Tips and Motivation for “Growing Up in Cambridge”

“That the powerful play will go on and you will contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

Walt Whitman

OK, I admit it. Once again, I’m trying to start something, stir up a little sand if you will, “instigate” another common descriptor, “troublemaker” often applicable, “catalyst” perhaps the most accurate as it has neutral connotations. It took me years to figure out that some of my deepest personality traits weren’t good or bad, just integral to my being, something I could either harness or abuse. The choice was mine, and like everybody, I guess, I’ve made good ones and bad ones and intend to write about both. I hope to encourage many more of you to do the same by submitting your own articles to the CCS alumni newsletter. But first, it might be best to get a better picture of this old jeer leader for all prospective and already active Cambridge writers and historians, especially those unfamiliar with a natural born irritant.

For visual evidence you’ll need a copy of the 1966 CCS Yearbook. In it is the first picture of me published in Cambridge, and like it’s often said, a picture is worth a 1,000 words.

The 1966 yearbook for some reason employs no page numbers, so you’ll have to leaf through it about two-thirds before getting to a full page picture of the “Intermediate Band,” a large photo running sideways on the page.

Got it? All right, please note poor Henry Bates III who had his band picture ruined by a prankster standing in the back row between Bobbi Baker and Jeff Woodward. Henry, I’m absolutely certain, made some sort of protest the moment the camera shutter flicked and now, forever, we only see the back of his head. Henry’s provocateur? The cherubic sixth grader who I’m also certain wasn’t the least bit concerned about his crime, the specific action I no longer remember. It must have been a little bit noisy, though, or maybe Henry hollered, because whatever happened it also drew the attention of Olive Harrington and Patty Demarco, also shown looking in my direction instead of the camera. It was my first opportunity to foul up a yearbook picture, but far from my last.

As for current motivation, I’m not the first to extrapolate Carl Jung’s “wounded healer” theory to the art and science of chopper building or writing, both long pursuits that crossed over many times. I actually learned of the Jung connection reading one of many biker magazines always strewn about anywhere I touch down, more than a few I’ve contributed to, one I eventually wound up editing before it died for much the same reasons the old Washington County Post did. Want to go out of business in the print world? Hire me. More seriously now, Jung postulated that therapists are motivated to heal based, at least partially, on their own wounds, empathy a powerful driving force.

I guess I was in my mid 30s when I became somewhat aware of a lot of my underlying motives, and being wounded certainly fit, but a condition far from exclusive. Actually, all of us are wounded repeatedly throughout life by all manner of internal and external forces. The impact varies greatly depending on person and incident, from rage to compassion of the kind Jung had for his patients.

In my case, I suppose many wounds led me to teach, and teaching to some degree led to wrench twisting as a hobby as opposed to being a necessity imposed simply as the result of needing cheap transportation, which very frequently required mechanical intervention. My early poverty years as a young adult necessitated learning mechanics to get anywhere. The various heaps I owned often broke down three times between Cambridge and Hoosick Falls. Hiring someone else was often out of the economic question, and much learning took place on the side of Route 22 on vile contraptions of both two and four wheel varieties.

Over the years, though, I acquired a few skills and finally managed to build a couple of bikes and cars that didn’t fit Tillie Hudson’s classic description of me and my bunch, a phrase we forced her to use so often that many of us remember it verbatim, an admonishment where Mrs. Hudson employed the adjectives “rude, crude, uncouth and unattractive.” I seriously considered this for a tattoo once but fortunately sobered up in time before the needle bit.

As for recent motivation for writing about Cambridge and encouraging others to do likewise, I began all this as a form of self-therapy after suffering a wound that surpassed any I’ve ever experienced and left me for quite a while both terrorized and traumatized. Some of you, I’m sure, have suffered worse, but when cancer descended on the Brown household and attacked my wife, it devastated me too. She is only now beginning to enjoy life again after surgery last September to remove a tumor growing on her palate and jawbone. She suffered greatly and watching this was like being stabbed repeatedly in the heart with an ice pick 24/7.

Fortunately, much of this dismal scene is in the rearview mirror, and my main job today as caregiver is really easy. Still, for the first time in our 38-year marriage, my fiercely self-sufficient Cajun queen is now very dependent on me, and this has greatly altered a long habit I used as a primary stress buster, and that’s bombing around, many times recklessly, on old motorcycles I build and collect, one of them pictured above. I used the photo as it’s such an apt psychological analogy of the nut job behind the build. The old 1969 Triumph Bonneville pictured above is an English/American mutt constructed completely out of miscellaneous parts, goes too fast for its own good, has terrible brakes, very loud pipes, and vibrates so much it blows headlights like an old flash camera. Regardless, I find it terrifically fun to ride.

Now I’ve always known actual motorcycle riding, especially on the kind I build, is a dangerous practice. I suppose it’s a big part of why I enjoy it so much. I can also honestly say that my dear wife knew what she was getting in advance. Our second date started out in Thibodaux, Louisiana in a bar that advertised it was open “25 hours a day.” I decided to test this advertising, and on our way back to her house passed a marked Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s patrol car. Today, I’d probably still be in jail, but in Louisiana at the time you had to be almost unconscious to get a DWI, and my stunt just resulted in an order to go home before I killed my girlfriend. Right now, however, I’m slightly more mature and find I have bigger responsibilities. My Aunt Ethel explained this well.

“Mary’s taken care of you for 38 years,” she said recently. “You have a lot of catching up to do.” Truer words were never spoken, and in many ways Mary’s illness has been a blessing to me. I often feel very good about myself when I help her. It’s an honor, not a duty. Our deep love has grown even stronger. I’ve been a better husband over the past eight months than I have in our entire marriage.

My problem was that all this just isn’t exciting, and I’m still very much an adrenaline junky. Fortunately, I finally stumbled on a viable substitute for the wild man inside, and I’ve been back in high gear ever since, blasting down Route 22 doing a hundred miles an hour in an Olds 442. Paul Neutsil’s at the wheel. John Virtue is riding shotgun. I’m in the back seat putting on a seatbelt, the first time I think I ever used one. I knew, about 10 minuets before it happened, we were going to be in a spectacular car wreck.

After living a demolition derby life for a good many years, much of it in Cambridge, I found abundant material to write about, most episodes relatively entertaining. Writing these stories frees my soul, the computer keyboard replaces the 108 octane gas I pumped at Smith’s Sunoco to feed various mechanical mutations often denied NYS inspection stickers for good reason. I highly recommend the writing practice, most potent psychological fuel. Although Smith’s Sunoco is long gone, I will gladly help anyone in his or her efforts to fill their own tanks. You don’t have to be a great writer to write a great story; you just have to take the time to put it on an electric piece of paper we all now use much more than the real kind. And then, boys and girls, we take it out on the road, open up the human carburetor and let the air fly through our hair. Can you smell the big pine trees on Rt. 313?

But there’s another equally important reason we all should write about and share our personal histories. The Walt Whitman quote says it way better than this old hack writer ever could. It’s our verse and one ticket to immortality. It’s also, many times, most important history and a chance to correct common misconceptions or, at least, provide alternative and richer versions.

I’m relating all of this to serve as what I guess is a mini-journalism lesson aimed at encouraging others to record and share their personal memories of Cambridge before they’re lost for all time. It’s important to understand that we can look at any source, yearbook, newspapers, magazines and other media of all sorts, but not truly know what went on because so much is lost in translation. This is not deliberate in most cases; the “fake news” is generally far more accurate than it is not. The real problem is that life is often so intricately complex and  happening all at once that no one person, even using video, can catch a completely accurate view of any given moment in time. But far too often it’s that single person’s version that we rely on later to determine what we often think is ‘the truth” when it is often far from it and/or grossly incomplete.

Let me provide a specific example of how wrong we can be even when our source is honest, dedicated and most competent. In the following example, some might be led to believe I was an accomplished baseball player. Taint true, McGee. I really stunk.

For our anniversary, Mary bought me three books about Cambridge, two by Dave Thornton and one by Ken Gottry. They were all great reads and I leaned a bunch I never knew about Cambridge. I was most shocked, however, to find my own name listed in Ken’s book. It appeared in a paragraph about the 1971 Cambridge baseball team, which Ken related as one of the school’s best of all time.

Quite frankly, I didn’t even remember winning the district championship, but that’s most likely because I did absolutely nothing to support the accomplishment. I spent nearly every game on the far end of the bench. I also think it’s perfectly fair and most accurate to say I was the worst player on the team. The only time I ever played was when we were up something like a 100-2 and Coach Record sent me to deep right field for the last few innings. When he did, I prayed nobody would hit a ball to me because I knew I’d most likely screw up and then endure the ridicule later.

In fact, my most significant baseball action in 1971 was using the fungo bat to dig deep holes during each game because I had nothing better to do. My only real contribution to the team came when Coach Record taught me how to fill in the specialized book he used to keep detailed accounts of what really happened during each game, right on down to balls and strikes, if I remember correctly. That book, if it still exists, would be the best authority on the 1971 team, and I do remember helping make notations in it occasionally, probably because coach Record was sick of me digging all those holes in the ground. (Stillwater was my favorite, soft clay where I almost struck oil on a rainy afternoon.)

Most seriously now, other than filling out the record book a few times, my presence on the 1971 team was a complete wash. Except, and this is a most important “except” for all of us, I really was there for every game and practice and do still have memories that have historical (or is that hysterical?) value.

Yes, unquestionably, there were a lot of very good baseball players on the 1971 team. One I  remember well was fellow classmate Keith Headwell, who we all called “Headsy.” Keith was an exceptional two-sport athlete, soccer and baseball, and he was a significant contributor to the 1971 team that many might overlook because Keith didn’t play one of the glamour positions. Headsy was an outfielder, centerfield I think, I don’t remember for sure, but I do most vividly recall Keith’s tremendous throwing arm.

Keith wasn’t a particularly big guy full of rippling muscles, and actually a bit on the thin side, but somewhere inside of Headsy was a very accurate, long-range rifle. Even if you could get a deep hit on the 1971 team, not easy with either Doug Luke or Matt Durrin pitching, it was almost always a single because rocket arm Headsy could throw a bullet to wherever it was needed. Lots of adult base coaches misjudged just how far and fast Headsy could throw, and this coaching error often resulted in another CCS put out at second or home base.

I tell this story for a number of reasons. One is to demonstrate how important details are often lost over time. Quiet, unassuming guys like Keith seldom got or get a lot of ink, and I think it’s important to remember modest contributors when we can. Also note my critique on the team’s weakest link; it’s all on me and I have every right to do this and don’t have to worry about hurting anyone’s feelings. I stole this methodology from a friend I worked with at a Louisiana newspaper where I also met Mary.

Wayne was as terrifically funny as he was talented, but almost always the butt of every joke he told.

One day, in between peals of laughter after he told me it would take two to replace him at the newspaper, a monkey and a midget, I asked him why he was so hard on himself.

“I used to make fun of other people all the time,” he told me, “and too many times I hurt their feelings. I knew I couldn’t stop making jokes, so I started making them about me. Now everybody has fun.”

This was wisdom that changed my life as I’d spent decades making fun of other people to get a laugh that I could have engineered just as well if I only looked in a mirror at my own stupidity and saw the true being who was, and still is, just another comical player on the very wonderful and weird stage we call life.

I’m not saying it’s always wrong, dangerous or bad journalism to make fun of other people at times, but anyone who does this, especially in public for people not generally in the public eye, should be absolutely certain the person named will enjoy the joke and not be offended by it, and this is only possible when you know someone very well. Here’s a closing example.

When I read Ken’s piece on the 1971 team I quickly noticed a glaring omission of a most important player. I’m nearly positive this was caused by the source Ken used and not some error on his part. Like Dave Thornton, it appears Ken used my old stomping grounds a lot, the now dead and long gone Washington County Post as his reference source. Most likely because of the sterling journalistic product that was the WCP, Ken left out a most significant player from the 1971 team, Jim Robertson.

What did Jim do that that was hugely significant? This is easy to explain and very important, too.

Jim taught me how to dig holes with the fungo bat.