The Old Man

The Knee Replacement Blues

2012-02-03T14:36:00.000-05:00

The Old Man has been busy. There has been a lot going on around here for the past several months. Miss Martha and I have been in preparation for her total knee replacement surgery. There are a lot of things to take care of before a major event like this. Her surgery was on January 13th. And yes, it was indeed a Friday.

A word here about Miss Martha. She has exhibited a quiet and gentle strength through all of this process that is an inspiration to our daughters and to me. She truly has "the right stuff". I am blessed.

For those unfamiliar with this surgery, suffice to say the actual operation is a relatively quick one. A couple of hours and you're back into the world of the living. The after-story is quite something else. There is a great deal of pain and an unfathomable amount of hard work and physical therapy. She came home with a device that her leg was strapped into for 6 hours every day. This thing slowly flexed her leg constantly, increasing the amount of flex by several degrees each day until she reached a 90 degree bend. It's called a CPM machine....our name for it rhymed with "witch". She said at least I didn't wear an executioner's hood and robe when I came into the room to set her up in it.

But she's turned the corner. Her outpatient physical therapy will begin in a few days, and the machine went away. Thanks be for all our friends who have kept us supplied with meals. At least, she didn't have to suffer from very much of my plebeian attempts at cooking. While I pose no threat to any of the current Grammy contenders, I wrote this little song to commemorate the event. Enjoy!

The Knee Replacement Blues

(Sung to the tune of Folsom Prison Blues)

I hear the walker scraping

It’s comin’ down the hall.

Martha’s on the move again

I pray she doesn’t fall.

She had a knee replacement,

And time keeps dragging on.

She’s got lots of swelling,

It wakes her up at dawn.

The walker is a bother.

But it helps her motivate.

And when she gets some better,

To a cane she’ll graduate.

She’s coping like a trooper

And eating Tylenol.

But she’s off the Oxycodone

And dreaming of the mall.

The Old Man’s washing dishes

And nuking little plates.

Doin’ two-step with the dust mop

Runnin’ the vacuum that he hates.

She had a knee replacement

And folks come dropping in.

They bring food and goodies

This fight we’re gonna win.

Hangin' In

2012-01-11T15:45:00.000-05:00

The Old Man is still around. Hang with me a bit and I'll be back. It's been a very busy season, but the stories are starting to "surface".

Never Forget

2011-12-07T08:46:00.000-05:00

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

Thank you.

Thanksgiving Thought

2011-11-23T16:58:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-13T16:47:00.002-05:00

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!

2011-11-10T17:02:00.000-05:00

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

2011-09-21T17:00:00.001-04:00

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

2011-09-01T17:49:00.000-04:00

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

2011-08-31T17:45:00.001-04:00

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

2011-08-24T15:05:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-31T14:06:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-28T17:28:00.003-04:00

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

2011-07-25T14:52:00.004-04:00

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

2011-07-03T15:47:00.003-04:00

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

2011-06-11T15:11:00.003-04:00

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

2011-06-06T20:36:00.003-04:00

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

2011-06-02T19:34:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-30T14:09:00.003-04:00

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?

2011-05-27T16:03:00.002-04:00

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

2011-05-18T16:06:00.001-04:00

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

2011-03-06T15:05:00.004-05:00

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?

2011-01-28T16:40:00.016-05:00

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

2011-01-17T15:29:00.008-05:00

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

2011-01-02T14:32:00.005-05:00

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".

Christmas

2010-12-22T08:31:00.000-05:00

The Old Man wishes all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

The Christmas Letter From Dysfunction Junction

2010-12-16T15:19:00.006-05:00

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

So Long Ago, Yet So Fresh

2010-12-07T17:45:00.003-05:00

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.

Almost

2010-12-06T09:59:00.000-05:00

The Old Man is almost back. Hang with me just a bit longer.

Hanging In

2010-09-11T10:50:00.002-04:00

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.

The Handy-Dandy Reunion Survival Kit

2010-08-14T16:16:00.004-04:00

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.

Uncle Bob and His Exploding Weenie

2010-07-04T15:04:00.004-04:00

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".

Myrtle's Identity Crisis

2010-06-29T14:07:00.004-04:00

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.

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.

I'll Have the Meatskins With a Side of Cheetos, Please

2010-06-03T20:16:00.002-04:00

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".

I'll See You In The Funny Papers

2010-05-17T18:00:00.003-04:00

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?

What A Kid

2010-05-07T16:07:00.006-04:00

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.

One, Two, Three, Dip

2010-04-26T17:14:00.007-04:00

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

2010-04-19T17:23:00.002-04:00

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

2010-04-18T15:46:00.006-04:00

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

2010-04-02T16:06:00.007-04:00

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.

Doo Wop Shi Bop & Rama Lama Ding Dong

2010-03-07T14:54:00.004-05:00

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.

Out From Behind The Skirts

2010-02-24T12:29:00.004-05:00

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

2010-02-22T15:50:00.005-05:00

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

2010-02-08T15:13:00.003-05:00

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.

Clanking Chains, Reving Engines, and Screams of Joy

2010-01-30T16:31:00.003-05:00

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.

A Horse is A Horse of Course of Course

2010-01-26T11:44:00.005-05:00

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.

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.

How's It Goin', Miss Alma?

2010-01-11T15:08:00.004-05:00

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.

To Be or Not To Be.....That Is The Question

2009-12-14T21:06:00.007-05:00

The Old Man has been acting again. Not acting up this time; just acting. The annual Christmas Cantata was presented at our church last night. There was a drama portion. In a moment of weakness 3 months ago, I agreed to take on the role of Mike Hollis, a somewhat clueless and insensitive husband to Kelly who was in the throes of pre-Christmas stress to such a degree she was ready to melt down like Frosty the Snowman caught in a tanning booth. Thanks to some very talented other folks, we managed to pull it off without embarrassing ourselves. Someone asked me afterwards, "You must have done a lot of this sort of thing". I replied, "Once....50 years ago when I was a senior in High School."

Tradition dictated at Bedford High that the senior class would conduct several fund-raisers in order to finance the Easter weekend debacle known as the Sr. Trip to New York. One of the prime vehicles was the Senior Play. So, there I was.....suddenly cast in the male lead opposite a sweet girl named Fran. I was Paul to her Annabelle. In the play, The Cat and the Canary, all the surviving relatives of Cyrus West had gathered at his mansion to hear the reading of his will.

Things were spooky enough and it got even creepier as the play unfolded. Written in 1921, It had all the elements of an old silent movie; an escaped lunatic, some shallow and greedy relatives, a monster behind the secret panel, and a climactic fight scene. We carefully rehearsed the fight scene. We went for realism, even to the extent of having my antagonist bite down on a capsule filled with catsup to simulate bleeding from the heroic punch I was to deliver just in time to save the day. All went well during the performance with no missed or forgotten lines. The big scene came and I prepared to "slug" Tommy. In the heat of the moment, Tommy forgot to lean back with the fake punch and instead, leaned forward. I caught him squarely on the chin and his fall to the stage floor was incredibly realistic to say the least. When we helped him to his feet, his eyes had all the sparkle of wax paper. He shook his head a couple of times, and we moved on. The capsule filled with "blood"? Tommy swallowed it.

I've thought a lot about that long-ago acting experience during the preparation for our little program the other night. I had relegated it to my mental safe deposit box and hadn't taken it down off the shelf for many years. I dug out my old annual and started rummaging around. The memories were there.
Three of my cast mates are gone now. Fran, Kenny, and Donnie now perform in the never ending play titled Eternity where I'm quite sure they are getting the rave reviews they so rightly deserve.

Hercules, Eat Your Heart Out

2009-12-07T14:00:00.007-05:00

The Old Man has never had much of a "bod". "Hunk" in my vocabulary generally meant a serving of cheese. Matter of fact, as I grew and developed, I seemed to go from looking much like a hockey stick with a nose to a football with legs. I don't recall much of an in-between. Like most young boys, I fancied myself potential superhero material. A quick glance in the mirror, however, drove home the message, "We've got some work to do here, bud".

All of us in the Park Street Battalion were avid comic book connoisseurs. Our much traded reading library ran the gamut from Westerns through Crime making stops along the way at Mickey, Donald and friends and Archie and the gang. Running through all of these genres was one commonality; they all had space allocated to selling something. From X-ray glasses to a ventriloquist's 'secret' device, the back panel of the comics were loaded with those "must haves" that drilled directly into a boy's brain. Who wouldn't want X-ray glasses? After all, there were some rumblings going on deep inside that we had not yet felt, but if we could have, we could not yet identify or understand. We just knew we needed those glasses.

Far and away the one that captured my attention most often was the little cartoon story from the Charles Atlas folks. There was usually some hapless chap on the beach with his girl friend. A bully would come by and kick sand in the poor fellow's face and when confronted, the dirty scoundrel would punch his lights out. The story went on to show how the Atlas course would result in a brand new man who went back to the beach and took his just revenge. The locale and scenario might change but the story and the ending never did.

I never ordered the course. There wasn't extra money around for such things in our house, so I never even brought it up. I attempted to understand how the exercises worked and gave it a pretty half-hearted attempt to mimic them, but without success. Here are 'Before and After' photos of my efforts.

By the way, even though Charles Atlas died in the early 1970's, the company he founded still exists. Give them a look if you're so inclined.

I went on to learn about things like metabolism and genetics....about reps and resistance. And somehow they all managed to conspire against me in later quests to become the chiseled superhero figure I just knew was my destiny. And then, I thankfully came to acceptance. Like Popeye, "I yam what I yam". Now when I refer to my "six-pack", check the refrigerator. That's where you'll find it.

I'm Back Around With No Hospital Gown

2009-11-18T20:53:00.012-05:00

The Old Man has seen a few of these in the past couple of months. It started simply enough with what the old folks liked to call a "sinking spell". In a restaurant at the coast one morning, the room started to close in on me and it sounded as if everyone was speaking to me from the back room. Head between my knees and an ice bag to the back of the neck and I was as good as new in a few minutes. I pretty much figured it out; 5 days earlier passing of a kidney stone, facing eye surgery the next day, and listening to friends describe some horrible stuff going on in their family....body just said "Enough! I'm shutting down for a while". There's an official 'doctor name' for the phenomenon; vasovagal syncope. A fancy way of saying 'faint'. I happened to casually mention this to my doctor on a kidney stone follow-up visit. Intellectually very smart, emotionally not so much.

In an effort to figure out 'faint', over the past 12 weeks the medical community has harvested some shekels thanks to an MRI (which I'm sure is an acronym for Miserably Rattling Interior), a sonogram on my heart, a sonogram on my carotid arteries, a sonogram on my thyroid, two cataract surgeries, and the creme-de-la-creme, a needle biopsy of a thyroid nodule. Throw in a couple of dentist visits and an annual exam by my dermatologist and my absence from the blogging world becomes understandable. The journey is not without merit for through this all, I've come to note some degree of "nuttiness" which, as you have learned, always intrigues me.

I advised my doctor that I was somewhat claustrophobic and felt I might need a little help on the day they were scheduled to load me in the cigar tube. "No problem, I'll call something in for you". I picked up 5 Valium tablets. Doctor man said, "Take one an hour before the procedure and then if you need it, take the second one an hour later". Wait a minute. An hour later and I would be in the culvert. I took both of them and pitched the car keys to Miss Martha. "Drive on", I said. Both of those little beauties kicked in about time I checked in at the front desk. I had a little bit of trouble finding my insurance cards, but hey......"No problem, dude".

By the time they got me ready, they could have crammed me in a garden hose for all I cared. I was in the machine for about 45 minutes. Most of the time I was enjoying the colored light show going on behind my eyelids. Operator said something. I remember replying "I can't hear you". She said, "I guess the ear plugs are working". All in all, not a bad experience thanks by and large to my two little friends. One benefit, since this was to determine if I'd had any sort of stroke issue, I was happily able to tell everyone, "They tested my head and found nothing".

So, on to the cardiologist for a consultation. He determined that since my EKG was perfect, I needed an ultrasound of both my carotid arteries and my heart. Okey-dokey. Very harmless procedures where they slap a little Wesson Oil or such on and slide the sonogram do-hickey around, all the while going, "Hmmmmm". All turned out to be letter perfect but for one small fact. The carotid-gram ratted out a nodule on my thyroid, so it was back to the Wesson Oil again. Doctor-man decreed we must do a biopsy. "Biopsy" is probably the scariest word in the English language other than the combo, "nuclear attack", or "I can't go to the prom with you because I am pregnant".

The big mistake was explaining the procedure to me. "We will take some very fine needles and harvest samples from the nodule for analysis to be sure they are benign". What! Needles? "Harvest samples".....sounds like Venusians are going to body snatch. All I could think of was these long hat pins my grandmother used to hold her hair in a bun. Enough Lidocain made the procedure tolerable and then the real "fun" began; the 5 day wait while your mind goes on a number of terrifying journeys no matter how hard you fight that.

Intellectually I'm happy to know that all is well from top to bottom. Emotionally it's been Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

I'm back.

I only have one unanswered question: If 90% of what medical personnel need to look at is in front, why do those goofy gowns open in the back?

Hut 1 Hut 2 Hut 3

2009-09-10T12:15:00.003-04:00

The Old Man is happy to see football season come around this time of year. As with most things, I can reflect on how things about the game have changed over the course of my years. Most boy kids in Bedford played at some level. I started in the pick-up games with the Battalion and progressed on to "Sandlot" and then to High School.
Perhaps of most interest is how equipment has evolved to make the game safer. Like so many other things of the era, it's a wondrous event that we survived.

Today's player is armored to the extent it's a miracle he can move. Let me give you a few comparisons:

Helmets....today's are space-age composits with form-fitting foam inner liners designed for maximum cranium cradling. Custom face masks protect noses, eyes, and face bones. Ours were leather with a little foam rubber. They protected really well from scratches and mosquito bites. The only face masks worn were the ones we wore for trick-or-treat.

Shoulder pads...today's are ultra heavy duty with thick padding and they extend down onto the breast bone area. Back in the day, shoulder pads were a plastic-like material with some padding much like a bean bag. They protected the tops of our shoulders. The breast bone was on it's own.

Knee pads...today's are engineered to (hopefully) protect the knee from front and sides. Ours were sewn in and covered the front only. That is, if the pants were the right size. More often than not, they either hung below the knee or stopped just short.

Cup....protects......well we'll leave it at that. When I played, the cup hadn't been invented. During every game, you'd see a player bend over and grab his ankles. A collective moan would go up from every male in the stands and on the field. We could all identify with the blinding and nauseating agony.

Shoes...light weight, molded cleats, and designed to allow more speed and agility mark today's issues. Those of my era were all black, high topped, and had big Bakelite screw-on cleats. Now if any part of your body got stepped on or kicked with these things, you understood what it must have felt like to the knights of old when they were hit with a mace. Incidentally, they were never called "football shoes", only simply "cleats". God forbid that a "cleating" should happen to result in the need to grab your ankles. Some things just generate terror.
Cleats played an important role in one particular game that comes to mind.

One year during the sandlot period, the Bedford team hosted a team from a children's home. These hardy souls billed themselves as "The Shoeless Wonders" and made a name for themselves by playing every game barefooted. In addition to the novelty, they were a pretty good football team.....accustomed to a somewhat Spartan lifestyle and toughened by their circumstances.
As we practiced and prepared for the game, we all felt that our "cleats" would give us a distinct advantage. No sir, they couldn't get away from us, no way.

My position was right end. We all played both offense and defense. You didn't get a break unless the coach needed to run a play in by substitute or unless you grabbed your ankles. I was on defense and sure enough here came a "wonder" around my end and I dropped back to cover him for a pass. He caught the ball and I thought, "No problem...I can catch this guy easy" because I was truly fast. That end of our field was bare of grass since it was used all summer as a baseball diamond. This was November and an early cold snap had rendered the ground slightly frozen. My cleats made not a dent in the permafrost but his bare toes were leaving prints. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was the fastest guy on the team and this kid left me literally in his dust. Made me want to grab my ankles just to save face. As I recall, The Shoeless Wonders beat us like Tarzan's Tom-Tom.

I learned from that experience. My smugness level was reduced drastically and my arrogance grabbed its own ankles.

Look Out....Here He Comes

2009-09-02T13:12:00.002-04:00

The Old Man has been out of commission for a while. Travel plans, a kidney stone, and eye surgery have seriously diminished my "output". A somewhat hectic travel schedule over the next 2 months and surgery to remove a cataract from my other eye is on the docket.

Keep checking back, I've many more stories to tell. Thanks for your patience.

Roscoe The Booger Eater

2009-08-16T16:53:00.002-04:00

The Old Man always feels a little tug toward school this time of year. A round of various reunions has added leavening to the loaf. As a result, reflective time has produced memories of some colorful characters from my school days. A caveat here; in an effort to maintain some degree of sensitivity, all names in this post are fictitious. I've not used any one's real name or even a version of it. The descriptions, however, are real and true.

During assumed boring stretches in our classroom, Roscoe's intense curiosity about the hidden secrets in his body would overwhelm him, and he would begin "mining"; first one nostril and then the other. Sometimes he would peer studiously at the adornment perched atop his index finger, examining it from all angles. Other times he would go straight for his snack. Upon completion, he would gaze toward the ceiling and sort of rock his head slightly back and forth like a wine taster. I think he probably had categories and it was important to fully evaluate his little gems. I don't know if Roscoe ever moved past his habit, but as a precaution, I hope his wife doesn't use the remote.

Freddie the Fainter brought a degree of excitement to our classroom. Freddie would begin to feel faint at the first mention of blood. The teacher would mention that sap in a tree was much like the blood in our bodies, and we would all turn toward Freddie just to watch the color drain out of his face. His head would go down on his desk and the teacher would send someone out for a cup of water for him. Health class was Freddie's own private version of Hell. Teacher would say, "Today we're going to look at the circulatory system....turn to page 16 in your books". Next we would hear "thud". Freddie was down for the count. Another cup of water. Freddie spent more time with his head between his knees than a Chinese acrobat.

And of course, there was Sturdly the Stinker. Sturdly had what must have been the most bizarre intestinal arrangement known to medicine. We'd be eating lunch and Sturdly would create beautiful "methane melodies" on demand as he ate. In perfect waltz time, it was 'bite-swallow...braaaak', 'bite-swallow....braaaak'. This would continue until he had finished his lunch, or cleared the table, whichever came first.

I've not seen any of these folks for many years. And to all who were in attendance at the recent reunion, rest assured the ones mentioned here were none of you. But I remember them with the same fondness and with the same smiles as I do you all.

He No Longer Iz a Show Biz Whiz

2009-07-31T15:16:00.007-04:00

The Old Man keeps a pretty low profile these days. No spotlights, no blasts of attention, no screaming fans....oh wait....there never were any screaming fans. I had a couple of close calls with semi-fame, however. As most of you regular readers know, I spent a few years in a past life as a Top-40 DJ in Roanoke. Last weekend, we had our annual reunion. Twenty-five or so former "personalities" who had been on the air at that station gathered for an evening of reminiscing and recalling........well.....just recalling. Every decade since the '50's was represented, so the stories covered almost 60 years of radio history. While ageing is a reality, and we were all markedly changed, the spark, energy, and quickness of quip remained.

This weekend we will attend a High School reunion for the last five classes to graduate from our school before it was closed and the consolidated school took its place. It's been 49 years since I flipped the tassel, yet when I again see these folks, it will be as if no time has passed.

The point here, is that these back-to-back activities have floated me lazily down the nostalgia river, so it was back to the box of pictures to generate some blog post ideas.

Back before the radio "career" there were The Sportsters.

It was in the late '50s and we were the quintessential rock-n-roll band. White shoes and dinner jackets and one who was known around school as "Elvis" meant we were on our way. After all, it worked for Ricky Nelson. "Elvis" had a pretty decent singing voice and could also ham it up with some Elvis moves. Johnny was a good guitar player who would try about anything. I had carved a set of drumsticks out of scrap from Dad's workshop and learned to keep a beat by listening to Bill Haley and The Comets records. I moved on to real drumsticks and drums, but I still have those hand carved ones somewhere out in my shop.

We played around Bedford and occasionally ventured on the road to Roanoke and Lynchburg. We even made a record and the only thing that kept it from going gold was that we didn't sell 999,500 more copies. The Sportsters (named after a Harley-Davidson because we thought it sounded tough) drifted apart and faded away. No problems, just as the old Statler Brothers song says, "Life gets complicated when you get past 18".

So, The Old Man now, as our "Elvis" sang from the song One Night, "always lived a very quiet life". No show business, no drumsticks, no microphones. But like last weekend, I'll be around people who remember.....and that's cool.

Which One Was Hootchie and Which One Was Cootchie?

2009-07-15T20:07:00.005-04:00

The Old Man could never tell the difference. Every so often in Bedford the carnival would rattle and clang it's way into town. Then would begin one of the grandest weeks in a kid's life. There were several monumental events in the Battalion's existence: Christmas, the last day of school, the day The Lake opened, and carnival week.

We'd watch the ragged collection of jalopy trucks chug and grunt their way through town and over to the fairgrounds, trailing blue smoke the whole way. An occasional backfire would liven things up even further. We'd marvel at the years' accumulation of grime and rust on the vehicles and wonder how the brightly painted loads they carried could hold such magic. Sometimes, we'd ride our bikes over to watch them set up......never getting too close because stories were always told by our parents of how somewhere some kids got too close and when the carnival left town.......well you get the idea. Parental head games.

There was always one day that was designated "School Day". Schools would close at lunch time and kids could ride for half price. This was huge; second only to the last day of school. All the rides were running full bore, but most of the side show tents were quiet. "Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy" must have been resting. Those two girls, Hootchie and her friend Cootchie must have been enjoying nap time as well.

On our recent trip to the beach, the young folks among us went to the amusement park. They had a "blast", but somehow, I fear it just wouldn't seem the same to me. For example, the rides. Now they all have names; "Tilt-A-Whirl" (sounds like it should be said by Julia Childs) or even "Arctic Express"(I guess because it's painted white). Back in the day it was simply called, "The Whip". Well named because it was designed to rearrange several of your vertebrae and turn even the strongest into Bobble Heads. How about the "Eggbeater"? This was a fiendish device that looked like a shaft with a giant watermelon on each end. When you crawled into this thing, you gave your heart to Jesus because it had the rest of you. The shaft spun (like the hands on a cosmic clock) and while it was spinning, the 'watermelons' , with you inside, were spinning in opposite directions. Then the whole thing would reverse and your stomach went into full rebellion. The "Swings" were cool. Swing seats attached to long chains gave a pleasant and peaceful opportunity to regain composure after the Eggbeater. With the bravado of youth, it never occurred to us that should a chain break, they would probably find us in Tulsa.

When we went at night, the side-shows were going full speed. We made it in to see Jo Jo (stuffed) and we watched the "Wild Man of Borneo" eat a live chicken, followed up by a light bulb for desert. I remember wondering, "how bad was his last job?". The barker's preview that fascinated us the most was the one we least understood. These two girls in Arabian Nights costumes would come out on a stage. Then the barker would shout, "Step right up...she wiggles, she jiggles, she crawls on her belly like a reptile!" I remember thinking, "Why would I want to see that?" A few years later, I figured it out.

Some things, though, are still the same.....that wonderful carnival food; big red candied apples, spinning cotton candy, and the best of the best, the hot dog grill. That's one trick of the carnival trade that truly works. Always grill onions. The aroma of grilling onions will cause rapid onset hot-dog-fever even if I've just left Ruth's Chris.

I'm not much on today's Super Parks. They tend to be overpriced, overdone, and lack that aura of forbidden mystery. I love the old-fashioned, "pitch-til-you-win", "a prize every time", "come on mister, show that young lady you care" carnival. I want to be caught up in the smell of grilling onions and peppers, and have sticky, gooey red 'stuff' running down my chin from the apple. So raise a glass to Hootchie and to Cootchie. Here's hoping they don't get splinters.

Freedom Came At A Dear Price

2009-07-04T09:50:00.003-04:00

The Old Man wishes all a happy and safe 4th! Enjoy your day and all of it's festivities.....America has much to celebrate. I do hope, however, that you will find a moment to reflect on the cost of what we enjoy today. I enclose this that I got from a friend who is spending this Independence Day in a hostile environment.

The Purchase Price

"Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence?

Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War.

They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.

What kind of men were they?

Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated, but they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.

Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed. The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished.

So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid. Remember: freedom is never free!

I hope you will show your support by sending this to as many people as you can, please. It's time we get the word out that patriotism is NOT a sin, and the Fourth of July has more to it than beer, picnics, and baseball games."

Kum-ba-ya Yourself

2009-07-01T20:11:00.012-04:00

The Old Man went to camp once. It was called "The Cedars" and it was a church sponsored camp deep in the Virginia mountains. My grandson, Jackson, recently got back from camp. I saw the pictures.....it wasn't always like that.

The Cedars was located in dense woods somewhere around the middle of inner earth, or so it seemed. I recall Mom & Dad driving me up a gravel/dirt road for what seemed like 1000 miles. Later in life, I would see movies about nutballs in hockey masks who frequented such a place. I got that uneasy feeling a kid can get when faced with the unknown. You know the one; like 100 butterflies carrying feathers have been let loose in your innards. I was fully equipped. I had my Bible, my perfectly washed, ironed, and packed clothes, my official Camp Cedars hat, and Mom had even pre-addressed post cards to home so I would be encouraged to write often. It was like I was going off to war. "Geeez Mom, it's just a week."

The appointed time arrived and parents left....all parents. It was just us modern-day Nimrods milling about waiting to see what would happen next.

Enter The Colonel. I suppose he had some military background because he knew how to blow a whistle. We never knew his name....only The Colonel. He would blow his whistle to signal any event; morning muster, swim time, lunch, Bible study time, rest time, supper, and evening vespers. After a couple of days, we were trying to figure out how we could physically arrange for his whistle to blow when he farted. The Colonel would blow his whistle and then stand and gaze up into a tree until we had all gathered. Always the tree. We began to speculate that he was on the lookout for some of his relatives.

In the interest of making us all better citizens, we had to learn to make our own bunks in the military style. Inspection each morning was carried out while we were at breakfast. The one whose bunk was judged to be the "winner" for that day had his name posted on the door. The judge was the lone female staffer at the camp. I can't remember her name, but she was the first to confer upon me an honor that would come back to haunt me. My head got bigger when I was called up to the front of an assembly and awarded camper of the week for my consistent bunk-making skills. Of course this became the subject of one of the pre-addressed post cards. When I returned home, I often heard, "Now if you can win the bunk-making award, you can surely make your own bed up at home." Dang that unknown lady.

If you look closely you can see the "Uh-Oh" look on my face. I'd forgotten how severe "Bunk Lady" looked until I ran across this picture. I still wonder if she ever had any fun.

We stayed in cabins. Real cabins. Made of logs and reeking of creosote, mildew, and dirty socks, they provided the true "roughing it" experience. Lights out meant that if you were on the top bunk, you reached out and pulled the chain on the single hanging light bulb between each set of bunks. But it was after "lights out" (Of course...signaled by The Colonel's whistle) that things finally got interesting.

He said his name was "Blackie". He came from a much bigger city than Bedford. Somewhere up near Washington, DC. Blackie quickly perfected the art of being able to sneak out of the cabin late at night. He'd done some exploring and discovered that we were not quite as isolated as it appeared. By climbing down a cliff and heading down the road at the bottom, he could get to a little country store that had late hours. He'd load up on candy, cheeses, Nabs, and all sorts of contraband and just as adroitly, sneak back in. During free time the next day, his enterprise profited. Just the thought of someone roaming around like that in the land of "hockey mask nutballs" gives me cold chills this day and time. Then, we thought nothing of it.

I learned a lot at The Cedars. I learned to swim, to make my bed respectably, and I can still find Isaiah in a nanosecond. I still have the official Cedars hat. It's in my workshop along with my genuine aviator helmet and my official Davy Crockett coonskin cap. And when I look around out there, I think of The Colonel, and "Bunk Lady", and I wonder whatever became of Blackie.

Just Simply, "Dad"

2009-06-21T00:01:00.002-04:00

The Old Man honors his (and all) fathers today.

Sometimes you just don't need words.

"I'll see you later, bud."

Big Bad Biker Boys

2009-06-20T13:37:00.000-04:00

The Old Man was quite a biker in his day. Oh no.....not the Marlon Brando "Wild One" kind, but the Park Street Battalion gang kind. We wouldn't have known 'Brando' from 'Bondo', but we roamed far and wide on our Schwinns and J. C Higgins machines.
We were light years ahead of the American Chopper crowd. A new bike wasn't considered "street worthy" until there were some additions. A headlight was a must. Never mind that it had about one millionth of one candlepower and ate size D batteries faster than a Nancy Pelosi sidestep. At least one of us absolutely had to have a speedometer. After all, it's important to know exactly how fast you were going when you hit that pothole you didn't see because you were looking down at your speedometer. The pothole always won.

One of the coolest accessories was a built-in horn. It was located in the over sized bar just in front of the seat. When you pushed the little button, the mighty horn cleared the way ahead. Forget that it sounded like a chipmunk fart. But the absolute, be-all-end-all bolt-on was the siren. It clamped onto the front wheel frame and had a cable that ran up to the handlebars. When you pulled the string, the siren moved into position against the side of the front tire and it could wail like Jimi Hendrick's guitar on steroids. At night,we liked to lay in wait and fall in behind a car just to watch for the brake lights come on.....followed in many cases by administration of the Hawaiian Good Luck Sign.

There were a number of mishap possibilities. Most of the summer, we wore no shoes or shirts. A spill meant Mercurochrome or that evil potion, Iodine. Gravel became our arch enemy. The ultimate catastrophe for us was to break a chain while pumping up a hill. Two things were assured: Your bare toes would spin downward so quickly that they would turn partially under and the tops would scrape the asphalt. Crap....more Mercurochrome. But of even more ominous note, since the "cup" had not yet been invented, certain anatomical parts were relocated to an area located approximately between your eyes.

Years later, I saw Marlon Brando in The Wild One. He and his gang were a pretty tough bunch. But I submit that even Marlon wasn't so tough if his chain broke.

Join me tomorrow for a special Fathers' Day post.

D-Day.....A Follow-up

2009-06-10T20:05:00.004-04:00

The Old Man needs your assistance. As you are probably aware, D-Day and Bedford are forever linked. To refresh, Bedford lost more men per capita in the invasion of Normandy at Omaha Beach than any other municipality in the United States. As such, Congress agreed that the National D-Day Memorial should be located there. A private, non-government foundation was created to develop and manage the Memorial. As such, it receives very little if any government funding, and operates primarily from admissions revenue and gift shop purchases. While there is a paid staff, most are volunteers.

A "double whammy" of sorts has hit the Memorial. Donations and contributions have decreased substantially due mostly to the shrinking of the brave veterans, (we're losing around 1000 per day of World War II vets) and the general decline of the economy. Considering these financial shortfalls, there exists the possibility that the Memorial may have to close. A horrible tragedy.

Virginia legislators have introduced a bill in Congress to place the Memorial under the wing and management of the National Park Service; a move that, hopefully, would insure its survival. I have mixed emotions about this, considering some of the screwy moves government has been known to make, but these are desperate times for the Memorial.

Your assistance I mentioned? Perhaps a letter to your Congressman or Senator encouraging a positive vote on this idea at the proper time; maybe encouragement to the company you work for for donations, or even a personal contribution if you feel so led; all of these in the total could make a difference.

The very fact that I can sit in my comfortable home and write this without fear of recrimination of any type is testimony to the debt we owe the brave men who were willing to give all to insure our freedom.

All who attend the Memorial come away deeply touched. I took a group from our church up last fall and one of the members stood apart from the group and silently absorbed the scene. He is a combat veteran of Vietnam and he said later that he could look at the statues of soldiers in a desperate battle for their very lives and he "knew exactly how they felt".

I promised very few "soap boxes", so that's it for this session. Help however you feel you can.

Here's the link to the National D-Day Memorial....pay it a visit when you have the time.

http://www.dday.org

"The Longest Day"? Unquestionably

2009-06-06T00:21:00.001-04:00

The Old Man has a lifetime "To Do List". At the very top is the entry, 'Stand on Omaha beach at Normandy'. While there are many places on this earth that beckon and compete for my attention, only Normandy touches some place deep in my psyche and drives an intense desire to pay some degree of homage to those who died there 65 years ago today. This posting will be a tribute to those "Bedford Boys" whose lives have touched my own.

On June 5, 1944, General Dwight D. Eisenhower turned to his driver Kay Summersby with tears in his eyes and said quietly, "Well, it's on". Earlier he had made the 'go' decision and given the order to begin the invasion of Adolph Hitler's stronghold in France known as The Atlantic Wall . Having just visited the departing troops and given them words of encouragement, he now was feeling the terrible weight of command....of knowing that he was sending some young men to a certain death.

Weather had been a problem for several days but a small window of opportunity had opened and Operation Overlord had to go now or be postponed for 2 weeks. Had it been delayed, the fleet would have to be refueled, and the tides would not be favorable for a landing.

June 6 dawned with the seas in the English Channel still roiling from the departing low pressure driven storms that had plagued the decision-making for days. Waves of 3-4 feet and sometimes up to 6 feet were the norm. Thousands of troops were stuffed into Higgins boats; the landing craft of choice for beach invasions. Men were soaked to the skin quickly, and the violent movement, up, down, and sideways, as well as the constant pounding caused most to puke uncontrollably. Among these dear souls were the men of Company A....now known, thanks to author Alex Kershaw's book, as "The Bedford Boys".

Coming off the end of the Great Depression, young men from Bedford (and of course elsewhere) had joined National Guard units to earn a few extra dollars. Little did they know.........

The withering hell of German gunfire and its effect on the landing is well documented by historians and other authors, so I will not spend time on it here. It's been said that the opening 20 minutes of the movie, "Saving Private Ryan" is as accurate a description of what Omaha Beach was really like as could be shown. Of the 35 men from Bedford, 21 lost their lives. Nineteen of the boys from Company A were killed in the first wave, and two shortly after.

What I want to accomplish is to make some of the boys who gave their lives there seem a little more personal to you; to make their sacrifice perhaps more meaningful. And to do that, I'll share with you my connection to them.

Lucille Hoback Boggess is a dear lady and prominent Bedford citizen. She has served our county and town well for many years. During my early years, her husband, Ralph, ran a newsstand and small sundry store. I bought my model airplanes from him. I got one dollar a week allowance and a Monogram Kit cost ninety-eight cents. Lucille's two brothers, Raymond and Bedford Hoback were both killed. As I grew, there wasn't a lot of talk about that horrible day. I knew this family, but.......little did I know.

Frank Draper, Jr, a gifted athlete and strikingly handsome young man paid the ultimate price for our freedom. I knew his brother, Gamiel. Gamiel was one of the "town police officers". Back then, we knew them by name and they, in turn, knew us. .........little did I know.

One of the young men was Weldon Rosazza. His little sister was my youth choir director.......little did I know.

Earl Parker was one of the older of the Bedford Boys. He was 26. Married to Viola, he had a daughter that he never saw. Her name was 'Danny' and she and I went to school together. A delightful and pretty girl, she was a cheerleader and was one of the most popular and well-liked girls in our school. In one of his letters, he wrote words to the effect .."all I want is to get home to hold my baby girl in my arms." His body was never found. I've been in their home many times........little did I know.

While not one of the Bedford Boys, Bill Peters deserves great mention here. Bill left his young wife, Louise to serve as a medic. 30 days after D-Day, Bill was shot and killed by a German sniper as he walked down the road. Louise moved on with her life and married my uncle, where she remains a much loved member of our family.

In thoughtful moments, other connections flood my soul. The Western Union Telegraph Office that on July 17th became the conduit for those 'With regret' telegrams was located in the rear of Green's Drug Store. I've had countless cherry cokes and banana splits at the very lunch counter where Bedford mourned...........little did I know.

The train station from which the Boys left is now a restaurant. People sit daily and enjoy the food and ambiance, mostly unaware of the scene acted out there all those years ago......little do they know.

Bedford folks are a resilient lot. All of the grief, the heartache bred of loss, and the struggles with hatreds have all but disappeared. Growing up, I heard very little about the sacrifice. It seemed to be accepted as an ugly part of life; life which must go on.........little did I know.

....but now I do.

Jeffrey of "I Ain't Goin" Fame

2009-06-01T19:57:00.011-04:00

The Old Man mentioned a while back that the Battalion always knew that when we heard the mantra, "Vacation Bible School starts next week", that our halcyon days were in a state of interruption. Just when we were getting grooved in to summer vacation we had to get back into a harness of sorts. Now, don't misunderstand me, here. As a parent, I firmly believe in getting children off to a proper start on the development of their spiritual progress. And to this end, VBS is a valuable tool for teaching values that help create lifelong integrity. But to a kid, these concepts were beyond our cognizant level. All we knew was that sleeping in, pick-up baseball games, riding bikes, and all the other "kid-things" were about to be interrupted for a week.

Another "semi-cruelty" was that the old Bedford Baptist Church had no air conditioning. Matter of fact, neither did most other buildings. Let a few weeks after school was out go by, and we were well into summer. Pack 150-200 kids with their already-broken-in U.S. Keds and the whole place began to take on the odor of old combat boots and rancid butter.

Opening day.......lined up out on the sidewalk in two directions....flag bearers at the front of each column....thundering through the front doors and tromping down the aisle we marched....singing a reasonable rendition of "Onward Christian Soldiers" and taking our positions to be seated and "indoctrinated" by the Reverend A. G. This was heady stuff.........on the first two days. After that, we didn't thunder, the singing became mostly mumbles, and as to tromping.....more of a shuffle.

Highlights were always 'snack time' and 'craft time.' Lemonade and chips usually made up the gourmet delight with maybe some cookies the good ladies of the church had provided. Crafts were another matter. We built (all within the span of a week) bird houses, leather braids, lanyards, or my personal favorite, a little dog tie rack. This was a beauty. The outline of a little puppy looking over his shoulder at his tail, which stuck out like a banana glued to a flat surface. Ingenious really, as you were to hang your ties on the tail. Ingenious but in retrospect, really kinky looking.

At the time, I owned 2 ties, so the tie rack was overkill.

Enter Jeffrey. Jeffrey lived almost across the street from the church. What you would call today a "high visibility" location. Jeffrey hated Bible School. But every year, he dutifully showed up, like all the rest of us, at the prodding of his mother. He would spend all week trying to think up creative ways to get thrown out, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, one year Jeffery simply said to his mother, "I ain't going". No amount of threatening, cajoling, begging, or pleading could change his mind. "I ain't going" became the rallying cry of the Battalion. None of us had guts enough to use it ourselves, but we all looked up to Jeffrey.

We'd line up to march in and there would be Jeffrey in his front yard....waving. We could have gleefully killed him, but secretly inside we wanted to name him king of the world.

Jeffrey suffered no ill effects from his stand and went on to a successful life. The last time I saw him, we shared a memory and a laugh about the whole experience. No harm, no foul.

I came across this picture the other day. I've indicated Jeffrey as he tried, yet again, one of his attempts to escape. The Old Man is standing beside him on his left. And by the way, that's Miss Alma on the right end of the second row behind the lady in the checked dress.

I hope to see Jeffrey in a few weeks, and I think I'll get him to say, "I ain't goin" just for old times sake.

Dear Miss Alma

2009-05-25T20:52:00.001-04:00

The Old Man misses you. You left us 14 years ago today. You're still ever present in our thoughts and our hearts.

Love,
CS, Martha, Lauri, & Julie

The Remembrance of Heroes

2009-05-24T18:04:00.005-04:00

The Old Man has a collection of heroes. Some are pretty obvious, the others are unaware of their status. In the spirit of this weekend of honoring and remembering those who have given their lives to preserve our freedom, I want to share something that came to me this week. I don't usually include in my posts material from outside sources, but this one is special. Special for a couple of reasons. First, it is a touching account that honors those whose names we may never know....whose deeds go unheralded. And second, because it was sent to me from one of my veteran heroes. A. J. Sartin spent his time in Vietnam as an Aviation Medic-Helicopter, patching up and caring for those who had fallen. Injured there, he proudly carries the designation, "Service Connected Disabled American Veteran". I've known A. J. for a long time, but had been out of touch for a lifetime of career and separate pathways. Lately, I've come to learn more about his service and discover that we share a deep patriotism. By the way, he'd love to see you stop by his website, http://www.floridadude.com/. Give it a try...you'll enjoy a bit of humor, and enjoy a lot of fun, mostly about the "Florida lifestyle".

So now, enjoy and be touched by this account (coincidentally titled The Old Man)

The Old Man...

As I came out of the supermarket that sunny day, pushing my cart of groceries towards my car, I saw an old man with the hood of his car up and a lady sitting inside the car, with the door open. The old man was looking at the engine. I put my groceries away in my car and continued to watch the old gentleman from about twenty five feet away. I saw a young man in his early twenties with a grocery bag in his arm, walking towards the old man. The old gentleman saw him coming too, and took a few steps towards him. I saw the old gentleman point to his open hood and say something. The young man put his grocery bag into what looked like a brand new Cadillac Escalade and then turned back to the old man and I heard him yell at the old gentleman saying, " You shouldn't even be allowed to drive a car at your age." And then with a wave of his hand, he got in his car and peeled rubber out of the parking lot. I saw the old gentleman pull out his handkerchief and mop his brow as he went back to his car and again looked at the engine. He then went to his wife and spoke with her and appeared to tell her it would be okay.

I had seen enough, and I approached the old man. He saw me coming and stood straight and as I got near him I said, “Looks like you're having a problem.” He smiled sheepishly and quietly nodded his head. I looked under the hood myself and knew that whatever the problem was, it was beyond me. Looking around I saw a gas station up the road and told the old man that I would be right back.

I drove to the station and went inside and saw three attendants working on cars. I approached one of them and related the problem the old man had with his car and offered to pay them if they could follow me back down and help him. The old man had pushed the heavy car under the shade of a tree and appeared to be comforting his wife. When he saw us, he straightened up and thanked me for my help. As the mechanics diagnosed the problem (overheated engine) I spoke with the old gentleman. When I shook hands with him earlier, he had noticed my Marine Corps ring and had commented about it, telling me that he had been a Marine too. I nodded and asked the usual question, "What outfit did you serve with?" He had mentioned that he served with the first Marine Division at Tarawa, Saipan, Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal. He had hit all the big ones and retired from the Corps after the war was over. As we talked we heard the car engine come on and saw the mechanics lower the hood. They came over to us as the old man reached for his wallet, but was stopped by me and I told him I would just put the bill on my AAA card. He still reached for the wallet and handed me a card that I assumed had his name and address on it and I stuck it in my pocket. We all shook hands all around again and I said my goodbyes to his wife. I then told the two mechanics that I would follow them back up to the station. Once at the station I told them that they had interrupted their own jobs to come along with me and help the old man. I said I wanted to pay for the help, but they refused to charge me. One of them pulled out a card from his pocket that looked exactly like the card the old man had given to me. Both of the men told me then, that they were Marine Corps Reserves. Once again we shook hands all around and as I was leaving, one of them told me I should look at the card the old man had given to me. I said I would and drove off. For some reason I had gone about two blocks when I pulled over and took the card out of my pocket and looked at it for a long, long time. The name of the old gentleman was on the card in gold leaf and under his name.......'Congressional Medal of Honor Society.' I sat there motionless looking at the card and reading it over and over. I looked up from the card and smiled to no one but myself and marveled that on this day, four Marines had all come together, because one of us needed help.

He was an old man all right, but it felt good to have stood next to greatness and courage and an honor to have been in his presence. Remember, OLD men like him gave us FREEDOM for America. Thanks to those who served....& those who supported them.

America is not at war. The U.S. Military is at war. America is at the Mall. Remember, Freedom isn't "Free" -- thousands have paid the price so we can enjoy what we have today.

"Free At Last, Free At Last,..........."

2009-05-17T17:55:00.006-04:00

The Old Man feels a certain kinship to all children this time of year. The school year is winding down at warp speed and the ecstasy of the just-around-the-corner summer vacation is beginning to permeate kids like the smell of gym socks permeates a locker room. It's so easy to remember the feelings the Park Street Battalion had when mid-May was behind us. They revisit me often. The windows to the school rooms were opened and the smells and sounds of spring flew in on us like a tsunami. There was always one class or another on recess. With envy, we would listen to balls hitting bats, swing set chains rattling, and the normal cacophony of "kiddom". It seemed our turn would never come. It was pure torture to be forced to deal with our 300 year old teacher droning on and on about some king in some country in some year at war with some king in some other country in some year. There was always the smell of honeysuckle. It covered a fence on one end of our school's playground. Some of us would squander our entire recess just pulling blooms off the vine and sucking the sweet nectar out of them. Oh how we longed to escape.

By this time in the school year, we had endured the "Dark Ages" of January and February when no holiday gave us respite. We'd suffered through May Day where we were forced to learn some really goofy dance routine. Boys should never be required to skip. At some level, I'm probably irreparably damaged, and may end up on Oprah. We'd learned about all there was to be in that school year and the last couple of weeks were pretty much worthless.

Finally, the big day arrived. Out we were. Usually a half-day, we'd dawdle our way home with that great sense of emancipation only a kid who'd been cut loose can feel. There is no better feeling in the world than the feeling of total irresponsibility. As our chant went, "No more lessons, no more books. No more teacher's dirty looks."

Safely ensconced in our bookbag or in our lunch sack would be our final report card. You always wanted to see two things: "Conduct" or in some grades, "Citizenship" carry an A. Of more importance, was the phrase, "Promoted to 5th grade". In those days, children learned early the lesson that society eventually teaches. You will fail or succeed based on how hard you apply yourself. So when "society" came calling, we already knew the outcome of the contest. Those lessons serve me to this day.

The battalion wasted no time immersing itself in summer activities. Sleep late, head out to play ball, or war, or cowboys, or even a three-day Monopoly game on Marvin's front porch. All too soon though, a summertime spectre appeared on the horizon. It afflicted our parents like a virus. They became almost zombie-like; chanting in unison, "Vacation Bible School starts next week, Vacation Bible School starts next week, Vacation Bible School starts next week. "

And we knew, we just knew, things were gonna get weird.

Sharp Top Becomes Heartbreak Ridge

2009-05-07T20:11:00.024-04:00

The Old Man has so many happy memories of the times at The Peaks but for five families in 1943 the memories of the Peaks are bitter indeed, as World War II intruded on Bedford. It bullied its way into our comfortable world.

February 2, 1943 was clear and cold. A light snow had fallen the day before and Bedford scooted closer to the fire to pass the long night. My mom and her friend Mary (Kenny's mother if you're a regular follower of the blog) had just come out of the Liberty Theater after catching the 7:00 movie. Along with the rest of the town, they heard the roar of engines and looked up to see a plane pass over at a very low altitude. Mom said the plane was so low, she could see lights in the cabin, and she remarked to Mary, "He'd better get higher or he'll never clear the Peaks." It was later determined that when the plane passed over Bedford it was flying at an altitude of only about 2000 feet. Sharp Top is almost 4000.

Just a few minutes later, those with a view of Sharp Top saw the flashes of explosions against the side of the mountain followed a few seconds later by their sound. An Army Air Corps Mitchell B-25 Bomber, like the ones made famous less than a year earlier by General Jimmy Doolittle who led the famous raids on mainland Japan from the decks of the carrier USS Hornet, had flown at its full 230 MPH cruising speed into the side of the mountain. The plane hit the mountain with such force and then exploded so violently that the debris field covered a wide area of the rugged terrain. Parts were in trees, others scattered about like a child's Lego project gone bad.

The accounts of the crash were discussed around Bedford for years to come. As I became older and began to learn of that hellish February night, I grew closer to those involved. One became my little league football coach, another ran a sporting goods store, and still others attended our church. Many of these people were first responders that night and provided accounts of the horror they found there.

After a torturous 3 hour climb during which they had to hands & knees crawl over ice and snow, sometimes slipping and sliding back 50 feet or so, they finally finished their climb to hell. There were no whole bodies. A decapitated torso here, an arm there, and all were mangled and charred, some still smoldering. One rescuer finally left the scene around 10:00 AM the next day, upset because he had not yet located the head of one of the crew members. While it took several days, the bodies were all recovered.

Fast forward about 35 years. A friend of mine and I hiked to the site. Most of the wreckage was still there and I assume, still is. We examined all we could see. The remains of one of the big 13 cylinder Wright Cyclone radial engines, most of it melted but some bolts with safety wires still intact, a landing gear with the rubber wheel still mounted, some miscellaneous scrap metal and part of a wing, a boot heel.......that I could not bring myself to pick up.

As time went by, the crash became more and more a distant memory, hardly talked about. I visited it a couple of times more but then adulthood and family responsibilities intervened and I moved on. The "Bedford B-25" began to retreat from collective consciousness into the back mental filing cabinets.

Around 1999, a new generation of interest became apparent. There was a resurgence of awareness, and an effort was launched to memorialize these 5 brave sons of liberty who gave their lives, training to protect us all.

Second Lieutenant George R. Beninga; Marietta, Minn.
Second Lieutenant Hiliary S. Blackwell, 22; Santa Monica, Cal.
Second Lieutenant Paul M. Pitts, 21, the pilot; Poteau, Okla.
Second Lieutenant William McClure, 22, Indianapolis, Ind.
Corporal Peter J. Biscan, 29; Chicago, Ill.

Barely out of their teens, they died on an icy cold mountain, alone, terrified, far from loved ones and home, and mostly forgotten by the world.

A fund-raising effort was mounted, and finally, on June 2, 2001 a plaque was placed commemorating and paying tribute to their sacrifice.

Once more, as these airmen fly in a higher realm, a grateful Bedford and the world says, "Thank you".

Pick A Peak

2009-05-05T17:48:00.009-04:00

The Old Man is going to spend a little time with some follow-up to the trout fishing posting. The streams mentioned in that article are in the Jefferson National Forest, part of the Blue Ridge Mountain chain. Located there as well, are the Peaks of Otter. At some point, otters were very special to the area. Even the Bedford High School athletic teams were all called the Otters. In Bedford there is Little Otter creek and Big Otter creek. Otter River School is there as well. Interestingly, no one I've ever known has seen an otter around Bedford. Could be worse, I guess. They could be called the Peaks of Wombat.

These twin peaks are among the highest in the range, and are closely interwoven with life in the town of Bedford.

Only about 10 miles out from town, the Peaks impacted our lives on a daily basis. The peak on the left is known as Sharp Top. It appears to be higher than its sister Flat Top, but that is optically illusional. Flat Top is actually the taller of the two.

Visible from the head of Park Street, they served as our weather forecaster. If rime ice or snow nestled there in the mornings when we headed off to school, we knew that soon the winter chill would be upon us. Much like the "woolly worm" technique of prediction, "snow on the Peaks" was thought to portend a cold winter. A cry of "snow on the mountain" created excitement in the Park Street Battalion. In the little valley between the two peaks, there was a hospitality center of sorts. There you could catch a bus ride up most of the way to the top of Sharp Top. A thrill-a-minute ride as the old bus grunted and strained like the fifth day of an intestinal back-up. The little road was full of switchbacks and s-curves. In winter, that whole operation closed up.

Snow brought out the daredevils. A caravan of cars would make it's way up to the area, full of little snot-noses and sleds. We'd hike about one third of the way up the mountain, and then down the road we sailed. Our own private luge run. To a 10 year old kid, it seemed we were "balling the jack" at at least 347 miles per hour. If you want a real treat....try this at night.

The Peaks served as our summer air conditioner. When summer's heat and humidity became more than we could take, Mom, Dad, and I would head up to the Peaks. There was a spring there in the picnic area. For centuries, the Cherokee knew the area well and used the spring as a fresh water source. In typical Native American no-nonsense fashion, they named it Big Springs. To this day, it still bubbles. We drank freely from its coolness while we unpacked our picnic basket. Just to sit under the trees and enjoy the delightful freshness of the mountain air brought comfort from the oppressive August heat.

On those trout fishing trips I mentioned, we could count on seeing the elk. Sometimes a lone buck would bolt across the road in front of us, and several times I saw the herd of about 20 grazing in an open meadow. In the cemetery across from my house, a section is dedicated to those members of the Elk's Club who wish to be buried there. A life size statue of an elk sits at one end. I remember seeing that and wondering if any animal could be that big. Then I saw for myself. They could. "Progress" caused the herd to vanish through the years, and a sadness came to Bedford. But, all is not lost.....thanks to some diligent conservation efforts, the elk herd is beginning to rebuild. I hope we humans have learned something.

I've been to the top many times. Those who make the trip are rewarded with one of the most magnificent vistas possible. Of course, for a kid to spend time up there with his dad.....well as the saying goes, "It just doesn't get any better than this".

Stay tuned, for the next post will uncover tragedy and heartbreak on Sharp Top Mountain.

A Special Thank You

2009-04-22T21:08:00.004-04:00

The Old Man needs to spend a serious moment with you. For those who may not be aware, the town of Bedford lost more men per capita than any other community in the country at the D-Day invasion of Normandy in World War II. 21 out of 35 men from Company A from Bedford lost their lives. You will read much more about this in a special post marking the 65th anniversary of the invasion.

Of those who returned, the last of what have become known as "The Bedford Boys" was laid to his final rest today. Elisha "Ray" Nance was the last man standing. He was 94.

I simply, on behalf of my free family, want to say "Thank you, Mr. Nance, and Godspeed to your reunion with Company A."

No Doubt, Scout, It's About Trout

2009-04-22T20:24:00.006-04:00

The Old Man gets to feeling a little nostalgic around this time of year. While I haven't stayed current on fresh water fishing regulations, I remember that the "opening day" of trout season usually happened in our area in April. I believe my dad lived all year for two events; the day his garden was plowed, and opening day of trout season.

Dad would spend hours going over his plans, poring over lunar tables, checking his equipment, and listening to agricultural reports that told of stream stocking schedules. We would ride up into the mountains around Bedford and just stare at North Creek and Jennings Creek from all angles to see if we could find any clues. I vividly remember walking through the woods and feeling in my best Dan'l Boone mood, complete with my genuine coon skin cap. Ah yes.....boy against nature.....the stuff of adventure dreams.

We were a fishing family. Mom loved it as well, so "opening day" was a family event. The evening before, lunches were packed, the cooler was filled and the equipment was checked and double checked. A word about that cooler; it was a metal monstrosity with thick walls. Red with white lettering emblazoned on the side, Conan the Barbarian would have been challenged to lift it comfortably when it was filled with ice and sodas.

Pre-dawn the house on Park Street took on life. Scurrying became the order of the day with Dad issuing instructions at break-neck speed. The old Dodge finally loaded, off we chugged.

It was about 15 miles or so up to the target. The road was narrow and parts were not paved, but rather were gravel surfaced. Trout season didn't open until the stroke of noon, so in theory, there was no need to rush. In theory. In actuality, Dad felt compelled to get there early to "get the best spot". To save time, Dad chose to drive with his waders (or as he called them, "hip boots") on but rolled down. Not realizing that his "feel" for the pedals were greatly altered by the boots, we barrelled into a 90 degree curve on a graveled portion of the road. The old Dodge wasn't much, but she had enough zip in her to shoot into a fishtailing slide. Dad was scuffling to control the car, Mom was raising holy hell, and I was in the back seat going, "Wheeeeeee".

Somehow, the old Dodge righted herself and things calmed. Undeterred, Dad forged ahead until we reached our creek. Serenity had taken a sabbatical. Every trout fan in 3 counties were lined up on the banks. Dan'l Boone now had an army. About 11:30, every one had flies on their rods and were holding them up waiting for the gunshot that signaled High Noon. Boom. Lines dropped, casts were made, curses were heard from fishermen catching each other, and slowly a look of peace and contentment spread across Dad's face. It was as if he was truly in his element, and you know what? He was.

I don't remember that we caught many if any "keeper" trout. We caught plenty of a strange little fish called a "Horny Head", but we threw them back too. Even in my 10 year old mind, I think I wanted Dad to catch a citation trout. It never happened, but I treasure the memories of his trying.

I still have Dad's old tackle box, his last fishing license, and that red cooler is still in the family. And to my dying day, I'll remember the sound of that gravel flying and "Wheeeeeeee".

Confirmed: It Was The Suit

2009-04-19T16:03:00.004-04:00

The Old Man is not a fan of confinement. Before the days of cell phones and when blackberries came off of a thorny vine and in a wizard named Alma's hands, morphed into the finest cobbler known to mankind, I spent more time in phone booths than Clark Kent. I was a salesman, and as such, was away from my office most of the day. My only form of communication was the phone booth. Stifling in the summer heat and freezing in winter's chill, they served me as well as could be expected, but they also gave me the willies. I sometimes felt as if I were in a glass walled casket. Confinement personified.

For a spell, we had a houseboat. It wasn't much to look at in the yachting world.....a camper mounted on pontoons. It did, however, have all the facilities needed to get by. The shower/toilet was about the size of those phone booths. Pretty ingenious use of space, though. You could shower, brush your teeth, and ...well, you know, all at the same time. From time to time, while you were in there, some fool would go by wide open and the wake from his boat would throw you against the door spilling your naked, tooth-brushed self out into the hall, while the shower hose flopped around like a python juiced on Red Bull. At least the confinement would end at that point and the others on the boat would discover real amusement.

But perhaps the scariest period of confinement I can recall occurred "up in the country". We would go to visit relatives who lived on a farm outside of town. They were (and still are) "salt of the earth" people. They lived according to the old ways; raising most all they ate, mending, repairing, making do, and doing what they could to earn a living. They farmed, ran a sawmill, and hunted wild game. They were a tough lot; hardened by necessity and by their environment. I love the memory of those who have gone, and love the contact with those who are left. They are among my heroes. Into this culture came yours truly. I lived in town. Already, I'm two strikes toward out. I didn't have to kill my own chickens. Strike three. Upon striking out, my cousins decided to lock me in the outhouse. In I went for the most innocent of purposes, and the next thing I knew, from outside, giggling spilled over into guffaws and I realized I was stuck. They had bolted the door. Now, forget about the modern Port-A-John concept. At the very least they have that nice blue chemical that works to deodorize for the first hour or so. No such with an outhouse; no Scrubbing Bubbles, no Tidy-Bowl. It was as I recall, a "one-holer". One hole with no mystery as to its contents.

After about a half hour of me beating on the door, they finally relented and let me out. Of course, I stormed off with righteous indignation flying off me like water drops off a Golden Retriever. They were practically clutching their sides laughing.

I had a conversation with one of them just a few weeks ago. I playfully jibed her for her role in my confinement and she said, "You probably had on that white suit." It was as if I had suddenly discovered the meaning of life! No wonder all those years ago, they had attempted to teach me a lesson. Without even realizing it, I learned in that outhouse the penalty for arrogance. I had unintentionally sent the message that I may have thought I was better than them. In my own defense, however, I had help. I didn't choose the white suit.

But now, 60 years later, I understand.

Renewal

2009-04-14T13:07:00.004-04:00

The Old Man never tires of Spring. Nature refreshes herself and trots out the colorful finery the Almighty has provided in her closet. Here's what awaited us when we returned from Margaritaville!

Resurrection

2009-03-28T17:27:00.008-04:00

The Old Man has a resurrection story for you today. No, not that resurrection, but one of a non-Divine old-timer that I had thought long since dead. Followers of my blog will recall several references to an old radio. Let's be more specific, here. We'll call him Philco 89, maybe Phil for short. He was born in 1933. When he was just a young thing, my dad gave him to my mother on the first Christmas they were married.

Phil provided many hours of entertainment to my folks. They heard the news of the world delivered by Lowell Thomas, Walter Winchell, and of course, Edward R. Murrow. They listened to "Make Believe Ballroom" from the Hotel Roosevelt and probably dreamed of someday traveling there. I don't know this for a fact, but it's a good bet they heard the news of Pearl Harbor from Phil.

Several years down the road, Phil was replaced by a newer radio. Time to upgrade, I suppose, and old Phil found his way down into the basement. He perched on a shelf near the washing machine. Mom would listen to what Phil had to say while doing her laundry and ironing chores. I recall (yeah, by this time I had made the scene) sitting with Dad and listening to The Shadow, Gunsmoke, or Inner Sanctum while he cranked the ice cream freezer. Phil didn't get to say much then. He spoke or sang only occasionally.

Flip many pages on the calendar. Phil rarely had anything to say now. Television had relegated him to obscurity. Dad was gone, I was all grown up, and Mom didn't spend a lot of time in the basement. One day during a visit, I asked Mom if I could take Phil back home with me. A spur of the moment bit of spontaneity, I guess.

Phil sat on an old trunk in our den for a while, seemingly content to be a curiosity for visitors. I woke him up once in a while, but never for very long. One day, Phil went silent. He could only make a guttural growling noise with a few pops and snaps thrown in for good measure.

We moved away from Virginia in 1991. Phil came with us, of course, but upon his arrival was exiled to the attic over my workshop where he remained until a couple of weeks ago.

Enter Bruce. Simply by happenstance, I discovered that Bruce was a collector/restorer of antique radios. Bruce loves radios. He eats, sleeps, and breathes radios. His collection is magnificent. Bruce came by his passion honestly. His father was an apparent genius when it came to electronics. He can regale you with stories of how his father taught him valuable lessons about the idiosyncrasies of what to my untrained eye, are simply containers of electronic spaghetti.

I took Phil over to Bruce's shop and he did an evaluation. Among other issues, it seems that some squirrels had been around nibbling and leaving bits of acorn behind. Phil's cabinet finish was pretty much gone, and there were a number of missing bits of veneer. Bruce operated and removed Phil's innards, and I brought his "skin" home to my shop.

I gave Phil a cosmetic makeover while Bruce performed the necessary surgery and stitching on his inner workings. I got a call from Bruce advising me that Phil was back, so I went over with Phil's newly buffed and polished "look" and Bruce remarried the parts.

What a thrill when we waited for the tubes to warm up to their trademark red glow, and once again after almost 25 years, Phil sang in that marvelous bass voice of his. I said to Bruce, "Wow! You've done wonders for the old radio." Bruce replied simply, "No, I rescued another one."

Late that night, I sat in the kitchen in semi-darkness, watching the tubes glow and running the dial up and down to see what I could find. I heard WCBS in New York, some station in St. Louis, and a ton of others from heaven only knows where. In that lateness, a part of me half expected to hear Edward R. Murrow say, "This is London". I know all of those old timers must be in there somewhere.

Tagged Is Me

2009-03-26T19:30:00.002-04:00

The Old Man got tagged this morning. Seems I have to go to the 6th folder on my computer, choose the 6th picture in that folder. Well, OKeyDokey.

As many of you know from a previous posting, my dad gave this radio to my mom the first Christmas they were married. It's been languishing in my attic for many years. I recently drug it out and set it on my workbench.

My next regular posting will detail what I believe is a very interesting story about her.

Stay tuned.

" Creative Problem-Solving"....Not A New Concept

2009-03-18T20:35:00.007-04:00

The Old Man comes from a long line of creative problem solvers. I learned at an early age that there were always simpler and common-sense solutions to most situations. There wasn't much high-tech stuff around Bedford. If we wanted to see something on TV, we went over town and looked through the window of the furniture or appliance store. Frozen foods were a novelty.....my family grew and canned our own produce.

Folks still plowed their gardens with mules, and houses were built one nail at a time. School had "recess", and most "social problems" were confined to a section of the county where Saturday nights brought out vile stuff imbibed from mason jars. Results were usually unfavorable.

As children of the Great Depression, my parents knew the importance of a non-wastefulness lifestyle. Mom would sit and darn socks for Dad and me for hours on end. I don't remember getting new ones until my foot started growing. Well into her '80s, she would sew and mend on her own clothing until it seemed that all the original cloth had been replaced by new thread and stitches.

When it came to solving a problem, or figuring out a simple way to do something, my dad was a "grand master". I recall once when he and I were going fishing, someone had told him that grasshoppers made excellent bait. For several days, he stewed and mulled over how to capture enough for an ample supply . Sitting at the kitchen table, he'd chew on the stem of his pipe, and occasionally mutter to himself. One fine Saturday morning, I noticed traffic slowing down as it passed our house. I went out on the back porch and there was Dad in the area behind our house known as "the back lot", walking back and forth with a minnow seine. Now, if you don't happen to know what a minnow seine is, picture a rectangular fine net with a stick on either end. The idea was to walk through the water and capture bait minnows. So here was Dad, out in a dry-land field seining his heart out. Remember, this is the father of the kid who used to sit up in the Mimosa tree and hum.

He had the last laugh, though. We had enough grasshoppers to take us through a whole day of fishing. Rooted in his love of fishing were other "creative" solutions. To make a fish scaler, he took a strip of wood about 10 inches long and nailed a couple of soft drink bottle caps to one side, jagged side facing. It worked like a charm and could scale a perch in nothing flat. The scaler doubled as a paint-stirring stick. Gripping the bottle-cap end wasn't the most comfortable thing to do, but it worked. I still have that scaler. I wouldn't dare use it...it's one of my connections to something precious to me. I may have it bronzed.

I leave you with a last bit of creativity. We see babies now being carried into restaurants in some really plush and interesting carriers. They are multi-function. They transport, convert into strollers, entertain, and allow baby to snooze in some degree of comfort. I jokingly refer to them as "baby buckets". Perhaps now you will understand why.

It's A Wonder

2009-03-13T20:14:00.013-04:00

The Old Man is lucky to be here. It's a wonder I survived my youth. BB guns, sling shots, dirt clods, and arrows shot high into the air just to see where they would fall, could all entertain the Park Street Battalion for hours on end. Sometimes we would attempt the organized civility of sports, or the cerebral exercise of marathon Monopoly tournaments, but more often than not, we were engaged in some form of risky behavior.

Helmets were items worn by soldiers and football players.....never by a kid on a bike. Not only did we eschew helmets, we rode with no shoes and no shirts. While rocketing down Baltimore Avenue hill, we would let go of the handlebars and ride, steering "au naturale" by leaning a bit left or right.

We crawled through drainage pipes and culverts, climbed to 30-40 feet in trees on limbs that were never meant to support a squirrel, much less a kid, and roamed around town after dark with no thought of fear. We camped out in fields and in the woods.

Mom carved up chicken on the sideboard beside the sink, gave it a quick wipe and cut up the potatoes for salad. Meals were left on the table, covered with a cloth, after Sunday lunch and seldom re-heated for supper. We were never ill from any of this....perhaps we were lucky or I like to think that maybe it's been the passage of time that has created an evolution of bad stuff and disagreeable substances. Restaurant workers didn't wear hair nets or plastic gloves and the butchers used the same butcher block cutting surface for all their meat prep. There was sawdust on the floor of the butcher area to absorb spilled blood and prevent butcher "accidents".

We ate rabbit if Dad had a good day in the field, and during the summer we ate enough perch and bluegills from farm ponds and the County Park lake it seemed we would begin to grow scales.

If a huge flock of starlings became a bother when they decided to "park" themselves in one of our trees, Dad would simply take his shotgun and fire off a blast up into the tree. It wasn't illegal then. The starlings would scatter and peace and tranquility would return to Park St. I heard a quote on television recently that summed up most of the time on our street. "It was so quiet, you could hear a mouse peeing on cotton in China".

I recapture a little bit of that experience with my genuine Daisy Red Ryder BB gun these days when the squirrels launch an assault on my bird feeders.

I suppose a simpler time called for simpler solutions, but that delicious quiet visits me from time to time. It's rare, but when it comes, it's a treasure.

Oh, by the way......The Old Man is the second from the right.

It Ain't Margaritaville This Time

2009-03-08T17:45:00.003-04:00

The Old Man is going on a little trip. It's not my normal run to the coast, but rather an errand of some degree of mercy. Gotta go up north where they will probably talk funny.

Since the Iwo Jima series, I've taken a few days to lick my literary wounds, but during the hiatus, I've managed to jot down a whole new stack of blog subjects. When I return, I'll get right to it.

I'm actually going to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. To get there, I will have to go perilously close to Washington D. C. I plan to sneak by quickly so none of the silliness there can attach itself to me. Wish me travel mercies.

Back in a week.

Looks A Little Pale

2009-03-02T12:01:00.007-05:00

The Old Man finally got his wish. We had a decent snow....the best one (according to the weather guessers) in about 5 years. It started about 7:30 last night after a day of heavy rain, and continued until early morning.

Seems that Washington, DC is getting hammered along about now. Wouldn't it be a good thing if we could perceive the same degree of purity inside the buildings that heavy snow brings to the outside of them?

Nothing heavy, this post. Just a chance to share a little beauty with you.

Oh, by the way; thanks to all who commented on my Iwo Jima series. Look for a similar series in June as we honor those brave souls who encountered The Longest Day.

Black Sands of Hell (Part 3)

2009-02-23T10:14:00.001-05:00

The Old Man concludes. For 4 days, the bloody fighting continued day and night. In an effort to discourage "sneak" attacks during nighttime combat, both sides kept the skies alight with flares, strobing the landscape with ghastly flashes of the reality of death.

The Fourth Division was tasked with the capture of the southern end of Iwo Jima including Mount Suribachi in order to neutralize the withering Japanese fire power. The Fifth Division's mission was to capture the two airfields to the North and West. As the Marines made their way toward their objectives, they began to get a better grasp of the Japanese style of combat. All other combatants in modern times have honored the red crosses worn by field medics in an attempt to bring some degree of civility to war. They are "off limits". The Japanese, however, saw things differently. Contrary to convention, medics were targeted first, the red crosses a bulls eye; after all, if a medic dies, many more other soldiers will die from lack of treatment.

The third veteran of the campaign that I have known is T. W. That's how he was known to friends. T.W. recounts how he was wounded in the battle for Guam, and back in action on Iwo. He recounts a story of how he and 3 other Marines were assisting a wounded comrade back to an aid station. They jumped in a shell crater to rest for a moment. While taking their "break", one of the men asked if T. W. would change sides with him. T. W. agreed since it would give both of their arms a rest from carrying the litter. When they came out of the crater, the one who had taken T. W. 's place took a bullet in the arm. When the war ended and T. W. came home, he felt a call into the Ministry and served as a pastor for most of the rest of his life. He was a gentle and humble soul who exhibited no indication of his witness to barbarity.

The taking of Mount Suribachi extracted a heavy toll in life and misery. American casualties totaled 5,372, of which 385 were killed.

On the morning of February 23, four Marines made it to the top of Suribachi. When they looked down into the extinct volcano's crater, they saw a battery of machine guns and stacks of ammunition, but not a living soul. They scrambled back down to their unit and told their commanding officer what they had seen. He immediately sent another 6 man patrol back up with a small American flag and instructions to "put this up".

At the top, these Marines found a 20 foot length of iron pipe and lashed the flag to it. Even though it was small, when word spread, cheers erupted all over the island. The ships anchored just off shore began to blow their foghorns and ring the ship's bells. The Japanese were not amused.

About two hours later, around 10:30 AM, 6 more Marines made their way to the top with a larger flag to replace the initial one. This flag-raising has served as the defining moment of pride and patriotism for 64 years and will, I believe, always provide an emotional boost to all generations.

Of these 6 flag raisers, three would be dead within a month. In the photo, Texas born Harlon Block is at the bottom of the pole inserting it into the ground. He was killed by a mortar shell on March 1st. Harlon was 21 years old. Two men behind and just barely visible are Mike Strank who also died on March 1st, and Rene Gagnon who was one of the three brought back to the States to participate in a bond drive. The second man up in the foreground is John "Doc" Bradley, a Corpsman who was another of the three who survived, and whose son, James Bradley, wrote the book "Flags of Our Fathers". After Bradley is Franklin Sousley, killed on March 21st. The last man is Ira Hayes, the third of the survivors who participated in the bond tour.

While the famous photograph would be perceived by many for years to come as a climactic event, the fight for control of Iwo Jima would continue on for many weeks. The last organized resistance ended on March 16th, nearly a full month after the invasion. The last Japanese gasp came on March 26th when 4 Japanese officers led 196 trapped men out of a cave and attempted to attack Airfield #2.

The toll in human life in the battle for Iwo Jima is astounding. 20,000 Japanese troops were killed and nearly 7000 Marines paid the supreme price for our freedom.

Admiral Chester Nimitz, in his official communication announcing the capture of Iwo Jima included a phrase that has become the point of clarity on the campaign. He said, "Uncommon valor was a common virtue".

On one of the "Lest They Be Forgotten" programs referred to in an earlier post, the ending again brought tears to my eyes. The camera moved from one of these men's face to the next, and as the camera focused on them, each gave a crisp salute. Even though they could not see me, I quietly stood from my chair and returned each with gratitude and pride. Thank you, my heroes, from the core of my being.

God Bless America

Black Sands of Hell (Part 2)

2009-02-20T08:45:00.000-05:00

The Old Man continues. The next day, February 20, the carnage continued. Inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard the Marines began to gain ground getting off the beach and moving slowly toward Mount Suribachi.

The mindset of the Japanese defender was an unbroken thread reaching back hundreds of years. The code of Bushido dictated that surrender would bring great and lasting dishonor; both to the individual and his entire family for generations to come, and especially to the Emperor. Iwo Jima commander General Kuribayashi issued orders that each man was to fight to the death and must kill at least 10 invaders before he died. It's been said that Iwo Jima was Japan's Alamo.

Japanese Captain Masao Hayauchi commanded a heavy gun emplacement. When it was knocked out by fire from Sherman tanks, Captain Hayauchi clutched a demolition charge to his chest and threw himself against one of the tanks, blowing himself up but failing to stop the tank. While many have questioned this apparent 'fanaticism', it should be understood that the culture of the Samurai was diametrically opposed to our own. Americans went to war to preserve our way of life and then go home; the Japanese went to war to honor their Emperor and did not expect to go home.

The slow, methodical move to the taking of Suribachi became a job for the foot soldier. The rifle, the bayonet, and the hand grenade proved more effective than the tank or artillery. The Marines quickly developed a system for taking out pillboxes and bunkers. One man under covering fire from others would crawl up to the (hopefully) blind side of the target carrying a satchel charge or flamethrower. He would then squeeze the charge or let loose a blast of yellow flame into an air slit.

As the fighting progressed, the general mantle of misery worn by all was made even heavier by the addition of the smells. Mixing with the normal odors of cordite and TNT, of gasoline and napalm, was the stench of burning flesh and human decomposition as the 110 degree heat turned bodies into biological Jello. Bunker by bunker, pillbox by pillbox the Marines slowly made their way through this pestilence toward the mountains base. The assault on Suribachi had now begun.

As the Marines fought their way up the mountain, they could hear the Japanese talking below in the caves that were as much as six stories deep. Drums of gasoline were brought forward, emptied into the fissures, allowed to seep into the underground fortress, and ignited.
Combat engineers sealed many of the caves, blowing them up with dynamite and turning them into crypts for the hundreds of souls packed below. One of the engineers said that when he would return to the supply dump for more dynamite, he would take a moment to clean from his uniform and his face a mixture of dust, blast residue, and human flesh.

When day 3 of the battle ended, there were only about 300 Japanese left in Mount Suribachi. Most had been killed and the rest had committed suicide to avoid the "disgrace" of capture.

Suffering plays no favorites.

Part 3 will continue on Monday

Black Sands of Hell (Part 1)

2009-02-19T08:50:00.000-05:00

The Old Man is taking a several day break from tales of the misdeeds of my childhood. I want to spend some time with you remembering and commemorating an event that occurred 64 years ago today, February 19, 1945. Even though I was only a very young child, it did occur during my lifetime. Those generations that follow me will study the event and I believe there is value in having a connection with someone who was alive at the time. Through these posts, I hope you will gain a deeper sense of our country's history, and the debt we owe to what Tom Brokaw has dubbed "The Greatest Generation". It happened on a small 8 1/2 square mile hunk of volcanic rock, roughly 1/3 the size of Manhattan just 600 miles off the coast of Japan. Shaped like a pork chop, Iwo Jima sits in an incredibly strategic position. It's capture was vital to prepare for the continued campaign against the Japanese. Not only would it neutralize the anti-aircraft fire that was costing scores of American lives, but Iwo Jima would provide a place for allied bombers to refuel so that they could continue on to bomb the Japanese mainland and bring World War II to a close.

I've know 3 people who have been to Iwo Jima; two who fought there and one who served there later after the war. Some of what you will read here has come from their first-hand accounts. Through these posts, you will have an opportunity to see, hear, and feel what these and others have experienced. I begin this project with humility and respect, and with the fervent hope that what I write will paint "word pictures" that will enable you to gain a deeper perspective on their sacrifices. So, gather now for your "briefing".

Iwo Jima means "Sulphur Island" in Japanese. Large deposits of sulphur just under the surface give rise to the name. At the south end of the island, stands Suribachi, a 556 foot "mountain", far and away the highest point on the island.

Although Iwo Jima is now a Japanese shrine and military outpost, for a number of years after the war, it was manned by American forces. My friend Stuart served there as part of the USAF in the late 1950's. He recalls how the island stunk of hot sulphur every minute of every day. Even though it was during peacetime, men kept calendars beside their bunks, crossing off with a big "X" each day as it passed. With a fairly constant air temperature of 110 degrees and no air conditioning, you wore misery like it was a second skin. When he first arrived, he went to the motor pool and requisitioned a Jeep to tour the island. The Sergeant in charge said, "See you in 10 minutes". Sure enough, he was back in 10 minutes. Stuart also recalls an incident that happened late one night. The Air Force had set up an outdoor movie to provide some degree of diversion to the men. After one of the showings, Stuart set the remains of a bag of popcorn beside his bunk. During the night, he heard rustling and when he looked down, the bag was slowly moving across the floor. He picked it up and discovered that it was being carried by a team of four cockroaches. On a darker note, because of the deplorable surroundings, the suicide rate among personnel was abnormally high. As well, many who went to Japan on liberty opted not to return; willing to risk arrest and prosecution rather than suffer further in a place even sea birds shun.

So, it was into this environment of stink, oppressive heat, and a complete absence of fresh water anywhere on the island that our Marines took a road trip; headlong and full speed into hell.

Watch any documentary about the battle of Iwo Jima and the survivors seem not to be men who faced what they faced. They are members of the crocheted afghan and heated lap robe platoon, now. They seem so frail and arthritic, some barely able to move. They're most all in their '80's hampered by the normal maladies of aging. They do, though, share many common traits; they become emotional when they remember, so they try not to, they almost universally feel some degree of survivors' guilt, and they love their country with a passion that's so sadly missing in many today. To a man, they agree that if called now by their country, they would gladly serve.

For 72 days, the Allied Forces relentlessly pounded Iwo Jima from the air and from ships setting just off the coast. The day in and day out shelling and bombing turned the already sparse island into a pockmarked lunar landscape. As a result, the 4th and 5th Marine Divisions anticipated a "cake walk" when they went ashore. As one veteran put it, "We expected a 5 day campaign....we got 50". Unbeknownst at the time, the Japanese had built a network of tunnels throughout Suribachi, so other than disturbing sleep, the 72 day bombardment had virtually no effect on the defenders. One observed, "The Marines were on Iwo Jima, the Japanese were inside of Iwo Jima". 21,ooo Japanese soldiers were ready.

Early on the morning of February 19th, after the traditional pre-invasion breakfast of steak and eggs, as the Marines huddled in the invasion LSTs and prepared for the ramp to go down, the order was given, "Buckle your chin straps and take your weapon off safety". Another of those veterans I knew and worked with for many years was Lou. Lou was in the Navy and drove one of the LSTs. I remember him telling me that he was under orders to man the 50 caliber machine gun mounted at the rear of his boat and train it on the Marines so none would refuse to go. He had direct orders to shoot should there be "slackers". As the men tumbled down the ramps and onto the beach, they became acquainted with another of Iwo Jima's features. The black volcanic sand was so loose they sank down into it, over their boots. Running was virtually impossible, so every step they slogged exposed them to greater danger. But, surprisingly, none came. For 3 hours there was calm as the concealed Japanese patiently waited for the beach to be filled with men and equipment, and then.....

The gates to hell itself opened and Death in all its arrogance strode the beach and reaped souls at will. The Japanese had spent the time leading up to the battle mapping out every square yard of the anticipated invasion area and had arranged their weapons so that no matter where you were, you were caught in a crossfire. You couldn't dig much of a foxhole because if you went down in the sand little more than a foot, you encountered hot sulphur. Protection and cover were non-existent. One Marine told of his buddy beside him raising up to see and was instantly cut in half by machine gun fire. We lost a man every 45 seconds. One vet reported, "We thought we were young and invincible, but then the shit hit the fan and we grew up quick." One recalled thinking, "Oh my God, they're real bullets!"

Men crawled over the bodies of the dead and sometimes sought cover behind them. They learned to cover their eyes, their logic being as one put it, "You could give up an arm or a leg, but not your eyes." There were very few whole bodies, just pieces. One medic was asked by a wounded Marine, "Am I gonna make it?" "No", said the medic (the soldier's leg was gone and he was bleeding out). "Then would you light me a cigarette?", replied the man. "OK". He was gone in 15 minutes. All this to a group of 18 and 19 year old "boys". At 24 you were considered an old man.

Of most poignancy to me was the account given by one of the veterans on "Lest They Be Forgotten", a PBS special. He told of how he and his twin brother were fighting side by side. After a shell exploded near them, he saw his brother's helmet. He crawled over to it and when he picked it up his head came with it. He gathered up as much of his twin as he could find and lovingly put the pieces in a poncho. Slinging the poncho over his shoulder like an obscene Santa Claus pack, he made his way back to an aid station.There a medic asked, "Whatcha got in the poncho?" "My brother" the Marine replied. "No, really?" said the medic. "Look", said the Marine as he gently unfolded the poncho. "Can I have some water so I can clean him up a little bit before I put him in the ground?" he said. Later, his commanding officer got a message to him that said, "Come on down here, you're going home. You've paid the price." "No sir", said the Marine, "He has."

As he related this horrible memory, he wept unashamedly. And as I watched in the sanctity of late night quiet in my den, so did I.

Part II will continue tomorrow

Smoke 'Em if You Got 'Em (LSMFT)

2009-02-09T17:20:00.007-05:00

The Old Man does not smoke. That wasn't always the case. My smoking history goes back a long way. It was golf day today....my usual game emerged. I had my normal mix of goofy shots, but added a new one for me; A Rodney King (over clubbed). My good buddy, Jay, was back with us today after dodging a big bullet a couple of weeks ago. He had a heart attack. Some angioplasty and a stint and he was better than new, but its encouraging some lifestyle changes. One of these is to quit smoking. This along with some dietary tweaking and he should be good to go.

My long-time-ago-buddy-and-general-partner-in-crime and I loved Thursdays. He had an aunt who always went to the beauty shop on Thursday. At the appointed time, my bud would sneak into her room and relieve her of one pack of Luckies from the carton she always kept there. Then it was off to "the hut".

The hut was a mixed aggregation of materials we had scavenged from around our houses and the neighborhood. We were at that awkward in-between age where part of us wanted to be Daniel Boone, camping out in the wilderness, and the other part wanted to be involved with girls but we didn't quite understand how. So our "huts" were combinations of logs, pine branches, canvas tarps, leaves, and any other componentry we could manage. We talked about inviting some of the neighborhood girls into our "Casbah" but we were gutless plus they were smarter than that anyway. The hut was our refuge, our clubhouse, our hiding place....you name it. The Hut also became the "smoking lounge". Far from prying eyes, we could indulge our sinful ways. Of course, at that age, one "cig" was all we could take and we hadn't progressed to "inhale" yet. I remember later on how it felt the first time I did inhale. My ears still ring.

One particular day, we had "fired them up" and I heard my dad calling. He had stopped his car at the top of the bank from our hut, and needed me for some reason. I quickly handed off my "weed" and crawled out of the hut. I'm sure when I threw back the flap of canvas that was the door, it must have looked like Cheech & Chong rolling out of an east LA lowrider. I don't remember what Dad wanted, but it was fine. The rest of that evening, he just looked at me with the slightest vestiges of a smile. Do you think he knew?

During the years I've smoked Marlboro, Chesterfield, Pall Mall, Winston, Camels and Kools. I've smoked cigars and had a several year relationship with a pipe. I still sometimes miss the pipe.
I don't do any of that any more and haven't for 9 years. But every once in a while, I miss my all time favorites.....Lucky Strike. With a cup of coffee or after a good meal, few things can bring such contentment. Should they ever discover that they were wrong about all of the horrible health risks attributed to smoking, and that its really good for you, I'll be down at the 7-11, and back in a minute.

Oh, and the LSMFT? It was the slogan for Luckies..."Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco".

Please Tell Me It Hasn't Been Fifty Years

2009-02-03T15:28:00.004-05:00

The Old Man has spent today hearing some songs in my head. 1959 was one of my very favorite years. I was 17, a Junior in High School, had a rock band and a steady girl friend. (For the sake of clarity, Miss Martha had not yet entered my life so I get a free pass on this one.) I could tool around Bedford in the most totally "uncool" car possible.....the family 1953 Dodge.
It was Happy Days personified. We didn't have Arnold's Drive-In, but we did have the Auto-Dine. The "Dine" was unique. It had posts like the drive-in movie with speakers and a menu. You pulled into a space and placed your order. A car-hop in a neat white jacket would bring your order out to the car. I guess you could figure the "Dine" was the Sonic of its day.

We were there.....every day, rain, shine, snow or exams. No date was complete without a trip to the "Dine". My mom said she never had to worry about where to find me; she said she would just call the Auto-Dine and if I wasn't there, I soon would be.

OK....so what's the 50 year deal? Fifty years ago today, in a frozen field in Iowa, we "children of the '50s" lost three of our idols. After a grueling tour, traveling in a school bus and nearly freezing, Buddy Holly had chartered a Beechcraft Bonanza for a trip to the next town. With Buddy were J. P. Richardson ( The Big Bopper), and Richie Valens. The Auto-Dine's jukebox played their hits repeatedly. Richie Valens sang of his lost love "Donna". Buddy Holly raved about "Peggy Sue", and The Big Bopper commiserated about "Chantilly Lace"....Oh baby you knowwww what I like"

When we heard about the crash, we met the news with stunned disbelief. There must be some mistake. Was this the "day the music died" as memorialized by Don McLean's "American Pie"? Not really. Some of the best of the early rock & roll was to follow. And that leads to an interesting connection.

One of the performers on that tour who was scheduled initially to take that plane ride was Dion Demucci. His early hits came when he recorded as Dion and the Belmonts, Bronx based guys who recorded such hits as, "I Wonder Why", "A Teenager In Love", and "Where or When". Dion decided he couldn't afford the $36.00 cost of the flight. Good call. Dion has had a long career and suffered many highs and lows, but he's still performing.
Here's my connection. In the early '60s I had the pleasure of meeting Dion when he was part of a traveling Dick Clark Caravan of Stars show that I was fortunate enough to serve (with others) as emcee. I remember him as being a gracious and humble fellow without any sign of pretension. Sadly, that's lacking in so many "stars". I continue to wish him well.

Another of the performers on that tour was the late country singer, Waylon Jennings. Waylon too, had been originally scheduled for one of the seats on the flight, but gave his seat up to either J.P Richardson or Richie Valens because they had a terrible cold. The connection? One of the members of my little band played for a bit with Waylon Jennings during the '70s.

Far from dying, the music played on. We had Roy Orbison, Elvis, Chuck Berry, and the genius of MoTown and Phil Spector's "wall of sound" with the Righteous Brothers, the Ronettes, and others. But every February 3rd, some songs play in my head and I feel a little chill.

Well What Do Ya Know

2009-01-20T16:19:00.003-05:00

The Old Man gives the weather soothsayers a pat on the back for saying sooth. The snow came just as they had predicted. They turned out to be right on the money.

By "snow belt" standards, its pretty insignificant, but by Miami standards, its pretty impressive. While I probably cannot make a snow man, I might manage a snow chicken.

I still didn't get to hear those tire chains, but we are warm and safe. All in all, a good day to assist CNN & Fox News in making sure our new President's inauguration occurred. Godspeed Mr. Bush and God's guidance President Obama.

Let It Snow Let It Snow Let It Snow

2009-01-19T20:03:00.006-05:00

The Old Man is on snow watch tonight. The super-Doppler-prognostication-whiz-kids have predicted we might get up to 3-4 inches by mid day tomorrow. I've watched local news, Internet weather pages, and national news and they all are pretty certain our snow will happen. We've seen film footage of the piles of salt and the plows at the ready. People are buying milk and bread as if there will never be another loaf sliced or cow milked. Truth be told, most of those folks could survive for a week or better on what's already in the pantry. Failing that, keep in mind....its 3-4 inches. Inches.....not feet or fathoms. Four wheel drive SUV owners "will find it hard to sleep tonight." Much ado about nothing some would say, and I cannot argue, for more often than not, the soothsayers miss their guesses about what Mother Nature is planning. But, try as I may, I can't refrain from a trip to the window about every 3o minutes.....just to check. It's a holdover from the Park Street days.

My room overlooked an intersection. At this intersection was a street light. If I sighted just the right way, I could align that street light with a tree branch on one of the now famous mimosa trees and get a perfect view of snow falling. I could tell heavy from flurry, sleet from fluffy and freezing rain from the good stuff. There was no radar, no NOAA weather radios, and no way to tell if it was going to snow except by my dad's corns. They always seemed to ramp up just before bad weather. I did have another great "snow early warning system." Our house was on the same street as the highway department shops. Many the winter morning in the pre-dawn hours, I would awake to the unmistakable sound of tire chains on asphalt. Then I knew....it was going to be a very good day.

I miss the sound of tire chains; you just don't hear them much any more. At least not unless you happen to be following a snow plow out on the interstate, and who wants to do that? I want to wake up to the the magic sound of them struggling up the hill in front of my house. I want to line up my view with that mimosa tree and catch the thrill. I want to "help" my dad shovel the front sidewalk..............all from another time.

There's something reverent about a snow fall. The peace, uniformity, and beauty awaken memories that we can call up, miss them terribly, but savor their treasure all over again. And so I shall.

If you need me, I'll be over at the window.

Tagged, You Say?

2009-01-15T15:54:00.002-05:00

The Old Man has been "tagged". As such, I am to list 10 honest things about myself. This may take a while. Some are easy, however, so let's get started.

1. I've been in love with Miss Martha for 48 years. Our partnership is my supreme accomplishment.

2. I'm an only child. Oh, I know, I know, you probably think I am spoiled rotten. Maybe for a few months early on, but as soon as the novelty of having me around wore off and the world kicked my teeth in a few times, I got over that quickly. Believe me or I'll hold my breath.

3. My mother taught me to read before I ever started school. Other than making sure I had all my shots, it's probably the nicest and most important thing she did for me. The old Ping Pong paddle she kept in her closet and used as needed comes in second.

4. On my first job, I was paid minimum wage....50 cents per hour. The job consisted of sweeping up and doing general labor in a florist shop. The fun part was watching the owner attempt to look sad when someone prominent died.

5. I've seen Elvis, shaken hands with Bob Hope, and shared a swig or two with Sam Cooke. We've dined with Diana Ross & the Supremes when they were just The Supremes. I've had a small rock-n-roll band and made a record. It was horrible, but fun. It gave us the "big head" until we realized all our relatives had a copy and that would probably be the extent of our "hit". We weren't "one hit wonders" we "wondered when we'd have one hit".

6. I like to iron shirts.

7. I love salt water fishing. I do not, however, care two hoots in hell about bloodworms. "Fish Bites" are the greatest invention since fire. I have a theory about fishing; gear is almost as much fun as using it. Sharpening, oiling, repairing, perusing Cabela's catalog, and buying new stuff is the best. Oh, and the cardinal rule.....never fish today, always fish yesterday or tomorrow.

8. I truly like fruitcake....the gooier and stickier the better.

9. The greatest sources of pride in this life are; how Miss Martha has managed to put up with me, and how together we have nurtured our daughters into becoming the finest a person could ever hope for.

10. I know that one day I'll go to heaven, and I can tell you how to if you should happen to need me to.

So, there you are. In no particular order or ranking are the 10 "honest facts" about The Old Man. I can't promise to comply with the "tag 7" part of the request. Most have already been "it". I can promise, though, to keep at this blogging deal for as long as I can manage the memory banks. Best to you all.

A Cloud of Dust and A Hearty Hi Ho Silver

2009-01-11T15:46:00.003-05:00

The Old Man is a western fanatic. I've been that way for as long as I can remember.

Every Saturday, without fail, you could find me and others of the Park Street Battalion at the Liberty Theater. There would always be a couple of westerns, some cartoons, a Three Stooges short, and another chapter in whatever serial was running. I remember admission was 15 cents and popcorn was a dime. 50 cents would put a kid in junk food Shangra-La for the better part of the day. There was a valuable side benefit too. Nothing would make you feel more grown-up than being let out in front of the movie and going in on your own. No pesky adults allowed.

The program ran continuously so you just went in, took a seat, and watched. You'd stay until you got to the point in the rotation where you had come in. That's when you knew it was time to leave. Most of the time we walked home in a group. On rainy days, Mom or Dad would figure I'd be gone about 3 hours and they'd be there waiting. On the good days, we would gather at one house or the other and play out the movies we'd just seen. There were a slew of those "oaters". Randolph Scott, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers were joined from time to time by Rocky Lane, Charles Starrett (The Durango Kid), Cisco and Pancho, Hopalong Cassidy, Rex Allen, Tex Ritter, Johnny Mack Brown, and the side kicks.....Smiley Burnette, Gabby Hays, and Fuzzy St.John.

There were a couple of guys who were known for their skill with a bull whip. Whip Wilson was one, but the true "whipper" was Lash LaRue. Lash was dead-solid penguin cool. Dressed in black he could work wonders with that bull whip. Lash had that little "devil may care" coolness in the way he wore his hat cocked over on the side of his head. You just looked at him and knew everything was going to be OK and that Lash would be taking no crap off anybody that day.

One week a real buzz went through the Battalion. Lash LaRue and his sidekick, Fuzzy St.John were going to make an in person appearance at the Liberty. There would be a Lash LaRue double feature with Lash and Fuzzy putting on an exhibition on stage between the movies. It was like waiting for Christmas. Days seemed to take weeks to pass. When the big day arrived, I was up even earlier than Christmas morning. I pestered the soul out of my folks until they finally relented and took a carload over town. We got to the theater well before they opened for business....no doubt hoping to spot Lash going in the backstage door. No such luck.

When we finally were admitted, I determined that for the best vantage point, I would go up into the balcony. When I started for the stairs, the theater manager came over to me and told me I could not go up there. "Why?" I asked. I'll never forget his answer or the way it made me feel. "That's for the colored people", he said. I can still, after all these years, remember feeling a little sick to my stomach and thinking, "That's stupid, we're all just here to see Lash LaRue". It took society a bit longer to catch up with me, but catch up it did and we are all far better for it.

We cheered, we whooped and hollered, we yelled, "Watch out, Lash" when someone was about to ambush him, and we laughed at Fuzzy's antics. The film ended and the big moment arrived. The house lights came up and the curtains opened and out walked Lash and Fuzzy. It was like seeing Elvis. Kids were bonkers.....cheering and clapping. Lash finally quieted us down and began to give us some "don't try this at home" pointers. He asked us to always tell the truth, to brush after every meal, and to love God and country. Then he performed his whip wizardry. Poor Fuzzy. Lash whipped his hat off his head, whipped the gun out of his holster and made him "dance" to avoid whip marks on his feet. But the big finish was when he had Fuzzy put a lit cigarette in his mouth and stand sideways. Lash then whipped that fire off the end of the smoke. We all gasped. I recall thinking, "Practicing for this stunt is probably why Fuzzy has no teeth".

What a day in Bedford. At least 100 "Lash LaRues" came charging out of the theater, honor bound to find a bull whip of some sort. Suffice to say play time was really interesting for a few days. The Band-aid business boomed.

I've heard tell that Lash in his later years, had interest in some property around Bedford, but I can't confirm that. Other than appearances at Conventions, etc, his last big "hurrah" was to instruct Harrison Ford in the art of "bull whippery" in preparation for his role as Indiana Jones.

Lash died in 1996 at age 79. But as long as there remains a "kid" from that day in the Liberty theater, he's as alive as you and I.

Wonder If Orville and Wilbur Started This Way?

2009-01-05T16:45:00.003-05:00

The Old Man has a lifelong attraction to airplanes. I've built models that actually occasionally flew, built many that wouldn't, and some that were scale and never meant to. I've earned a pilot's license and flown a circle around the Wright Brothers Memorial in Kitty Hawk, NC. I still have on my lifetime "to do" list to ride in an open cockpit plane. So many good memories, but none can compare with the time that Kenny and I decided to build one we could actually fly in.

It was summer; that grand period when time stood still. There were endless hours to play ball, play "war", or just sit around shooting the breeze. Probably during one of the "breeze-shooting" sessions, Kenny and I hatched a plan to build an airplane. It seemed simple enough.....get some kind of box we could sit in, and nail on a wing and some wheels. We figured we wouldn't need a motor since our take-off roll was down a long hill on Baltimore Avenue. Our plan was to launch and then glide around and land softly in his back yard. Simple.

And so, construction began. Under our back porch, I found a wooden box. It had at one time held produce or some such. I think I remember it as an orange crate. Perfect. Kenny boosted a 6-7 foot two-by-four from his dad's stash and our B-17 (Retrospectively short for Bungle-17) began to take shape. We nailed the 2 x 4 across the front lip of the box with some little finishing nails (about 100 of them, after all, the fun was seeing how many we could actually get in without bending) and added a couple of L-shaped braces I found in my dad's tool bin.

For a tail, we found a piece of board my dad had in the basement, and nailed it to the bottom of the orange crate so that it stuck out the back. For main wheels we raided the remains of one of my old tricycles and for a tail wheel, Kenny got one off one of his dad's old lawn mowers.

We figured we didn't need a steering mechanism since we were only going to be going in a straight line down that hill and only for a short time until we lifted off. Landings would follow suit. Really, really junk science.

First flight day dawned hot and humid as Bedford can be. We were up at first light and out to the "hanger" (Open space under the butterfly bush). We struggled and rolled, tugged and tusseled the "Flawed Flyer" to the top of the hill on Baltimore Avenue. On a business trip to Chicago, my dad had bought for me a kids' version of a leather flying helmet...complete with goggles. As a result, I was named captain and Kenny was my co-pilot. We hopped in the cockpit and off we went.

"Malfunction, malfunction, abort abort". About one third of the way down the hill, catastrophic dis-assembly occurred. The wing came off, both wheels went sideways, and Kenny and I polished the gravel on the side of the road. We skidded so far along the shoulder on our behinds, that for several weeks I expected to see bits of gravel in the commode.

We got patched up with Mercurochrome and Band-aids and moved on to other adventures. Kenny later served on helicopters in Viet Nam and said that he often thought of that disastrous first attempt at flight. I still have that leather flying helmet, although the goggles are long gone. It hangs in my workshop and every time I see it, I think of that day......and of Kenny.

Groannnnnnnnnn

2008-12-31T14:59:00.003-05:00

The Old Man loves the utter stupidity of puns. In the interest of New Year's revelry and general silliness, here are some I received from a friend known as "The Florida Dude".

CREATIVE PUNS FOR "EDUCATED" MINDS

1. The roundest knight at King Arthur's round table was Sir Cumference. He acquired his size from too much pi.

2. I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan island, but it turned out to be an optical Aleutian.

3. She was only a whiskey maker, but he loved her still.

4. A rubber band pistol was confiscated from algebra class, because it was a weapon of math disruption.

5. The butcher backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work.

6. No matter how much you push the envelope, it'll still be stationery.

7. A dog gave birth to puppies near the road and was cited for littering.

8. A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart.

9. Two silk worms had a race. They ended up in a tie.

10. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

11. A hole has been found in the nudist camp wall. The police are looking into it.

12. Atheism is a non-prophet organization.

13. Two hats were hanging on a hat rack in the hallway. One hat said to the other: 'You stay here; I'll go on a head.'

14. I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me.

15. A sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center said: 'Keep off the Grass.'

16. A small boy swallowed some coins and was taken to a hospital. When his grandmother telephoned to ask how he was, a nurse said 'No change yet.'

17. A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.

19. The short fortune-teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large.

20. The man who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran

21. A backward poet writes inverse.

22. In a democracy it's your vote that counts. In feudalism it's your count that votes.

23. When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.

24. Don't join dangerous cults: Practice safe sects!

HAPPY NEW YEAR !

No Pink Bunny Suit, No Sir Not Me

2008-12-20T17:13:00.007-05:00

The Old Man has never worn a pink bunny suit. That was the horrible fate that awaited Ralphie. Mine took a somewhat less threatening form.

The thought occurred to me this past week while trotting along behind Miss Martha as she gathered the groceries, "Where did the old grocery store go?" We all seemed to get along without the Winky-Blinky Food Nova stores that proliferate today. We had Bush's Grocery. A typical grocery buy scripted out like this with Mom on the phone with Mr. Bush.

"Do you have any nice pork chops? OK, send me 4." "How fresh are your turnips? OK send me 5 or 6." The conversation would continue like this for a few minutes and would wrap up with, "Oh, and I'll take a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon. Yes, Valleydale will be fine."

About half hour later, there'd be a knock on the door and one of the delivery guys would be standing there with his hat in his hand and would have a box as per Mom's order. He'd bring it in and set it on the kitchen table. A pleasant, "Thank you, mamm" followed. That was it. No coupons, no buy-one-get-one deals, no clubs to join....just food and stuff at a fair price. Even if we were going to be away, the delivery man would simply enter the unlocked house and put the perishables in the "frigidare". I think there were 4 or 5 full-time delivery guys working for Mr. Bush and we knew them all by name. Dad got paid every Friday and would stop on his way home to pay the "ticket" for that week's buys. Try that at Winky-Blinky.

So what's with the "bunny suit" business? Each year at Christmas time, my folks always had little gifts for the people who made their lives a little easier and convenient; the mailman, the milkman, (oh yeah, they delivered it to the house in the pre-dawn hours) the paper boy, and the grocery delivery men. It might be a pack of handkerchiefs or one of those "books" that were actually a covert carrier for packs of Life Saver mints.

One year, Mom and I had been in some sort of Christmas program put on by the Lions or JCs or some group. In the skit, Santa had fouled up and Mrs. Santa (Mom) was chasing him across the stage with a rolling pin. I was running around after her. I don't remember the outcome, but I assume it all worked out. Anyway, Mom got the idea that it would be a shame to waste that little Santa costume, so she decided that I would wear it and deliver all of the gifts to my friends. And then the bomb dropped. I was going to also deliver the gifts to the grocery delivery men, the milkman, and the mailman. Pissed is inadequate.

No choice...play the game or (possibly) seriously negatively impact my own Santa outcome. I got through it somehow with minimal damage to my 9 year old ego and reaped the rewards on Christmas morning. Many years later, Ralphie and his pink bunny suit gave me flashbacks. I spent the rest of the winter dreading Easter, but thankfully the Lions or JCs had other fish to fry.

Babes In Toyland

2008-12-18T16:28:00.004-05:00

The Old Man still loves his toys. Thinking about them reminded me that I used some of my current ones this past Monday. It was golf day. It occurs to me that I have not released an update on the types of shots I encountered in some time. I had several Oprahs (fat) and more than a few Santa Clauses (got much better than I deserved). I also had a rarity for me, a couple of Lindsay Lohans (too thin and way out of control). "Playing" opened up a chain of thought for me, though, that encourages me to give you a rundown on various toys I got for Christmas through the years.

I got a Mickey Mouse watch one year. It was neat, especially when I took it apart to see how it worked. The last time I saw it, all of the parts were in a box of stuff in an old chest. That was probably 55 or so years ago. Wish I had that box.

How about the ViewMaster? You'd insert these disks with little color slides embedded in them into the machine and when you looked through the binocular-like instrument, there was the Cisco Kid and Pancho in 3-D. I had one with Hopalong Cassidy as well. I think his horse was named Topper. For some reason, Santa had included a disk with scenes from Tampico, Mexico. I remember wondering the childish equivalent of the adult, "Where the hell is that?"

Ahhhhh, my Erector Set. Developed by A. C. Gilbert, I believe, this was a fiendish mix of metal strips with holes along their entire length. You also had packs of small bolts and nuts. The concept was great, but in reality, I kept losing the nuts and bolts, the metal strips were kind of flimsy, and the electric motor blasted out so much ozone that dogs would howl and moan. I did manage to make what passed for a Ferris Wheel complete with the metal seats that came in the kit. Unfortunately, my engineering skill gene skipped a generation or two and the seats would never pivot as the wheel turned. They remained locked in position. Must have killed a bunch of imaginary carnival goers. Believe it or not, I still have the remains of that Erector Set. It's in a blue metal box that still latches about as poorly as it did then. Wouldn't take a million bucks for it, though. Well maybe a million.

One year brought the Lionel Electric Train. I recall Santa had it mounted on a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood. It ran in a big oval. You would put these little pills called "Smoke Pellets" in the engine and acrid, smelly white smoke would pour out for a few turns around the track. The smoke generators on these old Lionels generally lasted about a month and then never worked again. With my permission, my mom sold that train when I went off to college . What an idiot I was.

Of course there were the normal tricycles, wagons, and later bicycles, but the big daddy was when I got my first car. Notice the pride of ownership and sheer joy at my new-found independence.

Interestingly enough, this racy looking number was made in the U.S.A. Both the boy and the car.

In the spirit of reflection, spend a bit of time in the land over your shoulder. The innocence of a childhood Christmas will bring peace and quiet the bustle. Tell you what.....I'm going out to the garage and look at that Erector Set. I'll see you later.

Rocking Around The Christmas Tree

2008-12-17T16:54:00.004-05:00

The Old Man has a long history with Christmas trees. There has been one in my life since I was 2 months old. We've had our tree up and decorated since Thanksgiving weekend. The train is clickety-clacking it's way around under there and tooting it's whistle as it passes through the symbolic town of Bedford. Miss Martha has again outdone herself with the exact, almost clinically scientific placement of the ornaments. I'm pretty much relegated (out of choice) to dragging the tree in and getting it set up as the pallet for her artistry. My role at that point, becomes to serve in an advisory capacity. It's a good arrangement that has stood the 45 year test of time. In the "dark age" years before pre-lits, my responsibility extended to putting the lights on the tree. I can personally attest to falling victim to every malfunction electrically possible on Christmas lights. These temporary setbacks resulted in some very colorful linguistics that I can still call on when the situation merits.

Most nights, I wander in the living room and just sit and admire. I'll run the train for a bit and just let my mind open up the vault and allow some new memories to escape. While each Christmas we share is special, I firmly believe that the reflection on those past brings the deepest comfort and peace. During my reverie and with the discovery of the forgotten box of pictures, I began to remember clear details about the Christmas trees of my childhood.
Virtually every tree in those days was a cedar tree. They were prolific in the fields around our town. Fact of the matter is....they were one notch above weeds in the agricultural food chain. The grocery stores would buy a few from the farmers who were happy to get about 50 cents each. We would then buy our tree for $1.00. Dad would nail cross braces across the stump of the trunk and then set the whole business down in a bucket, weighting the genuine, hand built tree stand with several rocks. When filled with water, the deal proved pretty stable.
Strung with the lights of the day, it's a wonder of wonders that we did not go up in a swirl of flame and smoke. When you factor in the heat from those bulbs, you can't put enough water in a bucket to retard drying of a cedar tree. Mom would put a few ornaments and some tinsel on the tree. The exciting part to me was always the adorning with the silver "icicles". That's when the tree became magic. I recall Mom's excitement when she finally bought some plastic icicles that would glow in the dark. I still have 3 of those. They've been on every tree in our house since we got them from Mom when she decided to get out of the Christmas decorating business. A lot of her decision was probably driven by the fact that you could no longer buy a cedar tree for $1.00.

So, I encourage you to find time during the busyness of the season to simply gaze on your own Christmas tree....and pay tribute to Christmas Past. You'll find comfort and warmth there.

Rudolph The What?

2008-12-16T17:18:00.002-05:00

The Old Man was born long before Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Ruddy didn't come along as the popular Gene Autry song until 1949. We had to somehow manage to make it through Christmas without either him or his buddy Frosty the Snowman, who drifted into the scene in 1950. We hung on for dear life to the classic 'Twas The Night Before Christmas as our touchstone to the magic. In our house, we walked down both sides of the street.....the birth of Jesus on one side, and the excitement of Santa Claus on the other. As a family, we happily diddy-bopped back and forth with abandon; sometimes quiet and introspective, other times wound as tight as 10 # test line with a 4 ounce sinker.

I noticed on a recent trip to mecca (WalMart), the variety of Christmas lights available bends my mind. They blink, chase, twinkle, dim, brighten, mark time to music, and probably will one day put themselves up and then take themselves down while doing laundry and cleaning out the gutters. "Twernt that way back in the day".

The outdoor lights were strung on rubber coated wire and sockets that held 3 inch long colored bulbs. Today we would probably say, "Candelabra base" but back then most folks referred to them as "porch lights". Now, my dad was a wonderful man, but his mechanical skills were not his strong point. So with great clatter and fits and starts, the light hanging project began. Dad would plug the string in to check for burned out bulbs and then begin to hang them. Just about each year, he would mis-figure and drive a staple through the wire, thus blowing a fuse and putting a halt to the project while he trekked to the fuse box and replaced the offender. Then, back to the operation. Other years, he would get the string all the way across the porch, and then plug them in. Now the fuse would blow and he would have to scamper up and down his rickety ladder trying to find his mis-aimed staple. Over the years, the rubber wire developed a number of holes, and consequently, sometimes when testing before hanging, there would be a light show like a meteor shower. While Dad was a kind and mild-mannered man, the porch light project always tested his patience. My girls will tell you that I inherited my father's great love of Christmas lights.

The tree lights were a microcosm of the porch lights. The bulbs were a bit smaller, but only a bit. Over the years, the wire had hardened and cracked and once in a while, it was back to the fuse box. Considering that the only tree ever used in most homes was a cedar tree, it's a wonder we didn't all suffer the same ultimate fate as Joan of Arc. More about the tree in a later post.

I ended up with those porch lights for a time. The last time I saw them, we had used them for decorations at a Christmas tree lot when I spent some time in the Lions Club. They were strung across a little trailer we were using as our base of operations. As the tree sale began to wind down, suddenly there came a popping and snapping accompanied by the smell of ozone and a shower of sparks, followed by darkness. Seems the rubber had finally departed this world and the metal trailer added insult to injury, sending the lights out in a blaze of glory.

Makes one wonder if Rudolph ever short circuits?

Count On It

2008-12-11T12:50:00.003-05:00

The Old Man can't write much of a blog post today. I'm busy buying pretzels and cream cheese.

Some day you'll understand.

At Least It Wasn't Liver Loaf

2008-12-09T16:10:00.002-05:00

The Old Man will eat just about anything. There are only two things that are forever banned from crossing my lips; Cottage Cheese and Buttermilk. Not now, not then, not ever. Most everything else is fair game, so I don't pose many dietary challenges. Grew up that way....ate what was served.
Christmas when I was a child brought all sorts of wondrous adventures into the land of Bedford gourmet dining. We were always at home on Christmas day and relatives came for lunch and celebration, so, a week or so before Christmas, Mom would begin her assault on the Christmas menu.

First order of business was to drive a nail into the coconut "eyes" to drain the milk. Then, while I stood around looking up at her like a blue-tic hound in a butcher shop, the coconut meat was grated and she would slip me a little chunk. What I didn't get, she used to make the finest coconut cake on earth. Mom was legend for her coconut cake. Even though it's been 50 years since she made one, I can still taste it in my mind.

Another "must" was a delightful concoction they refered to as "Ambrosia". As I recall, it had orange sections, grated coconut, and maybe a cherry or two thrown in for color. Certainly in the custom of the day, it was heavily laced with sugar. That was before sugar became bad for you.

Of course fruit cake, hermit cake, nuts, and ham and turkey filled out the groaning board. There was, however, one food that I could never figure out. It was some sort of evil, slimey mess they called "Tapioca Puddin". I don't know what tapioca is, but when she sat it down in front of me, it looked like a thousand eyes staring at me. Translucent little orbs that reminded me of fish roe given off when Dad and I cleaned our catch. Wave some at me today and I might run.

The star of the Christmas Lunch Show were the oysters. Fried up just right and piled high on the plate, these were the Jewels of the Orient and the Hope Diamond of the food world. In that day, oysters were a little harder to come-by inland than they are today, so they were reserved for special occasions. I still love them and will jump through hoops of fire for good ones. I'll take them any way you serve them......straight from the water, fried, grilled, steamed, you name it. I'm the Bubba-Gump of oysters.

Once at a social event, roasted oysters were being served in a casual setting. I was in my bliss-state just eating away. One woman became quite vocal in her editorializing to me.....lots of "Euww, how can you eat those things?" sort of comments. I took it for a while and then decided to counterattack. "Well," I said, "We were really poor when I was a child and our meals were pretty plain. Once a year, though at Christmas time, Dad would buy an oyster...just one. Mom would tie a string around it and Dad would go first. He would swallow the oyster, then pull the string to get it back out and pass it over to Mom. I got third try." Now by this time, this lady was beginning to pale. I continued, "I'd come home the next day from school and ask Mom 'What's for dinner?'. She'd answer, 'Well, we're gonna eat the oyster again."

No more problem with the lady. I could dine in peace.

God willing, we'll have oysters again this year on Christmas day, but we shouldn't need any string. There will be bounty as always, and as always, I'll have a moment where I take a mental moment to savor Miss Alma's coconut cake.

Infamy

2008-12-07T14:13:00.003-05:00

The Old Man is taking a little break from humor today. See in your mind's eye a bright morning 67 years ago today. See people going about their Sunday morning activities as usual. See children getting dressed for church, some folks sleeping in, some recovering from last night's hilarity, and others just enjoying the beautiful south Pacific sunshine. Now see an angry black cloud approaching and hear the even angrier drone of engines. In the midst of this quiet Lord's day, watch in your mind as the skies erupt and hell itself rains on Pearl Harbor. Before the Japanese attack ends, over 2,000 will die and many more will suffer horribly.

In Bedford, I'm guessing that my parents were enjoying the fact that on that day, I was "celebrating" my one month birthday. Based on what they later told me, they could never forget that day. They could remember even the slightest detail. 60 years later on September 11, 2001, I truly understood what they meant. From the time of my cognizance, I've had an interest in all matters from the World War II years. First hand experience as a child, coupled with an adult interest in history has led me to spend much time in research and discovery. I've stood on the USS Arizona Memorial and watched the slow bubble of oil from her tanks drift to the surface. I've proudly and unashamedly let tears fall when I thought of those entombed with their shipmates. But more than this, I've had the distinct honor of knowing two men who were there, both of whom have now achieved final victory.

Mr. Lloyd Gordon was an Army private. I've listened as he told of taking cover in a drainage ditch as chunks of metal, concrete, and who knows what else slammed into the ground around him. He made it a point to always wear a tie on Pearl Harbor Day. He said it was out of respect for those he left behind. A kind and generous friend to all, he was so very typical of what has been called The Greatest Generation.

Mr. Henry Pitts served in the Navy. In the attack, his ship was the first to be able to return fire on the invading aircraft. Henry made a career of the Navy and then went on after retirement to have a full career at the Post Office. Henry at the ripe old age of 89 could still shoot a par round of golf. Henry asked me once, "When can you and I play a round of golf? I need someone I can beat." I simply said, "I'm your man."

In his request to Congress for a declaration of war, President Franklin D Roosevelt referred to the "day that will live in infamy", and it did. But in our remembering, I believe it behooves us to focus less on the attackers, and more on those who kept us free. So to all of those who served, both then and since then, I salute you and I thank you.

God Bless America

A Rum Pa Pum Pum

2008-12-05T16:32:00.005-05:00

The Old Man is sort of a sap about Christmas. I've always been a mix of Currier, Ives, Kodak, and little Ralphie of "shoot your eye out" fame. Pull off the lid and look in my pot and you'll find the ubiquitous Christmas stew. As you may have noted, I recently found a treasure trove of pictures from my childhood. They were in an unexamined box of my mother's "stuff" relegated to a seldom used closet after we cleaned out her room. Many of them dealt with Christmas and in so doing, opened the vault door to my memory banks.

Each generation makes an honest and worthwhile effort to create a more elaborate and richer world for its children. We want to give them more than we had, and we had more than our parents. I'll not debate the wisdom of this progression because opinions are varied and many, all with merit. What I will do, is give you a glance at Christmas Past.

My mother's generation grew up in a time when things were scarce and dear. She told me many times of how they would be awakened on Christmas morning by her father stepping out the back door and letting loose with both barrels of his shotgun into the air. Imagine that happening where you live now. The SWAT team, snipers, the Action News Team, helicopters, and Geraldo would pounce within minutes. After awakening, Mom and her siblings, all 6 of them, would dash to the fireplace where literal stockings were hung. In them would be a few nuts, an orange, and some things called "sugar plums" (dried grapes much like a raisin). Sometimes there might be a small doll or other toy. Not quite Nintendo, but just as well loved. It's my belief that they were in love with the concept of Santa Claus, more than with what he might have brought them.

Time-travel a bit. The Old Man has made the scene and Christmas has come to Bedford.
Things got started about 3 weeks before Christmas. Town decorations consisted of colored lights running across the two main streets at each light pole. At the crossroads of these two streets there was a big display over the traffic light. It consisted of three red bells that blinked in sequence to simulate ringing. Next came the big event....the Christmas Parade.

All of the town merchants would cover their windows with paper about one week before the parade. Tension built and great speculation was afoot about what the window decorations would look like when the unveiling occurred. The parade would step off with the Bedford Firemen's Band leading the way, followed by several convertibles and a few open wagons pulled by tractors. Town dignitaries would be riding and waving. Sometimes they would throw candy. The high school cheerleaders were always there. It must have been tough to high kick while lurching along on a flat bed pulled by a Massey-Ferguson. Santa himself brought up the rear, riding high on the town fire engine. It's probably a safe bet that no one from Macy's Dept. Store ever scouted the Bedford parade for hidden talent.
During the parade, magic had happened. The windows had been unveiled! Just about the whole town made its way around ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the creative efforts. The Park Street Battalion pressed our snotty noses against the glass of the stores that sold toys. Wonder of wonders......bikes, Lionel trains, and Slinkeys beckoned and called.

I must have seen "The Christmas Story" a hundred times. My whole family can pretty much recite the dialog. I think the bond I feel with that movie speaks directly to an inner part of me. Ralphie and his quest for the Red Ryder Daisy Air Rifle more accurately reflects the culture of my childhood than I could ever relate here. The clothing, attitudes, reactions, and all the surrounding events are as close to time-travel as it is possible to experience.

During the season, I will describe more of the "way it was", and I trust you will find value there. The Old Man still plays with trains, has a Red Ryder, and finally, last year, found "sugar plums". And it is good.

It's A Dog's Life

2008-11-30T15:26:00.008-05:00

The Old Man has always loved dogs. Through the years, I've had several. Before there was Hobo, LuLu, and George Henry, there were much earlier versions. Here's the rundown.

My earliest memory was of Jake. Jake was my dad's bird dog. I can't recall whether or not he was worth much for hunting, but when we partnered, we were good for a laugh according to Mom.

Jake taught me a lot of useful skills. I'm told (and photographic evidence proves it) that when I was asked, "What does Jake do?" I didn't respond with the typical "Woof Woof". Noooooo, not me.

After Jake, came Bootsie. Bootsie I vaguely remember. Funny how things stick with you. What I remember most about Bootsie was his habit of spending hour after hour chasing his tail. He caught it once, bit down, and then yelped like a banshee.

Bootsie eventually gave way to Brownie. Brownie was unremarkable until he was hit by a car. He wasn't badly damaged with the exception of his tail. It never again wagged. It just hung there like a roll of flypaper. Fast forward a few years. Then came Pedro. Pedro had the most acute hearing I've ever seen. At the time, I had a small motorcycle that I used on my paper route. Mom & Dad would be sitting on the front porch catching the cool of late afternoon. Suddenly Pedro would bound up from his snooze and bolt out to the end of the driveway. He knew the sound of my cycle and would hear it long before mere humans. Never failed......he was always waiting.

Folks had a little different relationship with dogs in those days. In a small rural town like Bedford, the vets were kept pretty busy with the larger farm animals. Dog owners did a lot of the minor "patch-ups" for our pets. We'd use disinfectant on cuts, flea powder as needed, and bandages where necessary. We pulled ticks off them with needle-nose pliers, and fed them whatever was left from our own supper. Occasional treats included, ice cream, cookies, and cheese. I never saw a dog that didn't like cheese. Sometimes we would overdo the sweets. Our dogs would then come down with the "hypers". Brownie, for example would react to sugar, bouncing around like PeeWee Herman after a 6-pack of Red Bull with a Vault chaser.

I would be remiss if I didn't say a simple "Thank you" to Jake, Bootsie, Brownie, and Pedro. You all played a part in my life that was appropriate for the time. We are all products of every experience we have had on our life journey, and I learned from you all.

Radio Waves From Outer Space

2008-11-29T17:32:00.003-05:00

The Old Man has a long history with radio. I even spent several years as a disc jockey back in the heyday of AM radio, before FM became the powerhouse it is. We were on 24 hours a day playing the top hits........we rocked the Roanoke Valley with the Shirelles, The Four Tops, Elvis, and all the rest of those folks who made rock-n-roll fun. But my involvement goes way deeper than that.

When I was a boy, we put together Crystal Radios. They came in kits and consisted of some fine copper wire which you wound around a cardboard core, a little round crystal of some sort of rock, and a few miscellaneous parts like headphones, a bit of wire like a cat's whisker and some basic instructions. When it comes to electronics, I'm pretty much as clueless as Elmer Fudd on the space shuttle. Somehow, when you moved the little cat's whisker wire around on the crystal while moving a whisbidget along the copper wire coil, if you got really lucky, you'd pick up a radio station in your headphones. I would lay in my bed late at night trying to find some voice from the ether.

As I grew, a man who lived a couple of doors up the street worked for our local radio station. He took me on as a project and attempted to teach me about ohms, cycles, resistance, and watts. Elmer Fudd, remember? He did help me build my next generation radio. A little short wave set that could pick up lots of "squeaks and squawks" along with Morse code and some Mexican fellow who I think was preaching; either that or he was advocating another attack on the Alamo. This thing had for an antenna (we called them aerials) a wire stretching from my window to a huge cherry tree that stood in our yard 30 or 40 feet from the house. There was a gadget called a "lightning arrester" attached to the wire. I could never figure out how a bolt of lightning that could destroy a 100 foot tall oak tree would somehow be intimidated by a few pieces of porcelain. Elmer Fudd, remember?

Let's dig a bit deeper. The first Christmas they were married, my father gave my mother a radio. It was in the style of the day called a "cathedral top". I didn't make my grand entrance until about 7 years later. Some of my earliest memories are of us sitting around listening on that radio to Lowell Thomas, Edward R Murrow, and a host of others bring the news of the day. And the programs........The Shadow, Straight Arrow, Sky King, Lum & Abner, Jack Benny, and Inner Sanctum with it's "creaking door". I still listen to those programs; only now they come to me from outer space courtesy of XM Satellite Radio. I still have trouble coming to grips with the technology. Elmer Fudd, remember?

Take a look at this picture. There's the radio with Miss Alma by her side. I now have that old cathedral top and it still plays. I can turn the switch, wait for the tubes to warm up and hear those rich tones speaking to me. Would that I could do the same with Miss Alma.

The Arch Nemesis

2008-11-23T16:10:00.002-05:00

The Old Man has had, and continues to have some good friends. Many of these are from childhood. Now, I know that along the way, I have accumulated an enemy or two, but I hope the score adds up to an overwhelming preponderance of the positives. There was one, however.......

He was a couple of years older than me, and in 10 year old culture, that might as well have been a century. He was a regular tormentor of the Park Street Battalion. I follow a comic strip in our daily paper called "Curtis". For those unfamiliar, he's a little kid who from time to time runs into a couple of characters named "Derrik" and "Onion". They generally pop out from behind a fence or an alley and make Curtis' life miserable. I understand Curtis. We had our own Derrik and Onion rolled into one.

One day NemesisBoy ambushed me as I was walking home from school by myself. After some rib jabs and shoves, he produced a length of rope from his bike saddlebags. By this time, I was a couple of minutes shy of having my pants grow significantly lumpy and aromatic.

He proceeded to tie me to a tree. Not just any tree, mind you, but a very prominent maple tree that was on the main drag through our part of town, Longwood Ave. Thoughts swarmed through my mind, but chief among them was, "I'm gonna kill this asshole". That's a pretty severe one for a 10 year old. Of course I said nothing and he rode off on his bike cackling like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. Then the fun began.

People I knew were riding by in their cars...returning from work, shopping, or errands. Many of these were the same people who had wondered why that little Jackson boy was sitting up in that tree "humming" while playing airplane, and I'm quite sure they had thoughts like, "He's at it again....now he's gone and tied himself to a tree". Some of them waved, including my dad. All the while, I attempted to ply the skills I had honed during those Saturday Western matinees. Cisco and Pancho, Hopalong Cassidy, or The Durango Kid always managed to extricate themselves easily. For some reason, my efforts weren't working. Their ease of escape was probably related to that 6-shooter the good guys could fire 213 times without reloading.

Dad finally came back as the afternoon drew to a close and he realized that I just might need a bit of help. He got me untied and I managed between sobs to tell him the story. He gave me a piece of advice. "I could go have a talk with his dad, but that probably wouldn't change anything. As a matter of fact, it would probably make it worse. You're just going to figure out how to handle this yourself." "Oh, gee, thanks, Dad" I thought.

Turn the page a couple of months to summer. We were at a church picnic and this jerk was surreptitiously picking on me when he thought no one was looking. I caught the look in my dad's eye and the tumblers in my brain fell into place. In front of God and everybody else I got all over this dude like white on rice. I slapped, kicked, punched, and bit. He was howling and crying and it all was over in the blink of an eye, before anyone could break us up. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure my dad was intentionally slow to mosey over. As we rode home in the car, I expected a tongue-lashing, but rather, all he said was, "I think your problems are over, son."

Like all those other times in my life, he was right. I never had a moments trouble and neither did some of the other members of the Battalion.

That tree is gone now, having served it's purpose. But the memory lingers, the lesson lingers, and the memory of the look in Dad's eyes when he pulled me off Nemesisboy will stay with me forever. After all, you never forget how pride looks.

A Yankee Doodle Dandy

2008-11-16T20:08:00.003-05:00

The Old Man has probably seen every John Wayne war movie ever made. My friends and I have fought along side the Duke at Iwo Jima, Bataan, and all the other places around the Pacific. We've been Flying Leathernecks and Flying Tigers.
We would see one of the Saturday movies, and then come home and Park Street became the battlefield du jour.

Of course, like the Duke, we were a well equipped army. In the years after World War II, "Army/Navy" stores proliferated. They sold (and in most cases still do) surplus equipment. One of the greatest treats I could have was to be allowed to visit the store. All of us in the Park Street Battalion had helmet liners, web belts, canteens, and combat boots. Never mind that the helmet liners made us all look like infantile bobble-heads, and the web belts had to be overlapped and tied, or that the combat boots were usually 3 sizes too big, we were ready to stand with the man and destroy the evil devotees of the Rising Sun.

Weapons consisted of (most important) the Daisy Air Rifle. These bad-boys made a very convincing noise when a BB ricocheted off a helmet liner. We did observe our own version of the Geneva Convention however; you could never aim at a face. Of course, it never occurred to us that the helmet liner was perilously close to the face. This was followed by our rubber bayonets, and our grenades. Grenades were the hardest to come by. We used the "cones" that are left after a magnolia tree blooms. They even looked the part. Sometimes, we'd discover a new foundation had been dug for a house. The red Virginia clay clods made perfect grenades, and would explode realistically when they hit a helmet liner. When this happened, the battle was usually pretty much over and would end with one ticked-off bobble-head chasing another.

Now as any true John Wayne fan will tell you, all the soldiers smoked. For added realism, we would save up our candy cigarettes from our trip to the movies and lay around out in the back yards and on the back lots, "smoking" when there was a lull in the action.

One day, we achieved Nirvana. One of our army, (and for the life of me, I can't remember which one) came into possession of an actual training hand grenade. It had no possibility of exploding, but it did have all the mechanical parts. You could cock it and re-set the safety lever or "spoon", and put the pin in. When you pulled the pin and threw the grenade, the spoon would fly off and give you such realistic action it almost made you cry.
Now we had seen the Duke grab that grenade, pull the pin with his teeth while firing his sub-machine gun. Movies lie. Francis the Talking Mule couldn't pull a grenade pin with his teeth.

I don't still have that helmet liner or those combat boots. But that web belt is still in service. I carry a tool pouch on it now. It still functions after all these years with one exception; it no longer overlaps.

For Sale......Cheap

2008-11-09T18:52:00.002-05:00

The Old Man has leaves for sale. If you know of anyone who needs some, please let me know.....I have more than I can possibly use.

The ocean calls, so more posts when I return.

Laugh much and hug those you love.