Blogger friend Roderick "Robbie" Robinson left a provocative comment on my last post. It inspired me to imagine what might have happened if he moved to South Bend, Indiana in the mid-1960's. Instead, he spent a few of those years in Pittsburgh trying to figure out what this America thing was all about.
South Bend was smaller, but still akin to Pittsburg then; industrial and gloriously ethnic. Had you moved to SB in the mid-1960s, Robbie, you might have hung out at bars my Dad frequented. He could be charming or he could be loutish. Totally up to you. But he would have initially tried to befriend you. And if some lunkhead made fun of you for being a "foreigner" he would have had your back. Seriously, he would have thrown the first punch.
Dad often brought home people from other countries who had interesting accents. Sometimes he brought them home in the middle of the night. There might be singing. My personal favorite was the Irishman who told us about leprechauns. Dad would have put on music that he thought you MUST hear, like "Cleanhead's Back in Town" by Eddie Vinson. Perhaps you and he would have sang together? Unlikely, but this IS my fantasy. And if you had told him how you liked classical music, he would have listened with an ear to hear.
He might have had you eat kielbasa with his Polish friends, or goulash with the Hungarians at the South Side Democratic Club. Certainly you and your wife would have joined my parents at a local joint for a Friday night fish fry.
My Kentucky-born grandfather would have distrusted you, of course, but he might have taken you pistol shooting at the gravel pit. Or shown you his mermaid tattoo, or the American Eagle imprinted across his chest. He would have certainly taken you in his basement to show you how he made his own bullets, really an interesting process. Grandma would have made you Southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and fried corn as the side.
Well, that was fun. If only you hadn't moved to Pittsburgh instead.
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| Intersection of South Bend's Michigan and Jefferson Streets, 1968. Photo credit to Lou Szabo. |
This is a fun post, Colette. I often wonder about the coincidences that come up in the blogs I read. Someone once mentioned going to the NY Worlds Fair in 1964 and my family went to that too and I have a whole scrapbook of stuff from that visit. I thought we might all have seen in other at the fair and never realized we would end up meeting through a future blog!
ReplyDeleteIt doesn't seem like there are Worlds Fairs any more?
DeleteWhat an interesting post, Colette. I love how you describe life in the mid 1960s in South Bend, Indiana. Life was so different in the suburbs of New Jersey where I grew up in those days. It was backyard barbecues and Friday night bowling; shopping malls and easy bus commutes to Greenwich Village. I love that Ellen D mentioned the NY 1964 World's Fair. My family went to that too.
ReplyDeleteThe past is so interesting, and so varied. We had backyard barbecues, too. But no bowling or Greenwich Village. I went to shopping malls with my friends, never with my family. The family would go to Shopper's Fair, a large discount department store chain much like Walmart now. It doesn't exist anymore.
DeleteA pleasant reverie.
ReplyDeleteThanks. Fathers like mine led separate lives from their family.
Delete8th day - I was posting your comment when my computer crashed and it never made it here, although it shows up as already posted in my comment feed. Here's what you said:
ReplyDelete8thday commented on "A formative trip, 1961"
During this same time period my parents bought into the "see the USA" jingle and all our family vacations were car trips to National Parks. Like you, the trips formed my love of the outdoors. This post was a great reminder to make sure my grandchildren also become an "outsiders".
It's fun to imagine how things might have been different had different choices been made. Life is full of intriguing coincidences and decision points.
ReplyDeleteIt really was fun to write this.
DeleteI did actually go to Indiana. A US mate and I were launching a new magazine and we had an invitation to a Notre Dame social event held – for unknown reasons – in the middle of a silver birch wood. It was a sunny afternoon and there was a small van, equipped with a big brass spigot, through which free beer was dispensed. My mate clapped me on the shoulder, and said heartily, “This is what the USA is all about.” I couldn’t but agree.
ReplyDeleteIt wasn’t South Bend but never mind. Congratulations on this act of imagination that has become an engaging post. A slap in the face for bloggers who moan: “Nothing happened to me today (= I didn’t buy anything online from Amazon) so there’s nothing to write about.” Poo on them. Do they not have passing thoughts?
Certainly I would have hung around in bars. The nearest to the YMCA where I was temporarily housed was Riggs Lounge on Pittsburgh’s Northside. I was wetting my whistle there and got into conversation with a cranky son of toil, mainly about speaking German. I said something in that language and he told me my accent was terrible. All the while I continued to eat giant prawns from a dish on the bar, imagining them to be free. I was after all in the land of the free, so why not? The cranky SoT seemed to be getting crankier, eventually saying “Y’know you gotta pay for those.” I must have looked astonished or – possibly – poverty-stricken. Grumbling more loudly now, he fished in his pocket, tossed a couple of sawbucks on the counter and abruptly left.
I felt this new land was a place where I might well make money.
Certainly I dined out on being a foreigner. I seemed to fascinate the locals. They said it was my foreign accent, I said they were the ones with the accent. And I fear their lack of vocabulary. I would have acceded to your Dad’s approaches and said he could pay for the drinks since Americans had a reputation for generosity. How could I compete? Brits were well-known for being as mean as pi-dogs. This technique was definitely a booze winner.
I’ve eaten kielbasa (or something close) and goulasch in the country formerly known as Yugoslavia, so wouldn’t have been put out there. Had your grandfather invited me to the gravel pit – with pistols in the offing – I would have claimed to be gay. The Mexican mother of the magazine’s secretary showed us how to make tortillas causing me to feel like a man-of-the-world.
Lots more. I did, for instance, buy a baseball glove. And used it.
If you went to Notre Dame, then you were in South Bend. And I hope you pronounced it NOH-tər-DAYM, because folks in the Midwest dislike when people put on airs and try to pronounce things correctly. Very confusing.
DeleteYou know me, I gave them both pronunciations - the one used parochially and the one the rest of the world uses. But it wasn't an afternoon of international conflict. Everyone felt warmed by the sun, sated by the free beer, and disposed to love all types of foreigner. My six years in the USA benefited me in many ways and I once had evidence (in the form of real thank-you letters from professors at MIT, Berkeley, etc) to suggest I had improved their academic prose in articles submitted for publication. Remembering these good times meant that I suffered almost as badly as most US liberals when Trump took power.
DeleteYour dad sounds like quite a character. The visitors from other countries must have been interesting. Jenny and I are still seen as "blow-ins" by some, even though we've lived in Northern Ireland for 22 years!
ReplyDeletePeople are so odd about who belongs and who doesn't.
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