Carol Kirkpatrick, possibly the brightest writer I ever met in a writing group (proof positive being her ability to scribble out a pithy, brilliantly crafted story on the spot) had the additional charm of treating me to an oral history of Brooklyn whenever we walked its streets together. Combining warmth, depth, humor, and subtlety well into her 90s, she will always represent perfectly what I’d like to be when I grow up. My hope is to charm you with this sample of her writing:
Roller Coaster
It was a roller coaster summer.
I had broken off an engagement of three years duration. It had been a fairy tale romance. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Promise to love each other for ever and ever and almost reach that lofty objective. Three years is a long time when you’re 17, 18, and 19.
But when you’re 20 approaching 21 and you begin to realize that you and your Prince Charming aren’t even close to assuming responsibilities like getting decent paying jobs, building a career, creating a home, and raising children…it looks mighty challenging. We weren’t ready.
Geof would disappear for a month…then turn up under a tree somewhere writing poetry. The poetry was fine, but his college studies had been utterly neglected.
I too was a desultory student. I chose a 2-year college at first then took a menial office job and found out how much I hated it. Back to the books with a major I thought I could live with: journalism. It was challenging and fun.
Another Prince Charming came along. Tall, dark, and and handsome. Too dark and too handsome and too wordly. But I was smitten.
My family of origin was about to reconfigure drastically. Dad had accepted a new job in the Middle West. They were going to sell the house in Forest Hills, Queens and move to Peoria, Illinois. Is this a joke? No, they were serious. I could transfer from NYU, they said, and finishup college at the University of Chicago, the University of Illinois, or any number of fine colleges out there.
No, I said. I’ll live in Greenwich Village and finish up at NYU where I was beginning to hit a comfortable academic pace; if not quite a scholarly one at least I was getting halfway decent grades.
“Well, if you won’t move with us to Illinois I guess we won’t go,” Mom cried out like a wounded animal.
“Well,” I retorted, “I guess you’re old enough to ruin your own lives if you insist, but I’m out of your house as soon as I turn 21 in September.” (It was then June.)
Ever resourceful, Mom came up with an idea to get us out of each other’s hair for most of the summer. “How would you like to pick up some extra credits by attending Harvard Summer School?”
Deus ex machina! Anything to get away for the summer while I, and hopefully they, sorted things out.
