or copy-pasted from a draft I wrote in 1983 or something.
They're a mess. They contain duplicate entries.
Haven't been proofed or nothin'.
But here they are - for now, at least.
<drafting as i go>
The Quick Leap East
I remember nothing about how long it took or what kind of rides I got while jumping from Indianapolis to Boston. All I know is this: it was still 1962 when I got there, and it was still 1962 when I returned to California, yet to try again to settle myself in the land of my roots.
Ambush at Quincy
My first landing in Massachusetts was kinda rough. I looked for my maternal grandparents in the phonebook and found my way to Grampa Lester's house, where he lived with mom's stepmother, Dee. There house was on Quincy Bay - a world away from Braintree Five Corners and from my roots as well. They were not too happy to see me, and they said so, after placing a quick call to mom in Costa Mesa. I stayed only a couple of days. The strongest memory of that short visit was the horrified expression on Dee’s face - and her subsequent admonishment - when she saw me hanging up the phone. I’d made a call to a Boston radio station (a name-that-tune call-in contest) but they were sure I was calling California. It was Dee who suggested I look up the Wing side of the family, who still lived in Braintree. I could only hope that the Massachusetts Wings still maintained a shred of the human dignity that my father Carl seemed to have gone without. Perhaps it was Ruth who sapped it out of him. I'll figure it out, one of these days. Might even bring it up if I ever get some mellow time with my brother, Carleton (Sparky) who has moved to Costa Rica where he and his wife, Livia manage Sueno Del Mar, a bed and breakfast just off the beach in Tamarindo.
Braintree Five Corners - A Destination Reached
Braintree’s Five Corners has changed very little since I was there in 1962. It had changed even less between the winter of 1949, when our family left it for California, and my return in the fall of 1962. Oh the traffic's heavier now I'm sure. Route 37 (Granite Street) is a divided highway instead of a town-to-city road. But I'll bet the Mobil station's still there - without the red Pegasus logo. And I'm sure that Nana's house is long gone.
The house at Five Corners is where I was brought to from the hospital where I was born. The duplex that held those two confused families that could only renege on promises they’d sworn to uphold. And there, on Franklin, was Nana and Grampa Wing’s old house, the house that had been lived in by Wings since first it was built, in 1779.
m
.
In this little map, Nana's house would be just a wee bit to the left of the "Alice Road" notation. West Street continues to the left. The upper and lower legs of the starfish is Granite Street (Route 37). North to Boston, southwest to Randolph. The house at Five Corners was on Granite street, just a wee bit north of West Street. I wonder who lives there now?
.
Arriving at Five Corners in the fall of 62 marked the end of the cross-country trek, for which my subconscious purpose was to find my roots.
I felt as though even if I hadn’t really come home, at least I was at a more or less logical place to start over again. And I had for the first time since leaving California, a sense of pride. Having come so far, on nothing more than a whim, I’d accomplished something that I hadn’t very well planned to do.
I’d succeeded in something that was fairly difficult to do; it followed that now I could optimistic. I felt there was a future, instead of just the setting sun.
I visited Braintree in 1974 - Five Corners had changed very little since 1962. It had changed even less between 1949 when our family left, and 1962, when, on my own, I first returned.
I went over to Braintree and found Gramma and Grampa Wing at home. They had a small house, and it was quite full, with my aunt Helen and her son David also staying there. Helen was having emotional problems but everyone was friendly and caring. They gave me an affectionate welcome and in so doing showed a measure of support that had been absent in my previous encounters with “family” (then and now) during this long walk east.
This warm support and friendliness in turn gave me strength, and it was not long before I started looking for work.
David was an instant pal. He worked for an architect whose office was in 5 Corners and who lived in nearby Randolph. Part of the architect’s life was his wife’s love of horses. There were always a few stray boys around to help with the horses, the architect’s deliveries, and so forth. Iris had a new pink Cadillac and a standard Poodle with a classic cut. The poodle loved pizza and was allowed to eat pizza every time it was in the house even though the dog invariably vomited after only a few bites.
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but it turns out that cousin Dave is “like me”—this I would discover during my next visit east (see “Where Were You When” and “Be My Baby”).
I found a job my first day out—at Charter House Restaurant in a new shopping center within walking distance of 5 Corners. I took a room in a big yellow rooming house across from a Duncan Donuts. (Dunkin Donuts University is in Braintree, just a cup of coffee’s distance from this nifty hangout.) I’ve forgotten the street name for the yellow house, but at 5 Corners, five streets met, and they all led “home” in one way or another. Gramma and Grampa Wing were only half-a-block down Franklin Street; the architect was likewise but a few steps away; the duplex where I’d lived from age zero-to-five was right there, too. There was a Chinese restaurant at one corner (and, yes, everybody made cracks about how they served dog and monkey meat); and a gas station where uncle Dicky worked. Dicky’s mom’s brother. Deaf and quite mute. He lived at home, in Quincy. In the 1970’s the gas station burned down and Dicky headed west. He found work through Goodwill Industries. When mom and dad retired and left Southern California “for good,” they gave Dicky their mobile home and lot in Santa Ana. Dicky married several years ago. A reckless diabetic, I believe he’s lost a leg, or, probably, his life by now.
The neatest thing about the donut shop was the jukebox. The neatest thing about anyplace with a jukebox was the jukebox. In fall of 62 my favorite song was He’s A Rebel by one of my favorite groups, the Crystals. (20 years later I learned that “He’s A Rebel” was performed by Darlene Love and studio singers) But I liked Darlene Love the voice, a lot, so it didn’t matter. Like music itself, it isn’t really who it is or what it says but what it is that counts. Gene Pitney wrote “He’s A Rebel” and I loved Gene Pitney, too. Now that I recall, in fact, there wasn’t any performer on the national top 100 charts whom I didn’t like. I liked everything I heard on top forty radio. In fits and starts - depending on how stable my situation was - I bought nearly every new single of songs that I liked – starting with “The Stroll” by The Diamonds (1958) thru 1967’s “Uptight (Everything’s All Right)” by Stevie Wonder), when I only bought albums. The record collection of my growing-up years was boxed up at Marge’s back home. I pretty much started all over after I returned to Boston in 1963 and more or less settled down (for three whole years). I retrieved the old collection in 1969 while passing through Costa Mesa with a boyfriend. Steve Russell.%%
Whenever my collection grew I didn’t have to worry about storage because I could never afford to lug them around. I'd end up giving most of them away. But somehow I rebuilt a pretty decent collection in San Francisco, adding to the bunch that Steve and I brought back from Marge's. I gave my Boston collection to Cindy %%in 1966. My mega-collection was destroyed by flood at the bottom of Noe Street in San Francisco (1977) and my mega-mega bunch of singles were stolen while in transit from San Francisco to Austin, also in '77.
At a nickel a pop, it was easy to play “He’s A Rebel” over and over again. Nobody in Winchell’s seemed to mind – either that, or they just put up with my sweet, charming self.
Work at Charter House was good. Stable. I had some responsibilities for inventorying foodstuffs off container trucks at the loading dock. My boss liked me. The truckers liked me. I didn’t know how to react when one of the meat purveyors tried to get me to go in on a deal, ripping off racks of beef before they were inventoried. I didn’t get involved. I had other things to worry about.
Snow. December. Humping a girl named Susan in the back seat of a Ford. I still say she raped me. Soon it was David's turn to hump his girl, so I learned how to drive in a horizontal blizzard, which marked the first such experience. A few years later I'd be called on to do it again, in Boston.%%.
Hanging out at Drive Ins. Eating fried clams. Cruising Quincy. Revere Beach. Listening to Arnie “Woo-Woo” Ginzberg on WMEX 1510 AM. "It's Arnie Ginzburg - Woo Woo, on the Night Train Show; It's Arnie Ginzberg on Wimmex Radio!"
Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginzburg
You can hear Arnie's "Night Train Show" theme on this album
good luck - they go for $50 - wish I still had mine
"He plays the old and new, the swingin' and the blue, he plays all the records, especially for you"
December
I called Costa Mesa to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I called collect. I managed to say “Merry Christmas” before the operator asked mom, “will you accept the charges?” “No!” was her reply. Cecil got on the line, too, “And tell him not to call again!” Click. Ho ho ho.
I spent Christmas in Braintree. It was simple and warm and friendly. We will learn as we go along that the Massachusetts Wings were an open-hearted group, with what-we-call-these-days issues. Aunt Helen gave me a carton of Tareyton cigarettes, the ones with the charcoal filter and the clever packaging that included a little bit of double-sided tape that was arranged so that when you pulled the string-seal off, the tape opened up the foil wrapper. “Us Taryton smokers would rather fight than switch,” was the punch line in their advertising for years. The models for the ads had dark rings drawn around one eye, so it kinda looked like they'd been in a fight but only enough to cause a perfect ring, not a black-and-bruiser. At first, it was only men who did the eye thing; later the ad agency introduced a woman to take one for the Taryton team as well. “Look for the ring-ring-ring-ring ring around, new dual filter Tareyton" sang the jingle, merrily inviting the world to try yet another kind of smoke.
Before New Year’s Day, 1963, I picked up my last pay envelope (to the dismay of my boss, who offered me advancement and, well, really, begged me to stay; said I was real sharp, smart, had a good future) and bid farewell to everyone at 5 Corners. Headed west again, by bus and by thumb, never knowing why.
