December 4, 1968, Cleveland Press

-- by Dick Feagler

Joseph and Carolyn Levy buried the ashes of their son, Darryl yesterday. They called him Darryl , not d. a.

And today they sat on the couch in their apartment at 2928 S. Moreland Blvd. They sat next to a big box and sorted through the souvenirs of his existence.

The things they chose from the box were not the newspaper clipping that told of their bearded son’s arrest on marijuana and obscenity charges.

And they didn’t scan the cheap, paper-backed underground books where some of his poetry was published.

Instead they chose things that have nothing in common with the publics image of D. A. Levy.

HIS YEARBOOKS from James Ford Rhodes High School, class of ’60.

Two scholarship certificates which showed that Darryl Levy had maintained ‘B’ average grades in high school.

A certificate of merit presented to Darryl Levy, 11, by the Cleveland Automobile Club "in recognition of service rendered in protecting the lives of school children while serving as a member of the school safety patrol."

"Through your patrol and troop, you are becoming a member of a greater team.

Most of D. A. Levy’s followers would have had a laugh out of that one.

BUT JOSEPH and Carolyn Levy didn’t. She said:

"He was a good boy. I wish you would write about the kind of boy he really was."

"Even when he was a little boy I knew he would be artistic. He was a kind boy."

"After he graduated from high school he went into the Navy and worked as a medic. He liked the work. I think he might have stayed in except his father had a serious eye operation and he had to come home. He got an honorable discharge, you know."

THE MOTHER went on, taking the mementos out of the big box. But she paused when she was asked about her son’s poetry.

"I think he could have been a beautiful poet," she said.

"I know about the words he used. I would tell him, ‘Darryl, why do you have to use those words?’ And he would say it was to call attention to himself."

"I read the books today. Those words are in the books. If you go see a movie you see worse than he wrote."

"They arrested him," she said bitterly. "And I went to see him in jail and he said, ‘Ma, I’m though.’ And I said, ‘No, you aren’t, all you have to do is start fresh."

The mother searched through the souvenir box for a picture of her son without his beard.

"After he moved away from home, he always came back to see us," she said. "Sometimes he brought his friends and they seemed like nice boys. I never believed what they said about the drugs."

SHE PAUSED.

"Only lately he didn’t come," she said.

"But he sent us a lovely poem about his father. There were only two of those words in it and I inked them out."

"He called me just before he died, you know."

"Yes, he called and said he wanted to speak to his father. He said he wanted his father to come and pick him up in the car. But his father can’t drive because of his eyes."

"So he said, ‘OK, Ma. Say hello to Dad.’ And he hung up."

So Mrs. Carolyn Levy hung up too, not particularly worried. She did not believe for a minute, as police do, that her son would go to his pad on Wymore Ave., prop up a 22-caliber rifle, carefully aim it a few centimeters above the bridge of his nose and pull the trigger.

She did not believe it then and she does not believe it now. Because she has something better to believe.

"I believe Darryl was thinking about coming home," she said.