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."

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".

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.

Mom had an uncanny ability to spot a fly beginning his dive toward the table. She could grab the fly swatter and send him to fly heaven without missing a bite of her burger. She'd giggle and say, "Got the little rascal".

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.

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.