When I was eleven years old I started working for a guy named Dick Sloop. Dick owned the Bon Ton Grill in North Elkin and I was one of his curb hops. You don't see many curb hops today, except maybe at The Sonic or some such place. I'm here to tell you, I didn't wear roller skates or short shorts.
Curb hopping back in the fifties and sixties consisted of waiting until someone drove up and blew his or her horn. Then the curb hop would go out, take the order, and, when the order was ready, the hop would carry it out to the car. Later, after another blast of the horn, we'd go back out, remove the tray from the window and dispose of the trash. It was interesting work. I earned fifty cents an hour plus tips.
Dick was a real character. I have no idea how old he was, but he seem ancient. In his younger days, Dick had been a pharmacist in Washington, D.C. He had also been a banjo player in a Dixieland band. Dick loved to whistle and sometimes he would be working in the basement and his whistling could be heard out on the curb. He was partial to Bobby Vinton's "Blue Velvet," and Dean Martin's "Strangers in the Night." Often, while cooking, he could be heard singing what could only be called vulgar drinking songs from the early twentieth century. I still recall some of the lyrics, but I won't state them here.
In addition to hopping curb, I also worked inside. I'd wait and bus tables, handle the cash register, and eventually earned seventy-five cents an hour as a short order cook. Things cost less then. A T-bone steak plate (with salad, potato and iced tea) went for $1.25. Hot dogs for fifteen cents. I've served up many a hamburger for a quarter each…a nickel more bought a cheeseburger.
Dick was a good man. He was funny – sometimes intentionally, sometimes accidentally. Whenever someone would ask "How much is your chewing gum?" Dick would answer "A nickel a pack or three for a quarter!" Most people would laugh. A few times someone would drop a quarter on the counter and take three packs of gum. We never stopped them.
There's no real narrative here. Just a memory. I can't remember all the nights I left the Bon Ton after midnight and walked home. Dick would still be there, doing something.
I worked for Dick Sloop until I finished eleventh grade. I bet I've carried 50,000 trays. The highest single tip I ever got was fifty cents. That was from my first grade school teacher and her boyfriend. They felt sorry for me.
It's funny. Even on my nights off I'd hang out at the Bon Ton…sometimes handling the register in a rush. If I had a date, I'd take her there. I learned a lot…and on the curb one could see a lot. I met a lot of people. I wonder if they ever remember the Bon Ton?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Songs of Joy
While sitting in church this morning, I discovered something about human babies. Perhaps I would have discovered it many years ago if I had been able to hear. This morning I was wearing my genuine VA-issued hearing aids, or "ear plugs" as my darling granddaughter, Isabella, calls them.
As the congregation finished singing "God, Our Father, Hear Us Pray," and the first Priest knelt to bless the tokens, a baby began to whimper to my right rear, somewhere in the bowels of the chapel. Soon another, to my left front picked up the chant, this time a few decibels louder. Then another to my right front. Almost immediately, the chapel echoed with the whining, sobbing, and outright caterwauling of at least six little future tithe payers.
What I discovered this morning was that babies and dogs share at least one trait.
As I labored to keep my thoughts on worshipful things, it dawned on me: in some ways, this chapel was like a trailer park down by the train tracks. For no apparent reason a dog will bark. A yelp here followed by a short howl. Soon, a few blocks away, another cur will pick up the refrain and so on and so forth until 15 or 20 dogs are barking noisily for no other reason than to be sociable.
And so it was this morning. Not a single baby was in dire pain. None, I am sure, were starving. No life was being threatened. They were just being neighborly. And it made a horrible racket!
As the congregation finished singing "God, Our Father, Hear Us Pray," and the first Priest knelt to bless the tokens, a baby began to whimper to my right rear, somewhere in the bowels of the chapel. Soon another, to my left front picked up the chant, this time a few decibels louder. Then another to my right front. Almost immediately, the chapel echoed with the whining, sobbing, and outright caterwauling of at least six little future tithe payers.
What I discovered this morning was that babies and dogs share at least one trait.
As I labored to keep my thoughts on worshipful things, it dawned on me: in some ways, this chapel was like a trailer park down by the train tracks. For no apparent reason a dog will bark. A yelp here followed by a short howl. Soon, a few blocks away, another cur will pick up the refrain and so on and so forth until 15 or 20 dogs are barking noisily for no other reason than to be sociable.
And so it was this morning. Not a single baby was in dire pain. None, I am sure, were starving. No life was being threatened. They were just being neighborly. And it made a horrible racket!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Alone Again - Naturally
It goes without saying that true joy comes from doing things with your family. Whether one is with his wife, sons, grand-daughters, daughters-in-law or all of the above, these are the happiest times in mortality.
Still, as I get older I find solitude enjoyable also.
This doesn't mean that I love my family less. Au contraire, my love for each member of my family grows each day.
These musings are the results of a thought, actually more of a remembrance, I had today.
As I was working alone in my yard, I thought of my two favorite solitary activities. That is, the two things I most enjoy doing when I am alone. I learned them from my parents: my favorite solitary activity from my favorite parent and my second-favorite solitary activity from my second-favorite parent.
From my mother, I learned to love reading. What more pleasant occupation could ever fill one's time alone than reading? To process the words of a billboard – to ingest the wisdom on the back of a box of Cheerios – to while away hours with a good book, engulfed in a far away war or the life of a hero – to delicately peruse the scriptures as the Holy Spirit whispers to you heart – can man attain a higher joy while in mortality? I think not!
Even before I started school, my mother taught me to read. I remember watching her read to me, and yearning to take that book and read it to myself. During our afternoons together, when all my brothers and sisters were in school, my mother, who barely finished 8th grade, instilled in her youngest a tool and a joy that have never dimmed. I love to read. Indeed, I have often said that if a man can read, he is half educated already.
From my father, I learned to love gardening. This may sound strange to anyone who knew me in the late-1950s. I hated the labor I spent next to my dad hoeing, planting, weeding and picking in the two great gardens he kept each year.
In retrospect, I see that he had little choice but to garden hardy. With a wife and five children at home (my eldest brother was by then eating Air Force chow), it was necessary to grow all that he could. He must have loved it, too, because it is the only activity I ever recall in which my father instructed me diligently in the do's and don'ts.
It was many years later, the late 1980s, when I realized how much I loved gardening. I find it a source of great happiness to prepare the soil and plant, whether anything actually grows or not. Of course, when I can eat the fruits of my labor it is even better, but that is not a requirement for me to enjoy gardening.
Words cannot tell nor can tongue express the sweet happiness that fills my being when I am digging, tilling, pruning, or picking! I love the smell of good, clean clay and I love being awash in well-earned sweat! I even enjoy standing in my garden, in late December, just visualizing the weeds of July overtaking my okra and crooked-neck squash. To garden is to do angels' work.
Today I planted my pea patch (snow peas), mulched and fertilized my trees, cleaned around my lilacs, burned all the trimmings from my winter's prunings, and even climbed under the house to reset the clock on our water filter (that was Risë's idea).
That's some fun stuff, I don't care who you are!
Still, as I get older I find solitude enjoyable also.
This doesn't mean that I love my family less. Au contraire, my love for each member of my family grows each day.
These musings are the results of a thought, actually more of a remembrance, I had today.
As I was working alone in my yard, I thought of my two favorite solitary activities. That is, the two things I most enjoy doing when I am alone. I learned them from my parents: my favorite solitary activity from my favorite parent and my second-favorite solitary activity from my second-favorite parent.
From my mother, I learned to love reading. What more pleasant occupation could ever fill one's time alone than reading? To process the words of a billboard – to ingest the wisdom on the back of a box of Cheerios – to while away hours with a good book, engulfed in a far away war or the life of a hero – to delicately peruse the scriptures as the Holy Spirit whispers to you heart – can man attain a higher joy while in mortality? I think not!
Even before I started school, my mother taught me to read. I remember watching her read to me, and yearning to take that book and read it to myself. During our afternoons together, when all my brothers and sisters were in school, my mother, who barely finished 8th grade, instilled in her youngest a tool and a joy that have never dimmed. I love to read. Indeed, I have often said that if a man can read, he is half educated already.
From my father, I learned to love gardening. This may sound strange to anyone who knew me in the late-1950s. I hated the labor I spent next to my dad hoeing, planting, weeding and picking in the two great gardens he kept each year.
In retrospect, I see that he had little choice but to garden hardy. With a wife and five children at home (my eldest brother was by then eating Air Force chow), it was necessary to grow all that he could. He must have loved it, too, because it is the only activity I ever recall in which my father instructed me diligently in the do's and don'ts.
It was many years later, the late 1980s, when I realized how much I loved gardening. I find it a source of great happiness to prepare the soil and plant, whether anything actually grows or not. Of course, when I can eat the fruits of my labor it is even better, but that is not a requirement for me to enjoy gardening.
Words cannot tell nor can tongue express the sweet happiness that fills my being when I am digging, tilling, pruning, or picking! I love the smell of good, clean clay and I love being awash in well-earned sweat! I even enjoy standing in my garden, in late December, just visualizing the weeds of July overtaking my okra and crooked-neck squash. To garden is to do angels' work.
Today I planted my pea patch (snow peas), mulched and fertilized my trees, cleaned around my lilacs, burned all the trimmings from my winter's prunings, and even climbed under the house to reset the clock on our water filter (that was Risë's idea).
That's some fun stuff, I don't care who you are!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Another Memory Before It's Gone
In the original "Star Trek," everything was photographed. Whenever someone wished to recall an incident, there were always the tape banks, from which a video, even outside the starship, could be watched.
If life were like that, I could pull a tape from the tape bank and review my childhood and all the exciting events I would like to show my progeny.
Unfortunately, my tape bank is faulty, and I can remember very few of the events I would like to share.
I remember when my high school football team played Appalachian High School in Boone, North Carolina. I was in the band. Our band director, Mr. Roy Russell, would never let a band member leave the stands until after the half-time activities – then only one person from each section. On this particular night, my friend Max, first chair clarinet, and I took our break together as usual.
Another one of Mr. Russell's quirks was that band members must be in complete uniform at all times unless they were on the bus.
Max and I were in full uniform in the restroom when a boy who appeared to be about 12 or 13 came in. He looked at us and almost snarled, "Elkin sucks."
Max and I had both expressed that same opinion, but somehow, coming from this junior yosef, the comment angered us.
Before you could say, "Far below the Blue Ridge Mountains," I had grabbed the young miscreant, inverted him sharply, and dunked his head into a nearby commode.
My actions were juvenile, rude and totally without class, but they evoked laughter from everyone in the john except our young wet head.
Shaking his head angrily, the boy almost shouted, "I'm going to get some help and we'll whip your (vulgar word deleted)!" This made me laugh more.
Max and I remained in the restroom about ten minutes, enjoying a smoke. Just as I was tossing the spent cigarette into a nearby urinal, the door burst open and my young antagonist rushed in.
"Now you'll be sorry. I've found a big guy to whip you!" He shouted.
Immediately behind him his new ally rushed in. We stared at one another and then broke into uproarious laughter.
In his zeal to find someone who would beat me limb to limb, the young mountaineer had enlisted the aid of a man home on leave from the Air Force – my big brother, Seth.
We all had a great laugh over this except, of course, the young lad with ice in his hair.
I'd like to see that memory on tape.
If life were like that, I could pull a tape from the tape bank and review my childhood and all the exciting events I would like to show my progeny.
Unfortunately, my tape bank is faulty, and I can remember very few of the events I would like to share.
I remember when my high school football team played Appalachian High School in Boone, North Carolina. I was in the band. Our band director, Mr. Roy Russell, would never let a band member leave the stands until after the half-time activities – then only one person from each section. On this particular night, my friend Max, first chair clarinet, and I took our break together as usual.
Another one of Mr. Russell's quirks was that band members must be in complete uniform at all times unless they were on the bus.
Max and I were in full uniform in the restroom when a boy who appeared to be about 12 or 13 came in. He looked at us and almost snarled, "Elkin sucks."
Max and I had both expressed that same opinion, but somehow, coming from this junior yosef, the comment angered us.
Before you could say, "Far below the Blue Ridge Mountains," I had grabbed the young miscreant, inverted him sharply, and dunked his head into a nearby commode.
My actions were juvenile, rude and totally without class, but they evoked laughter from everyone in the john except our young wet head.
Shaking his head angrily, the boy almost shouted, "I'm going to get some help and we'll whip your (vulgar word deleted)!" This made me laugh more.
Max and I remained in the restroom about ten minutes, enjoying a smoke. Just as I was tossing the spent cigarette into a nearby urinal, the door burst open and my young antagonist rushed in.
"Now you'll be sorry. I've found a big guy to whip you!" He shouted.
Immediately behind him his new ally rushed in. We stared at one another and then broke into uproarious laughter.
In his zeal to find someone who would beat me limb to limb, the young mountaineer had enlisted the aid of a man home on leave from the Air Force – my big brother, Seth.
We all had a great laugh over this except, of course, the young lad with ice in his hair.
I'd like to see that memory on tape.
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