I Called Him Larry

I called him Larry I guess because that is how we were introduced. I think the year was 1972 and I had just moved in to the Dogwoods Lodge. It was years later, when I read “Flight From the City” by Ralph Borsodi that I realized that I was living, not in some historically notable edifice, but rather in a community that resonated with the ideals of its builder. Lynne and Earl [1] were living in the big house and I was given a wing of the house. Lynne was teaching at Ramapo College – heading the Anarchist/Feminist coalition while Earl was teaching philosophy at Rockland Community College. At this time, I was driving a truck for a local moving company. It was at this time that Earl and Lynne tried to revive Tucker’s “Liberty” with an initial edition. Larry was amused.

It was idyllic. Larry lived in the small cottage that was just off to the side of the main house and next to his cottage he had his work shop. His cottage was made with stone and timber and was shaded with beautiful maple and oak trees. The pane-windows looked out onto his yard. The land in front of the cottage and a small plot behind the main house were the only areas that were not overgrown – the main house was seemingly nestled in the middle of a forest. It was during the spring and summer that Larry would call on me to help him tend to the grounds. Larry had a sense of order that he did not take kindly to when disturbed. He liked to have the lawn mowed in front of his cottage and I was elected. He had a Rube Goldberg type of lawn mower that we struggled with every time but Larry’s mechanical skill always kept the things going. The winter months were the bane for Larry as we always had a boiler problem with the big house. Many cold nights were spent with Larry in the boiler room as we both stood there shivering in our long-johns and overcoats trying to get the dammed boiler to work. I recall seeing his old red Washington Jobber printing press in the basement of the house. I guess it was in these contexts that I can feel comfortable in calling him Larry – we were just two guys, young and old, freezing in the basement. 

Larry’s cottage consisted of two rooms. When you walked in the bedroom was to the left. He had a large bed that was always made – I suspect that it was because Larry just lay on top of the colorful patch blanket when resting. Behind the bed was his magnificent library of books. The book shelves ran across the entire wall from floor to ceiling. The so-called kitchen was to the right in the cottage but in all the years I spent there I had never seen Larry so much as boil water. The most notable and focal point in the cottage was Benjamin Tucker’s desk which Larry prized and at which he was usually seated. The back of the desk was against the bedroom wall – to the right, Larry had his manual typewriter on the desk’s slide-out drawer and to the left – the chair for his guest. Tucker’s desk was a dark-wood, rollout with shelves, drawers and nooks. Larry, being meticulous as he was, had the shelves of the desk filled with cassette audio tapes of interviews, lectures and recordings – all of which were labeled. There were always magazines and periodicals on his desk that were marked and underlined with his thoughts and comments. The radio, which was never clearly tuned, was usually on – and usually WBAI. The light came from the desk lamp, a warm yellow-gold circle on the desktop. Soot was everywhere. Whatever Larry was burning to keep warm just hung in the room. 

I can picture Larry leaning back in his wooden swivel chair at Tuckers desk. He would lift his feet up to the desk, sockless in black shoes, a ring of soot around his ankles. He always smoked Pall-Mall and, as expected, the ash tip hung perilously above his grey beard. I remember Larry always snipping at his beard with scissors when he was talking. He was beginning to look a little-gnome like – a baggy maroon knitted sweater hung down on his small frame, his grey work pants synched tight with a belt and though I wouldn’t say he was shuffling in his gait I would say he was slowing down. It was during these times, with the unfocused hum of talk on BAI in the background, that Larry would hold forth. Everything he said made sense to me – he introduced me to the writing of individualist anarchists – Warren, Tucker, Babcock, Spooner, and Proudhon. Though I had been mis-educated at City College of New York and was active in the anti-war movement, in truth my passion at the time was with Camus’s “The Rebel”. Being introduced to this world of anarchist literature and thought was revelatory. It is only now, as I am older and perhaps wiser, that I realize what a unique opportunity I had to be in Larry’s company as a friend and student. 

Larry rarely left the compound and had few visitors. His neighbor (Carol?) from the house next door was a close friend, but aside from her, he had only an occasional guest. I think Paul Avrich made a visit once. [2] Larry made friends with one of the local taxi drivers and had an arrangement where the guy would go to the supermarket and get him a few items – but always coconut custard pie and his carton of cigarettes. He also had a Jones for carob candy that he would receive by mail-order from some natural foods store. As Larry got older, lungs filled with cigarette smoke and soot he ached and struggled to keep both the big house working as well as keeping his mind intact. If I remember correctly, near the end of his life, Larry was typing notes to himself on the typewriter – he said to keep his mind focused. The house was another matter. The boiler was a formidable opponent to peace in his life and he soon realized that he had to make a decision. Though I was not privy to the discussions, I believe Larry sold Dogwoods Lodge to a real estate agent with the stipulation that everything stayed the way it was until he died.

In 1975 Larry was taken by ambulance to Good Samaritan Hospital in Suffern. I believe he had lymphatic cancer as I recall a lump in his armpit was noted. Larry hated the hospital, hated the idea of being a patient and was fearful not of death but of being kept alive by artificial means. In truth, he just wanted to be left alone to die in his bed, listening to BAI’s fuzzy broadcast. When I visited him in the hospital I recall how cold he was to the touch. His diminutive frame of a body hardly rustled the bed covers. At one point there was an expectation of his return to the cottage. Earl, Lynne and I hurried to his place to clean it up before the visit from the hospital authorities knowing that if they saw the condition of Soot-House, they would never release him to die at home with hospice care. We were up all night scrubbing the place clean as we anticipated the visit the next day. It was all for nothing – he was not well enough to be moved. Our efforts only incurred Larry’s enfeebled anger – we clearly had no right to go into his place for any reason. A lesson taught even at the end. 

The Dogwoods was taken over by the new owners. Lynne and Earl moved to cabin on a hill in Fort Montgomery near Bear Mountain. I took off on the road and ended up working offshore oilrigs in Houma, Louisiana. As a book lover, I was concerned with the disposition of Larry’s library as I knew he had an important collection of anarchist writing, pamphlets, broadsides, copies of Liberty to say nothing of Tucker’s desk. I learned that his affairs were in order as I received a letter stating so and small photo album of Larry from his niece in Baltimore. Before he died, Larry gave me a number of gifts including his favored 11th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica because the article on anarchism is written by Kropotkin. Larry also gave me copies of the handmade booklets that made perfect use of wall paper but are forever fragile and brittle. His reprints of Tucker and Babcock were also part of the legacy. 

Notes [KSL]

1, Lynne Farrow and Earl Foley 
2, See Anarchist Voices p.15-16