Groannnnnnnnnn

The Old Man loves the utter stupidity of puns. In the interest of New Year's revelry and general silliness, here are some I received from a friend known as "The Florida Dude".

CREATIVE PUNS FOR "EDUCATED" MINDS

1. The roundest knight at King Arthur's round table was Sir Cumference. He acquired his size from too much pi.

2. I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan island, but it turned out to be an optical Aleutian.

3. She was only a whiskey maker, but he loved her still.

4. A rubber band pistol was confiscated from algebra class, because it was a weapon of math disruption.

5. The butcher backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work.

6. No matter how much you push the envelope, it'll still be stationery.

7. A dog gave birth to puppies near the road and was cited for littering.

8. A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart.

9. Two silk worms had a race. They ended up in a tie.

10. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

11. A hole has been found in the nudist camp wall. The police are looking into it.

12. Atheism is a non-prophet organization.

13. Two hats were hanging on a hat rack in the hallway. One hat said to the other: 'You stay here; I'll go on a head.'

14. I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me.

15. A sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center said: 'Keep off the Grass.'

16. A small boy swallowed some coins and was taken to a hospital. When his grandmother telephoned to ask how he was, a nurse said 'No change yet.'

17. A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.

19. The short fortune-teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large.

20. The man who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran

21. A backward poet writes inverse.

22. In a democracy it's your vote that counts. In feudalism it's your count that votes.

23. When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.

24. Don't join dangerous cults: Practice safe sects!

HAPPY NEW YEAR !

No Pink Bunny Suit, No Sir Not Me

The Old Man has never worn a pink bunny suit. That was the horrible fate that awaited Ralphie. Mine took a somewhat less threatening form.

The thought occurred to me this past week while trotting along behind Miss Martha as she gathered the groceries, "Where did the old grocery store go?" We all seemed to get along without the Winky-Blinky Food Nova stores that proliferate today. We had Bush's Grocery. A typical grocery buy scripted out like this with Mom on the phone with Mr. Bush.

"Do you have any nice pork chops? OK, send me 4." "How fresh are your turnips? OK send me 5 or 6." The conversation would continue like this for a few minutes and would wrap up with, "Oh, and I'll take a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon. Yes, Valleydale will be fine."

About half hour later, there'd be a knock on the door and one of the delivery guys would be standing there with his hat in his hand and would have a box as per Mom's order. He'd bring it in and set it on the kitchen table. A pleasant, "Thank you, mamm" followed. That was it. No coupons, no buy-one-get-one deals, no clubs to join....just food and stuff at a fair price. Even if we were going to be away, the delivery man would simply enter the unlocked house and put the perishables in the "frigidare". I think there were 4 or 5 full-time delivery guys working for Mr. Bush and we knew them all by name. Dad got paid every Friday and would stop on his way home to pay the "ticket" for that week's buys. Try that at Winky-Blinky.

So what's with the "bunny suit" business? Each year at Christmas time, my folks always had little gifts for the people who made their lives a little easier and convenient; the mailman, the milkman, (oh yeah, they delivered it to the house in the pre-dawn hours) the paper boy, and the grocery delivery men. It might be a pack of handkerchiefs or one of those "books" that were actually a covert carrier for packs of Life Saver mints.

One year, Mom and I had been in some sort of Christmas program put on by the Lions or JCs or some group. In the skit, Santa had fouled up and Mrs. Santa (Mom) was chasing him across the stage with a rolling pin. I was running around after her. I don't remember the outcome, but I assume it all worked out. Anyway, Mom got the idea that it would be a shame to waste that little Santa costume, so she decided that I would wear it and deliver all of the gifts to my friends. And then the bomb dropped. I was going to also deliver the gifts to the grocery delivery men, the milkman, and the mailman. Pissed is inadequate.

No choice...play the game or (possibly) seriously negatively impact my own Santa outcome. I got through it somehow with minimal damage to my 9 year old ego and reaped the rewards on Christmas morning. Many years later, Ralphie and his pink bunny suit gave me flashbacks. I spent the rest of the winter dreading Easter, but thankfully the Lions or JCs had other fish to fry.

Babes In Toyland

The Old Man still loves his toys. Thinking about them reminded me that I used some of my current ones this past Monday. It was golf day. It occurs to me that I have not released an update on the types of shots I encountered in some time. I had several Oprahs (fat) and more than a few Santa Clauses (got much better than I deserved). I also had a rarity for me, a couple of Lindsay Lohans (too thin and way out of control). "Playing" opened up a chain of thought for me, though, that encourages me to give you a rundown on various toys I got for Christmas through the years.

I got a Mickey Mouse watch one year. It was neat, especially when I took it apart to see how it worked. The last time I saw it, all of the parts were in a box of stuff in an old chest. That was probably 55 or so years ago. Wish I had that box.

How about the ViewMaster? You'd insert these disks with little color slides embedded in them into the machine and when you looked through the binocular-like instrument, there was the Cisco Kid and Pancho in 3-D. I had one with Hopalong Cassidy as well. I think his horse was named Topper. For some reason, Santa had included a disk with scenes from Tampico, Mexico. I remember wondering the childish equivalent of the adult, "Where the hell is that?"

Ahhhhh, my Erector Set. Developed by A. C. Gilbert, I believe, this was a fiendish mix of metal strips with holes along their entire length. You also had packs of small bolts and nuts. The concept was great, but in reality, I kept losing the nuts and bolts, the metal strips were kind of flimsy, and the electric motor blasted out so much ozone that dogs would howl and moan. I did manage to make what passed for a Ferris Wheel complete with the metal seats that came in the kit. Unfortunately, my engineering skill gene skipped a generation or two and the seats would never pivot as the wheel turned. They remained locked in position. Must have killed a bunch of imaginary carnival goers. Believe it or not, I still have the remains of that Erector Set. It's in a blue metal box that still latches about as poorly as it did then. Wouldn't take a million bucks for it, though. Well maybe a million.

One year brought the Lionel Electric Train. I recall Santa had it mounted on a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood. It ran in a big oval. You would put these little pills called "Smoke Pellets" in the engine and acrid, smelly white smoke would pour out for a few turns around the track. The smoke generators on these old Lionels generally lasted about a month and then never worked again. With my permission, my mom sold that train when I went off to college . What an idiot I was.

Of course there were the normal tricycles, wagons, and later bicycles, but the big daddy was when I got my first car. Notice the pride of ownership and sheer joy at my new-found independence.

Interestingly enough, this racy looking number was made in the U.S.A. Both the boy and the car.

In the spirit of reflection, spend a bit of time in the land over your shoulder. The innocence of a childhood Christmas will bring peace and quiet the bustle. Tell you what.....I'm going out to the garage and look at that Erector Set. I'll see you later.

Rocking Around The Christmas Tree

The Old Man has a long history with Christmas trees. There has been one in my life since I was 2 months old. We've had our tree up and decorated since Thanksgiving weekend. The train is clickety-clacking it's way around under there and tooting it's whistle as it passes through the symbolic town of Bedford. Miss Martha has again outdone herself with the exact, almost clinically scientific placement of the ornaments. I'm pretty much relegated (out of choice) to dragging the tree in and getting it set up as the pallet for her artistry. My role at that point, becomes to serve in an advisory capacity. It's a good arrangement that has stood the 45 year test of time. In the "dark age" years before pre-lits, my responsibility extended to putting the lights on the tree. I can personally attest to falling victim to every malfunction electrically possible on Christmas lights. These temporary setbacks resulted in some very colorful linguistics that I can still call on when the situation merits.

Most nights, I wander in the living room and just sit and admire. I'll run the train for a bit and just let my mind open up the vault and allow some new memories to escape. While each Christmas we share is special, I firmly believe that the reflection on those past brings the deepest comfort and peace. During my reverie and with the discovery of the forgotten box of pictures, I began to remember clear details about the Christmas trees of my childhood.
Virtually every tree in those days was a cedar tree. They were prolific in the fields around our town. Fact of the matter is....they were one notch above weeds in the agricultural food chain. The grocery stores would buy a few from the farmers who were happy to get about 50 cents each. We would then buy our tree for $1.00. Dad would nail cross braces across the stump of the trunk and then set the whole business down in a bucket, weighting the genuine, hand built tree stand with several rocks. When filled with water, the deal proved pretty stable.
Strung with the lights of the day, it's a wonder of wonders that we did not go up in a swirl of flame and smoke. When you factor in the heat from those bulbs, you can't put enough water in a bucket to retard drying of a cedar tree. Mom would put a few ornaments and some tinsel on the tree. The exciting part to me was always the adorning with the silver "icicles". That's when the tree became magic. I recall Mom's excitement when she finally bought some plastic icicles that would glow in the dark. I still have 3 of those. They've been on every tree in our house since we got them from Mom when she decided to get out of the Christmas decorating business. A lot of her decision was probably driven by the fact that you could no longer buy a cedar tree for $1.00.

So, I encourage you to find time during the busyness of the season to simply gaze on your own Christmas tree....and pay tribute to Christmas Past. You'll find comfort and warmth there.

Rudolph The What?

The Old Man was born long before Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Ruddy didn't come along as the popular Gene Autry song until 1949. We had to somehow manage to make it through Christmas without either him or his buddy Frosty the Snowman, who drifted into the scene in 1950. We hung on for dear life to the classic 'Twas The Night Before Christmas as our touchstone to the magic. In our house, we walked down both sides of the street.....the birth of Jesus on one side, and the excitement of Santa Claus on the other. As a family, we happily diddy-bopped back and forth with abandon; sometimes quiet and introspective, other times wound as tight as 10 # test line with a 4 ounce sinker.

I noticed on a recent trip to mecca (WalMart), the variety of Christmas lights available bends my mind. They blink, chase, twinkle, dim, brighten, mark time to music, and probably will one day put themselves up and then take themselves down while doing laundry and cleaning out the gutters. "Twernt that way back in the day".

The outdoor lights were strung on rubber coated wire and sockets that held 3 inch long colored bulbs. Today we would probably say, "Candelabra base" but back then most folks referred to them as "porch lights". Now, my dad was a wonderful man, but his mechanical skills were not his strong point. So with great clatter and fits and starts, the light hanging project began. Dad would plug the string in to check for burned out bulbs and then begin to hang them. Just about each year, he would mis-figure and drive a staple through the wire, thus blowing a fuse and putting a halt to the project while he trekked to the fuse box and replaced the offender. Then, back to the operation. Other years, he would get the string all the way across the porch, and then plug them in. Now the fuse would blow and he would have to scamper up and down his rickety ladder trying to find his mis-aimed staple. Over the years, the rubber wire developed a number of holes, and consequently, sometimes when testing before hanging, there would be a light show like a meteor shower. While Dad was a kind and mild-mannered man, the porch light project always tested his patience. My girls will tell you that I inherited my father's great love of Christmas lights.

The tree lights were a microcosm of the porch lights. The bulbs were a bit smaller, but only a bit. Over the years, the wire had hardened and cracked and once in a while, it was back to the fuse box. Considering that the only tree ever used in most homes was a cedar tree, it's a wonder we didn't all suffer the same ultimate fate as Joan of Arc. More about the tree in a later post.

I ended up with those porch lights for a time. The last time I saw them, we had used them for decorations at a Christmas tree lot when I spent some time in the Lions Club. They were strung across a little trailer we were using as our base of operations. As the tree sale began to wind down, suddenly there came a popping and snapping accompanied by the smell of ozone and a shower of sparks, followed by darkness. Seems the rubber had finally departed this world and the metal trailer added insult to injury, sending the lights out in a blaze of glory.

Makes one wonder if Rudolph ever short circuits?

Count On It

The Old Man can't write much of a blog post today. I'm busy buying pretzels and cream cheese.

Some day you'll understand.

At Least It Wasn't Liver Loaf

The Old Man will eat just about anything. There are only two things that are forever banned from crossing my lips; Cottage Cheese and Buttermilk. Not now, not then, not ever. Most everything else is fair game, so I don't pose many dietary challenges. Grew up that way....ate what was served.
Christmas when I was a child brought all sorts of wondrous adventures into the land of Bedford gourmet dining. We were always at home on Christmas day and relatives came for lunch and celebration, so, a week or so before Christmas, Mom would begin her assault on the Christmas menu.

First order of business was to drive a nail into the coconut "eyes" to drain the milk. Then, while I stood around looking up at her like a blue-tic hound in a butcher shop, the coconut meat was grated and she would slip me a little chunk. What I didn't get, she used to make the finest coconut cake on earth. Mom was legend for her coconut cake. Even though it's been 50 years since she made one, I can still taste it in my mind.

Another "must" was a delightful concoction they refered to as "Ambrosia". As I recall, it had orange sections, grated coconut, and maybe a cherry or two thrown in for color. Certainly in the custom of the day, it was heavily laced with sugar. That was before sugar became bad for you.

Of course fruit cake, hermit cake, nuts, and ham and turkey filled out the groaning board. There was, however, one food that I could never figure out. It was some sort of evil, slimey mess they called "Tapioca Puddin". I don't know what tapioca is, but when she sat it down in front of me, it looked like a thousand eyes staring at me. Translucent little orbs that reminded me of fish roe given off when Dad and I cleaned our catch. Wave some at me today and I might run.

The star of the Christmas Lunch Show were the oysters. Fried up just right and piled high on the plate, these were the Jewels of the Orient and the Hope Diamond of the food world. In that day, oysters were a little harder to come-by inland than they are today, so they were reserved for special occasions. I still love them and will jump through hoops of fire for good ones. I'll take them any way you serve them......straight from the water, fried, grilled, steamed, you name it. I'm the Bubba-Gump of oysters.

Once at a social event, roasted oysters were being served in a casual setting. I was in my bliss-state just eating away. One woman became quite vocal in her editorializing to me.....lots of "Euww, how can you eat those things?" sort of comments. I took it for a while and then decided to counterattack. "Well," I said, "We were really poor when I was a child and our meals were pretty plain. Once a year, though at Christmas time, Dad would buy an oyster...just one. Mom would tie a string around it and Dad would go first. He would swallow the oyster, then pull the string to get it back out and pass it over to Mom. I got third try." Now by this time, this lady was beginning to pale. I continued, "I'd come home the next day from school and ask Mom 'What's for dinner?'. She'd answer, 'Well, we're gonna eat the oyster again."

No more problem with the lady. I could dine in peace.

God willing, we'll have oysters again this year on Christmas day, but we shouldn't need any string. There will be bounty as always, and as always, I'll have a moment where I take a mental moment to savor Miss Alma's coconut cake.

Infamy

The Old Man is taking a little break from humor today. See in your mind's eye a bright morning 67 years ago today. See people going about their Sunday morning activities as usual. See children getting dressed for church, some folks sleeping in, some recovering from last night's hilarity, and others just enjoying the beautiful south Pacific sunshine. Now see an angry black cloud approaching and hear the even angrier drone of engines. In the midst of this quiet Lord's day, watch in your mind as the skies erupt and hell itself rains on Pearl Harbor. Before the Japanese attack ends, over 2,000 will die and many more will suffer horribly.

In Bedford, I'm guessing that my parents were enjoying the fact that on that day, I was "celebrating" my one month birthday. Based on what they later told me, they could never forget that day. They could remember even the slightest detail. 60 years later on September 11, 2001, I truly understood what they meant. From the time of my cognizance, I've had an interest in all matters from the World War II years. First hand experience as a child, coupled with an adult interest in history has led me to spend much time in research and discovery. I've stood on the USS Arizona Memorial and watched the slow bubble of oil from her tanks drift to the surface. I've proudly and unashamedly let tears fall when I thought of those entombed with their shipmates. But more than this, I've had the distinct honor of knowing two men who were there, both of whom have now achieved final victory.

Mr. Lloyd Gordon was an Army private. I've listened as he told of taking cover in a drainage ditch as chunks of metal, concrete, and who knows what else slammed into the ground around him. He made it a point to always wear a tie on Pearl Harbor Day. He said it was out of respect for those he left behind. A kind and generous friend to all, he was so very typical of what has been called The Greatest Generation.

Mr. Henry Pitts served in the Navy. In the attack, his ship was the first to be able to return fire on the invading aircraft. Henry made a career of the Navy and then went on after retirement to have a full career at the Post Office. Henry at the ripe old age of 89 could still shoot a par round of golf. Henry asked me once, "When can you and I play a round of golf? I need someone I can beat." I simply said, "I'm your man."

In his request to Congress for a declaration of war, President Franklin D Roosevelt referred to the "day that will live in infamy", and it did. But in our remembering, I believe it behooves us to focus less on the attackers, and more on those who kept us free. So to all of those who served, both then and since then, I salute you and I thank you.

God Bless America

A Rum Pa Pum Pum

The Old Man is sort of a sap about Christmas. I've always been a mix of Currier, Ives, Kodak, and little Ralphie of "shoot your eye out" fame. Pull off the lid and look in my pot and you'll find the ubiquitous Christmas stew. As you may have noted, I recently found a treasure trove of pictures from my childhood. They were in an unexamined box of my mother's "stuff" relegated to a seldom used closet after we cleaned out her room. Many of them dealt with Christmas and in so doing, opened the vault door to my memory banks.

Each generation makes an honest and worthwhile effort to create a more elaborate and richer world for its children. We want to give them more than we had, and we had more than our parents. I'll not debate the wisdom of this progression because opinions are varied and many, all with merit. What I will do, is give you a glance at Christmas Past.

My mother's generation grew up in a time when things were scarce and dear. She told me many times of how they would be awakened on Christmas morning by her father stepping out the back door and letting loose with both barrels of his shotgun into the air. Imagine that happening where you live now. The SWAT team, snipers, the Action News Team, helicopters, and Geraldo would pounce within minutes. After awakening, Mom and her siblings, all 6 of them, would dash to the fireplace where literal stockings were hung. In them would be a few nuts, an orange, and some things called "sugar plums" (dried grapes much like a raisin). Sometimes there might be a small doll or other toy. Not quite Nintendo, but just as well loved. It's my belief that they were in love with the concept of Santa Claus, more than with what he might have brought them.

Time-travel a bit. The Old Man has made the scene and Christmas has come to Bedford.
Things got started about 3 weeks before Christmas. Town decorations consisted of colored lights running across the two main streets at each light pole. At the crossroads of these two streets there was a big display over the traffic light. It consisted of three red bells that blinked in sequence to simulate ringing. Next came the big event....the Christmas Parade.

All of the town merchants would cover their windows with paper about one week before the parade. Tension built and great speculation was afoot about what the window decorations would look like when the unveiling occurred. The parade would step off with the Bedford Firemen's Band leading the way, followed by several convertibles and a few open wagons pulled by tractors. Town dignitaries would be riding and waving. Sometimes they would throw candy. The high school cheerleaders were always there. It must have been tough to high kick while lurching along on a flat bed pulled by a Massey-Ferguson. Santa himself brought up the rear, riding high on the town fire engine. It's probably a safe bet that no one from Macy's Dept. Store ever scouted the Bedford parade for hidden talent.
During the parade, magic had happened. The windows had been unveiled! Just about the whole town made its way around ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the creative efforts. The Park Street Battalion pressed our snotty noses against the glass of the stores that sold toys. Wonder of wonders......bikes, Lionel trains, and Slinkeys beckoned and called.

I must have seen "The Christmas Story" a hundred times. My whole family can pretty much recite the dialog. I think the bond I feel with that movie speaks directly to an inner part of me. Ralphie and his quest for the Red Ryder Daisy Air Rifle more accurately reflects the culture of my childhood than I could ever relate here. The clothing, attitudes, reactions, and all the surrounding events are as close to time-travel as it is possible to experience.

During the season, I will describe more of the "way it was", and I trust you will find value there. The Old Man still plays with trains, has a Red Ryder, and finally, last year, found "sugar plums". And it is good.

It's A Dog's Life

The Old Man has always loved dogs. Through the years, I've had several. Before there was Hobo, LuLu, and George Henry, there were much earlier versions. Here's the rundown.

My earliest memory was of Jake. Jake was my dad's bird dog. I can't recall whether or not he was worth much for hunting, but when we partnered, we were good for a laugh according to Mom.

Jake taught me a lot of useful skills. I'm told (and photographic evidence proves it) that when I was asked, "What does Jake do?" I didn't respond with the typical "Woof Woof". Noooooo, not me.

After Jake, came Bootsie. Bootsie I vaguely remember. Funny how things stick with you. What I remember most about Bootsie was his habit of spending hour after hour chasing his tail. He caught it once, bit down, and then yelped like a banshee.

Bootsie eventually gave way to Brownie. Brownie was unremarkable until he was hit by a car. He wasn't badly damaged with the exception of his tail. It never again wagged. It just hung there like a roll of flypaper. Fast forward a few years. Then came Pedro. Pedro had the most acute hearing I've ever seen. At the time, I had a small motorcycle that I used on my paper route. Mom & Dad would be sitting on the front porch catching the cool of late afternoon. Suddenly Pedro would bound up from his snooze and bolt out to the end of the driveway. He knew the sound of my cycle and would hear it long before mere humans. Never failed......he was always waiting.

Folks had a little different relationship with dogs in those days. In a small rural town like Bedford, the vets were kept pretty busy with the larger farm animals. Dog owners did a lot of the minor "patch-ups" for our pets. We'd use disinfectant on cuts, flea powder as needed, and bandages where necessary. We pulled ticks off them with needle-nose pliers, and fed them whatever was left from our own supper. Occasional treats included, ice cream, cookies, and cheese. I never saw a dog that didn't like cheese. Sometimes we would overdo the sweets. Our dogs would then come down with the "hypers". Brownie, for example would react to sugar, bouncing around like PeeWee Herman after a 6-pack of Red Bull with a Vault chaser.

I would be remiss if I didn't say a simple "Thank you" to Jake, Bootsie, Brownie, and Pedro. You all played a part in my life that was appropriate for the time. We are all products of every experience we have had on our life journey, and I learned from you all.

Radio Waves From Outer Space

The Old Man has a long history with radio. I even spent several years as a disc jockey back in the heyday of AM radio, before FM became the powerhouse it is. We were on 24 hours a day playing the top hits........we rocked the Roanoke Valley with the Shirelles, The Four Tops, Elvis, and all the rest of those folks who made rock-n-roll fun. But my involvement goes way deeper than that.

When I was a boy, we put together Crystal Radios. They came in kits and consisted of some fine copper wire which you wound around a cardboard core, a little round crystal of some sort of rock, and a few miscellaneous parts like headphones, a bit of wire like a cat's whisker and some basic instructions. When it comes to electronics, I'm pretty much as clueless as Elmer Fudd on the space shuttle. Somehow, when you moved the little cat's whisker wire around on the crystal while moving a whisbidget along the copper wire coil, if you got really lucky, you'd pick up a radio station in your headphones. I would lay in my bed late at night trying to find some voice from the ether.

As I grew, a man who lived a couple of doors up the street worked for our local radio station. He took me on as a project and attempted to teach me about ohms, cycles, resistance, and watts. Elmer Fudd, remember? He did help me build my next generation radio. A little short wave set that could pick up lots of "squeaks and squawks" along with Morse code and some Mexican fellow who I think was preaching; either that or he was advocating another attack on the Alamo. This thing had for an antenna (we called them aerials) a wire stretching from my window to a huge cherry tree that stood in our yard 30 or 40 feet from the house. There was a gadget called a "lightning arrester" attached to the wire. I could never figure out how a bolt of lightning that could destroy a 100 foot tall oak tree would somehow be intimidated by a few pieces of porcelain. Elmer Fudd, remember?

Let's dig a bit deeper. The first Christmas they were married, my father gave my mother a radio. It was in the style of the day called a "cathedral top". I didn't make my grand entrance until about 7 years later. Some of my earliest memories are of us sitting around listening on that radio to Lowell Thomas, Edward R Murrow, and a host of others bring the news of the day. And the programs........The Shadow, Straight Arrow, Sky King, Lum & Abner, Jack Benny, and Inner Sanctum with it's "creaking door". I still listen to those programs; only now they come to me from outer space courtesy of XM Satellite Radio. I still have trouble coming to grips with the technology. Elmer Fudd, remember?

Take a look at this picture. There's the radio with Miss Alma by her side. I now have that old cathedral top and it still plays. I can turn the switch, wait for the tubes to warm up and hear those rich tones speaking to me. Would that I could do the same with Miss Alma.

The Arch Nemesis

The Old Man has had, and continues to have some good friends. Many of these are from childhood. Now, I know that along the way, I have accumulated an enemy or two, but I hope the score adds up to an overwhelming preponderance of the positives. There was one, however.......

He was a couple of years older than me, and in 10 year old culture, that might as well have been a century. He was a regular tormentor of the Park Street Battalion. I follow a comic strip in our daily paper called "Curtis". For those unfamiliar, he's a little kid who from time to time runs into a couple of characters named "Derrik" and "Onion". They generally pop out from behind a fence or an alley and make Curtis' life miserable. I understand Curtis. We had our own Derrik and Onion rolled into one.

One day NemesisBoy ambushed me as I was walking home from school by myself. After some rib jabs and shoves, he produced a length of rope from his bike saddlebags. By this time, I was a couple of minutes shy of having my pants grow significantly lumpy and aromatic.

He proceeded to tie me to a tree. Not just any tree, mind you, but a very prominent maple tree that was on the main drag through our part of town, Longwood Ave. Thoughts swarmed through my mind, but chief among them was, "I'm gonna kill this asshole". That's a pretty severe one for a 10 year old. Of course I said nothing and he rode off on his bike cackling like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. Then the fun began.

People I knew were riding by in their cars...returning from work, shopping, or errands. Many of these were the same people who had wondered why that little Jackson boy was sitting up in that tree "humming" while playing airplane, and I'm quite sure they had thoughts like, "He's at it again....now he's gone and tied himself to a tree". Some of them waved, including my dad. All the while, I attempted to ply the skills I had honed during those Saturday Western matinees. Cisco and Pancho, Hopalong Cassidy, or The Durango Kid always managed to extricate themselves easily. For some reason, my efforts weren't working. Their ease of escape was probably related to that 6-shooter the good guys could fire 213 times without reloading.

Dad finally came back as the afternoon drew to a close and he realized that I just might need a bit of help. He got me untied and I managed between sobs to tell him the story. He gave me a piece of advice. "I could go have a talk with his dad, but that probably wouldn't change anything. As a matter of fact, it would probably make it worse. You're just going to figure out how to handle this yourself." "Oh, gee, thanks, Dad" I thought.

Turn the page a couple of months to summer. We were at a church picnic and this jerk was surreptitiously picking on me when he thought no one was looking. I caught the look in my dad's eye and the tumblers in my brain fell into place. In front of God and everybody else I got all over this dude like white on rice. I slapped, kicked, punched, and bit. He was howling and crying and it all was over in the blink of an eye, before anyone could break us up. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure my dad was intentionally slow to mosey over. As we rode home in the car, I expected a tongue-lashing, but rather, all he said was, "I think your problems are over, son."

Like all those other times in my life, he was right. I never had a moments trouble and neither did some of the other members of the Battalion.

That tree is gone now, having served it's purpose. But the memory lingers, the lesson lingers, and the memory of the look in Dad's eyes when he pulled me off Nemesisboy will stay with me forever. After all, you never forget how pride looks.

A Yankee Doodle Dandy

The Old Man has probably seen every John Wayne war movie ever made. My friends and I have fought along side the Duke at Iwo Jima, Bataan, and all the other places around the Pacific. We've been Flying Leathernecks and Flying Tigers.
We would see one of the Saturday movies, and then come home and Park Street became the battlefield du jour.

Of course, like the Duke, we were a well equipped army. In the years after World War II, "Army/Navy" stores proliferated. They sold (and in most cases still do) surplus equipment. One of the greatest treats I could have was to be allowed to visit the store. All of us in the Park Street Battalion had helmet liners, web belts, canteens, and combat boots. Never mind that the helmet liners made us all look like infantile bobble-heads, and the web belts had to be overlapped and tied, or that the combat boots were usually 3 sizes too big, we were ready to stand with the man and destroy the evil devotees of the Rising Sun.

Weapons consisted of (most important) the Daisy Air Rifle. These bad-boys made a very convincing noise when a BB ricocheted off a helmet liner. We did observe our own version of the Geneva Convention however; you could never aim at a face. Of course, it never occurred to us that the helmet liner was perilously close to the face. This was followed by our rubber bayonets, and our grenades. Grenades were the hardest to come by. We used the "cones" that are left after a magnolia tree blooms. They even looked the part. Sometimes, we'd discover a new foundation had been dug for a house. The red Virginia clay clods made perfect grenades, and would explode realistically when they hit a helmet liner. When this happened, the battle was usually pretty much over and would end with one ticked-off bobble-head chasing another.

Now as any true John Wayne fan will tell you, all the soldiers smoked. For added realism, we would save up our candy cigarettes from our trip to the movies and lay around out in the back yards and on the back lots, "smoking" when there was a lull in the action.

One day, we achieved Nirvana. One of our army, (and for the life of me, I can't remember which one) came into possession of an actual training hand grenade. It had no possibility of exploding, but it did have all the mechanical parts. You could cock it and re-set the safety lever or "spoon", and put the pin in. When you pulled the pin and threw the grenade, the spoon would fly off and give you such realistic action it almost made you cry.
Now we had seen the Duke grab that grenade, pull the pin with his teeth while firing his sub-machine gun. Movies lie. Francis the Talking Mule couldn't pull a grenade pin with his teeth.

I don't still have that helmet liner or those combat boots. But that web belt is still in service. I carry a tool pouch on it now. It still functions after all these years with one exception; it no longer overlaps.

For Sale......Cheap

The Old Man has leaves for sale. If you know of anyone who needs some, please let me know.....I have more than I can possibly use.

The ocean calls, so more posts when I return.

Laugh much and hug those you love.

Mah Friends, If I'm Elected.........

The Old Man is pretty tired of politics about now. I've been hearing this or that for over two years. Relax, no soap box, as promised. I just think it's a good opportunity to talk about how Election Day was...."way back when".

First of all, folks ran for President beginning in earnest on Labor Day. Parties held their conventions and the candidates began showing up in September. When we finally got TV, news was limited to one 15 minute broadcast every evening. There was no 24 hour anything except night and day. We did not get the opportunity to examine every follicle of a candidate, or every faux paux ever committed. Candidates' personal screw-ups we never heard about. Folks relied on newspapers and other limited media for an explanation of political platforms and positions. Party divisions were very much like they are today; Democrats were perceived as the friends of the working class, and Republicans stood for business. A person's career choice and position heavily colored his or her orientation. Left wing or right wing merely identified where a hunter shot a goose. Given this environment, Presidential candidates could get every promise for "a chicken in every pot" and other magical solutions out there easily before the November election date.

When the big day arrived, qualified voters went into a booth and marked their ballots. No machines, no levers, no touch screens, and no chads, hanging or otherwise. To be qualified, a voter had to prove literacy. You had to be able to read and write. Somewhere along the way, we've lost that. I'm still not sure why it could be deemed unconstitutional or discriminatory to require a person to be able to read in order to understand enough about the issues to be a cognizant and informed voter.

There was, however, what was called a Poll Tax. It was a nominal figure.....I think I remember my dad mentioning $1.50. That went away as well, and for, I believe, good reason. Our country should not make a citizen pay for the right to vote. At least one change was for the better.

There was no early voting. You stood in line on Election Day and waited your turn. Liquor stores were closed.....a holdover from the early days where political entities would "lather up voters" in bars and alley-ways and then attempt to sway their vote.

After the polls closed, the town gathered in front of the court house where results were announced over a PA system as they were counted and as they were received from state headquarters by telephone. Later, when televisions began making their appearance, we gathered in front of the furniture store window to watch election returns come through the "snow"of an early black & white set with a 13 inch screen. The picture would distort occasionally and someone would always say, "Must be an airplane going over" or "It's coming in pretty good tonight".

We've come a long way with many changes in how we handle this most fundamental tenet of Democracy. But we are still privileged to live in the greatest country on earth, and if I thought it would have an impact, I'd have voted for Lee Greenwood.

I'm the Old Man and I approved this message.

And Now Ladies & Gentlemen, Presenting MoFo The Albino Monkey

The Old Man has always been blessed with a somewhat wicked sense of humor. On some occasions, the perfect foil comes into my life and a high degree of comedic foolishness seems to take on a life of its own. You know how it is.......there just seems to be a compatibility that when mined, takes any pursuit to a higher level. Whether in business, marriage, or any other enterprise, the output is multiplied exponentially. The same natural law applies even in foolishness. Such was the case with Larry and me.

Now this account has nothing to do with my childhood or with Bedford. Larry entered my life as a full blown adult. (At least in years) Larry and his family moved into a house a couple of doors down from us. Over the months we got to know each other and discovered we shared an almost identical sense of humor. We were comedically joined at the hip. He seemed to know where my lunacy was heading and fed off of it, and fed into it instinctively. My golf buddy, Jay, and I have that now. Let off the leash, we can travel some funny roads.

As time developed, Larry and I would begin around July laying plans for our Halloween Hijinks.

One year I was a werewolf and Larry The Sheriff had captured me. We'd go from door to door and Larry would say he was "out catching weirdos and is this one yours?" Another year, we smeared ourselves with glow-in-the-dark paint and attempted to collect money for those who had lost their jobs as a result of nuclear reactor accidents. Our makeup was extensive....both of us had extra eyes, etc. Our line was "We've been working around this stuff for years and it hasn't affected us at all."

But far and away, our goofy apex was the year we took our act on the road as Guiseppe Lopez (me) and MoFo The Albino Monkey (Larry). I would go to the door and say in an overdone, fake Italian accent, "Hello..My namea isa Guiseppe Lopez-a and for-a a small-a donation-a, I will have MoFo the Albino Monkey perform-a for-a you-a." All the while, MoFo was in the back of my van banging around on the sides and shaking the van. I'd go and let him out, tied to the end of a huge rope and he would come haltingly up the sidewalk. Carrying a beverage and holding a teddy bear he would have me light his cigar and then he would do a couple of Elvis moves.

I would then tip my hat and thank the people and lead MoFo back to the van and off we'd go. Now the really funny part of this our adoring public did not see. Larry stuttered, but like Country Star Mel Tillis, he celebrated and used that to endear himself to all. In transit between performances, we had a conversation like this. "JJJJJJack." "Yeah Larry." "IIIIIIf wwwe hhhave a wwwwreck, dddddon't llllet ttthem cccall a vvvvet to wwwwork on me."

So there you have it. The saga of MoFo the Albino Monkey. Larry is fine; I saw him during the holiday season last year. We hadn't seen each other for over 15 years, but it was if no time had passed. The only thing missing was Halloween.

Halloween Part 2

The Old Man is fixing to mess with your head. Jules' Halloween post has generated the need for a little break from the overall theme of true history. I'm going to take a short detour into the realm of fantasy.

Jules referred to my "dripping candle wax" on my face and said she wished she had a picture of that. Look what surfaced.

My comments on that same post referred to Julie's Planet of the Apes makeup. Lookee....

See part II of the Halloween story for the straight scoop on MoFo The Albino Monkey, coming soon to screen near you.

The Original ?

The Old Man spent a few days in Georgia. We had some really quality "bonding time" with The Termi-Nater. He's a joy. As I watched him ramble and roam......zig and zag....flip and flop, there was a strange familiarity. Perhaps there is such a thing as that genetic memory that we read about. It's probably how animals have the instinctive knowledge to fly south in winter, to make their nest in a certain way, and all those other traits that they just seem to know without having to be taught. Our actions are more governed by our genes than I think we realize.



I sensed a connection on a level that's unexplainable to me. Maybe Nater and I share genetic memory that compels him to adopt many of the actions and characteristics that I, and all those before me in our genetic lineage, share. Things like a ready smile, a penchant for exploration, a task oriented stubbornness, the willingness to stand up for himself, and the ability to decide quickly who merits further attention, are all traits that mark my personality. The odd thing is that I have noted these same characteristics in other family members that preceded me.



Not that I can claim credit for his personality; I am but a genetic conduit from the past. On a conscious level, we perform as we have learned, but on a much deeper level, we perform as we are made. At any rate, may I present who just might have been the original Termi-Nater?

Zoom Zoom Zoom

The Old Man loves his airplanes. I think I can trace my love of flight back to two distinct events. There was a young chap who lived up the street from me named Tommy. He was a number of years older than me, and he built beautiful balsa and tissue model airplanes. I would traipse across a couple of back yards and stand in the shrubbery just to watch him fly them. They were all powered by rubber bands and flew silently but majestically. Tommy paid me little attention....I was just that snot-nose from down the street. After I got older, I took up the hobby with some degree of success. Much more about that period of my life in subsequent posts. The main point is that I came to love flight.

The other event happened shortly after the war ended. The quietness of a Bedford Sunday afternoon was explosively disrupted on that August day. From out of nowhere (seemingly) a Corsair fighter came over the town at tree-top level. The pilot climbed, rolled, and dove repeatedly. Had we not all known the war was over, we would have thought we most surely were under attack. For the uninitiated, the Corsair (pictured above) was the gull wing Navy fighter popularized by the exploits of Greg "Pappy" Boyington, both in real life and again in the TV show "Baa Baa Black Sheep". For what seemed like forever, all 2000 horses of the big Pratt & Whitney engine roared. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand at rigid attention. We later learned that the pilot was a fellow named Bill Catlin; a Bedford boy recently returned from combat. He buzzed his momma's house, his girlfriend's house, and the county courthouse. He looped, he whirled, he spun, he mocked a strafing run. Then....he was gone.

I don't know what sort of unmitigated hell his commanding officer made his life when he returned to base, and maybe the incident didn't get reported, but he sure made an impression on this 5 year old. If I live to be 100, I will never forget the raw power that airplane shared with us all. I can look at a picture of a Corsair and still hear it in my mind.

I have nothing but respect and admiration for those who defend our country in the sleek jet fighters of today. I salute and cheer them. I offer my heart-felt thanks to them. But it seems somehow different when I see a jet go over. There's a lot of noise and thunder and it's hard to describe, but it's just not the same. The engine on a Corsair just sang rather than boomed.

Oh, Tommy re-entered my life just a few years ago. When my mother had her auction to close up shop as she called it, Tommy was working for the auction company. He came up to me after all was done and handed me an item. "I'll bet you forgot about this", he said. With that he handed me a little brass plate with my father's name on it. It had been mounted on our front door and he was right, I had forgotten it. Thanks to him, it's now in it's new home. Full circle.

Pete's Last Ride

The Old Man doesn't do much body surfing these days. That "wave" has already broken on the shore. Not so in days gone by. My brother-in-law, Pete, and I have boogie boarded, body surfed, and generally raised hell by the ocean in our time. Pete caught his best wave ever a couple of days ago.

I had just started to date Miss Martha when I first was introduced to her brother, Pete. His first words to me after, "Nice to meetcha" was "Have you got a cigarette?" He was 15 then and I was 19. Both of us full of vinegar and that other stuff. Pete never ran out of vinegar while all I could keep was only that other stuff.

To say Pete was a "character" is vast understatement.....sort of like saying Mt Everest is a "hill".

He was 0 for 3 in the marriage department, but curiously, all of his "Exes" as the song goes, bore him no ill will. I think they just all figured it didn't work out because it was just the wrong time, wrong place, or some such.

Pete and I shared a lot of beach trips when our children were small. He was a brilliantly funny guy; able to keep all ages in stitches. His dry wit and his ability to clown in any given situation made him a host of friends. He never met a stranger and didn't suffer idiots at all. Even when he wasn't at the beach, he maintained a beach attitude. He was, I suppose, a combination of Willie Nelson and Jimmy Buffett. Some of the best partying I have ever done in my salad days was with Pete.

Unfortunately, there were tentacles attached to Pete that he seemed simply unable to extricate himself from. He would have times when they relaxed their grip a bit, but then they grew tighter and tighter until finally they achieved victory and Pete's body simply said "uncle".

We took his ashes to his beloved Outer Banks this past week and his 3 sons and his sisters set him asail on the final wave ride. Unlike all those we took together, this one will last forever and he will never have to go home from vacation. He's already there.

His oldest son summed up the day beautifully. As Pete surfed away, the sun broke through a little hole in the clouds, and he said, "Look, Dad just smiled on us."

So, Pete, thanks for all the fun memories, thanks for your friendship and love, and thanks for the brightness you brought into so many lives. Enjoy your "bitchin' wave" and take that ride...you've earned it!

The Old Man's Hero

The Old Man has a hero. You don't know him yet, but when you finish this posting, I hope you will. Were he still bodily with us, he would be 105 tomorrow, Oct. 11. He was born of sharecropper parents in Pittsylvania County, Va. He grew up in a hard-scrabble way on a small tobacco farm. His parents instilled in him and his siblings (all younger) the values of American virtue and patriotism. I've heard tell that his grandfather was a preacher. I can't vouch for that, but as I began to grow and be aware, I saw evidence that the apple truly didn't fall too far from the tree.

He left home early and began to make his way in the world. A self-taught photographer, he became proficient enough to earn a living. He also learned lithographic printing and began to integrate himself into the world of graphics. Uncle Sam needed him and around 1929 or so, he joined the Army. Attached to an Engineer Battalion, he spent time in Nicaragua assisting in rescue and recovery efforts after a devastating earthquake. On my wall is his citation; The Soldiers Medal for Heroism, given for his efforts and his going 3 days without food or water while digging out survivors.

Fresh from the Army, he met Miss Alma. She ran a little sandwich shop (she called it in the parlance of the day, "Luncheonette"). They married in 1934 and 7 years later, The Old Man appeared. There would be no more. Perhaps I was the original "Termi-Nater". After all, you've already learned about the cherry bomb, the slingshot, and the life of crime in the watermelon patch. As I grew and began to go out for activities with my friends, he would always say, "See you later, Bud." In his own way, he was acknowledging my growth and the different plane our relationship had reached.

Dad could preach a sermon with the best of 'em. In the early '50's a circuit preacher in the county was badly burned in a fire. Dad "rode" his circuit for 2 years, preaching at one of 4 different churches each Sunday. All this in addition to his regular job at a label printing plant, and active participation in our own church. One of my prized possessions is the secretary where Dad kept his books and prepared his sermons. The surface is scratched and marred from his note taking. The scratches remain as a point of contact for me, and sometimes I walk by and just lightly touch them. It brings me peace.

My hero had a marvelous sense of humor. You've read about the "protective hat" and the disastrous attempt at skunk removal. Dad would laugh until tears came into his eyes over some of his mishaps. He was ever the clown, even when his health began to decline. He suffered from stomach ulcers in a day when there was no Zantac, Nexium, or Prilosec. There was only milk, eggs, and cream, all of which conspired to clog his arteries to the point they surrendered and he suffered his third and final heart attack while recovering in the hospital from his second.

We buried Dad on New Year's Day, 1964. He was only 60 years old. He never got to hold his two wonderful granddaughters that he would have been totally captivated by. He never knew that, coincidentally, I spent a career in the printing business. Even after all these years, I still sometimes catch myself with the fleeting thought, "Wait 'til I tell dad".

He taught me to love the Lord, life, and laughter, and they are lessons that I treasure to this day.

Because of his teachings I know I can say with all confidence, "See you later, Bud."

Look Out Goliath, Here Comes Little David

The Old Man has always loved the story of David & Goliath. It's been a metaphor for the way my life has been managed, particularly the career part. There's most always been some rather formidable challenge staring me down. Most of the time, I've managed a victory to some extent. Twasn't always that way.

The first time I remember hearing the Bible story of how the little kid took out the giant, I had to ask my dad about that slingshot. He did his best to explain the dynamics and I suppose he could tell from my glazed over eyes that his mission wasn't going well, so he decided to show me. Uh Oh......questionable wisdom. We went out into the back yard down near where the back lot started and Dad took out his handkerchief. He sort of rolled it up and held it by the two ends. "Hand me one of those rocks, son", he said. I picked up one from the recently plowed garden spot. It was about the size of a tennis ball. Dad carefully placed the rock in the folds of his handkerchief and began to spin it around over his head. At just the right moment, he let go of one end of the "sling" and the rock launched at least half way down the back lot. "You see, bud, that's how David killed Goliath".

Of course, since my dad was my absolute hero, I had to try this myself. With a little coaching, I got to the point that I was not a danger to those standing behind me, beside me, or in the garage where I kept mis-hitting the side of the building.

Enter my favorite partner in crime, Kenny. Anxious to show off my new found knowledge, I called Kenny up from his house down the street. Kenny was a quick study and soon we were flinging rocks all over the place.

The next day, Kenny and I decided to have a contest. We wanted to see how far across the street we could "sling". Now, we lived across from the cemetery, so the tombstones became our targets. "I got all the way to Jones" I said. "That's nothing" said Kenny, "I bet I can get up to Lawrence". This went on for an hour.

There was a man living down the street who most folks thought a bit strange. My mother referred to him as, "Old Turkey Neck". As I recall, he was a long tall string-bean kind of man. He drove a nice shiny Buick. With great gusto, I launched a rock at the tombstone marked, Watson. Unfortunately, the fates had chosen this moment for that shiny Buick to be meandering up the street. Maybe my arm was tired, or my aim was off, or I was over confident, but my rock went almost straight up in the air and when it came down found the exact center of Turkey Neck's hood. A horrible noise followed by the screech of brakes and the slam of a car door followed.

Turkey Neck started ranting at us and dancing around like Ichabod Crane on caffeine overload. By this time Mom had come out to see what all the commotion was about. Turkey finally calmed down when she agreed that we would certainly be responsible for all damages. She held me by one ear until I apologized profusely.

Kenny and I were grounded for a while, and we never went back to the slingshot. Turkey Neck's car was made whole again, and life moved on. Kenny and I discovered new adventures and all was right with the world.....and then.... we discovered BB guns.

OK, It's Me Again

The Old Man had a mixed bag of a day on the golf course today. The game itself was unremarkable....about my usual mishmash of good shots and bad. I had a putt today that ran by the hole faster than Rep. Charles Rangal runs by an IRS office. I also had an Amelia Earhart....didn't make it over the water. And I can't neglect to mention the Nancy Pelosi......thought it was going one way, hit a tree, and went 180 degrees in the opposite direction. Perhaps my "shot of the day" though, was the David Blaine....I knocked the tee out from under the ball and the ball didn't move..just dropped straight down. Still, though, it was a jewel of a day; low humidity, temperature in the upper 70's, and hardly a cloud in the sky. There was no financial crisis out there today, and no votes were taken. There were only 3 good friends, cajoling, cat-calling, and whooping it up like the children we all are inside. I wouldn't have traded it for a $12,000 DOW.

Driving home, I thought of how thankful I am to have had a day like this. My thoughts turned to other items to be placed on my list. Of course, at the top of my list are all those current day things; my family and the love we share, seeing how my daughters have matured into such wonderful women, and how Miss Martha has somehow managed to put up with me for all those years. And yes, Jules, I well remember when MY baby turned two.

In keeping with the original mission of this blog exercise, there are things from my childhood that made the list as well:

• A mother who taught me to read before I started school. I knew all about Dick, Jane, and Spot well ahead of the curve. Thanks for her having cultivated and nurtured a voraciousness that exists to this day.
• A father who was a kind, gentle, and funny man with a heart as big as the moon. He gave me so much that I was unaware of receiving. Such things as, "Pride goes before a fall", "A fool and his money are soon parted", and "A Southern gentleman never takes his coat off when eating". To this day, if you can get me in a suit, it could be 200 degrees and I'll be at that table, coat and all.
• A town that imparted a wholesome atmosphere. In that day and time, there would be rumors of a girl who would, now, sadly, there are often rumors of a girl who wont. No doors had to be locked, and most of the time car keys were in the ignition or laying on the front seat. The only reason to close the car windows while you were in the movie was if rain was imminent.
• For having the opportunity to see Saturday westerns and Superman serials. To watch Walt Disney himself show in person on television the progress being made on Disney Land in California. To ride stick horses while firing cap pistols, to build huts and attempt to dig tunnels, to lie on my back under a tree and read on a hot summer afternoon, to pick early cherries from a neighbor's tree that overhung the sidewalk, and to help turn the crank on our old ice cream freezer until I had to give way to bigger muscles, all this and so much more "made the cut" on my list.

Who knows what the economic future is....or any future for that matter? But whatever is to come, it can never take away the past. So my unsolicited advice to you is, celebrate your past, dwell on all the good you have seen and been a part of, for it has been but prologue to what you have become thus far, and where you go tomorrow.

Margaritaville......Again

The Old Man is heading for the water. Back online in a few days. Meanwhile, be good to each other and laugh often.

Here She Is

The Old Man still can't let go of that train. She may not look like the Holy Grail, but she has been one of mine. Here she is.

Pocohontas and Powhatan; Old Friends of Mine

The Old Man loves his trains. I have loved trains since I was a little boy. Our house in Bedford was, as the crow flies, about 1-1/2 miles from the railroad tracks. The Norfolk & Western came through our town. During the war years, the trains ran almost constantly. We were on a main east/west route, and they were on the way to Norfolk, carrying war materials and men....hundreds of men. For many a one way trip.

Trains served more purposes than merely transportation. My mom and dad seemed to know the time of day by their passing. In winter, my dad would listen to a train whistle and announce, "I think it's going to snow". In that heavy, cold, moisture laden atmosphere, the whistle sounded different to his ears. He rarely missed. My mom would sometimes in summer, hear the whistle and say, "Someone must be sad tonight. The whistle sounds lonely". This was way above my 5 year old head. To me, the whistle always wrapped itself around me and seductively whispered, "Mystery, Excitement, Questions".

The trains brought moments of levity as well. My dad never ever went out of the house without his hat on. The coldest days of the year or the hottest, that hat was ever present. I remember Mom asking him one time, "Babe, how come you wear that hat all the time outside?" Dad said, "Well, I've been on a bunch of trains in my time, and when I went in the bathroom and flushed the toilet, you could see the tracks running by when you looked down through the hole." (In those days waste simply was dumped on the the track. That's why old passenger train rest rooms always had a sign posted saying 'Do Not Flush While In The Station') Dad continued, "You know, they are now flying people around in those big airplanes and they may flush. When it hits me, my head will be covered." Easy to argue with his facts.....hard to argue with his logic.

My mother and I would often ride the train from Bedford to Roanoke to visit her sister. The N&W had two "stars" in their passenger train stable; The Pocohontas and the "big daddy" The Powhatan Arrow. Just the names added to the aura of mystery and excitement. I can still smell the essence of train car; an intoxicating mixture of fabric weathered by a thousand bodies, coal smoke, tobacco, and a delicious staleness. The conductor's cry of, "Boooooord", the bell on the engine, and then that wondrous sound of the Powhatan Arrow stirring, then achieving her full gait. Oh what a time.

The Arrow disappeared along with the other passenger trains. She would never have been herself without the big J-type steam engine, anyway. I grew up without her, the railroad industry morphed entirely into corporate-land, and I just assumed that was it.

Yesterday, we went with some friends to the NC Transportation Museum in Spencer, NC. A great place to see some old restored engines and train "stuff". As I exited the exhibit area, there was a string of old passenger cars they use for short, two-mile rides on weekends. There proudly standing in front of me was a Norfolk & Western passenger car. On her side in gold script were the words, "Powhatan Arrow".

I couldn't believe my eyes. My hands shook as I tried to aim the camera and the view finder suddenly grew bleary. I did get the picture taken, though, and as I walked away, in my mind I said to that old car, "Powhatan Arrow, I'll be back". I'm going to ride her one more time.

Dirt Says "Yes Sir" To Me

The Old Man, some days, feels one day older than dirt. When I tire of the TV people and political candidates screaming at each other, I retreat into a nicer world. A world where being genteel was the rule rather than the exception. A world where courtesy governed a lady or gentleman's life....where insults were rare and when they did occur, were met with honor and dignity.

Part of this retrospective position opens the door to memories of the things of this world I have witnessed. So many events that are relegated to history books are fresh thoughts in my mind. I remember them clearly.

The list could be almost endless;

• The assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I watched it play out on television, and remember every detail clearly. The pink, blood-spattered dress on Jackie, the oath of office given Lyndon Johnson on board Air Force One, the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby, are all imprinted deeply.
• The day man first set foot on the moon. Bleary pictures beamed back to earth was the stuff of Disney....of Jules Verne, but it was real....man...it was real.
• President Harry Truman's firing of General Douglas MacArthur, and the subsequent comment in a speech to Congress that MacArthur made, "Old soldiers never die. They just fade away."
• The Korean "conflict". "Conflict, hell....it was a war.
• "I Like Ike" buttons. Certainly not popular in the context of recent events in Texas, but in that day, promoted the candidacy of Dwight Eisenhower for President, a pleasant, somewhat soft-spoken man who commanded so brilliantly the invasion of Europe.
• Little boys made crystal radios to listen to "The Shadow, Gunsmoke, and Inner Sanctum.
• Trains belched smoke and had whistles.
• Cars were good for about 50,000 miles and then "burned oil".
• Ration books during World War II for things like sugar, gasoline, and other commodities we take for granted.

I could keep going, but I think you get the picture. We are all, to some extent, chroniclers of history. What we live today is the history of tomorrow. At any point in time, people somewhere will be reading about the things we have lived.

My advice to the young......seek out those who can provide eye-witness accounts of those event you've read about. Listen to them. Enjoy the fact that they have much to tell that fills in the blanks between the lines of the history books. And take kindly the council of your own years, for you are becoming the living history book of the future.

The Magic Trees

The Old Man went to Bedford yesterday. I took some fellow church members to visit the National D-Day Memorial there. Much, much, more about that in a future post. We had a nice lunch and tooled around the big city for a bit. I pointed out many of the points of interest; where my home church once stood, the house where I lived from birth until I was 19, the school I attended, and the plant where my dad worked for all those years.

When we rode by my old "home place", I missed the mimosa trees. There were two. They were (at least to a small boy) gigantic. Giant redwoods had nothing on those mimosas. They fired a little boy's imagination until the magic was at it's peak. In one of the trees, there was a forked branch. I could nestle myself in that fork, lean back against the main trunk and read my comic books. When I tired of that, I became John Wayne in "Flying Leathernecks".....downing Japanese planes and making the world right again. I would sit for hours in summer, assuming the posture of a pilot in a Hellcat or a Corsair, making airplane noises, interspersed with machine gun noises. I'm sure people walking down the street wondered, "What's wrong with that boy? He just sits up in that tree and hums or goes ack,ack,ack,ack over and over." What did they know? Had they no appreciation for a real flying leatherneck? My friend, Bob, said that he used to take an old shipping carton, draw instruments on one of the flaps, and sit in it on the front porch for half a day making these airplane noises. He said his neighbors always whispered about "what's wrong with that little Tucker boy?" Adults.....phooey.
Sometimes, a "Jap" would get in a lucky shot and I'd have to bail out. Since this fork was about 8 feet off the ground, I could hang from the branches, mimicking a pilot drifting down from his crippled and doomed plane. I'd hang there for a bit and the subsequent drop to the ground was every bit as realistic to me as a true parachute landing. I suppose these same neighbors might have thought, "Oh Lordy, they've finally hung him."

One of my dad's work buddies gave him an old wooden propeller from a real Piper Cub. My buddy Kenny and I stuck it on the end of a broomstick. We would reach out, give it a spin, and for a few moments, the mimosa worked its spell and we were "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo".

The other mimosa lent itself particularly well to a long rope tied to its upper branches. I could stand in a lower branch and get a really good "swing out" and back. Some days, I was Superman. I would tie one of my dad's old shirts around my neck and presto....ready-made cape. Some days I was Captain Marvel....I'd actually yell "Shazam" and fly, fly, fly.

In the truly hot, dog days of summer, when all we wore was a pair of shorts, mimosa #2 became Tarzan's tree house. I had a rubber knife and could amuse myself for hours swinging on that rope and dropping to the ground to dispatch Simba the lion.

I got a little quiet for a moment yesterday. As warm as visiting familiarity can be, there is a bittersweetness to it as well. We realize that, like those mimosas, we are temporary and will one day be but a memory. The truly important thing, I believe, is to live our lives so that like those mimosas, we will be a link to the past and lovingly missed.

Not Forgotten......Not Forgiven

God Bless America

Odd Practices and Cult Favorites

The Old Man played golf today. I had my normal game....a mixed bag of shots:

• A "Saddam Hussein"....From one bunker to another.
• A "James Joyce"...A putt that's impossible to read.
• A couple of "Barbara Streisand"s....Ugly but still working.

My golfing pals, Dennis, Jay, and Phil all carry cell-phones. I was tied to one when I worked and when I retired, handed it over to Miss Martha and said, "You are now the keeper of the flame." I've noticed that these phones do some interesting and strange things now. In addition to calls, Jay has, at times, gotten weather radar, checked forecasts, made videos of one of our golf swings, and occasionally, actually spoken on it. All this brought to mind how far we have come. I began to think of the products, habits, and culture of my childhood.

Let's start with phones. Ours had a 4 digit number. It weighed a ton and you actually dialed someone else's 4 digit number. At first it was a party line. You'd pick up the receiver to make a call and there would be the party who shared the line with you chatting away. I recall many "huff-n-puffs" and "eye-rolls" when my folks wanted to make a call. There was an actual Operator sitting somewhere. You could dial "O" and she (always a she) would answer. She would then perform whatever service you needed; connect you with a party whose number you didn't know, look up a phone number for you, or break into a "busy" line to tell them someone needed to talk to them. By far the most often used service was to place long distance calls for you. That was the only way you could make them.

We had some of what I call "cult favorites".....those products that my folks swore by and that might not have been used by many other people.

• Lifebouy Soap....This was supposed to ward off that problem no one talked about; BO. For you less sensitive types, that's Body Odor. It was a pinkish color and smelled like a doctor's office that had been contaminated with kerosene.
• Octogon Soap....This was a very strong soap for "tough dirt" on one's hands. I think my folks used it because it reminded them of the lye soap their parents made when they were young. Octogon had an aroma reminiscent of old meat.
• Packer's Pine Tar Soap....My dad introduced this one into the house. I think it had creosote or something in it. It was supposed to be good for dandruff. I don't think it worked really well because my dad's head was a cue ball by the time he was 30.
• Snow Drift.....This was a brand of shortening my mom used in baking. Pseudo lard.
• Terpin Hydrate and Codeine....The best cough medicine you could buy. I don't know what terpin hydrate is but I think it was the codeine that carried the mail. You simply walked into a drug store, asked for a bottle, signed a note book and that was it. It had an orange flavor as I recall.
• Sloan's Liniment....My dad used this on all of his achy muscles. It was a greenish brown liquid that smelled a little like wintergreen. It could heat tender skin up to match the surface of the sun. I tried it once and had to sit in a tub of ice water for an hour.
• Castoria....Branded as a "gentle laxative for children" this stuff would rival Colonoscopy prep. My mother, for some reason, firmly believed that little boys, like houses, needed a "spring cleaning". When April approached, I would hide under the porch for hours. But she always won out, and I would catch up on my comic book reading.

So, there you have it. Just a sampling of the products of my youth; the "cult favorites" and a couple of the "odd practices". I got a little catalog in the mail the other day from an outfit called the Vermont Country Store. As I thumbed through it, "Lifebouy" jumped out at me. Hmmmm....they may get a call.

A Weekend Chuckle

The Old Man if anything, will laugh at himself first. I invite you to join me. You may recall my gardening failure that I discussed in an earlier post. I am pretty much convinced that I have a long way to go to top this year's meager success.

So here, for your viewing pleasure, is the sole product of my vegitibble gahdun. You will note that I have included a couple of items so that you can more accurately gauge is immense size.


I'm hoping to save this for Christmas dinner.

But like General MacArthur, I shall return.

English Is My Second Language

The Old Man is on hurricane watch today. As I write, the clouds are beginning to thicken and its sprinkling rain. We're due several inches of rain tonight and tomorrow courtesy of Hannah. Like Jimmy Buffet sang, "Its time to go inside".

In Bedford, hurricanes were merely curiosities that happened to people in Florida. Without 24/7 news and weather coverage, we didn't know much about them. In thinking back, I remember what the Bedford accent did to the word "hurricane". It was pronounced "hurrikun" with the emphasis on "hurri". You see, the Bedford area was sort of the dividing line between the Appalachian accent found in the mountains of SW Virginia, and the Old English accent of the eastern part of the state. Our accent was much like the Canadian accent of today.

For example, "house" is pronounced "hoose", "out" becomes "oot", and "about" turns up as "aboot".

My mom added her own special styling, calling vegetables "vegi-tibbles" and the word seven came out as "sebm". A typical conversation in our house might go like this:

Mom: "Sonny, run oot to the vegi-tibble gahden and bring in aboot sebm ears of cawn."
Me: "Yes um".
Mom: "And you wipe yo feet befo you come in the hoose."
Me: "Yes um".
Mom: "How 'boot you bring in a couple cuKUMbuhs?"
Me: "Yes um". When I get back, can I have a CoCola?"
Mom: "We-a oot of Cocola, but I got some Sebm-up".
Me: "Yes um"

Many nights in the summer, we had a supper of all vegitibbles and no meat. They were fresh, home grown, and Sonny had followed instructions. Perhaps we were trend-setters and didn't know it.

I spent a couple of years after college as a radio announcer. Needless to say, the Bedford accent had to go, I spent hours practicing my new 'cosmopolitan' sound. So-called proper English became my second language.

Years later, I enjoyed watching Peter Jennings broadcast the news. As a Canadian, he still said "oot" and "aboot", and it was somehow comforting.

Now, after all this time, I often hear the old accent creeping back into my speech. Where once I might have been on guard against that, now it's a source of some degree of pride. It's the real me.

"These Proceedings are Closed"

The Old Man watched a video clip of General Douglas MacArthur's comments today. Those were the words he used when representatives of the Japanese government had completed signing the official surrender that brought World War II to a close. It was 63 years ago today, September 2, 1945. I was four years old, and while I sometimes have to think about why I came into the kitchen, I remember that time clearly.

The more poignant memory of those days was from a couple of weeks earlier, August 14, 1945. That's the day the Japanese said, "That's it, we quit."

There were a couple of huge mimosa trees in our yard in Bedford. They served many valuable purposes. One became the tree where Tarzan lived, and from which Superman flew. The other was the B-17 that I "flew" on glorious missions. But I'm ahead of myself. More about the mimosas in future posts. On this sultry August evening, mimosa #1 was busy fulfilling its prime purpose; shade for the family to sit in these great old wooden Adirondack chairs and catch the wisps of breeze. My dad was smoking his cigar and talking about the events of the day with my mom. I was generally messing about.

There were several factories in our town. At least one had a loud whistle that blew to signal each shift change; 7:00 A.M., 3:00 P.M., and 11:00 P.M. The town kept routines on track by the whistles. Bedford also had a siren that sounded to call all of the volunteer firemen to duty when the need arose. Suddenly, all the whistles erupted and the siren blasted the evening stillness.

My dad said, "Well the war's over." I remember saying to him, "Now will Uncle Doc and Uncle Tom come home?" Tom was my dad's brother, and "Doc" was dad's brother-in-law. Both very special giants to a four year old. My answer was a simple "Yes, son. Thank goodness". I hear it in my mind to this day.

We all loaded into the car and drove over to the courthouse area. In those days there was a traffic circle (Bedford folks called it a "turn-around" as I recall) in front of the courthouse. The street was full of cars honking, people cheering, folks dancing, and all sorts of celebrations. While I didn't know about it then, I'm quite sure some glass containers with aromas that hinted at corn were in attendance as well.

I'm told I fell asleep on my dad's shoulder somewhat later after asking him, "Why was that man kissing momma?" Later Mom and I shared a laugh about that because it seems it was "open season" on celebratory kissing. Sorry I missed that.

Doc and Tom did finally come home, and life resumed. But there were sad stories as well; the Bedford boy who survived the Bataan Death March and suffered from bad health for the rest of his life, the many families who suffered the ultimate loss, and all of those who awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. They didn't have many fancy names for it then, but we all knew. We all knew why this one or that one jumped and shook when a car backfired. We all knew the ones who didn't have much to say and certainly were never asked about their experiences. The Old Man and all the rest of us owe a debt to the "Docs and Toms" of the world without whom we would not have the opportunity to enjoy our lives.

Both of those old mimosas are gone now, as well as Doc and Tom. But I was there.....and I remember.

Serious Business

The Old Man is praying for those in harm's way from Gustav and encourages you to do the same.

If We Could Just Eat Them

The Old Man as you have read, is not much as a gardener. I did, however, have the good sense to marry well. Miss Martha is quite the flower gardener. It's her patience, I suppose. At any rate, I'm so very thankful for her, and you will get to know her better in future posts.


Here is just a tiny little bit of her handiwork.

Perhaps next year, I'll make her Vice-president of Tomatoes.

A Gal Named Hazel

The Old Man has a long standing fascination with weather. We have been visited over the past 24 hours with the remnants of Hurricane Fay. The official rainfall total here is 7 + inches. My rain gauge shows 6 3/4 inches. I've watched Fay's progress since she was born and slapped on the butt by Mother Nature. I must confess, the rain is a welcome sight to a drought plagued area. Perhaps even my dwarf garden will resuscitate. Nah.

I was 12 years old and in the 7th grade when Hazel blew into our lives in Bedford. OK...it's science lecture time courtesy of Jay Barnes excellent book, North Carolina Hurricane History. Could I have your attention, class? Hurricane is from a Carib Indian word translated big wind or storm god. In the Western Pacific they are called typhoons and in the Indian Ocean they are called cyclones. They are still the most powerful airborne malignancies known to man. Tornadoes get much of the press, but for day in and day out widespread destruction, hurricanes wear the crown.

On October 15,1954 Hurricane Hazel tore through the North Carolina coast with a vengeance. Not only did North Carolina suffer, but she blistered her way north into Virginia and was still a major storm with winds of 110 miles per hour when she went across the border into Canada. Hazel was last seen crossing the Artic Circle on her way to Scandinavia where she eventually fell apart.

In Bedford, school dismissed early that day. The eye wall of the storm was due around mid-afternoon. Of course, in 1954 there was no Double Doppler Radar, supercomputer atmospheric modeling, or weather satellites. Most folks that I knew subscribed to the "Holy Crap would you look at that mother" school of weather forecasting. Either that or the "Dang it. My corns are killing me" school. My friend Kenny (of watermelon crime spree fame) and I decided we would like to see what a hurricane was like up close....and personal. As 7th graders, we pretty much figured we knew all we needed to know about the world. We had already learned about watermelons.

So outside we went. When we came out of Kenny's basement, it didn't seem like a big deal. Then we rounded the house. Kenny went down and with wind propulsion slid down to the barn at the back of their lot and I ended up clinging to the outdoor picnic table. About this time, Kenny's mom opened the back door and started screaming to us to "get in here right this minute". Uh, OK Mrs. C. By this time, Kenny had worked his way back up to my picnic table and we were able to scramble inside, drenched and bruised but with that good feeling that we had conquered something. We just weren't sure what.

I no longer feel the need to go out into a hurricane. Following their progress remotely is quite fine, thank you. I saw one blow NBC weather man Al Roker over onto the ground on one of his live reports recently. I remember thinking, "Al, my man, welcome to the club.

Olympiad....1950's Style

The Old Man has been caught up in the Olympic competition. I have been captivated by some of the sights and performances from Beijing. Such style, such grace, such polish. And that's just the commentators. The athletes themselves have proven over and over what dedication, diligence, and raw talent can accomplish. My thoughts have rambled back to my limited exposure to track and field as a "Bedford Otter".

It was a less complex time. Here are some differences:

• The track. Athletes ran and sometimes fell on the track at the Bird's Nest on a composite material that seemed to be a rubber-like substance. Those who fell, appeared to have no road rash, cuts and scrapes, or other injuries. We ran on cinders. That's right, cinders. They were finely ground and provided a great base for running. Fine as long as you remained vertical. Fall on them and your knees, thighs, and if you were really unlucky, your nose, looked much like you'd been keel-hauled behind a John Deere.
• The track shoes. At Beijing, the runners wore high-tech shoes with ridges, grooves, pads,and imprints. My shoes were little light weight leather "slippers" with sharp steel spikes on the bottom. They complimented the cinders. Make a mis-step and your ankles could end up looking like grated Parmesan cheese mixed with ketchup.
• High jump. Modern jumpers sail over with a backwards technique and land on soft balloons of fabric. Us old guys went over the bar face down and landed in a pit of coarse sawdust. Wonderful on a really hot day.
• Pole Vault. Today's vaulters use poles with enough spring in them to send a small child into the jet stream. Bedford pole vaulters found a bamboo patch and cut their own pole. With the right tape pattern to grip, you could hope to achieve a vault of, maybe, 10 feet. Here again, you landed in a sawdust pit. Of course the increased height of the fall made the sawdust even more appealing.
• High & Low hurdles. These were made of heavy wood. Miss one and tangle in it and you added blunt force trauma to the cinders and the steel spikes.

We had no uneven parallel bars, no pommel horse, and no floor exercises. We did have discus and shot put. I'm firmly convinced that the shot was a cannon ball left over from the War of Northern Aggression.

Do not misunderstand my comments. I'm in no way diminishing the accomplishments of these gifted young people. They are, in most cases, my heroes. They are the best of the bunch and I yield to their talents. Perhaps because I've experienced the feeling of being in a starting block, "set" and holding for the gun, I am attached to them remotely. I know their thoughts, I feel their heart pounding. I know the taste of blood in my throat when I've run a 220 yard dash all out and won. I know the agony of getting back into shape after an off season. My hat's tipped.

At the risk of immodesty, but for the benefit of those who follow me, I still hold two records at that old high school. I set records of 10 sec. flat in the 100 yard dash, and 22 sec. flat in the 220 yard dash. Forgive me the self-administered "attaboy", but I need to add this for the benefit of my children and grandchildren. The Old Man hasn't always been the old man. To put it into perspective lest I be thought self-aggrandizing, they closed the school 3 years after my historic performance, thus insuring my standing. I had a little help in being the fastest kid on the block.