Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

Like a band of gypsies, we go down the highway*

On Sunday, the wind was blowing straight out of the west at about 20 mph when Big Guy and Grams insisted that we go for a bike ride. The sky was an incredible shade of blue. There was the occasional little puffy white cloud looking as if it were lost. It was a glorious day in Santa Tourista.

Big Guy had found a place at the far end of the meadow where we could get great photos of the mountains. So, off we went. My cap kept threatening to blow off. I had to turn it backwards which always makes me look foolish, but I had no choice. We were doing fine until we got to the hill. I could hear Grams whispering hoarsely, “I think I can, I think I can . . .” Then, I saw Big Guy slow down. We were going due west and the wind was pushing right back at us. About a 1/3 of the way up the hill, we stopped. Nothing was said, we just turned and headed for the bluffs, the wind at our backs almost all the way.

When we got to the bluffs we were rewarded with this view and the kiteboarders. They were fantastic. I could see that gleam again in Grams’ eyes. Even Big Guy looked as if he might give it a try. “I guess you learn as you go on those things,” he said. Grams nodded, “you just start on a day with a gentle breeze and work up this sort of wind.” Every time the surfers would do a jump over a wave we would clap and yell, “Brilliant!” I have to admit that I’m getting alarmed about these two though. I get the feeling that when we get back from our holiday; the wet suits are going to coming out again. Well, I’ll watch them from the bluffs and wave.

Speaking of the holiday, we have 9 days to go. I’ve got some more pages to print out and put in the travel binder. Then, we’re on the road again. Sacher tortes and ribbolita, here I come!

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

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And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

*On the road again

On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again.

On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world be turnin' our way
And our way
Is on the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again

Jimmy crack corn

It was pointed out to me recently that while I use the term ‘Jimmy crack corn,’ to imply a lack of concern, I have never actually written out the song. I suppose I hadn’t wanted to remember it because it sounds like an old minstrel song. I hope it isn’t. So, for what it’s worth here are all the verses to “The blue-tail fly” or “Jimmy crack corn.”

As to the origin of the phrase ‘Jimmy crack corn,’ as near as I could find out it comes from the process of grinding (or ‘cracking’) corn to make either grits or corn meal. It might be related to the term ‘crackers’ as an aspersion toward poor southern whites (did they crack the corn?), but again I don’t know. And as anyone who’s been bitten by horse flies can tell you; it does hurt.

When I was young I used to wait
On master and hand him his plate
Pass him the bottle when he got dry
And brush away the blue-tail fly
Chorus
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care
Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care
Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care
My master's gone away
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
When he would ride in the afternoon
I'd follow him with my hickory broom
The pony being rather shy
When bitten by the blue-tail fly
[Chorus] reprise
One day he rode around the farm
Flies so numerous that they did swarm
One chanced to bite him on the thigh
The devil take the blue-tail fly
[Chorus] reprise
Well the pony jumped, he start, he pitch
He threw my master in the ditch
He died and the jury wondered why
The verdict was the blue-tail fly
[Chorus] reprise
Now he lies beneath the 'simmon tree
His epitaph is there to see
"Beneath this stone I'm forced to lie
The victim of the blue-tail fly"

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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The Great Big City's a Wondrous Toy

We left the Brooklyn Bridge and ambled down to City Hall Park. Henri liked the fountain. It was a lazy day and we stayed on the bench, cooling our “pups” for a long time, people watching.

There were several art installations around the park.

I especially like the buildings and the grazing “livestock.”

Grams is taking an inordinate amount of meds today, something’s up.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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Bowling for dollars

Let me take you back to a time when things were very different than today. Much of the world was at war. The U.S. was a sleeping giant that had yet to awaken to world events. The depression was just starting to abate and jobs in the war industries were there for the taking.

Big Guy was a little guy at the time just before WW II. This story takes place when he was 12 or 13 years old. Even though the adults in the family were working, and there was food on the table, Big Guy’s family were poor: they just didn’t know it.

Big Guy wanted to help out and decided that he would get an after-school job. His brother had just joined the Navy. His sister was in high school. Big Guy had just started junior high school. So, the Mesa Bowling Alley’s ‘Help Wanted – pin setter’ sign was right up his alley (sorry for the pun).

Pin setting wasn't a particularly prized occupation and the folks at the Mesa weren’t too picky about who they hired, as Big Guy was soon to find out. His fellow workers looked as if they had spent most of their lives working the midway at the circus: disreputable didn’t begin to cover it.

The pins were hand-set in those days. The pin setter had to send the ball back to the bowler, get the pins that had been knocked down out of the way, make sure that the others were in their spots, and get out of the way before the bowler started again.

When there weren’t any bowlers, the pin setters would relax in a little room at the back of the lanes. The older men had “big little books” lying about that featured cartoon characters doing things that they never did at the Saturday matinees that Big Guy had gone to not that long before.

When the game was over, the bowlers would usually give the pin setter a tip. If they didn’t leave a tip, a voice would come out from behind the pins at the end of the alley berating the players.

Big Guy had been on the job for about 2 weeks when there came the fateful day: the juvenile officer showed up. “Son, how old are you?” he asked Big Guy. “15, sir.” The ‘juvie’ officer looked at him, “Do you have a work permit, son?” Big Guy started to squirm. “I left my wallet at home” “Then, home is where you’re going, ‘cause you’re not working here anymore. Go collect your wages.” Big Guy’s career in pin setting was over.

Henri and I go bowling occasionally. The bowling alley that we go to is state-of-the-art. We never have gutter balls because we get the little railings put up. The pins are automatically set, the score is kept by computer, our game generates cartoons that celebrate or disparage each play, and we get a print-out of our game when we’re done. We don’t have to worry about knocking down the pin setter and there’s no one to leave a tip for. For all its bells and whistles, I’d kind of like to see a pin setter back there. I wouldn’t stiff him either.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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Style: it’s something you’re born with

Back in the 1970s, Grams used to do a lot of tie-dying. She didn’t have a lot of the ‘ready green,’ so she would, as an example, buy a package of inexpensive cotton tank tops for her kiddies and then dye the tops all sorts of wild colours. Her hands would be living rainbows for days. She also believed in letting children dress themselves without adult criticism. So, her kids could be very colourful at times.

One day Grams and her mum (Stel) took the kiddies to the arboretum. Meg, the youngest, had picked out her outfit with great care and this was the result. Stel said, “she’s definitely my granddaughter, she’s put my favourite colours together!"

Meg would grow up, have Henri, graduate from Berkeley, and work in Manhattan. And, you know what? She’s never lost her sense of style.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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You say to-may-toe and I say toe-mah-toe

This morning one of the ‘agony aunt’ columns had a letter that made me laugh. Seems the letter writer has a relative who fancies herself well-educated. As such, this relative thought that it was her duty to correct the pronunciation of everyone in the family. “What to do?” asked the writer.

I can’t remember what Abby/Ann/Carolyn said, I was laughing too hard. It was the image of this person going around correcting people and they weren’t knocking her lights out. “What’s so funny, Gweeds?” asked Grams. When I told her, she nodded her head, “I used to have an aunt who did that all the time.”

Well, knock me over with a tea towel. I begged her to tell me more. “There’s not much to tell. She had a couple of years of community college, a Penguin Classics paperback of Plato's Dialogues, and thought that gave her superior knowledge about everything. One word I remember that she’d always correct me on was, ‘surprise.’

I must have had a puzzled look on my mug. She continued, “You see, I would say ‘suh-prise’, dropping the ‘r.’ That particular transgression bothered her a lot. She would always correct me. Of course, since I was a child, it never stuck. So, she was continually correcting me on my mispronunciations and spoonerisms.”

“Spoonerisms?” I queried. “Oh, I had a gajillion of them. Let’s see, oh yeah, ‘Don’t be such a Sarah Heartburn.’ Of course, the most lasting thing she ever did was to threaten to turn me into the police.”

“The police? For what? How old were you?” “Oh, I must’ve been about 8 years old when she started this particular harassment. She said that if I didn’t stop picking my nose, she was going to have to turn me into the police. She assured me that nose picking was against the law and that there were stiff penalties for doing it. Since there was a police station down the street from where we lived then, I was especially afraid of this threat. She’d always nod in the direction of the station when she’d threaten me.”

At this point, I was convulsed, rolling on the floor. I wiped the tears of laughter from my cheeks, “You actually believed that winkle picking was illegal?!?” “Hey, I was a kid, okay? Cut me some slack!” I sat up, “So, what did you do?”

“Well, my mum had a pair of English riding boots in her closet. The tops of them would be hidden in her dresses. These boots always scared me. I was sure that Gort was standing in them waiting to get me.” Now she’d lost me, “Gort?” “Yes, yes, Gort, the huge robot from the movie ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still.’ You know, Patricia Neal had to get Gort to save Klattu. She had to say, ‘Gort, Klattu verada nicto!’”

“And you thought that Gort was in the riding boots?” “Hey, I was impressionable, okay?. Yes, the boots scared me.” “And this has what to do with the nose picking threat?” “Well, I overcame my fear of Gort and hid in my mum’s closet to explore the upper regions of my nasal passages. Actually, I didn’t really overcome my fear. I was shaking in my orthopaedic Buster Browns lace-ups the whole time. Also, every time I went for my ballet lessons at the neighbourhood dance studio, I had to walk by the police station. I didn’t stroll, I’ll tell you.”

What a hoot! She always keeps me in stitches.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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