PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

September 9th through January 2nd is always a time of profound remembrance for me, ever since Thursday, September 9th, 1976 through Sunday, January 2nd, 1977---the first term of my undergrad years (until Tuesday, November 23rd), and the longest time I had ever spent away from home; followed by an extended Christmas break through January 2nd.

My college was very small---a bucolic campus (complete with a small creek's branchlet running through it, just like my grandparents' residence) in a minor industrial town which, in itself, occupied the middle of a very rural county, a couple of hours drive from the rural village in which I grew up.

None of my high school friends, especially Cerulean, were college bound; and I was transported to my college. under protest, by my parents, who just as quickly left me once I had brought my parcels into the dormitory room 120.  The population of the college was also relatively small, and undergrad freshmen stood out like sore thumbs.  While there was no physical hazing, some psychological hazing took place openly---but was protected as free speech.  Some upperclassmen, when speaking with freshmen with whom they were presumably acquainted if even briefly, would preface a remark with, "Excuse me, I have already forgotten your name."  Furthermore, while seating at tables in the huge dining hall was open to anyone, taking a seat at a table occupied by mostly Juniors and Seniors required that those freshmen brave enough to take such a seat were expected to remain silent until addressed.  

Such a similar silencing also took place in certain of the smaller classes in which lectures were replaced by discussions, and freshmen who failed to demonstrate agreeability toward upperclassmen were often overtalked.

I missed Cerulean in the most anguish and melodramatic way (for an eighteen year old geek).  I missed the perfected routine of our Friday and Saturday nights---one or two B-movie features (plus cartoons) at the Melody 49, followed by pizza and salad bar at our County's premiere Italian restaurant (sit-down, not carry-out); after which, we took a long, slow drive over and through most of the rural roads surrounding our village and its township . . . ostensibly to talk on c.b. channel 22, but also sometimes, with the c.b.'s volume turned down to just barely audible, to be alone with each other.

Cerulean had gifted me with leading me, on Saturday evening, July 10th, 1976, to my c.b. handle, Starwatcher, which evolved over time, to Starward as you now see signed to my poems.  Our c.b., which I had bought for us with my own money earned from labor on a County road survey crew (Cerulean was unemployed), had been installed the night before; but, having not thought of a handle, I was too shy to speak on it.  I was seated on the back bumper of my 1975 Pinto when Cerulean walked over to my house, and asked me what I was doing.  I said, "Just sitting here watching the stars come out, just starwatching."  (And I had been doing that:  those moments after dusk when the first stars emerge have always fascinated me,)  We looked at each other in a kind of mutual surprise:  I said, "That's it, isn't it . . . Starwatcher, my handle."  Cerulean said, "I think so."  Immediately I felt the very palpable lifting of a weight---the shadow of my parents, Lloyd and Betty, from me; and an eagerness to speak on the c.b., no longer as "Poodlehead," or "Fairy Jerry," or "Cottonball," but as Starwatcher.  Unknown to us at the time, our c.b. was factory defected:  the governor mechanism that was supposed to prevent it from broadcasting more than the FCC's allowable five watts, was inoperable; that particular c.b. broadcast at ten watts (without a booster which was commonly called a kicker; or, as Cerulean put it, our c.b. was "running barefoot," a metaphor I found charming on more than one level).  The ten watts amplified my voice and, instead of sounding pipsqueak as in normal conversation, it deepened and lowered.  (Later, we added a battery driven power-mic, legally available, to the c.b., which further enhanced the alteration of my voice.)  At face to face meetings with our friends, most of whom had never seen us before, I was often met with the question (and a dubious look), "You . . . are the Starwatcher?" to which Cerulean always provided verification.

     One Saturday afternoon, just prior to leaving for the Melody, Cerulean and I stopped at one of our town's few department stores:  I stepped in to make a small purchase, leaving the car running and the c.b. in Cerulean's capable hands.  I returned to find Cerulean in tears, unable to speak:  someone had intruded onto channel 22 and had said the cruelest things about the passing of Cerulean's mother, twelve years or so prior.  I immediately removed the mic from Cerulean's hand that had been clutching it, did my ususal "breaker break" to obtain hearing on the channel, and then addressed the intruder with the assurance that, while Cerulean may be unwilling to engage verbally, I was---at all times---willing to stand in for Cerulean, and every epic poet I had read to date would stand in with me.  I forget exactly what i said, for the next five minutes, but I was incensed---and I was told later that the voice of the Starwatcher sounded not only stern, but almost threatening.  The intruder yielded the channel and signed off; and, to the best of my knowledge, never intruded again . . . at least in my hearing.

    And this gift, of being Starwatcher, of being enveloped in that identity without recourse to "Fairy Jerry,"---to which Cerulean had led me that Saturday evening in July---remained with me at college.  Did the upperclassmen forget my name?  Fine, I had often wished to forget it myself; but Starwatcher they had never known, so they could not belittle it in that indirect way.  Silence at their tables?  They never would have had the chance to hear Starwatcher speak on a factiory defective c.b., no kicker, "running barefoot" with no more than a power mic---therefore, they had not really silenced me.  When I walked around the campus, to and from classes, to and from the dining hall, the awkward pipsqueak nerd might have been obvious to them . . . but not Starwatcher.  I was very pleased to have found, in volume about timekeeping through the ages, published as one of the Time-Life series of books, that the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph that designated the title of Astronomer was, translated literally, Starwatcher.

    I remember feeling guilty for not being as sad during this enforced separation from Cerulean as I would have thought, earlier, that I should be.  Although, with only one final to take, on Saturday, November 20th, I could have left that afternoon, but I wanted to finish reading Boris Pasternak's novel, Doctor Zhivago, without being required to explain to Lloyd and Betty why I was reading a novel about "commies."  I did not leave the campus until the evening of Tuesday, November 23.  After being taken out to a steak dinner (but forbidden to add the extra expense of salad bar), I arrived at home; spent a half hour with my Cocker Spaniel, Monica, who had genuinely missed me (although already four years old, she peed the back porch concrete like a pup when I arrived); and then brought my c.b. out of its storage hamper, placed it in my Pinto on to its mount; and drove at a little over the speed limit to see Cerulean.  Our reunion was exquisite; the next five weeks or so were delightful.  I had survived the worst term---the first term---of any freshman;s matriculation because Cerulean had led me to the gift of Starwatcher.

Starward

fka Starwatcher