Emily

The Old Man wants to borrow a minute of your time. I've got a lot of pride to show and it won't stay bottled up, so bear with me.

I found out today that the Beta Club still exists. I remember how when I was in high school, there would be an assembly. We loved them....got out of class, you know. Most of them were rife with lameness, but a couple of them were actually, well, fun. There was the awards assembly where athletic letters and such were passed out and there was the very special one where the incoming members of the Beta Club were literally "tapped". Existing members circulated in the auditorium and issued the invitations to those students whose superior intellect and hard work had qualified them for induction into this honor society, by silently tapping them on the shoulder. Then the "tappees" would gather on stage for a standing ovation.

Our granddaughter, Emily, was issued her invitation today. We weren't surprised.....we've known all along just how special and sincere she is. Beautiful, with a great head on her shoulders and a solid grounding in reality coupled with a "killer" work ethic, she has proven herself time and time again. Now, that is being recognized by her peers. And we cheer that.

Emily is unpretentious, and she might even be a bit embarrassed by this posting. She loves to banter and enjoys hearing the recounting of stories from her childhood. Our times together are filled with laughter and sometimes simple silliness, but her depth is great, and she has proven it. She can keep us all on our toes, and much we need that. She is a delight and a joy and we are so very thankful to have her in our lives.

I trust you will join me in saying, "Congratulations, Emily. You go girl".

Al Fresco Is Not an Opera Singer

The Old Man isn't much on eating outdoors. My parents, on the other hand, loved it. They would look for any excuse to eat "out in the yard". I think that if we had had to migrate like those Dust Bowl families you see on National Geographic, we'd have an old pick-up, and tied to it would be the picnic table and grill before the household furniture even stood a chance.

Mention "cooking out" and Dad would become as energized as if 110 volts had been selectively applied to his body. He'd have the grill fired up almost before Mom could make up the hamburger patties. Dad had a way with charcoal. He was a great believer in lighter fluid. I'd be riding my bike a block away late on a summer evening, and I'd see a black mushroom cloud rising from the direction of our house. Dad liked to "add" lighter fluid to already smoldering charcoal if he didn't think the coals were coming along fast enough. I couldn't help but think of those flame-throwers I would see in the news reels at the movie. "Uh-oh", I'd think....another meal being eaten with one hand while swatting flies and bees with the other". Mom would be scurrying around in the kitchen making potato salad and cutting up tomatoes and onions.


I knew without asking we were having either hot dogs or hamburgers. I don't remember steak ever being served in our house and pork chops were only fried. In retrospect, I guess I can see the attraction. With no air conditioning, summer kitchens quickly became a torture chamber, so having a little pollen breeze-driven into your food was perhaps a better option. Mom used mustard in her potato salad, so you couldn't tell anyway.

Mom had an uncanny ability to spot a fly beginning his dive toward the table. She could grab the fly swatter and send him to fly heaven without missing a bite of her burger. She'd giggle and say, "Got the little rascal".

Perhaps the zenith of their outdoor cooking career came when they bought a little deep-fat fryer. The Battalion would sometimes gather in our yard to play badminton or croquet. These games would go on all afternoon and into the twilight hours. Ever the consummate host, Dad felt he had to provide sustenance. I recall one day he and Mom rigged an extension cord out into the yard, and then peeled, cut, and fried an entire 5 lb. bag of potatoes. Badminton and french fries.....doesn't get much better than that to a 12 year old. They fried so many that I could swear the lights in town dimmed.


Miss Martha and I had lunch today at one of our favorite places. As we came out after our meal, the outdoor dining area was actually busier than the inside one. Folks were enjoying the open air and sunshine. I wanted to give them a word of warning in the event they noticed a yellow cast to their food.


There's no mustard in the potato salad.

Bernard

The Old Man thought about Bernard today. Bernard was a little, sort of "dried up" and somewhat sickly looking man who was a part of my early years in our town. Uptown city folks might pronounce his name with an emphasis on the "nard" part.....we didn't. He was just a much loved fellow named BERnard. While Bernard mostly looked happy, with an outgoing personality, he just never looked well; never "hale and hardy" as my mom liked to say. I now understand why.
Sixty-eight years ago this month, April 9th to be exact, Bernard took a hike. It wasn't his idea....no sir, not at all.

The day before, on April 8th, the remainder of the troops stationed on the Bataan peninsula in the Philippine Islands, had surrendered to the Japanese. For several months the brave Americans had held out against insurmountable odds. With food supplies depleted, they subsisted on whatever they could trap or kill. Monkeys and even rats became game. Little did they expect that in a few weeks, monkeys and rats would be considered gourmet delicacies.

The Japanese soldiers, trained and indoctrinated in the ancient code of Bushido, believed that any surrendered prisoner was duty bound to commit suicide. Those that didn't were considered cowardly animals, not worthy of any of even the most basic of human needs or kindnesses. As well, the sheer number of American and Filipino prisoners overwhelmed the Japanese. All of these factors conspired to create what has become known as The Bataan Death March.

Bernard got to walking.

Before the march ended, they had covered 95 miles, 65 of them on foot, and 30 of them crammed into railroad boxcars so tightly that they could not sit down. Men, wracked with dysentery, had their bowels let go where they stood, bathing themselves and those around them in their own filth.

While not reported to me by Bernard, the horror story is well documented. During the march, the prisoners were given no water. Walking in 95 degree heat and jungle humidity became a torture all its own. At one point, the procession passed a little artesian well. Several of the prisoners broke away to attempt to drink. A Japanese guard allowed 5 to drink their fill. When the 6th man bent down to drink, the guard stabbed his bayonet into the man's neck and passed it down into his chest, killing him almost instantly. Prisoners who the Japanese thought too slow were either gunned down or bayoneted. One told of how the bodies were left where they fell and Japanese trucks passed over them until they were unrecognizable puddles. This went on for 4 days. Stumbling along, starving after being fed a ball of moldy rice once per day and forced to subsist on what water they could scrounge....mostly from muddy puddles on the side of the gravel road, many fell out of ranks simply hoping to be mercifully shot. For the next 3-4 years, things got even worse for the prisoners. Many were put on "Hell Ships" and sent to slave labor camps in Japan, toiling in coal mines. Their stories fill volumes.

Bernard along with his business partner ran a successful agricultural business in Bedford. Well liked and sprightly, he never gave any outward indication of what he had endured. In typical fashion of that generation, he made it back and got down to the business of life. I never had the opportunity to talk about this to him, and most people would rather have swallowed broken glass than to have awakened long buried memories. I do remember, however, seeing Bernard's eyes go vacant and watch as I now imagine he was quite possibly being transported in his mind to that particular branch office of Hell.

Thank you, Bernard.

Doo Wop Shi Bop & Rama Lama Ding Dong

The Old Man is a "doo wop-er" from way back. I got an early start.

In spite of what you see here, I cannot sing or play a note on anything. I've tried guitar, trumpet, and even a kazoo; all to no avail. I have managed a decent showing on the drums, but that's another story. My point here, is that in spite of the lack of enough talent to carry a tune in a tote sack, my love for music is pretty intense.

Of all the genres of the musical spectrum, my absolute favorite is that one known as Doo Wop. Rooted in Delta blues, refined through the 1940's, polished and matured in the 1950's, it defines teenage love and angst for my generation. Long are the summer nights when I would lay in my bed, struggling to catch a breeze through the open window, listening to radio stations from all over the country play the music that drilled straight from my ears to my heart. Disc jockeys from Nashville, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and Chicago wavered in and out as their broadcast signals bounced around through the atmosphere, playing those great anthems to those of us who were just beginning our journey down the hormone highway.

Matter of fact, it was one of these tunes that, I believe, gave the genre its name. The year was 1956, and in the basement of a New Haven, Connecticut church, a group called The Five Satins recorded "In The Still of The Night" and in the background you can clearly hear, "Doo-wop-shu-waa". To this day, that song transports me back to that wonderfully happy and innocent time. There are countless others as well. If you can find it, listen to the Safaris sing "Image of A Girl". That one captures teen angst over not having a girlfriend better than most any you can imagine. I could go on forever.......we must have a trivia contest sometime.

Through the years, I've been so very blessed to have opportunities to get "up close and personal" with a few notables. I've had dinner with Dianna Ross and the Supremes, The Shirelles, and The Crystals. I've listened to Dion openly discuss the heroin battles of his youth when he sang with the group, Dion & The Belmonts. I've passed a jug back and forth with Sam Cooke, and I've driven Neil Sedaka around Roanoke. (That one took about 30 minutes.) Bobby Vinton sat with me during my all night radio broadcast and we had wondrous conversations. Miss Martha and I have been socially involved with Freddie Cannon. All of this, written at the risk of seeming "braggy", to simply amplify how my life has been a magnificent journey of involvement. The music of my youth takes on even more meaning as I remember the good fortune of being able to meet and interact with those artists who played such a part in my early years.

There have been other encounters; I saw the Everly Brothers for the princely sum of $4.00 admission, I saw Elvis for a much "princelier" sum, and I watched Chuck Berry duck-walk across the stage while pounding out "Johnny B. Goode".

My personal "celebrity scorecard" would be incomplete without tribute to some non-musical heavyweights. I've shaken hands with Bob Hope, gotten an autograph from Alan Shephard, and humbly shaken hands with General Jimmy Doolittle.

But far and away, beyond all others, is a man I met many years ago in a little church in Bedford. His name is Jesus Christ.

Out From Behind The Skirts

The Old Man is in a reflective mood today. Some time back (a gentleman never discusses a lady's age) my life was enhanced exponentially. On this date, Julie barreled into our lives amidst much pacing, groaning, and hoopla. In that day and time, fathers were exiled to a waiting room where the pacing, smoking, and hand-wringing began. It's not that way now. All things considered, I think I prefer the old way. I'm a chicken at heart.

It is so easy to take life events somewhat for granted. In the chaos of everyday life, we are at risk of loosing touch with the special-ness of your child. Babies are born, they cry, they mess, and you love them with all your heart. The cries are music to your ears, the mess a source of fascination, ("Holy stuff....would you look at that? Whew.") and the love flows naturally. It all seems so normal that we come to accept them and not attach enough wonder to them.

As our children grow, we have that precious and rare opportunity to not only guide them as best we, in our stumbling, bumbling way, know how, but to relish the unmitigated joy in seeing them conquer those world that are so new to them.

It was and is that way with you, Julie. I watched you peep out from behind your mom's skirt, one finger in your mouth, your feet sort of pigeon-toed, too timid to take much of a role in the "loud stuff". And then one day it all changed. As I recall it was about Kindergarten time. You not only blossomed, you exploded. From that time on to this moment, you have been a beacon of growth and development that is an inspiration to your Mom and to me. I can't verbalize the depth of my pride in your professionalism, your pro activity, and most of all your ability as a Mom.

You know, Julie, you and I have always had that "Oldies" thing going for us. The old music you adopted as a part of your own. There is a Bobby Goldsboro song, "Watching Scotty Grow". I'll paraphrase a line, ".....me and God, watching Julie grow".

Happy Birthday, honey. You are a link to forever for me. Thank you for ensuring that when I'm gone, I'll still be here.

I love you.

Dad

The Folsom Prison Blues

The Old Man has been to the jail a few times. Now before you raise a salacious eyebrow, I've not been a "resident", but rather visited often. While some of my relatives have been colorful, to the best of my knowledge none have ever been "guests of the town". My dad's uncle was a deputy sheriff and was the jail keeper. He and his family lived in the jail building as well, so when we got together it was usually in close proximity to the, as Miss Alma would call them, "jailbirds . In the picture, the entire front portion of the building contained the living quarters as well as the sheriff's office. You can just make out a rear section (with the curved window) that housed the actual jail portion. It connected to the living quarters by a steel door from the kitchen.Uncle Dillard and Aunt Della Shields (pronounced in our Bedford-accent-family as Unca Dillud & Ain't Della) were 'salt of the earth' people. My entire memory of them consists of laughter, good food, and family. They raised three children while living in the quite spacious living quarters, and we got together often. If a meal was involved, we were treated to standard country fare; fried chicken, steak and gravy, or country ham steaks with 3-5 vegetables and hot biscuits were pretty standard suppers. Now, the remarkable part of this was that since Ain't Della did all the cooking for the kept souls in the back, they ate like kings. She and Unca carried food back to the prisoners first, and then we all feasted.

When we were through the cobbler, they would round up the plates and trays. A couple of times they let me help.....creeped me out. They were mostly folks who were there due to fighting, cutting, moonshining, or general mischief. I can't recall even hearing of a murder or armed robbery. You could count on a population explosion on Sunday due to Saturday night frivolities.

Many of the residents claimed Taylor's Mountain as their home. This was a mountain a few miles outside of town with its own set of rules and guidelines; its own culture. I once worked for a local florist as a delivery driver. I headed up the mountain one Monday afternoon and as I progressed, heads peeped out from behind trees to see what I was about.

To give you a flavor of the times, from the late 1940's three entries in the book, "Historical Diary of Bedford, Virginia. USA From Ancient Times to U.S. Bicentennial" by Peter Viemeister speak volumes:

• "Three stills seized on Taylor's Mountain. Moonshiners escape."
• "Classified ad: 'Special Notice..Members of the Taylor's Mountain Sunday Afternoon Poker Club watch your step and be careful."
• "For the first time, Taylor's Mountain children can attend high school, but only in good weather. Citizens improve the road that is impassable to school buses. Now W. A. Parker using truck to take 18-20 youths to a school bus station. Unless weather is bad."

Folks there were born tough and grew up tougher, so it was no wonder that some were "Dillard's Dinner Guests" from time to time.

I haven't been back to that area for a long time. Quite possibly some hot-shot real estate developer may have turned Taylor's Mountain into an upscale refuge from the evils of the big city. In a way, I hope that I am wrong. Some trees just lend themselves to being peeped out from behind.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It's Off To Work I Go

The Old Man believes in work. Work is basic to life. The most elementary form of life on the planet must work to survive. At the risk of crossing over onto the "soap-box platform" I promised to keep out of my musings, I have no use for any able bodied person who simply refuses to work. Social parasites they. My harshness is rooted in the culture of my upbringing. People didn't really think of themselves as having a career....they simply had a job. And a job they took pride in doing well, and a company that rewarded that pride with loyalty and security. Somewhere along the line, sadly, that seems to have changed. ( I'm perilously close to the edge of my "box" here, so let me move on).

I recall my very first job. Around the age of 11, an older lady several houses up the street stopped me on my way home from school one afternoon. Now, to any one of the Park Street Battalion this would be a fearful experience. We were all born with a sort of collective guilty conscience, not knowing exactly what we had done wrong, but assuming we had done something, because we usually had. She was an intimidating lady...looking like Aunt Bea after being out of Premarin for five days, greatly contributing to my unease. Surprise! She asked if I would like to earn some money. "Yesum" was my grateful reply.

Like a lot of Bedford, these folks heated with coal. The coal burning furnace left these great lava-looking rocks called "clinkers". The homeowner would empty these into metal garbage cans and take them to the curb a couple of times a week for pick-up. Sounds like a simple job....easy money. She said I could start tomorrow.

I was excited and rushed home to break the good news of my gainful employment. School dragged by the next day and when the bell rang I literally ran home. I stopped off to get busy. I grabbed hold of the wire handle of the first can and nearly pulled my arm out of its socket. Forget carrying...I tugged, dragged, and puffed that can up what seemed like the 256 mile driveway, all the while thinking, "Crap, I've got another one to go". I managed; not only that day but for the rest of the winter. I learned a couple of 'life lessons' from that job.....
(A) No job will be as easy as you think and
(B) Always inquire about the pay. For my efforts I was paid a nickel per can....the princely sum of twenty cents per week. Of course, Mary Janes and Mint Julips were a penny each, so life was good.

Snow meant opportunity! The going rate for shoveling a sidewalk was fifty cents. Driveways were mostly gravel so they seldom got shoveled. Everyone had tire chains on anyway. When snow flew I put into use another thing I had learned from the "curse of the clinkers":
(C). How badly someone wanted to get out of the house directly affected the price they were willing to pay. The Old Man figured out supply side economics at an early age.

Come spring, lawns needed mowing. I've mowed a ton of them for a dollar. Compared to clinkers, I was in the economic stratosphere. I could move up from Mary Janes and Mint Julips to Sugar Daddies and BB Bats.

I firmly believe the best lessons we get in life are those we are not aware we are learning. Even with the grumbling and struggling, a kid can learn a lot from a clinker.