THE NIGHT IT RAINED FROGS!!

29 December, 2015 Houston

Ever seen it rain FROGS??    

I have! 

Years ago, I often drove from New Orleans to the upstate cities of Shreveport and Monroe. I remarked that there was a section of the route a bit past Port Allen that just gave me the creeps. It seems that nearly every time I made the trip northbound, the weather there would change and become unusual. The lighting would be different, the temperature would drop, and the wind would pick up. Strange.

This long section of Highway 71 below Alexandria was foreboding in and of itself, even on a good day: it was two-way blacktop with no shoulder on either side. If you ask me, it was a death-trap, as ditches full of murky water awaited anyone who was forced off the road here. If nobody saw you run off, your car would sink quickly beneath the green, alligator-infested ditches, and your body would never be found. Death was only one slight mistake — one slippery skid away. 

On the other side of the ditches, the trees grew high and thick, and arched overhead, making almost a tunnel of branches over the highway. This might look picturesque and inviting at Oak Alley Plantation, but here these moss-laden arbors made my blood run cold!

Unfortunately, back then, no other road connected the Louisiana's largest cities, so stalwart drivers regularly took their lives in their hands and reluctantly pushed their vehicles along through that dismal area, and they all gave a sigh of relief and thanked their Living God that they made it through to the other side alive.

I enjoyed driving those long distances. Being a salesman, constantly on the road, it came with the territory, and my territory was Louisiana. When I took this route to north Louisiana — "Yankee Country," as I liked to jokingly call it, I preferred to leave New Orleans in the evening and make the trip by night. I had no rush-hours, made better time, and had fewer cars to contend with. If there were any drunks out there, weaving into oncoming traffic, I could see them coming and get out of the way. 

Late at night, on the open road, it was just me, an all-night Country radio, and the big rigs blowing black smoke and illuminating the highway and the trees around them like a Christmas tree lights up a living room. At night I had time to think, and I also could turn off the radio, clear my mind and listen to the hum of my motor and feel the vibration of the wheels beneath my car. These trips were relaxing, for the most part. 

This particular night, I had eaten a nice meal before leaving, had driven for just over an hour, and I had just passed over the Mississippi River Bridge at Bâton Rouge. The glow of the city lights became increasingly dimmer as I went around the interchange at Port Allen and headed west. The time for relaxing had come to an end. I soon left the safety of Highway 190 and turned onto highway 71 and began the dreaded drive north to Alexandria, and beyond.

As soon as I got onto that God-forsaken road, that familiar old malaise and fear came instantly back to me. I laughed at myself for being so silly, but years of passing this way proved my fears to be well-founded. As if on cue, the temperature dropped, and I caught a chill. I put on the car heater, cranked up the old radio and thought about that 10¢ cup of coffee I'd have once I reached the town of Bunkie. But first, I had to go through this passage, and by the looks of the angry sky overhead, it would be a rough one. It was amazing that, no matter how good the weather had been before, in this spot it was a brand-new game. 

It was nighttime, and a darker night I have never seen. This ink-black mantle covering me then suddenly flashed vivid electric green, and white-blue pitchforks of wild lightning flew through the sky. Now and then the headlights of a car came into view, reassuring me that I was still near civilization, but then even that stopped. There were no lights of any kind anywhere on the road, which was far from even the smallest of villages. The wind began blowing almost like a hurricane. Tree branches reeled and swayed with the wind, silhouetted by the staccato of the electric display overhead. Then the rain began to fall - just what I needed! 

I was completely alone. 

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up! My car was being buffeted by the wind, and my headlights shone through the nearly-horizontal rain, which was now rather heavy. I lowered my speed; better late than never. The storm, or whatever it was, raged on. The farther I went, the heavier the rain, wind, and lightning there was. It was as if someone — or something — was telling me I was to go no farther.

Sleep, fatigue, forebodings, superstitions, etc., can cause people to see strange things - play tricks with their eyes. The rain fell so hard that it seemed as though huge raindrops were falling to earth and actually BOUNCING on the asphalt below! I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, as I saw — well, I KNOW what I saw! 

I looked through my rear-view mirror: there was not a car light in sight. I brought my vehicle to a dead stop, right on the highway.

There I was, the only car, by myself in the dead of night, looking at one of the strangest sights I ever saw: through my windshield I discovered the truth — it was not raindrops that were bouncing on the highway, it was FROGS!!

"How can this be?" I exclaimed aloud, to no-one there. I turned off my motor, and enjoyed the roar of the rain on the car roof, and watched as thousands, many thousands, of tiny frogs, danced and bounced and jumped in the rain, as if they were falling from the skies.

Very soon, the wind died down, the lightning distanced itself from that dismal swamp, and the rain abruptly ceased. Still no cars came. I had to satisfy my curiosity — this was just too much to just drive off and forget about. I got out a large flashlight and, together with my car headlights still burning, exited the car. What I saw was a sad, horrible sight: the road was filled with many thousands of writhing bodies of little frogs, so very many of which had been rolled over by motorists before me. From the ditches came even more little frogs, leaping and hopping all over the road. During the heavy rainstorm, it looked as if it were actually RAINING FROGS, when, in reality, the frogs were there all the while, doing what frogs do best - hop!

I could do nothing to help these unfortunate little creatures, so I got back into my car and drove away, realizing that I was slaughtering hundreds of them beneath the wheels of my car as I left.

I eventually left that "Ghost Alley" and gave thanks that all went well. Soon enough the lights of Bunkie came into view, and I walked into Starks Restaurant and got a hot cup of coffee for just a dime.

I would make several more trips through that spooky passageway, but I never saw frogs in such profusion, or in such uneasy of circumstances. That evening, over a cup of coffee, I thought of how many strange tales are concocted from just such events.

Then I threw away my empty cup, and finished my trip up to Shreveport.

LOUIE LOUIE!

23 April, 1998 Houston

Among the many pleasant memories I have of the Sixties, there was a brief period when I had a pet PIGEON! Living in a apartment was not at all conducive to having a pet. Being perpetually low on funds did not help the matter in the least. 

My mother, never having had a pet, was apathetic towards the idea. My grandmother generally avoided animals, which she viewed as dirty and disease-infested wild creatures best left in their native habitat. (She was very correct in this view!) My grandfather intensely hated cats and dogs - especially cats, but my grandparents did have a great appreciation for birds - while they were in the wild! 

So there was nothing in the family pushing me or influencing me to have a pet. But I did have a one - Missy, my white rat. She died some time in 1964, and, just as Missy entered my life, there was to be another creature which, for a brief time at least, would bring me pleasure, and cause a slight bit of commotion in the household.

One Saturday morning in September, as I was leaving the apartment building on Paris Ave., I heard a "peep-peep" sound. It came from nearby, and when I stopped to investigate, I noticed a tiny, gray pigeon nestled by the flower pot just beside the entrance door of our building. 

I picked it up. It was very small - not much more than a squab. I thought it would be a great idea to keep it, and took it upstairs to the apartment, where I got busy laying out newspapers on the floor, and prepared a box for it. I had a new pet!

My mother, who never knew from one day to the next what might confront her as she arrived home, was, of course, surprised to see this bird, merrily cheeping away inside the topless cardboard box.  She took this event in stride - bearing in mind that she welcomed a RAT as a pet for the last two years. Why not a pigeon?

"Look, Mom!" I exclaimed, picking up the hapless chick,"It's a baby pigeon! I found it downstairs, and I'm afraid he'll die if I don't take care of him." 

I was right in this, and Mom knew it. Our apartment building was a veritable rookery for pigeons! They made their nests in the gutter cans, so that a little squab would occasionally fall out of the nest was not a strange occurrence.

To my delight, my mother allowed me to keep him, and I named him "LOUIE," and fed him on bread soaked in milk. This, in retrospect, probably was not the ideal food for a pigeon, but I had the best of intentions, and with TLC and my mushy feed, Louie survived, and thrived! 

He grew fast, as pigeons do, and soon enough, grew feathers and began to flap his wings. He enjoyed perching on my finger, and I would move my hand up and down. When I did, he would flap his wings to keep his balance. I did it so he could strengthen his muscles and develop his wings.

Man was not meant to take to the skies - at least not like a bird - but birds were. My Louie would be no exception. I had no intention of keeping him and depriving him of his freedom. He was a free bird, and needed to learn how to fly.

 It was time to teach Louie to fly! 

In the back of our apartment building there was a very small playground. Here my fledgling took his very first brief, awkward flights. I would throw him up into the air, and stood ready to catch him in case things went wrong. Terrified but stalwart, he flapped his  wings furiously and headed straight to me and safety. We repeated these trial runs for several days, taking care to not overdo things.

Mom and I visited my grandparents one weekend, and, of course, I brought Louie along. My grandmother was sitting on the large wooden swing in the back yard, enjoying the breeze.

I emerged from the kitchen, bird in hand, exclaiming:"LOOK, MonMon, I'm teaching Louie to fly!!" As if to illustrate my words, Louis flapped his wings to show off.

MonMon replied, not too happily, "Look out with that bird! First think you know he'll fly at ME!"

Famed clairvoyant Jeannie Dixon never made a more prophetic statement. I raised my hand and lowered it to have Louie flap his wings for her, and off he went... flying straight at MonMon... Landing right in her wig!! Poor MonMon! She was beside herself, and did she make with the "I-told-you-so's!"

Poor Louie! He was also upset about all the commotion! I'm just very happy that he didn't "leave a package" in MonMon's wig!! 

Needless to say, "High Mass" ensued, with all parties getting into the fray. Eventually, when everything settled down, I showed MonMon and PawPaw that Louie could indeed fly - more or less - and he did! I threw him up into the air, and he spread his wings and made a small circle overhead, he quickly plummeted toward the earth, trying desperately to make it back to me.

Like a good guardian, I extended my hands upward and Louis came to rest safe and sound. It was not yet time.

We returned to the apartment, and a few days later I decided to get a few photos of Louie, posing him where I found him and having Mom getting a shot or two of him flying where he made his first flight.

Some days passed and Louis seemed ready to join the ranks of those of his kind. No free bird would ever be held captive by me! Mom and I returned to my grandparents', pigeon in car. The day had come.

I got out and PawPaw and I went in the back yard. It was time to say goodbye. As before, I threw Louie high up into the air, and he flew around as if he were made to fly.

He was indeed made to fly, and he soared overhead for a minute, and then gracefully descended and perched on my waiting hand. PawPaw was impressed, and we talked a  little while, and then, once again I threw Louie up into the air. This time he gained altitude and flew in circles high overhead - and then he was gone.

It was sad that he chose not to return, yet at my 13 years I understood that a Louie had his own life to live. He was part of my life for a few brief weeks to care for, but his life was his own, as was his freedom. He was not my possession. I knew that even though I may have cared for him, it was time for him to go his own separate way. That is how life is.

A week or so later, PawPaw called me to tell me that there was a pigeon that looked a lot like Louie siting on the rooftop of the shed. He said the bird stayed for a few minutes, then flew away. He never had pigeons on his property, so he noticed it. I suspected it was Louie, stopping by for a visit.

On my next time there, while swinging on the little swing that PawPaw made for me, I noticed a pigeon, sitting on the rooftop of the shed, watching me swing.

"LOUIE!" I called out, in hopes he would recognize me, and I put out my hand, extending my fingers for a perch, as I had done many times before. He would always come to me whenever I did that, at least when he was learning to fly.

He glanced my way, then he raised up his wings, and flew... up into the air, high overhead, once in a great circle over the yard as it to say:"LOOK! See what I can do!"

His tribute flight completed, he banked toward the left and then he was gone.

Neither I nor my grandparents ever saw a pigeon in the back yard again. I was happy, though. I knew that at last Louie could fend for himself and could make it on his own.

I did what I was supposed to do - and he did what he was supposed to do.

Louis would be the first in a line of some six or seven pigeons that I took in and nursed to maturity and taught to fly. I named each one Louie, with a number after. To distinguish one from the other. None, however, did I raise from such an early age, and none stayed with me as long as Louie.

EPILOGUE:

As I taught a bird to fly, I, too, learned a lesson the day Louis flew away for the last time.

I learned that, no matter how much you love someone or some thing, that creature has its own distinct individuality and identity, and is entitled to rights - above all the right to its freedom. A pet or a loved one may be a part of your life for awhile, but often fate decrees that that time should one day come to an end and you must let go, even if it hurts. 

I once saw this written somewhere:

"If you love a thing, let it go.

If it returns to you, it is yours;

If it does not, it never was."

As the century comes to a close, it is a lesson which I must learn again.

An Interloper in a Land of Ghosts

21 November, 2015.       Houston

 

A couple of years ago I discovered a few websites that had literally thousands of images of my old home town, New Orleans. How fascinating it was to view these images, many of them taken from glass negatives made just after the Civil War! 

These photographs were scanned at a very high resolution, and could be blown up to reveal astonishing details about my ancestral city. I could zoom in on a shop window of a particular street, and it was just like being there!!! I viewed hundreds of very old images, and had a ball doing so. Soon enough, being the ever-inquisitive type, I began to question some of the things I saw.

What I've noticed about old photos of New Orleans:

1. The streets were muddy and filthy. That was on a good day.

2. The city was virtually void of trees. What trees there were were scraggly.

3. There weren't many oak or other trees that are common there today, but the palm trees (Royal palms) were 3-4 stories tall! One doesn't see palm trees like that any more in New Orleans, because either diseases or periodic severe cold snaps - or both - have killed them.

4. I have seen many, many old photos and, no matter how much I zoom in, or how long I stare at them, I have never seen a single horse and rider. Lots of horse and buggies, and horse and wagons, and mules, too, but unlike Wild West TV programs, you never see a man or woman riding a horse. Why?

5. Whenever I see old (1860-1890) photos of the city's main drag, Canal Street, there are always several horsecars or mule cars (streetcars) without their animals. The horse trams seem to be just left there. Don't seem to see any horses or mules stabled or tied up anywhere. Why?

6. I've never seen an old photo taken while it's raining. 

7. No matter how great a quality / clarity of the photo, I never see any cloud formations when the sky is visible. It just looks like a grey sheet spread overhead. Did they not have clouds back then, or was it always overcast or clear?

8. "Frameless heads on nameless walls, who look out on the world and can't forget" stare back with dull, lifeless eyes, as if their very spirit had departed. No matter how crystal clear, an old portrait always tells its viewer that the subject has passed away. It's something about the eyes, that betrays the absence of life. I noticed this as a small child. I could look at a group picture and point out which persons in a photograph had passed away and which ones had not.

Why is this so?

Looking at old photos is a genuine pleasure - it's like transporting back to another time in which one can see, but cannot be seen. There is an overall undercurrent of sadness associated with this activity, because by now, every last person in them, from the old-timer to the babe in arms, are now dead and buried, their very bones having crumbled to dust. This is the way things are. The images etched into the photograph are what remains of these human beings.

Some people vehemently refuse to have their picture taken - often out of fear that their soul or spirit will be captured and imprisoned for all eternity behind glass, frozen in time, doomed to stare back forever from an old leather frame, in mute silence, and be otherwise forgotten. When I view these images, I realize I am but a ghostly interloper, and what is there before my eyes is a mere shadow of a dead world. When I magnify the image to take a closer look, those long-deceased blur into the mists of time from whence they came - and they seem to say: "do not come nearer." So I back up, out of respect: If they are not my ancestors, they are somebody's. 

I leave them to rest in peace.

A Native American Legacy

11 October, 2015 - Houston

I love root beer! 

Being from New Orleans, I still recall the wonderful flavor of a beverage called Barq's. All it said besides its name was the slogan:"Drink Barq's ® — It's Good!"

Sure, there were other root beers around. We had Weight Root beer and Big Shot Root Beer, both manufactured locally, Dad's, and Hires, and in the 1960's, The Coca-Cola company introduced Rex Root Beer - whose name appealed to the Mardi-Gras city's residents simply because of its name, REX, the King of Carnival!

One day in 1966, the city drained Bayou St. John to a low level in order to do some bridge repairs. My grandfather and I methodically walked along the bayou's edge and, using a hooked cane, fished out pop bottles that had been thrown there long ago. We did so for the purpose of cleaning them and turning them in for their 2¢ deposit. 

They were dirty and smelly, full of mud and brakish water, and sometimes when the goo was emptied from the bottle, a tiny fiddler crab would even scurry out of the muck, eager to return to his watery home. Many of the bottles there were encrusted with barnacles, indicating that they had been there for awhile.

From the murky depths 

I fished out a bottle which, from its shape I immediately determined it to be a Barq's Root Beer bottle. And indeed it was. It was cleaner than most, no doubt having been thrown into the water relatively recently. Emptying it of its liquid contents, I read the writing and asked:"I know this is root beer, but why don't they SAY it is?"

This may be an Urban Legend, but my grandfather then told me that, long ago, when root beer was really made from actual roots, a man was prescribed root beer for his stomach. When the problem did not clear up, the man investigated, and took action against the company for misrepresenting their product. Apparently Barq's defense was that although the ingredients were not roots, and they did indeed have  "contains artificial ingredients" printed on the bottle cap. Supposedly the man won the suit and money. 

According to the official Barq's website, the Barq's Brothers Bottling Company was founded in 1898 in the French Quarter of New Orleans, by Edward Charles Edmond Barq and his older brother, Gaston. The Barq Brothers bottled carbonated water and various sodas of their own creation. The company later moved to nearby Biloxi, Mississippi, where its operation flourished.

Nothing at all is mentioned in the website about this supposed lawsuit. Perhaps the "lawsuit" was intentionally omitted, or maybe it never occurred. Very likely, as is suggested in the site, the real reason Barq's declined to refer to its product as "Root Beer" was because at the time, a major national competitor,  Hires, was trying to trademark the name "root beer." They suggest also that Barq's was not marketed as a root beer per se because it was not sarsaparilla-based, as were most root beers of the day. Barq's product also had a higher caffein content.

A QUIRKY INGREDIENT

True ROOT beers did indeed exist, and were originally homemade. SASSAFRAS (what is called in Louisiana cooking circles, "GUMBO FILÉ") root tonics were made by Native Americans for culinary and medicinal reasons before the arrival of Europeans in North America, but European cooking techniques have been used in making traditional sassafras-based root-beer-like beverages since Colonial times.

Sassafras is a plant, known by many names. In Québec, (where many Louisiana residents have distant ancestors), it was called "Laurier des Iroquois," after one of the local Native American tribes, hostile to the French settlers, who introduced it to the French colonists there. It is most probable that immigrants to Louisiana from Québec brought the sassafras with them.

The root bark is used to make medicine: Sassafras has been used as a treatment (not a cure!) for urinary tract disorders, swelling in the nose and throat,  bronchitis, high blood pressure in older people, gout, arthritis, skin problems, and cancer. It is also used as a tonic and “blood purifier.”

Some people apply sassafras directly to the skin to treat skin problems, achy joints (rheumatism), swollen eyes, and sprains and sassafras oil is also applied to the skin to kill germs and head lice. It has also been used by Native Americans to treat and relieve the stinging of insect bites and stings, including, interestingly enough, the wasp-sting symptoms of syphilis, a disease known to have been brought back by Columbus' crewmen upon return from their first visit to the New World in 1492.

Immediately after Columbus's return, an epidemic of syphilis hit Europe, infecting fully ⅕ of the population at one time. Called the "French Disease" at first, the French no doubt introduced the disease back into the New World as Canada and Louisiana were colonized. 

As for sassafras, its real beneficial medicinal effects have yet to be proven scientifically.

Safrole is an oily liquid typically extracted from the root-bark or the fruit of sassafras plants in the form of sassafras oil. Due to its role in the manufacture of MDMA, an illegal drug known as Ectasy, demand for safrole is causing rapid and illicit harvesting of the Cinnamomum parthenoxylon tree in Southeast Asia, in particular the Cardamom Mountains in Cambodia.

 In the United States, safarole was once widely used as a food additive in root beer, sassafras tea, and other common goods, but was banned by the FDA in 1976 after its carcinogenicity in rats was discovered.

So, perhaps it is best that, just as Coca-Cola no longer contains cocaine, Barq's, thankfully no longer has sassafras, and neither do any known root beers manufactured anywhere. But the earthy flavor that hardens back to the old days, like everything else, is artificial and imitation, and those of us who love that flavor can lift our glass to the Native Americans who came before us, and thank them for such a wonderful legacy — the legacy of Root Beer.

MEDICINES BECOMES REFRESHMENT

 With the advent of artificial carbonation and the development of new bottling methods, pseudo-medicine met refreshments, and violà, the soda-pop industry was born!

☤Coca-Cola was invented by a PHARMACIST!

This was during a time when patent medicines were still around, at least to an extent. You may not remember Lydia Pinkhams compound, or even the infamous Hadacol, but a few things lasted into the late Fifties. I believe Geritol and Serutan are still sold in stores, Doan's Pills, Carter's Little Liver Pills, Father John's Medicine, Listerine, Dr. Tichener's Antiseptic, and others for many years were able to get around FDA restrictions, but FDA frowned on small remedies, with people self-prescribing and self-medicating. The  AMA lobby saw to that. If they had their way, even aspirin would require a ℞ prescription.

These remedies, concoctions and "tonics" — many containing alcohol as well — once aimed at pepping one up or making one feel better, became more and more popular for their flavor, and the medicinal aspect became diminished, and likewise the alcohol, and the cost of the now beverage went down. Liquid refreshment was just a "pop" of a bottle away, and root beer joined sarsaparilla, colas, and orange drinks which began to be sold and enjoyed everywhere.

Hey, I'm wondering how many great New Orleans cooks knew that when you drank root beer, it was originally Gumbo Filé? You can thank those who were here before us, the "Indians", for both your seasoning and for the root beer!!!!

By the way, the late, great, Hank Williams made filé famous with his song "Jambalaya" — that goes in part, "Jambalaya, Crawfish Pie and filé gumbo..." The song was a big hit, even though it is Gumbo Filé.

A Horse Carriage in Old New Orleans

25 July, 2015

Houston, TX

                                         A Horse Carriage in Old New Orleans

It looks picturesque, a man in a vest, 

and a horse - through the old parts of town. 

Two in a carriage celebrate their marriage

By riding this thing all around.

Some weary old nag plodding asphalt and slag

Old Dobbin is coached by his reins;

Fatigued and forlorn, rough-shod and shorn

'Stead of running on grassland and plains. 

They go through the streets with turistas,

With their corny and memorized spiels, 

They do nothing but tie up the traffic,

Of the taxis and automobiles.

Those guys tell fantastic stories,

Of things that never have been, 

Embellishing history for big tips,

Then they load up their buggies again.

Don't tell me your silly old stories!

I was here way longer than you. 

My folks came on sailboats from Canada,

The first man - as one of the crew.

I even had one here before then, 

The tribe built mud huts and mounds, 

The Tensas, you see, from the Nat-tché did flee, 

From their homes and their ancestral grounds.

You lecture about our old graveyards, 

and how life on earth, where it ends? 

'Neath those whitewashed tombstones

Lie the bodies and bones, 

Of those of my family and friends.

When you speak to folks 'bout our city

It's history, please don't neglect 

You can say that it also is pretty,

I'm just asking a little respect.

When you drive the streets of the Quarter,

On the sidewalks, I hope you will see,

Those who once lived and died here,

Who live on in our memory.

The Night of BLUE MOON!

26 July, 2015 Houston, TX

It was a chilly Saturday night in Washington, D.C. Just after I had gone to bed, my mother realized to her chagrin that she had forgotten to wash my clothes for me to take to boarding school, and I would need to have them prior to her taking me there mid-afternoon the following day. So, unwilling to go off and leave her 9-year-old son alone in the apartment for a couple of hours, she had no choice but to wake me up and have me go to the laundromat with her.

Our apartment was too small to accommodate washer and dryer, so we had to use coin-operated machines at a laundry on Pennsylvania Avenue – just a few short blocks away. We walked in and Mom and I began loading up a couple of machines, then feeding it detergent and coins, and then settled down to let the washers do their stuff.

Now, there is nothing more BORING to a kid than a laundromat after midnight!!! I would have gladly sat down and read the telephone directory instead of coming here, but I had no choice in the matter. So I walked around the place, bleary-eyed, checking it out. It wasn't very big, and I soon found that it was furnished with a JUKE BOX!! Well, there was a positive thing, I thought. I could bum a couple of nickels from Mom and at least have something to listen to... and so I did.

I looked at the many selections available and did not recognize much of anything as I scanned the little cards on the display. I repeated the process and stopped at a song that rang a bell: “Blue Moon.” I remembered it from a couple of years back, I guess. It was a soft, slow song, crooned by Elvis Presley.(NOTE: Blue Moon was on the B-side of Just Because, released in 1956.) 

OK, I thought, that's it! And with that, inserted my nickel! It quickly clattered down through the mechanism, and when that noise stopped, the jukebox commenced another series of clickings, whirrings, and other noises, and I watched fascinated as a device skimmed along atop a rack of some fifty 45rpm vinyl records that the box contained, then it stopped, a device moved into the stack, and retrieved the disc containing the desired song, placed it onto a turntable below, and the tone arm deployed and descended, and the familiar hissing and ticking of a vinyl record being played came through the large speakers of the box.

                

The place was void of people except my mother and I, the street outside was deserted, too, and the only noises to be heard were the soft rumblings of the washers. My mother had sat down to relax and had already begun reading a book; all was calm - all was quiet. I waited with eager anticipation to hear Elvis, but that's not what got played at all. Neither of us were prepared for what happened next.

                                                                 ♪♫☼♪♫

Suddenly, the speakers of the jukebox exploded with the strangest noises I had ever heard in all my nine tender years: This guy started off the song with something like “Bawmbabba bawmbabba dang-da-dang-dang ...” just this CRAZY stuff blaring out of the juke box on Pennsylvania Avenue at 2 o'clock in the morning!!♪♪♪♪♪

If I was startled at this wailing cacophony, my mother had nearly been knocked out of her chair – the night's silence and her literary concentration completely shattered with this strange song. My mother for silence did quickly beg, but all in vain, since jukeboxes have only one volume setting: “HIGH!!”

Neither she nor I could do a thing but let the phonograph needle deal out its worst, and pray that it was a short song. It was only about three minutes, although it seemed like it went on for an hour! My mother was fit to be tied, and asked me why on earth I chose such an oddball song, out of all those on the playlist.

This was one question I was very much prepared to answer. I selected “Blue Moon” because I knew it was a soft song, crooned by Elvis... and how was I to know there was a remake, Doo-Wop style?? It was an honest mistake. Besides, and in defense of silly songs, there were many, many goofy songs out around the time, such as the Chipmunks' “Witch Doctor”, whose main chorus was “Oo-ee-oo a- a, ting-tang walawalabing-bang” and another song that sang of a “one-eyed, one-horn, flying purple people-eater,” and yet another that went “Once upon a time, the goose drank wine and the monkey chewed tobacco on the streetcar line; the line it broke, the monkey got choked, and they all went to heaven in a little rowboat!” So this one fit right in!

The laundromat was located on the bottom floor of a multi-storey apartment building, European style. My mother feared that at any minute the people upstairs would descend in a rage and bawl us out and call the cops on us for playing the music so loud, but, happily, no-one showed up. We continued the laundry chores in silence. The dryer later buzzed and the clothes were now ready. Basket in hand, we walked the quiet, deserted streets of Washington, D. C. toward home – the funny song still resounding in our ears!!

When I got to school Sunday, I excitedly told my schoolmates of the funny song that blared out “Bomb-bomb-bomb, Nag-nag-nag, Yu-koneeyak – badak!” (which is what it sounded to ME like, and as I described it) and everybody thought it was a hilarious experience to startle my mother and wake the neighbors with a loud jukebox playing at 2 am!!

                                                 

EPILOGUE:

Now, we didn't know it then, but we had just heard for the very first time a runaway hit song that had only been released a few short weeks before. On February 15, 1961, an unknown rock-n-roll group calling themselves “The Marcels” were sneaked into a Pittsburgh, PA, recording studio, did two takes of the song within ten minutes and quickly left. A promo man there heard the recording and took it that very night to WINS radio station, where popular DJ Murry K loved it so much he played it on the air immediately.

Within days, this unknown band who covered a previously-known song in a radically different style, had a top hit on their hands! Within a few weeks of release, the song hit  #1, (bumping an Elvis song to #2!) and stayed there for three weeks!

Little did any of us know that this very song would be an anthem of sorts for a genre of music much later called “Doo-Wop”, and would be considered one of the finest examples of that style. Fifty years into the future, and oldies station still play it, along with many other tunes we heard when they first came out on our little transistor radios - over WEAM radio, Washington, D.C.

MONSTER !!!!!

OSAKA, Japan

9 February, 2015

That night was a terribly sad one: the vengeful crowd, in a murderous frenzy,ran amok through the village brandishing swords, stones, pitchforks, and blazing torches, chasing the maligned, yet misunderstood so-called "monster" through the cobblestone streets.       
                            
Out of the town he sped, as fast as he could run. Fleet of foot, the din and clamor of his pursuers grew steadily as he neared the edge of town. There, just ahead of him, in a nearby farmer's field, was a huge windmill. In desperation, he ran toward  it, mounted a ladder, and headed up the tower. A twisted grimace of sheer terror contorted his hideous face, as up, up, and ever-more upward the ladder he climbed, toward the imagined safety of the mill's lofty shelter.

"BURN HIM! BURN HIM!" came the hysterical cries of that dark mass of men. Justice would be done ... at all costs!

The sky then flickered with the glow of hundreds of flaming torches hurling through the air in ember-lined arcs, most of which came to rest at the base of the ancient, wooden structure.

Soon enough, the old mill began to burn, and as it did, the fright of the monster 
increased, and his cries grew more plaintive as the flames rose ever higher.

              

Finally, the blades of the mill themselves caught fire, and then slowly, 

       eerily, they began to turn.

The creature's silhouette could be seen atop the blazing structure, making a few last, 
feeble gestures of defiance.

The ugly mob below began to shout and cheer the imminent death of the different one - 
and no one realized that the real monster afoot that night was none other than 
themselves – the mob!

Only one lone voice cried out:"Let he who be free of sin cast the first stone!"
His voice went unheeded.

But now it was too late: the base of the mill began to crumble, and the tower shifted 
and tilted slightly, creaking as it did so. A shower of sparks suddenly rose skyward.
The creature let out one final scream of pain and sadness, and toppled headlong into
the blazing embers. Soon enough the burning body crashed through the fire and onto the 
ground. The crowd closed in on the now-smoldering corpse, and one villager boldly ran

forward and up to the creature - and plunged the tines of a pitchfork into the creature's 

lifeless body. The men cheered, as if they were victorious. No one among them wept for 

the monster.

It was over - at least for now.

There would be more, for there are always different ones among us that MUST be 
eradicated, but at least for today, the villagers' blood-lust had been satiated.

Tomorrow would be another day... 

                          

                                         ....AND THE MILL STILL BURNS!!!!

From Jesus Christ to Brainy Smurf, and all others in between, the TYRANNY of the majority brings 

BULLYING into an accepted mainstream activity.When someone looks, acts, talks, or THINKS

differently than those around him, that person is ridiculed, shunned, shamed, cursed, beaten, flogged, burned --- and worse. 

This is due to fear. They FEAR the odd, the singular, the different - those different from 

themselves; they fear, because they themselves fear that they just might be wrong. . 

                                             

                                             TV BRAINWASHING: Once again Brainy Smurf                                                                                   gets kicked for being a know-it-all --- even though,                                                                                 by everyone's admission, he was highly intelligent.

                                
                                 Note: other Smurfs got away regularly with naughty pranks.


                                                                      
-                                EVEN "VANITY SMURF" was OK.... Just not being a "smartie."

Individual bullying is decried, but INSTITUTIONAL bullying goes on unchecked, 

with no-one to condemn it. As long as EVERYONE does it, it's OK.

Sunrise in the Land of the Rising Sun

18 November, 2014

Osaka, Japan 

日本 NiHon - JAPAN - It's name means Sun's Source, hence The Land of the Rising Sun!

Pronounced Ji-Ben in Mandarin, Japan was named by the Chinese, who daily watched the sun rise over the distant archipelago.

"The transistor radio comes from far away, and when it's night over here, over there it's breaking day..." song: "Made in Japan" Though the day does not officially begin here, it certainly gets started a full nine hours before it does in Houston. 

From my high-rise hotel, surrounded by dozens of other skyscrapers, I watch as the dark mantle of night slowly disappears, and the city in the distance is bathed in yellow. 

Way down in the streets below, all is still quiet. The concrete and glass canyons are still. A lone man sweeps an already pristine sidewalk, a tiny delivery van makes a stop a few blacks away, and a couple hurry to the train station, pulling their suitcases behind them. 

Slowly it gets brighter, and more light filters down to reveal a few bleary-eyed early commuters, well-dressed in suit and tie, eager to get a head-start on the day.

A bicyclist speeds down the deserted streets, unhindered by the certain onslaught of traffic that this city will unleash in an hour's time. Two or three more small trucks turn down the ribbon of dark asphalt, and the city streetlights now flicker off. Looking up, The tiny sliver of a waning moon has been banished from the sky. 

In the Land of the Rising Sun, the yellow ball ascends to take its rightful place overhead, revealing the mountains in the distance. As the sun rises, a brilliant shaft of golden light gleams - a reflection of the yet-unseen sun. It is hidden from view by a building, but it is there nonetheless, and getting brighter. 

It is time to greet the sunrise;

A new day has begun!!

WHOZYSTAN??

 
I love geography. I always have. In fact, when I was a little kid, I had many books, and, right up there with "Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes" and "The Three Little Pigs" was a Geography book. It showed volcanoes and oceans, and people who live in faraway places. 

My grandfather was an electrician on a ship, and traveled the world, bringing back souvenirs and tall tales about his many adventures in Singapore, Tanjung Priok, and Dar es-Salaam. 

As a child of six, I recall complimenting a lady from India on her beautiful Sari, while nearby a lady from Oklahoma was agog over such an "outlandish getup."

I moved from cosmopolitan Washington, DC to New Orleans. Inasmuch as New Orleans was a world port, and its citizens should have been worldly, I learned very quickly that this was not the case. 

The week after Thanksgiving, 1962, the subject in class was what neat thing our families did for Thanksgiving. It was interesting to me learning how these kids, very new to me, spent this holiday.
They all said practically the same thing. 

My Uncle Johnny was at that time a Communications Attaché at the US Embassy in Kabul, Afghanistan. The country was a monarchy in those days. The King of Afghanistan held a Thanksgiving Day banquet for the embassy staff. They were his personal guests. 

When it came to me to say what we did for that day, I said: "Oh, we all got together for turkey at my Aunt Anna's, but," I added proudly, "My Uncle Johnny had Thanksgiving with the King of Afghanistan!"

"WHOZISTAN?" Mrs. Moser, our third-grade teacher asked. (I guess New Orleans was not a hot-bed of Afghani activity back then! Today, everybody knows where Afghanistan is. Funny how we seem to learn geography from wars!)

"No," I replied, "Afghanistan! Khusestan is in Iran."(Pronounced Khoozystan, it is a province of Iran.)

That answer was met at first with blank stares and silence. The kids looked around at each other and then to the "cool" kids of the class for cues as to how they should respond to this. Instead of, for once, impressing my peers with something neat one of MY family members did, I got the strangest looks from everybody, and they evidently thought I was just making stuff up. There were a few giggles and mostly blank stares. In hindsight, I guess I should've just left the answer at the turkey dinners at Aunt Anna's!

In defense of my classmates, these were little kids, used to having children's conversations. They, like me, were in the springtime of their lives, and faraway places with strange-sounding names were unfamiliar to them. 

It was only the third grade. We were all just kids.

Martha

15 February, 2015

San Francisco

I was about 15 years old when I first saw a picture of Martha. It was a study in black-and-white, since color photography was uncommon back then. She was sitting all alone and forlorn - and for a very good reason. 

There was nothing special about Martha; she was only a pigeon - one of billions of her kind that were so numerous that they once comprised some 40% of all North American birds!

Yet here sat this single, solitary specimen - the very last of her kind - languishing in a zoo in Cincinnati instead of flying free. 

At 1:00pm, September 1, 1914, Martha died, and the Passenger Pigeon was officially extinct. 

I read this in a book, given me by my grandparents. It was profusely illustrated with vivid color photographs showing birds of every species, color, and description in the course of nesting, feeding, flying and living. This was the case with all of the birds whose exquisite pictures were published in the book - all, that is, except this one, solitary, unfortunate little bird.

I understood the meaning of the word "EXTINCT" - I practically was on staff at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., having so frequently explored its lofty halls and fascinating exhibits as a young child. But the word only brought images of Wooly Mammoths, Sabre-Tooth tigers, dinosaurs and the like - not something so recent as fifty years ago! 

I stopped reading and stared intensely at the bird's picture; the word "EXTINCT" now had such a final ring to it! 

Mentioning this to my grandfather, he told me that "way back when" - before his time - these birds were so plentiful it sometimes took days for a single flock of them to pass a given point. They were so numerous they blotted out the sun. 

They became over-abundant, the book further explained, and the mega flocks would descend upon farms and, like a noisy plague of locusts, wipe out whole crops. One farmer likened the noise of the birds to a fleet of scythes, slashing their way through crops. 

Something had to be done. Like in locust plagues, farmers did what they could to protect their livelihood. They resorted to attacking the birds whenever and wherever they could. Pigeon kills were organized as normal farm activity whenever a flock was nesting in the area, much in the same way that rat-killing was carried out - and for the same reason. 

Besides protecting their crops, it was to the farmers' best interest in another way: unlike their scrawny city cousins, these meaty passenger pigeons tasted good! The arrival of a flock may indeed mean some crop loss, but it also meant a time of good-eating. The birds became a delicacy.

Soon enough a whole industry developed around hunting these plentiful birds. Whereas only a few perished at the hands of enraged farmers or subsistence hunters, wholesale slaughter was wreaked by a professional industry. The telegraph allowed the location of a given flock to be transmitted over long distances, and railroads would quickly transport hunters to that location. 

Like the buffalo which was also being hunted commercially during roughly this same time period, the massive flocks of passenger pigeons began to dwindle. 

My great-great grandmother, Jenny Ellerd Moye of West Virginia, gave an eye-witness description of those pigeon hunts. The 27 Feb. 1955 edition of the Beckley (West Virginia) Post-Herald quotes Grandma Jennie:

"Best of all were the pigeon hunts!" Granma Jennie recalled.

"The men would all gather together along about dark," she says,"and with each provided with a club, a burlap sack (which they called a tow-sack), and a light, they would start out for a section commonly called the 'pigeon roost.'"

"While the women sat around and talked, the men would take their clubs and kill the pigeons."

"It wasn't a bit unusual to see one man come back with a tow-sack of pigeons he had caught himself.

The others all caught some, too. Sometimes the pigeons would all fly over in a group, and there would be so many that it just seemed like a black cloud. You can't imagine that now, can you? 

But it was a common sight back then."

"When the men returned from their hunt, there was a huge wooden box in which the feathers were placed, and the pigeons were dressed like chickens, except that they were 'dry-picked'—that is, not scalded.

Both the men and women shared the work of dressing the pigeons, but upon completion of this work, the men were through with their work for the evening,so they peacefully sat back and talked and 'watched the young'uns' until the women cooked and served the delicacy"

"Everyone liked pigeons," Mrs. Moye says "and the feathers were used for pillows and pillow-licks"

The "pigeon-roost" she speaks about was located at Jumping Branch, WV.

 Unlike the buffalo hunts that were taking place in the west, that saw bison killed mostly for pleasure, pigeons by and large were killed mostly for food.

What brought the passenger pigeon to extinction was not only the wholesale slaughter of the birds, but also the way they were killed. 

Only adult birds were targeted, but since their nesting areas were the focus of the hunters' attacks, the nesting young died as well. This reduced the pigeon population drastically, and quickly, since there were very few individuals surviving to replace and to reproduce. By the time it was realized that the depopulation was so severe, it had reached the point of no return.

The bison, the passenger pigeon, and later other species would be driven to near extinction by unbridled hunting and overfishing. Add to that factory poisons, etc., and the outlook seems dismal if Mankind does not curb his greed and learn to be a better steward to this earth we live in.

As for the passenger pigeon, one might ask will we ever see great flocks of that beautiful bird grace our skies?

 Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”