Hot Runnin' Water

When I came to TN, I wanted to learn how to survive on very little so that I would always be prepared. I took a small shack in Possum Holler--yes, it's a real place (at least I wasn't across the highway in Dismal Holler). It had a wraparound porch and electricity, but no plumbing.  Not even a drain.  "That'll be $30 a month," Vertis the landlord said, "Dollar a day."  Not much, was my answer.  "Well, it ain't much of a house."

So I learned to operate a well bucket, bathe in a bowl, and respect every drop of water I used. When I wasn't working at the local greasy pit rolling out frozen biscuit dough, or at home hauling water, it was me, my mutt and my banjo. That's how I discovered the wonder of hot runnin' water.

As a child, I lived in NY with my family in a house on the rim of a reservoir of sorts, known as the "sump". Behind the sump was the woods, an area of intrigue. I was afraid I might disappear there, but I remained fascinated and extremely curious. It was magical, with changes in the light and seasons, and we, the neighborhood kids, went exploring regularly. The last house along the rim was older than the rest of the homes in our development. It was taller and scary, shrouded by large trees and set off by itself. It belonged to Mrs. Lake, who had a nasty reputation. Each summer, we would carefully sneak through her yard to reach the berry bushes in the woods. We'd stuff ourselves, fill our buckets for jam and pies, then sneak back.

No one had ever actually seen Mrs. Lake and we never saw cars parked at her house either. (She was probably at work, an idea we hadn't quite grasped yet.) Once after a berry run, we were about to sneak back to the road, when we were surprised by a garden party in the front yard. There was no way around it. We attempted to stealth walk--in full view of the guests. (We were young.) We stopped the conversation of course, and a tall blond woman in her forties approached us. She was rather amused and quite friendly, and turned out to be Mrs. Lake. She invited us to return and visit, and pick berries anytime.

We didn't go for berries all that much afterwards...It just wasn't as much fun without a sense of mystery and mischief. Next Halloween, my brother and I visited her in our costumes and Mrs. Lake made popcorn in a huge iron frying pan. We ate it together in her kitchen along with her 22 cats. We even met Mr. Lake one time. That really closed the book on the berry treks. But there was more beyond the sump...

My Dad was head Broadcast Engineer at CBS-TV, New York, for years.  He was at his post on the lower level of the Ed Sullivan Theatre when the Beatles first appeared there.  At some point during the three Sullivan shows they were on, my father actually managed to snag a few autographs. 

Security was very tight of course, but inside the studio theatre during a break in rehearsal, a line of employees, cops, and other guests of the show were crowding around "the boys" to get up close and personal.  A photographer caught a couple of shots that my father inadvertently got into.  (In one group shot, my father's nose got memorialized at the right edge of the frame.)  On a blank piece of white paper, Dad asked John, George and Ringo to sign their names. He never did get Paul's back then, but--omigosh---3 Beatles autographs!!! The paper got framed and hung on the wall at home, below a photo of my father and Ringo.  Then...

Thanks to my father, my public education was embellished with the likes of the ballet and symphony, a darkroom in our basement bathroom, and target practice---also in the basement---with my Dad's BB gun.

One of my Dad's passions was sailboats. He rebuilt our first one, a hurricane victim. We had 2 more after that, each smaller than the last. We sailed them on a small lake in New Jersey. Another of his hobbies was the the model HO train set and Atlas cars, parked in that same 3-room basement. Gradually, we added scenery--miniature light poles strung with line, a lumberyard, houses, people. We went camping often and had an active fireplace there and at home too. Everyone in my house played one or more instruments. Many evenings were spent around a fire singing old tunes.

At CBS-TV, where Dad worked, I often saw what went on behind the scenes. The Muppets were rehearsing one day and I had a chance to watch. The characters were alive as long as they had humans with them, whether on camera or not. The director spoke to Big Bird, not to the guy inside the suit. At break, Big Bird removed his "head" and I

Out with Dad for lunch, the sidewalks were packed as usual. People bumped shoulder to shoulder, keeping their eyes straight ahead, like they wore blinders. Across the street on the curb, a man stood still, the crowd parting around him. From behind him, I saw he was jostled by those passing, tho his feet were firm. His torso jolted in fits and starts. As I slipped by, I noticed his eyes were shut and he was snoring, grunting now and then. No one paid the slightest attention....His drag get-up could have had something to do with it...It gave me a chuckle; Dad brushed it off as normal. This was New York City after all.

After my first summer in my Tennessee home, I saw that the house needed more shade. I just happened to get a postcard from a local nursery announcing a tree seminar. I signed up. That fall I had 4 bare ten foot trees standing in buckets in my yard: 2 yellow poplar, a red maple and a magnolia. I got out my shovel, marked my first hole and broke ground.

It took several hours to plant each tree. The holes had to be a couple feet deep and almost 5 feet across. (I was living up to my name...) Then each bucket had to be cut off the roots and the tree placed. Sand and soil conditioner had to be mixed in with the dirt, which is mostly clay in my yard. Then hardwood mulch was spread and watered in. Then there was clean-up.

Spring was several months off yet. When temperatures began rising, and buds began to swell, I got really excited---they were alive!! I watched them change and grow by the day, just like a baby. Little leaves unfolded and straightened out one at a time, like a chick breaking out of its egg. Each new set of leaves grew out of the ones beneath it, adding to the length. It was cathartic.

I got "fast growers", and by the end of that next summer, they'd all gained 2-3 feet, in spite of the nursery's prediction that they would just work on their roots for the first 2 years. They're just puppies at 12-13 feet, but they look big to me. I admire them, standing still and peaceful no matter what the weather. I've always wanted to live in one place long enough to watch a young tree grow to full size. It hasn't happened so far, but there's still time...

Friz and Gwinda crossed paths in their early 70’s at their 50 year high school reunion in Michigan. Friz had gone to CA to raise a family, while Gwinda had stayed in the area to raise hers. Both widowed, they were magnetically attracted after 50 years and became very close.

Gwinda lived alone in a condo. Friz returned to MI to live with and care for his 99 year old Mom. Tho her mobility was limited, her mind remained sharp as a tack. She was quite vocal and was very unhappy with Friz’s newfound friendship…So they kept it low-key. They decided they would not marry as long as Mom was still living. Sometimes Friz’s sister would give him a break and take care of Mom for awhile. During these times, Friz moved into Gwinda’s basement and they could have privacy.

A year flew by and Friz decided to fly back to CA to get his van. He invited Gwinda along and they would tour back, visiting friends and family along the way. Which is how they came to spend a night at our farm in Pleasant Shade, TN…. After an enjoyable evening together, it was time to hit the hay. I was familiar with Gwinda’s views on pre-marital sex, so I waited for a clue from her as to whether I needed to prepare one bed or two…I got it when she grabbed both their bags and requested that I take her to “our quarters”.

Later, Friz peeked in and saw the king-sized bed. With his dry sense of humor he quipped, "So where’s the ‘bundling board’?!” He explained that, a century ago, a large board would be placed down the middle of a bed to form a wall if it was not appropriate for a couple to have sex. I responded with like humor and asked if he’d like a two by four…We all had a good chuckle; then Gwinda's face got very serious. She gripped my arm and spoke firmly: “Listen Digger, we left your phone # with Friz’s Mom in case of emergency. So, if she happens to call---we’re telling her Friz is sleeping in the van.”

I went through my commune phase outside a tiny town in southern Missouri. The communal population (about 60 of us) consisted mostly of well-educated rebellious twenty-somethings who felt rejection from and towards the "outside world". We thought we could improve upon society at large, mainly through attempted anarchy, with attempted supervision by an appointed planner/manager government. However, that's another story....I digress...

One day I was out in the back 40 on trash detail with Om and Gorgeous Morning, two of the hulkier men on the farm. They unloaded three fifty gallon drums full of burnable trash off the pick-up. They set them in a wide open bare field a good distance from the tree line that bordered the dorms and kitchen building. We lit the trash and began our tailgate party nearby. Cans of loose tobacco and rolling papers came out, along with chocolate bars, soft drinks, and little bags of fresh bud.

The party had barely begun when the wind suddenly rushed in and took the top of the burning trash to the ground beside the barrels. We ran to stomp it out, but the wind was much faster than we were. Flames quickly spread into a large circle in the sparse brown weeds, and within seconds, traveled to the tree line. Om jumped in the truck, drove to the kitchen and hollered "Fire in the valley!"

The fire kept spreading and kept us up all that night, working furiously to contain it before it got to the buildings and the rest of the woods. Every person, garden tool, and blanket was used and the local fire fighters helped too. Some of us stayed in the kitchen, handing out sandwiches, hot tea, salt tablets, and wet washcloths to wipe down gritty faces. By dawn, we were all exhausted. Only hot glowing boundary lines remained where the fire had been stopped by our rakes. Damage was minimal and no one was hurt.

The woods were forever changed and so were we. Serious reflection was in order about basics like our home, community, our earth, and our own mortality. Many of us did a bunch of growing up that night........A year passed and the bare field grew too. A most beautiful stand of golden grasses appeared in the formerly barren area, healing the blackened wounds. The fire had rendered the ground fertile. It became known as the Golden Valley, and the story of the fire, a rite of passage, was never forgotten.

Alcohol

Awhile back, I learned a little about a variety of alcohol that was new for me....

I find that I almost always have to coax my printer to work. I was having problems with the cartridges. I had shot them up with my syringe kit, but printing wasn't happening. Soaking the print heads in distilled water hadn't worked either. I had exhausted all the tips in the manual and resorted to the hassle of calling tech support. This is where the alcohol came in....Tech said to soak the heads in denatured alcohol for 20 minutes, and that would do the trick.

I had never used the stuff before and had no clue where to find it. I started with the local general store, Al's. I thought it might be on the shelf with the rubbing alcohol. I approached a thin, gray-haired man wearing an apron, as he put stickers on some boxes.

"Do you have any denatured alcohol here?" He quietly gave me a stern look, but nonetheless, led me to the pharmacy section. We both knelt down to check the lowest rack. He turned to me and asked me to repeat what I was after. As I said, "denatured alcohol", he watched me closely.

"Ma'am, I don't think you'll find any teenager alcohol around here...."

The day couldn't have been more perfect for the Castalian Springs Bluegrass Fest. To beat it all, the biggest fluke was that I got to open it for Jesse McReynolds and Mac Wiseman.....

I first heard of the festival in the Tennessee Almanac. Less than a week before the big day, I called for ticket info. I got details and then decided to go for broke. I asked, how might one get to play at such an event? I explained a bit about myself and--who'da thunk it--I was given Jesse's home phone # and instructions...I called immediately and spoke to Jesse's wife, Joy. She very kindly took all my info, web address and all, tho she'd never heard of the likes of me...Said she'd check out the website and talk to Jesse and have him get back with me. Yeah right, I thought to myself, it's five days until the festival...

Two days passed and no return call. I've learned to expect this in the music "biz" and I was certain that would be the end of it. So I went for broke again and called once more. Joy was most kind again and--I was dumbfounded--said she had indeed been to the website and had enjoyed it. She wasn't able to listen to the music (sorry about that,the problem has been fixed), but she liked the photos and other stuff. Then aside to Jesse, "Do we have a spot for Digger?" Yeah right, I'm thinking, she hadn't even heard the music..."We need somebody to open and warm up the crowd. Would you be interested?" After a few more asides to her husband for details, suddenly I was speaking to the man himself, with 3 days to go.

The folks at the gate and parking attendants all treated me like royalty. In those 3 days, my name had made it into the printed program at the top of the list of performers. I was directed to park in front of Jesse's bus. I went backstage to check in and met Jesse McReynolds, sitting with the host and sound man. He politely stood up, shook my hand and thanked me for coming.
 

The whole day was quite magical, with terrific music, 'specially from Jesse's lightning fingers. He had more energy than most people one quarter his age. During Mac Wiseman's set, several of the Virginia Boys walked onstage in their Halloween costumes, among them Stringbean,and Uncle Dave Macon. Then Zorro appeared to back Mac with some smokin' mandolin, which of course gave away who he was.

All told, it was an incredible accident which led to an unforgettable day, beautiful scenery, and two autographs on my banjo.

Digger never was bashful....