I was a grunt in Georgia the day that J.F.K. died NOTEBOOK BY DANIEL B. MELTZER
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n the Friday that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated I was a P.F.C. in training to become a Morse code and radio-teletype operator at Fort Gordon, outside of Augusta, Georgia. I was looking forward to a weekend pass and two days in Atlanta. We were learning how to tune Army radios, which were actually mobile radio stations, the numerous components filling a “hut” the size of a small truck. To college grads like us — many of us had enlisted or been drafted right after commencement in June — the complex electronics and the by-the-numbers military approach to everything made it all more complicated than seemed necessary. Each of us had a miniature radio set to work on. You had to power up, calibrate your transmitter and receiver, synchronize them, dip and load your antenna coil…a long list of steps just to get going. The room was quiet except for the occasional slam of a hand to the tabletop, and “God damn this f------ thing! Suddenly the classroom door flew open. A sergeant stuck his head in and called out, “The president’s been shot, get it on your
sets.” You never saw a bunch of liberal arts majors zip through those steps so fast. We were restricted to base that evening. No rides to Atlanta or even into dreary Augusta: bars, tattoo parlors, pawnshops and hookers that none of us could afford. Someone in our barracks had a transistor radio. We heard the news as it unfolded. The next day a memorial parade was arranged, with a platoon from every unit on the base marching. Participants were chosen by size: Tallest, next tallest and so on, front rank to rear. They had enough before they could get to me. Normally, this would have been a relief. Marching in step for hours with an M1 rifle on your shoulder is not fun. And then standing stiff at parade rest without moving a finger for the speeches and then at full attention as the base commander reviews the troops can and does cause genuine physical pain. I didn’t care. Like everyone else in my family, I admired J.F.K., saw him as the brightest, gutsiest and coolest president ever. I had met him when he came to ABC in New York in 1960, where I was a page in the studio during his debate with Richard Nixon. I wanted to march in that parade. For two packs of Camels, I took another guy’s place. He thought I was
nuts to actually pay him to get him out of parade duty. It rained. It poured. The uniform of the day was Class “A” khakis freshly starched, spitshined combat boots, trousers bloused above the boot-tops. Due to the weather, ponchos were added. We could have been naked under those ponchos except for the boots. But we were marching instead, over wet grass and through mud with our rifle straps pressing down, and our cardboard-stiff khakis cutting into our necks, elbows and knees. My
Like my family, I admired Kennedy, saw him as the brightest, gutsiest and coolest president ever.
eyeglasses were fogged, rain-smeared and sliding down my sweaty nose. In their speeches, the high-level brass
seemed to bend over backward to avoid outright praise of the slain president. They didn’t like him, I recognized. I wondered why. Much later I came to understand the reason. He had been reluctant to commit U.S. troops to a major land war in a place called Vietnam. The Gung Ho guys were itching to go. The next day I was put on KP. I was mopping when someone came running into the mess hall yelling, “Oswald’s been shot!” I ducked out and snuck over to the day room, where there was a TV. Officers were lounging on the leatherette sofas and easy chairs. In my water- and grease-soaked fatigues, mop still in hand, I saw the videotape replay of Ruby shooting Oswald. Walter Cronkite was at the anchor desk. Dan Rather was reporting from Dallas. I stood riveted, until the mess sergeant stood toe to toe in front of me with a very large knife in one hand and shouted and sprayed his miserable breath into my face to get my “f------ a-- back into that kitchen or I’ll…!” He didn’t have to complete the sentence. Random violence at military installations was not unusual even back then. Years later, I would become a writer for CBS News. As it happened, I started the week that was Walter Cronkite’s last. He was replaced the following week by Dan Rather. Meltzer’s most recent book is “Outsiders,” a collection of short fiction
A local architect’s assessment of The Greenwich Lane TALKING POINT BY CARL STEIN
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ecently, there has been much discussion in the community and in the press about The Greenwich Lane, the Rudin development on the old St. Vincent’s Hospital site. Either tacitly or explicitly, much of this discussion centers on attempting to define what constitutes appropriate development, particularly in communities with strong historic or cultural pasts. This is a highly complex question with no simple answers. Cities are evolutionary. Preservation of historic districts must be a high priority — but needs change, as do the technologies to meet these needs. On the one hand, for the case in point, the design for buildings currently under construction on the old St. Vincent’s site could have been far worse than it is. However, it could also have been far better. Having just returned from three days in Dallas, I’m struck by the wonderful qualities of Greenwich Village and reminded how little The Greenwich Lane has to do with these qualities. This is partly a function of architecture, of scale and texture. It’s also partly a function of the potential for creating an enclave — a gated community — in what
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is otherwise a very open and interconnected neighborhood. But more than anything else, what this new development does is accelerate the trend away from a place that accommodated an incredibly wide range of residents. The essence of the Village has been its diversity. It has accommodated the wealthy in large, single-family townhouses and gracious apartments. But it has also been home
ago, my neighbors included writers Donald Barthelme, Grace Paley, Kirkpatrick Sale, Steve Gaines and Israel Horovitz. There were at least three architects living on the block, and there were at least three doctors and a dentist all practicing in the area. The sculptor Gonzalo Fonseca lived and worked in the house where his family still lives. There were two feature writers and a wine critic for The New York Times, at least one senior editor for a major publisher, a tenor in the New York City Opera and a cabaret chanteuse. The block was a microcosm of the best of urban life — and my apologies to all I’ve left out. One Village block had all this, and there was still room for St. Vincent’s Hospital to occupy nearly half of the north side of the block and P.S. 41 one-third of the south. While real estate economics of recent years discourage these demographics, The Greenwich Lane makes an unprecedented leap away from that archetypal Greenwich Village block. Then there is authentic sense of place — genius loci. While I was in Dallas, I saw a lot of interesting — and in some cases quite good — architecture. However, it all seemed isolated both in time and place. It may be that over time, downtown Dallas will acquire some sense of history. But, for now, it feels like a massive space station that has re-
The Greenwich Lane is a leap away from that archetypal Greenwich Village block.
to a significant creative population, many of whose works had limited commercial potential. That it was a cultural center was not only important to the artistic population itself, but was also a benefit to all who lived in the Village, and was a major reason that many people who could have afforded to live on Park or Fifth Aves. chose the Village instead. When I moved to 11th St. a mere 42 years
cently landed on the prairie. The Village, though, has more than 300 years of continuous history. Some of its oldest features exist only in its irregular street patterns. But there are significant numbers of surviving, well-used buildings approaching 200 years in age. The challenge is to maintain this fabric, and the continuum of Village architecture, in ways that support the vibrant urban conditions that the Village has been known for — while preserving the authenticity that only comes with the passage of time. I think of the appraiser on “Antiques Roadshow” saying, “That’s a lovely piece but it’s a shame that you cleaned away all of the wonderful patina that built up over the centuries. You’ve removed most of the value.” The “value” of patina is not just for collectors. We care about it, we value it for its integral connection to the historical / cultural continuum. Of course, there needs to be the possibility for new construction in places like The Greenwich Village. My own view is that this ought not be slavish copies of older buildings but should respect the underlying criteria that define this special place. Unfortunately, I believe that here, The Greenwich Lane falls short. Stein is a Fellow of American Institute of Architects (FAIA) and principal and founder, elemental architecture LLC November 28, 2013
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