Tuesday, July 31, 2012

MUSIC NOW AND THEN


                                               

Many years after I had been forced to participate in music, in school and in church, I developed a love for music.  When I was in grade school—yes—back in those days, we called it grade school, not elementary school.  We had a “traveling” music teacher, who would pop into the classroom from time to time, and take over the class.  The regular teacher would leave and I don’t know where she went went—but I am betting it was out of earshot! The music teacher had a pitch pipe. She would hit a note, and then we all had to hum that note, which produced something that sounded like a drunken beehive. Then, she would break into a verse of “Some say the world is full of fun and frolic,” all the while waving her arms like she was swatting at deer flies. She had a set of choppers on her that made her wide-open mouth look like an accordion. I always pictured her at a corn on the cob-eating contest—and I’m betting she could do it through a picket fence. Our singing was always accompanied by the slamming of other classroom doors throughout the school. Not wanting to be guilty by association, I was one of the original lip sync artists.

Then my mother made me sing in the church choir. The pastor’s wife was the director, and when it came to directing music, she felt that she was one cut above Leonard Bernstein. She had a vibrato in her voice that sounded like you had put a vice grip on your tomcat’s tail, and then stuck his wailing head in a paint shaker. No one could hear the choir, because she had the microphone halfway down her throat. When we sang the “The Old Rugged Cross,” people in the congregation would cry. It had nothing to do with religious sentiment; it was just that painful to normal ears. She had a very ample bosom that jiggled, and my dad said that was where the vibrato originated. Dad always sat in the front pew, center aisle, grinning and slapping his knee. He told me that some day when her bosoms started sagging, her voice would fall with them, and she would sound more like Tennessee Ernie than Liza Minnelli.

Then, I became a teenager, and along came Elvis and rock and roll. When Elvis would start his thrusting and hip gyrations, my mother would fan herself with her Bible and fluff her skirt, and swear that the world had lost its moral bearings, and Satan himself had possessed the music industry. But I loved rock and roll, and I loved that era and maybe, even though mom thought I was perverted at the time, that music was what made my world go around. I bought a small record player that played forty fives, and my dad called it “the wave of the future” that would revolutionize the music industry forever. By the time the Beatles came around, I was heading downhill again with my love for music, and the only music I ever faced was when I came home from the bar, after the softball games.

So now I am back to the oldies, and the good old songs that would drift, on the soft summer breezes from my car radio, through the trees of Lover’s Lane, north of Staples. I have forgotten what I did in Lover’s Lane back then, but I will never forget those songs.


Tuesday, July 24, 2012

ONE YEAR LATER


                                               
It’s been almost a year now since she left me and one of the things that has changed dramatically for me is, I see couples in their twilight years, in a whole new light. I guess I never knew what I really had until I lost it. As we age together I think all of us, that have a spouse or significant other, know that our lives can be separated quickly, I guess I just didn’t think it would be me. I’m not sure the thought of dying scares us anymore, at least not me; it’s just the thought of being alone the rest of my life that is troubling. We don’t like change when we get old and we like to be in charge of things but now we aren’t in charge of much anymore and change is inevitable. For so many years we lived, loved and played together and we knew each other better then we knew ourselves. We were what we thought to be an inseparable team that always had each other’s back. We no longer criticized each other when things went wrong but sadly we no longer congratulated each other when things went right. We simply existed each day as one. I read this somewhere, it’s not mine, but I’m going to use it. If I shed a tear for every time I wished we were still together. I would be standing in a puddle of wishes.

Maybe that’s want God meant when he said in the good book its not good for man to live alone. He, in his infinite wisdom, knew that when you have someone to love and care for, you have so much more purpose in life. Maybe I should have just said someone to care for instead of someone to love because you never stop loving him or her. They don’t have to be front and center for that. Distance only matters to the mind, not the heart and its impossible to fall out of love. To those of us who have had children you see a little bit of her or him in each one of them and that bring us some solace. After all that was our purpose in life, was it not. To carry on the family values and traditions and replace ourselves on Gods green earth.

Love for me was making her happy because without that there was no way to achieve happiness for me. I learned that as life went on, because life taught me that in everything I did.  I found it also in what worked in life and what didn’t. Through it all I came to a realization that there is a reason life goes on for you. That God isn’t finished with you here on this earth and you owe it to a lot of people to carry on. Our lives are like books. For some the book is thin but some of the best stories I have ever read were short ones. It was substance, not volume that made the story so great. For others the book is many chapters long and if you were lucky the story was so intriguing you couldn’t put it down. Sadly for many, they can’t wait for the story to be over. For me hopefully there is a sequel. I love sequels because it’s a chance to bring the story back to life. But you do have to be careful because you want to try and embellish the original story and not ruin the whole thing.

So I’ve run the gauntlet and spent each holiday, birthday and anniversary without her at least once. My puddle of wishes is slowly drying up and I’m looking forward to what life still has in store for me and feeling blest. Blest that I had her as long as I did.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

THE FOURTH OF JULY


                                              
So, it’s another Fourth of July in Crosslake. For many of us, we get into some kind of a patriotic fervor on the Fourth, and for others, it’s just a time to let off a little steam. My next-door neighbor, who is in his late seventies biologically, and in years about fourteen when it comes to fireworks, will be at it again this year. Over the years, he has burned up more gunpowder than the North did in the Civil War; and for many of us at the lake, it brings back memories of Dunkirk, or the siege of Berlin. After the Fourth, my old Labrador spent the rest of the summer in therapy for many years, until I learned to wrap his head with duct tape and cotton balls. The birds and animals are strangely absent from our neighborhood for two weeks after the Fourth.

Now the neighbors across the lake, not to be outdone, or simply in retaliation—I’m not sure which—have gotten into the act, too, so this year I hung a white sheet out of my bedroom window, put my dog in the truck, and headed for quieter pastures. To celebrate our war victories is one thing—even though we might have to go back sixty years to find one we won—but to reenact the whole dang war is another. I have fresh dirt piles in my backyard now, and it might just be a gopher or then again, it might be a land mine or an IED.  I’m not sure if Crosslake has a bomb squad or not, but my other neighbor has a hungry dog who likes to dig, so I put a few little sizzlers sausages on top of the dirt pile. I should have an answer soon.

When I was growing up back in Staples one Fourth of July, they invited the National Guard to be in their annual parade. This included a large tank that drove down Main Street, and then for a treat, shot off that big cannon hanging off the front of it while a platoon of soldiers fired their rifles. The tank must have used a blank shell because I went out west of town the next day, and everything seemed to be intact out there. However, the concussion from the big gun took out all of the windows in the Red Owl Store, and shell-shocked a third of the town. Several old vets were seen running out of the VFW, going home to get their uniforms on and grab their rifles. My aunt Bertha, who had been a transcriptionist for the army during WW II, ran home and sent an encrypted message to the pentagon that read, in part, MacArthur lied. It isn’t over. Need help immediately. Under siege as we speak. The local cop, who was a dead ringer for Gomer Pyle from Mayberry, was never seen again—but they did find the squad car, idling in front of the jail, with all four doors open. I was told later they were just airing the car out. I did notice a lot of underwear on the wash lines around town the next day. The rumor mill started the next day, and it was reported that three Japanese zeros had strafed the Staples airport, and Percy Herman’s pontoon had been sunk by a torpedo, in the Crow Wing River, by the golf course bridge. To the youth of today—that feel sorry for my generation because we didn’t have any pot to smoke back then—top that for excitement, guys.

Well, good people, the world war is over. Since then, there have been others and win or not, we should be proud of our military. We live in a great country with a lot of freedoms—even the freedom to write articles like this. Happy Fourth of July!

SOCIALIZING


                                                           
 For years now, I have met with this motley group of old men who I coined, “The Sunshine Boys,” to have coffee and socialize with. It’s the “same old, same old,” every day. The same old people, and the same old stories, told over and over again. But, because our memories are going south as fast as our prostate glands, no one seems to care. I have found that men socialize, most often, by insulting each other, but they really don’t mean it. This, versus women who socialize by complimenting each other, and they don’t really mean it, either.

Men seem to be more blunt about how they talk to each other but you do, occasionally, meet a woman who says her piece. Once, at a book signing, I met a lady who expressed how sorry she was to hear of my wife’s passing. I thanked her, of course, and then she proceeded to tell me that her husband had died two years ago. When I told her I was sorry to hear that, she told me, “Don’t be” and walked away. I can’t help but feel, that someplace there is a cemetery, with a tombstone that says, “Here lies my husband let him lie. He’s at peace and so am I.”

Some women can’t ever take a compliment. My daughter-in-law is a wonderful cook, but every time I tell her that, or compliment her cooking, she says things like, “It’s missing something,” or “I cooked it too long.” Just once, I would like her to say, “Yes, that is good, isn’t it? I nailed it this time.” Then there are the ones who take things too much to heart. I once told my daughter, “Your cinnamon rolls are the best.” Now, if I saw her three times a week, she would have a pan of rolls ready for me every time. Next winter, I plan on staying in Mesa, with her and her husband, for a while. I’ll probably have to say something about all those rolls, or risk looking like the Pillsbury doughboy next spring. My wife would clean house for a week when company was coming, and then the first thing she said to them at the door was, “come on in—the house is a mess.” If someone liked her outfit, she would say, “Oh, this old rag. I didn’t know what to wear today so I threw this on.” Go figure, huh?

But back to the Sunshine Boys. For many of these men and women—yes, we have ladies stop by occasionally—who had productive careers, retirement came as somewhat of a shock. They were used to accomplishing things and working with people; being asked for advice and their expertise. Now, all of a sudden, they weren’t in charge of much of anything any longer, and if they had a spouse, they were probably in charge of a lot less than they claimed to be in charge of. In this group there are former police officers, firemen, business executives, a medical doctor, a pastor and a farmer, to name a few. But if you listen to them, you wouldn’t know any of this because, suddenly, they are all the same. Just a group of old people looking for companionship. Politics and religion are off the table, but every other topic is up for grabs. There is no prerequisite to join, but it helps to not be thin-skinned, because the banter can get pointed, but it is quickly forgotten. If this weren’t a family newspaper, I would share some things I have heard, but I better not.  I would like to remain a member, in good standing, of the Sunshine Boys!