To those of you who have followed my BLOG you might have wondered where I’ve been for the past 3 weeks. Well, much has been going on in my life, but most of it has been typical everyday kinds of things that have just taken too much time from me to get another posting ready. However, I have started a couple of HUGE projects that I hope will be of interest to you when they are completed. First, I am working on a complete overhaul of my website. It will feature not only my music, but also my photography and it will be where my BLOG will be easier to access. The other major project that I am working on is what I am going to likely call “The Soundtrack of My Life”. That could change though.
I have been recording music for over 40 years now. In fact, since I was about 14 years old. Thankfully, you will never hear any of the really ancient stuff. Take my word on something - that’s a good thing! The point is I have been going through hours upon hours of recorded music on old reel-to-reel tapes and transferring a great deal of it to the computer for the “Soundtrack” project. I’ll explain as things go along what all this is about, but for this entry in my BLOG I want to talk about some things that have been happening while listening to these old tapes. Most of them have not been played in many many years. I certainly remember a lot of the recordings, but amazingly I have “discovered” some old recordings that I had forgotten about. Some of them I simply don’t remember doing at all. That’s kind of humbling.
What has happened though is hearing all of these recordings and listening through the typical things that you never hear when you hear a song on someone’s album (such as the starts and stops, background talking, joking around, noises, and in a few cases some pretty amazing exchanges between people) a curious thing has happened to me. I have quite literally been hit with a myriad of emotions while hearing these things. Things like just before starting a recording you can hear my ex-wife in the background asking how long I’ll be so that she can plan on when to have dinner. The exchange ends with an audible kiss and mutual “I love you” expressions. Hearing that strips away the hard years that were to come and I am reminded that I was indeed in love with her and she was in love with me. We were young, just staring out really, and all of life was still before us. It was before all the “stuff” that eventually crushed our love and our marriage. Hearing it makes me ask the inevitable question, “What the heck happened?” Well, of course I know the answer because the memory of all the bad stuff still lingers too. But it makes you wonder how you can let something that was good just die. No, I’m not hung up on my ex now. I have a good life now. But the “what if” game does play through your head and that’s a game that is hard to play.
Other things have hit me while listening to these old recordings. The dreams and goals and vibrancy of youth that seem to just ooze off the tapes. Everything seemed possible then. There’s some pretty funny stuff on those tapes too. Things that remind me that I’ve been kind of nutty all my life!
If all goes the way I plan, then you will have a chance to hear many of the songs recorded over a nearly 40 year period of time. The idea is to combine two forms of media for this project. I will be writing an auto-biography of sorts (where music in my life has been concerned) and the reader will be able to access a digital jukebox on the new website that will allow you to hear some of those songs when they were new and before the magic of a professional studio “cleaned them up”. There will be a lot demons exorcised in this project and that part is for my benefit. I’m hoping that to anyone interested in my life and my music their benefit will be to share it with me. Let me know what you think. I really would like to know.
Take care dear friends,
Randy
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Missing Links or "The Apes of Wrath"
When you’re 17 life can be pretty amazing. It was for me. If I were to decide to write about the experiences I had in my 17th year it could turn out to be at least a full book and perhaps a 3 volume set. For now I’m going to tell about one particular event. It was in June of 1973. I was working at a movie theater and among my co-workers were my best buddy Lonny and my cousin Philip. The new feature that week was the final movie of the original 5 movie set of “Planet of the Apes”. This one was called “Battle For The Planet of the Apes”. As a promotional we ran all five ape movies starting at 10 a.m. The current movie was featured both at 6 and 10 p.m. The original movie was also featured twice. Once at 10 a.m. and again at 8 p.m. It was such a popular event that it was held over for 3 weeks. Back in those days it was rare for a picture to stay in the theater for more than a week. Oh it would come back around as a second feature (remember getting to see 2 movies for the price of 1?) sometime later. It would also spend some time in the drive-ins after it’s run at the indoor theaters like the one I worked at.
The second night we were showing these movies the manager came to Philip and said he needed something picked up from another theater across town. When I say across town you must understand that meant about 40 miles. Houston is a big town! My friend Lonny and I were just getting off for the day and had nothing else to do so we tagged along with Philip. It was one crazy cool cruising night. We took Philip’s car, a 1968 Chevy Camaro which was suped-up with loud exhaust, slicks on the back, and a faster than it should have been V-8 under the hood. It took about an hour to get across town and get the items we were after. Little did we know that the “items” were yet another promotional tool for the ape movies. What were they? Would you believe 3 very lifelike ape masks just like in the movie! Well, our fertile 17 year old minds immediately seized the day. As soon as we drove out of the parking lot of that other theater we stopped and dawned those ape masks for the ride back across town.
Now there’s a couple of things you might want to picture along with this. First, Philip was restricted from driving without his glasses. So, he found a way to get those glasses of his on the mask which made for a very intelligent looking ape. Second, no A/C in that car meant the windows were down. So, to keep the image going we slumped down so that just our heads were visible to other drivers. We had to drive through the center of downtown Houston and there was a red light every 10 feet or so. The reactions by people were quite funny. We were deadpanning the whole time acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world for 3 apes to be driving a 1968 Camaro through the streets of Houston. Some kids screamed with fright while others laughed. Some adults, too old for such nonsense (in their minds that is) simply ignored us while others pointed and shook their heads in wonder.
So the idea came up that perhaps we should stop by Lonny’s house and scare his little brother and sister. From what I can tell his brother has never gotten over it while his sister relates the trauma she endured in a stand-up comedy routine! Lonny’s mother was not amused however and I seriously wondered for years if she ever forgave me. Lonny tells me she did.
Finally, we get back to the theater and we walk in among the movie-goers wearing the masks and generally got a lot of laughs. I tell this story because it reminds me that sometimes we forget how to let our hair down (sorry about that) and take a light-hearted approach to life when perhaps being light-hearted is just what the heart needs. Philip lives in Alaska these days having been banned from Texas for aping around too much. Lonny lives in the Dallas area and is perhaps the first bald ape in history. As for me, I live in the country of East Texas and over the years have become as big as an ape. I tell Lonny that between the two of us we’re bald and fat. But that night in 1973 when the world was hearing about the fighting in Israel, some really sick men who had murdered 27 young boys in our hometown of Houston, and questions were flying about something called “Watergate” three 17 year-old boys were not to be deterred from the joy that everyone should get to experience in their youth.
The second night we were showing these movies the manager came to Philip and said he needed something picked up from another theater across town. When I say across town you must understand that meant about 40 miles. Houston is a big town! My friend Lonny and I were just getting off for the day and had nothing else to do so we tagged along with Philip. It was one crazy cool cruising night. We took Philip’s car, a 1968 Chevy Camaro which was suped-up with loud exhaust, slicks on the back, and a faster than it should have been V-8 under the hood. It took about an hour to get across town and get the items we were after. Little did we know that the “items” were yet another promotional tool for the ape movies. What were they? Would you believe 3 very lifelike ape masks just like in the movie! Well, our fertile 17 year old minds immediately seized the day. As soon as we drove out of the parking lot of that other theater we stopped and dawned those ape masks for the ride back across town.
Now there’s a couple of things you might want to picture along with this. First, Philip was restricted from driving without his glasses. So, he found a way to get those glasses of his on the mask which made for a very intelligent looking ape. Second, no A/C in that car meant the windows were down. So, to keep the image going we slumped down so that just our heads were visible to other drivers. We had to drive through the center of downtown Houston and there was a red light every 10 feet or so. The reactions by people were quite funny. We were deadpanning the whole time acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world for 3 apes to be driving a 1968 Camaro through the streets of Houston. Some kids screamed with fright while others laughed. Some adults, too old for such nonsense (in their minds that is) simply ignored us while others pointed and shook their heads in wonder.
So the idea came up that perhaps we should stop by Lonny’s house and scare his little brother and sister. From what I can tell his brother has never gotten over it while his sister relates the trauma she endured in a stand-up comedy routine! Lonny’s mother was not amused however and I seriously wondered for years if she ever forgave me. Lonny tells me she did.
Finally, we get back to the theater and we walk in among the movie-goers wearing the masks and generally got a lot of laughs. I tell this story because it reminds me that sometimes we forget how to let our hair down (sorry about that) and take a light-hearted approach to life when perhaps being light-hearted is just what the heart needs. Philip lives in Alaska these days having been banned from Texas for aping around too much. Lonny lives in the Dallas area and is perhaps the first bald ape in history. As for me, I live in the country of East Texas and over the years have become as big as an ape. I tell Lonny that between the two of us we’re bald and fat. But that night in 1973 when the world was hearing about the fighting in Israel, some really sick men who had murdered 27 young boys in our hometown of Houston, and questions were flying about something called “Watergate” three 17 year-old boys were not to be deterred from the joy that everyone should get to experience in their youth.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
"Pennies and an Eraser From Heaven"
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.
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.
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.
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