'Tis The Season

The Old Man wishes all the Merriest of Christmas, the Happiest of Holidays, and the Prosperous-est of New Years.  Even though I have been on hiatus,  regular postings to the blog will resume shortly.

Fall Just Feels Right

The Old Man has been spending some time out in the garage over the past few days.  The weather is finally beginning to break a little and my motivation has started to sneak back like a dog who knows he shouldn't have turned over the neighbor's garbage can.  Every year the heat of summer gathers me up by the collar and smacks me around until I just want to crawl back into the house and beg for mercy.  The first few cooler days of fall become my heroin and I clamor for more.

The Old Farmers' Almanac says we're going to have a colder and snowy-er winter.  I believe them, for their accuracy rate is difficult to dispute.  Other substantiating evidence supports their theory.  The acorns  falling on my garage roof from the two huge red oaks that shadow my workshop both startle and comfort me.  Startling because of their unannounced randomness and comforting because of their prediction of nature's care for her own creatures.  The leaves are just beginning to "color up" as the old people used to say.  The air is crisper, the sky bluer, the apples are redder, and the plants are starting to hang their heads as they prepare for their hibernation.  The anticipation of a roaring fire on a day when sleet pecks on the windows and darkness comes early, generates an inner coziness.

My dad was not an avid hunter.  In his earlier days, he trained bird dogs and did some quail hunting back when "Mr. Bob White" was plentiful, but never moved up to game larger than squirrel and rabbit.  After I came along, he attempted to pass along some of his lore to me.  I confess, some "took" but most did not.

In Bedford, "fall" and "hunting" were as tightly wed as The Old Man and his Miss Martha. Hunting was a big deal when I was a boy.  I'm sure it still is, even in spite of the encroachment of progress into some of the areas I remember so vividly.
I remember going out with Dad on his quest for "pot meat"......rabbits...from time to time.  We got a few and Mom would fry them up.  Hard to beat, as I recall.  Down both sides of the backbone is some of the tastiest  meat I've ever had.

I recall my first shooting lesson with the old single-shot 20 gauge.  Schooled on a steady diet of Saturday westerns at the Liberty Theater, I figured I had that shooting thing licked.  I was 11 or 12, and as you know, knew all there was about everything.  Dad said, "Well then, OK, what kind of pattern can you put on that fence post, there?"  I said, "Watch", and proceeded to sight 'er in.  BLAM!  The fence post was unscathed and my right eye was watering like it had been poked with a stick.  A right proper "shiner" was already starting to form.

Dad said, "I could have told you not to wrap your thumb over the breech, but to lay it along side, but you seemed to know that, I thought".  "At any rate, I guess you'll remember that from now on, right?".  Then he put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Are you alright?".  That's when I cried.

I don't hunt now.  But I love the feel and the smell of a well oiled and maintained shotgun.  I still have that 20 gauge, and on the rare occasions when I have the opportunity to shoot it, the smell of gunpowder is as enticing as any holiday kitchen aroma.

The acorns on my roof keep falling and sometimes seem to send a message......"Are you alright?".
Yes, I am.

You Could Have a Heck of a Time for Two Bucks

The Old Man found the combination to the lock on the Memory Vault the other day.  It has been missing for a while.  The addition of a new (to us) TV channel called ME-TV to our local line-up has rekindled a few memory embers that I thought were long extinguished.  Living in the land of Combat, 12-O'clock High, Gunsmoke, and The Honeymooners has shaken awake my snoozing data bank.  I started thinking about some of the cinematic extravaganzas of my youth.

The upscalers and media wonks called them "B-Movies".  The Park Street Battalion simply called them, "fun".  Blackboard Jungle led the charge.  It was the first to feature our music.  In the darkened theater, a booming back-beat followed by Bill Haley trumpeting, "One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock ROCK" as the opening credits rolled, set the stage for Hollywood's impression of teenagers.  I don't think Bedford's kids got the memo.  I never knew anyone who could totally identify with a sneering Vic Morrow as the street punk who made "Teach's" life miserable.  I've watched that film a number of times since then.  It was actually a pretty good movie with Glenn Ford and a young Sidney Poitier bringing a boxcar load of class to the whole thing.  It came to our theater during the summer before I started eighth grade, and made me wonder what I was in for.

As is often the case with the movie business, it went downhill from there.  What followed was a chain of "teen flicks" whose sole mission was to exploit the blossoming rock-and-roll culture.  Oh, there were some standouts; Michael Landon in his first feature film role, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, and Steve McQueen in a silly bit of fluff called, The Blob in which a huge pile of jello ate people.  But by and large, we kids were happy to see our music heroes in such offerings as, Rock, Rock, Rock,  Don't Knock the Rock, and Rock Around the Clock.  These usually followed a similar format;  young kid has talent, falls under the spell of a fast-talking agent  who ends up making the kid a star as well as falling in love with and marrying the kid's sister.  Along the way, the popular singers of the day would be on stage at some point lip-syncing their present hit.  In those pre-video days, it was about the only predictable way we could see those folks who were making the records we were buying.
Always in these films was the ubiquitous strife between the teen protagonist and his parents.  Invariably, the parents and other authority figures were portrayed as little more than out-of-touch bumblers who "saw the light" by the end of the movie and managed to snap their fingers, clap their hands, or tap their feet in a reasonable facsimile of sublime hipness.

Throw in some "hot-rod" movies and you've got a 14 year old by the brain stem. Hot Rod Girl, Delinquent Daughters, and Thunder Alley got red blood juiced up.  It's been over 50 years and I still get a rush when I see a "T-bucket" or a "Deuce Coupe".

And let's not forget those cinematic masterpieces of horror.  Attack of the 50 Foot Woman (wrap your mind around THAT one), Attack of the Crab Monsters,  Bucket of Blood, The Day of the Triffids, and Tarantula played to the fears that all this messing around with "that atomic stuff" would result in hybrid  creatures who were really pissed at being so rudely awakened.  It was a known fact in the Battalion that when you heard the music get creepy and a Geiger counter got all hyper, you'd get lucky and your date would wiggle a little closer.

Like all of us, movies have changed through the years.  My grandson and I spend some very happy times analyzing and discussing special effects and other fine points of today's offerings.  But there's a difference...one that's not easy to quantify.
Suffice to say, I still check out the TV guide channel religiously, because from time to time, one of these old movies will show up.  And when they do, I turn the lights down, kick back, and brace myself for Bill Haley and The Comets......I just know they'll be there.

My Yin Hates My Yang

The Old Man is trying to not get caught in the emotional quicksand otherwise known as, "The race for the White House".  Oh, I confess, I like to toss an occasional stink-bomb into a political discussion on social media from time to time just to see who runs for cover, or who will begin to joust at the windmill, but beyond that, I'll pull the lever as I see fit when the time comes.  Forget the sumo wrestling known as "campaigning".
My inner workings, however, must not have gotten the memo.  There's plenty of conflict and contention there.  My back keeps playing and singing, "The Old Stenosis Blues".  Aleve is good, but it's often about as effective as rolled-up windows at a stoplight next to one of those cars that go, "WHOMP-WHUMP-WHAMP" with a bass speaker the size of Donald Trump's comb-over.

So my search for lasting relief has led me to investigate some alternatives to the familiar.  Acupuncture is my current experiment.
 Now, I'm a traditional, conservative type of person.  If it gets any further out than John Wayne and Audie Murphy, maybe with a little Clint Eastwood thrown in for good measure, my comfort level starts to nag at me like a three year old in the candy aisle.  Let me try to explain my understanding of what's going on in my body.
It seems that my life force is in a constant state of flux.  This is called my "chi".  Inside of that life force are two equal but polar opposites called "yin" and "yang".  I think I understand that my yin is pissed at my yang and chi is running around haphazardly wringing it's little hands going, "What to do, what to do?". 

Several thousand years ago, some Chinese folks figured out that it was possible to haul yin and yang to the woodshed for an attitude adjustment by sticking some needles in selected places on the body.  I do wonder how that idea took root.  In my more cynical moments, I envision a robed-up guy saying, "Ah.....Grasshopper.  We make back feel better by stick thorns in foot."

So, off we go......into the "puncture palace".   It's a pleasant enough room; an examining table and minimal furniture.  The acupuncture specialist listens as I describe my symptoms.  She then says, "Take off shoes and socks".  Uh......it's my back.  OK, I get it, this is the "grasshopper moment".  Then she instructs me to, "Undo belt and pants but keep on and lay on stomach".  Now, this is more like it.

She begins to insert the needles.  I lost count at 8 plus the one in each heel.  The big surprise was the absence of pain.  I anticipated little bee stings but instead got what felt like a little "thump".
She said, "Now I hook up electrodes".  SAY WHAT!  "Electrodes to make little tingle.....tell me when you feel".

I heard a "click" and my butt did the Boo-ga-loo, the Watusi, and the Bristol Stomp all at once.
"I dial back", she said.  Then she said, "Maybe take nap", turned off the light and left the room.  I was alone with my thoughts.  I could just envision a kid opening the door by mistake and saying, "Look Mommie,  it's a bald porcupine"!

An hour later, she was back, unhooked me from the open circuit, and removed the needles.  She gave me some stretching exercises and sent me on my way with a promise to return next week.

Is it helping?  A guarded "yes".  So I'll follow the plan to give it a fair chance until I'm better or until I spring a leak.

Just In Case You Were Wondering

The Old Man is gradually making his way back to the blog.  A hectic travel schedule, coupled with a reversal of sorts in the old back have occupied my time and energies.  If there are followers left out there, I promise a  hearty return!

Not All Fireworks Have To Be Lit

The Old Man is taking it a little easy today.  Between the heat and the gun battle going on in my back, it's an inside kind of day.  Productive output isn't on the schedule.  Retrospection is.  I've been visited by images of how the Fourth of July was when I was in my "Opie years".

The plant where my father worked closed down for the week of July 4th.  This ensured that all got a week of vacation in the summer time.  We did very little traveling when I was small; most trips were visits to family in other towns.  I think I recall going to the ocean only 2 times with my mom and dad.  Dad was happy to putter in his garden and Mom was happy just to have Dad and me.  But on the Fourth, patriotic adrenaline kicked in and our house rocked.

Unless we had rain, there was always a trip to The Lake.  Its official name was something like Bedford County Park & Lake, or such.  No one ever within my earshot ever called it that....it was simply, "The Lake".

Mom would pack a huge picnic basket with cheese sandwiches, potted meat sandwiches, deviled eggs, and pickles.  Dad would ice down some Pepsi Colas and maybe a Grapette or two in the old red metal cooler, and off we'd go.   We would set up camp over under the trees you can see at the far left end of the "beach".


As the afternoon slid by, we'd manage to empty both the basket and the cooler and it was time to head in, because in just a few hours the "piece de resistance" in a kid's summer life would begin.  Fireworks!
We'd walk up to the high school, go around to the back where the football field was, and find us a seat on the concrete bleachers.  The Chinese invented fireworks thousands of years ago and I can't recall the technology advancing much in all those years in Bedford.  It was pretty much the same show every year, ending with a pyrotechnic American flag  hissing and sizzling from the goal post at one end of the field.


A nice walk home would cap off the evening....Mom & Dad strolling and me bouncing around like the Road Runner.  
I do remember one particular year though that the strolling stopped and it became an every-man-for-himself dash. About half way home, the potted meat and the deviled eggs began to do the boogie-woogie in Mom's nether regions with predictable results.  Every step brought a report.  Then Mom got tickled and the reports increased in both frequency and volume.  What had started as sniper fire became an AK-47.  By this time, Dad was five yards ahead of her, saying under his breath to me, "Come on, come on".  That second round of "fireworks" entertained me far more than the first.   When we got to our front porch, Mom and Dad were hysterical.  Me....I was just happy that there wasn't a "Grand Finale".


I think I've got a couple of firecrackers around here somewhere.  I just might have to send up a tribute.

Hot Diggity Dog

The Old Man loves a good hot dog.    I've had golf course hot dogs, baseball game hot dogs, backyard cookout hot dogs, hot dogs you ordered through a little take-out window, so-called "gourmet" hot dogs, cheap hot dogs, and the king of them all, a hot dog from a local legendary joint in Roanoke, Va. called The Texas Tavern.  I've eaten at such hot dog emporiums as, Willie's Weenie Wagon, Yum Yum's, The Texas Inn, The Varsity Grill, The Roanoke Wiener Stand, The Lynchburg Wiener Stand, and nameless push carts. I've had them at Grant's Grocery, Tyler White's Store, and Moore's Store where the chili revisited you for several hours, and in a couple of days made you feel like you'd sat on a cactus.    I've even fantasized about a cross-country trip where we would sample as many regional favorite hot dogs as we could manage.  But, I've never had a "bowling alley" hot dog.  And therein lies my story.

Sometime back, a Facebook page dedicated to those of us from our little home town of Bedford, carried a thread of conversation about a long-forgotten bowling alley there.  On a trip back there a few years ago, we ended up in a little gift shop.  The owner was explaining that there was a bowling alley up on the second floor.  She let us go up for a look-about.  Amazingly, it was just as if time had not passed.  Although it hadn't been used in years, if you tried just a bit, you could hear again the voices and clatters in your head.  For some reason, during my growing up years, either that bowling alley was not in operation, or I just wasn't in tune, but yet, there it was.  It really set me to remembering a story my mother told me.  A story about when hot dogs first came to Bedford.

Mom said that a "feller" she was dating before she met my dad would take her bowling.  When she told me this, my attention wandered for a minute.  Hearing your mom talk about dating someone other than your dad is kind of like hearing that Fats Domino has recorded the Hallelujah Chorus....it just doesn't seem quite right.
They would go bowling and from what I could gather, Mom was pretty good.  I think I recall that she won a couple of tournaments or such.  After bowling, they would go and find a "bite to eat".

One night, he said he had something new for "you, Miss Alma".  It's called a hot dog.  Being a sport and, I'm sure, wanting to impress, he made the offer, "I'll buy you all you can eat". So, Mom had at it.
I asked her, "How many did you eat, Mom?"  She said, "I ate five".  Then she giggled and said, "I cost that boy a whole quarter that night".

Here's to you, Mom....on my best day I couldn't manage five hot dogs.

I don't know whether the hot dog feast was actually in the bowling alley or not, but one of these days I'm going back.  And I hope someone will let me in there, because I'll have a bag of hot dogs with me, and I'll need a quiet place to eat and remember.

The Magic Touch

The Old Man is still sort of in the "Deltaville mood".  You will recall my ramblings about the fishing trip to the Chesapeake Bay.  Even with Milburn's sunburn, and the dog-tiredness of a bunch of kids running on soda and junk food, with little sleep, there was time to sit out under the Spanish Moss draped live oaks, and listen to that radio wonder-of-wonders, WLAC in Nashville, Tenn.  Late at night, its 50,000 Watt signal drilled through the dark and found its way to even little Deltaville.  Disk jockeys, Gene Nobles, "Hoss" Allen, and John R. "spun the platters and laid down the patter" until dawn.  It was on that trip that I first heard, "In the Still of the Night", the seminal song that gave Doo-Wop its name.  Listen to it carefully and you'll hear during a bridge, "doo wop shu waa".  That late-night signal faded in and out just enough to enhance the magic.  To this day, that song, more than most others, causes in me an inner transport to the hood of that car, drawn up in the yard of that ramshackle old house, where I lay stretched out dreaming teen-age dreams.

I found out that back on June 4th Herb Reed died.  Herb was a founding member of the '50's vocal group, The Platters.  If you can find a picture of the original group, Herb is the short fellow on the left end....he sang bass.  Along with Paul Robi, David Lynch, Zola Taylor, and the soaring tenor of lead singer, Tony Williams, The Platters created some of the most enduring and beautiful music of the era.  While many other artists of the day "rocked the house", The Platters sang love songs.  Their first hit was "Only You"....find it, and you'll see what I mean.  And I challenge you to ignore your feelings when you hear, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes".

In Bedford, the Battalion had very limited access to hit music.  Our radio station, like most small town stations of that time had a wide variety of programming.  Everything from hog prices, to the location of the fire when the town siren went off, left precious little time for "our music".  Couple this with the general attitude of those pesky adults toward rock-n-roll, and we were a pretty deprived bunch.
There was, however, an island in the maelstrom for us.  A little radio/TV shop down on south Bridge St. sold 45 RPM records.  They had a couple of turntables and some headphones so we could actually preview the record we were considering.  That's how I found The Platters second hit, "The Great Pretender".

For nearly 400 records, Herb's booming and pure bass voice brought The Platters signature blend to life.  They're all gone now.....Paul, David, Zola, and Tony.  Life after The Platters took many turns for them, some good and some not so much.  But they left behind a legacy of pure beauty.  They indeed did bring to the music, "The Magic Touch".

Spanish Moss Aint

The Old Man has been banging around the Georgia and South Carolina coast for a couple of weeks.  We went goofing around Savannah, Jekyll Island, Charleston, and Myrtle Beach.  For the better part of my life, the coast has sucked me in like a 500 pound Electrolux.  My first trip to see the ocean was with Mom & Dad to Virginia Beach.   Fascinated me to no end, and since then I've been intrigued by anything having to do with the whole low-country thing.  Take Spanish Moss for example;  it didn't come from Spain, it isn't a moss, and it doesn't breed chiggers.  It's actually a relative of the pineapple family, and takes its name from the days when the French and Spanish were dueling over possession of the New World.  The French called it "Spanish Beard" as an insult to the Spanish soldiers.
See what I mean?
 Over the years, I've collected all sorts of interesting chunks of lore, obscure and bizarre facts, and lots of people just being people. I sometimes think I collect "characters" like  Lady Gaga collects 'strange'.
One old pal of mine loved beach trips.  Haven't figured out why....he seldom went out on the beach and preferred to stay in his room and sleep.  Another always longed for the beach, but when he was there, he complained about the sand, whined about the heat, and if he was lying on the sand, wanted to be in his chair.  Yep, you guessed it; when in the chair, he started getting restless to lay on the sand.  Dr. Phil would be in "shrink heaven" if he could have been a fly on the wall on some of these trips.

But one of my all-time favorite collectible characters was Milburn.  During the summer between 7th and 8th grade, a youth organization from our church took all of us boys on a fishing trip down to the Chesapeake Bay.  As I recall, we were around a little village called Deltaville.  I don't know what Deltaville is like now, but back then, it was pretty primitive.  We were staying in an old house that looked like a Norman Bates reject.  Spooky doesn't begin to describe the place.  Back in the woods....no electricity, grey clapboard and a porch that listed like Titanic at midnight.
Now, you have to understand, fishing to a kid in Bedford meant cane poles and dug-up worms.  Add a sinker and a bobber and we were in business.  All we needed was a pond.

The Chesapeake Bay gives new meaning to "pond".

Our little fishing boat (should have been named "The Minnow") pulled out at sunrise.  We learned a whole new technique of fishing.  Hand lines are a witch spelled with a capital "B".  Handled improperly, they can quickly make your fingers resemble pulled pork.  I learned some other valuable lessons that are with me still, but old Milburn will never forget the equation of "sun + salt water + bare feet = misery".  When he wasn't throwing cherry bombs overboard, he was happily splashing his feet.....all day long.  What could happen with all that nice cool water keeping the heat down, right?

Milburn finally got shoes on two days later.  That night you could hear him hopping through the yard toward the outhouse, yelping with each step.  I know he wanted to cuss, but it was a church group, remember?

I don't know what ever happened to Milburn, but my love for the coast has been a deep part of me ever since those few days in Deltaville.  Whenever we go, and I begin to see the occasional grey clapboard house, looking like one who has stayed too long at the prom, I know at a deep level, I'm home.

Thank You

The Old Man thanks the "Bedford Boys", and all who came before and after them who paid for my freedom.

Here Come de Judge, Here Come de Judge

The Old Man was a big fan of the TV show "Laugh-In" back in the '70s.  I think I remember that Sammy Davis, Jr, immortalized the "here come de judge" line in some of the skits.  "The Judge" has set up shop here in my town.  The media circus known as the John Edwards Trial is fully up to speed downtown.  I think there are more satellite trucks here than were at the Masters.  Coincidentally, today I got an e-mail that had me, as the saying goes, "LMAO".  I trust you will have a laugh-fest, my treat.

This is purportedly taken from a book titled, Disorder in the Court, and is represented to be taken from actual court transcripts.  Whether they are real or not, they are worth the laughter.

ATTORNEY: What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS: He said , 'Where am I, Cathy?'
ATTORNEY: And why did that upset you?
WITNESS: My name is Susan!
____________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget..
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?
___________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Now doctor , isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep ,
he doesn't know about it until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?
____________________________________
 ATTORNEY: The youngest son , the 20-year-old , how old is he?
WITNESS: He's 20 , much like your IQ.
___________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
WITNESS: Are you shitting me?
_________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?
WITNESS: Getting laid
____________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: She had three children , right?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: How many were boys?
WITNESS: None.
ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?
WITNESS: Your Honor, I think I need a different attorney. 

Can I get a new attorney?
____________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death..
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS: Take a guess.
____________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS: He was about medium height and had a beard
ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?
WITNESS: Unless the Circus was in town I'm going with male.
_____________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Is your appearance here this morning pursuant to a deposition
notice which I sent to your attorney?
WITNESS: No, this is how I dress when I go to work.
______________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Doctor , how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead
people?
WITNESS: All of them.. The live ones put up too much of a fight.
_________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral , OK? What school did you go to?
WITNESS: Oral..
_________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 PM
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: If not , he was by the time I finished.
____________________________________________
 ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a
pulse?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS: No..
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began
the autopsy?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing
law.

Veteris Homo Scit Antiquis Verba

The Old Man knows some old words.  If my 50 year old exposure to Latin has not deserted me, that's what this title says.  I always stand proudly for correction if I've butchered the language.  I was comparing aches and pains with a friend of mine lately and somehow the conversation drifted around to some old words that neither of us could remember hearing in a long time.  So, in the interest of perpetuating the culture of my childhood, I present here a smattering of words and expressions that will allow you to get some knowing looks from us oldsters.

• Sinking spell....a sudden feeling of weakness or faintness.  Think Tiger Woods fumbling for his keys when he first saw a pitching wedge in his wife's hand.
• Lumbago...chronic pain in the lower back.  Originally coined because very few could actually spell "arthritis", or didn't know anyone named Arthur.
• Vapors... mental depression or hypochondria.  Not to be confused with noxious emissions while seated in Study Hall, but used in polite society rather than "He's nuttier than a pecan grove".
• Dropsy...retention of fluid in tissues, edema, swelling.  In most instances, not a good thing.
• St. Vitus Dance... a nervous condition causing involuntary muscle contractions and bodily jerking.  Probably gave rise to Riverdance.
• Touched...mentally unstable.  Usually accompanied by the phrase, "in the head".   This is a first cousin to the expression, "That boy ain't right".
• Shitpoke...not what you first thought. It rhymes with "kite".  European in origin, it was used to refer to a young, devilish imp of a child.  Dennis the Menace meets the Tasmanian Devil. "That little shitpoke put a tack in my chair".  
• Lespediza...a cover crop, related to the pea family, often planted to provide habitat for Bob-White Quail.  When riding through the country with old people, you would hear, "Look at that lespediza.  It'd be full of quail about now".
• Afflicted...used to cover most any physical abnormality.  "He couldn't throw the ball, he seemed afflicted".  No one was ever handicapped, they were simply "afflicted".

Many things have changed through the years.  Words and expressions come, stay for awhile, and then retreat into memory.  Perhaps some of the expressions here were forerunners to the concept of "political correctness" that drives our conversation these days, where no one is "short" they are "vertically challenged".  Back then, people weren't "crazy", they were "touched" either "a bit" or even "totally afflicted". 

 The Bob-White Quail are very rare these days, and that's a shame.  I guess not enough people are planting lespediza.

There's one more I've saved for last:

By-n-by...often used to signify eternity.  "In the sweet by-n-by we'll gather at the river, etc."  Also used to signify a much shorter period of time passage.  "By-n-by, old Wilbur dropped in".  

And so will The Old Man.

Gotta Tell Ya

The Old Man is officially back.  For the past three months, I've been pretty involved in a project.  Miss Martha had a total knee replacement and I have been her chief cook and bottle-washer for a goodly portion of that time.  I'm happy to report that she is making excellent progress and her recovery is right "on track".  She'll soon be able to outrun me once again.

She hasn't died from my cooking, and I haven't burned the house down, or rearranged the spice cabinet.  During this time of "self-discovery" for us both, I've made a number of observations.  Mind you, these aren't judgments....but rather a random list of things I had never really thought about.

• It takes a talent approaching rocket science to get the bacon, eggs, hash-browns, and toast all ready at the same instant.
• A little mayonnaise goes a long way.
• Instructions on a frozen biscuit bag: "Place on an ungreased cookie sheet 1/4 inch apart.  Biscuits rise better if they are touching".
• Those people on the Cooking Network are full of crap.  It's never that easy, or quick.
• Some days it's "Buy one-Get one Day" on idiots at WalMart.
• What the heck??? I just dusted yesterday.
• People who race through a store with a shopping cart fire me up like a gorilla on caffeine overload.
• Babies-R-Us doesn't sell much a guy would be interested in.
• Is there any really right way to load a dishwasher?

And one final observation:

• Martha Jackson is the bravest and strongest woman I've ever known.

The Knee Replacement Blues

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

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".