78s.... 45s... or...33 1/3rds...I choose the 78s...they fly best...

I was watchin' an episode of "American Pickers" on the History Channel the other night and of course that reminded me of one of my Skeeter episodes..

For those of you not familiar with the show, it's about a couple of guys and a highly tattooed woman who find antiques and collectible treasures throughout homes and farms across America. This particular episode had Danielle, she's the tattooed woman,  getting an appraisal on a stack of 78 rpm records that her cohorts Frank and Mike had found.  She went to see an old-timer in Chicago who was the country's highest authority of old 78 albums.

And of course that triggered the memory

For some reason, mom and dad had a collection of 78s stored in a cardboard box upstairs in our converted attic which served as Ricky and my bedroom growing up in Dayton, Ohio. The box was stuffed back behind the paneling which also kinda created a secret place that "The Jer", my notorious (if someone could be notorious at that age) friend. and I would do many of our "secret things". ...Those stories are for another time).

 Since the records weren't being played and simply gathering dust, "The Jer" felt we could make good use of them.

We had a small window upstairs that looked out on our street, Sandhurst Drive in Dayton. This window had provided us with many hours of entertainment including dropping water balloons on people coming to the front porch as well as a launch site for us jumping out the window while holding a large towel over our heads hoping this makeshift parachute would break our fall and not our legs when we jumped from the window.

It also became the launch pad for what would result in yet another Skeeter and "The Jer" escapade that would have given my sainted mom more grey hair had she learned of what had transpired  ........sailing 78s out the window and laughing as we watched them shatter in pieces after gliding sometimes for over a 100 feet . I guess we went through about 10 of them as we challenged each other to see who could sail their disc the furthest.....

 I know at the time it seemed pretty cool.....and of course we didn't get caught...but, my oh my,  I would give anything to have known what songs were on those 78s and of course if there would be any value in today's market.

As some of you know I now have a immeasurable love of music...all kinds....and in all formats, 45s,  33 1/3rds,  CDs,  MP3s and of course the wonderful 78s, that sailed so smoothly thru the air.

To this day, even though I can't remember where I put my car keys, I can still remember the first 45 I bought  in 1957 for under a dollar  at a record store in Northtown Mall...."All Shook Up" by Elvis and I didn't purchase my first album until 1963 when "The Beatles" released their first album in the U.S. "Introducing the Beatles" in 1963. I can remember Eddie Stout and me singing cuts from that album like "I saw her standing "there" as we walked to Loos school to play baseball.

And now some 50 years later it breaks my heart to know I sailed those 78s out the upstairs window.....but gosh they sailed so good.

Firecrackers, Fingers and the Fourth of July

 We drove to Ardmore, Oklahoma this morning to take our 6 year old grandson,  Nathan, back home after spending a few days with us. And, along the way,  I bet we saw about a dozen fireworks stands....And of course, it triggered a few memories about the Fourth of July.

Please understand, I truly know the meaning of the 4th and why we celebrate it, and I knew the meaning even as a young Skeeter boy growing up in Ohio. But there is no denying it, the 4th also meant firecrackers, cherry bombs, silver salutes,  pop bottle rockets and of course damaged fingers, singed eyebrows and an occasional busted eardrum.

Whenever it came to anything exploding, or fire, or breaking the law or getting in trouble....one always knew “The Jer’ was involved. “The Jer” was one or two grades older than me....the reason I say one or two, sometime along the way he had to repeat a grade or two....one at Our Lady of Mercy and one grade at Fairview High School .....unlike an other friend growing up, Eddie Stout, who actually skipped a grade at Loos school.... I always liked to surround myself with  a diversified group of free thinkers.

“The Jer” had a real knack for understanding the intricacies of fireworks...It wasn’t  just lighting the dang fuse and throwing the firecracker or cherry bomb.....it was also the thrill of seeing how long you could hold it without blowing off a  finger. He was an expert...the veritable “Firecracker King of the Hill.......however, it didn’t come without the loss  of a bit of a finger here or there or some burning flesh on his arms or legs.

Usually a few days before the 4th, we began to watch for a stranger in the neighborhood, slowing cruising through the streets in a bad-ass, raked,  ‘53 Chevy or possibly a later ‘55 Chevy....his hair slicked down, shades on, usually a non-filtered Camel or Lucky cig hangin’ out of his mouth. He wasn’t sellin’ drugs...not back in those days.....he was sellin’ illegal fireworks.... I guess in a sense, it was the drug of choice for “The Jer” back than.

The Greaser would spot us walkin’ down the street or playin’ over at Loos school and he would slowly pull up to us and say....You guys lookin’ to buy firecrackers?”....Dang right we were....and we all had been saving or earning money since school had let out for the Summer just for this moment. The “dealer” would get out, scan the area for any cops or parents and then pop open the trunk to display a cache of pleasure. He had it all, cherry bombs, roman candles, foot long packs of firecrackers and even the little kid stuff like sparklers and black snakes.

It was intoxicating.....we gave the guy our dough...he shoved it in his pockets...filled a brown paper bag with our orders...threw in a few free extra packs of ladyfingers and as he flipped his cigarette butt at “The Jer”....he shouted “Now don’t blow your dang fingers off”......wow....great advice coming from a loose cannon like that on the streets.

We were thrilled....man, this year was going to be the best...the loudest... we were all set. This would top even the year “The Jer” placed a cherry bomb under a tuna fish can and it blew like shrapnel right thru Ernie Pierson’s kitchen window.  And this would even be greater than when “The Jer” surgically removed all of the black powder from I bet 200 firecrackers and packed it all inside a tennis bail and lit the dang thing and threw it in the air at the last second. It rained burning, stinking rubber all over us.

Yep, I have a lot of memories of the 4th...going to the Putt-Putt on Main St. and watching the fireworks display at the driving range.....as a high school student going up to Guy Kennedy’s lake house at Indian Lake and causin’ what some people thought was a mini-riot when  all we did was got drunk and paraded thru town throwin’ firecrackers at anybody we saw......”The Jer” even jumped off the bridge that crossed the lake during one 4th celebration......I think that was the same year....  we were headed to the Lake and “The Jer” attempted to throw a cherry bomb out the window when in fact the window was still rolled up. He did get it out just in the knick of time, but he couldn’t hear anything for an hour or two.

I guess I survived it all.....I seem to be able to hear okay..... I don’t notice many large scars on my arms and I have all 8 of my fingers.......well, I wasn’t counting thumbs.

I hope all of you have a fun 4th of July.....I hope you remember the reason we celebrate it...and of course....be safe..........and if you see someone actin’ kind of crazy, blowing gasoline out of his mouth or holdin’ a firecracker in his hand till the last minute.....tell him Skeeter said “Hi”....I’m sure it’s “The Jer”.

Thank you, Mom

   My mom was a writer. And, although she never got any of her work published she never gave up doing something she dearly loved. I have her short stories that she submitted to Reader’s Digest and much of the poetry she wrote probably while waiting for her sons to come home from  late-at-night escapades or perhaps even the War.

   Since I have helped one author get her book published about her father, I guess I owe it to my mom to have her works published. One of her stories was about her youngest son, Tommy, who mistakenly cut all of the branches off of the small but healthy, beloved redbud tree that she had planted in the back yard. I guess Tommy, me, misunderstood her instructions and chose not to cut up the dead branches that had fallen, but cut off the branches from the thriving tree. I’m sharing that same story in my book that I have worked on way too long although it will be from a different perspective.

   I think mom somehow directed me towards being a scribe and when I told her that I was changing majors from Business to Journalism at the University of Oklahoma back in the sixties, I think she felt there was hope for me after all. Writing came easy for me, just like I thought it came easy for her........but a couple of years later when I was writing for the U. S. Air Force while I served at Langley AFB,  I began to question my ability as a writer. Not so much as a news writer but as a feature writer. During a visit back to Dayton when she asked to see some of my stories, I told her. “Mom, they are just stories...just a bunch of words thrown together”...I told her I was struggling with a piece about  the Soldiers and Sailors Home in Baltimore, Md. that I had been sent to write about. It was an emotional experience and I so wanted to convey the feelings I was having to the people who would eventually read it. ...and I just couldn’t bear the thought of anyone turning up their nose at my soul searched words.

   She sat me down and gave me advice that day, something she had never done before. Partly because she couldn’t corral me long enough to sit me down and rarely did I ever want to listen to criticism...but her words were words of encouragement.....words that I still need today....words that I have to repeat to myself on a daily basis.

She said, “Tommy, anyone can write, anyone can sing, anyone can paint. It doesn’t necessarily mean you will sing on key or that your colors will blend  on the canvas or that your words will interest your readers...but if you sing from your heart...if you paint from your heart and if you write from your heart...then your goal is reached and if they don’t hear the song, or see the painting or understand what you are trying to say, then it is their problem not yours.

   My writing then took on a new meaning.... the Soldiers and Sailors story was run in Parade magazine, albeit highly edited and shortened, but nonetheless published which back then Parade was a much larger publication than it is today if it evens exists.

I wrote from my heart when I had the chance, although most of my stories were to report the news and be positive about the Vietnam War.

   Soon afterwards, my enlistment was up and I returned to Oklahoma City and began writing and editing for a company newsletter and suddenly my words stopped and I moved in a new direction.

   Thirty years later after the Internet exploded I had a chance to start writing again......with my mom’s wisdom seated deep in my mind and writing from my heart...I knew I was back on course...but what I lacked was her encouragement....”Write for yourself......write from your heart”.  Maybe my work may never be seen in my lifetime, but perhaps my children , or my children’s children will find my musings just like I found my mom’s and decide to share the thoughts with others.

   I love you Mom.  I try as hard as I can, but I still need your helping hand once in awhile.

Tommy

Sometimes giving your child a little confidence is all that is needed........

My Dad owned a small machine shop called B.O.K Mfg. Co. on W. 4th St. in Dayton, Ohio while I was growing up.  Among his employees included his brother and sister and assorted relatives who came and went during the years and several Hungarian immigrants who fled their homeland during the 1956 Hungarian Uprising.

Although Dad had very little education, he learned his trade as a tool and die maker and was able to support not only our family, but as I remember, Dad was always helping out relatives, friends and strangers with some kind of monetary stipend to help them get by. 

Dad standing among some of his Bridgeport mills

I loved going to “the shop” as Mom called it, where she worked as the secretary, bookkeeper and whatever else needed to be done. 

I would wander past the machines and watch intensely as Dad’s few employees would carve out a finished piece from a round bar of stock working very diligently to obtain the precise dimensions.

By age seven, I could operate the drill presses while sitting on a metal stool topped off by a phone book so I could reach the levers. By age eight, I could put a bar of stock into a lathe chuck and slowly turn the metal as the long ribbon of carvings would drop to the catch basin.

By age nine, I was able to operate a Bridgeport mill that was designed to slowly remove metal from different angles as you watched the final product appear.

I would have been happy to follow my Dad into his respected trade, but he wouldn't have it. I was off to college just like my older brothers to apply our minds rather then our physical abilities. I think Dad would have enjoyed me working with him, but he didn't want me losing the fingers that he did,  typical of a machinist, when they were accidentally caught in the cutting tools. He probably thought I couldn't stay focused long enough to avoid an  accident.

So off we went to college....the 3 Kender boys......Dave, after graduating from Miami Univ. and then  to a career as an Air Force officer and Silver Star medal winner during the Vietnam War and then later as a professor at Wright State University where he still teaches today. Ricky went on to Ohio University and later became a very successful businessman in Dayton and now travels back and forth from his homes in  Florida and Dayton as he chooses.

And me, ..well...I headed off to the University of Oklahoma and majored in Journalism  and later leaving that career in the Newspaper trade in search of a few more dollars. I've had several different ventures including owning Blue Sky Pool Service which Pattye and I started 26 years ago.........working for Chuck Norris for 18 years in Dallas and now, now I can finally begin to write again and chronicle my life through my short stories I hope to publish soon.

I have always thrown myself into whatever job or position I have found myself doing over the years. And once again, I owe it to my Dad, who had the confidence in me to sit me up on that stool  and let me create a usable widget for use in this wonderful country. 

Sometimes hot is really cold and cold is really hot

I loved my Dad. I never really told him that in all the years he was alive and that makes me sad, but I think of him a lot these days.

I happened to think of him again today when I was trying to troubleshoot some problems a new pool customer was having with his system. The customer has a beautiful home in the highest priced  area of Dallas, but he ran into a disaster when his pool was built.The original pool builder  went out of business half way through the construction and then two more builders came in to finish the job. Needless to say, everything is a mess.

My Dad  taught me so many things in how to build something from nothing and how to think through a problem and find the answer. Our garage was filled with used parts from  bicycles wheels to airplane propellers. Dad even attempted to build in the garage, an air boat, the kind you see gliding across the swamps in the Everglades.

But sometimes, God love him, he got a little too involved in one of the projects and it needed some adjustment much like I found today doing the troubleshooting.on the pool. Some of the valves and fittings were installed incorrectly and that reminded me of a time long ago.

Our house in Dayton, Ohio had a basement like most of the homes built in the 40s and 50s. And, the plumbing to the first floor could always be accessed through the ceiling in the basement. The plumbing was all installed with iron pipes and over a period of time, these pipes would start to corrode and eventually leak.

Dad and his brother, Andy, and I think along with my older brother Dave, decided to replace all of the iron pipes with copper plumbing. I recall the job going along pretty good and how Dad was feeling  proud of himself when the job was finished.

Except for one thing.

The single bathroom house that Mom and Dad and all 3 boys lived in now had a little glitch. The faucets on the shower/bathtub now had the hot and cold water reversed.The hot water faucet was on the right and the cold was on the left.
It didn't take too many times to remember which was which after either a scalding or a ice cold wakeup to remember..... And the funny thing is, Dad left it that way I guess until the house was sold some many decades later.

I can remember coming home from college for the summers and Mom always reminding me..."Tommy, don't forget about the hot water" as I would climb  into the shower.

Yep, Dad taught me well. He taught me to work through a problem and seek out the answers. He taught me every problem has a solution.....even if it means that sometimes hot means cold and cold means hot....you still have water.

Thinkin' of you, Dad.

Tommy

Is heaven running out of room?

One of the neat things about havin' a manic type personality, is that when the mind starts to slow down from the wild creative roller coaster ride, you find yourself in a very contemplative mood.

 The past week has been extremely exciting for me with a lot of creative ideas coming one right after another like a rapid fire machine gun. And now hopefully the ideas and designs will soon come to fruition.... And then this morning... the philosophical mind-set began which gives my head-brain a chance to slow down and kinda rest for a bit.

So when I woke up early around 12:30 AM, my first thought wasn't about designing a blue-tooth camera or a vibrating/talking bracelet that says "Thinking of you" but it was....."I wonder how many people have passed away since the beginning of time...and even more specific, "Is heaven gettin' full?"

So, with a quick search on Google, I found that some rough estimates, by greater thinkers than myself, calculated the number of persons, at least upright walking people, since about 50,000 B.C is around 110-120 billion, give or take a few thousand or so.

After bouncing that thought off of Pattye, who quickly commented, "Tom, you're wearing me out", I started thinking, where are all of those departed souls  living these days and is heaven gettin' crowded like some of the suburbs around here in Texas.

Since I grew up in the Catholic faith and spent every school morning studying catechism under the watchful eye of a nun, my interpretation, or at least the nun's interpretation of heaven,  that was ingrained in me, was that all of the good people who went to heaven  were walking around with colorful robes on and chatting while they passed through nice manicured gardens. And of course all of the bad people, were down below hangin' out with ole Beelzebub.

Well, let's just say for the sake of argument, that what......maybe 20 percent of the people ever born are truly evil and there is no way they are gonna have a chance to see "The Big Guy" after they pass away, that would mean there would still be somewhere around 100 billion walkin' around in those colored robes. 

And then I'm  thinkin', with all of those people up there, who in the heck gets the crap jobs in heaven like drivin' garbage trucks and cleanin' out porta-pottys. Maybe those jobs are for the not so good people who kinda' get to heaven but still need to pay for their misdeeds

I like it when I get in a contemplative mood. I like to be able to slow down the process and simply share my thoughts. But I really love it when the ole' head-brain gets ready for a new session. A time when my mind feels like it is on fire waiting to explode with innovations and ideas that might just work..they might just be the answer to a lot of the world's woes.

Oh well, just another day in my crazy-brain world.  Come join me some time!

Sometimes magic is well.....just magic

Magic takes many forms...to some, magic is a rainbow...to others, magic is the first kick of  a fetus while still in the womb.....and for others it might be simply a sunset. To me, magic is well.. in fact,  magic.

I think most people like magic. They will stare wide-eyed with mouths agape as the prestidigitator performs the unbelievable. the mysterious,  the most baffling thing they have ever seen. Maybe as simple as making a coin suddenly appear out of a child's ear to a full blown Las Vegas spectacular with disappearing elephants. 

My first encounter with magic as a serious interest occurred in the early '60s as I watched while Mark Wilson and his beautiful wife/assistant Nani perform  mystifying routines on his black and white TV show the "Magic Land of Allkazam".  I wasn't any good but I still loved doing little simple tricks that Mark would teach at the end of the show.

The first really good trick I learned was in one of the following summers in the '60s. A group of us, Eddie, "The Jer", Huey the Duck and some more would hang out at Loos School woods and each summer the school grounds had a camp counselor show up for the day for organized activities. One year, a counselor showed me a trick that I still perform today, some 50 years later, and, well I guess it still impresses people, at least they tell me that or they are liein' pretty good.

In high school at Fairview High, I could roll a coin through each finger and of course I would always do the disappearing act with a cigarette. I would ask a buddy standing outside the local eatery, The Mascot, if he wanted to see a cigarette disappear. He would oblige, give me a cig, and I would say, "See it's gone from your pack"...That was one trick you never showed twice.

As years went by, I would pick up a new trick every now and then, they weren't much, certainly nothing that I would do for anyone unless I had been drinking, but the fascination was always there. The friends around the bar, the strangers who I would entice with a challenge of a free drink if they could figure out the magic.....the routines always stayed with me.

Some of my gaffs, or tricked-up props would come from the back of a comic book...you know, the ad right next to the x-ray glasses and the hovering one-man helicopter kit. I fell for the scams. I'd pay 3 or 4 dollars for a piece of plastic junk, but in fact what I was buying was the secret.

I remember one year at the Montgomery County Fair in Dayton, Ohio. There was a hawker there doing card tricks impressing all of the rubes while he had this little plastic mouse run up and down his arms. It was great. I fell for it. I bought the mouse for 50 cents, a lot of money back then, and when I opened the box, there was the dumb little plastic mouse...nothing else. I looked dumbfounded at the hawker and asked, "How do I make it work"?...he said, "That will be another 50 cents. I told you I love magic.

Well today, I went back in time and spent about an hour in a magic store. I begged the magician working at the counter to please don't torment me anymore as he performed and  as I begged for more...show me more. He did, I bought. He showed me more. I bought more. I felt renewed. I felt the excitement that I had when I saw my first bit of magic half a century ago.

 I like bein' a kid again. I like havin' fun and makin' people smile with the look of "huh" plastered on their face. I love magic ..... 

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