‘What in the hell was going on, indeed’? 

 

Totally flabbergasted – I fell asleep at the computer desk, or so I thought.

 

The next morning I awoke in my bed; Jeanne was already up and in the bathroom as I raised one eyelid, and spied on the world from my vantage point under the covers.

 

It was the same old world I’d been looking at for years; the dresser with the picture of my mother-in-law with her 3^rd or 4^th husband, I really didn’t know, nor cared.  The television on the rickety table on wheels, with the clothes Jeanne had taken off last night getting in bed, draped across it.  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it on, and occasionally I’d wonder if it still worked or not.

 

Of course I was contemplating last night’s adventure on the computer; finding out that history was not the way I knew it to be was hardly something I could forget.  I’d decided just before slipping off to ‘sleep wonderland’ that I would call Leo this morning after waking up instead of then.  "Then" had been one-thirty in the morning; highly unlikely that Leo would of answered the phone, especially since acquiring ‘Caller ID.’

 

Leo was not a baseball expert, nor did he love the old time Yankees like I did, but he knew who won the 62 World Series, and who made the last out.  In fact, he knew better than me, cause he’d actually been at the ballpark that day and seen everything in person. 

 

Rolling out of bed and asking Jeanne if she’d made coffee, although I knew the answer - was one of my routines, which I continued this morning.

 

“No,” was the single-word answer I got, which continued our tradition completely.

 

Leo was the 75-year-old barber that had cut my hair for the last 12 years; he held down the ‘right chair’ in Fred’s and Leo’s Hair Salon, although the left chair (Fred’s) was full of magazines, books, and assorted cardboard boxes.  No, Fred wasn’t dead as you might of guessed, he’d simply went fishing one day about 2 years ago and never returned.  Leo kept saying he’d come back and take up cutting and talking again, but that day hadn’t came yet.  Once, Leo had received a postcard from him; it was postmarked Potsville, Georgia.  Leo said he thought Fred had a son there, but wasn’t sure.

 

Making coffee while the phone was ringing Leo - on speaker - I looked out the kitchen window at the gloomy winter morning, and wondered why in the hell we didn’t just buy a motor home and leave this god-forsaken winter wonderland. 

 

“Leo’s.” 

 

Leo had finally dropped the ‘Fred and Leo’ line just a few weeks ago, but he still opened the shop every morning except Sunday and Monday, at 7 a.m. sharp, although few customers ever showed up for a haircut that early, which hardly bothered Leo, since he was drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and reading the morning paper. 

 

Without preamble I went straight to it, ‘who won the 62 World Series?’

 

“Yanks.” He said, and without pausing, pronounced the conversation over by saying, ‘got a customer, got to go.’  The ‘click’ in my ear - echoed out the other ear, as I said, ‘Crap-Ola!’

 

Sitting down at Jeanne’s computer desk, I mouse-dinged the history drop-screen down, looking to click on ‘Willie McCovey’ from last night.  To my consternation – there was no ‘history,’ so I had to type in Willie McCovey, and after doing so, I mouse-clicked and sat back waiting for the magic screen to appear.

 

When it did, I almost wished it hadn’t, for what I got for my trouble was more crap, even though it was redemption from last night, just like my favorite movie "The Shawshank Redemption."  Where did they get that name I mused... while staring at the computer moniter.

 

‘History’ had reverted to where it’d always been.  “McCovey had lined out to Bobby Richardson, of the Yanks, to end the 1962 World Series.”  So said the computer - and... so sayeth Leo, I said out loud to nobody in particular. 

 

..and then after a pause..

 

‘what the hell is going on here?’

 

 

It was an ordinary day, although after that day, ordinary never seemed the same again.  I was ‘daydreaming’ the day away, at the office; part of my brain rifling through (for the ten thousandth time) the many different retirement scenarios I was facing, while another section, possibly area 25, was connecting the dots – to the engineering specs on my desk. 

 

The company I worked for, the company I’d worked for – for nearly 30 years - was laying me off.  Not just me though, we were all getting our ‘pink slips.’  The company was closing its doors as of two months from now, November the 13^th to be exact.  A Thursday, although many of us thought the calendar was wrong, and it (November the 13^th) was really a Friday.

 

A small radio was playing on Ed Burnside’s desk, which was right next to mine; he always had it on, not ever listening to anything in particular, just background noise, or fuzz, as he liked to call it. 

 

Where Ed was at that moment I don’t know, and it was only much later that I even gave it a second thought, wondering if he’d stepped out on purpose, not that it mattered in any way.  Like I said, at that specific moment - my mind was divided; daydreaming as I was, while also working, thus I almost missed the words, but, not quite.  Willie McCovey, the hero of the 1962 World Series turns 70.  Happy Birthday Willie!

 

The man talking the news continued with the other birthdays, but I was stuck on the McCovey birthday.  “The hero of the 1962 World Series?”  That’s a hoot I thought.  As a die-hard Yankee fan – back in the day – I knew better. 

 

McCovey had made the last out of the final game, with the winning runs on base.  Alou was on third and Mays on second.  Two out, bottom of the ninth, Yankees ahead by one run, in the seventh game; a base hit wins the game.  So what does he do?  Mr. McCovey hits a scorching line drive - right at Bobby Richardson, the Yankee 2^nd Baseman, who catches the ball – ending the series.  Willie must have had a good series at the plate I thought to myself, as I paused for a second, dissecting the idea that McCovey was the hero of the 1962 World Series.  Still, ‘how could he be called the hero of the series,’ when his team, the San Francisco Giants – had lost to the Yanks?  Making a mental note to look it up on the computer later, I continued with my day, the McCovey thing slipping out of my consciousness.

 

It came back (to my consciousness) though, but   much later.  Nearly a month later as a matter of fact; I was lying in bed, Jeanie was asleep, and I was near dropping off - into the deep – when McCovey lurched into my mind. 

 

“Willie McCovey,” the hero of the 62 World Series, my ass! I said, sitting up in the bed, and tossing the covers aside, as I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress and let them fall to the floor.

 

Slogging into the kitchen, I got on Jeanie’s computer, typed in Willie McCovey and selected – “Willie McCovery – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

 

In less than a minute my life was changed forever, as I read all about Willlie McCovey, the hero of the 1962 World Series.

 

"Perhaps McCovey’s best-known moment in baseball, came in the 1962 World Series; the bottom of the 9^th of Game 7, with 2 outs and the Giants trailing 1-0.  With Willie Mays on second base and Matty Alou on third, any base hit would win the championship for the Giants.  McCovey scorched a hard line drive that rocketed into right-centerfield, a solid hit, driving in the tying and winning runs for the Giants and making them World Champions, and him the hero of the series.

 

To say I was astounded would be an understatement.  I was in total shock.  I’d skipped school that day in 1962; Dad had allowed it since he knew how much I loved baseball, especially the Yankees.  Sitting in front of our old black and white, I’d watched the entire game, right down to McCovey’s line drive to Bobby Richardson, the Yanks 2nd Baseman, who caught it for the final out to give the Yanks the World Championship.

 

Now, here I was in 2008 reading all about the same game, but with a different result. 

 

What in the hell was going on? 

 

Saturday morning!  Something special about a Saturday morning; and that’s (for me anyway)  true whether you’re working or ‘catting around,’ or said another way – “rat-killing.” 

 

Ok, Ok nothing like some Okie slang to get me started. But, after all, I am a Okie, true blooded – thru and thru, and although I’ve traveled Route 66 it wasn’t in a beat up old “Grapes of Wrath” pickup truck, but, come to think of it – it was a ‘beat-up’ old 51 Ford Coupe that took me and my high-school chum, Danny, all the way to California one summer between our Jr and Sr years in H.S. – ah – the ‘Good ol days, yes?’

 

Yeah, I know, I spend a lot of ‘ink’ talking about the good ol days.  Well, on 2^nd thought – it’s not ink, at least in these fantastic days of computers, faxes, cell phones and robots that answer the phone/take messages – for us.  So… what would it be if not ‘ink?’  Oh, I’ve got it – instead of ‘ink’ its “black fairy dust against the white-screen.”  Could we call it “Black Fairy Dust,” or would we be labeled racist?  Probably the latter, especially in this ‘day and age’ when the least insinuation about ‘race’ is considered racist; talk about "pure tripe."  Gee….

 

Oh yeah, back to the original point; that I spend a lot of time talking about the ‘good ol days.’ Yeah, Yeah, I know; they (the good ol days) weren’t all that good, after all what’s good about wars, great music, draft resistance, drugs, booze,women, booze and all that stuff.  Hmm…. five out of seven (you do the math) ain’t bad. 

 

Anyway… "What a day for a daydream, what a day for a daydreaming boy" - oh, x'cuse me - where was I --- there is something one can think about for a second (as time whizzes by in Rocket speed) … and that is – the younger generation, and in this case I’m talking about those in the 30-40 age brackets, don’t seem to have any.  Good Ol Days that is.  I never hear my kids (who are in that age bracket) talking about “good ol days.”  Is it because they (that generation) don’t think the way we did/do, or is it because there are no ‘good ol days’ for them.  The Vietnam War and 'those times’ fascinate my youngest son, who has questioned me extensively about it (while my oldest never has).  Once when he was being particularly inquisitive about a sensitive topic (whether or not I had ever killed anyone in Vietnam) – I wondered aloud why he didn’t ever discuss the ‘good ol days’ of his own life – and got this as a reply; What ‘good ol days’ Dad?  Continuing on he told me - that his generation was known as the “Brand X Generation” - wherein nothing in particular happened, no wars, no draft, nothing really -  just plain vanilla.” 

 

I was astounded that anyone could refer to his or her generation in such a way, but then again, us Baby-Boomers hold such a high regard for our own generation.  Ever wonder why that is?

 

Our parent’s generation has been referred to as “The Greatest Generation,” and in my opinion that’s dead on right, but the love for the times of their youth, or the glorification of it – is missing in action.

 

Could all this be simply because our generation was the first to be easily captured both musically - and on the screen?  Possible.  But equally possible is the fact that our generation ‘was one of a kind,’ and like no other mankind will ever see again.  Oh…. That sounds good, doesn’t it?

 

All this came to me yesterday – when it occurred to me that “Everyone has good ol days,” or so I (mistakenly) thought.  After remembering the conversation with my youngest I looked around me - at 2008 – the ‘gang rappers dominating television, the mixing of the races, no music to speak of - increasing crime, war, electronic bull-shit like computers, faxes, cell phones, and all other forms of cyberspace neurons, plutons and saxtons  - stirred – together with the complete breakdown of adult control of children, sub-par school education, open borders where merely wobbling across the line and dropping a kid means a lifetime of the American taxpayer paying ‘cradle to grave’ expenses – has (for sure) created "times" that nobody will ever look back on with any degree of fondness, forever and forever proving false that ol saying I've always heard - "these days are the good ol days of the future."  No... not true, not true. "These days" - will never be the 'good ol days.'  The 'good ol days' are gone......

 

Gee…. No wonder the phrase ‘good ol days’ doesn’t mean what it used to.

 

ice

 

 

 

May 8^th, 2008 … hmm… how in the hell did it get to be TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHT?  Beats the hell out of me, but I can’t emphasize it anymore unless I underline it. Ok, Ok, so I went back and ‘underlined it.’  Does that make me ‘maniac possessive’ or something, yes?

 

Looks like B.H. Obama is going to be the Democratic nominee for Prez.  Hmm… Is this a ‘crossroads’ for this country or just another Presidential election?  My bet is – ‘just another election.’ 

 

Today finds me at a ‘crossroads,’ no, hold that thought; today finds me at a “multi-lane – crossroads.  There are so many directions to go from here (that) I get dizzy sometimes (often) when I think about them.  Pupster doesn’t dwell on them (crossroads) like I do; she’s got too much (dwelling going on) already with her job.  Thankfully, I like my job, or rather it (the job) likes me.  Actually we (my job and I) are like an old pair of house shoes (in the back of the closet) – we just seem to go together, somehow.

 

That being what it is – I’m still ‘itching’ to do something different, although what – I want to do – I don’t know exactly.  Well… I guess you couldn’t say ‘exactly,’ cause I really have no clue – which is quite a ways away from “I don’t know exactly.” Pupster is really being ‘good’ about everything; telling me basically it’s my retirement/decision, although she did - dig in her heels - the day I came in (a few weeks ago) suggesting we load up the “Caddy,” and head for the hills.  The “Caddy” is my old 79 Cadillac that “one of these days” I’m going to restore to its original ‘pristine’ condition.  But, sadly, it’s in pretty bad shape at the moment, although I still love driving it around town.  The engine and tranny are in great shape and the interior isn’t too bad, but the exterior is (I must admit) a little ‘rough.’  

 

Speaking of  ‘rough,’ it’s a little rough being at a ‘multi-lane’ crossroads with so many different directions one could choose to go.  Kind of like that poem we (my generation) all learned back in Junior High – “The Road Less Traveled” by Robert Frost.  Do you all remember Mr. Frost reciting his poetry at JFK’s inauguration?  I do.  The sun was glinting off his glasses, and everybody had heavy overcoats on because of the cold weather.  Yeah, just 47 years ago.

 

Though I’m eligible to retire at age 60, (from my gov’t job) I’ve always figured on working till I was 62 so I could have the added Social Security income to go with my Gov’t Retirement - but, as I’ve gotten closer and closer to the day when I CAN retire – I’ve been developing this ‘itch’ that I was talking about earlier.  Hard to define ‘the itch,’ just think of it as a 'different urge’ every morning when you wake up.

 

Well I guess I’ll wrap it up now; I need to get a shower and get settled in to watch ‘Frazier Re-Runs’ till bedtime.

 

“So…. Was it really that good back – when you were young?”

 

I looked at him, his smile a little crooked – kind of like the sarcastic edge of his question.

 

“Yeah,” I said, continuing to hold my gaze on him, while wondering why he was still here, at work this late and on a Friday at that.  Just about to turn 21, Winston, (we called him Winnie behind his back), was the son of old Barry Morrison, the owner of Morrison’s - which manufactured furniture, cheap furniture, selling it to stores like Wal-Mart, and various Furniture Rental places.  Winnie collected a weekly check although putting in a week of work was a rarity; in fact if you saw Winnie at all in the afternoon, especially a Friday afternoon, he'd be piled up on the old leather couch in the break room.

 

“My Girl” by the Temptations, was playing over the intercom, and the mood throughout the office was light and easy, a weekend looming lazy and long - since Monday was Labor Day.  I’d been telling one of my ‘stories’ about the 60’s to Darla and Sandra, the other two people who worked in the office along with me.  They often peppered me with questions about the ‘good ol days’ since I was about the age of their parents, and had even dated Darla’s Mom ‘back in the day.’

 

“What are you doing for the weekend?” Winnie along with his insistent questions had quietly snuck up on us, not unlike bile rising in one’s throat. Thinking of this I had to smile as I looked at this fat, rich kid, the son of the boss, and though his question was innocent enough I couldn’t help thinking that he was fucking with me, in his cute little way.  When I didn’t answer him, he propped his oversized ass on the edge of my desk, and said, “You know, I think Dad ought to quit playing that old music over the intercom, don’t you?”

 

“Winston I said, have you ever wondered why the old songs are still around?” As I said this, more as a statement than a question, I looked at him in “that queer way of mine” (Winnie’s words) that I employed - when examining something foreign, something un-real.  Winnie was a short 5’10”, made even shorter it seemed, by his bulk, a whopping 325 pounds according to Shelly, one of the workers who dated him for a while, that is - until he quit giving her money – and after her promotion to shift leader.  Winnie didn’t like me, and I didn’t know why, but I never failed to wonder about it, for I was one of the few who showed him any respect at all.

 

Not giving him a chance to answer, I continued, “Almost every time a commercial on TV has music - it’s one of our songs.”

 

“Ever wonder why?” I asked him again, and then before he could answer – said - “Cause we were outside the box.”

 

“What do you mean – outside the box?” He said, shaking his head, the ever-present sneer - just below the surface of his imitation of a serious facial expression.

 

“We were cruising uncharted territory back then,” I said; It was new to all of us, parents, teachers, politicians - everybody.  And nobody was prepared for it, or knew what was coming next; it was wild.

 

I looked at his face and saw the look of puzzlement, the look of someone wanting to understand, really understand; the same look I’d seen a thousand times before.

 

Cherry Bomb, a Mellencamp oldie was playing …

 

…that’s when smoke was smoke

…and grooving was grooving

…and dancing was everything

 

A great song that told of the days of my youth, describing my generation in a way - only one who had experienced it could.

 

17 has turned 35

I’m surprised that we’re still living

 

“You know what Winston, I said, guys like Mellencamp, and me…. well let me tell you in a way you might understand; we lived more ‘before’ we turned 21 than you’ll live ‘after’ you turn 21 – even if you live to a hundred.”

 

Another song now…… All Summer Long, a Beach Boy favorite of mine.

 

 

 

Sittin' in my car outside your house
(Sittin' in my car outside your house)
'Member when you spilled coke all over you blouse

T-shirts, cut-offs, and a pair of thongs
(T-shirts, cut-offs, and a pair of thongs)
We've been having fun all summer long

(All summer long you've been with me)
I can't see enough of you
(All summer long we've both been free)
Won't be long til summer time is through
(Summer time is through)
Not for us now

Miniature golf and Hondas in the hills
(Miniature golf and Hondas in the hills)
When we rode the horse we got some thrills
Every now and then we hear our song
(Every now and the we hear our song)
We've been having fun all summer long

 

 

 

Where are you going? Winnie asked.

 

Got to run to the store.  I’ll be back.

 

Ok, Ice.  I’ll be waiting.  And with that, Winnie went to the break room and piled on the old leather couch.

 

And…. I left the building.

 

But, I’ll be back.

 

ice