It is a kind of song that provides your brain with a sort of mental massage to your soul when you decide to listen to it. Talat Mahmood’s voice had that soft silken quality. These kinds of song do not rely upon its picturisation to win you over. The voice is enough to do that. In the past 56 odd yeras that this song is in existence, it has built up a solid fan base for itself.

The lyrics serve the same purpose as a massage oil does in a massage. Few people fully understood the lyrics, but it does not matter, rather it helps one in enjoying the song. And I cannot praise the lyrics of Rajinder Krishan high enough. He was an awesome talent.The music of Sajjad works unobtrusively in the background and enhances the effect.

Song- Ye hawa ye raat ye chandni (Sangdil 1952) Singer- Talat, Lyrics- Rajinder Krishan MD-Sajjad

Lyrics

ye hawaa ye raat ye chaandni
teri ik adaa pe nisaar hai
ye hawaa ye raat ye chaandni
teri ik adaa pe nisaar hai
mujhe kyun na ho teri aarzoo
teri justjoo mein bahaar hai
ye hawaa ye raat ye chaandni

tujhe kya khabar hai o bekhabar
tujhe kya khabar hai o bekhabar
teri ik nazar mein hai kya asar
tujhe kya khabar hai o bekhabar
teri ik nazar mein hai kya asar
jo ghazab mein aaye to kahar hai
jo ho meharabaan wo qaraar hai
mujhe kyun na ho teri aarzoo
teri justjoo mein bahaar hai
ye hawaa ye raat ye chaandni

teri baat-baat hai dilnasheen
teri baat-baat hai dilnasheen
koyi tujhse badhke nahin haseen
teri baat-baat hai dilnasheen
koyi tujhse badhke nahin haseen
hai kali-kali mein jo mastiyaan
teri aankh ka ye khumaar hai
mujhe kyun na ho teri aarzoo
teri justjoo mein bahaar hai
ye hawaa ye raat ye chaandni
teri ik adaa pe nisaar hai …

            The American Way Of Life

She walked along the cliff of good;

Below her was the sea of sin.

She stopped and wondered if she would,

Then swayed, and paused, and dove right in.

Her name was, well, it hardly mattered;

She looked like, well, like you

Or me, or all the other scattered

Friendless peoples in this stew.

Voltaire made bulbs and Locke made keys,

While morals were confined to fable.

Yes, she’d heard of Socrates,

But life was really mink and sable.

Poor girl!

- Please, don’t fight

-I simply had to have that hat.

-No, not Ed Sullivan tonight.

-Please dear, yes dear, oh no, not that.

-Now dear, why do you grump and gripe?

-Your bills? I know. I can’t construe it.

-Of course I’ll go and fill your pipe.

-That poor, poor girl, why did she do it?

Home was normal, (or as normal

As we think normal to be),

Life as formal or informal

As we think a life should be.

Above are words she might have heard.

Her folks were average man and wife.

Seems normal, but it lacked the girder

That holds bridges up in strife.

“That’s no problem”, you may claim.

“Bad blood, so she deserves her stigma.”

Ah, my friends, you are to blame.

With that I end this small enigma.

©

The American Way Of Life 1952Definitely Didactic; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin

“I don’t know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. … It is true that two men can lift a bigger stone than one man, and bread from a huge factory is cheaper and more uniform. When our food and clothing and housing are all born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and to eliminate all other thinking. In our time mass or collective production has entered our economics, our politics, and even our religion… This in my time is the danger. There is great tension in the world, tension toward a breaking point, and men are unhappy and confused. … And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free-roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken.”

— John Steinbeck, Chapter 13, East of Eden, 1952

“Albela”, a movie released in 1952 was a blockbuster in all respects, be it success at the box offfice or the popularity of its songs. Almost al its songs went on to become hugely popular.

This particular song “shaam dhale khidki tale” was one of the earliest such tapori song, which appealed to masses as well as classes.

This song is a timeless classic. Listening to this song, as well as watching the picturisation transports us magically to the era of 1952 when things were much different from now. It is like going back into the past in a time machine, and the experience is quite rewarding.

Song: Shaam dhale khidki tale (Albela 1952) Singers- Lata, C Ramchandra, Lyrics- Rajinder Krishan, MD- C Ramchandra

Lyrics

shaam dhale, khidkii tale
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do

ghadi-ghadi khidki mein khadi
tum teer chalaanaa chhod do

shaam dhale, khidki tale
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do
tum teer chalaanaa chhod do

roz-roz tum meri gali mein
chakkar kyon ho kaatte
aji, chakkar kyon ho kaatte
sachchi-sachchi baat kahoon main
sachchi-sachchi baat kahoon main
aji tumhaare waaste, tumhaare waaste
jaao, jaao, hosh mein aao
yoon aanaa-jaanaa chhod do
yoon aanaa-jaanaa chhod do
shaam dhale, khidki tale
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do
tum teer chalaanaa chhod do

mujhse tumhen kyaa matlab hai
ye baat zaraa batlaao
mujhse tumhen kyaa matlab hai
ye baat zaraa batlaao
baat fakat itni si hai
ke tum meri ho jaao
aao aao tum meri ho jaao
aisi baaten, apne dil mein
saahib tum laanaa chhod do
saahib tum laanaa chhod do
shaam dhale, khidki tale
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do
tum teer chalaanaa chhod do

chaar maheene mehnat ki hai
aji rang kabhi to laayegi
jaao-jaao ji yahaan tumhaari
daal kabhi galne na paayegi
aji daal kabhi galne na paayegi
dilwaalon, matwaalon par tum
raub jamaanaa chhod do
tum raub jamaanaa chhod do

shaam dhale, khidki tale
tum seetee bajaanaa chhod do
tum teer chalaanaa chhod do

(1892-1972) Personaje vinculado al internacionalismo socialista de obediencia soviética desde los años de la Gran Guerra, colaboró en la primera experiencia socialista húngara: la efímera República de los Consejos dirigida por Béla Kun entre el 21 de marzo y el 1 de agosto de 1919. En los primeros años veinte trabajó en el Komintern y a partir de 1924 regresó a a Hungría para organizar en la clandestinidad el Partido Comunista, pero un año más tarde fue encarcelado. Una vez en libertad, en 1940, viajó a la Unión Soviética para ponerse al frente de los comunistas húngaros. Al regresar a Hungría en 1944 como persona de confianza de Stalin fue hasta 1956 el máximo dirigente del Partido Comunista húngaro; entre 1952 y 1953 desempeñó el encargo de Primer Ministro. Abandonó Hungría durante la insurrección del otoño de 1956 y murió en Moscú en 1971.

“Albela” was a definitive movie in Bollywood history. Bhagwan, then a C grade movie producer, took a big risk in producing this movie which was a big step forward for him. He took a big financial risk in producing this movie, and his gamble paid off. It is another matter that he failed to replicate the success of this movie in his subsequent movies, and he went back to where he was, before this movie happened.

But as far as this movie was concerned, this movie was pure magic, and that was especially true for its songs. I have lost count of the number of popular songs from this movie.

Here is one of the songs from “Albela”. The music director of this movie was C Ramchandra, who also sang for Bhagwan in this movie.C Ramchandra was often known as Chitalkar while singing. And one can notice that he sounds so much like Talat Mahmood.

Lata sang for Geeta Bali. And in those days, her voice sounded so fresh, and in any case, she was only a few years into the industry, and was still evolving as a singer.

This song, as well as the video of the song took Bollywood by storm, because the movie goers had never seen or heard anything like this before. One can clearly see the influence of western music in the songs of this movie at a time when the Bollywood playback singing was in its nascent stage. Music of movies like “Albela” determined the course of Bollywood movie music for all times to come.

Not just the music, even the picturisation was far ahead of its time, and this song soon became a rage. Younger generations are also familiar with this song, thanks to remixes, cover versions, etc. Here is the original version, and this original version is truly timeless.

And one can notice that Bhagwan danced like Amitabh. Now do not say that he copied Amitabh. Amitabh was only 10 years old when this song was picturised. It is Bhagwan who many decades later taught Amitabh the dance steps that Amitabh then began to employ in his dances.

As I said, this song is among the immortal songs in Bollywood history.

Song: Shola jo bhadke, dil mera dhadke ( Albela 1952 )Singers-Lata, C. Ramchandra, MD- Rajinder Krishan, MD- C. Ramchandra

Lyrics

sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke

mahki hawaayen bahke kadam mere
aise mein thaam lo aa ke balam more
mahki hawaayen bahke kadam mere
aise mein thaam lo aa ke balam more
pattaa bhi khadake to bijli si kadke,
pattaa bhi khadake to bijli si kadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke

pyaar ko mere kisne pukaaraa
dil mein utar gayaa kiskaa ishaaraa
pyaar ko mere kisne pukaaraa
dil mein utar gayaa kiskaa ishaaraa
yaad ye kiski laayi pakad ke,
yaad ye kiski laayi pakad ke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke

aaa
dekhaa jo tumko
dekhaa jo tumko dard gaya tham
ab to na honge tumse judaa ham
dekhaa jo tumko dard gaya tham
ab to na honge tumse judaa ham
jee na sakenge tumse bichadke
jee na sakenge tumse bichadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
sholaa jo bhadke dil meraa dhadke
dard jawaani ka sataaye badh-badh ke

This was brought to my attention earlier today.  I got their auction kicked off eBay and now they are trying to scam some poor person using this site called ioffer.com.  Some people just don’t give up!  If this card was graded a MINT 9, the last place I would try and sell it is on a site like that.

Deugddoende mails van Magda en Wilma, zussen van Wilfried SIMONART (Lat. Gr. 1953) op deze zonnige zondag 12 october 2008 :

Dank je wel, Magda, zowel voor de waardering als voor je constructieve bijdrage.  We hebben meteen recht laten geschieden en de naam van Martha ROEGES ingevoerd. Maar kennen jij of Wilma niet die beide mooie jongedames die we totnogtoe met een vraagteken moesten aanduiden ?  We doen graag verder beroep op jullie medewerking.  Doe de groeten aan Wilfried.

———–

En toen kwam ook nog het bericht van Wilma :

“Hallo, Hier ben ik weer. Bedankt voor de foto’s die ik heel goed heb bekeken. De naam van Wilfried zijn vrouw is wel Astrid. Hier heb ik nog een paar fototjes die sommigen wel zullen herkennen.  Ik heb er ook nog van het afscheid van Leo, maar die moet ik eerst eens opzoeken. Nog hartelijk bedankt en de groetjes aan iedereen die mij nog zou kennen. Wilma“

Ziezo, Wilma, al wie jou nog kent, is meteen gegroet.  Ze sturen aan jou en Magda een dikke kus terug.  We rekenen op die foto’s van Leo MANNAERT’s afscheid, want deze die we hebbben, zijn een beetje wazig.

Leo MANNAERT (Lat. Wet. 1952) en Wilfried SIMONART (Lat. Gr. 1953) voor hun fietstocht naar Denemarken en Zweden

Wilfried, Leo en Hugo MARTENS (Lat. Wisk. 1951) bij ons in de tuin

]]> http://atheneumbrussel.wordpress.com/2008/10/11/moderne-humaniora-1952-volledig/ Sat, 11 Oct 2008 14:34:17 +0000 willem van cotthem http://atheneumbrussel.wordpress.com/2008/10/11/moderne-humaniora-1952-volledig/

Nu we ook de foto’s van de Wetenschappelijke 1952 hebben opgeladen, zit de hele Moderne Humaniora 1952 op onze blog.  Laat de makkers van deze lichting nu maar genieten van deze waardevolle documenten uit hun jeugd (en soms een beetje later).

Dan komt nu de Oudere Humaniora aan de beurt.  Er ligt een hele stapel documenten te wachten, zodat ook hier weer wat tijd gaat inkruipen vooraleer de Latinisten ingeblikt zijn (figuurlijk !).  Stap voor stap zullen we doorgaan.  En steeds maar hopen dat we toch nog meer documenten zullen ontvangen om onze fantastische biblioteek over het Koninklijk Atheneum Brussel te vervolledigen.

Wie heeft nog wat in de oude kast liggen ?  Of in de splinternieuwe “dressoir”, misschien in de onderste lade ?  Draag uw documentje bij !

1950 2de Wetenschappelijke  + 2de Lat. Wisk.
Staande: TEIRLINCK – VERBELEN - CARDIJN – VANWEZER – ? - JACOBS – VAN BELLE – DELEGHER (leraar Wiskunde) - LINTERMANS – VAN VLAENDEREN – MOUSSIAUX ?
Gehurkt : LONGRE – VANDENMEERSCHAUT - MICHIELS – VIERENDEELS – VANDERSTRAETEN

1950 – Verbelen – Cardijn – Vanden Meersschaut – Vierendeels – Van Belle – Jacobs – Vanderstraeten

Met spanning keken we uit naar het antwoord op onze vraag : “Van wie kan WS dan wel de zuster zijn ?” (zie een voorgaand bericht).  Hier is het dan :

Welkom, Wilma !  Het doet ons genoegen via deze blog weer wat banden te kunnen aanhalen.  Dat is trouwens het hoofddoel van de “Gildebroeders van het K.A.B.” : de band met de schoolgenoten verstevigen om in volle vriendschap nog vele jaren met elkaar te kunnen omgaan.  Vandaar ook onze jaarlijkse reünies en deze website om met regelmaat wat nieuwsjes te kunnen verspreiden.

Welkom ook omdat we via jou  een hernieuwd contact kunnen leggen met onze sympathieke makker Wilfried, die we toch zo graag eens zouden terugzien.  In afwachting daarvan laten we je reeds genieten van enkele foto’s (die van de Lichting 1951 vind je elders op deze blog en die van de Lichting 1952  zijn op komst). Hou verder contact en overtuig Wilfried om met ons werkgroepje eens een lekkere trappist te komen drinken in Den Boomgaard in Wolvertem.

Speciaal voor jou, een bundeltje herinneringen :

1951 - Met Flam in Antwerpen : Schümmer-Mertens-Mannaert-Knops-Flam

1953 - Afscheid van Leo Mannaert (Lat. Wet. 1952): Van de Vondel-ouders van Leo-Godelieve Simonart-Hugo De Keukelaere en Hugo Martens (geknield)

1953 - Afscheid van Leo Mannaert: Martha ROEGES-Wilfried Simonart-?-Paul Van Nitsen-Willy Spittaels

2005-04-21 - Willy DERKS op de reünie in Wolvertem

2004 - Willy SPITTAELS

1951 - Wilfried SIMONART - Astrid VERBEECK

Wilfried SIMONART, 70 en glunderend bij een trappist

]]> http://anonymousradioshow.wordpress.com/2008/10/10/youtube-singing-in-the-rain/ Fri, 10 Oct 2008 23:53:20 +0000 Mr. Anonymous® http://anonymousradioshow.wordpress.com/2008/10/10/youtube-singing-in-the-rain/

The Pause that Refreshes - CLASSIC Americana

I decided to e-mail the seller of that Yogi Berra 1952 Bowman PSA MINT 9 baseball card to see if they could give me the PSA serial number so I could look it up.  They e-mailed back with this number: 31012159 

Looking that number up on PSA’s website takes me to a 1939 Play Ball Frenchy Bordagaray #75 graded a 7.  Thats just a little different than a 1952 Bowman Berra MINT 9.  This person is totally trying to scam people and hoping for somebody to place a bid for $10,000.00.  The serial number doesn’t even match up.  What an idiot.

UPDATE:

I e-mailed them back letting them know the serial number was wrong.  They said sorry and gave me this number: 31044872

Checking the PSA database its a Dwyane Wade 2003 Topps Pristine basketball card graded a MINT 9.   

We melden met vreugde dat we vandaag de laatste foto’s van de Economische Afdeling 1952 hebben opgeladen.  Mochten aanvullende foto’s beschikbaar zijn, aarzel niet ze ons toe te sturen.  Ook aanduiding van mogelijke verbeteringen zijn welkom.

En dan nu naar de Wetenschappelijke 1952 !

Recente briefwisseling over deze blog en de inhoud ervan :

KAB-er : “Wie bent u? Ik kreeg onlangs mail van uw e-mail adres, maar ik weet niet wie u bent.“

WS : “Ik ken u ook niet??  Waarover ging die mail aub???  Groetjes, WS“

KAB-er : “Het ging over het Koninklijk Atheneum Brussel, jaargang 1952. Ik vermoed dat iemand uw e-mail adres verkeerdelijk heeft gebruikt“.

WS : “Nee toch niet. Dat heb ik gedaan uit vrouwelijke nieuwsgierigheid. Mijn broer ging naar het atheneum en ik wilde die oude foto’s eens bekijken van de jongens van toen: Marsel  Knops, Hugo Martens en Micheline, Fred Naeten en Ginette, enz… dus mag je mijn berichtje wel verwijderen want ik ben geen leerling. Ik ben louter toevallig  hier opgekomen. Toch zou ik graag de foto’s van nu bekijken om te weten of ik ze zou herkennen.  In ieder geval nog veel moed en geduld om al die foto’s bijeen te krijgen. Groetjes  W.S.“

———–

Oef, een pak van ons hart omdat WS daar niet staat voor Willy SPITTAELS (Lat. Wet. 1952) of Willy SUYS (Lat. Wet. 1953). “‘t Is een vrouwtje“, zou onze prins zeggen !

Met veel moed en geduld, zoals zo vriendelijk gevraagd, hebben we het bericht van WS verwijderd.

Toch nog graag een aanvullend vraagje : “Zou die zuster van een van onze medeleerlingen misschien in stilte een beetje verliefd geweest zijn op een van die knappe gasten van het Atheneum Brusssel, bv. op Marsel KNOPS, want dat is toch de enige waarvan zij niet het toenmalig lief vermeldt, nietwaar? “

2003 - Marsel KNOPS (Lat. Gr. 1952) op de reünie in Wolvertem.

Weet je wat, we vragen het aan de broer van WS, als we tenminste kunnen uitvissen wie ons nooit aan zijn beeldschone zus heeft voorgesteld. Een zaak is zeker : ik was het niet ! Maar WS mag ons natuurlijk zelf nog eens verrassen met een mailtje, bv. om te vragen wiens foto’s zij nu precies het snelst op deze blog wil krijgen.  Zij vraagt, wij draaien … beloofd op ons verdwenen communiezieltje, getekend Willem.

This auction raises a million red flags.  This Yogi Berra 1952 Bowman baseball card looks to be graded and/or certified by PSA, but the seller states its graded a MINT 9.  Looking at the photo that card doesn’t look to be in MINT 9 condition, just look how round some of the corners are.  They also don’t show the actual grade or serial number.  In addition to that they are asking $10,000.00 having 0 feedback.  If you ever want to make a purchase like this always check the seller’s feedback, make sure you can see the grade, and check to make sure the grading serial number matches the card.  This auction has scam written all over it.

1952 Crosley Super

If you are like me you are saying “what the heck is a Crosley?”  That’s a very good question, and unless you were around back then (and very into cars) you probably have never heard of Crosley, much less seen one.  Two weeks ago I called the Nash Metropolitan the “SMART of it’s day“.  I was wrong, the Nash was more like the MINI of it’s day.  THIS was the SMART of it’s day. 

And it’s a FINE car.  It says so right on the emblem!  Do you see a trend here?  Why do makers of tiny cars feel the need to capitalize the name?  SMART, MINI, and now a FINE car.  I’ll save the history lesson today and let the photos speak for themselves.  If you are dying for more info read all about it on the Pedia-Wiki.

Fiche technique

Réalisateur : Max Ophüls

Nationalité : Allemande

Année : 1952

Durée : 1’35

Acteurs : Gaby Morlay (Denise) / Claude Dauphin (Le médecin) / Jean Galland (Ambroise) / Madeleine Renaud (Madame Tellier) / Ginette Leclerc (Madame Flora) / Jean Gabin (Joseph Rivet) / Danielle Darrieux (Madame Rosa) / Daniel Gélin (Jean) / Simone Simon (Joséphine) / Jean Servais (Le narrateur et l’ami de Jean).

Synopsis :

Le Plaisir est une adaptation de trois nouvelles de Maupassant : “Le Masque“, “La Maison Tellier” et “Le Modèle“.

Générique :

L’équipe du film est présentée avec une écriture fine et ondulée. Leurs noms sont incrustés dans un cadre, qui se trouve lui-même encadré par un autre cadre qui est beaucoup plus accentué.

Premier conte : Le Masque

Synopsis :

Un vieil homme court les Palais de la Danse avec un masque. Malencontreusement celui-ci est pris d’une attaque et se voit donc contraint d’être raccompagné chez lui.

Premier plan :

Le film débute par une amorce avec au centre le mot « bal », suivi d’un plan de demi ensemble sur une ville.

Thèmes :

• La vieillesse (Amboise refuse de vieillir)

• Le bonheur (Amboise trouve le bonheur dans la danse)

Deuxième conte : La Maison Tellier

Synopsis :

Un groupe de femmes sont invitées à une première communion qui se passe à la campagne. Elles sont accueillies dans la famille de l’une d’elles.

Thèmes :

• La pureté (communion)

• La tentation (entre Joseph et Rosa)

Troisième conte : Le Modèle

Synopsis :

Un peintre tombe amoureux de son modèle. Quelque temps après le couple se sépare. L’homme s’apprête à se remarier avec une autre mais son ex-femme le retrouve et menace de se suicider.

Thèmes :

• La tristesse (Jean et Joséphine)

• Le chantage (Joséphine menace de se suicider si son ex-mari ne revient pas à ses côtés)

Décor :

Dans Le Plaisir, le décor est très important. Dans les trois contes, le spectateur se trouve face à des escaliers qui joue à chaque fois un rôle négatif. En effet, quand le personnage monte les marches, celui-ci annonce la mort, la fin de quelque chose.

- Dans le premier conte, l’escalier montre le retour d’Amboise à la réalité. Son vieil âge met un terme à son plaisir de danser.

- Dans le deuxième conte, en franchissant les escaliers, Joseph s’apprête à commettre un adultère et donc à mettre en danger son mariage.

- Dans le troisième conte, Joséphine met à exécution ses menaces. Elle monte les escaliers et se jette par la fenêtre.

Le mouvement artistique :

Le Plaisir est inspiré du mouvement impressionniste, essentiellement dans La Maison Tellier. En effet, Max Ophüs comme les peintres impressionnistes (Guillaumin ou Manet) cherche à s’approcher au plus près de la réalité. Outre le fait de mettre en scène une vie de famille contemporaine, Max Ophüls montre une nature dans toute sa splendeur (paysages, champs, …), un jeu de lumière important en écartant les teintes sombres du plan (église, champs, …).

Plan remarquable : Le Modèle

Le plan le plus remarquable à mon avis se situe dans le troisième conte, au moment où Joséphine s’apprête à se suicider.

Max Ophüls utilise pour cette scène le procédé de la « caméra subjective ». Pour monter les escaliers, la caméra se met à la place du personnage féminin. Située à la hauteur de la tête, des yeux du personnage, le spectateur s’identifie à Joséphine et vie l’action de la jeune femme comme s’il se trouvait à sa place.

En effaçant l’ombre de la caméra et en laissant apparaître celle de Joséphine, Max Ophüls accentue l’aspect réaliste et donne à l’action une valeur dramatique plus intense.

]]> http://atheneumbrussel.wordpress.com/2008/10/02/wij-danken-kamiel-van-wezer-econ-1952/ Thu, 02 Oct 2008 16:10:08 +0000 willem van cotthem http://atheneumbrussel.wordpress.com/2008/10/02/wij-danken-kamiel-van-wezer-econ-1952/

Bij de inlichtingen en documenten die we reeds ingezameld hebben, bevinden zich hier en daar nog vraagtekens, onzekerheden en zelfs onjuistheden (zeg maar fouten).  Zo vindt men in onderschriften af en toe een vraagteken, omdat we de “Gildebroeder” op de foto niet meteen herkennen.  Meestal kunnen de betrokkenen ons het best uit het ongewisse halen.  Dat deed ook Kamiel VAN WEZER met onderstaand kommentaar :

1948-06-22 – Schoolreis Anseremme met Arras (Ned.-Eng.) : Bovenaan : Van Snick – Sleeuwaegen - Van Wezer – Stubbe – Vierendeels – Bogaert – Mertens – Beuzar –Stroobant – Teymans – ARRAS. Onderaan : De Cubber – Swinnen – Rampelbergh – Smulders - ? – Marechal – Van Winckel – Verbelen – Willemaers – Verschaffel.

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Bedankt, Kamiel, dank zij jou verdwijnt weer een vraagteken.  Moge je voorbeeld nog dikwijls gevolgd worden.

The four-hundred block of Fishers Avenue that backed up to our house was an unbroken stretch of row homes distinguished by oversized white columns supporting the small front porches. An anonymous 1920’s architect-designer must have been pressured by a builder to add these overly grand, pretentious touches to what was just another string of low-end row houses. Over in the Jewish neighborhoods west of Ninth Street, the same impulse got completely out of hand and resulted in an overload of pediments, columns and railings. But those Ninth Street neighborhoods were built on unstable fill, and in the 1980’s the houses there began collapsing.   

In summer, Fishers Avenue enjoyed the dappled shade of the towering trees planted by the city on some streets and not on others. Compared to our wooded neighbors just one street away, our block was barren and stark. The spotty and seemingly capricious nature of the plantings was common throughout the neighborhood, the workings of the city’s tree lords were beyond the ken of mere mortals. 

It was on Fishers Avenue one Sunday Morning when a case of mistaken identity almost changed the course of Bobby Yanks’s life. Bobby had a pronounced bump in his more than ample nose, a facet he shared with a look-alike and not too bright kid from the next block of our street, a kid named Teddy Rausch. Teddy Rausch had earned a reputation for perpetrating some of the neighborhood’s more extreme forms of mindless vandalism and mischief making; window breaking, preferably large commercial plate glass, defecating in unlocked cars, and a classic stunt that involved sticking a garden hose in a front door mail slot and turning on the water. 

One tale circulating the neighborhood put Teddy’s capabilities into context. The way I heard it was that on a warm, drizzly Friday night, Teddy and another leading light of the neighborhood, Frank O’Dea, a kid thrown off the Olney High School Football team because he couldn’t remember even the simplest of plays, had climbed to the top of the Trimfit Hosiery factory’s water tower. Once up there, they began tossing firecrackers down onto Second Street. According to the story, when the factory’s night watchman started up the ladder after them, they had waited until he was too high to get back down and still too far down to reach them. At that point they both unzipped and pissed down the ladder on the guy. Between the furious watchman’s descent and the arrival of the cops, Teddy and Frank somehow made their escape. The tale may have been embellished for effect, but based upon what I knew of the two of them, I had little reason to doubt any of it. 

The proximate cause of Bobby Yanks being misidentified as Teddy Rausch was a deranged old recluse known variously as the “Cat Killer” and as “Crazy Billy.” Billy lived in an upstairs apartment over Conroy’s butcher shop on Third Street just below Fishers Avenue. By the time I had become a teenager, old Billy was known as “The Sickle Man,” a name earned when he was arrested for threatening people with a grass scythe. 

On a Sunday morning in April of 1952, supposedly on my way to Mass, I met Bobby Yanks on Fourth Street. We both decided to bag church and head instead for Schneider’s candy store at the corner of Third Street and Fishers Avenue, coincidentally adjacent to the Sickle Man’s backyard. Old Billy was out and leaning on the black wrought iron fence that surrounded his yard. The grin on his face was not a reflection of good humor. Without warning, he pointed a bony finger at Bobby Yanks and bellowed, “you, you hooked-nosed son of a bitch. I didn’t get you last night, but I’ll get you.” Pulling aside his dirty old suit coat, he exposed the wooden-handled sickle that rested under one arm, and sticking up from his belt, the handle of a large pistol. Bobby went white, and we hurried along toward the sanctuary of the candy store. I was shaken myself and just prayed that I hadn’t been included in the curse on Bobby. 

It seems that on the preceding evening just after dark, Mssrs. Rausch and O’Dea, having discovered a cache of spoiling and already rotted food in a disabled refrigerator, paid a visit to the Sickle Man.  Standing under his window, they taunted him until he came storming out into his yard. At that, Teddy and Frank began pelting him with the contents of the dead refrigerator. According to Teddy, the “crazy old bastard” had fired at least three, if not more shots at their retreating forms. 

A shaken Bobby Yanks told his father of the threats, and the police paid Billy another of their many visits. For about two weeks, Bobby wouldn’t leave the house without his father. How the Sickle Man discovered his mistaken identity, I don’t know, but eventually he finger Teddy as the culprit. Several times coming up Third Street in the late afternoon, I would spot Billy standing up against the wall around the corner from Teddy’s house. Crossing the street to avoid getting too close to him, I could see both the queasy grin on his face and the bulges under his coat. 

Fortunately for Teddy Rausch, the Sickle Man was soon removed by the cops after neighbors complained of him chasing stray cats from his yard by firing at them from his second story window. We never saw him again. Somebody said that he had been sent to Byberry, the big state hospital up on the Boulevard. Bobby Yanks came back out into the light of day in time to play Legion baseball. 

Helen’s grocery store was jammed into a basement storefront at the northeast corner of Fourth and Fishers. Helen and her husband Phil didn’t belong to any of the retail grocery associations like Unity Frankford that let local, corner grocers compete just a little longer before being finally overwhelmed by the supermarket chains. Helen’s was independent and idiosyncratic. Though less than a block from our house, I wasn’t inside Helen’s more than a dozen times. Like almost all the kids attending the Incarnation parish school, I walked home every day for lunch. It was assumed that someone would be there to provide a meal. On the rare occasions when my mother ran out of something, my brother or I would be dispatched to Helen’s for a quarter pound of American cheese, a quarter pound of lunch roll, or a loaf of Bond Bread. 

Going down the steps into Helen’s was like entering a smoky nightclub. Neither Helen nor Phil was ever seen without a cigarette, either in hand or hanging from the lips. Helen had an Appalachian face right out of Walker Evans, gaunt, thin-lipped and hair pulled back into a bun. Phil always wore a felt hat, a dirty, gray fedora with a wide brim. He worked the night shift in a factory somewhere, stopping at Dock Street on his way home in the morning to stock the store for the day. Phil had a weathered face covered with little lumps. 

Other than the sweaty, refrigerated lunchmeat case lit from within, everything in Helen’s had an ad hoc, provisional quality to it. The produce was laid out on worn boards supported by sawhorses. They had the basics; a couple of different kinds of potatoes, cabbages, turnips, and whatever fresh produce Phil had been able to pick up that morning. They had a minimalist selection of meats, dairy products, canned and packaged goods. And yet the place never seemed short of customers. My mother however, never went to Helen’s, dismissing it as too expensive. I would look longingly at the stacks of Tastykakes in Helen’s. They were another thing, like soda, that my mother refused to buy, citing price. Phil and Helen knew that our family didn’t regularly shop there. When I did have to go in there, I was never the recipient of any of the cheery familiarity given out to other kids. In fact, I might be made to wait out of turn while a regular was given preference. I grew to dislike being sent to Helen’s. When I could, I would try to get my mother to send my brother instead. “I can’t go Mom,” I’d whine. “Send Jack. I have to go to the bathroom.” On one unavoidable lunchtime errand, as I entered Helen’s, I found myself being ushered right back up the steps and out the door by Phil. He made shushing motions with his hands to his lips. I was out on the sidewalk, but not before having seen Mrs. Keeley from the three hundred block of our street sobbing and pleading with Helen. Looking inside, I could see other women in housedresses trying to comfort Mrs. Keeley. We waited outside for another couple of minutes before Mrs. Keeley came out with her head down, but carrying a bag of groceries. Phil motioned that I could go back inside. I got my quarter pound of lunchmeat and went home. 

Later I learned that much of the business conducted at Helen’s was done on credit. Helen and Phil charged a little more for each item in return for deferring payment until payday. Entries were made in a large copybook after items were tallied up in pencil on the side of a brown paper bag. There were families in the neighborhood, like the Keeleys, living much closer to the edge than ours, and often there were heads of households, like Mr. Keeley, who held down regular stools at one of the local taprooms. Many of the women who patronized Helen’s had to walk past several grocery stores to get to Helen’s. It was either Helen’s, or no dinner on the table that evening. 

Another low-end establishment on fishers Avenue about a block east of Helen’s was Zimmer’s candy store. Zimmer’s was a scary place, scary because of Zimmer himself and because of the crowd that hung out there. Like Helen’s, Zimmer’s was another also a basement store. Lit by unshaded, low-wattage light bulbs that created a dungeon atmosphere, the place complimented Zimmer himself only too well. The neighborhood mythology, or demonology, was that Zimmer had done time for indulging unsavory predilections toward children. 

Zimmer had what we called “Beaky Buzzard” features; an emaciated, cadaver-like head capped with a green eyeshade, and he wore rimless glasses that hung from the end of a bony nose. His voice was an unpleasant nasal whine, and when he wasn’t gruff, he was hostile. I tended to avoid going into Zimmer’s. 

As I got a little older, I had another good reason for staying away from Zimmer’s corner. The guys who hung out on that corner had a reputation as malignant as the store’s proprietor. If some corners were characterized by reputations for drinking or mischief, the crowd at Zimmer’s had a taste for meanness and gratuitous intimidation. 

One afternoon, in my first year of high school, I walked down Fishers Avenue to catch a “J” bus at Second Street. Approaching American Street and Zimmer’s, my radar picked up Frannie Magee and Mike Shaner among the crowd of a half dozen guys standing in front of the store. I had gone through eighth-grade at Incarnation with Frannie Magee, a big, gangly kid two years older than the rest of us. He’d been left down twice, and was considered trouble. Shaner had gone to public school, to Morrison, and was then in the process of dropping out of Olney High School. 

I sensed a problem, but knew enough not to show it. I kept my pace and casually nodded a general recognition to the crowd as I crossed American Street. Not good enough. “Hey Byrnsie,” Magee shouted for everyone to hear. “C’mere.” It was not an invitation. Doing my best to maintain appearances, I ambled over to where Magee and Shaner stood, half smirking at me. Behind them stood a couple of the neighborhood’s really hard guys; Bobby Wile and Jack Simon, two or three years older, guys who didn’t even acknowledge the existence of people like me. Magee and Shaner, as barely tolerated hangers-on among the fledgling heavy hitters, were going to try and impress the big boys at my expense. “You got any cigarettes,” Magee asked. Throughout our year together in eighth-grade, I’d never had any trouble with Frannie. In fact, we’d often walked home from school together. While I had no fear of the weasely Mike Shaner, I knew I was no match for Frannie Magee. 

As slowly and as low-keyed as I could, I responded that “yeah, I got some, a half a pack. You guys out?” The inquiry kind of threw them off stride. Had I done anything defensive, they would have had the cue they needed to grab me, smack me around or worse, take my smokes and probably my bus fare. By feigning good will and acting as if I didn’t know what they were doing, I had thrown them off their game. I pulled out the pack, ripping off the top, I quickly noted that I had ten cigarettes left. Before either of them could react and grab the pack, I said “I can give you guys three apiece and that will leave me with three.” Then without a pause, as I looked at Magee and handed him three Camels, I casually asked, “Hey Frannie, is your brother home today? I want him to serve my papers next week, I’m going down the shore with my aunt and uncle.” I had somehow grabbed control of the situation and all I wanted to do was get out of there before they realized what had happened, before they got really pissed off. “See you guys,” I said, and giving another respectful nod to the real hoodlums who had stood silently watching all of this, I turned and walked away down Fishers Avenue grateful to be minus just six cigarettes. I felt like Brer’ Rabbit just after he’d gotten one over on the Fox and the Badger. 

 I made a point after that of always walking the block or blocks it took to avoid having to pass Zimmer’s and that corner. It seemed a small price. I don’t know what ever happened to Magee or Shaner, but three or four of the other guys in that crowd ended up going to jail while I was in the Army. They got caught breaking into houses of people who had just died. Scanning the death notices in the paper, they would note the time and date of the funeral and then ransack the place while the family was out at the cemetery. Nice guys. 

Late on a hot, humid summer morning, between high school and the Army, I ran into Jackie McGuire. I was crossing Fishers Avenue at Fourth Street and spotted him mixing cement in front of a house near the end of the block. Changing directions, I walked down to say hello. It was already pushing ninety degrees, and despite being in the shade, Jackie was dripping wet. I opened with the usual “how ya doins,” but Jackie wasn’t having any of it. He put down the hoe he was using to stir the concrete mix and sat down on the shaded curb. Lighting a smoke, he looked up wearily and answered, “not too fucking good.” 

Jackie McGuire was an engaging character. He was smaller than me, but built like a fireplug, and he carried himself with an air of sardonic detachment. He didn’t show you a lot, but he was funny in a dry, cynical way. Jackie was cool. He was a heavy-duty jazz fan, and there were undefined hints of danger about him. Two or three years older than me, Jackie had been in the Army in Germany. The word around the neighborhood was that he had gotten a dishonorable discharge for something to do with drugs. Jackie had already established a reputation as a formidable drinker. 

In my most disinterested way, I casually asked, “What’s wrong, man?” Jackie looked up and said that Jiggs McNalley and Eddie Shea had been in a car accident. Jiggs was dead, and Eddie was in a Jersey hospital in a coma. “Holy shit,” was all I could I say. I knew Jiggs by sight and Eddie Shea and I had occasionally hung out together. Jackie went on to say that Jiggs and Eddie were coming home from the shore after a night in the bars, when they went off the road and into a pole or a tree somewhere outside of Atlantic City. “That’s bad,” I commiserated, asking if Eddie Shea was going to make it. Jackie kind of moaned and said, “hey man, that ain’t the half of it.” “Eddie had my ID on him.”  Eddie was my age, and he had been using Jackie’s draft card to get into the bars. 

As Jackie went on about the potential complications to his own life in all of this, I realized that he couldn’t have cared less that Jiggs was dead or whether Eddie Shea lived or not. The residue of any romantic illusions I had ever entertained about the brotherhood of the corners, about generational group identity translating into loyalty or solidarity, about my own place in a social configuration, began dissolving that morning. While Jackie McGuire went on with his anguished soliloquy about the implications of his missing ID card, I knew that Jiggs’s body was headed for Quinn’s Funeral Home, and that Eddie Shea was comatose, somewhere between life and death over in New Jersey. I also knew that the plans I had made to get away, to sign up for the Army in September, were a good idea. 

Without a pause, Jackie seemed to throw off his despair, and with it, any further thoughts of Jiggs and Eddie. “Did you ever hear of a singer named Helen Humes? She used to be with the Basie Band.” I hadn’t. “Oh,” he said, “how about leaving me a couple of extra smokes?” 

Three nights later, I went to Jiggs’s wake at Quinn’s. Eddie Shea survived and became the talk of the neighborhood when he was awarded a large insurance settlement for his injuries. Years later, I learned that his father mismanaged the money, and that Eddie never saw a dime of it.

This is a photo of my dad taken by my mom in 1952.  The car broke down during their honeymoon road trip to Canada.  Eh Gads! He was a skinny guy!  And very James Dean, don’t you think?