Author: thegraymaniac

Our Fathers, and some of our Mothers went off to World War II, and then came home and created us. The baby boomers.

Our parents had hopes and dreams that we, their precious children, could change the world to be a better place. That we could change the world to be a world with no more war. That we could change the world to be more accepting. That we could change the world to be a happier place. That we could enrich the world with the knowledge and science that comes with a college degree….one which most of them did not have a chance to get.

Most of our parents, being children of the depression, wanted more for us then they we’re able to have. So they gave things to us. Our Christmases were like Ralphie’s in “A Christmas Story”. We had our ball gloves and our baseball games. Football became a major force in America during our lifetimes. Hell, all sports did for that matter. We concentrated more on being good athletes, than we did being good citizens.

We were expected to get good grades in school, and to be polite. We did….we were.

We owed it to our Moms and Dads to succeed in our quest to change the world. It has been changed, but we have not changed it for the good.

Instead, we became the “me” generation. We became the “lost” generation. We became the generation who’s motto was “make love and not war”. We were the generation who protested the “Vietnam” war.

We created wonderful music. We wrote great books. But in the space of all this time between the “then” of our birth and the “now” of today, we became divided. We diverged in the late 60’s onto two separate paths. Some remained liberal children of the flower power movement , while others made a choice to move on to more conservative norms.

I don’t pretend to be able to reduce all the complicated reasons we are where we are now into a few paragraphs. It’s impossible. But the gist of what I am trying to say is that my generation was many. We were the majority of voters at one time in this country…and we failed. We failed to do all the things we were supposed to do for our Moms and dads.

We failed to heal. We failed to unite, and we failed to erase hatred and prejudice. Now it is too late for us. Our time to effect change has been lost like the long hair we used to wear.

All I can say is “Dad and Mom…I’m so damned sorry I failed you, I am so terribly, awfully sorry”. I did not realize that my civic duty was more important than “feeling good”. By the time I have realized it……..

There’s millions more out there, Baby Boomers….who owe their folks the same apology. We let the chance to change the world into a better place for our children and grandchildren, slip away like sand through the hourglass of our era.

Now we reap what we sow….or more appropriately, what we failed to sow. We deserve what we get for betraying the sacred mission with which our parents entrusted us.

Make the world a better place to live. Leave more than you found.

We seem to approach problems from the view of a spectator instead of a participant. We always wish “they” would do something to make “things” better. I think what we Americans, we humans should do is to become “doers and not talkers” as someone recently told me.

Maybe in this age, we could become more “getting up and doing physical good versus typing out stuff on social media” I could certainly do more in the real world, and less in this cyber world. Most of the time, what we do in the cyber world doesn’t amount to a cup of warm spit…as the old saying goes. After reading what the former president of Facebook said the other day about Facebook being designed to psychologically trap us all through positive reinforcement of our most basic human desires for recognition, I am bound and determined to spend less time on it. (but I am on it now, aren’t I?) I know that I probably will never totally give it up, because it is just too totally ingrained in our way of life now. I sometimes wish I could go back to 2008, and refuse to participate in it…but it’s too late. Whatever though.

We are what we are, and we do what we do. Most of us will never change, but if we cannot change, perhaps at least we can modify our behavior a little bit. We can put our phones down when we are having a meal with our families. We can go outside and play pitch with our kids, instead of scrolling through Facebook. We can do these little things and live a “normal” life if we just think about it consciously and consistently and make an effort.

It’s not only that though…it’s looking at life from inside the game. Playing with a passion for the good of others no matter the size of the “good” No good deed is to small to do. No good thing is too small to bother with. From petting your puppy to donating a kidney…one is a lesser good, and one is a major life altering event. The only difference is the scale, the magnitude. All small things add up. One of my good friends has a saying that “no good deed goes unpunished” and sometimes I feel that way myself. But, I continue to try. The day that we forget how to try and do good to others is the day we lose our humanity forever. God help us that this does not happen.

Sometimes all it costs us is a very small amount of our time, a word, or a simple encouragement. But we have to participate. We cannot just stand on the sidelines and watch.

In all things, whether great or small the worth of our entire existence is in the doing, the worthwhile doing, the doing of good. This is a follow up to the quote from John Wesley which I published the other day, and it’s so very true.

Remember it when you tip your server, or when you give your blood. Think about it when you deal with a family member or a complete stranger. Consider it before you speak, and most certainly before you act.

THANK YOU VETERANS

My Dad was always the consummate “veteran” After serving in the Navy from 1945-52 he developed a lot of “Navy” habits. I can remember many times of waking up in my very early grade school years to “Hit the deck, hit the deck” What is the deck, and why…do I want to hit it, I thought? It seemed rather strange back then, but now as I look back through nostalgic eyes, it was rather natural. Having only been out of the service for a few years back in those days, Dad still had the “Navy” in his blood. He just wanted me and my brother to experience some of the rigors of “boot camp” which he had gone through, so he was simply running his own “mini” version with us.

There were also those many, many “Navy” stories. The knockdown drag out fights with fellow ship mates over some trivial slight magnified by being in close quarters out on the Ocean for so long. Then there were the memories of the horrors of death and starvation in a post War Korea, and in China, with human beings literally freezing to death in the streets. The many slick trades of cigarettes for goods…like the set of painted porcelain dragon china which hung in Mom and Dad’s kitchen for so long. The earlier memories of the last days of World War II, first being a gunner’s mate on the ship’s huge guns, then moving on to the 115 degree boiler room and advancing in rank. I was regaled by all these tales more than once, and in retrospect I was enthralled by the listening. There were so many more of them, and they filled my childhood with wonder and awe at the things which went on in the big World.

Dad never lost his allegiance to his flag and country by one iota as he got old. Though he hated War, and told me that many times, he always respected the people who were serving their country. One of my favorite photos of him is of him standing there holding an American flag and looking wistfully out at the camera…perhaps thinking about those days that he fought for his country, watched some of his friends and ship mates die for their country, and came back home a changed man.

I want to thank all of you Veterans today for YOUR service. I too have always been against War, but never have I ever had anything but respect for the human beings who have to stare death and hardship directly in the eye in service to our country. Thank you, and Bless you.

To my Favorite Teacher.

I lay here and wonder how it has come about that I find myself quickly approaching the mid sixties. Sixty four just HAS to be the “new” forty. But, its unfortunately not.

I think back a half a century ago. Yes, dang it…that’s fifty years. Back to the Beatle’s first album. Back to early Vietnam. “Looking for more in 64′” by Jim Nesbitt. Landslide win for LBJ. Arnie wins the Masters and Nicklaus the British Open. I had started playing golf that summer and loved it, and lived it.

Gilligans Island and Mary Tyler Moore premiered on TV, and LBJ premiered the “Great Society” Mickey Mantle tore up the cowhide that Summer.

The Fall of 64 rolled around and thoughts of going back to school surfaced. I had not enjoyed my 8th grade year and wasn’t looking forward to my Freshman year. I had signed up for Journalism for that year. Mrs Wingfield was the teacher, and advisor for the “Bulldog Barker” She had been my 8th grade English teacher, and it was my best class that year. I had developed a rapport with her because I liked to write poetry, which was sort of kiss of death for a teenage boy back then, but I had received some encouragement from Mrs. Wingfield, and I had penned a lot of poems that Summer.

Mrs. Wingfield would read them, and offer advice and praise…which was a badly needed commodity for me at that time of my life. Somehow, the idea was hatched to start a literary publication that year for students interested in writing and art. The Sampler was born.

As it turned out, there was a LOT of interest and a lot of contributions. Wayne Greene, who was talented at everything, had a lot of illustrations in the Sampler, and had offered up one of his paintings as the prize for best poem in the Sampler. Mrs. Wingfield and Mrs. Royals would be the judges.

I knew I didn’t have a chance, but I turned in a lot of poems that year. I was working hard on an article for the “Barker” in May of that year, and Mrs. Wingfield brought in a copy of the “Sampler” hot of the presses and handed to me. I opened the front page to find that one of my poems had won first place! I got my picture in the Barker that week holding Wayne Greene’s abstract surrealist painting I had won. I kept that painting up until just this past year when it got water damaged.

Most of all, I have kept the memory of that moment. I read over all the poems in that very first Sampler many times, and there were some good ones in there. I am not sure how my simple four paragraph poem was the best, but the fact that Mrs. Jesse Wingfield had thought it was, bolstered my confidence in my abilities to a point which has stayed with me all my life….all my life. How many people could say they had been that crucial in the life of another person? But that was the effect that the gracious and dignified lady had in people.

Even for many years after, when I would visit the school and see her, Mrs Wingfield always had a smile and a “Hello Larry” which was just for me, her “favorite” student…one among hundreds of other favorites. She knew how much she meant to me, because I told her so in no uncertain terms. I’m glad I did.

I used to lay in bed when we lived on eighth street in Trion and listen for the freight trains to roll into the rail yard at the mill. We lived just up that steep hill from Riegel textile. Back then, I had a rocket arm and I could stand in my front yard and throw a rock almost to that railroad track.

I listened for the train because the movement of it as it came in and out with loads of cotton and coal, was comforting. Strange isn’t it, what we become used to? I could tell when the cars were being coupled and uncoupled, and whether the engineer was new or experienced by how loud the “clang” was when the cars hit together or pulled apart. A lot of times I would fall asleep dreaming of riding one of those trains out of town and right across America.

I dreamed of the things I would do: cross the Mississippi River, or maybe jump off at Memphis and get a job on a boat heading towards New Orleans. I’d take my guitar with me, and make some money singing in clubs. But then, maybe I’d ride those trains all the way to California, and go into acting….become a star. I loved music so maybe I should go to New York City and try out for Broadway. I knew all the old Broadway songs because I was able to afford those types of .33 rpm records at Redford’s five and dime. They were the cheapest ones. The new popular records were usually 3.99, while “My Fair Lady” and “Broadways Greatest Hits” were .99 cents. More music for the money, and besides, I could hear the hit songs on the radio.

I dreamed and schemed the world of a twelve year old boy, laying in my bed underneath that wide rollout window. The one I could crane my head back, and look up out of at the night sky and get a glimpse of the moon, and some stars, and the occasional plane flying overhead.

Those years on eighth street went by quickly. Looking back now, way too fast. From age twelve to seventeen I lay there and listened and dreamed.

I am reminded many mornings lately of those days because as I walk around the neighborhood in the early morning, the sound of the CSX going down the tracks parallel to highway 41, drifts up from downtown Ringgold. I can easily discern it off in the distance, and having walked the paths right next to where it runs, and having taken pictures of it, I know it’s the same type of train that I remember from my childhood.

My hope is, that somewhere downtown close to the tracks, there’s a twelve year old boy laying in his bed and listening as the train passes by, and dreaming of where it could take him. He may not get there. He may follow a totally different path from what he dreams, and be as happy as I am with where he ends up. But the dreaming will do him good, and give him some happy memories. And sometimes memories are worth more than gold.

Today is Friday. I think at least I know that much. I look at the date: November 8, 2019. I wonder sometimes how I got here.

Through hook and crook. Through sheer luck. Through determination. Through despair and sorrow. Through love and tenderness. Through letting myself be carried along in the center of the river of life. Never taking too many chances.

So here it is, this day.

I wonder about life. Have I done it the right way? Could I have done it better? I certainly could have done some things better. I was born with a certain set of genes, I grew up and lived in a certain environment. Both of these things have shaped me a certain way.

I wish they had shaped me into a kinder person. I’m lacking so much in that area. I wish I’d been shaped with a better temperament, instead of having one of those “fly off the handle” types. I wish I had learned to be less self centered, and more confident in myself. I have a tendency to get on people’s nerves.

Actually, I get on my own at times! Maybe it’s a little bit paranoia, and a little bit trying too hard to please. Hopefully the ability for self examination is a positive…,

I look at other people who seem to have gotten it “all together” and I wonder what that would be like. I wonder if they really DO have it all together, or if it is simply one of their talents to seem that way to other people? I’ve often said, that we cannot really tell about the reality of other people without being them. There’s a whole lot of people I know I wouldn’t want to be, even with all my shortcomings I’d feel better just staying me instead.

As I get older, I’m more at peace with what I am most days, although the past week hasn’t been my finest hour. I’m taking a deep breath this weekend, and I’m going to try and get back on track. As the rest of my time passes here, I’m sure I’ll have to do more and more “resets” in order to stay focused on what I need to do: live the balance of my time helping more than I hurt, and keeping my words and actions good. That’s a tall order for me.

When I’m gone from here, Id like to have left more good memories than not. I guess that’s really the only legacy I’ll have to offer.

Have a great weekend my friends.

I remember back to 1963. That was a great year. I started off at 12 years old, and stayed that way for 10 2/3 months. I had played baseball all that summer and it was great. I hit 5 Home runs, three of them grand slams. I made the all stars. I walked all over town, fished in the Chattooga, gone to the movies. The summer of 1963 was idyllic, and I loved it.

Then, suddenly I became a teenager.

Oh God, how awkward I was. What terrible luck I had too.

I go a bad case of Athletes foot late that summer, and it just ate my feet up something awful. I had to start school that fall wearing sandals with white socks. Nobody can imagine how embarrassing an ordeal that was. My old protagonist J. Suits kidded me mercilessly about it. It took a month or so to finally get healed up….just as the weather started to cool off.

I had fairly greasy hair, so the pimples came along shortly after the feet healed up. I washed my hair regularly, but it didn’t matter. I had one or two fairly bad eruptions a week. Another embarrassing issue, and so I kind of walked around with my head down and avoided direct eye contact, especially with girls…

I remember as Christmas approached, the glee club started rehearsing a Special program. One of the songs was “White Christmas” one of my favorites. I lined up in the back of the boys section and was belting it out, Bing Crosby style. My voice had already changed, and my tenor was clear and on key. I didn’t think I’d be noticed, I just loved the music, the song and the time of year. Mr. Carruth stoped in the middle of the song one day and said: “You…Bowers C’mere”.

I went up front. He proceeded to inform me that I was going to sing solo for the song, with the rest of the singers backing me up. I was floored, and scared crapless.

We rehearsed the song over and over the next few weeks, and when the day came for the program, I was ready. I started a little tentatively but forgot anyone else was in the assembly that morning, and did my best Bing. “Good job” said Mr. Carruth.

The year changed after that. I walked with my head up. I continued to sing every opportunity I got, and I still thank John Carruth to this day for believing in me, and helping to make my life better.

We had several good teachers, who were also decent people at our school that year, and in the ensuing four years. I was lucky to be there with a good group of teachers and some great classmates. It was a wonderful time.

The worst possible thing for someone who likes to sing is to lose their voice.

Since having vocal cord surgery in 1999, I face a “season” of hoarseness and loss of my voice on a regular basis, especially this time of year. You would think I would be used to it by now, but the inability to be able to even hum along with a song on the radio is frustrating. But yet…

I can see the beauty all around me. The huge moon…the glorious fall leaves.

I can touch my grandchildren gently. and pick them up and hug them.

I can smell the wonderful Brunswick stew I picked up last week when I warm it up.

I can hear amazing music at the touch of a button, and enjoy its depth and meaning.

I can walk, and move without pain.

Even with so many things which are wrong in this world, the ability to sift out enjoyment from the chaffe which is constantly being thrown at us is essential to maintaining our humanity. We can choose to give in to the frustration, or we can choose to turn in another direction towards the joys still available to us.

So I’m going to listen to some good music now and sleep. It doesn’t really matter if I can hum along or not. I will still cherish it.

I wished for peace on Earth, but I was naive and didn’t know it could never happen. I was 8 years old, and I wished for peace on Earth in 1958. A kids dream. I didn’t know then that because of the nature of man and men, it cannot happen. But still I wished.

I wished when I graduated from High School in 1968, that I could do something to change the world for the good.

I wished for health and happiness for my children when they were born.

I wished several times to win the lottery.

I wished and wished.

Some things happened, not simply because I wished, but because I cared enough to become involved in the things I wished for in order to make them happen.

“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride….”

Finally, “Be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it”.

A long time ago, I think it was 1961….yes I’m pretty sure that was it. 1961. It wasn’t the greatest year for my Dad. The mill where he worked was on short time. You see, for quite some time…ever since World War II, the cotton mill had been working on government contracts.

They’d made thousands of yards of twill for uniforms. Uniforms for the army, navy, and marines. Maybe for the Air Force too. I’m not sure. All I remember is that the contracts ran out, and my Dad was on three and four day weeks. We’d already been forced to move from the house that my Dad had built on Simmons street back in 1954. He couldn’t make the 112 dollar a month payments. So we moved to ninth street into a lower priced home with 55 dollar a month payments.

But, things were still hard. Money was in short supply. Beans and taters with cornbread was a staple, along with salmon patties made with canned salmon….the kind out of the red can.

My Dad was a determined man. He couldn’t stand not being able to pay his bills. A man came around the house one day selling World Book encyclopedias. The book of knowledge. My Dad told this man, who was the “district manager” that he couldn’t afford to buy a set of those books, although he’d have liked to in order to help my brother and me in school. But….did the district manager need a salesman. “I’ve got experience in sales” said my Dad who’d never sold anything to anybody in his life. As a matter of fact, said the district manager, they were looking for somebody. “When can you start training”? said the manager. “How about right now”? said my Dad.

So began my Daddy’s career as an encyclopedia salesman. A career that ended up lasting a couple of years, and keeping a struggling family afloat.  I believe he made 50 dollars commission off of every set he sold, and he sold a lot of them in two years in Chattooga and Walker counties.

He received a “salesman’s” copy of the World Books, to take along as demos to potential customers.  That set had all kinds of special “stuff” with it  There were extra “ pullouts” with tons of colorful illustrations.  There were extra graphs, and lots of those cool pages with the acetate layovers, like the “human body” which had a base photo of a skeleton, with each subsequent clear acetate page that laid on top, being composed of the rest of the body. Lay the first page down, and there’s the muscles, then the circulatory system, then the internal organs, and so on…until the last page you laid on top was the skin, and the body was complete.  Those things were so neat!

After a couple of years, the work at the mill picked back up.  It was running 5 and 6 days a week and kept on running…wide open to the 7 day weeks of the denim years.

We got to keep that set of World Books, and being as how I couldn’t buy enough new Marvel comics to read constantly, I started using those encyclopedias as my reading material.  I was a voracious reader, and started with the A volume and worked my way forward.  I read in those books for the next 6 years, until I went to college.  They were one of the most helpful and educational “teachers” I ever had.

My Dad kept that set of encyclopedias around until they moved out in 2009 to the assisted living place.  I kept them after that for several years.  Daddy always told me “don’t get rid of these, there’s a lot of good information in here”  I knew there was, but I don’t think he ever cracked a volume open at all.  He actually hated selling encyclopedias, and was glad when he could stop.  Selling just wasn’t in his blood like it is in mine.  He just did it because he needed the money, and wanted a free set of encyclopedias for his boys

After the onslaught of the internet, and years of hauling that set of books around, I ended up giving them to a family with a little girl who liked to read.  I felt a tear running down my eye as they drove away with them.  Part of my childhood went with them, part of my Dad’s hard work and love.  I thought he mighta’ been pissed that I gave them away, but then I thought he would probably would have told me that I’d gotten all the good out of them I was gonna get.  He would have understood.