NEW YORK SONG

Roger Gemelle

Excerpt New York Song:

Westport

Okay fair warning here: This is gonna go off the rails a bit, but hang with me.

Okay?

I'm writing a book called Durham House, that is a sci-fi thingy. I have always been a rabbid fan of the genre. Then I came across old Stevarino. You might know him as Steven King. If you do you may have become as addicted as I. An easy expansion for me, because several of his titles mix aliens in.

But he's a writer who plays guitar, while I'm a musician who writes books. Seems fair enough. And if Steve needs help on guitar, I will state with absolute confidence, and years of cred, that I could do the job. So when I need a little “what's it all about Alfie” on writing … I picked up his … On Writing.

Oh BTW, that's Steves memoir and concise writing how to, on writing. Or as Steve says: At least this is how I do it.

While laughing and biting my nails on the way through this wonderful book I accidentally mixed up a line about where Steve lived as a kid, that became the barrens in his novel “It.” The barrens was a place for me, much like the pond/woods near the twins house.

I mistakenly read the line “our Durham House” as a title he had written, and loved the sound of it, for some reason. When I re-read it later, (as I regularly do) I realized it was a childhood house he was referring to, not a book, and Bingo it was mine!

But I screwed up again. I got this town of Durham mixed up with Connecticut. It is naturally, right were it belongs in Maine not too far from Bangor and all the towns of Salem's Lot and Needful Things.

I got it mixed up because in the book Steve said the barrens was really in a town were his mom had rented a crappy apartment. That was actually in Stratford Conn, but somehow I missed the city and got the state, and when I checked the map in Conecticut, sure enough there was Durham! Okay? Now that I've got us both confused here's more.

I not only, in my infinite ability for in-accuracy, place my book in Durham Connecticut, but even contact the librarian there for research and ask why there is no tour or marker on the Durham house of a young Steven King!

I'm pretty sure she followed up and must have written me off as a grade A idiot! And who could argue with that?

Bottom line: I fell in love with Durham Conn, and that is the perfect town for my book.

Jesus! Okay, whew! There! We made it through.

Now unbelievably, I told you all that, because I wanted to tell you about how special Connecticut was for me. Like I said I'm not a writer, so sue me! (Kidding … please don't.)

My cousin Barbara and Ford bought a house in Bridgeport and we'd go up and visit them for Christmas and various holidays and it was a great time. But then they moved to a magical place called Westport, and we'd all meet up there.

Then my uncle Jay and aunt Anne fell in love with Westport on their visits, and bought a house close by.

So now when we visited, it was a non-stop mad-house (mad-houses) of Seders, and Christmas, and gifts, and boats, and food, and children jumping on me like a beanbag!

It was overwhelmingly wonderful.

We'd go to the Flaxman's and visit David and Jennifer and Paul and Rachael, and I'd bang on the piano in the basement, while Jenny watched, sucking a lollypop, her braids waggiling to the beat, Anne filling us with warm, wonderful foods ... and then we'd go over to the Macieski's and visit Lisa and Robert and Danny. Barbara screaming for quiet while holding the new baby and Robert with his shy smile and Lisa smarter, and cuter, than Einstein! Barbara's mother Flo, and her dad were also there, helping out. And of course all the kids came with us from one house to the other … the bedlam was simply stunning.

My uncles would always take me out somewhere ... The Record Hunter for albums and CD's and the marina for various nautical nonsenses, and the beauty of the town was everywhere. On a spring day the air was sweet, and flowers bursting with colors surrounded beautiful old homes built in groves of beech and ash.

I had watched Ford diving one winter and thought how crazy it was, as I watched him dressed in a full wetsuit wearing a single tank step backwards off into that freezing water. There was good money in a short dive to pull up an expensive anchor when the line had broken. And this was at anchor right in the marina.

Still, it was so cold I was wearing a pea coat and sweater under. And as I watched the bubbles breaking the waters surface I wondered just how comfortable he was. Later I would learn that the wetsuit kept you plenty warm.

It was not easy getting the anchor out of the mud and he spent a good time working it and finally had to tie a line to it and haul it from the boat, but he finally wrestled it onto the deck dripping with mud, and picked up a quick hundred bucks for his effort.

Now that summer had come, I wanted very badly to learn to dive, and I asked Ford if he could let me try it sometime. He said sure and we went out to the boat. I was very excited.

My idea of learning the details of scuba diving were somewhat different apparently, than my uncles. Ford put the tank onto my back and showed my how to breath through the mouthpiece. Stuck the mask on my head, and that was the course!

He tied a rope around my waist and then pulled the five minute reserve (the tank was out of air) and threw me off the boat into about ten feet of water. And I was diving! I swam around for five minutes watching my air bubbles rise, and then scoured the sandy bottom for a while ... and I was doing it! But somehow, I didn't think any certificate was going to be involved.

Later that summer I got a chance to actually work for Ford as part of the crew. We were driving piles with an antique steam-driven pile driver.

This was a massive square steam-hammer that you chained to the top of a treated pole. The steam-hammer was attached by chain to a derrick that swung the pole high over the water. Along the chain holding the hammer was a rubber hose that sent steam to the hammer.

The air stunk of creosote … but I liked that. It meant I was at a working dock!

Ford would lift the crane over the spot that the pile had to go and lower it into the water to the bottom. Then he'd have the steam turned on and the hammer would start to smash the top of the pole into the mud with a clanging that shook the ground. You could feel it in your teeth and chest.

Bang, BANG, Smack, Smack, Clunk! Steam hissed from the metal monster.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, the slamming power-head drove the pile into the ground. The noise was deafening! The pounding you felt deep in your bones. I loved it!

Slowly over the week we would build the structure for a new dock.

We took a break for lunch and I saw my uncle Jay walking over to the boat. He had come down with fresh lobster and steak for the grill, and we sat around the deck of the old tug in the heat of the afternoon and popped a few cold beers.

My uncles had set up a grill and were cooking shrimp and steak. The smell of that lobster grilling made my mouth water and after I had a few bites they gave me a piece of steak.

Man, was that heavenly! But there was not a lot left.

I wanted some more lobster and was about to reach for another piece, when I noticed Ford was holding the binoculars he kept on the binacle for navagation, and looking intently down the shore.

He said, “Holy crap that girl's taking her top off!”

“What? Let me see.” Jay said and took the glasses and whistled.

“Wow, she is!”

“Let me see!” I said, and he handed me the glasses. I scanned the same part of the shore they had been watching but couldn't find the girl. I swept the glasses slightly back and forth, but no girl.

I said, “Where is ...” And heard my uncles start to laugh. I dropped the glasses to my chest, confused and said, “What?” Then I looked back at the grill. All the steak and lobster was gone!