A four-year-old boy goes off to the grocery store, with his two-year-old sister in tow, to buy some laundry detergent for their Mother. It was only four blocks to the store. What could possibly go wrong? Continue reading Shopping in the 60’s (The Good Old Days)
This is another in a series of short home movies that I’ve been editing (while learning how to edit:). It’s from a collection filmed by the late (uncle) Sam Smith of Woodstock, Virginia , my hometown. Continue reading Video-Main Street in Woodstock, Virginia during the Forties
I’m not a text person or a tweet person, having never really done either before. Today, I got to spend some quality time with my buddy Michael. Just like his Dad and myself as teens, we had gone months without communicating, but then side by side, we spoke to each other like it was just yesterday. It felt good.
I was working in Aunt B’s basement yesterday, and she followed me down the stairs and began rummaging through some boxes, looking at old pictures. The more that I looked, the more that I was amazed. Continue reading Aunt B’s Pictures
Back before the days of OSHA, on a 32-foot extension ladder far, far away, a young man took his first steps up the ladder for a short career as a house painter.
I was in-between jobs, to the point of being desperate for gas money. Not Mad Max desperate, but pretty close. A friend told me of a friend who had his own little painting business and that he was looking for some temporary help during the summertime. Continue reading House Painter for Hire
I was sitting at a bar one afternoon, hanging out with the regulars, just sipping on a beer and shooting the breeze. I hadn’t been born or raised in the area, but had morphed into a bar fly through osmosis, averaging four or five visits a week, and talking a good game while possessing the ability to drink to an unhealthy level while still working a job for 60 hours a week. That made you normal, just one of the guys. Continue reading Self Medication
This is to be read at a Henny Youngman/Groucho Marx tempo.
So my Mom’s living in South Carolina and buys a retirement home up in the hills of the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. As is often the case, I’m not working and volunteer to live in the house while freeloading as I paint and remodel the new home.
Mom sends me a book to be delivered at the local Post Office. She has a small P.O. Box at the office, but it’s not big enough to hold a book.
I walk in for the first time ever.
“Hi. Yeeeah. My Mom sent a book for me from South Carolina”
The lone Post Office employee tells me to wait for a moment and surveys a pile of packages behind her. Then she grabs one.
“Here you go!”
I went back to my car with the package, strapped-up with my seat belt, and started the engine. And then it dawned on me. I never mentioned my name or my Mom’s. Never a P.O. number. Just that my Mom had sent me a packaged book.
And it was the right package!
You know you’re in a small town if…