Opera - January 30, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday January 30, 2014

 

Where were you last Sunday night at 9 PM?  Or for that matter, the last four Sunday nights?  If you are like millions of other Americans, you were mesmerized by the PBS program on your television set, “Downton Abbey.”  This British soap opera style import is now in its fourth season, appearing on Sunday nights beginning in January and lasting for about seven weeks to the middle of February.  It has been so popular that some airlines have a travel special to London in early Fall for those fans who just can’t wait until January and want an early look at the fictional activities of an aristocratic English family during a period just before and after World War 1.  You may ask if I watch this stuff.  Of course I do, don’t you?  I’m hooked.  I haven’t missed an episode in four years.  Many years ago, in my working days, I timed my lunch hour to coincide with a very popular soap of the time, “As the World Turns.”  I thought it was pretty entertaining and Anita and I watched it for several years.  I’m not up on the latest daytime offerings but the last ones that I saw should be reserved for the late night time slots.  Most would have to receive a PG-13 rating in the least if they were shown in movie theaters.  “As the world turns” wasn’t like that back in the days when we were watching.  Nor is “Downton Abbey” although on one or two occasions a warning that “viewer discretion is advised” has been issued.  In an earlier “Ramblings” article, I talked about radio soaps back when I was a boy growing up in the Rock House on Red Lane.  We always listened to “One Man’s Family” every Saturday night and on rare occasions, I would catch my mom tuned into “Ma Perkins,” which came on every weekday afternoon.  Soaps have been around a long time.  Now, this issue of Ramblings is not intended to be about “soaps” but instead about (drumroll, please!!) Opera.  Now I am still in the kindergarten phase of my opera intelligence.  Back when I was a boy, I remember the performances from the Metropolitan Opera in New York that came on the radio on Saturday afternoon, particularly those high, soprano sounds in some unknown foreign language.  Then, some years later, Anita and I, along with Dr. John and Betty, attended a performance of the well- known opera, “Carmen”, in Memphis.  Now, there are no “speaking parts” in an opera.  Every word is sung.  In the case of “Carmen,” the words were sung in French, the language of the composer, Bizet, who penned the opera in 1875.  We were provided with a libretto (English translation) of this musical composition and tried to follow as best we could to the action that was taking place on the stage.  It was the first and only opera that I have ever attended but I will never forget the beautiful, haunting aria “Habanera” or the “Toreador Song.”  A few weeks ago, I was watching episode No. 2 of Downton Abbey.  In this episode, the family is throwing a big party for several important invited guests and, for the evening’s entertainment, they have brought in a famous soprano from Australia.  Imagine my surprise when she sang a beautiful aria by Puccini, “O Mio Babbino Caro.”  (You can enjoy six different renditions of this aria on Youtube; check it out).  I accompanied Fredericka on the piano when she sang this, and other arias, in a program several years ago at the community center.  More recently, I recognized it as the background music on a car commercial on TV.  At the memorial service for my good friend and mentor, Tom* Johns, those attending were treated to several operatic selections, some of which I am sure they had heard the melodies before, not knowing they were operatic.  I had encouraged Tom* to write more about his career in the opera business in his “Tenoring” column, but he never did.  Too bad.  I’ll really miss his humor, his knowledge on just about any subject, his tenor voice in the church choir, his phone calls and e-mails, his love of the Ozarks and birds and cooking and fishing, and….all at once, I’m really lonely.     

A tribute - January 16, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday January 16, 2014

 

There is an old fiddle tune known as “The Eighth of January.”  When I was much younger, I used to join with some other foot-stompers at the Legion Hut for an old-fashioned square dance.  A small band of local musicians would accompany us with some hoe-down selections, such as TEOJ, as we bounced around the floor to the instructions of the caller.  A favorite dance was The Texas Star:  “Ladies to the center with their backs to the bar; gents to the center and form a star” he shouted as we huffed and puffed through the set.  Years later, a school teacher from Timbo, Arkansas, added words to the old fiddle tune to help his history class learn about the last great battle of the War of 1812.  His song was recorded by country star, Johnny Horton, and made James Morris (Jimmy Driftwood) famous and, probably, very wealthy.  The name of the song was, of course, “The Battle of New Orleans” and recounted, in verse, the battle that occurred on January 8, 1815.  For you history buffs, Elvis Presley was born on January 8, 1935 (he would have been 79).  These things rattle around in my memory on January 8th every year.  But one thing I will never forget.  A very good friend died on that date last week.  He was only 65.  Tom Johns was my mentor.  His column, “Tom’s Tenoring,” appeared in this publication on alternate weeks with the “Ramblings” until he became ill a few weeks ago.  He died of lung cancer and, yes, he was a cigarette smoker.  I first met Tom in 1976 a few weeks after he married Fredericka, a local girl.  They were both working in summer stock, musical theaters in the northeast, when they fell in love.  A short time after the ceremony, Tom travelled to Trier, Germany, to join his brother, Dick, in the opera company.  Anita and I, with friends Don and Maxine, were vacationing in Germany and had dinner with Tom and Dick before continuing our trip, leaving the day before Fredericka arrived.  The couple remained in Germany for 35 years while Tom sang tenor in the Trier and, later, the Munich opera companies.  Tom began his writing while residing in Germany.  He had a great sense of humor and would send e-mails of various lengths that would contain stories about farmer Brown and his cows or about the stealing of the Maypole.  I think Tom saved all these writings on his computer and I hope that Fredericka will share some of them in this newspaper  Tom and  Fredericka retired a couple of years ago and moved back to Calico Rock where they soon became well recognized citizens of the community, volunteering their talents in many ways.  Tom’s passing is a great loss to us all.  Here is a question for you:  What do the names Chesterfield, Phillip Morris, Old Gold, Raleigh, Lucky Strike and Camel have in common?  Answer:  They are all names of cigarettes that were for sale back in the 30’s. (Did you know that Ronald Reagan was the spokesperson for Chesterfield cigarettes on TV before going into politics?)  Last week  marked the fiftieth anniversary of the Surgeon General’s report on the dangers of smoking tobacco products, especially cigarettes.  Every pack of cigarettes now contains the warning, “Smoking causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, and may complicate Pregnancy.”  I’ll write more about this in my next column, but when Sidney and I were young boys, we decided to start smoking, because it was the thing to do.  Both our dads and my granddad smoked.  We started trying to smoke grapevines, then rabbit tobacco.  Finally I invested a nickel (maybe a dime) on a sack of Bull Durham tobacco.  Sidney had watched his dad “roll his own” and we smoked until we both got sick.  Later, in high school, I became addicted, probably because of peer pressure.  I am forever grateful that I came to my senses and ended this terrible habit.  I count my stopping smoking as the greatest gift that I have ever given to my family.  I only wish I could have persuaded Tom, George, Roland, Glenn and all the other friends that might still be with us if I could have been more convincing.  I’ll carry this guilt with me the rest of my life.  I read the other day that, even after all the warnings, 18% of the adults in the United States continue to be addicted to this horrible, costly habit.  It cost Calico Rock the loss of a good citizen last week.

Happy New Year - January 2, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday January 2, 2014

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!  Welcome, 2014; we are expecting great things from you.  Hope you don’t disappoint us.  After almost two years of sharing these Rambling columns, I’m finding it a little more difficult to get motivated to sit down at the old computer and hammer out some of my thoughts and memories.  I don’t believe it is “writer’s block” but more old age and laziness.  However, I still have a few things to say so I will continue visiting with you every two weeks, at least for a while.  This is intended to be an opinion-editorial (op-ed) column but it is rare that I really offer my opinion on a particular issue, probably because I’m afraid to stray into those deep waters and also because my opinion wouldn’t amount to much.  But, who knows?  That may change if I can stir up enough courage.  We’ll just have to wait and see.  Anyway, goodbye to 2013.  You brought us some good and, as usual, some bad.  The good first.  We have a new great-granddaughter, Ruby Erin Ward, born December 17^th in Tulsa; parents are Ross and Leah.  We haven’t met her in person yet, but we have Face-timed her a few times with Anita’s I-Pad and enjoyed the boo-coos of photos that have been posted on Facebook.  Thanks for the miracle of cyber-technology.  Now for the bad.  Our group of oldies that we call the OFC lost two of its members last year.  Darrell was a charter member.  Annabell only attended the March meetings when we all celebrate our birthdays (everyone except Dean who was born in June but we let him celebrate anyway).  We are down to five members.  Also, a Calico Rock landmark disappeared on Sunday night, December 22,  when a disastrous fire removed the historic two story building that was the first home for the congregation of the Calico Rock Cumberland Presbyterian Church.  This is very sad for me because of several reasons.  The building was erected about ninety years ago in a joint effort of the church and the masonic lodge.  The church occupied the entire first floor.  The masons and members of the Eastern Star Chapter had their meetings on the second floor that was accessed by a long flight of stairs just inside the back wall of the building.  I am a member of all three of these organizations, joining the church in July, 1939 (almost 75 years ago), Acacia Lodge No. 625 in April, 1952 (over 60 years ago) and am a charter member of Guiding Star Chapter OES (over 50 years ago).  The church moved to the present location in 1952 and the other two vacated the building several years ago when they moved to their new location on Highway 223.  My dad, mom and granddad were charter members of the Calico Rock CP Church which was organized in December 1923.  Other charter members included my mom’s sister and two of my dad’s nieces who would become my aunt and cousins when I was born a few years later.  So you see, the church holds a lot of memories for me, some humorous, some otherwise.  It was once said, if the church doors are open, the Perrymans and the Hudsons are there.  In brief form, here are some of the memories that have flooded my mind over the last few days:  My Uncle Roy, every Sunday before the close of Sunday School, responding to a request, would stand and say “Well, I read a little story this week”; Mr. Luellan’s daughter (who was a professional opera singer from New York and was home visiting her father) singing the beautiful hymn, “His Eye is on The Sparrow,” one Sunday night and the trouble we young boys had trying to keep from giggling when she rolled her R’s (Sparrrrrow); or the trouble that our  Sunday School teacher, Orville Cheney, had when he attempted to describe to a group of six or seven young boys the meaning of a word that was in our lesson (the word was circumcision); or slumping down in our seats when Mrs. Ruth was called on to lead in prayer and she seemed to drone on and on (funny, but I’d give anything to hear her pray today.  It is rare in our church that a member of the congregation is called on to pray.  We have gotten too sophisticated, maybe, and just leave that part of worship up to the “professionals.”  Well, there are many other memories that I might share later, but I’ve run out of space this time so I’ll just say Bye for now.     

Merry Christmas - December 19, 2013

As published in the White River Current - Thursday December 19, 2013

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go.  Tis the season to be jolly.  This is the favorite time of the year for most people.  Time for parties, decorating, buying gifts, always keeping in mind the true reason for the season.  It’s a time for families and friends to get together in a true spirit of fellowship and love.  The word, merry, actually means “festive” so enjoy, have a good time, be generous in your giving and be thankful for the greatest gift of all, the gift of the Christ child.  When I was a boy growing up in the Rock House on Red Lane, we always put up a tree, a cedar that came from out in the pasture.  We decorated with the tinsel and ornaments saved from the previous year.  My job was to drape the icicles over the branches.  This was a time consuming job and I took it very seriously, trying not to break any of those fragile, silver strands.  I wonder if they still make those things.  Probably not with the brilliantly lighted, artificial trees that are now available.  Our church always had special children’s programs and a party that was held in the American Legion building.  This was mainly for convenience because the pews took up most of the space in the one-room church.  Anyway, we played games, dunked for apples, laughed and ate cookies and ended our celebration with someone reading the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke and singing “Silent Night.”  It was great fun.  My mother always prepared a special meal for Christmas dinner.  It usually consisted of chicken and dressing with the usual trimmings.  She also made popcorn balls, fudge and divinity candy and other treats for us kids.  I don’t ever remember my mother cooking a turkey at either Thanksgiving or Christmas.  We always opened gifts on Christmas eve and went to bed early, hoping that old St. Nick might stop by the house and leave another present or two while we were asleep.  He did pretty regularly for several years but as I got older, he failed to stop by, probably because I had been naughty and not nice.  Those were great memories.  I particularly enjoy the music of the Christmas season.  Until a few years ago, singers from the local churches joined together to rehearse and present a community Christmas cantata for the enjoyment of a standing room only congregation.  Donnie Speak and I would joke that we had to go by the hospital  before rehearsal and get a hormone shot so we could hit the high tenor notes.  We stopped having the community cantata when some of the churches decided they preferred doing their own thing.  I have heard several requests to revive the community tradition next year.  Hope it works out.  You may remember several months back that I had decided to write a Christmas song and cash in on all the royalties it would produce every year.  I still intend to do this, and also write a novel, but I have been so tied up in other activities that I haven’t been able to do much composing.  What is that saying about a certain road being paved with good intentions?  I still get goose bumps every year when I hear a reading of the Christmas story from the second chapter of Luke, King James version preferred:  “And so it was, that, while they were there…she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger…And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”  Except for one brief passage, the Bible is silent about the boyhood experiences of Jesus.  I wonder, did he have friends to help celebrate his birthday every year.  I think so.  And I can just hear his dad say something like this:  “Jesus, your birthday is coming up next week and I have decided to rename the business from Nazareth Carpentry Shop to Joseph and Son Carpentry.  You have learned the business well and someday, of course, it will all be yours.  Don’t forget our motto ‘measure twice, saw once’ and always remember that ‘the customer is always right.’”  Probably never happened but I expect that Joseph was one proud father.  Merry Christmas, everyone, and I’ll see you next year with some more stories from the past.  Bye for now.  

The Liberator - December 5, 2013

As published in the White River Current - Thursday December 5, 2013

 

It was a hot day in the middle of summer.  My mother and I were doing something outside in the back yard of the Rock House on Red Lane where we lived.  I remember it vividly.  I can even close my eyes and see it.  The sound reached us first, then we saw this huge, four engine airplane approaching from the south directly toward our house.  It was low, I mean really low, and it was really loud and really large as it passed directly over us, proceeding north about a mile, then turning west.  It was all over in a manner of seconds and the plane, which I recognized from photos as a B-24 bomber, was soon out of sight, taking the sound with it.  An incident from my childhood that I have never forgotten.  A boyhood friend, Charles Hudson, also witnessed the unusual event and wrote about it several years later.  His remembrance is included in his collection entitled “The Prose, Poetry and Pitiful Projects of a Primitive Poet (Copyright, 1996).  I have received permission to include Charles’ memory in this article.  He entitled it “The Liberator.”  ‘Twas in the middle of the day, and in the middle of the summer, under the hot summer sun; and there were scattered clouds, and it was 1943, and nothing much exciting ever happened in Calico Rock (population 1000) this time of year.  Dad and I were rebuilding a stretch of fence to keep old Sybil from escaping her own lush pasture to graze in Jess Merchant’s peanut patch, or to work the meager fare of the Edington Road glade rocks.  We’d set two sturdy new cedar fence posts, and we’d spliced the “bob” wire, and stretched it with a bar, and were busy stapling it to the posts when---we suddenly realized we were hearing a hum, and a moan and a throbbing drone, growing louder and louder in our consciousness.  We jumped upon the bank, and we looked toward town, and there we saw it:  that great huge B-24 “Liberator” bomber settling down over town two miles away and on a bearing straight for our house.  Dad said excitedly:  “Run tell the others.  It must be Neill!”  A good bet, I’d say, since my brother was the only B-24 pilot from Izard County—and maybe even from all of north central Arkansas.  I “lit out,” yelling at the top of my lungs, but I could see that I was losing the race; the plane would beat me to the house by far.  And what chance did an adolescent voice have against those four great 1200 horsepower Pratt and Whitney, Twin Wasp, air-cooled radial engines, close enough to command the attention of every human, and probably every critter in the area?  But I could see that my mother and my brother and sisters were enjoying their panic, and were waving and jumping around in the yard.  I guess we made it pretty easy if Neill looked down to see if he could see anyone.  I stood there in the middle of the pasture, and watched that big beautiful shiny dark green airplane, with the vivid red and yellow and white and blue markings and lettering, fly ever so low around the house and turn back to the northwest to pick up whatever their planned route was for that day.  I watched that great bird gain altitude and become smaller by the second, until it was a speck in the sky; and I could barely hear that fading doppler sound.  And then I could no longer see it or hear it at all; and I could barely believe that it had happened.  The excitement and the high that I experienced that day kept me from sleeping much that night, and it kept me from having much interest in repairing fences, or doing my chores, or much of anything else for a while.  And it still stands out as one of the most vivid memories of my life.  ‘Twas in the middle of the day; and in the middle of the summer; and in the middle of a war; and in the middle of my boyhood.  Liberated!  Charles spent the largest past of his life in California where he died a few years ago.  He was my high school classmate.  I’ll have more to say about the Hudson family in a forthcoming article.  My next column will be in the Christmas issue of the Current, the last issue of the year.  See you in two weeks.   

 

 

(Note:  This is a picture of a B-25 Liberator that I took at the airshow in Oshkosh WI in the summer of 2011.  That's our daughter Sara posing in the picture. - Steve)

The War Years - November 21, 2013

As published in the White River Current - Thursday November 21, 2013

It was one of those “where were you” events that you never forget. It was a mild, December Sunday afternoon. My granddad and I were out in the front yard with our baseball gloves, playing “catch” when dad came out on the porch and called us inside. Our Philco radio was turned up loud and I could hear the announcer talking about the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor. I had no idea where Pearl Harbor was or the significance of this attack until the next day. It was the main topic of conversation in every classroom. Some of the older boys dropped out of school and enlisted in the army or navy. The president of the United States called the attack an act that would “live in infamy.” Well, I didn’t know what infamy was but I was pretty sure that it meant it was pretty bad. I finally looked it up in the dictionary (it means extremely bad; wicked). The Congress declared war on both the Japanese and Germans. Our school superintendent was of German ancestry. We young boys were convinced he was a spy. Occasionally someone would see the lights were on in his second story school office and we were certain he was up there sending radio messages to the enemy. What imagination. Things settled down and got back to a degree of normal in a few days. A rationing program began on several items such as gasoline and some food items. I believe sugar and coffee were a couple of these but I wasn’t involved in the buying of our necessities. I do know that there were kinds of stamps that were required when you purchased certain items. The Calico Rock Museum has some of these stamps on display. Check it out. We continued our family life much the same with raising most of our food and applying an old adage that my mother used to quote: “Eat what you can and what you can’t (eat), you can.” As I have stated before, mom had a canner on the stove six days a week. She also made butter and had a regular list of customers. Her butter was pressed into a round, wooden mold that would leave a raised imprint of a leaf on the top when it was turned out. She wrapped the butter in waxed paper and sold it for forty cents. I wish I had that butter mold now but maybe it is in a museum somewhere. Anyway, as in all wars, some of Calico Rock’s finest did not return and many others returned with the scars of battlefield encounters. I happened to be down on Main Street when my uncle Elbert received the telegram that his son, my cousin William Reed, was missing in action. Several weeks later, another telegram came that notified the family that Reed was a POW in Germany. He was a tail gunner on a B-17 bomber that was shot down over Germany, A few years ago, at the Oshkosh, WI, air show, I toured the inside of a B-17 that was on display. I always thought they were really large planes but, actually, they were pretty small, comparatively speaking. I’m still amazed at how tight a space there was for the tail gunner. A miracle that he was able to get loose and bail out. I think he was in POW camp about eighteen months or so until the war ended and he was able to return home. A real hero as are all who put themselves in harm’s way to protect our freedom. My dad served on the draft board for a time during the war years. I know the anguish he had when one of the boys he sent off to war never returned. What a burden. About ten years later, I was drafted into the army to help in the Korean conflict (it was never referred to as a war). I might talk a little about that in an article soon. Anyway, the war with Germany ended in May, 1945, and with Japan about three months later. When word reached Calico Rock that the war with Germany was over, school was dismissed and we all headed downtown to join the celebration. Two of us climbed up the bell tower on the church and rang the bell for an hour. Everyone was so happy. I want to back up and write about an incident that occurred during the war, probably the summer of 1944. That will have to wait until next time, in two weeks. See you then.

Hard Times No 4 - November 7, 2013

As published in the White River Current - Thursday November 7, 2013

Continuing the saga of life at the Rock House on Red Lane in the depression years. Our family quickly developed a routine that we followed for the seven or so years that we resided in the Rock House. Every morning, after granddad had built a fire in the wood cookstove, mother would begin cooking breakfast. When the water in the teakettle was hot, she would fill a cup with hot water and place it on top of the warming closet of the stove. Granddad would have finished milking our Guernsey cow and would bring the two gallon bucket of fresh milk into the kitchen where it was strained through cheese cloth and placed in a cool place for the cream to rise. The cream was skimmed off and later churned to make butter. We drank the skimmed milk at mealtime, referring to it as “blue john.” Granddad would drink his cup of hot water and wait for the breakfast meal which always consisted of hot biscuits. We bought flour in 25 pound cloth sacks. The empty sacks were used for various purposes, such as dish cloths, sewn into small bags for freshly ground sausage on butchering day, and quite often used to make shirts and other articles of clothing. Granddad always ate oatmeal every morning. Funny but I could eat oatmeal every morning now but I wasn’t very fond of it then, much to the chagrin of granddad. After breakfast, Janice and I would be off to school. The two-story school building housed all twelve grades. There also were schools at Creswell, Boswell, Pineville and 25 other locations in Izard County. I believe the first consolidation of the schools took place in 1939 which was the same year that Izard became a “dry county” but I imagine that is strictly a coincidence. After my sister and I got home from school, I took care of the chores that were assigned to me, did my homework, ate supper and usually went to bed early. Included in the list of my daily chores was feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs, slopping the hogs, emptying the chamber pots, splitting wood for the kitchen stove (also splitting kindling). About this time every year, after the first frost of the season, my dad would get home from work in time to eat supper with the rest of us, after which we would have a family conference. Now, I know it wasn’t exactly like that, but, looking back, it seems like it was. One of the items of business was to check the almanac and select a time to butcher the hog that we had been fattening up. This was earmarked, but we agreed to start the necessary preparations and wait for that cold, frosty morning. Susan had a “Not So Long Ago” column in this newspaper several months ago that gave all you would want to know about Hog Killin.’ You might check with the archives and find this two column story that was written by a former resident. Anyway, we finally got to the main topic of our family conference which was: Who are we going to buy our molasses from this year? My dad would lean back and say, in an expert tone, “Well, I heard that Vessie Scott has the best this year.” So, it was settled and we all went to bed. We always bought several gallons of molasses every year. We had that thick, sugary liquid on our table at every meal. The comedian, Jerry Clower, had a funny routine about the amount of butter you would stir into your plate of molasses. He quoted his mom as saying “now you be sure and lick that knife before you put it back in the butter.” Probably a misquote, but you get the idea. We didn’t have a lot, but we never went hungry. We had a big garden and mother had a canner on the stove six days a week during the summer. I had a few added chores in the summer, shelling peas, churning the butter, etc. Life was good. Then one Sunday, December 7, 1941, everything changed. Our country was at war.