My poem, “Custodian,” published June 30, 2019 in West Essex Tribune
The period of time from about when I was born until about a dozen years later was the very best time to be a child, and my favorite non-fiction author Bill Bryson, in his book, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir, expresses that much better than I could.
As Bryson points out though, there was a downside, maybe more than one, but the one that riveted children, I think, was the heretofore unthinkable prospect of sudden nuclear annihilation. Mom and Dad couldn't help with that one. Oh, they talked about building bomb shelters, and who they'd let in and who they'd keep out, but some of us knew that the shelters could never be deep enough, and that we couldn't really ever come out. At least in our short span of time and thought.
For fifteen years I wanted to eventually return to my old hometown, but then I realized "You Can't Go Home Again" (Thomas Wolfe), and "You can never step twice into the same river" (Heraclitus). And so I didn't.
A high school friend, Karen Trachtenberg, from my hometown, Livingston, NJ, saw my poem, “Custodian,” on Facebook, and asked if it would be appropriate for a feature The Tribune was running on the town’s history. The editor of the paper thought it would fit nicely and accepted it. Many readers remember the fears of nuclear destruction that my poem evokes:
Custodian
A whiff of pine scent cleaner wakens memory
of Harrison School and lanky janitor Mr. Horrocks,
and green, my town’s color, like the overalls Mr.
Horrocks wore. Our next year Mr. Horrocks became
the “Custodian,” “caring” for us (as well as the
building). This kindly man roamed the halls of the
above-ground floors, pushing a bucket and mop.
His real domain was the basement - his office.
Yet he was not there when we lined up
below ground on the lime green tile floor,
and filed along the brick walls, painted
the color of my little kids’ faux varsity jacket
from the discount store, the corduroy one
that didn’t have white leather sleeves. We’d
follow the teachers’ commands to turn,
then slide down back to the wall, bow and
grab our knees, a bit unnerved as air raid sirens
still howled in our minds, counting the
minutes until we’d be atomized, and
we didn’t see Mr. Horrocks. Who was our
Custodian then, as the Russian bombers
headed for the Nike base on the hill
across the main road, holding missiles that
cared for New York City, the base we knew
they had targeted to hit first?