[ COMMUNITY CONTRIBUTOR]
Sixth Grade Surrealist
by Ted Kalvitis
As a preteen in 1965. I discovered author/comedian Jean Shepherd’s nightly radio program on New York’s WOR/ AM station. Shepherd’s artistic wit, nostalgia and renderings of classic poetry filled an empty space in the life of a lonely Jersey kid whose rural surroundings were becoming suburbia. Culturally, I was lost in an empty void between stacking haybales and picking up stray golf balls.
The Nehi leg lamp, the Old Man’s furnace battles and
“you’ll shoot your eye out, kid” were as familiar as the red
Jersey dirt long before the first day of 1966. During January of
that year, I was assigned the duty of shoveling the walkway
in front of the house. It had been snowing heavily so I had a
considerable volume to deal with.
The snow was of a perfect consistency for rolling large
snowballs. I simply rolled the snow into several enormous
snowballs then rolled them off into the yard. After dark, I
happened to notice the long shadows that the snowballs cast
in the light from the porch. To me, the sight of the snowballs
and their shadows tugged at something deeper within – like
a Haiku poem. This odd feeling grew so I rolled another huge
snowball then another and so-on until the yard was full of
these monster orbs and their haunting shadows.
Broadcast from Greenwich Village, my nightly “classes” with
Jean Shepherd had taught me some of the language of the
art community. I explained to anyone who asked that these
snowballs were an example of Surrealist sculpture. Perhaps
I could have chosen a more appropriate venue than the
New Jersey farm country of the 1960’s. This was a time when
neckties were narrow and minds not much broader.
Uncle John was a carpenter, an occupation which I respected.
Still, my father always referred to him as “just a hammer and
nail man.” I’m not sure what he meant by this, but Uncle John
surely wasn’t a complex individual.
“What’s all this?” he demanded when he saw my snow
sculpture. “It’s Surreal.” I explained. Having no comprehension
of the word “surreal”, Uncle John thought that I was speaking in
a mock Italian accent. “It’s-za real, alright.” he bellowed. “It’s-za
real-a dumb to be doin’ all that work for nothin’ and whataya
talkin’ like Mario at the deli for?”
Uncle Paul and Aunt Esther stopped by to visit my parents.
Aunt Esther stood gazing at the yard full of mammoth
snowballs. “It’s a Surreal sculpture.” I explained. “Ohhh–Sureeel”
she bleated. “You’re going to go to New York and be a famous
artist someday.”
“What is WRONG with that boy?” I heard her whisper as she
turned toward Uncle Paul and the couple walked away. To
everyone’s relief, the snowballs finally melted as did my
adventure in Surrealism.
I was never asked to shovel the walkway again.