December 8, 1980

 

On the early morning of December 9, my cousin Anne and I were up early, getting ready for work. I was happy. I’d moved states away from my dysfunctional parents and was living in my grandma’s cottage until it was sold. Anne, who was also looking for more independence, had moved in with me the previous June.  I was working as a high school interpreter/tutor for Deaf students at Cleary School for the Deaf.

A news announcer broke into the music with what had happened the night before: a “fan” had shot and killed John Lennon in front of his residence in New York City. John and his wife Yoko Ono were returning from a recording session. Earlier, John stopped to autograph an album this “fan” brought with him.

Anne and I were shocked to the core, frozen to our spots.  We’d grown up with the Beatles. In fact, John was my favorite Beatle. I was a bit unhappy with him when the group broke up but afterwards, I admired the work he was doing. I was impressed with his demonstrations against the war in Viet Nam.  For some years, we hadn’t heard from him, and I later learned he’d stopped recording to be a house father, raising his young son, Sean. Recently, we’d been enjoying new music he’d just begun releasing that year.

Shot by a fan? Whoever heard of such a thing? Why would a fan shoot John Lennon, of all people?

Later we learned more about the assassin, Mark David Chapman. The man waited for the police to arrive, reading his copy of Catcher in the Rye. We also learned that he was a rather conservative Christian who took umbrage with an old statement Lennon made while with the Beatles.  Joking or not, Lennon said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus. Chapman also didn’t like things Lennon had done, like having a nude bed sit-in against the war. But all of that was years and years before. He’d been holding a grudge that long? That’s not the behavior of a true Christian., which is to be forgiving and loving.

Against the advice of his attorneys, Chapman pled guilty to murdering Lennon. He said it was “the will of God”, not mental illness.

Fans all around the world grieved.  Part of Central Park’s grounds is called Strawberry Fields, in honor of Lennon.

Anne and I grieved, unable to wrap our minds around such a heinous act. Of course, that was followed the following year by John Hinckley’s attempt to kill then President Ronald Reagan.  Apparently, he was trying to impress actress Jodie Foster, with whom he had an obsession. And to top it off, two months later, a terrorist shot Pope John Paul in a failed assassination attempt.

These were all shocking events then. Now, they seem to happen so often they’re like “the new normal.” I won’t accept that and won’t become numb to the acts of foreign and domestic terrorism, even though not detaching hurts my heart.  I always used to detach myself from my feelings during a traumatic event to avoid pain temporarily. The pain still comes anyway so I am learning to process it as it happens.

Just as I miss Harry Chapin, I also miss John Lennon. He contributed so much to music, and I hope he never becomes a distant memory.

Still Wild About Harry

 

Still Wild About Harry

When I was a young adult (early 70s) I became a big fan of Harry Chapin. I think he’s absolutely the best singer songwriter ever. He was born on this day, December 7, 1942. If he’d lived, he would be 80 years old today.

 

His hits, Taxi and WOLD, drew me to his albums. The first one I purchased was his third released, Verities and Balderdash. All his songs tell a story and even though almost all are sad, they are so realistic.  I connected quickly with the lyrics. The stories were of ordinary people living ordinary lives. I related well to them.

From that album, I really connected with “What Made America Famous”. It still resonates with me today. Back then, there was still residual unrest and protests between liberals (like hippies) and conservatives (older generations). The song is about a small town with the usual businesses and fire station. There’s also a run-down decrepit building run by a slumlord and housed people of color and hippies.  The hippies were in constant conflict with the police and “the establishment”. 

I remembered all I’d learned about racial and social injustice from independent reading and understood where the hippies came from. However, I didn’t agree with their tactics. They painted a swastika on the firehouse door, and I thought that was the wrong thing to do. It inspired possible retaliatory revenge in that a fire broke out in that overcrowded unsafe building.

The fire went out of control.  People on the upper floors crawled out their windows and onto the outside ledges.  One of the lines goes “me and my girl and a couple of kids were clinging like bats to the edge.”  The town plumber was a volunteer fireman and he rushed to the station with the others, crying out “Come on, let’s go!” But the other volunteers saw the building that was burning, remembered the swastika incident, and told the plumber they didn’t need to rush.

The plumber, though, jumped into the fire truck and went by himself to rescue the people on the ledge. He raised the ladder so that the residents, hippies, and all, could climb down to safety.  The last lyrics went like this:

I never thought that a fat man's face
Would ever look so sweet

I shook his hand in the scene that made America famous
And a smile from the heart that made America great
We spent the rest of that night in the home of this man
That we'd never known before
It's funny when you get that close, it's kind of hard to hate

I went to sleep with the hope that made America famous
I had the kind of a dream that maybe they're still trying to teach in school
Of the America that made America famous...
And of the people who just might understand
That how together yes we can
Create a country better than
The one we have made of this land
We have the choice to make each man
Who dares to dream, reaching out his hand
A prophet or just a crazy, damn dreamer of a fool Yes a crazy fool

And something burnin' somewhere
Does anybody care?
Is anybody there?
Is anybody there?

 

So, wow.  I thought to myself: even though I mostly side with the hippies, I want to be like that plumber.  His was an act of humanity and it didn’t matter that he was saving disruptive hippies and people of color.  I want to be like him. I try to be like him.

That’s just one of Harry Chapin’s songs that resonates with me. Almost every one of them has meaning to me. The one I identify with most nowadays is called “Dreams Go By”. It begins with two teenagers dreaming about what they want to be. They marry and don’t follow their dreams because they’re busy with building their lives and having children.  Now they are older, retired and enjoying visits with their grandchildren.  Yes, their dreams went by the wayside and that’s sad, but they are happily married and content with their lives.

Harry Chapin came from a musical family. When he performed, two of his brothers joined him and other band members became close friends.  Their anthem was called “Circle”.

In addition to being a storyteller singer, Harry was a huge humanitarian. He founded Long Island Cares which provides food and necessities to people in need. The Harry Foundation expands to partner with other organizations to help fight hunger. He said, “When in doubt, do something.” He did a lot of somethings. A third to half of his concerts’ profits went to charities.

Harry Chapin was scheduled to perform a benefit concert at Eisenhower Park in East Meadow on July 16, 1981. At that time, I was sharing an apartment with my cousin Anne. We’d discussed going to the concert if we could. Traffic could be very heavy on Long Island and East Meadow was about an hour away from our apartment.

I’d finished working as an interpreter for a deaf client attending a vocational technical school around 3 p.m. and was driving home on the Northern Parkway when the music was interrupted to announce that Harry Chapin had been killed in an accident on the Long Island Expressway. I nearly went off the road. The news triggered a panic attack and I had to pull off the parkway to calm myself. I thought no no no no, it can’t be. Not Harry.

But it was true. Details were never clear. Did he have a medical emergency? Whatever the reason he began slowing down and changing lanes, he collided with a big truck and ran off the expressway. His little car burst into flames and good Samaritans who stopped to help pulled him from the car. He was unconscious. A helicopter flew him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead.

In 1987, he was posthumously awarded a Congressional Gold Medal for his philanthropic work. His widow, Sandy Chapin, has taken charge of the Harry Chapin Foundation.  He co-founded Why Hunger and that work continues today too.

I loved his music and what he stood for.

I still miss him.

Except for during the Christmas season, I listen to some of his music every day.

Early Christmases

 

Christmas has always been big with my family. My grandparents became the matriarch and patriarch of the extended family once the grandchildren started arriving. Their big house could hold us all, and there was always a magnificent tree, gaily decorated with ornaments, lights, and lots of tinsel.  The tradition of the decorated tree carried over to the little cottage we lived in, across the way from my grandparents’ house.

I was only six days old on my first Christmas and so I can only enjoy memories of it through the pictures Mom passed along to me.  Here my beloved Grandma holds me in front of her beautiful tree.  I’m sure because I was so new, I got passed around to all the aunts and uncles. I believe the picture was taken on Christmas Day and we were all at my grandparents’ house to have dinner after church.

I have only one vague memory of the following Christmas, 1955. I was only a year old, so I don’t remember my surprise at finding a stocking hanging in my crib.  I do remember that stocking because I had it throughout most of my childhood.  When my brother and I were old enough to start waking my parents before the crack of dawn, they had the brilliant idea to allow us to open all our stocking presents on our own.  Opening and playing with whatever little toys were inside and eating the little snacks (apples, oranges) kept us busy and fed until the sun came up. By the time we were bored with the stocking, my parents were more inclined to let us wake them up.

My parents struggled financially and would sometimes accept help from family. For example, my grandfather was a skilled fisherman and would often provide us with part of his catch. In other cases, however, my parents were too proud to take help offered. One year, I got a Campbell’s soup doll for Christmas.  I loved her and treated her as all little girls treat their baby dolls.  I had a little rocking chair and would rock my baby to sleep.

Years later, my mom confided that my parents felt guilty that year, 1957, when I was 3. They were so broke they couldn’t afford gifts and refused to take any present money from my grandparents or other family. They ate a lot of Campbell’s soup and saved a bunch of labels to send to the company. In return, Campbell’s sent their mascot, the little girl doll.  Mom thought I was so sad that year because Susie (my name for her) was the only toy I received. My grandparents, aunts and uncles all gave me clothes and other things I’d need.

I was very surprised when Mom told me that.  My memory is how much I loved Susie and enjoyed playing with her.  It occurs to me now that too many toys all at once isn’t such a great idea.  I remember years when there were lots and lots of presents.  It was almost overwhelming, and I didn’t get as much of a connection to Chatty Cathy as I had had with Susie.  I wonder what my kids thought of all the presents they opened and if they felt any emotional connection to the toys. I’ll have to ask them.

One year, Grandma gave me a stuffed cat that she’d handmade. Because it was especially for me, I loved Meow as strongly as I’d loved Susie.  I wish I had a picture of me with Meow but if it ever existed it’s gone now.  The memory is there though: a soft little pink kitty made with corduroy fabric, stuffed with something soft and comforting. Meow had little black eyes, a little black nose, and a happy smile on her face.  The original Meow was ruined from a spill of hot wax, and I grieved so much that Grandma made me a new one. Meow II was similar but just not the same.

I seem to love most gifts from the heart, whether they are handmade or given free by saving soup labels. Nice memories.