Mickey Mouse and The Preacher Man

The Old Man has a few "preacher genes" in his bloodline.  Not to say they are particularly dominant, but when I look back through the haziness of memory and recall some of the stories I heard, coupled with a few experiences, some degree of order develops.

I understand my great-grandfather on my father's side of the tribe was a Baptist preacher.  At some point in his life, according to family legend, he bailed out of rural Virginia, grabbed himself a new wife, and high-tailed it to the state of Washington.  Since Miss Martha still has to contend with me, I assume that gene skipped a few generations.

My dad, on the other hand, got a full dose of preacher DNA.  He was never formerly trained, ordained, or any of the other accouterments associated with the profession, but rather had a heart for service, a love for people, and a deep spirituality that radiated out of him like Christmas day dinner smells from grandma's kitchen.  One day, he crashed headlong into Mickey Mouse, and Mickey lost.

This was back around 1950.  Some of the small churches scattered around the county banded together and hired one preacher, splitting the cost between them.  He literally "rode the circuit", preaching at one of the churches this week, another next week, and so on.  In addition to his preaching duties, this preacher was also a member of a volunteer fire department.  While on a fire call, part of the burning building fell on him and he was horribly burned.  His recovery time went on for months and months, leaving all four of the churches with no minister.  Enter my dad.

Dad "rode the circuit" for many, many months.  I remember the names of the churches; Mentow, Palestine, Radford, and Staunton River.  I also remember that after each service, we were usually invited to dinner (nobody called it lunch back then).  I ate so much fried chicken, I began to do a daily check to see if I had sprouted feathers.

One Sunday, in the hot summer, we were sweltering away in one of the churches.  The funeral home fans were moving at warp speed, and the pungency of Evening in Paris, and 10 other perfumes mixed with Old Spice and pure people-smell was up to near toxic level. Dad was in his element.  He wasn't a screamer, but was just a good, solid, no ers or ums, preacher.  I was all cool in my white bucks and sport coat, sitting on the front row with Mom, sweating like I was spreading asphalt in August, and sneaking glances at my brand new Mickey Mouse watch I'd gotten for passing to the next grade.  According to Mickey, it was a couple of minutes before noon, and Dad didn't seem near wrapping things up.  At five after twelve, I was sure Mickey had a flaw and turned the hands back to twelve.  Preacher Dad continued on.  The second five after twelve came, and once again I fumed at Mickey and turned him back again.  Dad was really rolling now.  I gave it until ten after this time and finally decided that maybe Mickey had spent too much time around Goofy, so I just pulled the stem out to stop his suffering.

Dad finally wrapped up his sermon and we retired to yet another plate of fried chicken.  Dad apologized for "running over" his time and said his watch had run down allowing the time to get away from him.  If only he had had my buddy Mickey.

Mickey didn't survive my childish curiosity at his inner mechanisms.  When an eight year old takes a watch apart, there is very little chance of it going back together, and Mickey was no exception.

Both Mickey and the Preacher Man are a long time gone.  Sure would be nice if I could have them both back.

The Original "Big Mac"

The Old Man is going to be working through this back thing for quite a few months, but I promise, I will not subject you to a constant barrage of medical information causing your eyes to glaze over and a united scream of "get a life" be mounted that can be heard by those aboard the International Space Station.  Today's post uses some of this info as a "tie-in".  Rest easy.

I was given a brace to be worn at all times except when sleeping in order to assist in protecting Mr. Dearly Departed's bone donor contribution now residing in my spine.  It needs 3-4 months to "take root" and complete the firming up process that should get me movin', groovin', shaggin' to the oldies, and otherwise enjoying life once again.  The brace calls up memories of my Uncle Mac and his back apparatus.

Saying Mac was a character is like saying the little lizard that peddles insurance on TV is a T-rex.

Harry McDonald blew into this world on August 27, 1895.  He served our country in the U. S. Navy during WW I, and came out determined to catch up on what he missed during his military days.  Mac was what the old folks called "a rounder".  "Whirlwind" is probably a better description.  Mac grabbed life like a shark would grab a ham.

At one time or another, Mac played what passed in those days for semi-pro football, hunted and fished at every opportunity, chased the chase-able, sipped the sip-able, and boxed just for the fun of it.  But Mac's true love was for motorcycles. He and a group of his buddies rode at will in the hills and over the dusty roads of Bedford, Roanoke, and surrounding counties.  In those pre-Marlin Brando "Wild Ones" days, Indian was the bike of choice and Mac and his buddies spent most weekends "war-pathing" somewhere.  Not looking for trouble, mind you, but just enjoying each other's company and the feeling of freedom that was gradually being encroached upon by the heathen god, Progress.

In this picture, Mac is the third from the right, with his arms crossed.  The guys were getting ready to trail ride up Sharp Top Mountain at the Peaks of Otter.  There's a road part way up now and a trail the last few hundred yards, all very civilized, but back then, you made your own way.  Some scratched their heads.....Mac just said, "Let's go".  At the top, celebration time.

There's Mac, front row-center with that ear-to-ear grin on his face.  I note that some of the other very well dressed biker dudes had a "holy crap we did this" look on their faces. But Mac was just caught up in joy.

After Mac died, I somehow ended up for a while with this huge leather brace thing he wore when riding.  It looked a little like a crude imitation of things I've seen weight-lifters wear from time to time.  It was most certainly hand made by Mac, as he was the complete tinkerer.  Made of solid, heavy leather with 3-4 buckles, I understand how it may have helped during those trail rides.  Mine is a conglomeration of plastic, nylon, and Velcro, I'm sure designed by some very smart people.  Mac probably said, "My back hurts, maybe a wider belt would help......let's see here".

My mom's sister lassoed the whirlwind and Mac calmed down...........a little.  He spent a career with the railroad, provided a good home, and retired in good stead.  He continued to tinker in his basement workshop and one day somehow managed to saw off a finger or two on a band saw.  He was home alone at the time so he soaked a rag in turpentine, wrapped it around the stumps and drove himself to the doctor.  Pure Mac.

Our girls remember Mac as a feeble, shuffling, probably kind of scary, old man, most often in a bathrobe, who would have moved heaven and earth to make sure he had a quarter to give each of them when we would visit.  

I've somehow managed to misplace his leather brace and I regret it deeply.  When I was younger, it was just something to move around and get out of the way, but now.....oh, but now.

Every morning, for a while, I'll buckle my orthopedic wonder around my waist and I fully expect to hear Uncle Mac saying, "Buckle up, boy....it's time to ride".

Splash-Down

The Old Man's space odyssey continues.
Either three hours or eight seconds later, this nice lady was leaning over my bed  welcoming me back to Earth.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson, how are you feeling?"  "How am I feeling?"  Hell lady, I don't even know where I am, and why do you look like Bette Midler with a full beard?  Com'on....give me a couple bars of "The Rose" so I can maybe figure things out.
I think I might have been a little better off asleep, because when I woke up again, Bette looked more like Brett and the whole beard thing made more sense.

I've learned a lot from the experience. For example; some nurses like to remain incognito.  One came to my bed and said, "Hello, my name is Sue."  The other nurse said, "That's not her real name."  Nurse 1 said, "Yeah, that's right but I'm going to remove your catheter, and I don't want you to hunt me down later."   It didn't take me but a minute to understand.  About 3-4 hours later, I discovered that another medical miracle related to that process had occurred.  Magically, they had figured out a way to turn ordinary urine into napalm.  If the Allies had known about this, WW II would have lasted 4 days.

Finally in a room of my very own, surrounded by friends and my treasured Miss Martha, realities became more apparent.  I became acutely aware of time.  I measured it in doses of pain medications, and programmed "wake-ups" for vital sign checks, drain checks.....say what?  "Drain checks"....there's stuff draining out of me?  Huh?  Suppose I need it?  And then one of the nurses made the true confession:  I needed to "void".  Lady, I've been in a void for the past 8 hours.  I've seen Bette Midler with a full beard, Godzilla in a tutu, Frankenstein's monster hitchhiking down I-40, and 4 pigs roasting me and my friend Gary on a cooker.  As she explained in a little less technical terms what she meant about "re-installation", I visualized a flame-thrower reversing itself and grabbed the walker at warp speed.

I'm doing a lot better.  The doctor says I'm "right where I should be" which is somewhat of a rarity in my life, and I must close with a word of high praise for the dedication, caring, and gentleness, I received in the hospital.  Personnel were attentive to my needs, the food was actually good, and my paths crossed with some dedicated people who gave no obvious thought to themselves.  Like the technician who came on duty late at night after working another job all day, and would continue to work a day job again after her shift was over.  By my count, she hadn't slept in at least two days, but her attention to me never wavered  and she showed no hint of frustration or impatience.  She was as gentle at the end of her shift as when it began.

 My whining ceased.

Adventures in The Twilight Zone

The Old Man recently returned from time-traveling back to an earlier era.  Surgery under deep anesthesia allows for visits to some interesting places in the company of a variety of characters that Rod Serling in his heyday would be hard pressed to dream up.

I'm presently recuperating  from a spinal fusion involving cages, rods, screws, and even some bone matter, involuntarily donated by an unknown person who now flies in other skies.  My friend, Jay, had a knee repaired several years ago using cadaver bone, and I'm convinced that it was from some dead world-class golfer since he now can hit the ball a gazillion yards.  Maybe I'll be able to sing opera, but considering my usual luck with things of chance, I'll probably have to have words of more than 5 letters explained to me.

Here's what I recall of my adventure.
I have heard rumors that there is indeed a time on the clock of 5:30 A. M., but have mostly been successful, until now, of not confirming that depressing fact.  By 5:45, my dignity took a hit and I had to put on a dress.  They gave me a blanket and when I remarked I wasn't cold, they said, "Yes, but you seem to be pretty unaccustomed to wearing a dress, so.............

Wonderful friends came and had prayer with us, and then it was "post time".  Down the hall to be prepped, by now, paranoid about holding my blanket, we sailed into a room with other folks scrambling to manage their blankets as various people scurried about, or sipped coffee, or just quietly chatted.  I don't recall any of these folks names, but I'll call them something just for clarity.

Renfield said, "Now I'm going to set up your IV connection so we won't have to keep sticking you".  Good plan.  A minute or two after Ren's "stick and little burn", I heard him say, "Well, we didn't get the vein".  "We?"  I chanced a glance and my hand was dripping like a bag of blood worms that had been shot with a 12 gauge.    Let me guess, Rennie, "another stick and burn, right?".  This time "we" dead centered the little fellow.

I figured we'd use my new-found portal to add some type of goof-ball concoction to make things seem a little calmer.  I asked Renfield about this since my insides were jumping around like a Chihuahua who'd just lapped up 2/3 can of Red Bull if now was when they would give me a "little something" to say "down boy".  "We don't do that any more", he said.  "Seems people would forget that their doctor had been by to talk to them prior to surgery, so we had to quit".

Oh crap

I began to look around the room.  There were other people in various stages of "delight".  One lady was telling how this was her 4th back surgery, another was simply staring at the ceiling like a convict awaiting the governor to call the warden, and one guy was sound asleep with his tongue kind of hanging out the corner of his mouth, sort of like those old western movies where the cows were laying around the poison water hole.  In the meantime, the Chihuahua had finished the Red Bull and was  not content just to sit and nibble.

My doctor came by and had a short conversation with me, and as he walked away,  old Renfield either put a "little something" in my IV line or hit me in the head with a tire iron.

Next time:  The spaceship lands

Heading For The Ozone

The Old Man is heading out for a trip in unknown waters.  My grumpy, fussy, back has finally quit being grumpy and moved up to full-bore bitching and snarling.  It's gone from being a household pet to Cujo. I've had a three year battle with multiple (21) injections, weeks of physical therapy, and a 6 week round of acupuncture; all to no avail.  So now it's time to go off the high-dive and have surgery.

"Spinal fusion with instrumentation"......sounds like a rock band, but really means they are going to slice into my back, remove a disk, roto-root out some stenosis that is paying unwanted attention to a couple of nerves, insert a metal cage filled with some dead guy's bone matter and then staple me back together.  All this while I visit other planets in my mind, propelled there by medical miracle juice.

They say I'll have one of those pain-pump things.  Just tap and sunshine and rainbows will cross your field of vision.  I'm practicing Morse code so I can tapity-tap-tap the message to the pump, "Get your ass in here, buddy".

Hopefully, out of all this, I'll be better for the experience and maybe have a blog or two to amuse.  I'm shooting for the goal of leaping at least short buildings in a single bound, but will accept getting from the den to the kitchen without wanting to cry.  Wish me luck.

See you later, folks.

What's A "Maaco"?

The Old Man is going to have a sort of a "make over" in a few weeks.  A fellow who's been a little further in school than I have is going to perform some cutting, splicing, and welding on my lower back.  I think the official word for it is "fusion" which, while it sounds like a fruit drink, probably feels more like a freight train hitting a stalled bulldozer.  At any rate, I'm optimistic that the back problems that have plagued me for nearly 3 years will become a memory, and I'll emerge from the "body shop" new and improved.

Over the years, I've had a degree of experience with auto body stuff.  I've done a little work with Bondo, and even painted a couple of cars along the way.  My efforts have met with mixed results but never measured up to the professionals.

Miss Alma was a different matter.

Mom was an adventure looking for a location.  She was never reluctant to tackle a project, heedless of its complexity, and she always gave it her absolute best efforts.  One of the things that Mom loved to do was paint.   She would paint inside, outside, or in the yard.    She painted furniture, appliances, walls, porch railings, you name it.  Had I stood still, its quite possible she might have painted me.  She even painted an old buggy that we had in our side yard for a few years.  A brilliant white and red, it caused traffic to slow when each year Dad would fill it with pots of flowers.
One summer morning when I woke up, I asked, "What are we going to do today, momma".  She answered in her matter-of-fact way,  "I figured we'd paint the car".

It was shortly after WW II.   So many things had been rationed or even unavailable during the war, so this was a period of awakened consumption.  We had an old Dodge coupe that we'd had for a while, but had been very limited in the time it could be driven.  All around Bedford, folks were emerging from the wartime mists and beginning to refresh, renew, and starting to move ahead.  I guess Mom was caught up in the movement.

I was just a little kid and didn't know anything about painting a car, but I was a willing accomplice.  So I obediently "heeled" and we headed out into the back yard.  Mom had laid in her materials and supplies.  She had a gallon of enamel, some of Dad's old undershirts for rags, a can of turpentine and two brand new brushes; no masking tape, no drop cloths, and what's a spray gun?

Between the two of us, we painted that old Dodge.  Mom figured how to thin the paint so that it leveled out pretty well, and she was smart enough to limit my painting to a few inconspicuous areas.  Dad was still walking to work then, so when he came home, Mom beamed with pride at her work.  He just grinned at her and pulled it into the ramshackle garage to keep bugs and leaves from settling into the wet surface.  Mom was not a complicated person.....simple problem, simple solution.

We kept that Dodge for several more years, and the paint job was just as sound when Dad traded it in as when it was new.  Fishing trips, daily use, visits to family, and church were all conducted in what became known as "Babe's chariot".

"And They Come Roaring Out"

The Old Man caught one of those 1950's hot rod movies on TV the other night.  It sent the memory wheels spinning and I dredged up thoughts of The Roadmasters.  During the '50s, the Hollywood flick de jour was heavily weighted toward low-budget productions that pandered to teen interests;  girls, hot cars, girls in hot cars, hot girls in cars, monsters being fought by boys while protecting girls in hot cars, and girls in poodle skirts dancing with boys in leather jackets and ducktail haircuts while their hot cars lined up around the drive-in restaurant.  Bedford was about as far removed from that Hollywood characterization as Idi Amin is from Mother Teresa.  None of my friends had what could be termed a true "Hot Rod".  Most of us drove the family car and spent more time in denial than someone with a Donald Trump comb-over.

Kenny and I were a couple of good examples.  I drove the really 'screaming' 53 Dodge that served as our family car.  This monster would only "get a wheel"  before the chains were put on in a snow storm.  The "super powerful" 6-cylinder engine was coupled to some monstrosity of a transmission called "Fluid Drive".  To get it to change gears, you had to take your foot off the gas and allow a momentary hesitation during which you would hear a "clunk" indicating the gear had changed. Speed-shifting in it meant you could get from the front seat to the back seat quickly. I'd usually get customarily quiet when the guys would talk about going out to The Lake stretch for a 'run'.  That Dodge would have fared poorly on the stretch against even a 3-legged mule.

Kenny occasionally had access to a sweet little old lady's Pontiac.  Still following some inner urge to hear tires screech, he developed a technique that amazes me to this day.  Kenny would put the car in reverse, back it up, and then quickly jerk it into Drive.  As we were scraping ourselves off the ceiling of the car, we could count on the rear tires spinning a bit with that satisfying squeal.  His technique failed us only once that I can recall.  While making one overly ambitious move, the rear end sounded as if it were disassembling itself, and Kenny drove the car home accompanied by whangs and bangs mixed with clicks and clucks.

Tucker and a couple of other guys came up with the idea of forming a car club.  They called it The Roadmasters and we met in a room over Tucker's family's garage.  It was a worthy club.  We even had jackets.....white jackets with "The Roadmasters, Bedford, Va" printed on the back in bright red. We looked at ways to do community service; parked cars at events, that sort of thing.  At our meetings, we discussed cars, projects, automotive dreams, girls in hot cars, and who'd been out to The Lake stretch lately.

Kenny and I usually rode together to the meetings.  We'd be in either the green bomb (Dodge) or that wild-ass Pontiac.  Every time we'd leave, Kenny would pick up a line from the hot rod movie trailers and say, "And they come roaring out".  It just seemed to cap off the evening.

I don't know how many of The Roadmasters are still around these days.  Kenny is gone, and with him, a boatload of talking about good times.  Tucker is gone, his existence stolen in a Southeast Asian cess pool.  Others I just don't know about.  But whenever I run across one of those movies on late-night TV, I usually manage to raise a glass to the "back then" in all of us.

'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.