The Bowdoin Chronicles

By Zack Miller

Mark Lewis felt isolated and out of place.  Born in Brooklyn, New York, a few years after the end of World War II, at the age of six his family moved to Augusta, Georgia.  A scrawny Jewish kid, he finds difficulty adjusting to the social life in the small Southern town and seeks escape by attending a liberal arts college on the coast of Maine.  Once there, he continues to struggle with trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life.  

 

317 Pages 94,000 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Neuren
• Release date: Oct 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393992561

Zack Miller

Zack Miller is the pen name for Alan Neuren.  "Zack" attended Bowdoin College in the mid-sixties.  He went on to receive his medical degree and completed further training in both psychiatry and neurology.  He served in the United States Navy for two years in the seventies and was recalled to active duty for Operation Desert Storm.  He has retired from medicine and resides in Ft. Worth with his wife Maureen.

Book preview

Stand on the Coast of Maine

And Feel the Awesome Glory Of Rock, Soil, Sea, and Sky

PREFACE

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There is a common aphorism that if you remember the sixties, you weren’t there. Perhaps that is true for some, but for many others, the decade is etched in their memories as if it were yesterday. Although the line of demarcation between eras is usually not clear, from a practical standpoint, one could say the sixties began on the afternoon of November 22, 1963 with the assassination of President Kennedy. For those old enough to remember, the shock of that day lives on. The baby boomers had been spared the privations of the Depression and the horrors of World War II, but the torch had been passed to a new generation. As they struggled to come to grips with the tragedy, a virtual panacea occurred a scant two months later with the arrival of the Beatles in North America. These young men helped to open the gates to a sociocultural revolution that is felt to this day.

As the decade rolled on, the nation became insidiously embroiled in what was likely the most controversial war in its history. What began as a limited intervention, ultimately escalated until there were over 500,000 American troops fighting and dying in the far off jungles of Southeast Asia. The war conducted by President Johnson was countered by protests and demonstrations in cities and on campuses around the country. The decade was further punctuated by the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, race riots, the Summer of Love, Woodstock, the hippie culture, marijuana, and the sexual revolution.

While many young people were engaged in protests, thousands of others endured the heat, humidity, and dangers of Vietnam. The war might influence their decisions (Should I enlist? Should I join the Navy? Should I seek a deferment?) but it wasn’t the focal point of their lives. It wasn’t all turbulence. For some, it was merely an awakening, a time to explore, a time to learn who they were, a time to find love and happiness. This is a story about such people.

CHAPTER 1

It’s time to go, kids.

Mark Lewis glanced at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the dark blue 1950 Buick. Dressed in a knit pullover shirt and summer shorts, he climbed into the back, sliding across the plaid gray seat covers. His older sister, Janette, climbed in from the other side with their cocker spaniel, Daisy, who settled into a comfortable slumber between the siblings. His parents Ely and Muriel sat in the front. Considering the extended car ride ahead, Mark wondered how long Ely’s white shirt and gray slacks would remain neat and crisp. In contrast, Muriel wore a demure cotton print dress.

They were in the Midwood section of Brooklyn, Avenue L to be specific. Lush green elm trees lined the streets. It was late summer 1954, the early morning air already warmed. Ely drove west along Avenue L then north on Ocean Parkway, the broad treelined boulevard that ran toward Prospect Park. Mark looked down at the East River as they drove across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, something the family had done many times before.

Then into the Holland Tunnel. Mark inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet pungent smell of exhaust fumes that filled the long tube. Janette wrinkled her nose, which made Mark smile knowing she despised the odor. Traveling for several minutes under the Hudson River, the tunneled world consisted of two narrow lanes, white tiled walls illuminated with bright fluorescent lights, and a flash of occasional doorways leading to some unknown destination. Brake lights reflected off the ceiling as patrolmen strolled the walkway that ran along the side of and above the roadway of the tunnel.

They emerged into the bright New Jersey daylight onto a modern four lane road. After some stop and go traffic they reached the New Jersey Turnpike; Ely cruising along at 60 mph, a Bering Plaza cigar clenched in his teeth, the windows open to let in air. South they rode, hour after hour after hour. Beyond the New Jersey turnpike the highways became more irregular, traffic congested, the air thickened. A large suspension bridge connected New Jersey with Delaware. Then Baltimore. Stop and go through the steamy dilapidated city.  Muriel distracted Mark and Janette by pointing out the white marble steps on the row homes, iconic symbols of Baltimore. The highway between Baltimore and Washington took almost an hour to get through, not counting a stop for lunch at a Hot Shoppe.

After Washington came Virginia. Mark pondered the three lane highways, with the middle lane used for passing from either direction. Even at the age of six, he thought this a strange and dangerous configuration. What if there were cars in the middle lane approaching from opposite directions? More delays in Richmond, Petersburg, and other small cities and towns. Somewhere deep in Virginia, they stopped for the night, and were back on the road early the next day.

Penetrating into North Carolina, the surroundings slowly changed. The hardwood trees thinned out, replaced by tall loblolly pines, the rolling hills of Virginia left behind. Extensive farmland with crops of tobacco and corn made the land appear flatter, the scenery monotonous. The highway narrowed to two lanes. Sometimes stuck behind cars or slow-going trucks, Ely had to wait for the opportunity to pass. The road meandered through small towns, forcing Ely to slow down to avoid a speeding ticket. Frequent traffic lights added to the delay. Mark and Janette listened as their parents reminisced about Ft. Bragg in North Carolina, where Ely had been stationed after returning from Europe with the 82nd Airborne at the end of WWII.

The miles dragged on. More cigars. Muriel sang songs like Mairzy Doats attempting to entertain Janette and Mark. At such times, Mark wished his cheapskate dad had bought a radio for the car. On to Twenty Questions.

Is it an animal, mineral, or vegetable?

Animal.

Is it bigger than a breadbox?

No.

And so on. Boredom gave way to restlessness. Restlessness gave way to back seat fighting. Sock, thump, clunk, pow.

Muriel, do something with those kids. I’m trying to drive, Ely snapped, concentrating on the road ahead.

Extending her arm far enough to exact punishment, Muriel gave each a smack on the knee. Stop carrying on you two.

He’s on my side of the seat, Janette complained.

I am not.

Yes, you are.

Muriel drew an imaginary line on the back seat, bisecting Daisy with a well-manicured finger. Okay. Each one of you stay on your side of the line.

North Carolina dragged on forever. Another night. Another motel. This one called Scandia Village. Day three on their journey. At last South Carolina, with even more pine trees, tobacco, corn, and then cotton to mark the passage of their weary miles. Weathered grey shacks mounted on brick pillars dotted the landscape, the hallmarks of rural southern poverty. The heat and humidity were stifling in the mid-afternoon. At last they reached Augusta, Georgia their intended destination.

Mark sweltered in the heat; his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. Throughout the extended backseat car ride, the unformed sense of anxiety transformed into a deep unrelenting dread, as the rural landscape of piney woods and farmland unfolded. His comfortable life spent in a dense urban grid, surrounded by the familiarity of Brooklyn’s cityscape, all that he knew, had been usurped by a small southern city roasting in the August heat. Mark decided that Augusta must have been named after the month of August as a tribute to the extreme heat he was enduring.

Mark looked down at the Savannah River as they crossed the bridge, a muddy brown ribbon separating Georgia from South Carolina. Cruising parallel to the river, Ely found a place to park on Broad Street while Muriel went to a telephone booth. Mark gaped at the expanse of the roadway, and Ely described it as one of the widest streets in the country.

It’s hot, Mark said in protest, as Muriel’s never-ending phone call stretched on. I’ve never been so hot. I don’t like this.

It’s hot now because it’s summer, but it won’t last much longer, Ely assured him. And the winters will be mild.

Will it snow?

Maybe, but not like in New York.

No snow? I like snow. This place is dumb! Why do we have to move here? Mark’s misery elevated with each perceived loss.

We can live better here than we could in New York City. It has to do with opportunity and the cost of living, but you are too young to understand.

Returning to the car at last, Muriel confirmed that the moving van would meet them at their new residence, a Spartan red brick apartment complex called Pine Hills. Their garden apartment consisted of two bedrooms upstairs, a living room, dining area, and small kitchen downstairs. With only two window air conditioning units, one in the living room and the other in the master bedroom, Mark and Janette shared the bedroom without. At night with the window open, he listened to the symphony of crickets, cicadas, and other insects of the night. The evening air did not cool down, and the sticky heat became his nemesis, part of the fabric of his new life.

Morning arrived, the sun a pale steel disc in the sky. Mark peered out the front door across the grassy field. On the far side of the complex stood another row of apartments. Beyond them an embankment of red clay jutted up about eight feet with a woody area of pine trees behind it. The sweet scent of the pines permeated his nostrils while the hot humid air felt like a heavy blanket. Running around on the embankment and in the woods he saw several boys his age, some barefooted, a few in sneakers, the sound of their distant shouts and laughter audible to Mark.

You need to go outside and meet those boys, Muriel said, but keep your sandals on or you’ll get worms.

Pushed out the door by his mother, Mark approached the shirtless youths, each carrying cap guns and toy rifles. The sticky, dead, breathless heat didn’t seem to bother them, whereas Mark felt sweat sliding down his spine, his shirt sticking to his back. Self-conscious in his sandals and white socks, he crossed the field and climbed the embankment. The other boys welcomed him into the group.

Wheah yew frum? one of them asked.

New York.

Hey. He’s a Yankee! The boy exclaimed. A titter of giggling emanated from the group. What’s your name? asked another.

I’m Mark.

We’re playin’ cowboys and Indians. Want to play?

Sure, but I don’t have a gun. Our stuff hasn’t been unpacked.

Ah’ll lend you one of my pistols, one of the boys said, as he grabbed a cap gun tucked in his shorts and handed it to Mark.

Mark joined in on the universal game that little boys play, filling the rest of his day with shoot-em-up action. Though his companions seemed nice enough, as the shadows grew long and the group dispersed, he felt a disquieting sense that he did not belong.

*

The days of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda, pumpernickel bread and New York style pizza existed only in memories for Mark, replaced over the years by Nehi soda, Colonial Bread and fried catfish. In contrast to halvah and Good Humor ice cream, northern confections that Mark dreamed about at night, moon pies were in his opinion a sub-standard substitute. There was just no replacement for the almighty Brooklyn Dodgers with Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, and Jackie Robinson.

Despite his sincere efforts to avoid assimilation, certain aspects of southern living became incorporated into Mark’s persona. A crispy hot southern fried chicken drumstick was always welcome. The fruity taste of a Dr. Pepper was far superior to Coca Cola. A large peach grown locally exploding with sweet sticky juice that rolled down his chin or a sweet watermelon provided Mark some consolation for the oppressive summer heat. Y’all rolled off his tongue like a native. It seemed like a convenient word. Y’all notwithstanding, Mark succeeded in his determination not to develop a southern accent, but over time, even his New York accent disappeared, a small victory when people could not determine where he was from by his speech patterns.

The family had long since moved to a modest house in a neighborhood called Murray Hills, as a result of his father’s prosperous dental practice.

Wherever you throw a brick, you’ll hit a dentist, Ely used to say in describing the rat race of New York. In contrast, the steady flow of patients in Augusta provided a comfortable life for the family.

Now in the sixth grade, Mark distinguished himself as an effortless straight A student. Returning home after school, he occupied himself with homework until his parents returned from work. Mark filled them in on the events of his first day in the sixth grade.

Guess what? Mark asked. Chip Henderson who lives down the street and Tommy Kay both skipped the fifth grade and are in my class.

Really? How did that happen? Muriel asked raising an eyebrow with heightened interest.

I’m not sure. Something about going to Athens and being tested.

Not one to be outdone, Muriel turned to Ely. If those two can do it, so can Mark. I want him to get tested, she demanded.

Alarmed by the edge in her voice, Mark’s sense of foreboding skyrocketed. Knowing where Muriel was going with this, he felt puzzled. By virtue of his birthday, he had been the youngest person in his grade since kindergarten. Having been born on January 1st, he missed the cutoff date for entering kindergarten by one day, and technically was not eligible to start. But his father had walked him to P.S. 193 in Brooklyn and entered the principal’s office with Mark in tow.

Show the principal that you can read already, Ely commanded as he opened up a book of children’s anthologies and handed it to Mark. With no effort, Mark began reading from the book, impressing the principal enough to approve his entry into kindergarten at the age of four. It never posed a problem and in the subsequent years Mark earned his status at the top of his class. Now, years later, his mother wanted him to move ahead again, not for his benefit but for her bragging rights.

Ely and Muriel made arrangements to visit the University of Georgia School of Education in Athens. Given the hundred-mile distance from home, Mark was allowed a full days excused absence. With some effort Ely located the proper building on the sprawling campus where they met people from the faculty. Mark spent several hours undergoing a battery of tests consisting of math, word games, puzzles, and other brain teasers. Later in the afternoon, Mark and his parents reconvened to discuss his results with the director of the Psychological Clinic.

Mark’s test results are extremely impressive, the director mused as he went over the documents. Based on the test findings, his IQ falls into the range of 150 to 170, which easily puts him in the so-called ‘genius’ group. He has a mental age of 18 years, even though he is not yet eleven.

Mark felt pleased with his efforts. The testing had been fun for him, and he knew he performed well. Muriel beamed. Ely sat silent but proud.

The director continued. He should easily be able to handle seventh grade material. In fact, he could handle ninth grade material without difficulty.

I know he’s a bright boy. Maybe we should move him farther up than the seventh grade, Muriel offered.

I wouldn’t advise that, the director cut her off. You have to consider the emotional, psychological and social aspects of moving a ten-year old into high school. There’s a lot more to it than just the intellectual abilities.

I don’t know why we shouldn’t have Mark advance as far as he can, Muriel countered. She turned to Mark, leaning in and brushing the hair off his brow. Wouldn’t you like to start high school now? Then you could go to college when you are fourteen.

The earlier feeling of exhilaration disappeared as Mark processed what she said. The idea of college intimidated Mark. He wasn’t sure what people did at college, although he heard it was hard and many people didn’t finish.

I’m not sure, he replied hesitantly. Wouldn’t I have to leave home?

Don’t be ridiculous, Muriel, Ely said. You want him going off and live in a dorm at the age of fourteen?

What difference does it make? Muriel replied, a smug smile on her face.

Did you go to college? Ely asked with an edge of disdain, cutting her off with a dismissive nod. No. You have no idea what it’s like. Just let him skip this grade and finish when he turns sixteen.

I have to concur with your husband, Mrs. Lewis. Intelligence is only part of what Mark will need to be successful in the future.

Departing the university grounds, Mark realized that his path had been determined, and his sixth-grade classmates were about to be left behind. The deep sense of dread, never far from the surface, returned to his awareness as they made the long drive home in silence.

A fortnight later at the start of the next marking period, Mark moved into the seventh grade. He reported to the principal’s office where the secretary paged Mrs. Linder over the PA system. A few minutes later Mrs. Linder arrived and introduced herself to Mark. She was tall with carrot deep red hair and freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

I’m one of your teachers, she said. In the morning, you will have subjects with me. In the afternoon we swap classes with Mr. Brinson across the hall for science and math.

Mark trailed Mrs. Linder down the hall to the seventh-grade classrooms at the far end of the building. As they passed the sixth-grade classrooms, Mark tried peeking into his old room for a last glimpse with no luck. They entered Mrs. Linder’s room, and she gestured to an empty desk in the fourth row as she announced, Class. This is Mark Lewis. He is joining us from Mrs. Chappell’s class.

Mark took his seat hoping to be inconspicuous as his new classmates briefly glanced his way. For years, he had always been one of the tallest people in his class. Now he was a shrimp, and a scrawny shrimp at that. The other boys appeared significantly larger than Mark, clearly having begun their growth spurts. Naturally somewhat thin, Mark was outsized by everyone, both by height and bulk.

Mark looked around the room, a pit in his stomach. Everyone was at least one or two years older. He honed in on two boys in the room obviously much older than him, one in a leather jacket, the other in denim with a rotten front tooth and a DA haircut. They looked like a couple of hoods; no doubt held back many times but still not quite old enough to drop out. In Georgia, school was mandatory until age 16, and these two must have been close.

Mark scanned the room further. The girls. Wow. The girls. They were all wearing lipstick and make-up, with varying but definite stages of breast development, so different from Mrs. Chappell’s class. He looked over to the boy seated diagonally in front of him, whom he knew from sight as Louis Prather. Two years earlier Louis had become a source of conversation in the school. He had been involved in a BB gun fight and had been shot in the eye, the injury so serious that he was flown to Chicago for special surgery to save the eye. The surgery had been successful, although it had left him with a distinctly larger left pupil. Louis glanced down as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a package of Kent cigarettes just far enough to be seen. Mark was stunned—hoods, make-up, breasts, cigarettes. What next?

At that moment, Mark understood how loneliness really felt.

Academic rigors ratcheted up again the following year as Mark entered junior high school. In response to the Russian’s launch of Sputnik, the U. S. government decided to ramp up the educational system in the high schools and instituted an advanced academic program just as Mark entered the eighth grade at the age of eleven. He and several dozen other classmates were placed in an accelerated program where they earned high school credits for science, algebra, and social studies.

The demands of regular school matched the demands of Hebrew school four afternoons a week in preparation for his Bar Mitzvah. Though not religious, Ely was adamant that Mark fulfill this rite of passage. His classmates at the synagogue, despite being roughly the same age were two or more years behind him in school. The years of learning culminated in a cold late December day during a trip back to New York during Mark’s sophomore year in high school. Mark was Bar Mitzvahed at his grandfather’s synagogue in Bensonhurst, an old Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn. His grandfather Avram originally hailed from Zheimel, a small village in Lithuania. As a young man Avram had walked from his village to Hamburg to escape the pogroms and took passage to New York on the German steam ship Blucher. Arriving at Ellis Island, the immigration official who processed him into the country changed Avram’s surname from Levitz to Lewis, a gesture that made the family’s origins less obvious.

The old synagogue located on a side street was ancient and dark. In places, paint peeled from the plaster. The weak winter daylight filtered through the dark stained-glass windows; the back wall covered with brass plaques in memoriam for those in the congregation who had died. The bulk of the congregation consisted of elderly Eastern European Jews who had fled to the United States early in the twentieth century, and had thus escaped the Holocaust, although many of their relatives had not been as fortunate. Mark sensed the cantor’s nervousness about having some kid from the south chanting the haftorah, the mores and customs of this synagogue being far more stringent than those struggling in small cities in the deep south. Whenever Mark hesitated, the cantor leaned forward gripping the arms of his chair ready to intervene should Mark become lost. But Mark recovered every time and the cantor eased back.

Morning services were followed by an evening party at the banquet hall of the Midwood Temple, a large Reform facility around the corner from where the Lewis’s had lived prior to their move to Georgia. The event was attended by dozens of friends and relatives. Other than his grandparents, Mark knew no one. He felt like a fish out of water as he was introduced to and congratulated by distant relatives and old friends of his parents that he had never seen before and would never see again. Mark realized this party was more for Ely and Muriel than for him. Maybe if they had stayed in New York he would have known Uncle Izadore, Aunt Lena, and Cousin Jacob, but this party of strangers for whom Mark was the nominal guest of honor left him feeling sad and isolated.

The one consolation proved to be a gift from his parents, a brown Martin guitar. Janette had become a fan of the Kingston Trio. Mark finding their songs catchy and appealing, decided he wanted to learn how to play the guitar. After a few months of lessons and hours of practice in his spare time, he realized he had gotten the hang of it. When he wasn’t doing homework, Mark spent time strumming the guitar and singing, the sounds of Tom Dooley, The Sloop John B, or The Everglades, emanating from his room.

Near the end of his junior year, Mark actually had enough credits to graduate. He staved off relentless efforts by his mother to force him to start college in the fall. Mark found different ways to get home after school every day to avoid confrontations with Muriel. Some days he took the school bus. Some days he got a ride with a classmate. Sometimes he even hitchhiked. He wasn’t always successful.

One particular day, his mother insisted on picking him up. Mark suspected she wanted something but kept quiet. Her ulterior motive became clear as soon as she started talking about the idea of Mark’s going to college in the fall.

Incidentally, do you know where you want to go to college? I was reading about a fifteen-year-old named Fefferman who is double majoring in math and physics at the University of Maryland. Have you started your college applications yet?

I’m supposed to start looking next year, Mom.

Well how are you going to start college next fall, if you don’t even start applying until then? Muriel nagged and needled him, and each time Mark parried her comments, his level of annoyance increased.

What’s the matter? she jabbed in a condescending exasperated tone. You chicken?

Enraged, Mark’s field of vision telescoped to his mother’s mouth. Her lips were moving but the static in his brain drowned out the sound.

Stop the car, Mark yelled. Just stop.  Muriel pulled over to the curb and Mark got out.  I don’t have to listen to this, he said, slamming the door. I wonder if Fefferman has a mother like mine. He probably went to college early just to get away from her, Mark muttered to himself as he walked the last mile home.

Mark was determined not to start college at the age of fifteen. His classmates were cordial enough to him, treating him like a rare bird or a class pet, but he was out of his league on a social level. Everyone in his class had been driving for at least a year, and that fact plus his age meant no girl would date him. Unwilling to perpetuate this dilemma when he entered college, he refused to be baited by his mother, just so she could brag to her friends about her genius son.

Despite his outward resistance, Mark had been giving college thoughtful consideration. Earlier in the semester, in one serendipitous moment at the library, Mark’s dreams about his future careened in a new direction. He had caught a glimpse of a dust jacket with a vivid drawing of a rugged soldier staring off into oblivion with heavy lidded eyes, wearing an older green uniform, and standing next to a ruddy faced Indian adorned with an eagle’s feather. The novel wasNorthwest Passage by Kenneth Roberts. Mark escaped into this historical fiction that night after finishing his homework. As he consumed the book he fell in love with the descriptions of Maine, the musically poetic names of places such as Piscataqua, Mooselookmeguntic, or Memphremagog, the beauty of the forests, rivers, and coasts, and the rustic towns of Kittery and Portsmouth. In his mind he imagined the salty aroma of the ocean as lobsters cooked within the dimly lit confines of Stoodley’s tavern, the heat from the fireplace providing meager warmth from the wind howling outside from the Isles of Shoals. He wondered what the drink flip consisted of, noting that on many occasions someone went to the trouble of making it. The exploits and endurance of Robert Rogers and his Rangers as they battled the Indians and elements in the Maine woods fascinated Mark. From Northwest Passage, he moved on to Arundel, Rabble in Arms, and Boon Island, more historical fiction from colonial New England.

The works of Kenneth Roberts were soon supplemented by Moby Dick, The Scarlet Letter, and the dark haunting short stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne whose style and themes resonated with Mark. He knew that’s where he wanted to be . . . New England, and more specifically rugged, stark, primitive, beautiful Maine. With luck there would be a college there and he would be free