Ahoy, Avast, and Arrrrgh

The Old Man has a history with boats.  Through the years I've owned a couple and ridden on many more. There have been good days, bad days, and a lot of in-between days, floating around on little ponds and big oceans. Some practical wisdom says the only thing better than owning a boat is having a good friend who owns one.  I've come to agree.

July and August in our town are generally still and hot.  Lawns browned out and gave rise to the little atolls of green known as grasshopper weeds.  Kids loved them.  The Battalion would have contests to see who could shoot the heads of these weeds the furthest.  Girls liked to make necklaces out of them, and wore them proudly for a couple of days.  Cicadas screamed and mourning doves moaned with the twilight.  Even the dust seemed too hot and lazy to fly around with any degree of friskiness.

My dad did not have a lot of experience with boats.  He knew a lot about mules and plows, but his nautical savvy would barely overfill a thimble.  Give him a rowboat to fish from and he was at the upper levels of his naval skill set.  We would visit The Lake, a county park about 10 miles outside of town, at every opportunity.  There, they rented rowboats for, as I recall, 50 cents for a half day.  You could then row around to your heart's content and fish the "deeps".  Even as a kid, I always wondered why fishermen on the banks tried to throw their line out as far as possible, and those in boats tried to get theirs as close to the bank as they could. Speaks to a fundamental human characteristic, I suppose.

At any rate, Dad decided to save all those half-dollars and build his own boat.  He contracted with a co-worker to put the USS Neversail together.  While the "Shade-tree Boatyard" was working it's magic, Dad figured to name me his first mate, and decided I needed rowing lessons.  He taught me how to put the oars in the oarlocks and demonstrated the basics of rowing, turning, and docking.  One of the things that would drive Dad crazy was what he called, "catching crabs".  This is when you have lifted your oars out of the water to return to the start position, and let one of them slip down into the water on that return stroke.  He said that scared the fish, but I mostly think the resulting splash ticked him off since it flew directly into the captain's lap.

He had me "practice" all over that lake.  It's really not that big, but to a little guy with big blisters, it might as well have been the Indian Ocean.  Dad was usually busy "practicing" his fishing during these coaching sessions. I ran across a couple of pictures of The Lake. They don't do it justice, and a lot of changes have been made, but you get the idea.

So now, as they say, the scene is set.  Coming up next time, the "arrrrgh" portion of the story.

The Old Farmer

The Old Man has been taking advantage of the more temperate weather for the last couple of days.  I've been cleaning out my collard bed.  About the only thing I can grow in my shady area with any degree of success is a fair crop of collard greens.  I have a raised bed that has returned a respectable result, however, as yet, I've discovered no need to call in either migrant workers or a fleet of trucks to haul the harvest to market.  I'll be planting in a few days and nursing the "babies" with the hopes that they achieve a decent size so the frost/freeze can "nip" them.  After that, their sweetness is increased exponentially and, prepared properly, they may as well have been cooked in sugar water mixed with Karo syrup.  Collards are a long-standing tradition as a vital part of our New Year's Day "good luck" meal.

You know from a couple of my previous posts, that I hardly qualify as a farmer.  At best, my thumb is far around  the color wheel from "green".  But, while I worked, my thoughts kept going back to the man with the greenest thumb I've known, my dad.  He could coax a crop of butterbeans from an asphalt parking lot, I'm convinced.

These talents must skip generations.  While all of my efforts pale, our eldest daughter and her husband have raised a most prolific garden this summer. Blessed by adequate rain and moderate temperatures, output has been pretty incredible.  Miss Martha and I recently spent an entire Saturday afternoon on their front porch, in rocking chairs, stringing beans.  One of the nicer days of the year, I might add.  It hearkened back to the simpler times of my childhood.  She has now been trained and fully certified in the fine art of freezing and canning.  Quarts of green beans line her shelves and her freezer is bursting at the seams with corn.  My pride runs deep.

Dad was a farmer at heart.  Raised in rural south side Virginia, his family grew most all of what they ate.  He learned his skills early....it was a matter of survival during the times of the Great Depression.  Those skills transmigrated into a life-long habit of growing our food every summer.
While taking a break from my efforts, I poked around and ran across these pictures of Dad in his element.  I submit them as proof that generation skipping is a valid concept.

So, Dad, I hope that from wherever you now garden, you can shoot me a blessing on my collard crop.  New Year's Day is not too far around the corner and I want to be ready.

Old Crow Meets the Bickersons

The Old Man remembers some of the radio shows from back before the age of television. From 1946-1951 (aprox.), one of the most unusual of them was called The Bickersons. Performed by Don Ameche and Frances Lankford, the show consisted of "John & Blanche's" arguments...generally peppered with caustic sarcasm. They always ended with the "yes dear, I love you too" moment so everyone went to bed happy.

We had our own, live, in-the-flesh version of The Bickersons living right next door. Henry and Hilda were a quiet couple who never had much to say most of the time. They were, by and large, pretty good neighbors. They'd wave, speak, and would do anything they could to help if you needed it, but stayed to themselves most of the time. Occasionally, however, they would partner up with a bottle of Old Crow Bourbon and the fun began.

In the hot summertime, Mom and Dad would sit on the porch in the evenings until bedtime. It was too hot to even attempt sleep, so the hours after supper were spent enjoying the shade and the companionship on that good, deep, Southern porch.....the kind where you could even be protected from a shower. As a matter of fact, we welcomed the cooling benefit of a steady rain on the tin roof. I was usually running around, catching "lightnin bugs", or just generally doing kid stuff.

You could tell when Old Crow was beginning to get the upper hand. Mom and Dad would stop talking, the glider would cease squeaking, and Mom would usually give a little nod of her head toward next door. Dad would take time to reload his pipe, and they would settle in for the extravaganza about to begin. I knew to come on up and sit on the front steps because it was about to get interesting.

We'd hear some generic yelling, most of it questioning the legitimacy of parentage, or referring to the breed of dog his mother was. This would usually be followed by the crash of a dish. Then would come a slight lull followed by another crash. Several crashes would follow, and then the whole thing would quiet down. Dad began to quietly perform a Howard Cossell style analysis of the battle. He'd say, "I believe that was a dinner plate". Mom would sometimes agree and other times she'd answer with, "I don't know, Babe....that one sounded like a drinking glass". Dad would then reply, "I don't believe they'd be breaking up the glasses....they seem to need them."

This would go on for about 15-20 minutes after which the whole ruckus would be resolved and quiet would again reign on Park Street. Dad would then say something like, "I think Henry took that one 4-2, Babe". "What do you think?" Mom would usually agree and we'd all shuffle off to bed after a good laugh.

Many times we'd see one or the other of "The Bickersons" the next day and they would look like they had come in second in a tag-team match with a pack of Wampus Cats.

Every now and then, we'd come across an empty Old Crow bottle.....when trash cans got turned over, or sitting on a window sill. Dad would stop for a moment and then slowly shake his head. For underneath it all, there was a sadness in his soul for "The Bickersons".

Postscript: This posting is not intended in any way to make sport of the tragedy of alcohol abuse. It's merely a light-hearted look at our coping skills in those years gone by.There is not one among us who has not been impacted in some manner by addiction. Those who have been, or are, engaged in this battle have my full understanding, love, and support.

Hot, I Die

The Old Man's mom used to say that this time of year. Miss Alma was quoting some character she had known in her past. When asked how he was doing, his reply was always, "I hot, I die". This became mom's summertime mantra. She used it to good advantage for as long as I can remember.

It hit 99 here today.....and while running errands on the fringes of Hades, her phrase kept coming back to me. Finally done, the utter delight of the quiet "whoosh" of air conditioning reminded me of the wimp I have become. Hot weather memories began to float up from somewhere.

Bedford was hot. It still is, just like most everywhere else in that part of the world in summer. Everyone knew it; that is except for the Park Street Battalion. No one told us. We'd still go out each morning, roam around the town, play pick-up baseball games, or just generally enjoy being a kid out of school. If indeed there is such a thing as "global warming", it's not a new concept. Then, as now, it was hot. We managed.

Air conditioning existed in, to the best of my memory, only three places; Coleman's Restaurant....sign on the door had a picture of a penguin saying, "Come in, it's cooooool inside", the local movie theater, and the place my dad worked. Everywhere else, you were left to your own devices and ingenuity.

We all had screen doors. No one shut the "big door" at night, but did hook the screen to keep the wind from banging it around. This in an attempt to allow some cooling breeze to exhaust the scorching 2-story house. Upstairs bedrooms by bedtime would rival Death Valley. Fortunately, by around 11:00 or so, my room would become tolerable. I would reverse my bed position and put my pillow down at the normal "foot" of the bed so my face was in an open window. Even with the oppressive heat, there is a degree of magic and mystery in the sounds and smells of a summer night. I miss that part. As I grew older, the magic was enhanced by far away radio stations that played to a pre-teen's heart. Listen to The Five Satins sing"In The Still of The Night", turned down nice and low so as not to incur parental wrath, enhanced by dreams and night sounds, and you'll understand.

Far and away, the hottest and most miserable time in those summers was the ritual of getting ready for Sunday night church. Sunday night services were pretty casual affairs, but not so much as this day and time. You just didn't wear a tie. I had one of the short sleeve shirts that really looked like it would be cool and comfortable. It was made of nylon and had a texture that resembled a Belgian waffle. I remember it was blue. Wearing a Hefty Bag would have been cooler.

We'd go to church and one of my favorite pass-times (what kid really listened, anyway?) was watching to see who was waving the hand-held fans the fastest. We had one lady who I would swear approached the sound barrier. It always seemed odd and disconcerting that these fans were provided by the local funeral home. What did they know that I didn't? About time the Reverend AG thundered, "Where will YOU spend eternity", I'd catch the slogan on the back of the fan, "Let us plan your final journey".  Made a kid wonder.

So now that "whoosh" is my comfort. I sit huddled inside in all my wimpiness, waiting for twilight so I can go out to do my outside chores. But I take comfort in the fact that I can still find The Five Satins on the radio, and that accursed blue Belgian waffle shirt is long since gone.

OK...I Lied. One More About the Back

The Old Man had his final back procedure today.....at least that's the opinion of Dr. Pinchburn. I've quoted the description of my adventure as provided by the medical/legal consortium, probably massaged by input from the insurance "sitters in judgment":

"What will happen during the procedure?"

After your skin is washed with a sterile scrub, the facet joints will be identified by your physician using a fluoroscopic (x-ray) machine. Small marks may be placed on your skin using a sterile pen. The skin is then numbed with local anesthetic medication. Using fluoroscopy guidance, your physician inserts the radio frequency probes near the facet nerves. A series of steps involving stimulating the nerves with electricity helps localize the facet nerves. Local anesthetic is then placed through the probes to numb up each nerve. The tips of the probes are then heated thus cauterizing each facet nerve."

OK, so now we know. Key on certain words with my definitions in italics:

"Numbed"....(the oft quoted "feel a little pinch and burn")--a bumblebee sting to your lower lip followed by pouring melted candle wax up your nostril.

"Fluoroscopy guidance"--an x-ray machine placed over the area so the Dr. can see where to put the needles in 6 different places. I now glow. The good news is we do not need to buy a new floor lamp.

"Radio Frequency probes"--multitasking probes that go through the needles to the facet joint nerves. They have two basic functions; acting as a cattle prod to jolt the nerves with electricity to confirm their identity, and then deliver the coup-de-grace.

"Series of steps involving stimulating the nerves with electricity"--Your ass dances around the table. No small feat when you're lying face down with your pants down around your knees and you're sprouting electrodes. It feels like a microscopic jackhammer wielder has ridden down the probe and is pounding on your back muscle. I'm thinking Gulliver in reverse.

"Then comes the local anesthetic"--An interesting technique. Dr. Pinchburn pushes on the probes saying, "Let me know when this hurts". "OK,OK,OK,OK,OK!" Then he says, "Let me know when it stops". I let that one go a loooong time 'cause I ain't no dummy...I knew he was pumping in the anesthesia.

"Heated probes and cauterization"--Remarkably, no sensation at all. (I ain't no dummy, remember?)

So, here we are. We shall see. There are many tall buildings for me to leap over and many more speeding bullets to out run, so hopefully you can look for me, cape a-flying, soon.

The Ragged Old Flag

The Old Man came across this yesterday. I recall Johnny Cash, many years ago, reciting this on his TV program. It may be familiar to many, but some will note it for the first time.

Happy Birthday America!

Ragged Old Flag

By Johnny Cash"Man in Black"

I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.

I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."

I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it.

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"

I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.

And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing "Oh Say Can You See".

And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams."

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on through.

She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag."

"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.

She turned blood red in World War II
She hung limp and low by the time it was through.

She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam."

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.

In her own good land she's been abused--
She's been burned, dishonored, denied and refused."

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.

And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.

'Cause she's been through the fire before
And I believe she can take a whole lot more."

"So, we raise her up every morning,
Take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground
And we fold her up right.

On second thought, I DO like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

Where You Been Boy? Conclusion

The Old Man wraps this up. After the round of visits by Dr. Stickfiend and the encounters with the imagined demented hunchback, I began an eight week program of physical therapy. A pleasant lady began the process with a series of stretching exercises. Pretty bland. After a few visits, I noticed that things were ramping up a bit. First there were one pound weights on each ankle while I did leg lifts. No problem....until she had me do these things while sitting on a huge beach ball. Ball rolling around, me trying to keep my balance, doing leg lifts until the spots began to form before my eyes, would have made Jillian of "Biggest Loser" proud.

The ankle weights gradually increased to five pounds per ankle. Then I became coupled to this rubber band apparatus mounted on the wall. "Pull down slowly with your arms, hold for a count of 5, and then release". "Oh, and do two sets of ten". Along about number 15 of these, I began to visualize the mileage I would cover if one of the bands happened to break and sent me out the 3rd floor window. By my calculation, I could probably make Omaha without stopping to refuel.

Through each twice weekly session, half of my mind was keeping count of the exercise sets while the other half spent quality time in the land of dread. I knew my personal Armageddon was approaching......the evil and sadistic exercise known as "the plank". "Achieve push-up position, keep back straight, and hold in the "up" position for 10 seconds. Do this 3 times."
"Yessim".
By the end of the third time, my arms were trembling like Ozzie Osbourne's vocal chords.

So, how does all this end? Physical therapy was good for me, but the back still hurts. More shots in a different area will be tried. Meanwhile, "The Old Man" is appropriately well named.