SIGNS OF THE TIMES . . .

They were  everywhere !

    At my age, antique malls can be a "mixed blessing". . . often wondering how an item used in my youth has suddenly been  deemed 'Antique'.

 Yesterday, we were poking around one of our favorite 'treasure chests' when I spotted the above beauty.  Quite likely the picture will not resonate with many below 'a certain age' because

the signs are no longer a feature of the American highways.

In 1960, John Steinbeck travelled across  the United States with   his French Poodle, Charles le Chien, and from that trip wrote Travels with Charlie.  Interstate highways, aka 'Superhighways', were just becoming  common and Steinbeck lamented  that the time was soon coming when it would be possible to travel coast to coast without seeing anything distinctive on the landscape.

    Hasn't always been that way.  Until thirty or so years ago, rare was the town or city with its own bypass for avoiding the numerous stoplights. Consequently, it required much longer just to get from here to there.  Today, billboards along the Interstates loom large in order to be read quickly when cars  are zipping along at high speeds.  Among the first highway advertisements, Burma Shave jingles 'were everywhere'  until around 1963.  The slower speeds of those years permitted reading the poetic segments which were placed on slats, each on a pole about ten feet above ground and placed perhaps fifty yards apart.  So the 'poem' pictured above likely was not a solitary entity.

(To read about the history of the Burma Shave signs, enter that in your  search engine.)

Between my hometown and Raleigh, the state capital, on a rather winding  road, I remember this ditty:

Spring has Sprung/

The  Grass has riz/

Where last year's/

Careless Driver Is/

Burma Shave

Always the tag line was the  same:  Burma Shave.

If 'ubiquitous' means 'everywhere', then the only  ubiquitous competition those advertisements had in this region was "SEE  ROCK  CITY", the admonishment painted on the side of many farmers' barns.  I never felt deprived during my youth that I never saw the place which is just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee.  

I wrote my own little jingle about these signs from another time:

While traveling down/

 the 'Road of Life'/

A sign you'll see/

'No turning back'/

For you or me/

Not even to find Burma Shave signs, though Rock City still awaits my visit.

Satchel

"LATE AFTERNOON AND EVENING THUNDERSHOWERS . . . "

       
             At 6 p.m. today, I had an appointment, via FaceTime, to provide supervision for a woman working on her LPC license.  At 5:30,she texted a request to delay due to thunderstorms in her area. Soon the weather issue was resolved and our session completed.

     Reading her text, I remembered a common 'weather forecast' heard over the years here in the American South, predicting "late afternoon and evening thundershowers." Old-timers could survey the sky and warn, "It's comin' up a cloud", meaning a thunderstorm was imminent. And, as my dog knows, there can be no thunder without lightning.

    Last Winter I promised that I would not complain of Summer heat. I must acknowledge that the pledge has been severely tested as we have had many days with 90+* temperatures, often many of them in succession. Add high humidity readings and there is a recipe for discomfort.  A long ago neighbor, a native of England, said of the local weather conditions, "It's damned de-bil-i-ta-ting !"  The heat and humidity sometimes seem to conspire to produce the storms.

    According to a long-circulated story, Ben Franklin flew a kite with a key during a storm and confirmed some kind of theory about electricity.  It was fortunate for Ben and his experiment that he was not my mom's son because she would not have allowed him outside during the storm. As a matter of fact, my brothers and I remember
being allowed little activity during those events.  And, for goodness sake, stay away from windows and doors and unplug all electrical appliances, and do not go near a telephone. 

    While mom may have been a tad over-cautious,common sense indicates the high risk that lightning poses.  In just the past three days, two persons in our state have experienced lightning strikes and a church several miles away totally burned after being hit by a bolt. 

    Only when my siblings and I became adults did we learn the origins of our mother's fear: as a barefoot young girl, she had been standing on wet ground when an unexpected lightning strike nearby provided more than a tingle.

    As a teen, my now mid-40's daughter was  speaking on the telephone as an ominous cloud formed. As a precaution, I had her end the call and within a couple of minutes, a tree near the corner of our house took a hit from top to bottom.  The voltage continued down the embankment just outside her window.  The furrow was deep, wide and long enough that I could have planted a small vegetable garden.  

   Well, what do you know, maybe there are occasions to take mom's counsel.

    Take care . . . you never know when it will be 'raining cats and dogs'.

     Satchel

    
    
       

Can you 'make music'?

        How I wish that I could play a musical instrument !

       In previous posts I have written about my appreciation of several genres of music, how I have no rhythm, how even Stan Brown with his great talent and patience could not overcome my limitations and teach me to play the banjo, how I cannot carry a tune in the proverbial bucket, etc.  I also wrote with awe about the talents of Stan, Everette, Willard, Julie, Odell and several other friends.  

    Last week we visited the pottery of our friend, Al, in Seagrove, North Carolina, hailed by many as the ' Pottery Capital of the World'. (Several members of his family are also renown potters.)  Al is something of a Renaissance Man.  Not only world-class potter, he has been a Registered Pharmacist, fiddler extraordinaire, and now he is crafting beautiful instruments.  (If interested, put your search engine on Fiddlin' Al McCanless. And, no, this is neither a requested nor reimbursed commercial.  Al is unaware of this writing.)

      I did not know J.B. Prince who died this past week.  He was a friend and mentor to many musicians.  He was only 58 at his death.  My wife remembered him as a youthful prodigy (although he disliked the term) who sometimes played with the Bluegrass Experience, a band co-founded by her deceased husband.

     Today I preached at a nearby church while the minister is away. Greeting folks after the service, I fell into conversation with Bobby Gales whose family I had known from long ago.  When I told him that he plays 'a mean banjo' (that's a compliment, meaning he plays it well), he said, "Well, it's a mean instrument to try to play sometimes."

    These recent occurrences have reminded me of how I wish I could play . . . and particularly what someone has termed a portable instrument.  My parents paid for me to have piano lessons for seven years, although truthfully (as I wrote earlier), I had one year seven times.  My Uncle Frank Durham played guitar very well.  In the 1920's, he and a group of his friends formed a band called "The Chatham Rabbits" and occasionally performed on WPTF radio in Raleigh.  Why, I now wonder, did I not ask this kind and patient man to help me learn to play.  While largely disinterested in piano practice, had I given just a portion of that time to Uncle Frank's tutelage . . . well, I can dream, can't I?

    Actually, before I became enamored with string instruments, I had made another brief effort at 'portable musicianship'.  I wanted to learn to play bagpipes.  One of my colleagues in the Music Department began a class for learning to play the Chanter as prelude to playing the bagpipes.  He assured us that once we had mastered the fingering on the chanter, we could learn how to inflate the 'windbag'.  After a few lessons, it became obvious that I had three thumbs on each hand, and that was that for talent.

      Retrospectively, it has likely been a good thing for relationships that I do not play that instrument. Hearing bagpipe music is largely an acquired taste for many.  Once I saw a lone piper playing just off a busy highway near Duke University.   I wondered if spouse, friends, family, landlords or someone else had 'suggested' he take his pipes and go elsewhere.

     'Wisdom' would indicate that I make peace with the fact that my  fingers can not decipher the code. At least I can 'pat my foot' as long as no one notices that I don't quite have the  beat.

      Satchel
    

William wants a doll . . .

           "Free to be you and me" was an early 1970's project of stories and songs by then-current celebrities "to encourage post-1960's gender neutrality, saluting values such as individuality, tolerance, and comfort with one's identity.  A major thematic message is that anyone -whether a boy or a girl -can achieve anything." (Wikipedia)  One song by Rosey Grier, "It's Alright to Cry", I sometimes play for my male clients.

       Another favorite is "William Wants a Doll" sung by Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda ("Hawkeye" of MASH). Young William at five years of age announced that his choice for a birthday present was a doll.  Somewhat aghast, mom and dad attempted to steer him towards more 'gender appropriate' toys such as baseball bats and gloves.  While William liked these, they were not his request.  Peers also  teased and berated him.  Finally, Grandmother pointed out that he wanted a doll so that he could learn how to be a father.
One later critic asked why it was not o.k. for him to have a doll simply because he wanted a doll.  (These videos are readily available on YouTube.)

     The 'acculturation' of young boys to be real boys begins early ... often with the result of squelching and shaming their ability to experience what are usually regarded as feminine traits, such as tenderness, empathy, dependency, receptivity.  In their stead, we are encouraged, overtly and subtly, to value competitiveness, externalizing or outright denying our emotions, and bravery (or bravado ?).  The therapist, Terrence Real, calls this a form of trauma that begins early.  In his book, How Can I Get Through to You?: Reconnecting Men and Women, he cited a study that  indicated that boys and girls til the age of four or five "rest comfortably in the 'expressive-affiliative mode'" with girls being allowed to remain there longer while boys are subtly - or  - forcibly pushed out of it. (p. 123) (Young girls have yet another form of trauma that can move them away from their true selves.)  While it is o.k. for young girls, say 8-12, to be called Tomboy, think of the negative cultural connotations of calling a young boy, Sissy.  There have been many long-term effects of this process, which Real calls emotional amputations.

     So, back to the matter of little boys and dolls . . .  The late author, Reynolds Price, wrote of gifts received on his fourth Christmas. "Santa" brought  what Price termed "an odd array" that included an Indian outfit complete with Headdress, a Shirley Temple doll, as well as an imitation double-barreled shotgun.
There was also an unrequested "and perhaps as a slightly unnerved nudge toward manhood" midget car.  At that time an only child, he frequently told Shirley his "private woes".  (pp.94-96 of his Feasting the Heart).

    Some (much?) of the cultural objection to allowing young boys such "feminine" toys as dolls is homophobia.  While Price as an adult readily acknowledged that he was indeed homosexual, having a Shirley Temple doll was hardly a "cause".  And, what, then, of straight, heterosexual men such as my brother and I who had dolls in our early years.  Mine was Nancy Jane by now long lost but who bore a strong resemblance to the one at the top of this post.  My brother had (and still has) Bob Junior.  Along the way, we each received our share of masculine toys.  In addition, to those pictured below, I recall the complete football uniforms another brother and I received one Christmas when we were pre-teen.

The next Christmas. I have vague memories of this.

Probably age 3.  Note the boots and goggles

      But no pictures of Nancy Jane have been located.  I hope that she is doing well, wherever she may be.  She played an important part in my early years.


     Satchel  (my first name really is William)

"Everything nailed down is coming loose"

            "EVERYTHING   NAILED  DOWN  IS  COMING LOOSE"

      So lamented the angel Gabriel in the play, Green Pastures.
Looking down on all the chaotic and contentious conduct of mortals, he often implored the Almighty to let him blow his trumpet and put an end to the whole sorry mess of the human experiment.  Each time the Lawd instructed him, 'not yet'.
Hence the angel's lament.

    If Ecclesiastes is correct that 'there is nothing new under the sun',
Gabriel's observation foreshadowed many repetitions.  Fifty-two years ago (almost to this date), American scholar Marshall Fishwick wrote in The Saturday Review (6/29/63) about the "ever fluctuating formula of history".  He sought to identify 'changeless things' within that phenomenon. A year later, Bob Dylan wrote the anthem of the '60's, The Times They are a Changing. Then, of course, there followed 'Nam, assassinations, the pill, political upheavals, Woodstock and events forever associated with that era. 

    If there is a constant within the human story it is change.  And, CHANGE provokes an array of human reactions and responses (not necessarily the same thing. But that for another time.)  Things can seem to rock along with hardly a ripple for extended periods and then comes a tipping point and nothing is ever the same thereafter.

    The past two weeks rank among the more transitional in recent times. Predictably, voices and opinions across the political, religious and social  spectrum have either applauded or attacked. 

    Perhaps the 'tipping point' was the nine murders at the Charleston Bible Study. Despite what some pundits allege, this was not an attack on 'Religion' even given the venue in which it occurred.  Subsequent information makes clear that it was motivated by racial hatred.

    "Take down the flag" has been a significant aftermath.  Whatever else the 'Stars and Bars' may have meant in the 1860's (and to me as an academically trained historian, it was racial at its core even though many Confederate soldiers owned no slaves), since World War II the banner has become the symbol for opposition to civil rights.  Well overdue, politicians and other public figures have discovered the hurtfulness which that symbol carries for substantial numbers of the human race.

    Then this week in rapid succession, the Supreme Court of the United States  issued opinions on two polarizing subjects . . . 'Obamacare' and 'Same Sex Marriage'.  I think the word obfuscation aptly defines much of what has since occurred : "a practice that is used to intentionally make something more difficult to understand".  (This from the on-line dictionary Tech Target).  Honest differences of opinion are essential for a free society.  But, good grief, there has  been a lot of name-calling, holier-than- thou, and finger-pointing posturing, as well as just plain hypocrisy by many.

    In his book, The True Believer,  the late Eric Hoffer noted that "hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all unifying agents."  In hearing and reading much of the rhetoric of recent days, I am hard-pressed not to see much demonizing occurring. And, I have no doubt that electioneering 'speeches' and posturing raise the temperature.

    Unquestionably, throughout our relatively short history, citizens and residents of the United States of America have experienced a quality and quantity of life's gifts quite different from those known in other parts of the world.  Out of that grew the notion of "American Exceptionalism" . . . that somehow America was God's chosen and special place.  While I am grateful to have lived my life here and consider myself 'patriotic',  I still find such a notion of extra God-blessed-ness rather arrogant. Yet, there it is from many of those who say things such as 'God is going to get us' because of this or that decision.  Contrary to a lot of mis-interpretation, this country specifically was not founded as a 'Christian' nation.  I think it was H.L. Mencken who observed that "patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel"  --- hardly the same as implying that all patriots are rascals

    When I was in Graduate School for my History PhD, one course in particular sought to examine the currents and counter-currents of the American 1920's . . . a particularly "things coming loose" era. (My major professor, George Mowry, published an aptly title book of that time, Fords, Flappers and Fanatics.) Along with all the changes occurring in those years, Professor Miller also called attention to the many reactionary events.  Likening society to a "package", he adroitly noted that for many, "the looser the package, the greater the need to tie the strings tighter," implying 'nail them down'.

      Where, then, is there an 'anchor' in the midst of all this . . . without being either simplistic or Pollyanna-ish ?  We deceive ourselves if we deny that there is a 'force', a 'vested interest', call it what you might, that is Evil and deeply institutionally intertwined.
Something on the Internet caught my eye today: a tad overly optimistic but at least a good beginning: "We don't have to agree on anything to be kind to one another."  And, at least in many facets of life, "live and let live" does not mean 'selling out' of values.  Somethings are very much in the public interest or domain . . Racism being a huge one.  In other matters, somethings are just none of my (and perhaps your) business.

   Satchel

       

GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN . . ..

    "Getting there is half the fun", or so proclaimed a travel commercial of long ago.  I think I even remember seeing it posted on the MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority . . . the Boston subway system) cars around 1960.  Even then, on that conveyance, I knew the slogan did not exactly fit.

Now, this really was a Fun Ride !
White Pass Railroad
Skagway, Alaska

   








  A friend once called this blog my  "3 M's".  "Mutterings" was included in the name because I realized that occasionally there would likely be things about which I might want to 'mutter', i.e., complain. 'Kvetch', if you prefer it in Yiddish.  And, while I do not consider myself a 'kvetcher' by nature, occasionally this dormant  side of my being comes to the fore.  So it was over the past couple of weeks when we went on our  second Alaskan cruise within the past three years.  This time, however, we opted to add several days on land and head North into Denali National Park.

       I do not consider myself a 'white-knuckle' flyer; still, flying  Economy class in a 'stump jumper' (as smaller aircraft are  sometime labelled) does not add to 'the fun'. At six feet in height, I am not 'large'; nor am I tiny.  When the dimensions for seats and the space between seats were determined, foremost in the designers minds was not the comfort of passengers of my stature and larger.  This discomfort has happened on previous trips; but this time, the image of sardines in a small can became vivid.  After the couple hours flight to Toronto, the 'real fun' began with the five hour jaunt to Vancouver.  I had remembered it as more like  10-12 hours, but a check of the itinerary corrected the 'fun' distortion.

     The time on the ship went well overall.   Upon disembarking, the 8+  hour bus ride to Denali added more  posterior challenges.  The next day, the six or  so hours on a bus 'safari' into the Park were mitigated by the beauty of Denali (Mt. McKinley) and the numerous wildlife sightings.  The most comfortable and spacious ride of the entire time was the four hour train ride back towards Anchorage.

Best ride of entire trip

 Even so, that journey required yet another couple of hours on a bus (only slightly larger than airplane seating accommodations).

     Now it was time to 'get home' and I did not realize how much 'fun' lay in store.  Perhaps there should be a prohibition of persons over seventy years of age riding the 'Red Eye', late night flights. Looking for a place in the overhead bins for our carry-ons, I missed but my wife overheard a Flight Attendant  say, "Get your hands off our stuff."  Perhaps not a good portent of things to come.
There were thirty-two and one-half rows of  seats; we were on Row 33 . . . just in front and across from the toilets and maybe five feet from the Flight attendants gathering area.  And, they gathered --- often, and not quietly.  There was little sleep during those six plus hours. 

    But the most 'fun' of the entire trip was still to come. When we reached Chicago, we learned from the family in front of us that their flight number  to our common destination differed from ours and that there were only a couple of minutes in departure times from a gate  different from ours. In that our flight had been booked several months  prior to theirs, we sought clarification from ticket agents.  The initial response was that indeed there were two nearly concurrent flights to Raleigh.  When I approached the ticket counter, the agent told me that she was about to begin the boarding for a flight and please come back in ten minutes.  When her task was completed and I returned to the counter, she told me that she couldn't assist me and to return when another agent arrived.  A check of the departure board provided no definitive clarification.  In the meantime, she and a couple of her co-workers stood at the station and seemingly enjoyed talking about how they had dealt with an obnoxious person on the previous flight,

    In time, another agent appeared to be setting up for the flight to Raleigh-Durham.  What transpired next was inexcusable.  Before I could even make my request for clarification, she launched into a condescending diatribe ("I'm not talking to you. I don't have to talk to you until one hour before the flight leaves. Check the departure board")  There was no one else there asking for her time and assistance.   Well, neither she nor any other agent was there until twenty-five minutes before boarding time. As of yet, we did not know the status of our flight, time, gate,when we could expect to be home, etc.  Again, she was surly. We learned that we were at the correct location when she tersely asked for my photo ID, then my wife's.  She muttered something to the effect that our original flight number was now  for a flight to Dallas. I never bothered to check that out. (Confirming that  small piece of data took about ten seconds.)When she took our I.D. cards prior to printing the boarding passes, she virtually slammed them down onto the desk.  Another passenger, after dealing with her, said to no one in particular,  "so much for customer service !"

Is this the part where we have 'Fun' ??

        For next year's vacation, I am lobbying for  camping in our backyard.  In that way, the only airborne entities of concern will be the mosquitoes.

     Satchel

   
      

      

Family in the Military

Some names and faces that perhaps have parallels within your own:

Bob 

Ken

Lewis

Morris

Wade

Jack, on left, the immigrant's son, in WWI

Sam

Jack

Worth and Daughter 1945

Billy

Phil, second from right,front row. Many years after Khe Sanh

Den in his first uniform 1943.
(Yes, his hair is long.  Read blogpost "Shave and a Haircut".)
Picture of him in Saigon is MIA

Den with wife and first child, 1970

"Battle of Fort Jackson" 1962

Memorial Day . . . it conjures all kinds of imagery and memories.  In more recent times, it is taken as the unofficial beginning of Summer . . . 'the Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer'.  This weekend will be filled with cookouts, large retail salestravaganza's, ballgames, trips to the beach; for many, a time not to have to report to 'the job'.

    Those kinds of events, however, do not lie at the origins of Memorial Day.  Wikipedia has a good account of the origins on the observance.  A key distinction is made between Memorial Day which is for persons who died while serving and Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day, November 11) which is set aside for recognition of all who served in the military.

    During World War II, I learned a new term, "Gold Star Mother" . . . for those women who had had children to die while on active duty.  Our family experienced such a loss.  I have written on an earlier post ("For Whom the Bell Tolls") about the death of my Uncle Bob in a B-29 crash in 1944.  Soon thereafter, a small flag appeared in my grand-parents' window with three stars, one for each of their sons in the military.  Two stars were white, the other, gold.

    As Memorial Day approached, I was reminded again of that post and from that I remembered that several other members of our family have spent time in uniform . . . some in harm's way; others, like myself, not so. Still, it was time away from our civilian lives given, we believed, for a high purpose. . . being prepared to protect and defend our country.  Since it is still six months or so until November and Veterans' Day, I decided to proceed naming my relatives who have served.  (I need to note that there were many others, like my dad and younger brother, who were willing to serve but were disqualified when they failed the physical exam.)

    Mom had three brothers  on active duty during World War II.  In addition to Bob, there was Ken who enlisted in the Navy after his brother's death and was deployed to the Pacific, notably to Guam. Lewis was in the Aleutian Islands. There is somewhere a newspaper clipping with a photograph of him and his squad on patrol duty, guarding against possible Japanese incursions.  Additionally, her brother-in-law, Morris, was deployed to Newfoundland.  Uncle Wade served stateside.

    At least one of my paternal grand-father's siblings, Jack, was in World War I.  In the 1950's, two of dad's siblings ... Sam and Jack  (the namesake) . . . were in the Army.  After the above picture was made, Uncle Sam ( I have a real 'Uncle Sam') earned a commission and completed his stint as an officer.  Jack told me of his experience when in Basic Training of having his officer brother visit him, to the amazement of his friends who saw him enjoying a conversation with an officer.  Jack spent some of his enlistment in Germany.

     My wife's father,Worth, served in the Navy in World War II.  My brother-in-law, Billy, served three years in the US Army, much of that time in Germany during the 1970's.

    Two family members were in Vietnam. Lewis's son, Phil, my cousin, was a medic and was wounded at the Battle of Khe Sanh. My brother, Dennis, spent time as an Orthopedic Surgeon at Saigon General Hospital during that time and was promoted to Major prior to his discharge. They both saw some horrendous stuff.

   I am somewhat embarrassed to speak of my military experience within the context of those named here.  I passed the Air Force Officer Training School Exam and Navigator Exam only to flunk the physical exam the following day.  "You could have eye surgery and try again later", the examiner told me.  I decided not to have a scapel (or whatever instrument might be used) for this procedure with unknown outcomes.  So, in 1962, I enlisted in the Reserves with an Army Aviation company.  After basic training, I did  OJT in aircraft dispatch.  Within a month of my leaving active duty, my outfit, the only Army Aviation company in the state, was dissolved and the men reassigned. There being no aircraft to dispatch, I was placed on Inactive Duty which meant no weekly drills,no two-week Summer camp.  It was a total  fluke.

    Perhaps the time for a universal military draft has long since passed. While I hardly consider myself a "Hawk", I am grateful for the service of these other men pictured above.
Many families had variations of this same story. Recently I saw statistics of US casualties in each conflict since World War I. Whether it's Memorial Day or Veterans' Day, the issue is not to glorify war but appreciation for those who served.

     Satchel (E-1)


    

"SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT . . . "

          "You've had a haircut," my friend said. "No, I had several of them cut", I answered.  He missed the lame joke.  Saw my barber (not stylist) today. (Well, actually he exceeds 'barber' skills. It's just that my 'style' is relatively easy to maintain.) While I marveled at the pile of grey hair on the floor, I did enjoy the warm shampooing afterwards.  (Lots of itchy hairs down my shirt collar always was a dismaying aftermath of a haircut.)

      According to Wikipedia, barbering has had several specialties over the centuries.  Once called Barber-surgeons, they offered services, including several 'medical specialties', in addition to trimming the tonsures.  The abandoned practice of blood-letting, once considered top of the line treatment for various maladies, lies at the history of the barber pole . . . Red for blood, white for bandages and blue for the veins.

     In the small towns of my youth, along with the traditional 'shave and a haircut, two  bits' (25 cents), of that ditty's fame, many shops offered hot showers and shoe shines. (One of my first 'public jobs' was shining shoes in Mr. Lewter's shop in the late 1940's. Fee ? 25 cents.) He did not assess me a space rental fee. I suppose that I was a kind of add-on bonus for his well-groomed customers, especially on Saturdays.  One of my younger brothers plied the same trade in our uncle's shop several years later.

     At that time, barber shops were essentially a male domain . . . except for the occasional mother who would bring in a son for his first trim.  Along with providing grooming service, they were community centers for information, misinformation, rumors and gossip.  Herb Shriner, a humorist of another generation, remarked that life was so slow in his small town that on Saturday nights, folks would gather at the barber shop 'to watch a couple of haircuts'. 

'Watching a few haircuts' at Kilroy's shop ca. 1970's

     Mr. Pickard, a barber with whom I was  acquainted in the 1950's, could on occasion be bombastic and profane.  Local lore had it that one day as each customer would leave his shop, 'Pick' would proceed to gossip mercilessly about that person. . . until one customer who had just had his haircut resumed a seat in the waiting area.  "What in the *&%$#()& are you still doing here?"  The customer allegedly replied that having heard what happened to the earlier patrons, he was not leaving to be talked about.

    My Uncle Lewis was a multi-talented man, capable of doing most anything that caught his interest.  During World War II, he
became a self-taught barber in his group.  After the War, he went to the state licensing office and was told that he would have to go through a formal training program.  He replied to the effect that he did not have time for that and somehow persuaded someone to let him demonstrate his skills, whereupon he was licensed.  His shop in the mill village was a long-time gathering place for many of the karakters there.

Uncle Lewis shaves his brother, Ken, in this 1949 photograph from the Durham, NC newspaper.

        My brother who shined shoes in Lewis's shop had become very fond of our uncle when just a wee thing.  So strong was the attachment that he insisted to our parents that he be allowed to wait until Lewis returned from military duty so he could give him his first haircut. Consequently, he had lots of long curls at his initial 'shearing'. 

     Probably my most memorable haircut occurred in July 1962 at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, when I entered the US Army. While I knew what 'style' would be coming, I was still  a bit surprised when the 'barbers' would occasionally ask a recruit how he wanted his hair cut, then proceed to skin his head.  Grown men were seen crying.  The only other 'style' that came close was that worn by a  neighboring elderly gentleman whose wife placed a bowl on the top of his head and cut around it, leaving him with a somewhat bizarre appearance.

Fort Jackson, South Carolina; Summer 1962

     The price of a trim has risen along with other necessities.  I do remember when  twenty-five cents was indeed the 'going rate'.  Now, it's more like twenty dollars where I live.  A once  prominent politician from our region caught lots of negative publicity as a result of his purportedly $400 haircut.  I wonder if that kind of thing was in  Garrison Keillor's mind when he wrote that "beauty isn't worth thinking about; what's important is your mind. You don't want a fifty-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head."

     And, speaking of fifty-cent heads and thoughts that proceed therefrom: 'Kilroy' has been a barber in this area for many years.  Now, he apparently has encountered some sort of mindless bureaucracy.  I'll let my brother tell it ( from a column he regularly writes in  the local paper.): He noted that Cadle (his real name) had initially operated his shop in the building where Uncle Lewis once practiced his trade. Then, about 37  years ago, he built a new  structure just up the road. "His shop was open at night when many folks who work during the day find it convenient to have their ears lowered. . . . In the meantime, he continued to work at the original shop [about 8 miles away], never having the two open at the same hour.  Then came the word a few weeks ago that he was apparently engaging in some nefarious activity that would doom the world as we know it. The state Barber Board - or whatever the official title is - said 'You can't do that.'  As far as I've been able to learn the reason given was one barber couldn't operate two shops. My friend appealed, asking if he couldn't be 'grandfathered in'.  Nope. One barber can't operate two shops. So, thanks to a nameless shadow in a cubicle somewhere in Raleigh [the state capital], 37 years of time, money, sweat, good will and community service is in the tank."  

Talk about'bloodletting'.

   "Next".

        Satchel






     

". . . if you don't hear yourself write"

      "How are you going to know what you are thinking if you don't hear yourself talk?"  So the late Dr. Vernon Wall, my counselor back in the 1970's sometimes challenged his introverted client (me).  And even now as a therapist, I am sometimes surprised by something that I didn't know that I thought until I heard myself saying it.

      Sometimes writing can provide the same kinds of awareness.  Vernon invited me to write an interpretive narrative of my life . . . all 38 years of it at the time. Didn't know I thought some of those things til I saw them on paper. (No PC's then) Though that document has been sparingly shared with others, it still remains somewhere  within the 'archives'.  Not exactly a blog by any stretch . . . although  occasionally I see things on internet blogs that seem to me to be much more personal and appropriately private.

     Writing a blog for a bit more than two years, I often wonder about my "why's" : 'it is less expensive than therapy'; it provides an opportunity for  'thinking aloud'; and there are family stories that I can share with my contemporaries as well as 'the next generation'.  And, occasionally, I receive feedback indicating that particularities in my writing resonate with someone else's experiences.

   From curiosity, I put my search engine on various kinds of blogs ... by states, regions, professions,  interests, etc. There are blogs about: food, cooking, camping, midlife, aging, . . . Noting all those writers, I wondered 'who is reading this stuff ?'  And, Wikipedia has an entry about the history of the  Blog.

   Currently, I read a dozen or so blogs. Some authors are kinspersons or friends.  A few  I have just stumbled upon.  In no particular order, here are those that I read with some consistency:

   .Clear Eyes, Full Heart, Grace as it finds me.  My colleague, Russell Jones.

   .johnbrowe.com ...Dreams and Other Mysteries. By a former colleague

   .jmh4043.blogspot.com ... "a blog about personal dimensions of learning, schooling, home and family life." I wish he posted more often.

    ."Blogger:UserProfile:RisingSong".  I located this one while searching "EMDR blogs" since I use EMDR as a modality for treating trauma.  Note: this person sometimes tells her recovery experiences in rather direct narrative. 

   .burrissblog.wordpress.com  by a pastor whom I know. His reflections on Christian faith and life.

   .CaringBridge.org.  Site for Kirstin Hoff.  My daughter's account of her battle with breast cancer.

   .www.edwardhays.com/haystack-blog. "haphazard thoughts on the invisible and visible mysteries of life"

   .http://swimmingwithoutthemanual.com.  A single mom's experiences.

   .theweatheredshepherd.com.  Reflections of a Moravian Bishop.

   .Harrell F. Beck blog.  "The Wisdom of Harrell Beck".  Harrell was a major influence in my life.  He died in 1987; however, some of his former students   periodically post snippets of his writings and reflections.

    .Charles F. Price.  Visit his website and select 'blog'. Charles is a former fraternity brother, now fulfilling life long dream of writing for publication.

     What might you "hear yourself say" were you to write of your interests and observations ?

     Satchel

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE FRONT PORCH ?

            "Form  follows  function.'
                   Frank Lloyd Wright

       Or, at least I think that it was Mr. Wright who uttered that architectural edict.  How something is used determines its shape.  Is that what he meant?  If so, then that can go far in explaining why few new houses have the almost 'sacred space' that was once a mainstay in this region . . . the front porch. On our block there are four houses with a stoop (or place to stand while waiting for someone to answer the doorbell). Six have what (with much generosity) can be called a 'porch', though none have those requisite staples of a 'real' front porch . . .   a swing and rocking chairs.

     We spent a few hours with my brother's family this afternoon. His porch has both swing and chairs. Unfortunately, Springtime  has taken a brief vacation and the temperature was too chilly for front-porch-sitting, swinging and story-telling. (Please, 'storytelling' in this context does not mean 'telling lies' but telling tales, many of them truthful, and told again for the 'first time'.)

    In my youth, I enjoyed "settin' a spell" on several front porches.  One of my memories from the early 1940's is of waiting in our swing to see dad come up our walkway from the cotton mill where he worked.  A few years later after moving to another town, I did a lot of Tom Sawyer and Zane Grey reading in another swing.  Sitting on porches at my maternal grand-parents and at dad's sister's , not only did I hear a lot of family stories but I also realized that I was surrounded by much love. 

    Perhaps it has been the overall pace and tempo of life that hastened the demise of the porch. Or, maybe it was the advent of air-conditioning.  It does get 'toasty' around here for much of the year.  Sometime in the 1950's or 1960's, dwellings in so-called 'developments' began to change in appearance.  And, our street is a microcosm of that shift.  "Form" really has been influenced by "function".

Joseph sharing his rocker with Hundley the Hound

 

A Porch is a perfect spot for Wedding pictures




Satchel    

. . . OPPOSED TO MILLIONAIRES ?

        "I am opposed to millionaires but it would be dangerous to offer me the position."  So Mark Twain allegedly confessed.
Me, too, Mark.

         It's the season for jumping . . . no longer for  college basketball brackets . . . but for the BIG bucks.  Living near National Championship Duke Blue Devils, as well as a couple of other schools with high profile athletic programs, I have seen  much in area newspapers and other media about the 'One and Done' phenomenon of freshmen declaring themselves for the NBA draft.  At least among the Division I schools, the basketball programs seem to have become the 'farm system' for the professional teams.  

     What would you do as a 19 year old if a million + bucks were waved at you?  But in some way, that rather begs the question.  So much for the euphemism 'student athletes'.  Increasingly, money (and lots of it), drives athletic programs.  And, the likelihood of that changing, well . . .   Rare, I suspect, are the Tyler Hansbrough's, the talented collegiate who will stick around for his senior season to pursue a National Championship. He did that a few years back in the face of much second guessing by pundits.  In his case, UNC did win the Big prize in his last year and he subsequently turned pro.

    All this likely reflects the values of the larger society.  One of my history professors once noted that 'Bread and Circuses' were all that remained in the last days of the Roman Republic.  Most folks like being entertained more than being a participant.  Intramural athletics will hardly replace intercollegiate competitions nor will many teaching faculty draw the compensation package of coaches.

    Nor will very many 'small school' players get a shot at the pro's.  
I attended a small liberal arts college and later taught at another in the area.  Saw some of the worst and best games ever at those places.  One of my fraternity brothers was a unanimous 'Little All America'.  To my knowledge, no subsequent contract was offered. However, at our class's Fiftieth reunion a few years back, he told us that he was still playing in a league composed of Seventy-plus year olds.  And during my teaching career, that school's team was usually mediocre.  Then, a few years ago, their team pulled off a dramatic come-from-behind upset over a perennial powerhouse for a National Championship.  While one of those men (I think) later played with the Harlem Globetrotters, most of them went into 'athletic oblivion'.

     In my 'career', I never faced the 'wealth decision'.  When our family moved to a new town prior to my Junior year in high school, I made the varsity.  Never having played on an organized team, I spent most of my time sitting on the bench, getting into already- won or already- lost games.  Did not score all season long . . . until the final game when we trounced a cross-county school 77-27 . (Such matters seem to have lodged in my memory . . . along with my 18 points in that game.)  As an undergrad, I played without distinction on our fraternity intramural team.  Well, there was that one game against the Pika's that I hit three consecutive what-would-now-be three-pointers.  They immediately put a strong man- to-man coverage on me and that was the end of the glory.

     Mr. Twain was a somewhat wealthy man for his time.  Wonder what he would say about all the money being paid today to guys who run around in their skivvies and throw a small sphere at hole ten feet above the floor .

      Satchel

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