I have had a long-term relationship with Joyce Maynard. It goes back to the 1970’s. Joyce does not know me and has no idea as to who I am. Yet she has influenced my life and thinking for over forty years.
I first became acquainted with Joyce shortly after I graduated from Pitzer College in 1975. It was not long after I went to work at B. Dalton Bookseller when I read her 1973 book Looking Back: A Chronicle of Growing Up Old in the Sixties, expanded from an essay that appeared in the New York Times Magazine. I felt an immediate and deep connection with her and recognized that we shared many of the same values about growing up, leaving home, and heading out into the world. The book touched me deeply as I was leaving the sheltered world of academia and figuring out how to buy my own groceries and pay my own rent. At that time I had no clue that she was the 18-year-old who had moved in with J.D. Salinger.
I was disappointed, therefore, to hear Joyce’s commentaries for the Spectrum series on CBS radio. Back in those days CBS radio had a rotating group of commentators who offered short audio essays on current affairs. Joyce always took the conservative perspective, very much at odds with her viewpoint in Looking Back. I was further disappointed, devastated, and hurt, I felt stabbed in the back, when I read a piece of hers, I don’t remember where, in which she wrote that what she said in Looking Back was not what she really felt but what she believed readers of the era wanted to see. Joyce, how could you?
In spite of this betrayal I paid attention when I saw her name, and I was compelled to buy and read her 1998 “tell-all” book about her life with Salinger, At Home in the World. I felt sympathy for her naiveté and ineptness, but she wrote nothing to heal the original betrayal.
Joyce resurfaced recently, when I turned the page of the September 9 New York Times Book Review and saw her name on a full-page essay. She notes that twenty years have passed since the publication of At Home in the World. She reminds me that we are very close to the same age (there’s only three months difference, in fact). She writes of being ostracized by the literary community for the perceived betrayal of Salinger in her book, and about how, after all these years and after all of the novels and other books she has written over the decades, she is still most remembered, by some at least, for her brief relationship with Salinger.
I feel a certain sympathy, even some empathy for her. But Joyce, you still betrayed me more than forty years ago. I should be over all that, I know. The truth, nonetheless, is that I hardly knew ye.
The options these days for entertainment are overwhelming. If you have cable or satellite, in addition to the basic channels you have the option of HBO, Showtime, Cinemax, The Movie Channel, Starz, and Epix. If you like to stream you have Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, Hulu, and a whole range of other services. These are services that you can get through your Smart TV, your Blu-ray player, your Roku device, or your tablet, smart phone, or computer.
It was not always so.
My senior year in college, 1974-75, I rented a room off campus in a beautiful old house on College Avenue in Claremont. Somehow I managed to get a portable black and white TV. I think perhaps my parents bought it for me. Claremont sits at the eastern edge of Los Angeles County, so I had access to all of the L.A. television stations via my rabbit-ear antenna and my loop antenna for UHF.
I could flip the dial for the VHF stations or set the VHF tuner to “U” and scan the UHF stations on the separate UHF dial. I think I was able to get three, maybe four, PBS stations. How incredibly cool was that?
I had no complaints. I didn’t think I was missing anything. (Except for a sex life, but that’s a different story.) It was a simpler time.
An Olive Street recollection.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been forty-three years since I graduated from college. As the Wallace Shawn character in the movie Princess Bride kept saying, “Inconceivable!” (“I don’t think that word means what you think it does, boss.”)
When I moved into the Olive Street apartment after graduation with my roommate George we kept expenses down and our needs were simple. Our dining room table was a pice of plywood on two saw horses. Georges’s desk was a door from the lumber yard (long before Home Depot and Lowe’s) on four orange crates. For compartmentalization and document storage he used empty Pringle’s potato chip cans.
I had a small desk that I had acquired from my patents and slept on a roll away bed from the same source.
Orange crates, by the way, weren’t what you might expect. Originally they were in fact made to hold oranges. But when Sunkist switched to cardboard boxes from those wooden crates a smart entrepreneur moved into the Sunkist warehouse by the railroad tracks and started making orange crates that never held oranges. He astutely priced them so they were affordable to college and post-college folks like myself who, almost universally, used them for furniture and shelving.
So when it came to candle holders we were equally frugal. An empty wine bottle made a great candle holder. And sometimes, as now, I simply need to go back to that place.
It’s not such a bad thing, really.
I haven’t discussed it for a while, but those of you who have been reading this blog for a long time know that I’m really a 1970s kind of guy. I have more of a nostalgia for the seventies than for the eighties and I much prefer seventies music to eighties music. The default radio station on my SiriusXM car radio is The Bridge, which plays music of James Taylor, Carly Simon, Gordon Lightfoot and the like.
That seventies vibe informs my Saturday morning routine. While waiting to hear from my brother or sister-in-law as to where Terry and I going to have breakfast with them, my dad, nephew, and great niece I have my internet radio on the Sirius XM channel 70 on 7, which plays reruns of Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 from the 70s. When we get in the car I switch over to 70s on 7.
I look at the date on the display and remember where I was and what I was doing at the time. Some of the songs were not part of my world then, but many bring back memories.
I really am a 1970s kind of guy.
Not long ago I checked in on Facebook at my local supermarket and made the following comment:
Checkers and baggers don’t know how to properly fill a bag anymore. By gum, when I was a box boy we knew how to do it right, dag nab it!
I was surprised by the number of reactions I got. But it’s a sore point for me. I have some history there.
I was a box boy in high school. I first worked at Village Market, one of three stores owned by the Goodwin family of Crestline up in the San Bernardino mountains. I then worked at the chain store Alpha Beta, which I enjoyed. There were several of us Hemet High seniors who worked there and we took pride in what we did. We developed a rhythm of keeping one hand in the bag to place the item while filling the bag with the other. Of course this was when we used paper bags. That technique was not possible with the advent of the single-use plastic grocery bag. Fortunately the voters in California last year voted to ban those single-use bags.
That means that people bring their own bags of different shapes and sizes, which, as one commenter suggested, is perhaps confusing the staff. But as I replied, “Put me at the end of a checkstand and I’ll fill each bag properly, no matter its shape or size.”
How hard can it be? Neither checker nor bagger seems to understand that if you put the milk and juice in first the other stuff will fit around it. But it’s easier for them to leave those items out of the bag. Over at Sprouts they have the same problem. They don’t understand how to position my frozen entrees so that everything else fits in the bag as well. sigh (Although I have to say that the fellow at Sprouts on Sunday did a really good job. I was impressed. I wish that was the rule and not the exception.)
But back in 1970-71 at Alpha Beta store #74 in Hemet, we knew how to bag groceries and how to bag them right.
I have long been a “forever in blue jeans” kind of guy. I haven’t always worn blue jeans, but somewhere along the line I started wearing them and have done so for many decades.
I did not wear blue jeans during my Claremont cockroach days. I certainly did not have a lot of money for new clothes then. I did not have a lot of money, period. But one of my Claremont friends turned me on to a hole-in-the-wall clothing outlet store where I found a pair of corduroys at a really good price. They were my favorite pair of non-work, casual trousers until I wore them absolutely threadbare.
That was in the mid-1970’s. I haven’t owned a pair of corduroys since. Until now. I reinstated my Lands End account online to order a pair of slacks for church, since the pair I had been wearing were seriously falling apart. I got an email from them that offered fifty percent off a regularly priced item. And they tantalizingly featured cords in that same email.
I ordered one pair half off full price and another heavily discounted, apparently on close out. So now I have two new pair of corduroy. Terry loves them and I am really enjoying my soft, comfortable corduroys for the first time since 1975 or so.
I discovered Pot Shots when I first arrived in Claremont in the fall of 1971. Maybe I even discovered them when I attended the summer program there in 1970. Pot Shots are post cards containing an aphorism and a line drawing.
A while back GoComics on the web started offering Pot Shots on a daily basis. They started at the beginning in the late 1960s and moved forward one Pot Shot at a time. I tracked my own experience at Pitzer College in the seventies as I saw each entry.
When 1975 rolled around I thought I had pretty much stopped paying attention to Pot Shots. That was my second semester as a senior at Pitzer and I was looking ahead to the next phase of my life. Then this Pot Shot show up on GoComics. Oh yeah. I remember that one. I remember it well. It resonated deeply with me.
Obviously, I was still an active Pot Shots follower in 1975.