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:

NNAOPP Update - November 2020

NNAOPP Update

November 2020

Freddy's

I stopped at Freddy's for dinner after another productive day at the farm. To the unknowing I may have looked like a bedraggled geezer. I was wearing dusty farm clothes, my hair has grown wings, my last haircut being in February a week before traveling to Mardi Gras. My beard was unkempt, although partially hidden by my face mask, and I was wearing my trusty weather-worn and sweat-stained blue baseball cap with an embroidered American flag on the front. I ordered my typical and tasty burger / chili dog combo and looked to put my credit card in the gizmo designed for such purposes, when I noticed it already had a card inserted. I pulled it out, read the name, and called out, "Anyone here named so and so?" A large young man ambled over, took his card, and said thanks. He started to walk away, but paused, turned and said, "What years were you in Southeast Asia?" 

I replied, "I wasn't in Southeast Asia, although I was in the army during the Vietnam War." I failed to mention I was merely a lowly fighting dental assistant. I could have told him our unit motto was 'all we are saying is give teeth a chance', but I didn't. 

He said, "Thanks for your service." And he went on to speak proudly of his own military experience in Iraq. 

You meet the best people at Freddy's. 

Grandkids 

The grandkids spent the night recently. Finn, Charlie, and I were sitting around the kitchen while Judy was cooking a meat loaf. Finn was reading a book about Greek Gods, and we entered into the following exchange: 

Papa: "Finn, why do you think it is that the Greeks had so many Gods? Mimi and I are Christians, and Christians believe there is only one God." 

Finn replied, "I've not thought about that. Maybe it's because there were so many things that were unexplained. 

Papa, "Perhaps it was merely a matter of hospitality. The Greeks were always invading other city/states and immersing them in 'Greek' culture. They just kept adding the Gods of the conquered peoples to keep peace. 

Finn, "No. I don't think so. People need something to believe in. Lots of Gods made it easier." 

***

A few weeks earlier we were at the kids' house. Before we assembled for a viewing of 'Beetlejuice', Finn and I grabbed paddles and hit a ping pong ball back and forth. Finn asked, "Do you know how to play?" 

I said, "Yes, I do. In fact, I won the intramural ping pong championship my senior and junior year at Drury College, and I won a second place while at Harvard." 

Finn said, "Did you go to Harvard?" 

I replied, "Yes." 

Without a moments hesitation, Finn said, "I thought you had to be really smart to go there." 

Ouch! 

*** 

I took Wavy to the hardware/paint store in Corinth to get the needed supplies to paint her desk, the one her Mom had as a girl and had since been stored in the barn. While there I asked the paint guy for advice regarding the grade of sandpaper to use, prime or not, high gloss/low gloss, etc. While walking to the car with our stuff Wavy said, "Papa, you've built a fort, a cabin, a pole barn, and a bridge. I thought you'd know a lot more about this job." 

Unsaid was the implication, "Or else I would have asked someone more knowledgeable for help." 

Jim Sneed (1945 - 2020)

Allow me to say a word or two about my dear friend Jim Sneed, who recently completed his earthly journey. Jim loved his family, his friends, his work, his recreation, just everything. He was playful, loud, outrageous, ornery, uncommonly generous, hard-working, persistent, civic minded, not notoriously woke, and on and on. He was a true and steadfast friend, always upbeat and hugely fun. His was a life well lived. But one final coat of luster was added upon his death.  

Jim loved camping in the mountains of Colorado. Each year he would select a site and travel from his home in St. Augustine, FL with a carload of equipment and one or more grandchildren. This year he found a spot located on the shore of a remote Rocky Mountain lake in the vicinity of Grand Mesa and planned to stay a month. During the first three weeks he hosted his son and stepsons and their kids over varying stays. I can attest from personal experience that he was an exquisite chef on his Coleman stove, so I'm certain his guests were well fed. They would hike, fish, and enjoy one another's company and the scenic vistas. On the return trip to Florida he planned to spend a week with me at the farm and help on my project completing Augie's Bridge. He also planned to spend his last week in CO as a solitary camper. On the Friday preceding his final week, he drove the last of his guests to the airport in Montrose. He returned to his campsite, built a fire, poured himself a glass of red wine, and took a seat in his camp chair to enjoy the majestic setting. The following day fellow campers found Jim's body slumped in his chair with a half full glass of wine at his side. 

Twenty-five years earlier Jim had open heart surgery. He had numerous subsequent procedures and stents, most recently in January. He knew his ticker wasn't long for this world, and he talked often about how the game might end. His lovely wife Mary called me on the following Sunday morning to share the sad news. 

I'm in no rush to join the dearly departed, but when my time comes, I would hope to be as fortunate as Jim. His exit was pretty darn sweet. I join his family and friends in declaring that I will miss him mightily. And Patti Barber, Pete Taggart, Phil Brummel, and Claudette Benson. 2020 has not been a good year. 

Hearing Aid v iPhone

On a lighter note, in June I was loading our car in Sanibel for the return trip to KC. This involved carrying massive amounts of crap that Judy had accumulated over the winter from our third story condo. The short trip involved walking along an open-air walkway to an elevator and then down to our covered parking spot. On one of the many return trips, I found myself with a towel in my right hand, and I was reading something on my iPhone held in my left. I got out of the elevator on our floor, made a left turn towards our front door and inexplicably my newly acquired, Costco hearing aid popped completely out of my left ear. I'd like to tell you that I quickly did the math and thought $600 iPhone or $1,000 hearing aid, but I didn't. Instead I reacted and thought "Oh shit", threw the iPhone up in the air, and cleanly snatched the hearing aid. It was a pretty athletic move for one of my age if I do say so myself, but the iPhone flew over the railing and bounced on the brick pavers three floors below. Then I gave voice to another epithet, "Oh shit!" and down I went to retrieve my phone. Amazingly, it was unharmed. Consider this an uncompensated Apple testimonial. 

The Bentley's

I was at the farm, but Judy was home and reported the following incident. A large car-hauling truck parked on the street in front of our house. The driver got out and approached Judy who was weeding in her gardens in the front yard. He was polite, said he had just driven from California, liked our neighborhood, and then asked where he should put our two new Bentleys. Judy was puzzled, but told the guy she knew nothing about the two cars. He semi argued with her and showed her the paperwork with our address. Judy testily suggested he call his dispatcher or someone to check it out. He did, and put Judy on the phone with his supervisor who argued again that they had the correct address. Eventually, it was determined that the cars were to be delivered to 3117 not 3317, an address that is more than a few million dollars to our east. 

Judy told me the story when I got home that evening, and I was dismayed. That may be the closest I ever get to owning a Bentley. 

Thanksgiving Memories

In days long gone, we'd load up the family station wagon early on Thanksgiving morning and head to Springfield, MO, where maternal grandparents Jesse and Mayme Welsh made their residence. Dad was an only child, his Mom died when he was 12, and his Dad died in 1948, so our Mom's parents were the only grandparents we knew, and we eagerly looked forward to our visits. 

Dad had use of a Ford station wagon courtesy of his job as a band instrument salesman for McLean's Band Instruments. Mom and Dad / aka Helen and Charlie would occupy the front seats. Bill and I would sit in the way back facing the rear, and Sally sat somewhere. She was invisible to her older brothers, although mightily cute we were told. For some reason Sheb Wooley's song, "Purple People Eater" played incessantly on the radio as we journeyed south on the cold, gray November morning, and the year was 1958. 

The roads from Prairie Village to Springfield had not yet met interstate standards, nor have they done so today. It was somewhat better than a goat track, but not by much. Somehow, we made our way into the Queen City of the Ozarks after a four-hour drive, made shorter by our silly games of counting cows and horses. When passing a big truck, we'd pump our arms like a trainman pulling on a steam whistle, and the truckers would graciously toot their horns in reply. 

The northern parts of Springfield were distinctive given the many homes and motor courts constructed with giraffe-like flat stone facings. Dad would maneuver our massive, yet exceedingly modest, land yacht through the streets of North Springfield to our midtown destination. At the time, Jesse and Mayme lived adjacent to the Southwest Missouri State Teachers College, now Missouri State University. The football stadium and an enormous swimming pool sat across the street from their boarding house. There were candy shops and tiny grocery stores within safe walking distance for little boys and girls. It was pure heaven. (All of this is now long gone owing to the expansion of the university). 

The house was modest and snuggled tightly to the neighboring dwellings, but it hosted a front porch with a swing. It was three stories, but I don't think I ever went into the basement. I remember well the fun times spent with cousins Steve, Bob, and Debbie, and I remember well the thrashing Jesse would administer to his grandchildren in the game of Hearts. He was not a playful grandpa, but he very much liked to play cards with us and to win. Apparently, his experiences as a WWI doughboy, raising a family of five during the depression, sending his sons off to a subsequent war, and decades as an educator in the first half of the 20th century had inoculated him to the illusion that everyone is a winner. But I don't remember where we all slept. They must have sent their boarders away 

Uncle Stan would always bring his very own stash of Falstaff beer. In later life I would have occasion to sample many different varieties of said beverage, and I can say with little fear of contradiction, 'Falstaff is an acquired taste.' 

Aunt Joan, my Mom's youngest sibling, was almost closer in age to the oldest of her nieces and nephews than to her older brothers and sisters. This accorded her great status to Bill and I. She was always playful and fun making the Thanksgiving experience all the more delightful. 

Mayme's meal was beyond exquisite. As a 13-year-old, I could certainly lay no claim to gourmandmanship, but I can attest to this claim as one who could put away meaningful quantities of victuals. Grandma's signature offering was green beans cooked in lard with bacon and was my Dad's favorite. Her turkey and stuffing, and her yeast ladened rolls and sweet rolls were the tastiest dishes in the entire world. There would always be a home-made pecan pie, a pumpkin pie, and a minced meat pie. The latter was something only my Mom would eat. To this day I could not name the ingredients of minced meat pie. Porcupine innards? Last year's fruitcake? Perhaps. My favorite was the pecan pie. We stuffed ourselves and enjoyed our cousinly chatter awaiting the Hearts encounter with Grandpa. 

I was 13, Bill was 14, and Sally was 10 in 1958. We had long since passed the adorable stage of life. Not surprisingly, it still has not returned in the subsequent half century or so, and I shall wait no longer. At that time cousins Bob and Debbie were reaching their acme of cuteness and Marcie was a dear wee baby. What grandparent doesn't adore cuteness? But amazingly, Jesse and Mayme distributed their love evenly. God, I miss those fine people. 

Book Sales 

After dining with Lucy and her family last week we stayed at the table and played a game where in turn one participant selects a card from a deck which poses a question. Everyone writes down how they think the card picker might answer the question. Then all the answers are read to the group. When it was my turn to select a card, the question was "What will be written on your gravestone?" Waverly guessed, "I told you I was sick." Lucy picked, "Buy my book." The lass knows me well. 

This is a long-winded way of arriving at an update of my book sales. I have now passed Herman Melville. Surprisingly, I received an electronic payment from Amazon for the sale of nine ebooks yielding a bountiful royalty of $3.15. I'm not bragging or anything, but that transaction may have put me over the top in besting Melville's total book sales (3,000) whilst he was still living. Nude Nuns has now crested the 2,000-copy mark and Ordinary People has reached 1,000. In his honor, I am now rereading Moby Dick, a treatise I last read while in high school, but failed to appreciate. I am now officially withdrawing any comparisons to Herman. In contrast, the modesty of my scrivened dribble cannot be exaggerated. I commend this brilliant book to you. 

*** 

And that's the news from here. This has been a grueling year on so many levels. I'm sure I join everyone in wishing for a return to some sense of normalcy. I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving including the enjoyment of a tryptophan induced nap. Here's a verbal toast to all for your good health and good cheer as the holiday season approaches. 

Chuck 

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 charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

NNAOPP Update - May 2020

NNAOPP Update – May 2020

Canoeing on the Current on a Cold Day

It wasn’t as cold as I thought it might be.  Perhaps it was the adrenaline.  More likely it was the fear of wrath that I knew would be forthcoming from my bride of some 50 years. 

It was 44 degrees when Robbie dropped the four of us off along with our two canoes, and it was 44 degrees when he picked us up later that day.  It was late October 2018, and we were his only customers for the day. The sun would occasionally break through the clouds, but not enough to provide warmth.  Robbie was a big ole boy to an extreme, probably about 60, and he was mighty friendly and helpful.  He picked us up at the Echo Bluff Lodge and drove us to the Pulltite Landing.  En route he regaled us with stories, “Kids always ask me what I do in the winter.  I tell them that I float the river to pick up trash and get rid of all the alligators.  They’ll shout, ‘There are no alligators in this river!’  And I’ll tell them, I’m doing a pretty good job aren’t I?”

We didn’t see a single other canoe on the 11-mile stretch of the Current River that runs from Pulltite to Round Springs.  The river was relatively high and running fast, and a mist spread over the water. The only sound we heard other than our paddles dipping into the water was a dog barking in the distance.  Kingfishers darted around us with regularity.  We saw one eagle, several chicken hawks, one great blue heron, and a couple of river otters.  The heron would fly about 200 yards downstream whenever we neared and then repeat its retreat over and over.  He was a constant companion.

The previous fall, Judy and I travelled to Shannon County, Missouri with my sister Sally, cousins Steve and Debbie, and Aunt Joan.  We visited all of the first magnitude springs, those that discharge more than 20 million gallons a day, in the vicinity: Welch, Round, Pulltite, Blue, and Big Springs. The latter, being fittingly named, empties 283 million gallons of water daily into the Current.  We stayed at the Echo Bluff lodge north of Eminence, MO, one of the best lodging values one will find anywhere. After the trip Steve sent me the 1958 book Stars Upstream by Leonard Hall which chronicles life along the Current and Jacks Fork Rivers in southeast Missouri.  It is a great read, and afterwards Steve and I decided we should return to the area and float a section of the river.  And we did.

The Current River runs for 184 miles through the Ozark highlands in southeastern Missouri, starting at Montauk Springs and ending where it meets the White River on the level Arkansas plains before joining the mighty Mississippi.  Its watershed is almost entirely forested, and the valley through which it flows is consistently narrow and bordered by hardwood trees, rock ledges, springs, gravel bars, and towering dolomite bluffs.

The river bottom of the Current is relatively shallow excepting occasional deep pools with a floor of smooth stones.  150 years ago, the oak covered hills were clear cut to provide the ties to build the transcontinental railway.  The river was deep and home to abundant trout and other game fish.  Denuded of its tree cover, the rocky soil washed into the streams forever changing the bed.  It is still crystal clear, and a new generation of oak have returned.  During a recent trip to Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, we toured the home of Tio Pepe Sherry, and our guide bragged about the aging casks made of Missouri oak.  Most likely the oak floors in your home came from this region.

We wore our life jackets, more for warmth than safety, but in a fit of hubris, I removed mine.  It was irritating my right arm as I paddled.  Instead, I used it as an extra seat cushion.  I figured the couple of inches of extra height would help me read the river.  I was the helmsman, taking the rear seat of the canoe, and handled our trip quite ably for a while.   Our family had taken dozens of canoe trips over the years, and I never once flipped.  It had been several decades since our last trip, but I was tenuously confident.

Then I misread the river badly.  Steve and Debbie took a mid-stream course, and I took the faster water to the left.  We got into an eddy, swinging the back of the canoe broadside to the water flow.  We caught on a long branch extending into the water, and we were in the water in an instant.  I had my phone and wallet in a zip lock bag, and I grabbed it as it floated out of my pocket.  Judy was wearing her life jacket but couldn’t touch the bottom with her feet.  The first thought that went through my mind was, “Holy shit! I am going to hear about this moment every day for the remainder of my pathetic life!”

I could reach bottom and shouted to Judy to hold onto the canoe, and I started walking us back towards the closest shoreline which was a steep, weedy area, not a gentle sloping gravel bar.  Steve and Debbie circled around to help.  I would later learn that the water temperature of the spring fed Current is 58 – 60 degrees year-round.  It was definitely warmer in the water than out of it. 

We gathered our paddles, cushions, and the ever so critical dry bags.  A few days before the trip Judy said, “You’re worrying me with your obsession over taking dry bags.” We changed clothes.  I even brought a towel, and Steve helped me drain the canoe, and we were off once again.

I stayed in the middle of the stream at every subsequent riffle.  We covered the remaining 6 miles in less than three hours, and Robbie was waiting for us when we arrived.

Epilogue

It’s now been over a year, and not once has Judy uttered a word of recrimination.  God bless that woman.

Karma

In days long gone, I had occasion to speak in front of groups of people, usually about semi-technical healthcare topics.  I often proffered attempts at humor, sometimes well received, sometimes not.  In reference to one of the nastier towns I had occasion to visit, I used the line, “If you only had six months to live you’d want to live in Xyzville, because it would seem like a lifetime.”  The audience would chuckle politely.  After one such speech, a lady approached and said, “Guess where I’m from?”  “Xyzville?”  “Yes, and you’re spot on.”

Fast forward to this past summer.  Judy and I were sitting on the patio at Indian Hills CC dining with several couples, one of which we had just met.  The lady explained that her husband was from Xyzville.  “No way.”  I said and repeated my now tired joke.  She laughed and agreed with the sentiment.  Just then a bird dropped a moist, fecal missile on my bare right arm.  And that is why I now refrain from using the real name of the town I once found disagreeable.

Harry Bolivar

We recently attended a dinner party and were reacquainted with a couple we had not seen for many years.  The guy is a very manly man who once taught me how to trap and clean muskrats.  He told the following story that amused me greatly:

“I was one of five kids, and we grew up in a small town in very modest circumstances.  My Dad kept a foot locker with a padlock on it, and every couple of months, he would hide all of our toys in the chest, and return the toys he had taken earlier.  Like goldfish in a tank, ‘New toys, we’d think.’  Later, we got wise to him, and I asked, ‘What happened to my toy dump truck?’  Dad explained, ‘I lent it to Harry Bolivar.’  And that satisfied my limited curiosity.

A few weeks later we were driving around town, and Dad pointed out the most ramshackle dwelling in town, even shabbier than ours.  He said, ‘That’s where Harry Bolivar lives.  He’ll be bringing back your truck in a few weeks.’ ”

The Shark

Last year, on one of on my Sanibel beach walks I saw a smallish shark feeding at the water’s edge.  A crowd gathered to watch it glide up and down the shoreline in a near frenzy.  There must have been some tasty critters hidden from view.  Another shark, about 7’ in length, beached itself about 100 yards distant, back towards the lighthouse.  A man approached it from behind, grabbed it by the tail, dragged it back into the water, and it zoomed away.  I don’t think I would have done that.

Stocky Boy

In Sanibel I ride my bike often, usually down Periwinkle to the library, Jerry’s, or to visit friends.  Once I was returning home and riding up the slight hill that bridges one of the canals, and I saw a little boy walking towards me backwards.  I would guess he was about 7 or 8.  He was memorable not just for walking backwards, although that bit of goofiness amused me, but because he’s a big little boy, not fat, just block like.  Think of descriptors like chunk or fireplug.  He was hatless, but should he have worn one, he would have required one larger than mine. 

The following day, I was returning about the same time, and I again encountered the same little boy.  This time he was walking face first.  He smiled at me and waved timidly.  I waved back and rode on.  It made me smile.

Mountain Dew

It was my good fortune over the Christmas holidays to go skiing at Beaver Creek with 9-year-old grandsons, Finn and Charlie, and their 8-year-old friend.  The boys are far better skiers than I and much speedier.  I deluded myself into thinking I was their uphill protector from out-of-control speedsters, but the reality was that the boys were just faster.  They were kind enough to stop periodically within eyesight of me, so I could keep pace.  The sun was shining, there was little wind, and the snow was in perfect condition.  One couldn’t have asked for a better day to be on the slopes.

We lunched at one of the many mountainside venues and trundled to an open group of seats at a long, crowded table.  Charlie asked what kind of drinks they had, and I read from a list on the wall.  One of the choices was Mountain Dew, and Charlie said, “I’ll have that.”

I responded, “Not a good idea laddie.  Mountain Dew is laced with caffeine, you might as well have a dozen double espressos.”  Absent any encouragement, I expanded on my Mountain Dew diatribe, and told the boys about the time I mistakenly offered the eponymous soft drink to a Mormon who was a guest in my office.  When presented with a can of the offending beverage, the fellow made the sign of the cross as though he was fending off a vampire.  “What’s a Mormon?” the boys asked.  Before I could elucidate, the four adults sitting to my left broke out in laughter.

“Oops!”  I said.  “Are you folks Mormons by any chance?”

They replied in the affirmative, one offering.  “And we loved your story.  Sorry we interrupted before listening to your description of Mormons.”

Field Trip

I was reading a book by a very funny guy, who in passing mentioned that he went on a field trip as a kid, to a field.  Yes!  They took a bunch of city kids out into the ‘country’ and walked around a field.  That struck my funny bone, and it made me think back to days of yore when my scout troop took a field trip to a slaughter house down in the KC stockyards.  I’m still traumatized by the memory.  I’m guessing all the tours to the sewage treatment plant were booked that day.  I’m here to tell you that an abattoir is not a good place for fifth graders.

We observed cows sticking their heads in a large opening, where a large power hammer dropped like a guillotine, and the sad critter dropped like a rock.  The carcass was then hoisted by a hook on a moving line and was quickly gutted.  The floor was covered with several inches of a blood.  For no extra charge the workers, undoubtedly desiring to add to our horror, would grab handfuls of innards and shake them in our direction.

But the worst was yet to come.  We saw hot dogs being made.  Aargh!  I still can’t process it.  All parts not heretofore carved into recognizable items were ground into a bloody stew and stuffed into casings, stacked and wrapped into Oscar Meyer packages.  I was forever scarred.  It’s amazing I’m so normal now.

Plague Journal Entry

I’ve been keeping a journal during the pandemic.  I’m certainly not trying to copy Camus, but I’ve been jotting down a few observations.  Here’s a brief sampling:

Friday April 17, 2020

Some people will not follow the rules, and it kind of pisses me off.  Those that flout social conventions willingly disrupt the natural order of the cosmos, being particularly egregious during this once-in-a-century pandemic that has befallen us.  Social cohesion requires, no! dare I say, demands, that individual whims must at times yield to the greater good of the group.  The signs leading to the beaches in Sanibel clearly state, “No Nude Bathing.”  Thank goodness I have prescription sunglasses and that I’ve kept alert in spite of my advancing years, or I might not have espied the well-formed rule-breaking miscreants, a pair of pairs so to speak.  The beach was modestly crowded, as it was a beautiful day.  While walking from the eastern tip of the island (mile 0) up to the mile 2 marker I counted about 50 boats anchored near the water line.  Fun lovers were either immersed in waist deep water, fishing, or setting up colorful umbrella beachheads.  The two unclad beauties heretofore mentioned were frolicking right off the Sanibel Lighthouse.  One can only imagine my dismay.  In their defense, all beach parking is closed, so the young ladies may not have seen the parking lot signs.  It’s possible, although unlikely, that they were not toilet paper hoarders and were merely in need of a briny rinse.  But being the good sport that I am, I chose not to take the matter any further.  But, my dear friends, of this you may be assured, I will remain vigilant and keep you abreast of any further developments.

Thursday May 7, 2020

We joined my cousins (the Welsh clan) for our weekly Zoom call, and inexplicably the topic of dining at Waffle House came up.  One cousin admitted she worked at one during high school.  I asked her if they offered an ‘all you can eat’ benefit.  She said, “Yes, but why?”  My brother, and former traveling salesman, mentioned he loved Waffle House chow, but his wife entered one time, sat at the counter with him, viewed the untidiness of the cooking area, and immediately walked out.  Then another cousin put a capstone on the conversation, “I know several people who once worked at Waffle House, and all of them had children with extra fingers and toes.”

Chuck

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

Mardi Gras 2020

Mardi Gras

2020

I’m closing in on my 20^th anniversary of attending Mardi Gras in NOLA as the guest of a dear friend whose apartment offers the single best vantage point from which to view and participate in the celebration.  It occurred to me that about the only thing that has changed from my first trip is that I’m older. Everything else has stayed pretty much the same:  insanely loud, colorful, funny, fun, great food, and mildly titillating.

On Lundi Gras I was taking my customary stroll around the French Quarter taking in the sounds and sights.  I was descending the stairs that run from the Mississippi River levy down to a promenade across Decatur Street from Jackson Square.  A big black guy with a round head and fuzzy short hair was ascending, so I got a perfect view of his dome.  His coiffure was dyed green, and he had a pattern cut into scalp in such a manner that his head looked exactly like a tennis ball.  My costume of faded cranberry shorts, a borrowed tee shirt stenciled, “I’ve Got a Good Heart / But the Mouth,” and flip flops paled in comparison.

A few minutes later I espied a young guy with long hair and beard, dressed like Jesus, but incongruously playing an electric guitar.  His case was nearly full of dollar bills labelled, “Tithings.”  A half a block down Chartres a man dressed in a Scottish kilt was playing bagpipes, but his music was being drowned out by two young black kids beating on plastic barrels with drumsticks.  Neither party seemed to notice the other.

On Friday we had our customary 5-hour lunch at the Rib Room with friends.  It is always great fun to catch up with people I see but once a year.  Alcohol was served in abundance and continues to serve as an excellent social lubricant.  Six of the nine diners are engineers or construction executives working in NOLA, so the collapse of the Hard Rock Hotel was an early topic of conversation.  For those with an interest here are some of the theories mentioned:

-       The tragedy was attributable to a combination of errors.

-       The steel structure was grossly under-engineered, a consequence of corner cutting ‘design build method’ and a ‘low bid’ winner on the engineering work.

-       Construction blunders occurred including premature removal of shoring and simultaneously staging steel above uncured concrete floors.

-       A city inspector who falsified her inspections, and who was certified only for residential construction.

There were three fatalities and two bodies remain in the still-partially-standing structure, one of which is visible from the street as the covering has blown away.  It’s a mess

It was well after dark when we concluded our lunch.  Patrick’s bar was too crowded so we decided to return to the apartment.  First, we stopped for snacks at Rouse’s grocery store across the street.  While waiting to pay, we were standing behind two young guys.  Both were extremely pale and gaunt. One was wearing a large backpack that had two small hula hoops strapped to the back.  Being curious, I inquired, “Forgive me for intruding, but what’s with the small hula hoops?”

The hula hoop guy had a wispy red beard, couldn’t have been over 22, and was dressed in grunge, the uniform of choice for the counter culture crowd.  His colleague/companion wore a cheap, white fur coat loosely covering his bare, hirsute torso.  The red bearded lad turned toward me purposefully penetrating my comfort zone and said, “Come outside, and I’ll show you what I can do with these hoops?”

“You’re not going to mug me, are you?”

“No, you silly.”

We walked out to the sidewalk between Rouse’s and the vacant body painting kiosk, and the guy unfolded the two small hoops forming them into one.  Then he performed one of the most amazing hula hoop performances in all of world history.   After some conventional moves, he leaned way back, limbo like, and twirled the plastic tube with the underside of his nose.  I’m not making this up.  Then he bounced the hoop off the wall of Rouse’s and caught the carom with his beak.  He finished with a few flourishes, the hoop going up and down his body with the grace of Mikhail Baryshnikov.  We were pretty well amazed and applauded enthusiastically, thanked him, and wished him well.  I halfway expected to see the pair again later in the week as street performers, but no such luck.

Muses / Nyx Parades

One of our Friday lunch companions is a member of Muses, along with 900 women between the ages of 21-91.  There is a waiting list, she is a non-riding member, and it may be a few more years before qualifying as a rider.  Each year she makes 36 elaborate shoes to give away during the parade.  She says she loves getting out her glue gun, glitter, beads, feathers, and what not in preparation for the festivities.

Nyx is another women’s parade group, but it is much larger with 3,000 members.  They decorate purses for gifts.  Sadly, during this year’s parade an entirely too eager celebrant died trying to retrieve trinkets in between tandem floats and was crushed to her death, ending the parade barely before it started.  Two days later another individual tried crossing the tongue that links tandem floats in the Endymion Parade, and he was also killed.

Bead bartering

I am aware that my musings on the beads for boobs aspect of Mardi Gras is pleasing to some readers, but less so for others.  I’m reminded of accidentally being on a topless beach with my nine-year-old twin grandsons last summer.  Their initial reaction was “gross!”  A nearby lady offered wise counsel, “If it offends you, don’t look.”  In a similar vein, if aggrieved by this topic, please pass on the next section.

As my host, fellow guest, and I cruise into our mid-70’s, I’ve developed some disquietude that our geezerly appearance would dampen our ability to trade cheap Chinese gimgracks for torso exposures.  Providentially, this has not been the case.  Saturday morning was our first time on the balcony.  It was chilly, there were few passersby, no one was drinking, and we didn’t even have a line in the water.  Then what to our surprise while sitting around scratching our balls and drinking coffee, a group of six women, I’m guessing in their 40’s, yelled up at us and said, “How about some beads!”  We obediently complied, and each of the six shared a pleasing view of their chests.  It defied all conventional wisdom as groups of women are the least likely to participate in this silly barter.  In my imagination, here is what happened.  The six pals travelled from Minnesota, or some other cold spot.  It was their first Mardi Gras, and beforehand they vowed to one another, “Let’s just do it.”  And they did.  Opportunely we were the beneficiaries.

The good fortune would continue as both Monday and Tuesday were sunny and warm.  For those interested in the statistical metrics of this game, here are a few guidelines.  The highest probability period is 3 – 4:30 pm.  In case anyone doubts the power of alcohol to lessen one’s inhibitions, it should be noted that by mid-afternoon, a meaningful portion of French Quarter amblers are stewed to the gills.  When a candidate appears already wearing an abundance of beads, holds a plastic hurricane drink, and is not wearing a bustier or business suit, it is like hunting in a baited field.  Some ladies do try to chisel on the bargain by showing but one breast, and I must remind them that said body parts typically come in pairs.  Most understand this logic and willingly comply.  We also had really good beads this year.

Bacchus Parade

My host and fellow guest decided they would join 1,600 fellow Carnival partygoers and ride in this year’s Bacchus parade.  A first for both of them.  A day before the Sunday evening launch we journeyed to the gigantic NOLA convention center, 68 acres under roof to be exact, situated on the banks of the mighty Mississippi River where preparations were being made.

We arrived at the appropriate gate and noticed rental trucks loaded with boxes of beads lined up in the parking lot.  Groups of older, black men stood ready to haul trollies of the trinkets to the various floats, a scene mindful of the lyrics of the Willie Nelson song, City of New Orleans, “Passing trains that have no names, And freight yards full of old black men.”

There were 36 Bacchus floats staged in order of their appearance.  There was a paper map showing how each would be pulled out of the building into parade readiness.  The biggest consisted of four distinct segments and were 160’ in length, one of which was a giant alligator. The smallest were single themed and were only 42’.  Giant pallets of beads weighing tons were stacked everywhere.  I walked around and was mightily impressed by the artistry of the assembled carriages.

My friends climbed on board their cowboy-saloon-themed float and starting unpacking and staging their plastic treasures, hanging stuff on hooks for easy access, and getting briefed on what to expect.  There was barely room for the riders. Each conveyance has a lieutenant and a captain who are responsible for some semblance of order.  Costumes and masks are provided along with a massive assortment of Bacchus beads.  Most of the riders also purchase supplemental novelties.  Here are a few rules:  Don’t throw any beads or anything until you get to the parade route.  It’s dangerous attracting kids on streets without any barriers.  One must have their mask on at all times. BTW, they are serious masks that fully cover the face and neck. There is a $500 fine for throwing an entire bag of beads.  Riders must wear a safety harness secured to the float. Each float has a bartender / porter to assist the riders and two porta potties.  The floats typically get to the launch point several hours before the 5:15 start.  Fortunately, there are several bars nearby. 

Afterwards, my friends reported that they enjoyed the experience but were somewhat shocked by how busy they were, taking trinkets out of plastic coverings, turning on the battery-operated baubles, and making the toss.  The parade lasted about 3 hours, then the celebrants returned to the convention center for a gala ball.

Banjo Plan

I was left to my own devices on Sunday.  I walked over to Jackson Square for a delicious brunch of fried oysters, poached eggs, and ham at Stanley’s.  I encountered streets packed with tourists, locals, and an eye-opening assortment of humanity.  A store front sign accurately declared, “Mardi Gras or just another day at Wal-Mart?” Musicians played loudly, amplified by car battery powered speakers.  A black man shouted at me, “Hey man, you look like Spielsberg! (sic).” A Catholic Mass procession was entering St. Louis Cathedral, and the communicants were being heckled by protestors holding signs and wearing tee shirts calling priests pedophiles and perverts.  No one seemed to notice or care. 

My plan was to buckster somewhere in the FQ with my Ome open back banjo.  After brunch I scouted out a possible location where my relatively quiet, clawhammer tunes could be heard.  I went back to the apartment and encountered the first of several problems.  The cacophony of noise coming from the streets was so loud, I couldn’t get my tuner to register.  I solved this by going into the bathroom with the door closed and got in tune.

I set up on St. Louis Street by the State Courthouse.  I didn’t take a chair, because it was too much of a hassle, so I just took my banjo in its case, pulled it out, and started playing a few tunes in Double C while standing.  It was sunny and warm, so I was attired in shorts, a tee shirt, flip flops, and sun glasses rendering me virtually invisible.  A few passersby seemed to notice that I was playing, nodded with a hint of mild approval, and marched on.  Then a young man set up his electric guitar just opposite me.  In addition to being good, he was very loud, so I walked over to Chartres Street which was relatively uncrowded, but was musically occupied by a kid loudly beating a plastic barrel with drumsticks.  It had never fully registered before how extremely loud it is on the streets, and I headed back to the apartment no worse for the wear, and the multitudes were spared another noise maker.

What not

Saturday night we dressed up and headed to Patrick’s Bar Vin for a cocktail preceding dinner.  Then we crossed Bourbon Street through a raging river of humanity to dine at Arnaud’s.  Once inside, the contrast could not have been more extreme.  Bourbon Street is chaotic, almost anarchic.  In sharp contrast, Arnaud’s is old world gentility.  The two worlds separated merely by 25 yards of space and a door.

The crowds on Tuesday were as large as any I can remember.  Most everyone was in a festive mood.  I mentally speculate on the occupations of the most outrageously and provocatively attired strollers.  Can they all be dental hygienists?  The body painting guy appeared to be having a really bad week, as I encountered few gilded, topless torsos.  Microphone aided preachers bombarded the already noisy streets with their pleadings and were almost always accompanied by an equally amplified detractor endlessly repeating, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah!” 

The most prestigious parades occur on Lundi Gras evening with the Kings and Queens of Carnival for Zulu and Rex meet.  Rex represents the blue bloods of white NOLA society.  Zulu is the same for the black aristocracy.  An interesting distinction is that Zulu allows white members, but they must wear blackface. 

And that was that.  The venue is fun, but the secret sauce to the Mardi Gras experience was spending time with friends with an abundance of laughter brightening each day.

Chuck

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