Slides 79, 91 and 50

The Slide: My mother , Sally, Johnny, Ingrid and Me on Old Baldy

The Date: October, 1965

The Photographer: My Father

When people ask me where I come from I tell them I’m from a little place in north centrallish Pennsylvania. If they say, “Oh really, what’s it’s near?” I tell them it’s near south westernish, NY.  I do so because, really, it’s not near anywhere. The nearest big city (Buffalo) is about a hundred miles away but I never knew anyone who had actually been there and I knew I never wanted to go.  The only three TV stations we received in my little town were broadcast from Buffalo, so I had watched the local news enough to know I was better off staying right where I was.  Every night I’d hear about the killer fires in suburban Cheektowaga or the four-alarm blazes in lower Lackawanna.  When, as a junior in high school, I finally did drive with my family to the city for the Ice Capades, I was surprised there were any buildings left. 

We were pretty isolated in my little town, but we liked it that way.  On the radio dial all I could get during the day was WFRM (The Farm and Home Broadcasting Company).  But on cold, clear nights, if I tuned my Sears Silvertone very carefully—I can still smell the hot tubes—I might pick up ABC in New York, CKLW in Detroit and my favorite WLS in Chicago.

          “Radar weather, eye-eeeee-iiiii-eeeee-iiiii,” the weatherman’s choir sang in four-part harmony. “Radar weather, eye-eeeee-iiiii-eeeee-iiiii.”

“Hey Chicago, It’s cold out there,” the announcer would say. “Radar weather has forty-one in Des Plaines, thirty-nine on the North Shore and it’s a chilly thirty-seven in the loop.”

Tucked in my bed, I lay in the dark night after night and wondered what the heck a Loop was.  I thought it was probably something like the circular drive at our high school though maybe even longer. We didn’t have the bright lights, subways, fancy restaurants, or a Loop, but what we had was beautiful.  Nestled in the rolling Allegheny Mountains, everywhere you looked it was just so beautiful. All the little towns around were nice too but none more so than mine because we had Old Baldy.

Old Baldy was a big piece of hillside, stripped clean of trees, jutting out into the center of town. I asked my grandfather how it got so bald.  He told me that it was originally clear cut by turn of the century lumber barons.  The forest would have grown back like it did on the surrounding hills but, for several generations, it became a common pasture where town folks grazed their milk cows. The cows kept it bald. 

From my house I could run out the back door, across the creek, and up through the pine grove at the base of the hill. Fifteen minutes later, I’d be standing at the most magnificent spot in my world.  From here the town looked exactly like the postcards at the Five and Dime, but you didn’t have to pay even a nickel for the view.  From here tiny cars drove slowly on rolling country roads.  From here the Pennsylvania Railroad, like a Lionell model, snaked its’ path along the river to unload at the glass factory.  From here on hot summer afternoons, barely discernible from so high, you could spot kids on their bikes weaving their way to the pool.

It was a magical place and from the age of five I climbed there often. On summer nights I’d go up there with a whole pack of buddies.  We carried our sleeping bags and little blue boxes of Camp Fire Marshmallows.  As the sun dropped over the far hill, we’d watch the street lamps blinking on below, only to be outdone an hour later by the blazing stars above.

In the winter we tobogganed down Old Baldy’s icy face, six little blue-lipped buddies, laced together holding on to one another’s frozen buckled boots, screaming at the top of our lungs. In the late summer lying on sleds of flattened cardboard boxes we careened down it’s grassy front.

Old Baldy was just a big piece of hillside in the center of my little town, but it played an important part in my growing up.  I took my first solo hike there as a five year old.  I had my first campout there at eight—pretty big deal.   I met my first girlfriend up there once when we were thirteen. I’ll call her Denise because…well… that was her name. I recall it was exciting but a bit awkward.  We sat up there, side by side, on a log and looked at the town for a few minutes.

I said, “Pretty huh?”

She said, “Yup”.  And that was about it. 

Then she stood up, smiled and kind of waved. She went down her side and I went down mine. Okay it wasn’t a hot date but it was better than having my dad drive us somewhere. 

When I was twenty, I took another girl up there. She was very impressed. For years, every time we visited “home” we climbed there with our kids. 

But the most special times on Old Baldy were the times I spent with my dad—many of them when I was very young.  Dad always pulled on black artics over his shining dress shoes. Then he'd  pull on a scratchy school letter jacket, and a wool hat.  My mother would help me put on every imaginable piece of warm winter clothing that a child could legally be required to wear and off we'd go.

As hard as the climb was, stumbling over my own feet, sliding on the nearly frozen ground, sweating through several sweaters and a winter coat, I plodded upward, I wanted to get to the top.  To me, the whole idea of climbing Old Baldy was to get to the top.  But apparently my dad knew better. He’d stop and say, “Shhhh Listen,” We’d be by the creek or by a stand of pines or under a rusty old oak still clinging to its dry leaves.  “Listen!” he’d whisper so softly I could hardly hear.

I was never sure what I was supposed to be listening for. Then, very faintly at first, I would hear it.  The complaint of a maple gently moving in a breeze. The flourish of a black squirrel running a tightrope from tree to tree.  Maybe the mournful chorus of a thousand geese flying far too high to be seen. And once, I remember, it was the plinking burble sound of trickling water flowing between layers of melting ice.  To my dad it was all beautiful music.  Eventually we would reach the top where we’d rest a while and enjoy the beauty. Then all too soon we’d have to head back down. My dad taught me to experience the climb and I grew to love it.  As a young man though, it became increasingly difficult to be quiet—to be still. I still struggle with the urge to just get to the top. Then I hear my father’s voice, “Shhh. Listen!”

         Old Baldy is gone now.   The hill is still there but it’s no longer bald.  Each year, the pine grove and the leafy seedlings crept higher and higher toward the top.  Sadly, the last time I climbed Old Baldy I stood, surrounded by a deep forest, unable to see the town below.

 

         It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon in mid October.  The leaves are just beyond peak.  My cousin Johnny went with my father and me to the football game.  We returned home, to find my mother packing a picnic basket. “Thought we might take a hike up Old Baldy,” she said.  “It’s just so beautiful this evening.”  My sister Sally helped little Ingrid into her sweater. “Don’t forget her hat,” my mother said,

         Sally rolled her eyes. “Mom,” she said, “it’s hot out there.”

         “But it might get breezy on top,” my mother said, “and who knows, maybe we’ll want to stay a little while.”

         My father grabbed the camera. 

         An hour later, as the sun was setting, we gathered around a campfire and roasted our hot dogs. My father said, “Hey Johnny, do me a favor and snap a family picture for us. Will you?”

         Johnny grabbed the camera, looked through the view finder and said, “Ingrid! Hey! Hey!  Hey Ingrid! Look this way!” Ingrid, a perfectionist even then, was intently focusing on her hot dog and the job at hand. She never heard his voice. The rest of us looked toward the camera and Johnny snapped a picture forever preserving the memory of a beautiful place.

Slide 69 and 70

The Slide: My buddy John and Me

The Date: 1968

The Photographer:  My father

             It’s the springtime of my sophomore year.  I’m only weeks away from a major summer growth spurt during which I will add three inches and put on another ten pounds.  I’ve been excitedly and nervously anticipating this change.  Excitedly—because my father told me this would happen soon.  Nervously—because… well he’d been wrong before.  I’m sitting on the flower garden retaining wall playing my guitar.  Next to me perched on the hood of his ’62 Ford Falcon is my buddy John.  He’s a junior—one year older than I and it’s evident.  John could easily grow a full beard and did most everyday.  He looks a bit like Elvis just before he got fat.  I, on the other hand, look a bit like Opie just before the Andy Griffeth show got cut.

            We’re strumming twelve-string guitars—the only ones in our town.  They’re not identical but they’re both seventy-five dollar “Harmony” guitars bought at a music store, twenty-five miles away in Olean, NY.  I bought mine first.  John saw it and thought it was cool.  A couple weeks later he bought his own and we started practicing.  We’re playing a “C” chord, one of the few that we’ve perfected.  My dad pulls in the driveway after work.  He stops directly in front of us, rolls down his window, retrieves his camera from beneath the seat and says, “Hold it right there you guys.  This’ll be a nice one.”  He snaps a picture.

            John and I spent a lot of time practicing.  We met at my house most every day and I always looked forward to his visits.  They made me feel good about myself because… well… he was an impressive guy.  He was good-natured, an excellent student and leader, an athlete, an actor and perhaps most impressively he was an outstanding singer who had already experienced something of a music career.  

            Two years earlier, he and four other guys formed our town’s first rock and roll band the Changing Tymes though within a month they were simply The Tymes.  John was the front man, beating a tambourine against his thigh and screaming into his handheld mic what are now known as the Rock and Roll Classics.  Back then they were brand-new.  The Tymes had a repertoire of perhaps a dozen songs but they could fill a couple hours easily by stretching a three minute song to six or nine by simply repeating it two or three times.  Or they could add a drum solo and then the length was only limited by the drummer’s stamina.  A drummer’s skill was not particularly important or even appreciated.  Speed and stamina were what most impressed.

            When I was in Jr. High, The Tymes played at all our school dances.  I was a huge fan and imagined myself being invited to join the group.  It was not an entirely foolish thought.  I had a good voice.  It was not as mature as John’s but I had a strong falsetto, sang harmony parts easily and, unlike John, I already knew all their songs on my starter guitar.  I sat by my bed stand radio for hours fingering the frets searching for the chords I heard.  I was surprised to discover that most of the songs used the same three chords.  Sometimes, when I was unable to find the right ones, I’d wrap an elastic capo around the guitar’s neck and… what do know… same three chords!  With this new knowledge I was able to create a flawless medley arrangement of “Louie Louie”, “La Bamba”, “Hang on Sloopy” and “Twist and Shout”.  I figured it out in my head!  Took me about a minute!

            During their first year, none of The Tymes were old enough to drive so they were unable to play outside our little community.  This created a dangerously small market place for a band that had invested a fair amount of cash in instruments and equipment.  They could play at school dances but there weren’t very many and the band wasn’t likely to be booked for the big ones like The Prom.  Other than the school gym, our town had only two performance spaces where a dance could be held.  The first was the banquet room on the second floor of the old Legion Hall.  Unfortunately after several sold out dances the building tipped a bit to one side.  It was less than a foot but you could see it.  For several years afterward my little church continued to meet there for the annual Christmas Smorgasbord but dances were forever banned.

            The second and only viable option became The Moose Lodge.  Above the bar, on the second floor, “The Moose” had a fine dance floor with an elevated stage at one end.  It was here that “The Tymes” built their following. 

            I wanted badly to be in a band but my parents forbade it.   They did so not because they disapproved of the music but because they disapproved of “The Moose”.  Or more specifically, they disapproved of my presence  in a place where alcohol was served.  I think it’s safe to say that teenagers attending the dances consumed none of that alcohol and I made that case to my parents.

            “You guys are being SO unreasonable,” I said,  “The bar is downstairs and kids aren’t allowed anywhere near it.”

            “Bobby,” my mother said, “We’re not going to talk about this anymore.”

            “Then I can never be in a band,” I protested, my voice cracking on the edge of angry tears.

            “Then you’ll have to do something else, won’t you?” she said.

            I looked at my father… pleading. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Why are you looking at me?  You know your mom and I are together on this one.”

            It wasn’t long afterward that I asked my folks if they would help me to buy the expensive twelve-string and surprisingly, without hesitation, they agreed.  My mom had said that I’d have to do something else.  They recognized that this was it and were willing to help.

            The Rock and Roll Classics didn’t sound so good played all by myself so I turned to folk music.  I learned songs like "Lemon Tree", "Green Fields" and "Where Have All The Flowers Gone".  While the other kids were rockin' out at "The Moose", I sang to my parents.

           

Yellow bird so high in banana tree

      Yellow bird you sit all alone like me

           

      It was pretty depressing.

            “Oh Bobby,” my mother would say, “play the one about that answer that’s blowin’ in the wind.”

            At some point I decided to write my own songs, which I modeled after so many romantic heartache hits I heard on the radio.   I’d experienced very little romantic heartache myself but that did not deter me.  The previous year, my eighth grade sweetheart moved away from our town.  Her dad got a job halfway across the country and, apparently giving no consideration to my feelings, he decided to take it.  To add insult to injury, he insisted on taking his daughter and the rest of his family with him.  If not heartbreaking, the experience  was at the very least profoundly unpleasant.  I used the memory and wrote a song.

           

            In the darkness of the night

            I can hear your voice callin’ to me

            In the darkness of the night

            I can see your face smilin’ at me

            And then it makes me wonder

            Why you’d leave me all alone

            Now I know what it’s like

            To be on my own

 

            We use to be so happy together

            All the time

            Now I’m hanging on

            By the end of the line

            And then that makes me wonder

            Why you’d leave me all alone

            Now I know what it’s like

            To be on my own

 

And there was a chorus, which is too embarrassing to reproduce here.  It was a poor song conceptually, structurally, and lyrically but it had a nice melody putting it right on par with just about anything by The Archies.  In retrospect I’m amazed that I stood in our living room and performed it for my parents.  I’m even more amazed that they didn’t laugh though they may have lost it when I left the room. 

            “Mom… Dad, “ I said, “I wrote a song.  Wanna hear it?”

            “Sure,” my father said.  “Let me turn down the TV.”

            I remember no embarrassment—even when I knew my sister Sally was listening in the hallway.  She was a tremendous tease but I didn’t care.  I sang like my heart was breaking.  When I finished my parents clapped.  Sally, with a huge smile, walked into the room.  I was ready for ridicule. 

            “Oh my gosh,” she said.  “Did you write that? “

            “Yeah,” I said defensively.  “So what?”

            “Because,” she said, “it was SO good. I can’t believe it.”

            It took me a moment to realize she was sincere.

            Shortly afterward,  my choral director asked me to play my guitar for our Christmas concert.  Following a rehearsal I sang a few lines of my new song for some friends.  I heard someone harmonizing behind me and turned to see John.  I stopped singing.

            “Cool guitar,” he said,  “I’ve never seen a twelve string.”

            “The Byrds play guitars like this,” I said.  “You can hear the sound on ‘Turn Turn Turn’”.

            “No kidding,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

            “Olean,” I said.  “Seventy-five bucks”.

            “Cool,” he said.  “Hey, play that song again”.

            And that’s how our friendship began.

            I’d always known who he was but in the elementary years not many friendships crossed grade levels and he lived on the other end of town—literally and figuratively on the other side of the tracks.  His house was a poor structure that I did not often visit.  When I did visit there, his mom was as sweet as could be, always smiling, often cooking or ironing in their cluttered kitchen.  His father was sullen and distant.  My only insight into their family dynamics came one day riding in John’s car. He was driving backwards.  He’d been doing so for nearly three weeks while he waited for a part to fix his transmission.

            “It’s amazing how good you can drive,” I said.  “I mean, a lot of us can drive but you’re so relaxed.  You act like you’ve been sitting behind the wheel your whole life.”

            “Well,” he laughed glancing in the review mirror, “that’s because I have.”

            “What do mean?” I said. “You just got your license last year.”

            “Yeah,” he said, “but I’ve been driving since I was seven.”

            He went on to tell me the story of his dad leaving him in the car while he went into a bar.  A couple hours later his dad returned and fell asleep.  John, only a second grader, drove them home.

            Most often we practiced at my house.  After a year or so we had a repertoire of our own and shared it wherever we could.  We played at some private parties, won our school talent show and even late-night serenaded a pretty girl from beneath her second story bedroom window. 

            One day after school my mother handed me an advertisement she had cut from our local paper. “Take a look at this,” she said.  It was an announcement for a talent show being held by the Wellsville, NY Art Guild.  Auditions were the next weekend.  “You and John should try out,” she said.  “There’ a one hundred dollar first prize.”

            “Mom,” I said, “That sounds great but Wellsville is over an hour away and John ‘s car only goes in reverse.  Even I think the trip would be too risky.”

            “I’ll take you,” she said.  And she did.

            A week later we stood before a small table of judges and sang two songs—my original and somewhat improved “In the Darkness of the Night”, and a traditional railroad song.

 

            In eighteen hundred and forty-one

            I put my corduroy britches on

            I put my corduroy britches on

            To work upon the railway

 

            They told us on the spot that we were “in”.

            Three weeks later we stood on a stage in a full high school auditorium.  We sang our best and it was the best we’d ever sung.  Then we sat down back stage on folding chairs. With each act we began our victory celebration.  One little girl tap-danced while lip-syncing “Me and my Shadow”.  She was cute and no threat.  An older woman attempted a classical piano piece but succumbed to stage fright, skipped a movement or two and played the last chord four times before getting it right.  It was sad but hey… that’s show business.   One old man played several harmonicas poorly before swallowing a tiny one.  It was deliberate.  He’d tied it to a string. I later overheard a judge arguing with the man.  “Yes,” she said, “I understand that it is a unique talent but it’s gross.”

            With the conclusion of each act we were spending our prize money.  Then the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen.  Would you please welcome our final contestants—first prize winners for the previous two years— the pride of Wellsville, our very own ‘The Liberty Boys’”.  The audience went crazy, as did the judges in the front row.  John muttered a mild expletive.

            From the other side of the stage, four young men bounded into the spotlight.  They were dressed in sharp black trousers, red and white striped shirts and sparkly vests.  They carried a tambourine, tenor guitar, banjo and an upright acoustic bass.  They began with a ballad.  All four sang in near perfect unison.

           

            Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine

            I’ll taste your strawberries I’ll drink your sweet wine

            A million tomorrows will all pass away

            E’er I forget all the joy that is mine today

 

            It was beautiful and I felt the joy that was mine today disappearing.  Before my eyes I saw our blossoms falling from the vine.  The audience sat in rapt attention and at the end burst into applause as The Liberty Boys strummed into the introduction to “This Land is Your Land”.  By the second line the audience had risen and was singing along.

            John leaned closer to be heard. “How much was second prize?”  he said. “Do you remember?”

            “Just a trophy,” I said. “But hey… don’t give up! They could still blow it!”

            But I was wrong.  They were far beyond blowing it.  At this point they could have shouted vulgarities at the judges—they could have gestured lewdly—no one would have cared.  And they weren’t done!  When the audience joined in the last chorus the bass player began spinning his instrument revealing the red, white and blue of the American flag painted on the backside.  Presumably they were still singing though the audience was too loud for us to be certain.

            John shouted, “Was second prize two trophies or just one?”

            It was just one—a gold painted, Olympic athlete with garlands, standing upon a wooden pedestal.  It was terribly generic and in that respect much like The Liberty Boys.  But hey… I have to give them credit.  They knew something about showmanship that we had not learned.  They knew their audience and they connected with them big time.

            After graduation, John went to college somewhere around Harrisburg. He met a girl there and fell in love.  He asked me to be his best man.  The night before the wedding we shared a hotel room and talked far into the early morning hours.  I wanted to express how much I’d appreciated his friendship.  I wanted to say, “Thanks for being such a good friend.”  I don’t know why I couldn’t find the words.

“Hey John, “ I said.  “I can’t believe your getting married.  I can’t believe I’m your best man.  That’s cool.”  That much was the truth.  It was cool.  He had a lot of good friends.  He could have asked any of them but he asked me.  It was a great honor.  Sadly the marriage was brief.  I saw him only one more time maybe five or six years later.  I was visiting my folks and heard that John was in town.  I gave him a call and he came to the house.   We tried to sing some of the old songs but agreed that we didn’t sound so good anymore and by then I considered my early originals to be embarrassingly bad.  It was good though to be together again.  That was over thirty years ago.

I think everything in our lives—everyone  makes a difference.  I admired my buddy John.  I was impressed with his charisma and talent and so pleased that he wanted to create something with me.  Our friendship gave me confidence.  It helped me to believe that I might actually be really good at something—that I might find a way to do it someday.

I have a slide of John.  I dropped him off after school.  My dad’s camera was on the seat.  I grabbed it, pointed the lens out the window and shouted, “Hey Elvis”.  John spun around, smiling, and I snapped the picture.  He’s standing in front of his house.  It’s a rundown setting and the slide is gritty—the film damaged—the sky eaten away by some chemical whim.  Swirls of light encircle him like streamers.  The lens catches him in the middle of some inadvertency.  I remember thinking at the time that he looked like a rock star.  I still think he does.