The Mom Who Cried Wolf

I learned early in life the story of the boy who cried wolf. The story reinforced what I already knew to be true. I am still a tad fuzzy which came first, the story or the realization. Does not matter. 

Little kids pick their noses. There might be one or two who didn't, but I would not believe anyone who claimed they never have. Picking one's nose is an early rite of passage. 

I picked my nose as a child. Because I had a small schnoz, it became apparent the chubby fingers I wore on my hands were not going to support my nose mining career for long. My physical limitations eventually stopped the practice. Until that time though, my mom was my "boy who cried wolf". 

Don't Pick Your Nose ...... You'll Pull Your Eye Out

I remember heeding her warnings at first. I freaked out; probably had a bad dream or two. Because I was a kid, I could not or would not stop stuffing fingers up my nose. My mom would never yell, she would just repeat her patented response. Eventually, I figured out she was bullshitting me.I held my preferred nosepicking finger against my nose at the point I figured would be as far in as I might be able to insert it. No way Mom, the end of my finger was inches from my eye. so, the next time she caught me and warned me: 

"Not-Ahh, my fingers are too short." 

She laughed. Apparently nose picking was not one of Mom's seven deadly sins. These early interactions with Mom are what helped to prepare me for the cynical lifestyle I would fall into as an adult; especially the world of Politics I would get into. 

The Left has their Twisted Patty Pants, but nobody gets their knickers in a knot faster and more often than the Right does. The Wingers tend to believe anything their leadership tells them. False claims of Doom and Gloom over molehill issues are their stock in trade. Crying Wolf is second nature to the sleazy leadership of the GOP and every other other Right Wing group I can think of; especially now that the Orange Buffoon has the whole bunch of them by their short hairs.

Hmm ...........................

Somewhere in my mind, tucked in a corner where the dust bunnys live, is the reason and connection to the short Internet article I read this morning regarding another possible way to keep Alzheimer's disease at arm's length. At the moment, I am still hoping to locate the original connection.....hang on.

The short internet article regarded one of the "simple" measures a person can take to help avoid the onset of Alzheimer's or other signs of Demetia; Listen to music more. Apparently it doesn't matter what music, but tthe article did indicate that the music of our youth was a great place to start.

Okay, so now I have all the excuse I need to continue my time Rockin Out to Oldies, Newies, and music I never heard of before.I have become an ancient mariner of sorts, who cruises the Planet's tunes on a daily basis. I have discovered so much unheard music, I am positive that like the Internet, Music is found everywhere and to deny myself the pleasure of hearing it, well, that is just stupid.

As to connecting the dots that lead back to nose picking? .... Damn, it just ain't happening today. I would be smart to disconnect now ..............

That is all I have for today ...... Keep it 'tween the Ditches ......................

_____________________

It's Tune Time and once again the vapid empty space between my ears fails to inspire. ... Hmm, might try turning some music on bud............

Today - "Crazy Mary", by Pearl Jam. Just might be my favorite Jam song.

Fire Alarm

I wrote my first memoir when I was 10 or 11. I can't remember if it was 4th or 5th grade. Regardless, the assignment was exactly that, "Write a memory from your past". Of course there was much discussion and silliness that ensued. None of the kids in the class, including me, could get our heads around the idea of "the Past". Yeah, we had heard of it, but it was something only old people talked about around the dinner table at dinner. My mom and dad often told stories of their younger days to fill in dinner conversations when the topics became too toxic or just ran out of steam.

The assignment of course was much more than telling a story from the earlier days when we were younger. It was an exercise in penmanship, thought construction and punctuation. There was no word limit to meet; It just had to be as neat as possible, with the periods, commas and spelling laid down as cleanly and correctly as possible. I cannot remember my grade, nor do I remember it being highlighted in any way by the teacher in front of the class.

I do remember the subject however. I wrote about the time I set off a fire alarm in kindergarten when I lived in Japan. The whole school emptied, I freaked and ran to the teacher outside and immediately admitted I did it. I didn't however snitch on the older kids who kinda teased me into it.

The type of fire alarms we had in that school had small thin glass windows designed to be punched inward with something thin, like a pencil or maybe even a finger. Some big kids, they must have been at least 2nd graders, spotted me looking at the fire alarm. They encouraged me to break the little glass window without setting off the alarm. They insisted that they did it all the time. 

"Go ahead kid, I dare you", or something along those lines caused me to step up to the alarm and use a pencil to punch the glass. Instant Chaos erupted. The big kids looked at each other with huge eyes, turned and disappeared into the depths of the school. I remember a panic I had never felt before. I probably spun a few circles and who knows, I might have peed my pants. If I did, I buried that part of the memory deep enough to not really remember if I did or didn't.

I remember writing about it because in my young life at the time, it was a memory I had still not really gotten over. Seeing all the kids in school standing in lines out on the playground, looking at me as I had been marooned and condemned to stand next to the principal; well, I never forgot that.

The magical moment came later at home where I had been cooling my heels in my room for several hours. My dad came home and immediately came into my room; in full uniform no less, his tie still tight and his cover still on. He sat down on the bed next to me. I fgured it was spanking time. I was not a stranger to spanking; seemed the natural "next step". Instead, my father talked to me, well, he sort of grilled me. I ended up snitching on the big kids. He looked at me and chastised me for allowing anyone to influence my decisions. He stood up and left. No spanking, no yelling, just a lecture on not allowing people undo influence on my actions. And even cooler, he didn't tell the school there were others involved. He allowed me to take the blame.

Of course, my short essay in 4th or 5th grade about that incident in kindergarten was nowhere near as deep of a dive as this post is. I just remembered now that the essay was the first memoir I ever wrote. It might have also been the first essay I ever attempted also.

To me, it seems logical that as an adult, I would follow up with over 200,000 words in 280 blog posts about shit I did in my Past.

I will add this one to the post count and move on.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................

_______________

This past weekend, my wife and I joined our daughter and her husband at another Rustic Overtones concert. It was held at Tuckerman Brewery in Conway, New Hampshire.A day sitting in comfortable chairs, swilling excellent craft beer and listening live to the band I have seen more than any other band ever. My first concert of their's was also my daughter's first concert of her life. It was held at the worst music venue in New England, the Portland Expo, a very, very large quonset hut tunnel. The reverberations in the hall made it impossible for me to enjoy the music. Lis loved it. She loved Rustic Overtones.

Almost 30 years later, we still go see them play. I guess I have seen them 20 times; Lis , many, many more. They are an old favorite.

Here is a favorite song, "Combustible"

Billy Strings, Willy, Led Zeppelin and Stereo Man

When I saw the video of Billy Strings, a favorite guitarist of mine, hit in the head with an object at a concert in Indiana, I was reminded of my own incident of be being hit in the head while on a stage in June, 1977

A quick replay: 

Led Zeppelin's last US tour, June 3, 1977...... The gig was at Tampa Stadium (the old stadium). 70,000 plus fans had been waiting for several hours in the hot Florida sun to hear one of their favorite bands. 15 minutes into the first set, a classic Summertime Florida thunder storm blew through, dumping many many gallons of water on the venue.

The awning over the stage was holding thousands of gallons of water over the stage where many thick cables handled massive amps and voltage of electricity. The local Fire marshall called the governor of Florida. The governor officially closed the concert down.

Upon hearing that the concert had been canceled, many of the fans had been waiting for hours, became an angry crowd. They tossed aside the "full proof security fence" and rushed the stage. By that time I had been volunteered to help the security guys defend what was now a mostly empty stage except for the stacks of speakers that were to be loaded on my trailer.

The scene was madness. 3,000 to 4,000 people were still hanging out near the stage. They were not happy. I looked out at them and their risng anger. It was obvious what was going to happen. The rest of the 70,000 fans had already left. Security guys in black Tee shirts, SHOWCO roadies and drivers stood nervously waiting for the crowd to breach that "Impregnable" wall. 

Over a thousand hands got busy and finally destroyed the integrity of the wall. Stoned and drunk fans climbed onto the stage. There were not many, maybe fifty or so. But, they were rabid. The loose crew of security types, myself included were expected to keep them back. Some of the crew were holding mic stands and were very enthusiastic with using them to keep the fans at bay. I carried no blunt instruments. I have thought about that day from time to time and today, I still don't know why I joined them onstage to defend an empty space. Young and still numb is all I can come up with.

Along with the breach, many glass bottles, parts of the wall , etc. ended up onstage. Something hit me in the back of the head. I got pissed I guess. I ran across the stage to help one of the drivers who had created his own fight by being too quick to use his mic stand on someone larger and obviouly out of it. The madness only lasted 5 minutes or so when suddenly it was over as Tampa cops poured into the field and took care of the out of control mob and the remaining hanger ons.. 

I cannot say for sure what hit me in the back of my head. It was thrown with enough force to draw blood and raise a good sized bump. I walked around the stage looking for what it might have been. I found the hash pipe you see in the image. While it may not have been what hit me in the head, it was on the stage when everything was over, so I grabbed it and have used it off and on since then. Next year will be 50 years since I picked up that pipe. I guess I should be grateful I found it. It has been a dependable go to cannabis consumption device when I was tired of rolling joints. And it was one of the few pipes I managed to not lose over the last 50 years.

I wrote about the incident more extensively here.

Morons throwing stuff at the stage is sadly, a time honored tradition. Negative responses by the artists are often the result. At a concert at the Wheaton Youth Center in Wheaton, Maryland in the early 1970's, Snake tossed a lit joint at Dr John. Dr John swung his micrphone and hit Snake right in the head and glared at me like I was who he was aiming at. Geez, I told Snake not to throw it; we'd never get it back and it was our last joint.

As always, please keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................

_____________________

I'm feeling like a Two Fer musical choice for this post. First up is Billy Strings in cahoots with Willy Nelson on a tune about geeting too old to party like they did back in their good ole days. Here is 'Claifornia Sober". Enjoy.

This next video is "Good Times, Bad Times". It is from Led Zeppelin's first album, ironically titled "Led Zeppelin". It was another one of my infamous record store van purchases at Clark's Tank n Tummy filling station in the foothills of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. That was the summer of 1969. The record store guy pulled it out of one of his boxes in the back of his van, handed it to me and said, "Here, you are gonna love this album."..................... He was right of course.

However, the biggest plus of this album was its impact on my father. My dad was quite the audiophile. He had started constructing his own sound systems starting the late 1950s. He built ociiloscopes to track the sound waves. He built huge speakers and the huge amps to power them. 

At the time everything going through those speakers was Mono (only one channel). He had read of stereo being the next big thing. He called Heathkit and latched onto one of their first stereo amp DYI kits. He put it together and was immediately disappointed in the music that amp delivered. He went back to his stupidly huge mono amp and that was that.

About 7 years later I had built up my own stereo system. It waas much smaller than what he had built, but it kicked ass. 20 amps per channel with some good quality 10 inch speakers i put in homemade barrel halves. When I pulugged in my headphones, it was just awesome. I figured out that the RocknRoll setero music world  was way ahead of the curve over the more classic audio world.

After I bought this album and had run through it umpteen times, I decided I had to get my dad into some headphones. I made him come up to my attic bedroom and put those headphones on. I did not want to scare him, so I started with the volume on low. I waited for him to respond. He gave me a thumb's up, "Louder". I cranked it. He started to yank the headphones off, but suddenly stopped and just listened. I watched the his lightbulb go off. He smiled. He had seen the light. From that day forward, he was a Stereo Man. 

Afterwards. his system building madness grow three or four fold. He started with those huge 20" inch woofers; added 8 or 10 smaller speakers and built a 200 watt stereo amplifier. When My mom wasn't home, he'd fired that system up and rattle every window in the house. I could hear it clear as a bell from Dunc's place about 100 yards down Sam Page Road; especially when he fired up his sound effects record; Trains, planes, whistles and artillery blasts.

Here is Led Zeppelin's, "Good Times, Bad Times"; the song that turned my father into the audiophile beast that was his destiny. Funny though, he would often play this song as a judge of how good the stereo recordings of his favorite music were.

Definitely best enjoyed with the volume turned up to WOW!

Music Filled Summer

There are two influencers in my life at the moment who help me keep the Arts part of my life. Without them, I am sure my Arts world would be mostly online appreciation. As it is anyway, the Internet is my biggest source of any chance the Arts have to catch my attention. These two ladies get me involved in real time, up close in my face live and loud Arts in action.

An accounting client of my wife is a cog in the machine/supporter of the Ogunquit Playhouse over to ...... Yep, you guessed it, Ogunquit, Maine. The playhouse one of the oldest road playhouses used for summer off Broadway productions. In business every summer season since 1933. Thousands of up and coming stars, established stars, and talent looking to invigorate emerging careers have played there. 

For the most part, the music and plays favor the musicals from my parents era. In recent years, a change to include a more current treatment on plays and  musicals is beginning to dominate. I am impressed of the new versions of the old satndards of 60-70 years ago. BA's client has been kind enough to give us a chance to see quality live entertainment for th elast ten years at least.

been a soource over the last 10 years  free tickets to the shows. So, for 10 years I have been reintroduced to much of the entertainment my parents, through different avenues, exposed me to as a child. 

And then there my daughter; my kid; my best example of having been a good man at least some of the time. Lis is an energizer bunny. She usually juggles many interests, resposibilities, with a married life shared with a man both she and I approve of. Well, she may have approval than I do. But the Jarhead is okay I guess, even though he is an ex-Marine. 

One of Lis' big interests is music. Not the Top Forty Pop, Rock, or Country, but an eclectic variety of I dunno, Bluegrass, punk country, Old School Rock from back in my day, and music from all over the globe. Anyway, she keeps us apprised of live concerts in our mutual areas to possibly go to. Every year, I get to see musicians from my past, new musicians I never heard of before, and venues that either knock my socks off or just remind me of how bad some of the halls can be.

This coming Tuesday Paul Simon is playing a nice venue in New Hampshire; the NH Bank Pavilion in Gilford, New Hampshire. I have never seen Paul in concert or as part of the duo that brought Simon and Grfunkel fame back in the 1960s. I did haul the sound and light equipment for a tour his ex-partner, Art Garfunkel. It was a low key one truck tour. I loved the one truck tours. Laid back leisurely runs usually with plenty of time to make it from one venue to another. It was as close to a vacation I had the years I drove for SHOWCO in the mid 1970s.

In a couple of weeks we are also going to the "Jeezum Crow Festival" at Jay Peak in Vermont. What a great venue. Laid back, relaxed, low key fun in the Sun. This year, the two day event will have two stages and more bands than before. Like last year, the four of us are renting a Vrbo somewher close by. Last year we did and I won't go back again on a one day out back from Maine.

And just when I think the summer could not get any more crowded, Lis noted that Rustic Overtones is playing up in North Conway, NH coming in August I6, I think. 

Rustic Overtones is a Maine band that BA and I took Lis to for her very first concert. It was the early 1990s at the Portland Expo in Portland, Maine. It was Lis' first concert. She was 13 or 14. Since then I guess she has seen them over 20 times. BA and I have only seen them perform maybe 15 times.

Portland Expo has the worst accoustics of any hall I have ever been in. It is an echo chamber. Reverbation makes it tough to follow the songs. And even worse, it's festival seating. Once I hit my 60s, I refused to see a concert that did not have assigned seating or they allowed chairs to be brought in.

Damn, lots of music this summer .....Excellent.

Later ......................

_________________________

I was going to include some music from one of the groups that will be performing at the Jeezum Crow Festival. The I decided that playing a Charlie Parr tune was more fitting. He has been at the Festival I thin ksince its inception over a decade ago. And his music is great. I am not sure how to categorize his music, so I won't.

Please enjoy "Over the Red Cedar", by Charlie Parr.

Baskets

This stained glass portraiture was purchased during the early days of our marriage. It is without a doubt, my favorite art piece in the house. We purchased it at a craft fair in the1980s. My wife was a basketmaker then. She went to countless craft fairs. I went to many with her.

Our family economy then was a week to week existence. I drove trucks. BA made baskets. As I look back now, that period of my life was as good as it ever had been. Domestic life suited me. Constant concerns over money though, definitely created a hitch in the life fulfilling appreciation of the time. Money was tight. Thankfully we depended on my wife's bookkeeping skills to keep us straight. I was okay handling money. She was and still is a genius.

It was my habit to wander around the crafts booths to check out the various offerings; what other basket makers were there, etc. etc. I spotted this portrait and immediately wanted it. I do not remember the asking price. I do know though, the asking price made my butt pucker. If memory serves here today, I entusiastically petitioned BA to let us take it home. I said it was so special, she needed to take a break from her booth and check it out before someone else bought it. I volunteered to watch her booth; something I was not a fan of doing. We ended up taking it home with us. It has been hanging in our front living room window the last 40 or so years. If you look closely, you might notice the mullions behind the piece.

I like to take credit for finding this portrait. It may or may not be true. Siince I am writing this story, I will make me the hero. All of us, or least some of us,; well maybe it's just me ..... okay, okay . A few of us at least have in us, traits that Trump has in spades. Hell, someone has to support our egos and it should start with ourselves. Of course Trump's exaggerated dependence on the figments in his own mind are the ultimate extreme of a militarized Ego. My case of it is certainly more in the normal range I am sure......  Oops ....wandering off the trail again. 

I notice now, I titled this post "Baskets". Not sure why I did. The image of the lady at the top was what triggered me to sit and write. I had just removed a screensaver image and replaced it with this image. Thnking of this portrait took me to thinking of the 12 years my wife spent weaving baskets and ruining her hands. Next, I thought of the craft fair culture that was ingained in our lives at that time. Memories often come back to me indirectly rather than by specific intent. In order to continue to fool myself I am indeed normal, I will assume this tendency falls with normal parameters of human behavior.

I wandered around the house looking for some of the baskets my wife had made. I found three that were still performing the duties they were woven for; holding junk that should have been somewhere more appropriate. I pulled out bits and pieces of 40 years of accumulations. They were dusty and the color was faded on the one. One is a hurried basket she made over 40 years ago for the cats to lay in. It is still functional. It still holds the occasional cat.

The other two were bread and butter baskets. BA made many of them. I am guessing she could make them in her sleep. In retrospect, the price BA paid for those 12 years of manual labor was higher than it should have been. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and artritus as she aged damaged her hands and wrists horrenduously. Becoming an accountant was the smart shift in careers.

I am so thankful for BA allowing me to share her life. She has definitely been the rock upon which our relationship started and been able to last these past 45 years. ....... 45 years; Damn. Thats a huge chunk of my life. I wouldn't change it for anything.

Keep it 'tween the Ditches ............................

____________________

I picked "Basket Case", recorded and released in 1994 by Green Day. My wife was still weaving baskets. Every time I played or listened to it, I thought of her. I still do.

Here is a live version they performed at their induction to the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame in 2015.

Who is Really Smarter?

My mom was sure women were smarter than men. My father never contradicted her unless he was drunk. Not just drunk, but stupid drunk. As a functional alcoholic his whole adult life, he crossed the line into the stupid drunk zone quite often. When he was sober or just at the functioning drunk peak while drinking, he was usually the smartest person in any room he walked into.

So, I was raised to accept that women were smarter than men, if only to get along better with them. My father never really believed women were smarter. He did believe however they were sneakier and much better than men at laying evil plans. Of course, his record of three marriages would indicate they were smarter. At least the ones he married were. Each marriage cost him an arm and a leg that meant his General officer paygrade only elicited the pay rate of a First Lieutenant after the alimony had been paid. 

My mom also thought that while women were considered second class citizens by men, she felt the effort to lift them up should have been done with better planning. Her favorite example was that living with low expectaions actually made women more powerful. She was sure women and their higher IQ's, and men's tendency to think with their genitals made manipulating men easy peasy. Coming at them like they were equals did not often work out; where "yes dearing" them often kept their men on the path they wanted their men on. Too many great men had wives who made them greater. Mom had little sympathy for the women in her circles who did not use their superior intellect to get what they wanted out of the relationship.

I love and admire my mom. But I hated her ability to twist me and my father around her little finger. My dad was a genius. But my mom? Well, my mom was an evil genius.

Which brings me to my point; a point I reached many many years ago. Women are smarter and tougher than men. Men are fighting a losing battle trying to get them back in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. If we men were smart ( it is apparent we are not); If we were smart, we'd hand over the keys to the Kingdom to women. The male species has proven that under the Male ego guidance, Humanity's growth has been hit or miss. We have survived in spite of the patriarchy's hamfisted way of running things.

Later Gators ...............................

_________________

This post is the result of my wanting some words written to accompany a song I was humming in my head when I woke up this morning. Here is a cover of "Man Smart. Woman Smarter", by the Grateful Dead. Harry Belafonte made this Calypso tune and many others famous back in the 1950s. I always liked Harry's versions, but then I remembered the Dead performed it quite often. The number of their renditions on Youtube is impressive. 

I Ain't Dead Yet

Almost every day when I was a child, a new wonder would catch my attention. Those moments of wonder were not always pleasant, but most were needed to help herd me toward the real goal, Adulthood. I was sure that adulthood was when all the magic began. Adulthood meant being free of someone standing over me, yakking in my ear and insisting that if I wanted to make it to Grown Up World, I needed to smarten up and fly right. My parents kept a history it seemed, of all the stupid kid capers I was prone to . My parents nagged me relentlessly. I certainly felt they did.

• "Don't touch that".
• "Don't eat that, you'll spoil your dinner"
• "Goddammitt Bug, stop bothering me".
• "Stop aggravating your brother and keep that tongue in your mouth."
• "Aunt Helen is coming to dinner, best clothes, best behavior, okay?"

The list was endless. Adulthood meant Freedom from rules.

Riiiiiiiiiiiight .............

Sure, being an adult released me from the rules my parents pounded into my brain as a snot nosed little punk. But what I found out after it was too late, those childhood rules would be replaced by adult responsibilities sternly regulated by adult rules with potenially harsher conseqeunces than the childhood punishments that were just steering me back to the road they wanted me on.

Adulthood and all of the responsibilities and challenges I started to stack up after my salad days as the irresponsible loose dog twenty something, did not have much effect on my blissful naivete until I hit my mid thirties. That was my first acknowledgement that being human included getting old. I thought about it for a minute and blew it off. But the seed had been sown.

The married working part of my life went by in a blur. There was a mortgage, a kid, and the struggles to make it cleanly from one pay check to the next. BA and I made it happen, but it took all our focus and  noses to the grindstone to keep on top of it. Fun, relaxing moments had become farther and further apart.

Time passed. We saw our daughter safely out of the house and into the World. We lived with and buried more than a few pets. We each owned and ran our own businesses. Then eight or nine years ago, I sold my bikeshop and retired. 

Finally I thought, there were no more rules to follow or break anymore; Mortgage was paid off, vehicles were free and clear, and our child was totally on her own living her life and looking like she was living it in the right direction. Nothing but time to waste if I wanted. I was sure I was now truly and convincingly Free. ........................

Riiiiiight ...........................

Now, after eight or nine years of my percieved Freedom, I have a new  set of rules. They snuck up on me as most new rules do. Never saw them coming, but should have.The shift boss of my new life experience is brutal and relentless. He speaks to me with painful reminderss of the years of self-inflicted damages and the natural decline by sending harsh pains that say,

"Don't do that again, it might just hurt even more the next time." 

I am stuck in a growing rotation of new and familar aches and pains. My body has become my enemy. 

My body rules the roost now. I wake up in the morning now. I will pause before getting up and ask myself, "What will hurt today; what new handicap will find its way into my life today? Every day is a new adventure now, just like when I was a kid. But now, instead of my parents guiding my life, my body does that for me now. 

It's like I am a child again, living a crater filled circular road trip that will end where it began.

Later ..............................

______________

Charlie Parr is a favorite musician of mine. There is no performer I have known that is more Salt of the Earth than Charlie. I picked his tune, "I Ain't Dead Yet" for two reasons, the song's point has a dovetail feel to go with my post and the story he tells before he starts singing is hilarious.

Rudy

This is an entry into a Flash Fiction Challenge I participated in in 2011. I pulled it from my other Blog, the llittle used "Lost in the BoZone - Too". I always liked this story. The image of the Hat was the inspiration.

~ <> ~

Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago.  His behavior, like his uniform was always spotless.  His smile was dependably quick and pleasant.  His ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast. He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.

Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role.  Rudy refused.   More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station.  Rudy would not budge.  This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.

Rudy plied his trade for 52 years.  He never called in sick nor was he ever late.  He worked whatever shift needed working without complaint or excuse.  He was the perfect employee.  That is as much as anyone ever knew about him.  His time away from his job was a mystery.  He never talked about family, home, or what trouble his kids might have gotten into.  Everyone assumed he was married with children.  Rudy refused to confirm or deny any conjecture he was faced with.

It was four or five years after Rudy had retired and the old LaSalle Street Station was empty and waiting to be torn down that a son of one of the railroad executives decided that he would become a writer.  His first work would be a history of the railroad he remembered as a youngster.  He would look up old employees, try to find famous travelers, and seek information from company archives so that he could write the grandest train tale of all time. 

The young man’s father, now retired and living far away in warmer climates, told him he should stop this writing nonsense and pursue a life with more predictable rewards.  But if he was going to insist on this writing stupidity, he needed to find Rudy.  Rudy would have more stories than one book could hold. Suddenly, the old man became silent.

“Dad, what’s up?  You okay?  Dad?”

“Uh, nothing son.  I was just remembering Rudy.  He saved my job you know.  If not for him and finding that briefcase when I was a wet behind the ears young executive, I wouldn’t be here in Florida relaxing comfortably now and you would have had to attend a state college.  Yep, Rudy was special.  Find Rudy. He’s the only person you need to talk to if you want a great story.”

It took some time and some digging through old employee records, but the young man finally had a last known address for Rudy.   When he visited the address on the south side, it was nothing but an abandoned shell waiting for demolition.  Just another tenement among many blocks of tenements slated for urban renewal.  The only sign of life was a trashed bodega a block down.

The old black woman behind the counter remembered Rudy.  She filled in a few blanks, but as to where Rudy was now, she had no clue.  She did mention that just before he had simply disappeared, he had begun to act oddly.  The young man asked her how.

“He stopped smiling”, was all she said.

The young man would not give up.  He checked the obituaries. No luck.  He looked up ex-coworkers.  They had nothing for him.  It was not until he found a sympathetic bureaucrat with the Social Security Administration who, against the rules, gave him two important pieces of information.  One that Rudy was still alive because he as still receiving a monthly check.  Second, was the address that check was going to.  The young man headed there the next day.

Pulling up to the St. Francis Home off Wabash, the young man was struck by how similar in appearance it was to the tenement that had been Rudy’s last known address.  It was not unexpected, but he had hoped Rudy had found better.  He walked in and the stench of old age almost knocked him down.  He collected himself and addressed the elderly woman behind the front desk.

“Excuse me.  Is there a Rudy Renfro living here?”

The elderly woman was busy with her pencil on a form of some kind.  Without looking up she pointed to his right, “In the Day Room most likely.”

“How will I know him?  I have never met the man.”

The elderly woman looked up from her paperwork.  Her hair, which must have started the day a neat orderly arrangement ending in a tidy tightly wound bun had come apart and she had to shift some escaped strands from in front of her eyes.  She looked perturbed.  “You a relative?”

“Uh, no ma’am I’m not.”

“Well young man, we have rules here.”  She looked as if her hard professional armor was being raised and then, “Oh go ahead, it’s not like anyone visits him anyway.”  She continued to point to his right.  “Just look for the old black man wearing a red cap.”

“Thank You.”  The young man walked down the hall towards the Day Room.

Entering the Day Room, the young man was immediately faced with a tall elderly black man wearing a well worn red cap like he remembered as a child traveling the lines with his father.  The black man smiled.

“Sir, may I take that bag for you.”

The young man looked down at his brief case.  “Uh, no that’s alright, I’ve got it.”

The old black man’s eyes lost their sparkle and his shoulders slumped.  The young man changed his mind, “ Oh sure, please take the bag.  I am here to see you I think.  Are you Rudy?”

The old man smiled.  It was a broad smile revealing the yellowed and cracked teeth that come with age.  He straightened as best he could and grabbed his hat brim between his fore finger and thumb.  He lifted the brim a tad.  “Yes sir. I am Rudy.  The best Red Cap on the line.  Where are you headed, West or back East?”

_________________________

I worked hard to find the exact song I wanted. My father had recorded it from an FM station back in the early 1960s. He transferred it to his "Swing" Reel. I could sometimes talk him into playing the tape. When "Choo Choo Ch' Boogie" came on, I would dance.  More to see my dad smile than anything else. He was going through some tough times at the time.

Loved that song. Here is the original version from 1946 performed by Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five.

Irregardless

As soon as I was able to read around age 4, my family began brow beating grammar basics into my wee brain. Some of them stuck. But anyone who has read what I write now, knows many of those basic rules of grammar are nowhere to be found. My flaunting of the rules is often purposeful, a kind of  "in your face, Grammar Man" rebellion

Everyone should have adequate writing skills. We should all be able to write a note, a memo, or a letter  that is easily understood. Sadly, too many folks lack even those grammar basics. I have always wondered why. It's a mystery to me, like wondering how some people cannot swim or drive a car. 

But then, the grammar challenged  may not have had a family of Grammar Nazis to deal with like I did as a kid. Around age 7 or so, the tolerant kindly corrections suggested by parents began to turn ugly. I was supposed to have it down. From then on, I lived in fear of having my speech and written words constantly under their harsh scrutiny.

My oldest brother ; my 13 years older brother was the worst. He specifically took offense at my use of "irregardless", which at the time I considered a perfectly good word. He was not tactful nor kind. He often smacked the back of my head when I used it because he knew I was often using it just to piss him off. 

In my early teens, making Joe lose his shit over anything made my day. "Irregardless" was one the sure fire weapons I would pull out of my "Piss Off Joe Quiver". The other good one was bringing up the tennis match he lost to my father who kicked his ass at age 58 or so. Joe broke his tennis racket in frustration after the match. I was one happy buckaroo that day.

So what is it about a word/not a word like "irregardless" that rubs so many Grammar Enthusiasts the wrong way? I will only use it now as a way to needle, poke or prod. Once I understood the bad math of the word and many like it, I have attempted to erase them from unconsciously using them. 

It's all about the double negatives Americans love so much. Double Negatives do make folks sound ignorant at times. I prefer to think of the use of Double Negatives as the folksy, come on by sometime and set a spell way of communicatin. I ain't gots no problem with others using "irregardless" in their speech. But don expect me to not grin just a little when I hear them.

Ya'll Keep it steady now, ya hear?

_____________________________

I hired a young man at my bike shop some years ago. He was definitely a gifted wrench twister. He was a first generation American whose mom was the daughter of Vietnamese refugees who fled Vietnam after the war. He had some tough moments at school, what with him looking so foreign and all. He took the mean remarks well, letting them slide. He eventually worked his way into some kind of acceptance and finished his school days driving a beat up Dodge pick up with an American flag stuck in the bed waving proud and loud. His red neck held its own with any local yokel around, even if he didn't look like them. 

I always hoped he would find his own path. When I retired and sold the bike shop, I lost touch with him. I heard later he had joined the Marines. And that is all I know. But hope springs eternal. Maybe leaving the our little patch here where he grew up will hopefully free up some of the many horizons waiting for him to check out.

Good luck Kenny.

What brought Kenny up is a Bluegrass artist I just discovered. Her name is Mona MacAedyn. She too is a first generation offspring of Vietnam Refugees. Her song, "Vietnam" tells the story. Enjoy.

"A Little Dab'll Do Ya" - Part 1 - "Impressing the Ladies"

My first effort at impressing the ladies was in First Grade. It was 1958 while I attended the elementary school on Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii. My brothers were much older than I and were experts at impressing the ladies. Damn, they even liked those pesky females. 

I noticed they were constantly utilizing the magical properties of a popular hair grease called Brylcreem, . They would often stand in front of the bathroom mirror primping and preening before they headed out for their night fun. Their grooming rituals always ended with a dab of Brylcreem on the front line hairs of their flat tops in an effort to accentuate the overall effect of the flat top they wanted everyone to notice. They wanted everyone to know that they were hip, they were with it, they were not square.

I had been impressed with the Brylcreem commercials at the time. They had a catchy jingle, and a catchy slogan, "A Little Dab Will do Ya". Apparently girls went gaga over guys who used Brylcreem.

I had no real interest in impressing the girls at the age of six. As a matter of fact, I was an avowed girl hater at the time. They were weird and scary. Sadly though, the need to impress the ladies comes with the male gender. It is embedded in our genes and we have to at least try once or twice to impress before we give up and move into our parents basement for the rest of our lives. 

After I had absorbed one too many Brylcreem commercials, I decided I would test their product to see if their claims on TV were true. I grabbed the half used tube of Brylcreem that my brothers used way too often and took it to school with me. In the few free moments between the blah blah blahs from the teacher, Johnny Freedman and I came up with the "Brylcreem Plan".

At recess, we slathered ..... Uh, when I say slathered, I mean we applied an over the top layer of Brylcreem to our buzz cuts. We then tormented the girls by running after them and repeating, "A Little Dab'll Do ya". At first they didn't understand. well, you know girls right? Not very quick on the uptake. 

One of the girls waiting her turn in the hop scotch line finally understood. Just like that, Johnny and I became the prey, not the predators. Many of the recess girls began chasing us and damn if a couple of them didn't catch us. We were tackled, overcome and manhandled by those creepy girls. They were loving it. Johnny and I weren't so sure. ...... Finally, a teacher stepped in and broke up the party.

Johnny and I were reprimanded for creating chaos and a I had to take home the first note of several that would go home with me that year. I remember handing the note to my mom. She read it and looked at me. Touching my hair with a finger, she began laughing and shaking her head. That may have been the most humiliating moment of the whole ordeal. My mom wasn't being predictable and punishing me. She was laughing at me. She made me take a bath and wash my head several times before I was done. I put the tube of Brylcreem back on the counter in the bathroom. It had almost no Brylcreem left in it.

I should have remembered this incident when I was older and attempting to impress the ladies. Sadly, the intervening years found me totally unprepared for that unanswerable question:

"How the Fuck does a guy impress the women if they're not rockin the blue eyed handsome look of a  Paul Newman or some other chiseled faced Man-god who has to beat the ladies off with a stick?"

 I tried and tried to catch their eye, but usually fell short. It was the women I did not try to impress that found me and for whatever reason decided I beat a blank and a romance was born.

As always, please Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................

_____________________________

A two-fer video treat today. First up is a Brylcreem commercial from my childhood that may have been at least partly responsible for the recess riot I caused in First grade.

 

 Second video is from a much underrated band from the 1960s. This band was the inspiration for the TV series, "The Partridge Family". They were the real deal though; a family who played their instruments and sang. Here are The Cowsills with their cover of "Hair".

A Sad Reminder

At 3:30 this AM, I ran across a Facebook post by my daughter. She was posting a remembrance of Bobby, my nephew. He died in the dumbest war of all time. The exact date of his death is under a cloud. The Navy has offered up no rhyme or reason for his death. This only leaves his loved ones twisting in the wind as they use their imaginations to conjure up all kinds of awful scenarios.

I was actually notified of Bobby being missing off a navy destroyer on the 18th of September, 2005. The Navy settled on his "official" date of death as 9/12/2005. He had been missing for .... well, no one really knows; or so they said. His death has been shrouded in mystery ever since.

Bobby died as a result of being shipped overseas to help the United States carry out a personal grudge mission for an undeserving President. The war accomplished nothing other than hundreds of thousands dead and over a Trillion dollars pissed down the drain. My nephew's death was a needless waste, as were all the military and civilian deaths and mutilations suffered during Bush the Lessor's, "Operation Iraqi Freedom".

Twenty years is a long time. It is easy to forget most everything from twenty years ago. That is, until someone jogs a memory of loss. That memory comes flooding back in like it happened yesterday. I sit here once again with tears flowing because of Bobby's life being wasted; because of the stupidity of war.

Wherever you are Bobby, I hope you are in a better place than the one you left 20 years ago.

R.I.P.  Bobby

_____________________

I immediately thought of the British folk/punk band, Ferocious Dog. They have felt the pain of losing someone to the same stupid war I lost my nephew to. Here is a 2024 release, titled, "Blood Soaked Shores". I'd say enjoy, but maybe just listen to it while reading the lyrics.

 

Life in the Slow Lane

I love living in Maine. I knew I wanted to live here from that first visit to Aunt Helle and Uncle Herb's "Half Way Up" farm in Acton. It was 1960 I think; uh, maybe 1959. ....... Anyway the wonders my 7 or 8 year old eyes witnessed were life altering. 

I was raised in various suburban and city locations to that point in my short life. Over the 5 or 6 weeks I was at "Half Way Up", I hiked in the woods with my uncle; fished and swam in the local lakes and ponds. We saw beavers, otters, deer, a couple of moose frolicking in the swampy end of Horn Pond and I picked up my first Snapping turtle. It was a small one, but hey, I was small then too.

On top of Abbott Mountain in Shapleigh, the next town over, I marveled at what I imagined looked like unbroken wilderness as far as my eyes could see. The landscape has changed some since 1960. Now the woodlands are less unbroken, but the view is still awesome.

Unconnected events in my life conspired to make sure I ended up in Maine. My Uncle Herb developed liver cancer and died in late summer of 1965. My father went to Maine to help his sister deal with the last days and straighten out any affairs after his passing. He decided he liked Maine. 

"Hey, it's been at least two years since we moved the last time....... We're moving to Maine now."

I was still in High School in Maryland. Suddenly,  I was basically on my own from that point forward. I stayed in Maryland, graduated 3 years later and started college at Towson State, just north of Baltimore. From there, I began working and living in the Baltimore area. 

Late summer of 1980, my father died laughing in the kitchen of the house I live in now. His passing set off the final set of events that would usher me out of the selfish and often childish lifestyle I was living and into the adult mode I would live with from then on. 

I married my girlfriend, we re-settled in this house and proceeded to live the life we have enjoyed these past 44 years. And I am so very grateful. I cannot imagine what our lives would have been like had we stayed in Maryland. Moving to the state whose unofficial motto is "Life in the Slow Lane" was the second smartest thing I ever did. The smartest was asking my old girlfriend and current spouse to share her life with me. 44 years of wedded, well, calling it bliss might be too strong a word. We have made it this far despite my loose dog ways from time to time testing the bonds we had built.

Ya''ll take care now ...........................

_____________________________

The image of the "Wiggly Bridge" at the top of the post is an image I poached from a short reel I found on Facebook. I manipulated it into what you see there. Eric Storm, the originator, has posted quite a few reels and images. I only just noticed his fine work recently.

The Wiggly Bridge was constructed in the 1930's and supposedly named by a Girl Scout troop. It crosses tidal mud flats found in abundance on the seashore in and around York.

Some claim it is the smallest suspension bridge in the world at only 75 feet long. Regardless, it is one of the thousands and thousands of beautiful spots in Maine. 

___________________

Since this post is all Maine from beginning to end, I figured I should highlight the "Rustic Overtones", a band that has been entertaining Mainers for going on 32 years now. I first saw them in the late 1990s with my wife and daughter. Since then, I have seen them at least 8 or 9 times. I even had the pleasure of catching their concert that included the Portland Symphony Orchestra. Talented musicians who play music for the love of it.

Here is "Gas on Skin" - maybe my favorite song of theirs. Enjoy.

Jeezum Crow 3

This past weekend, BA, myself and the Kids spent the weekend under the perfect Vermont sun listening to great music and sipping various cool drinks. It was a great weekend ; one to remember for sure.

This was the 10th Annual "Jeezum Crow Music Festival" in Jay, Vermont. It was my 3rd time and now I am looking forward to my 4th in a year.

The 3 festivals could not be more different from each other. My recollection of my first festival is hazy, but seems it was a bluegrass, blues, folksie event well attended by the aging hippie set sprinkled liberally with up and comer new age hippies holding onto a new brood all wearing noise limiting headphones. Charlie Parr was there and I became a fan of Sicard Hollow more because of a misunderstood name on my part. But I remember an overall Country Bluegrass Blues feel.

Last year, my 2nd visit was a definitely Blues and Bluegrass and of course my man, Charlie Parr was there and better than ever. They had stepped up with a much better sound system.

This year we were able to catch all 9 acts, not just most of the ones on Saturday like we did previous years. This year was different  seeming to spotlight a more cover band list of acts. 

The highlights for me were:

Friday night -Mihali  -Reggaeish, Ska; They had a horn or two. Upbeat music. Loved it.

On Saturday  - Taj Farrant, a 16 year old blues player who is very, very good. The kid plays way above what his age should have let him. There is a maturity in his play that some Blues players never attain. Awesome set once the excellent Stevie Ray covers were over. He also writes music that points to his older soul.

And then of course Charlie Parr. No one picks or sings quite like Charlie. I cannot think of a musician less interested in being famous than Charlie. I am pretty sure the clothes he had on this past weekend are the same ones he had on last year and the year before that. He drives to his shows by himself in a beater car; sleeps in it, plays his set and leaves. In between he knocks my socks off with his songs and the occasional funny story. "Cheap Wine" still makes me puddle up.

This was our first time staying the weekend. It was the best decision of all. No pressure to leave early for home and we could catch Friday night's acts. I won't miss them next year.

 This year we went whole hog. Rented a Vrbo lodge that was perfect. Not fancy and well worn. But it was clean, had plenty of towels, plenty of room and a great kitchen sink. Fell in love with the sink. And we were able to take the pooches. Maggie had a chance to romp and find the good smells.

All in all, a great weekend of music with my favorite people in the World. 

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................................

___________________________

It's gonna be a three fer today.

First up is Mahali - and his song, "Free Ride". I test drove many of his songs. Not a one of them was bad. Enjoy!

Next up is 16 year old Taj Farrant and an awesome cover of "Parisienne Walkways". 

And finally "Cheap Wine" by Charlie Parr. 

VE Day

On this date in 1945, my father was on a flight to Europe as a member of the Armed Forces. He was a cog in the coalition of US military experts who would begin the restoration of Europe after it had been devastated by World War ll. Their efforts were called "The European Recovery Plan" which would eventually be called "The Marshall Plan", after the dynamic General George Marshall, who headed up the effort. 17 European economies, devastated by the previous war, were rebuilt from the ground up by the USA and mostly on the USA's dime.

I could go anywhere with that opening; the politics, the debt owed by Europe, the absolute class act that the Marshall plan was ...... But I won't. This is about my father.

As he related his experiences to me, he did not get to Europe in time to witness the signing of the armistice. Like I mentioned, he was on a plane at the time. But he did spend the next 4 years as one of the cogs that made the Marshall Plan a success. He toured Auschwitz only a week or so after he landed. He was taken off his detail as a budget officer helping to finance the recovery and loaned to the prosecution team at Nuremburg. He traveled all over Europe to assess the costs of resurrecting various areas as much as possible to their previous splendor. He knew what he was looking at and what it looked like before the war. He had spent 4 summers in college as a European tour guide for American tourists in the late 1920s. 

My father was a stoic, stiff upper lip kinda guy. I was somewhat taken aback when he told me he cried the first time he saw what the war had done to Europe. He took many pictures of the damage, but only rarely did he pull them out to look at them. I discovered them after his death when I was nosing around in the many boxes of slides, photos and photography equipment he left in the attic. I have yet to transfer them to a digital record.

His post war experiences he said were probably the best and worst times of his life. Everyday he had to deal with one type of post war damage or another. But he also found love and married a WAC he met. Sadly the marriage did not last as she was killed. I am not sure how she died. All I know is she died. He never talked about it.

The front page to the right is from the defunct Baltimore newspaper, the "Baltimore News-Post". I found it under a trashed linoleum floor in a factory worker house I lived in in Mt. Washington, a neighborhood in Baltimore. The house was perfect for two, just out of college guys. It had a yard and it was cheap.... Dirt cheap.

What makes the page unique is the color standard at the top and the unusual height of the Headline letters. That was some high tech shit back in those days. But what the page symbolizes is just how invested the planet had been in World War ll. Everything stopped worldwide for 4 plus years while countries from every corner of the globe lined up in factions and then proceeded to try to destroy each other. The Axis powers and the Allies. The Allies fought the Axis countries on two fronts, the Japanese in Asia and the Germans and Italy in Europe and  northern Africa. 

It was about this time 100 years ago that the World started warming up for another war. The first World War had ended badly for Germany. The treaty they were forced to eat was rather draconian. Many Germans wanted revenge. In 1923 Adolf Hitler and some 2000 malcontents marched into the city of Berlin hoping to overthrow the government. They failed. Adolf was awarded a 5 year jail sentence, thrown in jail where he wrote that wonderful Project 2025, ...uh, I mean "Mein Kampf", the workbook he would use that eventually put him on top of the world for a few years. The real World War ll began with a whimper in the 1920's and ended with world wide conflagrations and millions dead by 1945. The planet had never experienced anything like it before or since..........

So, I would say that this V-E day packs warnings and possible dire predictions of similar fates if we don't stop fucking around. The evil cycle of 100 years is looking for a repeat performance and so far, we seem to be welcoming it back.

There is no such thing as overreacting when History is not just threatening to repeat itself, it has begun the process.

Later ......................................

__________________________

An appropriate tune for this post would be a song that was popular during WWll. My mom loved this song. It made her cry every time she heard it. Maybe it was because her first husband, a Navy Commander, died during the War. It is also the song Stanley Kubrick chose to close his second greatest movie, "Dr. Strangelove". As the nukes go off destroying the world, this song kicks in. Perfect.

Here is "We'll Meet Again", by Vera Lynn,, released in 1943. 

Riddle Me This

I have always admired the ability to think up riddles. My dad had that ability. He used to twist my brain every chance he had with the latest one he had thought up or one he had discovered that he thought was worthy.

I can only remember besting him once as a kid. I was grade school age, maybe 7 or 8 when he asked me:

 "What is supposed to arrive, but never does?"

My brother just recently reminded me that this is how I first heard this question. He was at the dinner table that night when Dad asked it. All this time I remembered it not initially as a riddle, but something he just declared. My brother remembers because he couldn't guess the answer either.

After too many moments leaving us hanging, Dad said:

"Tomorrow never arrives. By the time it is Tomorrow, it is Today."

We all chuckled or more likely groaned.  I wasn't able to shake the point; it bothered me. I knew damn well Tomorrow arrived. It was one of the certain truths I had filed away early in my life. Anything that was supposed to happen always started out as a statement regarding the future, which in my mind meant tomorrow. 

I kept straining my brain to figure out how to prove that riddle wrong. It took quite awhile. We had moved and I was in another school , so at least 6 or 7 months. I finally had my Eureka moment and confronted my father with my conclusion that disproved the conclusion of the riddle, that "Tomorrow never Arrives".

"Tomorrow does arrive. Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow"

He was dutifully impressed. Though I think he might have been more impressed with my tenacious attitude of trying to one up him than the answer I came up with.

I only bring up this exchange with my father because of my life long love/hate relationship with riddles. I have solved a few, but most of the time it seems I was unable or unwilling to waste the band width in my brain solving them. 

Then this morning as I filled water jugs, a riddle came to me that I think may be my one and only original riddle.

I have 6 empty jugs. I filled all 6, yet 5 remain empty. How is that possible?

It's a light weight riddle I am sure. But I have to start somewhere........ Right?

__________________________

I am constantly surprised how many songs the are under the Sun for every damn thing under the Sun. Here is "The Riddle" by Five for Fighting, another previously unknown group to me. Excellent piano. I always like good piano.

The message is right for my current state of mind. Maybe it contains messages we should all have in mind:

There are secrets that we still have left to find

There have been mysteries from the beginning of time

There are answers we're not wise enough to see