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40 Years Ago-February 2, 1972: punch

March 6 was #1 and March 7 was #2

When I was in college at SUNY New Paltz, the way one signed up for courses was to go through something called sectioning. You went to various tables representing the different departments, and you got an actual IBM punch card representing that class. Once the cards for a particular class were gone, it was closed out.

As a freshman, I was in the group that got the last choices. I could make up a tentative schedule of what I WANTED to take, but I wouldn’t know until I got into the gymnasium where this took place whether a particular class was closed out.

I recall that I got three courses I wanted right away, but the next two took forever, with my first (and second and third choices, et al.) unavailable to me. Ultimately, it took FIVE hours, and I ended up with some 8 a.m. anthropology course that I really didn’t want, though I ended up enjoying it.

I walked back to Scudder Hall, exhausted, and visited someone on the first floor (my room was in the basement). I had totally forgotten that the draft numbers were being picked that day. College student deferments had been ended by then, so it was possible that people could be drafted to go to Vietnam. I asked one friend what his draft number was – don’t recall now, but it was very high. I remember, though, that Fred the gnome’s draft number was 23, which was not good news. It was only then that it occurred to me to ask what MY number was; it was 2. As in 002. I think I was in shock, and too tired to think about it at the moment.

A few days later my oldest friend Karen wrote that, if I were going to get a low number, why not #1? As it turned out, March 6 was #1 and March 7 was #2, so I understood the source of the gallows’ humor.

The first anniversary of my mother’s death

I was there when Mom died shortly before 9 a.m.

I realized that, while my mother’s death naturally made me very sad, and especially that “adult orphan” thing weirded me out, there were some things that mitigated the pain somewhat.

To recap: my “baby” sister called me at work on Friday, January 28 to tell me our mother, Gertrude Elizabeth (Trudy) Green, had gone to the ER with a severe headache. It was latter determined that she had had a “brain bleed”; I don’t think I understood that terminology until I got down to the hospital. What Mom had was a stroke; there are two kinds, one which constricts the blood, and the other, less common, but more problematic, where there’s too much blood.

I figured that I needed to go down by train because flying was too expensive. I remember getting a “sick or bereavement rate” when I flew down to Charlotte, NC before my father died, but it was hardly helpful. Since I didn’t know when I’d return, taking the train to Charlotte seemed to be the best plan.

I was initially planning on leaving on Tuesday, but when I saw the forecast for a massive snowstorm, which did arrive, I knew I needed to leave on Monday. I called work on Monday morning from the train station to tell them I wouldn’t be in for several days.

Tuesday, my sisters and I spent the day in the hospital, and my sisters tell me that she was doing much better, giving a couple of one-word answers.

Wednesday morning, she had a Cheyne-Stokes breathing episode that sounded terribly distressing, but apparently was not, at least for her. I talked with my doctor about this last month when I was feeling unwell. She notes that hospice nurses are good at bringing comfort to the family, but that sometimes, hospital nurses forget that, when death is near, they still need to try to make the family feel OK. My doc theorized that perhaps they gave my mom a bit of morphine to control the sounds, for my benefit.

I was there when Mom died shortly before 9 a.m. I was told to call my sisters before I was told that fact; very odd. When my sisters arrived, they thought she was only sleeping before I had a chance to tell them otherwise.

I was having this electronic conversation with my blogger buddy Arthur recently about the euphemisms for death. He doesn’t much like them, and I’m inclined to agree. But, in my mom’s case, I understand why they say that someone “passed away.”

It so happened that I wrote a blog item that posted on Wednesday, though I had written it on Saturday, Take the Train to Charlotte. All the posts prior to 2:05 pm EST indicated hope for my mom’s recovery. But somewhere around 2:12, I started getting condolences. Denise, the ABC Wednesday diva, had IMed me at some point after we got home from the hospital around noon, to ask how my mom was doing, so of course, I told her. The outpouring of support I got from people I had never met was astonishing. Jaquandor and Arthur both wrote posts about my mom and me.

I was intrigued by one comment to a brief post I wrote the day after she died, describing my account as “dispassionate”. I suppose that was true; it was a coping mechanism.

So it was tough, but it was made palatable by folks from work and church, and by friends I’ve known in person, but also from a whole lot of people I have never met. My friends Jason and DeeDee placed a small obit in my mom’s hometown paper in Binghamton, NY, which was the first time some of her friends and relatives heard about her death. I read the comments from various posts I wrote during the month, and they make me (past and present tense) both weepy, but at the same time, comforted. The aforementioned Denise sent flowers to our house; it is amazing how well flowers from England held up.

Oh, some mundane stuff: got $561 from my mother’s Social Security in December, as did my sisters; not quite clear exactly why. That’ll help with paying off some of the debt I incurred for the funeral and Charlotte newspaper obit.

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes

Hughes was one of the first black authors, who could support himself by his writings.

Today would have been the 110th birthday of James Mercer Langston Hughes, “an American poet, novelist, playwright, and columnist.” When he died on May 22, 1967, I wasn’t that familiar with his work, but I knew that someone important had passed. He was born into abolitionist stock, had both black and white critics, but eventually became a leading light of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s.

Here’s the text of Let America Be America Again, which starts:
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

Here’s a reading of the poem.
***
From Bizarro Books the GOP Reads (that’s print title Newsweek used), Paul Begala wrote: “Poor Rick Santorum has struggled with literature as well, taking his initial campaign slogan, “Let America Be America Again,” from Langston Hughes. But he later disavowed it after learning that the African-American poet was pro-union and reportedly gay. Should have Googled it, Rick.”

January Rambling: sweatshops, Steve Bissette and singing

Some yahoo wrote The Rare Case Against Creator-Owned Comics, citing the Steve Bissette article as “proof” of his premise.

Vernon Supreme for President. Just one of about four dozen candidates on the New Hampshire ballot.

From here: “When Steve Jobs died…, deification from the media and inconsolable consumers made gripes about Apple’s use of sweatshops seem like the cynical mumblings of contrarians. The problem is that there’s plenty of documentation and reporting that supports the criticism.” See also this: “Mike Daisey was a self-described ‘worshipper in the cult of Mac.’ Then he saw some photos from a new iPhone, taken by workers at the factory where it was made. Mike wondered: Who makes all my crap? He traveled to China to find out.”

Rich Kids For Romney.

A Gentle Question for the Christian Right.

Nobody has the right to take another life; Roger Ebert on the death penalty.

Elizabeth Warren: ‘It Gets Better’

Gabrielle Giffords resigns from the US House of Representatives, a year after being shot in the head, so she can more fully recover. The video is very nice, but there are always trolls – check them out at the YouTube site at your own risk – who show what schmucks some people can be.

My buddy Steve Bissette noted the unfortunate circumstances involving the non-publication of 1963, a project that involved, among others, Steve and Alan Moore. Then, some yahoo wrote The Rare Case Against Creator-Owned Comics, citing the Bissette article as “proof” of his premise. Steve responded to “this oddly-headlined post at Newsarama, which”, Steve hastened to add, “somewhat distorts the context of my own end-of-2011 Myrant post.”

Aggressively inarticulate.

The late Etta James covers Guns ‘N’ Roses’ Welcome To The Jungle. Here’s her Roll with me Henry a/k/a The Wallflower.
From the Wikipedia: “[Musician Johnny] Otis took the group under his wing, helping them sign to Modern Records and changing their name from the Creolettes to the Peaches and gave the singer her stage name reversing Jamesetta [Hawkins] into Etta James. James recorded the version…in 1954, and the song was released in early 1955 as ‘Dance with Me, Henry’…changed to avoid censorship due to the subtle title. In February of that year, the song reached number one on the Hot Rhythm & Blues Tracks chart.” Yes, her At Last was played at Carol’s and my wedding reception, too. And coincidentally, Johnny Otis died that same week as Etta. Here’s his Willie and the Hand Jive.

A nice story about the late Dick Tufeld, who voiced the robot on Lost in Space, among MANY other gigs.

Ten Bits of Advice Writers Should Stop Giving Aspiring Writers.

The Year in Kickstarter.

Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy hit back at Fox News during a UK press conference following the London Premiere of their new film. Fox News had publicly criticized the film for supposedly pushing a ‘dangerous liberal agenda’ at kids.

Three musical pieces, including those 5 people on one guitar I saw more than a few times across the interwebs.

Art Spiegelman exhibition in Angouleme, France.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1910).

Ellen and Sofia.

Sammy Davis performing If I Were A Rich Man, with Mark Evanier citing the source, and making an interesting point about its appropriateness.

Pie on the brain.

Mozart is 256.

This guy travels the world and everywhere he goes, he shoots a second or two of video of himself. Then he goes home and puts it together.

Pacman, the Musical.

Cookie Monster as Tom Waits. Or vice versa.

Sorry, San Francisco football fans, but the 49ers Aren’t Going to the Super Bowl. So, go New York Giants, even if they play in New Jersey.

MOI, ELSEWHERE

Post SOPA/PIPA, KeepThe Web#OPEN; Oppose ACTA

The GOP Debates debate

Slavery By Another Name: Doug Blackmon, Bill Kennedy and Me

Chainsaw Comics Presents: Fear

GOOGLE ALERTS

Roger Green Trim and Construction – Local Business · Charlotte, North Carolina

Dr Roger Green DDS – General Dentistry Sun City West, AZ

11629 West Roger Green Road, Campbellsburg IN 47108

Hembeck is 59

At least I usually get to see Fred twice a year at the comic book show in Albany.

It’s interesting to me that, in the past year, the one guy who most influenced me in blogging, comic book artist/scribe Fred Hembeck, has seemingly left the blogosphere. He hasn’t posted a thing since April 10, 2011. He started FredSez on January 1, 2003, and for several years wrote almost every day, an inspirational pace. But the output slackened in the last couple of years before he stopped altogether. Hasn’t used his Twitter account very much anymore.

Seems that his chosen medium is now Facebook, which is fine. He has over 5000 “friends” there. In fact, it’s a better way to contact him than by e-mail, in my experience.

For me, though, I know I’ll never go back and peruse anyone’s Facebook or Twitter posts like I read Fred’s blog for the pieces he wrote during the nearly two years before I discovered his blog.

At least I usually get to see Fred twice a year at the comic book show in Albany, although he didn’t make it last October because of a freak snowstorm south of Albany, where Fred lives.

But Fred DID make it into other blogs, a couple of times as a topic in Jim Shooter’s blog, here and here, plus in the comments here. His artwork was also highlighted by Mike Sterling.

In any case, happy birthday, Fred, old friend. You’re more elderly than I am for five weeks and TWO days this year, because of leap year. Let me know how it is just shy of 60.