it back up there again when I could see from my high vantage point that he’d (again) gotten his’self involved (enough) in some such large matter of importance that his attention became drawn away from the sound of my speed changes—then I always kept an eyeball on him.
Our other press, the Babcock, was an 1885 or so, cattiwompus flatbed press, about half the size of the respectable Miehle. The Babcock ran the papers at a slower, or really about-half the speed pace of the Miehle. We generally still used this press only for the color-impressions, for those special ‘runs’ of the YS NEWS and for the advertisers who liked a splash of (minimal) color into their ads. It was also the emergency press now should its 1905 successor ever have any real troubles.
I was never really fond of operating that Babcock. It meant we had to run those 2100 YS NEWS copies a bunch of hours, and I couldn’t set my favorite stool on it for that comfortable position. It was not the nice high perch the Miehle was, and my vision faced away from all the other operations and people in the shop. This view was only directed to a large window out to an alley, and that was always much too dirty to see through if there had been any action out there.
The Babcock also never set those big sheets in a nice stack, the way the Miehle did: The Miehle carried the sheets through, then down itself and then would release the paper at its end over a nice regulated line of natural-gas flame (which took all the static-electricity out of the paper) and dropped these sheets between four boards which moved back and forth with its mechanism: In other words, this press stacked the paper perfect, warm, and simply with no static electricity still holding the separate paper sheets together.
The Babcock, though, well it rolled the papers around itself and then just kind of threw these big ol’ sheets into a disorganized pile full of static-electricity.. So then, the person operating these interesting machines, he now had to ‘take hold’ of this pile from the Babcock’s last print—without screwing up or ‘killing’ the paper edges—and he had to carry these pieces from the pile of this raggedy stack back up onto the Miehle paper-feeding platform again. Now then, as he’d print the second side, he’d then have to try and ‘flip’ air under the edge of these static-full papers, with a good rhythm—but it would never work quite right again—and persuade them into the paper guides of the Miehle.
The Miehle, in its next turn, and who rather hated these killed edges from static-filled sheets (and from its own adversary..!), those many times it would then simply rip this damaged paper further in its own ornery state-of-mind and in its guides, and it would (if its driver was not now completely mindful) now throw some of this ripped paper around itself and into its own ink rollers. Then! that person—who was running this machine which was in a bad mood, and whom was also now in a bad mood and at this point he now had to clean the black-ink smeared paper from the Miehle ink rollers—well, he invariably became an ink-covered puppy himself. It didn’t end there though, and if he didn’t now spend another good five minutes cleaning himself off, it was very easy for that operator to then get ink onto the rest of the stacks of papers…and all over the whole shop for that matter. I still believe that the Miehle clearly hated the ol’ Babcock, and it was just making that known.
But, again, if we ran the print on the Babcock after the Miehle’s second side printing; and then ran the paper direct from the Babcock to the folder, that folder itself would also take these static-filled sheets and just crumple them into a ball inside of itsownself: and so this would also cause complete havoc for its operator:
Hell, I hated the Babcock: Damn trouble-maker it was!
That Babcock didn’t have a nice rhythmic sound to it either. It just kind of hissed and grunted, klunked through its cycle, slapped the paper down, and did it again.
The Miehle was virtuous with its sounds; well endowed with a fluid, respectable sound of getting things done. It had more the rhythm and feel of an old freight-train locomotive: It was power.
I liked drivin’ the Miehle, most the time.
I’d sit up there with my left foot upon solid cast-iron, my right foot up on a piece of my stool or a part of the wooden operator’s platform: foot-ready there to jump on the clutch should I misalign a paper into the guides. I had the clutch/brake ready, in quick succession if a paper sheet was simply self-determined to jump itself off the guides and into the ink-rollers.
14 years old then, sittin’ on my stool:
I’d rub my right-hand third finger over the glycerin stick, and again get myself comfortable to the rhythms of my...uh, locomotive hotshot. Maybe I’d grin over to Patty Matthews or Dotty Thomas real quick.. Perhaps I’d yell over to the other owner, editor of “the News” Kieth Howard; “Hey ‘new guy’: how’s this side look?”
He’d nod, so then I’d start flippin’ the stack through the machine, about one sheet every two seconds. I might start singin’ some song like “Me and Mrs. Jones” or “I’m a Girl Watcher” and with that ol’ Miehle comin’ up on its percussions. I’d watch the NEWS crew working below putting new pages together; or, possibly they were now yellin’ hard at each other for the stupid misspelled front-page headline “somebody’d missed again:” Then they’d stop me and my machine again.
Maybe I’d have a big ol’ bag of donuts and soda-pop sittin’ up there with me (from Dick the baker’s next-door bakery) and for between the stacks I’d haul up.. I might have an eyeball on the owner again to see if he might have suspicions the Miehle was runnin too … Man, I just hated it when he got so mad and loud after he’d started snoopin’ around and found the controls in that faster condition, again. Now, for me: I just really liked the way this machine functioned, and the way it felt and sounded at its mighty speed. I even think the Miehle itself liked it much better up there: Firm, solid. Hell: so I really thought of it as my locomotive…my highball. I was only trying to give it the best of myself.
Then there were the Linotypes.
These were often simply trying to “squirt” hot lead all over the insides of themselves while they should have been continuing to ingenuously produce nice mirror-image lines of lead type!
Ken Champney, Lynton Appleberry and Glen Ihrig were often standing beside, and walking around one of these and for their particular purpose of again theorizing its innards, its mechanical workings—and its particular character—and what it was this time which was making this eccentric linotype ornery enough that it was choosing again now to having its lead “squirts”. Well, so they’d clean out this new, now hardened lead again with hammer and chisel; make the (newly calculated) necessary adjustments; and then, often, watch this stupid machine again in its next cycle squirt..! molten lead all over its insides. Eventually though, this machine would start to act right again: and often it was only because that particular linotype had had some emotional turmoil that it now had gotten off its chest by squirting a few times; and now the ornery—in its psychological department—machine would start flipping out nice, perfect lines of usable lead type again.
The linotype is actually a truly marvelous engineering wonder, especially for its time. And for this shop, it still held this original position for its great usefulness. {And, if one were to want a positively exceptional report on the workings of this printing phenomenon, one would have to look no further than—a genius in this, and several other fields—Ken Champney. But here I will simply try and elucidate for the reader what I can about these mechanical marvels, and only in respect to those times which I now write:} Almost all printing, though, was done by then (in most all other shops) by using that new to us folks at the NEWS off-set printing method. The NEWS was simply one of the last weekly papers in the U.S. to hold out and still print with the “hot lead, flat-bed” technique.
I cannot begin to describe {completely understandably, on this paper now} that, which is the complete workings of this wonderful hot-lead, line-forming machine. I can only state—from the beginning of the lead—that it took hold of those self-poured lead bars called “pigs” and it precisely lowered these pigs to re-melt this lead to molten; then it squeezed the proper amounts of lead through its own parts, and sculpted this lead into type by pumping that molten metal into an area that held its new line of letter-sized mats with its automatic mechanical spacers; it would even spend the time to cure the molten lead just enough and then deliver it out with the other lines ready to go: And then it would very skillfully, mechanically and correctly sort those just used mats and spacers back through itself and into its various mat slots in the type-chase! Man, it was incredible!
Put a little bit simpler: The linotype would process that lead into those called-for, various lead line-lengths for the column-widths, and with certain type-styles and type-sizes.
This machine had a nasty attitude though sometimes: But I suppose anyone who had molten lead runnin’ through ’em might get a bit touchy on occasion hisownself. The linotype looked like a…well, uh…nothing else looks like it.
There was the Ludlow machine for forming the larger headlines, and also a hot-lead line-forming machine. For the real big headlines we had the “200-year-old” individual, mirror-image letters made of lead: For giant headlines we had some “300-year-old” headline letters made of wood-block with a mirror-image print surface.
Now all of this (lead lines, headlines, plus our ‘burned in’ photograph-mats and the special lead-castings for the advertisers) were set up together inside steel page-chases with lead spacers so each column would all line up evenly-long. We clamped all this together into steel chases with special expansion clamps. These completed chased-pages were then carried (heavy) to the flat-bed of the press and clamped into the press. This run was simply the first-side printing of the large-sized sheets of paper run through the press. Each sheet was run twice through this Miehle for an eight-page newspaper:
Me, I normally did the hot shot runnin’..
..I never knew who was doin’ the writin’.
~~~~~~~

~ Dancin’ ~
The college had its own student dance spectacular, every Wednesday and Saturday nights. Dancin’ was clearly the closest thing I had to making love before I actually knew how to make love. I loved dancin’ at the college. This dance music was in my heart. It moved directly to my feet, and right to my scrawny butt when maybe James Brown and his fat sound horns-section was blasting through the dance floor and a cute girl was movin’ beautiful with and around me.
I was at the college for just about every dance they’d held, beyond my twelfth year: Those Temptations. That Motown sound. The O’ccasions’ I’m a Girl Watcher: This stuff all “killed” me and my funky dancin’ feet. Stevie Wonder, the greatest philosopher ever to sing it, so I could dance it; Billy Preston, and my funky at that funky moment dancin’ body; Jimmy Hendrix (never thought it though that he was all that good for great dancin’); Cream settled my feet just easy as I could squeeze my dancin’ girl real nice; Crusaders for dance? oh yeah!, Otis Redding good god, hold onto me young lady!; then came Earth Wind and Fire kicked my funky-butt there but good.
There was the Beatles: Man, The Beatles…my musical heroes! I even had that vivid dream of hangin’ out in a train, goin’ somewhere (..nowhere) with the Beatles. We were all just hangin’ out. We were talkin’, singin’ a little bit with Paul McCartney and John Lennon…George and Ringo were just sittin’ there, mostly. Didn’t seem such a big deal in the dream.. Train goin’ down the tracks, smokin’ cigarettes; all the normal stuff.
I’d always tried to dance with the prettiest girls though at Antioch. Few said no when I offered, and I’d always felt a bit embarrassed when this occurred; but I’d never stopped asking. I just loved those college girls and the fine ways they’d still held themselves then. And the college! It still held its summer session every year, so there were close to 600 students on campus during all the school’s quarters. Summers buzzed openly with activities. A prime time for Antioch’s own histories. For my own though, most all these studentess’es those summers simply and generally dressed with some very thin—and not so much—clothes on, and with not much more than shortshorts or miniskirt…maybe a tee-shirt or a fine materialled dress.. ..and sometimes, with no top!
..Wonderful, for a young man’s imaginations..
I’d easily and unequivocally come to the conclusion then, that the female of my species is a most extraordinary animal, and is entirely the most beautiful form existing on this tiny, magnificent, fertile and mysterious blue planet: and, of course I cannot help but to be still of this same venerable opinion..
I did also have a number of phenomenal and captivating dreams about a few of those particular young ladies, on the inside of those years. Indubitably, I simply loved some of those college girls.
I hadn’t yet, at 14 years, known the real experience of making love to a beautiful woman: but I could dance, and most all the pretty girls said yes when I’d ask.
~~~~~~~

~ Drinkin’ ~
There are occasions, from the inside of which I may have learned a few very important lessons concerning the entanglements of overindulgence. I think that I’d never become much of a continuous alcoholic beverage drinker because of two—in particular—occasions: the one which I am about to indulge in, and the other an occasion which goes with another lucid story and from earlier circumstance:
My older brother Duane—with some regularity—and along with a few other young Appleberrys, had again just opened a few bottles from a new batch of some rather fine Deutscher-style, yeast and hops home-brew beer. On this particular Saturday, a bunch of us were now doing a fair job of consuming quite a lot of this beer inside a small party on Karen Appleberry’s porch.
Around 10-o’clock though, the time was now appropriate to drive into town to the student dance at Antioch. We made the journey in three cars. Got there fine. I had a nice, kind of a drunk time for awhile, and I danced with some of the pretty (I supposed they were) girls I—might have—known there. But then there were also much more beer and other strong beverages to consume there, and so of course I did so.
I recall that I’d ended my evening’s dance while barely still sitting there along a large round table in the cafeteria, where this shindig was being held; sitting there with about twelve of my friends…uh, also ’round this, uh ..table and: ..zZzZZzZZz…
I do remember waking up, though …
… and, I was now quite alone.
My head was resting in my own arms while I was still sleeping, but now my head was sort of falling from the same table. So I raised my head, and now the room was missing {hmm...?} all of the three-hundred people just been there...only just “moments” before. Beer glasses were everywhere. I could see no-one here except for one other fellow, over there…and I could also now see that he was sleeping in beer on top of a table by the window. I personally was horrible in my own head…and I thought I had to throw up ..and soon! I didn’t have any idea where the hell my friends were ..and I thought to myself; “Shit..! i have to throw up ..Damn!”
I ran, hurriedly now for the stairs which were on the other side of the glass doors ..these doors though didn’t escape my own belly’s enthusiasm ..the concrete steps going up to the second floor became slippery in front of my own feet and from my own belly’s convulsions—but the toilet did, get closer. So I guess I’d next hung over that Student Union commode for about forty-five-minutes…and over my knees, outside, for thirty more.
I hated life that moment…but I was all right again—in about three days—after struggling my own nauseated and dark way home on foot, the two and a half miles that predawn morning:
I plainly, and soon unequivocally felt deep down that I had taken a horrible advantage of, and had simply and thoroughly wasted another great dance!
~~~~~~~

~Bushes and Associates~
The Little Miami River, which ran to the south and located a half-kilometer southeast down in the valley from my home was fairly polluted, and there were not so many fish in it in those days, but this was not so important to many of us who swam there. The river was a favorite playground for the Schumachers and a few other families who we knew pretty well and hung-out with sometimes.
The Bush’s house was about three kilometers upriver, and across the river from us “Schu” brothers’ back ground. We’d often spent a lot of time hanging around with most of these folks along, or away from the river. The Bush kids were five brothers, aged pretty close to the same as me and my own brothers. Just about as feisty, maybe even a bit more, as we were.
Jeb and Mike were the oldest two. My oldest brother Dave would often be out finding something interesting to do with either of them, or maybe with a combination of folks from his own Yellow Springs buddies: Jon Whitmore, Jerry Canon, Brian Appleberry, Jerry Womacks, Gar’ Keaton, Shaun Webb, David Casenhiser, Tucker Viemeister…and a few others. I hadn’t spend so much time with these older folks myself, and mostly, or plainly knew them as the characters who’d hung out with bro’ Dave.
Pete, the red-headed and newly-bearded philosopher of the Bush boys hung out with my brother Duane and the most of the crew that’d made up Duane’s close general associates: There was Scott Keaton, son of the college Dean of Students, and the best poker and gin player I’ve run across; Prentice Thomas, the high energy, half-true to his own brand of philosophy story-tellin’ only-wild-man from the ‘other’ Champney family there on Limestone street; Joel Crandall, third-place prize-winner from a “Teen Age America” muscle-building contest; Dan Robinow, laid back son of Doc Robinow; Karen Appleberry, youngest of the Appleberrys who had the porch on the back of the Appleberry house up the road from us, and much of the time a bunch of us, these folks were there; Annie Schnurer, a real pretty young lady with black hair, and was attached most the time to Scott Keaton, and, I guess that I always was a little bit sweet on her myself (though she’d never looked my way twice, that way); there was “Grundy” Vernet, richest kid in my town (and he’d tried to keep these airs from showing, but ok, he really was a rich town-family’s kid); There was Nick Dewey, Roy Clark, Gary and ‘Pop’ Wagner, Lauri (forgot her name, but Duane and her had a dog together somehow), Mark Gifford and his two sisters, couple o’ Viemeisters, John Schnurer, Margie Hall, …and there were a few significant others in and out of this bunch; close to Duane’s age and similar to his constitutional frame of mind.
So I also spent a bunch of my own time with this, “older” crew. Me, I was invariably the youngest there though, and so it was generally the norm that I got much of the grief these folks could arrange for this kid hanger-on.
I really liked to play pool; and Scott Keaton had, in his family’s house on Livermore street, a pool table. I’d go there often and lose “much” money to Scott: playing 9-ball for the quarters I might have in my pocket that day (or I also might have been playing 9-ball, or gin for a penny a point—and Keaton’s basic scoring system—with Pete Bush, probably also Scott that day and maybe some of the others who were all part of this day’s bunch—and gamble): It all was fair play, but they unquestionably were more experienced and knew the games a whole lot better than I did. I’d always end up owing out to at least one of them a bit more than what I’d had in my pocket that day; but this also was a fairly rich source of entertainment for me, so worth it, I figure.
At school, I’d also regularly be out ‘on’ the grounds with some of these mentioned characters (maybe in the woods behind the high school) going further into debt, playing poker or gin while I should’a been in my English class: Cards, cigarettes and philosophy with an older bunch’a screw-ups…well to me this was a bunch more entertaining than to be in…say, Mrs. Soster’s English class (and watching her not so graceful legs—and her underwear—as she'd gave her lecture sittin’ up on her desk in her position; that one she’d often graduate to during the class, with her legs apart and short dress). She was trying to teach us the theories of good worded English, but especially for us young lads. I got a bad grade for this class though. I wasn’t, I guess, too much interested.
Chelsie Bush was my age. Chelsie was not so loud in his character as many of the older Bush fellows. He seemed much more capable of takin’ hold of the more moderate character traits from his older brothers, and then clearly held his own ground. For me it was always a relaxed and pleasant time if one of us crossed the river and hung out together, maybe still in the woods, or in town, at the college, or up the river to the gorge.
Chelsie also never did learn to smoke these stupid cigarettes...a wise one, I suppose, that one.
John was the youngest of the Bushes…didn’t really know too much about this one back then.
~~~~~~~

~ The River ~
More than a few times one or two Appleberrys, couple o’ Schumachers, a Bush bro’ or two, and maybe an assemblage of others from the above mentioned paragraphs, would park a car or truck down-river a bunch of miles; drive back up-river maybe with a pile of innertubes from various other larger vehicles in the back.
Then, just take the river for an excursion for the day.
Our ladies and the gents would simply then merge into the water upstream, maybe we’d be skinnydippin’ on the innertubes. We’d carry on, watchin’ the trees and riverbanks go past in whatever ways might easily suit us. A few maybe would dump each other over a few times, purely talk shit fairly often. Some might be quite ornery on occasion, maybe even a mud fight or some such thing on our way. The river was a real beautiful place. A pleasure to be on, or around. The way downriver on Little Miami, was never too treacherous from Yellow Springs. Pleasantly exciting, though, and interesting all the time:
The waterflow in places had some short waterfalls and shallow rapids, where one had to navigate with his feet and hands over the rocks; and which might have protruded enough out there that day to maybe try and kill one’s butt, on her way floating over. Maybe we’d be sliding the water over or even under one of the trees which’d grown too far out over the river; been washed out from under its own roots by the flood-rains, and had fallen in the middle of its reach and now laying in the flow of the water.
Simply to be settled back on whatever one was floating on was an excellent, natural pleasure in itself.
The full branches sliding by you, and above you.
Water trickling around you.
Sun striking, even warming your face on occasion.
The complex but so simple shaping of sunshine somehow making it to the river between the branches, and the dance of their wind blown leaves.
There’s whole bunch of a lush broadleaf forest along the river. It’s always trying to grow out, into the open spaces the river’s provided for the sunshine. Its banks hold the dark and rich Ohio clay soil. Something growing out of it, every square surface fertile millimeter
There’re all of the fine sounds of this place and where the birds are always singin’ in the daylight.
Waters slippin’ around the rocks at the rapids. The river sounds it makes while wrapping itself around some areas by the shallow banks.
Wind, flipping through the high branches, sings with the high wind in the trees sound.
There are of course all of the incredible colors in the woods around the river.
The smells ere forever sweet.
It was fine, feisty, and wet on the river.
All on a hot, Ohio muggy, summer day..
Paradise: My own back yard…in a bunch of ways!

After an excursion as such, though, we might drive back, drive off somewhere, Maybe smoke, drink some beer, even get stupid sometimes..
…maybe find a place to go and have a pig roast.
~~~~~~~

~ Neanderthalers and Pigs ~
Speakin’ of pig roasts.
I guess that there were a couple of times where “we” were, maybe, a little bit stupid. And then we did have some fun getting carried away with ourowndamnselves. Perhaps, this chapter is also a bit of an admission of guilt, and conceivably an apology (on account of a few occasions), and is now directed to maybe several of the fine ol’ farmers outside Yellow Springs who were then carefully raising their prize winning animals, only to see they were not there, when you went looking for them: Well, some of the “wild animals” that I personally knew, and hung out with, sometimes ..maybe ..uh, stole, a couple of your pigs, from your fields, and...uh, well, we ate them.
I think it would not be wise of me at this writing to say, exactly, who it was, as I’d watched some of those pigs—in the few of their last living moments—being run down; but I do certainly guarantee that it was one—or more—of the more-ornery from “us.”
So I think that I really hadn’t thought about it much, for about forever (about 27 years—and more now—before this writing) but we really did actually have about ten…maybe twelve very fabulous neanderthaller type barbecues, and with all the fixin’s for those days..
And, please, once again, I do truly, and personally wish to apologize here to those particular people whose those—delicious—animals were.
I am quite sure, though, if I could get this same group of us together again, and we could then discover to-whom these animals had belonged, I could probably talk all of these folks into dividing up the value of these swine—maybe a couple turkeys—at today’s market value; and, that we would greet the owners personally with our thanks, for the entertainment (as to the parties) their work and their pigs were the very foundations of…and of course for the nutritional value, those animals, bestowed upon us.
At this moment of writing, I do personally feel a bit guilty, because I was in fact an accessory to all those crimes — as I was actually there to see some of these pigs being chased down, and smuggled away; and I was certainly there to tear many of the pieces off of these pigs’ carcasses (over a spitted fire), to eat them — I do also, though, certainly want you to know: they were killed in a humane way and were skinned and gutted by true experts in this field of…butchery.
None has ever tasted better.
I apologize for each of us for those hoodlum acts we’d made, and that I’d personally had a particular participation in.
But, again, I also want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. My life is much more full, now, than it would have been, without your pigs.
~~~~~~~

~ One Cow Wounded in Battle ~
I recall one night where a few of us were sitting around in Duane’s little house in the back and we were talking (a little bit) stupid. It was decided—in that intoxicated-on-the-idea-of-barbecues moment—we should have a cow roast: and I don’t recall whose idea this was. Well my brother Duane and me, and maybe one of the Bush bro’s (I can’t remember) and at about one-o’clock in the morning, went out to find a cow to invite it to its roast.
It was just…stupid.
Duane had that bayonet. Now it had a side on it that was good for sawing down trees. Besides this relic of medieval torture, we also had two baseball bats with us:
A Neanderthaler cow hunt.
Well…so Duane drove us to a field in his ol’ ’51 chevy flatbed and we’d all stepped from this truck with dark clothes on—and I can’t remember, exactly, the location—. We then trucked a long way by foot to where the cows were…and so, we chased cows there for more then two hours and never could get close enough to a cow to think about hitting a cow in the head with a baseball bat (wouldn’t have done any good to hit one anywhere else); and, actually, I don’t even know what we would’ve done if we had been able to murder a damn cow; the truck was a hell of a long way off, and it was a damn muddy field.
My brother Duane, though, he really could run fast sometimes in his long frame—over those long and scrawny chicken-legs of his—and at one point he got close enough to a cow to stick it in the butt with that stupid bayonet he was hauling around, but then he couldn’t hold on to that stuck steel implement enough to pull it back out again. Well this cow screamed bloody murder, and jumped for its life from this tall scrawny thing a’ lookin’ like its worst barnyard nightmare of a dark and oversized skinny terrorist chicken ’jus run at her and stuck her with some metal object — well she’d jumped posthaste, and took off real quick in another direction..!
Well…so we all spent at least the next two hours just lookin’ for a battle-wounded cow stuck with a sawtoothed bayonet.. Never did find that particular animal again.
So we all went home; but we did it with a serious and sincere wish in our hearts that Duane hadn’t done too much injury or personal psychological damage to that poor cow..
..And, if the farmer, who belonged to that cow, is out there somewhere—and ever reads or hears about this paragraph of my admission to being a participant in this deed of possible physical or emotional cruelty to his cow—I sincerely hope that he can indulge upon me, my brother, and the other fellow a little bit of forgiveness and understanding; and maybe he can laugh a little bit himself at a few stupid moments, where a few ignorant kids might’ve gotten—just a little bit—carried away with their own selves…and, if that fellow should know where my brother’s bayonet is, would he please return it to my family.
I do sincerely hope the cow was ok.
~~~~~~~