Memoria

 

 

Chapters

 

1.      Into

2.       Norfolk

3.       Keswick

4.      Wilmington

5.      Richmond

6.      4101 Patterson Avenue

7.      3313 Stuart Avenue

8.      1024 W. Franklin Street

9.      1624 Monument Avenue

10.     2607 Floyd Avenue

11.     3209 W. Franklin Street

12.     4516 Kensington Avenue

 

 

 

 

Chapter one - intro.

 

 

 

 

Here is my story...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two - Norfolk

 

This is where life began for me.

I don’t remember it, but I have been told that the beginning of life was a struggle. I didn’t breathe at first. I don’t know why. Maybe I was born too soon? Maybe I was born without the umbilical cord being extracted from around my neck?

All I have heard was that I was a “blue” baby. This means that I was not breathing when I was born. This could have been the beginning of the end for me. I had no name. I had a brother, whom I did not know. I was a small mass of flesh and blood pushed out from a woman called mom, in a hospital to a doctor Savage and a nurse who deliver babies on a regular basis. Why would this baby be any different?

By some unknown voodoo, Doc Savage brought life back to this baby. Breath, the lifeblood of the species came back to the small lungs, and I was alive.

Dr. Savage is gone now. Even the Leigh Memorial hospital is gone. All there now is a birth certificate with little footprints. 

 

The rest of the adventure was unknown, but by the various tales of the city, Norfolk was good to me. I was a blond curly headed baby with blue eyes and a smile.

I was named Clifford McIver Leftwich. The last name: Leftwich is my father’s line of the family. It goes back to an English heritage and before that the Normans who invaded from the days of Charlemagne. The middle name: McIver was my mother’s family name. The clan of the highlands of Scotland were blended in with the Campbells, but still have their own tartan. My first name: Clifford was from my mother’s brother who was a WWII pilot who went missing in action. It is an unusual first name and have only met two others in my time on this planet.

As a baby, I was wheeled around to the market. People would stop and stare at me. My mother would comment that I looked just like my father. So much so, that people would stare at me. “Is that Jelly?” they would ask. 

 

My father was a simple man. He was the manager of the seaside club for the Cavalier Hotel. He would book bands to play on weekends, run the kitchen, press flesh with the members, and always be on call. He made sure the guest was pleased with the service and left happy. Customer Service personified. This is what he was best at. Mr. Schmooze.

Mom had left her girlish figure to have babies. She was the typical mom. Going to the store with the carriage. Walking down the street with the flowered dress. Smiling to the other mothers, while smoking.

I think I first met the ocean in Norfolk.

I still have an envelope of my first blonde curls, as was the custom then.

 

 

Chapter Three - Keswick

 

Don’t remember much about Keswick. I was just growing up. My father had changed jobs to become the manager of, what was then, a country club.

From the photos, I must have been walking or at least standing, so maybe age of two or around 1950.

The road to Keswick was a turn off a major 2-lane mountain road and up a dusty gravel road to the house. The woods around the house were thick then. Today, the clubhouse is known as Keswick Hall.

Keswick has few businesses, and lacks a central business district. It is predominantly residential, with a mixture of large farms, estates, middle-income, and low-income housing. Since many of the parcels of land in Keswick are large, it is relatively undeveloped and retains its natural environment, which includes views of the Southwest Mountains. The drive through Keswick "has often been cited as one of the most scenic in America," writes the New York Times. Many of the estates were plantations in the 18th century. No major development took place in Keswick until the 1990s, and the development since then has been subject to strict scrutiny by Albemarle County officials.

The town includes Keswick Hall, a club and estate which includes a golf course. The town is also home to Keswick Vineyards, a family owned and operated vineyard and winery. Oakland School, a special boarding and day school for children with learning disabilities, is in Keswick, as is the Keswick School, a boarding school for students with social skill and emotional struggles. A CSX freight rail line runs through the town. The Shackelford family, long prominent in Albemarle and Orange counties and in the Monticello Association, has a family cemetery in Keswick.

The massive columns and gray stone porch looked out over vast open land in the valley. The building was cooled in the summer by the high ceiling fans. The floors were dusty yet slick. The floor to ceiling reflective glass windows held heavy layered drapes.

Behind the club was a garage where the groundskeeper kept the tractors and grass cutter. It was filthy and full of tools. All the stuff and giant wooden tables fascinated me. I remember the smell of oil mixed with wet grass. I would wander in but then be moved out so not to talk to the coloreds.

To the right of the clubhouse was the golf course. Large green expansions of grass constantly being cut to keep the walking golfers happy. I remember a lake on the golf course. It had a large willow tree weeping over the water. My brother and I would play “Tarzan” on the branches and swing into the lake.

In front of the clubhouse was the swimming pool. This is where I have most of my recollections of Keswick. I remember walking to the pool with its chain-linked fence around it. I remember the hot cement around the pool. I wore a Mae West life jacket (according to pictures), but I feel I learned to swim here. My mother would sit by the pool, smoke cigarettes, and gossip with the members, while I would get wrinkled from the water. I loved to swim under the water, eyes wide open. The chlorine probably had something to do with my bad sight.

On certain occasions, the family would get dressed up and go to the clubhouse for dinner. White linen napkins, water glasses, and lots of heavy silverware. I started eating crackers with butter then. I’m sure this was a method to keep me quiet while the dinner was prepared.

Most Sunday mornings, the family would go to the Coffee Shop underneath the clubhouse for lunch. Club sandwiches were the order of the day. This Leftwich tradition would continue to Richmond.

I remember watching the lights of the clubhouse at night and being told to stay inside. There must have been lots of parties, galas, and balls that my father had to oversee.

Little House

 

My family lived in a little house off to the left of the clubhouse, next to the curved gravel road. I remember the house being small and one story. My room was in the back. I remember a floor furnace with a large grate. I would ride my tricycle over it. From reports by my mother, I fell on the grate and got burnt. No scars of that action today.

The house was taken down several years ago. Only pictures remain.

The house I live in today was a flashback feeling of familiarity to the Keswick house, including the floor furnace.

WHEN I’M ALMOST FOUR

 

When I get old enough to grow longer hair

perhaps a month from now

Will you still be rubbing me with Vaseline

talcum powder, smelly cold cream

if I start crying at quarter to 3:00

would you close my door?

Will you still kick me? Will you still stick me?

When I’m almost four?

 

I may catch the flu

And if you pick me up

I will wet on you

 

I will start whining, making a fuss

when the lights go out

You can change my pants before I go for a ride

I’ll just get them wet and start to cry

Burping and drooling and bumping my head

while crawling cross the floor

Will you still pick on me?

will you still lick on me

when I’m almost four?

 

"Every winter," you have said, "I must stay home, lie in bed

or I’ll catch cold".

My big nose will run...

Grand pappy will come to see

His mother’s nature son... (break into first bar of song)

 

Better be careful, put things up high

when I start to search

If you leave a safety pin lying about

I’ll pick it up and put it I my mouth

buy me a toy, a big teddy bear and I’ll throw it on the floor

Will you use a brick on me?

Or a wooden stick on me

when I’m almost four?

 

The foxhunt

 

Every fall, there was a foxhunt. The yard would fill up with cars and trucks. In front of the clubhouse, surrounded by 100-year-old boxwoods, groups of red-coated riders would appear and wait for the sound of the horn. A fox would be released in the woods to the left of the clubhouse, and the riders would stop their talking and drinking to direct their steeds to follow the hounds. As I recall, it was more of an occasion than a hunt. A short while later, the riders would dismount, hand their reigns to Negro grounds keepers, and retire to the club house to regal the events of the day. As they drank the night away, the stories would get larger and louder. Someone would go home with a foxtail. I would later use one on my bicycle.

On one occasion I was placed on a pony with a little red jacket, like a display doll. I didn’t get to chase the hounds.

Family

I went to my first schooling while at Keswick. The closest town was Charlottesville. My mother would drive my brother and I to town for school. I remember the expansive campus of Thomas Jefferson’s University of Virginia. I went to some pre-school. I seemed to get along with everyone, don’t remember. I do have pictures of a pre-school event with an associate and me wrapping a May Pole wearing jester outfits. I look very serious. It may be that I could not see the pole, or I could have been in charge of wrapping that pole. The image was captured on the David Mooney “Crimson King” tapestry.

 

My brother also started school in Charlottesville. He was a portly boy. The 50’s gave children the wide horizontal stripe tee shirts and solid shorts. Black socks and sandals. Kids did not have fashion. His expression was dull and his hair was short. He was the catcher of the little league baseball team. Mom would go support him and while watching the game got hit by a foul ball. Dad dressed him up in a bunny costume one Easter to ride a cart pulled by a goat to hand out eggs to member’s kids at the clubhouse.

My mother was keeping the household going by cleaning and taking care of the children. She drank and smoked. She would talk to the club members as if they were on the same level, but she was hired help. She gained weight at Keswick.

My brother said mom and dad fought while at Keswick. I was too young to remember.

I was a skinny kid. I would wear tee shirts, shorts, socks and hard sole shoes. I didn’t like to run. I didn’t jump. I would spend hours at repetitive activities. I would draw, watch television, and ride my tricycle.

At night, the clubhouse would light the sky. The crunch of gravel was heard day and night as members came and went, keeping us awake.

 

 

Chapter Four - Wilmington

 

This small town in North Carolina was where both my parents grew up. This was the vacation spot for the family every summer. This was the town that held family memories. This was the town where family obligations would be fulfilled.

Wilmington is a small town on the base of the east coast of North Carolina. It is based on the Cape Fear River.

The city was founded in the 1730s, and after going through a series of different names (New Carthage, New London, Newton), its name became Wilmington in 1740, named after Spencer Compton, 1st Earl of Wilmington.

The area along the river had been inhabited by various successive cultures of indigenous peoples for thousands of years. At the time of European encounter, historic Native Americans were members of tribes belonging to the Eastern Siouan family.

In the early 16th century, Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano, commissioned by the king of France with a French crew, was reportedly the first European to see this area, including the city's present site. The first permanent colonial settlement in the area was established in the 1720s by European settlers. In September 1732, a community was founded on land owned by John Watson on the Cape Fear River, at the confluence of its northwest and northeast branches. The settlement, founded by the first royal governor, George Burrington, was called New Carthage, and then New Liverpool; it gradually took on the name New Town or Newton. Governor Gabriel Johnston soon after established his government there for the North Carolina colony. In 1739 or 1740, the town was incorporated with a new name, Wilmington, in honor of Spencer Compton, Earl of Wilmington.

Some early settlers of Wilmington came from the Albemarle and Pamlico regions, as well as from the colonies of Virginia and South Carolina, but most new settlers migrated from the northern colonies, the West Indies, and Northern Europe. Many of the early settlers were indentured servants from Northern Europe. As the indentured servants gained their freedom and fewer could be persuaded to travel to North America because of improving conditions back home, the settlers imported an increasing number of slaves to satisfy the labor demand. By 1767, African slaves accounted for more than 62% of the population of the Lower Cape Fear region. Many worked in the port as laborers, and some in ship-related trades.

During the Reconstruction era, former free Blacks and newly emancipated freedmen built a community in the city. About 55% of its residents were Black people. At the time, Wilmington was the largest city and the economic capital of the state.

Three of the city’s aldermen were Black. Black people were also in positions of justice of the peace, deputy clerk of court, street superintendent, coroners, policemen, mail clerks, and mail carriers.

At the time, Black people accounted for over 30% of Wilmington’s skilled craftsmen, such as mechanics, carpenters, jewelers, watchmakers, painters, plasterers, plumbers, stevedores, blacksmiths, masons, and wheelwrights. In addition, they owned 10 of the city's 11 restaurants and were 90% of the city's 22 barbers. The city had more Black bootmakers/shoemakers than White ones, and half of the city's tailors were Black. Lastly, two brothers, Alexander and Frank Manly, owned the Wilmington Daily Record, one of the few Black-owned newspapers in the state, which was reported to be the only one in the country.

In the 1890s, a coalition of Republicans and Populists had gained state and federal offices. The Democrats were determined to reassert their control. Violence increased around elections in this period, as armed White paramilitary insurgents, known as Red Shirts, worked to suppress Black and Republican voting. White Democrats regained control of the state legislature and sought to impose white supremacy, but some Blacks continued to be elected to local offices.

The Wilmington Insurrection of 1898 (formerly and inaccurately called a race riot) occurred as a result of the racially charged political conflict that had occurred in the decades after the Civil War and efforts by White Democrats to re-establish white supremacy and overturn Black voting. In 1898, a cadre of White Democrats, professionals, and businessmen planned to overthrow the city government if their candidates were not elected. Two days after the election, in which a White Republican was elected mayor and both White and Black aldermen were elected, more than 1500 White men (led by Democrat Alfred M. Waddell, an unsuccessful gubernatorial candidate in 1896) attacked and burned the only Black-owned daily newspaper in the state and ran off the new officers. They overthrew the legitimately elected municipal government. Waddell and his men forced the elected Republican city officials to resign at gunpoint and replaced them with men selected by leading White Democrats. Waddell was elected mayor by the newly seated board of aldermen that day. Prominent Black Americans and White Republicans were banished from the city in the following days. This is the only such coup d'état in United States history.

Whites attacked and killed an estimated 10–100 Blacks; no Whites died in the violence. As a result of the attacks, more than 2,100 Blacks permanently left the city, leaving a hole among its professional and middle classes. The demographic change was so large that the city became majority White, rather than the majority Black it was before the coup.

Following these events, the North Carolina legislature passed a new constitution that raised barriers to voter registration, imposing requirements for poll taxes and literacy tests that effectively disenfranchised most Black voters, following the example of Mississippi. Blacks were essentially excluded from the political system until after the enactment of the federal Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Whether my grandfather was associated with the riot is not known, but he was there. He was in his 30’s. Was he a Red Shirt? It was never discussed.

The drive to Wilmington would begin in the morning and last all day. Two-lane highways. Little traffic. Hot. Windows rolled down. Bouncing in the back seat for hours. Stop once at Stuckey’s. Peanut brittle for Mom and nabs and cokes for the rest of us. Pit stops were made along the side of the road. The pavement got better when we left Virginia and entered North Carolina. We would play ‘Ad Libs’ to keep us busy. We would sing songs. We would see chain gangs working on the side of the road. We’d duck down when passing the Indian reservation. We would parade in front of the colored sharecroppers’ shacks. We would pass rows of army truck convoys as if the war was still going on.

After miles and hours of woods and farmland the winding road leading to a small skyline introduced our destination. Wilmington was little buildings, no stop lights and lots of trees. We would turn left and travel the shaded suburban streets past manicured yards and freshly painted houses. Everything was quiet. Everything was calm. The houses looked old. The few people visible on the street were elderly. As they looked up to see the car drive by, there was a questioned look in their eyes. We were strangers in their quiet town. We were tourist.

 

My grandmother, on my mother’s side, lived in a small brick house. A driveway on the side of the house went around the back, past a porch with a swing, to a garage. The front of the house was red brick with white door and columns and shutters. Small shrubs lead up to the front door. The two-story house was always approached from the back door. (The same tradition was found at 4101 Patterson).

The backyard held lots of roses. There was a wired fenced backyard with little shrubs and lots of roses. Roses grew everywhere. An outbuilding was never investigated. The garage was cool and damp and had the smell of oil like the greenkeeper’s garage at Keswick. Across the alley were dirt yards with live chickens. High wooden fences hid the houses from the middle-class view of my grandmother’s eyes. There were lots of dirt yards, smells, and damp feelings about the neighborhood. My grandmother never talked about her neighbors.

The entrance to the kitchen became the welcoming spot. Everything was done in the kitchen. It was warm and inviting. Off the kitchen was the music room with a window overlooking the driveway. An upright piano and sheet music filled the room. I would learn music there. My mother and her mother loved to sing, but rarely played the piano. My mother did show me what an octave was on the out-of-tune piano and I would bang on the keys until it was time to eat.

All the family on my mother’s side, loved to sing. Religious songs and 40’s popular hits I didn’t know. Anytime two or more Aunts got together a song was to be had. The kitchen was the usual spot of singing while preparing food.

Down the hall from the kitchen was the dining room, very formal with laced tablecloth. Few meals were had here. Mostly the family ate in the kitchen. There were ceramic squirrels on the wall. With all the cooks in the kitchen making eggs or fried chicken, their skills never rubbed off on my mother.

Across from the dining room was the living room. The family never went into the living room. A typical 1950’s living room with a desk, sofa (covered in plastic), chairs, and lamps that was always clean and empty. A rotating clock played its chimes every hour. On the desk was a picture of my uncle Clifford, the pilot lost in World War II and his flying cross medal. No one talked of the photo or the history.

Yearly vacations in Wilmington seemed always to be a family gathering, there are professional photos of all in the living room. It was mostly the McIver family but there is a brief glimpse of dad and his father. I never saw my brother in them?

Several uncles had served in W.W. II. There was no talk of their action or duty. The family only talked of the present. The family always was laughing and singing.

Upstairs were several bedrooms. One was packed with boxes and a small bed. This is where I would sleep when we stayed in Wilmington. It was hot and musty. I never ventured into the boxes, but wondered about the W.W.II relics.

A small room in the back of the house was the den. This room had the only television set. This was the only room that was used by our family. I practiced bass guitar when we stayed there in ‘66 (before the Club a Go-Go gig).

As soon as we would unpack, the family would decide what was going to be eaten. All the women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the food. The men made small talk and smoked. The porch swing was a spot for the children to get out of the way.

 

 

 

Mom’s family

Clan MacIver or Clan MacIvor, also known as Clan Iver, is a Scottish clan recognized by the Lord Lyon King of Arms. The clan, however, does not have a chief recognized by the Lord Lyon King of Arms. Because of this the clan can be considered an armigerous clan. The clan’s name of MacIver is of Gaelic origin, derived from an Old Norse personal name. Various forms of the surname MacIver, like MacGiver, are considered sept names (followers or members) of several historically large Scottish clans, such as clans Campbell and Mackenzie. There exists a Clan Iver society in Fife, Scotland.

Origin of the name

The surname MacIver is an Anglicisation of the Gaelic MacÌomhair "meaning son of Ìomhar". The Gaelic personal name Ìomhar is derived from the Old Norse Ivarr. An early man bearing the surname MacIver was Malcolm McIuyr, whose appears on a list of men in the Sheriffdom of Argyll/Lorne in 1292.

Origin, confusion and Campbells

"Mac Ivor". A Victorian era romanticized depiction of a member of the clan by R. R. McIan, from The Clans of the Scottish Highlands, published in 1845.

According to Alastair Campbell of Airds, it is very unlikely that there is a common origin for one Clan MacIver. Campbell of Airds maintains that the Victorian Principal P. C. Campbell confused matters with his Account of the Clan Iver. Principal Campbell, at the time publication of his Account, was petitioning the Lord Lyon King of Arms to recognize him as "Chief of Clan Iver". Campbell was ultimately unsuccessful in his bid for chiefship. According to Campbell of Airds, the modern Clan MacIver is also a dubious a concept because it encompasses all MacIvers regardless of their origin, and that the "modern game of clan-constructing is again being played".

Campbell claimed that the MacIvers originated in Glenlyon, and settled in Argyll in 1222. The Victorian illustrator R. R. McIan considered the MacIvers to have descended from Duncan, Lord of Lochow, making them descend from the same stock as the Campbells. According to legend, a stronghold of the MacIvers was the ancient fort of Dun Mor (Dunmore), located near Lochgilphead.

According to Ane Accompt of the Genealogie of the Campbells, the eponymous Iver was one of two illegitimate sons of Colin Maol Math (the other illegitimate son being Tavish Coir, from whom the MacTavishes claim descent). According to Ane Accompt, Iver's mother was to have been a daughter of Suibhne, who was the founder of Castle Sween, and is thought to be a member of the kindred of Anrothan who held lands in Cowal, Glassary and Knapdale (Suibhne is claimed as the eponymous ancestor of the MacSweens).

The MacIver-Campbells

The leading family of the MacIver Campbells were the MacIvers of Lergachonzie and Stronshira. A branch of the MacIvers were Captains of the Castle of Inveraray, where the standing stone in the grounds of the castle was said to have been the boundary between the lands of the MacIvers and the MacVicars. Other branches of MacIver Campbells include the MacIver Campbells of Ballochyle in Cowal, the Campbells of Kirnan in Glassary, the Campbells of Pennymore on Loch Fyne, south of Inveraray, and the Campbells of Ardlarach near Ardfern, Craignish.

Principal Campbell himself belonged to the Campbells of Quoycrook in Caithness. They were claimed to have descended from MacIvers of Lergachonzie. Campbell also claimed that the related families to this branch were the Campbells of Duchernan, the Campbells of Thurso and Lochend, and the Iverachs of Wideford in Orkney. Campbell of Airds notes that both the arms of the Iverachs and the Campbells of Duchernan display the gyronny prevalent in Campbell heraldry.

In June, 1564, at Dunoon, in an agreement between Iver MacIver of Lergachonzie, and Archibald Campbell, 5th Earl of Argyll, the earl renounced all calps from those of the name MacIver, in return for a sum of money, though the Earl reserved the calp of Iver MacIver and his successors. According to Campbell of Airds, it would seem that dating from this agreement many MacIvers began using the name Campbell or MacIver-Campbell.

In July, 1680, men of the Clan MacIver of Argyll who were a sept of the Clan Campbell apparently joined up with the MacIvers of Caithness in support of Sir John Campbell of Glenorchy and fought against the forces of George Sinclair of Keiss at the Battle of Altimarlach, in a dispute over who had the right to the title and lands of the Earl of Caithness. Campbell won the battle, but Sinclair later turned to the law and was awarded the lands and title as Earl of Caithness. Although the MacIvers only formed a small part of Glenorchy's force, they contributed their full share to its success and, according to tradition, the piper of the clan in Caithness, Finlay MacIver, composed the Great Highland bagpipe tune, Bodach-na-briogais, which was inspired by the battle. According to Hugh Fraser Campbell and Walter Biggar Blaikie, Glenorchy's piper, Findlay MacIver, had composed at this time the well-known piping tune, The Campbells Are Coming.

Northern Macivers

Wester Ross

According to the traditions of the Mackenzies, a clan of Macivers were located in Wester Ross, across The Minch from Lewis. George Mackenzie, 1st Earl of Cromartie mentioned this family in his dubious 'history of the Mackenzies'. He claimed that the 'MacIvors', 'MacAulas', 'MacBollans', and 'Clan Tarlich' were the ancient inhabitants of Kintail, and were all descended from Norwegian families.

The Wester Ross Macivers have also been connected to the Battle of Bealach nam Broig (battle of "the pass of the brogue"), fought between various north-western highland clans from the lands of Ross, against the followers of the Earl of Ross. Today the date of the battle is generally given at about 1452. Robert Gordon of Gordonstoun, writing in the early 17th century, stated that the Ross clans consisted of "Clan-juer", "Clantalvigh", and "Clan-leajwe". The 19th-century historian F W L Thomas translated these as "Clan-iver", "Clan-t-aluigh, i.e., Clan-Aulay", and "Clan-leaive, i.e., Clan-Leay". According to Gordon, a force of Munros and Dingwalls overtook the mentioned clans and fought them at "Bealligh-ne-Broig", between Ferrin-Donald and Loch Broom. Gordon stated that "Clan-Iver", "Clantalvich" and "Clan Laive" were "utterlie extinguished and slain".

Lewis

The early 20th-century historian William C Mackenzie noted that The Highlands of Scotland in 1750 stated that "the most common inhabitants of Lewis are Morrisons, McAulays and MacIvers, but when they go from home, all who live under Seaforth call themselves Mackenzies". Mackenzie considered that the majority of the Lewis Macivers seemed to have settled on the island with the arrival of the Mackenzies. The Mackenzies took control of Lewis in the early 17th century.

The MacIver tartan. There is little evidence to account for this tartan, and it is thought to be of relatively recent origin.

As tenants of the Earl of Seaforth, the inhabitants of Lewis followed Clan Mackenzie. William Mackenzie, 5th Earl of Seaforth decided to support the Jacobites forces in the 1715 Jacobite rising. Mackenzie stated that Seaforth drew up a list of officers to command his troops. Seaforth's list of officers contained 16 Lewismen: four captains, four lieutenants, and four ensigns. Of these, two were MacIvers: [Lieutenant] Kenneth Maciver, Bragar; and [Ensign] S. Maciver, Callanish.

Modern clan symbolism

Modern Scottish clan members can show their allegiance to their clan and chief by wearing a Scottish crest badge. These heraldic badges usually display the clan chief's heraldic crest and motto surrounded by a strap and buckle. Such crest badges have been used since the Victorian era. The crest badge used by members of Clan MacIver contains the Latin motto nunquam obliviscar ("i will never forget") and the heraldic crest of a boar's head couped Or. Both the crest and motto are very similar to the crest and motto of the chief of Clan Campbell—the Duke of Argyll. The motto on the MacIver crest badge actually answers that of the Campbell's chief.

There is little evidence to account for the MacIver tartan, and it is thought to be of relatively recent origin. The tartan is very similar to the Clan Macfie tartan.

 

“Mammaw”, as my grandmother was called, would always have an apron on. She would orchestrate the kitchen and the worker bees. She did not smoke or drink. She was the gyro that kept the family together and busy. Mammaw seemed aloft of troubles and always made a pleasant or religious statement when problems were discussed.

Mammaw was married to several men. She was young, with a smile, a small body but well endowed. She enjoyed the attention of the gentlemen. She dressed in lace and sheer materials. She moved with grace and style.  The father of my mother’s family was Mister Mac. He ran a lumber business. He had two girls from a previous marriage.

 

Across the street, my mother’s half-sister lived. Thelma would be called over for dinner. A heavy woman with pulled back hair and plain flowered dresses. She had the 40’s look. Thelma would play the piano when the women would sing. She married Howard but didn’t have children.

 

Down a winding road past moss-covered trees, in a planned suburban neighborhood was the brick ranch home to Meryl, mom’s other half-sister. She had two girls, Mary Dill and Carolyn, and a son, Jimmy Jr.  who babysat me when the elders would go out. There was lots of hugging, touching and kissing. I was their toy. They had a Chihuahua that was constantly humping everyone’s legs. Meryl’s husband Jimmy Perley committed suicide in the garage by gassing himself in his car. No one talked about that.

Marguerite McNair McIver, daughter of Malcolm Chester McIver and Ruth Hiers Fogle was born on September 06,1915 in Columbia, SC. She died on April 03, 2007 in Richmond, VA. She was the eldest.

.

Mac and Mildred McIver lived in Richmond, but always seemed to be in Wilmington when we arrived. They would stay at the home of Mildred’s parents, the Sneedens. This became our second home when in Wilmington. The house was above a ground level garage on the sound side of Wrightsville Beach. Little Mac and Liz would always be there too. Mac, who was Mom’s younger brother, was a preacher. He held services over the food that was delivered hourly. Mac Jr. moved to New York to become a beatnik. He grew a beard. He also became a preacher. Liz got knocked up in college and married a duffus. They still present themselves to the family with decorum. The family never talked of the incident.

 

LaMar and Gladys McIver lived in Wilmington. They kept the family together. LaMar sold insurance at Sears.

Gladys, sister to Mildred, kept the Sneeden’s home up. With the shower in the first-floor garage, and the outside stairway to the second living floor, the house next to the pier was kept as a safe haven for all the family. Mr. Sneeden was a white-haired man in poor health. He was quiet and reserved. He kept to himself. Mrs. Sneeden was as outgoing as Mammaw and always tried to feed everyone.

My cousin Whitey (LaMar, Jr.) and his sister Lynda (Sissy) and two twin brothers Duncan and Robert lived in a custom middle-class community outside of Wilmington. 

LaMar died in a boating accident where he was shocked by a loose wire in a motorboat engine. He died in front of his brother, Mac. His eldest son, Whitey took his own life with drugs and confusion. He could not cope with life.

 

Clifford Davis McIver was the star of the family. When the war started, he went to learn to be a pilot.  He married Betti in Florida before being shipped out. He went missing on March 18, 1945.

 

Peggy and Ralph Barksdale were different as night and day. Peggy, who had moved to Raleigh, was outgoing and cordial. Ralph was reserved and quiet. A big burley man who worked for Caterpillar tractors, he stood back when the family got together. Peggy was up front and a leader in the singing. She would later get Parkinson disease and break down. The two could not bear children, so they adopted a boy and a girl, Ralph and Aileen.

 

Flora T. and Henry Trulove lived in another part of Carolina with three girls. Flora was the youngest of the sisters. She was attractive with large teeth and thick black hair. Henry was a salesman. He was always trying to kid or act up.  They had three girls, Susan, Nancy and Becky.

 

Randy and Jessie McIver moved to Virginia. They raised two girls, Carolyn and Mary Kay and were familiar with my older brother who is just 12 years younger.

 

Whitey

 

Whitey became my teacher at the beach. Instead of sitting on the sand with my parents and other relatives, I could sneak away with Whitey. We would take the motorboat out to the sound and spin around the inner waterways.  When the harbor patrol came to follow us, we would turn to the ocean. We would jump over the waves, the wooden hull groaning with each slam against the hard water. Twin Mercury engines would save us every time.

Whitey would teach me other beach stuff. Water skiing really worked with enough power on the motorboat (unlike the ones at Morehead Camp). The whole family learned. Snorkel diving and riding the surf became second nature. Surfing on long waxed 8’ boards filled the days. We would sit on the boards waiting for the right wave. We laughed and splashed in the ocean air. We would get dehydrated, sunburned, and wrinkled by the hours of soaking in the water. He showed me how to ‘shoot the pier’ but get eaten up on the barnacles. After a wipe out, we’d have to chase the board down for there were no ankle straps. We did not care.

Whitey was also a jokester. He showed me how to ‘shoot-the pier’ but didn’t inform me that the barnacles would slice me up.  He learned how to skydive and took me with him on a flight. The instructor showed me how to land and roll and I had to wear a parachute but had no plans to jump. We got to the height and went to the open door. The parachute was hooked to a ‘birdie’ cord and suddenly I was pushed out into the empty air. The cord was automatically pulled but for a moment I was floating in space. I (obviously) survived and produced many laughs. He also learned how to fly a plane (could get a pilot’s license before age 16). He took me out on the ocean to scuba dive. He showed me how to breathe in the mouthpiece of the air tank and how to fit the mask and flippers. He also put a weight belt around me so we wouldn’t just bob up at the surface.  I went over the side and straight down to the bottom. He had put too much weight on the belt. He followed me down and removed the belt and we both carried it back to the surface.

At dusk, we would put the boards up, grab a T-shirt and travel to one of the local hang outs to sweep the floors, clean dishes, put up beach umbrellas, straighten tables, or do any chore to earn some money.  A few dollars were gathered. Every teenager at the beach worked this way. These dollars would be collected and be enough to get some food and drink for the night.

Next to the bridge, leading to the ocean was a bait shop. It was a dark little cinder block building with a sandy floor. It was always packed with ice and cool.  The smell of fish filled the nostrils. This was the shop for fishermen. There was a large selection of alcohol. We’d buy beer-by-the-case.

Though underage, Whitey and I would approach the owner and ask for beer. We would place the money on the counter when no one else was in the building and point to the case we wanted. We would grab the case and leave without a word said. The cash register would ring up the purchase. We always gave more money than the price, but that was the deal. I always thought that I looked older than everyone else, so the owner accepted my age. I was growing a beard that showed before the fair-haired cousin did. I never showed an ID.

Back on the beach, as night fell, a pit would be hand dug. The local kids would fan out searching the beach for firewood. Others would bring food and drink. There was always enough to go around. In the blaze of the fire light, crabs, fish, and marshmallows were the meal of the day. Even the crusty burnt supper of fish and burgers cooked over the open fire, flipped hand to hand to cool was nourishment. And we washed it all down with warm beer.

The Wilmington teens would sit around the fire and regale at the day’s activities. What great wave came, the new bathing suits, the problems with parents. Someone would bring a guitar and we would all sing; folk songs mostly. As the night went on and fire died down, couples would split to the sand dunes. Giggling could be heard in the distance drowned by the roar of the ocean.

Whitey did not have a girlfriend. He was a loner. He was always brooding and alone.  I never figured out the reason because he was athletic, popular and fairly good-looking. He did get a Mohawk bleached haircut and had to wear a hat around the family who disapproved. There was some history between him and cousin Liz.

I had met a girl who played guitar and sang. Cathy (Coco) Richards. We called her “Cookie”. She was tall, with dark hair and deep eyes. She was quiet around others, but when she sang, she tore at the hearts of all. She was Whitey’s classmate in school

Cookie and I spent the summer together. Talking on the beach, playing in the surf, sitting by the fire. There was never any thought of us being a couple. Whitey, Cookie and I became the summer’s trio. It was 1962.

Hula Girl (cml, 1964)

 

When to the lu-ow the other night

and for some reason I took my wife

We had fried squid, octopus, and pie

then I caught out of the corner of my eye...a

 

         Hula Girl

         oh yeah, a Hula Girl

 

 She danced on the floor, on the table, and then

She came back to dance again

I was fascinated by her eyes and hips

Hopefully wishing of making one slip...from me

 

         Hula Girl

         oh yeah, a Hula Girl

 

Since my wife has gone away

With my Hula Girl, I will stay

When she shimmies, I give out a grin

in Hawaiian, this means: "friend" ... to my

 

         Hula Girl

         oh yeah, a Hula Girl

 

When I started to make an advance

she decided to stop her dance

suddenly, I received a blast

I read a sign that said, "Keep Off The Grass" ...of the

 

         Hula Girl

         oh year, the Hula Girl

 

As the summer came to an end, Cookie and I went to the dunes. We lay under the stars and touched each other then ran naked into the ocean to wash away our guilty pleasures. It was quiet and free. I will never forget. Cookie and I wrote her that winter. We talked about our experiences in school and friends we had met. We never discussed our encounter.

She had twins less than a year later. Whitey flew me down to the hospital to see her smile in the hospital. They were not mine. It was my first fear of fatherhood.

We never saw each other after that. She died of cancer.

The last long visit with Whitey, he got me a part-time job at a lifeguard at the Hanover Beach Club.  I had gotten my certification at the country club so I got the chance to sit on top of a wooden tower in a pith helmet with a whistle, a megaphone, a canteen, a life ring, binoculars, a first aid kit and white stuff on my nose while the rest of me got burnt. No sunglasses.  In the morning I gather some umbrellas and prop them up on the tower. In the evening, I gather them up and put them back in the clubhouse, plus pick up trash. I could blow the whistle and wave for people to come back closer to shore. Did learned how to swim under a drowning person and grab them from behind around the waist and under the shoulder to swim them back to shore without both of us going under. There was basic CPR and a beach towel on a wooden tower with a pith helmet, whistle and binoculars (no sunglasses) but mostly the job was giving directions and being a babysitter.  A white jeep would ride by every so often to check on the lifeguards.  The biggest adventure was when a Portuguese Man o’ War floated up on the beach.  We had to tape off the area and get a rake to scrape up the tentacles that can give a venomous shock. While we were dealing with one, another one floated by clearing the water. This was pre-Jaws.

Whitey’s biggest adventure with me was being stowaways. We went down to the Cape Fear River and walked onto a cargo ship. We were just looking for something to do and once below deck started exploring. We’d hide whenever we heard someone else. We got tired and fell asleep in the hole. We awoke with the ship moving. We rationalized it was just moving down the dock or worst-case scenario, would be moving down the coastal waterway where we could jump ship.  We were wrong.

This ship was going out to sea. The crew scurrying around quickly found us. We were taken to the wheelhouse. Remember we were early teens. We could be keelhauled? We could walk the plank? We were too far away from shore so we were put to work. Washing dishes, moving boxes, scrubbing the decks with wire brushes and anything else they could think of between our seasickness. We didn’t know if the captain radioed our names or not but we were passengers on this ship. We had a place set aside to sleep and were fed after the crew. We docked in England after what seemed years. Without a passport or even any identification we snuck away from the ship and started exploring Europe. No maps, no money, we wandered around.  We boarded buses and trains with no tickets; we walked for miles and met people who didn’t understand us so we used hand signals. Some fed us (probably out of pity) and some chased us away. When the rain came, we tried to backtrack to the ship but wasn’t sure which one it was. One of the crew recognized us wandering the docks and got us back to a dry warm spot. We were done with our searching about and were ready to get back home. We had gotten our sea legs on the return venture and the ocean seemed calmer. We docked back in downtown Wilmington and were released to our own recognizance. We walked down to my grandmother’s house like it was just yesterday.

The family jumped all over us but they were glad to see we were safe. Do not try this at home.

Otherwise, we’d hang out at the Sneeden’s scraping barnacles from the bottom of his boats, then go walk out surfboards to the ocean to shoot the pier and scrap barnacles with out bodies. He was wilder than I was, but I followed along.

WALKING THE BOARD (arranged by cml, 1965)

 

Baby Jack, all dressed in black

Big number "one" on his back

I know cause I saw it so

Walkin' the board, and look at him go

         Walkin' the board, just a walkin' the board

         If you don't know how to do it

         I'll show you how to walk the board.

 

Ask my mayter for one-oh-five

Hardly time to stay alive

Took some time to shoot the sky

Won't start out til the fourth of July

         Walkin' the board, just a walkin' the board

         If you don't know how to do it

         I'll show you how to walk the board.

Mary, Mary woke the dairy

From midnight until five

With a waxed-up board and a set of jams

Best one on this side, for walking the board

         Walkin' the board, just a walkin' the board

         If you don't know how to do it

         I'll show you how to walk the board.

 

 

Mom

 

My mother was born in 1915 in Wilmington. She grew up in a house that was producing babies. Her mother was always pregnant. Her father was changing jobs constantly. Running a lumber yard was the final occupation of “Mr. Mac”. He came to the first marriage with two children, but Mammaw didn’t mind. She did what she needed to keep a man. She did what she needed to do to keep the family together.

Mom grew up with a large family. She was the eldest, so she had to take responsibility for the others. She changed the diapers, she cleaned the house, and she did whatever chores were needed. She didn’t ask. She drove one of the first trucks without a license.

My mother had crow black hair and clear fair skin. She would splash in a one-piece suit at the beach with her family. She held her family dear. It was all she had.

Good at school and enjoying penmanship, she held to the family. No clubs or hobbies. Just singing.

Mom was a singer. She picked up singing from the family and church. She enjoyed the beach dance parties of the time and rumor has it she invented the ‘shag’ dance steps.  She hoped for a future away from the small town of Wilmington. She wanted to venture beyond the small town in North Carolina. She wanted to see the world. She was captured in a small backwater town with little education and no skill training in North Carolina.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dad’s family

 

The surname Leftwich was first found in Cheshire where they held a family seat as Lords of the Manor. After the Battle of Hastings in 1066, William, Duke of Normandy, having prevailed over King Harold, granted most of Britain to his many victorious Barons. It was not uncommon to find a Baron, or a Bishop, with 60 or more Lordships scattered throughout the country. These he gave to his sons, nephews and other junior lines of his family and they became known as under-tenants. They adopted the Norman system of surnames which identified the under-tenant with his holdings so as to distinguish him from the senior stem of the family. After many rebellious wars between his Barons, Duke William, commissioned a census of all England to determine in 1086, settling once and for all, who held which land. He called the census the Domesday Book, 1 indicating that those holders registered would hold the land until the end of time. Hence, conjecturally, the surname is descended from the tenant of the lands of Lestwich, held by Richard de Vernon, a Norman Baron, who was recorded in the Domesday Book census of 1086. Lestwich was a large village on the banks of the river Dane notable for its Lea Grange Farm.

 

Leftwich Spelling Variations

Spelling variations of this family name include: Lestwich, Leftwich, Lestwick, Leftwick, Lestwiche, Leftwicke, Lesswich, Lesswick, Leastwich, Leastwick, Leffick and many more.

 

The Leftwich family came from Cheshire, England, where they had a large estate called Leftwich Hall, situated about a mile from Leftwich, Cheshire.  It stood on a hill in the midst of a park about 500 yards from the high road and 300 yards on the other side of the River Dane From the hill is a fine view of the hills of Derbyshire. The original site of the Leftwich Hall was torn down in 1817 and replaced by a farmhouse, but the estate is still known as Leftwich Green and what was Leftwich Manor or village is now called Davenham for the River Daven, which runs between Northwich and Davenham. 

 

All of this area is undermined with salt beds, and in Roman ties the people pumped out the salt water from the Salt Lake and boiled it down in lead pans inside little houses called “wiches.”  Those living on the left side of the river who had salt wishes were called “Leftwich.”

Excavations in the area revealed not only evidences of Roman occupation, but proof that the district had been the hunting round of nomadic rides of the Stone Age.  In the Domesday Book there is an accurate description of the Cheshire wiches and of the laws governing the salt trade at that period. 

The word “wich” meant a flowing spring or well of salt water, not salt itself.  The town of Northwich in 1719 was entirely occupied by rows and rows of small wich-houses, all busily making salt from brine obtained from a wonderful brine well on Sheath Street.

Apparently, all of the great country families and the local nobility had wich-houses of their own, where salt was made for them and their retainers, for we find such well-known Cheshire families as the Wilbrahams, Leycesters, Tableys, Stanleys, Leftwiches, Winningtons, Starkeys, Shakerleys, with the Earls of Derby and Bridgewater, and two owned by King James for the Royal Household.  

During the early part of the 17th century, Northwich was visited by the great plague, and Witton churchyard became overcrowded by burials, and many residents were buried in their own gardens.  Following the plague was the great Civil War, when Northwich became the centre of fighting and bloodshed.  Witton Church

 

St Helen Witton Church, Northwich was occupied in turn by both Cromwellians and Royalists, who burned the parish registers, smashed the beautiful stained-glass windows, and used the aisles and nave for living quarters for themselves and their horses.  

There were once many houses of great historic interest in Northwich and environs, but few traces remain.  Shipbrook Castle, Val Royal Abbey, the ancient Norman castle of Castle Hill, and Leftwich Hall, the residence of the ancient family of Leftwich, have all practical vanished.  Leftwich Hall was similar in its fine half-timbered work to Moreton and other celebrated Cheshire Halls of this period.

 

Ver Non-Semper Floret: Spring Does Not Bloom

Ralph Leftwich was the immigrant ancestor from whom the family descends.  He was born about 1628 and patented 300 acres of land on the Peanketank River in New Kent County, Virginia on August 10, 1658, “the said land been due unto the said Ralph Leftwich by and for the transportation of six persons into this Colony.”  The Patent was renewed to him October 18, 1662.  

 

On August 17, 1663, John Wise was granted a certificate for 200 acres of land for transporting to Virginia four people, named Ellinor Leftwich, Richard Ingram, John Glenn and W.M. Watson.  Ralph and Ellinor (possibly his wife) are the only Leftwich emigrants to Virginia so far discovered.  Unfortunately, all of the records of New Kent County before 1860 were destroyed by the Federal Army during the American Civil War, so it has been impossible to discover all of Ralph Leftwich’s children and their descendants.  However, records show that he had at least one son, who remained in Virginia, and had a family, namely Thomas Leftwich, Sr.

Thomas Leftwich, Sr was born about 1660-70 and died about 1730 in Caroline County, Virginia. His first wife was Elizabeth, daughter of John Rosier Sr. of Westmoreland County.  She had no children and died between November 25, 1700 and January 1702. He then married Mary North, daughter of Augustine and Dorothy North of Ware Parish, Gloucester County Virginia in about 1706-7.  His third wife was Sarah, who after his death, married William Herndon of Caroline County, and apparently had no children.   Mary’s children were

·                Mary, born about 1708 and mentioned in the will of her grandmother, Mrs. Dorothy Henry, formerly Mrs. Dorothy North.

·                Thomas Jr., who was born about 1710, and the King William County branch of the family probably descend from him.

·                Augustine, who was born about 1712-1715, in New Kent, now Caroline County, and died in 1795.  His first wife may have been Mary Moxley, and his second wife was Mrs. Elizabeth Stovall, widow of John Stovall, by whom he had no children. 

Augustine’s children by Mary Moxley were:

1.             Colonel William– Captain in the Colonial Wars and Colonel in the Revolutionary War.

2.             Colonel Thomas– Captain in the Revolutionary War and later Colonel of Militia.

3.             Major Augustine Jr– Captain in the Revolutionary War and later a Major in the Virginia Militia.

4.             Captain Uriah- Ensign in the Revolutionary War and later a Captain of Militia.

5.             Captain John– Sergeant in the Revolutionary War and later Captain in the Virginia Militia.

6.             Colonel Littleberry– Major in the War of 1812 and later Colonel in the Virginia Militia.

7.             General Joel– Captain in the Revolutionary War, Brigadier General in the War of 1812 and elected Major General of the Virginia Militia in 1822 by the General Assembly of Virginia.

8.             Colonel Jabez- Colonel in the Revolutionary War, (some debate recently) that he was promoted to Brigadier General in the War of 1812, but was elected Major General of the Virginia Militia in 1822, and represented his district in the US Congress for two terms.  His daughter, Mary, married Joshua Early and they were the parents of Bishop John Early, and ancestors of other distinguished descendants. 

9.             Frances Leftwich + Merrriman Carter

10.         Mary Leftwich + Joshua Early Sr.

11.         Nancy Leftwich + James Pettross

12.         Rebecca Leftwich + Charles Moorman

In 1751, Augustine Leftwich moved his wife and children to the part of Lunenburg County from which Bedford was formed two years later.  He was a sergeant in the French and Indian Wars in 1758, and upon his return took an active part in the political and civic affairs of Bedford County from its formation until his death. The earliest reference to him in Bedford County is dated September 26, 1760 and says in part: “For divers’ reasons we do grant unto Augustine Leftwich one certain tract of land in the Colony of Virginia, containing 212 acres in Bedford, lying on both sides of David’s Creek, a North Creek of Staunton River.” Signed Francis Fauquier, Lt. Governor of Virginia, Williamsburg.

Members of the Leftwich family have held prominent offices not only in Virginia, but in practically every southern state.  In Virginia, three of the name are known to have served in the Colonial Wars, ten in the War of 1812, 51 in various capacities in the Civil War, and 19 in WWI.

 

 

My father’s father’s house in Wilmington was a dark, dank building (around the corner from the McIver house). Next-door was the Paul T. Marshburn grocery store (now a bodega), the row house of brick and stone stood for years on Chestnut Street. He was a Grocery Wholesaler and deacon in the Baptist Church. His wife, Mary E. Dixon, died a year before I was born. An elderly man with white hair, a droopy mustache would greet us through the screen door. Inside, the furniture was large and dark and there was a smell, musty smell; the smell of old. I followed my father past the living room into the dining room and the kitchen. The back porch held the light to guide us. The back of the house faced the elementary school my mother and father attended. Tobacco plugs punctuated a small dirt yard.

My father and his father would talk quietly about matters while I sat gazing at the old pictures and drapes. Everything in the house was dark. The wallpaper, the curtains, the hallways were all dark and moldy. There was an upstairs, but I never ventured there. We never stayed long. We never ate there.

Dad was born on April 28, 1905 in Wilmington, NC. He died on December 04, 1977. His father was a religious person and his mother was a stern demanding person.

He had an older brother, Bill (1897-1957). Bill had mumps as a baby and was thus infertile. Bill moved to Florida, got married three times and died. Uncle Bill is buried in the family plot.

 

Dad

 

Dad never felt close to his family. He had a buster brown haircut when he was young. He wore knickers. He was thin and pale. He had a large nose.

His mother was a strict taskmaster. She was in every organization in town. Her stern discipline drove my uncle Bill away to Florida to never be seen again. Bill was thirteen years older than my dad and the two didn’t seem to get along. It was said he tried to drown his younger brother in the ocean, so dad never went swimming. Uncle Bill worked for the railroad. Dad never talked of his brother.

My father learned the trumpet and violin in school. It would carry him into the future. He played in the school band. He would form a local band to play at the beach for dances. He enjoyed the attention.

Dad knew how to “schmooze”. He learned how to make the best with what he had.

 

My father was not the best student in school, but he went on to the university. At the time, Duke (Trinity College) was an upper school. Not quite a college or university, but a higher school of learning.

He took Duke as a party. He created a dance band for parties. He led the marching band for football games. This got him attention with the women. This also taught him responsibility.

One football game, the band marched out on the field. They were probably playing “Blue and White”, Duke’s fight song written by my father. The mascot of the university was a “Blue Devil”, a guy with a blue suit, cape, horns, and a pitchfork. He would run out on the field and throw the pitchfork into the air. With the roar of the crowd the pitchfork would stab the dirt up the field. Unfortunately, this game was different. The pitchfork landed in the back of one of the marching band members. A medical crew rushed out on the field and placed the poor soul on a stretcher. With the pitchfork still sticking out of his back, he was taken from the field to the cheers of the crowd who thought it was part of the game. This is how my father grew up.

After many years in college, traveling to England but being exported for being too rowdy, my father decided he wanted more. He dusted off his tuxedo and gathered his college dance band. He decided to go “on-the-road”. With nothing to lose, the others gathered their belongings and grabbed a school bus. A piano player, trombone, guitar, drummer, trumpet, saxophone, and bass became his band. “Lee Dixon” was on the move. All that was needed was a hook.... a girl singer. 

 

My father had become semi-famous in Wilmington. He had gone to college and played music. He came to the beach dances and impressed the crowds with his style and finesse. He was the conductor. He was the leader of a band. He was still a Southern gentleman.

After asking my mother to sing at a dance one night, he went to her house. He asked her father if the 18-year-old girl could go with him on the road with his band to sing. Since he was older, and wiser, and had been to college, and she had no future in Wilmington, and had a beautiful voice, which needed to be heard. Mr. Mac agreed.

 

 

 

Lee Dixon

My father decided to change the name of the band from Jelly Leftwich (who everyone knew) to ‘Lee Dixon’ to represent the south. They traveled up and down the east coast and then went to Chicago. They made some recordings that were later lost. They had some glamor photos taken. They rubbed elbows with some of the top names in the business. Unfortunately, this was during the depression.

Mom got married to a trombone player in 1936. It didn’t last long for she married my dad in Plattsmouth, Nebraska in 1939.

The band moved back east and when the war broke out, members were drafted for service and the band broke up.

 

Back to Wilmington

After brief visits to the Leftwich house, my father would take me to the corner store. Paul T. was a friend and helped to keep an eye on my grandfather. His store was open in the front and side. Flies were always buzzing around the produce. The back of the store held the iced down meat and fish. A large black man in a bloody apron would cut whatever customers requested. He also stocked the shelves and ran the cash register. A single cash register kept track of the daily purchases. Paul T. would keep a close eye on the register and customers to ensure everyone got what was requested and left happy. He often called customers by name. He would direct a small, black boy to carry the bags home for the women, then hurry back for more chores. The floor was covered with sawdust, peanut shells, and dirt. A large fan tried to keep the heat down, but dust and dirt and flies stirred up to the ceiling. Women in large bonnets came in carrying knitted bags. They would squeeze fruit and smell each item. At the checkout the prices were rounded off. Some paid from their bags and others put the bills on tabs. 

 

My father and Paul T. would retire to his office in the back corner. The walls were covered with celebrity photos, signed with personal messages to Paul T. He was the local booking agent for the North Carolina area. Everyone, who was in entertainment, covered the walls of Paul T.’s office. There was a picture of my mother and father when they were on the music circuit, dad in his tux and mom looking smart with dark lipstick.

Dad, after he left Wilmington and didn’t make it in the music world, went on to work the club circuit with connections from the music. He worked the beach club, then the country club and finally an exclusive men’s club. He knew the movers and the shakers of this town, and they knew him. He established himself at the Baptist Church and the Richmond Country Club. He joined the Kiwanis Club, with their Friday night Travelogs at the Mosque, for his community resume. He helped cater dinners and became a toastmaster.

He traveled to Club Manager’s conventions and brought back weird gifts like a straw sombrero or a carved coconut head.

He did get rewarded for his duty at Duke University as the first music director with a diner and a presentation of a golden trumpet.

Mom would go along with her furs and jewelry to revel in the attention.

 

Grandfather Leftwich

My father’s father became increasingly ill and dad decided to bring him to Richmond into an assisted care facility. My brother went down to pick him up with dad, but I didn’t know anything about it.

When my father’s father died, there was never anything said. Dad left for a few days and came back. I believe he left Paul T. to sell the house and all the belongings.  Later, on another visit to Wilmington, the family drove to a gravesite. There was a plot for the Leftwich family. It was all prepared and neatly trimmed. My father would be buried there next to his father, mother and brother.

 

 

North Carolina battleship

Wilmington holds a battleship that is unique. The “North Carolina” was sent up the Cape Fear River for a tourist attraction. The vast wooden decks and guns bring reality to what World War II must have been. Traveling inside the dark interior and up and down the cramped stairways brings a feeling of being in the war. Unfortunately, the battleship being positioned in a docking area rammed and sank the popular Fergus Ark seafood restaurant on the Cape Fear River. It was a great place to get hush puppies.

Wilmington held my family’s past. A generation was created there. Smooth jazz played on the trumpet by a tall thin man attending the new college of Duke and soft singing lass in summer dresses and large eyes. Black close-cropped hair and ruby lips. They would grow together to become a family. They would travel to the end of a search for fame, only to find failure. They would create a family out of lust and mistakes. They would live and die the American dream of the 50’s. They would never reach their goals. They would leave place in time for their children and grandchildren.

 

Gah

In the mid 60’s, my parents thought it would be a good idea to leave a friend and me at the beach for a week. Joel and I were shipped down to a beach club/ hotel and left for a week. A single room with no air-conditioning or room service and two twin beds. We brought a few T-shirts, shorts, swimsuits, sneakers, socks, and a sweatshirt. A guitar and paper were always attached incase a song came along. Cliff and/or Joe would spend a week together at the old hang out.

Since Wrightsville Beach is a family beach, and most families were getting ready for school, the sand was empty of human companions, with one exception. Gah.

Don’t know what her name was, but Gah became our daily focus. A tall, slender girl, who we nicknamed Gah, would come to the beach every day. She would stretch out on a beach towel in front of us and sunbathe. Sometimes the top would be undone. After a while, she would get up and run into the ocean. After a quick dip, she would slowly shimmy back to her towel, dry off, and leave. Walking past us she would drip ocean breeze mixed with sand.

We sat in silence and watched in awe.

 

Chapter Five - Richmond

 

The move to Richmond, as I remember it, was exciting. I didn’t know what was happening.  It was 1954, so I was six. We left our dusty little house at Keswick and moved to the big city. We stayed in the old Rutgers Hotel the first night. Room service, big beds, overlooking the State Capitol was great. Got lost in the big hotel. Enjoyed riding the elevator. Tired after the long drive to Richmond in a little blue Nash Ambassador.

As usual, everything was well planned by my father, so there were no anxious moments. No on-the-spot decisions. The conductor orchestrated everything.

This became my hometown. I still live here. It’s no better or worse than any other ville or burg. It’s not too big or too little. The neighbors still wave and say “Hi”. The city provides services like water, gas, trash removal, police and fire service.

This wasn’t the first time my namesakes had been to Richmond. The family lived in Powhatan County where they sold guano, but my great grandfather was called into Richmond to join the Second Company, Richmond Howitzer, Co K, 1sr Regt. He surrendered at Appomattox and returned to Richmond to work as a clerk until he died two years later of cholera. He is buried at the Shockoe Cemetery in Richmond.

 

This was a town founded when Captain Christopher Newport first led English explorers in 1607 to the site later named Richmond after a suburb of London, England. Until that time, Indian tribes of the Powhatan Confederacy had lived in the region.

Richmond was founded in 1737 by Colonel William Byrd II. He inherited the former Stegg lands on both sides of the James River from his father and became known himself as the “Father of Richmond.” He visited there in 1733 and planned to build a city. Four years later, his friend William Mayo developed a map of Richmond and the first lots were sold. Richmond became a town in 1742. In early 1780, the State Capitol was temporarily moved to Richmond from Williamsburg at the request of the General Assembly. In May of 1782, Richmond was incorporated as a city and officially became Virginia’s new capital. On July 19 of that same year, Richmond’s first City Charter was legalized.

In 1775, Patrick Henry delivered his famous “Give me liberty, or give me death” speech in Richmond's St. John’s Church, greatly influencing Virginia's participation in the First Continental Congress and the course of the American Revolution. On April 18, 1780, the state capital was moved from Williamsburg to Richmond, providing a more centralized location for Virginia's increasing western population and theoretically isolating the capital from a British attack from the coast. In 1781, Loyalist troops led by Benedict Arnold led a raid on Richmond and burnt it, leading Governor Thomas Jefferson to flee while the Virginia militia, led by Sampson Mathews, unsuccessfully defended the city.

Patrick Henry delivered his “Liberty or Death” speech at St. John’s Church in Richmond, helping to ignite the American Revolution.

Richmond recovered quickly from the war, thriving within a year of its burning. In 1786, the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom, drafted by Thomas Jefferson, was enacted, separating church and state and advancing the legal principle for freedom of religion in the United States. In 1788, the Virginia State Capitol, designed by Jefferson and Charles-Louis Clérisseau in the Greek Revival style, was completed.

Five days after the Confederate attack on Fort Sumter, the Virginia legislature voted to secede from the United States and join the newly-created Confederate States of America on April 17, 1861. The action became official in May, after the Confederacy promised to move its national capital to Richmond from Montgomery, Alabama.

Richmond held local, state and national Confederate government offices, hospitals, a railroad hub, and one of the largest slave markets. It also had the largest Confederate arms factory, the Tredegar Iron Works. The factory produced artillery and other munitions, including heavy ordnance machinery and the 723 tons of armor plating that covered the CSS Virginia, the world’s first ironclad ship used in war. The Confederate States Congress shared quarters in the Jefferson-designed Virginia State Capitol with the Virginia General Assembly. The Confederacy’s executive mansion, known as the “White House of the Confederacy,” was two blocks away on Clay Street.

On March 25, Confederate General John B. Gordon’s desperate attack on Fort Stedman, east of Petersburg, failed. On April 1, Union Cavalry General Philip Sheridan, assigned to interdict the Southside Railroad, met brigades commanded by Southern General George Pickett at the Five Forks Junction, defeated them, took thousands of prisoners, and advised Union General-in-Chief Ulysses S. Grant to order a general advance. When the Union Sixth Corps broke through Confederate lines on the Boydton Plank Road south of Petersburg, Confederate casualties exceeded 5,000, about a tenth of Lee’s defending army. Lee then informed President Jefferson Davis that he intended to evacuate Richmond.

On April 2, 1865, the Confederate Army began Richmond’s evacuation. Confederate President Davis and his cabinet, Confederate government archives, and its treasury's gold, left the city that night by train. Confederate officials burned documents and troops burned tobacco and other warehouses to deny the Union any spoils. In the early morning of April 3, Confederate troops exploded the city's gunpowder magazine, killing several paupers in a temporary Almshouse and igniting raging fires. Later that day, General Godfrey Weitzel, commander of the 25th Corps of the United States Colored Troops, accepted Richmond's surrender from the mayor and a group of leading citizens who did not evacuate. Union troops eventually contained the fires, but about 25% of the city's buildings were destroyed.

Not much has changed in my neighborhood. I live four blocks from where I grew up. The houses are the same. The yards are cut and every fourth of July flags fly from the porches. The lights go out around 9 P.M. On the weekends, there is the smell of outdoor grills and the sound of beach music, or country, or light jazz. The music turns down at sunset. New families have replaced our parents whose children have left home. They raise a new set of tricycle riding kids. Families still walk their dogs down the middle of the streets and wave in the morning as we read the newspaper while having coffee.

All the schools I attended were within walking distance. Even college was a few miles away. The buses ran every hour downtown. The dentist lived across the street. The doctor was only a phone call away and he came to the house. Milk used to be delivered every morning. The newspaper still arrives on the doorstep if you subscribe.

The city’s politics are as slow and boring as the town itself. ‘40 acres and a mule never happened in reconstruction’ didn’t happen here. No feature, just a copy of other, bigger cities with industries, sports, and a recognizable historical name surviving on tobacco. It is a sleepy river city only concerned about liquor by the drink and keeping the coloreds in their place. To become bigger, it annexes the suburbs. Then it divided itself by two major highways, 95 North and 64 West.

Today, there are more restaurants, movie houses, shopping malls, and entertainment events. The variety of cultures has grown and become familiar, but Richmond is still a backward quiet town that will not change quickly.

Richmond still floods when the James River fills with the spring rains. The snow falls but it is never very deep or stays very long. The summers are hot and humid, but the spring and fall bring the soft clouds. The streets are cleaned twice a year. The police patrol the streets and the fire truck is quick to arrive. There is a bar on every corner and a hospital a few blocks away. Diversity in food is as healthy as the diversity in religion. The tourist destination of the Capitol of the Confederacy has faded and the Civil War monuments removed.

Richmond is not a bad place to live. I know the good parts of town. I avoid the bad parts of town. There is crime and parades and marathons and churches and theaters and schools and hospitals and a local newspaper. The commonwealth’s legislation is done here. The governor lives here. Trash is picked up on Monday. Richmond is familiar. Richmond is my hometown.

 

 

Chapter Six - 4101 Patterson Avenue

This 2-story brick house with the slate roof built in 1926 when the city was expanding was where I would grow up. Stairway to the right inside the front door, open back porch, living room, dining room, kitchen, three bed rooms, bathroom upstairs, and 1/2 bath downstairs.  A utility room off the kitchen, with a second back door that would not open and a huge electric exhaust fan. These rooms are etched in memories. They hold smells, tastes, laughs and sorrows.

This was the house I played on the carpet steps when a dump truck overturned in front of our house, crushing the driver. These are the rooms where I listened and learn to love music. These are the rooms I came back to after leaving for college and having my own apartment. These are the rooms I dreaded after my father died. These are the rooms that held me safe and warm and dry for nearly twenty years.

The ground was hard and dry around the house. Mom had a little patch for some roses. Dad had a little shed in the back for tools and paint. There was a hammock and a ping-pong table and a makeshift rack to hold two aluminum trash cans. Bushes kept out the noise and the dust from the side street and the alley. All the bushes were sparse and full of bees. Grass grew as mostly as weeds. The house was perched on the corner of two busy thoroughfares. The house was above street level with sloped 45-degree angles that became impossible to cut with a push mower. These sloped walls helped save the house from one misguided accident that left a car halfway up the hill. After a car ran into our black Ford Fairlane parked next to the house, dad had a two-car cement patio parking space laid out in the backyard. Put up a basketball hoop but was rarely used.

In front of the house was a bus stop. Dad would go to work from there. A huge tree was next to the bus stop. It would continue to grow and move the sidewalk and the steps leading up to the house. One night, traveling to another county, a carload full of us drove west on Patterson to a vision of flashing lights from fire trucks and this tree on fire from a car crash. An eerie sight. All kind of thoughts went through my head that night.

The mail came every weekday at 3PM. To mail a letter was to put it under the lid and the postman would pick it up or walk down to the next block to a post office box.

A couple of blocks away was a small grocery store. Not a wide selection but a great butcher. Next to it was a pharmacy with comic books. Across the street was a 5&Dime with all sorts of things.

A couple of blocks in the other direction was the Bohannon’s Filling Station. The car was always taken there for an attendant pump the gas, check the oil and wash the windshield. The only other station used for parking for church on Sunday was Carroll’s on Park Ave.

The fire station was less than a mile away and the hydrant was across the street. My dentist office was across the street.

The newspaper was delivered twice a day and milk was delivered once a week. Trash removal was every Monday. Leaves could be raked in piles by the sidewalk and burned.

Grocery shopping was at the A&P on Cary Street. Loved the smell of grinding coffee. At the top of the hill was a pony ride where small kids could be plopped on a pony and walked around in a circle. A live marry-go-round. Across the street was the first hamburger grill where a plastic toy was given with every meal. A Colonial, then a Safeway (and later the much-loved Ukrop’s) grocery. On the corner was a Standard Drug store with live animals in the basement. In between the two buildings was a lot converted to a small go-cart track, trampolines, a kiddie fair and a vacant lot.

The plaster walls were covered with flowered wallpaper. I remember the dining room, the only room the family gathered for any length of time. A large mirror was screwed into the wall above the sideboard. Across from it was a glass hutch, which held the silver bowls and plates my mother won at golf tournaments. My father always sat at the head of the table that would open with leaves hidden behind the hutch. He would say ‘grace’ before we could eat. He carved the turkey once a year with a special carving set in a private box with a fork and sharpening wand. Mom would wear her apron and sit at the other end of the table. Coffee in hand, she would constantly get up and move to the kitchen to get another something. The table would hold platters of food. A typical dinner was meat loaf, mashed potatoes, bread & butter, wooden bowls for salads (always French dressing) and milk. Meals were the centerpiece for the family gatherings, but little conversation was had. I sat near the door for a quick escape if questions were directed to me. Still would have to ask permission to leave the table.

The kitchen had all the latest appliances that were shown off to visitors. Gas stove had an exhaust hood. The refrigerator was ‘frost free’. Magnets on the refrigerator door held ‘stimulating thoughts’ cut out from the newspaper or written down from the daily Paul Harvey show on the radio. Silence is Golden, Speech is Silver. On that radio I first heard Tennessee Ernie Ford’s ’16 Tons’ and Jimmy Dean’s ‘Big Bad John’. A black table (from the club) held the portable television, ashtrays, and coffee urn. Heavy dishes (again from the club) were quickly hand washed and stored after every meal. There were few spices or cutting of vegetables (corn was shucked and green beans opened in the backyard).  Meat was precut or delivered cooked (from the club) and hamburgers were made into meatloaf. There were no outdoor grills or hot dogs (except at the beach and I’d get sick). The window over the sink would face the barren yard and the taller magnolia tree. There were no yard critters except bees.

The dining room was where the newspaper was read in the morning. The dining room was where the cake was cut for birthday parties. The dining room was where the spread (provided by the club) was placed for visitors to partake at the holidays.

Before my brother went off to college, the family gathering spot became the back porch, which had been enclosed in aluminum siding and wood grained wallboard. Television and TV trays.

The upstairs bedrooms were divided between my parent’s bedroom and my brothers and my room. My brother and I had the large room for a while. There had been a handicap person living there who required a nurse. A buzzer on the wall ran to the utility room. It did not work anymore.

Our room had two twin beds and a desk. The eves held closets for trunks, suitcases, and Christmas decorations. Later they would hold silver and shells.

The bathroom had a shower with a glass sliding door. The walls were tiled and there was an extension mirror for shaving. It was pink and black.

The front door had a mezuzah so it must have been a Jewish family living here before us. The house was built in 1946.

The attic held the Christmas decorations and required a ladder and a corded utility light. It was hot and stuffy to climb over the beams. There are probably secrets still left up there.

 

Christmas

Every Christmas filled the living room with presents and a lighted tree. The fireplace, which didn’t work and would later hold a gas heater, would be wrapped in lights reflecting in the wall-to-wall mirror.  We boys would have to wait at the top of the steps until our parents let us downstairs to see if Santa had eaten his cookies and drank his milk. One year the big gift was a cardboard tank for me, one year it was a fur coat and electric organ for mom, one year it was a car for my brother. There was always Christmas, and always a big present for every member of the family. Also, the usual socks, underwear, ties, etc. This was my families’ Christmas tradition. Don’t forget to decorate the front door and put lights on the magnolia tree out back. After the wrapping paper was thrown away, all the goodies were stacked under the tinsel covered tree to display the wealth for visitors. 

 

Once all the family Christmas duties were done, we scattered to friends’ houses to see what loot they got. There was no nativity or evening religious service.

 

Dinner

The porch became the new dining room. The backdoor was also the entrance to the house. The side walkway leading up to the back porch was the entrance.

TV tables were everywhere. A 19” television in the corner was always on. A vinyl sofa was placed at one wall with a swag lamp over it. The painted brick backed a single swivel chair (dedicated from the club). Ashtrays covered a corner cabinet filled with crossword puzzles, daily papers, paper towels, and scraps of tissues.  This was the room where all the activity was to be held. This was the room that my father tried to have a “birds and bees” talk to me while I was tripping. This was the room of the “blue light” make-out parties.

As my brother grew older, he moved downstairs to his own bedroom, I moved across the hall to my own bedroom, and Mom and Dad moved into the large bedroom. The doors were thin and noise was blocked out by television.

The living room was reserved for guests. An electric organ filled one corner and the sofa fit under the front window. Two large round back chairs from the club framed the open portal into the dining room. The fireplace had a gas heater installed, but I don’t remember it being used. The stairs leading upstairs were carpeted. The entire downstairs was wall-to-wall carpeted. White.

 

Brother

My brother was in Middle School when our family moved to Richmond. He was a big, burly guy with black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Heavy set with few friends, he was not one to look up to. His room was decorated with a desk, bed, and a portable tube Motorola phonograph that weighted a ton. He grew up in the Elvis era, but did not have the long ducktail. Instead, he kept his hair short. He had a bomb in his bedroom. I don’t know where it came from, probably an uncle, but there it was. Sitting straight and tall and hollow (thank goodness). We painted that thing several times.

 

My brother, during this time. was in the Boy Scouts through the church. This was the thing to do for boys of his age. He excelled in the scouts and attended a jamboree. He held proudly the sashes of merit badges. Good practice for the college ROTC and the Air Force.

I followed him into the scouts, but did not have the same fervor for it.

He didn’t bring his professional baseball sport skills to Richmond, but did get a high school letter. Seems he was a water boy for one of the real teams.  

My brother also had a fascination with weapons. Somehow, he received a 22-caliber rifle. He would clean and clean that rifle. I remember the smell of oil. Later, he would get a German Mauser with large shells and a mighty recoil. He would go out to the county and shoot targets on a large dirt pile in the Lost City. Both weapons were bolt-action carbines. I had a lever action BB gun.

I learned how to point and fire a bolt-action carbine at camp. I figured out the distance and angle to hold the rifle to get a bullseye even though I couldn’t see it. The same held true for archery.

Parents of the 50’s would send their children to day camp during the summer. Day camp children were exposed to poison ivy, baseball, snakes, and woodwork, metal pounding astray, archery, swimming in murky lakes, turtles, fishing, and other associated activities that kept us out of our parent’s way. In the Boy Scouts they were called Jamborees and had to pitch a tent and make a fire.

He also had paint-by-number paintings and a chemistry set. He had a telescope but it was taken away (later to be returned by mystery Santa).

 

 

Camp

I was picked up by a yellow school bus and driven to an unknown site in a county I did not know with a bunch of strangers. This was my only experience on a school bus. The shocking ride was only accented by the smell of dust and oil and the hard leather seats.

Day camp was not a wonderful experience. I took a dump in my pants one day, trying not to leave a baseball game. The counselors would ridicule me in front of the other campers until I cried. At the shooting range, a camp counselor taunted me into doing pull-ups on a bar between two trees. I did one or two pull-ups before my hands slipped. I fell head first into a stump. I remember getting up and looking around to the other campers in a foggy state. Their faces were shocked. I had fallen on a stump and busted open my face. The counselor rushed me to the hospital and I had some stitches. I did not go back to Camp Arrowhead.

The Boy Scouts would have a camping experience every year. A busload of us, in our little brown uniforms, would be picked up at church and dropped off at some field with a bunch of other scouts from different troops from all over the state. It was like a gathering of the tribes. A group of four would have to pitch a tent and set up sleeping arrangements and dig a pit for a cooking area, all under close supervision of our troop leaders. We intermingled with other troops, trading trinkets and showing off merit badges. Sometimes it would rain and we’d just sit in our tents and suffer wet feet. Ponchos are no fun to wear.

Not all camps were bad. My parents got the idea that I should spend two weeks in North Carolina at a sailing camp in Morehead city. I had never been away from home for a long period other than Wilmington.

We went to the local Army and Navy store and bought a big gray wooden WWII footlocker. It weighed a ton. Used it for years as a coffee table. It still sits in the attic holding valuable memories.

There was a list of supplies to bring. Shorts, shoes, sweaters, etc. I got my usual buzz cut for the summer.

I was shipped down a dirt road and unloaded to a cabin of strangers. There were 16 kids and 2 counselors per cabin. The cabin was divided in half by a wall with 8 bunks per side. The footlockers were slid under the bunk beds.

We had a strict schedule to follow. Sailing, baseball, archery, target shooting. Free time was assigned to writing letters home and playing an unusual game called Knuckle Ball. A slanted wooden table divided in the middle with a small board with a gap at the top of the table. Bowling pins were used as paddles hitting wooden balls. Two players would stand at the base of the table. The object of the game was to get all four balls on the opposing side of the table. The first to miss a ball, lost. Simple rules. Hours were spent at the two tables available to the camp.

The dining hall supplied all the boys with tons of fried foods. If it could be breaded and fried, it was given to us to eat. The bathrooms and showers were a common area shared by all the cabins.

The counselors had their own cabin with television and the director’s house was off limits across the baseball field. 

 

Since there were no radios or televisions, every night before lights out, the counselors would gather the campers into the cabins and tell ghost stories about Blackbeard the pirate. Pure exhaustion put us to sleep through the mosquitoes and heat.

Every morning the campers made their beds. Hospital corners and tight blankets. Sometimes the counselors would drop a coin on the blanket to see how tight it was. Some nights one of the campers had his bed remade and short-sheeted to the joy of the other bunkmates.

Not being interested in sports, I was not good at basketball or baseball. My bad sight didn’t help in target shooting (though I made do) or archery. I enjoyed the sport of archery and became good enough to win a ribbon. The one sport I learned to love was sailing.

The camp had little flat sailboats called “Sunfish”. A sailboat had a centerboard, rudder and a single sail. The slight gust of wind would make this 8-foot-long boat slide across the water. They were simple and fun. A few minutes were all that was necessary to become a sailor.

Larger hull shaped boats carrying several campers were also taught. They were slower, but the same rules held true. Come about, tack, jib, boom, mainsail. All were new terms, but it made sense. Wind and water. The quiet splash of salt air against the face and the Sunfish skipped the waves. No noise, no motors; just wood, canvas and rope. By the end of camp, I would sail across the inlet to the ocean side and back.

The other life changing experience from summer camp was dancing. One rainy afternoon a woman was brought into the dining hall. She wore tights and large dark rimmed glasses. A record player was at one corner of the hall. The counselors gathered around the record player while this woman instructed us in the dance steps of cha-cha, swing, and box step to jazz records. Then there was this new wild swinging hip shaking dance called ‘the Twist’.  She held each of the campers and with a firm grip we followed each movement. 

This instruction became all too real when girls were brought into the camp. There was a girl’s camp up the road called Camp Seagull. These dance partners were those campers. Little girls in dresses and crinolines. Little white socks and polished buckled shoes. The tables in the dining room were moved to the corners to allow room for the campers to get together and practice their dancing skills.

Boys being boys and girls being girls, hugged the walls staring across the room at the other side. Slowly one-by-one the campers were forced together. The music got louder and louder. I remember dancing with a girl who giggled. We did the right steps in the correct progression, but it seems so funny.

Then came the slow dance. There was a mile between our bodies, but for the first time, I was touching a girl. Holding her hand. Gripping her back. Very proper, but exciting. I have enjoyed dancing ever since.

One day the camp decided to canoe across the sound to the city. I had learned to row a boat at day camp, but what was this canoe stuff? Why not take the sailboats and let the wind do the work? Instead, two campers were assigned per canoe and told to paddle to the far point across the sound. We sat on our knees until we could not move. Then we tried to sit on the small beams across the top of the canoes. There was nothing comfortable about it. The other problem was going against the current. Upper body strength is needed in paddling a canoe and no campers had the power. Canoes went to the left and then right. The camper in back tried to steer while the camper in the front tried to correct the course. And the sun beat down upon us. The line of canoes moved ever so slowly toward their destination. After an hour, the counselors realized we would not make it, so we turned back. A wise decision. Exhausted we put the canoes up the grassy sides of the water and lay in the dirt road next to the pier.

Water skiing was another activity that went awry. A motorboat was steered into the sound and a handled bar rope dragged behind. On the pier each camper was instructed on the proper position to begin skiing. Curl up the knees; let the boat pull you up. Sounded simple enough. Unfortunately, the power of the motor was not that of a skiing boat. Each camper got into position, hung on the handle, waited for the jerk of the taint rope and awaited the pull out of the water. Instead of being pulled up onto the skis, each camper was dragged around the water in a crouched position. Some campers tried to stand up only to be knocked over. Each camper would be dragged for several minutes then let go of the rope. Finally, the fumes of the engine gave out. The motor died. The exercise in frustration was over.

The final day of camp brought the parents down the dusty road to be reunited with their suntanned boys. Fresh T-shirts were handed out and every camper gathered for a group picture of smiling cabin mates.

The second year that I attended; I knew what to expect. I was an old hand at sailing by then. I became a Junior Counselor. 

 

As an experienced hand, I was assigned to help with chores like cleaning the bathrooms, sweeping the floors, handing out gear. I could travel to the big house across the baseball field. I could see the nurse and the camp director, Capt. Purcell.

I even attended a night session with the counselors in their clubhouse. The college-aged counselors would gather after putting the cabins to bed to tell stories and drink cold beer. Beer was stored in a cooler packed with ice. After lights out, the counselors would drink and sing and play cards. There was talk of going to the girl’s camp, but nothing ever came of it.

One day while sailing, a group of campers happened upon a boat carrying Seagull girl campers from down the way. We passed back and forth and yelled at each other. The girls were swimming. Suddenly, we realized the girls were skinny-dipping. Swimming without clothes. Two boys pulled their swim trunks off and dove in. Just then a motorboat headed to our location.

C-o-u-n-s-e-l-o-r-s-!

Everyone got back to their boats and separated in different directions.

 

 

Fishing

I was never fond of the flavor of fish. I went fishing in camp but never caught anything. Others did but someone else prepared (thus scaled) the catch.

What I liked about the ‘sport’ of fishing is the procedure. Sitting on a dock or in a boat or on the side of a lake, just sitting. Throw a hook in the water and wait. Wait and talk to anyone else around (quietly) or just sit and wait. Not a lot of skill necessary.

What made ‘fishing’ interesting was the accoutrements. Along with a rod, fishing required a tackle box full of necessities to accomplish the goal of reeling in a fish. Different size hooks, flies, lines, floats, sinkers and knives. Everything had its own place in a little compartment or box.

This fascination would continue with smoking a pipe and art utensils. If you think this is unique, look in your kitchen drawers of all the tools to prepare food.

Fishing also got me interested in knives. From the boy scout multi-blade knife the size of a brick to the sleek fillet knife to the Swiss Army pocket knife, I was hooked. From elementary school, I always had a knife in my pocket.

Never had any fish to mount on the wall, but enjoyed finding a sport that required solitude.  

 

 

Sunday Movies

Between Summer School, Vacation Bible School, and weekend movies, my parents would ship me out of the house. Every Sunday after church, Richard McBride, a friend from elementary school, and I would be shipped downtown to an afternoon matinee of horror movies. With a couple of bucks for junk food, we would sit in the dark hall for hours and watch films about monsters. Every week the black and white images held our attention of villagers being attacked and fighting back with fire. Good always won. Between monster movies were news shorts about how good the army was, or a new German car with a curved roof, or the new dance called twist. There were also the cowboy movies. One weekend, someone slipped in “God Created Women” with Bridget Bardot. Lots of gauze, but a little boy’s imagination can see a lot of things.

Both television and the movies were loaded with cowboys. Roy (on Trigger) and Dale (on Buttermilk) and Pat Brady (and his jeep Nellybelle) and Rin-Tin-Tin, and Gene and his singing cowboys, the Gray Ghost, Paladin, Wanted: dead or alive and of course, Gunsmoke. Miss Kitty ran the bar while the bartender was the second Frankenstein monster. Doc sat in the corner, smoking, drinking and spouting off. A handicap guy named Chester helped big Matt Dillon run the town. Good always triumphed over evil. Met James Arnett years later at the hotel grill on Sunday morning where he was staying being grand marshal at the Tobacco Bowl parade.

The guns got bigger with The Rifleman and Wyatt Erupt, but no one was ever killed. The good guys drew their guns faster and shot straighter. They would always shoot the guns out of the hands of the bad guys and there was never any blood. It was easy to mimic cowboys because there was no harm in what they did. Even riding horses around and around the same rock seem exciting on a 9” screen. The Indians would fall off the horses while attacking the wagon train, but they would be back in the next scene.

Started playing with guns mimicking the actors on the screen shoot outs. The first pistol was some tin point and pull the trigger but it fell apart. Got a confederate Grey Ghost holster and pistol that was different because it had a flap over the holster and it was backwards. Hard to do a fast draw. Got another holster with a 6-gun that could fan.

Early television came on a breakfast cereal time. Black and white news shows with talking guys reading new releases or off the wire. Dave Garroway to Edward R. Murrow improvised until the cartoons came on. Captain Kangaroo, Mickey Mouse Club, Ding Dong School, Howdy Doody kept kids entertained and glued to the screen. I had a television in my bedroom that stayed on until the late-night circuit rider and the Star Spangle Banner until the network went off.

Reading materials were comics and ‘Mad’ magazine. I never followed any super heroes.  No novels, no short stories. I did read ‘Rolling Stone’ and ‘National Lampoon’ while my parents would read ‘Reader’s Digest’. The newspaper was delivered daily, but nothing interested me. I grew up on television.

JUNE 31,1970, AT 9:30 A.M., IN FRONT OF A BAR TAKING TO AN OLD FRIEND ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY...

 

I saw the news tonight, oh boy

About some guy who got killed in a fight;

and though the newsmen showed the gore

Well, I just wanted more,

That’s what I’m asking for....

 

They blew his brains out with a gun

they didn’t notice that he was a cop,

A crowd of people came to see

but they were turned away

which started a riot like the one down in LA

 

I went to a flick today, oh boy

A fat old lady took off all her clothes,

A crowd of perverts stood and drooled

but sitting quietly stared

I watched her body as it went bare.

 

I hate to turn this off, oh off, oh off, oh off, oh off....

 

Picked up, got into bed

pulled my shirt over my head...

we had our fun for a couple of hours

had a smoke and then a shower

grabbed my shirt and then my shoes

she kept complaining that the rent was due

I told her to cram-it and I didn’t want to see her

went down to Pete’s to have a beer....

 

I heard the news today, oh boy,

one bullet hold was found in Officer Blake,

and though it blew off half his head

the man on the radio said,

"When Blake arrives, they pronounced him dead..."

 

I hate to turn this off, oh off, oh off, oh off, oh off....

 

Collections

I never collected baseball cards. The bubble gum was too hard and I didn’t follow any teams. I didn’t collect or follow comic books. I did collect underground comics when they came out, but then gave them all away. I collected coins, but when I wanted to buy something, I’d pay for it with silver dollars. I collected knives for a while. Boy Scout multi-knife, fishing knives, Bowie knife, WWII bayonet, switchblade knife, a throwing knife with the handle made from a deer antler and an array of Swiss Army knives. I collected pipes. Different woods and sizes and racks to hold them, jars for the tobacco, and cases to display them. I gave them all away. Fashion sizes changed too much to keep the closet filled. I collected art supplies but am trying to find new artists to use them. I collected art books but donated them to the library. I’ve collected some bikes but most were stolen or donated. Now just down to a pair of ponies. I collected vinyl records, but have given half of them away. Still have some rare out-of-print originals but rarely play them. There is one still in the sealed wrapper to play at my funeral. I’ve collected guitars that I always wanted to play when I was younger and poorer, to have ready whenever I feel like strumming and picking.

My wife was a collector. What started as having the proper kitchen appliance and spatula to garden tools and woodworking tools to sewing machines and painting tools, etc. The same went for books, then DVDs. ‘Harry Potter’ series, ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ series, ‘Gilmore Girls’ series, ‘M*A*S*H’ series, and all the ‘Nancy Drew’ books.  Collecting became hoarding. It took several years to donate all the ‘collections’ to Goodwill and hopefully a new home.

I also collected a lot of bills, but with a little dedication, got rid of all of them.

 

Vinyl

My brother bought a few 45s by ‘Fats Domino’ and other jukebox dance music. He got the first ‘Elvis’ record but I was not impressed with this gyrating country singer. He also got all the ‘Kingston Trio’ albums. I learned folk music by listening to them.

Every weekend I’d walk to Gary’s Records and flip through the racks of 45s to get the latest top 40 hits to play over and over again. I got on a mail order record company and started ordering English hits that could not be found here.

After the first ‘Beatles’ album, all the rest were purchased. I also bought all of the ‘Rolling Stones’ albums in vinyl until the turn of the century. ‘Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention’ was my other buy when available 33 1/3.

Albums were about $3 at the time, so records were bought by the album cover art or teen magazine reviews or friends’ suggestions, so I’d buy them. Sometimes found jewels. Sometimes disappointing. Some albums were given out by record companies. Some records became trades.

Most of the early records were the English Invasion, then ‘James Brown’ and ‘Wilson Pickett’ for dance soul music gave tunes for ‘The Chaparrals’ (#3 White Soul Band in Richmond, Virginia). The Hammond B-3 organ with a Leslie speaker of ‘Booker T and the MGs’ caught my ear. ‘The Nice’ and ‘Brian Auger and the Trinity’ brought an English tinge to the sound created in black church gospels. English folk tunes and some Appalachian music converted the Hootenanny sound. ‘Peter, Paul and Mary’ carried into ‘Bob Dylan’ and ‘Joni Mitchell’ into ‘Pentangle’ into ‘Steeleye Span’. Even the ‘Beatles’ and ‘Rolling Stones’ went acoustic.

Soul music converted into disco, but I didn’t buy much. There was no dancing at home.

My first wife liked the ‘women’s movement’ of ‘Carly Simon’ and ‘Carol King’, plus the beginning of New Wave music of ‘Paul Winter’s Consort’.

The ‘Grateful Dead’ and ‘The Who’ became a constant selection. ‘The Nice’ and ‘The Move’ were involving classical tunes with heavy bass lines. Soundtracks of rock operas were popular.

‘Tom Scott’, ‘George Duke’ and ‘Stanley Clarke’ became listenable jazz. ‘Pink Floyd’ was experimenting in the new synthesizer. ‘Frank Zappa’ was constantly changing his lineup and styles.

When the ‘big box’ stores came out with cheap reproductions of vinyl, I bought many copies of old hits missed the first time around, like ‘The Turtles’ or the ‘Kingsmen’. Stereo speakers got bigger but the duplicated sound on these remakes lacked quality.

The cassette made carrying music easier (with tape quality), but spent hours making mixed-tapes from vinyl. The CD bought better sound so another player had to be added to the stereo system.

My second wife liked ‘Barry Manilow’ and other 70s hit makers, but I didn’t have (or wanted) in my collection. She liked the band ‘Yes’ but was scared by ‘Pink Floyd’, wasn’t so sure about ‘Frank Zappa’ but enjoyed soothing instrumentals. Toward the end of her life, she enjoyed ‘Stan Getz’ and ‘Michael Hedges’ and other lite jazz. Don’t whistle around her.

Crates and then shelves and then boxes were record containers that had to be lugged around with every move. There was something special having a library that included the original ‘Blue Magoos’ or ‘Godspell’ soundtrack was documented first on 3x5 cards then a Filemaker database.

A few years ago, I played every vinyl from A – Z. Some still held the interest of the recording techniques, song writing, or a soundtrack of the time. Some had become boring and were donated or given away.

I still have some favorites in my vinyl and book library.

Pulling a black vinyl disk out of a cardboard jacket and placing it on a turntable to listen to the pops and scratches of years of wear and tear while reading information the recording company wanted to market.

 

Food

 Meals were prepared everyday by my mother. She wasn’t a good cook and never seemed to enjoy it, but it was her chore. Her mother was also in the kitchen all the time, but she was better at cooking. She didn’t pass any recipes down to mom.

Breakfast on a holiday or weekend could be an extravaganza. Bacon fried to a crisp in a black iron skillet, overcooked scrambled eggs and burnt toast. Pancakes were too thick and never done and the waffle iron was kept on too long. The savior was butter and syrup. Then we got lazy with boxes of sugar-coated cereal drowned in skimmed milk. Orange juice was the preference over tomato. Sometimes there was a half of cantaloupe scooped out with a melon ball spoon.

Lunches consisted of soup and sandwich. No salads. No hamburgers. The sandwiches switched from sliced cheese with relish on white bread or peanut butter on white bread. Grilled cheeze cooked in the black skillet was cut in half but wasn’t a favorite unless dunked in tomato soup. Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle was the other offering.

School lunches were a choice between bring-from-home bag lunch or school cafeteria. The cafeteria was only used when mom couldn’t assemble a paper bag with a sandwich, apple and cookie. Early on there was a metal lunchbox with a cowboy painted outside and a thermos inside. The thermos always leaked. A lunch you could trade food with others. You want my bologna sandwich for that Vienna sausage sandwich? There would not be deli meat until college. The school cafeteria held dishes of mystery ground meat covered in some sort of brown sauce, mashed potatoes, and a slice of pie or cake with a carton of milk.

By high school I wasn’t eating lunch.

Occasionally I’d grab a steak out of the freezer, cook it in the black iron skillet sautéed in butter and put it between two pieces of Nolde’s bread. I thought everyone could do that.

Dinner was a quick plate of something either brought home from the club or out of a can from the utility storeroom. Meatloaf as dry as bread, potatoes and green beans (original peeled potatoes and shucked beans), beans and franks, fish sticks (soaked in Worcestershire sauce) that quickly turned into TV dinners on TV trays in front of the television. We were called to dinner by a bell by the back steps.

The fancy dinners were basically prepared at the club and delivered on shiny trays home. All spread out looking elegant while my mother (in her apron) would bring out pots and pans of warmed up stuffing or gravy.

I didn’t start drinking coffee until after college. My warm drink of choice was tea. No milk but a little sugar. It was as good as any other breakfast drink. A leftover from the Carriage House. Once married, I started experimenting with coffee. Ground beans in a hand cranked grinder, espresso French press. Percolators and coffee pots of every type were tried. Next to my office, there was a coffee shop. The coffee wasn’t that good but the girls were pleasant and I could get a cream filled donut. Took a thermos to work for a while but the coffee got cold. There was a coffee urn that stayed on all day which no one would clean or change the grounds. Now it is instant with powdered milk and fake pink package sugar. After all, it is just hot, dirty water.

When my brother applied to Virginia Polytechnic Institute, he had to join the cadet corps, which meant he had to lose weight to qualify. A giant frame chart of foods and the number of calories they produced was hung on the kitchen wall. My mother also participated in the daily calorie count. It worked.

I was never much of a sweet tooth. My birthday cake was always chocolate cake with white icing. Ice cream was a scoop of chocolate. M&Ms were my rewards for treats. Mom would hide them around the house and I’d have to find them. I’d separate them by color and then have wars between the different colors. The loser gets eaten. The winner gets eaten too, but that is what war is all about.

 

Games

 

Kids get together to play games.

If it isn’t an organized game like baseball or basketball, it would be cards. They are easy to carry and there are all sorts of variations of games from the 52-card deck.

My parents would play solitaire, but I never figured that out and found other diversions.

The first card game played was ‘War’. Divide the deck equally to the number of players and then place a card on the table. The highest card wins the hand. Keep going until one player has all the cards.

In college, the card games were between Poker and Bridge. I lost interest in Poker when players were getting angry betting money. Bridge was interesting in bidding with a partner, unless one overbids (as I did) to make you partner work to win.

There was always a fresh deck of Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad cards in the sideboard. I never learned to shuffle a deck of cards.

Board games were also popular.

It started with ‘Candy Land’. A simple game to roll dice and try to get to the end of a printed path before the rest of the players. Checkers was the next, but only a few went to become Chess players. Clue was a popular game solving a crime. Monopoly was a game to teach how money works but their fights were over the selection of pieces to play with. Backgammon was a swanky game relying on how the dice rolled.

All in all, playing a game was only necessary if you were at the beach and it was raining, for the other option was to take a nap. There was no television or radio.

Organized games were called sports. There were teams and coaches and uniforms and rules. There were fields or courts or arenas to play these games. There were referees and scores were kept. There would be playoff games for the best scores and prizes were given to the winners. I did play golf and tennis, but not in teams.

Baseball was not good because I couldn’t see the ball. I’d swing three times at the air, so I never ran the bases. I got my brother’s hand-me-down mitts but the catcher’s mitt was just a fat oven mitt while a regular mitt was a puffy glove. I bought a first baseman’s mitt that could catch anything with its long webbing. I was always assigned to the left field and most of the time just stood in the sun. If I did run down a ball that was hit in my area, I’d throw it back at the wrong base. I was always the last one to get picked.

Basketball was no better. I didn’t get a growth spurt until high school so I was just a little chubby boy running up and down a wood court. I’d be called for double-dribbling or walking and the ball never bounced well. My father had a basketball net installed on the cement driveway. I had very little interest in trying to get a ball through the net and when it bounced off the backboard, it would roll down the alley and into the street. Only much later was a game of ‘horse’ played at midnight that it made sense of what a proper ball could do.

Tennis was taught in Jr. High and I enjoy it. The class would play at a series of courts a block from school. I had some heavy wooden hand-me-down rackets from my parents. The game is close enough I could see the ball and the goal was getting it over the net. Unfortunately, they didn’t have courts at the country club, so I rarely played.

Football seemed to be the sport for guys. Gym class showed films of the Baltimore Colts. For warm ups, all the guys had to do laps around an empty field next to the railroad tracks, then we’d be divided into two teams (last choice) and lined up on an imaginary line. We’d get in a huddle and one guy would tell us all what to do and where to run. The game was called ‘two-handed touch’ but there were lots of collisions. In high school, I applied for the second-string or JV football team. I got to wear a helmet and a jersey and shoulder pads. We rode a bus to Charlottesville to play against a school named Lane. We thought the ‘Jeffs’ were pretty good. We had plays and uniforms and even cheerleaders. Their team walked out and looked two-times bigger and older than we were. Didn’t matter if we were on offense or defense, we were thrown around like rag dolls and walked over. We begged the coach if we could go home at half time. I decided football was better to watch on television rather than get beat up on the field. I did watch football following the coaching until you knew who was going to beat the Lions on Thanksgiving.

The well-to-do families would play croquet on manicured lawns and the country folk threw horseshoes. There was badminton, but it was the poor man’s tennis.  I was pretty good at mumblety-peg.

Swimming was pretty much fun, because I was in the water. I was OK at freestyle, breaststroke but not so good at backstroke or butterfly. I did learn how to kick off against the wall and that kept me in the field.

One game played in high school was ‘Treat or Trick’. It was the Halloween tradition of going house-to-house to get treats. What we did was to ring the doorbell and when someone answered the door, we would give them treats. Reverse psychology. Stopped when the neighbors complained to the police that a bunch of kids were wandering the neighborhood handing out candy.

There were also puzzles, that I didn’t like to play. Crossword puzzles I couldn’t complete because I didn’t read enough to know the answers. Jigsaw puzzles were just frustrating. Even building with Lincoln logs was boring.

I also couldn’t blow a bubble gum bubble, work a yo-yo, bounce on a pogo stick or trampoline or spin a hula hoop. I was no good with a boomerang, but learned to handle a frisbee. I was poor at ping-pong, but learned how to bowl. I couldn’t roller skate (skateboards hadn’t been invented yet) or jump rope. I couldn’t dive but enjoyed the water.

Video games were boring and the graphics were bad, like ‘Oregon Trail’ but I could waste time playing over and over. The next series were shoot-em-ups. Follow the gun nozzle and shoot whatever comes up. The bloodier, the better. It became interactive television, but I was still bored.

My favorite game was playing the guitar.

 

School Elementary

 

Going to school was a few blocks away. My mother walked me to Mary Munford elementary school (Mary-Cooke Branch Munford (September 15, 1865 – July 3, 1938) was a Virginia activist for women's rights, civil rights, women's suffrage, and education.) until I learned to ride a bike. I remember the cool walls of tile. The school took up several blocks with playgrounds at both ends. The auditorium was huge. Wooden chair and desk combination. Twenty kids to a classroom. Each day started with the pledge of allegiance to the flag and a moment of prayer. The school had fire drills and “duck and cover” drills. Lunch was in a cafeteria but I took a metal lunch box with a thermos and a cowboy painted on the outside. The thermos would always leak and the sandwich was sliced American cheese with relish or peanut butter on white bread. If I walked the cafeteria line, my choices were some meatloaf stuffs in sauce, mashed potatoes, bun and a carton of milk. Recess was going out on a blacktop under the observation of our teachers. Four square, metal tubes to climb and fantasy of spaceships and tetherball. This was still the 50’s.

The teachers wrote on green blackboards. Very modern. Students were taught basic math, history, music on plastic flutes, and art. I enjoyed the art classes. Art gave us basic clay play. Mine was an abstract weird duck face fired and painted in enamel paint. Mom kept it in a drawer.

I remember the Greek / Roman history lessons that were done with a class project of making a mosaic on the wall of the class. One student, who was very artistic but stuck on Superman, reproduced roman citizens in a comic book fashion. The Roman elite looked like they were from Krypton. The class all chipped in to cut paper squares and paste the figures. Great teamwork. Also was fascinated in the Greek and Roman gods. Why did the cultures get so many gods, but today there was only one? What happened to the rest of them?

The first performance on a stage in front of the auditorium was a skit where we danced back and forth singing “I’m a little teacup short and stout, this is my handle, this is my spout”. I was a sugar bowl.

The teachers were numb to me. I was lacking in grades, but got reports that I had the potential to be a good student.

I didn’t like flash cards and had to count on my fingers. English wasn’t much better because I did not read for reference. The history taught made the south the winner of the civil war. Science was basically the same stuff I was doing in the scouts.

I also began to pay attention to girls. Some of my classmates were producing bulges in their sweaters and I was paying attention. Remember, this is elementary school. I didn’t know why, but this development interested me.

There were also the class bullies. Bobby Bargerman was mine. He was always picking on others or me. He would try to hit my face in tetherball. He would throw things at me in class. He would knock my books down on the walk home. But I kept him as a friend. I would invite him to my birthday parties.

When I had my tonsils taken out at Johnston-Willis hospital, Bobby came by with his mother. While I couldn’t talk, I could drink ice water and swallow ice cream. Several parents stayed with their children on that hot night. Only fans and a cool rag were used to bring us out of our ether stupor. Bobby jammed bubble gum in my hair. It had to be cut out.

The only protection from Bobby was Ike, our family boxer. Ike was a large brown and black striped Brindle dog with drooling joules and a friendly personality. Because of his size, Bobby would run away from him. So would the postman. As I remember, Ike was there when we moved to Richmond. Don’t know where he came from, but he was my friend. Mom said he was a pedigree and had papers. Dad would spend time sitting in the sun picking ticks off Ike and dropping them in a cup of paint thinner. Ike would sit in the middle of two busy streets in front of our house. He wandered off one day. Dad had to retrieve him. He wandered off again and never came back.

There were other playmates in elementary school. Bill Rowlett, a stutter who I would later room with in college, Bruce Schones, a confederate Jew who would later haunt me in college, Isabel, a frail sweet girl who would be invited to birthday parties, Cecil, the Greek boy who played the accordion, Jack Fleming.

 

Jack

Jack and I played together. He lived close by so we would travel to each other’s houses on bicycles. Our moms would feed us and keep us safe. We also both belonged to the Country Club of Richmond.

Jack and I would meet at the club and swim in the pool while our mothers would talk, drink, or play golf. Hours of swimming, splashing, and laughing.

One fateful day, my brother and his date (and future wife), Virginia Rawlings drove me to the country club pool to meet Jack. The water on this hot spring day was murky, but cool. While my brother and his date sat on the grass surrounding the pool, Jack and I put on our face mask and swim fins and started swimming underwater. The pool was full of people playing Marco Polo. The deep end was separated from the kiddy pool by a line of Styrofoam floats on a vinyl rope. The challenge was to dive in the deep end and touch the bottom.

Jack and I would make several dives only to go to the side and rest while divers would splash the water. I came up from one of the dives and went to the side of the pool. I did not see Jack. I kept looking around the pool, but with my poor eyesight, I could not make out Jack. I climbed out of the pool and went to where my brother and his girlfriend were seated. I wrapped a towel around me and put on my glasses. I asked if Jack had gone to the club house. Just then, the lifeguards yelled, blew their whistles and jumped into the pool. I remember them pulling a white limp body from the pool. There was a silence around the pool, then the scream from Jack’s mother running from the clubhouse. The shock froze all the swimmers. Jack’s face mask had been sucked into the outtake tube and he was stuck under the murky water. He drowned.

The school allowed all the students to attend Jack’s funeral. It was a bizarre experience. Everyone was dressed up for church. All lined up outside and walked into the pews. We sat silently until the preacher started talking. Many of my classmates were openly crying. I kept looking at the long black box that held the body of my friend in shock. After the service, all the classmates walked out in single file, like a fire drill, and went home. My parents never talked of the incident. Jack’s mother moved away. The country club pool was rebuilt.

 

 

 

Bill

 

He lived a couple of blocks away, within walking distance. Don’t know how we connected, probably school. He had a stutter and my mother was amazed I could understand it. We would walk to Cary Street every Saturday. We’d stop at High’s Ice Cream and get a milkshake and a package of Nabs crackers. We’d go to the hardware store, the photo shop, the piano store and end at Bob’s Hobby Shop. Bob had a kid’s fascination. A train ran around the wall with unbelievable items lining the tracks. Lots of plastic models of movie monsters and little rubber soldiers and tanks. Down the street was the Byrd Theatre with its giant chandelier and an organ that rose up out of the stage. 

 

Bill’s father was a scientist. His mom made peanut butter (and jelly) sandwiches. We both got model car racing kits, but mine was big and clunky and his was the cool HO model. At my house, we’d play with little rubber armies and Indians up and down the stairs (until chased away by parents). We’d also play police in my father’s car (until we got his tires out-of-line).

Bill went to different middle schools and in high school found his future wife.

Bill and I failed in elementary school together.

 

Failed

I was ‘held back’ one year in elementary school. The classes were divided into an ‘advanced’ and ‘basic’ class for each year. I was ‘held back’. I remember this was a big thing because all my classmates advanced to the next grade level and I did not. I was never taught how to study. My parents didn’t spend time reading to me or helping with homework. School would never be of interest to me.

It also took me a long time to learn how to tie my shoes or tell time.

 

School Middle

 

Albert Hill Middle School (Albert Hudgins Hill (1866-1933), attended Richmond College (now University of Richmond) and graduated there with a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1887. In later years he attended Columbia University where he earned a Master of Arts degree in 1914.  From 1894 to 1905 he taught in the local evening school in Richmond, Virginia. He became principal of Scottsville Elementary and High Schools in 1887. Hill joined the Richmond City Public Schools in 1889, rising from principal to assistant superintendent in 1904. In 1919 he succeeded Dr. J.A.C. Chandler as superintendent) was of little interest to me. I was introduced to woodworking by a dyke. I wanted to be cool, but still had the buzz cut and button-down shirts with pleated slacks with cuffs so I was a dweeb. Physical education was a combination of frustration and embarrassment. Art class kept me alive. Groups started to form. The Jewish kids formed clubs, the sports kids joined teams, and the music kids had the out-of-tune orchestra. Other clubs were forming. History Club, Spanish Club, Science Club, and the rich kids had the “Key Club”.

The senior school picture showed how awkward, but diverse the students were. Blond dyed hair, slick black hair, Beehives and flips. Dresses were worn every day by the girls. Crinolines were replaced with tight fitting skirts which were getting shorter. Tight sweaters showed the brassiere lines. Notes were being passed back and forth between boys and girls during classes. Girls gathered and giggled in the halls. Boys walked fast and tall, not looking at the girls. Every move was orchestrated. Dating had begun.

As we found our group to associate with, we worked on a personality. Being a good speaker or portraying a jock. Be a nerd or a jocker or some mysterious type that didn’t fit a mold.

We also learned prejudices and how to mock each other to judge the reaction.

 

 

President Assassinated

One day, an announcement came over the speaker on the wall above the door of every room. The principal announced that school would be ending and everyone was to go home. A friend and I packed our book bags and walked the five blocks home. All the televisions were on. I went up to my room and turned my television on. Walter Cronkite was talking to a microphone about a tragedy. The president had been shot. Over and over the scenes of a large car driving next to a grassy knoll were played. Suddenly, Mrs. Kennedy jumped up on the back of the car and tried to crawl out. The secret service man pushed her back in and the car sped under a bridge.

The next two days, my friend and I would play while the television played the constant drum beat of the funeral and the droning voice of Walter Cronkite. I went downstairs to the kitchen and my mom cried while watching her television. Oswald, the alleged assassinator, was shot on live television. Little John Jr. would salute as the caisson rolled by.

My family never spoke of the event. After a couple of days, we went back to our normal routine.

Jr. High asked each student to make a career decision. What do you want to be when you grow up? This discussion would focus your remaining years in public education. This discussion would decide the fate of time.

I decided I wanted to be an ‘artist’. I drew all the time. Why not?

I enjoyed woodworking in Jr. High. A dyke teacher showed us the jib saw, belt sander and a band saw cutting wood. I had never seen these tools. I felt I was in control of power. I didn’t have any tools at home.

The last days of Jr. High were spent with dancing and taking pictures. I had a small box-shaped silver camera with a flash. I stood at the front of each classroom and snapped color pictures. I did the same thing in elementary school. I should have been a photojournalist.

A good write up on my artistic interest was passed onto high school.

 

 

Artist

I drawed all the time. Starting with pencil, then black and white pen and ink, then watercolors. My parents realized this and gave me opportunities to learn more. Coloring books were too restrictive. I took art classes all through schooling (including college) then went on to work in a newspaper’s art department.

I took art classes at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA) and also performed in theatre there. I took an art class across the river at George Wythe high school where I had to ride my bike across the 5¢ bridge. I took art classes in elementary, middle and high school.

I enjoyed type and would letter signs for everything from posters to drum heads. I started working with alcohol markers which had fumes that made me high.

I drew flat on my desk but preferred a slab of pegboard to put my pad of paper on to use in my lap while watching the television. Still use these lap pads.

I dabbled in paint but never found a good subject or technique other than watercolors. I experimented in chalk and charcoals but my usual paper was too small to expand my strokes. I worked in very small detail. I enjoyed water colors and pen and ink.

I cut up magazines and made collages. Taught me how to use scissors and x-acto knives.

For college, I did create a portfolio of drawings and sketches. My college advisor looked at my work and declared ‘I’d never be an artist’.  I didn’t need it to get a job being a professional commercial art director.

Had a one-man show of black and white pen and ink drawings in the Gillman Gallery at the public library. The theme was psychology expressions and theories. No one got it.

 

 

Bikes

I learned to ride a bicycle. It was a green French bike with red tires. I had training wheels at first, but finally learned how to balance upright. Around the block at first, then in the street. In the alleys between blocks.

The bike was my escape from the house. I rode to school and locked my bike to a rack. I could explore the outer reaches of the neighborhood. I was independent.

One day on the way home from school, I decided to ride without my hands holding the handlebars. Bad mistake. The bike swerved to the right and I did a head dive into the street. I stood up in a daze. My face had been broken open. My classmates gathered me up to take me to the school office. I passed one girl who asked what was wrong. I took the handkerchief away from my face. Her shocked reaction spoke volumes. The school nurse could not help much, but my mother was called. Again, I was shipped to the hospital to have stitches on my face. Today a beard covers the scares.

 

Sick

My Personal Record Since Birth

 

Mr. and Mrs. George Ellett Leftwich announce the birth of a son, Clifford Leftwich, on Wednesday, November 10, at 12:51 p.m. in Leigh Memorial Hospital. Mrs. Leftwich is the former Miss Marguerite McIver, of Wilmington, N.C.

 

My mother’s maiden name was Marguerite McNair McIver born Columbia, S.C.

Her father’s name was Malcolm Chester McIver, born St. Paul, N.C.

Her Mother’s name was Ruby Hykes Fogle

 

First Month

Very good sweet baby – eye infection in left eye – not serious

Second Month

Out for ride in carriage. Doesn’t like cereal or orange juice. Started cooing at 10 weeks.

Third Month

Pushed up at 12 weeks. Has upset stomach. Gained from 8 to 12 lbs. Weekly until 11^th week. Laughed aloud.

Fourth Month

Can almost turn over. Still doesn’t like to eat. Has had cold but better. Ha whooping cough shot.

Fifth Month

Has had cold again. Bad penicillin shot – can turn over when on stomach

1^st tooth – lower right

2^nd tooth – lower left

Six Months

3^rd tooth – upper right

4^th tooth – upper right

5^th tooth – upper left

6^th tooth – upper left

likes play pen and teeter babe

Vaccinated for small pox. Fussy 8^th and 9^th day. Small scar. Grins all the time.

Seventh Month

17 lbs.  2^nd whooping cough shot. Jumps up and down in Teeter Babe till we think he’ll jump out. Still won’t eat. One lb. underweight for his height.

Eight Month

Still jumps up and down but fell out of chair so we strap him down now. Started to crawl and pull up.

Nine Months

Love his Taylor Tot and want to ride all the time. Had cold and eye infections again but O.K. now

19 lbs.

Tenth Month

30 ½ inches. 2 new teeth! Still grins all the time and waves bye-bye. Walks all around pin and pushes himself in Taylor Tot

Eleven Months

Moved from Va. Beach home for 2 weeks. Tries so hard to talk and crawls all the time.

Twelfth Month

Spent 1^st birthday at home. Got a little suit and toys and the top of Peggy’s wedding cake was his birthday cake.

Thirteenth Month

Moved to Keswick. All the teeth seemed to come through at once. 16 of them now. Baby’s walking all around and jabbers all the time but all you can understand is Ma-Ma and Bye-Bye

 

Recoding my weight

At Birth      6 lbs. 1 oz.

One Month 7 lbs. 14 oz.

Three Months      12 lbs. 3 oz.

Six Months  16 lbs.

One Year     22 lbs. 10 oz.

 

At Three Months of Age

The color of my hair was blonde

The color of my eyes was blue

My complexion was fair

My height was 23 ½ “

My weight was 12 lb. 3 oz.

 

 

There were other medical needs during my stay at Patterson. One sunny day and a friend and I were riding our bicycles up the alley toward the west, when a dog ran after us. I was the second bike so he caught up to me. I tried to kick the dog, but it bit me on the calf. He stopped and ran back to his yard. I rode on to my friend’s house, looked at some comics, then realized my pants were torn and bloodied. I hopped back on my bike and rode home. My mother was being interviewed by a census taker, so I walked by and waited in my room. After the interviewer left, I walked downstairs to the kitchen where I knew my mother would be. She screamed and rushed me into a car. We went to the emergency room of a local hospital. The doctor gave me a shot and made me cry with his talk of teeth marks. I bare no scars from this attack. My cousin asked if the dog had eaten the piece bitten from my leg.

Another time I had a stomach pain. I was given the usual medicine of the time. Pepto Bismol was the staple for stomach problems. While standing in line in class to go to lunch, I upchucked a projectile hurl all over my classmates. Finally, my parents took me to a Northside hospital. I could not straighten up. I sat hunched over a trash can in a waiting hall. I was vomiting regularly. A young man in a white coat came over with a stethoscope. He pressed my stomach and looked shocked. Everything sped up. Several people came to my side and brought a gurney. I slid onto the cold flat surface as they yelled to each other. I remember looking up at the ceiling lights as the gurney was quickly rolled to an operating room. The doctors gave me a shot and I counted backyards. 100-99-98....

I had “almost” burst my appendix. Another hour and I would have died.

I awoke in a private room. Television with a remote, a button for the nurses, and a private phone to call mom. She was there in the morning and stayed till after I was asleep. This was very cool. Mom tried to move me to a ward room, but I broke out with the measles. I survived this too with a scar.

One morning I woke and could not move my neck. The fan had been blowing on me all night long and I was stiff. It was a Sunday. My mother tried to massage it, then put cold, then hot on my neck. I was stuck. I laid on the couch in the living room and watched television. I remember watching Oral Roberts preaching. He was preaching to people in iron lungs. They looked up to him on their backs, their heads sticking out of this large metal coffin machine, looking upward into a mirror. I was sure that was going to happen to me.

The next day, my father and mother took me to a chiropractor. He shook a few magic bones, said some mojo, and cracked my neck. Whap! I was back to normal.

The dentist across the street wanted to buy a boat, so for 4-trips I had my wisdom teeth pulled out. By the third tooth the pain wasn’t so bad. My brother had all his done at one session and face blew up like a balloon.

I got all my shots and took the sugar cube to avoid polio. Getting a cold meant ginger ale and crackers, aspirin then chicken noodle soup. I never broke any bones. Only scrapes and bruises. I was fairly healthy as a kid. I was lucky.

In college I got bronchitis. I couldn’t stop coughing in class, so I went down to see ole Doc Page. He gave me a penicillin shot and sent me on my way.

Ole Doc Page was our family physician. His office was downtown in the Medical Arts building, with an old elevator and dark waiting room. He had one fish tank and some months old magazines to keep us entertained until he called us into his office. Usually, the nurse would call us into a side office and we’d sit on an adjustable flat table wrapped in paper. She would take our stats like weight and height. Doc Page would come in, look at a chart, have me drop my drawers, turn my head and cough. Send back to the waiting room and await his diagnosis. In his office, he’d reach in his desk top drawer and give out samples from pharmacy salesmen.

Later, after getting a flu shot, I got the flu. My wife was a teacher’s assistant and probably brought it home so we both just lay in bed. If it was not for my mother bringing by chicken noodle soup, we would probably still be there.

I was finally tested by an optometrist and fitted for glasses. So that was what it was supposed to look like?

I had two black eyes. May have been running into a tree late at night or a wayward elbow.

May have broken or cracked a rib after hitting a pothole in my family’s backyard parking lot late at night. Couldn’t ride my bike home because I was having trouble breathing.

A few years ago, my right leg swelled up. It didn’t hurt but it was difficult to ride my bike. I went to the doc-in-a-box but they couldn’t help. Instead, they directed me to the spa St. Mary’s hospital emergency room. I parked my bike at home and walked the many blocks to the receiving desk. I handed the paper the previous doctor had given me, had an intern look at my leg, gave my Medicare information and was walked into a room full of nurses and computers and assigned a gurney. After some scans through the Star Trek doors and drained of a pint or two of blood, some doctor (we all looked like doctors because it was the pandemic and we all wore masks) with an accent told me he was going to check me into the hospital. Wheeled into a private room and poked and prodded and wired to beeping machines, I spent a week. The swelling went down somewhat and I did a follow-up with a nurse practitioner. One doctor said I should stop drinking beer to solve my liver problems. One doctor diagnosed me as diabetic. Got a fist full of prescriptions and stopped drinking beer. After they ran out, I cut them in half and then stopped taking them and started drinking beer again.

 

 

Church

I attended church every Sunday morning. The building took up a city block at the crossroads of two main streets with a statue of “Stonewall” Jackson (that was taken down last year). The First Baptist Church. The biggest and ‘best’ church in this southern town. I didn’t know what religion was supposed to be, but our family dressed up every Sunday, got into the car, drove to the large building, sat in the same pew on the second story overlooking the choir, baptismal pool, and the preacher. We would sing the doxology and sat while the preacher talked to the people on the first floor. The padded velvet cushions on the wooden benches became uncomfortable and my parents would hand me the program to draw on. Again, keep the children quiet with activities.  My father would nod off during the service. I would listen to the words and thought the idea was good, but the meaning did not leave the hall. With all these people, no one was paying attention.

Sunday was the day of rest. Sunday was the excuse not to work. Sunday (after church and lunch) was for football. There was no shopping on Sunday.

I was baptized at the age when everyone was baptized. I was taken to an unknown place behind the stained glass and given a white smock. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be naked, so I wore my underwear. I walked into a pool of water to my waist and the preacher gave some comments, held my head and dunked me in the water. No magical reaction happened, but I was among a group. My name was in the next church program as being baptized. I could now take communion grape juice shot and a crouton.

JOHN BOY JOHN

 

John, boy John,

You were hot as fire,

When the disciples,

were on the hire,

But you lost your head over Jesus,

You lost your head over Jesus.

 

Up to your neck in water,

when "HE" came along,

Following "HIS" words,

trying to sing "HIS" song,

The words you said over Jesus.

 

"HE" broke your bread,

and spread "HIS" word,

But "HIS" voice was weak,

and could not be heard,

And the 12 were fed over Jesus.

 

On the water "HE" said, "Come follow me,

I'll make it calm on an angry sea."

The skies turned red over Jesus.

 

John, boy John,

What is your alibi,

If you were somewhere else,

then you won't have to die,

But you prayed, and bled over Jesus.

 

Jesus Christ,

we remember what you said,

And John, we forgot you,

Soon after you're dead,

Now you've lost your head over Jesus.

 

John, boy John,

You were hot as fire,

When the disciples,

We’re on the hire,

But you lost your head over Jesus,

You lost your head over Jesus.

 

When I got big enough, I was assigned to usher. All males were to stand by the doors to the nave of the church and escort parishioners to an empty pew. We would also pass the brass plates when the preacher asked the congregation to pay their tithes. How can you not fill the plate with cash when it is being asked from a kid? We’d deliver the loot to a deacon who would empty the dish and send us back for more. Between the early morning service and the noon day service, we’d go a block away to the Robin Inn for a beer.

The scouts had meetings in the basement of the church. We wore our uniforms (blue then brown then green) and got badges for tieing rope knots and identifying animal prints from the Scout Manual. We go through different levels (Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Explorer Scouts) by age with ranks like Webelos to Wolf to Tiger to Bear (no dinosaurs) up to Eagle Scout.  There was even Sea Scouts. I joined them in Wilmington NC. We’d carry the flags (American, Virginian and Baptist Christian flags) as a ceremony of a small army of boys without weapons.

The Church was a question to me. Why would the message put my father to sleep? Why would our family stay in the same spot?  Why would the Sunday School teacher flinch when asked questions about the actions of “Christians”? But I stayed with the message, because I thought it was right. The Book had nice stories and some of the message was good, like treat others… or be kind while begetting. The words were written to follow, but no one paid attention to ‘thou shall not kill’ or ‘thou shall not commit adultery’. Pick and choose what you want the message to say.

I didn’t know about other faiths or read their interpretations. Mike West was a Baptist. Bill Rowlett and Joel Dexter were Methodist. It was still a Christian religion, but it was not as powerful as the Southern Baptist in Richmond. Art only talked against religion, just to irritate Mike. Steve and David didn’t talk about religion. Bruce was Jewish and I went to his Bar Mitzvah. I had to wear a yarmulke and didn’t understand a word they were saying or why they read backwards. I knew some girls who went to Catholic school, but didn’t attend a mass until a couple got married. They do the rituals better than anyone else.

I learned to tie a tie because of church. Before I wore a clip-on. My father had to tie a bow tie for me for the formal dinner occasions. Later I’d get a prepared butterfly bow tie with a strap to wrap around my neck. As ties started getting wider, I went from black to sparkle to colors to patterns. I would give my tie collection away after I left work.

My brother got married at the First Baptist Church. My father got Dr. Theodore F. Adams to perform the ceremony. It was a packed house. My brother, who was still at VPI, wore a dress white uniform. His best men were also in the cadet corps and did the traditional saber salute. I was an usher.

The Church became a great focus for me. Scouts, day trips, singing in the choir, Sunday school, Vacation Bible School. This is what was supposed to be in the 50’s. Then the 60’s hit.

The Youth director suggested the church create a center for “young people” to gather to discuss the daily events and open communication on the changes of the world. The old carriage house across the street had been converted into a meeting place. Tile floors, vinyl siding walls, cardboard tables and folding chairs. This was to become “The Carriage House” coffee shop.

This became the coffee house. A place to gather. A place to talk about feelings, philosophy, world events, etc. A place to listen to music.

The church was slow to adapt to the changing culture. One day the preacher welcomed two negro students from Africa to join the church to deadly silence from the congregation.

Once I invited Art to a service. He wore overall jeans and we sat on the front row.

I decided I could do better things with my Sundays.

FOLLOW YOU

 

Christ,

we're shooting down the highway,

trying to see things your way,

Clouds,

are forming on the highway,

and your words are beginning to fade,

For we haven't seen a vision,

on our hotel television,

you are under suspicion,

 

Christ,

we've set a great spread,

for you to break the bread,

with plenty of burgers to be fed,

to the ones you raised, from the dead,

But you haven't had big tricks,

you won't let us have our kicks,

your recruiting seems to be fixed.

 

Christ,

you were such a crazy guy,

preaching to follow you as you died,

climb up, get nailed, give it a try,

You will join me up in the sky,

We still will buy your crosses,

plastic markers find no losses,

do you care how much it cost us,

for eternal life,

eternal life-life life

eternal life-life life

 

Scotland

Somewhere along the line, my mother’s younger brother Mac went to Scotland to study for his religious certification as a Presbyterian minister and my mother was invited to visit. Whether there was trouble at home or she came into a wanderlust, she gathered me up and the two of us flew to Edinburgh, Scotland in 1958. Little Mac and Liz had already picked up the accents and some of the dialect and everyone was walking around in plaid skirts. It was cold and wet. We didn’t stay that long, but I did get a McIver tartan kilt to bring back home. It impressed the girls at the Bal du Bois.

 

Other

Dad tried to get his boys to participate in community activities. Our family went to the State Fair. It was full of sideshows and animal smells. Got interested in some poster of a bearded lady and my family walked off in the crowd. I was lost in the unknown carney land. My brother was sent back to find me. I persuaded the folks to pay for me attending the show of midgets, some guy in drag and some eel in a tank of water. Scam.

Never enjoyed the rides. They would go in circles or high in the air but I’m just not a thrill seeker. There was one ride that would spin you in a cage while all your change fell out of your pockets under the ride.

I did talk my father into a gambling game betting to win a set of sharp knives. It was a shell game scam but I kept egging my father to put more money down. We finally walked away after losing money and getting nothing. I would buy those knives years later at the grocery store.

He also drove me to some mansion where he must have been doing business with the owner. They ushered me into a ‘trophy’ room and told me to stay there. The walls were covered with dead animal heads. There were taxidermy animals in fighting positions. The rugs were animal skins. There were chairs and tables held up by ivory tusks. It was a scary place.

Another adventure took me to a house in the fan above Sally Bells’ bakery, with an artist who sketched our family. My father was whipping his waiters, my mother was swinging the golf club, my brother was hunting with a rifle and I was drawing on the floor. More than the black headshot silhouettes of cutout construction paper.

On one trip to Virginia Beach, we went to a place called Frontier Town. It was like a movie set for a western town. They even had actors having shoot-out in the dirt street. Could get photos in cowboy clothing framed like an old timey print.

When on vacation in Wilmington, if it rained or the old folk got bored of me sitting around, they would take me to the movie theatre down by the river. I’d watch religious movies or clay animation movies of Greek figures fighting weird giant monster. One memorable one was the ‘Thief of Bagdad’. It had cool special effects and starred Superman’s brother. Otherwise, we’d go to the beach and find some way to entertain ourselves until the next meal.

He took me to a baseball game but I found it boring. He took me to a football game with my brother’s college team against their rivals. I was more interested in the antics between the two-cadet corps than the game. He took me to a circus. Sat on bleachers as clowns and people in bathing suits swung from wires and horses and an elephant walked around in a circle. The popcorn was stale and the sawdust smelled like the State Fair.

Dad took me to the Black Watch tattoo in the Arena (the same place I took driving lessons) where Scottish bagpipers and military marched back and forth in procession on a basketball court. He also took me to see ‘The Longest Day’ on the big movie screen. I think he missed his heritage.

Also saw ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, ‘It was a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World’, ‘Sound of Music’, ‘Cleopatra’, but what caught my attention was ‘West Side Story’. ‘Hard Day’s Night’, ‘Help’, ‘Yellow Submarine’,  and ‘Easy Rider’ which were seen at the Capital Theater next to Julian’s Restaurant along with art movies such as ‘Last Picture Show’, ‘Midnight Cowboy’,  ‘The Boys in the Band’, ‘Tommy: the movie’, ‘Candy’, ‘Blazing Saddles’, ‘They Shoot Horses Don’t They’, ‘Wild in the Streets’, ‘Planet of the Apes’, ‘Doctor Strangelove’, ‘Zabriskie Point’, ‘Jesus Christ, Superstar’, ‘Gimme Shelter’, ‘M*A*S*H’, ‘Clockwork Orange’, ‘Performance’, ‘Ned Kelly’, ‘Blade Runner’, ‘The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade’ ‘The Summer of ‘42’ and ‘The Killing of Sister George’. The Byrd Theatre were for Saturday matinees of cowboy movies and war movies and Eddie Weaver playing the organ that would rise up from the stage that would play the harp from one balcony and a piano from another balcony. The movie row downtown was reserved for Sunday double features of horror movies. The Lowes Theater, with all its grandeur, were visited for ‘Wizard of Oz’, ‘Bye, Bye Birdie’, ‘Oklahoma’ and ‘Carousel’. The other theatre was up the street at Libbie & Grove called the Westhampton. It showed ‘2001: Space Odyssey’, ‘Flashdance’, ‘American Graffiti’, ‘Star Trek’, ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’, and ‘Neverland’. A theatre further west was the Ridge Cinema with ‘Jaws’, ‘Ghostbusters’, ‘Overboard’, ‘ET’, ‘Lost Boys’, ‘Edward Scissorhands’, ‘Superman’ ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ and ‘Batman’.  The Lee Art theater on Grace Street near VCU had soft-core blue movies while up the street at the Biograph presenting rock movies and hard-core XXX films like ‘Deep Throat’ and ‘The Devil in Mrs. Jones’. Later movies were watched on VHS tapes then DVDs.

Another tradition was to line the sidewalk and watch the Tobacco Bowl parade. Police on motorcycles and horses. High school marching bands and cadets. Local officials in convertibles. Pretty women in ball gowns on flatbed trucks decorated in flowers. Clowns. A few old soldiers carrying flags.

At this time a buddy and I would crawl under a bridge in the cool shade and throw rocks at passing trains (until they widened the gully to provide for a busy highway).

I would also be stopped on the walk home by some girls at the 7^th Day Adventist school. They wanted my black 3-ring binder. It was mostly flirting. I gave her my notebook (even with the college ruled paper) for a feel up.

Jr. High was learning things like ‘bad words and smoking’. Everyone was trying to be cool. On one trip to the schoolyard, a car passed and said something. I responded with a ‘curse word’. The driver stopped the car and got out. He was much older and bigger than we were. He cussed me out and threw my basketball halfway down the block into a backyard. I learned a lesson and lost a basketball in that encounter.

Later people would pass in cars making catcalls out the windows about long hair, but no one stopped for a confrontation. I was bigger then.

THREE VIEWS OF AGE (L.S.D. 2.10.1974)

 

After all we are still children

Yes, and we are brothers still

Though brothers may grow strange with years

As all good children will

 

And when children become children

As all good children will

Then the growing distance closes

And the brothers harvest still

 

And the children they grow older

And the vacant places fill

By the children's children closes

The gap between them still

 

After all we are still children

Yes, and we are children still

though brothers may grow strange with years

As all good children will

 

One expects by this age

To have become a man

To do those funny adult things

Like those who also ran

Though the wine it ages nicely

We have not come to that

Like butterflies in their cocoons

We're still stewing in the vat

 

And the children they grow older

And the vacant places fill

By the children's children closes

The gap between them fills

 

 

 

Eating Out

Dining out was an experience. If we were going to a ‘club’ we dressed up and ate with fancy silverware and linen napkins. Our other favorites were Doss’ Steak House that was a few blocks away. Simple food in booths with chocolate silk pie that would always make me sick. The Seaboard Building had a cafeteria on the first floor that we’d attend regularly. Sliced roast beef, potatoes and hard bread to soak up the sauce.  Occasionally we’d go to the Northside and eat at Wright’s Town House (aka Chicken-in-the-rough). Fried chicken with honey, biscuits. I never saw dad pay for any meals. It was an awakening for me when I had to pony up to the cash register to pay for my meal.

Kelly’s was the first ‘fast food’ burger place I remember. It was all plastic and paper and cheap burgers. McDonalds followed and then Jack-in-a-Box and Wendy’s and Burger King, but the best was ‘What-A-Burger’. It was always filling after a long day of rehearsing with the band and stopping for a revival. Big greasy cheap burgers and fries hit the spot.

In college my Sunday meal was a Salisbury steak, potatoes, French cut green beans and a roll. Otherwise, it was to catch an omelet at Dutch’s or two-hamburgers mustard, mayo and tomatoes with fries and a coke at Robert’s.

Art introduced me to the basement of the Temple (where I had taken a speech class) and enjoyed the salad bar. The next best salad bar was at Strawberry Street. Learned to love cottage cheese.

BURGER SONG

 

Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce,

Hold the mustard, hold the ketchup,

Hold the onion, hold the bun,

the size of this burger is sure no fun.

 

Eat um hot in paper bags,

or eat um when you go in drag,

Eat um up with coke and fries,

or crusty, tasty, mo-mo pies

 

Shove it down and pour it in,

You've got to eat, you've got to win

So, pour it down and eat it fast

Your next bite might be your last.

 

So, hold the pickle, hold the fries,

Stop the soft drinks, stop the pies,

Slow it down, and eat it right,

Three good meals, morning, noon, and night.

 

After leaving home my palette expanded.

 Some friends took me to a restaurant, Julian’s, next to a movie theatre. They had a double-cheeze pizza that was gooey with butter and dripping in delight. I’d never eaten a pizza before. Other explorations were learning how to grill from a hibachi to controlling coals for everything from beer can chicken to succulent veggies. My first wife made a tuna casserole and I thought that was great. I’d never eaten food to stretch a dollar. Luckily, mom and dad live a few blocks away and always fed us, with leftovers to take home.

My second wife went all in for cooking from Oriental to Mediterranean to Scottish to South American. As long as it was vegan. All the PBS cooking shows instructed her on what tools and techniques were needed to feed me. I went through a grilling period, but the grills (one for vegan and one for dead cow) just got in the way. The kitchen became filled with spices I’d never heard of. The shelves were stacked with plates and bowls of every size and shape. Drawers were full of specialized utensils for special cooking demands.

We still went out to dinner at all our favorites: Joe’s Inn (of course), Crazy Greek, Jaspers, Julian’s, McLean’s, Jack-In-The-Box, Stanley Stegmeyer’s, Wendy’s, Chipotle, Burger King, Ruby Tuesdays, New York Deli, Bev’s, Nacho Mama’s, Perly’s, Angelo’s, The Village, Robert’s, Millie’s Diner, Tempo Room, Poor Richards, Continental Lounge, Strawberry Street, The Venice, Beethoven’s Inn, 3^rd St. Diner, Lee’s Chicken. Arby’s, Stuffy’s, Bill’s Barbecue

 

School High

Thomas Jefferson (April 13, 1743 – July 4, 1826) was an American statesman, diplomat, lawyer, architect, philosopher, and Founding Father who served as the third president of the United States from 1801 to 1809. He was the primary author of the Declaration of Independence. Following the American Revolutionary War and prior to becoming president in 1801, Jefferson was the nation's first U.S. secretary of state under George Washington and then the nation's second vice president under John Adams.

Carrying books. Watching black boards. Walking the halls. Listening to women instruct bored students. This was the schooling experience. Nothing inspired me.

History surrounded the current unpleasantness between the North and South. Math was logical and could be followed if shown the rules. English did not make sense. Why didn’t people write the way they talked? What was a dangling participle? Adverb or adjective?

Art and music filled my mind. Draw and escape. Listen to music and escape.

High school. A large stone building filled a city block. Three stories tall. The Art Deco building, constructed in 1929 and opened in 1930, has been listed on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. It was designed by architect Charles M. Robinson. In his book, "The Virginia Landmarks Register," Calder Loth refers to the school as Robinson's "masterpiece" and notes that the structure is "a celebration of education, a building redolent of civic pride."

My brother had passed through these halls. Similar tiled floors, tiled walls lined with lockers, and black boards.

Biggest worry of high school was losing the combination of the locker each year. A bigger worry became finding the locker each day.

The groups that had been forming in Jr. High formed clubs in High School. Key Club for the rich boys who would become class officers. The cute girls who had not been impregnated over the summer, became cheerleaders. Sponsors to R.O.T.C. companies were held for the strong at heart in American values. Sports presented another club. Language was the intelligent group.

With the recommendations from Jr. High school, I was pressed into the High School Yearbook staff as photograph editor and designer. I would take the antique point and shoot equipment, line up the clubs up on the front steps of the school and click.

I also took the new Polaroid’s, instant pictures, at proms. The idea of dressing up and getting a girl to dress up and go to school to dance to soul music didn’t appeal to me. Watching the phony presentations, the couples would leave the dancefloor and pose. Flash, one shot for you to remember this special night in black and white selfie. Wait for it to develop with a special coating.  I got bored and left.

A helicopter landed in the field behind the school one day. Students gathered around the big war machine.

A better time was made from a ‘trash the car’ day. A wrecked car was dumped onto the back field behind the school. A pep rally was held. Let’s support the school. Let’s support the team. Let’s beat up the car. A baseball bat was passed around to each student. Each student took a swing at the metal monster that represented the opposing school.

Junior Stunt night presented an opportunity to show our creativity. I volunteered. The students coordinating the event gathered and held auditions. How about a show tune? I would not do it. How about a familiar tune to tickle the parents. I would not do it.

HARVARD IS THE UNIVERSITY FOR ME (arr. by cml, 1966)

 

They're goin' put me up in Harvard

They're goin' make a student out of me

I'll make straight "A's" and I won't be forgotten

Harvard is the university for me

 

         Well, I bet you I'm goin' be a big hit

         Might make a diploma, you can never tell

         Harvard's going make me a big hit

         Cause I can almost read and spell

 

I hope you come and see me up in Harvard

Then I know that you will plainly see

The "biggest fool" that ever hit the campus

Harvard is the university for me.

 

Dedicated to T.J. Jr. Stunt Night, 1966

 

I settled on a rewrite of a Johnny Russell and Voni Morrison song first recorded by Buck Owens and then a Beatles cover “Act Naturally”, changing it to “Harvard is the University for Me”. I also agreed to be one of the silly members in the slap stick versions of Hawaiian Punch theme jokes. All filler while the next act was being set up.

In one skit, a smoke bomb was to explode and fill the stage, while the actors disappeared. The motion was made, eyes closed and a loud explosion. Unfortunately, the smoke did not appear. The metal box blew apart sending hot shrapnel through the air. One piece of hot metal lodged itself onto my hand. Like a trooper, I stood and finished my scene while my flesh burned. This was show business. Still have the scar.

Art and his cadet company presented a funny and skillfully prepared skit on the drilling. Silly hats, goofy moves, followed by precision drills with M1 heavy wooden rifles (think Bill Murray ‘Strips’). Slammed to the floor with the Queen Ann’s salute. The crowd was awed. Art didn’t get his name in the program?

After the second night, that year’s foreign exchange student, Verena Graf came to the house. She played guitar. I played guitar. She was Swiss. I was not. We sat on the sofa and talked. Nothing was to come of this evening, other than the fact that a high-profile foreign-exchange student came to my home and talked to me.

Did that make me special? Did that make me part of the in-crowd?

Never dated any girls at the schools I attended. Never went to school activities (unless mandatory) and avoided the prom.

During the summer break, Art would go to the farm. Joel would travel the country with his family and camper picking up rocks. Steve worked on his telescope and after summer school, there were band rehearsals.

Summer school was a constant. I was always making up classes. One summer a history substitute instructor refreshed my value of teaching.

He was a fat man in a tan suit. He wore a white shirt that would show the stains of sweat in the hot classroom. He talked of his wife. He talked of Virginia history as if it was his own. He created field trips to Jamestown and Washington. In Jamestown it was amazing how small the fort was and what was with the Indians wearing bad wigs and lone cloths over shorts and wrist watches? The glass blowing was amazing but why were the colonist wearing wrist watches? In Washington, Kurfees and I almost got lost in the nation’s capital, but made the bus in time to get home. He brought life to teaching.

Kurfees and I held the back of the class. We were the reason for summer school.

Bob Kurfees was quiet. Bob was cool. Bob offered a teacher a challenge to catch him smoking in school. The teacher accepted the challenge with an incentive. If the first term went by without Bob being caught smoking, the class would be rewarded. The entire class would get the prize of a chocolate milk shakes.

Drafting (Mechanical Drawing) was taught by the football coach who bought the milk shakes. This was a class for future architects or car designers. I was not as precise as others but I did learn how to use a T-square, triangles and a drawing table that would provide me the basics of my career.

I was never unruly or disobedient, but was a rascal. My homeroom had sliding blackboards that went up and down. Every morning before the teacher came in, I’d write or draw something on one of the boards and slide it behind the other so that sometime through the day would be revealed. I was sent home for having long hair once. I found out later, there was talk of sending me to Franklin Military Academy for discipline.

Joel was taking Latin, Economics and other college prep classes and running cross country and hurdles.

THE LEADER

 

I am here,

I am the leader,

Look this way,

Listen up

try and follow

the words I say

 

I am here,

I am the leader,

Look this way,

Listen up

try and follow

the words I say

 

For the truth is often bolder

than the way you thought it was

And the guy looking over your shoulder

might be a priest, might be the fuzz

 

I am here,

I am the leader,

Look this way,

Listen up

try and follow

the words I say (repeat)

 

We're gonna have a good time

but don't forget where you are

You're punks in steel and concrete

and I'm the star--

and I'm the star--

and I'm the star--

Art and Mike marched after school. Steve was hanging around another Cliff(e) Harris and going directly home after school to polish his telescope.

I was taking art. It was a large classroom filled with people getting out of Algebra or Chemistry. Art was an elective. It gave students who had filled their card with study halls, another chance. It became my major. I could draw fake ids. Lots of posters.

Chemistry was too difficult to remember all the periodic tables. I also was not keen on cutting up living frogs.

Gym was a waste of time. I couldn’t run so I’d walk around the track doing laps. Coach Brocknus would sit on the floor and pull himself up a rope. Impressive, but no one in the class could even come close to matching it. Sit ups, pull ups, jumping jacks didn’t make my muscles grow. I didn’t like running back and forth in basketball and football was too rough. Showering with a bunch of guys was never good until we found that hole into the girl’s shower room.

Probably the most productive class I took in high school was typing. I thought that would be a way to meet cute girls, but it was just full of homemaking education girls who would become secretaries or old maids. We used old mechanical typewriters with the return pull. Learning where to put our fingers and repetition made us faster. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Later, I’d get an electric typewriter but still needed to use white-out. When the computer keyboard came out, I was ahead of the curve.

Algebra was taught by a black-haired drill sergeant named Mrs. Warner. She knew the subject, but never gave the subject warmth. She presented formulas then it was easy (with a slide rule). She lived across the street from Joel’s girlfriend. Her daughter was within reach. The thought crossed my mind. If I bonked the daughter, the mother would give a good grade. This never happened. She was shapely, but hairy and dull. Joel’s cousin experienced the pleasure.

English was my downfall. I did not understand dangling participles. The difference between cases did not hold my interest. I had always had a problem writing with extended (s) or (ed) on words. I would stop a sentence midway. I knew what I was writing. I just could not express it to others in properly approved grammar regulations on papers.

Mister Bennett was my high school savior. B-E-N-N-E-T-T he would write on the black board. A small unassuming old man in a tweed jacket. Every day the small balding man would walk across the front of the room, place his old briefcase upright on the desk, open it, pull out some heavy books, and slam them on the desk. Without looking up, he would turn to a certain chapter. He then looked up and started the dry lectures.

Mister Bennett gave me a make-up exam to get me out of high school. I don’t think I passed, but I got a passing grade.

When the principal handed me the diploma, he smiled and said “I hope I never see you again”. I walked to the end of the stage, down the steps and back to my row stunned. The person next to me nudged me to move my tassel to the other side of my mortar board. The burgundy robe shook with the shock as we pledge allegiance to the school named after our third president.

JUMP

 

Nervously you take a look around,

and ten flights down, on the ground,

a crowd starts to form, you hear a sound

telling you to jump,

telling you to stay,

 

The priest is here to "save your soul",

or give you "last rights", before you go,

and the crowd yells up, "On with the show"

and the film crew

sets up just in time... e e e e e e e.

 

It's time to take your glide,

with TV lights as your guide,

waiting to give you a ride,

telling you to jump,

telling you to stay.

 

It's a crime they say you will commit,

Tomorrow you'll be a misfit,

it's your show, you'll be a "hit",

and the film crew

goes home to the midnight news.

 

The audience cheers for an encore,

climb back up, and do another soar,

but the Police lines say, "Sorry, no more...."

 

Girls

Kay Lordly lived down the street. I would go to her house and play in the backyard sandbox. She wanted to play house. I wanted to play doctor.  Isabel Spilman, small, quiet, and thin and a sweetie attended birthday parties. My cousin, Elizabeth would ask me to watch her walk across her backyard to see if she strutted her stuff enough.

The first experience was with Cookie. A rare and odd time with a true friend. As quickly as it began, it was over.

During the summer acting sessions at Dogwood Dell, two girls became friends. We met as actors under the warm night air. We talked under the bright lights attracting bugs. A re-enactment of the last days of the Civil War in Richmond was the theme of the play. Learned every line of the play by repetitive rehearsals at Pine Camp. Collarless shirts, wool pants, and those big shirts and tight bodices. I played my tenor guitar between our scenes. We sang “Follow the Drinking Gourd” and “Dixie” and “Go Tell It on the Mountain”.

They were warm and cute. They were brief experiences. Stolen moments. We went back to separate schools. I never saw them again.

Parents tried to mix their children, to no avail. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. The chemistry had to be there.

Dances at the country club with cute, yet shy blond girls in pressed dresses. Awkward. I attended the duties of getting drinks and trying to be pleasant under the watchful eyes of the two mothers watching from the bar. The girls were coming out. The boys were not.

Other meetings at parents’, parties were experiments in disaster. Some of the girls were cute. Most didn’t want to entertain me. They did not want to hug me for extended periods of time.

I did start to find girls to take to dance clubs, lawn parties and musical performances. Being somewhat shy and polite I’d ask a girl out and then hope for the best.

One was a fairly well-to-do daughter of a family friend and from the point she climbed into the car, she proved she was primed and ready. A bit too pushy and plump for my exquisite taste.

Another was some girl I met somewhere (maybe college class). She was from England. She lived in a tall apartment building downtown with her younger brother (but NO parents). She gave me the first ‘Them’ album. Very similar to the ‘Rolling Stones’, which we both enjoyed. For some local show or dance I double-dated with Paul and after the bewitching hour arrived, I took her up to her apartment. We kissed good-night but she wouldn’t let me in (sleeping brother was an excuse). Still, we couldn’t unlock. In the hallway, in the elevator, in the stairwell until 3AM. Phew! I was exhausted and realized it was a long walk home, but Paul dropped off his date and came back for me. Lost her name but still have the album and played ‘Gloria’ hundreds of times. Thx for the memories.

The swim team at the country club began my study of the female anatomy. The girls I had kidded around with, hit on the arm, and pushed into the water, were becoming bigger, and rounder. The tight burgundy suits showed some lumps that had not been noticed before. Small protrusions held my eyes and the soft twin mounds grew in the form fitting suits. They began to bounce as they walked. The girls would snap the bottom of their suits when they would leave the water. The ever-reducing suits would slide into their butt.

I LIKE GIRLS (cliff &/or joe, 1964)

 

I like girls (I like girls)

I like girls (I like girls)

They send me round the world (round the world)

They keep me in a swirl

BECAUSE I LIKE GIRLS

 

There's not a single girl (single girl)

Who with all her curves and curls (curves and curls)

Couldn't send me around the world (round the world)

And put me in a whirl

BECAUSE I LIKE GIRLS

 

I'm going out of my head (out of my head)

Losing all of my bread (my bread)

Better off in my bed (my bed)

Before I lose my head

BECAUSE I LIKE GIRLS

 

 

The next “date” was concocted by Art. He knew some girls who were helping in an electoral campaign putting up posters. Catholic girls.

He arranged for one of the girls to be my date. A blind date. A girl with “braces”. I expected an invalid. This could be all I could expect from life? A date with a crippled girl? She couldn’t run away. A dinner “party” was suggested for a couple.

I dressed to the finest, suave look I knew. Ascot, pressed shirt. A card table was set up and draped with a table cloth in my brother’s room. He had vacated it to go to college. The bomb was gone.

When the doorbell rang, I flew down the stairs, gliding on the banisters and skipping steps. I stopped at the door, adjusted my ascot, and took a deep breath. I welcomed the group crowded onto the porch.

The first sight was a tall, lanky girl with big dark eyes. She smiled. She had a mouth full of braces. Those braces!

Art was dressed in a suit. He had his date, Carolyn on his arm. We were perfect gentlemen. We folded our napkins in our laps, said all the right things and didn’t spill our milk. Very awkward night. Everyone smiled and acted gracious to my mother, who delivered the plates of whatever we ate. We didn’t care. We wanted out.

After some uncomfortable hours, Art and I walked Carolyn home, then we proceeded across the bridge into the “not West End” area of town. Small talk, goofy stuff. Just being with a female. I walked her up the stairs to her door. She smiled the silver smile, paused, and then was inside. I walked back to the sidewalk where Art was waiting.

The night air was getting colder. Art and I parted, he headed East and I returned West. My step lifted a few paces off the ground. I was in love.

Many phone calls later, secured another “date” with Dot. We needed a safe place with lots of friends around. The Dexter’s home became the base.

Dot and I would dance, hug, and occasionally kiss.

I WANNA KNOW (cml, 1966)

 

I used to go steady, and to wear her ring

There was a mutual love, that kinda thing

For eight long years, she was the one

To kiss and hug, and to have fun

But telling me lies, she broke my heart

Being used like that, we had to part

         I want to know, I want to know

         Just how you feel

 

Then you came along, and woke me up to a dream

You made me forget her, how could you be so mean

You make me mad, a little jealous, too

The way you look and the way "they" look at you

Seniors couldn't do it, nor could the French

It takes a sophomore sitting on the bench

         I want to know, I want to know

         Just how you feel

 

You know I like you; I'll take you in

But if I'm not wanted, please fill me in

 

Dedicated to Dot Murphy

 

At a birthday party for Dot, with a polka dotted cake and a polka dotted shirt, the group arrived at The Dexter’s house. A special night was planned. It didn’t happen.

Art’s former high school girlfriend, Suzie Hazlett called. She wanted to talk to Art. He didn’t want to talk to her. I intervened. Bad move. Mood shift. While I was trying to talk to the crying voice on the phone, Art was capturing the attention of a soulful caring girl. The night was a disaster.

The last night together was a road trip with Paul Little. The purple DeSoto led us on another double date adventure. We turned off the familiar roads and up a dirt trail. No street lights. Paul knew where he was going. We stopped in the darkness. All lights were gone. We became quiet. We stared at our dates. We started to make out.

Dot squirmed and was uncomfortable with the situation. The back seat was long. We stretched out. Her wool skirt was pressed. My hand was pushed away. I rubbed the back of her neatly pressed cotton blouse. My hand was pushed away. I again touched her leg. My hand was pushed away. We continued to kiss.

Then I saw the light through the back window. A flash light lit the backseat. I looked up to see a uniformed man in a hat looking into the back window.

We quickly shuffled to upright positions. The uniformed man moved to the driver’s door and peered in. Paul smiled back as he and his date gathered themselves.

We were instructed to leave. We left.

The dates became fewer and rarer.

 

 

The Blue Lite

Couples would come to my house to watch television. Sure. That was the excuse, but we were there to make out.

Each couple would grab a seat. The porch was small so only two couples were comfortable sitting on one sofa and a chair. A small gas heater lit the room with the reflection of the television on a mirror. The overhead light would be turned out.

Couples found it much more comfortable to have the girl sit on the boy’s lap. More room. Warmer.

Finally, my mother requested we leave a light on when “company” was over. Sure.

A three-watt blue bulb was placed in a side lamp. An eerie blue glow lit the corner. We had complied with the request.

SNOW ME, PT. 1 (cml &/or jmd, 1965)

 

At my girlfriend's house late one night

Watching TV by the lil' blue light

The "Wild, Wild Man from S.M.O.T.H.E.R.S." was on

Sitting alone with my platinum blonde

         Snow me in the morning and snow me at night

         Snow me when the autumn moon shines

         for you know I will always be ready

         So, snow me any old time

"Honey's Hero's" was passing by

I didn't have to bat an eye

With soothing lips and sweating hands

I knew that I would be her man, for she would

         Snow me in the morning and snow me at night

         Snow me when the autumn moon shines

         for you know I will always be ready

         So, snow me any old time

As the morning sun rose in the West

I knew that I had done my best

when I got up to say, "Good-bye"

She said put on an omelet for to fry... (but did it have to be pickled?)

         Snow me in the morning and snow me at night

         Snow me when the autumn moon shines

         for you know I will always be ready

         So, snow me any old time

 

 

 

The Break-Up

One night walking home, Dot broke up with me. She said we were going too fast and too far and should see other people. Just minutes before I had my tongue down her throat.

We had nothing in common. She was a Catholic from a large family. She was tall and awkward. She played basketball. I never attended a game. We were both teenagers. We would make-out, but go no further.

At the overpass, I picked up a rock and threw it on the ground out of frustration. It ricochets across the street onto a passing car’s windshield. The car swerved to the curb and stopped. The male driver got out and looked at the chip in his window. I was speechless. What else could go wrong? I wrote down my address and phone number. He drove off. I don’t know if he ever called or my father paid for the windshield.

Dot and I walked quietly home. She smiled, turned, and walked up the steps. I listened for the door to close. No good-bye kiss. Just a smile.

Walking home was a long journey. No sound. No movement. I wrote several songs about my feelings.

She went on to become Art’s main squeeze. Congratulations.

OH WELL! YOU CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING IN LIFE

(YOU'VE GOT YOUR PROBLEMS AND I'VE GOT MINE)

(cml, 1965)

 

She came into my life, as if out of a dream

My heart fell for her, and my world turned topsy-turvey

As if I wouldn't have known it, she was untrue to me.

 

A friend also came, or so I called him "my friend"

Patiently he waited, for the right time and place

To steal her heart away from me, and so it happened.

 

Now, as I sit upon this cloud, I look down upon the earth

Seeing the problems and wonder, "Why life has to be so cruel?"

But now my time has come, and I must go...

 

Dedicated to: Art Spencer

 

Diane

A few nights later, Joel and his cousin Charlie were attending a conference at the Hotel John Marshall downtown. It was some kind of prehistoric Revolutionary War veterans’ family gathering. Everyone wore some kind of pin or hat or badge like a political convention or a military reunion. They invited me to crash the party. I went.

Lots of kids filled the lobby, running back and forth. We crammed into the elevators with other kids and rose to the top of the hotel.

The doors opened to a mass of young people. All talking. All moving. Very properly dressed. As we wedged through the assembly, music was heard. A band or records were playing in the room off to the left over the roar of the crowd. The dance hall. We got as far as the door. The mass of flesh pushed us back. It was hot. We were tired. We didn’t venture on.

Charlie could not stand the crowd and motioned to his cousin to leave. On the way back to the elevator, we connected with some “birds”. They looked English in their dress and manner. A short blond girl with straight bangs to her eyes introduced herself to me. Diane. She was inviting. She showed me her floor. She showed me her room, filled with screaming, laughing girls. We kissed in the hallway. I left to find my friends. I ripped my pants on the edge of a table. I wandered outside looking for somewhere to go. I stood in the dark with half a pant leg hanging open. Do I walk home? Do I go back into the hotel?

The two friends appeared in the doorway. We climbed back into the Red Rambler and headed back to his house where his sister rigged a patch job and we headed back to the hotel.

I felt uncomfortable the rest of the night. I wondered if my pants were going to fall off.

I found Diane and we kissed some more. We traded phone numbers and kissed some more. We shared addresses and kissed some more.

I called Diane. I wrote Diane. She sent me perfumed letters.

I persuaded Paul to drive his huge 56 DeSoto mobile make-out machine to Williamsburg. The carrot was a date for him fixed up by Diane.

We arrived as darkness fell. This was perfect. Diane greeted us at the door and we quickly left the house. We climbed into the backseat and immediately embraced.  Paul climbed into the driver seat, looked in the rear-view mirror, and coughed to get our attention. Oh yeah, his date. Diane directed him down the street and across town. We immediately made-out as he drove off. She was hot and bothered. Warm and wet.

A small girl, Diane and I had kissed in Richmond. She was passionate. She knew what she wanted. She knew what I wanted and was ready to give it to me. She wore knee socks and a tartan kilt that would fly open.

The car stopped in front of a house. Diane adjusted herself and left the car. I breathed a sigh of relief from the action, and patted the driver. He was becoming frustrated with the visions in his mirror and the lack of action in his lap. Diane returned empty handed.

She directed Paul to drive some more. He wound through dark colonial streets as Diane and I continued to fog up the windows. After an hour of aimlessly wandering about, we stopped at another location. Still no luck. Another drive and another stop.

Diane returned with a small freckled faced girl with short red hair. She climbed into the front seat, looked at the driver, looked back at Diane sliding onto my lap, and stared straight ahead. Diane gave brief directions to a soda shop and we drove on. The front seat was quiet.

Another brief stop for cokes and fries. The red-haired girl noted the time on the wall and asked to be taken home.

The return trip was more awkward than before. Before the car had slowed to a stop, she bound from the door and ran to her house.

We delivered Diane back home and headed back to Richmond. I would never see her again.

SHE (part I and II) (cliff &/or joe, 1966)

 

She, is the one who wants me

She, is the one I need

She, when I'm dancing with her

She, hold her close to me

She, when I go to see her

She, will be waiting there

She, will be glad to see me

She, is the one that cares

She....

         I, when I'm walking with her

         I, just can't bear to leave her

         I, Lord knows, I need her

She, told me when I asked her

She, said she would be true

She, when I have to leave her

She, said, "I will miss you."

She, writes me pretty letters

She, writes me every day

She, when I read her letters

She, I can't get away from

She....

 

Dedicated to: Carolyn Curley and Sindey Jane Johnson

 

 

 

Younger Girls

Carolyn Curley was the staple of the group. She dated Art. She dated Joel. She made-out with everyone. She was tall and lanky. Carolyn was loud and funny. She played basketball with Dot, but she did not appear to be athletic. Forward enough to invite strangers into the group, familiar enough to gather Catholic girls into a party of strangers.

Carolyn and Dot introduced their friends to us.

Carol and Becky. The Wright sisters for the wrong reasons. Carol had light colored straw textured hair. Her skin was course and rough. She had bad breath. Becky was thin, cute and quiet. Carol had no shape; Becky had it all.

Mike dated Carol for a short period of time. Charlie, then his brother Bill took after Becky.

Ann was the butch straight dark haired thin boned girl. She would cross her legs the way men do. She had hairy eyebrows. She stood apart from the others. She enjoyed the sports and the physical play. She was always horsing around and roughing up the group. She did not fit in.

We tried to match Ann with David, then Steve. It did not work.

Dating became a game of hide and seek. I’d walk up to perfect strangers and ask for a date. If I got a conversation instead of a slap, but it never continued. Paul and I found some phone numbers and started calling to see if a girl answered and would converse with us and hopefully invite us over. Even flirted with the girl selling candy at Sears asking for a 1/4lb bag of M&M, but only the red ones.

Some would turn into one-night stands fogging up the windows at the drive-in movie or a once in a lifetime chance partner at a concert.

BLACK BOY BLUES

 

White man, suck your cigarette,

cross the street and tighten your tie,

we know you never got high,

You're a high school junkie, that's why.

 

Smiling at a cheerleader, you touch her hair,

She looks you over with a blinding stare,

Cause your style of love just doesn't compare,

The way that our love can do.

 

Popcorn at the drive-in, you gain her trust,

Making it simple, so she thinks that she must,

Between the sheets of a cheap motel, she cries in a hush,

And you give her half your name.

 

Running onto the field, they let out a gasp

Grasping helmets in hand, they let out a gasp

Think you only fake a

but the crowd run 'round you to form a new mass,

A worship to their "new " hero.

 

Now we sold you our best for cheap labor,

and we feel that we've paid your dues,

So, you better start looking over your shoulder,

the next "slave" might buy you.

 

 

Betsy

Betsy was a friend of Carol. She was young and shy. She lowered her head when she talked. Steve first took the challenge of this cuddly girl. She did not offer any encouragement. She would walk with Steve and I. We would pick up traffic strips and drag them down the streets. Steve would try to make-out with Betsy. She would resist.

I would make-out with Betsy. She was a good kisser. She did not resist. She let me become familiar with her body, but I’d stop. She was definitely a Scandinavian blonde. She said I was her first, but I don’t remember the blood. She said she talked me into it.

Betsy was three and a half years younger than me. She was in Jr. High when I was in High School. She was in high school when I was in college.

Betsy had a front swing on the row house. She had a basement. Her mother, cute as she was, would let us make-out in both locations. Her sister paid attention. She was also cute.

Betsy gave me a load of Rolling Stones pictures she was saving. I was making a collage. I listened to the Rolling Stones. This was a major sacrifice.

I commented to Betsy I would like a girl in a dress I could tear off.

One weekend, her mother was away. She had the house to herself. I was invited over. She kept me at bay outside the upstairs bedroom. She opened the door to appear in a paper dress. Strips of white paper and clear acrylic covered her body. A short revealing one-piece dress taped together. I enjoyed ripping it off her.

That night I carried her to her mother’s bed. I undressed and ravished her. She wanted to taste the semen. “It tastes salty,” she squealed. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Morning arose quickly. The sound of a car engine stirred us awake. She straightened the bedroom, while I threw on my jeans and leaped down the steps. I peered through the window to see her mother walking up the steps. I bolted to the back door and freedom. I ran past the houses and down the alley barefoot. I never looked back. Did I forget anything? Too late now.

Betsy became my slut. I would call her and she would come to me. We would kiss. She would let me remove her bra. Later, she did not wear a bra. She would let me unzip her jeans and probe inside her thighs. She let me grope her body without resistance.

She would call me when she was babysitting. I’d walk to a stranger’s house and ring the bell. There was never enough time but it was daring and exciting in a forbidding world.

I didn’t want Betsy to be my girlfriend, but she became my sexual staple. She was always on call. She became more and more familiar with the sexual life style. She talked of other boys, which made me jealous.

Her best color was brown. She had a brown mini skirt made of suede. She wore brown leggings with it and a suede jacket. Very mod look. Like a delicious piece of chocolate.

She said she loved me. She wanted to have a baby.

Betsy and I broke up and made up so many times. The brown stocking and mini skirt turned into bell bottom jeans. The satin blouse turned into tie dyed T-shirts. She talked of drugs. She talked of other boys.

She and some boy toilet-paper rolled my house one Saturday night. She confessed later. Wasn’t bad and a quick clean up, but it pissed off my dad.

She left for parts unknown. Art made a connection with her for a couple of years. He did not talk to me during that time. He did not mention what happened. Years later, he remarked I had treated her badly. I did not reply.

 

The Williamsburg ladies present another challenge. Four available ladies. Four hippie chicks. Four soft bodies with no place to go.

Annie was taken. Dula was weird. Julia was too busy. Linda. Linda was right for the picking.

HOW FAR WILL SHE GO? (cml, 1969)

 

Well, it's our first date

Thinking 'bout things I'd like to do

But I'm wondering, would you like them too?

 

How far will she go?

So, I move real slow

But this plan is nothing new.

 

And now we mess around

And finally, you go down

You're a fallen girl thro' and thro’.

 

So now you want move

You're nothing but a whore

You just can't get enough of that too.

 

How far will she go?

I really don't know

But now she wants $5.00 to screw.

 

 

 

 

Sex

Sex began with rubbing the bed. I would look at pictures and imagine things. I would rub on the bed until I spurted all over the side. I tried to wipe it up with sheets and towels. I would cover it up. I never believed my parents would know. I never believed the mattress could be so stained.

It began with viewing the neighbor’s daughter undressing in her bedroom. Hours were spent on hot summer nights, waiting for the light to come on from across the way. I sat crossed legged on my bed with opera glasses and waited. Every now and then, Janice would turn on the light. She would walk back and forth in front of the window. Each time, a few less articles of clothing. Then the lights would go out. I kept staring. I never saw any skin, but I imagined the rest. 

I began finding nude pictures of people I did not know in my parents’ dresser drawers. I began finding pornographic booklets in my mother’s underwear drawer. I even held my mothers’ silken underwear against myself. I began finding playboy magazines in between the mattresses.

I looked at a Playboy pin up of Marilyn Monroe in the basement of a friend’s house. Wow! A naked girl.

I fantasized about the girls at school. My penis was becoming more and more a problem.

In school, it would become erect. On the walk home, it would become erect. It had a mind of its own. I rubbed back and forth on the bed at night until the sheets were wet. I held the pillows close until the sheets were wet. I knelt on the bathroom floor and rubbed it into the toilet. I rubbed it in the sink. It would still bulge and stain my pants.

Rough housing became a method of touching. I roughhoused with my cousins. I roughhoused with a friend at a sleep over. We got naked and wrestled. We both were erect. I shot a big wad onto the sheets. That was the last sleep over.

Kissing was good. Warm and wet. A close hug. Pressed lips. Close bodies. It was called “making-out.” It was a prelude to heavy petting.

Songs like “Louie, Louie” announced the forbidden journey into intimate exchange of fluids

Kissing and clumsy groping was the mainstay through my teen years.

Girls followed the rules of not kissing on first dates, get a ring before you get to second base, must be going steady to get to third base, and no home runs until married. The sexual revolution had begun. 

There was no sexual education at school. There was no sexual education at church. There was no talk of sex at home. The only knowledge of menstruation was for one week a month she didn’t want to ‘do it’.

I had to get married to find about tampons and pads on the grocery list. I avoided condoms, but she took the pill.

ROCKS OFF

 

Get her up to your place, you think she knows the rest

Get her drunk, get her high, turn the music down low

down the lights, .... until you; until you....

 

Rocks off, rocks off,

Gonna lay my baby down,

Rocks off, rocks off,

Gotta gets it all around,

Rocks off, rocks off,

Gonna get it, gonna get my rocks off.

 

Take her on her knees, take her for a ride

Lay her down upon her back, give her taste a try

Let your loving flow, .... until you, until you, until you, until you.

 

Music

Music. My brother was listening to music on a portable phonograph. 45’s were the media of the day. My brother started letting me listen to folk music. We also had a new invention, the transistor radio from Hitachi. I listened to AM radio and admired their logo.

 I was watching television on a 12” black and white model and had started paying attention to the background music of the shows. Some of the music was familiar, some of the music was new. I knew the classical music from cartoons and the Richmond Symphony concerts that I attended with my school, but this new music.

“Hootenanny” was the first show I paid attention to. There had been other music shows on television, but most were country music. “The Grand Ole Opry” was created and presented in Richmond. It did not create interest in the young. I did not like the simple makeup of country music and was looking for something new. Folk music answered the request. “Hootenanny” offered live music on stage of college performers entertaining young people.

‘The Kingston Trio’ was the first group I listened to. They were white bread clean with an edge. They had taken their direction from the Calypsos music of the Jamaican Islands. This was college music. This was not the hard-liner rock and roll that was coming out. This was not Elvis, or Bill Haley left over 40s arrangements, or the boy singers in greasy hair. This was acceptable music. This was AM radio music. It was cleaned and based on American folk music. This was not our parents’ music.

I begged for an instrument I could play. I bought a baritone ukulele to learn. It was small but it looked like a guitar. I also bought from a local music store, Cary Gee, a baritone banjo. Four strings each. Four strings. This was all I had and I did the most from it. The banjo was always out of tune, but the ukulele was a learning tool. Both had nylon strings so the sound was soft. A book of chords and a lot of practice.

I bought more books with chords. I practiced, and practiced, and practiced. I sat in my room and went over and over the tunes. I pulled out my “Twice 55” songbook from the plastic flute days in elementary school and tried to learn those songs. I listened to the radio and tried to copy the songs.

We had a tiny chord organ on wobbly legs. It helped teach chord progressions.

I also would turn our autoharp sideways to play like a guitar while pressing the chord buttons. I’d also bang on the strings with pencils like a hammer dulcimer.

I practiced with my cousins who had “real” guitars and were learning folk music. This was acceptable. One cousin would sing and the other strummed and picked the steel strings of his guitar while singing harmony. I played my baritone ukulele with them, but it did not sound right.

I begged for a “real” guitar. I received a 4-string “Stella” guitar from a pawnshop. Fire burst finish, but it was a guitar. I had a picture in a monster magazine of the mummy playing this guitar. I practiced the “Kingston Trio” until my fingers bled. Steel strings. I learned folk songs, old civil war songs, and tried new “rock and roll” songs, but they didn’t sound very good. I wanted more.

In the early 60s, the “youngsters” would entertain at parent’s parties by playing these new tunes to the laughter of the cigarette smoking couples with drinks in their hands.

My father bought a red arch-top guitar (possibly a Gibson L-7 or Epiphone) from an associate up the street. High action, rusty steel strings. A full-size guitar. Cardboard case. This guitar would carry me for many years. This guitar didn’t have the cool look of the time, but it was a real guitar. I would learn to write music on this guitar. I learned open tuning on this guitar. I would try to play rock and roll on this acoustic guitar, without much success.

Art had bought a Gibson F-25 folksinger guitar from Walter D. Moses. It was like the guitar Paul Stookey of “Peter, Paul and Mary” played. I learned the three-finger picking style from Art, but the red arch top steel string guitar was not conducive to picking.  Art was following the folk singing craze playing his Gibson and singing harmonies with a friend. He was good at picking up other styles. He helped me learn to listen to music I was not accustomed to.

 

 

Bands

The first gathering of playing music were my cousins playing folk music on the beach. Lil’ Mac bought a Martin D28, Tommy brought a Vega banjo and we all sang around a pit fire folk songs we’d heard on the radio. Hootenannies were becoming popular in the college set as beat jazz started to fade to the guitar. 

 

Lil’ Mac, his sister Liz and I started singing for family gatherings playing songs like ‘Wimoweh’ and ‘Puff, the magic dragon’. We sang church music for church events. I tried to keep up on my ukulele, but I didn’t know all the cords. I could wave the wobble board for percussion.

For fun we modeled ourselves after ‘Peter, Paul and Mary’ to call ourselves: ‘Peter, Paul and Penelope’.

 

Sonics

I joined several bands while living at 4101. After folk music, I met in a Monument Avenue basement to learn electric guitar with “The Sonics”. We copied the new instrumental sounds from the West coast. We never played anywhere outside the basement. Dick Hines would later go on to DJ.

 

 

 

 

 

The Thames

An exciting time to learn music. Every day there was a new sound. English R&B with massive organ sounds, early soul singing, raw rock and roll. Every weekend there was a new list of songs. Some weekends some of Wally’s classmates would come over. They would play horns or just sit and watch. Wally’s dad and sister also watched. His dad would drink beer in the kitchen and look out the back door at the chicken farm across the road.

My father got me a solid body electric guitar that would not stay in tune and a small amplifier. It played a lot of static, but it was electric.

My father was also the first person to introduce me to “The Beatles”. He heard some of the music and bought the black album with the four faces. My father and mother and I watched the preview of “The Beatles” on Ed Sullivan. I was hooked. He got a poster printed with ‘The Beatles’ with Cliff Leftwich.

I heard a new sound on the Ed Sullivan show. “The Byrds” came on to sing “Mr. Tambourine Man” and they had three 12-string guitars. What a sound. A massive sound of strings. I had to get one.

I went to Cary Gee, the local music store and asked about this 12-string sound. They had Rickenbacker electric guitars, but that was out of range price wise. They also carried Goya, a Swedish guitar. There was a 12-string acoustic within price range. I asked Santa and he delivered. The same year of gold jeans, purple shirt with epaulets, and multi-colored knitted booties knitted by mom.

Next, I had to get an electric guitar pickup for acoustic guitar. That was purchased, slid into the sound hole and now I could sound like “The Byrds”. I plugged the acoustic 12-string into my little amp and played for hours and hours. Strumming the same songs until my calluses became hard. Over and over the same old songs.

The next summer of 65’, the family went to Wilmington for a vacation. This was always the vacation our family took. My father took me to Paul T. Marshburn’s little grocery store around the corner from where my father grew up.  Dad and Paul T. went back to an out of the way office while I surveyed the store. Sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, opened produce, canned items on dusty shelves, and a black boy who would carry bags of groceries home for the elderly white women. He never talked, but would sweep the floor and swat the flies that were constant.

After I caught up to Paul T. and Dad, I noticed the photos on the wall of the tiny corner office. Every entertainer that had been on the East Coast in the past decade had their faces on the walls with signatures and well wishes to Paul T.

Dad had asked Paul T. about an amplifier. Paul T. had an old Fender bassman amp in the corner. It was perfect. It was huge. Blond tweed with 4 - 10” speakers. Tube volume. (Later in life, I was to “loan” this amp to a friend of a friend. I never heard back. I even went looking for the person in his apartment. Scared the roommate to death. Mad that I lost that one.)

Bruce Schoeones, my nemesis from elementary school, thought he could manager a band. We were starting high school. He knew some guys who could play guitar and he called to see if I would like to join. Mom drove me to an address that I did not know. A new and different neighborhood. My mother dropped me off and drove away. Just like camp.

I unloaded my guitar and little amp and waved good-bye to Mom. I walked into a small shingled house to meet Bruce, Paul Little, Wally Wicker, Wally’s sister and dad smiled as the boys’ unpacked boxes of guitars in the living room.

Bruce Schones was a confederate loving Jew from elementary school. He lived in a subdivision. A very plastic house with plastic parents. His face was pocked with pimples and had a large nose. A lot of energy with no place to go.

 

Wally Wicker was a pocked-marked stocky guy with a dimpled chin. He had long straight light brown hair that was combed over for a bang. His eyes lit the room and he had an irresistible smile. His clothes were clean but not the high fashion of the time. Wally had rough edges but was one of us. Wally played a Silvertone black and white solid body guitar and would bang out the chords until he broke the picks. Then he got a Gibson Les Paul Jr.

WHERE’S WALLY? (cml, 2003)

 

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He must be happy

He must be free

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

 

It’s a breeze in ‘66, the last I saw him

the grin that won the day

he was a free spirit and he lived for the day

and the day was kind

 

He didn’t have jewelry,

or a status in the social pages,

but Wally was one of us,

yes, Wally was one of us,

and he knew how to get around,

get around, get around,

Wally was one of us,

Wally was one of us,

 

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He must be happy,

He must be free,

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

 

A magnet to the women,

An inspiration to the men,

Wally gains the season,

with his natural grin,

He was never handsome,

as a movie star,

but you took a second glance,

as he climbed into his car.

 

He sang lead in our band,

and he played a mean guitar,

We learned to drink from his dad,

who never let us go too far,

who never let us go too far.

 

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He must be happy,

He must be free,

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

 

Wally, kept the freedom alive

Paul and I will follow you

Wally, go where your spirit rides

Each day will be something new

 

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He must be happy

He must be free

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

Maybe over there

Sitting under that tree

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He’s gone

from you and me

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He must be happy

He must be free

Where’s Wally?

Where can he be?

He taught so much

to you and me

 

Paul Little was an awkward lanky guitar player. Loose glasses fit the thin face with tight curly hair. Collared shirts, high water pants, and shoes too big that curled up at the end. His fingernails were always grimy with grease from fixing one of his DeSoto’s. Paul played a brown solid body Epiphone Wilshire with a whammy bar. He also played clarinet in the high school marching band.

We all played through tiny amps with cords running all over the floor. We blew out speakers and resoldered cables and wires. Oh, what a noise.

 First impressions were that these were not the usual type of people I was used to. They appeared to be from the “other side of the tracks”. Wally was not handsome and his sister looked like ‘Wally in drag’. His father was gruff, but friendly. The house was small but accommodated the three boys and guitars. We started playing various songs with glee. The bond happened quickly. We didn’t have anything in common except the music.

Bruce decided we needed a drummer. Bill Wellons answered the call.

A name was chosen. “The Thames”, after the river that runs through London, were born in Wally’s backyard with white pants, blue blazers, light blue shirts, and cravats. The band photo was out of focus, but we were a band. The uniform of the day.  We looked smart enough for a country club dance, but our music was too raw.

I had joined a team. It was called a rock and roll band.

Wally’s house became our rehearsal hall. Every weekend we would cram his living room with electric guitars, cords, amplifiers, electric extension cords and makeshift microphones. Half of the equipment had to be rewired before we began to tune. Tuning is the art of spending most of your time talking. All of our equipment was second hand. We had no idea how to tune. Once we got in tune, we could not decide what key to play in. Luckily, we only needed three chords. Sometimes they were A-D-E when I sang. Sometimes they were E-A-B when Wally sang. Sometimes they were D-G-A when Paul sang. Sometimes we would stay in tune through an entire song.

I would scribble words and chords in notebooks. Paul and Wally knew more songs than I did, so I wrote down the lyrics and chords. I would practice them over and over during the evening hours. The next week, the chords would change.

 

 

The Chaparrals

Soul music was the music of the day for white kids at dances. They wanted to dance to music with a beat, not the English long hair shake-your-head music or the West Coast experimental feedback music.

The basic ‘Thames’ band added some horns and a new drummer and started focusing on dance music. The sax player became our manager and found spots up and down the east coast for us to play for a weekend. We’d leave school Friday and pack two cars and drive to whatever site he had arranged. We’d unpack and play the gig. Then we’d try to find a place to sleep (sometimes just in the cars) then come back home on Sunday.

On one trip to South Carolina, we were stopped on a vacant road by a police cruiser. The policeman climbed out and viewed our packed cars. He went to the front car where the drummer was driving. Though it was hot, he had rolled up the window. He stared forward as the police tapped on the window with his baton. The driver rolled down the window, turned to the uniform and said, “We’ll have two burgers and fries” then rolled up the window. Another tap on the glass and the policeman was obviously not amused. “You guys playing guitars?” “Yes sir,” the driver much more meekly answered. “We are going down to this motel to play a dance.” “You play any country music?” “Yes sir. We play all the country hits. We play Porter Wagoner, Johnny Cash and even Hank Williams.” That seemed to be the right answer so we got a police escort to the dance hall.

Sometimes the bands would play in small bars, sometimes in yards, sometimes at pool parties.

“The Chaparrals” played at a friend of my mom’s It was a birthday/ coming-out party for her friend’s daughter. We drove up a dirt road off River Side Drive to a large lawn. A servant directs us to park our ‘50’s dusty automobiles next to the pool area. Several teens were diving and splashing in the water, while others milled around near the neatly parked Mustangs and Corvettes. The band plugged into electric extension cords that ran to the big house across the wet lawn. Once the drummer was set, we began to tune. The parents gave a nod for us to begin. The saxophones blew true, the drum pounded the beat, the bass kept the guitars moving. The band got into a rhythm and it didn’t matter if the teens were listening or dancing or paying attention. “The Chaparral’s” were in a groove. When musicians get together and click, the music works. That night, “The Chaparrals” music clicked.

After several sets, I took my guitar off and walked toward the big house in the dark. Most of the teens we were playing to had disappeared in the darkness. I opened a side door and stepped on an oriental rug that felt 3” thick. I looked around at the oil paintings and antique furniture. I didn’t want to venture further. Luckily, I heard the father call me back outside.

Multiple bills were handed to me by this man in a sweater and ascot, drink in one hand and a smile on his face. If we keep playing, he will keep paying. That was good enough for us.

Several more versions of the same songs. We had been playing all night, and it was done. Wally and Paul started to unplug the guitars, when the guest-of-honor came over to the band. She was blond and wore a light color dress. A little wrinkled. She asked me if I would like to take a ride on her motorcycle given as a birthday present.

Cars started to pull off the lawn and down the dusty road back to the city. Their headlights lit a path for the staggering teens to find their cars. 

 

The young lady held my hand and we quickly stepped to a shiny white motorcycle. I noticed a determined looking guy out of the corner of my eye as she swung her leg over the bike. She started the engine and gave it a rev, then she looked back to see if I was going to climb on. I did.

We started slowly down a back road, away from the house. There were no lights. The gravel kicked up against the trees as we sped faster and faster. I began to hold the girl around her waist. She gripped my hand and moved it to her stomach. I moved both hands until they clasped around her waist. The small headlight would catch the shadows as we slowed to a halt. She laughed, then turned and kissed me. I started to move my hands over her body. She suddenly turned the cycle around and started back up the dirt road. The jolt gave me pause. I grasped for a secure hold rather than a loving touch. As quickly as it began, it was over. She dropped me off at the foot of the pool, gathered the upset young man and his drink. They walked off into the darkness. 

The band went to a local BBQ drive in to divide up the money. They all kidded me about the excursion with the young lady. I knew what it was, but they didn’t have to know.

The BBQ owner was hesitant to cash the check, but we looked good and the name on the check was recognizable, so he emptied the till for us.  

We all had a large amount of cash by the end of the evening. We had never played so long, for so much money. We sounded good and tight. We would never play again.

 

Club A Go-Go

That summer, I was to meet the band in the outer banks on the way back to Virginia from Wilmington. “The Chaparrals”, the number three white soul band in Richmond, was to play at the famous Nags Head’s dining facility, “Club A Go-Go”. You can’t beat that.

I practiced the bass runs from my notebook over and over. I filled my grandmother’s den on the new bass amp. I felt I had learned the notes on a borrowed bass guitar, but I didn’t know if it would be good enough for a live performance. I was getting nervous. This was a real club, and we were playing for money.

The only “live” performance any of our former band line ups had been in was at a middle school playground. Westhampton middle school had outdoor activities during the summer. “The Thames” would play for free, so we were invited to spend the night entertaining the youngsters. The set mainly Beatles and Beach Boy songs, with a few instrumentals. I sang lead vocal on “Boys” which shocked my mother who was watching in the wings.

THE HOT, STINKING, SWEATY

SOUL DANCING PARTNERS (cml, 1967)

 

Dance all around the floor

We'll play the music, til we can't play no more

Send in your request, we'll do our best

Still, you can't expect too much from us, you know.

 

Sing this song out loud

Don't stand around in a crowd

The cops are looking over here, fellow put away that beer

If you got some trouble, please take 'um outside

 

Girls, watch out for them guys

Might think they're nice, but watch their eyes

When they get you in their car, they'll try to go, too far

Keep 'um happy, but cover them thighs.

 

The dance is almost through

Hope we've given a good time to you

Exits are on the side, drive safely once outside

Come back again if you wish to.

 

The band wore its uniform of blue blazers and white pants. We jumped up and down and made a lot of noise. There was a certain adrenaline rush after the performance as we packed up the equipment. We were proud of ourselves.

The “Club A Go-Go” performance turned sour quickly. I met up with Wally, Paul and our drummer Bill in the parking lot. We unloaded my new-to-me Fender amp and bass guitar and prepared for a night of adventure. I waved good-bye to my parents and turned to the band for strength and guidance. I had the shirt on my back, a few dollars, and an amplifier. We went into this club to find it was a bar. The stage was in the back, next to cases of beer and the fire escape. In the light of day, it wasn’t too bad. Later that night, it turned smaller. There was a damp musty smell inside.

Paul, Wally, Alan, Tommy, Jimmy and Bill had driven down to North Carolina in their cars packed with equipment. We unloaded the amps and set up the drums. There was little time to socialize. We went to the bathroom and got dressed in our outfits. We were not announced. The lights were focused on the stage. After the usual sound check of feedback and electrical shocks, we were ready to begin. The owner nodded to us, and we began our performance. The customers were few, a sailor, a couple of girls, and the waitresses and bartender. As night fell, we continued to play the same songs over and over. A couple got up and danced. Lots of beers were served and the lights burnt our eyes. We were given free beer to keep our throats loose. The jackets came off and the sleeves rolled up. This was basic, electric rock and roll.

At the break, the bartender called Alan, who was the lead member of the band because he looked the oldest, and asked him about Bill, the drummer’s age. We all gathered round. It seemed, the local Alcohol Bureau inspector had been in and saw how young the band looked. There were still laws about people being underage in a drinking establishment. This was a club where liquor was brought in and served from a brown bag.

Bill, the drummer, was underage. We all were underage, but we could fake it more than Bill. I sat in on the drums the next set waiting for the ABC guy to come back. It was a rough set with 2 guitars and a sloppy drum. We were all looking over our shoulders. The manager felt uneasy, so he sent us packing. He didn’t want to chance the law coming down on him. He paid us the nights pay. We packed our equipment into the two cars. The jukebox cranked up as we packed the cars with our equipment. Now what?

Wally, being Wally, had met up with some local girls. We drove up and down the main drag of Nags Head, talking to folks, getting some food, and a few beers. As the night wore on, we were going nowhere. We kept losing people. Where’s Wally? Where’s Bill? What happened to Paul? Do we follow the local girls to the beach and lose our cars and equipment? We were the traveling road show, but we had no place to go. The local guys didn’t want us to steal their girlfriends for the night. Now what?

Alan, Tommy, Jimmy and Bill decided to drive back to Richmond.

The rest of the band decided to crash on the beach. We drove the huge cars onto the dry sand, stopped and proceeded to stretch out to sleep. Buzzing of mosquitoes interrupted our attempt to rest. The car became filled with the blood suckers. We tried to close the windows, then the heat and humidity drove us out onto the sand. We had to get back on the road. Unfortunately, giant 1957 cars loaded with electronic band equipment weighed heavy in the sand. Wheels would spin only to dig deeper. We finally unloaded the entire car, rocked it enough to get footing (with the help of the laughing locals) and back onto the highway. Then we went back to the beach to retrieve the amps, and guitars.... all the while being eaten by mosquitoes. It is surprising that we had any blood left.

Paul had an aunt living in Elizabeth City, a short drive inland. With nowhere else to go, we decided to make the journey. Off into the dark loaded cars churned. Little direction, but we found a corner house. A massive tree arose in the backyard. It was 3 A.M., so rather than disturb anyone, the band decided to crash at the foot of a tree. We lay in the moist dew and fell asleep.

I heard the sound of a screen door slamming shut and looked up to an elderly man with a shotgun pointing at my head. I didn’t move. I heard a voice behind me that was familiar. I jumped up, wide awake without a moment’s sleep, and the man pointed the barrel of the gun away from me. My heart pounding and ready for a fight, I looked around and saw the other members of the band slowly rising off the ground. Paul was standing on the houses’ back steps talking to a woman in an apron. I looked back at the man whose gun barrel I was holding in my hand and he was smiling. There was a mist in the yard that gave the scene a shadowy foggy feel.

Paul’s aunt invited all of us onto the porch for a breakfast of pancakes and coffee. The company was warm and the cakes filling. After several plates, a quick wash up in the sink, and a thankful good-bye, “The Chaparrals” were off again.

“The Chaparrals”, Richmond’s #3 White Soul Band was headed home.

Music was my interest. I played and listened to everything. Church vocals, orchestra sounds, electric sounds. The new effects that were being played by the rock and roll bands interested me. How to create these sounds? I recorded 45 records onto a reel-to-reel tape recorder and played them backwards, at slow speed, fast speed, and backwards again. I experimented with sound reproduction until the tape was worn too thin and broke.

 

United Sound/ Turnpike North

Safer and closer to home, a high school friend, Eugene Eubank, was gathering people to form a band. Eugene could not play an instrument, but he looked cool with long hair and a John Sabastian appearance complete with horn rimmed glasses. Gene gathered a guitar player from Northside, Sonny. He had extremely long hair for the time and wore a leather jacket. He played a Gibson Firebird. Sonny was a quiet thin man, older than the other teens. He never talked about his life. He drove a GTO and smoked cigarettes. He was here and gone. Guthrie played the bass. A red Gibson SG solid body and a Vox amp. A shaggy hairdo with bangs over his eyes, he would dress in a red British guardsman jacket and hold the door open at Miller & Rhodes department store. He would get tips from being so nice. Joey was the young drummer. He wasn’t very good, but he had energy and was cute. He wore a long-striped stocking cap as his trademark. Bernie was the unique member. He was black. He went to the same high school, but he was not familiar with any of the circles I had known. Through the static of poor equipment, Bernie could wail. I had never been so close to a singer who had feeling in his music. Gene and Bernie would cover music by the Byrds and Paul Revere. Lots of distortion and trial effects. “United Sound” used a vacuum cleaner to start the “Airplane Strike” song.

Several rehearsal parties were held in Gene’s basement and black lights started appearing. The basement walls were painted with day glo images. When the music started, the room would become alive with lights and smoke. Cigarette smoke, incense, and another smell.

Gene would be drafted. Bernie, Guthrie and Joey I never saw again. I saw Sonny once more and we took a road trip.

 

Thursday Night

I fell back to the safety of my friends. I decided Joel and I could form a group from our friends. Art played folk music, but we wanted Rock and Roll. Steve was interested in playing and had a Harmony acoustic guitar with a sunburst finish. (Sidebar: The image of a teenage was of prime importance. In the 60’s the brand and look of the guitar was as important to a musician as hair and clothes. Gibson, Fender, and Rickenbacker were the models of the day.) Paul Little was drafted from the old “Chaparrals”. Steve would play six string bass on his new red Harmony single pickup electric guitar purchased at Sears. Joel would sing and I would play lead guitar on a Gibson SE that I “borrowed” from Walter D. Moses during my stay with “The Vagabonds”. We found a Greek drummer, a high school dropout named Alex Constantino. Alex and I had gone to Jr. High together. We set up a table and held auditions for band members at the Greek Orthodox Church. One guy from Washington DC played bass and had long hair, but wanted to go out west to the San Francisco scene. His name was Jack Cassady. The best part about a drummer living on Monument Avenue, he had a basement and garage where the band could rehearse.

We played the same popular songs over and over. We continuously tuned our guitars. We plugged and re-plugged the equipment to reduce the feedback and squealing. We told the police and neighbors we would turn down the noise. We would drink Greek wine his mother supplied us.

Alex got us a gig at the Greek Orthodox church for a dance. This was not a dance band, but we were getting out of the basement. What would we call ourselves? When was the dance? Thursday night! “Thursday Night” was born. We even had cool cards printed up. Teen swinging band.

The night of the dance, we hauled every piece of equipment to the church. Electric cords were everywhere. Guitar cords were everywhere. Microphone cords were everywhere. The stage was cluttered with our mismatched equipment and the Greek band that would fill in when we were taking a break. We were confident, we were ready. We got drunk with excitement.

Once on stage, the amps squealed the beginning of “Little Latin Loupe Lou” and “Glad All Over”. We played fast, hard and loud. A friend of the band stood in front of the stage and with a hand-held microphone recorded the night on a small reel-to-reel tape recorder, including crowd noises. The amplifiers were spread across a huge stage, the length of a basketball court. In the 60’s there were no monitors, so bands played loud and hard to hear ourselves.

After the first set ended, we put down our instruments and retired behind the stage to a small room with cokes and chips. A dowdy woman came in and called the drummer over. She quietly whispered something to him while pointing at the rest of us. After she left the room, Alex came back to us and said the crowd was asking for dance music. “Thursday Night” was not a dance band. “Thursday Night” was an experimental sound band. “Thursday Night” only did English group covers.

Paul and I put our heads together. Between our experiences in “The Chaparrals” and “The Thames” we knew enough ‘dance music’. Play in the key of E and follow us. 

 

The first set went well. A sit-in keyboard player, Rusty Brant, helped fill the space. Alex would stand up and lose the drum beat when I sang “In the Midnight Hour” on my knees. The crowd would look puzzled at the out of tune “Try Me”. Joel’s attempt at “Night Train” kept the crowd dancing. The experimental fuzz tone Steve had built in a cigar box was ruined when someone offering us colas, tripped on the steps and poured soda onto the circuit board. The box popped and cracked and started to smoke. It was quickly unplugged.

All through the performance there were constant shocks. The makeshift microphones connected with the guitar wires. The plugs short circuit. The arc from the microphone burned our lips.

After the dance, “Thursday Night” retired to the Dexter’s to playback the recorded evening. We were proud of the performance. We did the best we could. Considering the circumstances and the talent, “Thursday Night” was a hit. There is a CD of the performance.

 

Beaumont

On another memorable occasion, our manager said he had a new gig for us, but he wouldn’t tell us details. We practiced numbers people could dance to. A special number was ‘Land of 1,000 Dances’ with call and response from the audience. This was Joel’s chance to shine.

We were given directions to Beaumont School for Boys and told not to bring any of our amps or guitars. We never questioned our manager. He had told us he was in a famous hit band “Castaways” with their hit ‘Liar, Liar’.

We showed up at the designation at the established time, thinking this was a dance. There was a tall chain linked fence around the grounds and we had to identify ourselves to a person in a uniform at a gate before we could enter. We were given directions from a clip board (so we were expected) and were allowed to enter this ‘campus’.

 We parked at a loading dock and awaited further instructions. We were walked inside to a basketball court with bleachers on both sides. There was a riser below the scoreboard with a door opening to a platform outside. A box truck backed up and raised its door to show brand new amps and guitars.

While Alex was setting up his drum kit and array of cymbals, we unpacked these brand new ‘digital’ amps. The usual web of electrical cords connected everything together as we tuned up brand new ‘expensive’ guitars and tried to figure out how to turn on the amps. It seems our manager ‘borrowed’ the current shipment from the music store to let us ‘break them in’.

A bell rang and a line of boys marched in single fine wearing grey jumpsuits. They filled one set of bleachers and then the other, under watchful guys in blue uniforms.

It was very quiet as they stared at us.

We realized this was not a dance, but started playing our tunes, hoping to loosen up this crowd. It didn’t work.

Joel tried his ‘Dance of 1,000 Dances’ trick of playing one set of bleachers off the other, but no results.

Our songs quickened and we got out of there as fast as we could.

Later we found Beaumont was a Virginia State correctional learning center or a juvenile detention for wayward boys.

Battle of the Bands

 

Richmond divided it’s taste in Rock and Roll by the High School of the area. Tucker had “Joker’s Wild”, John Marshall had “Bill Deal and the Rhondels”, Freeman had “The Barracudas”, and Thomas Jefferson had “The Escorts”. “Thursday Night” did not have a school.

The competition was great. All week the bands would practice in basements around town. All week the bands would practice the same songs. On weekends, each band would find a party to play their trade. Local radio stations realized this competition and sponsored “Battle of the Bands” to dance to the music and create a listening following.

Each band set up on the gymnasium floor. The echo of guitars tuning was heard under the disk jockeys screaming through speakers at the end of this athletic arena. Teens surrounded their favorite band. Girls cheered for their idols.

On this particular afternoon, “Thursday Night” decided to line up with their fellow competition from the West End. Each band was given a brief time to play several songs. Each band performed with their particular style.

Finally, it was our turn. We started with a loud burst and stepped up to the mike. Joel had brought his sister and her friends. We were facing familiar faces. We closed our eyes, and wailed. Our amps buzzed; the drums were muffled under the crash of cymbals.

The singing voices were being drowned out by screams. Screams. Like at a Beatles concert. Screams like a Rolling Stone riot. Screams that had not been heard by any other band. The adrenaline rushed. “Thursday Night” was hot. We had won!

Just as the decision was to be made, in walked the “Joker’s Wild”. This was their territory. They walked in like gunfighters into their town bar. They quickly set up with students falling all over themselves helping give them what they wanted.  A quick, badly played and sounding set. They won.

 

 

Swinging Medallions

Our manager said he had gotten us a gig playing with the Swinging Medallions at the State Fair. They were a popular band on the East coast circuit with a hit “Double Shot of My Babies Love”.  This was our big chance.

Every night after school we gathered at Alex’s basement and fine-tuned our setlist. We actually rehearsed. We became a tight band.

The gig fell through.

Alex went off to the navy. Steve and his main squeeze Ann Lee went on to form ‘Morning Glory’. Paul went back to fixing cars and looking for dates. Joel ran track and fought with his girlfriend.

I got to substitute for a few bands, then started recording songs on a 4-channel reel-to-reel TEAC tape recorder.

THINK BACK

 

I last saw Geri heading for Colorado,

While Sue sits quietly crying in her beer,

the war took away old Mike to Texas

and Art got smart got his parts

quickly out of here

 

Joe doesn’t come here to give us rides to Surrey

and the younger son taken over since David’s gone

and if Steve were good at playing my music

He’d be sitting here beside me

trying to sing along

 

(Instrumental)

 

My roommate moved in with a girl who says "she loves him"

(So, she says)

Wonder woman is the only love my boss has ever known

(Let his wife know)

While she plays her parts, but she’s not ready

to listen to him when he gets home.

 

Vagabonds

“The Vagabonds” grew from the manager of “The Chaparrals” forming a spin-off band. Taking the sax player, who lived in Crestview, a blue-collar area, I was asked to attend rehearsals with some shady characters.

Manager and bass player Mike, got a space on an abandoned business on Richmond’s main drag Broad Street. The building was basically a shell with exposed beams and a questionable floor, but there was a working freight elevator and some working outlets. We moved all the equipment toward the front where the street provided lighting. Provided with cheap beer and a strange echo sound we practiced songs over and over again until we could repeat the same notes.

We suddenly realized the street below was full of nighttime folks dancing to our sounds. We started to play to them as they looked up and we looked down through the dusty windows. Free entertainment to the city until the police showed up to clear the area.

We played a couple locations on Southside. One such “club” was a log cabin with a cement floor, a bar at one end and a stage at the other. Wooden picnic tables and benches were scattered across the dusty floor. Two spotlights lit the stage. We ran extension cords all over the place to get enough power to make the amps come to life. We started with some English rock and roll, but soon realized this crowd was not interested in the British sound. “The Vagabonds” quickly transformed to a country band. Each of us knew some folk music, grand old Opera hits, and whatever we had picked up from the radio. We played a hot, sweaty, and nervous few hours, packed up and left with our necks intact. This was not the music experience I was looking for.

 

 

Multiple Inserts

Dabbled in some self-experimentation recordings, sat in with some other bands for some jam, but gave up on forming a band that could play clubs and make money. It was also difficult to stay up all night jamming and then go back to the 9-5 job.

There were two guys, where I worked the 9-5 job, who wanted to play. One had great personality and the other brought songs from the current hit list. It was time to move out of the 60’s and into the 80’s.

With my accumulation of gear and their energy, we’d get together and learn a new set list. We played at a couple of bars I’d never attended and got paid in beer. We called ourselves ‘Multiple Inserts’ (a newspaper slogan with different meanings).

By then, my homelife was requiring too much attention or I was getting too old to perform.

 

In My Room

Once I had my own room, I started to make decisions. I moved my wooden desk to the Southern side under the window fan. A gooseneck lamp lit the drawing board that I would do my tracings on. Moved a paper skeleton to the door, put a plastic skull on the coat rack. David did a “Paint It Black” painting for me that I put on the back of the door. Put a stereo and television next to a peg board holding everything that was dear to me, from a cat clock to a fanny paddle. I had put away my gray ghost guns, my Gunsmoke badges, my plastic army helmets and boots, my Robert E. Lee statue and Traveler horse. I began to replace these images with the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and other English bands. I taped magazine pages on every inch of wallpaper (which had to be torn off and the room repainted). New images appeared on the pegboard like a Jayne Mansfield movie poster (with lots of cleavage) and a drawing showing two kids looking in their diapers with a title of ‘There is a difference’. A collection of music books sat in the corner beside an increasing number of instruments. A large mirror with a red wooden frame hung on the wall. I would practice my guitar moves in front of it. My bed was under the window facing west and the neighbor’s house. With a pair of opera glasses, I would watch the daughter undress. Fleeting glimpses of shapes in the dark. The imagination is a wonderful gift.

The windows had plaid curtains that matched my bedspread. The rules where I was to make up my bed every morning, so I just started sleeping on top of the covers and just pat them out in the morning. The same bed I’d gotten on my knees in my PJs and said a prayer every night. “God is great. Got is good. And we thank him for this food” (no, that was grace). “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Who would want to climb under the covers, close your eyes and turn off the lights after a prayer like that? I also dislike putting on pillow cases. I also banged my head on the pillow to fall asleep. “Nighty, night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbug’s bite.”

Music was presented by radio in my room. The normal stuff on AM radio played in the kitchen did not interest me, so I got a short-wave radio where I could tune into foreign stations. This was where I first heard the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. I later got a stereo turntable/receiver combo with two-fold out speakers that also had a headphone jack. I didn’t have to bother my brother to play records. I’d use this stereo in my college apartment and then in my marriage apartment. The next move would get me real speakers and an amp, receiver, turntable and cassette player. I’d later trade this combination to David M. for a tapestry. I got the best deal. I then bought the latest and greatest chrome front oriental turntable with a straight-line needle, a double cassette player and an amp/receiver with a bias for tone. They would all break down and be replaced with oriental black front units that would also be burned out.

The twin beds were stacked on top of each other with flimsy doles keeping them from falling on each other. It took up less space. One of the beds was put downstairs as a guest room. The other one I took to college, leaving the room for my mother to sew in. It was replaced by a ‘full’ size bed I found somewhere and returned a year later without a frame, sitting on the floor.

I began writing letters. Letters to cousins to start with. Later I would write long letters to girlfriends, friends in town, out of town, and non-relatives. Letters became a focus. Cut up pictures from magazines, paste them on large pages, and write around them with different colored markers. This was my most personal communication. Letter writing turned into diaries, then to notebooks with sketches called “Jabberwockies”.

 

Pets

 None of my friends had any pets.

My family had a blue parakeet that had a cage in the dining room. It didn’t sing but made noise and kicked the seed all over the floor. One day it croaked.

We had a brindle boxer named “Ike” (after the president). We never took him for walks or the vet as I remember. He slept in a house on the back porch, then in the backyard. He’d wander to the center of the intersection in front of our house and just sit and watch the cars avoid him. Dad would patiently pick ticks off of him and drop them into paint thinner. Ike would scare the postman, but was never aggressive. I’d ride him like a horse and he’d droll on me. One day he wandered off and dad had to drive somewhere to bring him back. Another time he wandered off. He didn’t come back.

My first pet was a turtle purchase in the basement ‘pet’ section of a drug store. A little turtle in a plastic bowl of water and a plastic palm tree. There was some sort of powder mix to feed it. He got covered in green slime. The water turned green. There is a turtle buried in the backyard.

I guess my Venus Flytrap plant was a pet. It did what was stated but I didn’t water it.

A friend of mine wanted to give me a hamster he had. This was a real pet that could be picked up and petted. It came in a wire cage with wood shavings and a water bottle hung on the side. The next day ‘she’ had a litter of babies, which she decided to devour. There is a hamster buried in the backyard.

I asked my father for a dog. This was the time of Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin. My father knew better so for Christmas I got a carnival stuffed dog like a prize when knocking over all the milk bottles.

None of my pets ever had a name.

My only other experience with animal life was the horseshoe crab found at the beach and brought home in a cardboard box full of sand. That didn’t work out well because of the aroma of a dying sea creature.

Later my roommate would have a cat as a pet. The first of many adventures in the animal kingdom.

 

Transportation

My bike had moved from French red tires to a 3-speed English black with thin tires. It was a hand-me-down from my brother. I would carry papers with Bobby Bishop, a track star from up the street, but they were too heavy for my little basket. Riding a bike was not cool at that time.

Most of the time was spent walking. Walk to school, walk to Joel’s. Walk home. Walk to Betsy’s. Walk to Curley’s. Walk to Cary Street. Walk to Willow Lawn. Until Joel started driving; everyone walked. It took longer to get around, but it was the Modus operandi for motion. It was also time for conversations.

I’d walk to the train station to work. I’d walk to the library to work. I walked to the newspaper to work. I’d walk home. If it rained or snowed, I’d try and catch a bus, but sometimes I just kept plodding forward. Most times it took 30-45 minutes to get to a destination. Once walking to the library on a hot day, I took off my shoes to cool my feet. My soles got sunburnt and tender. Like walking on a hot blacktop or sand, flip flops make a difference.

The city was having an event at the Richmond Raceway (formerly the State Fairgrounds) in Mechanicsville. I got a ride there and wandered around to tents and presentations and drinking beer in the sunshine. After a while I became bored, but could not find my driver. It was starting to get dark so I decided to walk home. It was a 10-mile hike through some ‘questionable’ neighborhoods, but I kept walking. One step in front of the other. Got home in the dark and slept well.

Long distance travel to downtown consisted of public transportation. A bus stop in front of the house provided transportation for 25¢. The city buses were not as bad as the camp buses, but they were still hot in the summer, even with the windows open. They would be jammed with students in the winter, but were always empty on weekends.

Joel learned to drive first. A stick shifts. His mother was very patient with him. He would lurch forward, slam to a halt, and lurch again. He did not park on a hill. He would not drive up a hill.

The red Rambler station wagon that Joel used became the groups travel mobile. Joel finally overcame the bucking automobile and conquered the beast.

The relationship between this vehicle and Joel became apparent when traveling to the first nuclear power plants in Virginia.

The car full of smashed brained long haired college students had paused behind a school bus, awaiting a ferry. As the ferry arrived, the traffic stated to board. The bus rolled forward. The red Rambler would not budge. Over and over the key was turned to no response. The driver and the copilot climbed out of the stalled vehicle and opened the motor lid. We stared at a mass of metal and wires. Cars squeezed around us.

The back window of the station wagon flipped open as long bellbottomed jean legs squeezed out of the back. Joel calmly walked forward and stared at the driver and copilot and the engine. He looked to the ground, picked up a large rock and hit the metal mass. He nodded to the driver to start the engine. The key turned and the engine roared.

Everyone quickly scrambled inside and drove up the ramp to the parting ferry. No one knew how he did it.

The red Rambler was our chariot. The red Rambler led us to distant adventures.

I'VE GOT THOSE WAITING TO BE BEAMED UP BLUES (cml &/or jmd, 1974)

 

Well, they've taken you off the air

And, they're only showing repeats

I'm tearing out my hair

Waiting for those great feats

                          

         I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues                          

         Oh, Star Trek, when you coming back again?

         I’m a stagnated spaceman baby            

         When you coming back again?

 

Well, Kirk I never thought

That you were telling those lies

The Only home you ever wanted

Was on the Enterprise

 

         I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues

         Oh, Star Trek,

         I'm trapped on terra firma

         Come and get me when you can

 

Cause I' trapped on terra firma

Oh Speck, what can I say?

You were always such an ace

I know that this ain't logical, but

I'm craven' in outer space

 

         I’ve got these waiting to be beamed up blues

         Oh, Star Trek, Spock I need you back again

         We ain't got no heroes

         Spock, I need you back again

 

Great bird of the galaxy

He ain't around no more

No matter how stoned I get

Can't even fly to the corner store

 

         I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues

         Oh, Star Trek, I need some space time magic

         To take me home again I need some space time magic

 

Driving

Learning to drive was a rite of passage. To start, there was an application for a ‘learner’s permit’. This would allow you to operate a vehicle as long as a licensed driver was also there. It was like carrying a condom when you’d never had sex.

High school offered a ‘Driver’s Education’ program. A tractor trailer was parked across the street from the school. Inside there were two rows of miniature bumper cars that didn’t roll and a movie screen at one end. We were all taught how to use hand signals and turn signals and how to rotate the steering wheel. We had brake pedals and worked the procession until it became second nature.

The films shown were Federal highway snuff films of what would happen if you didn’t follow the laws. No speeding or you will wind up in a mangled metal wreck. The films were black and white.

On Saturday, an in-vehicle driving class was held between the baseball park and the skating rink. A vast parking lot held a half dozen Plymouths. These cars were smoother than any car I’d been in and had push-button controls on the dashboard. A teacher would let us climb behind the wheel and drive around the lot showing our skills of signaling and stopping. When decided we were proficient, we were direct to drive out onto the highway in live traffic.

My mom would let me drive around the secluded neighborhood close by to get the feel for a car I could possibly drive.

 

My recollection of our family motor vehicles was a Nash Rambler, then a black Ford Fairlane (looked like a police car until someone ran into it parked on the side of the house), then a Ford baby blue Country Squire stationwagon with a third row of seats looking out the back window (parked on a cement slab in the backyard). It lost the transmission or back axel on the way back home from Wilmington. Pulled into some little Podunk filling station. The mechanic had to order parts from Raleigh. Mom and I were getting ready to board a train when my brother ran up and said the car was fixed.  Then dad must have come into a wad of money and bought two new cars.

A Ford Galaxie lemon yellow convertible with black bucket seats and a the Galaxie 500 7 Litre, fitted with a new engine, the 345 hp 428 cu in (7.0 L) Thunderbird V8. This engine was also available on the Ford Thunderbird and the Mercury S-55. The police versions received a 360 hp version of the 428 known as the 'Police Interceptor' as police cars. This car had all the latest features as power windows, automatic drive and power steering. The other car was a green 66’ Ford Mustang with a 200 CU, in-line six cylinders. They had a 9.2:1 compression ratio, hydraulic lifters, and 120 horsepower at 4400 rpm. Carburetion was an Autolite single barrel carburetor number C60F 9510-AD. This also had black bucket seats but had roll up windows and no power steering.

After the appropriate birthday, I went with my mom to the Division of Motor Vehicles, took a written exam, had my eyes checked, my photo taken, climbed into our Mustang with a policeman with a clipboard and told to drive around the block. I parallel parked and took the key out of the car. The policeman walked inside without saying a word. I waited to be called to the desk. My name was called and I was handed a laminated card with my picture on it. I had my own driver’s license. My mother drove the Mustang home.

I was never handed the keys to a car without a purpose. The Galaxie was my father’s car and the Mustang took mom to the country club for golf. I could drive out Patterson to the country club bringing mom back after she had had too many drinks.

I would be assigned to chauffeur a young lass to a formal dance at a country club and return her safely. The back seat was too small for any shenanigans with all that crinoline.

My other assignment allowing me to drive was to go to the grocery and get a quart of milk or some ice cream. Unfortunately for my parents, I’d take a side trip up to a local teen hang-out spot. My ‘country club’ friends would gather at this watering hole that allowed underage teens to drink 3.2 beer with nothing more than a wink. They would park their family jazzed up rich foreign cars while I was driving middle class American tank. The girls were impressed by the sleek lines of the expensive cars.

Some suggested we test the cars against each other. Two of us would drive up to the end of the road (which is now called Arthur Ashe Blvd.) and then turn west. There was never a signal, but we’d start off side-by-side down a vacant two-lane narrow street. There was little traffic at night in this neighborhood. There were occasions where we had to decide to slow or run the red light. By the time we reached the bridge and the lanes fanned out, we put the pedal to the metal. One more light and it was a straight shot with a slight left to the finish line.

The Mustang gave a good duel, while the Galaxie was slow and cumbersome to start, but once the engine roared, would just slowly move past any competitor. Even if I won, the girls would still go to the rich boys and their fancy foreign cars.

Someone must have complained, for one of Richmond’s finest started parking on our racetrack. When the red light started flashing, I’d quietly stop and pull to the curb. Sometimes he would get us both, sometimes the other fellow would keep going. I was always accommodating to the officer and received my punishment.

When coming home, I’d make some excuse of having seen someone at the store and placed the keys and the ticket on the dining room table. (That is the way we handled things at our house like bills and report cards).

After a dozen or so, I received a letter to appear at traffic court. Dad drove me downtown and we waited to be called to the bench. The judge shifted through some papers then looked at my father and asked, “Do you want to take it away or do I do it?” I got a scolding and we left.

Having access to a car didn’t really matter to me for every place I wanted to go to was within walking distance and no one else had a car.

 

Communication

Much of my teen years was spent on the phone. Call and ask what was going on. Call the next person and ask what was going on. Call the next person and ask what was going on. Then call the first person and ask what was going on. “What do you want to do?” was the most meaningful statement our group would say. Every week the focus was on the weekend. Where would we get together? Who would be there? How could I find a date?

The telephone became the instant communication of my generation. We watched television and relayed our thoughts to each other by telephone. I would stay on the phone until 2 A.M. in the morning. It was the next best thing to being there.

WHY NOT? (cml, 1969)

 

I called you on the telephone

It rang about twenty times

I know that you were home

So, I spent my very last dime, but...

 

You didn't try to answer

You didn't try to answer

Why didn't you try to answer me

 

I ran as fast as I could home

I made myself dizzy

Then, I dialed the telephone

But now the line was busy

 

I waited thirty minutes or so

Before I dialed again

Your mother answered up the phone

And said that you were not in

 

As people began to wander apart, letters became the focus of communicating thoughts and pictures. Each letter became a project of love. Cut up magazine pictures of rock stars or current events. Photos touched up with pens and markers. Speaking balloons stating the obvious. Oversized paper, colored paper, paper rolls, paper cut into puzzles. Each letter had a theme. Each letter read between the lines. Every letter had a response that was eagerly awaited.

Letters became multiple person projects. Letters were shipped in large envelopes, boxes, and tubes. Letters were covered with stickers. Letters became very personal. Letters became “Jabberwocky’s”, books of remembrance of events and actions.

 

 

Richmond Country Club

My father managed an exclusive private gentleman’s club. I was dissociated with the status of privilege.

My mother and my brother both went on a diet counting calories so he could drop enough weight to get into college. At the same time, she was looking for something else to do besides being a stay-at-home mom. She needed a country club. She needed to be part of the privilege. She learned how to play golf.

Our family got a membership to the Richmond Country Club that was a half hour drive for this 20-mile trip. It seemed to be a long distance from urban city into rural country. The symbols of suburbia disappear to farmland and a gigantic graveyard.

A turn right up past the first hole of the golf course, past the left turn to the horses and around the putting green to the club house on a gravel road (remembrance of the Keswick driveway).  A golf house was in the basement along with a bar to order your caddies. The main floor was for large parties to dine and dance. Behind the clubhouse was a fairly small swimming pool surrounded by a chain linked fence. This was the pool where Jack would drown.

If I wasn’t assigned to another duty, I’d have to take the journey to the country club so mom could entertain her ‘friends’ on the golf course and I could swim in the pool or later learn how to caddie and thus learn the game of golf.

You need a lot of land to play golf. It is an interesting game. It is a slow game. Tee the little white dimpled ball in the grass. Stand back legs spread and stare at the ball as if to mentally direct it to the hole (the final destination). Take a rod with a club head on the end and swing it at the ball then follow the direction it takes. Then pick up your bag full of other clubs and walk to where the ball lands for your next whack at it.

Golf was probably the only other game I was good at (besides tennis, but the country club didn’t have tennis courts). I got hand-me-down clubs from my parents. The first set were wooden sticks in a tiny bag. A driver, wedge, 2-iron and putter. My second set was another hand-me-down club set from my mom. They were shorter (due to the ladies’ size). I could pick-and-choose clubs from the golf shop to make a day’s 18-hole then give them back.

The game of golf requires little activity and lots of walking. We didn’t have mobile golf carts, so we had to drag the bag of rattling clubs. Someone developed a two-wheel rack that the bag could fit on and be pulled around the grass course on wheels. It even had a kickstand to prop up while you swung the club of your preference.

When not pulling someone else’s cart, a threesome would sign up to play 9-holes. Wash you ball in the plunger and take a swig from a silver tankard (no plastic water bottles). The few water facets (like the ones on the playground) didn’t taste good but were useful to wet a towel around your neck. Walking on fairways without shade is very hot. Some even use giant umbrellas to provide shade while walking. The shoes had little spikes to get a firm grip in the grass when you swung the club.

On one occasion with a trio, we were betting a dollar a-hole. The other players, Curtis Strange and Lanny Watkins, were much better players, but when they had a slice, they’d get mad.

There were certain fashion style requirements to be associated with the country club. For the formal occasions, dress shirt, club tie, khakis and shined Weejuns. Still the country club had its snazzy side. Yellow and even pink dress shirts were allowed. On the greens, madras or colored trousers could be accepted. There were no blue jeans but shorts were becoming popular with the polio shirts with the little alligator on it. This style also was acceptable at the beach club. Jams became popular for swimming as a wild statement, but the swim teams still had to wear speedos. Certain acceptable variations within conformity.

The horse rides were another diversion to keep the kids busy. There was no horse riding at any of my camps, but I did learn the difference between English and Western saddles at the country club. I never had the arm strength to pull myself up on a horse without a step stool or an assisted boost. Once upon the beast (that I considered just a big dog) I could walk and trot but once in full stride I was hanging on for survival.

The country club did teach people how to be snobby. Though ‘my’ country club did not have the prestige of the Virginia Country Club, just a few blocks away from my house, it did carry its own personification to be a member of the club.

I separated ‘friends’ from my country club set and from my high school set just for the caste system.

 

Dope

One night I came home drunk. Not just drunk, fall down sloppy drunk. Joel, Charlie and I had gone to Curley’s. I was feeling low. We broke into the parents’ liquor cabinet. We drank bourbon. And lots of it. I remember sitting on the kitchen floor holding onto the leg of Carolyn’s sister. I was spouting great love statements. I remember staggering out to the backyard. Charlie was puking over the picnic table.

At my backdoor, I was trying to get the key into the lock and telling Joel that it was “OK” and “I was all right”. Just then, my mother opened the door. I remembered the steps upstairs. I remember little else until the next day. (I felt sorry for Joel to this day. What he must have gone through).

The next morning, Steve and David came by to watch me die. I could not raise my head. I lay on the bed watching the procession walk by me sideways. Life was a pounding blur. My trash can was beside my bed. My telephone was taken away.

That afternoon, I arose to realize I was not dead. I went for a ride with Steve and David and got some air. They bought some food, but I could not stand the smell or the look, or the thought. To this day, I cannot stand the smell of bourbon. I have not had brown liquor since that night.

When I came home, I was requested to entertain some friends of my parents who were coming over.  Only if I get my phone back. My parents and I came to an understanding that night.

I was never interested in liquor after that.

Other drugs started appearing. Marijuana, cocaine and LSD.

During my stint at the RCC Swim Team, there were several parties where a strange smell would fill the room. Some of the teams were older and had friends who had graduated high school. These friends had been to California and returned with new consciousness. These friends talked of different music and colors and smells on the West Coast. These friends talked of things that were not seen in Richmond. These friends brought small thin cigarettes that were passed around the room. Each person inhaled deeply from the cigarette. After two or three of these “reefers” were passed around the room, everyone started to giggle. Then the drinking would begin and the group mellowed out.

Marijuana was a soft drug. Everyone was doing it. Everyone had it. The authorities did not know what to look for. Ten dollars bought a baggie full of brown leaf flakes and seeds. More flakes and less seed were the preference. Papers were bought at tobacco stores. It was as embarrassing as buying prophylactics at the drugstore. Everyone knew what the papers were being used for.

People would hand out joints. Every party had pot being shared in basements or backyards or bathrooms. The beginning of the evening was preparing the rolled-up wonders. The rest of the evening was finding a person to share the experience. Over and over again.

LOOK INSIDE YOUR MIND (cml, 1968)

 

I pondered about questions of the world

and why it goes around

And thinking at night about these things

I just couldn't settle down

Until one day a man came to me said,

"Let me. explain to you this...

Would the world be here and all believe

Upon Judas’s kiss?"

 

         I tell you why things are all so bad and

         why we will never win

         How can we wind when all around - the people

         They are our friends

 

So, I picked me guitar and thought awhile

at a tune that I could sing

To have happiness in the land we live

and the peace that it may bring

So, sitting, think about this

the troubles all over the world

And the stars and stripes and songs we sing

to a nation and flag unfurled

 

         I tell you why things are all so bad and

         why we will never win

         How can we win when all around - the people

         They are our friends

 

 

While wandering home the same old man

Came walking up to me

Said, "While you were walking this big old land

tell me what you did see?"

To stand back, look inside and there we shall find

The secrets of life, love, and death

and the troubles of mankind

 

         I tell you why things are all so bad and

         why we will never win

         How can we wind when all around - the people

         They are our friends

 

I did not sell pot. I did not use pot at home. I only smoked pot outside the house. Most drugs I did outside of the house. I came home reeking of the evening’s excursions into never, never land and no one commented. Sure, they knew.  My father ran moonshine to New York for bathtub gin. They knew musicians who smoked reefer.

My first taste of marywanna came from a member of the country club swimming team. Sitting on the edge of the pool, one of the guys pulled out this cigarette hand rolled thing and lite it up. We passed it down the line until it was tossed into the water. Everyone giggled. He said he got it from his brother who brought it back from California.

At first, I didn’t want to smoke pot. I resisted. I didn’t get high. Then, the bong came along. Art and his brother, Jim, became skilled at presenting marijuana to others. They would have the technique of rolling joints as a party game.

We would smoke pot in Art’s room. We would smoke pot at Bill and Peggy’s apartment (an early married couple). We would smoke pot in cars. 

The powder drugs came one night in 1968, while still living at home. One night, I wandered into a party near VCU. The basement party had the brick walls painted in day glo. There was pot being passed around and wine. Everyone was mellow. Someone directed me to a side room beyond the paisley material hanging from the ceiling. The room was dark. Two young long-haired men looked up from their activity on a table. The table was a spool from cable wiring. These were popular as tables during the 60’s. On top of the table was a mirror. On the mirror was white powder. The young men beckoned me forward. I walked closer and sat down on a pillow. They pointed to the powder and handed me a short straw. I looked at them and bent my face over the powder. Instead of inhaling, I exhaled, blowing the white powder onto the floor to the shock of the young long-haired men. I grinned and tried again. They had cut rows of white powder onto the mirror. I closed my eyes, placed the straw against the first row, and inhaled. My face flew up and I coughed as the powder hit my brain. I did another row and then another row. The young men pointed to the paisley material and I left the room. As I left, they began to cut another series of rows of white powder. I didn’t think anything had happened, until I heard Eric Clapton. Eric is God. Between the pot and coke, my mind was spinning. The music took another dimension. Blues was the sound. Blues were real. I understood the pain of the blues.

Tabs of LSD were available. Only after high school graduation did we explore.

The first tab was presented by Joel at William and Mary. I didn’t care. Was it peer pressure? I swallowed with a glass of wine. A few hours later, we walked to the tourist town of Williamsburg. We walked to the gardens. We walked to the crooked floors and hot stoves. We walked toward the old brick buildings. We rode tourist buses and scared them. We stare at the stars. We were approached by two guys from Fort Eustis. They were wearing bell bottoms and trying to look ‘hip’ with beads. They were looking for ‘hippy girls’ to get some Free Sex. We sent them in the opposite direction and walked back to the dorms. I tried to sleep squeezed into a loveseat with speakers at both ends playing Led Zeppelin full blast. We became a close net group due to our drug experiments together.

I never had life changing experiences from drugs. I had a lot of fun with drugs.

Art, Joel, Bill & Peggy, and I climbed a mountain on drugs. We took LSD, went to the movie “M.A.S.H.” and then climbed Ole Rag Mountain in Orange County. We were the M.A.S.H. team. We had to save the sun. Why? To see the sun rise.

We all jammed into a VW bug and drove in the dark to the foot of the mountain. Joel led the way. We chattered the entire way up, stepping over rocks, scurrying over bushes, crawling in the dark. Luckily it was a full moon.

Once at the top, we waited for the sun up. Looking over the valley in the shades of dark hues, the sun began to brighten the distinctive outline of the trees and mountains. Bill sat on the edge of the outlook rock, drinking wine from a Swede sack. Art shuffled. Peggy was worried about Bill. The sun came up and lit the valley. We toasted the sunrise with bread. We climbed down the mountain and drove home. We were all tired. We learned nothing new. We were cold and wet.

One Sunday, Art came over and decided to drop acid. LSD for everyone. Art and I swallowed a blotter of LSD. I called Betsy and invited her over. The acid took effect. Art sat on the floor, leaning against the bed and stared at his notebook, Jabberwocky. Betsy came over and came upstairs. She and I crawled under the covers of my floor bed and kissed. We fondled. We had carnal knowledge. She wanted a baby. She didn’t want to stop. I stopped. Art sat on the floor with headphones on and listened to ‘The Court of the Crimson King’ music.

My father called me downstairs. I walked the long steps on the white carpet to the first floor and turned to the porch. I sat in a slatted chair, the television which was always on, sounding off in the distance. My father turned to me in the most earnest way I had ever seen. He looked directly into my eyes. My eyes were dripping onto the floor. He said I could not have girls up into my room. I agreed. I left the room. The wallpaper was dripping off the walls.

Art, Betsy and I left to walk around. The trip was still going on. Art went home and Betsy and I sat on her front porch swing and talked. We made-out.

Art and I went to see “Easy Rider” on acid. The story was shocking and we left the theater paranoid. The next day, we dropped acid again. It was Memorial Day. We went outside to walk around. Art had purchased new shoes that were two sizes too big. Each foot step was a shuffle flopping of these dusty suede boots. Each step became more noticeable to both of us. We walked down Broad Street until we reached Staples Mill. Looking forward appeared the mountains. The blue shapes were actually the outline of storm clouds. “Let’s walk to Charlottesville”, I said. Without another thought, we began our journey. Yet an Odyssey. We shuffled off toward the home of Jefferson. We could do this. We could make it. After another 1/2 mile, we decided it was a bad idea and retired to a Burger King. Another bad idea. Did I mention it was Memorial Day? The flags were out. Red, White, and Blue everywhere. Please remember our state of mind. We thought clouds were mountains. We saddled up to the counter and looked at the selections. The seas of Sunday church goers parted for us. We were not that much different from Billy and Wyatt to the Richmond crowd. We looked at the kids in their paper Red, White and Blue hats and matching shirts. Their pimpled faces were blank. “What would you recommend?”, I said. “The burger is good.”, said a sweet voice. “Let’s have some.”, said Billy. We dug deep into our pockets for enough change to bring a smile to the Red, White and Blue. and carted a tray full of paper wrapped delicious.

We sat at a plastic table, feeling the stares of the crowd around us. We kept our jackets on while we laid out the food stuffs. Plastic folks, straws, paper napkins, cup over here, fries over there. Once arranged, we began. The family behind us said a prayer blessing their food. We looked at each other. Should we do the same? We unwrapped our purchases and bit down on the prepared American meal of burgers and fries. Everything was dry and tasteless. The fries were chewy and bland. The burger was stiff and overcooked. The bread was spongy. We looked at each other. “Let’s get out of here”.

Art had seen the flags. They were everywhere. Even in places where there were no flags, he saw them. These images would follow him for years to come. 

THE MIMIC'S PROMENADE (l.s.d.,1969)

 

The wondrous wizard speaks of things,

that have no meaning now

And gestures to his handmaiden,

who nods, and courtly bows

Through the door to see the sorcerer,

who's been raising quite a row.

 

The nurse and I went for a walk,

to keep my toes alive

She said I was too old for dolls,

but I'm only thirty-five.

 

The ghost of Hamlet's father screams,

and hides inside a wall

Not to be seen by the sorcerer,

returning from a ball

But he saw him anyway, you know,

magicians see us all.

 

Sister, sister, come and see,

my friends have come to play

They brought me jolly candy sticks,

why not let them stay

Why do they go away?

 

The jester and the mighty king,

have joined the great parade

Telling jokes and making laws,

that keep us all afraid

But then he gets his parts confused,

which ends his sad charade.

 

 

The gallant knight comes dressed in white,

advancing with his lance

And once we have been touched by it,

we lose the will to dance

The greatest warlock of them all,

has but us in his spell

And sends us to our clean white cells,

where we are asked to dwell.

 

 

Television

Television kept our minds numb. Our family only had black and white. First a cabinet with a small screen. Milton Berle, I Love Lucy, and Gunsmoke. Twilight Zone, Have Gun Will Travel, and the Tonight Show with Jack Parr. The television grew in our household. First, the living room, then the back porch, then the kitchen, then my room. A sign of prestige was to have multiple television sets. The television was turned on first thing in the morning and kept on until the sign off at night. The Star-Spangled Banner sounds the last signal for the night.

Television replaced reading, talking, and contemplation. Television presented the death of a president, beginning of nightly news, man walking on the moon, the Vietnam war. I learned to stare at the light box for hours never questioning what was presented to me.

 

 

 

The Downtown Club of Richmond

This was the reason my father moved his family to Richmond. It was a small club connected to the Rutgers’s Hotel. It was across from the state capitol. For members only, exclusively all-male whites could join. Coat and tie required.

The decorum was dark wood and very colonial English. Huge chairs and small tables for groups to gather around with drinks. This was the time before liquor by the drink, so members could bring their own bottles to store in an assigned locker. If the bottle emptied, dad would somehow find another available. All under the watchful eyes of the ABC Board, but many of these members were politicians from across the street.

Dinner was served on linen tablecloths and heavy dishes with the name of the club on them. Servers, usually negro, rushed back and forth in white pressed jackets to assure every member (and their guest) were comfortable. My father had learned his trade in Keswick.

Guest from the hotel could dine, but had to have their own bottle. Women were only allowed as guest. There were no people of color except the wait staff.

Entering the door from Bank Street you were welcomed by a negro lawn jockey. I was the same size it was when we first arrived in town.

The club outgrew the building and moved to the top of the Ross Building on Main Street. Everything was remodeled and upgraded. New bar, dining room, lounge and private meeting rooms. Women members were now allowed and then it became integrated.

Dad was getting older and the light of his former celebrity was dimming. After his death, the management had a portrait painted. I sat with the artist to get the skin tones right. They later gave me the painting. I passed it down to my niece along with my mother’s portrait.

The club moved again, but membership was dropping. The exclusive private club was becoming a thing of the past. ‘The Bull & Bear’ club came and went only leaving ‘The Commonwealth Club’ to allow the old heritage of the southern ways to carry on.

 

 

Brother

After high school, my brother moved to Blacksburg to attended college. He was not thrilled about up being a ‘RAT’ the first year, but he stuck it out. He got married in college to his high school girlfriend. Dad wasn’t thrilled and took away his car. Still the ceremony was impressive at the First Baptist Church in full uniform regalia. Dad sent me up to VPI to stay with my brother (and his wife) for a weekend. Got to walk the campus, buy some merch at the bookstore and sleep on a sofa while there were other things going on in another room.  The Air Force assigned him to Oklahoma and then every three years the growing family moved. He then moved onto Atlanta to attend Georgia Tech for his masters. I was flown down there to watch him salute back to people on the base due to his higher rank. He took me to a warehouse of a friend to pick pads of paper. Wonderful gestor. We went to a drive-in movie of ‘Green Berets’ with John Wayne. Reminded me of all the other military propaganda I’d grown up with. In the evening news was the Chicago Riots at the Democratic Convention and all was quiet. Flew home with the new relevance of my families’ values. He was stationed in Thailand. He wasn’t in the Vietnam war, but was close and had to wear a sidearm. He would speak of the officer’s club’s local band playing popular American songs. He also spoke of the poor kids scrambling after military begging for money. He went to England where he didn’t get along with his commander, but then went back to the state to California. When the captured USS Pueblo were released, they wore these fur hooded winter jackets. I asked my brother if I could get one? He sent me this big box with a puffy army green coat with a furry hood. It was warm but came apart quickly. Oriental construction? He also sent me some Pioneer speakers (for his taking the Galaxie car) that sounded great, but went out with one of the ‘remodeling’. The English grave rubbings were interesting but didn’t fit in with the decor. When he moved back from California to Washington, he bought a house and his family moved back. His son had some gambling problems in California and his daughter’s wedding hadn’t worked out. His wife likes chicken sculpture. He moved from Baptist to Methodist as an evangelical and became very involved in the church. After retiring from the Air Force as a full Colonel, he got a job at a waste disposal plant. He was perfect for the job, for it is all about moving stuff through pipes. That is what engineers do. When we finally got together to move mom, he was most helpful because she was tired of me. We found a spot she approved of and on our visits would have to attend the local pub for a beer. She was exhausting. He moved to Yorktown to a ‘senior community’ and told me he has Parkinson’s disease. 

 

 

Father Died

Dad had pretty much run his course at the club. His fame had faded and the management slowly moved him out of the daily duty of entertaining the prestige. His late-night ride home in his big yellow convertible was becoming attacked by street people. He got an inflatable doll to put in the passenger seat to appear another person was in the car. He bought a pistol.

My father died of a heart attack. At least, that was what the family believed. He may have had cancer from years of smoking non-filtered cigarettes. He was scared before he died. Mom was pumping him with nitroglycol pills at the first sign of shortness of breath or discomfort. As dysfunctional as the family was, our parents looked out for each other.

Once when my father was in the hospital, I walked in the rain to visit him. We had very little in common. We never talked about our great love of music. He kept me going when I would not strive to complete a task. I walked into his dimly lit hospital room. He was in the second bed, next to the window behind the curtain. In the usual hospital white gown and sheets, everything looked clean. His eyes opened and he smiled. I sat on the bed and we talked awhile. Not long. Just some small talk. He was visibly tired, so I excused myself and left. He would tell my mother later he thought he was visited by Jesus.

When my father died, my brother was out of town. I was called to the hospital. When I arrived, my mother was sobbing. My brother had been called and was on the way from Washington. Uncle Malcolm, mom’s younger brother came from North side. The doctor came in and said he could do no more. He asked if we would like to see the body. Mom and Malcolm went in, but I could not go.

That night, and several years later, my mother broke down. She made it through the trip to the burial in North Carolina and home again, but she never made it back. She sunk into drinking, screaming, and creating a family embarrassment. For years I was the only one who could or would deal with it. Every night the phone would ring. I would go to the house and try to stop the madness. My brother and I took the pistol my father had hidden away. Nights of getting phone calls of being arrested for driving drunk. Phone calls of people stealing from her. Phone calls of her injuring herself. Phone calls from other family members trying to find solutions. Phone calls to legal authorities without positive solutions. Finally, the end came. She had fallen down the stairs and had laid in her own waste for two days. That was it. She was taken to a hospital to check her bruises and try to detox her. Then, she was taken to a nursing home. She tried to like it, but it wasn’t what she wanted, so she got her brother Randy to pick her up from prison and left back home.

The second time she fell, my brother and I took legal action. We took her to a hospital, then found a home. It looked like Williamsburg, so mom approved. In the meantime, my wife and I took everything out of the house. We washed her clothes (or threw away the old stuff), emptied drawers of bags, rubber bands, and used pencils. We scrubbed the walls and cleaned the floors of burns and stains.

Then we sold the house. The next owners can deal with the smell.

We kept the Mustang until my mother demanded access to it. Heather drove it out to Ginter Park and then walked home. Took the distributor out.

 

Funeral

Dad’s funeral was held in his hometown. Guess the ‘grown-ups’ figured the details of how and where to ship the body.  Once all the families arrived, my brother and I went to the parlor of dead people. The director asked up about the choice of coffins. Our mother was in no condition to be making these decisions. He took us to a room of elegant designed boxes to choose from. Though avoiding the price, we asked. I was fine with a plan wood crate for dad was a simple guy and who was going to see it after he was covered over. We agreed on a respectable but not a bank breaker coffin for the body to be placed in. The next decision was clothing. Since dad’s body was probably shipped down in a plastic bag naked, and we didn’t bring any of his clothing, the director gave us various selections of clothing that could adorn the body for public viewing. Don’t know if they bought boxers or even socks or shoes but they wrapped him in a nice dress shirt and jacket with a plain tie. We probably paid for a pair of trousers, but never checked to see if he was wearing any.

The day before the funeral, there was a public viewing of the body. The only other funeral I’d attended was Jack’s. I think he had an open coffin but I was sitting a way back in the pews. This was an event I had to attend (being family and all) and there was the body all laid out for everyone to come up close to and view. Having been drained of all his bodily fluids and pumped up with embalming fluid, he looks a bit bloated instead of anorexic. Hair combed and a bit of makeup over the ashen skin. Eyes closed but no coins. I went up close. There was my dad. My dead dad.

The rest of the evening were old people coming by to partake of the snacks and tell tales no one remembers. Mom was quiet. The rest of us just wanted it to be over.

The next day the box was placed in a hole at the ‘family plot’ and it was over, but it really wasn’t over.

 

I was a pallbearer at Joel’s father funeral. I didn’t mind for he needed strong armed boys to haul his father’s remains to the hearst and then to the hole in the ground. I followed the instructions and we did not drop the body.

I’ve tried to avoid funerals ever since.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven - 3313 Stuart Avenue

The Dexter’s. My second home. My home away from home.

A simple row house with a concrete front porch. Two stone brick. The front room held a large soft sofa dressed in flowers. The rope oval rug was in muted shades of green and brown. The whole house was green on the inside. It was a comfortable room. The front room led to the dining room complete with a large table and many chairs and piano. Don’t know why there was a piano in the dining room, but it fit. The small kitchen was off the dining room. Mrs. D. was always fixing something. All mothers of this time period would stay in the kitchen. This was their domain. Mr. D. would sit at the metal kitchen table smoking cigarettes and reading the newspaper. He would belch to acknowledge people.

Upstairs led to a long hallway. In the back was a tiny room. Crammed full of books and clothes and cow horns, it led to Joel’s bedroom. A long two-story porch was enclosed on the back of the house. Joel’s bedroom was the second story. A drafty room with a television at one end and double deck beds at the other. Lots of material and books. Always had to move things to sit down. Comfortable clutter.

 

The Dexter’s

A large nosed family. Tall, thin, and easy going. They communicated together and laughed. There was constant chatter between one member of the family then another. Joel didn’t understand my interest in the interaction, but this was so different from any family I had ever seen. The Dexter’s were a family. They talked together, they went camping together, they welcomed strangers together.

Mr. D was a teacher. His son would follow in his footsteps. Mr. D. was a quiet man. He stayed out of the way, in the shadows. I never heard him raise his voice. He drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and read the paper. His walk was slow and deliberate. Baggy pleated pants and plaid oversized shirts hung on his thin frame. He spent much of his time in the basement. Mr. D was a rock hound. He had collected rocks from the family’s many adventures across the country. He sorted the rocks into categories. He sorted rocks into cardboard boxes. He sorted rocks of all sizes. He moved rocks back and forth from table to table. The basement was full of rocks. The basement was cluttered with rocks.

 

A W.W.II veteran, Mr. D’s club was having the other vets over for drinks and stories. They would put on their blue hats and badges. The room would fill with old men in baggy suits, white socks, drinks in their hands enjoying the company of other old men in baggy suits, white socks, drinks in their hands. Glen Miller played on the stereo and smoke filled the room. Everyone would wear their blue army hat. These were the last of Mr. D’s friends. They buried him with a flag draped coffin and a rifle salute.

Mrs. D was outgoing and remarkably welcoming. She had the strong features of the family. Her son and daughter took her appearance. She always had a smile. Mrs. D worked. This was unusual to me. She was a secretary at an insurance firm.  She would spread paperwork on the dining room table and work while the group of kids would listen to records and laugh. She was energized by youth being around her. Later, Mrs. D would become interested in the psychic sciences. Ouija boards, reading cards and palms, stars, and readings. The other world became her escape.

Dorothy Ann, Joel’s younger sister, was loud and pushy. She looked just like Joel. She was always butting into things or yelling demands to her mother. She wore dresses at the request of her parents. She wore pants at home. She was not attractive but became well endowed. Unfortunately, she looked like Joel. Long dirty blond hair. She did have a lot of neighborhood girlfriends. They later became dates for her brother’s horny friends. Some would stay, some would go.

Joel Marion Dexter was a long tall lanky lad. High rise pants to his 6’4” frame. Vests gave bulk to his thin body wrapped in long sleeve plaid shirts that barely reached his wrist. A quiet lad that enjoyed the company of others and would later become the ringmaster of the group. A smart student and an organizer. His middle name came from father's, grandfather's, great grandfathers, and great, great grandfather's first name. Or it could have been the Revolutionary hero - Francis Marion, the swamp fox. Some ancestor rode with him according to family legend.

 

Camping

It was the summer of ‘66 and there were no rules. After the Nags Head stint, I was to meet my high school friend, Joel, at a campsite outside of Virginia Beach. The two band cars loaded with sand, dust, hot kids, and heavy band equipment pulled into the Seashore State Park campsite at dusk. The guard at the entrance said he didn’t know where the Dexter’s were staying, so we said we would find them and took off. Through the cries of authority, we drove around the camp sites looking for a fold out tent camper and a rambler. Just as the two jeeps carrying the college student guardians of the campground pulled up to us, a crowd of kids appeared in the headlights. At the lead was Joel, the person I was looking for. The whole camp was up by now, flashlights blaring.

I climbed out of the DeSoto, bid adieu to my companion, and watched him turn around and head Northward with guardian escorts.

Was the summer of ‘66 when anything was possible. Found the campsite and the warm welcome from the family I did not have. Talked a little and slept in the back of the car. Even a steel floor can feel good when you have not slept in two days.

The break of day was brought to us by the sound of a dinosaur. It was the trash truck, but it sounded like Godzilla. Joel and I hit the showers. The showers were cold, but without a bath in three days, it felt good. Joel threw me the soap which I missed and it went down the drain. So much for being clean. Did not have shaving utensils, so a quick brush of the teeth and a dry off was all there was. The same clothes were put back on. Our hair was starting to get long, at least for the time. A little over the ear and collar

Joel had purchased an LP the day before. He thought I would like it, from the cover design. The bathrooms had electrical plugs by the sinks. Joel’s sister had brought a portable record player, so it was plugged into the bathroom and the LP played. Joel and I giggled as grown men left the bathroom half shaven covered in cream. What was this sound? Frank Zappa’s “Freak Out!” awoke our soul.

As night fell, the campsite kids gathered. Joel, who was a head taller than any other, became the instant leader. The group wandered to the beach and broke into fractions of boys and girls. The group dwindled to a few, then a few less. Pairs of youngsters disappeared into the dark.

Joel was the guy, at another camp, who stepped through the road. It must have been a water break but it was a hilarious vision of him up to his knee in road. He pulled his leg out and we marched on to entertain some girls. On the way back, the hole was large enough to swallow a tractor.

I’d pay him back while walking to Sears and getting pooped on by 13 pigeons.

He called me ‘Magic Fingers’ because I could always find a tune on the guitar. The name would stick with me later, but for other reasons.

Joel and I tried to write a song, but our thoughts were elsewhere. We looked at the sky and saw a bright light zooming across the sky. It stopped and shifted position. This had never been seen before. The light flashed, shifted position up and down, then out. After this light came two other flashing lights. These lights had the familiar sound of jets. They followed the last position of the first light, then wandered over the horizon. They followed the curve of the earth, not out into space.

Joel and I decided this must be reported. We dusted ourselves off and walked down the beach toward the guard station. In the phosphorus glitter of the ocean’s edge, a large black shape presented itself to us. A dolphin had washed ashore. Its skin was cold and wet. There was no movement.

Joel and I reached the entrance of the camp site and told the guard of the visions we had. The college aged ranger told us he would report the incident. We felt we had done our duty. Did we see what we thought we saw on that clear night? We wrote two songs about it. Lack of sleep probably gave us inspiration. We sat on the beach and strummed. To record the event, I ripped the left sleeve off my shirt to use for writing paper.

The next morning, I tried to go to Virginia Beach to cash a check. The teller would not accept my ID. I was penniless. I wrote a song about this too.

I traveled to the camp site twice with the Dexter’s. The first was an adventure. The second was a frustration.

Joel was trying to break up with his girlfriend. This was a constant struggle that would continue into college. I saw the trip to the beach as a getaway, a time we could write songs as “Cliff and/or Joe”. This persona led us through the pack of last year’s trip to the beach. This persona had kept us alive when we were walking along and Joel stepped through the dirt road. This persona kept our cousins wondering. This persona could be the next Peter and Gordon.

The usual camp setup. Go to the camp store and get all the things that were forgotten. Set up the fire. As all kids do, we wandered to the beach to sit on the sand, stare at the stars, listen to the waves, and talk about what we were going to do next.

I was shy and reserved. I would go with the flow of the crowd or the direction of a strong personality, but would never make the first move. I joked and made fun of uncomfortable experiences. These were the teen years.

Joel met up with two sisters. Jean and Joan from New Jersey. Jean was a shapely girl with petite features. Joan was a tall muscular girl with quick moves. Jean and Joel escaped to the sand dunes leaving Joan and I to duke it out. She was not interested in fooling around. I took her back to her campsite. I sat on the beach until late. I was left with the memory of a night lost.

The next day, before we left, Joel and I went to the beach. The sisters were there. Sweet and quick goodbyes were said, the Joel and Joan headed back to their separate camp sites. I jumped in the water for a last dip, when I felt Jean next to me. Up to our necks in ocean, we had carnal knowledge of each other. I was worried my trunks would come off but I stayed busy. I could not look at Joel on the trip home without smiling.

WHY DON'T YOU MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS

(cliff & /or joe, 1967

 

See the little green things in the water?

Pardon me sir, do you have a daughter?

Well, I just wanted to know

Oh yeah, why don't you go...

I had a date the other night

A dead dolphin, but she was alright

Do you see that ship over there?

The one that's floating in the air

Have you seen the big dipper tonight?

         No

         No what?

         On both accounts...

         Oh!

Went to the store to get a check cashed

But the lady didn't like the way I asked her

See the little kid with the sun blister?

Ask him if he has an older sister

All stuffed up not getting circulation

Poor little feet getting mutilation

But now then dinner is ready my friend

So long for it must end.

         Bye

         Bye- Bye stupid

         Oh yeah?

 

Rolling Stones

 

On the way back to the campsite, Joel and I noticed a sign at the Alan Shepherd Center (then the Dome). “Rolling Stones Concert Tonight”.

July 4th, 1966 and the Stones are playing at Virginia Beach. There can’t possibly be tickets available, but we turned to the ticket office to ask. “How many would you like?” Two please.

Joel and I got cleaned up as best we could, ate and proceeded back to the Dome. After giving our tickets, we went into a large room with a curtain covered stage at one end and folding chairs across the floor. We sat midway up front. Close enough to see, but not too close. We expected a mad group of girls to storm the stage.

First, there was a group from New York. Don’t remember who they were and they were off the stage quickly. Next was the “McCoys”. Two or three songs with a stand-up drummer. “Hang on Sloopy”. “The Standells” followed with “Dirty Water” and an edge to their music. Dressed in black they had a full sound. If we had not been waiting for the Rolling Stones, we could have listened to more of their songs.

The curtain closed and all was quiet. Some milling around, but quiet anticipation. Behind the curtain, motion. Blue bars broke the silence and my foot started tapping. Don’t open the curtains. Just let them play. (Sidebar: I first heard the Rolling Stones with their release of “It’s All Over Now.” I bought the 45 and listened to the other side. I bought the LP and listened to all the blues cover tunes. I had heard the blues, but it was raw and rough and empty. This was the English interruption of the Memphis and Chicago blues.)

Just then, the curtains opened to Mick, Brian, Charlie, Bill and Keith. Not too loud and very thankful between songs, the Stones played new tunes from Aftermath and hits like “Time on Your Side” and “It’s All Over Now.” They were crammed onto a small stage, but they performed their cool moves and shook their heads. Mick would thank the crowd for being so calm and nice between every song in his charming and quiet manner.

Here were the idols from the Ed Sullivan Show in front of us and in a fleeting moment, they were gone. As the crowd left, Joel and I decided to walk around the back of the stage. We passed groups of kids and authority type people. We walked through a curtain and down a hall past more people standing talking. We turned to our right into a cinder block room. It was a locker room for the basketball teams who played in the Dome. Instead of a basketball team, the Rolling Stones were holding court. In the surreal instant, Joel and I were among our idols. Over there was Bill talking to some reporter. Brian walked by brushing my sleeve. Keith was in the corner smiling and drinking.

Reality strikes. What the heck are we doing here? All we had to hide behind was a program I bought in the lobby. In a crowded smoked filled room of people, we felt conspicuous. What now? Grab something and let’s get out of here. Joel grabbed a suitcase and I grabbed a guitar case. We casually walked out the folding doors to the crowd milling around outside. A few police stood around talking to each other in the night air. No urgency was needed. We walked back to the red Rambler without saying a word. Joel dropped his suitcase and climbed into the driver’s seat. I threw the guitar case in the back and we drove out of the lot and back to the campsite.

Wow! We had seen the Stones. We had heard the Stones. Our idols were in the same room and we viewed them up close.

Back at the campsite, we could not come down from the ultimate high. I finally opened the guitar case and found a Vox bass. Bill Wyman’s bass. The guitar that was on Ed Sullivan’s “Paint It Black”.  (I kept and played the bass until I sold it in 2001 to pay off late taxes).

HOW TO REACH A PEACHY KEEN BEACH (cliff &/or joe, 1966)

 

From this town I went away

I couldn't have stayed another day

I thought I'd go to the beach for fun

Lay in the sand, soak up the sun

Now daytime there was quite alright

But, ever more right were the nights

On a blanket with a girl

But I had to return from that fabulous world

        

         People thought we were strange

         But, we're still just the same

         The beach it has not changed us

         From what we were

 

It's true I wore my hair kind a weird

My friend he even grew a beard

But me and my friend were just out to please

If it hadn't been for "Miss Cream cheese"

I and he would have been alright

But as it is we stayed up all night

Leading a band, felt sort a woozy

Fifty kids demanding "Susie"

 

         People thought we were strange

         But, we're still just the same

         The beach it has not changed us

         From what we were

 

My girl said, "Why don't you take off your hat?

Oh, you were hiding that

Hair that hangs down on your back

Go right now and get it cut, jack!"

Our clothes we tried to wash to begin

We had to burn them in the end

But now we've fallen into line

Wearing Sunday suits singing "Sweet Adeline"

 

Dedicated to: Seashore State Park, 1966

 

 

 

Fashion

My earliest recollection of fashion were my Sunday suits. I’d be taken downtown to a department store tailor and be measured for pants with pleats and a suitable jacket to attend church. It was uncomfortable to have some strange man rubbing his hands over your body with a measuring tape. He’d write down some numbers and my mother would pick out some material and we’d leave. A couple of weeks later, we’d return to try on the creation while the tailor-made adjustments. It was important to have a label in the jacket interior pocket. The suit was put in a plastic bag and hung in the closet until Sunday. After the service and Sunday School, the family would return home and get back into casual clothing. The only other time to put on a suit was for some elegant occasion or event. Sometimes there was a pocket napkin.

In the summer the jacket was blue and white stripe seersucker. In the winter was a dark jacket. There was never an overcoat, so we ran when it rained or snowed. Had to care for the Sunday suit.

My father wore a suit to work every day. Instead of a matching suit, it was jacket and slacks. It was his uniform. Several variations hung in his closet to give the appearance of a new suit with no repetition. There were also two winter and one summer tux. As fashion changed the lapel width, his forty’s style stayed the same.

One year, around the time Elvis was coming out, I got a pink and black suit with a vest. It wasn’t really appropriate for church, but mom must have splurged.

Most suits lasted a year and were then replaced.

Shirts were striped t-shirts until junior high school. Then I started wearing formal long sleeve shirts with button down collars. White, light blue and blue stripe were the options. Pants were black or tan khakis with a handkerchief in the left back pocket. White trousers were for formal occasions. No one wore blue jeans. Shorts were bathing suits.

Shoes were always black with hard soles and taps to reduce wear and tear. Never wore wingtips. Elbow patches were sewn on jackets to maintain the length of usage. Causal socks were white. Formal socks were black.

The country club dress was either a formal suit for a dinner or cotillion or polio shirts and slacks. Shorts or jeans were not worn. Dockers were permitted without socks around the pool but not in the clubhouse. The pullover shirts with the collars and the little horsey, then replaced by an alligator came in a variety of pastel colors. Bought a pair of madras chinos to wear golfing. No t-shirts or tie-dye allowed. No one wore sunglasses or hats.

For formal wear, a black bow tie was acceptable. Mostly thin solid color ties or club ties were worn. On the outside breast pocket could show a college patch. Patches were popular, like in the scouts, and the army. Need a patch to tell your rank.

When the boss requested, I wear a tie as an indication of management, I founds a massive array of wild flowered, strange patterned, odd colored ties. Even an American flag tie. Wore some large butterfly ties but the stubble of my beard would tear them up.

Clothes were the image of the 60’s. Large dark glasses, double breasted blue corduroy jacket over a turtleneck sweater. Jeans were now in fashion, so there were bell bottoms of strips, flowers, white or gold. Hip huggers with small pockets. Enjoyed pockets. Always wanted to carry lots of stuff, so I needed to pack up. Finally decided to carry an army ammunition pack. Small enough with lots of pockets. This would carry drawing supplies, pipes and tobacco, pens and other “stuff”.

Beatle boots were the order of the day. Italian boots that could be purchased on the other side of Broad Street (where outlandish and colorful Band uniforms were purchased from Jewish merchants). Pointed and slick black with three-inch heels and a zipper inside. All the bands had to wear them. They were so cool.

Joel wore earth tones to my dark blue and black image. Same type of jackets, pants, shirts. Joel, being six foot four, always looked like the clothes had shrunk on him. We both wore vest and wide belts.

Joel (and his cousin Charlie) peroxided his hair junior year. I got a gold spray for my bangs but it was too stiff and turned my hair green.

In college I started wearing epaulets. Dark shirts with lots of pockets and epaulets. Bought an army jacket (from an Army - Navy store) that had lots of pockets and epaulets. I’d hold my scarf on my shoulder. This was similar to my white silk tuxedo scarf.

Art, David, Joel went whole hog tie dye. I bought a pair of tie dye pants at JC Penney but they fell apart quickly.

During the 70s, I wore double-knit only because that was all there was. The psychedelic Peter Max ties were wild and the lapels and collars wide.

Art, David, and Mike didn’t have money for the day’s fashion. Art would wear baggy Army-Navy surplus trousers, bulky sweatshirts and oversized secondhand shoes. David wore T-shirts covered in paint, skintight pants that were too short and tennis shoes. Mike tried to dress well. His clothes were always clean and neatly pressed.

My wife made me fashionable for a time buying stylish clothes from Britches or some other boutique shops, but now it is back to casual sweats and jeans.

 

 

The Group

I met Joel through Art Spencer. I met Art through Mike West. I met Mike in church. We were in the same Sunday School classes. We began discussions about the reality of religion to our teachers who had no answers. Follow the word.

Mike was from a family I never met. I didn’t realize this until much later because he covered his life well. We would get together every Sunday after church and play cards and records at my house. We went to the same church, Sunday School classes and scouts. We sang in the choir. We were baptized. Mike never talked about his brother or mother. He was always polite and would not impose. He lived on the other side of the bridge dividing West End from the Fan. Mike would discover his father dead from a self-inflicted gunshot.

Mike decided to join the ROTC in high school. On the trip downtown to get his uniform, he introduced me to Art. A big burly bear of a guy with a warm smile and a welcoming sense. I watched as Mike and Art picked out their gray wardrobe. Both competed through high school for rank and decorations. Years later I wondered about the belief in the military from both. Mike played trombone in the military marching band. He rose to the rank of Sergeant. Art became the captain of his squad. Both relished in the discipline. Both took the symbols very seriously. Both had joined the military club. Art got more out of the prestige and parties and leadership. He had created a place for himself. Later, Mike would join the Air Force and Art would avoid the draft as a conscientious objector.

Art lived in a flat in the Fan. He and his two sisters and brother were under the care of his mother who was working at Sears. Story has it the family was dumped here while his father, a Marine DI and photographer went elsewhere. He didn’t talk about his father. He would go home after school and sleep until the middle of the night to wake up and polish his shoes and belt buckle to sharpen his uniform. We would attend the same college, play guitars, take drugs together and he’d steal my girlfriends. He would go into bureaucratical administration, raise two boys with three wives and create stain glass.

Joel was a quiet unassuming character. We met and he immediately followed me home. Every day after school, we would go to my house and listen to records. He was taking advanced classes, while I was taking the basics. I was interested in art and he was interested in history. Music is what drew us together. We would sit for hours and listen to music. I could not come up with words to the music I was trying to play, but Joel could. I would strum the big red guitar and he would scratch down his thoughts. He fashioned himself a poet, so it came easy. There is a recording of this with his sister screaming in the background. We became a “Cliff and/or Joe” duo.

Joel’s family became my second home. A comfortable downstairs with throws on the furniture and a piano in the dining room. A kitchen with a father always sitting quietly reading the newspaper and smoking. Upstairs in a back narrow hallway, Joel had a stuffed room, complete with antlers. His family traveled across America, collecting rocks. Joel had a sister who looked so much like him, when there was an opportunity to get fresh with her, I couldn’t do it. Mrs. D, as we called his mom, was the Happy Days mom. Always helping, without a care, looking the other way to whatever was going on. She worked, which was unusual for mothers.

One afternoon in the kitchen, I calmly tried to refuse the invitation to share dinner with them. My mind was melting on drugs, but I tried to stay calm. Finally, I could not refuse any longer, and probably made a sight pouring down bowl after bowl of spaghetti.

These guys were close enough to walk to (for there was no mobile transportation) My other friends lived in the suburbs and I didn’t ride my bike that far out.

Joel went on to a prestigious college in a tourist town, was incarcerated, became our chauffeur, built his own house and taught high school history.

Mike also introduced me to Steve Leed and David Gant.

Steve lived further West in the new suburbs of Libbie and Staples Mill. David lived in the Fan.

Steve had two burly dimwitted brothers and a hairy sister. His father and mother were quiet, hairy and unattractive. The family’s taste was basic. Steve was always hurt. His main goal in life was to build a telescope. He would polish and polish the mirror for hours. He also likes electronics and tinkering with cars. He would later get into the computer world early with enough dough to buy a yacht.

HERMAN KACHOO (s. leed/ cml, 1968)

 

There is a lion, who's always crying

Because the children, all laugh at him

No one hears his crying, or all his sighing

Because they're laughing, too loud at him

They never scold him, or ever told him

That he was different, with his four eyes

 

         At the zoo, he was the craze

         All day long, lying in his cage

         No one dared to step inside

         His wooden teeth, were falsified

 

Though he only had four eyes only three were cross-eyed

And the remaining one, now has become

The other eye's blood shot, and though he's no sot

The people wonder why, he's always smiling

 

You may be wondering why this lion is always crying

Have you ever tried to sell glasses to a four-eyed lion?

 

David was the brooding artist. He painted on the walls, read Spiderman comics, and sat in a dark room, down a dark hallway to a narrow row house. His parents stayed out of sight. His mother worked at Sears and would constantly yell at David and his brother to stop fighting. David also had a sister who would hide. A very dark family. David would use the duplex upstairs as a studio. Silk screen T-shirts, painted taped canvas. He was always preparing some artwork. Sketches were taped to the walls. He married three times and wound up at the Aerospace Historical Museum in Washington as a display designer. He and I have barren families.

 

The Party

One night, “the group” decided to have a birthday party (and Halloween party) for David Gant. It started snowing as each of us gathered dates and walked to Dexter's house. Joel and his tall girlfriend Carolyn Curley. Dot Murphy, Carolyn’s classmate and a pass off from me to Art Spencer (Congratulations). Carolyn brought some other classmates and friends. Ann Myers, a rough looking thin dark hair girl, Carol and her younger sister Becky. Betsy Blanchard, Carol’s friend. The parties would consist of playing records by the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Paul Revere and the Raiders. Popcorn or chips were the junk food of the day. Joel and I would strum our latest versions of songs or introduce original creations. As the night wore on, pairs would find soft corners to cuddle and make-out. This was as good as it got.

On this particular night, the snow got deep. The city was closing down. Mrs. D suggested that everyone stays over. Everyone called their parents.

All the guys walked Dot home and David to the edge of the fan, and returned to the warmth of our winter campsite. Everyone else stayed to regale in the war stories of Mr. D. The girls stayed upstairs and the guys stayed downstairs. I slept under the piano in a sleeping bag with Art. He stripped naked and got his own sleeping bag. At one point the girls started to come downstairs, but were sent back up by Mrs. D. A memory not forgotten.

 PARTYTIME (cml, 1965)

 

Well, Partytime is the time for you

Partytime is the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partyime, is the time for you

Partytime, with the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partytime, hoping you'll be mine

Partytime, for the rest of the time

Partytime, but all is not lost now.

 

This is the time, that tries men's souls

Driving me wild, making me feel right bold

With drink and food, and plenty of dance

Moving around, now is my chance

Records by the Stones, Raiders and such

Now the dance, but not too much

 

Well, Partytime is the time for you

Partytime is the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partyime, is the time for you

Partytime, with the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partytime, hoping you'll be mine

Partytime, for the rest of the time

Partytime, but all is not lost now.

 

Sofa for two, with room for one

I have met my doom, but have more fun

Sleep, sleep, there is no rest

Drink more now, do my best

fair is foul, and foul is fair

All is that, that is not there

 

Well, Partytime is the time for you

Partytime is the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partyime, is the time for you

Partytime, with the things you do

Partytime, is the time I treat you right fine

Partytime, hoping you'll be mine

Partytime, for the rest of the time

Partytime, but all is not lost now.

 

 

 

Hypnotism

Got interested in the Psychic Sciences. There must be more there than religion. Decided I would try to learn how to hypnotize. Basically, relax, calm, and put the subject to sleep. Then give a direction. This is too easy, it can’t work.

Had a party at Dexter's. Decided to try hypnotism on Art. He resisted, but volunteered.

Be very quiet. Everyone.

Slowly. Breathe. Close your eyes. Relax. Calm. Relax. Breathe slowly. Think of quiet things. Relax. Feel your hands loose. Feel your shoulders loose. Feel your legs loose. Feel your body loose. Relax. Feel yourself relax. Feel yourself calm. Feel yourself as a calm and relaxed being.

Now close your eyes and enjoy the darkness. Breathe quietly. Relax.

Remember the quiet time. Remember to relax.

Now your eyes are so heavy. Your eyes are shut and the lids are so heavy. So heavy. Heavy. Heavy. Heavy. Heavy

Try to open your eyes. They are locked shut. You will not be able to open them. It is OK that you cannot open your eyes. They are closed shut. They are locked.

Tears rolled down Art’s cheeks as he struggled to open his eyes. His arms were locked to the easy chair. He neither shook or struggled. He merely cried.

Now relax. Feel free. Relax. On a count of three you will wake up. One- two-three. Snap. Wake up.

Art sat quietly for a minute, then opened his eyes and looked up. He quickly stood and forcefully looked into my face. Was he upset? Was he going to do me violence?

Art smiled and said he hated me. He could not open his eyes. He knew he could, but under my hypnotism he could not open his eyes.

It worked.

We also had another game we played with Art, where four of us would gather around his seated girt and hold our hands over his head. After a few minutes, we put our hands together pointing out our finders and placing them under his knees and armpits. Then, together, we’d raise up and he would just float in the air.

Later, I continued the sessions with Carolyn. She was very accepting of hypnotism. She quickly became my favorite subject.

A few statements, and Carolyn was asleep.

She would wander back into a previous life. She was a little girl. She would laugh and sing with another voice.

One night, Carolyn was lost.

She relaxed and went quickly into a hypnotic state. She started talking about her early life and the light blue dress, and the wooden house.

Carolyn became quiet. She sat up straight. Her eyes closed; she began to shutter. Tears appeared on her cheeks. She became upset.

Her boyfriend and I held her hands and talked softly to her to find out what was wrong. She did not draw away, but she resisted our request. There was something bigger going on.

She talked of water and drowning. She calmly spoke of seeing death.

After several hours, Carolyn was drawn back to the present and reality. She awoke with a tear-soaked shirt and exhaustion.

Later, she spoke of a friend she had known who had drowned. This was the reason for the appearance in her hypnotic state.

At the time I was reading Edgar Allen Poe and e. e. Cummings is looking for words to a song. The black science and church fascinated me. This did get me into Prog Rock and away from Pop. I stopped trying to explore this technique. There was more than I could handle.

Aside: Carolyn was a lifeguard at some apartment pool on Southside. Of course, Joel wanted to go to the pool. While splashing about, a few young boys decided they would heckle us. It is not polite to drown some brat in a pool, so we just tolerated it. Carolyn introduced me to some cutie and we set up a date. Joel drove to my house and while he and Carolyn did the snuggling on the back porch under the blue light, I took the shapely lady out to the yard’s hammock. She was a good kisser but was talking about her old boyfriend and this was going nowhere. I interrupted Joel’s smooching and asked that he take the girl home.

On another pool adventure, Joel and I went to a public pool and were told that we had to wear a haircap due to our long hair. Women swimming in the pool were not wearing haircaps.  We followed instructions and placed the rubber caps on our hair and dove into the water. Somehow the caps came off and we were kicked out of the pool.

LONG TALL CURLEY (arr. by cml, 1966)

 

Long tall Curley has got a lot on the ball

and Joe don't care if she's long and tall

 

Monday morning, Curley is over at Joe's

No one knows if he was wearing clothes

 

Sleeping in the raw, sleeping at night

All is ready for a pillow fight

 

Joe's bedroom is "mucho" small

Still, lots of room to have a ball

 

A big green dress, built for two

One for Joe, and one for ......oooooooh

 

Joe's double bed, built for two

One for Curley, and one for .......oooooooh

 

Friday afternoon, trying to write a song

Joe was working, Curley was gone

 

The program "Peter Pan" did a lot for me

Curley and Joe, does that make three?

 

If things keep going the way they are

I may be knows as Uncle Joe by far

 

Lips moving close, hands moving slow

If she don't watch it, there'll be a "Lil Joe"

 

Watching TV at Curley's that night

All is ready for a pillow fight

 

Watching TV, turn out the light

All is quiet for the rest of the night

 

Monday morning, Curley's house

All is ready for she and her spouse

 

Massaging backs, desires that burn

Teaching little sister, what she'll never learn

 

All goes well without Paul's gift

Just as long as there is no "slip"

 

Joe makes one, Curley makes two

Put 'um together, nothing they cannot do

 

Curley and Joe make a right, good pair

Cause they both have long, string hair

 

Wandering hands, smiling faces

just the right curves in just the right places

 

If the two get together, one more time

They'll be starting at the end-of-the-line

 

A record was to be made from this old song

But GADS.... ain't the thing too long?

 

Dedicated to Joe and Curley

 

Astral Projections

When you die, your soul goes to Heaven. This is what has been taught. This is what it is supposed to be.

Went to a Christian group session with Joel to hear a “dead” man speak. Spoke of his life after death.

What was fascinating was the fact, he realized he was dead, and could travel. Was it his ghost? Was it the “spirit”?

The speaker showed his death certificate and spoke of life after death.

Spoke of traveling outside his body. Astral Projections?

Spoke of seeing himself lying on a hospital gurney and listening to the doctors and nurses pronounce him dead.

He then told stories of moving from Richmond to California one night through Astral Projections. He removed himself from his body, drifted to a convention in California and saw his secretary. He would pinch her. Later, he asked her how her convention was and was the bruise on her hip doing better? She responded in amazement that he knew of her location and the bruise.

Tried the technique. Fell asleep with my hand hanging off the bed. Felt the floor. Felt the rug. Felt the wood under the rug. Felt the nails. Felt the studs. Felt the dust beside the studs. Went deeper. Felt a coin. Rolled it in my hand.

After awakening, I rolled back the carpet, pry up the flooring and found a coin. A nickel. A Lincoln head nickel.

How did I find this?

 

Palm Reading

Mrs. D had a friend who came over to do palm readings. She took us one-by-one upstairs to examine our hands and give us what our wrinkles meant. When she got to me, all she could talk about was sex. She may have been coming onto me? Mrs. D was also doing star charts according to the zodiac. What’s your sign?

At the same time, I dwelled into the occult and the black science. Religion of the devil. It became too weird and I got out of it.

 

Ouija Board

Mom and dad would go to club managers conferences at least once a year to far off places. My brother and I would be taken in by a family member to babysit us while they were gone. After a while we outgrew that.

On one occasion in the mid-60’s, they left me in the house alone for a weekend. It would have been easy to invite some girls over, but I knew the rules.

Instead, I invited two guys over to waste an evening on a Ouija board. It was a time when we were all looking for answers to the unknown. There was no drinking of alcohol or drugs, but just an empty house to play in.

Two by two we sat with the board on our laps and asked questions to the spirits. We’d place our fingers on the planchette and let it spell out the answers. How much we were controlling it, no one can prove.

We were interrupted by a banging on the backdoor. Seems some guy had been run into and wrecked and needed to use a phone. (This was before cell phones and there were no phone booths around). While he called the police, we checked outside. Sure, enough there was somebody driving down the avenue running into parked cars and traffic. The flashing lights appeared and the night got more interesting.

Once all the excitement was over, the three boys went back to exploring the psychic wonders.

We seemed to have latched onto a spirit in the house. It indicated it was a child who died in the house. I showed the other guys the button on the wall upstairs used for a nurse attending a sick patient. Our minds are filled with possibilities.

I believe we stayed up till dawn with our fantasies and speculations on this lost baby haunting this house. Then we thought we heard a buzzer in the kitchen. The sound of an alarm disconnected years ago. Then, we heard a baby’s cry coming out of the radio that was turned off on top of the refrigerator.

I don’t believe we made breakfast in that kitchen and the lads left, weary from a night of freedom and confusion based on the wonder of mystic science.

 

 

Orange County

The Dexter family had their roots in Orange County, North west of Richmond. The family let me accompany them to their homeland to visit Mrs. D’s mother, Grand D. The Dexter clan and I (and Art) would climb into the red rambler packed with every size of suitcase, and ride the hour to Zion Crossroads. Take a right and keep driving. Slow rolling hills full of wooden fences and sloping grass fields. Horses would stare, run along with the car as it passed, then stop and snort in the air. This was country. This was farmland. This was red clay. This was Orange County.

The rambler would turn and pass the county fair and the fire station. Up the straight the excitement would build. A right turn and up an asphalt driveway. On the right was Grand D’s house. A simple brick one story abode with a screen porch. To the left was another house. This was Walter's home. The Walter’s were Joel’s cousins. The driveway wrapped around between the two houses and turned back to the main highway. The family climbed out of the rambler after the hour-long ride and shook off the dust. Art and I walked toward Grand D’s house as she appeared at the door to welcome us. Everyone smiled as we approached this stranger. Art put out his hand to greet Grand D, only to put it through a glass storm door. Luckily, he was not seriously cut, but this impression will last forever. Grand D was surprised. These city folk don’t know what to do with simple country folk.

After that session, the food was good. We felt at home. The house was cozy and neat. The kids stayed in the basement where they could play their music and dance on the tiled floor.

 

Across the way was Walters. Three boys. Country boys. Charlie, Alex, and Bill. They were rough. They were dirty. They were a refreshing change from the boys I knew in Richmond. Not well bred, not stuffy. Down to earth guys. They reminded me of Wally and Paul. Blue collar.

We would climb mountains across the highway and wander on other’s private property. We would shoot cow carcasses in another farmer's forest. We would feed the horses behind the house. We would swim in the pool that was behind Grand D’s house.

The Walters were a messy family. Dogs roamed in every room. Left-over food sat on tables. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Magazines and books were dumped everywhere. Paper and clothing filled the small brick house. Used plastic dishes filled the sink. There was a musty odor that permeated the furniture. I never ate in this house. I never slept in this house. I was glad to leave this house.

The people of Orange County were impressed by the big city guys from Richmond. This was the reaction Art and I got from everyone when we went swimming in the pool. Charlie was a lifeguard (of course). He sat on the tall tower chair overlooking the L-shaped pool, white stuff on his nose and dark sunglasses. He was tan and buff. Good features. Any local girl would be infatuated with him, except when the big city boys were in the county. Art, Joel, and I received a lot of attention from little girls in two-piece bathing suits. Nothing revealing, but imagination is a wonderful gift. As the darkness came, the kids would retire to Grand D’s basement to play guitars and sing. This was new to the county kids and they were fascinated by the new English Invasion songs.

The pastime of county kids is to get into cars and drive around. We drove to the Dairy Queen. A big hangout. We drove into the four-block town of Orange. We drove up and down the highway. We talked and drove. We spent most of our time driving back and forth from place to place.

CHARLIE MacGREGOR (cliff? /joe, 1968

 (Visions of the eternal sun youth)

 

"Tis the story of a modern-day knight

Named Charlie MacGregor

No matter what you do you know

old Charlie Mac can do it much better

Tall and blond, gets what he wants

Has the girls, that's what he wants

They like his fun

And, when he's got them,

they're gone

Flying down a country road you know the cops will always ignore him

Even though he breaks the law, they all like him cause they all know him

He's just a boy, and after all

He never hurt anyone at all

His father's rich

And they all know, that too

At riding cars, or boats, or bikes, or planes

you know, he's always much faster

Although he's fast, there's one girl that he really likes

just ask her

She's not the first to feel that way

They all think with them he'll stay

They like his fun

And when he's got them,

they're gone

Dedicated: Charlie Walters, LaMar "Whitey" McIver

 

 

On one trip to Orange County, Charlie, Joel, and I went to the neighbor’s field to shoot crows off telephone lines and dead cow carcasses. We came upon a pond. We shot at the pond creating ripples and splashes. Joel and Charlie wandered off into the woods. I was left with a bolt action rifle, a small amount of ammunition, and a poor eyesight. I pointed at rocks and shot. I pointed at the leaves and shot. I pointed at shapes and shot. I reloaded. Then, I waited. And I waited. I had no idea where I was. I had no idea how to get back from where I came. I turned and saw Charlie and Joel coming across the field back to my location. Was this some kind of test? Was this some kind of ritual? We all went back to Grand Ds and had lunch. Nothing more was said.

 On one of our wanderings the backroads, we stopped at a ranger lookout station. The height of a water tower with a small deck at the top where rangers could spy for distant forest fires. The steps were narrow rickety fire escape steps. Once at the top I realized I had vertigo. The descent was precarious and slow. Fear of heights. Learned a lesson that last to me today.

The Walters boys had other friends on the highway. We went to Ann Gray’s party one night. She took a liking to Mike West, who went on a field trip with the Dexter’s. Dark haired forward county girl, she was aggressive. Mike, being a religious righteous person, didn’t know how to handle it. The group spent a year trying to hook Ann Gray up with one of the members. It was no use. She would do anything for anyone, but our members were too scared by the forwardness of her approach.

We also drank in Orange County.

After high school graduation, Joel, Art and I left for Orange County. Art had talked Mrs. Urbach (train station) into buying Champagne for the graduates. This purchase came with an incentive of additional cash from three underage high school students to keep everything quiet. A suitcase was packed with 8 bottles of champagne and plastic form packing. This suitcase was handled more delicately than the red phone carried for the president.

After dark, Joel, Art, Charlie, Charlie’s date, and I crammed into a yellow Volkswagen bug and proceeded to drive around town. We popped the corked and saluted ourselves for graduating. Only hours earlier, we were standing in an auditorium singing the school’s alma Malta, only we forgot the words. Actually, we never learned the words in our four years there.

We drove and drank. We drove and drank. We drove and had to stop to pee. We drove and drank. Art and I became silly and boisterous. Charlie shared his bottle with his date. Joel got sick. We laid on railroad tracks and beckoned the new life. We giggled when we had to refill the bug. “Stop laughing. They will think we are drunk”, I said with a slur.

We returned to the camper outside of Grand Ds. We tried to be quiet, but I’m sure we were giggling. Joel barfed going to the camper. I laid in the wet grass next to Joel. I told him he would be all right. He wanted to stay and die in the grass. Art and I carried him in, while Charlie took his date back home. We slept quietly. I was worried about Joel.

The next morning, I woke refreshed and hungry. Charlie also woke up, not having as much alcohol as Art and Joel. We ventured to town for dinner and breakfast. The best breakfast in the world. Just eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. This was a real bonding moment.

The rest of the day was spent trying to hide Joel’s hangover and getting back to Richmond.

STATE TROOPER (cml, 1968)

 

Always flying round, far from home...State Trooper

Driving alone, on the roam...........State Trooper

He's the one kids all hate

He's the one who put them in the State pen

State Trooper

 

He's the one we look up to.... State Trooper

On the highway, no one looks so good.... State Trooper

He's the one speeder’s all hate

He's the one who put them in the State pen

State Trooper

 

He's just a man like you or me......State Trooper

He can only stop things he can see...State Trooper

He's the one killers all hate

He's the one who put them in the State pen

State Trooper

 

 

 

 

 

Sindy Jane Johnson

Joel has a cousin in Orange County. She is short and sweet with auburn straight hair and a warm smile full of braces. A quiet and polite girl. She has a brother who doesn’t trust me. She has an attractive mother. She has a father who plows snow in the winter. He doesn’t trust me either.

Sindy Jane was a fantasy that never happened. She was early teens and I was in my mid-teens. That was a huge gap in the 60’s. A few years meant a lot.

I met her at the pool or at a party. We connected. There was no lust, just genuine comfort companionship. We talked about “The Monkees”. We talked about Walter's. We talked and talked.

Sindy Jane expressed herself with chiseled features and a soft manner. She seemed shy. She seemed quiet. It seemed like a dream. She seemed to like me.

Sindy Jane wrote me letters. I wrote her letters. We hinted at things, but could not convey them. I called her often. I went to visit her on the bus and got lost in Charlottesville. I finally got back to Zion Crossroads where her mother picked me up. We spent a few hours together. I was fresh, free and pure. This was the purest love I have ever known.

We broke up, if ever we were together, over the telephone. Her parents thought I was too old for her. We wept. We said good-bye. I remember her. I kept her letters and her picture.

FROM A SHIRT SLEEVE (cliff &/or joe, 1966)

 

I've been told it makes no difference how old, you are

It's not so sometime a girl ought to go, so far

         You say, who's she

         How old, she be

         My God! she's young

         too young, for fun

         I hope not, cause I need some.

 

Here she comes, she looks so good, but yet, so young

You think you might make time with her, that would be wrong.

         You say, who's she

         How old, she be

         My God! she's young

         too young, for fun

         I hope not, cause I need some.

 

She tries to make you think she's old, you know, she's not

But still you go along with her, for what she's got

         You say, who's she

         How old, she be

         My God! she's young

         too young, for fun

         I hope not, cause I need some.

 

Dedicated to: Val, Vicki, Robin, Sindey, Dusty, Dabney, etc.

 

Dead Dog

Charlie lost his best friend. His dog. I saw him bury him. He dug a large pit. He placed his dog into the pit. He cried. He covered the dog with dirt. He waited, then moved on. He has lost his best friend. We just watched with nothing to say.

I DON'T KNOW (cml, 1968)

 

In a little shack behind the back

He sits there all alone

He reads the Sears catalog

and never worries about home

 

A feud may start at a drop of a hat

He doesn't really care

Though bullets fly around his head

He keeps on sitting there

 

The hogs need feed, the cows need milking

He sits and grunts, and groans

His mother calls him to the house

 

Chapter Eight - 1024 West Franklin Street

 

Going off to college was enough for me to continue my education and avoid the draft. Richmond Professional Institute was the only school I applied to. I knew my grades. I knew RPI would probably let me in.

I spent the first year of college at home. My old friend Bill Rowlett also attended the same college. His family lived out of state, so he lived in a dorm.  Bill wanted to move out of his dorm room. His mother and my mother got together and came up with a scheme. Bill Rowlett and I should share an apartment. We would be good together. I believe this arrangement was made to keep Bill in school and to get me out of the house.

Bill and I were both art school students at the Richmond Professional Institute in downtown Richmond. A few blocks of large stone row houses that were about to transform to a university. Neither one of us had good grades. I had barely made it out of high school. The summer of ‘68.

We were the perfect match.

He found a site one block from school. A third floor two room apartment, with a kitchenette and a bathroom with a tub on legs.  The landlord was an old lady, Mrs. Pen, who liked to drop in unannounced, look around, and smoked cigarettes.

Bill moved his bed to the window and I put my bed next to the doorway. I moved in the foot locker from camp used as a coffee table, a stereo, television, and a desk. Everything else was kept a few miles away at 4101.

Across the street was an apartment full of nurse students. Great summer viewing.

I set up the stereo and filed my records. I arranged the books next to the bed. I set up the desk and lamp to study (yeah right). To ensure this was a true bachelor pad, I put Playboy centerfolds up on the walls. With the constant supply from a local bookstore, the wall was covered with naked ladies.

The sofa, which was shredded by Ming, was a gift to us from the alley. A Victorian with curved arms and brass tipped legs. The rest of the living room was a chair, table and the television - stereo combination center.

The clothes would go to the Laundromat every week. A great place to read while the spin cycle ran. Duffel bags left over from camp held the jeans and T-shirts. Fine laundry still went home to Mom for ironing.

Learned to drink tea during my stay at 1024. Inexpensive and relaxing. The perfect drink for the intelligent college student. Constant Comment became my favorite, a carryover from the Carriage House.

I also smoked a pipe. I had started the habit in high school. I didn’t like cigarettes, even menthol. I did enjoy the image of the pipe. Special tobacco, packing it, lighting the tobacco over and over. The slow inhale of the smoke, without swallowing it. The soothing smell of dark tobacco. Black Cavendish was my choice. It smelled like chocolate chip cookies cooking. I would travel to Carytown Tobacco House to purchase 2 oz. bags and check out the pipes. I enjoyed the larger bowls that would hold a half hour worth of smoking, if packed correctly. I began collecting pipes. I carried all the utensils needed to keep the tobacco moist, the pipe bowls scraped, the stem swabbed of spit, and matches and lighters. The ashtrays had to be large to hold all the pipes. The center had a cork dome to knock out the burnt ashes. There was an art to smoking a pipe. I taught Bill Britton about pipes. He took it to an extreme art form.

The first apartment became a make-out pad. Art brought Dot over to shack up. I didn’t leave early enough and passed them on the steps. “Have fun kids”.

Betsy would come over to climb under the sheets and fool around. One afternoon she came over to take a bath. She undressed and went into the bath. I undressed, but could not get my penis stiff. I tried and tried. I didn’t want to go in without being stiff. She washed, dressed and left. (Looking back, it was probably a sign).

One night Bill brought Mary over. Betsy was there. We turned out the lights and climbed under the covers of our separate beds. We giggled and laughed. Betsy and I made love. Bill and Mary left.

I could grow my hair at my own apartment. I could grow a beard. I could wear dirty socks. I did all of these things.

One weekend Betsy came over and washed my hair. I laid my head over the tub as she washed it. I sat patiently puffing on a cigar, as she put my hair in rollers. I poised for photos. She combed and combed and then was done. She went on to have a Hair Salon.

DUMP SWEET DUMP (cml, 1968)

 

Nobody knows the trouble, of moving into this place

Stacking things in boxes, making sure there is no waste

Bringing up the things I need, running up the stairs

A table, a lamp, a big green trunk, a trashcan and a chair

I'11 be living there,

I'll be living there

 

1024 West Franklin Street

Apartment 6, please wipe your feet

Take off your coat and have a seat

Make yourself at home, but keep it neat

 

A record player, a tape recorder, a radio and TV

On the walls are pictures and things, as you can plainly see

A bath, two desk, a table, two beds and a kittycat

We cook our food in the kitchen, our clothes go to the laundry mat

This is my habitat,

this is my habitat

 

1024 West Franklin Street

Apartment 6, please wipe your feet

Take off your coat and have a seat

Make yourself at home, but keep it neat

 

This is where I'm living, one block from V.C.U.

All this seems so strange to me, so weird and very new

I must wash some dishes, and take out the trash

I hear my roommate coming, Bill Rowlett and moustache

Isn't this balderdash,

 isn't this balderdash

 

Dedicated: to the apartment by the same name, Sept. '68

 

Ming

Bill had a cat. A Siamese blue crossed eyed cat named Ming.

The first day I moved my stuff up to the apartment.  The next day, I moved in. Ming had already taken over my bed. When I tried to lay down, she jumped on my chest and purred. She had taken my bed. This would continue until Bill and I moved apart.

After the first month, Ming went into heat. She would stay in heat the entire time I stayed with Bill. It finally became a game to roll empty beer cans across the floor and watch her back into them.

MING (cml, 1968)

 

She runs about me now

Her big blue eyes, see everything

I stop to say, the telephone rings

for me.

 

I must be going now

She says, "Good-bye" as I close the door

She settles down, upon the floor

and sleeps.

 

She meets me at the door

She's glad I'm back, hoping I will stay

Don't worry 'bout tomorrow, it's now today

for her.

 

Her daddy comes home soon

He'll say to her, "Have you eaten' yet?"

He prepares for bed, and gives her a pet

on the head.

 

As he turns out the light

She runs to him, as if to say

Thank-you, daddy, for a beautiful day

contentedly and then sleeps,

 

Dedicated: Bill Rowlett's Siamese cat

 

 

 

The Dirty Dishes

One night Bill and Mary made a spaghetti dinner. The pots and pans were put in the sink and they left. I was not going to clean up the mess, so the cookware sat. And it sat. And it sat. Friends would come over and talk about the fuzz on the plates and the smell. I would not budge. Days went by. Weeks went by. And it sat.

Finally, one Sunday afternoon, Mary cleaned the cookware and a truce was made.

That summer the lease ran out. We moved from the third floor of 1024 Franklin to the third floor of 1624 Monument recluse. This was only for the summer. This was our last summer of freedom. The naked ladies were removed from the walls and thrown away.

JUICY IN YOUR EYE WITH GRAPEFRUIT

 

Picture yourself in a garbage disposal

with tangerine seeds and old grapefruit rinds

It churns you around and grins you up slowly

and then squirts grapefruit in your eye

Crumpled wax paper all smeared with old meat bits

falling on top of your head

Look at the trash as it goes down the drain

and it’s gone...

 

Juicy in your eye with grapefruit

Juicy in your eye with grapefruit

Juicy in your eye with grapefruit.... ahhhhhhhh. (fade)

 

Follow it down to the sanitation station

where fat, ugly people dip you down inside

Everyone smiles as you drift through the garbage

aren’t you glad you’re about to die

Newspaper scraps all clutter the shore

dead fish get in their way

Lie on your back with your head in the muck

and you’re dead....

 

Picture yourself in a box in a wagon

a personal body bag, fit to be tied

Someone is there to identify the body

the grapefruit who spit in your eye

 

 

Shave and a haircut

My family tradition was to walk to Cary Street and attend Al’s Barber Shop. Read some hunting magazine until called for. Sit in an oversize chair and have an apron wrapped around your neck. On the wall were drawings of different styles: crew cut, flat top, pompadour. The barber had been instructed to use a #2 electric razor and give me a buzz cut. This wasn’t down to the scalp but short enough to take some time to grow out. Then the straight razor came out. My neck would be swaddled in shaving soap from a brush out of a cup (the method my father used). The razor would be sharpened on a strap and my head would be tilted as if he was going to slit my throat. He’d stretch my skin tight for meticulous scraps whipping the excess soap on the towel around my neck. Once finished, my apron was removed and my neck washed off with a wet smelly towel. Then a big brush would come out to powder me off. Then the operation was done and I didn’t get a sucker like going to the doctor.

When I turned 30, I declared I was going to cut my long hair and shave my beard. I would also start wearing a coat and tie. My face hadn’t felt a razor in years and swollen up. When I went into the office a photographer gathered everyone in the staff around and took a photo to document the event. Seems everyone had planned to wear a suit and tie that day, even the secretary. That didn’t last long.

Later in life, I attended a ‘salon’ in Shockoe Bottom run by a woman Art knew from Roanoke. She was pretty and pleasant and offered wine and a lap dance. This was when everyone was growing their hair long, so mine was a Julius Caesar cut. After a while the cost was increasing and the clips were few and far between.

One afternoon my wife asked if she could cut off my ponytail. “Do you want to save it?” she asked. She trimmed me up all nice and neat. The bosses liked it, but it didn’t last.

On my 65^th birthday, I decided to cut it all off. Went to a nice little shop and told the lady to cut off all the hair (but save it). I’d forgotten what a head massage wash and pampering was. Went home and shaved. Donated the hair to the cancer wigs association.

The fashion of the time was clean shaven men. Hairy faced men were hobos or sailors. Every Christmas I would receive an electric razor from Santa who wanted my hygiene to be smooth skin.

My father used a single blade Gillette with a shaving brush and a mirror on an accordion extender. Toilet paper patches for cuts and Old Spice splash on to finish up.

The first electric I tried was a Schick. It had a cord that plugged into the outlet above the mirror. The blades were never sharp and just pulled the hair out of your face. Not a good introduction to shaving.

Norelco came out with a rotary electric shaver (remember the polar bear riding on it in the Christmas commercials before they started drinking Coke?). A much less painful shave but it couldn’t get into tight places.

Even tried a straight edge but that is one dangerous weapon. Bic came out with a light plastic razor with two blades…then three blades and then…

By that time, I was starting to get hairy. First a mustache and then I just let it go.

Then it turned white and fell out.

FOR THE CELIBATE MISTER BLIGHT

 

For the profit-making Mr. Blight

he will have a show tonight

on any street

His dancing girls will be right there

late in the show they will go bare

it can’t be beat

Out of skirts, and shoe, socks, and garters

Lastly, you can see all there is to see

and you see, Mr. B. is counting the dough.... oh

 

the celibate Mr. B.

puts up his tent at 10 to 3

at Willis Park

A girl named "Joy" will have a fling

then "Bell-quick-Sell" will do her thing

after dark

With bumps and grinds, wiggles and sways

Her production is topped by a girl named “Day"

and of course, in the end they get obscene....

 

the show will end at 10 to 6

but the girls have lots of tricks

to go around

Once a girl named "May" reveals her form

as a guy takes off his uniform

and takes her down

with humps and grunts of participation

There’s lots of time for all to have a ball

And tonight, Mister Blight is counting the dough.... oh

 

San Francisco

After high school, with a summer to kill before venturing onto higher learning, I decided to make the great adventure.

No plans and little money, I grabbed an old boy scout backpack and stuffed whatever I thought I might need for this mystery road trip.

Everything is changing now. I decided to try and hitch hike. I’d done this a few times around town to catch a ride for a few blocks. This was going to be a longer journey.

I left a note on the kitchen table. ‘I’m going out’.

I walked out to the highway and put out my thumb. Not long after, a pickup truck pulled over. The driver asked, “Where are you going?” I said, “West”. Hop in and I was off to the unknown with a stranger.

In review, I was lucky, but this was the mid-60’s.

Mostly cross-country truckers. They’d let me off at a truck stop or a turn on the highway. Listened to a lot of country music but little conversation. Got picked up by a guy who felt sorry for me hiking in the rain. Another time a car stopped as I was sitting in the sun next to the road and asked if I need a ‘lift’? For a week I lived off peanut butter crackers and cokes. 

 

Finally hike into the city by the Bay. Not knowing anyone or having no place to go, I did what I’d done for the past week, except on foot. Following kids that looked like me, I wandered around. I’d sit on a curb with some other kids and strike up a conversation and perhaps get a passed joint. I was invited to crash at a house full of smoke and bodies. I found a soft chair and slept through all the chaos. The next day was the same aimlessly staggering around the dirty streets and traffic of an unknown city.

The little excitement was when the local police decided we had enough fun and were going to clear the streets. Police putting on helmets with batons while hundreds of kids screamed back for, they had nowhere else to go. Before the climax, someone yelled ‘the Dead are having a free concert at the park’. The tide turned to the park and peace was restored by electric guitars.

I was given a lot of free drugs without having any description of what they were or how to maintain. I did not find love or freedom or anything that had been written in the magazines.

At the end of a week, I backtracked my steps to the highway and decided to go home. Even being shaggier and smellier than before, I was luckily picked up by some truckers who seemed to be transferring kids from the east coast and back again. Most just wanted someone to talk to other than other truck drivers on CB. I was a good listener with no opinions or advice. Some would even buy me a dinner for the company.

I was dropped off south of the river. I walked across the bridge and onto familiar sidewalks. Trudging up to my room, I peeled off weeks on the road and stood in the shower for an hour washing away possible dreams that didn’t come true.

In the end, it seemed to me that this city I’d grown up in, was just the same as any other. I know where everything is here, so I’ll just stay.

Seems I wasn’t missed. All my friends were off on summer vacations or getting ready for college or starting jobs or families. It became the summer of being an individual.

 

 

 

Richmond Professional Institute

There were never any choices for college applications. The local art school just between the house and downtown was cheap and pretty lazed on requirements. I did not have good SAT scores. It was an offshoot of the acclaimed William and Mary but basic High School pt. II. I found out later my dad wanted me to go to Yale for the fraternities and party life he’d enjoyed. It would also get me out of the house.

I filled out the application and got accepted. Dad sent a check and I was registered. I was mailed a list of requirements and went on an orientation tour. These were buildings I’d passed for years but never thought of it as a campus.

The required classes were handed out on punch cards and books were bought at the basement of the Hibbs building book store. Always new and never used.

After the first semester, I was sent a letter that my grade point average of .3 was not acceptable for me to return. My father decided not to pay any more money, so I paid the rest of my financial 3- year requirements without a loan.

Still living at home, I’d ride the bus down to school every day. I bought every item requested on my art supply list at a local painting supplier and would carry a tackle box full of pencils and brushes and a gigantic portfolio to hold papers and sketches and drawings and paintings. Through the first year, I realized all this ‘stuff’ didn’t need to be carted around all the time.

The classes were in former row houses or apartment buildings or a fairly new designed Hibbs building with circular lecture classrooms. What were someone’s living rooms were now filled with easels and pads of paper or canvas frame. School did introduce many different media and larger sizes than high school classes.

And there were naked ladies.

 

The room became quiet when the first model sat on a stool surrounded by teenagers. Nudity may have been discussed in Art History class, but this was in-your-face personal. For the most part, by the end of the year the class became familiar to the models, except… All the students were milling about getting prepared for a sketching session when the professor walked up and asked one of the girls if she was ready? Suddenly one of the cute girls we’d been flirting with stripped bare naked. You do learn some things in college.

Other classes were the basics of design, theory and background of graphics but the school was about to change. The teachers were taken from different majors and shifted about. A fashion designer was given a freshman art history class. A painting instructor was given a pottery assignment. Chaos changing an Institution into a University.

The real estate was also changing. One vacant row building we were using for drawing classes was given to us to paint the interior. The end of class the building was razed for a new Pollack building.

Some of the variation classes include a speaking class. It was presented in a theater as if our words were part of a play. Another interesting class was every Friday we’d be bused down to a local movie house to be shown a play or a rock band or some foreign film or some abstract presentation and then I went across the street to work at the train station.

One class was media production. This was basically a television course. The ‘professor’ came in and asked if we knew the basic set-up of a television studio? We replied that was why we were taking this course. He was frustrated with our lack of knowledge and invited us down to Andy’s for beer. I told him I needed the grade so I’d take the final exam without all the BS. I aced the class but didn’t learn anything.

My health course was swimming. I’d walk down to the YMCA every Saturday to check in and swim laps in their questionably clean pool. Even the locker room felt grimy. About the time that residents of the Y started showing interest in naked college boys, VCU had finished a gym with a pool in the basement. I finished up my required hours there to receive a passing score.

College taught me how to speed read. For years I’d stumbled over textbooks trying to find rhyme or reason to recall later during testing time. The magic highlighter marker may have helped separate the wheat from the chaff.

Between classes, I’d find a place to hang out. The quad was to confusing. The library was too boring. The local bars were too expensive. I found whoever had a dorm room and hang out there.

One semester I took all morning classes. One semester I took all night courses. Until Senior year, I took English…over and over and over again.

One class was a public speaking class (done in the theater). Since I had performed on stage in plays and also bands, it was an easy A.

Another class was taught by the movie critic for the local newspaper. The class would watch old foreign movies like ‘Battleship Potemkin’ and ‘the Seventh Seal’. The lights would be turned on and we’d discuss what we had just seen. Other kids would jam the room, stoned. Free movies. We should have sold popcorn. Later I found out the teacher wanted more than answers from her students from an employee who was hit on at the newspaper.

One of my big discoveries at the Institute that was coming to a university was Psychology. The study of the mind. Any college student is searching for the meaning of life and I was a participant. Along with the psychic science experimentations, this was science. Took a couple of experimental sessions by going to the local hospital and taking some substance to be observed and evaluated for a fee. Did an art exhibit of my evaluations of the ID, Ego, etc. but not sure anyone understood it. Dropped out of what would have been my second major when a late-night class was filled with lab coat students and the textbook was skipped because these were professionals.

College life was about protesting during my tenure. Kids were growing their hair long. Classic dress turned to bell bottomed jeans and tie-dye t-shirts and everyone got ‘free’? It was four years of avoiding being drafted. It was watching a kid die under a crashing fountain. Going to crammed smokey clubs drinking watered down beer and sweating.

Being in my home town for school and working probably saved me from too much exploration.

KNOW-IT-ALL (cml, 1970)

 

You think you know everything; you think you know it all

With a high school graduation, you're really on the ball

So why not go and get a job, you think you are so wise

Now you cannot go so far, it puts you down to size

 

You think you know everything, you want to dodge the draft

You struggle in two or four years, your college boards are a laugh

Now you're really smart, my friend, Greek letter and a wife

You know more about nothing, and work into the night

 

You think you know everything, you're smarter everyday

Continuing for your Masters hood, you've come a long, long way

So, the more and more you learn, the less and less you know

The more you go to college, your business gets more dough

 

You think you know everything, you've got your Ph.D.

It's taken many years to get, now you are "king bee"

You know everything about nothing, and now you're 95

Use your wisdom all of your life, but how long will you be alive

 

Dedicated: Richmond Professional Institute/Virginia Commonwealth University

 

Morning Glory

Steve and his brother, Paul, wanted to play in a band. Paul had a Hofner violin bass and played left-handed like Paul McCartney. Steve had moved up to Gibson SG solid body electric and a Guild 12-string acoustic with a Fender Bandmaster amp with a pair of twins 12” speaker cabinets.

Steve wanted to play country songs. Country was not popular, but country rock was beginning with the Byrd’s and Kris Kristofferson and John Denver.

We decided on a mix. Some country songs, some pop songs, some hard rock songs.

Steve had a girlfriend, Ann Lee. She was around him when she was a preteen. Now she is growing up. She could play her organ and guitar and sing.

The Leed family had moved from the West End to the Northside area. A new house, but the same values.

We would meet in Steve’s garage. Set up the amplifiers. Try to tune up. Go over a song list. Lots of feedback and frustration. No direction. The best song was “Mister Bojangles” with two acoustic guitars. I played an Ovation 6-string and a Framis blond 3-pickup electric with a whammy bar and mute.

Steve and I played a couple of coffee houses. The nights enjoyed the sound. Steve played love songs. Steve wanted Ann Lee. Steve would play straight rhythm guitar and I would note the highlights and harmonies.

Ann Lee moved to the West Coast and sold me the Farfisa Organ she used. It was traded for a ‘67 Fender Strat to a former drug dealer named Wild Bill.

 

 

 

Old Rag Mountain

Orange County was an escape. Old Rag Mountain was the tallest in the county. Joel and Charlie had climbed it as kids. They knew the easy side and the hard side. There was a trail, I was told, up the east side.

Old Rag became a focal point during the hazy daze of drugs. “Let’s go climb a mountain and watch the sun come up” was the creed.  The Blue Ridge was too far away, thank goodness. Orange County was close and familiar.

Bill (of the Bill and Peggy family) fashioned himself a mountain man. Actually, he was a well-groomed cadet from a well-to-do Catholic family who knocked up a Catholic girl and had to get married. He had no goals, no desires, no direction. He had responsibility. He worked at the City Library as a page until he moved into a house.

Bill read the mountain magazines. He bought the mountain gear. He fantasized about being a mountain climber. It took Bill two hours to gather his gear, prepare himself, and load his vehicle before our group could attempt to leave the city and travel to the mountain. The wait was accented with puffs on a bong or snorts of white powder or cut tabs washed down by cheap wine.

Bill was the pilot to the mountain. He drove his VW Bug like a championship road rally racier. Bill constantly asked for map directions from the crew packed into the back. He seemed distracted by the weather, controls, or the directions, but he always got us there and back.

Bill’s wife, Peggy, was quiet and reserved. She seemed to tolerate Bill’s outburst. She was the stout earth mother. She kept the insanity sane. She was worried. She fretted. She had an understanding with Art that was not questioned. She could have had more.

The group would park at the base of the mountain. In the night, everything was still and dark. All was quiet. A small pack and a flashlight were our ammunition against the rock. Once the path was found by our leader, we would follow. Stepping over rocks and bushes, trying to follow step by step footstep of the person in front, our dazed band would hike up the mountain side. Slipping was a constant. Luckily, there was someone to catch you.

The mountain was a trip of five miles to the top. That was over rocks and boulders, bushes, and around trees. Why none of us ever fell off is a wonder. Someone was looking after us in the dark. We never lost anyone. We kept close. We enjoyed the climb. Every now and then someone would say, why don’t we go on the hard climb? Remember, these climbs were made in the middle of the night. Other than the moon and a flashlight, there was no light. A great bonding moment.

Once at the top, we would look in the shelter that was built there. Usually there were sleeping campers that wisely climbed when there was light. The camp fires were out.

So, the group would climb to the very top. Bill, being the most adventurous, would climb out on rock adjustments to sit with his glasses and view the dark valley below. The rest of us would find a seat in the boulders and await the sunrise. Tired and weary we would watch the glow light up the valley. We would watch the hawks and crows awake and fly below up over the trees. The fog would lift through the trees, awakening a new day. Total quiet. Total peace. The cold of the morning brought sunshine and warmth.

As we awaited the morning, the temperature dropped and it started snowing. Always prepared, Bill had brought two clear plastic tubes. Two people could jam inside to keep dry, but not warm. There was thought of being romantic, but it was too cold for that.

We would huddle around the thermos that Peggy always prepared with sips of warm coffee before our descent. The group would say their goodbyes to the dawn and start the trek down the rocky side. Bill would always be the last to leave. There was always a spiritual message to Bill.

I often thought if Bill had thrown the car keys away in the brush, we would have had a long walk home. It was ‘68 and we did not think about that.

After the long, dusty trek down the mountain, we awaited Bill and his keys. He didn’t want to leave Old Rag. It became his mountain. We would load into the bug and spend another sleepy hour coming home. The co-pilot was assigned to keep Bill awake and alert enough to drive. When the city limits were seen, all relaxed.

All were dusty, tired, hungry, but our minds raced with the experience. Our group of lonely city folk had conquered a mountain at midnight and watched the dawning of a new day. And all survived to tell of the experience.

Bill went on to be a librarian page, run road races and then cut diamonds. Peggy became a nurse.

 

Drugs

Beer became an important incentive of the 1024 experience. There wasn’t money, so there was experimentation. The local bars had cheap pitchers of 3.2 beer. A party could order a pitcher and be through it before the next song hit the jukebox. Longevity was what was being looked for.

Parties with kegs were popular. Keep pumping into the plastic cups.

The good and bad of drugs appeared during this period.

At a party with a keg on the front porch at the Monument Avenue apartment held by Bill and Peggy (the omnipresent host), a couple decided to have a fight. Not a normal fight. A knockdown drag-out screaming match.

During a quiet, wine and cheese party, a couple went off. Something about flirting with another person. A slap. A scream. A thrown cup. A run down the hall. A stunned crowd stood speechless.

As the cries mounted, a group of males dropped their cups and went to the rescue.  The male individual was grabbed and pulled back as his hand was raised to strike again. The female cowered in a corner sobbing. Several females surrounded her with horrid expressions on their faces.

I grabbed the male. He struggled. I found additional strength. I did not know this person, but I felt complete hate. I had never experienced anything like this. How could someone beat another person? I felt rage. I felt total anger. I was ready to drag this person to the front porch and throw him off the second story to the pavement below. I was out of control.

Cooler heads prevailed, the couple got back together and left the party. The rest of the night was stunned. I had never felt this rage. I didn’t know I had it. I was confused. I was pumped. I was angry. How do I funnel these emotions? I am glad this happened early, so I could understand them. I would need this realization and restrain myself later in life.

Gregg’s brother was moving. He needed some help moving furniture. He offered beer. That was all it took to gather strong backs and weak minds.

What the assembled group didn’t know was Gregg’s brother, Ron, was moving onto the third floor and he had a piano. As night grew, the strong backs lifted the boxes, books, and piano and carried them through winding steps to the third floor. After several hours of sweating, the rewards were presented.

Ron had purchased Rolling Rock Beer. Lots of Rolling Rock Beer. In pony bottles. Tiny bottles. Bottles that were consumed in a swallow. Green bottles that were 8” high and empty before they got warm.

The party of hot sweaty movers converged on the coolers of beer and started the consumption. The piano was tested and music began. The windows were lifted to reduce the smell and increase the fresh air. A few guitars appeared and were tuned to a deaf ear. More bottles were emptied. Local musicians began to strum tunes and drink. More bottles were emptied. The idea to stack the bottles was presented. “In front of the windows.”

The night wore on. Additional music was played. More bottles were emptied. More laughter and merriment. Met and jammed with Joe Sheets, later famed with local bands and recording studios. Drank with a tall thin long dark-haired man named Bob Antonelli. The hook-nosed crooked smile and bad teeth wisp of a man was mistaken for me at college. I saw no resemblance.  The wall of green pony bottles began to rise. First one layer on the floor. A cheer rose. Then a second layer offset by the first to give it stability. Then a third layer. Soon, half the wall was covered by green bottles. As more bottles were emptied, the music got louder and the movement of the participants were staggered. This did not stop the building of the wall. More bottles were empties. A fourth row, then a fifth. The bottles seemed to be glued to each other. They would vibrate in the beat of the music, but never fall.

At the end of this evening, the entire front wall of the new apartment was filled with green bottles. Joe Sheets, another guitarist, and I commented on the strength of the American bottle. I did not want to hear the crash of these bottles before I left. I walked softly down the steps. I looked up from the street at the green monster we had created. Though blurry in my sight, I marveled at our accomplishment. An engineering marvel constructed by drunk hippies.

Later, Ron would be beaten senseless in a basketball game. He tried to play street ball with some blacks. He lost. He moved his sensitive white ass to California.

Workmates would have impromptu gatherings with beer and smokes and lots of laughs. One was a gathering after a ride on the riverboat Annabel Lee and a frantic ride into the fan with lots of company credit cards paying for an ever-flowing beer order. Another was at a close by apartment, with music, sudsy liquid potion and cute girls. By the time I left I was feeling no pain and decided to run home. In the cool air it seems possible for the seven or so blocks away from home. I crossed the bridge and stopped. I had a rethink. What if an officer of the law was to see me running down the street? Other parties I over indulged and got to the point of no return, but friends got me home.

Most small parties turned into smoking, turning on the television with sound off, selecting the music for the night from the vinyl collection, then laughing at the old black and white movies and make up scripts that were not written while listening to whatever the latest trend in sound was. Some nights the stereo was too loud for conversations. Some nights the electronics were turned off and we made our own music. Then we smoked some more hoping to get higher.

 

Railroad Station

During my stay at 1024, I worked at the railroad station. I got the job as a recommendation from Art. He was working there, and he thought I would like it. It was my first ‘real’ job.

The lunch room of the station was full of vending machines. The Urbach family had control of this lunch room and others across the city. They would hire cheap hires to maintain the machines, restock the shelves, take out the coffee grounds and wastewater, and mop floors. They did have some sort of decontamination stuff that would go beyond a good rinsing to clean utensils and machine parts. Probably necessary for health approval. Probably should have worn rubber gloves using that stuff.

This meant the employees would play pinball from the change taken from the machines, wait until the coffee machine was spilling over on the floor to clean it up, eat the good sandwiches and stock the old left-over sandwiches. With all the time and change available, pinball became our game. After some practice, the same game would go on for an hour or until we became bored. No tilts. This skill impressed a group of youngsters in a Nags Head pinball arcade, when one quarter went to three games. The table was handed over to a local kid as the pinball wizard left the room. A highlight of a bad week.

I bought my first real guitar with the help of the Urbach’s. A $300 Goya nylon classical guitar with cardboard case from Cary Gee. Paid for it with change. Had so much change I had to go to the bank and get coin wrappers before they’d accept my payment. Sold it in 2001 to pay taxes. 1/2 price 33 years later.

The Urbach’s kept me fed through school. Cans of soup and sandwiches in wrappers.

The Urbach family had money, but no class. They wore the same clothes over and over. They appeared and smelled of not bathing. They had a house in the fan near school. Beautiful antique furniture covered in dirty clothes, Leftover food wrappers on the stairs. Opened magazines and books cluttered the floor. I never touched anything.

I traveled with Mr. Urbach to a hole in the wall on Main Street. It was a steep flight of stairs up to a dark room. The stairs were covered with paper bags and change. Quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies made the steps slippery. An estimated $2,000.00 was walked over on the way to the money counting machine on the second floor. I would scoop coins into my pockets until my pants would jingle and droop.

There was a place in Henrico County that was a warehouse for stored food. Mrs. Urbach and I would travel to this warehouse to pick out stuff for the vending machines in her rusty beat-up dirty van. Sandwiches, made days or months earlier, canned products, and candy. Lots and lots of old candy. I never ate the candy that was white.

One of my best memories was Mrs. Urbach hired someone to cover the vinyl floor with some sort of plastic goo that was mopped on in the middle of the night. While it dried, we (the employees) locked the doors and when someone wanted a sandwich or a cup of coffee, we (the employees) were to go into this locked sealed room and get the request (and change) for the railroad workers. The fumes made we (the employees) high. The fumes also got into the machines and contaminated the food and drink, thus the railroad staff all went home sick. The next day, after sobering up, we (the employees) had to throw out all the food and clean the vending machines.

 

 

The Carriage House

The same time I lived at 1024, I ran the Carriage House coffee house. It was a church run, but I was in charge of opening and closing and buying the chips and dip and coffee with a small budget. I would fuss at Betsy and David for playing in the kitchen. My first taste of management. I would set up the tables with their red and white checkered clothes. I would set up the music and light the candles. I would welcome new people and give them menus. I hung friends’ paintings and joined in discussions on religion, politics, sex. I even played the red archtop guitar and sang Dylan and Donovan songs.

The Carriage House was the gathering place. Every Sunday night, there was food and companionship. There were quiet conversations. There was fellowship. Or so that was the purpose.

The church had sanctioned the building for “Youth Matters”, which was wide open, since the church and the community didn’t know what to do with the youths of Richmond.

Bill Jessup, Youth Minister of the First Baptist Church, was given the assignment of making “The Carriage House” a place for young minds to be turned to the church. Discussions started there, but quickly switched to war, anti-religion, anti-government, and sexual content. Bill, who was barely older than the rest of us, was having problems at home.

Art and David were in a trippy period and would come to the Carriage House to argue against any subject discussed. 

Luckily, he had some help. He had two Christian ministry students, Clay and Astra. A husband-and-wife team who wanted to learn what the youth of America in the ‘60’s wanted to know. They were overwhelmed. Went home with them to Franklin County to pick peanuts and play songs at their Sunday services. Big city protest songs come to a little country church. We ate fried chicken for dinner.

Clay and Astra took a few of us to a drive-in movie. We sat in the back seat watching zombies kill and eat people. What was all this about? Why would two ministry students take a group of folks to see “Night of the Living Dead”? The last guy to die in this dark, black and white film was a black man. Oh, I get it. It has a message. Open for discussion.

After Bill was fired for having an affair, Clay and Astra went back to Franklin County to preach, the Carriage House was left to me. I kept the chips and coffee coming, but something was changing.

The group gathered every Sunday, but something was different. We watched the NASA group land a man on the moon. We waited in silence until the final words were said. We watched Walter Cronkite sweat. We were still together, but were moving apart.

David M. was going through a divorce. He was brought by a new girl. Lee was a large, wide eyed young student David had met at VCU. She was all over him. It was obviously physical. They would later marry, move to Pittsburgh, and split. Steve’s girlfriend had met some guy who was going to the West Coast and split. David G. sunk into the dark depths painting black canvases. Art was avoiding the draft. He was moving to Va. Beach to teach at a Quaker’s School for community service and following BB. Joel was taking up housekeeping in Williamsburg and starving to stay out of the draft. He was incarcerated for having cough medicine in his bedroom. Mike got married and joined the Air Force.

Some young blond hair kid came by week after week to listen to the discussions and ask obnoxious questions. Though younger than the rest, he was refreshing yet brief, awakening to the deep subjects of war, school, babies, and death. When I turned 21, I bought this guy a bottle of liquor. I never bought another.

On the way to the Carriage House, I would walk past a funeral parlor across the street from the gas station where my father would park on Sundays before church. The doors were open on the hot days and the chauffeur to the dead would sit in the shadows next to a hearse. Would stop and chat with a mix of formaldehyde and marijuana. He would sell me pot and tell me stories of necrophilia. I don’t remember his name.

There was also a pizza place on the corner of Devil’s Triangle. The owner had a 3-wheel scooter to deliver pizza (new at the time). He would serve single slice pizza. We became familiar enough that when he went out on deliveries, he’d let me run the ovens and take orders.

Some nights no one showed up. It was over.

The Carriage House moved downstairs to a Psychedelic basement to become the first hang out for the drug heads of the time. Loud music, day glow, bouncers, confined and constrained, even with the drug use being had out on the street. Stereos started to be stolen.

I played a couple of nights in the new location, but it was uncomfortable. Taught a crowd of long hair kids some folk tunes and “Alice’s Restaurant”. Sat in with Gene before he left for military service. Wooden stools under hot spot lights.

Uncomfortable. The Carriage House was gone. The times had changed. The blast of electronic music had overwhelmed the quiet acoustic guitar and voice of protest. A new generation was taking over.

I remember the love on the cool tile floor with jeans pulled down. Wondering why was I making love in a church. But it was not a church, it was a coffee house.

 

 

Chapter Nine - 1624 Monument Avenue

It was a brief summer retreat. The summer of ‘69. Third floor under a hot tin roof.

Directly across the street were the offices and classrooms of the Advertising Department. The end of the first year as a commercial art student showed little promise. All the confusion of changing an institute to a college or a university kept the facility preoccupied with their own needs and not the students. I also suffered from a lack of previous training in the skills of studying.

I changed my major from Art to Business. I could transfer all my previous credits and didn’t have to take accounting. This looked like a good move for me.

It was a good move for the Communication Arts and Marketing Department. Two former art students could prepare presentations for the final exam. The presentations were not just marketing, planning, and strategy. The final presentations that would be nationally judged could be professionally prepared.

Jay Mangun was an energetic guy from the Air Force. He had spent time at an Alaska radar site making slide presentations for his commanders. What else is there to do in Alaska?

Jay and I prepared a campaign for an egg client. We spent the better part of a Sunday in front of his apartment complex making a video of an egg race. We bought two dozen eggs; hand painted each one with different expressions. We placed the eggs on the sidewalk under the searing sun. A video camera, borrowed from a television station was placed on the sidewalk and frame-by-frame we pushed the buttons and moved the eggs. Refocus and move the eggs. The shadows tell the story of the time lapse. Of course, we had prepared a storyboard and script the night before over several beers. “Good morning” from the Beatles “Sgt. Pepper’s” album was dubbed over the video. Balloons were painted in the frames telling the story from the egg’s point of view. The final project turned out to be an award winner.

One of our assignments was to go into a neighborhood, knock on doors and ask questions about their purchasing practices. There were a certain number of answers needed to make the data viable. After so many rejections, we just sat down and filled out the forms. Shows how dependable data gathering is.

The other students in the Advertising Department were losers. Tall long red-haired girl in tight dresses and Dalmatians, big sloppy suits and tired x-football types, future accountants and flesh pressers. Not a single hippie in the lot. These were not the type of people I would associate with. I don’t remember a single name.

The head of the department was a greasy looking man with slick black hair and a sharp nose. He was straight to the point. He was making a name for himself and used everyone to help him. Once that was understood, school became easy.

Mr. Looney had a yearly gathering at his house. This was for the final exam. Students would gather, drink, smoke, and talk about the projects. This was the first “example” of what business was like. The house was very stiff and uncomfortable. This was the lifestyle that was changing. This was a lifestyle not admired.

Mrs. Looney worked at the local newspaper. This would come back to haunt her after she tried to make moves on me when I worked there.

The Beatles “White” album came out that summer. The apartment played the two records over and over. This became the theme for a school project.

The final project for graduation was assigned to our class. It was a tissue, but noting an environmental culture.  We did our research. Everyone used tissues to blow their noses. It had to be soft and absorbent. It could be scented and environmentally safe. We looked at the boxes on the shelves. Colors and designs of different brands were examined to even how the opening was cut. The marketing guys came up with numbers and charts and the few art guys came up with a wave design. We gave a presentation with ads and sample boxes to music and a sample video commercial. It won some awards. Later I would see our design on the grocery shelf. Seems our projects were FREE research and production designs for real products. Don’t know who got paid for that?

Graduation came around. I’d added up enough numbers to get a piece of paper in four years. I did not attend the ceremony but dad framed my diploma. I’d gotten a 282 number in the draft so I could move on without the threat of being drafted. Never even went for a physical. Didn’t burn the card so my status is still 2-S (student deferment).

INTERRUPTION (cml, 1969)

 

Interruption...interruption...interruption...interruption

 

Well, you're going for a ride and your girl is by your side                                        

So, you try to make a pass, but you’re going way too fast

Then, a car unidentified comes out from where it's hiding                     

So, you pull over to the side and your girlfriend starts to cry                         

Then, you wake up from your dream, and your mind begins to beam again

But you think about last night and you realize it was all a sin

 

As you try to make a call which is the end of your downfall

Your mother tells you “No" you must go and wash your clothes

As you're running round outside looking for a place to hide

So, you run 'round for a while and your girlfriend starts to smile

So, you trip over you and you think you really need a seed

As the smoke leaves your head so why are you not dead

What do you need?

 

The Break-in

One night, Joel and I were walking back to the Monument apartment. We started up the steps and saw two guys climbing into the first-floor window next door. Our eyes met, but nothing was said.

 

Previous meetings with the residents of that apartment on the hot, summer days were brief and revealing. A well-endowed young lady would hang out of the window next to nothing talking to passersby. I never figured if it was a house of ill repute or a friendly neighbor, but I never stayed to find out.

I called the authorities and gave them a chance to handle it.

 

Nancy Nurse

There was a nurse I met through Art. She was in a dorm up the street from 1624. She was a total stranger. She was outside of all familiar friends, associates, and family members. She would come over to watch television. The television was never turned on, but she was. She didn’t go too far, but where she went was a passion pit. Now I know why the barbed wire surrounded the roof.

 

The hotter it got, and it got hot, the more I would wander out of the apartment and venture to the local watering holes. There was no escape from the heat.

Drugs became a good part of the summer. Sleep all day and stay in cool basements at night. Listen to the Doors, Beatles, and Stones. Smoke, drink wine, and talk about what matters. What is your draft lottery number? Did you hear about the protest in California? Is your girlfriend pregnant?

For the most part, life in 1624 was going to school, coming home, going to work, and looking for something to do.

One day there was a knock on the door. A plump neatly dressed girl stood at the door. She was to meet a religious student at my apartment? The student was picking up the key to the Carriage House. Within minutes, we were groping on the bed. Wet kisses, moans, and wet underwear. Suddenly, another knock at the door. I zipped up and found the student waiting for the key. The disheveled girl appeared from the bedroom, smiled, gathered her bible and the two left.

BETTER OFF WITHOUT THEM

 

We were yelling

About the weirdoes who live here

and their habits

they wear long hair and don’t drink beer

like us normal

never take a bath

and the tenants say, "Send them far awayayayayayayay."

 

We were screaming

about the hate we all do share

When we get them

we’ll try our best to cut their hair

with dull razors

with dull raaaaazors

we could run them out, make them go far awayayayaya.

 

try to get the neighbors to back you up

Now maybe we can make them change (hold)

When the landlord sees just what you mean

This place be much better off without them

 

We were plotting

with hate, those hippies have to go

and decided

we’d go downstairs and drive them out

then they’ll know

then they’ll see...

let’s beat up all of themmmmm.

 

When you see them hit the floor

they make good gore, grab one more

and punch him in the nose (hold)

The time will come when they will run

now you’ve won

this place is much better off without them.

 

This was my reaction to anyone female who I came into intimate contact with. Life was short. Live it now. The girls were giving it away. My birth control method was to withdraw before climax. It didn’t help the moment. It was messy, but I didn’t want to buy rubbers.

While sex was free, there were consequences.

One girl at a body painting party went too far and said I’d given her child and didn’t want it. I gave her money and never saw her again.

Another girl from Australia, who was shacking up with another art student, went wild and later said we had gone too far. She walked me to a garage in an alley. I gave her money and left. I didn’t see her again for 50 years. We never discussed the circumstances.

The third encounter was escorted to the local free clinic. I paid some cash and they asked me to leave.

That summer Betsy worried she was pregnant. I thought about marriage. I thought about leaving school. I thought about moving to North Carolina and getting married by my uncle since she wasn’t old enough. I thought about joining the coast guard. I thought about abortion. I thought it might not be mine.

The introduction to my apartment by Joel to his Williamsburg ladies was to announce I had just found out my girlfriend was not pregnant. Nice introduction to my future wife.

Bill was the perfect roommate. He was never there. Now and then, he would bring his girlfriend Mary. They would stay a few minutes and then leave. They were scared they would see a drug deal going down, or an orgy, or be busted. Bill grew a mustache.

Bill worked at a bank that summer. He was always coming home late. He had to balance his books before leaving. Every dollar had to accounted for. He was not very good at this. One day the bank was robbed. A man pointed a gun in Bill’s face and demanded money. The next day Bill quit.

It seems Bill was getting married to his high school sweetheart, so I had to find another roommate. I asked several people if I could crash at their apartments with no luck. David Mooney and I looked at a few sites, since he was moving out from his first high school girlfriend/wife. The first place we looked was a damp basement that didn’t seem suitable for rats. Another place was snatched up before we could sign. Another spot had just had a fire and the freshly painted windowsills didn’t hide the charcoal underneath.

Alas, I had to pack up and move back home with my mom and dad.

HORCE J. McKINLEY (w. westbrook, 1970)

 

Horace J. McKinley, never need a friend                         

Though he made for himself, a fortune unknown                                                                                    

An acre of land to build his house on

Oh Horace, you're really on your own

 

Once, in a long while, things made Horace wild

As he sat one day, minding his affairs

A windy day blew the toupee from his hair

Oh Horace, You're really on your own

 

He went into the movies, directing all the cast

As the show went on, he didn't anticipate

A pup on the stage, with his leg up at the gate

Oh Horace, you're really on your own

 

Horace J. McKinley, did things by himself

As he made repairs, he couldn't really see

He shaved the fur from his neighbor's Christmas tree

Oh Horace, you're really on your own

 

 

In My Room (continued)

A friend of mine and I dragged my moldy full-size mattress up the stairs to my old room at 4101 Patterson. The twin double decker beds had been removed for space for my mother to use her sewing machine.

My father passed me on the steps and said, “You’re back”

The desk and dresser were placed in the same old place and the bed was laid on the floor. Whatever records I had were brought in with my plastic stereo/record player.

It was a basic crash pad. No rent, but I did do chores like cut the grass and take out the trash. Most of the time I left the house for school or party.

I did get a few meals, but mostly ate out. I’d use a few drops of water to bathe. I did not go to the laundromat, but these folks were my parents and it was part of the contract.

I had experienced personal freedom to make my own decisions, but I was back under the roof of a family again. I minded my Ps and Qs and even got my haircut when my grandmother was coming to stay (by request of my mother). I didn’t bring girls up to my room, but found some other place to share spit. I could come and go as I pleased, so home had become a crash pad, with restrictions.

The next empty nesting event would be my marriage and I’d not come back.

MISTY MOCKINGBIRD (cml &/jmd, 1970)

 

Mockingbird, only able to copy                                                                

Mockingbird, never able to top another song

Doomed to sing it slightly wrong

 

And, you know, that's nothing new

It's all been done before

And, you think, then even you

are merely a copy, of a

another Mockingbird

Have you heard him sing it?

The sparrow sings it better

And the sparrow sang it first

Do your worse

And, that's even been done

 

Mockingbird, never able to create

You're lacking bird, only able to ape, someone else

You'll never do a thing for yourself

 

 

Eclipse

The end of the world was soon approaching and we could see it live. The sun was to be covered by the moon and Virginia Beach was the perfect location to view the removal of light.

Richmond became the assembly base. As usual, Joel became the captain of the venture. Dispersing LSD tabloids to the energetic crew. Annie and Jerry, Dula and her photographer boyfriend from Tech, Art, Carolyn, Linda, Charlie and Bill Walters, and the ever-present Griffin. We piled into a caravan of dusty cars and headed South. I sat in the back seat of an old diesel Mercedes Benz with cracking leather seats. The brown smoking vehicle was the familiar red rambler and was followed by a yellow Volkswagen. The traffic was heavy.

We arrived at the ocean side and pulled to the side of the road. Dula’s boyfriend complained about the entire trip. We almost voided the mission, due to the unavailability of diesel fuel for his vehicle. I would trade places going back.

The entourage stepped into the sand and separated the tourist and their children. We walked to the waterside and splashed with our hands. We kicked the sand and laughed. The tourists thinned down the beach. A few stayed and enjoyed our merriment. We stared at the bright sun and saw no change. We had to make this happen.

We started building a monument to the sun. We patted the sand into a circle. One member found a small shovel. One member poured on water. This building project became immensely important. We had to finish before the moon came. Moments or minutes or hours passed. We stood and looked at our artistic endeavors.

Just then, the birds flew inland. The air became quiet. It had begun. The sand rippled with shadows. A chill filled the air. We all stood huddled together as photos were taken. The darkness fell. It was night. It was cold.

We had to do something. We started to dance around our sand sculpture and cry, “Bring back the sun, bring back the sun”. We danced and kicked the sand and cried “Bring back the sun, bring back the sun”. Some of the tourist jumped up and down and joined the ritual chant.

The ripples appeared again across the stand. The blackness was fading. We looked up and the warmth was again gracing our planet. We had done it. We brought back the sun. We danced around the hill of sand and hugged each other. We laughed and raised our arms to the sky filled with light and birds. We fell to our knees and thanked all Gods and spirits as the tourist prayed from the Bible.

After a few moments, the beach looked like it had never change. Small children ran in brightly colored bathing suits. Tan women strolled along the water edge with white stuff on their noses.

I climbed into the red rambler next to Linda. The caravan reformed and headed North. We had completed our assignment. We were accomplished sun savers. We were done here.

My shoes were full of sand when I got home.

 

Road Trip

Life is brief. Time could not be counted.

One Friday, a fellow musician member and long-lost friend called. “Would you like to go to Mexico?” he said. That is like on the other side of the world, I thought. “Sure,” I said.

I packed my sack with pipes, tobacco, drawing paper, pens, and socks. I was ready to travel. I met him at the curb and we were off.

We drove all afternoon and into the night. We stopped at a gas station and I bought a full tank and some cokes. Off on the road again. No worries. No cares. No idea where we were going or why. I start losing memory after that.

As the dawn broke, we pulled over to the side of the road. A few more hits from a joint that had been the last in a long line and we were asleep.

We traveled by the cool night air. We slept during the day under whatever shade we could find. We seldom spoke.

On day three, we reached the border. A brief wave and we were in Mexico. We had no money or food. Just dusty clothes and red eyes.

Sonny seemed to know where he was going. We drove down a dusty road and pulled up to a clay building with a thatched roof. We were running out of gas and there were no service stations in sight. No sidewalks. Only Mexicans staring at the dirt covered car choking the sky with dust. Sonny stepped out of the car and entered the blanket covered doorway. I didn’t know whether to follow him, or get out of the car, or stay put. Everyone around the car moved slowly in the sun. They went back to doing what they were doing before we arrived, which was nothing. I reached into the ashtray and grabbed the butt of the last joint. Hey, I was in another country. I lit a match and sucked on the remaining weed. A few glances were thrown my way, but heads were lowered when Sonny reappeared to my relief. His dusty boots kicked the rocks in the road as he walked back to the car. Had it been minutes or hours that he was in the building?

After slamming the door, Sonny turned the key and started the car. He threw the handle in reverse and spun the gravel as we did a 180 and sped off toward the border. We did not speak.

Past the border guards, we hit solid pavement and turned East. The sun was setting. We drove on into the night. I offered to drive, but was waved off. Still no comment from the driver.

Several miles later, we suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. No traffic, no lights, only moonlit desert. Sonny turned to me as he lit the ceiling of the car. He smiled. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out several bags of white powder. “We scored”, he said. I did not understand.

We slept at the side of the road that night. We stretched out on the desert and climbed back into our chariot. As we were about to continue our journey, a state trooper rode up and stopped. He did not get out of his car. He looked over at the dusty car on the side of the road and asked if we needed any assistance. We grinned the stupid grin and stated all was well. The trooper leaned back into his seat, adjusted his black sunglasses, and drove down the road. After several minutes of catching our breath, I realized what Sonny had in his pocket. Several hundred dollars had transpired in Mexico. I was just a ride along.

I missed several classes, days at work, and a lot of sleep. The soaking bath felt good. I only got an experience out of the trip.

Sonny called me one more time. “Want to go to Florida?”. After the trip in the desert, what do I do? “Sure,” I said.

The next morning, Sonny and his dusty GTO arrived at the doorstep. I climbed over the door of the convertible and we spun around Robert E. Lee to head downtown and across the river to the South. As always, Sonny was prepared. He knew where he was going. He knew what he wanted. This trip included the radio.

We would change channels in every state. Mostly country stations or religion. Weekend radio.

I knew what this trip was about. He was going for drugs. I didn’t know where he got the money from. I didn’t know where he put the money. I was a “mule”, a sidekick to a crime in the states. It excites me.

We smoked joints in South Carolina, passed a police funeral in Alabama with stares coming from the assembled crowd, and waved to girls on the beach in Florida. We continued to travel South. We crossed bridges that became further and further from land. Water surrounded the car. We continued to travel South. Sonny seemed possessed.

The scenery was changing. The hotels and white sandy beaches were replaced by palm tree lined rough roads, grass huts, dark bodies, and dirt. More dirt.

Again, Sonny seemed to know where to go. This time I would not be left out.

We turned off the highway onto a dusty road. A grove of trees hid the site from the road. We passed a large white stone house on a hill and drove further into the grove of trees. The car stirred up the dust. No one was in sight. No sounds other than the crunch of the gravel as we slowed. The trees shadowed the sun. I wiped the dirt from my glasses to see a small building. Two men stood next to the door. Their attention was focused on us. We stopped the car. We paused. The dust caught up to us and encased the GTO. This was it.

Sonny opened the door, then looked at me. With a nod, I also opened the door and stepped out of the car. In unison, we slammed the doors and walked to the front of the hood. Sonny took the first step forward and I followed. We confidently walked past the doorway without a look at the door guards. A dimly lit room held a table holding papers and dirty glasses and two dark looking characters in suits. They intimately looked at us as we entered. Sonny walked confidently up to the table, leaned over and spoke some quiet Spanish message. I didn’t know he knew another language. The two suit men stood up and left their dusty table. They lead Sonny into another room while motioning to stay put with a cold stare. I stood motionless in an empty room. Footsteps went down a hallway. Then there was silence. Minutes passed. Hour’s pass. I shifted from one leg to another but did not walk further. I waited. And waited. I looked behind me at the doorway and noticed the sun was going down. I began to worry. Where was I? What was I doing here?

Suddenly the three returned to the dimly lit room with smiles. Sonny shook the hands of the two men while fumbling with some paper. The two seated themselves and stared straight ahead. Sonny grabbed my arm and turned me around. “Keep smiling”, he said. My face hurt with a grin.

We passed the men at the door and slowly climbed into the car. With a patient motion, we started the car, nodded to the men at the door, turned around on the dusty road, and quietly left the grove of trees. Face forward. We proceeded to the highway and our pace quickened. A quick lunge onto the pavement and the GTO took another gear. Our speed accelerated. I turned to the driver, but he was focused on getting this vehicle back to where we came from. Did we do something wrong? Are they going to follow us? Nothing was said.

We crossed several bridges before we slowed to a normal speed. Our faces were wind and sun burnt. Our clothes were dusty and dingy. The car rolled down the black highway as Sonny turned to me and smiled. We had done a good thing.

On the last bridge back to the United States of America, he reached under the seat and pulled out a large pistol in a holster. He briefly looked at the weapon and then threw it to his left over the bridge. We never heard the splash.

Once in Florida, we pulled into a hotel parking lot. We climbed out of the car and dusted ourselves off. Hotel residents and tourists milled around as we walked to the pool side. We stopped and viewed the ocean across the cement pond. At Sonny’s lead, we walked to a local cabana. The Cuban looking fellow in a white starched shirt and black bow tie smiled as we approached. Sonny again spoke Spanish. The man behind the bar first looked shocked, then smiled. He understood what was being said. He bent down and delivered two beers dripping with melting ice. Sonny and the bartender smiled. No money was exchanged. We gathered the beers and walked back to the car.

Driving back North, Sonny started emptying his leather jacket. Though it was summer and hot, I never questioned why Sonny was wearing a leather jacket over his white T-shirt.

A small canvas bag was pulled from the backseat as we motored along. The bag was placed between the bucket sets as darkness fell. With a flip of a latch, the lid was opened. Dollars and dollars filled the bag. This had been sitting in the back seat all through our journey.

Sonny proceeded to place a small plastic bag of white powder into the canvas bag. One, two, three, four, ... I lost count. These bags were smaller than other powder drugs I had experienced.

We drove through the night. We drove into the Carolinas. We stopped at Nags Head, had a meal, and watched the ocean. Little conversation. Just companionship. We sat in the sand. We watched the sun go down. We shared another joint. We were not afraid.

Sonny delivered me to my doorstep, weary and tired. I last saw him drive down Monument Ave. with Gen. Lee in the background, giving me the “bird”. I found two pouches of the mystery powder in my pocket.

Thank you, Sonny, for introducing me to heroin. Thank you, Sonny, for not giving me more. I liked the taste and the results. I would die for this.

The last I heard Sonny was headed for New York. Good luck Sonny.

 

Richmond Public Library

I also changed my job, following Art to the Richmond Public Library as a page. A page was the equal to an indentured servant to the librarians. They had the power. They made the rules. A bunch of old, unhappy women taking their frustrations out on teenagers.

A page’s duties were to put books back on shelves (in the proper place)

Art was a page, David Mooney became a page, Bill Britton became a page. Even Clark Bustard, who went on to be A.B. Thames, rock reviewer for the Richmond Times-Dispatch was a library page.

I moved to the basement to assist Mrs. Perkins prepare posters and flyers. Mrs. P. became my mentor.

Mrs. P. was a conservative, married to a preacher. Religion was her life. She never knew there was a world outside. We had a connection. Wilmington. She was from the city that raised my parents.

I presented the world to her. We would discuss current events, emotions, and caring. Across a wide thick wooden table, I would bear my soul to this woman. She was understanding. She was naive. She learned as much from me as I learned from her. A smock draped, gray haired dirty glasses, this small framed woman became the deciding vote in my life. Would I get married? Would I change jobs? Would I move out of my comfort zone and get an apartment?

Mrs. P. had a place at the river. A nice little cozy shack under the shade of tall trees. She offered a free weekend to me and Art. She drove us there and left us for an adventure. Don’t think we drank or smoked, but talked about stuff. Took a sail on a sunfish to teach Art how to come about. No telephone. No television. No guitar. No radio.

After two days, we straightened up, loaded our backpacks and headed out for the highway. Long trudge past barking dogs and rural folk wondering who these wandering vagabonds were? We got to the highway and had to wait to wave down a passing motor vehicle to carry us home.

While at the library, I found the stacks. Here were books that were not circulated. The reasons were many. Some of the tight haired conservative librarians thought the words were too risqué.  Some thought the pictures were not ready for the public. If someone went through the Dewey decimal system and requested one of the books in hiding, a library page was sent into the darkness to retrieve it.

Every week, the librarians would gather in the basement to decide what books to purchase for the public. They would pass around the reviews and properly comment on each addition.

Every week, a large bin would be rolled into the basement. The “unfavorable” books would be dumped into the bin. The bin was shipped to the basement where the books were disposed of. The books were burned to ashes.

I rescued several rock and roll books from their demise. I rescued several oriental sexual technique books from the dusty stacks. I wondered who ordered them. Who looked at the explicit drawings and placed in a “Not for the public” zone?

The library gave me order. The library gave me a realization. The library gave me choices.

PRIVATE SALT’S HOMELY FARTS RUBBER BAND (1976)

 

It’s was 20 minutes ago today

Pvt. Salt taught himself to play

He’s been constantly out-of-style

23 but he acts like a child

so unfortun-ately for you

He’ll act until you’ll be in tears

Pvt. Salts’ Homely Farts Rubber Band

 

We’re Pvt. Salt’s Homely Farts Rubber Band

We know you will dislike our show

We’re Pvt. Salt’s Homely Farts Rubber Band

Please leave when you feel it’s time to go

Pvt Salt’s Homely, Pvt. Salt’s Homely, Pvt. Salt’s Homely Farts Rubber Band

 

It’s terrible to be here, you sure do make us sick

You’re such a crummy audience

We wish you would go home really quick we wish you would go home

 

I don’t really want to start the show

But it’s only right that you know

This guy’s gonna try to sing a song

With some luck it won’t last too long

So here he is to sing for you

The one and only.... "Silly Peels” ...

and Pvt. Salt’s Homely Farts Rubber Band

 

WHEN I SING IT AGAIN...

 

What would you do if I sang out-of-tune

Would you back up and throw things at me?

Try and be patient and I’ll sing it again

But I’ll probably be out-of-key

 

I want to cry when I sing it again

I want to die when I sing it again

I’m not going to try and sing it again...

 

What do you do when your dog is away?

Do you sneak in and chew on his bone?

does he come back at the end of the day

Get so mad that he chases you home?

 

So, you see anybody, not from without or within

Can you sing for anybody, yes, I can so here I go again

 

Would you believe that I stayed out-all-night

Yes, I’m certain you do it all the time

What do you see when you turn out-the-light

I can’t tell you, cause I’m blind

 

 

 

Concerts

I would be captured to attend concerts. Stolen away in a Red Rambler to attend these concerts. “The Rolling Stones” in Hampton, “Lighthouse”, a big horns band with the drummer from Moby Grape, in Charlottesville, “Pink Floyd” in Hampton, “Steppenwolf” in Hampton, “Herman Hermits” at Parker Field, “Supertramp” at the Richmond coliseum, “King Crimson” in Washington, and the “Grateful Dead” and “Joni Mitchell” in Williamsburg.

“Frank Zappa” performed at Virginia Beach and at the Richmond’s Mosque. Two separate bands. Two separate sounds.

I took a bus down to Virginia Beach to watch Zappa and the then Mothers of Invention play at the Alan Shepard Dome. This was the same venue I’d seen the Rolling Stones.

“The McCoys” and “The Standells” and “the Syndicate of Sound” played with the Stones at Virginia Beach. The ‘Outlaws’ fronted the Stones in Hampton.

Art had an apartment a block from the beach. He took me to his Quaker school teaching academy and we discussed how to layout and crop photos for a program from my experience designing our high school yearbook. We also played putt-putt. I don’t think I was very good (though I’m a good putter) but it was his course. He did not have a lady living there.

“Persuasions” fronted Zappa. I sat on the front row (unlike when Joe and I saw the Rolling Stones and sat in the last row to avoid the screaming girls that did not happen) and watched Zappa and his band enjoy the Persuasions before their show. Impressive. Four black guys came out and looked around the stage. They said their band had not appeared so they cut into street corner acapella songs. This was their first live appearance. This was the first-time black entertainers played the Dome. The audience loved it.

Then the ‘comedy’ Mother’s band started. Well-rehearsed tight band. During a drum skin break, Zappa improvised with Flo and Eddie building a piece that was never recorded. On the spot, he conducted the other musicians to squeak and jump while roadies repaired the drum kit. Filled with strange organ sounds, the improve song continued, then lift back up with squeals and coughs. Unnoticed by the audience, the drum was fixed and the regular music continued. Impressive.

Steppenwolf was too far away. The sound echoed in the large arena. Nothing remediable. Later I would like “The Pusher” blues-based song

The Pink Floyd was a different story. A stage full of large black boxes holding speakers. Speakers overhead. Speakers against the walls. Speakers’ unseen. A large round screen filled the background. I noticed the sound crew seated on the floor twenty yards front center from the stage. Tape recorders, mixing boards, knobs, and buttons, lights. I had never seen so much sound equipment or people working it. This was going to be special. The four members of the band appeared on the stage and began to play “Dark Side of the Moon”. Gray smoke began to creep from behind the round screen. The smoke continued to cover the stage. The smoke continued to pour over the stage into the audience. The smoke continued to push forward. The smoke covered the first level like a fog. No one was in sight. What a great effect. Note-for-note with all the special effects and surround sound. The best sound in a large cement shell.

 Smaller concerts were held by “Elizabeth Cotton”, “Babe Stovall”, “Roger McGuinn”, “John Hiatt”, “Leo Kottke” and “Paul Winter”. The Paul Winter Consort played acoustic music with odd instruments. Oboe, saxophone, cello, guitar, drums. Lots of drums. One piece had every member playing percussion. A full sound. The sound that was to become earth music. 

At the Mosque, “Peter, Paul and Mary”, “The Kingston Trio”, Vaughn Meador “First Family”, the weekly Kiwanis’s “Travelogue”, “The Dave Clarke Five”, “The Who” and “The Jimi Hendrix Experience” performed.

Dave Clarke started with glo lights on their matching shirts. No lights on the stage, only the fluorescent Tom Jones puffy sleeved shirts glowing in the dark bouncing to the music. Once the stage was lit, the band performed their hits, smiling and swaying to the note-by-note renditions. No variation. No emotion.

The Who played two sets in Richmond. We decided to see the second set figuring the band had to warm up in the first set. We figured wrong. When we entered the theater, the curtains, the floor, the stage, the amps were all trashed. There were gaping holes in the speakers on both sides of the stage. The velvet curtains were torn and hung limply. Three sets of drums and amplifiers were humming with huge chunks out of them. Pieces of guitar and drum sticks cluttered the stage. What had happened? What did we miss? I heard later Betsy and friends had gotten backstage passes to be groupies.

The second show was anticlimactic with Mr. Townsend tossing his Rickenbacker in the air and stepping over it while Mr. Moon half hardly pushed over his drums. Mr. Daltrey swirled in a long-lace doily and Mr. Entwistle stood his ground motionless, thumping out a bottom to the power chords.

Still, the music was hypnotic, more than the “Troggs” with their big hit of “Wild Thing”. They were in the right place with the right sound, except for the loss of guitar amp destroyed by the Who that went out during the song. Scrambling stage hand pounding on the tubes could not save the song.

Jimi Hendrix was an unknown black guitar player, but it was a rock show in Richmond. “Erie Apparent” was the opening band who were friends of the bass player and not very good. “Soft Machine”, the second band, took my attention. Three unknown guys came out, played the drums, keyboard, and bass to one consistent song with weird effects. Then they stopped, got up and walked off the stage to the stunned minds of the audience. New Wave Music.

Jimi came on stage and played a new version of “Hey Joe”.  He played loud and then turned up the Marshall amps. The drummer and bass player did not move except to answer the cry from the audience if they were gay.

I looked at my date and realized Jimi had captured her attention. Jimi had captured all the white girls in the audience. Here was a black man, strutting in rhythm with the loud rock music. He swayed, he dipped, he licked his guitar. I could feel the heat rising in the audience. Richmond was not prepared for this. My date was not prepared for this. Her knuckles turned white as she grasped the armrest. She squirmed in her seat. If she had been invited to join him on stage, she would have gone. Her life changed that night. There was a total sexual connection. Thank you, Jimi, for the rest of the evening.

The first daytime, outdoor concert was by the Herman Hermits. A wooden stage was set at the pitcher’s mound with extension cords running from the dugout. The bleachers held mostly young girls. The sun beat down on all. Two local bands fronted the show. “The Barracudas” dressed in black leather and covered Beatle songs. They left their equipment set up for Herman’s band. A gate at the side of the field opened up and a large car drove out. Driving across the grass, it stopped and delivered the neatly dressed suited Hermits, guitars in hand. They immediately plugged in and started playing a fast-paced list of British hits. Little girls screamed and jumped up and down. Feedback covered some of the cockney lyrics. The smiling lads bowed, unplugged their equipment, and ran back to the waiting car which had been turned around and slowly drove back to the gate with a trail of little girls in fluffy dresses waving programs. Hermits did not stay for an encore. Hermits did not thank the audience. Hermits left Richmond without a party. Hermits were not impressive.

Waited for the New York Rock and Roll Ensemble in Williamsburg. After spending several hours preparing for the music, the tribe went to the hall to listen to live rock and roll. A guitarist had the nerve to play acoustic music before the concert. His rendition of James Taylor’s “Carolina” held the interest of the crowd. The wait was on. And on.... And on.

Finally, four stoned out hairy musicians met the stage. They proceeded to play hard rock. The crowd met the rhythm. As the four musicians became familiar with the stage, they relaxed and started to perform. They collected violins, cellos, bassoons, and timpani. A blend of rock and classical began to happen. The crowd roared. They played songs that would endear our group later. Songs of necrophilia. Songs on the song track of the movie “Zacharia”.

Later there would be Chuck Berry (and his backup band from Washington), B.B. King, P.D.Q. Bach, ‘Godspell’, ‘Carousal’, ‘Oklahoma’, Hal Holbrook transforming into Samuel Clemens (aka Mark Twain), Joni Mitchell & Tom Scott, Emmylou Harris, Dweezil Zappa and Randy Newman.    

 

Outdoor concerts

I was called by a classmate who was looking for money. Mr. Harris (the Bear) wanted to buy some tickets to a concert out west. The rent was due, but the apartment was about to run its course. He offered dope and a road trip. I agreed to join in. Life is too short to worry.

The banged up red Chevy squealed around the corner and slid in front of my apartment. Three hairy faces beamed at me as I sat on the cool marble steps. Normally Mr. Harris would drive a motorcycle. Since he broke his leg in a snow storm accident on a railroad track, he decided four wheels were safer than two. Night was falling and we were on the road. No directions, just some smelly guys stuffed into a rickety red rocket going to parts unknown. We would stop at the side of the road and pee. We would climb over the seats to swap places. We would beg for food at Burger World. We held a dopey smile. We would pass the joint and light another.

Night became day and we switched drivers. Small towns and American flags waved us on. The quest became the point of the mission. Down highways and turns to back roads. Past gray suit police that stared as we passed.

Suddenly on a dirt road, the motion stopped. The car in front of us had stopped. The car in front of it had stopped. The car in front of that one had stopped. As far as we could see, the drive was over. Everyone was climbing out of their cars and walking down the road. We figured it was the thing to do. We rolled up the windows and locked the doors. We packed our bags and followed the crowd.

I still didn’t know where we were going or what we were about to see. I would be captured for concerts.

There was music in the air. A helicopter. Military helicopters like those in Vietnam. Scary. As we walked down the rutted road, more and more people formed. They seemed to be coming from the sides of the road or from the barbed wire fences. The kids kicked up the dust and started to run. We followed.

A large fence had been erected beside the road. There was a gaping hole everyone from the road was walking through. We followed.

A hillside revealed a ravine with a huge wooden stage covered with a sandy sail waving in the breeze. The ravine was full of kids. Hundreds. Thousands. As far as the eye could see, bodies. Faces. Hair. Smiles. Dope. Lots of dope.

My companions stirred around for a few minutes, assessed the area and proceeded toward a group of girls. Everyone was giggling. The music blared in the background. We were focused on the girls.

I left the crew to flirt while I wandered the grass hillside. Balloons, face painting, dancing, weaving, smiles. I had no fears. I was in a happy place. The music blared in the background.

Night began to fall. I rejoined my companions and looked for a place to relax. Clouds were rolling in. The sky grew dark. There was an unpleasant feeling among the masses assembled on the hillsides. More dope. Pass to a friend and they will pass you something else.

The music blared in the background.

I remember touching a silken bodice softly and slowly creasing the hardened nipple underneath. Then the rains came.

Since we were the last to come in, we ran to the first available shelter. It was a first aid tent. Cots were laid out like a M.A.S.H. unit. White coated men walked by intent with their duties. Long haired men in T-shirts wore armbands with red crosses. Hippie girls kneeled over exhausted music soldiers. Then the crack of thunder and the tent shook. Was this the best place to be? We moved out of the way as people hustled here and there. White towels. Clean trays.

Then I noticed the military was there. Day glow turned to Army green. The black boots were covered in mud.

The music had stopped. Was this over? The rain sagged the roof of the tents and we all helped lifting the roof and pouring the water off.

We wandered outside in the pouring rain. It was dark. The ground was slick. Would we go back? Would we stay?

We splashed over to a closed concession stand and propped up the awning. We were miserable but we were out of the pouring rain. Others joined us and held the weight of the pounding rain. The crowd cheered, but the cold rain soaked us all. Some long sticks were found and the awning was held in place. Exhaustion set in and we sat down in the wet and slept.

As the warmth of a new day, and the kick of a burly man in an apron awoke us, we stood up to great another day. Where were we? What was happening? The music blared in the background.

Two of our party decided to travel into the crowd in search of whatever you search for in young wet smelly kids. The music blared in the background. We had not eaten in two days. We had not taken a bath since time began. The music blared in the background.

The two of us walked to other stands smelling the cooking burgers and hot dogs. We reached into our pockets and gave enough for a single paper wrapped dry bun soaked in yellow mustard and a thin overcooked burger. We looked for water. We thought about wringing out soaked T-shirts.

As the sun rose and the heat dried out tangled hair, we looked back for our comrades. The sea of faces melted into a swirling mass of colors and shapes. The music blared in the background.

We walked and watched. We sat on a cooler and listened to the announcements. We watch the crowd move in a seamless mass churning in motion. The music blared in the background.

We stood on the fringe of the crowd and watched and listened. The helicopters broke the rhythm. We felt trapped in a bad scene.

A man in a red headband and black vest walked up to us, smiled and held out his hand. Two small brown blobs. We looked at him with puzzled expressions. He smiled, grabbed my hand and transferred the melting brown units. He turned and walked down the hill. He stopped, turned back, gave a smile and the peace sign, and proceeded to merge into the sea of bodies. We looked at the blobs. My friend scooped one up and placed it into his mouth. He bends his head back and swallows. His eyes opened and he laughed. I licked the remaining blob off my hand. It was chalky and muddy tasting.

Just then, one of the two lost companions reappeared out of thin air. He was covered in mud. He could not stop laughing. Where was the other companion? He continued to laugh. The music blared in the background.

I noticed my friends’ lips were cracked and dry. The other companion had sun blisters on his neck and arms. A tent in the distance displayed the red cross. Helicopters flew back and forth, non-stop. The music blared in the background.

We led each other toward the tent. We needed liquid. We needed help. By the time we reached the tent our footsteps were slushy stomps. Cries for assistance and supplies were heard as the white jackets scurried inside the dark musty green tent. Once inside, one person was grabbed and a flash light flashed into his eyes. He turned away and a glass thermometer was stuck in his mouth. My friend stumbled in another direction. I needed to stay close to him. He had the car keys and the only way out of this event. The music blared in the background.

I stared into the fading image of my friend as I heard a voice mumbling something to me. I felt my sleeve raised and felt a sharp prick. I looked at my arm in horror as a white coat had stuck me with a needle. She looked up while wiping my arm with cotton. She said I would be better now. I grabbed my bag and rushed into the dark tent after my friend. The music blared in the background.

The three of us met at the far side of the tent. This was not the place for us. We climbed back into the heat and the bright light. The music blared in the background.

Our collected energy level was dropping. We wandered around. We stood under a tent. We sat on cardboard boxes. We were exhausted and lost. As we sat, we listened to conversations. That boy was happy. That girl wanted to leave. That guy told the pretty girl how she sparkled. She stared at him in awe. People would pass by and drop food scraps. We started to look at the scrapes. Then we turned our attention to the trash cans. We stood and walked over to a pile of clear plastic bags. Inside we saw pictures, clothing and half eaten sandwiches. Bags of chips. Pills and socks.

Just then a uniformed policeman walked up. We turned back to the crowd. We walked back across the ridge of the valley of music. The music blared in the background.

We stood beside a wooden shelf. Inside some happy fuzzy haired people smiled and handed out plates to people walking by. We walked around the front of the stand and saw bright faces. Smiling faces. “You want something to eat?” they asked. All three of us were handed plates with rice and beans. No utensils. No napkins. It didn’t matter. We shuffled to the side, sat down and fingered the food off the paper plates and into our mouths. Our teeth fell hard on the dry concoction. We scraped the final morsel with our dirty fingers. We dropped the empty plates into an overflowing trash can. The fuzzy faces that saved us smiled and waved the peace sign as we departed.

Our throats were dry and getting drier. We had not had liquid for hours. One of the companions stopped a couple carrying a large bottle of red wine. The girl was giggling and wobbling on her sandals. The man had a black felt wide brimmed hat. One side was folded up and a peacock feature was hanging out the back. My companion asked if he could have a swallow of wine. The couple smiled, and with another word said, handed the glass jug to us and walked off singing. The music blared in the background.

We sat down and passed the jug around. First gulps. Then short swallows. The taste was bitter. The liquid was warm, but it was wet. The music blared in the background.

Darkness was falling. We stood and walked. Should we stay or should we go? We walked toward where we thought the road was and found another fence and cows. We turned and walked to where we thought the road was and found more kids walking toward us. We were lost.

The music blared in the background. The night was busy with Helicopters and lights. The three of us culled up and fell asleep in the moist grass. At some point of the evening, I awoke. I looked up at the dark sky. The music blared in the background. I saw a shooting star. I looked over to find my two companions had not left me. I was relieved. Tall shadows walked around us. There was constant motion. The music blared in the background. I stood up and looked for a place to pee. I walked in one direction, then decided there were too many people there. I turned around and walked to another location. Some bushes seemed like a good spot. I even looked around the other side to make sure someone else was not sleeping there. I unzipped and relieved myself there. It seemed like hours. It was total relaxation. I closed my eyes and swayed. I shook myself and zipped up. I turned to find my location. I was lost. Which way was up?

Dark shadows moved back and forth against the early dawn light. I walked one direction, but it did not feel right. I turned to find a landmark. There were none. The music blared in the background.

The sun was rising. I bumped into a sleeping bag. A moan and a shuffle. A long zipper sound and the head of a white face appeared from the dark bag. She winked and smiled. “Hey” she said. “Can I help you?”  I stopped and stared at this alabaster goddess. The sleeping bag fell open to reveal two firm breasts with erect red nipples wrapped in two strains of small beads. The air was filled with crickets. The music blared in the background. A male voice mumbled and stirred next to this shadowy sight. I smiled and walked off. The music blared in the background.

The outline of the tents on the hillside silhouettes the dawn sky. I wandered toward the shapes. I slipped and fell in the dew grass. I stood up and fell again. I reached out and felt my canvas sack. I heard familiar voices. I had found my way home. The music blared in the background.

As the sun arose, we all decided we had enough. The lost companion would have to find his own way home. We gathered our meager belongings and followed the departing crowd. Pass the crushed fence. Down the line of parked cars. On and on we walked. Had we missed the car? We're that far away. Cars began to pass up down the road heading South. We kept walking. Kids were sitting on hoods. Farmers were lined up at wooden fences next to the road, watching the progression.

There it was. The dirty red Chevy. Our chariot out of this mud hole. The music blared in the background.

The first turn of the key did not ignite the vehicle. The second created a cough. The third was pumped by a floor pedal. The three of us held our breath. We were out of money. We were miles away from home. We were being watched by short hair overalls with shotguns and pitchforks. The fourth try awoke the metal beast. We were saved.

We rocked the Chevy back and forth until enough of the hood passed the car in front. The narrow road did not leave much room for 180 turns. A group of kids joined us as we jumped out of the car and pushed the car around. Strength in numbers. We climbed back inside, closed the heavy doors, faced forward and started home. (No seat belts were available) We were almost out of gas.

We rolled down the dusty road, waving to other kids. We were tired, dirty, hungry, and missing one companion. We watched the needle drop on the gas gauge. We moved to the black pavement and headed South. We watched the needle drop. The music blared in the background.

The red Chevy pulled into a filling station. Two pumps. Only regular. A scraggly bearded man stepped into the sun. He lifted his cowboy hat and scratched his closely cropped hair. “You boys coming from that thing up the road?” he asked. While counting the change in our collected pockets, we stood erect and replied, “Yes sir. We need some gas to get home.”

“Go ahead and fill up. It’s on me.” he replied and stepped back into the shadows. We pumped the Chevy until it backed up and spilled onto our shoes. As we replaced the nozzle to the pump, we noticed a peace symbol on the glass. We climbed back in the car with confidence and pride. We waved the V fingered peace sign and drove off.

After we gathered the pace of traffic South, we relaxed. The radio held nothing new. We were tired of hearing music. We rummaged through our bags and sacks for drugs. Several thin water-soaked joints were salvaged and placed on the dashboard to dry. Two white pills were retrieved. Through the bumpy ride and with a pocket knife, the powder was separated into three lines. With wet fingers, the powder was consumed. The traffic was thinning as we traveled South and our speed increased. The drying tubes bounced on the dashboard. We reached for one and started to light a match.

Just then we remembered the gas spill at the service station in upstate New York. We looked at our boots. What was important. We pulled our shoes off and threw them out the windows. Cars behind use slowed down and swerved. We laughed a drugged laugh.

One by one the white papers were lit and passed around the car. Day became night and night became day. We never stopped. We smoked and drove. We headed straight. Next stop Virginia Beach. Oops, we had gone too far.

Before the tunnel we turned the chariot around and turned North. The white dashes in the road slowed to a beat. The beat of the music. The music blared in the background.

As we pulled into the Monument corridor, I rolled out into the hot humid Richmond air. I walked barefoot up the three flights of steps. I fed the cat and crashed.

The red Chevy with two weekend companions pulled off, never to be seen again.

Later, David M. and I looked for a shared apartment. One candidate had mud all over his boots. He smiled. He’d just returned from the Woodstock music concert.

I started to get upset with kids rushing the stage and talking through the concerts. Kids would rush to the front of the stage and take seats not purchased by them. Only if they were told to move by flashlight jacketed staff, did they leave, appearing annoyed.  Here was live entertainment performed by live musicians without overdubs. Listen to the notes played. Study the techniques. Watch the presentation of the message. Dance in the back as instructed by the band upset by people climbing on their speakers in the Grateful Dead concert. Sell your dope somewhere else.

The concert scene was becoming a happening place to see people. A place to be seen. It was not about the music.

I stopped going to concerts.

 

Visit to Griffin

After the “Lighthouse” concert in Charlottesville, the group consisting of Joel, Carolyn, Art, Linda and Julia proceeded to Griffin’s home spot. This was far away in the county. No one knew directions, but we followed the darkness. The groups fell out of the wagon onto the countryside of the Griffins. A pleasant enough family, not realizing the new creatures they were allowing into their homes, were on LSD and could not make up their minds. We were allowed to wander the house. We were allowed to go outside and stare at the stars. The night sky was black with pin lights for stars. No outside city lights. I would be more impressed by this event in an hour.

After a while, the group poured into the family room and took positions for sleeping. Joel and Carolyn disappeared, supposedly to a bedroom. The rest of use caught a spot on the floor. I had gone to the bathroom and upon my return, found a dark room. I remember seeing a couch in the far wall. I stumbled over bodies until I felt the material of the pads. I laid down on the long fabric material and tried to get comfortable. I took off my shoes. I took off my Jean jacket and placed it under my head for a pillow. I placed my pack next to the arm of the sofa. I listened to the others in the room scurry to find a comfortable sleeping place.

The last light was turned off and all darkness fell. I had not witnessed such darkness. Whether I opened my eyes or closed my eyes, it was the same. All black. Total darkness. The perfect depth for a mind tripping. No sound. No sight. No sense of time and existence.

Just then, a warm body was pressed up against mine. Who was it? What was it? I reached over and discovered it was soft. And it was female. But who was it? Linda? Not too big? Julia? Not too small? Carolyn? Not too short? A mystery lady. She had come from the darkness.

Not a word was said. But there was some moaning. I pulled up her T-shirt and found no bra. I unzipped her jeans and felt her moisture. We exchanged fluids on the slender sofa through the darkness. We moaned and groped and wiggled. Totally physical. No other senses. No other awareness.

Before daylight, the warm soft body removed herself from the room. I tried to sleep, but the sun was awakening the room. An entire night had passed and no rest.

As the assembled group pulled themselves together for coffee and a brief breakfast, I looked around in hazy eyes and pondered who the strange woman was. We all poured into the red rambler and said our good-byes.

Just then a strange girl came over to the car, stuck her head through the window, and planted a passionate kiss on me. She stepped back and waved good-bye as we drove down the gravel road. The car was silent. I turned to the others in the backseat. Linda and Julia looked straight ahead. I looked into the front seat and the driver smiled.

“Who was that?”, I asked. The driver turned his head toward me and in a whisper said, “That’s his sister!”.

The rest of the ride home was very quiet.

She’s Coming Back

 

Sunday morning at 1:15 as she steps inside

Silently closing the big front door

Leaving her date that kept asking for more

She goes upstairs to her bedroom clutching her underwear

Counting the money, she’d made that night

Drinking more till she is tight.

 

She – we gave her all of our dough

Is coming – gave her so much of our dough

Back – we gave her dough, but still, she won’t go

She’s coming back, oh no

 

Pappa grunts as his wife struggles into her pantyhose.

Picks up the clothes scattered here and there

Stumbles over trash at the top of the stairs

And falls down and calls to her husband,

“Howard, I did it again….

This time I think that I broke my knee.

What does this happen to me?”

 

 She – we always thought of ourselves

Is Coming – tried just to think of ourselves

Back – we worked real hard just to get her to leave

She’s coming back, oh no

 

Sunday evening at 5 o’clock she is out again

Down at the bar where she deals her trade

Wanting to spend the money she made.

 

She – where did we go that was wrong?

Is Coming – we never tried to go wrong

Back – back with more money than we’ve ever seen

Using her body to commit something naughty and who knows what

She’s coming back, oh no

 

The Farm

Art would disappear every summer to a place called ‘the Farm’. I didn’t notice because I was in summer school or playing in a band or molesting some female species. Then he invited me to venture to this mystery land.

His cousin drove us down the highway, drinking beer and stopping every couple of miles to piss. His cousin didn’t have much of a bladder.

We arrived at this huge log cabin. A giant stone fireplace with a rustic sofa covered in cowhide.

He immediately put us to work baling hay and doing manual ‘farm’ chores. He took us into the woods to see this mystery house. Strange angles and flowing water. He said it was the grandmother’s Frank Lloyd house. Who was I to refuse the claim?

We played a rough house game of football and he ripped my Playboy sweatshirt. I was so mad. That sweatshirt was a symbol of my ‘cool’. We didn’t come to blows but words were spoken.

A second visit was by the woman who owned the farm. I got to see the house along Cary Street that was a refuge for the rich folk. Art said he was introduced to this family by the Boy’s Club connection. Later he would talk about messing about with daughter, Sara, but no details.

This adventure presents a rural ritual of farmers riding horses at full speed collecting various size rings from three stationary posts. A form of jousting. The rings kept getting smaller and the riders using a basic broom stick with a spear on the end would ride full gallop leaning over the side and collect three in a row. Amazing to watch.

The evening brought a dance but felt constants of the states of strangers. It was pretty square dancing with country guitars, fiddles and banjos.

Somehow, I found a guitar and joined in. Suddenly I was accepted.

I got a ring used in the joust and an ashtray celebrating the event. Prized possessions. Gave them to Art years later.

On the way home the car had a flat. With us strong boys standing about, we were hopeless in the effort of changing a tire. The driver, Mrs. Ray, showed us how incompetent we were and somehow found our way home…disgraced.

 

Getting Married

Bill and Peggy had been “shacking up” in an apartment down the street from her high school. She was taking classes. She became pregnant. They were the first to get married.

Peggy was a short friend of Carolyn and Dot. She was quieter and more polite. Maybe she didn’t want to be stomped by these giants.

She had dark skin and short hair. She was so unassuming; she would be lost in the shuffle. She was omnipresent. She would become the earth mother force in Richmond.

Bill was a short wiry opinionated be-specked guy from the R.O.T.C. at high school. He came from a well-to-do far West End family. An only child, he was well mannered. He indulged in reading and listening to classical music. Everything he did became an obsession. He drove with passion. He drank with passion. He read with passion. He mumbled when he talked. Confidence was not his strong point. He would get attention by the details of his actions.

I didn’t attend the bachelor party for Bill. I did attend their wedding.

A massive church with flying buttresses. A group of us gather to wish them off. We were probably drugged. Dot, Carolyn, Joel, Art, and I went into the dark cathedral in blue jeans and rolled up shirts. We saw Bill standing next to a large wooden door. His skin was pale. His suit was dark. We slapped his shoulders knocking him around. His head bobbed.

We walked between the rows of pews. The right side was filled with white haired ladies in gloves and kids kicking their feet. The left side was empty. We stopped midway toward the altar and slid the hard wooden seat. I looked around at the stained glass. I noticed the light streaming in from the ceiling.

A man in robes walked to an altar surrounded by two small boys carrying large candles. The ritual was about to begin. This was the first marriage I had ever witnessed since my brother’s. It would be a doozy.

Bill steps up to the altar and turns to the assembled. He looked weak. He looked wobbly. Peggy looked concerned.

The priest in white robes would start the performance. He spoke in Latin. He threw water. He read out of books. He held the couple's heads.

The assembly would kneel. I had never seen a Baptist, Methodist, or Jew knell, but this assembly had to kneel during the ceremony. Then we all stood up. Then we all sat down. Then we all kneeled again. Then we all were supposed to speak. Then we all sat down. Then we stood up. This was the beginning of “the wave” at baseball games. There was no end to this.

Finally, the assembled crowd were presented, Mr. and Mrs. William Britton.  The new couple stumbled toward the door; Bill being carried by Peggy. Signs of things to come.

The group lined the front door of the church as the awaiting departure car arrived. The newlywed couple appeared in the sunshine and started down the gray marble steps. Instead of rice, the couple were pelted with uncooked popcorn. Tons of it. It must have felt like pellets bulletin their conclusion. Perhaps this was payback for losing the afternoon to this service. The couple’s car spun on the kernels of corn. The sound of hard pellets falling on metal concluded the event. We all laughed and walked off.

My marriage was next.

 

William and Mary

The William and Mary gang was the escape from the Richmond area and school. There in the small tourist town, we could get lost. New people, new places, new experiences.

At first it was one big group. The boys from Joel’s dorm and the three girls from the other side of town. Slowly, pairs were made. Joel and Carolyn were breaking up over and over again. Joel was trying to sway Dula, but she had a long-distance affair with a Va. Tech student who loved photography. They would later get married in a media frenzy of camera, video, and movies. A few years later, she became a lesbian.

Dula was the earth mother. Long dark hair, dark clothing, and a soothing way. Suzanne would talk about any problem. Hold hands during troubles. Hug when needed. She kept the group on course and focused. She never gave out any bad vibes.

Griffin, the invisible butler and gay man servant of the group, would pick up after the drugged-out hippies. He had a special relationship with Joel. No one asked how far that went. Griffin had friends in New York he would speak of, but only occasionally. This Elton John look-alike dwarf was always in the shadows. Never letting his emotion show. A smile on a wisdom face.

Annie and Jerry had been dating before the Richmond crew arrived. They were a couple. They were meant for each other. They would later marry. There were no other choices. They could have been with any other group. They were conservative, middle of the road, white bread kids. They had no values. They just hung around with us.

Julia was a large girl with long blond hair. She had a warm smile, but little depth. She and Linda would join in projects, but she never excelled in any. She was the action of the group. She wore her emotions on her sleeve. Art finally coupled with her for a while. There was nothing permanent there.

I'M GOIN' BE A CHICKEN-FARMER DOWN IN HAITI

(cml, 1979)

 

Well, I’m goin' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti                  

Yes, I’m goin' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti                  

I'm goin' have a chicken farm

Ain’t gonna cause no harm 

I'm goin' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

 

I feed all the people real good down in Haiti

Yes, I feed all the people real good down in Haiti

In 'da City Port-au-Prince

Chicken-in-a-box for 40¢

I feed all 'da people real good down in Haiti

 

I could raise a crop of weed down in Jamaica

Sell my crop, make big money, and forsake ya'

But I'm goin' start a chicken farm

Ain't gonna cause no harm

5 million people eat my chicken down in Haiti

 

Well, de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti            

de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti

Well, de' hurricane done blowed me away

But I come back someday

I'm goin' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

 

I come back to the U.S.A, in da' winta'

 I come back to the U.S.A, in da' winta'

But you know I have my pride

Come, stand by my side

We goin' be chicken farmers down in Haiti

 

I've been dating from afar Linda Rowan. An intelligent lonely girl. Short with a large smile and black curly hair. She was a loner. Her family held a mongoloid brother and her father had died. A photo of her father looked as if he had a Mediterranean background. He had some rusty tools but a nice socket wrench set I took. His long navy coat also fit. Her house was the typical ranch on a navy base. Her mother was short and stocky and full of laughter hiding her deeper problems. She made fun of everything trying to cope.

Linda would lose herself in the books. She constantly read. She constantly studied. She absorbed everything. English, language, government, art, history.... She was never without a book.

Affection did not come easy to her. The group had pulled her in with drugs and drink and companionship. Here was a place where she could be comfortable and relax. She had problems relaxing. Then she got mono.

I had been writing letters to the “Williamsburg gang” with Art. We had sent pictures and stories and revealed them in the replies. The most artistic were from Linda.

She was taking art classes at the W&M. I would drop in on long weekends and was amazed at the neatness of the classes. No paint on the walls. No paint on the floor. No paint on the clothes. I was amazed. This is not an art class?

Linda loved drawing and etching. She learned to scratch images into metal and burn them with acid. She worked the printing press at late hours in the classroom. She took live model classes at a local house. Usually nude women. She did not have any sexual reaction. She had little sexual understanding.

When we would finally become one, it was in her shared apartment, with Julia and Dula. The flea filled three rooms and the kitchenette was filled with books, used furniture, and a cat. The walls were thin, but it was a place to crash. Fortunately, we decided to room together rather than sleep on the sofa.

Once in the bedroom, Linda was a novice. She could not feel it. She did not know how to react. She did not know what to do. She was filled with fear, not desire. Our first encounter created cries of pain. I looked at the blood on my hand and realized she was a virgin. We never discussed it.

Most of the nights were cuddles. Warm and close. Not sexual. This was the late 60’s when anything goes. We were cuddling.

She began to take the pill. When we traveled to the beach together, I slept on the sofa with Johnny staring at me while she stayed in her purple bedroom.

At the Yule Log ceremony, I gave her a large pewter ring. It was an engagement ring. She wore it for a while around her neck, then lost it.

She thought of us as the ‘Owl and the Pussycat’, an 1870 poem by Edward Lear. She painted the wall of her apartment with her vision of the poem. She painted an Owl on a rock and I carried it with me for years, like a worry stone. It is somewhere out in the yard.

 I later went to a small jewelry shop down the street from where I worked and designed a double ring set. I saved and saved. Finally, I presented the ring to her.

 

Yule Log

At the college of William & Mary there is a tradition every Christmas season to burn a log in a giant fireplace. The ritual was for students to line up and throw holly in the fire while wishing for a good new year.

On this occasion, David Mooney accompanied Art and I on our weekend journey to Billsburg fantasy land. Of course, there were drugs involved.

As we left the dorm to join the crowd, I pulled a line of silver tinsel from a Christmas tree and gave it to David. He seemed to be fascinated by the sparkle.

As we followed the line from the cold outside to a giant hall with a massive open fireplace (could have been easy to push someone in for a sacrifice) we paraded in front of the roaring fire and threw our holly branches in, then turned to the right and proceeded back outside into the chill of the winter air.

David threw his tinsel in and it vaporized. Poof. Seemed to be a life changing moment for him.

Later we all had ginger bread cookies and hot apple cider.

UNTITLED II (cml &/jmd, 1970)

 

Take me by the hand Suzanne

Lead me, for you do have wisdom

Heal me, love me, and perform it

As you saw it in fairytale land

 

Lovely Linda, I love you, I do

We've been lonely together

Laughing and crying and playing children’s' games

Knowing there's a woman inside you

 

Darkness has the child of emotion

Julia, by name, from whinst she came

Loving, helping, reliably tempered

Seeking a new world outside

 

Annie was lonely and loving and looking

Frightened child of this world

Now, you're growing and you've found someone to love

Please, don't love yourself in

 

Dedicated: the four ladies of Williamsburg Suzanne Dula, Linda Rowan, Julia Lemon, Annie Coleman

 

 

Surry

On one adventure from tourist town, the red chariot gathered a group of tripsters to visit the construction of a nearby nuclear plant. After taking their congregational communion, they stuffed into the back as Griffin was driving for Joel just wanted to enjoy the trip. A newbie joined us. Her name was Kay. Don’t know what relationship she had with the regulars? I called her ‘Alphabet’. The merry crew were off to get in line for the ferry across the James River. While we were waiting everything seemed pleasant on a sunny day. When the ferry arrived and put down the gangplank, traffic started loading.

Then a problem arises.

The car won’t start. Griffin opened the hood as if staring at the motor would fix it. Still the engine would not turnover.

A school bus full of kids and the others in line rode around us to load on the ferry. Joel was pulled out of his daze as if he had some secret to make the car roll. Otherwise, we would be stranded and never be able to reach our destination. Joel picked up a rock and hit the top of the engine.

Griffin got behind the wheel and the motor started. We all clamored back in and squeezed into the last in line before the ferry plowed across the waves.

Back on dry land, our troupe of merry pranksters wandered down a narrow road pass hunters acting as sentry to the forthcoming power plant. A conducted tour showed videos and switch boards of flashing buttons and two pools of water where the nuclear rods will do what they do. Imagine that psychodelia lightshow experience.

On the ferry ride back, the sun was sinking and we all became gypsies.

A QUICK "TRIP" TO SURRY (cliff?/joe, 1970)

 

It started off with antiques

Things we couldn't have known

Old rotten wagon wheels        

To our young minds being shown         

Autumn things on an autumn day

Not to buy...but to own

 

Watching the road fall back behind

From a carload full of us

Then, waiting for the ferry

Before the kid crammed bus

When Griff and Cliff said the car had quit

And the ferry was there... quite a fuss

 

The pavement was a mosaic

And murals lined the road

Beside the towering energy wires

That lead to the central load

As hunters with death in their hands

Like sentries...along the road

 

We fell out of the wagon

When they let the tailgate down

And in we went to the button machine

That turned our minds around

Odd shaped lights and movie sights

And two hot holes...in the ground

 

We turned to Nordic fishermen

A red sky sun going down

And Suzanne was a gypsy

Beside the water gold brown

And birds in lines and smiles and miles from tourist town

 

The Williamsburg apartment

After the ladies of the Brown Dorm got tired of the curfew restrictions and being scorned for cooking spaghetti in their rooms and bringing into the lobby for a communal dinner burning the rug and spilling sauce on David’s head, they got an apartment. Dula, Julia and Linda split the cost and each had a bedroom. Unfortunately, they also had feral cats and lots of fleas. Linda was deflowered in that apartment.

RIDING IN THE RAIN (cliff?/joe, 1971)

 

Riding in the rain

trying to make things, the same

forever, as they once were

And almost succeeding,

then maybe we did

 

Four brothers on the road

Talking, nonsense to each other

understanding, maybe, a little

of the storm that surrounds us

then, and forever

 

The storm clouds in the sky

and, the tempest, of our lives

forgotten for the moment

of laughter and pretzels

Kids, and our music

 

Long straight barren roads

On islands, with nothing but sand

and seagulls and a lighthouse

 

 

The Last Trip

Getting to the end of college and about to make new ventures into being a ‘grown up’, Joel, Art and I decided to take a weekend trip to Nags Head, North Carolina. David Gant joined us because he had been silk screening ‘Frog Hollow Day Camp’ t-shirts for us and documentary photos at Maymont. Joel swung the old rambler around and hitched up the folding camper his family used for the summer travels. Room for 4-bodies except when at Seashore State Park when Joel and I had to sleep in the back of the rambler.

With no real plans or agenda, Joel was our pilot. I was co-pilot, Art was the navigator and David was the bombardier. It was a bright sunny day. Everything was going smoothly until the camper had a tire blow out. Joel, being the professional, slowed the swerving camper to the side of the road without tipping over. Expertly he changed the tire like a true mechanic while the rest of us watched in amazement.

Soon we were back on the road into our new adventure. I don’t recall any park or camping location. We pulled over the side of the road and proceeded to set up camp.

We hopped across the hot sand and into the waves. Art, not seemingly aware of the ocean, was continually knocked down the constant motion of the ocean. Perhaps his loss of weight due to what some say a relationship with a short blond, he was pummeled by the waves. I would say, “You have to go with the current. You can’t fight Mother Nature.”

Our next adventure was to climb the big sand dune called “Jockey’s Ridge”. Walking in the sand takes much more effort than the usual sidewalk, so we didn’t win any races. Like any mountain, once you get to the top, you have to come down. Running down a hill of sand is faster especially when you fall and roll.

About this time of exhaustion, a storm was moving in and the four of us crammed into the camper for dinner. A stew was prepared (no meat for Art as now he’d become vegan) and simmered on a camp stove. We kept ourselves entertained with jokes and stories and some singing with my inseparable guitar.

There was also wine.

The rain came down.

There was a school bus that pulled in near us. It seemed filled with other people partying. A couple kids from the bus came over and joined in our singing. They were off keyed and obnoxious but we tolerated them.

In the darkness, David wandered off. We had to rush off and grab him before he washed away in the ocean, but he was Baptized in drinking wine.

The next foggy overcast morning we headed back home to the hippy haven in Virginia (Vargina) Ave, Williamsburg. This was the crash pad for all the local hipsters. Basically, a place to party, buy dope and be free. The dormitory was too restrictive for long hairs.

We arrived just before dark. The house was packed. Smoke filled the air with laughter and nonsense. In Joel’s area the bed was on the floor and Indian tapestries filled the walls with a small book case. People intermingled and wandered in and out. A prime location for police bust.

Art and Joel decided to take acid. Joel was as cool as always. Art didn’t do so well. He started having a bad reaction and became the center of attention. How to bring him down?

I didn’t want to be any part of it and went outside and climbed into the backseat of our chariot. If he died, where would we bury the body? If he survived, it would be just another late-night story. David joined me confused by the goings on.

The next morning sensible heads were maintained and our crew headed back to the Capitol of the Confederacy.

LAST TRIP? (cliff?/joe, 1972)

Pilot to copilot     

I can't hear you very well

Still, that is normal      

For those in happy hell

The champagne wasn't God       

Though David was baptized

         And the shower was so cold              

         I nearly lost my eyes

 

Navigator speaking

It seems I've lost the map

But still my name is Arthur

Though I'm no longer fat

I'11 help you fix the stew

But, please, no meat in mine

         I too climbed the mountain

         and smiled through sand and wine

 

I am the bombardier

Although I drop no bombs

I shoot you with a camera

But do not join your songs

I am riding with you

As we drive through the hours

         Although I join your jabber

         Mine does not rhyme with yours

 

Copilot to you all

What did you just say?

Soon, I will be married

A new and different way

One stranger still to me

Then the way that joins us

         I liked the off-keyed kid

         Who joined us from a bus.

 

Four travelers on their last trip

On the beach in the rain and the wind

Apart by distance but not by miles

When will they travel again

         Oh, when will they travel again

         Oh, when will they travel again?

 

 

My first Marriage

Linda and I were married in a small chapel in William & Mary’s Wren Building. My father wanted lots of invitations, but the chapel was too small. My best friends were best men. Her best friend was maid of honor.

The night before the wedding, the group gathered at the Williamsburg Inn I was staying in. We all drank wine, smoked dope, and hugged and sang. As the night fell, the women went back to their apartment for the preparations. Griffin, Jerry, and Joel left leaving Art to be my protector of the night. We stayed up and watched television until 2:00 A.M. We crashed on the twin beds.

The next morning, Art and I got dressed. I had bought a white linen suit for the occasion. A black ruffled shirt with a red velvet bow tie. Shoes? I hadn’t thought about shoes. I had slip loafers. Socks? I had white socks. I had gold socks? Gold it would have to be. We dressed like a gun fighter going to the last face-off.

After Art straightened my jacket, we took off down the Duke of Gloucester Street. One in white, one in black. Dressed to kill. Tourist stepped aside, knowing we were on a mission. I was about to change my life.

Arriving at the chapel, the crowds were gathering, but the ceremony was not ready yet. Rather than walk around the graveyard outside, I proceeded to the balcony to watch and listen to the organist. The student to Williamsburg’s master musician had gotten sick, so the master showed up to cover. The music had been picked out. Air on a G. Beethoven, Bach. I watched the master work the peddles and stops of the old organ. His fingers graced the keys.

Suddenly Art came up the steps and beckoned me. The ceremony was about to begin.

I quickly left the music loft and took a deep breath. Uncle Mac had agreed to perform the ceremony. Joel stood to the left and Art stood to the right. Both held their heads down. I was the first one to be married.

I turned to see pews filled with family. Uncles, brothers, friends, and cousins. Linda and I came down the aisles together. No father to hold her arm. We said our prepared vows (adjusting to God reference by my uncle) and passed the rings. The instant was over before it began. We quickly walked back to the photographers’ flashes. Gold socks? Loafers?

Swept away to a reception, we mingled. Linda took off her shoes and dragged her white wedding gown around the dirty tile. We cut the cake and passed the ritual. We had performed the American dream. We had followed the footsteps of all the parents before us.

My brother and sister-in-law, loaded the newlyweds into their car for the trip back to Richmond. Whatever happened to the hotel room? I was too stoned to ask. The ride back to Richmond was full of champagne bubbly and release of the tension.

We drove to our new apartment on Floyd. Chick and Virginia offered a dinner. Linda and I quickly ran upstairs, changed, and came back down to go to a close by local hotel restaurant. The adrenaline was rushing. Big steak and potato. The perfect follow up to a warm day in Williamsburg.

After dinner and wine, Linda and I, the newlyweds, climbed the steps to our new home. I think I carried her up, but there were a lot of steps. Married. Wow! The bed was on the floor. She went into the bathroom to change into a sheer white lacy negligee. We pulled the sheets up and went to sleep. We did not consummate the marriage for several weeks. It was not memorable.

 

 

Chapter Ten - 2607 Floyd Avenue

Up the long flight of stairs to the living room, bedroom, bath, and kitchen. And the little office. The sofa and two chairs were bought from the previous owner. This was our only furniture.

The bed was placed on the floor. The dresser was from my room, red with chipped paint. A single closet was given to my new wife.

The kitchen consisted of two chairs and a black top table on a chrome stand given to us by my parents. A tube metal trash can.

The bathroom had a tub on feet. The color was pastel blue, but it was painted over with orange ocher (color of the time).

The backdoor looked out over a parking lot. There was a small wooden porch that would be the space for cooking on a hibachi grill.

Mostly, we ate sandwiches and drank tea. Mostly, poor.

The office was cluttered with art books and drawings. Comics were drawn from the familiar. Nothing new. I would close myself in the office trying to create. It never worked.

“Significant Students” were not dirty enough for underground comics. A one-man show at the Gilman library. Drawings and characters of group members. Cut up paper for letters.

The living room was the space where friends would come over. We would smoke dope and eat fondue off a foot locker used as a coffee table. A guitar rested in the corner, ready to be played if Cliff and/or Joe appeared. A 13” blue television sat next to the mirrored fireplace. Sometimes it would be moved into the bedroom for late night movies.

All my friends were having babies. They would bring their babies over with all of their stuff. Bags of diapers, food, toys, blankets. Some would sleep. Some would breast feed. I don’t need to see that. We did not have babies. We did not have stories to compare.

Would walk to work and pick up Art along the way. After he left town, I took the bus or rode my bike.

UGLY GRETA

 

Ugly Greta, garbage collector

Ugly Greta, garbage collector

Ugly Greta, garbage collector

why must you be so noisy?

I pay good cash to tow my trash away

 

Know my head colds getting better

when I catch a whiff of Greta

Clumsily pawing over my garbage can

In a suit all dirty and black

with the trash across her back

Made her look kind a like a big garbage can

 

Ugly Greta, garbage collector

May I just ask so boldly

"Why must you be so noisy taking trash from me?"

 

Threw a shoe and tried to hit her

but she laughed and said, "Hey, Mister,

Would you like your trash poured all over your yard?"

Was amazed as Greta threw it

didn’t think that she would do it

Falling on the lawn, flowers, and bushes too.

 

Ooh, Ugly Greta, garbage collector

I would like to do without you

Whenever it stinks, I always think of you....

 

Camera

During schooling I was taught basic camera usage, but had no camera. When I got to borrow a camera for a project, I took the black and white film and developed it in the school lab. I learned chemistry in the dark room and exposure timing for enlarging contact sheets. I also developed film for friends. Got to see everyone’s girlfriend naked.

Went to the local camera shop and got a professional looking Pentax camera with three lenses. Out of school, I could not use their lab and no one else I knew had a darkroom set up. My apartment’s bathroom was too cramped to make a photo lab, so I took my film to the camera store to develop. Did different shots with different aperture settings, but it became too expense to run test.

Sold it to someone. I had enough other projects in the works.

Later would buy a Polaroid and a VHS video camera. Even got the first digital camera, but didn’t have a computer that had a USB connection. Now every cell phone has a camera built in.

 

 

Richmond Newspapers, Inc.

The newspaper was running full page ads stating that they would hire anyone. Since my job at the Richmond Public Library wasn’t going to cover married expenses, I applied. Nothing to lose.

The newspaper had a strike going on. Pickets were walking around the block of the newspaper. I carried the ad into the employment office on the corner. I filled out the application form and handed back the clip board. I was told to wait. The woman and the clipboard disappeared into an office. A moment later, she beckoned me into the office. A stogy looking heavyset man sat behind a desk looking at the clipboard. Without looking up, he asked me if I was about to graduate. I told him in a few weeks. He stood up and told me to follow him. We walked out the front door and down Grace Street to the newspaper building. Past the pickets, past the guards at the front desk, and to the second floor. We walked into an office with half wall cubicles filled with drawing boards, and cabinets. A secretary desk faced the door. A glassed-in office sat in the middle of the room. 

I waited outside an office while the large employment director and another man looked over the paper on the clipboard. The man behind the desk waved me in. I sat in a chair facing the desk. A few questions about my schooling were asked, then an offer for a job. I was taken off guard. I agreed to accept the job. “When can you start? How about 3:00 today?” I told them I had another job and would have to give them notice, but I could perhaps start in a week.

I left with a Masking Artist job in the Creative Services department of the Richmond Newspapers, Inc. There was never talk about salary.

A week later, I came to work. I was working 10 - 6. I had a little cubicle in the middle of the floor behind the secretary. A drawing table, x-acto knives, a roll of orange amberlite, and a small cabinet on wheels. This would be my home for two years.

Since the artist in the Creative Services department were working double duties in the Production department, I wasn’t sure who worked in my new office.  

The first day, a balding man with a mustache came to me, handed me a photograph, and told me to give it a mask. A mask? Like the Lone Ranger? I had a background in artistic theory techniques, but no prepress techniques. He stopped and showed me how to cut the amberlite, trim off the edge to tape to the photo, cut the amberlite around the picture and peel off the excess.

After several years of cutting mask, I became adept with an x-acto knife instead of a box cutter. I also opaque negatives and drew cartoons.

During my free time, I would work on my cartoons. I was hoping that I could get my cartoons published and become famous. Unfortunately, Bill Nelson, a nationally known and requested cartoonist, worked in the office. I learned a lot watching him and took his job when he left.

Karen, the tall secretary was replaced by a young blonde sweet girl named Doris Ann. Naive and sincere, she learned how to handle the office quickly. Her attitude-maintained customer service, even after she was divorced.

Haward Baar, was assistant art director. A big burley guy with a pipe in his mouth. Raised in Highland Springs, Haward took the artist training school by mail. He was a sign painter before coming to the newspaper. He would do anything, and kept track of the office. He taught me a lot. He helped my career. He believed in me.

Don Jones was the art director. I never saw any of his work that made me respect his talent. A short red hair guy who was quick to please upper management. He was the “yes” man. A funny little man without a sense of staff. He almost made me quit. I was glad to see Don move to Media General.

Maxie Mason was the manager of Creative Services when I was hired. An incompetent manager, he would not address problems. He kept records, attended meetings, and held silly embarrassing drawings for prizes if the sales staff met their quotas. Everyone was talked down to.

Whit Cutchen was the senior artist. A heavy-set quiet smoker with longish hair parted in the middle. A smart dresser. Probably gay, but not confirmed. He would draw with markers, usually art nouveau style. I learned a lot from his illustrations, but he had little basic design skills from RPI. Whit knew Bob Barefoot, a friend of Art’s brother Jimmy. Whit would die in Bob’s car when it got t-boned one night at the ‘Stonewall’ Jackson statue.

Ken Beasley, a North Carolina artist, came into the office shortly after I arrived. He became friends with Whit and every day would have lunch together. Ken was a family man with an overbearing wife and two small children. Flat personality, but detail oriented and constructed the annual report instead of artwork. I joined Whit and Ken’s lunch every day starting at the Woolworth lunch counter then move onto the Sword and Kilt room at Thalhimers. We did nothing but complain about work, though no one was bold enough as Donna to speak out. Ken would borrow my ‘dude’ hat so he could go blackface at a party. I didn’t want it back. I got bored and started eating lunch by myself.

Fran Warren. Bobby Lynch, and Vera Hamilton were the three copywriters. Fran was a red hared, skinny, pointed glasses women who smoked with a cigarette holder. Her laugh could be heard through the office. She appeared very Northern in her approach and attitude. Bobby was just the opposite. Large, black hair, loud, and uncouth. Neither wrote exceptional copy. Mostly a paragraph or two to fill some space. How many ways can you say “Sale”? Vera was young with fresh ideas. A buxom lass with long flowing hair, she connected with me. At the first Christmas office party, where everyone drew a name of someone else to give a gift to, she bought me the first “Yes” album. She was married to a rock drummer.

Rosemary Farmer and Kay Kyser were the fashion artists. Rosemary was a kind country girl. Married to a dull sort of guy, she knew how to trace out of fashion magazines and put clothing on models. Kay had long red hair and kept to herself. She seems to have causes, but the department had no outlets. She would not attend parties.

Kathy Kostek and Emile Cain worked in the promotion department, building flyers and calendars. Kathy looked like Jefferson Airplane’s singer, Grace Slick. Smooth skin, long dark hair, shallow features. Layers of vales. Mysterious. Emile was a leftover of a previous time. He knew the skills of airbrush and painted watercolors. Some still hang in offices. Emile expressed his feelings on everything. He would get drunk and gamble his car away playing craps at advertising outings.

Jane Hudgins was a quiet, thin, black hared, buck toothed country girl transplanted in the big city. She did a little of everything, nothing impressive. She left to work for herself drawing horses.

Donna Pinnix became my nemesis during my stay in Creative Services. She was opinionated, overbearing, and lazy. Because she was a woman, none of the male management wanted to deal with her. She had a giant poster of Robert Redford in her cubicle. She talked on the phone constantly and smoked. She rejected assignments she didn’t want to work on and would stretch out assignments she liked. She’d spend hours in the rest room sleeping off hangovers.

As I moved up the corporate ladder, she complained about female rights. The solution was to give her a title and office too. She complained about wages to the point of threatening a strike. The head of HR and a VP interviewed everyone in the office (except me) and provided state approved job descriptions and salary ranges. That meant I got another raise.

Later, two of the artists discussed forming a ‘guild’ like the newsroom. They both were fired. Employees have wide latitude to fire workers, but there are limits. Virginia is an at-will employment state. Being an at-will employee means that you can be fired for no or any reason (unless the reason is illegal), and you can leave a job for any reason or no reason.

In 1998, Donna and Haward were laid off and the Creative Service department was absorbed into the new Customer Service Center.

Lunch

There was an hour break for lunch. Not knowing anyone in the office or in the building, I would eat lunch at my desk by myself.

At first, I starting bringing lunch from home. Sandwich and milk in a thermos. I’d bring coffee in a thermos. I’d bring soup in a thermos. I even had a guy who working in production and had a hobby of making civil war belt replicas construct a thermos holder I could strap on my belt.

That got boring, so I would go to the corner White Tower and get a burger, fries and a coke. At least got out of the office.

Starting meeting people and going across the street to the Red Door for lunch together. Started out as a vegan hippy menu, but turned into basic lunch cuisine. Got many ‘free’ lunches there from old school mates trying to sell me insurance.

When the weather got nice, a few of us from different departments would walk down to VCU area to get a pizza and beer, play a game of foosball and walk back in an hour.

Two of the guys who worked next to me asked me to join them at lunch. We went to the Woolworths counter upstairs for an unappetizing cheap meal. Then we moved upscale to the Sword and Kilt Room at Thalhimers. Much better food and great popovers, but the price went up too. The atmosphere was better but got tired of hearing the same complaints every day.

Now and then would go down to the 3^rd Street diner for a beer with a burger. This was where the sales staff would go after work. Another spot was the 4^th Street Café next to the Massad House hotel. The food was bad, the service was shoddy and the roaches plentiful.

Across Broad Street there was a hot dog legend named Angelo’s. The waitress would come back, take your order then yell it back to the kitchen. Two hots all the way, fries and a coke. Always busy and hustling. Would take girls there. They moved down to the basement of Thalhimers but it didn’t have the same feel.

Across Grace was the Red Door. Started out as a hippie vegetarian shop but changed to the usual meat and potatoes to feed the newspaper crew. On the corner a guy changed a shoe shop into a Cajun quick lunch shop with great po-boys and Mardi Gras humor.

Of course, Dough Boy between the main newspaper building and the MG business tower always provided warm coffee and cream filled doughnuts.

There was a ‘lunch room’ in the production building. Just tables and vending machines (note: the same company that worked the vending machines at the train station). Someone got the idea of putting in a mini-cafeteria but the menu was limited and most of the time cold, the food preparers just stood around.

The White Tower converted into a pizza place where could order a slice of pizza or get a whole pie. It was run by some Arabs. They had a television on with Al Jazeera could watch while waiting. Would get a slice or two and go back to the ‘new’ lunchroom in the ‘new’ building and have lunch with John Ailor, art director for the news department. Interesting watching their television on 9/11.

Later lunch just became a cup of soup while scrolling the web.

Virginia Press Association

Every year there would be a contest presented by the Virginia Press Association (a statewide group to connect newspapers) to find the ‘best’ advertisements. It basically was a competition between the newspaper with the highest circulation, but was also a way for the small-town newspaper to get a prize. The prize being an 8x10 plastic frame with a form for 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd place in a category.

VPA (as it was called) would have an award dinner every year at a different city, so the newspaper staff could take the weekend off and attend at some far away hotel.

My first experience with this was when everyone in the office left me alone. It wasn’t they were being recognize for their talent, but for a free weekend away with free room and board… and lots of alcohol. I was missing out on the fun.

After I learned that lesson, I started saving tearsheets to enter into this contest. The judging consisted of rows of tables spread out with categories of separated for members of newspapers and VPA to walk by and place poker chips on what they preferred. There was never any description of the evaluation, just another grade.

At the banquet, everyone would gather at tables and after a catered meal, await the announcements of the third, second and first place winners in every category from real estate to automotive to retail within certain circulations. This would go on for hours for the newspaper announced would have to leave the table and walk up to the stage and pick up their plastic award. There were no speeches.

Normally the party after the banquet was the rubbing elbows with your compatriots across the state. VPA would have a meeting room, but our newspaper had a suite with unlimited alcohol.

My first attendance was with a black roommate. Put the black guy with the hippie. After the dinner, he would go outside and play karate on a tree. I was puffing on weed when a group of folks piled into the room. They said they had been kicked out of the bar. We all converged on the RTD hospitality room and finished up the bathtub full of iced beer. Jerry (the black roommate) and I switched to Vodka. That was a bad move. On the way home every bump in the road was painful.

As we all learn with practice, enjoy a hotel room and a free dinner and learn your drinking tolerance level. As I entered more tearsheets, I got more awards only due to the size of the ads and circulation competition. On several conferences I did not have a roommate and could just sit back and enjoy.

At one convention, I pulled a very drunk girl away from some very drunk salesmen and walked her through the hallways to sober her up. At another convention, I saw her again and we danced to Madonna ‘Vogue’ then she announced she was a Christian and on the rag. Yet another convention, I called up a friend who lived in that town and we found an Irish pub (or close to it) so I could take back my boss who wanted to sing Irish songs and ‘Butterbeans’. He paid the tab. One convention I didn’t attend the dinner but made friends with the girl who worked the hotel bookshop and listened to music. My boss was driving me home. I just told him I was sitting at another table. One convention, my roommate was a no show, but Donna’s boyfriend came by but her roommate Fran wouldn’t leave so I put him up in my room. Yet another trip to the Star City, gathered a group after midnight and went searching for a local nightspot called the Texas Tavern. It was an all-night hot dog joint and our party of dress up folk entertained the regulars. The ‘best in show’ would win a bottle of bourbon. I’d give it away.

The plastic plaques started to pile up so I covered the wall in my office. It impressed new clients, but it was all yesterday news.

The other perk of the Advertising Department was the ‘Outings’. We could take the day off and go to a community center to play softball, drink beer, and gamble.

All these experiences were to watch an office staff, including bosses get wasted in front of each other.

I became tired of hotels on several other work-related assignments. I had to pay for all the travel and meal and room expenses and fill out forms and wait for the company to reimburse me.

 

 

 

The Invitation

Once a week we would pull a two-wheel wire basket down ten blocks to the grocery store. On one trip to the store, pulling a loaded cart, we were beckoned at the window of an apartment. We stopped and moved toward the door. We went inside to this gathering of folks. The music was blaring. We got a drink and a smoke. Everyone realized we did not know them, but it didn’t matter. After saying “Thanks”, we left and picked up our cart. We continued home a little more alive and aware.

 

The Group

Art, Joel, Steve and I would still sit on the floor and play guitars. But it was less frequent.

While at this location, Art moved to Virginia Beach with Betsy. Art was teaching at a Quaker school doing community service to stay out of the army. Joel was getting his masters and getting arrested (codeine cough syrup) and getting married in Williamsburg to some girl he met balling on the floor in his crash pad leased duplex. Ann Lee left Steve for Colorado. Steve left for a while. Steve came back to run payroll computer tapes for Richfood. David stayed at home and melancholy. Mike West joined the Air Force and got married.

Art moved backed to Richmond into the apartment vacated by Gregg and Ann Rice (former girlfriend of Joel). Mike and new wife Barbara came over to Art’s apartment. Barbara was sort of stiff and forceful for this easy-going laid-back group. Susan and Art were talking about macramé and tea. Susan was breast feeding Zak and pregnant with Noah. Barbara was talking about war. This was the early 70’s and Vietnam was still in the big picture. This was the last I saw of Mike West until our 50^th high school reunion.

Met Gregg through Ann. They had a little girl, Kristen, who was cute and personable. I would read to her and draw pictures with her. Gregg found this funny. He laughed at about everything. Ann talked constantly. We would mix wine and fruit together and act sophisticated. We would talk about books and music. Gregg was working at a furniture construction factory. Ann was trying to sell Amway. We (as couples) went to a Mexican restaurant and had too much sangria. Linda got sick and we spent the night at their apartment. Staying awake while listening to the activity upstairs.

David Mooney met through Steve. Didn’t know him very well in high school because he was always with his future wife. I later heard of his adventures with her in the back of Willow Lawn. He played oboe in the high school band. David and Art became radical in college while tripping together in Dr. Duke’s classes. This was the time when all of us worked at the Public Library. When my apartment roommate kicked me out, David and I looked at apartments to possibly rent, but that didn’t happen. He met a girl from Pittsburgh and moved there to work on a librarian computer database. We stayed in touch through snail mail sending cassettes tapes of our music explorations. We even did some collaboration pieces. He went into tapestry and electronic music to the point of gallery shows and musical conferences. We could also discuss our enjoyment of bicycle travel. I referred to him as ‘Mister Wilson’ for he appeared to me as Woodrow Wilson.

Cartoons

“Significant Students” was an idea trying to capture the feeling of “the group” in college. The stories consisted of girls, cars, girls, food, and girls. The chapters were broken down to: Eats, Jobs, Vacations, Blind Dates (which started this whole thing), Hogsmashing Jawstomping Fun, Exams, Strikes, and Going Home. The caricatures resembled our group. Bear was Art, Peace Freak was Joel of the time period, Road Runner captured Steve’s need for automobiles, Kid Counselor was the persona for David, and I was Gramps being the oldest. These caricatures would continue into “the Musical”. This group was a constant theme.

Christmas presents were calendars. Each month had a different theme and design. All hand drawn with press down type. Even a naked Santa on a bearskin rug.

Had a one man show at the Library’s Gillman’s Room. Black and white images of silhouettes of trees, women’s faces in high contrast, and hands. The theme of the exhibit was psychology phrases: id, ego, superego. This show taught me deadlines.

Worked on a cartoon called ‘Roger Wilco’. The main character was a cowboy (similar to a much later and probably stolen ‘Woodie’ from ‘Toy Story, but he had more fingers). His sidekick was a wooden Indian, like the one in front of a tobacco store. Roger was complaining about only having three fingers (like Mickey Mouse) and being trapped in a cube cartoon drawn frame. Wooden Indian never spoke but had a magical power to ZAP! Roger when he got out of hand. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Affair

On Floyd Avenue I grew up. My best friend Art called my wife and told her to talk to me about an affair she was having with the school principal. She called me at work crying. I told the people at work that it must be an affair. I had no idea. I was right.

I arrived home to find a sobbing wife. I received a phone call from Bill, the principle and a party in the affair, who was worried I would do a drastic deed. There seemed to be an aura that I would pummel wrong doers. There was total fear in their voices.

I told both to come before me. I was in full control. I was calm.

Bill and Linda sat in front of me and told me their tale of how they grew close and the love they felt for each other.

I simply asked “What was next? What did they want to do? Will Bill leave his wife for Linda? Does Linda find Bill’s attraction the most important aspect of her life?”

Both realized it was a fling. Even that, Bill and his wife invited Linda and I over with overtures. This was the 70’s and anything goes.

Unfortunately, I was faithful. Beyond faithful. Loyal. Marriage was a vow. Not to be mistaken.

I released the couple to make their mends and take their time to find their ways.

During our stay at Floyd Avenue, I had several opportunities to stray. I would go with a group from work to a local drinking pub and hug other women. But there it would stop.

Marriage, was a vow that must be followed. This was me. The 70’s was open to other stuff, but I didn’t go there. I always hoped the marriage would grow to sex. It didn’t.

After arrangements to stay together, my wife and I had the best sex. She opened up and let go. Probably a ‘thank you’ for not kicking her out of the house or worse. It didn’t last.

Got a lot of insurance when we were at Floyd.

Before we left, the building across the street were being torn down to be replaced with a parking lot.

 

Cat

There was also a cat. (There is always a cat. What is it about girls and cats?). Twinkle was a black and white cat that would sit between us in bed. Twinkle would shed fur and cry for food.  She would eat food in the kitchen and poop in the litter box in the bathroom. That is what cats do?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mobile

Thought about getting a car of my own.

I looked at an English MG-TB with right wheel steering at a Libbie Foreign Car shop. It was way cool and would be a chick magnet, but was out of my price range.

Another car I looked at was a used Hudson Hornet. It was in perfect condition and stored in a barn. Cool push button gears an all the seats were well preserved. Unfortunately, the car was huge and had nowhere to park the beast .

Bummed rides, public transportation, ‘Happy Jack’ bike or walking continued being our transport until my wife got a job working in a shady neighborhood until late evenings. She needed secure mobile.

Bought a car. Went to a local Buick dealer, walked out to the lot and saw a green Opal with a black top. The base engine generated 63 hp with 8.2:1 compression. The standard Rallye engine was a 1.1-liter OHV four-cylinder producing 67 hp at 6,000 rpm with 9.2:1 compression, fed through two one-barrel carburetors. An optional engine for all but the two-door sedan was a single two-barrel-carbureted 1.9-liter OHC four-cylinder that generated 102 hp at 5,400 rpm and drank premium fuel. The standard transmission was a fully synchronized four-speed manual, and there was an optional three-speed automatic. Combined gas mileage averaged between 25 and 30 mpg, and an Opal rode on a coil suspension. Perfect size and $3,000 price tag. The sales person gave extra incentives and discounts but we were ready to drive it off the lot, as is. 

 

The automobile was in addition to “Happy Jack” the orange English 10-speed bike used for work, and Linda’s bike.

She would often visit her mother and brother. The automobile made this possible. Perhaps more than that?

The car was wrecked on the second day of ownership. On Broad Street, Linda was driving the new car out to the beach, when a bus appeared. Over compensating, she drove into another lane and into another car. Luckily, there were only broken glass and passed insurance cards. We limped the Opal back to Floyd apartment and rested. After a call to the beach, all assured we will survive another day

 

Yet, another accident occurred. A biker ran into the side of the car. “He was OK, so it’s OK, and I let him go”. Another dimple in the “new” car.

The car became hers. I went back to riding my bike.

 

Weddings

Joel was the next to get married.

Unknown to the rest of us, on the day of the celebration, the couple had already been hitched by a justice of the peace (after his future wife had a miscarriage).

Art, his brother Jim and I were to perform while Joel sang at his public marriage to family and friends. To look authentic for the colonial atmosphere, we all got those puffy shirts the reenactors wore. Art and Jim had theirs custom made while my wife found a brown one for me.

We rehearsed in the Spencer cove of Park Avenue the songs Joel wanted to sing to his love. There are recordings.

As the day came, we walked out on the campus grounds and plodded down in a sunny spot. We went through our setlist without sound reinforcement and didn’t seem to harm anyone. A few pictures and they had cake. The band was never paid.

I had the Engraving department enlarge Joel’s wedding photo. After making large negatives, I took them to another printer and had four wall size posters made. Each was given to one of the members of ‘the band’.

Art knocked up some girl he met while teaching at a Quaker school (to avoid the draft) in Virginia Beach. They had a Quaker wedding. We (the attendees) walked in and took a seat in a pew and sat quietly. Art and Susan walked in and sat down. Then there was silence. Suddenly someone stood up and said he knew the couple and wished them the best. Then he sat down. Someone else stood up and said nice things and sat down. Someone else repeated the action. If this was something everyone was supposed to do, I didn’t get the memo. I was unprepared to talk about a missing person for a year and a stranger. Someone of authority spoke some words and it was done. There was no cake.

Bill and Mary got married. His parents gave us, as attendants, a dinner at the Clover Room ice cream parlor. Just ice cream. Cost less than what I had to pay to rent a tux. He even had his brother hide his getaway car so we couldn’t soap it. Still, I think Art and I ruined his wedding photos.

Mike and Barbara got married at some country town. I didn’t participate in the wedding, but they said I was there. Joel and Art were best men and I’m sure it was lovely. Don’t remember any cake.

Lost track of Steve and David G. Seems both were married (David several times). There was no cake.

SEVEN (cml & d.gant, 1970)

 

We had no fears through those seven years

as we sailed on a magic sea                   

And my ship fared well through all the squalls

there was nobody there but me

 

I heard the sound of a hunter’s hound

in the land of the ancient dead

The girl in green wasn't what she seemed

but a cat in frock of red

 

A silken hand held a silver wand

to guard my restless dreams

The people wrote upon the walls

there was nobody there but me

 

A girl child smiled from a painted tree

 and invited me from my tea

I softly rose as the story goes

there was nobody there but me

 

My eyes flashed to the looking glass

to shatter all my dreams

I prayed again, but it was all in vain

there was nobody there but me

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven - 3209 West Franklin Street

This is the first house bought. It was a hope house. It was the last chance for the marriage. It was an investment.

The realtor looked at my paycheck and tried to find a house that would fit my budget. Since my apartment was only $100 a month, this was a challenge. Thank you, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.

Went to one little brick ranch a block away from my high school. It had a pull-down stairway to the attic, but just didn’t feel right. It was sold out from under us.

The second choice was the Franklin Street house Walked in and was amazed at the opulence. I asked if I could afford it. Again, thank you Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.

This two-story brick row house was up a flight of brick steps from the street level. The front door was glass. The front porch was tiled and the railing painted.

The inside hallway led to a stairway or an open room. 15-foot ceilings and fireplaces in every room. Columns separated the hall from the first room. The second room was separated from the dining room by French doors. Both sides of the doors would later be covered with custom made book shelves. The kitchen was off to the left of the dining room. It was small, but compact. Sink, stove, and refrigerator. A dish washer was added later. A half bath was next to the kitchen. Huge single paned windows covered the walls accessing the sun. Gaping doorways and arches gave a sense of one big room.

The back porch looked out to a small flat yard. On the left was a wire fence and the right was a brick back of an apartment’s garage.

The second floor held a forward room, a bed room, a second bed room, and a small study up front. The bath was a large bathtub on black and white tile floor. There was a second floor back porch with a green house.

There were fireplaces in every room. They were never used.

Two stair cases delivered the first and second story. A third stair case went to the basement. The side door went to the side of the house beside the porch. The back door was beside the sink and washer hookup. A toilet was beside the sink. A wooden fence was between the front and back part of the basement. It was left in place. A large oil fueled furnace, next to the coal chute, feed the radiators.

The house was immaculate. I didn’t think we could afford it. Good credit? Thank you, Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae.

We moved in and began a “new” life.

A bodega grocery store was across the street. A bar was across the street.

The front room was never used. A sofa was put there, but it was never used. Lace curtains covered the windows.

The second room held a Victorian sofa. Linda would recline on it and read. And read, and read, and read. The stereo and book cases filled with ever expansion of records.

The dining room first held a glass and chrome table. Black and teal chairs would wrap around it. Later, a bank desk would replace the glass table. 8 red tall-back chairs were delivered to our front porch. My father brought them from the club. Two red and white oriental rugs were delivered.

Upstairs there was a back porch with a green house. The porch was being pulled from the house by an old morning glory vine. There was a crepe Myrtle that was in the way when I pulled my bike out of the basement. I used every saw I had trying to cut it down. The yard was unleveled and hard as rock. I borrowed a tiller from a workmate and tried to even it out. I only made it worst while being tossed about.

Before selling the house, a hurricane came by and the roof leaked. Rather than just painting over the stained ceiling, I climbed up on the roof and covered it in a sticky tar substance. Do not try this at home.

 

Christmas party

We held a Christmas party for the office and all came. Plenty of room for all. Everyone was impressed.

We held a lot of parties. Some for teachers. They were dull and boring. Some were full of surprises.

 Joel’s sister invited some guys to come to one of the parties. They brought conga drums. We played music in the front room. One of these guys asked if he could borrow my bass amp. Being a friend of Dorothy Ann, I said it would be OK. It was the last time I saw that tweed Fender amp.

This house would hold large Christmas trees with lots of lights. But no adventure. Every day was the same. 

Howard Bass

I would walk to work with a Media General employee who lived a block away. I would walk to Howard’s apartment, usually wake him up and we would walk to 300 E. Grace Street within 30 minutes.

The conversations would vary from religion, space, girls, politics, and world events. He was opinionated and very vocal on his way of thinking. I learned tolerance from him.

An embarrassing moment happened one morning when went I went to Howard’s apartment and opened the door to find a strange girl leaving, stuffing her dress in. A necessary good-bye kisses. Quick and brief. And then a wink before she left. I felt awkward. I was the third person in a couple. Were they in love? Was this just one-night stand sex? What could have been...

Howard and I would stop on half the way home on our walks. A new fern bar had opened around the block from Art’s house. The rough neighborhood shops had become a Fan shopping block. The street was even renamed to “Strawberry Street”.

We stopped in a few times to have a beer. Then we would continue on. We started to stop in more frequently. We became familiar. As we arrived, the waitresses we had been flirting with would recognize us and had a cold frosty beer mug awaiting our table. The waitress, the same age as we were, would stop and sit at our table to talk and flirt. They would be off when business got busier. We stayed later. We left bigger tips.

Howard got me into activism. Watergate fascinated Linda on the television. I had already started donating to Green Peace and Sierra Club, but he suggested Common Cause. A group working to create open, honest, and accountable government that serves the public interest; promote equal rights, opportunity, and representation for all; and empower all people to make their voices heard in the political process. Seemed like a good idea, rather than walking up and down the streets yelling and getting beat in the head by police. So, we dressed up and took a convoy up to Washington D.C. We were pre-assigned congress men to lobby our plea. It did give us a look of how our government looks from the inside. We even got to ride the train under the capitol building. Sometimes we would meet a Senator or elected House of Representative but mostly met staff members who politely thanks us for wasting their time. It doesn’t take long to realize that facts don’t matter. Number of member and particularly money is how this system works.

Howard even went out in the field to plead our cause for undocumented agricultural workers to no avail.

At the same time, Paul and I tried to follow Alan Lomax idea of recording music from Appalachia. The folks we met were not interested in participating and were forcefully rude at long haired kids coming up in a purple car.

Howard would later go onto Israel with some girl he met while she was a waitress.

I stopped making donations when the French sunk the Rainbow Warrior and Nixon resigned.

 

 

 

Guitars

What started as a fascination, soon became an obsession.

The baritone ukulele I got for Christmas in 63 turned into a tenor Stella guitar I bought at a jewelry/pawn shop called Bacharach’s. This evolved to a red archtop steel string guitar (that may have been a Gibson L7) given to me by a friend (possibly a band member) of my dad’s. Then a solid body electric Linda guitar and an unknown amp purchased in a pawn shop. These were replaced with a Hagstrom 12-string. A fire engine burst of color on a black shell. The strings were tight and out of tune, but it sounded like two guitars. A hand me down from someone.

Became fascinated with the tinny English sound. “The Byrds” brought the 12-string to the forefront. George Harrison played a 12-string in “Help!”. The sound was rich. The sound was familiar. A tinny sound of mountain music heard when I was young. Much later I would recognize the sound in the hammer dulcimer.

As music became more electric and louder and wilder, the 12-string faded.

The Hagstrom was replaced with a Gibson SG solid body electric. A heavy guitar with a thick neck. Uncomfortable with wide spaced strings. No whammy bar.  The guitar was a gift from a band manager. Gave it away.

Wanted another sound. A smoother sound. Bought a Goya nylon string guitar at Cary Gee’s with change from work. Cardboard case, but a mellow sound and a neck that went into the sound hole. Great range.

Played a rental Ampeg bass on a trip to North Carolina. No frets. Cut out body. Weight about 50 pounds. Could not stand for long with this instrument.

That winter I received a Goya 12-string acoustic with a microphone in the sound hold. Acoustic/electric. Blond finish. Great sound. Never in tune due to the bowing neck. Took off six of the strings to play in bands. Trashed the guitar at a show.

Bought a Rickenbacker 12-string from a friend. The sound of George Harrison in “Help!”. The sound of “Mr. Tambourine Man” by the Byrds. Not much power or tinny sound through the Fender bass amp to be replaced with a weak Fender Bandmaster with no effects. The lightweight blond guitar was traded for a double-pickup hard body guitar of no name by a friend who worked at a local music store. When making recordings at the Park Ave. flat, he always had a new guitar. A gold top Gibson Les Paul, a Fender Mustang, the Rickenbacker 360/12C63.That guitar did not have the sound wanted and was returned in a few days to never be replaced.

A replacement was given with a Rickenbacker stereo bass. The dark brown long neck held the deepest sound of bass. Never had a chance to play it loud.

A Framis blond electric was purchased and played during the “Basement Tapes”. Whammy bar, triple pick-ups, mute, and enough knobs and switches to keep the player busy. Still the Fender Bandmaster did not give the guitar full power. Tried to sand the finish and stain it. Nothing worked. Dropped the guitar until it cracked the finish and finally the wood. Gave the guitar to Radio Rick before his departure to California.

Recorded songs in the Basement of Franklin Street. Squeaky stools accented the drunken vocals and over dubs on a 4-track TEAC reel-to-reel tape recorder.

A sunburst Ovation was purchased with a hard-shell case. A brilliant sound. The curved hard-shell plastic back projected the notes. The thin neck and Grover smooth tuning keys made this a professional guitar. Dropped the guitar at an Advertising Outing. Sold it to a salesman who trashed it over a period of time.

Bought a Farfisa organ from Steve’s girlfriend as a going away present. Black keys for the bass. Unique sound. Recorded with it. Traded it to Wild Bill for his 67 Fender Strat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nimrod Recording Studios (the basement tapes)

The basement became a refuse for life. Behind the wooden fence I set up the Fender bandmaster amp and spare speaker built by Steve Leed. I plugged in the echo unit and wah-wah pedal. I plugged in my blond acoustic electric Framus guitar with the triple pickups and the volume knob next to the mute plug. Joel would come over to sing under the hanging lights to a Farfisa organ and the blast of the electric guitar. An acoustic Ovation guitar would fill where needed. Heineken was the beer of choice, and cases were kept in the basement to cool. A four-channel TEAC tape recorder was used to preserve the moment. Some good, some bad. But they will live further.

The sound was echo. Overdubs and more over dubs. “Gloria” with a sound track of crowd cheers made the room fill. Wah pedal grind the sound into a rhythm. Overdubs of vocals covered the drunken sounds. Overdubs of rhythm machines. Overdubs of more vocals. Even the distant phone ringing was captured.

The basement was the refuge. The basement started as a workshop, but moved to a stack of amp speakers and wires. Hanging from light fixtures, the amps would hum. The fluorescent lamps lit the concert floor. The black bar stools squeaked as singers surrounded the microphone. No engineers. No retakes. One time with over dubs.

The major takes were “3 Views of Age”, “Waiten to be Beamed Up blues”, and “Wizard”.

Earlier attended a professional studio on Broad Street called Alpha Audio. It was basically a warehouse converted to a recording studio to make advertising jingles and a few local bands seeking fame. The producer was a guitarist from a local popular band that understood the baffling of sound to make quality recordings. The guy who ran the sound board was Joe Sheets, who I’d met moving a friend’s piano. I just watched the procedure and realized every hour had a cost so there was no time to fool around or rehearse in the studio. Plus, when a ‘professional’ musician came in, they would put on their headphones, read the sheet music, play their part, pack-up and leave with a paycheck.

Even later, I had the occasion to ride the service elevator up to the ‘Cracker’ studio downtown. It was wide open and much more relaxed. I sat back and watched but did make a few suggestions and participated in the background.

Now the recordings are digital using GarageBand with unlimited tracks and effects and all my favorite instruments.  

Sex

This house was the last attempt at the marriage. The sexual revolution had happened and disco reigned.

“Deep Throat” was viewed after waiting in line at the midnight movies while being jeered at by passing cars. I saw a company vice president leave the theater in a rain coat. Porn had no effect on our marriage.

A videotape recorder was borrowed from the schools to experiment over a weekend. It turned out funny. She was worried we erased all the recordings.

We could have good sex when she masturbated while sitting on me.

The final party of the Franklin Street house included Gregg Rice and his new girlfriend Nancy. I didn’t know that Gregg was leaving his wife, but that was becoming the norm. Nancy got drunk and was all over me. Opportunity upon opportunity showed itself to me, but I resisted. She gave me big slobbery kisses, but I pushed her away. Even in the basement dark corner, gyrating against me with the warmth and softness. I resisted. Lost opportunity or the belief that as long as I was married, I could not stray.

Work

Bill Nelson left the Richmond Newspapers, Inc. to work for the Richmond Mercury, a competitive weekly newspaper. I got his spot. Very talented illustrator but quirky. Every Christmas party he’d build a plate of goodies to take home to his wife Linda.

 

The Corner Bar and Grocery Store

Across the street was a corner bar. The Cleveland Street Tavern. A long bar and a few booths. Small, compact. At first it was a redneck bar. After midnight, drunks would gather on the corner pole under an awning and scream out their lungs. Then their cars would burn rubber and leave.

One night, a knock at the front door. I climbed out of bed, put on my pants and wandered down the wide stairway. I opened a door to face a swaying man in a dirty jacket. “isouspbllue” he slurred. “No” I said and slammed the glass door shut. I walked back upstairs, not concerned a drunk was a flight above the street level and on my front porch. I was mad to be awaken. I called the police. I looked out an upstairs window and watched the man stagger back across the street. He had made it to street level safely.

Night after night, I started to call the authorities on the drunks hanging out and creating a disturbance all night. Slowly, the noised died down. Then the bar closed.

Across the street from the bar was a hole in the wall grocery store. It reminded me of the Paul T. Marshburn store. Friendly, convenient, tiny. A huge women sat behind the counter next to the glass door. She would keep a tab if needed. She would wait while I went back across the street to get more money. Bread, cat food, milk, beer were the staples. The women would tell me tales of people trying to get away with food. She would show me the club she would use on robbers. The women lived next door to me.

The bar would open again before I moved away. A former teacher and insurance agent bought and cleaned up the bar. He renamed it the Cleveland Street Diner.

I started to attend the diner. I stopped by one night with Howard Bass to have a quick beer. We started sharing stories. The dark brown booths were inviting. The atmosphere had changed.

Softshell crab night. Tables were covered in newspapers and baskets of crabs were served with a roll of paper towels. Pitcher after pitcher of beer were delivered. Gregg and I often attended this night.

A pita sandwich filled with lettuces, carrots, and meat became the Diner’s specialty sandwich. Almost every night, I would go across the street, grab the awaiting beer, and order two pitas. After another beer, I would pay and take “dinner” back home from the Diner. This became an expensive habit. I probably kept him in business.

The place was never “Cheers”, but it was a respite from the agony that awaited me at home.

He would later leave and pick up another site on Patterson that was well frequented by other regulars to a former popular restaurant. I agreed to do his signage and handwritten menus for free meals. The food was good but he did not get a following.

 

 

Joe’s Inn

David liked a fan district bar named, Joe’s Inn. It was the usual dive with wooden booths, tin ceiling, waitresses in t-shirts with no personality. David and I would have dinner and talk about the world and why things are so bad. He introduced me to Stephen (with the blonde curls), who was also having girl problems. We talked, drank beer and coffee, talked, and left late. The juke box held memories with “Jenny” or “867-5309”. Great rock. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Move

It was time to make a move.

I came home one night and said, “I’m selling the house.”

The house was the only thing we had in common and holding us together. It was too big and expensive for two people.

My mother’s antics were taking all my emotional effort and it was time to shake it up.

My wife didn’t like the idea but realized it was best for both of us. It was time to start a new life.

I called the local real estate agent and offered the house. The price was right. The third person to view the house was a young woman from Texas who was coming to Virginia to take university classes. She took a brief look over the house and pulled out her check book. $50,000? The real estate agent told her it would have to be worked into a contract. The young woman was formerly married to oil. She had no value of money.

The day of the move was funny. We had discussed with the new owner about leaving Linda’s furniture in the basement for a week until her apartment was available. She was cool with this, but the lawyers jumped in.

While I was signing away one house and signing to own another house, I get a call from the lawyers. I must go to another location and sign a waiver to ensure the new owner’s rights over the property left on the premise. I signed my name so much I must owe the company store.

The next week Linda moved her stuff to an apartment in the fan. I moved my stuff with the help of friends to a new home in the west end.

She got the car, the king-sized bed, the cat, her stuff, and half the sale of the house. She kept the black and white image of the eclipse. I kept the marriage pictures.

I went to see her at her new apartment. We had dinner, stirred around a while, and then had sex. I slept there that night, and then rode my bike to my new home.  It was our last meeting.

Linda didn’t like the change, but it was for the best for both of us. She would get half and move on to her new life. Without children or family ties, makes it easier. She first took up sky diving. Kayaking on the James and other rivers was her next adventure. She got a condo in Byrd Park. She grew strong by the change. She became an outdoors person. Was I holding her back?

Mom even offered her $35,000 not to divorce me.

 

Camping

I was fascinated by camping since the scouts. Going off into the woods and living off the land. I could use my fishing pole. I could use my hunting knife.

I went to the local Montgomery Ward and bought tents, stools, cots, cooking gear and knapsacks prepared for a venture into the unknown. Only the cots were used by overnight guest until they were all broken.

 

Clubbing

I enjoyed going to clubs. They were places to meet people and party in someone else’s room. In high school, went to a few dances (not the prom). It was different being a participant than working in a band.

My wife wasn’t much of a dancer, so I’d attend the clubs with fellow workmates and their friends.

One such club was on top of a camera shop on Broad Street. Walk up single file stairwell to a small dance floor surrounded by tables. A small band played in the darkness with an open-air balcony for air circulation. Only a few of my friends danced and most of the girls were not good dancers. A perfect firetrap.

Another club was the Sheik on Staples Mill. An old carpet showroom was transformed into a ground level dance floor with big glass windows painted black. In the same area was the T-Room (Tempo Room) but there wasn’t enough space for dancing.

TOO NIGHT

 

Something to do to saves the night

call his girl in

Want her to lay, but not today

she knows it’s a "sin"

Need something to do, but not with you

You want someone to say that it’s OK

Gonna be right for my baby, too night

 

Heading for school you break the rules

and you skip class

following Joan, you see her home

feeling her ass

Everyone knows you want to screw it

Better hurry up or they’ll beat you to it

Everyone says, "She can’t be beat"

Don’t give up because she’s sweet

 

She asks you to start and you find

She’s a bit tight

after a while she loosens up

til she’s just right

something has changed, she’s not the same

the rumors they tell are shot-to-hell

gonna be right for my baby, too night

 

Kids riding around in the dark

Looking around for a place to park

everyone you see is humping away

go get a beer, you’ve had yours today

 

 

You meet a girl to pass the time

ask for my name

raising her skirt, she starts her work

says her name’s "Jane"

You feel a bit sore, but more from a whore

you’ve got nothing to do but lay back and screw

Gonna be right for my baby, too night...

 

In the Fan there were several buildings converted to clubs. Small hot smokey rooms full of smelly kids drinking warm beer and pounded by loud music. Places like Grant’s Tomb and the Asparagus Farm didn’t have enough space to dance but it was a place could go and smoke. Some music was vinyl and others were bad bands trying to play psychedelic.

Later in life, Joe’s Inn, the Texas-Wisconsin, Poor Richards and Continental Lounge became the buddy’s hangout. There was drinking and talking but no dancing.

 

A gigantic warehouse on Broad Street was converted into a disco dance/live music location called Much More. It was large enough to handle the noise and room enough for flailing arms and legs. Went one night with some workmates to see one of the office staff be a comedian (before he ventured out to California to try his new trade). Lot of dancing on tables and screams as he covered the Persuasions “Looking for an Echo”. Later that night, I got a weeping phone call from a lady I’d been dancing with saying she was told I was being taken advantage of. The next day, I told her we could not ‘party’ together because I was her supervisor.

The most famous was the Cha-Cha Palace. A notorious gay dance occasion that would move from place to place. Word of mouth told people where and when the next party would be. The music was always great and a very ‘free’ atmosphere, but guys started checking out other things than your urinal cake, girls were not always girls and violent mosh pits were forming on the dancefloor.

I went to the Camel to see a couple who were on YouTube but most of the names posted were not familiar.

The kegs of beer were still there, and there was plenty of smoke in the air, but the powders started being contaminated from a pure coke to smoking crack and ecstasy and other toxins. The results were not comfortable.

I got too old for clubbing.

I JUST WANNA DANCE WITH 'CHA BABY (cml, 1967)

 

Go to a dance on a Friday night

Best bands playing, they're so out-of-sight

I see you dancing there

Flashing lights in your hair

         And I wanna dance wit'cha baby

         I wanna dance wit'cha baby

 

The room’s so crowded I can hardly budge

To see you pass the older guys I have to nudge

See you dancing 'round

Don't put me down

         I wanna dance wit'cha baby

         I wanna dance wit'cha baby

 

         The big guys told me many times before

         I won't get hurt if I stay at the door

         But feeling you, I never felt this way before

         I want you to be mine

         To dance wit'cha all da time

 

Finally, there's a place and a chance to go

I try to move quickly, but I'm a little too slow

There's some other guy

Who's caught your eye

         But, I wanna dance wit'cha baby

         I wanna dance wit'cha baby

 

 

Roanoke

Art was constantly moving to Roanoke and then back to Richmond. I traveled to visit two times.

The first time was a pickup from Richmond by Art in his VW bug. His son Zack was in the back. Joel was our usual chauffeur, so there was some stipulation about Art driving. Things seemed fine, but cramped when all of a sudden, the car was having trouble. He got it going long enough to roll into a fill-up station. Zack and I crawled out as Art discussed the options with the mechanic. Seemed this chariot was not going to finish the trip. While standing around in the cold, a guardian angel offered us a ride in the back of his pickup truck. Art and I cuddled around Zack to keep from freezing.

We got to our destination. A large rustic house on a slanted street behind a stone restraining wall. A round wooden table seemed to be the focal point of the house. Still the mainstay of activity was getting stoned, listening to his massive speakers and baking bread.

Art did take me up through his neighborhood. There was a pawnshop that had a Sears’ Silvertone electric guitar and case that I considered buying, but didn’t. There was an open market and his stain glass shop. He also took me to his gym where he played a rousing game of handball (not with me),

Looked at the BIG star on the mountain, but did not venture there. He talked of flooding and poor radio reception. He said his main squeeze was there but I don’t remember her.

Must have taken the bus home since his car was broken.

The second trip was with his brother Jim in his sleek Z car. Fast and racing travel while trying to roll doobies while reclining inches off the road. The synergy between the brothers is apparent anytime they are together. The black chrome recliner that I saw the first time that didn’t seem to fit in with the heavy wooden furniture was missing. Broken. One can only assume. Again, the procedure was to get stoned, listen to loud music and bake bread.

I must have returned on a bus.

Nothing memorable.

 

Chapter Twelve - Kensington Avenue

 

The residents of this abode were sitting on the porch when the real estate agent drove me to the site. The previous options were a row house in the fan with no furnace or floor and a condo on Cary Street next to a crack house.

We walked the narrow walkway up the steps with steel handrails to the cement porch. The aluminum storm door slammed as we stepped inside. A quick look around saw a dark empty living room. The walk to the hallway proved there were three bedrooms though small the largest bedroom held a huge wooden bed and dresser. That was all that would fit.

The kitchen had a ceramic sink looking toward the west window to the brick wall of the neighbors 5’ away. The back yard could be watched from the sink with cabinets on the walls through the backdoor. The stove, washer and refrigerator were small, but they came with the building.

The upstairs was an unfinished attic. 2” x 4” lined the floor and the beams showed. The windows were loose and drafty.

The backyard sloped to the North east. The grass was coarse and thick. There were tall trees on the perimeter of the property. A tall mismanaged hedge grew in back of the lot.

A crawl space under the house held the floor furnace. An additional storage space under closets held spider webs and dirt.

This was as close as I could get to perfect. Without a lot of time to decide, this was to become ‘home’. I had little money to spare, so this was the obvious choice.

The house was built the year I was born. White asbestos shingle siding and lead pipes. Windows with aluminum awnings and heavy wooden shutters. Some overgrown bushes and a leaky roof.

I bought the neighborhood, four blocks away from where I grew up.

 

The move

On September 7, 1979, the realtor drove me to one lawyers’ office to sign off the Franklin Street house and then to another lawyer’s office to sign for the Kensington Street house. Then off to another lawyer’s office to sign office to sign a waiver form for my wife’s furniture being stored in the new owner’s basement until she could find a place to move.

 Then the realization when returning to Franklin and seeing a moving truck parked out front. When you sign on the dotted line and turn over the keys, the house and its contents are no longer yours.

With a friend, a truck was quickly rented, filled with whatever we could carry and my wife’s stuff moved to the basement. Closing the door was the last time I saw that place.

Only one truck load was needed to move my personnel belongings to a new location. (Note: Trying to rent a truck without a driver’s license is a chore).  The Spencer boys helped with the truck. They backed the truck up to the front porch, crushing the walkway. Boxes of books, records, and clothes were quickly slid into empty rooms. The bed was slid in and placed against the wall. The next-door neighbor came out in his white belt and shoes and swept the side walk while keeping an eye on my motley moving crew. Beside the truck sitting in the front yard under a pine tree, several cars and motorcycles parked themselves in front of the new Leftwich residence. A beer mug was left on the floor. Since the water still worked, it was rinsed out and filled with the case of beer purchased to repay the movers. As quickly as the items were moved in, the movers bid adieu and drove off. Left over bottles of beer cluttered the front porch. The front door was closed and I was home.

After several days, boxes were put away and the house started taking shape. The first matters were the left-over bills. After two years, these would be taken care of, and money would be in the savings account. Next was the hook up for the essentials; gas, water, phone. All were done while taking time from work.

Slowly, I got into a routine. Cut the grass on weekends. Watch the news every night. Listen to music until 10 P.M. Climb into bed and sleep. Wake up every morning the same way. Take a shower and off to work. Weekends were spent washing clothes and hanging them on a line in the back yard. I would also vacuum the oriental rugs, dust off the director chairs, rearrange the bookcases that were too big for this house.

Upstairs in the unfinished attic, I put my “Happy Jack” bicycle, tools, and storage stuff. Laundry bags held moth balls and suits, tuxes, and winter coats.

One bedroom was set up as an office, one as a bedroom, one as a music room. In the music room, several guitars were arranged around the multi-head reel-to-reel tape recorder. This was the tape recorder that was kept in the basement with keepsakes of personal expressions.

The office held a drawing table, desk, and book cases. Metal file cabinets kept the bills and book work of 4516 in neat order. A peg board hung on the wall keeping the drawing utensils arranged. A metal drawing board braised against one wall next to a small closet. When the art department renovated, I bought two drawing boards and a sideboard and had the maintenance guys deliver it to my front door.

The bedroom faced the backyard. A single bed and a closet. A small dresser held underwear, socks, and handkerchiefs. Two pillows on the bed. A window fan in the summer and extra wool blankets in the winter. Usually sleep came from exhaustion.

The music room was not used as it should have been. The chance was there to create. The tools were available, but they gathered dust.

The kitchen was simple but effective. The few utensils of value were sharp. Simple meals and clean ups. Most weeks consisted of a big meal made over the weekend and consumed the rest of the week. Small appliances. Ceramic sink facing the west into a neighbors’ brick wall. The backdoor opened to the right and showed the backyard and alley. A small wooden one step back porch held a light to show the way.

Shopping was an adventure on Happy Jack to the Safeway store at Willow Lawn. Only buy what can be carried in a back pack. Buy by weight.

Yard work was basic. Cut the grass with an electric mower purchased at JC Penney’s. Slide it under the house and go back inside. Trim the azaleas out front when needed. Rake the leaves, or mulch them with the lawnmower. JC Penney’s at Willow Lawn became my yard supply store.

The living room and dining room connected. The focal point was the 19” color television. The first color television set in my family. My first purchase brought home on the bus and dragged up the street. The corners of the room held large wooden cabinets built by Gregg Rice. They held books. records, pipes, and pictures. Tall cardboard lights lit the room with paper shades. Heavy large glass astray filled the spaced not filled by rock and roll books. Scattered paper and notebooks lay on the floor. The walls were hung with pictures of family, musicians, and artwork. Two black director chairs faced the East window and television. Floor speaker blared the music to the West when headphones were not used. Shades were normally drawn down to keep the cool under the metal awnings.

The dining room held a glass table. It was for drawing and eating. It became a perfect drug table. The cracked chandler was frosted.

The bath had a shower with a window. The shower curtain was black and white images of naked girls crawling and writhing. The towels and rug were black. The toilet seat was black.

I thought about getting a pinball machine. I thought about getting a jukebox. I thought about getting a coke machine and filling it with beer. I didn’t think about getting an upright piano, but I did. I thought about putting a pool in the backyard, but it was too much maintenance and the worry of neighbors drowning.

BOBBY SANDS (cml, 1981)

 

         Bobby Sands, Bobby Sands     

         All our lives are in your hands

         The British says

         "You have died today "

         Will they ever leave our land?

 

You were only 27

the year we put you in

You did not play by British rules

or pay for all your sins

18 years you were a prisoner

9 years in the IRA

We called you our "political martyr"

the day we laid your body away

 

We called you our hero

We called you our saint

We put you into Parliament

then we threw you into jail

We hoped you wouldn't do it

We were sad to say you did

We prayed to God for a martyr

and he gave us Bobby Sands

 

         Bobby Sands, Bobby Sands

         All our lives are in your hands

         66 days

         and now you're dead

         Will they ever leave our land?

 

MONO LAKE (cml, 1981)

 

No birds don't fly no more to Mono Lake

No birds don't fly no more to Mono Lake

No birds don't fly no more to Mono Lake

We drank it up for human's sake

 

The shrimp begat the shrimp fly

The fly begat the bird

The water crystal clear

the water running pure

But our thirst is growing

In our minds we are knowing

The lake it is a going

What have we done now?

 

Pour the water on your flowers

Pour the water on your car

Pour the water in your coffee

Pour the water on your hair

Pour the water in your teacup

But, the water's running dry

What are we to do now Mono Lake is running dry

 

Dedicated: City of Los Angeles

 

Dope2

The first year of living in this empty house was to cope. Get financial matters straight. There was still the emotional matter with my mother. The final papers from the divorce had never come around. I had signed some papers from a friend of a friend’s lawyer. He had arranged a divorce settlement for some dope. Everything was about dope.

Grass had shifted from rolling papers to bongs. Sources kept changing from Wild Bill to Brother Bob (who introduced me to the Pagans) to whoever offered. Some were good buys and some were seeds and stems. It was a nightly routine.

To make sure there were no lingering emotional matters, one weekend, I took LSD. I had found a student at University of Virginia who I could depend on of making ‘clean’ acid. I just wanted to see what would happen. I was alone in a new, lonely environment. I had all my toys and all the space and time to do anything. I became bored.

Work took much of my time and attention. At home, it was television and sleep. Little else. Some letters were written, but I felt uncomfortable if anyone invaded my space. I began to keep the door closed and locked. (A habit that would haunt me later).

I did not date. I was celibate for a year and then some. On several occasions, ladies offered to live with me. I did not understand this reaction. I was still thinking from a Southern gentleman perspective.

One lady asked if I could keep her piano. She asked if I could keep her cat. I agreed for a short period of time. She then offered to sleep in the attic. I drew the line at the cat.

I did get some strange phone calls. A former friend, we’ll call Tommy, was working for Warner Brothers as a A&R man. He gave me a call and asked if I wanted to go to a concert. I didn’t expect what was about to happen.

A limo pulled up in front of my house. Tommy popped out and welcome me to another world. Seems he had the company credit card and was just here picking up his former girlfriend (who I was also ‘friends’ with).

Entering the limo, I was given a drink and a smoke that would continue. We arrived at the airport tarmac without going through any inspections. Waiting for our party was a private jet with a Warner Brothers logo on the side.

The interior was the size of a bus with plenty of room for plush seating and music. More drink and more smoke (all at record labels expense) and we were off to the unknown.

Time became immeasurable for this party, but we landed in Atlanta. Another limo charioted to a coliseum backstage passage and first-class service. I have no idea who the band was (might have been the Allman Brothers) but it was loud and exciting and a good time had by all.

After the after-party, we were ushered back to a limo and to the airport for the flight home. Mostly slept on the way, but arrived unharmed and still enough continent to thank my friends for a free ride into the high life. Never saw Nancy again.

FROG HOLLOW DAY CAMP SONG (cml. 2003)

 

We are here, you are there

We have fun, we don’t care

We are free, you have fear

We are the future and you are the past

 

frog hollow, the place you want to be

this day camp will make you free

tomorrow is another day you see

and tomorrow will bring

 

Another chance at success, you don’t care

take the chances, if you dare

Bring me money, I don’t care

the future is now and we are going nowhere

 

Happiness is fleeting, come sing along

float with the clouds, sing a happy song

count the grass leaves, it won’t take too long

to receive the chance to free up your mind.

 

Frog hollow, the place you want to be

This day camp will make you free

tomorrow is another day you see

and tomorrow will bring

 

Watch the frog jump into the lake

Frank would take a drink and smile

Join hands and run down the hill

forget the problems and feel the light awhile

 

Roll on the grass, feel the dew on your face

Pour a different drink and absorb the taste

Bend the string and feel the sustain

Walk around in the pouring rain

 

Frog Hollow, the place you want to be,

This day camp will make you free,

Tomorrow is another day you see,

and tomorrow will bring.

 

Screen the t-shirts and sell them for rent,

Eat and talks for a five spot and forty cents,

Remember the girl you called, but then forgot her name,

the day is now, but it all the same.

 

Frog Hollow, the place you want to be

This day camp will make you free,

Tomorrow is another day you see,

and tomorrow will bring

 

 

Dope3

Pot and wine. These were the constant. Cheap wine. Experiment with wine. Wine and cheese parties were the norm. Wine was tasted and talked about. Red, white, or pink. What was the favorite? This is how we experienced taste. A bold red wine may not fit well with a party. A light pink may make everyone drunk, which is what they wanted. It had nothing to do with taste, fragrance, or bouquet. It had to do with alcohol. We tried to kid ourselves. We tried to be sophisticated We tried and we failed. We were kids and wanted to get drunk.

Beer was the poor man’s drink. Alcohol was for parents. Mixed drinks. Wine was the new drink of the youth.  We bought carafes. We bought glasses. We tried to like the new taste. We gave the impression we were cool when we arrived at a party with a bottle of expensive wine. It was poured into a punch bowl and added to the box of wine variety.

Go for the dope. Smoking was still the preferred drug of choice of the pretend hippie underground. The haze made everyone happy and took hours out of the party to prepare and consume. There were only ashes and smiles.

Not everyone loved the mind melting music of Pink Floyd or King Crimson, so adjustments had to be made. Hard Rock, Southern Rock, New York Rock, and “country” was taking hold. This music required a stomping foot and a swaying head. Get with the deep beat. It’s not so mellow, it’s boogie.

Wine and Beer would make the music come to life for a short time, but it needed more. White powder started appearing at parties. Cocaine from South America appeared on the scene. No one asked where it came from. No one cared.

The powder craze happened the same time as the sexual craze. Coincidence? I don’t think so. The powder awakened the feelings the hippies had been wanting to feel, but were too numb to react to. The powder gave stamina, alertness, and desire.

The powder craze was taken at the top and the bottom of the culture level. I followed both.

White powder in the office gave the Christmas farewell a different meaning. A quick snort across the desk of a coworker and the workplace took another meaning. One could get away with it, because so few knew about it. This was still Richmond.

On the other side, there were a group of drug dealers that became entangled in my life. Bikers. The worst form of bikers. Out of the District of Columbia. Pagans. They had come South to rid themselves from the rival Confederate Angles. They did a pretty good job.

As naive and thirsty as I was, I followed the deals until I became a regular. I was fascinated by the rough life. They were rewarded with artwork for jackets, occasional songs, and stupefied loyalty. While with the Pagans, I was numb. I didn’t know what was up and what was down. I drank beer. I snorted stuff. I smoked concoctions. I was following a different way of life, but I didn’t care.

Then I would go back to work and reality.

One evening, after being picked up on a bike by Pig, we raced to a Southside location. Bikes were lined up on the street in front of this small dimly lit house. We walked into the front door and swept the paisley material that hid the room from us away. The brief flash of light was enough for everyone in the room to suddenly look up. “It’s cool”, Pig said.

The first room was filled with young women and a few of the bikers. The order of business was to roll joints and pass them to the women. Pig and I smiled and passed into a back room. The hallways were dark and misty.

Off to the side, I noticed a dimly lit room. A candle burned in the corner. A biker was engaged in a young woman. Another biker held down the women’s arms as they assaulted her. She moaned, but did not resist. We paused to watch. The rhythm increased. One biker looked up and offered the body to us. We moved on.

Down the hallway, another dark room. A group of people were encircled around a table. On the round table, was a mirror. The attention was on the mirror. A single edge razor lay next to a plastic bag containing white powder. The powder was poured on the mirror and the bag was gingerly put aside. The powder mounds were separated with the straight edge razor into rows. The rows were minced into fine powder.

Once the preparation was done, the heads were lifted up. “You want some”, a smiling grin with a tooth missing biker asked. How can you pass up that invitation? I grabbed the rolled $100 bill handed to me. I looked down at my reflection in the mirror. I held my breathe. I closed my eyes and placed the tube bill against the row. I snorted. I sucked everything I could with one breathe. I opened my eyes and handed the bill to the toothless biker that made the invitation. There was a pause as our eyes met. I could feel all the eyes in the room on me as I stood motionless. All eyes started to open and smiles abound. I was pounded with slaps and approving welcomes. The powder was meth, not coke. Speed. I had followed the ritual of the bikers. I had become one. I was to become “The Rainbow Warrior”

After several more snorts of this new adventure to my brain, I followed the others down the hall. Jean jackets and leather blending in my brain. There was music happening somewhere, but it didn’t matter.

The young girls who were being plied with pot earlier were in a back room, mattresses on the floor. Naked and together, they offered themselves to the party. It seemed they had already had sex by one or more of the parties. They rolled around and raised their legs offering their womanhood to whoever wanted to partake. Several members of the party sounded off at the sight with mention of their desires. One member moved staggered toward the naked women. He undid his belt buckle and dropped his jeans over his boots. His stained underwear was lowered as he knelt down upon one of the women and probed her. The cries of the group around him prompted him to move faster and faster. He suddenly stopped and his head reared up. He slowed and withdrew. He was done.

A second member of the party decided to partake of the pleasure. Another member decided to enjoy the other women awaiting the orgy that was about to begin. One by one each member took the women. After climax, a cry was made. Upon redressing, a beer was handed to each member. A refreshing gathering watched as the next member joined in on the satisfaction.

I was not the first. I was not the last. I did partake.

A year later, a rival gang moved into the neighborhood. This neighborhood was not far from Joel’s Southside home.

I didn’t care when I was with these guys. Free drugs, sex, and adventure. We would go to strip joints and be hassled by cops. It was like being in another movie.

The phone would ring. I would get picked up on a bike and assorted to a predetermined location. There would be drugs, drink, and available women. I was lucky. I never caught any diseases. I was still shy of this atmosphere. I watched more than I partook.

One night standing in the driveway getting some fresh air and having a quiet conversation when two police cars pulled up out front. A bunch of uniforms climbed out and walked up to the front door carrying grocery bags. There were no guns drawn or flashing lights, but I was nervous. Not long later the cops came back out minus the grocery bags, climbed into their cars and drove off. The explanation I was told was “We buy the stash evidence from their bust at a lower price than the street market and they look the other way when we are in town.”

On one occasion, a group of outside members were presented at a session of meeting with the Pagans. Somehow, I bumped or rubbed up against another biker who took offense. The large burley man grabbed my collar and throw me around and got into my face. He started to curse me, when all of a sudden, a larger man in a Pagan jacket, grabbed my assailant, threw him around, and got in his face. I was quickly released as other members began to surround this outsider. I felt myself off the ground and move to the back of the pack. “He’s one of us” the Pagan said. “He’s the Rainbow Warrior”.  The other biker smiled and backed down.

I felt large hands on my back as I stared into the abyss that was my life. Why did these guys like me? What was next?

In a neighborhood named after an Eddie Arnold and Za Za Gabor television show, the visit would come to an end.

Bad drug deals. A Southside apartment. Men lined up against the wall. Quiet shots were fired. One-by-one the bodies slumped. One-by-one the war was over. It was time to go back to DC.

Riding in the wind of Richmond, riding in the mist of the James River, riding on River Road, riding through the Fan, riding through Northside, riding through Southside, riding on a wing and a prayer, riding on what you have seen, riding on what you have done, riding on what you have taken. Riding on what you know.

The memory of Pig, Butch, Latch, Skull, Beaten, Mojo and Hayjob will remain. Why was it our time?

I met my wife through a blind date and the bikers moved back to Washington. Probably a good move on both sides.

 

 

Radio Rick

I had one party after I moved in. It was a good-bye party for an associate employee at work. What a mistake. Radio Rick was leaving the newspaper. He had been in the classified outside sales department with some of my best friends, Bob, Adair, Charlie, Cindy... I invited a few, so few of my work associates to attend. They showed up. I had made posters for Rick’s going away party. Then it happened. Someone got on the phone and invited the world.

The next thing I knew the house was full of all kinds of folks. Some from work, some from wherever. They were snorting in the music room. They were drinking in the kitchen. They were smoking in every room. They were dancing in the living room with a battle over Punk vs Beach Music. The front door was wide open.

At 12 midnight, I decided to kick them all out. The last drunks were led to the door and sloppy good byes had. A few ladies offered to help clean up, but I was unsure where that would lead. Once everyone was out the door and on their drunken way, I took toll of the damage. The kitchen was filled a foot deep in plastic cups and beer bottles and cans. The entire room had become a recycling bin. I swept up what I could then crashed on the bed. At least, the police had not been called during the “Punk / Beach Music” battle with the door wide open. People were parking blocks away to attend this debacle.

After a weekend of scrubbing and washing, I heard nothing but praise from my coworkers about the party on Kensington Avenue. Just goes to show you, if you get enough people drunk, it’s a great party.

A neighbor walked by the next day and casually said, “I heard you had a party”.

SILENCE IS MY DEFENSE (cml, 2003)

She asks what year I am in,

as I blindly stare out in space,

I wonder what the question means,

but do not give it another thought,

for the future hold the present,

and the present is the past,

and the past is far, far from us,

 

The questions ricochet off my thoughts

as I look at my soul

The sun is warm as I bake

my mind in the dark clicks of the keyboard

for the future hold the present

and the present is the past

and the past is far, far from us

 

Live your life, the way you want,

but look back to see where you’ve been,

is this the road less traveled,

or the life about to begin

 

Don’t ask me questions,

don’t tell me no lies,

don’t go to the borders,

don’t follow the cries,

don’t beg to be willing,

don’t see the beginning,

don’t scratch the surface,

don’t stand in the halls,

don’t follow the shadows,

don’t beg for forgiveness,

don’t jump to conclusions,

don’t stone the sinners,

don’t sing the praises,

for it’s not your song.

 

Live your life, the way you want

but look back to see where you’ve been

is this the road less traveled

or the life about to begin.

 

Work

After “The Disco” 70’s and the “doped-up” 60’s, the 80’s held promises. The bosses had changed.

 

Maxie

Maxie, the slicked back rimmed glassed stiff boss had moved into a newly created department. He had a disabled son and built ships in bottles. He extracted some of the “favorites” from Creative Services and created another empire. This would crash on him. Bill Shea, his art director who would dispute Maxie’s resolve and Doris Ann, the ever-pleasant blond doing whatever was needed, became the new “Promotions” departments staff. Later, a lacky, Cheryl was hired to take care of business.

 

Don

Don Jones, the Howdy Dowdy look alike, reformed the department. The favorites were the girls, the cuter, the better. His sidekick, Haward, made the hard discussions and did the hard work. Don was the lackey of the big discussion’s makers. He would run upstairs and turn on the television sets for them. He would put a cart of coffee down the hall for them. He made a career of kissing up to the big wigs, and they repaid him with a career of bootlicking and retirement. He paid for this with an emotionally disturbed wife and disastrous affairs attempts. Even after skin cancer, he maintained his smile. That smile that said, I may have had too much to drink, I may have had too much time in the company, I can get away with anything. Don cut my salary one year. I didn’t realize it until later. When approached, he would sidetrack. He lived his own agenda. He later took Ken, Sue, Dee and Diane to become the corporate suite for preparing the annual report.

 

Haward

Haward was a large, balding man with a reddish mustache. He saved his mustache and grew long sideburns in the 70’s. He carried a pipe in his mouth. He wanted to be an artist. He was a sign painter. He learned by way of correspondence course. He stuck with it and graduated. He wanted more but knew his limits. He had grown up in Mechanicsville, a blue-collar area of Richmond. He worked his way up by his boot straps.

Haward was married to his childhood sweetheart. He would talk of the early days when the young couple would go to Byrd Field airport and make-out while watching the planes take off. A son and daughter would follow.

Haward was inquisitive. He wanted to know more. He knew there was more to learn. He studied the work. He tried to change. He tried to understand.

He was easy to get along with. He and a couple of other members of the newspaper would walk down to VCU to a watering hole across the street from the Lee Art Theatre that he painted posters for the strippers. We’d get a pizza, drink a beer, play a game of foosball then walk back within our allotted hour.

One night, at a Christmas party at Maxie’s house (very boring), Haward received some paper packages of funny cigarettes he had quietly inquired about. He was told it was a Christmas package and he could use it or not. He talked later on how he smoked the gift on the way home. He talked about the changes in his mind-set, the long drive home, the giggles, and the fabulous lovemaking that accrued after this revelation. I did not become his dealer.

His main passion was playing golf with the other executives His other agenda was trying to get executives to think outside-the-box and beyond their paradigms.

Haward was a warm and generously caring man. He was laid off.

 

Doris Ann

Sweet naïve girl from Callao. Lived in a boarding house and had a fiancée from high school. The sales guys loved her being a blonde well-endowed youngster. She came under Donna’s tutelage, married and soon divorced. She was stalked by one of the salesmen and later married and raised two girls. After leaving Creative Service, she came back until she applied for a sales job.

 

Josie and Scarlett

Into the 80’s there were two secretaries who changed the world.

Josie, a short, feisty Cuban was hired by Don to be a secretary after Doris Ann left with Maxie. She would call her parents and scream in Spanish. She would lose messages, misspell memos, and constantly interfere with work. During her stay in Creative Service, and my divorce, she would try to interpret my life. She decided who I was seeing and what I was doing. I started walking home from work to relieve the frustration. She married the brother of an artist and moved to Virginia Beach.

It could not get any worse. I was wrong. Scarlett was hired by Don. She was short and stout and noisy. She could not type. She could not answer the phone. She could not keep track of payroll. Luckily, Don moved to Media General and Haward became manager. He realized she could not continue as secretary, so he contacted Human Resources and found a way to remove her. Redefine the job description and remove her for lack of qualifications. She cried. She waited. She left. Thank you Haward.

At this point, work was becoming so frustrating that I would walk home (5-miles) every day to calm down.

Jerry Winn

 

He was brought over to the Advertising Department from the Production Department. We knew (and he knew) he was the token to diversative the all-white sales staff. He took the masking artist job, so I showed him the basics. He used his personality to fit in. When assigned to a conference, the black boy and the hippy were roommates. He would put on his kung fu outfit and kick trees. He decided to venture out to California to work for a Media General office and ply his trade as a stand-up comic. He got some bit spots on television, but never hit the big time. He came back to Richmond to do a show at the Hippodrome. He died shortly after.

 

 

Mary Ann

 

One artist in the early 80’s affected the department. Mary Ann lived in a huge house in the Fan district. She could not stop talking, but she was fun to be with. She associated herself with everyone. She complained about the women’s rights, she talked about divorces as men were slim. She formed causes, and partnerships with anyone and everyone. She was the grapevine. She had a party. A friend rode me up her front steps, through the open doorway and into the hallway on a motorcycle. That was fun.

Donna

She was there when I came to work. She was the established dominant female presence. She presented herself as in control. The male establishment did not know how to cope with this, so they bowed down to her. She got her way on everything.

From the Robert Redford poster on the wall, to the constant and continuous phone calls, to the lack of work ethic, to the rebuttal attitude to management, Donna survived.

She did give me free rides to work with Whit and only had one wreck.

She became an animal’s rights activities, with her own agenda. She continued to intimidate the newspaper management into raises and promotions, while asserting her own form of blackmail. She could not be denied.

When the consolidation of departments came, she expected to be the new Art Director.

Donna was laid off, with Haward, in 1998.

 

 

Computers

 Ads were created from drawing on velum, press down type, and amberlite for color separations. Artwork was captured on cameras and developed to slick paper. Type was set by production typesetters on a new ‘cold type’ system. This required a hand typed or written form to be rekeyed into a priority computer system and printed to punch tape and then fed into another computer to translate into a bitmap character recognition of type. The computer type was printed out through a developer and pasted up with hot wax on a grid sheet. Once the news type was pasted up and the 65dpi photos placed, the entire page was photographed and a metal plate was made and sent to the pressroom. This was what the strike of 1971 was all about.

In 1983 this all changed. The Apple corporation presented the Macintosh computer to the world. This computer could set type, prepare color graphics, and build advertisements. These advertisements could be transferred to media and transported to other locations. A new world was changing.

In the Richmond Newspapers, the news art staffs already had been delivered the new production machines. Macintosh computers. 25MHZ, 80MB HD. greyscale monitors.

 

1989 Advertising joined the computer age.

Seven Macs with one color and six grayscale monitors were purchased and delivered to the Creative Services department. Quadra’s with 80Mbs hard drives. A fileserver of Macintosh 40Mb and a backup system of SyQuest 80mbs disk. Seven computers on seven tables in the middle of the room. Software boxes, manuals and no training.

Artist would go to these new machines, type on them, and then go back to drawing boards.

Then type was printed out and pasted up. Then, Macromedia FreeHand was found. Type could be stretched and squeezed, but no vector drawings were done.

I was curious what these machines could do, so I’d come in on weekends and test out each application. There was no formal training, so hands-on trial and error was the teacher. Plus got the feel for the mouse.

The corporation and one of the advertising semi-tech savvies had chosen the software and had to make it work or not. Another problem was the hardware was by a company called Apple and was more expensive than the Hewlett Packard and Dells used to operate Microsoft Office.

The packages of applications of Microsoft Word, Aldus PageMaker, Macromedia Freehand, Adobe Photoshop and a unique newspaper advertising software Muti-Ad Creator. Each would do unique things and some interacted with others. Also, the software developers were adjusting to the speed of the hardware and picking up features from each other.

I started reading the instructions and magazines and taking classes to take the hardware apart and put back together because I was not getting assistance from engineering. I would go into the office every Saturday and try out each application. I was contacted by software developers to sample and review their latest inclination of what might provide the user with the optimum results. This was especially true when Adobe was creating the PDF (Portable Document Format). Phone calls (and eventually e-mails) were made testing and re-testing documenting the results in magazines and commercials.

Eventually, I was given the title of ‘Computer Specialist’ (with a raise). I was given the chore of writing the Return on Investment every year for the purchase of faster hardware and upgrades to software. Corporate hired an outside Apple consultant to try and link the two operating systems together on an expanding network. Not only did we give classes to the newspaper executives and sales department, but also gave presentations to conventions. Still, without formal training, the user’s knowledge was hit-or-miss.

An Apple Macintosh specialist was hired by corporate to help our fumbling network. A simple stand-alone daisy chain network was rigged up between the news departments, editorial and creative service so everyone could use the larger printers. The Mac’s were finally admitted to the MG network, though the IT folks complained about the chatter of our computers. E-mail quickly followed. A forum called ‘Crash Dummies’ was established to hear problems and research solutions to be forwarded to everyone (without politics). An inventory was set up to give the location and serial number of ALL the Apple hardware and software. A fileserver was secured in a locked closet.

Still can’t complain of the confusion. The newspaper gave me a monitor, computer, keyboard and a pile of FREE software.

 

1998

Roger Clapp, a good old boy from Advertising who was brought in from outside the chain of command when Wainwright moved to head the production department, had left the company to move to Florida and retire. He realized his days were over. His support group was gone.

Roger Kain, who left Richmond sales to go to the corporate Florida’s newspaper, had returned. He was a party animal. He was a black bearded wild eyed free spirit. Florida changed him.

Roger K. walked into the Creative Services department, straight at me, and shook my hand. “I’m Roger Kain”, the white hair frail man said. I smiled and said, “I know Roger Kain, and you are not him. Roger hangs from balconies on hotel rooms at conventions.” The moment drew a silent pause. He knew I knew more about him than he wished to remember. This did not fit well with his New Position. But I remembered.

A group of consultants came to Richmond Newspapers in 1989. They were summoned to evaluate and redefine the production of the newspaper. The paper had built a new production facility in Hanover County. State of the art presses. The old presses were removed from the Richmond plant.

The announcement was made that the newspaper would prepare to move to a new building. Change was on the way.

The consultants were given handpicked employees to confirm their assessments of the workflows. Charts and graphs. Smoke and mirrors. The conclusion was the same presented to RTD management one year earlier by a consortium of employees.

 

Customer Service Center

A new department was about to be formed. Management jobs were opened for interview. I had not had an interview since 1971. I applied for the Department Management position, a technical position, and a Creative position. I wrote my resume.

The first interview was held. ‘Department Manager’. A board of directors, Frank, Roger, and Bill held court. I answered frankly, but not corporately. I did not get the job.

Other positions were presented to the remainder of the management team. ‘Technical’, ‘Creative’, ‘Day and Night operations’, and ‘Day and Night desk supervisors’.

I applied for the ‘Technical Coordinator’ job, with a secondary backup with Creative. Who knew what was going on and what the “new” department requirements would hold. 

The wait began. The work continued, but decision makers were deciding the outcome behind closed doors.

 

Then it happened.

 

The fateful day, the work continued. The phones rang. People began to disappear. Went to the production department. People began to disappear.

I was called into Operations Director’s office quietly. I sat on a couch and looked at the pasted faces of the managers who had told other managers of the lost in employment. A long, tiring day for everyone. Luckily, a weekend was given to recover. I was still employed.

I could not explain this to my wife.

Sisyphus, she called me.

The next week, empty offices and little communication continued the anxiety of employees. They wanted me to explain and I had no answers. The confusion started. There was no game plan.

The Creative Service department, which I had known and loved for so many years, was consolidated with the Production department, Promotions department, Ad Services department, and the Engraving department. All were to become the ‘Customer Service Center’ (later renamed ‘Prepress Design Service’ so as not to get all the circulation calls).

Two more years of hell were about to begin.

 

Crash Pad

I laid low after that. A few friends would come over now and then to drink a beer and smoke pot. The weed was the preference of the day. I had few local connections, so I would buy from friends when they were in town. And they all came to town.

Whitey called one night. How he found me is a mystery, but he came over. We had a few hits and he told me of his life since summers gone. He cried about the loss of his family and wife. I offered an asylum to rest, but he needed to get away. A couple of phone calls and he was off. That was the last I saw of LaMar Whiteford McIver. A few years later he and his father had died.

Art’s brother Jim, was living a block away on Park Ave. He was living with a dark hair girl named Barbara. Unlike his sister, she was outgoing and talkative. She also had money. Barbara also tried to confide in me. I don’t know why.

Barbara would tell me tales of Jim trying to do unspeakable things to her body. She also had a son. A baby boy from a previous encounter.

Barbara did not interest me, but neither did anyone else at this time. Barbara would come by unannounced day or night at any hour. A knock on the door and she was in. She would bring wine. She would offer to buy dinner. She never was working, but always had money.

Charlie, Joel’s cousin, also found me. One night he appeared out of nowhere. He was looking for fun in all the wrong places. Unfortunately, he could find lust.

Barbara would be in the house when cousin Charlie came in. They seemed to connect, so I left them alone. I pointed to the door, but did not insist. I went to bed, leaving nature to do its own thing. And nature did.

I had a cot set up for Charlie. Since I did not have another bedroom, I provided guest with cots. This was possible for sleeping but not long stays.  A similar arrangement had worked for the married couple of David and Maxine Mooney when they stayed at 4516.

Barbara was something different. On this particular night, she didn’t want to leave. She stayed. She stayed with Charlie, doing whatever they did. There was a crash of broken wood. The cot broke. The door shut and a car drove off. She stayed.

I was trying not to listen to whatever was happening in the other room. I was trying to sleep. She came to the bed. I was surprised, but remained calm. I lay still as she climbed in bed next to me.

Still dazed by wine and dope, I fell asleep. Awaken in the darkness, I could feel her breathe on me. She had risen and decided to give me oral kisses. She was naked from a previous encounter. Her nipples were flat from nursing. She sat upon me and moved back and forth. She was loose and could not make contact. This meeting was not pleasant. She arose to go to the bath, only to release her moisture on the floor. She was later called Cat Woman for her lack of bladder control.

Art’s sister came by one night. We sat on the porch in the warm breezes. We walked around the elementary school nearby. She told me of her love affair with a former high school friend of mine. She told me the intimacy shared with this Jewish bass player. I wondered what was going on with this family. She presented herself to me and I gracefully declined. She was Art’s little sister.

I realized I had become a bachelor.

I had been the king in this sanctuary. Playing guitar, records, sleeping, watching television. I would spend weekends with friends watching television, listening to records, sucking down beer, and/or snorting or smoking illegal substances. Staying up to the dawn and sleeping the day away. The weekends became a blur.

Now things would be different. Things had changed. I had to deal with outside forces.

FIVE MILES FROM HOME (2006)

 

Five miles from home

is what I travel

Five miles from home

is where I stay

Five miles from home

is my entire world

Five miles from home

is how far I go

 

Five miles from home

is my comfort zone

Five miles from home

I know the way

Five miles from home

do not go too far

Five miles from home

Is where I stay

 

Blind Dates

Another force, a lasting force was about to take effect. A supervisor at work had spoken to me about an employee who wanted to meet me. I was fascinated, but not totally interested. The early 80’s held little future for me.

I offered an occasional solution to the meeting. A random visit at a local pub.  A mire flash in the sea of wanton women.

I waited with friends. A pitcher of beer, and some fries. The conversation continued as more and more people joined our group. Married couples, single men, unknown variations of men and women would briefly set themselves, then leave. This was the natural order. This is was the pub was all about.

The familiar face of the newspaper production supervisor appears. She slowed her pace and was pushed back to the end of the room by another girl. A tall lanky jewel wearing a fluffy rose summer dress.

Not to be deterred, I gather the party of friends and proceeded to the back of the room. A large wooden table beckoned us. We surround the two women and plied them with beer.

Vague conversations were exchanged. Glances were blurred as more and more beer arrived and dispersed.

The group begin to dwindle. Steven, the curly haired guy with the troubled soul left. Bill and Peggy left. Barbara, who had presented this prize to me, question politely if everything was going to be all right. David G. and I assured her. We would take her drunken friend home. We would not take advantage of the situation. I paid the bill and we move toward the street. All three climbed into the black truck. She sat between us. No touching. The cab roared with the sound of the motor starting.

Where now? We traveled out of the fan district into the West End. Over the bridge of the Powhite Parkway. Up Grove Avenue until we hit the light at Mary Munford school. We turned right. I was close to home. We turned left on my block and drove down the rolling hills. Another turn and we were facing east up a gravel alley. We rolled to a stop after several houses.

She climbed out of the car and staggered to the wooden fence. We waited until she reached the platform of her 2nd layer deck and waved. The gravel sounded louder as David’s truck roared down the alley.

A week later I invited the young girl to join a gathering at Poor Richard’s. This was the usual water hole or the newspaper crew.

To my surprise, she arrived, dressed in a taupe and black sundress. She had changed clothes. She looked surprise at the gathering of friends. Work associates Bob, Adair, Charlie, Angela, Cindy, and others filled the table. Linda was welcomed to the clan.

What about dinner? Adair offered transportation to a fan pub. Joe’s Inn was selected as a familiar site. After leaving the ride, we walked into the ever-darkening bar. All the booths were taken, so we walked to the other side. Next to the window, the jukebox, a table became available.

We ordered dinner and talked. The sandwich became bland. The conversation held my attention. We sat and I listened to her stories. I was amazed.

I paid the bill and started walking back home, stunned at the statements made. I was angry at a person I did not know or could not reach. I was pacing.

We walked up the quiet fan streets until the we reached the Va. Museum.  We walked up the parking lot.

She stopped me. We turned and faced each other. She kissed me. A warm inviting kiss. I stopped and pulled away. I grinned and started walking. I was numb to this emotional attention.

We walked on through the row houses and over the highway.

We paused at my street. It was a block away. It had to be familiar.

“Do you want to see my etchings” I asked? This is my house, I announced, as I opened the front door. Living room, music room, bathroom, office, bedroom.

Just then life was about to change.

This was the bedroom. A small room with the bed facing north and South. I looked up and saw a naked girl. Not just a naked girl, a desirable   naked girl.

While quietly walking through the rooms the change had happened.

 

Meet the family

Knowing little about this girl, she invited me to join her ‘adopted’ family for dinner. A very uneventful affair talking about hunting, but I did get a sense of the neighborhood she grew up in. I didn’t know how I ranked with her previous boyfriends. I didn’t care.

She decided to make another attempt by meeting them at their boat. On the way, her Mustang lost its transmission. It was a sign. A bad sign. Her car was costing me my savings.

I never saw or heard from her family again.                    

Moving In

She lived a block away. This was my downfall. She was within reach. She was close. She was available. I could not help myself. I would call her. She would ask me to come by. I could not resist.

She lived above a house. In the attic. A walk up to sliding glass doors from the outside. An open door from the inside with no lock. A single room with a low bed and small television in the corner. The kitchen/ bath combination consisted of a small toaster oven, bathtub with a wire cage and a live chipmunk.

She would accept entrance at any time for whatever purposes.

I did not approve of those living conditions. I offered my house as a safe refuge.

A fairly easy move with so few items. She went back to her adopted parents’ house and removed whatever was memorable from the purple bedroom, including a red rocking chair.

We stacked the mattresses until they reached the ceiling. The house was about to change with a roommate.

Chipmunks, Cats, Fish, etc.

It started with a chipmunk. A wild creature with brown and black stripes. His name was Beau-Beau. He would drink out of a inverted water bottle attached to the wire cage. He would run on a squeaky wheel at night and keep all awake. He would throw the wood chips onto the floor. He would sleep under tissues layers.

A multicolored plastic home with tubes and wheels and rooms was purchased for this little critter. He was removed with gloved hand from his wire home to a new environment. A few weeks later, he had gnawed his way through the plastic and escaped to a higher grown. He had moved up to the second floor. Several days were spent looking for the critter, until it was discovered he had gotten outside onto the gutters and down the drain spout. Beau-Beau was free.

Metal tubes were laid out in the yard for the creature to run and hide. Hours were spent staring out the windows at night looking for the little black and brown critter. Was that him? Was that him? Was that him?

After Beau-Beau left, there was a void.

Pumpkin filled a void. A rescued orange and white kitten, he was warm and soft and welcomed a new home. He chose me from a litter in a basement. He crawled up in my lap and fell asleep. He was home. Pumpkin ruled the house. Whatever he wanted was his.

Cricket was presented to Heather by a policeman on snowy winter day. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the black and white kitten. She was sleeping in a snow bank. That was all that needed to be said. A smelly warm fish shop was better than a snow bank. She learned quickly how to climb to the top of a three-tiered fish tank display and teeter to the amazement of customers.

Jason, a scraggly orange cat came around the back door and begged for food. His sad eyes warmed the heart. He was the perfect companion to Cricket. They stayed interlocked in a warm basket in the office during the winter.

They both came home.

Skunky was a black and white fluffy kitten who adopted the family. She found her quiet spot with the others. She never begged, but sang for her dinner. She would play ET for a string.

Kiwi was purchased. Willow Lawn held a pet store for a brief time. Heather visited the store and brought home Kiwi. A soft puffy furred brown and black striped fluff ball with giant green eyes and a warm purr.

Duke, named after Jelly Duke, came around the corner of the house one day and parked himself in the azalea bushes. He cried for food. He cried for attention. He received both. After one night outside, the gray and black strip silver tiger became a member of the family.

Dusty arrived unannounced. The solid gray firm body walked a step away, then she would turn to rub up against the leg. A soft purr and a smile. She enjoyed the sunshine and the outside. She watched the birds, but did not chase them. She would watch the garden grow and relax in the leaves. She kept an eye on the yard. She was aloof, yet familiar.

The fish came in droves. Moon Shadow, and the others filled 13 tanks for two years. Plants, water, pumps. Salt water fish. Fresh water fish. Large fish. Small fish. Gold fish. Green fish. Black fish.

Ferrets. Frank Burns, old ferret face, was the first. A slender pliable critter. The gray body would wind through the hallways and under covers. The constant motion around and over furniture was only interrupted by occasional naps.  He ate cat cereal and kept the other critters in control. Frank dragged Skunky into a closest upon her arrival to the clan and pushed the door closed. He would also snuggle into a sweatshirt pocket for a winter nap.

Maggie was Frank’s mate. An albino Ferret, she was shy and weak. She followed Frank and sang with a “whoop”.

Bunny arrived unannounced. Heather called me at work and thanked me for the bunny. “Uh oh”, I thought, “The rabbit died?”. I came home to hard b-b bullets on the floor. A huge solid black bunny hopped out from behind the wall. She immediately went to the wall and started to chew on the stereo wires. Suddenly everything had to be put up high. The critters ruled.

The latest of the Critter Crewe were Patches and Ragamuffin. Two calico kittens who arrived at 6 weeks of age. In a box on the front porch, the little faces left their previous life for a warm basket and the smells of other cats. Their pressed faces peered over the rim of the basket as the other larger cats came by for a sniff.

Once a neighbor alert Heather of a fallen squirrel. She was taken into the bathroom and cared for. She was kept in a cat carrier, then released to the shelves of the bathroom. Every morning Petey, as she was called, would look over the shelve or hand upside down as I prepared for work. Finally, she was released to the outside world. Special foods and homes were prepared for her. She stayed close and would eat out of our hands. As spring arrived, she moved down the block. She took up residence in a hollow tree next to the Quaker church on the corner.

A frog has taken residence in the backyard pond. Lillie croaks her message at night. She accompanies the koi and gold fish in the blue lined pond surrounded by sticks and birds.

Blue Jays, Cardinals, and Finches.  Sparrows and Robins. Starlings and Chickadees. And Gray Jays. The gray birds with black hood have become a backyard member. Every spring they come and ask if the yard is ready to inhabit. Every spring they check each corner and watch the ritual of the yard. Every summer they would raise a family and bring them to the window to watch the kittens. Every fall they would sadly leave for the warmer climates.

A flock of pigeons would line the telephone wire, then fly down when seed was spread out on the grass. They would then fly over to the neighbor’s yard and poop on his deck from his tree. The neighbor complained. I suggested he cut down the tree.

Spiders and mole crickets were not favored, but today they are just inside neighbors with the roaches. If a fly or moth flies in the door, they are spider food. Just stay out of my face.

Water, sandwiches, fruit, and seed are always offered to the creatures of the yard. Intricate thickets have been woven for protection and shelter.

The Critter Crewe survives, in the yard. 

Furniture

What started off as eclectic, has become raw. Heavy wooden cabinets and movable chairs. A larger bed was purchased. Best Products supplied several chest, drawers, headboards, and cabinets before their demise. The wooden ram was walked to the site, locked up, and the cardboard boxes pushed home for assembly. Crate furniture came and went with the fabric being too hard to clean. Danish teak bookcases were purchased to store records and art books. A library surrounded the living room. They slowly moved into a small room stacked to the ceiling. Rolling chair are a must. High back rolling chairs is the office chair. Rolling black chair soaked in beer with one arm is the Mansland chair. Rising and falling with the task at hand. Adirondack sofa and chair covered in green pads and pillows face the television and away from the street against the American flag painted window. Flat surfaces are covered with books, magazines, patterns, paper, and cats. Left over furniture from 4101 fill the spaces. Red hard wood kitchen chairs. A sideboard with broken dovetail joints painted green and given a Formica countertop.

Shelves hold books. Shelves line the walls. Shelves hold history. Shelves made of long fencing boards and cut up remnants of the previous walled enclosure, hold cooking, garden, art, and animal books.

Shelves hold animal toys and food. Shelves hold animal pictures. Shelves hold animal collars and tags.

Shelves hold computer software and books. Shelves hold high school and college annuals. Shelves hold glasses, keys, identification badges, and spare change. Shelves hold music books. Shelves hold old dusty LP records. Shelves hold CDs and cassettes. Shelves hold books of history, future, and unknown wonders. Shelves hold cup holders and kittens.

The Bedroom is a large mass of swirling material. Sheets, blankets, robes, pants, shirts, and kittens. All a jumbled pile to be straightened out each night and tossed aside at the dawn.

The office has turned to the computer. A Macintosh 7100, old by today’s standards, churns it’s 80 MHz life on a 3-gig hard drive with a scanner, zip drive, CD, and color printer. Claris Works is the favorite of my wife’s. MSOffice, QuarkXPress, Macromedia Freehand, Adobe Photoshop, and an array of utilities fill the hard drive. The unfinished wobbly table holds the plastic covered keyboard, Radio Shack speakers, and telephone.

The stereo sits quietly in the corner gathering dust. The records are not heard or felt anymore. Cassette tapes are recorded and played in Mansland where music can be enjoyed with headphones.

The books are read on occasion, but mostly taken outside to refer to for research. Books are constantly moved.

Books grew from Art to Nature, to Cooking, to Sewing, to Gardening, to Quilting, to Animals, to Yard work, to Painting.

Once a year, a ritual moving of the furniture takes place. What starts out as a cleaning exercise, turns into a major shifting of the placement of all the furniture. The bed will go from East to West to North and South. The dressers would be stacked on top of each other. Animals will scurry and hide. At the end of this move, nothing can be found. Weeks will pass before the bruising stops.

Remakes

My former outfits became refuge for the new ‘look’ we, as a pair, was to have. No more hippie jeans, no more country club attire, no more earth shoes. She had to give up her ‘trash mouth’ and those clogs.

A nice boutique shop named ‘Britches’ provided me with a new sleek attire of flowered or dark shirts, corduroys and stylish shoes (no wingtips). Hair was cut to avoid the long-haired style of young men. Favorite jacket was a black ‘Member’s Only’ with a McIver scarf in the epaulets and a suede fedora.

She like frilly lace and summer dresses (replacing her ball gowns). Since she had modeled in an earlier time, she knew how clothing was to hang on the body. She got warm jackets, handmade scarfs, woolen caps and leggings for long walks. The high heels were replaced with comfortable shoes. Mostly she wore my shirts.

She was a natural brunette, but she experimented. One year she was a blonde. One year she was a redhead. Hair length changed on a whim.  One day I came home and she was wearing a straw hat. “Don’t touch it” she required. Hair grew back.

She had a background of makeup and was provided with all the tools of the trade to always look good on my arm.

SEX

As a red-blooded All-American boy, I grew up on the fantasy of Playboy magazine, skimpy bathing suits, nudie pinup calendars at the filling station garage without either family or church or school mentioning any of it than the Bible said to avoid at all cost. “Avoid what?”

After my first experience, I wanted to try some more. The problem was to find a place that was out of view of parental restraints and a willing partner. Without any instructions or knowledge of consequences, we were at the whim of teenage testosterone passion and fooling around find physical pleasure. Losing virginity was a ritual badge of courage.

This woman presented herself as the perfect dance partner. She had experience to understand what she wanted and was willing to give. She was limber and young and constantly wantoned for more.

Our relationship was built on our bodily connections more than an emotional contact. She bought a book of 365 daily sexual positions. We were magnets of pelvis attractions. There was never a place or time when a teenage fumbling dream could not satisfy a desire.

I was lucky to have a dance partner, who not only knew all the steps, but was willing to dance all night.

 

Friends

Art and Joel were the closest, due to the history.

 

Joel moved across the river and had babies. We ventured to his abode a couple of times. They lived in a blue-collar neighborhood next to a guy who worked on his car all night. The compact living room held 4 to 5 people.

Joel built a new house. He helped construct it. He did the finishing. On a wooded plot of land, the huge downstairs and loft upstairs was a meeting place for the old college gang. The gravel driveway drove beside the pool and volleyball net.

Joel became the ever-working teacher and family man. Solid member in the community.

Art would come by unannounced with bread in a coffee can. We would drink wine, smoke dope, and eat soups or stews out of heavy gray bowls.

Art left for Roanoke after returning briefly to Richmond. One wife down and back to Richmond. Living on a farm style house, he dropped his weight again. Back to Roanoke, then back again. He was constantly moving, changing jobs, meeting and losing women. He would bring coke over.

Loud and forward, Art offended Heather in his manners and relationships. She also thought Joel was not attentive to his offspring.

Neither of these friends impressed Heather. Neither of these friends were welcomed in the new environment for 15 years.

 

 

 

 

The Final Wedding

One day I said, “We are pretty good at this.”

She agreed and we got married.

 

The first road bump was getting the marriage license. While applying, the clerk said she could not process the request because I was still married. Seems the deal I’d made with a drug dealer lawyer never occurred.

Got a lawyer and Art agreed to be a witness that I had not ‘been with’ Linda in over a period of time allowed by law. A few weeks later I received a blue wrapped legal form that stated I was now divorced from Mary Linda Rowan Leftwitch.

Before this event could take place, Linda Freed changed her name. She was developing a new personality. She chose a new name of Heather Dawn McIver and that name would be what was on the marriage license

Second trip to city hall and the clerk questioned our similar names but convinced there was no family relationship.

I signed up for a vacation around Christmas and she made all the other arrangements. I got a room at a hotel for a couple of nights and she lined up a Justice of the Peace.

We arrived on a cold night in December and I was given a key to the room. It turned out to be a ‘wedding’ suite due to so little lodging for the holidays.

We dressed in our finery and found the man who would give us vows for a fee and sign a paper that said we were legit. I wore a dark blue suit with a dark tie and she wore a dusty rose dress with a rose.

He took my money, said his words, we agreed and exchanged rings witnessed by his wife. All said in done in minutes.

Back at the hotel, it seems the pipes have been frozen and water would be available only occasionally. No matter, we had just gotten married and the hotel lavished us with gifts and free champagne. The service was extraordinaire.

The room was warm, the bed was big and we were lucky and always had hot water.

The next day we wandered around the empty fantasy land of Williamsburg with a chill in the air before Christmas. Fed the guest by the lake and enjoyed the peace and quiet and colonial decorations of the season.

Wonderful dinner by the fireplace with live musicians and hot apple cider. I felt sorry for the staff that was tending to our wishes while leaving family at home during the Christmas season.

Upon leaving even got a discount due to the water problem. The Hospitality House hotel was perfect. It is no longer there.

THE GIRL I WILL MARRY (cml, 2007)

 

The girl I will marry

         will be sweet and kind

the girl I will marry

         will always be mine

the girl I will marry

         will come unto me

the girl I will marry

         I’d beg on one knee

The girl I will marry

         Smile lights up the sky

the girl I will marry

         if feeling bad, will make you cry

the girl I will marry

         Eyes light up the night

the girl I will marry

         has hugs that hold you tight

The girl I will marry

         Holds your hand when you walk

the girl I will marry

         Listens to your talk

the girl I will marry

         Will be soft and true

the girl I will marry

         Will look just like you

 

 

 

The Honeymoon

Nags Head always had a draw for me. It wasn’t Wilmington or Virginia Beach, but it had the ocean. When I went there in the mid 60’s it was still a sparce fishing village.

Gregg, Anne, Linda and I decided to take a vacation together. I found a cottage in one of those magazines at the grocery store. I reserved the cottage by phone and we were off.

Gregg had a white van that we put all our ‘stuff’ in. Linda and I sat in the back on folding deck chairs bouncing back and forth. We reached our destination with laughs and little confusion and settled in. The weather was perfect.

Gregg took off his shoes and propped up on the deck railing with a beer in hand.

The next morning his feet had ballooned in blisters and he could hardly walk. We pampered him the rest of the week, but it was a downer to a week at the beach.

After Heather and I were married, decided to take a honeymoon and I found the same place at Nags Head. It was a little more expensive but looked the same.

When we arrived, she took off her shoes and stepped out of the car onto a sandbur. We were at the beach. The inside was just as I remembered but I didn’t tell her I’d been here before.

A hurricane had just blown over (sometimes you can’t predict the weather) and it was still windy and a little cool, but the sunshine on the ocean front was perfect with a windbreaker.

Since everyone else had cancelled due to the hurricane, the beach was all ours. The sand was warm. The water just right. And quiet at night.

We’d wander down the beach and then stop at some restaurant to get some nachos. Since there was no one else buying the food, we (again) got extra portions or free seconds. Everyone was friendly when you are the only ones around.

A memorable walk under a pier being sprayed with ham sauce became a laugh. A brief rain didn’t matter because you were at the beach. Jiminy Cricket kept us company in the shower.

It is hard to leave those memories but a few photos of our gull friends being fed and the joy that brought was worth it.

 

Mansland

There is a place for a man. It is in the back yard.

A storage shed was purchase years ago to house the tools and bikes. This would free the space of the attic for a bedroom (that never happened). The truck backed up the 15 x 12-foot building and gingerly placed it in the marked zone. The rest of the yard was cleared of grass and bushes.

The blank interior of studs and wall board and plywood floors. Two windows facing east and South. The small porch shelters the front of the building.

The outside was stained brown at first, then painted green. Inside was white washed with brown floors. A peg board held the hand tools. Metal shelves held saws, routers, drills, and cabinets with screws, nails, and bolts. A black tackle box was arranged with screwdrivers, ratches, and wire cutters. Pliers, hammers, and socket wrenches.

In the corner a Black & Decker workbench given to me by my first wife was becoming stained by the constant travel of squirrels and left-over droppings.

A few years ago, it became ‘Mansland’. A place of escape. A place of refuge. A computer, printer, guitars and amps, books, files, pictures, chairs, and drawing tables.

Trees and bushes have grown around the building. Decks of timbers have been placed on two sides of the building. The side and the back held small ponds.

Windows hold dual fans during the summer. Blinds drawn at night and a flashlight at the ready by the door over the fire extension.

A long black cardboard table holds a computer and printer in the corner. Above it is two large framed collages of Frank Zappa. A green clock keeps time next to a calendar. The corner supports a shelf for a 13” television and VCR. A cork bulletin board has images of projects pinned to it.

Music has become the focus in Mansland. Old music is being re-recorded on a karaoke machine. Raw and without rehearsal. With the sounds of the yard in the background. Drum machines keep the rhythm. The rest is up for memory.

A “Jabberwocky” is kept close by. This is the large drawing book to keep record of what is happening. A left over from long ago, the tradition goes on. Black and white sketches, some in pencil, some in charcoal, some in marker. The images of our times. Captured and put away for later review.

The green rugs and black chair are soaked with beer. Beer is a constant in Mansland. From the morning to the next morning, beer is cold and wet and available. Some nights beer falls from the hands to the floor while listening to tapes in the headphones. Some nights beer spills onto the chair as the tapes induce sleep. Some nights beer is drunk and the carton torn up and placed in the trash.

The journey from Mansland to the house has changed. From a grass walkway, to a black plastic slick path, then a white gravel crunch. Today, it is a dark shadowed leaf covered dirt trail.

During the day, chipmunks scurry back and forth under the pines and up the fence. They stop to look for danger, then dart down a hole. Holes accent the yard at every walkway.

The bicycles still hold their place side by side. New seats and bags for carrying groceries. Pumped up tires.

Dirty pitch folks, shovels, and weed wackier line the wall. An orange extension cord is wrapped and placed on the wall. A hole bares wires.

Mansland comes complete with hole puncher, file cabinets, Phi Zappa Krappa posters, hard hats, photos of baby kittens, extension cords draped beside headphones, fish tanks, drum sticks, saws, and a brown footlocker with all the memories of the past in there.

Mansland is what it is. A dirty smelly place to go and relax. This is not a good winter site. This is not a good summer site. This is all that’s left.

 

Guitars (continued)

A used red triple-pickup Fender Stratocaster with static problems that was traded for a Farfisa organ to Wild Bill. Great action and a whammy bar. Learned electric guitar on this instrument. Bought several effects for this guitar. Phase shifter, echo unit, Wah-Wah peddle, and distortion unit.

Gave the Fender Bandmaster to the Salvation Army (after an employee’s son rejected it as not being loud enough) and bought a Roland 15-watt amp with effects. One ten-inch speaker that gave more power than the old tube amp. Also had headphones. I would be playing hard rock, but the only sound was plinked, plink, plink of the strings against the solid body Strat.

Had kept a Vox teardrop bass with sunburst finish and a padded back I had procured from the Rolling Stones 66 concert. A thin neck held black soft material wrapped strings. A smooth sound. Easy to play. Recorded a lot with this guitar.

Bought a Fender sidekick bass amp to fully appreciate the bass guitars. Also, to hear the true sound of the Yamaha PSR-16 keyboard or Cascio Digital guitar.

The TEAC 4-channel tape deck died and was trashed. Recording was transferred to cassette. No over dubs. No layers. Recording became a one take wonder.

Needed another 12-string. Bought a Washburn full body blond acoustic guitar with internal pickup and single cutaway body (George). Also bought a 6-string Washburn single cutaway thin body acoustic with pickup (Woodstock). The two hard shell cases sit beside me awaiting the quick tune.

Over the spring and summer, I’ve decided to record every song I had prerecorded or played in bands or wrote. Every song was played on a 12-string.

A Radio Shack karaoke cassette deck was used. Strap on a 12-string guitar, turn on the record button, and play. A drum machine kept the beat. Outside sounds of birds and rain muffled the singing.

After two months 3-cassette tapes held one hundred and twenty-three songs, including two musicals and for other singers. Written from 1964 and updated with new beats and rhythms. The results were surprising. This project moved me to write three new songs.

Next, I turned to the keyboard and recorded the two musicals as instrumentals. Effects and one take. Digital guitar duplicated the same songs with different results.

The latest extension of this project is recording songs performed with different bands and singers. Folk music, instrumental surf guitar, English Invasion, country rock, covers and old favorites.

 

Transportation

The Mustang kept eating up money. I finally said I would not pay for it anymore. I gave her the option to get a job if she wanted to keep it.

It sat parked in front of the house for months until the city put a red ‘abandoned’ sticker on the windshield. The city towed it away at no cost.

Walking became the transportation option.

She drove my mother’s Mustang until mom demanded it be delivered to the nursing home. She drove it out and parked leaving the keys in and walked home.

We rented a car for some reason and she used every ounce of gas to go to Hechinger’s Hardware store and Best Products to bring home boxes of tools, crates, cages, kitchen appliances, etc.

I finally talked her into riding a bike. She had a red Schwinn she had ridden in school, but it was too small. We went to the local bike shop and she picked out a bike she liked. It was a white Bianca racing bike costing $1,000. She then said I had to go back and get myself a new bike. I chose a Marin for $500. It was the best bike I ever had.

On a purge from my past, along with furniture and clothing associated with a previous time, I gave away ‘Happy Jack’. A large strong orange Schwinn 12-gear drop down handle bar bike with a steel spring rack on the back. I’d bought this bike from Mr. Agee after college and it lasted me for years. Sorry to see him go.

She wanted to attend a conference in Williamsburg. She got her reservations and decided to take her bike to ride around instead of walking. She took the bike apart, loaded it into a cardboard storage bike container and was off on the bus. She rebuilt the bike and enjoyed the wonderful Williamsburg fall. The bike even had its own bed. She went to the conference alone and repeated the process to come home. I was impressed by her desire and ingenuity.

The local bus company was giving away bicycles as a promotion for being green. We went downtown and picked up two Raleigh bikes. They were three gears but would be the work horses.

Years later, all the bikes were stolen out of my backyard at night and I had to go back to the bike shop and buy two new Giant bikes, with saddle bags, lights and locks.  

 

Jobs

When I first met Linda (aka Heather) she was working ‘paste-up’ in the newspaper production department. Before that she had worked for her boyfriend as a secretary and before that on a movie site as the assistant directors’ main squeeze and coordinator of the extras. Before that she worked at the local theme park. Before that she had worked catering with a neighbor who raised pigeons.

I suggested she leave the newspaper, for being sexually harassed.

She got a job at a plant shop and suddenly the house was filled with greenery. Not sure how much she earned or paid for the plants, but she was fired supposedly for bringing home balloons for my birthday.

She got a job at the local department store Miller & Rhoads at Willow Lawn. She had to buy ‘business’ attire. She sold lingerie to transvestites. That store closed thus losing another job.

She worked for a while with a neighbor designing flags.

She got a job at a local aquarium store on Cary Street. The owner died and she became the manager. She cleaned the tanks, sold and ordered the fish, handled the books. She handled hiring an assistant, fixing a broken ceiling and bringing home stray cats and ferrets. The house became over hydrated with 13 fish tanks and a pond outside. After the owner died, the brother of the owner decided to close the shop. She begged me to call him, since we had gone to school together, but I couldn’t afford to buy him out.

One of the neighbors was building a suburban sub-division and noticed what she was doing to the yard, then offered her a job landscaping. He picked her up and bought all the plants and bushes and paid her pretty well. I offered her the opportunity to buy a truck and hire an assistant to make it professional.

She knitted scarfs and gloves and sweaters for the homeless. We took bags full down to the Salvation Army site for Christmas. They just said put the bags over there and went back to their phone call. Disappointing.

 

I realized I needed money to buy toys and my allowance didn’t cover all the toys I wanted. I did odd jobs for my father like working a soda dispenser at my elementary school or moving a friend’s children or even playing Santa on Christmas.

My first ‘real’ job was tending to vending machines at the train station. Also got free rides to Washington selling cold coffee and old sandwiches along the way. Had to fill and empty the coffee machine, stuff sandwiches into a rotary column and empty the trash.

My next ‘real’ job was assisting the librarian artist on constructing signs and flyers. Got access to the stacks where no one else could go. Had a bike stolen.

After graduation from higher learning that was supposed to train me for my eventual career, I got a ‘real’ job at the local newspaper as a ‘masking artist’.

This job required taping a piece of orange amberlite over a photo and tracing around an image cut the film away from the background. Imagine you wanted a photo of an automobile without the background. The two images were photographed and the negative used as a ‘mask’. A long process but the other options at the time were air-brushing the background away on the photo or cutting the photo background out with a silhouette mask of amberlite using a single edge razor blade.

At the same time, I was doing some illustrations and booklets and learning my trade. I would work 10-6 Tuesday through Saturday. Some Saturdays, a security guard would wander in with a threatening swagger. Sometimes it was quiet. Had 2 bikes stolen there.

An artist left and I was assigned to his position. The boss would hand me an illustration assignment and say, “Draw it in the style of Bill Nelson”. I could work closer to the sales staff and interact with the production department as a resource. My work seemed to be approved with wage increasements and awards.

Went from ‘artist’ to ‘junior art director’ to ‘Art Director’ to ‘Senior Art Director’ over the years. A couple of offices but few directions of staff. In later years, the staff was divided between the two ‘Senior Art Director’s’ but there was very few evaluations or documentation. I was now management. I was now a salary employee. No overtime.

The computer brought another assignment to order, load, install and train the ever-changing technology. I was given another title “Computer Specialist” and another raise. I’d go into an empty office on weekends and practice the different software applications.

The ‘Creative Service’ department was growing with more side publications not being produced by the ‘Production Department’. Additional employees enrolled under the umbrella of little discipline or direction.

One publication was a golf magazine. It was to be written by someone in the newsroom and assembled in the department’s side venture. Since this digital adventure was expanding, I suggested we make an interactive CD with the printed magazine. Not so much a game, but a few tricks to keep the reader interested. The sales person found some yahoo in Williamsburg who promised he could create it. Weeks of emails with illustrations, text and ideas and it went into production. Boxes of CD’s shrink wrapped and pressed were handed out to anyone who had a PC (for they were not compatible with the Apple products).

The next day everyone brought them back and said, “They don’t work?”

It seems there was a file, that was on his computer to start the program, was not included in the CD burn. Start over and burn new CD’s? Add a floppy disc with the element missing?

Then the Internet came out, but none of the executives could vision the future of a printed newspaper online. The application of e-mail was difficult and awkward and most avoided it.

A tech was hired to our corporate company to guide the Apple computer users. We worked together making presentations to show the future to news distributors. As software was developing, we helped showed how advertisers who depended on newspapers to prepare their ads would not be able to produce their message at the last-minute deadline.

I was involved in forming an Apple users ‘Crash Dummy’ meeting to distribute Q&A e-mails across all departments. I also gathered representatives from different departments and made suggestions to consolidations with similar jobs and effective use of workforce and materials.

It must have given interest so an outside consultant firm was hired to come to the same conclusion.

I was requested to attend a black-tie event in New York as one of the top art directors of the year. There was a black bound book with gold embossed letters for $100. I did not buy one.

The local ‘Art Directors’ Club had meetings once a month. They were mostly cocktail parties for the advertising agencies, but the title let me in.  Mostly the ad agencies talked to each other about slick print magazine ads or television spots while the radio and newspaper print were left behind. I did meet artist of the time like Peter Max, Shel Silverstein, Graham Wilson and Jeff MacNally, but they were mostly there to sell a book or give a talk and get a check.

After the corporate decision to gobble up small newspapers and television and radio stations to appear powerful, the technology appeared haphazard.

At that time, the ‘Customer Service Center’ was formed. A hand full of supervisions were chosen to consolidate imaging, ad assembly, creative into one department under an advertising sales representative while most middle management was laid off. Unfortunately, there was no direction or goals, so we made it up on the fly.

While being more ‘computer specialist’ than ‘art director’, I was assigned to find some magical application that would make our processes faster, easier and with fewer bodies. I also was combined with technical teams to travel to remote sites to evaluate their networks and make recommendations on changes. This was the same time that the corporate structure was hiring people to input all the paper files from the newly acquired acquisitions into a single database.

I was also assigned to attend conferences in LA, New Orleans, Washington, Tampa, Winston-Salem and Virginia Beach. I would give presentations of the new world of digital as it grew.

As software was being developed and adapted, I was one of the people who volunteered using Beta versions of software to evaluate what works and what doesn’t work and comment on preferences. Network communications were always a problem. Routers versus Bridges.

Then we moved the newspaper across the street to a newly constructed block building before our building was torn down and rebuilt. To keep the production processing, ½ the staff were moved over one day and the second half moved the next day. An outside crew was hired to move the hardware to a prepared map, but I had to double check the hookups.

Then there was the 2K Panic. Much of the mainframe computers were vulnerable. All sort of committees were set up and variable solutions but, in the end, they were shut down and rebuilt with desktop computers.

While duplicating pre-century technology, we had problems getting corrections printed. Salespeople were quitting and advertisers were frustrated. The push was on to find a software that could solve all our problems.

At the same time was a directive from corporate to move from Apple to Microsoft. Comparisons of versions of software on both were presented to top executives (with the assistance from an outside vendor trying to sell his production service). The contention went on until an Enterprise system was agreed upon, signed, sealed and delivered using PCs and QuarkXPress (the latest page layout software). Then they went out of business and another company took over it and the software changed to newly created version Adobe InDesign (upgrade of PageMaker).

All this going on without any training to the staff but overall things settled down with verification of ads being finalized correctly on deadline and optical lines to the Hanover printing plant.

There were plenty of problems. A generator in the street blew up one night and turned off the power at deadline. I’d seen Vepco working at the entrance of the production building, but this was on the other side of the building under my office window. A hero engineer came downtown and rewired the dark office building (which held the newsroom and classified) to the production building. Our staff was assigned to help paste-up, but mostly stepping on top of each other and fumbling around as they did during the strike. On another occasion, while the building was being torn down, we moved to the basement of the new Media General building. There was a tunnel running under the street to the basement of the soon to be completed Times-Dispatch building. There was a heavy rain that flooded the street and started to flood the basement. Quick thinking piled bales of newspapers at the door to soak up the excess water. Once the fiber optic system used to send images of final pages from downtown Richmond to the Hanover printing plant was cut. Luckily there was redundancy to keep the flow going until it could be repaired. One evening, as I was getting ready to leave, the power went out. The uninterrupted power supply batteries kept a few systems going until the backup generator could be started. The generator had never been tested and the batteries died. Somehow someone found an extension cord and the paper was on the doorstep the next morning. A hurricane was predicted and behind closed doors an arrangement was made that the Times-Dispatch would back-up the Virginia-Pilot at the beach in case their power went out. No one made any test runs or connected names and phone numbers. On the night of the big blow, a selected group volunteered to spend the night for whatever could happen. The associates were paid time and a half and slept under their desk. The night supervisors spent an extended shift. I got ‘volunteered’ to join the fun. A phone call came into the desk and I was handed the phone. The voice at the other end sounded panicked. This was someone from the Virginia-Pilot who confirmed they would be putting pages on our website. Once we had all the pages, we called the pressroom and told them pages were coming. The pages held their text fonts and full color photos, BUT… All the pages printed in four colors. Classified, obituaries, editorial pages all print four sheets of film. Waking up all the experts and trying variations there was no way to combine black and white into one page. All the pages were sent to Hanover in four negatives and plates. We never needed to print their paper. Don’t know who paid for all the materials?

Side note: The next morning as the reinforcements arrived, I walked outside to a beautiful day. There was little traffic on the streets and no buses, so I walked home. I saw little damage from the hurricane. There were some bricks off a wall and a tree down in the fan, but little else…until. I turned into my neighborhood and there were trees down all over the place. No power, no phone service. Luckily Puppywoods survived unscathed, but for days the sound of chainsaws and bucket trucks.

Working on a Saturday meant cleaning up the leftovers for ads and projects and send out the Sunday classifieds to print early. With a slimmed down crew and one engineer, everything was routine. One Saturday, all the classified pages were sent to Hanover as usual, but they never received them. I paged the engineer and never got an answer. I searched the building and could find him. The pressmen called about the delay. Made the emergency call to an engineer at home and warmed up the processors preparing to print negatives downtown and drive them out to Hanover. Again, no emergency preparation. Discovered later there were two screens to the Hanover plant. Send and received. The problem was the received file was full from the night before and computer drive space had not been cleared.

Before the age of digital there were situations where an ad I’d worked on for a two-day rock & soul concert at the City Stadium turned into a riot. “No Hassles” or the changing a word on a syndicated comic without editorial permission.

There was constant communication about automating paper ad request. The corporate engineers complained there were too many options for ordering ads. I created an input sheet from Microsoft Outlook. Each field could be adjusted to specifics. No one was interested. They all were willing to wait for corporate to present them the solution.

The supervisor who was assigned the ‘desk’ which receives all the advertising request, sort, manage and process to the new pod system of ‘designer associates’ decided to recline back to being a ‘designer associate’ and I was transferred to being ‘Operations Manager’ and a night side supervisor given the technology challenges.

Still being the Saturday supervisor, I realized there were too many people doing too little on the weekend, so made some changes.

Instead of lounging about at ½ speed, I offered an early end of day if every chore was done. When the nightside crew came in, there was nothing to do. This decision did not go well with upper management.

Still had to write reports and documenting ‘associates’ but without a secure area and time during the day, I spent nights reading database statics and filing personnel records keeping in Sarbanes–Oxley Act of 2002.

Not getting into the management communal mode, I was offered to becoming the recently vacated ‘Database Administrator’ from an associate who found working was too difficult. This would remove me from ‘management’ to an hourly worker without working weekends for the same pay. I was given a hide-away cubical with two computers. I’d attend some technology meetings trying to accomplish sales input, but everyone was waiting for corporate to show them the way and corporate said it was too complicated. I would get request and document and accomplish within a timeline. I got raises.

After a few meetings with management disputing my conduct that could only be revealed from others in a passing discussion with signing documentation of our session. From there on, I did not discuss work with anyone.

Months of reviewing the corporate challenges and executives cashing in their stocks as they dropped; layoffs began. Circulation was dropping, advertising revenue was dropping.

 

April 2, 2009, I arrived work as usual. Ride my bike, go to the basement and take a shower. Change into my work clothing and arrive at my desk thirty minutes ahead of schedule. I’d been moved from my plush cubicle to combine with a group of imagers who toned scans for publication standards. The process would become a drop bucket that would automatically make the adjustment of curves, highlights, shadows, etc.

One of the salesmen came over and told me another had just been released. I kidded to another to keep your head down. Then a request from the night side manager to accompanied him to the elevator. Going down.

Once in an HR closet, the night manager told me my job was no longer required and left. Along with other confused faces, I receive the spiel of what being terminated meant, given the option to signing a release form, a notebook of loss of benefits and what I needed to leave the building. I asked for my blue jacket and a small knapsack.

A few days later, I delivered the signed form that would allow me to receive my pension and get severance pay while cleaning out my locker and desk.

A couple of days later, I went down to the office early and under the watchful eye of an HR employee, I cleared out my desk and book shelves. Pencils, pens, notebooks, documentations, etc. to the point I couldn’t carry any more. The HR employee took two of my framed artworks and delivered them to my house the next day because it was just too much stuff to carry.

 

It was over.

 

 

Illnesses

I threw my back out. An Advertising Conference in Roanoke. After several hours and several drinks, the party moved to the hotel bar. Everyone danced. We danced the dance of the youth. We danced like we had in every other Advertising Conference. Unfortunately, we had stayed stoned all afternoon in our room with our feet propped up on the window sill. This stretched my back. The dancing didn’t help.

After a ride downtown to a local all-night hot dog venue, we proceeded back to the hotel. Sitting upon a soft bed, I could feel my back tightening.

I retired to my room, passing up an opportunity of a lifetime. I quickly fell asleep under the cold rush of air offered by the hotel.

The next morning, I could not move. Slowly, I rolled over and stiffly stood out of the bed. I was stiff. I was soar. I was hurt. I gingerly turned on a shower and let the warm water wash upon my back.

As my roommate, Jeff packed, I walked around trying to loosen the tension.  Luckily, Greg had captain seats. Luckily, Greg had a wagon. Luckily, I could ride home.

One stop to stretch, did not help. I was in trouble.

After unloading my bags at home, I quietly picked up the dirty clothes, and placed them in the kitchen. Then I lay down on the bed.

Heather came in to welcome me and jumped on my body.

An electrical shock went through my body. For three days I could not walk, sleep, sit without a destabilizing breath-taking shock going through me.

Staggered off to a local chiropractor. He had me lay down on a pad giving electrical stimulation to loosen the muscles and jumped on top of me pulling my arms and legs as I screamed in pain.

He gave me two options. One was to get a shot that would quill the pain, but it would come back. The other solution was to walk. It seems walking is the best medicine for getting the back in line.

Over time; walking worked.

Now I’ve very aware of my back and possible restrictions.

 

Doors

A small house has no place for doors. They cover walls, they back to closets, they open the wrong way, they do not lock. Heather would take her anger out on the doors. She would slam them. She would kick them. She would punch holes in them.

The doors were taken off the bedroom, the cat room, the kitchen, the library and cut into small pieces. The trash men took the crooked boards previously closing off the world.

 

 

Fence

For several years Heather was feuding with the next-door neighbors. On one side an old woman would slowly walk in her back yard wearing a raincoat and hat. Stooped in half, with a rake as a cane, she would move some leaves into a pile, then slowly walk back to her porch always looking down at the ground. Heather would complain the old woman would stare at her through the windows. Heather complained the woman didn’t like the constant sound of the television and would put a small transistor radio in the window competing with the noise. The windows were painted glass.

The other side was an Alzheimer widow named Edna. White shoes Bob had died a few years before Heather moved in. Edna was left alone. She started to complain to Heather about the trees she was planting being on her property. Edna ordered a survey. The feud continued until Edna built an 8-foot-tall chain length in her backyard.

Heather called Sears and got an estimate of a privacy fence. Her paranoia had peaked. A 4-foot-high picket fence surrounded the front yard, a six-foot privacy fence hid the backyard. After several calls to North Carolina carpenters, two men arrived with a wagon full of lumber. Heather directed the entire process. No rest, keep building. Five gates. 15 corners. The job was completed in two days.

The wind was blocked, the noise decreased, the shadows grew. The boards weathered.

This year Heather needed wood to extend her bookshelves that line the living room ceiling. Boards were cut off the fence and reduced to the size needed. The fence is now a checkerboard of privacy and gaps. It still keeps the dogs out, but the raccoons can come to wash their food.

A neighbor complained about it in a threating letter. I responded this neighborhood had no Home Owners Association and as long as it passed city code, I could do what I wanted in my yard. They moved.

 

 

 

Yard

I came home from work one day and half of the front yard was gone. All the grass had been scrapped down to dirt. “What is going on?” I asked. “We are landscaping”, she replied. The next day the other half of the lawn was removed. The processed continued into the backyard and all the grass was gone. Bushes were dug up, trees cut down, black plastic was pinned down and holes dug for new plantings. It became a moonscape. She had a plan and I just paid for it.

 

 

 

 

 

Kensington Manor

The simple rooms became renovation with my new roommate.

One weekend I went on a convention and returning the kitchen was gone. All the cabinets and sink had been torn off the walls and thrown out into the backyard. Even the appliances of a stove, refrigerator and washer had to be replaced. Beginning of the love affair with Lowe’s hardware.  A simple refrigerator was replaced with a side-by-side down with an ice maker on the door that was never used. A small gas stove was replaced by a huge electric stove. A functional clothes washer was replaced by a stacked washer/ dryer. A rough hole in the wall had to be made for the dryer. A make-shift sink was used as a utility sink and then a weird construction device that had to be re-piped. The new checkerboard floor became destroyed. The side-by-side refrigerator had to go and was disassembled and dragged out to the alley for refuge. The stove took up too much room and was dragged out to the alley for refuge. It was replaced by a large toaster oven. The stackable washer/dryer wore out and was dragged out to the alley for refuge. A heavy-duty side by side washer/dryer were installed to handle all the blankets and towels. The refrigerator became a mini refrig and worked fine. It is still used today.

The living room became the bedroom. The art room became the critter’s room. The music room became the new bedroom with four mattresses stacked on top of each other.

To make all these moves, the original decoration had to change. The heavy wooden freight furniture was thrown out for Danish chic and wicker.

 

 

Dope4

My wife was more of a bartender than a drinker. I was a beer drinker, staying away from the hard liquor.

She had told me of getting slipped a ‘micky’ for loosening her up for a gang bang, but wasn’t taking any other drugs.

She liked the daily usage of marijuana and called it ‘Mister Happy’. Powders made her nervous but like the stamina for extended sex sessions.

Unfortunately, she got paranoid being home along and would hide the dope. She couldn’t remember where she hid it, so I stopped buying.

We shifted to a bottle of wine with dinner, and then two bottles. After a while started buying the cheap box of wine.

I would get a 12-pack of Coor’s light for my nightly sessions in Mansland.

Alcohol would also be the self-prescribed medicine to ease the tooth pain or back pain.

After my back was more mobile, I attended a friend’s BARF party. Before I arrived, I had a 12-pack. After I arrived, I consumed another 12-pack. Feeling no pain, we sat in a circle and passed around a bottle of tequila. I kissed the worm.

I woke up laying in the damp grass. My guitar was lying next to me. It was 3AM. I cleaned off my guitar and put it back in the case, wondering why my ‘friends’ would leave me in such a position? I thought about walking home. I walked up to the deck and tried to open a door. It did not open. There was no sign of life inside so I sat down on the deck and waited. As the sun arose, there was stirring inside. My only question was, “Did I do anything bad?”

 

 

High School Reunion

I don’t remember who called, but somehow, I got in contact with the former high school class leadership who wanted to have a 10-year reunion. I was all in. I don’t remember if we ever gathered at a spot and talked about how to do it, but I did some graphics. This was the time before email, so I chipped in to buy stamps and was anxious to see what happened.

The site was the Columbian Center in the county. More or less, a lodge for dances and town hall meetings. Basic.

I remember some of the old class leaders gave speeches and there was music of the time and everyone was drinking from kegs. Met up with Robert Kurfees (the last time I saw him) and a few others. Art led the gang to parts unknown to partake of weed. He came back shaken because he had met his ROTC commander who said he was now working for the FBI. Other than that, was pretty unremarkable, except for the fist fight in the parking lot.

The second reunion was downtown at the Omni Hotel. Swank settings. This must have been 25^th reunion.

My new wife was nervous about meeting new people from my past. I arranged for an English taxi to deliver us downtown. Pretty classy. We took the elevator to whatever floor the soiree was on and signed in. Some guy with a beard walked and said my name. Had no idea who he was until he introduced himself as ‘Steve’.

My wife and I went back down to the hotel’s bar to calm her nerves. It was a piano bar, so I drew some caricatures on napkins for the appreciation of the music. Got free drinks.

Now loose, we preceded back up to the reunion now in full swing. I think they had a cover band but the music wasn’t very good. Either way, found some friends and gathered at a table. A guy from work, John, was there with his wife who attended our class. My wife recognized him and solved the discomfort.

Fairly uneventful night and my friend David and his latest wife drove us home since my wife had become unconscious from the dance and drink.

The last reunion brought us home to the high school building. This was the 50^th and the survivors gathered first at an ice cream parlor. Did get to talk to a few folks but mostly strangers from another time. Did not partake of the pizza.

The second part of the reunion was in the high school auditorium. Just wandering the halls (through the metal detector) brought back the smells of the ceramic walls, marble floors, metal lockers and heavy wooden doors. The presentation was a slide show of teachers now long gone and the sale of crappie baseball caps with TJ and chunks of the stage on keyrings. There were no cheerleaders or military parades or even the band playing our theme song no one remembers. Still got a box lunch.

The third and probably the most impressive part was the dinner at a local Chinese restaurant. High school cliques formed at tables as the program started. A few ole high school friends joined me at a table up front because we wanted to be in on the action. Requested the DJ to play Frank Zappa. We became the ‘Zappa Table’.

Dinner was served in a buffet line and watched the class filing through as if it was the lunch line at high school. Slurping down pre-pared food no one would normally eat; the table were neatly cleared and several removed for a dancing area.

By now I’d consumed enough $5 beers to listen to boring conversations and giving the bartender a giant tip when she said my beers were free. The ride was ready to leave when the conga line started, but the DJ did play ‘Dancing Fool’. Gave a ‘No Drugs’ sign I’d taken off the school grounds. Did you see what Suzy was wearing?

At the 56^th Reunion, there were fewer of us. They were all old. They still bundled in their old cliques. Some tried to hide their age, but everyone talked of grandchildren. The cheerleaders liked to be photographed together, but where were the football team? The Key Club? The cadets? Was chauffeured by an old bandmate and his wife and he hadn’t changed much since high school. Back at the hotel, Steve and I put on a show trying to remember songs we’d not played in a decade. No one danced but we did get applause from the mostly black crowd in the lobby.

Aside: Went to my first wife’s high school reunion. Knew no one or any history but was more than willing to experiment. She found a table with her high school friends. It felt like the library class. There was another table just inches away who seemed to be having fun. I asked if we could move over there.

 

Internet

When the World Wide Web started, it was just yellow type on a green background. Like a primitive chat board, the network was slow, the computer processors were slow and replies took some time to receive.

Out in Mansland, I rigged up some sort of configuration to hook up to a modem and dial up. I don’t know how I did it because I didn’t have a phone line. Probably used an extension from the landline phone box outside?

When the company announced, they were going establish e-mail, I tried to log on, but with little success. When asked tech support, their answer was because I had an Apple product, not compatible with their PC network. I had to hack my way into the network, but it was not worth it.

My neighbor installed FIOS that was unlocked, so I hacked into her router. Things got much faster.

This was the same time that cellphones were replacing beepers. Previously, the only communication between the Big House and Mansland was a walkie talkie or a walk out to do a face-to-face.

I called Verizon to have FIOS installed. They send a technician who was having a bad day (seems he was coming back from vacation and couldn’t find all his tools). He grumbled as he climbed the pole, ran the line across the yard, hooked up the connection box, climbed under the house, drilled a hole in the floor, put all the wires into the router, typed some stuff on his iPad and left.

That was 14 years ago. I haven’t had word from Verizon since, but they do take $90 out of my bank account every month.

Now it has become daily entertainment, new source and basic communication with the outside world.

 

 

Snoring

It seems I have sleep apnea. I snore. I also stop breathing when I sleep. Sleeping has never been easy for me. I toss and turn for my mind won’t stop. In my youth, I would bang my head against the pillow to sleep. I got in the habit of staying up late so waking up to go to school was always a struggle.

I never had any complaints before my second wife. It bothered her to the point where she could not sleep with me. I would come in late and she would leave the bedroom. She would go upstairs (until the racoon came in) and stare out the window. She would walk the dog around the school to the attention of the night people who once shot her. She would walk the marathon course in the middle of the night, escorted by a police car.

I still grind my teeth and know that I’ve had a rough night with droll on the pillow and a dry, sour mouth. Sleep apnea.

 

Travel

My job changed from the 9-5 in the office to being assigned to travel to various places. This was more than a VPA weekend vacation but to attend conventions or forums that could last a week. That meant being away from home for days. She had to cope without me.

I travel lite. A sports jacket I could steam in the shower, slacks, a dress shirt and tie and an alternate polio shirt. A razor and other accoutrements were purchased at the hotel. If it was a black-tie occasion, I’d bring my own tux.

I usually slept while traveling. I lost baggage (the same as you), ate dried up hotel cuisine and had too many drinks while talking to strangers. Every hotel (whether New York, Tampa or Virginia Beach) has a conference room with bad acoustics and a wait staff that wants to clean up and go home before the party is over. The only good movies on the TV were the one you had to pay for and the company would not reimburse.  

WE ALL DRIVE TRUCKS (cml, 2007)

 

We all drive trucks

The diesel sucking, black smoke puffing, big old metal trucks

And we all drive trucks

Today

 

4x4, extended cab, hemi on the side

extra door can be added to give you more ride

adjustable seat that moves up and down and slide side by side

big old bed and hopped-up tires you’re ready for a ride

 

We all drive trucks

the mother stuffing, black smoke puffing, big old heavy trucks

and we all drive trucks

today

 

Pump um up with gas on plastic, for the fuel you can’t afford

turn the key, watch the needle flee, strap in and slam the door

step on the gas, ready to kick ass and feel the engine roar

zoom out for a quart of milk and the local corner store

 

The earth is dying from the heat, but nobody even cares

we buy more monster metal machines that continue to pollute the air

bigger and bigger and badder so everyone one is secure

we want to drive them faster while carrying a big load

 

SUV or extended cab, 6 foot high and 6 foot wide

take ½ of the highway, your trucks will fill the road

getting bigger and bigger to carry a bigger load

 

when you swerve and cannot handle, no sleep creates a mess

there are special truck stops to fed your face and take a nap to rest

everyone else are stalled waiting for the clean-up to be done

the delivery is late for that tee-shirt I promised for my son

 

And we all drive trucks

mother sucking, gas guzzling, super-sized trucks

and we all drive trucks

today

 

Money

My family was never rich or well-to-do, but we got by. We rubbed elbows with people who did have wealth and learned to look like we had manners to fit in.

I didn’t do many chores around the house other than take out the trash and cut the grass, but I always seemed to have an allowance.

There was always enough change in my pocket to buy a milkshake from High’s Ice Cream or purchase some trinket from the Lafayette 5&Dime.

The first REAL money I made was playing guitar in rock and roll bands. At the same time, being a teen, I spent it as soon as I got it.

My first REAL job was across the street from the First & Merchants bank and I started a checking account (although I didn’t have any checks), so perhaps it was a savings account? I’d deposit money every week and get a new stamp in my bank book. If I wanted any of this money, I’d have to stand in line and ask the teller for money who would stamp my bank book in red for a withdrawal.

The balance was just enough to pay for $100 a month rent and a few quid to buy a beer or two.

Getting married and becoming the financial producer, I copied my father’s legal ledger (the previous spreadsheet) to keep records of my spending. At the same time, I was sent a FREE credit card. This was FREE money and only had to pay back the minimum. I don’t think my father ever had a credit card because he was taught pay-as-you-go.

I did odd jobs to get paid. I did freelance artwork as a company called ‘NimrodStudios’. Guaranteed or your money back (sans material cost). Charge was $15.00 an hour and I had software to keep track of all time spent on clients’ projects. Some were rewarding and profitable. Some were a pain. To ensure the ‘guarantee’, the client had to show profit or loss before and after my artwork was used. Others were slow in paying. One overnight project for a magazine so they could meet their deadline took an extraordinary turn. The artwork was published with a credit line. After some time, the client was contacted about late payment. A check was finally cut but bounced at the bank. I had to go to their office and threaten to take physical items from their desk before I got handed a pile of cash. I didn’t like the business end of producing creative ideas.

Since I was the breadwinner, I did the books. I finally made the bank account a joint account so she could pay the bills when I was out-of-town. There was never enough money in the first marriage, but this marriage required additional credit cards and loans. The mortgage was refinanced and some bills were not paid to the point when I was served to pay-up-or-else.

Enough times, my wallet was emptied without my notice to the point where I had to lock up my dollars.

Just like the first marriage, it took some time to pay off all the bills and cancel credit cards.

 

 

Mansland (continued)

This little house became my office away from the office. I had lots of reports to write or scripts or diagrams and could not do it in the house with all the animals crawling about. This had to be done after work hours because I did not have private space to work in the office.

The walls were stacked with my file cabinets and printer, plus my guitars, records and books. This was to become my home.

There was no heat. The power connection to the house broke, so an extension cord was run from the house outlet under a screen window through the yard and connected to multiple outlets. The roof leaked and there was little ventilation in the summer.

The daily request for a requirement to the grocery store was requested and sometimes took several trips. To pick up detail items like books or pet stuff, she would accompany me.

 

Change of plans

Life had turned into work and work and work, with little time for vacations or home life. This gave my wife more time to expand her dreams but without a partner.

I’M BORED (cml, 2007)

 

I’m bored    reading my directions

I’m bored    making a connection

I’m bored    folding a map, taking a nap, getting a slap

I’m bored    having a concussion

I’m bored    salad dress is always Russian

I’m bored    remembering names, video games, going insane

I’m bored    television shows

I’m bored    blowing my nose

I’m bored    eat big Macs, having bad sex, computer hacks

I’m bored    with talking heads

I’m bored    writers who are dead

I’m bored    unintelligible talk, talking a walk, dirty socks

I’m bored    politicians lies

I’m bored    baby’s cries

I’m bored    breaking the rules, skipping school, holiday yule

I’m bored    family reunions

I’m bored    religious communion

I’m bored    smelly feet, eating meat, being sweet

I’m bored    paying the bills

I’m bored    seasonal ills

I’m bored    jokes not funny, counting money, days that are not sunny

I’m bored    violent news

I’m bored    singing the blues

I’m bored    pleasing your Mammaw, avoiding drama, seeking the karma

I’m bored    knurly neighbors

I’m bored    toilet paper

I’m bored    sleepy dreams, holy jeans, smelly beans

I’m bored

I’m bored

I’m bored

I’m bored

 

 

Health

Not being a regular attender to doctor appointments, I had no private practitioner. I’d been fairly healthy through the years, so I didn’t wish to get a shot or take a pill (that I cannot swallow) that cost me. The occasional cold could be treated with aspirin and sleep.

My wife did not have any doctors to handle her ‘female’ issues, so I just got her pads and tampons and pain pills. She soldiered on the way I do.

The doc-in-the-box was used a couple of times for bumps and bruises, but for most times, a band-aid and a kiss fixed the boo-boo.

When we first started ‘dating’, I suggested we donate blood. The blood bank was just a walk away, so we took an afternoon and signed up. I have been giving blood at work as part of a community drive, so this was no big deal. I went in, lay on the tilted table, was poked with a hose and squeezed the rubber ball. I looked around and didn’t see her anywhere?

This was the time of AIDS and suddenly the worst options went through my brain. I hadn’t known her that long, but we had shared bodily fluids. She told me she had multiple partners of both genders.

I got unplugged, got a band aid and went searching for her. I found her sitting at a table eating a cookie with juice. “I’m anemic and they can’t take my blood.” Phew!

On a trip to Roanoke, I threw my back out. I’d stretch a muscle and could not get comfortable, even in a hot shower. Once home, I laid on the bed and my wife jumped on me. That caused a nerve contact where I couldn’t breathe, walk, sleep, sit without electrical shocks going through my body. After three days, I hobbled to a local chiropractor. He laid me out on a table and jumped on me. He offered two solutions to my pain. 1. A shot to numb it, but it would come back… or walk. 2. I decided to walk. It took a few months, but it worked.

On one of our Christmas ventures, we walked to Willow Lawn where seagulls gather during the winter. Bought a couple loaves of bread at the CVS and walked out into the parking lot to feed the birds. Unfortunately, the water puddles were Black Ice. She slipped and landed on her head. I got down in a crouch and slid over to her expecting the worse. She had a headache on the walk home but there was no blood or visible broken bones.

The headaches continued but worse was the pain in her teeth. The company dental office was called and an appointment made. It wound up in a neighborhood that was a bit shaky, but she went and found she had TMJ (temporomandibular (tem-puh-roe-man-DIB-u-lur) joint) but didn’t solve the problem. We found another doctor and he gave her some shots that knocked her out.

That worked for a while, but one night she woke me up and said she had to go to the emergency room. We rode out bikes up to St. Mary’s and sat and waited. Some guy came in who was cut by a chain saw and I understood priorities but we waited. Finally, they called her name and took her away. There was no doctor reports or updates, so I waited. As the sun was coming up, I finally found a coffee machine alone not knowing what was going on. That afternoon she walked out looking staggered but not relieved. We rode back home and she went to bed.

Ora-gel became a regular on the grocery list. She finally pulled a tooth with a pair of pliers with wine as a pain killer. She stopped complaining.

With all the pain, she had stopped working in the yard and resigned to the bed watching television. She bulked up on cola and chips. Instead of cooking, diner was delivered.

I got a call from St. Mary’s that my wife was in the emergency room with a heart attack. I finished up my work though everyone was trying to get me to rush to the waiting room. I did leave early, got home, changed into casual clothes and went to the hospital. A doctor came out and said she was in intensive care and had a stent put in her heart.

I went up to intensive care and she was scared. She was also regretful for causing a problem.

She had asked a neighbor’s nurse about a pain she was having in her chest. The nurse suggested she was having a heart attack. She called a taxi and went to the emergency room.

Everyday I’d go see her after work and keep encouraging her to do what the doctors said and after a week she returned home. She had some more test at Retreat Hospital that were also rough and then got a rehab coach. That required a weekly class of exercise, yoga, healthy eating and how to continue to live.

We joined a gym for daily exercise. I got her a dog to walk. She lost weight and became more energetic, but I was still full of work so she had to do it on her own. A trip to Target we bought all the exercise equipment. At the local Health Food store, we got a stepper. Like most of our toys, we filled the house with excuses not to use.

 

Other stress

She was riding back home and was attacked by a group of kids on bikes. She was knocked off her bike but hung on screaming while they tried to pull it away as traffic passed. They rode off and she called the police who said they have been told about a teen gang riding in the neighborhood. She got home physically uninjured. I went out searching the neighborhood but never saw them.

She complained that a neighbor was shooting birds in the alley. I heard shots fired and went down to see an open window with a barrel being withdrawn. I never talked to the neighbor.

One day she found a dead dove shot in the alley. She called the police but they said they had to see the shooting. They did talk to the neighbor but could not charge. She then went to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service that stated shooting a dove in the city is a federal offence. She filed a complaint and was escorted to the court with Federal Marshals. The neighbor was fined and the shooting stopped.

She was walking the dog around the local school late at night and some party was breaking up. A car was driving by and popped off some shots from a pellet gun then sped off. It drew blood. She knocked on the door of a neighborhood and they welcomed her into their home. The police and ambulance were called and there were no serious wounds to her or our dog.

She came back home, into the bedroom and said, “I’ve been shot.” That will wake you up. Then there was a knock on the door with a policeman verifying the name she had given in their report. He said he ran her name through the DMV and it came back that she was deceased. Another trip to get that straight.

WHITE SUV (cml, 2006)

 

White SUV, shooting at me

Quarter to three, dog pulling me

Emergency, why is it me?

 

White SUV, shooting at me

I gotta pee, White SUV

Dog pulling me, Quarter to three

 

White SUV, shooting at me

 

After the heart attack, there was a Red Dress marathon for survivors. We signed up and waked the few miles. This thrilled her.

There was a 5-mile walk for a local family who ran a store on Cary Street and murdered around Christmas so we did walk. She was unsure of the distance and started in the back. The rest of the crowd moved on at a pace we couldn’t keep up. Behind us was a police car. We still followed the route and eventually reached the finish line. We may have been last, but we did it.

She then became interested in the Richmond Marathon. It was 26.5 miles. That seemed a bit too far. She got up in the middle of the night and walked the route (sometimes being escorted by a police car). At sunrise she got home, completing the trip and exhausted as I got up to go to work.

There was a 5k Monument Marathon that was close to home and within walking distance. We got our numbers and found our place in the back of the pack designated by age. While many ran, we walked and walked and walked and walked. Close to the finish line, she fell on her back. We rested for some time, then forged on to the finish line. She ran ahead of me to get a better time.

When we left the park to get our bikes, she stopped to take off her shoes to rub her swollen feet.

The next year I signed up for the walk, but she declined. Since I’d already paid my check, I walked the 5k alone. I tried to find a faster pace, but with 20,000 of your best friends, it is hard to find a path to get around people. I finally found a group of girls who could run interference for me.

We had a bunch of medals on ribbons. I threw them all away.

DON’T GIVE A HOOT (cml, 2006)

 

Don’t give a hoot

when you rooty-toot-toot

Say “It the beans”

that got stuck in your boot

 

Give us a grin

When you “poot” it again

don’t give a hoot when you poot

 

 

 

Emotion

“I wish you loved me as much as I love you” she said.

This woman was full of emotion. Valentines was always full of roses. Christmas presented gifts she took care (with whatever funds she had) to choose to please me. Wedding anniversary was every 8:23, ‘Happy Anniversary’. The 25^th anniversary was the key to her heart. Rose pedals on the bed. Paper hearts from the bus stop to the front door. Picnics at Maymont park.

She appreciated what I tried to give her, but it was not enough.

She told me about her previous relationships. She did not want to know anything about my previous life. She would tear my previous wife’s image out of pictures.

She didn’t talk about her adopted family, but tried so hard to become part of my family. She was curious about her maternal mother, but couldn’t find any connection. ‘Cumnia’ was a name she found on the back of a photo.

There were temptations to stray, but after seeing other affairs, I avoided them. Whether she ventured? Can only imagine.

At one point I mistakenly clicked on an old girl’s named on some high school site and got a reply that a message had been sent to her. That was not my intention.

I got a reply.

I didn’t have email at home at the time, so the communication was through work email. Nothing reveling until she said she was coming to town.

A time and place were made to meet for lunch. I sat at the bar watching the mirror and wondering would I recognize her?

She came in, we found a booth at the door then smiled into years of unknown memories. Chardonnay for the lady.

She said she had invited my ‘friend’ Art (who had also had romantic connections with her) to join in, but he declined due to health issues. I was glad he didn’t.

After lunch we took a walk through the Fan District, down to VCU and back again. It was there she told me what I was expecting. I had heard these words before from Art.

I carried the chains of shame for emotionally hurting her, but we didn’t dwell on the subject.

We would meet two more times. A memorable kiss gave a promise of possibilities, but I was wearing a ring.

LET’S WATCH THE CHILDREN DIE (cml, 2006)

 

She looks to you for forgiveness

As she lies in the dirt

No reason for the pain and hunger

but you placed her on this earth

 

Her eyes close so slowly

her breathing blows up the dust

the body wrapped in a dirty cloth

placed in a hole in the ground

 

What is the reason for this to happen?

Why do we continue to cry?

The television shows every detail

Let’s watch the children die

 

Nancy

A sweet blonde from Tennessee brought over to the house during a birthday party. She was the new love interest to a married friend. She got drunk and was running around kissing me. The opportunity was available but I avoided the consequences.

 

Sue

Never found any interest in the ladies in the office. Sue was hired as a copywriter. She was young and dating some guy who was a photographer at a television station. We would go out clubbing to drink and dance. She gave me some woeful female poetry, but it may have been the drink. She called me one night after dancing, telling me someone else in the office said I was taking advantage of her. The next day in the office, I had to tell her we could not associate socially because I was her supervisor.

 

Martha

She was a salesperson in the newspaper advertising department. We struck up a likening and started having lunch together. We’d go to Angelo’s Hot Dogs. She was single but had a child from a previous encounter. She wanted to be ‘kissing cousins’, but I saw too much trouble there. Besides the opportunity never presented itself.

 

Pat

She worked with the newspaper public affairs department. Country girl with a great smile and wonderful energetic charisma. She too had a child from a previous marriage and easy to avoid. She married Peanut, one of the maintenance workers and made a perfect pair.

 

Betsy

She worked in the advertising sales department but I met her at the bus stop. She would ride the same bus I did and we struck up a conversation. Pleasant and flirty. There was attraction. She lived a block away. She invited me to a party, and I paused. She married some big guy and had a son who is a bigger guy.

 

Heather

What did I know about this person I’ve been spending 25 years with? Met on a blind date. Attractive but not stunning. No references from others so all the background information came from her.

She worked in the production department doing paste-up and working a basic computer programmer at the newspaper. She worked night shift and then transferred to day. She had few friends. She lived in Louisa County with her boyfriend, Bobby.

She went to Henrico high school. I saw no diploma so I don’t know if she ever graduated. She attended VCU but was molested by her professors.

She lost her virginity on a golf coast to a guy who would come out later. Ran naked to celebrate as a train went by.

Don’t know if she had any religious affiliation or any political bias.

Her three friends took a vacation to Nags Head.

She went to the hotel with a friend who was a rock groupie to see the band ‘Rainbow’. She met Richie Blackmore, then she said she didn’t go up to the hotel room.

She had worked at Kings Dominion. She connected with David Sosna, the assistant director of the movie ‘Roller Coaster’. She paid the extras. She babysat George Segal’s kids and said he was very nice, but Richard Widmark was a jerk. She was told to stay in the Norfolk hotel when the navy came ashore. She was flown to LA for the movie premier, but didn’t stay. He went on to work on the ‘Blue Brothers’.

Her adopted parents’ neighbors, the Dankos, raised pigeons. They also ran restaurants (Stanley Stegmeyer's Hodgepodge Restaurant 1979-84) and she assisted catering.

She bought a broken-down Mustang hatchback at a seedy hotel near the newspaper. It got her back and forth from Louisa County to Richmond.

Her current boyfriend, Bobby, she met while babysitting his children. He had sex with her in the kitchen while waiting for his wife to get prepared for going out.

Never met this ‘Bobby’ but he seemed to use her as his live-in party girl. She worked with his firm, attended fancy parties and indulged in his sexual adventures. She may have had a miscarriage. She did have an abortion(s).

When it became too abusive, she left for an apartment in a shady neighborhood called the Devil’s Triangle. She found a puppy and moved in. Some drunken patrons from the Ritz across the street kicked in the door and the puppy escaped.

She moved into my neighborhood the next day. A second floor flat with a bathroom/ kitchen mix and a downstairs door with no lock.

She invited me to have a double-date with her supervisor, Col. Tom Stephens and his wife (or companion for the night). We went to Yorktown’s Nick’s Seafood Pavilion. Bland small talk, a walk by the water and the drive home. Tom was more curious of the goings on in the backseat than driving straight. He would later call her and ask to come over and ‘talk’. She almost said ‘Yes’ (for this was a usual request for a person to listen to him complain about his marriage) until I said, “What?”

The next day, at work, I told the ‘Lil’ Colonel’ that would not happen again.

She enjoyed the band ‘Yes’ and ‘Barry Manilow’. She enjoyed art, especially Andrew Wyeth. She met Chuck Close. She gave Scotty (James Doohan) a McIver tartan scarf and told him she was Scottish too. It was just a role he played, but so was hers.

She jogged to relive stress.

 

Death

July 4, 2009.

 

Shock

What do you do when the day is different?

Rode the bus downtown with her driver’s license and walked into the emergency room. “I think the firemen brought my wife here?”. A woman took my name at the door and another one escorted me into a private room off to the side. Whether she was a minister, consoler, or a death Dula; she spoke with empathy and handed me some pamphlets. A doctor walked in and announced that my wife was dead and would I like to see the body. Reclined the invitation and the woman said, “Remember her as she was.” The doctor asked if I want an autopsy and I reclined knowing what killed her. The woman asked me if I was OK. When I said I was; she replied “Bullshit”. I requested her body being donated to science and they said they could take care of that.

As I waited for the bus going back home, I wondered why they believed I was her husband and only I could donate her body?

When I got home, I received a called questioning her name. I told them she had changed her name from Linda Freed. That seemed to match.

The next day, I got a call to come back and pick up her jewelry. I did have to show an ID and sign for her diamond rings and necklace (later to be donated to the ocean).

 

 

 

Deconstruction

 

Everyone handles grief in their own way.

I was confused trying to figure out where do I go from here? I put a name and dates on Facebook. A friend called, then came by with a 12-pack and we sat outside just talking about nothing. I typed an obituary on Facebook and started receiving flowers. I had to recall my etiquette to get ‘thank you’ cards to show appreciation for other’s thoughts. I used my ‘Just Another Life’ blog to journal my thoughts.

I would ride 10 miles every morning (after a cup of coffee and the NBC morning news/entertainment show – as is the custom) trying to figure out how to process and formulate a new path. I stopped at a neighbor’s house and cut a weeping willow branch. I wove it into my helmet and wore it for a year. Some might understand, like the wallet full of 4-leaf clovers. Others will not. Every song took a different meaning. Some brought tears. Every shadow took a different meaning. There were different sounds. There was no one walking down the path with a grocery list. The dreams got more vivid.

Picking up the leftover tubes and syringes left behind from the firemen, thoughts turn to open empty eyes but the spirit had gone away. Getting dressed to go outside to get my phone to call 911 and thinking “Independence Day”.

Finally, I settled on a vision of a gathering of past critters surrounding her. That is a good finale; so now I can move on.

The first rule of thumb was to break down the construction and remove memories. The cats were released to find new homes. The puppy was given to a nice girl who promised to take good care. The fish tanks, books, clothing, movies, sewing machines, yarn, kitchen appliances, etc. were donated or given away. Medicines were given to the Fire Department for proper disposal. Walls were taken down and wallboards stacked outside. Lumber was taken down and cut to size to fit the refuse cans. Holes were patched. Living room ceiling was replaced after it fell in. Extension cords were wrapped and deposited in crates. Strip lighting fixtures were wrapped and placed in another crate. All were documented and estimate prices assigned for tax purposes. Trees and bamboos were thinned out. Archways woven with ivy were disassembled. The pond was filled in with dirt. Several walkways were cut up and weekly deposits to the landfill. The main floor joist was replaced. The roof and the roof to Mansland were replaced, with skylights outside. Wooden trim was covered in vinyl (not to replace or repair, but just cover from sight). Holes upstairs were patched with cardboard and tape. The furnace and hot water heater replaced. The bathroom and kitchen were remodeled and new plumbing installed. More plaster walls were replaced with drywall. New front and back steps were constructed. Some electrical problems were fixed along with installation of ceiling fans. Curtains were put up. Furniture moved about. A new single bed was purchased. All the windows were replaced.

IN A HURRY TO GO NOWHERE (cml, 2006)

 

Sirens cut the darkness

Baby stirs in her sleep

Cell phone static message

The batteries dead

 

Don’t know here I’m going

don’t know where to go

GPS won’t show me

the battery’s low

 

In a hurry, to go nowhere

Can’t find my way home

Lost and lonely to get out of here

and I’ve got nowhere to go

 

Spend your time spending money

Spend your money spending time

In a hurry to go nowhere

and I’ve got nowhere to go

 

In a hurry

to go nowhere

and I’ve got nowhere to go

find your way out of here

how did you get in here

and I’ve got nowhere to go

 

Adjustment

The realization that this will be the new world, decisions had to be made. What will your life be tomorrow?

After 25 years, the dating scene was the same, but different. I was not seeking another partner. I was in a fog of confusion of having a crush on a memory. Sex had been withheld as punishment for stealing money. It was all that was left. Just as in the ‘mating’ world, sex was readily available, and like before times, was not very good. Maybe age wears out the desire for looking?

Maybe maturity realizes the results of forming a relationship?

After thinning out the house of personal reminders that could be someone else’s treasures and patching holes, I paused.

My daily mode of operadus is in my home-away-from-home ‘Mansland’. I enjoyed watching the yard activities through the window. To keep the activities going, meant I had to get out of bed, get dressed and venture to the Tummy Temple EVERYDAY to refurbish the daily buffet and restock the silver bullets.

Television became a bore, so the ‘off’ button was hit. Old cassettes that were dragging were copied to CD as a sample of days gone by. Tools were purchase and others thrown away. Repairs were made by Mr. Handyman, Mr. Appliance and Mr. Fix-It. The list never ends, but a comfortable pattern was taking place.

Going to the store everyday became a ritual. Critter food for the yard neighbors was a necessity due to promises. Going to the store also was walking around a long city block using a zip cart as a walker.

The diet changed. The kitchen was cluttered with every sort of weapon of mass destruction ready to prepare any sort of meal. The first thought was making stews and soups that could be stored and reheated, but became bored with the same meal every day. Tried everything from a Thanksgiving turkey dinner for one to grilling hot dogs, but meat is starting to make me sick. Cooking instruments were thinned out and donated to cooks I know will use them. Now it is down to a breakfast biscuit and a sandwich or bowl soup for the meals of the day.

Our old gym closed but there was another at the mall. I waited for it was installing a pool. Swimming laps is good exercise so I waited. I signed a 2-year contract and refreshed myself on the walking and pulling and pushing machines, then I went to the pool. Unfortunately, the tile they installed had no grip so getting to the water was a potentially dangerous slide. The water was warm salt water approximately 4.5’ deep. I pushed off of the side and sank. I had been out of the water for so long; I’d forgotten how to swim. After my 2-years, I cancelled.

Do I need to share this with someone else? Can someone else bring a spark of excitement are this point of time. Relationships: Beware!

 

 

 

Guitars (continued)

 

Most of my previous guitars had been bought from pawn shops or secondhand dealers with only a piano store who sold first hand guitars in the backroom. I’d stop in the music stores but could not afford the popular models. Bought a few from friends and there were a couple of trades.

On my Cary Street crawl, there was a guitar shop set up called ‘Guitar Works’. The owners were a husband-and-wife team and it was small and quaint shop with few selections but knowledgeable instructions. The wife left but the husband, Brian was a professional classical guitar player and professor at the local college, continued to supply a few items to sample on my walks. He started manufacturing his own brand of guitar.

I bought his classical “Medas” guitar with cutaway and electronics. I was impressed by the craftmanship and the price.

I bought a small travel guitar and kept it outside to tinker on, but with the weather change, the minor bracing lost and the bridge was broken out.

This was still a constant stop to check out the selections and talk to the owner.

I saw a Fender 6-string T-Bucket and it felt good. I took it home and was getting a buzz on the strings. I took it back and they did another setup (for free) and it was perfect.

 

Guitar Works was a dealership for Fender and Martin guitars. I went searching the Internet for guitars I’d always wanted but couldn’t afford, but now I could.

My other source of guitars was Arts and Music (which used to be Jacobs). They didn’t have the best selections or the expertise, but they were dealership for Epiphone and Washburn. I ordered an Epiphone Tribute Les Paul (after doing much research between the Gibson and Epiphone models) and bought another Washburn 12-string acoustic/electronic only because I could. I ordered from them instead of direct, because if something was wrong Arts and Music would have to send it back and handle the reorder instead of me.

Bought a few things like microphone stands and guitar cases from Guitar Center online. Went out to the brick-and-mortar store once and bought an $800 digital recorder, but was too complicated to use and given to a friend. Went out there again and bought a pair of power speakers, then noticed an Epiphone Sheraton 335 and walked out with it too. The last stop was to pick up some amplifier stands, an Ovation Celebrity 24 acoustic/electric guitar. A Fender Telecaster was purchased to give away but not appreciated.

Guitar Works was my go-to shop for questions, picks, capos, and ordering higher end guitars. I’d go online and search for the best prices and present it to Brian. I’d order a Martin OMCPA-4 and a Martin DCPA-4 after taking a trip to the factory in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. Being a regular customer, Brian gave me a good discount. When he’d call and say my guitar was in, it was cleaned and set up to perfection. I also bought a Martin Jr. and a mini-Martin with the same professional service.

I bought a Fender Squire percussion bass and a Fender sidekick bass amp. I bought a Fender 70s Stratocaster but needed another amp, besides my Roland I’d bought years ago at Arts and Music.

I stopped in one day and noticed a stack of drums. I asked if they were diverging into percussion? Brian said it was his son’s drum kit and he was selling it for $300. I walked down the street and then returned. I want to buy this Fender Blues Jr and this Fender Mustang amp and I’d buy the drum kit if they would deliver all to my house. They were on my porch when I got home.

Bought a Kingsman Fender acoustic/electric bass from Guitar Works.

Then Guitar Works went out of business. 

Before Best Products went out of business, I purchase the newest technology of digital drums and a Cascio digital guitar.

A Horner banjo from Metro Sound (who bought all my guitars to get out of tax debt) and a Guitar Works mandolin and an Art and Music Washburn comfort series with cedar top and beautiful spalt maple body (of course with cutaway and electronics). 

David Mooney gave me a Roland Juno-106 synthesizer to go with my Yamaha PRS-16 purchased from Best Products.

When I thought the guitar purchasing was over, Martin designed a small bass guitar. It was a ‘junior’ bass. It looked interesting but I had no way to play it. My local Martin dealership had closed. I could order it online, but I want to feel the neck. How does it sound?

I talked a guy into taking me out to the Guitar Center in hopes they would have one of these bass guitars. While he parked in the car in the shade, I wondered through the toy store and found the ‘Martin Room’ that is humidity sealed. There was a 000CJR-10E Bass. The elastic strings were easy to play, the construction looked good and I walked away with my third bass guitar.

 

Remembrances

Being left alone with your thoughts after so many years.

Started listening to WCVE Public Radio (instead of television). Classical music without advertisement interruption. Very calming.

Gave away most of the books. Stopped watching television.

Wrote two books, “Adventures of Ike Patterson and Ginger Bonneau” and “Then the Band Broke Up”, plus thousands of short stories on my “Just Another Life” blog. Working on this memoir.

Wrote a blog post every Fourth of July called “Hey Babe”. It was a roundup of the year’s events and thoughts. I stopped after ten years.

Started a Christmas habit of taking an apple pie to station house #18 for the firemen who had to work on this holiday.

Start the day and end the day with ‘Facebook’, ‘NPR’, ‘Huffington Post’, ‘WWBT (for weather radar’, ‘Richmond Times-Dispatch’, ‘PBS’, ‘VPM’, ‘Washington Post’ and the ‘Guitar Center’. Three e-mails are checked weekly. ‘YouTube’ is used for trailer previous or live television and movies. Shopping became void of Target, Barnes & Noble, PetSmart, Lowes…with stops for chow to online Amazon delivered to the front door.

The routine (habit) of riding to the Tummy Temple every day to get critter food would guarantee getting outside and some exercise. The yard neighbors knew when the buffet was open and sang for their supper.

Of all the critters, a certain Gray Catbird became a companion to the gardener. They would have conversations and she would even get rides on a shoulder. When the gardener died, the Catbird disappeared.

The next spring, around Earth Day, the Gray Catbird showed up. She flew around the yard and squawked about the changes. She’d find a spot and get used to the feeding hours. She always got blueberries. When the weather would start getting colder, she would say ‘Good-bye’ and fly south. Every spring she arrives to spend the summer and give me a familiar friend. My angle has gray wings.

Time also gives reflections of ‘what if?’

If I had died first, there was no life insurance? There would be no income? She was not listed on the house ownership.

The two of us lived life by the moment without thought of tomorrow. If the house burnt down, there was no home insurance?

Much like health, we took each day a step at a time.

One can always ponder if the relationship could have been better? For a quarter of a century, it worked for us.

And of the others? 

Going Home Alone

    

I say I’m not lonely, but I’m living alone

When a raven beauty asked if she could borrow my phone

Engulfed by foreboding eyes, her unforgiving smile

Another round of drinks I say, I’m staying for a while.

 

She drinks away my money, machine gun shots

Long stares into each other, is this all you got

I reach into memory, to order up a round

Wanting to believe this time was something I had found.

 

I’m glad for the encounter, a companion for a night

She acts as if it’s meant to be, so the feelings alright

I act like I’m 30, she knows that I’m not

Together we sit drinking, no questions, times forgot

 

She drinks all my money, shot after shot

Long stares into yesterday, this is all I’ve got

Another memory, another round

Reality comes true, this is all I’ve found

 

Last call comes way to early, beer toast say goodbye

Stories bring tears in rainfall, but it’s too late to cry

A touch of a hand so warm and soft, but on ones left at home

A kiss good night, what could have been, we left alone

 

My phones disconnected; I can’t pay the rent

But for the feeling tonight, the moneys well spent

Our faces stare as if we knew, there could have been a way

To start again, another time, another lonely day

 

I’m going home alone tonight, the writings on the wall

She didn’t really matter; it was just another call

To a time when time was what it was, but quickly slipped away

The sun comes up to wake the dream, another lonely day

 

She drinks away my money, I give it a shot

I say I’m not lonely, but this is all I’ve got

Darkness creeps around the look we shared, as it begins to fade

The time was brief, but it was right, there’s nothing left to say

 

I probably should have put this in my other blog “Just Another Life”, but I’ve put my books here so I guess this is a book too. The adventure isn’t over yet, so this is just the singular point-of-view as I remember. There are other names and experiences that get lost in the fog of age.