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.

Clanking Chains, Reving Engines, and Screams of Joy

The Old Man has heard that one of his old friends isn't doing so well these days. I hate that because I would love to have the opportunity to rehash some snow stories with her. It snowed here last night and into today. There are about 7-8 inches on the ground and the temperature is hovering around 19-20 degrees. Tonight should bring bitter cold, demanding that people of good sense draw closer to the fire.....just the kind of night the Park Street Battalion lived for.

Adults really seemed to miss out on the fun. Snow always brought clanking tire chains, engines roaring with "stuck" vehicles, and curses and general "bitchiness" all round. But to the Battalion, snow meant one thing....sledding. There were several hills in our neighborhood that could provide a pretty fair ride with little real danger. We usually stuck to these in the daytime to appease our parents who could watch from their kitchen windows. But then came nightfall.

Nighttime sledding happened at my friend's house. Her family had a small farm out past the cemetery, complete with a couple of killer hills. There would be 8-10 of us there from just after supper until either 11:00 PM or the onset of wet, cold, and miserable; whichever came first.

Now, keep in mind, this was Bedford.....not Squaw Valley. Fleece and GoreTex were not yet invented. We had long johns, blue jeans, and what seemed like 23 layers of shirts and sweaters, topped off with a (usually) plaid thigh length coat we called a Mackinaw. Top this off with a leather cap with these fake fur ear flaps and we were ready Teddy.

So....off we went. We trudged out through the cemetery, shortcutting over a few of the dearly departed, past the farmhouse and the barn until we came to the crest of the slope. First things first; we would build a fire. Then some repeated trips up and down the 'run' to prepare the track. No straight shot for us.....nosir. We had a couple of curves, a ramp, and a 90 degree turn at the bottom.........just before the creek.

It was usually on the second or third run when Kenny would go in the creek. You see, Kenny was sort of the unofficial daredevil of the group. The rest of us were wannabees. He would test himself each time he went down by waiting until the last minute before his hard right turn to avoid Armageddon. Most of the time he failed. Now you can see the importance of the fire.

Kenny wasn't the only one who needed to avail himself of the fire. Sometimes there would be three or four of us standing around the blaze, generating enough fog from our wet jeans (creek water seldom penetrated the other 23 layers) to present a hazard to air travel.

Somehow, we managed to pass many a winter evening without major calamity other than a few bumps and bruises, minor cuts, and sides sore from laughing. There was a simple and basic joy in that time that we adults seem very good at slipping under the rug for fear of looking foolish. I understand that my friend is now in a darker place, but I hope that at some level she can remember us all, standing by the fire, generating fog, and laughing hysterically, worrying about nothing other than whether or not we could get just one more run.

A Horse is A Horse of Course of Course

The Old Man hasn't been on a horse in a long, long, long time. Such wasn't always the case. Robbie's family owned a couple of horses. I recall one summer............

Let me set the stage for you a bit. In and around Bedford, quite a number of folks owned horses and ponys. Some were for show, some for work (for many years our garden was plowed by a horse), and some for the sheer joy of riding. My parents grew up around horses and both knew how to ride. We had friends who had horses and ponys. I would relish times when I could "spend the day" with them and indulge my Gene Autry fantasies. Loaded up with cap guns and ropes, we would ramble all over the farm, robbing stagecoaches or battling "redskins". The world was a safer place when we guarded from our 4 ft. tall Shetlands.

Once I outgrew the "pony stage", things morphed from "trot" to "gallop". Back to Robbie. His family owned a couple of horses. I don't remember their names, but it was something almost bucolic like, 'Sam' or 'Gus'. Let's go with those. One summer, Robbie and I rode every non-rainy day. We'd saddle up in the morning and ride around the town and through the surrounding fields until lunch. After lunch we'd be back at it again. In my 12 year old hubris, I was quite confident that I cut an imposing figure.....tall in the saddle.....move over Randolph Scott.

Sam was a bit spirited, so Robbie always rode him. I became the monkey on Gus's back. Gus had a somewhat temperamental digestive system. Some days it was "trot, plop, trot, plop". I'm sure people thought, "Oh hell, here comes that idiot with the four legged fertilizer factory." Gus left his share of "biscuits".

Old Gus was like an equine Basset Hound. He had a lovable face and disposition. He just sort of moped along, occasionally snorting and then plopping. Once in a while, I could get him up to a little better than a trot. He'd move up to canter with a good bit of urging, but I never remember "gallop" entering his vocabulary.

Enter 'Janie'. Janie lived near me and even at 12 was beginning to move over from the "Our Gang" stage to the "Hummmmmmmmmm" stage. So Janie garnered attention. One day, I suggested that Janie go for a ride. She readily agreed and climbed up on Gus behind me. Randolph Scott....you ain't nothin. All went well for about an hour. We trotted and plopped all over town. People took notice.....how did the idiot manage that?

While old Gus was meandering through one of the fields over behind the cemetery, Janie and I were feeling pretty competent. Then something clicked in Gus's mind. Maybe it was the realization that he had extra weight, or perhaps it was some sort of neurological short circuit, but Gus decided that he was going home. He abruptly spun around and reversed course. I flew off one way and Janie the other. Two memories stay with me clearly to this day; Gus hauling ass in a cloud of dust toward his beloved barn, and Janie sitting in the dirt, spinning like a gyroscope.

Fortunately, we were both fine with no major damage. Pretty much from that point on, however, Robbie rode alone. 'Janie' remained a good friend, and even though we were never an "item", our families shared many good times together and I remember her fondly. I think of Gus too....every time I lick an envelope.

How's It Goin', Miss Alma?

The Old Man is thinking about his Mom today. Were she still operating in this dimension, this would be her 105th birthday. We'd probably take her out for pizza. She loved "pizza pie". Shocked us one year when she ordered a beer to go with her "pie". I always thought Mom was a strict tee-totaller up until then. So we joined her......after all, no one should drink alone. I was about half way through my glass when she poured herself a second from the small pitcher. For a predictable, habit-driven, organization freak (this said with greatest respect and admiration) she always had a surprise up her often mended sleeve.

Mother was frugal. A child of rural "gettin' by" culture and a first hand witness to the Great Depression, she could squeeze more usefulness out of an object than anyone I've known....ever.
She would collect old neckties that friends wanted to throw away and make throw pillows out of them. She could get more use out of a chicken than the chicken could. She dealt in home remedies for most of the common ailments (she pronounced them 'ail-i-ments') and we were much the better for it. She would buy a canned ham in July because it was on special and save it until she could cook my birthday dinner in November. She kept some "smokes" in the kitchen cabinet and would fire one up after supper when she and Dad rested on the front porch.

She was a crack shot. Before I came along and redirected her focus, she and Dad would hunt rabbits and squirrels together, shoot skeet, and take Old Jake the bird dog to field trials. I still have her shotgun. It hadn't been fired for at least 30 years so a while back I took it to a turkey shoot. The old single shot 20 gauge belched and boomed and I couldn't help but feel a connection to her. Mom loved to fish. We would go fishing almost every weekend during the summer. Always on Saturday; after all, no decent person would defile the Sabbath by such pursuits. Every time her bobber would dive, she'd squeal with delight. Dad would say, "Bring 'em in, Babe."

She was one to confront a problem head-on. I recall one Saturday morning, she decided that our old car needed a face lift. So...out came the brushes. That's right, she painted the car top to bottom with black enamel; all of it brushed carefully on. As I remember, it didn't look too bad. Of course that was before Candy Apple Red was even thought of.

But beyond the frugality, the sportsmanship, and the proactive approach to life, I think my favorite part of Miss Alma was her sense of humor. I'm eternally in her debt for passing that gene on to me. There were 3 jokes that were her all-time favorites, and she would repeat them to anyone whom she thought hadn't heard them before. So as her tribute on this her 105th, here they are:

"Do you know the 3 parts of a cook stove? Lifter, leg, and poker"

"Have you ever been bedridden? No but I have twice in a buggy."

"Did you hear about the 3 moles going through their tunnel? The first mole said, 'I smell biscuits". The 2nd mole said, 'I smell butter'. And the 3rd mole said, 'I smell molasses."

I hope you and Dad enjoy your day, Mom. We miss you.