It was a beautiful morning. I woke to the sound of birds singing outside my open window. A soft northerly breeze wafted through the curtains and across my face. Yes, it's true, I should have been a poet. I would have too but I couldn't pass the test to get my license (get it?) so I was a mediocre businessman instead. I got up and did the morning ritual and while brushing my hair noticed something I've never noticed before in the mirror....a BALD spot. That's right, there is a bald spot right there for all the world to see. No way to cover it up either. Believe me I tried. This is the beginning of the end I'm afraid.
It's not fair that I should lose my hair
While still in my middle years.
I guess it's not really going away
But moving from head to ears.
See, I should have been a poet. This stuff just pours out of me. Anyway, back to the hair problem. I really don't mind losing my hair. After all, I've worn the closest thing to a buzz cut for years now. But it just doesn't seem fair for it to happen so unexpectedly. I know guys from college who were losing their hair way back then. Some of them are still in the process. My hair has always been so thick my barber had to thin it regularly. Now all of a sudden....BALD SPOT.
In college just about everyone grew their hair long. Due to respect (fear) for my military trained dad and pressure from a very conservative grandfather, I never even tried to let mine grow. While long hair and beards became the norm I still wandered around campus with the close-cropped look. Beads and baggy clothes were against the rules too. Even my blue jeans were starched and neatly pressed...talk about anti-establishment. Everyone thought I was in ROTC. I always wanted to see how my hair would look long. I did grow a beard in 1977 but it was conservative. I looked pretty silly actually....short hair and beard, pale yellow button down cotton shirt with starched blue jeans.
As I neared retirement I thought I might just let it all go. I figured real long gray hair and beard would make me look like I still had it...whatever "it" is. I could see myself on stage with Willie and the boys knocking it out on my banjo while holding my hair back with a red bandana. You can see that, can't you? Great look, great look indeed. There is really nothing holding me back from making that image come true...well, except the part where I'm playing banjo on stage with Willie Nelson. That's just crazy. I can't play the banjo that well. Debbie would agree to my craziness...I think. All that's holding me back now is my lack of nerve, my impatience with messy hair, a scratchy face needing a shave, and now a stinking BALD spot. It's just not fair.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
Aunt Cricket and the Great Race...
I'm working on a story about my uncle Bill but it isn't quite ready yet. Instead I am going to pass on a story I wrote a while back, aka 14 years ago, about my aunt Cricket. You remember reading about aunt Cricket's involvement in the Hurst golf ball caper. I wrote it in February of this year. This story happened earlier in the same summer. It goes like this....
The summer I learned to mow marked the end of my freedom. I found myself working every spare moment to make a couple of extra dollars. I have no idea where all that money went but I sure remember all the hours spent behind that mower.
The summer before I learned to mow was my last toss at the simplicity of childhood. That was the summer my aunt Cricket and uncle Wayne moved to Hurst from Tyler. Their baby boy, Bruce, was Glenn's age and we rode our bikes over to visit every time we could sneak off. It wasn't so much the fact that Bruce was all that entertaining. The really fun person was aunt Cricket.
Cricket liked to get out and explore the countryside in her shiny new Pontiac. We felt it prudent to accompany her on her wanderings because a stop at the Dairy Queen for a nickel ice cream cone was nearly always included. One day she decided it would be a good idea for each of us boys to build a soapbox derby race car. Their house was at the foot of a steep hill which would be perfect for racing as long as we didn't get run over by a real car in the process. That might have spoiled the fun somewhat.
We drove to the city dump that morning because Cricket figured we could find everything we needed to build these cars for free....as long as we didn't mind digging through the city's trash. Of course we didn't mind...good grief!! We found so many wheels off old lawnmowers and toys we wondered who could possibly have thrown away this perfectly good stuff. We also found pieces of 2 x 4 boards, plywood, and enough old nails to straighten that we were in business in no time.
Later in the day, after minutes and minutes of meticulous production, the three cars were ready for the race of the century. Unfortunately, it was about five in the afternoon so Cricket decided it would be best to let all those crazy working people get home without having to dodge us. The race was rescheduled for nine the next morning.
It was a beautiful race day at the corner of Irwin Drive and West Cheryl Avenue that morning. The sun was shining bright, Cricket had fed us donuts and chocolate milk until we shook, and Mama, Cindy, Julie, and Debbie Sue were sitting in the grandstands, aka the curb, in eager anticipation of the race.
The three of us towed our racers to the top of the hill. The air was filled with the electric thrill of competition. We lined up on Cheryl Ave. We glared at each other as we waited for Cricket to drop the checkered table napkin she held in her hand. The napkin dropped, we released our brakes (lifted our feet off the pavement), and plummeted to the bottom of the hill with a speed that would have made lesser men cry. We were moving so fast it scared us. It evidently scared Cricket too because she began to run for the safety of her front yard, well behind the race fan filled grandstand. What we didn't see from our perspective, but obvious from Cricket's view was the flimsy rope we were using as steerage snap off of Glenn's car. Because of her ability to see pretty well for an elderly lady, she was able to avoid the pile up. Glenn plowed into the side of my car which immediately lost the front 2 x 4...I mean axle. I hit Bruce and sent him into a spin. With the nose of my car grinding into the asphalt and Glenn's broken machine coming apart next to me, we both became airborne. Glenn didn't fly far. He landed on the back of my car bringing it to an immediate stop. I completely cleared the front of my car and finished the race on my chin. It doesn't hurt often now unless the weather changes abruptly. Old Bruce sailed through the intersection like a blur with three wheels still attached. An unfortunate participant was a door to door insurance salesman who happened into the intersection at the same time as Bruce. That salesman had reflexes to write home about let me tell you! Both he and Bruce had to go home and change their underwear but it was all worth it to see the jubilation in Bruce's freaky winner's dance.
I guess...and I hope life is still that simple in some places of these United States. The neighborhood of the great race is now too congested to safely walk along the side of the street. An unofficial derby race on that stretch would be suicide. Hurst has turned into a terribly traffic congested thoroughfare between Fort Worth and Dallas. Growing up there was so simple and peaceful. I miss the days.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Party Lines...
Have you ever heard of "party lines"? Oh sure, there has probably been a dance or something named party line but I'm talking about community phone lines.
Back in the fifties when I was young enough to run around in my underwear without embarrassment we shared a party line with several other equally poor families. There was no privacy with a party line. If you picked up the phone to make a call you could very easily listen in on a couple of frumpy old neighborhood women complaining about the kid in the neighborhood who ran around in baggy underwear....or something else equally important.
There is an old picture of me standing on a chair in the dining room holding a huge telephone up to my ear. I really liked listening in on old ladies' telephone conversations. Like I said, it was easy to do and hard to get caught. However, I had a tendency to join in after a few minutes and this always seemed to end the conversation. My mama met several of the neighbors this way.
One time we needed to get in touch with my dad. He was off in Mississippi for two weeks of reserve training and mama thought she needed to share the good news with him that another child was on the way. Every time she picked up the phone she heard two old biddies gossiping about something or someone. She kept trying and not having any luck. She was getting a little frustrated and I feared she would take her frustration out on Cindy and me if I didn't do something quick. She left the room for a minute so I picked up the phone and listened just long enough to make sure these old girls weren't talking about me. Then I started singing to them. I sang all the words to the Ballad of Davy Crockett...all the words I knew anyway. The ladies didn't care much for my singing and told me such....so I started again from the top. The lines were clear when my mama came back in the room. My work was done so I hitched up my droopy underwear and headed out the backdoor.
I miss the good old days!
Back in the fifties when I was young enough to run around in my underwear without embarrassment we shared a party line with several other equally poor families. There was no privacy with a party line. If you picked up the phone to make a call you could very easily listen in on a couple of frumpy old neighborhood women complaining about the kid in the neighborhood who ran around in baggy underwear....or something else equally important.
There is an old picture of me standing on a chair in the dining room holding a huge telephone up to my ear. I really liked listening in on old ladies' telephone conversations. Like I said, it was easy to do and hard to get caught. However, I had a tendency to join in after a few minutes and this always seemed to end the conversation. My mama met several of the neighbors this way.
One time we needed to get in touch with my dad. He was off in Mississippi for two weeks of reserve training and mama thought she needed to share the good news with him that another child was on the way. Every time she picked up the phone she heard two old biddies gossiping about something or someone. She kept trying and not having any luck. She was getting a little frustrated and I feared she would take her frustration out on Cindy and me if I didn't do something quick. She left the room for a minute so I picked up the phone and listened just long enough to make sure these old girls weren't talking about me. Then I started singing to them. I sang all the words to the Ballad of Davy Crockett...all the words I knew anyway. The ladies didn't care much for my singing and told me such....so I started again from the top. The lines were clear when my mama came back in the room. My work was done so I hitched up my droopy underwear and headed out the backdoor.
I miss the good old days!
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
How to replace a ceiling fan...
There are many reasons to replace an existing ceiling fan. It could be the fan wobbles and freaks out the grandchildren when they're visiting. Or maybe the old fan squeaks at times. Possibly the fan is inefficient for the size of the room. None of these are reasons for us to systematically replace every stinking ceiling fan in our house over the past few years. Our fans were replaced because of a more serious reason...they were tacky. I did not know they were tacky. Debbie pointed it out to me each time. I have always replaced the fans myself being the son of Leroy L Mihills. He was a DIY guy before it was stylish and taught his sons to be the same. When I was recovering from my accident and still promising to never, ever climb another ladder, the ceiling fan in our den became tacky all of a sudden. I didn't hear a thing but then again, I was on some pretty heavy meds. Debbie told me that although the timing couldn't have been worse, it had happened. There was no time to lose. We had to buy a new fan and we would have to hire a non-clumsy younger person to hang it for us. This was a mistake. Not only did she replace the world's fastest and most efficient fan hanger ever (me) with someone she didn't know, she did it over my loud protestations. Her argument was this: You can hang a fan from a standard height ceiling but you can't hang a fan from a raised ceiling. If you were to fall you would get hurt. She didn't take into consideration the fall that landed me in ER was from the second step of the ladder. And most importantly, this non-clumsy younger person expected to be PAID.
I do admit it was nice having the fan installed for us. The guy did a great job and only charged us a minimal labor amount. If you need a ceiling fan installed I can recommend this guy if I ever remember his name. But back to my story. I'm going to tell you how to install a ceiling fan. First of all, after the existing fan has been dubbed "tacky" waste no time in getting it down and out of the house. You don't want to be known as the guy with tacky fans. Grab a ladder and set it up just off-center of the existing fan. Climb the two steps necessary to reach the fan. Note: If operating in a room with a standard height ceiling two steps are sufficient. If you can not determine if your ceiling is standard height please reconsider doing this work yourself because you are a dummy.
Step two is simple. After you have climbed the ladder carefully remove the two set screws holding the housing thingy. During this process you should remember that this is really step three. Step two should have been, Go to the breaker box and shut off the electrical power. If you don't remember, there will be a built-in reminder.
Step four is a bit confusing. You must first carefully disconnect the three colored wires and the ground wire. This is where the built-in reminder is installed. Hopefully you have avoided it. If not, I will look for that non-clumsy younger guy's name for you. Next, carefully lift the old fan from its hangy down thing which is attached to the electric box. This is a simple process if someone besides me has told you how to do this. A smart instructor would have told you to remove the blades and the light attachment before removing the fan. I never seem to remember this step until I am fumbling with a heavy mass of stuff with long arms sticking out while I make my way down the ladder. I strongly suggest you include these two optional steps in your project.
Now that the old fan is removed and carted out to the curb you should take a nice long break. We will proceed tomorrow. And don't even think about trying to sell the old fan in a garage sale. No one will buy it. It's tacky. Goodwill doesn't want it either. They try to resell more upscale stuff.
Okay, another day! Let's finish this easy DIY project. Your ladder should already be in the best position for install so climb on up and attach that new hangy down thing to the electric box. Next, take the new fan body and install it into the hangy down thing which will support it and free up both hands for you to proceed.
Your next step is to rewire the three wires to the electrical wires coming down from the ceiling. Just take the blue and black wires and attach to the black wire with a wire nut.....HAHAHA! Gotcha. You forgot to check to make sure the power was still turned off didn't you?!?! Normally if you are the only person working in the room this won't be a problem. However, if you are married to a Type A woman such as my wife, you can never make any assumption. While you are resting up from yesterday's work your wife might see a speck of dust under your ladder and decide to vacuum the whole room. Finding no power and not wanting to wake you from your nap, she will quietly go to the breaker box and return that room to full electrical power....whew, that was funny! Anyway, after you have the wires reattached to the main wiring climb down the ladder and casually look at the remaining parts to install. Climb back up the ladder and disconnect the wiring, lift the ball of the fan out of the hanger, climb back down the ladder and slip on the outside housing as instructed in the "Easy installation steps" no real man ever reads.
After repeating all of the previous steps your fan is ready for completion. Attach the light kit and tighten all three of the impossible to align mounting screws. Next try to install the blades. I say "try to install" because you will find you can't do that with the light kit already installed. You must take the light kit off while remembering the two hours spent lining those stinking mounting screw holes up. Now, attach the blades. There are normally five blades. When you count only four, take a look into the grandkids' toy closet. Install each before re-attaching the light kit.
Now then, you are nearly done. Put light bulbs in their sockets, attach the glass light deflector and turn on the power. Beautiful! You can bask in the glory of a job well done....but hurry. As soon as your wife takes a look she will notice one of the blades is installed with the wrong finish side up. Scurry on back up that ladder and fix it....quick before the whole fan becomes tacky.
I do admit it was nice having the fan installed for us. The guy did a great job and only charged us a minimal labor amount. If you need a ceiling fan installed I can recommend this guy if I ever remember his name. But back to my story. I'm going to tell you how to install a ceiling fan. First of all, after the existing fan has been dubbed "tacky" waste no time in getting it down and out of the house. You don't want to be known as the guy with tacky fans. Grab a ladder and set it up just off-center of the existing fan. Climb the two steps necessary to reach the fan. Note: If operating in a room with a standard height ceiling two steps are sufficient. If you can not determine if your ceiling is standard height please reconsider doing this work yourself because you are a dummy.
Step two is simple. After you have climbed the ladder carefully remove the two set screws holding the housing thingy. During this process you should remember that this is really step three. Step two should have been, Go to the breaker box and shut off the electrical power. If you don't remember, there will be a built-in reminder.
Step four is a bit confusing. You must first carefully disconnect the three colored wires and the ground wire. This is where the built-in reminder is installed. Hopefully you have avoided it. If not, I will look for that non-clumsy younger guy's name for you. Next, carefully lift the old fan from its hangy down thing which is attached to the electric box. This is a simple process if someone besides me has told you how to do this. A smart instructor would have told you to remove the blades and the light attachment before removing the fan. I never seem to remember this step until I am fumbling with a heavy mass of stuff with long arms sticking out while I make my way down the ladder. I strongly suggest you include these two optional steps in your project.
Now that the old fan is removed and carted out to the curb you should take a nice long break. We will proceed tomorrow. And don't even think about trying to sell the old fan in a garage sale. No one will buy it. It's tacky. Goodwill doesn't want it either. They try to resell more upscale stuff.
Okay, another day! Let's finish this easy DIY project. Your ladder should already be in the best position for install so climb on up and attach that new hangy down thing to the electric box. Next, take the new fan body and install it into the hangy down thing which will support it and free up both hands for you to proceed.
Your next step is to rewire the three wires to the electrical wires coming down from the ceiling. Just take the blue and black wires and attach to the black wire with a wire nut.....HAHAHA! Gotcha. You forgot to check to make sure the power was still turned off didn't you?!?! Normally if you are the only person working in the room this won't be a problem. However, if you are married to a Type A woman such as my wife, you can never make any assumption. While you are resting up from yesterday's work your wife might see a speck of dust under your ladder and decide to vacuum the whole room. Finding no power and not wanting to wake you from your nap, she will quietly go to the breaker box and return that room to full electrical power....whew, that was funny! Anyway, after you have the wires reattached to the main wiring climb down the ladder and casually look at the remaining parts to install. Climb back up the ladder and disconnect the wiring, lift the ball of the fan out of the hanger, climb back down the ladder and slip on the outside housing as instructed in the "Easy installation steps" no real man ever reads.
After repeating all of the previous steps your fan is ready for completion. Attach the light kit and tighten all three of the impossible to align mounting screws. Next try to install the blades. I say "try to install" because you will find you can't do that with the light kit already installed. You must take the light kit off while remembering the two hours spent lining those stinking mounting screw holes up. Now, attach the blades. There are normally five blades. When you count only four, take a look into the grandkids' toy closet. Install each before re-attaching the light kit.
Now then, you are nearly done. Put light bulbs in their sockets, attach the glass light deflector and turn on the power. Beautiful! You can bask in the glory of a job well done....but hurry. As soon as your wife takes a look she will notice one of the blades is installed with the wrong finish side up. Scurry on back up that ladder and fix it....quick before the whole fan becomes tacky.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Play your banjo well...
The title is from a song written in the sixties. One of the world's great philosophers, Johnny Cash, recorded it in response to all the anti-war songs of the time. The phrase goes (and forgive me if I sing it in the wrong key): "Let this be a lesson if you want to form a folk group. Don't go mixing politics with the folk songs of our land. Work on harmony and diction, and play your banjo well...and if you have political convictions just keep them to yourself!"
Johnny probably didn't think about it at the time but I am a deep thinker....if everyone would buy a banjo and learn to play there would be no more stress and friction in the world. It is a proven fact that you absolutely can not play a banjo and stay in a bad mood. Now of course, if there are those around you who hate banjo music you can cause them to be in a bad mood. As far as I know though, there is only one person who hates banjo music and I'm married to her so you should be safe to strum away!
If you are now thinking, "Hey, I need to get a banjo but where oh where can I learn to play?" don't fret. Anybody can play the banjo unless maybe you don't have any fingers....and my apologies to anyone out there who might have that condition. Don't think you have to pick and grin like the pros. You can strum chords and have the time of your life. You can bring joy to any room when you enter with your banjo....or if not, you can bring joy to that room when you leave. Either way, you are going to make somebody happy.
Did you know there are three chords that will allow you to strum along with most songs? Well listen to this...if you can learn to fret the C and D chords you will know those three chords. What? Did I miss one? I most certainly did not. As soon as your shiny new banjo comes out of the case it will already be tuned to the G chord. Just pick it up and strum it without touching the fret board. You just played a G! How about you!! Now work on those other two chords and you will be strumming along and singing with the big boys. Make sure the big boys know you don't want to do any breakdowns of any kind. You don't like to show off. When I first started playing I was invited to sit in with a bluegrass group. I was having the time of my life and keeping up with them better than I thought possible. All of a sudden the music stopped and everyone looked at me. My first thought was that someone had tooted and they thought it was me....turns out they were waiting for me to play one of those complicated breakdowns. One of them hollered, "Take it Russ!" to which I responded, "Take what where?" After explaining my error one of the musicians took my banjo and played the appropriate breakdown for me. I had no idea my banjo could sound so good. I went home and practiced, practiced, practiced. I discovered all this practice of the same round over and over was not something Debbie wanted to hear. That leads to what I was going to write about in the first place...you people have a way of getting me off track!
I have always loved guitar and banjo music. I have a grainy black and white photo of me at four years old serenading the girl next door. I was wearing a torn t-shirt, baggy shorts, and my purple and yellow cowboy boots with my Roy Rogers guitar hanging around my neck. I must have swept that little girl right off her feet. When I started junior high school I took a music aptitude test for the band director. He said I scored higher than anyone he had ever tested. He also said as a result I could play any instrument I wanted to play. Since I knew there were no banjos in marching band I chose the drums. He said he already had too many drums and I was going to learn to play the cornet. So much for choice....next thing I knew I was trying to learn to play something that looked like a sickly trumpet. Now I did enjoy this because I was playing music...at least that's what I thought. One Saturday afternoon I was working my way through the various chords when my bedroom door swung open. There was my dad with a crazed look on his face. He grabbed a stray sweat sock and shoved it up the bell of that horn. I never built up a lot of confidence on that horn after that.
When I was fifteen my folks bought me a beautiful electric guitar. It is hanging on the wall of my study now. Its still beautiful. When they gave me the guitar they promised they would buy the amplifier for it as soon as I could play. That amplifier never appeared but I enjoyed hours and hours of playing it quietly in my bedroom. A friend of mine played with a band and he borrowed it a few times. He already had an amplifier. That guitar sure looked and sounded good up on stage. I could see it and hear it clearly while standing in the crowd.
After Debbie and I were married she asked me one year what I would most like to have for Christmas. I jokingly told her I would love to have a Gibson acoustic guitar. I knew she couldn't afford it. Sure enough on Christmas morning there was a large odd-shaped package for me under the tree. I was stunned. I couldn't wait to get that box opened so I could see my brand new Wizard guitar which she bought for $19.95 at the local Gibson's Discount Store. Bless her heart. I tried to play it for two years before giving it to one of the neighborhood kids.
I continued to want a banjo. One day a friend of my two sons told me he had a banjo he wanted to sell. He played bluegrass so I knew the banjo was a good one. I bought it right then. He brought it to me and I fell in love immediately. It took me no time at all to learn the basic chords so I could enjoy it. (Note: Refer to earlier comment about anyone with fingers being able to play the banjo). This led to sitting in with the mentioned bluegrass band, which in turn led to my constant practicing, which led to.....well, it's hard to put into words. I was honing in on the Cripple Creek run after weeks of practice. My bedroom door swung open. There was my wife with a crazed look on her face. She looked for a stray sweat sock but couldn't find one. She then told me she hated hearing banjo music....she then corrected herself and told me she only hated hearing my banjo music. She reaffirmed her love for me but said the banjo had to go. I sold it the next week. I really missed it. I plucked around on my newer, and better than Wizard guitar for a couple of years but she could see the loss and hurt in my eyes...and yes, you can in fact play the guitar while in a bad mood.
Debbie's guilt in insisting I sell my beloved banjo got the better of her a few years ago. One Christmas morning I was surprised with the nicest banjo I could ever hope to own. It was fairly old but she had given it to a specialist to overhaul and check out. He told her it was a keeper. Let's hope so. I try to play softly in my study and I never ever play the Cripple Creek breakdown.
Johnny probably didn't think about it at the time but I am a deep thinker....if everyone would buy a banjo and learn to play there would be no more stress and friction in the world. It is a proven fact that you absolutely can not play a banjo and stay in a bad mood. Now of course, if there are those around you who hate banjo music you can cause them to be in a bad mood. As far as I know though, there is only one person who hates banjo music and I'm married to her so you should be safe to strum away!
If you are now thinking, "Hey, I need to get a banjo but where oh where can I learn to play?" don't fret. Anybody can play the banjo unless maybe you don't have any fingers....and my apologies to anyone out there who might have that condition. Don't think you have to pick and grin like the pros. You can strum chords and have the time of your life. You can bring joy to any room when you enter with your banjo....or if not, you can bring joy to that room when you leave. Either way, you are going to make somebody happy.
Did you know there are three chords that will allow you to strum along with most songs? Well listen to this...if you can learn to fret the C and D chords you will know those three chords. What? Did I miss one? I most certainly did not. As soon as your shiny new banjo comes out of the case it will already be tuned to the G chord. Just pick it up and strum it without touching the fret board. You just played a G! How about you!! Now work on those other two chords and you will be strumming along and singing with the big boys. Make sure the big boys know you don't want to do any breakdowns of any kind. You don't like to show off. When I first started playing I was invited to sit in with a bluegrass group. I was having the time of my life and keeping up with them better than I thought possible. All of a sudden the music stopped and everyone looked at me. My first thought was that someone had tooted and they thought it was me....turns out they were waiting for me to play one of those complicated breakdowns. One of them hollered, "Take it Russ!" to which I responded, "Take what where?" After explaining my error one of the musicians took my banjo and played the appropriate breakdown for me. I had no idea my banjo could sound so good. I went home and practiced, practiced, practiced. I discovered all this practice of the same round over and over was not something Debbie wanted to hear. That leads to what I was going to write about in the first place...you people have a way of getting me off track!
I have always loved guitar and banjo music. I have a grainy black and white photo of me at four years old serenading the girl next door. I was wearing a torn t-shirt, baggy shorts, and my purple and yellow cowboy boots with my Roy Rogers guitar hanging around my neck. I must have swept that little girl right off her feet. When I started junior high school I took a music aptitude test for the band director. He said I scored higher than anyone he had ever tested. He also said as a result I could play any instrument I wanted to play. Since I knew there were no banjos in marching band I chose the drums. He said he already had too many drums and I was going to learn to play the cornet. So much for choice....next thing I knew I was trying to learn to play something that looked like a sickly trumpet. Now I did enjoy this because I was playing music...at least that's what I thought. One Saturday afternoon I was working my way through the various chords when my bedroom door swung open. There was my dad with a crazed look on his face. He grabbed a stray sweat sock and shoved it up the bell of that horn. I never built up a lot of confidence on that horn after that.
When I was fifteen my folks bought me a beautiful electric guitar. It is hanging on the wall of my study now. Its still beautiful. When they gave me the guitar they promised they would buy the amplifier for it as soon as I could play. That amplifier never appeared but I enjoyed hours and hours of playing it quietly in my bedroom. A friend of mine played with a band and he borrowed it a few times. He already had an amplifier. That guitar sure looked and sounded good up on stage. I could see it and hear it clearly while standing in the crowd.
After Debbie and I were married she asked me one year what I would most like to have for Christmas. I jokingly told her I would love to have a Gibson acoustic guitar. I knew she couldn't afford it. Sure enough on Christmas morning there was a large odd-shaped package for me under the tree. I was stunned. I couldn't wait to get that box opened so I could see my brand new Wizard guitar which she bought for $19.95 at the local Gibson's Discount Store. Bless her heart. I tried to play it for two years before giving it to one of the neighborhood kids.
I continued to want a banjo. One day a friend of my two sons told me he had a banjo he wanted to sell. He played bluegrass so I knew the banjo was a good one. I bought it right then. He brought it to me and I fell in love immediately. It took me no time at all to learn the basic chords so I could enjoy it. (Note: Refer to earlier comment about anyone with fingers being able to play the banjo). This led to sitting in with the mentioned bluegrass band, which in turn led to my constant practicing, which led to.....well, it's hard to put into words. I was honing in on the Cripple Creek run after weeks of practice. My bedroom door swung open. There was my wife with a crazed look on her face. She looked for a stray sweat sock but couldn't find one. She then told me she hated hearing banjo music....she then corrected herself and told me she only hated hearing my banjo music. She reaffirmed her love for me but said the banjo had to go. I sold it the next week. I really missed it. I plucked around on my newer, and better than Wizard guitar for a couple of years but she could see the loss and hurt in my eyes...and yes, you can in fact play the guitar while in a bad mood.
Debbie's guilt in insisting I sell my beloved banjo got the better of her a few years ago. One Christmas morning I was surprised with the nicest banjo I could ever hope to own. It was fairly old but she had given it to a specialist to overhaul and check out. He told her it was a keeper. Let's hope so. I try to play softly in my study and I never ever play the Cripple Creek breakdown.
Monday, September 5, 2016
Not to beat a dead horse but....
...many of you have asked how I'm doing so....I feel like an old, old man who has been run over by a bus, then left out like roadkill on a West Texas blacktop in the middle of August. In other words, I'm feeling much better. I still haven't gotten all the test results back and I have an appointment with the infectious disease doctor on Wednesday. Maybe then I can end my self-imposed quarantine. Thank you all for your concern.
I am writing a story right now about my sole surviving uncle. Uncle Bill is 96 years old. He lives on his own in the same house he's owned for over 60 years. His five sons and two daughters take turns spending the days with Bill. He is nearly deaf and legally blind yet he still spends six out of every seven mornings each week working in his wood shop from 6:30 until noon. He builds furniture....beautiful furniture. It has gotten to where he has to do the finish work by feel. Right now he is building footstools that are his unique design. He mass produces them twenty-five at a time and is nearing six hundred in number. He originally made a stool for every family member, signed and numbered. That was a feat in itself. I can't count all the family members. He not only can count them but he remembers their names. Each stool is signed. Mine has this written on the underside:
#146 12-10-2010
To: Russell Mihills
From: Bill Hallmark who was born in Burnet County, Texas 11-9-1919
Debbie's is the same except hers is #142. He always liked her better!
Bill has made custom cabinets, china hutches, hope chests, tables...the list goes on an on. He has even made his own casket. Its a work of art. It will be a shame to put it in the ground someday. Because of his failing eyesight he pretty much sticks to the footstools and hope chests now. He doesn't sell his creations. He gives them away! He gives the stools and chests to the Cherokee Children's Home. They auction them off for fund raising.
This isn't the story by the way. I have some colorful adventures to tell but I'm waiting to complete Bill's story until I can get down to Llano and hear about the past from him. Everything I know so far came from my mom's own storytelling and she seemed to add to her stories every time she told them...must be where I get it. Keep watching and I hope to have the story posted within the next three weeks.
I hope you all have a wonderful week!
I am writing a story right now about my sole surviving uncle. Uncle Bill is 96 years old. He lives on his own in the same house he's owned for over 60 years. His five sons and two daughters take turns spending the days with Bill. He is nearly deaf and legally blind yet he still spends six out of every seven mornings each week working in his wood shop from 6:30 until noon. He builds furniture....beautiful furniture. It has gotten to where he has to do the finish work by feel. Right now he is building footstools that are his unique design. He mass produces them twenty-five at a time and is nearing six hundred in number. He originally made a stool for every family member, signed and numbered. That was a feat in itself. I can't count all the family members. He not only can count them but he remembers their names. Each stool is signed. Mine has this written on the underside:
#146 12-10-2010
To: Russell Mihills
From: Bill Hallmark who was born in Burnet County, Texas 11-9-1919
Debbie's is the same except hers is #142. He always liked her better!
Bill has made custom cabinets, china hutches, hope chests, tables...the list goes on an on. He has even made his own casket. Its a work of art. It will be a shame to put it in the ground someday. Because of his failing eyesight he pretty much sticks to the footstools and hope chests now. He doesn't sell his creations. He gives them away! He gives the stools and chests to the Cherokee Children's Home. They auction them off for fund raising.
This isn't the story by the way. I have some colorful adventures to tell but I'm waiting to complete Bill's story until I can get down to Llano and hear about the past from him. Everything I know so far came from my mom's own storytelling and she seemed to add to her stories every time she told them...must be where I get it. Keep watching and I hope to have the story posted within the next three weeks.
I hope you all have a wonderful week!
Not to beat a dead horse but....
...many of you have asked how I'm doing so....I feel like an old, old man who has been run over by a bus, then left out like roadkill on a West Texas blacktop in the middle of August. In other words, I'm feeling much better. I still haven't gotten all the test results back and I have an appointment with the infectious disease doctor on Wednesday. Maybe then I can end my self-imposed quarantine. Thank you all for your concern.
I am writing a story right now about my sole surviving uncle. Uncle Bill is 96 years old. He lives on his own in the same house he's owned for over 60 years. His five sons, all retired, take turns spending the days with Bill. He is nearly deaf and legally blind yet he still spends six out of every seven mornings each week working in his wood shop from 6:30 until noon. He builds furniture....beautiful furniture. It has gotten to where he has to do the finish work by feel. Right now he is building footstools that are his unique design. He mass produces them twenty-five at a time and is nearing six hundred in number. He originally made a stool for every family member, signed and numbered. That was a feat in itself. I can't count all the family members. He not only can count them but he remembers their names. Each stool is signed. Mine has this written on the underside:
#146 12-10-2010
To: Russell Mihills
From: Bill Hallmark who was born in Burnet County, Texas 11-9-1919
Debbie's is the same except hers is #142. He always liked her better!
Bill has made custom cabinets, china hutches, hope chests, tables...the list goes on an on. He has even made his own casket. Its a work of art. It will be a shame to put it in the ground someday. Because of his failing eyesight he pretty much sticks to the footstools and hope chests now. He doesn't sell his creations. He gives them away! He gives the stools and chests to the Cherokee Children's Home. They auction them off for fund raising.
This isn't the story by the way. I have some colorful adventures to tell but I'm waiting to complete Bill's story until I can get down to Llano and hear about the past from him. Everything I know so far came from my mom's own storytelling and she seemed to add to her stories every time she told them...must be where I get it. Keep watching and I hope to have the story posted within the next three weeks.
I hope you all have a wonderful week!
I am writing a story right now about my sole surviving uncle. Uncle Bill is 96 years old. He lives on his own in the same house he's owned for over 60 years. His five sons, all retired, take turns spending the days with Bill. He is nearly deaf and legally blind yet he still spends six out of every seven mornings each week working in his wood shop from 6:30 until noon. He builds furniture....beautiful furniture. It has gotten to where he has to do the finish work by feel. Right now he is building footstools that are his unique design. He mass produces them twenty-five at a time and is nearing six hundred in number. He originally made a stool for every family member, signed and numbered. That was a feat in itself. I can't count all the family members. He not only can count them but he remembers their names. Each stool is signed. Mine has this written on the underside:
#146 12-10-2010
To: Russell Mihills
From: Bill Hallmark who was born in Burnet County, Texas 11-9-1919
Debbie's is the same except hers is #142. He always liked her better!
Bill has made custom cabinets, china hutches, hope chests, tables...the list goes on an on. He has even made his own casket. Its a work of art. It will be a shame to put it in the ground someday. Because of his failing eyesight he pretty much sticks to the footstools and hope chests now. He doesn't sell his creations. He gives them away! He gives the stools and chests to the Cherokee Children's Home. They auction them off for fund raising.
This isn't the story by the way. I have some colorful adventures to tell but I'm waiting to complete Bill's story until I can get down to Llano and hear about the past from him. Everything I know so far came from my mom's own storytelling and she seemed to add to her stories every time she told them...must be where I get it. Keep watching and I hope to have the story posted within the next three weeks.
I hope you all have a wonderful week!
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