Lucy Part I of III

In the days leading up to his death, my father was writing the story of  his affair in 1977 with one of his 19-year-old students. It remained unfinished and, in fact, the time stamp on the computer document that follows was just hours before his death. Fortunately though, he had already written the end of the story in a series of letters to me as the events were unfolding which can be read in the The Summer of 1977 and The Summer of 1977, Part II.  

I guess it’s time to write the story now that the story has become history; that seems to imply some sense of objectivity. The events have achieved a kind of staleness-of-time, though, on the other hand, I wouldn’t have even begun writing this if something wasn’t driving me. So I shall begin, as they say, at the beginning. Or at least the beginning I prefer. Lucy has her own vision of the beginning. While I accept her version, believing that it probably has a greater approximation of objective reality, I still think mine is the truer. Anyway, the one thing we both would agree on is that it began on January 18, 1977—the first day of the Spring Semester of that year, at the Ambler Campus of Temple University. It was my first class of the day, a Tuesday-Thursday class, at 11:30 am. I had come into the room about 5 minutes ahead of the normal class-starting time—and watched the students file in. Lucy was already sitting in the front row, on my far right, facing the class. The door was at the far left. I knew she was in the wrong class—in more ways than one. She had fashionable half-tinted glasses on, the ones with the large lenses, which equally suited her long high-boned face. But it was really her total presence; the way she sat there, legs crossed, in jacket-blouse-skirt, all poise, sophistication and beauty. “Too much,” I thought to myself, “too much.” Well, I’ve had them come in before, the wrong room, the wrong class. Actually, I thought to myself that she was in the altogether wrong university. But certainly she had to be in the wrong class. She looked like the Business Administration/Marketing major, who she turned out to be. She, I could see right away, had more class than every female student I’d had in 14 years to that date. I was already sorry to feel that I would quickly lose her . . . the Development of Science in Western Civilization clearly wasn’t going to be for her. I figured she was too polite to walk out once I had announced the course title, my name, etc.—the more so as she would have had to cross the front of the room, between the rest of the class and me. She was going to stay for the one and half hour lecture. So, I said to myself—already half in love—I am going to pull all the stops out and give an introductory lecture that will have them applauding at the end. And so I did. Lucy signed up for the course and so it all began. She knew she was onto something good—and, at the very least, interesting. Now Lucy, if she were around, would tell you a different story. She says she was simply shopping around, weeks before, for an 11:30 Tue-Thu class, and had asked an advisor about me and my course. She claims she got some kind of warning about me. I’m not sure exactly what it was, or even what it could have been—other than I was tough, disciplined, and down on dummies. It certainly couldn’t have been much else. She stayed, she would claim, because she had always intended to stay; she had no other choice regarding electives and the time slot; she couldn’t get into whatever had been her first choice. So, she had not been unduly ‘struck’ by my stellar opening performance. At least three weeks passed before we ever had a conversation. I certainly made it easy for her. When I found she never came early, so I couldn’t arrive early myself and get in a few casual words before class, I simply hung around my lectern after the class. I knew that someday, sooner or later, she would make some remark, as she put on her coat to leave, and that would be my opening. And I’ll be damned if, for the next 2 weeks, that’s just about all we did. I would damn well have to walk her out of the class, down the hall, and onwards to . . . wherever. But damn I was already ‘struck’ myself. I thought I wasn’t letting it show—unduly. That is, I knew clearly that my interest was showing; but the extent or implication of that interest, I was self-convinced was not at all obvious. But now I must digress . . . in order to provide relevant background. To say that things were not going well with Beverly and I is at the very least, gross understatement. At the beginning of 1969 everything was fine. At the beginning of 1970 there were the first intimations of unhappiness; but with a new child and a second fulltime job, I was too caught up in material considerations.
 So it went for 1971; but by the end of the business season, in November, I commented in my diary as to Beverly’s coldness, her lack of warmth, etc.
The year 1972 was busier, and more financially disastrous, than the previous year, and Jessica was born that September . . . but I wrote in my diary that “her undemonstrative insensitivity to my needs may destroy us.” In 1973 a brief flirtation with a lovely girl called Zena—which Bev heard vaguely about—made me realize that things were not right. I probably would have run off with Zena, had she been willing. My diary shows that, in the spring of 1974, I even plotted a spring holiday with her . . . but it fell through. By December 1974 I was referring to “the gradual dissolution of my marriage” believing there was a good chance it wouldn’t last out 1975. But it did. By September 1975 I had written the epitaph on my marriage. We agreed to put up the Dower House for sale the following summer; the other house had a tenant with a lease that would not be up until December 1, 1976. We were, in effect, backing towards a divorce then. The result was inevitable. It was during the summer of 1975 that Beverly asked me why I didn’t divorce her. And I responded in quasi-Rhett Butler fashion: “Frankly, Beverly, I haven’t got anyone or anyplace else to go to.” Which was certainly true. I couldn’t afford to maintain two households; nor had I the inspiration to even try. A call from Susan Smith, an old girlfriend, in early February 1976, resulted in two things. I applied to Temple Law School and I admitted to myself that, if Susan came up to go to Temple Law as well, I would leave Beverly. Susan didn’t come up, and I didn’t get accepted. Nor did we get an offer anywhere near our asking price for the Dower House in the summer of 1976. And so it went. I digress even further—during the first week of classes in September 1976, I met Barbara. Barbara was blonde and beautiful with a fantastic personality; 27 and divorced—but with two children, boys the same ages as Jenny and Jessie. She signed up for my class and it began between the two of us.
 Barb was a bit conventional and that slowed up my otherwise fast rate of progress. I had, in fact, agreed to be sent up to teach at Ambler, some 16 miles to the north, because Barb’s house lay halfway along the route there; and I had even lied and said to Bev that I would be teaching until 8 p.m. every night—and thus could hardly be expected home evenings much before 10 p.m.  Since I was through around 6:45 p.m., this—or so I thought—meant I could dine with Barb every Tuesday and Thursday evening. But Barb proved, in the end, just a trifle too plastic for me, and we never got past the beginning of December. Christmas in Texas was an enormous bust. The end was nearing. In February I discovered I’d developed high blood pressure; my psycho-emotional life was taking its toll, clearly. On Thursday, March 31st, I put it all to Lucy. Actually, I’d been building up to it on our little walks and talks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But it had up to then, been pretty general: about my having a summer home in England, allusions to my less-than-satisfactory marriage. Lucy had, in turn, listened intently and even suggested that she might be going to Europe in the summer after her graduation. That Thursday night I put it to her. I suggested that she should come over and visit me. I also volunteered to call someone I knew at TIME-LIFE in New York to see if I could get her a job interview. She was busy interviewing for a September job. I called Lucy on Thursday night, as a kind of follow-up; but she wasn’t home. Then I got cold feet, thought I’d been too forward, gone too far and regretted having called. Lucy didn’t call back, though I left my number. I noted in my diary of that night that I was worriedly anticipating facing her on Tuesday. My son Mark came out for an 11 day visit on Wednesday the 6th of April. That was the night I had my first date with Lucy. What a night that was! I shall never forget it. That was the night when, at 39, I turned back into a 19-year-old!
 Things had gone fairly well that Tuesday. Lucy seemed to be as interested in me as I in her; and it had clearly reached that point where we both felt a bit hampered by the limitations of time and place vis-a-vis on-campus meetings. We arranged to meet, after Lucy’s Wednesday night class, and go somewhere for a drink. I told Bev that I had been invited to Lucy’s house by her parents, as a gesture of thanks for getting her a good job interview with the International VP for Personnel Development at TIME-LIFE in New York. But it was just to be Lucy and me. I met Lucy in the Ambler library, and she looked beautiful. I can remember thinking to myself right then and there that this was clearly the woman for me! She had everything: looks, brains, personality, poise, class and it seemed as though she liked me! We drove to a small inn and tavern in Ambler and ordered a couple of drinks. I feel a bit like a drip merely trying to convey what happened on that date. All I remember is, after about a half an hour of small talk, I stammered out how attracted I was to her. And I can remember how, to my amazement, she confessed almost the same degree of attraction.
 We talked about so many things; mostly our separate hopes for the future, our wants, etc. I told her what I envisioned and that was that we could be together. Then I said something that I’d never said to a girl before under such circumstances: that I wanted so much to make love to her. And again she agreed that she felt the same!
 But it was already nearly eleven o’clock and we had to agree, however reluctantly, that it was too late that night. We adjourned to the car in the darkened parking lot and collapsed into each other’s arms. We were that way for at least an hour and a quarter. We both wanted each other so badly. But the soonest we could arrange to get together was the following Tuesday! I agreed to call off my classes so we would meet at the Ambler Library at 11:30 am, after her one and only class that day and we would go to a motel. This was a first for me; I couldn’t believe we were really planning this. It seemed so sordid, yet so unbelievably right! The next day Mark came out with me to attend my lecture and was very much struck by Lucy. I’ll never forget that day either. Lucy had to duck out of the day class to go to a job interview . . . but she did make it up by coming to night class that same evening. Class had already started when she arrived. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye as she paused momentarily in the doorway, familiarizing herself with the layout of the classroom which she hadn’t been in before. Then she passed in front of me and in front of the class, into the only empty seat in the second row. She was stunning. She was already, it seemed, tanned, and this was offset by an off white linen suit, a beige silk blouse and wearing a simple set of gold chains. Like a page out of Vogue or Harpers! I couldn’t believe that this was to be my girl! Nothing will ever make me recall what I did between that Thursday and the following Tuesday when I pulled into the parking lot adjoining the Ambler Library for my assignation. I was in my usual half depressed state, figuring that she’d probably changed her mind in the cold light of day. But no, she was there, and ready to go. It all went quite smoothly, actually. It was a bleak and rainy day, but we had a nice big room with a lovely view of a wooded creek passing right by the picture window. The rain gave it a very special woodsy, cabin like flavor and we could leave the curtains open. I was impressed by the matter of fact manner in which Lucy took off all her clothes. Of course, she had been the mistress of a man of 31 at the age of 18 1/2, so she was clearly no beginner no matter what emotions I felt. I can remember her coolness in this respect. But what a day! I don’t think we went down for dinner until 8 p.m. It was delicious and I was deliriously happy. Not just for what was happening but because I felt I had been rescued—out of an empty life into a potentially full one. Finally, it seemed, life had caught up with my aspirations, my dreams.
 But something turned Lucy off that night—well, I don’t mean completely . . . something to do with the salad at dinner time . . . it’s funny because of course this didn’t come up until months later . . . and I can hardly remember what it was—something about picking up a tomato with my fingers, then, on deciding that I didn’t want it, letting it drop back into the public salad fixing trough—but it illustrates how the mind picks up and stores things, then brings them up months or years later. Anyway, it was a long drive home and I was really humming: it seemed as if I had found a life, or the possibility of one. I could live with anything now. But I can remember how, when the subject of Lucy came up at home, however casual, that Bev really went up the wall. I don’t believe she really suspected anything, just resented the subject. But she was quickly and viciously to tell me that she intended to call my department chairman, the dean, and even Lucy’s folks—if anything developed.
 It was a mean scene which Jennifer walked in on. And Bev told Jenny that I was “bad” and “evil” and poor Jenny didn’t know what to make of it. She couldn’t believe her mother was serious and, even more, she couldn’t accept that it was so. But I could see puzzle and frustration and uncertainty as Jenny looked back and forth between us. It was still quite warm out, so I decided to take the kids for a little walk.
 There were tears in my eyes, for I knew that the decision I had made that day was tantamount to saying good-bye to my two daughters. And yet I knew it I could no longer stand to live with Beverly. Jenny squeezed my hand lovingly and said, “Daddy, just because mommy says you’re bad doesn’t mean that really you are, does it? Just because she says it’s so doesn’t make it so, does it?”
What an observation! We walked until the tears in my eyes evaporated. I stayed up late that night talking with Mark and Jeff, who were sleeping together in Jeff’s room. I think it was the following Thursday that, having gone somewhere for an interview, Lucy came to my evening class. She looked so beautiful that I could see all the students in the class noticing her; and I felt so proud, for now she was mine. That night I came home and headed straight for the wine. Beverly was already at her evening glass. And that was the fateful night that we very lightheartedly talked about dividing up our property. Unfortunately, I was in far too good a mood at that time and I verbally agreed to quite a lot; but naturally, we weren’t exhaustive, dealing mainly with books, hi-fi, photo equipment and furniture—here and abroad. But anyway I was quite generous—little did I know that Beverly would take me at my absolute word!

A Telegram from the Living Legend

Telegram, circa mid-1960s

An Exchange of Letters Between My Brother and Father from Late 1992

The idea of posting my father’s letters to a blog was for my siblings to finally see what my father wrote about each of us in his letters to the others. To say he was grossly unfair is probably an understatement. He wasn’t ashamed of his cheapness—bringing his own liquor to bars and just buying sodas for mixers or meanness—his reference to my Uncle Marvin and calling my brother a “turkey”

You begin to notice a pattern in his writing, which I noticed to an even greater extent in his unpublished autobiography, and that is the belief that if you write something down and you write it often enough, you give credence to the lie. More on this to come in future postings, but a couple of examples of this from this exchange of letters.

My father alludes to sending me a Christmas gift the prior year, which, if he did, I never received. Nor had I ever received a Christmas gift from him over the course of my entire adult life. In another letter—not part of this exchange—he alludes to having sent me a $500 gift certificate as a wedding gift the summer of 1993. A pretty generous gift for me to have supposedly not acknowledged, except when you consider that I never received anything from him. Nothing, not a card or phone call. Granted, I wasn’t expecting anything since I didn’t invite him to the wedding or even send an announcement. It wasn’t until after his death, when going through his correspondence that I learned that he had complained to family and friends about my not acknowledging the gift. Maybe the Alzheimer’s to which he eludes at the end of the last letter might explain it.

Finally my father claims 1994 would be his 30th consecutive year at the Fiesta of San Fermin in Pamplona. His first trip there in 1966 was well documented in his journals, so 1994 would have been his 27th year.

I also find it strange that my father expresses a liberal viewpoint in letters near the end of a life he spent espousing political ideology that a friend and colleague of his characterized as “slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.” I was with him on one occasion in which he swerved his car into a huge puddle, soaking a line of welfare recipients standing outside the office on Broad Street in Philadelphia, screaming, “Get a job!”

October 24, 1992

Dear Mark,

Saturday night and I'm sitting here reading goddam blue books which demonstrate, roughly, 6th grade levels of grammar, punctuation, and spelling, and, on the average, 3rd grade intellectual levels! I'm torn between last-year tendencies to be generous and very realistic anger and depression at the state to which the American educational system is condemning the next generations to total inadequacy! I can't wait to get out! So, I'm just biding my time until next July 1st when I'm definitely out of here.

Janet has just left, flying her 747 down to Rio and Montevideo--in search of Uraguayan and Brazilian Monopoly sets (I must have about 30 by now, having just gotten one from Australia--to match Egypt, Thailand, etc) My main targets now are Finland, Austria and Greece (to finish Europe), then Mainland China, Philippines, and Korea to finish Asia. Then to work on Africa.  What collections my kids will inherit!

I do hope you're thinking seriously about all of us meeting in London. I am torn between 3 or 4 November . . Janet can drive me up to Newark only on the 4th (and Beverly has sent me a big box to carry over to Jennifer) . . and back on the 7th (when she'll be returning from her own flight over to London). Still no word on the Guy Fawkes party, though I'm sure that someone in Cambridge will be having one. I will be coming down to London on Friday, the 6th, so if you can't get away before Thurs. night the 5th, we can arrange to meet at Jenny's on Fri. morning in London. I will probably spend Fri. night at Liptons, Sat. with Janet in her hotel in Kensington.

I enclose, as usual, advance payment for my pass, and, if you decide to go and can get a Buddy pass for Jessica, I will pay for that. I haven't spoken to Jeff yet, but will presume he can get a Courier flight to get him to London at least by the morning of the 6th, possibly earlier. So . . don't screw up; be Mr. Reliable for a change, forego a little poontang for 72 hours, and help effect a family reunion in London. Believe me, when you're a drooler and your women have all left you, you'll be grateful for having sisters who'll help wipe the drool and see you don't die alone, like Uncle Marv.

Still waiting for the Real Estate market to pick up so I can get the hell out of here. The San Diego area is my temporary alternative; I will not spend another winter in Philthadelphia! I think we'll be going into a trade war with England since this U.S.Air/Brit Air deal is dead. The little pissants want us, how­ever indirectly, to do for them what they think we've been doing for Germany, France, and the other European countries they want to give us nothing and give them free reign in the States.

Your nonsense about competition being good for Boeing and HcD/Douglas is just that their governments are pouring millions into their airbus industries, it is hardly fair competition. Continental will soon be forced out of Europe and you'll be working for some Europeans . . but that is only if the reaction of your soon-to-be-out-of-work crews doesn't put your company into permanent manure! Think twice about what's happening to this country, you have swallowed this Welfare shit, the cry for self-sufficiency is a red-herring to get out of the moral obligation of providing for basic needs in this country And remember; whatever your beliefs, don’t manifest them so as to alienate those close to you--on whom you may well want to fall back on when things get bad!

I have signed on for the First Summer Session to make some bread so that I can provide up to $1000 for a 1/3rd share on a seaside Apt. in St. Jean for the month of July. The Grands will come here on November 12; we'll put them to work in trying to find us a first class place for the summer. 1994, my 30th consecutive, will be my last year at Pamplona. This coming year is promising; with the peseta at 109 and climbing, we might get 150 to the dollar for '93! This will still make a rum + coke at the Windsor $3.00, but will help in general . . the room at the Maisonnave will only be $175 for a double (with meals). When you consider that you paid $100 per for a small walk-up at Marceliano's . . that may be a good deal!

Janet's and my next trip will be to India, then to Brazil. United is going to connect up around the world in February and Fly into Johannesburg and New Delhi. We may even get married this Spring! If we fly to Las Vegas, perhaps you and your sweetie will join us there!

Don't let me hear about your coming up this way without seeing you old man--it's been years since you were last here. If I see my sweetie Bonita the beautiful Continental Flight Attendant on the International run, I'11 tell her you'l1 be coming up to see her!

Take Care,

          

Dear Dad;

Thank you for the wonderful letter. . . Your sermonizing is more than amusing. In fact, it moves me to anger.

Your comments regarding the current status of student education and knowledge was very upsetting, but it is hardly news (unless you're suggesting it's getting even worse, which would be hard to imagine). I've often believed the state of education was in collapse, the matter of degree, to me, was never of consequence.

My personal experience, regarding your culpability for this situation is minimal, unless of course I judge you based on your influence in my life. . . That influence, paired with my knowledge of your political views, would only indicate that you are an integral part of this distaste. . .

I might also add, that I think the situation is worse than you believe (I use the word 'even', largely because you concur with Boy Clinton on his assessment of our current state). I say worse, primarily because ideas to correct the situation, like you and Boy entertain, have gained such wide currency.

We have all had to listen to insufferable political musing for the past months. However, nowhere did the Republicans take a bigger liver punch than that the Democrats dished out over there stance on "family values".

Perhaps I'm the first to suggest to you, that you failed on two significant levels when it comes to the disaster in our education system. First, you simply were not present during my educational years... Next, I've have seen no indication that you are of the nature to correct the problem through working with the University, or the schools that turned out your own inadequately educated children (yes, all of them!). I wouldn't even bet the intellectual Rambo of this family even impeded, or slowed the shit pump Temple had working over time spitting these Bovidae out into the streets.

You may have heard the Bush/Quayle support of family values, now you get to hear mine... If these kids don't get a good dose of discipline, and an accompanying lesson in personal accountability (preferably from someone they're afraid of, Dad) during the years they spend in grade school, there's no way they are going to sit still for anyone long enough to learn anything in high school. College is out of the question.

In short, it takes a mother to love and coddle; it takes a father to discipline (preferably a conservative). A female cannot adopt the dual role of kind forgiver and enforcer.

You liberals are only out to make matters worse. You push us further away from personal accountability, every, single, day. You blame everyone else. . . the government, the environment, etc. . . Everyone except yourselves--the fathers, the families, the liberals!

Don't forget, the free market system is the last vestige of accountability left in this world. It's our golden goose. I'd like you liberals to quit chasing it around the yard with an axe.

The reason we can't compete with foreign, albeit subsidized products and services, is because we are the lazy, stupid shitheads (of the sort Temple is churning-out), not concentrating on producing the one sure fire answer to these imports. . . A good fucking product!

I trust the market. I don't trust any check-bouncing, pork-barreling, politically correct, tree huggin', owl spotting, grinin' and gripin', bone-head, trustee of JFK son-of-a-bitch to spend one dime of OPM wisely! And I don't recommend you do either.

By the way, even a highly subsidized Airbus (I'd capitalize it if I held myself out as a judge of others spelling, grammar, etc. . .) is just competing with the U.S. aircraft industry. Care to guess what country would be selling all the planes if we didn't have excessively burdensome union work rules, litigation, environmentalist, and on, and on, and on. . . Besides, John Maynard, it's a worldwide slow-down in new aircraft orders, not a domestic problem.

With regard to your comments on welfare. . . I feel a moral obligation, only to those truly in need (the crippled, the insane; those that cannot provide for themselves), not the permanent caste of able body loafers with their asses parked on my paycheck that aren't willing to work. Shit there's probably a significant number that attended Temple, and yes, Northern Michigan University (and every other liberal piece of shit pinko university out their confusing the fundamental elements of accountability with right-too, "access" horseshit diarrhea of the sort spewing out Clinton's mouth).

I would not want to alienate you, or any others with my personal views. However, I might also suggest the same to you. . . The way I see it, there's just as strong a chance that others will need to count on me, as there is, I'll need to count on someone.

[Attachment (fax):]

TO:                  Mark Vorzimmer
FROM:             KB
DATE:              October 28, 1992
MESSAGE:       This is not the one I had, but it is pretty similar, enjoy!!

PSALMS OF ARKANSAS

BILL CUNTON IS MY SHEPHERD, I SHALL NOT WANT.

HE LEADETH ME BESIDE STILL FACTORIES,

HE RESTORETH MY DOUBT IN ARKANSAS POLITICS, HE GUIDETH ME TO THE PATHS OF UNEMPLOYMENT,

HE ANOINTETH MY WAGE WITH FREEZE, SO MY EXPENSES RUNNETH OVER MY INCOME,

SURELY POVERTY AND HARD LIVING SHALL FOLLOW THIS ADMINISTRATION AND I SHALL LIVE IN A RENTED HOUSE FOREVER.

5000 YEARS AGO, MOSES SAID, "PACK UP YOUR CAMEL," PICK UP YOUR SHOVEL, MOUNT YOUR ASS AND I WILL LEAD YOU TO THE PROMISED LAND.

5000 YEARS LATER, F.D.ROOSEVELT SAID, "LAY DOWN YOUR SHOVEL, SIT ON YOUR ASS AND LIGHT UP A CAMEL; THIS IS THE PROMISED LAND."

TODAY, BILL CUNTON WILL TAX YOUR SHOVEL, SELL YOUR CAMEL, KICK YOUR ASS AND TELL YOU THE PROMISED LAND IS IN JAPAN."

P.S. I AM GLAD I AM AN AMERICAN.

I AM GLAD I AM FREE.

BUT I WISH I WERE A LITTLE DOG

AND BILL CLINTON WAS A TREE.

December 3, 1992

Dear Turkey,

You keep pulling that "Call you right back" shit .. and there is never less than a week between calls--if that.

Robbin Walker hadn't a clue as to why she wasn't offered a job at Continental--she thought she'd done very well on the interview--only to get a brief form-letter rejection. We were not all that unhappy as (a) we thought a ramp agent job would be closer to home (b) would be better paid and (c) would have better hours. We were convinced that an airline could not do better than to have someone like Robbin; but she got short shrift from Continental--and little assistance from you!

So .. what are your plans for Xmas? Are you going to Cleveland? I am off from Dec.15 to Jan.15th--though the University wants me to retire on January 1st (they were so dilatory last June that I had to rescind my application to retire on July 1st--principally on the stated grounds that I needed more than 5 days to make an important life decision; so now they come up with January 1! But I'm going to hold my ground for June 30th.)

Janet is in Colorado, but will come back this Saturday (the 5th). She's free until the 24th whence she's off to Narita again. As I said, I'm planning on going out on the 25th, even though I've not heard yet from the Liptons--and need to be put up over there from Dec.26-29--then coming back on January 1st (Janet will try to join me if she gets a line for January that gives her off until at least the 3rd or 4th).

I will need you to send me an r/t for ConEx between PHL + EWR, I will probably only use the one-way up to EWR since I don't want to take a car up if I come back down in Janet's on the 1st, but will have the r/t for a back-up if she can't come over.

My friends Alister & Sam are coming down from Cambridge to go with us to Clive Sinclair's New Year's Eve party .. so we're getting side-by-side rooms at the Hyde Park Hilton for the 30th and 31st, then off the morning after the party. Jen will be back on the 30th, so she'll probably come along as well. You could be her escort if you like! I think you'll find her English room-mate, while cute, is a bit young for you... Anyway, give it some thought--the last New Year's Eve party had real class--a huge luxury boat with overflowing champagne--which parked immediately below Big Ben at the stroke of midnight. A tot of rum as one ascended up the gangplank upon boarding was a good sign. New Year's day is a pain-in-the-ass to come home on, but it least promises a first-class seat!

Still no word from Jeff .. probably on his way to Brazil! Called in a real estate man to appraise the house and its sale-worthiness. Market has collapsed around here. I could, right now, only get $179, 500 [down from $250,000], but if things go optimally, I might get $200,000 by summer. Only good thing is that prices are down more than that in England. Janet wants to take a temporary shift to Hawaii for six months (which would create a moving-mileage for use for an England move that would save us some $25,000); so I guess things could be worse than having to spend 4-6 mos. in Hawaii. Jennifer would hope to come back to a job in Phila at the end of the summer .. and then Jess would move up here and go to Temple (the Pa. supreme ct. just ruled that fathers are no longer obliged to provide college education + expenses to over-18 year olds--and while there is no retroactivity, that would impact on Jess' last two years. But since it remains free if she goes to Temple, she will have to come up here once I retire. Actually, she would like that--providing she could live here with Jennifer. She has already burned her bridge with Bev and Alan by moving out; so she has gone way out on a limb. This latest Pa. Supreme Ct. decision has really twisted Bev's gourd! Jessica now realizes that by giving me the finger and changing her name she also burned another bridge! When all I have is $1250 a month taxable, it will be hard to get money out of me--if Jeff wants a Christmas present from me, he better fucking well acknowledge the ones he received from me last year! His lack of taste one can do nothing about, lack of manners is something else!

The weather is closing in here in Philadelphia .. and I'm not looking forward to this winter .. just have the summer to look forward to...so...don't forget the ConEx passes (you have plenty of advance payment from me..$400 paid for 3 Y class tickets to London and one Business .. why don't you come up for a weekend? I hardly remember what my children look like .. better get here before my Alzheimer's flares up irreversibly.

   

The Bust of Verdi

One of the things I enjoyed doing with my father was hanging out at Freeman’s Auction House in Philadelphia. It was the only time I ever saw my father spend money in a manner that could be called frivolous.

He would buy books and accoutrements for his study. Some of the things I remember him bidding on, in competition with area dealers, were antique firearms, phrenology heads, sculptures, mannequins and, once, the figurehead of a ship—which he won, by the way.

Sometimes, usually near the end of an auction, there would be some object that nobody would bid on. It was usually something hideous or, at the very least, in questionable taste. I remember such an object that no one showed any love for, perhaps because my father and I decided to be the lone bidders and it ended up being an object that would play a part over the course of the rest of his life.

“As our last item I have a plaster bust of Giuseppe Verdi,” the auctioneer said. “I’ll starting the bidding at $10.” The auctioneer went through his patter over the sound of people milling about or filing out. Then he stopped abruptly. “Do we not have any opera fans in the house?” he asked with arched eyebrows. Although it’s plaster, it doesn’t show any visible signs of cracking or chipping.” I would also add that it was painted to look like aged-brass—not quite trailer trash tacky, but in questionable taste.

Giuseppe Verdi

I turned to my father and said, “I love Verdi.”

“I do too . . . Oh what the Hell,” he said, as his paddle shot up. I carried it into the house that afternoon. It was all we had to show for that particular auction.

“I don’t want that thing in my house,” my tasteful Texan stepmother said to us upon seeing it cradled in my arms. My father took it from me and placed it on top of the antique bookcase in the living room. And there it sat, unappreciated for years, until the unlikely event of my father’s divorce put it center stage for a brief and shining moment.

In early October of 1977, my father’s marriage was all but over. All that remained was for them to split the furniture and the rest of their belongings and my stepmother Beverly would take my sisters with her and return to Texas.

It was a beautiful fall day on campus when my father caught me leaving my last class of the day. “You got to get to the house right now,” he said. “I just got a call that a moving van is parked outside Wallace Street and I suspect Beverly is taking everything. Just get down there and make sure she doesn’t take anything from the study or the bedroom. I still have one more lecture and I’ll be home after that”

By the time I got to the house it was too late. I saw the large moving van pulling away as I arrived. I dreaded what I would find—or more accurately—what I wouldn’t find in the house. I walked in the front door of Wallace Street to find the living room empty except for a bookcase on the opposite wall, to the right of the door to the dining room, and the bust of Giuseppe Verdi on the floor where the antique bookcase had been.

I went through the dining room. It was empty, as was the kitchen. I went up the steps to the parlor. It was empty, then through the family room. The television was there, as were the shelves surrounding it. Then one step up to my father’s study, which was relatively intact. There were bookcases lining both sides and his huge roll top desk between windows that looked out onto Wallace Street.

It turned out that the house was pretty much empty with the exception of the study and my father’s bedroom. My bed and wardrobe were gone and my clothes were in a pile on the floor. I went down to the basement to find a sleeping bag and a card table for the kitchen, so we would have something on which to eat. I set up the card table in the kitchen and some folding chairs. It didn’t look a lot less empty. I went and got the bust of Verdi from the living room floor and set it on the card table.

I sat there thinking about how different life would be without my stepmother and half-sisters, not to mention the always-helpful, always-available, au-pair girl. Of course, it wouldn’t have made much sense to leave the au-pair, but I’d grown quite fond of her.

So, my father and I would be baching it. He would probably start charging me rent if he didn’t throw me out entirely and move in one of his mistresses.

About half an hour later my father came home. He plopped down on one of the folding chairs looking a little dejected and said, “Well?”

I couldn’t feel sorry for him even at that moment since he had brought this all on himself with his extramarital activity that included students, au-pair girls and some of my college friends.

“The study and your bedroom look pretty much unscathed, although my bedroom is empty.”

“Well, we’ll have to get you a bed. If you’re going to stay,” he said.

“I got nowhere else to go,” I said.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Well, there’s lots of room,” I said, trying to see the glass as half full.

“Good point . . . Hey! Let’s have a party!” He said, his spirits seeming to rise again.

“What, to celebrate being newly-separated? Nothing says desperate, horny, old college professor more than a party celebrating his wife’s departure.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said—words I rarely heard from my father.

“We could find something else to celebrate . . .”

“That’s it! We’ll find another reason to have a party,” he said, rather enthusiastically.

“Let’s see, Oktobefest? No, that really needs an outdoor venue . . .”

“Wait, the answer is right in front of us!” he said as he went running upstairs to his library. He came back down leafing through a biography dictionary. “I thought so!” he said. “Giuseppe Verdi’s birthday is this weekend!” he said, nodding toward the bust on the table.

 “We’re not really fans of the opera,” I said. Which wasn’t entirely true. My father loved Gilbert & Sullivan and I had a fondness for Wagner.

“He’ll be a 164 years old. I’ll print up some invitations tomorrow and we’ll start distributing them right away. It’s kind of short notice, but I need you to round up some hot-looking coeds.”

We had the party. My father and I cooked our own specialties. I remember making pizza from scratch with ingredients we picked up from the Italian Market in South Philly. I also remember making something we called “clam blobs,” which were a mixture of canned clams and cream cheese heated in a toaster oven.  Of course we played Verdi operas and the bust of Verdi, festooned with a laurel on his head, took a place of honor at the hors d’oeuvre table.

Thus began the tradition of having a birthday party for Giuseppe Verdi every October, about a month into the fall semester. My father held the party every year for the next, and last, 18 years of his life.

The Fiery Birth of the Living Legend

The New York Times headline, May 7, 1937

Tomorrow would have been my father’s 79th birthday. He was born just hours after the Hindenburg disaster, a fact that I’ve spent some time pondering over the course of my life. I’ve often wondered if the soul of some dead Nazi aboard the Hindenburg was able to travel the 70 odd miles to the hospital in New York City and inhabit the body of my yet unborn father.

My father as a maladjusted teenager

I say this with the utmost sincerity. It would explain his love of all things Teutonic—Nietzsche, Wagner, Goethe, Clausewitz and, of course, his favorite pistol, his Luger. It would also explain his belief in the superiority of Aryan people, his preference for fair-skinned, blue-eyed blondes and his doctoral thesis on Darwin. In his library at the time of his death, he had more than fifty books on Germany, the Nazi’s, the Third Reich, Hitler, Göring, Himmler, Goebbels and Speer.

One of my father’s most prized collections, though, was Hermann Göring’s toy soldiers, which he had bought from a British officer who had pilfered them from Göring’s office in the Reichstag after the Nazi’s had fled in the closing weeks of the Second World War in Europe. As context my father always said that, as the Allies descended on Berlin, American soldiers were looking for women, the Russians for booze, and the English for collectibles. For many years the collection hung from a custom-made Plexiglas case that was suspended from the ceiling in the living room.

The Daily News, May 7, 1937

Ironically, I had at one time a German girlfriend named Anke and the one and only evening we spent together with my father did not go well. It was one of my father’s notorious game nights that he almost always insisted on when there were at least three of his children around. We would play the horse racing game, Monopoly or Risk, the game of world domination. It was the latter my father chose on this particular evening with my German girlfriend. Both my sisters, Jennifer and Jessica were there that night as well, much to their ultimate embarrassment.

It started off badly enough with my father choosing black—“SS black” I recall him saying—and addressing my girlfriend as “Fraulein” in a bad German accent. Appropriately enough she started in Europe, which my father told her was indefensible and to which she demurred. It was after she had conquered all of Europe and was making advances on Russia that father started referring to her as “Fraulein Clausewitz,” after the great German military tactician, Carl von Clausewitz.

Of course, my girlfriend Anke won the game and my father being such a bad loser was in an awful mood the rest of the evening. It got awkward especially after my sisters begged off to bed.

It was my father’s one and only encounter with Anke. She must have made a lasting impression, though, because she was specifically mentioned in a version of his will from 1992. The exact phrase from the will was “I leave nothing to my son Jeff if he is still with that Nazi bitch Anke [last name withheld (it was misspelled anyway)].”

The International Drivers License of the Living Legend

When I got an international driver’s license from AAA in the early 1980s, some expat Americans laughed at me and said it’s not recognized by most countries and a waste of $15. My father confirmed this and, having found his among his papers after his death, he was apparently speaking from experience as it was obviously unused and unsigned. He would have known because no other American I knew then or now has driven as many miles around foreign countries as he.