NNAOPP Update - December 2021

NNAOPP Update 

December 2021 

Charlie Armstead 

Out of the blue, I received an email from Dave Hungate, someone whom I've never met and the son of one of the boys pictured below. His Dad, Bill Hungate, later became a U. S. Congressman and then a judge on the Missouri State Supreme Court. Dave sent me several photos including those shown below along with some newspaper clippings.

This is a picture of my Dad taken on July 4, 1941 in my home town of Bowling Green, Missouri. He's the guy on the far right with the baton. Charlie would have been 27 on that fine summer day. The depression continued its crippling grasp on the economy, most pronounced in the nation's heartland, but you wouldn't know it from the well-dressed people in this Norman Rockwell-esque setting. Pearl Harbor was still five months in the distance, although there would be few in this picture whose lives wouldn't be touched by that tragic day and the four years of war that followed. 

Dad spoke often and fondly of his B.G. band students (from the years 1940-1953) and their subsequent achievements in life. In turn, they often celebrated their shared experience by hosting reunions and roasts of 'Prof' Wells. Judy, Lucy, and I were honored to attend one such event in 1976 when Lucy was just a wee baby. On these occasions I was told by most everyone, "Your Dad had very high expectations of his students, and we didn't want to disappoint him."

For some reason, these photos spoke to me, not just because they show my Dad as a young man, but because they reflect a largely now forgotten era. These are the youngsters that would become the 'Greatest Generation.' By my counting, there were at least 60 kids marching in that band. I'd guess more than half of the BG high school student body were then in the band given the population of Bowling Green in 1940 was only 1,975. Notice that even the little kids are marching behind the band in the first photo. 

It is important to recall that America was still in the grips of the depression, yet somehow these kids had access to trombones, saxophones, clarinets, trumpets, French horns, flutes, and snare drums. It's too late to ask Dad, but I'd guess that most of these instruments were provided by the school. I recall visiting Dad's band room as a child in the late 40's and early 50's and being fascinated by all the instruments stored there. Bowling Green was certainly not a wealthy town, but it is clear that music was a high priority in their budgeting. 

Schools were not integrated in BG in the 1940's, so the viewer will note the monochromatic tone of the students. However, if one looks closely, you'll note that quite a few of the spectators are African Americans. 

Then there was Charlie. He looked so dapper in his double-breasted suit and tie. For the seven years preceding this photo, Dad led a swing band named The Charlie Armstead Band that played mostly at college venues in mid-Missouri along with summer time gigs in tourist settings in Minnesota, Michigan, and Indiana. I've excerpted some articles from the Fayette, MO newspaper about Dad's band: 

Fayette, MO 

September 15, 1936 

Armstead Band Back After Summer at Resorts 

Charlie Armstead and his band have returned to Fayette en masse from a successful summer. Armstead, whose real name is Charles Armstead Wells, is a graduate of Central College and last year was assistant director of the Central bands. Many members of the organization are attending Central and the band will operate from Fayette during the school year. This dance band was one of the most popular with Missouri dancers last year and has been very well liked in its three locations during the summer. The band opened at Waco Ballroom, Lake Wawasee, Indiana, one of the state's most popular resorts on June 13 for a two weeks' engagement. Armstead's band next opened at the Crystal Palace Ballroom on the shores of Lake Michigan. All attendance records were broken. The largest crowd the ballroom ever had coming on July 4 when 3200 people were on the dance floor at one time. Their final engagement began August 15 and ended Labor Day at the Melody Gardens in South Bend, Indiana. Buck Rogers and his orchestra played the gardens one night during the band's stay and Guy Lombardo had been there the Sunday before they opened. Armstead has contracted to play at the same places next summer.

Charlie is on the far right in this 1936 picture of the Charlie Armstead band. I'm taken by how mature the college-age band members look. 

Then came the last dance. 

Fayette, MO 

February 28, 1941 

Charlie Armstead's Dance Band Changes Name After Seven Years 

Charlie Armstead's band, a phrase which has meant dancing for seven years of Central College students, exists no longer under that name. The last dance played under Armstead's ownership was the UDC Ball Friday night, and it was announced there that John 'Ben' Dover had purchased maestro Armstead's interest. The personnel and management of the band will remain the same with Bobby Smart, popular trombone player, directing and booking. The only change will be that Dover will front the band on jobs while Smart takes over the trombone chair. Dover, a trumpet man, will probably not play except on special choruses. 

Everything that formerly had a part in the Armstead setup went into the hands of the new owner. Stands, lights, trailer, stock, and special arrangements, contracts, public address system, and eleven musicians. Several innovations will be introduced, including comedy, specialty acts, and glee club singing. Next year a girl vocalist will be an added feature. The dance band, which has a following all over central Missouri will continue to use the name 'Charlie Armstead's Orchestra' until the end of May, when all the advance bookings have been completed. Bookings from now on will be made under the new name, 'Ben Dover's Band.' 

For the time being, the original theme, 'Time to Go', a distinguishing feature of the Armstead band, will be used. Later a new theme song will have to be selected. Dover said 'Time to Go' will still be played as part of the regular repertoire. 

And that was that. 

Charlie started his new position as band director of the Bowling Green Bobcats, and presumably could no longer juggle the two distinct careers. He was also newly married to my Mom, then 20. Helen graduated from Central College at the precocious age of 18. She started at age 15. Her Dad, Jesse Welsh the high school principal in West Plains, MO, was not terribly enamored by his oldest daughter's engagement to the 26-year-old, peripatetic, zoot suited musician. Jesse's plan was that Helen would use her newly acquired teacher's salary to help support the Welsh family of seven. It was not to be as Mom and Dad wed on December 22, 1940. Jesse warmed up to his son-in-law only after grandchild #1, William Wylie Wells joined the family in 1944. 

Dad was not just the band director of the high school band. He was also the music teacher for the primary school. I remember being terribly proud when my Dad would come to our first-grade classroom, hand out sticks, and we could bang them together, presumably in some rhythmic fashion. 

Dad loved everything about his teaching days in BG, and would maintain contact with his former students the remainder of his life. But he also had a practical side. In 1953, he took a position selling band instruments for McLean's Band Instruments in Kansas City, MO. Many years after the move, I asked Dad, why we moved, and he said, "I was earning $300 a month as a teacher, and I could see no way to pay for three kids to go to college on that income. Mac McLean offered me $10,000/year. I couldn't pass it up." 

The new position gave Dad an opportunity to call on schools all over Missouri. He served as a judge in music contests for many years. I'm told he was a very tough judge. Charlie continued to play clarinet with some local groups, and he would occasionally jam with friends in our living room. He was later inducted into the Missouri Music Hall of Fame.

I'm certain of one thing. If you ever met my Dad, you'd like him. If you're still reading, thanks for joining me on this journey down memory lane. 

Other Stuff 

American Royal 

In October I joined son-in-law Fred and twin 11-year-old grandsons, Finn and Charlie, to attend the American Royal Junior Livestock Show. It was quite a treat. In case you've never been, think Westminster Dog Show, but with cows, pigs, sheep, and goats. I've never seen such tricked-out, well-tended critters in my life. Young people, typically aged 9-17, stand by their animal and greet the spectators and potential bidders. 

The kids with whom I visited were amazingly mature. One cow caught my fancy, as it was the color of Lassie with balls of fur trimmed around the ankles, or whatever you call ankles on a cow, and at the end of the tail. The skin/fur was luxuriously groomed, and the cow's name was Ricky. The 14-year-old owner from a small town in Iowa told me how she gets up at 5:30 every morning to feed and groom him, then repeats after school and before going to bed. The cow gains 5 lbs. a day. I noticed that all the cows were poop free, and I inquired how this can be. The young lady said she uses paper towels to clean up any mishaps. What a kid. 

Then I talked to a nine-year-old pig owner from a small town near my hometown of Bowling Green. Her parents stood nearby and entered into the conversation. Turns out they are in the business of selling 'starter pigs' to 4-H kids interested in livestock shows. They have a farm with an inventory of 1,000 Hampton piglets. I asked how much such a pig costs. Answer, a 60-pounder goes for between $500 and $5,000. Wow! I said, "Do you Fed-Ex them?" "No, we do a lot of driving." 

Next stop was another nine-year-old pig tender from Arkansas. From my meanderings I noticed that all the exhibitors had a sign with the name of the animal and the owner's name and hometown. Most of the names were Ricky, Bobby, Susie, et al. But this little girl's pig was named Collide. I inquired about the unique name, and the tiny tyke explained in her extreme southern accent. "Well, some nice lady called me and asked the name of my pig, and I said C'lyde, and that is how she spelled it." 

We were all impressed by the work ethic and poise of the kids we met. Fred offered, "These are the kids I want to hire right now." 

After viewing the various exhibits, it was time for the auction, but there was a problem. Charlie was having none of this. Charlie asked his Dad, "You mean these kids spend a year raising these animals, they name them, and spend hours of every day with them, and then they sell them to rich people to slaughter?" Dad, "Yes, that's about it." Charlie is periodically and nominally a vegetarian, if you don't count Chicken McNuggets or bacon, and he was horrified. So, we skipped the auction. 

In case you're curious, the prize-winning cow went for $250,000. 

Numbnuts 

As I was driving back from the farm one day with Finn and Charlie, I encountered a fellow driver whose motoring skills left something to be desired. I calmly muttered to no one in particular, "What a numbnuts." 

Charlie then inquired, "Did you learn that word from Waverly?" 

"No," I replied, "It's the other way around." 

"Well, she's using it now." 

This knowledge filled me with joy, knowing that, even at my advanced age, I can still make a contribution to the grandchildren's verbal development. 

Augie 

Returning from the farm party, Ben asked Judy to get the Sunday night Chiefs' game on the radio. She didn't know where it was and fumbled a bit. Two-year-old Augie in the backseat said, "Alexa, play the Chiefs' game." 

Stump Grinding 

If you ever find yourself feeling a little low, you might consider renting a stump grinder for a few days and obliterate a few hundred of those annoying, equipment destroying projections. In my case I spent five days at the farm with a 31-hp Baretto S30 rented from a local vendor. It was an extremely gratifying experience. As I was cheerily returning the powerful machine, my mind wandered to one of my favorite tunes from the past written by Mason Williams, "Them Toad Suckers." The final stanza says it all: 

How to be a toad sucker, no way to duck it, 

Gittchyself a toad, and rare back and suck it 

And I thought how easily the song could instead be a paean to stump grinding. 

Fairway Magazine 

Amazingly, I was featured in an article in Fairway Magazine, a local publication. The headline, "Mission Hills Writer Shares Stories About Not So Ordinary People." Somehow, the editor obtained copies of both Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and of Ordinary People Who Aren't. And she excerpted elements from each book for the article. The editor had me review her choices and asked for info to include on how people might obtain copies. I mentioned Amazon and my blog, nudenuns.blogspot.com. Regarding the latter, she said, "That's too provocative, I'll pass on printing that." 

I've encountered this problem on several other occasions, so I will soon be creating a newly named blog to replace the old. This will mean conceding the thousands of visitors to the blog from Yemen, Armenia, and Russia, who I can only presume are disappointed porn seekers. I'll keep you posted on the new name. 

Sales continue to trickle in, but not yet in sufficient quantities for me to reinstate my yacht order. I get inquiries and commentary totally out of the blue that pleases me greatly, serving as a mild recompense. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. May the blessings of the holiday season be with you and yours. 

Chuck Wells 

Charles A. Wells, Jr. 

Author of Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren't 

Available on Amazon 

Follow my blog at http://nudenuns.blogspot.com/ 

Or contact me directly at: mailto:charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

NNAOPP Update - July 2021

 

Jim's Last Campsite

For the better part of the last decade, Jim would spend a month camping in one of the many majestic national parks in Colorado. Each winter he would peruse maps and internet searches to select the perfect spot. His favorites were Gunnison National Forest and Grand Mesa National Forest, preferring western CO to avoid the crowds ascending from Denver. He would typically host shifts of one or more of his eleven grandchildren and their parents for the first three weeks of his trip and then spend a week on his own before returning to his home in St. Augustine. On several occasions he would come through KC and spend a week with me at the farm helping with whatever project I had going. 

Every summer he would pick up a grandchild or two or more in Jacksonville, Charlotte, or Kansas City for the long drive to western CO. Once he got to his preferred park he would reconnoiter to find the perfect campsite, preferably one isolated from other campers, yet on the south-facing shore of a mountain lake. Grand Mesa, near Grand Junction, offered precisely such a site for Jim's last trip. If you've never been to one of these national treasures, it's hard to grasp their size. Think Rhode Island. 

With Covid limiting options for solemnities in 2020, Jim's widow Mary decided it would be a fitting memorial for family and friends to visit the final campsite on the anniversary of his death. 

I flew to Eagle, CO on Thursday and enjoyed a delightful dinner at the home of co-grandparents, Fred and Carolyn. The plan was I'd take a leisurely 3-hour drive Friday afternoon to Olathe, CO to join Mary and her family and Jim's son Jason and his wife Megan. I Googled the route that morning and was puzzled to see a Byzantine route indicating a 6-hour drive. I investigated and learned that I-70 was closed to all traffic in Glenwood Canyon (my intended route) owing to forest fires in the area followed by torrential rains and mudslides. 

Todd, a friend of Fred and Lucy's, stopped by and offered some advice. He said, "Since you're going to be driving the Jeep, you can take a rocky, mountain road south of Gypsum that will eventually wind its way over an obscure pass and down to Carbondale. From there it's all paved roads west to Olathe. There could be a problem though if there are a lot of other people taking that route. All it takes is one knucklehead to get stuck on one of those shelf roads, and you could end up spending the rest of your life there." 

The other options were a northern route through Steamboat Springs, Craig, and Meeker rejoining I-70 at Rifle, or a southern route through Leadville, Buena Vista, Gunnison, and Montrose. I chose the latter. Driving south on Highway 24 out of Leadville was like visiting old friends, Mt. Elbert, Mt. Huron, and La Plata Peaks, all formerly visited 14ers that are part of the Collegiate Mountain Range. At Salida, I turned west on Highway 50 and noticed signs saying the road is closed west of Gunnison. I thought to myself, 'Surely they wouldn't close this major east/west thoroughfare with I-70 closed,' and I drove on. Sure enough, the road was closed west of Gunnison as they were blasting. 

On the bright side, the detour took me to some places I'd never been before, most of which offered breathtaking scenery. I drove along the north ridge of Black Canyon before heading north to Crawford, Hotchkiss, and Delta, CO. Fortunately, westbound traffic hugged the inner most lane on the mountain so I was spared the terrifying views of the Gunnison River as it carved its way through the canyon.

Six hours after leaving I arrived at the spacious, log cabin dwelling Mary rented outside of Olathe. The 6-bedroom home was surrounded by irrigated fields of corn, soy beans, milo, and marijuana. All crops appeared to be prospering. Shortly after I arrived we were treated to a 30-minute torrential rain then we dined on a home-cooked meal of elk, steak, lamb chops, and peach pie. 

On Saturday morning, we left Olathe, elevation 5,300' and headed north. We stopped at one of Jim's favorite haunts, The Creekside Café and Bakery in Cedaredge, CO, for a tasty creekside breakfast, made even more memorable by 9" swirling propellers on 12" wooden stands sitting on each table. I was told they were automatic fly swatters. We drove about an hour and a half up into the Grand Mesa eventually reaching Jim's campsite at an elevation of 10,200'. It would be very easy to get lost among the many miles of rocky roads without the benefit of GPS. 

Fourteen-year-old grandson Thomas and his Dad, Ryan, were the last family members to see Jim alive after being delivered from their campsite to the airport in Montrose. When we arrived at the campsite Thomas enthusiastically gave me a guided tour. "This was our campfire, here's where Papa's tent was, this is where I chopped wood, here was one of our favorite fishing spots. This is where Papa parked his car and set up a clothesline so no other campers would wander near our special place. Papa would give me $50 if I could split a large log with one swing of the axe." 

"Did you ever cash in?" 

"Yes, a couple of times. I cut, split, and stacked enough wood to last Papa for his final week." 

Mary later told me, that when she and son, Aaron, arrived to retrieve Jim's car and camping gear, all of Thomas's fire wood was gone. Jim had a lot of gear, a tent of sufficient size for him to stand, a cot, sub-zero sleeping bag, fishing gear, his well-used Coleman stove, and a newly acquired chainsaw and giant ax. Fortunately, nothing but the firewood was taken. Mary recalled, "Jim had accumulated so much stuff. A deputy brought a lot of it down to Grand Junction. I will always reflect on how caring and helpful Mesa County Sheriff Jeff Burne was during that terrible time." 

Thirty minutes after we located Jim's last campsite, we were treated to another major rainstorm. We retreated to our 12-passenger van, where we stayed for the next two hours. We'd see flashes of lightning followed by the roar of thunder. One lightning strike had to be very chose as the thunder followed immediately. We figured that was Jim's way of saying hi. 

I sat next to Jim's youngest granddaughter, 6-year-old Nora, during the wait, and we shared a couple of stories. I told her about the Magic Mermaid Princess and her adventures with sidekicks Willy and McGregor, the singing dogs. She said, "That is a very good story, but I have one that is better." 

"I'm all ears." 

Nora said, "This is a story about a boy whose life was saved by bubble gum." 

"Once upon a time there was a boy named Billy who loved bubble gum. He was tall and thin, kind of like a green bean. One day he begged his Mother to give him some money so he could buy more bubble gum. The Mom told him that he already had enough bubble gum, why would be need more. The boy begged and begged, and finally she relented, and Billy went to the store to buy more gum. He bought a big wad and put it in his breast pocket." Actually, Nora didn't use the words 'breast pocket' instead she demonstrated by patting her chest. 

Nora now paused for a while, and I thought that might be the end of the story, and I said, "How does the gum save Billy?" 

Nora replied, "You silly, I was just about to get to that." 

"So, one day Billy was walking through the forest and he came upon a long poisonous snake. The snake sprang up trying to bite Billy in the face, but it instead bit him in the pocket that held his bubble gum. This surprised the snake, and it slithered off leaving Billy unharmed." 

I said, "That is a great story. But I have one question. Did the snake blow bubbles as it left?" 

"No, you silly. Snakes can't blow bubbles." 

I told Nora I was very impressed by the sophistication of her language. She said, "Thank you," and added, "Old people usually don't know how to talk to kids. You know why?" 

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because they talk to us like we are children." 

"Good advice." 

When the rain stopped we got out and continued to enjoy Jim's final resting spot. Granddaughters Madelyn and Ashley explored on their own, and the adults hiked on various trails around the campsite. 9-year-old Samantha caught eight good sized rainbow trout. Later, when we were loading the van, a large 50ish man wearing a Red Sox hat walked by and noticed Sam holding up her stringer of fish. He was wearing an elaborate fishing vest with a million lures and flies and an abundance of gear, and he carried a fishing net suitable for Jaws. He was fishless, and asked Sam what she was using for bait. 

"Wal-Mart Trout PowerBait." She answered. 

The man's wife chuckled loudly. Sweet! 

We stayed until it was almost dark largely leaving unspoken the reason we all had gathered. 

On July 24, 2020 James Milton Sneed delivered the last of his guests to the airport in Montrose, CO. He returned to his lakeside campsite in the Grand Mesa National Forest, built a fire, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat in his camp chair to enjoy the scene. Nearby campers discovered his body the following day. Here's a picture of Jim's last campsite: