by Paul Pintarich

Born just before the second world war, of which I have fuzzy little kid memories, I was too young for Korea and, thank God, too old for Vietnam. I was not a shirker, however, having served four years in the Navy, two years of which I was a hospital corpsman attached to the Marines. (If they’d had another war then I’d have gone, certainly, and, as did many combat medics before and after, most likely had my ass shot off.)  Having come of age within the interstice of these two wars is a way of explaining my generation and how it serves to represent, through its lives and storytelling, the great cultural transitions of the last century.

Traveling through Wilsonville recently  I noticed the sign:  “Korean War Veterans’ Memorial,” and wondered later if this freeway direction might not be an  oxymoron.

As one of nine wars fought by the United States since the Revolution, the Korean War was not only one of our costliest, with losses comparable to those of World War I and Vietnam, but one of our cruelest and most confusing, ending after nearly three years (1950-53) in a weird truce that continues to this day.  Despite its seesaw battles, fought in horrible weather and with a revival of trench warfare, the multi-national Korean War has since become a nearly forgotten footnote sandwiched in between World
War II and the war in Vietnam.

And having been placed in this unique position solely by date of birth, we are never definitively “here nor there,” but exist on a vague cusp as translators between our parents’ generation, tempered in the crucibles of the Depression and World War II, and those “Boomers” now rolling to maturity on a
cresting wave of indulgent self-importance. A juxtaposition of fate, therefore, has created many of us as writers, historians and romantics; instilled as we are with tales of the past while we attempt to unscramble and accommodate the chaos of modern times.
 
It is the writer’s job, after all, as it has been since Homer made epic stuff out of that decade-long war between Greece and Troy; since Shakespeare explored the outrageous fortunes of mere mortals; since Melville wrote of that great pissed-off whale, Twain of kids floating down a river; Robert Frost
pondering who is a “swinger of birches”?--a line marked upon a men’s room wall in a tavern I frequented in college--and countless others who have appeared numerous as stars on a clear country night.  During the time we were young men, in the late 1950s and early 60s, it seemed to us that writing, especially after a few beers, was an important-- no, the most important thing to make sense of ourselves and the world.

As boys living with radios we were educated by comic book and steeped in superheroes. We read “little big books,” adventure stories and heard countless tales and yarns from grandparents, parents and others who read books and whose lives had been free of television and the battering of
overwhelming commercial media.  Later we would be inspired by Kerouac, Ginsberg and company, who set the tone for our age, leading us to better encounter Steinbeck, Mann, Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Mailer, Jones, Bellow, Malamud, Hesse, Camus, Updike, Cheever. . .and, of course, be accused of neglecting the ladies, though many of us read Wharton and Woolf, Stein, Oates, LeGuin, Atwood, Smiley and a whole bunch of others, men and women (I haven‘t mentioned the poets), so countless we could never remember them all.

We were--are--inveterate readers after all, and we read whatever we can get.   As a book reviewer for many years, I was often asked, “What’s your favorite book?” I could respond by pointing to a small sign over my desk: “Books are dangerous, they make you think.”  So think about it. It doesn’t matter, really. Maybe, like sex, they’re all good but some are better than
others, though some will certainly slow you down  In the late 1950s there was a song that was extremely popular, and whose words I return to more often now that I am entering what the boomers call “geezerdom.” If I remember correctly, the song was titled, “Once Upon a Time There Was a Tavern,” with a refrain: “Those were the days, my friend/ We thought they’d never end,/ That they would last forever and a day. . .”

But, alas. . .

Yet in the taverns of our young manhood the song seemed true; that we would persevere, write great works and in time be honored with fame and recognition. We drank, smoked and argued, excited over words; who wrote them and how we might put our own thoughts together; all of us intellectuals,
budding geniuses capable of confronting Hemingway’s “White Bull” of unwritten masterpieces. 

But, alas. . .

Time passed, we grew older and more cynical, and having contributed some minor work, for many of us our greater works remain undone, our incentive swept away by knowing our culture doesn’t care that much about its writers anymore (did it ever?), or simply by ennui or, admittedly, plain old
laziness--maybe there are enough books after all?

Sweeping generalization is good for this kind of snarkiness, as are rationalization and fault finding. One could say that it is difficult to publish because of myriad obstacles: corporate dominance of an industry
sustained by media hype, the inability to reach a publisher without acceptance by a literary agent --all of whom want to earn an instant million, and who won’t touch you unless you have been published--being too wordy, esoteric or too “literary” (!), or, alas, simply being too old. 

I once queried an agent about a novel I had written, and she immediately responded, “I hope it’s not too long.” No question of its plot, theme, characters, etc., only the gentle admonition that readers’ attention spans were short and that few in today’s world had time to read.  Without reminding her of the extreme popularity of Dickens, Balzac, Tolstoy and that leviathan of a book about the pissed-off whale, I reminded her that not so long ago workingmen and women who toiled 14 hours, six days a week often read voraciously, absorbing ideas and intellectual stimulation that often changed the world.

Yet, while I often despair over buffed, eternally youthful cretins whose raison d’etre seems to be rap music, SUVs and cell phones, there are hopeful signs of cultural transformation; changes that might be attributed once again to members of our forgotten generation.  As the swell of boomers reaches the age where we are now, the inevitability of life becoming shorter and harsher can overwhelm a desire for fame, wealth and the ridiculous concept of “eternal youth.”  After all, as they say, at fifty you have the face you deserve. Or, as an oldtime newspaper editor once told me, “There are three ages of man: young, old and God! you look good.”

Physical health is important, of course. But even more important, as we face an abyss of  life‘s uncertainty, is wondering who we are. For many boomers, nurtured on the sterile soccer fields of suburbia, tradition is encapsulated in a high school yearbook, re-runs of “The Brady Bunch,” a backyard barbeque and a shelf of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.  But for those of us allegedly “forgotten,” and who enjoyed pre-suburban childhoods  in a cleaner more spaciously rural Oregon rife with salmon, empty beaches and much taller timber, we have tales to tell.

The Oregon of my youth provided woods and fields to run and play in, streams to fish and catch crawdads. There were still woodstoves and outhouses, ice men and trolley cars; more dairy farms right around here, my grandparents’ tailor shop; stories of the Old Country, of coming West, of war and depression and how things really were, told by people who were older and who you listened to at family gatherings on droning Sunday afternoons.  Many a tale of old forgotten lore--yet maybe not.

Back a decade ago there was resurgence of interest in the short story, encouraged by people like the Northwest’s own late, great Raymond Carver and others who, like Chekov and Hemingway, said quite a lot in tight spaces--the “small canvases” of literature, if you will.  Since then lots of people have rediscovered the short story, which has been around orally since cave flickering times, but eventually became progeny of the literary essays encouraged in the 18th century by the English writers and publishers, Addison and Steele.  During this recent renaissance of the short story and, subsequently, a renewed interest in personal memoirs--albeit of the celebrity type, mostly, but increasingly of ordinary folks--many writers became
aware that many people have grown up with but a fuzzy knowledge of their past. 

Moved hither and yon throughout a corporate America of suburban shlock and lassitude, some crave the root-digging tales of history and place that have encouraged storytellers throughout time.  My son, who is in his late 20s, has said that his generation, cruelly labeled as “Generation X,” seeks the stories, tales and anecdotes of mine; those of us who matured in the 50s and were there when they invented rock-and-roll (man!).   That we were cool goes without saying, for didn’t we create “King” Elvis? And didn’t we have Kerouac and the beatniks, as well as a lot of other neat stuff that was simply overwhelmed, as was Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, by the boomers overwhelming numbers and resources.

And when my son requests my stories I can often look off into my memory and tell about my own father, born and died in the same house in Southwest Portland; and tell stories he told me about his father, back to the Old Country of Croatia, and so on because we were a family of storytellers. It is
perhaps why I write and my brother is a historian and writer as well.  As we grow older we often discover that our lives are much more interesting in retrospect. Or as the tee-shirt reads: “The older I am, the better I was.” 

We also have great stories to tell, and whether embellished or not, they come from someplace lived and true. I’m sure that even a person raised in
suburbia and led lock step through a career in computer programming will have gleaned some vignettes from his or her lunch breaks.  Though my generation hasn’t the stories of  the preceding “Greatest Generation,” as it has been labeled, ours are pretty good--and maybe even more important since we are constantly forced to explain everything.

This realization came several years ago after a book signing session. A woman approached and asked, “Don’t you remember me?” When I said, “No, I’m sorry,” she replied, “I was your girlfriend in high school!”
Ah me. I thought she had been blonder and taller, but after an hour over coffee it all came back. The dates on the bus, sailing on the river, dances and moonlight swims; her tossing me over for a sailor during the Rose Festival.  
But there were other things too. A whole treasure chest of memories she gave me like something forgotten and found again. My heart filled gratefully and for a brief moment I actually felt 16 again. I wonder now why I didn’t hug her?

At 16 I was working on a towboat on the Columbia River, a rite of passage that would remain with me the rest of my life. Today I can look back and remember a river filled with salmon, not yet dammed or tamed completely, and think how in getting down that river I passed from boyhood to manhood in a single season.  I’m writing it all down. And as I write I include all that has happened then and now. Comparisons old and new: Oregon as it was and is now; my life’s transformations: friends, family, wives and lovers; children; the sky, water and sunlight. How later I went on into the Navy, to college, married, worked on a newspaper, bumbled, picked myself up and persevered. 

Now I’m older, retired and it’s there, something to write down. Who cares?  Only  one man’s life. But something to pass on; stories from a forgotten generation.