When I was in elementary school, in particular 2nd and 3rd grades, I was fortunate enough to have a “stay-at-home-mom”. We were far from rich and my mother staying at home meant we did without some things. We were a one car family, lived in a modest house, never ate out, and watched a black and white TV. Most of my clothes were made by my grandmother. She made all of us grandchildren shirts, pajamas, a house robe, and so forth. My parents took me to places like Sears or Wards and bought me blue jeans, socks, and underwear. We got a new coat every year, but the old one, despite being a tad short in the arms, was used for “playing” while the new one was used for school or church. Same for the jeans. I usually got one pair of shoes at the beginning of the school year and if my parents were lucky I wouldn’t grow too much and be able to make it until the next summer. I scarcely wore shoes in the summer. Church or when we went somewhere was about the only place I wore shoes. At home it was bare feet in and out of the house during the summer. Every Christmas I knew that one of my presents would be a pair of gloves. However, in those early years my mother insisted on me wearing mittens. Don’t laugh!
On those cold school days she would make sure I was buttoned up to the neck with my coat, a knit cap on my head, and those mittens. The last thing she would do before sending me out the door to catch the bus (which was THE coldest place of the entire day) she would take three pennies and slip them inside my mittens. She figured they were safest there from being lost. The pennies were my milk money to go with my sack lunch. There was something comforting about having all that attention before heading out for school. I knew I was loved.
So, me and my pals Thomas, Kelly, Nicky, and my best pal Eddie would sit together on the bus and depending on which year it was I had at least some of them in my class. The school I went to was small by today’s standards. There were only two classes per grade and only one 6th grade class. Elementary school for us was 1st through 6th grades. No kindergarten or pre-school. When I was going to Houston Baptist University years later I was a substitute teacher for a district outside of Houston. The first day I went to sub there I was amazed that the school was for only 3rd, 4th, and 5th grades. There were 14 classes per grade! Next door to that campus was the kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grades.
Anyway, there were always a few moments during the school day that there was a lag in which the teacher would tell us to “find something quiet to do”. If all else failed, I would take out one of those pennies, always the oldest and most tarnished one, and work magic on it. You know how pennies can get over the years. They may have been bright and shiny when they were new (sort of like us), but over time they turned dark. Sometimes you could barely make out the year on the penny. Well, I would take the dirtiest one and a pencil eraser and scrub that penny with the eraser until both sides looked nearly as new as the day it was made. The year would become clear again and it was like having a brand new penny.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could do that to ourselves? Well, truth be told, God can. If we let Him. Now, we won’t lose the physical wrinkles and age spots or suddenly look like we did decades ago, but through God’s Son Jesus, our lives can be made new again. As for me, I am happy to be one of God’s pennies and I’m so very thankful that Jesus provides the same service for me as the erasers did that I used on those pennies way back when.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
"Thanksgiving and Being Thankful"
Sometimes I think the hardest part of getting older is remembering things and people that are no longer in my life despite my intense desire for them to still be with me. At least I have the memories. I lost my grandfather when I was 11. I think of him every day. If for no other reason because I live on land that was once part of his farm and I drive by the old farmhouse every day. When I was 9 my best friend, Eddie Brown, drowned in the San Jacinto River on July 11, 1965. We were like brothers. He had three sisters and I had two and we were the only boys of the 7 kids. Eddie and I did everything together. I remember pretending to be James West and Artemus Gordon from “The Wild Wild West”. I remember going to see movies on Friday nights with my parents to the drive-in and Eddie going with us. I remember when we were on my bike, Eddie on the handlebars and me driving, and we took a tumble. I skinned up my elbow pretty bad and Eddie cut his big toe bad on the spokes of the bike. We probably would have both cried if we had been alone, but we had to be “men” around each other. As we both bled into the gravel of the road it was decided, unanimously I might add, that we should become blood brothers. So, Eddie mashed his big toe onto my elbow and we became blood brothers. I still think about Eddie several times a week.
Through the years I lost my grandmother and some aunts and uncles. I also think about "lost loves" from time to time. I have only truly been “in love” twice. I also "thought" I was in love a couple of other times. I was married to my ex-wife for 27 years. I never thought I would be divorced. It's a long story and not for the telling here. Suffice it to say, I still have some very fond memories of her and I wish her only the best. Divorce wasn't something I ever wanted, but in the end it has proven to be what was best in our case.
As for the other "love" of my life she was my first “love”. I have remained close friends with people who we both knew way back when and both still know to this day. So, I know a little about her life. I am truly happy for her that she has had a good life with a good Christian man who loves her and that they have had the blessings of three children, now all grown. But, there are still moments, usually when a song comes on the radio that was a hit record when we were dating, when I am taken back to that feeling of being in love for the first time. I will always be thankful for those days. I sincerely hope she feels the same way (if she ever thinks of me at all - I would hate to be ANYONES bad memory). I had never been kissed before kissing her. No, we were “good kids” and didn’t do what some of you no doubt are wondering about. I learned how to treat a woman by knowing her and more importantly how NOT to treat a woman. If I could tell her, then I would tell her that I am sorry for any heartaches I might have caused her. No doubt they would mean nothing all these years later, but it would mean a lot for me to say it.
By now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m taking you on this little trip down memory lane. Well, the point is we are about to celebrate Thanksgiving. We are supposed to give thanks for our blessings. I have many blessings to be thankful for. My parents, my sisters and their husbands, my children and grandchildren, my handful of friends that I have known for over 4 decades, a job, my health (even if it could be a little better!), and, as Bob Hope used to sing, I truly can say “thanks for the memories”. We all go through life and face the twists and turns of a road that can only be seen clearly from looking back as we go forward. We just have to be careful not to take our hands off the plow (Numbers 12:7) and not to spend too much time looking back. I am excited about the future. I am thankful for whatever future time I am given here on Earth. We never know what is over the next rise or around the next corner. Be thankful for what you have, for what you once had, and for what you will have in the future.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Through the years I lost my grandmother and some aunts and uncles. I also think about "lost loves" from time to time. I have only truly been “in love” twice. I also "thought" I was in love a couple of other times. I was married to my ex-wife for 27 years. I never thought I would be divorced. It's a long story and not for the telling here. Suffice it to say, I still have some very fond memories of her and I wish her only the best. Divorce wasn't something I ever wanted, but in the end it has proven to be what was best in our case.
As for the other "love" of my life she was my first “love”. I have remained close friends with people who we both knew way back when and both still know to this day. So, I know a little about her life. I am truly happy for her that she has had a good life with a good Christian man who loves her and that they have had the blessings of three children, now all grown. But, there are still moments, usually when a song comes on the radio that was a hit record when we were dating, when I am taken back to that feeling of being in love for the first time. I will always be thankful for those days. I sincerely hope she feels the same way (if she ever thinks of me at all - I would hate to be ANYONES bad memory). I had never been kissed before kissing her. No, we were “good kids” and didn’t do what some of you no doubt are wondering about. I learned how to treat a woman by knowing her and more importantly how NOT to treat a woman. If I could tell her, then I would tell her that I am sorry for any heartaches I might have caused her. No doubt they would mean nothing all these years later, but it would mean a lot for me to say it.
By now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m taking you on this little trip down memory lane. Well, the point is we are about to celebrate Thanksgiving. We are supposed to give thanks for our blessings. I have many blessings to be thankful for. My parents, my sisters and their husbands, my children and grandchildren, my handful of friends that I have known for over 4 decades, a job, my health (even if it could be a little better!), and, as Bob Hope used to sing, I truly can say “thanks for the memories”. We all go through life and face the twists and turns of a road that can only be seen clearly from looking back as we go forward. We just have to be careful not to take our hands off the plow (Numbers 12:7) and not to spend too much time looking back. I am excited about the future. I am thankful for whatever future time I am given here on Earth. We never know what is over the next rise or around the next corner. Be thankful for what you have, for what you once had, and for what you will have in the future.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
"The Nutty Locksmith and His Tidy Whities"
We’ve all had them. Moments in time when we are totally embarrassed. Most of the time the embarrassment wears off in fairly short order, but then there are a handful of times that you cringe every time you think of “that” embarrassing moment in your life. For me, there are two that stand out. I’m cringing as I write this. Why write about it and tell the world you ask? Therapy. Self-diluted perhaps, but therapy nevertheless.
The first of these two acts of dubious repute came in August of 1977. I was working as a locksmith trainee for a company in Houston, Texas. Now, for those of you who have never been to Houston in August let me explain something. It is incredibly hot and equally humid. Well, it’s just miserable is what it is. So, the dispatcher asks me if I’m ready to go on my first job by myself. It’s suppose to be a simple job. Of course, I said yes. Mistake number 1. The job was to go to a little gas station in Montrose (a part of Houston well-known for some pretty strange people) and change out a lock on a the men’s room that had been damaged when someone couldn’t hold it anymore. Sounds simple enough. I figured, as did the dispatcher, that I should be able to get it done and be back within an hour. Huh!
So, I get there and it’s a rather filthy disgusting place. An hour was too long and it was my intention to get out of there as quick as possible. Some very strange people kept wanting to use the restroom and became aggravated that it was “out of order” for the moment. Montrose people were always ahead of the curve where fads were concerned. If you wanted to see what all the teeny-boppers would be wearing in 5 years, then go to Montrose. Guys and girls with orange or pink or lime green Mohawks wearing rings in their noses and who knows where else walked by the station in droves. Well, it was a parade so far as I was concerned.
Anyway, I took the beat-up old lock off the door and quickly saw that a new lock would not fit back on the door without some pounding on the door around the hole. I won’t go into a longer than needed explanation, but what happened was I dropped a tool inside the filthy, steaming hot, disgusting restroom and when I bent down to pick it up the door closed. No problem, right? I mean there wasn’t even a lock on the door. Well, the door opened into the filthy restroom and the beat up old door had snagged a nail in the jamb when it closed. The door wouldn’t open. I pulled on that door as best I could, but remember there was no lock. I only had a screwdriver (all my other tools were on the other side of the door for anyone to walk up and steal while I watched through the hole in the door where the frigging lock was supposed to be). There was NO ventilation in that room other than the previously mentioned hole in the door. I tried everything I could think of to get that door open. It was hung up on that nail and the only thing that was going to get it open was for someone to kick it open from outside. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in sweat. I mean was a soaked. At one point I even prayed that God send someone to quietly set me free with as little fanfare as possible. God had other plans.
Finally, after becoming convinced that I was incapable of getting that door open myself I did the only thing possible. I started to yell for help. I bent down and started to yell “Help!” through that hole where the stupid lock was supposed to be. Oh, did I mention the station was on the corner of a busy intersection? Lots and lots of traffic. Nobody could hear the idiot who was yelling for help in the men’s restroom of that little gas station. At one point, one of the few “normal” looking people walked by and when I yelled for help they looked at me like I was a pervert or something. Or something. Finally, after about an hour in the hot box I caught the attention of a man who had come to use the facility. I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth at that point. This is where the embarrassment meter spiked and then broke. I looked up through that hole in the door where the blasted lock was supposed to be and I said to the man, “I’m the locksmith and I’m locked in here. Can you go get the manager?” Well, as he walked away laughing and holding his sides I realized that I had really sunk to the bottom that day. The manager did come around and with me standing back from the door he kicked that door in. I stepped out into that 98 degree, 95% humidity and it felt like wintertime.
I got the lock on the door quickly after that and given I had lost half my body weight in sweat I spied a Chicken place across the street. I went in there and asked for a large Coke. They were out of Coke. Of course they were out of Coke. It was that kind of day. In fact, they only had one flavor working at that time. That’s how I capped off the afternoon with a large Strawberry soda. I don’t even like Strawberry soda, but I did that day.
Now, for the second of the embarrassing moments. This one is much shorter, but it ranks up there with the other one. It was sometime in 1982 and a Saturday morning. I woke up feeling pretty energized and ready for a fun day off. My ex-wife (we were happily married in year 6 of 27 years at that time) had gotten up earlier and was in the kitchen. I jumped in the shower and when I finished I put on my underwear and then, in my typical nutty behavior, I started to sing (very loudly, I might add) “We’re off to see the wizard.” I continued to sing loudly as I quite literally skipped down the hall (clad only in my underwear) and into the kitchen only to come face to face with my wife and a female neighborhood friend sitting at the table drinking coffee. I then proceeded (so I was told) to turn a deep shade of scarlet while my wife and her friend looked on in complete befuddlement and horror (well, my wife was horrified for sure). I quickly retreated and hid in the back of the house until I was sure the friend had left. Just in case, I got completely dressed before going back to the scene of the crime. She was still there. All I could think of to say was, “Don’t look Ethyl!” But it was too late. She’d already been incensed.
The first of these two acts of dubious repute came in August of 1977. I was working as a locksmith trainee for a company in Houston, Texas. Now, for those of you who have never been to Houston in August let me explain something. It is incredibly hot and equally humid. Well, it’s just miserable is what it is. So, the dispatcher asks me if I’m ready to go on my first job by myself. It’s suppose to be a simple job. Of course, I said yes. Mistake number 1. The job was to go to a little gas station in Montrose (a part of Houston well-known for some pretty strange people) and change out a lock on a the men’s room that had been damaged when someone couldn’t hold it anymore. Sounds simple enough. I figured, as did the dispatcher, that I should be able to get it done and be back within an hour. Huh!
So, I get there and it’s a rather filthy disgusting place. An hour was too long and it was my intention to get out of there as quick as possible. Some very strange people kept wanting to use the restroom and became aggravated that it was “out of order” for the moment. Montrose people were always ahead of the curve where fads were concerned. If you wanted to see what all the teeny-boppers would be wearing in 5 years, then go to Montrose. Guys and girls with orange or pink or lime green Mohawks wearing rings in their noses and who knows where else walked by the station in droves. Well, it was a parade so far as I was concerned.
Anyway, I took the beat-up old lock off the door and quickly saw that a new lock would not fit back on the door without some pounding on the door around the hole. I won’t go into a longer than needed explanation, but what happened was I dropped a tool inside the filthy, steaming hot, disgusting restroom and when I bent down to pick it up the door closed. No problem, right? I mean there wasn’t even a lock on the door. Well, the door opened into the filthy restroom and the beat up old door had snagged a nail in the jamb when it closed. The door wouldn’t open. I pulled on that door as best I could, but remember there was no lock. I only had a screwdriver (all my other tools were on the other side of the door for anyone to walk up and steal while I watched through the hole in the door where the frigging lock was supposed to be). There was NO ventilation in that room other than the previously mentioned hole in the door. I tried everything I could think of to get that door open. It was hung up on that nail and the only thing that was going to get it open was for someone to kick it open from outside. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in sweat. I mean was a soaked. At one point I even prayed that God send someone to quietly set me free with as little fanfare as possible. God had other plans.
Finally, after becoming convinced that I was incapable of getting that door open myself I did the only thing possible. I started to yell for help. I bent down and started to yell “Help!” through that hole where the stupid lock was supposed to be. Oh, did I mention the station was on the corner of a busy intersection? Lots and lots of traffic. Nobody could hear the idiot who was yelling for help in the men’s restroom of that little gas station. At one point, one of the few “normal” looking people walked by and when I yelled for help they looked at me like I was a pervert or something. Or something. Finally, after about an hour in the hot box I caught the attention of a man who had come to use the facility. I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth at that point. This is where the embarrassment meter spiked and then broke. I looked up through that hole in the door where the blasted lock was supposed to be and I said to the man, “I’m the locksmith and I’m locked in here. Can you go get the manager?” Well, as he walked away laughing and holding his sides I realized that I had really sunk to the bottom that day. The manager did come around and with me standing back from the door he kicked that door in. I stepped out into that 98 degree, 95% humidity and it felt like wintertime.
I got the lock on the door quickly after that and given I had lost half my body weight in sweat I spied a Chicken place across the street. I went in there and asked for a large Coke. They were out of Coke. Of course they were out of Coke. It was that kind of day. In fact, they only had one flavor working at that time. That’s how I capped off the afternoon with a large Strawberry soda. I don’t even like Strawberry soda, but I did that day.
Now, for the second of the embarrassing moments. This one is much shorter, but it ranks up there with the other one. It was sometime in 1982 and a Saturday morning. I woke up feeling pretty energized and ready for a fun day off. My ex-wife (we were happily married in year 6 of 27 years at that time) had gotten up earlier and was in the kitchen. I jumped in the shower and when I finished I put on my underwear and then, in my typical nutty behavior, I started to sing (very loudly, I might add) “We’re off to see the wizard.” I continued to sing loudly as I quite literally skipped down the hall (clad only in my underwear) and into the kitchen only to come face to face with my wife and a female neighborhood friend sitting at the table drinking coffee. I then proceeded (so I was told) to turn a deep shade of scarlet while my wife and her friend looked on in complete befuddlement and horror (well, my wife was horrified for sure). I quickly retreated and hid in the back of the house until I was sure the friend had left. Just in case, I got completely dressed before going back to the scene of the crime. She was still there. All I could think of to say was, “Don’t look Ethyl!” But it was too late. She’d already been incensed.
Monday, November 7, 2011
"The Computer Desk, The Monkey, and Me"
Last night I was reminded again why I don’t make my living repairing or building things. My mind just doesn’t work too well where these kinds of things are concerned. In this case, I was putting together a computer desk. You know the kind. 18,000 parts and instructions written by some deranged disciple of Charlie Manson or worse yet - a fan of Alex Baldwin. OK, so I’m exaggerating a little, but you know how it feels to have to put together a piece of “furniture” like that. Speaking of the person or persons who really do write the instructions for putting together such a mind-numbing project, let’s consider a few salient points on such a person. First, it’s obvious that they are not actually writers. Second, they must be psychopathic misfits bent on making other people who are mentally healthy individuals into people who lose all rational thought processes and themselves become babbling basket weavers, generally drooling into the baskets they are making. Third, they have willing partners in crime.
These partners include an illustrator, a packing “specialist”, and a monkey who’s sole job it is to intentionally leave out at least one essential part. Usually it’s the part that holds the whole thing together. The “illustrator” must be a frustrated artist who, after finding no willing buyer for his “artwork”, resorts to drawing the plans for building the said project and takes his frustrations out on the poor unsuspecting and soon to be drooling fool. The packing specialist is actually quite talented. This person manages to stuff more parts, nuts, bolts, and so forth into a box that will weigh roughly the same as an aircraft carrier, but is deceptively small for its weight. Which reminds me. When you see “WARNING!” on the box accompanied by a picture of a guy holding his back in pain - heed the warning!
So, last night I put together the computer desk. It was quite a workout. I could lose weight doing such a project. There were moments when I sat down and could feel the drool building up. There were moments when I realized that I had put half of the thing together backwards resulting in me having to take it apart and do it again. There were moments when I felt like a contortionist tied in knots on my living room floor. There were triumphant moments when I put something together and it actually looked like the picture on the box. By the way, have you ever noticed they don’t put an anticipated time for putting one of those things together? It took me roughly 3 hours. Sad, very sad.
You no doubt are asking why I’m telling you about all of this. Surely there must be some profound lesson learned that I feel compelled to share with you. Nope. I’m just proud as heck that I survived the ordeal and as I sit here writing this I am gazing fondly at my shiny new computer desk that I put together. Oh, and not a word about the 3 bolts leftover that I have no idea where they came from. Some things are better left a mystery!
These partners include an illustrator, a packing “specialist”, and a monkey who’s sole job it is to intentionally leave out at least one essential part. Usually it’s the part that holds the whole thing together. The “illustrator” must be a frustrated artist who, after finding no willing buyer for his “artwork”, resorts to drawing the plans for building the said project and takes his frustrations out on the poor unsuspecting and soon to be drooling fool. The packing specialist is actually quite talented. This person manages to stuff more parts, nuts, bolts, and so forth into a box that will weigh roughly the same as an aircraft carrier, but is deceptively small for its weight. Which reminds me. When you see “WARNING!” on the box accompanied by a picture of a guy holding his back in pain - heed the warning!
So, last night I put together the computer desk. It was quite a workout. I could lose weight doing such a project. There were moments when I sat down and could feel the drool building up. There were moments when I realized that I had put half of the thing together backwards resulting in me having to take it apart and do it again. There were moments when I felt like a contortionist tied in knots on my living room floor. There were triumphant moments when I put something together and it actually looked like the picture on the box. By the way, have you ever noticed they don’t put an anticipated time for putting one of those things together? It took me roughly 3 hours. Sad, very sad.
You no doubt are asking why I’m telling you about all of this. Surely there must be some profound lesson learned that I feel compelled to share with you. Nope. I’m just proud as heck that I survived the ordeal and as I sit here writing this I am gazing fondly at my shiny new computer desk that I put together. Oh, and not a word about the 3 bolts leftover that I have no idea where they came from. Some things are better left a mystery!
Friday, November 4, 2011
"Lessons Learned From Mr. Stump"
When I was 11 years old our family moved into the house that I would live in until I was grown and that my parents lived in until I had been out of the house for three years. In many ways that house is still considered by my family as “the house we grew up in”. None of us has been back in that house since March of 1979. Oh, I’ve driven by it many times when in town just to see the old place, but like everything it and the neighborhood have changed drastically in over three decades. Thinking of that house last night I was reminded of one of our neighbors. His name was Mr. Stump. In the eyes of an 11 year-old he was ancient when we moved there. Most likely he was considerably younger than I am now. Although I lived next door to Mr. Stump for 10 years I barely new the man. I know that he had a grown son who lived far enough away that he and his family rarely came to visit. I know that there was a Mrs. Stump, but I never actually saw her. We knew she was there and occasionally there were signs of her such as a wheelchair on the front porch, but if I ever saw her I don’t remember it. And I have an extremely good memory.
My parents didn’t have much interaction with the Stumps. I don’t know if that was because they were all busy or whatever the reasons might have been. I do know that we all thought Mr. Stump was a little strange. It has taken me a lifetime to fully comprehend the lessons I learned from Mr. Stump even though I didn’t realize I was learning anything at the time. When my friends and I would play catch in the backyard a ball would almost always end up in the backyard of Mr. Stump’s house. That meant two things. Someone was going to have to climb over the chain link fence to get the ball and when they did they were going to have to search for it in the nearly foot high grass. Mr. Stump didn’t seem to have much time to mow his grass.
On one occasion when I was about 14 I threw a fastball to a friend who decided ducking would be preferable to catching the ball. Well, that ball sailed over the fence and right into one of the windows of Mr. Stump’s house. Being the good kids that we were and acting in the way that our parents would expect us we both ran like scalded dogs in the hopes that somehow Mr. Stump would have no idea how a baseball ended up in one of his bedrooms. Oh, I felt guilty and I nearly confessed my sin to my parents, but alas I failed in the attempt. Two days later I was throwing darts in the back yard at the dart board when I heard a voice say, “Have you told your parents what you did?” It was Mr. Stump. I sheepishly replied in the negative and to my surprise he said, “Well, the window had a crack in it from a long time ago and I’ve been needing to replace it. You boys be a little more careful next time, Ok?” All I could think was “Wow, I dodged that bullet.”
Mr. Stump had an old 1958 Desoto Sedan. It was gray and white and had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t his daily driver though. I guess he just didn’t know what to do with the car. It mainly sat in his driveway and once in awhile Mr. Stump would start it up. It could be heard for blocks away and the blue smoke that poured out of it probably killed every mosquito in a 5 block radius. When I was about 18 I happened to pull into our driveway in my car and noticed that a tow truck was hooking up to the old Desoto. Mr. Stump was standing by it with his hands on his hips and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. There must have been some happy times in that old car somewhere in Mr. Stump’s past. The old Desoto was taken away and Mr. Stump slowly walked back into his home with his head down.
One day when I was about 20 and not long before I moved out on my own an ambulance pulled up in front Mr. Stumps’ house. There was a large tree that blocked the view of the back door of the ambulance so I didn’t get to see Mrs. Stump even then. I do know that she was taken to a hospital. A couple of days later Mr. Stump’s son and his family came for a short visit and I’m sure it was so that they could see Mrs. Stump in the hospital. Mrs. Stump was brought back home about a month later, but I wasn’t there to see it and shortly thereafter I moved out. I would stop by my parent’s house many times over the next three years, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to Mr. Stump. I do remember my mother complaining that bees had apparently built a huge hive in one of the outer walls of Mr. Stump’s house. They became quite a problem when you would go in the backyard. Eventually, the bees were removed.
I’m sure by now you are asking why I felt the need to talk about Mr. Stump all these years later. Well, it has to do with the lessons I learned from him. I don’t know all of the sorrow and heartaches that he must have faced during those years. I can only imagine what it must have been like. What I do know is the character of that man was something special. I know that he was a Christian because it happened that my uncle knew Mr. Stump well due to my uncle was his attorney. My uncle would always refer to Mr. Stump as a “good Christian man”. Mr. Stump probably had more trials and sorrow than most of us ever have. The evidence? He had a wife that he obviously loved very much who was severely ill for many years. There was never a nurse there so that means Mr. Stump did things for his wife that many husbands would never do. Mr. Stump also had to work. Can you imagine keeping your mind on a job with all he had to deal with? But he did. His anger could have boiled over when I broke his window. Can you imagine how some people would have reacted? What I have learned from Mr. Stump is that he knew the so-called “Love Chapter” from the Bible in 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 well. The verses are:
“4. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8. Love never fails . . .”
Most likely Mr. Stump has passed on and is in heaven now. He would likely be in his 90’s if he is alive. I would believe that Mr. Stump and his wife are now without sorrow or pain and that they are in heaven with God. I believe that when Mr. Stump passed from this life and into the presence of God that he heard Jesus say, “Well done good and faithful servant" - Matthew 25:21.
My parents didn’t have much interaction with the Stumps. I don’t know if that was because they were all busy or whatever the reasons might have been. I do know that we all thought Mr. Stump was a little strange. It has taken me a lifetime to fully comprehend the lessons I learned from Mr. Stump even though I didn’t realize I was learning anything at the time. When my friends and I would play catch in the backyard a ball would almost always end up in the backyard of Mr. Stump’s house. That meant two things. Someone was going to have to climb over the chain link fence to get the ball and when they did they were going to have to search for it in the nearly foot high grass. Mr. Stump didn’t seem to have much time to mow his grass.
On one occasion when I was about 14 I threw a fastball to a friend who decided ducking would be preferable to catching the ball. Well, that ball sailed over the fence and right into one of the windows of Mr. Stump’s house. Being the good kids that we were and acting in the way that our parents would expect us we both ran like scalded dogs in the hopes that somehow Mr. Stump would have no idea how a baseball ended up in one of his bedrooms. Oh, I felt guilty and I nearly confessed my sin to my parents, but alas I failed in the attempt. Two days later I was throwing darts in the back yard at the dart board when I heard a voice say, “Have you told your parents what you did?” It was Mr. Stump. I sheepishly replied in the negative and to my surprise he said, “Well, the window had a crack in it from a long time ago and I’ve been needing to replace it. You boys be a little more careful next time, Ok?” All I could think was “Wow, I dodged that bullet.”
Mr. Stump had an old 1958 Desoto Sedan. It was gray and white and had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t his daily driver though. I guess he just didn’t know what to do with the car. It mainly sat in his driveway and once in awhile Mr. Stump would start it up. It could be heard for blocks away and the blue smoke that poured out of it probably killed every mosquito in a 5 block radius. When I was about 18 I happened to pull into our driveway in my car and noticed that a tow truck was hooking up to the old Desoto. Mr. Stump was standing by it with his hands on his hips and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. There must have been some happy times in that old car somewhere in Mr. Stump’s past. The old Desoto was taken away and Mr. Stump slowly walked back into his home with his head down.
One day when I was about 20 and not long before I moved out on my own an ambulance pulled up in front Mr. Stumps’ house. There was a large tree that blocked the view of the back door of the ambulance so I didn’t get to see Mrs. Stump even then. I do know that she was taken to a hospital. A couple of days later Mr. Stump’s son and his family came for a short visit and I’m sure it was so that they could see Mrs. Stump in the hospital. Mrs. Stump was brought back home about a month later, but I wasn’t there to see it and shortly thereafter I moved out. I would stop by my parent’s house many times over the next three years, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to Mr. Stump. I do remember my mother complaining that bees had apparently built a huge hive in one of the outer walls of Mr. Stump’s house. They became quite a problem when you would go in the backyard. Eventually, the bees were removed.
I’m sure by now you are asking why I felt the need to talk about Mr. Stump all these years later. Well, it has to do with the lessons I learned from him. I don’t know all of the sorrow and heartaches that he must have faced during those years. I can only imagine what it must have been like. What I do know is the character of that man was something special. I know that he was a Christian because it happened that my uncle knew Mr. Stump well due to my uncle was his attorney. My uncle would always refer to Mr. Stump as a “good Christian man”. Mr. Stump probably had more trials and sorrow than most of us ever have. The evidence? He had a wife that he obviously loved very much who was severely ill for many years. There was never a nurse there so that means Mr. Stump did things for his wife that many husbands would never do. Mr. Stump also had to work. Can you imagine keeping your mind on a job with all he had to deal with? But he did. His anger could have boiled over when I broke his window. Can you imagine how some people would have reacted? What I have learned from Mr. Stump is that he knew the so-called “Love Chapter” from the Bible in 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 well. The verses are:
“4. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8. Love never fails . . .”
Most likely Mr. Stump has passed on and is in heaven now. He would likely be in his 90’s if he is alive. I would believe that Mr. Stump and his wife are now without sorrow or pain and that they are in heaven with God. I believe that when Mr. Stump passed from this life and into the presence of God that he heard Jesus say, “Well done good and faithful servant" - Matthew 25:21.
Friday, October 14, 2011
It Is What It Is
Where my music is concerned I suppose I have reached a point in life where doing what is honest and true to myself trumps the opinions of the "experts". While it is absolutely true that I enjoy and, dare I say, sometimes crave approval of my music by others I realize now that if I don't do what is genuinely me, then I don't approve of it nor do I enjoy it. That isn't to say I'm incapable of listening to and taking constructive criticism. The key word there is "constructive". More times than I care to remember I have had producers/A&R executives/publishers and such dismiss something that I know is good. Left-handed compliments abound with those guys. It took a close friend of mine to point out what should have been obvious to me. Almost all of those people were nothing more than frustrated artists and songwriters who had actually been given every opportunity to succeed, but had failed and now when they hear something truly good they are unable to recognize it due to their own bruised egos and mediocrity.
I have no doubt that someone reading this is going to think "This guy is full of himself." Well, that's just not true. Nobody is as hard on me as I am. If you ask my closest friends, then they will tell you that I have long suffered from self-doubt. It is what has kept me from being on stage for many years. In my heart I know that I sound good, but my head has a hard time getting the message. Oh, and believe it or not, I am terribly bashful. It's one thing to write this and post it (it does take courage for me to do so) and a totally different thing to look people in the eye, ask them to give you money for simply being you, and not turn red and simply dissolve out of sheer horror.
When I recently released my CD, "Sojourn of Love", I was (still am) very proud of the results. Mostly I have heard very good reviews of it by people who have listened to it. However, it's those "experts" that I was talking about that get me. No less than three ex-musicians/songwriters who are now in some capacity in the music business have told me "It sounds great, very 60's sounding, but it just won't sell today. Try doing something new." Well, to that I have a couple of things to say. First, how do you know it won't sell if you don't try to sell it? Secondly, given the music of the 60's is in general more inspired, more alive, and more talented than 99% of what is new today, I'll take that as a compliment even though it wasn't meant as such. When someone says to me "Your CD sounds Beatle-ish or if your CD had come out in 60's we'd still be listening to it on classic rock stations today", then that's high praise to me. The most amazing thing is that I believe I am offering new fresh music that happens to sound like it might have come out back then while the market for classic rock/singer-songwriter music of that era is huge with the top selling touring acts and catalog sales yet no "record company" is interested.
Well, I read something yesterday that brought it more into focus for me. It was a quote from Jon Bon Jovi. Keep in mind that he came along in the 80's and while I do think he is very talented I'm not a huge fan of his music. It's just not my bag. Yet, he nailed it when he said that "Steve Jobs destroyed the music business." Downloading music is very convenient. Apple has made it very easy to do so. But it takes away so much of the fun we had when we used to buy an album. A perfect example is when "Band On The Run" by Paul McCartney came out. I got that album for Christmas in 1973. I couldn’t wait to get home with it. It was a fantastic experience to do the following. Slice open the shrink wrap and lovingly take the album out of the jacket and place it on the stereo turntable. As the opening of side one begins I discovered inside a huge wall poster folded up. I took it out and the smells of the printing, the texture, and the visual effects of the candid photos of the group while recording the album filled my senses. I laid back on my bed and let the music lift me up. It made me feel like everything was right in the world. Most of all it inspired me to want to write and perform music like that. Young people today don't know what they are missing. You download an album. There's nothing tangible. Nothing to look at. Nothing to feel with your hands, Nothing to smell. (The Raspberries first album had a scratch and sniff patch on it that made it smell like raspberries - now THAT's good marketing!) You get your little ear buds and listen to the album and mainly the kids like the beat or how nasty the lyrics are. Sad, very sad.
The great thing is I can still experience those feelings from years ago every time I listen to "Band On The Run". The sensual delights are still there in my memory and all it takes is the music to bring them back. BTW - Profs to Paul McCartney for his recent remastered CD release of the album. He included (although a tad smaller) the original poster and artwork inside the packaging. Very cool.
Well, I suppose I went off on a tangent there, but that's the way it is. I'll close by saying that I have come to a decision where my music is concerned. I will only record and write music that is true to me. If it doesn't make me a dime, then that's ok because that's not why I do it anyway. Oh, I would love to have some retirement income from it, but if not, so be it. I won't do something I don't want to do. To all those "experts" - if you don't like it or can't handle it, then go sell your mediocre digital drivel to the poor kids who don't know any better than to buy it. For all you good people who truly like my music and want to hear more, then please know that I will continue to make it available as long as the money holds out and I'm able! To you good people, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your encouragement and kind remarks.
Take care,
Randy
P.S. If you're interested in previewing my CD, including videos of 6 of the songs from the CD, then go to http://www.jamesrstout.com/. If you would like to purchase the CD or download it, then just navigate to the "buy CD" tab on my website and there are links for iTunes, Amazon, and CDBaby.
I have no doubt that someone reading this is going to think "This guy is full of himself." Well, that's just not true. Nobody is as hard on me as I am. If you ask my closest friends, then they will tell you that I have long suffered from self-doubt. It is what has kept me from being on stage for many years. In my heart I know that I sound good, but my head has a hard time getting the message. Oh, and believe it or not, I am terribly bashful. It's one thing to write this and post it (it does take courage for me to do so) and a totally different thing to look people in the eye, ask them to give you money for simply being you, and not turn red and simply dissolve out of sheer horror.
When I recently released my CD, "Sojourn of Love", I was (still am) very proud of the results. Mostly I have heard very good reviews of it by people who have listened to it. However, it's those "experts" that I was talking about that get me. No less than three ex-musicians/songwriters who are now in some capacity in the music business have told me "It sounds great, very 60's sounding, but it just won't sell today. Try doing something new." Well, to that I have a couple of things to say. First, how do you know it won't sell if you don't try to sell it? Secondly, given the music of the 60's is in general more inspired, more alive, and more talented than 99% of what is new today, I'll take that as a compliment even though it wasn't meant as such. When someone says to me "Your CD sounds Beatle-ish or if your CD had come out in 60's we'd still be listening to it on classic rock stations today", then that's high praise to me. The most amazing thing is that I believe I am offering new fresh music that happens to sound like it might have come out back then while the market for classic rock/singer-songwriter music of that era is huge with the top selling touring acts and catalog sales yet no "record company" is interested.
Well, I read something yesterday that brought it more into focus for me. It was a quote from Jon Bon Jovi. Keep in mind that he came along in the 80's and while I do think he is very talented I'm not a huge fan of his music. It's just not my bag. Yet, he nailed it when he said that "Steve Jobs destroyed the music business." Downloading music is very convenient. Apple has made it very easy to do so. But it takes away so much of the fun we had when we used to buy an album. A perfect example is when "Band On The Run" by Paul McCartney came out. I got that album for Christmas in 1973. I couldn’t wait to get home with it. It was a fantastic experience to do the following. Slice open the shrink wrap and lovingly take the album out of the jacket and place it on the stereo turntable. As the opening of side one begins I discovered inside a huge wall poster folded up. I took it out and the smells of the printing, the texture, and the visual effects of the candid photos of the group while recording the album filled my senses. I laid back on my bed and let the music lift me up. It made me feel like everything was right in the world. Most of all it inspired me to want to write and perform music like that. Young people today don't know what they are missing. You download an album. There's nothing tangible. Nothing to look at. Nothing to feel with your hands, Nothing to smell. (The Raspberries first album had a scratch and sniff patch on it that made it smell like raspberries - now THAT's good marketing!) You get your little ear buds and listen to the album and mainly the kids like the beat or how nasty the lyrics are. Sad, very sad.
The great thing is I can still experience those feelings from years ago every time I listen to "Band On The Run". The sensual delights are still there in my memory and all it takes is the music to bring them back. BTW - Profs to Paul McCartney for his recent remastered CD release of the album. He included (although a tad smaller) the original poster and artwork inside the packaging. Very cool.
Well, I suppose I went off on a tangent there, but that's the way it is. I'll close by saying that I have come to a decision where my music is concerned. I will only record and write music that is true to me. If it doesn't make me a dime, then that's ok because that's not why I do it anyway. Oh, I would love to have some retirement income from it, but if not, so be it. I won't do something I don't want to do. To all those "experts" - if you don't like it or can't handle it, then go sell your mediocre digital drivel to the poor kids who don't know any better than to buy it. For all you good people who truly like my music and want to hear more, then please know that I will continue to make it available as long as the money holds out and I'm able! To you good people, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your encouragement and kind remarks.
Take care,
Randy
P.S. If you're interested in previewing my CD, including videos of 6 of the songs from the CD, then go to http://www.jamesrstout.com/. If you would like to purchase the CD or download it, then just navigate to the "buy CD" tab on my website and there are links for iTunes, Amazon, and CDBaby.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Hallmark World
Sometimes I will write a poem or lyric and it will interest me for about 10 seconds and I will then just save it to the hard drive and forget about it. Oh, I might think to myself that I'll come back and revisit it when I get more time except I don't ever seem to have more time and the poor thing just sits in cyber purgatory for what could be forever. Other times I will plan on coming back and composing music for the poem and I will have every intention of doing so, but again the poem lies forgotten.
Well, I found myself with a little time today and with the laptop staring at me. My intention was to go through and delete all unnecessary files and clean-up the hard drive. While doing this I came upon a poem that I wrote about sometime ago. I remember writing it, but I had forgotten what I had specifically written. So, I found myself reading the poem and in turn I found that I very much liked what I had written. I've copied it here to share with you and I hope that you will like it too. BTW - I do plan on composing music for this one.
Take care friends . . .
I dreamed of a place where there was no hate.
A place where there was no sad or lonely fate.
A place filled with laughter and joy and love.
A place where a cat leaves unmolested the cooing dove.
I dreamed I could live in a Hallmark world.
I long for clear air and a pure water stream.
And everyone is a star on the hometown team.
And every child goes to sleep to their mother's song.
And every child's father loves them and does them no wrong.
I long to live in a Hallmark world.
I hope for a season of peace in each person's life,
where joy outweighs any sadness or strife.
I long to see real the dreams that I speak.
A place where the strong protect the weak.
I hope to live in a Hallmark world.
I want to be happy with simple pleasures and joys,
in a place where even the clumsy have poise.
I want to be loved and to love in return.
And to never again feel my heart burn.
I want to live in a Hallmark world.
Well, I found myself with a little time today and with the laptop staring at me. My intention was to go through and delete all unnecessary files and clean-up the hard drive. While doing this I came upon a poem that I wrote about sometime ago. I remember writing it, but I had forgotten what I had specifically written. So, I found myself reading the poem and in turn I found that I very much liked what I had written. I've copied it here to share with you and I hope that you will like it too. BTW - I do plan on composing music for this one.
Take care friends . . .
A Hallmark World
By
James R. Stout
I dreamed of a place where there was no hate.
A place where there was no sad or lonely fate.
A place filled with laughter and joy and love.
A place where a cat leaves unmolested the cooing dove.
I dreamed I could live in a Hallmark world.
I long for clear air and a pure water stream.
And everyone is a star on the hometown team.
And every child goes to sleep to their mother's song.
And every child's father loves them and does them no wrong.
I long to live in a Hallmark world.
I hope for a season of peace in each person's life,
where joy outweighs any sadness or strife.
I long to see real the dreams that I speak.
A place where the strong protect the weak.
I hope to live in a Hallmark world.
I want to be happy with simple pleasures and joys,
in a place where even the clumsy have poise.
I want to be loved and to love in return.
And to never again feel my heart burn.
I want to live in a Hallmark world.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Downloading Not Allowed
I have no doubt you have all heard or seen advertisements for on-line data back-up for your computer. I’m sure many of you have your important photos, documents, MP3’s, and the like backed-up on external hard-drives or to DVD/CD discs. It only makes sense. Furthermore, I would be surprised if most of you haven’t had the occasion to lose valuable memories or data when a hard-drive crashed or a computer was stolen etc. If so, I have no doubt you were quite upset. I know that when it happened to me several years ago that I was. So, if we are wise we take time to back-up those files. They’re just too important to us.
Before computers were a part of everybody’s lives we kept photos in albums or in other things (like shoe boxes!) and there were many other items such as letters, records (as in vinyl), cassettes, that we treasured and kept in our homes. Did you ever see or know someone who had the misfortune to lose their home to a fire? Most people who have had that heartbreak would tell you a variation of the same thing. They’ll tell you about how they feel blessed no one was hurt and they can buy another living room set or TV, but the photos and keepsakes are all gone and the loss of them is devastating.
I lost my grand-father when I was 11. We were very close. But, I was just a kid and I didn’t think about losing someone until it happened. Even then I was sad and knew that I would miss him, but I didn’t have a clue how much. He was my mother’s father. Through the years I have heard my say, “I wish I would have asked Daddy about that.” We are all guilty of taking each other for granted. Our lives are busy and full and the old saying of “You don’t know what you’ve lost ‘til it’s gone” comes to mind. The same goes for our loved ones and our friends. Is there anyone out there that if given the chance to ask a question of a loved one that has passed away wouldn’t jump at the chance? But we can’t do that. It’s not like while we’re alive we can plug-in to a hard-drive and download our memories, wisdom, experiences, thoughts, emotions, and feelings so that our loved ones can have a way to ask those questions when we’re gone. No, downloading is not allowed.
Or is it? What about spending time with them asking them about these things? Better yet, turn on a tape recorder/digital recorder or video camera and ask them just about anything you can think of. Behind our old farmhouse is a large gully. At points it is deep enough for 3 grown men to stand on each other’s shoulders and not see over the rim. It’s 20 to 30 feet wide in places. I remember that gully not being that big when I was kid, but it was still there. Well, this got me to thinking about it and I asked my mother how big was it when she was a kid. That’s when I learned how the gully came into being. There’s a road that goes over that gully and winds down past my great-grandparents homestead and then eventually dead-ends into my place about a mile further along. Back in about 1921 there were some neighbor kids who had to walk down that road to get to the one room schoolhouse near our farmhouse. When it rained hard water would stand in a low spot over that road making it hard for them to get by. So, my grand-father got his mule and plowed a furrow in his pasture allowing the water to escape into the furrow instead of standing in the road. Until then there was no gully at all! But by making that furrow with his plow it started something that is what it is 90 years later. If I had not thought to ask my mother about it, this seemingly unimportant bit of knowledge would likely have been lost once she and her brothers and sisters pass on. I think you get my point.
More importantly, there are “mysteries” that we just didn’t think to ask about when we had the chance. Next to my grand-parents graves is a small grave with a small marker that simply says, “Infant Girl” and it shows that she was stillborn in 1924. She would have been an aunt of mine. NOBODY knows anything about the circumstances of that tragedy in my grand-parent’s lives. Why? Because nobody asked. I’m guessing she was stillborn, but for all I know she was born alive and died the same day. We just don’t know. What a sad thing for my grand-parents. What a burden my grandmother must have carried until she died at 86.
So, what I’m saying is take time to “download” as much as you can from your loved ones while you can. Love them and share their lives. Share their memories and wisdom. Then pass it on along with your memories, experiences, and wisdom before someone says of these things “downloading not allowed”.
Before computers were a part of everybody’s lives we kept photos in albums or in other things (like shoe boxes!) and there were many other items such as letters, records (as in vinyl), cassettes, that we treasured and kept in our homes. Did you ever see or know someone who had the misfortune to lose their home to a fire? Most people who have had that heartbreak would tell you a variation of the same thing. They’ll tell you about how they feel blessed no one was hurt and they can buy another living room set or TV, but the photos and keepsakes are all gone and the loss of them is devastating.
I lost my grand-father when I was 11. We were very close. But, I was just a kid and I didn’t think about losing someone until it happened. Even then I was sad and knew that I would miss him, but I didn’t have a clue how much. He was my mother’s father. Through the years I have heard my say, “I wish I would have asked Daddy about that.” We are all guilty of taking each other for granted. Our lives are busy and full and the old saying of “You don’t know what you’ve lost ‘til it’s gone” comes to mind. The same goes for our loved ones and our friends. Is there anyone out there that if given the chance to ask a question of a loved one that has passed away wouldn’t jump at the chance? But we can’t do that. It’s not like while we’re alive we can plug-in to a hard-drive and download our memories, wisdom, experiences, thoughts, emotions, and feelings so that our loved ones can have a way to ask those questions when we’re gone. No, downloading is not allowed.
Or is it? What about spending time with them asking them about these things? Better yet, turn on a tape recorder/digital recorder or video camera and ask them just about anything you can think of. Behind our old farmhouse is a large gully. At points it is deep enough for 3 grown men to stand on each other’s shoulders and not see over the rim. It’s 20 to 30 feet wide in places. I remember that gully not being that big when I was kid, but it was still there. Well, this got me to thinking about it and I asked my mother how big was it when she was a kid. That’s when I learned how the gully came into being. There’s a road that goes over that gully and winds down past my great-grandparents homestead and then eventually dead-ends into my place about a mile further along. Back in about 1921 there were some neighbor kids who had to walk down that road to get to the one room schoolhouse near our farmhouse. When it rained hard water would stand in a low spot over that road making it hard for them to get by. So, my grand-father got his mule and plowed a furrow in his pasture allowing the water to escape into the furrow instead of standing in the road. Until then there was no gully at all! But by making that furrow with his plow it started something that is what it is 90 years later. If I had not thought to ask my mother about it, this seemingly unimportant bit of knowledge would likely have been lost once she and her brothers and sisters pass on. I think you get my point.
More importantly, there are “mysteries” that we just didn’t think to ask about when we had the chance. Next to my grand-parents graves is a small grave with a small marker that simply says, “Infant Girl” and it shows that she was stillborn in 1924. She would have been an aunt of mine. NOBODY knows anything about the circumstances of that tragedy in my grand-parent’s lives. Why? Because nobody asked. I’m guessing she was stillborn, but for all I know she was born alive and died the same day. We just don’t know. What a sad thing for my grand-parents. What a burden my grandmother must have carried until she died at 86.
So, what I’m saying is take time to “download” as much as you can from your loved ones while you can. Love them and share their lives. Share their memories and wisdom. Then pass it on along with your memories, experiences, and wisdom before someone says of these things “downloading not allowed”.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Fads, Phases, and The Pied Pipers
Sitting here alone in my nice comfortable easy chair with no TV, no radio, no sounds other than the incidental sounds of the kitchen clock, a small hum from the refrigerator, and an occasional squeak from the rocking of my chair I started to ponder music. Nothing new about that for me, but one thought lead to another and I started to think about opera. I readily admit that I have not much cared for opera since, well, since I can remember. Frankly, it's boring to me. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that most operas are in languages that I don't understand or speak. But, that is not the only reason. Truth be told there is hardly anything more distasteful, musically speaking, than to hear opera in English.
Well, all this thinking lead me to wonder why opera has endured and still thrives in certain circles. I came up with the answer quite by accident. Doo-Wop. Yep, that's the answer. I'll try to explain my thinking on this. First, Doo-Wop is in a crude way nothing more than opera only it is far more fun to listen to and by and large you can understand what is being said even if the words are made-up words that sound rather silly. Case in point = "Dip dip dip dip dip doom doom doom doom Get a Job!"
Or perhaps the more well known "Sha-na-na-na sha-na-na-na-na-na bah oom". Doo-Wop songs also by and large tell a story just like opera does. True, it was mostly boy meets girl - loses girl - gets girl back kind of thing, but hey it is Doo-Wop. Who hasn't been there and done that?
Secondly, opera was originally experienced by the contemporary audiences first and then as a new generation discovered it that generation took it as their own. The same can be said for Doo-Wop. New generations are still loving "Grease" and such today. Doo-Wop just hasn't been around as long as opera yet.
Finally, my hypothesis is that opera was nothing more than a very popular fad or musical phase that is now basically an "oldie but goodie" to those who love it. Most of us don't go to the opera or buy opera Cd's etc. Well, most of us don't buy Doo-Wop (I don't because I believe I already own ALL of them anyway!), but some of us do and some of us listen to the music a lot. Or, if Doo-Wop isn't your thing, then maybe it's 60's Flower Power music, or Disco from the 70's, or Rap (yuck) or even the current "thing" which is a sort of really screwed-up hybrid of Pop/Hip-Hop/Rap. The point is that for me I have finally uncovered the mystery behind why opera still endures. I freely admit that I don't get it and that I don't want to get it, but it has fascinated me that some people still like it. The reason is it's their Doo-Wop or what have you.
Well, as messed-up as that all may seem to you, that's the way I see it and in the end that's pretty much all that matters as I sit here now with Hope, my 12 year-old cat, begging for attention and trying hard to stop me from writing this. Oh, and for what it's worth, Hope likes Jazz. Yea, she's one cool cat.
Later
Well, all this thinking lead me to wonder why opera has endured and still thrives in certain circles. I came up with the answer quite by accident. Doo-Wop. Yep, that's the answer. I'll try to explain my thinking on this. First, Doo-Wop is in a crude way nothing more than opera only it is far more fun to listen to and by and large you can understand what is being said even if the words are made-up words that sound rather silly. Case in point = "Dip dip dip dip dip doom doom doom doom Get a Job!"
Or perhaps the more well known "Sha-na-na-na sha-na-na-na-na-na bah oom". Doo-Wop songs also by and large tell a story just like opera does. True, it was mostly boy meets girl - loses girl - gets girl back kind of thing, but hey it is Doo-Wop. Who hasn't been there and done that?
Secondly, opera was originally experienced by the contemporary audiences first and then as a new generation discovered it that generation took it as their own. The same can be said for Doo-Wop. New generations are still loving "Grease" and such today. Doo-Wop just hasn't been around as long as opera yet.
Finally, my hypothesis is that opera was nothing more than a very popular fad or musical phase that is now basically an "oldie but goodie" to those who love it. Most of us don't go to the opera or buy opera Cd's etc. Well, most of us don't buy Doo-Wop (I don't because I believe I already own ALL of them anyway!), but some of us do and some of us listen to the music a lot. Or, if Doo-Wop isn't your thing, then maybe it's 60's Flower Power music, or Disco from the 70's, or Rap (yuck) or even the current "thing" which is a sort of really screwed-up hybrid of Pop/Hip-Hop/Rap. The point is that for me I have finally uncovered the mystery behind why opera still endures. I freely admit that I don't get it and that I don't want to get it, but it has fascinated me that some people still like it. The reason is it's their Doo-Wop or what have you.
Well, as messed-up as that all may seem to you, that's the way I see it and in the end that's pretty much all that matters as I sit here now with Hope, my 12 year-old cat, begging for attention and trying hard to stop me from writing this. Oh, and for what it's worth, Hope likes Jazz. Yea, she's one cool cat.
Later
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