Album Worlds, Pt. 1

                                                              Part One

                                                           (Copyright Patrick Rowlee, 2020)

               

             Ever since his father died when the boy was eight, Kerig Knox had a great hollow place inside him. With no one in his family capable of providing him comfort back then, Kerig sought refuge from his loss in music. Mostly on his mother’s car radio, but only when allowed and then the volume had to be set low. And later, on his tan GE transistor radio, which he held up to his ear while walking or set upright when he laid down. At first, Kerig only listened to KUTY, his hometown’s 500-watt station. But then, he began twisting the dial to 93 KHJ or 1110 KRLA, which featured even more Top 40 songs than “Kutie.” In 1962 and ‘63, heartthrob crooners and girl bands dominated the top spots while singing of lost loves, crushes, boyfriends, girlfriends, and hot rods. But as the Sixties blossomed, soul and rock music began to excite and stimulate Kerig, filling his void for the first time since his dad’s death.

Music heard on television was a different matter. At first, his favorite genre was theme songs for various popular shows: Peter Gunn, Andy Griffith Show, The Jack Benny Program, Outer Limits, and – of course – his favorite. (The Twilight Zone theme was, by default, Kerig’s favorite TV theme,  the whistling ditty on Andy Griffith’s program placing second). The themes of Outer Limits and TZ barely qualified as music, but both jingles transported Kerig to places he could never visit - to other worlds that captivated his mind and spirit. These sci-fi escapes served as short-term respites from the boredom and desert drab of Palmdale, California, a small town on the fringe of the Mojave Desert.

Although early on Kerig Knox watched old-fogie shows, such as The Andy Williams Show, Sing Along With Mitch, Lawrence Welk, Lennon Sisters, and The King Family, his mind expanded and occasionally exploded while discovering rock-oriented programs Shindig, Hullabaloo, The Lloyd Thaxton Show, Shebang, Ninth Street West, and later - In Concert and Midnight Special.  The major exception to the rule of old-folks shows being boring was The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights on CBS from 7 to 9pm, where he discovered the respective brilliance of Louis Armstrong, Jimmy Durante, Bobby Darin, Frank Sinatra, Barbara Streisand, Pearl Bailey, and too many crooners to list. But their collective brilliance had suddenly been eclipsed and soon forgotten. On the evening of February 9, 1964, The Beatles of Liverpool, England appeared on Ed’s broadcast for the first of three consecutive Sunday appearances. Nothing before or since matched that night for Kerig. It was as though the musical world had been both bombed and resurrected at once; and on a show watched by almost every American. From that moment on, British Invasion and American Resurgence performers replaced the lounge singers, crooners, and other outdated musical acts. Each Sunday Kerig watched at least one new musical artist: The Rolling Stones, Dave Clark Five, Beach Boys, Supremes, Temptations, Kinks, Doors, Mamas & Papas, Lovin’ Spoonful, and Janis Joplin.

Music then became an entity Kerig could not only hear, but own and enjoy whenever he wished, transporting him momentarily from the dry, beige, dusty, fatherless place of Palmdale. Every Saturday between 1964 and 1966 Kerig and older sister Trixie trudged a mile and a half through patches of desert and along Palmdale Boulevard’s gravel shoulders to Radio Palmdale, a radio and TV sales & service store with a record department large enough to carry every Top 40 single of the week. The little black plastic discs with large holes and paper labels became Kerig’s newest friends and companions. After his mother purchased an impressive cherry roll-top desk with a turntable inside, Kerig played all his 45 records on it… until his mother arrived home from work or the grocery store. When he saw or heard her pull up in their driveway, he pushed “reject,” turned the set off, rolled the cover back in place, and joined his mother car-side where he assisted Dorothy Knox with toting in their weekly groceries from the garage. If by chance Kerig found Trixie in a good mood, he would retreat to her bedroom and spin a few singles on her portable player before dinner. At first, he bought the boy and girl singer hits, but then spread out to novelty records (“Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda” by Alan Sherman, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away – Ha Ha Hee Hee” by Napoleon XIV, and Roger Miller’s “Dang Me”). But soon after, The Beach Boys, Four Seasons, and Jan & Dean populated his musical world. But, all that changed when the Fab Four landed in New York just ten weeks after President Kennedy’s assassination.

Kerig began buying Beatles’ singles every week. Each Saturday he spent exactly $1.04 for the single of his choice. Most weeks he bought a Beatles 45, but once or twice a month the skinny fifth grader purchased a new hit song from other artists. Little Anthony & the Imperials, The Beach Boys, Gary Lewis & the Playboys, Martha & the Vandellas, Lulu, and Leslie Gore landed on Kerig’s musical planet, only to find Miss Diana Ross and the Supremes already enthroned as royalty with an entire collection of songs. Why did his first album feature a female Motown act wearing floor-length dresses and dancing in synch? The Supremes’ album of greatest hits for the first three years of their prolific career had been gifted him by his father’s friends Andy and Aubrey Kimball. Although spare in its art design, the front cover featured the three vocalists standing side by side while pretending to sing. Each wore a sparkly white and gold floor-length gown that showcased their beauty, but a slickly curated record of girl songs focusing on boys did not transport him to another place.

Not until eight years later did Kerig Knox fully experience an album. During his freshman year in college the eighteen-year-old youth, long-haired and hippified, purchased an album that not only changed his life but transported him. The album The Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East he bought on a whim because its cover made such an impression.

Instead of bright, colorful artwork, the Allmans’ third album featured black-and-white covers, front and back. The six long-haired young men sat or stood on or in front of their band’s equipment. The four young men in the center resembled hardcore motorcycle clubbers while the bookends looked like a black hippy and a white hillbilly with hippy leanings. Looking more relaxed than any group Kerig had seen on an album cover before, he saw more than mere unity, he sensed and felt their oneness. Sharing a laugh about something, the band looked like six brothers, which is who they were. On the back was a similar image of six other men – all looking even more rag-tag and disheveled than the group on the front. Five road staffers sat, leaned, or stood in the same setting as the front cover – a collection of musical instruments and electronics housed in black crates, trunks, and cases stenciled “Allman Bros Fragile,” “ALL BROS,” or “THE ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND LIVE AT FILLMORE EAST,” the last being the album’s title. Above them and superimposed over the concert hall’s ancient brick wall were the album’s acknowledgments, song listings, and a framed profile shot of a sixth roadie who apparently hadn’t made it for the group photo. Four of the six held tall open cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer.

Flipping the album back to front, Kerig felt such energy and peace from the band that he promptly plopped down a princely sum of $9.98 plus tax for the double live album. Leaving the Licorice Pizza on Ventura Boulevard in LA, he drove an hour and a half straight home and put needle to vinyl a minute after switching off the ignition on his 1961 beige and off-white Chevy Impala. Sitting cross-legged in his family’s wood-and-glass den with a fire blazing behind him, Kerig studied the front cover until all four sides of the live blues and rock album concluded. By the time he finished the seventh and final cut on, “Whipping Post,” he had become so bonded with the album that he began to be physically drawn into the cover.

In the blink of an eye, Kerig Knox found himself inside a New York City concert hall first named the Commodore Theater, then the Village Theater, and finally in 1968, The Fillmore East. Walking around the darkened theater lit only by the light show, Kerig took everything in. The date on his glow-in-the-dark wristwatch read March 14, 1971 and the time two-thirty a.m. A voice over the PA system succinctly introduced the final act with, “Okay, the Allman Brothers Band,” followed by the emphatic drumming, slide guitar, and jazzy / bluesy keyboard playing of the ABB that open Willie McTell’s classic “Statesboro Blues.” How Kerig could be in New York City instead of the Mojave Desert and six months earlier, he had not a clue. All 2,654 seats had been sold out, but lots of single and pairs of seats sat empty. After six hours of shows preceding the 2:30 start time, some audience members had left while others roamed the interior – dancing in the aisles, gathering in front of the stage, or perching on catwalks far above the stage floor.

While Kerig wandered the former Vaudeville theater, he began fully realizing he had both teleported and time traveled; concepts he had only known from reading Jules Verne novels. He knew he couldn’t take any credit for his lucky accident, but he had three concerns: Would he be able to time travel again? Would he return to the future six months from now? And could he change the future by whatever he did or said tonight? Wanting to pull his head inside his shell and not be approached by anyone, he fought the temptation to isolate. Walking parallel to the stage, Kerig felt something touch his right butt cheek covered by his Levi 501 jeans. Turning around and expecting to see a pickpocket clutching his black leatherette wallet, he instead gazed upon a cherubic smile spread across the full-cheeked, round face of a girl between sixteen and nineteen years of age. Standing five feet tall and facing him just six feet away, Kerig zeroed in on the girl’s face. Her green eyes were so luminous they seemed to make everything around her disappear, except for the smile framed by a pair of luscious lips he yearned to touch and kiss.

Although “Hi there” was all she said, Kerig felt waves of shock flowing through his hands, arms, and loins, and reverberating throughout his body.

“Hi. Uh, excuse me, Miss. Did you happen to ---?”

“Did I happen to - pinch you on the derriere?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Oh, I apologize. It was purely intentional on my part.”

Intentional? Had she intended to say that, or had he misheard her? Maybe she said unintentional but before he could check, she said, “Yeah, you heard me right, Beautiful.”

Having nothing new to say, Kerig smiled and said “intentional” as a question.

“You got it. So, what’s your name or do I call you Beautiful from now on?”

“Well, suit yourself, but people call me Kerig.”

Without asking for a repeat, she pronounced his name perfectly - as though she had always known it. Then, it was her turn. “I’m Gwendolyn,” but you can call me anything you like. I prefer you call me ‘Gwinny, which will make you the first and perhaps last person I will allow to call me that.”

He felt high. To be exact, he felt both faint and exuberant. Am I having a love at first sight experience or what? “Okay, Gwinny. Can we sit or dance or even sit and dance?”

Laughing easily, she maintained her gorgeous smile. “Well, you are funny and cute. Yeah, let’s sit where we can see and hear each other.”

Pointing to the lobby, they walked side by side toward the open double doors. A cool hand inserted itself into his and they walked hand in hand out of the auditorium and over to a dark velvet love seat in a private corner of the Fillmore East lobby. “Perfect,” they both said at once.

“So, Handsome; er, Kerig, what brings you here?”

Not wanting to confess to time travel, he took the easy way out. “My love for the Allman Brothers.”

“Really? You’re that into them, Handsome?”

Right then, Kerig hit a crossroads. He could either assume Gwinny was just playing or that she really is this silly, outgoing, and cute-as-hell girl. Give her the benefit of the doubt. You just met her a minute ago and you’re already questioning her sincerity? Chill out, Man. Get to know Gwinny before you start judging her. He wanted to say to himself, “Look who’s talking?” but that made no sense. Am I so rattled that I am arguing with my inner self and losing the debate?

“Mmm hmm,” he answered, like a four-year-old, because he hadn’t the presence of mind to speak. Humming or ‘mmm-hmming’ he could do but opening his mouth and engaging with this new creature in the complex language of English seemed daunting, if not impossible.

“What’s wrong, Sweetie? Did a kitty get your tongue?”

Realizing the futility of remaining embarrassed, he took a breath and asked instead, “No, the kitty didn’t get it. Would you like it?”

“Oh, yes please. How yummy.” Taking his head in her hands Gwendolyn gently pulled him closer until their lips met. After several seconds, he felt her warm, soft tongue gently enter his mouth. Although a surprise, it was a wonderful surprise and amazing moment. Not knowing what to do since he had never French-kissed before, he let his tongue relax. And after realizing how passionate Gwinnie had become, Kerig cast aside all inhibition and reciprocated. What an experience, he continually marveled as his entire body tingled and glowed from the experience.

As the band kicked into “One Way Out,” Gwinny suggested they watch the show closer, so they retraced their steps without breaking their hand clasp and returned to the auditorium proper. “Hey, let’s sit there,” she declared. A quilt consisting of all the hues of a rainbow spread over a twelve-by-twelve-foot area with no one occupying it. Gwinny said: “This is our spot.” Lifting a far corner, she pulled out a brown wicker picnic basket. Opening a half lid, she asked: “Something to drink?”

So, they picnicked, drinking Cokes, dining on fruit, cheese, and pita bread while watching the Allman Brothers play a set best described as perfect. Perfect music makes life perfect, including this experience – be it a dream, time travel, or hallucination, he thought. Consulting his watch again, Kerig figured they had only three hours left. What would happen after that was anyone’s guess.

Gwinny and Kerig lay snuggled and intertwined on the quilt Gwinny had finished making that day while the picnic basket acted as their pillow. Between making out and hugging, they watched the band perform not more than a hundred feet away. Although no one once jumped around or screamed onstage, the Brothers’ show had plenty of excitement. The audience didn’t roar at the end of each protracted jam, but their collective energy maintained a consistently high level despite the late hour. Kerig and Gwinny did nap together during intermission, awaking together and then resuming their kisses and caresses. During the longest song of the night, the instrumental Mountain Jam lasting thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds, the couple took turns whispering in the other’s ear. At first, they teased each other good-naturedly, but soon their talk turned to confessions and even the revealing of secrets. Although they hadn’t had sex, they had become as intimate as Kerig had ever been with another human. There was such electricity between them he considered it a synchronized, spontaneous buzz whose joy knew no limits. Amazing. And all in one four-hour period. The only taste of heaven Kerig would ever have in this world.

After “Mountain Jam” came to an elegant close, a man not in the band appeared onstage. Wearing a straw, bent-up cowboy hat and farmer’s coveralls, the Allman Brothers’ friend and fellow Capricorn recording artist Elvin Bishop approached the center, unoccupied microphone stand and began a song called “Drunken Hearted Boy.” As the lyrics fell away, the band engaged in the most disciplined, yet carefree jam Kerig had ever heard. But what stood out way beyond anyone else’s playing was the slide guitar work of the twenty-four-year-old founder and leader of The Allman Brothers Band, Duane Allman. Both kids sat and, with mouths wide open, stared at Duane’s hands while he slid the round, hollow glass over his guitar’s neck. In the suddenly quiet concert hall, all that could be heard were the results of Allman plucking and sliding those six strings. Both knew they were observing a once-in-a-lifetime performance by an up-and-coming musician who managed to stun a sell-out crowd into silence. The only comparison Kerig could make in his mind with this performance was the time he heard an aging Igor Stravinsky conduct the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra. He remembered that the legendary composer would die in less than a month, on April the sixth while staying at the nearby Marriott Essex House in Manhattan. If Kerig shared this tidbit of future news with anyone, even this new girl, he could spend his future days and nights somewhere besides a concert hall; perhaps a psychiatric hospital. Okay, maintain, Kerig. Maintain your joy. Don’t let her see you crack.

When the song ended, cries of “More, more!” resounded all around them. Duane Allman stepped to the microphone and informed the hundreds who had stayed for the end that it was six in the morning (when it was seven a.m.). “Hey, that’s all for tonight.” More yelling from the crowd. “Look here, it’s six in the morning. This will be our third record and you’re all on it. We ain’t going to be sending you no checks, but thanks--,“ and then he laughed while Berry Oakley, their bassist, nearly collapsed from fatigue and laughter.

As the sounds of the crowd lowered, Kerig took Gwendolyn by her adorable chubby cheeks and tried planting a kiss on her mouth, but before his lips could reach hers, the scene changed. He no longer was in the Fillmore East sitting on a colorful quilt and sharing space with Gwinny. He found himself once more in his family’s wood and glass den with the fire behind him almost out.

Looking at the stack of albums laying before him on the carpeted floor, Kerig wondered two things: Could he inhabit the worlds of these other records and would he ever see his new love again?

                    

              Copyright 5/14/2020 – Patrick Rowlee. All rights reserved.

Tim's Boosters

                                                                                                

                                                                                       by Patrick Rowlee

The first Tuesday of summer vacation in 1966, I headed aimlessly down Maureen Street. Since my new best friend was nowhere to be found, I was bored beyond words. A third of the way to the corner I saw a five-foot-tall figure on the porch of a house three doors away I hadn’t noticed before. To try and identify the form I squinted my eyes so hard my head hurt. The arrival of twilight and layers of fabric covering up the mass kept me from knowing what it was. I first mistook it for a much-too-early Halloween decoration that resembled a scarecrow or a Grim Reaper without his scythe.

The sun had set behind Linda and Evelyn Clark’s house, and the figure standing on the concrete platform continued facing Palmdale Boulevard. Despite those challenges and because I drew closer, I suspected the ‘it’ might be a ‘she’ – not due to shape but attitude and posture. I sensed both serenity and readiness in the pose, a combination I had yet to witness in a man, so I guessed it was female. Layers of different fabric covered its form top to bottom. Despite the hour, the mercury stood tall at 98 degrees, so I began doubting the mass’s humanity. After all, who in their right mind would wear all that on a hot Mojave Desert night?

As I went from seventy to sixty feet away, the assembly of fabrics crystallized in my sight. Starting from the cement floor, I noticed white tennies resembling the type my mother had purchased from Shopping Bag for her housecleaning and other chores. Covering the tops of the canvas shoes was a pair of white pants I call “old-lady slacks” because of the zipper in back. A white cardigan hid the slacks’ waistband, covering most of the matching white t-shirt with what I had heard women call a scooped collar. On the top sat a pointed, cone-shaped straw hat secured by a string, like the ones I’d seen nightly on the news or in another context I couldn’t put my finger on. I later asked my expert on practically anything - Mr. Murphy, our next-door neighbor - what it was called. After hearing my description, he declared it a “coolie hat,” the kind Chinese laborers wore when building our transcontinental railroad and the type Vietnamese farmers wore for protection from the sun as they labored in fields I learned last  year are called ‘rice paddies.’

When I reached the gutter in front of the house, I called out my customary and courteous “Good evening!” After a bit of a lull, the figure’s top half swiveled slowly, followed by the large straw cone. “It” now faced my general direction supported by shoes twice the size of my mother’s only inches from the edge of the grayish-white slab. I still didn’t see a face, but I noticed angles I figured were shoulders and elbows poking beneath the all-white casual outfit. I then saw an older woman with a formless face whose clothes seemed to slide off her slight shoulders. As she tilted her head back enough for the coolie hat to not shade her face, I saw she was a woman of color. Instead of a mask or veil blocking her face, dark skin flattened her features, mostly masking them. As we exchanged pleasantries, I realized the woman appeared older than I first thought – perhaps by fifty years. Her voice is what gave the impression of age. She didn’t sound sick from a cold or laryngitis but spoke in a gruff, gravelly growl.

“Good evening, young man. And how are you this fine Tuesday night?”

As I responded with one of my stock answers, she crooked an index finger signaling me to step into her yard so we could speak more easily. “Wherever you wish to stand or sit, young man, is certainly fine with me.” As she spoke in a deliberate, measured cadence, I heard a refined woman; refined by what I had no idea, but she did command my attention. So mannered and polite was she, I assumed she had been well educated.

“I am well, ma’am. Thank you for asking. My name is Timothy Roslee and I deliver both local newspapers – the morning Antelope Valley Press and the evening Lancaster Ledger-Gazette.”

Instead of responding to my sales pitch, she replied sweetly, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Timothy Roslee. May I call you ‘Timothy’?”

“Ma’am, you may call me Timothy, Tim, Roslee, or ‘Hey, Kid’ if you like.”

A sound sourced from the woman’s midriff projected decibels sharp as quills. I recognized the projection as a laugh embedded inside a cackle. Sounding like no human, my closest comparison is the famous cartoon woodpecker, but without the staccato. After repeating my “Timothy, Tim, Roslee, or ‘Hey, Kid’ if you like,” she brightened the dark around us. “My my, young man, you are as fun as a barrelful of monkeys.” A pearly smile shone forth and could probably be seen at the corner six doors away. Seeing her straighten and extend her right arm, I stepped to the lawn’s edge and extended my tanned and freckled right hand in return. After an awkward silence, she exclaimed: “Oh, no child. Please climb the stairs, so we get a better idea of each other. Don’t you agree, Mister Tim?”

I had no idea what the lady meant exactly, but in 1966 kids did what adults told them to do. As I climbed the three steps, I looked over and began studying the woman’s movement. While she continued sweeping her hand sideways back and forth, I realized something odd or amiss about her. Her timing wasn’t just off, but double off: like the slow motion I had recently seen in sports replays.

Reaching the top, I pivoted and approached her as though stepping down a set of stairs. Staying put, she extended both hands in my direction. Assuming she wanted to join hands, I gave her both of mine. “Tim Roslee, I am so honored and glad to finally meet you. And now, young man - if I may - I have a proposal for you.”

After gazing upon her dark, elegant hands, I answered, “Oh, yes ma’am, I’d like to hear your proposal. Fire away; uh - please.”

Tipping her head back completely, my acquaintance unloosed a laugh huge in every category but one – sound. Not a single peep proceeded from her mouth while the rest of her - from the top of her forehead to the soles of her ‘mom shoes’ - shook, rattled, and rolled… not once, but many times. After her medley of shakes, rattles, and rolls gave way to an occasional twitch here or hand gesture there, she inhaled as gustily as a sailor at the start of a voyage. Finishing her dance, she straightened as stiff as a board. “Okay, Tim. I will gladly tell you my name……… but only on condition you guess it correctly.”

“But, ma’am.” I looked around. “The sun has set, and we don’t have enough daylight left for me to guess it.”

Giving up her proposal, she relented. “Okay, Timothy. I will let you off easy. You only have to guess my middle name.”

Without thinking, I blurted out my second choice, dismissing the first for racial reasons. “Mae”.

The lady opened her lips wide and laughed. “Correct! ‘Mae’ is correct!” And then, her face fell. “How did you ever guess a name I never use and so lickety-split, Tim?”

“Well,” I felt myself relax and loosen up, “I could tell you, but then—”

“But then you’d have to kill me?” An unspellable sound burst forth. But instead of a single sound, it was a symphony - of inhales, exhales, sighs, giggles, snorts, and even a gargle in the middle. “Is that what you were about to say, Tim?”

“No ma’am. I was about to say, ‘I could tell you, but you might not like it.’”

Silence followed for half a minute while my companion’s arched black eyebrows reminded me of Gloria Swanson’s pointing to the darkening sky. The break in conversation, coupled with a lack of movement and sound, became my chance to study up close a blind person’s movements and demeanor without being caught or thought rude. The tableaux was as artful and intriguing as any painting hanging in the Louvre Museum.

My discovery of the lady’s blindness did not deter us from communicating. Laughing lightly this time without a single contortion, she declared: “Well, since you so quickly learned my middle name and have already noticed my blindness, I will tell my proper name. You Mr. Timothy Roslee - my new acquaintance and hopefully friend - may call me ‘Effie,’ but my complete name is Effa Mae Seraph.”

And that is how I met Effie, who later allowed me to call her by the nickname I created for her, “Effie Mae.” She soon insisted I call her only that, roaring with delight every time I did.

Although Effie-Mae bought two two-year subscriptions, she refused to accept delivery of either paper. She insisted both subscriptions be given to whomever I believed could benefit from reading them. Someone not able to afford even a single subscription but would be “greatly blessed” by them – especially the thick Sunday edition of the VP with its stack of store coupons.

My only scheduled time spent with Ms. Seraph was the time I collected on the two subscriptions, but she was always on her porch when I looked down the street to see if I could speak with her. In the months I knew her, I never had to knock on her door nor did I ever see her anywhere but on that porch. But none of that registered in my twelve-year-old brain then. However, whenever I felt a shade lonely, a bit restless, or the heavy burden of depression, I found myself walking four doors north to Effie Mae’s.                               

 Part 2

            During the fall of 1966, my life took off like a rocket at NASA’s Edwards Air Force Base. After my launch, the missile of my young life accelerated exponentially and soon achieved maximum thrust, heading higher than ever before, collecting enough momentum for me to reach my personal-record altitude when I wondered what might happen next. I reminded myself that what will happen depended on three factors: my trajectory, how smoothly I enter the next phase of the mission and attaining a perfect attitude for landing on my dream destination with hardly a splash. I hoped the mixture of teamwork and coaching would fuel my mission that would pave the rest of my life’s mission. I was that hopeful of reaching the star of success on which I had always hoped to land.

            I looked backward seven months to pinpoint when my life’s promise began to resemble the U.S. space program. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s third-most vital installation – the rocket facility at Edwards – sat just forty miles northeast of Palmdale. I could brag that the reason for my life’s sharp trajectory up was my rapid maturation, but I’d be lying. No, my new success had little to do with me and everything to do with certain people I met in 1966, beginning with a kid named Larry Jackson.

            On Monday morning, Valentine’s Day, after morning announcements, Mrs. Schwitzer summoned me to her desk. Looking through me as she always had, my plump, always stern seventh-grade core teacher raised her fleshy club of an arm and shook a green square of paper I recognized as a pass to the office. “Timothy Roslee, the office requests your presence.” Leaning toward me, she continued: “Take care of your business, sir, and return to Room 19 without delay, detour, or ditching school.” (She made that speech to every boy in our class who ever received a pass.) She either thought herself clever or distrusted boys altogether. (I bet my savings on the latter possibility, although she did consider herself clever and never missed a chance to demonstrate her wit to anyone within the sound of her brassy voice.)

            Fighting the compelling desire to dive over her desk and see how much damage I could inflict on Mrs. S’s turkey-waddled neck with my twelve-year-old hands, I managed a smile instead. I wished not to deprive the old bag of her life, but I hoped against hope that if I did throttle her neck, she’d take my attack as a sign to retire from the career she clearly hated. Instead, I smiled my usual compliant grin and thanked ‘Schwitzy’ for the pass before exiting Room 19 without displaying the slightest hint of glee or joy. Not until I turned the brick wing’s corner and passed by both restrooms did I celebrate by taking in a huge breath. My inner parent reminded me: “Don’t get sloppy. You could be in some sort of trouble. Behave yourself or miss today’s tryout.”

After leaving the junior high portion of Sage School and crossing the blacktopped primary grade playground, I hopped through three hopscotch courts before giving the lone tetherball the best whack of my school career, dodging its approach that nearly grazed me.

I felt so good about the universe right then I balled my right hand into a fist and raised it triumphantly the way Rafer Johnson had when winning the Olympic gold decathlon medal for the U.S. in Tokyo. It was my way of pumping myself up for tryouts for next year’s eighth-grade flag-football squad. I thought my best chance was to make second-string quarterback for the fall because Randal Kaiser, last season’s backup to me, had added fifteen pounds of muscle and three inches of height since Thanksgiving. However, I replayed in my mind the contests Randy and I had throwing footballs at targets from varying distances the past three months. The montage of memories provided an extra surge of confidence that injected a spring in my step and improved the chance of Mrs. Schwitzer nagging me when I returned to her classroom, the one always smelling of talcum powder and Vick’s VapoRub.

The only nice office worker besides our nurse sat at the student check-in station when I arrived. “Oh, good, Tim is here. Thank you for being so prompt. I would like you to meet our newest student to Sage School.” She (Mrs. Sayles or maybe Shales?) did something no other adult besides my mother ever had: She walked up to me, cupped a hand to her pink lips, and whispered in my ear, “Timothy, hon. I- uh – thought you would be perfect for guiding this boy around campus, plus he’s scheduled in all your classes, including Mrs. Schwitzer’s homeroom.”

Clearing her throat, Mrs. Sayles-or-Shales called out to someone behind me. “Oh, young man! Hi. I have Timothy Roslee here who can give you a tour around campus, help get you a lunch card, and then find and help you open your hall locker. Tim, I’d like you to meet Larry; Larry Jackson.” Turning around I saw a strapping, manly guy standing there as though about to press his weight - 175 pounds - over his head. I realized not only might I be acquiring a new friend, but he would likely need one at Sage since he would be the first black student to attend the twelve-year-old school.                                                           

As you can imagine, Larry Jackson and I drew lots of looks, some good and some not, from others that day. (Okay, I lied about us getting any good looks.) In fact, in the two and a half years spent as friends, we never received a single approving glance from anyone … not another kid in our neighborhood or around town, not a single classmate, and nary an adult. This time period taught me about racism, sort of first-hand. By ‘sort of,’ I mean I was present whenever racism was slung Larry’s way like so much dog excrement. And, yes, I witnessed incidents of other Palmdale people being hated and discriminated against because of the shade of their skin or another factor. We never overtly discussed the matter, but had a tacit agreement that haters are in all groups regardless of their color, religion, or ethnicity. Haters in our town hailed from all races, with plenty of tension between not just black and white folks, but a wide variety of people of different shades consciously embroiled themselves in the practice of racism.

Notice, I did not say skin color. Why not? Because humans are not different colors. All humans have different gradations of the colorless hues of black and white. All humans have white and black pigment in them. It is just a matter of which % of dark or light you or I have that supposedly defined us then. I dislike wording something so mean-spirited and harshly, but here’s the clearest way I know to address the subject: “Who the hell gives a flying f*^k how much of this or that color each of us has?” At the end of the day, human beings know that every one of us – royalty or serf, rich or poor, black or white – are mixed breeds. And to keep it 100% real, I will divulge that those of us in the species of homo sapiens are all mutts. None of us is a purebred. No, not one.

Back to Larry and me. Whenever we were by ourselves, we had a great time of fellowship along with plenty of shenanigans and hijinks. (What self-respecting boys do not?) But, the negative attitudes and angry actions of so many people around us in public caused us to refrain eventually from being seen together in public. We were as big of friends as ever, but we knew how to avoid confrontation and possible victimization, so we only hung out at school or in Larry’s yard and, when we were lucky, inside Larry’s house.

But Larry’s home soon became a problem, too. Larry’s foster mother Mrs. Deets became more and more overbearing toward Larry and more distant from me so hanging out together there became less and less desirable. And then, he went missing.

Larry disappeared for half the summer until one August night. I had almost fallen asleep in my room when I heard a light tap on the window near my fold-out couch. Shaking with fear and excitement, I stared out my window till I saw Larry. Placing an index finger to my lips, I motioned we should meet outside. After throwing on a bathrobe and pair of slippers, I tiptoed to the kitchen and out the back door. Motioning for us to hide around the corner, I met my friend behind a row of bushes.

Larry’s news tumbled out of his mouth so matter-of-factly I found myself nodding in agreement even though his situation seemed dire. The day school ended, Mrs. Deets threatened to cut Larry with a kitchen knife - why, I had no idea. He saw no viable option but to run away from the situation. Proving his resourcefulness, my friend found a small, abandoned cabin a hundred yards from our neighborhood.

His new residence had remained unoccupied since the restaurant in front had closed. Luckily, the fridge in the kitchenette had some items and canned goods lined an entire shelf. Larry had hidden for six weeks there and had cleaned it thoroughly. How my friend occupied himself during that time we never discussed, but I assumed he had stayed there continuously. As we sat on my back lawn and caught up, I felt extreme sadness for Larry. Of all my friends, he was the nicest, most decent, and most upstanding. The thought of a twelve-year-old kid forced to run away and fend for himself in an abandoned, rundown cabin bothered me beyond words.

As we prepared to part, Larry answered me about the future. “I have no idea what I’m gonna do but I have a relative who stays in L.A.”

“Oh? Where in L.A.?” When Larry said Watts, I really started worrying about what would happen to him. After all, only a year ago the infamous Watts Riots happened, when most of that historic area’s buildings were either burned or emptied of their contents. Millions of dollars had been lost and there had been no hurry for owners to return and resume their businesses or for new ones to take their places. I could not bring myself to encourage or discourage Larry in this situation. He certainly could not return to his foster home and Larry worried Mrs. Deets would convince the authorities that he rather than she had pulled the knife. This was a situation only an adult could manage, I thought. So, I asked myself, which adult in my life could assist me in helping Larry? I answered myself with the name of the only possibility.

            I told Larry to stay put and wait to hear from me, that I had someone who might help us. “Okay, Tim. I will trust you because, well, you haven’t ever let me down.”

                                   

*           *           *

            The next morning, three hours after Larry left at 2:45, I put on some dark clothes and stole down the street to see if I could talk with Effie Mae. I saw her on the big porch sitting on its edge and facing skyward. As I approached, I saw but could not hear her speak, even though her mouth worked as her body rocked forth and back. Having no clue how to get her attention, I sat on the curb and waited for her to finish whatever she was doing. I began to zero in on her monologue and heard “Timothy” and “Tim” twice. It dawned on me Effie Mae might be praying but not the way I had overheard fellow Catholics pray. She seemed to be conversing about me, but I wasn’t sure. I continued sitting there for maybe fifteen minutes because I did not want to startle or distract her during this quiet, intimate time. After standing and beginning my walk back home, I heard a “psssst!” behind me. Turning, I saw Effie Mae stand and beckon me with both her arms.

            Obeying, I half ran to her and waited for her to address me. Instead, she held out one hand for me to grasp and the other she raised upward while speaking in a language I did not understand. The more I listened to her, the more I decided she was not speaking a human language. Then, Effie rested both hands on my head and said: “King, I lift Tim up to you, to receive Your grace and direction during this trial of his. Amen.”  Having never had someone pray on and for me like that, I took it slow opening my eyes. When I had, she was no longer in my midst.

            Since it was still dark outside, I ran home, got my bike, and pedaled over to Larry’s hideaway. When I arrived, I tapped on a window to hopefully get my friend’s attention. No answer. Where in the heck could he be and why would he leave now?

            I looked around, saw no one in the vicinity, and went around to the only door. After knocking three times and not receiving an answer, I tried the door. It opened and I went inside. What I saw troubled me to no end. Instead of finding the bungalow clean and tidy, I saw practically all its contents had been disrupted in some way. A couple chairs lay on the floor, the shelf once holding all those cans lay flat and face down. I began to get super nervous and wondered if I should report my findings to the police. Mrs. Deets, if she hadn’t already, would file a missing person’s report and then I’d be questioned by a cop and maybe a detective.

            My whole body broke out in goosebumps and feeling faint, I sank into the only still upright chair and mused about what to do. But, being twelve years old, I had no clue what to do. So, I said a prayer almost like the one Effie Mae had said just minutes before. But instead of praying for me, I inserted Larry’s name. When I finished my prayer and opened my eyes, I saw a note setting on the kitchen table just three feet away. Because it had my name printed on the outside, I unfolded it and set it down on the table so my shaking hands wouldn’t prevent me from reading it. This is what it said:

Dear Timmy Tim,

I am sorry I was not here when you came back. A lady knocked on the door and said she would take me to my social worker. I explained that I needed to wait for you, but she said you would be fine. I had no choice but to go with her. She said you would understand. Her name was strange, so I had her spell it for me: Effie Mae Seraph. Here’s my social worker’s number if you want to make sure I am all right. Thank you for all your help, Tim.

Your friend, Larry

*          *          *

That was the last time I saw Larry Jackson, my best friend in seventh grade, and the first time I received help from an angel.

 

                             Copyright Patrick Rowlee - All Rights Reserved

 

Visions in Black & White, The Allman Brothers Band, and a Rainy Day of Musical Destiny

This past week I've been reading "One Way Out," the collective biography of the greatest rock band to hail from The South - The Allman Brothers Band of Macon, Georgia. And as I progress through this book, various images founded both on fact and myth enter and remain in the forefront of my conscious mind. So, my dear, beloved blogees, I hereby vow to do my best in loosening these mind movies from their moorings inside my skull and releasing them, to fly through wireless air space so someone can read them - possibly far, far away from where I sit/lay on this hotel bed in eastern Tennessee.
My introduction to this profoundly gifted musical band of six men was in October 1971. I - a seventeen year old college freshman, a hippyfied Holden Caufield* - ducked into a record shop on Ventura Boulevard somewhere in Encino to escape a sudden thunderstorm. When I stopped in my tracks just ten feet from the front door, I was wet enough to refrain from touching any merchandise. I chose to look hands-free at the most curious album in my experience as a four- or five-year veteran of buying rock and roll albums.
Setting at a sixty-degree angle and gazing up to me from its wire stand was the first album in the store I laid eyes on - the first LP cover I'd ever laid eyes with black and white photography. And drawing me in further were the six men facing the camera directly. They were not as much a group as a gaggle; a gaggle of long-haired, hard-looking, biker-type dudes with not long hair, but copious amounts of facial hair.  Goatees, Fu Manchu mustaches, mutton chops.. you name it and it set one one of these guys' mugs.
I then deduced that this musical group must be called "The Allman Brothers Band" judging by the large white painted letters stenciled across five or six massive black steamer trunks proclaiming the four-word name. With my mouth surely wide open, I continued musing about the cardboard cover and what kind of music might be contained therein. I concluded that the trunks the size of fully grown black bears held this Allman Brothers Band's musical instruments, microphones, electronic amplifiers, and whatever else rock bands needed onstage to put on their shows.
Since only eight words "The Allman Brothers Band - Live at Fillmore East" populated the front side, I flipped the cellophaned black, gray, and white square over and saw six more men - also long-haired, but tougher even than the crew on the other side. Their names were above each of them - all with nicknames - identifying them as road crew for the band. These even scruffier, rougher men epitomized the old saying about someone looking like they were "rode hard and put away wet." A group ridden any harder or put away any wetter I'd never seen. These dudes were clearly badasses, Southern boys that would fight and talk to you as a man would. All half dozen could've easily joined a motorcycle gang such as the infamous Hell's Angels (and perhaps already had).
"Wow," I whispered. "Wow."
I swallowed hard and flipped back to the front cover. I don't recollect how long I stayed in that warm, cozy record store but I do recall the only purchase I made that day was this black & white DOUBLE! album priced as a single album. AND, an album recorded live at the legendary Fillmore East!
Somehow, regardless or because it was unheard of - a live DOUBLE album by a band that hadn't yet become known to most rock-and-rollers - I decided to part with several of my hard-earned dollars. (By hard earned, I mean I earned merely one dollar and thirty-five cents an hour to wash dishes, bus tables, and sometimes even cook at a Mexican restaurant close to my college.)
So, even though - as I learned yesterday while reading "One Way Out" - "Allman Brothers Live at Fillmore East" was a double album priced as a single-record album, it was - for me - a substantial investment nonetheless. The record still cost me six or seven hours' wages, with the discount, but it felt like the best investment I'd ever made - and I hadn't even listened to it yet.
The tough, independent, yet carefree demeanor of these musicians and their roadies' similar, yet harsher looks told me - loud and clear - that whatever sounds were contained inside this plastic-wrapped cardboard square featuring nothing but a brick wall, leather-attired hippies and toughs, and stenciled steamer trunks must be worth more than just a single listen.
As soon as I returned from LA to the Mojave Desert town where I lived, I pulled out the first of two records and played the first cut on side A - "Statesboro Blues."
Preceded only by the announcement of "Okay... The Allman Brothers Band," a wall of sound colored like the blues proceeded to march out of my family's roll-top desk, turned turntable in our living room decorated in all its Seventies glory of green, gold, and orange and located on a street named after a desert bush.
The TWO lead guitars, TWO drummers, a bassist who played his instrument more like a regular guitar, and the smokey, bluesy vocals of the B-3 organ player all made their presence known to me from note number-one. And by the time I'd played the entire album - just seven lengthy songs in all - I was in musical Kismet. But! I couldn't figure out what their music was - all I knew was it was unique, yet oddly familiar. It was as though a country band, a blues band, and a jazz band had a baby and made it play rock. I can't think of any other way to describe this musical phenomenon known as The Allman Brothers Band. And sadly, their musical and spiritual leader - Duane Allman - perished that very month, in October '71 from a motorcyle - truck accident in his hometown of Macon, Georgia. And so, even though this talented, unique band carried on for the next forty-two years and produced more classic tunes in their inimitable blues, cum jazz, cum rock fashion, they just weren't quite the same band without their beloved Brother in Duane Allman. And despite Duane's extremely brief three-year tenure with the band he founded, he did greatly inspire, teach, and support not only his five bandmates, but the entire road crew of the band's. In short, all 12 men were Brothers; brothers of all colors, shapes, sizes, and mothers, but brothers just the same.
And that, my friends, is how I became introduced to the greatest and most loved album in my music collection for the past forty-eight years. Musical Kismet, indeed.

Amazing Grace & the Queen of Soul

April 25, 2019. Today I saw the newly released film of two 1972 consecutive night performances featuring the Queen of Soul - the one & only Aretha Franklin. The two sets were intended for an album and television special that became - 47 years later - this film.
Thanks and credit are apparently due for famous film director Spike Lee for producing or post-producing, curating (as peeps say today), and retrieving this filmed, recorded Holy Grail of Gospel & Soul Music, spiffing it up, and showcasing these two rare performances. One of my favorite features was the collage of everyday Christian folk of Los Angeles back about... FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO. (I, at the time, was a skinny, long-haired, eighteen year old college sophomore.)
Kudos and thanks must go to the tireless efforts of so many people to resurrect the various pieces and splices of film from that long-ago two-night event and rendering a soul-stirring, uplifting portrait of an artist at her commercial zenith offering sacred songs to the Creator. Seeing a very young Aretha, Reverend James Franklin, and director of the never-released TV special Sydney Pollack gave me jolts of joy.
I returned to Sacramento's historic Tower Theater last Thursday to view this remarkable film for the second time in five days. And, I hope to see it tomorrow with a buddy for the third time. (With matinee and Senior discount tickets set at 7 bucks for this unique film and in an Art Deco theater setting is, for me, mind-blowing at its head-exploding best.
The lovely, iconic Miss Aretha Franklin, dressed the first night in an all-white, floor-length Caftan (Kaftan?) and the second evening in a coral and white paisley. She strode down the middle aisle of a rather small Los Angeles church for her combination recording session / live worship performance featuring all Gospel or Christian music. Joining and supporting the Queen were the Reverend James Cleveland - a lifelong friend and renowned choirmaster - and the Southern California Community Choir, comprised of forty gifted, well-trained singers. Reverend Cleveland played most of the piano pieces and sang along with Ms. Franklin on at least tune.
On the second night, there were two or more celebrity sightings (Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones, perhaps musician Billy Preston, music producer Jerry Wexler, and I believe the Reverend Jesse Jackson.
The setting is such a delight because 1972 was a formative time for me. And within three years my life would not only be formed but TRANSFORMED into a new life, new identity, and a new eternity. But that, my friends, is a possible topic for a future blog. But, in the meantime - "back at the church" - Ms. Aretha shone, soared, belted, and caressed the lyrics on every song or hymn.
Seated next to Aretha's daddy, the Reverend Franklin, was gospel music legend Clara Ward. Both the good reverend and the lady of sacred music were visibly affected (blessed and/or blissed?) by thej 32-year-old Aretha's performance.
I look forward to viewing the film a third time tomorrow and plan on buying or downloading it when it goes to video (or whatever the post-90's terminology is).
I wholeheartedly (an adverb I used perhaps too often when recommending students for college, but here applies even more); I wholeheartedly recommend, suggest, support, and give my loftiest rating of an A+ for this once-in-a-lifetime film that captures Aretha at her zenith in terms of skill and popularity, recording what I believe became a double-record album that they may have become her biggest-selling album. Which says a WHOLE LOT about Aretha's focus (Christ), willingness to record traditionally poor-selling music, put her special, unique touch and flair to it, and kick totally booty. Please, DO YOURSELF A FAVOR, and run & see it before it's pulled from distribution. Peace and blessings in Him, PR

Rowlee's 3Rs : Bob Dylan According to Peter Max

Rowlee's 3Rs : Bob Dylan According to Peter Max: When I was about fifteen years old, my older sister gave me the poster from her Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Album, Pt. I. As soon as I ...

Life - Its Ups & Downs

Dualism is not just a word, but a concept (actually, a handful of concepts with a common root meaning.) I remember reading the word in some of the philosophical and religious books during my college years. I often heard the word spoken by my stepbrother - an avid student of all religions and schools of thought, but - even by his own admission - a believer of none.
So, from hearing my brother's use of the word in question, I had a modicum of an idea what dualism could be, but since I was too lazy to research the word any further these past fifty years, I had little clue what dualism is all about.
After extensive researching the topic for the past five or six minutes, I've learned that dualism can mean the opposition of two forces in the universe - sometimes both physical, other times both spiritual, and quite often the physical versus the spiritual. One meaning I gleaned from my exhausting Google trek is that dualism can be defined as the conflict of two opposing supreme forces responsible for the creation of the universe.
My dear Blogees: I am in no way a theologian, but I do know that this world, galaxy, and cosmos were created by The Good Force; and I am well aware of the existence of The Bad Force as well, but that is where I jump off the bus. In other words, I cannot accept that an evil force created this world, which is a conundrum on two fronts. Number-one: God is NOT capable of creating evil. He can do anything, anything at all, except evil. See, since God is perfect, he must be (and, of course, is) perfectly good. And perfect good cannot and will not create bad of any size, shape, or color. And my second conundrum: There is only one Creator.
But then it occurs to me that the brightest angel - reportedly named "The Morning Star" - long ago left Heaven and took one-third of all celestial beings with him. And the Word has it that the two forces - The Lord and Satan - will have a final battle someday, after which the latter will be banished by the Former to a place of unending torment and suffering (referred to in the Book as "the lake of fire").
So, friends, dualism must start with the spiritual because it is the Spiritual that created the Physical. And in religious realms, the physical is always in conflict with the spiritual. The duality with a capital D that is at work here in this physical realm called the World is age-old and will continue until that final battle between the Devil and the Messiah. Until that day occurs (and it surely will), the physical world will continue to be at odds with the spiritual. It might be interesting to note that the latter can understand the former but the former will never understand the realm of the spirit. The physical can't because it's incapable - as a finite, temporary, and temporal entity - to understand or even imagine that which is infinite, permanent, beyond the dimensions of space & time.
So, yes, I'll admit other schools of thought or religions have similar concepts about dualism to that of The Word's, but none even approaches being close. Why? Because He known as 'I AM' will always create something greater than man can, which is why all but one of the religions on Earth fall short of the story of Christ's. They all fall short, simply because they're not infinite, timeless, and perfect.
I realize I've jumped into the most profound aspect of dualism so it seems silly to backtrack and speak of the more mundane dualisms in the world, but I have no choice. Unless I want to leave my lazy, comfortable, less-than-stellar way of doing things, which - at the moment - I'm choosing not to do. So, without any further ado, it's time for that medium that expresses great truths and profound philosophy - cartoons.
That's right - cartoons. Everyone pretty much understands them, so we will visit the animated, prehistoric little town of Bedrock in order to pursue this concept known as dualism - two opposing forces fighting for predominance in any realm - including inside the heart and mind of Bedrock's most famous resident - Fred Flintstone.
Although "The Flintstones" only existed in original form for the 1960-1961 prime-time season, its lessons of dualism exist 59 years later. When I taught high school literature just a few years ago to conclude my career as an educator, I used an episode of the show to illustrate the dualism of man. Remember the episode when Fred is confronted by miniature versions of himself atop his shoulders, one dressed in white, wearing wings, and a halo and the other clad in red, having horns on his head, and brandishing a pitchfork? The angel, naturally, represented the good in man while the devil the evil nature of humanity. The two try their darnedest to persuade Fred to do their bidding, and I'm not sure but I believe Hanna and Barbera had good triumph over evil. Some folks, after reflection, may say this cartoon example is neither too broad nor too unrealistic when relating to the lot of humanity. All of us are bombarded constantly by good and bad, the World and Heaven, pride and humility, time and timelessness, greed and altruism, nature and nurture, and the nearly infinite number of finite dualisms that face off, with each of us humans as their battlegrounds.
Yes, we embody a most curious metaphor that doesn't sound poetic when spoken, but each one of us can be thought of as "an individual Armageddon." Each of us experiences first-hand the battle between good and bad being waged on and in us. And who or what can we blame this constant conflagration of contention? Blame it all on dualism. Yep, dualism. But, someday that will end, for the good. I hope and pray we make the right choice... for eternity. Class dismissed.      

Rowlee's Ramblings and... more!

Living in a hotel for the past 163 days has been both challenging and fun. We were displaced because of a 50-cent plastic fixture in a toilet that chose to bust while we were two thousand or more miles away selecting a home for, hopefully, the rest of our years together as a couple. So, "the best laid plans of mice and men," according to the wag / poet Robert Burns, is a fitting motif for our last five months.
I don't know if it was supposed to happen, but it did, so therefore - yes - it was supposed to happen. Unless we'd had the wisdom to replace it with a better fixture, which our plumber had recommended. (However, to Linda's and my credit, our plumber ALWAYS recommended we part with more of our money every time they'd paid us biannual visits to "check" our heating and plumbing systems and what not. (By the way, for the sake of full disclosure, I - Patrick Rowlee - being of semi-sound mind do hereby claim [not swear] that in my 65-and-counting years of breathing and writing, I have NEVER utilized the oft-forgotten countryism known as "what-not." So, rest assured, it won't become a regular or even irregular habit, so help me Universe (because I won't swear to Him; I did enough of that before I got hip to Him being omniscient and omnipresent and everlasting since always).
So, this is my first-ever blog in which I haven't selected a topic, but took the easy road in calling it my "ramblings."
What are ramblings anyway? "Ramblings" is a word regularly applying to someone's speech or writing that appears to be willy-nilly in manner with no beginning, middle, or end. In other, plainer words, it goes nowhere and does nothing but meander. Rambling is what we school kids used to call what our teachers did when lecturing us spirited children at the end of a long week in public school, with the theme being how we could and should and ultimately would behave like responsible, courteous, and thoughtful or mindful human beings who would mature into solid, God-loving citizens of the US of A. These educators rolled their proverbial educational dice and hoped at least some of their passes of the ivories would reveal aggregates of sevens or elevens.
In short, these hard-working, dedicated, but slightly daunted public educators hoped against hope that we would finally begin to "get it," e.g. understand how the world of life really operated or spun incessantly while tilted at a very specific angle (26 degrees? I have no real clue, but that sounds possible, so let's go with that figure). But remember to please not forgive me for my ramblings because I neither expect nor want you to - forgive me, that is. Rambling, remember, is what I do best.
(And no, not like Steve Martin's hilarious bit being a "ramblin' kind of guy." Or, similar to Marshall Tucker's infectious, adorable, but venal ditty "Ramblin' on my Mind.")
And speaking of rambling, I only had disdain for a small handful of automobiles as a kid, but at the very top of the list of yecchy car makes was the Rambler, formerly Nash Rambler, future American Motors and eventually extinct. My other least favorite car brands were probably the undistinguished Nash; the Art-Deco, but still ugly-as-heck Edsel (named after Henry Ford's daughter or son, I forget whom); the Studebaker; and lastly the earliest Toyotas on American soil. But! I must admit / confess the Rambler sat perched atop of the whole heap of - well, heaps - of autos.
And lastly or thereabouts, was the infamous Midnight Rambler. No, not the fictitious Rolling Stones' killer / fiend on the loose, but the shows that the Band used to be part of when they played sleazy dives and sad taverns across Canada and America in the early Sixties.
So, the Midnight Rambler - according to the Band's drummer, vocalist, and baddest-ass member, Levon Helm - was (by way of my liberal paraphrase) something that happened at the ends of many a show on the drunkest night of the week:
We'd play these down-and-out joints that on weeknights might have four patrons and a fight would break out. But on Saturday nights, right around midnight, the jokes started getting a little sleazier, the songs start gettin' a bit racier, and the women began to REALLY dance. Yeah,  Midnight Ramblers were what we lived for..." )
Okay, my Blogees, in the spirit of full disclosure, that last sentence I concocted out of whole cloth. (Albeit cheesy, tacky, garish cloth...
And what not.)
Sincerely and otherwise,
Patrick R. Rowlee - (my middle initial stands for........................... you guessed it: Rambler