THE GREEN FLASH
Billy Faier
The Green Flash is an optical phenomena that occurs only at the instant of
sunset as the very last rays of the Sun's light disappear below the horizon of
the western ocean, or at the instant of sunrise as the Sun's first morning ray
peek up over the eastern horizon of
the water. In the morning, on the
east coast, the flash precedes the appearance of the Sun; in the western evening
it follows its disappearance.
Furthermore there must be absolutely no clouds on the horizon--even those too
small to be seen by the naked eye--as their presence will prevent the flash from
occurring. And finally, you must be
looking at the exact spot on the horizon as the Sun slowly sets, because the
phenomena itself is so tiny. As the Sun's last bit of light gets smaller and
smaller, and you can't believe it hasn't yet disappeared it
will suddenly vanish to be replaced by a fan shaped flash of green light,
lasting a bare millisecond, but
unmistakable. And each time you see
it, the fan is always different. A
different design; a different pattern; but always a green fan.
I spent half my life looking for the green flash to
no avail. I finally despaired of ever seeing it and I finally gave up looking.
It seriously affected my experience of sunsets, concentrating on one little
point instead of enjoying the grand panorama.
I first read of the Green Flash as a child in
Brooklyn. My main obsession, aside from some of the girls in my classes, was Astronomy. The stars, the heavens, the planets, how they affected each other, how
they moved. The local public library
had only three or four books on Astronomy, all of which I read many times.
The one I remember most is THE MYSTERIOUS UNIVERSE by Sir James Jeans.
I went to the Hayden Planetarium in
Central Park
faithfully every month. I understood very little of what I saw and read, but my
fascination continued to grow as my understanding slowly deepened.
I would regale anyone who would listen and
many who didn't about the movements of the heavenly bodies and Einstein's Theory
of Relativity which I thought I understood. Naturally everyone in my large
family of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents thought I was cute and I was
frequently the butt of their ridicule. One time, after a Passover dinner, I had
cornered my grandfather and was letting him have it, both barrels. It was rare
for him to have any conversations with his grandsons; all his affection seemed
to be reserved for the granddaughters, so I was making the most of it.
Grandmother, who we called the Bubba, was standing across the room, arms folded
across her ample bosom, a beaming look of delight on her face as she watched her
little Velvil (my Yiddish nickname. It means little wolf.) actually having a
conversation with her husband. But
she spoke no English, only Yiddish and Polish, so she could have not understood
a word of what I was saying.
One by one, everyone in the room, seven uncles and aunts with their spouses and
about two kids apiece--my first cousins--and a bunch of friends and neighbors
slowly became aware of the unusual tableaux occurring with my grandparents and
me.
I was totally oblivious to all but my
lecture. But Grandpa was in tune with the entire room and he kept me talking,
pretending understanding, as the room quieted down.
When everyone's attention was fixed on me, him, and the Bubba, he
suddenly stopped me and asked,
"Velvil, do you vant to make a dollah?"
"Sure!" I cried. He
pointed at Grandma and said,
"Explain this to the Bubba."
As I write this I suddenly become aware of the similarity between two
incidents in my life that were always loosely connected because they both
concerned my trying to share my enthusiasm with nature with others.
One was the family gathering related above which I recall with fondness
and love for the people involved even though I was the butt of Grandpa's humor.
The second, however, remained a painful memory. I just realized that they both
involved being ridiculed for my attempt at sharing, which is more important than
what is being shared. It was this second incident that caused me to quit trying
to turn people on to the wonders of the Universe.
I was spending a summer with my Aunt Mae and cousins Paul and Sondra,
somewhere in the Borsht Circuit. Next
door was another summer 'cockalane', a boarding house where each family has
their own two burner gas stove so they can 'cook alone' and a place in the large
refrigerator. This place was owned by the Rosenbergs. The son, Stanley Rosenberg, was about fifteen; four years older than me. A real arrogant asshole! He never
lost an opportunity to criticize or ridicule.
Stanley, me, and one or two other kids were in a canoe on a small
neighborhood lake. There were water
lilies growing all around in full bloom and fragrance. Being on the water, I
naturally thought about the Green Flash and, still unenlightened about the
rigorous conditions necessary for its appearance,
foolishly sought to impress
them with my knowledge of what might occur
when the Sun set.
But, of course, when the sun set there was no green flash.
And as it slowly disappeared behind the pines across the small lake,
Stanley began to intone in a mock serious voice,
"THE SUN TURNS GREEN! THE SUN TURNS GREEN!" It was quickly taken up by
the other two kids and now the three of them were chanting and laughing at me.
At the same moment I became aware of the intensity of the fragrance from
the surrounding water lilies. I
became sick to my stomach.
Later my Aunt Mae told me I looked awful.
Was anything wrong?
"The water lilies made me nauseous." I
told her.
I probably would have forgotten
Stanley
Rosenberg
and his inhumanity except for another small incident that occurred that summer.
Stanley
had gotten his first drivers license and was taking a few kids for a ride.
We were all singing WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IN as we rode. It was
traditional and acceptable among us to make up verses about each other.
We sang:
"When
Stanley
learns how to drive,
When
Stanley learns how to drive,
I don't want to be in that car
When Stanley
learns to drive."
Years later, of course, I became a folksinger and THE SAINTS was always a
favorite among us. Whenever we would
sing that song I would remember the verse about Stanley, and while I never actually sang it, it always put me in mind of his insulting
rudeness. I had long since decided
that he was the worst person I have ever known. Thank God I would never have to
see him again.
But, as I hope we all know by now, life--as dull and
boring as it can be--does have its weird twists and turns.
Life was good for me in the mid sixties. I
was in the height of my musical career and living in my own house I built myself
in the woods near Woodstock, New York. I stopped to get my mail on my way
home one day. Marge Shultis the postmistress, said to me,
"Billy, you know an old friend of yours bought the Morse place.
They just moved in."
"What's their name, Marge?"
"Stanley and Laurie Rosenberg". (A brief pause as the Universe shudders and readjusts.)
This could not possibly be happening. I furiously wracked my brains to
remember another
Stanley
Rosenberg. It's a common name. Surely there
must be another in my past. No luck! I was stuck. What the fuck.
I was becoming conversant with Buddhism and Karma so I actually spent a
few moments trying to recall what I might have done in the past to deserve this.
No help there! I walked home trying to cope with my new reality.
And there it was standing at the bottom of our mutual driveway; arms
outspread to welcome me, an obscene shit-eating grin on its face.
Barely glancing at him I walked by saying,
"Hello, Stanley." And I kept going. Our
relationship deteriorated completely after that promising beginning.
He immediately became the neighbor from hell and remained so until I sold
my place about forty years later. I
had to put up with him for forty years. In
that time I made a few attempts to be a good neighbor with some kind of bearable
vibe for both our sakes. But nothing could satisfy him except complete surrender
and agreement to his way of thinking. That
and his tendency to involve himself in my affairs with my property adjoining his
made him insufferable.
I sold my place for a good price because I
couldn't afford to live there myself, the taxes were too high. Getting rid of
him as a neighbor was a tremendous bonus.
And, thank God, before I sold my place, I was able
to encapsulate my experience with
Stanley
so that it had little effect, if any, on the other parts of my life.
The twenty years from '65 to '85 were incredible. I was in the prime of
life, musically, intellectually, and sexually. In 1968 I opened an art gallery in
Woodstock, the Light Box, where I sold my light sculptures and other people's crafts. It
was the heyday of Woodstock's musical history when most of the rock stars and folksingers hung out there.
Dylan, Baez, Van Morrison, the Band, Paul Butterfield, the list is
endless. This attracted music fans
in thousands every weekend and most of them checked out my gallery. A river of
women went by constantly and I pretty much had my pick of which of them I would
pluck. This is not meant to be a tribute to any prowess I may have had; it is
simply the way it was in
Woodstock
then.
A painter will spend a few minutes, maybe an hour, stretching a canvas on
a frame and then as much as a year painting the picture on it.
My 'canvas' was a six inch deep wooden box in which the image was
created, using mainly aluminum roofing.
I spent ten times more time building the
wooden frames then I did the image they contained.
My entire house, except for the kitchen and a tiny upstairs bedroom, was
a woodworking shop. It was fun at
the gallery, but I was never going to get rich at this unless I was willing to
run a real factory to make the wooden frames. I had fallen into light boxes almost by accident and it was really fun in
the beginning. My first sale was at Bob Rutman's gallery, A BIRD CAN FLY BUT A
FLY CAN'T BIRD, in Greenwich Village. That was a real thrill.
But there was no way I was going to be a factory owner.
My standards are too high. I
would be horrible to work for. And, anyway, I was--am--a musician. So in 1971 I
went on a five month trip around the country thinking that when I returned I
would immediately know if I wanted to continue being a
Woodstock street
merchant. When I returned at the
end of May the problem was solved. I
would stay open until my lease expired at the end of October.
That summer I, went on a second cross country trip, this time to
Vancouver
, with Bernard Paturel who owned the Café Espresso in Woodstock when Dylan lived there. I had been nominated to run for Supervisor of
Woodstock Township
by the newly formed Woodstock
Independent Party; WIP. We arrived home four days before Election Day.
We got eighteen percent of the vote, a record for a new party the first
time out. I met Cosmo.
With Cosmo with me, and the gallery and light boxes behind me, life took
on a new color it had lacked for years. We
gave up the
Woodstock
community for the river running community of the west.
Three years later we were living in Mendocino, California
sharing a small house with Christy. Both Cosmo and Christy were into a super
healthy life style. They went out of
their way to prepare the tastiest and healthiest food imaginable. They kept
themselves looking beautiful for the world, adorning their jewel-like selves
with taste and devotion to principle. They--each in their own way--were the
epitome of the beautiful hippie woman. They
were a delight to live with especially since they seemed to go out of their way
to please me.
I was pursuing my on-again off-again career as a folksinger, singing and
playing in the coffee houses and folk clubs, and on
Telegraph Avenue in
Berkeley,
California. Driving home from the
East
Bay
one day I stopped for a hitchhiker, a nice looking young man in his early
twenties. I will never forget our
conversation.
"Hop in.
I'm Billy."
"Steve," he said as we shook
hands.
"Where you headed?" I asked.
He shook his head, thought for a minute, and then said,
"I don't really know."
As
a big believer in hitchhiking as a simple solution to the gas problem I have
picked up hundreds of hitchers and gotten at least that many rides myself when
hitchhiking. His answer set off a warning bell. On a couple of occasions I have
picked up people who turned out to be crazy. And both times I found out they were nuts when driving at sixty miles an
hour, a very vulnerable situation. With
that in mind I asked him the most innocuous, non-threatening question I could
think of.
"Where you from?"
"I'm from the
Midwest
. I've never been here before." That’s all he had to say.
"What are you looking for?" I was driving but I think he
blushed. I could tell he was taking
my question seriously and was struggling for the answer.
Finally,
"I want to experience the hippie-love
generation."
"You mean you want to get laid?"
He looked shocked for a moment. He
obviously thought his desires were on a much higher plane.
But then, thank God, he broke into laughter and the ice was broken
between us.
"I guess so.
That’s
certainly part of it. I have heard about the hippies for years. They fascinate me. I want to
learn about them. The papers are so full of shit.
They are always painting them as crazy freaks and I KNOW there must be
more to the story." I really
liked this guy. An idea began to
form in my mind. "Steve, you say you've never been here before.
Do you know any hippies?"
"There were some wannabe hippies in high school.
Nothing real."
"Steve, what makes a real hippie?"
"I don't know. That’s
what I've come to find out."
"Steve, you've never seen a Redwood tree, have
you?"
"Nope."
"Or
seen the
Pacific Ocean
?"
His eyes lit up as he shook his head. I had just turned on to route 101,
the fast way home. I decided to turn
back and take route #1 up the coast so that I could show him his first Redwood
Tree and the other glories of the coast road. I have learned that showing something old and familiar to an appreciative
person who has never seen it is a way of seeing it again for the first time.
As we drove out of the cities he spoke of his life in the Midwest, constantly longing for something new, something different, something he could
really believe in. He was a natural
born anarchist, like me. I remembered my first hitchhiking trip, to Los Angeles,
when I was seventeen, looking for that something that we know is there, if we
could only find it. What a gift it would have been to have been given a ride
with someone like me, someone who could sense my inner feelings and know exactly
what to do to bring those desires alive. I decided to give him that gift, if I
could. We were driving north on
route 1 rounding the steep hillsides bearing the highway about to come around to
the first spectacular view of the ocean. I
kept my mouth shut. I hate when
people show you around and keep up a constant stream of chatter about what they
are showing you. All new things are best appreciated in silence. When we passed
the first small to middle size Redwood Trees Steve's mouth fell open in
amazement. I said nothing about the twice-as-tall trees we would see later
because I wanted him to have that experience without the foreknowledge which
would taint the surprise.
We drove in silence for a long time. Finally, after
he let loose a gasp of amazement at some incredible ocean view, I asked him.
"What do you think?" His answer caused me to reflect awhile.
He said,
"All I can think is that I don't deserve to be here. It's so
beautiful. It's like I have no right to enjoy it. I'm not worthy of it." I
gave this a great deal of thought. I
couldn't think of a way to respond. All
I had in my mind was a memory of an old childhood fantasy or theory I used to
have about God looking down through a trapdoor at the Earth and talking to St.
Peter about what he saw. So I said to Steve,
"Steve, I can see God in his heaven right now
talking to St.
Pete about you. You know what he says?"
"What?"
"Pete,' he says, 'I move heaven and Earth to get that schmuck to the
coast and he thinks he doesn't deserve it.'" Steve cracked up at that and we both laughed our heads off.
We pulled into Mendocino a couple of hours later. He
was looking for a good place to get out when I asked him.
"Steve, why don't you come have dinner with me and the girls?"
It was the first I had mentioned the girls to him.
Earlier he had been describing what his fantasy hippie woman would be
like. Cosmo and Christy fit his image to a T. He immediately agreed. I knew he
was going to have a good time. When
we got home the girls greeted him like a friend-as they assumed he was-of mine.
They were waiting dinner for me and we sat down to a marvelous healthy meal of
hot carrot soup, Cosmo's specialty, an incredible salad, and other delicious
attributes of the new age dinner table. Steve said very little.
I knew he was in ecstasy at his luck, finding the very best that
hippiedom had to offer right off. It would be downhill from here on, but he
didn't know that yet. I also know that he was having a hard time not coming on
to the ladies. My presence kept him
in line. So I decided to give him an
uninhibited chance at them. Make the
gift complete. I arose saying,
"Well, Steve, I'm going out for my usual evening walk.
You are welcome to join me or stay and play with the girls while I'm
gone. And you're welcome to crash on
the couch tonight. I'm sure the
girls won't mind." They
both immediately agreed. He
surprised us all by getting up and saying he would come with me. Since he was
staying the night he could play with them later.
Lots of laughter and jesting over this. We walked to my favorite spot on a cliff above the beach where I loved to
sit and study the wave patterns as the little surf raced up and spent itself
going uphill.
"Why didn't you stay with the girls?
I would have. Were you
worried about my feelings? It was my suggestion."
"I didn't know what to say to them."
"You wouldn't have had to say anything.
They would have taken over and, I don't know what would have happened,
but I know you would have had a good time. Their
whole trip is being loving, kind, and understanding."
"They are so beautiful.
You
are so lucky to be living with them."
As we spoke we were watching the Sun setting.
It wasn't much of a sunset. No
clouds. Just a clear blue sky right
down to the horizon. I was debating
to myself whether to invite him to stay and live with us for a while or not.
There was no doubt in my mind that he would be sleeping with one, or perhaps
both, of them if he stayed. If he
moved on right away things would settle down to the quiet routine the women and
I had established. Comfortable for
me, but no assurance how long it would last. If he stayed things would
definitely get more interesting and who knows what might happen.
I was about to invite him to stay when the last
remaining ray of sunlight which I had been looking at out of long habit
as it slowly shrunk, suddenly became a green fan of light spreading from the
point of vanishing sunlight.
I had finally, and unexpectedly, seen the Green Flash.
It was real! I felt as if I had found a million dollars. I also felt that
it was my reward for taking the time to turn my hitch-hiking guest on to his
desire to experience the 'hippie-love generation.'
An explosion of exultation rose within my breast.
But then I heard Stanley Rosenberg's voice intoning, 'THE SUN TURNS GREEN! THE SUN TURNS GREEN!' The sound of
Stanley's voice completely shattered my reverie and delight at seeing the Green
Flash at last. But the sound was so
real. I was sure I actually heard the words I had imagined.
Then I heard them again. It
was Steve who had also seen the flash and spontaneously cried out THE SUN TURNS
GREEN!
That should be the end of this story.
But I cannot resist telling one more incident.
I have seen the green flash about six times now.
I was living upstairs at the Caspar Inn
in
Caspar,
California. There were eight rooms upstairs
one of which I lived in.
Downstairs was the bar.
One evening at sunset both the upstairs and downstairs porches were full
of folks watching the sunset. I
overheard a discussion from below concerning the green flash. Some dude was
describing it but he had his facts all wrong. He was positive there could not be one tonight because conditions were
not right. I checked the
conditions and I couldn't see anything to keep it from happening.
The western horizon below the setting Sun was free of clouds. That is the
only condition. I started
speaking to the whole assemblage of people telling them that there would
definitely be a green flash tonight and that if they wanted to see it they had
to follow my direction to the letter. They
all laughingly agreed. So as the sun
fell below the horizon I cautioned them all to be prepared to keep their eyes on
the shrinking bit of sunlight; not to look away from it until it was really all
gone. Most of them were able to follow my advice and a beautiful satisfying cry
went up as they all saw the Green Flash for the first time in their lives.
8/23/10
Reading this over on Dec. 11, 2010 I must
add that back in October, while visiting the friends who had bought my house I
learned that Stanley Rosenberg had died. His wife Laurie had left.
The house was up for sale.
