So Much for That Nostalgia Trip

Friday was St. Valentines Day. Yes; this whole roses and chocolate and rings male guilt trip got its start with a Catholic Saint. They have dropped his title for the mass marketing, and even the Roman Church doesn't seem to claim him/them any more.

But for some reason his day seems to have become associated with love and romance. Like everything else retail touches the real reason for the special day becomes over shadowed by the various and sundry ways to make a buck. I, in some perverse way, often wonder why the mattress industry has ignore this obvious marketing tie-in, and has hitched their February sales wagon to dead presidents instead.

But I digress.

My point was going to be Friday night. One of our local on-air digital stations carries ME TV, a vast compendium of good TV. Meaning, of course, that this is the stuff we grew up with; Gilligan's Island, Hogan's Heros and F-Troop. All day Saturday black and white Westerns; Raw Hide, Bonanza and of course, Gunsmoke.

Friday nights at 8:00 they have a movie. Usually it is a Made For TV Movie; basically an hour and 30 minute long TV episode. Plus commercials; always plus the commercials.

On Valentine's night (if the Church has dropped the honorific, I guess I can too) they showed 4 episodes of 'Love American Style'. Some may not remember this show; it went off the air in 1974.

But 40 years ago it was a popular, but somewhat risque, show.They had the audacity to show men and women IN The SAME BED. And these people weren't even married! 40 years ago what they were showing was barely in the bounds of good taste, as performed, in true TV anthology style, by a whole series of actors and actresses passing each other on their respective ways, up and down the ladder of success.


You may recognize the format; "The Love Boat' used the same format (and the same 4 stories) a few years later.

The four stories is very nearly accurate and not just snark; Mistaken Identity; Mistaken Fact Set; Romeo/Juliet Syndrome and The Breakup, all of which lead to True Love. Yep; that about sums it up.

But again, I digress.

I was looking forward to Friday night; I hadn't seen this show in 40 years. 'Love, American Style' hasn't been syndicated to death in the cable era, like so many other old shows. I was looking forward to some new, fresh nostalgia.

Yeah, well; about that anticipation.

Maybe they chose the wrong episodes. Or maybe- and more likely- these were the best they could find. Risque? I've seen commercials more risque. Commercials for things like waffles and hamburgers. If fact, some of the commercials I was subjected to during the show were more risque than the show itself.

But it was than made up for by the stilted writing and 1970's fashions.

OMG! Yes; people really did dress like that. Take a look at any 1970's high school yearbook; that will prove it.

It will also prove that yes, Virginia, real people wore their hair like that too. On PURPOSE.

And yes; real places were decorated like that too. And, no, I have no idea how people fell asleep in a fluorescent lime green bedroom.

There are somethings I suppose that shouldn't be revisited, and are best left in the pleasant mists of nostalgia.

It would just be nice to know which is which before the pleasant mists dissipate and leave the cold harsh light of reality in their place.

Yeah, It's Been a Year Already

Today is once again my Birthday.  I usually keep the celebrations low key, not because of any inherent hatred of getting older, but because we just exited the Christmas season, and I, for one anyway, am flat partied out.

Today is my 54th birthday. Well, actually it is the 54th anniversary of my birth day, but no need to become semantic. Unless I want to become semantic. And it's MY birthday, I'll do as I dang well please.

Sorry; I had to get that out of my system.

I use my birthday as a day to review the last year and preview the coming one. To calculate the gains and losses; who I saw born and who I saw buried. To determine if I feel as old as I am.

To me, age is really an average of two things; how old the calendar says you are and how old you feel. When we are young, those two generally coincide, if we ever give any thought to it. 40 is when things start to go awry, usually because that is when we are first asked how old we feel. And then we start thinking about it. I don’t think being 40 is the cause of all of our aches and pains; I think being 40 and acting 25 is the cause of all of our aches and pains.

But the truth is I don't feel any older than I did at 25. Unless I am trying to get up from lying on the floor. Used to be I could pop up like a jack-in-the-box. Now it’s more like watching bread rise, and takes almost as long. That is proof of my failing memory; I can't remember NOT to get down on the floor in the first place.

I know I’m not alone. Everybody I know is facing the same thing, whether they want to admit it or not. But the fact that everybody is in the same boat doesn't help; it just makes it a very crowded boat.

Jimmy Buffet has an old song (from 1980; yeah, I know to my peers, that ain't old) "I'm Growing Older But Not Up"; it is, in my opinion, an anthem of the American over 50. He was 34 when he wrote it. And 64 when he performed it here.

None of us wants to admit not how old we are, but how much we have aged. Like the old joke says; Anybody who claims they can do at 50 what they did at 20, didn't do squat at 20. None of us wants to admit that we are incapable of doing the things we used to do. Toby Keith said it best; “I Ain’t As Good As I Once Was”; another anthem of the over 50 crowd.

You can see, I guess where I am going with this? The calendar tells me that in 366 more days I will be closer to 60 that to 50; closer to 70 than 40; and I'll stop before decide to grab a beer at 9:00 on a Sunday morning.

Which is something I would have done when I was younger. When 9:00 Sunday morning was just late on a Saturday Night.

Cars I Have Known VI

There is a line in the beginning of the movie A Christmas Story where the Narrator describes his Dad; "Some men are Baptists; other Episcopalian. My Father was an Oldsmobile man."

When I was a kid my Dad was an Oldsmobile man. The first car of his I remember was a 3-way black 55 Olds 88 4 Door sedan. In 1964 we drove that car to Disneyland, from Cincinnati. That trip is an upcoming series of posts.

It was shortly after that that Dad bought a different car. It is my earliest memory of a new car. In 1965 he bought a '60 Olds Wagon. White, with a grey top and grey interior. Man; what a machine!

The Speedometer. Anyone who has ever ridden in a '60 Olds remembers the speedometer. Instead of a dial an needle, it had a straight line graph and bar that ran across the bottom. From 0 to 50 it was a green bar; when you hit 50, the bar turned orange, and at 70 it turned red; fascinating to watch when you're 5. My Grandma- Dad's Mom- always in the  back seat, passenger side, and would start hollering Slow Down; Slow Down when she saw the bar turn red. On the highway the bar was usually red.

And there is nothing like a big Oldsmobile for a smooth ride. I remember going to visit my aunt and uncle, down a gravel lane, and not feeling a bump. On the highway, it was living room smooth, except for when I was bouncing around in the back seat.

But it wasn't all roses. The Olds 371 big block was known for cracking heads. and so did ours. Dad was able to squeeze another week out of it while he found a replacement motor, and Friday night on the way home form grocery shopping he stop by the Tool Rental and picked up an engine crane. As we pulled into the driveway the motor died completely. we had to push it the next morning the last 70 feet into the garage. Dad worked on it all day Saturday, and finished it up Sunday afternoon, and Monday morning drove it to work. Ah; the good old days!

We ran that car for years; from '65-'70. by then it was showing its age, and Dad found a good deal on 1966 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser wagon, and he sold the '60 to my uncle, who ran it another couple of years before the engine blew another head, and it went off to the rest home.

But I can tell you that car made an impression on me. I will always associate Big, Fast and Smooth with Oldsmobile, and in particular the 1960 Wagon.

The one in the picture was for sale not too long ago.

It sold for over $22,000. I guess I'm not the only one nostalgic for the old girl.

A couple of anniversaries past last week without notice on the blog- My Dad's birthday on the 12th and the loss of my dog Junior on the 9th. Hard to believe they both happen in the same week every year. I didn't have a chance during the week to reminiscence, but this morning I do.

There is very little to say that would be new. Reviewing the too few faded memories, worn and scratchy; like an old film played a few too many times. Trying to find a new detail in a story or image studied many times before. Or maybe just sussing out what their lives still mean to me today.

We don't get where we are by ourselves. In some respects we are all Post Turtles, balanced where we are with the help of our friends. It is that help that makes the post we seem to be stuck on disappear, so we lose that sense of not belonging where we suddenly find ourselves. Dads always help with that feeling. Hell; it's their job to set us up on the post in the first place, and then help us grow the legs to get down.

A good dog is a help there too. When you are stuck on the post, looking for a friendly hand to help you down, that hand may just be a paw. Sometimes all you need is for a push is the gentle nudge of your dog's nose against the underside of your hand.

You miss that when it's gone.

And sometimes waste the rest of your life looking for it again.

Folks look in various places. Other friends and family. Or a new dog. Maybe in religion. Or a bottle.

But the best place to look is inside. Dad didn't help you grow those legs so you could pull them up inside your shell. You are meant to use them for every post you find yourself on. And yeah, some of those posts are longer than what you have met before. So what?

You grew legs once; grow them again.

And then thank the ones who taught you how to get down.

What Went Right, and What Hasn't

Take a good look at this picture from 1974; close to 40 years ago.

Back when most of us were kids. Or young teens.

Two things that stand out to me. One is how tall this thing is.

The other is that the playground surface is blacktop.

Remember those days? Running, Playing, Climbing Swinging, FALLING on the blacktop playground?

We did it everyday. For hours. I'm sure kids got hurt. Skinned knees and elbows; maybe even a broken arm once in a while. It was how we learned our capabilities, and our limitations.

Can you imagine erecting a public playground like today? First it would cost an arm and a leg to manufacture and install. If you could get zoning approval. And I don't even want to think about the legal fees.

But by God it was fun and exciting. Part of the fun was the risk. Part of the learning was the pain. Play was always about learning about how to deal with situations that came up in daily life. Working through differences of opinion, gracious winning and how it felt to lose.

You learned these things when you were 5 and 6. You learned about yourself; where your talents were. And where they weren't. You learned who could be trusted to keep a bargain, and who couldn't. In those days you expected to stay within a few miles of where you grew up, and expected to be dealing with these same folks for the rest of your life. Everything I know about life I learned in kindergarten, right?

What are playgrounds like today? Everything is padded. Including the ground. Slides are enclosed, so you can't fall off and absolutely nothing to climb on that would put you more than a few feet off the ground.

And the helicopter parents; standing by to dust off butts and kiss any 'boo-boos' that the little darlin's might feel they got by falling 6 inches onto a rubber pad. And those are the 10 year-olds.

What kind of adults does this produce?

Three words:

'Occupy Wall Street'.

All I can hear when I hear an interview with one of those...... individuals is this:

"WAHHH! Mommy, life's not being FAIR!!!"

Sorry 'bout your luck kid. I found out life wasn't fair when I was 6, not 26.

By falling on a blacktop playground.

Saturday Morning; Eight A.M.

And where am I?

Sitting in a large, gradually filling auditorium.

Blogging from my iPhone.

What could have drug me from the comforts of home?

Hold on to your hats:

A dance recital.

Yeah, I have trouble believing it too.

But, it is for the Young'un.

So, here I am.

This is just the dress rehearsal; the show is tonight. And I don't even know what time this hint kicks off this morning. I might be here for hours. This would have been unthinkable for any of my boys. But for the Young'un, here I am.

To be fair, when her Dad an Uncles were her age I was working most Saturday mornings, and glad of it. Money was tight in those days. It's still tight, but loose enough to allow a Saturday dance recital.

I'll catch up on my sleep later.

Another Dang Birthday

Yeah, its mine. Which birthday will remain classified, but I was born during the Eisenhower Administration.

What is there to say?

Can you really age gracefully? I read articles all the time about 8o year olds running 10 miles a day, or competing in weightlifting competitions. Or what about that 100 year old guy a few years ago? Still drives his own car to the golf course daily and recently hit a hole in one.

Bit there are over 36 million people in this country over the age of 65, and we hear about 10 (maybe) still enjoying life.

What does THAT tell you?

Who was it who said: "anybody who says they can do at 50 what they did at 25 didn't do squat at 25"?

I can't remember who it was. Damned Old-Timers kicking in I guess. But I'll bet he was like me.

Over 50, sore half the time and tired the other half.

Maybe I was this way at 25 too; I just don't remember it, or maybe I just didn't let it stop me?

Ah well, too much contemplation for a Wednesday morning. Tonight I'll celebrate a little; I still have a couple of shots of Woodford Reserve left over from my last birthday, and tomorrow starts another year.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

One of my little brothers turns 40 today.

It doesn't seem credible to me. I remember when he was born. He was the first baby I remember seeing fully develop, as it were, from the initial belly swelling to birth and growing up.

I watched him throw his oatmeal around the kitchen and climb out of his playpen. I saw him go to his first day of school. I was there when he bought his first car, and he and spent hours both getting it road ready and keeping it that way.

Dave was always a single focus, if you start it, you finish it, and do it to the best of your ability kind of kid, and that attitude has served him well into adulthood.

I remember when we set up his pool at his house. There is not another pool that level with in a hundred miles, and that one is level by accident. A 1/16th of an inch was not close enough, and it shows in the final product. Most pools you can see they aren't level, because the water is always level. Full of water, you can see this pool is level. The extra effort paid off.

It seems like only yesterday he was 15 and I was 25; working on his mini-bike. Or he was 20 and I was 30, putting a new front suspension under his Cutlass.

And now he's a member of the Over The Hill Gang.

Where did the years go?

Next thing ya know I'll be a grandfather and over 50....

Oh Yeah.

Happy Birthday Dave!

Happy Father's Day, Y'all!

This year Father’s Day has a new twist for me.

I am a grandfather again, but this time I have a Grandson.

So I started thinking about Grandfathers and Grandsons.

How do I want to say this so it doesn’t come out wrong?

Women have gotten a bad shake, in some respects, in the name game. Born with one name, die with another. Trying to track what has happened to the daughters of a family is tough, if you don’t have the marriage records. But a man’s name is his to pass on.

I hope that statement didn’t exasperate any of my readers, because a generalization is usually wrong, and I made a very sweeping generalization. But for a reason.

My Dad was the youngest of 6, and the only son. My Grandpa had 14 grandsons by the time I came along; but none of them carried his last name. I was the one that did. I have no idea how that made him feel, but I know how I felt the day The Boy was born. Almost as if a weight were lifted; I had one less thing to worry about. Another generation was now carrying The Name.

As I write that it sounds goofy. But I don’t think the concept is; maybe just the way I’m saying to makes it sound that way.

Down through history the eldest son was always the king; the patriarch; the one to inherit. A definite aura accompanies the first born son; something Herod knew well. And you always read about how a family name has died out because of a lack of sons; how proud the name was and what it once stood for. Sons carry on in a way daughters do not.

Again, that sounds rather sexist. Maybe it is. But society functions as it does; I neither condemn nor condone; I accept. Things have changed a lot in the last 100 years; who knows what he next 100 will do?

But, as usual, I digress.

I was talking about Fathers and Sons. Or more specifically, Grandfathers and Grandsons.

Both of my Grandpas had strokes before I was born. Each was affected differently, but neither was able to be the special confidant and buddy a granddad is supposed to be. The adult who can think like a child, and enjoys doing so. The one who can play hooky on a Friday afternoon- because their career is no longer ‘building’, but built- for a t-ball game, or a quick stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home from school (but DO NOT tell your mother).

They do the things for the grandsons they couldn’t for their sons. Things I am looking forward to doing.

Today I will visit the cemetery, and again visit my Dad, and his, and his grandpa. Later I’ll have my sons and grandkids around and we will enjoy a little dinner and some fun. I’ll hold The Boy on my lap and make promises he won’t yet understand; promises I hope I’ll be able to keep.

And in the early evening I’ll sit on my porch, watch the sun complete its daily journey and drop silently below the western tree line while I raise a toast to my forefathers, and my sons, and grandson, and spend a few minutes in reflection on how we turn from sons to fathers and to grandfathers.

And how our lives are sweeter for the journey.

Happy Father's Day to those who are celebrating!

More stuff from the archives.

This post is probably 5 years old, and every word is still true, as much as I hate to admit it.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then I can be fairly sure that my road will be very well paved.

And no, that is not my belly.

That time of year has arrived again, when the success, or lack thereof, of my most recent diet makes itself known. Mostly it’s the latter. When I was younger, I had a washboard stomach, but I've kept up with the times. I now have a whole laundry room. It’s that addition which keeps me in trouble with The Spousal Inquisition, and as far as she’s concerned, the Fifth is only for medicinal purposes.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to follow the guidelines for a healthy diet. I’ve reduced red meat, and added salads. Going from double Quarter-Pounders to Big Macs counts, doesn’t it? After all, its less meat, and they do put lettuce and tomato on a Big Mac. I’ve also cut out some deep fried foods, and replaced them with a shallow fried variety. If that ain’t healthy eating, I don’t know what is.

I’ve also thought about starting an exercise regime. I decided to begin by writing down a plan to follow. Working up a sweat hunting for a pencil counts as an exercise program, I hope. Part two is hunting up some paper. But my wife seems less than supportive of my plans; even after I told her I was going to start training for next year’s Flying Pig Marathon.

She first ask just how fast I would have to run to earn the designation of a FLYING pig, and then reminded me I got winded the last time I drove 26 miles. She added insult to injury with a call to update my life insurance. She also inquired about whether or not a man of my age taking up running activated my policy’s suicide clause. As I said, she was less than supportive.

But I am committed to getting into better shape. All it takes is will power. I just hope old Will is still in my Rolodex. Like I said, I am committed to exercising. My wife just thinks I should be committed, for thinking I can become 18 again. I don’t want to be eighteen again, I just want to look like I’m eighteen again, and I think it’s doable. She thinks it’s possible for me to look that young again too, just not in this lifetime.

I have to admit a past littered with good intentions, aimed at physical improvement. I joined a gym once, thinking that being surrounded by healthy young men would goad me into becoming a little more inclined toward a healthy lifestyle. My second day there one of these young punks called me a fat old man, so I hit him. He didn’t feel it, but some busybody reported me, and I was asked to leave.

I’ve tried home exercise equipment too, but with limited positive results. Notice I said Positive. I had a folding treadmill in the corner of the bedroom, but the first night I stubbed a couple of toes on the darn thing and spent two weeks hobbling around it. I bought a used Stairmaster, and when I got it home, I found out it was too big to fit through the small doors in my house. It found a home on the front porch as a plant stand; a couple of hanging baskets on the handles disguise it real well.

I also went the free weights route. I got my weights free from some guy who said he’d found a better way to stay healthy. After a few days, I figured out that not messing with free weights was a good way to stay healthy. About the only spot I wasn’t sore was the sole of my left foot, and that was by accident, not design. I still use the weights, though. Every winter I put some of them in the trunk of my car.

But I’m not discouraged, believe it or not. I fully intend to lose some weight this summer, eat healthier, and be able to run out a homer without getting winded. I probably should scale that back to a triple. Maybe even a double. Realistically, my initial goal should be to reach first without slowing to a walk. I’ll save the rest for next summer.

Last Week Was a Mess

It has been a busy week for me. Isn’t the first week back from vacation always an energy sapper?

And yesterday was taken up with cars. We put a Reese hitch on my son’s jeep, fog lights and headlights on my son’s Honda, then rescued my brother’s Honda form the side of the road with the Jeep, and started to figure out why it won’t run.

And last night was a Poker Party to celebrate 3 birthdays, including my own pending one. I can home with as much money as I left with, so I guess that worked out better than usual. And it was a good time. All of my brothers, one of my brothers-in-law and my 3 oldest sons were all there.

Today I have to get busy. I am 5 posts behind for the year already- my how time flies when you ain’t looking- and things aren’t looking good for today to being able to catch up. But we’ll see!

The Truth Hurts

I have linked to this blog before- usually once a week it seems- because he seems to have the time to track down the weird and wonderful on the world wide web; a talent I wish I had.

Thank God for Bourbon

I'm not a big fan of poetry- with the possible exception of Casey At The Bat- but another piece of doggerel has stayed with me since High School English- The Deacon's Masterpiece, or The Wonderful One Horse Shay . (you may need to scroll down a bit to the start of the piece.)

I got to thinking about this today because my 50th birthday is only a couple of months away and I am starting to feel like the shay. Up to now I have been fairly heathly, but all of the sudden everything is starting hurt, stop working or generally remind me I am getting old; like I need another reminder.

Oh well, nothing a little bourbon won't cure!