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,
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