when you're sixty-one is it all done?
Not in the mood for clubbing fun.
Don't cruise to "Tee Pee" or pick up chicks.
Unlikely, cruising died with most flicks.
Bar hopping long ago lost all appeal.
Like texting, don't have the feel.
Content with life, have lost my zeal
for chasing dreams, my heart bestill
Someone suggested, get with it, "Get a tattoo"
would actually rather be a monkey in the zoo,
or scalped by a wild Arapahoo
or impaled by Vlad, in a messy goo.
Don't do tattoo, don't like to say "Moo".
Found happiness within, was always there
but searched the world to find my share.
Now home, hot tub, dinner with my mate;
that's all it takes for a perfect date.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Summer of Love
Buffalo, 1968
Once the first summer term ended I planned to fly down to Ft. Lauderdale where Sheila lived and spend the rest of the summer with her. After some serious soul searching earlier that summer I’d decided that given the slightest opportunity I’d lose my virginity in Florida, assuming Sheila was willing, but that was not to be. Fate intervened when I was informed by Coach Geiger that my summer school grades had brought my GPA down to the point where I was ineligible to play football that fall. To get my grades up I needed to register for the second summer term.
The whole point of working was to make enough money to enable this trip. I felt like my dog just died; I told Sheila the bad news as we exchanged letters, stamps were five cents but long distance was expensive. Her reply, stained with tear drops, told me how her dad had gotten the speed boat all fixed up and how could this happen but there was nothing to be done.
I’d left my job at the steel mill and could focus full time on my classes and feeling sorry for myself. From that point in time it was barely a week before I was to meet two people who were to change the course of my life. Within the same week I met them both. One perfect summer morning in Buffalo, New York as I was hitchhiking down Main Street to class at SUNY, Steve Washburn stopped to pick me up. We hit it off immediately, he was funny and still makes me laugh; we became fast friends.
Steve was 5’11 about 160 pounds had long blond hair and was prematurely bald on top at 24, but he made the comb-over look cool. He was deep into the philosophy of fun and his beach-boy Zen was irresistible. He made me laugh and think at the same time. He was a record promoter for the singer, Glenn Yarbrough. (http://www.glennyarbrough.com/discography.html).
On a cross country promotional tour visiting radio stations and college campuses, Steve was passing out records and material in hopes of generating business. Steve had met Yarbrough when he was a Hawaiian beach boy and became so indispensable in assisting with a concert there that Yarbrough put him on the payroll. Steve moved in with me temporarily as he worked the Buffalo area over the next week.
It was an idyllic summer night in Buffalo, Steve and I had gone to campus to check out a campus mixer. Steve liked to trip over chairs, furniture, cars, anything really and make it look like an accident; he would make loud noises; he was a master at replicating the peacock call and generally excelled at attracting attention. It was all fun to me. As we were leaving I noticed Cathy, she was leaning on a rail on the south end of the student union building all alone, an exquisite alluring vision. When I said, “Hi” she said, “Hi’ back; that’s all I needed to start a conversation. The three of us went to the 300 Club, a nearby pub where they served twenty-five cent draft beer to get better acquainted. Steve didn’t drink and left early as Cathy promised to give me a ride home.
She told me, “I read an article saying that to meet someone you need to make eye contact. Gazing across that crowded outdoor mixer, looking for a handsome man to make eye contact, I found you. You were so handsome; I stared at you, until finally you caught my eye.”
As we talked I found myself falling into deep pools that were her brown eyes, like a buck caught in the headlights, mesmerized by her obvious beauty and charm. Unlike Odysseus I wasn’t chained to the mast. She laughed, smiled, played and teased and overcome with her alluring Siren song, I fell like a giant redwood.
Cathy was of Norwegian descent; a tall, slender blond with sparkling eyes and a magical smile. She had a refreshing air of straight forward honesty and directness. She didn’t play games, loved animals and drove a Corvette. Physically she was a knockout. There was a strong mutual attraction; we found ourselves unable to stem the tide.
Physically our bodies exhibited a raw hunger for each other, a passion unlike anything I’d previously experienced. Our relationship was torrid; we crashed into each other like waves on the shore. It was our second or third date. It was my first time and I remember thinking, “Wow, is that all there is to it!” of course that was at the beginning, but by the time we were finished my thinking was more like, “Now I know what heaven feels like.” We’d stay out until three or four in the morning unable to tear ourselves apart.
We were together every day, if we weren’t, like the first day of a fast, I found myself actually aching to be with her. I met her family, two younger sisters, a corporate father and charming mother; they lived near the country club. They were more than gracious. I had a room of my own in the basement. When Cathy’s Mom found out I liked beer she made sure the refrigerator was always well stocked. I ate dinner with them three or four nights a week.
Our lovemaking was an intimate sharing of souls wrapped in truth, beauty, love and respect. We felt that nothing seemed more natural. We spent an entire day making love over and over again, finally stopping because we were both famished. I couldn’t go swimming for awhile for all the welts on my back from her fingernails. One day she told me, “I want to have your baby!” It changed me because when she said it, I thought, “That sounds so appealing.” This had not been my mindset before I met her.
While we smooched on the sofa we watched Tiny Tim on the Johnny Carson show and wondered, like the rest of the country, “Where did they find this oddball?” Going to the drive-in we never watched the movie. On the way home we were so worked up we stopped at the golf course for a hole in one. Not in the rough or the fairway but freely on the green. It was fun and liberating with a tinge of naughty.
I have relatives in Cincinnati, Ohio, their name is Fink and I’m related to them through my Grandmother on my Father’s side, her maiden name was Fink. I loved these people because they were always so good to me and my family. When I was growing up there were frequent treks back and forth for weddings, funerals and reunions between Indianapolis and Cincinnati. There was a big wedding in Cincinnati the summer of 1968; my cousin Jeannie Fink was getting married.
After some discussion Cathy’s family gave their assent for her to accompany me to the wedding. Standby airfares were cheap, one way from Buffalo to Cincinnati for two, about $30; we would ride back to Buffalo with my family in their RV. It was an opportunity for Cathy to meet my family, things were moving fast.
There must have been 400 people at this raucous German Catholic wedding. The reception was held in a large hall with a big band and lots of food and beer. It was obvious to everyone that we were in love. People teased us about the “next” wedding. We danced and partied like there was no tomorrow.
When we returned I started making plans, operative word “I”. This was a mistake; never make plans without your partner’s full participation. Aptitude testing was around but I wasn’t aware of it. Turning to the library, I selected a book of occupations and started combing through until hitting upon something that rang a bell, “Naval Architect – Marine Engineer”. The sea, ships and navy had always been alluring; in grade school I dreamed of attending the Naval Academy.
Disillusioned and feeling jilted about my college education so far; yes, I was on a full athletic scholarship, but it wasn’t working for me. Football consumed about forty hours a week, which seemed inordinate for a three hour game on Saturday, much less the $.81 per hour my scholarship was paying. I was playing ball to get an education, but it didn’t feel like it was happening. Disheartened with lecture halls with 300 students and a professor reading out of a textbook, I perceived a lack of value received and yearned for something more practical.
Further research revealed that a school for Marine Engineers existed in Baltimore, Maryland and it was a better proposition than my football scholarship. If accepted I would receive room, board, books, tuition and $200 per month while enrolled. It was a two year program, six months of school, a year at sea, another six months of school, pass a test and I’d have a license as a Marine Engineer. I applied and a few months later I was accepted. Who was my inspiration and motivation for this dramatic change of direction? None other than Cathy, who I hoped to impress with my manly provider engineering skills.
Our summer came to a close. As a footnote I have absolutely no recollection what classes I took that second term but I must have passed and brought up my GPA. Football practice began in mid-August and Cathy and her family went off for a week’s vacation without me. Steve had left me a number of Yarbrough records which helped me wallow in self pity. Have you ever heard his album, “The Lonely Things”? If you’re lovesick, don’t; it could be suicidal.
Cathy returned for a brief reunion before setting off for Denison, where she was finishing her senior year in Granville, Ohio. Most stable relationships require two critical elements, good communication and proximity. Without them most of us just aren’t strong enough to make it work. I shot myself in the foot with my marine engineering venture by not talking seriously to Cathy about “our” future. Maybe she would have said there wasn’t going to be one or maybe she would have told me what she wanted. She was less than enthusiastic when I told her my plans for engineering school. That should have been a cue, but I was young and stupid. We said our goodbyes and began to write each other.
With one last cockamamie idea up my sleeve, I devised an illicit assignation; brought on by angst over the loss of Cathy’s presence. Not forgetting how the coaches had abused me as a redshirt the previous year, I thought, “They don’t care about me, why not indulge my own selfish gratification”?
Setting out the Sunday after our third game I found myself hitchhiking to Granville, Ohio for a reunion with Cathy at Denison. Without telling anyone, even my best friends and roommates, who I knew would talk when pressured by the coaches; I simply vanished into the Freeways.
Cathy was surprised and excited to see me. We went on a romantic hayride, attended a bonfire pep rally, I met her friends, followed her along to class and went out for beers afterward. We went shopping, rented a motel room and made wild passionate love. It was a fantastic week and I’ve never regretted it one iota.
After receiving a call from the Coaches, it didn’t take my Mother long to figure out where I was. She called Cathy’s dorm and reached me there. She told me everyone was worried and I needed to get back to Buffalo. Cathy drove me out to the freeway on Sunday morning and I hitchhiked back. It was the last time for a long time before I’d ever be so deeply in love again.
Once the first summer term ended I planned to fly down to Ft. Lauderdale where Sheila lived and spend the rest of the summer with her. After some serious soul searching earlier that summer I’d decided that given the slightest opportunity I’d lose my virginity in Florida, assuming Sheila was willing, but that was not to be. Fate intervened when I was informed by Coach Geiger that my summer school grades had brought my GPA down to the point where I was ineligible to play football that fall. To get my grades up I needed to register for the second summer term.
The whole point of working was to make enough money to enable this trip. I felt like my dog just died; I told Sheila the bad news as we exchanged letters, stamps were five cents but long distance was expensive. Her reply, stained with tear drops, told me how her dad had gotten the speed boat all fixed up and how could this happen but there was nothing to be done.
I’d left my job at the steel mill and could focus full time on my classes and feeling sorry for myself. From that point in time it was barely a week before I was to meet two people who were to change the course of my life. Within the same week I met them both. One perfect summer morning in Buffalo, New York as I was hitchhiking down Main Street to class at SUNY, Steve Washburn stopped to pick me up. We hit it off immediately, he was funny and still makes me laugh; we became fast friends.
Steve was 5’11 about 160 pounds had long blond hair and was prematurely bald on top at 24, but he made the comb-over look cool. He was deep into the philosophy of fun and his beach-boy Zen was irresistible. He made me laugh and think at the same time. He was a record promoter for the singer, Glenn Yarbrough. (http://www.glennyarbrough.com/discography.html).
On a cross country promotional tour visiting radio stations and college campuses, Steve was passing out records and material in hopes of generating business. Steve had met Yarbrough when he was a Hawaiian beach boy and became so indispensable in assisting with a concert there that Yarbrough put him on the payroll. Steve moved in with me temporarily as he worked the Buffalo area over the next week.
It was an idyllic summer night in Buffalo, Steve and I had gone to campus to check out a campus mixer. Steve liked to trip over chairs, furniture, cars, anything really and make it look like an accident; he would make loud noises; he was a master at replicating the peacock call and generally excelled at attracting attention. It was all fun to me. As we were leaving I noticed Cathy, she was leaning on a rail on the south end of the student union building all alone, an exquisite alluring vision. When I said, “Hi” she said, “Hi’ back; that’s all I needed to start a conversation. The three of us went to the 300 Club, a nearby pub where they served twenty-five cent draft beer to get better acquainted. Steve didn’t drink and left early as Cathy promised to give me a ride home.
She told me, “I read an article saying that to meet someone you need to make eye contact. Gazing across that crowded outdoor mixer, looking for a handsome man to make eye contact, I found you. You were so handsome; I stared at you, until finally you caught my eye.”
As we talked I found myself falling into deep pools that were her brown eyes, like a buck caught in the headlights, mesmerized by her obvious beauty and charm. Unlike Odysseus I wasn’t chained to the mast. She laughed, smiled, played and teased and overcome with her alluring Siren song, I fell like a giant redwood.
Cathy was of Norwegian descent; a tall, slender blond with sparkling eyes and a magical smile. She had a refreshing air of straight forward honesty and directness. She didn’t play games, loved animals and drove a Corvette. Physically she was a knockout. There was a strong mutual attraction; we found ourselves unable to stem the tide.
Physically our bodies exhibited a raw hunger for each other, a passion unlike anything I’d previously experienced. Our relationship was torrid; we crashed into each other like waves on the shore. It was our second or third date. It was my first time and I remember thinking, “Wow, is that all there is to it!” of course that was at the beginning, but by the time we were finished my thinking was more like, “Now I know what heaven feels like.” We’d stay out until three or four in the morning unable to tear ourselves apart. We were together every day, if we weren’t, like the first day of a fast, I found myself actually aching to be with her. I met her family, two younger sisters, a corporate father and charming mother; they lived near the country club. They were more than gracious. I had a room of my own in the basement. When Cathy’s Mom found out I liked beer she made sure the refrigerator was always well stocked. I ate dinner with them three or four nights a week.
Our lovemaking was an intimate sharing of souls wrapped in truth, beauty, love and respect. We felt that nothing seemed more natural. We spent an entire day making love over and over again, finally stopping because we were both famished. I couldn’t go swimming for awhile for all the welts on my back from her fingernails. One day she told me, “I want to have your baby!” It changed me because when she said it, I thought, “That sounds so appealing.” This had not been my mindset before I met her.
While we smooched on the sofa we watched Tiny Tim on the Johnny Carson show and wondered, like the rest of the country, “Where did they find this oddball?” Going to the drive-in we never watched the movie. On the way home we were so worked up we stopped at the golf course for a hole in one. Not in the rough or the fairway but freely on the green. It was fun and liberating with a tinge of naughty.
I have relatives in Cincinnati, Ohio, their name is Fink and I’m related to them through my Grandmother on my Father’s side, her maiden name was Fink. I loved these people because they were always so good to me and my family. When I was growing up there were frequent treks back and forth for weddings, funerals and reunions between Indianapolis and Cincinnati. There was a big wedding in Cincinnati the summer of 1968; my cousin Jeannie Fink was getting married.
After some discussion Cathy’s family gave their assent for her to accompany me to the wedding. Standby airfares were cheap, one way from Buffalo to Cincinnati for two, about $30; we would ride back to Buffalo with my family in their RV. It was an opportunity for Cathy to meet my family, things were moving fast.
There must have been 400 people at this raucous German Catholic wedding. The reception was held in a large hall with a big band and lots of food and beer. It was obvious to everyone that we were in love. People teased us about the “next” wedding. We danced and partied like there was no tomorrow.
When we returned I started making plans, operative word “I”. This was a mistake; never make plans without your partner’s full participation. Aptitude testing was around but I wasn’t aware of it. Turning to the library, I selected a book of occupations and started combing through until hitting upon something that rang a bell, “Naval Architect – Marine Engineer”. The sea, ships and navy had always been alluring; in grade school I dreamed of attending the Naval Academy.
Disillusioned and feeling jilted about my college education so far; yes, I was on a full athletic scholarship, but it wasn’t working for me. Football consumed about forty hours a week, which seemed inordinate for a three hour game on Saturday, much less the $.81 per hour my scholarship was paying. I was playing ball to get an education, but it didn’t feel like it was happening. Disheartened with lecture halls with 300 students and a professor reading out of a textbook, I perceived a lack of value received and yearned for something more practical.
Further research revealed that a school for Marine Engineers existed in Baltimore, Maryland and it was a better proposition than my football scholarship. If accepted I would receive room, board, books, tuition and $200 per month while enrolled. It was a two year program, six months of school, a year at sea, another six months of school, pass a test and I’d have a license as a Marine Engineer. I applied and a few months later I was accepted. Who was my inspiration and motivation for this dramatic change of direction? None other than Cathy, who I hoped to impress with my manly provider engineering skills.
Our summer came to a close. As a footnote I have absolutely no recollection what classes I took that second term but I must have passed and brought up my GPA. Football practice began in mid-August and Cathy and her family went off for a week’s vacation without me. Steve had left me a number of Yarbrough records which helped me wallow in self pity. Have you ever heard his album, “The Lonely Things”? If you’re lovesick, don’t; it could be suicidal.
Cathy returned for a brief reunion before setting off for Denison, where she was finishing her senior year in Granville, Ohio. Most stable relationships require two critical elements, good communication and proximity. Without them most of us just aren’t strong enough to make it work. I shot myself in the foot with my marine engineering venture by not talking seriously to Cathy about “our” future. Maybe she would have said there wasn’t going to be one or maybe she would have told me what she wanted. She was less than enthusiastic when I told her my plans for engineering school. That should have been a cue, but I was young and stupid. We said our goodbyes and began to write each other.
With one last cockamamie idea up my sleeve, I devised an illicit assignation; brought on by angst over the loss of Cathy’s presence. Not forgetting how the coaches had abused me as a redshirt the previous year, I thought, “They don’t care about me, why not indulge my own selfish gratification”?
Setting out the Sunday after our third game I found myself hitchhiking to Granville, Ohio for a reunion with Cathy at Denison. Without telling anyone, even my best friends and roommates, who I knew would talk when pressured by the coaches; I simply vanished into the Freeways.
Cathy was surprised and excited to see me. We went on a romantic hayride, attended a bonfire pep rally, I met her friends, followed her along to class and went out for beers afterward. We went shopping, rented a motel room and made wild passionate love. It was a fantastic week and I’ve never regretted it one iota.
After receiving a call from the Coaches, it didn’t take my Mother long to figure out where I was. She called Cathy’s dorm and reached me there. She told me everyone was worried and I needed to get back to Buffalo. Cathy drove me out to the freeway on Sunday morning and I hitchhiked back. It was the last time for a long time before I’d ever be so deeply in love again.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Summer Job
As the schoo
l year began to draw to a close thoughts turned to summer employment. My best friend, Bob and I began to conspire. Going home wasn’t an appealing option so we opted to stay in Buffalo and find work. Our football coaches were instrumental in helping us find employment at the Republic Steel Bar Mills on the south end of town near Lake Erie. On the graveyard shift we worked from 11pm until 7am. The pay was $2.73 per hour, a lot of money at the time. Being ambitious, we signed up for summer school as well. This meant attending two classes from 8am to 12 noon, weekdays for six weeks.
Bob and I found an apartment close to downtown. It was an interesting ethnic (black) neighborhood right off Main Street. An old Polish lady who liked to watch our every move rented us an upstairs two bedroom furnished apartment. Furnished was a key component as most of what we had were the clothes on our back. We lived on fried eggs and fried baloney and tried to sleep in the warm afternoons between 2pm to 10pm. My sister, Bridgette, who had just graduated from high school moved in with us and got a job at the hospital just down the street, as a nurse’s aid; good training as she later became a nurse.
The hardest part about the job was staying awake. The work was hot and dangerous. These were bar mills, the hot steel came out in large ingots and went through a number of progressively huge rollers to stretch and lengthen them into bars of steel. An ingot could be a red hot lump of steel measuring 2 feet high, 3 feet long, and 2 feet wide. The finished bars could be 50 feet long an inch thick and 4 inches wide.
We weren’t assigned specific jobs, instead each night we were assigned an area or a task. One of the jobs was pulling the finished bars off the rollers. We had a long metal pole about twelve feet long with a short hook on the end as the bars came down the line I would pull them off. Another job was grabbing the red hot steel bars coming out of one set of rollers and spinning them around and feeding them into another set of rollers. Bob got this job and his great fear was that he’d suddenly turn into Lucy Arnaz and foul up the assembly line. There’s no way he could eat that red hot steel.
Other things that made an impression were the pollution and chemicals running into Lake Erie. You had to be careful where you put your lunch because the rats would eat it if you didn’t. The noise was so loud in some places you couldn’t hear yourself think. I almost got fired one night because I couldn’t hear the instructions my boss gave me. At the end of our shift we’d be filthy and covered in thick soot. We had to wear safety goggles and when we took them off our eye sockets would be white and the rest of our faces would be black. We all looked alike, you could only recognize someone by the way they carried themselves.
Bob and I worked there eight weeks but some of the men we worked with had spent their whole lives in that hellhole. One of the things I took away was that there had to be a better way to make a living. My career options were slowly being whittled away one at a time through trial and error. There ought to be a better way.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Time and Chance Happen To Us All
Buffalo, NY – January - May 1968
Winter in Buffalo is typically depressing, it’s unbelievably cold and grey and summer is along way off. But in January 1968 I was not depressed but ecstatic for I’d started dating an unbelievably beautiful girl. She was bright, captivating, intriguing and sexy, all ingredients to which I was irresistibly drawn. She was tall and thin about 5’ 8” with blue eyes, an angelic voice and short, light brown hair she kept in a page boy cut. Her long legs supported by slender model’s feet. She was a conservative dresser and prone to fluffy blouses. She attended a private Catholic girl’s school just down the street. Her name was Sheila.
Frustrated by the dearth of attractive women on the UB campus, there were too many liberal hippies, a definite turn off. Being attracted to blonds at the time, there might have been three or four on campus. I had been extremely envious when my best friend and roommate, Bob met Sheila at a campus mixer and dated her several times that fall. When I noticed that he’d started dating another girl, I asked Bob’s permission to call Sheila. “No problem,” he said and so it began.
Sheila and I started going out. My philosophy about dating at this time was too pursue until I lost interest or the girl did. My assumption was if a girl continued going out with me she was interested. Sheila was gorgeous; not believing my good fortune I tended to put her on a pedestal. This was a mistake. It’s funny, at the time I didn’t want to make any mistakes with her and yet I made a huge one.
Real love where emotions are reciprocal does not visit us often in the course of our lives. Foolishly, when we are young we think it awaits us around every corner. Nothing is further from the truth. Love is more difficult to find than gold or the most precious diamond. When you do find it hold on for everything you’re worth for it is indeed a precious gift.
For the first five months of the year we went out together most weekends. Taking in a variety of activities; poetry picnics in a pastoral setting, visiting the zoo, submarine races etc. As a poor college student, I didn’t let my lack of funds stand in the way of having fun. Fortunately, Sheila was good humored enough to go along with most of my foolishness. One night we hitchhiked together down Main St. to a German “Oktoberfest” restaurant where we sang German drinking songs and drank beer. On the way home we smooched on the sidewalk while waiting for our next ride.
All that winter and spring Sheila had been my inspiration and a motivating force. She was in my thoughts constantly and I wanted to be a better person because of her. As a college football player you’re expected to train all year around. We had “practice’ on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings at 7:00AM at the gym. The coaches crammed a two hour workout into an hour of intensive drills, it was murder. On Tuesdays and Thursday we were expected to lift weights in the afternoon. This went on until the beginning of spring practice when we began football practice for about five or six weeks finally culminating in the “Spring Game”.
One night in particular stands out as a turning point, a good example of not knowing what one wants. Sheila and I had a date right after the game. It had been a great game for me. I’d made a number of stellar plays and had moved up to the number one spot at the defensive tackle position. This was an achievement as just a few months before I’d been a “red shirt” on the scrub team.
When you’re a “red shirt” you sit out a year, you keep your eligibility for another year. The way I was treated I wondered if I’d even be playing next year; they made me feel like I was the worst player on the team. It seemed I couldn’t do anything right. None of the coaches ever spoke to me about being “red shirted” and it caused me a great deal of bitterness and resentment.
The feeling of exhilaration at that moment was a highlight of my college career. My teammates and fraternity brothers were there and it felt like being on top of the world. Sheila was waiting for me outside the stadium. We went to small cabaret on the Southeast side of the campus, a rock band was playing. My roommates and I spent a lot of time pretending to be rock stars so I knew the words to a few songs and before long I was singing with the band on stage.
Afterward, as we sat in my car I tried to express how much she meant to me. At nineteen I was still a virgin and hadn’t made the decision to change. This was a night something could have happened but didn’t. It was a missed opportunity. How do I know, because six months later Sheila told me. “All you wanted to do was talk and all I wanted you to do was take me.” I have no idea what might have happened had I slept with Sheila that night or any other. But I’m guessing it was another crossroad.
In college all three of my roommates were dating girls they later married. Now forty years later they are all still married to those same women. I can’t help but wonder what life would be like had I followed their course, but I took a different path and wound up in a different place.
Winter in Buffalo is typically depressing, it’s unbelievably cold and grey and summer is along way off. But in January 1968 I was not depressed but ecstatic for I’d started dating an unbelievably beautiful girl. She was bright, captivating, intriguing and sexy, all ingredients to which I was irresistibly drawn. She was tall and thin about 5’ 8” with blue eyes, an angelic voice and short, light brown hair she kept in a page boy cut. Her long legs supported by slender model’s feet. She was a conservative dresser and prone to fluffy blouses. She attended a private Catholic girl’s school just down the street. Her name was Sheila.
Frustrated by the dearth of attractive women on the UB campus, there were too many liberal hippies, a definite turn off. Being attracted to blonds at the time, there might have been three or four on campus. I had been extremely envious when my best friend and roommate, Bob met Sheila at a campus mixer and dated her several times that fall. When I noticed that he’d started dating another girl, I asked Bob’s permission to call Sheila. “No problem,” he said and so it began.
Sheila and I started going out. My philosophy about dating at this time was too pursue until I lost interest or the girl did. My assumption was if a girl continued going out with me she was interested. Sheila was gorgeous; not believing my good fortune I tended to put her on a pedestal. This was a mistake. It’s funny, at the time I didn’t want to make any mistakes with her and yet I made a huge one.
Real love where emotions are reciprocal does not visit us often in the course of our lives. Foolishly, when we are young we think it awaits us around every corner. Nothing is further from the truth. Love is more difficult to find than gold or the most precious diamond. When you do find it hold on for everything you’re worth for it is indeed a precious gift.
For the first five months of the year we went out together most weekends. Taking in a variety of activities; poetry picnics in a pastoral setting, visiting the zoo, submarine races etc. As a poor college student, I didn’t let my lack of funds stand in the way of having fun. Fortunately, Sheila was good humored enough to go along with most of my foolishness. One night we hitchhiked together down Main St. to a German “Oktoberfest” restaurant where we sang German drinking songs and drank beer. On the way home we smooched on the sidewalk while waiting for our next ride.
All that winter and spring Sheila had been my inspiration and a motivating force. She was in my thoughts constantly and I wanted to be a better person because of her. As a college football player you’re expected to train all year around. We had “practice’ on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings at 7:00AM at the gym. The coaches crammed a two hour workout into an hour of intensive drills, it was murder. On Tuesdays and Thursday we were expected to lift weights in the afternoon. This went on until the beginning of spring practice when we began football practice for about five or six weeks finally culminating in the “Spring Game”.
One night in particular stands out as a turning point, a good example of not knowing what one wants. Sheila and I had a date right after the game. It had been a great game for me. I’d made a number of stellar plays and had moved up to the number one spot at the defensive tackle position. This was an achievement as just a few months before I’d been a “red shirt” on the scrub team.
When you’re a “red shirt” you sit out a year, you keep your eligibility for another year. The way I was treated I wondered if I’d even be playing next year; they made me feel like I was the worst player on the team. It seemed I couldn’t do anything right. None of the coaches ever spoke to me about being “red shirted” and it caused me a great deal of bitterness and resentment.
The feeling of exhilaration at that moment was a highlight of my college career. My teammates and fraternity brothers were there and it felt like being on top of the world. Sheila was waiting for me outside the stadium. We went to small cabaret on the Southeast side of the campus, a rock band was playing. My roommates and I spent a lot of time pretending to be rock stars so I knew the words to a few songs and before long I was singing with the band on stage.
Afterward, as we sat in my car I tried to express how much she meant to me. At nineteen I was still a virgin and hadn’t made the decision to change. This was a night something could have happened but didn’t. It was a missed opportunity. How do I know, because six months later Sheila told me. “All you wanted to do was talk and all I wanted you to do was take me.” I have no idea what might have happened had I slept with Sheila that night or any other. But I’m guessing it was another crossroad.
In college all three of my roommates were dating girls they later married. Now forty years later they are all still married to those same women. I can’t help but wonder what life would be like had I followed their course, but I took a different path and wound up in a different place.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Banning, California - 1970
My plan to leave Crawfordsville, Indiana in May 1970 was based on timing. It was the end of the school year at Wabash College so I checked the ride board for trips to Los Angles. Why LA? I’d served as an Apprentice Engineer in 1969 on a four month cruise courtesy of the Calhoon MEBA Engineering School after attending school for six months and thought I could get a job as an ordinary seaman on a ship, as I wasn’t keen to reenter the engine room. Finding a student who lived in Los Angles who was leaving in a few days, we agreed on a fare and I’d still have fifty dollars left when I arrived. Writing my parents a note resigning from my park ranger position at the woods, I figured would avoid a scene and a messy good-by.
The only thing worth mentioning about the trip from Crawfordsville to Los Angles is the incredible marketing plan of a restaurant in Amarillo, Texas, which had posted over 1000 signs of all ilk for 300 miles in both directions along the road boasting, “If you can eat our 72 oz. steak, we’ll give it to you FREE.” Like millions of other suckers I ate part of it, but couldn’t finish the whole thing, thereby incurring the disastrous bill of $25, or half my funds. It was the last decent meal I had for quite awhile.
Once in Los Angles, it became clear I was in the wrong place and headed for San Pedro, the shipping mecca of the West Coast, a further 100 miles to the south. Getting a job on a U.S. flagship at this time was a catch-22. You had to have sailed to get your seaman’s papers and you couldn’t sail unless you had seaman’s papers. However I believed myself in an envious position because I still had seamen’s papers.
Once I reached the Union hall, my naiveté swung into full bloom. Substantially more funds were required than I had in my possession in order to secure a position through the Union because it was necessary for me to first join the Seaman’s Union for $500. This unforeseen expenditure altered my plans and caused me to rethink the situation. While in hindsight there may appear to be a grand plan at work, rest assured I was making this up as I went along. Hanging out at the beach, sleeping under bridges, eating Snickers to survive, I should have joined the Troll Union. It took me awhile to figure out what my next move should be.
Remembering I had a Great Aunt who lived somewhere nearby I called home, to get the details. Armed with new information I set off hitchhiking to Banning, California, a sleepy little village out in the desert about 100 miles east of Los Angles. My Aunt Edith was in her 70’s, a robust woman with a twinkle in her eye and a great sense of humor. She was delighted to see me and took me in with open arms. It was a propitious time for her as she was in the midst of a transition. Her husband Charles was in the hospital in poor health.
Her home was on a five acre track which backed up to the railroad track. It was a small three bedroom, ranch style abode. Suffice it to say housekeeping was not Aunt Edith’s forte. This applied to her five acres also which was strewn with what she referred to as “Gold” I mentally referred to it as junk, but each to their own and she was nothing but kind and generous toward me. She had ducks and chickens roaming around from which she gathered eggs and she bought goat milk from her neighbor two doors down. It was her attitude that impressed me most as she always saw the positive in everything.
I hadn’t been there very long when Aunt Edith came up with the notion to buy me a car. She said she thought I needed “wheels” and she needed a chauffer, a match made in heaven. It was a 1958 two tone green, six cylinders Chevy Bell Air. She bought it for $85; it had 58,000 miles and had been sitting for some time. She gave me the title and said to put it in my name. It took some work, a new battery, tires to make it run and a several cans of rally car wax to bring out the old girl’s color. In short order I landed another job pumping gas at a local station which provided funds for repairs.
I would drive her to the hospital for regular visits to see her husband, Charles, whose health appeared to be deteriorating. This routine went on for a few weeks until one day we received a call informing us that Uncle Charles had died in his sleep. I took Aunt Edith to the funeral home while she made the arrangements. It was a small funeral, not more than twenty people; the flowers made it look like Easter morning. Aunt Edith seemed relieved, like now she could get on with her life.
Contemplating my life I applied for a job with the Southern Pacific Railroad. Uncle Charles had been a railroad man; it sounded interesting, lots of travel I assumed. The man who interviewed me was polite and honest, he told me straight out not to hold my breath. One day I met a couple of deputy sheriffs and stuck up a conversation. They encouraged me to think about joining the force. I considered it briefly before concluding it didn’t feel right for me.
By a twist of fate on a summer morning in Buffalo, New York in 1968 as I was hitchhiking to class at SUNY I got a ride from someone who was to change my life. We hit it off and became fast friends. He was a record promoter for a singer by the name of Glenn Yarbrough. His name was Steve Washburn. He was 5’11 about 160 pounds had long blond hair and was prematurely bald on top at 24, but he made the comb-over look cool. He was deep into the philosophy of fun and his beach-boy Zen was irresistible. He made me laugh and think at the same time. Steve met Yarbrough when he was a Hawaiian beach boy and became so indispensable in assisting Yarbrough with a concert there that he put him on the payroll. Steve moved in with me temporarily as he worked the area for the next week. We had a blast together and kept in touch through correspondence.
It was late June in Banning when in response to my request, I get a letter from Steve inviting me to pay him a visit at his home in Portland, Oregon. The next day I quit my job, packed my bags, expressed my gratitude to Aunt Edith jumped in my car and sped off to Oregon to see what the future held.
The only thing worth mentioning about the trip from Crawfordsville to Los Angles is the incredible marketing plan of a restaurant in Amarillo, Texas, which had posted over 1000 signs of all ilk for 300 miles in both directions along the road boasting, “If you can eat our 72 oz. steak, we’ll give it to you FREE.” Like millions of other suckers I ate part of it, but couldn’t finish the whole thing, thereby incurring the disastrous bill of $25, or half my funds. It was the last decent meal I had for quite awhile.
Once in Los Angles, it became clear I was in the wrong place and headed for San Pedro, the shipping mecca of the West Coast, a further 100 miles to the south. Getting a job on a U.S. flagship at this time was a catch-22. You had to have sailed to get your seaman’s papers and you couldn’t sail unless you had seaman’s papers. However I believed myself in an envious position because I still had seamen’s papers.
Once I reached the Union hall, my naiveté swung into full bloom. Substantially more funds were required than I had in my possession in order to secure a position through the Union because it was necessary for me to first join the Seaman’s Union for $500. This unforeseen expenditure altered my plans and caused me to rethink the situation. While in hindsight there may appear to be a grand plan at work, rest assured I was making this up as I went along. Hanging out at the beach, sleeping under bridges, eating Snickers to survive, I should have joined the Troll Union. It took me awhile to figure out what my next move should be.
Remembering I had a Great Aunt who lived somewhere nearby I called home, to get the details. Armed with new information I set off hitchhiking to Banning, California, a sleepy little village out in the desert about 100 miles east of Los Angles. My Aunt Edith was in her 70’s, a robust woman with a twinkle in her eye and a great sense of humor. She was delighted to see me and took me in with open arms. It was a propitious time for her as she was in the midst of a transition. Her husband Charles was in the hospital in poor health.
Her home was on a five acre track which backed up to the railroad track. It was a small three bedroom, ranch style abode. Suffice it to say housekeeping was not Aunt Edith’s forte. This applied to her five acres also which was strewn with what she referred to as “Gold” I mentally referred to it as junk, but each to their own and she was nothing but kind and generous toward me. She had ducks and chickens roaming around from which she gathered eggs and she bought goat milk from her neighbor two doors down. It was her attitude that impressed me most as she always saw the positive in everything.
I hadn’t been there very long when Aunt Edith came up with the notion to buy me a car. She said she thought I needed “wheels” and she needed a chauffer, a match made in heaven. It was a 1958 two tone green, six cylinders Chevy Bell Air. She bought it for $85; it had 58,000 miles and had been sitting for some time. She gave me the title and said to put it in my name. It took some work, a new battery, tires to make it run and a several cans of rally car wax to bring out the old girl’s color. In short order I landed another job pumping gas at a local station which provided funds for repairs.I would drive her to the hospital for regular visits to see her husband, Charles, whose health appeared to be deteriorating. This routine went on for a few weeks until one day we received a call informing us that Uncle Charles had died in his sleep. I took Aunt Edith to the funeral home while she made the arrangements. It was a small funeral, not more than twenty people; the flowers made it look like Easter morning. Aunt Edith seemed relieved, like now she could get on with her life.
Contemplating my life I applied for a job with the Southern Pacific Railroad. Uncle Charles had been a railroad man; it sounded interesting, lots of travel I assumed. The man who interviewed me was polite and honest, he told me straight out not to hold my breath. One day I met a couple of deputy sheriffs and stuck up a conversation. They encouraged me to think about joining the force. I considered it briefly before concluding it didn’t feel right for me.
By a twist of fate on a summer morning in Buffalo, New York in 1968 as I was hitchhiking to class at SUNY I got a ride from someone who was to change my life. We hit it off and became fast friends. He was a record promoter for a singer by the name of Glenn Yarbrough. His name was Steve Washburn. He was 5’11 about 160 pounds had long blond hair and was prematurely bald on top at 24, but he made the comb-over look cool. He was deep into the philosophy of fun and his beach-boy Zen was irresistible. He made me laugh and think at the same time. Steve met Yarbrough when he was a Hawaiian beach boy and became so indispensable in assisting Yarbrough with a concert there that he put him on the payroll. Steve moved in with me temporarily as he worked the area for the next week. We had a blast together and kept in touch through correspondence.
It was late June in Banning when in response to my request, I get a letter from Steve inviting me to pay him a visit at his home in Portland, Oregon. The next day I quit my job, packed my bags, expressed my gratitude to Aunt Edith jumped in my car and sped off to Oregon to see what the future held.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Hoosier Logger
My Dad inherited ten acres of heavily wooded ground on the southwest outskirts of Crawfordsville, Indiana from his Dad in 1949. Granddad had bought the rustic acreage as his own private hunting ground and built a two-bedroom cabin. It was a three hour drive from our home in Indianapolis before the freeway was built. We went hunting, fishing and played there over the years as I grew up.
The east side was bordered by a creek that was twenty feet wide and two to five feet deep in places depending on the time of year and rainfall. There were nettles mixed in with the big walnut and cottonwood trees along the creek’s sandy beaches. The old cabin had a 1920’s ambiance; it had a wood-burning stove, great springy beds, an old wooden table and four chairs. It had a kitchen great-room where we played cards and told ghost stories. From the cabin you had to walk a 100 yards along a ridge overlooking the creek, which was about another 75 yards down below, to get to the outhouse.
My Dad and I used to sit along this ridge at dawn when I was a boy to hunt squirrels. My Dad had an automatic shotgun and I had a .22 single shot rifle. I never killed anything but empty beer cans. My Dad however could easily bag a squirrel with ten rounds from his automatic. He usually got two or three squirrels. We’d take them home where my Dad would clean them and my Mother would fry them for dinner. They didn’t taste bad; but you had to be careful you didn’t break a tooth on the buckshot.
When I was a teenager the cabin burned down mysteriously. They said it must have been some depraved kids from Crawfordsville. This was a sad loss for me as I loved the old cabin; strangely the outhouse had not been touched. Thirty years later one of my Dad’s best friends, Walter, a fishing buddy and fellow fireman traveled 2,500 miles to tell me that my Dad had set the place on fire himself. Walter had kept this secret long enough and was able to sooth his conscience. What’s ironic is that my Dad was a professional fireman and could have lost his job over this.
After the cabin burned down my Dad entered his tree cutting phase. I don’t know where he came up with this but he bought a chain saw and decided he’d become a weekend Hoosier logger. This was a dangerous occupation because my Dad considered it absolutely essential to drink beer while cutting down trees. I was in charge of stacking and holding while he cut; I always got the boring jobs and I didn’t even like beer. What I couldn’t figure out was when half of the big tree in our backyard at home fell down after a horrendous windstorm, my Dad could care less. He gave me an axe and told me to chop it up. It took me three weeks, what happened to the chainsaw?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Roustabout – Bay Marchand, Gulf of Mexico - 1970
Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, a time of fasting and prayer and the day after Shrove Tuesday (Mardi Gras) 1970, I had fifty cents to my name. It was time to seek employment. My hosts, yes I was still freeloading at the same place, suggested Harvey, Louisiana, on the other side of the Mississippi River. “Dude” lent me his VW beetle to drive over. Finding a row of industrial-type business I parked the beetle. Walking down the seedy road, I would stop at prospective businesses and inquire if they had any job openings. One company, “Oil Field Maintenance,” had an employment office. I entered and asked the old fat redneck, at the desk if I could fill out an application. His answer surprised me. “Don’t need no application, name and phone number, I’ll give ya a call.” “Sure you will” I remember thinking, he looked as stingy as his speech and continued my search. I quit about five and went back home, somewhat discouraged but thinking tomorrow is another day.
That night about 8:00PM I received a call from, would you believe it, old fat redneck, “Be at the yard at 6:00AM tomorrow morning.” “Dude” let me drive his car again that day. The yard was right next to the office and I worked until 6PM that day as a welder’s helper. When my shift was over I inquired as to whether I should come again tomorrow. “Ain’t got nothing” said old fat redneck. “But I really could use the work” I pleaded. “Then be back here at 2:30AM,” he conceded. “OK” was my only reply. Now how stupid is that? Not “What’s the job?” or “Why 2:30AM?” just “OK”. “Dude” turned out to be much smarted than I. He said he wasn’t loaning me his car to drive over to Harvey at 2:30AM but since he was a really nice guy, he agreed to drive me over.
There are multitudes of possible scenarios for what might have happened that night; luckily it was an adventure not a disaster. I got out of the car, thanked “Dude” and said I’d give him a call. There were about thirty guys milling around, nobody knew what was going on; we waited about half an hour when three pick up trucks appeared and we climbed in. The trucks took off and we rode for the next two hours through swamps and alligator country until about dawn, when we arrived at a marina. We boarded two cabin cruisers and headed out into the Gulf of Mexico, it was another three hours before we arrived at our final destination, now referred to as the Bay Marchand Fire. Chevron had eleven fires burning on one platform out in the Gulf.
Our base of operations was a barge. On arrival we received our instructions. We were told we needed to be up at 5AM, breakfast at 5:30AM and work started at 6AM. We boarded three tug boats, which is where we were work detailed. For the first few days the tugs would take us to the barge for meals, but this was hazardous as the weather wasn’t always cooperative. The waves could be ten feet high. This meant that as the tug came alongside the barge you had to be very careful you timed your jump from the tug to the barge and vice versa very carefully or you could be one dead roustabout.
On day four we were permanently detailed to the tugs, which meant no more trips to the barge, we would dine onboard our tug. This was our first sign that they were making this up as they went along. Going to the barge had been exciting, Red Adair was there. John Wayne had starred in a movie entitled “Hell Fighters” about the life of Red Adair, so I was impressed. But the tugs were safer and provided less supervision. Life on the tug was fairly laid back. For three for four days it so rough we couldn’t work. I woke up and smelled the bacon from the galley and realized I was seasick, a new experience. It was either work or be seasick. I was out there over two weeks, after believing I was showing up for just another twelve hour work day. I battled seasickness, not having a toothbrush or a change of underwear etc. and chastised myself for stepping into something without having a clue as to what I’d be doing or for how long. On the bright side I had a job, wasn’t working that hard and was getting a lot of overtime.
When we finally got around to the work we were supposed to do, we figured it out as we went along. On board the tug we had 5’x 5’ x 3” heavy foam-filled squares which were chained together and supported by buoyant cylinders on either side, so that about a foot of the foam would stick out of the water. This must have been some experimental Rube Goldberg marketing plan to try out these things. After we located an oil slick we would toss them off the stern of the tug into the water until we had about two hundred yards trailing after us then the tug would try to encircle the slick. This is the theory anyway. Once the oil slick was encircled another device was brought up which would supposedly suck up the oil. We could have picked up more oil with a turkey baster. When we pulled the contraptions out of the water they were covered in oil, which soaked into our clothes, and shoes.
Once it became obviously to everyone that this particular product was a waste of time we were released and taken back to the Oil Field Maintenance office. Our job was done. In a little over two weeks I’d earned $600 plus, a small fortune for me at that time. Upon returning to “Dude’s” and reassessing my situation, it became clear that they didn’t need a third roommate. On a Tulane bulletin board I found a posting for “Roommate Wanted”. It was a four bedroom house in a nice neighborhood shared by three Tulane students. My rent was $50/month, they were nice guys and I moved in. I bought a Chevy Corvair for $100 which promptly broke down and spent another month or so in New Orleans before getting a call from my mother pleading with me to return home. Being a dutiful son I complied and bought a one way stand-by air-fare back to Indianapolis. I could have had a life in New Orleans; things were beginning to jell, another crossroad.
That night about 8:00PM I received a call from, would you believe it, old fat redneck, “Be at the yard at 6:00AM tomorrow morning.” “Dude” let me drive his car again that day. The yard was right next to the office and I worked until 6PM that day as a welder’s helper. When my shift was over I inquired as to whether I should come again tomorrow. “Ain’t got nothing” said old fat redneck. “But I really could use the work” I pleaded. “Then be back here at 2:30AM,” he conceded. “OK” was my only reply. Now how stupid is that? Not “What’s the job?” or “Why 2:30AM?” just “OK”. “Dude” turned out to be much smarted than I. He said he wasn’t loaning me his car to drive over to Harvey at 2:30AM but since he was a really nice guy, he agreed to drive me over.
There are multitudes of possible scenarios for what might have happened that night; luckily it was an adventure not a disaster. I got out of the car, thanked “Dude” and said I’d give him a call. There were about thirty guys milling around, nobody knew what was going on; we waited about half an hour when three pick up trucks appeared and we climbed in. The trucks took off and we rode for the next two hours through swamps and alligator country until about dawn, when we arrived at a marina. We boarded two cabin cruisers and headed out into the Gulf of Mexico, it was another three hours before we arrived at our final destination, now referred to as the Bay Marchand Fire. Chevron had eleven fires burning on one platform out in the Gulf.
Our base of operations was a barge. On arrival we received our instructions. We were told we needed to be up at 5AM, breakfast at 5:30AM and work started at 6AM. We boarded three tug boats, which is where we were work detailed. For the first few days the tugs would take us to the barge for meals, but this was hazardous as the weather wasn’t always cooperative. The waves could be ten feet high. This meant that as the tug came alongside the barge you had to be very careful you timed your jump from the tug to the barge and vice versa very carefully or you could be one dead roustabout.
On day four we were permanently detailed to the tugs, which meant no more trips to the barge, we would dine onboard our tug. This was our first sign that they were making this up as they went along. Going to the barge had been exciting, Red Adair was there. John Wayne had starred in a movie entitled “Hell Fighters” about the life of Red Adair, so I was impressed. But the tugs were safer and provided less supervision. Life on the tug was fairly laid back. For three for four days it so rough we couldn’t work. I woke up and smelled the bacon from the galley and realized I was seasick, a new experience. It was either work or be seasick. I was out there over two weeks, after believing I was showing up for just another twelve hour work day. I battled seasickness, not having a toothbrush or a change of underwear etc. and chastised myself for stepping into something without having a clue as to what I’d be doing or for how long. On the bright side I had a job, wasn’t working that hard and was getting a lot of overtime.
When we finally got around to the work we were supposed to do, we figured it out as we went along. On board the tug we had 5’x 5’ x 3” heavy foam-filled squares which were chained together and supported by buoyant cylinders on either side, so that about a foot of the foam would stick out of the water. This must have been some experimental Rube Goldberg marketing plan to try out these things. After we located an oil slick we would toss them off the stern of the tug into the water until we had about two hundred yards trailing after us then the tug would try to encircle the slick. This is the theory anyway. Once the oil slick was encircled another device was brought up which would supposedly suck up the oil. We could have picked up more oil with a turkey baster. When we pulled the contraptions out of the water they were covered in oil, which soaked into our clothes, and shoes.
Once it became obviously to everyone that this particular product was a waste of time we were released and taken back to the Oil Field Maintenance office. Our job was done. In a little over two weeks I’d earned $600 plus, a small fortune for me at that time. Upon returning to “Dude’s” and reassessing my situation, it became clear that they didn’t need a third roommate. On a Tulane bulletin board I found a posting for “Roommate Wanted”. It was a four bedroom house in a nice neighborhood shared by three Tulane students. My rent was $50/month, they were nice guys and I moved in. I bought a Chevy Corvair for $100 which promptly broke down and spent another month or so in New Orleans before getting a call from my mother pleading with me to return home. Being a dutiful son I complied and bought a one way stand-by air-fare back to Indianapolis. I could have had a life in New Orleans; things were beginning to jell, another crossroad.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Eye Abrasion - Mardi Gras - New Orleans February – March 1970
Waking up the next morning I wished I hadn’t. My head felt like overnight I’d had surgery and someone implanted a five pound lead sinker behind my right eye. Nothing in my previous experience prepared me for the excruciating anguish; it felt like I had a splinter in my eye. Realizing something was seriously wrong; I acknowledged that I required a physician’s services. Somehow managing to find a walk-in clinic, I spent the requisite $20 to find out that, “You have an abrasion of the eye”. Not sure what this meant, the doctor explained that it was a small cut on my eye. Evidently getting incredibly drunk, blacking out and not removing your contact lenses over a forty-eight plus hour plus period can create this condition. After receiving medication and being told to stay still, evidently walking around is not only throbbing torture but detrimental to the healing process, I managed to return to my lodgings.
The next four days I spent nursing my injured eye back to health. My hosts were gracious for the most part, but I could sense the restrained annoyance on the part of the reluctant roommate. However he nursed me back to health with a steady diet of red beans and rice. In good time I was able to continue my Mardi Gras shenanigans, however my partying was greatly restrained and I carefully monitored my alcohol intake.
One evening during the festivities I met a young lady who invited me back to her home. When we arrived I was duly impressed. It was in an old-money, expansive lawn, 100 year-old oak trees, two-story vintage historic home. Somewhere in the course of the evening it dawned on me that I was the entertainment; that this was a family tradition. Dinner was elegant, authentic New Orleans Creole cuisine and her parents were intensely gracious.
After dinner her father and I sat in the family room and had brandy and cigars. He began asking me questions and I began to spin out my story. He inquired about what I intended to do with my life. I mumbled something about wanting to help people. What he conveyed next stuck a nerve and resonated. He said, “First, you have to be in a position to help people.” In other words vagabonds were in no position to help anyone. A bit condescending but then I was only twenty-one and had my life in front of me. I decided it was good advice, but how I was going to get from A to B was poignantly unclear. The young lady made it clear as she dropped me off that this was a one night only event and that was fine with me. I later discerned that the evening was part of a ritual that was required as part of her family’s krewe. A Krewe (pronounced in the same way as "crew") is an organization that puts on a parade and or a ball for the Carnival season. The term is best known for its association with New Orleans Mardi Gras. (Wikipedia)
The rest of my Mardi Gras celebration was mostly uneventful. As I began running low on funds, somehow I got hold of a bugle and ripped off bugle calls and my own rendition of bugle jazz. This was the one and only time in my life when I made a living as a musician. It was short-lived, I wasn’t that good and it’s just that when you’re drunk you’re more likely to part with your spare change. It wasn’t much of a living anyway as I made perhaps fifteen bucks.
My mother bought me a trumpet when I was eleven because she and my grandmother thought all those musicians on Lawrence Welk always appeared to be having such a great time. Like I never had a good time and needed to have more fun. How my mother could ever speculate that I needed more fun defies comprehension, I was the biggest practical joker my family ever produced.
At eleven I was enrolled in the nation’s only Boy Scout Band and religiously attended weekly practice on the third floor of Fire Station Eleven in downtown Indianapolis. This is vivid because my trumpet and I often took the half hour bus ride there alone. Playing the trumpet continuously until I graduated high school had finally paid off. Fun had nothing to do with playing the trumpet; the guys on Lawrence Welk were smiling like crazy because Mr. Welk was paying them generously to do so. In the end I was no different.
Mardi Gras Day was a letdown. It was more a wrap up than a climax. The only notable thing I recall was running across a number of grossly attired, obnoxious gay guys whose repeated attempts to proposition me left me wondering how the hell I ever got to this part of town.
The next four days I spent nursing my injured eye back to health. My hosts were gracious for the most part, but I could sense the restrained annoyance on the part of the reluctant roommate. However he nursed me back to health with a steady diet of red beans and rice. In good time I was able to continue my Mardi Gras shenanigans, however my partying was greatly restrained and I carefully monitored my alcohol intake.
One evening during the festivities I met a young lady who invited me back to her home. When we arrived I was duly impressed. It was in an old-money, expansive lawn, 100 year-old oak trees, two-story vintage historic home. Somewhere in the course of the evening it dawned on me that I was the entertainment; that this was a family tradition. Dinner was elegant, authentic New Orleans Creole cuisine and her parents were intensely gracious.
After dinner her father and I sat in the family room and had brandy and cigars. He began asking me questions and I began to spin out my story. He inquired about what I intended to do with my life. I mumbled something about wanting to help people. What he conveyed next stuck a nerve and resonated. He said, “First, you have to be in a position to help people.” In other words vagabonds were in no position to help anyone. A bit condescending but then I was only twenty-one and had my life in front of me. I decided it was good advice, but how I was going to get from A to B was poignantly unclear. The young lady made it clear as she dropped me off that this was a one night only event and that was fine with me. I later discerned that the evening was part of a ritual that was required as part of her family’s krewe. A Krewe (pronounced in the same way as "crew") is an organization that puts on a parade and or a ball for the Carnival season. The term is best known for its association with New Orleans Mardi Gras. (Wikipedia)
The rest of my Mardi Gras celebration was mostly uneventful. As I began running low on funds, somehow I got hold of a bugle and ripped off bugle calls and my own rendition of bugle jazz. This was the one and only time in my life when I made a living as a musician. It was short-lived, I wasn’t that good and it’s just that when you’re drunk you’re more likely to part with your spare change. It wasn’t much of a living anyway as I made perhaps fifteen bucks.
My mother bought me a trumpet when I was eleven because she and my grandmother thought all those musicians on Lawrence Welk always appeared to be having such a great time. Like I never had a good time and needed to have more fun. How my mother could ever speculate that I needed more fun defies comprehension, I was the biggest practical joker my family ever produced.
At eleven I was enrolled in the nation’s only Boy Scout Band and religiously attended weekly practice on the third floor of Fire Station Eleven in downtown Indianapolis. This is vivid because my trumpet and I often took the half hour bus ride there alone. Playing the trumpet continuously until I graduated high school had finally paid off. Fun had nothing to do with playing the trumpet; the guys on Lawrence Welk were smiling like crazy because Mr. Welk was paying them generously to do so. In the end I was no different.
Mardi Gras Day was a letdown. It was more a wrap up than a climax. The only notable thing I recall was running across a number of grossly attired, obnoxious gay guys whose repeated attempts to proposition me left me wondering how the hell I ever got to this part of town.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Mardi Gras - New Orleans, LA - February 1970
Leaving the Louisville airport I was overtaken by a sense of gloom; or was it fear, uncertainty? It was late, it looked like rain; I had an old knapsack but no tent or sleeping bag. Glimpsing a motel not far away I opted to spend about 1/4 of my funds on a room for the night, not a propitious start. My somber mood turned brighter as the room was cozy and safe. The next day was bright and cold and feeling renewed I continued my journey.
At about the half way mark, I stopped for the night at a university, it might have been Mississippi State, it certainly felt old south. There I found the Phi Delta Theta house, my old fraternity from the University of Buffalo. They took me in, fed me and gave me a bed for the night. The next day everyone was up early and off to classes, I figured I should be off as well. I don’t remember any of the rides except the last one. If you remember the character, Freakshow, from the movie, Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, the creepy guy in a pick up truck who gives the boys a ride, it was very similar. While my ride was menacing and intimidating he was also gracious enough to take me all the way to Tulane University, my final destination that night.
It was dark when I arrived at Tulane, around 8 PM. There wasn’t a Phi Delta Theta fraternity on campus. So as a former jock, I asked where the jock dorm was. I found it and scanned the floors for a good spot. Finally settling on the eighth floor TV room where I found a nice sofa and fell asleep. Around 1 AM I awoke as a security guard was rousting all of us up. It was something like, “Clear the room boys, go to your rooms or get out of the building.” A student who’d been watching TV took notice of us and said, “You guys can sleep in my room if you want.” Options being extremely limited we took him up on his generous offer and slept on his hard linoleum floor.
The next day we awoke late and sore. I say “we” because the night before I’d shared the floor with three guys from Ohio State who had also come to party at Mardi Gras. We teamed up and began to explore New Orleans. Mardi Gras or Carnival is a festive season preceding Shrove Tuesday or Fat Tuesday, which is Mardi Gras day. Different communities celebrate it different ways. At this time in New Orleans the Carnival spanned several weeks gradually working itself up to a crescendo on Mardi Gras Day. I had arrived two weeks prior to the big event.
The guys from Ohio State had a car and I threw my knapsack in their trunk and off we went to explore what was going on in the French Quarter. With my limited funds I bought a bottle of port wine because it was about 21% alcohol by volume and another bottle of Bali Hai (cheap soda pop like wine) as a chaser. I drank both of these in a span of perhaps twenty minutes. My idea of having a good time in those days was to drink a lot of cheap liquor quick. This night was to teach me an excellent lesson about why this is not a good idea.
She was a cheerleader for the New Orleans Saints, a svelte witty brunette tall and voluptuous. We went out to dinner with a group of friends; we marched around the French Quarter collecting beads, laughing, talking, and frolicking in our youth. It was a magic night. She was fascinating and I was charmed. Alas, these are the only bits and pieces that remain. It was a lost night, what all happened is a mystery; my memory fades in and out like tuning a distant radio station on a crystal set. Never saw her again, couldn’t remember her name and didn’t get her phone number. Crossroads.
There was a beer in front of me and it felt like a dream as I sat at the bar talking to a guy next to me when suddenly my mind rebooted. I’d been awake but my brain suddenly switched back on from some other mode. A few minutes later and a question popped into my head, “What’s my name?” Not knowing was unsettling and bewildering. It took some moments of complicated concentration and finally some time later an answer, “Russ”, that’s my name. WOW! What a relief! But what’s my last name? Same process. My celebration of self discovery was short lived, the bar was closing and we were soon ushered out the door.
Walking down the deserted streets alone, I began my self-examination. Where am I? How did I get here? It was another twenty questions before I hit upon, “What happened to those guys from Ohio State?” Abruptly realizing all my worldly possessions were in the trunk of their car was a profoundly depressing thought. Oh woe is me! Where am I walking too? Do I even know? It was around 5:30 AM and I’d been walking about twenty minutes when who whirls around the corner but the guys from Ohio State. One of them yells out the car window at me, “We’ve been looking all over for you!” Thank God they found me. I’ve since wondered if I could ever recapture the events of the entire evening perhaps under hypnosis. What really happened remains a blank enigma.
We drove to a city park and went to sleep; sometime after noon we woke up with ravenous pits in our stomachs and went off to campus to scout around for food and better lodgings. After lunch we were walking across campus when I spied a friendly-looking student. Hopping he might point us in the right direction I asked, “Hey Dude, you know where we could spend the night?” This was 1970 and I did use the word “Dude” probably entering it into the official future lexicon of “The Simpsons”. He replied in the affirmative that we could stay as his house. He was renting a place off campus which he shared with a roommate. His roommate wasn’t thrilled but acquiesced to the idea. We anted up some rent money and lived in their house over the course of Mardi Gras.
At about the half way mark, I stopped for the night at a university, it might have been Mississippi State, it certainly felt old south. There I found the Phi Delta Theta house, my old fraternity from the University of Buffalo. They took me in, fed me and gave me a bed for the night. The next day everyone was up early and off to classes, I figured I should be off as well. I don’t remember any of the rides except the last one. If you remember the character, Freakshow, from the movie, Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, the creepy guy in a pick up truck who gives the boys a ride, it was very similar. While my ride was menacing and intimidating he was also gracious enough to take me all the way to Tulane University, my final destination that night.
It was dark when I arrived at Tulane, around 8 PM. There wasn’t a Phi Delta Theta fraternity on campus. So as a former jock, I asked where the jock dorm was. I found it and scanned the floors for a good spot. Finally settling on the eighth floor TV room where I found a nice sofa and fell asleep. Around 1 AM I awoke as a security guard was rousting all of us up. It was something like, “Clear the room boys, go to your rooms or get out of the building.” A student who’d been watching TV took notice of us and said, “You guys can sleep in my room if you want.” Options being extremely limited we took him up on his generous offer and slept on his hard linoleum floor.
The next day we awoke late and sore. I say “we” because the night before I’d shared the floor with three guys from Ohio State who had also come to party at Mardi Gras. We teamed up and began to explore New Orleans. Mardi Gras or Carnival is a festive season preceding Shrove Tuesday or Fat Tuesday, which is Mardi Gras day. Different communities celebrate it different ways. At this time in New Orleans the Carnival spanned several weeks gradually working itself up to a crescendo on Mardi Gras Day. I had arrived two weeks prior to the big event.
The guys from Ohio State had a car and I threw my knapsack in their trunk and off we went to explore what was going on in the French Quarter. With my limited funds I bought a bottle of port wine because it was about 21% alcohol by volume and another bottle of Bali Hai (cheap soda pop like wine) as a chaser. I drank both of these in a span of perhaps twenty minutes. My idea of having a good time in those days was to drink a lot of cheap liquor quick. This night was to teach me an excellent lesson about why this is not a good idea.
She was a cheerleader for the New Orleans Saints, a svelte witty brunette tall and voluptuous. We went out to dinner with a group of friends; we marched around the French Quarter collecting beads, laughing, talking, and frolicking in our youth. It was a magic night. She was fascinating and I was charmed. Alas, these are the only bits and pieces that remain. It was a lost night, what all happened is a mystery; my memory fades in and out like tuning a distant radio station on a crystal set. Never saw her again, couldn’t remember her name and didn’t get her phone number. Crossroads.
There was a beer in front of me and it felt like a dream as I sat at the bar talking to a guy next to me when suddenly my mind rebooted. I’d been awake but my brain suddenly switched back on from some other mode. A few minutes later and a question popped into my head, “What’s my name?” Not knowing was unsettling and bewildering. It took some moments of complicated concentration and finally some time later an answer, “Russ”, that’s my name. WOW! What a relief! But what’s my last name? Same process. My celebration of self discovery was short lived, the bar was closing and we were soon ushered out the door.
Walking down the deserted streets alone, I began my self-examination. Where am I? How did I get here? It was another twenty questions before I hit upon, “What happened to those guys from Ohio State?” Abruptly realizing all my worldly possessions were in the trunk of their car was a profoundly depressing thought. Oh woe is me! Where am I walking too? Do I even know? It was around 5:30 AM and I’d been walking about twenty minutes when who whirls around the corner but the guys from Ohio State. One of them yells out the car window at me, “We’ve been looking all over for you!” Thank God they found me. I’ve since wondered if I could ever recapture the events of the entire evening perhaps under hypnosis. What really happened remains a blank enigma.
We drove to a city park and went to sleep; sometime after noon we woke up with ravenous pits in our stomachs and went off to campus to scout around for food and better lodgings. After lunch we were walking across campus when I spied a friendly-looking student. Hopping he might point us in the right direction I asked, “Hey Dude, you know where we could spend the night?” This was 1970 and I did use the word “Dude” probably entering it into the official future lexicon of “The Simpsons”. He replied in the affirmative that we could stay as his house. He was renting a place off campus which he shared with a roommate. His roommate wasn’t thrilled but acquiesced to the idea. We anted up some rent money and lived in their house over the course of Mardi Gras.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Crawfordsville Sojourn - April & May 1970
In April 1970 I began living alone in a camper in the woods in Crawfordsville, Indiana at the behest of my parents, I was twenty-one. Today it would be considered cruel and unusual punishment; there was no electricity, which made for a somewhat primitive lifestyle. I even had to bathe in the creek. My parents expected me to work, cut down trees, and clear brush. They had a dream to build an RV camper park. But being my parents they had no money and they weren’t paying me. They figured free camper rent was enough.
The camper was designed to sit in the back of a large four door, dodge pick up truck. It was set up sans truck on steel poles designed for that purpose in the clearing at the top of the hill. It was an odd looking domicile, but I did have a nice view of the farmer’s field across the road. It was isolated and solitary. I thought of Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond, but it didn’t help much.
I soon figured out I should get a job if I wanted to continue to eat. There was a Sunoco station out on the North end of town by the highway, gas was $.36/gallon. I got a job there and began my gas pumping career. Not ever having lived in a small town before, this job gave me an opportunity to meet the locals.
One day one of my customers approached me about a job. He said, “I believe you have potential.” By this he meant he’d like me to do a ride along while he sold his “Prairie Farmer Life Insurance”. Naively I agreed; his most important point, always show the “Prairie Farmer” bumper sticker stuck on your brief case, this should get you in the door. We visited a number of farms that day and I distinctly remember one old geezer who didn’t look like he had nickel to his name. He had a ramshackle house and a bunch of kids running around barefoot. We didn’t make a sale and my mentor’s comment was, “This guy has millions.” A million corncobs, maybe. I continued to pump gas.
The next encounter was even more bizarre. Two young women around my age started getting a lot of gas, practically every day; finally one of them asked me out. She had a car and a huge pair of bosoms; we went to the drive in. I don’t remember the movie. A few days later we decided to rendezvous at my camper in the woods, a romantic getaway if there ever was one. Before long we were both naked; a short while later and suddenly an awkward realization. A bell did not go off in my head; just a realization, there was an absence of passion. Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen. There was little conversation and she quietly got dressed and left, never to be heard from again.
The camper was designed to sit in the back of a large four door, dodge pick up truck. It was set up sans truck on steel poles designed for that purpose in the clearing at the top of the hill. It was an odd looking domicile, but I did have a nice view of the farmer’s field across the road. It was isolated and solitary. I thought of Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond, but it didn’t help much.
I soon figured out I should get a job if I wanted to continue to eat. There was a Sunoco station out on the North end of town by the highway, gas was $.36/gallon. I got a job there and began my gas pumping career. Not ever having lived in a small town before, this job gave me an opportunity to meet the locals.
One day one of my customers approached me about a job. He said, “I believe you have potential.” By this he meant he’d like me to do a ride along while he sold his “Prairie Farmer Life Insurance”. Naively I agreed; his most important point, always show the “Prairie Farmer” bumper sticker stuck on your brief case, this should get you in the door. We visited a number of farms that day and I distinctly remember one old geezer who didn’t look like he had nickel to his name. He had a ramshackle house and a bunch of kids running around barefoot. We didn’t make a sale and my mentor’s comment was, “This guy has millions.” A million corncobs, maybe. I continued to pump gas.The next encounter was even more bizarre. Two young women around my age started getting a lot of gas, practically every day; finally one of them asked me out. She had a car and a huge pair of bosoms; we went to the drive in. I don’t remember the movie. A few days later we decided to rendezvous at my camper in the woods, a romantic getaway if there ever was one. Before long we were both naked; a short while later and suddenly an awkward realization. A bell did not go off in my head; just a realization, there was an absence of passion. Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen. There was little conversation and she quietly got dressed and left, never to be heard from again.
U.S. Army Enlistment Day - January 1970
In January 1970 I had decided to enlist in the U.S. Army. The draft had been hanging over my head for four years just waiting to explode like a blowout on the highway. I’d had a draft deferment while in college and then the merchant marine, both of which had vanished like pizza at a fraternity party, now I was fresh meat. Enlisting, and getting it over with, seemed smarter than waiting around for the inevitable. How bad could it be? Maybe I could play Army football, I’d heard of that. By joining the Army it would all be over in two years; four years in the Navy or Air Force sounded like a lifetime.
Most of the advice I’d received about joining the Army had been bad. For example, I’d heard of this “foolproof” way to get out and avoid the military from more than one source. “Just spread plenty of peanut butter in your butt crack and when you have to bend over for your physical the doctor will ask you, ‘what is that?’” That’s your cue to grab some, stick it in your mouth and say, “Tastes like crap to me!” These and other ideas just didn’t sound viable. I conjured an image of a sergeant yelling, “Got another peanut butter A-hole here, make sure his butt ends up in Viet Nam!”
When I arrived at the building in downtown Indianapolis I was surprised to find enlistees for the other services as well. One guy in particular was adamant about joining the Marines. He was so excited he acted like he’d just won the lottery. I thought to myself, “Haven’t you seen The D.I. (1957), Jack Webb is going to chew your butt, you moron.” But I kept my thoughts to myself. Soon we were ushered into a room to take a placement type test. The test was basic stuff, but as I looked around the room I detected puzzled expressions on many faces. I began to realize I could be a searchlight among dim bulbs, which wasn’t at all reassuring.
We had to fill out many forms and mechanically I began this task, already resigned to my fate. I tried to answer as best I could. When I got to the medical forms I simply described how I’d torn two ligaments and the cartilage in my right knee playing football in college a little over a year before. No big deal. Then we stood in lines and wasted more time in preparation for our new career of hurry up and wait. Finally it was my turn and the officer looks at me, then looks at my forms. He says, “We want you to see a doctor.”
I didn’t spend much time at the doctor’s office, it was a brief visit. He looked at the file, looked at my knee and said, “Would it break your heart if you didn’t go in the Army son?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing, without hesitation I replied, “No Sir.” I got my draft card with the 4-F deferment shortly thereafter. I was free at last.
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