Clarence

Frank had a three man operation. He and Stan were the masons and Clarence was the laborer. Clarence did all the support work and the three of them worked together on the job to get ready to lay blocks and bricks. Clarence mixed the mud (mortar for laying block), carried and stacked the blocks and bricks, dug the footers and cesspools, pulled up the forms, cleaned up the sites. You get the idea. Keep in mind this was a small operation. They had no cement mixer. No backhoe. No bobcat. Only shovels, hoes, digging bars, sand screen, hands and backs. During the peak periods Frank needed an extra laborer, and I was it.
So, at 17 I signed on to be another pair of hands and a back. Frank turned me over to Clarence to show me how to work. He taught me the way to dig so I could dig all day in the hot sun, and how to carry two 60 pound blocks and swing them up on a chest-high scaffold, and how to mix mud and set cesspool blocks and rings and how to get a 200 pound bluestone chimney cap up two 16 foot ladders. He and I often worked alone on site preparation. We dug footers and cesspools. Now there is a job. A cesspool was built in the ground in a hole that was 10 or more feet deep and about 10 feet around. We dug them by hand. Clarence taught me to throw dirt a long way. Then we dropped the blocks into the hole and Frank built the round cesspit walls. We had lots of time to talk over the years we worked together, but Clarence was a man of few words and I could keep my own company when needed. Lunch time was different. We had 45 minutes to rest and eat and talk. He talked about the world of black men and segregation. How he grew up into that world and how he navigated through it. He owned several houses that he rented out, and had a comfortable retirement planned. He was about 60 when we met.
He talked about the events in the South and I listened, but I didn’t understand. It was the time of Brown v Board of Education and Rosa Parks. I was a middle class white boy living in New York and didn’t have a clue what was going on. One day we were talking about racism and he said “If a man steals corn from your field that doesn’t mean the next man coming down the road will steal your corn.” I never thought it did, but that is part of the core of racism.
I went off to college in the South and saw firsthand what he was talking about.
Clarence was a teacher, mentor, business man, laborer, husband, father and more. I learned a lot from him. He was strong and lean, and dignified. He retired, died, and I never got to tell him that I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. But I did in the end understand. And Clarence, thank you.

Signs: http://www.wvu.edu/~lawfac/jscully/Race/images/colored%20sign.jpg
Rosa Parks: disarminginjustice.files.wordpress.com/2009/0

Burning Castor Oil: Gotta Love It.

Jim Croce again. Rapid Roy was a dirt track demon. Ah, the dirt track at Riverhead. Saturday nights in the summer with the roar of highly tuned old engines. The time was the mid 50’s and the stock cars were cut up coups from the thirties and forties with a few early fifties thrown in for good measure. Flat head Vee-eights, straight eights, flat head sixes and OHV sixes. In the unlimited classes some OHV eights. The roar of straight pipes and the smell of castor oil and burning rubber. Occasionally a wheel would break off and come straight into the stands and everybody would duck. Local farmers, welders, mechanics and a few teachers and doctors. Mostly the same cars every week.
Then, Geraldo showed up. Shiny black ’37 coup with an OHV vee-eight. Black driving suit. Black helmet. Rumor was that he was a hair dresser from Queens somewhere. He was a terrific driver with a great car (grumble: probably paid to get his car that good. Not a good old boy like the rest). He raced week after week and year after year. What a thrill to watch him eat the track and the locals. They were all good drivers and sometimes someone beat Geraldo, but not usually.
Fourth of July fireworks. Beer in cups. Smells. Noise. What a treat. Driving home after the races was a thrill too, because it was a race.
I’m going to get some castor oil and burn it on the grill the next time I barbecue. I hope it smells as sweet as I remember. I’ll let you know.
Photo: winfield.50megs.com/Cowley/oldstockcars_4.htm

That other Mother again

They went to bed under the stars on the Nebraska plains. Light sleeping bags were all they needed to keep the chilled night air and dew from becoming too uncomfortable. My father and his brother woke up early, got a small fire going and passed the time until full daylight planning the rattlesnake hunt for the day. Little did they know. As the sun came up, my mother stirred then suddenly froze. "Hal? There is something in the bottom of my sleeping bag. When I move it buzzes" Right. It was a fairly large rattle snake that had crawled into her bag during the night for warmth. The brothers discussed the possible ways to get the snake out without getting her bitten and came up with a plan. "Stay still until the sun warms the bag. The snake will come out on it's own and then we'll shoot it." So she did. For hours she lay unmoving as gradually the snake warmed up and moved up over her body to the open end of the bag. It poked out it's head. "No shot. Wait a little longer" my father said. Finally the reptile got out and started to move away. A single shot to the head killed it instantly. After some coffee and a late breakfast they hunted rattle snakes. What a woman!

The Merc who Cried

He was big. Cropped hair. Rough look. The kind of man nobody would mess with.

Sal and I were in the Keys for a week of fishing and relaxing. We rented a cheap duplex with a ramp and kept the 13' Whaler close by. One afternoon we decided to stop for a beer at a local bar, really more like a lean to scabbed on to the side of a building. The only people there were sitting at the bar. All the tables were empty. We wanted a bit of space and privacy so we grabbed a table a few away from the bar and got a couple of drafts. We spent a couple of hours talking about the world, us and the guys, eyeing us with suspicion, at the bar. The big quiet guy caught our attention. We speculated about what he might be and why he was there on a weekday afternoon. We decided he was a mercenary in between jobs. Back from Africa probably and waiting for the next contract. Clearly a man not to mess with.

About 3 hours into the afternoon we finally needed some food and ordered something. By this time the locals had stopped paying attention to us, figuring, we thought, we were not a threat. Just strangers spending an afternoon like them, drinking and getting out of the sun.

Slowly, the Merc (as we called him) got up from the bar and turned towards us. Strong arms in a camo jacket of sorts hung loosely at his sides. He looked at us without expression. I mean he had a hard look, not a glare exactly, but no joy there. Not mean exactly either. Hard.

He slowly walked over to our table - graceful- powerful- and we thought (as we discussed later) "crap, we're in for trouble now." Then we saw the change. His face softened and tears rolled down his cheeks. He said "You look like nice people. You mind if I sit with you and talk a while?"

We listened for the next hour or so to the tale of his misery over his wife leaving him. He was a gentle giant, deeply hurt and grieving. We never found out who he really was. To us he remains the Merc who cried, and trusted strangers with his story.

Photo: i11.photobucket.com/albums/a199/don_veto/army...

Sucking the Marrow.

"There never seems to be enough time to do the things that you want once you find them". Jim Croce again. Time has a way of sneaking up on you and then passing you by. John Keating said: "sucking the marrow out of life doesn't mean choking on the bone." (Dead Poet's Society). So the trick is to get the most out of life while you can without killing your self in the process. Don't use the old "When we retire we will....." too often. If possible you want to emulate Marco Polo, quoted from Gary Jennings book: When he was dying he explained his behavior thus:" I lived my life so I would never have to say ' I always wanted to, but I never did.' ".

In other words, do what you can while you can and don't depend on the future to be there for you. Enter Sciatica. Sal and I were walking our sweet Catahaula Wednesday when an escaped pit bull attacked her. She was on a lead, so the attack was around our feet. We both tried to break up the one-sided fight, bending, pulling, kicking, lifting. The owner of the pit bull finally got there and dragged him off and away, getting bitten twice in the process. The next day, Thanksgiving, Sal started to hurt. Lower back. Leg. By Saturday she couldn't sit or stand or walk or sleep with out pain. Sunday, after x rays to be sure there was no lower spinal damage, the diagnosis: Sciatica. Take cyclobenzaprene, ibuprofen and rest. Rest. Sally.

This morning Sal is at work, hopefully taking it a bit easier. The sciatica will get better in time, but we both got a wake up call here. Both of us are a heartbeat from some life-changing event. Makes us glad we have sucked some of the marrow from life and not yet choked. And it isn't over yet. There are still pockets of marrow to be sucked, and suck we will.

Sweet Millie is fine. No bites.

Photo: 1.bp.blogspot.com/.../s400/thoreau.jpg