WATCHING CHILDREN: A Poem

They grow so fast say the old folks
As they watch the children doing childlike
Things like making their toys talk and imagining
Worlds without boundaries.
Children going on like it’s a forever
Time until they sit and watch.

But then it’s off to school and crowds of
Boys and girls pushed into brick and stone
Buildings constructed by big people who
Have forgotten those unbound worlds who
Want imagination directed into narrow halls and
Square rooms all the same.

It’s a hard job bringing all those children
Into line and meeting goals set by other
Big people who have forgotten the ways
Of real learning and imagination and who have
Forgotten how to reach and teach and truly
Inspire. But progress is its own reward they
Say and standards must be standardized
And circles must be filled properly or
You won’t count at all or worse you won’t be
Measured ‘til you fill that circle.

But there in your child’s mind you find new
Things to look at and see in new ways and there
Are no circles to fill or boxes in which to fit. Knowledge
Comes from stars and atoms and books not on
The list made up by big people who have
Forgotten. Toys teach ways of assembling and
Disassembling worlds and constructs of imagining
Sneak their way into the narrow halls and square rooms.

And brothers and sisters teach each other and
If kindness can be shared by parents and those few
Big people who remember the imagining and who
Aren’t pushed into narrow halls and square rooms
But live in the world and watch the children and
Understand the unbound worlds, then some children
Will grow slower but wiser with thinking minds and
Real ideas, not repeats of old shows so wrong and
Often rotten from the start.

So the old folks watch the children and know
That they grow so fast and wish that it wasn’t so.

PETS

Well dear readers I’m about to piss off a bunch of you folks. If it’s true that sixty four percent of Americans are pet owners then it stands to reason that sixty four percent of you good people fit into that same demographic. So, assuming generously that I have ten readers then 6.4 of you are going to call me a lot of harsh names and then probably send me a scathing email, and finally, quit reading my stuff. So I’m going to apologize up front and say that these little observations surely don’t apply to you fine people. If, on the off chance that they do apply, remember this is the ranting of a nearly senile old retired guy. Okay, I will now press on.

Some people that own pets are really stupid. Not all pet owners are stupid, of course. People that have snakes or iguanas or other reptilian creatures are crazy and stupid and I’m not even going to talk about them here. I’m going to talk about dog, cat and other small mammal or rodent owners. And maybe I’ll include those very strange folks that own birds.

Already a lot of you pet owners are ready to tar and feather me and accuse me of being an unfeeling creep who has no regard for God’s many creatures. You’re probably right. But yesterday I saw a young couple, well dressed and intelligent looking, walking their two dogs in the park. One of the dogs was a really big German Shepherd and the other was a mixed breed that looked like it was mostly Black Lab. This couple left the park and went to a nearby apartment building. I know for a fact that this old building only has small, one bedroom apartments which would feel crowded with both of those young people in occupancy. Adding two really big dogs is just plain wrong and I’m amazed that the landlord would allow that. Now you’re saying that this is just one example of bad pet ownership and I really can’t say that all pet owners are like them. But I got to thinking about pets and their care and I’ve decided that there must be something wrong with many pet owners.

Let’s start with dog owners. If you live on a farm or in a place with a big yard and open areas for the dog to run around doing its doggie activities then maybe you aren’t stupid. But if you live in an apartment or a place in a town or city where your dog is confined until you can take it for a walk then there’s a problem. When that dog walks you need to keep it on a leash and follow along with a plastic bag to pick up the little, or big if you have a big dog, droppings. I know there are plenty of people who don’t clean up after their dogs because I see the evidence along most of my walking areas. But those people are probably more stupid than the folks that do clean up. Then think about your poor mutt hanging around the house all day, doing nothing, leading a dull and sedentary existence totally at odds with its genetic predisposition. If you can’t see that you’re being kind of cruel and heartless then, well, I guess you’re a little bit stupid. But you think that your pet is fine with that and the hour or two you pay a little bit of attention to it is enough for it to be mentally okay, but I’ve seen plenty of dogs that live like that and they’re nuts. They’re either totally out of control or else they act afraid and weirdly submissive. But let’s say you’re retired and you spend a lot of time with your dog and you really don’t mind walking it and you actually willingly and happily clean up dog poop. In that case you’re not stupid you’re just a little abnormal and I applaud you.

Cat owners are amazing people. My youngest daughter has two cats and I’ve seen the problems associated with having them around. If your cats stay in the house then you have a litter box to deal with and that’s a disgusting proposition. I don’t care what those litter companies advertise, cat boxes are nasty things. Then there’s the matter of cat hair. Even if you own one of those Dyson Super Sucker vacuums you still have cat hair around and you’re always looking for new gadgets to clean the stuff up. If it were up to me the critters would be shaved bald. There are two types of cat dispositions. Some cats just eat, use the cat box, sleep and lay around. The other type of cat eats, uses the cat box, sleeps, lies around and hunts. That hunting activity can involve looking for and pouncing on spiders, crickets, mice or humans. My mother-in-law, may she rest in peace, had a cat that was a vicious hunter. But it seemed like I was the only prey the crazy thing recognized. I would walk into the front door of the in-law’s house and that cat would pounce on my leg and start clawing and chewing. At first, since I was trying to make a good impression on my future wife’s parents, I would put up with this painful and bloody torture. But one day I lost my temper and kicked the damn cat across the room where it knocked over an expensive lamp and finally slammed up against the wall. The cat sat there barely conscious shaking its head like a boxer after taking a good upper cut to the chin. My mother-in-law was extremely unhappy with me and let me know it. But the cat never bothered me again and died a short time later, from brain damage I think.

Some people have many cats. Years ago when I was a paper boy, back in the late 1950’s; I had my first encounter with a crazy cat lady. This lady lived in a big old house with her invalid mother and about twenty or thirty cats. The place had litter boxes all around but the animals pretty much ignored them. The woman had names for each animal and knew their astrological signs and had little birthday parties for them. When a cat died, as they often did, she would have a funeral service and bury the dead animal in a well kept cemetery in the back yard. One summer I also did yard work for this lady and I had to pay special attention to the graveyard. Did I mention that she always paid me for my work and for her newspapers with pennies? So my experience with that lady has influenced, to a large extent, how I view people that own more than two cats at a time.
Cats are strange creatures on the best of days and can be horrible little things without notice or provocation. There are far too many of them in the world and I think that all of you who make an effort to spay or neuter the breeding population are doing a great service. Some of the crazier multiple cat owners should probably be spayed or neutered as well.

Gerbils, hamsters, rabbits and little white rats and mice are also considered house pets by many people, particularly those with small children. I consider those little critters to be house pests; the animals not the kids. A hamster cage that is not cleaned at least three times a week can become a source of unique pungency very quickly. And as playmates for little kids those creatures make as much sense as a pet rock. If they are released from their habitat (an expensive substitute for a cage) all they want to do is escape into an impenetrable hiding place. Then a few weeks down the road the smell of death emanates from beneath the fridge and you know you’ve found little Hammie again. If you want to take a vacation for more than a few days then you need to find someone to come in and care for the pets. Leave that job to me and I’ll pretty much guarantee that a little pet funeral will be required as a homecoming celebration. My grandson won’t let me take care of his pets anymore, which is fine with me.

Finally, I was going to write a little bit about bird owners. But when I think of those folks who keep parrots or parakeets or any other kind of bird I get a little frustrated and confused. What can those people possibly be thinking about? Birds are noisy, dirty and very small brained. I don’t care what those parrot owners say about their pets being so intelligent and fun to be with. A parrot has a brain the size of a peanut. It isn’t any smarter than your average politician and certainly doesn’t make any more logical remarks. Birds are meant to be out in nature or in the oven. That’s all I have to say about them.

So pet owners, there you have it. I will make a little disclaimer here that we have had some pets over the years. One or two of our dogs were pretty cool although they weren’t cool enough for me to walk with carrying a little shovel and a plastic bag. Fortunately we had them when we lived in places that had quite a bit of running room. And we’ve had a couple of cats too, but I try not to think about that too much. For now I’m not going to have any more animals. They would mess up the image I have of myself as an impulsive wanderer and raconteur. Besides that I have enough trouble cleaning up after myself so having a pet would just add too much to that workload.

Have a fine day.

JIM'S BOOK CLUB

Oprah’s got her book club so why shouldn’t I start one? So here’s how it works. I read a book. Then I put a little description and review on here. Then you folks read it, or not. If you read it you can either agree or disagree with me, unlike Oprah who demands that you like everything she recommends. If you don’t read it you can make something up like you did for book reviews back in junior high school. Simple, right? All the books will be available at a public library so you don’t even have to buy them. That is unless you’re my sister who has a compulsion to buy books. Okay here are the first three titles for your consideration.

NoVa by James Boice
This novel about some of the people in a neighborhood in the suburban area of Northern Virginia (NoVa) is brutal. The prose is largely a stream of consciousness outpouring from the varied cast of characters written with amazing insight. The author moves from character to character, young to old, male to female with ease and an unwavering sense of what it is to be that person. But this book is not friendly. In fact I don’t think the author likes his characters at all, except for the seventeen year old boy who is the focus of the novel, whom we meet as he hangs dead from a basketball hoop in a neighborhood playground. The novel explores the people who had some contact with this boy, some in only a tenuous way, others, like his parents who, while living with him, didn’t grasp what was happening in his life in the least. As I said, the story is brutal with unflattering images of every character involved. There is adolescent sex, drunkenness, insanity, drug abuse and crass materialism spelled out in language both harsh and beautiful. It was a book I had to put down many times after being overwhelmed by the power of the images created by the writing. So I recommend this book with a cautionary advisory; it’s not easy to read or like, but it is worth the effort.

The Bible Salesman by Clyde Edgerton
A young man in the post World War Two South starts a career as a traveling Bible salesman and through a chance encounter gets involved in a life of crime, crime he doesn’t even realize he’s committing. This is a very funny story full of great characters and a few challenging questions about life and beliefs and fate. With interesting and easy to follow flashbacks we learn how the young salesman came to his chosen profession and what influenced and shaped his personality. The criminals in the story are never totally evil but shaded with the gray that makes them more real and human. A few plot twists and a nice romantic sub-plot make this a fun and enjoyable read.

Lessons From the Land of Pork Scratchings by Greg Gutfeld
This book is basically a series of short essays by a magazine editor who takes a job in London. The essays explain how he adapts to and comes to like life in Great Britain. It also offers some humorous and interesting comparisons of customs and attitudes between the USA and the UK. Often crude but largely engaging, the chapters move along quickly and explore such things as pub behavior, dating, work place practices, and neighborhood life. Having a son-in-law from the UK and having seen some of these cultural differences on a couple of trips over there made this book especially interesting for me. But if you’re looking for some good humor writing and some observations about how alike our two cultures are while, at the same time, pointing out some rather odd differences then this book might be fun for you as well.

Okay kids, start reading. Reports are due in two weeks.

Have a fine day.

AT THE CONVENIENCE STORE

There were a lot of people at the convenience store this morning buying coffee and breakfast and snacks. My convenience store of choice is WaWa and I prefer the one over near the air base. The coffee ladies are nice and there are always lots of interesting people to observe. Sometimes I get coffee before I go on a walk, usually when the weather is cold, so that I’ll have a nice lukewarm cup waiting for me when I’m done. Other times I get the coffee or maybe a diet green tea after I walk. There are subtle differences in the people early and late at the store. The early crowd is all business. They get the coffee, breakfast sandwich or donut and they don’t talk much, just in and out. Later in the morning people take more time. They look over the sandwich choices and chat with each other and with the workers in the store. More of them seem to be buying gas and using the ATM machine. Tradesmen on their breaks also stop in, in their vans and pickups, to get cigarettes and a lunch for later in the day.

Today I saw a couple, an older man and a young woman, buying coffee and condoms. There are two motels nearby and I imagined them heading off to their illicit assignation at the Microtel or Best Western. In the movies they’d also buy a pack of smokes. They were together but when I glanced out the window I saw them leave in separate cars. She was in a late model SUV with child seats in the back and he left in a Corvette. They did make the same left turn heading towards the area where the motels are.

A van full of Air Force people came in all dressed in their desert camo flight suits. That is a common occurrence at this store. The flight crews stop in to pick up lunch stuff that they take on their trips with them. The women at the sandwich counter box things up nicely and make sure that the orders are correct and so forth. The crews rarely talk about where they’re going or about their jobs. Usually they’re talking about sports or what business they’re going to start when they retire. But they seem pretty upbeat and positive most of the time, officers and enlisted people mingling and interacting. When I was in the service such fraternization was discouraged. But I guess on flight crews it would be different. It’s the bureaucrats that would be more inclined to make and follow rules like that. Or maybe combat soldiers who need a distinct division between the guys giving the orders to enter battle and the guys taking the orders need that non-fraternization policy. Other branches of the military are represented in the store most mornings, Army guys and girls, Marines and on rare occasions a couple of sailors. One morning a group of about ten great big muscular guys with shaved heads arrived in a van. They were wearing those tan desert uniforms and they all seemed to be made from the same mold. When I looked closely at their uniform I saw the little Navy Seal insignia pinned on their lapels. My plan to kid them about their bald heads was shelved pretty quickly. I don’t like to get beat up so early in the day.

There’s a guy who works at the store that seems pretty important but for some reason he’s always going around and cleaning stuff up, especially out in the lot. He wears one of those safety patrol vests over his WaWa shirt. Sometimes he seems to be bossing the cashiers around and the next minute he’s sweeping up cigarette butts. Maybe he has a compulsion of some kind to keep things clean. Or maybe he’s just a really bossy janitor. His hair is kind of long for management in the convenience store business, especially the big chains like this one.

I noticed a group of people coming in who were obviously not native born Americans. There were eight of them, three men and five women, and they all arrived in a Dodge Neon. The language they were speaking seemed kind of like a mixture of Italian and Polish or maybe some Eastern European variety. They were kind of olive skinned and they all had black hair. The last group of people that I saw looking and sounding like this were in one of the shopping centers and they were being arrested for shoplifting a bunch of stuff from various stores. The cop told me they were part of a Gypsy theft organization. I hate to stereotype people but I kind of watched to see if these people grabbed anything and hid the stuff in their coats. They didn’t. But they did buy the strongest, darkest coffee that the store sells. And they loaded their cups up with sugar before they poured the coffee in. Now I’ll probably assume that people with olive skin, black hair and a language I can’t recognize will all drink strong coffee full of sugar. That’s how stereotypes get started I guess.

The workers in this WaWa are mostly women and not of any particular stereotypical group. There are four younger women, two or three of middle age and two older ladies. The older ladies keep the coffee pots full and that whole area looking good. They like to chat a little and they also recognize the regular customers and know some of them by name. I’m not a frequent enough customer to get name recognition. The sandwich making ladies all talk loud and kid around a lot. They’re very efficient and they don’t get upset if there’s a big crowd of people waiting for sandwiches. The orders can really pile up as the customers enter them on the four computers next to the counter. I’m amazed that those sandwich ladies have all their fingers as fast as they slice up the meats for the hoagies. Good skills like that should be rewarded but they don’t seem to get many tips. The cashiers in this store are busy, busy, busy. There are two going all the time and there are two more putting stock up and so forth who come to the register when the line gets long. Their cash registers talk to them, telling them things like “Pump twelve twenty dollars”, “Sale complete, two dollars eighty four cents change due”. I don’t think I could work with a machine that talks to me. What if it started criticizing my performance saying things like “Hurry up, people are waiting” or “The quarters are the big silver coins, dummy”? That would be too embarrassing. If I worked there I’d have to be a coffee pot filler or an outside lot sweeper. Maybe they would hire me as a greeter like those old guys at Wal-Mart. And maybe I’d get my coffee for free. That would be cool.

Have a fine day.

MONDAY, MONDAY

After a weekend of living the high life in Arlington, VA we’re back home and back at the usual routine of a normal work week. It’s true that I don’t go to “work” anymore but I do have work that needs to be accomplished so that our happy home remains happy. This week I have an extra chore on my assignment list. I’m going to be painting the bathroom, which was very recently fixed up and painted. My wife doesn’t like the shade of bright white that the contractors used to cover up their mistakes. So we, rather she, selected a nice pinky-beigey color that I’ll slap on the walls as soon as I properly fix up some of the drywall goofs I mentioned. Then we’ll go on the new shower curtain, floor covering and matching accessory search that all of us men love so much. Also this week I need to get started on the spring yard clean-up task. Last year I successfully postponed that job until late September but I don’t think I can get away with that again. Maybe if I plead a fear of re-injuring my shoulder I can get a reprieve. That might not fly since I’ve been milking that for over three months now.

I should explain that we didn’t really live the high life this past weekend in the sense of acting like a corporate bandit or high government official. We did stay in a decent motel and we did have a couple of very nice dinners in restaurants. The dinners were nice enough to kick the old blood sugar up into un-wanted territory so they really were quite good. But quite a bit of our time was spent helping our daughter and her fiancé pack for their upcoming move to a larger apartment across town into Maryland. I did my usual fine job of supervising and assembling boxes. As much as I strive to do a good job on those very necessary activities I sometimes feel that my wife and daughter, and now my future son-in-law, don’t really appreciate my efforts. That’s probably that “loneliness at the top” feeling recurring. I used to have that feeling when I was a manager earning money. Now I have that feeling and I’m not even getting paid.

This morning I had an appointment with my eye doctor. My vision has been slipping a bit so it was time for a check up and now that I’m dealing with the blood sugar problem it’s even more important to keep an eye on my eyes. So I had all the “can you see this now” stuff and the glaucoma test and the shining bright lights into my pupils to see if my eyeballs are still connected to my brain. It seems like every time I go for an eye exam there’s some new piece of really cool high-tech equipment used. This time I had something done called “fundus photographs”. There’s a device with a camera hooked to it that points into your eye and flashes a really bright light. Before the picture is taken the doctor puts some kind of acidy drops in each eye to open up the pupils so that they’re the same size as when you did all those drugs all those years ago. The camera thing is hooked to a computer that picks up the image of the inside of the eyeball. Then some kind of “photo shop” software program tints the image different colors so the eye doctor can check for different kinds of problems like bleeding, retinal detachment or macular degeneration. It is way cool. I asked the doctor if he ever saw any goldfish floating around in there like you used to see in old cartoons. But he was too young to get the reference and was not amused. You’ll all be glad to know that after all the tests were done the only change in my vision that was detected can be fixed by some new glasses with lenses only slightly thicker than the Coke bottle bottoms I have now.

This afternoon I had the pleasure of shopping at the local Wal-Mart again. And once again, on a non-holiday Monday afternoon, the store was packed with customers. Sometimes when the place is crowded it’s with lots of senior citizens and moms with little urchins. But today it was a wide cross section of folks. Unemployment must be contributing to the crowd but if they’re unemployed how can they afford to buy all the crap they’re buying? I know I keep getting tele-marketing calls with wild offers of Obama stimulus checks and housing loans and debt reduction schemes so maybe these folks in Wal-Mart are smarter than me and are taking advantage of those offers. That’s why they have so much disposable income and can afford the twelve different giant size bags of potato chips and the big screen TV loaded into their cart.

Well I’d better go take another look at the bathroom painting job and develop a plan. That way when my dear wife gets home I’ll have some progress to report even it’s minimal. And I think my shoulder is acting up anyway so I’d better hold off on the actual repetitive motion of painting for a little while. Back me up on that will you?

Have a fine day.

SWING TIME: a short story

Note: I wrote this story for a magazine contest. I didn't win the contest, ufortunately, but I'm putting this up here for your perusal anyway.

Our town was so small… insert a punch line here. Those are old jokes but I’m an old guy. It was a small town. And it was noisy and dirty and full of languages that clashed as often as the men in the barroom on Saturday nights. The business of the town was mining and it was carried out by Lithuanian, Irish, Polish, Italian and French men who went in to a dark and wet tunnel and beat iron laden rock out of the underside of a mountain. The rock came out of the ground in little rail cars and moved into a mill that crushed and separated, sending ore one way and wastes another. And there were great furnaces where the ore was turned into pig iron and smoke and soot rushed out of tall brick stacks and spread out over the village. Trains worked their way along tracks that snaked through the center of town. It’s all gone now.

Back when all the noise and dirt was fresh I was a young boy and the son of a carpenter in the mines. Our house was full with my sisters and brothers and parents living a crowded but comfortable life. Being a carpenter meant that my father was paid pretty well and was able to rent a three bedroom, two storey house from the Company. He also worked only the day shift unless an emergency called him out. Emergencies were usually tunnel collapses and he would be called to build new framework as the rescue teams tried to dig down to trapped miners. He was a respected man, quiet and kind.

But his house wasn’t a quiet one. Mother played the piano and her pride was the upright piano in the front room. Music lived in our house. My two older sisters both sang and played piano from the time they could climb up on to the spinning stool. I was the next in line but I didn’t choose the piano because the competition for playing time was too tough.

Our school had a band and after a few trial runs with various instruments the clarinet became my companion. Band was big in the school because the Manager of Mines liked music. He got the Company to donate instruments and sheet music to the school. He found a band director and teacher fresh out of a big college in Boston and lured him to the town with a monthly cash payment above and beyond his school teacher’s salary. And the band man loved his job. He loved teaching and playing. But most of all he loved conducting his band and chorus on the many performance nights throughout the year. For some reason the music was good. Perhaps it was good because the education started in the early grades and was strong on fundamentals and enjoyment. I practiced a lot. I did all the exercises and then I did them again, over and over. I worked on timing and intonation. I worked on speed and dexterity. I was really something of a fanatic about the music because it took me to wonderful places in my mind. It wasn’t that our life was so bad. We had enough to eat and a warm and comfortable home. My parents weren’t drunks or dullards. They were good people who enjoyed friends and family and a good time. And though our town was dirty and its living came from a rough and difficult place, we found our pleasures in school and church and community. The population was small in our town but talent seemed to find its way into the children of these immigrants and then into the school auditorium, the churches and the bandstand at the ballpark. Brothers and sisters from different grades would all be involved in the music program. Sports were important, baseball and basketball mostly. But music was the passion of our little school. And music became my passion. I wanted to be the best and I worked long and hard, driving myself as a player and also as an interpreter of music.

When I became a high school sophomore I passed the auditions and became first chair clarinet. On that day Mother cooked a special meal and afterwards we didn’t turn on the radio for our favorite programs. Instead we had a musical evening with Mother leading the family band. Mother played piano, my sisters sang, my two younger brothers played their muted trumpets and I played some solos on clarinet. We played hymns and old favorite songs from the early part of the century. Father sat and listened, tapped his foot and smiled.

The band at school had a repertoire heavy on marches. The Manager of Mines liked marches, and since he was our patron, we played what he liked. He never tired of telling how he had gotten the great John Phillip Sousa to come to our remote town with his band to perform two programs. Sousa spent an entire day in town; visiting the school and listening to the school band rehearse, even conducting two marches. I was only in first grade at the time but our whole family went to one of the big concerts. Even now eighty two years later I can recall the thrills of that day. So we played marches and some lighter classical pieces. In our Christmas concerts we did traditional carols and hymns. We had some people in the town who wanted the band to do more current popular and ragtime songs. But the Manager of Mines and the school administrators wouldn’t allow that.

In our house we were not so tradition bound. Our radio, tuned to stations up in Montreal or down in Albany, was an ear to the outside world. We knew that new sounds were emerging in those years during the middle of the depression. On the rare occasions when we would make a train trip to the small city about thirty miles away we would visit the music store. We would buy our reeds and instrument cleaning supplies. But we would also listen to the records being played in the stores and buy the sheet music stacked in the racks. On the frequent evenings when our parents were attending church meetings or visiting relatives our little family combo would attempt to play the hits of the day. I would write the arrangements using the piano-vocal sheet music as a guide. And I would try and get a feel for the real arrangements as I listened to the various big band programs late in the evening. The more traditional ballads we would perform for Mother and Father. The “hot” numbers we kept to ourselves and some school friends who would come to our house. The origins of all that Jazz music were unknown to us. We had no contact with colored folks. That’s how we would speak of black people back then. I never saw a real live black person until I saw the Count Basie Band in Saratoga Springs when I went to Albany for my Army physical in 1942. By then we had been playing some of his tunes and it was a wonderful thing hearing those great musicians swinging like they could.

Yes we were playing that swing music up in our little town in 1937 and we had to keep it at home. But something happened that changed the outlook of the Manager of Mines. He and his wife had a son who was now in high school. That son was their only child and he was as spoiled as any kid could be. His parents were grooming him to be the next Manager, which eventually did come to pass, and if the boy had a want or a whim it was satisfied. He was beginning to be a pretty fair drummer but he wanted to play the stand up bass. Within hours of expressing his desire he had a nice new instrument. But he didn’t want to learn how to use a bow and play proper music in the school band. No, he wanted to slap that thing like the swing musicians he’d seen on his vacation trips to New York City. So the band director had to create a place for this boy and he created a swing band. The Manager and Mrs. Manager acquiesced. Auditions were held and since my brothers and I, and one of my sisters, had been playing this kind of music for a couple of years we pretty well locked up several of the positions. I was playing clarinet and saxophone by then. One of my brothers was on trumpet and the other doubled on saxophone and trumpet. Our sister worked that piano like a female Teddy Wilson. Our swing band was pretty conventional in the instruments we used. Our rhythm section had a drummer, piano, guitar and the future Mine Manager’s bass. We had four saxophones, a clarinet and three trumpets. Sometimes we would even bring in a flute on some really sweet tune. And we had four vocalists, two girls and two boys. Our regular band practiced every day after school. The swing band gave up lunch time and study hall for our practice sessions. Often the band director couldn’t be available so I filled in, in a rather inept way, as leader. I wasn’t the oldest or best player but I had done a lot of the arranging so substitute band leading fell to me.

We worked on our swing show from late September until just before Thanksgiving. Our premier performance was going to be as an opening act for our regular band’s late fall concert. In our town every musical performance at the school brought out big crowds. Even heavy snow, a common enough occurrence there in the mountains, didn’t stop people from showing up. At its peak the population of our town was only about eight hundred. We scheduled two or three performances of each program and sold out every one, two hundred and fifty seats at each show. Ticket prices were pretty cheap, ten cents being the usual cost of admission. The Christmas show was free. All the ticket money went right back into the music program and during those times it was surely needed. I still have the handout listing the music we played at that first swing band show and the regular concert that followed. But even if I hadn’t saved that little piece of faded and worn paper I could tell you every song. I can remember because that night was the beginning of a part of my life that affected me as powerfully as any religious conversion could.

The swing band was nervous. We all wore a simple outfit of white shirt, black tie and black pants. The girls had on white blouses and black skirts. The shop classes had designed and built some nifty music stands like we had seen in photos of professional bands. The music stands had our school initials in glittery paint with some music notes floating around them. As we walked out on to the stage and settled into our positions the crowd got very quiet with only a few murmurs and stifled coughs. There was no welcoming applause, not even when the band director took his place in front of us. We hadn’t planned on any spoken introduction, an oversight which probably made the beginning of our show more dramatic. When we hit the opening notes of the Count Basie song “One O’clock Jump” it was like an electric charge leapt off the stage and filled the auditorium. All of us playing knew we were ready to play but we weren’t ready for the response from the audience. We nailed that song. And those good, hard working mining town residents knew it. At the end of the number they roared their approval and believe me those people knew how to roar. We did only eight songs that night. Our closer was a copy of the Jimmy Lunceford version of “My Blue Heaven”. Everything jelled and fit together; the instrumental solos, the vocals and even the rudimentary choreography the band had worked out. It was like a dream. After our set the full concert band, in which we all played, took the stage and did a good show. But what I remember about that night was how that Swing Music set the audience on fire
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When I listen today to recordings of those songs we played by the original bands from that era I know, with our amateur copying of arrangements and stealing styles, we weren’t really very good. But we transcended our own inexperience and amateurishness. We let that music carry us and show itself through us. And it would happen again and again. We learned our parts and worked hard on our timing. Our band director talked again and again about the dynamics of the songs. Somehow we understood. We were teenagers; full of young bottled up emotions, and that music let us throw those emotions out into the space around us. We could play “hot” or we could play “sweet”. We took it to heart and we let the music tell the story it was written to tell. Our showmanship developed and we learned to improvise in our solos. A few of us got to a point where we could carry a solo for six or seven minutes at a time. Soon we were doing full shows that lasted almost two hours. And we would be called on to play for the school dances. Our parents and the school administration drew the line at our playing in dance halls or at occasions where drinking would be allowed. But I stayed with that band until graduation, loving every minute of it.

After graduation I went to work in the mine offices as a clerk and errand boy. But I formed another band from other graduates of our high school and we started playing on weekends at dance halls and bars around our area. We became what was known as a “territory band” although our territory was small and somewhat remote. Our fan base was loyal and would follow us around to the places we played, and we made a little bit of money. I learned that the girls liked musicians and it was during this time that I learned a little bit about them. But the War came and some of the guys went into the service right away. Then others got drafted and it was harder to keep enough good players. My turn came eventually and I enlisted instead of waiting to be drafted so that I could get into pilot training. During my training I had the chance to play for some professional outfits that came to Syracuse where I was going to pre-flight school. But that was the last of my big swing band playing. After the War I played with a combo made up of my brothers and one of my sisters and a couple other guys. But then I settled down, got married and had kids.

Music was in our house. My wife and I encouraged it and a couple of our kids got involved. Sometimes I would still bring out my clarinet and play for a while. But the kids didn’t take to school band very well. They got guitars and amplifiers. They had little combos and they played the new music that was exciting to them. I can’t say that I enjoyed it very much. But when I would play some of the records by Basie, Goodman, Miller and the rest the kids would listen. And when I played some classical records they would listen to those. So their appreciation of music went beyond that strumming and squealing that they did in their combos. One of my sons had a little success and played professionally for a short time. Then he got married. A couple of my grandkids took music a lot further and one is a teacher and band director now. I go to concerts at his school when I get the opportunity. But I can’t travel too much now.

It was over seventy years ago, those days full of new and exciting music. It was a short period in my long life but it’s still pretty strong in my old memory. I don’t even listen to the music much any more because my hearing is so far gone. The neighbors complain because I need the volume so darn loud. And being a good neighbor is a lot more important when you get old and you’re alone. You never know when you’ll need to call on a neighbor for something. But I can hear that music in my head and in my heart. I can close my eyes and relive some of those shows and those days. It was a good time, maybe not the best time. But I do like to recall that time, that Swing Time so long ago.

Have a fine day.

ANOTHER RANDOM DAY IN PARADISE

NEWS: SO IMPORTANT IT CAN’T BE IGNORED

Did you see in the news that Oprah is going to do a show about domestic violence? Well, did you see the big news story that Chris Brown was being charged for abuse or something? How about the news item that Jewel had to withdraw from that dancing show because she hurt her ankle? I could go on but you get the idea. Celebrity news, which is pretty much silly and pointless, doesn’t just show up on Entertainment Tonight but also in the New York Times and on all the so called serious news outlets like CNN and Fox. And not only is that stuff silly and pointless it is also usually invasive of the privacy of its subjects.

But we do relish all that gossip. We must relish it because there is so darn much of it and it sells so many newspapers, magazines and television ad spaces. I usually ignore news items of that type. But if it’s a really bizarre or salacious bit of gossip I’ll read it. When I do, I need to look up something about the famous people involved since I don’t usually recognize most of them. My friends and family members are always amazed at the depth of my ignorance of popular culture. Some of the “right wing wacko” radio talk show guys do regular features where they ask regular American folks about issues of the day or the functioning of government. Then they’ll throw in a couple of questions about celebrity gossip. Invariably the average American knows nothing about factual information concerning issues or government. They don’t know the Declaration of Independence from the Constitution. They don’t know who the Speaker of the House is or who their representatives in Congress are. But they know what Paula said to Simon on last night’s show. (I just noticed that if you take the last “a” off those names you have Paul Simon)

Well it’s kind of sad but it’s also kind of pointless for me to worry about it too much. Just about everyone I know personally at least has a balance of knowledge between pop culture and real news. So there’s some hope, I suppose. Besides, with the issues facing us today it’s a lot more interesting and amusing to pay attention to Ryan Seacrest’s hairstyle than it is to try to understand how President Obama’s latest trillion dollar giveaway of money that doesn’t exist is going to help our children and grandchildren in any way at all.

AMAZING INVENTIONS

Since I spend a lot of time at home and a little bit of that time doing housework I’ve come to consider some of the great little inventions of modern life. I’m not talking about the big inventions like the automobile or the computer or the microwave oven. I’m talking about those little products that we use all the time without even thinking about where they came from, who invented them or how they’ve evolved. For that matter there’s always a question in the back of my mind about who even decided that we needed such a product in the first place.

Let’s consider fabric softener. Who was the scientist working in his laboratory that said “American housewives would really like softer and fluffier clothing”? That guy was an absolute genius. Then he and his team (I can’t believe only one person could be involved in such a monumental project) set out to develop fabric softener. Then they went on to come up with the even more amazing “dryer sheets”. Imagine that; a piece of fabric that releases softening agents as the clothes spin around the dryer. I checked Google and Wickipedia and didn’t really come up with much information. I did find a couple of sites to print off some nice cents off coupons though.

Another major invention, at least to my mind, is floor wax. It’s true that after dirt floors were replaced by other surfaces people wanted to protect and enhance them. So at first floors were made from stone, marble being the finest after it was polished. Then wood came into use and it was sanded smooth and then painted or finished with shellac or some other coating. But one day, way back there in history, someone looked down at the floor and said “I wonder what would happen if I rubbed some of this beeswax on that wood floor?” Then over the years new flooring materials were being invented and new kinds of waxes followed right along. Then someone figured out a way to put cleaner and wax together in the same product; another great idea. But now a lot of flooring materials have surfaces that never need waxing so I imagine sales of those products are in decline. However, I suspect that in the near future some scientist somewhere will look at that no-wax floor and think that there might be a way to make even that highly evolved product look better and last longer, and a new era in floor wax will follow.

Finally, we need to pay homage to another great household cleaning product, Brillo, or if you can’t find any Brillo then SOS soap pads will have to do. Combining soap and steel wool at first glance defies logic. But when you’re faced with a sink full of dirty pots and pans the logic is most certainly inspired. Did a soap scientist meet a metallurgist at a bar and just get to talking about their respective fields? Were they a man and a woman? Did their union give birth to Brillo? Many people today have pots and pans with non-stick surfaces both on the inside and the outside. We have a couple of those but we also have several of the regular metal type. My dear wife would probably prefer that we have all of the shiny metal kind because she has an addiction to steel wool impregnated with soap. She feels that a pot or pan is not cleaned properly until it has been vigorously scoured with Brillo. When she’s doing the dishes and a non-stick pan is waiting there I can see her fight the urge to scrub the thing with the steel wool. We actually do have an old non-stick pan that started to lose its surface. So she took her Brillo pad and scrubbed the remaining Teflon, or whatever was on there, until it was all gone. That pan makes excellent fried chicken. She uses those pads until they’re little more than a pile of rusty filings. We have some pots that are forty years old and they shine like new. So I don’t know whether to thank the Brillo or my wife’s attention to thorough cleaning for the long life of our steel pots and pans. All I know is that when the Brillo runs out we get a fresh box in a hurry. With the expansion of non-stick cooking things we may one day be faced with a world without steel wool soap pads. That will be a sad day for my wife but I’m sure she’ll hoard a life time supply before that time arrives.

Have a fine day.

NEW STUFF

Today I’m trying out my brand new laptop computer. I got this as a birthday present yesterday and it’s really cool. It’s made by Dell and it has all kinds of doohickeys and neat thingies. Pardon my highly technical jargon there. It’s also shiny black like Paladin’s gunfighter outfit. Of course I can use it to write these highly insightful and amusing articles and stories. It also can be used without plugging into a wall socket, which is truly amazing. And my son-in-law tells me that if I’m in range of a WiFi network that isn’t protected by some security deal then I can get on the internet. As soon as I figure out what that means I’ll try it out. The word typing part is very similar to what I use on the big computer plugged into the wall and phone line so I’m not having any trouble with it, so far. I’ve been told that since I’m not hooked up to an internet system or printer then I have to put my article on a memory stick or disc and then carry that to my other computer and find a matching hole to put the accessory into. Then I can post my entry on Myspace or print it out for my binder where I keep these things in case of a worldwide computer meltdown.
I doubt if I could cause a worldwide meltdown with my new computer but you never know. If I ever become truly adept at using it I might be able to hack into some of your email accounts and see what you’re really saying about me. Fortunately I’m neither paranoid or technologically motivated enough to try that. So don’t worry.
When I got this thing yesterday, a gift from my dear wife and youngest daughter and her fiancée, my computer genius son-in-law was making all kinds of suggestions and giving me tons of information that I’m sure was very useful. I actually remembered some of it for a few hours. But then I went to bed last night and, wouldn’t you know it, when I got up this morning I could barely remember how to turn the thing on. I eventually figured that part out and couple of other things. Spider Solitaire works pretty good. So does Free Cell.
The whole purpose of having this laptop is to be able to write stuff when I’m at the little house on the river up north. Up until now I would come up with a great idea and jot it down in a notebook. Then I would bring the little pile of notes home and put them on the desk where my computer sits. After a while I would take a look at the notes so that I could write my inspired article. The problem was that even if I could decipher the handwriting I couldn’t make enough sense of the note to produce an article. That’s kind of where some of those strange poems come from; unintelligible cryptic notes. Now, in between my chores up there, I’ll be able to get the idea into a readable form quickly. Then I’ll go to McDonalds in Malone, where there’s free Internet access and post the stuff on Myspace and my other blog site. Plus I’ll be able to keep up on what all my Facebook and Myspace friends are up to. I may gain about fifty pounds from all the highly nutritious Mickey D’s food I eat while working on the computer but it would be rude to use their connection and not buy something. So look for my increased out put in the months ahead, more crap for you to ignore or appreciate as you see fit.
Well now I have to try and figure out how to get this little page of writing on to something that my other computer will recognize. Wish me luck. Although if you’re reading this then the darn thing worked right. Luck would not be necessary and my valuable computer training will be evident.
I really like this machine and I think we’ll have a good relationship in the years to come, as long as it doesn’t become obsolete too quickly. So I’m going to finish this now and go have another fine day.
You do the same.

WHAT I'VE LEARNED

I’m not rich. I’m not particularly well educated. I’m not a political mover and shaker. So there’s not much reason for anyone to consider my opinions or advice as being any more valuable than the fact that four out of five doctors prefer Anacin. But having attained an age that not so long ago was considered in the top range of longevity, I’ve developed an inflated sense of self worth which finds expression in these articles, stories and other assorted junk that flows from this keyboard like so much electronic sewage. And today I’m going to submit for your consideration some of my very own discoveries about life and what makes it such an adventure.

LIFE DOESN’T SUCK. I know that line flies in the face of conventional bumper sticker wisdom but I’ve found, by and large, that life does not, indeed, suck. Life may be a trial and it may be fraught with burdens. (How many people use the word “fraught” nowadays? Just us geezers I think.) But even with disease, famine, pestilence, political upheaval, global warming and other disasters life…. Well I guess I’d better reconsider this thought. Life can suck. But fortunately, although I’ve endured a few pretty bad things, my life has been very good. So I’m thankful that we’ve been able to avoid the litany of horrible stuff that can happen to make life suck. And we muddle on.

FAMILY IS NUMBER ONE. This has been said often enough and in enough places that it shouldn’t be necessary to write it again. But one more little reminder can’t hurt.

A BIG FAMILY IS GOOD, SO MAKE ONE. This has been a more recent revelation to my mind. I was fortunate enough to be born into a large family. My relatives number in the hundreds. But it’s only been in the last several years that I’ve reconnected with a large number of these family members and it has been a really great experience. The wider and more inclusive the connections are, the more I learn about new things and the people that are teaching me the new things. I’ve learned to see this big family in different ways as well. If you need to make friends and then treat them like family to insure that you have a big family then I would advise doing that. You never know when you might need a kind cousin, aunt or uncle to listen to you in a way that’s less intimate and more objective than a brother or sister. Brothers and sisters are great but they’re usually on your side and sometimes you need someone to tell you that you’re full of baloney. Although, as I think about it, my brothers and sister never hesitate to tell me I’m full of baloney. As a matter of fact that makes up most of what they say to me. Well your family is probably different than mine. So create a big family for yourself. It’s really worth the trouble.

RELIABLE VEHICLES MAKE LIFE EASIER. That seems pretty simplistic, doesn’t it? The reason I put it down is because for a lot of years, years ago, we had some crap cars. We had an old Nova back in the eighties that caught fire and burned up as my wife was driving it home from a repair shop. We had a ’67 Impala around the same time. It ran pretty well but sometimes the only gear that would work was reverse. I once backed that thing up for almost eight miles to get to work. There were other cars that were only slightly better. But then things improved economically, with no thanks to any past or present politician, and we were able to buy better vehicles. Life got better.

MARRIAGE IS A GOOD THING, BUT IT’S WORK. Again, this is a simplistic and not a particularly revelatory idea. But it took me a while to figure it out. Just call me thick headed. Once I/we started working at our marriage with a little more diligence and effort it got to be a lot more fun. A little listening, a little compromising and a lot less pigheadedness on my part was all it took. And now, nearly forty years into the deal, it’s still a fresh and mostly fun job that I like to go to every day of the week.

CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN ARE DIFFERENT. This discovery hit me again just the other day. I was called to my daughter’s house to take care of the youngest grandson while she took the older one to the doctor. When she got home I stayed for a few minutes and then left. There was no need for me to stay there and take care of a sick kid. If it had been necessary I suppose I would have stayed to help. But it wasn’t, so I took off. That’s a huge difference from when our daughters were small children and the burden of care was on us. Although, here again, the burden was probably on my patient and long enduring wife. We went through surgeries, broken bones, illnesses and severe bouts of adolescent angst with our girls. Now we can enjoy their offspring, help out a little and then go home or send them home. It’s a really sweet deal.

MUSIC IS WHAT MAKES US HUMAN. These simplistic platitudes just keep on pouring out. This idea isn’t, I suppose, something that I originated. Humanity is the only species that really makes music. That might be debatable when one of those six hundred decibel stereos on wheels pulls up next to me at a stop light. But that’s probably just a matter of taste on my part. Some might say that the songs of birds are music. But I kind of doubt it. While birds make beautiful and agreeable sounds that can brighten a day, heck, they don’t even play any instruments. So the ability to make and appreciate music is definitely one of the finer human qualities. And music is a perfect prelude to discussions that lead to greater understanding and knowledge of other people. Music is also an amazing stress reliever and prompter of romantic activity. Music can change or produce an emotional response almost without our realizing that it’s happening. Not everyone likes music but I’d be willing to bet that at least on some subconscious level everyone reacts to it. So put a little bit of the stuff in your life. But don’t overdo the bass.

WORK IS GOOD BUT I’M HAPPY WITHOUT IT. The largest part of my life involved going to work to earn money to support the habits of myself and my family; habits like eating, living indoors and wearing clothing. I was always proud that I could do that and, while I didn’t always like the jobs I had, I always felt that I did them pretty well. So in some ways you could say that I enjoyed working. But being consumed by a job to the point where you miss other important parts of life is not good and it’s something that I never had to worry about, except during a few darker periods. Fortunately those darker periods passed fairly quickly. Now my working life is more in tune with my true nature. I work to help keep an orderly household. I work to make my hard working wife’s life a bit easier. And I work at what amuses me. So when people, usually highly motivated wage earners, ask me if I miss working I say “Not really. I’m still working, just in a different and more enjoyable way.”

So those are some of the musings of a guy who is now waiting for his first Social Security check. There’s nothing very original in that list but, hey, I’m not getting paid to write this so lighten up. Now I’m going to take a break.

Have a fine day.

THE ALTAR BOY: a short story

Fred really liked this altar boy gig. Even though he was a senior in high school it still had some appeal. He was the head guy on the Altar Squad, as Father Dave would say. He had done a couple of years in a seminary and had come back home for his junior and senior years at public school. The seminary was okay but he wasn’t sure any more about becoming a priest. He had gone away after eighth grade mainly to please his mom and the former pastor of the parish. But fitting in at St. John the Divine Minor Seminary had been a problem. There was the altercation with the second year college guy in the record room. There was the incident with the faculty wine and liquor closet. There was the handball court smoking group. And, one of the final acts of rebellion was the jockstraps beneath the togas at the Latin Club Expo. That Expo is probably still a legend at St. John, two years later.

The thing about the seminary was the Rule. The Rule was supposedly the code of conduct and it was supposed to be followed willingly and humbly. But the Rule had no room for the kind of fun that Fred enjoyed. And too many head bumps with the Rule got a guy on probation. So after spending the last half of his second year on probation, which was something like house arrest, and one other incident that he was still trying to forget about, Fred decided to drop out. The academic part of the seminary had been rigorous but easy enough for him. And now public school was a piece of cake. He could cut class two or three days a week and still maintain an A average. This is where the head altar boy job came in handy. All Fred had to do was go to the school office and say that he was needed for a funeral or special service at the church and off he’d go. If he really did have a funeral to serve it would only last a couple hours. And Father Dave would pay him a few bucks which would help out when it came to buying a coke or something for Elaine, the current girlfriend. Weddings were also altar boy jobs that came with a little compensation. Sometimes a rich couple might give each of the guys ten bucks. Not bad for a couple hours on a Saturday morning just standing around. Plus an altar boy was in a perfect spot to check out the brides and bridesmaids in their form fitting low cut dresses. It was, after all, the 1960’s now and fashions were much more eye appealing than they had been a few years ago. Maybe it was that Jackie Kennedy influence or something.

On this Tuesday evening in February Fred was getting set up to train and test a few new recruits for the Altar Squad. Sitting in the first two pews were seven young boys from fifth and sixth grade. They were eager but a little bit nervous because tonight was their sixth and final class and after a review they had to pass the test that Fred had devised to make sure they were ready to join the rotation. When Fred had learned how to serve at Mass and other services he had been under the tutelage of old Father Paul, who was now retired. There were no classes and everything was learned on the job which made for some strange services. Father Paul would loudly whisper “Ring the bell, Fred”, and Fred would ring the bell. If his mind was wandering Fred might miss the whispered instruction. Then Father Paul would say, rather loudly, “Ring that damn bell Fred!” But way back then in fifth grade Fred learned the Latin responses and the order of the services. He even learned, on his own, what the Latin meant and the reason the rituals were performed in the way they were. That was one reason old Father Paul thought that Fred would make a good candidate for the priesthood. That extra portion of knowledge and devotion to the job meant a lot to the old guy.

When Fred went to the seminary he got on the serving rotation right away because of his skills. Most guys had to wait until their second year to work on the altar and then only after a lengthy training period. But Fred had tested out of the training. In his second year he had, in spite of his probationary status, been selected to learn the Eastern Orthodox serving method for the priest who taught some of the language classes. He also had been part of the special group that worked some of the big deals at the Cathedral in the city. Working in the city was cool because the group would get quite a bit of free time. So they would all go to the movies or to a diner near the all girl’s Catholic high school and try to pick up someone to make out with. One Saturday afternoon Fred had managed to see two different movies with two different girls and had actually gotten to first base with the second girl. He might have gotten further but an effeminate upper classman had spotted Fred with his hand on the breast of a cute fifteen year old and Fred had been interrupted and ratted out to the Prefect of Students. It was just another in the many steps back to public school.

But now Fred needed to see if any of these little guys could make the cut to be Altar Boys. He singled out the two worst candidates and had them do the hand washing ritual, a tricky little maneuver involving cruets of water and a special towel that could quickly identify incompetence. But these guys did okay; a testament to Fred’s training abilities. The tests moved along quickly and Fred was glad to see that all the guys had done their memorizing and had been attentive to the finer points of the rituals. At the end of the session he congratulated the new servers and passed out the cassocks and surplices that they would take home to their mom’s for cleaning, pressing and name tags. Fred remembered the first time he had carried his server’s vestments home. His mom had been beside herself with pride and she had assured Fred that he would be the sharpest looking altar boy in the parish; and he was.

At the seminary he had continued in that tradition. A black suit and white shirt with a black tie was the uniform for all the high school students during classes. But in the morning before classes and in the late afternoon and evening all the boarding students wore the cassock. And Fred’s was always neatly pressed and fresh, thanks to the weekly delivery of completed laundry from his mom. Maybe if they hadn’t been required to wear that long flowing garment then the final incident that convinced Fred that he was destined for something other than the religious life would never have happened. The incident happened in the Infirmary. Fred was suffering from a severe cold and he had stopped in at the Infirmary to pick up some cough syrup and aspirin. The guy on duty was the same effeminate college student that had ratted him out in the movie theater. He was also the guy that had prompted the trouble in the record room. A couple evenings a week guys would meet in a large room set up with a good hi-fi and comfortable chairs to listen to records. On most record nights Fred skipped the sessions because the usual program was classical or, even worse, operatic music. But on one particular evening the music scheduled was folk music by some of the most popular groups. Not everyone was in favor of this choice. There was a sizeable clique of music snobs who only liked classical, opera, or in a light moment, show music. When Fred arrived there were a few of those guys in attendance and they were being hecklers, making rude comments about the music and generally making it hard for the others to enjoy the program. So Fred, who was really only an average size tenth grader, deciding that these guys were not very formidable and were, basically, sissies, confronted them in a rather contentious way. His words were loud and pretty offensive, with several references to “girlie boys” “poofs” and, worst of all, “homos”. A shocked silence was quickly ended when one of the objects of Fred’s tirade jumped up and attempted to slap Fred in the face. Fred brushed off the slap with his left hand and retaliated with a pretty well placed right cross that sent the college guy to the floor. Fred then walked out and went up to the study hall.

So when he saw that his nemesis was on duty at the Infirmary he almost decided to skip the medicine. But he was hoping for a decent night’s sleep so he went in. The college guy greeted Fred in a kind way and seemed willing to help out. As a matter of fact he said that he was sorry for tormenting Fred and also apologized for the incident in the record room. He said he couldn’t apologize for the movie theater thing because Fred really shouldn’t have had his hand where it was. Then he said that perhaps Fred might need to have his temperature taken and he handed him the thermometer. Fred stuck the thermometer in his mouth and sat down in an easy chair with his head back and his eyes closed. He felt a hand on his knee and when he opened his eyes he saw the college guy standing in front of him with his cassock unbuttoned and wearing nothing else underneath. The guy mumbled something about apologizing in a more meaningful way. Fred, when he thought about it later, didn’t know if his actions were reflexive or instinctive. He did know that they weren’t very saintly. When he realized what was happening he very forcefully raised his right foot up, kicking the semi-naked man squarely in the crotch. He then was on his feet and telling the guy on the floor that if he ever came across his path again he would crush his skull and any other parts that might be exposed. Then Fred calmly walked out of the Infirmary and into the chapel where he prayed for guidance.

Now as a last bit of instruction for his new group of altar recruits, before he sent them home, he told them about the importance of being a team. And he told them that if anything strange or inappropriate happened in the sacristy or anywhere else, even if it was something done by a visiting priest or seminarian, then it was important to go to the team leader or to a parent and tell them all about it. Then Fred said “If I get the word about a problem I’ll take care of it; fully and completely. You guys are my Altar Squad and if God doesn’t protect you, I will.” And he did, at least for a few more months.

Have a fine day.

WINTER STORM IN DELAWARE

The “nor’easter” is almost over and is moving on after dumping about ten or so inches of snow all over central Delaware and other parts of the Mid-Atlantic. The scene is lovely, soft and white. But the typical area reaction to a snowstorm is in full swing. It started late Saturday with panic which continued into Sunday. Panic is the stage when the multitudes descend upon the stores buying everything edible, drinkable and useful in melting snow. Kosher salt was flying off the shelves along with milk, bread and cereal.

When the snow starts there is the driving around madly, causing accidents or participating in them stage. That went on from Sunday afternoon through late that night. The young guys who think they can control their four wheel drive pick-up trucks on any kind of road were filling the ditches with their vehicles and the emergency rooms with their broken bodies. The old ladies trying to get that last can of cat food from Safeway were creeping around in their cars causing pile ups at every stop light. The pre-storm frenzy gradually abated as the real snow started to fall.

Then the next stage of the storm is the widespread cancellation phase. This is where the government agencies get to show their true incompetence. First the educators, looking for a free long weekend, cancel every kind of school there is to cancel, from day care to university night school. Then the local and state offices begin their pyramid calling schemes making sure that everyone knows that a day off is on the way. Only “essential” people need to report to work. What a great way of defining about ninety percent of government workers as “non-essential.” I guess the essential workers would be the police, fire and public safety folks. Also those guys in the highway department that get to drive the snow plow and salt spreading trucks. Here in Delaware they do that job two or three times a year. That’s just enough to time to show that they are really not very good at it, due to lack of practice. But they rack up the overtime hours spending the entire snow removal budget in about a day and a half. Then the Governor gets to go on TV and announce a state of emergency and a new budget shortage. The predictability of all of this is laughable. All of the canceling spreads into the business sector. But Wal-Mart remains open and is full of customers, proving again their superior marketing ability. Every snow or weather emergency follows these patterns and is far more predictable than the weather itself.

So now we’re in the digging out phase of the storm. The snow is dwindling. The snow plow guys are starting to get the hang of driving their vehicles and the transplanted northerners have already done their preliminary shoveling. Meanwhile the native Delawareans are hunkered down in front of the TV screens watching scenes that they could look out the windows and observe. Soon they will take their shiny new snow shovels out to clear driveways and sidewalks. That will create another emergency room rush of suspected heart attack victims who don’t know the way to shovel in moderation.

By evening today folks will be out and about. But the schools will remain closed tomorrow because the school administrators are so fearful of any possibility of injury. Besides a four day weekend is better than a three day and there’s still one “snow day” built in to the school year schedule so they might as well use it.

That’s what’s happening here in central Delaware. I’m going outside now to thoroughly clean the snow off my car. That’s another thing people around here fail to do. They’ll scrape a little hole in the driver side windshield and window and take off, being a total hazard to themselves and everyone else they can’t see on the road. Stuff like that makes me wish that spring was here.

Have a fine day.

BLUEGRASS REVISITED: A GIBSON BROTHERS SHOW

BLUEGRASS REVISITED: A GIBSON BROTHERS SHOW March 1, 2009

Today, on the spur of the moment, my wife and I decided to go to a bluegrass show over in Hughesville, Maryland. It was spur of the moment because even though I knew about the show some time ago I thought Hughesville was out in the western part of the state. But when I discovered that the town was just on the western shore of the Chesapeake I decided to see if tickets were still available. They were and we went. The headliner on the two band show was my favorite group The Gibson Brothers, so the decision was doubly easy. We hopped in the car and in about two and a half hours we were at the Legion post in Hughesville.

The opening band was a local one whose name, I regret to say, I forgot. They did a credible job and they were fun to listen to. One of the neat things about bluegrass is the way the music can be appreciated at all levels, from the down home pick up group to the highly proficient professionals. At festivals and multiple band shows there is a lot of sharing going on between all levels of musicians. The less skilled player can learn new stuff from the better ones. The best players may find new songs or different versions of old standards from the local guys that they can incorporate into their sets. It’s a gregarious group of musicians and the competition, while fierce, is pretty friendly. The fans benefit from all of this and are treated to some amazing displays of musical passion and skill.

Now I’m going to do a little praise heaping on The Gibson Brothers. The Legion hall that they played in last night had some tough acoustic problems to work around. During the first half of their show there was also quite a bit of distraction from folks talking in the back of the hall. But the band overcame those problems and gradually adjusted to the conditions. They introduced some new songs, played a bunch of older favorites and entertained with off the cuff repartee in the intervals. In the second part of their show they kicked butt. Sound adjustments had been made and everything was right. The audience had a lot of old-timey bluegrass folks and they were won over and the Gibsons picked up a couple hundred new fans. Conversations I overheard indicated that everyone was well pleased.

The Gibson Brothers Band seems tighter than ever. They know each other well and they each feed off the energy of the others. The new mandolin player, Joe Walsh, is outstanding. I really liked the previous mandolin guys, Mark and Rick. But Joe more than fills their shoes. The line up of Clayton Campbell, Mike Barber, and Joe and of course Eric and Leigh is just right. They attack each song and focus totally on the moment. When they play a traditional bluegrass song they do it straight forward and with respect. When they play something that stretches the genre they do it with energy and without apology. Some of their crossover material is as good as anything in popular country music today.

But what really set the Gibsons apart are the songs that they write. Songs about their Northern New York home and family are honest and heartfelt as well as being beautifully crafted. They know how to make a song breathe and aren’t afraid to let the piece develop. Songs like “The Barn”, “Arleigh” and my favorite, since I’m a Lyon Mountain native, “Iron and Diamonds” are all skillfully written and perfectly performed. Last night’s audience positively ate those numbers up.

A new album will be released on May 5th and some of the songs in last night’s show were a preview of that effort. The title of the album is “Ring the Bell” and the title track is a spiritually moving song. Another great song is “Angel Dream” which I believe is a Tom Petty cover. I’ll be first in line for the CD on release day.

On a personal note I would like to say that the Gibson brothers and the entire band are true gentlemen. They sincerely appreciate their fans and they bend over backwards to accommodate everyone. And I’d like to thank them for playing my request of “Ophelia” last night. It was great.

So friends, if you never listen to bluegrass you’re missing one of the most enjoyable, exciting and interesting experiences that you can have. And if you never see The Gibson Brothers, or never listen to their CD’s, then you’re missing the best that bluegrass has to offer.

Have a fine day.