Having established who the “real” Santa actually is, it is now time to move to the conclusion of this little dissertation because again, as most of you already know, once one has done all the due research to establish who that real Santa is, at some point they must ultimately deal with the fact that they have apparently had a hoax perpetrated on them during those young and tender years.
There is an often posed rhetoric question one often hears when someone is making reference to some major event of historic proportion and some may even categorize this advent of knowledge as one of those moments. So here is the infamous question….
Do you remember where you were when you found out there was no Santa Claus?
Well I for one was just about the age reflected in the photo below. I was a full-fledged believer in the 2nd grade at Rightsell Elementary but life was fast closing in on me and I was learning more in school than I had bargained for, especially from my classmates.
Even at that young age, I absolutely remember where I was and although it wasn’t a traumatic moment in my life, I do remember that startling confirmation as if it were yesterday. It was on a Saturday afternoon and my mom and I were on a city bus heading downtown. I had heard some disturbing talk during the week at school from some of the more astute classmates regarding the existence of Santa. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know but finally I looked over at my mom as we were riding along and asked, “Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?” She then asked me why I was asking such a question. I proceeded to tell her what I had heard and after that she looked at me with this loving look and said, “No son, there is no Santa Claus. Santa Claus is actually your mommy and your daddy.” She went on to say how they wait until I am asleep and then they would put out the toys and gifts that were attributed to Santa’s visit.
I remember taking the revelation quite well. But after several minutes or so of thinking about what she had told me, it occurred to me that this information may have even more far reaching repercussions. I then turned to her once again and asked…..
“What about the Easter Bunny……?”
…..and what about the Tooth Fairy……?”
Mom again looked at me with that loving smile and simply said, “No, they are just make believe also.”
As I think back now, I remember that even though there was no longer a “Santa Claus”, my parents continued over the years every Christmas to keep an element of anticipation and surprise a part of every Christmas morning. There was always a gift or two or three under the tree or at least nearby that wasn’t there Christmas Eve when I went to bed. The Santa I had come to know and love was seemingly gone yet the anticipation and excitement surrounding Christmas remained for many years to come.
Other than the fact that the Christmas season is now upon us, I am not quite sure why but recently I have been thinking a lot about Santa Claus. It has been around six decades or so since that jolly old character last visited me so it is not in anticipation of his visit and delivery of a list of goodies that has me engrossed in thought. At any rate, whatever the reason there has been a couple of things on my mind and this time of year certainly seems the appropriate time to share my thoughts with those of you willing to listen.
There must be thousands upon thousands of artistic representations of our beloved Santa circulating in this world. There are paintings, drawings and photos of Santa in every conceivable body configuration and attire imaginable. But as you and I know, there is only one Santa so all the varied assortments of representations certainly come from the minds of those who have not ever seen the real Santa. I have seen the “real” Santa.
For me, there is and has always been but one Santa Claus and everything this child could imagine about this man is embodied in the pictures accompanying this post. And that Santa, who is sometimes referred to as the Coca-Cola Santa, was created by artist Haddon Sundblom and his rendering of Santa had its artistic debut in a 1931 edition of “The Saturday Evening Post”.
(The Saturday Evening Post – 1931 / Click to Enlarge)
There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that Mr. Sundblom actually met the “real” Santa and convinced Santa to let him paint his portrait. Without that magical moment, we would have been left with nothing but our own imaginations and thousands of fictional representations of our beloved Santa.
(Coca-Cola Santa – 1953 / Click to Enlarge)
Christmases may come and go as they do along with the many visions of Santa that are showered upon us but that is of no matter to me. Those visions fall as water off a duck’s back on me until someone shows me a picture of the Coca-Cola Santa. Now there is the “real”, non-fictional Santa!
(Coca-Cola Santa – 1951 / Click to Enlarge)
In concluding my recent thoughts regarding the “real” Santa Claus (shown above) I will be posting ”Part II” of my post in a few days.
In late October of 1968 I was stationed at Warner-Robbins Air Force Base which is located near Macon, Georgia. After being honorably discharged from the United States Air Force on November 1st of that year I decided I would travel to Atlanta and see if I could get a job there.
I fortunately found a job quite quickly and ended up working briefly for a company named Baker Audio which was located in Atlanta, Georgia proper. The company, although small, was quite well known for its expertise in the realm of audio and among other things, had put in the sound system in Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. This fact was soon to become a blessing in disquise as it turns out.
Not but a week or so after starting to work there my boss asked if I would mind working on an upcoming Sunday for a few hours. He noted that since it was Sunday I would be getting paid double-time. Well, I jumped at the opportunity. Especially given the fact I was only making like $90 a week to begin with. But the best news was yet to come
My boss then began to explain the essence of the job I had just accepted. The company, Baker Audio, had the maintenance and operating contract for the sound system with the Atlanta Stadium and anytime there was an event at the stadium requiring the sound system being used, that a Baker Audio sound system person had to be at the stadium to turn on the system and oversee any problems that might occur. My boss went on to say there was almost never a problem and if there was, they had backup available, normally equated to by simply flipping a switch.
He went on to say that the stadium had two heated and/or air-conditioned glassed-in booths. One was for the “rich and famous” and adjacent to it was the other booth which was for the operator of the electronic scoreboards and for the employees of the sound system company who were maintaining and running the sound system. The main sound system consoles were also located in this booth which is obviously why the employees were allowed in that booth.
On two different Sundays I accompanied my boss to the stadium to fulfill those responsibilities and learn how to turn on and run the system. Those two occasions involved football games being played by the Atlanta Falcon’s football team and their opponent for that week.
What this all meant in layman’s terms was that on the upcoming Sunday I was going to get paid double time for flipping a switch and sitting in a heated, glassed-in booth and watching a football game between the Atlanta Falcons and the Los Angeles Rams or in case number two, watching them play the Detriot Lions a few weeks later. Does life suck sometimes or what?
That first Sunday I also found out that I was also allowed in the press area along with being able to partake in the food buffet set up for the press core and attending celebrities. I remember my boss and I getting a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon but everything was pretty much a blur to me. I was just completely mesmerized by the whole thing. Talk about a great job.
Below are a couple of gate passes I kept from the two games where I attended and worked so very, very hard. Some jobs have perks, but I have to say this was the perk of all perks! Being paid double time to watch a football game….at the stadium no less!
(Click on image to enlarge)
(Click on image to enlarge)
Believe it or not, I made one of those ‘life decisions’ only two months after taking this job to quit the company and return home to Arkansas. I think in the long run that was a good decision but it goes without saying how often I have thought back about that job and the fact that I could have been paid good money just to sit in a booth, flip a switch, and watch either the Atlanta Falcons or Atlanta Braves play their games season after season.
I ran across an older post on “SuzzWords” blog recently that brought back a couple of memories growing up as a very naive kid back in the 1950’s. Her post was basically with regard to those “bad words” we would sometimes incur along with other things of a sexual nature back in those days.
Given the way society treats most things of that nature these days, those things of shame in the fifties rise to the level of ‘humor’ today. My two most vivid learning experiences which pushed me part way across that threshold of naiveness were with regard to “the finger” and “condoms”. Neither of which I had a clue about, even after having reached the ninth grade in 1955.
Let’s start with the infamous ‘finger’. From time to time I would see someone at school give the dreaded ‘finger’ to someone else. Sometimes following the jester would be laughter, sometimes the appearance of anger. This sent very confusing signals to me, someone who had not a clue as to what this apparent secret sign meant. I knew it must be bad because before someone gave ‘the finger’ to someone else, they would normally check to see if a figure of authority was any where around.
Then one day while in the boy’s restroom a good friend of mine and myself were approaching the urinals for a moment of relief. He had just given ‘the finger’ to one of our other friends in the hallway. My friend grinned and I immediately thought to myself that this is it, I had to know what this secret code was! As we were standing there relieving ourselves the ensuing conversation went something like this…..
Me: “Why do you keep doing that finger thing? You don’t even know what it means!”
Friend: “I do too!”
Me: “No you don’t!”
Friend: “I DO TOO!”
Me: “Okay…..prove it. What does it mean?”
Friend: “It means, F*** You!”
Me: “That’s right! I really didn’t think you knew.”
My friend looked a bit disturbed at my interrogation techniques so I immediately followed up with an apology that I had doubted his worldly knowledge. What was important is that I pulled the old “Tom Sawyer” on him and had gotten my own naiveness addressed.
As often happens in these situations however, I now had yet another problem. What does that ‘F’ word mean? I had heard it maybe a couple of times from some of the more shady characters at our school and I knew it was bad but up until then, never had a particular interest in its meaning. I eventually put two and two together however and finally figured it all out – sort of I think.
And here I am some fifty years older and I’m still not sure I understand why that gesture has been chosen as a universal sign of displeasure. Well, at least one embraced by us Americans. It always seemed more logical to me, given the circumstances in which one person flips another person off, that if someone is aggravated or upset with the another someone that a more appropriate meaning for ‘the finger’ would be something like “Go To Hell!”
Contrary to that, it seems to me that the “F*** you!” connotation applied to the sign seems to imply that when you get mad at someone and flip them off, you are hoping they have some sort of sexual encounter. And that could be a good thing, right? Oh well, that’s why someone else is writing all these rules and not me. You know, I wonder if Congress had something to do with this?
The other particular item which I had to deal with in those days was with regard to ‘condoms’ of which I was also clueless. The knowledge of the dreaded ‘condom’ was all revealed to me as I and another friend trudged along a path winding through a vacant lot in our neighborhood.
As we were walking along I happen to look down and saw this peculiar looking white object on the ground, somewhat resembling a deflated balloon. I immediately stopped and claimed my prize, then excitingly turning around and daggling my new found treasure in the face of my friend. He lets out this loud, “Ewwwwwww!” I stared back at him wondering why he had this half-crazy look on his face. He immediately tells me to throw it down but I’m too clever to fall for that old trick. Yea, throw it down and then he’ll get it!
Again he yells for me to throw it down with this really hideous look on his face. I ask him why and he exclaims, “It’s a rubber!” Now I haven’t a clue what he just said so I respond, “It’s a balloon!” Then he proceeds to tell me what it is and for what it is used. Then I let out a big, “Ewwwwwww!” and drop it like a hot potato. I finally closed out my education on that item by getting clarification on the term “rubber”. I had heard the term “prophylactic” before but not “rubber”. Either way, I still did not have a clue as to what they were until that incident.
In closing I must add that there are occasions on some nights when I still pray and give thanks that I wasn’t trudging along that path that day alone and then came upon that thing. I would have probably blown it up like a balloon and tied onto the back of my bicycle seat.
I have in the past, with the exception of the previous post, posted very little in the way of daily posts relating to me and my long-time association with music. The biographical information posted in “The Dawdler’s Music” along with associated chapters found under the “Pages” section on my blog’s left-hand menu present more of an overview. I have decided to at least post a little of that detailed music and personal history from time to time in the coming weeks and months here on the blog, if for no other reason than for biographical scrapbooking purposes. The days have long since come and gone when I nurtured dreams and aspirations with regard to the fame and fortune of a celebrity status. Now, for better or worse, it is simply what it has always been – one’s love for music and the conduit it provides to share one’s soul with others.
I began writing music as a teenager, not long after taking up the accordion and beginning lessons on that instrument. I penned my first song around the age of seventeen or so and that was the beginning of my music writing. I was not a prolific writer since time constraints of life seem to imposition themselves, distracting me from the solace and quiet that I seemed to need for my writing. I eventually recorded the first four songs I had written whose writing had spanned several years.
It was in the mid to late fifties that I began nurturing dreams of becoming a famous recording star. Elvis Presley and Ricky Nelson were little aware of the threat I posed as I stood lurking in the shadows of future stardom. I’m sure most can relate to those type fantasies fed by our youth.
It was in 1958 when I wrote my first song with both words and music and had titled it “I Wonder Why I Wonder”. I guess you could say it was somewhat in the style of those old fifties songs, a mournful teenage ballad. The next year, in 1959, I wrote my second song titled “I Remember the Night”. Of course, like many song writers, the inspirations as to subject matter was to a degree based on personal experiences – especially at that age.
Although I played the accordion and my idols played the guitar, I was determined not to let that hold me back. After I joined the Air Force in 1961 and after completing my basic training and graduating from Air Force tech school in mid-1962, I was transferred to Clinton-Sherman Air Force Base located some 100 miles or so due West of Oklahoma City via the famous Route 66. The air base, however, has long since been closed.
After getting to my new base in Oklahoma I penned a couple more songs, “A Lonely, Lonely Boy”, which was also a ballad and my first upbeat song titled, “Arabian Love”. So my illustrious song writing career spanning some five years had netted four songs and little else.
While stationed there at that air base I often played my accordion along with a couple other guitar pickers who resided there in the barracks. Eventually one thing led to another and one of these fellows started dating a girl who sang and was a member of her high school trio in a nearby town. After meeting her myself at some point, I began wondering if she and the other girls in the trio might consider getting together and singing sometime. I finally asked the girl who my friend was dating if she and the other two girls in their trio might be interested in forming a singing group for the sole purpose of recording some songs I had written. After hearing the songs she and the two other girls agreed to getting together and working out some arrangements.
In the meantime, I began searching the Oklahoma City phone book to see if there was a recording studio somewhere that we could make a demonstration record and that I could afford. After all when you’re making $85 a month in the military, you are likely to be quite limited in your choices! I finally found one and to make a long story short once we got our act together I made an appointment with the studio for a particular Saturday. In addition, the studio furnished musicians who would provide the music for us so I had finally reached the “big-time”. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the cost was to be $90 and they were going to give me three months to pay it off.
Prior to going to Oklahoma City we thought we should have a name for our group and we eventually came up with “The Laurels” (law-rels). A week before our scheduled appointment one of the girls decided she wanted to drop out so instead of me and three girls, it would be me and two girls. But we still thought it would work.
It eventually all came together, that long anticipated Saturday had arrived and the girls and I, or should I say The Laurels, were off to Oklahoma City and to a real, big time, recording session.
All seem to go well at the recording session, given the fact we were all nervous wrecks. We finished recording the four songs late that afternoon and headed back home. We had ordered ten records to reflect our endeavors. The records back then, by the way, were much like the old 78 acetates as you will probably be able to note if you listen to any of the audio clips below.
It was a few weeks later that we received the souvenirs of our outing and were of course elated. When I left there for an overseas assignment I lost contact with the girls but it was a special time for me and I hope for them, it was the same.
But now to the songs which I have posted below but I must warn they are in terrible shape. They sound worse than your mother’s old 78’s but one can get some sense of the music. I still have one of those old records which is where these recordings came from so you can imagine from the scratchy, muffled sounds of the music the shape that old record must be in. I have also included the lyrics to the songs in case some may actually want to know what is being sung!
I Remember the Night Written and Arranged by Alan Ginocchio
On the first day we met we both fell in love
And I knew you had been sent from the heavens above
But with tears in my eyes – and pain in my heart
I remember, remember the night your friends tore us apart
I told you how I loved you each hour of the day
And with each breath your name I would say
But your friends were telling you I was untrue
I remember, remember the night they broke your heart into
On that night they told you I found someone new
And I’ll never, never know just why you thought it true
But I hope you’ll remember the tear in my eye
‘Cause I’ll always remember the night our hearts said goodbye
A Lonely, Lonely Boy Written and Arranged by Alan Ginocchio
A lonely boy can dream of a girl
But without her near it’s a lonely world
For a lonely, lonely boy
He sees her beauty thru the roses in the lane
He sees her tears in the sadness of the rain
But in his heart the hurt still remains
Of a lonely, lonely, lonely boy
The stars give him the sparkle in her eyes
The clouds write I love you across the skies
Yet in the wind you hear the lonesome sighs
Of a lonely, lonely, lonely boy
And this lonely, lonely boy
In this lonely, lonely world
Will someday find a lonely, lonely girl
Moonlight dresses her in satin and lace
The sunlight gives him her warm embrace
In every crowd you can always find the face
Of a lonely, lonely, lonely boy
Arabian Love Written and Arranged by Alan Ginocchio
Alone in a desert which nature had fled
I looked to the flame which burned near my head
Oh flame of night who’s so warm and so bright
Bring a love to be with me tonight
The flame then towered and reached for the skies
The thunder roared – lightning blinded my eyes
Then out of the flame came a large white steed
His eyes were flashing – his legs burst with speed
Upon his back rode an Arabian girl
Her beauty could never be seen in this world
So burn, flame burn
Give off your magic light
An Arabian love you gave me tonight
As she came to me her splendor I could feel
Only the flame knew she wasn’t real
Then as she kissed me I lost track of time
Arabian love tonight your mine
Then the night shadows ran from the dawn
Like a thousand angels running from the wrong
Then the thunder roared – the lightning flashed
And her love disappeared into the ashes
So burn, flame burn
Give off your magic light
An Arabian love you gave me tonight
Thinking back now, it was around 1988 and I had been transferred to a General Electric Lexan Plant located a few miles from Montgomery, Alabama where the company I worked for was doing some modification work. What was great about that assignment was that my best friend whom I had worked with for a number of years had also been transferred there, which was a real plus for him since he was from the area. His name was Jimmy and he and his family had a really nice place with some acreage in a place called Santuck, about twenty or so miles from Montgomery.
Now Jimmy loved tomatoes and decided that Spring that he was going to raise some tomatoes on part of his land. Well, when it was all said and done, he had put a piece of land in tomatoes about the size of a football field. When I asked him what the hell he was going to do with all those tomatoes when those plants started producing, his response was, “We’ll give a few of them to family and friends and eat the rest.
Well when the tomatoes came in, as luck would have it he had a bumper crop. They produced and produced, and then they produced some more. Can you imagine a family of five with a football field of tomatoes getting ripe on the vine? He ended up with a big mess but for me it was a joy to watch and a source of unlimited humor. And he was eating tomato sandwiches for weeks at work. But to the point of this post…..
I decided I needed to write a little musical ditty and immortalize my friend and his tomatoes. Musically speaking, I had everything I needed to accomplish that project including a pretty sophisticated tape recorder that allowed me to lay down multiple tracks which allowed me to sing along with my self and over-dub up to four different tracks so I could get fairly fancy with my creation. I also decided that rather than writing a new melody, using the tune for “The Banana Boat Song” would do perfectly for my project. So it was that one particular Saturday I sat down, wrote some words for my ode to Jimmy’s tomatoes and recorded the song which I have posted below. Perhaps for your listening pleasure – perhaps not!
The Tomato Song Words by Alan Ginocchio
Well, as I understand it now, the recording has become a family heirloom much to the dismay of Jimmy. Oh, he loved it, but you would never get him to admit it. I guess it has been twenty years since I have seen Jimmy and his family but I still talk to him and his wife every few months. I almost went to see him this past Spring because he was up to being Jimmy again, but it wasn’t tomatoes this time. No, he had planted a large portion of his land in those giant sunflowers. I ’bout fell off the chair when he told me that. I’ll bet Elmore County, Alabama turns into a huge bird sanctuary and feeding ground this winter.
One of the great things about blogging I suppose is how another blogger’s post can trigger a memory of a similar experience or a shared feeling about someone or some thing. A couple of days ago Roberta who has the blog, Elusive Abstractions, went to some lengths on her post titled, “Fly Poopies On My Toast”, to describe her relationship with the common house fly, especially since she has gotten older.
It reminded me of something that happened to me years ago when I was living in Augusta, Georgia. It is important for me to say, however, in Roberta’s defense that being ‘elderly’ in my opinion has no relevance in this war we have been waging over the centuries against our common nemesis.
Now, I hate these things with a passion. So much so that I may actually need some measure of psychological counseling. When one enters my space – things get tense and I become extremely focused on the mission at hand! Case and point….
At the time I was around 35 (not elderly) and was relaxing one Saturday afternoon snoozing on the couch which was located beneath a large and lengthy picture window appropriately covered with sheer curtains. I was rudely disturbed this particular afternoon by a whining, buzzing sound that seemed to emanate from the picture window. It was an unmistakable sound that I had heard all too often in the past. That awful sound of a fly caught between the window and the curtain with no way to show its displeasure but buzz, and buzz and buzz. I would lay there listening, and then it would stop. Then moments later it would start again, then again stop. After about five minutes of this I had heard all I could handle. This is one fly that has simply pushed his luck too far! “Damn it,” I bellowed as I leaped from the couch and charged for the pantry.
I went to the kitchen pantry, grabbed the swatter and returned to exercise my right as a home owner. I stood there watching for the tiny black monster to fly around so I could pull back the curtain and put him out of his misery, but to no avail. He kept on buzzing around but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I finally went down on the couch to my knees and began jerking and pulling the sheers in any and every direction to roust the little critter out. Then I would stop, look and listen. No fly, but still the incessant buzzing.
Never had I been locked in such a duel before. I took a deep breath and then preceded with yet another search and destroy mission but this time, in the middle of my rage something outside the window seem to catch my attention. I froze! “Could it be,” I wondered in amazement. After watching and listening for a minute or so, it was evident…. “Uh-oh!”
The man across the street was trimming his hedges with an electric hedge trimmer and the sound of that trimmer was eerily reminiscent to that of my prey. The reality of what I was seeing caused me to stop and try to focus. My head was spinning as my thoughts tried to resolve the epiphany which was sweeping over me like a tsunami. There was no fly. There was no buzzing. There was only my neighbor across the street doing what every neighbor does from time to time on a Saturday afternoon– trimming his hedges.
Recently there has been a rash of journalistic outbreaks in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette regarding snakes. Appearing on the Editorial Page, one was titled “Arkansas’ s-s-s-snakes” by Tom Dillard and another titled “Snaking Through Springdale” by an unknown contributor. All this sudden interest in snakes led me to wondering if my legendary fame as a young boy in Little Rock could again be reignited into the legend that was established in and around the storm drains along High Street (now renamed Dr. Martin Luther King Drive) back in the mid-1950’s.
It all began innocently enough from my point of view when I would, as a young boy around ten or eleven, bring snakes home in my “big jar” (an essential snake-hunting tool) that I had captured from my numerous snake-hunting adventures and then let them go in my backyard after making them miserable for a day two with a little stick-poking. Now all this was pretty much unbeknownst to mom of course, since even at that young age I wasn’t totally devoid of any sense.
With regard to these type adventures as a young boy, none are more memorable or hold a more enduring place in my heart than that which I will relate and in so doing, finally disclose publicly my true identity – hidden for these many, many years.
Now, as previously noted, I did have a passion as a young boy for going out and hunting and catching snakes. Usually my victims were of the garden variety for the most part although….there were those few times when I would take on a small venomous critter and coral him into the “big jar”. And yep, I would let those go in the back yard also so you can see why I kept mom out of the loop on this issue.
Many of my “snake adventures” as a young boy use to take me into an area along High Street from Wright Avenue down to around 23rd Street where quite a few black families lived at the time. There was an old concrete storm drain in ill repair about 10 foot wide with 6 or 7 foot high sides that ran along High Street for a number of blocks tunneling under the side streets as it made its way to wherever it was going – Fourche Creek probably. There were lots of weeds and saplings growing within the old drain and little tiny ponds of standing water with all sorts of critters and tiny fish in them. This is where a number of my adventures took place.
Some of the black kids use to follow me around when I was in the neighborhood walking inside the storm drain on my snake hunts. We would all be in the stealth mode in my quest for snakes but as soon as one of the creatures made an appearance I would find myself quite alone. This phenomenon actually became quite predictable.
First there was whispering amongst me and my companions…. then silence as I would lift a large piece of wood or rock…. then blood curdling screams in unison from my traveling companions when the snake would make its initial appearance. Even after I had safely secured the little critter in my “big jar”, my entourage was nowhere to be found. Later I might see one of my ex-companions sheepishly wave from their front porch but that was about it.
And now this is where this adventure takes on a “legend” proportion. It didn’t take any time whatsoever for the black kids to start calling the little white kid “Snake Boy”. And one can only imagine how my head filled with visions from my new found fame and stature in the world. Every now and then I would make a trip down to High Street and none of the kids would show up. If after a little while no one showed up, Snake Boy would just drop his head and mope home totally devoid of any reinforcement of his true identity. The snakes would be safe this time from the dreaded Snake Boy!
Disappointingly as it turns out, in my own neighborhood I was simply known as “Alan” or “A.E” as mom used to call me. That was my first and middle initial. But just as Superman had to deal with his secret identity, I too had such a burden that had been thrust upon me at such an early age. The black neighborhood quickly became my favorite place to go for adventure needless to say. Sure, there may have been a Frank Buck, there may have even been a Tarzan, but there was only one Snake Boy!
My true identity has been well hidden for all these years but now as I reach the autumn of my life it is finally time to come out of the “Snake Boy” closet! Now that the world will come to know my true identity by these public disclosures there will surely be autobiographies and movie deals to clutter my life. And from now on even you will be able to brag to your family and friends that you really knew…..Snake Boy! In fact, if you go down to that area of Dr. Martin Luther King Drive even today there is still a portion of that storm drain in existence. Perhaps after reading my story, someone will suggest marking it with an historical marker…..you think?
If you know anything at all about Grass Carp, or for that matter carp at all, you know that they are not caught with your typical fish bait. Most folks use their own homemade dough ball concoctions to catch these scaled and finned critters. But more about that later perhaps.
After recently reading an article referring to Grass Carp as the “veggie fish”, the article went on to recommend cherry tomatoes as an excellent bait for catching one of these elusive fish. Having some doubts about the suggestion since I had on numerous times experienced trying to entice one of these fish to my hook over the years and never being successful, I thought, “What the hell – why not give it a try.” So last week when I was doing my grocery shopping I noticed by chance that they had little bags of cherry tomatoes for sale. So I bought one bag.
Yesterday morning I grabbed my rod and reel and decided to give the cherry tomatoes their chance to help me accomplish a long sought quest after years of pursuit. We have several very small lakes nearby, one of which I knew had a plentiful supply of Grass Carp. I went down and walked around looking for signs. I caught glimpse of a couple out a ways under the water. I cut one of the cherry tomatoes in half and I baited a hook with it, no sinker, weight or bobber, and gave it a toss. The weight of the cherry tomato took it to the bottom. It was only a matter of minutes before I noticed the line beginning to be very slowly drawn out farther and after waiting a moment, gave my fishing rod a huge tug and oh baby…..I had a big one. Unfortunately, about fifteen seconds into the fight my line broke right at the hook.
Obviously I was somewhat disappointed of course but not totally because I knew I had apparently just hooked my first Grass Carp with a rod and reel. I replaced the hook, doubling the fishing knot used to tie the hook to my line, baited it with the other half of the cherry tomato and gave it another toss. After about ten minutes or so I noticed the line moving an inch or so every few seconds. Then again it began to be slowly dragged away. Again, with a large tug on the rod, I had set the hook in what was apparently another big one. This time I won the battle and took a photo to properly document the event. I’m guessing the little critter weighed in at around 15 pounds.
As soon as I took the photo and released the carp, I packed my gear and headed back to the house. No need to sit there and catch them all. My mission was to accomplish the goal of catching my first Grass Carp on a rod and reel and it was done! Now I knew all it took was a itsy bitsy little red cherry tomato. Who would have guessed?
I will have to relate more of my adventures concerning carp as time permits along with my introduction to the sport of bowfishing.
NOTE: Previously published in my journal, Writing To Myself, on 09/10/2009
Perhaps a little ‘mood music’ would be appropriate for this journal entry. Oh…..if you are just passing by and don’t know how to turn on the music, just click on the arrow and wait a few seconds for the the music to begin.
I have seen numerous commercials on television and ads in the newspapers over the years regarding aids to help smokers quit their nasty habit. I personally quit smoking in October of 1998 after having smoked for some 40 years. I officially confessed the now condemned social disorder to my mom in 1958 in my junior year of high school. Obviously I had been doing some heavy sampling prior to that but there had been no official declaration up until then. But given the fact that both my parents were smokers and given the accusations leveled at second-hand smoke these days, one could make a case that I had been smoking since birth. In fact, it’s a pretty good bet that moments after I was conceived someone was probably having a cigarette!
I started smoking by sampling the old familiar and internationally well known standby, Lucky Strike. Still remember they were like 25 cents a pack at that time.
But by the time I scheduled that smoking confession session with my mom, I was doing the grand Pall Mall. They were long cigarettes packaged in a bright red pack – really cool!
In my day and age it was just a given fact that smoking was cool….and almost everyone participated in the pleasure to include doctors.
Why even old Saint Nick liked to smoke those Pall Mall cigarettes! No wonder I liked them!
As I recall, I think I tried to quit a couple of times over the years. The most serious effort was when I was around 40 and I made it to about the three week mark. I was so disappointed at my failure that I never tried again until….
In August of 1997 my mother passed away due to lung cancer. I was helpless to do anything about it and it was difficult to watch her go through all she had to go through till the end. And in the process I learned much more about the other long-term side effects of smoking other than just cancer itself. A couple of months after her passing I decided it was time to give quitting another try but I had to have a serious plan that I felt would work for me.
I can’t say why but I had no confidence whatsoever in any of the smoking cessation aids available. A lot of my friends where trying the Nicorette gum. I did check at Walgreen one day on the product but when I found out the initial dosage package was around $100 bucks I was immediately turned off. Obviously in the long run if you quit using the product, then that was cheap but I wasn’t a big fan of the gum approach anyway. That was the old standard approach in those days to hold off the urge to smoke. Just grab a stick of gum. Are you kidding me, I could smoke and chew gum at the same time. Almost any smoker will tell you that most smokers are very, very ambidextrous. They can not only walk and chew gum at the same time, but they can smoke too! Nope – I didn’t see gum as something that would work for me.
In the end I decided on a psychological approach – a mind game if you will. It was basically a simple approach and was based on the following premise…..
If you get through a day without smoking and never smoke again, then you will never have to endure the agony of going through that first day without a cigarette again. If you get through the second day without smoking and never smoke again, you will never have to go through the agony of those first two days without a cigarette again. Etc, etc.
And so it was for me in the beginning that each day and/or accumulations of days was a milestone. The moment the thought or urge encroached into my brain taunting me with thoughts of nicotine candy, I would recount the time that had passed and reassure myself that I did not want to go through again what had already passed. Then when I had made it through a week – that was even a bigger milestone. Then a month!
And if you paused and seriously applied the simple logic that you were now at point B and you would never have to endure the agony that laid between between point A and point B, that simple logic made it easier and easier to quit with each passing day. I never looked back.
I do miss smoking because I did enjoy it and seemed to get so much perceived pleasure from smoking. But by the same token however, I did come to realize the smelly repercussions of the habit along with what non-smokers had to deal with when being around me. When my sense of smell had been refurbished by my abstinence, I felt a serious measure of personal embarrassment knowing what folks had been forced to deal with that odor when being around me all those years. My only relief was some realization that most of those people with whom I associated were also smokers.
Today I continue to live in a smokeless state never even thinking about smoking…..but with some measure of anxiety in anticipation of the other shoe to fall. It is the ‘cancer’ shoe of course that I refer too. So far so good but I do have a mild version of COPD which is an obvious step-child of my beloved habit.
Nevertheless, I continue to be very pleased with myself that I was able to kick the habit ‘cold-turkey’ as they say. And although I won’t be so bold as to boast about my super universal will power, I am very happy and grateful that it supported me on this issue. Whether I am as clever as I perceive myself to be in this effort to overcome this habit may be debatable but the technique I devised for myself did in fact work for me and that, in the end, is what counts.
NOTE: Previously published in my journal, Writing To Myself, on 09/08/2009
