The Folksingers: A Novel

THE FOLKSINGERS

- A Novel -

By

Jerry Gallagher

Copyright 2013

Portions of this book can be

Copied or reproduced for

Review or Academic purposes.

Otherwise All Rights Reserved

CELTIC SON PRESS

Smashword Edition

For My Great

Musician Friends

John Dickson

Larry Royce

And

John Farkas

And The

Great Silverback Society

With

Thanks

For Their

Friendship

And

Encouragement

INTRODUCTION

It is generally assumed that novels are really autobiographies in disguise. I feel an obligation, therefore, to at least partially dispel this notion. Although I must admit that there is some degree of similarity between Jeff McCarthy, the main character in this novel and myself, I wish to quickly point out to the reader that there is absolutely no similarity between Jeff McCarthy’s mother and my own.

I really do feel badly for the Jeff McCarthy’s of the world who have never had the opportunity to experience the love of a Father and Mother who really care and are always there for their children like mine were for me.

The similarities between Jeff McCarthy and I include the fact that we both went to college in Northeastern Pennsylvania during the early sixties and we both went to the Newport Folk Festival in 1963, where a good portion of this novel takes place and we were both awed by this incredible musical experience.

The idea for this book began at that Festival. The Folksingers is not a political book and was never intended to be anything more than a novel about human beings interacting with one another with the Newport Folk Festival as a backdrop.

In retrospect, that period of time in which the Newport Folk Festival took place in 1963 was really quite an interesting political period. Although this book doesn’t really deal with the politics of 1963 directly, perhaps, it might be helpful to readers of all ages to try to put that political period of time in perspective.

The summer of 1963 was a time of change and some of that change was reflected in the music that was presented at the Newport Festival. Peter, Paul and Mary, who played at Newport in 1963, were just on the threshold of a success in the field of folk music which, except for The Kingston Trio, had been unheard of prior to their arrival on the musical scene. They introduced a song at Newport called Blowin in the Wind, which became a hit for them and also helped to launch the career of a previously unknown songwriter named Bob Dylan. Dylan also sang at the festival by himself and with Joan Baez and his introduction at the festival was more than the beginning of a career. It was the introduction of a genius whose talent continues to evolve today.

There was unrest and dissent in 1963. Indeed, some of the people who played music at the Newport Folk Festival would also sing in Washington that year in support of Martin Luther King’s historic March on Washington. Their performances and King’s speech would be seen on television by the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, a man who had been married in a Catholic Church in Newport, Rhode Island. Kennedy would die in Dallas later in 1963, the victim of an assassin’s bullet. Martin Luther King would die in Memphis several years later in the same manner.

What has all this got to do with this book? Perhaps nothing to anyone else but to me it seems as though the summer in which this novel takes place was a very special time. I don’t think that many of us realized at the time just how special that summer was.

It was the end of an era of innocence and the beginning of another far more frightening period of time filled with mind shattering experiences for Americans such as Assassinations, The Vietnam War, Watergate and Three Mile Island, to name a few.

My hope for this book is not that people might forget the horrible things that came after the Summer of The Folksingers but that people might look at this story about the summer of 1963 and remember what it was like before it all became so complicated and out of control.

I sincerely hope that the reader might find some enjoyment in these pages for his or her own reasons.

I realize that I have taken some liberties with the inclusion of some rather well known Folksingers as active participants in this novel. I have tried to deal with them, to the best of my ability, as real people and I hope that they are not offended by my treatment of them. I sincerely feel that those whose names and personalities are included in the book, most especially Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger, have been and continue to be giants in the Folk Music Field and are truly Legends in their own time. Perhaps they deserve more than I have given them but they do have my deep, sincere respect.

I would also sincerely like to thank Marjory Heatley, whose skilled hands allowed me to devote more time to writing than to typing back in the day when books were typed on typewriters, not computers.

My deepest gratitude is also expressed to my Aunt Virginia Gilboy, who was Business Manager and Rev. William B. Hill, who was the Editor of Best Sellers magazine for giving me the opportunity and pride of becoming a Published Writer.

I began this book in 1963 and continued to write and revise it into the mid 70’s. Although I made somewhat of a half hearted attempt to publish it during the 70’s I collected my share of rejection slips and notifications that the publishers only accepted manuscripts submitted by qualified Literary Agents. After that I put my manuscript away in my filing cabinet for several decades waiting for the dawn of the digital age.

It has been rather exciting for me to take my dog eared typed manuscript and transform it into a Word Document prior to publication. I had been away from the book for so long that it seemed to me like I was reading a manuscript written by someone else. In point of fact I was. The truth is that after going through it and polishing it up I felt pretty good about this book and regret not trying harder to pursue publishing several decades ago.

One thing that did bother me, somewhat, about this book is the inclusion of a fair amount of sexual content. Now that I have a Son, Three Daughters and Four Granddaughters and one Grandson I am a little taken back by the fact that my Kids and my Grandkids may someday read this book and recognize that it was, indeed, written by a sex maniac.

In fact, I did try to tone the sexual content down somewhat. I found, however, that most of the sexual content was, to my mind, at least, relevant and in most cases essential to the story. So the sexual content, for the most part, remains.

I apologize to those who might see me as a Dirty Old Man and can only point out that this book was, in fact written by a Dirty Young Man.

That person may be long gone by 2011 but his sexual content remains. I apologize to anyone who might be offended by the book but I kept what I felt I needed to keep and I do not apologize for that.

Book One

On The Road To Find Out

PROLOGUE

Grandview Sanitarium

Grandview, Pennsylvania

Jeffrey McCarthy Jr. April 21, 1963

The patient is a 19 year old, single, male, Caucasian of Irish Catholic descent. He was admitted to the hospital on the morning of April 5th, 1963 exhibiting signs of extreme anxiety. His attitude toward his mother and the staff on the morning of his admission was one of intense hostility and mistrust. The patient at that time exhibited definite signs of Paranoid Schizophrenia but due to information received from previous psychiatric reports, diagnosis was postponed pending further psychiatric evaluation. The patient’s attitude seemed to improve significantly following the departure of his mother from the hospital. While he still showed signs of hostility and anxiety, he did become more open and responsive in private therapy sessions with the treating Physician.

The patient confided his dissatisfaction with being the product of a broken home. His father left the home when the patient was about three years of age.

I feel I must concur with several of the Physicians who have worked with Jeffrey in past years. I feel, as they do, that the basis of Jeff’s problems stem from events which took place around the time of his father’s final departure from Jeffrey’s mother. His numerous hospitalizations have always occurred in early April when his composure appears to disintegrate for relatively short periods that have ranged from two days to a month, according to previous psychiatric reports.

Like my colleagues before me I was rather fascinated by my observations of the patient’s extremely rapid progress during the two weeks he was hospitalized at Grandview. As was mentioned before, his attitude at the time of admission was one of extreme hostility and mistrust. These Paranoid tendencies seemed to intensify during the first three days of his hospitalization. He was uncooperative and often incoherent in his speech for these few days. On the fourth day an abrupt change in attitude and behavior occurred. All signs of hostility were gone. He was cooperative and pleasant to deal with and all signs of serious mental disorder had disappeared. No signs of fantasy or unrealistic thinking were present. What was most interesting to this Physician was the insight the patient seemed to have into what had been going on during the previous week. It was apparent after a day or so of observation that Jeffrey had recovered completely and would be ready for release within a short period of time. A decision for early release was decided upon due to the previous case history descriptions of early and remarkable recoveries following the ninth of April in previous years.

Due to the special nature of this case it is this Physician’s opinion that attempting to diagnose or determine the prognosis of this case would be merely speculative guesswork due to the unusual circumstances surrounding the specific time of the year when mental disorders occur and also the remarkable speed of recovery.

Since I have never come in contact with such a case before, either in practice or in study, and since Jeffrey’s brief hospitalization did not provide ample time for any extended period of observation and therapy, I feel that it would be prudent for me as the treating Physician to merely reserve judgment and recommend further psychiatric treatment on an outpatient basis.

Jeffrey McCarthy was released from the Grandview Hospital Psychiatric Unit on April 21st, 1963 into the custody of his mother

William B. Sennett M.D.

Chapter 1

As psychologically crushing as it is for me to recount, I’ll tell you a bit about my mother. Actually I don’t believe I’ve hated her since birth (although I don’t completely discount this possibility). My Analyst, however, tells me this is impossible. I trace the root of my hate, therefore, to the tender age of three and relegate the preceding years to mere dislike. It was at this tender age that I had my first breakdown.

My mother always hated me. It was not the kind of hate you could pinpoint because she was the type of person who could cover up her true feelings with Darlings and Dears and other such two faced pleasantries. Although she tried, she failed to pull the wool over either my Father’s or my own eyes.

One particular night (April 8th, 1947 to be exact) the three of us were eating late. She had been particularly irritated since my father had been 45 minutes late for dinner. Punctuality, incidentally, was one of those bones that she took particular delight in picking. My Father, who was an unusually good Philadelphia lawyer and consequently a very busy man, was frequently late for dinner but this night he hadn’t called and my mother, under her calm exterior, was furious.

She was very cold to both of us which, while it wasn’t unusual, was certainly annoying. Incidentally, whenever she was annoyed or irritated with my Father, she was doubly so with me and vice versa, since she felt, as I heard her yell in one of her nightly rows with my Father, That Sonofabitch of a kid is just like you, a feeling for which I was most grateful. But I digress.

We were all seated around the dining room table when she started needling him.

Jeffrey Dear, she said, You were late for dinner tonight and you haven’t explained why.

I was working late, my father answered almost under his breath.

You could have called, Jeffrey, Dear. You do have a telephone in your office, Don’t you?

Don’t bother me, my father said.

What did you say, my mother replied with that Cheshire Cat Smile on her face.

Look, I’m tired. My Dad replied. I’ve had a long day. Do we have to go through this tonight.

My mother didn’t say anything. She just kept smiling. That was not a good sign.

Look, my Father said really starting to sound agitated, I was in conference with Schultz about the Carter Case. It goes to court Thursday. I got home as soon as I could. I apologize for being late but can’t we have supper in peace for a change?

Was Schultz male or female, Jeffrey Dear, my mother said.

At this point my father got up and shouted.

Jesus Christ. Can’t we have a meal in peace once in awhile without this constant nagging.

You and the Kid, she screamed. You’re both alike, Rude and –

Leave the Kid out of this, my dad yelled in my defense. He didn’t do anything. Why’re you always taking everything out on the Kid?

My Dad got up from the table and walked toward the hall closet for his coat.

I’m going out for something to eat and some Peace and Quiet, he said. It’s obvious I’m not going to get any here.

If you walk out that door, Jeffrey McCarthy, you’re walking out for good, Mom told him.

That suits me fine, Just fine, Dad said as he slammed the door behind him.

Eat your potatoes, my mother said turning and glaring at me.

I’m not hungry, I said feeling buoyed by my father’s show of bravery.

I said eat your potatoes, she screamed.

I said, I’m not hungry, I repeated, feeling great confidence after my father’s last stand. It became immediately apparent, however, that my great confidence would be short lived, for my mother rose from the table and ran into the kitchen returning with the most immense frying pan I have ever had the misfortune of seeing.

Are you going to eat your God Dammed Potatoes, or not, she screamed.

I was, of course too stunned and scared to do anything, although I tried. That was the last clear thing I remember about the incident with the exception of my head being crushed against the wall. That blow did immeasurable damage not only to my psyche but to my nose, as well. Neither were ever the same again.

As a matter of fact nothing was ever the same again. My Father, who had taken her at her word (probably with a great sigh of relief that she had finally given him his opening) didn’t return to the house and he filed for divorce a few weeks later. My mother, who had resented me before, now became openly hostile even to the point of dropping the Darlings and Dears. The added burdens of my hospital and doctor bills certainly did not in any way increase her affection for me.

My father, of course, offered to pay all my expenses but mother, Bless her sacrificing heart, told him that she would carry the burden of the damage he had caused without any financial assistance from him.

I don’t know if she had anticipated a break such as this in her relations with my father but it was evident that, anticipated or not, she was certainly financially prepared for the situation. She had kept a large amount of money, which had been left to her by her father, in an account which bore her name only. My father, of course, had never seen a penny of it and, as a matter of fact, had never even heard of it until after the divorce was finalized. Not that my father had ever been financially on the make, as my mother tried to make everyone believe.

The truth was that his family was wealthier than hers. He also had his law practice, which was to say the least, profitable. My father was also familiar enough with my mother’s tactics to get to the bank before she did and withdraw half the money from their joint account and put it in his own name before my mother had done so with the entire amount. This quick thinking on my father’s behalf particularly enraged my mother. She did not stop to think that he could have just as easily transferred the entire amount.

Life was not easy for me after my father left but in all fairness to the woman, I must point out that for appearances sake, I had things very well. Except for Love, Understanding and Normal Parents, I lacked very little.

There was one fetish, however, that she never relented on and that was candy. I was never allowed a piece of candy under any circumstances and to this day I am hesitant of picking up a piece of candy from the front room candy dish for fear of seeing her run into the room screaming, as she did so many times, Put that candy down, you Sonofabitch. I’m not gonna have any pimply looking prick running around here.

I feel that it is important to indicate at this point that as bad as she had been before, she got steadily worse after my father left. She also had a somewhat downward trend in morals which seemed to coincide with my increasing height and age. It went something like this:

Age Four: Attendance with married couples at a few of Philadelphia’s Highest Society Affairs.

Age Five: Attendance with escorts at a few High Society Affairs.

Age Six: Attendance with escorts at all High Society Affairs.

Age Seven: Attendance with escorts at all High Society Affairs, plus a few extracurricular high society affairs of her own.

Age Eight: A number of affairs, both high and low society, plus a few battles with concerned wives.

Age Nine: Escorted trips every night of the week ending in hotels and motels.

Age Ten: Unescorted trips every night of the week ending in hotels and motels.

Age Eleven: Unescorted trips every night of the week ending in her bed.

I feel it is unnecessarily painful to go further but the conclusion of what she became is evidently clear.

What the woman was doing to herself was one thing but the damage she was doing to me was quite another. My father made a number of futile attempts to rescue me but as time passed we both became resigned to our fate and took as much pleasure as we could in those all too brief and infrequent visits which the court allowed us.

Our appearance in court for the divorce proceedings produced tremendous emotional displays on the part of my mother. She is one of those (Not rare, by any means) women who can turn the tears on and off like a faucet. Needless to say, she was turned on throughout the court proceedings and I was overwhelmed to see how well she played the wronged woman.

Although she didn’t particularly want me, herself, she certainly didn’t want my father to get me either. She realized how happy my father and I would be living a normal life together without the constant irritation of her presence. Her capacity for bringing happiness to others had long since vanished, however and there was now only one person left for her to care about and that person cried for her child in court.

All the hate and unpleasantness she could bring to me and my father brought her what I believe to be a false sense of satisfaction. Since she got little or no satisfaction from her life as a whole she utilized this to the fullest. It is my belief that her carnal escapades were meant more to disgrace my father and me rather than provide her with necessary bodily satisfaction. Since she was the cold sort, I doubt very much whether she benefitted from her sexual sojourns, but be that as it may, the passing years seemed to heighten her desire for disgustingly different sexual enjoyment.

As time elapsed my father and I grew further apart, partly due to the fact that my mother made it exceedingly miserable for me following our brief reunions and partly because my father was assuming a new life and I believe that my presence tended to make him reminiscent of the torturous years of marriage to my mother. He remarried when I was seven year old and once again he tried to reason with my mother to release me. By this time, however, my mother, although she was by no means affectionate towards me, was at least civil most of the time and was quite used to having me around. It gave her great pleasure, of course, to put a damper on my father’s plans and following this last refusal my reunions with my father became almost nonexistent.

Oddly enough the sorrow of my life tended to heighten my adjustment to school. I thoroughly enjoyed school and although I was generally regarded as somewhat of a weirdo by some of my classmates, I got along fairly well with them, considering my situation. In the early grades I was fairly consistent in getting respectable grades and with few exceptions my breakdowns did not affect my marks in the least. With my increasing age and adjustment to school life my breakdowns became less severe and by the time I was 8 years old they rarely affected me for more than a few days at a time.

What I liked most about school was getting away from home for the school hours each day. School was a whole new world which had opened up for me and since it was a far better world than the one in which I had been previously confined, I welcomed it wholeheartedly. Whereas most of my classmates looked upon school as an unwelcome burden, I relished the thought of getting out of my lavish dungeon even for these few hours.

I had a few close friends in school. I visited their homes from time to time, when my mother allowed it, but my invitations tended to gradually decrease in number since I was not allowed to return my friend’s and their parent’s kind hospitality. My mother liked none of my friends, which as far as I was concerned, helped strengthen rather than weaken our bonds of friendship.

Whether they were financially acceptable or not, my mother never failed to find something about my friends that she didn’t like about them. They were either too snooty, too rowdy, or just generally not good enough for me to suit her although I found them to be worthy and trusting pals. I tried to get along as well as I could with my classmates, perhaps overzealously at times due to my analyst’s suggestions and I felt that considering my extreme handicap, I did fairly well. That is until Junior High.

Around the beginning of Ninth Grade I began to realize that my talent in sports was meager, to say the least. I tried my best to cope with the problem but the more I practiced and failed, the more frustrated I became. Sports, especially baseball, had suddenly become the rage and, so to speak, the status symbol of my age group. I mean, if you couldn’t play baseball, you just weren’t with it and it became all too painfully obvious to me and to others, as time went on, that I just wasn’t with it. I tried my best through practicing to increase my ability but it just didn’t work. At first I was at least picked to play on a team but as my awkwardness with a baseball and bat became worse instead of better I found myself being avoided like the plague by Team Captains in charge of choosing up sides. Since most of my childhood buddies became quite adept at the game of baseball and were almost addicted to it, our paths seemed to cross less and less as time went on.

It was at this point that I became a problem child. I don’t think I really wanted to but I had to find some way of getting attention in school. Lord knows, I got none at home. Also, since most of the kids had learned of my mother’s escapades from conversations which they had heard at home, my bitterness and constant embarrassment became intolerable. I began to withdraw to myself. I had nowhere else to go. I also developed an intense hatred of Teachers, especially those who were kind to me. I hated them the most because I felt that their kindness stemmed from pity and I hated the feeling of being pitied. I began first of all to start trouble in class. Talking back to Teachers, throwing erasers, spitballs and pencils and just generally being an annoying pain in the ass became my favorite pastime and recreation in school.

My new attitude took its toll, of course. My marks went down considerably and my mother was furious with my low grades. I was, in turn, furious with my Teachers, who I felt had treated me rather unjustly. I began to get rather violent in class and even went so far as to hit a Teacher. He took me down to the office and I was suspended for a week. The Principal called my mother, of course, and told her the whole story. She knocked me around a couple of times and screamed about what a Sonofabitch I was, just like my Father. Since this situation was unpleasant, to say the least, when I returned to school I tried to get hold of myself and settle down. This worked for awhile and both my marks and my disposition improved. My home situation, did not, however and soon I once again began to pour my hatred and frustration out on my classmates and Teachers.

I began to pick fights on the slightest provocation and much to my surprise and satisfaction, I won them. One month was especially rewarding. I keelhauled three of the best baseball players in the school, two of whom had previously been friends of mine. I felt that this was a coup of sorts and I began to see a look of what I thought was respect in the eyes of most of my classmates. My respect was short lived, however, because the next month when I picked a fight with Charlie Oates, a rather puny looking kid who happened to be the best shortstop in the school, he flattened me with two punches. Within the course of the school day the entire student body had heard what most of them considered the good news since there had been a full homeroom of witnesses to the shellacking.

Within the next month I tried valiantly to regain my position as Heavyweight Champion of Francis X Homer Junior High School, succeeding only in getting the shit kicked out of me a full six times. With a sense of shame and ridicule, I then retreated to the relative safety of truancy. Jack Dooley, The Truant Officer and I became great friends. Jack gave me hell the first few times he caught me but after he heard my story over a cup of coffee around the fourth time he nabbed me, I found him to be quite sympathetic to my situation. He advised me to talk to the School Counselor, who, as it turned out was nothing more than a basketball Coach with nothing better to do between games. The Counselor, Mr. Deitrick, was absolutely worthless as far as helping me with my school problems. His sage advice consisted of telling me not to be such a God Dammed Wise Guy in school and to appreciate all that my Mother was doing for me."

Advice like this I needed like another hole in my ass.

Deitrick, of course, had my mother down to the Guidance Office a few times and I suspect that he got a piece of tail out of the deal because after that he acted very guilty whenever he talked to me.

Deitrick finally washed his hands of me when I informed him that I was seeing a Psychiatrist once a week and I don’t know who was happier about it, he or I.

When I informed Jack Dooley what had happened he merely shook his head quite dejectedly and told me sincerely that he didn’t know what he could do to help me.

Neither did I.

I saw very little of Jack Dooley after that even though my absences from school increased. Jack saw me and could easily have caught me a number of times but didn’t. I was most grateful