The Promiscuity of Gratiot Avenue
The following is a potpourri of unfinished stories. Time is slip sliding away from me, with the velocity of a falling body. [[32 ft/sec,squared)
The Promiscuity of Gratiot Avenue
[[Well, that is one way to attract an audience!)
Prologue
Running the Gauntlet
I have run the gauntlet of cheers and tears and a few jeers, and some indifference to my descriptions of what was, once, Detroit.
Were they too saccharine? Were they too incredulous? Were they too contrary when compared to the present day attitude of ‘Doomsday?’ Was I the only person to survive or to have the verve and exultation to reap the benefits of my experiences?
I do not think so. There are still some of my peers, frail in stature, absent minded to a pitiable extent, whose eyes will brighten up, and whose minds, if only briefly, will flair up in remembrance of a triumph of some singular, past activity in their younger days. And so we live with those memories.
But far better still, via this Forum, there are good people trying to encourage others to build a new Detroit. There is no plan or pattern or blueprint to subscribe to. What it will take is a determination to participate in any way they can. I know, that is a very vague statement. It will take a leadership, far beyond my vision. Amen.
I wonder how many present day Forum members are writing their autobiographies. Not necessarily in grammatically correct publication form, but in a more casual manner that will make them smile or laugh out loud, :p or shed a tear or two, or long for a return to a wistful, but fulfilling time in their lives,, when they read it, in the future.
Peggy and I are looking for one more pasture to forage. It will not be an air balloon crossing the Pacific or a trans world trip to all of the countries on earth. We prefer something more genteel. [[ genteel, from Merriam Webster, definition d: “free from vulgarity and rudeness.”) Discovering a field of exotic wild flowers would be the most aristocratic and elegant thing I can think of right now. Do you get a whiff of ‘Omar?’ [[Anyone??)
WE HAD IT ALL!
Peggy and Tponetom
Maybe, not like Bogart and Bacall, but we had many different moods to temper our spirits. We had angst, admiration, desperation, hope, fear, friendship, sentimentality, sorrow, opportunity, poverty, optimism, misery, freedom, wealth and woe. None of them in alphabetical order nor chronologically.
I often think that our ‘helter skelter’ emotions of those early days made us strive harder, to cope with life later on Many of my peers would empathize with me and my doodling with words.
Gratiot Avenue? Promiscuity?
Gratiot Avenue was the most promiscuous promenade on the East Side of Detroit, during the Forties.
Please note the capitalizing of ‘East Side.’ I am treading on Sacred Ground. By no means am I demeaning the West Side. If I had been raised on that side of town, I KNOW that I would wax as eloquently about the West Side as I try to do, about the East Side.
Oh! Before I am swept away by my revelations of reveries, I have to post a disclaimer of sorts. Because of my intimate relationships, apocryphal as they may be, with Noah Webster and Mr. Funk and Mr. Wagnalls, I like to read and to QUOTE many of their words and works.
For instance. Use the word ‘promiscuity’ or ‘promiscuous’ and it screams out as being all about SEX, SEX, and more SEX!
I became curious and lugged out my 6 pound, H-R, volume of Noah’s and looked up those two words, The first definition [[of three) satisfied me to include it in this post:
To wit: consisting of a heterogenous or haphazard mixture of people and things: composed of all sorts and conditions.
I told myself, “Great! That fits Gratiot, in the Forties, to a “G.”
Recently, I wrote about a casual and somewhat romantic stroll through Indian Village.
Walking down Gratiot was excitement of a different nature. There was money in the pockets of many people. There were a myriad of stores, street hawkers, [[forever dodging the police) and a few peddlers who would like to sell you a “genuine” Gruin or Bolava or a Lungines wrist watch for 5 dollars. The name imprint on the watch was about a # 4 [[4) font or maybe a ‘minus’ 4.
The best and continuous entertainment, was the milling mass of humanity, whose antics were constantly changing, block by block.
On any block where you were walking with others, half of them would dart into different shops, only to be replaced with those coming out of the same stores.
Gratiot Avenue was the High Voltage Highway that energized the East side of Detroit
[[More on Gratiot another time.)
Born, Bred, and Dead in Detroit
My Dad retired from his plumbing business in 1962, at the age of 58. Dad and Ma intended to spend most of their retirement years in the Upper Peninsula. “Going To Camp,” is the proper nomenclature with ‘yoopers.’
The following year he died, instantly, from a heart attack.
The sadness to his family, friends and business associates, was bewildering.
I was 35 years old. My sorrow hibernated after a few months. It never disappears.
Like any other kid of five or 35 or more, Dad was my hero and my mentor. He taught me as much as he could, about everything. It took me a few years to realize the most important lesson I gleaned from his death.
Don’t aspire to great Riches.
Don’t grovel for Prestige.
Don’t revere Position.
Don’t knock yourself out for the nebulous Success of Power..
At the age of 45, Peggy and I began our Odyssey, and never looked back.
Riches?
I would not trade my Portfolio with anyone else in the world.
My Power has always been my independence.
My Position? Like the kid on the bow of the Titanic! I am “King of My Own World.”
Prestige? I have Peggy. So I do not need the above three.
Tom Wolfe Said It.
Peggy and I are determined to make the Long Journey home in spite of Tom Wolfe and his admonishments. First he says, “Look Homeward, Angel,” and then he says, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I think he wrote them in that order. Perhaps he was a bit confused.
Of Time and the River? Was that a prophecy for Detroit?
Now, the end of my story BEGINS!
2006. Summer, in Tucson
The Swimming Pool by the Clubhouse.
The Ladies Water Aerobics Class goes on twelve months a year. The eclectic group of women, all over fifty years of age, are a dedicated and determined group who try to stay as healthy as they can, come Hell or cold water. Hell comes in the summer, riding the crest of triple digit degrees, like 114o
There is one lithesome figure bobbing up and down like a banshee, in the center of the
pool. Her platinum hair sparkles on her well tanned shoulders.
As the program ends, I walk over to the pool’s exit steps and wait for her to rise from the waves. I hold her towel and embrace it around her and pat her back.
The other ladies are used to the routine. One of them calls me by name, and says, “Do you give massages too, Mr. O.,” and everyone giggles.
Oct. 1, 2006. 3:00 a. m.
The nightmare began,,,,,
Let the Hide go with the Hair!
