Dispatches from the Underground: A Few Words on Children of the Arts Day
Plus one last word on Game of Thrones. And the summer mustache is back.
When I first encountered the 1957 film Peyton Place it was the late 90s and it was still normal to accidentally find yourself watching a movie partway through just because it was ON. AMC was still “American Movie Classics”. I was still in high school and living in Townsend.
My cynical ass would have been hesitant to admit it at the time, but this was probably in large part what hooked me about the film: the fact that it was set in a small town with several protagonists in the process of graduating high school. My best friend and I were both sucked in, neither of us saying a word about it, for we were much too hardened for this. Not only was it set in the 1940s — a land of vague history and corniness to a jaded 90s teenager — but neither were we used to the acting style of old movies. We saw something relatable here, though, and so we didn’t change the channel.
It didn’t hurt that Peyton Place was far more overtly sexual in content than we imagined possible in a 1950s film.
About midway through the film is an extended scene that’s stuck with us both over the years. It’s the big Labor Day celebration in Peyton Place, a perfect sunny day, the kind of early September afternoon that mixes a dash of new fall crispness with just the right last gasp of summer. The whole town is in on this. The big mill or factory that employs most of the town is bankrolling the thing. There’s a parade, games, a feast, a town band, a barbershop quartet, smiles and laughter, gossip and scandal, and a bunch of almost-romance. It seemed like the kind of thing likely to have taken place in our own Townsend in some bygone era, maybe the corny 40s. (I’ve read enough Townsend history in the interim to know that this may be slightly idealized but not at all far off the mark.)
I wanted something like that. Though by high school I imagined myself too good for my hometown, Townsend had been a wonderful place to grow up and my childhood was absolutely ideal, the epitome of the 90s delusion of permanent peace and prosperity. Still, we had nothing like I was seeing on the screen, and I knew we did once, and I wondered if it might be possible again. Yes, the film is actually about the dark side of small-town middle class respectability and how the town squanders the wonder it possesses in pettiness and greed, but inherent to that Labor Day celebration was the existence of universal, taken-for-granted community. That was something I wanted but didn’t have, didn’t think probably even existed anymore.
Yet here I am, living in that town, though it’s nearly the 2020s instead of the 1940s. That much was clear last Saturday as I walked around downtown during Children and the Arts Day — here I was. This was the Labor Day festival. I was living it.
I sent pictures to my buddy.
Peterborough’s been doing Children and the Arts Day for the last twenty years or soCentral to the event a giant parade with all the kids from all the different schools, each group carrying a different gigantic puppet — itself maybe only 70% parade but 30% carnival. Grove and Main Streets shut down and there’s games and musical performances and face painting and food all the way from the UU church to Depot Square Park to Putnam Park all day long.
I call it Children OF the Arts Day because it sounds so much more dramatic. It might even be more accurate.
This year it was that perfect day, the May equivalent to the September shown in the film. I got to actually march in the parade for the first time; Manny’s school hasn’t participated in the last several festivals, but I had been delighted to learn they aimed to correct that this year. We all wore green shirts — I even got to carry a big medieval banner — and marched behind a giant puppet of The Green Man. (”What is this puppet?” I asked someone nearby. They practically scoffed in response. “Uh, the Green Man?” “Oh okay.” I didn’t dare ask more.)
Kellie and I had a blast, although Manny refused to wear a green shirt, or sparkly butterfly wings, or carry a silver star, or, eventually, even to walk. Shrug emoji.
The rest of the day I spent behind a bake sale table at the church, fundraising for our children’s program. We saw everybody we know. I was especially pleased to see the amount of dudes in blazers, and the stylish hat game was on point (shoutout to the mayor!). Nothing but smiles and sunshine — pollen, too, but I had made the conscious decision to sacrifice my body for this. It was worth it. I remember this one really vivid moment in which I found myself walking alone around the back of the church, realizing, man, I just like this.
The only thing preventing this from becoming our own version of the Kentucky Derby, many of us observed, was the lack of an ordinance permitting open-container drinking on Grove Street. You know, just for that one day of the year. I feel like this is something we can accomplish, no?
In all seriousness, though, I’ve had my years to kick back and be proud of this place that I’ve found, but I know it’s time to go beyond that now. There’s tremendous joy in all of this, but alongside it creeps this little shadow of responsibility. I have a lot of life left to live and a lot to do while I’m living it, and when I know I’m living in the middle of something like this, it’s time to go beyond just reveling in it. These qualities and events that I so value are not things unto themselves — as though anything could ever be fixed in time, anyway — but a tremendous opportunity. With an environment like this as a starting point, just think of what we can do.
I know I’m not the only one who’s right here — I look around and see a bunch of us who get it. Even if we don’t know yet exactly what must be done, we know we must be ready and willing to do it.
*Spoiler alerts below, I guess, although you’re really a jerk if you haven’t caught up by now*
I have to say, I’m genuinely surprised at how many people are so pissed off about the end of Game of Thrones. Not that I think there’s not reason to be pissed — I mean, there is — but I watch all these people lap up actual cultural SHIT on a regular basis and not even bat an eye. You can’t even argue that GoT fans are somehow a more elite breed. There’s simply too many millions of them at this point.
I’m the asshole who’s supposed to be mad, the one that other people get pissed at for being pissed and never “just enjoying anything.” And yet here I am, somehow less pissed than everybody else! How can this be?
Surely, part of it must be a very intentional downward adjustment of my expectations after the Night King got killed and everyone told me to give up on my dreams of receiving answers on the Army of the Dead and the Lord of Light and the Old Gods and all that. After the following episode seemed to confirm the dreadful news they were telling me, I got over my anger and just decided to listen to them ahead of the final episode. You know what? The plot endings we were given are totally fine with me. They’re appropriate. YES, the execution and delivery of all of it — especially seasons 7 and 8 — were absolutely abysmal. Yes, there are like 75 unresolved plot points, and it’s not entirely unjustified to want to throw rocks at the show runners for being too bored with their own creation to take HBO’s blank check and do this shit right.
Oh, well. Up through season 6, I was prepared to put this show in my elite A+ category, but I can’t do that anymore. Still, I won’t go any lower than an A-. You people need to calm the hell down.
The summer mustache is back.
I’ll feel more comfortable talking about this at length when it’s time to do our May restrospective and June outlook, but I’m starting to see the path ahead and its difficulties a little more clearly on a little bit more of a regular basis. I think the preparation for the supposedly difficult months of the year has granted me a bit of vigilance that might just win the day and avert disaster after all.
We’ll see.