BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Subject: Bob Hood -- PeteSeeger-- Camp Woodlands -- Phoenicia

Something reminded me of Bob Hood and Camp Woodland, in Phoenicia, where he was a counselor and was pointed in the right direction, I mean the left direction, early in the fifties.  (Many 1199 people sent their children to Woodlands, and Bob met Jo Davis, Leon's daughter there.)

Obviously, some one, or Bob himself, was already pointed left, otherwise he would not have found his way to Phoenicia, and one of the questions that I never asked him was how he wandered over to the left. He did tell me that his parents were non-political; and that there was a rupture in their relationship, in retrospect I  imagine that it might have been because of his homosexuality.   Perhaps it was his sexuality that made him open to 'different' thought; or maybe it was a teacher who had not been been prized out of the school system by the McCarthyites in Louisville. Who knows? 

 Anyway, having met Pete Seeger at Woodland, he brought  Seeger to Ohio Wesleyan, and I think that Seeger performed at an official OWU venue; but some of my friends remember that he (Seeger) was barred from the campus, and that instead he performed at an inter-racial Fraternity (Beta Sigma Tau) that Bob presided over. Maybe both. I don't recall  Seeger being barred. (And Bob had a lot of clout with the OWU administration, so it's hard to believe that he was barred.)

Bob was mentored by, and, in a sense,  sponsored by the President of Ohio Wesleyan, Republican Arthur Flemming, who had been or became  a Cabinet Officer under Eisenhower. ( I went out with Flemming's daughter, Susan, a few times but she quickly figured me out and I was dropped.) After he was graduated, Bob received a Rhodes Scholarship, and studied at Oxford where he received his D.Phil. He lived with Karl Barth in Switzerland for about a year, and, Bob was, as you probably know, a liberation theologian.

Later he taught in Germany for several years, and once brought a gaggle of German school boys to Brooklyn, so that they could see that even in America there were poor people. There were about 30 blond, blue-eyed school-children dressed  in shorts, knee socks, and  short-sleeved white shirts,  each wearing a  neckerchief of Black-Red-and Gold, the colors of the West-German Flag, and Bob, the baritoned, extremely black giant, wore lederhosen.  He brought them to Katz Drug Store in Puerto Rican  Williamsburg and we walked over to the Bushwick Projects, where the children would not believe that this was where the poor people lived because the buildings'  parking lots were filled with a couple hundred cars.

Then Bob decided that we should go to the Hassidic part of Williamsburg, near the Williamsburg Bridge.  Bob was very intelligent, but had no sense of his effect of those around him. I looked at the 30 school boys, chattering in German, wearing their shorts, knee socks, white shirts and  German Flag Neckerchiefs, and Bob in his lederhosen, and decided that it would be better to forego that visit, and instead to treat the boys to paraguas, on Graham Avenue. ----- Cherry was the most popular flavor.

A comment from a friend:



 

Buster:  

you have it partially correct. Actually, if you remember, I was the Social Chairman of OWU, at the time, and it was me who booked Pete Seeger.  The controversey started when the Columbus Dispatch wrote an Op/Ed villifying Arthur Flemming for allowing a "Commie" on campus, and the pressure that the administration received resulted in them cancelling the Seeger appearance. In those days there were no cell phones and as he was scheduled, and paid for, Pete made his way to the campus and I had to inform his agent that he would not be allowed on stage. 

He arrived in Delaware after, Lord knows, how many hours/days on the road and was dead tired and asked where he could rest. We suggested he take a nap at the Beta Sig house, I believe it was Skip Landt's bed, and he did that and then volunteered to just hang out when he woke up. We fed him and we called everyone we could to let them know that we had our own private Pete Seeger concert at the frat house. 

As both Skip and I remember, he entertained us for about 4 hours with songs, stories and of course some lefty philosophies, but at Beta Sig he was "preaching to the choir".

It was a nost memorable evening and one I share with people who are familiar with Pete Seeger.

Lew

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
The girls have picked them ev'ry one.
Oh, when will you ever learn?
Oh, when will you ever learn? Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the young girls gone?
They've taken husbands, every one.
Oh, when will you ever learn?
Oh, when will you ever learn?
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the young men gone?
They're all in uniform.
Oh, when will you ever learn?
Oh, when will you ever learn?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
They've gone to graveyards, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
They're covered with flowers, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls picked them, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

And now, for Bob and you only:

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
Mädchen pflückten sie geschwind.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn? Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind,
Männer nahmen sie geschwind.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn?
Sag mir, wo die Männer sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag mir, wo die Männer sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag mir, wo die Männer sind,
zogen fort, der Krieg beginnt.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn?
Sag, wo die Soldaten sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag, wo die Soldaten sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag, wo die Soldaten sind,
über Gräbern weht der Wind.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn?
Sag mir, wo die Gräber sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag mir, wo die Gräber sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag mir, wo die Gräber sind,
Blumen wehn im Sommerwind.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn?
Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
wo sind sie geblieben?
Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
was ist geschehn?
Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,
Mädchen pflückten sie geschwind.
Wann wird man je verstehn,
wann wird man je verstehn?

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

There are warnings that good art is
Always universal.

It takes an effort to tear away
From the personal.

To rise above self-absorption
Seeking some other inspiration.

The muse seems always hidden,
and fleeting words are quickly forgotten.

And always,
 There is too much self in my writing..


mek Oct 19,2010

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Max, Mike, Maria, Aaron

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;/ Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"/Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
-- Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

For a man in whom love had always inspired delay, that nepenthe could not inspire decision.
-- Umberto Eco, William Weaver, The Island of the Day Before

[ni-pen-thee]

–noun

1.

a drug or drink, or the plant yielding it, mentioned by ancient writers as having the power to bring forgetfulness of sorrow or trouble.

2.

anything inducing a pleasurable sensation of forgetfulness, esp. of sorrow or trouble.

Origin:
1590–1600;  < L nēpenthes  < Gk nēpenthés  herb for soothing, n. use of neut. of nēpenthḗs  sorrowless, equiv. to nē-  not + pénth ( os ) sorrow + -ēs  adj. suffix

—Related forms

ne·pen·the·an, adjective

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Absolutely too good to be true--but it is:

Duke Edward Kennedy Ellington's  first piano teacher was a woman named Marietta Clinkscales.

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Forgetting

A clock keeps striking

And the echoes move in files

Their faces have been lost

Flowers of salt

Tongues from lost languages

Doorways closed with pieces of night.

W.S. Merwin

(For Bob, Peter, Danny, Richie) 

You left just as the stars were beginning to go

You left as the colors, sand and rocks

And the shades of late summer.

W.S.Merwin

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Thinking about death again. It's ultimate reality. Whereas in the past I have always felt a bewilderment about it, recently I have read the phrase "numbing authority." Now I feel more comfortable with the thought Death speaks to me with a "numbing authority."  What I had described as "a bewilderment" was actually a numbness. Like the proverbial deer frozen in the headlights.

Others  say, 'well,get on with it."   I'm stuck.

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Faces In The Street



They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone

That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;

For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet

My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --

Drifting past, drifting past,

To the beat of weary feet --

While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.



And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,

To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;

I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet

In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street --

Drifting on, drifting on,

To the scrape of restless feet;

I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.



In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky

The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,

Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,

Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street --

Flowing in, flowing in,

To the beat of hurried feet --

Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.



The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,

Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;

But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat

The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street --

Grinding body, grinding soul,

Yielding scarce enough to eat --

Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.



And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down

Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,

Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,

Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat --

Drifting round, drifting round,

To the tread of listless feet --

Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.



And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,

And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,

Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,

Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street --

Ebbing out, ebbing out,

To the drag of tired feet,

While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.



And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,

For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,

With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,

Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --

Sinking down, sinking down,

Battered wreck by tempests beat --

A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.



But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,

For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,

Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,

And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street --

Rotting out, rotting out,

For the lack of air and meat --

In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.



I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure

Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?

Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,

When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,

The wrong things and the bad things

And the sad things that we meet

In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.



I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,

And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;

But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,

They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street,

Flitting by, flitting by,

Flitting by with noiseless feet,

And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.



Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,

Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'

And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,

And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,

Coming near, coming near,

To a drum's dull distant beat,

And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.



Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,

The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,

And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,

And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.

Pouring on, pouring on,

To a drum's loud threatening beat,

And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.



And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,

The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,

But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet

Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street --

The dreadful everlasting strife

For scarcely clothes and meat

In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.



Henry Lawson

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Time, time please pause in flight,

Make me a boy -- just for tonight.