Never Forget

The Old Man remembers his heroes.  I honor your sacrifice made 70 years ago today.

Thank you.

Thanksgiving Thought

The Old Man is in Thanksgiving mode today.  Like most, I look forward to the day of reflection on life's blessings, and to be sure, food will play heavily into the day's observance.  So, to all, I say:
 Stay focused on the positive things in your life, and don't forget to express your thanks....to God and to all those who contribute beauty to your existence.  And put the ability to laugh high on your list.

Here is my secret recipe for the Thanksgiving feasting.

    Roast Turkey

1 - 15 lb. Turkey
1 cup melted butter
1 cup stuffing (Pepperidge Farm is Good)
1 cup un-popped popcorn (ORVILLE REDENBACHER’S LOW FAT IS BEST) Salt/pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Brush turkey well with melted butter, salt and pepper. 

Fill cavity with stuffing and popcorn. Place in baking pan making sure the neck end is toward the front of the oven, not the back. 

After about 4 hours listen for the popping sounds. 

When the turkey’s rear blows the oven door open and the bird flies across the room,.... it’s done.

Gimme a Popsicle Stick and I'll Make You a Record

The Old Man turns his thoughts to high school around this time of year.  I suppose it's the football-falling leaves-early darkness syndrome that tends to move me full-bore into nostalgia mode despite my best resistance.  It seems that some of my most enjoyable times occurred during the period from September through Christmas. That concept may be rationalization, but "that's my story and I'm sticking with it".

 One of the memories that sustain my reverie is that of the band.  We were called The Sportsters. Arthur, Johnny, David, Ralph and I banged our way around Bedford and surrounding towns from 1958 through 1961, or thereabouts,  playing at several "joints", some college fraternity parties, and on a couple of American Bandstand-style dance shows on local television.  Heady stuff when you're 18.

A recent exchange about that day and time opened one of my mental safe-deposit boxes, and the memories played leap-frog to the front burner.  Like puppies fighting for attention, they came at me.

Considering the cost of concerts these days, we were cavemen.  There was one road house just outside of town called the B & H Drive-in.  We had a regular booking there each Saturday night for a while.  As I recall,  with our percentage of the gate, we would each normally earn about $10.00 for a 4-hour "gig".  We'd "whomp & bomp" and "shoo-bop" our hearts out, and feel like we were rich when counting-up time came at the end of the evening.  Once in a while, things would get lively with a knifing or a simple fist-fight, but as the saying goes, "the band played on".

We played some frat parties at the University of Virginia.  They generally ended with us playing to just a few people while the majority of the crowd seemed to have been stricken with some sort of sleeping sickness, usually preceded by a bout with nausea.  The money was good, though.  Paid up-front and netting us around $30.00 each, we were in tall cotton.

We had one "roadie".  His name was Tucker and he just loved to go around with us for the fun of it.  He would help us set up our one amplifier, my meager set of drums, and the two microphones.  I look at equipment in today's entertainment world in total wonderment.  A DJ at a wedding in Slugo, Va. has 3 times the equipment that we had.

As in any enterprise, the character mix was eclectic.  Arthur was a good Elvis-style singer, Johnny was a gifted and creative guitarist, our saxophonist, David, was the most musically talented one, I managed to stay on the beat most of the time, and then there was Ralph.  Ralph is the guy playing the stand-up bass in the photo.  Ralph had a bit more electronic knowledge than musical ability, but he managed to bang that old bass with abandon.  Sometimes he was actually on key.  On occasion, our one amp would develop a problem.  Ralph would tear into it, and amid a shower of sparks and much popping and cracking, manage to solder (he carried a soldering iron, "just in case") some connection somewhere in the innards and the show would go on.  Ever the handyman, once when the neck of his base was broken in a minor car accident on the way to an out-of-town engagement, Ralph rounded up a few popsicle sticks and some scotch tape and made the repair.  He slapped that bass until closing time.

Johnny is gone now, David has made a professional career in the music business, Arthur and I made our career in other areas, and Ralph disappeared into the mists of history.  But sometimes, late at night, I can still hear a few "whomp-de-bomps", the magic of autumn paves over the rough spots in life, and the old drum riffs with their heavy back-beat carry me away.

Yeee Haaaaa!

The Old Man is pretty much "Southern" to the core.  Regular readers may note that my musings often speak of things indigenous to the region of my heritage.  In keeping with that line of thought, I pass along something that a friend of mine sent me.  If you are truly Southern, you'll find a chuckle, I hope.  If you are not, laugh anyway....it's good for you.

THE TOP 31 THINGS THAT YOU WILL NEVER HEAR A SOUTHERN BOY SAY:
31. When I retire, I'm movin' north.

30. Oh I just couldn't, she's only sixteen.

29. I'll take Shakespeare for 1000, Alex.

28. Duct tape won't fix that.

27. Come to think of it, I'll have a Heineken

26. We don't keep firearms in this house.

25. You can't feed that to the dog.

24. No kids in the back of the pickup, it's just not safe.

23. Wrestling is fake.

22. We're vegetarians.

21. Do you think my gut is too big?

20. I'll have grapefruit and grapes instead of biscuits and gravy.

19. Honey, we don't need another dog.

18. Who gives a damn who won the Civil War?

17. Give me the small bag of pork rinds.

16. Too many deer heads detract from the decor.

15. I just couldn't find a thing at Wal-Mart today.

14. Trim the fat off that steak.

13. Cappuccino tastes better than espresso.

12. The tires on that truck are too big.

11. I've got it all on the C: DRIVE.

10. Unsweetened tea tastes better.

9. My fiancé, Bobbie Jo, is registered at Tiffany's.

8. I've got two cases of Zima for the Super Bowl.

7. Checkmate

6. She's too young to be wearing a bikini.

5. Hey, here's an episode of "Hee Haw" that we haven't seen.!

4. I don't have a favorite college team.

3. You Guys.

2. Those shorts ought to be a little longer, Betty Mae.

AND THE NUMBER ONE THING THAT YOU WILL NEVER HEAR A SOUTHERN BOY SAY:
1. Nope, no more beer for me. I'm heading up the campaign to re-elect OBAMA!

Listening To The Band

The Old Man loves this time of the year.  Some have bemoaned Fall as being depressing and glum, what with winter coming on and all.  But hang winter.....fall is special, perhaps more a feeling than a season.  I love the color, the crispness in the air, that feeling of coziness when outside temperatures began their gradual decline, and most of all, I love the reflections of autumns past; of festivals, football, and wood smoke.  And I remember the band.

Bedford didn't have a high school band.  We had the Bedford Firemen's Band.  It was made up of some of our volunteer firemen with the addition of those of us who could be coerced, cajoled, or cornered into joining.  I was one of the latter.

Our band would play at the town Christmas parade, the high school homecoming game, and maybe the 4th of July celebration.  We would travel to other towns to play at festivals and march in parades.  The highlight of our year was our trip to the Tobacco Festival in Richmond, Va.  That was a big deal.  Of course, to us a Kumquat Festival would have been a big deal.  One thing sticks clearly in my memory; we seemed to always get stuck behind the local equestrian club.  Whether English or Western, horses seem to find a band behind them to be quite upsetting to their systems.  Out of necessity, we learned to side-step like the Philadelphia Mummers Ferko String Band. 

Through the years, I've discovered a number of things at which I am not gifted.  Trumpet is one of them.  I could make "Grand Old Flag" or "Stars & Stripes Forever" sound like a lovesick aardvark, so my band career was short-lived.  All was not lost, however, as the concept of 'band' and 'football' surfaced years later when I took on a challenge even greater than trumpet....parenthood.

Like most folks, I suppose, my trip through parenthood has been a lot like my band career.  At times I've blown some really sour notes and I've had to side-step and shuck-and-jive.  But once in a while I think I've gotten it right.  Both of our daughters have, at some point when we felt they were not performing up to their potential, gotten the "Listening to the Band" lecture.  It went something like this.

" I really believe you can do better.  You've got what it takes to succeed in anything you tackle.  It seems to me that you're listening to the band."  I'd get that blank look that tells parents your child is thinking, "Huh" or has tuned you out completely.  So I'd continue, "Think about the Brookville football team.  They're playing Jefferson Forest and Brookville is behind 4 points. Brookville has the ball. The time on the clock is down to 7 seconds.  It's 3rd down and the quarterback hands off to his best running back.  The back breaks 4 tackles, reverses his field, and is clearly heading unopposed for a touchdown to win the game.  As he runs by the home bench, the pep band starts to play.  Distracted, he stumbles and loses focus trying to figure out what the band is playing.  Tacklers catch up to him, bring him down and time runs out.  Well, it seems to me that you are like that runner; you're being distracted by the "band", and you're losing your focus.  It's time to stick to business."

It must have worked because those two daughters are now my heroes.  They have matured into two of the finest parents I've ever known.  They've met challenge after challenge and acquitted themselves with dignity, honor, and class.  

Maybe I wasn't that bad at trumpet either.

     

Arrrrgh

The Old Man launches from where he left off.  The contractor engaged to build the USS Neversail had some unique ideas about boat building.  At least they seemed that way to me.  Most of the rowboats I had seen were aluminum with lots of rivets and all painted in an olive drab finish.  I suppose at the princely rental rate of 50 cents per half day, I shouldn't be so picky.  This fellow built up the sides of the boat with overlapping boards, much like lapped siding on a house.  I assume he steamed them to achieve the proper bend to form the bow. He then cut plywood to fit the shape of the gunwales and screwed the whole deal together.  After adding 4 seats, his part of the mission was accomplished.

Dad had this "rough" upturned on a couple of saw horses under one of the dutch elm trees in our back yard. It fell to the lot of the capt'n and his first mate to do all of the sanding, caulking, and painting.  Caulking meant something vastly different from today's tubes of silicone enhanced wonder goo and the guns that make the process so efficient.  We caulked by stuffing the seams between the boards with some gooey rope, and then had to press putty into place to further seal the joint.  I use the term "we" loosely...my job was to "keep the rope coming, bud".  I fed it to Dad as he poked and smoothed.  As the month wore on, I began to wonder if we would have to chip ice off of the lake to make our maiden cruise.  Occasionally, I'd see Mom at the kitchen window, shaking her head and smiling.  Dad would take a break to stretch his back and relight his pipe and he'd look at our work and say, "Ain't she a beauty?".  "Yessir" I'd respond.

Tragedy struck during the sanding phase of our shipbuilding career.  I've already mentioned how Dad had the greenest thumb of anyone I've ever known.  He could take a patch of  red clay, some seeds, and a pickup load of stable muck, and feed us for an entire winter.  There are trade-offs in life.  His carpentry and tool skills were as weak as my thumb is far from green.  He hadn't learned the magic words, "sanding block" yet.  He just took a sheet of sandpaper and had at it.  While sanding away, I heard him grunt and then say a pretty pronounced, "Arrrrrrgh".  He was staring at his right hand and blood was beginning to stain the port side of our vessel.  His sanding activity had driven a splinter complete through his little finger about 1/4 inch from the tip.  Entering on one side, it poked it's tail out the other.  After his, "arrrrgh", he said, "We've got to go."

We hopped in the car and headed over town to Lyle"s Drug Store.  The druggist, called Dr. Lyle by everyone, in that day and time didn't just dispense medicine.  He would remove stuff from your eye, bandage small cuts, and remove splinters.  No charge, of course, except for any materials he may use.
Dr. Lyle pulled the splinter through Dad's finger, applied a little iodine, and bandaged the wound.

We got home and the shipyard was closed for the day.  When time came to paint our ship, Dad said he was going to leave the little blood stains on her.  He said it made the boat a little more his.  I didn't understand it then......I do now.

We 3 had a fine time with the boat.  We rowed that old girl all over Bedford County Lake, fishing, laughing, dreaming, and relishing life.  I remember how safe I felt.

I can't recall what ever became of that old boat;  I'm sure Dad sold her after her usefulness had passed, but whoever bought the USS Neversail could never remove Dad's "brand", and when the boat finally rotted away, she took a part of him with her.

Aye, aye, captain....some day I'll ask, "Permission to come aboard, sir".

Ahoy, Avast, and Arrrrgh

The Old Man has a history with boats.  Through the years I've owned a couple and ridden on many more. There have been good days, bad days, and a lot of in-between days, floating around on little ponds and big oceans. Some practical wisdom says the only thing better than owning a boat is having a good friend who owns one.  I've come to agree.

July and August in our town are generally still and hot.  Lawns browned out and gave rise to the little atolls of green known as grasshopper weeds.  Kids loved them.  The Battalion would have contests to see who could shoot the heads of these weeds the furthest.  Girls liked to make necklaces out of them, and wore them proudly for a couple of days.  Cicadas screamed and mourning doves moaned with the twilight.  Even the dust seemed too hot and lazy to fly around with any degree of friskiness.

My dad did not have a lot of experience with boats.  He knew a lot about mules and plows, but his nautical savvy would barely overfill a thimble.  Give him a rowboat to fish from and he was at the upper levels of his naval skill set.  We would visit The Lake, a county park about 10 miles outside of town, at every opportunity.  There, they rented rowboats for, as I recall, 50 cents for a half day.  You could then row around to your heart's content and fish the "deeps".  Even as a kid, I always wondered why fishermen on the banks tried to throw their line out as far as possible, and those in boats tried to get theirs as close to the bank as they could. Speaks to a fundamental human characteristic, I suppose.

At any rate, Dad decided to save all those half-dollars and build his own boat.  He contracted with a co-worker to put the USS Neversail together.  While the "Shade-tree Boatyard" was working it's magic, Dad figured to name me his first mate, and decided I needed rowing lessons.  He taught me how to put the oars in the oarlocks and demonstrated the basics of rowing, turning, and docking.  One of the things that would drive Dad crazy was what he called, "catching crabs".  This is when you have lifted your oars out of the water to return to the start position, and let one of them slip down into the water on that return stroke.  He said that scared the fish, but I mostly think the resulting splash ticked him off since it flew directly into the captain's lap.

He had me "practice" all over that lake.  It's really not that big, but to a little guy with big blisters, it might as well have been the Indian Ocean.  Dad was usually busy "practicing" his fishing during these coaching sessions. I ran across a couple of pictures of The Lake. They don't do it justice, and a lot of changes have been made, but you get the idea.

So now, as they say, the scene is set.  Coming up next time, the "arrrrgh" portion of the story.

The Old Farmer

The Old Man has been taking advantage of the more temperate weather for the last couple of days.  I've been cleaning out my collard bed.  About the only thing I can grow in my shady area with any degree of success is a fair crop of collard greens.  I have a raised bed that has returned a respectable result, however, as yet, I've discovered no need to call in either migrant workers or a fleet of trucks to haul the harvest to market.  I'll be planting in a few days and nursing the "babies" with the hopes that they achieve a decent size so the frost/freeze can "nip" them.  After that, their sweetness is increased exponentially and, prepared properly, they may as well have been cooked in sugar water mixed with Karo syrup.  Collards are a long-standing tradition as a vital part of our New Year's Day "good luck" meal.

You know from a couple of my previous posts, that I hardly qualify as a farmer.  At best, my thumb is far around  the color wheel from "green".  But, while I worked, my thoughts kept going back to the man with the greenest thumb I've known, my dad.  He could coax a crop of butterbeans from an asphalt parking lot, I'm convinced.

These talents must skip generations.  While all of my efforts pale, our eldest daughter and her husband have raised a most prolific garden this summer. Blessed by adequate rain and moderate temperatures, output has been pretty incredible.  Miss Martha and I recently spent an entire Saturday afternoon on their front porch, in rocking chairs, stringing beans.  One of the nicer days of the year, I might add.  It hearkened back to the simpler times of my childhood.  She has now been trained and fully certified in the fine art of freezing and canning.  Quarts of green beans line her shelves and her freezer is bursting at the seams with corn.  My pride runs deep.

Dad was a farmer at heart.  Raised in rural south side Virginia, his family grew most all of what they ate.  He learned his skills early....it was a matter of survival during the times of the Great Depression.  Those skills transmigrated into a life-long habit of growing our food every summer.
While taking a break from my efforts, I poked around and ran across these pictures of Dad in his element.  I submit them as proof that generation skipping is a valid concept.

So, Dad, I hope that from wherever you now garden, you can shoot me a blessing on my collard crop.  New Year's Day is not too far around the corner and I want to be ready.

Old Crow Meets the Bickersons

The Old Man remembers some of the radio shows from back before the age of television. From 1946-1951 (aprox.), one of the most unusual of them was called The Bickersons. Performed by Don Ameche and Frances Lankford, the show consisted of "John & Blanche's" arguments...generally peppered with caustic sarcasm. They always ended with the "yes dear, I love you too" moment so everyone went to bed happy.

We had our own, live, in-the-flesh version of The Bickersons living right next door. Henry and Hilda were a quiet couple who never had much to say most of the time. They were, by and large, pretty good neighbors. They'd wave, speak, and would do anything they could to help if you needed it, but stayed to themselves most of the time. Occasionally, however, they would partner up with a bottle of Old Crow Bourbon and the fun began.

In the hot summertime, Mom and Dad would sit on the porch in the evenings until bedtime. It was too hot to even attempt sleep, so the hours after supper were spent enjoying the shade and the companionship on that good, deep, Southern porch.....the kind where you could even be protected from a shower. As a matter of fact, we welcomed the cooling benefit of a steady rain on the tin roof. I was usually running around, catching "lightnin bugs", or just generally doing kid stuff.

You could tell when Old Crow was beginning to get the upper hand. Mom and Dad would stop talking, the glider would cease squeaking, and Mom would usually give a little nod of her head toward next door. Dad would take time to reload his pipe, and they would settle in for the extravaganza about to begin. I knew to come on up and sit on the front steps because it was about to get interesting.

We'd hear some generic yelling, most of it questioning the legitimacy of parentage, or referring to the breed of dog his mother was. This would usually be followed by the crash of a dish. Then would come a slight lull followed by another crash. Several crashes would follow, and then the whole thing would quiet down. Dad began to quietly perform a Howard Cossell style analysis of the battle. He'd say, "I believe that was a dinner plate". Mom would sometimes agree and other times she'd answer with, "I don't know, Babe....that one sounded like a drinking glass". Dad would then reply, "I don't believe they'd be breaking up the glasses....they seem to need them."

This would go on for about 15-20 minutes after which the whole ruckus would be resolved and quiet would again reign on Park Street. Dad would then say something like, "I think Henry took that one 4-2, Babe". "What do you think?" Mom would usually agree and we'd all shuffle off to bed after a good laugh.

Many times we'd see one or the other of "The Bickersons" the next day and they would look like they had come in second in a tag-team match with a pack of Wampus Cats.

Every now and then, we'd come across an empty Old Crow bottle.....when trash cans got turned over, or sitting on a window sill. Dad would stop for a moment and then slowly shake his head. For underneath it all, there was a sadness in his soul for "The Bickersons".

Postscript: This posting is not intended in any way to make sport of the tragedy of alcohol abuse. It's merely a light-hearted look at our coping skills in those years gone by.There is not one among us who has not been impacted in some manner by addiction. Those who have been, or are, engaged in this battle have my full understanding, love, and support.

Hot, I Die

The Old Man's mom used to say that this time of year. Miss Alma was quoting some character she had known in her past. When asked how he was doing, his reply was always, "I hot, I die". This became mom's summertime mantra. She used it to good advantage for as long as I can remember.

It hit 99 here today.....and while running errands on the fringes of Hades, her phrase kept coming back to me. Finally done, the utter delight of the quiet "whoosh" of air conditioning reminded me of the wimp I have become. Hot weather memories began to float up from somewhere.

Bedford was hot. It still is, just like most everywhere else in that part of the world in summer. Everyone knew it; that is except for the Park Street Battalion. No one told us. We'd still go out each morning, roam around the town, play pick-up baseball games, or just generally enjoy being a kid out of school. If indeed there is such a thing as "global warming", it's not a new concept. Then, as now, it was hot. We managed.

Air conditioning existed in, to the best of my memory, only three places; Coleman's Restaurant....sign on the door had a picture of a penguin saying, "Come in, it's cooooool inside", the local movie theater, and the place my dad worked. Everywhere else, you were left to your own devices and ingenuity.

We all had screen doors. No one shut the "big door" at night, but did hook the screen to keep the wind from banging it around. This in an attempt to allow some cooling breeze to exhaust the scorching 2-story house. Upstairs bedrooms by bedtime would rival Death Valley. Fortunately, by around 11:00 or so, my room would become tolerable. I would reverse my bed position and put my pillow down at the normal "foot" of the bed so my face was in an open window. Even with the oppressive heat, there is a degree of magic and mystery in the sounds and smells of a summer night. I miss that part. As I grew older, the magic was enhanced by far away radio stations that played to a pre-teen's heart. Listen to The Five Satins sing"In The Still of The Night", turned down nice and low so as not to incur parental wrath, enhanced by dreams and night sounds, and you'll understand.

Far and away, the hottest and most miserable time in those summers was the ritual of getting ready for Sunday night church. Sunday night services were pretty casual affairs, but not so much as this day and time. You just didn't wear a tie. I had one of the short sleeve shirts that really looked like it would be cool and comfortable. It was made of nylon and had a texture that resembled a Belgian waffle. I remember it was blue. Wearing a Hefty Bag would have been cooler.

We'd go to church and one of my favorite pass-times (what kid really listened, anyway?) was watching to see who was waving the hand-held fans the fastest. We had one lady who I would swear approached the sound barrier. It always seemed odd and disconcerting that these fans were provided by the local funeral home. What did they know that I didn't? About time the Reverend AG thundered, "Where will YOU spend eternity", I'd catch the slogan on the back of the fan, "Let us plan your final journey".  Made a kid wonder.

So now that "whoosh" is my comfort. I sit huddled inside in all my wimpiness, waiting for twilight so I can go out to do my outside chores. But I take comfort in the fact that I can still find The Five Satins on the radio, and that accursed blue Belgian waffle shirt is long since gone.

OK...I Lied. One More About the Back

The Old Man had his final back procedure today.....at least that's the opinion of Dr. Pinchburn. I've quoted the description of my adventure as provided by the medical/legal consortium, probably massaged by input from the insurance "sitters in judgment":

"What will happen during the procedure?"

After your skin is washed with a sterile scrub, the facet joints will be identified by your physician using a fluoroscopic (x-ray) machine. Small marks may be placed on your skin using a sterile pen. The skin is then numbed with local anesthetic medication. Using fluoroscopy guidance, your physician inserts the radio frequency probes near the facet nerves. A series of steps involving stimulating the nerves with electricity helps localize the facet nerves. Local anesthetic is then placed through the probes to numb up each nerve. The tips of the probes are then heated thus cauterizing each facet nerve."

OK, so now we know. Key on certain words with my definitions in italics:

"Numbed"....(the oft quoted "feel a little pinch and burn")--a bumblebee sting to your lower lip followed by pouring melted candle wax up your nostril.

"Fluoroscopy guidance"--an x-ray machine placed over the area so the Dr. can see where to put the needles in 6 different places. I now glow. The good news is we do not need to buy a new floor lamp.

"Radio Frequency probes"--multitasking probes that go through the needles to the facet joint nerves. They have two basic functions; acting as a cattle prod to jolt the nerves with electricity to confirm their identity, and then deliver the coup-de-grace.

"Series of steps involving stimulating the nerves with electricity"--Your ass dances around the table. No small feat when you're lying face down with your pants down around your knees and you're sprouting electrodes. It feels like a microscopic jackhammer wielder has ridden down the probe and is pounding on your back muscle. I'm thinking Gulliver in reverse.

"Then comes the local anesthetic"--An interesting technique. Dr. Pinchburn pushes on the probes saying, "Let me know when this hurts". "OK,OK,OK,OK,OK!" Then he says, "Let me know when it stops". I let that one go a loooong time 'cause I ain't no dummy...I knew he was pumping in the anesthesia.

"Heated probes and cauterization"--Remarkably, no sensation at all. (I ain't no dummy, remember?)

So, here we are. We shall see. There are many tall buildings for me to leap over and many more speeding bullets to out run, so hopefully you can look for me, cape a-flying, soon.

The Ragged Old Flag

The Old Man came across this yesterday. I recall Johnny Cash, many years ago, reciting this on his TV program. It may be familiar to many, but some will note it for the first time.

Happy Birthday America!

Ragged Old Flag

By Johnny Cash"Man in Black"

I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.

I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."

I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it.

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"

I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.

And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing "Oh Say Can You See".

And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams."

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on through.

She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag."

"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.

She turned blood red in World War II
She hung limp and low by the time it was through.

She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam."

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.

In her own good land she's been abused--
She's been burned, dishonored, denied and refused."

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.

And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.

'Cause she's been through the fire before
And I believe she can take a whole lot more."

"So, we raise her up every morning,
Take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground
And we fold her up right.

On second thought, I DO like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

Where You Been Boy? Conclusion

The Old Man wraps this up. After the round of visits by Dr. Stickfiend and the encounters with the imagined demented hunchback, I began an eight week program of physical therapy. A pleasant lady began the process with a series of stretching exercises. Pretty bland. After a few visits, I noticed that things were ramping up a bit. First there were one pound weights on each ankle while I did leg lifts. No problem....until she had me do these things while sitting on a huge beach ball. Ball rolling around, me trying to keep my balance, doing leg lifts until the spots began to form before my eyes, would have made Jillian of "Biggest Loser" proud.

The ankle weights gradually increased to five pounds per ankle. Then I became coupled to this rubber band apparatus mounted on the wall. "Pull down slowly with your arms, hold for a count of 5, and then release". "Oh, and do two sets of ten". Along about number 15 of these, I began to visualize the mileage I would cover if one of the bands happened to break and sent me out the 3rd floor window. By my calculation, I could probably make Omaha without stopping to refuel.

Through each twice weekly session, half of my mind was keeping count of the exercise sets while the other half spent quality time in the land of dread. I knew my personal Armageddon was approaching......the evil and sadistic exercise known as "the plank". "Achieve push-up position, keep back straight, and hold in the "up" position for 10 seconds. Do this 3 times."
"Yessim".
By the end of the third time, my arms were trembling like Ozzie Osbourne's vocal chords.

So, how does all this end? Physical therapy was good for me, but the back still hurts. More shots in a different area will be tried. Meanwhile, "The Old Man" is appropriately well named.

A Word of Thanks

The Old Man expresses his greatest admiration and deepest thanks to those who 67 years ago waded ashore into the earthbound hell of Omaha Beach. Many of you took your last steps in this world that June day, but now run unfettered and unthreatened in a better place.

I'll thank you in person one of these days.

Where You Been, Boy? Chapter 2

The Old Man continues. Dr. Neurologist allowed as how he thought one of his compatriots "upstairs" would be the one to take me to the next level. Dr. Neuro is my kind of people; great sense of humor and an outgoing personality. For example, he asked me, "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain level?". I replied, " That's kind of subjective.....give me an example of a 'ten'. " His reply, "On your knees, banging on the door of the emergency room, begging for help, would qualify as a 'ten'. " "Ok, on that scale, I'm about a 'four'."

Quite refreshing since most doctors in my experience have had names like Humpy Thoroughgood IV, and talked while stroking a beard.

Soooooo, upstairs to the "pain management specialist" I hobbled. Nice guy, all business, and at least, not named Humpy. He took down his model of the human spine and began to outline the course of treatment.

"I believe what is called for here is the injection of a steroid substance (with a name longer than Kermit's tongue). I'll be using X-ray guidance to show me exactly where to place the needles in the facet joints in your lumbar area." Needles? In my spine? Can we throw in a waterboarding session just to break up the monotony? Oh, great! I had survived the demented hunchback only to be confronted with Dr. Stickfiend.

The big day arrived. "Good morning, Mr. Jackson. You can come on back now". Harmless sounding and friendly on the surface, it carried all the terror of "Please report to the Principal's office". I looked bravely at Miss Martha, gave her that whistling-past-the-graveyard smile, and headed off to the land of adventure.

"Unbutton and unzip, then lie face down on the table", said Miss Harmless & Friendly. With great fanfare, Dr. S entered and said sprightly, "All set?". "Yessir", I croaked. After some whirring and bumping about, he said, "Now, you'll feel a little stick and some burning, then a little pressure". Caution flag number two waved in my mind. When doctors admit to such as "little stick" or "some burning", best you bite down hard on the bullet. The "little pressure" sort of resembled Babar the Elephant standing on my back.

Eight injections later, they had me sit in a nice chair and plied me with fruit juice. They said they needed to observe me for a while. For what? Was I possibly going to morph into the Incredible Hulk? Or maybe they wanted to make sure I wasn't going to go over to the emergency room and bang on the door.

Stay close, the final chapter will give you a look into the crystal ball.

Tribute

The Old Man cannot let this Memorial Day pass without a word of tribute. I don't know the origin of this piece of poetry, and you may have seen it many times, but I trust you will find deep and abiding meaning as you read it.
To the unknown author of this, and to all who have served, thank you from the bottom of a grateful nation's heart.

The Final Inspection

The soldier stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass

"Step forward now you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek,
And to my church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No Lord, I guess I ain't,
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be saints

"I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough
And sometimes I've been violent
Because the streets were awfully rough

"But I never took a penny,
That wasn’t mine to keep
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep,

And I never passed a cry for help
Although, at times I shook with fear
And sometimes, God forgive
I've wept unmanly tears

I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here
That never wanted me around
Except to calm their fears

If you have a place for me here O' Lord
It needn't be so grand
I've never expected, or had so much
But if you don't I'll understand

There was a silence all around the throne
Where the Saints had often trod
As this soldier waited quietly
For the judgment from his God

"Step forward now you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell"

Where You Been, Boy?

The Old Man remembers his folks who often used the title line of this post as a greeting when I deemed it important to drift in to our house after having been on a "run" with the Park Street Battalion. I've not been arrested, hospitalized, kidnapped, or called upon to assist Seal Team 6. There have been some pesky little health issues going on. I will try to make this account of my whereabouts as entertaining as possible.

I've noticed some numbness in my toes for quite some time. Others would probably agree that "numbness" is not limited to my toes. At any rate, I casually mentioned this to my doctor while on a routine visit. It reinforced a lesson I had learned before, but forgotten; there is no such thing as a "casual mention" to a doctor. They are trained in the art of subtle panic. After a little poking and listening, he indicated that he thought I had a pinched nerve in my back. "But my back doesn't hurt", I said. "It will", replied Doc. He opined as how I needed to be referred to a Neurologist to have something called a 'nerve induction test'. Okeydokey.

As if by pre-ordained plan, 5 days later, I woke up at the insistence of the lower back from hell. If I didn't know better, I would swear someone somewhere had a little voodoo doll of me riddled with pins while they giggled maniacally.

Off to the Neurologist who agreed that the nerve induction test coupled with an MRI would assist in diagnosis of my pain source. I didn't mention the voodoo doll.

"Tell me about the nerve induction test", I foolishly asked. "Oh it's pretty simple. We hook some electrodes to your body and then run low voltage electric current....." "SAY WHAT?".
"Oh don't worry, most people tolerate it very well." The little voice in my mind said, "What the crap do you mean 'tolerate'?". I had visions of being strapped down on a table, lightning flashing through the sky, and some little demented hunchback yelling, "It's alive...it's alive".

Survived the nerve test, wobbled down the hall to another room for the MRI, and proceeded to get back in the tube while the demented hunchback banged on it from somewhere out in space. Seems the Valium had kicked in.

Back to the Neurologist some days later for the diagnosis. Arthritis in the lower lumbar region coupled with some stinosis (sounds like a political party in Serbia) is causing pressure on some nerves resulting in the numbness and pain. "OK, so what's the answer?".

Come back for Chapter 2 in which The Old Man meets the rest of the cast in the drama.

Just A Bit Longer

The Old Man is almost back....hang in there. I'm on the way. Thanks for your patience and your loyalty.

Say "Cheese", Johnny Reb

The Old Man and his Miss Martha had their picture made the other day. Some folks came into our church and set up shop for a few days with an eye toward making up a pictorial directory so we could all recognize each other. The experience made me think of Calehil Williamson. He was my great grandfather on my mother's side. Let me explain.

The photographer was a young fellow who was really excited about our being there. He sat us down, adjusted our clothing and began to fire away. I don't think he had photographed a lot of us "mature" types, because he kept trying to bend us into both glamour shot and cutsey positions. The conversation went like this, "Now sir, move your leg out this way and Miss Martha, could you slide your leg under his and put your hand on his left shoulder. Oh, and could you tilt your head more to the right? That's good, now turn this way just a little bit". Bones commenced creaking and joints began sounding like a five-hundred pound Jiffy Pop. Old people don't bend that way. Then the photog took a series of individual shots and one or two with no smiles, but rather a serious expression.



When Captain Photo had finished with us, we met with the sales consultant. Her mission was to separate us from as much of our wallet contents as possible. We got more ego strokes from her than Charlie Sheen looking in a mirror. Every shot was "outstanding" or "beautiful" or "fantastic". To us, most looked like we were having a stroke. In my serious shot I looked like Miss Martha had just told me she was going to run off with Blackbeard the Pirate.

It was simpler back in Calehil's time. Calehil was a Civil War Veteran. I have a couple of his medals in a shadowbox on the wall in my office. In those days, the subject(s) gathered outside for a picture. Light requirements, I suppose. Take a look.

Calehil and Liza are seated comfortably with their children standing behind them. You can't really tell very much about whether they were happy or not. From what mother told me, old Cal was sort of a sourpuss who could be a "demanding ole cuss"; perfectly understandable considering what he had seen in his lifetime. Born in 1843, he would have gone off to war at 19. He would live until 1924.

I guess someday someone might look at that pictorial directory and wonder about that Old Man and his lady. I promise you this.....if that happens, they'll see a couple of lovebirds who could show Calehil a thing or two.

Is The Plural of Doofus Doofi?

The Old Man has had a number of moments of extreme doofus-ness through out his life. We all have, I suppose. When I look back, I think, "I did THAT?". "What was I thinking?". Most of my doofusonian exploits were in the company of fellow doofi. There always seemed to be some one among whatever group I happened to be a part of at the time who would give words to a brain fart and we would be off on another adventure. One of the oddest was the series of caving experiences.


The Virginia foothills around Roanoke are home to a number of caves. Caverns, actually. One has long been developed into a tourist attraction. The Happy Doofi Caving Company, however, would have no part of such commercialism. Oh, no, no, no. We chose to head out into the surrounding countryside and explore one known locally as Murderers' Hole. Now, any clear-thinking non-doofus would catch a clue from the name. But not us.

We cobbled together what passed for some gear. Army surplus helmet liners were painted white and became our hard hats. Someone came upon several carbide lanterns. You filled the canister with carbide granules and added water. This created acetylene gas which bubbled up through a little orifice. You then lit the gas and got a small flame in front of a reflector. They worked pretty well as I recall. Miners used them for many years. Thus armed and equipped, off we went.
You got into Murderer's Hole through a small round opening in the ground. The small opening was at the bottom of a large pit, much like a rock quarry. Once you were in, you could stand up and look around. Pretty unbelievable, actually. The limestone formations from both the floor and the ceilings, stalactite's and stalagmites.....I could never keep straight which is which, were all around. There were passages, dark and, of course, very inviting to a doofus. Other than being down there in the first place, the second attack of doofusism came when we all extinguished our carbide lanterns to experience true darkness. Cave darkness is difficult to imagine. It is a total and complete absence of any light whatsoever. The closest description I can muster is that it must have been that dark before the universe was formed. The Happy Doofi Caving Company never acknowledged the thought of what we would have done had none of the lanterns started up again. Not only were there passages to blackness, but deep black holes and fissures, all waiting to enjoy doofus for breakfast.


As we worked our way through the cave, we came upon what was called a "slide"; a ramp down to a deeper level sitting at about a 30 degree angle. The slide was coated with an odd smelling mud. As I was roping down, about half way, I lost my footing and my hand hold on the rope. I slid the rest of the way down on my sitter.


When I reached the bottom, much to the delight of my fellow doofi, I mentioned that that was the worse smelling mud I'd ever seen. The head doofi who had been there before explained. "That's because it isn't all mud. Look up." The ceiling was where the bats were. Thousands of them. Through the years, I think some of them had developed digestive problems. One thing about bats; they have no need for Myrilax.


I was a pretty sad sight, 200 feet underground, covered with a mixture of mud and bat ............stuff. By corporate vote of the Happy Doofi Caving Company, I brought up the rear on our exit from the cave.


I haven't been in a cave since. But I must confess; I kind of miss that little "pop" when a carbide lantern lights.

Bandits At 4 O'clock

The Old Man has always had a thing about airplanes. From watching a neighborhood "big kid" fly his models to building my own, I grew to love the whole concept of flying. My first ride was as a 6 year old, sitting on my mother's lap in an old Piper flown by a co-worker of my dad's. We took off from a grass strip and flew around over my house. That got it all started. As an adult I got my own pilot's license and flew a bit on my own until the family came along and a lot of other money priorities jumped in. Even then, I built scale plastic models. Got pretty good at it, too.


So you can see, aviation has most always been an interest of mine. I've been fortunate enough to pilot a plane around the Wright Brothers' Memorial at Kitty Hawk, do tight 360's around the Hatteras Light, and take countless commercial flights. I've had some rough flights and some scary experiences. But the wackiest one of all was a thing called the Ground Observer Corps.


In 1952, the Korean War was in full swing. The foundations for the Cold War were being laid and a degree of national paranoia came into play. We had atomic bomb drills at school during which we were instructed to get under our desks and cover our eyes. I felt really secure and safe under my desk. "Ain't no atom bomb gonna get ME....I'm under my desk."
The U. S. Air Force came up with a program that established a network of observers all across the country. Volunteers would serve at "Observation Posts" during daylight hours. About the tallest point in Bedford was what was known then as "Reservoir Hill". There were several of the town functions that operated out of that building, and it was a natural point for the establishment of our very own Observation Post.
As Boy Scouts, we were unofficial observers. We could spend time at the Post and assist the adult observers who were there. Mostly this consisted of pouring coffee.
The Corps had it's own manual that outlined procedures.

The opening sentence of the manual, "We are in a dangerous position", set the tone for the rest of the book. The first half was dedicated to procedures for observers to follow. Basically, you were instructed to ignore small private aircraft and concentrate on the "possible bandits". When one was observed, you were to call the Filter Center and say "This is an aircraft flash". You then reported a set of facts, (estimated altitude, number of aircraft, direction, etc.) The manual cautioned that it was always best if the telephone line you used was a private line and not a party line. A "party line"? Imagine you've just spotted a squadron of Russian Migs scooting north. You pick up the phone and hear, "Well, then he put his hand on my knee and....." .



The second half of the book, pictured all different types of aircraft from around the world. Each page dealt with two airplanes.

You will note that there is a panel of silhouettes showing the dreaded MIG-15 from various angles. Take notice of the top one. If you see this perspective in real life, it is now time to haul ass......or get under your desk.
Perhaps the most interesting instructions in the manual deal with actual hostilities. I quote, "If you see an airplane engaged in action that seems to be hostile---for example dropping paratroopers or strafing a road---please report this under item 9 on your flash sheet." SEEMS to be hostile?....strafing the road? Dude, screw the phone call, that is unless the cord is long enough to reach under my desk.


I don't know what's up on Reservoir Hill now-a-days. You probably aren't allowed to drive up there any more. But if you can, be alert. A MIG can come screaming over at any minute.

News Flash: Explosion Rocks Nicotine Alley...Many Butts Vaporized

The Old Man remembers Nicotine Alley. That's what we called the smoking area of Bedford High School. For those unfamiliar, Nicotine Alley was located on the front steps of the school between the 1st and 2nd column on the right.

We smokers usually spilled over onto the steps, but had to return to the "butt barrel" when time came to put down the "weeds". The barrel was nothing more than a bucket filled with sand. In my 4 years there, I can't say that the sand was ever changed. There must have been 1000 cigarette butts as deeply entrenched as Strom Thurmond . Every now and then someone would stir the sand around a bit and give the impression that the sand was fresh, but a quick stab below the surface and you'd find more butts than would be on the lawn at a Jimmy Buffet concert.

A recent posting by a friend of mine related how her dog was traumatized by the fireworks being set off in her neighborhood on New Year's Eve. The explosions sent the poor little fellow into a fit of terror. It set me thinking...

In that time, one could walk into a hardware or farm supply store and buy any length of dynamite fuse and blasting caps. The clerk would simply fill your order and say, "Be careful". There was never any paperwork and background checks were limited to ladies who looked to see if their slip was showing.

You know how it is; useful information quickly finds it way into any gang of kids. One tidbit we knew was that dynamite fuse burned at the predictable rate of 1 foot per minute. Simple formula. Light one that was 6 feet long and you had 6 minutes to haul your stupid self out of the area. The blasting cap was a brass cylinder about 2-3 inches long. You stuck one end of the fuse in the end and then the whole mess went into a stick of dynamite.

The dark ages of January and February were upon us. Nothing to look forward to until Easter, and that seemed a century away. The same drudgery....day in and day out. And finally, intense boredom got to be more than a guy I'll call Rupert could stand. Poking around somewhere, he found some fuse and a couple of blasting caps. Plans were laid and the next day Nicotine Alley was hopping with excitement. Rupert carefully measured 4 feet of fuse and set it up with a blasting cap. This he stuffed about 2/3 of the way down into the butt barrel. When the first bell rang, we had 3 minutes to get to home room. Rupert lit the fuse.

One minute into home room, we were saying the pledge of allegiance. Along about, "and to the republic for which it stands", "Kerwhamo"! There was a terrific explosion. The home room teacher (we called her Snuffy behind her back) ducked under her desk, kids squealed, and some of us could hardly contain ourselves. Rupert wore his halo when the principal stormed into the room. It took me a long time to figure out why he came to our room first, but after all these years and recollections its obvious to me. He knew where his most fertile hunting ground was.

At lunch break, we casually walked out to survey the scene. Bits and pieces of cigarette butts were stuck to windows, in the lawn, in the trees and shrubbery, and I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't in Malcome's gas station across the street.

That episode remains "unsolved" in the mists of time. I went back a few years ago and toured the old school which now serves as an elementary school. There's no Nicotine Alley anymore, but I'm not too sure I didn't see a cigarette butt that had been painted over on a door post.

Rupert is gone now.....so he's beyond the reach, but he'll long be remembered by a few as the well deserved holder of the award for "most notable prank".