“Only on the Black Keys”
The ship was taking on water from the storm at an alarming rate and the possibility of the vessel broaching became eminent. Over five hundred passengers plus the crew had little hope for survival from the raging sea. The Captain fearing the worst stood alone on the deck crying out for “GOD have mercy” on his ship and the six hundred plus souls on board. Survive they did and later that night in his cabin the Captain entered in the ships log the events along with the accounting of his total surrender to the fate of Providence. The rest of his life he would observed the May 10 as the day he became subject to a higher power.
I can hear the questions now: “Where’s he going?” Well here is my objective. Our lives and our passions are intertwined with History and the makers of History. Our Captain continued operating his vessel for seven more years, however there was a difference. There was a noticeable change in his attitude. You see those five Hundred plus passengers were Slaves from Africa being delivered to the new land of America. Five Hundred souls jammed into a space that would uncomfortably fit less that one hundred. They were stripped of clothing and laid side by side and head to foot with the next person like a vast carpet woven out of human bodies. On these voyages aside from the misery and crying he would hear a Humming and Chanting from the slaves. Just a simple five note chant. Rhythmic and full of emotion that seared its’ way into his soul never to leave him in his lifetime.
Eventually our Captain took on different life’s work of Preaching. I won’t go into this very deeply except to note the significant accomplishments of this man’s life in writing hymns. One Hymn written was “Amazing Grace” set to the melody that was driven into his soul by those men and women he delivered into slavery. I’m searching for words here that will resonate what the emotions were as the slaves hummed or chanted this Melody that our Captain felt as he penned words “once I was lost but now I am found” A state of despair, chanting and humming this five note melody to give their souls hope that their future will be better. When we hear this same melody with the words penned by a Slave Ship Captain, our minds and hearts stir with I would like to believe the same emotions as those slaves stuffed in those horrible wretched vessels. There is a better day coming and we will sing and rejoice again. When you go to a library and look up the Hymn “Amazing Grace” , you will see our Slave Ship Captain, John Newton as the author of the text. However you will also see the Author of the Melody as “Unknown“ The history does not warrant with certainty about the Unknown being an African chant but it is known that John Newton more than once talked of it.
Now what is this “Only on the Black Keys” stuff? The Melody that the slaves hummed was in what Musicians know as a “Pentatonic Scale“. Five notes per octave played only on the Black Keys. The African culture of the slaves had no knowledge of Music and the written form of it, yet their songs and chants were very much in line with all of Europe and the white culture. The Negro slaves in American continued to express their Spiritual life in songs we call “Negro Spirituals“, which again are in the “Pentatonic Scale” or “Only on the Black Keys“.
I just love to learn about History. The more I understand it, the more I see us as a people and not as individuals. Our Culture is a melding of many, ( e pluribus unum) and now when I hear or sing “Amazing Grace” I see the suffering of Slaves and the Fear of “Captain John Newton” enriching my life through their lives.
“Ride Em Cowboy”
We were so excited! Our second home was a small ranch with living room that had a beautiful beamed Cathedral ceiling. Hold it, you have now idea where I starting with this saga. Sorry, the year is 1968 and I’m married with two children, a son ten and a daughter six. We had just purchased our second home on an half acre wooded lot in Westtown Pa. Paid an exorbitant twenty five thousand dollars for it. The house was built on a concrete slab and those who may have owned or are now living in one will identify with some of the built in troubles these homes can have. However it will be the weather and its’ associated misery that is the foundation for what I am about to reveal.
Good looks we all know can be deceiving. Our new home while being just drop dead gorgeous had absolutely no insulation in the walls and ceiling. To help you to visualize this, on the other side of that beautiful one inch paneled Cathedral ceiling was God’s glorious world. Cold in the winter and hot in the summer. The living room in summer became a repository for heat and humidity that made it uninhabitable for the human species. The Bedroom wing with hallways and bathroom did have regular height ceilings but they also experienced no insulation. Above the Bedroom wing was however an attic space that was accessible by one of those pull down stairways in the hallway ceiling.
I need to pause here and explain an important fact of the male behavior. The easiest example probably is this, before Tim the “Tool Man” Taylor , there was Nelson the “Idiot“ Schroeder. Before and after this Schroeder “idiot“ are the multitude thousands of men who have thrown sound judgment and caution to the four winds to do battle with life. In this battle sometimes the man wins and sometimes the man loses and on some occasions the man dies in the fray. It’s in our DNA. We must be perceived as winners and the ultimate providers.
Back to the house and the attic. At the top of the pull down stairs is where the trouble lurks. The space above the bedroom wing is some twenty five feet wide and the length is close to thirty five feet long with no flooring. Only two by ten rafters on twelve inch centers with no insulation was available to walk on. At one end of the Attic is a shared wall with the Cathedral ceiling living room which my children have now dubbed the sauna. Thirty five feet away is the other wall with a two foot square vent to the outside. Focusing my laser sharp mind on the two end walls I see the solution. If I placed a louvered vent that opened by air flow in the living room wall at its peak, it will not only fit well but will allow the humid air from the living room to be evacuated . The key would be to install a large enough exhaust fan in the vented wall that would pull enough air to operate the vent louvers in the far wall and have enough extra strength to pull air from the far reaches of the house.
Seems simple to me. I go to a Hardware store and buy a large thirty six inch square vent with movable louvers for the living room wall. After installation and trimming I look at it and declare, “Man I’m Good”. Next to the far wall for the fan installation. At the same store I purchased a huge forty two inch three speed fan with a 3/4 horse power motor. The Mother of all Air Movers. This sucker can move some serious air. I open up the outside wall to the correct size and run the proper wiring and a special wall switch from the hall way to the wall where the fan will be installed. I getting a rather big head now. I’m thinking this project is bound to put me in the Schroeder Family Hall of Fame.
You need a little more information to appreciate this Herculean effort. The attic has no floor, only 2 x 10 rafters 12 inches apart. The height from the top of the rafters to the Ridge Beam is a little under 5 foot 10 inches. For the record at that time I was six foot two inches, (today I’ve shrunk to six foot) so I had to either bend my knees or my back to do any work. The forty two inch fan and Motor weighed somewhere around the Sixty pound range. I wrestled the fan up the stairs and over the rafters to the opening. I found that because of my height the leverage was not there with my bending to put the fan into the space I created in the wall. I’m now very hot, sweaty, and frustrated. A bad combination for any man on a mission. I test the space between the rafters and it feels solid. This one move will now let me gain ten more inches of leverage.
I am sure most of you have some knowledge of Isaac Newton and his three laws of Motion. Let’s say that the ignorance of Sir Isaac Newton’s three laws does not make them any less valid.
Newton’s Third Law:
For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action.
That law took effect the moment I lifted the forty two inch fan putting an force coupled with my body weight of two hundred pounds as the beginning decent of my body through the ceiling .
Newton’s Second Law:
Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This law was enhanced by the sixty pound Fan which was acting not unlike an NASA Booster Rocket, only in reverse, propelling me downward.
Newton’s First Law:
……………. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
As I was accelerating down through the ceiling this Law was abo………… Rewind just a second back to where I first tested the strength of the ceiling. What I forgot to make clear was I had placed each of my feet on different sides of the two by ten rafter to spread my weight over a wider area. Does this gives a sharper image of what the First Law of Newton will mean to me as I am hurling downward? I titled this article “Ride Em Cowboy” which is the position I assumed on the rafter when my decent abruptly stopped. And the end of my decent was very sudden to say the least.
I’ve told this story many times and with the same reaction. The Ladies will laugh uncontrollably. In fact one time at a Dinner party one female laughed so long and hard that she puddled the chair she sat on. Men will have the opposite response. Their cheek bones get tight while the eyes start to squint and an odd internal feeling in the lower part of their torso develops.
I’m in serve pain but I manage to right myself and get back up to the top of the rafters and crawl over to the stairway and make it back down to the hallway. Gathering those internal resources to show the world I was cool with my incident, I stiffen my upper lip and go to the bedroom to survey the damage. The hole through the ceiling was directly over my sons bed. Looking around the room I see my son sitting on his dresser a full twelve feet away from the bed starring at the gaping hole in the ceiling. It seems that he was standing on his bed with his sisters Field Hockey Stick doing an “Air Guitar’ rendition of a song he was listening to on his radio when the heavens opened and my size twelves came into his view. He doesn’t know how he got to the top of the dresser, he just got there.
I snap him out his trance and asked him, “You okay son”. He responds ” I’m okay Dad, Wow that was awesome. Are you okay.” “Thank you for asking, I’m fine. However if you harbor any hopes of having any more Brothers and Sisters, you can cancel them”.
“He was Voted Most Likely To Not Make It”
Good looks he had plenty, but his penchant for trouble out weighed them. Ever see a new born puppy fighting to get in line to be fed. That would be him, trouble was his meal and bad behavior his dessert. “Voted Him Most Likely To Not Make It” could easily be the consensus if his family were forced to vote.
Early forays found him breaking windows, smoking cigarettes and other acts of civil disobedience. And this was while he was only Nine. The free spirit in him gave his mother much concern and anguish. Once in a town where they recently move, his mother while driving home from the store saw a boy walking who was obliviously displaying an advance case of Cerebral Palsy stumbling with involuntary arm and leg movements. Her heart just ached for him that is until she came up along side and saw that he was her son. History has no record of what happened that day, but I knew the Mother and she made it clear to me her displeasure.
Life happens and in accordance with fifty percent of the population his parents divorced. For whatever reasons his bad behavior accelerated, so much so that he was taken from his Mother and placed in a Foster Home. Took awhile but his Mother with help from family was able to go to court and get him back. His Mother took him and his brothers and sister to a home close to her parents hoping for some family support. No luck there, his behavior, perhaps I should say Misbehavior, developed to even grander scales.
But this time his Mother had assets to assist her in tracking his movements. His downfall was his likability factor. Everybody liked him. You know the “Charming Rouge Factor“. But now in this new close knit neighborhood whenever he did something wrong the neighbors reported to his Mother. He especially enjoyed running away in the summer. With the aid of his many friends he would camp out on the porches of his buddies homes and would appropriate (steal) food from the Milk Man and others who delivered to the homes. Reports of these excursions filtered over to his Mother almost as a daily routine. ” Don’t worry he slept on our porch last night and is okay.“ was the usual message.
Attendance to school was almost none existence. His best friends were Catholic and went to a Catholic school so he just went with them whenever he felt like. Then came another move. This time a family consolidation with Grandparents and his family under the same roof. By this time he is nearing seventeen and is enrolled in High School. The only thing that kept him from taking off to his usual habits was the sport of Basketball. I’m not entirely sure if he ever played any organized ball, but we do know this, he was a natural. Hope certainly was peeking over the horizon and he did just enough school work to be kept on the team.
The basketball coach saw in the him adhesive for binding together a team of pretty good players. There were better scorers, a there were better ball handlers, but what he contributed was the oil to make it all run like well oiled clock. The boy began to show promise, that is until the Phone Call.
It was at night, three am to be exact, when the call from the Police arrived. Seems that he took a Grocery Market truck from the store where he worked part time to go joy riding. Might have worked out if he hadn’t rolled it over. It becomes a little murky as to the process of the next events. Not sure if it was a voluntary or involuntary enlistment, but in any case he was now the Navy’s problem and no longer his Mothers.
By now those of you who follow me are by now are wondering where’s the story going? This rendition is an appreciation of somebody who overcame a lot of family negative vibes. So let’s see how this guy ends up. After four years in the Navy he comes back home and first finds work delivering milk for a large dairy. Eventually he hires on as an apprentice for an Electrical contractor. Grueling work, but he is mentored by the owners who would later become huge supporters of his going back to school and earning his High School Diploma.
His sweetheart from High School before he enlisted became his bride and life long friend. Four children later, all boys, who would give any parent a challenge, he and his wife raised with love, discipline and class. His wife would occasionally remark that their home was not unlike a boys locker room. But life isn’t always fair and after forty four years of marriage he is left alone without her.
Now remarried to another wonderful woman, he continues on baffling all naysayers by mentoring and assisting in the care of his Step-Son who has been severely handicapped from an Automobile accident for over twenty odd years. To list his accomplishments would stagger those of us with an ordinary life. The quote: “We all are born unique, but most will die Copies” does not apply to him. He is unique from his beginning unto this Day.
This guy I’m talking about is my Brother Clayton who turns Eighty this August. And this post is for you Bro. I want you to know I Love you and appreciate you and your life as an inspiration to me and others. You proved them wrong by becoming
“The Most Likely to Succeed.”
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“The Latchkey Kid”
I , like many others from my early years, was known as a “Latchkey” child. The harshness of those days on families demanded that children at a young age assume adult responsibilities for their lives while the parent (usually a single Mother) was at work. Thus the term “Latchkey Kid“. A term meaning to be left alone to fend for themselves until a parent came home. Sadly this Culture driven practice is once again dominating American families.
However, and fortunately, the propensity for evil was not as prevalent as it is today. But there were still problems, and I managed to invest my time exploring and reveling in all sorts of deviant behavior. You may have already read my battle with “The Money Jar“ and my addiction to TastyKakes. This episode is the lead in to that sad period of my succumbing to thievery.
Backing up just a bit. I was a super skinny kid with an abnormal amount of energy. I fueled my body with anything that past muster as “Sugar”. Sugar cubes (usually stolen) were an staple. I first met this morsel of delight when Mother took me to a “Horn & Hardart’s Automat”. It was there I discovered many delicious treats including the Sugar Cubes that probably started my insatiable quest for Sweets. Back to the story line. As a result of this discovery I became very uninterested in any food substance that was not laced with some form of sugar or at the least had a sweet taste. Mother before leaving for work would leave for me sandwiches and other stuff on the kitchen table to eat when I got home after school. Most times there were sandwiches that would be to my liking. But sometimes a sandwich of Liverwurst or GOD forbid an unidentifiable meat called “Tongue” would be on the table staring at me not unlike a scene from the Night of the Living Dead.
Sandwich and the Radiator
When these horrid sandwiches showed up, I being the clever one, would stick them behind the big cast iron Steam Radiator mounted on the floor next to the table. This “feeding the Radiator” went on for a time before coming to a screeching halt. Did you know Ants liked Liverwurst and Tongue? Really who knew, I certainly didn’t! And are you also aware that food when left behind a HOT Radiator also emitted odors? That was news to me! Yep, a big lesson learned and learned well by the “Seat of my Pants” if you get my drift. A new battle plan needed to be formulated to battle this menacing meat. But before I was able to develop plans, Mother announced to the family that we were moving to a home near Grandma and Grandpa all the while looking squarely at my beautifully innocent face and adding “where there are no Steam Radiators“.
Battle plans are put on hold until I am able to reconnoiter the new battle ground. The move to the new home was a nightmare for my game plan. Two words: Central Heating! Central heating was a Coal Furnace in the Basement with a registrar vent that was a big square grate in the floor between the living room and the dinning room. The upstairs was heated through another large grate in the floor that allowed the heat from downstairs to drift up though it. This system made for cold days and nights if you were not layered with 20 pounds of clothes in addition to not providing a safe dumping site for unwanted food.
Off Site Disposal
In search of a dump site I checked out the backyard. I couldn’t believe it. Fence to fence Concrete. I couldn’t even bury the crap now becoming known as “Sandwiches from Hell”. Then I saw it. A gate in the back fence leading into a service alley that ran the length of the entire block. Looking both ways up and down the alley for anything that would serve as a final resting place for the Sandwiches I spied the Pole. Telephone pole to be exact. The perfect place with just a enough space between the pole and the fence and a good twenty yards away from the backyard gate. Ideal! Game, Set, Match.
There is a RAT somewhere
Things were working just great. I had secured a Hazardous Material dump site and I had begun working the “Money Jar” gig. Life was sweet! That is until the day Mother collared me and walked me out to the alley and over to the POLE. What happen next is not pretty and I’ll spare you the details. I can say this though, while hating Corduroy Knickers they did saved my little butt that day. Hard to blister a Fanny though those Iron like Corduroy Knickers. I never discovered who Ratted me out. Probably a brother or sister who viewed me as the pampered little brat that they sometimes where burdened with by Mom. Doesn’t matter now. History has its’ own validation of our worth and my brothers and sister have long since become the shining heroes of my life.
Today however, I now love Liverwurst and Onion Sandwiches. But Tongue Sandwiches, Ugh. I still look for suitable dumping sites for that Hazardous Material.
“RE: The Little Pager that Could”
I’ve been researching this week articles for background information to use in my next Post. The title looks like it might be “Only the Black Keys”, but that may change. So today to give myself more time to sort things out, I went into the Archives and am re-posting this piece I wrote last March. Apologies to Val Wilcox, Bill Hartman and others who have already read this article.
The “Little Pager that Could” declares not only our dependence upon GOD, but also on those who claim HIS Name. The narrator of this is Roger Bennett who subsequently passed away shortly after this event from his own battle with Leukemia.
“The Little Pager that Could” by Roger Bennett
“I’ve just come back from my latest consultation at M.D. Anderson. Labs at 7:30 am, Dr. Lenihan (cardio) at 8:30 then Dr. Keating and Co.(leukemia) at 11:30 am. As you can deduce I spent a lot of time in waiting rooms today. I have this theory that a cancer patient can spot another cancer patient. Of course it’s easy at a Cancer Center like MDA, but it’s interesting to watch.
When the new patient comes into the room, there is an immediate sizing up that takes place. I do it as well. You look for the tell tale signs. Any obvious lines or ports in the veins, complexion variations or hair loss. It’s not an uncomfortable thing it is just the way it is. I don’t think there’s any more honest place in the world than a cancer waiting room. The conversations that take place are no frills and always contain terms that the average healthy person is unfamiliar with. CBC, neutrophils, aspiration, and a host of other things that might not be discussed so openly in another place are right out in the open in the waiting room.
One of the other rituals that take place is identifying the patient. Many times this is not a problem in that the patient is obviously sick and companion is there for support. However, there are patients like myself that look healthy on the outside and are accompanied by a healthy companion. You can see it in the eyes as the two people are judged and the decision made. Sometimes you’re right and sometimes not.
I was wrong today. I wasn’t feeling quite up to par this morning and in one of the waiting rooms I fell asleep. The room was empty except for Debbie and myself when I dozed off. But soon a quiet conversation roused me. I heard talk about pain management etc. I woke to see a very young mother and what looked to be her father in the room with us. I quietly listened to Debbie talk with them. I made my choice…It was the Dad that was sick and the daughter was his caregiver. She looked so healthy and vital. I was wrong. This young women, a mother of two small kids was the patient. She has a rare form of bone cancer and is in for the fight of her life. It broke my heart. During our talk I kept hearing a vibrating sound like a cell phone’s alarm. Every few minutes, sometimes more than one a minute this little pager would make its noisy announcement. I thought, “Boy she’s a busy lady”. Then she told me the story of the pager.
It seems her prayer group at church gave her the pager and every time anyone at church prayed for her, they would page her just to remind her of their love and support! She didn’t have to talk to anyone. No one wanted a call back. This was just to encourage her that her friends had not forgotten her! I got cold chills every time that little pager vibrated! And I could see that she found strength with every vibration! What a great idea and what a picture of grace.
I know first hand the power of prayer and how important it is to your spiritual health. And I saw first hand the power of reminders today in the face of this beautiful young cancer patient. Her friends were remembering her and that reminded her that God remembers too!
It doesn’t have to be a pager. A little card will do the trick. Sometimes a voice mail is better than a phone call. It depends on the day, but sometimes when you’re sick, it helps just to listen and not have to talk. Whatever form you choose…let your sick friend know that you are remembering them.”
For those who may be like me, the Kleenex below is for you.
“The Money Jar”
“Journey to the Dark Side”
This Addiction has been with me for almost Seventy years. How is that possible? I’m not sure, possibly a “Mother of all Character Flaws”. I can however pinpoint its’ beginning within a year or two. So perhaps this sad sad confession should begin the day I first thought of crossing over to the “Dark Side”
“The Beginning”
I’m napping on my Mothers bed when I woke up and saw her putting some dimes and nickels into a jar and hiding the jar on the top shelf of her closet. She never suspected a potential thief was watching. But wait before continuing let me paint a vignette of the life a certain blond hair, sweeter than sweet handsome third grade (getting thick isn’t it) young boy. Our home in the West Philadelphia neighborhood I often refer to as the Ghetto, (a misunderstood word meaning an overcrowded neighborhood of similar ethic peoples), was in walking distance to a large…….Oh forget it, I think I skip this and continue on with my (juicily sinful) confession.
“The Scene of the Crime“
On the next street over from our home, a row home to be actuate, was a Grocery store called Epstein’s. In our neighborhood the end home of the row of homes usually housed stores that serviced the area. Grocery stores, Fish Mongers, Barbers, Plumbers, you name it and the house at end of the row housed it. For those historically minded, this is where the term Mom and Pop shop originated. Back to Epstein’s. Old man Epstein, a widower, had this grocery store where Mom purchased most of our daily fare. When ever I was in possession of some money I also would go to Epstein’s to obtain an substance that would give my brain a high unlike anything I had previously experienced.
“Addiction”
These highs soon became an addiction which was increasing faster than my ability to obtain funding. Is the picture coming into focus? Connecting the dots? Substance Dealer, Limited income, Money jar in the closet. Yes this Saintly old man,( okay, skip the Saintly part), embarked at the age of seven into the criminal world of thievery. With the aid of a chair and a box the solution to my money problems, the Money jar, came in reach of my greedy little mitts. Being careful, so I thought, to only take what was needed for my daily habit I would march into Epstein’s and slap the money down on the counter and ask for it. He obliged and it wasn’t long before I was under his complete control. I’m sure murder would now not be out of bounds for me.
“A Serious Set Back”
Fast forward two weeks. I’m in the back seat of Grandpa’s car. Mother is driving and Grandma is next to her when the topic of my brother became the concern. My brother was a bit of trouble to Mother and she was telling Grandma that he was now stealing coins from her Money Jar. At this point I stopped listening and started to think of my Habit with its’ addiction that was now at serious levels. All I had heard was this: “The Bank is Closed“ resulting in the fact that I had lost my stash.
“Withdrawal Symptoms”
The next day found me, you guessed it, in Epstien’s nervous, fidgety, and almost incoherent. Old man Epstein taking notice said “Nelson”have you come for it.” Putting the despair of my predicament aside I came right out and said, “Mr Epstien, I need it but I don’t have any money” “Ah, don’t worry Nelson”, he said, “take it and I’ll just add it to your Mother’s bill”.
Score, Hallelujah, Praise the LORD.
I had just entered into the promise land of unlimited access to the source of my addiction.
We all can agree can’t we that little boys have an “I need it now brain” and seldom think that the consequences of their actions will ever come back to bite them. And of course that day did come when the Grocery bill was delivered to Mother. However the bill had no listing of my substance abusing purchases.
“Double Hallelujahs and Double Praises to the LORD”
A short term scare quickly passes and I’m back in business and back at Epstein’s getting my daily fix. A year later we moved out of the Neighborhood leaving Epstein’s to history. It wasn’t until I was grown and on my own when at a family gathering with my brothers and sister, all who are all almost a decade older than me, started talking about the old Neighborhood and old man Epstein. I then learned from them that Mr. Epstein had a crush on Mother and because he had this crush her children got special favors from him.
“Ain’t Love Wonderful”
It wasn’t long after that I felt the need to confess and take responsibility for my actions concerning the “Money Jar“. The opportunity came one day when out alone with Mom to bring up the “Money Jar” and my complicity in taking money from it. She just smiled and said “I know. I knew that you would stop the day I told your Grandmother in the car”. Mother was always smarter me.
“Oh, Those Sweet Little Things”
I guess you might be wondering just what was my Addiction. Remember in the beginning I started to mention a place that was in walking distance to our neighborhood but stopped. It was the TastyKake factory where they made the “Butter Scotch Krimpets and Lemon TastyKake pies” I so craved. The stolen seven cents I would pay old man Epstein for them today will cost one Dollar. And yes I still have “My Addiction” however with one important difference.
“I now have my own “Money Jar“
“The Prisoner Exchange”
“
The Prisoner Exchange” started the first Sunday morning in June 1945 when Grandpa and Grandma drove up to the front of our home in their 1935 Gray Ford Tudor Sedan. Mother had the day before prepared me for the events that would be unfolding this day. My mind, being only eight years old and unencumbered with any real knowledge, imagined only the worst. I envisioned myself being sent to an Interment Camp for boys.
To give a little background, our home was in a West Philadelphia Ghetto neighborhood. Eight square blocks in total. This neighborhood was its’ own world. Stores, schools and restaurants. Like any world, there was good and there was bad. Parents would sit on the stoops in front of their home at night and chat with neighbors. The the younger kids played street games like Buck Buck, Half ball and Round Up much like their older siblings, who now belonged to street gangs, had done years before. Gangs were just like the gangs of today but with less violence. Still it was very tough neighborhood that had a large penchant for young boys to get in trouble.
Where was I, oh yea, Grandpa and Grandma were out front. Mother herded me with my little satchel of clothes out to the car and off we went. The Interment Camp where we were headed was 2 or 3 miles north of Stroudsburg in the Pocono Mountains. About 250 miles from our home. Once out of the city and on the two lane county road the miles seemed to drag by with no end in sight. It was boring until Mom showed me something. There were a series of signs along the road side. Mother had me read them out loud. These signs were spaced about fifty yards apart and each sign had a portion of a verse on it. Here are a few of them.
within this vale…of toil and sin…you head grows bald…but not your chin…Burma Shave
Henry VIII…sure had trouble…short term wives…long term stubble…Burma Shave
if daisy’s are…your favorite flower…keep pushing up…those miles- per -hour…Burma Shave
I was hooked big time. I stuck my head out the car widow looking for the next series of signs. With this diversion the miles just melted away and soon we arrive at the Interment Camp. A dozen or so other young boy prisoners also being incarcerated were there. I didn’t have a clue what to expect. A man came over to Mother and was talking with her. He looked at me and said, “Nelson, follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping. He took me with my satchel to a large wooden tent like building in the woods with maybe a dozen or so beds with foot lockers inside. Some other inmates where already there. We received instructions about our incarceration from some guy whom I could only assume was to be our Warden. I only remembered one instruction, and that was I could have visitors on Sundays between 12 and 3 pm.
Mother had previously told me my incarceration would last the entire month of June and she would be back to visit me next Sunday. I couldn’t wait for Sunday come. Finally it came and it found me hours before 12 noon hanging around the Inmate drop off area watching and waiting for Grandpa’s car. Finally I see it and there in it was my was my Mother. I was so happy to see her that I talked and talked like a Chatty Cathy doll on Steroids the whole time as we walked up the hill to my little Cell Block in the woods. Mom, while I continue to talk and talk, was putting fresh clothes in my foot locker when suddenly she sternly looked at me and said, “Nelson you have been wearing the same underwear for the entire week“ “Take them off and put on these clean ones right now” Busted. This very same scene would be repeated for the next 3 weeks. Finally on the last Sunday I was at the usual Inmate drop off area watching a whole new bunch of boys being left for their month of incarceration while I and my fellow June Inmates were being released back into the care and custody of our parents. “The Prisoner Exchange” occurred and would continue to do so every summer Sunday for all the Inmates of my Interment Camp which if it were 1953 I probably would have dubbed it Stalag 17.
This Incarceration scenario would be replayed for the next four years in exactly the same fashion. It is so vivid in my memory that hardly a day goes by I don’t rise up and Bless my Mother who for me was the woman of Proverbs 31:28. Mother knew the danger I was in growing up in the Ghetto. She sacrificed her time and her “Widows Mite” to get me away from the Ghetto even if it was only one month a year. It was during one of those months at Camp Shadow Brook Christian Camp for boys that I met the Captain of my Fate, the Lover of my Soul and became a Christian. It has been 65 years from that first Sunday in June 1945 and not once I have not felt and experienced the life changing effects of being loved by my Mother. She listened and obeyed the ONE who listened to her prayers and told her to send me to a Christian Summer Camp for Boys.
Now I’m 73 and I am still traveling on the Highway. Only now it is the “Informational Internet Super Highway“. Long gone are those cool roadside signs. But that doesn’t deter me from enjoying the trip. When I find a site or Blog that grabs me, I remember those Signs along the road, and in my mind link them to the writer. Here I’ll demonstrate.
If she doesn’t kiss…like she uster…maybe she’s found…another rooster
or maybe,
the Monkey took…one look at Jim…and threw the peanuts…back at him
And finally because Brown Nosing and Sucking Up knows no age, especially for an old Fart like me, we end with this:
Be like…a Noble…and not…a Knave…Caesar drinks…%^&*@!
“Top Cat Club”
Recounting an old story I concocted many Moon’s ago which has resided in this noggin. I thought maybe I better get it out before the “Mad Cow Disease” destroys it.
The Top Cat Club
One day I found myself in Philadelphia around 10 am with 2 hours to waste before my next selling appointment. I was to be exact, right in Center City just south of City Hall, on Broad street. To give a visual, those of you who watch “Cold Case” on TV, City Hall is the main shot opening the show which shows the Statue of Billy Penn on top of City Hall. On with the story. I was walking south on Broad Street one block from City Hall and approaching the Bellevue Stratford Hotel. As I got nearer the Hotel I noticed up on the Marquee in front of the Hotel the announcement “Top Cat Club” Convention.
Well having two free hours in my pocket, I thought “what the Hay” let’s go in and see what the “Top Cat Club” was all about. So though the front doors and into the Lobby I go. Didn’t get very far before the Concierge confronted me with a haughty British accent, “May I be of Assistance Sir“. Fortunately, as an Insurance Salesman of that day, I was wearing my custom tailored three piece power suit. For those who are wondering what the blazes is a Power Suit? It is a dark blue suit with thin off white pin stripes with vest worn over a white shirt with Collar pin with French Cuff Links and a yellow and blue Paisley pattern tie in a Single Windsor Knot. Power man Power. I could sell Ice to Eskimos in that outfit. Back to the narrative. I just as haughty answered back, “I’m here for the Top Cat Club” sir. The Concierge directed me to Ball Room A across the Lobby. I did my Power Stroll in my Power Suit across the lobby and entered Ballroom A.
Honestly you can not imagine in you wildest dreams the shock that registered on my face as I took in the scene in Ballroom A. Cats, Cats, Cats. Cats of every description, Tall Cats, Short Cats, Skinny Cats, Fat Cats. Cats with long hair and Cats with no hair. You name it and there was a Cat fitting the description. As I walked around these amazing animals just gasping with wonder at how unique this event was, a thought entered my sometimes lame brain.
I left the Ballroom and rushed across the lobby and though the Front entrance while announcing to the Concierge “I’ll be right back”. Back on the street I turned back towards City Hall and walked to the edge of the Hotel and entered the Alley that runs between the Hotel and the next building. Gingerly I walked back to the Service Entrance. When I say gingerly walked, those who have been in an Alley of any large City know why I mentioned that. An Alley will contain the most disgusting Refuse mankind will abandon and leave for Society to clean up. Anyway as I neared the Service Entrance I saw just what I wanted. My Cat! He was a wonder. Laying prostate on the ground with cigarette butts and bottles. Looking a little hungover even. His left ear has seen a few too many fights. Torn and ragged it was. He needed a bath, but that could wait. His tail, must had been broken because it was shaped like the letter Z. Probably got caught in a door sometime. My Cat was quite a sight.
I snapped a picture of him for you to see this mess of a Cat.
I carefully pickup up my prize and shook him a little to knock off the loose debris. Having carefully secured him as not to dirty my Power Suit, I hurried back to the Hotel and entered with MY TOP CAT. Without stopping for Mr Concierge I headed to Ballroom A and entered.
Now the fun began. I started around to each of the Top Cat entries and let my “Gem” just gaze at these wonderful Cats. It wasn’t long before some Mucky Muck head of the Top Cat Club cornered me. “What are you doing here with that… that… that Horrible thing. This is the Top Cat Club, and that Sir is no Top Cat.” he bellowed. “Oh I know that”, I said. “But imagine, with his background and life, as he see these wonderful Cats, just think how Inspired he will become being able to be around all these TOP CATS“
Well friends, like my mythical Top Cat in my story, that is how I feel somedays when reading and interacting with these wonderful Blogs and Bloggers on TSA. We have gathered on one site, TSA, an amazing group of people. Glyna Humm, who will research and do videos of current things we need to know. Steve Vernon will write with style and grace that inspires you to write better. Mary Lou Kayser and Beth Nelson Allen leave no excuse not to better your health. Kary Rogney who may have been the instigator of this Tribal phenomenon gives help and content value to any who ask. There are so many that if I mentioned them here this would look more like a Dex white page and not a Blog. However there is one that has to be singled out as our TSA TOP CAT. That is our own Dave and Dawn Cook. So the picture and Video below is for them. The Best of the Best, The topest of the TOP CATS. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you…….
David and Dawn Cook
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykRZbOb1c5c[/youtube]
Stories in My Mind
Oh the Stories in my mind. I can go on and on with Stories accumulated over 73 years. But what we’re looking for here is not stories, but the thoughts and dreams we have running a muck in our minds. A book I keep on my Desk is “As a Man Thinketh” by James Allen. Allen took this title from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter 23, verse 7….”For as he thinks within himself, so he is”. Allen’s book, only 74 pages, written in 1902 has gems in it like… “Good thoughts and actions never produce bad results and bad thoughts and actions never produce good results. Men understand this Law in the natural world, and work with it, but few understand it in the mental and moral world……. and they, therefore, do not cooperate with it.”
That short statement above says volumes about what we are seeing on the Blogs and hearing in all those Motivational Seminars. How else can we explain number of them? Thousands upon thousands read Blogs and attend Motivational Seminars without any substantive change in their behavior. If I had a nickel for every blog telling me the “SECRET NO BODY ELSE KNOWS”, I would be Rich, Fat, Dumb and Happy. Three of the the four by the way I already have achieved. What is it in our physic that allows us to read and hear the evidence that so clearly explains the road to success and then we either not travel on, or after starting on, give up? Here a little story I’ve use many times when encouraging others to Keep on Keeping on.
Just Past Splat!
A man meets a successful man on the road. The man asks, “which way is success?”
The successful man speaks not, but points to a place off in the distance.
The man, thrilled by the prospect of quick and easy success, rushes off in the appropriate direction. Suddenly, there comes a loud “SPLAT.” Eventually, the man limps back, tattered and stunned, assuming he must have misinterpreted the message. He repeats his question to the successful man, who again points silently in the same direction.
The man obediently walks off once more. This time the “SPLAT“ is deafening, and when the man crawls back, he is bloody, broken, tattered, and irate. “I asked you which way is success,” he screams at the successful man. “I followed the direction you indicated. And all I got was splatted! No more of this pointing! Talk!”
Only then does the successful man speak, and what he says is this: “Success is that way. Just a little PAST SPLAT.”
I started this post with Stories in your mind then migrating to giving up too soon. The fact is, all of what we are with our successes and failures fall back to this one thing. You are, and always will be, what you think about in your conscious and subconscious mind. The Video below is of a song written by my friend Kody Bateman that illustrates precisely what I attempted to do above. Enjoy!
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2OEfkJarek[/youtube]
“Am I a Jerk or What!!!”
This week I thought I would re-post an article I first wrote many many years ago when I was an Editor for a Dry Cleaning Association monthly newsletter. Reason being I thought it would be instructive to me from your comments to gauge whether I have Matured or Regressed in my blogging career. Chances are the Post Title “Am I a Jerk or What!!!” is Correct.
Portions reprinted from:
When writing about your life with an honest pen, the effects age has is profound. My tongue has always been a source of embarrassment and humiliation. Both in my professional life as well as my personal. The following is an incident depicting my tongue and mind going stupid.
A few years ago while driving to work at 4:30 am, I suffered a act of stupidity. Mind you now, at that hour I’m not thinking about traffic.(Hey in Fort Collins at that hour there isn’t any.) So I’m allowing my 8.1 liter, 3/4 ton GMC extended cab truck to own the road.(so to speak) Well on this morning while enjoying my trucks performance, my wife noticing that I’m not really watching the road, wrestled my attention away from driving with, “YOUR SWERVING“. Now pay attention guys, this is were I went wrong. Without thinking I responded, “WHAT, DID I SUDDENLY WAKE UP MARRIED“. Oh boy, the silence became deafening.
Later that night, while watching an evening news program on
which the German Prime Minister Gerhard Schroeder was
speaking. My lovely sweet wife turned to me and said, “Are you related to Gerhard Schroeder.” “No”, I responded, “Schroeder is a pretty common German name”. “Oh”, she says, “I just thought you might be, because his Chin looks like one of yours”.
Alright it’s time to “LET’S RUMBLE“. But first I went to the
bathroom verify that she is really just putting it to me. Son of a
Gun, she’s right, one of my three chins does resemble the Prime
Ministers. Okay, Diet and exercise, the two most repulsive words in my life, are now to be my daily fare. Diet is okay, but exercise is the one thing I loath. I refuse to go to a gym and expose my rather expansive rolls to the lean and mean yuppies who display their goods like Victoria Secrets or Charles Atlas models. So to the Internet I go. After much research, I choose my weapons. A Elliptical cross trainer and a Heart monitoring Treadmill. I made the deal and now am in receipt of them, which also has put my credit card on a Red Alert status.
I had intended to make updates on my progress towards the ‘Healthy Lifestyle‘, baring of course my Heart monitor not going to ‘FLAT LINE‘ mode. But now, many years later, I still have my three chins, while gaining a room full on expensive equipment. I also have gained wisdom by experiencing how the tongue is the rudder that steers your life though your “Garden of Good and Evil.”
