Smoke 'Em if You Got 'Em (LSMFT)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please Tell Me It Hasn't Been Fifty Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well What Do Ya Know

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

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

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

Let It Snow Let It Snow Let It Snow

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



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


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


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

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

Tagged, You Say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. I like to iron shirts.

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

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

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

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

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

A Cloud of Dust and A Hearty Hi Ho Silver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonder If Orville and Wilbur Started This Way?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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