March 12, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

Received two letters from you today, dated 8th and 9th of March.  From your letters, I take it that the moments of boredom must be long and numerous.  That is why I try to write about almost everything I do so as to try to share with you some of the pleasures I derive, if any.

As I wrote in a previous letter, I enjoyed a ride of almost 200 miles.  I spoke about the peach and pear trees in bloom.  Meant to tell you a little more about the peach tree, which like the olive tree, which it resembles, fascinates me.

The are small, usually, I would estimate about 15-20 feet tall, with short trunks and myriads of branches all reaching upward in a flowering patter, irregularly symmetrical and almost supplicatory in posture.  They differ from my recollection of the olive tree in that they symbolize youth and beauty whereas the olive trees are bent and twisted by the winds, gnarled and ancient in mien.

But why bore you with a description of trees.

Went to the Officers' Club last night.  Had a delicious steak dinner, with some Chablis wine, which wasn't bad  Music for my dinner was provided by Tony Pastor and his orchestra.  He was excellent--both with the smooth and jump music.  He played  a few rumbas and two very fine mambos.  I had a dance or two and a scotch or two, and since the music only continues till twelve, I was in bed by 12:30.  Slept well after conjuring into mind your image--in a most intimate and revealing attitude.
It would surprise you to know how photographic my memory images of you are.

I have taken to smoking little cigars.  I find I like them occasionally.  Hope you do not mind.  On of the brands, a filter tip, has a pleasant rum and maple aroma--tout a fait masculin. I am sure you will approve.

. . .

Do you find my handwriting legible? I find it most difficult to write in longhand--even develop a cramp.

I guess this letter is sufficiently discursive for now.  Why not tell me what you would like to hear about--anything at all--people, fashions etc.

For now a kiss or two or three and lots and lots (crude) mountains of love from your

paramour, Constantine

Paterson: Ode to the Ordinary Poetry of Life

I had completely other plans for today. I was in my rented car (another story yet to be told on these pages-why I am in a rented car) on the way to Whittier for a memorial service for a colleague from the State Bar--someone I really wanted to say a personal good bye to--when I realized that there was no way to by pass the bumper to bumper traffic, punctuated by unsafe turns and lane changes, brought on by the rare occasion of torrential California rain.  Since bi-weekly housekeeping was going on in my apartment, I decided to take refuge upon my return to my neighborhood in a local mall and see if there was a movie about to begin at the Sundance.



I hadn't been eager to see Paterson because if the trailer moves slowly, one might worry that the rest of the movie moved slower still. But I am so glad I did. It was slow indeed but poetic, as befits the rendition of the week of the bus driver in Paterson, New Jersey, who is also a poet. His name also happens to be Paterson, and his icon is a former resident, the famous Poet and doctor, William Carlos Williams. Everything about the film is fluid, from when Paterson wakes up between 6:10 and 6:30 every morning, and places his watch on his wrist and cuddles his girlfriend and eats his glass of cheerios, and walks to his garage and moves through his day listening to the chatter of the riders, but also composing his poems in his head, or putting them down in his "secret book" by hand. His girlfriend wants him to publish, but at least to make copies of them. She is an artist of sorts herself, painting on fabric, a lover of triangular and circular patterns, and a lover of her bull dog, that Paterson tolerates and walks out of his affection for her. Nothing really happens in this film, and yet all of life happens in it. It made me appreciate the commonplace of my own life as I never have done.

There is a small progression from day to day, a bus break down, Paterson's meeting with a young girl waiting for her mother who also has a special book in which she jots her pre-adolescent poetry (which just happens to sound a great deal like the ones Paterson writes) and supporting his girl friend in her sudden decision to buy and play a guitar and to sell a massive amount of home made cupcakes at the local Farmer's Market. Every night when he walks Marvin, he stops at the local bar where other stories are unfolding. The bar owner has a love of the city Paterson's history and maintains an informal wall of pictures of and articles about people from there, including not only William Carlos Williams, but Lou Costello. Paterson is a quiet man, once a Marine (as was the actor Adam Driver), who nonetheless is content with the small, but not somehow not insignificant life, he leads. When the dog, Marvin, who grumbles and gurgles companionably throughout the movie, chews up Paterson's normally protected poetry journal, of which there is no copy, you can feel that Paterson is bereft and you sense that he just might give it all up. His only emotional outburst is to say to the dog, "I don't like you Marvin", before his girlfriend banishes Marvin to the garage. (A note: The dog who portrayed Marvin, named Nellie, apparently passed away after the making of the movie).  But while he is sitting at the Great Falls of Paterson (never heard of them and I am from the East Coast), a Japanese tourist, who is a poet visiting the home town of William Carlos Williams, gives Paterson a blank note book. The man somehow knows that as for him, poetry is breathing for Paterson. And he begins again.

I felt an amazing sense of peace as I watched this movie. I felt like I was part of Paterson's moments, in time, with him. And so I end with "Another One", a poem from the film,

When you're a child you learn there are three dimensions
Height, width and depth
Like a shoebox
Then later you hear there's a fourth dimension
Time
Hmm
Then some say there can be five, six, seven. . .

I knock off work
Have a beer at the bar
I look down at the glass and feel glad


I felt glad as I watched this movie.

Back to the Letters from Georgia: March 11, 1956

 Dear Rosetta:

Took a ride today.  The countryside is blooming.  The peach blossoms are out and they are beautiful varying shades of pink.  Some have a fuchsia-purple color.  The pear trees are smothered in snow white buds.  It is certainly a sight to behold.

Went to the movie in town yesterday and saw Frank Sinatra in the "Man with the Golden Arm".  It is a violent, terrible, stark melodrama, excellently acted. Frank Sinatra was good, as usual, but Eleanor Parker and Kim Novak were excellent.  The street accent necessary to the parts may have come easily for Kim Novak, but Eleanor Parker did a wonderful job with hers.  Robert Strauss was effectively repulsive but there was another fellow, whose name I don't know--played a dope peddler--who was unusually good.  The theme music keeps sticking in my mind.  I have a feeling it is very good music.

Tonight I shall go to the Officers' Club and take in some good music.  Tony Pastor is appearing tonight.  I shall eat at the club--probably a steak, and watch the elite meet and greet.  I wish you were here tonight.

This week we are required to write a thesis.  At least that is what the director of instruction calls it. Actually, what he really wants is a 500 word composition. The subject is supposed to be about some phase of Military Police work, with which I have had little or no experience.  I pointed this out to Capt. McDowell, the class director and he said, "What are you worried about the way you write."  He said that actually what they are interested in is the literacy of the writers rather than the subject matter.  Obviously the last composition impressed him.

Received a short letter from Mr. Chack in which he informed me that "things are about the same."  I was delighted to hear this and shall answer his letter forthwith with the comment that things here are different.

Lt. Rosen just walked out splendidly replete in the new Army Blues, a magnificent uniform, somewhat like the Civil War Officers' uniform with massive epaulets and huge stripes of gold braid.  It stood him $140 not counting the cap, which is $35.  Actually, he should be wearing a cape, which is called for, but that costs $95 simoleons.  The cape is a blue matching the uniform with a satin lining bearing the color of your branch--blue for the infantry, scarlet for the Artillery and yellow for the Military Police.  I have never seen one, but they should be very effective.  The uniform is worn with a white shirt and black tie.  For formal occasions a black bow-tie is worn.

Miss you terribly.  Shall we ever allow ourselves to be separated again?  I dread the thought. . . .

My Love

Buddy

I Didn't Expect the Future to Come This Fast

I have been cleaning out some of my memorabilia, and rearranging what is left. There is still a lot left. Among the items I found was a 1984 article from either US or People Magazine about keeping a diary. By this time, I had been a diarist for about six years and I needed the affirmation of the value of engaging in the practice. The man pictured, Thomas Mallon, had just published a book about the process, called A Book of One's Own:  People and Their Diaries. His advice for an approach to journaling was not unlike the one I had developed. And like me, he had found it a rewarding experience. And there was something marvelous about capturing the ordinary of history. I was obviously affected by the article. I kept it for 33 years. And I kept journaling.

After re-reading the article, my first impulse was to look up Thomas Mallon and see what those years had wrought for him. He was only a few years older than me in 1984. I had just turned thirty. I had been in California for only three years and my experience of the private practice of law (I worked for a practitioner) in this state had already disillusioned me. I still had hopes of becoming a television comedy writer, but slowly I saw that my need to make a living was making that hope more remote. My hope of marriage and children had already become remote as I wended my way into my fourth decade, but was not yet completely extinguished.

The whoosh of time. I googled Mr. Mallon. Back in 1984, the idea of being able to find information in a flash wasn't on anyone's radar. A Book of One's Own was apparently his first book on the glories of individuals preserving their past and thus the accumulated pasts of which make up history. He has written several books since that first, novels and historical fiction. He teaches English at a college in Washington.



I am always startled when I see the impression time makes in other faces. He is still handsome, still vibrant, still engaged fully in life, but it is hard to recognize as I consider his face that mine too has changed, probably as much. I see myself as I was, mostly, when I look in the mirror, a little droop here and there, some crevices but still fully recognizable as I was. But of course that is self-delusion. The future came fast. Our ancestors have always warned us that this is one of the features of human existence, but it is only in retrospect that we realize that it is so.

I had a long career as at attorney (30 years) and I have been retired from that career (though I keep active on the rolls) for several. I am doing more writing than ever; maybe some of it will one day be published officially, though in this world of technology, I am fortunate to have a forum right here. And it is here that I am trying to freeze my past so that it makes its way, in photos and words to connect with someone I shall never meet, in the future I will not see.

March 8, 1956

Although I know that this letter isn't intended to be, there is something both lovely, and paradoxically, sarcastic about how Dad viewed romance and marriage. My Dad had a tendency to "pronounce" about things, and sometimes, those pronouncements assumed that there were no other possible facts or opinions. It used to drive me crazy, when I was old enough to argue, which was a long time after he wrote this letter to my mother. 

Dear Rosetta:

Today we had winds of unbelievable velocity and the loose sands were driven in blinding clouds about the camp.  There was damage to the paint of many cars and one Office had his windshield completely pitted.

We hear the East is suffering blizzard conditions.  This weather is probably the tail end of North-East storms.

Tonight it has gotten cold--forecast thirty.  I shall go to bed early since the barracks are a little bit chilly.  Besides, I had a drunk on last night and lost some sleep.

Lt. Rosen was in tonight for some advice.  Sees he has the urge to get married.  The object of his affection is a General's daughter from a Jersey camp with whom he has been going for some time. He says she is either cold or inhibited.  This he attributes to a mid-Victorian mother and an authoritarian father. He claims he likes her but does not know if she will be responsive.  So far he had made no advances of any kind.  The girl is 22, teaches grade school and is, he says, attractive and well-poised.

A few words about the Lt.  He is average in height, slight in build, dark complected and boyish, is pallid with ever present dark circles under his eyes; has thick dark hair and a birthmark above his right eye.  He is quite intelligent.  When talking, he has an annoying habit of scratching himself now in one place, now another, which indicates to me that he has a superabundance of nervous energy.  He is obviously a misfit in the Army, though he proposes to make a career of it.

He is frank about his lack of affection for his family, particularly his father, who, he says, "has been a failure all his life."  Father is a school teacher.  He vows he will never spend so much as thirty days at home during the remaining portion of his life.

His education was accomplished in a Catholic College.  He finds Catholics the least prejudiced of all the denominational groups; was never confirmed in his faith and is apparently desirous of being assimilated.

Of course I gave no advice--just listened.  He is going overseas and has that feeling of not belonging.  Marriage appears to be the panacea for this kind of loneliness.  Then, too, he has had a number of dates but based on one occasion when I was able to observe his technique with women, he appears unsure and boyish in his advances and is probably rebuffed more often than not.  This, also, turns a man's thoughts to marriage.

By this summer he will be in Germany where I am sure he will find a little Fraulein who will effect for him a transition from boyhood to manhood. If he takes her as a mistress his loneliness will pass.  If she says,"Ich liebe die," in a husky contralto and runs her fingers through his hair, he will probably marry her.

The days are flying by.  Tomorrow ends another week.  There are only four more to go.  I shall be quite happy to return home.

Received the prints of the baby's picture.  I shall keep them a while and send them home later.  They are cute.  In one of them she looks exactly like me.  Naturally, she is a doll.

There is so little of interest happening lately that I'm running out of things to tell you about.  I hope the little accounts of camp life are somewhat interesting.

I miss you very much and many times long to hold you in my arms and tell you of my love.

Buddy.

March 7, 1956

Dad often described some of his colleagues at Fort Gordon. This was the deep South in the late 1950s. In this letter, Dad described one of the African-American Officers, whose historical and personal conundrum he considers. 

The letter ends though with a bit of teasing about writing loving (and slightly) hot letters.


Dear Rosetta:

I am always surprised when you report that there is no mail "from you today."  You see, I write every day so as to insure a daily letter for you.  Of course, I know the delay in transportation may cause a bunching up of mail shipments, in which case you might receive two or three letters in one day and none for the next three.  I shall try to figure out a way to beat the system.

It was hot today, somewhere around eighty.  This area goes from winter to summer without an intermediate season.  Tomorrow it may be cold and rainy.  There is no predicting weather.

I saw the production of Caesar and Cleopatra you spoke of.  I thought it was quite good.  There are numerous television sets in camp and even one in our BOQ. Lt. Banks, a colored Officer, pays $5 a week to rent one.  He has plenty of company every night in his room.

Lt. Banks never leaves camp. He does not attend our social functions, though he has been assured by many he is welcome.  I spoke to him about it once and he said it would be foolish for him to venture into town in this area.  He is without a doubt right.

The last class party it was pointed out--while he was not present--that any function of this type would have to be held at camp since private facilities in town will not rent if a colored person is attending.  There is a State law that covers this, so in a case of violation, they can break in on a private party with a "John Doe" warrant.

So even though we held the last social in camp, Banks did not come, which is what I think I would  have done if I were in his place.  This time though we have the assurance of the County Sheriff that we would not be molested, Banks has flatly stated he will not attend.  I still think he is right.

Banks is quite a nice fellow, quiet, with a ready laugh.  He is an accountant from New Jersey with a wife and three children.  The Officers, including the Southern Officers who predominate the class, treat him as an equal and friend in every way.  On an Army Post there is no apparent prejudice.  I guess the actual difference is the presence of a woman.  Clearly, the Negro-white prejudice is psychosexual.

. . .I shall soon run out of people to write about.  Then I shall have to write only love letters and I know you don't care for that sort of thing.  I shall have to resort to such as. . . .

This. . .love I long to see again, to hold--sensitive to moist warmth the length of my body, the quick breathing in my ear.  Skin velvety to touch. Bosom full and firm with carmine spots.

Can you imagine receiving such erotica regularly.  Of course you wouldn't like it.  Or would you?

My. . .

Love, Buddy

March 6, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

Tonight I completed arrangements for the class' final party which will be held on April 4. We will have the whole club to ourselves with an orchestra, a steak--filet-mignon dinner preceded by hors d'oeuvres.  There will be approximately 60 people attending, 10 of which are guests.  Some 18 of the officers expect to have their wives preset.   The orchestra is a pretty good one, though it specializes in jump music with an occasional Latin-American number which is invariably unappreciated.  All in all, a good time should be had by all.

As I had anticipated, there were the usual dissenters, those who must always place obstacles in the path of every body else's fun, but finally our committee, headed by old CG carried the day. Only six will not attend.

It would be nice to have you here for the party, just so I might show off a little.  Without a doubt you would be the sensation of the night and many a Southern Belle would bite her nails and say la de da or fiddle dee dee. I wish it could be.

Did you ever receive a letter in which I described my visit to the ice-show?  Curious because I know you would not let a mention of anything to do with ice shows go without mention. Perhaps the letter got lost.

The perfume you have ben using on your letters this last ten days of so is intoxication.  Is it something new?

Had a chicken dinner tonight--southern fried.  They bread it somehow and deep fry.  It is pretty good. The chickens in this area are cheap and they are meaty.  I have chicken quite often.

The waitress that served us reminded me of X. Not in looks of course since she is a once pretty girl of about 37, padded to make up for nature's cruelest oversight to a woman, with muscled, scrawny red arms and rough red hands.  The similarity I saw was in the way she continually glanced at herself in the mirror.  Mercifully, the lights in this combination restaurant and bar are dim.  I have seen her in the day and her face is a wrinkled as a crone's.

Among other interesting features of this place is the requirement by the boss that the girls dance with the clientele.  Those men who take advantage of this cruelest form of exploitation of stupidity and need handle the girls in the most overtly familiar manner you can imagine.  It seems to have no visible effect on the girls.  They are apparently used to it and not the least bit offended.  Cauldwell and Faulkner do not exaggerate in their descriptions of various phases of Southern life.

I was flatter to hear that you dreamt of me or thought I was asking you something.  Clearly, I am on your mind, which is good, because you are in my heart.

Love, Buddy.