Welcome to a Special Edition of Car Talk!  Today is my daughter Dana’s birthday.  I am not going to say which one, because it is impolite to reveal a lady’s age.  Nor will I reveal the birth year because those of you less mathematically challenged than myself could figure it out.  Suffice it to say it was sometime in the early Eighties.

I remember that day and the days and weeks leading up to it like it were yesterday.  Initially, it did not appear as if I were going to be much, if any, help in the delivery room.  Dana was born at Piedmont Hospital, and her late mother Marie and I went through the Lamaze classes as was recommended by the obstetrician.  We learned the pattern breathing, the prenatal exercises and massages, etc.  Then one evening we were told to report the following week to room such and such for the child birthing movie.  We arrived late due to our work schedules, and the only seats available were two at the very back.  The room was one of those auditorium type science lecture classrooms with a faucet and sink, chalkboard and movie screen at the front.  So, sitting on the back row, we were at the top against the back wall.  This turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

The movie started simply enough, but then got graphic in a hurry.  Very graphic.  I’m talking absolutely nothing left to the imagination graphic.  Now, I do not handle blood or needles very well at all, and soon began to feel very lightheaded.  I told Marie I didn’t feel very well and she told me to close my eyes and lean my head back on the wall.  I did so, but then she started giving me a play by play of what was going on in the movie.  I said, “Marie, shut up, please.  I told you I don’t feel good.”  The next thing I knew I was coming to, leaned up against a pregnant lady with light brown hair and glasses, to my left.  Funny, I still remember exactly what she looked like.  She was pushing me back up and Marie was pulling me.  I had fainted dead away.  Marie looked at me and said, “Oh, I can see you’re going to be a lot of help in the delivery room.”  I leaned back in my chair with my head against the wall and eyes closed for the rest of the movie.  It had a happy ending, a new little boy named Scotty was born.  Funny, I still remember his name…

On Friday, March 11, a booming pregnant Marie called me at work around noon.  “It’s time,” she said, and I left work amid cheers of congratulations and good luck from my co-workers.  We went to the doctor’s office at Piedmont, and the OB/GYN told us, “You’re only dilated maybe one centimeter.  Go somewhere and walk for a couple of hours and that should help accelerate the process.  We went to Lenox Square and walked up and down the mall for two hours.  Eventually, we both agreed we were tired and went home.  When we got to the house, I grabbed the softball and the gloves and said, “Come on, we’re going out in the backyard and play catch.”  We played catch for about an hour before Marie had to go in and sit down.  We ate dinner, watched TV and about 11:00 pm went to bed.

I was awakened around 12:30 am by her poking me in the shoulder.  “It’s time,” she said, “it’s really time.”  We grabbed our pre-packed suitcase, jumped into my ’73 Ford Ranger pickup and took off for Piedmont.  We were flying up I-75, rhythmically breathing the whole way.  We checked into the hospital.  The nurse assigned to Marie was named Cookie.  She looked like a nose tackle, but was very compassionate, soothing and comforting.  “Don’t you worry, Sweetie, we’re gonna bring that new little baby into the world tonight,” she told Marie.  She stayed with us the whole night.  She held Marie tight as they were administering the epidural.  And yes, she was in the delivery room when Dana was born.  When Dana was a month old, after her first checkup with the pediatrician, Marie went to the hospital and found Cookie.  She hugged her, thanked her and gave her flowers from her garden.  Cookie held Dana.  Later we talked about what a wonderful job that must be, bringing new little babies into the world.

When the time came and we were taken into the delivery room, the doctor put a stool for me at his end.  Marie said, “Oh, no, he has to sit up here with me behind the curtain.  He faints.”  During the delivery, between breathing and pushing, she kept looking up at me and asking “Are you okay?  Are you okay?”  At one point, the doctor stopped and said, “Wait a minute.  There’s something wrong with this picture.  HE’S supposed to be asking YOU if YOU are okay!”  We all had a laugh, and about fifteen minutes later, after one final push, the doctor exclaimed, “There she is!”  At 5:50 am on March 12th, Dana Marie Etheridge brightened up the world.  I jumped up and ran around to look at our new daughter.  Marie warned me to be careful, I might faint, but at that point it didn’t matter.  I was oblivious to everything but my beautiful little girl.  They laid her on Marie’s chest so she could hold her, then the doctor asked if I wanted to cut the cord.  I thought about it for a second and said, “No, you’re the doctor.  I’d rather you cut it.”  Marie asked him to cut it so Dana would have and innie as opposed to an outer.  The doctor told her all he could do was cut it, and then whether it was an innie or an outie was out of his control.

The picture above was taken by Cookie right before Dana was taken to the nursery.  It is the first picture of us together.  Keep in mind we were running on no sleep, so after Marie was taken back to her room, I went home to get some rest.  Mother and Baby rested at the hospital on Sunday, and on Monday, a warm and sunny early spring morning, we brought Dana home.  Not without incident, however.  When I got to the hospital, Marie asked me, “Where’s the car seat?”  When I left the house to drive to the hospital, I was so excited I jumped in the car and completely forgot it.  Those were the days when you were not required to have one to take a new baby home, so we rode home with Marie holding Dana.  She kept warning other cars to get away from us and to stay off of our bumper.  Dad drove the speed limit the whole way, feeling like the most forgetful, idiotic husband and father in the whole world.

Years later, my granddaughter Brooklyn was born.  When Jackie and I saw Brookie for the first time in the hospital cradle, I lost it.  She was Dana all over again.  It took several minutes before I could compose myself.  Dana had had a C-Section, so she had not seen her daughter yet.  I was blessed and honored to be able to take my granddaughter into the recovery room and hand my daughter her daughter for the very first time.  Full circle, and it was a very emotional moment, to say the least.

Happy Birthday, Puddin’!  We’ve had our times, but I am thankful and proud of the beautiful young woman and mother you have become.  Your Poppy always has and always will love you.  Here’s to many, many more… Still Cruisin’!  –P. 

My three favorite bands of all time are The Eagles, The Who and ZZ Top, pretty much in that order.  I have been fortunate enough to see each of them in concert.  The Who in 1975, featuring the original lineup with drummer Keith Moon, ZZ Top thrice and the Eagles at Piedmont Park in 2010.  Though the list has changed throughout the years, these three have always been favorites and I have always loved their music.

Especially when driving.  What is it about music and, as ZZ puts it “that wonderful feel of rolling in an automobile”?  Maybe it’s the motion, the music or both, but they go hand in hand like Lester and Earl, Fred and Ginger, Snowman and The Bandit.  When listening to a song we love we tend to speed up, sing along and play air guitar.  Or, in my beloved Jackie’s case, air drums.  If you ever see her on the road and she’s flailing her arms, she’s not having a conniption.  Well, if I’m driving maybe, but most likely she’s just playing along with the Allman Brothers.

In the waning years of my adolescence I got into progressive rock.  It was all Yes, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, The Moody Blues and Jethro Tull.  In my early to mid twenties, it was Southern Rock and The Rolling Stones.  In my late twenties to early thirties, I really got into Springsteen and John Cougar.  I know he goes by his proper name Mellencamp now, but to me he’ll always be John Cougar.  

And all on 8 track tape.  For those of you too young to remember, 8 track was groundbreaking technology.  All of a sudden you could listen to music you chose and not AM radio.  FM radio did not gain a mainstream foothold until the early Seventies and even afterward, the 8 track market thrived because we could listen to whatever we wanted whenever we wanted.

The first 8 track tape decks appeared in Ford Mustangs, Thunderbirds and Lincolns in 1965.  By the end of the Sixties, the tape market was booming.  I owned a Ranger Mini-8, which featured a knob labeled “Fine Tuning” on the left hand side of the face of the player.  It adjusted the head of the player and eliminated “double tracking” which 8 tracks were notorious for.  This was ingenious, and I could never figure out why this feature wasn’t available on all players, auto or home.  The Mini-8 was the only unit I ever saw it available on.  Maybe Ranger had a copyright on it… 

Let me explain double tracking.  8 track tapes had four channels the songs were spread over.  Generally there were three songs on track one, three on track two, etc.  Double tracking was the annoying, or maybe infuriating is a better word, phenomenon of hearing the music from a track faintly, or not so faintly, in the background while you were listening to another track.  There were tricks to eliminate it, such as running through all the tracks quickly back to your original track.  But, the most common and effective method was sliding a closed matchbook cover, small side first, under the tape.  This wedged the cartridge up on the head and eliminated the double track.  High tech, but it worked.  Most of the time, anyway…

My friend Dennis installed automotive sound systems for a living.  I owned a ’73 Super Beetle, and he talked me into letting him put a Pioneer AM/FM 8 track player and a pair of speakers called Mind Blowers in it.  These things had a booster switch and when you hit it, it would literally rattle the glass of the airtight Bug.  It’s a wonder I didn’t destroy the hearing of myself and several of my friends with those things.  

The players were notorious for eating tapes, and when the inevitable jam happened, you had to remove the cartridge and pull the tape itself out of the player, sometimes tearing or having to cut the tape to get it out.  This usually resulted in the tape being tossed, but not in my circles.  My buddy Walt became known as “The Tape Doctor”, because he could pretty much fix any 8 track cassette.  Torn or cut tape, no problem.  He could patch it with Scotch tape and it worked seamlessly with just a blip in the music at certain points.  He was a true Seventies 8 track genius.  If Walt couldn’t resurrect your tape, there was no hope.  Once, my Pioneer ate my Pink Floyd tape.  I gave it to Walt, and when I met up with him a few days later he said, “Hey, I got your tape fixed,” and handed me a Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass cartridge.  I looked at him and he said, “Don’t worry, I had to break the cartridge getting the guts out.  The Tijuana Brass was an old broken one of my dad’s.”  It worked perfectly, of course, and when my friends were looking through my tape box, they’d pull it out and bust out laughing.  “The Tijuana Brass???” they would snicker and sneer.  I’d pop it in, “Breathe” from The Dark Side Of The Moon would come floating out of the speakers, and that would be the end of that. 

8 tracks eventually gave way to cassettes, cassettes to compact discs, compact discs to mp3s, AM radio to FM, FM to iTunes and Sirrus XM Satellite radio.  But through it all, we have continued to rock while rolling.

And it seems like certain music goes with certain types of travel as well.  I used to have to endure trips from Atlanta to Texas with my parents listening to elevator music.  That’s an experience I would not wish on anyone, particularly since we had to make the trip at 65 mph.  If my father hit 70, my mother would come unglued.  I always loved listening to the Eagles and Southern Rock riding through the country on sunny afternoons.  Going into town to hit the Mad Hatter or the dance clubs, it was always Rod Stewart, The Doobie Brothers or The Stones.  Riding around on rainy days with my buddy Chip, we liked to listen to the Who and Pink Floyd.  And for a night of beer drinking at Shakey’s or Manuel’s, it was always Hank Williams, Waylon Jennings or Willie Nelson.  For road trips to Florida, I always liked The Allman Brothers or ZZ Top’s “Tejas”, an underrated album which in my opinion is one of, if not in fact, ZZ’s best.  On a date, whatever you wanted to listen to was out the window.  It was whatever she wanted to hear, although Fleetwood Mac was always the best go-to music, if the opportunity presented itself.  I had to endure whole nights of the Carpenters or Chicago as well, but I drew the line at Helen Reddy.  I only went out with one girl that wanted to listen to Helen Reddy.  She brought along her own tape.  We only went out once.

Like most Boomers, my taste eventually evolved into what became known as “Classic Rock”.  This was simply the music we grew up with but, at least in my opinion, it’s better than anything that’s being produced currently.  I created my own CDs with music downloaded from Napster, LimeWire and iTunes.  But, CD technology is fading.  I don’t have an iPad or any other such device.  We have Sirrus radio, but over time you realize that, like the FM stations and iTunes radio, they play the same stuff over and over again.  The one station I really enjoy on Sirrus is Willie’s Roadhouse, which features the old time legends of Country music.  George and Tammy, Ray Price, Loretta, Conway and all the greats.  None of the bad pop that Country music has become.

So today, I do something I was genetically incapable of in my youth.  I pretty much ride in silence.  My car and my van do not have Sirrus.  There is one Classic Rock station in Atlanta, and with the exception of Kaedy Kiely, it is terrible.  In the morning, I listen to WSB to get the traffic and the weather, then turn it off before it gets into who said what or who shot whom.  But every now and then when the mood hits me, I’ll pull out my Who, Eagles, ZZ Top or one of my mixed CDs.  I’ll put it in and crank it up.  Just me, my music and the road… Still Cruisin’!  –J.  

 

My friend Gary from Southwest DeKalb recently posted a Facebook thread on The Mad Hatter.  Boy, now that was a place that if the walls could talk, what kind of stories they could tell!  Actually, I suppose the walls can talk because everybody who went there on a regular basis or even only once has a story about the place.  

The Mad Hatter was located in old Underground Atlanta, although it actually was not in Underground per se.  It was located in the top of one of the old warehouses at the corner of MLK and Central Avenue.  For about five years, it was THE place to be on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights.  I’m not sure if it was even open any other nights of the week.  Fridays and Saturdays there was a one dollar cover charge, beer was seventy five cents a cup and mixed drinks a dollar and a half.  Wednesday night was Penny Beer Night.  We’ll get back to that later…

All the high school alumni in South DeKalb had their hangouts.  Walker, Gordon and Cedar Grove’s was Mother’s Pub in the back of South DeKalb Mall.  Southwest DeKalb’s was Bud’s Picnic in Chapel Hall shopping center on Wesley Chapel Road at Snapfinger Woods Drive .  Columbia and Towers alumni frequented The Keg on Glenwood Road just inside of Columbia Drive.  We all visited each other’s establishments as well.  I’m not sure about other schools in the area, but these are the ones I remember.  

But EVERYBODY went to the “Hatter”.  Often times you would meet up with others at the above mentioned watering holes before heading downtown as a group.  You would walk up two flights of stairs to get to the front door.  Three City of Atlanta police officers worked the Mad Hatter.  Officer Cochran carried a pearl handled revolver on his left hip.  The other two officers were Officer Drummond and Officer Pope.  It helped to get on a first name basis with them.  One of the officers would check your ID.  You would then pay your cover charge and they would stamp your hand to show you had paid.  You were then free to enter and dance the night away. 

The ID check was a science all its own.  I would hazard a guess that on any given night, probably a third of the crowd in the Hatter was underage.  The ink they stamped your hand with took days to wear off, so some would try wetting their hand and then rolling the hand of someone whose hand had already been stamped over their own.  This worked sometimes, particularly on the nights they stamped your hand with the number “8”, which would transfer correctly if you could get it to work.  This method was dicey, at best.  The best method was License Alteration.  

I never could figure out why, but they would accept the paper temporary driver’s licenses that were issued as valid forms of ID.  These were very easy to change.  A clean eraser, a sharp #2 pencil and a steady hand were all that was needed.  You would erase the last digit on the birth year, pencil in the updated digit and suddenly the bearer was two years older and legal.  Occasionally the exam date would have to be updated as well, but once you got the hang of it, it was easy pickings.  The light was low at the ID checkpoint, and though the officers used flashlights, a decent alteration would get you right in.  Since the statute of limitations has probably expired, I suppose it’s okay to divulge the following information… I did this for a couple of friends.  Once it became known I was proficient at it, I did a few more for five dollars apiece.  Five dollars was enough for Penny Beer Night with a dollar left over.  Penny Beer Night… we’ll get back to that later.

Upon entering, you would take a right, and the bar was straight ahead against the far wall, which wrapped around to the back wall at the left.  To the right were tables with a path in the middle leading to the elevated and lighted dance floor.  To the left was a supporting post covered with shag carpeting and television screens scrolling through photos taken of the patrons on different nights.  Some nights the last thing you wanted was to have your picture taken… If you continued straight you would come to the door of a small staircase leading to the bathrooms downstairs and a back exit.  People would try to sneak in the back exit, but this generally never worked because there was a bouncer stationed down there with big arms and a small sense of humor.  You were better off ponying up the cover charge and entering through the front.

Above the dance floor were the speakers, the DJ and a miked drum set.  A drummer would play along with the music.  One night after I arrived at the Hatter, a friend I had not seen in a while, David Haney,  came running up to me.  David was a professional musician even then, and he was the last person I ever expected to see in The Mad Hatter.  He told me the regular drummer was a friend of his and had asked him to sit in for him that night.  I remember how cool it was dancing, looking up and seeing David playing the drums.  While on the dance floor, it was inevitable you were going to hit a slick spot and slip.  This was due to spillage from people taking their drinks up on the floor with them.  When you hit a slick spot, you would either fall on your butt or appear to be busting a move, depending on your luck.

The carpet in the Hatter was red shag.  I don’t know if they ever had a carpet cleaning company come in and clean it, but it certainly didn’t appear as such.  If so, they probably would have needed hazmat suits.  From night after night of drinks and Lord knows whatever else being spilled, it became so sticky that your platform shoes stuck to them as you tried to walk.  The only other place I can compare it to is the Madison Theatre in East Atlanta.  I am convinced that when they removed the carpets from the Madison and the Mad Hatter and burned them, that is what cause the hole in the ozone layer.

Penny Beer Night… as I stated earlier, Fridays and Saturdays the cover charge was a dollar.  Wednesday night was Penny Beer Night.  The cover charge on Wednesdays was the then astronomical sum of three dollars each, but draft beer was a penny apiece.  The cups were large green and white paper cups filled with draft beer that I’m convinced had been brewed that morning.  You’d put a dollar in the big jar at the bar and you were good for the night.  Mixed drinks were a quarter.  You could also get an Original Mad Hatter Wine Cooler for a quarter.  An Original Mad Hatter Wine Cooler was Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill served over crushed ice in one of the large green and white paper cups.  Bottoms up…

I’m not sure how many people would be in the Hatter on any given night, or what the capacity might have been.  But things would get tight, very tight.  Given the amount of alcohol, cigarettes and polyester in the place, to say it was a fire hazard would be the understatement of the century.  And yes, there were fights.  Lots of them actually.  You can’t have that many hormones fueled by cheap beer in tight quarters such as the Hatter and there not be some sort of altercation.  I managed to avoid them myself, but managed to see some pretty good fisticuffs over the years.  

On Wednesdays they closed at 1am.  I would leave about midnight or so and go home.  I would get a few hours sleep, wake up, shake my head, take a cold shower or just stick my head under the faucet.  I would throw on my clothes, jump in my Mustang and be at work by 8am, good to go.  If I did that now, I’d be in traction for a week, either from drinking, dancing or both.  But back then, owing to youthful stupidity and tolerance, by lunchtime I was a new man.  Ready to go back and, to quote Peter Frampton, “Come On, Let’s Do It Again!”… Still Cruisin’!  –J. 

 

       

 

 

We spent last weekend on The U.S.S. Yorktown in Charleston Harbor.  It was a deeply moving experience because, you see, Navy blood runs very deep in my family.  I did not serve, and if I could go back and change that fact, I most certainly would.  However, my father served in WWII, as did three of my uncles.  Jackie’s dad served as well.  My late nephew Kevin served with honor, God Rest His Soul.  My step-brother served on the U.S.S. John F. Kennedy, and I have a second cousin currently serving.  Navy blood runs deep, indeed.

Jackie’s grandson Gavin is in the Cub Scouts, and the Coastal Carolina Council and Patriots Point have partnered to host numerous events for the Boy Scouts.  We found out in November that Gavin’s pack was making the trip in February.  Jackie found out grandparents were welcome to stay on board as well, so this trip was my Christmas present.  

If you ever have the opportunity to visit the Yorktown, it is not one to be missed.  To board a WWII era aircraft carrier, spend the night on her an explore her was, for me, a once in a lifetime experience.  The women slept in the officer’s quarters with three bunks to a room.  The men’s quarters were more spartan.  In fact, it resembled a cow pen.  Imagine seventy five bunks stacked four high in a forty by twenty foot room, half occupied by grown men and the other half seven and eight year old boys.  We shared one head with six johns, sinks and showers.  I will say, however, the showers were roomy.  Not like a cruise ship where you can’t turn around without the shower curtain visiting uninvited places.  The hot water taps worked as well, and not just for a few seconds.

We ate galley food, served on a tray.  Breakfast consisted of bacon, scrambled eggs, a cinnamon roll and coffee.  Lunch was ham sandwiches with potato chips and a cookie.  Dinner was chicken or pork barbecue, baked beans, potato salad, rolls and tea.  In the weeks leading up to the event, I was hoping for authentic Navy food served on a shingle… 

Upon boarding her and looking around, my first reaction was, “How can something this big float?”  The trip is geared toward experiencing the daily lives and routines of the sailors, pilots and officers who served on board.  On the flight deck are some of the more modern jet aircraft, including an F-8 Crusader, an F/A-18 Hornet and, of course, a “Top Gun” F-14 Tomcat.  On the hangar deck below, however, is where the history lives.  Preserved perfectly are numerous WWII aircraft including a B25 Bomber flown by the legendary Jimmy Doolittle, an F6F Hellcat, an SBD Dauntless Dive Bomber and my personal favorite, an F4U Corsair.  I was struck by the size of the fighter planes.  They are large and tall, almost as large as the B25 Bomber.  The 2000 HP Pratt and Whitney rotary engines necessitated a much larger front fuselage than I had imagined.

On Saturday we took the ferry out to Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor.  It was freezing cold with about a 40 mph wind.  The Scouts helped unfold the flag, and four of us helped raise her.  And in that wind, it took all four of us to get her up there.  It was one of the most moving experiences of my life.  I helped raise the flag on Fort Sumter.  The American flag, the way God intended it to be.

The Yorktown on display at Patriots Point is the CV-10.  The original U.S.S. Yorktown CV-5 was lost in The Battle of Midway June 7, 1942.  The CV-10 was under construction at the time, and was named the Yorktown to honor the lost CV-5.  She is the fourth U.S. Navy ship to bear the name.  They say she is haunted and they do ghost tours on her as well.  I suppose every warship is haunted in some way, particularly those that served in WWII.

And probably none more so than the U.S.S. Laffey DD-724, a destroyer docked in Patriots Point as well.  April 16, 1945 off the coast of Okinawa, she withstood an attack by Japanese dive bombers and one of the most, if not the most, unrelenting kamikaze air attacks in history.  Hit by four bombs and six kamikaze crashes she remained afloat, earning her the name “The Ship That Would Not Die”.

I toured the Laffey Sunday morning.  We had departed the Yorktown and had breakfast at the Sea Biscuit Cafe on Isle of Palms.  Afterwards, Jackie insisted we return to Patriots Point so I could tour the Laffey and the U.S.S. Clamagore,  a submarine also docked at Patriots Point.  I was alone on the ship.  Touring her, I came to really understand the bravery of the young enlisted men and officers who served not only on her, but in all branches of the service.  I thought of J.B., Jackie’s dad, a lot.  He served on a destroyer, the U.S.S. Providence.  I watched the video of the attack and two of the men who survived were interviewed.  One was eighteen years old at the time, the other nineteen.  I know where I was when I was eighteen and nineteen and it sure as hell wasn’t fighting a war in the Pacific.  There were no safe spaces and the only trigger warning was a 5000 lb. Japanese Zero closing in with the intent on putting all of you and himself at the bottom of the sea.  Not just any day, but any moment could be your last.  A friend once said of the generation who served in WWII, “They literally went out and saved the world.”  That they did, and truly earned the name “The Greatest Generation.”

To the brave young men and women who served and are serving now, God Bless You All.  To those who paid the ultimate price for our freedom, my gratitude has no words.  I am thankful and honored to have been able to walk in your footsteps aboard the vessels on which you served.  God Bless You All.  God Bless America.  God Bless The United States Armed Forces.  And, God Bless The United States Navy.  Anchors Aweigh, My Boys, Anchors Aweigh…  –J.

I recently read a quote by Canadian author Nadia Scrieva that states, “Each meeting occurs at the precise moment for which it was meant. Usually, when it will have the greatest impact on our lives.”  I remember exactly when I met the Ennis family.  It was in the autumn of 1971, and they would become like a second family to me.  Tommie, Nan and their kids have had a profound impact on my life.  Probably as much as, and in many ways more than, my own parents.

I went to school with their two oldest children, Dennis and Stacey.  They were one and two years behind me, respectively.  Stacey and I became friends at school.  The Ennis’s lived in our neighborhood, at the other end of Rollingwood Lane in Gresham Park.  I began to visit their house on a regular basis at first, quickly evolving into every day.  They put up with me and never told me it was time for me to leave…

I suppose every neighborhood has a house that all of the kids naturally gravitate towards.  That house was always Tommie and Nan’s.  I have never in my life known two more gracious, kind, unselfish and patient folks in my life.  Lord knows they put up with a lot of crap from us.  There are more stories than I could ever fit into this space here.  Some should not be repeated, so I will touch on some of the ones that hopefully can be…

The Ennis’s were a Volkswagen family.  Tommie was a soldier, a career National Guardsman who worked in the motor pool at the Armory on Confederate Avenue in East Atlanta.  Like a lot of guys back then, he worked on VWs in his driveway in his spare time and on weekends.  I would hang out there while he worked on them.  This was one of the main reasons I developed a lifelong love for The People’s Car.  

They raised five wonderful children.  Dennis, Stacey, Sharon, Susan and Samantha.  Samantha was only two or three at the most when I got to know the family.  My friend Barry and I ran into her at Taco Mac Trivia Night several years ago.  She slapped me on the back and said, “Hey, I just turned 40 a couple of weeks ago!”  I looked at her and said, “Oh, hell no… you can’t turn 40.  You’re not allowed to turn 40!”  After she left and went back to her friends at their table, I looked at Barry and asked, “Now, does that make you feel freakin’ old or what?”

In the summer of 1972 the Ennis’s took a vacation to Panama City and invited myself and two other friends to go along with them.  They rented one of the old cinderblock houses that used to be on the beachfront.  It was next to the Holiday Inn and a few blocks down from The Miracle Strip.  It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized the magnitude of that undertaking.  I can only imagine taking four teenagers and three kids to the beach for a week.  Tommie sat on the back porch, drank beer and smoked Kools, then went to the dog track at night.  I understand why…

Nan is without a doubt one of the funniest women I have ever known, always smiling with an infectious laugh.  She always treated us teenagers and young adults as an equal.  I considered her one of my best friends even back then.  I had to go to summer school in the summer of ’72 and take a math class.  It didn’t help any, but that’s beside the point.  Tommie had bought a ’67 VW bus to fix up and sell.  I had a Ford Pinto, and at least twice a week, I would leave the house in the morning, go over to the Ennis’s and ask Nan if I could drive the bus to school.  She always let me, and that’s probably one of the reasons why today I covet a ’67 Bus…

They moved from Gresham Park to South DeKalb in early ’73, about as far south as you could go in DeKalb County.  Their new house was a split level brick on Linecrest Road, which straddled the DeKalb/Henry County line.  Tommie converted the carport into his workshop and was finally able to work on the Bugs while protected from the elements.   About a year later they put in an in-ground pool.  In the basement room that opened to the pool was a refrigerator that was always full of beer.  It may have been 3.2 Old Milwaukee from the Fort Gillem Class 6 store, but in the middle of July on a Sunday, it didn’t matter.  It was beer, and it was cold.

One Saturday morning in 1974 I was sitting around the pool with Nan and the younger kids.  We were listening to the radio, and they played Ray Stevens’ song, “The Streak.”  The kids disappeared inside, and we hear this giggling and laughing from The Basement Room With The Refrigerator.  All of a sudden Sam, the youngest, comes running out of the room naked as a jaybird.  Her two sisters, fully clothed, were right behind her screaming and laughing.  She makes a couple of laps around the pool.  Nan and I were cheering and howling with laughter.  Tommie came running down to the pool from the garage, and he wasn’t laughing.  He yelled at Sam, “Get in that house and get your clothes back on!!!”  Then he looked at Nan and yelled, “What’s wrong with you, anyway???”  She tried to look serious, and he stormed away.  As soon as he left we fell out laughing again.

Nan introduced me to Mountain Oysters.  I was over at the house one Saturday, helping Tommie with the Bugs.  At lunchtime, I walked in the kitchen and Nan was sitting talking to her friend Janet, who worked for a local vet.  There were two pork chops sitting on a plate on the counter.  I asked Nan, “Can I have one of these pork chops?”  She looked at Janet and grinned and said, “Sure, go ahead.”  I ate the pork chop and said, “That was pretty good, can I have the other one?”  They both fell out laughing.  I stood and looked at them and asked, “What’s so damn funny?  I just asked for another pork chop.”  “It’s not really a pork chop,” said Nan, “it’s a Mountain Oyster.”  “What the hell is a Mountain Oyster?” I asked.  She told me and I must have turned forty shades of green, from chartreuse to deep forest, because they started laughing even harder.  I ran out of the house holding my mouth, leaving them reveling in their jocularity.  The vet Janet worked for had been hog hunting, you see.  If you don’t know what a Mountain Oyster is, Google it…

Tommie and Nan have been married sixty six years now, a lifetime.  I don’t see them as often as I should or would like, and that’s my fault.  But I love them both deeply, and that will never change.  They have touched not only my life, but the lives of so many of the kids, teenagers, young adults and adults who grew up in Gresham Park and Cedar Grove.  I thank God that in His Infinite Wisdom he crossed my path with theirs.  It is a gift for which I am forever grateful.  Sixty six years… Still Cruisin’!  –J.

I am stepping outside the box here.  This week’s blog is not about anything with wheels, a propeller or a rudder, but a football stadium.  Not just any football stadium, but Panthersville Stadium.  

Panthersville is the area in South DeKalb County, Decatur, Georgia stretching west from the intersection of I-20 and I-285 to Flat Shoals Road, Clifton Church Road and the South River.  Southwest DeKalb’s team name is the Panthers, and the original school building is at the corner of Flat Shoals Rd. and Panthersville Rd.  

For years the question has been, at least for many of us, as to whether Panthersville was named after the Panthers, or vice versa.  According to an article by Andy Johnston published in the AJC 10/5/15, it was vice versa.  Panthersville was likely named after a big cat.  The article states that “In a letter dated Dec. 20, 1939 Scott Candler, DeKalb County’s Commissioner of Roads and Revenues, explained the origin of the name, as recorded by Vivian Price in “The History of DeKalb County”.  A family named Johnson (or Lochlin) lived where Blue Creek flows into the South River (near the current intersection of Panthersville Rd and Oakvale Rd.).  Their son, daughter-in-law and infant grandchild were leaving the area, headed back to their home in Decatur when a panther started to chase them.  The area just south of Panthersville on the South River was a swamp, and the commissioner hypothesized that even then, development was pushing wildlife onto the unusable land.  “I know of no better explanation of how Panthersville District secured its name,” Candler said in the letter.*

One last note; I’ve always wondered about the name “Southwest DeKalb” since the school, at least the original, is located in southeast DeKalb County.  My guess is that at that point in time, DeKalb County beyond Panthersville was pretty much wilderness.  So it was, in fact, southwest DeKalb.

Back to Panthersville Stadium.  Built in 1968, Panthersville was originally shared by five area schools, Walker, Southwest DeKalb, Columbia, Gordon and Lithonia.  On Friday nights for so very, very many of us, this was The Center Of The Universe.  Panthersville was dedicated September. 27, 1968.  Walker and SWD played the first game ever played there, with SWD winning 35-26.  The very next morning, at 8:00 a.m. Walker and SWD’s Eighth Grade teams played the second game.  I don’t remember the score, but Walker won on a goal line stand at the end.

For a kid who had only played ball two years at Gresham Park and the rest of his games in Buddy Bryan’s side yard, playing in Panthersville Stadium was mind boggling.  We rode a bus to the game.  The stadium had real locker rooms.  There were mostly only parents, grandparents and a few kids from school in the seats for those eighth grade game, but that didn’t matter.  You were playing for Walker High School.  This was the big time.  

A friend played at Stockbridge High in the mid-80s.  They would travel to Panthersville to play Walker, who was in their region at the time.  Stockbridge was still playing in the old stadium behind the school on North Henry Boulevard.  Sloan said playing in Panthersville was like playing in Texas Stadium.

On game nights, pretty much every kid, parent and teacher was in the stadium, on the sidelines or on the field.  The cheerleaders cheered, climbed the pyramids, dropped, flew and were caught.  The bands marched and played, the drill teams performed with precision.  The majorettes twirled fire batons.  We crowned homecoming queens, sometimes in the driving rain.  And we played football, both in the stifling heat and humidity and in the freezing cold.  It was The Center Of The Universe… 

The cross country team ran their meets before the football games.  Four laps around the track.  We used to go to the stadium in the summer and run the steps.  Back in those days, it was pretty much left open all the time.  We would play pick up games there on Sundays.  The pick up games were brutal.  Full speed, full contact football without any pads.  It’s a wonder someone didn’t get killed.  We used to shoot model rockets off the field in the off season.  No one cared, no one called the cops.  The Center Of The Universe…

The first game of my 10th grade season,  we were playing Southwest DeKalb in a B-Team night game.  It was the first game I ever started, at center.  While we were warming up, I saw an ambulance coming down Clifton Springs Road and turn into the stadium.  I didn’t think twice about it.  There was more important business at hand.  At halftime, not long before we were going back out, one of the managers yelled, “Etheridge!  Somebody wants to see you at the door.”  I went to the door, and it was George Ware, a kid who had lived up the street from us in Gresham Park, but moved to Panthersville a few years earlier.  His parents and my parents were good friends.  “Jimmy,” he said, “I just wanted you to know that your father had a heart attack before the game started and Horis Ward came and got him.”  Horis Ward owned a funeral home on Candler Road, and also owned an ambulance service.  This was in the days before EMTs.  As it turned out, they had taken him to Crawford Long Hospital, but I didn’t know that.  For all I knew, he was on a slab at the funeral home.  Five minutes later I was standing on the 40 yard line getting ready for us to kick off.  I was numb, shocked and frightened, but as soon as the whistle blew and Mark Clem kicked the ball, I tore off down the field, screaming like a banshee.  I took out three guys and hit the ball carrier at the 25.  He went one way and the ball went the other.  They recovered, but we went on to win.  

Fast forward to my senior year.  The last game of the season, the last organized football game I would ever play.  We were ready to take the field against Avondale, a perennial powerhouse.  The seniors were all honorary captains.  We were to lead the team on the field and participate in the coin toss.  As we were leaving the locker room, screaming and hollering and ready to play, my father pulled me to one side.  He had hired Mr. Wilson, our chemistry teacher and school photographer to take my picture.  I had to stand there while Mr. Wilson adjusted the settings on his camera and my teammates ran past me. I was bouncing up and down, back and forth, ready to go.  Mr. Wilson raised his camera and my father said, “Smile, Jimmy.”  I didn’t, and as soon as Mr. Wilson snapped the picture I was gone.  I ran down the stairs as fast as I could in my cleats.  The seniors were already huddled with the refs at midfield.  I ran straight there, feeling every eye in the stadium was on me.  I was embarrassed and pissed.  

The stadium has since been re-named, honoring a legendary coach at Southwest DeKalb.  That’s great, but as one of my teammates and I were discussing at a reunion last year, Panthersville Stadium was shared by four schools other than SWD.  Actually, five, once Cedar Grove High was built.  To those of us who played and performed, won and lost, celebrated and cried on that field, it was and always will be Panthersville Stadium.  Friday Night Lights, The Center Of The Universe… Still Cruisin’!  –J.

NOTE: Prints are available of the above pen and ink.  16″ x 12″, $20 plus tax and shipping.  Click here to order: 

*Published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution October 5, 2015.

Captain Eugene Cernan, USN passed away last Monday, January 16, 2017.  For those of you who don’t remember, Captain Cernan was the last man to walk on the moon.  This was on his second voyage to our celestial satellite.  He orbited the moon aboard Apollo 10 and set foot it aboard Apollo 17.  Upon his December 14, 1972 departure, he left two things of significance which are undoubtedly still there.  His daughter Teresa’s initials on the surface, and a pretty cool lunar dune buggy.  I’m referring to the Lunar Roving Vehicle.  

The ten foot long two seater was built by Boeing and General Motors.  It folded up like a lounge chair.  Captain Cernan and Dr. Harrison Schmitt, a geologist, unfolded the LRV, hopped in (literally) and were ready to go.  The vehicle was powered by two 36 volt batteries and featured a joystick control.  The tires were wire mesh with titanium treads providing traction on the moon’s surface.  No word as to whether an AC Delco AM/FM 8 track was installed.  Cernan and Schmitt covered 22.3 miles on the lunar surface collecting geological samples, and like a true Navy fly boy, Captain Cernan felt The Need For Speed and got the LRV up to 11.2 mph, giving him the Lunar Land Speed Record.

These guys were my boyhood heroes.  When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up.  I hear you laughing.  Go ahead, but back then it was a legitimate career choice for a fourth grader.  Some kids wanted to be ballplayers, ballerinas, scientists or scuba divers.  Some of us wanted to be astronauts.  It was a something I held onto, too.  That is, until I took a brief detour in the sixth grade.  We had to write what we wanted to be when we grew up and I said I wanted to be a photographer for Playboy.  I think a letter was sent home to my parents, but nothing ever came of it, school or career wise…

I remember getting up early before school and watching the Project Mercury and Gemini launches on television.  Once when visiting my cousins in South Florida, we went outside and watched the launch from the Cape up the coast.  It was a small ball of fire rising up from the horizon, into the sky and then disappearing into infinity and beyond.

Seriously, I had it all figured out… I was going to join the Air Force and become a pilot.  This would be a pretty neat trick, considering I wasn’t even allowed to fly in Meathouse’s Cessna, as was discussed in an earlier blog.  But, that didn’t matter.  I was going to test fly all kinds of cool aircraft.  They would promote me to Captain or Colonel, whichever came first.  I would become an astronaut, fly into space and do all kinds of heroic things.  When I got back I would marry a beautiful movie star like Shelley Fabares.  We’d live happily ever after, and I’d fly over the Everglades in my Cessna with pontoons saving people like Bud and Sandy’s dad on Flipper.  Then, Elvis would make a movie about me.  He’d fly into space and sing a bunch of songs with a full band accompanying him.  His hair would never get messed up.  He’d beat up a few bad guys who were trying to take over the world by sabotaging his mission.  Then he’d splash down and get promoted to General.  He’d marry a beautiful movie star like Shelley Fabares, and they’d both live happily ever after.  Seriously, I had it all figured out…

G.I. Joe, America’s Moveable Fighting Man, was introduced by Hasbro in 1964.  I got the Air Force version.  He had an orange flight suit, black hair and in my mind, he was me.  My old man went bananas.  He told anybody that would listen that I played with dolls.  I didn’t care, especially when all the kids that he told I played with dolls got G.I. Joes as well.  That Christmas I got the G.I. Joe space capsule and space suit, complete with a 45 record of John Glenn’s orbit in Friendship 7.  The capsule would float, and I would have splashdowns in the bathtub, much to the chagrin of my mother.

I never knew what became of my G.I. Joe, but I have a pretty good idea.  When I was a studying commercial art at DeKalb Tech, I became interested in animation.  My teacher let me borrow his 8mm movie camera which would shoot one frame at a time.  I wanted to make an animated movie of G.I. Joe in the space capsule.  I climbed into my parents attic to look for them.  They were nowhere to be found.  Nowhere.  My parents didn’t throw anything away, particularly my mother when it was anything pertaining to my childhood.  Both my parents played dumb, but G.I Joe had gone AWOL.  He was a doll and remember, Jimmy played with dolls.  I came down out of the attic wiser and quietly angry.  I don’t know what became of Joe, but I’m sure it wasn’t an end befitting a hero of his stature. 

I remember vividly watching the Apollo 13 moon landing on television in July, 1969.  However, I was fourteen by that time and had long forgotten of becoming an astronaut.  My priorities had shifted to football, girls and cars, and not necessarily in that order.  I was going to play free safety for the Georgia Bulldogs, then the Dallas Cowboys.  I was going to marry a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader and drive Formula Vees race cars in the off season.  Seriously, I had it all figured out…

Godspeed, Captain. Cernan.  You were one of the last of the brave men to reach beyond earth and our skies, into the heavens and the galaxy.  You and your brother astronauts were heroes to a generation of young men like myself.  And, I would be willing to bet that you’re strapped into your LRV, ready to challenge the Lunar Land Speed Record… Still Cruisin’!  –J.      

 

In 2010 there was an exhibit at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta titled “The Allure of the Automobile”.  Jackie and I attended, and basically got kicked out.  More on that later…

The exhibit featured a 1935 Duesenberg owned by Clark Gable.  There were many other beautiful automobiles on display, including a 1957 Jaguar XK and a 1953 Porsche 550 LeMans, both owned by Steve McQueen.  The purpose of the exhibit was to feature the automobile as art.  “Rolling Sculptures”, as they were billed.  

Granted now, these were not your grandfather’s Oldsmobiles.  These were dream machines even in their day.  But, in presenting the automobile as art, the Museum and the exhibit were spot on.  These incredible machines were created in a time when the designers and engineers had complete and utter creative freedom.  Long before the government got involved and made our cars a lot more safe and a lot less fun, automobile manufacturers competed with each other at a mind boggling rate.  The results were styling masterpieces.  The long hoods and sweeping lines of the Duesenbergs and the Packards.  The oversized fenders and curves of the ’40 Ford Coupe.  The fins of the ’57 Chevy and the ’59 Cadillac.  The sleekness of the Corvettes and the style and power of the Mustangs.  Rolling sculptures indeed.  A style of art in its purest form, incredible blends of design and engineering.

So, you ask, how did Jackie and I get kicked out?  The ’35 Duesenberg pictured above was the first car you saw when you walked in the exhibit.  There were velvet ropes around it, of course.  There were also large signs stating that there was “NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED”.  No problem, except that the exhibit hall was dark, with minimal light over the cars.  Looking for an abstract shot, Jackie leaned out over the rope and took a shot of the chrome strips at the bottom of the back fender meeting the running board.  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said one of the Car Nazis, “you’re Crossing The Line, you can’t do that.”  “But I just leaned over the rope,” said Jackie.  “That’s Crossing The Line.  You can’t do that.”  A few minutes later, she held her camera aloft in an attempt to get a shot of the interior.  “Ma’am, you’re Crossing The Line,” barked the Car Nazi.  “Please don’t make me warn you again.”  

The third car we came to was a heart stopping 1937 Mercedes-Benz 540 K Special Roadster.  It was in a dark corner with accent lighting above and around it.  My little 5 megapixel HP point and click camera simply would not function without the flash.  I asked the volunteer standing next to the car why flash was not allowed.  He was a nice young man, and told me that “repeated flashes day after day would damage the paint on the cars.”  “Seriously??” I asked.  “I know, I know,” he said, “but that’s what I was told and I’m just doing my job.”

The last two cars in the exhibit were the Tucker 48 owned by the Cofer family, and a 1959 Corvette Sting Ray.  I wanted shots of the Tucker, Jackie went to the Sting Ray.  I turned on my camera and got a good angle shot of the front of the Tucker.  The flash went off and I immediately turned it off.  Just then a fat security guard with a uniform,  a badge and no gun who obviously viewed himself as Shaft approached me and said, “You gotta turn that flash off.”  “Yes, sir, ” I replied politely.  “It went off accidentally, and I turned it off.  I’m sorry.”  “You gotta turn that flash off.”  “Yes, sir.”  I turned it off, and Shaft returned to his post on his stool.  I walked around the car, snapping more pictures.  The next thing I know, Shaft is standing next to me again.  “If I sees that flash go off one more time, I’m conxifatin’ that camera.”  “But it’s turned off,” I said, showing him the switch on the back.  “And if you keep mouthin’ at me, I’m gonna personally throw you outta here my own self,” warned Shaft.  I went and found Jackie.  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, “that big fat security guard over there just threatened to conxifate my camera.”  “Yeah, we’d better,” she said.  “I just Crossed The Line again.”  Scorned as scofflaws, we snuck out with our tails between our legs and went to The Varsity.    

The High featured a similar exhibit four years later.  “Dream Cars” featured concept cars designed and built by major manufacturers and independent designers alike.  Jackie and I went, and took her son Lars.  We didn’t take our cameras.  We didn’t Cross The Line.  I looked for my buddy Shaft, but he wasn’t there.  He was at The Varsity… Still Cruisin’!  –J.       

Happy New Year, Everyone!  I hope that you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Years, and here’s wishing everyone a safe, happy, healthy and prosperous 2017!  Now it is time to get to that part of the New Year which we all approach with the best intentions and sadly, for the most part, fail to follow through on.  Of course, I’m talking about the New Year’s Resolution List.  I think that the problem with New Year’s Resolutions is that we tend to set our goals unreasonably high.  Okay, I understand that if you are setting goals, you might as well set them high.  If you do not reach your intended goal, at least you have probably achieved some notable success along the way.  I get that.  The problem is, we expect too much of ourselves, and unless we are completely and totally committed to something, we probably will find ourselves backsliding.  So, at the risk of being called a slacker and a backslider (any more than usual), here is my list of ten New Year’s Resolutions.  Hopefully I will be able to follow up on them in the months ahead…

1.  I resolve to keep my studio clean and organized.  Guilty as charged, I make this resolution every year.  I clean and organize my studio early January every year.  By the 22nd, it looks like Thing 1 and Thing 2 have been through the room.  Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t look or smell like a locker room.  It simply is not organized.  I prefer organization, and do my best work in such conditions.  But, try as I might, I simply cannot keep my workspace as efficient as I would like.  I have seen pictures of Einstein’s office, and it looks like a bomb went off in it.  However, Einstein was a genius trying to figure out things like Why Is There Air.  I’m just trying to paint a few pictures and write a few blogs.  But, I will stick with tradition and make this a resolution.

2.  I resolve not to go postal when intellectually and courteously challenged motorists refuse to use their turn signal.  This is going to be a tough one.  Nothing pushes my buttons more than waiting at a stop sign and some Bozo turns right without using their turn signal.  Or, indicator, depending on which side of the pond you are on or from.  You are strolling up the road.  You are going to turn right.  You see a car waiting for you at the stop sign.  Turn on your right blinker.  It’s standard equipment on every vehicle.  It’s located right there on the left hand side of the steering column.  Up for a right hand turn, down for a left hand turn.  It even resets itself after you make the turn.  The car waiting at the stop sign advances through the intersection.  You make your right hand turn, and we both get on with our lives.  It is not a difficult concept.  If you cannot see the car ahead waiting at the stop sign, you shouldn’t be driving in the first place.  See, I’m getting all worked up already…

3.  I resolve to keep my car clean, inside and out.  This is another one I make every year and end up failing miserably.  I once read we spend 4.5 years of our lives in our car.  It seems we would want to keep it clean and orderly, but that simply does not happen.  I’m not one of those people who flip out when my floor mats get a little dirty or my console gets a little dusty.  Nor do I drive a rolling dumpster.  I’m somewhere in the middle.  Someone can ride with me, find a place to sit and put their feet and not be afraid to touch anything.  The outside is a little different.  I will drive through the $8 car wash up the road, but rarely wash and wax my car myself.  I resolve to do that at least once this year.  Does going to the detailing place and paying $25 for them to do it count?

4.  I resolve to keep our yard clean and trimmed.  I have always tried to keep my yard maintained well.  When I was a kid, I had no choice.  I cut the grass.  That was one of my chores, along with taking out the trash, drying the dishes (pre-dishwasher), and making my bed.  The last one has stuck with me throughout my life.  I even make the bed when staying in a hotel, much to the amusement of friends and loved ones.  But, I digress.  This Christmas, I got one of those leaf blowers that straps to your back and sounds like a Funny Car.  So, I became That Guy.  You know, That Guy in the neighborhood that fires up his leaf blower at 8 am Saturday morning.  I can pretty much assure you I won’t be doing that, but there are a lot of trees in our neighborhood.  Hence, there are a lot of leaves.  I needed some serious horsepower to clean up the leaves that fell after The Drought.  I got it, with plenty to spare.  Just please don’t throw a hand grenade at me.

5.  I resolve to not eat liver, fried bologna or Spam.  Okay, so this one is a no-brainer.  I cannot eat liver.  I have tried all different kinds cooked all different ways and it remains the one thing I simply cannot get down.  Now, call me un-Southern, call me neophobic, but I have never eaten fried bologna or Spam.  And I can pretty much assure you that at this stage of my life, I probably won’t.  Now, I love bologna.  I have eaten bologna sandwiches my whole life.  But, let’s face it, it’s not exactly the most nutritious lunch in the world.  It seems to me that if you fry it, you might as well load the cholesterol up in a syringe and inject it.  Honestly, I never had even heard of fried bologna until I was grown.  We simply did not eat it when I was growing up.  Nor Spam.  As many times as I went camping in the Boy Scouts, it is a wonder I never ate Spam.  And, it’s not something I had an aversion to.  I simply never ate it.  And, from what I understand, I’m not missing much.

6.  I resolve to spend more time with my VW Cabriolet.  As I have reported in this space, my ’69 VW Cabriolet is now in storage in the basement of my step-son Lars’s house.  I am eternally grateful for that, but I have been remiss about spending time tending to it.  We were there Christmas morning, and I went down to check on him (I refer to my Cabriolet as “him”).  He refused to speak to me.  I can’t blame him.  So, I resolve to go over more often, change his oil, adjust his valves and take him for a few blasts around the block.

7.  I resolve that 2017 is the year I will finally purchase a motorcycle.  I’ll get back to you on this one.

8.  I resolve to play more golf.  All right, quit laughing.  Golf is played outdoors.  Not on an Xbox.  So, maybe what I’m saying is I resolve to spend more time outdoors.  Jackie is encouraging me to start playing again, and there is nothing I love more than walking nine holes on a beautiful summer evening.  There was a period in my life I was completely and totally obsessed with the game.  However, I eventually realized I was nowhere near good enough to ever win any more than a few bets.  So, I eventually got to the point I do not devote a fraction of the time to it than I used to.  That being said, I have stood on the Swilcan Bridge in the eighteenth fairway at St. Andrews.  I have been to the mountain top.  It’s all downhill from there.

9.  I resolve to do a plein air painting.  A plein air painting is one that is done outdoors.  Not working from reference material, but painting what the eye actually sees.  It is something I have never done and, as an artist, I feel I need to do.  Sounds like a good excuse for a trip to the beach or the mountains…

10.  I resolve to try not to do anything I will regret.  I have regrets.  Some people say that they have none.  That’s great, but there are things about my life that if I could go back and change, I would.  So, I resolve to try not to make any such mistakes.  One thing I am is thankful.  I am thankful that The Good Lord gave me a gift and I have the opportunity to share that gift with the world.  I am thankful I am able to sit here and write this blog.  I am thankful for each and every one of you reading this, and I hope my paintings and pontifications bring joy into your lives.  If so, mission accomplished.  For most artists, however, it is a tough way to make a living.  A few of us reach fame and fortune in our lifetime, some after we are on the other side of the sod.  Most of us, however, have to work a real job.  I am thankful that I have one that affords me the ability to take care of the one I love.  And, I am thankful that I have love and I will to do whatever I have to do to honor that.  I am thankful to be blessed with a beautiful daughter and grandchildren.  I love life, and each and every one of you.  

I realize that this has been a long blog entry.  If you have made it this far, thank you for reading.    Now, let’s plow on through 2017… Still Cruisin’!  –J.