"Long Time a Child" by Hartley Coleridge

If you were to ask me to name the one poem with which I identify the most, it would be this one. And it has been, for many, many years. Hartley was Samuel Taylor Coleridge eldest son, so he had much to live up to! For me, with this one alone, he scored his place as a poet. The breaks are mine. The poem has long been presented as one verse. I have taken the liberty to do this for the sake of clarity. It is a beautiful, though sad, sentiment expressed with great skill.

LONG TIME A CHILD by Hartley Coleridge

Long time a child, and still a child, when years

had painted manhood on my cheek, was I,—

For yet I lived like one not born to die;

a thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,

no hope I needed, and I knew no fears.

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,

I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking

the vanguard of my age, with all arrears

of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,

nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey.

For I have lost the race I never ran:

a rathe December blights my lagging May;

and still I am a child, tho’ I be old.

Time is my debtor for my years untold.

Peacekeeper - 1969

The small waste can bounced off of my brother’s head and he slammed into the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting his wrist as he fell to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling, “That’s your mother- she’s MY girlfriend and that’s who I care about!”

He was about to strike another blow, he was like that, given to seemingly out of control rages, though I had often suspected he was, at all times, by virtue of his outbursts, in perfect control. My slender, but firm, hand reached out to stay his arm as he arched it backwards. “That’s enough!” I yelled. “He’s bleeding!”

The old man stood back and surveyed the damage he had done. His eyes took in the form of his crumpled older boy on the floor, weeping; and the broken frame and glass which sprinkled the black and white tiles of the foyer, the blood on the wall, and he stared in disbelief.

I began to clean up the mess as the two former combatants, who had only moments before been so bold and loud toward one another, slunk away, as if by doing so they could undo what had just happened.

The glass was cleaned up, and the frame removed to some long forgotten corner of a closet. The old man finished cleaning and dressing my brother's wound, and then we all went to the hospital to see Mom.

It was Valentine’s Day 1969. My brother was 16 that day and wanted to see his girlfriend, whom he would later marry. My father wanted to have a little birthday/Valentine’s Day party in the day room at the hospital for my Mom. I just wanted to see her. And she just wanted to see us.

Why am I writing this story now, after so many years? What point am I trying to make? Only that the simplest of emotions, and the best of intentions, can sometimes both backfire and blow up in your face. There is no explanation for our emotions, sometimes there is only damage control.

Note: The photograph was taken in July of 1969 on a trip to Florida. The flag, at St. Augustine, is flying at half staff. I have always remembered this as being in honor of Senator Everett Dirksen, who had just passed away. Evidently my memory fails me, as Senator Dirksen did not pass away until September.

Last Word to My Father

Would that I could,

but can't so I won't

It's not like I don't want to,

it's simply that I don't

meet your expectations,

so, i had to stop from trying.

It's the only way I had to cope,

and keep myself from crying.

Reading a Book and Doing the Math

I don’t post regular reviews anymore; I’m taking the time to really enjoy what I’m reading. But that takes a little extra time for me. For instance, I am reading a book which says that 600 acres are equal to One square mile. I am always curious as to the veracity of any numbers thrown at me, and almost always check them out- longhand.

In spite of failing mathematics throughout my school years I have spent my entire life working at jobs which all dealt with numbers. From navigating a ship by star to estimating earthwork (try it sometime by emptying a pot of dirt and then seeing if you can get it all back in; or digging a hole and then throwing the dirt back in without having some left over) I have in love with the little digits and their perfection. They simply do not lie. Statistics do; but not mathematics. So, you see I just had to check the figure out and determine for myself how many acres are in a square mile.

To begin with I know that a mile is 5,280 LF long so you multiply that by itself and come to the sum of 27,878,400 square feet to a square mile.

   

Now we need to take the acreage. There are 43,560 sq ft in an acre. The assertion is that there are 600 of these acres in a square mile. So you multiply the 600 acres by the 43,560 square feet per acre and come to 26,136,000 square feet in 600 acres. We have a problem. The acrerage stated in the book is short.

Taking 43, 560 square feet and multiplying it by x for the unknown acreage and making it equal to the square footage we know to be a square mile (27,878,400 square feet) you get 43,560x = 27,878,400, as in square feet. Then you isolate the x.

The equation looks like this; (cross multiplication)

43,560X = 27,878,400 sq ft  = 640

43,560         43,560

And the proof is self-evident. You simply multiply 640 acres by 43,560 square feet to each one and come up with the same number of square feet then divide that back by 43,560 square feet for a total of 640 acres; 40 acres more than stated in the book. It's no big deal; just something I do. 

As usual with any post dealing with mathematics I dedicate this to my father, William Llewellyn Williams, who was so good at numbers that he couldn’t teach me to count;, believing that his failure was my shortcoming. 

My Father's Army Wallet

My father was a towering figure to me when I was a small fry. My perception of him changed over the years as I grew older; circumstances and reality ultimately prevailing. But when I was about 5 years old this pigskin wallet; which my father carried for 3 years while serving out his time at Fort Dix during the Korean War waiting for a Hardship Discharge; was to me the epitome of manhood. It was kept in his dresser drawer. As far as I was concerned, if only I could be a grown man and have a wallet like that I would never want for anything else in the way of self-esteem. The wallet was always promised to me. It was to be mine “when I grew up.”

So, when my father passed away in December of 2001 I came into possession of this treasured and revered shrine. I received it by mail from my father’s second wife; he remarried after my mother’s death in 1984. She was a loving companion to him for 16 years until he passed away, and I appreciated the gesture honoring this age old pact concerning the wallet.

Some things never live up to the memories attached thereof; but not so with this wallet. Rather, it contained all that I had remembered; plus some unexpected surprises, all of which left me even more confused than I already was about my relationship with my father; which, to say the least, was strained. In fact we had not spoken for almost a decade before he died. We never made that transition and put the past behind us. Neither one of us was capable of taking the first step towards reconciliation, I suppose, but that’s the truth. And that lack of a reconciliation made this wallet even more important. It serves as the only real "link" to my father.

Now, holding the wallet in my hand for the first time in over 40 years; since 1969 give or take; I opened the shrine and relived the excitement of being a child again, looking into my father’s world. The problem was, now I was older than he was when he had promised the wallet to me. Maybe this was going to be anti-climactic as the wallet had been in his dresser drawer for decades since I’d last seen it. So, I thought,what could be new?

Apparently; along with all of the things I remembered as having been in the wallet; my father had been adding stuff to it since I’d seen it last. I remember the Reserve ID card; I now even have one myself; and the crucifix and the penny were always like Sacred Relics to me. The crucifix comes from the Shrine of the Little Flower in Oak Park, Michigan. It was a gift to my father from his older brother Roy, who had served in the Navy during the Second World War. He used to go around the country while on leave, visiting all of the Catholic Shrines. The penny; dated 1950, the year in which my parents were wed; is the one my Mom carried in her shoe on their wedding day. I know this story to be true because I used to hold it in my hand and ask her about it. I never got tired of hearing that story.  

There are other things in the wallet which I remember well; the draft status cards, which run from 5-A to 3-R. The first indicates that he was eligible to be called for Korea, while the second one shows he is no longer available. There were also a few things which my Dad had added to the wallet; things which I found puzzling; given the nature of our non-relationship.

The first was an old Buffalo nickel with his birth year on it; 1931. I’d sent that to him in 1981 for his 50^th birthday. At the time I was already out of the Navy and working for Military Sealift Command. We were so polarized that I never even stayed with my parents when in New York; about once or twice a year. Instead I stayed with my friends Mark and Lois in Belle Harbor. But yet I still sent the old man a birthday gift; one which he obviously treasured, though he never said a word to me about it. I had even wondered if he ever received it; but never asked. Finding that nickel was quite a surprise for me; did he keep it because I’d sent it? Or was it simply because it was a nickel? 

But the real showstopper was this letter; the contents of which were not extraordinary in any way; I had written many letters home which far outdid this one. It was one of the few not addressed to my Mom and maybe that’s why he kept it. I’ll never know. We hadn’t spoken to one another in a civil manner for years before we finally broke off contact altogether in the early 1990’s. The one exception was when he called to tell me that Nana; my grandmother; had passed away. He said he was calling out of obligation. I thanked him and we hung up. I never saw or spoke to him again after that.

Time is a funny thing. Sometimes we forgive; and maybe even forget. I don’t know whether or not I will ever reach that point in connection with my relationship to my father. It’s simply too complicated. Besides, he’s gone and the conversation would be kind of one sided. But I have to believe he must have liked something about me. Or else why would he have carried that letter?

"The Judge" with Robert Downey, Jr. and Robert Duvall (2014)

In this film Robert Downey Jr.  plays attorney Hank Palmer, who is going through a rough time in his marriage. His wife is screwing around on him and he is on the verge of a divorce, even as he handles the high profile cases he is known for. Hank is a true shark; he can spot the jugular on anyone and knows just how to go for it. He had a lot of practice in learning the art of intellectual defense; his father is Judge Joseph Palmer, and the two have never gotten along well.

His two brothers; Glen, played by Vincent D'Onofrio ; and younger brother Dale; seem to have an easier time accepting their fathers semi abusive manner. Glen has a profession, while Dale is somewhat slow and has a learning disability which prompts him to film everything with an old 8 mm movie camera. He is; at least in his own mind; working on a film.

When Judge Palmer’s wife passes away Hank returns home to the small town in Indiana where he was raised and his father still presides as Judge. Old wounds quickly open up again when Hank returns and Judge Palmer may be drinking again.

The stage is set for a final show down between the Judge and his most combative son when the father is arrested on suspicion of murdering a man who had appeared before the Judge previously. With the Judge depressed over his wife’s death, and struggling with cancer himself, Hank is afraid his father doesn’t really want to fight for his own freedom. He seems to want to be punished for the sins of his past. To complicate that, Hank believes his father to be guilty of both the murder and drinking again.

 

In the fight of his life; and with a court battle that has the Judge on trial for his freedom; if not his life; Hank must use every skill he has ever learned to overcome his own emotions and free his father; while at the same time uncovering the truth behind the murder. In the end Hank finds that he has more in common with his father than he ever thought.

Riveting performances by all make this screenplay by Nick Schenk and  Bill Dubuque; from the story by David Dobkin; shine. Billy Bob Thornton is also credible as the suit and tie Prosecutor Dwight Dickham.

  

"August: Osage County" with Julia Roberts and Meryl Streep (2013)

This is a difficult film to watch. It deals with interpersonal relationships in a highly dysfunctional family; which is never an easy topic to tackle in a film, let alone view as entertainment. In this film version of the Pulitzer Prize winning play by Tracy Letts, the Weston family comes to terms with the myriad of issues which confront all families. The real question isn’t about the issues; it’s about how we deal with one another concerning them, and the impact from that attempt at interaction.

The Weston’s consist of Violet, played by Meryl Streep, who is the mother afflicted with cancer and is dependent upon the pain relieving drugs she needs to take. Beverley, played by Sam Shepard, is her husband. He is a poet. They have 3 daughters; Barbara, played by Julia Roberts; Karen, played by Juliette Lewis; and Ivy, played by Julianne Nicholson. Rounding out the cast are Violet's sister Minnie, played by Margo Martindale; her husband Charles, played by Chris Cooper; and their son, Little Charles, played by Benedict Cumberbatch.

The movie is not easy to watch- I had to take a short break midway through; but the plot is fairly simple. When Beverly commits suicide the family comes together; or at least they make an attempt to do so. Violet has a drug problem and Barbara is having difficulties in her marriage. Ivy; who has been the one taking care of their Mom; has a boyfriend nobody knows about, and is about to leave with him for a new life in New York City. Karen brings her fiancée with her, and he is a little bit too interested in one of the sister’s 14 year old daughters.

The friends of the family are also involved, bringing their own set of problems to the table. The only ones who seems to even have it slightly together are Little Charles and also Ivy. They seem to be their own persons and you begin to look at them as the only survivors in this whole mish mash.

The movie is well made, written and acted. But I don’t recommend it as entertainment. It was more of an investment of time. The whole point of the movie seems to be to show how we screw up in dealing with one another as human beings. Families with a chronically ill member are particularly vulnerable to this trap. The dueling emotions brought on by health issues can devastate a family. I speak from experience. This is a great movie but one that will perhaps hit too close to home for some viewers; like me.

Little John and the Chickens

Johnny was a strange little boy. Even his parents were a bit puzzled by him. He grew up in a small backwoods area where white people were almost never seen. This was the era of Apartheid and bullwhips in South Africa. He got “religion” at a young age and would preach to the hens in the henhouse as he tended to his chores. He stuttered while he spoke. He even disapproved of his father’s farm work because it was interfering with God’s plan.

As a young teen he was given an opportunity to learn with a church volunteer who was visiting the area. Although he stuttered and stammered; and most people, including his parents; thought that he was wasting his time; this woman saw something in the boy. She encouraged him to go further.

A few more years passed by and that woman became involved in legal difficulties. The laws of that time and place did not allow his people to learn to read and write. In many churches the local authorities allowed only 1 copy of the Bible. And, they actually came around to check.

With only 1 book it would be almost impossible to teach people to read. This restriction was one of the many factors which gave way to “lining”; a practice common to his people; whereby the Pastor would read, or sing a line; and then the congregation would repeat it.

When the authorities couldn’t stop the woman from teaching they closed the church and sent her to jail for “moonshining” after they found 1 bottle of beer. Then they confiscated the building, tore it down and sold the church property. Little Johnny, a teenager by this time, was affected greatly by this whole turn of events. And all the while the racial tension in South Africa grew ever worse.

You might say that these events informed the person who Johnny would ultimately become. You see, that little boy; Johnny; was John Lewis, future activist and Congressman. He can be seen in the above photo. He is the one being attacked by the dog on March 7^th, 1965 during the Selma-Montgomery march for the right to vote.

You see, all that befell Johnny took place; not in South Africa under Apartheid; but here at home in the United States of America. And the sacrifices made by Mr. Lewis and thousands of other brave men and ensured that later generations would have the right to be heard in the voting booth.

As for the woman; the one who was arrested and jailed for “moonshining”; that was Septima Clark, of the Highland Folk School. Now, fifty years later, the rights which these 2 fought for; in the form of the Voting Rights Act; are under attack by people who would have you believe that the need for these protections has passed. Don’t believe that for a second. The new battle for Civil Rights will not be about color. The new battle will be about economics.

Delaware - Among My Souvenirs (1985)

This is a story about the State of Delaware. It is also a story about my early driving habits. At the same time it a story about courting my wife long distance. And, it is also the story of my time working with my father, which was the result of a promise made to my dying mother. In short; this is a multi-faceted tale.

In late 1984 I left my job as a Merchant Mariner employed by Military Sealift Command; a civilian component of the United States Navy. I served honorably in the Navy and then worked for the Command as a civilian contractor. I left the job; according to my letter of resignation; “….in order to effect a more positive lifestyle.” I thought that sounded pretty cool. I still do.

My mother had just recently passed away and I had foolishly made a promise to her that I would come home and work for my father for a year; a promise I would come to regret.

At the time I possessed several different licenses in several different states. I used them like credit cards; jamming one up with points before switching to another one while the points fell off the first one. It was a system which suited me well. Sailors take some time to adjust to traveling on wheels, and so are entitled to some sort of accommodation as they find their land legs.

The ticket at the bottom is not related to the money order at the top. It’s essential that you understand that. The money order was for the ticket I got on the way home from Baltimore to New York on the 13^th. The second ticket was for going back to Baltimore the next night, which was Valentine’s Day! Well, actually the ticket wasn't merely for going back; I wasn't blacklisted or anything. I was just driving too fast, again.

The date(s) shown above indicate I was in Delaware on both the 13^th of February; which is when I was pulled over at about 3 AM doing about 90. I have always remembered that I was taken into custody because I had an outstanding ticket which I had never paid, not expecting to be pulled over again in Delaware. It was kind of like my own lottery. The hardest part was remembering which license I had used. I had a great many tickets during this period; about $10,000 in all. And, I still have all the receipts to prove it.

I arrived at the Justice of the Peace station following the State Trooper in my own car. Apparently I was not dangerous enough to require restraint. The location was a place called Willington. It would be my home for the next several hours.

At about 6 AM I phoned Sue to get some sympathy for having gotten locked up. After all, I was doing this for her. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but at the time I was looking for sympathy. I knew better than to ask her to send me money, as she didn't have any. That left me with only one recourse. I would have to call my father.

At the time I was working for him and he expected me to be ready in the mornings. I had promised my mother that I would give the arrangement a shot when I left the ships after 8 years at sea. This was her last request of me and I felt somewhat committed to it. So, in September of 1984 I left my job with Military Sealift Command and went to work for him.

My dad and I used to meet at his apartment in 1310 Avenue R. He lived in 2-H and I lived in 5-G. I was never late. But this morning I knew that I would be severely behind time, so to speak, and I owed him a call. Also, if I were to show up that day, I needed cash. Fast.

At the time there was a commercial on television which showed various people calling home for cash in different emergencies. One of them was of a teen aged son calling home from a phone booth on the side of the road in the middle of the night. There were police cruisers in the background, indicating some sort of trouble with the law. The son says something like, “Hey Dad, I need cash; FAST!” So I said something along those lines, got cussed out in the bargain, and then proceeded to wait on the money order. That’s his handwriting and signature on the money order application/receipt.

Now, the money order should have been available in something like 30 seconds and I should have been on the road again, but that’s not what happened. For whatever reason; and I have no memory of why; the magistrate would not send anyone to town to get the money order. He wouldn't even phone to see if it had arrived. I was deeply troubled by this as my father would be sure to make the day miserable for me on account of any further delay.

After about 3 hours or so I decided to leave. My keys were still in the car, and I was still unshackled, so what the heck. I simply got up and left. I got home in time to do a decent afternoon’s work and then I headed straight back to Baltimore. After all, it was now Valentine’s Day Eve and I'm a romantic at heart.

Had a great evening with Sue and the boys in Baltimore on the 13^th before heading back to Brooklyn early on the morning of the 14^th. Got as far as Delaware; blowing through at a discreet 75; when I got stopped again! Same town, same cop.

Now, this is the part where I realized that while I may have left on my own the morning before, they still had my license. I explained this to the officer and he was surprisingly nice about it, stating that since he knew who I was, my lack of a license was not that big of a deal. We exchanged pleasantries and he gave me a ticket, for which I thanked him, then I drove away.

When I got home it was already about 9 AM. I called the Justice of the Peace; who laughed at me when I asked him to send me my license. He was serious about it, too. No way was he sending me my license. I was however free to come in and get it. So, I paid the new fine with a check by mail and switched to a different license while I got a duplicate one from whatever state I was using at the time.

Well, I think I have covered everything I mentioned at the beginning of this account. My mother dying; my promise to work for my Dad; my driving habits; a long distance romance with Sue; and a few other things as well. Amazing what memories comes back to you while going through old papers. That must be why I saved them.

"Jayne Mansfield's Car" with Billy Bob Thornton, John Hurt and Robert Duvall (2012)

With a cast as diverse as this film; and a script by Billy Bob Thornton; this film is a work of art. If you have read Billy Bob Thornton's auto-biography, then you are aware of what a personal journey making this was for Mr. Thornton.

The film traces the mis-adventures of a family in Alabama circa 1969, as family patriarch Duvall struggles to hold together some semblance of the old order in the midst of great social upheaval. He is not always successful. He is further challenged in his efforts when his son's ex-wife passes away and her body is returned from England, where she has been living since her re-marriage years earlier.

This macabre re-union results in two families who are seemingly worlds; and cultures; apart being forced to deal with one another as well as their own feelings about the deceased and the rest of this dysfunctional family.

Ron White is particularly convincing as the socially inept brother in law, and all of the rest of the cast turn in wonderful character performances which are often at odds with their usual roles. Billy Bob really stretches their limits of creativity with this quirky film that deals with life, love, and the changing definitions of family which have evolved along with the changing social mores of the times.

You'll have to draw your own conclusions; and perhaps watch this one twice to really get the full meaning of what Mr. Thornton attempts to say here. But when you do, it will be worth it, as you will undoubtedly identify with someone, someway, in this film which could only have come form the mind of Billy Bob Thornton. Thanks, Billy, for letting us in.

My Father at 83

We never called my father “Dad”. His real name was Bill. But we called him “Bail”, which I suppose came about when either my brother or I asked him what his name was and we couldn't pronounce it right. Either way, I don’t ever remember calling him “Dad” until age 18, when I had already left home. So, in some ways you might say that I grew up without a father. But that would be quite a stretch as he was always around. We just didn’t call him “Dad”, as all the other kids I knew addressed their fathers.

Then there was the time in between; when we were aware that “Bail” was an odd thing to call your father, but weren’t comfortable enough to use the term “Dad.” So, at that point we didn’t call him anything. Oddly, on all of the cards and notes which were preserved by my mother; whom we called “Mom”; we addressed him as “Dad”. We just never spoke it.

It may have been about the time when my brother started to get serious with his then girlfriend Helene that this became an issue in our home. I’m not sure. But it was a long time until I felt comfortable addressing him in that fashion.

Today would have been his 83^rd birthday. I can’t say I miss him much; we didn't speak for the last 10 years of his life; and spent much of the rest of it at odds with one another. I cannot even imagine having a relationship with him at all.

There is an old photo of my brother and I in our bedroom in Brooklyn when I was about 10 years old. On the wall over the toy box hangs my first guitar. I got it for Christmas and was eager to make some music. But I was not allowed to play it unless I took lessons. I was never going to be good at math because my mother wasn't. I would never be strong, I would never be able to make a living because my health was bad. The list went on and on.

Today he would have been 83. Hey Dad; I excel at mathematics; even taught myself to navigate by the stars.  I learned it from a book. I've traveled the world 3 times by ship, plane, foot and train. I got really strong while serving in the U.S. Navy and later as a Merchant Mariner. I’ve even built shopping centers and housing developments using those math skills I’d never be good at. I became a surveyor and an Estimator, excelling at both. Later I became a Contract Administrator. Attorneys have called me seeking advice. I own 4 guitars and play them all well enough to satisfy my musical urges and even entertain others; as long as I don't sing.

And remember that $1,000 life insurance policy you bought from Uncle Roy when I was 6 years old? You cancelled my brothers but kept mine active until the day you died. I was 47 years old at that time. You never collected the $350 that had accrued in value over the 40 year period in which you paid over $1,000 into it. I guess you were wrong about me dying before you did. And I was wrong about you being so smart in financial matters.

In short; you were wrong about so many things; but mainly you were wrong about me. Happy Birthday, "Dad".

"Kentucky Traveler" by Ricky Skaggs (2013)

I was hesitant to read this book at first. It is a faith based memoir, and I am somewhat suspect of those who wear their religion like a badge. But, Mr. Skaggs has done the seemingly impossible; he has managed to convey his Christian roots and the journey which brought him to international fame without being overly judgmental of others. He is firm in his beliefs; and lets the reader know it; but to separate the religion from the music would be to tell only a part of his story. And, in the case of Mr. Skaggs;  the man, the faith, and the music are all the same.

Beginning with his childhood Mr. Skaggs weaves a wonderful story of growing up as a Christian in the 1950’s and ‘60’s while pursuing his love of music. His father and mother were the main influences in his spiritual and musical development, with the elder Mr. Skaggs playing guitar himself. Young Ricky first performs on the top of the soft drink case at a local store. He was 5 years old at the time.  He was a true “child prodigy.” His instrument of choice was the mandolin, but his talent would lead him to the guitar, banjo and even the sitar for a brief moment in India.

His father’s love of music fueled Mr. Skaggs interest, and desire, to play the music he heard all around him while growing up. His father and mother were both musically inclined, with his mother singing with a strong clear mountain voice and even kicking up her feet and dancing at the frequent house parties they had on weekends. These occasions are the seeds of that would grow into a lifelong love of bluegrass music for Mr. Skaggs, taking him far away from his home, but always returning.

If you love traditional old time bluegrass music, then this book is a veritable history of the genre, beginning; as it should; with Bill Monroe. Ricky meets him as a kid and then later on as a teen when his Dad gets him behind stage at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. But Ralph and Carter Stanley are the two men who most gave him his first big break.

As his career rises he finds himself at a sort of crossroads; he can go the way of so many before him in the music business, or he can remain true to his roots; both musically as well as spiritually. This is easier said than done, and the author admits it.

Crammed full of stories about the great legends he has known, and the spiritual path he has chosen for himself, make this book a very worthwhile read. His relationship with the late Keith Whitley is a bittersweet memory, as Mr. Whitley succumbs to the temptations of the road and heavy drink.

The story of the people he has played with is also the story of the salvation of the original sound of the bluegrass music he loved so well as a kid, but which had slipped away by the 1970’s, replaced by the overproduced “Nashville Sound.” Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Rodney Crowell, and so many others, along with Mr. Skaggs, have helped to not only preserve that sound, but to make it popular once again.

This remarkable family oriented, faith based memoir, is living testament of the roots of bluegrass music and the magic of where it comes from. It is also proof that you don’t necessarily need sex and drugs to make really great, timeless music.

"My Father at 100" by Ron Reagan

Don't dismiss this book. Whether you loved him or hated him, and there seems to be no middle ground on that score, Ronald Reagan was arguably one of the most influential Presidents to come down the pike since Roosevelt. His presidency set the stage for many of the divisions that still divide the nation today over economics, as well as foreign policy. He was, and will always remain, a controversial man.

Ron Reagan, his eldest son, sheds new light on Ronald Reagan the man, as he explores for himself just who his father was. He travels back to the places his Dad lived and worked, from the small town years in Illinois to Hollywood, and then on to Washington and the Presidency, Mr. Reagan paints a candid portrait of his Father. He talks openly of their political differences, as well as some of his Dad's shortcomings, without rancor. He is deeply interested in just who his Dad was.

Going as far back as the year 1014 and the Battle of Clontarf, he shows his family's surprising link to the Kennedy clan, who were at that time the Cennotig clan. He then moves quickly forward to the 1800's and from there on to his own Father's extraordinary life.

I admit to having mixed feelings about the Reagan Presidency. On the one hand his foreign policy changed, for the better, the way in which we, as a nation, were perceived overseas at the time. I can attest to this, having spent the later half of the 1970's at sea, with the Russians harassing us everywhere. The moment Reagan took office in 1981, this ceased. He put the teeth back into our military at a time when it was sorely needed.

His domestic policy was a different story, slash and burn seemed to be the order of the day. During his second term I was a working father, and sometimes it felt like he was working against me.

So, though I was reluctant at first to pick up this book, I found it to be an engaging memoir, with just enough history thrown in to make it a very interesting read. As I said, don't dismiss this one. It's actually worth reading.

Fatherly Encouragement

"Punch his eyes out! Slam his head on the ground! Throw him punches, son! Knock him out!" These are the words Philip Struthers used, he says, in order to encourage his son last week in a fight over a girl. His son, who was not charged, is 15.

"I regret having gotten caught up in the heat of the moment" says the elder Mr. Struthers, 41, of Tampa, the boys father. But truth be told he simply regrets that it was the wrong moment, and of course, that he got caught.

"I was encouraging my son to settle the issue", says Mr. Struthers. I wonder if he ever thought that encouraging his son to "Slam his head on the ground", would be discouraging to the other 15 year old involved in the incident? Quite simply, one must wonder if he thinks at all?

Here is the link to the video;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-MHXik73AA

"Gonville" by Peter Birkenhead

What would it be like to be raised by a man who was alternately angry, passive, filled with joy and sometimes in deep despair? How would you feel if your father dressed in a pith helmet and spoke like Lt. Gonville, the character portrayed by Michael Caine in the historical drama "Zulu", a movie about the British in South Africa circa 1850?

Growing up in Brooklyn, and later, Long Island, in the 1960's and 70's,the author was faced with, and had to answer some of these questions. If not for everyone around him, then for his own sanity. Children don't always get to know the demons that haunt their parents. In this book, the author gives it his best shot. There are, indeed, comical moments in this honest and down to earth autobiography by Peter Birkenhead. But there is also a dark side to this tale.

Like many people do, Mr. Birkenhead dealt with these issues by not dealing with them. Throwing himself into a fantasy world was a great way to escape the turmoil at home. But escaping always bears a price to be paid at a later date. Eventually the author becomes an actor, playing many roles in which his character is angry at his father, just as he was with his own.

Haunted by a particularly vivid dream in which he is flying down a set of stairs begins a journey into the past. The dream turns out to be the night his father chased his wife and children from the apartment with a gun. The flight the author took down the stairs was in the arms of his mother.

A graphic look inside the mind of a child who was both amused, and confused, by the antics of his father, this book is honestly written. When we become adults the choices we make are largely our own. But a lot of what we chose to do with our lives stems directly from our experiences as children. Mr. Birkenhead has made this abundantly clear in this tightly written memoir.

Coke Bottle Gambling

The other evening as I was driving home I was listening to John Hancock on the local “talk radio” show. I used to call in a lot about politics, but these days I’m more likely to weigh in on such complex issues as “What did you collect as a kid and wished you still had?” The topic was really baseball cards and comic books, but all collections were allowed.

At the beginning of the show the announcer usually starts off with a preamble concerning what he is interested in discussing. The call screener then begins lining up calls, usually reserving a spot for the first, most interesting, or what is often referred to as the “kickoff” call.

I was calling to say that I had collected Coca Cola bottles, the green 6-1/2 ounce “Christmas tree” bottles, so named due to their shape and that the first ones actually bore the patent date of December 25, 1923. The photo above shows a Christmas tree bottle dated 1923 on the left and the older version of the green Coke bottle to the right. In between I have stacked a few of the Christmas tree bottles with the bottoms showing the plants where they had come from.

Across the country there were thousands of Coke bottling plants and each one stamped the name of the town, or city, on their bottles. In 1967 I had about 200 or so of these bottles in a wine rack, bottoms up. I had bottles from Anchorage, Alaska to Bangor, Maine. I was very proud of this collection. Every time I bought a Coke I would look at the bottom to see if I could add it to my collection. If not, I would put it back and choose another.

One day, and I don’t remember quite why, my father took a 9 pound sledge to my collection, shattering all that pretty green glass. Then I had to clean it up. A few of the bottles escaped unscathed and a couple of them are in the center of the picture, bottoms up, just as they once were many years ago.

Well, I got to be the “kickoff” call that evening and I have been thinking about those bottles ever since. So I thought I’d round up a few of them for this photo and story.

The funniest part of the whole thing was that John Hancock, the show's host, asked me if I had inherited the rage and anger of my father. It was an odd question, given the topic of the show, but I answered truthfully. I replied that I had struggled all through raising my kids to control my temper. While I may not have been entirely successful in that endeavor, I have not, at least in my memory, ever taken a sledgehammer to any of my children’s things.

But the real kicker to the whole story is the third call after mine, which bought back some memories I had forgotten. This caller, a local man from Albemarle, had a grandfather who owned a “filling” station there. On Saturday mornings he and his cronies used to gather around the Coke machine, next to the stacks of crates that contained the empty bottles. The bottles were in a standing position so the bottoms could not be seen. Each player would lay down his fifty cents and name a city. Then everyone would pull a bottle from the crate. The one that pulled the city closest to the one he’d named won the pot.

I had forgotten all about this game until that third caller. It bought back a mixture of memories, some good, and some bad. But one thought keeps rising above all the rest, “Hey Dad, you missed a couple.”

"700 Sundays" by Billy Crystal

I read this book a couple of years ago and I would've sworn that I had reviewed it here, but looking back through the archives I find that I am mistaken. The book was turned into an award winning Broadway show, which I have not seen. But the book was superb.

Mr. Crystal's father died when Billy was about 14 years old. This amounts to about 700 Sundays, which he recalls spending with his Dad, Jack, who owned Commodore Records in Times Square along with his brother, Milt. They specialized in jazz records that were hard to find. His Unle is credited with the jazz revival that swept Manhattan in the late 1940's.

Raised in a household of laughter and music, the book gives us a clear view of just where Mr. Crystal's talent and wit come from. Guests in his parents home often included Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong.

It was Mr. Crystal's Uncle who convinced Ms. Holiday to record "Bitter Fruit" which was written by a white, Jewish schoolteacher named Abel Meeropol, who lived in the Bronx. He wrote the song after seeing this photograph of a lynching. At the time she was under contract to the Columbia label, which refused to release the song. They did grant her a one recording leave of absence in order to record it. There are actually two recorded versions of the record, which eventually became, after her death, one of her most popular numbers. If you have never heard the record you have missed one of the most haunting and poignant songs ever written or recorded.

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant South,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh!

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

The book is, however, not all doom and gloom. The Sunday outings to Yankee Stadium with his father, which made Mr. Crystal a life long fan of the New York Yankees, is but one aspect of the book, which is filled with hysterical family stories and the observations of a sharp and talented young man.

The book is a wonderful snapshot into the daily life of New York in the 1950's as well as a wonderful portrait of the special bond which existed between Mr. Crystal and his father. I have read reviews of the show which state "The eponymous play met with considerable success on Broadway. The book is an adequate substitute for it."

I suppose it all depends upon which you experience first, but since I have not seen the play I can only judge it as a book. And that judgement is a very high one. This is one of the best books I have ever read concerning a young man's love for his father. With Fathers Day fast approaching, this just may be the gift you are looking for to give to that special Dad in your life.