Devoted to "...Them Movin' Pitchers!"... and the "Feast of Filmdom"!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    ...Devoted to "...Them Movin' Pitchers!"...  and the "Feast of Filmdom"! 

My paternal grandfather had a way of using language that, as a boy, I often found amusing.  He referred to films -- "the movies" -- as "movin' pitchers," as though he'd known a mystic who could levitate solid objects.  I'm not belittling him; his syntax was perfectly understandable, and, like many of his generation, he had only the benefit of a 5th or 6th grade education.  My nuclear

Couldn't find a photo
of my grandfather, but
he loved Westerns so
this will have to suffice!
(And it's "Hoppy"!)

family's diction, two generations removed from that of the grandfather, is perhaps a bit more sophisticated, more "media-style," so to speak.  Why?  My mother was a teacher who corrected her children's language usage constantly; our male parent had an exceptional command of English, and used arcane words the hearing or memory of which still send me to a dictionary.  (I keep several in my office!)

My mother (she's NOT
pictured above!) was an
exceptional teacher, and
she loved good movies!
She taught her children to
appreciate language and art!

The opening paragraph intended essentially to titillate the reader (probably to no avail!), the aim of this month's writing is to celebrate and pay homage to the glorious Milwaukee Film Festival, and to motion pictures in general.  In my geezerhood, I've grown terribly fond of attending good films (an excellent pastime for an aging and more cerebral population).  In fact my wife and I belong to a "Film Group," in which eight members view selected movies, enjoy dinner and drinks, and then discuss and analyze the movie viewed, sometimes "half to death"!  Some in our group are quite scholarly on the subject and try to extrapolate profound meaning, while others simply wish to enjoy the film and talk just a bit about how it affected them.  Spirited discussions always prevail!

Good films, in my humble and simplistic viewpoint, can be superbly educative, edifying and stimulating.  They can also enhance our personal dialogue, provide useful "scripting" when appropriate occasions arise.  And movies can bolster our "sense of silly," providing a kind of lexicon or manuscript from which we can summon just the right words when circumstances warrant.  For example, in the Howard Hawks film, Bringing Up Baby -- one of our all time favorites! -- reacting to Dr. Huxley's extreme excitement over receiving a needed remaining dinosaur bone, the fictitious "intercostal clavicle" -- the delivery man says in a quiet deadpan, "This guy aint got all his buttons."  It's an expression my family and I use frequently, and isn't it kinder than, for instance, "What a complete buffoon," or "That joker musta dumped his brain cells when someone thumped his head!"?

When Katherine Hepburn's character announces that she intends to marry Dr. Huxley, her aunt, wonderfully played by May Robson, states vehemently, "Susan I forbid it!...  We have lunatics enough in this family!"  (A suitable line for many of us to borrow!)  Our children can practically recite the entire Bringing Up Baby film script verbatim.  (They've acquired such wonderful taste in film...  probably from the parents!)    

Here's another great moment in filmdom.  Henry Koster's Harvey features a number of memorable lines.  One of my favorites is spoken by Veta Simmons, sister of lead character, Elwood P. Dowd.  As she prepares to have Elwood committed to a sanitarium, she says absently to the facility's general factotum, the gruff Mr. Wilson, who asks Veta why she's tramping through the garden, plucking up flowers, "...Elwood is devoted to ranunculus."  He replies, thinking that she's the intended patient, "C'mon toots.  Let's go upstairs.  You can pick posies off the wallpaper."  (Here, I'm probably invoking the "privilege of paraphrase"...  I don't have the exact script at hand!)

If ever I encounter someone who actually owes me something, I love to do my best Walter Matthau imitation and ask with mock impatience and irritation, "Alright, Mrs. Voss, where's the money?"  We have a DVD of Charade.  I've watched it several times. 

A scene from the film,
Russian Woodpecker.  

Sweetheart (she's my wife!) and I are very fond of the Milwaukee Film Festival.  We bought tickets for several of its showings, and we enjoy the basic membership that affords us discounted tickets, and an even deeper discount for early purchases.  The festival's an absolute, international feast, and truly a "chef's dish of choice" for our fine city and its cultural menu.  Today, Thursday, September 24th, is the premiere date, Opening Night!  Though we won't be attending tonight's feature, tomorrow, Friday, we'll view, Russian Woodpecker, variously described as "conspiracy thriller...  (and)...  humorous documentary."  We can't wait!

The panoply of our upcoming "film feast" will prove to be an international delight, a breathtaking world tour, with visits not only to Russia, but to Sweden, Israel, Mexico, Iran, China and beyond, even into the heads and hearts of children from around the globe through Kids Shorts:  Size Medium!  ("...Shorts" is an annual tradition for our children and grandchildren!)

I suppose its pure cliche, but film is truly a transcendent experience, a means of opening pathways to understanding and acceptance, of developing empathy, when one has the capacity to allow such thoughts to penetrate the psyche.  Like actual travel and meeting native people of other countries -- not merely hotel clerks and restaurant servers! -- the movies can give us a kind of inexpensive passage to the extraordinary diversity of human experience, endeavor and achievement.  

And so I encourage with the utmost enthusiasm readers, friends, detractors, relatives, odd passers-by...  everyone!   Go see a film, one that tells a good story and makes you think, and not a pandering, formulaic and obtuse chaos of artificial violence.  Specifically, attend at least one (or more) showings at the superb Milwaukee Film Festival.  Take in a movie with subtitles.  After even a few frames, you won't even notice you're reading translated lines of French or Swedish or Hebrew or Russian...    

Travel via the magic of the movies to distant lands and experience the remarkable lives of people you'll likely never meet in another manner or medium.  Don't mean to sermonize; my aim is merely to help spread the wealth!  And verily, I believe one would always do well to heed the words of Harvey's Veta as she admonishes her daughter:  "Don't be didactic, Myrtle Mae, it isn't becoming in young girls" (or old boys, either!).

(Special Dedication:   The perpetrator of this Blog dedicates this writing to Bill and Cathy, Peg and Tony, Will and Ann, and to Sweetheart too, of course, my favorite film scholar and extrapolator!  May you all rejoice and regale in the resplendent delights of great motion pictures for many years, many festivals and many gatherings yet to come!) 

Humbly Submitted 09-24-15 -- Joel K.                 

   




      

      



       



     

"...In The Service!"... Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "...In The Service!"...  Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?  

Many a time and oft, I've pontificated -- when engaged in a dialogue with acquaintances of dissimilar attitudes, beliefs and values -- suggesting that each of us becomes his or her "composite self " (for lack of a better descriptor), say at age 30 or 35, some younger, others older -- as a result of a the many and varied elements that inform our lives.  They include, perhaps needless to state, environment, upbringing, role models -- both positive and negative -- education, experience...  These among the factors that mold us, make us who we are.  Experience, I think, is a powerful force in the development of attitudes and values as we traverse our separate pathways.

Above is a graphic depicting a
Melting Pot, or, a "metaphoric
crucible" in which "...all manner of
people can blend together and
co-exhist in peace and harmony..."!
(paraphrased from a statement
by Pollyanna...  maybe?!)  

The absolute jewels of experience are the people we meet along the way, who touch and affect our lives in a positive manner;those who make a negative impact have a certain value too, particularly if we learn something useful as a result of the collision!  Obvious, perhaps, but I'm coming to the point!  

In my own experience, for example, viewed from the exalted elevation of Geezerhood...  a prime example is Military Service (and those who populated its ranks...  a life episode that included extensive travel)!  It was a harvest of diverse thoughts, ideas,  opinions, philosophies, personalities...    

Among "fellow travelers" and intersecting lives was that of Jonas B. whom I met at Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, perhaps we were in basic training together as well.  It's difficult and can be misdirecting to sift through memory from a distance of more than 50 years.  


Jonas may have had a small issue with alcohol.  On occasion his breath manufactured a fog of fetid mist.  Odd, I sometimes thought, because he frequently drank Aqua Velva and mouthwash when no other alcoholic "potable" was at hand.   His personality was strikingly potent and memorable.  Jonas was a Native American with a superb mind.  A dark-skinned Oklahoman, fiercely proud of his heritage, his gift to peers was tolerance and acceptance.  I enjoyed him, his stories about warrior ancestors, his humor.  I wonder if he's still among the living, or if alcohol claimed his brain and the oil wealth he was promised.  I hasten to add, Jonas was by no means the only individual whose consumption of alcoholic substances was prodigious and eclectic!  Black, white, red, brown and yellow, we all consumed our share in whatever form was cheap and available.  After-shave lotion was a novel variant, however...  perhaps an acquired taste?      

Air Force Security Service Tech School yielded the next posting...  A day before boarding a plane bound for Karamursel Air Base in Turkey, I had to visit a Philadelphia barber for a much-needed shave, singe, a haircut, a uniform brush up...  Foolishly, I lacked the funds to cover the entire expense of all those tonsorial services.  Jerry S., a former machinist from Chicago, and a fellow airman bound for Turkey, helped bail me out of the shop, rescuing me from the angry barber who held me by my uniform collar.  Tilted at a 45-degree angle from the door of the shop, I beckoning madly at passing GI's until required donations set me free.  

Like all "composite" human beings, Jerry was a paradox, an amalgam of biases and tolerance.  He had few kind words for the "hillbillies" who invaded his beloved Chicago from "The South," but acquired an acceptance of the many Black-, Asian- and Latino-Americans who peopled our shared military orbit.  Conversely, there were many in our ranks and stationed with us, over the course of a four-year enlistment, who clung to their racist attitudes and ideas like thieves clinging to sacks of pure gold coins.      

In Turkey -- a year-and-a-half tour that began in late 1961 -- four of us, typically, occupied each space in a large, concrete barracks.  In my case, an African-American, a young man from Guam, A Texan and myself.  In a room near ours was a Latino named Armando G.  A handsome lad, he collected women as some do baseball cards or stamps.  He challenged us to acts of absurd "bravado" such as placing lighted cigarettes in the hollow of our abutted arms to see who could stand the pain longer.  He  swallowed jars full of jalapeño peppers and dared the rest of us to match his ability to consume those fiery, stomach-destroying missiles.  Armando told us stories of deprivation among his family members, struggles to assimilate into North American "Gringo" culture while preserving their Mexican heritage.  He was impatient to return to family and the women of Corpus Christi, TX.  Armando kept his focus, was eager for the tour to end and considered Turkey an irritating if unavoidable aberration in the cycle of his life.

This, I think, is a photo of Aghia
Sophia, fabled former Byzantine
Church, now a great mosque in
Istanbul, Turkey!  

Following the delights of Turkey, including Turkish friends left behind -- Vahan, Achmet, Hamdi, Nadia, Ishkin and many others -- I reported to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State, a neighbor to the enormous army base, Fort Lewis.  Our circle of friends included enlisted men from four branches of military service -- Army, Air Force, Navy, the Canadian Army, too, thrown in for international flavor.  Upon arrival at McChord, the First Sergeant from the Division to which I was assigned told me the only available barracks space near my new headquarters building was already occupied by a...  he used the "N" word.  He suggested I choose a barracks room in a different part of the base.  Partly, I suppose, due to a a streak of rebellion, partly because I had experienced co-habitation with diverse ethnicities, I told him I'd be happy to room with Shane R., the Black airman about whom he made the offensive reference.

What a dashing figure
he cuts in his (almost)
Full Military (Fatigued)
Regalia (a small, non-
regulation enhance-
ment added!)?!

Shane and I became friends.  I felt myself privileged to meet his family members who lived in the Tacoma, WA area, a number of his friends as well.  It was a revelation.  I came to know bright and talented individuals among Shane's circle who were ignored, overlooked and treated harshly or indifferently because of their color.  Shane's sense of humor, his confidence, optimism and his friendship never wavered.  I often wonder where he is, if he is, and what he's doing now, more than 50 years and many remarkable and life-changing events later.

So many friendships made and forgotten!  Can't possibly do justice...  I'm not sure why this particular subject matter popped up out of the deep recesses of my skull, this flood of "military memory," except perhaps to admit to benefitting from the luck of the draw, to express thanks.  

For me, Military Service was a great teacher, and to my good fortune, I enjoyed experiences from which I could actually learn and benefit.  For me, an irreplaceable moment in time!  Because the driving force of attitudes, beliefs and convictions could easily have turned at the wrong corner, I'm lucky to have gained from it, vs. merely having endured while incubating resentment, building discontent, bigotry and hatred, a fate that befalls too many.  I hasten to emphasize, I know I'm neither special nor superior, merely a fortunate by-product of experience, lucky to have melted in rather than boiled out of the pot, like some gaseous, toxic bubble belched forth to pollute or poison.      

That could be Airman Hackley (second row, second from
right)...  Looks like he's warming up to launch
a crowd murmuring  rebellion (please see para. last)!!   

Interestingly, and not necessarily the sole catalyst, our first "TI" or Training Instructor in the military was a Jew from Brooklyn, NY -- Sergeant Goldman.  He may well have set the tone for many.  Among the first of his pronouncements to new charges, a squadron-full of terrified young enlistees, was this:  "Some will tell you that in military service there's little room for prejudice.  I'm telling you this...  in my 'flight,' in this barracks, among my squads of airmen there is NO room for prejudice or racism.  None!"  That was in 1961.  Extraordinary!  

He may not have realized a legion of converts on the spot, but I know he made a lasting impression on many of us.  I often think of my time in the military, a crucible that helped forge ideas and values that still nourish and sustain.  So many different personalities, from so many different backgrounds and life experiences.  

                   --------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:   It wasn't all enlightenment and wisdom, of course.  Anyone who ever served in the military no doubt has a similar story!  Lieutenant Peach was our linen supply officer at Goodfellow AFB.  On a rainy Friday he assembled the entire squadon to announce in a voice that could damage the ear drums of humans and dogs alike, "Men, someone's been 'dicking with the system' (his favorite phrase when piqued)!  Alright then," he squeaked on, face glowing crimson, "someone purloined a pillowcase??!!...  My count does not tally!!  We'll stand here all day if necessary until the miscreant confesses!"  

Had it not been for the Captain, we might still be standing at attention listening to the obtuse rantings of Lt. Peach.  Oh, and the brilliance of Airman Hackley who could mimic the murmuring of an angry crowd; it was his talent that probably summoned the Captain to our aid.  And the Peach complaint?  The Case of the Purloined Pillow Cover remains a mystery!  In the end, Lt. Peach was re-assigned to the motor pool in charge of drain-oil disposal and brake pedals.  He was never promoted and died in disgrace, an ancient, oil-stained and squeaky "Second Louie"!  (That last bit might be mere conjecture, part of the legend!)  

Humbly Submitted, May 7, 2015 -- Joel K.