By this time, “Kind of a Drag” by the Buckinghams had knocked “I’m a Believer” from the top spot on the radio, and “Ruby Tuesday” by the Rolling Stones was well on its way to number one. The middle of February was the coldest time of year, but it was prime sledding weather over at Bonnie Glen. Jimmy and I dragged out our Flexible Flyers and got his mother to drive us over to Bonnie Glen, where we made a few runs before I decided to race off a five-foot-high rock outcrop that was covered with snow. The sled left the lip of the rock and flew through the air; I felt like I was floating forever. The sled hit the snow with a jolt and slid onto an icy patch at the bottom of the hill, stopping just short of the canal. On top of the hill, Jimmy was shouting and screaming.
“You did it, you did it!” he shrieked. “That’s my friend, Adam Jacobs!”
Then Jimmy had to try the jump, despite his mother’s protests. He landed well but as he continued downhill, his sled tilted to the right, dislodging Jimmy as he hit the ice patch at the bottom of the hill. He just kept going and going until he got to the edge of the canal, where he fortunately managed to grab the branches of a holly bush. His sled, however, went right over the edge of the canal, and I heard it splash in the water. Racing to the edge of the canal, I was just in time to see the runners of the sled disappearing into the murky water. I started to laugh hysterically but Jimmy’s mother didn’t think it was very funny and she took us home right away. You had to hand it to Jimmy—he was game for just about anything.
Chapter Eight
The next day, Mr. Roberts assigned us The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to read. It was a story about a white kid our age in Missouri, who makes friends with an escaped slave named Jim. Together they ride down the Mississippi River on a raft. I told Gladys about the book and she said, “The thing I remember most about that book was that it was okay for Huck Finn to escape the imprisonment of his father, but it wasn’t okay for Jim to run away from Miss Watson. That’s a real double standard that Twain was pointing out, and things haven’t really changed much since then, especially in the South. That’s what my friend Martin Luther King says.”
“You mean you know Martin Luther King?” I asked in astonishment.
“I met him because of my writing. I was in Washington, D.C., in 1963, when he made his big speech about civil rights.”
“Wow,” I replied admiringly. I felt my mouth drop open in surprise and I started clapping my hands.
“That is one righteous lady,” I heard Honey’s voice from the hallway. “Gladys promised she’d take me to meet him, that she did.” Honey’s face appeared around the doorjamb. “Last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. But she just holed herself up in this house.”
Gladys, leaning back in her rocking chair, gave a sigh of desperation. “All right,” she said, raising her arms as if in surrender. “The next time I have a chance I promise I’ll introduce you to Martin Luther King.”
“Lord have mercy!” Honey beamed, as she bustled over to the fireplace, swept the ashes from the hearth into a dustpan, and disappeared into the kitchen. I took advantage of Honey’s absence to ask Gladys if I could meet Martin Luther King as well.
“Of course, young man,” Gladys answered me. “You’ll be the first to know.”
That afternoon, we had a hockey game down on the creek. The ice was thick enough to satisfy the parents, and all the guys were down there, including, unfortunately, Billy Collins. At one point during the game, Billy skated right toward Peter Fletcher, who was on our side and was racing toward the opposing goal while shielding the puck with his body. I got into Billy’s way and he shoved me aside, his eye on Peter. Coming up behind Sally’s brother, Billy raised his hockey stick and he was about to ram it into Peter’s head when Jimmy skated up from the other side, banging into Billy Collins so hard that Billy flew three feet in the air and landed on his back. He lay there without moving for a moment; I guess Jimmy must have knocked him out. Finally, Billy opened his eyes and we helped him to his feet.
“Good check, Robbins,” Billy said. I guess that was his way of apologizing.
We won the game four to three, with Peter scoring the winning goal for our side. I enjoyed playing with Peter instead of against him, and thought about how far we’d come since he and his friends had bullied me and Jimmy; I guess Sally had had a lot to do with that. I remembered going to St. Catherine’s Church with Sally’s family and praying for her when she was sick. It had been kind of creepy, seeing Jesus up there on the cross and watching the people eat their wafers and drink the blood of Christ, but was it really all that different from what Jews did? We had our own rituals, after all. Maybe the Jews and the Catholics weren’t really so different.
For now, I had to study the Torah for my bar mitzvah, and I was glad that Arnold Rivkin and Barney Herbert were with me at Hebrew class. At dancing class, I did the foxtrot with Sally. As we whirled around, she told me that her parents had gotten a kick out of the book that we had done together, and that they were looking forward to my bar mitzvah. We laughed about how it was our book that had finally succeeded in getting both of our parents together.
The following day, I brought the film from my camera over to Grappa’s house to make a print. I had taken a picture of Honey and was eager to see it.
“Grappa,” I said, “why doesn’t Gladys write books anymore?”
“She may be writing books,” Grappa said. “She’s just not publishing them.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe you’d better ask her,” Grappa said. “But I can tell you this. Before you were born, Gladys was the most famous person in Beachmont. Then this senator named Joseph McCarthy started accusing all kinds of folks of being Communists and Gladys was one of the people on his list. So the publishers stopped printing her books and she just retreated into that house of hers, and then Harry died, and that’s about all I know.”
“Was she a Communist?” I asked.
“Lots of folks back then worked to make the lives of poor people better and were labeled by people like Senator McCarthy,” Grappa went on. “Gladys was one of those who tried to help people.”
I looked at the photograph of Honey as it dried on the clothesline. I had taken the picture of Honey as she sat at the kitchen table looking off to the left with a distant expression on her face, as if she were thinking about something or someone far, far away. She had her apron strings tied around her waist, and a checkered bandana wrapped around her head. It was a close-up portrait, but the blurred stove and kitchen countertop in the background gave the image a sense of place.
“That’s a damn good portrait, young man,” Grappa exclaimed; then, with a chuckle, “but don’t tell Elise that I cursed.”
“I won’t.” I grinned, delighted at Grappa’s praise.
I went over to Gladys’ house to give the photograph to Honey. I enjoyed taking portraits of the people around me, and I figured that if I gave my subjects a print they might be more inclined to pose for me again. Honey met me at the door and led me into the kitchen. A chilly burst of air followed me inside but was quickly dispelled by the warmth of the stove. I could smell brisket. I asked Honey about what Grappa had told me about Gladys being a Communist.
“She doesn’t like to talk about those days,” Honey said. “I worked for Gladys and Harry back in the fifties. Those were difficult times. I never thought white folk could be persecuted but that woman really got the short end of the stick, believe you me. She stuck up for her musician friend, and her publisher punished her by not printing her books anymore. Oh, those were awful times. Best not to bring it up.”
Just then, Gladys poked her head into the kitchen.
“Talking about me?” she said. “Okay, spit it out, I can take it. Honey’s brisket is better than mine. That’s nothing new.”
“Gladys,” I said, “have you really stopped writing books?”
Gladys glared at Hone
y. “Have you been talking to this boy?”
“No ma’am,” Honey replied.
“I was over at Grappa’s house,” I interjected, “and he said something about you being on a list, that they thought you were a Communist or something, around the time I was born. Were you a Communist?”
“Come and sit down,” Gladys said, leading me into the living room, where large flames flickered in the fireplace. We both sat down, she in her rocker and me in a plush velvet chair.
“Those were terrible days in America,” Gladys said, shaking her head sadly. “So many lives destroyed, and for what? We lost our freedom of speech. My friend Pete Seeger had a difficult time because they wouldn’t let him play his music in public places, and they still won’t show him on television. Can you imagine that? The man who wrote ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’ still can’t get on television because they think he’s a Communist, and this is supposed to be a free country!”
“Come on and eat, you two,” Honey called out from the kitchen. “The brisket is fresh and hot from the oven.”
We sat at the kitchen table and had a plate of brisket, along with peas, carrots, and potatoes. It was a meal fit for a king.
“But what about you, Gladys, why were you prevented from publishing?” I said. “You write stories about dogs and locomotives that talk. How does that make you a Communist?”
“I also wrote essays,” Gladys said. “In 1955, I wrote an article defending Pete, who had just testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee.”
“I was only one year old,” I said.
“That’s right. Well, Pete wouldn’t tell the committee which people were listening to his songs and where he was playing them. He didn’t think that was any of their business. They sentenced him to a year in jail because he wouldn’t answer their questions, but he did offer to play his songs for them.”
“Did he go to jail?” I asked wide-eyed, taking a bite of my brisket.
“No,” Gladys answered. “A very nice judge said that Congress couldn’t do that to Pete, but the damage had already been done. He lost a lot of jobs because of the publicity of his trial. I didn’t think it was right, so I wrote an article saying so. It was published in one of the union newspapers and created quite a sensation in this town. Half the folks just stopped talking to me right then and there. Then the government came after me and told my publishers that they shouldn’t print my books anymore. The publishers listened to them.” Gladys looked out the kitchen window at her chestnut tree, her expression sad.
“You see that tree over there,” she said. “It knows nothing other than how to be a tree. That’s the way it was with Pete. He knew nothing other than to speak up for the downtrodden and underprivileged, just as Woody Guthrie had done before him. And look at all the trouble it caused for him. It was a shame, a real shame what happened to my friend Pete.”
“Will you take me to a Pete Seeger concert?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, he’s playing at a high school on Long Island next Wednesday,” Gladys said, visibly cheering up. “He was supposed to give the concert last year, but the school board canceled it and now a judge said that they have to have the concert, so Pete’s going over there. If it’s all right with your parents, I’ll take you and Sally. Honey can drive us.”
We finished our brisket and as Gladys and Honey saw me to the kitchen door, Gladys said, “Just because I stopped publishing books doesn’t mean I stopped writing them.” She tapped me on the shoulder and gave me a gentle shove out the door. “Never assume anything, young man.”
When I got home, I put on my Peter, Paul and Mary album that included “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and I thought about what Gladys had said about Pete Seeger. I wondered if I would have the courage to stand up to the United States government the way Pete Seeger had done, to sacrifice my career, even my freedom, in order to protect everybody’s right to free speech. As I listened to the beautiful song, I reflected upon the bravery necessary to take such a stance. When my parents returned from the dry cleaners, I asked for their permission to go to the concert.
“Of course you can go,” my father said, “but who’s going to drive?”
“Honey,” I replied. “Sally’s going too.”
“As long as you keep up with your homework,” my mother reminded me.
I couldn’t wait for Wednesday to arrive, but finally it did. Honey and Gladys picked me and Sally up right after school. We hopped into Honey’s Nova and drove down the New England Thruway, over the Throgs Neck Bridge, and onto the Long Island Expressway to the town of Westbury and W. Tresper Clarke High School. It was bitterly cold, and I wasn’t looking forward to getting out of the car—even more so since at the high school we saw hundreds of protesters waving American flags and chanting “Go home, Communist” and stuff like that. These crowds lined the pavement on each side of us as we scurried into the school building. At one point, I saw a can of Coke fly over my head and land on the other side of me, crashing onto the pavement and exploding in a burst of carbonated sugar water. Quickening our pace, we finally made it through the welcoming doors of the school building.
We took our seats at the back of the auditorium and after a few introductory remarks by the school principal, Pete Seeger took the stage. He was dressed in a white fishnet sweater and dark trousers and carried a banjo. Sally had taken off her winter jacket and scarf, and I could see her yellow chiffon dress. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a white daisy and put it in her hair. Where she had gotten the daisy in the middle of winter, I had no idea, but she really looked cute with that flower in her hair, and my twelve-year-old heart loved her all the more for it.
The concert turned into a big sing-along party, with Seeger starting off the songs and then everyone else joining in. He performed “If I Had a Hammer,” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “This Land Is Your Land,” and we all sang along with Seeger. Everyone was clapping and having a great time. Then he picked up a guitar and started singing a song called “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy”; it was about these guys in a war and their captain kept telling them to go forward, and even after they were up to their necks in mud, the “big fool” said they must push on. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Seeger was referring to President Lyndon Johnson, and that the war he sang about was the Vietnam War. Every night our TV showed pictures of soldiers getting killed and bombs going off.
I looked over at Sally who was looking back at me. I could hear Honey whisper, “Lord have mercy.” After the concert, we went down a hallway and through a door to a little room at the back of the auditorium and there was Pete Seeger sitting in a chair. He rose when he saw us and gave Gladys a big hug.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.
Gladys hugged Seeger then, turning to us, pronounced, “This is my friend Pete.”
I was awestruck at being so close to Pete Seeger and I was just as impressed that Gladys knew him so well. I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions but I didn’t know where to start.
“Adam is a writer,” Gladys went on, “and Sally is an artist.” Then she put her arm around Honey and added, “Honey is, well, just Honey.” Gladys and Honey both smiled and Pete asked us to sit down on nearby chairs.
Pete turned to face me and said, “Well, young man, have you found anything to write about?”
I thought about it for a moment before answering, “Well, Gladys says I should just be myself, like a chestnut tree is all about being a chestnut tree.”
Pete smiled and said, “That’s the only way to do it. She’s a good teacher, is Gladys.” Then I remembered what it was that I had wanted to ask Seeger.
“That song ‘The Big Muddy,’” I asked, “is it about Vietnam and President Johnson?”
Pete smiled, as if he’d heard this many times before. He leaned toward me and winked. “I don’t mention anything or anybody by name,” he said, �
�but the song gets a lot of applause wherever I sing it. You see, the arts have been used throughout the ages of man not only to change society but to preserve society. Things like poetry, theater, novels, and songs give us a larger picture of our life. If it’s really good art, it can lift us out of our troubles as well as help us to solve them.”
Gladys looked over at me. “Now you see why I love this man,” she proudly exclaimed, her face beaming with pride.
It was starting to get dark and we had to leave, but I had just enough time to take a photograph of Pete with his banjo. Leaving the building, we walked proudly past the protesters and drove back to Beachmont, singing Pete’s songs all the way home. We finished the evening off at Gladys’ house with a mug of hot chocolate and whipped cream. As Sally and I walked out into the night, I was still flushed with the excitement of the day and noticed that the sky seemed particularly glorious with a waning crescent moon and the stars all about. I was happy to keep Sally company and proud to be walking her home in her chiffon dress and the flower in her hair. When I got back to my house, I told my parents all about the concert, about Pete and the banjo, and the way the crowd all joined in every song. When I finally laid my head on my pillow, I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. I realized that in these past hours my life had been changed forever.
Chapter Nine
The next day, Mr. Roberts asked me and Sally to tell our English class all about the Pete Seeger concert. Mr. Roberts then told us about Woody Guthrie and how he had traveled across the United States and met with the poor workers and tried to make their lives better. Guthrie wrote “This Land Is Your Land,” a song that everybody knows.
On the way home, I told Sally that I still hadn’t decided what kind of mitzvah I was going to perform for my bar mitzvah.
The Martin Luther King Mitzvah Page 6