I have been listening to Stephen King’s Revival, expertly narrated by David Morse. So far there is no fantasy in this novel and that is how I prefer Stephen King —just the facts, ma’am. Early in chapter two, the protagonist reminisces about his life from ages six to nine, 1962 to 1965. Since that matches my timeline (I was born in 1956), I began to think back to my experiences at that age.
That was a significant time in my life. For the first two years, I attended an Orthodox Jewish Day School. Coming from a family of minimally observant, secular Jews, I was as out of place in that school as a Pope in the woods. By 1964, my non-stop nagging of my parents forced them to enroll me in 4th grade at Eugene Field, one of Chicago Public School’s finest. This was much more to my liking and I thrived.
World events imprinted into my young brain in those years. I recall the tears at the Kennedy assassination in November of 1963, and the further horror as Jack Ruby killed Lee Harvey Oswald.
My family had its own loss that November. My grandfather perished after a long battle with bladder cancer. Papa was a quiet, kindly, Austrian immigrant. My mother mourned him for a very long time and I felt his absence as well.
1962 was the dawn of my interest in professional sports. I attended my first baseball game and inadvertently became a North Side White Sox fan. That choice has cursed me from Bill Monbouquette's no-hitter against the White Sox in August of ‘62 until this year’s record-smashing disaster. Being asked as a little boy what my favorite team was should never have led to so much heartache.
The sports story I enjoyed came in 1963 when the Bears played in the NFL championship game. I sat on the 151 CTA bus clutching a small transistor radio to my ear listening to the Bears take on Y. A. Tittle and the New York Giants. As we neared my grandmother’s Argyle Avenue home, I heard the Bears win, and the Monsters of the Midway were World Champions. I celebrated with a little cheer.
I learned about rough-and-tumble family-splitting politics in 1964, well before Donald Trump took the stage. My uncle Poldi ended a shouting match about the Johnson-Goldwater presidential election by throwing his brother-in-law out the door of his third-floor apartment. A gift-wrapped bottle of whiskey, flung by the enraged Poldi, followed the brother-in-law down the three long flights of stairs. We all heard the crash as it splattered below.
Also in 1964, I enjoyed my first international airplane trip, a Swissair DC-8 direct flight to Switzerland. My uncle, grandmother, and an ambulance welcomed me to Zurich; the ambulance was there because I felt light-headed before landing. The Swiss may be neutral, but they are always prepared!
From those years I remember James Bond and Goldfinger, Rex Harrison and My Fair Lady, and Mary Tyler Moore’s “Oh, Rob!” on The Dick Van Dyke Show. TV host Ray Raynor was my friend every morning and afternoon.
So far, the memories of the young man in Revival have mirrored my innocence and wonder. Until I listen to more of the novel I won’t know what happens to him as he grows. I only hope that his life becomes as blessed as mine. But I fear monsters, human or otherwise, will rear their heads, showing him that the world has a dark side too. After all, would Stephen King write it any other way?
What do you remember from your young formative years? Leave a comment or message me.
Got it today. You dug up many memories of mine as well. Thanks, Les.