Friday, August 26, 2011

Now Boarding...

The past couple of weeks I’ve had the good fortune to do an inordinate amount of traveling (at least for me), and while flying to various destinations on largely leisure travel, I witnessed several things that literally drove me nuts. I know that many of those living in the modern era are convinced that they are the only people inhabiting the planet, but the deterioration of the airline travel experience really seems to be spiraling out of control.  
 
Now, let’s just establish at the outset that this diatribe is probably going to upset a few people.  To be honest, it wouldn’t be completely surprising if half of the approximately six people that regularly follow this weekly offering stop doing so after today. However, even after considering the potential downside, I’ve decided to plow ahead nonetheless. I can’t really afford to lose any friends here, but somehow, I’m naively hoping that two of the six will feel the same way and that maybe we’ll start a trend.
OK…here’s the deal. Quite a few people (most of the six) have pointed out to me that a good deal of the subject matter contained here each week deals with nostalgia. As one reader recently noted…much of the Friday Song blog seems to be about a fixation for “days gone by.” 

To be honest, that actually stung a bit because though I suspect I’m the quintessential old soul, I don’t like to think of myself as obsessed with the past. When I note the myriad of technological improvements just in my lifetime alone, I am often almost overwhelmed at the good things that have evolved over the course my mere forty-nine years (don’t laugh…it’s been a rough life).  

Actually, I can still remember a time before cell phones, when an actual human being was enough to hold someone’s attention.  But as much as I might romanticize the way I liked things before, I am under no illusion that we’ll ever retrieve much of that simplicity nor do I deny the obvious fact that we’re largely better off off due to much of the progress. There are however a couple of areas when I’m convinced we’re de-evolving, and though I suspect  we’ll never reverse the trend, I’m still clinging to the far-fetched hope that somehow, someway, some things are going to come back.

Now, though I’m only 49 (remember what I said about laughing), I can still remember a time flying commercial airlines when the planes only had props and when people actually dressed up…I mean really dressed up, when they traveled by air. The fact that planes now have jet engines is a vivid example of the way things have improved over time. The fact that many of the people that now fly in them dress and behave as though they were raised in a freaking barn, is an equally clear example of how we’ve regressed (I can also remember a time when you would never see or hear a word like “freaking” and what it implied).

When I was a young boy, I can remember flying on TWA planes with legions of flight attendants wearing outfits that looked like something out of the Royal Navy. Male passengers were often in suits or at least slacks, and women were usually dressed as nice or better. Somehow though, in the course of just a few decades, we have advanced technologically while undergoing an equally proportionate deterioration in the area of civility…and in no area is it more evident than commercial air travel.  

Fortunately, I fly often enough on the same airline that I’m upgraded to first class about two-thirds of the time (I never buy the first class ticket). Unfortunately, even the curtain and those bigger seats provide little insulation from the depravity that seems to have largely overtaking the industry. Regardless of where I’m seated, there is an increasing chance I’ll be placed next to some cat in cutoffs and flip-flops (it’s especially nice when they then cross their leg and rest there dirty foot on their knee about 24 inches from my face). Sometimes, that fresh-from-drunk-tank look is exceeded by somebody in what I swear has to be a pair of pajamas (at least the bottoms). Increasingly, they’ll augment that stellar fresh-off-the-mattress-without-brushing look by towing along a stained, lice-laden pillow from home.

Now, I know we’ll never get back to a time where folks dress up to fly. Guys in white uniforms are never going to come jogging out from the Texaco station again to wash my windows and people will probably never get back to visiting with one another for more than 5 minutes without looking at their smartphones. Though some things are clearly gone for good, maybe people will stop boarding planes looking as they do in bed or after a workout at the gym. Perhaps, some element of consideration will seep back into travel. Sure, I know generations of folks obsessed with only their own comfort will find it astonishing to recognize they have a duty of consideration to those around them, but maybe, just maybe, some young hip, throw-back star will come along and stop dressing like a meat locker… and instead inspire folks to emulate something with bit more classic style.

When I was a kid, I remember my father popping me in the head as we walked down a Ramada motel hallway very early one morning while on one of our classic summer car trips (had to cross the desert early to ensure the radiator didn’t overheat…another example of real progress). I wasn’t initially sure what I’d done wrong, but my dad quickly pointed out there were paying customers trying to sleep just on the other side of the hallway door and that even my “inside” voice wasn’t appropriate for that early hour. He told me we had a duty to leave quietly and consider the comfort of others by not subjecting them to our pre-dawn conversation. When I asked why, he told me that is how we would expect to be treated if we were trying to sleep.

Some will have trouble connecting today’s song to the drivel above, but then again, that is nothing new. There is something about this tune however that just smacks of class, and I always connect it to the original Hollywood gem Sabrina. I have no way of knowing this, but I want to believe not one of the stars of this film ever boarded a plane looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.


Have a great weekend…and if you live on the east coast, stay dry.

Friday, August 19, 2011

The Voice of the Dodgers

There was an obituary in this past Tuesday’s New York Times for a fellow by the name of Nate Allbright. He was 87, and to my knowledge, I had never heard of him before. This actually seemed more that a bit odd, because the caption above the article stated that Mr. Allbright had been the “Voice of Dodger Games…” As a once devoted Los Angeles Dodger fan (I attended 56 home games one year and mooched every ticket), I was fairly certain the only voice of the Dodgers in my lifetime was Vin Scully (and perhaps Red Barber). I recall routinely hearing Scully fondly refer to Barber, but the name Allbright wasn’t ringing a bell. Given his age and my affinity for my hometown Los Angeles team, Nate Allbright seemed like someone I should know.

As I read the obituary, I realized that Allbright had been the voice of Brooklyn Dodger games he didn’t actually attend. As the story noted, for cost savings purposes he had been employed by the Dodgers during the 50’s to broadcast games remotely, creatively re-enacting the contests as though he was actually there. He would begin his broadcasts by saying “Welcome to Ebbett’s Field,” and his accounts went to stations on the Dodger network throughout the eastern United States from Cleveland to Miami.

Using Morse code teletype feeds (something like B1W for ball 1 wide) he would deploy sound effects to recreate the game on radio. The article noted that over the span of a decade, he broadcast over 1,500 games without ever seeing one. Fifty two stations apparently carried the Dodger network the first year and that number doubled in year two. He apparently had sound effects to mimic all the needed sounds; the crowd roar, the slap of the ball in a glove, and he could make the noise of the bat cracking the ball by using his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Apparently, if the teletype jammed, or if a feed was delayed, he would buy time and narrate several fictitious foul balls or feign a slight rain delay by crinkling a cigarette wrapper. According to Dodger Owner Walter O’Malley, Allbright was so good at his craft that O’Malley once suggested they should skip playing the actual games and just let Nate do his thing.

Actually, thanks to the advent of television putting an end to the need for Nate’s recreating talents, he actually did get the opportunity to do just as O’Malley suggested. The obituary noted that he broadcast fictitious games during the baseball and football labor disputes, creating entire imaginary games that never actually took place. He did this according to him, largely because of the demand of fans to listen to games on the radio…even if they weren’t real.

When I was a kid, I laid in bed many nights nestling my beloved transistor radio while listening to Vin Scully magically paint a vivid picture of Dodger games. His words seemed like poetry to me, and in my mind I could clearly s stars like ee Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey, Yeager, Sutton, Baker, Monday, Smith and so many others. Sometimes, when things went well, I would leap from my bed and run out to see if my dad was still listening (or watching) so we could celebrate together. I don’t have the time to sit and listen to baseball games on the radio anymore and I haven’t listened to full game since I stumbled across the broadcast the night Cal Ripken broke the consecutive game streak (I was listening while driving to North Dakota). But though it’s probably been almost thirty years, I remember the magic of those Dodger games like it was yesterday.

I never heard one of Nate Allbright’s recreated broadcasts, but they must have been something to hear. He sounded like a talented man, who was able to use his skills to weave simple teletype messages into a believable baseball experience. I’m not really sure why, but hearing of his passing saddened me, I guess because it made me think of yet another bygone thing I used to love but no long have time, or the attention span, to enjoy.

I hope you have a truly wonderful weekend. Whenever you are, maybe you can set aside a few hours to take in America’s pastime. If you can’t make to the park, maybe you can at least catch part of a game on the radio. If you don’t have a few hours, perhaps you can at least take a few minutes to listen to a special song. If you do, I think you might smile.

Have a great weekend.  



Friday, August 12, 2011

Grandpa's Kitchen

The chipped linoleum on my grandparent’s kitchen floor was off-white as I recall, and it looked as though it had been there since sometime in the 1940s. The counter tops were Formica, and I suspect they had been installed about the same time as the flooring. Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the refrigerator. It too appeared to be from sometime in the 1940s…and at least to me, it seemed to be one of the first post-ice box electrical appliances that actually contained a condenser to refrigerate air. It was white enamel, and judging from the huge metallic latch handle, it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy as General Electric. Though I never had to lift it, I suspected it weighed about 1,000 pounds. On top of the refrigerator was a worn King James bible, and a small monthly daily devotional called "Our Daily Bread."


In the center of the room, between the refrigerator and the radiator, the four-seat kitchen table had a Formica top with a metal band around the perimeter. The table's chairs were metal too, with plastic seat cushions. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed.
The Table

Growing up in Los Angeles, I wasn’t there for every breakfast at that North Dakota table, but every morning I was, the ritual was always exactly the same. The menu didn’t vary much. It was usually some variation of eggs, some type of meat (usually bacon), piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. The coffee was made by pouring the coffee grounds directly into the boiling water. There was always real cream and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, and my grandpa would pour his coffee onto the saucer (to let it cool) and slurp it off the small dish often while sucking on a sugar cube.
No Whole Grain Here
Once we were done eating, grandpa would fetch the old bible and the daily devotional from the top of the refrigerator. In all the days I was in that house, I don’t ever recall him missing this daily routine. He would read the assigned short simple lesson from the pamphlet, and then recite a couple of bible passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray in a thick a thick Swedish accent. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. In my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.
As for me, I don’t remember the last time I even looked at a bible. To be honest, I’m not sure where that prized book I received in confirmation even is. I know I’ve looked up some verses up electronically for some teaching that I do (looking up the Golden Rule), but that was all online. I may have picked up a large print bible in a Barnes and Noble a few years ago but that was only to get a sense of how it might work as a Christmas present for my mom. Other than the gospel music I play occasionally with a buddy at a bar in Old Town now and then, I really have almost no remaining connection to the devotion that was so central to my grandfather’s life.
What’s all this mean? Well, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time, you know better than to presume I know. I really don't have a clue other than I heard this morning’s song on Pandora earlier in the week, and I guess it just got me to thinking about that kitchen table. As I get older and find my self reminiscing, it's always about times like these and seldcom ever about work.  
Whatever you’re doing the next two days, try to make it a truly wonderful weekend. If you can, steal away some time and do something that counts with your family.
I can see us sittin' round the table...
                   The Song

Friday, August 5, 2011

Hot Springs

About 60 miles straight south or Rapid City, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, is the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs. It’s only about 25 minutes east of the Wyoming line, and roughly the same distance just north of the Nebraska boarder. To me, it is the classic Black Hills town…a regular trip back in time with a main street lined with sandstone buildings that look like something out of an 1800’s movie set. The Fall River runs next to the main road, and the city’s warm springs were the impetus for the several late 19th century health spa resorts that once lined the river.



When I was younger, I would make an annual summer drive from Los Angeles to Abercrombie, North Dakota, and on the morning of the second day (driving straight through), I would drive along Highway 18 from Lusk, Wyoming and into Hot Springs. Just west of Hot Springs, there is an incredible valley, and as I would make that eastward trek in the morning light, it usually struck me as among the most beautiful spots on earth.
Amazingly, my first cousin Brent purchased about 3,000 acres about ten years ago just south of that highway…in pretty much the the exact same spot. He still lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, but he flies several times a month (especially in the summer) to spend time in the peaceful ranch setting. For that past couple of years, I have been able to make yearly trips out there in the spring and summer to help with branding (spring) or ride motorcycles (summer) during the Sturgis bike week. For a host of reasons, the time enjoying the Black Hills is always a highlight...and the time spent on horseback or on the bike is therapeutic beyond any words I know how to convey.

I wish I could pinpoint exactly why the annual excursions are so comforting, but I’m presuming it has something to do with the stability of the area. Whether I ride across the state or fly into Rapid and drive down to the ranch, things always seem pretty much the same. After living in the ever-changing hustle-and-bustle of both coasts, there is just a sense of contentment that comes from the sameness the American West.

If you’ve ever been there, you already know the magic you encounter while driving through this beautiful area. If you haven’t, I truly hope you find time to make a visit someday. There is simply something healing about the Black Hills, and when driving down the two-lane roads you really never know what you might see. After a couple of days, you just can’t help but feel that everything is going to be alright.


Have a truly wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, please take a little time to do something you truly love.

Take a ride to the end of the line...