Dual doppelganger reflections

Third letter to Jackie Jura of Orwell Today

Jackie,

It was twicely nice to read your personal website narrative about how you, our Canadian Cousins, shared in America’s birthday celebration with such glee. My own maternal grandmother was born July 5 1894, when the United States was barely half the age it is now, and it was always nice to celebrate the fireworks alongside our Nana’s birthday.

Did you realize that some of your American Cousins are now pretending to double as Canadians when traveling abroad? Seems to be the accepted wisdom to claim that we are Canadian these days, with the way we’ve changed the world’s barometer reading so fast, toward many American relations.

~

I was thinking today about how I was around the same age as John-John (double name) was, when he gave his father that famous final heart-wrenching salute. November 25, 1963. That notorious day synchronisticly came as his third birthday.

I forgot to mention that the wax mold I bought from that era was of John Kennedy. I carried it around for years, when I lived in Northern Virginia. It used to sit next to a radio /alarm clock, which I earned by selling tickets for the Boy Scout Exposition -one hundred, door-to-door. That clock woke me up all through school and then a dozen work years, until it mysteriously stopped functioning several days before I moved to Idaho in early ’93. To me, this seemed like a ceremonious augury, marking the end of my thirty-three and a third Virginian years.

Last year, I started corresponding with my sister about those good old days. We talked about how our parents were fearful during the tumultuous times, which was a major factor in our migrating out further into the supposedly safer suburbs. Although the riots following Martin Luther King’s assassination, were downright terrifying, it should never be stuffed down the memory hole, how that civil strife had the potential to explode into a full out race war, and likely would have, had it not been for the non-violent pleas hearkening from the great Doctor and his group in their peaceful crusade for equal justices.

Out of the communication with my sister came three lighter stories, which seemed interesting enough that other people might find them enjoyable. While looking for a place to submit these, I discovered The Arlington Forester community newsletter. The Forester logo matched exactly my memory of the shopping center, all the way down to the old ESSO station.

The third story, I submitted to the newsletter was about Batman:

Batman

I always admired dad for the choices he made buying houses adjacent to wilderness areas. The house he purchased in the mid-sixties at 140 North Columbus Street, affording us young rascals rich opportunities to run around in the woods and sprout up without “nature deficit disorder.”

Our Arlington Forest home stood next to one of the paved paths that funneled down into the park. It was the perfect intersection for us to set up a lemonade stand on sweltering Saturday afternoons. Sometimes, as we rapscallions barked out fruit juice availability, we would receive cherished mercury dimes for the fare. And sometimes our lemonade profits became as elusive as quicksilver as my brother; David would promptly spend them on Italian Ices from the Popsicle truck.

During this era, Batman became one of our favorite shows on TV. One sunny afternoon, I dressed up in my yard as a caped crusader in my miniature Batman costume. Wandering over to the park entrance, I noticed that some “bad teenagers” had furled up the metal “No Parking” signs, so that they were illegible. With all the tremendous strength my six-year-old body could muster, I tried unfurling the bent signs, so that the good Arlington Forest citizenry could again follow the posted law. But, it was to no avail. Just then, a police car screeched to a halt in front of our house. Although I was in the right, I became nervous, ran and hid behind a rock in my own front yard. The policemen shouted, “Hey you!”

I emerged from the rock with a meek, “Who me?”

“Yes, what are you doing damaging that sign?”

I started to whimper, explained that I was fixing it and added, “I’m Batman. I’m a good guy!”

The officers politely laughed, saw that it was a misunderstanding, sternly thanked me for trying to mend the sign and drove off in the dust to fight some larger crimes.

~

I always thought that I would like to tell this story to Adam West, the actor who originally portrayed Batman, since I am a writer living in the same Idaho valley as he. It would be extra bat-nice if he could sign my bat-heroic photo. Perhaps he has an online fan club of some sort. Hmmm…

~

When I blew up the above photograph of me donning the Batman costume, I noticed for the first time, that there was a strange phantom image in the peripheral area of mirror. A Joker of some sort -if you will. I certainly don’t remember seeing anyone dressed up as a clown at the time, so I do find the strange image to be haunting. Coupled with our recent doppelganger correspondences, the seeing of this reflected back in the looking glass after 39-odd years, gave me cold chills.

I hope that it does not portend bad news. However, if this to be seen as a signal for change, it could mean that the Idaho half of my adult life is closing to an end and I should go back to spending more time more with my eastern American cousins. I can certainly feel that tide tugging.

I now have a quixotic dream that beats in my ticking heart. One day, some Fourth of July, I would like to share your firework story, in a tremendous sky overlooking the eastern seaboard with cousins throughout the world. A day when Love American Style fireworks are used more for celebrating peace, freedom and real justice, rather than the fizzling out effects they are being used for in today’s awful shocks & awe of half-thought out wars.