tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66712974948678174372023-11-21T05:54:53.125-05:00DRINKING OF ELDER MENWhere Larry Eugene Meredith Says Whatever may Cross His Mind On Any Given Day!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger666125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-9776750695693441802020-11-06T15:23:00.003-05:002020-11-06T15:23:20.996-05:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 24: Frank A. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlS0peYs-8jLVsNOxmU6HkRojXDGXD_f8e_dAUvUTq7KcxxZb6NMx8z5EyrIKUaUrGOUgR56v7jlzmL4DjO_35SGdacGmmZgRujen_ENvfQyb2iwEGMZO5xa8_vLPw5aWD7D5l4P9S_w/s297/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins+Book+002.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlS0peYs-8jLVsNOxmU6HkRojXDGXD_f8e_dAUvUTq7KcxxZb6NMx8z5EyrIKUaUrGOUgR56v7jlzmL4DjO_35SGdacGmmZgRujen_ENvfQyb2iwEGMZO5xa8_vLPw5aWD7D5l4P9S_w/s0/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins+Book+002.jpg" /></a></div><br /> The other founder of the "Soon to be Famous" writers group was Frank Adkins. In a ay, Frank was already a "famous" writer churning out a number of Do-It-Yourself boss on cars. especially Chryslers. but Frank wanted to progress as a fiction author, so he came to the writers' group that met regularly at Barnes & Nobles. <p></p><p>That is where he met Tracey Landmann and myself. He and I sort of quickly bonded into a friendship, and even today I keep in touch with him. Wish we lived closer so we could get together physically, but he lives down in Lower Delaware. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiow7VRDizq9wGuDep_ZA6B4QIje9le9Srqistp6rzGwqDvJSdcwAVry5_oQ0PWmJ3g7pBG1FXN9kfTEBHV52LiWLZC1smhg2oTjFyPvn7UyFoP8mLzIDjwNBHYNKdCia9OF4Prjvb7k//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="209" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiow7VRDizq9wGuDep_ZA6B4QIje9le9Srqistp6rzGwqDvJSdcwAVry5_oQ0PWmJ3g7pBG1FXN9kfTEBHV52LiWLZC1smhg2oTjFyPvn7UyFoP8mLzIDjwNBHYNKdCia9OF4Prjvb7k/w142-h164/images-2.jpeg" width="142" /></a></div>Frank was a mechanic when we met, but since then he has become a professor teaching automotive engineering at Delaware Tech. Here is what he writs about himself on Amazon: "<span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111; font-size: 13px;">I am a life-long Chrysler enthusiast. I began working on cars when I was fourteen, and by the time I was sixteen I had completed my first automatic to manual transmission conversion. I completed two more before graduating high school. After high school I attended Automotive Training Center in Exton, PA (graduated in 1985), Delaware Technical Community College (AAS Degree in Automotive Technology, 1997), and Wilmington University (B.S. Degree to be completed in 2016). I have been an ASE certified Master Technician since 1986 and spent many years working as an auto mechanic/technician and shop foreman. My first technical article appeared in the August 1992 issue of Classic Auto Restorer, and since then my work has appeared in half a dozen national publications. I published Chrysler Performance Upgrades in 1999, How To Build High Performance Chrysler Engines in 2001 (both CarTech books) and a novel, Jack Kramer's Journey in 2006. In 2003 I began teaching Automotive Technology at Delaware Technical Community College part-time, and I have taught there full-time since 2011. From 2006-2011 I also taught Automotive Technology at Caroline Career and Technology Center, a technical high school in Ridgely, MD. I competed twice in the Cannonball One Lap of America (1998 and 1999), I auto cross regularly with the Brandywine Motorsport Club, and I drag race a few times a year. My wife and I enjoy participating in activities with several car clubs. We have two grown children and three grandchildren."</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOepbmBIF7wwPbImyEkhDnygQ7kLlXJOJMWAjUdUiPya5lxu2Mfqm6b3hmZBjsKVTILJ11wkA9fJshcT19K-DoU23-GJsI04ubIUSiY1T3oP-t-Pg9lDeo_dVfX0a0yi-UOEdHTuwhco/s218/71PoIT%252Byu3L._AC_UY218_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOepbmBIF7wwPbImyEkhDnygQ7kLlXJOJMWAjUdUiPya5lxu2Mfqm6b3hmZBjsKVTILJ11wkA9fJshcT19K-DoU23-GJsI04ubIUSiY1T3oP-t-Pg9lDeo_dVfX0a0yi-UOEdHTuwhco/s0/71PoIT%252Byu3L._AC_UY218_.jpg" /></a></div><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111;"> When I first met him he had thick and curly red hair. Since then the hair has thinned and is more grey than red. Of course, I met him almost 20 years ago, nd we do age.Although he has put out more automotive books, he has also succeeded as a fiction author. You can find and purchase his novel, Jack Kramer's Journey on Amazon.<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111;">I had the privilege of reading his novel in manuscript form and was lucky enough to get a first printing autographed by him. The cover shown here was the revised printing of the book.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxqSM2bGkF89JtqaaAGu26tlz8S44DuvgdbiKUXlF1KPaQt6EPjJQsQ7dIfeR91rJdii5CbV6KA-ADg0yELwCwkM8mq3dKzKRxDHVakl76jsE5_ppz5MLzxA_WsupWd9sEyqS803KPI8/s800/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins+Writer+%2526+Novelist.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxqSM2bGkF89JtqaaAGu26tlz8S44DuvgdbiKUXlF1KPaQt6EPjJQsQ7dIfeR91rJdii5CbV6KA-ADg0yELwCwkM8mq3dKzKRxDHVakl76jsE5_ppz5MLzxA_WsupWd9sEyqS803KPI8/w245-h184/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins+Writer+%2526+Novelist.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"> Since I knew him when, back in our "Soon to be Famous" days I had an in. We did socialize outside the group and he attended the Edgar Allan Poe presentation at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Fair with my wife and daughter on year. This picture was taken o Frank by me at one o those meetings.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="color: #0f1111;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #0f1111;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuA40K-_tsuZ40k6cJLKI7X1lxlGAKO5ngUOvBKyujKfgdIh32gaQkfs_-igOYvcOMLye5n9XLN_jczItJ3Ul5b9GdUVDRLsScK2IwpWXg22MgpkDXBGcmnrGEDoU07qwM6z5aU2m-z_c/s302/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins%2527+Jack+Kramer%2527s+Journey+cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="184" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuA40K-_tsuZ40k6cJLKI7X1lxlGAKO5ngUOvBKyujKfgdIh32gaQkfs_-igOYvcOMLye5n9XLN_jczItJ3Ul5b9GdUVDRLsScK2IwpWXg22MgpkDXBGcmnrGEDoU07qwM6z5aU2m-z_c/w139-h228/Adkins+2004+01+12+Frank+Adkins%2527+Jack+Kramer%2527s+Journey+cover.jpg" width="139" /></a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgsye3P-9uCcOtBdGTh01sdUJW5PBc6sQsqggqiUkHX3nI2EsD1EiEVyUxYPeIVkuJ9EuI4J-bQ997Q7fXyt-Ta_vHv4OqBz3wpJjo9Z9X6u8jQVZklUPpAJ5omv1neTt9UUvwGxHlTU/s2048/Adkins.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1489" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgsye3P-9uCcOtBdGTh01sdUJW5PBc6sQsqggqiUkHX3nI2EsD1EiEVyUxYPeIVkuJ9EuI4J-bQ997Q7fXyt-Ta_vHv4OqBz3wpJjo9Z9X6u8jQVZklUPpAJ5omv1neTt9UUvwGxHlTU/w242-h332/Adkins.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);">Here is the original edition cover of his novel and his inscription to me in it. he dedication in the book is to Krissie, who is his wife. She's a car enthusiast, too.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17);"><br /></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-75649247275267752892020-11-06T12:31:00.002-05:002020-11-06T12:31:25.373-05:00Mt Artistic Friends ver the Years Part 23; Tracey L.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ412KDgasMIG4HtIJlMWkn5JuAAG4cq2v_0pFW65vM4C5zSnLiS2NNXf-JbnwuTlos1rPFaHMX4znGEbLtWmZZdcu4CGKdVjrW7bNau7MTQULxasdZrpY-JwYnRAVEfFBNsDeOdzCJsw//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="250" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ412KDgasMIG4HtIJlMWkn5JuAAG4cq2v_0pFW65vM4C5zSnLiS2NNXf-JbnwuTlos1rPFaHMX4znGEbLtWmZZdcu4CGKdVjrW7bNau7MTQULxasdZrpY-JwYnRAVEfFBNsDeOdzCJsw//" width="297" /></a></div>There were three of us who created th, writers' group called "Soon to be Famous". Thee was myself, Frank Adkins and Tracey Landmann.<p></p><p>Tracey had become the facilitator of the writers group at Barnes & Nobles, succeeding me. and many of our "Soon to be Famous" group meetings were held in her home.</p><p>Tracey was not only a talented writer, but was also a painter of some Delaware note. The painting that opens thus Post was done by her.</p><p>Tracey' story is a amazing one.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JKTXIjCfT5c2hNXUNsz-fV5p2tQQyxTMK8L_302Uw8GDvLNdrcJi1MFfjBu_KQPhb-HedI_SACD-t8d0b6gwHmLtjvJqHg6RyvS8CSx-33VDPl-8FIRFa8b30U-poZnheTpCWMXW5q4//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JKTXIjCfT5c2hNXUNsz-fV5p2tQQyxTMK8L_302Uw8GDvLNdrcJi1MFfjBu_KQPhb-HedI_SACD-t8d0b6gwHmLtjvJqHg6RyvS8CSx-33VDPl-8FIRFa8b30U-poZnheTpCWMXW5q4/w186-h186/Unknown.jpeg" width="186" /></a></div>She is on the Brain Injure Association of Delaware" board. And for good reason, As a teenager she suffered severe brain trauma when a tfree fell on her head. Fortunately she was in a swimming pool when it happened and that cushioned the blow; otherwise she would have been killed. As it was, she had t learn to talk and to walk all over again.<p></p><p> Despite this, she went and graduated college, held some important positions and has had her art work displayed around.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP23dhXHA00HwqNPt1ddb3aaGxUXtrtaWHFNQbBiwyy-R_q_hepcWwKuwekUPsxgF4AzTHUeGbA7EDcMyrP1WlT0Z2E2WV_vOsGdaOmfnxDt743EXwpWpKddixmAuOPdFjiJNcHKJPIoA//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="292" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP23dhXHA00HwqNPt1ddb3aaGxUXtrtaWHFNQbBiwyy-R_q_hepcWwKuwekUPsxgF4AzTHUeGbA7EDcMyrP1WlT0Z2E2WV_vOsGdaOmfnxDt743EXwpWpKddixmAuOPdFjiJNcHKJPIoA/w219-h129/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="219" /></a></div><br />That is Tracey of the left meeting with another at the Brain Injury Association.<p></p><p>On the right is Tracey at one of our "Soon to be Famous" group[ get-togethers.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggK28UW2XyFewtp97T4r4suN5vCzTlajBNmRd7sTEw8KhAwLUqb6kpVeIAB9SJhIG9yda3otqgpi1yL9wi4J7UrOjSdN6_mk5Rl2J5bgUzBoxo_RF4GPzWvWQbTw24hgt-0iNHIxs74uM//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="609" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggK28UW2XyFewtp97T4r4suN5vCzTlajBNmRd7sTEw8KhAwLUqb6kpVeIAB9SJhIG9yda3otqgpi1yL9wi4J7UrOjSdN6_mk5Rl2J5bgUzBoxo_RF4GPzWvWQbTw24hgt-0iNHIxs74uM/w221-h199/Landmann+2004+01+12+Tracey+Landmann+Artist+%2526+Weiter.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>The painting of boats at anchor was done by her.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-14125810991052218352020-11-02T09:35:00.000-05:002020-11-02T09:35:56.236-05:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 21: Julianna B.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW0dHkdIVFEe7S4PSkINwV1GBe8zVt8uB0S7YVzLblj7jd-zN-yrLtAFo7XhYn8nR9xEjy21vGTa6Mt_HW-lboLNrs20x-jU3nZf7-IhJyeqesRMgWRUaN6zevYt39hRmL9qD9Qer7Rw/s2048/Baggott.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1489" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW0dHkdIVFEe7S4PSkINwV1GBe8zVt8uB0S7YVzLblj7jd-zN-yrLtAFo7XhYn8nR9xEjy21vGTa6Mt_HW-lboLNrs20x-jU3nZf7-IhJyeqesRMgWRUaN6zevYt39hRmL9qD9Qer7Rw/w177-h243/Baggott.jpg" width="177" /></a></div>I met Julianna Baggott back in 2002. I was then facilitating the writer's group at Barnes and Noble. Julianne had just had a best selling novel called "Girl Talk' She had also published a book called "The Miss America Family" and a book of poems, "This Country of Mothers". which I also have.<div><br /></div><div>She has since then written several books and garnered a few awards. The is an Associate professor at Florida State's College of Motion Picture arts.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Girl Talk" was her first novel, published when she was 22 and had just become a best seller when she visited our group. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsa0xlXY5iq0weDGq4Z8WFeOV_jSWu4-RNqw3bjBSyb0qTs_dQW7J1_1rvw6e621p56wZtnS5Og3mP04L5zVmdMGskXRw_842t_V5IZmM5n5aiT3Kpn4wG91pdaiBDPXnEMxbt1E46gc/s234/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsa0xlXY5iq0weDGq4Z8WFeOV_jSWu4-RNqw3bjBSyb0qTs_dQW7J1_1rvw6e621p56wZtnS5Og3mP04L5zVmdMGskXRw_842t_V5IZmM5n5aiT3Kpn4wG91pdaiBDPXnEMxbt1E46gc/s0/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>She is now about 41 and has twenty or so published books. She also writes under the names Bridget Asher and N. E. Bode.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXGOk4evAkZH3BkBUY7dYtYpNhexAakRHl0-4zmTTemzoCwihPdg0EVOLwbdqzIAwOzWXxA5OocikdwYKtk9NTMX0eNKj2KukY72vjOFVOfidCiZCW6_TbT4WA47NArIn6ZdiifsBteo/s250/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXGOk4evAkZH3BkBUY7dYtYpNhexAakRHl0-4zmTTemzoCwihPdg0EVOLwbdqzIAwOzWXxA5OocikdwYKtk9NTMX0eNKj2KukY72vjOFVOfidCiZCW6_TbT4WA47NArIn6ZdiifsBteo/s0/images.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>.<br /><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-26596325142774097522020-11-01T09:23:00.002-05:002020-11-01T09:23:32.967-05:00My Artistic Friends Over Past Years Part 20: Scott N.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_utwBArLrO220AKaQLHhjF2CpmSwqJgRyQ0-U-TtrWTVUHRbmOsCcf_NltkUU3LRFS-6LdGpJec7jcjnXPeNc9_NbnV-L4IqI-p3QYoJs4KiNvm0dClY6cw8bh4-6w_fkUHxASNmeAEE/s452/Neely+2010+Scott+Neely%2527s+Scooby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="452" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_utwBArLrO220AKaQLHhjF2CpmSwqJgRyQ0-U-TtrWTVUHRbmOsCcf_NltkUU3LRFS-6LdGpJec7jcjnXPeNc9_NbnV-L4IqI-p3QYoJs4KiNvm0dClY6cw8bh4-6w_fkUHxASNmeAEE/w276-h243/Neely+2010+Scott+Neely%2527s+Scooby.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>Scott Neeley has had a pretty successful career in th art, although probably few of you have heard of him. For over 10 years he has been doing the Scooby Doo children books and comics.<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Scott acme into our creative writing group nd became the second person to advise me to peddle my work by moving to New York City, the first having been Jane Waiters back in the late 1960's. I did not do it then for her, nor did I do it at the advice of Scott. He belied in schmoozing an I never felt comfortable doing that. He insisted to make it as a writer today one must go to the bars near the publishing house of New York and hang out with the house editors who frequented theses place.</p><p> Buy them a drink, talk with them, get them to consider you a buddy and then pitch a book idea or two to them. They may even deem to read a story or so and then take your manuscripts to their bosses. Maybe he was right, but it wasn't my style. I'd just continue mailing o the magazines and perhaps get myself an agent.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRk2oLLfRXwBF-eDCoVy0CtwMK9gQQpXJ_Jp1UU8gbpiQbx6F5jPWN49GDgGbGf0ed3gz_0xfcElfZavKUhMv8H_9Oxo89AsQ6i2C2AaFMKUrHi1PE69do5f3KySxesfYsa6nl_Fy5Rk/s533/020+2003+Dining+%2526+Entertainment+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="426" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRk2oLLfRXwBF-eDCoVy0CtwMK9gQQpXJ_Jp1UU8gbpiQbx6F5jPWN49GDgGbGf0ed3gz_0xfcElfZavKUhMv8H_9Oxo89AsQ6i2C2AaFMKUrHi1PE69do5f3KySxesfYsa6nl_Fy5Rk/s320/020+2003+Dining+%2526+Entertainment+004.jpg" /></a></div> Besides being an artist, Scott was also a writer, which is why he came to our group in the first place. As an editor he did take some articles for the magazine he edited, which had a rather large circulation. It was <br />"Dining & Entertainment Magazine" <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJQ3bwRH3EYlmDjq-7s6M1Bx8jKZV-P9jELwrAEXis2dKtHTUeS09fTQcmSSd1zcykfLCCFFScNK7MQjYHHutaKX3ehJlIlov_m-Y6VulPJ3cvmPHc7qpAtkhOIAHmrg2ljeb3fUYl3I/s730/020+2003+Dining+%2526+Entertainment+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJQ3bwRH3EYlmDjq-7s6M1Bx8jKZV-P9jELwrAEXis2dKtHTUeS09fTQcmSSd1zcykfLCCFFScNK7MQjYHHutaKX3ehJlIlov_m-Y6VulPJ3cvmPHc7qpAtkhOIAHmrg2ljeb3fUYl3I/s320/020+2003+Dining+%2526+Entertainment+001.jpg" /></a> </div>I wrote several articles for this publication, mainly about holidays such as St. Patrick's Day and Valentine's Day. <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSNQQO8ZZ4oQOgtO-a3JTKK-AEcFc2Y81tbS_V0QcZwZNMKFcqEwC2qDZhykKgzoDUchXaAid9xzkAIkFL6wI844WzIvwVpQoub6YW4OUBfHo6Vlq1DARX6rOs9HQYmFoO9PjJqHldlM/s214/Neely+2010+Scott+Neely+Artist+%2526+Editor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSNQQO8ZZ4oQOgtO-a3JTKK-AEcFc2Y81tbS_V0QcZwZNMKFcqEwC2qDZhykKgzoDUchXaAid9xzkAIkFL6wI844WzIvwVpQoub6YW4OUBfHo6Vlq1DARX6rOs9HQYmFoO9PjJqHldlM/s0/Neely+2010+Scott+Neely+Artist+%2526+Editor.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Scott eventually went back to his art and left our group. I assume he is still at it.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-87576556729253411522020-10-31T13:53:00.002-04:002020-10-31T14:01:57.348-04:00Steve Koelsch My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 19: Stave K.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFHWKaDMVtrf3tqe36wg1qb3X210md4LA3FVp6eNvyMn2NqeMH1iuwkPza51jbhlVv_jDxvjhmtZWPn1D_W_Usjh-z-irU72bKT4N-asHSB6t6MQNJ_etZUy6S___6L3OIjFksKjSu_g/s368/Koelsch+2004+02+14+Steve+Koelsch+at+Francos+Poet.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="368" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFHWKaDMVtrf3tqe36wg1qb3X210md4LA3FVp6eNvyMn2NqeMH1iuwkPza51jbhlVv_jDxvjhmtZWPn1D_W_Usjh-z-irU72bKT4N-asHSB6t6MQNJ_etZUy6S___6L3OIjFksKjSu_g/w267-h200/Koelsch+2004+02+14+Steve+Koelsch+at+Francos+Poet.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>On March 8, 2003, I was invited to be Featured Poet at Cathleen Rooney's Pub on Trolley Square in Wilmington. I was invited a second time to be the Featured Poet on March 13, 2004 at Franco's Bar on West Market Street in Wilmington. The second time it was just me taking the stage for th evening, but the first time I had to share the spotlight with a second Featured Poet. His name was Stephen P. Koelsch.<p></p><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E3nrRH8Bs-YDVMNYnOg9uhU7oVODyqaxGcE3IEGK9lENC0obvaF-FmI6KyJAOQx9izjs5o1tX-eiVVe0uLStQWUQncrpAZ4yu2SqFj5HAPBWZf5ceq90NwVcUpGwSM7MsDjFs2y658U//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1678" data-original-width="1166" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E3nrRH8Bs-YDVMNYnOg9uhU7oVODyqaxGcE3IEGK9lENC0obvaF-FmI6KyJAOQx9izjs5o1tX-eiVVe0uLStQWUQncrpAZ4yu2SqFj5HAPBWZf5ceq90NwVcUpGwSM7MsDjFs2y658U//" width="167" /></a></div> I knew Steve from both the poetry group at Barnes and Noble snd at Second Saturday Poets. It was Second Saturday the sponsored the events. You got to read your work for an hour and they were an appreciative crowd. Steve and I became good friends. In 2002, Steve had a book published by Trafford Publishing, a Canadian Firm.. It was entitled "Dancing Bare!" It was described as a "Densely packet journey into adult reality". No, it wasn't pornography, but it was about relationships. The <br />opening Poem was "The Sadness of Women". There were 42 poems contained between the covers.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgSjk47MQnSwW5Ze3HvxZbYv6hdiCmN_FAJVwjIFq2bosFZLYeyK5dT5KaGqdmmSMEa1KxpwHHqX5ak4SL5hRbUYFcyvunUW_dau5r-7yIuEhOlY5AKi2vCmiiWu0APaj8RVKRiUnZkE//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="460" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgSjk47MQnSwW5Ze3HvxZbYv6hdiCmN_FAJVwjIFq2bosFZLYeyK5dT5KaGqdmmSMEa1KxpwHHqX5ak4SL5hRbUYFcyvunUW_dau5r-7yIuEhOlY5AKi2vCmiiWu0APaj8RVKRiUnZkE/w165-h273/Koelsch+2003+286++Steve+Koelsch+Poet.jpg" width="165" /></a></div><br />We shared our work as friends, though his style and content varied from my own. I assume he is still writing lines and perhaps has had another book or two since we last saw each other.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't you think</div><div style="text-align: left;">that most of us</div><div style="text-align: left;">are drawn to</div><div style="text-align: left;">what we're not?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't we spend </div><div style="text-align: left;">our lives trying</div><div style="text-align: left;">to fill absences?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Breath deeply</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the magic.</div><div style="text-align: left;">in your everyday world,</div><div style="text-align: left;">For in that dead world</div><div style="text-align: left;">waiting patiently for us</div><div style="text-align: left;">on the back side of life</div><div style="text-align: left;">we may wander</div><div style="text-align: left;">hopelessly forever</div><div style="text-align: left;">wishing for a glimpse</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the other.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> "The Other" by Stephen P. Koelsch (2002)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-32062407652592921682020-10-30T15:23:00.000-04:002020-10-30T15:23:04.736-04:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 18; Jack H. and Eduardo L.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDUPfSVL-deBvJq_ktyyTNQzaR5rEf9-KPyct51InDLi-eY1UFivtG8m2pomW3-aCbHUJEBrpVOHRLaPWH69Oapo1y01stgbhRyM_K_iWAXngfavr88bbEBEPabdeNq8wWJTIXHsQioM//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="368" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDUPfSVL-deBvJq_ktyyTNQzaR5rEf9-KPyct51InDLi-eY1UFivtG8m2pomW3-aCbHUJEBrpVOHRLaPWH69Oapo1y01stgbhRyM_K_iWAXngfavr88bbEBEPabdeNq8wWJTIXHsQioM//" width="320" /></a></div><br /> On the left is the front of the 4W5 Cafe, one in Wilmington. It is where the Second Saturday poets met each note for a while. Second Saturday moved locations several times. We also met just up the street from here at Franco's Bar. <p></p><p>Although Eduardo and Jack were part of the crown at Second Saturday, the is not where I first got their acquaintance. That was at Barnes and Nobles when the weekly poetry group movers from Borders where we used to meet until the young lady that facilitated tragically died. Then Dallas Kirk Gantt took over the leadership.</p><p> when I first went to the Poetry group it was with some tripidation. Despite having begun writing verse in Grade School and have some poems published, I was far from confident in myself, and especially so when I showed up with a small group of accomplished poets. The fellows who greeted me were older, already moving into the eights, with the except of Dallas. I took my wife along for moral support and had printed and folded about six of my poems I had stuffed in my pocket. But much to me surprise they like my stuff, especially one called "Library Spider". They found deep meaning in it, I guess; any rate, they hd m read it several times.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmh84jnXqdeqgMVV_wnzFZtKFh8IhG5LCpGlbpuGP4pg39peh5wx_Lh6AnCkXcR3oI5xxtKdzYXeJ5JhfZ5kheQP0qOuYxNMd7SLqzn628rd2hdtzxRPyalZfod1-Pt2PQyCzaSOF2NE//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="368" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZmh84jnXqdeqgMVV_wnzFZtKFh8IhG5LCpGlbpuGP4pg39peh5wx_Lh6AnCkXcR3oI5xxtKdzYXeJ5JhfZ5kheQP0qOuYxNMd7SLqzn628rd2hdtzxRPyalZfod1-Pt2PQyCzaSOF2NE//" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Jack Hardy, pictured here on the right, had published a small volume. Is poems tend to be ver formal and historic, and he always read them in a boring voice.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbVU3s7AyiNp9aIweYKJB07Nyyoa05qm0s7xcqNriBazztccSWPQphmNI4I9qxh0YWmqBXoHYMuSIiLhh3ZSoHCHUp9Iu9Hbg4wgU9QEwtmgRbCkPllMlTz2uRqv2n45IsmSHDLNXW7E//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1782" data-original-width="1158" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbVU3s7AyiNp9aIweYKJB07Nyyoa05qm0s7xcqNriBazztccSWPQphmNI4I9qxh0YWmqBXoHYMuSIiLhh3ZSoHCHUp9Iu9Hbg4wgU9QEwtmgRbCkPllMlTz2uRqv2n45IsmSHDLNXW7E//" width="156" /></a></div> Eduardo LaCerata was from Portugal and had written many poems in his native language. He was always celebrated when he went back to his native country, an had honors from there. He had written several books in Portuguese, but what he rote and read in our group were in English, usually in triple lines, often ironic and often political. He had a weakness for straying into political topics. We are there to read our poetry, no to espouse some cause. I do not discuss politics with others, so I always tried to get us back on course. But he was a delightful man; both were. <br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p> It has been a year since I was able to go to any such meetings, so I do not know if they both still survive. I hope they so.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-84235729780181379762020-10-29T15:08:00.003-04:002020-10-29T15:08:26.076-04:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 17: Dallas, Beverly and Amanda<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1K52QG-ZrdUeEVqn6GYUjXZDc4vgYWvrl-GhueSIotwFtbf5omHqRwFgWRJecgrGy2r7bagnRsdwdjdRgkPRE8GuNEZWP8lRPv2wXuLPjRqVpQDHWJOTNpciyePotmQy3gguCmjnRjU/s368/Gantt+2004+02+14+Dallas+Kirk+Gantt+%2526+Beverly+Romain+at+Francos+Poets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1K52QG-ZrdUeEVqn6GYUjXZDc4vgYWvrl-GhueSIotwFtbf5omHqRwFgWRJecgrGy2r7bagnRsdwdjdRgkPRE8GuNEZWP8lRPv2wXuLPjRqVpQDHWJOTNpciyePotmQy3gguCmjnRjU/s320/Gantt+2004+02+14+Dallas+Kirk+Gantt+%2526+Beverly+Romain+at+Francos+Poets.jpg" width="320" /></a> There was a poetry group, which met at Borders, every week. I copied dow a couple go my poems and went to one of there meetings. There was a young woman, college age, facilitating it at the time I first went. went She sadly died and the group was taken over by and the grip was taken over by Dallas Kirk Gantt. He drove a Dart bus, but certain days of the week he took poetry to the prison inmates. He later wrote a box about his adventured driving city bus. </div><br /> <p></p><p> He was a respected and colorful Wilmington Poet and became the editor of Poetry Vortex, which took a loot of my poems over the last twenty years.</p><p><br /></p><p> Here is an excerpt from an article he wrote in Dreamstreets Magazine a number of years ago.</p><p> </p><div class="page" title="Page 34"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt;"><i>For years, Herbie the paperboy wandered the streets of Wilmington hawking his papers. He was a little, white-haired, leprechaun kind of fellow. His distinct nasal cry of: “Paper! Paper!” preceded him as he shambled through the downtown business district with a News Journal held aloft. (He’d sell old batteries, lighters, a bent screwdriver here, a well-worn pair of pliers there, and other castoff things that he’d find in the street in his wanderings.) He was an anachronism, holding to an old trade, in the face of news-stands, home delivery and coin-operated paper boxes.</i></span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt;"><i>He never bothered anyone, but he had a fearful worried look about him. He wore the same, disheveled clothes, with his worn pants perpetually tucked into his socks. Urban Legend’s undying rumor had it that he carried his life savings around with him because he didn’t believe in banks.<br />He kept it in his socks. He was mugged often enough, so some of the ugly souls obviously believed it. Everyone knew him. He was a fixture on the streets for years . . . and then he was gone.<br /></i></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><i> </i> At our meetings we would read our works. In the photo at the beginning of this he is with Beverly Romain, a poet who came to Second Saturday. I loved to hear her read her work since she had this Jamaican accent that sounded so cool when she did a poem.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ERSBHhBCYkcWFu7xo6yT5cyNlngDPUXAFYMZ_439FG0aDHr8bbSWb8-nb2qpKboxuo5LKtv6Zhs34-HMvRSFFOU8j4aZy8ZxmFlPPTs9sE1F-5q2U-yDmoip9Ji18mI7bYu0TBSxENI//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="1053" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ERSBHhBCYkcWFu7xo6yT5cyNlngDPUXAFYMZ_439FG0aDHr8bbSWb8-nb2qpKboxuo5LKtv6Zhs34-HMvRSFFOU8j4aZy8ZxmFlPPTs9sE1F-5q2U-yDmoip9Ji18mI7bYu0TBSxENI//" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Palatino;"> Another young poet I became friends with and tried to encourage was Amanda Kimball. She was very shy about reading her work, but she was very good. I don't know what has happened to her since those early days of 2001, but she did readings with me and she became fairly well-known, appearing in an Article in "Delaware Today". </span> <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXtgB10ZQn3zuo2z_lDS1dpWW6tIauYiSVNxXBhpMtiwQrM-5bglqUgbmsZB5nK4OybngMB6VG0lkxKVQCKNCXDDKmZJ_Oeg3rprBefoDBUzd5Y7q1uLJAZR0BDhpih3taI43KiIiIsM//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="564" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXtgB10ZQn3zuo2z_lDS1dpWW6tIauYiSVNxXBhpMtiwQrM-5bglqUgbmsZB5nK4OybngMB6VG0lkxKVQCKNCXDDKmZJ_Oeg3rprBefoDBUzd5Y7q1uLJAZR0BDhpih3taI43KiIiIsM//" width="227" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p> Dallas remained a friend, but my affliction has presented me from going to those meetings for a couple years now. I thank him for his devotion to the gourd, even after we moved to Barnes 7 Noble, I wish him well with his book and hole someday to see him again.</p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino;"><span> </span><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12pt;"><i><br /></i></span></p></div></div></div><p><br /></p><p> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-68629204603541966742020-10-27T14:44:00.001-04:002020-10-27T14:44:24.824-04:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 16: New Start<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMjTZzrRjdoW1E9kHiCkK7co_JhaR_A9NWVDaUBI_brgDdvUzjWQbg2it_9cze7ZTvYeCu8lxvHdenikp5O9mnAHrsNfWNARbiI3hEdRThutNmGw6Vq4nS596sLB50H0w_vAl3e0r2sc/s239/Plays+1997+Leslie+in+the-Lyons%2527+Den.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMjTZzrRjdoW1E9kHiCkK7co_JhaR_A9NWVDaUBI_brgDdvUzjWQbg2it_9cze7ZTvYeCu8lxvHdenikp5O9mnAHrsNfWNARbiI3hEdRThutNmGw6Vq4nS596sLB50H0w_vAl3e0r2sc/s0/Plays+1997+Leslie+in+the-Lyons%2527+Den.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>By the mid-90s I had been away from publishing to the world. I had still been writing, because I have always viewed it as a curse more than a blessing; that is, once writing has you there is no escape from it. You have to write. It is like a powerful drug that I tried to walk away from. </p><p>Yes, I had published a number of books for both my work at Wilmington Trust and as a Youth Minister and all at Laurel Hill Bible Church, but I had the itch to publish elsewhere again.</p><p>Oh, sure I had seen some of my poems make it into print, but where were my stores, essays and plays? My close artistic friends were gone.</p><p><br /></p><p> In 1995 I read online the a theater company in Florida was looking for some new plays for their repertory company. I decided there was nothing to lose, so I sent them a play called, "Leslie in the Lyons Den". It dealt with the conflict of bringing our Christian values and views into the modern business world. Mr Lyons was a demanding boss, and Leslie was our modern day Daniel, who was caught between pleasing their Boss or pleasing God. I named the main character Leslie so the part could be filled by a man or a woman.</p><p> Much to my surprise the bought my play and added it to the program for Hearts of Tampa Acting, even contacting me to write their radio advertising. </p><p> Spurred by this success, I joined some local writing groups. First think I knew I had new artistic friends.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-47450451958235705852020-10-25T07:48:00.001-04:002020-10-25T08:03:21.531-04:00My Artistic Friends Over the Years Part 13: Randy V.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30uGDBgn_wY4tpGi4R56_yYrA-d8po2ipjZ-m7McFYQ-lfTUDdOt4bHFJHj9Kv1zMjo13WKSK0ztmsa6u5uupD2IXw5T1vnnthpYMqWghiYCTkMiGbz9oU6J6so_tHIY4DyePqrXaNaU//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="624" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30uGDBgn_wY4tpGi4R56_yYrA-d8po2ipjZ-m7McFYQ-lfTUDdOt4bHFJHj9Kv1zMjo13WKSK0ztmsa6u5uupD2IXw5T1vnnthpYMqWghiYCTkMiGbz9oU6J6so_tHIY4DyePqrXaNaU//" width="187" /></a></div>I sold an article to Animal Lover's Magazine in 1974 and moved n from the Philadelphia Group and being something of a Hippie and a Hedonist. I had found Jesus in that period and except for some poems, most of my writing was done either as business publications or Christian one. I became a Youth Pastor and wrote some little plays for the youth.<div><br /></div><div>Lois and I also moved to Ski Mountain in New Jersey. That ski resort is no longer in existence. As it was, after we left the area, Donald Trump bought Ski Mountain and turned it into one of his golf clubs.<br /><p></p><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyDNSUufNx4-aFYL1FtvDmLkELnyKjahcbcZMFxPWSok6DQ9p0LCTjUlz8MCU-JM0pu9ZbB4OvwxYlP1zt8nts1yr8z_IC8K5xz0UQffIMjOd1RgaXQKLSM4obdgTFXaGIfuCIT5scf0//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="952" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyDNSUufNx4-aFYL1FtvDmLkELnyKjahcbcZMFxPWSok6DQ9p0LCTjUlz8MCU-JM0pu9ZbB4OvwxYlP1zt8nts1yr8z_IC8K5xz0UQffIMjOd1RgaXQKLSM4obdgTFXaGIfuCIT5scf0/w252-h180/1977+067+Thanksgiving+Beth+and+Rusty+Van+der+Veer.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>I teamed up with Randy Van Der Veer, who was the son of Pastor Van Der Veer and his wife then running the Cedar Land Missionary Homes. These were cottages where Missionaries could stay when they came out of the field. (Beth and Randy Van Der Veer pictured .</div><div><br /></div><div>Some what ironically, the Van Der Veers started a church in Claymont, Delaware, in a former movie <br />theater called Bible Baptist. It later moved to a spot on Darley Road and went through some name changes: Northlife Community Church and now Iron Faith Fellowship, which is where I now am a member.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixU_A-OYLuXn4McttbAzVLkIYvLXQCfm-uavYKJWf7b7Kdk2-4ENXC5uqwFHWe4WaFDUVI8iXTKrYPtdaHpCHhGh42TU3floj4NBRfl_X45VaYv0UMj8eCSaOdyaEAAseK9PBc3VmfJKc//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="340" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixU_A-OYLuXn4McttbAzVLkIYvLXQCfm-uavYKJWf7b7Kdk2-4ENXC5uqwFHWe4WaFDUVI8iXTKrYPtdaHpCHhGh42TU3floj4NBRfl_X45VaYv0UMj8eCSaOdyaEAAseK9PBc3VmfJKc/w129-h169/Plays+1979+A+Little+Fuss.jpg" width="129" /></a></div>Randy Van Der Veer wrote a Play called, "A Little Fuss" which we took the crucifixion of Jesus and put it in a contemporary setting.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote some plays of my own during this time, such as a musical and gospel <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjU5OojXXQ1iwe5EwFCL_oD98yYOCK5ZnfTqcEVEk0kUyUyFLa0FkjjaxsdpJ84nEeq3G9xN2XuwXm18LZX8LWcfLG-L0zkz4vYOKEPGwILjfhXy5ScpMzzrbWTXemS9EuSTSieREJjA/s1163/1977+WOL+Car+Wash-02.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1163" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjU5OojXXQ1iwe5EwFCL_oD98yYOCK5ZnfTqcEVEk0kUyUyFLa0FkjjaxsdpJ84nEeq3G9xN2XuwXm18LZX8LWcfLG-L0zkz4vYOKEPGwILjfhXy5ScpMzzrbWTXemS9EuSTSieREJjA/w231-h179/1977+WOL+Car+Wash-02.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><br />review, "Words of Life", where the youth starred and we took it out to other churches and nursing homes to preform.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> I also started a magazine, which I edited. This was mainly for the youth to write in, although I did some essays in it. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKPLCfUWRR0DZxWnmJJA41V__2k117Td1LaJbTGak09qnsRjt7OcVHCyMvx4PZoVwsRK8FVAa1wl-Uu023IzHW0mnJvqFIakhpmbiMz1d2cdCeB2jz2ouSpemZ7T1oB4WGT8kixYZRDI//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="345" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKPLCfUWRR0DZxWnmJJA41V__2k117Td1LaJbTGak09qnsRjt7OcVHCyMvx4PZoVwsRK8FVAa1wl-Uu023IzHW0mnJvqFIakhpmbiMz1d2cdCeB2jz2ouSpemZ7T1oB4WGT8kixYZRDI/w123-h159/Plays+1977+Words+of+Life.jpg" width="123" /></a></div> </div><div> We put it out weekly.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWCzM6tXCKAuHd-cqJYemvDcHhC3jhm7s8Xm8NChV0kgZkqd7xfnVG31iqNBABVfq8zoPvaLB5xA5PPtKIro-ZBW-sEhiO5OvW9MXyB0CjF2vtcIkbzXmtsEpWSt6y_vsxRGXaRh3v4I/s592/014+1976+Teens+on+the+Scene+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="579" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWCzM6tXCKAuHd-cqJYemvDcHhC3jhm7s8Xm8NChV0kgZkqd7xfnVG31iqNBABVfq8zoPvaLB5xA5PPtKIro-ZBW-sEhiO5OvW9MXyB0CjF2vtcIkbzXmtsEpWSt6y_vsxRGXaRh3v4I/w243-h248/014+1976+Teens+on+the+Scene+001.jpg" width="243" /></a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-85181752260290669822020-10-23T08:12:00.007-04:002020-10-23T08:12:42.648-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 11, Joe R.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg98oHnlKQQy8lN9HekrUSu-R8GM-_JxV0UTezEJ2bd8UjREV9Y2KST_MjNj2qZ9NhV1wdZJP8MPBqkR-dL2NVUhgJuIHbj8QnN0P_FSsDeGHxKwkHrAgxjyvtRjzm4rISz5Ajnb3xj9M/s930/1971+029+John+and+Joe+Rubio+at+Lansdowne+Towers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg98oHnlKQQy8lN9HekrUSu-R8GM-_JxV0UTezEJ2bd8UjREV9Y2KST_MjNj2qZ9NhV1wdZJP8MPBqkR-dL2NVUhgJuIHbj8QnN0P_FSsDeGHxKwkHrAgxjyvtRjzm4rISz5Ajnb3xj9M/s320/1971+029+John+and+Joe+Rubio+at+Lansdowne+Towers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>No you are not seeing double. John and Joseph Rubio were twins. Joe on the right became one of my best friends. We met at Atlantic Richfield, but our friendship continued even after I left that company. Joe was a regular member of our group that met in Jim Tweedy's basement and he was a writer in those days.<p></p><div>Joe and I became best friends over the next several years, getting together with the gang of artists and writers, bowling in a league, playing minister golf in Reading and Chip & Putt in West Chester. I came to look upon Joe as the younger brother I never had and he was looking at me as kind of a mentor.</div><div><br /></div><div>In 1965, right after President Johnson lifted the exception on married men, I was drafted, but code 1-Y, only to be called up if everyone else was taken. It never reached that point, so I escaped Vietnam.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wl57UIggqftcJeMl5izeQasGD-C2-YvftroXK2GOZn6h6DUmRKXRRPqF5GcFg8rjC4zLFVHTB2JHMcXbd1MK9Gvb5vnQlsUjrmNa4JdTY5xEJKE8KgDy9fS6BBrgHLBzjGVoC6xAmSo//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="241" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wl57UIggqftcJeMl5izeQasGD-C2-YvftroXK2GOZn6h6DUmRKXRRPqF5GcFg8rjC4zLFVHTB2JHMcXbd1MK9Gvb5vnQlsUjrmNa4JdTY5xEJKE8KgDy9fS6BBrgHLBzjGVoC6xAmSo//" width="138" /></a></div><br /></div><div> Joe was not lucky. He was given a lottery number. He tried to get out of being drafted, even trying to join the Marine Reserves. His family contacted a Congressman, but that came to nought. Both John and Joe were called up. John ended up in Kansas, I believe, but Joe was sent as an infantry soldier in the army to Vietnam.</div><div><br /></div><div> His Platoon leader had his head blown off directly in front of Joe. Joe became the communication guy, a prime target. He was not killed. He won several metals: bronze star with three oak leaf clusters, a battalion presidential citation, five air metals, a Vietnam national metal, and a Purple Heart.</div><div><br /></div><div> He was wounded when his platoon was trapped by the Viet Song and had to be rescued out by air. Joe exposed himself to enemy fire so the helicopter could land and pic them up.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIIL5edHGM_CpfeHHPC6VDnhBkJdj_ew3WHWIHx-0h9ai34pEkcwFXitFe9aoLjGYv5q_hlvKJCGsoHQ72lFxSZ5BduKmnKMNIbuBaMWqeOEa_u9M0K8fCcMPB4thYyYhp06OooVB7WQ//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="982" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIIL5edHGM_CpfeHHPC6VDnhBkJdj_ew3WHWIHx-0h9ai34pEkcwFXitFe9aoLjGYv5q_hlvKJCGsoHQ72lFxSZ5BduKmnKMNIbuBaMWqeOEa_u9M0K8fCcMPB4thYyYhp06OooVB7WQ/w195-h192/1973+023+Joe+Linda+and+Meredith+Rubio.jpg" width="195" /></a></div> He didn't talk for a while after getting home.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> <span> Joe don't turn to the arts later, but stayed with Atlantic Richfield and moved to Los Angeles when they moved their headquarters there. I haven't heard from him in years. He married a girl named Linda. ( Joe came from a family who immigrated to the U.S. from Cuba. Joe was one of nine children, him and he twin brother the only boys.) Joe and Linda had at least two children, both girls. They named the eldest Meredith (Joe, Linda and Meredith pictured 1n 1973.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0zkj6bgoo74oezPn2JdiJ90sgyVtRTnMIUFAu9wWXhEc3IJRWdsIl2kInC2jEpciFCYsnshNT5XyN7pKKmt4TZiYZ_kgD7yG4sjB_-GHSn7DxxevDuvrRicA-U97DwSQaTmf6imMPys//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="615" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0zkj6bgoo74oezPn2JdiJ90sgyVtRTnMIUFAu9wWXhEc3IJRWdsIl2kInC2jEpciFCYsnshNT5XyN7pKKmt4TZiYZ_kgD7yG4sjB_-GHSn7DxxevDuvrRicA-U97DwSQaTmf6imMPys//" width="182" /></a></div><br /> Joe and I wrote several things together. such as "Death of a Salesman and Our Town: A Comparison" and "The Executive and the Federalist Paper"</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span> I started helping Joe write a speech for his class at St. Joseph's University. He wrote the speech, "Warning for Aid", which was on why the state should aid puroprial </span></span>school. I added on the argument from the public school's viewpoint, how this was aid everyone. The professor only gave him a C, saying is speech was prejudice against the public schools. How could that be, I asked? I wrote the view and I'm not Catholic. I told him I wanted to write his next speech, and I did. </div><div><br /></div><div> I called in "Speech on Speaking" and told him if he gave it, he would either get an F or an A. He got an A. I wrote the rest of his speeches. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXX5vUrUdx32sMDuJhf1fyOAvr29e-ykH3qjOaQgObTJZeGlL8yqOS_gDWjT8mx7gv3FtBGzUPUKLT0pl1ZSLEsZDccDnxDzOd4A2ACIsfUOXM30nvw88zWYcgNfL9bucYRZBm_sTJcc//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="834" data-original-width="986" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXX5vUrUdx32sMDuJhf1fyOAvr29e-ykH3qjOaQgObTJZeGlL8yqOS_gDWjT8mx7gv3FtBGzUPUKLT0pl1ZSLEsZDccDnxDzOd4A2ACIsfUOXM30nvw88zWYcgNfL9bucYRZBm_sTJcc//" width="284" /></a></div></div><div>The next one was "Bob Dylan -- Poet". </div><div><br /></div><div> <br /> I was concerned about when the class would ask questions because I knew Joe didn't follow Dylan, He gave it and got another A. The professor said she agreed, Bob Dylan was a poet. Apparently the Nobel prize committee agreed, since they gave him the prize for literature the last year.</div><div><br /></div><div> The finally speech I wrote for him was called, "God Resurrected" where I resurrected the piece I did for the Communicator. He was uncomfortable with it, too, but he got another A and an A- for the class.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7k2_8dyRd5bNjCCNQ1peA1HK-gqMP06gnV2IIo_GeMfoKq-p3Yn-tQrY9ix7xs9b6wyPrkBZi0IitD3rFR3vTblNnVPhAEiARnOUjlAMm7X1UlYRUGyDWChqpcmIDph8C9mZccT8Hwo//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7k2_8dyRd5bNjCCNQ1peA1HK-gqMP06gnV2IIo_GeMfoKq-p3Yn-tQrY9ix7xs9b6wyPrkBZi0IitD3rFR3vTblNnVPhAEiARnOUjlAMm7X1UlYRUGyDWChqpcmIDph8C9mZccT8Hwo//" width="192" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphen43xqjZSLYKmg00jsrWQOoZGVQ-c0V2lGMLeCHvVSW0IE4wu-4Jg5mhFxWFGaT5ELvHCQmu21ijRLJL7QqJUpx0QpGyn9UosdKlZiuO8FAzB-IQ4UfX0UhpeOcTIZDglDhCXedwNz2s//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="314" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphen43xqjZSLYKmg00jsrWQOoZGVQ-c0V2lGMLeCHvVSW0IE4wu-4Jg5mhFxWFGaT5ELvHCQmu21ijRLJL7QqJUpx0QpGyn9UosdKlZiuO8FAzB-IQ4UfX0UhpeOcTIZDglDhCXedwNz2s//" width="193" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-14086328641758258022020-10-20T08:50:00.001-04:002020-10-20T08:50:35.458-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 10, Jane W..<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik86Srsv_Q62zp9On6FScu-A2W39fg3WrYHeZrqSnc1EEQLRbj9RtxqxxVpu-oMaluMvnq-h3BO16uprcCl9s_JYN6_WZIQB4xjMrdRlZFo3Br_zzLsagGMjZmqQn766p5VFsMhlV2Nhw/s290/Unknown-17.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik86Srsv_Q62zp9On6FScu-A2W39fg3WrYHeZrqSnc1EEQLRbj9RtxqxxVpu-oMaluMvnq-h3BO16uprcCl9s_JYN6_WZIQB4xjMrdRlZFo3Br_zzLsagGMjZmqQn766p5VFsMhlV2Nhw/s0/Unknown-17.jpeg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Atlantic Richfield, where I was working, was at 360 South Broad Street in Philadelphia. The Art University was not far away at 320 South Broad. I befriended a student there named with whom I became close friends with and we would often meet to discuss our artistic dreams. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I gave her several of my manuscript to read and afterward she had a bit of advice for me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"You wanna be a writer, then you should give up your day job and live on your talent"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-zMRMJ1_TrWVO6DR2WOnmetaAIr3Vdn0JGECAErLU2B3u-g4NpO9CZOACfBqqfBEYt_x61aTDcBCSzwjK5M_Fz6IAh7UxsL9uSVnd6CjiHfPEJ23kqQYGCmu6maw7wLG3tyWkqE4-Go/s339/Waiters+1968+Jane+Waiters+Activist+%2526+Artist.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="222" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-zMRMJ1_TrWVO6DR2WOnmetaAIr3Vdn0JGECAErLU2B3u-g4NpO9CZOACfBqqfBEYt_x61aTDcBCSzwjK5M_Fz6IAh7UxsL9uSVnd6CjiHfPEJ23kqQYGCmu6maw7wLG3tyWkqE4-Go/w162-h246/Waiters+1968+Jane+Waiters+Activist+%2526+Artist.jpg" width="162" /></a></div> She suggested I move to New York. That would be a big step and I doubted my wife would have taken kindly to the idea. Heck, she might not look kindly on my close friendship with Jane, as it was.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I wrote about Jane in my story, "Why There Will Never Be Peace". This instance I included wen Jane and I rode the Broad Street Subway north one day. She lived in North Philly and I was going to Temple University Evening Collage. That afternoon we walked to the stop together. We got a lot of stares and frowns from people, including the traffic cops. The stares and frowns continued aboard the train, lot of White People didn't seem to approve of us being together like some couple. What I noticed was as the passengers had less Whites after a few stops, we were getting the same disapproving looks from the Black Folks. It bothered me, but Jane ignored it. I was learning prejudice was a two-way street.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Same type of thing happened with Ronald, who is Gay by the way, one time. We went to lunch together and we were warmly welcomed in this Deli. It was such a nice time and the food was good I suggested to Lois we would go there sometime, and we did. Not such a warm greeting this time. The Host ignored us for a long time and then seated us by the kitchen door. No one was friendly at all. I said to Lois I didn't understand and she told me to look around. I then realized this was a Gay hangout and straight couples weren't wanted. Yes, prejudice is a two-way street! I wrote this in my story as well.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9M_1pwaLtoGAQHLRRyH637AhGY4IvWC_EFVMQNtZneubhZpj2LLATtvBuLZbvpBQPh0uC3s0hKrWNpTWMjxJi0M89mxObwv0mVbXbRBWH_a81gvgrPPjWA980GKFNqWGZK8GwsRTY-0/s319/007+1969+Psychedelphia+Period+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9M_1pwaLtoGAQHLRRyH637AhGY4IvWC_EFVMQNtZneubhZpj2LLATtvBuLZbvpBQPh0uC3s0hKrWNpTWMjxJi0M89mxObwv0mVbXbRBWH_a81gvgrPPjWA980GKFNqWGZK8GwsRTY-0/s0/007+1969+Psychedelphia+Period+001.jpg" /></a></div><br /> Jane was an activist. So was her boyfriend, a photographer, but he had left the USA and went to Cuba. Jane was talking about joining him there. She introduced me to a publisher in the underground press. Her boyfriend had published photo for him. This led to me writing for the underground under the name "Eugene Lawrence". I used a pseudonym because what was being published underground was pretty raw and very anti-government.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My maiden material appeared In Psychedelphia Period with a fairly graphic anti-war story titled, "To the Boys on the Flat".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Frank Rizzo was the police commissioner at that time and would become Philadelphia's Republican mayor. I was living in University City in West Philadelphia when he ran for that office and an attempt was made to take my vote away, along with many other's who's vote they tried to suppress.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Jane was a good friend, and eventually I did live my day job to write. I didn't move to New York, though. Of our group of wannabes, I was probably the only one who actually became a professional writer; which means I not only got into print, I got paid for it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I don't know what happened to Jane. Perhaps she did go to cuba. Like so many of my youthful friends she disappeared from my life.</div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-12558297145248182242020-10-18T12:16:00.000-04:002020-10-18T12:16:01.119-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 9, Jim T.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIlSjtOlBXTy8j82MhTYLB1-KAMEcvyaYmb4NDa0Vo_gilVA4tgVrfWEyMzNXRR9BNH7iik2XzvCxjZbuMGXlsq3aL2V1h49mkgRsxVBIzibRzuuvC2T-Y9ThnVFKR0zmd80vSP0sJ5M/s259/images-8.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIlSjtOlBXTy8j82MhTYLB1-KAMEcvyaYmb4NDa0Vo_gilVA4tgVrfWEyMzNXRR9BNH7iik2XzvCxjZbuMGXlsq3aL2V1h49mkgRsxVBIzibRzuuvC2T-Y9ThnVFKR0zmd80vSP0sJ5M/s0/images-8.jpeg" /></a></div>Jim lived somewhere on Upland Street in South Philadelphia. I don't remember the exact address. I do recall there were sensed in Basketball courts behind hid place. <p></p><p>I also can't dredge up how I first met Jim, but he became a close friend. We both had day jobs at Atlantic and minds elsewhere. Like me he went to college at night; in his case, LaSalle University. He was also a writer; not just a writer, but he was the editor of a magazine at school called, "Der Spiegel". It means, "The Mirror", but that is about all I know, even though a have a copy of it here somewhere. I ich spreche nicht. Jim did understand German obviously.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SICDL4cPyxKd2whsT4toeFJzL7x9h9k2iDu5r3BRRe0IHBsqsMAC91XYZFApGhxcji9pp6AKxGYVB4yGHsz0a7CfinO0E-wHHNmI-WHwYdvfjZM3raBDfOdur1smxVm9a854OeTnWc0//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SICDL4cPyxKd2whsT4toeFJzL7x9h9k2iDu5r3BRRe0IHBsqsMAC91XYZFApGhxcji9pp6AKxGYVB4yGHsz0a7CfinO0E-wHHNmI-WHwYdvfjZM3raBDfOdur1smxVm9a854OeTnWc0//" width="192" /></a></div> He also wrote English. I wrote a piece under his name for him, "On I, James Thurber". It is included under the ghostwriting section of my collected essays, "Making an Essay of Myself".<br /><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><b>II GHOSTING</b></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Movie Review: <i>Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>39</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(as Girard Neville)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">On “I, James Thurber”<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(as James Tweedy)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>42</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i>Death of a Salesman</i> and <i>Our Town</i>: A Comparison</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(with Joseph S. Rubio) <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>44</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Executive and <i>The Federalist Papers</i></span></p><p>
</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>(with Joseph S. Rubio)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>53</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbIFqEFl28burnH49Xf8tCSIyBD1N6veO_W_OUdiNZp9iV1HYlT7Wj8Q8hvVeWyPySnnBCqYMj1NECjudbWQlUho5Ou5K5hwFtC97A3agFxCJlUCdmVwAiYCtQXBj8WUa0Qqkou3hgBs/s928/1968+06+Lois+and+Larry+Meredith.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Lois and me in early 1968. Our hair would grow. <img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="928" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbIFqEFl28burnH49Xf8tCSIyBD1N6veO_W_OUdiNZp9iV1HYlT7Wj8Q8hvVeWyPySnnBCqYMj1NECjudbWQlUho5Ou5K5hwFtC97A3agFxCJlUCdmVwAiYCtQXBj8WUa0Qqkou3hgBs/w187-h187/1968+06+Lois+and+Larry+Meredith.jpg" width="187" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0p6edDM8dR6R41iXGSHR7gutVCzbgHLNu4nZHUuujH9JIWBv2N4DQrTVpwYIz_37ai8zqsL-fVKfxbWlwcqX5Bhyphenhyphenku_8gEh4n2JkwY9mzevcr1e4CgtUumylq1yG77o2G2kh2pJXLtPU/s254/Unknown-13.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0p6edDM8dR6R41iXGSHR7gutVCzbgHLNu4nZHUuujH9JIWBv2N4DQrTVpwYIz_37ai8zqsL-fVKfxbWlwcqX5Bhyphenhyphenku_8gEh4n2JkwY9mzevcr1e4CgtUumylq1yG77o2G2kh2pJXLtPU/s0/Unknown-13.jpeg" /></a></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Jim became the host of our meetings in the finish basement of his home on Upland Street. Our other<br /> big hang out into the we hours was Rittenhouse Square. As the evening turned to dark, more and more of what I would call the eclectic folk of the street would gather about the fountains. There would be philosophical dicussions in the air to backgrounds of folk music. Sometimes it would seem a giant costume party. Sometimes it would become erotic.</span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWx-uP8RoyL3fHam2HkZ9tnz32Ko71nDebfGaM0GkQfQkqNvWNHwrt2DLg_w-4g4bM_VCM2wkmmlIcV5u-D8KKJQn2hhldhK8IDUNHgzKJj_T5CNZxzkAELgcgqZ8danFU3Cl3-jRo0yM/s250/Trauma.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWx-uP8RoyL3fHam2HkZ9tnz32Ko71nDebfGaM0GkQfQkqNvWNHwrt2DLg_w-4g4bM_VCM2wkmmlIcV5u-D8KKJQn2hhldhK8IDUNHgzKJj_T5CNZxzkAELgcgqZ8danFU3Cl3-jRo0yM/s0/Trauma.jpg" /></a></div><br /> We shopped the Hippie section between South Street and Lombard, buying our non-work outfits from the second and stores. This was an area of music stores, head shops and occult purveyors. We also went to the Coffee Shops hoping up here and there at the time for live entertainment, some poetry, but mostly music, a lot of psychedelic stuff. We spend a lot of nights at The Trauma, Kaleidoscope The Main Point and others. </div><div><br /></div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivioBX_nTtiYAGElVDkFEyQEOsG34mNRUes0OWm_zcaqz7pWTuzCvMI8ev7sfB0BSrXSfVvyzzDySi034vaufzHNUqZd_LVLWlA2sXtfOVg-tLAo1jLn8zIQd1XJ5MAIdGHnzWyf8tbDM/s563/1967+061+Ethereal+002.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="563" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivioBX_nTtiYAGElVDkFEyQEOsG34mNRUes0OWm_zcaqz7pWTuzCvMI8ev7sfB0BSrXSfVvyzzDySi034vaufzHNUqZd_LVLWlA2sXtfOVg-tLAo1jLn8zIQd1XJ5MAIdGHnzWyf8tbDM/s320/1967+061+Ethereal+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> While I was peddling myself as a writer, Jim was more interested in breaking into the music scene. He was a composer and we decided to form our own group. We called in "Ethereal". We saw our songs as too delicate and beautiful for this world, although we did write some protest songs ala Dylan. In the photo, Jim is playing the bongo drums, but his main instrument was piano. I did my best on the guitar. Lois was our frontman, or more our sexy frontman. Lois could sing well, but she looked good and dressed in fairly diaphanous gown that were somewhat see through.</div><div><br /></div><div> Our band never caught on, but my writing was beginning to sell.<br /><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2fFDUJwYOemHEOL-Xh8nx-ZWT6U45FQ23Ym-IweB84q7Qxr3j-vTG8I3eMfKSmUkdKLoinwzIKHeXwJYIOBwNk7ADutxTMFllrrpnWj2aDd6DxUM91S4c3CL6mfL2E2LSWX1Hqkk6UE/s682/Tweedy+1967+Jim+Tweedy+Writer+%2526+Composer+Now+a+Doctor.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="439" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2fFDUJwYOemHEOL-Xh8nx-ZWT6U45FQ23Ym-IweB84q7Qxr3j-vTG8I3eMfKSmUkdKLoinwzIKHeXwJYIOBwNk7ADutxTMFllrrpnWj2aDd6DxUM91S4c3CL6mfL2E2LSWX1Hqkk6UE/s320/Tweedy+1967+Jim+Tweedy+Writer+%2526+Composer+Now+a+Doctor.jpg" /></a> Jim Tweety <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRB3PYF_pbUVlfQmnX7y7Jb5L0Y1OZ8ObuC29APFOOBRZNEDRuPw_ja0xYkkTEO3Lz-HaTk4yV8L8PPE2dqD8pzrL7R6SxbkZpIakgE9tux_YWcg8hyphenhyphen_NIBFhPS1wBGILqkybCCaxGSfw/s1364/Kaleidoscope+002.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="1364" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRB3PYF_pbUVlfQmnX7y7Jb5L0Y1OZ8ObuC29APFOOBRZNEDRuPw_ja0xYkkTEO3Lz-HaTk4yV8L8PPE2dqD8pzrL7R6SxbkZpIakgE9tux_YWcg8hyphenhyphen_NIBFhPS1wBGILqkybCCaxGSfw/w251-h173/Kaleidoscope+002.jpg" width="251" /></a> Kalidescope</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfqFe_G3E0a8DHy2dunXYoPZEdYOJXzpx40G6eWsisNRYF0roE6VX0Y6h4Re0iMljQAf5rey9_ceEY5mthGe-dTlTWYpCNnygZ4rZRJuJDpKDm8JaKuHdrGrBQsCXFABoa_xb1IbZKbU/s1039/Mainpoint+1973.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1039" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfqFe_G3E0a8DHy2dunXYoPZEdYOJXzpx40G6eWsisNRYF0roE6VX0Y6h4Re0iMljQAf5rey9_ceEY5mthGe-dTlTWYpCNnygZ4rZRJuJDpKDm8JaKuHdrGrBQsCXFABoa_xb1IbZKbU/w249-h186/Mainpoint+1973.jpg" width="249" /></a> Main Point</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6SGDOjTaJHH9jXsHjRHbnEJlSBY6krqYu1BZHg2dSgdIffdRv4DRIPYido9mPtjq2n0x4DyfS-5GPBIuXwoCd3CPrIifEnS6TjnnideyoYlA_99xotPCkgiBsBuC4zzE_aAZ0By6C24/s300/Trauma+Poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6SGDOjTaJHH9jXsHjRHbnEJlSBY6krqYu1BZHg2dSgdIffdRv4DRIPYido9mPtjq2n0x4DyfS-5GPBIuXwoCd3CPrIifEnS6TjnnideyoYlA_99xotPCkgiBsBuC4zzE_aAZ0By6C24/s0/Trauma+Poster.jpg" /></a> The Trauma Poster</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGijkX4iT5tMES6n5a_-1uwqGDAQlKjBnMeLuxB9zlxFhZQaGTdylXaTR18s8k5HjilhMxKEbF67vBbalfjRSvqLuFSdBEWWQeoRrNWvPOkjIG5ab4-jGfbrzWi18hsZBwZm8OJZdCB4/s278/images-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGijkX4iT5tMES6n5a_-1uwqGDAQlKjBnMeLuxB9zlxFhZQaGTdylXaTR18s8k5HjilhMxKEbF67vBbalfjRSvqLuFSdBEWWQeoRrNWvPOkjIG5ab4-jGfbrzWi18hsZBwZm8OJZdCB4/s0/images-9.jpeg" /></a> Tim Buckley and his band</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 37.4px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><p><br /></p><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-33940889896535330102020-10-17T11:05:00.003-04:002020-10-17T11:05:52.776-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 8, Jerry & Jeff<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5A0SfRW7szPC6VGylBCDzE_XDNFycsOLQZ6wE4VA08we2zQuqYzVGDUj9MUb2Jrem730HjqHlRTyZ8TIisdtk7i_uMUroo2YsDBodJKfml46BwsR4JlfqBIS6TSn1dPkWCl_ran_YJAY/s351/Unknown-12.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5A0SfRW7szPC6VGylBCDzE_XDNFycsOLQZ6wE4VA08we2zQuqYzVGDUj9MUb2Jrem730HjqHlRTyZ8TIisdtk7i_uMUroo2YsDBodJKfml46BwsR4JlfqBIS6TSn1dPkWCl_ran_YJAY/s320/Unknown-12.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Time marches on and I left Addressograph behind for a clerical department at Atlantic Refining, now known as Atlantic Richfield. I became a Ledger Clerk in Accounts Receivable as my day job, but my real preferred avocation was writing and thanks to Robert Kane I was seeing my nam in print. This was only the beginning.<p></p><p>There were 50 -some people in Accounts Receivable and many likes me wanted to do other things. Several also went to college at night, as did I at Temple University. I began to meet these people and I began to do ghostwriting of their school papers for a fee. After a while we formed into a group.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgche5js7_I42IofxePt5iS2FS6vsgkYMhcW1ZJz0W2ZDcdP4QEULgd5-VBSU8jTyF13pw_GjH1N7miYeXRjScjGRW0KEA1OvPDY9GxPHidCmbxiL8vU9xY04Ve30xhmUCQ8lYl76M4Cvg/s770/Monson+1967+055+Jeff+Munson+Writer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="770" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgche5js7_I42IofxePt5iS2FS6vsgkYMhcW1ZJz0W2ZDcdP4QEULgd5-VBSU8jTyF13pw_GjH1N7miYeXRjScjGRW0KEA1OvPDY9GxPHidCmbxiL8vU9xY04Ve30xhmUCQ8lYl76M4Cvg/w225-h175/Monson+1967+055+Jeff+Munson+Writer.jpg" width="225" /></a></div> I know it has seemed like every friend's name started with R, with the exception of Stuart. There was Ronald, Richard, Ray, Richard Ray, and a couple of Roberts, but now we come to some J's. I did some ghost writing for Jeff Monson, but he never joined our inner circle. He was more interested in pursuing his business career than in the worlds of writing or art. Still he hung around and in the picture to th left he is at our place.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicp1fQ7tvarWzkcojdrI20K6GlV8AAZUm3NFJkdj69rW1cPrOB-Kd3VLPM3-GH5c6mkP-RzK-WtefV2RGbIvHDmgWd05IYNHvygZyH8PHq9el63QK9LsRbtKDzdV9sFawUevyX6vDoMQ/s850/Neville+1967+051+Girard+Neville+Writers+and+Poets.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="850" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicp1fQ7tvarWzkcojdrI20K6GlV8AAZUm3NFJkdj69rW1cPrOB-Kd3VLPM3-GH5c6mkP-RzK-WtefV2RGbIvHDmgWd05IYNHvygZyH8PHq9el63QK9LsRbtKDzdV9sFawUevyX6vDoMQ/w255-h239/Neville+1967+051+Girard+Neville+Writers+and+Poets.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p> Closer to our group was Jerry Neville. He was older than most of us, but had dreams of going on to writing as a career though. Not so sure h ever did.</p><p>He was going to St. Joseph University at the time I knew him. I first got together with him helping him write a biographic study of Lawrence of Arabia, called "T. S. Lawrence and The Seven Pillars of Wisdom." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4zXNgmoYBVMyOnkmtEq8RTzxxjFNO_2Ata4QjFG7eNS-Czidbw5Z42RAlFmzhXrWOTqYUrNlgD_AlIncXYtQfcii8rBTTo6BtIwVZGE_Jvh8nVYzOwpwULY91cEUvjgYg4Ix0urqFdI/s1081/Pelligrino+1968+Diane+Pelligrino+Durse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1081" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4zXNgmoYBVMyOnkmtEq8RTzxxjFNO_2Ata4QjFG7eNS-Czidbw5Z42RAlFmzhXrWOTqYUrNlgD_AlIncXYtQfcii8rBTTo6BtIwVZGE_Jvh8nVYzOwpwULY91cEUvjgYg4Ix0urqFdI/w234-h231/Pelligrino+1968+Diane+Pelligrino+Durse.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>I then ghosted pieces with his name in the byline, mostly reviews, such as "Movie Review: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf".<p></p><p> I was also ghostwriting work by Diane Pellagrino at this time. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span> <span> Sometime in here, I met Jim and Joe.</span></span><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-87098810698657317322020-10-15T13:30:00.003-04:002020-10-15T13:30:37.237-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 6 Tom N.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvV_ZgmvkvFcg2Jk8NH1RGCqwjYn0Z4ulJ4xx0SzH-Fkh-fjv_1wx1CTFjbqbXhIBrlNZAY9qyvmnwck5SNl3GTW0GZs876SKJhQFeyIUQeAbwwee5D6qy2JgoPLQtZhU_RsUERL01RyE//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></a></div><br /> <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gNaTXrsTHyC5NRThrjOm_mn7a4ZPKXYcAXeEZhcFsXca9gFHinZbphys9X9ULvTDMCHTNcfUgKIM-ThUAFGoYPNnYEBneGYpN5rTDRxdGJvWAP7H2cy6lYG3vF2kAcPitcrIL40UKMM//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="217" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gNaTXrsTHyC5NRThrjOm_mn7a4ZPKXYcAXeEZhcFsXca9gFHinZbphys9X9ULvTDMCHTNcfUgKIM-ThUAFGoYPNnYEBneGYpN5rTDRxdGJvWAP7H2cy6lYG3vF2kAcPitcrIL40UKMM//" width="96" /></a></div><br />Summer went past and Sonja didn't seem impressed by Robert Condon and my musical, and I don't know what happened to the music score for Ya-Ha-Whoey wince then. I knew I was now graduated from High School with no where to go. My parents had long ago made it clear they were weren't sending me to college, and I didn't know any other way to go. I had no money of my own to pay for the experience, and I didn't see any scholarships coming my way. My school grades were fairly good, but not in the right subjects to get me any grants.<div><br /></div><div>I also realized Iwasn't going to win any athletic scholarship.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p> I only participated in one sport at school, Track and Field. Perhaps if I had done what the coach wanted from the start I may have earned my way to a college. Everybody who came out for track had to audition in the different events. I did best running the mile; in fact, very well. I ran it faster than any other kid there, faster than most high schoolers of that time, close to the record on my first trial, so Coach Springer wanted me to run distant races. Problem was, long distant guys had to do a lot of running doing training, and I hated running. Therefore, it took up weight events because those boys ran the least.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUDwNvsN-krPf_Bq2XVfJmcpf9HITcAf9I6npZ42YXruC8kdUdmyeM6H32sdvH6oaResRDzUwjp0CyCHg3LjXav3z8vyPPy1KKfZehmVblAMQS8bXOmUZHGqSEfu_dBi3mD5Fx7JQA7E//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="2386" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUDwNvsN-krPf_Bq2XVfJmcpf9HITcAf9I6npZ42YXruC8kdUdmyeM6H32sdvH6oaResRDzUwjp0CyCHg3LjXav3z8vyPPy1KKfZehmVblAMQS8bXOmUZHGqSEfu_dBi3mD5Fx7JQA7E//" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p> I threw the shot put and the discus. (That is me in the third row second from the right side wearing dark sweats. My good friend and writing partner, Ray Ayres is second from the left in the first row. He was basically the star of the team.)</p><p> I wasn't built for those throwing events. I was tall and thin with little upper body strength. I did throw the discus further than anyone in our meet with Phoenixville, but I fell out of the circle and was disqualified. </p><p> Nope, I wasn't going to win any sports scholarships.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlkJg07nYs5h74LiCVpBJtOnnjYPslkSi3ipW9oZsYr00bk5sJfbYWnRk-Ti6M3ckjm4hdIxSchOprp-4LEwuG-PncfJND9JLmyDVmE-MDZ-2g94ZK2xtYY0jTd0ey6P5rFU22ub2bZQ//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlkJg07nYs5h74LiCVpBJtOnnjYPslkSi3ipW9oZsYr00bk5sJfbYWnRk-Ti6M3ckjm4hdIxSchOprp-4LEwuG-PncfJND9JLmyDVmE-MDZ-2g94ZK2xtYY0jTd0ey6P5rFU22ub2bZQ/w268-h179/images-4.jpeg" width="268" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHf3uMtb1zVim6fC5mZKiRLHVsq6G2dve47wbieQFJVmxm28woHk4i7NU7AXYGehSEr7nJ66OAd3HCmL4scIVAa2Mbt0Rjpvxd72M48zN7Cx1C13DKvJ6DtWlRiZi8xhtEri5t3Ey9Iw//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="161" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHf3uMtb1zVim6fC5mZKiRLHVsq6G2dve47wbieQFJVmxm28woHk4i7NU7AXYGehSEr7nJ66OAd3HCmL4scIVAa2Mbt0Rjpvxd72M48zN7Cx1C13DKvJ6DtWlRiZi8xhtEri5t3Ey9Iw//" width="180" /></a></div> Stuart Meisel had went off to college at Franklin & Marshall and Ronald Tipton had enlisted in the army. All I could do was find a job. I had done squat labor on a farm the last couple of summers, but the farm wasn't looking for any more hands this year. I did get a job loading tomatoes onto 18-wheeler flatbeds in Lancaster County. Lifting bushel baskets of tomatoes and piling them 6 feet high down the length of the truck was hard and sweaty work. All the Amish girls would come and watch us boys work and giggle.<p></p><p> I finished that job and moved on to working for Proctor and Gamble. I was in "field marketing". meaning I hung samples of their newest product, "Mr. Clean" on doorknobs. I toted a satchel filled with the 8 ounce bottles up one street an down another all day dropping each in a small bag I could hang over the doorknob. I'd ring the bell and walk away.</p><p> There was a small group of boys who traveled with the van and the rest of us were local kids. Sometimes the van would follow behind up and down the street blasting that monotonous Mr. Clean jingle. After we had covered all of Pottstown and the surrounding area we were let go. On that final day, though, the gang boss called me into the van and offered me a job on the traveling crew because he felt I was a very good worker. I was too young to say yes on my own, my parents had to sign because I wasn't 21 and they refused. Come on, what possible trouble could an 18 year old get into traveling alone across the USA with a bunch of teenagers?</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKSfJ4eQF6VBY_m0rj0zjegqJF5SXEEoiCFwQOgUJK7VuSj0j6CoPpdYHt4uYpXwl_p9jtxl-e-9NpFfxXuFoZoOQ6OlLlWTxTroX3UcVMsP63B3fztJTNd7ABm7iJDLs1C1n_TGZuZ4//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="216" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKSfJ4eQF6VBY_m0rj0zjegqJF5SXEEoiCFwQOgUJK7VuSj0j6CoPpdYHt4uYpXwl_p9jtxl-e-9NpFfxXuFoZoOQ6OlLlWTxTroX3UcVMsP63B3fztJTNd7ABm7iJDLs1C1n_TGZuZ4/w212-h141/Unknown-6.jpeg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Ronald had wanted me to join the Army with him on the buddy system, but again, my parents permission was needed and they didn't want me in the army, even if Uncle Sam did. The did pay and allow me to go to IBM school. They frowned on higher education, but saw this as different because it involved operation machines, real work in<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXeI6iCLp3DZehVNyHiVzoRrYGJuoR77qG1v958SNcb3Ue7jcIt9QUMnDDCN-Iz4uZb1gv0qLtuxrpcDI4Ny5TeX9OR5xiYVRX5u7oPwqYz6zeqj4pxCz7bn7YzD5RvepbqXd1qb_Umk//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="254" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXeI6iCLp3DZehVNyHiVzoRrYGJuoR77qG1v958SNcb3Ue7jcIt9QUMnDDCN-Iz4uZb1gv0qLtuxrpcDI4Ny5TeX9OR5xiYVRX5u7oPwqYz6zeqj4pxCz7bn7YzD5RvepbqXd1qb_Umk/w186-h146/Unknown-5.jpeg" width="186" /></a></div><br /> their minds. Little did they know is was wiring a lot of spaghetti wires on control boards. I would graduate from Florence Utz TAB School t the top go the class. More importantly, I met a fellow student named Tom Newman and we became fast friends.</div><div><br /></div><div> Besides studying IBM Machines, we had something else in common. We both wanted to be Cartoonist and were studying art in correspondence school. His was The Famous Artist School of art, while I was studying with Art Instruction, Inc. The figure head for Famous Artist was Norman Rockwell and Charles Schulz was the spokes person for Art Instruction. I don't know how long Tom had been studying with Famous Artists. I studied two years with Art Instruction, a secret my mom and I kept from my dad.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjjoY41358ZcYlR7a-BcmwL-jMdxXlv6MSDNNEKHqMFbkNMrRAyJXn8aJhu3hCKLnC9022GDYJjqLb7ix5F5rtcTZKufe_Bu29Zpb8NV0i-FZUXNFE42yTH9Cnn9AD_Y9_WnIyKF5v4o//" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="264" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjjoY41358ZcYlR7a-BcmwL-jMdxXlv6MSDNNEKHqMFbkNMrRAyJXn8aJhu3hCKLnC9022GDYJjqLb7ix5F5rtcTZKufe_Bu29Zpb8NV0i-FZUXNFE42yTH9Cnn9AD_Y9_WnIyKF5v4o//" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYW8yLgsu3s5Zmb-owirxQGzhakViUyp_xxkMOPQF01h0TzzA2xddSPNDLlWsAQIm8xe-tENL2vfiSIHQiQ7C3-95nx8SjlIDWKiXLyUm-4S3I_mACACSE7VggTX4vT7o0G-On_C-rEAo//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="683" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYW8yLgsu3s5Zmb-owirxQGzhakViUyp_xxkMOPQF01h0TzzA2xddSPNDLlWsAQIm8xe-tENL2vfiSIHQiQ7C3-95nx8SjlIDWKiXLyUm-4S3I_mACACSE7VggTX4vT7o0G-On_C-rEAo//" width="171" /></a> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBWcX1LQe-IUgJvNkEzUqEnntb9toMDc3588hoi1degHh8qisBfpYQf9yuceJwn6YuAk1HlLEjeWx-e8l8z7geh-Q9LXyhJDPj2478wZ0DulqFPzrPfFFf9txmFpfZml7WaK0vpecjD4/s259/images-6.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBWcX1LQe-IUgJvNkEzUqEnntb9toMDc3588hoi1degHh8qisBfpYQf9yuceJwn6YuAk1HlLEjeWx-e8l8z7geh-Q9LXyhJDPj2478wZ0DulqFPzrPfFFf9txmFpfZml7WaK0vpecjD4/w156-h209/images-6.jpeg" width="156" /></a></div> Tom and I spend a lot of hours after class together, comparing our cartoons and talking about future plans. I stayed at his home in New Jersey sometimes. We would take the train line, that in 1969 became the PATCO Line. The day we went across the river from Philadelphia to New Jersey, we were killing time in Wanamaker's store on Market Street. It was getting ear time for our train and we were lost in the store. We were running down stairs looking to get out and ended up on the mezzanine. We ran through a door and found ourselves in the Ladies Powder Room with a lot of women, some who began screaming. We got out of there and found som steps down. The train had a stop right by the store basement. We were thinking police would be coming for us and were relieved to get into a train car.</div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><p><br /></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64CJ8bV9fE1puaccuKjqGz0nTt9jQg_0jXi7X7_76NX7NKrbE9NWamVHiI57S-l0AiXTE1D5BEur_TQvLFERWKAnOg1ce6GXrakb2ATbyyTl_E9nqMHx4JyPgvX3WszIYb60xel3wzGw/s288/Unknown-8.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="175" data-original-width="288" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64CJ8bV9fE1puaccuKjqGz0nTt9jQg_0jXi7X7_76NX7NKrbE9NWamVHiI57S-l0AiXTE1D5BEur_TQvLFERWKAnOg1ce6GXrakb2ATbyyTl_E9nqMHx4JyPgvX3WszIYb60xel3wzGw/w237-h144/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="237" /></a>Tom lived in Clementon, New Jersey on street that deadened at Clementon <br />Amusement Park. It was a two block walk to the ark, and we spent a good amount of time there.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> We also spent a lot of time discussing our art and cartoons.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSPqyfb_bwAo5OdYB_gYDIN2sTrCzBDuLsyb7ALKws0poZ3aq-YMNu-pCqmhwdJOvRal0Guut7CLL7AF0H6GTfo6Zvq83l8Q94qIp6D-WaR70i5rQMv8wFZ-n7dlIElLukL180U8GmbI/s2048/Tom+Newman+Art.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1511" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSPqyfb_bwAo5OdYB_gYDIN2sTrCzBDuLsyb7ALKws0poZ3aq-YMNu-pCqmhwdJOvRal0Guut7CLL7AF0H6GTfo6Zvq83l8Q94qIp6D-WaR70i5rQMv8wFZ-n7dlIElLukL180U8GmbI/s320/Tom+Newman+Art.jpg" /></a></div>After we graduated we went separate way. I soon dropped out of my art studies. I wonder what happened to Tom. Did he ever become a cartoonist? On the left are some of his sketches.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Below is a piece we did together.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeXf-Rl3NQr6Z2IPV8kFaGXmST3daBr1VSSY8NHthdt9CNS9j3PuG0E7qbrLtkEAjTtA8voovLtN9EBCYCQtYrSmCBGpU9WfpSI0TG9MXnVyGyf-UQ1rtHLTrmRozBNZK7EE2Ve2JhSmY/s960/1959+Hector%2527s+Hectic+Life+036a+Good+grief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="773" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeXf-Rl3NQr6Z2IPV8kFaGXmST3daBr1VSSY8NHthdt9CNS9j3PuG0E7qbrLtkEAjTtA8voovLtN9EBCYCQtYrSmCBGpU9WfpSI0TG9MXnVyGyf-UQ1rtHLTrmRozBNZK7EE2Ve2JhSmY/s320/1959+Hector%2527s+Hectic+Life+036a+Good+grief.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHwUlQ2qOYEPoo-ouXulqbsgmJCwOrIl3PuEeNsvXJYnBmg16aVuhyphenhyphenmdCBjQG1ybm4iJo66-ZqXwuIcLotIYIs6YTOk84RxJHBTbE7DtUyasM2GD9gOxuVDTZh8OCEyhDNiHJC2lirXw/s960/1959+Hector%2527s+Hectic+Life+036b+Good+grief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="708" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHwUlQ2qOYEPoo-ouXulqbsgmJCwOrIl3PuEeNsvXJYnBmg16aVuhyphenhyphenmdCBjQG1ybm4iJo66-ZqXwuIcLotIYIs6YTOk84RxJHBTbE7DtUyasM2GD9gOxuVDTZh8OCEyhDNiHJC2lirXw/s320/1959+Hector%2527s+Hectic+Life+036b+Good+grief.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHGVPWtvreyJ9L715SzYztqt4d10EwaSyYkx3bf-9ZieR8-FhvsSt2iPXVTAIq_MtNB9VV83T_O3cvEjiC2VAnC3zhnJxjzHlX5ASTAMDW4znNBlSepxuUyXlydLcBCJ2yB9WneSdA7M/s960/1959+Hector%2527s+Hectic+Life+036c+Good+grief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><div><br style="text-align: left;" /><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p></p></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-39184812793234840222020-10-12T16:00:00.000-04:002020-10-12T16:00:08.208-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 5 Robert C.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93WfQBYP-TuTBnPNEQ60tUSYEsDrINJxIGD52wDR21z1j4nsbWibLo9YpRr6Iw1WX_baGHnIc4caxe8ZcXMSidUw88vyDrXN7Gflw5je27jxDlGGnE3W2Ji1APZ9KfAJxvQKyMgrai2g/s273/images-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><ul><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wMWtEyCAHlp9DRyDZXIziFYfRty5uN6NRGVi02nGQthRdIyc31nsoSHSznr5olWrR-lR4ho6iB-kK35eYqwCnKmovZP4Zp4DNWgm-0a9ncUIPRmKH3hf2U5DonUMnq31dadMtfvLLzk/s299/1959-1960+Sonja+Katherine+Kebbe+004.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="299" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wMWtEyCAHlp9DRyDZXIziFYfRty5uN6NRGVi02nGQthRdIyc31nsoSHSznr5olWrR-lR4ho6iB-kK35eYqwCnKmovZP4Zp4DNWgm-0a9ncUIPRmKH3hf2U5DonUMnq31dadMtfvLLzk/w241-h163/1959-1960+Sonja+Katherine+Kebbe+004.jpg" width="241" /></a></ul></div><br /></div> The person pictured to the left is not Robert C, but was the conduit to my meeting and involvement with him. The girl is Sonja, a young woman I fell in love with during the summer after my high school graduation and began dating.<div><br /></div><div>I was crazy about her and all was fine between us, until fall arrived. She had not dated anyone prior to myself, but when Autumn was in the air, she went off on the train to Philadelphia attending Peirce College, then known as Peirce Business school. Nothing wrong with that, per se. My wife has an Associates Degree from that same school, and may have been attending at the same time as Sonja. The problem was Sonja was a good looking blond and now she was meeting college boys.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPC5ObudgSODhaOPFs_eBDOYUNqyAk-xfDJukHV9SN3kZA0ZII92olHZDefRYQfpTW2FO5s_0YijrEg-yzPGNxF4MY1SayOwxH18q2GR4QHFT5MZ6io-fgB_Mo_aPoaWqC8eEWCUU__RM/s740/Plays+1959+Ya-Ha-Whoe%2521.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="587" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPC5ObudgSODhaOPFs_eBDOYUNqyAk-xfDJukHV9SN3kZA0ZII92olHZDefRYQfpTW2FO5s_0YijrEg-yzPGNxF4MY1SayOwxH18q2GR4QHFT5MZ6io-fgB_Mo_aPoaWqC8eEWCUU__RM/w152-h192/Plays+1959+Ya-Ha-Whoe%2521.jpg" width="152" /></a></div> I was concerned as she would come home and speak of this boy or that. Since she liked Broadway Plays and music in general. I decided to impress her by writing such a musical. I called it "Ya-Ha-Whoey. Yes, t had the same title as a song Stuart Meisel and I wrote in Junior High School. I too not only the title, but incorporated the song into the play. I also put my previously recorded tune, "My Little White Lamb" as part of the plot songs. I added 17 original songs to the play. (By the way, the girl her on the right as model for "Ya-Ha-Whoey" is my wife Lois. I had a thing for good looking women.)</div><div><br /></div><div> I am not so sure this really impressed her, but the writing of did show me I had a problem, 17 songs for which I had written lyrics, but no music. I could read music and I had written a few song before this, but I was far from being a great composer of music. I need a partner.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwckJE_HKSMp3UCo6fjdOmBNbmXNx4O3oPZbh3z_qxgZz8TN0UITvAzgRksNt6XwMg_UuQ68ydkd_Nz6eq5Ec6lp4brY2Ojkmy1NgckI50p01dctiAj9mHeGbLsr8KZbJZjSGPZOGEoT4/s225/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwckJE_HKSMp3UCo6fjdOmBNbmXNx4O3oPZbh3z_qxgZz8TN0UITvAzgRksNt6XwMg_UuQ68ydkd_Nz6eq5Ec6lp4brY2Ojkmy1NgckI50p01dctiAj9mHeGbLsr8KZbJZjSGPZOGEoT4/w170-h170/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="170" /></a></div></div><br /> I had met this young man at one of her parties. He rode from Philly on the same train as her. His name was Robert S. Condon. and he lived in Valley Forge. I struck up a friendship with him and along the line discovered he could compose music. One day I drove him to his home. I was much impressed by the place. We drove down a drive and I noticed the property was festooned with some exotic statues and I commented about them.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_xRprb1ylMzGyGFyRh6xMqHWSWwSv1F929-Xs7FdQpJOIbmISi3hKBeP9gu4S0mqT8dlDzl97VJ_lB6sntep1ZElUtjcX6BL7EMKR1pqPXmV9uIjhi_6BuEiAV8MvOKsg2bu2_KilCQ/s225/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_xRprb1ylMzGyGFyRh6xMqHWSWwSv1F929-Xs7FdQpJOIbmISi3hKBeP9gu4S0mqT8dlDzl97VJ_lB6sntep1ZElUtjcX6BL7EMKR1pqPXmV9uIjhi_6BuEiAV8MvOKsg2bu2_KilCQ/w191-h191/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="191" /></a><br /></div><div><span> "Oh, they're my dad's" he said</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Well, they looked sort of primitive to me and I concluded he meant his father collected Native American art, but he certainly had a lot of it.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span> We got to the house and we sat down in a room and I showed him "Ys-Ha-Whooy" He glanced through it and in the end he agreed to write the music.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXHEZzcDqfx-vZaAJU_r2id4-nd_lW7YHIsKqDwZgpAQDdQ2LUL9Vtdu54Coqjh2-TDia6DS8X9toVPhBgCavCxLNUmRVjv6XusRRQZFyUAhTc7YGkr6jlQ2j8MpUHbKsSXzZuEyEe8k/s275/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXHEZzcDqfx-vZaAJU_r2id4-nd_lW7YHIsKqDwZgpAQDdQ2LUL9Vtdu54Coqjh2-TDia6DS8X9toVPhBgCavCxLNUmRVjv6XusRRQZFyUAhTc7YGkr6jlQ2j8MpUHbKsSXzZuEyEe8k/s0/images-2.jpeg" /></a></div>We began meeting regularly at the Washington Memorial Chapel in Valley Forge. Next to the church building there was a tall bell tower. Robert's family seemed to have some influence with the chapel because Robert had access to that tower. We would go up these narrow stairs and we would come to a room, perhaps halfway up, and in this room there was a piano. He would sit and compose the music at this instrument as I read the lyrics and gave him my visions of the tunes.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>I will share a secret about this location. To the right of the tower there was a parking lot and to the right of that was a field with a picnic grove at the top near the road though the park. My wife and I one summer day went down in the field and we made love in the tall hay growing there, wrapped in a blanket I carried in the truck of our car. I could look up the slight incline and watch a family set up at a picnic table as we did. I know Lois and I had a somewhat clean and bland reputation, and I hate to disappoint, but in our early years we could be rather wild and daring.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span> There was another secret I didn't learn until years after when I ran across online article from Life <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPm_r2or7VLAzcMtwOvKWOc29P5LsQLvSRDNabQqhQe6GePgljlF5hrmmJ5tsAsBEX-iHGGuLaS0LxGUDfjeX4wl-eS85OpqhMFumbTw9J_iDbTawwycN6vg7gQDs2fP6x61JqtI2EUk/s273/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPm_r2or7VLAzcMtwOvKWOc29P5LsQLvSRDNabQqhQe6GePgljlF5hrmmJ5tsAsBEX-iHGGuLaS0LxGUDfjeX4wl-eS85OpqhMFumbTw9J_iDbTawwycN6vg7gQDs2fP6x61JqtI2EUk/s0/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div><br />Magazine. Robert's father was a well respected sculptor and the statues about the property weren't Native American at all, But had been done by his father. His father's name was Rudolph Condon and he was a friend of Jamie Wyath, the well-known painter son of Andrew Wyeth. I could be wrong, but I believe the young man in the left of this photo my have been Robert. The msn bending over on the right is Jamie Wyeth and it is Rudolph Condon in the center.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Ah, the people one crosses paths with in this life.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nd0rONKQERYPQ5-UG57pPOv-ZLZ17FDGKf6W0NNd5oaZb8jQsmwgpY3t1g74QKyxGhzZSLi1n8cS0RfbA279wrwudC-Hk5yJtKc1b9f8DqjC3qeNeDApUGv5p9l1T_IEENm4yPYSK4c/s272/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="185" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nd0rONKQERYPQ5-UG57pPOv-ZLZ17FDGKf6W0NNd5oaZb8jQsmwgpY3t1g74QKyxGhzZSLi1n8cS0RfbA279wrwudC-Hk5yJtKc1b9f8DqjC3qeNeDApUGv5p9l1T_IEENm4yPYSK4c/w256-h376/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-58569398554682635342020-10-10T13:12:00.000-04:002020-10-10T13:12:00.199-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 3 Richard W.<p><br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5v8ni8sko3vy5aQpWNHreZO3L-zBySWiKWciyA6-Je8QruCzooTDTFlB7Qv0hrjJt4sgB0M9j7A-gOmf9fecE_nqYqgGp91hZdKJsMHRCGnI1UW_dk7JqiOCe8BPQWgh6ZJ1EZeyqLU/s420/1957+001+Richard+Allen+Wilson_2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5v8ni8sko3vy5aQpWNHreZO3L-zBySWiKWciyA6-Je8QruCzooTDTFlB7Qv0hrjJt4sgB0M9j7A-gOmf9fecE_nqYqgGp91hZdKJsMHRCGnI1UW_dk7JqiOCe8BPQWgh6ZJ1EZeyqLU/s320/1957+001+Richard+Allen+Wilson_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In 1955 my dad and mom finally bought a house. It was in Bucktown, five miles south of Pottstown. It was a village actually, population about 200. There was the cross road of Res 100 and 23 and just above that a slaughterhouse. Other than that there wasn't much at that time. There was a small restaurant and a gas station.<p></p><p>Our property was 31/2 acres. The man next door was an auctioneer, who would practice his budding over a loudspeaker at times. In our other side was a man-made lake and springhouse that belonged to a farmer across the street. That was the Bishops. They has a boy named Dave, but he was a couple years older than I. </p><p>There was little to do and I spent that summer practicing pitching by throwing rubber baseball at a drawling of a home plate I drew on the back wall of the house. One day I was pretending yo pics a game and realized someone was watching me. I looked over to our side yard and there stood a boy about my hight, although a bit more stocky of build.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zP-uD8XFp9PeO5-WDSaLCg_wOU_hxD-djaHR9UqZAD0Mtq8ZsahwsDMwJMr-hXxCjtQcE4eAOyYhw6XnTcpo6EB7GK7ffeRWiNpfQyEKWc0m8FEc5Utt2j0UxQtSvHJbSzQS1J3GcAA/s204/1957+Rich+Wilson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="145" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zP-uD8XFp9PeO5-WDSaLCg_wOU_hxD-djaHR9UqZAD0Mtq8ZsahwsDMwJMr-hXxCjtQcE4eAOyYhw6XnTcpo6EB7GK7ffeRWiNpfQyEKWc0m8FEc5Utt2j0UxQtSvHJbSzQS1J3GcAA/w88-h124/1957+Rich+Wilson.jpg" width="88" /></a></div> "Want to play catch", he asked, and we were soon good friends. His name was Richard Allan Wilson<br /> and his family lived about a 1/4 miles on the other side of Rt. 100. He was in with grade and I was in tenth, but he was older than me. He had been held back in school a couple years.<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGG5_7uOqQnWY-dInQjiidFqgqabtlKxamyhYsHDBwnvo31tR2XWKDshfiyhBt6eRTdDxhLJLwBrGRJAazA3PfgqoqOHKzRftm6kNkq9QIbjlL3WxPiACB6OF77x7CTlQIZYp5BkBoKs/s504/1957+003+Suzy+Wilson+and+Tom+Wilson+in+Parent%2527s+livingroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="504" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGG5_7uOqQnWY-dInQjiidFqgqabtlKxamyhYsHDBwnvo31tR2XWKDshfiyhBt6eRTdDxhLJLwBrGRJAazA3PfgqoqOHKzRftm6kNkq9QIbjlL3WxPiACB6OF77x7CTlQIZYp5BkBoKs/w149-h135/1957+003+Suzy+Wilson+and+Tom+Wilson+in+Parent%2527s+livingroom.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><br /> He had a younger brother and sister, who sometimes visited me. One time Suzy, his sister almost shot us with his rifle. We country boys all had our rifles then. Richard had a single shop .22, while I had a 16 shot bolt-action .22. Suzy had borrowed his rifle and was swinging it round wildly. We boys were all ducking until he got it away from her.<p></p><p><span> <span> His parents doted on his bother, who everyone </span></span>thought was nice, but he was really a brat. Once he and his sister cam eto visit without Richard along. I was taking a bath and heard them knock. I wrapped a towel about my waist to go see she was at the door. When I saw him and the girl, I let them in.</p><p> I said,"give me a minute to get dressed". and started across the living room to my room. Suddenly he snatched the towel off me and left me standing naked before his sister. That was the kind of guy he was.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOezIMCsL322ayRgoieqPGSNW7Ztqfq-dYWH-EOh_FzRbIYBCkdIGNEKTKOkbEW_pSBuvYeyKJpHXEqRPwcR5hZd_7rOACrCBQjItIoReVcru0-czZBORO9cWcQyUiLlaSN12VOEzavA/s446/Plays+1960+Little+Plays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="345" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOezIMCsL322ayRgoieqPGSNW7Ztqfq-dYWH-EOh_FzRbIYBCkdIGNEKTKOkbEW_pSBuvYeyKJpHXEqRPwcR5hZd_7rOACrCBQjItIoReVcru0-czZBORO9cWcQyUiLlaSN12VOEzavA/w138-h178/Plays+1960+Little+Plays.jpg" width="138" /></a></div> Sometime I obtained a Belcor reel-to reel tape recorder. It was huge. Richard and I began making up short plays we recoded, I called them the "Mike Wakrus Interviews" and we made up funny interviews with suppoedly famous people. such as "Dr. James Q. Whitemeat, famous heart surgeon" and "Professor B. S. Dimwitt"among others. We also wrote plays in which song lyrics played part. We would record these and insert lines from songs in the appropriate place. I collected everything we write and included them in a collection I wrote several year later, called "Little Plays. <p></p><p>Richard died a few years back. He was only in his fifties. His brother had a a girl, who he got pregnant as well as the girl's mother. As<br /> far as I know Suzy never married and still lives at home.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24_cYUpWsIciLjvpMGtW6CdNfDS9K-OE9OnnhdRjwOy4URuxDjwOlQnBh-PyKAbBXvA9Vjs6kBre7EM9GBatAJBK19waW39wiYA4lQMo-ROe3PzD7_4CapxWLZEW6S2oA7kieHQFI1og/s716/1993+Rich+Wilson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="586" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24_cYUpWsIciLjvpMGtW6CdNfDS9K-OE9OnnhdRjwOy4URuxDjwOlQnBh-PyKAbBXvA9Vjs6kBre7EM9GBatAJBK19waW39wiYA4lQMo-ROe3PzD7_4CapxWLZEW6S2oA7kieHQFI1og/w160-h196/1993+Rich+Wilson.jpg" width="160" /></a> Richard in 1993, not too much before his death.</div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-9821683261499640122020-10-09T15:15:00.000-04:002020-10-09T15:15:18.297-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part 2 Ronald<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X5J-UUPB9AxyeNKiMNJANnQpA1D_C1orpNQ0rB4-tkC9keOwkG338jHxcvEFWkLZwAxXwf2fiLi1kdkHGWeKacAuK6uHX3fgu7ZSupWSkmQao2qSvcIo-UEurL4lbG9Gz3wDA8VyN-8/s1200/1958+Ron+with+sousaphone.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X5J-UUPB9AxyeNKiMNJANnQpA1D_C1orpNQ0rB4-tkC9keOwkG338jHxcvEFWkLZwAxXwf2fiLi1kdkHGWeKacAuK6uHX3fgu7ZSupWSkmQao2qSvcIo-UEurL4lbG9Gz3wDA8VyN-8/s320/1958+Ron+with+sousaphone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> You might think the picture of Ronald and his Sousaphone would have qualified him for Stuart and my band. No, Ronald Walter Tipton was a close friend to both Stuart and me beginning in Third Grade, but he was not include in our band.<p></p><p>Ronald has been a writer as far back as I, but most of it was through Journals or Blogs. He currently write a Blog called "Retired in Delaware".</p><p>We became friends because we shard similar backgrounds and we remain close friends still nearly 70 years later, speaking to each other on Facetime nearly every morning. He calls me in th morning doing what we did a lot together as boys, taking a walk. He takes me on a virtual walk. </p><p> He and I met and became friends because of Comic Books. Mrs. Ezrah assigned out third grade class at East Ward in Downingtown o write an original short story. We had to then read our creations in front go the class. (I did get an A for my story and it went up on the bulletin board.) When Ronald try his story I piped up and said, "I read that story in a Scrooge McDuck comic", which I had. Scrooge McDuck was one of my favorite comics.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdpgvwYWmFbrR_QlQ-EJXR07ic6ZrXgY7jHJm5ntaM7oUgQmtfv24QFUF1xIMarUE4UHcnjEon_njC_USvmqGhI066eAkyzIAOvSNvYaEfMbfBnnSkXxL8N2bJYHrIbZS7Qk9HvC9K4s//" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="291" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdpgvwYWmFbrR_QlQ-EJXR07ic6ZrXgY7jHJm5ntaM7oUgQmtfv24QFUF1xIMarUE4UHcnjEon_njC_USvmqGhI066eAkyzIAOvSNvYaEfMbfBnnSkXxL8N2bJYHrIbZS7Qk9HvC9K4s//" width="169" /></a></div><br />This is a character drawing I did of Ronald on the left. He followed me out of school and I thought he was going to hit me for outing his story, but when he caught up to me he asked, "Do you like comic books?" I said yes, and we began trading comics. He would tote a box down to my house. I wasn't interested in a number he had with titles such as Romance or Love. Not my cup of tea. He claims a female cousin foisted them off on him.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU-EW-ayy3WRjdtWoBHtb7hVO-VfkW-Ewxg39GSQcoE-63VlfdLEBbsXLDpzHAe-y2iy7muRI1WX-Zonvax007D9Pd8G_556fu6MBQn2o3LGBLDK1uqO6FWnwJW4Y-p9A0vDKb5c8pOw/s272/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="185" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU-EW-ayy3WRjdtWoBHtb7hVO-VfkW-Ewxg39GSQcoE-63VlfdLEBbsXLDpzHAe-y2iy7muRI1WX-Zonvax007D9Pd8G_556fu6MBQn2o3LGBLDK1uqO6FWnwJW4Y-p9A0vDKb5c8pOw/w87-h129/Unknown.jpeg" width="87" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmPg-jNhQfLChyQUe36N4hgRP75gEiEAdHcrRBJDmGaKG-6qutsUIrTh7JFk-s7Eahe2jJ05Ex2GA2UhLeEhI9JAlIzSLRt7HCPJpELnUhxnLUauRX9sccgx6RTXp2f6lg2llEnAW_GI/s266/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="189" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmPg-jNhQfLChyQUe36N4hgRP75gEiEAdHcrRBJDmGaKG-6qutsUIrTh7JFk-s7Eahe2jJ05Ex2GA2UhLeEhI9JAlIzSLRt7HCPJpELnUhxnLUauRX9sccgx6RTXp2f6lg2llEnAW_GI/w102-h144/images.jpeg" width="102" /></a></div><br /></div><div> We also discovered we were both interested in art. He wanted to an Interior Designer at that time, and he was designing and entering clothes designs to Fritz Ritz or Katy Keene Comics, which ever was holding such contest at the time.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_7HpGVSp0Ixq6WbXdHTaWFEhSkqExMQQ6rpu4fWhX8idybahpK_sJlfMu-3R-SDNITgOPBJmmenh9OwNnEovr3SbhlGirPoIrKXGQBc6DOFIsEqnKspYZJrD2rM-a5RAdoLb_S-IqYaM/s1671/049+012+Veronica+%2526+Betty+Traced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1671" data-original-width="1649" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_7HpGVSp0Ixq6WbXdHTaWFEhSkqExMQQ6rpu4fWhX8idybahpK_sJlfMu-3R-SDNITgOPBJmmenh9OwNnEovr3SbhlGirPoIrKXGQBc6DOFIsEqnKspYZJrD2rM-a5RAdoLb_S-IqYaM/w165-h167/049+012+Veronica+%2526+Betty+Traced.jpg" width="165" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I was more interested in taking clothes off of Archie's girlfriends, Veronica and Betty.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to get Ronald to collaborate on some stories, but never got him interested in pursuing that idea. He wrote a story, "The Potato Chip King" that I tried to sell, but the editor of one magazine wrote a nasty rejection on how it insulted every one in the South. Needless to say, he didn't publish it.</div><div><br /></div><div>He wrote a story called, "The Wreckage" that I liked enough to rewrite it under both our names and this one I peddled about. It was taken, but I still may try selling it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-49049902048359763682020-10-07T15:52:00.003-04:002020-10-08T15:38:54.319-04:00My Artistic Friends Over The Years: Part1, Stuart<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0T3X4Kfy4E0dPQMXTjJldr-5ym3yJ-Uo5fb0Ms1SRfmMy5ggAYj_4gG5Du4DHDzmo9z4bas168Ti8qZzZiJBzP9dyiJKoN9zpprRLeIpuFwN3zdD4-evb4XbqtI3qfOFNL7pRcNu1dw/s2048/1948+Fish+Age+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1453" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0T3X4Kfy4E0dPQMXTjJldr-5ym3yJ-Uo5fb0Ms1SRfmMy5ggAYj_4gG5Du4DHDzmo9z4bas168Ti8qZzZiJBzP9dyiJKoN9zpprRLeIpuFwN3zdD4-evb4XbqtI3qfOFNL7pRcNu1dw/s320/1948+Fish+Age+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Drawing of a fish I did in 1948, age 8.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Before I even thought of being a writer or artist, I already was. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WCohdSuvU-9NMYcu7ayZ5Xy8G_EAal0EjAkc67IriYDOAtY_1pXpq7F9QSFYmTmMu8VGMnhxxP0B6gHBlQ3pUXnslMOwM8lxtomDbAm2kx_Ed-S8uUnaEJEB-ZktvqCMaaiG2SkbnIw/s2048/1948+Night+Flowers+Age+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1472" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WCohdSuvU-9NMYcu7ayZ5Xy8G_EAal0EjAkc67IriYDOAtY_1pXpq7F9QSFYmTmMu8VGMnhxxP0B6gHBlQ3pUXnslMOwM8lxtomDbAm2kx_Ed-S8uUnaEJEB-ZktvqCMaaiG2SkbnIw/s320/1948+Night+Flowers+Age+7.jpg" /></a></div>I had been getting drawings I did, especially of trees in charcoal, constantly posted on the bulletin board at East Ward Elementary School. The same was true of short stories I wrote. On the left is a drawling I did called "Night Flowers" I was at West Whiteland Grade School at the time and also age 7. I like to drawl early in my boyhood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpQTwdr0YUyQYjIGiJEm8AjAyEMF6hCu3sdISogf2Ya5t-BYvznlK9GpRmt5lBtqumaGYqyW3ITnjmheGTjiZ6N0ERwJsQo9vhiTHslmy3gVIkz7NbMg4wqn1VYU8tgfV8aevXyzTRAM/s1655/1948-1949+003+Larry%2527s+third+school++West+Whiteland+Elementary+1st.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1089" data-original-width="1655" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpQTwdr0YUyQYjIGiJEm8AjAyEMF6hCu3sdISogf2Ya5t-BYvznlK9GpRmt5lBtqumaGYqyW3ITnjmheGTjiZ6N0ERwJsQo9vhiTHslmy3gVIkz7NbMg4wqn1VYU8tgfV8aevXyzTRAM/s320/1948-1949+003+Larry%2527s+third+school++West+Whiteland+Elementary+1st.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>West Whiteland Grade School I attended from January 1947 through December 1949. In January 1949 I was back attending The East Ward Elemetary School in Downingtown.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br /> At East Ward, in the fourth grade, I wrote and performed a puppet show, "In the Jungle" as an assembly. I also drew the Jungle sets and made some of the puppets.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In 1953 I was in an operetta, something about a farm, playing one of a dancing chorus of Scarecrows. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEILH-2cEFE8ylMbOtSvwcr3rRjtdJK4lNtVrVtQjrw4Py7akR0nfgPPIf3ewDFUDIARlI-Db96TSYgQOpAlp-JDmWfgz14zran_UUjBMkw3MlRC5oH9afWWSYya2LW0fyFpYkdTmSGvI/s1280/1952+003+Larry+East+Word+Operetta+Front+l-r+Buddy+Bruton+Due+copy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEILH-2cEFE8ylMbOtSvwcr3rRjtdJK4lNtVrVtQjrw4Py7akR0nfgPPIf3ewDFUDIARlI-Db96TSYgQOpAlp-JDmWfgz14zran_UUjBMkw3MlRC5oH9afWWSYya2LW0fyFpYkdTmSGvI/s320/1952+003+Larry+East+Word+Operetta+Front+l-r+Buddy+Bruton+Due+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> I was the sloppy scarecrow on the right side of the second row. (My friend Ronald Tipton was on far left side of the same row. My other close friend was kneeling on the right in the first row, just below me. His name was Staurt Rayfield Godfrey Meisel. Actually his name is still that and he lives in Florida now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> I met Stuart in third this grade at East Ward Elementary in Downingtown. He, Ronald I became close buddies in those years. Stuart and I seemed drawn together. We both served as flag monitors, meaning that on the morning of each day (except when t rained), we raised the Stars and Stripes up a pole in front of the school.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67j-2bTpQnjPn_U2_BtLtnuqPgd4fA5cKMwA1z20tEjkrRgmOsUomwqbEeQ1mje-2Nzzo1znxEeY7T4mFwQUkUgLSP-OXO_YkQG9suNPjUDyvcQC9nE3D-V4x13nLWPnzOxD9sRVaeAw/s1194/1954+Dallot+Norris+%2526+Stuart+Meisel+with+Larry+at+the+Meisels.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="806" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67j-2bTpQnjPn_U2_BtLtnuqPgd4fA5cKMwA1z20tEjkrRgmOsUomwqbEeQ1mje-2Nzzo1znxEeY7T4mFwQUkUgLSP-OXO_YkQG9suNPjUDyvcQC9nE3D-V4x13nLWPnzOxD9sRVaeAw/s320/1954+Dallot+Norris+%2526+Stuart+Meisel+with+Larry+at+the+Meisels.jpg" /></a>In sixth grade Stuart and I began writing and publishing a newspaper. It was called, "The Daily Star", despite the fact we only put it out weekly. We sold it in the school hall during recesses and lunch for a penny. We had talked Mrs. Yost, the school principle into allowing us use of the school mimeograph machine to print multiple copies. We made enough money from sales to throw a class party at the and of the year</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Being out of Grade School, and going on to the Downingtown Junior High, did not stop our collaboration. We began writing songs together using his father's old cylinder dictaphone. Meanwhie, during, this time I had written a song on my own, titled, "My Little White Lamb" that I had managed to get published in New York. It was eventually recorded on Ronnie Records be one Ben Tate.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHxDMwk9YRXOqETw4-0vH8Z2e16lJD6B-6KtFIZLOmhR2rchp_7e52kPkPwApGt1YS6-t3CugfvH7ruzGq-Pm_QedVK6a7KDtp73o25yLI0j2NzKpCJu8HLPSFFYdrwGyC-B39zYGbM7I/s740/Plays+1959+Ya-Ha-Whoe%2521.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="587" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHxDMwk9YRXOqETw4-0vH8Z2e16lJD6B-6KtFIZLOmhR2rchp_7e52kPkPwApGt1YS6-t3CugfvH7ruzGq-Pm_QedVK6a7KDtp73o25yLI0j2NzKpCJu8HLPSFFYdrwGyC-B39zYGbM7I/w152-h191/Plays+1959+Ya-Ha-Whoe%2521.jpg" width="152" /></a></div><br /> Stuart and I didn't publish our songs, but I used one as the title of a musical play I wrote at age 17. This was "Ya-Ha-Whoey", which was inspire by a Walt Disney Presents feature called "Sports Goofy". In it Goofy was presented in differed scenarios that usually ended with him crying, "Ya-Ha-Whoey", such as when he did a ski jump or wrecked a racing car. All our verses ended with the cry,"Ya-ha-ya-whoey".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRkvRJ1CXTZasRc5mpabSge7ntuwgkuquTWV5S-rM2LR4nsTB9bQZlwfGjcwNsZ8tfi4mwgutwSQqIcmPCrsoKtjYNiLJ7xWvljFSdjDG7kAjiol_vTzbMUNLDjag4Im6kUuTejJsBH0/s570/1957+011+Larry+with+Stuart+Meisel+and+Ronald+Tipton+at+Meise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="541" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRkvRJ1CXTZasRc5mpabSge7ntuwgkuquTWV5S-rM2LR4nsTB9bQZlwfGjcwNsZ8tfi4mwgutwSQqIcmPCrsoKtjYNiLJ7xWvljFSdjDG7kAjiol_vTzbMUNLDjag4Im6kUuTejJsBH0/s320/1957+011+Larry+with+Stuart+Meisel+and+Ronald+Tipton+at+Meise.jpg" /></a></div><br /> During out youth we played a lot of Baseball and we always walked to and from Junior High together, except on Wednesdays For somme reason we always got into an argument on Wednesday, swearing we would never speak to one another again, but by Thursday we would make-up and be close friends again. (Photo taken at Stuart's property in Downingtown 1957. I am on the left, Stuart's in the middle and Ronald Tipton is on the right.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Some time in this period we decided to forma Rock 'n' Roll band. We were more suited to being a Salvation Army group playing on the sidewalk at Christmas Season. I played trumpet, Stuart played the baritone. Teddy joined with his trombone, Gary on a saxophone and Bill on drums. Playing Christmas music would have been problematic since most of us were Christians, but Stuart was Jewish. His family were the only Jews in down</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> He took lot harassment for his religion, especially so from the teachers at the Junior High. World War II was over and the pictures of the holocaust had come out, yet this ridiculous prejudice remained in our county. It was only one of many prejudices that swirled about us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stuart and I grew up and went separate ways as adults, bur with the invention of the Internet, Stuart and I were again able to collaborate. We wrote several plays this way in the 2000s: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18j8qhgi8xXojSwAnTNy_cSKs7cp6PSn8_PvcDfqhxlLZuHTfi4_dOLkWGbydTfeNGgaBnzsgJC9aHZWxM5PCPQsGoTvsbU2wn1plIwfrGzGpCZaOVw2qtMOFypkWjfhvfspIVUzsOf0/s944/Play+2003+Crowded+Sky.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="745" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18j8qhgi8xXojSwAnTNy_cSKs7cp6PSn8_PvcDfqhxlLZuHTfi4_dOLkWGbydTfeNGgaBnzsgJC9aHZWxM5PCPQsGoTvsbU2wn1plIwfrGzGpCZaOVw2qtMOFypkWjfhvfspIVUzsOf0/w154-h195/Play+2003+Crowded+Sky.jpg" width="154" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /> <img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="345" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTzhI7GRDI5VMQqNuPiYGzFmaIvUBXiATzXL-_QuVDuh6eKkJukIz_F-bRko7hnVUhKIuWhzzF_m5gBI_JHJQSSZ_3PKvTPVP5rLvRAzsHw50NGcpUsW48ck3Bly1aaDmMV5LXA74EPw/w150-h193/Plays+2003+State+U+with+Stuart+Meisel.jpg" width="150" /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQ9ip7wAZPqg05M4dZVScedT3ucqZUCim8HYNM__AdYmr5Rbxz2I5mlKMRQe0PzrkcjHfWavxvf3nQFH1sFCEyTM9xB-1YIgHK0_HDf8Z4txmq57sP_nDXFyLGYLrnB2XUdpYoEiBSMw/s689/Plays+2005+Life+Ate+Our+Homework.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="605" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQ9ip7wAZPqg05M4dZVScedT3ucqZUCim8HYNM__AdYmr5Rbxz2I5mlKMRQe0PzrkcjHfWavxvf3nQFH1sFCEyTM9xB-1YIgHK0_HDf8Z4txmq57sP_nDXFyLGYLrnB2XUdpYoEiBSMw/w172-h196/Plays+2005+Life+Ate+Our+Homework.jpg" width="172" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgTWZtjFk-z8_aPKfl61X7WBaKnODTgcXqYI7RL0OSaiGylBYVM8l69DjkH32c0R-cnPOnBMBiOVoYjAd0kxDG8zeVpHh6YGGJrjehPUEk8SdBZE0MsQXPTwWpriHtCjl43p3IM0vqbQ/s900/Plays+2006+Election.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="612" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgTWZtjFk-z8_aPKfl61X7WBaKnODTgcXqYI7RL0OSaiGylBYVM8l69DjkH32c0R-cnPOnBMBiOVoYjAd0kxDG8zeVpHh6YGGJrjehPUEk8SdBZE0MsQXPTwWpriHtCjl43p3IM0vqbQ/w148-h217/Plays+2006+Election.jpg" width="148" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> We have also done short stories together. After all these years, Stuart remains a good friend. Some of our song lyrics from our plays have appeared already on Facebook. Who knows, we may still write more!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-20333310888710234302020-10-05T14:48:00.003-04:002020-10-05T14:48:30.994-04:00On Where I Am<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjor6bNQnDf3xxugWfneJDH7QzwYxpJ7baDn36y5GxihKNd8sddZXP1dtaGBLGatoMtBa3QklsXnqeKEwx7Tc7l7xgOwHOIziYON9PkcROGvrAsqWCW2uAY51qzoGAIcF-fOF9LgxXH-ks/s1280/2019+10+02+in+BELLVIEW+WTH+Rlatar+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjor6bNQnDf3xxugWfneJDH7QzwYxpJ7baDn36y5GxihKNd8sddZXP1dtaGBLGatoMtBa3QklsXnqeKEwx7Tc7l7xgOwHOIziYON9PkcROGvrAsqWCW2uAY51qzoGAIcF-fOF9LgxXH-ks/s320/2019+10+02+in+BELLVIEW+WTH+Rlatar+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> I am home from rehab and trying to get myself back on track. I am trying to Blog again, despite the effort it takes me to type these days. Please bear with my poor spelling these days. Many things are difficult that we took for granted all are life/ They is no simple task anymore. I even had problems slicing a banana his morning. But I trusting in God to allow me to do what I can. <p></p><p>I do miss taking walks, but nothing gets me down.</p><p>Winter is coming and I can no longer sled or shovel. I must be very careful not to fall. </p><p>Gets a bit difficult getting about since I no longer have a car, not that I can safely drive. Please, keep in touch with me.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-10868195718654594942020-10-04T17:18:00.004-04:002020-10-04T17:18:32.273-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, Jail. Insane Asylum: 20<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjvBJtPv2mb9gI_gL9BjSATLfuKIDhYrfcf64VJbqCoAZtaKG_xpqShRaa0K-4tHLhJA75_P71pMVqeqK7SHzwafw7nmTHtby6Q6mBTBnRh8wSZ7nEtOZO-nq0YX7sQ6JgcYDDhR2kn8/s450/ambulette-c5141c6f7b605a8270a3f62e4555ee5e5d6a1cd866f7ea7c10f0f73d2346fbde.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjvBJtPv2mb9gI_gL9BjSATLfuKIDhYrfcf64VJbqCoAZtaKG_xpqShRaa0K-4tHLhJA75_P71pMVqeqK7SHzwafw7nmTHtby6Q6mBTBnRh8wSZ7nEtOZO-nq0YX7sQ6JgcYDDhR2kn8/s320/ambulette-c5141c6f7b605a8270a3f62e4555ee5e5d6a1cd866f7ea7c10f0f73d2346fbde.png" width="320" /></a> They had brought ne hime in A Gem Non-Emergency Wheelchair transport van. The driver unstrapped me, pushed me up ramp into the entryway. She brought my wheelchair and few belongings up into the living area while I negotiated the four steps on foot. She then took me to my lift chair and went on her way. I was now on my own, so to speak,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> My wife is usually quiet neat, but I came into a home in disarray, many things scattered about tat constituted tripping hazards for me. I knew from taking to her daily those 40 days in rehab had been a struggle for her, I Just didn't realize how much so. I soon leaned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">First, I discovered my computers weren't working, you couldn't open them. I quickly got the old one running, but not the new one. I am going to ave to call Apple on this. There was also a porno site now on the site. Gold grief, it gave you a choice of anything you can imagine. I was able to get rid of it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All our financial balances were out of wack. Several of our bills hadn't been pad and were two months delinquent, two of our accounts had been frozen. At least our utilities and internet were still operating, although in arrears. It took a couple of weeks to get that all straightened out. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had somehow lost our voice mail and that proved difficult to remedy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Worst I discovered all my ids hd disappeared, my diver license, my Medicare Card; in fact all my health insurance cards, my AAA membership and my AARP membership cards. It took a lot of phone calls t I did get replacement cards mailed to me. Everything but my driver's license. I had to go to a Delaware Moter Vehicle Office for a new license, This was bothersome, for it is difficult for me to travel. We no longer have a car, so I have to arrange for someone to take me anywhere. Then I need to take a walker, because I do not walk well. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I did finally get a replacement Driver's License.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have pretty well gotten every thing back to normal. I now have our pills all delivered to us by Bayada Pharmacy. Nayada also supplies me with aid 4 days a week, who bathes me, cooks my breakfast and lunch, does my laundry and other chores. I receive at no cost "Mom;s Meals", which are pretty good. I now have Doctor's who came to the house, including blood tests and X-rays when needed. I will get transportation for any health related needs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is true I can't move about well, am wearing adult pull-ups , lost my handwriting and have a very hard time keying, but i am happy. I do not want to go back to rehab again and I am training my wife on using the computer. She s struggling with her own health issues these days. I thank everyone who had helped us through this. May God bless you all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> <br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-88878605020134592212020-09-30T07:43:00.003-04:002020-09-30T07:43:28.704-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, Jail, Insane Asylum, 19<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2EFU_-Q9pLO9773CFHRQV6ObNosNQ1okJls35TBPSaXSvZjSDqQTHDoHt5lSZtM3XT1HSyzgXrwlUsktjyYimTmO66o_TN43ytpIeXQ0RMqheq-sphSpqGd54gCUENvpA2QOcZ17k00//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="293" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2EFU_-Q9pLO9773CFHRQV6ObNosNQ1okJls35TBPSaXSvZjSDqQTHDoHt5lSZtM3XT1HSyzgXrwlUsktjyYimTmO66o_TN43ytpIeXQ0RMqheq-sphSpqGd54gCUENvpA2QOcZ17k00//" width="320" /></a></div><br />I guess I escaped to home just in time. On Monday ABC News reported sudden outbreaks in the Long Term facilities. <p></p><div><br /></div><div><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">The First State is seeing new COVID-19 outbreaks at long-term care facilities.</p><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">Delaware’s Division of Public Health says it is looking into a surge in cases at several facilities and highlighted three in particular.</p><div class="ad ad-medium" data-google-query-id="CMf7zNmEj-wCFQ6snwod9MMA6A" id="div-gpt-ad-medium_2" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); clear: right; color: #3d3d3d; float: right; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; margin: 0px -172.453125px 1.25rem 1.875rem; padding: 0px; width: 300px; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px; z-index: 1;"><div id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0__container__" style="border: 0pt none; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><iframe data-google-container-id="9" data-load-complete="true" frameborder="0" height="250" id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0" scrolling="no" style="border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: bottom;" title="3rd party ad content" width="300"></iframe></div></div><div class="ad ad-medium" data-google-query-id="CMj7zNmEj-wCFQ6snwod9MMA6A" id="div-gpt-ad-medium_3" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); clear: right; color: #3d3d3d; float: right; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; margin: 0px -172.453125px 1.25rem 1.875rem; padding: 0px; width: 300px; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px; z-index: 1;"><div id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0__container__" style="border: 0pt none; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><iframe data-google-container-id="a" data-load-complete="true" frameborder="0" height="250" id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0" scrolling="no" style="border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: bottom;" title="3rd party ad content" width="300"></iframe></div></div><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">DPH reports Kentmere Rehabilitation and Health Care Center in Wilmington has seen 28 residents and 24 staff members test positive.</p><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">The First State is seeing new COVID-19 outbreaks at long-term care facilities.</p><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">Delaware’s Division of Public Health says it is looking into a surge in cases at several facilities and highlighted three in particular.</p><div class="ad ad-medium" data-google-query-id="CMf7zNmEj-wCFQ6snwod9MMA6A" id="div-gpt-ad-medium_2" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); clear: right; color: #3d3d3d; float: right; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; margin: 0px -172.453125px 1.25rem 1.875rem; padding: 0px; width: 300px; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px; z-index: 1;"><div id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0__container__" style="border: 0pt none; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><iframe data-google-container-id="9" data-load-complete="true" frameborder="0" height="250" id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_2_0" scrolling="no" style="border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: bottom;" title="3rd party ad content" width="300"></iframe></div></div><div class="ad ad-medium" data-google-query-id="CMj7zNmEj-wCFQ6snwod9MMA6A" id="div-gpt-ad-medium_3" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); clear: right; color: #3d3d3d; float: right; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; margin: 0px -172.453125px 1.25rem 1.875rem; padding: 0px; width: 300px; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px; z-index: 1;"><div id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0__container__" style="border: 0pt none; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><iframe data-google-container-id="a" data-load-complete="true" frameborder="0" height="250" id="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="google_ads_iframe_/24647503/wdde_medium_3_0" scrolling="no" style="border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; vertical-align: bottom;" title="3rd party ad content" width="300"></iframe></div></div><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">DPH reports Kentmere Rehabilitation and Health Care Center in Wilmington has seen 28 residents and 24 staff members test positive.</p><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">Testing has found 19 residents and less than 10 staff members at Cadia Healthcare Silverside in North Wilmington are COVID positive.</p><p class="normal" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(61, 61, 61); color: #3d3d3d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.07999999821186066px; line-height: 1.75em; margin: 0px 0px 1.5625rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; word-spacing: 0.4000000059604645px;">Cadia on Silverside was were I was stored for 40 days. I was stunned when this was report. I had felt very safe while there. They took a lot precautions. New patients, as I had been, were quarantined for 14 days. You were not allowed in the hallways with wearing a mask. I went through 4 masks while there. The therapists and staff wiped down anything used with disinfectant every time. The place was very clean and got daily cleanings. Everyone was tested monthly, staff and patients. I was tested during my quarantine and again the evening before I was discharged. If they got all those positive tests since I left, then nowhere is truly safe. </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-55518217488940417242020-09-25T09:05:00.003-04:002020-09-26T08:35:11.538-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, Jail, Insane Asylum, 18<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOCgcdffhxAsg24Hwlj-u5khmcA2sTg5tl47sqshXL4Z9USPY98d2Sh6NiPzOj6lJXrtwM3xpT-ZYGKtqNR3v-bRKDqKG9UEiQINDDr7FT3DBYMR8RPF17Nw1mxrcHEkeT9wzahn2-F4/s236/blackbird.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOCgcdffhxAsg24Hwlj-u5khmcA2sTg5tl47sqshXL4Z9USPY98d2Sh6NiPzOj6lJXrtwM3xpT-ZYGKtqNR3v-bRKDqKG9UEiQINDDr7FT3DBYMR8RPF17Nw1mxrcHEkeT9wzahn2-F4/s0/blackbird.jpeg" /></a></div>I recently watched a film called "Blackbird". The film was about a woman who called her family together on the weekend she planned to die by suicide. We learned much about her family over those two days. Why was she going to take her own life? Because she had ALS and wanted to go before it goy so bad she no longer would've had.control. They never said what she had, but I guessed early when she struggled to put her shows on, when she could barely negotiate going down steps, when she dropped her glass, and it was clinched for me when her husband explained the reason to his nephew. <p></p><p>She would eventually lose her ability to move at all, to speak; even to swallow. Machines would drain the saliva from her mourn and breath for her. She would be fed through a tube in her side.</p><p>She did not want to face such an end. I don't look forward to this either. But I don't plan to off myself. There is too much of the joy of life remaining, besides even when my body deserts me, God won't. I'll still be able to communicate with him through Jesus.</p><p>The mystery to me was why was this film titled "Blackbird". The raven is a sign of death A raven is black, but the Blackbird. I pondered this title and then wondered, "Did it have anything to do with The Beatles song of that name.</p><p> I looked up the lyrics and they it perfectly:</p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"Blackbird singing in the dead of night</span></p><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Take these broken wings and learn to fly</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">All your life</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">You were only waiting for this moment to arise</span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Blackbird singing in the dead of night</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Take these sunken eyes and learn to see</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">All your life</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">You were only waiting for this moment to be free"</span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"> I then found an interview of Susan Sarandon, who starred in the film. Absolutely that was where they got the title. They had even included the song in the soundtrack, but later edited it out.</div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"> ALS is a cruel disease. I have trouble walking now and must use a walker or a wheelchair. I no longer have legible handwriting. Even keying in these blog entries is difficult, takes a lot of time and usually exhaust me, but this is what I am -- a writer. This is how ALs was described. "An incurable, untreatable, progressive, ultimately fatal disease ". Actually, you can define life in the same language, for living in ultimately fatal. Of course, the decryption says most patients of ALS die within two to three years of their diagnosis. </div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"> I am still here, 51/2 years later,, and don't plan on going anywhere soon. Now the hospital tossed a stroke into the mix. Yet on the 13th of August I cam home after 7 days in the hospital and 40 days in rehab; forty days in the wilderness.</div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"> I was home, but what I mess awaited me.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-20316162602801957402020-09-24T14:31:00.002-04:002020-09-24T14:31:40.460-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, jail, insane Asylum 17<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDe8vGny7gMlSLWNOiTCT90LjX1TUw3i1A80ITBrXtcEMM_2weRLT2-qyhbmkcItkJd23JCYPCDfvb52Y63Qy1IBO9dQp9oWXNaegNConenp6wT66EEEd7BzHoIGeBB2JI7J9F3Mw0i0/s275/Unknown-15.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDe8vGny7gMlSLWNOiTCT90LjX1TUw3i1A80ITBrXtcEMM_2weRLT2-qyhbmkcItkJd23JCYPCDfvb52Y63Qy1IBO9dQp9oWXNaegNConenp6wT66EEEd7BzHoIGeBB2JI7J9F3Mw0i0/s0/Unknown-15.jpeg" /></a></div>I didn't sleep well the night before I was supposed to be discharged. Its was so close now. What if something happened, I fall getting out of bed in the morning. Late that evening a nurse came by to say they were going to test me for the coronavirus in the morning, around 4:00. Why 4:00? I didn't want to be disturbing Frank with any commotion. <p></p><div>"Why can't we of to now, tonight?"</div><div><br /></div><div>They had no objection. The nurse just had to go get the sub on the stick. That didn't take long to do and she soon was about and did the test.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> Now I worried. What if this test came back positive? They aren't going to let me go if that was the case. They would hold me there and I'd go back to the 14 days of </span>quarantine. And then what?</div><div><br /></div><div> Morning came and I was still going hone. The special van would come around 10:00. My Physical Therapist came in to say goodbye and help me pack. out of my stuff was already in the knapsack. The Therapist put the rest of my things together. I got the opened packs of pullups and all the toiletries. Why now, they had been billed to me. They belonged to me.</div><div><br /></div><div> A therapist delivered the new wheelchair I was getting. It was 18 inches across, less wide than the wheelchairs I had at rehab. This would fit more easy win my home.</div><div><br /></div><div> I watched the clock and right about ten they told me the Gem Transport van was arrived. Two aids, including good old Bonnie, rolled me out of the building. The lady driving the van took me from there. She put me on the platform that lift chair and I up and then wheeled me into the back of the van. I kept thinking about all the movies were the van doors open on route and the patient goes rolling down the street. Not likely, she really strapped the wheelchair down.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> <span> We were soon off. It was far from there to my home. She rolled me up our ramp, and I walked up the four steps to the living </span></span>area. See, that practice with steps at rehab paid off. She brought my wheelchair up with my stuff. I was home.</div><div><br /></div><div> I got into my big chair and looked about in shock.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-59942505016437091682020-09-23T08:25:00.000-04:002020-09-23T08:25:03.201-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, Jail, Insane Asylum, 16<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqfsrWXEiahP-4w8nVEWRoz6CYEmP10KJH8ee1SOH-_M1g2xMc8knmBmzSwLcyKPF1qj_TM9NnwYN1VdzReyo5YZzhSk20kQHgKNWWHV9OB2dEcMsaONF00PcwelMyWpM7zD1frn0-gY/s259/Drag+Racing+Wheelchairs.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqfsrWXEiahP-4w8nVEWRoz6CYEmP10KJH8ee1SOH-_M1g2xMc8knmBmzSwLcyKPF1qj_TM9NnwYN1VdzReyo5YZzhSk20kQHgKNWWHV9OB2dEcMsaONF00PcwelMyWpM7zD1frn0-gY/s0/Drag+Racing+Wheelchairs.jpeg" /></a>So who is going to escape this prison first? Two 80 year old guys drag racing for the exit. At this age, one of us might escape by keeling over...dead! The mere excitement of the contest could kill us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> <span> <span> I really expected to beat out Frank. I felt I was progressing well in the therapy games, while I could hear and see him struggling. We had got here about the same time, but who would leave </span></span></span>earliest?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The way the therapist were talking, it certainly sounded like I had the inside track, but then a-sudden he seemed to be gaining on the discharge date, if nothing else. It was quickly noted that his family was going to be let in to meet with him and the social worker. They would be discussing what his care would have to be at hime.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Good golly, if he left I would be getting a new roommate, maybe another howling man! I knew he was as anxious to get free of here as I was. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> The day of his family meeting came and he was antsy. Was it going to happen? The morning was slipping away and he had heard nothing. Like the clock in High Noon, that minute hand ticked ever closer to the hour and he was still in the dark. I was taken out for therapy to the gym and when came back he was gone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> He was gone awhile, but finally they brought him back to the room. The result of the meeting was he would remain for another 50 days, and then if he didn't reach some goals, he would be sent down stairs. Getting sent down stairs meant you were going into long-term care, and who knew when you would get out, if ever.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Meanwhile I had been rewarded with a walker in my room. This was a big step. I was told I should walk about in the room, not that there was much room for that. With two people, their space and the wardrobes there wasn't a lot of rambling about room. You hear the expressing, circling about like a caged tiger, well walking in our room certainly told you why the tiger circled. I still headed for the wheelchair most of the time. I could go wheel in the hallways, but I wasn't allowed to walk with the walker in the hallways, at least unattended.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Then I was told I would be going home on the coming Thursday. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Well, don't thing that didn't make me nervous. I wanted to go home. I thought Frank was going to win that race and go home on Thursday, but they formed me I was going home instead. Of course, Thursday was the 13th. Now it concerned me. I had to get discharged before anything went wrong. I mean, I could get sick or the Covid test they were going to give me on my last day could come up positive. Or dread, I could fall. If I fell they would insist on keeping me for more therapy. It was so easy to fall. I had been good at that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> On the twelfth I packed up my stuff. Frank thought I was silly. "They'll take care of that," he said. He called me a packrat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6671297494867817437.post-21409985222697013032020-09-21T09:33:00.002-04:002020-09-21T09:33:48.888-04:00Rehab: Part Hospital, Jail, Insane Asylum, 15<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_kWl6_diwgeh-ldQV7g10E2nmHY2xZ3KnnlyaPWtIwDPA86ZnbkiLxu1tHyj1qZ-c40_2jPx6XyoXp95q0GZMCmqtejhqokOwECjHxSlgIKBfYDXjYuRb8OeDn-2zlveHu6LYsu5eUk8/s225/images-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_kWl6_diwgeh-ldQV7g10E2nmHY2xZ3KnnlyaPWtIwDPA86ZnbkiLxu1tHyj1qZ-c40_2jPx6XyoXp95q0GZMCmqtejhqokOwECjHxSlgIKBfYDXjYuRb8OeDn-2zlveHu6LYsu5eUk8/s0/images-15.jpeg" /></a> Being in rehab brings no end of embarrassments. Most mornings the aide would come and give you a sponge bath you weren't scheduled for a shower, and this was most mornings. During one of these with enough embarrassment to go with it. One day, fairly early on, the aide noticed a sore. Of course, this bed sore would be on my bottom. She did her duty and reported it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Next thing I know, two women come to my bed. One is the bed sore expert and the other the day nurse for our area. One or the other informs me I have a sore and orders we to roll over so they can take a look at it. This means they pull down my diaper and stand there gawking at my bare backside. Finally, with a nod from the nurse, the sore expert treats it. She scatters some kind of ointment on the site and then plasters down a bandage pad.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Every day thereafter, the sore expert comes by to inspect. Very often she has another young woman along. She takes iff the old bandage, puts on some more gook and bandages every time. This continued most of my remaining stay, in that course different women and an occasional guy would come to view my butt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> I suggested we put a picture of it in a billboard for all to enjoy. My wife thought we should mount a picture over the mantle of our fireplace. Maybe I could autograph the photo. Larry's now world famous rear end!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Because of this fissures' location I was the only one who couldn't see it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Finally, eureka, during my last week, they declared the sore healed. I expected a fanfare and applauding crown of my backside fans.</div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0