About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was William Carlos Williams' birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Great Falls of the Passaic River at Paterson, New Jersey to pay homage to the good doctor and graduate of our alma mater Horace Mann, and also to honor the Wobblies whose efforts for the workers of the world were concentrated, for a time, in Paterson's silk factories. We noted the irony of Alexander Hamilton’s statue overlooking the hallowed ground of a thirteen month bitter strike, to which IWW leaders Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Big Bill Haywood, and Carlo Tresca often came to harangue the bosses and to support the strikers.



Then, one of us clutching William Carlos Williams poem in his hand, we worked our way to the base of the Great Falls and began a reading of the 150 page poem. The roar of the falls mixed with our voices, and each of his took his turn until it was time for lunch. We trudged up the side of the river bank and found a grocer who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats. As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in one of the brick-work, honest breweries of Brooklyn, but sadly, now only a name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.



We returned to the falls to continue our reading. This time we remained at the top of the falls, on an overview, as from this point the sound of the falls did not quite overcome our voices. Our declamation did, however, attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on, but at around three o’clock decided that though our clothing was well-misted our throats were dry.



A suitable working man’s tavern was found and we re-charged ourselves, losing several dollars at darts, a local game played by the charming patrons of this particular tavern with particular meticulousness and disarming skill.



The dart players proved not to be poetry lovers and as we wanted to finish the poem we cut short our losses and made our way back to the falls.



Our following of children had abandoned us, but a few of the older men had loyally awaited our return. None, however, followed us down to the river-edge, as perhaps they were not in the mood for swimming. Like the adults at Basil’s Passover table those not reading hurried the reader along. New Jersey’s tired sun was falling below the gorge and a chill worked its way under our damp clothing—but we were determined to complete our homage. Someone’s foot found its way into the water, and our celebration completed, wet and muddied but undiscouraged we made our way back to New York, waving at Hamiliton, while remembering the honor of Big Bill. Only Emma Goldman was absent.



mek