Tall Tales or True Stories…

My life is full of dumb stories from early childhood to senior citizen. It’s been a long hard journey with a lot of fond memories along the way…

I’d Like To Be Under The Sea…

Except For Some Days That Aren’t So Good…

I’ve had some absolutely wonderful times scuba diving during my lifetime, and a few not so much…

Katie (my wife) and I have enjoyed many adventures together over our 35 plus years, and for me, diving tops the list. I think we hit 10 or 12 Caribbean islands back in the day, some more than once. At heart I’m an island boy, for sure. 

On one of our excursions we visited Grand Cayman, noted to be one of the top, most beautiful dive locations in the world.

We did a few tourist things before dive day, enjoying 7-mile beach, scootering around the islands and snorkeling in the famous Stingray City (amazing by itself… they were like playful puppy dogs, rubbing against your body and eating out of your hand).

We had met a couple earlier and made plans to do a shore dive together from the popular Parrots Cove dive center location.

That morning we suited up in our gear and headed down past outstanding coral mounds to about 30 or 40 feet of depth. 

After around 15 or 20 minute as we came up over a large coral head, our companion diver who was leading, turned and gave us a frantic hand signal. 

Katie was having some trouble with her buoyancy compensator and didn’t see the gesture, but I recognized it immediately as we came face to face with a large reef shark. I’ll admit I was frightened (actually scared s@#*less) It was my first shark encounter. 

The procedure for this kind of encounter for shallow diving is to get to the bottom as quickly as possible and follow the coral trenches to shore. Don’t surface, that again is… don’t, don’t surface. It gives the shark a better angle of to attack. 

I probably failed to mention that our companions were both actual Olympic swimmers and quickly left us far behind.

Because of her BC malfunction, Katie was rising to the surface, as I frantically pulled and tugged on her fins to get her down further. It didn’t work and so I followed her up.

Once on the surface, I told her about the sharks (more than one had appeared) and we descended to the ocean floor and headed up the coral channels. Once we made the shoreline safely, we hurried to the dive center to warn others of the danger.

Much to our surprise, a gang of divers grabbed their gear and headed out to find and view the sharks. Evidently, shark encounters were a rare occurrence in that area and the divers were all excited to witness them firsthand. 

A bit embarrassed and humiliated a lot, we packed up and headed back to the hotel and beach. 

Oh, to add a little more to our exciting day, we were shaken out of bed that night by an undersea earthquake. The shaking woke us up and I thought a truck had struck the building, however, the next morning’s edition of the local newspaper confirmed it was an underwater earthquake.

Live and Learn, or Not…

I’ve gotten a little nuts a few times in my life and ended up doing some pretty dumb things, here’s one for your amusement.

I enjoyed the thrills of a motorcycle when I was a kid, up until a serious tumble off one ended my riding days.

Later on (sometime in my later 30’s), I thought it might be time for another bike. I shopped around and thought about a small Harley or a Honda Rebel; not too big, but great for a casual ride.

For some reason I got distracted when I saw a funky little Vespa scooter with a sidecar. The Europeans sure love their scooters and maybe I could, too.

I didn’t end up with the Vespa or a sidecar, but bought a little Yamaha 125 scooter complete with room for two, a small trunk on the back, basket on the front and full windshield.

Okay, it was goofy, but just right for puttering around. I had a custom wooden trailer built so I could haul it to the beach or anywhere else I might enjoy a casual ride.

One nice early fall weekend I asked my girlfriend, Katie (later my wife) if she’d be up for trip up to the mountains. 

She was game and we loaded up the scooter and headed to Helen Georgia. I found a nice little B&B that would let me leave my car and trailer so we could cruise the area. It was so great we decided to move on up the next day to Highlands N.C.

We rode around the nearby area for a short time until I got the idea that we should ride down the mountain to the Hiawassee river.

After spending an hour or so watching the kayakers, it was time to head back up to the hotel since we had about a three hour ride ahead of us.

Something I soon learned, going downhill is much, much easier than going uphill; it’s a scientific fact.

Some parts of the trip up weren’t so bad, but in other areas the little scooter huffed and puffed until it couldn’t go another minute with us on board.

We were much younger back then, but pushing that thing up the mountain damn near killed me. Fortunately, there were places that we could still ride, but others were we had to dismount and push. I believe the normal three hour trip took six.

Never again I thought… I’d better stick to the beaches in the future or get rid of it.

Final Note: it stayed parked in my garage for about 20 years or more until my brother wanted to take it down to his beach house. It never got started or ran again. I think the mountains must have done it in.

On Giving Up A Vice…

I’ve seen several posts about hiking up Mt LeConte in the Smokey Mountains recently and it brought back a most uncomfortable memory.

For several years a few friends and I often had an annual trip to the beach for some needed R&R. On this particular occasion it was suggested we go to the mountains instead. I would have been fine going to a Gatlinburg motel for a couple of nights, but the plan was to hike up to the Mt LeConte Lodge for a stay. I was told that there would be llamas to carry our backpack so I carried all kinds of things including a large video camera and small battery powered TV in addition to some camping gear. Turned out there were no Sherpas with llamas; we were on our on.

I need to tell you before this story continues, several years prior I had gone scuba diving in Mexico and made a dive that was particularly deep. I came to the surface coughing blood and was sure my many years of smoking had caught up with me. It scared the crap out of me and I quit cigarettes immediately.

We flew home the next day and I immediately went to the doctor expecting a cancer diagnosis. Thankfully, it turned out to be a compression issue caused by the deep dive, but my doctor recommended that I quit smoking before additional lung damage occurred. 

No gum, patches or drugs, no problem; I stopped cold. The only issue was I gained about 20 pounds or more during the next year, which leads me back to the hike up one of the highest peaks in Tennessee.

Less than a few miles into journey I was exhausted and one of my friends had to carry my backpack. For the remainder of the way I had to sit down and rest constantly. After a few hours, we made it to the lodge and our bunkhouse.

We settled in for the evening and I set up the little TV to relax and watch some football. The little cabins are close together and it wasn’t long until some nearby campers started yelling for me to turn off that “damn” noise. The next morning I was actually booed at the community breakfast. I thought tar and feathers might be in the wind. We needed to leave.

We didn’t rest for long before packing up and heading back down the mountain. In a way, the hike down was more difficult for me than the hike up. I couldn’t walk as long without a rest, had to sit often, had trouble breathing and my chest hurt.

I was certain a heart attack was coming, but made it back to the car completely exhausted. The next day I made an appointment with my doctor for a checkup. The good news was my heart was ok, the bad news was that he told me I was headed for serious trouble if I didn’t loose 20 pounds or so. He said I was just too damn fat to try a hike like that or for that matter, much of anything that required exercise. 

I walked out the door and headed to the nearest “quick mart” for a carton of Camel Lites. It took a year before I lost all the weight, but I managed it on the modified “tobacco diet.”

My doctors are still giving me hell for one of the two only vices I have left… cigarettes and Coca-Colas. I know I should quit the Cokes one day.

A Round Ball Riot…

Most of those who know me know that I’ve had a pretty interesting work history in the advertising, marketing and promotion world. This is one of my favorite stories from those times.

The Harlem Globetrotters

For a number of years I was the promoter for the Globetrotters on their southern tours. One of my favorite stories has to do with a local television sports director. I’ll just call him Bob.

Bob was very popular and one of those who loved and lived sports. I knew I had to get him involved in the promotion of the game somehow and I needed him to talk about the game often, not just a short story one night.

The Globetrotters were great. They gave me access to players and merchandise and were even open to my wild ideas. Here’s what I did to get Bob onboard.

I asked the Globetrotters if we could have Bob suit up and play for the opposing team for a quarter (The Washington Generals). I couldn’t believe they agreed, and I needed to milk it for everything I could get (airtime on Bob’s show).

The first thing I did was to get Curly Neal (the Trotters main player) to call Bob for an interview. They discussed the game and Curley asked Bob about his sports history. I had prompted Curly about Bob’s college football past. Curly mentioned how much more difficult basketball was than football. Bob, of course disagreed. Unknown to Bob, that set up the challenge that was coming.

Next, I sent Bob a telegram under Curly’s name, thanking him for the interview and offering him VIP sideline passes. I (as Curly) also mentioned, once again, how much more difficult basketball was than football. That night Bob read the telegram on-air and defended his football stance.

In my next telegram (as Curly again), I sent Bob a Globetrotter T-shirt and said maybe the two of them could have a friendly bet. Curly and he could have a private one-on-one blacktop game when the team got in town. Bob bit and talked about the challenge that night for the greater part of his segment.

The next telegram I sent Bob (of course from Curly) let him know an autographed basketball was coming his way and that he’d better go out and practice with it a lot because he’d be shown no mercy. Bob read the telegraph on-air again and the day the basketball arrived he showed it during the show and even spun it on his finger tip while saying he was ready to take on Curly.

Everything was going fine. Ticket pre-sales were ticking up, but the arena would hold a total of about 15,000 spectators. If we filled the lower level, we would be in good shape, but I had high hopes for a better showing.

I needed another big push. I had held off telling Bob that we wanted him in the actual game, but the timing was right.

Within a few days a package from Curly arrived at the station addressed to “that football playing, Bob.” It contained a Washington Generals uniform along with a note from Curly. 

The note read, “Bob, I’ve heard about you spinning basketballs and dissing the sport on your show. The stakes have gone up and now you’re challenged to play against us in an actual game. If your team wins (I think they only won once in hundreds and hundreds of games). I’ll come on your show and apologize. You can either accept or agree that basketball is the better sport.” Needless to say, Bob accepted. 

Ticket sales hit the roof the next week and it appeared we could set an attendance record for a Globetrotters game in Birmingham (as I remember it was around 8,500).

Bob continued talking about the game nightly on his show and tickets kept on selling. The big night finally arrived and the walk-up ticket lines were backed up into the streets. We were nearly a sell out. 

All through the game the Generals’ coach kept sending Bob to the officials table (as if he was going in the game), but then pulling him back to the bench. Halftime passed and then the fourth quarter started. The crowd began to chant, Bob, Bob… we want Bob over and over.  The coach called time out and motioned to Bob to get ready. Bob hopped up and ran onto the court accompanied by shouts of, Bob, Bob, Bob.

Curly dribbled all around Bob, taunting and teasing him. He and his teammates passed over, in front of and behind poor Bob and he tried his best to get the ball.

Finally, Bob intercepted a pass and headed down the court for a shot, but Curly fouled him before he could get it off. As Bob went to the line for his foul shot, the Globetrotters called time and had a quick conference.

As time-in started, Bob took his place on the line and dribbled a few times, Curly snuck up behind him and quickly jerked Bob’s shorts to the floor.

The crowd loved it. Cheers and roars of laughter were deafening. Bob even went along with the joke and ran off the court. After all, this was a Harlem Globetrotter Game. 

As a postscript, I never told Bob about the telegrams and notes from Curly. I felt it made a better story for both Bob and for me.

That Goat Will Dance…

For my friends who don’t live in the Birmingham Area or those who aren’t old enough to remember Country Boy Eddie, he had a very popular early morning country music (variety) local TV show. I had worked with Eddie when I was with the station and after I left and started marketing for Ringling Bros. & Barnum and Bailey Circus, he would always have me bring the Clown Band to perform on his show.

I’m pretty sure this particular guest appearance was in January of 1991, because that’s when the Gulf War broke out (more about that later) and the Circus also had a particular act that Eddie was interested in featuring, Lisa Dufresne’s Barnyard Animal Act. Her act included a group of trained cows, pigs and goats and one of the goats was particularly good at dancing to fiddle music (Eddie was a great fiddler).

Eddie’s show started around 4:00 in the morning, but Lisa was a good sport and agreed to have a pig and a couple of goats accompany her if I would arrange for transport. No problem, I rented an extended van and arrived at the circus’s livestock tent before daybreak the next morning. Lisa had one of their animal handlers help load the livestock and with me driving we all headed up to the TV station. The clown band was coming up to the station later with my assistant.

Everything was going fine in the studio; the animals were behaving and ready to perform. After a commercial break, Eddie introduced Lisa and interviewed her about the animals. He was primarily interested in the dancing goat. Lisa told him that the goat would love to hear some of his fiddle playing; then Eddie broke in to a snappy rendition of Cotton-Eyed Joe.

The goat immediately stood up on its back legs and started frantically hopping around to the beat of Eddie’s fiddle playing. Eddie loved it until the goat started pooping all over the studio floor, but he just laughed a little and kept on playing. Meanwhile, the animal handler was trying to get the pig into the camera shot, but it was too busy peeing over in the corner. They cut to a commercial break as soon as Eddie stopped playing and the janitor and floor crew came out and quickly started cleaning the floor. Even though Eddie didn’t complain, I could tell he wasn’t very happy with the animals’ performance. I knew the clown band was coming on in the next hour and Eddie did enjoy their antics or at least he had in the past.

Lisa and the handler got the animals out and loaded back in the van while I said my apologies to everyone and told the director the clown band should be there very shortly, then I hurried out to the van, started it up and headed down the mountain. About the time we hit 20th Street a horrible, funky smell began to permeate the van from the rear. The pig and both goats were peeing and pooping up a storm in the back of the van; unfortunately, the floor was carpeted and I knew I’d have to do something before I returned it to the rental company. I dropped off the circus folks and animals at the civic center and was looking for a car wash before heading back up to the TV station when my assistant called and told me there was a problem.

It seemed that the clowns had caused an uproar with one of the shows sponsors, Mrs. Winners’ Biscuits. Just before their performance, someone on the floor crew came out with a big basket of Mrs. Winner’s Biscuits and instead of kicking off their usual number several clowns started juggling the biscuits. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the others broke into a rousing rendition of the Blues Brothers’ “Rubber Biscuit” while the jugglers bounced the biscuits off the floor. The Mrs. Winners Representative wasn’t happy at all and strongly expressed her displeasure to Eddie. Since Eddie typically sold his own commercial time and was the spokesman for most of his sponsors, he had to appease the client. The animals, the clowns and I were banned from future appearances.

Meanwhile, I was still looking for a place to have the van cleaned before it needed to be returned. It was later that day when I finally found someone to detail the complete interior and sanitize the carpet. When I picked it up, the smell was more like a disinfectant bomb had exploded in a cow barn than anything else. I was pretty sure the rental agency would make me pay for damages and possible carpet replacement. One more hurdle to jump… As I drove into the rental return at the airport, I could see a group huddled around a TV in the office. I pulled up anticipating a tough inspection when a guy just waved me by and told me to park it anywhere and leave the keys under the driver’s seat.

I parked as far away as I could, left the keys and hurried off to get my car in the parking lot. It was a clean getaway. The guys were too busy watching the first news coverage of the Desert Storm war and I never heard anything about the stinky van… Oh well, Just another day in the life!

Lost In Translation…

They Spoke Totally Different Languages Which Led To A Huge Misunderstanding

A long time ago in a life far, far away this happened:

During my advertising life I handled a fabulous account, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. There are a lot of wild and crazy stories that go with my many years of working with them; there are those I can’t tell and some I shouldn’t, but will.

This one may offend some, but I hope those will understand, this was once upon a time stuff.

The Circus was playing in Nashville and I had gone up to do some PR work for them. One evening I was invited to a night out with some show folk.  It was always a bit risky thing to do; they (and I too back then) enjoyed the drink and were really good at it.

We had hit several honky tonk bars on Broadway when someone suggested we head over to Printers Alley, an infamous area in Nashville offering bars and burlesque. The most notorious of them was the Embers Black Poodle, featuring one of the times most famous dancers, Heaven Lee.

This wasn’t like todays topless bars where women just dance around a bit, Heaven Lee performed an artful burlesque show with themes, props and sometimes a little audience participation.

As it turned out, there were a number of other Ringling people there, too. One of the groups included some of the Bulgarian teeterboard performers including their guy who was called the “understander” of the act. He’s the huge, burley one who catches the four others on his shoulders as they spring from the board. Needless to say, he is one massively large man.

Well, as luck would have it, and in this case, unfortunately, they were sitting ringside right in front of the small stage where the performance took place. As mentioned earlier, the act included some audience participation, and this group was primed.

During the grand finale of Miss Lee’s act she invited someone from the audience to assist her with the application of a little lotion to her upper body area and the Bulgarian Understander was more than willing.

This is where things got lost in translation. I’m not sure what the rules are in his country, but it seemed the Understander thought there would be a great deal more interaction (I won’t go into the details here).

It took three bouncers to pull him off and a big struggle ensued inside the lounge. The confused Understander just didn’t quite understand what was and wasn’t allowed.

We made a hasty retreat out the door, and I don’t know what eventually happened to the Understander guy, but It likely included some cops, some Bulgarian officials and the state department.

As you know, the show must go on!

Irish Eyes Are Smiling…

Some years ago, while traveling the back roads of the Irish countryside on our way for a two day trip to Dingle and then the famous Ring of Kerry, I spotted an old rock-wall mason and stopped to chat; Ireland is famous for the rock fences that cover the landscape across the island. They are beautiful and a testimony to the craftsman that work tirelessly to maintain them.

After passing a few pleasant greetings, I ask the old man how long he had been working on the fences. He replied, “As long as I can remember I’ve chipped. It was in me blood. My father started on this very wall when I was but a wee lad and now I’ve kept it up myself for many years.”

Continuing the conversation, I said, “With hundreds-of-miles of of fences to mend, it must be tedious and tiring for you day after day.” 

He didn’t hesitate and replied, “Not a bit my friend, I take it one stone at a time.” 

I took his message to heart that day and made it my mantra in whatever I was attempting to accomplish, “One Stone At A Time.”

After that brief encounter, we headed on down to Dingle for a cliff side picnic, but there was one more stop to make for a couple of bottles of wine, cheese and bread. I’m not sure which town we were passing through when I spotted a market and pulled over to park. The stores and the homes were packed close together and indistinguishable from one another. I opened a door and walked into what I thought was the market, but there in the front room sat a family having lunch.

They were startled a bit, but the father looked up at me and asked, “Are you in need of some help?” I apologized profusely and told him I thought I was entering the market.

He paused for a moment, chuckled a bit and said they had plenty if I was hungry. I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not but thanked him for the kind offer and told him that my friends and I were on our way to Dingle for a picnic.

That opened the door for more conversation about the area and where a good spot for a quiet lunch would be. He gave me specific directions to a place he loved and told me it was the best place to spend a leisurely afternoon. There would be a view of the mountains by a peaceful stream and few people around; who could ask for anything more.

He was right… We would never found this unbelievable spot for our picnic without my dumb luck stupidity and the acceptance, kindness and warmth of an Irishman.

Really, Really Bad Air Ahead…

A part of this story moves into an area of questionable client entertainment, so just hang on and understand the circumstances.

Way back when, my ad agency picked up a national account that manufactured industrial tools and we were asked to produce some tv commercials featuring their NASCAR drivers and pit crews. My partner (Jim) and I first did some preliminary work at the Talladega Speedway in preparation for shooting actual filmed interviews at the upcoming Darlington South Carolina Race.

Of course, back then it meant flying in a large prop plane on an older regional airline (one of my least favorite things).

It was a clear day with nothing but blue skies ahead as we leveled off around 20,000 feet. I was handling the flight OK for a while when suddenly we hit clear air turbulence and the plane quickly dropped 5 or 10 thousand feet. People were screaming, briefcases were hitting the ceiling and a couple of passengers were thrown out of their seats. There were no serious injuries and we landed safely, but I told my partner, Jim, I wasn’t about to get back on that plane in order to get home. I’d drive, take a bus or walk before I’d fly, but we still had 3 or 4 days of work ahead in Darlington to get through. Maybe I’d gain my composure by the time we finished.

We had been assigned a marketing representative contact from the tool company. We were to meet for for the first time at dinner that evening and go over our filming schedule, but he was running late.

When he finally got there, he had on  jogging gear, but I could tell he had already had a drink or two somewhere. We went through the basic filming instructions and all ordered food and a round of drinks as he started telling us what race week was like in Darlington.

Aside for race details, Tom started telling us about the pleasures he had found in town. He said there was one interesting institution that he visited often, as a matter of fact he was late getting to us because he had dropped by Brandy’s on his way over.

I assumed it was a bar of some sort because I could tell he had a few, but when he told us it was the best “house of Ill repute” (using a different description) in town” I was somewhat shocked.

Although I’d never been to one of those establishments, I knew they existed in most towns and I knew a couple of people who had tried them out on rare occasions. This guy was something else though. He had evidently simply been out jogging and decided to just stop by for a while to be “entertained” before our dinner meeting. Initially, Tom didn’t seem the type, but turns out he went by daily. He even offered us an introduction.

Neither Jim or I were interested in that kind of thing and we moved on to discussing our shooting schedule. If I remember correctly we would be talking with Allison, Petty and a few other big named drivers along with their pit crews about the importance of our client’s tools to their success on the track.

The filming days were long, hot and loud so by the end of the second day the thought of a cold beer and a good meal were top priorities. 

Unfortunately, Tom was with us for the evening and insisted we stop by Brandy’s before dinner. Jim and I made it clear we weren’t going to partake, but Tom said he’d only be a few minutes and we could wait in the car. I know this is kinda unseemly… but interesting nevertheless.

The place was more or less what I had pictured. A small house surrounded by a 10 foot tall dilapidated wooden fence, with a one way gravel drive that had an entrance and exit, a red light on the front porch along with an old hound dog sleeping nearby.

Tom parked the car, insisting he would be back shortly and went inside. After some time, Jim and I were getting concerned and we decided one of use needed to go check on Tom. Ennie-Mennie, it was me. I went to the door and rang the bell; very quickly a face peered through the upper glass window asking, “Can I do something for you.” 

I told her I was just looking for my friend Tom. She said he was busy, but as a friend of a regular I was welcome to come inside, have a drink and wait. I have to admit I was curious. 

As she opened the door I could see a simple parlor room completely decorated with Race Week posters, printed match books, business cards and other paraphernalia. There was a TV showing race reruns, a drink cooler, a large sofa and several EZchairs.

The women were very cordial, dressed scantily in light blue sleeveless Tshirts and matching panties. The Tshirts had Brandy’s printed across the front and the panties had the word “welcome” printed across the backside, which they proudly and unashamedly displayed.

I was offered a beer and told I could take a seat while I waited for Tom. I was somewhat anxious, but surprised by the girls willingness to engage in conversation about their business itself and Race Week in Darlington.

I was told they were all independent working girls and this was one of their typical stops on their way north. A few of them worked other brothels during different seasons while another hustled expensive club drinks and a few were strippers at various establishments. None had actually been streetwalkers. Most had worked various other jobs from Miami to Atlanta during the winter and then moved up to the Washington DC, Chicago or New York areas during summer months seeking special events or established work opportunities.

They all said they had worked in both dumps and high-end establishments, however in every case they had very specific working requirements dealing with health conditions and precautions plus security and safety concerns. Each was complementary of Brandy’s. They said she ran one of the better establishments, their Race Week pay was extraordinary, she treated the girls very well and even furnished meals and their special Race Week outfits at no cost.

Two of them said they were college students who only worked during breaks in order to pay for school and others were full time sex workers. I was told phone work didn’t pay well, brothel and stripping were often great pay and the few that had worked as high end escorts had made big money.

I spent a while longer being educated about their trade and income potential until Tom finally appeared. He hugged each girl and said he’d see them tomorrow as we left. I politely thanked them for the conversation and we left. I had actually learn something new and am glad I spent the time with the girls. Each and every one of them treated me respectfully, didn’t push me to partake in their services and were open to discussing their profession, problems and experiences. I guess they must be comfortable talking to strangers, probably a part of their on the job training.

When we got to the car, I found my partner curled up on the back floorboard. I asked what he was doing and he said he had just heard a gunshot and was afraid someone was shot. Turns out it was no more than a car backfiring, but he insisted he was terrified.

The next morning we finish our work and headed out for home. I reminded Jim I wasn’t getting back on that airplane and we drove on looking for a larger airport that had bigger jet aircraft. Turns out Charlotte was only a hundred or so miles away and we could book an evening flight to Birmingham in plenty of time. I was relieved and plenty happy to be returning home.

I had many other air incidents over the year. I only got off and didn’t get back on three more times, but those are stories for another day.

My Life With Disney On Ice

It’s Really Cold Out There…

Some years ago I was watching the Olympics and the ice skating brouhaha was a particular mess, but it reminded me of my days handling national marketing and creative for Ice Follies, Holiday on Ice and Disney on Ice.

This story begins around 1979 after Feld Entertainment (owners of Ringling Bros. & Barnum and Bailey Circus) purchased Ice Follies and Holiday on Ice. How I got involved is another great story that I’ll get to sooner or later.

Anyway, the folks at Feld wanted us to start with new creative for the shows (logo, artwork, ads, radio and tv commercials) that sent me off on and icy experience. First, I needed to see the shows and talk with some of the cast and crew. 

My first stop was in Denver where the show was rehearsing with Olympic Gold Medalist Peggy Fleming.  She was delightful and watching them rehearse was enlightening, I spent 4 or 5 days digging in and learning all I could. 

My next stop on the icy express took me to the great white north for rehearsals taking place in Lake Placid, N.Y. My partner and I thought it would be best to fly into Montreal and then drive down to New York State the next day.

I forget the name of the hotel, but it was one of those very nice, famous, historic ones. We had a suite with separate bedrooms; I had one that was a lock-out type (it could be shut off from the suite and had its own door directly to the hallway). It had been a very long day, we had a good meal, a few drinks and decided to get some sleep. 

Somewhere around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning I was jolted out of a deep sleep by someone shaking my bed. I jumped up to find an older couple hovering over me. I may have peed myself a little first and then asked what the hell they were doing in my room. The man said it was the room they had given them at the front desk. I called down and shortly the manager and security arrived. It appeared the couple’s flight to Europe had been cancelled and the airline arranged for them to have a room at the hotel. 

The night clerk had mistakenly thought my room was vacant and given them a key. I felt bad for them and since there was a nice sofa in the suite’s living room, I offered to vacate the room (we were leaving in a few hours anyway).

Lake Placid was terrific and Jess came away with some unique ideas of how we should shoot the show for the new TV commercials. Previous commercials were pretty standard shots. He wanted something different; he wanted to film dynamic scenes both close to and all around the skaters while they performed their acts. Jess thought moving through the cast would offer a much more dramatic feeling.

Great concept, but how. It’s pretty slick and shaky for a cameraman out there on the ice and we definitely didn’t want to interfere by knocking them down or possibly injuring someone with bulky camera equipment. But with Jess there was always a way. He had seen or heard about this cameraman in California who had invented a system that might work for the kind of shots he wanted.

The cameraman’s name was Garrett Brown. He had invented a system named the Stedicam (he also invented the SkyCam used for overhead shots in events like football and the Olympics). The system won Garrett an Academy Award and was later used in films like Rocky, The Shining and Return of the Jedi (all filmed on solid ground, not ice).

Garrett was retained for our first Disney ice show shooting. I’d like to say it went off without a hitch, but that wasn’t to be the case. The show we were filming featured Olympic Silver Medal winner Linda Fratianne and we were cautioned to be very careful filming. The show couldn’t stand to lose her because of some dumb accident we might cause. 

Linda was wonderful, so talented and gracious, but we were still very concerned. The day before the filming was scheduled Garrett tested the ice with his basic tennis shoes; they didn’t work, much too slippery. 

I don’t remember who, but someone went to the nearest sporting goods store and bought every kind of cleated shoes you could think of (baseball, football, golf and track) in Garret’s size. After trying each, the track shoes worked perfectly.

The filming went well, the commercials proved to be much more exciting and dynamic than any previous shots and the Stedicam became standard equipment used for shooting the Ice Shows and later for our Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus commercials.

There are a lot more Feld Entertainment Stories to come and I’ll try to make them shorter, I just don’t want to leave something out (except for the parts I cant tell).

Banned At The Playboy Club

No more serious debauchery for me…
For those who knew me back in the day, I no longer drink very often. I had half a beer this week at a festival I attended and before that, I had a glass of wine a couple of months ago at nice dinner.

That being said, many years ago my ad agency partner and I were in St. Petersburg Florida filming the Ringling Bros. & Barnum and Bailey Circus opening for their TV commercials. 

We had done this shooting for the past several years and we typically stayed across the street from the coliseum at a run-of-the-mill hotel named the Bayfront Concourse (although, occasionally I could sneak in a day or so at the unbelievably gorgeous Don Cezar on the beach).

This particular year we hired an award winning film crew from New York that was headed by two wild and crazy, disco roller skating twin brothers. We’d see them in the streets outside the hotel skating up a storm when we weren’t shooting and it looked kinda fun. 

Also, we were shocked to find that our simple little hotel had been converted into a Playboy Hotel and Club complete with VIP rooms featuring lots of mirrors, and, of course, a fancy club with a huge disco dance floor.

My partner and I were, for the most part, all business during these shoots until our final day when we called it a wrap and had some of the crew over for a few drinks to relax and unwind.

Obviously, being VIPs at the hotel, we had to have our guest join us at the Playboy Club. After “several” drinks, the twins showed up with their skates in tow. Of course, I just had to let them know I was quite the skater back in my early days. 

A few drinks later, the challenge was issued. Ted, the head cinematographer, said he bet I wasn’t that good a skater and offered me his skates so I could prove my prowess. Challenge accepted….

I dogged my partner into joining me. We laced up and hit the dance floor. People were egging us on and peeling back to give us room. Ted was right, I wasn’t as good as I thought I was and more importantly, this wasn’t a dance floor that allowed skating.

It didn’t take long until the manager and a couple of burley bouncers uninvited us to the club and insisted we take our dumb-asses and skates outside, never to return, however, I do believe we started a trend that led to the Playboy’s Roller Disco and Pajama Party.

Bah, Bah Black Sheep…

My Night With The President’s Brother
Years ago, somehow a few of us ended up with Billy Carter at a local bar. He was entertaining, but not much more than a good natured hard drinking buffoon with some pretty wild stories.

Before the night was over a big fight broke out (Billy may have instigated the brawl). My partner and I hid under a table for a little while until the bouncers settled it down and we all left before the police showed up. 

Billy gave each of us a six pack of Billy Beer from the trunk of his car and said he was calling it an evening. As we walked out of the parking lot, he decided to relieve himself right then and there, (in public no less). He got caught by security and ended in the pokey after a short scuffle. The story made the local and national news; fortunately we were only innocent bystanders at that point and escaped the evening none worse for the wear.

I’m telling some of these old stories so that if I forget them, as I am likely to do, someone will have them in writing and can remind me of those carefree days.

Careful, That Dog’ll Bite You…

I wasn’t alway doing the smartest things.

After a few years working at a local television station, I joined a couple of guys to form an advertising agency that soon became one of the largest in the state. Those were the best of times and sometimes the worst of times. We worked hard and we played hard, too.

My partner (I’ll call him Jim) and I were always doing things to embarrass each other (well, it was mostly me doing it to him). Jim was a ladies man and always trying to be the proper, sophisticated one; three piece suit and all.

He had recently started a new relationship with a striking super model type, and one day I overheard him inviting her to stop by the office and go to lunch. Since we hadn’t yet met, I figured it would be my chance to embarrass him in front of his girlfriend.

Around lunchtime, I noticed his office door was close (a sure sign he didn’t want to be bothered). This would be my opportunity to do something dumb and embarrassing in front of his new girl.

I got down on hands and knees, slowly push his door open and began barking like a dog as I crawled into his office. He looked horrified and the girl sitting on the chair beside his desk just stared down at me with her mouth agape. 

As I looked up, I could see the lady wasn’t Bob’s girlfriend. I didn’t react or skip a beat, I just backed out; still on my hands and knees, barking and whining even more. I pulled the door closed behind me and rushed back to my office, wondering who the hell the woman with him.

About a half hour later Bob came busting into my office yelling, “you idiot” that was a reporter for a statewide publication. She had wanted to interview me for a story she was writing about advertising agencies. He said they were just talking about the reputation agencies had for being pretty wild and crazy places to work.

Bob was just saying they weren’t at all; particularly ours. He was stressing how business oriented and professionally we ran the shop as I barged in. Needless to say, my antics completely destroyed his pitch and potentially our reputation.

The next day, Jim made an apology call to the reporter and explained my wackiness. A few months later, the story came out. It was pretty complementary and fortunately our group wasn’t specifically named as one of those wild and crazy places (even though we actually qualified). 

Jim and I continue our “gotcha” feud for years to come and they just got better and better.

Scared Sh#*less…

We’ll, Shut My Mouth…

Back in the early or mid 70’s I was leaving a local TV station in Birmingham where I had worked for several years. Some of my station friends invited me to a goodbye party at a bar on Morris Avenue. They had picnic tables around the dance floor where we sat.

The band was loud and beer flowed like water. Later in the evening I spotted a friend (of questionable character) on the other side of the room. I had been to a bachelor party he held a few weeks before where “live entertainment” was, shall I say… interesting.

For some reason I felt the need to yell something crude to him at the top of my lungs. I believe I screamed a disgusting reference to the young ladies he had furnished at the bachelor party. Fun was being had by all until a massive shadow was cast on the table and a monster of a man leaned across at me and uttered these words, “Vat did you say to me?”

Shaking in my boots (and maybe leaking a little beer), I looked him in the eyes and tried to explain that I wasn’t talking to him or about the girl he was with (Sally Field). I’m sure my voice was quivering and I didn’t do a good job of apologizing, but he seemed to accept the misunderstanding and moved away. 

My friends were both amused and astonished, laughing at the possibility that I might have beaten to a pulp by Mr. Universe, future movie star and governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was in town filming one of his first movies and they were having a wrap party that night. Later one of my TV friends who had interviewed him that day spoke to him in my defense. 

The next day when I went to the station, Mary (the receptionist) said an envelope had been left for me earlier. I opened it and found a photo of Arnold with an Inscription that read, “You ver a lucky person last night. I could have smashed you.” I never figured out if it was put there by one of my friends (they all denied it) or if Arnie had paid me a visit himself.

Those Were The Days…

My first job out of college was with the number one TV station in the market. It was a great job; I sold commercial time and produced ads and programs, but more importantly, I had an awful lot of fun.

It was a lot liked the old TV show, Mad Men; we worked hard, drank hard and partied even harder. The stories are legendary.

To set this story up, we had a general manager who didn’t seem to do much except drink. He belonged to a group of men they called the Jug Club. It seemed to meet regularly at a private club downtown around lunchtime and lasted well into the afternoon.

The scariest thing about the “meetings” is that our GM would often drive himself there and back up the mountain to the station for an afternoon nap. 

A bunch of us would bet on whether he made it into the building or just napped a bit in his car out front. There would be days where he left his car and wobbled around a few steps before returning to the car for a while, other days he might need a little assistance getting up the stairs. It was actually pretty sad. 

One day after he got back from the “meeting,” he called all of the sales staff into his office to discuss the upcoming Veteran’s Day celebration the station sponsored. 

His executive assistant (who really ran the show) briefed us on what he wanted to discuss. Aside from selling sponsorships, he wanted to get a famous female singer to perform the national anthem and was having a hard time getting a commitment.

His assistant said he wanted to know if any of us had a connection to her. When we crowded into his office, he was a little worse for the wear from his Jug Club meeting and was having a tough time getting his point across.

He would start saying something about all the big brass and politicians coming here to attend (at the time it was the nations largest parade and celebration), but suddenly blurt out the word “Shipoopi.” He repeated Shipoopi several times while shaking his finger in the air. He then silently sat down in his chair as we stood there bewildered and in a very awkward silence.

Fortunately, his assistant stepped in, thanked us for coming and dismissed the meeting. I waited until we got back in our office to start laughing a little and asked our sales manager what that meeting was about. What was he was trying to tell us? Why in the hell did he keep saying that weird word? He just shook his head and said my guess was as good as his.

It was months later when I went to a meeting with a local drama group that was putting together a big production of “The Music Man” that I put the pieces together. A dress rehearsal was going on and they sung every song from the show. I couldn’t believe it, I head that nutty word again right in the lyrics. The old guy, my GM, wasn’t an idiot after all, just a drunkard.

Oh Well… Shipoopi

Not For The Faint Of Heart…

It was 1969 and hospitals weren’t nearly as advanced technologically as they are now (50+ years later), and prenatal care was expensive for a young college age couple. 

My wife at the time was a small thing that weighed under 100 pounds, so her belly was huge. No one thought much about because of her size, but at a bit over 8 months preeclampsia set in and she was hospitalized.

The doctors wanted to watch her and after a few days it was decided to induce labor. I had spent my time at the hospital joking and having a great time with one of the nurses, Sally. Every time she came in to check on my wife she’d make a little X where she last found the baby’s heartbeat. She said this baby must be a gymnast, it’s moving around so much.

The night before they were going to induce, I had a great idea, I’d connect all the little Xs with dashes and make a pirate’s treasure map on her belly. I added a parrot, a ship, little cross bones, an island with palm trees and at the end a treasure chest.

That morning, my favorite nurse came in, took a look at the map, laughed and said “the doctors are going to love this.” She wheeled my wife out the door and told me to get comfortable because it my be a while. Since we knew when the procedure was happening, a couple of friends joined me for the big event. We spent the time reminiscing about old times and how different my life was gonna be with a child. A big change was coming.

After some time had passed, I began to be a little concerned and asked to talk to a nurse. My friend, nurse Sally, showed up and said she’d check on things. She came back out shortly and with a big smile told me everything was going OK, and that was all she said.

More time passed and I still hadn’t heard any news so I called for the nurse again. This time she told me to just be patient, it shouldn’t be too much longer. I waited anxiously for what seemed like a an eternity and finally here came Sally carrying a little bundle in her arms (back then you got to see them fresh out).

Sally came over to me and said, “Bill, look you have a son.” I was excited, nervous and relieved all at the same time. Sally said for me to sit down and I should be able to see my wife in a bit. I joined my friends in the waiting room an started calling our parents, relatives and friends to make the big announcement.

I guess time moves slowly when you’re in such a heightened state and I was worried about my wife when suddenly Sally appeared again with the tiny bundle. I asked how my wife was doing and Sally was laughing and said, “Bill, this is your son.” I told her something like I’ve already seen him and she said, “no, not this one.”

It took me several seconds to grasp what that meant and suddenly I was out like a light. I fainted dead away. Sally got another nurse to come take care of me and had my friends help me to a bed in what was to become “our room” for the next few days.

When my wife finally arrived I was up and sitting in a chair. We just laughed, shook our heads and talked about what was next.

First things first. My wife was fine, the kids were fine, but we only had one name if it was a boy, now we need two names before we could even leave the hospital.  And, that’s the beginning of my life as a father. 

Saving Private Bill…

My Dad, The Colonel, Helped Save Italy, The British and My Ass,Too
Dad was on General Mark Clark’s staff when the US and British forces crossed from Africa to Italy. To the best of my recollection, Dad was in charge of logistics for both forces.

I don’t know what all that entailed, but I do know it was vital to the ultimate success of the Italian campaign; so much so that Field Martial Montgomery recommended Dad for one of Britain’s highest honors, The Order of The British Empire. That medal and the certificate signed by King George VI along with the Order of the Crown of Italy awarded by King Umberto II and the Bronze Star hang in my home today. Dad was proud of his service and well decorated for his actions during WW II and I was proud of him. 

I certainly respected my Dad, but we had much different views on the Vietnam war. If you have read some of my post, you’ve probably guessed I was a big anti-war proponent during the 60’s and 70’s. 

Yes, I was one of those revolutionary protesters. I wasn’t against America, service members or the Constitution, I was against killing people, particularly in a war that was totally unjustified.

Unfortunately, I was drafted (a number of times) and fought each reclassification in court. I tried all sorts of dodges (which I won’t even go into). Each ruling took months to resolve, but always came back not in my favor. I was ultimately reclassified 1A and therefore would soon be called up for active duty. Canada was my only alternative. 

While I was packing and planning for a trip to the Great White North, my Dad received a call from an old Army buddy who had remained in the service, became a General and was stationed nearby. 

His old friend was crying and asked my father to come out to the base so they could talk. When Dad arrived, the General told him he had just been notified his son, a recent West Point graduate, had been killed in Vietnam. As they talked, the General revealed his opinions regarding the war. He felt it was a political debacle, unjustified, un-winnable and a tragic waste of lives.

Dad came home with a different point of view and told me he now supported my decisions and would help me in any way he could. We reached a higher level of mutual respect for one another that day and I ultimately didn’t have to “join” the Army thanks to help from my Hero…The Colonel, a Senator and my boys.

Holly Daze In DC…

While I was working for the Government in DC, I began dating a coworker, Holly. Although the agency didn’t absolutely forbid the practice, it was discouraged and frowned upon. Obviously, that didn’t matter much to me. I was away from home, didn’t know anybody and lonely.

At first Holly and I pretty much just went to lunch or dinner and the museums. We just talked about what we wanted in life and things like that. She was smart, cute and laid back. We had a lot things in common – politics, art, music, food and (important to this story) the ocean. 

After several dates, we needed to get away from town for a long weekend. I had always been a beach/ocean fan, so I thought a place like Virginia Beach would be nice. I had never been there, but it wasn’t too far to drive for a short getaway.

Holly left all the planning up to me; her first mistake. I wasn’t a great planner; I just kinda took things as they came. So, we headed out late one morning with expectations of a fun filled holiday.

We didn’t rush and stopped in Richmond for a late lunch. Turns out the drive was about four hours without stopping. That meant we wouldn’t arrive until after six or seven that evening. No matter, no rush, we’d just get a room, settle in and hit the beach the next day.

When we finally got into town, it was really crowded, so I thought I’d better get us a room right away. I drove down to the beachfront and it was packed. I stopped at the first decent motel and went in to book a room for a couple of nights.

No luck, they were booked solid. The clerk told me that that most everything would be sold out. Turned out it was the weekend of the East Coast Surfing Championships. We’d be lucky to find any availability (my lack of planning skills were showing). I wasn’t deterred; I figured we’d try a few more places. There were no rooms, but one clerk told me I could try later that night because there might be cancellations or no shows somewhere.

We decided to spend the time looking around, drinking a little, eating again and drinking even more.  As midnight approached, I thought it was time to check out the room situation again. Three more motels and not a room to be had. I wasn’t in shape to leave town and drive home, so I asked Holly if she would be up to a night on the beach. As I said earlier, she was very easygoing and had no problem sleeping under the stars. We went back into the motel and used their bathroom to change into our bathing suits then headed out to the beach.

We were fortunate and found a great place to park. There were plenty of people still out and it was a very festive scene with activities still going on. Even though there were signs that said it was unlawful to sleep overnight on the beach, it was pretty evident that it wasn’t being enforced. We wandered around for a while looking for a suitable place to sleep and finally found a cozy spot near one of the sponsor’s tents.

Luckily, Holly had packed a big beach blanket and several towels and I brought a cooler full of beer. We’d survive.

We settled in, had another beer and got cozy before calling it a night.

The morning came way too soon. There were people all over the place. Even though the surfing contest preliminaries didn’t begin until 10:00 or 11:00 the sponsor tents were packed and hardcore fans were celebrating. We spent part of the day watching some of the activities under the blazing sun, but decided to head back late that afternoon.

When we returned to work we were both very sunburned to a glossy shade of red from head to toe. There was no way to hide it. Several of our coworker friends who knew we were dating started joking about our tans,  so, it was only a matter of time before our supervisor got wind of our situation. I didn’t know how it might go; would we be chastised or even worse? 

It didn’t go too bad for us. I was warned about keeping private relationships out of the office and informed that depending on our future placements, we potentially would not be allowed to have contact with each other. 

Holly and I continued to see each other for a while until the day I was informed by a military officer of my potential future assignment. It wasn’t something that I could take a chance on and I decided to resign that day.

I left DC and moved back home to continue with my schooling (that became quite another story). I only heard from Holly once after I left the agency and it was a simple card from her and a few coworkers that said, “We miss you, good luck.” 

Out Of The Frying Pan…

Somehow, Someway, I’ve Got To Get Out Of This Awful Predicament…

The Vietnam war was ongoing and there were no more student draft deferments. The government had enacted a lottery based on your birthday and I ended up with the number 66. I would be going for sure. 

As a lifelong pacifist and peacemaker, I was pretty sure I couldn’t kill anyone, and I damn sure didn’t want to be killed myself. Hell, I was 18 years old and never been in a fight in my life, except with my older brother who started them on a fairly regular basis. Even then I rarely threw a punch.

Pretty soon I was reclassified 1A by the draft board (meaning I could be drafted at any time). This just wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t have a problem serving my country, just not in the military and Peace Corps deferments were out.

In the midst of trying to figure out how to stay out of the war, a friend who had become a stewardess for a small company based in D.C., Air America, told me about someone she knew who had gotten deferred by taking a job with the government in Washington D.C.

That sounded good to me. The only catch was that the two organizations that might grant me a pass out of Vietnam were the FBI and the CIA. I knew about the FBI from movies and TV shows, but I had little understanding of the role the CIA played except for spying.

My friend recommended the CIA and told me that since I wasn’t a college graduate and had little experience in government, I’d probably just sit around an office shuffling paper. That sounded good to me, so I applied. 

I guessed because I had taken some political science, statistics and management courses in college they thought I might work out as an analyst after I finished some training and had my security clearance. The FBI came around talking to my teachers, neighbors and former employers. That must have turned out OK, because several months later I got a letter of acceptance.

At that time, I was driving a classic 1953 MG TD and knew I’d need to get a new car to drive up to DC. I really hated to get rid of the MG, but I had to make the sacrifice. One of my dad’s friends owned a Plymouth dealership and he made me a very good deal on a Barracuda. When the time came, I packed it up and took a couple of days to make the trip. 

Once I got there, I parked the car and only drove it once (to Virginia Beach) until I headed home. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated, the Poor People’s Campaign and Resurrection City (Tent City) completely filled The Mall and riots were taking place. Agency security told me it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive around with an Alabama tag on my car and I agreed.

The Agency had made arrangements for my apartment in the Arlington Towers, which were just a few blocks from one of their training centers right in downtown Arlington, VA. It wasn’t very large or fancy, but it had a balcony with a great view of the Iwo Jima monument, the Potomac River, the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Monument. I was extremely impressed.

Training was interesting, my class (new group) was taken out to headquarters in order to get our fingerprints, photos and ID badges. The badges were understandably necessary to gain access to the training center. We had classes every day that covered everything from security to world politics. 

When we weren’t in classes, we spent busy time typing inter office memos that mostly dealt with things such as using the file system, making copies and requesting office supplies; not very interesting, but at the end of the day even our typewriter ribbons were placed in a different burn bag that we took to the incinerator shoot (which had a code lock). I don’t think any of what we were typing were actually real memos, but I believe the whole process was a training exercises on security practices. Occasionally we’d get handcuffed to a briefcase and transported to another building where we turned over the briefcase to a security guard who had a key (another training exercise, I suspect).

That’s how we spent day after day while our security clearance classifications were being reviewed. It was really boring, but necessary I suppose. Our class was fairly small with about 15 or 20 people and we hung out after work, frequently. I really liked a coworker named Holly and we began quietly dating. I was pretty sure the agency wasn’t too keen on coworkers becoming personally involved, but it’s didn’t seem to be a hard and fast rule. 

One weekend I invited her to take a break from DC and head down to Virginia Beach. She was up for a getaway, and we left right after work on a Friday afternoon.

There was a lot going on at the beach that night with plenty of partying and drinking to be had. Holly and I participated well into wee hours, and finally fell into a deep sleep, resting comfortably on our makeshift towel bed nestled in the sand.

Unfortunately, we didn’t wake up until after midday. The sun had been beating down on us for hours. Sunburned, hungover and tired, after a while we decided to leave.

A few weeks later I was sitting in one of our weekly “educational” classes when our instructor introduced a guest speaker. He was a Special Forces officer who was there to speak to us about Vietnam and show us a film. We had already been shown films and had lectures about Russia and China, so I didn’t think this would be much different.

Holy crap was I wrong. This was Top Secret sh*t.  We were all aware of our obligations regarding secrecy. I and every employee had signed agreements regarding releasing classified information. The penalties were very clear and binding for life. Any information we were made aware of was strictly on a “need to know” basis and I guessed this lecture would fit into that category.

Everything I’m about to tell was declassified and made public years ago so breaching my agreement by revealing anything that’s not public knowledge. There’s even a movie about Air America and I’ve watched it several times.

Little did I know how much this day would affect my future. The Colonel gave us a short lecture on the evils of communism and then began narrating the film. The subject matter was Cambodia and Laos. While the US was openly at war with North Vietnam, any involvement in the other two countries wasn’t public knowledge and was spearheaded by the CIA. 

The film featured aerial shots from Air America airplanes, an agency operated airline (now I knew how my friend who suggested I apply knew so much about the CIA). It looked like they were dropping food, supplies and ammunition to people on the ground. The agency was in a secret war, and I was about to get some seriously disturbing news.

When the film ended the officer explained that some of us could eventually be assigned to this operation. Oh hell, Oh hell… just what I had not planned. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. After the officer left, I asked our group leader if the guy was serious. She assured me he was.

It took me a couple of days to figure out my next step, but it was pretty clear. I had to resign. Those planes we’re being shot at by ground forces. If captured, at least in the army you would be covered by the Geneva Conventions, in my situation (if assigned to that operation) I wouldn’t even be acknowledged by the US government; to the enemy I would be considered a spy and treated accordingly.

It took me almost as long to get out of the agency as it took me to get in. I had to wait to go through a long, drawn-out debriefing process. Finally, I headed home saying goodbye to my draft deferment, my career at the CIA, my new friends, Holly and a city I dearly loved (which I would end up spending a great deal of time in later in life).

I had better grow up and figure out what to do next pretty quickly. Maybe somehow fate would be kind to me, but that’s another story for another day…

A New Orleans Nightmare…

After Years of Debauchery, I Somehow Survived…
Ok, Ok… I’ll admit there was a time in my life when I may have indulged in the evil of drink a bit (OK, way) too much, but seldom was the outcome so totally embarrassing as when a person discovers not all is what it seems in life or is asked to leave (thrown out of) a hard-core drinking establishment.

Sometime back in the late 60’s we took a road trip down to New Orleans for a fun filled night of bar hopping (legal drinking age was 18 then). I’d like to say we planned to “take it slow and easy” but that wasn’t the case at all.

One of our first stops was an out of the way, uhm… shall I say, “unclothed dancer” bar. After consuming a few watered-down drinks, I took notice of a particularly attractive young lady taking the stage.

I couldn’t help but appreciate the act (and body) of this lovely lady and I’m sure I was lusting a bit while encouraging her to reveal a little more (sorry ladies, but I was an 18-year-old boy/man).

As her act approached the end, it came time for the final grand reveal. As she slowly removed her G-string, much to my surprise, a total she, she wasn’t. The act ended and I left, somewhat confused and questioning my masculinity, but still looking for more adventures ahead. 

After hitting a few more of the typical Bourbon Street “dives” we ended up at a place named Your Fathers Mustache around 2 or 3 AM. It was one of those Bavarian Oompah bars with a really loud brass band featuring tuba music, accordions and plenty of beer.

Seating was at crowded picnic tables with buckets of peanuts supplied for the munchies. After filling up with beer and nuts, nature naturally called. The bathroom was down a short hallway adorned photos of old men with handlebar mustaches and the fire department’s required notice of capacity with an extinguisher hung nearby.

This is where it gets a little hazy, but, one of us (not saying who) had the great idea of adding some excitement to the festivities by pulling the fire extinguisher off the wall and spraying down the crowd and Oomph band, then unexpectedly throwing up all over the floor.

It didn’t go well. We were hustled out to the street and told we could never return to Your Father’s Mustache ever again (my only lifetime banning).

We wandered around for a while looking for other fun things to do when it struck me that a parade might be in order. 

Since there was no marching band in sight, I decided I might be able to talk the corn and hotdog cart guys into joining in as floats. While I didn’t get any takers, I did lead one hotdog cart around the French Quarter while chanting, “Hotdogs, hotdogs for sale, just a dollar or so today.” 

I’m sure I thought I was doing him a great favor, but a nice policeman soon let me know that my services weren’t needed and that if needed a place to stay, he had one in mind downtown. I somehow avoided jail that night, but the hangover followed me for days.

My Night With The Hell’s Angle’s

That Time I Was Big Buddies With The Hell’s Angels (Unintentionally, I assure you)
It started out to be a typical boy’s trip to the beach. We’ll, maybe not quite so typical. I was just 16 years old and my two friends who were going with me were 16 and 19. Cutting loose of a trio of dumb ass kids headed to Daytona in a brand-new Pontiac GTO by our parents was admittedly not a very good idea.

The room was prepaid, and we had gas money and some extra for food, but not nearly enough for a genuine “good time.” We’d need to come up with something to augment our meager funds, oh well, not to worry, it would work itself out. There was an old Steak & Shake near the hotel and we typically made out with their “pot ‘o beans” when we were starving; then on one occasion, a family that overheard us discussing our hunger bought us a full meal. They were so kind. Their daughter and I struck up a conversation and she invited me to join them for a nice meal the following evening (I took her up on it, but shamefully didn’t share the news with my friends).

There was a liquor distributor (bootlegger) above us at motel and he drained what little money we had so I devised a plan to rent out the GTO to friends who wanted to drive up and down the beach picking up girls. It was a success and produced about $100 or more. That night we decided to splurge and walk up the beach to a nearby pizza joint. Along the way saw truck that was pulling a trailer was stuck up in the soft sand. We could make out a couple of guys digging it out and I yelled to ask if they needed help. “Sure,” was the answer.

As we approached the truck, it was apparent these guys were bikers. Older, long hair and scraggly beards along with their boldly emblazoned and patch covered vest gave them away. They handed each one of us a shovel and with an “encouraging tone” said “dig boys.” They were actually ok guys. We worked our asses off. The truck and trailer were freed; they actually thanked us and said if there something we needed let them know, they’d be hanging around the pizza place over the next few days while Bike Week or The Race was going on.

An interesting experience for sure, but it was far from over. The next day we walked up to the pizza place to meet some hometown friends for lunch. About the time the pies arrived, up walked the bikers we had met the night before along with a few other members and their “old ladies.” One guy recognized us and said, “hi, mind if we join you.” Not wanting to offend our new friends, we said sure, glad to have you.

There were long picnic tables for seating, and we were joined by the whole group of Angels. It didn’t take long before they began “sharing” our pizza, bumming our smokes and telling wild stories of some of their “adventures”. They were ordering lots of beer and I told them we would pay for the next round if they’d get us a pitcher, too. No problem, we ate and drank for a good while when one of the “ladies” said she needed to pee, but the restroom was out of order. I said (big mistake) we had room just down the beach and they were welcome to use it there. Pretty soon, two or three girls and one of the guys followed me to the motel. The were fine and most appreciative. We walked back to the restaurant and the group was breaking up. The biker guys offered to buy us a pitcher before they left and said they might run into us later that night.

We decided to avoid the pizza joint that night and it just so happened there was a big parking lot party at our motel and the “liquor distributor” upstairs was passing out beer and pouring purple passion out of a pitcher off the upstairs balcony. People were playing loud music, dancing and trying to catch the stream of liquor in their mouths as it streamed down. The motel manager (we called him senor-one-eyebrow for very obvious reasons) wasn’t happy. He kept coming out and yelling to break it up. No one listened and the party grew. It wasn’t long until some bikers came up to join and things got even louder and wilder.

The next time the manager came out to break it up, he noted the Hell’s Angels and said everyone who had a room had better go inside before he called the police. Those who didn’t have a room better clear out. My two friends and I headed inside when a few of our Angle “friends” followed us into the room. One of the bikers went back out and returned shortly with other members and their “old ladies” plus cases of beer and who knows what else. It’s Again, they weren’t mean or threatening, just imposing. A lot more partying and debauchery went on inside that night; but, it was getting late and we were getting more than a little concerned it was getting out of hand.

Time for a new plan… my older and wiser friend came up with this:
I’d tell the head biker that I’d talked with the most a give him a heads up that the motel manager had called and said he could smell pot smoke coming from our room and he was calling the police (heaven only knows what the bikers actually had on them). Even though it was late, I said we were packing up and heading out of town ourselves. I said the manager was really pissed and that he might even get the vice cops involved, but they could do whatever they wanted. My other friend had gotten into the bathtub to sleep and was in no shape to take care of himself, so we pack up all of our bags, loaded up the car and stuffed him in the backseat.

I went back in and told Sonny (my biker friend who I later found out was one of the most notorious Angles and founder of the Oakland Club, Sonny Barger) we were leaving. He thanked me for the heads up and said they were all leaving, too.

I thought we’d drive around, park in some other motel parking lot and wait it out for a few hours until we were pretty sure all the Hell’s Angels had departed.

It wasn’t long until I fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake until almost daylight. I started looking around and was confused. The area didn’t resemble Daytona, it was kind of rural. I asked Tommy where we were, and he said not to worry we’d be back at the beach soon. I didn’t ask any more questions and dozed off again. As the bright morning sunlight woke me, I could see the ocean and beach again. It still didn’t look like Daytona, and it wasn’t.

Tommy had decided he was tired of all the crap we got into at Daytona and had left it behind. He had driven across the state to Panama City. We had a bunch of friends from home staying at the Old Dutch motel there and he was sure we could stay with them.
As we were driving down Old HY 98 headed to the motel, I noticed a dark blue convertible GTO driving past us. I looked closely as passed and could see it was my older brother and his friends. They had been in New Orleans and decided to come up to P.C. themselves.

We all pulled into the Old Dutch and sorted out our plans. Some were done and wanted to head home, but I was still in a beach mood. Both of my Daytona friends left, and I ended up staying with one of my brother’s roommates. The adventure continued and that’s another story, but I’ll leave you with this… several days later, I woke up safe in the middle of a corn field outside of Montgomery where my friend Jim had decided to take a rest from driving through the night.

A Good Day Goes Really Bad…

All’s Well Doesn’t Necessarily End Well…
Sometime around 1966 a good friend of mine and I had taken our girlfriends over to Callaway Gardens in Georgia to watch a water-skiing championship and spend the day on the beach there. We had a great, but long, day and headed home just before dark. Just as we approached Anniston, a car pulled up behind us and started flashing their headlights, then pulled up beside us and began racing their engine.

My friend, Steve, who was driving, was always up for a challenge. He was a competitor, an all-county baseball and football player and a nice guy, but he didn’t take crap off anyone.

We raced ahead and beat them to the next stoplight, giving them the finger as they pulled up beside us. It was a warm day, so our windows were down and we were all laughing loudly as we pulled away. 

I don’t think that settled well with the other guys because at the next stoplight a fist came flying through the driver’s window and landed upside my friend’s head. Steve was ready to jump out of the car and get into it right there in the middle of the road, but I told him that wouldn’t be a good idea.

We didn’t know who they were or what they might do and besides, our girlfriends were in the car. He motioned for them to follow us and sped up the hill in the left-hand lane with them close behind. 

As we reached the top of the hill past the Goal Post restaurant, the lane we were in was backed up with a bunch of cars trying to turn in to Lees, the local drive-in teenage hangout. Steve quickly swerved out of the left lane to the right where it was clear; the guys chasing us didn’t make it and crashed into the entire line of stopped cars. We continued on, kind of shaken, but feeling they got what they deserved.

It wasn’t late when we finally got home. Steve dropped me and the girls off, thinking the crazy night was over. 

Oh no, the big brouhaha was yet to come. Several hours later I got a call from Steve telling me the car guys we’re pounding on his front door yelling for him to come outside. I asked if he wanted me to come over (hoping the answer would be no) and he said his dad was up and would run them off.

The next morning, I got the full story. Steve’s dad, the high school coach, confronted the group that consisted of the two guys from the car and their father, but they wouldn’t leave. By that time Steve and his brother, also an all-county athlete, had joined their father outside and all hell broke loose. One of the guys took a swing at Steve and a melee ensued.

The cops were called by a neighbor, but the car guys and their father had already taken a sound beating by the time they arrived and hauled them away.

We never figured out how they got Steve’s name and address (maybe it was the high school bumper sticker with his jersey number on it), but we were absolutely sure they wished they never had.

I Had A Ticket To Ride…

I was a huge fan and couldn’t believe I was heading to see the Beatles live. My best friend had moved to Memphis, and I believe his father had gotten tickets because his bank was a sponsor of some sort at the coliseum. I hadn’t been to a concert as big as this one before and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

I knew the arena was pretty large and I hoped we wouldn’t be stuck up in the rafters where you could barely see the group. For the entire 300 mile drive I played one Beatles’ album after another. I was plenty fired up.

The next day my friend and I headed over to the concert and ended having to park about a mile away because the cars and crowd outside were occupying every inch of the overflowing parking lot. We waded through the masses and got inside without much time to spare. The opening act was about to start, and we had to find our seats.

Inside the arena was a madhouse, although cops and security were doing their best to control and contain the crazed fans, it wasn’t happening. We tried to locate our seats on our own, but it was impossible. We headed upstairs to the balcony thinking that’s where we’d find our seats, but an usher stopped us and asked to see our tickets. He looked them over and told us we were way off.

It turned out our tickets were on the main floor, center, first section. Damn, I thought… that’s what VIP sponsor tickets are like. We had a great view of the Band, but there was one serious issue. At first you couldn’t hear a damn thing for all the screaming and crying going on, but it settled down a little bit after the first song and became bearable. It really didn’t matter, I can still visualize John, Paul, George and Ringo on stage that day, and I’m sure that memory will never fade.

Many years later I made another Beatles Connection, but I’ll save that story for later.

The Night My Music Died…

The High School Checkers Club Party That Didn’t End Well…
Growing up in a small town meant no high school fraternities or sororities, but that didn’t stop a group of guys from starting their own “social club”, The Checkers. They weren’t so much an organization, but a bunch of party organizers.

I was a little young to be a member, but my older brother was in the club, so I was able to attend the gatherings as a legacy. The parties always included a local band and, of course, not so discreet drinking. 

Most of the parties were held upstairs in a building that I believe housed Plaidland, a trading stamp redemption center, but one big dance was scheduled to be held at the Reich Hotel, Gadsden’s finest.

The party was great and everything was going fine until later in the evening when it was time for the special guests singer, Willie Frank Hightower, to perform. You see, the hotel was segregated and only black service worker were allowed.

We were aware of the rules, but really didn’t give a damn. A couple of guys met Willie at a back entrance and snuck him upstairs. The crowd was ecstatic, Hightower was well known locally and even had a following outside of the city. Rumor had it that Willie was going to make it big with a recording contract and all.

It was all very cool until some asshole staggered downstairs and announced that Willie Frank Hightower was performing upstairs. Someone got the word to the hotel management and pretty soon the party was busted. It was a bad scene. They said they’d call the cops if everything wasn’t shut down immediately and that N***** was out of the building. There was some grumbling and threats from our group and for a minute or two I thought a fight might break out.

Willie said he didn’t want any trouble and would leave. A few of us left with him; apologizing and offering a drink.

Willie accepted the invitation and several of us packed into someone’s station wagon in the hotel’s parking lot. It was already pretty late when we started passing the bottle around and telling stories; after a while Willie said he needed head on home. He thanked us for our hospitality and waved goodbye as he walked away into the night.

The rest of us weren’t ready to end the evening, so we headed over to the Toddle House (similar to a Waffle House), for some good old greasy hamburgers and hash browns. 

We were all recounting the evening, the asshole bigots at the hotel and how close it might’ve come to a riot. All in all, it ended up being one of those nights that had big life lessons for me that are long remembered.

I’m In The Jailhouse Now…

Incarcerated At Fifteen…
You can either laugh with me or at me, I don’t really care which as long as you laugh. I was commuting from Gadsden to Jacksonville my first year in high school while our new house was under construction, and I frequently stayed overnight. One weekend a new friend’s parents were going to be out of town, and he had planned a big party.

The party was a great success with plenty of beer, wine and whiskey. I’d like to say I didn’t participate, but that would be misleading. I joined in with great gusto, as did everyone else. My friend’s parents were headed back in the next afternoon, so a midnight cleanup was mandatory. We had grocery bags full of cans, bottles and Dixie Cups to dispose of and the town dump was the obvious place. One of our friends had a Chevy Corvair Convertible and he offered to drive. We loaded up the garbage and headed out to dispose of the evidence but didn’t make it very far until our real troubles began.

One friend who was still feeling the effects of a big night of partying decided to have a little target practice as we pulled up to a stop sign. He reached into one of the garbage bags, pulled out a beer bottle and threw it at the stop sign, unfortunately missing it by a mile. The bottle flew over the sign, through a thick hedge row and struck something solid on the other side. Our driver didn’t waste any time and took off, flooring the gas and squealing the tires as he made the turn. Suddenly, out of the dark a blue light was coming up behind us. With their sirens blaring, we were pulled over before we had gotten very far. The cops were pretty stern and ordered us all to get out of the car. They weren’t very happy; it seems the beer bottle had hit their police car broadside.

One by one, they asked each one of us to provide our IDs. It must have been September or October because I was just 15 and wouldn’t get my license until November. I told the cop I didn’t have a license with me, and he asked if I had any other ID. I fumbled around and managed to pull out my library card which fortunately identified me as an ADULT.

We were all hauled up to the city jail and charged with highway intoxication. The jail was a tiny, old rock two story building with small, bared windows and about four cells upstairs, plus a drunk tank on the bottom floor. There was only one other prisoner in the cells, and he was too drunk to even speak, I don’t know why he wasn’t in the tank, but one of us was going to share with him. Unfortunately, I got that pleasure. I could hardly stand it; the guy stunk, snored like a chainsaw and made very peculiar sounds.

Somewhere after 2:00 AM an officer came upstairs and called my name. I had high hopes they were moving one of us out of the cell when the cop said, “Elam, come on downstairs with me, they want to talk to you at the front desk.” When I got to the desk, another officer said he had a couple of questions for me. He said they only had my library card as an ID, and he wanted to see my driver’s license. I told him I didn’t have one and he asked why. I said that I should be able to get one pretty soon on my birthday when I turn sixteen.

He looked up and said something like this, aw sh*t, who’s the dumb ass that booked this kid in… then he turned back to me and told me he’d need to call my parents and get them to come pick me up because I was a juvenile and couldn’t be left in jail.

I thought, oh hell, anything but that. My dad, Big Roy, would at a minimum ground me for a month or two. I’d have no freedom and my social life would be over until who knows when. I told the policeman I’d be fine staying upstairs with my friends, but he said, no way. Reluctantly, I gave him the phone number and sat there imagining how crappy my life would be for the foreseeable future.

They escorted me back upstairs to wait on my father to come pick me up. It was a good 30-minute trip from Gadsden to Jacksonville, but it seemed like hours sitting in the cell. Eventually I heard a loud car revving up just outside and below the jail window (my brother and I shared a Triumph Spitfire, an English sports car with no muffler). I could also hear a faint voice calling my name… Bill, Bill oh little Bill, they won’t let me have you. This went on for a few minutes and then I could hear the car driving away. I was in for the rest of the night.

The next morning, we got breakfast from Zuma’s, a greasy little dive next to the jail, and we were released shortly thereafter. The cops didn’t fully explain why I ended up staying the night, but I was certain it had something to do with my brother trying spring me.

Later that day I got the full story. It seems my brother and his date had just gotten home from a party when the phone rang. He said the caller asked for Roy Elam and he answered, “this is he.” The policeman explained that they had me in jail and that he would have to come over and pick me up. They drove over and he identified himself as Roy Elam Jr., my legal guardian. I think the cops were more than a little skeptical and were reluctant to let him have me, but they said as my legal guardian he could give them permission to hold me until I was released in later that day.

He evidently said sure, then got back in the car revved it up several times called out my name and then took off. He had been partying earlier that evening himself and didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself.

The cops weren’t idiots and I believe they were a bit amused by the whole thing. There was no record of my arrest, I didn’t have to pay a fine and my parents didn’t find out until I confessed my mother about 20 years or so later. Her only comment was, “I’m sure there was far more than that I never knew. Just don’t tell me anymore.”

Chicken Crossing Ahead

Run, Chickens Run…
My first year of high school I lived in Gadsden Alabama but because we were moving, I started the year at Jacksonville, about a 30-mile drive away.

I was several months shy of my 16th birthday, but things were much laxer back then and my parents allowed me to drive to over to the school. That first day was goanna be somewhat intimidating, I really didn’t know anybody, and I wanted to make a decent impression, but I started out a little late.

I drove a back way through a more rural area to avoid the highway and not worry so much about the speed limit, but I didn’t consider there might be another type of obstacle to slow me down.

We had a little Triumph Spitfire convertible back then and I had put the top down for the ride over. I had only driven about 10 miles or so when I came around a tight curve, too fast for sure, and damn, there they were… a bunch of chicken right in my path. Too late to slow down, I must have taken out at least 4 or 5. It was a mess, feathers and blood came flying over the windshield right into my face.

I was gonna be late for that first day so for sure. When I arrived at the school and parked, I took a minute to try to clean up, but it was to no avail. My white chinos and madras shirt were a bit nasty from the chicken hit and run accident. Unfortunately, since I was late, I had to check in at the principal’s office.

He was quite sympathetic to my dilemma and suggested I go by the restroom to clean up before he took me to my homeroom.

I did the best I could, but still had some stains on my clothes. As he opened the door to my classroom, I could see everyone’s eyes focus on the “new boy”.

I’m sure the principal thought he was helping me out by explaining why I was late and a mess to boot, but the class thought it was extremely hilarious. I made an impression all-right, just not the one I had hoped for…

Like It Was Yesterday…

I Remember that day like it was yesterday…

Those who know me know I was a big Beatles fan, and still am. I was extremely excited about actually seeing the “Fab Four” performing on TV. What made it even more special is that my junior high girlfriend had invited me to her house to watch the show.

She had gotten a new Ford Mustang for her 16th birthday that year and offered to pick me up, but, even though I didn’t yet have my drivers license, I’d been driving around the neighborhood for a couple of years. 

To be honest about it, I was actually kinda embarrassed to have her drive me around anyway (it’s a guy thing).

I asked my parents if I could drive to her house to watch the show. They were a little apprehensive because she lived uptown and I wasn’t allowed to drive outside the neighborhood. I begged and they caved in.

The day finally came and I proudly took the wheel of my dad’s new Buick Wildcat and headed out with a parental warning to be careful and don’t scratch the car.

My girlfriend had invited several friends of her friends over and we all settled in for the “really big show” (as Ed always called it).

There was electricity in the air as the camera opened up on The Beatles playing “All My Loving,” “Till There Was You,” and “She Loves You”. My girlfriend and everyone else were bouncing around and singing along with the group; there also may have been a bit of hand holding and a little hug or two right there in front of her parents. Oh, what a great day.

When the show ended, we all hung around for a while talking about the band, but I needed to head home so my father could use the car. I had parked outside along with several other cars. It was tight getting the car out and I misjudged the angle of the curb. Damn it, I hit the edge of the concrete bump and knocked a hubcap off. 

There was a huge dent and I was scared sh**less. I’d probably be grounded from driving. The dent was on the rear passenger side, so I thought maybe dad wouldn’t notice it… he didn’t. He was in a hurry to go to the post office when I arrived and immediately drove off. Maybe I was safe. 

When dad got home he cursed a few times and told mom that when he was parallel parking at the post office he hit the curb and knocked a hubcap off, he’d have to order a new one.

I was safe, but maybe a little ashamed that I didn’t fess up and confess my guilt.

A couple of years later I was fortunate to be able to attend a Beatles concert in Memphis. It was their last live tour and I’ll never forget that day either.

Best Teacher Ever…

Growing Up Is Hard To Do…
I’m sure many of you had a crush on a teacher or two sometime in your life. It was likely very juvenile or even silly. I had only one, Miss Simmons… and it was somehow different.

She treated me like a friend and an equal. I have often thought about those times in Junior High when someone actually treated me as an adult and not just a dumb-ass kid. It was all very innocent, although she would let me drive her car to the store just down street from the school to pick up lunch from time to time (she had terrific Corvair convertible with a straight stick). It wasn’t official driver’s education, but I learned a lot during our talks on those short rides.

They were adult conversation about life, love and what the future could hold. The kind a kid didn’t have with normal friends for fear of being ridiculed. I’ve thought about her oftentimes over the years and was recently reminded of a trip she and her fiancé took me, my best friend and our girlfriends on to the state fair in Birmingham.

We had a ball, riding the rides, laughing and eating that wonderful state fair food. My friend wasn’t a great ride rider. I remember him saying, “It’s like paying someone to punch me real hard in the stomach. I just don’t like it.” I don’t recall, but he might have gotten sick that day. I’m lucky, I’m not senile yet and good memories are still vividly pictured in my mind.

I recently learned my teacher, my crush and my friend had passed away several years ago and I just wanted to say, “Thank you, Nancy. I’ll remember you always.”

Dear Old Disque Jr High

One Memory Quickly Jars So Many More…
This photo must be when I was in the 8th grade. I played football in the 9th grade and I’m sure Coach Harris wouldn’t have let me change out of my uniform to escort my girlfriend at halftime during homecoming court presentation. Nevertheless… this was one of my better days.

I wasn’t a bad kid growing up, just mischievous… here are a few examples of my total innocence:

• One day in homeroom I was messing around with an old, wooden, warped tennis racket press and somehow got it stuck over my head and down on my neck. Tugging, twisting and pulling on it didn’t work. My homeroom teacher, who was a good sport, chuckled a bit then took me down to the shop to see what could be done. Coach Harris, who also taught shop, laughed at me, threatened to make me wear it all day so everyone could see what an idiot I was, and then cut it off.
• I was chaplain of the Hi-Y, a school club, and a part of my responsibilities was the morning devotional. It didn’t entail much; to start every day I had to read a short Bible verse (yes, there was prayer in school in those days), ask for a moment of silence and then end with a quick Amen.
  
  I remember one day clearly, it was November 22, 1963. We were at lunch when I heard the principal on the intercom requesting that I come to the office. I thought I might be in trouble for something or another, but, when I arrived, I was told President Kennedy had been assassinated. I was asked to say a short prayer after the principal made his announcement. When he finished, I took the microphone and asked everyone to close their eyes, bow their heads and join in for a moment of prayer and reflection.
  
  I put down the microphone and headed out of the office door and down the hallway. In only moments, I heard a very quiet voice calling me… come back, come back. It was Mr. Norris. He told me I had to go back to the office and finish with an Amen. What I meant as a short moment of silence had turned into what might have been the longest ever… Amen!
• One day, our homeroom teacher was called out for a conference. She left us alone with the customary; don’t leave the room, keep it quiet and don’t get into any trouble. I was bored and it didn’t take long until I was looking around for something to occupy myself. Most of the class was studying or talking quietly and not paying much attention as I dragged my chair up against the front wall where I had spied a blank wall plate about 10 feet above the light switches. I thought I had discovered the possibility of a security camera watching our every move.
  
  I pulled off the plate and found nothing but wires. Disappointed, I struggled to shove the plate back on when suddenly sparks started flying, I got a slight shock, fell off the chair and the lights went off on our side of the building.
  When the teacher returned, she could smell the electrical stench and see the smudges on the wall. She looked around the room as I stood up and confessed.
  
  She wasn’t laughing this time and quickly led me down to the shop where coach Harris was awaiting my arrival. Harris was the school disciplinarian and believed strongly in corporal punishment. He wasn’t laughing and I wasn’t either.

The Night When We Were One…

It had to be sometime in the mid-sixties when I went to my first big time concert. The times weren’t typical and neither was the concert, I was going to see James Brown and the Famous Flames. While the color barrier had been broken and the days of Bull Connor’s segregation were over, there were still civil rights protests and conflicts all over America, with Birmingham at the center of many.

We had been listening to James’ new album “Live at the Apollo” over and over since it came out, and couldn’t believe we were going to see “The Hardest Working Man In Show Business” live at the Boutwell Auditorium. I was a little anxious and had no idea of what to expect.

We drove from Gadsden to Birmingham full of excitement and ready for the experience of a lifetime, and we weren’t disappointed. The crowd was predominantly black with a few white faces scattered around, but when the music started and James came out on stage, there was no color, we were one. I don’t even have words to describe the type of brotherhood and harmony I felt that evening, but it was one of the building blocks in the foundation of my life.

I’ve been to many concerts since, including the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Who and a lot more headliners, but no one put such enthusiasm and energy into a performance. There were no big sets with smoke and flashing lights, just James, the Flames and an electrical performance that still burns brightly in my mind.

The Night Of The Big Fight…

The Tooth Fairy Didn’t Come That Night…
The best I can remember it was a Friday night around ten o’clock. I was around 14 and my older brother must have been 16. I’m not sure of all the details, but his old girlfriend had made a date with one of the country club’s lifeguards and my brother was really mad about it. 

Our parents were out of town, so it was a perfect time for my brother to confront the interloper. Fisticuffs were one of his favorite pastimes back then and this was going to be the night for a good fight.

I, alone with a couple of friends, followed along hoping to witness the battle. As we reached the entrance to the pool parking lot, the lifeguard’s car came up the hill and came to a stop; he was blocked from leaving by my brother standing in the middle of road.

The lifeguard’s window was rolled down and my brother approached the car, reached in and punched him in the face. Next, he pulled the guy out of the car and continued to pound on him. I thought that was about the end of it when all of the suddenly the lifeguard’s brother came running up from behind and knocked my brother to the ground. He was hovering over my brother yelling for him to get up when I got the idea to break it up.

I got in between the two and was quickly punch in the head and fell to the ground. By this time, the first lifeguard guy was calling for his brother to stop and take him to the hospital. He was bleeding pretty profusely and holding his hand over his mouth screaming his tooth was gone.

The girl had left the scene crying and headed home, the two guys got in their car yelling they were calling the cops; we all made a hasty exit. After a couple of hours my brother and I headed home. As we approached, we could see a cop car parked out front, so we hid in the bushes until they left.

When we got inside, Elijah Butler (our second father) had told the cops Roy wasn’t home and he didn’t know where he was. The cops said they’d be back.

My parents returned the next day, and nothing was said about the incident. My brother just hope it would go away, but that wasn’t about to happen. That afternoon the cops returned looking for Roy Elam (my father’s name, too) and informed him that they had a complaint against him.

Oh boy, all hell broke loose. My brother left home to lay low for a week or so, my father had to pay for the hospital visit, a dentist and a new tooth implant, and my brother was banned from the country club.

Oh, and we moved not too long after that night…

Chico, My Good Friend…

More Like A Brother Than A Family Pet
My brothers reminded me of photo of our youngest sibling, Chico. Even though he wasn’t our actual biological brother (we talked our dad into adopting him during one of his more beverage filled days at the beach), he was a big part of the family. Such a fun-loving little rascal… Chico loved to play with our dog Jill and Jill loved little Chico. Jill would even let him ride on her back when we took him outside.

I’ll never forget those happy days spent with Chico. From the day we picked him up at the Florida Gatoriam (or whatever that place was called) in P.C. (good thing dad liked a little Bourbon) all he needed was a slice of banana and a little back scratching to make him happy. 

When Chico passed away at the hands of a mean neighborhood dog, we all gathered for a wake and funeral procession. We placed Chico in a glass coffin in the open trunk of my brother’s ’40 Ford and circled the block a few times before burying him in our back yard. RIP Chico.

Christmas Memories

Christmas Super Snooper Surprise… 
I was a first-class Christmas snoop. By the time I was 13 or 14 I had located almost all of the hiding places my parents used: the attic, the back of their bedroom closet, dad’s office file cabinet, the top garage shelves, the dining room china cabinet and about five or ten more. It wasn’t that I didn’t like surprises, I’ve always been curious, and I just didn’t want to get my hopes up and then be disappointed on Christmas Day.

In my mid-teens I had, of course, grown out of the kid toy stage and was really looking for more adult stuff that year. Maybe a new football helmet, a BB gun (only a Daisy Red Ryder would do), and a madras shirt or two would be nice. I don’t remember what else I wanted, but know I wanted to get things that would indicate that my parents recognized me as a grown up, like my brother. My brother was two years older. He matured (I guess that’s what I’d call it) early and already had his first car (a t-model hot rod that rarely ran and was soon wrecked), a motorcycle (a sure nuff grown up thing) and lots of cool clothes and other indicators that he was approaching genuine manhood. I was ready for that parental recognition, too.

As I began my snooping, all I could turn up were some clothes that I was sure would be mine, so I kept looking. My brother wanted a new shotgun, and I located that under the sofa in the den. I found a bunch of his clothes, too, along with a pair of black motorcycle boots (I think he may have been a sort of preppy hoodlum). I had just about exhausted all of my known hiding places when I remembered my dad’s bedroom dresser drawers. The top one was small and couldn’t contain anything big. I pulled the drawer out slowly and peeked, boy-o-boy, there it was… a magnificent new, latest model Norelco electric razor just like the one on TV commercials (Santa was riding on the razor head in the snow). It had to be mine, my brother had been shaving for a few years and had everything he needed. Finally, I’d be considered a full-fledged man; an equal to my brother and on my way to official adulting stuff. I stopped looking for presents then and there. I really didn’t care what else I might get… I was finally a grownup in my parents’ eyes.

Christmas morning finally came, and we all gathered around the tree while Big Roy (my dad) doled out the gifts and Momma Gin (my mother) sipped on her coffee and munched a cinnamon roll. One by one the gifts were opened to lots of fanfare and Hugging. Dad typically held the best gifts for last. After opening some clothes and other stuff for a while we were finally getting to the good things. Dad pulled out a long box for my brother and as I suspected, it was his new shotgun. He was really pleased, but dad said, wait, wait there’s one more for you. He handed a small box to my brother who quickly ripped it open and revealed a shiny new Norelco electric razor.

I’m sure the disappointment showed on my face, and dad quickly said, “wait a minute Billy, there’s another one for you.” He went into his office and reappeared with another long box. I thought, oh well, at least I’ll get a BB gun out of this.

I opened up the box and it wasn’t a BB gun but an amazing reproduction of a classic 1866 Winchester 30 caliber rifle. Gold plated and engraved on the butt, from dad. It was very nice and certainly adultish, but I wasn’t much for hunting by then and besides, I was still very envious of that glorious Norelco Triple Head razor. What a beauty! That was the last year of my snooping. I figure I’d rather be ignorant than stupid.

Our Wicked Sense Of Humor

Some Of The Things We Did Were Barely Human… 
Growing up as teenagers, we were always looking for a place to get away from the prying eyes of adult supervision. We had several of such places: the grove where we smoked our first cigarettes (there were two or three of those), the creek where we could swim naked if we wanted and the greenhouses on the golf course where we could make-out with our girlfriends were just a few of our getaways.

One of our most favorite, we called The Hole. It was basically a garage in the neighborhood at one of our friend’s houses. The Hole was passed down from our older brothers and contained several “educational” magazines, some ashtrays, a few chairs, some barbells and an old foldup bed on wheels.

We would often spend hours at The Hole, just shooting the breeze, working out or playing football in the side yard. As you might imagine, we often got bored and just looked for some type of mischief we could scrounge up. One nice summer afternoon, a few of us were working out when someone came up with a scheme that was a flash of brilliance. One of our friends, Jadeball, was a bit overweight and could stand to take off a few belly inches. He was always trying to take off a few pounds.

Here’s where the flash comes in; we convinced Jadeball that the foldup bed was just like a sauna. All you had to do is strip off your clothes, lay down in the center, let us fold the bed up and lock the hinges, after 15 or 20 minutes you’d begin to sweat off the pounds. He was a little skeptical at first so one of us showed him how it would work. No problem, right?

Jadeball stripped, climbed in and was looking forward to taking off a few unwanted pounds. We let him relax for a few minutes, then several of us walked and grabbed the bed. We started rolling it out the garage door and down the street; all the while Jadeball was screaming and dog cussing us, but we weren’t finished.

It wasn’t enough to just leave him out on the neighborhood street with his head sticking out one side of the bed and his legs and feet out the other, we figured he needed a little more humiliation. Rainbow Drive was the major road nearby; so, we figured we could take him across the road in front of the pharmacy and others could ridicule him, too.

After we got him across the road, someone thought it would be extra funny to release the bed locks and unfold the bed. We figured he’d just run back to The Hole and that would be the end of it.

Well, much to our surprise, ole Jadeball just jumped up and took off down the road heading to his house which was several blocks away. Thus, was born the legend of “the first streaker,” Jadeball the flash.

Night Terrors…

When I was in my early teens, I was quite the roller-skater. I would even go to the weekend midnight skate with friends at the Rainbow Rink that wasn’t far from where we lived. After the skate one night, I was dropped off at home by my friend’s parents, little did I know I had a terrifying surprise awaiting me.

My brother and I shared a bedroom, and I knew I had better not wake him up (I never knew what to expect from him), so I crept upstairs very quietly and eased the bedroom door open and stepped inside. It was pitch dark, but I didn’t dare turn on the lights.

I took off my shirt and dropped my pants, ready to climb into bed when I bumped into the tall bookcase that stood in the corner of our room. Without a sound, something from on top of the bookcase leapt off and landed on my back. I was a pretty scary kid, and I could feel claws digging in as I screamed like a baby, waking everyone in the house.

I was yelling and swatting at whatever it was that had attacked me when my brother turned on the light and yelled at me to shut up. I was easily spooked as a kid (yet another story) and didn’t settle down easily. He started laughing and I turned around to see one of his friends in my bed along with his pet ocelot.

I’ll admit, it didn’t make me feel much better at the time to know the damn thing was just another one of this friend’s exotic family of pets (boa constrictor, peacock, Guinea hens and I think an ostrich at some point).

They thought it was funny as hell, but I wouldn’t enter the bedroom at night without a flashlight for months to come.

The Day The T-Bucket Died…

It was sometime around the Thanksgiving holidays in the late 50’s or early 60’s when my older brother offered me an “opportunity.” He had a friend who wanted to make a trade. He had an old car that he was getting rid of and my brother offered him a motorcycle and shotgun for the car, but the guy said that wasn’t enough.

In order to seal the deal, he’d need to up the offer. Without my permission my brother added a mini-bike (mine) to the trade. Before the swap was made, he would have to talk me into it.

My brother had a special way of persuasion, it either included a threat of bodily harm or a promise of some kind of inclusion that would ultimately give me pleasure of some sort.

This time it was envy and bragging rights. I’d be the only 13-year-old in the neighborhood with a part interest in super slick hot-rod, a ‘23 T-model body on a ‘50s Ford frame powered by an old flathead engine. It was a classic T-bucket. Who could refuse such a deal… Not me.

My dad said OK because the thing didn’t run and he figured it likely never would, but my brother and his friends were determined and one of them was a pretty good mechanic.

It took a while, but that Christmas we got a new carburetor, distributor, and a couple of headlights. Within a month or so it came to life. It wasn’t quite drive worthy, but it sure sounded good fired up in the driveway.

Finally, after a good tune-up and a few more minor parts it was ready for the test run. Several of our friends came over and joined in on the first ride. My brother, along with an older friend and my little brother were packed into the only two bucket seats inside the car. My friend and I had to sit on top of the uncovered gas tank in the rear.

Our neighborhood was sort of isolated without many cars to worry about, so we headed out for the inaugural spin. We weren’t going very fast as we headed down the road to a nearby neighbor’s house. It was downhill from us, and we gained a bit of speed as their house came into sight.

My brother pumped on the brakes as we neared, but to no avail; they were gone. The road deadened at the river behind their house and our only alternative was to turn into the driveway, where at the end a brand-new Ford Thunderbird convertible sat parked.

My brother’s quick thinking saved us from crashing into the T-bird, but his turn took us through their yard heading directly towards their front door.

Another sharp turn avoided the house, but we crashed head-on into a big pine tree. The sudden stop threw both my friend and I off the gas tank and into the thick grass, but there was no real damage done to either of us. Actually, the only injury came about when my younger brother was getting out and had his finger slammed in the door.

Of course, we all lived on, but that was the sad, sad day the T-bucket died. Maybe another good ride of some sort would come along one day in the near future.

(Note: the thing didn’t look nearly as good as the one in the photo, but they were very similar.)

My Grammar School Ride

This is what I rode to school in the 6th grade…
I had to park it at a friend’s house across the street because the school wouldn’t let me ride it on their grounds. For those who knew me back then, Eura Brown Elementary School wasn’t far from my home, I didn’t think twice about it but as an adult with children of my own, I can’t imagine what the hell my parents were thinking. On occasion, I even took my first grader brother with me, and he still claims I scarred him for life.

As I grew older (Disque Junior High), I graduated to a motorcycle that I promptly crashed within a month or two. Nevertheless, those wonder years were a much simpler time… full of great friends and exciting dreams of the future.

Thanksgiving or Sunday Dinner

Mmmmm, Mmmmm Good… Home Cooked Meal
My mom would be the first to admit she wasn’t a very good cook, but it didn’t matter to us, we didn’t know the difference or even care.

At our house, Thanksgiving was a time for family fun, no hustle and bustle in the kitchen to add stress, just the family together with a lot of joking and laughter.

I don’t think I knew people actually cooked a turkey until I was 11 or 12 years old. Of course, cranberry sauce only came as a jell in a can (my dad loved that crap) and as for the Elam’s turkey, Swanson’s made a mighty fine presentation as it got the largest section in their 3-compartment tin serving platter (just the way I liked it, no food touching for me 🥴). Sometime later they added a 4th slot that included some kind of dessert cobbler… Mmmmm (still had those damn green peas)

The most important thing we learned about Thanksgiving as kids was that we were thankful to have each other and a mother who loved us dearly, was accepting of all our faults and took everything life threw her way in stride.

Happy Holidays, I hope you enjoy yours as much as we did ours… and by the way; even today I wouldn’t eat those green peas for love or money 🤢.

Gator Bait…

Some wild animals just shouldn’t be kept as pets…
When we were young, summer meant a vacation to Panama City Florida. In those days there were no condos lining the beach, or attractions every mile, just a bunch of small motels, Fun Land, a goofy golf put-put and my favorite, the Snake-a-torium.

Aside from the snakes, they had parrots, monkeys and alligators, too. Once you saw them milk a rattlesnake and feed the gators, you could browse through the items they had for sale, t-shirts, hats, photos and even baby gators. Today it wouldn’t be very socially acceptable, and probably illegal for a kid to buy an alligator for a pet, but way back then it was OK and I had to have one.

They weren’t very big, maybe 8 or 9 inches long from head to tail and they really couldn’t hurt you very much if they bit, so dad acquiesced. I’m sure he thought it wouldn’t last long at home, but surprisingly it lived for some time and grew to about three feet long.

We had built a small pen in our backyard out of fence wire and included a kiddie pool. He ate chicken and hamburger meat for the most part and didn’t do much else. One day we discovered he was missing, and we figured he had escaped to a nearby creek and would be happy there.

A few days later our neighbor and one of my mom’s good friends came banging on our back door, frantically yelling, “y’all have to come catch that damn alligator of yours.” 

It had made into her detached garage and when her housekeeper went out to get supplies, there it was, mouth agape and hissing at her from the corner. She ran into the house (and as our neighbor told it) so scared she was leaving and would come back one when it was gone.

By the time my dad got home that evening the neighborhood was abuzz with the story. It was dark and he and a couple of friends decided it would be best to wait until the morning to try to catch the thing. It had grown enough to inflict some damage and they would have to be careful and bait it with some chicken into a barrel so it could be hauled away in a wheelbarrow.

Morning came and the gator was gone. Everyone in the area was on the lookout, but it had completely disappeared. We all thought maybe it had made it down to the nearby creek to live out the remainder of its life.

For years to come, there were unconfirmed reports of a gator swimming around in the river, but it was never caught. I like to believe it was our own pet alligator, living wild and free.

Go Cart… Go

This was my first car (actually, mine was white with a red stripe and Bill hand painted on the side).
I was around 10 or 11 years old, and Santa brought it as a Christmas surprise. Several of the neighborhood dads got together and decided all their kids my age should have one.

Mistake number one! The 2 or 3 kids who didn’t get one cried and pitched a fit all Christmas morning as we all zoomed around, terrorizing the block and actually wreaking havoc.

Mistake number two! Some of us just weren’t too good at driving, and before lunch one friend had crashed his go cart and needed a quick doctor visit for stitches.

Mistake number three! The engines were basically lawnmowers and had to be hand pull-cranked from the rear to get them started. Just like an old lawnmower, they could be temperamental. You would often need a second person in the cart to up the throttle while holding the hand brake so that it didn’t take off by itself.

One day my younger brother was hounding me for a ride, so he became the designated brakeman (he was about 5 years old at the time) while I went to the rear to start her up. Needless to say, it didn’t work out too well. As I yanked on the starter cord, it kicked in and took off with my brother on board yelling… stop it, stop it. The cart headed up the street, straight for a pickup truck parked in front of a neighbor’s driveway. I ran close behind and managed to grab the steering wheel just before my brother and the cart hit. I jerked the wheel to the left and off it went, straight across the street, over the curb and dead center of a huge oak tree.

Another cart hits the dust… front end, steering link, tire and axel smashed to pieces. Oh, and my brother may have had a few bumps and bruises himself. No more go cart, but what I had actually wished for Christmas was a mini-bike. Wish, wish… wish!