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National Amateur Press Association
Continued from Page 1 “America and England are two countries separated by the same language,” said George Bernard Shaw. Grammar as I knew it goes to hell in a handbasket here: “Drive friendly!” “Ya lookin’ good.” “See yez!” Worse, I couldn’t catch the language of inference. What were people really saying? In the Lawrenceville (N.J.) hardware store I asked for a pair of edge clippers. “No, hon,” said the guy. “You’re looking for hedge clippers, with an H. I was at Uxbridge Air Force base during the war and I know you Brits always drop your Hs.” I said I wanted to trim the edges of my lawn. “Oh, OK,” he said, “What you want is a grass shears.” I listened to talk radio, took courses and began to get the picture. Now I salt my clipped mid-Atlantic speech with “hillabeans,” “hornswoggle,” “fuggedabahdit,” “yeah, right.!” Special to New Jersey, I learned “agita” and “youse guys.” Becoming an American is a process. This is not a country where you simply arrive, rent a pad, get a job and settle down. There’s more to it than that. Slowly, by degrees, a head change takes place. Americans truly believe most things can be fixed. Even if your fix fails, it’s un-American not to try. When you go back to the old country and try to fix things, you’re getting there. When you try to fix things here at home, you’re really an American. I flew to South Africa in 1974 after a 10-year absence. Soon my relatives complained, "You can’t come over here from America and try to change everything!" That didn’ stop me from trying a few fixes. Immigrants are often lonely. One solution is to hang out with other expats. We had a South African couple over for dinner once who spent the whole evening complaining about American teenagers. Close to midnight, one of our sons came home, now six feet tall with long copper hair, shirt open to his navel and a class ring slung around his neck on a leather thong. "Hi guys!" he grinned, reeking with chemical charm. Our guests left forthwith, never to return. The kid and his brothers grew up just fine. We solved the loneliness problem by making friends with Americans. If we get too maudlin, we watch the Britcoms on TV. "Waiting For God" is our favorite. A week ago, I joined a gathering of native and colonial Brits in their 50s and 60s. Many are ambivalent about this country even as they enjoy their freedoms and comforts. Brits love to huddle together, drink gin and tonic and swap quotations from Christopher Robin. Once we get our green cards, becoming a citizen is a commitment many of us postpone for years. In 1982, I heard Mario Cuomo speak in Trenton and was inspired to take the plunge. I had never voted in my life and it was time. The INS officer in Camden, where I took my oath of allegiance, warned all of us new citizens to keep our original passports in case of hostilities abroad. I still have mine. In the late 1980s, my brother came from South Africa on business. Apartheid was still entrenched, but as we read later, preparations to release Nelson Mandela from prison had begun. We visited the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Together we read the writing on the wall: "...we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth". I found myself in tears. There’s a lot more work still to be done on both continents, but at least those words are carved in stone on my side of the Atlantic. On balance, my gains outweigh my losses. Thank you, America.
ABANDONED. The old branch line with its rusted rails Wends on through the ancient hills: The shadows creep as the sunlight fails, And the calls of the whippoorwills Sound in the thicket where verdure lies, Shading the green of the grass-grown ties. The night is born, and the stars awake While the moon ascends the sky; A ghostly wind stirs a lonely lake; To the wail of a loon’s weird cry, And the vines creep up to the broken door Of a station where man comes no more. Midnight and hush, then a phantom roar And the note of a ghostly bell And an eerie whistle, while pistons pour Their wraiths of steam...the knell Intones again...past the stunted pine The ghost train rolls on the memory line.
Olin Lyman
Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing,
Longfellow
The happiness of men consists in life. And life is in labor. Tolstoy
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