In English the assignment was: bring in a song that shows how two generations see something differently.  I didn’t see much differently than my parents.  They were Baptists.  I was Baptist.  They loved the 4^th of July.  I loved the 4^th of July.  At fourteen I didn’t see many differences.

Illustration by Rod Hunting

I brought in a 45, “Epistle To Dippy” by Donovan, had no idea what he was singing about-who the heck was Dippy?   Maybe it was about the generations.  Our teacher, Mrs. Frumpkin, made a tape of the ones she liked best, no Donovan included.

She brought in her 94-year-old grandfather.  We were supposed to ask him about his life.  I wanted to ask him about sex, but didn’t; kept mum.  Cindy Abrams asked about the Depression.  Hank Jackson (already a pothead) asked about Prohibition.  I sat silent, as usual.  I couldn’t stand to speak before the others, viewed them as enemies, trap-setters who would gladly stuff me in a locker and walk away laughing.

Peace and love.  Hearts on notebooks.  Me stinking of half-eaten peanutbutter sandwiches on the first floor, banging on the locker door, no one hearing.

Her grandfather keeled over while answering a question about Normandy. Mrs. Frumpkin, hysterical and running to get help, sobbed down the hall.  While she was out, Jim Cooper stole her gradebook.  A few kids circled around grandpa trying to revive him.  Always one of the good kids, Betsy Liaro gave him mouth to mouth.  I doubted that she’d let me suffocate in my locker as long as the others.

The ambulance came.  The police came.  Class dismissed.

I learned I was useless in an emergency, just sat there, Zombie-boy.

I told my mom about grandpa right when I got home (I hate to admit this, but grandpa’s passing got me free an hour and a half sooner than usual so part of me was pleased that he chose that time to die).  She said she would pray for Mrs. Frumpkin.  I said I had homework to do.

I went to my room to play 45s.  I wanted albums but couldn’t afford any, not on a quarter a week for an allowance.  Question Mark and the Mysterians looked so cool on their album cover.  Question Mark’s cool shades, like everything else, too expensive.

Grandpa was my first death close-up.  Distant elderly familymembers had died but meant nothing to me.  When JFK was killed, 4 days of televised grief felt like a new show.

His generation was going.  Mine would be too.  Grief fell on all faces, young and old.  I did pray for Mrs. Frumpkin, afraid to fall asleep

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