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."