‘57 PLYMOUTH (Stomping the Savoy)

 

I’d been anticipating my eighteenth birthday longing to purchase a first set of wheels. From grade nine on I considered hundreds of automobiles-even devised a system for evaluating prospects. I determined my first ride must not only be graded road worthy but swift, chrome enhanced, charming, luxurious, a babe catcher with sizeable enough floor space to house my twelve-inch sod-stompers. The demanding search required hundreds of hours spent snooping around used car lots and garages while sucking back six packs of domestic beer with the resident grease monkeys.

 The crew inhaled a daily blend of tobacco smoke, gas, lubricants, unspecified toxins, and fuming body odor. Conversation would be periodically interrupted with the launch of some unspecified throat projectile usually crash landing far side a grease pit topside one of the many hubcaps forgotten among oily rags and broken metal.  Any case, these guys knew the difference between a bona fide street lemon and a precious limousine. I trusted them.

 People around these parts call me Junior. Everyone had large families. We had twelve running around, all ages, sisters and brothers from seventeen to forty years old. The forty year old had been married twice and put on so many pounds dad thought he’d be her personal trainer – get her in shape and marry off again. Never happened.

 I had a given name but no one ever used it – besides Howland was an awful name to give a kid. I asked dad why I got stuck with that silliness – he would say “Howlin’ Wolf,” down and dirty, baby, ride with me in my Cadillac.” What the fuck did that mean? So, I went with Junior.

 By the day of my eighteenth birthday I had saved enough coin to pay down on a moderately priced rehab. I banked six hundred dollars setting bowling pins at ‘Mercy Be Lanes’. There’s something to be said about the game of bowling; it doesn’t really qualify a sport, mostly a reasonable excuse to forget television and down greasy fries. No more than that. It was also the best view of women in tight slacks stretching those curves.

 Before early nine I meet with my financial advisor Rodney Stokes, technical assistants Hubert Tenafly and Lucious Sampson. The home team had a lead on a fair shape ‘56 Thunderbird north of Shelbyville, Indiana belonging to this retired Pillsbury plant foreman. Rumour says he once anointed himself town gigolo and carried on like he lived in Hefner’s Playboy Mansion until the body vengefully erupted in incurable patchy scales. Hearty blemishes and a cool ride don’t compliment one another.

 Rodney swore a man in this condition would probably sell the wheels for less than a song maybe even a nursery rhyme. He reasoned a man with a bad skin condition probably shuffles about in good light avoiding contact with most humans especially the opposing sex, making him susceptible to low balling. I’ve never had much experience negotiating big-ticket items so giving Rodney the go ahead seemed responsible to me. Besides if the color wasn’t just right, we could always spray paint.

 The four of us travel the interstate past main street Shelbyville to this farmhouse just outside town. Fenced in property, which looked as if it ran for miles gave a hint the original occupants once had substantial holdings. 

 A white cottage style house barely visible behind a yard stocked with broken farm implements, six feet of overgrowth, a couple rusted trucks, a humongous motor, possibly belonging to a locomotive circa 1900, underfed cow, busted swing set and a toilet, not in public use, stood silent some fifty feet or so off the main highway.

 Tenafly eases the Buick onto the gravel roadside. Hubert loves spinning his old man’s wheels. In fact, he acts like we’re dignitaries summoned to a state function.

 “Will you look at this place? This man has no pride,” Luscious says in a disdainful tone.

 “Pride? How can a man have any pride when his pecker’s covered in blisters,” laughs Hubert.

 Luscious smacks the dashboard before releasing a chest-ripping shriek.

 “I’m serious man, I bet he spends all day yanking at his shorts and dropping ice cubes on his balls.”

 “Who gives a shit, we’re here to steal a car not bring the cure,” I say.

 Hubert is a big sight all six feet four inches of him, maybe even two inches taller in his pork pie hat and all of two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Luscious, although not quite as tall, can load a whole prefab house into a couple transport trucks in less than an hour. Rodney’s somewhere in between. Together, they make the mighty ‘don’t fuck with me’ tandem. I love hanging with these guys. They know cars, bartering and messing with heads.

 I stand a tall 5’8” in boots and skin smooth and pretty like a chorus girl. I was born with muscle – God give muscle – don’t even need work-out. Mama says I’m beyond handsome in fact she says I’m charmed. I practice my smile. I know every corner of my mouth and how to control. Girls tell me they get jealous – no man should be this pretty.

 “Junior, how do you want to approach this? You want the two of us go in first, then you come in and shut things down?” says Rodney. 

 “No need to rough the man up Rodney, I’m buying a car. This ain’t a shakedown,” I say.

  Rodney tosses me this sad-eyed glance, liked I’d just stole all the fun out of the day.

 As we make way to the front porch all kinds of sharp bristle like things stab at the skin.

 "A mother fucker could die taking my blood without asking,” says Rodney shaking a clump of freeloading thorns from his shirtsleeve.

 “Look man, I’ll knock first and introduce us. That way “bad skin” won’t suspect you’re here to rob his ass,” I say. “This dude have a name?” asks Hubert.

 I dig inside a narrow shirt pocket and retrieve a torn slip of paper. “Jeremy Goines!”

 “Jerry’s groin, you say we’re going to meet Jerry’s groin?” laughs Rodney.

 After a few raps about the screen door I see this lumbering spectacle advance from the background.

 “Yeah, what can I do for you?”

 “Are you Mr. Goines, we’re here to see about the 56 T-Bird you’ve got for sale, “asks Rodney.”

 Goines stays put some three feet out of view. “Who says I’ve got a car for sale?”

 “Bob Benko at Downtown Ford,” says Tenafly.

 “Benko?" You know Benko? I tell you what, come on back of the house and have a look for yourself. She needs a bit of work, otherwise she as coy as a virgin.”

 Goines no sooner turns away when Rodney smacks the back of my head like some caffeine-jacked linebacker. “Virgin? We’ve got this silly ass hillbilly?”

 As we cut around the rear of the house Goines appears in slippers and cotton housecoat. The poor fellow’s head was covered in big red cracking scales. I could see why he chose to seclude himself.

 “Come on in the barn boys. ‘Ladybird’ has a couple months of chicken shit stacked on her. I’m sure it didn’t seep through and butter her natural skin. I covered her securely.”

 “You know this was once my favorite ‘nookie’ chariot. You know Charlton Heston could have ridden this baby right up to Cleopatra’s front door. She’d have bent over backwards for him… Ha! Ha! Get it?”

 Rodney rolls his eyes then stuffs a finger down his throat like he was expelling the statement.

 “I couldn’t keep the “hootie” from jumping the leather. Sure will miss ‘Ladybird’,” says Goines. “All I had to do was glide up and down Main real slow and the “hootie” would flop about the hood until it was near ready to pass out and I’d watch it fall helplessly inside the ‘love cage.’ It was just that easy.”

 “So, what you’re saying is you’ve got a big problem with barn owls up here,” says a sarcastic Luscious. “Barn owls? Where you boys been living-in an igloo?”

 I could sense Rodney was getting ready to rag the man so I signal him stay cool.

 “Sir, what do you mean by “hootie,” asks Hubert, knowing all along what he meant.

 “I can see you boys are quite young and less experienced so I’ll try to explain without giving a doctoral on the subject,” says Goines.

 “Man, what are you talking about? We ain’t damn stupid. You ain’t never got laid in your life. Look at yourself,” screams Rodney. “Ain’t nobody gonna fuck a messed up torso like yours - suck on this.”

 A deafening silence blankets the barn.

 “I think you boy’s better leave,” says Goines.

 No one moves.

 “I’m sorry boys, but I think it’s in the best interest of all of us, that you leave as you came,” Goines reiterates.

 I assess the situation, the missed opportunity.

 “Listen Mr. Goines, Rodney didn’t mean anything by that. We came here to buy a car not talk sex. Rodney’s a devout Christian and gets offended by that kind of talk.”

 Goines stumbles about like he’s going to close up then pauses.

 “I tell you what. A good Christian boy sitting in my ‘Ladybird’s’ lap would do my mamma proud. Did I tell you about her?”

 “Mr. Goines, we don’t have that kind of time. Hubert borrowed dad’s car and he’s expecting us back within a couple hours.”

 Goines grips the speckled tarp and swiftly yanks it free sending hundreds of what look like shit dried croutons into the air unveiling the most beautifully crafted piece of modern machinery eyes had ever witnessed. Two-toned blue coupe; pastel on top and deep sea blue below the molding.

 “Let me put the top down so you can peek inside. You’ll never forget this,” says Goines.

 Goines slides inside, unlatches the roof exposing the immaculate white leather interior.

 “She loved me more than any woman,” he starts. “I picked her out myself – she was playing hard to get but I knew she was mine the moment the headlights turn on. There was a spark in her ignition and soft interior – she laid there like first love begging my advances. I took her down the highway, along the river, out by the cemetery and seriously I could see hands wave beneath the ground. Everybody recognize her – her fury, the tango – the kick in her rear end – she’s all women.”

See what I mean by “hootie? It just can’t resist the feel of luxury.”

 Oooooooooooooooh!”

 The three of us couldn’t muster a response. Not even Rodney who’s never short on wise cracks or profound observation.

 “Turn her over Goines, let’s hear her moan,” Luscious says dropping a cynical glance our way.

 “You’re not a fan of the missionary position it takes it.”

 'Missionary? What kind of talk is that?. We’re not breaking bread together,” says Sampson.

 Goines gently massages the passenger seat then reaches for the rearview mirror.

 “It’s a tragedy the Lord cursed me like this. Can hardly stand looking back at myself. I wish I could see the clean face of that man who was full of life and loved women like they were beautiful things. ‘Ladybird’ brought me so much pleasure made me feel more important that I need be. You know what I mean?”

 I could tell by the silence none of us had a clue what he meant.

 “Why don’t you just put the key in the ignition and let us hear Ladybird beg for her lover man,” says Stokes.

 “It’s not that easy big man. You never leave a battery in a car unless you plan to use it. When the looks began to slow I knew it was time to park Ladybird. A man has to look just right for a pretty lady you understand.”

 “I tell you what, you show me some cash and we’ll hook her up? You fellows agree with what I’m saying,’ says Goines. “Now, which one of you has the cash?”

 Rodney steps towards the priceless vehicle, slides two fingers across the hood and slowly paws his way back of the sleek frame ignoring financial considerations.

 “Isn’t she something? I bet you never let the “hootie’ spill the jack juice in here?”

 “You’re right about that, I never let anyone eat or drink or dip the stick in my Ladybird but me,” says Goines.

 That was Hubert’s cue to inspect under the hood.

 “Pop her open “doctor love” and let‘s take her temperature.”

 Goines frees the hood allowing Hubert a clear view then slowly climbs to the outside of the vehicle.

 “This baby can sail, check this engine out. 327?”

 Goines doesn’t even bother answering.

 “Hey pretty boy…what’ll they call you again…Junior?”

“ Yeah man!”

 “Why don’t you situate yourself in Lady’s lap?”

 That was the best invitation I’d had all day.

 Once behind the wheel, I could see why Goines was passionate about his ride. You don’t touch too many steering wheels that feel like a woman’s grip and look pearly white or sit comfortably in an interior made from soft leather.

 My face looked like the right face in the rearview mirror. The rich tan skin from a month of laboring in the fields stood out against the blue and white tones slightly out of focus between the back seat and tail. There was no doubt in my mind that the rightful heir should be.

 While my assistants assess the hardware I thought I should get a quote on the price.

 “So Goines, how much you offering her up for.”

 “How much you willing to pay?”

 Suddenly, Rodney’s head appears from underneath the hood.

 “Hey, Junior why don’t you come here and have a look at this engine. I think it needs a serious overhaul - let me and Jeremy negotiate alone.”

 It didn’t take much coaching to get me on side.

 “Negotiate? You must be a businessman Mr. Rodney?”

 “People say so.”

 “How much you willing to pay to drive ‘Ladybird’ out of here?”

 Rodney rubs his chin then scratches his wiry-like hair.

 “Well Mr. Goines in the condition she’s in I say about six hundred dollars.”

 Goines pauses then walks near Hubert and myself.

 “Businessman, my ass! Why don’t we shut her down boys and you kids get back on the highway? Tell me, does it still cost a dime to ride that ‘speckled horsey’ at the shopping mall?”

 Goines climbs inside pulls the roof forward and snaps the convertible top in place while the three of us look on like fools.

 “I thought I told you kids to get packing. This is a man’s car and it comes at a man’s price. I’m sure you could find a nice Corvair that’ll suit your needs,’ says Goines.

 Timing is everything. Rodney looks as if he met his superior.

 “I’ll tell you what, since none of you have any business skills I’ll give you my price…. six thousand dollars.”

 “Six thousand dollars,” screams Rodney, “I could buy a mother fucking house and an acre of land for that.”

 “Maybe you should consider doing just that. You look like a big time sweet potato farmer.’

 “You mother fucking head of crab meat…I ought to smack that arrogant puss of your face.”

 I sensed it was time to use better judgment and abandon negotiation, if you want to call it that.

 “Thanks, but no thanks Mr. Goines, sorry we wasted so much of your time,” I say while pushing Hubert and Rodney towards the backyard.

 “I could really smack the asshole,” says Rodney, “but I don’t want to infect my fist.”

 “I know, I know…no need to have this place swarming with cops. Let’s get out of here.”

 We were nearing the front porch when a voice interrupts from behind.

“I’ll take four thousand. You can pay a thousand down and come back with real financing,” says Goines.

 We continue walking, when Goines butts in with another offer. “Look, I can’t go any lower than three thousand, so give me the six hundred now and find twenty-four hundred and we’ve got a deal.”

 The revised figures catch us by surprise. After inspecting the rare beauty it was apparent the car would have greater value down the line and would be a wise investment.

 “Goines, you’ve got a deal,” shouts Rodney. “We’ll be back in a couple hours with the down payment and some kind of guarantee.”

 "Guarantee? Listen boys, I’m not looking for a guarantee; I want the financing on this to be done quickly. Cash!”

 We sprint back to Hubert’s Buick then race down the interstate. During the drive back we conceive a method for clearing the debt over two years. I knew my old man would sign a loan for me. I was good for it. Besides, I let him earn interest off my earnings the past couple years. He still had the six hundred in his account.

 It was near impossible to contain my excitement. The home team pit stopped at the garage and spread the news. The look on these grease monkeys faces was one of awe. These guys knew stealing a T-Bird in even less than satisfactory condition was well worth the investment.

 Pops was late getting home, leaving me near panic. I was afraid another slick middle-aged “hootie bagger” would slip Goines a couple extra C notes then off he rides with the wind massaging his receding hairline, ascot waving ceremoniously at passer-bys.

 I’d down three maybe for short colas and was about to clip the lid on another when I hear a car pull up.

 Something in the sound of the engine clued me it wasn’t necessarily dad. Before I make it to the front door I hear a familiar voice, “Come on out here Junior, I’ve got something baaaaaaaaaaaaad to show you.”

 Bad? I just saw bad and bad was real good.

 “Come on Junior, what’s holding you skinny ass up?” I quickly pop the screen door and set my eyes on this huge white metallic invader.

 “Dad, you’ve got a new car…I mean you’ve got a new old car. What are you doing with this?”

 You had to know the old man. There were subtle ways in which he conveyed personal satisfaction. Today it was two hands on hips, eyes fixed straight on me, and that look of someone catching a three hundred pound rock bass. You could tell he scored big!

 “She’s all yours Junior. She goes anywhere you want to go.”

 The statement hit me like a bad case of influenza. The thought of steering the wheel of this ghastly tanker was frightening. Memories of “Ladybird’s” long curvaceous figure, feminine blue hues, leather upholstery, and manly-like engine rip through the back of my heart. This beast is a man-woman.

 “Junior, come and have a look at this,” says dad. “It’s a 57 Plymouth Savoy. Check it out. It’s still got the original air foam seat cushions, armrest, dual sun visors, and V-6 engine. You’ll save a lot on gas.”

 I was too mortified to respond in kind.

 “You’re girlfriends will love this. Think of all the places you can get to. Hell, you could pack a hundred lunches in this baby,’ says dad.

 Baby, this was no baby, the thing shouldn’t have ever been born. Maybe it just arrived in the condition it was in. Thank you Detroit.

 “Cost only four hundred and fifty. I put four new tires on, that leaves fifty in the bank for gas. I suppose you want to take her for a spin? What’ll you think?”

 When dad has that keen look in his eye I knew there was know way I’d consider hurting him although I was thinking seriously of putting the Savoy down.

 “Catch! It’s all yours. You want to take a ride up to the A&W? We could go together. Dammit, I’m hungry”

 A&W? Is he for real? The place is humming with GTOs, Corvettes, Mustangs, not to mention, classic roadsters. How the hell would I explain my presence situated in puking lime green interior and grossly out of fashion tail fins?

 “Dad, I think I’ll take a pass for now, maybe give it a whirl after dark.”

 The old man shot me a sober look, and then dropped the keys in the driver side window. “Do what you want,’ he says before passing through the front door, “You’ll never get a better deal.”

 I felt like shit. Not only had I inherited the un-cool hog on the planet but I’d also knocked the joy off the old man’s face. How could I go from a moment of such elation to the pits of despair?

 Truthfully, I was fairly content to borrow the old man’s Olds without inviting much grief. Christ sake, it was like everyone understood it wasn’t my choice. How the hell was I going to explain this?

 The Plymouth sat for the next three days as I worked my way other side of grief. Redbone and Stokes must have called sixty to seventy times begging me to

Get my ass back up to Shelbyville. I just stayed out of view.

 Dad didn’t say much. I could tell he knew I had a good deal of thinking to do.

A car can speak a lot about a person, or at least I was led to believe that. If I were to drive a sleek bright red convertible that clocked sixty in less than six seconds and possess adequate to handsome looks, I’d get respect and plenty female companions. Now, if my features rate less than adequate near troll then I’d be bagging more groceries than wenches even with a fine ride. My case wasn’t about attraction. It was about progress and status.

 A stud has got to have the right trappings to express his magnetism and convince nubile ‘studettes’ of his unique gifts. The mirror has always been friendly and honest with me.

 Late evening day three I decide to make peace with my new possession and run it outside town for a test drive. There were a couple back roads late arriving farmers travel after nine - perfect for driving my shotgun bride around.

 I caught her napping and collecting a layer of spent leaves near the carport.

As I approach, I could sense no animosity on her part as if she was standing around in her wedding dress. Once I twisted the key and climbed inside, I got this feeling I was entering an unfurnished two-bedroom apartment. Plenty room up front for a driver, three women and room for four additional shapely body trophies in the back seat. I could start my own shuttle service, “Bitchhound!”

 The V-6 turns over quite easily.  No coughs or stutters as I ease her down the driveway onto the blacktop highway. I contemplate jamming the pedal to the floor, out pacing the oncoming rush of cars. Instead I gently feed her the required dosage and slip gradually inside. 

 As I depress the accelerator it becomes obvious the V-6 would be far more effective propelling a pushcart. Let’s just say in a road test she might clock sixty in around two minutes.

 It really doesn’t matter what you drive at night when the dark breeze crosses through open windows and the smell of cut grass and screaming locust mess with the senses. The maples, birches, spruces all breathing and spitting new air, the land freshly tilled, and sound of the last tractor pulling behind a barn makes you feel like loving everything, in or out of sight. I guess this is why farm people always smile.

 I adjust the rearview mirror and have one long look at my perfect face and give God the thumbs up then look again. The mirror is cracked – a piece missing near the right bottom edge rob part of my chin making me look weak and frog like. I just talked back at it and swore it wouldn’t be here by next morning.

 Two hours latter I park her safely under a familiar row of trees. The next moments pass in solitude before I show a hint of emotion. I debated how I’d tell her she was my first without committing to a long-term relationship. It wasn’t even good sex, but more like a trial companionship. 

The following morning I decide to examine her from fins to front. I thought if I gave her a diagnostic going over and found disease under the hood I could convince dad quickly return and get the cash back.

 As sun clears the slits in the blinds I get a call from Luscious.

 “You got the money,” he asks.

 Oh man, how can I break the news?

 “Man, I got a car – a fucking white tractor with green upholstery dad bought with my money,” I respond.

 “No, no, no – we need that cash man, this is a T Bird dude – girls don’t cruise on tractors or any other farm implement.”

 “I know, I know, but its dad – what am I going to say to him – he was just thinking a deal is a deal and to him this is a great deal.”

 “This is terrible, we are in a crisis here – we need your coin or the deal is going to die.”

 I blow Luscious off and decide to drive back up to Goines and see if I can convince him to lower the price and possibly purchase as a committee.

 It was late in the day and I’m growing accustomed to the stiff feel of the steering wheel and tank like size of the chasse.

 About a mile from Shelbyville I see a fire truck and six or seven state police cars all crowded around a pond only a few feet off the interstate. I could see a tow truck pulling something remotely familiar from the swampy nesting grounds.

 I decide to veer off the highway and park.

 Hells bells – its Goine’s T Bird all covered in thick branches, vines, and decaying matter. Up the path a ways I see two ambulance guys loading a body bag in back of an emergency vehicle.

I get back in the car and speed away and call Rodney who in turn notifies the syndicate.

 Next day, Hubert calls with the news – Goines was drunk and belligerent and in great pain and decided to make a hasty exit. One can speculate, but how does one read this stuff after face to face conversation.

 “Looks like he left a note planning his escape,” says Hubert. “I’m thinking we’re in a better negotiation position.”

 "What – I’m not driving a dead man’s car,” I respond – besides I’ve got a rolling tomb to consider.

 “No, look here – I bet we could score it for three or four hundred dollars, says Hubert.

 “You know my man, you will have to excuse me – I have a date...”

 “A date in that tank – see it my way – that’s an ugly means of transportation and the only thing suitable would be a matching young woman, now the T Bird would bring you to the top where you could pick among only the rarest and most desirable.”

 Dad came home from work just past six and first thing he did was ran two fingers along the skin of the hood of the Savoy and smiled – “Isn’t she lovely.”

 “Oh, by the way son – heard about your pal changing lanes.”

 “What lanes?”

 “You know cashing out!. You know he left a note.”

 “Seriously, what’d it say?”

 “Jim Hardy the coroner told me he placed a curse on the car and anyone from that day on who sat in it.”

 “What?”

 “I’m serious son, the man was into some voodoo shit, some kind of weird cult stuff, that’s why his skin was paining him; you lucked out. Besides, he’d a never sold it to you anyway – he’s been pulling this scam the past twenty years. If your pals continue to pursue someone’s going to pay a price, one that will make a dead man stand up and applaud.”

 I open the Savoy’s driver’s side door – slide in and squeeze the wheel and drift into a fog when suddenly the passenger door springs open.

 “She sure is pretty – why you sitting here wasting my time. I’m hungry!”

 Jenny Mars! Yes…

The moral of the story? Jenny has no morals!

Mongoose in a Box

Pops displayed an unpredictable mix of emotions; from extreme bouts of cold silence, impatience with those he stamped undesirables, moments of fierce rage and weeks playing the good humor man. We never knew which one would be present at the dinner table. He harbored a cargo of anger and a shipload of prejudice. Outside family hours he was a hit with men who entertained his sporting attitude, folksy politics, easy manner and rock solid positions on positions.

He viewed black Americans as the opposition even though he enjoyed their company; envied their musical talents. He viewed people on the left of the political landscape as the enemy - and himself - to the right of Goldwater - a place where imagined deadbeats were tethered to the electric chair and unceremoniously fried. Seriously, if he could have had a hand on the lever he would have pulled without mercy or consideration. These attributes don’t paint him a crusading zealot but more a man who lived by his own definitions and appraisals of others in an expanding world that seemed to be squeezing him farther to the edge - which brings me to a very honest and funny episode.

We were driving the back roads from Cincinnati, Ohio to Jeffersonville, Indiana after spending the day at the Cincinnati zoo, when we stop for gas. May heat charmed and family time with big dad a bit of fun unless you asked for a chilled Dr. Pepper. Let’s just say that was like asking for a down payment on a seaside estate in Malibu. Most times he’d buy one for himself. Occasionally we would suggest and he’d respond as if we were there to remind him of his thirst, then ignore – other times he’d quote the price, “that cost a nickel,” and buy one to be sampled between the two of us.

This was a classic old time service station with a feeble dog at the entrance lounging near a patch of crude oil, a few discarded fan belts, an old Packard on racks and a grease monkey hobbling underneath.

Pops goes to pay for the fill up and discovers a mysterious wooden box on the counter. The rectangular container looked out of place as though something alien was being detained for top secret government inspection.

Dad inquires, “You got an animal in there or something?”

The man behind the counter looks down, rubs his chin, lifts his ball cap and smears a mix of toxic oil and sweat lingering around his eyes and swipes upwards into his hair. The man had a nose christened by years of hard time with bottles of Johnny Walker Red.

“The only animal that can kill a King Cobra Mr.!,” says the attendant.

 “How’s that?’ dad inquires.

Brother Wayne and I close in and hover above and long study the interior, cushioned with a bed of sweet grass, a partially eaten carrot and a couple cotton balls.

“This boy kills deadly snakes – it’s a Mongoose – you only find them in India,” says the man.

“How’d you get it,” dad inquires.

“It’s complicated - there was this circus train come close by and a bunch of wild animals escape and we caught it near the garage out back. We just keeping him here until the folks from the zoo collect.”

By now my brain is in Marvin Perkin’s knapsack .. I’m thinking Wild Kingdom. Cobras? Snakes kill! Some even spit venom in your eyes. This is getting scary!

I had no idea how familiar pops was with India unless he thought the man meant Indiana but I knew dad watched plenty of television and had a passion for animals and shows that replayed lions munching on antelope.

“Why don’t you folks step over here and have a good look. I’ll coax him out of his hiding place,”says the man.

We levitate above and watch as a minute clump of fur disappears through a small mouse hole then slips into seclusion. This was the perfect pet cage for kitchen or front porch just big enough for a colony of gerbils.

Just as we’re lulled into a trance – "Whop!" A tail springs out - comes snapping like a whip downward and smacks dad across the face. Wayne and I run screaming for cover. Dad high jumps - trips over himself and nearly falls - mumbles a few words then looks around as if the rodent had escaped through the neighborhood.

“Where’d he go,” he asks.

Mr. Texaco busts into laughter nearly cracking his head on a jar of screws hanging from above. He continues laughing as if he just heard the funniest joke ever recited on Hee Haw.

Wayne and I slip back to discover the killer Mongoose was nothing but a tuff of fur dangling from a string. The both of us had made a hasty exit as dad was trying to retrieve his balance and come slithering back as laughter began to settle.

After recognizing a good punking we hung around nearly paralyzed by the event. The recap went on with emphasis on minute details repeated and replayed like breaking news on modern day cable television.

Dad for his part wasn’t leaving until he understood and memorized the construction of the gag box.

He had a dozen or so questions all measured in inches and decimal points.

The next hundred miles was a joyous celebration. Dad regurgitated every detail from start to finish and we howled like hungry wolves – then he’d rewind the story again.

Now, somewhere - maybe twenty miles outside Jeffersonville we’re sworn to an oath of secrecy. I’m calculating it was worth two Dr. Peppers.!

Late evening I catch pops with tools in hand and a pile of wood, cutting and sawing. By morning he was putting the final touches. Mother was distracted and held in custody somewhere near the front porch and church. I begin to suspect he was thinking of dropping this on her first, then make a move on the city populous.

A couple days pass when I hear the old man yell, “everybody in the kitchen – I’ve caught a mongoose.”

I’m sure mom hadn’t a clue what that was even though she was schooled in Wild Kingdom. I knew this because she watched him when television was on. I never knew if this was self-preservation or she liked watching the reflection off his bald head.

Pops lines mom up then begins the con. “This animal kills cobras – people die all the time in India.”OK..Mom scans the box then looks back at him mostly disinterested but loyal enough to entertain his quirks and hobbies.

"What’s it doing in our house,” she asks.

“You’re going to have to get in here closer,” he says.

Mom looks on suspecting he’s up to something. She’s lived through these set-ups before in fact she had to save him the night he ran afoul of the law Halloween 1950 when he spooked some neighborhood kids while running the back alley ways draped in a Nazi flag. I was too young to know the details but I remember seeing him enter the house in a panic. I know the police arrived and parents were pissed. I think they confiscated the flag but had no idea he had a closet full of splendidly carved French rifles from the revolution stashed along with his Winchester.

“Plap!” The funky little piece of tail springs upward - smacks mom like a bolt of lightning center face. She collapses nearly paralyzed by fear. Pops starts laughing uncontrollably.

Mom was a small diminutive woman with enough ice in her veins to halt global warming but with him she was pliable and gag worthy.

That evening the magic box sat dead center of the kitchen table charming the nearby decorative plastic fruit.

Wayne and I would play around with the string that manoeuvred the tail and try to make it move life like. We didn’t unlatch for fear the thing with loaded spring could crush a nose or jaw absent supervision.

A few nights pass when church folks mysteriously arrive.

Dad gave his usual sermon telling everyone Elvis was a three chord wonder and he knew four. He’d retrace a childhood chastised by poverty and his valiant efforts to confront and live an extra mile or two of the American dream. In his world hillbillies were dimwits and he was master and commander.

Wayne and I could almost recite verbatim.

After a bit of church banter - a few “aw hecks” .. dad strolls in with his box of laughs and places middle of the floor then goes into this elaborate dissertation on Indian culture and the ceremonial roll of poisonous snakes and flutes.

The religious folks from church were gentile and white – very white – this was Andy of Mayberry, the Edge of Night meets vanilla pudding and pound cake. Church folks spoke in soft tones and made one feel they could endure the most terminal ailments of the afflicted. I remember mom worry about a young child born with a hole in its heart. She made a daily pilgrimage to its bedside making sure there was a continuous stream of caring hands and faces.

Dad let all questioning pass before encouraging everyone gather around and study the slight movement inside. “Does it eat a lot – do you feed it mice – I see a lot of green stuff in there – is he hiding under it, does it bite people,” asks the preacher man.

“Bam!” Dad hits the switch and bodies go flying. A couple leap on the couch a couple dash from the room. There was screaming, crying and loads of eye popping terror.

Pops loved it. He couldn’t stop laughing. Of course us boys stood around basking in the old man’s insanity.

It took near an hour before conversation passed to – ‘get my coat Martha – see you in church.”

I think mother was in shock. I don’t know if she bought into the sudden draping folks were absorbing.

A few more days pass and dad shows after work. His life was all about plant protection and security. He walked building to building for thirty years locking and unlocking and chasing the occasional thief from Colgate Palmolive dump. I don’t think we ever purchased detergent or a bar of soap. The back porch was jammed with an infinite supply of both. Palmolive soap and its sister Camay was much like applying scented sandpaper to skin.

He arrives home just past three thirty with a tale to tell that tops all.

“I sprang the mongoose on the black men down by the dump – you should have seen their eyes jump out - big as cannonballs I tell you,” he says.” Then they say,  “King – you crazy – why don’t you hang around until …Hubert  gets here .. he’ll leave his drawers.” Dad does just that – he made a day of comedy and surprise for everyone – he became legend.

We knew the old man harbor deep prejudice but only when convenient. It wasn’t that he hated blacks -he just didn’t want to fall any farther below the poverty line than his memories of growing up. This was depression era fear – class warfare! A white man with a tenth grade education and a black man with a college degree were basically the same man or a least he convinced his alter ego they were on the same stage.  He was tended to by black families as a child and had fond memories but when you grow up near the economic bottom there always has to be someone below who can make you feel good about yourself – at least that’s what class structure is all about. He understood his dilemma and knew there weren’t many routes of escape.

He grew up in a house full of women – three sisters a mother and an absent father who died early on courtesy the ravages of alcohol.

Before the Great war he was care free and the funniest man walking the border between Kentucky and Tennessee but four years of combat robbed him of sleep and filled nights with reoccurring nightmares. He watched the Honeymooners – everything Jackie Gleason, Red Foxx, Flip Wilson as Geraldine and repeat the catchiest lines to anyone in listening distance. The mongoose in the box gave him a prop, something to make the world laugh on his terms – be that entertainer.

Every summer we’d make the journey to grandma Michelone’s farm in Williamsburg, Pennsylvania. For us kids it was the best experience in life and the only time we could break free of the tension.

The community nestled in the Allegheny Mountains was in an idyllic setting more storybook than real. This was big painterly landscape with dairy farms at the centre.

To get to Willamsburg you had to pass through Pittsburg before the bypass was built. Pittsburg was the home of Carnegie Steel. The sight of monster girders, orange colored sky, the blast furnaces and sound of pumping industry thrilled every time we got within viewing distance. The smell was overwhelming as was the reality the fresh water routes leading through the mountains downstream were slowly dying.

Just outside Pittsburg pops makes a pit stop for gas. Inside a black man stood smiling behind the counter. Dad exchanged a few pleasantries – told a few tales then fished the man in with the mongoose in the box drama. The man bought it.

A few moments pass and pops is lowering the back door to the Ford Fairlane station wagon , shoves luggage aside and places the box in middle. Thus begins the every evolving tale of cobras, flutes, deadly encounters, killings and capture. By now dad was so well prepared he had us hooked in suspense.

“Just get down where you can see it,” he says.

“What you got in there a rabbit – you feed it rabbit?” the man asks.

"No, he likes mice and stuff like that,” replies dad – “but he prefers snakes.”

“Snakes? I don’t like snakes – he can have them all,” he says.

Just as the last word was leaving his lips dad pops the lever and – “Bang!” The tail flips and hits him dead center of his cap. Off he runs smack into a fence then starts climbing. No escape. Pops bowls over and ties himself up in a laughing frenzy. We stand back and giggle and wonder where this is leading.

“Mr. you crazy – you take your joke box and fake snake killer and move on. I may need to see a doctor ‘cause of you.”

Dad calms him down and starts to explain how he built and gives him the facts behind the traveling show. The man ponders then decides he should build one - leave on the counter and nab a few passing tourist.

The ride through the mountains – through Altoona, Hollidaysburg and past Canoe Creek into Williamsburg was always a thrill. You knew twenty miles or so beyond town the smell of the paper plant was going to sting the nose and the sight of dairy farms elicit an inner scream of joy.

Dad wasted no time uncrating the magic laugh box.

It was noon and the basement of grandma’s house was crammed with family – uncle’s Joe, Medie, Roger, Jerry all football players were out talking one another. You want to hear laughter? This was big heart family who roared. One would pay a hefty admission to experience first-hand the earth rocking joy these brothers brought each time they were together.

On this occasion a best friend and football star was in the house, Galen Hall. Hall was born in Altoona and after the death of his father was raised by his grandparents in Williamsburg. He would play quarterback under Rip Engle’s at Penn State giving the Nittany Lions two seasons 1960-61 to celebrate bold victories. He would later join the pro league Washington Redskins then later New York Jets in the newly formed American Football league.

The basement looked like a farmer’s market with precious cooked foods everywhere. Grandma would hand cut the pasta strips and fold the raviolis to a precise shape then cook. The smell, the smell was identifiable for hours on end - it was a luxurious aroma as if transported from the kitchens of Italy.

Then the aunts arrive with an assortment of cakes, cookies and cupcakes and fresh baked pies. This occasion the pies cooled in the kitchen adjacent to the back porch.

The back porch wasn’t like any ordinary back area – it held up the house. It was an open area with family history and windows stretching the entire length – concrete floor, a couple deep freezers and park benches. Hanging above; the fly collectors or Vapona pest strips.

The room was long and necessary for the number people who showed for lunch. The adults filled the main seats, kids the small benches and tables set aside for young ones. Wayne and I were old enough to get a seat with the main cast if room permit. Even a walk past garnered a big hug – a squeeze and scrape of chin whiskers across the face. These were big muscle arms – the kind of bulging arms that farmers get from repairing heavy machinery and young men from tossing bales of hay.

Pops had an audience – big star quality audience!

Dad planted the magic laugh box on the kitchen table just out of sight of the dining area. He calculated the best angle for maximum impact.

The room was bright and sunny with just a whiff of lunch cooking and three pies cooling on the stove.

" I’d like to show you all something remarkable – I have a mongoose in the kitchen,” dad announces. “It comes all the way from India and it’s the only animal in the world that can kill a cobra – in fact it eats them.” You could see the look of horror on my aunt’s faces. Suddenly, men drop napkins and chairs screech as they hustle in for the con.

In the room – Galen, Joe, Medie, Jerry and Roger – enough prime beef to shove a mountain back into the sea.

Dad begins his pitch.”They run around the cobra and try to get to its backside and sink those sharp teeth in its neck.” The men move in closer all while pops has a string around his finger slowing pulling the patch of fur into the sheltered room.

“ You know, the bite of a cobra will kill you in seconds but this little guy has blinding speed – he’s so fast you don’t see it happen but when he’s got you he won’t let loose – they are crazy you know.”

The men hover above all nodding in agreement.

“Bill, where did you get this thing – how come you travel with it,”

“It escaped from a circus train and was caught by a service station manager who saw it eating garbage,” says dad.

“Bam!” dad pops the lever and the tail piece soars through the air. Tables and chairs get kicked over – bounce off walls - big flesh charges in four directions. Roger leaves the room and comes back with a stick. “Where’d he go, let’s surround it”, he directs. Joe is near unconscious – and Medie looks confused but the best topping to dad’s short run with the magic box - Galen Hall leaps backwards and lands on the stove in the pies. The house explodes with laughter. Grandma runs in crying tears of laughter - speaking half Italian and broken English. “You’re in my pies, my pies” she says. Galen looks like an eight year old child caught in the act of something forbidden.

The next few hours the house shook. Men with this kind of organic energy can rattle stone walls and this they did with belly laughs so immense cracks appeared in the earth under the house down to the nickel-iron at earth’s core.

Dad kept the box in motion a few more uneventful episodes but nothing rivaled the big show – Carnegie Hall in the basement. Dad was the master, the conductor playing the best audience on earth. He made them laugh just like Gleason and Foxx – no better time to drop the curtain on the entertainer!

The River People (June 1960)

We lived two blocks above the flood wall on a main artery leading directly to the river. Most summer days, an early morning breeze transported evaporating sweat from the river’s belly above the wall, through  dampened trees directly into eyes and nose. It was an intoxicating blend of dirt, industry, decay, petrol, nature and raw sewage. The river had a way of churning uninvited elements blended with clay and silt into a steaming broth, then pass light and wind through before pushing the liquid remains back into the air stream. Some days the smell of rotting fish was stronger but mostly it was neutral to organic to downright putrid.

One June morning dad walks me to the river’s edge. During the short three block stretch he never once hinted of his intention. As we cross the short grass past a community of reeds which had grown around the tattered remains of a near disabled dock - I see the restless frame of a small forsaken wooden craft roll back and forth rocked by the slow rhythm of waves near the river's edge. On closer inspection I recognize a small green out board motor once stored for months on our back porch now safely attached to the rear.

 “It’s ours boy. What’ll you think?”

 Think? I was elated. Never once had I’d crossed the mile-wide river on anything other than Goodyears. This was the way I wanted to see everything.

 “We’ll have to fix it up a bit…. maybe plug a leak or two, but I think we can make it up to Six Mile island, maybe even Twelve Mile this weekend,” he said with all the confidence of a professional fishing boat captain.

 The following week was spent scraping paint down to exposed flesh and bailing water overboard with coffee cans. I would soon learn neither dad nor I had a solution for the persistent leaks. It was difficult locating the source with three inches of surface water throughout the craft.

Dad examined the sidewalls, loose planks, hidden areas beneath the benches, along the baseboards; but the problem refused to reveal itself. Then a neighbor suggested we dry-dock it for safety’s sake and he resolved the mystery in a matter of moments. 

Dad didn’t even bother giving the cabin cruiser a name like Prince Of The River, or the U.S. Independence. Instead, he splashed a coat of battle-ship gray on and a couple layers of white trim; bought four life preservers and a few cushions and left it at that and just referred to as the “boat.”

It was two weeks before proper repairs were completed and the “boat’ passed inspection. The launch was a magnificent event at least from a 14-year olds point of view. From the trailer to the river seemed an interminable distance but once the boat slid free, time was of no consequence.

No more than ten or fifteen feet from the launch site the waters were rough and choppy.  The current seemed to be in a rush to greet Cairo, Illinois next stop before spilling into the Mississippi.

Dad hoisted me into the boat then yanked the power-chord and the Mercury outboard came to life spitting a curtain of black mist into the air. He then pointed the boat into a lane traveled by mid-sized crafts a safe distance away from working tugboats and transport barges.

I had grown to admire the power and beauty of the Ohio. The waters would rise during spring thaw and sometimes flood low-lying communities. The last big flood struck in 1937 leaving the whole town submerged except for a church steeple or two. Then they built the flood walls. After that the river resigned itself to transporting large chunks of ice and miles of severed tree limbs, small branches and the occasional ruptured shack.

Beyond the right side of the falls during the dry period of the day, the land would share its age. As the water receded, all shapes and sizes of prehistoric skeletons basked under the drying sun next to rotting fish trapped in carved stone pockets.

I’d pack a knapsack and a small hammer and walk the lunar surface with my younger brother, sometimes chisel a fossil from the roof of the short cave, which was actually a cracked limestone formation with a small entrance and not much beyond. I’d pretend like some over sized cave beetle was lurking inside, ready to spew some kind of paralytic preservative on me so it could stash me in it’s personal meat locker. I’d come in blasting my ray gun and zap it before it decides to comatose the rest of civilization then celebrate my bravery with a long swig of cool aide from an old military canteen.

I hadn’t been informed this was a historically protected area where the great mastodons once roamed. The unexpected intervention of a wise man with knowledge of the river’s origins put a stop to my sculptures. It was driftwood he suggested I cart away. Only items the river discarded, never those she embraced.

First view of life along the river proved to be much more intriguing than imagined.  As we lose site of the industrial outfits I can see near-palatial homes hidden behind thick vegetation both sides of the river. I watch closely as the small estates eventually fade behind the remaining overgrowth. Everything looked as if Tarzan may have camped with his entourage of wild animals behind the swollen bushes. One could only hope.

“If you strain your eyes a little you can see Six Mile Island up ahead,” says dad. “There are river people all over that place.”

River people? Did he mean like those in the picture books at school about the “Great Depression” or maybe like the old man who comes to the back door ever summer begging for breakfast.

“What kind of river people dad? Do they have fins?”

“They’re poor people son, like the old man who comes by the house looking for work. They won’t mess with no one unless you come looking for trouble. Take the wheel for a moment.”

I’d obviously grown big enough to steer a boat. Here I am about to guide us across the mighty Ohio, a man’s job while dad tends to other matters a boy never had it so good.

“Keep her straight son and pull back a bit on the throttle. We don’t want to surprise anyone.” I did exactly as commanded.

As we reach Six Mile Island, all I can see is tall willows, maples, spruce, fortified by dense layers of cattails and reeds.

“Keep her to the right son.”

From a distance the island looked like it rest center in the river but on closer inspection I could see it was only a few hundred feet from shore.

“Slow it down a little…” Suddenly, I started to panic. This was more reponsibility than I could handle.

 “Dad, you’ve got to take over now. I don’t want to crash.”

 Dad springs to his feet, grabs the wheel and pulls back the throttle until the engine hums contentedly.

 With things now under control, I free myself to climb to  front deck of the boat and play scout.

 As we turn into still water separating the mainland from Six Miles I catch sight of smoke billowing above the first patch of bushes camouflaging what seems a makeshift campsite. My eyes focus on a shaded area. Soon the dense foliage gives way to brown earth and scattered ferns exposing the private lives of the mysterious river people.

As we cautiously cruise past the shoreline I sit erect llke a hood ornament on an old junkyard car wreck . There were cut bits of blankets and sheets secured to adjacent trees serving as cover. Underneath, people of various ages stare back, suspicious of our intent. I’d seen that look on occasions when we’d visit dad’s relatives in the backwoods of Tennessee. They were kind folks who could turn on you without reason.

 Oblivious to our intrusive presence, an older woman hunches above a contained fire, cooks in what looked to be various size-rusted cans. Near her feet a small child struggles in soft earth to reach the seams of her dress. Men of all descriptions - with and without shirts relax at various intervals some smoking cigarettes and pipes. Two men scrape the innards of what appears to be some kind of edible river fish while another busies himself repairing the damage to a rather primitive fishing net.

 “How’s it going there,” dad hollers.  A few heads turn then quietly return to matters at hand.

 “I hope we’re not intruding. My son’s never been over here before.” Dad waits for a response. “I’m from Tennessee and my granddaddy worked up and down this river and the Mississippi on steamboats. It was hard as hell on him.”

Suddenly, a voice speaks from the highest point of the island, “What chu want mister? Nobody bothering you here nobody asking you no questions so why don’t the two of you get along.”

“I apologize! I was just showing my son the island. We’ll be on our way.” As dad looks away the voice responds.

“Mr!……. Have a look around. Do you see any of your relatives here?”

 Dad, hesitates momentarily, and then slowly increases the speed.

 “Hey Mr.? Does your boy want to come up here and play with these poor dirty children?” With that remark comes a unified outburst of laughter that rumbles and coughs like the last wheeze of an emphysema sufferer.

 Dad ignores the jibes and directs the boat towards the middle of the river. The next six miles seem the longest. Fearing the worst possible circumstances, there were times my heart raced. What it we were smacked by an errant log, one hidden among the continuous flow of debris? What happens if the unseen punctures a hole in the soft wood? Are life preservers enough to save us? What about the current? It seems at times to race along as fast as most cars.

The river never slept quite as sound as it did the night after stealing Charles White’s seven-year old son Wesley. Up and down the shore line past the falls the black fishermen swore there would be no more reprisals. No more sudden bursts of anger. No cause for revenge. “Let her rest peacefully,” they would say. “The lady never forgets. She can wait a long time before settling old grievances.” But what crime did the seven-year-old commit to incur the wrath of the normally objective lady?

Mud and silt carried away shreds of dismembered flesh whittled from the blade of the unseen executioner. Through the night the coast guard beamed hard light around the perimeter of the coal-hauling barge hoping to find any evidence Wesley and his uncle where still with the living.

Downstream chunks of the boat flowed towards the falls carrying with it the blood and flesh of two family members whose lives centered on the fishing holes near the banks. The search continued until the first light of morning. It would be mid-day before a local policeman discovers the remnants of Wesley and his uncle drying among the bleached limbs of driftwood beyond the falls after their small fishing boat collides with a massive barge.

Wesley sat across from me the early weeks, the second year of elementary school. We’d stare each other down, twist our lips, stretch our eyelids, anything for a laugh and then suffer the consequence of Miss Spencer’s punishing ruler. Mostly, Wesley slept. He was always being chastised for arriving late and forgetting his homework. Beyond that Wesley stayed mostly invisible accept for his larger-than-the-rest-of-us frame.

I couldn’t remove the haunting image of Wesley being sifted through the barge’s propellers, the cold murky autumn waters and the thought of being forever trapped beneath the river’s surface. The sun always shined across his face even when he looked troubled. This was no way to die. He had the face of eternity - no hand of circumstance could rob him from living large.

Deep in thought, I’d gaze through the discolored panes of glass back into my subconscious and replay my own version of the accident until Miss Spencer interrupts.

I could see Wesley struggle; his plump thighs tread water, trying to distance from the slashing blade. Without warning, the current overwhelms then sucks him onto the butcher’s block. After that, the scene dissolves into cold darkness.

Daily news reports assured us the boat was struck, capsized, and the two occupants where instantly killed. I couldn’t willingly accept the version believing there must have been more thought, more time, more fight.

Two bridges towered above, one used by the railroads the other for daily commuters. On occasion, I’d climb the corroded beams but never much farther than half way before the sound of father’s voice resonated in the back of my head. “Don’t ever climb that railroad. If you fall, I’ll have to scrape you off the cement and while I’m speaking at you stay away from the rock quarry.” Dad was right about the rock quarry. Two boys lay smothered below an avalanche of wet limestone a couple years before I was born. I’d often think about biking out there but didn’t have the nerve to disobey. 

With caution I remove myself from the front deck and slide through an open window inside the cabin. Dad said little mostly looked ahead. A good hour pass before the announcement comes.

“There it is son, Twelve Mile Island. I think we’ll be alone over here.”

We slip into a clearing next to the roots of an ancient willow and secure the boat to a fallen branch. While dad fiddles with the line I inspect the dense marsh ahead.

“You go ahead boy. This place ain’t big enough to lose you.”

Twelve Mile was not anything like Six Mile. This was no place to camp. The soil was too wet and the ground covered in tree high weeds, reeds, cat tails and whatever. There was only one color, forest green.

Before entering the seemingly impenetrable woodland, I collect the sturdiest limb I could find amongst a pile of forgotten timber. With sword in hand I begin slashing my way through the scrub with all the bravo of a conquering invader. Footing was near impossible. Water seeped from underneath leaving every footprint a murky reservoir. I never liked anything to dirty my shoes not even blacken the soles.

I soon find myself alone in the grassy grove surrounded by oozing earth. In my haste to locate a dry patch I slip face down in the sludge. Confused and somewhat distraught I lose sense of direction. I didn’t really have a plan other than walk to the other side to watch the river. As I lift myself a small black dog leaps abruptly from behind the bushes facing me and starts wildly barking. At first, I wasn’t sure if I should approach or ignore it. Instead, I waited until he began rolling playfully around the slime near my feet.  As I reach down to pet him, he snaps upright then blazes a path back into the interior. I knew I wasn’t alone.

Good time passes before I cross to the other side the island and face the middle of the river. Along the shore piles of garbage and tree roots collect forming a giant web catching everything within reach. I begin walking in the shallow water beyond the river bank but quickly find my ankles stuck in river clay. As I work to free them a heavy black slime rises up my legs. The nasty compound holds my body in place as if I’d been caste in stone. Suddenly, the worst that could possibly happen, happens. I begin to sink deeper in the swamp water. First I think about screaming for dad then decide to give myself more time. Dad made me captain surely he wouldn’t want to hear this sailor beg for help.

I extend my left arm and reach for  a vine wrapped tightly around one of the few trees on the island. I lunge forward, still unable to liberate my legs, then unexpectedly crash face down in shallow water. My head fills with the sour liquid before I come up snorting and heaving.

Barely able to hold myself upright, I catch a breath and wipe the wet leaves and silt from my face. Once again I begin to sink in place. By now, fear is driving me near hysteria, I cry out for dad.

I wait for an answer, a signal anything to restore my confidence. No reply. Again I try to catch the long-neck vine just beyond reach with similar results. Once again I slip under. This time I hold my breath.

As I’m about to scream for dad the black dog returns and starts circling madly, then starts barking.

“ That’s it, that’s it, keep it up,” I encourage. Dad will surely hear my distress calls.

Moments pass when I hear the crackle of branches and approaching foot steps.

“Over here. I’m over here!”

Just then the tall weeds part and a lanky middle-aged woman appears.

“Look at you young man. You’ve got yourself in a fine predicament,” she scolds.

Embarrassed and relieved I admit to my stupidity.

“Grab this branch, I’ll pull you in,” she offers. “Where’s your parents?”

The struggle continues until I feel my shoes drag onto a pile of leaves and smother a pile broken twigs.

“Please don’t tell my dad. He’d never trust me to be on my own again. It’s all my fault.”

 “I didn’t come here to lay blame,” she says in an indigent tone.

“I’m sorry, I messed up. I just don’t want dad to know about this.”

 “Then you’d better clean up and get moving or he’ll miss you,” she says with a slight smile before calling for her dog .’Buck’ let’s get goin’ – we ain’t got much time before light goes down.’

I was about to accept her recommendation then it occurred to me this was no ordinary encounter. Why and who was this person and how’d they come to be as isolated as me.

 ‘Wait, a minute, ‘ I shouted. ‘Do you live here? Are there more people in this place - you know, river people.”

The old woman kept moving forward not bothering to answer my inquiries. “You can’t leave just like that.’ I pleaded.

I quickly rose to my feet and followed closely behind while squeezing the mud from my jeans and thanked the woman until she disappears into the high weeds. I kept pace following a trail of crushed grass until I see her in full view standing next to a weathered row-boat.

“Is this your home?” I ask.

 She pauses as if an answer was forthcoming then continues placing a reef of greens into the impossible craft. This gave me enough time to close in. “ Dad, says a lot a people live out here ‘cause they got no other place to be.”

I could see the woman was more interested in tending to weeds than responding to this boy’s interrogation.

"You should head back that way – you won’t slip under, it’s much safer. Now git goin.”

 I stood firm, more curious than ever. “ Are you the caretaker or owner of this island?”

 Without hesitating she turns towards me.” Nobody owns nothing out here. It’s just mud, weeds and trouble. I come here for the tall grass. This is the best stuff to weave a sacred reef. My husband been dead twenty-three years – died out their in the currents. I come here to make him something born of the same roots that pulled him under. I want him to remember what he’s done to me.”

The situation played in my head like the last moments of Wesley’s drowning. In an instant the river could had grabbed and claimed me as her own. Drying from the knees to the soles of my feet the black paste marked the depth of my misfortune and level of discontent.

Around me lay the natural tools for cleaning the muck off my skin. I make a half-hearted effort, then slash my way back through the bush to find dad still messing with the boat.

Without seeing me dad says, “We’ve got problems son. This damn thing has still got a leak somewhere but I sure we can make it back. You’re just going to have to scoop while I steer.”

There was no argument. I’d just as soon dry off and toss water on water.

The sun began to dip below the skyline both sides the river, not as spectacular or exotic as Africa, but nonetheless inspiring. The bridge above carved a black geometric trail across the sky while the caution lights near the falls went about  business as usual. Dad never said a word about the condition of my clothes or the dried mud cracks up and down my body.

When we arrive near the dock most daylight had been replaced by the incandescent lamps of men working near the shoreline. Dad came prepared with one flashlight.

“Hop out son. See if you can catch this rope and tie it around that post.” As the words spill off dad’s lips I drop both cans and climb out of the rickety boat on to the warped dock.

“Do you want me to tie the front end too?

Dad starts to hand me the rope when suddenly the piercing squeal of multiple sirens come from behind the great flood wall.

“Hurry up boy, this don’t sound good.”

 I wind the cord as tight as I can before dad leaps out and twist a fisherman’s knot.

 By now, the river is alive with Coast Guard and emergency vehicles all steaming towards the falls.

“Let’s go and see if we can give ‘em a hand,’ says dad. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind but after today I’m sure there’s something we can do on the river.

We arrive, to find people crowded at least two or three hundred yards along the upper embankment. From the commuter bridge above two fire trucks shine their high beams near the point where vast pools form below the thirty foot drop.

Normally, this is the time when the gates open down river and water quickly floods the land below. I couldn’t tell how deep things were. All I could hear was the howling rush of water slap at the rocks near the shore.

“Let’s have some room. I want you folks to get back. We got a serious condition down here.” We all heard the police officer’s command but few were willing to give up their positions.

Dad walked up and down a line of fishermen and locals and cronies from work looking for answers. Moments pass before he returns.

“We can go son. Not much either of us can do here.”

With his massive hands, dad then reaches down, lifts me near his shoulders then squeezes both arms tightly around my back.

We don’t need to talk about this until we get home,’ he says in a somber voice. “It will make us cry.”

 I knew something severe had happened, something possibly as frightful as Wesley's nightmare. Minutes pass before we walk through the front door. Mother was already waiting. She’d heard the news.

“I’m glad my men are all right that’s all I can say.  I was worried about the both of you out there in the dark.” Dad didn’t say anything. “What a tragedy. I guess God only takes the good ones, “says mom.

The house stood quiet. The only last sounds I hear the next half hour were mom’s words.

“Rudell Stitch drowned. You know who Rudell Stitch is don’t you boy,” asks dad.

 I knew somewhere in my brief history Rudell Stitch had appeared.

 “He was on the fights the other night. Rudell was our best hope for winning a heavy weight championship. He would have knocked the poetry right out of Cassius Clay big mouth.”

 It wasn’t long before the memory of this hazy black and white image of Rudell fighting comes back. He was hard looking, one big mass of muscle with eighteen victories under his belt and no losses. Everybody knew he could give Cassius a better fight than all those meat bags Clay piled up every other week or so. In fact, they say Clay’s scared of him.

The frightful account of Stitch’s drowning surfaces the next morning. It seems Rudell had been fishing near the falls when this guy starts screaming for help. He then drops his gear and runs to one of those whirlpools near the base of the falls and tries pulling the man out of the swirling waters. Neither could get a solid hand grip. With little concern for his own safety Stitch jumps into the spinning torrent, hip-waders and all, lifts and pushes the man safely onto the rocks. While everyone is tending to the near drowning fisherman, Rudell struggles to free himself from his hip-waders. The falls keeps pounding down on him, eventually driving Stitch under, into the rising current out into the body of deep water. Stitch never came up. They wouldn’t find his body until morning, not far from where pieces of Donyell’s corpse baked under the September sun.

The Coast Guard found Rudell’s body tucked into a bed made of driftwood and clinging moss. The newspapers said it was incredibly weird. Like the guy had been sleeping a hundred years. Just the kind of nagging picture I needed embedded in my memory.

The ‘boat” lasted another summer or two before dad forgot about it. It sunk itself in shallow water. Too many leaks - too many rotten planks.

 The years that follow, I stayed clear of the river other than driving a few honeys around for the view or whatever. I think I may have spent one afternoon on a friend’s houseboat but never once stuck a leg in the water again. I guess you’d say I sort of cut myself a reasonable deal with the river. I’ll never know for certain if she agreed. I can live with that.

Gavin Hope – the Studio –‘Moon River’ and the Rest!

At one today, studio time was set to record tracks nine, ten and eleven. Gavin made it just past. I spent those early moments feeling the weight of the Steinway’s keys – finding my sweet spot. I knew I was to begin Alfie – the first verse. I wanted to play nothing but stripped down melody with a few chords’ clustered underneath then let Gavin lead. This is how we work.

I met Gavin a few months back at a fundraiser for Sing! Festival. I was asked to accompany. Gavin and I previously crossed paths at Newstalk 1010 when the Nylons paid a visit but I only recall them as a group.

Sing? Wow! We did ‘God Bless the Child,’ a song I could lose and never feel the impulse to remember. I played this night after night with Liberty Silver who tore a strip off and Molly Johnson – oh well – no Liberty and then Gavin. I had no idea talent existed like this in my neighborhood. Gavin sang the song with empathy and serious intent. The notes reverberated and danced about Lula Lounge as if choreographed by angels.

Gavin is no ordinary canary. Not one of those male singers who forgot to get the details. He’s a perfectionist with a voice christened by the best - Don Hathaway, James Ingram, Luther Vandross and Pebro Bryson. .

Not long after, I called Gavin and invited him into the studio on my dime. We cut ‘Georgia Rose’ a song all about discrimination and ‘For All We Know’, walked away and left engineer Mike Haas do his usual magic and waited for the download. What a wait! There was a vibe an uncommon vibe – a mutual chemistry rarely shared. I could feel and hear him – the soul and conscience – the artistry.

I lent Gavin my trusted copy of Tony Bennett and Bill Evans and suggested we partner – keep it simple and just flat out go for it!

I gathered the demoed tracks and sent to trusted friends and raised dollars to proceed. Here we are eleven tracks in and I’m truly energized.

‘Moon River, Tenderly, My Foolish Heart, I Love You More than You’ll Ever Know, Sunday Kind of Love, Alfie, Georgia Rose, And So it Goes, But Beautiful, When Love is Gone, ‘and soon a duet – ‘Salt’ written by Lizz Wright and sung as a duet with the extremely gifted Selena Evangeline.

It is so rare in life we cross paths with great talent then are able to fulfill dreams and expectations. A billion songs wait around for a new voice or face revisit. Most players take them for granted and see them as filler for some shit gig but in the hands of a master they awaken and respond. The notes play themselves – the harmonies ripen.

My job is to create atmosphere – bring the tone and mood early and orchestrate. I love my job – it’s the best on the planet. So to Gavin I say – your day will come - In the mean time – more to do – polish, touch ups, and artistry. That’s what we live for! Sweet, sweet music!

I Photograph The Day That Is!

There are so many skilled photographers – masters of every moment, enough to scare most into hiding. I’m in awe of the photographic past and always present in the moment and envy those who travel with entourages and massive staging for that unique shot. Photography for me is much less complicated and more about about today – a few passing sights and interludes – just me and my camera – a private conversation with dial and numbers and hopefully a few images that capture the avidity.

I carry a camera most destinations even if there is no determined stopping point. The world is made up of short and long breathing sequences.  Life moves at multiple tempos. That camera and I is much like that person who could never settle behind a desk pinned to the corporate world.  That’s the kind of photography only the most disciplined and money driven adapt easily. It’s where the real dollars are. I’m somewhere between passion, illusion and discovery. I find everything interesting most life surreal!

Photography gives when it finds a reason to give. It’s a no brainer running wild snapping off items in a mad chase as if this were a grocery list. Patience and anticipation require a soft grip - a different set of self control knobs and buttons.

I woke up just past 7AM and witnessed the loveliest light beyond the bedroom curtains. It was warm and bleeding orange. I quickly slid into sweats and slippers and race to the back door. The moment I arrive the sun takes a leave of absence.

I’m not discouraged by this simply because the view from my back porch is always the same except for seasonal changes. I live in old Toronto – Portuguese - where vines cling, garages double as smoke houses, and families gather late at night and pass wine, sing, and cook and talk loudly over one another.

I would die a grievous death in the suburbs. I’m a people person! I want to hear languages cross, cut and confuse one another – intersect and excite. I want the smell of food cooking challenge my senses – seduce me to the table.

When warm weather arrives – I yearn to see gardens long on onions, tomatoes, lettuce, Chinese water melons, garlic, all pushing and hanging - struggling to face the sun.

I’m not country! I see it and am excited it stays put but I’m downtown guy! I cycle where I want when I want. I have needs and they are immediate. A pristine valley and landscape painted by God is to me a quick nostalgic jaunt but the city is where the soul mingles with all life that has come before. We need company and company is always nearby!

I look at my neighborhood  - the architecture – the kids whose bodies have radically changed - tall boys dribbling a basketball –  young girls bodies in bloom and think to myself how privileged I am to bear witness.

So today the camera went for a stroll and peered at weathered back alleys – winter's piled trash, heaps of cat shit – stained plastic tarps - a bath tub full of decay meant for a grave yard, a garage door sprayed and frayed, dying tree limbs and rooftops in severe need of repair and the sights sent my heart pounding. Thank God the camera was there to record impulse and document those moments! I live for my city .. And it is gracious to allow me bare witness.

Baseball is all about stats, the Blue Jays and first true day of spring!

                                                                     

I have played thousands more asphalt games of basketball than gathering field dirt scraping grounders on a ball diamond but that’s not to say my love affair with the two is conflicted.

I love baseball for its stillness, the quick reflex and crushing sound of the ball connecting with hardwood – or metal these days. Let’s not forget the arresting fragrance of an oiled glove – the way it receives the hand – the lace that binds the fingers together – the substance it takes to soften and the way it sweats when cooked by unrelenting heat.

Baseball is about standing in place for three or four hours under blazing sun, the quick sprint, the play, the misplay, then falling back in place - sweat-soaked  T shirt - nights prowling fresh cut grass – the dash through a low mist of steamed heat -  tracing the audio crack of the bat and the ball crashing earth just out of glove reach.  The frustration and the euphoria!

My bat and glove ranked bedside as if they were trophies on guard for game. When word of play got around the neighborhood and enough boys respond you knew the next few hours would be spent with real the God – the man – Almighty Baseball. Time to cut Zeus loose!

Fielding nine players would delight yet anything from five on would suffice.

For those who play it’s hard to express baseball feelings in words. For those who collect stats – there is probably no greater thrill. Either way there’s nothing like it. My wife used to say –“ Its like watching paint dry.” I would respond – “Once dried you can hang something beautiful on it.”

Baseball is all about numbers – collecting, re-reading day to day – batting averages, wins, losses, 3-5, 0-4, home runs, doubles, singles, on base percentage, walks, strike-outs, rbi’s and on.

This spring training was particularly frustrating in that newspapers carried no in depth stats and the modern app assisted world was also void of information. Tap stat – blankty blank!

So with today being the first day of our beloved Blue Jays return to prominence I shall rejoice and savor yet another season of soul wrenching, morning elating back page stats.

The Blue Jays have given us some impressive numbers over the years. A recording setting 10 home runs in a game against Boston September 1987, top three hitters in American league back to back in 1993 – John Olerud .363, Paul Molitor .332 and Roberto Alomar .326. George Bell’s three home runs opening day against Kansas City in 1988. Monster home run seasons from Jose Bautista, George Bell and Carlos Delgado.  Cy Young Award winners with Pat Hentgen, Roger Clemons and Roy Halladay and now R.A. Dickey.

This is a team built for stats! The line-up top to bottom will lock my eyes to the numbers columns. With Reyes, Encarnacion, Bautista, Lind, Lawrie, Calbrera, Arencibia and Ramus capable of clearing right, left and centerfield fences the fun should be much the same as watching a final stretch of a prized horse race.

The mound is stacked tall with Buehrle, Johnson, Morrow, Dickey, Happ, Santos, Janssen.
The days of watching talented Shawn Green escape to the Dodgers – Carlos Delgado to the Mets leaving behind the self- destructing and personality impaled Jose Canseco and far overpaid underachieving Vernon Wells are over.

As much as I loved the Joe Carter, Alomar, Devon White era the World Series wins – I truly loved the Barfield, Upshaw, Moseby, Stieb and Clancy days under Bobby Cox.  This was the old Exhibition Stadium – the worst facility ever condemned a baseball venue.

My wife Kris and I would bike down and just hang outside the ticket booths and listen to games on the loud speakers then speed around to try and catch a glance through the fence netting. You could hear the screams of fans and knew when Moseby connected – that sound - that roar of approval – the big joy – the big love for our Blue jays! If we stayed long enough we’d catch the many beaming faces all dressed in pale blue come cheering from side gates. Baseball is about the long run – the full season – the daily grind – much like life in general. The fun is in getting there!

Let the day begin!

True Story!

 

 It must have been near June and I was having another one of those mind drifting days in third grade when I happen to notice a dry eyeball perched atop the eraser on my recently purchased  lead pencil.

I studied for considerable time before removing and placing dead center of my forehead.

No one said much other than the school caretaker who ordered me to stop three eyeballing him. I played along but didn't let him insult me and my  misplaced eye. I did a bit of smart mouth on him- besides this baby was made of genuine human cells not one of those rock hard playground marbles kids traded for a grim looking rabbit foot.

I strolled in for dinner and it became subject of a fierce debate. Pops asked me to remove during main course of which I responded: “Don’t worry, I can find if it plops in my spaghetti.” Most reassuring indeed.  He looked my way and tugged at his belt. I knew he was pissed but not enough  to get sinister on my ass.

Mama  tried to keep the peace and asked me put it in my boot till after dinner prayer. She kind of suspected I kept all contraband and bird feathers in there. That didn't rattle me – this was the fifties and I was goading for a fight.

Now, while all the descent is ripping us apart I notice I could see through the oak dinner table and read the bylines of Saturday’s newspaper underneath.

I kept my head down – “Judge Walters sentences Wayne Ketchum to three days hard spit for haulin’ pig shit across county lines and selling as hashish. “

This caught everyone’s attention. Pops says” Did the boy just get smart or something – he telling the truth.”

Of course I’m telling the truth – its right there on the floor.

Mama looks at me and says – “How many tons of shit?”  I look down through the fine grain – “Two point three enough to cover most the back yard so we can grow a field of turnips.” Pops says – “that’s my boy – he near genius!”

 I climb the rickety stairs to my room and catch a preview in the mirror and notice the sucker was now on the tip of my nose. I try removing with pliers but it won’t budge.

Mama yells, ‘Pops, needs you down here – he lost his left shoe again.” So I slowly grab my wits and head to the living room and gets down on the floor. I’m looking and a looking but can’t see anything but dammit my sense of smell had never been so good.

I find his nasty foot cradle in the bird cage right where brother Delbert put it. It was full of seed, dung and feathers – looked like a refuge for mating crows.

Anyway, I hand shoe to pops who then thanks me – shakes the stuffing out then tells me how this extra eye will get me a college education tuition free. He says he has the money but he’d rather apply the savings to something more reliable – a sump pump. Then he wants to know why I’m wearing the extra eye dead center my nose – he feels it’s not so attractive - he preferred dead centre the head. If it stayed between my eyes I could cover it with a sportsman bass or trout patch.

I could continue this bullshit story but let’s go with this – April Fools.