Getting Here Part VII: Hippie Writer

When I was twelve I decided to be a writer. I had some success with this in grade school and in sixth grade my friend Stuart and I published a newspaper, using the school's mimeograph to print it. Writing during junior high became an escape from the slings and arrows thrown my way by other kids and my resentment and fear of my father. Stories were a world I controlled and I could get lost in my imagination.

However, in high school something quite extraordinary happened. My writing made me popular. I was entertaining and funny and people didn't mind me being around. I did a poetry reading and a story reading. I became an actor in comic sketches written with two friends, I was a stand-up comic and a DJ at dances.

I wanted to pursue a career as a writer, but it wasn't encouraged. I was told I would get over such nonsence and what I needed was a job, a real job, which I got at ARCo. But I wrote every night anyway and sent manuscripts out to magazines. The year I married, as mentioned before, I won a runner-up in the Writer's Digest Writing Contest. (The story was called "Soldier, Soldier" and concerned two soldiers arguing over whether to desert their post.) In the next few years, as we lived our perfect little suburban life, not much was happening with my writing. I was writing a lot, but no one was buying. I was contacted by Scott Meredith (no relation, in fact his real name was Arthur Scott Feldman), to whom I had been recommended by the editor of Redbook. Scott Meredith was one of the most prominent literary agents of the time and his company still is. He represented such people as Norman Mailer, P. G. Wodehouse and Arthur C. Clarke, but I turned him down. This was probably one of the poorer decisions of my life.

But after we moved to my father-in-law's I began to find outlets. The first was as a ghostwriter for a number of people going to college. I wrote term papers, essays and speeches for a fee. (They got A's, so they got their money's worth.) The fellow who took over my old position in Addressograph was also going to community college and was the editor of of the school paper. He complained there wasn't enough talent to fill his paper and he hired me to write articles. I wrote these under the byline Loop because I wasn't really supposed to write for that newspaper not being a student of the school. On top of this I had a friend named Jane, a artist attending the Philadelphia Institute of Art. She kept trying to urge me to trust my talent and write full time, but I didn't, at least not right away. She and her boyfriend were black activists (later defecting to Cuba) and he was a photographer in the underground press that was popular in the sixties. Jane introduced me to an editor and I began writing in the Undergrown Press as "Eugene Lawrence". The picture top of this post is of the periodical.

In the meantime, Lois and I were developing a clique of friends, all with ambitions in the arts. They were writers, poets, artists, composers and actors. This was the beginnings of the "Decade of Peace and Love" and Hippies, which we were.  Our time was spend with these people in Jim's basement (that is Jim holding bongos in the picture with me) talking about the great things we were going to create while we drank Screwdrivers and smoked. If not at Jim's we would gather in Rittenhouse Square and hang around with the other street people all night. We frequented the coffeehouses (Trauma, Kaleidoscope, Main Point) or went to concerts, Bob Dylan, Tim Buckley, Elizabeth, Jim Kwiskin's Jug Band with Maria Muldour and many other groups of the time.

While our group continued to talk about doing, I started to get published more. I did some ads for the Philadelphia Enquirer and Daily news, my poetry was picked up by the radio program "Personal Poetry" and I got a regular gig writing articles for "Philadelphia After Dark."

Life was not going as well at home. Lois and I were having a hard time communicating under her father's roof. She went to work for Delaware County Hospital and met an orderly there. I found out and we decided to separate. I went home to ma and pa. I began to date other women, even went to a ski resort with one, but somehow I could not get any real feeling for anyone else. I also quit my job at ARCo to write a novel. I would go to Lois' father's place during the day with my portable typewriter (I still had a key) and then leave before her or her dad got home. I took a part time job with Philadelphia Gum.

I couldn't stand not being with Lois. I began to court her again and we went back together on the basis we move out of her father's. We moved to a cheap apartment in University City in Philadelphia. I left Philadelphia Gum with the move and she got a job as a secretary in the chemistry department of the University of Pennsylvania. We lived on her salary and my money from the ARCo Thrift Plan. Our apartment was small, had roaches, with a Hippie crash pad down the hall, a doped-up girl screaming in the hall some nights, a Black Panther group meeting in the lobby and a prostitute living above us. A perfect place for a Hippie writer who was just beginning to sell short stories to the pulp magazines under my own name.

We had registered to vote right after we moved. I listed my occupation on the form as Writer. Politically I was far left and I generally voted for third party candidates in those years. (I voted for Dick Gregory in the 1968 Presidential race.)

One day I came home and there was a subpoena in the mailbox. It accused me of registering to vote under false pretenses. It said a witness saw me engage in some kind of shenanigans with the registrar. The witness had a nearby address. I walked to it and found a vacant lot. It turned out hundreds of we University City residents had received these. Frank Rizzo was running for Mayor and was unpopular on college campuses. They were trying to take the college kids vote away and since I had simply registered as Writer they netted me as well. Our lawyer, supplied by the Democrat party (which is what I had registered as then) said we had to go to court or they would take away our right to vote.

I had just started working for North American Publishing as a circulation manager, although I talked them into letting me write book reviews for their education magazine, "Media & Methods". Now in my first week I had to take a day off and go to City hall to an overstuffed courtroom. It was July. There was standing room only and it was terrible hot. There was no actually judge. Committeemen of the Republican Party sat as Judges. They kept telling our lawyer to shut up. I looked about and most of the contested voters looked to be college kids, but not all. There was an old man with a long white beard (they subpoenaed Santa Claus) and a group of middle-aged Black women as well. The witnesses sat along one wall. My guess is they were paid off with a bottle of wine.

It was a long morning. At noon we were told by our lawyer that anyone with a valid Pennsylvania Driver's License with their current address should go to a clerk during the lunch break. If you had this, which I did, you would be dismissed and retain your vote. These things turned me sour on politics. Although in the two instances I cited last time and this were with the Republicans, I've had my taste of corruption with the Democrats as well. I don't particularly like politicians of any stripe today.

I was getting published regularly and Lois and I were closer than ever. Our group was beginning to break apart and we were spending less time hanging about in the park. We still made the coffeehouses every weekend, but these weren't my only hangouts during this period. The others were something else entirely.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Getting Here Part II: Losing My Religion

Most people are born into a religion. Given the time and place of my birth it is not surprising that religion was Christianity. I was Baptized several months later at the Methodist Church where my parent's had married.

My family had a religious history. My mother's had a long affiliation with the Methodists on her father's side and the Reformed Church of Christ on her mother's.

My father's paternal ancestors had landed on these shores in 1683. They were among the Welsh Quakers chartered part of Chester County, Pennsylvania by William Penn. His mother's side, which had arrived from Scotland in early 1774, were longtime Presbyterians.

Although many of my ancestors were very devout, not much of that religious background was apparent in my life. No one was going to church on any regular basis, perhaps on Easter or Christmas. We said grace at Sunday dinner, a task that fell to me once I was able to talk well enough. My prayers were pretty short and repetitive.


In 1950 we moved back to Downingtown from the swamp.  I had left that town halfway through first grade and came back halfway through third, a mere two years that may as well been 200. These were years during which my old classmates formed cliques and bonding.  I wasn't there thus was left out of that process.  My best friend from earlier days had moved away. The boys I once considered friends now made fun of me, even bullied me.

Some girls I knew from before remained friends, but playing jacks and hopscotch with Iva and Judy hardly won the other boys over to my side. At recess I was one of those left dangling to near the end when sides were chosen for games. I didn't know the fundamentals of most team sports, except soccer for some reason. Soccer was not the game of choice in town; it was football and baseball.

Religion started off every day at school.  In those times the school day opened with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, The Lord's Prayer and a reading from the Bible. No, I wasn't sent to some Christian academy, these were public schools. Any Christian Love espoused by any of those passages didn't last beyond the closing of the Bible and first bell. I remained some kind of pariah to most of these kids.

Also, once back in town, it was decided I should go to church.  Each Sunday I was dressed in my one suit and "good" pair of shoes and sent walking the length of Washington Avenue to attend Sunday School at the Methodist Church. I hated it. For one thing the direct route took me through the territory where a gang of older boys always came after me if I was spotted. For another, no one else in my family was going to church, why me? I found Sunday School terribly boring, plus I wasn't excepted in with the kids there either.

I didn't see much value in any of this religious stuff. It was something to be endured because adults made you do it. God wasn't answering any of my prayers. I woke up in the morning and my enemies were still there.

As I aged it only got worse. I was tall, thin and gangly, with a slightly hunched back. I was sometimes called "Quasimodo" or worse. By seventh grade I also had to wear glasses, so "four-eyes" got added to the insults.

These things drove me more into myself. I was perfectly happy being alone. I began to write and spent a lot of time in the town library. When I began Junior High I stopped going to Sunday School. I just made such a fuss about it my mother gave up trying to force me.

Now, I don't want to paint  a picture of being a totally pathetic figure huddled in some dark garrett. It is not that I didn't make friends, but they were generally considered "different" too. Stu was the only Jewish kid in town at the time, a fact that exposed me to anti-semitism. Ron was as thin and gangly as I and threw like a girl. Dave wore glasses and had weird hair. Franny was black and thus I also became exposed to racism. He wasn't even allowed to visit my home. Bill was small. Sam was a girl; a Tomboy. None of my friends reflected much in the way of religious beliefs, except Stu and his were mocked by my father, who wasn't altogether approving of my friendship with a Jew. He didn't even know about Franny.

Overtime I took part in various activities that I enjoyed, Boy Scouts in particular. I also began going to MYF meetings in Ninth Grade. A boy in my class invited me, but I only went because they were going to a favorite restaurant of mine at the time, Dick Thomas' Brick Oven. I thought I'd go that one time, but I enjoyed the evening and began going regular.

The Pastor decided we should know about different religions and over several weeks a priest, a rabbi, a whatever would come and speak to us about what they believed. I found it very interesting, but it did nothing to bring me closer to God. They all seemed very sincere. How was I to know which was right? Maybe none were? I asked the Pastor one day, "If God made the universe, then who made God?" He gave some stock "with God everything is possible" and left it at that. I thought I had him; I thought I was pretty smart.

Boy Scouts, MYF, Babe Ruth Baseball and my paperboy job all came late in my junior high years and before too many months of involvement with any of them my parents moved us out of town again. After years of living with my grandparents or renting a house nearby, my parents managed to buy a home of their own. It was several miles north of Downingtown out in the country.

I was back into a form of isolation again.

Much to my surprise and chagrin after moving my parents began to go to church, and of course, expected me to begin so again as well.  I was 15 when we moved. I was forced to join them in the pew every week, but when I turned 16 and got my driver's license I made a deal. I would go to Sunday School, but not Sunday Service.

It was not that Sunday School thrilled me. It was even more boring than the one at Downingtown. However, when Sunday School ended I came home to an empty house while my folks were at church. I wanted to have that alone time. I had some special magazines hidden away in a back spot of my closet I wanted to read, or more precisely, magazines with pictures I wanted to look at.

If religion was supposed to make you feel good, then I had a new religion and these magazines were my bibles.

I soon made another deal with my parents. I would go to MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) rather than Sunday school. MYF met on Sunday evenings. It was more fun than Sunday school. Yeah, we had lectures about the Bible, but then we played games. Sometimes we had outings, hayrides or cookouts.

As it were, I was elected President of MYF. I actually had power over the agenda of our meetings. I changed the lectures to discussions. I would introduce some Bible story each meeting and then play Devil's Advocate to get the arguments going. The meetings were pretty lively and our membership began to grow. I was being praised because of this, but in reality I wasn't just playing Devil's Advocate, I was trying to ridicule these stories.

The move from Downingtown changed much in my life. My social circle had widened. I still was friends with Stu and Ron, but now I had other friends and we spent our spare time on cars, girls and parties. Days were for souping up our cars and nights were for drag racing up and down Pottstown's main street.

Life had changed for me at my new school as well. The first year I remained a fringe character, although I wasn't being subjected to the constant put-downs I had experienced in Downingtown. I was sitting at a typewriter many nights that first year, typing out short stories and poems not yet knowing this would make me popular in the next year. Writing had been an escape from the world, now it was to become a door into the world.

When you are a loner who has lost your religion stepping through the door into the world can be a dangerous step.