The Modest Editor, Karl the Actor, Barb of Florida, Jake the Plumber, Herodotus, and Prof Z of Bean Blossom: these are some of the contributors who have appeared, from time to time, in “Small Town, USA.” Are there real-live people concealed behind the outrageous pseudonyms? As we say in Cazenovia, you betcha. A new one, Doc Holliday, a former student of mine, now a professional journalist and author, will be added to the Rogue’s Gallery this month.
The oldest one (from the standpoint of service) has been my sharpest critic and nemesis from the time I shifted from The Culver Citizen to the Internet about five years ago. The Modest Editor is actually a retired editor of a big city newspaper He opened the door for me by printing my book reviews that led to my induction into the National Book Critics Circle.
At this time between Memorial Day and Independence Day, I twisted his arm to write a piece on one of his World War II experiences. “Do I remember anything about the fighting around Caserta, Italy? And how I do!” the Modest Editor responded.
“After pulling through Caserta, we kept on moving, and a dozen or so miles north our tanks and trucks halted and the company bivouacked in a farmyard at the village of Calazzo. A mere 18 years old, I was the company runner. Two days later I got orders to take messages to U.S. Fifth Army headquarters, which then occupied the Renaissance palace built by a Bourbon king in Caserta and pattered after the one at Versailles.
“On my way back across the Volturno River, I saw the rubble of two bombed-out bridges lay close by the one that was still intact. This knowledge saved me from a dunking and may be death. While at the palace I had learned that troops stationed there were treated to movies a couple of evenings a week. On returning to my company, I told my pup tent mate Louis, about it and we hitchhiked to Caserta a few days later.
“After the movie we were headed back to our company, again hitchhiking. We caught a ride in an army truck. We paid little attention that the driver seemed well into his cups. He pulled onto the approach to one of the bombed-out bridges.
“’ Hold it!’ I yelled. ‘Stop!’ A few feet more and we would have dropped off the bridge into the river. There were no warning signs or barricades. Remember, this was wartime. So, do I remember anything about Casserta? And how I do!”
The moral of this story? Don’t cross your bridges before they’re rebuilt. There have been times during out long association that a dip in the river would have stopped the Modest Editor from over editing my copy. Oh yes, there’s a postscript to this story: after working together for some years, we discovered that we had been in Caserta at the same time during the war.
My troop ship, which had managed to dodge through Nazi sub packs, docked at overturned ships in the Naples harbor, south of Caserta, and we walked over gangplanks straight into the Red Light District. Ah, but that’s another story, A Cold Case of Lost Innocence.
Meet Doc Holliday
From the oldest to the newest contributor, the fastest pen in the West. His short story won a prize in the prestigious Atlantic contest, and to complete his work in my class, he wrote a one-act play, which the two of us transformed into a full-length play. He left for college, and I tried to get the play produced. It folded when faculty members began to recognize themselves in the roles they were playing. Cocktails at Carter’s Junction still awaits its premiere production.
Gradually we lost track of each other, until a few weeks ago when Doc ran across “Small Town” on the Net. I’m happy to report that Doc, among other intellectual endeavors, pursed his writing career. His most recent book is Deep in the Heart, in which he traces the history of Texas from the Alamo to President Bush and the cowboy impact on the agenda of the United States and on the world in general.
This quote may entice readers to pick up a copy of Deep in the Heart: “The dissolution of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War gave the United States a chance to reconfigure our worldview in peaceful, creative ways. But we squandered the opportunity. Our paranoid rhetoric simply switched from anticommunism to antiterrorism. Our ongoing militaristic stance represents a failure of our collective imagination and a great human tragedy. Understanding the history of consequences of our warrior culture and our siege mentality, we may be able to channel our outlook and actions in more fruitful, less destructive ways.”
(Bring ‘em on! We’ll stay the course until the Iraqis stand up, so we can stand down. In the meantime, dodge the last throes.)
What a pleasure it is to re-discover a former student as well as a good friend, someone who has developed into a skillful writer. He was kind enough to send this e-mail: “The more I read of your columNets, the more impressed I am. You have found a métier that allows you to deploy your satirical wit, your considerable fund of knowledge and your sharp sense of the absurd to good effect.” And in another one. “I realized you were in Morocco in WW2. That’s great you were with the independence movement. I haven’t been in Morocco for 20 years, but I fondly remember the beauty and mystery of the place.”
From Caserta to Casablanca to Cairo
From Italy, I was transferred back to Casablanca, French Morocco. It was fun to view the famous movie Casablanca and to laugh uproariously at some of the bloopers, which I’ll share with you at another time and in another place. On R & R furlough I had the chance to visit Cairo, an experience I really didn’t appreciate at the time. Buffeted about in the narrow streets and jammed alleys, with merchants and guides clamoring for attention, a callow soldier could easily be overwhelmed.
To refresh my remembrance, I called on Prof Z of Bean Blossom, who had recently been to Cairo to visit with a daughter who is teaching English and directing plays there.
“Areas of massive poverty remain,’ writes Prof Z. “For every Mercedes you see, there are probably hundreds of thousands who are not sure they’ll have a good meal tomorrow. Life exists on the streets. Burros mix with tour buses weaving among the crowds, but it’s more orderly than you believe
“The Egyptians live their history, even though the Romans, Turks, French, British and many others have tried to impose their own culture and values upon them. I’ve been in a lot of foreign places and I have never had the same experience of being so humbled by antiquity at every turn. I was also impressed that the people there are ready to smile, to greet you without letting politics get in the way.
“One of the most memorable moments happened while driving on a smoggy street, traveling alongside of a 60-foot high Roman aqueduct built many centuries ago. By that time, the pyramids were already 3,000 years old.”
Thank you, Prof Z. After centuries and centuries of self-rule, most of the time, I was startled by the thought that Condoleeza Rice recently gave orders to the Egyptians about how they should change and run their government. Sounds a bit uppity, don’t you think?
From Cairo to Cazenovia
At the expense of repeating myself, the Caz Public Library has an Egyptian mummy and a collection of artifacts housed in its basement. In no way can this small-town display match the traveling King Tut exhibition currently in Los Angeles. But with all the History Channel’s programs exploring the burial catacombs in and around pyramids, it’s safe to say that mummies are red hot this summer.
Supposedly Cazenovia’s mummy’s name is HEN. I beg to differ. It’s not her name. But I see I’m running out of space, so you’ll just have to wait until next month to find out her true identity. All I can tell you now; she was not born on the Fourth of July.
hfirari at earthlink dot net
