Those 1965 Mustangs and the Class of '66

1965 Mustang burnin' some rubber
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

STOW, New York - It was somewhere between Stow and a joint called Snug Harbor that John Rupp's red '65 Mustang went off the road and into the ditch, flipping upside down in the process, which then involved state troopers, insurance companies and all kinds of raining hell from parents.

That car could fly and in that memorable incident, apparently did, even if briefly.

It turns out that the Class of '66 had at least three Mustangs to its credit: John's which ended its useful days after hitting that ditch; a 65 maroon Mustang I owned for about year before I traded it in for a blue Volkswagen bus formerly owned by the Arrison family of Lakewood; and a third, a blue '65 owned by Cheryl Towers. Both Cheryl's and mine were owned post-graduation, but still, they were 1965 Mustangs. And Cheryl has a great story about her car which I will let her tell you herself at the reunion next year. (It did involve an Englishman, an airport and an art gallery, but that's I can say.)

Cheryl, you are going, right? July 15? Mayville?

My Mustang was picked out by my girlfriend at the time (later the first Mrs. Fitz) who hated my Triumph Spitfire with an intensity that was scary. Perhaps it was because it only ran about half the time and when it rained, there wasn't much reason to put the top up, it leaked so badly. But the Mustang had one incredible fault that I didn't understand fully at first - white upholstery. Bright white. White as in 'I dare you to keep me clean, bubba.'

And so in the first test of our relationship, I said "No Way!" But, of course, I did buy the car, after a promise, a solemn promise, practically a blood vow taken at midnight under a full moon that my girlfriend would keep that upholstery shiny as long as we had that car.

The day I sold the Mustang, I reeked of vinyl cleaner and made my own promise.

The Mustang was a great car, however, so simple that even I could work on it.

And now, every once in awhile in California, I'll see some 16-year-old sweetheart driving down the road in a beautiful, restored '65 Mustang (usually a convertible) that her dad no doubt spends weekends polishing and worry about almost as much as how fast his daughter is tooling around in the machine.

When my daughter turned 16, I bought her an old practically bulletproof Chevy Nova that she drove for years. (Being bulletproof in parts of California is very important.) That Nova was the envy of some of her friends whose dads wouldn't let them take their cars on certain types of high school expeditions - such as fording local streams or using them to go off-road.

I figured, 'Why not?' We did it all the time.

Now, here in Valois, New York, this summer I'm bombing around in my late mother-in-law's wheels, a 1992 Buick Century, which, of course is a four-door sedan and white, literally owned formerly by a little old lady schoolteacher.

Where is that Mustang when I need it?

Some money going to a good cause - SWCS

Whitey Lindquist and Tom Priester
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - If the guys in this photo look familar, well, they should, just add a few years.

On the left is Tom Priester and the right Whitey Lindquist (SWCS Class of '60).

Tom we all remember from his days of being a P.E. teacher and coach at SWCS (the butt of many jokes, as he taught girls P.E. in a time when women taught women and men taught men).

Whitey, I believe, ran a Mobil station at the four corners in Lakewood, getting a good share of the money I earned when I was about 18-20 because my cars (first a Triumph Spitfire, then a Ford Mustang) were perpetually in need of repair.

And Whitey had the best - nearly only - place to go. At least it was a place close enough to push my car(s) when they wouldn't run.

The check being passed from Whitey to Tom is not hush money or a payoff from some bet they had on the 1966 World Series. It's from an alumni golf tournament. Tom says the money is slated to go for a wireless computer lab for the middle school, with the funds routed through the Southwestern School Education Foundation project.

Tom is very involved - in fact maybe he's the Big Kahuna - with the foundation and will likely be at our reunion next year, in part to let us have more fun at his expense (remember the shower scene in the Senior Days skit with Chris Henderson playing Tom, with a blindfold on ONE eye). But he will also be there to put the arm on us for the SWCS Foundation which is just getting underway and needs support.

In case you can't wait to make a donation, you can email Tom now at:
tpriester@stny.rr.com.

I've already agreed to buy one of the bricks saved from demolition of Lakewood Elementary School, bricks Tom mentioned in an earlier email that the foundation is somehow going to use to raise money.

Now I'll have two bricks, thanks to Bud Hooper going by and bagging me one, too, when the school was tumbling. I am now officially relieved of the label my mother frequently attached to me when I did something particularly stupid or dangerous. (How often was that, well...?)

Can you see the joke I'm setting up here? Maybe the expression grew out of her Brooklyn years? She had so many.

OK. If my mom were still alive, I would tell, her, "See, 'I'm no longer two bricks short of full load...'"

She would laugh - she loved a good pun - then probably tell me I needed a lot more than two bricks to get even with the kind of crap I pulled. She would love that I am still limping around on a injured knee - hurt while doing the Twist.

Damned knee brace worked for two days, then it hurt more. Enough about ailments.

Steve Sewell sends along the following special request as our song of the day for the Class of '66.

Sounds like a slow dance to me:

What's Your Name
Don & Juan

What's your name
I have seen you before
What's your name
May I walk you to your door
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ee

What's your name
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee

I stood on this corner
Waiting for you to come along
So my heart could feel satisf-i-ied
So please let me be your Number One
Under the moon, under the stars
And under the sun

Oh-oh, what's your name
(What's your name)
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee

What's your name
What's your name

Shooby-doo-bop-bah-dah

Mark your calendars - reunion July 15, 2006

Webb's Resort - SWCS Reunion site
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

MAYVILLE, New York - In the news business, we call it a 'bulletin' or sometimes borrow the military term: 'flash traffic.'

Today's Class of '66 bulletin/flash traffic comes from Big R - Randy Carlson - who says that the reunion date has been set for Saturday, July 15, 2006 at Webb's Resort in Mayville.

Cocktails at 6 p.m. dinner at 7, dancing until we drop. (I am resisting all kinds of smart ass comments here... Let's see if I can get all the way through this without making references to the movie Cocoon.)

You can check Webb's out at:

Webb's Resort

Jim Lindell has rented a pavillon at Midway Park for Sunday (July 16) for a family picnic and there are also some ongoing discussions about maybe meeting in Bemus Point Friday night (July 14, Bastille Day).

Here are some other links to activities the group putting the reunion together is thinking about:

Summer Wind

Bemus Bay Pops

So a couple of months after Cathy Lindstrom Prince starts this madness, there's a date, a time and a place for the 40th reunion of the SWCS Class of '66. Nice going Cathy. Nice going Randy, Jim, Lee Johnson and whoever else has already put so much time into this.

See you next July - if not before.

Cocoon - the movie

Sorry. I couldn't resist...

How many of the Class of '66 went to JCC?

JCC pool table
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

FALCONER, N.Y. - When my mother encouraged me (as did my draft status) to continue my studies, the only real option in the winter of 1968 was Jamestown Community College, a bit of culture shock after Villanova.

But I managed to screw up fairly well there, too.

Many years later, at an admissions hearing to get into graduate school, the committee remarked on my early, disastrous academic career, but noted that by the time I obtained my B.A. in English in 1973 in California (after attending a total of four colleges) I was a 4.0 student.

"But Mr. Fitzgerald, we do have one question," asked a fellow who would later become my graduate adviser and who is still a good friend.

"How exactly did you fail a 1-unit class in fencing?"

A good question.

JCC could offer some serious academic speed bumps, despite all the jokes made about it because it wasn't a state school or a four-year program and because everyone pretty much lived at home and mooched off mom and dad while going there. My mother let me mooch, because she was sooooo happy I was going to college again and she was scared witless I would be drafted and sent to Vietnam.

JCC professors - especially the ones that found out I was a dropout from Villanova - put the coals to me big time, especially one philosophy professor (he was Norweigan, I think) and a biology prof whose first name was Ted and who was an ardent environmentalist long before it was fashionable.

It was at JCC that for the first time I ran across people routinely using marijuana. (At the dorms at Villanova, there was no drug use, too dangerous. Hell, we couldn't even sneak in a beer.) And it was at JCC that I discovered it was infinitely more fun to go to college in a coed setting than a school with classes of only 18-20 year old men.

It seemed that everyone I met, everywhere, had some JCC connection, even if I was in the Triangle restaurant swilling a fishbowl on a Sunday afternoon. Say "JCC" and someone's head would snap up.

And there were quite a few Class of '66 people moving in and out of enrollment there, too, though I confess I only remember Dave Carlson and Bud Hooper for sure. Art Johnson's girlfriend went there - the statuesque Ann Irvine from Jamestown High School.

I haven't looked at my transcript from JCC since those days 25 years ago when I was at California State University, Chico, applying for the master's degree program.

But I will never forget that F in fencing.

So how exactly did I fail a 1-unit class in fencing?

The class started at 7 a.m., in the gym on campus, three days a week. And you had to suit up in these ridiculous padded outfits before you even went out for roll call.

Need I explain further? Didn't think so.

En garde!

--------------------

Instead of a song today, I'm posting a link to a company that distributes all kinds of gag gifts, many of which were popular in 1966, like the dribbling glass, the whoopee cushion and a fake gun that puts out a flag that says 'bang,' when you fire it.

I used the site to find something called a 'clapper board,' used in making films. It's the thing they stick in front of the camera right before filming with the scene and take on it and then yell action.

Here's the link. (And hang onto your credit cards tight, some of this stuff is too funny.)

Need a Rubber Chicken?

Grab your Kleenex and watch 'Garden State'

From the movie, Garden State
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

SOMEWHERE IN NEW JERSEY - Our classmate Gary Shenkle told me about this movie months ago. And though I shy away from 'coming of age' films, I relented tonight.

Gary, you are correct. It's a great film.

Although the parallels and sort of 'going home again' aspects might have been more on target for the Class of '66 when we were about 30, this movie still has lots of twists about trying to return to where you grew up.

The actors portray their characters in very understated ways that moves the film along very nicely. (Oh God, I'm slipping into that Movie Reviewer Voice. Forget what I just wrote.)

There all the elements: the friends who are still living at home, moms smoking cigarettes, the weird kid who did drugs and became a cop, the mysterious girl, the father-son divide.

But in the end, I came away very glad I watched the film and not only recommend it for our class, I have a couple of students - who fit the age group of the people in the movie - who may not like it exactly, but I think they will certainly understand it.

I won't give away anymore of the plot, but as the movie was ending I was reminded of something a friend of mine told me about five years ago, which I have taken to heart:

Life is not a dress rehearsal.

I doubt he thought that up, but it's true.

So, in honor of the movie Garden State, here's today's song:

Poor Side Of Town
Johnny Rivers

How can you tell me how much you miss me
When the last time I saw you, you wouldn't even kiss me
That rich guy you've been seein'
Must have put you down
So welcome back baby
To the poor side of town

To him you were nothin' but a little plaything
Not much more than an overnight fling
To me you were the greatest thing this boy had ever found
And girl it's hard to find nice things
On the poor side of town

I can't blame you for tryin'
I'm tryin' to make it too
I've got one little hang up baby
I just can't make it without you

So tell me, are you gonna stay now
Will you stand by me girl all the way now
With you by my side
They can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town

(So tell me how much you love me)
(Come be near to me and say you need me now)

Oh, with you by my side
This world can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town

Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be

Another Californian from Jamestown, NY

Marianne Jim
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

IONE, Calif. - Marianne Jim lives a scant 50 miles or so from me here in California, up in the foothills in a town called Ione, which I have never visited, though I have threatened to head up the mountain a lot in recent months.

It's just far enough away that I'm afraid my little Miata (ailing with a leaking rear oil seal) might give it up. And I'm not sure how many good mechanics reside in Ione who can work on Miatas.

And I don't want to find out.

But Marianne has been emailing me, commenting most recently on the Robin Hood run and sent me this joke:

--------

Jamestown Girls:

Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.

The first man had married a woman from Texas and bragged that he had told his wife she was going to do all the dishes and house cleaning. He said it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were done.

The second man had married a woman from Florida. He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and the cooking. On that the first day he didn't see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done and he had a huge dinner on the table.

The third man married a girl from Jamestown, NY. He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house clean, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye; enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher and telephone a landscaper.

Gotta love those New York girls.

=====================

Nicely said Marianne.

We have two more soon-to-be Californians: Mick Olson and Linda Hansen-Olson who either have purchased - or are purchasing - a home in Santa Rosa, Calif., about 90 miles from Sacramento. Eventually, I supposed we will have to have some mini-reunions here at my casa, to which all of you, of course, will be invited. Jim and Pam Carr live in Phoenix, only a short Harley trip away.

Here's a song for today that's been ringing in my ears since hearing it on an oldies station:

A Hundred Pounds of Clay
performed by Gene McDaniels

(Written by Bob Elgin, Luther Dixon, and Kay Roger)

He took a hundred pounds of clay
And they He said "Hey, listen"
"I'm gonna fix this-a world today"
"Because I know what's missin' "
Then He rolled his big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did

With just a hundred pounds of clay
He made my life worth livin'
And I will thank Him every day
For every kiss you're givin'
And I'll thank Him every night
For the arms that are holdin' me tight
And He did it all with just a hundred pounds of clay
Yes he did, whoa-oh, yes He did

Now can'tcha just see Him a-walkin' 'round and 'round
Pickin' the clay uppa off the ground?
Doin' just what He should do
To make a livin' dream like you

He rolled His big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did
With just a hundred pounds of clay

The course was called 'The Robin Hood'

Errol Flynn as Robin Hood
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - Several times each spring and fall, the SWCS gym classes (boys anyway) of the Class of '66 poured out the doors of the school and ran a cross-country track down around behind the bleachers and through some brush called The Robin Hood.

Why it was called The Robin Hood, I don't know. (Perhaps Tom Priester knows its origin.) I only remember that there was some broken field running involved and sometimes some serious mud in spots, depending on rainfall. And the humidity coming through the thicket! Kee-rist!

But what really sticks in my mind is how different that course was compared to bombing around the nice flat oval track. I ran short races, 100 and 220-yard dashes on the track team, but the 7/10 of a mile Robin Hood, which included some uphill work, just wore me out every time I ran it.

And, of course, Coach Flash Olsen would 'urge' me to move faster on the last half when I was gasping for air, pointing out that I should be in good condition, given my track team work, etc. Coach could be quite sarcastic when he wanted.

I learned on the Robin Hood that native ability and strength can overcome a lot, too. Bob Fulcher, who smoked about a half a pack of cigarettes a day, passed me on the Robin Hood one blustery spring day - running backwards. Yup, backwards, all the while taunting me to pass him.

I couldn't get by him and it damned near killed me trying.

Bob didn't compete much athletically, except in gymnastics, where his incredible balance gave him a great edge. When we would water ski in the summer, he fell all the time because he was always seeing how high he could jump or pulling some weird trick like putting the ski rope between his knees.

When I pointed out to him that I never fell, he told me something that has stuck with me my whole life.

"You don't ever fall because you don't take any chances, asshole."

I've told that anecdote many times to my family, friends and generations of university students, minus the asshole comment, of course.

I haven't seen Bob in 20 years, though I occasionally received some emails from his sister Terrie until a year or so ago.

He'd be happy to know that I took his advice and I have fallen a lot in my life, but generally been a better - and happier - man for it.

Today's song is one of my favorites from the Beatles, though what it's connection is to The Robin Hood, water skiing, or taking chances, I 'm not sure. But here you go anyway.

Help
The Beatles

Help! I need somebody.
Help! Not just anybody.
Help! You know I need someone.
Help!

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
my independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
Help me. Help me, oooh.

Crossing the religious divide - in Jamestown

St. Joseph and child
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - On the Yahoo! discussion group, there has been some chatter about race and ethnicity, which living in California has special meaning.

Class of '66 Yahoo discussion

When I walk across my university campus - or even just look out at my students in class - it looks like a meeting of the United Nations.

I have about 50 percent students who are arguably Caucasian, but the rest are a mix of Latino, Asian, African-American and every subgroup imaginable.

Lately, I have had several Irish students in each class - Irish as in from Ireland, studying in the U.S. because it's actually cheap, given the state of the U.S. dollar versus the Euro.

Isn't that something.

But I posted a brief entry on the Yahoo site because I was part of the Catholic minority at SWCS, a small enough group, though I hardly felt any kind of discrimination. As a group, the Class of '66 was a pretty secular outfit when it came to our school and comings and goings.

I only remember getting extremely pissed off during the summer when my mother would drag me to church every Sunday about 10 a.m. while my Protestant buddies would be out waterskiing and getting all the flat water before the wind came up.

I learned about religious intolerance when I was dating my first wife, who was from Titusville, Penn. whose family had a strong dislike - no, make that hatred - of anyone of the Catholic faith.

To their credit, most of that family was up front about it, my now ex-father-in-law telling me early in that relationship that no Catholic would marry his daughter and if she were foolish enough to marry a Papist (Isn't that a term!), well, he would never walk her down the aisle.

He didn't have too, as I wasn't much of Papist and got married by a Justice of the Peace. Could his name have been Willard Ayres in Busti? Whoever he was, I had stood before him on other occasions for speeding tickets. Then the night I was married, I had three double Manhattans at The Pub which somehow convinced me he was the right guy to perform the ceremony that snowy December night in 1969. There was a blizzard but somehow my '65 Mustang made it there and back.

The one thing I do remember about the difference between being Catholic vs. Protestant in elementary school was Friday lunches.

Catholics, at the time, were forbidden to eat meat, so we had such sumptious choices as fish sticks or tuna noodle casserole.

To this day, the smell of a tuna noodle casserole makes me almost as ill as a whiff of Scotch whiskey.

This all reminds me that I haven't actually attended a Mass in at least, well, I can't even remember. In Mexico, though, I stop in at every church I visit, usually lighting a candle for my late mother who was very devoute.

Missing Mass means I've also missed out on the one part of being Catholic that I thought had a leg up on most other religions: going to confession.

If I understand my Catholic dogma correctly, you can go out all week, sin like crazy, go to confession and be absolved. Voila - goodbye sins!

A pretty good deal I suppose, even if you do miss the flat water early in the morning.

A question of hair and why I have so much...

The author at work in Mexico
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

LA MANZANILLA, Jalisco, Mexico - One of my favorite places on earth is the little pueblo of La Manzanilla, two hours (by car) south of Puerto Vallarta. By sailboat, it's about 24 hours if everything goes perfectly.

I never made it in 24 hours in four trips there.

But the photo with today's blog, taken two years ago on the porch outside my room at the Hotel Tonala, shows the ponytail pretty clearly that has become, apparently, my signature.

When I went to a meeting in San Francisco a month ago - a conference of CPAs, IRS staff members, and various other business types - I was the only dude sporting a ponytail.

Of course, when people found out I was a journalist, there to write stories, they all said Aha!, as if that explained why my decidedly gray locks were long enough to be tied in a band at the back of my head.

Long hair was controversial right after we got out of high school. I don't remember there being any arguments about it at SWCS. But by the time I left Jamestown and the Rust Belt behind me in 1970 to move west, I had been fired from one job for having hair that was too long and twice ended up in serious barroom shoving matches because I was a 'hippie.'

For the record, my hair in 1968-70 barely went over my ears and I don't think I even knew what a hippie really was.

I grew it much longer in 1970-72 while I was going to college, but when I was getting ready to start at my first newspaper job, I went straight to the barbershop and got a very traditional haircut - the kind you got at the Lakewood Barbershop in the 60s, where Louie Acquisto's dad was king, a guy named Frank chopped away at men's hair and there always seemed to be a third barber who spoke broken English.

That barbershop was not a place to ever tell a secret. Junior year, Greg Taft and I skipped one of those 'half-days' of school and decided to wander into the barbershop just as SWCS would have been letting out at noon. What devil possessed us to be so bold I have never figured out.

One of the barbers used the phone in the back room and called SWCS, which called my mother and Jaysus did we catch hell. Luckily, school was out in about a week and there wasn't enough time for us to be sentenced to very many late-afternoon detentions.

God! Detention. I'm not going there with this entry.

But about the hair.

In 1993, I took a summer-long cruise with my wife and two boys on our sailboat, barely touching land, mostly anchoring all around San Francisco Bay and the Sacramento River Delta. My hair grew out to a length that would have gotten me fired a second time from the Van Stee corporation and my kids - as a joke - pulled it back in a ponytail, even though it was a pretty pathetic 'tail.'

Two weeks later, still sans haircut, I sat in the front row of a speech given by the president of my university. When he saw my ponytail, he lost his place in his prepared talk and fumbled like a freshman taking Speech 101. I decided that if my having a ponytail could do that much to that old fart, well, I'd keep it for awhile and see what else happened.

A lot did, including being followed home by a Sacramento County sheriff's special unit car one night after dining at a local restaurant. I had on a white linen suit that apparently screams drug dealer, if you happen to have a ponytail, too.

I noticed that stop lights, big ugly guys with tattoos riding Harleys would give me the thumbs up and call out 'Hey man, how's it goin?'

And I discovered that my conservative students decided to judge me quite stereotypically - any professor with long hair is obviously a tree-hugging socialist, who reeks of patchouli oil, and has posters of Lenin in his office.

Their quite erroneous judgments have been far outweighed by the coeds in my classes who, in the annual vote I take each fall semester, vote overwhelmingly that I should keep my hair long.

Who can argue with the will of the people?

The Rod Serling, Class of '66 connection(s)

Rod Serling on Cayuga Lake - 1960
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

CAYUGA LAKE, New York - Not to dwell too long on Rod Serling, but...

After posting yesterday about Rod, I received two very interesting emails, one from Ward Romer, the other from Shelley Kales, both about Rod Serling.

Here's Ward's:

Your piece on Rod Serling was timely - the local Ithaca
Journal (aka Ithaca Urinal) recently printed an article about him as a 'regular Ithacan' (June 28 - you can buy it for $3 from their website -
right). Serling was born in Syracuse, grew up in Binghamton, and after
celebrity life in NYC and LA settled in Interlaken, just north and
between lakes Cayuga and Seneca. He taught communications courses and
gave lectures at Ithaca College from 1967 to 1975, and the school
maintains a Rod Serling archive including scripts and films of the
Twilight Zone episodes. His cabin cruiser (as the popular story went)
was berthed across the inlet from the Ithaca College Boathouse, named
'GHOTI'. I saw it every day when working with the crews, but never saw
Serling take it out. The name of the boat was pronounced 'fish' - the gh
as in enough, the o as in women, and the ti as in nation. Not bad for us
anglophiles, who can pronounce something like Featheringstonhaugh
'fanshaw'..... - Ward

================
When I return to New York in about a week, I'm going to head over the check out the Serling archives. The guy was a genius.

The second email, from Shelley Kales, is here:

================
This is so wild. I was born in Binghamton, and my grandfather owned a diner
there. Rod Serling would come into the diner and eat, and my mother knew
him well. If I remember correctly, Mom dated him while in high school as he
was only 4 years older. - Shelley

=============

What was that movie some years ago? Six Degrees of Separation? Whenever I travel it's rare that I don't bump into someone in the airport - or on the plane - who I know either from some journalism connection or through the university. And, of course, if I start talking to almost any person sitting next to me on the plane, after a few minutes, we usually have a person in common.

So weird, so Twilight Zone. I can hear the theme from the show playing in my head already.

But to get rid of it, here's a song from 1963 that you have been trying to forget ever since it was popular. And yes, it was a big hit. I'm not kidding.

----------------

On Top Of Spaghetti
Tom Glazer & The Childrens Chorus


Hi kids
(Hi Tom)
Let's sing a little bit

On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)

It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)

It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)

Alright now
I'll tell you the words
And you sing it back to me

On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)

It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)

It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)

From the Class of '66 to The Twilight Zone

Rod Serling
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone, called Binghamton, New York his home town and legend has it drank in the bars not far from where I've been spending my summers.

He was quite short, but drank like a longshoreman and some people still remember him around the saloons bordering Cayuga Lake - or at least claim they do. Perhaps Ward Romer can do some research for me, he lives in the area.

So what twisted path led me to Rod Serling for this page?

Well, Pam Carr sent me one of those nostalgia links that is just fabulous. It's similar to some of the email lists/jokes that make their way around from time to time, but this has music, photos and lots of funny stuff to read. The music alone is worth logging on for.

And one of the photos flashing on a TV screen is the late Rod Serling himself.

Check out the link here:

Blast from the past

The Twilight Zone was one of my must-see TV shows in the 60s, right there with Star Trek and I Spy. In fact, that might encompass everything I watched. I think we only got three TV channels at my house, depending on how bad it was snowing. And is snowed a lot, I remember.

And on Saturday nights my grandmother (known to my friends as Shotgun, but that's a longer story) would insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show, a sure way to drive all the teenagers out of the house, their hands covering their ears.

Today's song isn't exactly a Twilight Zone tune, but it's plenty weird. Rod would approve.

Love Potion Number Nine
The Searchers

(Written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller)

I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth
You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth
She's got a pad down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
Sellin' little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine

I told her that I was a flop with chicks
I'd been this way since 1956
She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign
She said "What you need is Love Potion Number Nine"

She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink
She said "I'm gonna make it up right here in the sink"
It smelled like turpentine, it looked like India Ink*
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink

I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine

------ guitar solo ------

I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink

I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine

When Regents exams ruled the world and ...

SWCS schedule for week of June 13-17
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - Surfing past the SWCS page I saw the schedule that was posted back nearly a month ago, with the dreaded Regents exams prominently posted.

I remember feeling the same sense of dread when one of those exams was near that I get now when I find an envelope in the mail that says IRS.

Some of those tests, I did well on: history, English. Math & science, well, not so hot, though I remember slamming the physics Regents test. (If there wasn't a Regents exam in physics, please don't tell me. It's such a nice memory...)

In California, we have a big debate going about the high school exit exam which basically tests students at about an 8th grade level (that's 8th grade today, which believe me is not the 8th grade we went through with Mrs. Dennison for math).

The public, well, ok, a segment of the public, says if these kids don't pass the test - and get a diploma - they won't get a job in our booming California service economy. I mean, who the hell is going to wait on people at Starbuck's? You certainly need a high school certification for that.

I do remember that we had a two-tiered system: a Regents diploma and another diploma that didn't requiring passing all those damned exams. I was led to believe that without a Regent's diploma, that getting into college wasn't a possibility. (Ooooh! They lied!) Had I been even half alert, I would've realized that junior colleges and out-of-state universities didn't care as much as NY State schools about these all-important Regents.

I've supported the high school exit exam here in California, even written a few opinion pieces about it for newspapers (Opinions, moi?) but the kicker I always put in - that tends to really tick people off - is that I believe the students should be allowed to take the test in Spanish or English.

Hell, they can take it in both if think they can pass it.

I get quite a bit of hate mail when I bring it up.

Were there Regents exams in our foreign language classes?

If there were, add French to my short list of Regent's exam disasters. But mercifully enough, I just can't remember at all.

Mon dieu!

Those injuries we faced - and face again

knee brace - hi tech version
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - My knees have never been quite the same since Track Coach Joe Rushin made us run around every spring on those hard concrete floors at SWCS while we waited for the snow to melt off the track.

Added to that annual knee trauma was two years of football hits and four years of twisting on the wrestling mats.

Still, I was in my 30s before I started having trouble and learned from my various docs that running on concrete, getting mashed in football game pileups and having someone twist your leg like a pretzel can have longterm ramifications.

No duh, right?

So since then, I've pretty much ignored the kind of aches and pains that come from my knees, adjusting to the fact that I can't move to my left when I play tennis and running on hard surfaces is out completely.

But these old injuries crop up at weird times, which is why I'm shopping online for a hi-tech knee brace. The one with today's blog looks pretty cool. It might even work.

Dancing at a party last week, doing the Twist and God-knows-what-other dances, I was inspired to twist all the way down to the floor, and, perhaps because of the copious volume of Merlot consumed, to stand back up - repeatedly. If my knees hurt at the time, I don't really know. But in the days after, I doubt I could have beaten Chester from Gunsmoke in a footrace and this morning, after being cramped on three planes in a cross-country journey, I'm stalking around the condo like Ahab looking for the white whale.

But I'm already planning my rehab so I can reinjure myself, er, I mean be safe, next year at the reunion, when we can all dance like crazy and then compare what's left of our knees, elbows and shins.

Today's song is not from the 1960s. But I think is sums up how I feel today anyway.

==============

"As Good As I Once Was"
By Toby Keith

She said, "I'e seen you in here before."
I said, "I've been here a time or two."
She said, "Hello, my
Name is Bobby Jo
Meet my twin sister Betty Lou
And we're both feeling kinda wild tonight
And you're the only cowboy in this place
And if you're up for a rodeo
We'll put a big Texas smile on
Your face"
I said, "Girls,"

[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
I got a few years on me now
But there was a time back in my prime

When I could really lay it down
And if you need some love tonight
Then I might have just enough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was

I still hang out with my best friend dave
Ive known him since we were kids at school
Last night he
Had a few shots
Got in a tight spot hustlin' a game of pool
With a couple of readneck boys
One great
Big bad biker man
I heard David yell across the room
"Hey buddy, how 'bout a helping hand."
I said, "Dave,"

[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
My how the years have flown
But there was a time back in my prime

When I could really hold my own
But if you wanna fight tonight
Guess thouse boys dont look all that
Tough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was

I used to be hell on wheels
Back when I was younger man
Now my body says, "You can't do this boy"

But my pride says, "Oh, yes you can

I ain't as good as I once was
Thats just the cold hard truth
I still throw a few back, talk a little smack
When I'm feelin bullet proof
So don't double dog dare me now
'Cause I'd have to call your bluff

I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
Maybe not be good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was

Another vintage shot, Mrs. Tarbrake's class

English 1963 - with Nellie Tarbrake
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, NY - I missed the Tarbrake experience in 9th grade. I had Mrs. Pascuillo (sp?) who was quite pleasant, though not nearly as supportive as a Mr. Coleman from 8th grade.

Mr. Coleman was really into fiction and whatever I wrote, he praised highly and made me read for the entire class. He only lasted a year or two, I believe. Although not a very large fellow, he had a grip like a vise and more than one male in the class felt Mr. Coleman's hand on the back of their neck if they were not paying attention. One fellow - I can only remember that his first name was Ralph - got his face smashed down on the surface of the desk when he muttered 'asshole' in reference to Mr. Coleman, not knowing Coleman was standing right behind him.

Ralph left class with a bloody nose and I'm not sure Mr. Coleman was there the next fall.

But neither was Ralph.

I don't remember what we read in 9th grade, certainly no Shakespeare. In fact, I'm not sure I remember reading any Shakespeare in high school. Villanova required reading most of Shakespeare's plays, four or five per semester. No wonder I wanted to drop out and go to Mexico.

And writing essays that year with a ball point pen! I hated (and hate) writing anything with a pen, other than taking notes. When I was a junior in high school, after completing Mrs. King's typing class, my mother bought me a typewriter and the rest is history. Gawd that typing class was awful, too, but to this day I can type like a demon if I need to. I remember taking a speed reading class, too. That class was useful in the long run. Just yesterday I had to write a 500-word story about a 40-page report on student enrollments at California colleges. I scanned the report and did my 500 words in under an hour. Later this morning I'll read it to see if it makes any sense.

Today's song is one of the sillier ones we heard in 1963. But damn, I actually remember most of the lyrics.

Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport
by Rolf Harris

SPOKEN:
There's an old Australian stockman lying, dying. He gets himself up
onto one elbow and 'e turns to his mates, who are all gathered around and 'e says:

Watch me wallabies feed, mate
Watch me wallabies feed,
They're a dangerous breed, mate
So watch me wallabies feed
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

Keep me cockatoo cool, Curl,
Keep me cockatoo cool
Ah, don't go acting the fool, Curl
Just keep me cockatoo cool
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

'n' take me koala back, Jack
Take me koala back
He lives somewhere out on the track, Mac
So take me koala back
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

Let me abos go loose, Lew
Let me abos go loose
They're of no further use, Lew
So let me abos go loose
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

And mind me platypus duck, Bill
Mind me platypus duck
Ah, don't let 'im go running amok, Bill
Just mind me platypus duck
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

Play your didgeridoo, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Ah, like, keep playin' 'til I shoot thru, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred
Tan me hide when I'm dead
So we tanned his hide when he died, Clyde
And that's it hangin' on the shed!!
Altogether now!

Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down

Does anyone remember Jack Rose?

Shop class -1961
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, NY - In 7th or 8th grade, many of us had a mechanical drawing teacher named Jack Rose who wore glasses that were so thick, they gave new meaning to the expression Coke-bottle lenses.

But I remember a little refrain we used to chant, quietly, about him:

Jack Rose sat on a tack,
Jack Rose

I'm sorry Jack, but it still makes me laugh.

Shop classes in general weren't much fun for me, though when Douglas Brandow dropped an entire drawer of type and spent the rest of the semester sorting it, well, that was kind of amusing in a sad way.

But mechanical drawing was different, and when I have to build something I tend to sketch things out - just like Jack Rose taught me.

In one of my newspaper postings, I had to design pages, placing photos and stories and other elements and I quickly learned that the precision mechanical drawing required was needed in newspaper and print production, too.

Jack Rose had kind of a good sense of humor, and named his daughter Seena.

Seena Rose?

Oh boy...

Here's today's song, which has nothing to do with shop class or the photo that Steve Sewell sent around that is posted here. But it's one that should bring back a few stray memories.

Those Oldies But Goodies
by Nino & The Ebb Tides

Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
I always remember the first night we met
The songs they were playing
I never will forget

I always will treasure them so close to my heart
They always will haunt me although we're apart
Each time that I hear them a tear's bound to fall
Oh, I love those memories that I, I recall

Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
Forever they will haunt me but what can I do

Those oldies but goodies remind me of you

SPOKEN:
"Yes, dear, they are playin' our songs
And they will always remain our songs
And each time that you hear them
I hope that you, too,
Will cherish the wonderful memories that our love once knew
For these songs are but a symbol of the love that I have for you"

Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
(Oldies but goodies remind me of you)

The junior high band, Memorial Day, 1961

Band -1961
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - Steve Sewell not only has joined the email list, he's joined the list of people sending in photos.

Today's photo comes from Steve and here's what he has to say about it:
-----------
This one was from Memorial Day 1961 and was the Junior High Band out in front of the main driveway to the school. The front row is (L to R) Mr. Vorberg (who was only there for a year, I think -- it was Ed Turner's band at the end of the day), Lee Johnson, Greg Batchelder, me (Steve Sewell), and Paul Slocum, and I can't make out who was in the rear rows.
===========

I didn't play a musical instrument in high school - big mistake I realize now - but it didn't fit and I thought I didn't have much musical talent.

So, when I turned 50, I said I three goals: Become fluent in a foreign language, publish one of my novels & learn to play an instrument - any instrument.

Well, I can get by in Spanish ok. My French won't get me the best table in Toulouse, but it's functional. One novel is ready to go if I can find a publisher. And the music? Well, I have an Ipod and download a lot, if that counts.

I tried to learn to play a keyboard some years ago and gave up, eventually giving the keyboard to my granddaughter who isn't too inspired yet to learn it. But she's only seven years old.

So here's today's tune, dedicated to the band:

Artist: Wings Lyrics
'Band on the Run'

Stuck Inside These Four Walls, Sent Inside Forever,
Never Seeing No One Nice Again Like You,
Mama You, Mama You.
If I Ever Get Out Of Here,
Thought Of Giving It All Away
To A Registered Charity.
All I Need Is A Pint A Day
If I Ever Get Out Of Here.

Well, The Rain Exploded With A Mighty Crash As We Fell Into The Sun,
And The First One Said To The Second One There I Hope You're Having Fun.
Band On The Run, Band On The Run.
And The Jailer Man And Sailor Sam Were Searching Every One

For the band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run

Well, The Undertaker Drew A Heavy Sigh Seeing No One Else Had Come,
And A Bell Was Ringing In The Village Square for the rabbits on the run.
Band On The Run, Band On The Run.
And The Jailer Man And Sailor Sam, were searching every one

For the band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run

Well, The Night Was Falling As The Desert World began To Settle Down.
In The Town They're Searching For Us Every Where, but We Never W Ill Be Found.
Band on the run, Band on the run

And The County Judge, who held a grudge
Will search for evermore
For the band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run, Band on the run

1968's Martin Luther King Memorial Race

Jim Carr's latest toy
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - The photo with today's listing is of the two motor vehicles in Jim Carr's Phoenix garage.

He's fond of red, apparently.

And in a few emails back and forth, he reminded me about the 1968 Martin Luther King Memorial Race around Chautaqua Lake. I had my 14-year-old cousin as co-pilot (and to open the beer for me as I drove). He had a tough job holding his own beer without spilling while passing one to me.

I sure would have liked piloting one of Jim's current rigs on that race, but it's hard to slam beer riding a motorcycle.

Here's Jim Carr's account of the race:

========================
By JIM CARR

This is a short story about boys, cars, and how crazy we were, before responsibilities.

To the best of my recollection, this is what happened:

It was a Sunday afternoon, in the spring of 1968... Martin Luther King had been assassinated, and it was some relatively foolish, reckless, and crazy young adults looking for something to do. The next thing was we were racing, and it was called “The Martin Luther King Memorial Race”.

The drivers and their cars:

John Rupp.
Volkswagen Convertible.

Mike Fitzgerald.
A green Triumph Spitfire(top down, of course).

Bud Hooper.
A blue Chevrolet Camaro.

Jim Carr
A red Chevrolet Chevelle.

There were co-pilots and/or passengers. There names have been omitted, to protect the innocent.

The Start:
I’m not exactly sure where we started (likely the Big Tree or Triangle), but the race was in the counter clockwise direction around Chautauqua Lake, through Jamestown, Fluvanna, Bemus Point, Mayville, Chautauqua, Stow, Ashville, and finishing in Lakewood. I also have no recollection of what happened between the start and Stow, but have vivid memories of the finish. I can, with some confidence, assure you that the lead position changed numerous times.

The finish:
As the finish was approaching, from the back of the pack, Parnelli (aka, John Rupp) as he was often referred to, passed lines of cars, on the hills between Stow and Lakewood. People out for their Sunday drive, returning from church or Sunday afternoon lunch, or just out enjoying the great spring day, were rudely awakened as they came over the top of a hill to find a Volkswagen coming at them in their lane, with no intention of getting out of the way. Numerous cars left the pavement for safety and protection from this wild man, who was only interested in “The Joys of Victory”. There would be no “Agony of Defeat”.

The winner of the 40+ mile race, in memory of Martin Luther King, was a somewhat late model Volkswagen convertible, driven by the not so famous driver, John “Parnelli” Rupp.

Horsepower didn’t prevail. It was a strategy, a will to win, and someone who was just plain crazy.

===========================

So today's song, in honor of that race, a song that was popular and no doubt heard at least once - if not a lot more - on the trip:

Jumpin' Jack Flash
The Rolling Stones

Watch it
I was born in a crossfire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the drivin' rain
But it's all right now
In fact it's a gas
But it's all right
I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash
It's a gas, gas, gas

I was raised by a toothless bearded hag
I was schooled with a strap right across my back
But it's all right now
In fact it's a gas
But it's all right
Jumpin' Jack Flash it's a gas, gas, gas, gas

I was drowned, I was washed up and left for dead
I fell down to my feet and I saw they bled
I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread
I was crowned with a spike right through my head
But it's all right
In fact it's a gas
But it's all right
I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas
Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas
Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas
Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

'Pretty Woman' gets everyone out dancing

Roy Orbison
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

VALOIS, New York - My right knee feels like Jim Lindell tackled me full force. No, I wasn't playing football last night, it was a party here at Seneca Lake with a couple of hundred folks ranging from toddlers to great-grandmothers.

And the band - what a great band! - Steve Southworth and Rockabilly Rays, pounded on one great song after another for three hours.

No wonder my knee hurts.

At first, not too many people were out dancing. Everyone was milling around, sloshing down beer or box wine. (OK, the toddlers weren't...) Then those first few notes of 'Pretty Woman' sounded and there was a stampede to get the dance floor.

I've never seen so many guys playing the air guitar. (Maybe that's how I hurt my knee, doing that Chuck Berry dance move...)

The neatest thing was everyone was out there for that song, and continued for most of the rest of the evening. Of course, it was freezing outside of the covered area where the band was.

I've collected almost all of Roy Orbison songs and read biography of him written a few years after his death in 1988. He died at 52! And remember the dark glasses he wore performing? They became his trademark after he went to perform one night and couldn't find his regular specs. So...the shades became an Orbison trademark.

Today's song, of course, is Pretty Woman...

Pretty Woman
Roy Orbison

(Words and Music by Roy Orbison and Bill Dees)

Pretty woman, walkin' down the street
Pretty woman the kind I like to meet
Pretty woman I don't believe you, you're not the truth
No one could look as good as you---mercy

Pretty woman won't you pardon me
Pretty woman I couldn't help but see
Pretty woman that you look lovely as can be
Are you lonely just like me---

Pretty woman stop awhile
Pretty woman talk awhile
Pretty woman give your smile to me
Pretty woman yeah, yeah, yeah
Pretty woman look my way
Pretty woman say you'll stay with me-ee
Cuz I need you, I'll treat you right
Come with me baby, be mine toni-i-ght

Pretty woman don't walk on by
Pretty woman don't make me cry
Pretty woman don't walk away, hey----
OKIf that's the way it must be---
OKI guess I'll go on home, it's late
There'll be tomorrow night, but wait
What do I see?
Is she walkin' back to me?
Yeah, she's walkin' back to me
Oh, oh, pretty woman

All this talk about pizza makes me hungry

VALOIS, N.Y. - I'm sitting here 15 miles from the nearest town, reading entry after entry in the SWCS Class of '66 Yahoo discussion group about all the delicious pizza we ate years ago.

Stop it, you're killing me.

But after reading the postings, I did a quick Google search for Pace's Pizza and found this:

Pace's Pizza et al

So Dino's shop is still open. Hoo-rah. If I get to Jamestown in August - which I hope to - I'm going in and getting a pizza, even though I really don't even eat pizza much these days. But I'll make an exception.

It seems like we have hit a plateau of 35-40 Class of '66 classmates who are in the loop that there even is a reunion next year, although I just did get Dottie Holdsworth's email added to the list, so maybe I'm being premature.

But is anyone out there proficient at searching for people? I've done some webcrawling and found Ward Romer and a couple of other folks. But a lot of the people we graduated with apparently exist below the Google-Alta Vista radar. That's not a bad thing, but it makes them tougher to find.

Surely, someone in our class has done work as a private investigator and has access to all those illegal files and websites that we can't get to. Oooooh! We do have a judge in the class, Judge Christopher Henderson (Maryland Circuit Court) who Dave Carlson had dinner with not long ago. Maybe Chris can give us some judicial dispensation and help us find the missing 100+ from the class.

Saturday night I'm going to a biggest Seneca lake party of the season, thrown every year by a well-known family who invites most of the shoreside residents to come and eat, drink and dance. And dance we do, especially after the drinking part. And one of the songs the group Steve Southworth & The Rockabilly Rays plays every year is today's blast from the past:

Running Bear
Johnny Preston

[Words and Music by J P Richardson (The Big Bopper)]
[Background sounds by Richardson and George Jones]


On the bank of the river
Stood Running Bear
Young Indian brave
On the other side of the river
Stood his lovely Indian maid
Little White Dove was her name
Such a lovely sight to see
But their tribes fought with each other
So their love could never be

Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love big as the sky
Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love that couldn't die

He couldn't swim the raging river
'Cause the river was too wide
He couldn't reach the Little White Dove
Waiting on the other side
In the moonlight he could see her
Throwing kisses 'cross the waves
Her little heart was beating faster
Waiting for her Indian brave

Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love big as the sky
Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love that couldn't die

Running Bear dove in the water
Little White Dove did the same
And they swam out to each other
Through the swirling stream they came
As their hands touched and their lips met
The raging river pulled them down
Now they'll always be together
In their happy hunting ground

Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love big as the sky
Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love that couldn't die

Welcome to New York and here's your towel

Wednesday, June 29 radar
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

VALOIS, N.Y. - This is the kind of summer I remember growing up in Lakewood.

It's 77 degrees outside, but it feels like 90 and the humidity is so high that the toaster over even steams when you cook an English muffin. If you want to keep your brow dry, you have to swab it with a towel every few minutes, or just let the sweat drip into your eyes.

Love it.

I would wake up on days like this in 1996 and dread going to work at Lakewood Beach because it would be roasting at first, which meant a gazillion people from Jamestown would arrive by bus. And almost always a thunderstorm would sweep through later, which meant that we closed the beach. Good news for lifeguards - we would barrel out to the Triangle for food. (Only one beer, of course).

But those poor folks from Jamestown would end up huddled under the trees waiting out the maelstrom. They always wanted to cluster inside the beach house, but that was verboten, unless they were cute teenage girls, in which case Dan Harp and I would sometimes make exceptions. (Ha! Sometimes!)

It always seemed to be this hot in late August when pre-season football practice started, too. One day 'Happy' Huff passed on the practice field and a bunch of the players had to carry him up the hill to the locker room. Happy weighed 200-pounds plus and it was, well, a load. I missed seeing it, but the legend has it that more water was available to players at practice after that.

The radar weather map with the blog is from just a few minutes ago and shows thunderbumpers in other parts of the state, but no joy here. I shouldn't complain as I'm trying to get the front yard in shape for a memorial service for my late mother-in-law who died in February.

In true upstate New York fashion, we will have a brief service and guitar music, followed by a potluck dinner - with a keg of beer.

Check the weather Sunday for Valois New York. I'll bet it's going to rain like hell.

Here's today's tune, by the tempting Temptations:

I Wish It Would Rain
The Temptations

Sunshine, blue skies, please go away
My girl has found another and gone away
With her with my future, my life is filled with gloom
So day after day, I stay locked up in my room
I know to you it might sound strange
But I wish it would rain
(Oh how I wish that it would rain)

'Cause so badly I wanna go outside (such a lovely day)
But everyone knows that a man ain't supposed to cry
I gotta cry 'cause cryin' is such a pain, oh yeah
People, this hurt I feel inside words can never explain
I just wish it would rain
(Oh how I wish that it would rain)
Rain, rain, rain
(Oh how I wish that it would rain)

(instrumental)

Day in, day out, my tear-stained face is pressed against
  the window pane
I search the skies desperately for rain
'Cause raindrops will hide my teardrops
And no one will ever know
That I'm cryin', cryin' when I go outside
To the world outside, my tears I refuse to explain
Oh, I wish it would rain
(Oh how I wish that it would rain)

Let it rain, let it rain
I need rain to disguise the tears in my eyes...

Funny what you keep, what you throw away

Class of '66 Diploma-SWCS
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - In the same closet with the dusty cardboard box that held my Villanova sports-coat photo, there it was, my SWCS diploma.

As Al Pacino says in the film Scent of a Woman, Hoo-Rah!

Why this survived and my diplomas from two universities here in California got lost is a mystery to me. Somewhere in my travels I lost my draft card, too - and that I wanted to save to someday burn for my children.

The SWCS diplomas are actually pretty impressive looking, though small compared to the sheepskins you get from graduating from a university. At my university, you don't actually get your diploma when you walk through ceremonies - they wait to make sure you don't have any parking fines outstanding or books from the library.

Cloise Swearingen's signature is there on my diploma in a big round hand. Do I sense he was relieved when he signed it? He didn't hurry it at all; it's a very careful script.

I'm not too sure what to do with the diploma. I suppose I could put it in my university office next to all my press credentials and old business cards from different newspapers. Or maybe I'll keep it out on my desk at home, wedged neatly between the photo from our 20th reunion and my best Class of '66 reference book - our red yearbook.

Segue, segue, segue.

Sorry, I couldn't think of a good transition from diplomas to music. Not many songs that exalt surviving four years of high school. I did find Bobby Rydell's Swinging School, but, well, another day for Bobby.

So, instead, here's today's song, a Connie Francis tune, the lyrics of which even my seven-year-old granddaughter thinks are pretty funny. Having once been nailed for this particular offense (a long time ago, thank you very much), I view it slightly differently.

But here you go:

Lipstick On Your Collar
performed by Connie Francis

[Lyrics by Edna Lewis and Music by George Goehring]

When you left me all alone
At the record hop
Told me you were going out
For a soda pop
You were gone for quite awhile
Half an hour or more
You came back
And man, oh man
This is what I saw

Lipstick on your collar
Told a tale on you
Lipstick on your collar
Said you were untrue
Bet your bottom dollar
You and I are through
'Cause lipstick on your collar
Told a tale on you, yeah

---- Instrumental Interlude ----

You said it belonged to me
Made me stop and think
And then I noticed yours was red
Mine was baby pink
Who walked in but Mary Jane
Lipstick all a mess
Were you smoochin' my best friend
Guess the answer's yes

Lipstick on your collar
Told a tale on you
Lipstick on your collar
Said you were untrue
Bet your bottom dollar
You and I are through
'Cause lipstick on your collar
Told a tale on you, boy
Told a tale on you, man
Told a tale on you, yeah

My mother made me wear that coat, I swear

Villanova University 1966 - Orientation
Originally uploaded by Brite Lights photos.

VILLANOVA, Penn. - It was the fall of 1966 and I got unceremoniously dropped at Villanova University by an uncle who I had never met until I stepped off the plane that morning. He deposited me on the corner in front of the campus with a trunk full of badly out-of-style clothes, a worse haircut and not knowing a soul.

And no one, no one had warned me about Freshmen Orientation.

Villanova was steeped in lots of tradition, one of which was that upper classmen could pretty much torture you at will for the first four weeks of school. You were required - by the university - to wear bow ties, roll your pant legs up well above your ankles and wear a beanie.

I am not kidding, a goddamned beanie.

In this photo, which I found today in a box full of stuff from that era, my socks are rolled up and I'm wearing a purple, plaid sports coat. Not many game show hosts in that era would have had the guts to wear that coat. I stuck out just a little among my much-more wealthy classmates who were mostly decked out in suits or blue blazers.

Still, what an exciting day. And I can still remember wanting to take a poke at the pudgy upperclassman who ordered me to roll up my socks. The beanies and bow ties we were given inside when we picked up the little index cards that said what our classes were for the entire year.

By the end of the first week, the beanies, the bow ties and socks all disappeared. And so did the worst of the bullying upperclassmen, mostly because a few of my classmates lost their sense of humor and bloodied a few upper noses.

What I remember most about that first day was sitting with about 1,000 other freshmen in the Villanova gym and hearing the president of the University tell us to stand up and shake hands with the boys (and it was 99 percent boys) on either side of us.

Then he said, "By January, one of the young men you shook hands with will have flunked out."

I made it halfway through my sophomore year before a combination of deteriorating study habits and developing social habits collided, and my GPA slid to where if I had not bailed out, I would have needed better than a 3.0 to move from sophomore to junior.

And the coat?

I left it as a souvenir for the next occupant of my dorm room. I wasn't going to ever need it again, unless there was a vaudeville revival and John Rupp and I worked up an act.

Today's song is from that fall term and it played over and over and over and over and...:

What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted
Jimmy Ruffin


As I walk this land of broken dreams
I have visions of many things
But happiness is just an illusion
Filled with sadness and confusion
What becomes of the broken hearted
Who had love that's now departed
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Maybe

The roots of love grow all around
But for me they come a tumblin' down
Every day heartaches grow a little stronger
I can't stand this pain much longer
I walk in shadows
Searching for light
Cold and alone
No comfort in sight
Hoping and praying for someone to care
Always moving and going nowhere
What becomes of the broken hearted
Who had love that's now departed
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Help me

I'm searching though I don't succeed
But someone look, there's a growing need
All is lost, there's no place for beginning
All that's left is an unhappy ending
Now what becomes of the broken-hearted
Who had love that's now departed
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
I'll be searching everywhere
Just to find someone to care

I'll be looking everyday
I know I'm gonna find a way
Nothing's gonna stop me now
I'll find a way somehow
I'll be searching everywhere