One, two, three,
Look at Mr. Lee,
Three, four, five,
Look at him jive.
- The Bobbettes
Childhood ought to be a time of innocence or at least allow us enough time to experience it in some sustained way. Innocence is the deep forest of the soul, pure exploration, no thought, and I had plenty of this growing up on Village Road in the Eisenhower years. That was vintage, rambling innocence. Throwing a baseball or football around, for hours, with no agenda and no noise.
But across the hedgerow was the dark red, shingled house of Danny Pliskin. Up in his attic workshop, Danny had tools for anything you wanted to fashion and I started to see you could create your own, legit world. And we learned of beatniks, and body parts, and of course stuff about girls. The Pliskins were artists, and atheists, and we heard they were communists and had a sense of what that all meant without ever being told. We learned of jazz music and the players in dark, smoky places doing the jive, and dances going on in those places that seemed alluring but dangerous. And when we crossed back through the hedgerow for a grilled cheese sandwich lunch, we could tell that Mom didn’t really need to know much of anything of our netherworld.
Danny sprinkled me with a “world” of intellect, subconscious, and infinity, not all of which I made the best use of for some years. He was Eddie Haskell and Maynard G. Krebs (look ’em up), but today he might be a punk or rapper, or a snapchatter.
Every child needs one. Who’s your Danny Pliskin?
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