Growing Wild on Waverly Lane

Thursday, October 13, 2011

THE BOBBY SOXTET

In fourth grade, our teacher was Jean Heath, a dark-haired, clean-scrubbed natural beauty, who often played the guitar and sang for us. She described her original home in Washington State as one where you could stand and see hundreds of miles through the clear mountain air. Children were taken by her youth and charm, enthusiastically participating in her favorite amusement - music. We sang at least 15 minutes a day and were each issued a songbook, from which we chose our favorites. We favored "Columbia the Gem of the Ocean," "Barbara Allen," and "The Erie Canal."

"I've got a mule, her name is Sal,

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal,

She's a good old worker and a good old pal,

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal"

Out of all this singing was distilled the "Bobby Soxtet," a singing group whose members she considered the strongest voices. She added two sopranos from third grade to make a fuller sound. In the beginning, we six performed at school functions only, but it grew to community organizations and churches.

We pose for the Gazette Journal photo circa 1955

(I am third from left)

Our focus was the spiritual...at least the white interpretation, which I later learned was a little off the mark as black people saw it. I remember "Do Lord," "Shine on Me," "Swing Low," and "I Ain't Gonna Grieve" - which may not be the title but it sounds better than what we called it, "The Deacon Went Down." Language is constantly shifting and we wouldn't say that today without people snickering.

We adopted a uniform appearance by wearing white blouses and navy blue bib jumpers. We oozed purity. Soon we were very popular and even had a short radio program on Sundays, which we taped earlier in the week at WDDY, our local Gloucester station. Some fans described our radio sound as "bees in a jar," but listened just the same. I know we had at least two black listeners: "Aunt" Mary and "Uncle" John Smith, who lived near us on Indian Road. (Little Richard's "Long Tall Sally" mentioned them.) They were both in their eighties, born as slaves, and were very dear sweet people.

The Bobby Soxtet Performing (from the Gazette-Journal)

We actually won a Southern States talent competition and made it to a final in Richmond with Ted Mack as host. He was a very kind and generous man, who we all knew from his "Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour" on television. It was a far more civilized version of today's "So You Think You Can Boil An Egg" type of programming.

The Program from Our Competition

We were once and now we're not, but those of us remaining have great and happy memories of our little brush with recognition and approval. It was a wonderfully innocent and happy place. The sound of our combined voices will never be heard again since two of us are now deceased, an alto and a second soprano. I stood with my arms around their waists and I loved them dearly. We had a good time.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

OH BROTHER

A brother is a mixed blessing.

He always stands behind you, but is he conjuring up demons?

Deep down you know he loves you, he's just a little unpredictable.

Being by yourself is nice...

But after a while, it gets old.

A party just isn't a party without him.

He knows how to be silly.

He can be quite well behaved.

HE CAN DRIVE!!!

No words required.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

THE BOX OF SOCKS (NOT BY DR. SEUSS)

Long ago when I did laundry, I kept lone socks in a box in anticipation of the discovery of its mate. I was raised to never throw anything away because "You never know when you are going to need it," as my mother preached.

As time went on, the box grew fuller and fuller. The question arose: Into what vortex of Hell are these socks disappearing? That question went unanswered and it was my little secret shame. It was my failure to maintain perfect order in the universe with respect to footwear. It was my Gordian knot, my sword in the stone, my Shrodinger's cat enigmatic hard task.

I soared whenever good things happened, and they did; but it was somehow that bummer box of socks that plummeted me to earth with the dreaded specter of all those perfectly good socks I had disappointed and banished to solitary stagnation. Mea culpa.

Then there was poor Husband, earnestly searching for his favorite socks, whom I hadn't the heart to inform of his more permanent loss. It haunted me when I was at my weakest. That box, that box, that unforgiving Hellish remainder in life's equation.

Then one day, I was overtaken by madness and resolved to change my life in a new and wonderful way, to do the unthinkable. I seized the box, with its multicolored inhabitants (some of whom had holes) and marched to the garbage bin. What am I doing, I thought, with the numbness of a zombie.

I am cheating and surrendering to my own incompetence. In the garbage they went without a whimper and I turned my back and walked away, feeling better with each successive step. New days, guilt-free days, days of buying only one color and style of sock lay ahead. My vista was new, crisp, and bother free. All the socks of the world applauded because they know nothing and are happy that way.

Now I think of every challenge I face as a "box of socks." While the trash bin is the very last resort, located at the brink of insanity, it puts the box of socks in its proper perspective, as a dispensable aggravation.

My new slogan: If it doesn't match, you must dispatch!

My Favorite Socks (You always know what I want for Christmas!)

Thursday, October 6, 2011

DUELING IN THE SUN

Waverly Lane has its share of lockhorns, individuals who simply can not endure the sight of each other, and who engage in duels of varying intensity in ongoing episodes. My least favorite is the feud between Leo and Shadow, the nearly identical cat siblings.

Leo De Janero

Shadow (Shaddy Cat)

Even though they are DNA compatible, each has the burning need to eliminate the other even though everybody has been neutered. They just don't like each other. Breaking up a cat fight is comparable to separating belligerent porcupines. Somebody is going to feel pain and it is usually me. I have tried brooms, water hoses, and nothing works like pressurized spray cans of flea potion. The trick is to not go in their eyes with it. My skill is improving and we get a flea treatment at the same time. Win, win.

Then as I walked toward my door, I saw another storm brewing. Steadfastly glaring at each other in squinted-eye contempt was the Cub Cadet and the Toro Zero Turn, our old and new lawn mowers respectively.

A Rumble Getting Started

I froze, as did the wooden wind heron (bottom right), in dread anticipation of the metal-on-metal violence which was surely fermenting. Insults began flying faster than grass clippings. I thought I heard the Cub Cadet, who had been the favorite family mower for years, refer to the Toro as an effeminate and degrading

affront to the masculinity of lawn care. Actually he called it "a hot pink float in a gay parade."

The Toro steeled itself and shot back, "That's to be expected from a gas guzzling, inefficient, insensitive, polluting red neck relic.

I had had enough. The heron turned away from the gasoline breath, as a breeze stirred, and I started in the house, leaving behind what would not be ended soon. I did warn Husband that one lawn mower was enough. They see it that way too.

Not a Happy Pair

Monday, October 3, 2011

WHY NOT?

The love between a man and a woman is a high risk love. I'm convinced only a small percentage of married people are truly devoted. As a child, I observed such pairs, most of whom seemed to play along a dangerous edge, especially my own parents.

My Parents with Grandmother

As I was going through a bin of old snapshots, the one above appeared along with one of me at an early age, dressed in a too-small winter coat and stocking cap, standing with a group of men holding a horse. With my little hand up, I was reaching to the enormous animal, who seemed to be regarding me with the same indifference he gave everything but grass. (That picture does not appear here because in a fit of genius, I hid it from myself. We continue to search every day; meanwhile, enjoy some horsey pictures from our green-pasture days.)

That picture is the only surviving picture of "Why Not?," the racehorse my father bought on a bizarre impulse. Daddy had a gambling addiction, going off on occasional benders to places called "Jamaica, Pimlico, Bowie, and others; one never knew where he was because he failed to mention he'd be leaving. On his return, my mother would pelt him for days with rounds of verbal artillery. I would assume the position: eyes closed, fingers in ears. When it all blew over, all parties would become their former selves and life went on until the next time it happened.

Baby Sis on Taffy; CBW Leading

After one such trip, my father accepted delivery of the rather large four-legged parcel already named "Why Not?." I was too young to remember, but I have faith that my mother could be heard for miles, weather permitting. Daddy believed he had struck oil, finally tapping into the mother lode of wealth to be had in horseracing. I always had a sneaking feeling that the name gave indication of our horse's true capability; but then it is a rung higher than "Why?," who could only have been a dog, as the racing people say.

Being an incurable animal lover, Mother came around and "Why Not?" had a friend. Daddy, however, had no such luck. After much consideration, all my "surprise" gifts from Husband (i.e. the drill, the wood-burning furnace, etc.) are probably a lesser sin than surprise-racehorse gift. I take comfort in this.

My Horse "Jubilee," (who was anything but; he stepped on my foot and took off with my hand in his halter, snapping me like a rubber band. He's dead now and I'm kind of sorry. CB Woman's pony "Thundercloud," seen with him, regularly kicked him silly).