1971 - My Friend Jeremiah

Well, this is it, I've just about run out of pre-written missives so postings are going to slooooow down a bit. There are several almost ready & a few titles with enough to remind me of what I'm doing, but I'm down to only a dozen or so of those. I still intend to post weekly if at all possible. Until then - this is Jeremiah...


1971 – My Friend Jeremiah

As we sat under the 1st Street bridge I absently mindedly chipped away at a piece of concrete that appeared to be buried in the hillside. Bob, Albert, Bill and I had been out exploring the neighborhood and had stopped for a shady rest and a cigarette. The canyons and hillsides in our neighborhood were a fascinating Exploratorium of wild areas and, like this one, piles of debris that was obviously bulldozed to the edge of the hill when clearing the land for the apartment building immediately above. As we casually discussed things that were important at the time I noticed the block of concrete I had been clearing of dirt and debris had lettering on its face. The writing was only a few inches above the broken section and was filled with dried mud and lawn clippings. Thinking I had discovered a buried cornerstone I enlisted Albert’s help and we quickly uncovered the entire script. We quickly discovered this was not a large block of “stone” buried in the hill but, indeed, this relic lay on the surface but was well-covered by dried mud and debris. As we revealed more and more of the piece it became increasingly clear that this was not a cornerstone or a piece of discarded building materials. We were in the process of uncovering a tombstone.

On the stone was carved:

Jeremiah Feeley
Died Oct 20, 1886
Age 42
Erected by the Plasterers Union

Feeling it wasn’t right to leave this representation of someone’s life buried in the rubble and discarded we hefted the stone up the hill, all 80 lbs worth, and to Bob & Albert’s apartment. We were 4 sailors living in apartments near downtown in between cruises to WestPac. For a year or so Bob kept Jeremiah until his girlfriend convinced him that having a tombstone against a living room wall wasn’t her idea of good interior decoration. Jeremiah immediately moved in with Bill & me until I was released from the service and returned home leaving Jeremiah with Bill. A year later when I returned Jeremiah still stood against a wall and was greeted like an old friend. The next couple of years were mobile ones for me as I moved from house to house, band to band or situation to situation but Jeremiah traveled with me to every new abode. In 1977 I moved to Southern Illinois for almost a year. Jeremiah spent that year in the garden of my ex-landlord and keyboard player Terry. Upon my re-settling back in San Diego I took possession of Jeremiah and he’s been my companion since.

He is, of course, the perfect friend: he never complains about my lifestyle, acquaintances or girlfriends, and eventually had the opportunity to offer feedback on my choice of bride and life-partner, Kathleen. His approval was implied by his silence. He never tells me to turn the heat up or to open a window. He never offers unwanted advice and doesn’t let slip any of my secrets. He doesn’t complain about his situation or his weight.

He has now been with me for over 35 years and over that time I managed to do very little of research on Jeremiah, but eventually came to invent his story for myself.

My (completely fictional) story of Jeremiah was:

Jeremiah was born in Massachusetts – this is where most of the Feeley’s loved during the time of his birth – and was raised on the family farm until as a young man he enlisted in the army to fight in the Civil War. A true patriot he served well in battle but was undistinguished from his companions. Following the war he took off to make his fortune in California. The California Gold Rush started the year before his birth so the legend of easy pickings was tempting. Although the rush officially, or historically, ended in 1855 Jeremiah was a young teenager before the excitement died down and the possibility of fortune was still a strong call to a young man without direction. In 1860 when the War-Between-the-States began Jeremiah was 17 and enlistment was a tempting way to get away from the farm life, the restrictions of family on a young man, and a way to adventure and the possibility of a career and certainly gaining the respect of his peers and elders. In 1865 the war ended and a 22-year old fully grown Jeremiah emerged intact from the battles and had grown into a self-sufficient, self-confident adult…ready and willing to take on the world. California still called. He left for California by enlisting on a merchant ship headed in the direction he wanted to go. The trip took the long trip through the Straits-Of-Magellan spending 1 week becalmed on the Equator and 2-days waiting for a break in the weather so they could more easily pass through the Straits. Close calls and a stomach that never settled enough for him to enjoy any part of the voyage, convinced him he wasn’t really meant to spend his life at sea. Arriving in San Diego, California he jumped ship to make his fortune on his own. Unfortunately California wasn’t everything he hoped it would be. Gold mining was hard work that was now becoming a corporate-held field of skill that hired thousands of uneducated fortune-seekers and sent them underground to do dangerous and unpleasant work for poverty wages. Jeremiah could immediately see this was not the path he was destined to take. Finding work as an honest laborer he eventually became a skilled plasterer who eventually joined the local church and practiced the quiet behavior of a good parishioner and solid citizen until his death after which, the Plasterer’s Union erected his tombstone as authorized by the union membership. He was buried in the church graveyard which fell into greater and greater disrepair over the years but where he resided until the graveyard was completely lost and built over by encroaching civilization which pushed his marker into the canyon.

Except for the part about the Feeleys mostly living in Massachusetts, that was my, completely, made-up story.

When the web started up I searched on occasion for Jeremiah’s name. Time after time I was unsuccessful. A couple of years ago I ran across a mention of a book about historic San Diego graveyards. Noticing the author, Professor Seth Mallios, was on staff at UCSD I looked at the school website and found the author still listed. I found this on the web at a UCSD website:

“Mallios and his team recorded more than 10,000 historic gravestone markers of various size and distinction. Between 1,650 and 3,400 individuals are buried in Calvary Cemetery in Mission Hills. Among those interred are some of San Diego's earliest pioneers.
As Mallios discovered, the cemetery was abandoned in 1968 and all of the gravestones were knocked down and unceremoniously dumped into a ravine at Mount Hope Cemetery.
"The only indication that Calvary Cemetery ever existed in Mission Hills is a memorial of about 140 gravestones at Pioneer Park," Mallios said. "People walking though there today probably don't realize they are walking on the graves of several thousand individuals."

I sent an e-mail with the information relating where and when Jeremiah was found. With very few e-mails Seth suggested I look in a closed cemetery in what is now Pioneer Park. I received this reply:

“Interesting question. Here's my best guess, considering the date of death, location of the gravestone, and the date you found it. Mr. Feeley was most likely buried in Mission Hills at the Cavalry Cemetery. That cemetery was heavily vandalized before the city decided to raze the remaining stones and dump them at the Mt. Hope Cemetery in the 1970s. Cavalry Cemetery is now Pioneer Park, but there is a memorial in the northeast corner. A number of plaques list the people known to have been buried there. (The bodies still lie under the grass.) You could look for Mr. Feeley name. Some of the original records were destroyed by fire, so it's not an exhaustive list. It would have been easy for vandals to pick up a 75 lb. stone for an interesting lawn decoration, or to throw off a bridge. Perhaps it was in someone's yard for a while, and the new owners decided to toss it in the closest ravine.
Cavalry Cemetery was a Catholic Cemetery, and Feeley was most likely Irish Catholic, so Plan B would be to check out the records at the Catholic Diocese. Let me know what you find out.”

After a short trip to Old Town and the surrounding area I found the park and, in a remote corner spotted some large graveyard monuments. Overlooking this little area was a large brass plate that listed all of the interred people. I found Jeremiah on this plaque.

Pulling a map out I realized that the path up 1st Avenue to Market Street and onto Mt. Hope would have to be the route taken to Mt. Hope as the cemetery closing was just a couple of years before I-805 was opened. During this research I also found out that Pioneer Park had been on the tour of “Haunted San Diego” and was known to the neighborhood as the nighttime location of strange occurrences including ghostly figures and sounds. It had been this way since the stones were moved. Upon investigation of these occurrences the investigator found out the stones had never arrived at Mt. Hope where they were to be stored in a dedicated area. Just a few years ago a groundskeeper had been cleaning some debris in a remote canyon area of Mt. Hope and found the stones thrown into a haphazard pile. They were soon recovered and placed in the designated area – although I know for a fact they were not ALL there as Jeremiah still resides with me. Soon after this recovery Pioneer Park was removed from the Haunted San Diego tour as the park no longer seemed so.

Now the remaining facts as I have found them in the last couple of years:

In 2006 a list of veterans of various wars were placed on a search file and free access was offered for a month. Looking there I found:

6-Weeks after his death his wife applied for Civil War Veterans benefits…in Massachusetts. Now I know part of my made-up story was correct but I now have a new mystery: Did it take her over a month to find out her husband was dead or did it take a month to travel from San Diego to Massachusetts. I’ve not found him on any family tree and cannot trace a descendant which I had hoped to contact to see if they wanted Jeremiah.

Failing that I imagine he will need to go to Mt. Hope to join his ghostly companions.

1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

I'm usually not one to shy away from an expeience but sometimes being on the outside looking in is a much more comfortabe place to be. This was one of those times.

1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

“Johnny! Johnny!” she called again and again. We had been standing at this door for three minutes pounding on the door and getting absolutely no response. “Johnny! Johnny!”

“Come on,” I said, “He’s obviously not here.”

“No, just hang on. He’s here.” She began pounding again. “Johnny! Johnny!”

Amazingly enough, after a good 5-minutes of this incessant pounding I heard a noise form the other side of the door. The curtain covering the door-window moved aside and a face appeared. He was blurry-eyed and unshaven with unmanaged hair askew and clothes wrinkled like they had been worn through multiple nights. When he saw Roseanne a glimmer of recognition crossed his face, still swollen from sleep, and his eyes finally appeared…at half-mast. The door rattled and, after a few seconds figuring out the how his dead-bolt worked the door slowly opened about 3-inches and stopped hard, coming to the end of the security chain. I heard a loud “Whoa!” and heard a hard impact with the floor. The chain holding the door from opening fully had evidently surprised the occupant who, upon losing his grip on the doorknob, fell heavily backwards onto the floor. He climbed back to his feet and unlatched the chain. The door opened to a dark, smelly mess that was my second introduction to a junkie lifestyle. It was in sharp contrast to Roseanne’s house. After all, Roseanne’s place was neat and clean. Her windows were open to the outside and curtains were pulled aside to let in the daylight. That was in complete opposition to what I now experienced. Inside this place it appeared to be midnight.

It was 3:30 on a clear spring Sunday afternoon.

Roseanne and I had met at a Blue Oyster Cult charity concert the previous evening. I had gotten my ticket by bringing a can of Spaghetti-O’s as a donation that would be distributed to the homeless. The band was at the top of their game and were cookin’ their collective butts off onstage. “Don’t Fear The Reaper” was followed by what the band called proof that “The Guitar Will Destroy The World” wherein everybody on stage except 1-drummer and the bass-player were playing in either unison and harmony with a driving beat that made me want to get off my seat and dance. I asked the girl next to me if she was interested.

She was petite and quietly pretty. Like me she was a “hippie type” and, consequently, didn’t wear a lot of makeup. This was not unusual in this rock n’ roll crowd at the San Diego Convention Center in December of 1973. We were both about the same age, which for me was 23. She had long straight dish-water-blonde hair and lovely blue eyes. She was thin with small, pert breasts that moved freely under her top. The smell of Herbal Essence shampoo was in her hair and there was just a touch of a baby-oil scent that I recognized as a female body spray. She was around 5’2”, which made her about 3 inches shorter than me. My arm fit naturally around her waist as we headed for the floor. When we were danced out I accompanied her back to the bleachers where we were sitting. My arm wrapped around her waist and she held on to me in kind. As we sat and talked it became obvious there was some attraction between the two of us. When I left for my van she was under my arm hugging her body closely to mine as a shield from the breeze. Although I thought it was a typical pleasant San Diego evening she seemed a bit chilled. She drew closer. There was no objection on my part.

We retired to her place where we sat in comfortable conversation until one moment led to another and around midnight what would pass for romance on this night began its sensual dance. As we prepared to retire to the secret bedroom (really – secret – through a hidden door and carved right out of the hillside that made the second floor apartment, upstairs, a street-level abode) she paused in her preparations to inform me before we started anything she needed a little “taste” to feel better. I was well acquainted with the drug culture having lived on the inside edge of this sub-culture for the last couple of years. I was well associated by now and understood she wanted a second hit of something which I assumed she would be snorting up her nose…I was wrong. As we sat at the kitchen table and talked she prepared her “taste” which, after a few oblivious minutes I noticed was not going to be consumed using a mirror and straw but a bent-teaspoon, an eye-dropper which had a needle attached and a little bit of water. My attention was drawn to the needle as she held a Zippo lighter underneath the spoon and cooked her brew of what I was now pretty sure was heroin…something she casually confirmed as she drew the mixture into the makeshift syringe. At this point I announced I would have to go. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as this scenario unfolded as my exposure to powered drugs was, evidently, somewhat more limited then hers. Needles had always, and still continue to, make me nervous. She objected with a “Hey, baby. This’ll just take a minute. It’s no big deal.” I informed her that to me it was, indeed, a big deal and not anything I wanted to witness or with which I wanted, in any way, to deal with.

“But I really need this, baby, to get better,” she said. To which I replied, “Are you sick?” “No, baby but I need this to feel just a little more normal. It’d be a lot more fun if you tried it. Come on…just once. You’ll really love it.” This last was what I was so apprehensive about. I didn’t want to love something so captivating. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to have to leave.” I stood. She suggested, “I guess I could just snort it if that would make you more comfortable.” To which I replied, “That would be better. At least I’m used to that.” “Do you want any?” she asked as she stuck the faux-syringe into her nose and inhaled. I remember thinking ‘Oh no. She not doing what I think she is? I think she’s injecting her nose.’ I pushed the thought back, “No, thank-you. I’m fine.” She nuzzled my neck and drew me towards the bedroom. I told myself, “…she snorted it, she snorted it, she snorted it…” Making the greatest effort to convince myself I did not see what I was fairly certain I had actually seen. We retired to the back room.

We arose the next day, Sunday, at the crack of noon and spent the afternoon lazing around and visiting a couple of her friends. It was that afternoon when I met her friend Johnny. After we entered we sat for a few minutes being sociable until Johnny made some remark to which I didn’t particularly pay any attention. It was evidently some kind of code because after a short obvious comment from Roseanne telling Johnny I was not in on the secret Johnny told her he “had something in the back room he wanted to show her.” They retreated into a back bedroom which from my position appeared to be completely full of clothes, blankets, crusty dinnerware and assorted debris which, I observed, made it somewhat difficult for them to seclude themselves from my sight but with a little effort they high-stepped over the mess, on around the corner and disappeared. I could here them whispering but could not make out any words. In a few minutes they reappeared both with eyes at half-mast & moving slowly. We socialized a few more minutes during which I remarked upon the suit that was hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. Johnny replied his mother had gotten it cleaned and pressed so he could go to court the next morning looking his best. Sometime during this conversation Rosanne agreed we would pick him up early in the morning to take him to breakfast & would drop him downtown at the courthouse. I just kinda went along with this idea anxious to agree to almost anything if it would get me out the door.

Later we went out to a fast-food supper and continued to enjoy each other’s company until early evening when I had to go to practice with my current group: Sweet Rush. We finished practice around 11:00 and headed back to her house. There had not been a repeat of the previous night but I was fairly confident she was sneaking away into the bathroom to satisfy her drug needs. As she was obviously trying to shield me from this I tried very hard to ignore this because – well – I was getting…well…let’s just say I was not thinking with the larger head.

The next morning we arose at a reasonable hour, dressed and headed to Johnny’s house where we went through a repeat of the previous afternoons “Johnny!” Pound – pound - pound. “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” Johnny eventually opened the door this time managing to not fall although, like the previous day seemed to have to figure out the security-chain all over again. As the door opened I got a good view of Johnny: still unshaven, hair a rat’s nest of disorder, obviously still un-showered and dressed in his suit. From the appearance of the suit he had slept in it most of the night. It was a mass of wrinkles and there were new stains on his “white” shirt immediately below his chin. I’m pretty sure disgusting does not actually cover his appearance but it’ll do. He told us he wanted to make sure he was ready for us when we picked him up so he dressed last night and slept in his chair. Except perhaps for the greasy couch I was pretty sure this was where he normally slept so this wasn’t really extra effort but simply passed as an excuse for looking like hell. We left for breakfast.

I was directed to a little building in the barrio that stood alone on a lot which appeared to be the only structure still standing on the entire demolished block. Walking to the site from my van I noticed a short line, the end of which we joined. No one around me spoke English except Rosanne who, like me, spoke no Spanish. As I shuffled along I picked up a metal tray similar to the trays we had used in the Navy and placed it on the tray shelf so it could be pushed along with everyone else’s. When we came to the steam table I peered through the glass sneeze guard at the selections preparing to order. I moved forward with the line shuffling until I came to the first selection: rice. At the time I was not a big fan of rice so had intended to turn it down so I was somewhat surprised when I found a big lump of the stuff in the middle of the tray. I opened my mouth in protest but was upstaged by a large spoon full of beans. Splat! Right on top of the rice. I stood staring at my tray. Splat! Gray stuff lay on top of the beans/rice. Except for the color it appeared to have been meat at one time. I was feeling uncertain as to the digestive ability of my body to process the meal but was shuffled along with everyone else. I grabbed a cloudy plastic glass, which I filled with tap water from a faucet hanging over the end of the line simply following the actions of those in front of me.

The end of the line led to a second room, which was filled with rough-hewn wooden picnic tables all pushed together in communal long tables and benches. Johnny took a seat directly across from me and Rosanne sat to my immediate left. Taking a spoonful of food I found it tasted much better than it appeared although somewhat bland and the “meat” was stringy and tough. As we only had big spoons in which to eat I was attempting to cut a big chunk of grey matter when I saw Johnny’s head tip forward. As his head dipped down a few inches, his eyes slowly shut. He stopped, head down and peeked out of half-mast peepers. He slowly looked up at me and his face morphed into a grimace I’m sure he thought was a smile. His eyes dropped shut again. His chin dropped. As his head was attached to his chin it dropped, too. I mention this because it seemed as though the weight of Johnny’s head was simply too much for him and his head seemed to sink into his neck until it hit a tipping point and his head flopped forward, chin coming to rest in his beans. I nudged Rosanne. “Johnny!...Johnny!...Johnny!” Eventually Johnny’s eyes opened half-mast and he picked his head up, beans and rice sticking to his chin and his week-old beard. Raising his spoon to his mouth he took what appeared to be a tentative bite. The weight of the spoon was evidently too heavy to lift as it dropped back down followed by his mouth. He dipped his head to bring his mouth down to the spoon and kept right on going. “I’m ok. I’m ok.” He murmured softly as his chin hit the tray of food. After a couple of repeat performances we let him sleep.

After Roseanne and I finished we began to try to arouse Johnny. No response. After several attempts I alerted Roseanne to the time. That morning she had asked if we could go to the airport and pickup a “friend” and time was getting short. After a couple more attempts I told Roseanne if she wanted to pick her friend up we had to leave now and informed her I was leaving with or without her. This whole scenario was just getting to be too much, regardless of the effect on my sex life. She accompanied me to the door and to my car. We left. Halfway to the airport she revealed her “friend” was actually her boyfriend who was flying in from Northern California where he had been a guest of the federal government on an attempted murder and drug charge.

I informed her I would be dropping her off and going my own way.

All of this I tell only to demonstrate how, a year later, when I was heading into a Grateful Dead concert with a fresh bag of popcorn I was greeted by a young man who was obviously an “out-of-it” junkie sitting in a crouch outside the inside entrance to the auditorium. Upon observing the popcorn, asked if he could have a little. “Sure.” I answered pouring a few kernels of popped corn into his cupped hand. After maybe 10 kernels he said to me, “Whoa, man, too much.” As he murmured this to me he fell forward, the weight of the popcorn dragging him flat to the floor. A year before I would have thought he was just being funny but now I know 10 kernels of popcorn really was way too heavy.

This was my weekend living, as close to being a junkie, as I never wanted to be.

I still think my fear of needles really is a good thing…

…a very good thing.

1978 - Entertainer of the Year

As my days on stage waned I became more involved in the sound engineering side of the business transitioning from infrequent studio jobs to full-time live sound. The sound and light people are not obvious performers but, the job done right, their accompaniment is just as important to a quality show as any of the musicians.

1978 – Entertainer Of The Year

“Thank-ya, ladies and gentlemen, Thank-ya.” Lip curled, his huge black pompadour shone in the lights. The odor of Aramis drifted from the stage choking anyone within 10 feet of the performer. The scarf around his neck slid off as he pulled and handed it to an admiring fan. His road manager quickly replaced it around the upturned collar with one of dozens waiting by his side. The white jumpsuit was lined in red silk and shone dramatically in the lights. Microphone clutched in his left hand, his right arm began wind milling around widely as he dropped into a slight crouch, legs splayed ready for action as the band launched into the Patriotic America medley. A woman sitting close to the stage moaned in an expression of uncontrollable excitement as he touched her cheek and whipped another scarf off and into her hand. Kettle drums sounded out their bang…boom…bang…boom…bang…boom…bangggggg. The horn section, consisting of a trumpet, a trombone and a sax, swelled in the background as the bass guitar began to echo the drum beat in deep harmony with the horns. The B3 organ-chord grew in volume with a drone that backed up the other music in preparation for the first ringing guitar chord. I gradually picked the volume up as I blended the horns, the bass & the organ as they backed the rhythm introduced by a guitar that erupted in a shuffle that managed to up the excitement factor with a desperate but controlled and irresistible chugga-chugga-chugga. The horns jumped in with Rutt-it-tut- -tut…Rutt-it-tut- - tut…bowww-owww. I brought the horn section up slightly and dropped the guitar & bass in preparation for Bubba’s vocals. “Um-er-i-ka…um-er-i-ka,” rang out over the PA as he belted out the first few notes of the song. I nudged the reverb knowing Bubba would be holding the next note but would, as usual, drift flat the longer he held. I nudged the organ mid-range to blend with the voice and edged the reverb up on the organ to better blend the two. We managed to seamlessly transition from the weaker vocal to the strength and solidity of the organ. The organ note held steady and sustained, I killed the reverb on the organ and began fading it as the lead vocal stopped for the backup singers. A tight harmony rode the background sounding as much like Elvis’ actual backup group, the Jordanaires, as anyone except the actual. Bubba ran through the various selections until he began the final section of the song which was America the Beautiful. I began edging the volume and the reverb up as the song reached its emotional peak. I dragged the audience along by the ear with the swelling of the chorus and the dramatic organ chords coupled with the horn section which was declaring its presence with harmonic flair that matched the other instruments. Cymbals and tympani sang a muted song that grew as the finish approached. Cloth-covered rubber-mallets hit with solid rhythm that sounded muted despite the high volume that was subtly controlled from my sound-board.

The final words rang out “From sea to shining seaaaaa.” I brought the volume on the entire board up as the music swelled on the final note fading Bubba out as his notes began to drift. I brought up the vocals on the guitarist and the bass-player, who was also the bass-singer. The guitarist dropped out of his harmony to take over the final lead note as we had rehearsed. Bubba’s volume dropped as the guitarist came up to take over the final note. This subtitle editing was done purely by the band who had discussed Bubba inability to hold a sustained note and determined this solution was the best. Bubba also gave instructions for no reverb and no vocal fading but it didn’t take much time for me to overrule this with my fingers when I realized his lack of control. The entire band swelled into the last note which we held for 10-beats, suddenly cutting off vocals and instruments in a very tight and abrupt finish. Simultaneously I killed the master volume bringing half-a-second of complete silence as the final note rang off the walls of the medium-sized nightclub room.

The room erupted into chaos.

Bubba left the stage gifting scarves and hand-touches to his loyal fans. The room was packed to standing room only. The fellow sitting by my side, Kurt, said “Wow! That was pretty impressive!”

“Set’s over. Want to come on back to the dressing room?

“Love to,” was his reply.

We entered the dressing room to find a card-game starting up between members of the horn-section with the bass-player and guitarist. Terry, the keyboard player sat in front of a fan, shirt open enjoying the breeze with the drummer. They both were soaked with sweat. “You guys look like you’ve been working,” said Kurt who had not yet met any of the band or Bubba as, until this moment, they weren’t aware of who had been accompanying me at the board. Bubba rose to his feet “What is this, Larry? Ya know ah don’t allow viz’ters inta the dressin’ room.” Bubba’s Memphis accent was exaggerated as usual. It was now much more pronounced than it had been when we first met some months before.

“Excuse me, sir, but I just had to meet you. Kurt Russell, sir.”

Bubba jaw dropped but he recovered quickly. “Well, so nass to meet chew.” He replied. “Didja enjoy the show?”

“Yessir.” Said Kurt. “I’ve actually seen several different Elvis shows in the last couple of weeks and, I have to say, this is the best I’ve seen so far.” Bubba beamed.

I turned to Kurt and said “We’ve got one more set after this. Are you gonna hang around?”

“No, I’ve got to get back to Goldie tonight. I just had to come down and see the act after all I heard about it. This easily equals any of the Vegas acts I’ve seen – in fact the costuming is superior to any I’ve seen.” Kurt Russell had spent the last hour & ½ listening to Bubba and watching me run the sound board. He had shown up as the first notes of the second set began. He was gathering information in preparation for a movie about the life of Elvis Presley. It would be filmed the next year and was planned for release sometime early ’79. “It’s actually kinda funny.” He said. “When I was 10 I was in an Elvis movie (It Happened At the World’s Fair) now here I am playing the King himself.” He shook his head and smiled, “He was a great gentleman.”

I walked Kurt out to the little sports number he had parked in the lot. “I really enjoyed this act. I can tell you are a big fan, too. That’s quite an ear. I would have thought the King was still alive when I closed my eyes.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I had all his albums until he went in the service. After getting out I think the Colonel held him back a little as all the movies and records became the same old formula but until then I was a huge fan. But I still KNOW what Elvis is supposed to sound like.”

“Thanks again,” said Kurt. I was hoping for an invite like “Anytime you’re in Burbank drop in.” Didn’t happen. Suppose I could say it did but…

A few weeks later we received surprising news from Bubba when he walked into rehearsal, “We’ve been nominated for San Diego’s Entertainer of the Year!” It seems we had sold out every performance we had given over the last few months and someone had noticed. We all realized this was cheating a little bit as we were always sold out from the same people night-after-night…but it counted. Bubba had a good-sized fan club most of who showed up at every performance. Band members observed that it appeared to be an audience consisting mostly of older women and their middle-aged daughters. Same faces every night. And all I have to say about that is… “Thanks, ladies!”

We all had an invite to the award dinner and ceremony sometime the next month.

The band all sat at the same table near the back of the room. Bubba had staked out a spot center stage at the front table. Although the table was reserved for the judges and officials of the Entertainer of the Year Committee, Bubba managed to keep his seat citing the fact that there were 2 more chairs than judges and members. He spent the dinner regaling his table with tales of Elvis. Apparently, from overheard conversation later, he was “a lot of fun until he started obsessing about Elvis.” This was pretty typical of Bubba as he doted on the fact that “His momma and Elvis’ momma was best friends.” He always managed to mention “Elvis’ mamma and my mamma lived across the fence from each other and my momma used to baby-sit for Elvis when he was a baby.” We all had our doubts but left him to his history or illusions as the case may be.

Personally, I think we had more fun at our table. Accompanying us at our table were local musicians, some of whom we knew and some we didn’t until this evening. The meal was good. The drinks were reasonable. The company was great. After everyone had eaten and a few recognitions and acknowledgments were made it was time for the awards. A few minor awards were awarded and speeches were made.

“And now, the grand winner…San Diego’s 1977 Entertainer of the Year…Bubba Cauldren’s Memories of Elvis.” The room erupted in applause. I sat in shock. We had won!! Bubba stood from his position at the front of the room and turned toward the audience. He was, of course, dressed in full Elvis regalia. He waved at the room and caught the eye of the band whom he motioned forward. As the sound-man I remained seated with the roadie and the makeup girl.

“Thank-ya, thank-ya.” Bubba said in his deep Elvis voice. “Ladies and gentl’men, Ah am honored to accept this award on behalf of myself and my band. Ah would laak to introduce the fin’l member of our band that gave us the sau’nd we had been a-looking for…we just didn’t know it ‘til he joined our little group. Ah’d laak Larra Was-ion to join us up here.” In shock I arose and started toward the stage as Bubba said, “We all thank Larra was the answer to our prayers and showed up at juss the rot time.” I stood next to Terry as I turned bright-red. This was an unexpected honor. I prepared to speak.

“Ah’d laak ta thank ya’ll again for this great honor,” Bubba said. Applause sounded and we left the stage.

There were several other awards that evening although, of course, I don’t remember any of them. We partied into the night closing the bar in the hotel where the ceremony was held and then preceded to the ‘bone player’s house where we continued until the sun came up.

3-Weeks later, on a Friday night, the band broke up for reasons I won’t go into here as there was betrayal and falsehoods abounding coming from a major mover in the band. As professionals we told Bubba we would finish out the weekend then he was on his own. As I understand he moved to Vegas and disappeared.

Suffice to say, for some reason I still can not STAND the smell of Arimis.

1963 - Revolution At The Graduation Party

Mom was a great chaperone and was a willing volunteer for any dance or activity. She was a huge advocate for the kids.

1963 – Revolution At The Graduation Party


“We really want to Twist Mrs. Wasion.” The Twist was the latest craze and all the kids were doing it…everywhere but here…at their own 8th Grade Graduation Party. Graduating students were complaining to my mom, a chaperone and leading member of the graduation party for Westfield. Mom was always cool, advising other chaperones to allow students to dance in any way they prefer whether it be too close or too far apart as they desired. Of course either choice was scandalous in our little town. As a dance teacher mom realized any generations style of dance is only a statement about their independence and not as subversive as thought by those adults that swore that dancing must include a man’s right hand on her waist and his left hand in her right hand and her right hand on his shoulder. Banned dances were The Twist, The Mash-Potato, The Jerk, The Hully-Gully or any other dance that didn’t include the aforementioned style. Of course often even if one did dance in the proper mode one still had to maintain a proper distance between boys and girls or be asked to leave. This had been the habit at the Moose Club, were many dances were held and where mom was a frequent chaperone, until mom let them know, in no uncertain terms, that they will have to realize that either they are allowed to “dance closely here where we can watch them or they will be in the parking lot where we can’t monitor anything.” Her common-sense approach won support among the kids as well as most of their parents and adults who, overall, understood sense from non-sense.

The planning for the annual 8th Grade Graduation Party had immediately started with conflict when Mr. Playvak, our Superintendent of Schools, insisted that they hire the same 8-piece string orchestra that was traditionally hired every year for this event. The principle, Mr. Olsen, was on the side of his boss. Mom asked if this was a celebration of his ability to torture children or a celebration of achievement for the children that they would enjoy and in which they would actually like to participate. Evidently there was quite a passionate discussion following this statement that resulted in the announcement that it was “either the traditional orchestra or a record player.” As Mr. Playvak had budget approval this was the deal-breaker until mom replied, “Sounds good to me. Then they can have music they know, they like and to which may just possibly dance.” Mr. Playvak and Mr. Olsen were quickly voted down and our 60-pound “portable” stereo, used in mom’s dance studio became our scheduled entertainment for the evening.

Of course mom, that evening after hearing the complaints and comments regarding the banned dance, instructed the students to dance in any manner they desired. “After all, it’s your dance.” We immediately began twisting with the music and the fun level, as well as the noise level increased. This drew Mr. Olsen out of his office across the hall from the gym. Upon entering the dance and observing this revolution in dance he angrily strode to the stage and unplugged the stereo shouting to the crowd, “I announced at our school assembly last week that this type of dancing would not be allowed!” He virtually vibrated in place, his anger showing plainly on his bright-red face. “If I have to I’ll end this dance right now!” He grew louder. “None of you will be graduating on Thursday! I’m going to withhold all diplomas!” Mom and her friend and school-nurse Kay calmed him and asked him to accompany them to his office. As they left we heard him exclaim, “I’ll have the last word about this!” as the door closed and conversation was cut off. The door opened after a short conversation. Mom and Kay returned and the dance resumed as before with dancing in any manner desired. No one ever discussed the conversation but there wasn’t any fall-out on me – I was headed for high-school.

Understand, now, this was my mom. It certainly was not me as I was deathly afraid of Mr. Olsen. This was fear which had been reinforced just a week before. I had arrived late as usual heading directly to the office where I would daily obtain a tardy slip. This was the result of a bad habit I had developed while living across the street from Spring Bluff grade school. I had, for years, gotten away with jumping out of bed when I heard the first bell and made the classroom right at the second bell 5-minutes later. Unfortunately during my 5th grade year Westfield opened and 4th grade and up all transferred to this new location several blocks away. This didn’t work so well when I had to run several blocks and my record tardiness was about to be impressed upon me. On this day, a week before my 8th grade graduation, Mr. Olsen met me with a frown and asked me when I approached the counter if I knew how many times I had been late that year. I replied “Quite a few I suppose.” To which he replied “We need to talk about this…follow me.” He left the office and led me down a newly completed wing of the school which had not yet opened for classes.

He opened the door to a vacant classroom and held it while I entered following behind and closing the door quietly and securely. I leaned against the wall facing him. He turned toward me and leaned forward. Mr. Olsen suddenly grabbed me by my shirt lapels and lifted me off my feet. He placed me firmly against the wall about 4’ off the floor and leaned toward my face. “I checked yesterday,” he said, “and found that you have been tardy EVERY SINGLE DAY this year! This is a habit that will not serve you well in your life and I think we need to stop this behavior right now! What do you think?”

“I guess so…” I replied in a very small shaky voice.

“I know so! Now, you have one week until your 8th grade graduation and I don’t expect to see you in here one more time before the school-year ends!” He lowered me to the floor and reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s your tardy slip. Get to class!” I shot out of the room like an escaping convict. “I don’t expect to see you again!” he shouted at my retreating back.

For this reason I was scared silly of Mr. Olsen but I was not my mom whom, as far as I know, wasn’t afraid of anybody, particularly when it concerned one of her children. Our dance continued on as though nothing had happened. Sometime during the party mom and I gave a dance exhibition using the waltz and the cha-cha for demonstration. These exhibitions were always a bit surrealistic for me as I was generally in a big room with everyone gathered in a big circle, in side of which, we danced and demonstrated our skills at different steps and maneuvers. This evening I was surrounded by my classmates and teachers so it was even more unreal than the usual exhibition in front of a room full of adults, few of which I would know. Here, I knew everybody…and they knew me. Although I always felt kinda funny when I did these dance exhibitions this one was particularly weird because everyone I looked at I recognized. I had been doing this for years in various venues, often including a Moose Club Dance or a gathering of a women’s club or another group. Often there were some classmates present but to my surprise, over the years I don’t recall even one incident where I was hassled over this by a classmate, many of whom eventually became my dance students.

The dance continued that evening without further incident. Mr. Olsen, as far as I was aware, never gave us anymore grief including the morning of the last day of school…when I was late again. This time though it wasn’t my fault as my scare the previous week had resulted in my early wake-up every day since. Unfortunately on the last day of school mom had some trouble fixing breakfast which resulted in my leaving near tears and running at top speed the few blocks to school. As I took off I heard mom shout a message for Mr. Olsen. I didn’t think he would find it helpful. I heard the bell rang as I came across the field knowing full well this was the last bell and I was now officially late…again.

I hit the front door running full speed spying Mr. Olsen standing just inside in his glass-lined office looking unhappy as he waited near the time clock which was used to time-stamp the tardy slip. Knowing I was probably going to be a mass of heaving raw meat within seconds after Mr. Olsen got a hold of me I realized I had nothing to lose. I echoed the message mom had shouted at me as I left home. “Mom told me to tell you this is for old time-sake.” I cringed.

My eyes were hooded as I looked up at Mr. Olsen as he burst out with a great belly laugh. “Get to class,” he said, “and tell your mom hi for me.”

1967 - Another Muddy Field

1967 - Running a Muddy Field

It was a cold and rainy early-spring night. The club meeting of the Dunes Beach Surf Club had been uneventful as I climbed into the family station wagon which was mine for the evening. We had held our meeting in John’s basement instead of at the Dunes Lodge due to the weather. The windshield wipers made a futile effort to keep the window clear but mostly just smeared the dirty rain and mud evenly across the window. I had stayed a bit late to talk with John and Maureen so it was late and the rain had only gotten worse. I had ducked under my collar as I ran to the car but my back was still soaked by the downpour that succeeded in invading my CPO Jacket and shirt. After wiping my glasses on my still-wet sleeve I backed out of John’s driveway and started forward creeping slowly forward hoping for a let-up in the weather and squinting through smeared glasses and windshield. His was a small neighborhood with some paved streets that occasionally intersected with a dirt road which had now, of course, turned into mud. I crept around the corner and picked up speed. I had a 3-block stretch in front of me and there was no traffic so I was confident about my ability to navigate the next few blocks. I slowed at the intersections as visibility was still bad but, seeing no cars approaching, would hit the gas and proceed on without pause. Seeing the mud ahead I asked my self how far I had gone as it didn’t seem I had quite gone the three blocks expected. Although the intersection looked “wrong” and regardless of my uncertainty I proceeded forward accelerating through the intersection. I was sinking fast into the mud when I realized I had severely miscalculated and driven into a freshly plowed and very wet farmer’s field. I hit the gas to power through knowing that pulling a muddy car out of a field in the rain was not something I wanted to do this evening. I figured I had powered myself out of similar predicaments and resolved to do the same this time. The rear end dug in and felt like it was going to stick solid when it lurched and broke loose. I shot forward turning the farmer’s neat furrows into a mass of muddy lines and furrows that now crossed diagonally across the field making one radical turn to avoid the telephone pole laying on it’s side which also marked the edge of his field. Spotting a clear spot to my right I spun the wheel in that direction barely missing the telephone pole and plowing through the opening into the overgrown field that made up the remainder of this block.

I was free from the soft mud in the plowed field but was still stuck in the middle of a muddy field in which I could not stop for continuing fear of getting stuck. The field was not as loose as the farmer’s field but was not really firm as it was still just weeds growing through rich black mud. I was headed west running the length of the field for no reason except it was the direction I was facing when I emerged from the plowed field. Spinning the wheel to the left I slid into a turn and my right rear tire bumped another telephone pole that I spotted at the last second. I was headed back toward the neighborhood which meant my only exit would be someone’s backyard. I spun the wheel again. Emerging from a muddy field into someone’s mowed lawn wasn’t my idea of being a good neighbor so I was headed back north toward the main road. I could see the street through the bushes that densely populated the field but every time I got a glimpse of road I also saw a telephone pole lying in my way. I’d had driven the length and breadth of the field and had found no way out when I glimpsed pavement through a break in the brush. It appeared to be a 10’ patch of un-mowed, but fairly short grass and I could not see a telephone pole. I jerked the wheel toward the pavement hitting the gas determined to power through anything in my way.

I shot through the opening in the brush to find myself on solid pavement spraying mud high and wide behind me. I threw caution to the wind and counted on the sparse traffic to be light enough to let me onto the road when I realized I was not yet on the road. I was, instead moving as fast as I could to assure my release from the muddy field…down someone’s driveway headed straight for their garage. There was no time to change direction which, if I had tried this maneuver, would have simply changed my aspect as the vehicle would continue on in the same direction. The thick mud I could feel on the tires meant I would probably simply begin sliding sideways toward that same garage. In the same split second I realized my location I also noticed 3 other things: 1) There was no car in the garage, 2) it was a drive through garage with both sides open and 3) the door opening from the house to the garage was slowly opening as I sped toward the open garage door. There was no stopping as my speed was too high to even consider a stop in the short distance I had in front of me. I instantly timed the unfolding events in my head: if whoever was emerging through that door moved too fast they would be in my pathway before they saw me. They would be ok if they moved casually but, knowing I was not in control of the speed with which they dispatched whatever errand they were on, I quickly examined the other part of the equation: my own speed. A snap decision told me to hit the gas and get to the garage before the emerging individual had a chance to fully exit the house.

I shot through the open garage spewing mud everywhere, wheels protesting with a loud *blump* *blump* *blump* coming from the tires as they spun in the mud encased wheel wells. As I passed the now open door I could see past the emerging adult male to the kitchen behind him. He was slightly balding with a little mid-age paunch, in t-shirt and dress pants held up by suspenders. He stood round-shouldered and open-mouthed, on the top step with a small pail of garbage in hand, head on a swivel and staring in disbelief at the sight in front of his eyes. As I spun onto the main road I glanced into my rearview mirror to see the gentleman standing as before, mouth still agape, frozen in place staring at my vanishing taillights. He appeared to be somewhat worse for the wear as he was now covered with the same dark-colored spots I noticed distributed throughout the garage and which appeared to be the same color as the tracks that ran from the field, made a short trip over the bitter end of his lawn, headed through his garage, onto the road and disappeared somewhere under my car.

I imagine after the shock wore off he headed for a shower hopefully only to wash the mud off…but maybe also to change his pants. Me? I was relieved this incident was pretty much over and that no one was hurt.

Heart beating a-mile-a-minute headed for the local do-it-yourself car-wash.

1960 - Lessons Learned - Counting Inventory

Many of the lessons we learn we get to apply to our personal lives but, in some cases, the thngs we learn in our early years can affect our professional lives. Currently I spend a lot of time assuring inventory data is correct.

1960 – Lessons Learned – Counting Inventory

“But, dad, I want to go out and play!” I whined.

“You are a part of this family and we all need to pitch in together and find out how big of a problem we have!”

This was evidently the fallout from the conversation I overheard the previous night as we sat together for supper mom & dad discussed the situation in the music store.

“We’ve lost altogether too much inventory without knowing where it is going,” dad had said.

“I know, Bob, but it’s all of the loaners we’ve been handing out with no security and no payment. None of these are coming back…they just disappear with the borrower. Your brother…”

“These are all friends of ours or Johnnie’s. Those instruments will be back someday. Besides we’re only talking about a couple of instruments. One or two guitars couldn’t make that big of a difference.”

“It has been about 9-months since we did an inventory,” he continued. “I think we need to do another one so we can see where we really are.”

I barely paid attention as they were always discussing some adult thing or another. I remembered the inventory they performed the previous year. They had closed the store for 2-days & we all pitched in to count all of the instruments, records, sheet music, drum sticks, guitar picks, music stands and all of the other items that made up the saleable items in the Harbor Music Center. My assignment had been the records and the sheet music. As soon as I completed this chore I was gone and playing with brothers and friends. It wasn’t a lot of fun but really didn’t concern me as I sat barely listening to the conversation.

That was on a Thursday and here on Friday evening I had completed my janitorial duties and had just been informed I would be doing a solo inventory over the next weekend and possibly beyond if I didn’t get everything counted. They did not want to close the store for this exercise so, needing someone to perform the inventory they naturally picked the employee that was least critical to the operation of the store…me. Naturally, at 10-years old, I didn’t want my weekend monopolized with work. I was already the janitor and was taking music classes, most of which I didn’t care for, and a dancing class as mom’s practice partner while she worked on her teaching certificate from Dale Dance Studios. Of all of this, the dancing was the only one I really enjoyed. That aside, I simply did not want to “waste” my weekend by doing work for which I would see no profit.

“Can’t I just count some today and some more tomorrow? I could just count some every night until I get everything counted!”

“Larry, that’s not how inventory is done.” Dad frowned. “It should be done as quickly as possible so we have a pretty good idea of what we still have for sale and what is missing. Delaying this over time just would not work.”

“But I don’t want to count everything tomorrow…besides I don’t think I’ll get it all counted anyway.” I wheedled and cajoled. I whined and cried. “This isn’t fair! It’ll probably take weeks every night after school! I know can’t count them all in a week and, anyway, we don’t sell enough to make a difference over just a few days!” This statement did not help as the level of sales was already a sensitive issue. Competition was non-existent in this little village but the towns and cities surrounding us all had music stores and, in our little town, there simply was not enough interest to make a good living selling music supplies. Music, as the primary love of both mom and dad gave them the motivation to open their own store…unfortunately I don’t believe they had clearly understood the top 3-rules of the retail business: Location, location, location. They had been learning the hard way. The little village of 1,400 people tried to support local businesses but they all had a rough time of it. No local businesses were becoming million-dollar enterprises because business was sooo good.

I made a lot of noise until dad gave in partially. “Alright, I’m tired of hearing it! If you can come up with logic that allows you to count a few every day I’ll agree but if you can’t reason it out tonight you will be here bright and early tomorrow morning to start.”

Dad often used this ploy and usually made an honest attempt to understand my logic. This was a partial reprieve so I knew full well that if I could come up with logic to support my request there was the possibility my reasoning could will-out. I went home to think.

What possible reasons could there be to spread out the counting of the entire inventory?

I already have one good reason, I thought, it would take less time away from closing the store because if only a few items are counted each day we could count them before the store opened or right after it closed. Just counting a few items every day would mean we could count all of the single-day’s items in just a few minutes as long as I could find them. I recalled how many items were spread throughout the store during the last inventory. Some of them had been in the same casual spot for weeks. Also any missing items would either be missing completely, on the loaner list or somewhere in the store…and once I find the missing item it will stay right where it is until I’m done counting that item because no customers would be there to disturb or move it. Ok, how to list this?

#1 – We can count daily before or after all of the sales are made so we know exactly where everything is. The count will be reliable.

What else? I looked at the last item on my list – a lonely list of one reason. This would never do. Wait, I thought, the last item said I would be finding missing stuff…last inventory dad said he had to “write a lot of stuff off.” When I asked the meaning of writing-stuff-off he informed me this meant we were considering the items lost. He said writing something off meant something had cost us money to buy it, but it could not be sold to pay for itself. He then explained the meaning of “profit.” Boring, but I understood…because if I had more time to find some of the missing stuff it would be a more accurate inventory. After all we were still finding little stashes of missed inventory for weeks after our last count. Ok…

#2 – We’ll have time to find more stuff so the count will be more reliable.

Alright, #3…

I sat…and sat. Two items would clearly not be enough to convince dad. …I remembered the situation that started the original conversation at the supper table. It seemed that a whole case of guitar strings and a new guitar had disappeared. They had been delivered a couple of months before and mom thought she remembered dad loaning it out but couldn’t find a record of the transaction. Dad flew into a yelling jag in which mom got defensive and wound up blaming Uncle Johnny and his band, over which dad got defensive. Dad said every week the records got worse and worse until dad decided to take an early inventory – and I was stuck with the job. Maybe if they hadn’t lost that guitar none of this…wait! If I had more time to look into where a missing item was then some of that time I could spend looking through the stack of loaner and sales records. In fact I could look at records while the store was open – the cards were not going to change unless a missing item was recovered and then the problem would be instantly solved!

“In fact,” I thought, “if we spread out the inventory so we got everything counted within a month or so and if we could just keep counting a few items every day. Then the last time something was used, loaned or sold the time between finding there is a problem and the cause of the problem would be a much shorter and it would be easier to do the research…mom might even remember if someone had forgotten to record the transaction. Ok…#3 – The event causing the inaccuracy would be easier to remember or it would be easier to search records to find the problem as the time between the cause and the solution would be shorter. Hmmm…too long and too confusing. Try again.

#3 – Shortening times between finding out about missing items and the cause of the inaccuracy would reduce time spent investigating and memory would be more reliable.

This also led naturally to note:

#4 – Continuing inventory incrementally throughout the year would offer continuous discovery of problems soon after they happened and inventory would always be more accurate than if done only once-a-year.

I suddenly realized we might even be able to figure out what we were doing that wasn’t working…if we paid more attention to finding the main cause of inaccuracy we could figure out what not to do…or how to do it better!

Alright - #5 – We could learn what things we need to do better.

And the final reason which had been percolating in the back of my head throughout the entire exercise:

#5 – Counting a few every day would have less impact on our normal everyday life.

This meant I wouldn’t have to give up an entire weekend every year...and…neither would they!

I ran downstairs to the living room and dad. After a long day at work, an evening at the music store and a late supper he was busy decompressing and wasn’t very happy about my interrupting Gunsmoke but when I reminded him he said I had to convince him that same night, he agreed to listen. After almost a half-hour of convincing and negotiating dad agreed to let me try this experiment. He would reserve judgment whether we would continue this practice after seeing the results after a week or so.

The next morning, as agreed, I headed for the music store at the time I regularly went for my Saturday shift. Before sweeping or dusting I had agreed to start the count. The 3x5 cards that contained all of the information on the individual items sat under the cash register. I pulled the first 5-cards: Guitar Picks, kazoos, trumpets, music-stands and sheet-music A thru F was up for a count this morning.

Guitar Picks were way off. We often gave these away to guitarists during casual stop-bys or, more often, they went to students that had broken or forgotten their own. We only had a couple of boxes left. There were plenty of thumb picks. Kazoos were right on except for the one missing that was on my dresser at home. Both trumpets were where they were supposed to be and each practice-room had 2 music-stands. I had counted and recorded the few pieces of sheet music that was in the A thru F bin and opened the overstock shelf directly below to see if there was any music there. Sheet music didn’t sell that well so it looked empty except for the box of violin bows that had been stashed there until room opened up in the back room closet where we kept miscellaneous parts for instruments. I lifted the corner to see if there was any music hiding underneath. Nothing – but a crumpled piece of packing tape that was stuck to a small box that was shoved into the far corner. Pulling on the offending scrap drew a small 10” x 10” box into the open. Pulling the box out I discovered it to be full of unopened sets of guitar strings. The address label and postmark revealed it to contain the missing strings – every one of them.

Dad was surprised how many guitar picks were missing in under 3-months. He noted it was time to re-supply and he and mom had a short conversation agreeing not to be so loose with the free guitar picks. I told mom about how I had picked up the missing kazoo and forgotten to return it. I promised I would do so the next day. “I don’t think so, honey.” Mom said. “I don’t think anyone is going to want it after you’ve had it in your mouth. Just make sure you ask from now on before taking anything.”

Dad said he was surprised that I had not only found the missing strings but complimented me on re-organizing the card catalog so we could easier find the items we need to find to record a sale or receipt. I had only done this so I could more reliably know what and when I had counted all of the items. He said he would give me another week before he decided if we would continue this practice.

The day before dad would make his decision I found the missing guitar still boxed, just like the strings. It had been on top of a stack of similar, but empty, cartons that were awaiting flattening and discarding.

The next day dad made his decision. “Well Lar, I’ve thought quite a lot about this and your ideas about counting seem to work. Sometimes this is even better than normal but the more I think about it…that’s just not how an inventory is done. You stop work for one day so everything is static and we can see just how everything is for that specific day. Your method is always a moving target. We would never know what we really had.”

Of course dad’s thinking was in perfect alignment with the thinking of the day. This thinking eventually changed which I found out when, in 1980, in took classes in Inventory Management where, on the first day, they introduced us to what they called “Cycle Counting” and told us it was the best method of controlling dynamic inventories and the only way to keep a stockroom highly accurate. They then proceeded to explain how and why the method I had discovered 20-years before was used and maintained.

I guess sometimes it just takes awhile for the rest of the world to catch-up.

1963 - Halleluiah !!

In my mind "The Church" is seperate from "God." In many cases I'm not sure He would want the affiliation.

1963 - Halleluiah !!

“The Lord calls on you to sin no more!” The minister stared into my eyes and pointed straight at me with an outstretched finger. “SINNER!!” I jumped back as far as I could. I was already sitting with my backbone securely against the pew-back. “Hear the call of the Lord! He calls you to his service! Halleluiah!”

An hour before I had entered the sanctuary rather apprehensive at attending a different church than the one I was most used to but Bobbie’s sister, Jeannie, had invited us a week before and we had agreed so there we were. Little did I expect the trial through which I was about to be put.

As Jeannie was also a choir member we had arrived a few minutes early and she had found us a spot right in the front row directly in front of the choir. She left to adorn herself in a white choir-robe. We sat and watched people enter and take their seats. We were greeted by a couple of people but mostly we were left alone as we were not recognized by regular members and had sat in a far corner of the front row. In a few minutes the room was full to stranding room only. The prayer of welcome was given and the choir launched into their first hymn. There was a sense of excitement in the room I hadn’t felt in many years. The hymn ended with a flourish and a lay speaker standing at the lectern read a verse from the bible. The preacher, at the pulput, launched immediately into a sermon which started at a conversational level which was incrementally amplified in tone until in the last hour the volume had increased until he was virtually shouting into his microphone.

“We are all sinners who, only by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, are saved from the fires of eternal damnation! Praise to Him above all others! Pray you may sin no more! Even though that prayer sets an impossible goal the Lord wants you to continually try to live the life He has gifted you to live to its highest and loftiest goals! Let the sinners accept the Lord as their own savior!” The excitement in the air was palatable and I was caught up in the excitement of the moment. “The Lord loves you and wants you to come forward, all ye sinners, to accept the Lord as your personal savior!” I was next to tears as my emotional state began to sympathize with the state of fervor throughout the room. Yes, I could feel His presence! I was ready to accept Jesus as my own personal savior! I didn’t know how I had lived so freely up to this point with so little of Him in my soul! I closed my eyes and prayed with the minister and the congregation, “Dear Lord, take my sins away so I may live in peace and harmony with all men! Show me the strength of Your love! I welcome You into my heart without fear and with an open heart that will help me lean on You during times of weakness!”

“Yes,” I thought, “this is the strength I’ve needed all along.” My heart opened and the presence of the Lord was within me.

“Come to the Lord!” The minister shouted. “I call all among you to confess your sins to the Lord and demonstrate your faith with a call to the alter by all of those who feel the power of the Lord within you!” People began coming forward eventually forming a line waiting to have hands laid upon them and to receive the blessing of the minister. I relished the moment, feeling that I was in the throes of a very significant religious and very personal experience. This was a special moment which I reveled in, feeling a special power course through my veins. Jeannie stepped out of the choir to speak with me.

“Don’t you want to receive the Lord at the Alter-call, Larry?”

“Sorry, Jeannie. I’m having an incredibly personal experience right now and need to deal with these emotions in my own way. I’m not much for public displays…but…thank-you so much for asking me tonight.” I looked up smiling with tears of passion in my eyes feeling the force of the experience with my whole body. I was fairly vibrating with pent-up excitement.

“I understand, Larry.” She said and smiled at me. She rose from the crouch she had been in to better accommodate my position in the pew and re-joined the choir.

The revivalist/minister had carried on while Jeannie and I were speaking leaving his minions to lay hands upon the parishioners. He now moved from the pulpit and across the apse to stand directly in front of me. He had evidently seen Jeannie’s inquiry and my resistance to the alter-call. He stood at the edge of the stage and looked down at me, finger jutting out in my direction as he exclaimed, “Sinners! Sinners give of yourself to the Lord! You cannot escape the blessings of the Lord or the revenge of his mighty sword! The harvest shall come and many will not answer! The Lord welcomes his flock to abide under the protection of the Lord! Come! Come to the protection of God Almighty and His Son, Christ Our Lord!” His finger shook at the heavens until it suddenly thrust directly toward me. “Sinner! Sinner come to the Lord! Believe in the power! Live in sin no more!” I sat back feeling the weight of his finger pressing upon my soul. I felt more than saw the suited gentleman crouch down beside me until he was pressed close to my side and shouting into my ear in an attempt to over-shout the minister who still stood over me accusing me of sins beyond my years or experience. The cacophony of noise impinged seriously upon my rapture. The voice that pleaded in my ear did not help.

“I can see the Lord moving within you, son. Don’t you wish to wash your sins away by coming into the love of the Lord?”

“Yes, I’m having a wonderful experience right here.”

“Then you must come forward to the alter call, son. Welcome Jesus into your heart.”

“He’s there, sir. I’m not comfortable with going to the front but I am having a wonderful time.” A second suit crouched down next to the first. He laid his hand upon my head and forced my eyes toward the floor as he prayed loudly in my direction. The noise grew as a third suit joined the other two.

“If you truly have welcomed the Lord into your heart you could hardly sit here when everyone else confesses their love publicly for all to see.” When I didn’t respond he repeated the phrase three times word-for-word. It began to sound like a chant and the words began to lose meaning. My soul was being distracted. I thought “These guys were destroying the moment but, of course, they’ve got the best intentions.”

“I’m not comfortable in front of everybody.” I said.

“We can adjourn to a fellowship-room and hear your surrender to Jesus. We can pray in peace there.” After a few more minutes of unrelenting appeals to retire to a back-room I gave in to their demands and stood reluctantly following all three of them into a back room immediately off to the side. They closed me in on all sides intimately enough that there would be no shaking off these guys. Of course, even in my discomfort, the thought of escape never crossed my mind until, as we approached the door, I began to feel like a guarded prisoner being escorted to his cell. There were several other groups like mine in this small room, obviously a Sunday-school classroom. Each group held a person sitting in a chair or kneeling in front of a chair and 2-3 suits praying over them. In each group one of the suits had his hand on the head of the “victim” as I was beginning to think of myself. Heads were forced to look towards the floor as prayer issued from every mouth in the room except for those of us in the chairs. As my head went down from the pressure on the back of my head, I caught the eye of a gentleman obviously three-times my age. He didn’t look anymore comfortable than I did. Most other seated individuals were fully participating. At that point I wanted to be anywhere else. I felt another hand on my shoulder.

As the door closed the noise from the other room was muted. The hand on my shoulder and pushed down until I dropped to my knees with very little resistance. It was apparent they were preparing to pray over me…well, ok. I was no longer feeling as emotional as I had a few short minutes before. In fact, I was a little upset that I was pressured into a situation in which I was less than comfortable. I heard prayers going on over me but I had ceased listening or praying along. At this point I just wanted out of there. They began to pepper me with questions like: “Have you accepted the Lord as your savior?”, “Do you love Jesus with all your heart and soul?” and “Do you accept yourself as a sinner needing heavenly guidance?” I answered all of these questions with “Yes” although I was beginning to doubt the truth of my statements due to the discomfort I was feeling. Then, out-of-left-field, a question I wasn’t prepared for in any way flew in my direction: “If you love Jesus then will you support the church that brought you to this realization?”

Tentatively: “Yes?” I was helped into the chair that was directly behind me.

“Sign this paper that declares your soul has been given to Jesus It also allows you to join and support this wonderful church.” I sat in the chair next to which I had been kneeling and accepted the piece of paper with some curiosity. It had a declaration at the top regarding the transformation of my soul. This I checked but as I looked down I saw this was mostly a membership application to the church. I hesitated. “You do want to support the church don’t you?” All three looked down at me from their positions standing around the chair into which I had been placed upon entering this room. I was securely hemmed in. Feeling very uncomfortable I signed the paper and handed it to the first suit. “Oh, you forgot to tithe. How much did you want to give…10, 15, 20% or you could just put the amount you would give every week in the collection plate?” As I added a figure of $5 to the blank space, Suit #1 said “You are working for your parents aren’t you? Don’t your parents own that music store in Winthrop Harbor? I’m sure you could be a bit more generous to the church for saving your soul for all eternity.” I was getting a distinct feeling that we were actually getting closer to the true purpose of this elaborate ceremony…this was nothing but a membership drive! How they knew a kid my age had a job I was clueless. How they actually knew my situation was a bigger mystery. I changed the $5 to $10 and rose to leave. I was no longer feeling the spirit of the Lord and, in fact, was feeling like I had just been taken for a sucker. I retired back to the congregation and sat alone with my thoughts growing more and more unhappy. I had signed a paper that committed me to membership as well as appropriated almost half of the $25 I made every week for helping out at the store.

When I arrived home dad, noticing my mood, asked what was wrong. “I joined a church tonight.” I said, depression dripping from every word.

Dad was a bit surprised as we already had a church we attended weekly (and sometimes weakly.) I was attending confirmation classes and was only a few months from confirmation and membership in my own church. Curious, he asked “How’s that?”

The story came tumbling out how they my emotional heartstrings had been manipulated and how, in a moment of vulnerability, I had been convinced to join the church. I was almost sobbing as the last of the story came out. I had signed papers that said I was now committed to a church and organization of which I knew very little and felt pressured into joining. Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, Lar. You didn’t join anything. You’re too young for your signature to commit you to anything. I’ll be giving them a call in the morning.

The next day dad, indeed, did make a call and let the person on the other end what he felt about their membership drive and methods. If I remember it was not a pleasant conversation.

I learned though. Now I understand all about smoke and mirrors.

And, about this subject? I haven’t been fooled since.

1973 - The Neighbors

I was an observer during the drug-years. I was close to the edge of that culture and, to the concern of many, it was the inside edge. As I've mentioned previously there were drug years that are far behind me. But even then I was disciplined enough to know "bad" from "evil."

1973 – The Neighbors

“Thunk…thunk…thunk” It was a hollow sound that was clearly reminiscent of someone bouncing a watermelon on a sidewalk. Even though Yes’ “Closer to the Edge” was on the stereo at a fairly high volume the sound cut right through the music. I sat back and took a hit off the joint passed to me by my roommate. As I held my breath my roommate said, “Uh, man, did you hear that?” With a puzzled look and held breath I glanced in his direction and squeezed out, “Yeah.”

Bill and I arose together and strode to the window in our little second-floor North Park apartment that overlooked our stairway & the steps and front yard of our downstairs neighbor’s little rental house. We didn’t socialize with this pair, named Jim and Howie, very much as they were not in our circle of friends or anyone with whom either of really cared to socialize. They were mostly dirty and unkempt working on their Harleys on the middle of the living room rug and dealing their choice of drugs throughout the nights and sleeping most days. Our limited interaction included a conversation regarding their drug of choice, speed, and the fact that they were mainliners…they preferred to inject their drug of choice. We made it clear we were not interested in traveling this path but as long as they caused us no trouble we would stay good neighbors. They pretty much kept to themselves and were quiet, if unconventional, neighbors. Sometime after that in attempt to be neighborly we invited Jim and his roommate to dinner. They showed up exactly in-time and ate pretty much without comment with Howie leaving immediately after finishing without ever speaking. After Howie left Jim excused himself to the bathroom immediately off the living room. I thought nothing of it and began to remove dishes from the living room into the kitchen when I noticed Jim had not closed the door completely. If he had been near the commode he would not have been visible but from his position in front of the sink it was clear that he was tying off his arm for what could only be an injection of some substance… probably a distinctly illegal substance because, as far as I knew, Jim was not diabetic and I don’t believe insulin was “cooked” in a spoon. He had the gall to shoot up in my apartment! I snapped and slammed the door open yelling “What the hell is going on here!?!!” Ignoring the fact that he was a good 6-foot tall and with a normally unpleasant disposition I grabbed him by the collar and jerked him towards our apartment door. When he made token resistance I made a grab at his pants as my hand tangled in his disgusting shirt as he tried to turn around in response to my exclamation. I have no idea how I did it but I virtually picked up Jim who was a good 8-inches taller than me and 75 pounds heaver. He felt weightless in my hands as I tossed him toward the door. I pulled the door open and thrust him through almost causing his fall down the stairs. “Stay the fuck out of here!” I yelled at his retreating back.

Now, a couple of weeks later, Bill and I stared down at Jim and Howie’s front porch at the sight unfolding before us. The thunk…thunk sound had been the sound made by Howie’s head bumping against the concrete stairs as Jim dragged Howie out of the front door by his feet. As we watched Jim retrieved the garden hose and turned the water on which he directed toward Howie’s face. We were not interested in getting involved but as we watched water pour onto Howie’s face a blue line crept up his bare chest and we realized he was drowning. Jim stood above him with eyes at half-mast, hose held loosely in his hand. He paid no attention to his friend except to keep the water directed onto his face. Bill and I sprinted for the stairs. As we hit the door we saw that Chris & Kat, our “up-front” neighbors had arrived with their dates from last night and were trying to talk to Jim. Jim was barely there mentally and did not respond. As we reached the bottom of the stairs Christine grabbed the hose and directed the spray away from Howie who was now lying on his back with eyes staring up and a substantial amount of vomit and spit covering his untrimmed, bearded face. Kat crouched near Howie’s head. The color of blue deepened as Bill and I arrived in the circle of people now gathered around Howie. Jim had casually left the group to retrieve two trays of ice which he threw into the front yard ignoring us and the gathered crowd. “What the hell?” I asked. Kat’s date said junkies and the like often kept their stash already divided into desired amounts and then mix them with water and freeze this into ice cubes for easy use. As Jim had probably noticed when Chris said she was going in to call emergency. I assumed that Jim, knowing cops would soon be on the scene decided to get rid of the evidence. Kat looked up, seeing me for the first time. “Oh, good,” she said, “Larry’s here. He used to work in a hospital. He’ll know what to do.” She stood to make room for me. Everyone moved back one step. I had no idea what I was supposed to do but it suddenly looked like it was going to be up to me to make that determination. They all stood in a circle and watched.

I looked down at Howie. He clearly needed mouth-to-mouth. I was clearly not going to get my mouth anywhere near his disgusting orifice. Sorry Howie, but you would be dead before I resorted to this tactic. I rolled him onto his side and asked Bill to elevate his feet at bit. As soon as his feet came off the ground water spilled lazily out of his mouth. I began pounding on his back saying “Come on, buddy, come on…come on…” Howie coughed. Water spewed from his still blue mouth. He coughed again and fell back flat, color returning immediately. His eyes immediately closed and he took one deeply labored breath and his breathing stopped again, as we watched a blue line started up his chest almost like someone was invisibly painting him a deep blue. I pulled him back onto his side and began pounding again. “Come on you bastard, come on.” A cough. More water sprayed from his lips and he began to breathe, the wet breaths bubbling out of foamed lips. We heard sirens approaching and relaxed knowing help was on the way. As we heard them come to a screeching stop in the alley behind the house Howie again fell back giving a weak cough and once more stopped breathing. The blue line began its journey up his chest. I again flipped him on his side and began pounding on his back as strange footsteps approached. I urgently wanted to leave as I was uncomfortably aware that I was probably reeking of marijuana and didn’t want to run into any representatives of the law community. Looking out of hooded eyes I noticed sharply-creased kaki pant legs standing next to me and another pair across from me. These were not the legs of an ambulance driver…they were going to be the legs of a San Diego police officer as soon as I looked up.

The legs across from me bent and the officer dropped into a crouch that reflected my own stance over Howie. I looked up. Hey! Alright! It was Hal! My stench was forgotten as I said “Hal, how’re you doing?” “Larry!” the officer replied. Hal and I had been in the Navy together. He had gotten out just a few months before me so it had been well over a year and a half since we spoken. “Larry! How are you?” He laughed. We shook hands over Howie’s prone body.

“What’s the story here?” Hal asked. “I think we may have an overdose here I think,” was my reply. “He’s stopped breathing a couple of times but I think he’s more stable now.” Howie lay unconscious between us now breathing easily. EMT’s arrived and a gurney was lowered. Howie was lifted aboard. As they tightened the last strap across his chest he shook his head and opened his eyes. “What the fuck!” He tried to sit up. “What the hell is going on!?!!” he shouted while trying to free an arm. Hal’s partner grabbed at Howie’s arm and held it tight while the gurney was lifted to full height. They disappeared around the corner as they headed for the ambulance. Hal left shortly thereafter saying we needed to get together some time…of course, we didn’t.

As a footnote this incident was never mentioned by either Jim or Howie. I guess they weren’t very happy. I continue to wait on Howie for a “thank-you for saving my life.”

I’m not holding my breath.

1976 - The Barney Chronicles

Sure, I've had a few speeding tickets but I'd never been taken to jail...until this. A lesson learned the hard way.

1976 – The Barney Chronicles

I was driving blithely down a Southern Illinois back hi-way when I saw the lights behinds me. I quickly checked my speed – only 5-miles over and only 5-miles from my destination: Effingham, Illinois. I pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the officer to arrive.

I could see him in my rearview mirror when he exited his vehicle. He appeared to be even younger than my 26 years. He was thin & looked barely old enough to shave. He wasn’t very tall as he was about my height although with such a small stature on a short frame he looked like a boy scout in uniform. The Forest Ranger hat didn’t change the impression as it looked like he swam around inside the headgear. His uniform was neatly pressed with creases so sharp that he looked like a miniature version of a well-groomed marine in a slightly oversized hat. The single gold bar on his collar told me he was an academy police officer and not an “enlisted” officer like a sergeant or patrolman. He was weighted down with his pistol and utility-belt and, as he took his first step forward, he looked like any moment his knees were going to buckle with the load.

As he approached my open window I could see his little blonde moustache, neatly trimmed and perfectly matching his short sideburns and the military-style haircut I could see peeking out from under the Ranger Smith hat. I imagined his voice matching his stature, thin and high but attempting to toss my preconceived notions aside I assumed he would have a normal voice and, being an academy graduate, I assumed, he had learned to display an authoritative voice. I awaited my fate. This was not my first speeding ticket, even if it was the first in Illinois in many years, and I knew the drill. “Good morning officer,” I said before he had a chance to speak, “Why did you pull me over?”

“License and registration,” he squeaked. I stared. He had a no nonsense look on his face. I was amazed how well his voice agreed with his appearance…I could swear his voice cracked when he repeated, “License and registration, Sir.” I got the sudden impression his last job was as a crossing-guard during his 8th grade year.

“How fast was I going?” I asked but he gave no reply. I dug around in my glove compartment and came up with the registration which I put with the driver’s license I had retrieved and handed them both to the officer.

“Wait here.” He squeaked and retreated to his vehicle. I watched as he got on his radio and spent 5-minutes or so checking my papers. He exited the vehicle and walked up to my window handing me my paperwork back he said, “You’re going to have to accompany me downtown. There are some questions concerning your record.” I sat in shock staring into my rearview mirror as he returned to his car and, turning the emergency lights off, put the car into gear and cruised forward. He paused by my side with his open passenger window right next to me. “Follow me!” he shouted through the open windows and moved forward. I followed.

I had been in town for less than a week as the new manager of the two Frisina Theatres in town. I was in charge of 1-drive-in and 1-theatre-house and was returning from a meeting at the home office in Taylorville when the lights appeared. When the police-light appeared I had just exited the freeway at a familiar exit and was recalling my situation five-years previously when I stood on the same freeway interchange in the middle of a blowing snow-storm trying to hitch a ride from Olney, Illinois to Zion, Illinois. I had stood in blowing ice and snow for over 8-hours before eventually accepting a ride from a fully engaged acid-tripping hippie-freak. He was retuning from Marti Gras where he had misplaced all of his friends, and was en route to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. That adventure ended well with me doing most of the driving and his agreeing to deliver me to the front door of my eventual destination.

I hope he made it home ok.

I was brought back to the present as I followed the police-car downtown to the jail. I mentally reviewed my background history. Had I failed to pay a ticket? Did I have a warrant for some unremembered reason? Was I wanted for something I had done years before in Illinois or was this something I’d done in California? My stomach was one big knot. I had no idea what I had done but I didn’t think people were “taken downtown” for speeding tickets, particularly when I couldn’t have been going more than 5-10 mph over the limit.

We arrived at the police station which was also the town-centre and city-hall in a big 3-story stone building. We drove around back and I parked in the lot next to the officer. “Follow me.” was his only comment as he strode forward with a swagger I suddenly connected to Barney Fife. We walked up half-a-dozen steps to a heavy glass door that led to a short hallway that immediately became another short, 3-4 step, stairway ending in a landing that either continued the climb to the second floor or, with a right turn entered into the police station. We turned right. He had a key ring hanging from his utility-belt but didn’t reach for this as we approached the door. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt pocket. As he fumbled for his key in his top left-handed shirt-pocket I thought “His bullet must be getting in the way.” As he opened the door he removed his hat to reveal short slicked-down blonde, almost white, hair which, despite his young appearance, was already beginning to thin in front. We entered a single long room perhaps 20-feet across and 50-feet long. At either end of this room were two 10’ X 10’ cells side-by-side each containing a cot, a sink and a commode. There was no bedding on the rolled up mattresses and no other residents evident. Two desks stood front-to-front against the far wall with a couple of assorted supply-type cabinets aligned against the wall to the left and 3 file cabinets against the wall on the right of the desks. A big round grade-school style clock hung on the wall where the desks joined. A ring of keys hung below the clock at the level of the in-baskets on top of the desk. Two more desks sat side-by-side facing the opposite wall between the entry and what appeared to be a broom-closet. A locked glass-doored gun-rack held several shotguns and some ammo boxes and was mounted on the wall immediately next to the entryway, I assume, for quick access in case of an emergency. “Sit.” He pointed to the chair placed alongside the right-hand desk. I sat.

He placed a couple of calls and looked around in the file cabinet pretty much ignoring my presence except to repeat my name and license number into the telephone at various times. I asked what my offense had been. Again I was ignored. In my frustration I tried to read the paperwork upside-down but before I had gotten very far he noticed my focus and covered the paper with his arm like we were taking a sophomore algebra test. “Stay here.” He said and moved himself and the paperwork to the next desk. The new desk was evidently NOT his desk as there were photos were of a much older couple and several other people that were probably their grown children and grandchildren. The desk he had left had 2-photos: one was his photo standing with a woman and a young child. The other photograph was of him in a tuxedo and the same young lady in what appeared to be a prom dress. Evidently what he was writing or reading was not for my eyes. Now I was really nervous. I ran through my history again what had I done to deserve this? I sat in the chair trying desperately to remember what I had done. I had no history to back-up this experience so I was nervous and growing more so by the minute. I had only been picked up once in Zion with Robin when I was a kid and Robin had needled the officer until he took us downtown and inside the cop-station eventually warning me “If you don’t get your buddy to shut up you may both find yourselves overnight guests.” I told Robin to shut up. That pick-up turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. I never thought I’d be back in a police station again unless I needed something from them. Now, here I was. WHAT THE HELL HAD I DONE?

“Stand-up. Come with me.” The officer squeaked as he retrieved the ring of keys from the wall over the desks and turned toward the cells at the right-hand side of the room. His voice was not nearly as funny as I had thought a few short minutes before. I rose in shock. I was going to be locked up! I couldn’t believe it!

“What did I do?” I desperately asked the officer barely noticing the sound of the outside door opening.

“Just come with me.” He said and walked me toward the cell. I heard footsteps climbing the stairs just outside the entry door. They paused at the door and a hand pushed it open.

“Whoa, what do we have here?” a new voice asked. “We haven’t had anyone in lock-up all year. What’s the big crime?” This was the face I had seen in the photos on the second desk. He was big and grey-haired with a generous moustache and a friendly face with a half-smile and an easy-going air about him.

“I don’t know yet.” was the reply, “but he’s done something. I just haven’t figured out what, yet.” I stepped inside the cell, Barney’s hand holding the door open for me.

“He looks pretty small-time to me. What have you found so far?”

“Well, Sarge,” Barney turned toward the new face as he replied, “I pulled him over for expired registration but some pretty mysterious stuff came up when I looked at his record. I don’t know what he’s done but he’s done something because a record check said he’d surrendered his California state drivers’ license but here he is with an Illinois operators permit. I’m determined to find out how he got a new license after having to give up his last.”

“Hmmm,” said the “Sarge” whom I was now thinking of as Andy, the experienced old cop with a lifetime of experience and patience. A smile played across his lips which he quickly changed to a serious expression. I hoped he would be more amenable to conversation and more willing to give me a clue as to what was going on. The door began to swing shut when “Andy” said “I think you should probably open that back up and let him out.” The door stopped mid-swing. “Why?”

“Well,” said Andy, “because in order to get a new in-state operators permit a person has to surrender the old out-of-state license first.”

Barney stood holding the cell door “Really?” His voice cracked.

“Yeah, lieutenant. I think we need to issue a registration citation and let him continue on his way.”

My knees nearly buckled in relief. I watched as Barney filled out the ticket grumbling under his breath and signed it. I put my signature on the bottom with a flair I barely felt. He apologized while staring at his feet and reluctantly shook my hand. When I left it was only around 1:00 in the afternoon.

My car was registered by 2:00.

1967 - Varsity Choir

At 8 mom got Steve and me to perform in a talent show. We sang "Chickory-Chick Cha-la-Cha-la." I was hooked on music and performance. Steve was stage-struck and stood staring out at the audience. Not me - I was cooking! "Alright! Everybody sing!"

1967 – Varsity Choir


“Up wha-ahh the smoke is ole billered an’ curled.” I sang, the sound somehow wending its way around the heart in my throat. The cockney accent rose clear and straight through the auditorium. “'T’ween pavement an’ staahs, is the chimney sweep world.” The 1966 spring choral concert was underway and I had a solo into which, somehow, I had innocently fallen. I continued in anticipation of “the high note”…the note I had had trouble hitting during most rehearsals. The chorus sang, “And throw me a kiss ‘cause that’s lucky, too.” I echoed their words and notes, “And throw me a kiss ‘cause,…” until I hit the challenging part…those last three notes. I closed my eyes. “…that’s lucky, too!” Pure and straight! Clear and not a crack in the whole verse! I begged my legs not to buckle as I stepped back into the chorus. Not long before they had done exactly that as I appeared at my first public performance with a rock’n roll band.

The group with which I had been rehearsing had gigged at the Moose Club dance and, during the second set, had asked me to sing a couple of numbers. Gloria, Louie-Louie and Secret Agent Man were my best songs so we launched into them right away. Following the performance mom, a chaperone, asked me to slur the words to Louie-Louie more so they were less intelligible. It seems some of her friends were shocked to hear the proper words pronounced so they were understandable…oops. Their concern was nothing like mine…I was in a state of shock as I looked out over the small crowd that well-filled the Moose Hall dance floor. I saw classmates in the crowd that looked at me with surprise although most faces were unreadable to me as I was barely conscience of the faces turned in my direction. This was a moment I had long looked forward to but, now that it had arrived, I wasn’t quite so sure I was as confident in my ability to hit the right notes and my ability to remember the correct words. I wasn’t aware that there any guys watching me or even in the room but every time I looked out at the crowd I saw familiar female eyes turned in my direction. Girls…watching me…this was not something I was familiar with and, hence, somewhat less than comfortable. I completed Secret Agent Man with a flourish I did not feel but felt compelled to deliver. Applause, an unfamiliar but pleasing experience, surrounded me. As I stepped to the edge of the stage Cheryl stood there. “I didn’t know you could sing!” Cheryl was an ex dance-partner in my other life as a Ballroom Dance exhibitionist, one of the girls I considered one of the more popular girls so I was pleasantly surprised by the attention. I beamed and stepped towards the edge of the low stage. The stage was no more than a couple of short risers that served to place the band about 15-18 inches above the crowd and a short step to the floor. As I stepped off the stage Cheryl and her girlfriend turned in my direction and she opened her mouth to say…something. I have no idea what she had intended because it was that moment when I stepped from the stage to the floor. Nervous tension had evidently gotten the better of me, and my shaking legs, in uncontrollable feedback that failed to lock my knees and my body continued forward in it’s own accord until I found myself sprawled flat on the floor. Applause turned to laughter and I turned bright red. Since that time I have gotten all of my cases of stage fright immediately following the performance. This is why I stepped carefully back into the chorus.

I had somehow been gifted with this solo due to my ability to mimic accents, and regional dialects. I retain much of this ability today having an instant repertoire of voices and characters, many of my own making but most being a less than perfect imitation of Warner Brothers or Disney characters. I do a mean Marvin-the-Martian, Mickey Mouse, Mr. Moose (Capt’n Kangaroo) and Yosemite Sam. My St Paddy’s Day joke, complete with the Russian accent of the limo-driver from whom I originally heard it, is a good example of this talent. I guess during my years as a sound engineer I managed to cultivate the ability to not only tell which violin in the orchestra is out-of-tune, but I can also tell the difference between Cockney, Aussie, Kiwi, and upper and middle-class versions of the Queen’s English. I do an unknown number of dialects from around the world. I was well on my way to this destination by grade school so when the cockney solo kept going unsung, my boredom caused Dennis McCreary and me to pipe up one day in 1st period chorus. We paused but Mr. Knepper waved us on to continue so we pushed ahead and sang the solo in unison. Me in my cockney accent. He asked us to continue this for the rest of the week. The next week Mr. Knepper asked me to perform the solo alone. He asked me to continue to perform the solo in class for our rehearsals and to stay for awhile after school to teach Nelson how to speak with a cockney accent. For some reason the schools favorite baritone soloist was too shy to do the accent…in fact he failed to get anywhere close to the right accent, phrasing or attitude that would be required for this number. To my surprise Mr. Knepper soon asked Nelson to forgo this solo (he had others to do) and asked me to perform in his stead. I was surprised but, as a big ham, I was more than willing to do this favor. The result of this solo was assignment to 8th period Varsity Choir and an opportunity to try out for permanent placement in this class.

Fortunately for me I wasn’t initially assigned to this class. Although, at the time, I thought this less than fortunate the delay in getting the correct class scheduled was, in the long run, beneficial. One of the talents that had to be demonstrated to qualify for Varsity Choir was sight-reading notes in try-outs. I had practiced but the truth was apparent…

…I don’t read music.

…but I qualified anyway…by default.

And I hear you ask – “How so?”

When I received my class schedule that year I immediately noticed I was not assigned to the Varsity Choir class – my only opportunity to letter in anything and I really wanted that letterman jacket. I made an appointment with my class councilor to have this oversight corrected. I also had an English teacher whom, the previous year for some reason after hearing she had also been my mothers teacher, began sending me to the office whenever the class got out of control – these were the first, last and only times I was “sent to the principal” during school. I had no idea why she was this way but she was. I also noted to my councilor that she was also OLD – no, I mean really old. When I informed the councilor that I thought she was getting a bit addled with age the councilor informed me she was a personal friend and she did not pick on anyone without justification and…blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening after it became clear he was not really interested in my opinion.

I was soon informed that the schedule was unchangeable with the classes I had scheduled. I made it clear I would not be attending any English classes after the following Friday. He informed me I would be suspended. I advised him he could start the paperwork right then as I would not be attending her English classes. I also mentioned it would be easier on everyone if he found a way to adjust my schedule. He said I would have trouble graduating without credit for the class. I said that was not unexpected. I left.

Monday AM I was asked out of homeroom to see the councilor. He advised me the only way to get me into Varsity Choir was to take me out of my scheduled English class and replace it with a 4th-period “Honors” English. He informed me with a haughty manner that if I failed ONE semester I would be placed back into my old classes. He clearly expected this to be a foretelling of my future. He summarily dismissed me to classes.

By the time I was introduced to the class we were a week in and in rehersals. I never had to try out! No sight reading! Escaped under the wire.

This English class was a session with no grammar or spelling requirements as all of the kids in this class were great English students – the class was about English Literature – yes, literature from England and Europe. Shakespeare, Roland At The Bridge, Beowulf in Old-English, classic poetry, iambic pentameter, all of the stuff about reading that I enjoyed so much since 3rd grade…and here was a class just for this stuff! (See: 1959 – Spring Bluff) And the teacher was writing a book on English Literature and so didn’t care much for grammar or spelling – wonderful! They had finally figured out where I should be! In retrospective I think maybe my councilor was expecting me to fail – I got straight A’s – one of the few classes I ever did that in.

Oh, and I finally qualified for that letterman’s jacket which I bought 1-size too large not realizing my growing days were past. Consequently the jacket always swam on my frame…

But, believe me, I wore it with pride.