'68 - A Novel...

Dear Readers:

This week we embark on what I hope will be an interesting journey. I have a short novel that is in its third rewrite (let’s call it Version 3.0) and we are going to serialize it right here in the pages of this fine journal.

What’s it about? The working title is ’68 and it is about two subjects that have always fascinated me. First, there are all of the game-changing, earth-shaking events that took place in the year 1968. That is the backdrop. Second, it is about bigotry – where it comes from, how it manifests itself in our lives, how we deal with it and, hopefully, grow beyond it.

I will post a chapter or two every week and we’ll see how it goes. I welcome your feedback as we go along, whether good, bad or indifferent. You can reach me at: cspiggidy2@hotmail.com.  A few of you have read earlier versions and made positive suggestions for V.3.0.  Thanks for that, Tom and Carolyn and Linda.  Much appreciated!

And with that, there is nothing left to do but begin. Enjoy!

Hopefully yours,

Chuck
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’68 – A Novel

       by

C.W. Spooner


CHAPTER 1:  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1967

They watched the image on the television screen, the lighted ball dropping in Times Square. “Five – four – three – two – one. Happy New Year!” The lucky ones turned to that special someone and shared a sweet kiss.

“Happy New Year, babe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I wonder what this year will bring? All good things, I hope.”

“Yeah, well we got that damn war. Maybe that will wind down.”

“And we’ve got to elect a president.”

“Oh, I think old LBJ has a lock on that one.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“You know, some years just come and go and you never even notice. You never remember what happened. Like 1965, or 1966. Came and went, nothing much to remember.”

“Well… Aunt Tillie died in ’65. And little Jethro was born in ’66.”

“Yeah, but I mean in the big picture, world events. Like, you’ll always remember 1963, November 22 – where you were, what you were doing when you heard the news from Dallas. But most years just come and go. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. And you know what? This party is a bore. What say we go home and take off our clothes and get in a pile?”

“Now you’re talking. Start the year with a bang. Great idea!”

“I’ll get my coat and we’ll say goodbye.”
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There is a theory that used to be taught in college communications courses. It goes something like this: Each of us lives in our own personal box, like a big refrigerator box, and the only way you can look out at the world is through a lens on one side. That lens is made up of everything that has ever happened to you, the good the bad and the ugly. It is colored by all the people who have touched your life: parents, family members, friends, teachers and coworkers. Most of it is complete by the time you are an adolescent, but it can change as things happen to you, what the theorists call Significant Emotional Events. We can talk about other influences – the town where you live, the neighborhood where you grew up, what you do for a living – because they all shape the way you look at the world.

It all goes into your lens.

Let’s consider a few hypothetical questions. If you served in World War II and came under enemy fire and saw your buddies die, how would you view the conflict in Vietnam and the anti-war protests all around the country? If you grew up in a strictly segregated community, where those people rode in the back of the bus and drank from separate water fountains, how would you view the relentless push for civil rights? If you believed in the rule of law and the genius of our constitutional system of government “Of the People, By the People, For the People,” how would you view the successive waves of urban riots and assassinations? How would these events appear through your lens, and would it be changed by what you saw?

This is the story of several families living in a small town in Northern California. Each family has its lens, and each family member has his or her personal variation. We’ll see how those lenses are affected during the course of a single year as some Significant Emotional Events unfold. Are there significant changes, and are they for the good? Do people really change and grow?

Well, that is for you to decide.
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Getting back to our New Years Eve couple, they were right of course: most years come and go and are, to paraphrase Mr. Lincoln, little noted nor long remembered. This one – 1968 – would not be one of those years.
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CHAPTER 2:  SUNDAY, JANUARY 14


The crowd started arriving at Skip’s Place around 11:00 AM. By kickoff time, it was two-deep at the bar and every table out on the floor was occupied. Skip Marks wasn’t surprised. It was Super Bowl Sunday, the Oakland Raiders vs. the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl II, and Vallejo was close enough to Oakland to bask in the glow. The silver and black excitement was so thick you could reach out and touch it.

Skip and his wife Marty had worked hard getting ready for this day. Bowls of chips and dip, pretzels and popcorn were placed on the bar and each of the tables. At the half, they would cover the pool table carefully to protect against spills, and then put out a lunch spread that would be remembered fondly in the days to come: cold cuts, cheeses, pickles, breads, potato salad, and Marty’s special macaroni salad with tiny bay shrimp. Finally, an assortment of cookies, cakes and pies would hit the pool table. If a customer went away hungry, it was strictly by choice.

Two bartenders worked the bar with Skip while Marty directed the three-person wait staff. It was all they could do to keep up with the drink orders. The staff would see very little of the game itself, able to glance up only on occasion to one of the television sets mounted around the room.

A huge cheer went up with the kickoff. Groans followed a couple of field goals by the Packers’ Don Chandler. Then, in the second quarter, Bart Starr connected on a pass to Boyd Dowler.

“Oh no… get him… get him! Tackle that sonofabitch!”

The play went for 62 yards and a touchdown, the Packers led 13 – 0, and some of the excitement left the room. Then the Raiders launched a drive that ended with a 22-yard touchdown pass, Daryl Lamonica to Bill Miller, and suddenly the excitement was back.

“We’re in this, baby! We’re in it!”

The glow diminished slightly when Chandler hit another field goal just before the half.

They put out the lunch spread at halftime and the pool table was mobbed. Marty’s macaroni salad was gone in a flash and the staff had to replenish the bread and cold cuts several times. Skip did a quick check of the cash registers and saw that this was already the highest volume day in the history of Skip’s Place.

The third quarter started with high anticipation. Then came an 82-yard drive by Green Bay that ended with a two-yard touchdown run. The highlight was a 35-yard pass to Max McGee, the final reception of his career.

“Oh no, not McGee! Not that old fart!”

Then Chandler kicked another field goal that made it 26 – 7, and some of the patrons headed for the door. The fourth quarter was just underway when Herb Adderley picked off a Lamonica pass and ran it back 60 yards for a touchdown. Just a handful of customers hung on until the bitter end. The final score was 33 –14. The Packers had earned another championship trophy and they carried Vince Lombardi off the field on their shoulders. Only a half-dozen cookies were left on the pool table.

It took a while to clean up the place and dispose of all the trash. Finally, Skip dismissed the extra help and he and Marty sat down with a cold bottle of beer.

Marty proposed a toast: “Here’s to a happy, healthy and prosperous 1968.”

“I’ll drink to that. And here’s to Pete Rozelle.”

They clinked bottles and smiled across the little table.
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Happy. Healthy. Prosperous. Skip pondered Marty’s toast as he went about closing out the cash register. She could have added “continued.” Continued health, happiness and prosperity. Things had certainly gone well for them since they purchased the bar in 1962. He and Marty were newlyweds then, and it had proved to be a great partnership. He watched her now, busy restocking the cold case, and he smiled. Who knew you could meet your soul mate working behind the jewelry counter at the City of Paris?

He was visiting his Aunt Ruth Lev that weekend in April of 1962, and he’d gone to the City of Paris in downtown Vallejo to look for gift for his favorite aunt. The pretty girl at the counter selected a lovely brooch and handed it to him to inspect. He asked the price and when she gave him the answer, he mumbled that it was crazy, using the Yiddish word meshugeh. She smiled at him and said, “So, you’re Jewish?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Me too,” she replied, and smiled at him again. It was then that he noticed the shiny black hair streaming down over her shoulders, and those lovely green eyes.

Three months later they were married in Aunt Ruthie’s beautiful garden, and shortly thereafter, they purchased the bar that would become Skip’s Place. It was down on the waterfront, at the foot of Georgia Street, a popular spot for shipyard workers and for sailors heading to town on shore leave. Skip had a vision of a clean, well-lighted place, where you could bring your wife or your best girl and feel at home. That’s exactly what he and Marty had created, and business was good.

The saloon business was a natural for Skip. His father ran a couple of successful watering holes in San Francisco, a notoriously thirsty town. Skip literally grew up in the business. But it was a long and winding road that brought the Marks family to San Francisco, stretching back through stops in Chicago and New York City.

Morris Marks, Skip’s father, had seen the ominous handwriting on the walls in their native Germany in the early thirties. He made arrangements to take his bride and immigrate to America, counseling his parents, brothers and sisters to do the same. Sheldon – immediately tagged with the nickname Skip – was born in San Francisco in 1934.

Aside from Morris’s little family unit, only his sister Ruth survived the Holocaust. Morris brought Ruth to San Francisco after the war where she met and eventually married a widower named Asher Zev. The Zevs settled in Vallejo where he prospered in the banking business. In 1950, Asher’s son Bradley and daughter-in-law Esther became parents of a baby boy they named Milton Jacob, and Ruth and Asher settled comfortably into the roles of Bubbe and Zayde. When Asher died suddenly in 1957, Bradley stepped in to run the business. Ruth was left with a lovely home and a secure income.

Skip glanced at Marty, finished now with the restocking chores. They had not been blessed with children and they’d come to accept that fact of their life. But they were still crazy (he should say meshugeh) in love with each other. He’d have to remember to thank Aunt Ruthie for settling in Vallejo.
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Next week: Meet “Big John” Harris and his new neighbor, Kenji Hashimoto.
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