Palm of the Hand Writing

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" height=120 BGCOLOR="#CCCC99" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="0ec8dfe1esnpes.jpg"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>Michael Czarnecki</B></FONT><B>     </B><B>|</B><B>     </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Michael Czarnecki"><U><B>home</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id17.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Brief Bio"><U>Brief Bio</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id18.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Poet"><U>Poet</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Themed Programs"><U>Themed Programs</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Colleges"><U>Colleges</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id72.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Writing Workshops"><U>Writing Workshops</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="PoetintheSchools"><U>Poet-in-the-Schools</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id19.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Oral Memoirist"><U>Oral Memoirist</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Maine Coast Journey"><U>Maine Coast Journey</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id73.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Community Project"><U>Community Project</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id21.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Some of My Writing"><U>Some of My Writing</U></A>   |   <B>Palm of the Hand Writing</B>   |   <A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="US 62"><U>US 62</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id62.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="US 62 Journal"><U>US 62 Journal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id22.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Schedule"><U>Schedule</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id76.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Fliers"><U>Fliers</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id23.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Books Available"><U>Books Available</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id26.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="References"><U>References</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id25.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Contact Me"><U>Contact Me</U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=360 BGCOLOR="#CCCC99" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="0ec8dfc3.jpg"> <div> <I>Palm of the Hand Writing</I></div> <div> <A HREF="id72.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Writing Workshops"><U>(Palm of the Hand Workshop information)</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <B>Big Brother, Baby Sister, Moving</B></div> <bR> <div> I have no memory of what the house we were moving from, or the house we were moving into, looked like or how far apart they were. I can't picture boxes packed full of possessions being carried out to the car or into the new house. There must have been the usual flurry of activity that always accompanies a move from one dwelling to another. That was the adults' matter I guess. Being only a four-year old, the work of moving was not something I participated in or recall having been aware of. I must have been to some extent, but there is no memory of it that has lasted these many years later. </div> <bR> <div> I was part of a young family, my mom being twenty-eight and dad a year younger. I had a baby sister, only months old. It is my mom, sister and me that form the distinct memory about the move, a memory that has remained vivid for all these decades.</div> <bR> <div> Though I don't recall the moving process, I know that the image that has lingered in my mind was from the last time we were leaving the old house and going to stay at the new one. It was dark out. A light rain was falling. We were walking to the car from the house, my mom in front of me holding my baby sister who was wrapped up tight in a blanket. My mom had a kerchief covering her head. As she walked through the night toward the car I followed a few steps behind carrying my sister's milk bottle out in front of me, right arm extended outward. The house, car, dad didn't exist. No motion accompanying this memory. Not really walking, but a still shot of us walking. And I holding my baby sister's milk bottle upright, nipple pointing into the dark, wet sky. A snapshot, a moment frozen in time.</div> <bR> <div> There is nothing else. Getting into the car, driving to the new place. It happened. I have no recollection of it. There is just this one image of a four-year old big brother carrying his little sister's bottle out into the dark of night, moving on to a new somewhere else.</div> <bR> <div> **********************************************************************</div> <bR> <div> <B>Early Rebellion</B></div> <bR> <div> Was there anybody in America not watching the Ed Sullivan Show that Sunday night in February, 1964 when the Beatles were making their debut appearance on this side of the Atlantic? </div> <bR> <div> I was in eighth grade, 13 years old, just getting into music and there was no way I was going to miss them. Ed Sullivan, along with Bonanza, were Sunday night regulars on the family TV anyway, so I didn't have to talk my parents into it. Of course, they weren't very excited to see the four mop tops, but that was to be expected. This was a generational event, strictly for the youngsters of America. And it was an event! Three guitars, four different looking guys, screaming girls. Not the usual kind of Ed Sullivan Show. I remember my Mom proclaiming it's just a fad, they wouldn't be popular long. Mom's aren't always right!</div> <bR> <div> This was not the Beach Boys, Bobby Vinton, The Four Seasons. The Beatles were something new, different, bringing an energy, sound, look that helped define a booming generation. Long hair, British accents. “She Loves You,” “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” I Saw Her Standing There.” </div> <bR> <div> Already at that point I was a Dave Clark Five fan, so my interest in seeing the Beatles was more because of all the hype than because I was a loyal follower. The Dave Clark Five hadn't yet come to the states, been on Ed Sullivan. The Beatles were the first of what soon was called the “British Invasion.” The Dave Clark Five were second and then the hordes: Animals; Rolling Stones; Kinks; Searchers; and on and on and on.</div> <bR> <div> The hair. That was what bothered my parents the most. That was what I took away from that evening, more than even the music. The hair hanging down on the forehead, not combed back, slicked back. Long too, at least for that time. Something different.</div> <bR> <div> The next morning on my walk to school I decided to brush my hair down onto my forehead. This wasn't easy, since I had very wavy, curly hair. But I eventually succeeded in making it stay down. When I walked into class I looked around and I was the only guy who had changed his hair style. Within minutes of sitting down the nun walked up to me, pushed my hair back up on my head and said I should “wear my hair the way a boy's supposed to!” I felt a little embarrassed, especially since I was a good student and never got into trouble. </div> <bR> <div> Out on the playground after lunch I decided to push my hair back down on my forehead. This was a big step for me as I was always obedient and didn't make waves. I had already been chastised for wearing my hair different and now I knew my teacher didn't approve. This was an act of rebellion. I walked back into the classroom, a little apprehensive about what might happen. It took a little longer this time for her to notice me. She didn't approach me but just looked, shook her head and sighed. Rebellion worked!</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>