1969 - A Little Pressure

I've been under various kinds of pressure in my life. The pressure of a deadline, the pressure of a baby on the way or the pressure of waiting for the diagnosis of a loved one. There's the pressure of getting all of the various components of a meal served all together, with everything on-time; let's include the pressure in the steamer used to assure the flash-steamed veggies are cooked to perfection. There's the pressure of waiting for news of an international meeting or the outcome of a distant battle...

1969 - A Little Pressure

“Looks like you’ve gotten some wisdom teeth in need of removal,” the doctor said. I had gone to the Dixie (AD-14) for some dental work. As a repair ship they rarely got underway usually moving from one “permanent” port to another. This time we were in Sasabo, Japan. “Your wisdom teeth are deforming the placement of your other teeth. Your mouth just isn’t big enough for all those teeth… they’re gonna have to come out.”

I wasn’t concerned. I had had mostly good experiences with dentists. This, despite experiences with my boyhood dentist. More about that in a moment, but, for now, I had no concerns. “Ok. Let’s go for it,” I said preparing my head for some invasive dentistry.

The dentist left to prepare an anesthetic and prepare his instruments for the upcoming work. In a few minutes he came back with the tray of needles, anesthetic and instruments he would be using on my teeth. Seeing the tray brought me back to my boyhood dentist and an incident that has stayed with me all these years.

Our family dentist was a fellow Moose Club member and was used by many members. He had a second-story office downtown Zion so Mom would drop me off and do her shopping, stopping by later to pick me up and continue home. I still recall every time a dentist arrives with the tray my boyhood dentist arriving with a similar tray although his was slightly different from any tray I had seen since as my boyhood dentist always, every single time, brought a big horse needle and syringe which always was accompanied by remarks that drew my attention to the big instrument. After a few minutes of threatening and joking he would put it away and hit me with the much smaller and much more appropriate needle. I’ve often thought back to those days and wondered why he used the same tired joke every time. I’ve come to the conclusion he thought seeing this huge instrument served to help calm the patient when the actual needle was revealed.

I’m not sure how valid this tactic would be as it mostly just scared me and I didn’t see any relationship between the fake and the real. In fact the time I am recalling he had done his horse-needle thing and laughed and joked about it until he told me to open in preparation for the procedure. I noticed he hadn’t given me any pain-killer but assumed he knew what he was doing and I probably didn’t need any for whatever he was going to do. He had fired up the drill when I heard Mom in the outside office. “Doctor! Doctor!”

He shut the drill off and rolled off his stool into a standing position, after which he walked to the front office. As his was a 1-man operation, there was no receptionist so he had to respond personally. I heard mom tell Doc that I had forgotten my jacket then the conversation got quieter and more difficult to hear. Next thing I knew Mom was standing next to the chair and telling me to put my jacket on, we were leaving. I was later to find out, overhearing the adult conversation that evening, that the smell I simply figured as the doctor’s standard breath was whisky. We changed dentists after that although I have no recollection of the new dentist… probably because he didn’t use the horse-needle joke and was competent enough to give me no unpleasant memories.

I was drawn back to my situation on the Dixie. The doctor instructed me to open wide and he shot me with the appropriate amount of Novocain. After a few minutes he began working on my mouth and I relaxed into the chair with eyes closed and feeling very comfortable as, like I mentioned previously, dentists, despite my early experience with one, never bother me. I remain this way to today although even this removal didn’t go as smoothly as I had assumed it would go. I week later I would begin to feel the pressure of a dry socket and retuned to the dentist who saw no problems and released me to go back to work in preparation for some time at sea. A dry socket was later explained to me as a pocket of air that has been trapped inside the wound as it healed over the top. I was told the air inside the wound prevented the internal healing and caused the incredible amount of pain I was feeling. As I was at sea for around 30-days it was a miserable 30-days during which the ship’s doctor looked at the problem but could not see anything that caused him any concern. I was in a constant fog resulting from the pain but still managed to get my job done as required. This continued until one day before leaving the gun-line for a friendly port, and standing in the chow line, I noticed what I thought was a piece of steak, from our last meal, stuck between a couple of back teeth. Gripping it with my fingernails I pulled it time and time again failing each time to get a grip that would hold as I tried to pull the invader from between my teeth. I had been trying this obsessively off and on for a few hours but was always unsuccessful in getting a good grip until, this time; I managed to get a firm grip… and jerked.

Pain!! Sharp pain!! Then... hu.hu.huh... relief... Amazing, comforting, warm, happy relief. I had pulled the stitch out of the socket and the constant dull throbbing pressure that caused the constant pain had disappeared. I was told I had a huge smile showing through my bloody lips. The blood stopped almost immediately and the socket healed perfectly within a couple of days, but all of this was still to come and I, having no ability to read the future was still relaxed in the dentist’s chair as he worked away on my impacted wisdom tooth. He had pulled and pulled to no avail announcing that my roots must so long they must be wrapped around my “damn jawbone.” He left for additional instruments and the excitement of the work stopped and I relaxed back into what was quickly becoming a gentle doze. I absently noticed his continuing efforts almost as a disinterested party as he tried one thing after another, stopping at one point to renew the anesthetic, then continuing on after a few minutes to let the new batch of pain-killer take effect. I absent-mindedly noticed he wasn’t having much success when he got my attention by saying “Well, we’re not having a lot of luck with this tooth. We’re going to have to break it up to get it out.”

That didn’t sound particularly good but I didn’t have much of a reaction until he said “There’s going to be some pressure here.” Now THAT got my attention because by now I knew that when a dentist said “pressure” they very probably meant “pain.” I roused myself slightly so I was prepared when I felt the sharp blow. Another! And again! “This isn’t working,” he said, “we’re going to have to try something else.” He paused. “Ok. There’s going to be a little pressure,” he announced.

I thought “He already said that,” so when I felt a weight on my chest I was understandably surprised. I opened my eyes to see my dentist with a mad-determined look on his face. My vision was partially blocked by his hand that was wrapped around what appeared to be a chisel and his other hand, the one containing the little metal mallet, was on the upswing high over his head. The pressure on my chest was HIS KNEE! The knee was placed directly in the middle of my chest and his other foot rested on the foot rest we now easily shared as my short legs caused my feet to barely touch the foot-rest.

Wham!!

Wham! Wham! Wham!!

After the third blow the knee came off and I heard the mallet hit the tray. I opened my eyes and closed them quickly when I saw the blood splattered across his chest. “Ahh, success.” He murmured.

The assistant quietly agreed, “Yeah. That was a tough one.”

I sat listening in a slight state of shock having witnessed, from close proximity, mad violence upon my person… Yeah, ok… just my mouth. But, believe me, my whole body was involved. Sore muscles and a still vibrating jaw proved that fact.

He and his assistant then worked quietly pulling various sized shards of tooth out of my mouth. Although the pain-killer was working well I could still feel the pull and release from each piece of tooth. Watching, now fully alert, I saw a small pile of enamel bits and pieces growing on his tray. After a little while he finished up and put in the stitches that would shortly result in that dry-socket. For now I was fine but I don’t think I’ll ever assume, again, what a dentist means when he says “There’ll be a little pressure.”

Yeah, right… a little pressure.

1979 - An Empty Room

The echos, the smells, the expectant feeling in the air that something... something is going to happen.

1979 – An Empty Room

I love an empty room.

The rooms, in this case, are sports arenas, bars, theatres, churches, symphony halls, stadiums and sports fields. Early in my adult/teen life I became intimately associated with good-sized empty rooms or venues that would soon be filled with people. I remember trying to serenade a young lady over the public address system in an empty church as we were preparing for a presentation by our youth group. The pure tones and the echo of those pure tones off walls and sound folds that have been located specifically to carry sound through a room full of soft bodies… the soft bodies that tend to soak up this sound and mute those pure tones into a pleasant cacophony of harmonic tones and overtones that compliment each other and blend into what we generally call music or, sometimes, speech. It was those pure tones I fell in love with.

Having parents that were entertainers, be it musicians, dancers or taking a turn at public speaking, I visited quite a few rooms that would have been restricted if patrons had been present. The smell of an empty bar or the room where the Moose Club Saturday night dance would be held offered sights, smells and sounds that are not particularly seen or appreciated by the general public. Someone has to prepare these venues for the event and I was fortunate to be one of those assisting in the set-up from early years.

My first exposure to a truly big room awaiting a full audience was in 1966 when dad was a Division Manager for Confection Cabinet, which supplied popcorn, sodas, & candies for theatres and sporting events. His Chicago area manager had been out with a death-in-the-family so dad was tasked with preparing the Cheetah Club for the weekend’s festivities. The space, being much larger than the, then, current clientele could fill, was partitioned with curtains, false walls and “Do Not Enter” signs to limit the size so when the club was open and operating it would appear to be packed full. As it was a Saturday and I had asked if I could go, dad had let me come along. I wandered around the sets and false-fronts that partitioned the active part of the club with the remainder of this large room. Before taking a turn as one of 3 or 4 “Cheetah Clubs” in the US, this location had previously, and would eventually return to, it’s longtime venue as the Aragon Ballroom. The Aragon had been built in 1926, near the end of prohibition, and was known to be “the place to go” for big-name acts. It maintained its reputation for the next 30-years as the place where the upper crust went for music, dance and champagne. Holding over 1,800 patrons, and placed near the “L” it was easy to access. Over the years the neighborhood had become Chicago’s version of “skid-row’ and, following the 50’s, only the young sub-culture of the middle 60’s was able to bring it back to a halfway desirable neighborhood. Piper’s Alley, the Chicago hippie hangout was not far away and, although a walk down these neighborhoods streets could still be a bit of an adventure, it now included more foot traffic that assured a small raise in the safety of those forced to walk these streets. Early the next year the band I was not yet with would be invited to play the Cheetah as opening act for a hot new group called Buffalo Springfield and the second group a small unknown 4-piece band (keyboard, drums, bass and guitar) called Chicago Transit Authority. In short order both of these groups would hit high levels of success that consistently eluded me throughout my musical career. Buffalo Springfield would have several hits before members moved on to other successful groups like Poco, Loggins & Messina and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Chicago Transit Authority would shortly add a horn section to the group which would give them a unique sound and, with the name shortened to Chicago, would carry on to multi-generational success.

When open for business the room was low lit to focus attention on one of the 3 stages but, during the day-time, it was entirely different and all work-stations were clearly exposed under the white working-lights. A bar separated the general seating/dance area from the entry area of the club and a large section, called The Lounge, outside the dance hall where patrons less desirable of an intimate encounter with the current on-stage act could sit and party with each other and still communicate with more than hand-gestures which, due to the volume, was about the only means of communication inside the hall. Comfy couches surrounded small tables here and inside the dance area where they were placed liberally in accessible areas around the parameter of the dance floor as well as packing the short balcony 3-tables deep. A third level of balcony was blocked off from access by a simple curtain that hid this stairway as well as most of the backstage area. This higher balcony completely unlit and hidden by the shadows of the main club area was a perfect vantage to invisibly watch the action below. As I was still too young to participate, this was where I spent my evening watching sweaty dancers and hard-working bands do their “thing” under my watchful eye. We returned home, with me sound asleep, sometime after midnight but I’m sure I dreamt the night away reliving my evening and the adventure of being backstage at a big “adult” event.

Setting up San Diego’s Convention Center (not the current one) for a concert with George Benson was a thrill as this was the room in which I had seen my first big-name concert: Jethro Tull. Within the same year I would also enjoy The James Gang as well as Blood and Sweat and Tears in this venue. I was well familiar with the room when it was full of people but setting up equipment on a stage where I had seen many of my favorite performers was a thrill in itself. Working this large room, and knowing I was going to have major influence on the event was stunning for a young man finding himself performing the kind of work (anything in entertainment) to which I had long aspired. There was the echo in the air that seemed to speak of its readiness for the oncoming crowd. Although chairs were only halfway setup I stood on the stage and took it all in from the same elevated vantage point that the entertainers that evening would enjoy. Although I maintained a professional appearance, inside I reveled in the size and ambiance of this marvelous space.

The oldies show that Concert Sounds worked in Bakersfield, outside LA, reminded me a lot of the Cheetah ballroom in its size but the room was open and vast with little in decoration. In Bakersfield the room was actually almost twice the size but the sounds, the smells, the very feel of the air spoke of the impending event and the vast crowd that would be arriving within a very few hours. Here we would be doing sound for The Imperials, The Penguins, Paul & Paula, Rosie and The Originals as well as several other less-remembered acts that were backed up by a bunch of studio musicians from LA that would be the House-Band for the evening. This house-band was fronted by Paul Shaffer (of Dave Letterman keyboard fame) who played drums for this session. The headliner was Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids who performed their hit, the theme song from the TV show Happy Days, as well as several standard oldies as a gang of surly 50’s era tuffs, looking like they just walked off the set of the, then, future movie “Grease.” Although similar to another “clean-cut” group of the time Sha Na Na, they clearly displayed the difference when Flash strode on stage with a leather jacket and an Arthur Fonzirelli attitude. Spraying his mouth full of water (gulped from a Schlitz beer can) into the crowd he gave ‘em all the upraised arm crossed with the opposite hand cutting the elbow in a Milwaukee style “AAY, UP YOURS!” All of that was still to come later that evening as I drank in the feeling of expectation that almost vibrated in its nervous wait for the upcoming evening.

Then there were all of the bars… bars have a unique smell and sound completely different when the lights are on and the patrons are still preparing for their evening out. Usually the overhead fans, that desperately attempted to keep the air breathable when full of people, are on and blowing a unique scent throughout the room. In most bars the ceiling is fairly low when compared to a large musical venue and the sounds and echoes off the walls reflect this smaller, intimate and yet somewhat more active feeling then in a concert venue. The echo in the air is unique in itself but the smell of old beer, too many packed bodies, old cigarettes, spilled mixed drinks and shots of whisky is always present. It is simply more obvious when the fans can be actually felt as they blow out stagnant air from inaccessible corners and from under tables that will get absolutely no air when the club or bar is open. There always seems to be a corner where someone had been sick in the recent past and the weekly/monthly carpet crew or floor polishers had not yet arrived for they’re periodic clean up. All of this mixes together in smells and sound that are well representative of the evening to come without revealing at all exactly what that evening might be.

Setting up equipment in a large outside venue, whether AAA baseball field or Qualcomm Stadium, is distinctly different from an indoor event. Outside, I often feel I’m being watched. After all, in a huge outdoor stadium there are thousands of seats and dozens of entryways. In a large stadium there are personal boxes for high rollers and stadium office windows that overlook the playing field. At an inside venue the sense is completely different. There may be several people there with you but, more than likely, you can see every one of them and, because you can see them working, no one appears to paying any attention to a single individual. No invisible watchers, no critical owners, no hidden union rep looking for a reason to fine the contracting company. There is an echo, regardless of the size of the room, when the room is designed for sound and an audience. The solitude of an empty room speaks to me in a quiet, but strong voice.

A stadium is a substantially bigger room with no roof in the case of Qualcom Field, known when I worked this event, as Jack Murphy Stadium. As we were mostly busy working, laying foundation supports for towers, which would hold huge sets of speakers and lights, I didn’t have any time to look around until most of our equipment was trucked in and lifted into place. Running speaker and microphone cords, re-aligning the aim of the speakers, and monitors, hooking up the sound board and running extension cords took up most of the morning and early afternoon so I was unable to just take it all in until we completed assembly and were ready for sound checks. At that point, as I had little to do except to re-locate mics when required or requested, I was able to look out across the vast field and appreciate the size of the “room” we were about to fill with sound. Standing on the 50-yard line and surveying the 60,000 seats, all facing in my direction was a feeling not to be repeated.

Of course, following most events, an army of workers descends upon the room to empty it back to its former self. Seats are folded and stored away, bleachers are folded back into their storage places and any sound or lighting equipment is packed up and ready to be loaded onto the truck. The stage is clear and the only thing left is the debris left over from the crowd and an echo of what has been…

…And the impending echo of what will be.

1989 - When My Reputation Preceeded Me

When I got married in '81 the kids were 11 & 13. In my attempts to impress them with my adventurous life they learned a lot about me. By the time their mom & I married I guess there were really few secrets which, on some occasions, became painfully obvious.

1989 – When My Reputation Preceded Me

The Fortune Cookie read “You are liked for your good nature.” I observed this was not a fortune. “Have you noticed?” I continued, “Fortune Cookies don’t really give you a fortune? They offer advice like ‘Be cautious in your finances’ or an observation like ‘You are liked for your good nature’ but these aren’t fortunes. ‘You will inherit money’ or ‘Your children will accidentally burn your house down’ now these are fortunes.”

“I was told that you have to add your own circumstance to the end of a fortune cookie.” Terri said, “I was told to always say ‘In Bed’ after all fortune cookie messages…like ‘You are liked for your good nature…in bed.’”

“I’ve never heard that before!” I said. “Hey! It works for almost everything! Be cautious in your finances…in bed. You will inherit money…in bed. Your children will burn your house down…in bed.”

“You have superior judgment…in bed.” Said Ken. “It works!”

“Your friends find you fascinating…in bed!” Said my wife.

“You find pleasure in work and play…in bed!” Said Terri.

We sat talking and joking in our favorite Chinese Restaurant having just treated our son, my step-son, to a pre-wedding meal. In 2-days Ken and Terri would be married and, as their schedule was so full with events and planning in their last frantic phase, this would be our only chance to take them out for a casual supper together before the wedding.

Eventually they would start a family from which I would get 3-brand-new grandchildren, Alan, Jamie and Ryan. They are all brilliant children with obvious unlimited potential. But, for now, Ken and Terri were still a young couple with their future unlimited.

“Did you know Fortune Cookies were invented in San Francisco?” I asked showing off my great command of useless trivia, “They were intended to be eaten before the meal as a form of entertainment while waiting in line for a table.” I looked up at each of them with a big smile on my face. Conversation stopped. They all looked back silently with no expression whatsoever then, spontaneously, the conversation continued as though I had never spoken. I was sure they rehearsed moments like this.

Terri mentioned she was relieved to be out at a quiet supper as the previous night had been her bachelorette party. She revealed she had gone out with several of her girlfriends and partied one of her last “free” nights away. With that Ken revealed his Bachelor Party was this very evening by, “Well, I guess I’d better get going. You guys can sit and talk awhile but I’ve got to get going. A bunch of the guys are waiting for me for my bachelor party.” He turned to Terri, “Don’t wait up.”

“Whoa!” I said, “Bachelor Party? I didn’t know tonight was your Bachelor Party! Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested! Of course you’re welcome to come along!”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I need a little more warning before I go out to party nowadays…I just can’t party like I used to!”

“Larry,” Ken said, and paused. At that moment conversation stopped. They were all awaiting Ken’s next words. He turned towards me, looked me in the eye and shook his head, “believe me…NONE of us can party like you used to.”

1966 - The Dancing Less Fortunate

Mom died a few years ago and I haven't done any ballroom dancing since but it remains as one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. I watch "Dancing With The Stars" kinda like mom watched any ballroom show aired. Their styles of dance are far more disciplined and energetic than anything I ever did but I know enough to know whos hitting their marks and who is not. Mario Lopez is my granddaughter's cousin so, of course, we had to watch... got me hooked. Still think he shoulda won.

1966 –The Dancing Less Fortunate

I started ballroom dancing when I was 11. Mom was a huge fan of the Arthur Murray Dance Party, which was a ballroom dance TV show. Mom decided she wanted to learn to dance in ’59 and she talked dad into taking lessons at Dale Dance Studio. A year later she had not only learned all the studio had to teach but they offered her a job as an instructor. Dad appeared to be a much better dancer but it was mostly because he didn’t care about style or rules and he just danced. Technically, mom was better. Mom cared about the steps and the straightness of the back, the pointing of the toes, the extension of the arm. She followed the rules and performed every dance like a pro. She was honored and excited to be asked to teach. She accepted and went to work on the Dale schedule. Within very few weeks she realized this was taking her away from home, and her family, every night and soon tendered her notice. They called several times as she was a popular instructor but, although she had grown to love both dancing and teaching, she didn’t waver – her family was more important. Within another year she had hung her own shingle and become an instructor on her own. This way she could organize her own time and only take on the number of students she desired, limiting herself to 3-nights a week with a Moose Club session and 2 private group sessions. As mom & dad were members of the local Moose Club those members got a discount and only paid $5 apiece – half-price. By ’61, she needed someone to bounce her teaching skills against and as dad was holding down 2-jobs and was unavailable for this purpose, I, as the eldest child and one who showed great interest in learning this skill, fell into this role.

I clearly remember dancing in our kitchen, as it was a big room with a lot of floor space. This was where we worked out new steps, practiced and created new moves. I found dancing agreed with my need to move to any rhythm. My future as a musician (short as it was) was still just a dream that occasionally found me with a pair of drumsticks and a footstool standing in for a full kit. Dancing filled the inner need to move with the music and, in fact, I found most of the dance steps I learned were an excellent interpretation of the music. The rhythm of a Cha-Cha let me shake my hips as the music seemed to require and looked a lot better than making haphazard arm and leg movements that may or may not agree with what the rest of my body wanted to do. Now I had a tool with which I could interpret what I felt! The Waltz was like gliding on ice through clouds of music. Done correctly it was effortless, weightless and almost like I imagine flying. The Samba was sexy and energetic whereas the Tango was just sexy (sexy, sexy, sexy.) The Foxtrot felt like the roaring 20’s to me and the Rumba was like a sexy, Latin waltz. Although I learned to Jitterbug it was nothing like what I felt it needed and, indeed, it was a few years later when I saw this dance done with the energy it deserved. This was an easy dance – one of the easiest – but was less than satisfying for the above reasons. The Mambo was a more sensuous dance with a feeling somewhere between the Samba & the Cha-Cha. Turned out I loved every minute I danced.

Within a year I was performing and demonstrating my skills on the dance floor whenever mom wanted to impress potential students or to show off her teaching skills. I’m pretty sure there was a little pride in her eldest as well for taking hold of these skills so quickly and so well. I performed dance exhibitions for a few Moose Club meetings and in an occasional venue at a club or meeting in which she had contacts and, perhaps hope for some new students. I performed several impromptu demonstrations at school dances when mom was one of the chaperones. In ’62 mom had found a partner for my demonstrations and, although we went through a few (they lost interest after a few weeks or months) mom was always available as a partner if my actual partner was unavailable. I remember a few of these ladies like Elizabeth, Cheryl, and Monique. By 1965 I had a “permanent” partner in Terry (Do you still remember the dances Ms. Moeller?). She lasted a few months.

By the time 1962 had ended I had a handful of classmates as my “students.” This mostly meant I was present and I was available to demonstrate the steps and correct any mistakes or help with any difficulty the boys had. Mom did most of the actual teaching & split the take with me. At $5 a-person I was making around $50 a-week, which at 12, was about $45 more than my allowance. Dad dropped the allowance once I had my own income. I still had all of the chores I had before: Taking the garbage out daily, mowing the substantial sized lawn every 2-weeks with our old push mower, as well as taking my turn, with Steve, at the dishes, sweeping the front sidewalk every Saturday, or shoveling the snow as needed, and babysitting my little brothers when required. It was quickly made clear that these things were not what I was paid for via allowance but were tasks that helped spread the household load among those that could contribute. This division of labor was simply a responsibility of our little family society. The allowance was a sort-of donation to the kids as, at a certain age, they felt every kid needed a bit of spending money both to save and to spend.

It follows that by ’65 I had been “teaching” for about 3-years. By this time mom was well known in the area as one of the premier instructors and turned down more jobs then she accepted. Some of these offers she was simply unable to turn down as they appealed to her better sense of what was right to her. One of these was a class at a park in Waukegan. She had been hired by a local charity group to teach ballroom dancing to a group of mentally challenged, what then was referred to as “retarded” adults. Mom had asked me along for the first class and I was hooked.

Now 3-weeks in and I was realizing that the point of these lessons was not to teach dancing but to offer a changing experience in which the students could interact socially and learn something new and challenging at the same time. Every week we were teaching the same steps over and over again. “1-2-cha-cha-cha, 1-2-cha-cha-cha, 1-2-step-step-step.” BigBill was in the class.

BigBill had been a fixture in our neighborhood since I could remember. He was quiet and friendly. BigBill didn’t talk very much but he was always eager to please even though we were only little kids. Everyone in the neighborhood looked forward to one of BigBill’s rare visits. BigBill could push the merry-go-round faster than anyone else, and in fact he pushed so hard and so fast that we usually had to ask him to slow down or stop as we were often in danger of being thrown into the wind as the centripetal force of the merry-go-round pulled us toward the outer edge of the ride. BigBill could push a swing-rider higher than anyone! BigBill always had a big smile and, even though he didn’t say much, we all trusted BigBill. I knew where BigBill lived but had no idea which adults would be his parents. BigBill never retained one dance step but he enjoyed the classes as much as anyone could. Most all of the students looked forward to our weekly visits as much as did mom and I.

There were lots of other students in class but only BigBill and Renny’s names have remained with me. Renny was, like most in this class, severely challenged with physical problems that accompanied her mental restrictions… but Renny was another big puppy-dog. Renny’s complexion reflected a past of severe acne and hair with a mind of its own. She was maybe 60 lbs overweight and stronger than she knew, which mom and I learned every week when Renny gave us our compulsory hug and a big ol’ sloppy kiss… something we looked forward to every week. Renny, being one of the more outgoing members of a, normally, quiet group reined over her co-members. She had no idea she had this level of influence, as she never tried to exert control, but was a natural leader whom they all followed. If this were a movie Renny would have been the one with the big idea, the one everyone followed, and the one who got everyone in a comical fix. As this was real life that only happened once in a while like when she decided to chase a puppy she wanted to pet. “Help me!” was all she had to say and all but a couple of her group pitched in to catch the little dog, now scared out of its mind with a dozen or more adults chasing, laughing, yelling and running all over the grounds trying to catch the puppy. Half of them were out of breath before we caught up to them and settled everyone down. A great laugh, great fun. An abundance of love.

The event of the year was the annual Christmas Party. They exchanged gifts with each other, having chosen a person’s name from a hat a month before. The main office had little gifts for each of them and mom and I had little dancing nic-nac figures for each of them. They quickly announced they wanted to dance so the party turned into another lesson as most of them still couldn’t remember steps from week-to-week. This lesson was a bit different because discipline was much looser and those that didn’t want to participate were not hassled to join in, as usual lessons required more attention and discipline to keep this crowd under control. Otherwise regular sessions might be more like this party with Renny running around with a sprig of mistletoe to hold over everyone’s head. Renny gave me more than my share of hugs and kisses that evening although I don’t believe I received more of these than anyone else.

Unfortunately the next year, due to budget constraints, the lessons ended. I never saw BigBill, Renny or any of the other students again. I was too old to play on the playground where BigBill used to push us so fast and so high so our paths didn’t cross. I heard Renny died a few months later due to physical complications stemming from the brain damage she sustained when she was a child and which sent her to us.

When I think of this group, in my mind, they are surrounded with an aura of love. It comes from within each of them and blesses those of us lucky enough to have met these wonderful and innocent adult kids.

To and from each and every one of them… much love.

1923 - Jessie

During the reception following my wedding Uncle Willie related most of the following story. Grandma told me about her first trip to Chicago from Alabama but I didn’t have many of these details or understand why the trip was so special until I realized Uncle Willie’s story and her train-trip story were one and the same. She told me about her best friend although I had to supply a name. She also told me about the movie she saw the evening before her trip from the farm and onto Chicago and how her brothers cured her stubbed toe. Ebbie was a real person but I made up the name. Many of the quotes are actual words.

1923 – Jessie (Grandma’s Story)

“Jessie,” said Willie, “come-own ta the picture-show with us.” Jessie wondered why her brothers, usually so mean, were suddenly so nice. “Come-own, I got a extra nickel for ya.” She was suspicious.

She recalled when she was a little girl and had stubbed her toe so hard! Willie and Hosey, her younger brothers, told her the best thing for a stubbed toe was a warm cow-patty and lead her to a fresh one. Her foot hurt so much but she didn’t want to put her foot in it. “Come-own, Jessie, come-own.” She plunged her foot in. She’d never forget how they laughed at her…and the smell! She never forgot that smell. The warm patty did feel good but the sensation was not worth the cost. But today they really had her attention with the offer of a picture-show! She had only seen a very few of them in her 21 years on the farm so a trip to town and the offer of a picture-show was too much to resist. When they were younger Willie was the little brother that she cared for the most. A bit sickly as a baby, he needed a lot of attention but as he grew older and stronger those roles seemed to reverse. Now, even though he was 18 and she was newly 22 Willie was her protector. Of all of her brothers Willie was the one who watched out for her. He was 4 years younger and, even though he was usually as mean as the rest of her siblings, when she needed a protector he had always been there. As they grew older, and after Willie came back from his “adventures traveling,” Willie seemed less mean, but life on the family farm was always full of jibs and jabs and Willie was as active as anyone when it came to jokes and foolishness. Willie had left at 16 to find his fortune but arrived back on the farm 11-months later full of stories of his adventures, some of which took enough out of him to send him back home for a rest.

The tanned face and arms revealed that Jessie had spent most of her life in the fields growing up with the pickaninnys one of whom, Ebbie, was her best friend. Ebbie grew into a fine woman and married 4-years ago and now lived 2-farms over with her husband and 2-little girls. For this reason she rarely saw Ebbie anymore but whenever possible they would steal some time alone if one had excuse to visit. Once when she asked about Ebbie’s husband daddy joked “Ebbie found herseff a good ‘un. He's a fine nigra-man.” Then, as usual, he added, “Jessie is so dang homely we gonna have to buy a man fer her.” This always hurt her feelings but, as her brothers all repeated the same thing she was often glad she spent most of her time in the fields. She was afraid this was true. Jessie had never had a date with a boy and had never been kissed or even held a boy's hand – no one in this town seemed interested in her and she didn’t never go nowhere else. She had very little interest in kitchen work anyway and loved being outdoors.

She agreed to go to the picture-show with her brothers who were nice to her all evening, even buying her a small folded paper of liquorice-twists, her favorite candy. Willie let her ride in the front seat of the wagon all the way home. They, of course, took the horse and wagon to town as the truck was reserved for longer trips to the city. She saw 2-pictures. The pi-ano player was energetic and seemed to be able to anticipate every scene. One picture was about the Great War which was very interesting but also very scary. The second picture was about a young girl who lived in the big-city and her date with a boy her age. They sat at dinner polite and proper. She had very little on her plate and cut each pea in half before spearing it and chewing it. She smiled at the boy and they twittered back and forth about this and that. When she excused herself to the kitchen to check on the next part of the meal, Jessie laughed aloud when she grabbed a big spoon and began shoveling mounds of beans and chicken into her mouth! Then the boy saw her! Oh what fun! Jessie was just so tickled! This was probably just how life in the city was.

They didn’t even get home until the rest of the house was asleep. It was already past 9:30 when they got back to the farm. She fell asleep that night with a smile on her face dreaming of silly boyfriends and the city and cars with big tires, a city with no cows and no cotton fields. Maybe, just maybe, someday she might meet a young man who could love her, too.

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“Wake-up, Jessie.” We have a train to catch!”

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What about the train?” she sleepily asked yawning big after sleeping so hard after her late night out.

“Ah say-id we have a train to catch! Tom to git up and throw some of yer things in a wrap you kin carry along. Here. Mamma gave me daddys ole bag for ya. It’s yers naow.” Jessie sat up, blinking hard. Had she heard right? Were we taking a train trip? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned this to her?

“Were’r we going?” She asked.

“Were not goin’ ene-were, Jessie. It’s your trip to take alone all the way to Chicaga. Take everthang ya need. Ya won’t be back for awhile”

Jessie stopped dressing for a moment, “Why am Ah going all alone…and why Chicaga? That’s way up north.” Jessie had ridden a train only once before to visit the city with daddy when he went all the way to Montgomery for feed-supplies. She often rode the old horse-wagon to pick up supplies from town but only saw the big city once with it’s crowds of people, horses and latest automobiles.

“Jes get yur thangs together,” Willie paused as though he had something to say but, instead turned and said as he left her to dress, “I’ll till you waa on the why.”

She finished packing, throwing enough clothes for almost a week into the carpet-bag Willie had brought. She was thrilled to be riding the train but a bit apprehensive in taking this trip all alone. Jessie was 22-years old and would soon be 23 but, having spent most of her time on the farm and in the fields she didn’t have many reasons to take a trip and had no experience taking a trip like this on her own.

In a few minutes she had packed everything she could fit into the oversized bag and walked to the truck with Willie and Hosey, both of her younger brothers. Willie turned the crank as she held the button that advanced the spark – or that’s what Willie said she was doing. The truck started up with a big cloud of smoke and began the cacophony of noise that told everyone anywhere around that the truck was running…and running good. She had told everyone in the family goodbye, expecting to be back as soon as the errand, she still didn’t understand, was completed. Mamma cried and daddy looked down at his boots, none of her brothers said anything except goodbye. No one seemed to want to look her in the eye. She bit her lip wanting to ask what the trip was about but until the old truck was well underway it would rattle and shake most of the way to town so any thought of conversation was lost to the wind. As they got closer to town the road was better maintained and smoothed out to the point she and Willie could talk. She asked why she was going to Chicago. Her brother replied, “Well, Jessie, ya know a few weeks ago me and yer brothers was a-talkin’ with daddy and ya know you never had no boyfriend. We figgered as shy as you are and as homely as a dawg you probably wasn’t gonna fin’ a husban’ so we got one fer ya.” Willie turned to her and grinned, “We foun’ a husban’ fer ya, Jessie.” She didn’t smile back. Willie tried to keep a good face but his big smile soon gave away to a frown as he noticed Jessie had not reacted as well as he had hoped…she had reacted more as he had expected. Jessie began to cry quietly. She thought of her dreams last night, and then she thought of Ebbie.

“I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Ebbie.” Ebalene had been her best friend since they were girls together. Ebbie was a dark as the day was long but when she was born in one of the breezy old shacks out back Jessie had seen the birth herself. She was only 4-years old but when momma was called to help with what had become a difficult birth. Jessie had gone along. Mamma said she would have to know these things one day and “There weren’t no time lik the pres-i-dent.” Ebbie was a difficult birth and often Jessie couldn’t get the terrifying memories out of her mind, but as she got older Jessie started to help with watching Ebbie when Ebbie’s mamma was working in the fields like all of the other nigras. They just got to be closer and closer until Jessie couldn’t do anything without wondering if Ebbie would like it, too. Sometimes, as little girls they would play all day until Ebbie turned 7 and started to work with her Aunt Patsy in the house. Jessie went to school by then as she was already 11 years old, but she already worked most of her summer as well as planting and harvest right alongside Ebbie’s mamma. She left school half-way through her 6th year to spend more time in the fields where she really loved to be anyway. She missed her classmates but no girls went to school much past 10 so she wasn’t surprised when it was announced she would no longer be schooled as “There was plen’y of work rot here.”

Her daddy sometimes talked about how different it was today compared to when all of the nigras were his granddaddy’s property. When he inherited the farm from his daddy the field hands stayed, each owning their own little plot of land for a garden out-back of one of the shacks in which many of the older hands had lived when they were very little. Ole John even remembered when slavery still existed. Because of this the farm wasn’t as large as it had been when her daddy was a-growing up but as daddy said “That’s juss haow laf is. It ain’t always what yew wish it was.”

Jessie didn’t really understand exactly what slavery was but she knew Ebbie thought not being a slave was important so Jessie thought it was, too. Jessie would never see Ebbie again and would continue to think of her often throughout her life. She thought of Ebbie and mamma and daddy. “Why would daddy do this to me?” She choked back the words as she asked, “Don’t he love me no more?” She sobbed to herself, putting her head down and covering her face with her hands. “Why?”

“Well ya know, Jessie, you caan’t live on the farm fer-ever. You spend all yer time in the fields working and you don’t even like the kitchen work…how’er ya ever gonna find a main? Don’t cry, Jessie. We foun’ you a good main. He has a passel of childrens that just lost their mamma and he needs a good wife to help raise ‘em. His name is Herman and he’s a profess’nl carpenter and a good God-Fearing man.” Jessie sat crying in silence until they arrived at the train station.

Willie bought the one-way ticket to Chicago with the money daddy had given him for this and sat down on a bench next to Jessie. Jessie sat staring at her shoes, crying gently. Willie put his arms around her. “Jess, you know we all love you. You’ll be my big sister forev’r, but sometimes laaf just has to change. Ahm gonna miss you most of all but I promise when I can I’ll come to visit. Bertie-Ann and me is thinking of getting married and we been thinkin’ of moving somewhere away from here anyway.” Willie had met Bertie-Ann while he was on the road and after a visit to Florida had drawn him to stay in that state for a few months where he met his wife-to-be. A letter from daddy had drawn him back to Alabama and the farm but he wrote Bertie almost every day and he knew he wasn’t destined to live the farm life. “Maybe we’ll jus move to Ill-i-noise someday.” She didn’t know it now but one day Willie would keep his promise and move just a few miles away from her new home in Northen Illinois.

Jessie put her forehead against the cool window waving a long goodbye to Willie until after he was out of sight. She sat alone on the bench-seat in a car with very few other passengers. After a while she softly began to cry which continued until she cried herself to sleep.

Jessie arrived in Chicago. Her new husband waited with 2 of his eldest children, Charles and Aaron were there to greet her at platform of the huge train station. The buildings and the crowds were like nothing she had experienced or even imagined before. This city was much bigger than Montgomery. Herman looked a foot taller than her but, then, she was a slight woman and he didn’t seem any bigger than anyone else except in her mind where she watched him, wondering what her life was to become. He was a burley built man with wide shoulders and crystal clear eyes that seemed to see beyond the horizon. He was self-confident and well dressed but was almost as old as daddy and more than twice her age. They departed in a relatively new automobile and drove the 3-hours to their new home in Zion. They married in just a couple of days and she moved her few things into Herman's house. Although he was putting the finishing touches on a lovely little house it was sometime before they settled into their life together in the home she would live in for much of the rest of her life and where her only daughter was born. Eventually, at the age of 67 Herman added a second story, the income from upstairs boarders helped pay the bills as Herman aged more and worked less.

As mentioned, they were married within a couple of days by one of the ministers, and officers of the church, in which Herman was a deacon and a well respected professional. Although she was surrounded by friends and acquaintances of her new husband she was slightly uncomfortable being surrounded by this many people, many of them important people in this small town and none of whom she knew. Jessie withdrew for awhile until she made friends with some of her neighbors and managed to find a church in which she felt the closeness to God that she required. Having been raised in the Southern Baptist tradition it was awhile before she found a church that felt right to her and, although it wasn’t quite Southern Baptist the Pentecostal energy she felt when she attended these services brought her closer to God and offered her the comfort of familiarity.

She found Zion to be a small town of small businesses with a couple of them showing the potential of becoming big operations. Although she didn’t begin working until after the children were grown, eventually she would work as a seamstress at one of those businesses: the curtain factory, retiring only a few years before it burned to the ground along with much of Zion’s business district. She learned her husband had been instrumental in building one of the largest buildings she had ever seen: The Zion Hotel. Slowly Jessie began to make friends and acquaintances through both Herman’s friends and with those sympathetic souls at church.

Some time after she moved into Herman’s and her home she received a letter from Willie saying he would soon be joining her soon with Bertie-Ann. Willie and Herman became as close as brothers. Willie and his new wife moved to Zion but soon moved to a small community, Kenosha, which was several miles away, in Wisconsin, but close enough to comfort her as she still saw her big-brother almost weekly at church and grew quickly to know and love Bertie. Although she only visited daddy and momma twice in the coming years the closeness of Willie and Bertie was great comfort for the rest of her life.

Eventually Jessie gave birth to Darlene, her only child. Darlene was, for awhile, a young wife but in 1949 she began her life as a young mother when she gave birth to the 1st of 5 boys, of which, I am the eldest.

The grandson of a mail-order bride.

1956 - My Brother

After all...what are little brothers for?
...Heh...heh...heh...

1956 – My Brother

“Steve!” Dad shouted, “Get down here!”

Steve came running. Dad sounded upset but he hadn’t gotten in any trouble today so he wasn’t concerned in the least. “What, Daddy?”

Dad turned toward the basement wall and made a sweeping gesture with his arm, “Did you do this?” It was obvious to anyone looking that this was Steve’s handwriting. It said “Steve.” It was uneven and went up hill and downhill. The S and one e was written backwards. Steve was only 4 ½ years old and was just learning to write his name.

“But, I didn’t do this!” He whined. “Larry did this!”

“Come-on, Steve. This is obviously your name and your handwriting. It couldn’t be Larry, he writes much smoother and your mother certainly didn’t do this. Who else could it be?” This was true. My still-younger brother, Wayne, was still a babe in arms so it was pretty clear he wasn’t the culprit here. I clearly remember covering pages and pages of heavily lined paper in circles and swirls as our teacher had instructed us in penmanship class, part of our English studies. Sometimes it was a page of individual circles and sometimes a continuous line of circle upon circle upon circle continuing from left to right on each line on the paper. Pages of “waves” or c upon c upon c covered the pages as well as pages of circling e’s and pages of w’s that looked like flocks of seagulls. My spelling was atrocious but it always looked good even if spelled completely wrong. I’m not sure if Steve’s teacher had given his class this task as his letters were a series of individual choppy lines that, together, made up each individual letter. It looked choppy and his letters were still consistently backwards and occasionally even upside-down. Years later we would hear about dyslexia but for now this was just a symptom of a kid having trouble learning to write. The most common symptoms of his handwriting was the backwards S & e. The uphill/downhill part was my idea…

MY idea? What could I possibly have to do with Steve’s name being plastered over the basement wall? What could I possibly have to do with the bucket of green paint that still sat with one of the brushes soaking in the paint with the top of the can lying a couple of feet away. It sat lying upside down with a lovely paint-can sized green circle that was revealed upon its retrieval. When discovered, Steve had the other brush in his hand where he held it ready to help his big brother with the task at hand…his big brother was nowhere around…

We now move on to 2001. Mom and her husband Gene are living in Tucson and my wife and I are visiting. They have invited an additional couple to dinner with us and we sit in casual conversation. I’m involved in a conversation with Gene when I hear out of the corner of my ear: “Oh, Larry loved all of his little brothers so much. He always stood up for his little brother, Steve, when he was still very little and Steve wasn’t even in school, yet.” This caught my attention because…well I heard my name mentioned. Mom was relating stories to the two other women. She proceeded, “There was one time when his appeals were so desperate that he actually talked us out of punishing Steve.” As this was news to me, my ears perked up. Mom began relating the previous story. As she wrapped it up I couldn’t contain my laughter any longer.

“How long have you been telling this story?” I asked.

“Oh this is one of my favorite stories about you and Steve. I’ve been telling this since you were about 6. I think that when it happened.”

“Well the timing is right mom, but the story may be a little different than you know. Didn’t I ever straighten this incident out?”

“No,” said mom a tentative tone creeping into her voice, “I thought I had it right.”

“Well pretty close, mom, but not exactly as you remember it…”

“Well,” I started. “Steve didn’t actually write his name on the wall.” I winced awaiting the reaction.

Mom looked at me calmly. If her glasses had been on she would have been looking over the top of them. As it was, she simply looked askance, and in a low tone offered “And?”

I looked towards the ceiling offering a comical expression to the Gods to which I generously added a rolling of my eyes.

“But I remember this so well, myself. I caught Steve with the brush in his hands. I think he had paint on his shoes, too. I remember when your dad got home I told him and he went to the basement to check. He actually thought it was kinds of funny as he was getting ready to paint that wall but he knew, after the mess on the floor and all over Steve’s clothes…” She interrupted herself, “…I think it was in his hair, too.” She stopped for a second examining her memory. “When your dad went to get his belt, you started pleading with him not to punish Steve. You kept it up and complained in support of your brother so long we eventually didn’t punish Steve because we could tell how upset you were getting from the punishment of your little brother.”

I blew my breath out. “Oh, he was playing in the paint alright but it wasn’t exactly his fault.”

Mom looked at me expectantly. As I looked up I noticed that somehow I now had the attention of the entire table.

My eyebrows went up and I blew my breath out from puffed cheeks. “Ok,” I said “Hmmm…where to start…” I took a deep breath. “See, I, too, remember this incident. It’s probably the first time I tried something diabolical that actually worked. There was actually a clue at the time that I was surprised no one picked up on.”

This time mom interrupted me, “But you kept saying Steve was too little to know what he was doing and…” she stopped, “…hmmm…oh…” It was a little “Oh” but it said so much – I think mom had just gotten it. “You were feeling guilty.”

“Bingo!” I said.

“But you always had such good penmanship and this was so messy. It looked just like Steve’s writing.”

“Yep, I planned it that way. That was part of what you missed. Steve did make his S’s and his e’s backwards so I made sure to use this clue to point the guilt at him. I just didn’t know I would feel so guilty when it came time for blame. The part you missed was Steve always wrote in a straight line. Even when it was uphill it was straight uphill…I purposely wrote the letters up and down and realized as soon as I was done that this was the thing that would probably give me away.” I took a breath. “In fact if I remember correctly I kept waiting for that to come up but no one but me must have noticed this fact.”

“Then why didn’t you confess…?”

“If I remember correctly I was about to give in and confess everything when you guys gave in.”

“But, you loved your little brother so much why…” She stopped.

“Why confess when the judge has thrown the case out of court.” I remarked. “No one was getting punished. Why would I volunteer for a punishment that was going unused? I thought you guys had this one figured out years ago.”

“I wonder what else we don’t have a clue about.” Mom mused.

I looked back with an innocent look. Mom shot me a look that clearly displayed her doubt.

“Well,” I started, “Did you guys ever figure out how that big hole appeared in the living room wall…the one just about the size of Walter's Head?”

1964 - Picked On

I wrote this some time ago but for some reason hesitated to publish. Comments?

1964 – Let’s Examine The Question: Was I Really Picked On As A Kid?

When playing pool I usually take the shot where the ball is directly in front of the pocket. This is an easy target and a logical choice. The guy with big ears, the guy with an upturned nose, the girl with hairy arms or the girl who is taller than all of the boys are also easy targets when a joker is looking for an easy laugh. The individual of either sex that is the first of their peers to develop adult physical characteristics is an obvious target. Sometimes a particular individual only targets the easy target occasionally. Unfortunately when several individuals only poke fun once in a while it can still seem like a steady message of abuse to the frequent target. There is no way to condone the incident at Columbine…but it is not impossible to understand.

This has always been a question about which I have mixed feelings. I’m pretty sure a lot of kids’ feel they are “picked on” but how much of that is personal insecurity and how much is actual bullying?

After attending a recent 40-year class reunion I realized that much of my perception had been colored by my personal insecurities and, perhaps, a few small incidents that had been blown out-of-proportion by my youthful insecurities or years-old memories. So how much of this was valid? I DON’T REMEMBER, for instance, being stuffed into my locker. I DON’T REMEMBER being tied naked to a tree in the schoolyard, I DON’T REMEMBER being beaten senseless by classmates…so where did feelings of victimization come from? What exactly DO I remember? Let’s examine some of my memories and perhaps some reasons for my insecurities.

I am not large of stature but I like to think I’m well adjusted so that the fact is simply an accepted condition. I take after my dad. Dad was always a bit insecure about his height, which caused him to slump a bit. On frequent occasions, dad would discuss or tell stories about how he had arm-wrestled one of the biggest guys at work or how he had overcome some event that had been colored by his small stature. Both of us accepted the need to often stand on something that would give us the required boost. My admiration for my dad is boundless but his insecurities regarding his size have always been an obvious issue. My best friends are all quite tall but as far as I can tell we are eye-to-eye when we stand together. It is mostly in pictures where I notice the difference. I suppose, internally somewhere, my size is a big issue but to my conscience world it is a consideration, but, normally, a minor consideration. But when I was younger and had to deal with a less-mature world than the one I currently inhabit size may have been a larger issue – let’s see:

In my early years I really don’t remember any negative incidents until, around the age of 8 the minister’s kids de-pantsed me and ran my jeans up the school flagpole. While I was being held securely by the twins, Wayne and Duane, both a year younger than me but comparatively my size, their older brother Ray, 2 years my elder and much bigger, pulled my pants off and ran like the wind toward the grade school which was handily located next door to his house and across the street from my own. I pursued in my underwear with single-minded concentration. I was not really concerned about my exposure to the outside world as embarrassed by being so easily abused and concerned about retrieving my new pants. We were not in a situation to replace them so these would be my new jeans and would have to last until they were outgrown. Mom would be very upset if they were lost so, not knowing Ray’s ultimate goal was a flagpole I ran as fast as I could to catch him. As he began running the pants up the pole I reached him and grabbed for the line. As I reached my hand out my feet were swept away and I found myself under the twins who were doing everything they could to keep me away from their big brother. I barely felt the skin scrape off of my knees as I hit the concrete pad surrounding the flagpole. After successfully running my pants to the top of the pole Ray attempted to tie the rope off well above my head. Luckily he could not find a good spot for this and he was reduced to winding the rope a couple of times around the pole and tying it off. It immediately came undone with no effort and I was able to retrieve my apparel. The other boys had run off and were standing across the street laughing at my predicament while I redressed and headed back to play. I was a bit irritated at my impotency to deal with kids that were bigger and whom had me outnumbered. I accepted my fate philosophically and rejoined the group laughing along with the joke although not feeling as carefree as I acted.

A year later Westfield opened and all classes over 4th grade transferred to that location. School was now several blocks away and no longer right across the street. It was not very long before someone I had considered a distant friend had grown to be quite bigger than me and for some reason began to take advantage of that condition. For ease of storytelling I’ll call him Art. Art and I had recently cooperated in an English class where we were all asked to write a creative story. After Art had read his story aloud to the class the teacher noted that his story and mine were both about medieval adventures and seemed to have a lot in common. Soon thereafter we put our 2 stories together and bound them in cardboard tied with a shoelace. I still have that “book.” He and I had never been too close but we had years in classes together and although I had always considered him a classmate that was more of an acquaintance than a friend, there had never been any friction between us and at times we worked together well when we were teamed together. When he called me over during recess one day I responded to the call with a short run to his location near one of the little saplings that were still struggling to grow after their transplanting just a few months or weeks before. For reasons still not understood he decided it would be great fun to tie me to the tree. Despite my lack of cooperation he and his cohort had removed my belt, tied my hands together behind my back and around the young sapling with that belt and proceeded to pummel me in the chest and stomach with their fists. They left me there to struggle out of my bonds and back to class late. I recall I got sent to the principal for being late to class and, although I complained, there were no witnesses and I was warned not to make up stories as excuses for my tardiness. I didn’t see the bruises myself until I undressed that evening, my brother being the only witness to these wounds.

The summer between my 7th and 8th grade years I shaved for the first time. Mom cried. I took this in stride expecting that it was about time I became more mature. My voice began to change from tenor to baritone. Unfortunately I was the first classmate to develop in other ways having pubic hair as well as significantly increasing certain physical attributes. In my embarrassment I would change in a corner of the locker room with my back to the other boys until my somewhat obvious changes were noticed by a classmate who was somewhat taller than me and one of the big “jocks” of the school. Today I would hardly be embarrassed by the comments made to me, but as an 8th grader, jokes about going out for the pole vault or having trouble walking upright with all of the extra weight or comments regarding extra-large jockstraps or the increase in the cost of haircuts “because there was so much more to cut” were less than appreciated. It was just one more way I was different form everyone around me. I understand girls that develop early have similar experiences as, I am sure, many an “early developer” has. That doesn’t make the personal experience any easier.

My 8th grade year I decided I wanted to play football and I went out for the team…and was immediately cut following the first practice. When I stopped the coach in the hallway right outside the library and spoke to him regarding this he replied offhandedly, glancing towards the library, that such a little guy should go out for something more to my size “Like a librarian.” I was devastated and, although I’m sure he didn’t give his comment a second thought I obviously have remembered that remark for years afterward. With determination I joined the intramural football team from which a team member could not be cut. Although I could not be cut I didn’t see much playtime, which is why I was available to converse with a friend who happened to be on the opposing team. My team was winning by a touchdown and when I mentioned this fact he disagreed with some anger and punched me in the stomach. I went down like a sack of potatoes but immediately jumped to my feet answering in anger that he should look at the scoreboard and not to blame me for the score. I said something like “Blame your teammates!” Wham! I went down again this time to a sock in the jaw. Before I had a chance to recover he was on me. Boney legs (did I mention he was tall and skinny?) on my upper arms, sitting on my chest pummeling my face with boney hands and knuckles yelling, “Take it back! Take it back!” He was suddenly pulled to his feet by Mr. Bush, the intramural coach, and held immobile by the back of his shirt collar. As I tried to rise I found myself in the same position. “You’re both off the team for fighting! Get out of here!” Mr. Bush shouted. He turned his back and walked away refusing to listen to my protests. This may be one of the 1 or 2 fights I’ve ever had, of course excepting fights with my brothers. Now the outcome was not to my liking and, to me unfair. Now my opponent was much bigger than me, but despite that this incident does not fell like being picked on– just one of those things that happen between boys. Even though I didn’t necessarily agree to the fight or participate willingly it was still a legitimate disagreement and misunderstanding and not an incidence of being picked upon.

Coach’s comment was thoughtless and uncalled for. It took a very long time to outgrow, as it was the opinion of an adult and not the behavior of a kid whom I could ignore as ignorant.

In grade school I had a friend, classmate and fellow scout who was approximately my size and yet he insisted in humor that consisted, to a great extent, of put-downs at my expense and occasionally slapping me on the cheek, which he saw as the height of humor. I didn’t feel the same…but I never objected strongly either. I am essentially shy and although secure in my philosophy feel less than secure when it comes to physical conflict.

As I examine these little acts I wonder if these incidents happened because I am short or because I am a passive person. Before I had a personal philosophy my MO was simply to avoid conflict of any kind. Nowadays I prefer to confront the conflict and eliminate it while it is still fresh and before it has built or expanded. I don’t relish conflict and avoid it by facing any potential conflict early. You know…like an adult. I learned long ago that conflict is often unavoidable but dealing with the early fall-out has proven to be easier than ignoring the problem, letting it explode into to bigger issue or allowing inaction support the reasoning of someone who dislikes a certain course of action because they don’t understand the decision-making process. This does not always result in eliminating conflict but I am sure reduces the amount of conflict in my life.

As a freshman in High School an unnamed classmate insisted on stealing my briefcase every day at lunchtime (yes, I was a bit of a geek, despite my terrible grades) and flushing the briefcase in the boy’s room toilet. This persisted daily until, finally fed up with this behavior and his refusal to listen to reason, I snapped as I saw him approach. I waited for the briefcase to disappear. I had previously tried a tug-of-war over the bag but had not succeeded in overcoming his superior leverage and strength…it was obvious this didn’t work. This time I waited until the case disappeared and waited a beat for the lad to turn his back after which I followed only a few feet behind. As he bent to flush the toilet and insert the case I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and forced him to continue in the direction he had been bending trying to force his head into the toilet. I tried to secure the case from him but was unable to wrest it from his hand only succeeding in pulling it aside and out of the toilet leaving a clear path for his head which I continued to forced down as quickly as possible. He released his grip on the case and placed his hands each on the rim of the commode holding his head desperately above the bowl. Giving one last shove I released him expecting a fight on my hands. Instead one hand slipped off the rim and his arm splashed into the water as I released his neck and turned to go. Holding my briefcase I ran for the door pausing just inside to peer back around in preparation of a defensive stance only to see my tormentor looking close to tears and shaking his hand violently. He was paying no attention to me. Although he never mentioned the incident it was the last time he picked on me in that manner. It solved the problem but I have been embarrassed that I could not find a better solution.

My sophomore year a group of tuffs, guys I knew but didn’t hang with as they were all football buddies and teammates, none of with whom I socialized, managed to do the gym-shorts-drop where someone approaches from behind and, taking advantage of the elastic waistline, sweeping the shorts to the knees or beyond. I was then summarily picked up and thrown into the girls’ locker room. To both my relief and disappointment there was no one in the locker room at the time although I could hear them approaching through the closed entrance to the “Girls’ Gym.” I shot back through the door to find my tormentors all disappeared and my shorts lying on the floor. I didn’t report the incident as I took it as juvenile playfulness although I still didn’t enjoy being the subject of these little jests.

Although I don’t approve, of course…I do understand how the stress has caused some recent and past students to breakdown mentally and to do violence on classmates and teachers. Like I say I don’t approve – but I kinda understand. An insidious history of victimization by a number of people looks a lot different to the frequent victim than it does to the occasional bully.

Today I stand tall for equal rights for everyone including blacks, women, gays, etc. Am I, today, a bit overly sensitive to verbal jabs and unjust statements toward others and has this feeling of personal victimization had a lot to do with this attitude?

Probably.

But I am also proud of being mostly pacifist as I have a firm belief that most disagreements can be overcome with negotiation and education. I do believe in standing up for the underdog, physically if necessary and there have been times I had to solve a problem with the threat of fisticuffs but it has rarely come to that conclusion. I make every attempt to not make false accusations and to keep an open mind when there is disagreement as there are 2-sides to almost every story. Realistically, I do not believe all of this is 100% attainable as some people or organizations will adamantly refuse to listen to reason and in some cases, like the tale of the old mule and the 2 X 4, you just have to get their attention first…but overall I agree with the quote by Carlos Santana:

“If you try to solve a problem with hate,
You are part of the problem.
If you try to solve a problem with love,
You are part of the solution.”

As far as my being picked on as a kid – get over it!

1962 - A Sense Of History

As long as I can remember I have been acutely aware of history and our place in it. Family was so important in my life that when I decided to become a working and possibly traveling musician I made a conscious decision to wait for family - I had noticed the two rarely mixed well. Having that historical perspective may have saved more than one heartbreak. Consequently, although saving my childhood collectibles may not have lasted until there were kids in my life after all - it would have been nice to try.

1962 – A Sense Of History

There they were:
Tucked in the back of the top shelf of our recently purchased house: 2 little boxes.

They measured about 2” x 3 ¼” by 7” & no one in our family had seen them before. We were cleaning out the old discards from the previous owner when I found these mysterious boxes containing…what? Standing on my tiptoes I reached back and, catching a fingernail on the edge of the box, drew it forward a couple of inches. Grabbing a firm hold I pulled out the box and opened it. To my surprise I found a box tightly packed with baseball cards. I thought, “These are so old they must be worthless. They’re not even in color.” I paused. Just like the comic books dad and I had discussed a few weeks before, some old things seemed the same as current stuff, but had somehow changed over the years resulting in differences that could put things in a completely different light. Even then I remember being aware that differences in context could completely change the meaning or value of something. The example I was most aware of was the difference in comic book characters during and after “The War”, sometimes called “World War II.” Dad stressed that a character, Prince Nemo, had been a hero in comic books during the war but in my Fantastic Four comics he was a bad-guy. I was shocked and dismayed. I still remember the resulting conversation where dad ruminated people could see things differently if in trouble than they might perceive if everything was good. He said that during the war kids were looking for more good-guys so publishers gave them…more good-guys. I realized right then that the environment surrounding an event, and the execution of the event had direct bearing on both the event and how that event was planned and, perhaps, later perceived. Context was everything! Things that happened yesterday might be acceptable behavior because the world they lived in was different than ours! This came to me fairly early in my life.

“Maybe something as old as these baseball cards should be saved for my kids,” I thought. I had been saving my Weekly Readers, a weekly newspaper distributed to grade-schools for grades 1-3, for my children. As I read these short pieces on current events I was well aware I was living in history. I had figured if my children were as curious as me these would be appreciated. Maybe these baseball cards were historically valuable. At that age although I had a sense of history, I had absolutely no sense of value except intrinsic value. Issues regarding money values were still a mystery.

As I dug through the cards I found a few I recognized. There was Dizzy Dean and Babe Ruth. There was Ted Williams, Roger Maris and Sandy Koufax. There was Yogi Berra, Phil Rizzuto and Mickey Mantle. Unfortunately the majority of these cards were of players completely unknown to me. I showed them to my dad which resulted in an hour of reminisces about his boyhood, the radio and the Cubs baseball game we had attended together at Wrigley Field with my Cub Scout Troop a couple of years before. My memories of that game were more of the purchase of a chameleon (which died in about a week) and the sights, sounds and smells of the ball-park…but I don’t remember the actual game. I do remember that we were all in Cub-Scout uniforms except dad who was in jeans (cuffs rolled, of-course) and an open-necked shirt. I remember being slightly embarrassed when we were entering the park and I looked around and noticed that most of the other dads were sharply dressed in suits and ties with, in many cases, a fedora to go along…my dad wore a plaid woolen ball-cap. After we entered and found a seat in general seating I wasn’t nearly as sensitive to this as we were surrounded by families and groups of men and boys all dressed like us, with very few as sharply dressed as those I had seen at the entrance. Some of the players I saw that day were right there in that stack of cards, as my dad happily pointed out. As he went through them he would pause and point out a special player or someone we had seen that day at our ball game. I don’t remember any of them…they must not have registered that strongly at the game.

Thinking back I’m sure no one in the collection was black, or negro, as African-American’s were known at the time…something I’m sure I didn’t notice then but, looking back, in retrospect it was too bad the Negro League didn’t have baseball cards. But then, in the long run, if these had been a batch of Negro League cards they would have eventually gone the way of my other collections, including those Weekly Readers. But for now, I tucked them away in my bottom drawer…my junk drawer…and forgot about them.

Eventually I had quite an impressive collection of comic books and various “historical” documents – or what I considered historical documents including some National Geographic magazines and various and other sundry items of interest. I had a collection of some pottery I found buried in the mounds in the woods. All of the neighborhood kids knew of the mounds and often dug in them to make “forts or towers” as we called them. Some of the mounds were deep in the woods and, along with the pottery, I had a big rounded piece of bone I had found buried with it. Thinking back I know it could easily have been a piece of human hip or skull, although at the time I thought it was a piece of deer hipbone or something similar because, after all, people are buried in graveyards and not in dirt mounds that are found in the middle of the woods or, like the other mounds we played on, in the middle of acres and acres of fields we used for our summer playground. In and around these mounds we sometimes found arrowheads, pottery and long, thin chipped pieces of stone that, as an adult, I’m fairly sure could have been Paleolithic stone scrapers or knife-blades. From reading articles about my cousin Dave I know Paleolithic natives lived in our area long before metal knives were available.

Included in the junk box that resided in the back of my junk-drawer was a 12” long “knife” that had a soft pewter-looking blade and a brass handle hand inscribed “ANKARA.” This knife was very flexible and bent easily sideways but if thrust forward, in a stabbing movement, it easily penetrated a full box of Kleenix. After what passed for research in a pre-teen and teenager of the pre-internet 60’s, visits to the Chicago museums and trips to the library, I concluded this dipstick-looking weapon that originated in the Middle East where the word “Ankara” meant “change.” As the definition I read specified violent change I surmised this was the weapon of a middle-eastern assassin. Complete fantasy of course. The handle had originally included a ring at the end of the handle where a line could be attached but which I found broken and deformed. I had located this item buried on the beach were I first thought I had found someone’s missing dip-stick. It was a valued treasure possibly from the cargo vessel that had sunk several weeks before. Part of it’s cargo were museum pieces so I, of course, fantasized I had one of these pieces – no longer of value due to the broken ring.

In this box was also a special arrowhead I had found in my backyard when I fell during a game of tag. Finding a flat stone under my hand, and being the one that mowed the lawn, I drew back to throw it into the field near our house when I felt a sharp point on one end. I drew my hand back and looked that the “rock” in my hand. It was an arrowhead that would seriously rival any similar piece I have seen before of since. It was white stone with hundreds of tiny chips that had formed it into the classic Beaker-style arrowhead style point. It was about 2 ½“ long and about 1 ¾“ wide. It was a little less than ¾” thick. This came to be my 2nd most valued treasure although it had been my most valued possession until I received an authentic 1800’s era German switchblade.

This knife was my choice of a remembrance item from my Grandpa’s collection of assorted junk he had collected over his life. It was being discarded by my grandma soon after his death and she offered each of us one thing with which to remember him by.

I had originally asked for the newspaper clippings and papers through which I once found him sorting through and about which we spent a pleasant afternoon talking. Grandpa had seen, not met, Bat Masterson and Wild Bill Hitchcock as well as Chief Rain-In-The- Face and a couple of other famous native Americans and cowboys, none of whom I now remember. Our conversation about these papers was one of my fondest childhood memories and represented not only my grandpa’s life but the parts of history that he walked through and experienced, often in the first-person. As a teen he had crossed the prairie in a covered wagon and fought Indians with his family and, eventually, became a well-sought-after skilled carpenter. Following his first marriage they lived in a sod-cabin in the Dakota’s until the eventual heartbreak and re-settling of his life after the still-birth of his child and the death of his first wife. Per grandpa’s brother-in-law Uncle Willie, her death resulted from uncontrollable bleeding subsequent to that unsuccessful childbirth. Thereafter he decided to move to the city where doctors and medical help would be more readily available.

Unfortunately my grandma told me I didn’t really want all of those “dusty old papers” and mom backed her up. I was told to find something else.

I remember they didn’t particularly want me to choose the switchblade I found in the back of his desk drawer but a little fussing and whining about not really making my own choice convinced them the knife was an acceptable alternate. I kept that knife for years but eventually lost it in a motorcycle accident in 1969 in which my brother’s motorcycle and I took a quick side-trip into a swamp.

The last item, or items, added to my collection of “historic documents” was a copy of every newspaper I could lay my hands on when President Kennedy was assassinated my freshman year of high school. Wall-Street Journal, Chicago Tribune and the Daily News, the Waukegan News-Sun, the Zion-Benton News. I even had a copy of Grit – the newspaper printed once-a-month and sold by kids (like my brother) that fell for the advertisement on the back of Boy’s Life. I knew, for sure, the assassination was an important event about which original documents would be appreciated. They got stashed with my other collections which had, by this time, become several boxes stacked in my closet. These were the early signs of a relatively-controllable pack-rat.

What happened to all of these “important papers?” Early in 1967 dad was asked to assume management of one of Convection Cabinets biggest accounts: Iowa State University. This was an exciting time for our family: moving to a new place far from our traditional family holdings. Dad insisted the company wait until his eldest child, me, had graduated from High school so within a couple of weeks following graduation we packed a truck and both of our cars and headed out for Iowa City. All belongings were packed solid in the truck and we could get no more in any vehicle when mom showed up with one last box of clothing that simply would not fit regardless of loading and re-loading. After the third re-load mom asked, “Bob, what’s in this box?” “That’s all of Larry’s collectibles.” After a short pause my mother said well that’s all just junk he’s had for too long as it is. We’re going to have to leave it behind.”

I was devastated. No amount of complaining or wailing changed mom’s mind. I had already managed to go through years of collections and trim my belongings down to one large 3’x3’x3’ box. On the bottom were years of comic books, including many I have since seen priced at ComiCon for hundreds of dollars. On top of that were weekly readers and wrapped in my Surf Club jacket and tucked into a corner was my mayonnaise jar of knifes, arrowheads and foreign coins I had gathered over the years. The last items, those things I saw when I retrieved my little jar from the corners of my box were several newspapers. “Kennedy Shot” and “President Assassinated in Dallas” shouted at me from the top of the box as I folded the top shut. The pain was almost physical. All of my years of collecting, some things since kindergarten, were going to be discarded. All of my years of collecting these valuable papers were all for naught. My children might never know the thrill of discovering pieces of history in their own hands. My depression was palatable but I wasn’t the only one forced to leave things behind so with a stiff upper lip I tried to set a good example for my brothers. Eventually, while I was in the Navy, mom discarded my mayonnaise jar telling my dad “These are boy things. Larry’s a man now.” Mom was not an historian.

After all of these years I still often remember that collection with some satisfaction knowing that although my “stuff” is long gone, the attitude of belonging to history has passed honestly from my grandpa and my dad to me.

I am history…so are you.

1980 - My Mom: The Mexican Hooker

1980 - My Mom: The Mexican Hooker

My mom was born in Zion, Illinois. Her path to Mexican-Hooker is a tale of deceit, ill-gotten money and Midwestern innocence.

In 1967 our family moved to Iowa City, Iowa and in 1970 my mom divorced my dad. One thing had led to another and that chapter will remain unwritten, but the change resulted in two happy re-unions: dad and his new bride, Donna, in staying in Iowa City and mom and her new husband, Gene, eventually moving to Tucson, Arizona. There were, of course, some hard feelings but, overall, they both moved on to happy, satisfying lives. Eventually dad moved to Florida where he still lives while mom lived in Tucson until her eventual death. While they both have had many happy experiences there comes times in everyone’s life where they have to deal with those things with which they are unfamiliar. In 1980 friends from Iowa came to visit mom and Gene in Tucson.

It had been an enjoyable week with the agenda full of the Southwestern Desert Museum, the giant telescopes on Kitt Peak, country dancing and plenty and plenty of Mexican food and drinks. Friends had been there for almost a week when they arose to a clear, warm Saturday morning with nothing in particular planned for the day. As they sat breakfast, Gene mentioned the friends, Meg and Howard, had noted earlier in the week that none of them had been out of the United States before. He suggested Nogales, Mexico would make an interesting day-trip. There was agreement all around and plans were made for after breakfast.

After church they packed themselves into the car and headed for Mexico. Nogales was a typical border town with great opportunities for bargains. Unfortunately there are also opportunities for trouble for which neither couple was they prepared although they were sure they were. Gene and Howard each put a $20 in each pocket and $20 in their shoe. In this way they were confident if they got rolled, or robbed, it wouldn’t necessarily leave them broke and without resources. Later in the day this would prove to be a wise move.

Upon arrival at the border they parked their car in a lot on the US side and walked across the casually accessed border. On the other side of the border they hired a taxi to transport them to the Nogales business center, aka: tourist area. A short walk reveled prices that they all found amazing but the guys insisted on stopping to quench their thirst while the ladies were completely wrapped up in the shops and vendors lining the street. The foursome stopped outside a bar for a short conversation. They soon agreed to meet at this same bar in an hour-and-a-half. The guys entered the establishment to find a cool drink while the ladies continued a door down and entered the store. The afternoon continued without incident with the two group’s paths only crossing once until, in no time at all, the hour-and-a-half was used up and it was time to meet the husbands in the aforementioned bar.

The ladies entered the cool, darkened room barely able to see after the change from the afternoon light. An old man sat the bar nursing a beer and a couple sat in a far corner at one of the spare wooden tables. Mom stepped to the bar and ordered 2 beers, “no, make that 2 Margaritas”, she said deciding mid-order to have a sweeter and more celebratory beverage. “Si, Senora, I weel bring them right over.” He turned toward the bottles lining the back of the bar. “Have you seen two men looking for two women recently, Senior?” She tried the unfamiliar term that she had been hearing all afternoon.

“No, Senora.” He replied, over his shoulder. She had only used one Spanish word but was pleased at her effort to use a native word and walked back to the table confident in her familiarity with her surroundings. The bartender disappeared into the back room.

Bringing the drinks to the table a few minutes later interrupted the animated conversation as they exclaimed over the prices they’d seen and the deals they’d made while knowing full well they probably paid far more than they could have if they had bargained better. Still, they were outstanding deals when they compared prices for similar items in American shops. Mom handed the bartender the $5 for the drinks remarking to Meg how even the drinks were reasonable here. As they reached for their drinks and the much anticipated coolness of the sweet combination of salt, lime and Tequila the bartender moved aside to be replaced by a tall uniformed policeman packing a pistol, a badge and a sour look.

“Pardon me, ladies.” He paused. He towered over the women as he used the American term with an accent that was noticeable but easy to understand. He obviously was well versed in English. “I am afraid you both weel need to come weeth me.”

Meg looked up in shock, mouth hanging open, “Uhhh.” Both ladies were frozen with a glass halfway to their lips.

Mom took charge. “What‘s the problem officer?” She inquired.

“You cannot practice prostitution thees way een our town.”

She put her drink down, as did her friend, “But officer, we’re not prostitutes.”

I’m sorry ladies but you are single women, you are een a bar, you are drinking, you are looking for men,” he paused, and took a breath, “…you are prostitutes.”

“No, officer,” Mom continued, “The bartender misunderstood. We aren’t looking for just any men; we’re waiting for our husbands.”

“I’m sorry, ladies. Eet is you that do not understand.” He held up his fingers as he patiently ticked off the items. “You are single women, you are een a bar, you are drinking, you are looking for men, and therefore, ladies…you are prostitutes. You must come weeth me.”

“But what will our husbands do when they arrive and we’re not here? How will they know where to find us?” Mom asked, just a bit of desperation in her voice.

Meg was petrified. Thoughts of Mexican prisons, girls in cages, lesbians on the rampage ran wildly through her mind. “BUT WE’RE NOT PROSTITUTES!!” She exclaimed, fright plainly showing on her face, panic beginning to creep into her voice.

The policeman ignored Meg replying to mom’s inquiry, “No problemo. Seemply write a note to your husband and give eet to the bartender. He will see your husbands’ geet thees message.”

“SO YOU DO BELIEVE WE HAVE HUSBANDS!!” Meg protested.

He ignored her and continued, “That way when theese imaginary husbands show up they weell know where to go. The bartender knows the address and directions.” He stepped aside and held this hand out to indicate his chivalry by allowing them to go first. After leaving a short note with the bartender they turned to go. They stopped at the door hesitant to emerge into the now oppressively hot afternoon sun. “Please follow me. I have a car right outside.” They left the bar, drinks untouched. The bartender cleared the table.

A few minutes later the gentlemen entered the bar stopping inside the door to get their bearings and search the room for their wives. They had packages of their own, having fallen prey to the low prices just as their wives had. They were intent upon retrieving the $20 shoe money after spending the last of their cash on a cool drink. “Let’s have a seat over there.” Gene said. “I’ll get us some drinks.” They headed for a freshly wiped table Gene raising his voice slightly, “Can we get 2 beers over here?” He pulled out his last $10 bill and laid it on the table.

“Si, Senor.”

The gentlemen sat. Each removed their shoe and put the warm $20 bills in their pockets. Almost immediately the bartender appeared with two cool mugs of beer. The glass was cool in their hands and the foamy richness was calling their names. Drops of condensation ran down the outside of the glass and made a ring on the table as the bartender set them in front of his customers. Gene paid for the drinks with the $10 absently mindedly receiving his change. They each took a long pull on their beer to relieve the heat of the day. Gene stretched his long legs. The bartender hovered. “Pardon me, Senors, but are you looking for two women?”

“Oh, no, nonono.” Gene replied, “We’re just here waiting for our wives.”

“There were two women here Senor, but policia just took them away. They left thees note.” He dropped the note in front of Gene. Gene picked the note up reading.

“Good Lord!” Gene exclaimed, “Our wives have been arrested!”

“What? Why?” Howard asked.

“Doesn’t say.” He turned toward the bartender. “Do you know how to get to the police station?”

“Si, senor. Go straight down this street for two blocks. Eet ees clearly marked weeth ‘Policia’ on a sign outside.”

The men took off. The thought of cool beers long gone. The bartender cleared the table.

They quickly traversed the two blocks finding the Policia sign with no problem. They entered through the front door and strode up to the sad-looking police officer at the first desk. There was no receptionist and the designated waiting area was a line of chairs against the wall. Three disreputable young men sat there handcuffed to the chairs which were, likewise, securely fastened to the floor. The surly looks on their faces immediately told the two friends they did not want to spend any time in this section. “I understand you have our wives here.” Gene said.

“Thees could be, Senor. We have many women here. I weel get the sergeant and he weel know what to do.” The officer rose to his feet in a labored effort, his overly generous stomach brushing some of the paperwork upon which he was working onto the floor. The officer glanced at the fallen papers and walked on. He returned a few minutes later with a tall, strapping young officer who stood straight in his sharply creased but well worn uniform, His chin was cleanly shaven, unlike his companion, and he was sporting a pencil-thin moustache. “Can I help you, Senors?”

“I understand you may have our wives here.”

“I am not sure about that, Senor. We have some women here but they are all prostitutes caught practicing their profession illegally.”

“Well,” said Gene’s friend indignantly, “our wives are certainly not prostitutes! Where are they? The note said they were just arrested just a few minutes ago for some unknown reason.”

“Is that them, Senor?” Asked the officer, pointing to a glass window. The window could be seen through a doorway halfway along the right wall. From what the men could see there were 4 women inside including the two American women. They sat huddled together in a corner watching their husbands in the other room. They had spotted them as soon as they had entered. They mouthed words that could not be heard from where they stood.

“Well there they are right now.” Said Gene.

“Oh no, Senor. Thees could not be your wives. Thees are prostitutes we just peeked up in a bar down the street.”

“But they’re not hookers!” Exclaimed Howard. “Those are our wives. They were waiting for us having a quiet drink when they were arrested on these trumped up charges!”

“No, Senor. You do not understand. Their behavior was the behavior of prostitutes so they were arrested for the obvious. You see they were two single women, they were in a bar, they were drinking, they were looking for men…they…are prostitutes”

“But how do we get our wives out of jail?” Asked Gene, frustration plainly showing in his voice.

“Oh, you misunderstand, Senor. Prostitution ees not illegal here but prostitutes must be licensed.”

As if a light bulb had appeared over their heads the two American gentlemen glanced at each other, both coming to the same conclusion simultaneously. “How much does a license cost?” They asked in unison.

“Depends, Senor…how much do you got?”

They glanced at each other as each drew their last $20 bill from their pocket still damp from it’s time in their shoe. “How’s this?” Gene asked.

“Fine, Senor. Let me get the paperwork.” With that he reached into an abused file cabinet. “Here we go.” He filled out the documents signing with a flourish. As he handed them the papers he made the money disappear. “You may wait outside. They weel be right out.”

They exited the door to wait on the generous but plain cement porch that looked out over the street. The wives soon showed up at the front door. After hugs all around they hired a taxicab and hightailed it for the border.

Soon thereafter mom got her new license framed and had it prominently displayed over her desk in their home office.

You know my mom…the proud Mexican Hooker.