Listening To The Band

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I wasn't that bad at trumpet either.

     

Arrrrgh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahoy, Avast, and Arrrrgh

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Farmer

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

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

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

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

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

Old Crow Meets the Bickersons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot, I Die

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What will happen during the procedure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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