Posts Tagged ‘1963’

I wouldn’t have thought my grandpa had much in common with the hard-drinking, abusive protagonists of “Mad Men,” but it seems like we cross their paths a lot here on Hope Street.

First, Don Draper showed up in our ode to the two New Yorks of the 1960s. Then, we made a Mohawk Airlines reference a couple of weeks ago.

And today, my grandpa’s calendar makes note of an event referenced in the third-season “Mad Men” episode “Seven Twenty Three.”

July 20, 1963.

July 20, 1963. The hip kids in the tri-state region are listening to “Fingertips Part 2,” “Surf City,” “Wipe Out,” “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport,” “Memphis” and “It’s My Party.”

I didn’t know it until I checked Wikipedia, but this particular solar eclipse seems to have captured the fancy of quite a few creative types.

The eclipse of Saturday, July 20, 1963, is a key plot point in the Stephen King novels Dolores Claiborne and Gerald’s Game, and is also described in John Updike’s novel Couples.

Charles Schulz devoted a week’s worth of “Peanuts” strips to it, as well. (The scrawled note at the bottom of the July 20 calendar entry seems to say something about “C brown.” But I don’t interpret that as a “Peanuts” reference. I don’t think Joe Shlabotnik’s biggest fan ever made it onto the family calendar.)

I don’t have any record of the eclipse providing artistic inspiration to my grandfather. I know of no photographs or paintings of his that depict it, aside from the nifty doodle on his calendar.

I would imagine he tried to take a look at it, though, using whatever the approved and recommended methods are to view an eclipse. With his interests in space and science, it would have been natural for him to check it out.

Isn’t looking through developed film one way to view an eclipse? God knows my grandpa had plenty of that around the house.

(This picture, which regrettably is not my grandfather’s, shows the lengths one American family went to to approach the challenge. And this picture shows how a couple of enterprising American businesses found a promotional opportunity in it.)

According to contemporary sources, only five solar eclipses were expected to be visible from North America between 1963 and 2025.¬† So, while I’d never heard of this event before, I can understand why it would be big news to those who were around at the time.

The day dawned cloudy, threatening to dash the hopes of countless amateur astronomers. It seems like people got a pretty good look anyway, though. An estimated 200,000 people flocked to Maine that weekend, Maine being one of only two places in the U.S. expected to see a full eclipse.

News reports at the time quoted Surgeon General Luther Terry telling Americans to “watch it on television” to avoid damaging their eyes.

Today, anyone with YouTube can see the eclipse. If you want to put a box over your head for the sake of historical verisimilitude, knock yourself out:


Read Full Post »

I think, in the years before I knew him, my grandpa had a bit of an outdoorsy streak — just like¬† lots of other red-blooded American men.

He wasn’t the sort to swim in icy lakes at dawn, or shinny up a mountain bare-handed.

But, given the opportunity, I think he enjoyed a bit of roughing it out in the woods every now and again.I believe he spent most of his life in city settings — not among skyscrapers per se, but in closely developed neighborhoods — so maybe that explains why he liked to go get a few lungfuls of fresh air from time to time.

Give him a rustic cottage, and a rowboat, and a fire to grill over, and he could enjoy nature happily enough.

Either 1957 or '59, I believe, in the little western Massachusetts town of Becket.

Either 1957 or ’59, I believe, in the little western Massachusetts town of Becket. My grandpa is rowing; my grandma and aunt are enjoying the ride.

From the same trip to Becket: The family enjoys dinner out back of the cottage. Check out my grandfather in *shorts* -- a rare look for him.

From the same trip to Becket: The family enjoys dinner out back of the cottage. Check out my grandfather shirtless and in shorts. Both were rare looks for him, at least in my experience.

Living in Stamford didn’t give him quite the same opportunity to commune with nature. Sure, there were places he could go to enjoy the great outdoors. But the neighborhood where he lived was pretty well built-out and paved over.

Perhaps that was why he deemed a couple seasonal reminders of Mother Nature worth including on his calendar, 50 years ago this month.

March 2, 1963.

March 2, 1963.

If there’s a backstory here, and skunks were a regular part of life on Hope Street, I don’t know it. Perhaps my grandpa encountered one traipsing across the back yard and saw fit to record it.

Or maybe he read this factoid somewhere and decided to lift it for his own calendar. It does sound kinda like something you’d read in the Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Wiki, for what it’s worth, says that striped skunks don’t really hibernate so much as they go semi-dormant. And they can start breeding as early as mid-February. So this date doesn’t necessarily represent when skunks start to emerge. More likely, it’s when my grandpa first took notice of one.

As it happens, the smell of skunk is one that I used to associate pretty strongly with Stamford. The drive from one set of grandparents’ house to the other took us through some wooded areas, and it was common to pick up a couple snootfuls of skunk along the way — especially when we made the drive at night.

I don’t mentally connect that smell with Stamford quite so strongly as I used to. But my childhood association of skunks with Stamford (and trips to the grandparents) may be one reason why I have always liked the smell of skunks.

(From a distance, that is. The smell of a skunk close up is ferociously nasty.)

So, yeah. What other natural phenomenon was capturing my grandpa’s attention in March 1963?

March 9, 1963.

March 9, 1963.

The spring maple sap run is a wonderfully New England thing to put on your calendar.

(The time of the sunset, while not specific to New England, is pretty sweet too. The days, they’re getting longer.)

I do not believe my grandparents actually did any maple sugaring or syrup-making. I can’t recall any mention of that in family history.

Plus, if I’m not mistaken, it’s messy work that requires the collection of a lot of sap — certainly more than the trees on my grandparents’ lot could muster.

Thanks to the blogosphere, I now know that it is possible to make maple syrup in Stamford, even if my family didn’t.

The excellent OmNomCT food blog, based in Fairfield County, recently wrote about the annual maple sugar weekend at the Stamford Museum & Nature Center. Apparently you can go there to learn about maple sugaring, buy locally made syrup, and even help judge a cooking contest in which local chefs put the syrup to creative use.

(Well, OK, you can’t do it this year, because the event happened March 2 and 3. But you can put it on your calendar for next year. I would if I lived there.)

Only about two weeks after the maple sap entry, my grandpa would have noted the formal start of spring on his calendar.

I wonder how long it took him after that to start daydreaming about grilling some burgers and hot dogs.

Read Full Post »

Not long ago, on my other blog, I declared my intention to see Todd Rundgren when he goes out on tour later this year.

It embarrasses me to admit that my tastes in live music are, chronologically speaking, less hip or current than those of my grandparents.

This week’s calendar entry finds my grandparents going out to hear a legendary performer — a clarinet player whose musical style seems as ancient and distant to me as saddle shoes, ration cards and mock apple pie.

(A clarinet player, for Chrissake. Is there any instrument so redolent of soft-focus, geriatric Music Of Your Life as the clarinet?)

But fairness compels me to admit that Benny Goodman‘s commercial peak was 20 to 25 years behind him when my grandparents saw him perform on February 7, 1963.

If I see Todd Rundgren this summer, it will be (gack) a solid 40 years past the days when he was a rising young hitmaker.

For that matter, I already have a ticket to see Graham Parker and the Rumour in April — a group that, until last year, hadn’t recorded together in 32 years.

Game, set and match, grandparents.

February 7, 1963.

February 7, 1963.

Just to add to Benny Goodman’s hip credibility, he was the first bandleader to successfully and regularly employ an electric guitarist, Charlie Christian.

He was also among the first to integrate his band.

In 1938, Goodman headlined the first jazz concert at Carnegie Hall — a breakthrough for the music into mainstream society. Oh, and he was also capable of playing classical pieces for clarinet and orchestra, too.

In other words, he wasn’t the syrupy big-band smoothie I tend to think of him as. He was an innovator, a giant figure in his style. (Rather more so than the performers I will probably see this year.)

Goodman was also a Stamford resident, which might explain why he happened to be playing at my dad’s alma mater, Stamford High School.

I’m not familiar enough with Goodman’s career and oeuvre to guess what he performed that night. My sense is that he either did the classical stuff or the swing stuff; I don’t know which side he was leaning toward in early 1963.

(Whatever it was, I imagine it was well-performed. Goodman’s Wiki profile indicates he didn’t have much tolerance for musical sloppiness. Neither did the Blumenau family, before I came along. So I’m sure my grandparents were satisfied with the quality of the performance.)

Here’s a sample of the sort of thing that might have been played. Christian, who died young, wouldn’t have been at the Stamford High gig. But the standard tune “Rose Room” might well have been on the menu:

Sounds — cough — pretty — choke — hip to me.

Read Full Post »

We come to a time of fatigue, pain and fear.

This week brings the shortest days and longest nights of the year. These are the days when existence feels coldest; when the untamed threat of darkness feels strongest (in the dark, our primal inner voice reminds us, you can’t see the wolves); and when the force that gives all of us life feels palest and most remote.

It’s also a time when the calendar year grinds down to its nub end, which only reinforces the feeling that life is ebbing. Another year is past us, and here we are again, hurrying home in search of respite from the darkness.

This time of year gets harder to bear when there’s a tragedy to shoulder … as there was in my grandparents’ America of 1963, and as there is in our own America today.

December 21, 1963.

December 21, 1963.

Americans in 1963, at least, had some degree of distance from their national tragedy when the longest night of the year came.

It had been almost a full month since the assassination of John F. Kennedy — long enough for people to come to terms with the event, pass through the mourning phase and return to some degree of everyday life.

Still, when I saw “SUN SETS 4:29” and made the mental link to the recent assassination, I imagined a certain deepened amount of seasonal joylessness — literal dark days to follow figuratively dark days.

Maybe not at 1107 Hope Street, whose inhabitants tended to keep a stiff upper lip. But I could easily imagine the standard solstitial depression broadening for other Americans to include the recent loss of a beloved leader.

Early bedtime, an unsettled sleep, a harsh alarm giving way to pre-dawn blackness, and the slap of cold feet on the bedroom floor.

The start of another day’s hurry, leading to … what?

# # # # #

The people of Newtown, Connecticut, will not have the same emotional distance when the longest nights of the year arrive.

Newtown is in the same county as my grandparents’ home of Stamford, albeit on the other side. Google Maps suggests it’s just shy of an hour’s drive from one town to the other. I do not know whether my grandparents ever had call to go to Newtown, but it wouldn’t surprise me if something brought them through town over the years.

The winter solstice this year will arrive exactly one week after the school shootings that, in their own way, will become as indelible a national memory as the Kennedy assassination. If there is such a thing as solstitial depression — a sort of instinctive psychological recoil from all the darkness — it could not come at a worse time.

There are no words to either describe or soothe the pain that the people of Newtown are feeling, and will feel for years to come.

I can only hope that as time passes, and the days go back to being long and warm and welcoming, that everyone affected can find a path to at least some small place of peace and grace.

In the present dark, with our teeth rattling and our ears cocked for wolfsong, that is the best we can aspire to.

Read Full Post »

From time to time, as I make these weekly forays into the past, I keep David Macaulay’s marvelous book “Motel of the Mysteries” in the back of my head.

Macaulay’s book, published in 1979, tells the story of an archaeologist many centuries hence who discovers a perfectly preserved room in a typical American roadside motel. (The America we know has been buried under a landslide of junk mail, or something like that.)

The archaeologist manages to misinterpret the role and significance of every single item in the room, all the way down to the tub stopper. What we recognize as a typical Motel 6 kind of room, he re-imagines as a consecrated burial chamber, with every item playing a ceremonial role in the send-off.

And, as with the King Tut traveling exhibits of the late ’70s, plastic duplications of the “holy objects” from the “burial chamber” are available for sale.

It’s a wonderful — and wonderfully illustrated — piece of satire, and one I highly recommend checking out if it’s never crossed your path.

And the thought of it reminds me that I’m ultimately just pissing in the wind here, week after week, month after month.

I can take a calendar entry of my grandfather’s and apply some family context to it, or slap it with a couple coats of cultural/political history. And I can guess at what my grandpa was thinking or doing with more accuracy than Macaulay’s 41st-century archaeologist.

Still, there’s always the chance that I’m taking something my grandpa saw as a motel room and re-imagining it as a burial chamber.

Like this item, from April 1964. Anyone reading this through 2012 eyes would surely believe my grandpa was consorting with drug users.

April 1964. I guess since he didn’t cross off “JUNKIE,” maybe they didn’t get together. Still …

And what do you suppose a contemporary reviewer would make of a reference to “meth men”?

June 28, 1966.

Of course, in these cases, perfectly good explanations are only a moment’s thought away.

“METH” in this context means neither methedrine or methamphetamine; it means “Methodist.” My grandparents attended the local Methodist church. And presumably, my grandpa was taking part in some sort of men’s church group that night.

And “junkie” in the context of my grandpa’s calendar is shorthand for “junkman” — the same way that Bostonians abbreviate “package store” to “packie,” “state cop” to “statie,” “South Boston” to “Southie” and “East Boston” to “Eastie.”

Just a few years before, my grandpa brought his water tank to the junkie:

December 1963. (Oh, what a night.)

So, yeah. These particular entries are pretty tough to misinterpret when you actually think about them.

I still keep David Macaulay’s hapless archaeologist in my thoughts when I sit down to write these blog posts week after week, though.

Hopefully, by the grace of fate, I will never turn a toilet seat into a ceremonial headdress.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »