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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.