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“I remember when rock was young... Me and Suzie had so much fun...” For those who were there, “Name That Song” would be a giveaway. For those who weren’t there, you will have to settle for a Google search of Elton John to find the answer. It was summertime, 1973. Sir Elton also made the charts with “Daniel” and “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” that same year.
Jim Croce and Seals and Croft were also hit makers. Roberta Flack was lamenting about someone killing her softly, Marvin Gaye was encouraging us to get it on, and the Doobie Brothers were on a long train running. Paul Simon was capturing the moment with Kodachrome and Bob Dylan was knocking on heaven’s door.
In Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, that summer there was Catalyst ’73, a drop-in center for youth and the center of the universe for a few short months—at least that’s the way it seemed.
Even now, looking back down the long corridor of time, I believe that old reconverted warehouse on Cliff Street actually was the center of all things, however briefly. I don’t remember going home from there all that summer. If I wasn’t working at the center, I was hanging around there or at the beach. And sometimes we made going to the beach an event, so that our “work” took us there... only on sunny days, of course, and an occasional rather foggy and spooky night, when the “Anchor Man” was sure to show up at John’s Cove when the tide was low and the foghorn moaned mournfully at Cape Forchu.
Many nights I would bunk out at the drop-in, manning the phones for the drug crisis center and the suicide hotline. We actually had calls and a crisis or two. I remember one such crisis when we just could not move to save ourselves or to cover the six feet that separated us and the phone. It just kept on ringing insistently as crisis phones will do in the dead of night and we just kept on sitting straight-legged on the foam mat on the floor, our backs pressed so hard against the wall that we were undoubtedly stuck to it. Yeah, that must be what happened... somehow every one of the four people sitting on the floor in that blue lit haze had simultaneously and irrevocably become stuck to the wall. Amazing, huh?
The phone kept ringing and Linda kept smiling so serenely—just like she always did—so we knew that there was nothing to fret about. So what if our legs were simply just too heavy to move, and our arms and hands ignored the commands from our brains? We weren’t planning on going anywhere anyway, right? Oh yeah, the phone. After awhile, it sort of became a rather pleasant sound, like background music at a funeral.
At some point someone actually makes a comment about this, which of course elicits the question of, “Hey man, who died, anyway?” And so we all do our best to search our memories, at least those most recent ones, since a funeral normally is held within a few days of someone’s demise. The concentration is intense, the effort extraordinary—obviously the body stone that has us glued to the wall has also crept into our brains and paralyzed out thought processes. A collective shrug is followed by a collective sigh, which seems to signify that since none of us can come up with a name, then no one has died and that must be good, right?
This still leaves an uneasiness though because the ringing phone-cum-background funeral music continues to badger insistently. I am suddenly reminded of tolling bells, which I immediately associate with Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” taking to heart its cryptic message that it “tolls for thee”—meaning me in this case.
“The bell tolls for me,” I blurt out like a prophet, perfectly convinced of the logic in announcing my own death and funeral, especially since there is not one part of my body I can move voluntarily—not even so much as a baby finger. And although my brain appears to be functioning, that would be something highly debatable in most circles. So, it makes sense and I continue, “I am the one who died. It is my funeral.”
By then however, the ringing telephone has begun to take on new meaning and it no longer signifies a funeral dirge but is now reminiscent of some other holiday.
“Funeral? Aw, that really sucks, man, and so close to Christmas, too.” The profound look of sadness on such an open countenance is precious, but not enough to still a small voice that reminds us all in the semi-darkness that, after all, this is only early July.
“Right on, man. Christmas in July! Now that sounds like a plan.”
By then the phone had stopped ringing. The caller had either resolved the crisis, given up entirely on us and life in general, or turned his or her frustration into productive anger and was at the moment headed our way with a vengeance and perhaps more drugs, or just gone to sleep. Perhaps it was just a wrong number. Yeah, that’s right... any way, if was important, they’d call back, right? Right.
The really important thing is that we had a plan and it was only a couple of weeks to get it together... Christmas in July would be a great success... hmm... lights, decorations, the tree... exchanging names & gifts... caroling down Main Street to Frost Park. We’ll have to inform the mayor... get him on our side... don’t want the town cops freaking out, thinking there is a riot brewing with 300 young people marching through the streets on a summer night, even if they are singing Christmas carols. We’ll invite mayor Emin to a ribbon cutting ceremony, to put the star on the Christmas tree, to present us with a certificate for the “best decorated building...”
Linda, like Bebop, continues to smile angelically as she sits in a corner. I am encouraged by that smile, and by the fact that she has somehow gained the ability to move... just enough to unstick herself from the wall behind and to lean slightly to the left where Harold sits next to her. Soon they have both managed to free their arms and wrap them around each other. Soon Linda’s smile will take on new meaning and Harold will be smiling too. Tomorrow we will start planning for a brand new event, Christmas in July at the drop-in center, only 12 days until the 25th.
The only other person in the room, whose name escapes me now as it did then has either fallen into a very sound sleep or has expired and become one with Bebop, painted on the walll behind her. Either way, tonight, it looks like I am the designated “first contact” and the phone has just started to ring once again. The body stone, like all things, has passed. I reach for the receiver.
“Talk to me,” I say, “I’m here. The time is now. You are not alone.”
The summer of '73 also brought the other excitement to Yarmouth. Let me tell you all about the Tunisian Connection...
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