A man for all teasin's

At our house there has always been a tradition of surprise packages under the tree. Not a surprise like a new car or diamond necklace. No sirree. The presents under the tree were always fair game for the shake and guess game. Dad was the champ at this game. Sometimes he didn't even have to pick it up. He could look at it from across the room in his easy chair and say it's an indoor pool with an automatic bottom skimmer. Invariably he would be right though the pool was just an example of his practiced eye. We could never have fit such a gift in a rectangular box underneath sparkly paper. It's just an example.
The rest of us at the bottom of Olympus would have to pick it up, shake it, toss it (if it were light enough), and approximate its weight in our attempts to guess. Invariably our guesses were wrong. But the game was the thing. To give the appearance of one thing while being something totally different.
One Christmas when I was very young, prior to my entry into Riverland Terrace School, the local grammar school, my mother decided to fool the Duke of Deduction. The night before I'd taken a lovely little package done up in blue with a rich green bow to him. He looked at it and said, "You can put it back, now, son. I don't need to handle it. It's an electric shaver."
My mother was standing behind my dad. I saw her face grimace. Then, as if a light had gone on in her mind, she smiled and went about her business.
Next day after my dad had left for work and I was still asleep, my mother picked up that package with the shaver and very carefully unwrapped it. She removed that electric razor and filled the box with hard candies. The weight was aprroximate and the package tight without the rattle of loose packing. It was perfect. She smiled to herself as she meticulously rewrapped it. She replaced it in the same spot. It looked completely undisturbed in the placement under the tree. Me? I was oblivious to the scheme. I was too young to be devious. Dad's all knowing ability was just another part of life, like breathing.
The excitement of Christmas was building to a frenzy in my little brain. Santa was coming tonight! It was Christmas eve and to relieve some of the excitement in preparation for sleeping through Christmas Eve night, dad came up with an idea.
He announced, "We'll open one package apiece to night.'
My eyes went wide as I took in all the packages under the tree. I had shaken and rattled all of them. Picking one would be a chore. But not too much of one. I grabbed the biggest.
"OK. If you want that one. But it's said that the best things come in small packages." It was dad's way of trying to steer me toward another choice. It didn't work. Bigger is better in a child's eyes.
My folks sat and watched as I carefully unstuck tape. My relatives used to make fun of me being so persnickety in my unwrapping technique. It was something I learned from my dad. He was always very deliberate in his actions. I copied him like any son would. Finally, I had the box naked of paper. Inside was a Western Ranch model with small plastic men, horses and cows upon flat plastic bases. The ranch house, barn and corral was perfect for my interpretation of the wild west. It was just what I wanted. After a hoop of joy I hugged my folks and fell to playing.
My mother was next. Dad gave her a box wrapped in Santa paper. She took her time opening it and found a watch. Her face lit up and she kissed dad as a thank you. She showed it to me. It was a silver Timex, the watch that takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'.
"What about dad? Where's his present?" I asked. "Which one do you want, dad?"
"I don't need to open one. I'm fine," he said.
My mother went to the tree and picked up her special package.
"No. It's only fair that you open one too." She smilled as she handed it to my dad.
"Alright," he said with a knowing smile. "I'll open one too."
"Yay!" I said.
His slow and deliberate unwrapping took forever in child years. He placed the paper aside. "Keep that. It can be used again." Ever the man of the depressin years, dad saved everything for future reuse.
He opened the box. His face became a mask of puzzlement. Inside was not the razor he had foretold. Inside was an array of hard candies of all color and stripe. He stared at it for a few minutes then looked up at my mother who was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Her moment of triumph was lost in a child's voice asking, "But mom where's the electric razor you bought?'
Her smile waned as dad's waxed. The triumphal expression went from my mother's expression to dad's. It was almost palpable as it drained from my mother's face into my dad's.
The triumph my mother so richly deserved was snatched from her grasp by a child's innocent question. We teased one another about that for years afterward.

Myra, won't you wait for me?

I was reading. I'd stayed out the night before. I hadn't had my first cup of coffee yet. I sat in the Corvair with the book propped against the stearing wheel. It wasn't very interesting. My mind wandered, my eyes closed. The parking space was one I claimed that morning. It sat dirctly beside the library at the College of Charleston. The street has since been altered to a pedestrian walkway but at that time it was the closest one could park to the college without slipping quarters into a parking meter. I nodded off. My head jerked waking me. At that moment someone walked past.
She was slim, walking with grace. A cloud of rich brown locks bounced on her shoulders. Her skin brought visions of the tropics. She looked straight ahead as she sailed past. My attention was rivetted on her. Then she turned at the gate and was gone.

"She's definitely new," I thought to myself and resumed reading. I was awakened again. This time it was a knocking at the passenger's window. I stared. Her impatience became clear as she motioned me to roll down the window. Leaning over the seat I rotated the arm clockwise lowering the window.
"Do you want to get in?" I asked.
"Huh? What? No I don't want to get in."
"Oh. Well, what do you want?"
"Directions," she said looking at me with disbelief. "I'm new here and don't know where my class is."
"Tell you what. Let me show you."
I got out of the car and walked her to her class. She nodded a thank you as she stepped into her classroom. She turned a lot of heads that early morning as she moved through the chairs to a seat. She smiled at me when she noticed I was still in the doorway watching her.
It was the first day of my junior year at C of C. The summer prior to this moment I had spent in England meeting the other half of my family. Everything since had been a tremendous letdown. I was obsessed with returning, to live I kept telling myself. What with the draft and Viet Nam who wanted to stay here when my country was across the Atlantic. At least that is what I told myself. But this particular morning a new person had suddenly walked into my life and I was smitten. I didn't realize it as I continued to dream about living in my country of birth.
Myra had begun to work her magic with those first brief moments. She infiltrated my being. I was madly deeply in love though I was oblivious.
We met after class. I bumped into her coming out of class after waiting half an hour for her.
"Oh. It's you again," I said in my most cavalier manner. "Fancy bumping into you again."
She knew I'd been waiting. "Yes, it is," she said her eyes captivating me.
"Uh, um, maybe, uh, uh..." tripped across my tongue.
"Is there a Student Union somewhere?" She smiled and I was head over heals.
"Um, uh... Yeah, come with me. I'll show you. Would you like coffee?" I stammered. "Uh, maybe you'd like me to carry those?" I pointed at her books.

"Thank you." She gave them to me. My life altered at that moment. There were still thoughts of England and sailing back but from that moment I began to settle into a dream of home and family.
We grew closer each day. I'd had long relationships before but this one was different. We grew togehter through good and bad. There were ups and downs in the extreme but always leveling out to a journey into life together. It was complex. It was simple. We struggled through with the future in mind. My heart was committed as was hers.
Then came the mandatory calling of Uncle Sam. We separated in the afternoon. I got on the bus taking me to the base. We both shed tears. In each others arms we both said, "I love you." And we did.
Over the next twelve months I made some very stupid decisions. I lost her. I lost my way. I lost my first real love.
A little over a decade later I ran into her. I had recently filed for divorce. She told me she was getting married.

Ivy Guddfigg, Where are you?

"I gotta Weejee Board! I got a Weejee Board!"
"Calm down. Calm down. Yes it's a Quija Board."
"I gotta Wee... What's a Weejee board?"
"I played with one of these as a kid," said my mother. "I don't know how it works. Some say departed spirits guide the pointer. It's really fun."
I was 11 that Christmas. We were at my great grandmother's house in Georgia.
"How do I use it? What does it do?"
"You ask it questions and it answers."
"It's like an eight ball," said Clyde holding up a black ball with an eight on its side and a small window at its base with white writing inside.
"Well, sort of, but this board is a little more involved. Here put the board on your knees."
Clyde and I sat across from one another with our knees touching. We placed the board lengthwise between us.
"Now place the pointer on the board and your finger tips lightly on each side."
We did as were were told.
"Now, ask a question."
"Will I ever be knighted?" I was an English subject, having been born there, and having seen The Black Knight with Allen Ladd I wanted to become a Knight someday.
"What kind of a stupid question is that?" blurted Clyde.
"You're just jealous 'cause you can't be a knight."
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Now hold on you guys. Let's see what the Quija has to say."
We settled down and waited. And we waited. Then, ever so slowly, the pointer began to move on its felt tips over the smooth face across the letters to the word NO on the right hand side above the alphabet.
"You did that!" I yelled at Clyde.
"Nuh Uh," he smiled.
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"OK. Ok. If you two can't behave I'll have to take it away from you." My mother reached for the board.
"No! We'll behave," we both said.
"OK. I got one."
"Ask!"
"Will I marry Denise Darcel?" said Clyde with a grin.
Once again a long wait was interrupted by the ever so slow movement of the pointer. It slid across the surface speeding up to the word YES in the upper left hand corner.
"HAH! Yes!" yelled Clyde.
"You made it move there."
"Did not.'
"Did too."
"OK. Time to stop this." My mother reached for the oard again.
"Wait. It's my turn to ask."
"One more then."
Clyde and I settled down.
"Who will I marry?"
"It'll never answer that question."
"Yes, it can," said my mother. "It can spell names out as it slides and stops on letters. Watch and see."
We waited. I glanced at Clyde who was smiling. At that moment the pointer came alive. It moved to letters in the alphabet imprinted under the glazed surface. Slowly and then a stop. I.

Ivy?

Slowly, V.
"Are you writing this down?" I asked my mother.
"Yes. I'm writing."
Another, Y.
Then the pointer picked up speed. Stop, G. Slide, stop, U. The movement began to speed up. The excitement for me was rising.
Stop, D. Faster. Slide, stop, D. Slide, stop, F. Slide, stop, I. Another, G. Quick slide and back, G. There the pointer stopped.
"Is that it? What does it spell?"
"Ivy Guddfigg."
"I'm going to marry a girl named Ivy GuddFigg?"
"Yup. That's what the board said. You're going to marry a girl named Ivy Guddfigg." Clyde said it as he got up. He walked out of the room. I could have sworn he was laughing behind that closed door but I was overwhelmed with my future spelled out for me. It was my fate. I would wait for Ivy. The Quija board predicted it.
I'm still waiting, Ivy.

It's a Gentleman's agreement...

"Hey! What are you doing to my trees!"
"Trimming!"
"Trimming!? You're butchering them. Those beautiful limbs! You just sheared them off!"
"Had to. Getting in the way of the wires."
"That one was two feet above the wires."
"Yeah, but the leaves on the little branches at the end were touching the wires."
"So you had to lop off the entire branch?!"
"It's just going to grow back. This way we don't hae to trim as often."
"But you aren't trimming! You're butchering!"
"Tomayto. Tomahto. We're here at the behest of SCE&G. We trim the limbs from trees interfering with the electrical supply to the community. Sometimes it requires drastic measures. It just so happens this was required since we are not able to get to all the trees monthly. There are a lot of trees in the Charleston area."
"Where are you from? These trees are our legacy as a Southern state. We left them because we have roots just like them to the past. They are hundreds of years old. They won't be able to survive if you Yahoos continue to butcher them."
"Let's get it straight we are from Ohio not Yahoo. And we don't butcher we are arborists. The only animals we kill are those that run out in front of the truck. Our mission is too important to stop so on occasion we leave kitty discs in our path, but it's never intentional."
"You moron. You're no more arborists than I'm a surgeon."
"Exactly. We are surgeons. We prefer arborist but if you must, tree surgeons."
"What kind of tree is that that you are slicing up?"
"It's a big one with big limbs interfering with the electrical lines so buzz off, gramps, and let us do our job."
"I'm calling SCE&G!"
"Do that you grumpy old man. You'll see that we are perfectly within our rights to trim according to expediency."
"Hello. Is this SCE&G?"
"Yes it is. How may I help you?"
"Some guys in a truck are butchering my trees out front."
"Oh, yeah. We have arborists out trimming the limbs back from the power lines. It's for the public's safety you know."
"No1 No! No! They aren't trimming! They are slicing and dicing! They are butchering my trees. I don't think it can carry on after the stress of such a butchering."
"First off, sir, the men out trimming are arborists. They do not butcher. They do not dismember and kill animals. Trees are plants and they are simply trimming back the limbs that threaten to snap the power lines. It's a necessary improvement to the areas tree population."
"You twit! First off these idiots are destroying not only the look of my trees but possibly killing them. The stress of so much "trimming" is like murder."
"These are plants, sir. We trim them all the time. They grow back."
"But don't you understand they are butchering..."
"How they decide to trim is out of our hands sir."
"Don't you have a written agreement that they trim to a standard?"
"Oh, no sir. We have a Gentlemen's Agreement with the company. We tell them to trim and they do as they please. We ask that they be reasonable with their cuts. That's our only requirement."
"So you are sending men out with to trim and if they destroy a tree's life with the lopping off of branches that is fine with you?"
"It is a Gentleman's a greement. We expect them to use good judgement. That is our only rquirement. That way no one is to blame. You can't balme SCE&G because it is a requirement for public safety. You can't blame the arborists because they know what we want and must make judgement calls in the field. It's win win for us."
"Not for my trees or anyone else's!"
"Sorry, sir. It's out of our hands at this point."
"Why don't you bury the damn lines? That way the trees could grow as they are meant."
"Tee Hee. you're funny sir. The cost of such an undertaking would be far too expensive. Besides one day these trees will die off and the lines won't need arborial work."
"Yes, but you are contributing to their demise."
"Oh no sir. We are only sending out men to trim."
"But..."
"Good day sir."
I walked outside. My beautiful oaks that had stood in that spot for hundreds of years with spreading limbs looked like poles with round wounds all the way up to a point five or more feet above the power lines. My eyes turned liquid much like the severe wounds of the tree's trunk turned to sap. Each pale circle where a limb once yearned for sunlight was a watery eye spilling it's sap. The truck was gone. In it's place was a flat circular cat which had once been the neighbor's.

Galloping into the sunset....

Saturday morning. 50 years ago we'd be getting our nickels and dimes together. It would be off to the Palace Theater at the lower end of King Street. My mother would pick up my friends and drive us to the front door of the Palace. We'd run to the ticket booth excited to grab our tickets.
"That'll be a dime, please," the girl in the glass cage would say. We'd shove our dimes through the small opening in the booth. She's slip us tickets off a fat roll and we'd run inside to the candy counter.
"Pop corn! Milk duds and a coke!" we'd yell. "Hurry! The show's gonna start any minute!"
"Don't wet your pants kids. You've got plenty of time."
We'd look at each other, "Wet our pants! HAHAHA, HEEHEEHEE! Wet our pants!"
Our goodies in hand we'd rush to the curtained entrance and run to the middle of the seating section. Kathump would go our seats as we sat on upturned cushioned seat and it collapsed into the down position with our rumps settling in. Kids would be streaming into their places with kathumps and giggles and high pitched whistles.
"Come on! Get the movies going! Bring on the Daltons and the Youngers!"
Our enthusiasm was overwhelming. M&M's were boucning off the screen along with flattened popcorn boxes sailing over our heads. I swear there were small tears in the screen from the corners of those boxes whistling through the air with a cachunk upon hitting the silver screen in front. Some of us would run forward and gather the collapsed boxes for future flights.
The chatter and laughter would rise to cescendo levels until the lights would begin to dim. Then a hush would fall upon the small room. As it became completely dark the screen would explode with light flicking numbers from 5, 4 , 3, 2, 1. Then bursting across the screen would gallop the riders of the Dalton Gang acompanied by music, hoots and hollers, with catcalls and whistles, the kathump, kathump of seats from bouncing bums and the ever present flat boxes sailing in all directions. Shootouts and fights, dry gulchers and bank robbers, trains with strong boxes and robbers in triangular masks threatening with 6-guns that shot thousands of rounds without a reload. It was exciting! It was good guys, white hats, and bad guys, black hats. We knew who to root for and who to hiss at the moment they came into sight.
The first feature would end and a hundred small feet would beat to the restrooms. When they shuffled back more popcorn and candy would be carried to the still warm seats. The lights would dim and onto the screen would flash the next countdown...5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Bang, bang The James gang and the Youngers would be galloping across the screen firing at the possee chasing them along tire rutted roads. A cloud of dust and hail of bullets sprayed across the flickering screen as the action subsided along with the hoots and whistles and the dialogue began.
"Boo! Bring on the action!" we'd shout until a gun was whipped from it's holster and lead was pumped into the poor sap with his 15 seconds of fame. Off the gunslinger would run. up into the saddle of his trusty steed and away from town in a cloud of dust. The music would rise as the sheriff would run to his nag and rip out after him. The chase was on with shots fired forward and backward. The movie raced forward to the final happy conclusion. The lights would come on with the patter of a hundred feet racing to the restrooms again.
There were several cartoons followed by the weekly serial which always ended with the hero in a terrible situation with no way out. With the shock ending we'd be told to be sure and see how our hero would escape the unescapable in next week's thrilling episode. As the lights came up every kid in the house rooted and tooted and whistled their frustration at being told the movie hour was over. We ducked as we filed up the outer aisles to the back exits avoiding those pesky sailing popcorn boxes. Sticky candy and spilled drinks stuck to our shoes catching with each step in our move to the curtained doors. Our excitement began to wind down as we opened the door to the outside world. Sunshine or rain, my mother would be waiting at the curb to pick us up. The ride home was filled with imaginary guns shooting at bad guys along the sidewalk. With each stop and farewell we'd remind each other to save our allowance for next Saturday's excursion. Twenty-five cents would do it. Fifty cents would be aiming for stomach aches. It was a small slice of heaven for a small boy.

Atasseling we'll go...

Yee Haw! San antone! My first Christmas away from home I spent in San Antonio by the grace of USAF. They gave me a bunk and three squares. The barracks was called OT Hold. After six weeks in boot camp I was placed in limbo to await an opening in Officer's Training School across the way at Medina Air Force Base. It was a great experience, I see it now. At the time I thought it was a waste since I was young and eager to do something with my life.
They gave me a job at a desk. I was shuffling paperwork. There were those who had joined who wanted out. Imagine that. Their files came across my desk and I stamped them then sent them along. I remember most of them being individuals who could not get along well enough with others to remain in the Air Force. Since it was during the Viet Nam era they would be subject to the draft upon release from active duty. The army was not so flexible and snapped them up with a letter from Uncle Sam saying, "Greetings." I felt sorry for them.
When the job was over for the day I'd walk back to OT Hold. I had two bunk mates. Our bunks were three high. I slept on the top bunk. I chose it. Today I'm surprised I chose it. I have heightaphobia. There was a room in which three fellow OT Holders painted cups. It was a choice position for anyone with an artistic bent. They were fairly good. I ordered a cartoon of a spirochete on a cup with "The Love Bug" printed beneath it. I was shipped out before it was finished.
The evenings would carry us away into the night life of our portion of San Antone. We'd walk to the hole in the chain link fence and step through into the land of civilians. There was a row of bars with exotic dancers on tap. We had our favorite and usually stayed there until curfew. Inside it was dark and noisy. Music and conversation over beers filled the air. The atmosphere was red from the lights and sparkled with reflections off the spinning ball of mirrors above. The sparkling ball bounced light off the smokey walls and ceiling.
Our table was always open to the exotic dancers who seemed to like us quite a bit. One in particular was a very attractive young lady with aspirations to Broadway. Perhaps because we listened to her dreams she frequented our table. Her's was a unique talent. One that I especially enjoyed because I could join in. My first introduction to audience interaction. Her gyrations were spellbinding. The entire bar would practically stand still as she committed her body to the music. She smiled at me and the beat of the music ruled her perfections. A wink from her and a tassle would spin. She would point at me and begin the second. Both would be spinning clockwise. The place was packed with riveted eyes. I would point a finger with a rotating motion counterclockwise and she would immediately correct and spin in that direction. When my eyes were communing with that movement I'd rotate my finger clockwise which was answered with tassle ripples into a clockwise motion. The coup de grace would come when my index fingers of both hands would rotate in opposite directions to one another and she would answer with a wink, a smile and tassles spinning in opposing directions. It was her crowning glory. It was the wonder of the ages. It was a drunken airman's dream. Then we would return to the mundane life of enlisted men in the barracks.
Elvis came on TV while I was in the Hold. His Comeback show. We were all in the lounge sipping beer and smoking when he walked onto the screen. He had been out of the spotlight for a while, what with the Beatles and all. He overshadowed all the British invaders that night and boosted his career into a viable entity once again. We were pie eyed by the time it was over. Another drag before crushing out the last butt of the evening and a heave ho onto the three tiered bunk and I was out until the next morning.
One of the sergeants in my office was an aspiring writer. He gave me several of his stories asking my opinion. I thought they were very good and asked why he didn't send them to one of the magazines. He gave a couple of lame excuses and let it rest. I often wonder if he did finally send one off. I'm sure he could have been published if he did. His wife was very nice too. They lived on base. She baked me a cake for my birthday. Her cake was as good as his stories.
Don't know what brought to mind those few weeks in the Hold. Back then I thought it was limbo. If I'd only known it was the journey and not the destination. But, then again, I'm not the brightest student of life.

Give a little whistle...

My brain is froze. Much as in a doze. Right down to my toes. Where it goes I never knows.
This time of year often brings Clyde to mind. He was my uncle. He was all of 4 years older than me. We grew up together. I lived with my grandparents much of the time since both my folks worked. I would stay there Monday through Friday and at home on the weekends. Naturally Clyde was my hero since we spent so much time together.
Unfortuantely he passed away in 1996. I lost the equivalent of a brother that day. His birthday was in November. That is why he comes to my mind during this time of the year. He played a lot of tricks on me over the years. That was fine. Since I'm an only child he gave me the sense of what growing up with a brother would be. I write of him occasionally to remember those good times. The memories are fading these days so I have to say that to my best they are all true give or take a lie or two.
They were innocent times. We had an idyllic childhood in that we were allowed to have one. There was no interference of what is considered real life today. We had fairy tales and natural adventures in the real landscape of Riverland Terrace a small community tucked away on James Island in the eastern seaboard town of Charleston, SC.
We walked the area without fear of abduction. We would have been mystified as to the deinition of abduction. Children walked the roads picking blackberries for pies. The doors at home were never locked. The milkman delivered milk in glass bottles to the door and at some houses walked in to place those bottles in the fridge. There was no fear or anxiety over children being left alone, other than the mischief the children could conjure up.
As I said, I write of him on occasion. This is not one of them. Because my brain seems to be on hold refusing to allow the mischeif moments to surface. We never did anything horrible. We may have tipped the scales into a Dennis the Menace overture but nothing stronger.
He did have me tie a towel around my neck to see if I could fly off the garage's roof. I was too chicken to believe him. He tried to get me to slide across slimy boards criss crossing a pond on the golf course. His hint that there was an alligator in the pond kept me on dry land.
He taught me shady jokes which I was foolish enough to tell my mother. She had words with him. He taught me to cuss making sure I only did that when away from home. I learned a lot from him over the years.
He taught me to whistle like a bird. That is one thing I happily remember though it is difficult to whistle without a tune. So I don't breathe melody to the top ten of today. My tunes are of the pop variety of the 40's, 50's and 60's. When singers stopped recounting their love in song the melody took flight and has yet to return. Perhaps as the pendulum swings back music will arc back with it.
He and I were one of three who could warble whistle. His is silenced. My other uncle, Charles, rarely toots a tune. I tried to teach my kids the ins and outs of the warble but what they learned soon was lost from lack of practice. As I said, it is impossible to whistle the "music" of today. No tune, no melody with three words jammed together to a repetative chord. There is no poetry with deeper meaning. There is no substance. There is nothing to hang a whistle on.
On occasion, however, a tune from the days Clyde and I explored Riverland Terrace and the golf course pops out without my being conscious of it. It happens when I reminisce on those days. Like Andy Griffith walking to the pond with his fishing pole over his shoulder we would wander the neighborhood harmonizing. I miss him.