10

1954

Red Gal Ring

(A tale in the language of Do-Wap)

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Hey nonny ding dong, a leng a leng a leng,

Shi-Boom baa yo, a leng, a leng, a liay

Life could be a dream,

Shi-Boom…

Shi Boom, The Crew Cuts

In the late forties and early nineteen fifties, at 10 Dunoon Road, Kingston Jamaica, the not too subtle effects of the Global Village were already underway, homogenizing the culture of those who had the inclination and the disposable income to purchase a radio. Popular music, radio drama, religious broadcasts and soap operas from the U.S. gave the Islands of the Caribbean an increasingly impressive new stock of received ideas displacing the less durable elements of conventions inherited from three centuries of British brainwashing. Cricket, football, the Monarchy and school uniforms with silly stripey neckties would however remain as some of the more tenacious reminders of the European presence in the Caribbean.

It was in the early fifties that I learned, among other things, to parrot the opening and closing lines of a particularly insidious radio program.  An American radio soap opera, Second Spring, was then mesmerizing the Global Villagers, women more than men. Never mind that none of us in the Caribbean had ever experienced spring with all its attendant images of rebirth and renewal, we nonetheless chanted on the appropriate musical stimulus of the theme song, in Pavlovian fashion : “Can a woman who has once loved completely ever find true love again? Can she find a Second Spring?”

Cue the music of the Hit Parade: Shi-Boom, If I could take you up in paradise up above, Shi-Boom If you would tell me I’m the only that one you love, Life would be a dream sweetheart.

Radio gave us access to American music with its rich variety of expressions, our own popular calypso music being somewhat limited. The Hit Parade of the early fifties from the U.S. highlighted an eclectic variety of genres: the last gasp of the era of the Big Bands: instrumentals, crooners of all shapes, genders, ages, sizes and colours, novelty tunes, songs from Hollywood films and Broadway, Tin Pan Alley and the first immature burping of what would later be called Rock and Roll. After about a decade of radio American style, the Tedunooners of the Caribbean had grown to expect a steady, relentless and welcome stream of recordings, the products of an assembly line model of industrial hits which we hummed, sang and whistled. Dunoon Rd. was being romanced by radio, out of European culture and was being pulled inexorably into the orbit of planet America.

As adolescents, we copied the verbal combativeness of the adult culture, arguing, debating, bluffing and teasing being important elements in an art called “mouthing” where young people engaged each other in endless debates about anything newsworthy in the world: the power of fighter planes, the beauty and speed of automobiles, the relative value of cricketers, the best tasting mangoes, anything on earth could spark a shouting match, a verbal dust-up at Tendunoon. An ongoing debate on the the best singing voices would be a feature of the weekly rankings of popular songs on the hit parade of the early fifties.

Following the Hit Parade was serious business for some of us who rooted for our favourite artists to supplant another less favoured singer in the weekly sweepstakes of popularity. Many and heated were the shouting matches in the Caribbean parts of the Global Village, pitting proponents of Sinatra or Bing Crosby against partisans of Perry Como. It was becoming evident by 1954, that Nat King Cole, a relative newcomer to the vocal scene, was quickly relegating both Sinatra and Como to the second rank in terms of popular music, topping the charts with a succession of memorable tunes; Mona Lisa, Somewhere Along the Way, A Blossom Fell, Straighten up and Fly Right, Dance Ballerina, Dance!

One of the beauties of the Hit Parade in the early fifties was its tolerance of novelty. So out of the musical blue, in the midst of romantic ballads crooned seductively by wavy haired Italian Americans and straight haired Black Americans, came four vocal fugitives from Toronto. With sharp quill-like hair such as was rarely seen in this part of the globe, the Crew Cuts unleashed the musical offering Shi-Boom to an astonished Free World.

Every time I look at you, Something is on my mind…

Shi-Boom was to be my first contact with things/persons Canadian, that is if one makes exception of the T-shirt that an aunt in Panama had sent me in 1953, on which the word PANAMA was proudly displayed under the picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Police Officer in full ceremonial regalia. My second contact with things/persons Canadian would not be too much later.

If you’d do, what I want you to Baby we’d be so fine.

Marcia and Carole two Canadian girls were holidaying with relatives in Stony Hills, Jamaica, at a place called Golden Springs. Golden Springs! The name simply gushes cool exoticism. For residents of Jamaica’s parched south coastal plain of Kingston and St. Andrew, the very thought of springs giving gratuitously their freshness was tantamount to whispering “oasis” to desert travelers lost in a Sahara sandstorm. Just who discovered the two Canadians and under what circumstances never became clear, and later developments in the affair would render such intelligence unnecessary. Suffice it to say that in some mysterious way word came down out of the Stony Hills area that two Canadian girls of movie starlet beauty were practicing a technique learned from the latest Tarzan film, where Tarzan was alleged to have been joined at the lips to Jane in a crystalline jungle pool. Underwater kissing, passionate submarine embraces, cool, wet fire on expectant lips defined the Tarzan technique! The only catch to this potential dream come true was that the lucky partners of these self proclaimed Janes, the imaginary Tarzans, would have to meet some unspecified criteria of physical attractiveness, and the arbiters of these qualities would be the two young ‘things’ in question.

Under normal conditions the decision to risk rejection in such an enterprise is weighed against the prize to be gained in case of success. The prize, a kiss underwater, hardly seemed worth the risk of being judged unTarzanworthy. There were, however, factors that could lessen the impact of rejection. Chief among these factors was that four Tendunooners would make the trip and in theory, only two would taste the diluted nectar of thin Canadian lips. The other two could commiserate and wonder what these girls saw in the two favoured. The down side to this adventure, which I could only imagine from the reports of the Tendunooners who had made the discovery the week before, was the difficulty of the bicycle trip up from the dusty coastal plains where we lived, to the temperate hills of Golden Springs where waters gushed and kisses resided. Golden Springs would not easily give of its bounty. Like some medieval chateau-fort, Long Lane guarded access, although not through alligator filled moats. Three calf rending, quadriceps burning miles of gradual ascent called “Long Lane” followed by an ‘S’ curve switchback, where the road doubled back on itself in an effort to leap from a lower level to a much higher one in gradual stages, guaranteed that only the highly motivated and physical endowed would reach the double prize of fresh, cool water and inter-labial contact. The switchback, “Red Gal Ring,” was well known as the bane of trucks and truckers sand a test of the reliability of the engine, the transmission and the brakes of any vehicle.

The trouble was that my only means of displacement from Kingston to Stony Hills was a bicycle of one gear fixed in place so that the pedal was never disengaged, a so-called ‘fixed’ wheel bicycle. This meant that one’s feet always had to be in motion since the pedals were constantly turning, a definite hazard on very steep downhill grades. To further complicate transportation matters my bicycle had been relieved of its brakes and fenders to comply with the macho cycling fashion of the time. Without brakes, the alternate method of slowing or stopping the bicycle, was to remove one of the feet from one of the pedals, swing the foot backwards over the rear fork, and place the foot, preferably shoeed, against the rear fork and on top of the fenderless back wheel, applying pressure on the moving rear wheel as required to slow or to stop the projectile with its rider. In case of shoeless feet, a state which was frequent, the method of foot on tire was to be avoided because peeling the skin from the foot would be the obvious outcome to such foolhardiness. The shoeless rider wishing to stop, would jump off the moving bicycle sideways or over the back, stop him/herself on foot and bring the bicycle to a halt by holding its handle or its seat. In considering the journey, the reckoning of the older Tendunooners was that to risk the enterprise with my bike was virtually to guarantee death on a lonely hill far from home. The choice was simple: a bicycle adequate to the task of climbing and descending Long Lane and Red Gal Ring or no go.

For thirty tense minutes my fledgling Tarzanhood seemed destined to failure, and not for failure to pass the means test from the Janes on the hill, but for lack of transportation! Leroy Stone, a neighbour, and his free wheel bicycle to the rescue, and just in time, for the other Tendunooners were getting anxious to begin the odyssey to Golden Spring, an odyssey which would take the better part of the day already nine hours old. Without much coaxing Leroy agreed to trade his dowdy, black lady’s free wheel Raleigh for my sleek, fixed wheel, metallic yellow Golden Arrow for the day.

In taking decisions which are unlikely to be sanctioned by adults, the prudent adolescent acts first and hopes that the adults will be unaware that a decision has been made. Since nothing annoyed the significant family adults more than big decisions made by little people unilaterally, the die was already cast. Two decisions had already been made without the approval of any adult, the resolve to go away from the neighbourhood for the better part of a day, and the exchange of bicycles without permission. Consequently, during the bicycle transaction I kept experiencing pangs of conscience in the guise of my grandmother’s voice asking for an accounting of the day’s activities.

Mama: “Mi son, where yu go? Ah didn’t see yu all day! Ah didn’t even hear yu!”

Me: “Well Mama, er….., A go over Waterloo Rd. an play wid’ a fren.

Mama: “Awright mi son, but a beg yu please from now on yu mus’ tell me where yu goin”.

Me: “Yes Mama.”

In my mind’s ear Mama’s voice was present as four bicycles set off for Golden springs bearing four riders.

“Mi son, yu mus’ tell me where yu goin…where yu goin…where yu goin.”

The first phase of the trip was in familiar territory, close to home. From Dunoon Rd. through Franklyn Town, up Camp Rd. to Cross Roads. So far, so good. Cross Roads to Half Way Tree took us to the edge of the known universe. From here on was the domain of faith. We struck out confidently on the Constant Spring Road towards other worlds hoping that the route led to our destination, but not sure where our destination was, and how we would recognize it, if and when we reached it. In any case the day was still a mere ten and a half hours old and we had the confidence that we could surely retrace our steps and regain familiar territory if the need arose.

Constant Spring Road became increasingly long and the grade progressively steeper, provoking some concern on my part. This was to be my first physical test in measuring up to my cousins. I could not lose face. Never having been this far from home and not knowing the directions to the promised land, it was imperative that I keep up to to my cousins or become lost.

Concerns of a more abstract nature, of trust, obedience and honesty began filtering into my consciousness. Weighed down by guilt, my conscience imposed a spiritual burden on my attempts to propel Leroy Stone’s free wheeler up the Constant Spring Road towards the bright hopes of Golden Springs. Satan himself was hitching a ride on my bike and he was an obese devil draped across the handle bar of the bicycle, the folds of his enormity impeding my progress, creating friction on the front tire.

My grandmother made a brief reappearance inside my skull. “Mi son, yu mus’ tell me where yu goin.”

Shi boom, shi boom
A yaddadaddadadda Shi boom, shi boom
A yaddadaddaddada Shi boom, shi boom
A yaddadaddadadda, Shi boom….

Leroy Stone’s bike kept gaining considerable weight as the coastal plains of Kingston yielded way to the foothills of St Andrews. If one of the older boys had suggested that we turn around and head back home I would have been in the forefront of the retreat since I was a considerable distance behind the two leaders who were asserting the physical superiority and confidence of adolescents who, three to four years my senior, were on the cusp of manhood.

Long Lane, just gradual enough a climb to keep the rider, bike and it’s diabolical passenger moving at a deliberate pace in preparation for the inevitable period of dismount, walk and push the bike, which was to come on the ascent to Golden Springs; Long Lane just steep enough to challenge the initial motivation and establish the real logic of this venture into the unknown, far beyond the periphery of neighbourhood, past community, village and its environs, where the unpredictable resided; Long Lane stretched interminably ahead. The prospect of a submarine embrace long forgotten, gave way to the courting of ‘the new experience’, novelty for its own sake, testing the experiential boundaries physical and emotional.

Every time I look at you Something is on my mind Bababaa,bababaa
If you’d do what I want you to Baby we’d be so fine…

Now past Long Lane, the first real obstacle, Red Gal loomed ahead. On the ascent, it was beyond any attempt to climb mounted on a bike fitted with one fairly high gear. The devil even had the courtesy to dismount and help me push Leroy Stone’s bike up the steep approach, past the bottom trait of the bottom loop of the “S” curve, from where I could see my older cousins on the higher loop of the “S”curve. On the top loop my cousins sat awaiting my arrival in the shade, ostensibly out of concern for their younger charge but more probably to grab a much deserved rest from the rigours of the Red Gal. We sat in the shade and shared a bottle of sugar and water, congratulating ourselves that we had now passed the supreme test, that from now on the journey was easy, the ascent had ended, the distance to Golden Springs was short, and relishing the thought that the way home was to be one glorious, never ending, free wheeling descent, exempt from the calf knotting, thigh burning travails of the past hour. Although the muscles were still screaming from the arduous climb, the hormones had already begun to anticipate the rewards, hypothetical or real, of the quest for Canadian lips under fresh, cool, clear water.

After a brief respite on top of the switchback looking back down to the coast from where we had just ridden, we hopped back onto our trusty mounts and devoured the intervening distance with arrogance. At high noon we rode casually, four devilishly cavalier adolescents, the descendants of rakish western gunslingers, into the domain of the two mischievous, trembling Canadian senoritas. We leaned our trusty mounts against a convenient tree and walked, swaggering, bowlegged up to their cottage.

On the contrary, as we approached the house where the two girls were staying, I got a case of terminal cold feet and would have headed for the nearest cactus behind which to hide until time to head back to Kingston: that is until I took a look at the younger of the girls. Wow!!! She was absolutely gorgeous!!! A cute turned up nose, anorexic, freckled and no fatter than Twiggy.

Life could be a dream, shi-boom
If all my precious dreams could come true If I could spend my whole life loving you. Life could be a dream sweetheart…

Tarzan at Golden Springs would not have been any more successful than was I. After a few uncomfortable moments of introduction where names and relationships were exchanged our small group, four boys from Kingston, and two visiting adolescent girls from Canada adjourned to the site of a small spring fed pool, some ten foot deep, the widening of a stream near the cottage in which the Canadian Janes were staying. From the banks, many cray fish, their size greatly magnified by the depth of the water column of the pool, scurried from rock to rock, their bodies disproportionately small compared to their powerfully pinchy claws. One certainly didn’t want to touch the bottom of the pool and risk annoying them for fear of getting a nasty pinch or losing a toe or worse yet!

The headlines and newspaper article would probably read:

Castrated by Cray Fish

Golden Springs, Jamaica-Reuters

A fourteen year old youth was relieved of potential manhood by angry cray fish in a pond near this mountain community early yesterday. With savage efficiency the angry crustaceans ripped into his bathing suit and snipped out some organs vital to the function of reproduction.

Witnesses at the scene report that ……..

The four apprentice Tarzans soon became aware of another minor hazard of this idyllic setting: the pool must have had its origin in some undiscovered tropical subterranean glacier because the first contact of water on skin suggested a temperature more characteristic of the polar bear waters of Lake Ontario than of  the warm, amniotic Caribbean. The two girls, by contrast, seemed at home in the refrigerated water and were already flaunting their mermaid qualities, swimming like Elaine Tanners, Canadian Olympic swimmer champion across, under, through and over the pool, waiting seductively to share  their new found skill, the submarine embrace as practiced by actor, Lex Barker, or was it Johnny Weismuller?

Every time I look at you, babababaa Something is on my mind baa baa..

In stark contrast to their comfort in the water, my Tarzanhood left me soon after my decision to take the plunge all at once and avoid gradual immersion. With my first contact with the water I realized that spin the bottle was a much less hazardous venture. I wasn’t quite sure that I wanted to risk life, (death in the water by refrigeration), and limb, (lose a toe to the giant cray fishes on the bottom), for one underwater peck. Besides, my hormones had fled north in a rush, pursuing my testicles into a safer, warmer part of my body cavity the moment I hit the water.

Too late for any reassessment however, for here comes my smiling Jane underwater, launching herself directly into my path. At the critical moment of our intended underwater conjunction, our lips parted, our teeth collided and her cute little turned up Doris Day nose poked me in the eye. I shot out of the water running, being very careful not to touch the cray fish laden bottom. Perfectionist as well as precocious, my Canadian insisted that we try the technique again until we get it right. Confessing that I had lost my appetite for the submarine adventure, I appealed instead for landlocked embraces, with which she happily complied.

If you’d do what I want you to, badap Baby we’d be so fine…

All things, good as well as mediocre, must come to an end. Two hours later, we bid reluctant adieus to our two foreign hostesses and begin the descent from Red Hills back to Kingston.

Mid afternoon shading from the surrounding hills makes the descent from Golden Springs a pleasant ride through intermittent patches of sunlight and shadows. Invigorated by the recent dip in the cool spring water and tingling with fresh Canadian kisses, we cover the distance between Golden Springs and the top of Red Gal Ring in a fraction of the time that it took on the way up, and the many small victories that we have experienced up to now on our bicycle journey make each of us participants in our own Tour de France, wearers of the greatly contested Yellow Jersey. We have all become Lance Armstrongs bursting in front of the peloton just outside of Paris, surging steadily ahead of the pact to take the honours under the Arc de Triomphe. What a glorious day!

Shi boom, shi boom,
Shi yaddadadaddaddda…

In the full flush of hubris, at the top of Red Gal Ring, I strike out on Leroy Stone’s lady’s wheel Raleigh leaving the pact, my three other companions, in my wake. Before I realize my folly I begin to descend at a frightening pace pulled along by gravity on the rapidly increasing downhill slope.

SHI– BOOOOOOOOM!!! SHI-BAAANG Ya dadda yadda yadda yadda!!!!!

A sudden racket then I am hurtling headlong over the handle bars, flying free from the black lady’s wheel Raleigh which is now cartwheeling end over end behind me on the road. The cause of my sudden flight is a mystery. For a few brief moments I have “slipped the surly bonds of earth”, taken flight, not as a bird does with laborious flapping of wings, not as a plane does with vast expenditures of energy to nullify gravity, rather as effortlessly as a thought, through will power, like the dreams of flying I have since experienced, or the artificial sensations of rapid movement through space available through cinematic technology in 3D theatres. The fiction of flight is soon clear however, for after defying gravity for some twenty feet, I hit the asphalt and skid another distance down the road on my side, peeling off shirt, pant, and layers of skin on the sand paper surface of the road.

The trailing peloton rejoins the fallen pace setter and my older team mates conduct an immediate inquest into the cause of my catapulsion. The investigation quickly produces results. General vibration from the rough road surface over time has loosened the bracket that clamps the generator to the front fork. The generator subsequently has fallen into the spokes of the front wheel, still held by its loosened clamp onto the front fork.

Dragged into the spokes by the great speed on the descent, the intruding generator has ripped out many spokes and put an immediate halt to my downhill progress, sending me skyward out of my saddle. The successfully romantic, hard riding gunslinger bites the dust!

It was little consolation that I survived without a spinal injury because I was in great physical pain from second degree burns from arm pit to ankle. More disastrous by far, I was now in real trouble because the two unilateral decisions I had made earlier, to leave the neighbourhood (tantamount to emigrating without permission) and to exchange bikes with Leroy (asserting premature autonomy while still being a child) would now inevitably come to light. My much lacerated, crest fallen chickens had come home early to roost.

My cousins, displaying the resourcefulness which would serve them well in later life, hailed a passing transport truck, explained the accident, and pleaded with, coaxed and cajoled the driver to load up the bicycles and riders and give us a ride to Kingston to get me medical attention. Furthermore, the older ones realizing the pickle I was in, took full responsibility to concoct some outlandish but credible story to sell to my grandmother about my bicycle accident. Leroy Stone had possession of my bicycle until the repairs were done to his. The dénouement of this little drama signaled, in my mind my arrival as a fully fledged Tendunooner. I became part of an important conspiracy, improvised but effective, to explain away a common disobedience. A veritable Tour de Force for the riders of the Tour de France going through the Pyrenees, conquering the perils of the Red Gal!

Life could be a dream sweetheart.

Shi-boom!

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