My Sweet Lord

I never really knew what Pojo looked like. At times I imagined him being some sort of animal-human hybrid, that is to say, he had fur in places. His head was always human and always looking down as he was perpetually in the middle of what seemed like some important task as he scanned the weed-covered ground outside his little house. In other moments I’d see him as fully human, always in the same state of concentrated movement as he glided in and out of the little shack in which he lived not quite underneath but down there in the marsh the little bridge went over. I never really got to see him but I’d look down at his house almost every day and hope to get a glimpse of him. I’d always yell out, “Pojo’s house!” when we’d drive over the little one-lane bridge that led into the neighborhood somewhere in the Baltimore suburb of Whitemarsh.

 My Grandparent’s neighborhood was all post-war one-story houses, except for a couple of the fancier people who had second stories. One of these tall houses was right next to my grandparents. The Longs lived there. The two Long boys, a few years older than me were named Scott, the oldest and Pete, his little brother of a couple of years. Both were older enough than me for me to be wildly fascinated with them but not old enough to not allow me to tag along in their never-ending quest for all manner of delinquency. Surely the first fireworks, the first porn, the first cigarette I ever encountered came from them. They also ignited my second-grade obsession with Deep Purple. I was overwhelmed by the sound of “Machine Head” and all its massive sonic deluge of “Smoke on the Water” and the flat-out rush of “Space Truckin’” I still am if you want to know the truth.

I went to my grandparents’ house pretty much every weekday while school was on until I was about 9 or 10. Both my parents worked full-time so when I’d get off the bus that spilled us all out at the corner of Idlewild and Shamrock, my Grandfather, “Pop-Pop” would be waiting in his car which is always an early 70’s slightly weathered four-door Chevrolet of a slightly tan color. He’s always in that car no matter where in my life I gather a memory of him and surely he had other cars. But that’s how I remember Pop Pop on those little kid, not old enough to be home alone just yet schooldays. I’d walk straight to his car and hop in, my feet not touching the floor anymore. I don’t remember but I doubt there was any call for seatbelts. God, I hope not. I prefer to think that we just threw caution to the wind and drove! He’s perpetually smoking Raleigh cigarettes. No filter. He’s still smoking them in heaven because, well because he loves them. The radio would always be on and while he wasn’t much of a talker beyond basic greetings I always felt very warm and comfortable around him. I wish I could see and feel more of those moments, those 45-minute drives back to their house but they’re gone, those memories have abandoned me and I just have little flashes of second-person shaky camera stills and a few early public access quality video clips left to look at.

The drive back to their house took us through lots of two-lane country roads except for one last great push as we turned onto Pulaski Highway. It was about a ten-minute drive towards Baltimore but felt like an epic journey as all of a sudden, the rural nature of my world became filled with traffic and truck stops and liquor stores and little landmarks like the weird little motel that sat down in a hollow of grass and tall domed trees forming what looked like an oasis. I’d always crane my neck to see just what the hell was going on down there. I can’t recall the name but it shined from a neon sign that lit the lawn and little pond that the motel wrapped around, the trees creating a canopy that held in the light, even at midday and made everything glow iridescently, beautifully, magically with reds and greens. Well into my young adult life when it was me driving past on my way to Baltimore or maybe even my Grandparent’s house, I’d still find myself captured by that improbable little glowing depression. But I never thought to drive down there and I like to think I’d already learned to let magic stay magic. Once it becomes known it loses its splendor.

After our jaunt along Pulaski Highway or “route forty” as almost everyone referred to it,  we turned right and back into an almost prehistoric world. It slammed you in the gut it was such a sudden change of environment. One moment we’d be on this 6-lane highway with all manner of concrete and glass and steel concerns and after a short wait at a red light Pop Pop would turn the wheel right and we were engulfed by green. Tall green. Wild green. Unruly and wholly menacingly beautiful green. And as long as it took us to become completely swallowed whole by this sudden leviathan of living Baltimore jungle we’d hit the little bridge. We’d have to come to an almost full stop in order to see if anyone else was coming towards us and had already claimed the one lane the tiny rickety bridge supported. I remember the sound the car made as it rolled over the bridge. The sound of the tires navigating each plank or crack or whatever the bridge was made from. It didn’t seem made for a car but yet, here we were every school day rolling over this little trusty, maybe 50 foot long bridge and on into Nottingham Village neighborhood where my grandparents lived and my Dad had grown up.

One day as I remember it we were in the middle of the bridge when I became intently aware of what was on the radio. It was always tuned to some Baltimore AM pop music station. Not necessarily rock music because I doubt that was Pop Pop’s scene but just generic pop with news and traffic reports interspersed. I remember this snaky guitar sound and the groove. I didn’t use words like that back then but I know that’s what grabbed me. And I know that we could only have been on the bridge for seconds it was so short but in my memory, the entire song plays as Pop Pop and I sit in the car with him staring forward, a cigarette in his mouth and me frozen on my little knees on the bench seat my arms wrapped around the back of the seat for balance as I’m turned into a statue of an excited little boy looking for his friend in the ether and hearing “My Sweet Lord” for the very first time. I had no idea who George Harrison was or what I was even hearing; I was just hearing sound but it was like nothing I’d ever heard before and at that point most things were. I knew he was singing about God. For whatever reason that confused me but in an almost happy way. It just wasn’t what my limited experience with music had prepared me for. But the song is just pure joy that even a little boy in a car full of cigarette smoke and a silent grandfather can feel it. My aunt Eileen, my Dad’s younger sister was, I’d come to find out utterly enraptured by the Beatles as was the wont of her age at that time. In years to come, I’d buy her a  Beatles record for every Christmas. She always acted so happy and surprised. It never occurred to me until many, many years later that she surely already had all of these records I so excitedly wrapped and couldn’t wait to give her. She always played along. She never came close to ruining it. I was so loved as a little boy. Nobody did anything wrong and everything that happened was perfect.

Once we rolled off the bridge I’d pop up and look intently across Pop Pop’s or whoever was driving and peer down into the little valley to the left of us. Valley is likely too grand a term for what it was. It was more like a gulley, all weed choked and tangled and green, so much green and in the middle of this forgotten little depression of weeds and saplings there was a little run-down shack. It seemed like it was still standing as an act of defiance against the elements. Even as a little kid I could tell this was a long-ago place. But it was where Pojo lived. It was Pojo’s house. “Pojo!” I’d yelp and whoever was driving would know to respond in some sort of happy assurance and ask me if I saw him. Camera me sees me squinch up my face and waiting until the house is fully obscured behind the trees and somewhat sadly but not too sadly, “Nope. Not today.” I never saw him. He was always inside I guess. I still wonder what he did in there but I know it was kind and beautiful.

Once we landed at the house I’d rush in to see Mimi, my grandmother. I loved Mimi as much as I loved anyone. As a little kid I just always wanted to be around her as much as possible. Not that I’d shadow her but I just wanted to be near her, just in the same house. I was her only grandkid and she adored me. If I could have somehow used that love as a model for what I thought love was and the extent to which I thought I was lovable I suspect things might have gone very differently for me. And not that I’d actually choose to not have the life I’ve had and not that my mother didn’t love me as intensely but suffice it to say you can’t love a kid into loving himself. God knows they tried.

I’d spend those afternoons watching TV, eating dinner and playing outside sometimes alone and sometimes with Pete and Scott. No one called Pete Pete tho. He was known as Doodz and that’s merely a best guess at how one might spell the simple monosyllabic utterance which comprised his nickname. No one ever called him Pete except maybe his parents, but they were scarcely around. He was just Doodz or Doodge or Doozh. God only knows. In the middle of the backyard there stood a massive swing that Pop Pop had made for his kids. It towered over me as a little kid and was made of green painted thick tube steel with a single wooden seat hanging from two long lengths of chain. I could go crazy on that thing forever always trying desperately to get to horizontal and then jumping off to fly over the lawn and land after quite a height tumbling and rolling and gathering scrapes and bruises and fits of ecstatic laughter. And then I’d brush myself off, maybe, and do it all over again. If there was someone there to push me I could go higher and jump from an even greater height and land even heavier and laugh even harder.

One day I remember being on the swing just sort of swinging in the breeze. I liked to end each swing of the pendulum with my feet as straight in the air above me with my body as flat as possible so I was as close to upside down as possible. When I’d stop for just a second I felt weightless and then would start falling back to the other side and feel my stomach glide blissfully up my throat. I’d always giggle. Even as a little boy I was forever looking for things that made me feel something different. Something intense.

On this day I was waiting for my Mom to come pick me up. It was daytime so I can’t imagine why I was there already. Maybe I’d spent the night, but I know it was a school day and I was there on the swing. I saw my mom and Mimi walk around the side of the house together coming towards me. I’m sure I reflexively smiled as I saw the two people, I loved more than anyone suddenly appear. And I remember seeing the looks on their faces. I could tell they’d been crying and they looked intently at me and seemed worried. I got scared.

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I loved fire as a kid. I was forever playing with matches and starting little fires and watching them get bigger and threaten to grow beyond my control. That was the best part. The feeling of knowing it might beat me and I’d unleashed a catastrophe. I always pulled it back. I had no desire to actually burn anything down or destroy anything. I was just fascinated with flame and how dangerous it could be if I didn’t reign it in. One day I was alone in the tall weed field across the street from my house. It was actually two doors down and in time that field would become more of the neighborhood and the O’Connell’s would move into the corner house built exactly where I was playing with matches and a little pile of dried weeds. The O’Connells were a big Irish family and had four boys and a younger sister. I loved them all right away, but Jimmy was my guy. He was a year older, and anyone could tell we were both headed for trouble at some point. But before they moved here from New York it was just me and my matches and the clear void of the absence of my best friend who wasn’t there with me like usual. Brian Tolley lived across the street and had a similar big family like Jimmy did. Brian was a year older than me, but we were each other’s first best friends. We shared a deep interest in absolutely everything we were told to avoid. Besides fire, we had a pile of waterlogged Playboys and other such things hidden in the weeds and rocks of the little creek that still ran through what remained of the fields and woods the whole neighborhood had slowly engulfed. We did everything together.

And on that day alone in the field, I remember thinking of him and wishing he had been there. It felt odd to be doing this alone. The little fire which was surrounded by acres and acres of very high, very dry, and densely packed weeds started to grow a little. And I just watched it. I watched it slowly start to spread and wrap around other taller blades of dry grass. And I just watched it. For the first time, I didn’t want to reign it in. And I remember not feeling any sort of giddiness or excitement. I just watched it spread until it became a conflagration and started to spread far, far beyond my little hollowed-out hiding space in the weeds. I watched and then I just ran. I ran home and looked back to see a pillar of smoke and flame. I ran to my house and heard my mother in the basement. I think I expected angry bangs on the front door at any moment because I was sure I’d been seen. My mom was ironing and so I just began talking to her and trying to interest her in things, I don’t remember what, but things that would keep her downstairs and not upstairs where something very bad was happening in the neighborhood. Very soon I heard the approach and scream of fire engines. In my memory, I can see Mr. Tolley run out of his house and directly towards the fire with some idea of putting it out but it was well beyond that point. But I also think I must be imagining this as I only remember running home and hiding in the basement and desperately trying to divert my Mom’s attention. I have no memory of anything else happening. It’s as if the whole thing was a dream which simply changed scenes into some other thread of the squiggly stuff of our minds. But I know it happened. It became a neighborhood story. But I have no memory of getting in trouble for it. My mom certainly must have noticed how odd I was acting and so inexplicably interested in how to iron clothes and she surely heard the fire engines right outside our house and that sound of all sounds she would connect with me. But nothing happened. The fire just went away like Brian did.

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I never heard any of the details and if I did, I don’t remember. My mom and grandmom and later my Dad went into a mode of keeping me safe and being very worried for me. Worried for me and heartbroken for the Tolleys. And even the poor guy driving the city trash truck. Even he had people feeling bad for him. There was evidently no way he could have known. I don’t know.

And so, as they got closer to the swing my mom just said “Mike, let’s go inside.” I was led to the huge family room which was the heart of my grandparent’s house. The room of so many Christmases and late nights watching Star Trek and other late-night TV as Pop Pop slept in his chair and I dozed in and out of sleep all night with the TV on. I loved these nights in this room. But on this day, everything was different. I sat on the couch with my mom sitting next to me but on the edge and turned towards me. Mimi stood in front of me. I knew something awful was about to be given me. My mom started crying and just said, “Mike, Brian’s gone. He had an accident.” Or something like that. The memory always ends with the sight of one of the coffee table feet which were ornately carved from some dark wood and they always looked like hooves to me. As the memory fades I’m just locked on that little wooden hoof doing its best to help hold up the huge round marble coffee table. And it just slowly turns black as I sit in silence and hear my mom crying as she holds me.