Chasing The Sounds

Every day we are bombarded with sounds. Street noise, talking, machines, white noise....

We try to strain it out the best we can and focus on what we want to hear. A baby coo, favorite song, dog bark, intimate conversation.

And then there are those other sounds. The sounds that rattle around in your head. The familiar lyric with two bars missing but that's the way you remember it. The voices whispering to you in the night.

And then the new sounds. The whirring of the 7-11 slurpy machine. A power pump with a steady beat. The repetitive thud thud thud brings new sounds - music - notes on a mental keyboard flowing over your brain.

This is a constant. Never ending chasing of sounds.

Stranger Than Fiction

Suppose you came home one night and found your wife unconscious on the kitchen floor.

Suppose she had a bag of frozen blueberries next to her.

Suppose she had a big black eye.

Suppose she later said she was trying to get the blueberries out of the freezer, when the rubber band holding the bag closed popped and sent the blueberries propelling out into her eye and knocking her out.

Suppose you lived every day in this adventure.

I can't make this stuff up, it just happens.

Driving Me Backward

Saturday started late. Started errands at 10 a.m. That's 5 hours late. 
Phew.

Same paths. Same routes, but cars were popping out from unusual places. Driving backwards. More noise and traffic. Even had to stop a couple of times to let the monsters pass.

As the day progressed I realized I was being more aware. "White Room" playing through the muzak. Joni Mitchell from a passing car.

I could feel the pressure of an impending storm. The voices sounded different.

More people in the grocery. Lots of old people. They were there for the free food and wine. The store was having a party. People were greeted at the door by lovely maidens handing out wine glasses. 

Take my advice: Do not hold a party at a grocery store. It's scary.
Once the day drew to an end, started catching up at the grill. Corn in the husk, Idaho potatoes, and a juicy steak over open fire. Look up at the canopy of woven textures. Little creatures scurry around the feet of the directors chair. Cool breezes and a cold can refreshes the time.

Some days you start late and never catch up. Feels like you are running up a sand dune.

Chapter Four - Wilmington, North Carolina

This small town in North Carolina was where both my parents grew up. The vacation spot for the family every summer. The town held memories. The town would be fulfilling family obligations.

Wilmington is a small town on the base of the East Coast of North Carolina. It is based on the Cape Fear River.

The drive to Wilmington would begin in the morning and last all day. A two-lane highway. Little traffic. Hot. Windows rolled down. Bouncing in the back seat for hours. Probably loosen some brain cells.

Stop once at Stuckey’s. Peanut brittle for Mom and cokes for the rest. Pit stops were made along the side of the road. After miles of woods and farmland, the winding road led to a small skyline. Little buildings, no stop lights. Lots of trees. We would turn left and travel the shaded suburban streets past manicured yards and freshly painted houses. Everything was quiet. Everything was calm. The houses looked old. The few people visible on the street were elderly. As they looked up to see the car drive by, there was a questioned look in their eyes. Strangers in there quiet town. We were tourists in the hometown.

My grandmother, on my mother’s side, lived in a small brick house. A driveway on the side of the house went around the back, past a porch with a swing, to a garage. The front of the house was red brick with white door and columns and shutters. Small shrubs lead up to the front door. The two-story house was always approached from the back door. (The same tradition was found at 4101 Patterson).

The backyard held roses. Lots of roses. A wired fenced yard with little shrubs and roses. Roses grew everywhere. An outbuilding was never investigated. The garage was cool and damp. Across the alley were dirt yards with live chickens. High wooden fences hid the houses from the middle class view of my grandmother’s eyes. There were lots of dirt yards, smells, and damp feelings about the neighborhood. My grandmother never talked about her neighbors.

The entrance to the kitchen became the welcoming spot. Everything was done in the kitchen. It was warm and inviting. Off the kitchen was the music room. A small room with window overlooking the driveway. An upright piano and sheet music filled the room. I would learn music there. My mother and her mother loved to sing, but rarely played the piano.

All the family on my mother’s side loved to sing. Religious songs, and other songs I did not know. Anytime two or more Aunts got together a song were to be had. The kitchen was the usual spot of singing while preparing food.

Down the hall from the kitchen was the dining room. Very formal with laced tablecloth. Few meals were had here. Mostly the family ate in the kitchen. There were ceramic squirrels on the wall.

Across from the dining room was the living room. The family never went in the living room. It held a desk, sofa, chairs, and lamps. A rotating clock played its chimes every hour. On the desk was a picture of my uncle Clyde, the pilot lost in World War II and his flying cross medal. No one talked of the photo or the history.

Several uncles had served in W.W.II. There was no talk of their action or duty. The family only talked of the present. The family always was laughing and singing.

Upstairs were the bedrooms. One was packed with boxes and a small bed. This is where I would sleep when we stayed in Wilmington. It was hot and musty. I never ventured into the boxes, but wondered about the W.W.II relics.

A small room in the back of the house was the den. This room had the only television set. This was the only room that was used by our family. I practiced bass guitar when we stayed there in ‘66 before the “Club A Go-Go” gig.

As soon as we would unpack, the family would decide what was going to be eaten. All the women gathered in the kitchen to prepare the food. The men made small talk and smoked. The porch swing was a spot for the children to get away.

Across the street, my mother’s half sister lived. Teresa would be called over for dinner. A heavy woman with pulled back hair and plane flowered dresses. She had the 40’s look. Teresa would play the piano when the women would sing.

Mom’s family

“Mamma”, as my grandmother was called, would always have an apron on. She would orchestrate the kitchen and the worker bees. She did not smoke or drink. She was the gyro that kept the family together and busy. Mamma seemed aloft of troubles and always made a pleasant or religious statement when problems were discussed.

Mamma was married to several men. She was young, with a smile, a small body, and well endowed. She enjoyed the attention of the gentlemen. She dressed in lace and sheer materials. She moved with grace and style.

“Fona T. and Herbert Love”, lived in another part of Carolina with three girls. Fona was the youngest of the sisters. She was attractive with large teeth and thick black hair. Herbert was a salesman. He was always trying to kid or act up.

“Mark and Mary MacKeever” lived in Richmond, but always seemed to be in Wilmington when we arrived. They would stay at the home of Mary’s parents, the Sniden’s. This became our second home when in Wilmington. The house was above a ground level garage on the sound side of Wrightsful Beach. Little Mark and Liz would always be there too. Mark, who was Mom’s older brother, was a preacher. He held services over the food that was delivered hourly.

Down a winding road past moss covered trees, in a planned neighborhood was the brick ranch home to “Mabel”. She had three girls who baby-sat me when the elders would go out. There was lots of hugging and kissing. Mabel’s husband committed suicide in the garage by gassing himself in his car.

“Pamela and Rex” were different as night an day. Pamela, mom’s younger sister who lived in Raleigh, was outgoing and cordial. Rex was reserved and quiet. A big burley man, who worked for Caterpillar tractors, he stood back when the family got together. Pamela was up front and a leader in the singing. She would later get Parkinson disease and break down. The two could not bare children, so they adopted a boy and a girl.

“Lewis and Grace MacKeever” lived in Wilmington. They kept the family together. Lewis sold insurance for Sears.

Grace, sister to Mary, kept the Sniden’s home up. With the shower in the first floor garage, and the outside stairway to the second living floor, the house next to the pier was kept as a safe haven for all the family. Mr. Sniden was a white hair man in poor health. He was quiet and reserved. He kept to himself. Mrs. Sniden was as outgoing as Mamma and always tried to feed everyone.

My cousin Whitney (Lewis, Jr.) and his sister, Sassy and two twin brothers Douglas and Dannie lived in a custom community outside of Wilmington.

Whitney

Whitney became my teacher at the beach. Instead of sitting on the sand with my parents and other relatives, I could sneak away with Whitney. We would take the motorboat out to the sound and spin around the inner waterways. When the harbor patrol came to follow us, we would turn to the ocean. We would jump over the waves, the wooden hull groaning with each slam against the hard water. Twin Mercury engines would save us every time.

Whitney would teach me other beach stuff. Water skiing really worked with enough power on the motor boat. The whole family learned. Snorkel diving and riding the surf became second nature. Surfing on long waxed boards filled the days. We would sit on the boards waiting for the right wave. We laughed and splashed in the ocean air. We would get dehydrated, sunburned, and wrinkled by the hours of soaking in the water. We did not care.

At dust, we would put the boards up, grab a T-shirt and travel to one of the local hang outs to sweep the floors, clean dishes, straighten tables, or do any chore to earn some money. A few dollars were gathered. Every teenager at the beach worked this way. These dollars would be collected and be enough to get some food and drink for the night.

Next to the bridge, leading to the ocean was a bait shop. It was a dark Little building with a sandy floor. It was always packed with ice and cool. The smell of fish filled the nostrils. This was the shop for fishermen. There was a large selection of alcohol. Beer by the case.

Though underage, Whitney and I would approach the owner and ask for beer. We would place the money on the counter when no one else was in the building. We would point to the case we wanted. We would grab the case and leave without a word said. The cash register would ring up the purchase. We always gave more money that the price, but that was the deal. I always thought that I looked older than everyone else did, so the owner excepted my age. I was growing a beard that showed before the fair hared cousin did. I never showed an ID.

Back on the beach, as night fell, a pit would be hand dug. The local kids would fan out searching the beach for firewood. Others would bring food and drink. There was always enough to go around. In the blaze of the fire light, crabs, fish, and marshmallows were the meal of the day. Even the crusty burnt supper flipped hand to hand to cool was nourishment. And we washed it all down with beer.

The Wilmington teens would sit around the fire and regal at the days activities. What great wave came, the new bathing suits, the problems with parents. Someone would bring a guitar and we would all sing. Folk songs mostly. As the night went on and fire died down, couples would split to the sand dunes. Giggling could be heard in the distance drowned by the roar of the ocean.

Many names were changed to protect your patience.

A Buck for a Smile

"About time for the afternoon break", I yawned. I grabbed my water pewter container and walked to the elevator for the three flight drop to the lunch room.

As I walked to the ice machine I noticed a young oriental girl starring at one of the vending machines. She looked at me with this sad face and turned back to the glass. I looked over and there hung a bag of Raisinets. Just hanging there. She looked at me again.

I put down my mug and confidently walked over to the vending machine. "You can rock these things." I said and rolled up my sleeves. As she stepped back I grabbed the top of the machine and gave it a push. It didn't budge. I tried again with the same results. (They must be making these machine heavier than when I worked for a vending dispenser in my youth.)

Just then a friend walked in. We all stared at the dangling Raisinets. "What do you think Bruce?" I asked my friend. He picked up his foot and started to kick the glass.

"That's OK," I said, " what do you need?" I opened my wallet and handed the girl a dollar. She inserted the limp bill and TWO bags of Raisinets fell. "Yeah!" we all yelled.

She turned to me and said "What's you name? Where do you work?" as an offer to repay me. "I don't work here." I replied still looking at the vending machine. Her face was puzzled as my friend said, " Look at him, do you think we would hire somebody that looked like that?" "I just come her for the food." I playfully commented as I scanned the selection. "I'll pay you back." the confused faced girl said. "No, it's my treat."

In a quick step she gleefully walked from the room, only to turn and say, " You've made me the happiest girl in the world." Then with a big smile, she turned and walk away.

Wow! A buck for a smile. You pay more than that for pole dancers and don't get the same feeling.

The Color of Music

Next time you are relaxing, put on some of your favorite music. Lean back. Close your eyes.

Start with your ears. Listen to the rhythm, focus on what you really, really like about the sound, the voice, instrument, beat.

Now think about the Color of the music. The wave of hues that make the sound come alive in your head.

If you allow yourself to view the color of sound, you will be surprised.

No, this isn't a flashback.

Sleeping in a chair

Saturday, errands, trips to the store, to purchase necessities, ceramic paring knife, "Gone With The Wind" DVD, corn on the cob holders (you always lose one of those each summer), plants, books, litter, "Beatles Vol. 1 & 2" Cd's, bread, peanut butter, the list goes on and on.

Stop at every store for the search of the Chore Buddy (that copper wire scrubbing tool that has become rare with the price of copper soaring), and then to Jim's Deli to eat a sandwich as big as your head.

Really. What were they thinking. A small country could live off this sandwich.

But what made the day special were the castles in the sky. Huge billowing white clouds against a stark cyan blue clear sky. Hundreds of them. Filling the sky with soft ever-changing shapes. Some had grey bottoms. Some would wisp away in the breeze. Layer after layer of these white wonders drifting across the day.

And finally home. Exhaustion. Sports, news, a couple of bottles of Cabernet sauvignon, headphones, music....and then sleeping in a chair.

Only to awake at 4 am. Hat on the floor, glasses on the floor, television on without sound, headphones around my neck, computer on. It's pitch black except for the catoid ray tube reflections.

Straighten up, place your eyes back in the socket, grab a flashlight, and walk up to the back door.

The house is silent except for the whir of the multiple fans and air conditioner. Stretch out on the disheveled bed, wallet and keys still in your pockets, shoes on. Close your eyes.

Beep goes the watch. Light is flickering through the bamboo covered window. 6 am. Another sunrise. Time to start over again.

Just another day in just another life.

Space to Maneuver

Riding home on a hot night out in the middle of the street, monster mobile machines whizzing by, their mirror brushing my head, while ever looking forward for the parked machines and the swinging doors.

Give the monsters space, for any battle with the metal monsters will be a lost engagement.

Be patient. There is plenty of time to maneuver around the behemoths with their racks and fins standing head and shoulder tall. Blocking the sun. Give them room to graze and weave through the concrete jungle.

Even in the grocery, if I am too closely followed, I speed ahead or even turn down a different isle to get away.

Everyone needs some personnel space. Space to maneuver.

Paying Your Bills or Paying Your Dues

We all pay our bills. Otherwise we are out on the street.

We pay in the full payment, minimum payments, just a little, or charge it to another bill.

And the bills keep coming. Water, electricity, gas, food, heat.... all the material necessities we require to live the good life.

And we budget to maintain these necessities in check. And when the bills increase, we worry about our budget. We adjust. And somehow, we luck out and the bills are paid.

Do we do the same thing with our lives?

When a "bill" is due or a crisis arises, do we handle it? Pay it off? Charge it for next time? Take a minimal payment and wait for it to return?

Many of us have paid our dues. Emotional. Physical. Psychological. Mental.

But the bills keep coming. They never go away. They will be there do our graves, and beyond.

Just in case you think I was kidding...

Where were you in 1974?

The 1974 Cherry Blossom Music Festival was supposed to have been two days of fun in the sun at Richmond City Stadium.

Quarter-page ads in the Richmond Times-Dispatch announced that a Saturday concert on April 27 was to run "from noon'til moon" and feature the Steve Miller Band, Boz Scaggs, Dr. John and other groups. The next day's lineup included "soul sounds" by Mandrill, Kool & the Gang and the Funkadelics.

"Plenty of music, plenty of space to stretch out on the grass . . . and NO HASSLES," promised ads. To rock concertgoers of the 1970s, "no hassles" meant "no police." The appeal of minimal security was a concert promoter's dream-come-true for maximizing ticket sales to young people.

The advertising campaign worked. An estimated 14,000 turned out for the festival's first day. By the time music got under way shortly after noon, the ads had brought people from as far away as Pennsylvania. Despite the "no-hassles" promise, 24 uniformed policemen and 13 officers with police dogs were visible throughout the stadium. And as the day wore on, the presence of plainclothes officers became apparent.

All went smoothly until mid-afternoon. A plainclothes officer with gun drawn tried to drag a shirtless man from the stands after arresting him on a drug charge. "Kids in the stands and on the field were pelting the cop with whatever they could get their hands on," a witness told The Times-Dispatch. "The cop was forced to let the guy go."

The hostility between police and about 1,000 of the crowd grew palpable after the first arrest. When another arrest occurred shortly after 3 p.m., "Youths in the stands rushed at the officers and attacked them, fists flailing," reported The Richmond News Leader. Beer bottles rained on the fleeing officers.

Police retreated into a brick stadium building and remained barricaded while awaiting reinforcements. Outside, what had become a rampaging mob turned to city vehicles parked nearby. The mob vandalized cars with whatever was available -- fists, boots, and metal trash cans. Vehicles were set afire, and the destruction progressed to stadium property.

Two busloads of about 100 state and city police officers wearing helmets and carrying riot sticks descended on the stadium by 5:30 p.m. "Police fought the troublemakers with riot gear, police dogs, tear gas and officers mounted on horses," The Times-Dispatch said. Police regained control by sundown, but an unknown number of concertgoers not taking part in the disturbance were injured by riot-stick-wielding officers. Bill Wasson, a News Leader reporter covering the violence, was among those attacked by police.

In the riot's aftermath, police reported 11 injured officers and about 150 charges filed against an estimated 90 people. Most charges were for drug possession, destruction of property and assaulting police officers. The second day's concert was canceled. A citywide ban of large-scale, outdoor rock concerts remained in force for the next three years.

The festival's promoter accused city officials of reneging on promises to ignore marijuana use. But City Manager William J. Leidinger, Public Safety Director Jack M. Fulton and Richmond Commonwealth's Attorney Aubrey M. Davis Jr. denied any agreements.

They said the "no-hassles" ads had made them expect trouble. "Conferences were held and Police Bureau decisions were discussed," said a Times-Dispatch report. Among the decisions was strict enforcement of drug laws. Alcohol violations generally were ignored, explained an unidentified police official, because drinking was "more socially acceptable than smoking marijuana."

Others disagreed with the tactics used. A letter from a former policeman published in the May 2 Times-Dispatch that year made the case that those in charge of maintaining order at the concert shared guilt with the lawbreakers. "A few simple misdemeanor arrests were not worth the resultant melee," the ex-officer wrote.

I made the ad. And no one was concerned about what was in the trucking frog's hand.

Tush

The bottom, derriere, hinny, tush, butt.

I've always been fascinated by the female physic. Look, I'm a child of the 50's and that is what we were taught. Movie stars, Playboy bunnies, pin ups, even naughty movies and photos. And always it has been the bosom. That was the key for years. The bigger the breast, the more attention the male gender gave the female gender. It was a standard to strive for.

But in recent years, I've noticed the tush. And there are some whoppers out there. But occasionally I get a glimpse at a small, tight, well rounded tush. Thank you Wrangler.

Unfortunately for me at my age, it is usually on a young lass of high school or college age. Usually a small waf sashaying down the walk. My my, how that works on the male libido.

A healthy tush makes the world go round with a warm smile and a smooth touch.

Bunnies in the yard

It's nice to live in a quiet neighborhood. Particularly if you can have bunnies in the yard.

Tall grass hides in the front of the house acts as a nursery for the little grey ears. And the alley is full of clover, so they run through the yard. Sleep in the bamboo, hop over the skurring chipmunks, white bunny tails in the air.

I don't remember when I started seeing them, a few years ago, but through my travels Saturday, I must have seen 20, 4 in my yard. I would come back from an errand and there at the gate was a little fuzzy face chomping on the clover. It would jump through the pickets and run along the fence, or turn and go into a neighbor's yard. Next trip out, there it was again.

Bunnies don't do much. The eat, sleep and make BB poop. But it does feel like a forest when you have bunnies in the yard.

Of course the forest feeling includes racoons and possums and the occasion fox or deer. Other inhabitants of my neighborhood include big hair man who wears dresses, tall chinese guy with a broken leg and a grocery chart, black man in hairnet and white coat, armless and legless man cutting his grass, crazy eye bike policital fanatic, purple coated old lady with lipstick all over her face,.... the list goes on and on.

Maybe it's not a forest, maybe it's a jungle out there.

Did you blog today?

or did you work so hard you didn't have time?

Sex

The term defines what our gender is.

The word also describes an aggressive act between two people.

The performance intended to create, also dominates.

The action can be assertive, forceful, and physically demanding.

The combination of love and tenderness do not come into play with the actual activity.

The role of the two participants has been structured from years of trial and error.

And each generation strives to grow up and achieve it.

With little knowledge of the consequences

A sudden moment of ecstasy quickly fades to the harsh reality.



I wanted to use this word for people searching.

Words to Live by

Information is not knowledge

Knowledge is not wisdom

Wisdom is not truth

Truth is not beauty

Beauty is not love

Love is not music

Music is THE BEST . . .

thank you Frank.

Where are all the flags?

OK all you American citizens. It's the fourth of July 2008. Where are all the flags?

Don't you remember we are at war. A war against terrorism. A war to protect our freedom from the bad guys who might drop a plane on your head.

So what happened. Where are all those magnetic flags that were on every gas guzzling SUV? Stored in some warehouse after flying off to the side of a highway? There was a great marketing plan.

As a holiday goes, I heard a few fire crackers, saw the bombs bursting in air at the ball park, and saw a few joggers, but very, very few flags. Where are all the patriots?

I did my fair share. I burnt meat on a grill.

But I have not been one to show false patriotism to a government to which I pay a lot of money to keep a standing army to protect me. Of course the government takes a lot of that money for other stuff, not as important. And it's the best we got.

So go out and buy a flag (to help the economy) and wave it for freedom.

What are you doing for a 3 day weekend?

Going for a walk?

Washing the car?

Digging in the dirt?

Grilling hot dogs?

Talking to the neighbors?

Driving to the beach?

Washing clothes?

Playing with the dog?

Writing a friend?

Singing a song?

Running down a hill?

Watching television?

Drawing a picture?

Moving rocks?

Dining out?

Going to the gym?

Cleaning the pond?

Taking a photograph?

Caring for a relative?

Feeding the homeless?

Drinking too much?

Having a fight?

Seeing a shrink?

Climbing a tree?

Shooting off fireworks?

Slamming a door?

Gritting your teeth?

Playing some music?

Cutting the grass?

Cleaning your gun?

Sailing a boat?

Fishing on a dock?

Taking a swim?

Churning ice cream?

or

just hanging out?

Friends

Someone emotionally close.

Somebody who trust and is fond of another.

Somebody who thinks well of or is on good terms with somebody else.

An ally, or somebody who is not an enemy.

A defender or supporter of a cause, group, or principle.

A patron of a charity or institution.

A member of the Religious Society of Friends, called Quakers.

Is it easy to make friends? It is easier if you walk about smiling.

Someone stops you and says, "What's so damn funny?"

The opportunity to strike up a conversation. Find a topic. Maybe make a friend.

I've grown easy with conversation and can walk into a room of strangers and walk out with a new friend. This was not always the case.

For a good portion of my early years, I had "friends" who were in my classes, "friends" who went to my club, and "friends" my parents pushed upon me. But most were acquaintances who I have lost touch with years ago.

But there was a group I met in high school who I continue to converse with every so often. I believe these guys were around me when life was changing, so they were my support group during tumultuous times. I call these guys friends in a different way.

Recently the term "friend" was used by a person I had not seen in many, many years. So I had to go back and exam what that word meant to me.

I realize I don't have any close friends today, no girl friend, no best friend, just passing people in my life. That's not bad, just a realization. Trust, companionship, ally, being amongst friends.

I've known all kinds of people, some better, some worst, but never kept a true friend.

FRIENDS (cml, 1965)

I've got a hunger in my heart, for companionship

I've got a thirst in my soul for something new

The old was good enough, but...

Friends, friend, gather round

Let me tell you of my problems today

I'm feeling blue and lonely

Then, I shall be on my way

I could have woke the whole wide world with a proclamation

I was on could #9, but all has past

As if once was enough to...

Friends, friend, gather round

Let me tell you of my problems today

I'm feeling blue and lonely

Then, I shall be on my way

My love for her was never a crime I must go now

It's a love of a man-feeling fine I walk alone now

Trying to hold the tears from my...

Friends, friend, gather round

Let me tell you of my problems today

I'm feeling blue and lonely

Then, I shall be on my way

Dedicated to: Joel Marion Dexter, David Newton Gant, Stephen Maynard Leed, Arthur Roland Spencer, and John Michael West.

Who do you believe?

When it comes to news, what are your sources? Newspapers? Radio? Television? Cable News? Magazines? Internet?

Internet as a news source??

But of course, this is the new age. There's piles of stuff out there called "news"... and some of it is true.

But who do you believe?

The talking head sitting behind a desk reading a teleprompter with the half hour of national hits. How about the screaming radio preaching it's take on a story. Newspapers and magazines have lots of facts, but you have to stop what you are doing to read through all those words. And each has it's own slant. Sometimes even editorial agendas.

Or you can get a snippet of the "news" from one of your social network. A video from YouTube emailed to your iPod. Or a text message in real time from your best buddy on a breaking even he captures on his cell phone camera. Or you can stumble onto a website that matches your opinion. Save it as a favorite and go there often to reinforce your beliefs.

So when the news is presented to you.... who do you believe?

An unknown talking head or one of your friends?