Drawing the Olsens

Christmas Day 1982. Kind of a punk.

I’m sitting here in my classroom after school, watching my daughters – Caroline and Grace – entertain themselves by drawing until it is time to go home. It’s been a long week and I’m not feeling especially motivated to correct papers or record scores, hence the blogging. I’m also feeling kind of blue, and thinking about the past. I have my iPod blasting a playlist of my favorite songs from 1982, and Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, Bob Seger, and The Who are entertaining me …

I’ve mentioned it here before, but this year has the same calendar as 1982. I look at my daughters as they lay on my classroom floor coloring their pictures, and realize that they’ve never seen a year that begins with the number 19, let alone understand that 1982 was a real year, where both of their grandparents – my parents – were alive, healthy, and not that much older than I am now. My brother Phil was a senior in high school, and my one complete semester at BYU – I went there briefly again in ’85, just long enough to get my Spanish credits - was dragging to an exhausting and inauspicious end. My buddy Don and the rest of my friends were still single and ready to cat around every night. I was living at home with my parents and younger brothers, and driving to BYU every morning with my cousin.

There are several memories from November and December of 1982 that I still hold near and dear, twenty-eight years later. I remember lying in bed every morning that winter and listening to my parents quietly visiting with one another while they ate breakfast together, before my dad went to work. Joe and Vera genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. They usually had the radio tuned to KSL so that they could listen to the news while they ate and talked.

Joe and Vera, Christmas 1982. Best parents ever.

As I watch my daughters draw, and I look out my classroom window at the dark storm clouds gathering, one memory from the second week of December 1982 especially stands out. We’d had a large snow storm during the night, which had dumped nearly a foot of snow - I know, big surprise that it snowed in Heber in December. Anyway, the snow made Highway 189 through Provo Canyon treacherous. This was back in the day - boy I sound like an old fart - when the road through the canyon wound along the bottom by the river, instead of following the contour of the mountainside like it does now. It was a winding, two lane road, and was especially dangerous during a snowstorm. My cousin and I opted not to go to school that morning.

Since I was already up and dressed, I decided to make myself useful. After shoveling my parents’ sidewalk and driveway, I took my shovel and walked down Center Street a block to Clarence and Hope Olsen’s place. Clarence and Hope were an elderly couple - they had to be in their eighties - who lived with their adult son Joe, who was mentally retarded. Joe Olsen was a neighborhood fixture, standing beside the road for hours and watching the cars go by. When I first read the book To Kill A Mockingbird as a teenager, before I saw the movie, the Radleys reminded me of the Olsens (not that Clarence was comparable to the mean and cruel Mr. Radley), and Joe Olsen was who I pictured as Boo Radley.

As a teenager, I spent many hours in boring church meetings entertaining myself (and friends and family) by sketching various members of our LDS ward, especially Clarence, Hope, and Joe. It sounds cruel and disrespectful now, but at the time I didn’t mean it that way; they were just really interesting people to look at, which meant they were a lot of fun to draw. I never cartooned or caricatured them, I just sketched them as they appeared. Which was probably bad enough. Clarence and Hope were both quite feeble - I think Hope was a little senile at that point - although Clarence still worked in the insurance sales office that stood next to his house.

When I got to the Olsens it was still before eight o’clock in the morning, and the house looked quiet. Even then, I think I figured I owed them some compassion; I don’t think they ever knew that I drew pictures of them, but even so, I wanted to do something kind for them. I had their sidewalk and driveway shoveled before anyone was awake in the house. My goal was to escape without the Olsens knowing who had shoveled them out.

I wasn’t fast enough. As I was putting the finishing touches on the sidewalk, Clarence’s stooped figure emerged from the house. I remember Clarence, despite his advanced age and the proximity of his office to his house, was dressed in a suit and tie. At that point in his life, Clarence was slack-jawed and a little difficult to understand when he spoke. However, he seemed grateful and muttered his thanks, which kind of embarrassed me. I didn’t want the Olsens to know I’d shoveled their sidewalk; it was a lot more fun doing it anonymously. It wasn’t a big emotional moment anyway; Clarence didn’t throw his arms around me and tell me how grateful he was. He just mumbled thanks and I told him he was welcome.

I returned from an LDS mission in late 1984 and was a little surprised to go to church and see both Olsens still living. Joe was no longer with them; he had been institutionalized after Clarence and Hope were no longer able to care for him. Not too long after my return both Clarence and Hope died. A few years later Joe met a tragic end when he got separated from his group while on an outing in the mountains near Kamas. Joe spent the night in the mountains and died of exposure. It’s a sad story, but sometimes that’s how life is.

1982 was a long time ago, now. The music from that era brings back a lot of memories, both good and bad. My parents and brother Phil passed away a few years ago. My buddy Don hasn’t been in touch for quite a while, and I’m a little worried about him. I still see other friends that I grew up with, and I’m grateful for their continued friendship, although we don't always see eye-to-eye on some things.

Anyway, I like watching my daughters draw. I’m glad I passed that on to them. I just hope that they’ll shovel the snow once in a while as well.

Acting Principal

When my boss is out of the building, I have the dubious honor of dealing with the discipline problems that can’t be handled in-class. The older students aren’t much fun under these circumstances; their issues most often involve threatening other students or actual fighting, along with defiance or disrespect to their teachers. Oh, and the girl fights. There's nothing quite like the animosity that can develop between sixth grade girls to keep life interesting.

On the other hand, the younger kids are usually a hoot when they get in trouble. Case in point: this morning the school secretary called me to the office because a kindergarten teacher had kicked a student out of her class, and the student was waiting for me in the time-out room. The time–out room is a small room across the hall from the principal’s office; the room is painted a soothing forest green and isn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet.

As I entered the office the secretary warned me, “She’s cute but don’t let that fool you.” When I walked into the time-out room I found that the secretary spoke the truth. Waiting for me was a little girl straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting: tiny, pigtails, freckles, an impish smile, and feet that didn’t quite touch the floor from the chair where she was sitting. I asked the miniature miscreant her name and what she had done to end up in the principal’s office. The diminutive delinquent – whom I’ll call Sarah, which isn’t her real name, of course – told me that she teased another little girl named Eve. Apparently Sarah thought the similarity between Eve’s name and Christmas Eve was pretty funny. Sarah had also refused to sit on the rug with the rest of her class when her teacher asked her to, which was the main reason she was no longer in class. I had a hard time keeping a straight face with this runty wrongdoer.

Sarah chattered away about various misdeeds she had perpetrated in class, and I began to sympathize with her teacher. I finally asked the tiny terror what her parents would do if they knew she was in trouble at school. Her eyes widened and she whispered, “They would be mad.” I told Sarah that we were going to call her parents. It sounded like there would be consequences at home for getting in trouble at school, which is a good thing. However, my calling her parents didn’t seem to faze Sarah, and I soon found out why: no one answered any of the numbers I dialed. This crooked cutie knew no one was home.

I gave Sarah the standard speech – obey your teacher, how would you feel if someone teased you, blah, blah, blah – but I could tell by the small smile on Sarah’s face that I wasn’t getting through. I took Sarah by the hand – mainly because I was afraid she might make a run for it in the other direction, and the last thing I needed today was to put out an APB on a fugitive kindergartner – and led her back to class.

When we arrived at Sarah’s classroom, I asked her teacher to come out into the hall for a private talk. I reassured the teacher that Sarah would behave (although I privately had grave doubts about the truthfulness of that assertion), and told the teacher to keep Sarah in from recess. The look on Sarah’s face told me that she was still bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and more than ready for round two with her teacher. Suddenly, inspiration struck and I uttered those same four simple words that weary parents have told their obnoxious offspring every December for hundreds of years: 

“Santa Claus is watching.”

Sarah’s face fell, and she quietly returned to class. I congratulated myself on my cleverness.

Sarah’s teacher told me later that my words of wisdom guided the bitty bandit’s behavior for all of five minutes.

A Different Country

I watched The Last Detail last night. The Last Detail is a movie made in 1973, and stars Jack Nicholson, Otis Young, and Randy Quaid. It tells the story of two career navy guys, Nicholson and Young, who are assigned to escort a young enlisted man, played by Quaid, to the brig. Quaid’s character made the mistake of attempting to rob forty dollars from a charity box. Quaid’s character is also incredibly young and naive, and Nicholson and Young are appalled at the unfairness of his sentence. Quaid received his harsh sentence because the charity he robbed was his commanding officer’s wife’s favorite. Nicholson and Young decide to show him a good time on their way to the brig, where Quaid is to serve eight years in the old Portsmouth Naval Prison.

And that’s basically the plot of the movie.

I hadn’t seen The Last Detail in a very long time, but I had it on my computer hard drive so I decided to watch it, which is why and how I end up watching most movies anymore. The Last Detail isn’t a classic, but it holds up well as a portrait of America in the early 1970s, mainly because it was filmed on location all along the northeastern seaboard, from Norfolk, Virginia to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The people and places in the background of The Last Detail are real, not CGI. Also, The Last Detail stars Jack Nicholson, and everything Nicholson did between Easy Rider in 1969 and One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest in 1975, is worth a look.

The Last Detail isn’t a movie for everybody. The language is raw - it is about Navy guys, and the incessant use of the F-word caused quite a stir back in ’73 - and there is also some violence and sex depicted in the film.

What appeals most to me about The Last Detail is its realistic depiction of America circa 1973. 1973 America was almost a different country than America 2010. If you hadn’t lived during that era, it would be hard to explain to you how different Watergate-era America was from today, but being blessed (or cursed) with a good memory, I remember a lot about that time, and The Last Detail is very accurate:

• The cars in the movie are all pre-fuel crisis, American-made, steel constructed, behemoth gas guzzlers. They remind me of the cars my dad, grandpa, and uncles drove when I was growing up. I miss those big cars. They made the demolition derby at the Wasatch County Fair back then a lot more interesting than it is now. It’s hard to get excited about watching a 1987 Ford Taurus fall apart.

• The characters in The Last Detail are all throwbacks to a completely different time, from the redneck bartender who inspires one of Nicholson’s greatest lines (“Call the shore patrol? I am the m*th*rf*ck*ng shore patrol!”) when the bartender hesitates to serve a beer to Young (because he’s black) and Quaid (because he’s underage), to Nicholson’s old-school hedonistic character (booze and broads are his vice) Billy "Badass" Buddusky.

• I smell cigarette smoke when I watch The Last Detail. Seriously. The movie takes me back to an era when quite a few people smoked, even in small town, Mormon Utah. I remember being a nine-year-old sitting in a barbershop in Heber and every adult male there, except for my dad and the barber, was smoking. The movie also evokes memories of a snow sledding outing with my best friend and his older brother, who smoked and swore as he drove us up to Lindsay’s Hill in his old truck. It was sort of like going sledding with Billy Buddusky. That’s actually a pleasant memory, and one of the reasons that smoking doesn’t bother me as much as it seems to bother other people.

• Watching The Last Detail makes me cold. The movie takes place during winter, and it reminds me of all the old, drafty buildings we used to shop in (and live in) when I was a kid. It doesn’t seem like there were many new homes in Heber when I was growing up, certainly not like there are today. Most of the stores - except for the new Safeway, which replaced an old building that had burned down, and the brand new Day's Market that opened in '73 - were in old buildings, as were the library, movie theaters, and schools.

• Finally, although politics never come up in The Last Detail (Buddusky seems happily apolitical; he’s too busy chasing women and whiskey to worry about Watergate, and I can’t even imagine what his reaction to Don’t Ask Don’t Tell would be), it’s gotta be hard for politically aware people in their twenties and thirties today to imagine  how universally despised the President of the United States - Richard M. Nixon - was. Ol’ Tricky Dick Nixon - despite any good things he accomplished, like establishing the EPA or saving Israel during the 1973 Yom Kippur War - didn’t stand a chance because of the innate corruptness of his administration.

I could go on and on about the differences between 1973 and 2010, but I’ve made my point: things change, not always for the better, but not always for the worse either. Movies like The Last Detail don’t get made very often anymore. Only Clint Eastwood seems to make the same type of movie now. There isn’t anyone to really cheer for in The Last Detail. There aren’t special effects or big explosions. The underlying message is the unfairness of life and the dehumanizing effect people wielding too much unchecked power have.

The Last Detail is a realistic depiction of an era when mores and expectations were a lot different from what they are now. Whether that’s good or bad is up to you to decide.

Here's the original movie trailer for The Last Detail:

Thank You and Happy Veterans Day, Sergeant J

Kind of a preachy blog post today. Normally I try not to preach; it makes me feel hypocritical in a major way. However, what I have to say today is near and dear to my heart, so I’m gonna preach:

I have two little girls - stepsisters - in my class this year. Their father and step-father, Sgt. J, is a master sergeant in the army. In September he was severely injured by an IED - what used to be called a booby trap - in Afghanistan. Sgt. J’s job in the army was to actually defuse IEDs. For the last two months he has been recuperating in various military hospitals between here and Afghanistan. Tomorrow (on Veterans Day, no less) Sgt. J finally gets to come home. Like other returning Iraq/Afghanistan veterans in our area, Sgt. J will be escorted by the local fire department, and the main road into town will be lined with American flags. My class, along with several others, will be waiting by the roadside to cheer and demonstrate our appreciation as his entourage pulls into town.

I’m proud to teach this brave soldier’s children, and proud that he lives in our town. America wouldn’t have survived over the past two hundred and thirty-four years without men and women like Sgt. J and his family, who are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. I honor our country in a million little ways, but compared to heroes like Sgt. J, my efforts seems pretty inadequate.

This Veterans Day, let’s truly remember and appreciate Sgt. J and all the other brave men and women who have served - or are serving - our country. No other country in the world offers the freedoms and opportunities that we have here in the USA. The men and women serving in the military are prepared to lay down their lives to safeguard those freedoms and opportunities.

As the holiday season nears, let’s not forget we’re still fighting two wars. It doesn’t seem like a day goes by that there isn’t news of someone being injured or killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. There are also hundreds of thousands of servicemen and women who won’t be with their families on Thanksgiving later this month because they are sacrificing that time with their families to serve our country. 

Let’s not ever take any of them for granted.

Haunting The Cemetery

October 31: All Hallow’s Eve. According to the ancient Celts - and to Susan, who reads a lot and has a flair for the dramatic - this is the day when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest; the day when spirits walk amongst us and can only be appeased by gifts of food, or fooled by dressing up to appear like them. In honor of Samhain, I took the girls to Heber today. Actually, that’s not true. I took the girls to Heber because I was feeling nostalgic, and because I wanted to get out of Happy Valley for a while. Too much Happy Valley makes a guy blue, sometimes.

We went to Heber with the intention of visiting some elderly relatives. Unfortunately, no one we wanted to visit was home. Maybe I’ll call first next time. Anyway, we ended up at one of our favorite haunts - ha ha - the Heber Cemetery. The cemetery is a peaceful place, and we enjoy visiting there. The girls enjoy running around the headstones, and I enjoy remembering and contemplating the lives of people who have gone on to - hopefully - greater things. There is also a lot of history to be learned in the graveyard, if a person knows where to look.

Here are some things we saw there today:

 The first stop, as always, is my parents’ grave. My mom really dug Halloween; she used to dress up as a witch and tell spooky stories to any group that would have her, especially cub scouts. One year she did such a good job she made one little guy scream and cry.

Of course, we had to pay our respects to my brother Phil. Phil was always good for a laugh on Halloween. I remember one Halloween thirty years ago he and I and a couple of other guys took a can of shaving cream and some firecrackers and ... actually I probably shouldn’t tell that one, if only to protect the guilty.

Here’s a view of Mt. Timpanogos from the Heber Cemetery. As I’ve said before, you can never take too many pictures of Timp.

One year Mom and her best friend told Phil and me that if we went to the cemetery, ran around this grave three times, and asked it what it was doing it, it would say nothing at all. Of course Phil and I did exactly that, and the headstone literally said nothing at all. Ever since I told the girls about that trick, they like to hang around this headstone. I got my girls to do the same thing last Memorial Day.

There are some interesting old headstones in the Heber Cemetery, carved out of various material.  In the good ol’ days, people used whatever was available. One of the most common materials was sandstone. It doesn’t hold up very well; there are a couple of old sandstone headstones that are virtually unreadable. This isn’t one of them; even after over a hundred years, the care that went into making this one is still evident.

Here’s a headstone the girls found today with the famous Utah pioneer clasped hands. There is some deep religious significance* to the hands that escapes me right now. It does look pretty cool. And why don't parents name their children Lowerina anymore?

 Here’s a headstone I’d never noticed until today. I really like the cross and the crown. I’m not sure what the exact significance of it is, although I can probably guess.

This is a detail, in black and white, of that cross and crown. Again, very nice work, especially when you consider that the whole thing was carved by hand.

 An autumnal view of Heber Valley, taken from a hill in the north east corner of town. I was raised here, and I love this valley, but every time I visit I always think of the old Charley Pride song, “Wonder Could I Live There Anymore.” Things have changed so drastically that it isn’t much like the place I grew up in now.

A few months ago I ranted and raved about the audacity of someone changing the name of Clyde’s Billiards to “The Spicy Lady.” I thought the name sounded more like a brothel than a cafe. Well, the place isn’t named The Spicy Lady anymore; it is now The Angry Bull, which to my ears sounds only marginally better. Nice Halloween decorations, though.

And that was the end of our Heber trip. It was a quick one; only three hours. The Wife needed us at home, and I promised I’d be there by five. It was time to leave anyway; too much nostalgia just makes me sad and grumpy, which is why we went to Heber in the first place.

* I just found this website that explains nineteenth century headstone symbolism. Both the clasped hands and the crown and the cross are explained there.

Reasonably Inexpensive Nostalgia, Part 2

No running journal today, but it was a great day. We took the kids to the American West Heritage Center this morning. I hadn’t been there in nearly twenty years, since I was a USU undergrad and escorted a group of kids from the university lab school on a hayride at the farm.

I can’t recommend the AWHC highly enough if you are a history buff like me. The AWHC is a working farm themed around the year 1917, and everything is as authentic as they can possibly make it in 2010, from the sausage making in the summer kitchen, to the blacksmith shop, to the chamber pots underneath the beds in the farmhouse.

There is plenty of extremely cool stuff at the American West Heritage Center:

An atmospheric entrance

A blacksmith shop

A mini-train that circles the farm

A petting zoo

A working farmhouse, full of antique furnishings

Caroline checks out the Victrola. It still works.

Communication, 1917 style

Authentic wall decorations

The original owners of the property where the AWHC sits

A broom making demonstration

Caroline holds the Widow’s Broom. If you’re a Chris Van Allsburg fan you’ll get it.

I’m still hurting quite a bit, so after a few hours I was done. I came back to the motel and crashed for the rest of the afternoon while The Wife continued the tour with the girls.

Tonight Susan and I went back to the Heritage Center for the Haunted Hollow, their western themed spook alley. I don’t think I’ve ever taken The Wife to a haunted house, so we’re talking at least twelve years since I escorted a young lady to one. I kept looking over at the beautiful blonde attached to my left hand. It was a little disconcerting to realize that I have such a beautiful daughter, and to realize that she will be going to places with boys on actual dates in a few years. Susan is a lot of fun to hang out with, and she made some interesting observations about the college kids on a date who were in our group.

Susan also saved my butt at the end of the Haunted Hollow by knowing about the horse drawn wagon that could take us back to the parking lot. My knee was really throbbing by the end of the walk. Susan saved the day.

So the Haunted Hollow was basically the end of our Cache Valley Vacation. We’ve got a few things left to do tomorrow, but then we head home and back to reality. Hopefully I haven’t torn a tendon in my knee. This week will be interesting.

Reasonably Inexpensive Nostalgia, Part 1

We’re going to Logan for our annual Cache Valley Vacation. I love Cache Valley. I spent five of the best years of my life there trying to get through Utah State University. Going to Logan makes me nostalgic, almost as much as going to Heber does. Cache Valley is one of my “Gee Whiz” places, as in “Gee whiz I’d sure like to live there.” Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be practical to give up my years in my current school district and start over in one of the two school districts in Cache Valley. Logan will just have to stay a great place to take a fall vacation.

We have some big plans, including taking the girls to a corn maze at the American West Heritage Center. The Wife hopes to meet up with an old friend for a girls’ night out as well. Something about getting her eyebrows waxed. Sounds like fun.

In the unlikely event anyone actually finds my life interesting, I’m going to keep a running journal of our time in Bridgerland ... 

Thursday, 9:00 PM ... The Wife and I watch TV in our own motel room. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to watch an actual television. Most of my video viewing at home now is either a download or on DVD, usually on my computer. Fortunately, The Wife had the foresight to book a suite, so our TV is not tuned to an endless stream of Sponge Bob or iCarly reruns, as it normally would be at home. That’s what the girls are watching in the other room.   

Right now we’re watching American Chopper, one of my all-time favorite programs, while eating Thai take-out. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen a new episode of American Chopper. I didn't realize Paul Senior and Paul Junior were on the outs. I always thought Paul senior was the proverbial prick with a heart of gold. Turns out he’s just a prick. He still has a great mustache, though.

Friday, 3:45 AM ... I wake up, as usual. I realize where I am and that I don’t have to get up to beat the crowd to the gym today. I laugh out loud. The Wife thinks I’m nuts. I eventually fall back to sleep.

7:00 AM ... I wake up for good this time. There is an Anytime Fitness here in Logan, and I am eager to check it out. Unfortunately, the bathroom light and fan are on the same switch, and the fan is incredibly loud. The fan, which is only slightly less noisy than Paul Junior’s Chopper, wakes The Wife and kids. Once the kids are awake they never go back to sleep, so The Wife won’t be able to either. I guiltily slink off to the gym.

When I get to the gym my electronic key doesn’t work, although supposedly I can use it at any Anytime Fitness in the state. A guy inside takes pity on me and opens the door for me. I am impressed with the size of the facility and the amount of exercise equipment. I get on a treadmill and begin my morning run. I set my iPod to a playlist of favorite songs from 1990-91, when I was attending USU. I hear “Why Should I Cry For You” by Sting, “Mansion on the Hill” by Neil Young, “Hard To Handle” by the Black Crowes, and “Series Of Dreams” by Bob Dylan, among others.

About a mile into the run the left side of my right knee starts to hurt. Being the masochist that I am, I just ignore it and reach my goal. Usually the pain stops by the second mile, but today it doesn’t. I realize I’m not twenty-five anymore and vow to use an elliptical tomorrow instead of a treadmill, even though I don’t want to. I hobble over to a nearby Wal-Mart and buy some Arthricream, which of course makes me feel even older.

11:00 AM ... I take the kids to the Bluebird Restaurant - one of our favorite places, and a place we go every time we’re in Logan - for lunch. The Wife stays at the motel to catch up on her sleep. We get to the Bluebird and the kids, after a perfunctory stop at the table, head to the candy counter. The hand dipped chocolates they sell at the Bluebird are the best. Since I at least sometimes pretend to be a responsible parent, I make the girls come back to the table for lunch. Fortunately for Grace, a grilled cheese sandwich is on the menu. The girls eat quickly and immediately return to the candy counter, where I buy them all something.

After leaving the Bluebird we head up the street half a block to one of my favorite reasons for visiting Logan, Books Of Yesterday. Susan and Caroline are thrilled to be there as well; Gracie less so. Within five minutes of entering the bookstore, Grace finds me and proclaims that she needs to use the bathroom. Since there isn’t a restroom in the bookstore, we have to leave. Rather than take the girls back to the motel and disturb The Wife, I tell them that we are going to the grocery store instead. Grace then tells me she really doesn’t need to use the restroom. I tell her “tough”, and make all three of them use the restroom at the grocery store anyway.

When we leave the grocery store I take the girls a block and a half northwest and show them the house my parents lived in sixty years ago while my father attended USU when it was still USAC, and had to milk cows on campus early in the morning. My mom told me they lived in a little two room apartment in the back of the house, where she was pregnant and homesick. I have the girls pose at the entrance to the part of the house where my parents lived and take their picture.

A little family history never hurt anybody.

2:00 PM ... The Wife takes the girls swimming in the motel pool, so I have the next two hours to finally hit some of my old favorite haunts solo. I start out at Books of Yesterday. B.O.Y. looks like an earthquake struck, leaving piles of books everywhere. I’m looking for a couple of twenty-year-old crime novels by Walter Mosley, Devil In A Blue Dress and A Red Death, in the original editions that I used to own. Sure enough, B.O.Y. has them, and they are reasonable priced. I don’t even have to look for them very hard, surprisingly, considering the state of the store.

After Books of Yesterday I go to Hastings, another old favorite. Hastings has a couple of obscure Dylan CDs for really cheap, but I resist the temptation to buy them. I figure I can find them on Amazon. I finally go to Borders, which didn’t exist when I lived in Cache Valley. After Hastings, and especially after Books of Yesterday, Borders is a let down. It’s way too modern, and the book and CD selection is way too obvious. I prefer the cheap thrill of finding a book I really want in a pile in Books Of Yesterday. I don’t spend much time at Borders. My time is up anyway, so I buy a couple of pizzas from Little Caesar's and head back to the motel. When I arrive Susan is playing with a little boy I don’t recognize in front of the motel. Susan has a made a new friend, as usual.

I’m hungry, and after all the bookstore browsing, my knee is throbbing. I’m hoping to get off it and eat a piece of pizza. Just gonna hang out with the women in my life for a few hours ....

Too Tired To Run, Too Aggravated To Sleep

Susan and friend at the Utah State Fair, 9/12/10

The past few weeks I’ve been getting up at 4:00 AM to go to the gym. It hasn’t been a big deal for me to get up that early; I blame creeping middle age. Once upon a time I struggled to make it to a 7:30 AM class at USU. Now I look forward to getting up early to exercise and listen to music uninterrupted.

Yesterday and today have been a different story. We have had parent/teacher conferences at school the past two days, which have required twelve hour work days. As a result, I have still woken up at 3:45, but I have been too weary to get up and exercise. The problem is I start worrying about things, and I can’t turn my mind off enough to get back to sleep, although I’m really tired.

Right now my biggest concern is my oldest daughter, Susan. Susan is tall, blonde, pretty, intelligent, and athletic. Unfortunately, Susan has also become the butt of some bullying by some catty little girls in her class, probably for the reasons I just listed. She’s a little awkward socially and doesn’t relate well to kids her own age; she does better with kids who are a little older than she is.

One day last week Susan came into my classroom in tears and handed me some notes that another student had written to her. The notes were mean; among other things they accused Susan of getting easier work from her teacher because I work at the school, which was ridiculous. Susan is a smart kid and doesn’t need any intervention from me to grease her academic path. She does just fine on her own. The notes were also full of the usual fifth grade invective (loser, stupid, etc.) Like any parent, I took the notes to Susan’s teacher. The teacher dealt with the girl who wrote the notes by moving her away from Susan and informing the girl’s parents of her activities. I agreed with how Susan’s teacher handled the situation and figured the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, the note-writer is just one of a little clique of mean girls who have been hassling Susan. Susan told The Wife last night that the teasing has gotten worse because Susan told me about it. Apparently this catty little bunch didn’t like Susan telling on them. Susan didn’t want The Wife to tell me that the teasing is still going on, but The Wife did anyway, for which I am grateful. I am also pissed off. My daughter has as much right as anyone else to attend school without being harassed, and just because I work at the school doesn’t mean she should have to put up with any crap. My working at the school may not entitle my daughters to any special privileges, but my job also doesn’t mean my kids don’t have the same right to not be bullied as any other kid at the school.

Stay tuned.

Hours Of Awesomeness

I have an awesome playlist on my iPod. This playlist is unusual because every song on it predates 1955 - nine years before I was born - and consists of ancient blues, jazz, pop, and country (some of which goes clear back to the 1920s), with some rhythm and blues and early rock and roll thrown in as well. When I listen to the playlist I get to hear greats like Hank Williams, Count Basie, Billie Holiday, Charlie “Yardbird” Parker, Louis Armstrong, Robert Johnson, Benny Goodman, Bessie Smith, and Bob Wills, along with more obscure - to most people - artists like T-Bone Walker, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Ben Webster, Lester Young, Rex Allen, The Light Crust Doughboys, and Billy Ward and the Dominoes. If you recognize any of those names, my hat is off to you. I love listening to this playlist, especially this time of year. There's something about autumn that makes me want to break out the good, old stuff.

I’ve written a little bit about it before, but man, I love the old stuff. Music is one of the two greatest gifts God has given us, and music from the first half of the twentieth century is some of the greatest music ever recorded. I realize that commercial music is exactly that - music recorded to make a profit, and there isn't anything wrong with that. But it sure seems like they were able to make music that not only made money sixty years ago, but also had some heart and soul.

Listening to Hank sing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” Louis Armstrong sing and play “(What Did I Do To Be So) Black And Blue”, or Benny Goodman play “Undercurrent Blues,” makes me happy. I enjoy the old music not only because it takes me back to another era, but also because it sounds relevant to me today. Seriously, I’d rather listen to The Chuck Wagon Gang sing a country/gospel song like “After The Sunrise,” which was recorded in the 1930s, than almost anything modern that I can think of, with the obvious exception of ... Bob Dylan (you knew I was going to work him into this, didn’t you?)

This week I discovered Bob Dylan’s radio show  Theme Time Radio Hour. I realize I’m a little late to the party, because the show was originally broadcast on satellite radio from 2006-09. I’d heard about  "Theme Time", but I never listened to an actual episode until a few days ago. The nice thing is I recently found a website where I could download all one hundred episodes, which I have been busily doing for the past few days. I’m grateful The Wife has been patient, because it has really sucked up the bandwidth.

Theme Time Radio Hour is really a lot of fun to listen to. Dylan chooses a theme for each episode - the first one I listened to was called “Friends and Neighbors” - and plays music related to that theme. Most of the music Dylan plays is ... ancient blues, jazz, pop, and country (some of which goes clear back to the 1920s), with some rhythm and blues and early rock and roll thrown in as well. He also occasionally throws in a little modern stuff, too. Bob Dylan not only plays great old music on his show, he also pontificates, quotes poetry, tells jokes, and relates anecdotes about the artists he plays, which are usually quite funny. Theme Time Radio Hour is now required listening for my morning treadmill jogs, because it is so entertaining it takes my mind off the fact that I’m jogging on a treadmill at 4:30 in the morning.

 Theme Time Radio Hour ... check it out. It’s good stuff.

My Man-Crush

I’m going to see Bob Dylan in concert tomorrow night. He’s playing at Deer Valley in Park City. My wife surprised me with tickets, and I’m going with my buddy Ken. The Wife isn’t a fan, so it was mighty nice of her to stifle her gag reflex and get the tickets for me. I’ve been a Dylan fan since high school – nearly thirty years ago – and I’m as excited for this concert as any concert I’ve ever been to. The man is a living legend  – Dylan, not Ken. Ken is still working on it, but I digress. Bob Dylan is pushing seventy years old, so I’m very happy to finally see him in person. I missed out on seeing Johnny Cash – another big favorite – before he died, and I’ve always regretted it. Not gonna happen with Dylan.

Because of my anticipation of tomorrow night’s concert, I listened to one of the most important (and best) concerts ever recorded – Dylan and the Hawks in Manchester, UK, May 1966 – while I was riding my bike this morning, and I’ve been wandering around the house today singing Dylan songs and extolling his virtues to The Wife. She doesn’t get it, so rather than continue to bore her with my pontifications, I’m going to blog about my man-crush on Bob Dylan. I can sum it up with one incident in the man’s life, and it happened at the concert I listened to this morning.

If this bores you, you don’t have to read it.

Okay, so you’re still with me. Good. Let me set the scene. It’s Tuesday, May 17, 1966, in Manchester, England. Bob Dylan is playing a concert at the Free Trade Hall. Dylan and his greatest backing band, The Hawks (later more famous as simply The Band) have been playing Australia and Europe for six weeks. They are wrapping up their tour in the UK. One of Dylan’s greatest albums, Blonde on Blonde, was just released the day before in the US.

Ever since the switch from being an earnest acoustic folk singer who played protest songs at places like the March on Washington in 1963, where Martin Luther King gave his famous “I have a dream” speech, to going electric at the Newport Folk Festival the summer of 1965 and nearly getting booed off stage, Dylan has been heckled by his former fans. Rock and roll music doesn’t fit in with their folkie, protest singer image of Dylan. The UK fans are especially belligerent. Dylan has taken to performing with a huge American flag as his backdrop, further alienating his already testy European fans.

Dylan’s 1966 concerts are divided between an acoustic set and an electric set. At the beginning of the concert Dylan comes out with just his acoustic guitar and his harmonica and plays acoustic music. Bob Dylan is twenty-five years old with a wild head of hair and some pretty hip clothes for the era. He formerly performed in work shirts and blue jeans, so his appearance has changed quite a bit.

Interestingly, during the acoustic part of the show, Dylan doesn’t play any of the “classic” stuff that the fans want to hear (“Blowin’ In The Wind” or “The Times They Are A-Changin’”). Instead he plays acoustic versions of songs off his last three albums, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde, which are essentially rock and roll albums with a smattering of acoustic material included. Despite the lack of protest music, Dylan’s acoustic set is fairly well received.

However, Dylan then brings out the Hawks and rips into a song called “Tell Me, Momma,” and the audience starts to get agitated. In fact, not realizing that rock and roll history is being made right before their eyes, some of the crowd boos and shouts out rude stuff. A few of his former fans start clapping rhythmically at an inappropriate time, trying to throw Dylan and the band off. Dylan starts to mumble something under his breath until the clapping clods eventually quit so that they can hear what he is saying. Dylan’s electric set continues like this, even though Dylan and the Hawks are playing definitive versions of some of his greatest songs.

The jeering gets worse. Dylan and the band finally come to the last song. While the musicians are tuning up, an idiot in the audience shouts out “Judas!” (that someone would compare him to Christ’s betrayer is a good example of the depth of feeling some fans had about Bob Dylan playing rock and roll instead of folk music). Another genius shouts “I’m never listening to you again!” Dylan turns to the hecklers and says, “I don’t believe you. You’re a liar!” Then Dylan turns his back to the crowd and says to Robbie Robertson, his lead guitarist, “Play it f*cking loud!” And Bob Dylan and the Hawks tear into the greatest version of “Like A Rolling Stone” ever recorded.

So that’s it. I admire the man’s tenacity and audacity. I love the fact that Dylan wouldn’t be daunted or dissuaded by his erstwhile fans. Rather than caving and going back to folk music, Dylan made some of the greatest music of his career, even though it wasn’t appreciated at the time. And, despite a motorcycle accident where he broke his neck a few months after the concert in Manchester, Dylan has continued to make great music. Bob Dylan’s last four albums, Time Out Of Mind, “Love And Theft”, Modern Times, and Together Through Life, are some of his best, most accessible work, and he was sixty plus years old when he recorded them.

And, thanks to my wife, I get to see him in concert tomorrow night.