LUNCHEON FOR ONE - Eat Alone And Love It!(Charles E.J. Moulton) Foreword by Charles E.J. Moulton

With all the literature written by my father Herbert Eyre Moulton that is available online, you might have gathered by now that my father was quite a story-teller. We kids used to play games with him as to what happened in certain times of history. For instance, we used to say: “What happened in Italy 1503?” He answered with a complete verbal picture of the time and place in question. Some questions were easy to answer and his knowledge was complete.
“Leonardo da Vinci painted Mona Lisa, the Battle of Ruvo took place between Spain and France in a little town called Bari and the corrupt Borgia Pope Alexander VI died.”
Some questions were harder. “What happened in Istanbul 1675?” Well, then he would make stuff up. “Well, King Haoush IV married his wife, the Queen Osissa VIII, and invited forty camels to the wedding, who all sang an oratory for him labelled: ‘Great Gosh, this is good coffee.’
Of course, the game was always to ask him harder and harder questions that he hopefully couldn’t answer just so we get really funny inventive stories. I’ll tell you: they were funny. He was an author and an author with a tongue-in-cheek kind of humor, self-deprecating with a gleam of mischief in his eye. My dad loved a good joke.
He was Einstein, Bing Crosby and Bacchus rolled into one.
He seemed to know everything about everything and sharing my childhood with a person like that really gave me hope that the world entailed all of that grace and more. My mom’s elegance and her marvelous poise and intelligence and fantastic singing voice really made the Moulton home a great place to be for little Charlie Edmond James. Seeing my mom and dad perform, hearing them sing in concerts together as the successful “Singing Couple”, so to speak, (with me eventually joining them as a singer): it was a dream come true.
Most of all, I loved hearing my dad talk about his childhood. The 1930s, in spite of all those stories about depression and financial crisis, seemed to be a fantastic time for culture and entertainment. Culturally, it was the most glorious era of Hollywood: Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy, W.C. Fields, The Marx Brothers, Mae West, they all worked in Hollywood. Movies like ‘The Wizard of Oz’, ‘King Kong’, ‘Frankenstein’, ‘Dracula’ and ‘Gone with the Wind’ were made. There were fabulous opera singers travelling in from Europe, marvelous big bands, great swing singers like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby were starting out in New York. Literature blossomed.
In Sweden, where my mom grew up, film comedy bloomed, a whole new range of popular music was being written and performed, poetry was being created and books that now have become classics were being written. All over the world, there were marvelous entertainers. After the fall of the old world, a new one rose that used dancing as a language. Foxtrot, Shimmy and Charleston gave way to the Black Bottom (yes, that really was a dance), Swing (the music-style and the dance), Shag (Funny names, huh?) and the Tap-Dance. Jazz was cool, jazz was in, rude and raunchy and hot and creative.
The 1930s were amazing years that lay the foundation for the world we have today. Inventions we today call normal were new back then.
Halloween also saw its first American introduction in the 1930s.
My dad wrote a book about his time as a child in the 1930s called “Damn the Depression, Anyway!” Many of the true accounts concern his family life and his witty quarrels with the nuns in his school. His jovial Irish mom Nell, a descendant of Irish aristocrats, and his friendly WWI-veteran dad Big Herb (Herbert Lewis Moulton, great-great-grandson of British passengers at the Mayflower) were colorful people with wit and style.
There are plenty of articles online about my dad’s humorous battles during his time as a grade school student in the Illinois of the 1930s. The chubby child described in the following article eventually turned into a slender Tyrone Power-lookalike and handsome crooner, befriending stars and geniuses alike.
Sit back, folks, grab a drink, throw the pop-corn into the microwave, light a candle, turn on some sweet Glenn Miller-music. Step into the proverbial time-machine. You are about to experience my dad’s most unusual and elaborate scheme: playing tricks on the nuns of his Catholic local grade school. Have fun with this one. I know I did.


LUNCHEON FOR ONE – EAT ALONE AND LOVE IT!

A Chapter from a Work-in-Progress:
“Damn the Depression, Anyway!”
By the late great Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)

The handful of us kids who lived a fair distance from school always brought our lunch to be devoured at noontime at the freshly vacated classroom. Most of these got transported in brown paper bags, but mine, of course, had to be different, and, if possible, eccentric.
And eccentric was surely the okay word for “The Garbage Can”, which is what my lunching-companions dubbed it at first glance --- a battered old tin container with a fitted top, rectangular in shape and a bit larger than a standard cigar box, reddish-brown in color. It had been exhumed from the attic of the old Moulton home, and my Dad swore that, like him and his brothers, it had seen action in The Great War, which is what the First World War was called before World War Two came along right on schedule 20 years later. The main thing was (1) it didn’t leak, and (2) it held an outside amount of mother Nell’s toothsome goodies --- two excellent selling-points as far as I was concerned.
In answer to that irreverent “Garbage Can” label, my mother Nell had long since taught me to ignore such unworthy taunts. When they called me “Butter-Ball” and I waddled home in tears, she had an answer ready. “You just tell them that a butter-ball is something delicious to eat and they’re only jealous. Mother of God, when you think of the price of butter nowadays and all the scrumptious things you can do with it, why, honey-boy, it’s a real compliment they’re paying you. Look at it that way, and thank God.” And I did. So many worse things they can call you, and they did, too, in the passage of time. And you have to get used to them, as well. However! “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me!” Good old folk’s wisdom to the rescue!
At first, lacking any direct supervision by the Gestapo, these mid-day sessions at the trough were nothing if not chaotic. Well, the authorities should have known, right? Only a few minutes devoted to actual feeding, enlivened by warming-up pranks and practical joking, them with a good three quarters of an hour to frolic in, if that is the term to describe such mass hysteria. This could start out with pelting one another with sandwich-ends, banana- and orange-peels and apple-cores, and half-empty chocolate-milk cartons, and, often as not, end up with bloodied noses and a black eye or two.
It was only a matter of time before that same Gestapo clamped down, weeding out the worst offenders (most of them pals of mine) and confining us to separate classrooms, from which we communicated by our own jungle telegraph, pounding on the walls and leaning out the second-storey windows with shrieks of merriment.
I was, as ever, singled out as “Ringleader of the Revels”, and I did spend most of the time racing from door to door, howling the latest tidings of skullduggery and subversion. The Judgment from on High next decreed that Something Must Be Done. There were even threats of shutting down the entire school for that hour, leaving all of its inmates, miscreants as well as holy innocents, outside at the mercy of the elements, which in the Chicago climate could be pretty narrowing.
Well, I couldn’t be such a selfish rat. Nothing for it but turn State’s Evidence and confess, throwing myself at their mercy and swearing the customary Terrible Oath that Things Would Be Better! “They had better be,” came the snarls through sacramental dentures. “They had just better be!”
The first condition in this latest peace accord stipulated my eating lunch alone AND as inconspicuously as possible, my example having a poisonous one on the little darlings of the lower grades. (They were up to greater havoc than I was, but it’s an unfair world, etc. etc.)
To all this I grudgingly agreed, but even then a diabolical new scheme was already festering in my blackest of hearts. I’d eat alone, all right, but as for the rest of it, I’d be about as inconspicuous as a Mississippi River Show-Boat parked on a railroad siding. Adopting as my own personal motto the felicitous “Living Well Is the Best Revenge”, I set about putting my plan into action. (Evil villain-like cackle: “Mmmhuuua-ha-ha-ha-hah!”)
First of all, to slip phantom-like down to the cellar kitchen, long the domain of the Ladies Sodality and the Bridge Club … (“Eh-eh-eh, the Shadow knows …”), there to rummage around till I came up with a small folding table and chair, along with the requisite dishes, cutlery, and small tablecloth and napkin. The whole arrangement was topped off with a little bud-vase and artificial posey. These would be set up each noontime at the foot of the back stairs, which the nuns would have to pass on their way out to the convent and their own grubstakes. A table for one it was, displaying to best advantage Nell’s lovingly packed provender for the prodigal, washed down with a vintage Pepsi or Dr. Pepper, and accompanied by stimulating selections from Action Comics and Big Little Books. Ah, alas, we Moultons do know how to live the good life.
The dreaded Moulton factor was thus removed to a safe distance, giving pride of place to the most splendid Sister-Tease imaginable, one which would be launched the very next day as the noontime bell signaled the end of morning miseries. Swiftness was of the essence now, that and perfect timing --- clear off my desk, grab the Garbage Can and scoot down the two flights of stairs to the scene of the crime or the action, take your choice. There would be set up all the required furnishings and props, with Nell’s specially catered spread --- from luscious sandwiches and small containers of potato salad, pickles, olives, celery --- to dessert and beverage (never forgetting the vase and posey) and VOILA! Moulton the Gourmet and international Trend-Setter, presiding in ducal splendor, AND in time to catch the Nuns’ Procession, the entire company (or coven) rustling by, looking like so many upended coffins, eyes (supposedly) downcast, rosary beads rattling, arms folded demurely into sleeves, silent except for snorts of disapproval from the older ones and barely suppressed giggles from the younger: The Black Legion on Parade.
“Have a nice lunch, Sisters!” my gladsome greeting, with an added: “Bon Appetit!” (I wasn’t a Maurice Chevalier-fan for nothing!) to compound the insult. Their irritation was palpable, even after the outside door slammed behind them. “Ringleader”, was it? I’d show them.
It was a truly euphoric state of affairs that suited me right down to my cloven little heels, and the best part of it was, for all the communal amusement and/ or outrage it provoked, no law was actually being transgressed and no harm done to a living soul. At the same time, the patience of the brides of Christ was being strained almost to the snapping point. And what could anybody do about it? I wasn’t “ringleading” any seditious activities, not for one moment, anyway --- all the necessaries for a classic Sister-Tease.
But, alas, as with all earthly pleasures in this Vale of Tears, it came to an abrupt end the day our pastor himself came bustling by my cozy nook, Dracula cape a-swirl. He continued a pace or two, halted in his tracks and spun round to make sure his senses were not lying.
“Moulton!” he brayed, hand clutching heart. “What in the Name of God do you call this?”
“Didn’t you know, Father?” purred Sister Gaudeamus, materializing out of nowhere as was her sneaky habit. “Here is where This One always has his lunch.”
The jig was definitely up. “Not any more he doesn’t!” The Lord’s Anointed advanced on me, puffing up like a toad. There was a rattle of crockery. “The parish dishes! Our cutlery and tablecloth and napkin, and the Good Lord knows what else! Why, we should be charging rent!”
“But, Father!” I bawled, my mouth full.
(All laws were being broken.)
“These are all part of Sister’s project!”
“And what project would that be, pray?” murmured that noble Dame. “Don’t you remember, S’ster? You said you always wanted us to be equipped to enter Polite Society.”
She heaved one of her mighty sighs and addressed the fuming Prelate: “I ask you, Father, what’s to be done with the likes of him?”
Flummoxed as ever when forced into a decision, the priest could only splutter: “I --- I can’t be expected to deal with all this today, Sister, not with my heart acting up the way it is. Besides ---“ And here he fumbled under his garments and produced a heavy gold time-piece. “I’m already late for the Daughters of St. Dismas.”
“Yes, Father,” Sister reminded him. “And the Sons of the Holy Inquisition!”
“Wowie-Wow!” I interjected. “The Sons of the Holy Inquisition!”
“Speak when you’re spoken to!” snapped the good nun, adding out of the side of her mouth, “Worm!”
“Now hear this, boy!” His Holiness took up the theme fortissimo. “I want this whole entire mess cleared up at once, understand? And I never --- I REPEAT: never want to see any of it again! Ever, ever, ever!”
“Can’t I even finish my Pineapple-Upside-Down-Cake first? PULEEZE, Father!”
Before my eyes, the priest morphed into a dithering Edward Everett Norton: “No, no, no, no, no, NO! – Um, yes – er – all right. No, you cannot. Never heard of such nonsense! Upside-Down, did you say?”
“Yes, Father. It won First Prize! It’s gorgeous!”
“That remains to be seen,” he murmured inconsequently. “Sister, are you coming or aren’t you?” A flourish of the Dracula-cape and he stomped off to confer with the laughter of St. Dismas.
A beat or two, simmering in silence --- S’ster’s timing was always impeccable. Then: “I just hope you’re satisfied, young man! You realize, don’t you, that you could bring on another of that good man’s seizures at any time, God forbid!” She crossed herself with holy dread. “How would you like to have that on your conscience for the rest of your miserable life?” A sweeping gesture. “Now you can just clear away all this rubbish, and I mean all of it! And tomorrow it’s back to eating in the cloakroom, with the window shut! And this time under strict supervision, and I presume you know what that means!”
I sure did, all too well --- being at the mercy of one of the Holy Harpies: Jimmy the Newsboy, perhaps, or Al the Drooler. Maybe even icky Merita of the Moustache --- would my troubles never cease?
Suddenly it hit me: “But tomorrow’s Saturday, Sister!”
No luck. “Never mind all that!” And she yanked her headpiece back into place. “Oh, there’ll be some serious telephoning tonight, Sir. You can just nicely depend on that! Polite Society, Huh!” She spat out the offending phrase and took her leave, once more a pillar of alabaster.
Duly chastened, but none the worse for my brief flirtation with Gracious Living, I packed up my Best-Revenge paraphernalia for the final time, but back all the parish props, except for the posey, which I kept as a souvenir, and resigned myself to another season of detension… Even then there might be compensations, my mind lighting on those stacks of old National Geographic Magazines with their photos of African ladies, naked to the waist.
As far as I could remember, those, at least, had escaped confiscation by the Ministry of Propaganda.
Yes, there was always a silver lining if you only knew where to look for it.


Afterword by Charles E.J. Moulton

My father met Sister Gaudeamus many years after he finished Grade School. He was baffled when he met a small woman very unlike the fierce nun he remembered. Yes, it was the same woman that had loomed over him twenty years before. Now, however, the educated actor, singer and author Herbert Eyre Moulton had physically outgrown the strong-willed nun.
She appeared a really friendly and fun woman, who approached Herb with a great deal of elegance and nobility. She also admitted to having sniggered and giggled behind her hands over all the witty pranks little Herbie had in store for them. “Children,” she mused, “are full of vitality.”
So, it can only be said that my father’s always strong self-confidence only on the surface came across as a threat to the nuns. That becomes especially clear when we remember that my father spent 4 years in Iowa studying to become a priest: from 1954 to 1958. When his parents and his girlfriend at the time died within a year, he left the U.S. and devoted his time completely to a profession he never had left: that of the creative arts. Even during his years at the priest seminar, he had conducted choruses, sang concerts, performed plays and written articles. Now, however, it was time to move to Ireland.
From 1958 to 1966, he was a working actor and author in Ireland and quite successful at that. In 1966, he met my mother Gun Kronzell. It was love at first sight. Music was at the heart of their lives and they sang together for the rest of their four decades together.
My dad never forgot his witty battles with the nuns back in the Illinois of the 1930’s. Back in that school, the seeds of his jovial irony were being laid out. He told me about his visits to the opera, about seeing Cab Calloway (in an orange suit) and Laurel and Hardy live. Later on, he became friends with people like Clint Eastwood, Joan Crawford, Nicolai Gedda, Luciano Pavarotti, Tullalah Bankhead, Milo O’Shea and Alan Rickman.
His lovable spirituality and exuberant joy in sharing his stories laid the groundwork for creating something that made me admire him more than I have admired any man before or since. My dad was the ultimate Renaissance Man.


OTHER CHAPTERS FROM THE BIOGRAPHIES OF MY PARENTS AND MY GRANDMOTHER ANNA KRONZELL AVAILABLE IN STORYSTAR:

California, the Golden State
An Irish Sense of the Dramatic
Defender of the Faith
Right! We’ll Have Ourselves A Party!
Waiting for Callas
Mark Twain’s America
Adventures in the Spotlight
The Making of a Modern Orpheus
A Hollywood Costume Extravaganza
The Making of an Erotic Thriller
Herb Moulton & Clint Eastwood
The Eyre Family Hauntings
Musical Ancestors
Tea and Chronicles
Sister Gaudeamus, Worthy Foe
Read That Poem Again, Anna!
Jesus Sang Up a Rainbow
The Mrs. Mardorf Saga
Gun Margareta Kronzell-Moulton (1930 – 2011)

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