Big Rubber Bands

     Recently Kay and I were in Office Depot looking for new computers, hers had died and mine had long ago become antiquated. Kay being the computer pro talked to the technician while I wandered around looking at the mass of products offered by the store. As I roamed the isles I came across a blister pack of rubber bands, specifically "BIG" rubber bands, they were red in color and several were folded to fit the packaging. These were rubber bands designed to be placed around large items such as file folders.
     Now a memory materialized from the time I was in the fourth grade at Donelson Grammar school, the memory was flooded with the aroma of well oiled wood floors that creaked as you walked on them and a simpler life. I started attending school there in the third grade, my teacher was a Mrs. Webb who right away recognized my name and asked if my Dad's name was Bill, when I told her it was she told me that she had been one of his teachers when he was in school ( this was about 1956 and Dad attended school back in the 1930's ). Having taught Dad at sometime in his youth and now me was a tell for how old Mrs. Webb was at the time, she was a nice lady who was a customer of Dad's when I went to work in the grocery store at the age of thirteen, she always had a smile and kind words and if I was the one to carry her groceries to her car she would tip me a quarter. 
     The school was quite old at the time but well maintained, today it is a senior citizen center and one of the few landmarks from my youth still standing. It was a small school by today's standards but it had all of the amenities except air conditioning which we didn't need too often because we didn't attend school during the summer months. When the temperatures did rise into the uncomfortable zone we had tall windows that started about three feet off the floor and rose almost to the ceiling some nine or ten feet above, the windows could be opened from the top and bottom for air circulation providing there was a breeze.
     One of the problems with open air air conditioning was that unless you had screens installed, there were none, every thing that flew, floated or drifted on the air at some time came into the class room. So at one time or another we had seeds from dandy lion flowers, leaves in the fall, an occasional bird, butterflies and rain if we were not fast enough closing the windows. The most prolific of things to enter the classroom were flies, the common house fly that supposedly only lived for twenty four hours. Flies were everywhere at times and they seemed to be quite large. The teacher carried a fly swatter and us kids developed various means of eradicating them including the use of rubber bands.
     Us boys decided that the best way to rid the class room of flies was to kill them from a long distance so we tied several average sized rubber bands together and holding one end between your thumb and forefinger pulled back on the other end while taking aim at a fly. Once a target was acquired you let loose the back end of the string of rubber bands which flew straight to the target and splat went the fly.
     The only limits were the rubber bands themselves, the more you could tie end to end the farther you could reach out to kill the elusive fly who could evade slaughter if you got too close. Rubber bands were a premium item, they were a non essential item in most households, if they had any at all they were the ones the paperboy wrapped around the newspaper. As it turned out, I or rather my Dad had a remedy.
     Dad was a butcher and in the 1950's butchers wrapped special cuts of meat in brown butcher paper and secured it with large red rubber bands. These rubber bands were thicker than their smaller counterparts and longer, like maybe ten to twelve inches and two of them when tied together would stretch a good three feet. The power they delivered guaranteed a long distance kill and there were soon little red spots from the blood of the flies we killed spotting the windows, walls and various other surfaces of the classroom.
     I was an overnight sensation when I showed up for class armed with three of these monster rubber bands tied end to end, I was the envy of the other boys and they were willing to pay for such a deadly weapon, I amassed a small fortune selling rubber bands at two cents apiece until Dad figured out where his missing rubber bands were going.
     I look back to the simpler times of my youth and understand why so many people who have reached old age wish and even try to recapture their youth. It is hard to believe that a child of today would find a rubber band entertaining.
















   

Rest In Peace Aunt Jean

     One of the things about getting older is that it happens to every one. Every day that I get older so do my grandchildren, so do my friends and family, ageing is a consequence of life. The sad part of ageing is that at some point it comes to an end, you reach a time when you can go no further, your job here on earth is done - it's time to leave. For some of us the end comes sooner than we thought it would or would have liked, others of us are like that bunny in the energizer commercial that just keeps on going and going.
     I am the oldest in my family, the oldest grandson on one side, the oldest grandchild on the other. My memories go back a long way and include a multitude of family members who have passed on. I have reached a stage in my life where people I cared for are only memories and people I care for now could very well soon become memories, it is a fact of life.
     I grew up in a family that was close, actually I grew up in three close families, my own parents and four siblings, my fathers parents and his siblings and their families, likewise for my mothers family. We gathered sometimes on a weekly basis, I grew up with cousins, aunts and uncles galore.
     I can't say that I had a favorite cousin or aunt or uncle but I think I can say that I was closer to some than others. As for my aunts and uncles I loved them all and enjoyed seeing them whenever possible. Some were mysterious because I didn't see them as often due to their work or that they lived far away, some were fun to be around and some were simply likable people. For some of my aunts and uncles I invoked a special memory of a happy period in their lives. Sadly out of nine aunts and uncles and their spouses there remain only three.
     Uncle Henry Warren was married to Mom's youngest sister Sarah who was not much older than I or at least that was the way I remembered her. I remembered them dating when Granny and Grandpa Wade lived on North Water St. in Gallatin, Tn., I guess I was about ten or so. Aunt Sarah passed away some years back but Uncle Henry is still around, he has a great outlook on life.
     And then there is Uncle Paul, Mom's youngest brother. He was in the Navy back in the 50's and he would pop in and out when he was in the neighborhood, I don't know why but for some reason I seemed to have been a little closer to him than some of the others, our lives were entwined until Linda and I left Tn. in the late seventies, since then it has been a rather hit or miss relationship. Uncle Paul is quite a character and a bit of an eccentric and often speaks his mind but then he has earned the privilege having reached the age of 87 as of this writing ( 88 next month ).
     Now we come to Aunt Jean. Aunt Jean was married to mom's oldest brother RC, her full name was Norma Jean and I for whatever reason always called her Aunt Norma when I was growing up, Linda called her Aunt Jean and because of that I fell into the habit. I don't know all of the particulars but I do know that during World War 2 Uncle RC and Aunt Jean wound up in California and when the war was over they stayed and made their home there. We didn't see them very often, sometimes it would be years before they would come home for a visit and it was usually for just a week or two. When I was in the Navy and stationed in San Diego Linda and I would go up to LA and visit with them and when we lived in Sacramento we got together a few times. I guess that Aunt Jean took a liking to Linda, she would always call her on her birthday and talk, if I was home I would get in on the conversation.
     When Uncle RC retired he and Aunt Jean came home to Gallatin and when he passed away she stayed on for a while, Linda and I would go for a visit every now and then. She returned to California a few years back to be closer to her daughters and grandchildren but the phone calls still came every birthday even after Linda had passed she called me.
     I hadn't heard from Aunt Jean in some time so while I was at a cousins reunion last year I asked about her, cousin Sally said she had died but Uncle Paul said no and got her on the phone. Sadly it was the last time I talked with her as I was told the other day she had passed away. Her daughters are returning her ashes to Gallatin to be laid to rest with Uncle RC. She was a beautiful lady and I will miss her.
     The older you get the more of your past turns to memories, it is all a part of the ageing process. The early years of my life have long ago turned to memories I guess that is why I hold on to them so tightly.

Fishing with Matthew

     I have been waiting for the time to come when Danny and I would take Matthew on his first fishing trip and yesterday, August 11, 2018, was the day. Matthew is three and a half years old now and time was wasting.
     I hooked up the boat and drove over to their house to pick up Danny and Matthew. When I got there Matthew and MJ were upstairs in the play room and after several attempts to call them down I went up to get them, when I opened the door I saw wall to wall toys scattered across the floor, everything from cars to trains and dolls. The mess reminded me of Linda's efforts to get the boys to clean their rooms, on one occasion Danny spent an hour cleaning his room after which Linda looked in and saw that not much had changed but Danny was proud of the fact that there was now a path thru the mess on the floor, MJ and Matthew are their fathers children.
     We got Matthew loaded up and off we went to the lake, Matthew quickly feel asleep in his car seat.
     When we got to the boat ramp we got Matthew into his life jacket and started getting the boat ready to launch. I lifted him into the boat and climbed in, Danny backed us into the water and I started the engine and backed out. I looked down at Matthew who was holding tight to his water bottle and the leg of my shorts. I asked him if he was having fun and he said "I afraid, I want to go home ".
     Danny got in the boat and had a seat next to Matthew as I slowly drove off into the lake, Danny talked to him and even held him as I picked up speed. We didn't go far before we stopped, Matthew was a little bit more at ease but he still wanted to hold to one of us. It was about this time that I remembered that silly Grandpa had forgotten to get any worms for bait so we had to turn around. I left Danny and Matthew in the boat while I went looking for bait, on returning Matthew was still in the boat with Dad but he hadn't moved from his seat.
     We eased over to a spot close by and started fishing, I caught one and Matthew was somewhat impressed but he didn't want to touch it. Danny baited Matthews hook with a wriggling worm all the time telling Matthew all about the process but Matthew didn't show much interest. He did however hold his rod  and worked the handle as he rewound the line but then he would tell Danny " you do it ". After a while we found a couple of spots and Matthew was able to get a Bream or Blue Gill on the hook and he did stand up in the boat but wouldn't move from the spot in front of his seat.
     I found a blue plastic ball floating in the water and picked it up, Matthew was quite excited with it as blue was a favorite color. By the end of the day Matthew was still a little unnerved by the whole experience, he was awake for the ride back and we stopped at the Dairy Queen for lunch.
     Overall Matthew's  first fishing trip was not that impressive to him, when he got home he was more interested in showing Mom the blue ball that Grandpa found in the water. As for me I was happy to be out on the water with my boys, over time Matthew may take to fishing or maybe not, as long as he is happy and healthy that works for me.

Book of Memories

     When Danny was not quite 2 years old he started making sounds, of course Linda knew exactly what he was saying but to me goo goo still sounded like goo goo. Linda's mom would often come for a visit and play with him. One day she was teaching Danny to talk and recognize colors at the same time. I don't know whose idea it was but mom or Linda set up a tape player nearby. Mom was working on the color blue, she would patiently point to the color in a book and say "blue". Danny as young as he was would pucker his lips in an attempt to copy grandma but the best he could do was "bue" his L's didn't come in for some time.
     When Clay reached the same age getting anything that sounded like words out of him was like pulling teeth, grunts and groans were his vocabulary. Danny seemed to be the only one who could decipher Clay's guttural language and he did very well too. When Clay didn't start talking by age two or two and a half Linda grew concerned and took him to a doctor. After a thorough check up the doctor diagnosed the big brother syndrome and explained that as long as Danny was around interpreting Clay's  needs then Clay had no need to talk. We solved the problem by telling Danny he had to let Clay tell us what he wanted, this was a problem in its' on because Danny loved to talk.
 
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     There are times that I have stuck my foot in my mouth and I can tell you it is not the most tasty of things you want to chew on and the results of my foot and mouth desease was never my finest hour. One such time happened some 35 years ago and if Clay remembers the incident I want to make amends.
     It all came about in 1985, my dad was dying from cancer and I had quit my job in Kansas to help the family. Linda I and the kids loaded up everything we owned and came back to Nashville. Linda and the kids stayed with her sister Vicky across town and I stayed with mom. Dad had undergone some serious of radiation and maybe even chemo, the result being that when I saw him in the hospital he looked years older than his 62 years and he didn't recognize me. Dad was not yet dead but I felt as if he were already gone.
     It was several weeks before Dad finally succumbed to his illness, there were nights that we held a vigil with him all night. Dad was the first person I had ever seen die before my eyes and it hit me hard. 

     Every now and then I would go to see Linda and the kids. This one particular night I walked in and Linda gave me a hug and kiss, I was feeling down and her arms felt good. We sat in Vicky's living room and talked when Clay rushed in and stood in front of me and asked if he had been a good boy. Till this day I don't know why but I said no. Clay cried out and quickly ran up stairs crying his heart out, Linda quickly ran after him to console him. I never knew what Linda said and Clay was OK the next time I saw him.
     All this happened a long time ago and I doubt Clay remembers but I do. I have no excuses only a remembrance that pops up now and again. I'm sorry Clay, you never disappointed me you were always a good boy.

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     Back when I worked for the bank I took on the north Alabama area more specifically the cities of Sheffield and Muscle Shoals. Back then I liked to end my day with a cold beer.
     My first day in Muscle Shoals was long and hot and on my way to the motel I stopped at a convenience store to pick up a six pack. When I entered the store I headed straight to the coolers and proceeded to open every door, I drew the attention of the clerk who politely ask if he could be of any help. When I asked where the beer was he laughed and said "buddy this is a dry county, the closest beer is back at the Tennessee state line ", I grabbed a cold coke instead and went to the motel.
     When I got to the motel I called a banker I knew and after bringing him up to date on my days work I told him about my visit to the convenience store. Being the good friend he was he gave me a phone number and half an hour later I was sweetening my coke with a pint of cheap bourbon that was delivered to my door.
     The next day I was back at it calling on people who were past due, one of these people owned and operated a local garage / service station, one of his biggest customers were the Alabama State Troopers who were in and out of there every day. It was late when I stopped in and made contact with the man, he turned out to be quite friendly and we struck up a conversation in which I told him about my fiasco at he convenience store the day before. He laughed and asked if I wanted a cold beer and I said sure, he walked over to a coke machine that stood against the side of the building and inserted a quarter and punched the button for a brand of beverage nobody ever wanted and out came a can of cold Coors beer. During the 1970's Coors beer was only made in Colorado and for some reason was not allowed to be sold east of the Mississippi River but here we were in Muscle Shoals, Alabama and it was stocked in vending machines. My customer explained that this was another revenue stream for him and once a month he would drive a twenty foot box truck to Dallas, Texas and fill it up with Coors and resell it at a premium price because it was something people wanted but couldn't get but just had to have.
     So much for Muscle Shoals being in a dry county.
   


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     The other night we had some pretty severe thunder storms in the area, the lightning flashed brightly followed by loud claps of thunder that shook the windows. The next day I noticed that Danny posted to his face book page that Matthew became scared during the storm and Danny had to console him, to a three year old sometimes words don't help as much as a pair of strong arms holding you tight.
     The post brought back memories from when Danny was two years old, he didn't like the thunder any more than Matthew. We lived in Florida then and thunder storms were often a daily affair. When the storms occurred Danny would would come running from where ever he was in the house and seek the comfort of Linda's or my arms. I remember one day when I was sitting on the couch he was playing on the floor in front of me when the first loud clap of thunder rattled the windows. The next thing I knew Danny was in my lap with his arms around my neck and his face buried in my shoulder. At two he had a limited vocabulary so he called the thunder "noise". With each clap of thunder he  squeezed my neck tighter and dug his feet into my belly as he attempted to climb higher onto my neck, after several claps he literally was wrapped around my neck and I had to pry him off. Try as I might I couldn't explain the thunder to him all I could do was hold him tight and tell him everything would be alright.
     I can only assume that as a youngster I too was probably afraid of the thunder, I can't remember back that far, I can only hope there was someone to hold me and tell me the "noise" would go away soon and everything would be alright.
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     As I have stated in previous stories, my Dad was of an older generation where men were expected to demonstrate certain attributes at all times, they were not to show any signs of weakness, they couldn't back down, they were the head of the house and all inhabitants were to pay them the respect due them and most important of all sentimentality  was a closely guarded trait.
     I left home when I turned 18, I had joined the Navy and was headed to boot camp. Dad, Mom and at least one of my siblings took me to the airport to see me off, I never looked back as I climbed the stairs to board the plane but I have been told that Dad's eyes did water up. When I returned home from boot camp I spent two weeks leave at home and then boarded a Greyhound bus to my first duty station. Again Dad and Mom were there to see me off, as the bus backed away from the curb there was Dad with tears rolling down his cheek. When I returned from my last trip to Vietnam and was discharged from the Navy I didn't get any hugs from he or Mom, we just sat down at the kitchen table and started talking as if I had never left.
     Two years later Linda and I bought our first house, Dad and my brother Ronnie were going to help me move but when I arrived to pick them up Dad was still in bed. Seems that one of Dad's friends had been over the night before and they had a few drinks, actually more than a few. The more Dad drank the more melancholy he became, he told his friend that I was moving away and he was upset that I was moving away, Mom said that he was starting to cry. His friend told him that it was a shame that kids just up and moved away with no consideration for the parents, so he then asked Dad where I was moving to and Dad told him Engelwood which was about 10 miles away. Dad's friend burst out laughing and told Dad that the way he was behaving he thought I was moving to California.
     I never heard my Dad tell me he loved me or that he was proud of me and he never hugged me but from time to time there were little things that reminded me that I was his son no matter what. When he passed away I closed his eyes then went and sat in the floor and cried.







   

Who Will Bring Them Flowers

     Last Sunday, May 20, 2018, Kay's brother Rick passed away, he was 69 years old.
     Being the youngest of the family, like Kay, you expect the older siblings to pass before you but that bit of knowledge doesn't make the passing any less painful. We were there for two days, close to tears one minute and laughing at a memory from long ago the next. Kay's family lived in Gainesville, Ga. most of their life and many old friends and distant relatives came to pay their respects and celebrate the life of Rick Kiser. I have known the members of Kay's family a short time, they welcomed me with open arms and from the first moment I met them I have never been a stranger in their home. I have attended their gatherings and listened to their stories of the past, I have heard their laughter and seen their tears. I look upon them as brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, I too feel the pain of Rick's passing - you will be missed Rick, rest in peace my brother.
     Kay and I took a break from the overwhelming joy and sorrow and went outside for some fresh air. We found a nice bench under an oak tree and sat down. The bench was next to a flat bronze grave marker with a removable flower vase which was holding a bouquet of silk flowers. My curiosity got the better of me and I read the names and dates on the marker, the husband was born in 1898 and died in the mid 1980's, the wife was born in 1902 and died in 1995.  I don't remember their names, they were nobody I knew so I had no knowledge of their lives  or family but they must have someone who still cares for them because there were flowers on the grave.
     I am 71 years old and have attended the funerals of several people that I loved and over the years I have seen a change in the way people look upon death. For centuries people were born, lived and died within a small area of their known world, it should not surprise you to know that many people as late as the 1930's and 40's never ventured farther than 50 miles from the place they were born. Generations of families were born and lived in the same community and family graveyards were not uncommon so when a loved one brought flowers for their spouse they probably brought along extras for mom and dad, granny and grandpa or maybe uncle Joe.
     After World War II families started moving around, my great grandfather, his two wives and youngest daughter are buried together but their sons and daughters are buried in cemeteries all over three or four counties and at least two states on opposite sides of the country. The family graveyard is no more. I attended the funerals for both sets of grand parents and my parents, for whatever reason I have had no desire to return for a visit, memories of them are forever branded into the memory cells of my mind and that is enough for me. Linda and I decided long ago that we wanted to be cremated and our ashes scattered, we didn't want to take up the real estate or have our sons grieving over a marble marker that would eventually erode away, we wanted them to get on with the business of living. Kay and her husband Wayne also chose cremation.
    Very few people achieve immortality in this world those that do eventually are remembered in name only after a couple of generations. Once again my curiosity forced me to gaze upon the bronze marker of the old couple, sadly I wondered, after more than twenty years how many more bouquets the future would hold for them, would someone sit and talk to them, would there be tears of joy or sorrow ?
     Who will bring them flowers ?
   
   

Responsibilities

     Turning eighteen was a big step for me, I was coming of age, no longer a teenager not yet a man. I couldn't vote or drink beer but I could be charged as an adult for any crimes I might commit and more importantly I could be drafted and sent off to some foreign war and die for my country. If I didn't hurry up and make a decision I would be drafted into the Army and that just wouldn't do, so I joined the Navy like my father before me.
     They say that the military makes men out of boys and I think they might be right, mom was not there to pick up after me so I had to do for myself. There were a lot of things involved in turning boys into men and I must say that a lot of the schooling was not taught by the Navy, it was taught by older sailors who at times took some strange pleasure in walking young boys down the path of manhood. Such was the case of learning the arts of drinking and gambling. The lessons were hard and some times painful but you eventually figured out the basics, never draw to an inside straight and don't mix beer with liquor.
     My first year in the Navy found me rooming with two older guys in their early twenties, they were both from Boston. Leo was the younger one and we became good friends, he took me under his wing and guided me along in the ways of manhood.
     My first lesson was in the art of drinking and I must say that I was not really looking forward to this as my father was an alcoholic and I never really liked the smell of beer much less the the taste but being called a chicken in front of your peers was frowned on so I thought, awe what the heck, one beer won't hurt. Well the first beer didn't hurt and by number six or seven I felt no pain and somewhere around number fifteen I didn't feel anything at all.
     It all started one Friday night when several of us went to what was called the gee-dunk (don't ask why), it was a sorta restaurant / bar where enlisted personnel could go and have a burger and beer and sit around shooting the breeze, it was the only place those of us who were under twenty one could legally be served beer. So there we were, about six or eight of us guys sitting around and one of the older guys bought everyone a beer which at first I turned down until someone said something about no hair on my rear end ( I am trying to watch my language ), the gauntlet had been laid down, the line was drawn in the sand and for the honor of all the sailors who came before me I had to step over it. I grabbed a cold can and took a sip, it didn't taste any better than it smelled and the guys could see by the expression on my face that I needed to be encouraged so they told me it would be better if I just turned it up and chugged it down, in other words turn it up and drink the whole can real fast, so I did, my eyes watered and I started to feel a numbness spread thru out my whole body starting in my brain. They say beer is an acquired taste and they were right, after you acquired the first one the rest didn't taste as bad.
     There was another boy in the group from Chattanooga, Tn., he was what we called a mama's boy and he was teased about it often. After my first beer the guys started teasing him and finally talked him into his first beer, the next thing I knew he and I were pitted against each other in a beer drinking contest. Bets were made as to which of us could drink the most beer, there was cheering, slaps on the back and the popping sound the beer tabs made when a fresh beer was opened, the race was on.
     I can't remember how long it took for me to chug-a-lug those eighteen beers but I won the contest sitting down because I was a little unsteady on my feet. My good friend Leo again took me under his wing and walked me back to the barracks, it took time because I couldn't feel my feet touch the ground and I thought it was funny. Once back in my room I fell into my bed and closed my eyes. I was at peace with the world until Leo came in and woke me up to take a couple of aspirins to ward off tomorrows hangover. As I opened my eyes the whole known world started spiraling off its axis and I was about to fall off if I didn't make it to the head (bathroom) on time. I spent a good fifteen minutes with my head buried in a commode puking my guts out. Once I determined there could not be anything left inside me I crawled over to the wall and pulled myself up to a standing position, fortunately the hallway in the barracks was not very wide and that made it easier to brace myself with a supporting hand on either wall as I made my way back to my room. I laid back down and hoped the worse was over but it wasn't as what is called the dry heaves came along and I started trying to puke into a waste basket beside my bed, there I was stretched out on the bed with my head hanging over the edge trying to puke into a waste basket but there was nothing left inside me. At some point I think I might have passed out.
     So ended my first step into manhood. I did continue to drink on into my early thirties but never again did I have a night like that one and when Danny was born I quit all together. I have an occasional drink now and then but I learned a long time ago that life is more fun and beautiful with a clear head.
     My first stab at gambling came when I stood my first watch as a duty driver, it was a Saturday and things were slow so the duty petty officer ask if  I wanted to play some cards, "sure I said what kind of cards". He suggested that we play 500 Rummy for a penny a point, little did he know that I had been playing rummy since I was about ten years old, some twenty minutes later he handed over ten dollars.
 Most of the guys played Poker - draw, stud, seven card and baseball to name a few of the variations. We played in one of the rooms with the door closed, the room was small and quickly filled with blue smoke from the long green cigars we purchased for just the occasion. The bets were nickle, dime and quarter with a maximum of three raises that way nobody could lose too much.
     When I got to my outfit in Vietnam a whole new world opened up as those guys would bet on anything and they took their gambling seriously. I walked in on an Acey Ducey game on the ship one night, there were about eight guys playing with another half dozen backers. Acey Ducey is a card game where each player is dealt two cards after putting an ante into the pot, let's say five dollars. Both cards are dealt face up and the object of the game was to bet that the next card dealt to you would fall between the two you had, in other words if you had a five and a ten you had to get a six, seven, eight, or nine, any other card and you would lose your bet. You could bet any portion of the pot or all of it. This particular game was hot, when I walked in there was $2500 in cash and the title to a two year old Mustang in the pot. The betting was frantic, several players had all of their money in the pot and had to work a deal with the backers to remain in the game.
     Once we were on board ship we kept a running poker game which we played at lunch and at night, rather than have money laid out on the table we used poker chips. All winnings and losses were recorded in a book and all players had to settle up every pay day or they couldn't play until they did. Poker was not the only game we bet on, there was also Blackjack and when the monotony set in we adapted other card games into games of chance.
     I played my share of Poker and Blackjack even long after I left the Navy, once I won over eight hundred dollars playing Blackjack in Lake Tahoe but generally I probably broke even at best. Years later when I worked for the SBA, my boss invited me to join a small group of four guys who had been playing poker every Tuesday night for some thirty five plus years, one of the guys had to drop out for health reasons and they were looking for new blood. There was a special bond these guys had, I was honored that they asked and I did play with them a few times. I am sure they continued on but I wonder if they ever replaced their friend, I think this was one of those times where the last hand was played when the last man drew his last breath.
      I was a little slow to grow up even though I did finally become old enough to vote there was still enough of the boy that wanted to play. When the pressures of responsibilities finally overwhelmed me I achieved my manhood, drinking and gambling as it turned out had very little to do with a boys right of passage into manhood, it is how he handles his responsibilities, and yes the world is a more beautiful place when you are not looking at it thru bloodshot eyes.

Memories Of The Past

 





     Growing up in the 1950's there were many things that we just took for granted, they were plain ordinary things, very common place. Take for instance, every body had a telephone but unlike those of today it was wired into the house, your voice was transmitted thru the mouth piece over wires that were hooked to other wires attached to tall poles that ran along the road on into oblivion. We also had small screen TV's that plugged into the wall and generally had tall antennas attached to the outside of the house, the picture was often grainy, black and white and you could only get three channels and programming stopped at midnight.
     My point is, there were so many things that my generation took for granted that my grand kids will never believe existed. Every now and then I run across something else that is so rarely seen and I feel sorry for this latest generation - they will never know what they are missing.
     Last week Kay and I were in South Georgia and Kay wanted to get something for the grand kids that would show them about the things we saw and where we had been. Now let me say that it would have been easy to just dial them up on Kay's super duty full of all kinds of apps smart phone and swing it around so they could instantly visually see everything that we were seeing but that would be to easy and Kay would rather put a more personal touch to the communication - we are a little old school.
      When I was growing up in the 1950's, communicating with each other was done by one of several different ways. Of course the number one way was talking, easy enough to do if the involved parties are in the same room if not you have to go to another form of communicating, the telephone. Telephoning someone was easy just pick up the receiver and stick your finger into the rotary dial finger hole matching the other persons phone number and dial the seven digit number. Utilizing the telephone to talk with someone far away was easy but not cheap especially if you had to factor in long distance charges and if they were not home when you called there was no voice mail so you had to call back later.
     Now another way to communicate with someone who lived away from you was to hop into the family car and drive over to see them, of course if you called them beforehand you might have figured out they were not home when they didn't answer thus saving yourself a trip. In the case of someone living way far away like about 2000 miles, driving was still an option if you had maybe two weeks just to get there and two weeks to get back. The interstate system as you know it in 2018 was invisioned by President Dwight Eisenhower in the early 1950's , work on the interstate system continues as I write this story, it is never ending.
     All of this leads us to the most generally used system of long distance communicating - writing.
Writing as a form of communicating was around long before telephones, twitter, skype, e-mail and whatever else we use today. Writing was easy, just write your thoughts on to a piece of paper or two or three, place the paper into an envelope with the address you want it to go to and stick a stamp on it. The postal service will pick it up from your mail box and deliver it to anywhere in the world sometime in the next few days or weeks or months, not to worry tho, they will deliver the mail no matter how long it takes.
     My Grandmother Riggan was a big writer, she would write half a dozen letters a week plus pay bills via the U.S. Mail, first class postage was a whopping three cents per letter back in the 1950's. When she didn't have much to say Granny often used what was then called a penny post card .
     Strangely enough a penny post card cost only a penny but it cost two cents to mail. Post cards were much like there name, they were a three by five card that was blank on one side so you could write whatever you wanted to say and on the other side you wrote the address you it wanted it to go to and placed a two cent stamp in the corner. A smart person could write a three page letter on a post card simply by writing very small, the problem was that every Tom, Dick and Harry that handled the card could and often did read what you wrote.
     Granny lived out in the country on what was called a rural delivery route and instead of a street address she had a box number. The postman would drive up six days a week and pick up the mail, because it was so far to the post office she would leave the postman a note and some money and he in turn would leave her postage stamps and post cards. Now days you go to a site on line and create post cards, birthday cards, Christmas cards and cards of all occasions and send them via e-mail, twitter, text or whatever it is.
     Post cards were also found in drug stores, gift shops, gas stations and hotel lobbies everywhere, these were called picture post cards because they had a picture on one side usually of some local scenery or something picturesque. They were funny, they were serious and they were beautiful. People would go on trips and buy these cards and send them to friends and relatives with a short note on the other side. They would say things like " wish you were here " or " arrived safely ". The big thing about picture post cards was that people saved them, My Grandmother had a couple of shoe boxes full of them and I would spend hours looking at them, these things were literally works of art just Google "Vintage Postcards " and see for yourself.
     So to bring us back to the original line of thought, Kay decided she wanted to send each of the grand kids a picture post card pertaining to where we were and what we were doing on vacation. Turns out that finding picture post cards is not as easy as it once was, we went to three different convenience stores, one had no cards, one had several cards but the pictures depicted were of places over 50 + miles away. The last store had two different cards, one was a map of the Georgia coastline showing the names of the barrier islands  and the other card was of Dolphins with "From Georgia With Love " written across the picture. They were not exactly what Kay wanted but but she made it work by putting an "X" on the map to show where we were staying and writing that we saw Dolphins on the other card, we signed Grandmama and Mr. Mike on the cards to Benjamin and Abigail and signed Grandpa and Mrs Kay for the cards to MJ and Matthew.
     It is sad to see another part of the past slowly disappear, what is even more sad is to see a way of communicating ones feelings of love disappear. The Grand Kids will be thrilled to get the cards and one day they will remember that we loved them enough to send them, indeed it is the simplest things that bring back the greatest of memories.