Busy Getting Ready
8 years ago
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Christmas Letter From Dysfunction Junction
The Old Man loves to get those Christmas letters. You know the type, where you get updated on all the events in the writer's family over the past year. Through the years, we've gotten them from people who were once neighbors, and its always good to know all is well and progress has been made. But, in the spirit of my usual dose of Christmas Silliness that generally alternates with true nostalgia, I present the Christmas letter you'll probably never get.
Dear Friends,
Well, where has the time gone? It seems like only yesterday that I sat down to pen the annual Bumwhacker family letter to let you know how 2010 has treated us. There have been a few changes since last year's letter. Norbert has still not found a job. He has been out of work for 12 years, now, and his prospects seem to be growing dim. Its sad, really, because he is one of the most gifted 8-track tape repairmen I've ever known. Early on, he had a couple of interviews to no avail. He seems to think that he maybe shouldn't have mentioned the prison thing. One good thing about the idle time is that he can put more time into his hobby of exploring new nutritional theories. His latest is the "Bean Burrito and Cabbage" diet. He seems to enjoy it but the neighbors are starting to complain.....especially in the summer when the windows are open.
Daughter Willybert has moved to Baltimore. She is doing quite well as a professional dancer. I think the money we spent on ballet lessons is starting to pay off because she makes good money and is beginning to send some home. Since they are mostly one dollar bills, some of the packages are quite bulky, but every little bit helps. I think she also has a part time job with the fire department as well, because she said that she's experiencing a lot of chafing from the pole.
Son Dingbert is a rising senior at Butro High School. This is his third attempt and he hopes he makes it this time. He did say, however, that the 4 years spent as a junior were almost as much fun as the 6 he spent as a third grader. Responses from the colleges he has written to have been disappointing, but he maintains a good outlook. He has a "plan B". If the colleges don't favorably respond, he will take a mail order course in Neurosurgery and set up shop in the garage.
We haven't heard from Cousin Rufus since he changed his name to Abdul el Rasheed. He was going on a trip abroad a couple of years ago and we often wonder about him. We think we may have seen him on a You Tube video "booking it" through some sand dunes, but those helicopter films are a little grainy.
I've been successful in my weight management program; I'm down 100 lbs. from my top weight of 456. If my luck holds out, I should be able to get into my original wedding dress in another month.
I guess that's about all for this year. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all!
Willimehena & Norbert Bumwhacker
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
So Long Ago, Yet So Fresh
The Old Man is back. Many distractions over the past several months have caused blogging to take a back seat. Having several friends who were battling (ultimately unsuccessfully) life threatening situations disrupts the desire to write with humor. Moroseness would surely have crept in to my efforts and that's not what I am about. Thank you for your patience and, hopefully, your continued interest.
Irony dictates that my first posting in a while does not present humor, but rather is directed at an event. Sixty-nine years ago today 2400 souls were sacrificed on the altar of war as the Japanese rained destruction down on Pearl Harbor. What began as a peaceful Sunday morning ended in horror and death, and the world was forever changed.
In my adult life, I've known two survivors of that attack. They're both gone now, having joined their fellow heroes where war can never again touch them. Both would be very uncomfortable wearing the hero mantle. They were modest, unassuming men who talked very little about that day. When they did, they tried to make some degree of humorous remark about their actions.....to downplay any importance attributable to them. But they both agreed, the true heroes were still on board the USS Arizona.
I hope you will join me in a moment of silent reflection and whisper a simple "thank you" to those who paid the premium on our freedom insurance. God bless them, and God bless America.
Irony dictates that my first posting in a while does not present humor, but rather is directed at an event. Sixty-nine years ago today 2400 souls were sacrificed on the altar of war as the Japanese rained destruction down on Pearl Harbor. What began as a peaceful Sunday morning ended in horror and death, and the world was forever changed.
In my adult life, I've known two survivors of that attack. They're both gone now, having joined their fellow heroes where war can never again touch them. Both would be very uncomfortable wearing the hero mantle. They were modest, unassuming men who talked very little about that day. When they did, they tried to make some degree of humorous remark about their actions.....to downplay any importance attributable to them. But they both agreed, the true heroes were still on board the USS Arizona.
I hope you will join me in a moment of silent reflection and whisper a simple "thank you" to those who paid the premium on our freedom insurance. God bless them, and God bless America.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Hanging In
The Old Man has not died, been kidnapped or arrested. Distractions disrupt creativity at times. Keep checking back.....like McArthur, "I shall return" in a short while.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Handy-Dandy Reunion Survival Kit
The Old Man recently attended his 50th High School Reunion. Most of the Battalion was there, and in fine fettle. It was fantastic to see them. So many stories! I don't know if you've ever been to a high school reunion, but in the event one may be in your immediate future, some tips on what to expect might be helpful.
First of all, you will be lied to. Oh, most will be harmless little lies, but lies just the same. I'll list a few here:
"You haven't changed a bit". Bull pucky.....this is the most common and frequently used lie in the game. I'm 50 years older, you idiot; of course I've changed. I have no hair, I'm 70 pounds heavier, and I've got so many wrinkles that I look like a Tarpon Springs sponge.
"Do you remember the night we (fill in the blank)?" Hell no I don't remember. I can't remember why I came in the kitchen.
"You were always one of my favorite people." Really? How come you never chose me to be on your team until you had exhausted all other possibilities?
Second, you will lie to others.
"How have you kept in such good shape?" (Must have been lifting all those 12 oz. dumbbells labeled Budweiser.)
"You haven't changed a bit". (See, it's contagious)
Third, you will discover that some things, like leopard spots, truly haven't "changed a bit"....both for the better and for the worse. You will be able to rapidly decide.
Fourth and most importantly, you'll realize that even though you may have spent a small part of your life in these people's company, they played a critical role in who you are. From each other you learned most of your social structure; how to deal with hurt feelings, petty jealousies, and other ills. Even more, you learned how to treat others with respect, how to negotiate, and how to confront wrong. You realize that those early years are worthy of revisiting....they were basically carefree and fun. We didn't realize it at the time, but the traumas we faced were pretty tame in comparison to those the world has thrown at us since. At some point in the evening, you'll note as you look around the room, that the 'class of '60' is just that......"Class" with a capital C. We've played the hand that life dealt us and have exhibited a level of grace and strength unfathomable to us "back in the day".
Much of the crowd was there. I saw "Jeffrey of I Ain't Going Fame", "Roscoe the Booger Eater", "Freddie the Fainter" and a host of others. Kenny was gone and that sucked. We had lots of laughs, posed for a group picture, promised to "keep in touch", and melted away back into the present.
I think I've figured it out. The past is a marvelous place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Uncle Bob and His Exploding Weenie
The Old Man has a special corner in the memory banks for Independence Day. It's one of the best holidays ever, I believe. There's no "gift pressure", no secular compartmentalization, and no social expectations other than to have a rollicking good time. The menu is simple; fireworks, hot dogs, and family closeness, all washed down with a hearty swig of patriotism.
Hot dogs make me think of Uncle Bob. Why? I'll get to that in a moment. He wasn't really my uncle.....more like my brother. Bob declared himself "Uncle" to our two daughters. He just started to refer to himself as Uncle Bob when ever he was around them.
Bob loved nothing better than to be around those he loved. You've heard me refer to him in several earlier posts. He and I when let off the chain could usually have all within earshot clutching their sides in a matter of minutes. We fed off of each other like fire off of oxygen. Now I must confess, various liquids were often involved, but in reality, we needed no fuel.
When we were together at the beach, Bob and I would sit out on the balcony smoking and commiserating on the state of matters in the world. Sometime around midnight, our wives would hear one or the other of us say, "I love you, man".....a takeoff on a popular beer commercial of its time. That was the signal; they would wave us in.
Bob loved the 4th of July. We'd usually get together out at his place and spend the afternoon goofing around and playing croquet or sometimes badminton. Hot dogs always were the standard fare, accompanied by many varieties of refreshment. Bob would always say, "Are you bringing the fireworks?". I'd just grin and then show up with an arsenal of bottle rockets, lady fingers, and maybe even a T-bomb or two.
We had another friend named Jim who was a couple of branches even further up the crazy tree. Around suppertime, when croquet had gotten hot and heavy with side bets and catcalls, our childish desire for "booms and bangs" would get the best of us, and we'd break out the fireworks.
Inhibitions and common sense became subjugated, and we rose to the challenge to see how creatively we could wreck havoc. I recall one year, we began to wonder if we could stand on Bob's deck and fire a bottle rocket through a croquet wicket. When it was my turn, I took careful aim, and lit the fuse.
At about the same time I flicked the Bic, Bob was bent over, lining up a shot through that same wicket. With a tremendous "whoosh" and a trail of smoke, the rocket shot between Bob's legs, went through the wicket, and then exploded. Bob, who was basically deaf, never turned around. He simply extended his arm behind his back and flashed the "Hawaiian Good Luck" sign.
Later that same evening, Bob, Jim, and I began wondering aloud what we could blow up. We'd already used up most of the cans. Bob said, "Hang on", and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a couple of wieners. He took one of them and carefully catheterized it with a Lady Finger. "Stand back". "WHAM". Grown men look really goofy with bits of Ball Park in their hair, stuck to their legs, and laughing so hard we could water the lawn.
It was like that with 'Uncle' Bob. We had that something that connects one human to another and the offshoot is a uniqueness that's one of the most rewarding things in life. So I think of Uncle every year on Independence Day. I think of all the exploding 'weenies', the nights on the balconies, and the wacky lunches we had.
Bob left us way too early. But sometimes over the noise of the sky rockets and the aerial bombs, I think I hear, "I love you, man".
Hot dogs make me think of Uncle Bob. Why? I'll get to that in a moment. He wasn't really my uncle.....more like my brother. Bob declared himself "Uncle" to our two daughters. He just started to refer to himself as Uncle Bob when ever he was around them.
Bob loved nothing better than to be around those he loved. You've heard me refer to him in several earlier posts. He and I when let off the chain could usually have all within earshot clutching their sides in a matter of minutes. We fed off of each other like fire off of oxygen. Now I must confess, various liquids were often involved, but in reality, we needed no fuel.
When we were together at the beach, Bob and I would sit out on the balcony smoking and commiserating on the state of matters in the world. Sometime around midnight, our wives would hear one or the other of us say, "I love you, man".....a takeoff on a popular beer commercial of its time. That was the signal; they would wave us in.
Bob loved the 4th of July. We'd usually get together out at his place and spend the afternoon goofing around and playing croquet or sometimes badminton. Hot dogs always were the standard fare, accompanied by many varieties of refreshment. Bob would always say, "Are you bringing the fireworks?". I'd just grin and then show up with an arsenal of bottle rockets, lady fingers, and maybe even a T-bomb or two.
We had another friend named Jim who was a couple of branches even further up the crazy tree. Around suppertime, when croquet had gotten hot and heavy with side bets and catcalls, our childish desire for "booms and bangs" would get the best of us, and we'd break out the fireworks.
Inhibitions and common sense became subjugated, and we rose to the challenge to see how creatively we could wreck havoc. I recall one year, we began to wonder if we could stand on Bob's deck and fire a bottle rocket through a croquet wicket. When it was my turn, I took careful aim, and lit the fuse.
At about the same time I flicked the Bic, Bob was bent over, lining up a shot through that same wicket. With a tremendous "whoosh" and a trail of smoke, the rocket shot between Bob's legs, went through the wicket, and then exploded. Bob, who was basically deaf, never turned around. He simply extended his arm behind his back and flashed the "Hawaiian Good Luck" sign.
Later that same evening, Bob, Jim, and I began wondering aloud what we could blow up. We'd already used up most of the cans. Bob said, "Hang on", and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a couple of wieners. He took one of them and carefully catheterized it with a Lady Finger. "Stand back". "WHAM". Grown men look really goofy with bits of Ball Park in their hair, stuck to their legs, and laughing so hard we could water the lawn.
It was like that with 'Uncle' Bob. We had that something that connects one human to another and the offshoot is a uniqueness that's one of the most rewarding things in life. So I think of Uncle every year on Independence Day. I think of all the exploding 'weenies', the nights on the balconies, and the wacky lunches we had.
Bob left us way too early. But sometimes over the noise of the sky rockets and the aerial bombs, I think I hear, "I love you, man".
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Myrtle's Identity Crisis
The Old Man has been hearing a lot lately about folks who seem to have a bit of trouble figuring out just who or what they are. You used to be able to tell right off whether that pleasant figure you were following was a girl or a boy. Then the "Hippy Movement" came along and all bets were off. Male, female, it made no difference....they both had the same hair styles.
Now it seems there are even more people who are confused. Some aren't happy with their gender, others aren't happy with their wardrobe. Some are winking at each other, and some are hiding out in closets.
Even the military has gotten into the act, and contributed to the confusion.
None of this matters much to me; I only have one question for any soldier or potential soldier, "Can you shoot?"
Back in Bedford there were rumors of a couple of guys who listened to a different drummer, but everyone with whom I ever came in regular contact seemed to have a pretty clear understanding of their fit in the universe. There were no grey areas. You shot marbles and smelled bad, or you played with dolls and were frilly. Around 12 or 13 when we all hit the hormone highway, things got even clearer.
But alas, confusion has come to The Old Man's realm. My dear Myrtle has become twisted and can't figure out her proper role in life. I've nurtured her from the time we began our relationship, keeping her fed, hydrated, and given her regular grooming. But now Myrtle is struggling with color issues. She's displaying such disparity as to be unsettling. Here's what I mean.
Now it seems there are even more people who are confused. Some aren't happy with their gender, others aren't happy with their wardrobe. Some are winking at each other, and some are hiding out in closets.
Even the military has gotten into the act, and contributed to the confusion.
None of this matters much to me; I only have one question for any soldier or potential soldier, "Can you shoot?"
Back in Bedford there were rumors of a couple of guys who listened to a different drummer, but everyone with whom I ever came in regular contact seemed to have a pretty clear understanding of their fit in the universe. There were no grey areas. You shot marbles and smelled bad, or you played with dolls and were frilly. Around 12 or 13 when we all hit the hormone highway, things got even clearer.
But alas, confusion has come to The Old Man's realm. My dear Myrtle has become twisted and can't figure out her proper role in life. I've nurtured her from the time we began our relationship, keeping her fed, hydrated, and given her regular grooming. But now Myrtle is struggling with color issues. She's displaying such disparity as to be unsettling. Here's what I mean.
When she was first born as an offshoot of an existing plant, she was purely pink. I know. I transplanted her myself from one spot in the yard to her current location. But now, Myrtle is displaying two distinct colors, purple and pink. There is no crossover. Pink doesn't turn to purple or vice versa.
But even in her confusion, I still love and support her. Maybe she needs counseling. I'll call Dr. Phil or Oprah.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I'll Have the Meatskins With a Side of Cheetos, Please
The Old Man went to a Memorial Day cook-out over the weekend. A fine little neighborhood affair. We had the standards.........hot dogs, potato salad, chips, etc. and coolers full of liquid refreshment. There was watermelon and cut-up veggies. Lots of bottled water as well.
Left in idle, my mind can drift off course quicker than an empty kayak in a windstorm. I began to think how differently we look at fun food now compared to my early years. Modern nutrition-conscious folks would slide into a coma if they were around the Park Street Battalion.
You can still buy meatskins but they aren't quite the same. I remember them being a lot more greasy....or as Miss Alma would say, "Greeeezy". Pour out a few on a napkin and when you had eaten them, there would be enough grease on the paper to keep Elvis's hair pompadoured for several days. Now you see them in a bag and they are called Chicarones. The Battalion didn't know Chicarones from Macaronis.
We could buy a bag of peanuts for a nickel. We could also buy a bottle of Pepsi for another nickel. We'd then unite the two in marriage, emptying the entire little bag into the Pepsi.
The whole deal would be gone in about 3 good gulps. I never knew of anyone getting choked, but try that today and an army of mothers would come running and screaming.
Another trick was to buy the little bags of potato chips. Before eating them, we'd take the salt shaker and give it 3-4 good shakes into the bag. A quick shake of the bag and we'd customized the chips to just where we wanted them. They made the Pepsi and peanuts even more special.
You could buy boxes of pretzel sticks. I think I've seen a few still around, but ours were a lot saltier. We'd polish off a box and then turn the empty box up and eat the rest of the salt.
The only diet soda available was one called Tab. Mom bought into the whole calorie thing from time to time and Dad and I were innocent victims. Tab was as vile a beverage as I have known, that is until I was introduced to fraternity parties. After a Tab, you'd think you had eaten a couple of bushels of green persimmons.
We committed other acts of "nutritional naughtiness" as well. We'd stop in at Coleman's Restaurant after school and sometimes have ourselves 2-3 slices of their coconut pie. They made them on the premises and I could almost swear you couldn't see over them. Sugar load? What sugar load?
I watched at our picnic as one of my favorite little fellows here in the neighborhood ate his fill of raw broccoli. Hooray for his folks, because these good habits should serve him well. They are doing the right thing. But the "devil" in me wants to take him aside and say, "Psssst, here, try this meatskin. And when you're through, check out this coconut pie".
Left in idle, my mind can drift off course quicker than an empty kayak in a windstorm. I began to think how differently we look at fun food now compared to my early years. Modern nutrition-conscious folks would slide into a coma if they were around the Park Street Battalion.
You can still buy meatskins but they aren't quite the same. I remember them being a lot more greasy....or as Miss Alma would say, "Greeeezy". Pour out a few on a napkin and when you had eaten them, there would be enough grease on the paper to keep Elvis's hair pompadoured for several days. Now you see them in a bag and they are called Chicarones. The Battalion didn't know Chicarones from Macaronis.
We could buy a bag of peanuts for a nickel. We could also buy a bottle of Pepsi for another nickel. We'd then unite the two in marriage, emptying the entire little bag into the Pepsi.
The whole deal would be gone in about 3 good gulps. I never knew of anyone getting choked, but try that today and an army of mothers would come running and screaming.
Another trick was to buy the little bags of potato chips. Before eating them, we'd take the salt shaker and give it 3-4 good shakes into the bag. A quick shake of the bag and we'd customized the chips to just where we wanted them. They made the Pepsi and peanuts even more special.
You could buy boxes of pretzel sticks. I think I've seen a few still around, but ours were a lot saltier. We'd polish off a box and then turn the empty box up and eat the rest of the salt.
The only diet soda available was one called Tab. Mom bought into the whole calorie thing from time to time and Dad and I were innocent victims. Tab was as vile a beverage as I have known, that is until I was introduced to fraternity parties. After a Tab, you'd think you had eaten a couple of bushels of green persimmons.
We committed other acts of "nutritional naughtiness" as well. We'd stop in at Coleman's Restaurant after school and sometimes have ourselves 2-3 slices of their coconut pie. They made them on the premises and I could almost swear you couldn't see over them. Sugar load? What sugar load?
I watched at our picnic as one of my favorite little fellows here in the neighborhood ate his fill of raw broccoli. Hooray for his folks, because these good habits should serve him well. They are doing the right thing. But the "devil" in me wants to take him aside and say, "Psssst, here, try this meatskin. And when you're through, check out this coconut pie".
Monday, May 17, 2010
I'll See You In The Funny Papers
The Old Man heard a day or so ago that one of his childhood girlfriends is going to leave us on June 13th. That's the day the last Little Orphan Annie comic strip will be published. Sometime back they changed her name to just plain Annie, but not to me. I'm a traditionalist.
This news set me to thinking. I began to recall the newspaper comic strips that I remember and miss. They existed before the concept of Political Correctness ever reared its pompous head. Pull up a chair.
Little Orphan Annie.... had no pupils in her eyes. I could never figure out how she got around. She also had a mysterious "quasi-father" named Daddy Warbucks. "Warbucks".....break that one down. He was rich and I always wondered why, if he had so many bucks, Annie had to wander around with her dog Sandy and sometimes be accompanied by a guy in a turban named Punjab, or something. Why didn't she just go and live in the Warbucks mansion? Dr. Phil could have a field day with this one.
The Katzenjammer Kids.......these were a couple of rowdy hellions who tormented their uncle by always playing pranks on him. They would put tacks in his chair, or glue in the syrup bottle, or give him a "hot foot". The strip always ended with uncle beating the snot out of the kids with his cane. I can almost see the ACLU salivating.
Henry......interesting little bald kid with a nose that stuck up in a point like the end of a coat rack. Henry had no mouth so he never spoke. He and his friend Egghead had many adventures and the construction of them gave a laugh. One strip had Henry and Egghead taking off all their clothes and jumping in a pond. Print that one today and you'd be on the 6:00 news as they hauled you off.
Joe Palooka....an All American looking boxer who exemplified the "good guy" with great toughness. Think maybe if Rambo and Alan Alda had a son. Joe had a shock of blonde hair that hung down over one eye. I never could figure out how he could see to punch. Joe's manager was a cigar chomping guy named Knobby Walsh. Violence and smoking in one strip. Ahhhhhhhh, sweet.
Our Boarding House......a one & sometimes two panel strip featuring Major Amos Hoople, a bragging, get-rich-quick schemer who loved corned beef & cabbage. From the sight of his belly, he had it regularly. There were always a few other residents of the boarding house willing to be taken to the cleaners in Hopple's schemes. Every year on New Year's Eve, the gang at the boarding house would be heading out to celebrate. The next panel would show them the next morning, badly hung over, with ice bags on their heads and aspirin bottles in their hands. I think the president of MADD just fainted.
Bringing Up Father.....Jiggs and his wife Maggie were always at odds. Maggie was the reincarnation of Shakespeare's shrew. All poor Jiggs wanted to do was read his paper, go to his lodge hall, or play some cards with his friends. Maggie was constantly chewing his ass out about something and no matter how hard Jiggs tried to please her, the chewing continued on up his back.
Dick Tracy.....still in print, Tracy was the consummate cop. Communicating with his partner, Sam Ketchum, with his 2-way wrist radio, he fought a variety of bad guys. Names like, Flathead or Blimpface were common. Strip originator Chet Gould always drew these characters to look like their name. Were they real, they would be on Oprah today, exploring their lack of positive self-image.
When you open a door in the memory vault, stand back. Mandrake the Magician, Steve Canyon, Flash Gordon, Terry & the Pirates, the Gasoline Alley gang, and a host of others were like friends to a kid growing up in the '40's and '50's. They took us to fantasy land or made us laugh. I've tried, really tried to have the same feelings today, but it's hard to get "into" most of the strips in my morning paper. Oh, there are some standouts; Beetle Bailey, Hagar the Horrible, and others bring a chuckle, but then there's Doonesbury?
This news set me to thinking. I began to recall the newspaper comic strips that I remember and miss. They existed before the concept of Political Correctness ever reared its pompous head. Pull up a chair.
Little Orphan Annie.... had no pupils in her eyes. I could never figure out how she got around. She also had a mysterious "quasi-father" named Daddy Warbucks. "Warbucks".....break that one down. He was rich and I always wondered why, if he had so many bucks, Annie had to wander around with her dog Sandy and sometimes be accompanied by a guy in a turban named Punjab, or something. Why didn't she just go and live in the Warbucks mansion? Dr. Phil could have a field day with this one.
The Katzenjammer Kids.......these were a couple of rowdy hellions who tormented their uncle by always playing pranks on him. They would put tacks in his chair, or glue in the syrup bottle, or give him a "hot foot". The strip always ended with uncle beating the snot out of the kids with his cane. I can almost see the ACLU salivating.
Henry......interesting little bald kid with a nose that stuck up in a point like the end of a coat rack. Henry had no mouth so he never spoke. He and his friend Egghead had many adventures and the construction of them gave a laugh. One strip had Henry and Egghead taking off all their clothes and jumping in a pond. Print that one today and you'd be on the 6:00 news as they hauled you off.
Joe Palooka....an All American looking boxer who exemplified the "good guy" with great toughness. Think maybe if Rambo and Alan Alda had a son. Joe had a shock of blonde hair that hung down over one eye. I never could figure out how he could see to punch. Joe's manager was a cigar chomping guy named Knobby Walsh. Violence and smoking in one strip. Ahhhhhhhh, sweet.
Our Boarding House......a one & sometimes two panel strip featuring Major Amos Hoople, a bragging, get-rich-quick schemer who loved corned beef & cabbage. From the sight of his belly, he had it regularly. There were always a few other residents of the boarding house willing to be taken to the cleaners in Hopple's schemes. Every year on New Year's Eve, the gang at the boarding house would be heading out to celebrate. The next panel would show them the next morning, badly hung over, with ice bags on their heads and aspirin bottles in their hands. I think the president of MADD just fainted.
Bringing Up Father.....Jiggs and his wife Maggie were always at odds. Maggie was the reincarnation of Shakespeare's shrew. All poor Jiggs wanted to do was read his paper, go to his lodge hall, or play some cards with his friends. Maggie was constantly chewing his ass out about something and no matter how hard Jiggs tried to please her, the chewing continued on up his back.
Dick Tracy.....still in print, Tracy was the consummate cop. Communicating with his partner, Sam Ketchum, with his 2-way wrist radio, he fought a variety of bad guys. Names like, Flathead or Blimpface were common. Strip originator Chet Gould always drew these characters to look like their name. Were they real, they would be on Oprah today, exploring their lack of positive self-image.
When you open a door in the memory vault, stand back. Mandrake the Magician, Steve Canyon, Flash Gordon, Terry & the Pirates, the Gasoline Alley gang, and a host of others were like friends to a kid growing up in the '40's and '50's. They took us to fantasy land or made us laugh. I've tried, really tried to have the same feelings today, but it's hard to get "into" most of the strips in my morning paper. Oh, there are some standouts; Beetle Bailey, Hagar the Horrible, and others bring a chuckle, but then there's Doonesbury?
Friday, May 7, 2010
What A Kid
The Old Man is probably going to tug at your heartstrings a bit today. And for that I make no apology. Spiritual growth and its subsequent development have always been very important in our family. As such, we have always tried to instill in our children the importance of faith in a higher power. Label the power as you choose, but to us, it is our Christian faith.
Far be it from me to "preach" to you. That would be presumptuous and could be viewed as arrogant on my part. George Carlin said it best when he commented, "How come it is that the people who most want to tell you about their religion are the ones who least want to hear about yours?" But it's important for me to convey some beautiful moments that we have recently experienced.
Grandson, Jackson, was baptized this past Saturday. It was a very special time, shared with a very special child. Jackson was given the option of having the ceremony performed in a swimming pool, being sprinkled in a worship service, or being immersed in the ocean. He chose the ocean. When asked his rationale, he said, "What better place to be baptized than in one of God's greatest creations?" Pretty astute for an 11 year old. But then, this is the same kid who went around his neighborhood raising money for those suffering in New Orleans after Katrina.
When he was about 4 years old, he mentioned to his folks that when he was an angel up in heaven before he was born, he met his little brother. There were really no plans for a little brother, and it was never really mentioned again. Then 6-7 years went by and guess what? A little brother came along.
Jackson simply looked at his mom and said, "See, I told you."
At one end of Jekyll Island in southern Georgia, there is a beach known as Driftwood Beach. So named because of the graveyard of downed trees. Brought down by a combination of storms and erosion, these giant live oaks lie scattered about the beach like a child's Tinker Toys shaken from their carton. After a short walk through a tunnel of palms and live oaks gorged with Spanish Moss, we came out onto the beach and picked our way through the ghosts of trees long dead and bleached to a silver luminescence, gathering at a clear spot at water's edge.
After a few short comments and a prayer, Jackson and the pastor made their way out into the water. A few steps into the ocean, the pastor turned to those of us on the beach and said, "For the record, this water is cold." Once in position, the pastor gently laid Jackson back and quickly submerged him in the chilly water.
As they came out of the water, Jackson's mother smiled, his father smiled, his grandparents smiled, and I have no doubt in my mind.......
God smiled.
Far be it from me to "preach" to you. That would be presumptuous and could be viewed as arrogant on my part. George Carlin said it best when he commented, "How come it is that the people who most want to tell you about their religion are the ones who least want to hear about yours?" But it's important for me to convey some beautiful moments that we have recently experienced.
Grandson, Jackson, was baptized this past Saturday. It was a very special time, shared with a very special child. Jackson was given the option of having the ceremony performed in a swimming pool, being sprinkled in a worship service, or being immersed in the ocean. He chose the ocean. When asked his rationale, he said, "What better place to be baptized than in one of God's greatest creations?" Pretty astute for an 11 year old. But then, this is the same kid who went around his neighborhood raising money for those suffering in New Orleans after Katrina.
When he was about 4 years old, he mentioned to his folks that when he was an angel up in heaven before he was born, he met his little brother. There were really no plans for a little brother, and it was never really mentioned again. Then 6-7 years went by and guess what? A little brother came along.
Jackson simply looked at his mom and said, "See, I told you."
At one end of Jekyll Island in southern Georgia, there is a beach known as Driftwood Beach. So named because of the graveyard of downed trees. Brought down by a combination of storms and erosion, these giant live oaks lie scattered about the beach like a child's Tinker Toys shaken from their carton. After a short walk through a tunnel of palms and live oaks gorged with Spanish Moss, we came out onto the beach and picked our way through the ghosts of trees long dead and bleached to a silver luminescence, gathering at a clear spot at water's edge.
After a few short comments and a prayer, Jackson and the pastor made their way out into the water. A few steps into the ocean, the pastor turned to those of us on the beach and said, "For the record, this water is cold." Once in position, the pastor gently laid Jackson back and quickly submerged him in the chilly water.
As they came out of the water, Jackson's mother smiled, his father smiled, his grandparents smiled, and I have no doubt in my mind.......
God smiled.
Monday, April 26, 2010
One, Two, Three, Dip
The Old Man is going to skip the prom this year. Matter of fact, I've skipped quite a few of them. But it's definitely that season. Prom dresses, prom plans, prom limo rentals, prom tuxedo discussions, prom everything permeates the halls. That annual rite of passage is steaming ahead full speed everywhere.
Long before I made it to the prom, I had to survive several other social disasters along the way as I trudged toward that level of "pseudo-sophistication" prevalent in most 15 year old boys. One most memorable one that comes to mind was the 7th grade dance.
There was a girl in our church I'll call Hilda. We were good friends in that friendly but curious sort of way. Friendly because of corporate good times at church and school, but curious about weird feelings. In my time, 7th grade marked the beginning of what my mom called, "The Awkwardness". Pretty well named, Miss Alma.
Rapidly approaching was the major social event....The Seventh Grade Dance. Everyone was expected to attend, so the Park Street Battalion began to "divey up" the possibilities for our 'dates'. Now, most of us were as clueless as a brick about how to date, dance, or even be anything other than be the little snot-noses we all were. Dad exercised his fatherly duty, and took it upon himself to became my 'coach'. He said the first thing I had to do was to ask Hilda if she would like to go to the dance with me. Ok....so I went up to Hilda and said, "Wanna gotathe dance?" With such a smooth line, she could hardly refuse.
Dad coached on. "Now, bud, when I drive you up to Hilda's house, you go up and ring the door bell and walk her out to the car." I asked, "Why? It's a short sidewalk and she walks it every day." Dad had that look on his face like, "I sired THIS?" Moving on, Dad continued, "When you and Hilda get to the car, you open the back door for her and then when she's safely and comfortably in, you come around to the other side and get in." "OK".
The big night arrived. I had on my Sunday best; sport coat, white shirt, clip-on plaid bow tie, and my freshly polished white buck shoes. My crew-cut was freshly pomaded and brushed back as if Elsie the Borden cow had given me a huge lick.
We pulled up in front of Hilda's and I hopped out and bounded up the sidewalk. I rapped on the screen door and then there stood Hilda. I hadn't seen that side of her before. She looked like....like....well.....like a woman. She didn't look like she was up for a ballgame or marathon Monopoly. Gone were the rolled up jeans or the Sunday dresses I was accustomed to. I know I stared. I hope it wasn't the slack-jawed stare of the village idiot, but I can't be sure.
Remembering my 'lessons' from the coach, I dutifully escorted Hilda down the sidewalk to the waiting car. I adroitly opened the back door and stood at attention until Hilda was safely inside. I gently closed the door and then walked around to the other side. I opened the door on the other side and got in.
There was just one problem.....I got in the front seat beside Dad.
He gave me that, "I sired THIS?" look again, but said nothing and drove us to the dance. Me in the front seat, happy as a pig in mud, and Hilda in the back seat, looking like she was being arrested.
When we got to the dance, I scampered out and around to open the door for Hilda. As we were walking away, Dad motioned for me to come around to his side of the car. He said, "For God's sake, son, when I pick you all up, get in the back with your date!" He didn't add, "dumb-ass", but I'm sure he considered it.
As I recall, the dance went as normal. Most of the girls sat on one side of the room, the boys on the other. Hilda and I did manage to wander around the floor in what passed as a weak rendition of dancing and we all had a rollicking, 7th grade good time. I did get a passing grade from Dad when I walked Hilda up to her door. He did offer one last bit of coaching, however.
He said, "Son, when you leave a lady at her door, don't run back to the car."
Long before I made it to the prom, I had to survive several other social disasters along the way as I trudged toward that level of "pseudo-sophistication" prevalent in most 15 year old boys. One most memorable one that comes to mind was the 7th grade dance.
There was a girl in our church I'll call Hilda. We were good friends in that friendly but curious sort of way. Friendly because of corporate good times at church and school, but curious about weird feelings. In my time, 7th grade marked the beginning of what my mom called, "The Awkwardness". Pretty well named, Miss Alma.
Rapidly approaching was the major social event....The Seventh Grade Dance. Everyone was expected to attend, so the Park Street Battalion began to "divey up" the possibilities for our 'dates'. Now, most of us were as clueless as a brick about how to date, dance, or even be anything other than be the little snot-noses we all were. Dad exercised his fatherly duty, and took it upon himself to became my 'coach'. He said the first thing I had to do was to ask Hilda if she would like to go to the dance with me. Ok....so I went up to Hilda and said, "Wanna gotathe dance?" With such a smooth line, she could hardly refuse.
Dad coached on. "Now, bud, when I drive you up to Hilda's house, you go up and ring the door bell and walk her out to the car." I asked, "Why? It's a short sidewalk and she walks it every day." Dad had that look on his face like, "I sired THIS?" Moving on, Dad continued, "When you and Hilda get to the car, you open the back door for her and then when she's safely and comfortably in, you come around to the other side and get in." "OK".
The big night arrived. I had on my Sunday best; sport coat, white shirt, clip-on plaid bow tie, and my freshly polished white buck shoes. My crew-cut was freshly pomaded and brushed back as if Elsie the Borden cow had given me a huge lick.
We pulled up in front of Hilda's and I hopped out and bounded up the sidewalk. I rapped on the screen door and then there stood Hilda. I hadn't seen that side of her before. She looked like....like....well.....like a woman. She didn't look like she was up for a ballgame or marathon Monopoly. Gone were the rolled up jeans or the Sunday dresses I was accustomed to. I know I stared. I hope it wasn't the slack-jawed stare of the village idiot, but I can't be sure.
Remembering my 'lessons' from the coach, I dutifully escorted Hilda down the sidewalk to the waiting car. I adroitly opened the back door and stood at attention until Hilda was safely inside. I gently closed the door and then walked around to the other side. I opened the door on the other side and got in.
There was just one problem.....I got in the front seat beside Dad.
He gave me that, "I sired THIS?" look again, but said nothing and drove us to the dance. Me in the front seat, happy as a pig in mud, and Hilda in the back seat, looking like she was being arrested.
When we got to the dance, I scampered out and around to open the door for Hilda. As we were walking away, Dad motioned for me to come around to his side of the car. He said, "For God's sake, son, when I pick you all up, get in the back with your date!" He didn't add, "dumb-ass", but I'm sure he considered it.
As I recall, the dance went as normal. Most of the girls sat on one side of the room, the boys on the other. Hilda and I did manage to wander around the floor in what passed as a weak rendition of dancing and we all had a rollicking, 7th grade good time. I did get a passing grade from Dad when I walked Hilda up to her door. He did offer one last bit of coaching, however.
He said, "Son, when you leave a lady at her door, don't run back to the car."
Monday, April 19, 2010
Emily
The Old Man wants to borrow a minute of your time. I've got a lot of pride to show and it won't stay bottled up, so bear with me.
I found out today that the Beta Club still exists. I remember how when I was in high school, there would be an assembly. We loved them....got out of class, you know. Most of them were rife with lameness, but a couple of them were actually, well, fun. There was the awards assembly where athletic letters and such were passed out and there was the very special one where the incoming members of the Beta Club were literally "tapped". Existing members circulated in the auditorium and issued the invitations to those students whose superior intellect and hard work had qualified them for induction into this honor society, by silently tapping them on the shoulder. Then the "tappees" would gather on stage for a standing ovation.
Our granddaughter, Emily, was issued her invitation today. We weren't surprised.....we've known all along just how special and sincere she is. Beautiful, with a great head on her shoulders and a solid grounding in reality coupled with a "killer" work ethic, she has proven herself time and time again. Now, that is being recognized by her peers. And we cheer that.
Emily is unpretentious, and she might even be a bit embarrassed by this posting. She loves to banter and enjoys hearing the recounting of stories from her childhood. Our times together are filled with laughter and sometimes simple silliness, but her depth is great, and she has proven it. She can keep us all on our toes, and much we need that. She is a delight and a joy and we are so very thankful to have her in our lives.
I trust you will join me in saying, "Congratulations, Emily. You go girl".
I found out today that the Beta Club still exists. I remember how when I was in high school, there would be an assembly. We loved them....got out of class, you know. Most of them were rife with lameness, but a couple of them were actually, well, fun. There was the awards assembly where athletic letters and such were passed out and there was the very special one where the incoming members of the Beta Club were literally "tapped". Existing members circulated in the auditorium and issued the invitations to those students whose superior intellect and hard work had qualified them for induction into this honor society, by silently tapping them on the shoulder. Then the "tappees" would gather on stage for a standing ovation.
Our granddaughter, Emily, was issued her invitation today. We weren't surprised.....we've known all along just how special and sincere she is. Beautiful, with a great head on her shoulders and a solid grounding in reality coupled with a "killer" work ethic, she has proven herself time and time again. Now, that is being recognized by her peers. And we cheer that.
Emily is unpretentious, and she might even be a bit embarrassed by this posting. She loves to banter and enjoys hearing the recounting of stories from her childhood. Our times together are filled with laughter and sometimes simple silliness, but her depth is great, and she has proven it. She can keep us all on our toes, and much we need that. She is a delight and a joy and we are so very thankful to have her in our lives.
I trust you will join me in saying, "Congratulations, Emily. You go girl".
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Al Fresco Is Not an Opera Singer
The Old Man isn't much on eating outdoors. My parents, on the other hand, loved it. They would look for any excuse to eat "out in the yard". I think that if we had had to migrate like those Dust Bowl families you see on National Geographic, we'd have an old pick-up, and tied to it would be the picnic table and grill before the household furniture even stood a chance.
Mention "cooking out" and Dad would become as energized as if 110 volts had been selectively applied to his body. He'd have the grill fired up almost before Mom could make up the hamburger patties.
Dad had a way with charcoal. He was a great believer in lighter fluid. I'd be riding my bike a block away late on a summer evening, and I'd see a black mushroom cloud rising from the direction of our house. Dad liked to "add" lighter fluid to already smoldering charcoal if he didn't think the coals were coming along fast enough. I couldn't help but think of those flame-throwers I would see in the news reels at the movie. "Uh-oh", I'd think....another meal being eaten with one hand while swatting flies and bees with the other". Mom would be scurrying around in the kitchen making potato salad and cutting up tomatoes and onions.
I knew without asking we were having either hot dogs or hamburgers. I don't remember steak ever being served in our house and pork chops were only fried. In retrospect, I guess I can see the attraction. With no air conditioning, summer kitchens quickly became a torture chamber, so having a little pollen breeze-driven into your food was perhaps a better option. Mom used mustard in her potato salad, so you couldn't tell anyway.
Perhaps the zenith of their outdoor cooking career came when they bought a little deep-fat fryer. The Battalion would sometimes gather in our yard to play badminton or croquet. These games would go on all afternoon and into the twilight hours. Ever the consummate host, Dad felt he had to provide sustenance. I recall one day he and Mom rigged an extension cord out into the yard, and then peeled, cut, and fried an entire 5 lb. bag of potatoes. Badminton and french fries.....doesn't get much better than that to a 12 year old. They fried so many that I could swear the lights in town dimmed.
Miss Martha and I had lunch today at one of our favorite places. As we came out after our meal, the outdoor dining area was actually busier than the inside one. Folks were enjoying the open air and sunshine. I wanted to give them a word of warning in the event they noticed a yellow cast to their food.
There's no mustard in the potato salad.
Mention "cooking out" and Dad would become as energized as if 110 volts had been selectively applied to his body. He'd have the grill fired up almost before Mom could make up the hamburger patties.
Dad had a way with charcoal. He was a great believer in lighter fluid. I'd be riding my bike a block away late on a summer evening, and I'd see a black mushroom cloud rising from the direction of our house. Dad liked to "add" lighter fluid to already smoldering charcoal if he didn't think the coals were coming along fast enough. I couldn't help but think of those flame-throwers I would see in the news reels at the movie. "Uh-oh", I'd think....another meal being eaten with one hand while swatting flies and bees with the other". Mom would be scurrying around in the kitchen making potato salad and cutting up tomatoes and onions.I knew without asking we were having either hot dogs or hamburgers. I don't remember steak ever being served in our house and pork chops were only fried. In retrospect, I guess I can see the attraction. With no air conditioning, summer kitchens quickly became a torture chamber, so having a little pollen breeze-driven into your food was perhaps a better option. Mom used mustard in her potato salad, so you couldn't tell anyway.
Perhaps the zenith of their outdoor cooking career came when they bought a little deep-fat fryer. The Battalion would sometimes gather in our yard to play badminton or croquet. These games would go on all afternoon and into the twilight hours. Ever the consummate host, Dad felt he had to provide sustenance. I recall one day he and Mom rigged an extension cord out into the yard, and then peeled, cut, and fried an entire 5 lb. bag of potatoes. Badminton and french fries.....doesn't get much better than that to a 12 year old. They fried so many that I could swear the lights in town dimmed.
Miss Martha and I had lunch today at one of our favorite places. As we came out after our meal, the outdoor dining area was actually busier than the inside one. Folks were enjoying the open air and sunshine. I wanted to give them a word of warning in the event they noticed a yellow cast to their food.
There's no mustard in the potato salad.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Bernard
The Old Man thought about Bernard today. Bernard was a little, sort of "dried up" and somewhat sickly looking man who was a part of my early years in our town. Uptown city folks might pronounce his name with an emphasis on the "nard" part.....we didn't. He was just a much loved fellow named BERnard. While Bernard mostly looked happy, with an outgoing personality, he just never looked well; never "hale and hardy" as my mom liked to say. I now understand why.
Sixty-eight years ago this month, April 9th to be exact, Bernard took a hike. It wasn't his idea....no sir, not at all.
The day before, on April 8th, the remainder of the troops stationed on the Bataan peninsula in the Philippine Islands, had surrendered to the Japanese. For several months the brave Americans had held out against insurmountable odds. With food supplies depleted, they subsisted on whatever they could trap or kill. Monkeys and even rats became game. Little did they expect that in a few weeks, monkeys and rats would be considered gourmet delicacies.
The Japanese soldiers, trained and indoctrinated in the ancient code of Bushido, believed that any surrendered prisoner was duty bound to commit suicide. Those that didn't were considered cowardly animals, not worthy of any of even the most basic of human needs or kindnesses. As well, the sheer number of American and Filipino prisoners overwhelmed the Japanese. All of these factors conspired to create what has become known as The Bataan Death March.
Bernard got to walking.
Before the march ended, they had covered 95 miles, 65 of them on foot, and 30 of them crammed into railroad boxcars so tightly that they could not sit down. Men, wracked with dysentery, had their bowels let go where they stood, bathing themselves and those around them in their own filth.
While not reported to me by Bernard, the horror story is well documented. During the march, the prisoners were given no water. Walking in 95 degree heat and jungle humidity became a torture all its own. At one point, the procession passed a little artesian well. Several of the prisoners broke away to attempt to drink. A Japanese guard allowed 5 to drink their fill. When the 6th man bent down to drink, the guard stabbed his bayonet into the man's neck and passed it down into his chest, killing him almost instantly. Prisoners who the Japanese thought too slow were either gunned down or bayoneted. One told of how the bodies were left where they fell and Japanese trucks passed over them until they were unrecognizable puddles. This went on for 4 days. Stumbling along, starving after being fed a ball of moldy rice once per day and forced to subsist on what water they could scrounge....mostly from muddy puddles on the side of the gravel road, many fell out of ranks simply hoping to be mercifully shot. For the next 3-4 years, things got even worse for the prisoners. Many were put on "Hell Ships" and sent to slave labor camps in Japan, toiling in coal mines. Their stories fill volumes.
Bernard along with his business partner ran a successful agricultural business in Bedford. Well liked and sprightly, he never gave any outward indication of what he had endured. In typical fashion of that generation, he made it back and got down to the business of life. I never had the opportunity to talk about this to him, and most people would rather have swallowed broken glass than to have awakened long buried memories. I do remember, however, seeing Bernard's eyes go vacant and watch as I now imagine he was quite possibly being transported in his mind to that particular branch office of Hell.
Thank you, Bernard.
Sixty-eight years ago this month, April 9th to be exact, Bernard took a hike. It wasn't his idea....no sir, not at all.
The day before, on April 8th, the remainder of the troops stationed on the Bataan peninsula in the Philippine Islands, had surrendered to the Japanese. For several months the brave Americans had held out against insurmountable odds. With food supplies depleted, they subsisted on whatever they could trap or kill. Monkeys and even rats became game. Little did they expect that in a few weeks, monkeys and rats would be considered gourmet delicacies.
The Japanese soldiers, trained and indoctrinated in the ancient code of Bushido, believed that any surrendered prisoner was duty bound to commit suicide. Those that didn't were considered cowardly animals, not worthy of any of even the most basic of human needs or kindnesses. As well, the sheer number of American and Filipino prisoners overwhelmed the Japanese. All of these factors conspired to create what has become known as The Bataan Death March.
Bernard got to walking.
Before the march ended, they had covered 95 miles, 65 of them on foot, and 30 of them crammed into railroad boxcars so tightly that they could not sit down. Men, wracked with dysentery, had their bowels let go where they stood, bathing themselves and those around them in their own filth.
While not reported to me by Bernard, the horror story is well documented. During the march, the prisoners were given no water. Walking in 95 degree heat and jungle humidity became a torture all its own. At one point, the procession passed a little artesian well. Several of the prisoners broke away to attempt to drink. A Japanese guard allowed 5 to drink their fill. When the 6th man bent down to drink, the guard stabbed his bayonet into the man's neck and passed it down into his chest, killing him almost instantly. Prisoners who the Japanese thought too slow were either gunned down or bayoneted. One told of how the bodies were left where they fell and Japanese trucks passed over them until they were unrecognizable puddles. This went on for 4 days. Stumbling along, starving after being fed a ball of moldy rice once per day and forced to subsist on what water they could scrounge....mostly from muddy puddles on the side of the gravel road, many fell out of ranks simply hoping to be mercifully shot. For the next 3-4 years, things got even worse for the prisoners. Many were put on "Hell Ships" and sent to slave labor camps in Japan, toiling in coal mines. Their stories fill volumes.
Bernard along with his business partner ran a successful agricultural business in Bedford. Well liked and sprightly, he never gave any outward indication of what he had endured. In typical fashion of that generation, he made it back and got down to the business of life. I never had the opportunity to talk about this to him, and most people would rather have swallowed broken glass than to have awakened long buried memories. I do remember, however, seeing Bernard's eyes go vacant and watch as I now imagine he was quite possibly being transported in his mind to that particular branch office of Hell.
Thank you, Bernard.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Doo Wop Shi Bop & Rama Lama Ding Dong
The Old Man is a "doo wop-er" from way back. I got an early start.
In spite of what you see here, I cannot sing or play a note on anything. I've tried guitar, trumpet, and even a kazoo; all to no avail. I have managed a decent showing on the drums, but that's another story. My point here, is that in spite of the lack of enough talent to carry a tune in a tote sack, my love for music is pretty intense.
Of all the genres of the musical spectrum, my absolute favorite is that one known as Doo Wop. Rooted in Delta blues, refined through the 1940's, polished and matured in the 1950's, it defines teenage love and angst for my generation. Long are the summer nights when I would lay in my bed, struggling to catch a breeze through the open window, listening to radio stations from all over the country play the music that drilled straight from my ears to my heart. Disc jockeys from Nashville, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and Chicago wavered in and out as their broadcast signals bounced around through the atmosphere, playing those great anthems to those of us who were just beginning our journey down the hormone highway.
Matter of fact, it was one of these tunes that, I believe, gave the genre its name. The year was 1956, and in the basement of a New Haven, Connecticut church, a group called The Five Satins recorded "In The Still of The Night" and in the background you can clearly hear, "Doo-wop-shu-waa". To this day, that song transports me back to that wonderfully happy and innocent time. There are countless others as well. If you can find it, listen to the Safaris sing "Image of A Girl". That one captures teen angst over not having a girlfriend better than most any you can imagine. I could go on forever.......we must have a trivia contest sometime.
Through the years, I've been so very blessed to have opportunities to get "up close and personal" with a few notables. I've had dinner with Dianna Ross and the Supremes, The Shirelles, and The Crystals. I've listened to Dion openly discuss the heroin battles of his youth when he sang with the group, Dion & The Belmonts. I've passed a jug back and forth with Sam Cooke, and I've driven Neil Sedaka around Roanoke. (That one took about 30 minutes.) Bobby Vinton sat with me during my all night radio broadcast and we had wondrous conversations. Miss Martha and I have been socially involved with Freddie Cannon. All of this, written at the risk of seeming "braggy", to simply amplify how my life has been a magnificent journey of involvement. The music of my youth takes on even more meaning as I remember the good fortune of being able to meet and interact with those artists who played such a part in my early years.
There have been other encounters; I saw the Everly Brothers for the princely sum of $4.00 admission, I saw Elvis for a much "princelier" sum, and I watched Chuck Berry duck-walk across the stage while pounding out "Johnny B. Goode".
My personal "celebrity scorecard" would be incomplete without tribute to some non-musical heavyweights. I've shaken hands with Bob Hope, gotten an autograph from Alan Shephard, and humbly shaken hands with General Jimmy Doolittle.
But far and away, beyond all others, is a man I met many years ago in a little church in Bedford. His name is Jesus Christ.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Out From Behind The Skirts
The Old Man is in a reflective mood today. Some time back (a gentleman never discusses a lady's age) my life was enhanced exponentially. On this date, Julie barreled into our lives amidst much pacing, groaning, and hoopla. In that day and time, fathers were exiled to a waiting room where the pacing, smoking, and hand-wringing began. It's not that way now. All things considered, I think I prefer the old way. I'm a chicken at heart.
It is so easy to take life events somewhat for granted. In the chaos of everyday life, we are at risk of loosing touch with the special-ness of your child. Babies are born, they cry, they mess, and you love them with all your heart. The cries are music to your ears, the mess a source of fascination, ("Holy stuff....would you look at that? Whew.") and the love flows naturally. It all seems so normal that we come to accept them and not attach enough wonder to them.
As our children grow, we have that precious and rare opportunity to not only guide them as best we, in our stumbling, bumbling way, know how, but to relish the unmitigated joy in seeing them conquer those world that are so new to them.
It was and is that way with you, Julie. I watched you peep out from behind your mom's skirt, one finger in your mouth, your feet sort of pigeon-toed, too timid to take much of a role in the "loud stuff". And then one day it all changed. As I recall it was about Kindergarten time. You not only blossomed, you exploded. From that time on to this moment, you have been a beacon of growth and development that is an inspiration to your Mom and to me. I can't verbalize the depth of my pride in your professionalism, your pro activity, and most of all your ability as a Mom.
You know, Julie, you and I have always had that "Oldies" thing going for us. The old music you adopted as a part of your own. There is a Bobby Goldsboro song, "Watching Scotty Grow". I'll paraphrase a line, ".....me and God, watching Julie grow".
Happy Birthday, honey. You are a link to forever for me. Thank you for ensuring that when I'm gone, I'll still be here.
I love you.
Dad
It is so easy to take life events somewhat for granted. In the chaos of everyday life, we are at risk of loosing touch with the special-ness of your child. Babies are born, they cry, they mess, and you love them with all your heart. The cries are music to your ears, the mess a source of fascination, ("Holy stuff....would you look at that? Whew.") and the love flows naturally. It all seems so normal that we come to accept them and not attach enough wonder to them.
As our children grow, we have that precious and rare opportunity to not only guide them as best we, in our stumbling, bumbling way, know how, but to relish the unmitigated joy in seeing them conquer those world that are so new to them.
It was and is that way with you, Julie. I watched you peep out from behind your mom's skirt, one finger in your mouth, your feet sort of pigeon-toed, too timid to take much of a role in the "loud stuff". And then one day it all changed. As I recall it was about Kindergarten time. You not only blossomed, you exploded. From that time on to this moment, you have been a beacon of growth and development that is an inspiration to your Mom and to me. I can't verbalize the depth of my pride in your professionalism, your pro activity, and most of all your ability as a Mom.
You know, Julie, you and I have always had that "Oldies" thing going for us. The old music you adopted as a part of your own. There is a Bobby Goldsboro song, "Watching Scotty Grow". I'll paraphrase a line, ".....me and God, watching Julie grow".
Happy Birthday, honey. You are a link to forever for me. Thank you for ensuring that when I'm gone, I'll still be here.
I love you.
Dad
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Folsom Prison Blues
The Old Man has been to the jail a few times. Now before you raise a salacious eyebrow, I've not been a "resident", but rather visited often. While some of my relatives have been colorful, to the best of my knowledge none have ever been "guests of the town". My dad's uncle was a deputy sheriff and was the jail keeper. He and his family lived in the jail building as well, so when we got together it was usually in close proximity to the, as Miss Alma would call them, "jailbirds . In the picture, the entire front portion of the building contained the living quarters as well as the sheriff's office. You can just make out a rear section (with the curved window) that housed the actual jail portion. It connected to the living quarters by a steel door from the kitchen.
Uncle Dillard and Aunt Della Shields (pronounced in our Bedford-accent-family as Unca Dillud & Ain't Della) were 'salt of the earth' people. My entire memory of them consists of laughter, good food, and family. They raised three children while living in the quite spacious living quarters, and we got together often. If a meal was involved, we were treated to standard country fare; fried chicken, steak and gravy, or country ham steaks with 3-5 vegetables and hot biscuits were pretty standard suppers. Now, the remarkable part of this was that since Ain't Della did all the cooking for the kept souls in the back, they ate like kings. She and Unca carried food back to the prisoners first, and then we all feasted.
When we were through the cobbler, they would round up the plates and trays. A couple of times they let me help.....creeped me out. They were mostly folks who were there due to fighting, cutting, moonshining, or general mischief. I can't recall even hearing of a murder or armed robbery. You could count on a population explosion on Sunday due to Saturday night frivolities.
Many of the residents claimed Taylor's Mountain as their home. This was a mountain a few miles outside of town with its own set of rules and guidelines; its own culture. I once worked for a local florist as a delivery driver. I headed up the mountain one Monday afternoon and as I progressed, heads peeped out from behind trees to see what I was about.
To give you a flavor of the times, from the late 1940's three entries in the book, "Historical Diary of Bedford, Virginia. USA From Ancient Times to U.S. Bicentennial" by Peter Viemeister speak volumes:
Uncle Dillard and Aunt Della Shields (pronounced in our Bedford-accent-family as Unca Dillud & Ain't Della) were 'salt of the earth' people. My entire memory of them consists of laughter, good food, and family. They raised three children while living in the quite spacious living quarters, and we got together often. If a meal was involved, we were treated to standard country fare; fried chicken, steak and gravy, or country ham steaks with 3-5 vegetables and hot biscuits were pretty standard suppers. Now, the remarkable part of this was that since Ain't Della did all the cooking for the kept souls in the back, they ate like kings. She and Unca carried food back to the prisoners first, and then we all feasted.When we were through the cobbler, they would round up the plates and trays. A couple of times they let me help.....creeped me out. They were mostly folks who were there due to fighting, cutting, moonshining, or general mischief. I can't recall even hearing of a murder or armed robbery. You could count on a population explosion on Sunday due to Saturday night frivolities.
Many of the residents claimed Taylor's Mountain as their home. This was a mountain a few miles outside of town with its own set of rules and guidelines; its own culture. I once worked for a local florist as a delivery driver. I headed up the mountain one Monday afternoon and as I progressed, heads peeped out from behind trees to see what I was about.
To give you a flavor of the times, from the late 1940's three entries in the book, "Historical Diary of Bedford, Virginia. USA From Ancient Times to U.S. Bicentennial" by Peter Viemeister speak volumes:
- "Three stills seized on Taylor's Mountain. Moonshiners escape."
- "Classified ad: 'Special Notice..Members of the Taylor's Mountain Sunday Afternoon Poker Club watch your step and be careful."
- "For the first time, Taylor's Mountain children can attend high school, but only in good weather. Citizens improve the road that is impassable to school buses. Now W. A. Parker using truck to take 18-20 youths to a school bus station. Unless weather is bad."
Folks there were born tough and grew up tougher, so it was no wonder that some were "Dillard's Dinner Guests" from time to time.
I haven't been back to that area for a long time. Quite possibly some hot-shot real estate developer may have turned Taylor's Mountain into an upscale refuge from the evils of the big city. In a way, I hope that I am wrong. Some trees just lend themselves to being peeped out from behind.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It's Off To Work I Go
The Old Man believes in work. Work is basic to life. The most elementary form of life on the planet must work to survive. At the risk of crossing over onto the "soap-box platform" I promised to keep out of my musings, I have no use for any able bodied person who simply refuses to work. Social parasites they. My harshness is rooted in the culture of my upbringing. People didn't really think of themselves as having a career....they simply had a job. And a job they took pride in doing well, and a company that rewarded that pride with loyalty and security. Somewhere along the line, sadly, that seems to have changed. ( I'm perilously close to the edge of my "box" here, so let me move on).
I recall my very first job. Around the age of 11, an older lady several houses up the street stopped me on my way home from school one afternoon. Now, to any one of the Park Street Battalion this would be a fearful experience. We were all born with a sort of collective guilty conscience, not knowing exactly what we had done wrong, but assuming we had done something, because we usually had. She was an intimidating lady...looking like Aunt Bea after being out of Premarin for five days, greatly contributing to my unease. Surprise! She asked if I would like to earn some money. "Yesum" was my grateful reply.
Like a lot of Bedford, these folks heated with coal. The coal burning furnace left these great lava-looking rocks called "clinkers". The homeowner would empty these into metal garbage cans and take them to the curb a couple of times a week for pick-up. Sounds like a simple job....easy money. She said I could start tomorrow.
I was excited and rushed home to break the good news of my gainful employment. School dragged by the next day and when the bell rang I literally ran home. I stopped off to get busy. I grabbed hold of the wire handle of the first can and nearly pulled my arm out of its socket. Forget carrying...I tugged, dragged, and puffed that can up what seemed like the 256 mile driveway, all the while thinking, "Crap, I've got another one to go". I managed; not only that day but for the rest of the winter. I learned a couple of 'life lessons' from that job.....
(A) No job will be as easy as you think and
(B) Always inquire about the pay. For my efforts I was paid a nickel per can....the princely sum of twenty cents per week. Of course, Mary Janes and Mint Julips were a penny each, so life was good.
Snow meant opportunity! The going rate for shoveling a sidewalk was fifty cents. Driveways were mostly gravel so they seldom got shoveled. Everyone had tire chains on anyway. When snow flew I put into use another thing I had learned from the "curse of the clinkers":
(C). How badly someone wanted to get out of the house directly affected the price they were willing to pay. The Old Man figured out supply side economics at an early age.
Come spring, lawns needed mowing. I've mowed a ton of them for a dollar. Compared to clinkers, I was in the economic stratosphere. I could move up from Mary Janes and Mint Julips to Sugar Daddies and BB Bats.
I firmly believe the best lessons we get in life are those we are not aware we are learning. Even with the grumbling and struggling, a kid can learn a lot from a clinker.
I recall my very first job. Around the age of 11, an older lady several houses up the street stopped me on my way home from school one afternoon. Now, to any one of the Park Street Battalion this would be a fearful experience. We were all born with a sort of collective guilty conscience, not knowing exactly what we had done wrong, but assuming we had done something, because we usually had. She was an intimidating lady...looking like Aunt Bea after being out of Premarin for five days, greatly contributing to my unease. Surprise! She asked if I would like to earn some money. "Yesum" was my grateful reply.
Like a lot of Bedford, these folks heated with coal. The coal burning furnace left these great lava-looking rocks called "clinkers". The homeowner would empty these into metal garbage cans and take them to the curb a couple of times a week for pick-up. Sounds like a simple job....easy money. She said I could start tomorrow.
I was excited and rushed home to break the good news of my gainful employment. School dragged by the next day and when the bell rang I literally ran home. I stopped off to get busy. I grabbed hold of the wire handle of the first can and nearly pulled my arm out of its socket. Forget carrying...I tugged, dragged, and puffed that can up what seemed like the 256 mile driveway, all the while thinking, "Crap, I've got another one to go". I managed; not only that day but for the rest of the winter. I learned a couple of 'life lessons' from that job.....
(A) No job will be as easy as you think and
(B) Always inquire about the pay. For my efforts I was paid a nickel per can....the princely sum of twenty cents per week. Of course, Mary Janes and Mint Julips were a penny each, so life was good.
Snow meant opportunity! The going rate for shoveling a sidewalk was fifty cents. Driveways were mostly gravel so they seldom got shoveled. Everyone had tire chains on anyway. When snow flew I put into use another thing I had learned from the "curse of the clinkers":
(C). How badly someone wanted to get out of the house directly affected the price they were willing to pay. The Old Man figured out supply side economics at an early age.
Come spring, lawns needed mowing. I've mowed a ton of them for a dollar. Compared to clinkers, I was in the economic stratosphere. I could move up from Mary Janes and Mint Julips to Sugar Daddies and BB Bats.
I firmly believe the best lessons we get in life are those we are not aware we are learning. Even with the grumbling and struggling, a kid can learn a lot from a clinker.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Clanking Chains, Reving Engines, and Screams of Joy
The Old Man has heard that one of his old friends isn't doing so well these days. I hate that because I would love to have the opportunity to rehash some snow stories with her. It snowed here last night and into today. There are about 7-8 inches on the ground and the temperature is hovering around 19-20 degrees. Tonight should bring bitter cold, demanding that people of good sense draw closer to the fire.....just the kind of night the Park Street Battalion lived for.
Adults really seemed to miss out on the fun. Snow always brought clanking tire chains, engines roaring with "stuck" vehicles, and curses and general "bitchiness" all round. But to the Battalion, snow meant one thing....sledding. There were several hills in our neighborhood that could provide a pretty fair ride with little real danger. We usually stuck to these in the daytime to appease our parents who could watch from their kitchen windows. But then came nightfall.
Nighttime sledding happened at my friend's house. Her family had a small farm out past the cemetery, complete with a couple of killer hills. There would be 8-10 of us there from just after supper until either 11:00 PM or the onset of wet, cold, and miserable; whichever came first.
Now, keep in mind, this was Bedford.....not Squaw Valley. Fleece and GoreTex were not yet invented. We had long johns, blue jeans, and what seemed like 23 layers of shirts and sweaters, topped off with a (usually) plaid thigh length coat we called a Mackinaw. Top this off with a leather cap with these fake fur ear flaps and we were ready Teddy.
So....off we went. We trudged out through the cemetery, shortcutting over a few of the dearly departed, past the farmhouse and the barn until we came to the crest of the slope. First things first; we would build a fire. Then some repeated trips up and down the 'run' to prepare the track. No straight shot for us.....nosir. We had a couple of curves, a ramp, and a 90 degree turn at the bottom.........just before the creek.
It was usually on the second or third run when Kenny would go in the creek. You see, Kenny was sort of the unofficial daredevil of the group. The rest of us were wannabees. He would test himself each time he went down by waiting until the last minute before his hard right turn to avoid Armageddon. Most of the time he failed. Now you can see the importance of the fire.
Kenny wasn't the only one who needed to avail himself of the fire. Sometimes there would be three or four of us standing around the blaze, generating enough fog from our wet jeans (creek water seldom penetrated the other 23 layers) to present a hazard to air travel.
Somehow, we managed to pass many a winter evening without major calamity other than a few bumps and bruises, minor cuts, and sides sore from laughing. There was a simple and basic joy in that time that we adults seem very good at slipping under the rug for fear of looking foolish. I understand that my friend is now in a darker place, but I hope that at some level she can remember us all, standing by the fire, generating fog, and laughing hysterically, worrying about nothing other than whether or not we could get just one more run.
Adults really seemed to miss out on the fun. Snow always brought clanking tire chains, engines roaring with "stuck" vehicles, and curses and general "bitchiness" all round. But to the Battalion, snow meant one thing....sledding. There were several hills in our neighborhood that could provide a pretty fair ride with little real danger. We usually stuck to these in the daytime to appease our parents who could watch from their kitchen windows. But then came nightfall.
Nighttime sledding happened at my friend's house. Her family had a small farm out past the cemetery, complete with a couple of killer hills. There would be 8-10 of us there from just after supper until either 11:00 PM or the onset of wet, cold, and miserable; whichever came first.
Now, keep in mind, this was Bedford.....not Squaw Valley. Fleece and GoreTex were not yet invented. We had long johns, blue jeans, and what seemed like 23 layers of shirts and sweaters, topped off with a (usually) plaid thigh length coat we called a Mackinaw. Top this off with a leather cap with these fake fur ear flaps and we were ready Teddy.
So....off we went. We trudged out through the cemetery, shortcutting over a few of the dearly departed, past the farmhouse and the barn until we came to the crest of the slope. First things first; we would build a fire. Then some repeated trips up and down the 'run' to prepare the track. No straight shot for us.....nosir. We had a couple of curves, a ramp, and a 90 degree turn at the bottom.........just before the creek.
It was usually on the second or third run when Kenny would go in the creek. You see, Kenny was sort of the unofficial daredevil of the group. The rest of us were wannabees. He would test himself each time he went down by waiting until the last minute before his hard right turn to avoid Armageddon. Most of the time he failed. Now you can see the importance of the fire.
Kenny wasn't the only one who needed to avail himself of the fire. Sometimes there would be three or four of us standing around the blaze, generating enough fog from our wet jeans (creek water seldom penetrated the other 23 layers) to present a hazard to air travel.
Somehow, we managed to pass many a winter evening without major calamity other than a few bumps and bruises, minor cuts, and sides sore from laughing. There was a simple and basic joy in that time that we adults seem very good at slipping under the rug for fear of looking foolish. I understand that my friend is now in a darker place, but I hope that at some level she can remember us all, standing by the fire, generating fog, and laughing hysterically, worrying about nothing other than whether or not we could get just one more run.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
A Horse is A Horse of Course of Course
The Old Man hasn't been on a horse in a long, long, long time. Such wasn't always the case. Robbie's family owned a couple of horses. I recall one summer............
Let me set the stage for you a bit. In and around Bedford, quite a number of folks owned horses and ponys. Some were for show, some for work (for many years our garden was plowed by a horse), and some for the sheer joy of riding. My parents grew up around horses and both knew how to ride. We had friends who had horses and ponys. I would relish times when I could "spend the day" with them and indulge my Gene Autry fantasies. Loaded up with cap guns and ropes, we would ramble all over the farm, robbing stagecoaches or battling "redskins". The world was a safer place when we guarded from our 4 ft. tall Shetlands.
Let me set the stage for you a bit. In and around Bedford, quite a number of folks owned horses and ponys. Some were for show, some for work (for many years our garden was plowed by a horse), and some for the sheer joy of riding. My parents grew up around horses and both knew how to ride. We had friends who had horses and ponys. I would relish times when I could "spend the day" with them and indulge my Gene Autry fantasies. Loaded up with cap guns and ropes, we would ramble all over the farm, robbing stagecoaches or battling "redskins". The world was a safer place when we guarded from our 4 ft. tall Shetlands.
Once I outgrew the "pony stage", things morphed from "trot" to "gallop". Back to Robbie. His family owned a couple of horses. I don't remember their names, but it was something almost bucolic like, 'Sam' or 'Gus'. Let's go with those. One summer, Robbie and I rode every non-rainy day. We'd saddle up in the morning and ride around the town and through the surrounding fields until lunch. After lunch we'd be back at it again. In my 12 year old hubris, I was quite confident that I cut an imposing figure.....tall in the saddle.....move over Randolph Scott.
Sam was a bit spirited, so Robbie always rode him. I became the monkey on Gus's back. Gus had a somewhat temperamental digestive system. Some days it was "trot, plop, trot, plop". I'm sure people thought, "Oh hell, here comes that idiot with the four legged fertilizer factory." Gus left his share of "biscuits".
Old Gus was like an equine Basset Hound. He had a lovable face and disposition. He just sort of moped along, occasionally snorting and then plopping. Once in a while, I could get him up to a little better than a trot. He'd move up to canter with a good bit of urging, but I never remember "gallop" entering his vocabulary.
Enter 'Janie'. Janie lived near me and even at 12 was beginning to move over from the "Our Gang" stage to the "Hummmmmmmmmm" stage. So Janie garnered attention. One day, I suggested that Janie go for a ride. She readily agreed and climbed up on Gus behind me. Randolph Scott....you ain't nothin. All went well for about an hour. We trotted and plopped all over town. People took notice.....how did the idiot manage that?
While old Gus was meandering through one of the fields over behind the cemetery, Janie and I were feeling pretty competent. Then something clicked in Gus's mind. Maybe it was the realization that he had extra weight, or perhaps it was some sort of neurological short circuit, but Gus decided that he was going home. He abruptly spun around and reversed course. I flew off one way and Janie the other. Two memories stay with me clearly to this day; Gus hauling ass in a cloud of dust toward his beloved barn, and Janie sitting in the dirt, spinning like a gyroscope.
Fortunately, we were both fine with no major damage. Pretty much from that point on, however, Robbie rode alone. 'Janie' remained a good friend, and even though we were never an "item", our families shared many good times together and I remember her fondly. I think of Gus too....every time I lick an envelope.
Monday, January 11, 2010
How's It Goin', Miss Alma?
The Old Man is thinking about his Mom today. Were she still operating in this dimension, this would be her 105th birthday. We'd probably take her out for pizza. She loved "pizza pie". Shocked us one year when she ordered a beer to go with her "pie". I always thought Mom was a strict tee-totaller up until then. So we joined her......after all, no one should drink alone. I was about half way through my glass when she poured herself a second from the small pitcher. For a predictable, habit-driven, organization freak (this said with greatest respect and admiration) she always had a surprise up her often mended sleeve.
Mother was frugal. A child of rural "gettin' by" culture and a first hand witness to the Great Depression, she could squeeze more usefulness out of an object than anyone I've known....ever.
She would collect old neckties that friends wanted to throw away and make throw pillows out of them. She could get more use out of a chicken than the chicken could. She dealt in home remedies for most of the common ailments (she pronounced them 'ail-i-ments') and we were much the better for it. She would buy a canned ham in July because it was on special and save it until she could cook my birthday dinner in November. She kept some "smokes" in the kitchen cabinet and would fire one up after supper when she and Dad rested on the front porch.
She was a crack shot. Before I came along and redirected her focus, she and Dad would hunt rabbits and squirrels together, shoot skeet, and take Old Jake the bird dog to field trials. I still have her shotgun. It hadn't been fired for at least 30 years so a while back I took it to a turkey shoot. The old single shot 20 gauge belched and boomed and I couldn't help but feel a connection to her.
Mom loved to fish. We would go fishing almost every weekend during the summer. Always on Saturday; after all, no decent person would defile the Sabbath by such pursuits. Every time her bobber would dive, she'd squeal with delight. Dad would say, "Bring 'em in, Babe."
She was one to confront a problem head-on. I recall one Saturday morning, she decided that our old car needed a face lift. So...out came the brushes. That's right, she painted the car top to bottom with black enamel; all of it brushed carefully on. As I remember, it didn't look too bad. Of course that was before Candy Apple Red was even thought of.
But beyond the frugality, the sportsmanship, and the proactive approach to life, I think my favorite part of Miss Alma was her sense of humor. I'm eternally in her debt for passing that gene on to me. There were 3 jokes that were her all-time favorites, and she would repeat them to anyone whom she thought hadn't heard them before. So as her tribute on this her 105th, here they are:
"Do you know the 3 parts of a cook stove? Lifter, leg, and poker"
"Have you ever been bedridden? No but I have twice in a buggy."
"Did you hear about the 3 moles going through their tunnel? The first mole said, 'I smell biscuits". The 2nd mole said, 'I smell butter'. And the 3rd mole said, 'I smell molasses."
I hope you and Dad enjoy your day, Mom. We miss you.
Mother was frugal. A child of rural "gettin' by" culture and a first hand witness to the Great Depression, she could squeeze more usefulness out of an object than anyone I've known....ever.
She would collect old neckties that friends wanted to throw away and make throw pillows out of them. She could get more use out of a chicken than the chicken could. She dealt in home remedies for most of the common ailments (she pronounced them 'ail-i-ments') and we were much the better for it. She would buy a canned ham in July because it was on special and save it until she could cook my birthday dinner in November. She kept some "smokes" in the kitchen cabinet and would fire one up after supper when she and Dad rested on the front porch.
She was a crack shot. Before I came along and redirected her focus, she and Dad would hunt rabbits and squirrels together, shoot skeet, and take Old Jake the bird dog to field trials. I still have her shotgun. It hadn't been fired for at least 30 years so a while back I took it to a turkey shoot. The old single shot 20 gauge belched and boomed and I couldn't help but feel a connection to her.
Mom loved to fish. We would go fishing almost every weekend during the summer. Always on Saturday; after all, no decent person would defile the Sabbath by such pursuits. Every time her bobber would dive, she'd squeal with delight. Dad would say, "Bring 'em in, Babe."She was one to confront a problem head-on. I recall one Saturday morning, she decided that our old car needed a face lift. So...out came the brushes. That's right, she painted the car top to bottom with black enamel; all of it brushed carefully on. As I remember, it didn't look too bad. Of course that was before Candy Apple Red was even thought of.
But beyond the frugality, the sportsmanship, and the proactive approach to life, I think my favorite part of Miss Alma was her sense of humor. I'm eternally in her debt for passing that gene on to me. There were 3 jokes that were her all-time favorites, and she would repeat them to anyone whom she thought hadn't heard them before. So as her tribute on this her 105th, here they are:
"Do you know the 3 parts of a cook stove? Lifter, leg, and poker"
"Have you ever been bedridden? No but I have twice in a buggy."
"Did you hear about the 3 moles going through their tunnel? The first mole said, 'I smell biscuits". The 2nd mole said, 'I smell butter'. And the 3rd mole said, 'I smell molasses."
I hope you and Dad enjoy your day, Mom. We miss you.
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