Hanging In

The Old Man has not died, been kidnapped or arrested. Distractions disrupt creativity at times. Keep checking back.....like McArthur, "I shall return" in a short while.

The Handy-Dandy Reunion Survival Kit

The Old Man recently attended his 50th High School Reunion. Most of the Battalion was there, and in fine fettle. It was fantastic to see them. So many stories! I don't know if you've ever been to a high school reunion, but in the event one may be in your immediate future, some tips on what to expect might be helpful.

First of all, you will be lied to. Oh, most will be harmless little lies, but lies just the same. I'll list a few here:

"You haven't changed a bit". Bull pucky.....this is the most common and frequently used lie in the game. I'm 50 years older, you idiot; of course I've changed. I have no hair, I'm 70 pounds heavier, and I've got so many wrinkles that I look like a Tarpon Springs sponge.

"Do you remember the night we (fill in the blank)?" Hell no I don't remember. I can't remember why I came in the kitchen.

"You were always one of my favorite people." Really? How come you never chose me to be on your team until you had exhausted all other possibilities?

Second, you will lie to others.

"How have you kept in such good shape?" (Must have been lifting all those 12 oz. dumbbells labeled Budweiser.)

"You haven't changed a bit". (See, it's contagious)

Third, you will discover that some things, like leopard spots, truly haven't "changed a bit"....both for the better and for the worse. You will be able to rapidly decide.

Fourth and most importantly, you'll realize that even though you may have spent a small part of your life in these people's company, they played a critical role in who you are. From each other you learned most of your social structure; how to deal with hurt feelings, petty jealousies, and other ills. Even more, you learned how to treat others with respect, how to negotiate, and how to confront wrong. You realize that those early years are worthy of revisiting....they were basically carefree and fun. We didn't realize it at the time, but the traumas we faced were pretty tame in comparison to those the world has thrown at us since. At some point in the evening, you'll note as you look around the room, that the 'class of '60' is just that......"Class" with a capital C. We've played the hand that life dealt us and have exhibited a level of grace and strength unfathomable to us "back in the day".

Much of the crowd was there. I saw "Jeffrey of I Ain't Going Fame", "Roscoe the Booger Eater", "Freddie the Fainter" and a host of others. Kenny was gone and that sucked. We had lots of laughs, posed for a group picture, promised to "keep in touch", and melted away back into the present.

I think I've figured it out. The past is a marvelous place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Uncle Bob and His Exploding Weenie

The Old Man has a special corner in the memory banks for Independence Day. It's one of the best holidays ever, I believe. There's no "gift pressure", no secular compartmentalization, and no social expectations other than to have a rollicking good time. The menu is simple; fireworks, hot dogs, and family closeness, all washed down with a hearty swig of patriotism.

Hot dogs make me think of Uncle Bob. Why? I'll get to that in a moment. He wasn't really my uncle.....more like my brother. Bob declared himself "Uncle" to our two daughters. He just started to refer to himself as Uncle Bob when ever he was around them.

Bob loved nothing better than to be around those he loved. You've heard me refer to him in several earlier posts. He and I when let off the chain could usually have all within earshot clutching their sides in a matter of minutes. We fed off of each other like fire off of oxygen. Now I must confess, various liquids were often involved, but in reality, we needed no fuel.
When we were together at the beach, Bob and I would sit out on the balcony smoking and commiserating on the state of matters in the world. Sometime around midnight, our wives would hear one or the other of us say, "I love you, man".....a takeoff on a popular beer commercial of its time. That was the signal; they would wave us in.

Bob loved the 4th of July. We'd usually get together out at his place and spend the afternoon goofing around and playing croquet or sometimes badminton. Hot dogs always were the standard fare, accompanied by many varieties of refreshment. Bob would always say, "Are you bringing the fireworks?". I'd just grin and then show up with an arsenal of bottle rockets, lady fingers, and maybe even a T-bomb or two.

We had another friend named Jim who was a couple of branches even further up the crazy tree. Around suppertime, when croquet had gotten hot and heavy with side bets and catcalls, our childish desire for "booms and bangs" would get the best of us, and we'd break out the fireworks.
Inhibitions and common sense became subjugated, and we rose to the challenge to see how creatively we could wreck havoc. I recall one year, we began to wonder if we could stand on Bob's deck and fire a bottle rocket through a croquet wicket. When it was my turn, I took careful aim, and lit the fuse.
At about the same time I flicked the Bic, Bob was bent over, lining up a shot through that same wicket. With a tremendous "whoosh" and a trail of smoke, the rocket shot between Bob's legs, went through the wicket, and then exploded. Bob, who was basically deaf, never turned around. He simply extended his arm behind his back and flashed the "Hawaiian Good Luck" sign.

Later that same evening, Bob, Jim, and I began wondering aloud what we could blow up. We'd already used up most of the cans. Bob said, "Hang on", and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a couple of wieners. He took one of them and carefully catheterized it with a Lady Finger. "Stand back". "WHAM". Grown men look really goofy with bits of Ball Park in their hair, stuck to their legs, and laughing so hard we could water the lawn.

It was like that with 'Uncle' Bob. We had that something that connects one human to another and the offshoot is a uniqueness that's one of the most rewarding things in life. So I think of Uncle every year on Independence Day. I think of all the exploding 'weenies', the nights on the balconies, and the wacky lunches we had.

Bob left us way too early. But sometimes over the noise of the sky rockets and the aerial bombs, I think I hear, "I love you, man".

Myrtle's Identity Crisis

The Old Man has been hearing a lot lately about folks who seem to have a bit of trouble figuring out just who or what they are. You used to be able to tell right off whether that pleasant figure you were following was a girl or a boy. Then the "Hippy Movement" came along and all bets were off. Male, female, it made no difference....they both had the same hair styles.

Now it seems there are even more people who are confused. Some aren't happy with their gender, others aren't happy with their wardrobe. Some are winking at each other, and some are hiding out in closets.
Even the military has gotten into the act, and contributed to the confusion.
None of this matters much to me; I only have one question for any soldier or potential soldier, "Can you shoot?"

Back in Bedford there were rumors of a couple of guys who listened to a different drummer, but everyone with whom I ever came in regular contact seemed to have a pretty clear understanding of their fit in the universe. There were no grey areas. You shot marbles and smelled bad, or you played with dolls and were frilly. Around 12 or 13 when we all hit the hormone highway, things got even clearer.

But alas, confusion has come to The Old Man's realm. My dear Myrtle has become twisted and can't figure out her proper role in life. I've nurtured her from the time we began our relationship, keeping her fed, hydrated, and given her regular grooming. But now Myrtle is struggling with color issues. She's displaying such disparity as to be unsettling. Here's what I mean.

When she was first born as an offshoot of an existing plant, she was purely pink. I know. I transplanted her myself from one spot in the yard to her current location. But now, Myrtle is displaying two distinct colors, purple and pink. There is no crossover. Pink doesn't turn to purple or vice versa.

But even in her confusion, I still love and support her. Maybe she needs counseling. I'll call Dr. Phil or Oprah.

I'll Have the Meatskins With a Side of Cheetos, Please

The Old Man went to a Memorial Day cook-out over the weekend. A fine little neighborhood affair. We had the standards.........hot dogs, potato salad, chips, etc. and coolers full of liquid refreshment. There was watermelon and cut-up veggies. Lots of bottled water as well.

Left in idle, my mind can drift off course quicker than an empty kayak in a windstorm. I began to think how differently we look at fun food now compared to my early years. Modern nutrition-conscious folks would slide into a coma if they were around the Park Street Battalion.

You can still buy meatskins but they aren't quite the same. I remember them being a lot more greasy....or as Miss Alma would say, "Greeeezy". Pour out a few on a napkin and when you had eaten them, there would be enough grease on the paper to keep Elvis's hair pompadoured for several days. Now you see them in a bag and they are called Chicarones. The Battalion didn't know Chicarones from Macaronis.

We could buy a bag of peanuts for a nickel. We could also buy a bottle of Pepsi for another nickel. We'd then unite the two in marriage, emptying the entire little bag into the Pepsi.
The whole deal would be gone in about 3 good gulps. I never knew of anyone getting choked, but try that today and an army of mothers would come running and screaming.

Another trick was to buy the little bags of potato chips. Before eating them, we'd take the salt shaker and give it 3-4 good shakes into the bag. A quick shake of the bag and we'd customized the chips to just where we wanted them. They made the Pepsi and peanuts even more special.

You could buy boxes of pretzel sticks. I think I've seen a few still around, but ours were a lot saltier. We'd polish off a box and then turn the empty box up and eat the rest of the salt.

The only diet soda available was one called Tab. Mom bought into the whole calorie thing from time to time and Dad and I were innocent victims. Tab was as vile a beverage as I have known, that is until I was introduced to fraternity parties. After a Tab, you'd think you had eaten a couple of bushels of green persimmons.

We committed other acts of "nutritional naughtiness" as well. We'd stop in at Coleman's Restaurant after school and sometimes have ourselves 2-3 slices of their coconut pie. They made them on the premises and I could almost swear you couldn't see over them. Sugar load? What sugar load?

I watched at our picnic as one of my favorite little fellows here in the neighborhood ate his fill of raw broccoli. Hooray for his folks, because these good habits should serve him well. They are doing the right thing. But the "devil" in me wants to take him aside and say, "Psssst, here, try this meatskin. And when you're through, check out this coconut pie".

I'll See You In The Funny Papers

The Old Man heard a day or so ago that one of his childhood girlfriends is going to leave us on June 13th. That's the day the last Little Orphan Annie comic strip will be published. Sometime back they changed her name to just plain Annie, but not to me. I'm a traditionalist.

This news set me to thinking. I began to recall the newspaper comic strips that I remember and miss. They existed before the concept of Political Correctness ever reared its pompous head. Pull up a chair.

Little Orphan Annie.... had no pupils in her eyes. I could never figure out how she got around. She also had a mysterious "quasi-father" named Daddy Warbucks. "Warbucks".....break that one down. He was rich and I always wondered why, if he had so many bucks, Annie had to wander around with her dog Sandy and sometimes be accompanied by a guy in a turban named Punjab, or something. Why didn't she just go and live in the Warbucks mansion? Dr. Phil could have a field day with this one.

The Katzenjammer Kids.......these were a couple of rowdy hellions who tormented their uncle by always playing pranks on him. They would put tacks in his chair, or glue in the syrup bottle, or give him a "hot foot". The strip always ended with uncle beating the snot out of the kids with his cane. I can almost see the ACLU salivating.

Henry......interesting little bald kid with a nose that stuck up in a point like the end of a coat rack. Henry had no mouth so he never spoke. He and his friend Egghead had many adventures and the construction of them gave a laugh. One strip had Henry and Egghead taking off all their clothes and jumping in a pond. Print that one today and you'd be on the 6:00 news as they hauled you off.

Joe Palooka....an All American looking boxer who exemplified the "good guy" with great toughness. Think maybe if Rambo and Alan Alda had a son. Joe had a shock of blonde hair that hung down over one eye. I never could figure out how he could see to punch. Joe's manager was a cigar chomping guy named Knobby Walsh. Violence and smoking in one strip. Ahhhhhhhh, sweet.

Our Boarding House......a one & sometimes two panel strip featuring Major Amos Hoople, a bragging, get-rich-quick schemer who loved corned beef & cabbage. From the sight of his belly, he had it regularly. There were always a few other residents of the boarding house willing to be taken to the cleaners in Hopple's schemes. Every year on New Year's Eve, the gang at the boarding house would be heading out to celebrate. The next panel would show them the next morning, badly hung over, with ice bags on their heads and aspirin bottles in their hands. I think the president of MADD just fainted.

Bringing Up Father.....Jiggs and his wife Maggie were always at odds. Maggie was the reincarnation of Shakespeare's shrew. All poor Jiggs wanted to do was read his paper, go to his lodge hall, or play some cards with his friends. Maggie was constantly chewing his ass out about something and no matter how hard Jiggs tried to please her, the chewing continued on up his back.

Dick Tracy.....still in print, Tracy was the consummate cop. Communicating with his partner, Sam Ketchum, with his 2-way wrist radio, he fought a variety of bad guys. Names like, Flathead or Blimpface were common. Strip originator Chet Gould always drew these characters to look like their name. Were they real, they would be on Oprah today, exploring their lack of positive self-image.

When you open a door in the memory vault, stand back. Mandrake the Magician, Steve Canyon, Flash Gordon, Terry & the Pirates, the Gasoline Alley gang, and a host of others were like friends to a kid growing up in the '40's and '50's. They took us to fantasy land or made us laugh. I've tried, really tried to have the same feelings today, but it's hard to get "into" most of the strips in my morning paper. Oh, there are some standouts; Beetle Bailey, Hagar the Horrible, and others bring a chuckle, but then there's Doonesbury?

What A Kid

The Old Man is probably going to tug at your heartstrings a bit today. And for that I make no apology. Spiritual growth and its subsequent development have always been very important in our family. As such, we have always tried to instill in our children the importance of faith in a higher power. Label the power as you choose, but to us, it is our Christian faith.

Far be it from me to "preach" to you. That would be presumptuous and could be viewed as arrogant on my part. George Carlin said it best when he commented, "How come it is that the people who most want to tell you about their religion are the ones who least want to hear about yours?" But it's important for me to convey some beautiful moments that we have recently experienced.

Grandson, Jackson, was baptized this past Saturday. It was a very special time, shared with a very special child. Jackson was given the option of having the ceremony performed in a swimming pool, being sprinkled in a worship service, or being immersed in the ocean. He chose the ocean. When asked his rationale, he said, "What better place to be baptized than in one of God's greatest creations?" Pretty astute for an 11 year old. But then, this is the same kid who went around his neighborhood raising money for those suffering in New Orleans after Katrina.

When he was about 4 years old, he mentioned to his folks that when he was an angel up in heaven before he was born, he met his little brother. There were really no plans for a little brother, and it was never really mentioned again. Then 6-7 years went by and guess what? A little brother came along.

Jackson simply looked at his mom and said, "See, I told you."

At one end of Jekyll Island in southern Georgia, there is a beach known as Driftwood Beach. So named because of the graveyard of downed trees. Brought down by a combination of storms and erosion, these giant live oaks lie scattered about the beach like a child's Tinker Toys shaken from their carton. After a short walk through a tunnel of palms and live oaks gorged with Spanish Moss, we came out onto the beach and picked our way through the ghosts of trees long dead and bleached to a silver luminescence, gathering at a clear spot at water's edge.

After a few short comments and a prayer, Jackson and the pastor made their way out into the water. A few steps into the ocean, the pastor turned to those of us on the beach and said, "For the record, this water is cold." Once in position, the pastor gently laid Jackson back and quickly submerged him in the chilly water.

As they came out of the water, Jackson's mother smiled, his father smiled, his grandparents smiled, and I have no doubt in my mind.......

God smiled.