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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (April 9, 1943)
Those Things I Left By MORTON' REICHART i"'KQG - chug - chug - choo chooo Onward, onward, onward—away, farther and farther away. Onward to what ? Why must I leave ? Everything is closing in now. •The wheels speed relentlessly on ward. Chug - chug' - - chug - - choo - choo - the mournful choooo—• Then the long piercing blasts of the whistle, the smoke curling upward -upward to the sun, and .1 go onward, onward to what ? And there are those things I left. The tilings behind me which do not go onward. Oh why?—Why. Why—why— But it will never be the same again I'll never go back to those things I left— It will never be the same again. 'The words kept throbbing, throbbing, throbbing in my heart. .Darkness was my only friend. For in the stillness of the night I could hear the sounds of emo tions but in the blackness I could See only the images of my thoughts—• I’m really very tired funny, I just had a birthday, I should feel good but I've come so far in so few years—I wonder where all my old friends are gosh I feel str, age- what's that? yes, it's mother, “Sonny, hurry, you’ll be lace for school''— And out into the cold of March's first days I'd go. Down hull with my scarf blowing in a crisp breeze. Soon Judy was there with her pert ways and then Harry and all of pur small gang. Oh how we world run when we heard that bell—Into our classes and then —another day of our youth and school— How happily I lived those days. Things were bright, the vigor of youth, of living. “Morty, Judy, Bobby, Harry”— and down to the mill we'd go. Our hearts were light, our minds wore free and clean, The marshes wei ■ flooded and a scrambling and. a scraping we went until we boasted a barge floating on our cm clear waters of Pacifica. We paddled to China for some lucky stcr.es, to Siam for some milk er.- -ds. Egypt gave us clay. Many we- live times we fell into the ■vendor, many were the colds and scoldings, but the great market place in our yards, and the fes tivals we had, and the fires we'd lig to dry off before the home wan i trek with baked potatoes made up for all our sufferings. But it will never be the same again. Ill never go back to those tilings I left. * * * d ' LORIOUS days of high-school ’ followed and all those prob lems we brought to our Mom. And how she would listen and help. Life was so good and our joys so many. We would laugh and dream and joke and all the time things were changing, changing, changing. Year after year 1 left behind me memories and with each memory a part of me my first concert, 1930 that all white and sweet smelling sensation I had when out came my appendix, 1937 end all the time T was changing —1938— Suddenly, nature revolted dy namically. creating bedlam. She ros to show her might. She tore down the peaceful streets smash ing' in panes of glass which flew over the pavement, landing with a bitter, resonant—crash! Calm waters were engulfed. They surged onward toward the people. They were cold, fierce, treacher ous waters of revenge. The tidal wave grew higher and higher, grew mightier and mightier with its sounds of death. With all the force of an enemy, it swerved down upon the people. Smashing, surging, swirling it went on its way. Storm signals were raised hurricane had struck peaceful, beauteous New England— Hurri cane had struck my home. With its weird, whistling, hiss ing sound the winds began to blow. They puffed in homes, they kidnapped the ocean waters, they struck against gigantic oaks, they toppled buildings, they played the game of death with iNew Englanders. Panic broke loose. Simultaneously, fire en gines shriek e d, amublances screeched, the crowds screamed—■ they screamed because they were able to hold fast to nothing, not even life for that was now the toy of nature. A glance into the once irresist ible horizon I loved and knew so well revealed smouldering homes, our homes—Judy’s, Harry’s, Bob by’s, and mine, and burning fac tories, our factories, toppled trees which went down with a mighty flump after many years, trees on whicli we had out “I love you’s” and our names, trees under which we would stand and match chestnuts, flooded streets, the streets we walked on, ran on, sang on, lived on, and now a wake, our friends, relatives— wake. The skies were dark. Lightning' streaked fire across the hidden clouds, thunder shook the stars madly. Rumble, rumble and a crash was the sound it made un til the clouds looked down and spit forth their tears. Our people went mad with hor ror. Telephone wires fell—com munication was lost. Our homes •were gone and our loved ones were- ? Still the hurricane went on her path of destruction. Night fell. The waters had piled up until they had created oceans in the heart of our towns. They carried away the refuge of the attack, the wind began to blow less bru tally the storm was ceasing. The.next day came the shovels, and picks, and the trucks, and the derricks, and the crews of la borers. They steamed, and buzzed, and picked, and scraped, and sawed. Down and up went the picks, down and up went the der ricks, up came our homes which would never stand quietly again. The crews of laborers sweated and shivered and worked and toiled. They cleaned the debris that had changed our coast line. Hurricane had changed our New England and It will never be the same again. I'll never go back to those thing's I left. IN faith and hope we entrusted our lives, and the sun shone through the darkest clouds. Life began to grow as fast as we who took our sleds and coasted down the hills of or town and bathed our skin in the cold, clear snow. Oh yes!— Then I went to college and what a time—There were the cherished friends I made and the times I had, the travels I went on. and the things I would plan and dream and pray for— Many were the lessons we learned from the most unexpected episodes and yet how unpene trating' we were into the true meaning- of a great many things. But I—I always thought and wondered, maybe too much. For example there was that indus trial celebration they had in March 1941— “C'mon Mort, there’s the bell, and it's a neat day out.” O I heard the bell ring; moreover, I heard my friends shouting, “C’mon, c’mon.’’ But I was thinking, “There’s going to be a parade today. The army is going to show their guns and tanks, and nurses, and sol diers, and volunteers will march. If some fellows come, they’ll spoil my mood by yelling out, “Woo, look at that blonde, will ya? Hey git the walk on that one.’ I'll just go alone.” “Hurry up, Mort, will ya? Dammit, you’re as slow as my Uncle Pete's sick cow.” I said, “So long, see ya later,” to all the fellows, and I ran down the stairs of the school, leaped across the street, and hurried into the shady park. Whoops! I stopped short. “Shucks, what’s wrong?" I queried, “hundreds of people pass it every day and say nothing. Why I come by it and use its big feet for a seat or lean against its legs while waiting for a trolley. But right now I have to say, “Hi, there, Mr. Lincoln.” “Yeah, Harry, I tell ya lie’s sittin on the foot of that statue of Lincoln in the park, and he's talkin' to himself; he’s gone nuts, I betclia.” Well, sir, 1 just tnougnt mat Mr. Lincoln in marble has winked at me. I winked back and though the pigeons were playing gleeful ly around Mr. Lincoln's hands, he said, “Where are you going and what's the excitement about, son ?” My heart began to swell, a twinkle filled my eyes, and I an swered whole-heartedly, “Oh, there’s going to be a big military parade, tl couldn't stop here very well, so I added), “Want to come and see it?” Now that was generous, wasn’t it ? After all, Lincoln would en joy seeing the war efforts of our great nation; he would enjoy see ing free negroes marching be side their fellow Americans; he would enjoy seeing a united na tion of women, men, children, Jew, Negro, Armenian, Chinese all working side by side, all wear ing close to their hearts the sym bol of our greatness, and Mr. Lincoln, wouldn’t you enjoy see ing millions of people who love you ? I felt as though Lincoln had accepted my invitation and was standing beside me. “Hi ya, Mort.” “Sh!” “Hey, what's eatin’ on you?” “Mr. Lincoln is thinking about the fellows who marched in the Civil war and of those who are marching on battle fields today. I’d better whisper somethin’ to him.” “I tell ya, Harry, he’s nuts!” “Mr. Lincoln, it’s O.K. These fellows are marching out the beats of respect, pride, and hap piness. I knew that would make him feel better. “Hey, Larry, there’s the mayor getting ready to give his ad dress.” “C'mon, Mort, let’s move down Etude for the Artist Long ductile fingers Caressing velvet motion brush, Hazy smoke lingers Greenwich Village midnight hush. “An artist must love and be loved . , . Poet, mystic, philosopher, scholar . . . Expanding atom in the relentless Rhythmic surge of life force. Symmetry, proportion, balance, purist Classicist, stylist, cubist, expressionist All in the same stroke of the brush. White glaze incandescence pulsTng of E^sel-life. Poignant, hot, humid fusion Velvet-breasted night warmly cooling . . . You young artists paint paint paint For the soul and the eye . . . the wet and Lidless eye of those more critical Than correct . , . understanding eye of Hope and achievement. Paint the pregnant Woman by fields of rich American wheat . . . Grey hulking powerful defense factories With clang of steel and lapping glut of Seawater on camouflaged bows sleek and Deadly. Paint the approaching footsteps Two young lovers on a soft summer night Please make me hear the man’s voice Low, vibrant, hushed, casual, confiding . . . Paint the low rich welling of the woman's Laughter tender and sensual receding into Midnight mystery silence . . . Crimson, black, yellow, green . . . Whispering pinks and bruising reds— Million-faced nightmares of pigment Lifting man’s story above the immense Prodigious shoulder of escaping time. Dream-pale, racy, pungent, glowing , . . Mad, fervid, opulent-cool, moist blushes— You young artists . . . paint . . . paint . . . paint Joyful exultant mood Easy fluent slippery nights, Cultural beauty nude Blinking winking Greenwich lights. -—By Ray Dickson. Literary Page Staff: Editor: Carol Greening Contributors: Morton Reichart Ray Dickson nearer to him.” I didn’t hear the mayor. No, I heard—• “Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the preposition that all men are cre ated equal.” As the crowds cheered the mayor, I saw the men and women for whom Lincoln save the union cheer him. As the bands began to play “America,” I saw Lin coln departing from Illinois. As the drums began to toll and a fcannon was fired, I saw Lincoln fall with a bullet shot through his body. And from out of the smoke came Vachel Lindsay. Va chel Lindsay came saying— “He cannot rest until the spirit dawn shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Worker’s Earth, bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea, It breaks his heart That kings must murder still, that All his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring White peace that he may sleep upon His hill again?" I shouted, "Abraham Lincoln!" From the right came, “Yo, there, ■look at that beautiful skirt over there!" i'J'HE next day on the way to classes with some of the boys I was asked a question, "Hey, Mort, if you were a great man, where else, besides in the schools, would you teach Ameri cans the true meaning of Ameri canism and brotherhood?" "I’d go nowhere, Spike, I wouldn’t even stress it too much in school. You see, it’s in the hearts of all Americans. Every person standing on American soil knows that nowhere else may he plant healthy roots for a healthy life. Nowhere else may he utter, (Please turn to page sez'cn) 1 BOOK SALE AT THE CO-OP 9