Hangin' In

The Old Man is still around.  Hang with me a bit and I'll be back.  It's been a very busy season, but the stories are starting to "surface".

Never Forget

The Old Man remembers his heroes.  I honor your sacrifice made 70 years ago today.

Thank you.

Thanksgiving Thought

The Old Man is in Thanksgiving mode today.  Like most, I look forward to the day of reflection on life's blessings, and to be sure, food will play heavily into the day's observance.  So, to all, I say:
 Stay focused on the positive things in your life, and don't forget to express your thanks....to God and to all those who contribute beauty to your existence.  And put the ability to laugh high on your list.

Here is my secret recipe for the Thanksgiving feasting.

    Roast Turkey

1 - 15 lb. Turkey
1 cup melted butter
1 cup stuffing (Pepperidge Farm is Good)
1 cup un-popped popcorn (ORVILLE REDENBACHER’S LOW FAT IS BEST) Salt/pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Brush turkey well with melted butter, salt and pepper. 

Fill cavity with stuffing and popcorn. Place in baking pan making sure the neck end is toward the front of the oven, not the back. 

After about 4 hours listen for the popping sounds. 

When the turkey’s rear blows the oven door open and the bird flies across the room,.... it’s done.

Gimme a Popsicle Stick and I'll Make You a Record

The Old Man turns his thoughts to high school around this time of year.  I suppose it's the football-falling leaves-early darkness syndrome that tends to move me full-bore into nostalgia mode despite my best resistance.  It seems that some of my most enjoyable times occurred during the period from September through Christmas. That concept may be rationalization, but "that's my story and I'm sticking with it".

 One of the memories that sustain my reverie is that of the band.  We were called The Sportsters. Arthur, Johnny, David, Ralph and I banged our way around Bedford and surrounding towns from 1958 through 1961, or thereabouts,  playing at several "joints", some college fraternity parties, and on a couple of American Bandstand-style dance shows on local television.  Heady stuff when you're 18.

A recent exchange about that day and time opened one of my mental safe-deposit boxes, and the memories played leap-frog to the front burner.  Like puppies fighting for attention, they came at me.

Considering the cost of concerts these days, we were cavemen.  There was one road house just outside of town called the B & H Drive-in.  We had a regular booking there each Saturday night for a while.  As I recall,  with our percentage of the gate, we would each normally earn about $10.00 for a 4-hour "gig".  We'd "whomp & bomp" and "shoo-bop" our hearts out, and feel like we were rich when counting-up time came at the end of the evening.  Once in a while, things would get lively with a knifing or a simple fist-fight, but as the saying goes, "the band played on".

We played some frat parties at the University of Virginia.  They generally ended with us playing to just a few people while the majority of the crowd seemed to have been stricken with some sort of sleeping sickness, usually preceded by a bout with nausea.  The money was good, though.  Paid up-front and netting us around $30.00 each, we were in tall cotton.

We had one "roadie".  His name was Tucker and he just loved to go around with us for the fun of it.  He would help us set up our one amplifier, my meager set of drums, and the two microphones.  I look at equipment in today's entertainment world in total wonderment.  A DJ at a wedding in Slugo, Va. has 3 times the equipment that we had.

As in any enterprise, the character mix was eclectic.  Arthur was a good Elvis-style singer, Johnny was a gifted and creative guitarist, our saxophonist, David, was the most musically talented one, I managed to stay on the beat most of the time, and then there was Ralph.  Ralph is the guy playing the stand-up bass in the photo.  Ralph had a bit more electronic knowledge than musical ability, but he managed to bang that old bass with abandon.  Sometimes he was actually on key.  On occasion, our one amp would develop a problem.  Ralph would tear into it, and amid a shower of sparks and much popping and cracking, manage to solder (he carried a soldering iron, "just in case") some connection somewhere in the innards and the show would go on.  Ever the handyman, once when the neck of his base was broken in a minor car accident on the way to an out-of-town engagement, Ralph rounded up a few popsicle sticks and some scotch tape and made the repair.  He slapped that bass until closing time.

Johnny is gone now, David has made a professional career in the music business, Arthur and I made our career in other areas, and Ralph disappeared into the mists of history.  But sometimes, late at night, I can still hear a few "whomp-de-bomps", the magic of autumn paves over the rough spots in life, and the old drum riffs with their heavy back-beat carry me away.

Yeee Haaaaa!

The Old Man is pretty much "Southern" to the core.  Regular readers may note that my musings often speak of things indigenous to the region of my heritage.  In keeping with that line of thought, I pass along something that a friend of mine sent me.  If you are truly Southern, you'll find a chuckle, I hope.  If you are not, laugh anyway....it's good for you.

THE TOP 31 THINGS THAT YOU WILL NEVER HEAR A SOUTHERN BOY SAY:
31. When I retire, I'm movin' north.

30. Oh I just couldn't, she's only sixteen.

29. I'll take Shakespeare for 1000, Alex.

28. Duct tape won't fix that.

27. Come to think of it, I'll have a Heineken

26. We don't keep firearms in this house.

25. You can't feed that to the dog.

24. No kids in the back of the pickup, it's just not safe.

23. Wrestling is fake.

22. We're vegetarians.

21. Do you think my gut is too big?

20. I'll have grapefruit and grapes instead of biscuits and gravy.

19. Honey, we don't need another dog.

18. Who gives a damn who won the Civil War?

17. Give me the small bag of pork rinds.

16. Too many deer heads detract from the decor.

15. I just couldn't find a thing at Wal-Mart today.

14. Trim the fat off that steak.

13. Cappuccino tastes better than espresso.

12. The tires on that truck are too big.

11. I've got it all on the C: DRIVE.

10. Unsweetened tea tastes better.

9. My fiancé, Bobbie Jo, is registered at Tiffany's.

8. I've got two cases of Zima for the Super Bowl.

7. Checkmate

6. She's too young to be wearing a bikini.

5. Hey, here's an episode of "Hee Haw" that we haven't seen.!

4. I don't have a favorite college team.

3. You Guys.

2. Those shorts ought to be a little longer, Betty Mae.

AND THE NUMBER ONE THING THAT YOU WILL NEVER HEAR A SOUTHERN BOY SAY:
1. Nope, no more beer for me. I'm heading up the campaign to re-elect OBAMA!

Listening To The Band

The Old Man loves this time of the year.  Some have bemoaned Fall as being depressing and glum, what with winter coming on and all.  But hang winter.....fall is special, perhaps more a feeling than a season.  I love the color, the crispness in the air, that feeling of coziness when outside temperatures began their gradual decline, and most of all, I love the reflections of autumns past; of festivals, football, and wood smoke.  And I remember the band.

Bedford didn't have a high school band.  We had the Bedford Firemen's Band.  It was made up of some of our volunteer firemen with the addition of those of us who could be coerced, cajoled, or cornered into joining.  I was one of the latter.

Our band would play at the town Christmas parade, the high school homecoming game, and maybe the 4th of July celebration.  We would travel to other towns to play at festivals and march in parades.  The highlight of our year was our trip to the Tobacco Festival in Richmond, Va.  That was a big deal.  Of course, to us a Kumquat Festival would have been a big deal.  One thing sticks clearly in my memory; we seemed to always get stuck behind the local equestrian club.  Whether English or Western, horses seem to find a band behind them to be quite upsetting to their systems.  Out of necessity, we learned to side-step like the Philadelphia Mummers Ferko String Band. 

Through the years, I've discovered a number of things at which I am not gifted.  Trumpet is one of them.  I could make "Grand Old Flag" or "Stars & Stripes Forever" sound like a lovesick aardvark, so my band career was short-lived.  All was not lost, however, as the concept of 'band' and 'football' surfaced years later when I took on a challenge even greater than trumpet....parenthood.

Like most folks, I suppose, my trip through parenthood has been a lot like my band career.  At times I've blown some really sour notes and I've had to side-step and shuck-and-jive.  But once in a while I think I've gotten it right.  Both of our daughters have, at some point when we felt they were not performing up to their potential, gotten the "Listening to the Band" lecture.  It went something like this.

" I really believe you can do better.  You've got what it takes to succeed in anything you tackle.  It seems to me that you're listening to the band."  I'd get that blank look that tells parents your child is thinking, "Huh" or has tuned you out completely.  So I'd continue, "Think about the Brookville football team.  They're playing Jefferson Forest and Brookville is behind 4 points. Brookville has the ball. The time on the clock is down to 7 seconds.  It's 3rd down and the quarterback hands off to his best running back.  The back breaks 4 tackles, reverses his field, and is clearly heading unopposed for a touchdown to win the game.  As he runs by the home bench, the pep band starts to play.  Distracted, he stumbles and loses focus trying to figure out what the band is playing.  Tacklers catch up to him, bring him down and time runs out.  Well, it seems to me that you are like that runner; you're being distracted by the "band", and you're losing your focus.  It's time to stick to business."

It must have worked because those two daughters are now my heroes.  They have matured into two of the finest parents I've ever known.  They've met challenge after challenge and acquitted themselves with dignity, honor, and class.  

Maybe I wasn't that bad at trumpet either.

     

Arrrrgh

The Old Man launches from where he left off.  The contractor engaged to build the USS Neversail had some unique ideas about boat building.  At least they seemed that way to me.  Most of the rowboats I had seen were aluminum with lots of rivets and all painted in an olive drab finish.  I suppose at the princely rental rate of 50 cents per half day, I shouldn't be so picky.  This fellow built up the sides of the boat with overlapping boards, much like lapped siding on a house.  I assume he steamed them to achieve the proper bend to form the bow. He then cut plywood to fit the shape of the gunwales and screwed the whole deal together.  After adding 4 seats, his part of the mission was accomplished.

Dad had this "rough" upturned on a couple of saw horses under one of the dutch elm trees in our back yard. It fell to the lot of the capt'n and his first mate to do all of the sanding, caulking, and painting.  Caulking meant something vastly different from today's tubes of silicone enhanced wonder goo and the guns that make the process so efficient.  We caulked by stuffing the seams between the boards with some gooey rope, and then had to press putty into place to further seal the joint.  I use the term "we" loosely...my job was to "keep the rope coming, bud".  I fed it to Dad as he poked and smoothed.  As the month wore on, I began to wonder if we would have to chip ice off of the lake to make our maiden cruise.  Occasionally, I'd see Mom at the kitchen window, shaking her head and smiling.  Dad would take a break to stretch his back and relight his pipe and he'd look at our work and say, "Ain't she a beauty?".  "Yessir" I'd respond.

Tragedy struck during the sanding phase of our shipbuilding career.  I've already mentioned how Dad had the greenest thumb of anyone I've ever known.  He could take a patch of  red clay, some seeds, and a pickup load of stable muck, and feed us for an entire winter.  There are trade-offs in life.  His carpentry and tool skills were as weak as my thumb is far from green.  He hadn't learned the magic words, "sanding block" yet.  He just took a sheet of sandpaper and had at it.  While sanding away, I heard him grunt and then say a pretty pronounced, "Arrrrrrgh".  He was staring at his right hand and blood was beginning to stain the port side of our vessel.  His sanding activity had driven a splinter complete through his little finger about 1/4 inch from the tip.  Entering on one side, it poked it's tail out the other.  After his, "arrrrgh", he said, "We've got to go."

We hopped in the car and headed over town to Lyle"s Drug Store.  The druggist, called Dr. Lyle by everyone, in that day and time didn't just dispense medicine.  He would remove stuff from your eye, bandage small cuts, and remove splinters.  No charge, of course, except for any materials he may use.
Dr. Lyle pulled the splinter through Dad's finger, applied a little iodine, and bandaged the wound.

We got home and the shipyard was closed for the day.  When time came to paint our ship, Dad said he was going to leave the little blood stains on her.  He said it made the boat a little more his.  I didn't understand it then......I do now.

We 3 had a fine time with the boat.  We rowed that old girl all over Bedford County Lake, fishing, laughing, dreaming, and relishing life.  I remember how safe I felt.

I can't recall what ever became of that old boat;  I'm sure Dad sold her after her usefulness had passed, but whoever bought the USS Neversail could never remove Dad's "brand", and when the boat finally rotted away, she took a part of him with her.

Aye, aye, captain....some day I'll ask, "Permission to come aboard, sir".