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

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:

• "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.

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.