Reunion Poems

"To Bruce, Unfinished" (Hear George reading his poem: mp3, 1.5MB)
George Cadwell, June 2005

I never ate an artichoke
before that cool Fall night on Bleeker
Street, my first visit to Karin’s
apartment in Greenwich Village.

We stopped at Simple Simon’s, a
hamburger joint, on the way in.
Bruce had face there, the counter girl
knew him. I almost remember
her but not the burger. Later,
Karen made us steaks and taught me
how to peel the artichoke, to
dip the leaves in butter and suck
the succulence of the mossy
green epiderm. Karin Whiteley
was a striking woman, taller
than Bruce. She had a scar between
her bottom lip and her chin. I
never knew its origins. Bruce
and I went up town, preppy dressed;
pretended to be eighteen and
were served beer in a stripper bar.
On Saturday, Bruce introduced
me to the myriad movie houses
on Forty Second Street. We
went for Little Ceasar and The
Public Enemy and thought it
cool when Cagney smashed the grapefruit
into Mae Clark’s face; macho and
chauvinistic back then. How we
would change with the times and the
births of daughters to love women.

Bruce introduced me to the arts.
Bruce was artistic, in his dress,
in his dance, in his sports and his
manner. I recall that he wrote well.
I did not; could hardly speak whole
sentences before Ollie Jones
taught us to diagram. Bruce loved
Louis Armstrong, Belafonte
And a French singer whose name I
can’t recall. When I hear Louis
Armstrong I think of Bruce, and Peg,
Saddle River, Tiny and that
ridiculous game of handball,
the ball invisible downtown
and onstage Variety Night.
The same night that Bruce played Romeo
to my Juliet. “But hark what light”
in his voice still re-sounds between
my ears interlaced with “Oh for
a Muse of Fire”, and “Efstoons
thy hands off me” when the curtains,
walls to the balcony, a small
table, stuck on the opening.

It started around 1950
Bruce and Herb did 8th grade
together. I came the next year
but C-W-C didn’t
start until 1952.
We spent ’51 seeing who
could pee the highest up what tree.
That settled, we discovered that
capers and adventures were so
much more important than peeing
on trees. Tripping to the Holy
Hotdog on free worship Sundays,
or better, being released to
go the NY Times Youth
Forum in the City. What a
lark. Hot dogs at Nathan’s, OJ
at Nedick’s, Uncle Hubert’s Flea
Circus. Smoking Churchill’s at a
buck a pop. Karen Whiteley had
a friend in Long Branch, New Jersey,
who invited C-W-C
for a weekend. He opened his
liquor cabinet. Bruce and I sipped
gin and watched Herb drink rum
by the tumbler full. Then we
held his head while he spilled his guts
on the lawn. Carried him to bed.

We were tight. In ninth grade we made
the diving bell from a fifty
five gallon drum, Plexiglas and
caulk and an old bicycle pump.
We demonstrated at Beegie’s
beach loading it with window sash
weights to hold it under water.
We were tight. We did skits, wrote songs,
performed well enough that some thought
us destined C-W-C,
Advertising, Madison Ave.
We were tight. First year at Cornell
we did economy tours of
the bawdies in Utica. We
had to hitchhike. Bruce’s car had
been totaled by a drunk Brother.
“Ace” picked us up, gave sage advice:
“There are none bad, some better than
others.” He gave us his number
wanting addresses if we scored..
Who knows why such bond men tightly?
It did: Herb and me and Whiteley.

Bruce showed me how to part my hair
and shape it with a brush, a wrist
action. Patiently, he coached me
through the intricacies of how
to tie a bow tie just like a shoelace
around my neck. Those were his words,
“like a shoelace”, interesting
simile; we both wore loafers.
In my forties wearing a bow
tie became an affectation,
The World’s Greatest Filter Salesman

We played Woodmere. Down on the three
or four, Hoffman sent in a special
play putting Herb at the Full Back.
Whiteley and me opened a hole
two yards wide and three yards long
so Herb could get his score running
us nearly over. We called him
“Glory Boy” for a month after.

The summer of '54 Bruce
rode horseback with Rupe
Hitzig and his sisters from deep
in Texas to New York City.
He came back late for the Senior
Year. I missed him, told him that I
envied his trip. He said, "Well, don't.
I was the butler and the girls
argued all the way confusing
female canines with fatherless
children." I was still envious.
Years later, I would see Rupert
Hitzig’s name on the big screen, a
producer of moving pictures.
I met him one time in Woodstock,
again at the Hitzig’s brownstone
in New York City, impressive
even to worldly lads passing
seventeen; skipping to thirty.

At Cornell, the temptations were
too great for Bruce and me. Herb knew
what he wanted to be. He roomed
alone, studied intensely, not
much time for play. He poured over
his books with green eyeshade until
shadows formed under his eyes. Herb
was dedicated to his dream.
Bruce and I spent too much time in
the movies; Fernandel and The
Sheep With Five Legs. Alec Guiness
played in the Lavender Hill Mob,
and The White Suit; Diabolique,
original French; Dirk Bogarde
and Glynnis Johns, fine arts stuff.

In Fifty Seven, Bruce and I
left Ithaca, left Cornell and
C-W-C met only
one more time, on the day of my
wedding, September the Seventh.
My last sight of Bruce was him and
Herb walking along the drive from
my parent’s house. Bruce McCool stopped
to open a car door for a
departing guest. The door handle
slipped from Bruce’s hand and he, with
characteristic grace, pirou-
etted and caught the door with his
other hand and bowed the guest in-
to the auto. I never saw
him again. It hurts my heart to know
that my buddy has died and there
were 42 years when I could
have seen him but did not. My loss.

2. Nostalgic poem by George Cadwell delivered at Friday Luncheon

"The Radio at Grampa’s" (Hear George reading his poem: mp3, 891KB)
George Cadwell
Written March 28, 2003

The nights were Tuesday and Thursday,
the station Double U Jay Zee,
trump time precise: seven thirty,
going from there to make believe.

At my house: usual normal.
Radio on, lights on, milling
people living life very small.
No convocation, no setting.

The situation at Grampa’s,
is different. It is fitting.
Grampa is old, he knows how to
live; he knows about listening.

A single 40 watt bulb burns
in a floor lamp, the bottom rim
of the lamp shade has tasseled fringe .
Philco’s eye glows green in the dim.

An easy chair sits at throne height
in the corner, the lamp in back.
The radio cabinet is right;
left; a stand with tobacco sack.

Grampa used EZ papers to
roll up tobacco cigarettes
like Gary Cooper on a shoot
out at a western movie set.

The settee is below the stair.
I recollect that the smoking
stand, the radio and the chair
had legs, period: Louie Sixteen.

At twenty five past, gather we,
Grampa in chair; Gramma and me
perched on the edge of the settee,
incarnations of “anxiously”.


Seven thirty. The radio
goes silent. This is as close as
reverence ever gets to a
kid. This is the meaning of is.

It comes rising out of the hum
of giant vacuum tubes, swelling
to the smack instant of bursting:
TANT!
A stretch modicum of silence.

Again, the trump vents
TA TA TANT!
All hell is about to break loose
and bouncing in seats will ensue.

The woods, the strings, the bells, all shrieve
the brass while percussions loud play
below. The steed from hind hooves heaves
and springs. “Hi Ho Silver, Away”.             (Hear the Lone Ranger theme song: WAV, 456KB)

Ta ta tant, ta ta tant, ta ta
tant ta tah, ta ta tant, ta ta
tant, ta ta tant tant tah, ta tah
tant, ta ta tant, ta ta tant ta
tant ta tah, ta ta Oh Rapture.

Of course it was all ritual,
same old story, just change the names
of the ancillaries. Tonto
went to town each show, same old games.

Bad guys talk with the window down.
Tonto stands outside the window.
Bad guys vile, evil, plans expound.
Tonto takes in bad guys’ info.

Back to the Ranger’s camp he goes,
straight into Kimosabe’s tent.
Tonto the bad guys’ cover blows.
“K” jumps right on the outlaws’ scent.

When the Masked Man draws guns and fires,
the bad guys shout, amazed, inspired,
“He shot the guns right out our hands!”
Directly, the outlaws retire

to the jailhouse, and, while Sheriff
makes arrangements; no one ever
really sees the disappearance.
The Man is extremely clever

at making his exit. Not so
easy, not logistically.
A huge white stallion and Tonto’s
paint, an “Injun” with a highly

mounted head feather, two four pound
Peacemakers and a smaller Colt,
bandoliers of silver bullets
and silver chits wrapped up in bolts.

A lot of bulk materiel
to move away undetected;
but on radio: possible.
Reaction? Always expected:

“Hey, just who was that there masked man?”
“I don’t know but he left this here
silver bullet”. And, twice weekly,
a bright townie, extensively

traveled and quite well read would say,
“Why, folks, that was the Lone Ranger”
Off stage, “Hi Ho, Silver, Away”
“Get ‘em up Scout” (Sancho Panzer).

Overture strains softly unspool
the returning reality.
In the morning, go back to school,
to grope with life’s insanity.

3. "The Class Reunion" (amusing poem not delivered at Friday Luncheon)

    Author Unknown