A world without Walmart is hard to fathom. The retail giant's 3400 U.S. stores have done a lot of good for both the American and Chinese economies. But, "Wally World" has also put a lot of Mom & Pop businesses in their graves.
In a small community like Riverside, there was no such thing as Walmart during the 1960's-70's. But, Riverside did not need a Walmart. There were several small grocery stores, one drug store, a couple of barber shops, a dry cleaners, a filling station or two, and a funeral home. Folks in Riverside could shop, get their clothes and their hair groomed, buy cold medicine and band-aids, fill up their gas tank, and get "laid out right" at the end - all without leaving our little community.
There were three, really "classy" stores/businesses in Riverside. (By way of disclaimer, it is noted that ALL businesses in Riverside had their own element of "class," given that they were located in a such a classy community as ours.)
First, there was Gary's Grocery. Mr. C.J. Gary ran the typical, small-town grocery store. Dry goods, groceries, meats, fresh "Farmer's Market" fruits and vegetables, candy and soft drinks, and a host of other products lined the shelves. Mr. Gary delivered to selected, nearby households, and was always willing to take suggestions from his customers regarding new items to consider adding to his inventory. Going to Mr. Gary's store was always a treat for a young man. Mr. Gary was an interesting man, with lots of stories to tell. He also frequently gave candy to the children who were sent in by their mothers on purchasing errands.
The second classiest business in Riverside was Smallwood's Barber Shop. The three Smallwood brothers ran their business in a small building at the corner of Bolton Road and Paul Avenue. These brothers did two things in their shop. One of them, obviously, was cutting hair. The other was playing music. One brother played the banjo, another the fiddle, and another the guitar. If one dropped out to handle a customer, the other two kept right on picking.
The Smallwoods were not great barbers. They knew only one style of haircut - a white-sidewall, military, "high and tight." Anything other than this was uncharted territory. A customer could ask them for any style haircut under the sun. But, when the job was finished and the client climbed out of that barber chair, the final result was fashioned more to the Smallwood's preference than their customer's.
Just like the old story about a long-haired hippie who came into a crusty old barber's shop back in the 1980's.
This old barber wore a flat-top, played nothing but traditional country stations on his shop's radio, and disliked anything that was not politically conservative or Southern. The hippie bounded into his shop one day, plopped down and said, "Hey dude, I want a 'Billy Idol' haircut." Billy Idol was a rock star during the 1980's. William Michael Albert Broad (Idol's real name) was a tiny fellow, with short, snow-white hair. One of Idol's trademarks was his hair style. He wore it heavy with gel, and combed to stand straight up on his head.
The old barber was not familiar with Mr. Idol nor his coiffure. He said nothing in reply to the young, long-haired, man. Throwing a barber cloth around his neck, he spun the chair around so his young customer could not see the mirror. With clippers in hand, the old barber made about three swipes over the hippie's scalp, leaving him with a completely "buzzed" head. He quickly spun the young man back around so "she" could see "his" new look in the mirror. The young fellow shrieked in horror and shouted, "That's NOT how Billy Idol would get his hair cut!" The old barber shot back, "It would be if he came in here!"
If you went into Smallwood's for a haircut, you came out looking like they wanted you to. Very much as if you had just enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
What the Smallwood's did do well was bluegrass - as well as deeply traditional country, and old, "down-home" gospel. Many folks frequented their humble shop - but mostly for the music rather than the haircuts.
The classiest business in Riverside did not sell groceries, drugs, gasoline, or haircuts.
They sold furniture.
Tidwell's Furniture Store was probably a little too classy for our community. Their store was a modest, free-standing building, which sat next to a gas station near the corner of Bolton Road and South Cobb Drive. The Tidwell family had been merchants in the Bolton/Riverside area for generations.
Their store was always clean, elegantly styled, and the only store in Riverside with air conditioning. Tidwell's did not sell junk. Their furniture was only the best quality, and very reasonably priced.
This writer remembers Tidwell's vividly for two reasons.
First, they accepted payments for utility bills. Both Georgia Power and Atlanta Gas Light had granted Tidwell's the right to collect monthly payment of electric and natural gas bills. This was a very smart business decision, as it brought potential customers into their store on a regular basis.
Mrs. Tidwell usually handled the payment process. She had a clipboard or payment book for each company. She recorded each payment carefully in the appropriate book or ledger, and with the neatest handwriting this young lad had ever seen. It was a pleasure to watch her neatly and unhurriedly make the payment entries on those pages. While doing so, she was always careful to ask how the family was doing, and talk about her family as well. She was a very gracious lady - never acting as if these bill payments were an annoyance to her. She seemed very glad to have the interaction with her neighbors.
The second reason for this writer's high regard for Tidwell's Furniture Store had to do with a present he received for his thirteenth birthday.
Whenever Mama went to Tidwell's, her son always asked to accompany her. In later years, when her health was failing, it was her son who went each month for her. While Mama and Mrs. Tidwell visited with one another, it was quite an adventure to roam around the store looking at their merchandise. Again, this is exactly what this savvy, business-minded, family had in mind.
Tidwell's not only sold high quality furniture, but they also carried a respectable array of color televisions and stereos. One particular unit caught this thirteen year old's eye on a Tidwell's visit in the Fall of 1968. It was a desktop style, AM/FM, stereo turntable and 8-track tape player combo.
At age thirteen, young boys begin yearning for two things - their own room, and a way to listen to, "their music." Earlier that year, Mama and Daddy had consented for their son to move his things into the tiny back bedroom of the family's small, Riverside home. It was time for he and his younger sister to stop sharing a room. With one prayer answered, all that was left was the acquisition of a stereo record/tape player.
One of the Tidwells came over that day and demonstrated the stereo unit. The turntable was smooth, and the built-in, 8-track tape player looked so cool as it changed from one track to the next. The AM/FM stereo radio got great reception from all the local music stations. Who could have asked for more? This young listener stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, lost in the music and the great sound that came out of that stereo.
What a surprise it was when this thirteen-year-old birthday boy was presented with that same stereo as his gift. Second prayer answered! What a way to welcome in the teen years!
Evidently, both Mrs. Tidwell and Mama had taken note during that visit of her son's fixation on this piece of audio gear. Mama paid for the unit that day, and had Daddy pick up a brand new, still-in-the-box, version of it a few days later. It was one of the greatest birthday presents a young man could have received. It might as well have been a gift from heaven.
Though it did not come from above, that stereo, and the timeless memories of those monthly visits to the, "classiest store in Riverside," were priceless gifts, nonetheless. No trip to any Walmart, anywhere, anytime, will ever equal shopping with the neighborhood merchants of this writer's beloved home community.
To Mr. C.J. Gary, the Smallwood brothers, the Tidwell family, and all the store owners of Riverside...
Thank you for helping make our community the very "classy" place it was. It is on this 11th day of March, 2011 - on what would have been my late mother's 89th birthday - that I salute you.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 11, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
"Life Before Xbox"
Wii, Xbox and PlayStation.
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
"The Ice Cream Man"
David Lee Roth & Eddie Van Halen.
These two rock icons likely made a good payday off the simple, three chord, rock tune they called, "The Ice Cream Man." Of course, their play on the metaphor was extremely sexual. Not at all the image that comes to mind when a mid-fifties, southern male remembers his Georgia childhood and upbringing.
Riverside was just that - a community beside a river. River bottom land is almost always good for growing things. But, a major drawback to living in that environment is the heat and humidity from June through August. In the dead of summer, Riverside was a place where Al Gore's "Global Warming" nonsense would have seemed almost plausible.
Sadly, the Chattahoochee River was already being impacted by industrial pollution by the middle of the 1960's. So, going down to the river for a cool swim on a sweltering summer afternoon was not the ideal way anymore to get relief from the heat. Too, most folks during that time, at least in Riverside, did not yet have central air conditioning, or even a window A/C unit, in their homes. The older homes in the neighborhood had been built, as was the practice in earlier times, amongst large water oaks and sweet gum trees in order to benefit from the cool of the shade they provided. Box fans were used inside the house, and the classic, "funeral home fan," was used while sitting on the front porch. These were the easiest and most convenient ways to circulate air, and help folks endure the oppressive heat.
Another option involved a large block of ice purchased at the local ice house. The nearest ice house was located at the corner of Bankhead Highway and Hightower Road. (Bankhead has since been renamed, "Holowell Parkway," but it will forever be known as, "Bankhead Highway," to this Atlanta native). Our family would pick up a block almost every Sunday after church.
Mama would chip large chunks off the ice block, and place them in a wash pan. She would run the pan about half full of water and let it sit for five or ten minutes - until the water became bitingly cold. Then, the pan was positioned in front of the box fan. The forced air over that ice-filled pan really did help cool the room. Too, a "wash rag" placed in the water, wrung out, and wiped over one's face and neck provided instant cool!
The most memorable way, however, to beat the summer heat in Riverside during those remarkable years came lumbering down its streets every Monday through Friday between 2:00 - 3:30 PM.
The Schwan, "Ice Cream Man," made his daily trek through Riverside every afternoon, of every weekday, of every summer, of every year for as long as our family lived in that great old community. His truck could be heard from several blocks away. It was equipped with a loud speaker and an audio device of some kind. Every kid in that old neighborhood knew the sound of the "Ice Cream Man" and his musical truck.
It was the "jingle" that did it. There were no vocals or lyrics, just the sound of the "ding-ding-ding" of the melody blasting loudly through the neighborhood. The only sound rivalling this were the calliope bells that rang out from one of the neighborhood churches. This writer can still "hear" the hymns sounding out so clearly and peacefully on Sunday mornings.
When that ice cream jingle started playing, kids in every house and yard went into full begging mode.
"Please, please, please let me have an ice cream, Mama," was the cry. Wise mothers used the leverage of "ice cream money" as a reward for the timely completion of chores. Either way, one of greatest disappointments for any Riverside child was to see and hear that truck drive right on by, leaving a broken heart and an empty tummy in its wake.
The blessed children fortunate enough to have "ice cream money" came scurrying and swarming like locusts to a grain field.
The Schwan's truck was really nothing more than a large, square ice cream freezer on a heavy duty chassis and wheels. The freezer units on those trucks were monstrously powerful. Even the exterior was cold to the touch. Children lacking ice cream money came running just to stand and lean against the side of the cool Schwan truck.
The Ice Cream Man always dressed in an olive green outfit, complete with an official looking cap which had a badge on the front. He looked a lot like a policeman, but without the gun. Instead, he carried a change-making, shiny, silver, coin carrier on his belt. He could count out change faster than a Walmart self check-out register. And, he knew exactly which of the multiple freezer doors to open to find what each child was clamoring for.
The Ice Cream Man's menu was simple. Push-Ups, Nutty-Buddies, Fudgesicles, Ice Cream Sandwiches, Eskimo Pies, Cups, Rainbow Bars, Popsicles, and "Mr. Freeze(s)." The latter of these was nothing more than frozen Kool-Aid in a long, clear tube. But, on a ninety-plus degree day, it was like sweet manna from heaven.
The prices were also easy to remember. Everything was either .05 cents, or .10 cents.
There was nothing that brought the kind of cool on a hot day like a stop from the Ice Cream Man. There was no song as recognizable as his jingle. He would ride up and down the streets of Riverside several times, just to make certain that no child was, "left behind." (And, educators thought their slogan was original with them.)
There were times when the Ice Cream Man ceased being a businessman and became more of a humanitarian.
Whenever one of the neighborhood's poor kids came around, the Ice Cream Man would sneak a popsicle or other item to them for free. He would whisper, "Now, don't tell the other kids," even though the other kids were standing close enough to hear every word. This act of kindness, done more than a few times, won the appreciation and respect of many mothers and fathers in Riverside.
Just as angels often appear in two's in God's Book, there was also a second, "Ice Cream Man," on our block.
His name was T.J. Speer.
Mr. T.J. Speer was an accountant by trade. He did more tax returns in his lifetime than six H&R Block locations. For a while, his office was located on Concord Road in Smyrna, Georgia. But as he got older, Mr. Speer closed his Smyrna office and moved his operation into the front bedroom of his large, craftsman-style home on Forrest Avenue in Riverside.
Mr. Speer was a large, imposing man, with snow white hair, a voice more gruff and deeper than John Wayne's immortal movie character, Rooster Cogburn. He smoked Pall Mall's for so many years that the index and middle fingers of his right hand were discolored to a deep, yellowish tone. The only time his neighbors saw him without a Pall Mall between his fingers was the night his body "lay a corpse" at Castellaw Funeral Home.
Mr. Speer's home was forever a flurry of activity, particularly during tax season - with a countless parade of cars coming and going at all hours. Part of the activity during the summer was the arrival of the Speer's three grandchildren - David, Debbie, and Russell. When they came to stay for the summer, Mr. Speer's wife, Mary, became a doting grandmother. She hauled those lucky kids all over Fulton, Cobb, and Douglas County. Swimming, summer ball, sightseeing, and playing in the area's parks were just a few of the things that "Nanny" Speer did for her beloved grandkids.
Rarely did "Papa T." ever go on these excursions. But, he made up for it in another highly memorable way.
Whenever David, Debbie and Russell came to visit, "Papa T." frequently treated them, as well as all the other neighborhood children, to Schwan's ice cream. This writer witnessed on many occasions Mr. Speer buying frozen treats for at least a dozen children who were crowded around the Schwan's ice cream truck. Though it only cost him $1.20 at most, this rugged, old, teddy-bear of a man might as well have been Donald Trump passing out $100 bills. The neighborhood kids loved him, and their parents were most willing and glad to let him buy their offspring yet another round of Schwan's.
More than this, with each Nutty Buddy and Push-Up, both Mr. T.J. Speer and the Schwan driver won the hearts of many young people. Their generous deeds impacted more lives than they ever possibly realized.
Hot, summer weather in Georgia was made a little cooler and a little more bearable because of these two great gentlemen.
Every time David Lee Roth & EVH sing and play that song, this Riverside boy remembers our community's version of the, "Ice Cream Men."
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 7, 2011
These two rock icons likely made a good payday off the simple, three chord, rock tune they called, "The Ice Cream Man." Of course, their play on the metaphor was extremely sexual. Not at all the image that comes to mind when a mid-fifties, southern male remembers his Georgia childhood and upbringing.
Riverside was just that - a community beside a river. River bottom land is almost always good for growing things. But, a major drawback to living in that environment is the heat and humidity from June through August. In the dead of summer, Riverside was a place where Al Gore's "Global Warming" nonsense would have seemed almost plausible.
Sadly, the Chattahoochee River was already being impacted by industrial pollution by the middle of the 1960's. So, going down to the river for a cool swim on a sweltering summer afternoon was not the ideal way anymore to get relief from the heat. Too, most folks during that time, at least in Riverside, did not yet have central air conditioning, or even a window A/C unit, in their homes. The older homes in the neighborhood had been built, as was the practice in earlier times, amongst large water oaks and sweet gum trees in order to benefit from the cool of the shade they provided. Box fans were used inside the house, and the classic, "funeral home fan," was used while sitting on the front porch. These were the easiest and most convenient ways to circulate air, and help folks endure the oppressive heat.
Another option involved a large block of ice purchased at the local ice house. The nearest ice house was located at the corner of Bankhead Highway and Hightower Road. (Bankhead has since been renamed, "Holowell Parkway," but it will forever be known as, "Bankhead Highway," to this Atlanta native). Our family would pick up a block almost every Sunday after church.
Mama would chip large chunks off the ice block, and place them in a wash pan. She would run the pan about half full of water and let it sit for five or ten minutes - until the water became bitingly cold. Then, the pan was positioned in front of the box fan. The forced air over that ice-filled pan really did help cool the room. Too, a "wash rag" placed in the water, wrung out, and wiped over one's face and neck provided instant cool!
The most memorable way, however, to beat the summer heat in Riverside during those remarkable years came lumbering down its streets every Monday through Friday between 2:00 - 3:30 PM.
The Schwan, "Ice Cream Man," made his daily trek through Riverside every afternoon, of every weekday, of every summer, of every year for as long as our family lived in that great old community. His truck could be heard from several blocks away. It was equipped with a loud speaker and an audio device of some kind. Every kid in that old neighborhood knew the sound of the "Ice Cream Man" and his musical truck.
It was the "jingle" that did it. There were no vocals or lyrics, just the sound of the "ding-ding-ding" of the melody blasting loudly through the neighborhood. The only sound rivalling this were the calliope bells that rang out from one of the neighborhood churches. This writer can still "hear" the hymns sounding out so clearly and peacefully on Sunday mornings.
When that ice cream jingle started playing, kids in every house and yard went into full begging mode.
"Please, please, please let me have an ice cream, Mama," was the cry. Wise mothers used the leverage of "ice cream money" as a reward for the timely completion of chores. Either way, one of greatest disappointments for any Riverside child was to see and hear that truck drive right on by, leaving a broken heart and an empty tummy in its wake.
The blessed children fortunate enough to have "ice cream money" came scurrying and swarming like locusts to a grain field.
The Schwan's truck was really nothing more than a large, square ice cream freezer on a heavy duty chassis and wheels. The freezer units on those trucks were monstrously powerful. Even the exterior was cold to the touch. Children lacking ice cream money came running just to stand and lean against the side of the cool Schwan truck.
The Ice Cream Man always dressed in an olive green outfit, complete with an official looking cap which had a badge on the front. He looked a lot like a policeman, but without the gun. Instead, he carried a change-making, shiny, silver, coin carrier on his belt. He could count out change faster than a Walmart self check-out register. And, he knew exactly which of the multiple freezer doors to open to find what each child was clamoring for.
The Ice Cream Man's menu was simple. Push-Ups, Nutty-Buddies, Fudgesicles, Ice Cream Sandwiches, Eskimo Pies, Cups, Rainbow Bars, Popsicles, and "Mr. Freeze(s)." The latter of these was nothing more than frozen Kool-Aid in a long, clear tube. But, on a ninety-plus degree day, it was like sweet manna from heaven.
The prices were also easy to remember. Everything was either .05 cents, or .10 cents.
There was nothing that brought the kind of cool on a hot day like a stop from the Ice Cream Man. There was no song as recognizable as his jingle. He would ride up and down the streets of Riverside several times, just to make certain that no child was, "left behind." (And, educators thought their slogan was original with them.)
There were times when the Ice Cream Man ceased being a businessman and became more of a humanitarian.
Whenever one of the neighborhood's poor kids came around, the Ice Cream Man would sneak a popsicle or other item to them for free. He would whisper, "Now, don't tell the other kids," even though the other kids were standing close enough to hear every word. This act of kindness, done more than a few times, won the appreciation and respect of many mothers and fathers in Riverside.
Just as angels often appear in two's in God's Book, there was also a second, "Ice Cream Man," on our block.
His name was T.J. Speer.
Mr. T.J. Speer was an accountant by trade. He did more tax returns in his lifetime than six H&R Block locations. For a while, his office was located on Concord Road in Smyrna, Georgia. But as he got older, Mr. Speer closed his Smyrna office and moved his operation into the front bedroom of his large, craftsman-style home on Forrest Avenue in Riverside.
Mr. Speer was a large, imposing man, with snow white hair, a voice more gruff and deeper than John Wayne's immortal movie character, Rooster Cogburn. He smoked Pall Mall's for so many years that the index and middle fingers of his right hand were discolored to a deep, yellowish tone. The only time his neighbors saw him without a Pall Mall between his fingers was the night his body "lay a corpse" at Castellaw Funeral Home.
Mr. Speer's home was forever a flurry of activity, particularly during tax season - with a countless parade of cars coming and going at all hours. Part of the activity during the summer was the arrival of the Speer's three grandchildren - David, Debbie, and Russell. When they came to stay for the summer, Mr. Speer's wife, Mary, became a doting grandmother. She hauled those lucky kids all over Fulton, Cobb, and Douglas County. Swimming, summer ball, sightseeing, and playing in the area's parks were just a few of the things that "Nanny" Speer did for her beloved grandkids.
Rarely did "Papa T." ever go on these excursions. But, he made up for it in another highly memorable way.
Whenever David, Debbie and Russell came to visit, "Papa T." frequently treated them, as well as all the other neighborhood children, to Schwan's ice cream. This writer witnessed on many occasions Mr. Speer buying frozen treats for at least a dozen children who were crowded around the Schwan's ice cream truck. Though it only cost him $1.20 at most, this rugged, old, teddy-bear of a man might as well have been Donald Trump passing out $100 bills. The neighborhood kids loved him, and their parents were most willing and glad to let him buy their offspring yet another round of Schwan's.
More than this, with each Nutty Buddy and Push-Up, both Mr. T.J. Speer and the Schwan driver won the hearts of many young people. Their generous deeds impacted more lives than they ever possibly realized.
Hot, summer weather in Georgia was made a little cooler and a little more bearable because of these two great gentlemen.
Every time David Lee Roth & EVH sing and play that song, this Riverside boy remembers our community's version of the, "Ice Cream Men."
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 7, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
"Apple Blossom"
This Georgia boy never smelled a skunk until his early twenties. Admittedly, there is no odor in the world to match the God-given defense mechanism of those furry, two-toned, critters. However, there are humans in this world who would give the average, garden-variety skunk a run for his money.
Having traveled extensively, this writer is convinced that any list of the world's most beautiful places would certainly include the South Pacific island country of Fiji. Having been to this great place at least four times, the sights sounds and smells are forever burned into the mind and heart. It is everything one would expect in an island paradise.
This writer once rode for a few hours in a small, Japanese car, surrounded by four very large, and very manly, Fijian men. These men eventually got out of the car, but the odor never did. Nor did it ever come out of this American tourist's clothes. After several washings and one valiant effort at outdoor fumigation, the clothes finally had to be sent to the county landfill.
"Fijian Female Funk" is almost as potent as its male counterpart. One very large, very sweaty, Fijian woman passionately bear-hugged this American's neck back in 1994. The smell of that encounter very nearly caused an old Southern boy to faint dead away. The stench from the aforementioned landfill would not even have come close to this Fijian "Marama's" smell.
In remembering the smell of these, otherwise wonderful, island people, a journey into one's childhood seems in order. After all, Fijians and skunks are not the only smells that linger in the mind and nasal cavities for years after the fact.
Joe Cox was one of the most mischievous boys in Mrs. Ragsdale's sixth grade class at the Chattahoochee Elementary School in Riverside. He was a tall, blonde, freckle-faced lad, with an athletic build. Joe did not apply himself in school either academically or behaviorally, and as a result was frequently made to stay after school. Joe logged more than a few hours performing various forms of disciplinary rehabilitation.
Having traveled extensively, this writer is convinced that any list of the world's most beautiful places would certainly include the South Pacific island country of Fiji. Having been to this great place at least four times, the sights sounds and smells are forever burned into the mind and heart. It is everything one would expect in an island paradise.
There is, however, a Fiji that travel brochures never show. It is a world of hard work in sugar cane fields, substandard housing, poverty, and other Spartan conditions that many spoiled Americans would never envision nor tolerate. One of these would certainly have to be the presence of stark, repulsive, Fijian body odor ("B.O.").
"Stink" on a Fijian male is considered manly and cool. The more he stinks, the more manly and cooler he is. There are no shelves of Brut or Polo in most Fijian grocery and department stores. The United States Marines that served in the Pacific during World War II came home telling of the islander's word for aftershave lotion and cologne. They called it, "Fufu Water."
The, "Fijian Funk," has a staying power that is amazing.
"Stink" on a Fijian male is considered manly and cool. The more he stinks, the more manly and cooler he is. There are no shelves of Brut or Polo in most Fijian grocery and department stores. The United States Marines that served in the Pacific during World War II came home telling of the islander's word for aftershave lotion and cologne. They called it, "Fufu Water."
The, "Fijian Funk," has a staying power that is amazing.
This writer once rode for a few hours in a small, Japanese car, surrounded by four very large, and very manly, Fijian men. These men eventually got out of the car, but the odor never did. Nor did it ever come out of this American tourist's clothes. After several washings and one valiant effort at outdoor fumigation, the clothes finally had to be sent to the county landfill.
"Fijian Female Funk" is almost as potent as its male counterpart. One very large, very sweaty, Fijian woman passionately bear-hugged this American's neck back in 1994. The smell of that encounter very nearly caused an old Southern boy to faint dead away. The stench from the aforementioned landfill would not even have come close to this Fijian "Marama's" smell.
In remembering the smell of these, otherwise wonderful, island people, a journey into one's childhood seems in order. After all, Fijians and skunks are not the only smells that linger in the mind and nasal cavities for years after the fact.
Joe Cox was one of the most mischievous boys in Mrs. Ragsdale's sixth grade class at the Chattahoochee Elementary School in Riverside. He was a tall, blonde, freckle-faced lad, with an athletic build. Joe did not apply himself in school either academically or behaviorally, and as a result was frequently made to stay after school. Joe logged more than a few hours performing various forms of disciplinary rehabilitation.
When the task was cleaning the blackboards, Joe found a way to get around using only one eraser. His practice was to grab an eraser in each hand, while standing in a chair or school desk with his derriere facing the board. This way, he could "wipe" the board with two erasers and the seat of his pants at the same time.
Or, if the task was writing five hundred times the phrase, "I must not interrupt the teacher in class," Joe was equally as inventive. He would Scotch tape up to seven pencils together. Thus, one sachet of his large hand across a notebook paper line would produce multiple sentences of punishment instead of one.
Joe Cox's crowning moment of delinquency came on a fateful day when he was introduced to the innate power of observance and judgment in a female school teacher. His weapon of choice was a tiny vial of the world's most powerful and unforgettable smell.
"Apple Blossom" was its name. It was a yellow liquid that resembled the old Vitalis hair lotion that many school boys were forced to wear during those years. Apple Blossom came in an almost microscopic-sized bottle, with a small, black screw-on cap. Its tiny size did not do justice to the danger lurking inside. This was no Fufu Water.
Apple Blossom smelled worse than a combination of rotting flesh, spoiled milk, extreme flatulence, and a paper mill running full tilt on a south Mississippi summer afternoon. One whiff of this potion made the eyes water profusely, and the nose recoil in rank disgust.
No one ever asked when or how Joe Cox got his first snort of Apple Blossom. But, it was he who attempted to introduce his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Joan Ragsdale, to her first bottle.
It was a Monday morning in the late Fall of 1966. Joe came into class, late as usual, and immediately had a confrontation with Mrs. Ragsdale. She was noticeably irritated by both the chronic tardiness, and his repeated failure to produce written excuses from home for it. When he finally sat down at his desk, instead of taking out his books, Joe took out his Apple Blossom.
He opened the tiny bottle and began shoving it into the faces of students seated around him. With audible objections from each, they forcefully pushed Joe's hand away. The disruption attracted Mrs. Ragsdale's attention. She noted the commotion and scolded the students, ordering them to cease their noisemaking.
Finally, after a few minutes of this, Joe Cox raised his hand. Surprised at this sudden and unusual display of classroom etiquette, Mrs. Ragsdale asked him what he wanted.
Joe made up a story about one of the girls sitting near him. He said that she was trying to put perfume on him as a prank, and that he had wrestled the bottle away from her. He offered to bring it up to Mrs. Ragsdale's desk. When she agreed, the students began trying to warn their teacher that this was not the truth, and that Joe was attempting to play a stinky prank on her.
She summoned Joe to the front desk.
"Joe," she said in a voice loud enough to be heard down the hall of the Chattahoochee school building, "I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention." Joe turned toward the class, beaming as if he was about to get away with something.
"Joe," Mrs. Ragsdale continued, "I'm sure your mother wears perfume, doesn't she?" Joe shook his head in affirmation. "Good," she continued, "then I am going to make sure I give her this 'perfume' when she comes up to school tomorrow night for P.T.A. I am sure she will enjoy it."
What Joe didn't know was that Mrs. Ragsdale had seen what he was doing earlier with the Apple Blossom. She knew full well that he and his "perfume" were the cause of the noise in class, and that he was now trying to prank her. This was her chance to make an impression on this prince of class clowns.
Joe's fellow students leaned forward in their desks, soaking in Mrs. Ragsdale's every word. Many had been the objects of Joe's practical jokes, with some having been implicated as his accomplices, and punished because of his antics. This hooligan was about to get, "his," and they were glad.
"Joe," she said, "I don't believe you got this from a girl...And, I don't believe it is perfume...I believe it is a stink bomb...You just wanted me to open it so I would be repulsed by the smell."
Joe was now staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Ragsdale - his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Joe," she went on, "tell you what I'm going to do...I'm going to give you a choice...Either you take this stink bomb, open it, and put a big finger full under each of your ears and on each side of your neck so you'll be forced to smell it all day long, or else I am going to give this bottle to your mother tomorrow night and tell her what you tried to do with it this morning in my classroom."
The class almost erupted.
Before Joe could reply, Mrs. Ragsdale informed him that once he had put the Apple Blossom on, not to think that he would stay in her classroom and punish the rest of the students by their having to smell him all day long. Rather, Joe would spend the day in detention hall, all by himself, sitting at a desk far removed from anyone else, with one pencil in his hand instead of seven, writing a thousand times, "I will not play practical jokes in Mrs. Ragsdale’s class."
These were his only punishment options. Mrs. Ragsdale stood as she finished the lecture. "Alright, Joe...Which will it be?" she calmly and firmly asked.
After several seconds of silent deliberation, Joe dropped his head and contritely chose the first of Mrs. Ragsdale's two options. He knew full well the severity of the beatings he would receive from his parents if they "caught wind" of what he had tried to do with the Apple Blossom. A day spent in detention, smelling like Apple Blossom, was without question the lesser of the two evils.
Mrs. Ragsdale made Joe stand in front of the class and apply the Apple Blossom under his earlobes and on his neck. She then led him by the hand down the hall to detention. It was the most humiliating day of his life.
After that day, Joe Cox was a changed young man. He rarely tormented his schoolmates again with practical jokes or misbehavior.
Still, the Apple Blossom bottle sat on Mrs. Ragsdale's desk for the remainder of the school year. It was her way of reminding Joe that she was smarter than a sixth grader, and that "stink" did not belong in her classroom.
With every personal encounter on those fragrant trips to Fiji, while Joe Cox was not present in person, his smell and his memory certainly were.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 5, 2011
Or, if the task was writing five hundred times the phrase, "I must not interrupt the teacher in class," Joe was equally as inventive. He would Scotch tape up to seven pencils together. Thus, one sachet of his large hand across a notebook paper line would produce multiple sentences of punishment instead of one.
Joe Cox's crowning moment of delinquency came on a fateful day when he was introduced to the innate power of observance and judgment in a female school teacher. His weapon of choice was a tiny vial of the world's most powerful and unforgettable smell.
"Apple Blossom" was its name. It was a yellow liquid that resembled the old Vitalis hair lotion that many school boys were forced to wear during those years. Apple Blossom came in an almost microscopic-sized bottle, with a small, black screw-on cap. Its tiny size did not do justice to the danger lurking inside. This was no Fufu Water.
Apple Blossom smelled worse than a combination of rotting flesh, spoiled milk, extreme flatulence, and a paper mill running full tilt on a south Mississippi summer afternoon. One whiff of this potion made the eyes water profusely, and the nose recoil in rank disgust.
No one ever asked when or how Joe Cox got his first snort of Apple Blossom. But, it was he who attempted to introduce his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Joan Ragsdale, to her first bottle.
It was a Monday morning in the late Fall of 1966. Joe came into class, late as usual, and immediately had a confrontation with Mrs. Ragsdale. She was noticeably irritated by both the chronic tardiness, and his repeated failure to produce written excuses from home for it. When he finally sat down at his desk, instead of taking out his books, Joe took out his Apple Blossom.
He opened the tiny bottle and began shoving it into the faces of students seated around him. With audible objections from each, they forcefully pushed Joe's hand away. The disruption attracted Mrs. Ragsdale's attention. She noted the commotion and scolded the students, ordering them to cease their noisemaking.
Finally, after a few minutes of this, Joe Cox raised his hand. Surprised at this sudden and unusual display of classroom etiquette, Mrs. Ragsdale asked him what he wanted.
Joe made up a story about one of the girls sitting near him. He said that she was trying to put perfume on him as a prank, and that he had wrestled the bottle away from her. He offered to bring it up to Mrs. Ragsdale's desk. When she agreed, the students began trying to warn their teacher that this was not the truth, and that Joe was attempting to play a stinky prank on her.
She summoned Joe to the front desk.
"Joe," she said in a voice loud enough to be heard down the hall of the Chattahoochee school building, "I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention." Joe turned toward the class, beaming as if he was about to get away with something.
"Joe," Mrs. Ragsdale continued, "I'm sure your mother wears perfume, doesn't she?" Joe shook his head in affirmation. "Good," she continued, "then I am going to make sure I give her this 'perfume' when she comes up to school tomorrow night for P.T.A. I am sure she will enjoy it."
What Joe didn't know was that Mrs. Ragsdale had seen what he was doing earlier with the Apple Blossom. She knew full well that he and his "perfume" were the cause of the noise in class, and that he was now trying to prank her. This was her chance to make an impression on this prince of class clowns.
Joe's fellow students leaned forward in their desks, soaking in Mrs. Ragsdale's every word. Many had been the objects of Joe's practical jokes, with some having been implicated as his accomplices, and punished because of his antics. This hooligan was about to get, "his," and they were glad.
"Joe," she said, "I don't believe you got this from a girl...And, I don't believe it is perfume...I believe it is a stink bomb...You just wanted me to open it so I would be repulsed by the smell."
Joe was now staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Ragsdale - his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Joe," she went on, "tell you what I'm going to do...I'm going to give you a choice...Either you take this stink bomb, open it, and put a big finger full under each of your ears and on each side of your neck so you'll be forced to smell it all day long, or else I am going to give this bottle to your mother tomorrow night and tell her what you tried to do with it this morning in my classroom."
The class almost erupted.
Before Joe could reply, Mrs. Ragsdale informed him that once he had put the Apple Blossom on, not to think that he would stay in her classroom and punish the rest of the students by their having to smell him all day long. Rather, Joe would spend the day in detention hall, all by himself, sitting at a desk far removed from anyone else, with one pencil in his hand instead of seven, writing a thousand times, "I will not play practical jokes in Mrs. Ragsdale’s class."
These were his only punishment options. Mrs. Ragsdale stood as she finished the lecture. "Alright, Joe...Which will it be?" she calmly and firmly asked.
After several seconds of silent deliberation, Joe dropped his head and contritely chose the first of Mrs. Ragsdale's two options. He knew full well the severity of the beatings he would receive from his parents if they "caught wind" of what he had tried to do with the Apple Blossom. A day spent in detention, smelling like Apple Blossom, was without question the lesser of the two evils.
Mrs. Ragsdale made Joe stand in front of the class and apply the Apple Blossom under his earlobes and on his neck. She then led him by the hand down the hall to detention. It was the most humiliating day of his life.
After that day, Joe Cox was a changed young man. He rarely tormented his schoolmates again with practical jokes or misbehavior.
Still, the Apple Blossom bottle sat on Mrs. Ragsdale's desk for the remainder of the school year. It was her way of reminding Joe that she was smarter than a sixth grader, and that "stink" did not belong in her classroom.
With every personal encounter on those fragrant trips to Fiji, while Joe Cox was not present in person, his smell and his memory certainly were.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 5, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
"Play Ball"
Neighborhood ball games were once as universal as neighborhoods. Traveling extensively throughout different parts of the world, this writer has personally seen, in almost every corner of the world, gangs of neighborhood boys and girls playing sports of some kind or another. Soccer, football, baseball, cricket, basketball, field hockey, and softball, to name just a few.
No matter how poor or backward the culture, playing ball seems to be a part of the human bloodline.
In years gone by, however, the process was much simpler.
Every neighborhood seemed to have a place to play. A yard, a field, a spare lot, a driveway or even the middle of the street. The necessary equipment always seemed to come from somewhere. Balls, bats, gloves, sticks, or whatever else was needed - somebody always had.
This writer's father grew up in the 1920's in a farming community in Northwest Atlanta. An old corn field was their stadium. No one had gloves. A strong hickory limb was fashioned as a bat. Old socks, rags, and flour sacks were bound tightly and stitched by hand into a makeshift baseball. Pieces of cardboard, wood, tin, garbage can lids, or even old throw rugs were used as bases.
When the sport was basketball, the "court" could be any flat surface, whether driveway, street or yard. The backboard was a sawed-off piece of plywood that was nailed to the front of a garage, or nearby tree. The rim did not always have a net, and was sometimes bent and rusted. In some cases, the basketball that was used was full of holes, which were plugged with tire inner tube patches.
In addition to one-on-one contests, these half-court basketball games included shot-making contests known as, "H-O-R-S-E", or its abbreviated version, "P-I-G." There was also, "Around the World," and other made-up-on-the-spot games.
When baseball was the focus, any number of variations were fair game. For instance, one neighborhood boy in Riverside had a "dog lot" on the back of his parents' property. This fenced area was approximately seventy square feet. It was just big enough for a small baseball diamond to be fashioned. There was not enough room in the dog lot for infielders or outfielders - only the pitcher and batter. A wooden bat, the players' personal ball glove, four pieces of tin for bases, and a tennis ball were the only pieces of equipment needed.
Any ball hit within the dog lot had to be fielded by the pitcher. If the batter pounded a single, double, or triple, the pitcher fielded the ball and tried to get to a base before the runner. If the runner safely reached base, he loudly declared, "ghost man!" He then returned to the plate to take another turn at bat. Most of the time, the only two possible results for an at-bat were either a home run, knocked far over the dog lot fence, or a strike-out.
The neighborhood boys took turns playing the winner of the previous dog lot ball game. At the end of the summer, the two boys who had the most wins played the, "Dog Lot World Series."
This writer has a DLWS Championship "Ring" from one of these unforgettable years.
The dog lots and sand lots and back yards and community streets are often the initial training ground for promising, young athletes. Sometimes, that training is "taken to the next level" and made even better later on by the intervention of a great coach. This is an even greater blessing when it happens early in a young person's life.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix (the initials stood for "Spright Dowell") taught 7th grade at Chattahoochee Elementary School on Peyton Road in Riverside during the 1960's-70's. In those days, there was no Middle School or Junior High in the Atlanta School System. There was grades K-7 and 8-12. Period.
7th graders were the big, bad, "Seniors" of the Elementary School scene. They served in lofty positions of responsibility, such as the cherished work of being a AAA Crossing Guard. These students, usually male, wore white harnesses and badges that identified them as "official" AAA Crossing Guards. And, they "directed" traffic at major thoroughfares where school children crossed. Looking back, it is amazing to realize that the world was, then, humane enough to allow a 7th grade child to actually direct traffic at busy intersections.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were the only two 7th grade teachers at Chattahoochee Elementary. Which meant that they were also, by default, the coaches of any sports teams fielded by the school. Mr. Mathern was younger and more athletic than Mr. Hendrix, and was left handed. He could throw a football through a tire from about fifty feet away, and did so with great velocity. He performed this feat many times at the school's annual Halloween Carnivals - just to show off.
When afternoon recess came to Chattahoochee Elementary, Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern rounded up the boys for a ball game. The girls would play kick ball, or swing on the monkey bars. Usually, one of the female teachers from a lower grade would oversee their recess time.
Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would choose the teams. There was football from the Fall through the dead of Winter, and softball the rest of the year. Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would be the opposing quarterbacks during football, and the opposing pitchers during softball. They were excellent motivators, and fierce competitors with each other. At some point during one of the football games, Mr. Mathern would allow one of the students to spell him at quarterback, so that he could run a few pass routes. Or, Mr. Hendrix would come in to bat during a softball game. For about forty-five minutes each afternoon, these two fine gentlemen became 7th graders once again. They often had more fun than the students.
Too, these were teaching moments. These two outstanding men taught the players how to run pass routes, how to block an opponent fairly and without causing injury to either, how to throw particular pitches with a softball, and how to hold a bat for bunting, hitting chop singles, or for an all-out, clearing-the-bases, home run swing.
It was Mr. Hendrix that took this priceless mentoring to an even deeper level. He was the one who coached the Gra-Y football, basketball, and softball teams.
The Gra-Y Sports Program was an extension of the local YMCA. They provided equipment and other amenities to elementary schools for the establishment and sponsorship of inter-school competition. The YMCA assistance was very basic, and certainly did not provide salaries, expense reimbursements, or other remuneration for those who coached or organized teams at the local school level.
Thankfully, men like S.D. Hendrix did not do it for the money. For him, there was, evidently, a much greater reward.
Mr. Hendrix drove a red Mercury Comet. He would go around to each boy's house whose parents could not provide transportation, and pick up his players. Mr. Hendrix was constantly ferrying car loads of 7th grade boys to ball fields, gyms, and other locations where these contests took place. "Buckle Up For Safety," was a farce when you were transporting ten 7th grade boys in car the size of a Mercury Comet.
After the games, Mr. Hendrix would take the car load of boys by a local convenience store and buy each one a "Slush Puppy," or "Slurpee," before depositing them safely back home at the end of the day.
Thank you, Mr. Spright Dowell Hendrix, for the time and attention you so unselfishly gave to all the young boys from Chattahoochee Elementary who played ball for you. You were our our teacher, our coach, our mentor, and our friend. You never got a trophy for your efforts. But, you never expected one. You made all the boys who played for you feel special. You taught us lessons that we'll never forget - just as we will never forget you.
Men like S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were, and are, great examples to the young lads they taught. They were, and are, the epitome of what a neighborhood or school sports "program" should be.
These should be, first and foremost, a way to have fun. They should teach life lessons like sportsmanship and fair competition. They should help form a bond of friendship for players and coaches alike. And, should be done under the careful and caring eye of someone who has the betterment of his fellowman at heart. Winning would just be, "gravy on the biscuit."
Mr. Hendrix, you were all those things and so much more. You left an enduring memory in the hearts of many young men who came through your classes.
May God grant you His rest and peace.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 1, 2011
No matter how poor or backward the culture, playing ball seems to be a part of the human bloodline.
In modern times, particularly in America, organized ball seems to have taken over. Fancy sports complexes, professional grade uniforms and equipment, and trophies for even the lowest achiever on the team have become all too commonplace. Aeons ago, it was only the neighborhood kids that got involved in the "pick-up" games. But, with organized sports, entire families become absorbed. A good friend recently spoke of a Saturday she spent shagging balls in the outfield for the softball team of her eight year old grandchild(ren) (which sounds, most sincerely, like a wonderful way to spend a Saturday).
Some ball teams get so serious about their past-time that they travel hundreds of miles to compete in grueling all-weekend tournaments. And, if this were not enough, many parents count on grooming their kids through ball as a possible ticket to an athletic scholarship.
Some ball teams get so serious about their past-time that they travel hundreds of miles to compete in grueling all-weekend tournaments. And, if this were not enough, many parents count on grooming their kids through ball as a possible ticket to an athletic scholarship.
One would have to admit that the old neighborhood ball game has now evolved into a really big business.
Every neighborhood seemed to have a place to play. A yard, a field, a spare lot, a driveway or even the middle of the street. The necessary equipment always seemed to come from somewhere. Balls, bats, gloves, sticks, or whatever else was needed - somebody always had.
This writer's father grew up in the 1920's in a farming community in Northwest Atlanta. An old corn field was their stadium. No one had gloves. A strong hickory limb was fashioned as a bat. Old socks, rags, and flour sacks were bound tightly and stitched by hand into a makeshift baseball. Pieces of cardboard, wood, tin, garbage can lids, or even old throw rugs were used as bases.
When the sport was basketball, the "court" could be any flat surface, whether driveway, street or yard. The backboard was a sawed-off piece of plywood that was nailed to the front of a garage, or nearby tree. The rim did not always have a net, and was sometimes bent and rusted. In some cases, the basketball that was used was full of holes, which were plugged with tire inner tube patches.
In addition to one-on-one contests, these half-court basketball games included shot-making contests known as, "H-O-R-S-E", or its abbreviated version, "P-I-G." There was also, "Around the World," and other made-up-on-the-spot games.
When baseball was the focus, any number of variations were fair game. For instance, one neighborhood boy in Riverside had a "dog lot" on the back of his parents' property. This fenced area was approximately seventy square feet. It was just big enough for a small baseball diamond to be fashioned. There was not enough room in the dog lot for infielders or outfielders - only the pitcher and batter. A wooden bat, the players' personal ball glove, four pieces of tin for bases, and a tennis ball were the only pieces of equipment needed.
Any ball hit within the dog lot had to be fielded by the pitcher. If the batter pounded a single, double, or triple, the pitcher fielded the ball and tried to get to a base before the runner. If the runner safely reached base, he loudly declared, "ghost man!" He then returned to the plate to take another turn at bat. Most of the time, the only two possible results for an at-bat were either a home run, knocked far over the dog lot fence, or a strike-out.
The neighborhood boys took turns playing the winner of the previous dog lot ball game. At the end of the summer, the two boys who had the most wins played the, "Dog Lot World Series."
This writer has a DLWS Championship "Ring" from one of these unforgettable years.
The dog lots and sand lots and back yards and community streets are often the initial training ground for promising, young athletes. Sometimes, that training is "taken to the next level" and made even better later on by the intervention of a great coach. This is an even greater blessing when it happens early in a young person's life.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix (the initials stood for "Spright Dowell") taught 7th grade at Chattahoochee Elementary School on Peyton Road in Riverside during the 1960's-70's. In those days, there was no Middle School or Junior High in the Atlanta School System. There was grades K-7 and 8-12. Period.
7th graders were the big, bad, "Seniors" of the Elementary School scene. They served in lofty positions of responsibility, such as the cherished work of being a AAA Crossing Guard. These students, usually male, wore white harnesses and badges that identified them as "official" AAA Crossing Guards. And, they "directed" traffic at major thoroughfares where school children crossed. Looking back, it is amazing to realize that the world was, then, humane enough to allow a 7th grade child to actually direct traffic at busy intersections.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were the only two 7th grade teachers at Chattahoochee Elementary. Which meant that they were also, by default, the coaches of any sports teams fielded by the school. Mr. Mathern was younger and more athletic than Mr. Hendrix, and was left handed. He could throw a football through a tire from about fifty feet away, and did so with great velocity. He performed this feat many times at the school's annual Halloween Carnivals - just to show off.
When afternoon recess came to Chattahoochee Elementary, Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern rounded up the boys for a ball game. The girls would play kick ball, or swing on the monkey bars. Usually, one of the female teachers from a lower grade would oversee their recess time.
Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would choose the teams. There was football from the Fall through the dead of Winter, and softball the rest of the year. Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would be the opposing quarterbacks during football, and the opposing pitchers during softball. They were excellent motivators, and fierce competitors with each other. At some point during one of the football games, Mr. Mathern would allow one of the students to spell him at quarterback, so that he could run a few pass routes. Or, Mr. Hendrix would come in to bat during a softball game. For about forty-five minutes each afternoon, these two fine gentlemen became 7th graders once again. They often had more fun than the students.
Too, these were teaching moments. These two outstanding men taught the players how to run pass routes, how to block an opponent fairly and without causing injury to either, how to throw particular pitches with a softball, and how to hold a bat for bunting, hitting chop singles, or for an all-out, clearing-the-bases, home run swing.
It was Mr. Hendrix that took this priceless mentoring to an even deeper level. He was the one who coached the Gra-Y football, basketball, and softball teams.
The Gra-Y Sports Program was an extension of the local YMCA. They provided equipment and other amenities to elementary schools for the establishment and sponsorship of inter-school competition. The YMCA assistance was very basic, and certainly did not provide salaries, expense reimbursements, or other remuneration for those who coached or organized teams at the local school level.
Thankfully, men like S.D. Hendrix did not do it for the money. For him, there was, evidently, a much greater reward.
Mr. Hendrix drove a red Mercury Comet. He would go around to each boy's house whose parents could not provide transportation, and pick up his players. Mr. Hendrix was constantly ferrying car loads of 7th grade boys to ball fields, gyms, and other locations where these contests took place. "Buckle Up For Safety," was a farce when you were transporting ten 7th grade boys in car the size of a Mercury Comet.
After the games, Mr. Hendrix would take the car load of boys by a local convenience store and buy each one a "Slush Puppy," or "Slurpee," before depositing them safely back home at the end of the day.
Thank you, Mr. Spright Dowell Hendrix, for the time and attention you so unselfishly gave to all the young boys from Chattahoochee Elementary who played ball for you. You were our our teacher, our coach, our mentor, and our friend. You never got a trophy for your efforts. But, you never expected one. You made all the boys who played for you feel special. You taught us lessons that we'll never forget - just as we will never forget you.
Men like S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were, and are, great examples to the young lads they taught. They were, and are, the epitome of what a neighborhood or school sports "program" should be.
These should be, first and foremost, a way to have fun. They should teach life lessons like sportsmanship and fair competition. They should help form a bond of friendship for players and coaches alike. And, should be done under the careful and caring eye of someone who has the betterment of his fellowman at heart. Winning would just be, "gravy on the biscuit."
Mr. Hendrix, you were all those things and so much more. You left an enduring memory in the hearts of many young men who came through your classes.
May God grant you His rest and peace.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 1, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
"Bill - The Dancing Guitarist"
Playing music has been this writer’s, “drug of choice,” since the age of nine. No high in the world (sorry, honey) can compare with having performed a popular song for a receptive crowd of listeners. Standing ovations are sweet payback for the fatigue of packing and moving heavy amplifiers and sound equipment, untold hours of practice, and the pain of developing and maintaining calluses on bleeding fingertips.
Thank you, Lord, for the gift of music; and for the blessing of being a guitarist in an enormously popular band, in Atlanta, Georgia, during the 1970’s.
“Silver Creek,” was our band’s name.
The nucleus of the band had been together since high school. Our first gigs were a high school talent show (which we won by performing two of the biggest tunes of the day – Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” and Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and playing in the lunch room during 4th period (A, B, & C Lunch) on St. Patircks’ Day (our school was the “Fighting Irish”). The band was extremely popular with our fellow students.
All bands eventually go through personnel changes. This one certainly did.
Some of our guys happened to work with two other musicians who were looking to join a band.
Thank you, Lord, for the gift of music; and for the blessing of being a guitarist in an enormously popular band, in Atlanta, Georgia, during the 1970’s.
“Silver Creek,” was our band’s name.
The nucleus of the band had been together since high school. Our first gigs were a high school talent show (which we won by performing two of the biggest tunes of the day – Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” and Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and playing in the lunch room during 4th period (A, B, & C Lunch) on St. Patircks’ Day (our school was the “Fighting Irish”). The band was extremely popular with our fellow students.
All bands eventually go through personnel changes. This one certainly did.
Some of our guys happened to work with two other musicians who were looking to join a band.
Musician #1 was a really good drummer – skinny as a rail, with fiery red hair. “Robert” would become a real asset to our group in the years to come.
The 1970’s was rock music's heyday. Places to play were as plentiful as fleas on a collie. Clubs, bars, singles apartment clubhouse parties, fraternity and sorority parties, corporate outings, private parties, restaurants and “lounges,” county fairs, small concert halls, outdoor sports venues, grand openings for new businesses, high school dances and pep rallies, and a hundred other venue types were constantly needing rock and roll bands. The work was steady and the money was decent.
Silver Creek was given a tryout at Effie’s when their regular cover band had a conflict on a Saturday night booking. A good audition would bring a week-long gig. That Saturday afternoon we loaded up the gear and headed out. The largest crowd ever at Effie’s showed up that night to hear our little five piece group. The night was truly "electric." After three hours non-stop cover tunes from Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Bad Company, ZZ Top, BTO, The Stones, and others, the crowd refused to go home.
One segment of Effie's clientele was especially prolific. The female segment.
Women, women and more women. They came in the door like cattle at a county fair auction. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, tall, round, thin, big-chested, flat-chested, bone-hard ugly, drop-dead gorgeous, some of legal age, and some not. One by one these precious creatures appeared. They had several things in common: they were searching for a good time, hoping to dance a little, and maybe even find a nice guy to talk to. There might have been other reasons.
Suddenly, Robert, our drummer, began screaming. “Hey...Look, man!...Look at…BILL!” I opened my eyes and saw the eye-popping mammarial display only a few feet away. Robert yelled again, “Man!...Look at BILL!” Robert was attempting to continue the beat of the song while gesturing wildly toward the opposite end of the stage with one of his drumsticks.
When this guitar player was finally able to look, what he saw was extraordinary.
Bill was D-A-N-C-I-N-G!
Bill - the science freak, egghead, intellectual, solitary, “stationary” man – was hopelessly overcome with the sensuous, fleshly display he was witnessing. Bill was smiling, laughing, moving around, swaying, leaning back and forth, shaking his head in approval, and doing a "dance" all his own.
This stoic, unmovable, guy, that normally stood like a proverbial Cigar Store Indian, was going absolutely rock and roll crazy! That little stage at Effie’s rocked and rumbled each time Bill gyrated back and forth.
Soon, the bouncers came and got Little-Miss-Orange-Chiffon-Tube-Top. As they helped her off the dance floor, the males in the crowd booed. She was not seen again during the rest of the evening.
Musician #2 was a vocalist who was also a songwriter, harmonica player, and the owner a decent PA system – which we badly needed at the time. “Bob” became the tender-hearted core of our band.
These fellows were welcomed into our number. The band that would become "SilverCreek" was beginning to take shape.
The next hurdle was and is the most common one faced by every band that has ever struck up a tune.
The next hurdle was and is the most common one faced by every band that has ever struck up a tune.
Where does this band practice?
We had bounced around between parents’ living rooms, neighborhood garages, at least one old barn, and an apartment complex clubhouse (where some of our equipment was eventually stolen). About this time, as good fortune would have it, this writer’s parents moved from one metro Atlanta County to another, and into a brick house with a basement. This house was located on what was then still somewhat of a county road, on a piece of land that was surrounded with woods on one side and open terrain on the other. It was THE perfect place for a loud band to practice.
We had bounced around between parents’ living rooms, neighborhood garages, at least one old barn, and an apartment complex clubhouse (where some of our equipment was eventually stolen). About this time, as good fortune would have it, this writer’s parents moved from one metro Atlanta County to another, and into a brick house with a basement. This house was located on what was then still somewhat of a county road, on a piece of land that was surrounded with woods on one side and open terrain on the other. It was THE perfect place for a loud band to practice.
The 1970’s was rock music's heyday. Places to play were as plentiful as fleas on a collie. Clubs, bars, singles apartment clubhouse parties, fraternity and sorority parties, corporate outings, private parties, restaurants and “lounges,” county fairs, small concert halls, outdoor sports venues, grand openings for new businesses, high school dances and pep rallies, and a hundred other venue types were constantly needing rock and roll bands. The work was steady and the money was decent.
Silver Creek had found its place. We were a working band, and loving every rock and roll minute of it.
One of our favorite places to play was a restaurant/bar just west of Atlanta. “Effie’s Kitchen” served good food, and had rock bands playing six nights per week.
One of our favorite places to play was a restaurant/bar just west of Atlanta. “Effie’s Kitchen” served good food, and had rock bands playing six nights per week.
Silver Creek was given a tryout at Effie’s when their regular cover band had a conflict on a Saturday night booking. A good audition would bring a week-long gig. That Saturday afternoon we loaded up the gear and headed out. The largest crowd ever at Effie’s showed up that night to hear our little five piece group. The night was truly "electric." After three hours non-stop cover tunes from Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Bad Company, ZZ Top, BTO, The Stones, and others, the crowd refused to go home.
When the night was over, the club owner told us we were THE best local band he had ever heard. We were immediately booked for an entire month, which was longer than Effie’s had ever held a group over. Our time had finally come. We could quit our day jobs.
Effie’s Kitchen attracted all types of people. Long hairs, rednecks, hippies, geeks, bikers, blue collar and white collar, black and white, male and female. They all came for different reasons, but, certainly, many were there because loud rock and roll were there.
Effie’s Kitchen attracted all types of people. Long hairs, rednecks, hippies, geeks, bikers, blue collar and white collar, black and white, male and female. They all came for different reasons, but, certainly, many were there because loud rock and roll were there.
One segment of Effie's clientele was especially prolific. The female segment.
Women, women and more women. They came in the door like cattle at a county fair auction. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, tall, round, thin, big-chested, flat-chested, bone-hard ugly, drop-dead gorgeous, some of legal age, and some not. One by one these precious creatures appeared. They had several things in common: they were searching for a good time, hoping to dance a little, and maybe even find a nice guy to talk to. There might have been other reasons.
Too, anyone who has ever followed rock and roll knows a universal truth about women who show up at clubs, concerts, and most other places where music is played. Women L-O-V-E the boys in the band! One of THE sweetest places on earth for a musician to be is onstage performing before an adoring crowd of females.
One of the “boys” in our band was “Bill.” He was our second guitarist and sang harmony vocal. Bill was an excellent musician, and could also repair while blindfolded any amplifier, microphone, or other electronic gizmo.
There was one thing, though, that Bill was NOT. He was not a dancer - by any means. If Bill had starred in “Saturday Night Fever,” the Bee Gees might never have gotten beyond singing for weddings and funerals. Bill rarely if ever moved while onstage. His guitar work was impeccable and he capably sang many a harmony line. But, beyond this, Bill was never going to be confused with Tom Jones or Elvis.
One particular Saturday night, Effie’s Kitchen was “hopping.” Silver Creek was loud and in fine form. The crowd had developed a buzz, and the dance floor was filled on every song. As always, women – hot, incredibly good looking women – were everywhere. What a great time to be young, a guitar player, and part of a really, really good rock band.
One of the “boys” in our band was “Bill.” He was our second guitarist and sang harmony vocal. Bill was an excellent musician, and could also repair while blindfolded any amplifier, microphone, or other electronic gizmo.
There was one thing, though, that Bill was NOT. He was not a dancer - by any means. If Bill had starred in “Saturday Night Fever,” the Bee Gees might never have gotten beyond singing for weddings and funerals. Bill rarely if ever moved while onstage. His guitar work was impeccable and he capably sang many a harmony line. But, beyond this, Bill was never going to be confused with Tom Jones or Elvis.
One particular Saturday night, Effie’s Kitchen was “hopping.” Silver Creek was loud and in fine form. The crowd had developed a buzz, and the dance floor was filled on every song. As always, women – hot, incredibly good looking women – were everywhere. What a great time to be young, a guitar player, and part of a really, really good rock band.
Sweet memories.
At one point during the show, the dance floor emptied with the exception of one young lady. She was a strawberry blonde in her early twenties, the possessor of a beautiful face, and an even better physique. She was wearing stacked heels, tight jeans, and the prettiest orange, 100% cotton, tube top that K-Mart ever sold. That top was perfectly positioned in the one area of this pretty young thing’s upper torso. No one would have ever guessed where that top would eventually wind up.
The song that seemed to light this young thing’s fire was ZZ Top’s hit, “Waitin’ On The Bus.” Her boyfriend stayed with her on the dance floor through the first half of, “Waiting On The Bus.” But, retreated to a seat when the tune changed gears. The second part of the song was a slow, bluesy type number, with a steady, pulsating bass line. It was THE perfect song for a lead guitarist to show his chops; and, for a pretty young thing in an orange tube top to show hers.
In the middle of the guitar solo, the action began. All alone now on the dance floor, she must have known that every guy in the place was watching her. Slowly, sensuously, and graphically, this young lady began to disrobe. One gentle tug after another at that orange top was gradually bringing it ever closer to her navel.
At one point during the show, the dance floor emptied with the exception of one young lady. She was a strawberry blonde in her early twenties, the possessor of a beautiful face, and an even better physique. She was wearing stacked heels, tight jeans, and the prettiest orange, 100% cotton, tube top that K-Mart ever sold. That top was perfectly positioned in the one area of this pretty young thing’s upper torso. No one would have ever guessed where that top would eventually wind up.
The song that seemed to light this young thing’s fire was ZZ Top’s hit, “Waitin’ On The Bus.” Her boyfriend stayed with her on the dance floor through the first half of, “Waiting On The Bus.” But, retreated to a seat when the tune changed gears. The second part of the song was a slow, bluesy type number, with a steady, pulsating bass line. It was THE perfect song for a lead guitarist to show his chops; and, for a pretty young thing in an orange tube top to show hers.
In the middle of the guitar solo, the action began. All alone now on the dance floor, she must have known that every guy in the place was watching her. Slowly, sensuously, and graphically, this young lady began to disrobe. One gentle tug after another at that orange top was gradually bringing it ever closer to her navel.
And, not a bouncer in sight.
Almost every male in the place was going crazy. This serious guitar player was right in the middle of the aforementioned solo. As he carefully watched what he was paying on the fretboard, he was oblivious to what was happening just a few feet in front of him on the dance floor. He assumed the audience was cheering for him. Never did any audience we ever played for make that much noise.
Almost every male in the place was going crazy. This serious guitar player was right in the middle of the aforementioned solo. As he carefully watched what he was paying on the fretboard, he was oblivious to what was happening just a few feet in front of him on the dance floor. He assumed the audience was cheering for him. Never did any audience we ever played for make that much noise.
Suddenly, Robert, our drummer, began screaming. “Hey...Look, man!...Look at…BILL!” I opened my eyes and saw the eye-popping mammarial display only a few feet away. Robert yelled again, “Man!...Look at BILL!” Robert was attempting to continue the beat of the song while gesturing wildly toward the opposite end of the stage with one of his drumsticks.
When this guitar player was finally able to look, what he saw was extraordinary.
Bill was D-A-N-C-I-N-G!
Bill - the science freak, egghead, intellectual, solitary, “stationary” man – was hopelessly overcome with the sensuous, fleshly display he was witnessing. Bill was smiling, laughing, moving around, swaying, leaning back and forth, shaking his head in approval, and doing a "dance" all his own.
This stoic, unmovable, guy, that normally stood like a proverbial Cigar Store Indian, was going absolutely rock and roll crazy! That little stage at Effie’s rocked and rumbled each time Bill gyrated back and forth.
Soon, the bouncers came and got Little-Miss-Orange-Chiffon-Tube-Top. As they helped her off the dance floor, the males in the crowd booed. She was not seen again during the rest of the evening.
From that fateful night, and until the band played its last show, Bill was a changed man. He never stood still onstage again. Bill's transformation became one of THE greatest memories this guitar player received from his days with a band called Silver Creek.
Thank you, Bill.
Rock on, brother.
Thank you, Bill.
Rock on, brother.
Friday, February 25, 2011
"Springtime In Georgia"
It’s azaleas, dogwoods, jonquils, and magnolias. It’s the reappearance of redbirds and yellow jackets after a cold winter’s hiatus. It’s the smell of grass greening, and the feel of breezes warming for the approach of summer. It’s Springtime in Georgia.
Georgia is one of the most beautiful places on earth in the Spring. From late March through May every year the good Lord blesses this writer’s home state with a heavenly appearance. If one spot on earth can be this pretty once a year, one "can only imagine" what the real heaven is like.
Springtime in Georgia also brings other things to the surface. Things like exposed flesh, testosterone, and swarms of duly infected “insects” of the human, male variety. Old men refer to this as the time when the, “sap goes to rising.” “Georgia Peaches” that bud and blossom in the springtime become as intensely pursued as are white-tail buck in the fall.
This was surely the case with one fourteen year old, freckle-faced, Georgia boy. During life’s first hormonal epiphany, he suddenly awakened to the superb creative work the Good Lord is known for, especially with the female species. During those precious few minutes each day, this young man stopped "hating girls."
Her name escapes remembrance. Her younger sister’s name was Karen. Karen was a high-school contemporary of this writer. Their family lived just around the corner, on Spink Street, in our little community of Riverside. There were, perhaps, other daughters in their family, but none more fair than her.
She was blonde, fair skinned, built like a, “brick outhouse with the corners knocked off,” and loved to go bare-footed during the warm months of Georgia springs and summers. During those unforgettable days, with the grace of a swaying pine in a Georgia breeze, she made her daily pilgrimage through this writer’s old neighborhood - bound for Gary’s Store.
Mr. C.J. Gary had an old two story brick grocery store on the corner of Bolton Road and Main Street in northwest Atlanta. Bolton Road was a busy traffic route from Atlanta to all points west. Her chosen route to Gary’s Store kept her away from the noise of Bolton Road, and in the process brought her right past the front door of 2579 Forrest Avenue.
Thank you, Lord.
Mr. Gary had the coldest 16 ounce Cokes that have ever been sold to mankind. Those classic, green-tinted, glass bottles - with the name of the city of their origin on the bottom - were the perfect containers. Almost like mini-refrigerators. So cold were they that a soft layer of icy slush would often form on the inside near the top - just below the bottle cap. Thankfully, Mr. Gary always had a case full of these carbonated beauties on hand.
She must have loved those drinks. Every day, she walked to Gary’s Store and came back with her sensuous lips wrapped around the mouth of one of those icy bottles. A certain young man often thought of kissing old man Gary right in the mouth for being such a savvy merchant.
One of the great challenges of Georgia, springtime, female watching is stealth. Young boys are as clumsy and comical as Peter Sellers' memorable, "Inspector Clouseau." Especially when it comes to checking out a passing female. The lure as she walked by was to get close enough to see the dirty bottoms of her wonderful bare feet, while appearing to be merely checking the mailbox for the day’s mail. Never mind that you just checked the stupid thing barely fifteen minutes earlier when she walked by the first time.
To ensure the voyeuristic intent of this charade was well camouflaged, the “smart” thing was to stick one’s head ALL the way INTO the mailbox. To this day, it somehow still seems reasonable that a young man would go to such absurd lengths just to glimpse the bottom of someone else’s dirty feet.
But, ahhhh….those perfect feet.
The other trick was to not appear to be “stalking” her as you carefully paced every square inch of the road frontage of your parent’s property - picking up sweet gum balls like it was your life’s calling. No threats or parental intimidation were necessary whenever this glorious creature made her daily trip to Gary’s store. Yard work became a glorious mission.
Her name may escape remembrance but her body does not. It was a creative a masterpiece. A beautiful specimen of womanhood. One that has endured in one Georgia boy’s mind for more than fifty years. There were so many wonderful things to behold, and remember.
Her coy smile, which said that she saw right through the pathetic attempts to hide the real purpose behind yet another visit to the mailbox…Those wet, blonde, freshly washed curls falling all around her neck - gently swinging back and forth with the motion of her shoulders…Scant cut-off shorts and a sheer white t-shirt supplely draping her perfect form…The rhythm of that slow, sensuous “strut” parading down that old neighborhood street…And, her lusciously perfect lips caressing the frosty opening of that Coke bottle….
"Kodak moments" – every one. Which resurface with every blooming of azaleas and dogwoods and magnolias.
Along with one other highly vivid memory from that same time…
The shrill sound of a mother’s brazen, Parris-Island-trained, drill-instructor voice…echoing loudly from just inside the front screen door…barking out those unforgettable words…
“George David!...You had better quit standing out there with your head in that mailbox!…You don't need to be out there lusting after that girl walking up and down the street!…You better git your lazy butt in here and mop this kitchen floor like I told you thirty minutes ago!…Before I get me a switch and tear your sorry hide out of the frame, young man!…Do you hear me???!!!”
Ah, yes, springtime in Georgia.
Monday, February 21, 2011
"Home Sweet Home"
"Be it ever so humble...There's no place like home."
Singers sing about it, poets write about it, old people reminisce about it, and children grow more attached to it than they know.
"Home" is certainly far more than four walls, a floor and a roof. But, the "old home place" holds a spot of great sentimentality and fondness in many human hearts.
According to current U.S. Census Bureau research, the average American will move 11.7 times in a lifetime. That .7 move must a real trick, don't you think? Those who stay longest in their residences are the fifty and older crowd.
Makes sense.
This writer and his extended family have a long history of bedding down. The old family homeplace in Riverside that was built in 1917, was just torn down in 2010. Ninety-three years - not a bad legacy for a house and community that was home to so many of our family through its generations.
Though not everyone shares this philosophy, there just seems to be something powerful about a family's homeplace, and the irreplaceable memories and nostalgia connected with it.
In days gone by, the family home was much more a place built for living, and much less a palace built for show. Parents reared large numbers of children in just two bedrooms and a bath. Many did so without the bath.
Scores of the old houses in Riverside, as well as in other farming communities in Fulton, Cobb, and various other counties, were frame structures. They had plaster walls, hardwood floors, and tiny rooms. Most were built without the aid of blueprint, architect, or county inspector.
And, few, if any, featured the "luxury" of inside plumbing.
When indoor bathrooms did come into vogue, they were small, and equipped with only one sink, a claw-footed bathtub, and a lavatory. The bathroom that this writer grew up in was so small, when one sat on the toilet, his/her knees touched the side of the bathtub.
Instead of wall-to-wall mirrors in bathrooms of the past, there was a single, small, mirror that doubled as the medicine cabinet door. No one spent an eternity in the bathroom soaking in a hot tub, or hours in front of a bank of lights, "stylin'."
It was a process of, "get-in and get-out." There were usually eight or nine other people waiting their turn.
Before water heaters and hot baths or showers, there was the #2 washtub on the back porch on Saturday night just after sundown. The water was heated over an open fire on or the coal/wood stove, and the subject got only one pass of the hot water being poured over his/her soapy body. There were no thirty minute sessions spent daydreaming under a pulsating shower-head.
Moving from the bath to the kitchen, in homes of yesteryear, there were no granite counter tops, no microwave or convection ovens, no fancy islands or built-in dishwashers, and no Lazy-Susan cabinetry, or recessed lighting. There was one sink, and it was usually a white porcelain model with a slanted drain area where the water funneled back into the sink. The cabinets were made out of plain wood. They were small, and equipped with modest, functional hardware.
Going even farther back, this writer's extended family told of kitchens with well pumps at the sink, or none at all. Stoves were not powered by a Southern Company nuclear plant, but by either chunks of coal or large slabs of cord wood. Refrigerators were not fancy, stainless steel, designer creations with crushed ice machines on the front door. But rather, they literally were "ice-boxes." They kept things cold for no longer than it took the large block of ice in the unit's upper chamber to melt away.
There were no middle-class houses in this writer's day with more than 1,000 square feet in the floor plan. There were no formal dining rooms, sunrooms, television or theater rooms, spas, workout rooms, walk-in closets, or libraries. Parlors were common in houses built at the turn of the twentieth century, but they were much smaller than the average living room is today.
The one feature of houses from past times that was so very special was the front porch. It was a meeting place, a resting place, a vantage point, a cooling off place on sweltering summer nights, and the perfect stage for a budding romance. Like Andy, Barney and Aunt Bea, folks sat on their front porches after the evening meal, on Sunday afternoons, when company came, and when they courted. Front porch rocking chairs, swings, and hammocks made relaxing or reclining all the more pleasureable. And, also made the front porch one of the favorite areas of the old homeplace.
During the youth of this writer's father, the Riverside community of Northwest Atlanta was filled with small farm houses. These "shotgun" homes did not have lots of amenities, especially in comparison with today's palatial mansions. But, they did have ample front porches.
This architectural touch reflected the slower, friendlier, more neighborly pace of that day and time. It was not until a few generations later that builders and architects stopped putting front porches on houses. The home building fad came to include sun decks on the back side of the house - so we could all hide from one another and have our "privacy." Thankfully, the trend of designing homes with front porches seems to have come back around in more recent times.
While the front porch was a daily blessing, there was one special time every weekend when they took on an added bliss.
Every Saturday night during the Spring, Summer and early Fall, there would be a community gathering in Riverside. This gathering rotated to some degree in regard to the place, but it would always be hosted at somebody's home. The host family would drag their console radio up to the front window of the house just before 7:00 PM.
The crowd would have already gathered by that time.
Families from all over the community brought blankets, food, pitchers of iced tea, and an occasional pillow or two. They would pick a spot on the host family's front porch, or in the front yard. The guests would spread out, picnic style, and await the sound of the booming voice of the WSM AM-650 Radio announcer.
"Live from Nashville, Tennessee, and brought to you by Martha White Flour, it's time for the Grand Old Opry."
For the entire two-hour broadcast of the Opry, folks would sit and listen intently to the music. Some would clap or sing along, and some would tap their foot. The more adventuresome ones would get up and buck dance, and others would just sit and rock back and forth as if they were sitting on their own front porches. When the WSM broadcast of the Opry signed off, folks didn't always go home right away. Many stayed around until after 10:00 o'clock visiting, talking, and enjoying an unhurried evening with their friends and neighbors.
In a day and time when folks are losing their homes in record numbers due to foreclosure, perhaps it is good to remember a simpler time. An era when families didn't need 4,000 square feet and a pool in order to be happy. An era when the family home was much more than a place to merely shower and change clothes before rushing off to the next appointment or form of amusement.
Perhaps what our country needs is a return to the simple contentment of a time of living in communities rather than subdivisions. Of having neighbors that we know and share our lives with, rather than next-door strangers that are seen only if both happen to go the mailbox at the same time. And, of living life at a slower pace.
There is, after all, no place like home.
May the Good Lord help us each to realize this, and to plan for that greatest "Home Place" of all.
"Well I'll be John Brown"
- David Decker
February 21, 2011
Singers sing about it, poets write about it, old people reminisce about it, and children grow more attached to it than they know.
"Home" is certainly far more than four walls, a floor and a roof. But, the "old home place" holds a spot of great sentimentality and fondness in many human hearts.
According to current U.S. Census Bureau research, the average American will move 11.7 times in a lifetime. That .7 move must a real trick, don't you think? Those who stay longest in their residences are the fifty and older crowd.
Makes sense.
This writer and his extended family have a long history of bedding down. The old family homeplace in Riverside that was built in 1917, was just torn down in 2010. Ninety-three years - not a bad legacy for a house and community that was home to so many of our family through its generations.
Though not everyone shares this philosophy, there just seems to be something powerful about a family's homeplace, and the irreplaceable memories and nostalgia connected with it.
In days gone by, the family home was much more a place built for living, and much less a palace built for show. Parents reared large numbers of children in just two bedrooms and a bath. Many did so without the bath.
Scores of the old houses in Riverside, as well as in other farming communities in Fulton, Cobb, and various other counties, were frame structures. They had plaster walls, hardwood floors, and tiny rooms. Most were built without the aid of blueprint, architect, or county inspector.
And, few, if any, featured the "luxury" of inside plumbing.
When indoor bathrooms did come into vogue, they were small, and equipped with only one sink, a claw-footed bathtub, and a lavatory. The bathroom that this writer grew up in was so small, when one sat on the toilet, his/her knees touched the side of the bathtub.
Instead of wall-to-wall mirrors in bathrooms of the past, there was a single, small, mirror that doubled as the medicine cabinet door. No one spent an eternity in the bathroom soaking in a hot tub, or hours in front of a bank of lights, "stylin'."
It was a process of, "get-in and get-out." There were usually eight or nine other people waiting their turn.
Before water heaters and hot baths or showers, there was the #2 washtub on the back porch on Saturday night just after sundown. The water was heated over an open fire on or the coal/wood stove, and the subject got only one pass of the hot water being poured over his/her soapy body. There were no thirty minute sessions spent daydreaming under a pulsating shower-head.
Moving from the bath to the kitchen, in homes of yesteryear, there were no granite counter tops, no microwave or convection ovens, no fancy islands or built-in dishwashers, and no Lazy-Susan cabinetry, or recessed lighting. There was one sink, and it was usually a white porcelain model with a slanted drain area where the water funneled back into the sink. The cabinets were made out of plain wood. They were small, and equipped with modest, functional hardware.
Going even farther back, this writer's extended family told of kitchens with well pumps at the sink, or none at all. Stoves were not powered by a Southern Company nuclear plant, but by either chunks of coal or large slabs of cord wood. Refrigerators were not fancy, stainless steel, designer creations with crushed ice machines on the front door. But rather, they literally were "ice-boxes." They kept things cold for no longer than it took the large block of ice in the unit's upper chamber to melt away.
There were no middle-class houses in this writer's day with more than 1,000 square feet in the floor plan. There were no formal dining rooms, sunrooms, television or theater rooms, spas, workout rooms, walk-in closets, or libraries. Parlors were common in houses built at the turn of the twentieth century, but they were much smaller than the average living room is today.
The one feature of houses from past times that was so very special was the front porch. It was a meeting place, a resting place, a vantage point, a cooling off place on sweltering summer nights, and the perfect stage for a budding romance. Like Andy, Barney and Aunt Bea, folks sat on their front porches after the evening meal, on Sunday afternoons, when company came, and when they courted. Front porch rocking chairs, swings, and hammocks made relaxing or reclining all the more pleasureable. And, also made the front porch one of the favorite areas of the old homeplace.
During the youth of this writer's father, the Riverside community of Northwest Atlanta was filled with small farm houses. These "shotgun" homes did not have lots of amenities, especially in comparison with today's palatial mansions. But, they did have ample front porches.
This architectural touch reflected the slower, friendlier, more neighborly pace of that day and time. It was not until a few generations later that builders and architects stopped putting front porches on houses. The home building fad came to include sun decks on the back side of the house - so we could all hide from one another and have our "privacy." Thankfully, the trend of designing homes with front porches seems to have come back around in more recent times.
While the front porch was a daily blessing, there was one special time every weekend when they took on an added bliss.
Every Saturday night during the Spring, Summer and early Fall, there would be a community gathering in Riverside. This gathering rotated to some degree in regard to the place, but it would always be hosted at somebody's home. The host family would drag their console radio up to the front window of the house just before 7:00 PM.
The crowd would have already gathered by that time.
Families from all over the community brought blankets, food, pitchers of iced tea, and an occasional pillow or two. They would pick a spot on the host family's front porch, or in the front yard. The guests would spread out, picnic style, and await the sound of the booming voice of the WSM AM-650 Radio announcer.
"Live from Nashville, Tennessee, and brought to you by Martha White Flour, it's time for the Grand Old Opry."
For the entire two-hour broadcast of the Opry, folks would sit and listen intently to the music. Some would clap or sing along, and some would tap their foot. The more adventuresome ones would get up and buck dance, and others would just sit and rock back and forth as if they were sitting on their own front porches. When the WSM broadcast of the Opry signed off, folks didn't always go home right away. Many stayed around until after 10:00 o'clock visiting, talking, and enjoying an unhurried evening with their friends and neighbors.
In a day and time when folks are losing their homes in record numbers due to foreclosure, perhaps it is good to remember a simpler time. An era when families didn't need 4,000 square feet and a pool in order to be happy. An era when the family home was much more than a place to merely shower and change clothes before rushing off to the next appointment or form of amusement.
Perhaps what our country needs is a return to the simple contentment of a time of living in communities rather than subdivisions. Of having neighbors that we know and share our lives with, rather than next-door strangers that are seen only if both happen to go the mailbox at the same time. And, of living life at a slower pace.
There is, after all, no place like home.
May the Good Lord help us each to realize this, and to plan for that greatest "Home Place" of all.
"Well I'll be John Brown"
- David Decker
February 21, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
"Mr. Will Palmer"
Every community has its characters. Some are naturally funny, and create memories that bring smiles as broad as an old time Atlanta street. Some are difficult, and easy to forget. And, some are as kind and sweet as "Gone With The Wind's" precious character, Melanie Hamilton.
Mr. Will Palmer was an older black man who lived down off Johnson Road in the old Center Hill community. His home was really nothing more than a broken-down shack with a make-shift barn and an outhouse. His property was adjacent to a creek that crossed under Johnson Road. It was not far down the road from Inman Railroad Yards in Northwest Atlanta.
In 1966, after living away for several years from this writer's family's home community of Riverside, we moved back. Mama and Daddy bought a house that was five doors down the street from the old Decker home place. The lot for this old farmhouse was just over an acre, and was bordered by a creek. The ground was not the typical Georgia red clay, but was a far richer grade of dirt. Sitting not far from the banks of the Chattahoochee River, the soil was perhaps more like river bottom land. It was great for growing azaleas, flowering shrubs, and thick, turf grass.
Having grown up on a farm, this writer's father often lamented that his vocational life led him away from farming. Like most Southerners, Mama and Daddy loved farm grown vegetables. But, they did not own a tiller of any kind.
Enter Mr. Will Palmer.
Mr. Will drove an old mule and wagon. It was his only form of transportation. You could hear him coming several blocks away as he clunked along the asphalt streets of many a community in Northwest Atlanta. This included Riverside.
His old mule's name was, "Midnight." (Many thanks to a dear, lifelong, friend, Mr. Anthony Sizemore, for his research and assistance in getting Midnight's name correct for this story.)
"Midnight" was a thick-bellied old mule, that stood about fifteen hands tall. "She" looked like she weighed at least 1,000 pounds. Mr. Palmer bought Midnight for $50 from a farmer in Marietta who also raised mules. Her coat was black as coal oil, thus her name. Midnight pulled Mr. Will Palmer and his old clapboard wagon all over Northwest Atlanta for many years.
Mr. Will knew that white folks loved garden vegetables. And, he also knew that most white folks didn't have a good way to turn up a piece of ground for growing a garden. Too, Mr. Will knew that white folks were the only ones with enough money to be able to afford to hire somebody to plow up their gardens for them.
So, every morning during February through April, he hitched up Midnight and off they went. They rode through communities where stay-at-home mothers would most likely be. Mr. Will would sing to Midnight as they rode along. He made up most of the songs as he went. They were either spirituals or from a blues-oriented genre.
One old black spiritual that Mr. Will often sang declared, "The devil wear a hypocrite shoe...If you don't mind, he'll slip it on you...The devil wear a ragged coat...If you don't mind, he'll cut yo' thoat...Git' up, Midnight...Befo' the devil come along here..."
The noise of Midnight pulling that old wagon along the street, and Mr. Will singing to the top of his lungs, was loud enough to wake the dead. Folks would come to their front doors to investigate the source of the racket. And, some just knew that it was about time for Mr. Will to be coming around.
Their coming out on the porch was exactly what Mr. Will wanted. When he saw an open door, he would stop Midnight with a low, soft-spoken, "Whoa, mule," or "Whoa, Midnight." He then stood up in the wagon, taking off the old wide-brimmed hat he always wore, and began his sales pitch.
"Good morning/evening, Miss ma'am," he would say, "dis here is old Will Palmer and Midnight, ma'am. We done come to hep you good folk plow up yo' garden fo' the springtime. Why, in jest a little bit, old Midnight can have yo' fine garden spot ready fo' yo' husband to commence plantin' when he git home dis' evenin'. How 'bout it, ma'am? Does you want old Will and Midnight to git to work right here in a jiffy, ma'am?"
He was so polite, and kind, and humble. Even if the thought of having someone plow a garden was the furthest thing from the housewife's mind, most could not refuse such a sweet and self-effacing sales pitch. The charming way of this savvy, old businessman won many hearts, and made lots of friends among the people who hired him.
Especially the kids.
Mr. Will knew that children loved animals - especially Midnight. If any kids were home when Mr. Will drove by, children came from everywhere - running to the street to get a closer view of that giant old mule. Mr. Will would climb down patiently from the wagon and hold Midnight by the harness so the children could pet her. He spoke softly to her as the little ones came near her muscular legs and hooves. He was not about to allow her to be spooked and harm the children. They would often bring Midnight sugar cubes, carrots, or fruit of some kind. It was no wonder that old mule was so large. She ate better on most days than Mr. Will.
If he was able to secure a plowing job, Mr. Will most always promised any children hovering around Midnight that he would allow them to ride her after the garden was tilled. He faithfully honored his promise, and the children loved it. If the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Mr. Will understood that the best way to a mother's heart was through her children.
Many times, the wives and mothers who hired him wound up feeding him a sandwich or a piece of homemade pie from their kitchens. Mr. Will was not an overweight person by any stretch. But, it wasn't because he was underfed. Some women insisted that he take covered plates of their evening meals home with him.
$25. This was Mr. Will's price. He would till as much as a half acre of ground for this amount. Actually, considering that it usually took him less than two hours to finish most of the jobs, Mr. Will was actually well-paid for his day. $12 an hour was more than most skilled laborers made during the 1960's.
Today, with so many households getting their daily meals from either a restaurant or a zip-lock bag, to remember the sweet taste of garden vegetables served from a mother's table is a powerful thing.
Another lingering image is the sound of Midnight clip-clopping along the streets of Northwest Atlanta, and Mr. Will singing in his best voice to his beloved co-worker and best friend.
Thank you, Mr. Will Palmer, for all the work you did, the ground you plowed, the miles you drove old Midnight, and for being the kind-hearted person that you were.
Mr. Will Palmer was an older black man who lived down off Johnson Road in the old Center Hill community. His home was really nothing more than a broken-down shack with a make-shift barn and an outhouse. His property was adjacent to a creek that crossed under Johnson Road. It was not far down the road from Inman Railroad Yards in Northwest Atlanta.
"Mr. Will" was as sweet, and as kind, and as gentle as any human being could ever be. There was always a smile on his face. His meager earthly possessions would have soured a lesser person. But, not Mr. Will.
In 1966, after living away for several years from this writer's family's home community of Riverside, we moved back. Mama and Daddy bought a house that was five doors down the street from the old Decker home place. The lot for this old farmhouse was just over an acre, and was bordered by a creek. The ground was not the typical Georgia red clay, but was a far richer grade of dirt. Sitting not far from the banks of the Chattahoochee River, the soil was perhaps more like river bottom land. It was great for growing azaleas, flowering shrubs, and thick, turf grass.
Having grown up on a farm, this writer's father often lamented that his vocational life led him away from farming. Like most Southerners, Mama and Daddy loved farm grown vegetables. But, they did not own a tiller of any kind.
Enter Mr. Will Palmer.
Mr. Will drove an old mule and wagon. It was his only form of transportation. You could hear him coming several blocks away as he clunked along the asphalt streets of many a community in Northwest Atlanta. This included Riverside.
His old mule's name was, "Midnight." (Many thanks to a dear, lifelong, friend, Mr. Anthony Sizemore, for his research and assistance in getting Midnight's name correct for this story.)
"Midnight" was a thick-bellied old mule, that stood about fifteen hands tall. "She" looked like she weighed at least 1,000 pounds. Mr. Palmer bought Midnight for $50 from a farmer in Marietta who also raised mules. Her coat was black as coal oil, thus her name. Midnight pulled Mr. Will Palmer and his old clapboard wagon all over Northwest Atlanta for many years.
Mr. Will knew that white folks loved garden vegetables. And, he also knew that most white folks didn't have a good way to turn up a piece of ground for growing a garden. Too, Mr. Will knew that white folks were the only ones with enough money to be able to afford to hire somebody to plow up their gardens for them.
So, every morning during February through April, he hitched up Midnight and off they went. They rode through communities where stay-at-home mothers would most likely be. Mr. Will would sing to Midnight as they rode along. He made up most of the songs as he went. They were either spirituals or from a blues-oriented genre.
One old black spiritual that Mr. Will often sang declared, "The devil wear a hypocrite shoe...If you don't mind, he'll slip it on you...The devil wear a ragged coat...If you don't mind, he'll cut yo' thoat...Git' up, Midnight...Befo' the devil come along here..."
The noise of Midnight pulling that old wagon along the street, and Mr. Will singing to the top of his lungs, was loud enough to wake the dead. Folks would come to their front doors to investigate the source of the racket. And, some just knew that it was about time for Mr. Will to be coming around.
Their coming out on the porch was exactly what Mr. Will wanted. When he saw an open door, he would stop Midnight with a low, soft-spoken, "Whoa, mule," or "Whoa, Midnight." He then stood up in the wagon, taking off the old wide-brimmed hat he always wore, and began his sales pitch.
"Good morning/evening, Miss ma'am," he would say, "dis here is old Will Palmer and Midnight, ma'am. We done come to hep you good folk plow up yo' garden fo' the springtime. Why, in jest a little bit, old Midnight can have yo' fine garden spot ready fo' yo' husband to commence plantin' when he git home dis' evenin'. How 'bout it, ma'am? Does you want old Will and Midnight to git to work right here in a jiffy, ma'am?"
He was so polite, and kind, and humble. Even if the thought of having someone plow a garden was the furthest thing from the housewife's mind, most could not refuse such a sweet and self-effacing sales pitch. The charming way of this savvy, old businessman won many hearts, and made lots of friends among the people who hired him.
Especially the kids.
Mr. Will knew that children loved animals - especially Midnight. If any kids were home when Mr. Will drove by, children came from everywhere - running to the street to get a closer view of that giant old mule. Mr. Will would climb down patiently from the wagon and hold Midnight by the harness so the children could pet her. He spoke softly to her as the little ones came near her muscular legs and hooves. He was not about to allow her to be spooked and harm the children. They would often bring Midnight sugar cubes, carrots, or fruit of some kind. It was no wonder that old mule was so large. She ate better on most days than Mr. Will.
If he was able to secure a plowing job, Mr. Will most always promised any children hovering around Midnight that he would allow them to ride her after the garden was tilled. He faithfully honored his promise, and the children loved it. If the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Mr. Will understood that the best way to a mother's heart was through her children.
Many times, the wives and mothers who hired him wound up feeding him a sandwich or a piece of homemade pie from their kitchens. Mr. Will was not an overweight person by any stretch. But, it wasn't because he was underfed. Some women insisted that he take covered plates of their evening meals home with him.
$25. This was Mr. Will's price. He would till as much as a half acre of ground for this amount. Actually, considering that it usually took him less than two hours to finish most of the jobs, Mr. Will was actually well-paid for his day. $12 an hour was more than most skilled laborers made during the 1960's.
Today, with so many households getting their daily meals from either a restaurant or a zip-lock bag, to remember the sweet taste of garden vegetables served from a mother's table is a powerful thing.
Another lingering image is the sound of Midnight clip-clopping along the streets of Northwest Atlanta, and Mr. Will singing in his best voice to his beloved co-worker and best friend.
Thank you, Mr. Will Palmer, for all the work you did, the ground you plowed, the miles you drove old Midnight, and for being the kind-hearted person that you were.
Most of all, thank you for the timeless memories you left behind.
Friday, February 18, 2011
"Mule"
During the early twentieth century, Southern families were large. There was no Dish Network to entertain folks after the children went to bed. Therefore, making more children was probably the "funnest" way to spend the shank of an evening for most married couples.
This writer's extended family, on his father's side, sported five uncles and three aunts. Each was unique in their own way, and left many enduring memories for their loved ones. And, each of these children distinguished themselves in life in significant and impressive ways.
Uncle Alan Decker worked for the Southern Railroad, as did many of this writer's kin. He was the personal engineer for President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. On many occasions, Uncle Alan ferried the President and Mrs. Roosevelt between Washington, D.C., and the, "Little White House," in Warm Springs, Georgia. At President Roosevelt's passing, he was honored to be the engineer on the presidential "Death Ride" from Georgia to Washington.
Aunt Katie Decker was heavily involved in Georgia politics as an adult. She held high positions in the election campaigns of gubernatorial candidates such as Beau Callaway and Lester Maddox.
Aunt Octavia Decker's children would one day build and operate the well-known and highly popular Dixie Speedway in Woodstock, Georgia.
And, this writer's father, Ernest Decker, serving as a machine gunner in the United States Marine Corps, was decorated for distinguished combat service on Guadalcanal and Peleliu during World War II.
And then there was Uncle Hubert.
In his late teens and early twenties, Uncle Hubert, for the love of a great woman, walked away from a contract in professional baseball. Uncle Hubert was a great pitcher and outfielder in semi-pro ball, and was heavily scouted by several professional teams. The extended travel, and long periods of time away from the woman he loved, led him to refuse the contract. He often said that he never regretted choosing true love over sports.
When Uncle Hubert was a young lad, he was, physically, the strongest of the Decker boys. He could plow a mule longer than any of the rest, and sometimes even pull the plow himself whenever the real mule got down. This was one of the reasons why he became known around the Riverside community as, "Mule Decker."
There were others.
It was true that Uncle Hubert could hoe weeds in the sweltering Georgia sun long after everyone else around him had wilted. He could pitch more hay, pull more corn, dig more potatoes, carry more watermelons in his arms, and chop more firewood than any of his five other brothers. As "field hands" went, Uncle Hubert was "the boss."
But, as previously mentioned, his physical prowess was only one of the reasons for his nickname.
The other was his stubborn, hard-headed, and obstinate personality. No one outdid "Mule" in anything, especially when it came to running his mouth. His parents often said that they thought the doctor who delivered him must have vaccinated him with a Victrola needle. Uncle Hubert talked more, and at a more boisterous volume, than anyone. He could turn even the most casual conversation into a passionately hot debate - even when the topic was of the most benign nature. He eventually developed a widespread reputation for, "arguing the horns off a Billy goat."
Hubert Decker was no dummy. But, neither was he an academician. His report card was never the stuff of Magna Cum Laude. He much preferred plowing and splitting wood to homework and cracking books. Many times, he would deliberately stay home from school if some chore or major farm-related task was pressing.
Uncle Hubert was not with his siblings on their daily walk to Bolton School on one particular Fall morning in the late 1920's.
During the 1920's and 30's, most children walked to school. There were no school buses, and no such thing as, "mom's taxi service." Riverside students attending Bolton Elementary School walked down Bolton Road and through the streets of the Bolton community as they made their way each morning. Their single-file procession, done in a most orderly fashion, snaked down the left side of Bolton Road as they walked facing traffic.
Children from many communities went to the same school together in those days. Along with the many children from Riverside who attended Bolton School, there were also the "renegade" children from the wrong side of Hollywood Road. They walked the same route to school as their Riverside classmates, but usually along the opposite side of the road. Known as "heathern" children, these students regularly taunted the Riverside kids on the other side. This was often the cause of trouble on the daily walk to and from school.
One morning, one of these "riff-raff" boys ventured across Bolton Road and began "hitting" on Katie Decker, the youngest female sibling of the family. This rather strapping boy began trash-talking Aunt Katie, and eventually tried did his best to run his hands over her developing female body. Aunt Katie responded decisively. Having grown up in a household with six brothers, she knew the exact spot on a male's lower extremity to aim her knee. The boy bent double in agony, managing to stay erect just long enough to spit in Katie's face and on her dress. As he staggered away, this troublemaker shouted some of the most vulgar, profane things at Aunt Katie that any male could say to a female.
Later that evening, Hubert Decker heard all about the attack on his sister. Normally, Hubert would have been the one to launch into a diatribe of insults and threats. This time, however, he said very little. Inwardly, he vowed to accompany his siblings to school the very next morning. Before the sun came up the next day, as he fed the chickens and the livestock, Uncle Hubert hid a plow line in his bib overhauls.
He had a plan for his sister's attacker.
Sure enough, the boy who had attacked his sister showed up that morning walking to school and running his mouth. Uncle Hubert crossed over to the other side this time. He grabbed the boy, pulled him across one of the yards along Bolton Road, tied him to a Hickory tree with the plow line, and proceeded to pummel him. First, with his fists, then with any rocks that he could find, and finally with his size thirteen farming boots. Uncle Hubert did not murder the boy, but he did leave him slumped in a bloody heap by the Hickory tree. It was, reportedly, a brutal thing to watch.
That evening, when Grandaddy Whitfield Decker came home from his three-day-per-week job as a Fulton County Deputy Sheriff, as soon as he pulled up in the yard, Grandma Georgia shared with him the details of what Hubert had done. Whitfield Decker taught all his children to defend themselves and never to cowardly back down if someone else started a fight. But, he also taught them to never start a fight, or engage in excessive brutality in any way if they had already gotten the best of an opponent. His assessment of Hubert's behavior that day was that his son had crossed the line, and had behaved himself in far too extreme a manner in paying the boy back.
Grandaddy Whitfield walked calmly out to his Ford A-Model truck and retrieved a pair of leg and hand shackles commonly used to transport prisoners. These "irons" were commonly reserved for hardened criminals who had been sentenced to roadside labor on the county's "Chain Gangs." The twin shackles were bound in the center by a steel sleeve welded to both chains. The leg portion was made to a specific length designed to restrict the prisoner's ability to stand upright and walk. This forced the prisoner to stay bent in a "hunched over" position, and to walk with only a shuffling of the feet. This would make a running escape difficult, if not impossible.
With shackles in hand, Grandaddy Whitfield went out to barn to find his son. In just a little while, witnesses said that Grandaddy came back across the field - with "Mule" stumbling along behind. Leading him up to the front porch, Grandaddy chained Uncle Hubert to the front porch swing, and made him sit down.
He then began a most painful, "hell fire and brimstone," lecture.
"If you're going to act like an animal, and a convict, and a heathern," he sternly proclaimed, "then we're going to treat you like one."
For several minutes, Uncle Hubert bore the verbal wrath of his father. The final declaration of this tongue lashing brought, perhaps, the greatest punishment of all. Uncle Hubert would be forced to remain on the porch, chained to the swing, while the rest of the family ate supper. If there was anything left at the end of the meal, Hubert would then be led into the house to sit alone. He would be chained to the table, and allowed to have only the scraps from each person's plate.
Grandaddy might as well have hung him upside down and naked from the giant oak tree in the front yard. It would have been far more merciful.
Uncle Hubert's baby brother, Ernest, was two years younger than him. Being the youngest two offspring in the family, they did many things together. However, Hubert always knew his place in the family pecking order. He fully understood that the "baby of the family" usually received preferential treatment. This angered and frustrated him on many occasions as he and Ernest grew up together.
During supper that night, Ernest could not get his mind off Hubert. He kept turning around in his chair at the dinner table, and stretching his body and neck in an attempt to see his brother - still chained to the swing. His mother kept reminding him to turn around and eat his supper, or else he might find himself out there with Hubert.
During the course of the meal, Ernest asked if he could be excused to go to the outhouse. Upon receiving permission, he bolted straight out the front door. As he walked a wide path around the front of the house, he goaded his big brother. "Jail Bird, Jail Bird, Hubert is a Jail Bird!" he chanted. He squawked like a crow, and flapped his arms as though they were a bird's wings.
Hubert angrily cursed his little brother, and vowed that Ernest would be sorry when the shackles finally came off.
The family eventually finished their meal, and Grandaddy Whitfield came out to get Hubert. Trailing right behind him was Ernest, pleading, "Can I lead him in, Daddy?...Can I lead him in?" Grandaddy Whitfield agreed that this would be a grand idea. The humiliation of having his worrisome little brother lead him to the supper table would certainly add to Hubert's punishment. Grandaddy stayed close by to ensure that Hubert did not try to retaliate.
To add insult to injury, with the chains making it difficult for Hubert to feed himself, Ernest was given the honors. He snickered and whispered taunts at his big brother with every bite he fed him during that bitter meal.
When the shackles finally did come off, Hubert was warned that if any harm came to Ernest in any way, he (Hubert) would be wearing the shackles again, and perhaps for a much longer time.
"Mule" Decker passed away in February of 1991, on the night that American military forces began the assault on Iraq and Kuwait - marking the beginning of Desert Storm. Cancer had mercilessly sucked the life out of his once muscular body.
Uncle Hubert told many stories during his life, and many jokes. He won his share of fights, and knew the sweetness of financial success. And, he never forgot the humiliation of an evening when his worrisome little brother led him around the family home in a criminal's shackles.
This writer is indebted to Uncle Hubert for the many memories he left behind during his time on this earth.
If there are to be any "mules" in heaven, it is surely hoped that this one is among that number.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
February 18, 2011
This writer's extended family, on his father's side, sported five uncles and three aunts. Each was unique in their own way, and left many enduring memories for their loved ones. And, each of these children distinguished themselves in life in significant and impressive ways.
Uncle Alan Decker worked for the Southern Railroad, as did many of this writer's kin. He was the personal engineer for President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. On many occasions, Uncle Alan ferried the President and Mrs. Roosevelt between Washington, D.C., and the, "Little White House," in Warm Springs, Georgia. At President Roosevelt's passing, he was honored to be the engineer on the presidential "Death Ride" from Georgia to Washington.
Aunt Katie Decker was heavily involved in Georgia politics as an adult. She held high positions in the election campaigns of gubernatorial candidates such as Beau Callaway and Lester Maddox.
Aunt Octavia Decker's children would one day build and operate the well-known and highly popular Dixie Speedway in Woodstock, Georgia.
And, this writer's father, Ernest Decker, serving as a machine gunner in the United States Marine Corps, was decorated for distinguished combat service on Guadalcanal and Peleliu during World War II.
And then there was Uncle Hubert.
In his late teens and early twenties, Uncle Hubert, for the love of a great woman, walked away from a contract in professional baseball. Uncle Hubert was a great pitcher and outfielder in semi-pro ball, and was heavily scouted by several professional teams. The extended travel, and long periods of time away from the woman he loved, led him to refuse the contract. He often said that he never regretted choosing true love over sports.
When Uncle Hubert was a young lad, he was, physically, the strongest of the Decker boys. He could plow a mule longer than any of the rest, and sometimes even pull the plow himself whenever the real mule got down. This was one of the reasons why he became known around the Riverside community as, "Mule Decker."
There were others.
It was true that Uncle Hubert could hoe weeds in the sweltering Georgia sun long after everyone else around him had wilted. He could pitch more hay, pull more corn, dig more potatoes, carry more watermelons in his arms, and chop more firewood than any of his five other brothers. As "field hands" went, Uncle Hubert was "the boss."
But, as previously mentioned, his physical prowess was only one of the reasons for his nickname.
The other was his stubborn, hard-headed, and obstinate personality. No one outdid "Mule" in anything, especially when it came to running his mouth. His parents often said that they thought the doctor who delivered him must have vaccinated him with a Victrola needle. Uncle Hubert talked more, and at a more boisterous volume, than anyone. He could turn even the most casual conversation into a passionately hot debate - even when the topic was of the most benign nature. He eventually developed a widespread reputation for, "arguing the horns off a Billy goat."
Hubert Decker was no dummy. But, neither was he an academician. His report card was never the stuff of Magna Cum Laude. He much preferred plowing and splitting wood to homework and cracking books. Many times, he would deliberately stay home from school if some chore or major farm-related task was pressing.
Uncle Hubert was not with his siblings on their daily walk to Bolton School on one particular Fall morning in the late 1920's.
During the 1920's and 30's, most children walked to school. There were no school buses, and no such thing as, "mom's taxi service." Riverside students attending Bolton Elementary School walked down Bolton Road and through the streets of the Bolton community as they made their way each morning. Their single-file procession, done in a most orderly fashion, snaked down the left side of Bolton Road as they walked facing traffic.
Children from many communities went to the same school together in those days. Along with the many children from Riverside who attended Bolton School, there were also the "renegade" children from the wrong side of Hollywood Road. They walked the same route to school as their Riverside classmates, but usually along the opposite side of the road. Known as "heathern" children, these students regularly taunted the Riverside kids on the other side. This was often the cause of trouble on the daily walk to and from school.
One morning, one of these "riff-raff" boys ventured across Bolton Road and began "hitting" on Katie Decker, the youngest female sibling of the family. This rather strapping boy began trash-talking Aunt Katie, and eventually tried did his best to run his hands over her developing female body. Aunt Katie responded decisively. Having grown up in a household with six brothers, she knew the exact spot on a male's lower extremity to aim her knee. The boy bent double in agony, managing to stay erect just long enough to spit in Katie's face and on her dress. As he staggered away, this troublemaker shouted some of the most vulgar, profane things at Aunt Katie that any male could say to a female.
Later that evening, Hubert Decker heard all about the attack on his sister. Normally, Hubert would have been the one to launch into a diatribe of insults and threats. This time, however, he said very little. Inwardly, he vowed to accompany his siblings to school the very next morning. Before the sun came up the next day, as he fed the chickens and the livestock, Uncle Hubert hid a plow line in his bib overhauls.
He had a plan for his sister's attacker.
Sure enough, the boy who had attacked his sister showed up that morning walking to school and running his mouth. Uncle Hubert crossed over to the other side this time. He grabbed the boy, pulled him across one of the yards along Bolton Road, tied him to a Hickory tree with the plow line, and proceeded to pummel him. First, with his fists, then with any rocks that he could find, and finally with his size thirteen farming boots. Uncle Hubert did not murder the boy, but he did leave him slumped in a bloody heap by the Hickory tree. It was, reportedly, a brutal thing to watch.
That evening, when Grandaddy Whitfield Decker came home from his three-day-per-week job as a Fulton County Deputy Sheriff, as soon as he pulled up in the yard, Grandma Georgia shared with him the details of what Hubert had done. Whitfield Decker taught all his children to defend themselves and never to cowardly back down if someone else started a fight. But, he also taught them to never start a fight, or engage in excessive brutality in any way if they had already gotten the best of an opponent. His assessment of Hubert's behavior that day was that his son had crossed the line, and had behaved himself in far too extreme a manner in paying the boy back.
Grandaddy Whitfield walked calmly out to his Ford A-Model truck and retrieved a pair of leg and hand shackles commonly used to transport prisoners. These "irons" were commonly reserved for hardened criminals who had been sentenced to roadside labor on the county's "Chain Gangs." The twin shackles were bound in the center by a steel sleeve welded to both chains. The leg portion was made to a specific length designed to restrict the prisoner's ability to stand upright and walk. This forced the prisoner to stay bent in a "hunched over" position, and to walk with only a shuffling of the feet. This would make a running escape difficult, if not impossible.
With shackles in hand, Grandaddy Whitfield went out to barn to find his son. In just a little while, witnesses said that Grandaddy came back across the field - with "Mule" stumbling along behind. Leading him up to the front porch, Grandaddy chained Uncle Hubert to the front porch swing, and made him sit down.
He then began a most painful, "hell fire and brimstone," lecture.
"If you're going to act like an animal, and a convict, and a heathern," he sternly proclaimed, "then we're going to treat you like one."
For several minutes, Uncle Hubert bore the verbal wrath of his father. The final declaration of this tongue lashing brought, perhaps, the greatest punishment of all. Uncle Hubert would be forced to remain on the porch, chained to the swing, while the rest of the family ate supper. If there was anything left at the end of the meal, Hubert would then be led into the house to sit alone. He would be chained to the table, and allowed to have only the scraps from each person's plate.
Grandaddy might as well have hung him upside down and naked from the giant oak tree in the front yard. It would have been far more merciful.
Uncle Hubert's baby brother, Ernest, was two years younger than him. Being the youngest two offspring in the family, they did many things together. However, Hubert always knew his place in the family pecking order. He fully understood that the "baby of the family" usually received preferential treatment. This angered and frustrated him on many occasions as he and Ernest grew up together.
During supper that night, Ernest could not get his mind off Hubert. He kept turning around in his chair at the dinner table, and stretching his body and neck in an attempt to see his brother - still chained to the swing. His mother kept reminding him to turn around and eat his supper, or else he might find himself out there with Hubert.
During the course of the meal, Ernest asked if he could be excused to go to the outhouse. Upon receiving permission, he bolted straight out the front door. As he walked a wide path around the front of the house, he goaded his big brother. "Jail Bird, Jail Bird, Hubert is a Jail Bird!" he chanted. He squawked like a crow, and flapped his arms as though they were a bird's wings.
Hubert angrily cursed his little brother, and vowed that Ernest would be sorry when the shackles finally came off.
The family eventually finished their meal, and Grandaddy Whitfield came out to get Hubert. Trailing right behind him was Ernest, pleading, "Can I lead him in, Daddy?...Can I lead him in?" Grandaddy Whitfield agreed that this would be a grand idea. The humiliation of having his worrisome little brother lead him to the supper table would certainly add to Hubert's punishment. Grandaddy stayed close by to ensure that Hubert did not try to retaliate.
To add insult to injury, with the chains making it difficult for Hubert to feed himself, Ernest was given the honors. He snickered and whispered taunts at his big brother with every bite he fed him during that bitter meal.
When the shackles finally did come off, Hubert was warned that if any harm came to Ernest in any way, he (Hubert) would be wearing the shackles again, and perhaps for a much longer time.
"Mule" Decker passed away in February of 1991, on the night that American military forces began the assault on Iraq and Kuwait - marking the beginning of Desert Storm. Cancer had mercilessly sucked the life out of his once muscular body.
Uncle Hubert told many stories during his life, and many jokes. He won his share of fights, and knew the sweetness of financial success. And, he never forgot the humiliation of an evening when his worrisome little brother led him around the family home in a criminal's shackles.
This writer is indebted to Uncle Hubert for the many memories he left behind during his time on this earth.
If there are to be any "mules" in heaven, it is surely hoped that this one is among that number.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
February 18, 2011
"Cats Flattened While You Wait..."
Few animals stir and evoke emotion like cats. There is no middle ground regarding this creature. Folks either love them, or despise them. For the record, this writer has been acutely allergic to cat hair since he was a boy. Therefore, his cat worldview is, "feline challenged."
Cat lovers are passionate in their calling. Cat haters even more so. Bumper stickers abound that declare a cat hater's conviction. Such as, "I Love Cats...They taste just like chicken," or, "The Only Good Cat is a Dead Cat." A personal favorite is, "Cats Flattened While You Wait."
Animals seem to possess an innate fear of humans. The Lord says in His Book that man would have "dominion" over the animal kingdom. Sometimes, it seems that cats are the lone animals that would stand in God's court of law and protest that ruling.
The late Johnny Carson observed that the universal disdain for cats was tied to their obstinate, uppity, independent air. Carson said that if he was going to spend money to purchase an animal, feed it, house it, give it basic medical care, and see to its well-being, whenever he summoned the animal, he fully expected it to come.
Carson asserted, "Cats do NOT come when you call them...They look at you as if you'd lost your mind...Like you were crazy for assuming that you were in control, or something."
For some reason, cats are commonly associated with women. If two women get into a tussle it is called a, “cat fight.” If a woman is hard to get along with she is labeled as, “catty.” If a woman is happy, she is said to, "purr."
Conversely, the image of, “a boy and his cat,” just doesn’t ring true somehow.
Boys of all ages find great joy and fulfillment in playful, cat torture. They tie pieces of paper onto cat's paws just to watch them try to walk. They tie cans onto their tails just to see them run away in fear of the noise. And, young boys have been known to hold cats upside down so as to intentionally drop them - in order to test the theory that cats always land on their feet.
A group of Riverside boys was playing "church" on a lazy, Sunday afternoon. They rounded up a #2 washtub, filled it with water, and went looking for baptismal candidates. The first victim they found was one of the neighborhood cats. It did not take them long, however, to discover a fundamental truth of life: cats do NOT like water. When the baptismal service was over, there had been lots of scratching, clawing, hissing, and bloodletting, but no cat was successfully, "...born of the water and the Spirit."
Sometimes, boys never grow up.
Cruelty to any domesticated animal, cat or otherwise, is a disgrace. There is no excuse for any human to abuse or inflict intentional pain and suffering on an innocent, domesticated animal. Animals in the wild that pose mortal danger to humans are a different story. They should be eliminated by a hunter's rifle. Sometimes, animals in the "wild" that pose no threat to humans are the ones who endure the greatest mistreatment
This writer’s father worked for the Southern Railroad for over eleven years. For many years, Inman Railroad Yards was the central staging ground for all freight train activity in and out of Atlanta. Inman was a huge facility covering many acres, ranging to more than two miles in diameter in some places.
The main “call office” at Inman Yards was situated in the middle of this giant rail facility. It was connected to the different staging areas located throughout the yards by a network of vacuum tubes, similar to those used by banks in their drive-through windows.
Orders and manifests would be placed in large cylindrical canisters and sent out through the vacuum tube to the engineering crews that were set to man the departing trains, and vice versa. These canisters would travel at speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour, and sometimes traverse almost a mile’s worth of tube in order to reach crews working the far reaches of the rail yards.
On one occasion a stray cat had been milling around the trains prowling and panhandling for food, affection, or whatever else it could find. The cat evidently became a nuisance to someone. The anonymous rail worker grabbed the cat, stuffed it into the vacuum tube (without bothering to see if it would fit in the canister), and closed the door.
One can only imagine the harrowing ride that poor animal endured on its way to the call office.
The clerical people (mostly females) working in the call office said they could hear something coming far down the tube. There was a blood-curdling, high-pitched screaming that echoed down that long pipe in advance of the cat’s “arrival.”
Suddenly, the cat came flying out of the vacuum tube. When it did, witnesses in the call office claimed that it did not have one hair left on its body. The poor beast was so frightened that it tore up stacks of files, office furnishings, and anything else in its path - while leaving a trail of cat feces in its wake.
One of the ladies finally opened the entrance door to the call office, and the poor, hairless cat flew out the door.
Southern Railroad management conducted extensive investigations in search of the cat culprit. No one, however, was ever willing to step forward and point the finger of blame. The perpetrator was mostly likely an overgrown boy in a man’s body. If those ladies in that call office could have ever gotten their hands on him, HE likely would have gone for a vacuum tube ride himself.
The cat was never seen again around Inman Yards. However, a recent conversation with a retired railroad worker revealed that the legend of this particular cat prank continued to circulate around the railroad yards for several decades after it happened.
If there is a hell, this would be likely be the final destination that cat lovers would vote to send the person that shoved that innocent animal into the tube. They might even vote to have him endure a tube ride of his own for all eternity.
Since it was the Good Lord that created cats, they must fulfill some purpose in the order of all things.
If only the ministers and priests of this world could figure out a way to “dry clean” their feline sins away.
Disclaimer: No cats were harmed in the telling or writing of this story.
“Well I’ll Be John Brown”
- David Decker
February 18, 2011
Cat lovers are passionate in their calling. Cat haters even more so. Bumper stickers abound that declare a cat hater's conviction. Such as, "I Love Cats...They taste just like chicken," or, "The Only Good Cat is a Dead Cat." A personal favorite is, "Cats Flattened While You Wait."
Animals seem to possess an innate fear of humans. The Lord says in His Book that man would have "dominion" over the animal kingdom. Sometimes, it seems that cats are the lone animals that would stand in God's court of law and protest that ruling.
The late Johnny Carson observed that the universal disdain for cats was tied to their obstinate, uppity, independent air. Carson said that if he was going to spend money to purchase an animal, feed it, house it, give it basic medical care, and see to its well-being, whenever he summoned the animal, he fully expected it to come.
Carson asserted, "Cats do NOT come when you call them...They look at you as if you'd lost your mind...Like you were crazy for assuming that you were in control, or something."
For some reason, cats are commonly associated with women. If two women get into a tussle it is called a, “cat fight.” If a woman is hard to get along with she is labeled as, “catty.” If a woman is happy, she is said to, "purr."
Conversely, the image of, “a boy and his cat,” just doesn’t ring true somehow.
Boys of all ages find great joy and fulfillment in playful, cat torture. They tie pieces of paper onto cat's paws just to watch them try to walk. They tie cans onto their tails just to see them run away in fear of the noise. And, young boys have been known to hold cats upside down so as to intentionally drop them - in order to test the theory that cats always land on their feet.
A group of Riverside boys was playing "church" on a lazy, Sunday afternoon. They rounded up a #2 washtub, filled it with water, and went looking for baptismal candidates. The first victim they found was one of the neighborhood cats. It did not take them long, however, to discover a fundamental truth of life: cats do NOT like water. When the baptismal service was over, there had been lots of scratching, clawing, hissing, and bloodletting, but no cat was successfully, "...born of the water and the Spirit."
Sometimes, boys never grow up.
Cruelty to any domesticated animal, cat or otherwise, is a disgrace. There is no excuse for any human to abuse or inflict intentional pain and suffering on an innocent, domesticated animal. Animals in the wild that pose mortal danger to humans are a different story. They should be eliminated by a hunter's rifle. Sometimes, animals in the "wild" that pose no threat to humans are the ones who endure the greatest mistreatment
This writer’s father worked for the Southern Railroad for over eleven years. For many years, Inman Railroad Yards was the central staging ground for all freight train activity in and out of Atlanta. Inman was a huge facility covering many acres, ranging to more than two miles in diameter in some places.
The main “call office” at Inman Yards was situated in the middle of this giant rail facility. It was connected to the different staging areas located throughout the yards by a network of vacuum tubes, similar to those used by banks in their drive-through windows.
Orders and manifests would be placed in large cylindrical canisters and sent out through the vacuum tube to the engineering crews that were set to man the departing trains, and vice versa. These canisters would travel at speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour, and sometimes traverse almost a mile’s worth of tube in order to reach crews working the far reaches of the rail yards.
On one occasion a stray cat had been milling around the trains prowling and panhandling for food, affection, or whatever else it could find. The cat evidently became a nuisance to someone. The anonymous rail worker grabbed the cat, stuffed it into the vacuum tube (without bothering to see if it would fit in the canister), and closed the door.
One can only imagine the harrowing ride that poor animal endured on its way to the call office.
The clerical people (mostly females) working in the call office said they could hear something coming far down the tube. There was a blood-curdling, high-pitched screaming that echoed down that long pipe in advance of the cat’s “arrival.”
Suddenly, the cat came flying out of the vacuum tube. When it did, witnesses in the call office claimed that it did not have one hair left on its body. The poor beast was so frightened that it tore up stacks of files, office furnishings, and anything else in its path - while leaving a trail of cat feces in its wake.
One of the ladies finally opened the entrance door to the call office, and the poor, hairless cat flew out the door.
Southern Railroad management conducted extensive investigations in search of the cat culprit. No one, however, was ever willing to step forward and point the finger of blame. The perpetrator was mostly likely an overgrown boy in a man’s body. If those ladies in that call office could have ever gotten their hands on him, HE likely would have gone for a vacuum tube ride himself.
The cat was never seen again around Inman Yards. However, a recent conversation with a retired railroad worker revealed that the legend of this particular cat prank continued to circulate around the railroad yards for several decades after it happened.
If there is a hell, this would be likely be the final destination that cat lovers would vote to send the person that shoved that innocent animal into the tube. They might even vote to have him endure a tube ride of his own for all eternity.
Since it was the Good Lord that created cats, they must fulfill some purpose in the order of all things.
If only the ministers and priests of this world could figure out a way to “dry clean” their feline sins away.
Disclaimer: No cats were harmed in the telling or writing of this story.
“Well I’ll Be John Brown”
- David Decker
February 18, 2011
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