tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12927026850265173612024-03-05T16:26:25.743-05:00Duffy The Singing CobblerSome stories from the past, and my ongoing series, "Aunt Clara's Wheelchair"duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-6758472133717526602015-03-23T10:20:00.002-04:002015-03-23T10:22:30.509-04:00Easter On the Road<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Easter On the Road</u></div>
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As a child I often wondered how Santa Claus would find me. There was a pretty good chance that we would not be living in a house at Christmastime. Odds were we could very well be driving down some blue highway in a beat up old station wagon and sleeping in roadside parks or empty parking lots. It worried me, but, somehow mama and Belvin (my stepdad) found a way. It didn't take much to please a little boy. A note saying that he loved me and that he hoped I would have fun playing with the Jack in the box (or whatever small toy had magically appeared under the picnic table) and to be sure to give my mother and stepfather a big hug and a kiss and to tell them and my older brothers that he loved them, too. It was always signed, "Love, Your Friend, Santa."<br />
Well, by the same token, I worried about the Easter Bunny. How would he know that I, Duffy, was somewhere in North Carolina or Texas or some other far away place beside the highway, or sitting in the backseat drawing pictures of rabbits and Easter eggs? He knew last year and the year before that, but what about this year?<br />
There were lots and lots of children. Thousands or, maybe, even millions! He was so busy. Not as busy as Santa, but, still, very busy and he did not send letters or notes.<br />
As Easter drew near I would begin peppering my mother with questions. Are you sure he knows? Do you think he will remember this year? Which state are we in now? Has he ever been in this state before? Yes, but... what about... is he... does he.... will he...? I sure hope he... do you think...? And on and on and on... and on.<br />
As I dozed off to sleep I could not hear what those hushed tones in the front seat were all about. At times that whispering reassured me. Other times it worried me a great deal and my sleep was fitful.<br />
I awoke to the sound of my older brothers laughing and mama telling them to help Belvin gather wood for a fire so she could cook supper. I had forgotten, momentarily, about the Easter Bunny and colored eggs.<br />
I was hungry and it was always fun eating at a picnic table. At this suppertime mama cooked hamburgers and fried potatoes. I loved this meal because it required catsup on the burgers AND the potatoes and I loved catsup. I didn't mind picking out the onions from the potatoes and putting them on Belvin's plate. I also didn't mind whether the burger was on a bun or Wonder Bread. Buns had too much crust anyway! Mama and Belvin drank coffee. Clyde and Jarry split a Coca-Cola and I had a cup of Kool-Aid.<br />
It was dark by now and mama had fixed up a bed, of sorts, for me, under the picnic table. The older boys would share the back area of the station wagon. Mama slept in the backseat while Belvin scrunched into the front seat.<br />
The next morning, very early, I was awakened by the sound of the car doors opening and closing. Once again the cookfire detail began and mama got the things out of the Coleman cooler and we had my favorite breakfast... pancakes! Mama was an expert pancake maker!<br />
After breakfast, as mama was washing dishes in an aluminium dishpan and Clyde and Jarry were helping Belvin pack the car, I shoveled the last bite of my pancake into my mouth and, as I drank my last drink of milk, I remembered, with both excitement and trepidation... Easter... the Easter Bunny... colored eggs... and an Easter basket.. oh... what if...?<br />
I looked at mama and said... "Mama...?"<br />
"Yes, Duffy...", she said, as she reached for my empty cup. Then, as I continued looking her way, she looked passed me, moved her head slightly to the left and said, "What is that... Duffy... what in the world, Duffy... look... over there... beside that bush... what IS that?"<br />
I looked... and looked... then.... I saw it. It was light purple and yellow and... just the size of... an egg! I fairly pounced from the wooden table, almost falling down, and squatted by the bush. I reached and picked up the beautiful egg.<br />
"Mama! Pop! Clyde! Jarry! Look here! Look at this!"<br />
Pop took the empty dishpan from mama and stood looking over towards the small fence which was about twenty feet away.<br />
He pointed, saying, "Duffy... look ... over there... by the fence. What is that... what in the world...?"<br />
The bunny had found me just as in Easters before. Mama handed me an empty, cardboard, IGA egg carton and suggested I should keep looking very carefully as there just might be some more of those colored eggs. <br />
With Belvin's help, I found precisely one dozen, twelve, Easter eggs and I was careful not to crack a single one of them. I would share them, later, with my family.<br />
That morning as I opened the backdoor of the station wagon I saw, on the floorboard, a not too big straw basket. It was almost full with green grass, real green grass, only slightly wilted, but still nice and green. I still remember how it smelled. Under that grass, there was... you guessed it... jelly beans and a paper wrapped hollow chocolate bunny.<br />
That morning, as we hit the highway again, I said, "Mama... you were right. He did remember!"<br />
"Of course", said mama.<br />
"Better get some gas", said Belvin.duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-61408184816705772032013-03-28T11:28:00.003-04:002013-03-28T11:29:38.341-04:00I'll Have Another<br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> When I was about ten years old my mother began a career as a Nurse's Aide. She started in nursing homes and the first job was in Florida. Than particular one was made up of several cottages which were connected by cement walkways. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> It was summertime and I had to go to work with mama because there was no school and we couldn't afford a babysitter. I didn't like the idea one bit and would've much rather been playing cowboys or army, but I had no choice. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Sometimes I would just follow mama around while she did her work checking temperatures, emptying bedpans, and doing any number of tasks. She smiled a lot and was very kind and cheerful with the folks in the nursing home and she made sure that I was smiling, too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Often mama would come up with things for me to do in order to occupy my time and also to be helpful. She would say, "Take this newspaper to Mr. Thompson's room and read to him." Or, "Go down to Mrs. Reed's room and see if she'd like for you to read something from the Bible." Once, when I was being especially cranky, mama said, "Now you straighten up and go right over there in front of cottage number two and you just jump up and down and act like a monkey! You just be as silly as you can!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Well, I made it through that summer and went back to school and mama went back to work without me. The following Easter I had to go to work with her again and she had a plan that did not sit well with me at all.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> The bunny suit she made for me had ears at least a foot tall and a cotton tail as big as a cantaloupe! She declared I looked adorable, but I didn't feel very good about it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> She filled an Easter basket with colored eggs and I had to hop from cottage to cottage singing, "Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail!." All her co-workers clapped and laughed and agreed with mama that little Duffy was simply as cute as could be. There is a large, framed, photograph of me in that bunny suit and if you look closely you will see that little Duffy is not pleased. I smiled in front the residents that day, but mama could not get me to smile for the photographer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> All that is well and good, but something else happened that day which was quite remarkable. There was am old fellow named Pete who lived there. He was sitting on the front porch of cottage number one, in his wheelchair. I hopped up the steps and gave him an Easter egg. He grinned as my mother helped him crack and peel the egg. I went into the cottage to visit other folks who lived there. I came back outside and was hopping down the steps to the walkway when Pete said, "I'll have another, thank you."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Now this would not have been such a big deal except that Pete had not uttered a word in the five years that he'd been in that nursing home! Not a word had he spoken, and now, as clear and plain as day, he'd said, "I'll have another, thank you." Everyone, mama especially, was astounded. When she asked him why he'd not spoken before this, he just said he'd had nothing to say! I gave the old man another egg.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> One day, when mama was in her eighties, I was standing in her kitchen doorway. She was sitting at the table eating a bowl of icecream. She looked at me and said, "Who's that man standing in my fireplace!?" We all knew she'd been slipping lately, but this was a heart-breaker. A short while later mama became a resident at Augusta Nursing and Rehabilitation. She passed away there, one day in 2006. She thought it was 1941. She was sixteen years young, picking up shells on the beach in Galveston. I didn't tell her any different. I'd just reach down to the floor, the sandy beach, pick up an imaginary shell, and drop it into her hand. One day, the last day, she held out her small hand and I touched it gently. She looked at her palm, smiled a little, and said, "I really love Periwinkles." I said, "Me too, mama."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Here it is almost fifty years after that little Easter episode and I don't wear a bunny suit, but I still entertain in the nursing homes and retirement centers a few times a month. I play my guitar and blow my harmonica. "You are my sunshine...." and, sometimes, I jump up and down and act like a monkey. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> When I was ten years, I disagreed with her, but looking back, I think mama was pretty smart and I'm sure she knew what she was doing when she insisted that I wear that silly bunny suit.</span></span></div>
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duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-25418978583729770232013-01-29T11:46:00.003-05:002013-01-29T11:46:37.481-05:00Aunt Clara Part Fourteen<br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> He layed the deck on the table, face down, and said to Aunt Clara, "Cut 'em, sis?" Aunt Clara merely tapped them, saying, "That's okay, Jack, I trust you."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Good", he said, and began dealing the cards. "Dealer's choice", he exclaimed, "And I choose five card draw. Nothing wild. Nickel ante. "So", he said, "Ante up ladies and gentlemen!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> We all threw in a nickel each and studied our cards. Yvonne was to Jack's left and so it was up to her to go first. She looked at the hand she was dealt and stuck her tongue in her cheek. "I'll bet a quarter", she said and slid a quarter to the center of the table. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> All I had was a six of hearts, a three of hearts, a nine of somthing or the other, a ten of diamonds and a Queen of clubs. Some hand, but I didn't want to chicken out this early in the game, so I threw in a quarter to match Yvonne's bet. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Aunt Clara was next and immediately placed her twenty-five cent bet, announcing, "It's your turn, Jack!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Jack placed his quarter bet and turned to Yvonne.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "So... how many cards, young lady?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Again, tongue in cheek, Yvonne carefully pulled one card from her hand and layed it face down on the table.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Only one?", Jack asked, "You sure?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Yes", she said, "Only one, thanks."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Jack dealt her a single card and she picked it up and looked at it, slowly, and placed it in with her other cards. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Bet?" , said Jack. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Uh...hmm...ok...I bet... fifty cents!", she exclaimed and slid two quarters across the table.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> I threw away two cards, the six and the three, and picked up two cards. Damn it. A five and a four! Useless! This time I layed all of my cards on the table, face down, folding. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Aunt Clara said, "I'll take two cards, please", discarding two as she spoke. Jack dealt her two cards and she placed them in her hand, cocking one eyebrow. "I'll see your half a buck just to see what Yvonne's got there!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Uncle Jack said, "I think I'll just stick with what I've got. I will see the bet and raise you... another half a buck!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Yvonne and Aunt Clara matched the bet and Jack said, "So... young lady... whatcha got?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Yvonne presented a full house. Three eights and a pair of aces. Pretty good I thought. Clara showed a pair of fours and nothing else. "Oh well", she said. "Can't win 'em all". </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Jack cleared his throat, slightly, and whispered, "Not bad, young lady, not bad at all... but not good enough I'm afraid. I do not believe that a full house beats ... a straight flush. Read 'em and weep." He layed his cards on the table for all to see. Eight, nine, ten, Jack, and Queen. All the same suit. I can't remember what suit they were, but they were the same and Uncle Jack had won the first hand. He rubbed his hands together and, rather quickly, slid his winnings to his place at the table, then stacked the quarters neatly in front of him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> To make a short story even shorter Jack cleaned us all out over the course of the next several hands. I think Aunt Clara might've won one hand. Yvonne won two or three and I won zip.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Jack pushed his chair back from the table and, not bothering to count it, put his money in his pocket. He stood up and, with his hands on his hips, he did a little tapdance, singsonging, "Now that was fun and that's how it's done, that's whatcha get if ya bet with me!" He took a slight bow and grinned that shiney toothed grin.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> I was feeling bummed out and a little bit embarrassed. I didn't mind losing, but I didn't want to lose THAT bad. Not even one hand? Jack, sensing my mood, came over and stood behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "C'mon Davey, don't take it so hard. It's just a game.....right...? Besides, there's always next time... maybe... and maybe you'll win next time... maybe... I doubt it...", he whispered, "..... but maybe."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> He walked around and sat back down in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table and humming what sounded like some kind of jazz tune.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Then there was an unmistakable moment of awkwardness. Finally, after several seconds which seemed like hours, Yvonne spoke up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Uh... Uncle Jack... do you mind if I ask you a question?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Sure, why not?", said Jack. "Go for it, young lady."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Well", she said, "I was just wondering... uh... well... why, exactly, are you here?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "To teach you a thing or two about playing poker, young lady! Right?!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Well, no," Yvonne said. "I mean... why are you REALLY here?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Like I said, I'm here to play a game of poker with you and your dad. And my sister, your Great Aunt Clara. Anything else? I could loan you a few bucks if you want to play some more!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "No", Yvonne said, "That's okay. I just thought. I don't know. I just thought maybe you were here for some... I don't know... just some other reason. Nevermind, Uncle Jack. I was just wondering."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> More awkward silence, then Aunt Clara said, "Oh, c'mon Jack, tell us why you're really here. I mean besides just to play a game of poker..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Now Jack's mood changed. His eyes lost that sly little glint and took on a more serious, darker, look.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Well, uh... if you must know, I'm here because... I... uh... it's getting kind of... lonesome... back there. Nobody really wants to ... you know... play poker.. or anything...with me. I don't know. They.. everybody just... sort of... ignors me. Even my enemies. They don't care... what I do. Or don't do. I owed them a pile of dough and they stabbed me to death. They left me dead on the beach in Jersey and that was that. No more games. No more sneaking around and, after a little while, they just ignored me altogether. So, I came here. Clara's here and she likes it so I thought... maybe I'd check it out, too. Never thought I could get... bored... or lonesome... but.... well... anyway... you asked. So there. I guess I'm in need of .... maybe... a little fun... maybe.... friends..." </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Love?", Yvonne ventured.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Well", said Jack, "I don't know about all that."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Oh, c'mon Jack," Aunt Clara volunteered, "Everybody needs love, Jack, even you... right?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Then she patted him on the top of his derby hat as if he were a little boy. He grinned a little, looked at her with one eye, and said, softly, "...Yeah, well.... whatever."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> By the way folks, you can read Aunt Clara's story, beginning with part one, at<a href="http://singingcobbler.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">singingcobbler.blogspot.com</a> There are lots of other stories there, also. Thanks! Duffy</span></span></div>
duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-24607570047099434312013-01-03T14:12:00.001-05:002013-01-22T12:50:31.431-05:00Aunt Clara Part Thirteen<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> As I drove down Magnolia Avenue I sang along with Willie. "Whiskey river take my mind..."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I was feeling really tired so I decided to take a nap in the parking lot at the shoe shop. I shut the motor off but left the radio on at a very low volume. I leaned the driver's seat back as far as it would go and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, there was a light tapping on my window. It was Yvonne motioning me to roll the window down. I recovered my senses, rolled it down, and she handed me a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. "Here you go, Pop, just the way you like it. Real cream, no fake stuff, and two sugars. Careful, it's hot."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I turned the radio off and, gratefully, took the coffee. She was right, it was hot. It was also very tasty.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "So", I said, "You ready for your poker lesson?"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Oh, yeah", she said, "I'm ready. Only I think I'm going to be giving him a lesson!"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "You go girl," I said, as cool as possible. She rolled her eyes a little, reminding me of me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "What time is it?", I asked. "Ten 'til midnight", she said. "Can we go on in? I'm cold!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> We walked across the street and a little ways up the alley to the side door of the shop. I unlocked the door, but just as I was about to step inside, Yvonne touched me on the shoulder and whispered, "Shhh, Papa, listen... you hear that?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I nodded my head yes. It was some old song I didn't recognize. It sounded like something from the nineteen twenties or maybe the thirties. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> We made our way through the backroom, the "storage" area, in the dark. When we got to the swinging door, the one leading into the big showroom, Yvonne tapped me on the shoulder again and said, softly, "Wait, let me take a look." We could hear the music plainly now and, as Yvonne moved past me in the darkness, I could also hear what sounded like shuffling shoes. Like... dancing. Yvonne opened the door slightly and a beam of light fell across her face. I was listening and watching as her eyes grew wide and she smiled big. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "What is it?!", I whispered, "C'mon, Yvonne, what is it?!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Oh... my... God", she whispered back. "I can't believe it. Oh, Papa, you won't believe it either. Look". She stepped back into the darkness and I moved forward and peered into the room. The music, louder now, was playing fast and, as I adjusted my eyes to the light, my heart fairly skipped a beat. Or maybe it doubled up on the beat. There they were. Uncle Jack and Aunt Clara... dancing! Jack in his silk suit and his gold toothed grin beaming. And Aunt Clara, not in her wheelchair, but rather... twirling and swirling and kicking up her heels. They were doing the Charleston!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then, suddenly and at the same instant, Jack and Clara turned and looked in my direction. They were dancing in place now and motioning with their heads for us to come on in.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Yvonne had been watching over my shoulder and did not hesitate to push past me and into the lighted room. She stood there for just a moment and then took off in sort of a quick skip. When she got to where they were doing the Charleston she began doing it, too. The three of them were dancing up a storm and I just stood there like a dummy. An absolutely amazed dummy.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Yvonne was motioning wildly for me to join in. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> "C'mon Pop! It's fun! C'mon!". But I just stood there, breathing a little too heavily and tapping my foot imperceptibly I've never been much of a dancer and didn't want to embarrass myself. I just stood there staring and wondering.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Finally the song ended and the three dancers hugged as they smiled and laughed.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Uncle Jack lit a cigar, took a swig from a silver flask, and sat down on Great Grandma's old wicker chair. Aunt Clara eased herself into her wheelchair. Her magical, flying, wheelchair.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> She said to Yvonne, "Sweetie, your papa looks a little confused!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Nodding her head in agreement, Yvonne walked over to me and said, gently, "Papa, think about it. I mean really. If Aunt Clara can fly... what makes you think she can't dance?!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then, once again, I felt that wonderful, indescribable, sense of ... joy... and peace... and light.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Uncle Jack scooted his chair over to the card table and began shuffling the deck.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Let's play poker", he said, as he winked at Yvonne.</span></div>
duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-7803084303503128522012-12-09T21:29:00.003-05:002012-12-09T21:33:25.757-05:00Christmas On The Road<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> On my way home from the shoe shop tonight I was remembering a Christmas from my youth. As I was growing up we traveled a lot, because of my stepfather's work. Or lack of work. We moved all the time and I went to eighteen schools before finally graduating on my eighteenth birthday, but right now, in this little story, I was only ten years old and we were on our way from Cleveland, Ohio, to Florida and we were in North Carolina, It is very cold!! </span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> There was an icey drizzle and, as usual, we were staying in a roadside park for the night. It was the night before Christmas, in fact. Here we were... mom and pop and us four boys. Christmas Eve and we were "camping out" again. Mama was great at making the best of a rough situation. Staying in the roadside park was "camping" and packing up and moving on was "another adventure".</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Well, on this Christmas Eve she found a way to make it okay once more. She removed a box from the little U-Haul trailor while Pop built a fire. Then, wouldn't you know it, it was time to decorate the tree! That's right, we picked a small pine nearby and Mama and us boys began hanging homemade decorations and throwing on the tinsel. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> It was a small tree, but still too tall for me, so one of the other boys placed a star made of tin foil on the very top. There were no lights, of course, but it didn't matter this time. The night was cold and wet, but the fire was warm and the little tree was beautiful!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Mama cooked supper on the fire and fed us boys and then it was time for bed. At this time we didn't have a tent so we slept in the car. Usually it was boys in the backseat and Mom and Pop in the front seat, but not on this night. This night, Christmas Eve, mama would be able to stretch out on the front seat, instead of sitting up. Pop actually slept under the car so that Mama could rest a little easier. Now, there is a man for you!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> The next morning, Christmas morning, at daylight, Pop built another fire while Mama began taking the decorations from the little tree and putting them back in the cardboard box. Then she cooked breakfast for us all and we were on the road again. I turned and watched our Christmas tree 'til it was out of sight.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "Mama", I said, "You forgot to take the star off the top of the tree!"</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> "I know", she said.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> She smiled at me and I went back to sleep.</span></span></div>
duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-34579433306782449132012-10-28T21:33:00.000-04:002012-12-09T21:34:50.747-05:00Aunt Clara Part Twelve<br />
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I raised my glass to Jack's and repeated, "Here's to livin'... and dyin' ". I guess my toast was a bit weak, Jack raired back, shaking his head, and said, "Davey, loosen up boy. You're too tense. That's the most boring toast I've ever seen. Life and death, son! Livin' and dyin'! Say it like you mean it! Now.. c'mon let's try that again!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Okay", I said, "But you gotta understand I'm kind of in shock here. A little nervous, you know?!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Jack smirked and gave that gold toothed grin. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Why, Davey? Why you in shock? Why you nervous? Davey... why you, as Elvis would say, all shook up?!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Well", I said, "Maybe 'cause I'm sittin' here at the bar... with you... I'm sittin' here with... a dead guy?! Yeah, maybe that's it...?", I said, sarcastically.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Well, excuse me", Jack exclaimed Steve Martin style. It wasn't just a fair imitation. He sounded exactly like Steve Martin! Exactly! I couldn't help it. It made me laugh so hard I spilled my shot of whiskey all over the bar and I even managed to spill some onto Uncle Jack's silk suitcoat.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Hey, watch it there young man! I died in this coat, you know? besides that, there are thirsty..."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Yeah, I know", I said with a grin, "Thirsty drunks in Indiana. Sorry about that Uncle Jack, but that was really good. I mean the Steve Martin thing". </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I grabbed a handful of napkins from the holder on the bar and, as if presenting him a gift, handed them to Jack who snatched them in mock anger and began wiping the spilled whiskey from his suit.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Such a waste", he said. Then he motioned to Joyce and held up two fingers like a peace symbol. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "A couple more here, Joyce, for me and Mr. All Shook Up. Please."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> She brought the drinks over and set them on the bar, then went back to reading her book.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "She likes romance novels", said Jack.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "How do you know?", I asked.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Never mind", he said, "Just trust me, Davey, she likes romance novels."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I started to say somthing else, but Jack stopped me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Now", he said, "What do you say and how do you say it?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> This time, in a hearty gesture, I proclaimed, "Here... is ... to... livin' and dyin'!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "That's better", Jack said, and we both downed our shots. I got up to go to the bathroom and when I returned to the half dark room, Uncle Jack was gone.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Joyce said, "He told me to tell you he'd see you at the shoeshop. Somthing about a poker game at midnight."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I reached for my wallet, but Joyce held up a hand, saying, "He took care of it."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Oh", I said, "Okay, thanks."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I had some time to kill so I decided to take a walk. Walking is a good idea, particularly if you've had a couple shots of whiskey. Plus, it's good exercize, from what I hear. I got my guitar out of my car and began walking towards the park. When I got there I sat down at a picnic table and took a bunch of folded papers out of my jacket pocket. I had recently written several songs, but had yet to put them to music. The first one I unfolded was called "Whiskey Down, Whiskey Blue" and it started like this, </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "I'm feelin' pretty good</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I'll take another shot</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I'm in the mood </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> for whatever you've got</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Whiskey down, whiskey blue</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> All my whiskey dreams came true..."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Hmm, I thought, a country song if ever there was a country song. I put the words to a simple three chord arrangement and tried not to make it sound too much like Hank or Willie. Not and easy task for me. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Satisfied I had not ripped off someone else's tune, that it was original, I put my guitar back in it's battered case and walked back to my car. I settled in behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine started and, before backing out of the parking space, I turned the radio on and, lo and behold, there was Willie singing, "Whiskey River". Small world, I thought.</span></div>
duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-34733155119187143762012-09-11T17:00:00.002-04:002012-09-11T17:02:30.754-04:00Aunt Clara Part Eleven<br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I blinked hard and clumsily stuck out my hand and shook his. It was a left handed shake.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Coltrane?” I asked.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, you know, John Coltrane. One of the greatest jazz men of all time. Right up there with Miles Davis in my not-so-humble opinion,” he replied.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well,” I answered, “Yes, I'm sure there's some Coltrane on there. Probably some Miles, too.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No,” he said, “I'm in a Coltrane kind of mood. So are you. I can tell. You might not know it, Davey, but you...are in...the mood for some John...Coltrane!”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay,” I replied, “Coltrane it is.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack touched my arm, stopping me from getting up. “Oh, don't get me wrong,” Jack smiled, “I like all kinds of stuff. Even Dylan. Not much of a singer, but a hell of a writer.” Then, faintly and sweetly, Uncle Jack began to sing:</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>How many roads must a man walk down</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before you call him a man?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>...The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The answer is blowin' in the wind</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“God, I love that one,” said Jack with an edge of emotion in his voice, “The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind. Now that's some writing! And he was just a kid, you know. Twenty-two, I think.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah,” I said, “He's my favorite. I call him the Shakespeare of our times. That's what I tell everybody.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, I don't know about that,” he replied, “But I like Mr. Dylan. He's seventy now, or seventy-one, and still rockin', right? Got a new album just came out, too. I think it's called 'Tempest'. Nothing to do with Shakespeare though. And I'll tell you this,” said Uncle Jack, “Bob Dylan is sounding more and more, his voice anyway, like Louis Armstrong, don't you think?!”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah,” I answered, “He is. You're right. I hadn't thought about that, but yeah...Louis Armstrong. Hmm.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack got up from the bar-stool and strolled over to the jukebox. I watched him put a five dollar bill in and a moment later, Louis Armstrong was singing...</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“...And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Four more songs, I thought, I wonder what's next?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack sat back down on his stool and said, with a slight shrug, “No Coltrane. That's okay. I'm not in the mood now, anyway.” Then he motioned to Joyce, the bartender, and she walked over to us. “Couple of shots please, for me and my Great Nephew here! Make mine Jack Daniels, Jack for Jack!” he laughed, “And whatever Davey wants.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Jameson's,” I said, just above a whisper. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course!” Jack half-yelled, “I shoulda known. You're stuck on all that Irish stuff! Guinness for yer beer. Jameson's fer yer whiskey. Don't you ever go out on a limb and try something different, Davey? Something new? I mean...just for the hell of it?!”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well..uh...sure...sometimes....I guess...I might...uh...” I was stammering again, and for obvious reasons, feeling a bit foolish. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well?!” demanded Jack, smiling big now, “Don't you?”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay,” I gave in, “I'll have a shot of Jack Daniels, Joyce...please.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There you go, Davey.” Jack grinned from ear to ear now, showing a gleaming gold tooth. “There you go my boy.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joyce set the shot glasses in front of us. Uncle Jack picked his up quickly without spilling a drop, as I picked mine up, rather slowly, and just a little shakily, sloshing some onto the bar. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don't wast it,” said Jack, “There are thirsty drunks in Indiana.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I frowned a little at his politically incorrect remark but didn't say anything. Jack raised his glass in a toast, and as I raised mine he said, “Here's to livin', Davey, and dyin'! I've done both, and believe you me, they're worth drinkin' to!”</span></span>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-4802162217469085042012-09-11T14:44:00.003-04:002012-09-11T17:03:09.014-04:00Aunt Clara Part Ten<br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yvonne got in her car and drove away and I got into mine. It was early afternoon, but instead of going home, I decided to go to the bar. I had to think this thing over. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I pulled into my regular parking spot the voice of my father was in my head. I was ten years old. I said, "Dad, have you ever thought about thinking about thinking?" He laughed just a little, which hurt my feelings. I was serious as a ten year old could be. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Son, if you keep on like that you will drive yourself crazy. You think too much."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I can't help it," I replied, "I'm just trying to figure it out."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Figure out what?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I don't know," I cried, "Maybe just everything, that's all."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well nevermind all that , son. You just live and be happy. You've got a mom and dad and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and friends and people who love you very much and that's all that really matters. Now you go and pick up sticks out of the yard and get ready to help me now. Then we're gonna wash the car. Okay?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sighed a long sigh of disrelief. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Okay," I said.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now here I was, forty years later, still trying to figure it out. Had I driven myself crazy with all that thinking? Well...that's debatable. I've heard that art is subjective. And pain. Maybe crazy is subjective, too. How would I know anyway?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got out of the car and slowly walked the hundred feet of so to the back door of my second home. The bar. I opened that door and felt the cool A. C. and the darkness of the place take me into its arms. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was only one customer in there so I pretty much had my choice of stools. I picked one near the jukebox and sat down. Then I immediately got up and turned to that jukebox, a modern digital one, which only took bills. I fished in my pocket, pulled out a couple of singles and stuck them in the slot. It grabbed them one at a time and the screen came to life. Too many choices, I thought, too many choices, but I'm not puzzling over this one. I knew what I wanted to hear. Dylan, the shakespeare of our times. "It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding": </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"Darkness at the break of noon </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Shadows even the silver spoon, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">the handmade, the child's balloon, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Eclipses both the sun and moon</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">To understand you know too soon</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">There is no sense in trying..."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I turned back to my stool, sat down and a nice long drink of Guinness. Crazy comfort, I thought.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"A question in your nerves is lit</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">yet you know there is no answer fit..."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joyce, the bartender, walked over and said, "Davey, this one's on him."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who?" I asked. She pointed to the gentleman at the other end of the bar. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Him."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I looked down and raised my glass in his direction and mouthed "Thanks". He slowly got up and strolled, or more swaggered, over to me, stuck out his hand and said, "Jack is my name and gambling's my game. Any Coltrane on there?"</span></span>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-6799173370079557412012-08-07T16:37:00.000-04:002012-08-07T16:39:13.942-04:00Aunt Clara Part Nine<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yvonne asked me if she could borrow the photograph of Jack and Don, the one where they look like dandies in the Depression. I said, "Sure, but why?". She said, "Well, I think I'd like to do a painting of them. It's a cool picture." "Okay", I replied, "I think that's a fine idea. Paint away!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Oh yeah", she said, "I meant to ask you...how did Uncle Don and Uncle Jack... uh...die? Do you know, Papa?" "Yes... well, I think so anyway", I said, "Uh, as far as I know, Uncle Don had a heart attack and died a few days later with his family around him and , uhmm, well, Jack was killed on the beach in New Jersey. Stabbed to death. By the mob. At least that's how the story goes. He'd gone up there on some kind of business that had to with the speakeasy. He'd gotten into debt. Gambling, I think. Anyway, the police found his body on the beach, a knife in his back. They called Aunt Clara and she had him shipped back to West Virginia. That's where he was buried. In Point Pleasant, West Virginia." "Wow!", exclaimed Yvonne, "That's wild!" "Yes", I said, "It is, isn't it."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> It was one p.m., closing time on Saturday, and Yvonne and I were both excited and a little nervous about the coming poker game with Uncle Jack. Not the game itself, but just meeting and being with him and Aunt Clara. "I hope he shows up", Yvonne said. "Oh, I believe he will", I said. Then Yvonne whispered, "Papa, I've been studying up a little on poker, online. It doesn't really look all that hard to play." "Oh, it isn't, but Jack is a pro so don't get any big ideas about beating him just because you won a game of rummy with me and Aunt Clara." "No", she said, "I just don't want to seem like a complete dummy." "Don't worry, darlin', you're no dummy and Jack knows it or he wouldn't want to meet you." Then Yvonne said, "Listen Pop, if he's so good, a pro as you say, then why did he get into such hot water with the mob?" "Good question", I said. "I never really thought of that. Hmm... can't win 'em all, I guess." Yvonne kind of rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah... right."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> We closed up shop and went our separate ways agreeing to meet in the parking lot across the street. "What time?", Yvonne asked. "I guess about dark", I replied. "Okay", she said. Then her cellphone buzzed. She looked at the screen. "It's Uncle Jack", she whispered, "I hope he's not cancelling." "Answer it, sweetie", I said. She pushed a button to take the call. Then she pushed that button that turns on the speaker. "Hello... Uncle Jack?"" Hello yourself, Yvonne. How did you know it was me?" "Well, you know, your name was on the screen." She laughed a little. "It is a cellphone, you know... a cellphone? One of those new fangled contraptions we talk on nowadays?" "Right", he said. "I forgot. Don't get smart young lady. This is your Great, Great Uncle Jack talkin' to ya here. Jack's my name and gambling's my game! I just wanted to let you know I'm running a little late. I'm always late! Late? Get it? Late... as in... dead? It's a joke, girl. A joke!" Yvonne laughed out loud. "Yeah, I get it, I get it." Then Jack said, "Listen, I'll be at the shoeshop at midnight. That okay with you and your dad? By the way, how is your old man, your dad I mean?" "Oh, he's fine. Want to talk to him?" "No, not really, " said Uncle Jack. I'll see you both tonight. Midnight. Get ready to learn how to play poker and how to lose at the game! Later, young lady. I gotta go now. Goodbye!" He hung up before Yvonne had a chance to reply. "Holy smoke, what a character", she said, " I can't wait to meet him in person." "Me too, " I said, "... I think."</span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-2778332379348760322012-06-26T13:40:00.001-04:002012-06-26T13:49:33.267-04:00Aunt Clara, Part Eight<div class="gmail_quote" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Jack's half brother, Don, was handsome, but not as handsome as Great</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Uncle Jack. Don was tall, over six feet, and a good deal rounder than</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Jack.They both wore mustaches, Don's being longer and wilder while Jack's</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">lay shorter and neatly trimmed. True, Uncle Don's mustache was wilder, but</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Jack was the wilder man.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> It was okay with Don to just be more or less "normal". He liked</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">spending much of his time being a conductor on the train, supporting his</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">wife and children, going to the little Baptist church on Sunday mornings,</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">and dabbling on Wallstreet. He didn't call it gambling. Few did. He called</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">it investing.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> Nineteen-seventeen was a big year. America entered the "war to end all</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">wars" and, in nineteen-eighteen, the Kaiser gave up and the whole thing was</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">over. My grandpa came home and married my grandmother. Uncle Don got a job</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">on the B&O Railroad along with his younger half brother, Jack.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> No one hired "handicaps" back then, but Aunt Clara got a job, too. As</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">a telephone operator. They put a switchboad in her house and there it</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">stayed for the next forty-five years. I told you this before and I repeat</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">myself now, but only to refresh your memory. And mine. Remember there was</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">alot of striking going on in America at the time. That's how Aunt Clara got</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">the job. The phone company, later to become Bell Systems, put that</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">switchboard in her living-room, swiftly and surreptitiously, in the middle</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">of the night. Our hometown banker, Mr. Murray Thompson, was going to have a</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">telephone, strike or no strike, so Miss Clara went to work and no one, not</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">the banker, not the doctor or the lawyer, or the folks who just liked to</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">gossip, was the worse for wear. Just a few years later, when Prohibition</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">kicked in, Jack's speakeasy would also need a telephone.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"> So World War 1 ended, Prohibition began, and the Roaring Twenties</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">roared. While much of Europe staggered and squirmed in its poverty, trying</span></span></div><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">to awaken from a nightmare, America staggered for a different reason. It dreamed</span><br />
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">happier dreams of wealth and kicked up its heels and danced to the rhythm of</span></span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">that new musical sensation called "Jazz".</span></span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-67317380078932321572012-05-29T13:00:00.002-04:002012-05-29T13:03:08.134-04:00Aunt Clara Part Seven<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">
<u style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></u></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>We were too hungry and tired to talk much as we ate biscuits and gravy, but we were both thinking and smiling alot. As we drove towards Yvonne's apartment I was thinking, I'm not alone here. I'm not the only one who's seen Aunt Clara! Yvonne's seen her too.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>We pulled in front of her apartment and, as she was getting out of the car, Yvonne said, "Papa, why does Uncle Jack want to come to the shop, but Uncle Don doesn't?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Well," I said, I don't think it's that Don doesn't want to, but that he's afraid to, and Jack isn't. Jack was always the one to take big chances from what I was told growing up."</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Hmm," she said, "Okay Pop. Love you. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? You get some rest and I'll see you at work." </span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Alright, darlin'. Love you too" I replied.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>I drove home and slept like a log. Or a dog. Anyway, I slept. I hadn't slept well lately. Just too much on my mind. Work, bills, Aunt Clara. Mostly Aunt Clara. Now that I knew it was real I could breathe a little easier and enjoy the whole thing. Not by myself, but with my daughter. Over the next few days we worked as usual. Fixing shoes, boots, belts, handbags and any number of other things. Yvonne did some "tweeting" on our shop Twitter account, noting that we've been busy as ever. We shot another funny video for YouTube, too. In this one I hit my thumb with a shoe hammer. It's hilarious. I cringe and cry in my best Charlie Chaplin style. So far, it's gotten seventeen likes and only one dislike. Some folks just can't find the humor in pain, I guess. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>In between all the repair work, phone calls, and waiting on customers at the front counter, Yvonne also rummaged through hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Boxes and bags of pictures from through the years. My Mom and brothers. Great Grandma Thomas and Pa Thomas, the Civil War veteran. Cousins whose names I didn't know. Grandpa Mack, the artist and preacher of the Gospel. Not many photographs of him, and even fewer of Uncle Don. Fewer still, of Uncle Jack. As a matter of fact Yvonne only found two pictures of him. One was Jack wearing a white apron and a white chef's hat. He was a cook on the B & O Railroad where his half brother, Don, was an engineer. In the other picture of jack he is wearing what appears to be a silk suit. He is also wearing a fine derby and sporting a pearl handled cane. He was a dandy in the middle of the Great Depression. "How?" You may ask. Well...he was also the owner of a speakeasy. An illegal but profitable bar and gambling house. </span></span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-71586784717816205092012-04-22T17:20:00.003-04:002012-05-29T13:03:35.804-04:00Aunt Clara Part Six<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">It was almost daylight by the time Yvonne finally won the game of rummy. We were all yawning and I was really glad it was Sunday morning. I didn't have to open the shoe shop. Announcing that she was hungry, Yvonne stood up, threw her arms back, and yawned and smiled at the same time. Aunt Clara looked at her and said, "Come give me a hug, then you and your papa stop and get a bite to eat. Then you go home and rest. It's been a long night, huh? Long, and fun!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Bzzzzz, bzzzzz, bzzzzz. It was Yvonne's cell phone. If I call Yvonne's cell a song plays, it's Alberta Hunter singing "My Castle's Rockin". If my wife Teresa calls Yvonne a voice says "Mom". But if it's an unknown caller, there is a buzzing sound. She looked at the screen on her phone and gave a quizzical look. "Hmm," she said, "It's only three numbers, hmm."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"What are they?" Aunt Clara asked. Bzzzz, bzzzz, bzzzz. Yvonne said, "Three, four, six." Grinning just a little, Aunt Clara said, "Well, it's my half-brother Jack. Go ahead and answer it, but push the speaker button...please."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Yvonne answered, "Hello?" A voice, my Great Uncle Jack, said, "Hello yourself there, young lady. This is your late, great, and I mean really great, Uncle Jack. Jack is the name, gamblin's my game."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Well," Yvonne said, "How did you get my number? How do you know it?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"What do you mean how did I get your number?! I've got your number young lady! How do I know it?! Ha ha ha ha ha. I'm dead! Hell, I know everything! Everything I need to know, anyway! So there!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Yvonne said, "Okay...so...why did you call me instead of Aunt Clara?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Because I could!" Jack said, rather loudly. "I talk to Clara all the time. She said you're interesting so I just thought I'd give you a ring...okay?!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Alright," Yvonne replied. She was smiling, and Aunt Clara was grinning. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>There was a long pause. Then the voice of Great, great uncle Jack Thomas. "You play poker?" </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Well, no, but..."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Well!" said Jack, "You wanna learn how? I can show you!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Yvonne replied with enthusiasm, "Sure!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>"Okay," Jack said, "But I'm not gonna teach you too good you know. I don't want you beating me like you did Clara and your dad! We'll play penny ante, see, with a one dollar pot limit. I don't want to take all your money! Just most of it! Now, let me talk to your Aunt Clara, okay? ...Please? Good night young lady!" Yvonne handed her cell phone to Aunt Clara, who promptly turned the speaker off. She put the phone to her ear. "Hello Jack." Then a pause. "Yes," she said, "I think that's fine. You're taking a chance, you know, but it's fine with me." Another pause. "Yes, you're right, life is full of chances and sometimes we've got to take them. Yes Jack, I know, Jack's your name and gambling's your game. Yes...I love you too, Jack, and we'll see you here next Saturday night. Okay, see you then."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Aunt Clara pushed a button on the phone and handed it back to Yvonne saying, "I love these cell phones." She spun in her amazing wheelchair and began moving away, towards the other side of the room. "Good night...or good morning...whatever it is. Love you both..." Her voice becoming fainter now, "See you here next Saturday night." The chair reached the far wall and slowly spun around, facing Yvonne and I. It was empty now as we stood gazing and smiling. We walked out the back door of the shoe shop through the alley and across the street to the car. Yvonne said sleepily, "Mmm, biscuits and gravy sounds real good to me." "Me too," I replied. </span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-23176280797102859232012-04-19T15:08:00.000-04:002012-04-22T17:25:57.520-04:00A Normal Conversation<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> It was a rainy day I was slipping down the street </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Goin' down to Mack's to get me somthin' to eat</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> By the time I got there my appetite was dead</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I decided what the heck I'll get a beer instead</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I took a big swig and lit a cigarette</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Me and the waitress started chewin' the fat</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Just a normal conversation, everybody knows</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> It's, "Whatcha up to? How's it goin'?" That's the way it goes</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Workin' some, playin' some, same ol' thing I guess"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Ya shake your head, shrug your shoulders, and get it off your chest</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Well, I knew it was too early but I ordered up another beer</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Put a dollar in jukebox, said, "Whatcha wanna hear?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> "Oh, it don't matter, play anything at all</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> except 145... it drives me up the wall</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And don't play Eminem or any rap stuff</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And don't play Conway Twitty, I've heard that thing enough</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> 218's alright if ya like that sort of thing</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I think Dylan's pretty good myself...if he'd just learn how to sing"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Well, I played Knockin' On Heaven's Door</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And somthin' by the Stones I'd heard a thousand times before</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then the regular lunch crowd started driftin' in the place</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Meat and two vegetables at six bucks a plate</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I sat back down on my stool and ordered up one more</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> It was about this time an old best friend of mine wandered in the door</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I wouldn't have recognized him 'cept for the tattoo on his arm</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> but I didn't act surprized or show any kind of alarm</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> It was plain to see he didn't know me, though I didn't think I'd changed much at all</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> His eyes were cloudy 'n he couldn't see straight thru the maze of alcohol</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> His shirt was all dirty and ripped up the side</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> His barn door was open 'n his shoes were untied</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Well, he walked over 'n sat on the stool next to mine, lookin' the other way</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I wanted to say somthin' to him, but I didn't know what to say</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> He ordered up a burger and a beer</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then our eyes happened to meet in the reflection in the mirror</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> He turned to me kinda slow, stuck out a shakin' hand</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> He said, "Hey, it's been a long time, how ya doin' man?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Ya know I knew ya when I first came in the door </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I didn't think ya knew me or I'd've shook your hand before"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then he said, "What brings you back to this Godforsaken town?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I said, "Oh, I'm goin' up to West Virginia, just dropped by to have a look around"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> He said, "Man, there ain't nothin' left here for anybody to see</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I been here the past twenty years 'n take a look at me"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Then there was a moment of silence...seemed like an eternity</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> when I had nothin' more to say to him 'n he had nothin' more to say to me</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Well, I called the waitress over 'n ordered us up another beer</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Slipped him a dollar for the jukebox...he said, "Whatcha wanna hear?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I said, "Oh, it don't matter, play anything at all</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> except 145, cause it drives her up the wall</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And don't play Eminem or any rap stuff</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> And no Conway Twitty...she's heard that thing enough</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> 218's alright if ya like that sort of thing</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> I think Dylan's pretty good myself, if he'd just learn how to sing"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Yeah, it was just a normal conversation everybody knows</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Whatcha up to? How's it goin'? That's the way it goes</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Workin' some, playin' some, same ol' thing I guess</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> Ya shake your head, shrug your shoulders....'n get it off your chest.</span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-18435803024655568472012-02-28T12:36:00.001-05:002012-02-28T12:37:26.045-05:00Les...For Short<div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Hi folks, we're taking a little break from the Aunt Clara stories for St. Patty's Day. Enjoy!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I've come to sing ya an Irish song you've never heard before</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">and if yer lucky yer chances are you'll never hear no more!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I picked it up in Dublin Town from a Leprechaun i met</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Whilst I was chasin' butterflies he fell into my net</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Oh, I let him go though, straight away, for he was a friendly sport</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">He said, "My name is Leslie O'Connery...they call me Les...fer short!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Well, I could scarse believe my eyes, he wasn't one foot big</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">as he tipped his hat and twirled his cane and danced an Irish jig</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And he says to me, "What be yer name? 'n don't gimme no balarney!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Well, I puffed me chest and told him proud, "My name is Duffy Shoney!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">He turned a flip 'n give a "hoot!" 'n says, "You don't look the Irish sort!!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I says "Just the same, it's still me name...they call me Duff...fer short!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Well, he lit his pipe 'n took a puff 'n blew a smokering in the breeze</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">'n says to me, "My good friend, Duff, I owe ya one good wish!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Ya coulda kept me in yer net 'n never set me free</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">'N I feel as if I'm in yer debt, so what's yer fancy be?</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I'm an Irishman of my good word, of this ya can report!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My name is Leslie O'Connery, they call me Les...fer short!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"A wish", I says, "I've got one, perhaps you'll find absurd</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But after all, if you'll recall, ya did give me yer word!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"Aye, aye yes" he says, 'n stared in disbelief</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">as I asked him to present a plate of cabbage and corned beef!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"What!!!??? What kinda wish is that to wish!?" he says, 'n give a funny snort</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"Now I know the reason why they call ya Duff...fer short!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And he says, "ahh, come now man, it ain't everyday</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">that a real, live leprechaun should come along yer way!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Why I can grant ya anything ya fathom in yer head</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Don't ya want fer somthin' else besides just bein' fed?</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Don't ya want some finer thing that you could never afford?</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My name is Leslie O'Connery, they call me Les...fey short!!!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"Well", I says, "Perhaps there is one more thing you could do for me</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Could ya teach me how to sing an Irish melody?"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"Ah ha!" he laughs 'n say's, "I knew I wasn't wrong!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">If ya was a true Irishman...ya'd KNOW an Irish song!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But even though ya fibbed to me I'll still strike up a chord</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">for my name is Leslie O'Connery, they call me Les...fer short!"</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And so he sang his song for me with sincerity and wit</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">'n it makes me laugh to this day to think of it...</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">but I ferget the words... and the melody... is gone</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">but after all, if you'll recall, I learned it from a leprechaun!</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And his name was...O'Calla.....O'Cana...O'<wbr></wbr>Lear...y...oh, anyway...</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">They called him Les...fer Short!!!</span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-64193668203974353572012-02-03T12:55:00.002-05:002012-02-03T12:55:57.859-05:00Aunt Clara, Part Five<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><u><br />
</u></span></div> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I walked through the alley to the sidewalk. My car was parked in the lot across the street, but I decided to take a walk instead. Downtown was dark and deserted and the air was cold. I breathed in deep through my nose and felt the frost. I put the keys back in my pocket and turned towards Main Street. I needed some time to think. I turned and walked up past the frame shop, the pawn shop, and the furniture store. It was two o'clock in the morning, cold as hell, quiet, and...lonely. I was alone. Alone with my thoughts, and alone...in my life. That was nothing different, but now I was by myself in a predicament. A problem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">If what I had seen and experienced, Aunt Clara flying in her wheelchair and talking to me, was real, then it was a beautiful thing. An awakening thing. But if it wasn't real, if it was a fantasy or an illusion, then...I was losing it. But it seemed, it felt, so absolutely real!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I realized there was only one way to know for sure. I had to tell somebody. I had to trust someone. I had to take a chance. There was a part of me that was almost willing to just keep it to myself. To enjoy this dream, or new reality, whatever it was. It was exciting and intense. But still. I had to know if it was real, or if it was just...me. <i>Who do I trust more than anyone in the world, even more than I trust myself?</i> I thought. <i>My daughter. I trust Yvonne the most. I will tell her. No, wait. I know. When I see...if I see...Aunt Clara again, I will ask her if I can, if I should, tell Yvonne. But what if Aunt Clara says "No, don't tell Yvonne. You mustn't tell anyone." What if she says "No, Davey, it's our little secret."? Should I go along with her or against her wishes? Just give in to the dream and enjoy it...or maybe be swallowed up by my own craziness?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">At the corner, a few blocks further up Main, I stopped and wondered whether to go left or right on Wayne Avenue or just turn around and head back down Main Street to my car. To just go home. My walk in the cold had not gotten me any closer to peace of mind. I took a deep breath, stuck my hands in my pockets, and walked slowly back toward Arch Avenue, back to my car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I put the key in the ignition but before I turned it, I heard a song. It was coming from my coat pocket. "Like a Rolling Stone". It was my ringtone. I looked at the little screen, beaming brightly in the darkness. I didn't recognize the number, but it was a 304 area code, West Virginia. "How does it feel? How does it feel? To be on your own, no direction home? A complete unknown, like a rolling stone?" it sang. <i>Great, Bob, it feels just great!</i> I didn't answer. Maybe whoever it is will leave a message. There was silence for a minute, then just as I was about to see if there was indeed a message, Bob sang again. "How does it feel..." I flipped it open and said, "Hello?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">Aunt Clara said, "Davey, why are you sitting in your car in the parking lot at three a.m.?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "Thinking," I replied, "just thinking."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "Well, Davey, I think you think too much, you know?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "I know, but I can't help it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "Well...it's late, but why don't you come on back in the shop, okay? We need another player."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> I swallowed hard and said, "What do you mean?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "For our game of rummy, Davey, the more the merrier!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> "I'll be right there" I answered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I unlocked the back door and as I closed it behind me, I heard laughter and giggles. I heard the voices of Aunt Clara and Yvonne.</span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">(To Be Continued)</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><u>___________________________</u></span> </div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-10433561175086971792011-12-27T16:54:00.000-05:002011-12-27T16:54:25.284-05:00Be Careful, Davey.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After a generous hug and a big kiss on each other's cheeks and a long look into each other's eyes I stood up. I sluffed around there in front of Aunt Clara in her wheelchair. I was a little embarrassed and at a loss for words. Embarrassed, I suppose, because only an hour before, I had felt afraid. Afraid that I was teetering on the outer fringes of sanity. Afraid of Aunt Clara. I was at a loss for words, but she was not. She touched my arm and said, "Would you mind bringing me another drink of water, Davey, please?" I looked at her and instinctively reached up and touched my mustache and beard. The goatee she had said she liked. I felt fear once again. This time I was afraid to look away from her. Afraid to turn and walk to the water cooler at the other end of the room. I was afraid if I looked away she would not be there when I turned back to her. "Don't worry," she said, "We've still got some time left tonight."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Tonight?" I asked, "What about...?" Aunt Clara touched my arm again and tapped her finger gently there and said,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Davey, swallow your fear and go and get your old Aunt Clara a drink of that delicious, cold water. Then we'll talk a bit more before we say good night. Okay? Get yourself a cup, too. I know you're thirsty, aren't you Davey?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I still couldn't bring myself to look away, much less turn away, so I began slowly walking backwards, still looking at her. "Davey," she said, "Don't be a Doubting Thomas. And don't fall while you're walking backwards!" Feeling a little foolish I stopped and closed my eyes. I waited only seconds before opening them and smiling because Aunt Clara was still there, only a few feet away, gently shaking her head as if to say "silly boy". I looked at the floor and turned gradually, and continued walking towards the water cooler. After going only about ten feet I just couldn't stand it and had to look back. I slowed my pace, turned my head, and looked over my shoulder. Aunt Clara was still there, only now she was waving at me with just her fingers, as if she were waving at a small child. "Be careful, Davey," she said, just as I bumped smack dab into the large rack which holds dozens of cans of shoe polish. The cans clattered to the floor, making a terrible racket. "Now you've got a mess to clean up, Davey. I told you to be careful and now look what you've done! Will I ever get that drink of water, Davey?" I took a long, drawn-out deep breath letting it out in a sigh, closing my eyes simultaneously. I opened them, not looking in Aunt Clara's direction. I turned and continued my walk to the water cooler. I was thinking to myself- "If she's there, she's there. If she's not....what? Then what? What if she's not there?" It took everything I had to keep from turning around, but I didn't. I think I picked up my step a little as I walked the last ten feet. I filled one cup and sat it on top of the cooler. Then, slowing my actions to show myself, and her, that I trusted her. She would still be there. I'm sure...I'm sure...almost. I filled the second cup, picked up the other one, and carefully turned toward the other end of the big room. Even in the darkness, I could see. I could see...she wasn't there. My heart sank. My mood darkened, like the room itself. Then, in a flash, I thought of something that made me smile. I smiled because not only was Aunt Clara not there, but neither was her wheelchair! I gazed towards the ceiling and there she was, Aunt Clara and her beautiful wheelchair, spinning in...I would call it...a bubble. A bubble of light.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Fooled you, didn't I, Davey? But you caught on quick." I nodded my head yes and raised a cup in her direction. "Mmm, be there in a second," she said. I walked to the bench and sat down, taking a sip of water and noticing, for the first time really, how good it did taste. She was right. It was delicious and I consciously tasted it as I watched Aunt Clara in her wheelchair float, not unlike a leaf in the breeze, gently to the floor. I started to stand up, but she said, "No, Davey, keep your seat." She wheeled across the room to where I sat. "Oh, thank you, Davey," she exclaimed as she reached out with one hand to take the cup of cool, ever-so-delicious spring water. She raised it to her lips, closed her eyes, and drank.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lowering the cup, Aunt Clara raised an eyebrow and asked, "Any questions, Davey?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, I've got one," I answered timidly, "Uncle Don seemed to hang up on me too quick. When I told him I wasn't dead, he sounded to be in a real hurry to get off the line. Why?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Aunt Clara shifted in the wheelchair and said, after taking another sip of water, "Because he knows he's not supposed to speak with...anyone who's...well, on the other side. Your side. The so-called 'living' side."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What about you?" I asked, "You're not talking to me on the phone, you're actually talking to me right here in the shoe shop, face to face."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Aunt Clara brightened and said, "Oh, I know. And talking in person with you is a double no-no, but I don't care. You know, Davey, I've always been fond of breaking the rules. I wasn't supposed to work and make money and be a vital part of society either, but I did all those things. I was supposed to depend on others, not be depended upon, but I was, and I liked it that way. So now, here I go again. Old Clara Pearl, breaking the rules. Talking to the living. Talking to you, Davey."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Yes," I replied, "You are." We both smiled and touched our plastic cups together.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Here's to us," she said, "And them."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A thought occured to me then and I asked the question, "Aunt Clara?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Yes?" She answered,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "What about...during the day? When Yvonne and I are here in the shop? Customers coming in and going out all day long? Where are you then?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Believe it or not, I've asked myself that question from time to time. Sometimes, I think I'm really...nowhere. Or maybe, everywhere?" Then, she continued, "All I really know is I'm here right now, I'm here, alive, with you."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Yes," I said, "You are."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Aunt Clara yawned a short little yawn and said, "Oh, Davey, I'm getting sleepy." I shuffled my feet and drank the rest of my water. She finished hers and handed me the empty cup. "Good night Davey," she said, "Don't forget to lock the back door. C'mon, give us a hug." I stood, then leaned over and hugged her neck.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Good night," I replied,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Don't worry," she said, "I'll clean up your mess."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "No," I said, "That's okay, I'll clean it up."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Too late," she said, grinning. I turned and looked and saw that every can and jar of polish was back in its place on the rack. I shook my head, laughed a little, and turned back to Aunt Clara. She was gone. Or, at least, I didn't see her there. The wheelchair was there, but not her.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "Oh my Gosh," I said out loud. "I'll be damned," I thought. I reached out and touched one of the cranks on the wheelchair. I touched a photograph on the wall. I took several deep breaths. I looked to the other end of the room, to the water cooler. I began walking towards it, turning only once to look back. I got a cup of water, that delicious spring water, drank it in a few gulps, looked towards the wheelchair--empty, and went out the back door, making doubly sure to lock it behind me.duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-22467701343031011042011-10-20T13:52:00.000-04:002011-10-20T13:52:50.246-04:00Aunt Clara's Telephone (Continued) I got up off my knees and began walking slowly to the other end of the big room toward the water cooler. I needed that drink of cold water more than ever. I pulled a plastic cup from the dispenser and filled it up. I raised it to my lips, closed my eyes, and drank. I filled the cup again and just as I was raising it again, I heard a slight creaking sound. I knew that sound. I'd heard it many times as a child. It was the sound of Aunt Clara's wheelchair. Her adjusting herself in it, causing the wood to squeak just a little. I closed my eyes again, half sighing, and slowly turned and looked towards the other end of the room. Towards the wheelchair. And there it was. And there she was. One hand on one of the cranks, the other under her chin. She grinned at me and motioned with her index finger for me to come down there. I set the full cup of water on top of the cooler and started towards her.<br />
"No, no," she said, "Bring the water, Davey, I'm thirsty, please." I picked up the cup and carried it with both hands. They were shaking and I did not want to spill the water. "It's okay, Davey. Don't be afraid. I love you, Davey. You know that, don't you?" I shook my head yes and felt a smile spread over my face. As I got closer to her I felt...what? I felt...that's it...peace. Long remembered joy. "Don't worry," she said, in a reassuring tone, "Isn't the water good? I love it, don't you, Davey?" I shook my head again and handed the cup of water to Aunt Clara. At the same time I knelt in front of her and laid my head in her lap. With one hand she smoothed my hair and whispered, "Davey, Davey, Davey, why are you crying? There's no reason to cry, Davey. Come on, tell Aunt Clara why you are crying, huh?"<br />
I lifted my head from her lap and looked at her face. I looked at her gentle smile. As our eyes met she said, "Why?" I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and whispered,<br />
"Because I've missed you."<br />
"Well," she said, "What a silly thing to do. Why should you miss me? You have me in your dreams, right? By the way, Davey, it's fun sometimes to be standing up. I wouldn't want to do it for a long time, but it's fun for a little while, like when I am in those dreams of yours. I know you like me standing up in dreams, but in real life I think you like me better in my wheelchair, right?"<br />
"Yes," I said, "I do." Aunt Clara said,<br />
"Now, let's see. You have me in your dreams. What else? Well, you have all of your wonderful memories of me. We had a lot of fun, Davey. Remember? I showed you how to fill the bird feeder beside the front porch. And how about when I showed you how to strike a match so that you could burn the trash in the big barrel out back? Well, the first time you tried you burned your thumb and I know that wasn't fun, but you got it right the next time and I was very proud of you. And you were proud of yourself too, right?" I smiled and said,<br />
"Yes, I was."<br />
"So," she said, "Dreams, memories...what else do you have, Davey?" It came to me then, as a revelation. I stood up there in front of her and said,<br />
"I have your...love." Quickly she laughed and clapped her hands.<br />
"That's right, Davey. You've got my love. I told you then, when you were just a little boy, that I loved you bunches and bunches and that it would always be that way. And it still is! So you see, you shouldn't cry. You can't miss me. I haven't gone away! I've never gone away!"<br />
The phone rang again. I looked at it. I looked at Aunt Clara. She rolled her eyes and shook her head no. "Don't answer it," she said, "It's Don. He still calls me on that old static-y phone. And all he does is complain. I love him, don't get me wrong. He's my brother, but I just get tired of all his negativity. Plus, he's a little boring. He still wants to talk about prohibition. It's either prohibition or the Great Depression. Or, Lord have mercy, politics. Phooey, phooey, phooey. I'm just not interested. It would be a little better if he'd call me on the cell phone. I'm glad you added that to your collection. It's much clearer and easier to use. When I turn on the speaker I can talk on it when I'm flying around the shop, but you know that. You saw me last night, didn't you?"<br />
"Yes," I said. "I did."<br />
The old phone had stopped ringing. "Orville always calls me on the cell. Wilbur too. It took me a while but I've convinced a few others that those old phones are simply outdated."<br />
"Like who?" I said.<br />
"Well, besides Orville and Wilbur there's Helen Keller. Such a person she is. She was always one of my heroes and now she's one of my best friends. Then there's Sam. Sam Clemens. He is so funny to talk to. A bit of a pessimist but he's still hilarious. And let's see...oh my, yes, I love talking to Will. Will Rogers. I wish I could get Don to call him sometime. I think Will could maybe help Don look at things in a better light, but Don's stubborn. I'm the only one he calls and he <i>always</i> calls me on this old thing."<br />
She motioned me to the benched and I walked over and sat down. I had a feeling about what was to come and I was anxious about it. I sat and watched Aunt Clara turning the cranks on the wheelchair. She rolled to the center of the room, winked at me, and began to slowly turn, clockwise. In a few moments she was gracefully spinning around and around and she was laughing. I clapped my hands like a child and, naturally, slapped my knees in happy fascination. She came to a stop facing my direction, smiled big, held open her arms and chimed, "Davey, Davey, come give us a hug." I rose from my seat and walked towards my Aunt Clara as the light on her face spread to mine and soon filled the whole room.duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-15898409883609696502011-10-19T15:51:00.000-04:002011-10-19T15:51:16.183-04:00Aunt Clara's Telephone I went back to the shoe shop the very next night, at the same time as the night before when I'd witnessed Aunt Clara flying in her wheelchair, but this time she wasn't there. No wooshing sound, no elegant gliding in the half-light around the room. All I saw was the room with its myriad of antiques and collectibles, including Aunt Clara's wheelchair, just sitting there. I swallowed hard, gritted my teeth, and rounded the corner. In the incredible silence I slowly walked to the far end of the showroom. As I made my way to where the wheelchair sat on display, my mind was spinning around the vision I'd had the night before. The gentle gliding of the chair and the radiance on Aunt Clara's face. I did not want to think that it might've been a figment of my imagination. It was too real. Too beautiful. Still, I couldn't help doubting my own eyes. It was also too fantastic. My mind still spinning and my heart pounding, I reached out and touched the photograph of Aunt Clara which hangs on the wall near the wheelchair. In the photo she is sitting in her chair in front of the telephone switchboard. She is wearing headphones and a small mouth piece. She is plugging a wire into one of the small holes on the switchboard. I think the photograph was taken in the nineteen twenties or early thirties. I brushed the picture with my fingers and then walked over to a bench on the other side of the room and sat down. I was simply gazing at the wheelchair and the many pictures of Aunt Clara on the wall behind it. In the dimness of the room there, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhilaration. At the same time a wave of fear washed over me.<br />
I needed a drink of water. I needed it badly and was just about to make my way to the other end of the room to the water cooler when there was a clanging sound over by the wheelchair. Clanging? No. I realized as the sound continued, that it was a ring. The ring of a telephone. "Brrrring, brrrring, brrrring, brrrring..." I don't know how many times it rang before I got up from the bench and leaped across the room towards my collection of telephones. I picked up the receiver on the nearest phone and put it to my ear, but the ringing continued, and I hung the receiver back on the cradle and reached for another one, an even older phone. This was the one which had sat beside the couch in Aunt Clara's living room. Her personal phone. As soon as I picked up the receiver the ringing stopped. I raised it to my ear and reached out with my other hand to the wheelchair, to steady myself. I felt dizzy and weak. Then a voice, amid the static said,<br />
"Hello...hello, Clara? Clara, is that you? Hello..."<br />
I dropped the receiver and it fell with a dull thud to the floor. I bent down quickly, shaking, and grabbed the thing. I held it an arms-length away, staring at it. I was breathing hard now, but I could still hear the voice, whoever it was,<br />
"Hello? Hello? Clara?"<br />
I sat it on its cradle and lowered myself to the floor and rested my body against the wheelchair. I wanted to run but I couldn't. I could only sit there and breathe, heavily. Actually, I was gasping. Had that old phone actually rang? Had I heard the voice on the other end? Was it real? Had I lost my mind? I'd had dreams about Aunt Clara many times in my life. I was ten years old when she died so I remember her well. When I was five or six, I remember standing on the footrest of the wheelchair and Aunt Clara riding me all around the house. Sometimes we would ride out onto the large porch. Then I would sit in the porch swing and watch as Aunt Clara deftly turned the wooden cranks just so, and would slowly begin to spin in place, the small swivel wheel in back making this possible. Very difficult, but possible for someone like my Aunt Clara. I would clap my hands and slap my knees wildly, as she spun around and around laughing and laughing. Then she would bring the wheelchair to a stop, facing me. She would give a big smile and open her arms wide, saying, almost singing, "Davey, Davey, come give me a hug," and I would jump down from the swing and run to her and she would wrap her arms around me, whispering, "Davey, Davey, Davey."<br />
Later on, after she's passed away, I began having dreams about her. Not bad or unpleasant dreams, just dreams. The only thing that might be a little unusual about them is that she's walking. Or rather standing, usually by her kitchen sink or stove, but never in a wheelchair. Also I don't remember her even speaking in my dreams.<br />
But now, I wasn't dreaming. I was sitting on the floor of the shoe shop, leaning against the wheelchair, remembering. I was breathing normal now and my heart had calmed down and I was actually wishing, hoping, that the phone, her phone, would ring again. I wanted to know who it was. Who was trying to call Aunt Clara? Then, again, I began to question my own eyes. I had seen her flying the night before. I doubted my own ears and yet I had heard, just minutes before, the ringing of the phone. I had heard the man's voice. Hadn't I?<br />
Then, indeed, that phone rang. Again. Not believing, but knowing it was real, I swallowed hard and began to crawl across the floor. I reached the phone and picked it up on the tenth ring. I put the receiver to my ear. Static. Then a distant, muffled voice.<br />
"Hello, Clara? Clara? Hello? It's Don, your brother Don. Hello?"<br />
I took a short breath and spoke into the receiver. "Hello....who is this?"<br />
The voice, Don's, said, "I can't hear you, speak louder. Clara?"<br />
I said, much louder now, "Hello, who is this? Who are you?"<br />
"It's Don, Don LeMaster. Clara LeMaster's brother! Who are you?!"<br />
I said, "This is David, Aunt Clara's great nephew, but...Aunt Clara's...dead. She's been dead for more than forty years..." It felt strange, even awkward, nearly shouting these words.<br />
Don said, "Hell, I know she's dead! I'm dead! Aren't you?!!" Static. Then Don, again. "Aren't YOU??" Static. My own silence.<br />
Then I said, too softly, "No, I'm not...I think..."<br />
Then Don said, "Did you say...you are NOT...dead?!"<br />
Louder now, I replied, "No, I am not dead."<br />
Uncle Don answered, "Well...alright then, David...goodbye. Goodbye, David."<br />
Static. I said nothing else and hung the receiver in its cradle, my heart telling me this conversation was over. My heart was also telling me I was not dead. Crazy maybe, but not dead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(To Be Continued)duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-16646276241094872562011-09-27T12:20:00.000-04:002011-09-27T12:20:03.547-04:00Aunt Clara's Wheelchair<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div> Aunt Clara flies. Seriously, in the old shoe shop, Aunt Clara flies around in her wheelchair.</div><div> That same wheelchair which is on display in my shop. The chair she sat in, on this Earth, for sixty-six years, from eighteen ninety-nine, until one morning after a bowl of Cornflakes, a small glass of milk, and a cup of coffee, she sat right there beside her dining-room table and died, in nineteen sixty-five.</div><div> She was born in Texas in eighteen eighty-eight. In Dallas, I think. Her father took her from there to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, in eighteen ninety-four. I'm pretty sure that's about the time she got sick. She got the Scarlet Fever. Of course, they didn't have anti-biotics back then and it was a fever so they just put her to bed. They should've kept her up and exercised her legs, but instead, they put her to bed. Well, her right leg crossed over her left leg just below her knees and they stayed that way until, like I said, she left here when she was seventy-seven.</div><div> Sometime in the nineteen nineties my mother gave me Aunt Clara's wheelchair. It was out in the little aluminum building in mom's backyard. I took it out of there and put it back together again. It is not your normal wheelchair.</div><div> Originally, the maker of the wheelchair, I believe his name was Lucerne, had cut the legs off of a nice office chair of the day. He attached three bicycle wheels to the chair. Two large wheels in the front and one, off of a "Penny Farthing" bycycle, in the center behind the chair. This wheel is much smaller than the other two and it swivels. Attached to hubs of the large wheels are sprockets. Then there are two more smaller sprockets, one on each side of the chair, combined with two common pump handles of the day. Two bicycle chains, one on each side, connect the two sprockets and, by turning the handles, one on each side, she could propel the chair in whatever direction she chose.</div><div> It is not an easy task, but she became an expert at operating this complicated and elegant contraption.</div><div> I was ten when she died, almost the same age she was when her father, Henry, had that wheelchair commissioned to be made for her, as a little girl. </div><div> She loved me very much and I still love her and she has always been an important part of my life.</div><div> Far from being "handicapped" she was, and is, dynamic.</div><div> In nineteen seventeen when she was twenty-nine, the town fathers installed a telephone switchboard in Aunt Clara's living room. She became our hometown's telephone operator until the dial system came in, in nineteen sixty-two. That is forty-five years! No one hired "handicaps" in nineteen seventeen, but she went to work and did a bangup job of it. </div><div> That is the reason I collect telephones. I've got one of the old wooden crank phones that you would mount on your wall. I've also got one that is like the one on the Andy Griffith show. You pick it up, jiggle the "cradle" and Aunt Clara's voice would say, "May I help you?" Then you give a 3 digit number, or maybe the person's name you were wanting to talk to, and Aunt Clara would connect you. Of course, she was long gone by the time cell phones came along, but I collect those too, just because I think she would've liked them. She loved phones. She invested in Bell Telephone and made a lot of money.</div><div> But that was then and this is now. Not long ago, in the middle of the night, I had to go to back to my shoe shop because I'd forgotten something. I unlocked the back door and shuffled around in the dark, trying to find the lightswitch. Just then, I heard a voice. I had not heard Aunt Clara's voice since I was a kid, but I knew right away that it was hers. I heard, "Orville, how in the world are you, and how is Wilbur? Oh, good, yes, yes, I'm fine." There was a long pause, then she said, "My goodness, you wouldn't believe it, but this chair is as good as ever. Yes, oh yes, very smooth. I just sail right along and I've become quite adept at manuevering the sharp turns. Yes, the space in the shop is limited, but I like it. They keep it changing all the time. No, I never get bored..... oh, you wouldn't believe it, Davey is in his fifties now and sporting a go-tee, it looks rather nice I think. Oh, I wish I could've known Yvonne, Davey's daughter, when I was on Earth. She is so cute. And smart, very smart. She's really the one who keeps the shoe shop interesting. How old is she? Let me think. Twenty-two. Yes, she's twenty-two. You would love her for sure. Alright Orville, I'll let you go now, but you keep in touch, okay? Happy flying to you too, Orville, and don't forget to give my love to Wilbur. Alright, oh yes, the reception is much better nowadays, isn't it?! Okay, bye-bye, love you much."</div><div> Then there was near silence. Silence... except for a whispy, smooth, wooshing sound. I stepped, carefully, a few more feet and looked around the corner and out into the main room. The "showroom". It is 65 feet long and 20 feet wide and bedecked with all kinds of stuff. Mostly antiques. Toys from when I was a kid, Great Grandma's dresser. Aunt Clara's wheelchair. Only now, as I looked on in utter disbelief, Aunt Clara's wheelchair was hovering and gently sailing all around the old shoe shop. It was one of the most beautiful sights my eyes have ever seen. Aunt Clara's face was serene and radiant as she glided gracefully around the room. Then, just as I was about to fully turn the corner and make my presence known, Aunt Clara, in her wheelchair, hovered for a moment beside my collection of telephones and settled gently to the floor, exactly to the spot where the wheelchair remains on display today. I glanced around the room for just a second and when I looked towards the wheelchair again, there it sat. Just as always. Just the wheelchair. The chair that her daddy had had commissioned to be made for his little girl in eighteen ninety-nine. </div><div> Lucerne, the master wheelchair maker and his good friends, Orville and Wilbur, builders of bicycles and, oh my God, a flying machine. </div><div> My Great Aunt Clara, my hero, could not walk.....but she can fly. </div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-25344513331093752382011-08-25T17:39:00.001-04:002011-08-25T17:47:01.479-04:00Wild Bill And Me<div style="background-color: transparent;"><div dir="ltr" id="internal-source-marker_0.8995518214069307" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wild Bill And Me</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br />
<div style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first two weeks I was in town I had enough money to rent a room at the San Davis Hotel. It was downtown, just off lower Broad. I owned a backpack, a few clothes and a guitar. I was twenty-four and had written some songs and was ready to start some more dreams. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had hitchhiked all over the United States more than once over a period of seven years and now I quickly fell in love with Music City. I played for tips in the bars, but soon realized that I couldn’t make enough money to survive by singing my heartfelt songs or even songs by the Great Hank Williams Sr...or Bob Dylan. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My money was running out fast, but I was determined NOT to leave Nashville. I would stay there, hell or high water and I would make it love me, too. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the beginning of my third week in town I began sleeping in a couple of different places. In a churchyard and in the park. The cops never bothered me and the nuns were kind to me, so I never considered myself to be one of the homeless. There were a lot of homeless folks. Men, women, and children, but I was never one of them- I was merely sleeping outside.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One day in that third week I walked into a place called “Tortilla Flat”. It was small, and, as I recall, a little bit stinky. Just my kind of establishment. I set my guitar case off to the side near the makeshift “stage”, and took a stool at the bar. There was no one else in there except me and the bartender. He was at least in his sixties. His name was Wild Bill. After just a few minutes Wild Bill said, </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Looks like you need a job, huh?” I didn’t even think about it. I just said, </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re right, I do.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, I slept in one of the booths that first night, after washing the dishes and sweeping and mopping the floor. The next morning, Wild Bill showed me how to make tacos and burritos and re-fried beans. He showed me how to hook up a keg of beer. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Opening time was ten a.m., I think. “Don’t burn the beans, and no credit to anyone!” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Believe it or not, folks started strolling in by five after ten. By happy hour at three o’clock, which actually lasted three hours, the joint was jumping. Pabst Blue Ribbon Draft was twenty-five cents a pint-sized Mason jar-full. The beer was cheap, the food was good as well as cheap, the jukebox stayed busy and I was in my element. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On about the third or fourth day of my new job, my new life, I was sitting on a stool playing my guitar and singing my latest ballad. Wild Bill came in from the kitchen area and walked over and handed me the key to the front door.</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You go ahead and open up. I have to go to traffic court. I’ll see you later on.” Well, I did not see him all that day. Or the next day, or the next. In fact, I never saw Wild Bill again. I was told he went to work in one of the bars down on Lower Broad. I just kept opening up every morning and serving the beer and cooking the Mexican food. I counted the money at closing time and put it in a zippered bank bag and put that in the freezer in the kitchen. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One day, after ten days or so, a guy walked in and looked at me behind the bar and said,<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “Where’s Bill?” </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Uh, he went to traffic court...uh...ten days ago.” I replied. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, who’s running the place?” He asked.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I guess I am,” I answered. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I guess you are.” He said, as if this was no surprise. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His name was Terry and he owned Tortilla Flat. Heck, I’d thought Wild Bill owned it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I worked there ‘til he sold the place and then I kept on working for him after he bought another bar just around the corner. In the new place I didn’t have to sleep in a booth. I had my own little room with a T.V. and an air conditioner. Even with all that, sometimes I slept on the pool table. Sometimes on the stage. I would close up at three a.m., stash the bank bag and sit on the raised platform--the “stage”, and play to an imaginary crowd. Then I would lay down right there, my guitar as my pillow, and go to sleep only a dozen feet or so from the spot where the Great Hank Williams Sr. had thrown up in 1950! </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I worked there for the next few years and got to meet and even get to know some of the best singers and songwriters in that incredible town.</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wild Bill left before I could get to know him, but I think he knew me. He’s gone now and so is Tortilla Flat, but Terry is still there and he still owns that bar. It’s called Springwater Supper Club and Lounge, and whenever I go to Music City I always stop in and Terry and I raise a hearty toast to one another...and to Wild Bill. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s a bar down in Nashville right beside the park</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No matter what the time of day the place is always dark</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I used to meet some friends down there and sing and play guitar</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And solve the World’s problems, one by one.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">...Thanks for reading!</span></div><div style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-Duffy</span></div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-30012949566977540162011-06-28T13:39:00.001-04:002011-06-30T11:15:16.219-04:00Grandpa MackI have told you some about one of my grandfathers, now I will tell you some about the other. As I've said before, Grandpa Young was a hard worker in every sense of the word and knew how to earn a dollar and what to do with that dollar, but Grandpa Mack, the other one, would fit another description.<br />
He was born right at the turn of the century in 1901 in West Virginia. Grandpa Mack's given name was William McKinley Thomas. Named after the president, of course, but I don't know if anyone ever called him William except maybe his mother.<br />
Just in case you've never seen it for yourself, I will tell you now that there are few places anywhere as beautiful as those old hills of West Virginia. Not to take anything away from other parts of the country, or the rest of the world, but that is just how I feel about it.<br />
Grandpa Young- the hard worker- dug holes and planted trees, mostly hemlock, on the hillsides and made a good living at it. Grandpa Mack on the other hand, put it on canvas, in oils, and made works of art. He hardly made a dime much less a dollar, but he was passionate about it and dedicated to a life of trying to capture and express that beauty I told you about earlier. It was a life of study, contemplation, spirituality, and aloneness.<br />
He did other things, too. For instance, in World War II he was a tail-gunner on a plane. At least that's how the story goes and I believe it. I've seen a photograph of him in his dress uniform. At some point he was also a school teacher. My mother, his daughter, was one of his students in the seventh grade, I think.<br />
I don't know if he was a good soldier or not, and I don't know how he was as a teacher, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't fired from either of those jobs so I guess he wasn't too bad at fighting war or teaching English in school, but all along, from early on, he painted.<br />
There were articles about him in the paper from time to time and several of his paintings took places of honor behind pulpits in churches and over mantels in living rooms in West Virginia and even some in Ohio. I almost forgot to tell you-he was also, (from time to time) a fine preacher of the Gospel. Don't forget though, he was an artist above all and therefore as is not uncommon with artists, he was also fond of drinking rum (from time to time). In the last years of his life he was supported mostly by his sister, my Great Aunt Clara. She was wheelchair bound, but made a living as a telephone operator. She had a switchboard in her house and was very good with her money. She made sure Mack had paint, canvas, and brushes and she was proud of his art. As a matter of fact on of the last letters Mack wrote was to her and it said near the end, "Thank you for a supreme effort to make a Man." Grandpa Mack died in a sanatorium of tuberculosis. He was sixty.<br />
At the start of this story, I might have made it seem as if one of my Grandfathers worked harder than the other, but that is not quite true as I see it now. Grandpa Young worked hard at working hard and having some of the finer things in life, which he deserved, but Grandpa Mack worked just as hard at being an artist. At being a searcher. A bit of a gambler too, but mostly he worked at simply Being. I am sure there is some of both of them in me.duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-84477684135752674882011-06-28T11:59:00.000-04:002011-06-28T11:59:40.040-04:00Pa Thomas<div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> That dern corn on his toe was just about to wear him to a frazzle, but he couldn't worry about that right now. His little granddaughter was here for a visit and he wasn't about to let a sore toe put a damper on that. In his long life, Pa Thomas had been through a whole lot worse things than a sore toe. In another century, the nineteenth, he came over here from Holland and fought in our Civil War. I'm not too sure about this part, but it seems like I remember someone in our family sayin' somthin' about him getting caught as a stow-away on a ship halfway between here and Holland and then having to spend some time as an endentured servant, doing some kind of farmwork. Anyway, he served for the North out of West Virginia. After that, all I know is he got married to Ma Thomas and they started having children. As automobiles came along later on, in the twentieth century, Pa Thomas would hitch-hike into Charleston on the week-ends to see his children, now grown, and that was a danger in itself. Especially since he stood in the middle of the road to do that. I'm sure the roads, the few there were back then, were really bad and maybe there was just no place to hitch-hike on the SIDE of the road. That must be it because I'm also sure that Pa Thomas was not doing it that way because he was just dumb. He was not. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> On the day we're talking about, the day of the corn on his toe, Pa was getting his picture taken. He would be sitting on the front porch, not all dressed up, but nice and clean and tidy, and his granddaughter would be sitting on his lap, playing with his long, white beard and his long, white hair which came down past his shoulders. Photography had come a long ways by then and the picture is pretty clear. Pa is wearing glasses and one hand lays on his right knee and the other is on the small of the little girl's back. He is wearing suspenders so his shirt is tucked in. He is looking at her and she is looking back at him. It is a somewhat comical picture and it radiates a lot of love. It is a picture of my Great Grandfather and my mother.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I understand that just a moment after that photograph was taken, the little girl jumped down off the old man's lap and took off running across the yard, chasing her dog. It was hot and Pa took out his hankerchief and wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead and commenced immediately to untie his right boot and take it off, then gently remove his sock. Then he stood up and reached in his pocket for his penknife, limped over to the edge of the porch and sat down there. His right knee was up against his beardy chest and his foot, the one with the corn on the toe, was planted firmly on the deck. The other foot was resting on one of the wooden steps. Pa Thomas then simply cut the dern corn off!</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> In the end, that little toe really did wear Pa to a frazzle. It killed him. A few days after that lovely picture was taken, he got blood poison and died. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Mama always spoke admiringly and sweetly of that old man and I've always wished I could've known him. I've got some of his shoemaking tools and that'll have to do, I guess. Well, I've also got a nice little write-up about him from a local newspaper. Near the end of the article it says, "There were three living Veterans of the Civil War and now, with the death of 'Pa Thomas', there are only two."</div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-35763406821453153532011-06-01T11:53:00.000-04:002011-06-01T11:53:15.399-04:00St. Augustine<div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">At age 18 I began hitchhiking all around this country and I kept it up untill I was 24, when I landed in Nashville. Granted, it wasn't always fun, but for the most part, the adventure and constant change outweighed the underlying sense of fear. It was worth the risk, I guess.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Anyway, as I said before, a few years later I drifted into Guitar Town with the notion of settling down and writing songs for awhile. I worked real jobs during the day such as washing dishes and bussing tables. I was also a construction laborer for a couple of years. At night I played my songs in the cafes and bars of the city I'd developed a great love for. I had never lived in any one place longer than I had been in Nashville.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I should've quit while I was ahead, but for some dumb reason, when I turned 30, I got the itch to travel again and began making plans to thumb my way to the oldest city in the country, St. Augustine. I had been there, but only in passing through. This time I thought I'd see it for real.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> In the old days of my rambling I would'nt have even considered carrying a backpack, but this time I decided to travel in style and went out and bought a nice one. I boldly and happily told my friends about my new plans. They were not impressed. "Duffy", they said, "it's dangerous out there. Why don't you just stay here and write songs about hitchhiking instead of actually doing it?"</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Well, a hundred miles or so and a day later, I knew in my heart that they were right. This time, right off the bat, the fear outweighed the adventure, but I couldn't turn back now, could I?</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Several short rides later I decided to get off the interstate and take the backroads. The "rural route" as the great Hank Williams would say. Pretty soon I was standing beside a scenic blue highway, like a drowning rat, cursing the pouring rain and every single vehicle that passed my by.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> It was probably around midnight when I finally got a ride. A nice man and his wife pulled over in an old pick-up truck and I put my backpack and my guitar in the back and crawled up in there myself and settled in for a nice, if wet, nap. Not to be, Twenty miles and thirty minutes later the nice man pulled over to the side of the road and said, "Well, son, we're goin' west here...so...uh...good luck. Here, let me help ya with that." He lifted the backpack out the truck and set it down beside me. He wished me good luck again, got back in the driver's seat and they took off, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell I was doing. Why was I not back in Nashville in my favorite bar, singing one of my original songs? No, not me. Instead, I was stumbling around in the dark, making my way to a railroad bridge in the distance, sitting under it, eating a can of sardines and mumbling, like a crazy person, "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry". </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Next morning I walked the short way back to the main road and stuck my thumb out. I was feeling a little better because the rain had stopped and the glorious sun was shining down again on me. Seven hours later I was burning up and cursing that glorious sun and, again, every car, or truck, that passed me by. Sometimes they waved. Those were the ones I used the foulest language on.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I was never so glad to see a cop in my life. I was kind of hoping that he would haul me off to jail, but no such luck. He gave me a lift to the county line where he got on his radio and, before I knew it, another cop took me to the next county line and so on and so on. The police took me, in turn, all the way across the state of North Carolina! It's true, but they didn't do it just because they were being nice. A hitchhiker had been killed in a hit and run a few nights before and they were bound and determined not to let that happen again.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Anyway, I finally made it to St. Augustine. I stayed in a small campground, in my tent, not far from town. I played music in a couple of different bars, hung out on the beach and had a pretty good time for about a month. Then, one morning, I walked a long ways to the Greyhound Bus station and bought myself a one-way ticket and hightailed it back to Nashville. Back to work. Back to play. Back to my friends. They were glad to see me and I was glad, and grateful, to see them. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I could still be wild and free. I just didn't need to be worn out and cold and lonesome to do it. I could be a Gypsy and a rover in my mind and not go around worrying everybody. I'm still a Gypsy and a hobo. A rambler and a gambler...and a writer.</div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-90442443211824856352011-04-27T11:35:00.000-04:002011-04-27T11:35:55.745-04:00The Couch<div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In Nashville, they'll use any excuse to have a party and it was Easter Sunday. It was a beautiful sunny day and my buddy, Bill, was throwing a barbeque so I fired up my old pick-up and drove the ten miles or so out to his place. I parked a little ways into the field near the house and walked through the gate and into the front yard where quite a few folks were already mingling. There was John Allingham, a fine Irish fellow, sitting on the porch singing a song he wrote. It was called "Barbeque City". </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Well, among all those other folks wandering and talking in the yard, I noticed, sitting on a log, a most pretty gal with very long, thick, red hair. She didn't see me, I think, but I sure saw her. I walked on into the house and found Bill in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the counter cutting up vegetables and shucking ears of corn. "Bill," I said, "Who's that redhead sitting on the log in the yard?" He said, "Oh, that's Mary, she hitch-hiked up here from Texas. I met here downtown a week ago and she's been sleeping on my couch. She's real cute, but she doesn't really seem interested in me. Why don't you ask her if she'd like another place to stay for a few days?"</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I went back outside, stood around on the porch for a few minutes, sat down on the steps for a few minutes, formulating the plan in my head. I got up and started meandering my way over towards that wandering, beautiful, Gypsy girl. As I approached her I took my hands out of my back pockets just as she looked up at me and gave me just the hint of a smile. Well, sir, I nodded a slight hello and promptly, lest I chicken out, got down on one knee, looked her in those eyes of hers and said, "Howdy ma'am, how'd you like to sleep on my couch for a few days?" I thought I was breaking the ice by being funny, but she said, "Why not?" and got up and walked away without showing any sign of amusement, but...she had agreed. A little cool, but an agreement none the less.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Later on, as the party was fading like the sunshine, she gathered her small suitcase and backpack and we walked out to my pick-up truck, threw her stuff in the back and headed on towards town and sixteenth avenue where I lived in a small basement apartment. So far my plan was working. She hadn't said much, but she was nice and I was now preparing my mind for the next step in my pursuit of this redheaded wonder. I walked in first and switched on the kitchen light. Like I said, it was a small apartment. It had a kitchen with a stove and refrigerator and a table with three chairs. Then you would go through a doorway with no door and there was the bedroom. Or, rather, a room with a bed in it. She set her little suitcase on the floor beside the table and went to the sink, got a cup from the cabinet above, and let the water run for a minute before filling the cup with cool water. Then she sat down on one of the chairs, looked around skeptically and said, "So...where's the couch?"</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> "Okay," I said, "Uh...well...uh...actually...I don't have a couch, but you can sleep in the bed and I'll take the floor...okay?". "Yeah, sure," she said, "Why not?"</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Now, to make a long story short, we've been together for twenty-five years or so and to tell you the truth I can honestly say that I can't recall that woman EVER sitting down on our couch, (We got one later on, after we moved out of the 16th Avenue apartment), much less SLEEPING on it. However, as for me, the teller of the little lie in the first place, I have slept on that damned couch... at least a thousand times.</div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1292702685026517361.post-43124253728021815672011-03-30T15:16:00.000-04:002011-03-30T15:16:42.214-04:00My Friend Tom<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Yesterday, when I was in my mid twenties or so, I drifted into Guitar Town. After a few days I ran out of money and got a job slinging beers in a bar. Most places have a thing called "open mic", but in Nashville it's called "writer's nite" because you are expected to play original material. Well, I had written a couple dozen songs by then and so I joined in the fun like everybody else. Among the folks who were playing their songs around town was a fellow by the name of Tom. He was, and still is, a terrific songwriter and I was proud to meet him and even prouder to actually get to know him. I thought I was a pretty good writer at the time, but after meeting Tom and hearing his songs I knew I had a long ways to go. Tom was kind...but honest. "Duffy", he said, "it's not your guitar that's out of tune." </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Well, one night I was off duty and on the wrong side of the bar and me and Tom were having one...or two...and solving the world's problems, as we often did. Another fellow walked into the bar and took a stool next to me. I was now positioned on the stool between Tom and a guy by the name of Harlen Howard, who happened to be one of the most, if not THE most, prolific songwriters to ever hit that town. From the nineteen fifties thru the 90's there was almost always a Harlen Howard tune on the charts. Look him up if you don't believe me.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Okay, it hurts, but I might as well get to point. Here I was sitting right between what I considered, and still do, to be the two best songwriters I had ever met. I thought I'd be cool and asked Harlen, "Mr. Howard, how in the blue blazes do you write so many hits!?" Well, he took a sip of his drink, tipped his head to one side, grinned, and said, "well, sir, I don't write hits! I just write a song and throw it in a box and when they want a hit they just reach in the box and pull one out!" We all laughed at that and ordered up another round. I let the laughter settle down, then bowed my head just slightly, closed my eyes and said, not too loudly, "Lord, I sure wish I could write a hit before the world blows up....ya know...?" Harlen looked at me and said, "son, I just don't know what to tell you." Then he looked at Tom and sort of shrugged his shoulders and said, "boys I guess I'd better be gettin' on home. I'll see you later." Me and Tom both shook hands with him and he walked out of the bar and we ordered one more before the walk back to our appartment on Sixteenth Avenue. We talked some more about Harlen Howard and some of the other great writers we had met and heard. I was rather enamoured of some of those successful folks, but Tom was not. He respected Harlen and the others we'd talked about, but he never put them any higher up there than anybody else. To Tom they were just people, but I couldn't help it, they were heroes to me and it took me quite a few years to realize that heroes are people first. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Anyway, Tom and I left the bar (it was closing time) and headed up the street to home. On the way, after too much silence between us, Tom cleared his throat and said, "uh...Duffy...in case you didn't know it....uh...your job as a writer is not to write a hit. Your job as a writer....is to write. And just one more thing. I don't think you want to write a hit before THE world blows up. I think you want to write a hit before YOUR world blows up!" </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Told ya he was honest. </div>duffythesingingcobblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320961203649166348noreply@blogger.com0