Music is always there throughout one's life, to accompany and prod the memory. It is never as prominent as it is in our teenage years. It is the symphony that plays host to our deepest loves and most gut wrenching heartbreaks. It solidifies our beliefs and ideals. It sings about who we are and why we are here and what we are going to do with the unfortunate world we find ourselves growing up in.
 
November 22, 1963 was a bad day for America. Those that were there remember it in sad detail, like when one's parent or child passes unexpectedly. But, it wasn't a close relative or friend that day. Indeed, it was a total stranger.
 
It was a man that none of us had ever met. It was a man that we saw on television and read about in the newspapers. It was a man that some people loved and a man that just as many people hated.
 
The people that loved him were people that were not used to being noticed in a positive and caring way. These were the poor and the minorities and in general, the downtrodden of an uncaring society. Their love was deep indeed.
 
He was assassinated that day in the afternoon. We watched it on television, like a poorly written novel, adapted for a thrown together movie of the week. It was all too real. The heartbreak was cataclysmic in scope.
 
I was in the sixth grade watching a Spanish class on television, when Walter Cronkite broke in with the terrible news. Our teacher ran from the room in tears, abandoning us. A room full of undisciplined eleven year olds sat there motionless; glued to the television screen, watching in disbelief.
 
We did understand well enough to comprehend the magnitude of what we were watching. I will tell you, that anyone alive on that day, will tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing, when they heard the news. That is the magnitude of the event.
 
I relate this story, only to set the mood of the nation at the time and how music was able to change it. It was the death of a time that was called Camelot. What could possibly pull the nation from the abyss of grief that it had fallen in to?
 
Why Bother Denying
 
As I think of things gone past
I wonder which of them will last
Many minutes on earth I've spent
Might one be a page to history lent?
 
I as an owl have sat and pondered
My solutions seem sound thought at times they've wandered
No one has asked for my computations
Though I must admit I've not forced revelations
 
Through windows I've looked with mind full of wonder
With not the energy to blow doors asunder
The doors remain closed to the mysteries of life
A peek through the porthole seems to suffice
 
In destiny's grasp I pass by the days
Without a struggle I'm led through the maze
There's much more to life then arriving and leaving
But I, as my brothers, have enough to do breathing
 
 As the smoke from a cigarette disappears in the air
Thus goes the struggle, we're here but not there
Finally Genesis becomes Revelation
My last gasp neither saves nor destroys the nation
 
Back to beginning at peace as a baby
Again with no idea of what is and is maybe
Could it be in the end after all is said
That the purpose of life is to someday be dead?
 
I deny it and I’m sure will to the end
Though throughout my existence at times I may bend
I'll fight to the death with the doubts of existence
And hope that I'm wrong at least in this instance
 
The answer came about three months later from overseas. It was announced on our transistor radios every few minutes. It is funny, but the mood of a nation depends on its youth to set the tone. I realize that much more clearly in retrospect.
 
For what changed things wouldn't have impacted an adult at all. It was entirely something that was for us, as young teens and soon to be teens.  It was two fifteen P.M. Beatle time. They would arrive in thirty seven more minutes. Personally, I knew exactly what a Beatle was.
 
I was a musician and new their music from their very first mild hit called "Love Me Do". But, I know for a fact that a great deal of the frenzy was just that, a frenzy. We were tired of being sad, and we wanted to bust out our smiles and shout and scream about something…..anything!
 
With a huge hit record on the charts, these British lads would do just fine. As it turns out they were dripping with irreverent charm and good looks and incredible musical ability. They had everything they needed to propel them into a mania, and drag this country from the depths of despair to the heights of joyous abandon. This was indeed a British Invasion, that was most welcome.
 
For me, it was a call to arms. Surely a band needed a keyboard player. I was one! I was already writing poetry. I could just as easily write songs, just like John and Paul. Of course, it wouldn't hurt learning the guitar, while I was at it, either.
 
The music industry was completely different back then. It was based on merit. We all made money. The good bands made good money. The bad bands made bad money. But, we all got paid something. Jimmy Webb, a noted songwriter, showed up barefoot at Capital Records and they listened to a couple of his songs and signed him on the spot. Artists used to run record companies. Now it is business people.
 
Music progressed rapidly in quality and intricacy in the sixties. But, once again, we were divided. I clearly remember the American Bandstand episode when Dick Clark premiered the Beatles video of Strawberry Fields Forever.
 
It was not a universally accepted debut by any stretch. There was a decidedly large group of young people that disliked it intensely. "This is too weird. We miss the old songs. They look so strange now and scary. What happened to our cute mop tops?"
 
At least half of the kids reacted that way. I remember sitting in shock, watching the reaction. I, on the other hand, thought it was an amazing leap forward in music. It was so original and technically, as a trained musician, the time signatures were almost bizarre and it was astonishing that they flowed so easily.
 
It wasn't long after, that Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band came out. That was a strange debut indeed. It played front to back all day long. They played every single cut. They played the entire album over and over.
 
There was nowhere you could go without hearing it. Every household, car radio and transistor radio had it playing. It was amazing and it was unlike anything anyone had ever heard before. One would have had to have been there, first hand, to understand. The art of making music changed that day.
 
What I considered art and music changed that day forever; both for me personally, and for anything I would encounter for the rest of my life. I always give something new a chance. It usually has merit within it somewhere. One just has to look closely with those young eyes that we have inside of us.
 
Are You Warm Tonight?
 
Are you warm tonight?
I'd really like to know
Are you safe tonight?
I'd really like to know
If your kids were starving would you steal?
 
Can you see beyond
the castle you have built?
Can you feel beyond
the dreams you've built with guilt?
Can you hear beyond
the echo of your voice?
What makes you think
the air is just for you?
 
In starving desperation Mr. Martin rode his fear
He slowly stalked the lonely aisles
and seeing no one there
he tucked a loaf of bargain brand
fast inside his coat
a flash of light
a thundering
he fell like some comedian
practicing a joke
 
In yonder distant palace
the King was holding court
the jester spoke of equity
secure inside his fort
"My kingdom is a garden
the King did proudly shout
and soon the buds will blossom
I'm positive no doubt"
 
Dinner would be late tonight
in the Martin home
But, there'd be one less mouth to feed
and one less thief to roam
 
As the Beatles song writing changed, so did ours. We still wrote love songs. But, we also wrote about the state of affairs in our country. We wrote about the state of our fellow man. We wrote about our uncertainty in a changing world and how we were going to fit into it. It is a synergy. We shape music. Music shapes us. Together we grow, hopefully, into better things.
 

Author Notes

Still writing whatever occurs and including some poetry that seems appropriate. still open to suggestions as to direction or what might be good to include.

I was always trying to entertain in some way from as far back as I can remember. I have a very long memory. I recall being two years old on the way to California from Michigan. My mother and grandmother had kidnapped me from my father's side of the family and were whisking me away to my new life in sunny California. It was a great favor though I didn't know it at the time.
 
All of that is a story for another time. Ha! You will have to keep reading now! They had pulled to the side of the road due to vapor lock. Vapor lock was an affliction that vehicles came down with in the fifties which had something to do with some chemical buildup that caused a car to sputter to a stop. The cure was to stop by the side of the road for a spell and wait. A "spell" was an ancient measurement of time that, roughly translated, meant "however long it took".
 
I took this opportunity to provide entertainment to the weary travelers. At the time I was a budding impressionist. My main target was an elderly man named Tapfer who was my great aunts male companion of unknown designation. I proceeded with a spot on presentation of his hunched over shuffling gait to the guffaws and cacklings of an appreciative and captive audience.
 
I was thrilled with their response and I am not exaggerating in the least when I state that. Whatever predilection I had for being a strange kid I am certain was forever etched in stone right there by that roadside.
 
The two males in the family had little to do with raising me. There was Uncle Johnny, my mom's brother, a dreamer and great fun. There was also Uncle Earl, my Grandma Bobo's beau of sorts, a raging alcoholic, not really an uncle, but also great fun as well; though at times a burden that fell on me.
 
So, I was raised by women. I don't know what effect that had on me, but I am sure that it had an effect. My family was star struck and were certain I was to be a star. So, I received lessons in everything: acting, piano, dance and even horseback riding.
 
Their dreams were of the pipe variety but, the lessons were appreciated much more later in life than at the time. Well, enough of that. Just some history. That is the background of this particular artist.
 
 

Hats

 
It's a funny thing when artists meet. For it is, by nature, a rare and unusual event. In a normal circumstance, it is an epiphany, much more dramatic than one would imagine. Sometimes, maybe all times, artists will fall astray. What would we transcribe otherwise? A sailboat on crystal waters bores the perfection of a world we don't believe. Of course, to be with me you, must wither in agony and angst over your existence. And then, we can talk. The depth of my own stupidity consoles you, for that is the irony that I ignore, for the sake of clarity and charity for ourselves. Consider our own baptismal immersion in the blood of the uncommon and then swoon; for common is unique under my address. And finally, my pen, boiling with ink, cries for me: "Why was this man hurt; why did this man die for no reason?" Then, smirk and swagger with every fallacy your purple brain did conjure. For in a gray matter world, you don't matter; lest a festive hat is the purpose of your haberdasher's charade.
 
In grammar school I got along well with my fellows. But, often I would find myself out on the dirt field alone kicking rocks observing the kids on the playground in the distance. I was contemplating. There were ideas in my head and songs and stories. I don't know where they came from. They were just there.
 
There was no one in my class that was like me. There was no one that I could relate to at least when it came to that. I had friends. I had good friends. I had girlfriends. Indeed I had mainly girlfriends as I found males to be of little value to me. Girls were smarter, softer and smelled better. It wasn't a difficult choice really!
 
Solitude, My Friend
 
Kicking a broken piece of glass
                   Down the street
          Can't seem to get it over the curb
          Leave it there then……to hell with it
 
the sidewalk echoes my silence
with hollow silence of its own
 
my shadow, sensing my loneliness
walks along beside me
          sometimes scurrying in and out of doorways
          or skipping down an unlighted alley
but, always near
 
                             a huge archway
                             leading the way to bright lights and people
                                      they seem like people
                                      back and forth….to and fro
                                                          they run
                                                          laughing pointlessly at each other
                                      I smile slightly…turn…walk away
 
alone again with solitude
a good and dear friend
 
Finally in high school I did run across what I refer to as "my own kind". There were musicians and writers and singers and even poets. We would run across each other and some of us would become friends. At the time I truly had no idea if what I was creating was any good or worthwhile in any way. It came easy to me. So, how would I know?
 
Finally, I did meet someone that I knew was an excellent artist. It was her interest that convinced me that I must have some ability. I suppose I received just enough encouragement to continue to pursue writing. But, never enough to really do anything with it.
 
I did pursue music but only had moderate success. Over the years it is always meeting a fellow artist that somehow rescues me. I had completely abandoned everything creative for fifteen years when I met such a person about eight years ago. To an artist it is death not to create. I had been dead for fifteen years. I only had to listen to her talk about a story she was writing. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I used to be like that. I used to talk about my stories and songs. I used to.
 
I made a vow right there to never stop writing again. I have kept it. I suppose the most foolish thing I have ever done is to write things that no one ever reads or compose music that no one ever hears. That is the reason that artists create. We create to share. That is what we are supposed to do.
 
 
Moments
 
figures rushing to and fro
can't escape…..
running
          trying to protect
 
your extravagant wig
your false impression
                   the sun bursts through
                   the veil of winter (momentarily)
                             and reveals
                              your sad expression
 
your face, reflected in a puddle,
washed clean
                   hair falling chaotically from your head
          unpainted beauty
                                      winter's rain washes you away
                             and I'm
alone
 
Many, many years ago a girl read this and told me that she thought it was good. I have never shown it to anyone before. I have shared it with you now.
 

Author Notes

This is some memories of growing up and trying to find my way as a creative person. It wasn't always easy fitting in when I didn't really relate to a lot of the people I met. But, once in a while I would meet a fellow artist and things would make a lot more sense. I am still moving forward with this book. I am still not set on what it is exactly. So, I am still open to suggestions. It is somewhat auto biographical and an excuse to talk about events and how they affected me and how I think they affected others as well.

Chapter 8
Being Born

By michaelcahill

Being born. Of all the events in our lives, that is the one we have the least amount of input into. I suppose one could say our contribution is strictly output as it were. We are snug and cozy perfectly content and then we are shot into a bright world of uncertainty and random possibilities.

It is random. If there is a plan, we are certainly not privy to it. So, we are left to contend to whatever circumstance and circumstances we fall into. Mine were a bit outside of the norm most would agree. My mother was schizophrenic and went from the delivery room to the insane asylum upon completion of her obligations to me.

I am not sure if they used the same gurney or not. That would have seemed practical. But, to her credit, perhaps she saved her impending breakdown to spring as a surprise for the hospital staff assembled for a routine delivery.

My dear Doctors and nurses: One thing I am not, is routine. If that means tickling my mom's womb until she went bats then so be it. But, rest assured, there was no way my birth was going to be ordinary.
 
Well, with my mother in the 'nut house', as they called it then, I was left to the care of my father. He was on duty in Korea. So, that left me in the care of his large family of siblings, his parents and grandparents and a host of other relatives.

I have very few memories of those two years. But, the ones I have were all good. I was the center of everyone's world being the first of a new generation.

I have only a vague memory of my father and that is reconstructed in hindsight with my adult mind. It was my first birthday party and I recall a Ferris wheel with bright lights that moved in a circle. I found out decades later that it was a gift from him.

I recall a man towering above me that I felt an attachment to. I realized decades later that it was my father. That is my only memory. I never met him or knew him. I never had any strong feelings about that. Most people find that strange. I cannot say. I can only react with my reaction.
 
I wrote a lot when I was a teenager. I wrote about many things that mattered to me. I wrote without the expectation of anyone reading what I wrote and thought. So, it was at the very least, honest.

I ran across one piece that mentions my father. There might be others, but this is the only one I have found so far:
 
 

 

A Dove Alone

 
 

a mother always heard
a father never seen
and still that dove flies away
                      without a glance at me
                  
                   I know that you
                   are going somewhere
                   I know I would like to go too
         
          but, not a glance
          not a chance
          for me with you

maybe you do understand
          better than I first thought you did....
a dove alone
 


I would imagine that as a writer if I had great consternation over the absence of my father that I would have written about him more than just a brief mention in a little poem. Anyway, that places me in Michigan for the first two years of my life.

I was born in San Francisco Bay on Mare Island Naval Base in California. My father was in the Air Force and for whatever reason, that is where he was and his wife and soon to be born son were there too.

One of the world's great authors once wrote of the event of Michael's birth many, many years ago as an introduction to an autobiography:
 

 
 

Michael and Days of Yore

The wind moist with the ocean's whim blew its invisible chill from parts unknown into and across San Francisco Bay. The residents of Alcatraz Island would surely relish a face-full of its payload as they did whatever time they were bound to do, captive by justice as it were. The soldiers on Mare Island Naval Base were unaware of what was common place to them. The larger ships, barges, tankers, battleships and the like approached the harbor unaffected. But, the smaller craft, sail boats, boats with oars and their ilk showed keen interest in the winds fancy. The lights and legacy of the city by the bay loomed on the horizon welcoming all with a promise of hospitality and adventure. It was in this setting that life sprung forth in the maternity ward of Mare Island Naval Hospital. New life is not unique, of course. The earth shimmers and churns and shakes constantly in welcome even as it slowly reclaims life that is no more. In all creatures there is an urgency and reverence inherent in birth. But, in our species there is also hope and dreams for a perfect future. It was January 19, 1952 that Michael was born sometime around midnight. With him was born new hopes and dreams as the first of a new generation.
 


It is funny to read that now from my current position in the family. Somehow time that clever trickster has taken that little boy and whisked him forward and is now the oldest male in the family. He is the patriarch, a title he laughs at, but surely clings to in the dark, not wanting to lose.
 
Whatever dreams and hopes the family may have had for me I cannot speak to. Are they pleased with my effort? Did they expect more? Did they expect less? I can only say, I did my best for them.

All that is left now is my hopes and dreams for my family. Those, I am not finished with.
 

Author Notes

still open to suggestions. any topics of interest? events from the sixties or seventies? open to anything.

Chapter 9
Dude! Your Mom's Crazy.

By michaelcahill

I don't recall much of my first two years of life. There are snippets and little mental pictures, some with feelings attached. I recall my first step. I recalled the feeling of accomplishment. I remember the importance it held for me as I attempted it alone.
 
Alone would be a familiar position for me, not by circumstance but, mostly by design. I recall falling on cement stairs and bloodying my nose. I remember the pain and that I didn't cry. I remember being cared for and having my wound tended to. I remember very much liking the feeling of being cared for.
 
I remember only woman around me. I learned later that these were my father's sisters, my aunts. My mother was there off and on as was her mother, my grandmother. I know that in those most important years in a person's development that I was loved and tended to unconditionally. I know it inside of myself where one's nature dwells.
 
It was in those two years that I became who I am, and whatever happened after, would be dealt with by that person. Decades later, I would be shone pictures that had been saved, over the years, of the little boy, that no one ever forgot. In every single one of them, I was in someone's arms.
 

From Whence I Came

 
 
reflect, when I was not asking you too
I was only seeking the oceans bottom
       for once it seemed so clear
                    
                     glancing quick, a glint, a wink
                     was that me?
                     I thought the moon
      
       and now I have to contemplate
       what passion has been hidden?
              no smile, no frown, not up, not down

you are here
you seek from whence you came
what do you say?

I do not know
 
I am unaware of the intrigue behind my kidnapping at age two. There are some facts that I have discovered over the years that shed little if any light. I was in a closed in area on the porch of the home I lived in playing.
 
My mother and grandmother pulled up in a car, walked up to the porch, picked me up, put me in the car and drove away.  That is the last time anyone on my father's side of the family ever saw me again. About forty years later I would reunite with those that were still alive. My father was not one of them.
 
My mother, little Michael, grandmother Bobo, great aunt Ann, uncle Johnny, old man Tapfer and pretend uncle Earl took off right then and there for California. We later arrived at Curtis Ave. in Alhambra, California a suburb of Los Angeles and part of the county. I would live on that same street with a few moves here and there for over fifty years.
 
My mother insisted on being called Joann as she said "mom" or "mother" made her feel old. I never called her mother or any form of that word one time in my whole life. I referred to her as my mother. I introduced her as my mother. I called her Joann.
 
It was clear to me from my earliest memory that she was not the norm as far as mothers or simply people went. Her reactions to everything were over the top both joyful and angry.

Her mother dominated her completely and ran her life in every way including my care and upbringing. Whatever rules or plans were in place were put there by my grandma Bobo.

Bobo was the name I gave her for reasons unknown. But, it was a name that stuck and I never called her anything else. She was the ruler of the family uncontested and my mother was her unruly and often out of control parrot.
 
Bobo would tell me something then Joann would repeat it with over the top emphasis. It ranged from highly amusing to irritating to dangerous. Some of it echoes in my head to this day. "A 'D' in handwriting! He'll never amount to anything!" "Yes. A 'D' can you imagine! Oh! Oh! A 'D' he'll never amount to anything. Nothing! NOTHING!!"
 
Of course, I was a bit too smart for lame reverse psychology to do anything but make me laugh. I found out early on to control that instinct. Joann didn't find it amusing and would grab whatever was handy and try to hit me with it. Bobo would try to intervene but, Joann was crazier and faster.
 
Fortunately I was just faster than both of them. I rarely got caught. But, once in a while…… Suffice to say I began to learn that no reaction is the best reaction to insanity. Was I beat? Yes, once in a while. Was I verbally abused? Yes, I suppose I was.
 
People wonder to this day why I am so slow to react in anger to a situation. Well, to be honest, most situations look pretty tame to me.
 
Growing up was interesting. In the early days of grammar school my mother was in and out of mental institutions. By the late fifties they were being referred to commonly as insane asylums and 'nut houses' was considered politically incorrect. Treatment was still crude.
 
My mother was treated with electric shock and it was to be honest rather effective. It is easy to see where the term "flipped" came from. She would check in ranting and howling at the moon and check out quiet and meek as a lamb. Or, on the other hand she would check in almost catatonic and unresponsive and come home chatting up a storm and a social butterfly.
 
She loved me. That was one thing that I always was certain of. No matter how bizarre or even hurtful her behavior was to me I knew there was no ill will motivating it. It was funny to me that they took such care to try and conceal her condition from me. I knew before nursery school. But, it seemed to mean so much to them so, I went along with the charade.
 
I had no problem bringing my friends home and found some strange satisfaction in their discomfort upon meeting her. I discovered at a very early age that there is something about me that people don't want to cross. I truly don't know what it is but, I am aware and admit that I take it into account from time to time. Maybe they think I am crazy too. Think. Hahaha!
 

Building Sand Castles

 
 
what earth has done
to the granite sidewalks
                        of a mountainside
it will do with even more ease
to the pathways we build
 
            yet, we with arrogance give name
            to every avenue and thoroughfare
                        pathway after pathway
                        stretching longer and longer
                                    towards a horizon
                                    just beyond our greedy grasp
 
structure after structure
            reaching higher and higher
            towards proverbial heaven
            our invitation smugly assumed
                        humans at play
                        in their sandbox
 
 

the ocean will not remember
from whence
came the sand

 
 
I was about nine years old when I became the one that was the main voice of the family. Even Bobo deferred to my thinking in most cases. My mom was insane. My grandma was sickly. There was nobody else. I was in charge. I grew to be used to it. But, there is a part of me that responds so gratefully to a loving touch and a little care. Just a little. Just once in a while.
 

Author Notes

Some info about my kidnapping and mom as requested by some. Suggestions very welcome. Open format. Ideas?

Chapter 10
Hippies, Hair & Lollygagging

By michaelcahill

"Where ya headin' in such a hurry hippie?" My reaction was one of incredulity and an uneasy resignation. I had encountered this interesting situation more than once before.
 
"There's a love-in at Wal Mart." I found that to be a highly amusing and witty rejoinder. He seemed to disagree.
 
"License, Insurance and registration. You want to hand over the drugs now; or, am I going to have to search the vehicle for them?"
 
"Drugs? I don't have any drugs. Search if you want. What's your probable cause?"
 
"A long-haired pot-smokin' hippie gots to have plenty of drugs. That's my probable cause. Step out of the car sir and don't try to run, I will shoot you. I got no problem with that."  
 
With that, I was placed in hand cuffs and told to sit on the damp embankment. Three more squad cars showed up including a canine unit.
 
They would find nothing. They would have to let me be on my way. This was about a week ago. They wouldn't have found anything back in the day either.

I don't do drugs and I have never done drugs. In the sixties I was offered plenty of drug options by various well-meaning associates in varying states of brain addlement.
 
Witnessing their state of disrepair was deterrent enough for me. I thought to myself "If that is going to cause me to be in the state that you are in then, no I don't think I will partake at this juncture."
 
I also have a strange personality quirk where if everyone is doing something I have an aversion to it. I have always felt if everyone is in favor of it then something must be wrong with it. I don't like crowds. I don't like lines. I don't like gatherings.
 
To be honest I don't even like parties. Lest I sound sociopathic, I do enjoy myself at gatherings and parties; I just don't seek them out and have to generally be dragged to them. Once I am there I am usually the one with a lamp shade on my head doing an Elvis medley. Drunk? Naw, just one drink…..
 
Hippies were an interesting lot I suppose. I do admit I probably qualify as one. But, the diversity amongst us equals the diversity in any other group. I know so-called former hippies who are stock brokers, lawyers, tax collectors and politicians.
 
I know staunch conservatives who once aligned Jupiter with Mars in the seventh house on a regular basis. Then there are the die-hard, bleeding heart liberal, anti-war, pro-woman, pro-equality, tie dyed, long haired, never-left-the-sixties-cutie-pies like myself.
 
There is some disingenuousness to the movement I must admit. There always is when the hormonal imperative of teenage boys is present. The aspect of free love is a rather self-serving convenience for a species interested in little else.
 
"Should we burn our bras and wear our skirts too short?"
 
"Hmmm….. ummmm…..  ahhhh….. Yes! Strike a blow for freedom. I am with you sister. Hang those beads around my neck, darlin' and peace, love and togetherness to you too!"
 
 
Well, that aside, we were completely sincere in our desire for justice and fair treatment for all. Passion that burned in our souls and fueled the fires driving us forward.
 
We were also faced with unimaginable responsibilities thrust at us at an age when who to take to the senior prom should have been paramount. Remove from your mind any political consideration. Simply drive by your local high school and look at the kids going about their day to day.
 
Is it reasonable that these young people should be FORCED, with no say so, to risk their young lives, for a cause that they have no voice in. Indeed, should they be the ones that we ask, to fight anyone else's war, for any reason? Are they not the future hopes and dreams of our nation? I leave you with your answers, to ponder in your own way.
 
 

Declarations Of Inter-dependence

 
 

Oppression doesn't change
with intellect's employ
chains aren't always metal
 
When events of human nature
cause our eye to turn
It's time to declare our freedom
It's time to care
 
Declare your independence
Declare for real justice
Declare your independence
from oppression and war
from turning your back
when it's you who have more
 
Starvation of body and mind
is not a problem of legislation
it's not a paper problem
it's a people problem
 
While we write in perfect prose
the people are growing old
missing out to the nation's mock dismay
 
We declare our independence
if someone is hungry share your food
if someone wants knowledge, teach
don't steal from the poor
don't force the poor to steal
don't be human as you've come to know it
have humanity as you remember reading somewhere

 
 
 
 
War was but one cause for our passion. There were many others. All fall under the umbrella of oppression. Oppression and freedom are words that do not go together when considered by the thoughtful person.
 
Our hearts and souls exploded as the world became small and truth became manifest in information and images flowing before our eyes. Television became an intrusive eye into every seedy part of America. Every misdeed and unjust act was splayed open for all to see.
 
There were planes filled with coffins landing on American soil carrying the youth of our country, our sons, our classmates and our future. There were black men being beaten and hanged and denied basic human dignity.
 
There were people vilified for the simple misfortune of being different from the norm. There were people of vile character spewing hate in a public forum to an audience applauding like seals at a beach ball convention.
 
So, yes, the image of a troupe of long haired vagabonds with flowers in their hair flashing the peace sign might amuse in retrospect. That does not mean that we were wrong. Most shy away now and shuffle their feet as though embarrassed. Am I a hippie? Yes.
 
As for my personal life, it was one of over-supervision. My grandma Bobo was extraordinarily paranoid and that fueled my already insane mother beyond paranoia. I was constantly accused of being up to something.
 
The most egregious activity was usually "lollygagging". Whatever that is, I was suspected of doing a lot of it. They spied on me constantly and intervened at the most inopportune of times. My attempts to be a young rock star were pretty much shattered by their interference.
 
They were not at all helpful in my love life either. Running away seemed impractical to me. So, I learned endurance. I learned the art of waiting. I would wait till I was eighteen. I would wait until I was married.
 
I would put my life on hold and wait. It was a bad habit to learn. I learned it so very well.  I am still an expert. I am trying to learn a new trick before it is too late.
 
Throughout this entire time, life went on. Lovely ladies came and went. I wrote songs and poetry. I faked my way through boring classes at school. I thought about the war in Vietnam and what might happen to me.
 
I spoke out against injustice with everything that I had in me. Over the years new experiences would provide information and insight that would challenge my views. I was young at the time and filled with passion I do admit. I would even say that I was almost blind with the fervor of my convictions.
 
With age, I suppose, comes more wisdom and more perspective. So now that I have more perspective and knowledge and perhaps insight, I must admit that I look back on that young man and I smile and say to him: "You were one hundred percent right."
 

An Inch

 
                     I remember
                                  standing side by side
                                  fighting for ideals
                                             rejecting cynicism
                                             we invested all our efforts
                                                                all our energy
 
                           But, suddenly
                           our voice died
                                a wind blew through the spaces
                                                                                       where we once stood
 
a shadow here
                                                                 an echo there
was all that remained
of our glorious battle line
 
we moved the world 
 an inch
was that enough?
 

Author Notes

Jumping around. Open to ideas. Happy to address any issues one might be interested in. Currently concentrating on school years up to and including high school. Roughly 1957 thru 1970 or thereabouts.

Chapter 11
Could This Be Love? Part 1

By michaelcahill

I never went through a stage where I found girls to not be of interest. I have always preferred the company of females. When I was in nursery school I gravitated towards the fluffy little sweet talking members of the class. The foul-smelling, loud, block-throwing, running-in-circles male counterparts had no appeal as playmates whatsoever.
 
Boys liked to knock about and rough house. I did not at all. They discovered early on that it was not a good idea to include me in their activities, such as they were. I was not one to push. I was left to activities with the girls like coloring and making things. There were toy instruments which caught my fancy as well. Real ones would be soon to follow.
 
Any protests by my fellows or the teachers in charge were ignored. Attempts to direct my behavior were also to no avail. I did as I pleased. I didn't throw tantrums or make idle threats. I simply did what I wanted explaining that it was what I thought I would enjoy doing. I would grace any request for redirection with the query: "Why?"
 
I suppose that I was a pain. As the years passed, I would continue to be one. I had no ill will or agenda. I simply did not care to do something without a reason to. Well, something for another time. Love, for me was always a reason. As a child I had an attraction or affection for girls. I sought out their company and enjoyed being with them.
 
Boys didn't interest me. I didn't care to pal around. I wasn't interested in playing army or Superman or whatever adventure movie was the current rage of the week. I had male friends. I got along with males. I was even popular with them. I just preferred girls.
 
 
There were a few young maidens on Curtis Ave. for my perusal. There were the exotic Italian Toller sisters down the street. There was the princess-like Marilyn St. Oliver a mere three doors down. Then there was the wild vixen Janine who lived around the corner. I was always lucky with the ladies. Such was the case with the lovely Marilyn.
 
I arranged it so that I would need a baby-sitter and further manipulated the situation so that the baby-sitter would be none other than Mrs. St. Oliver. These fools had fallen right into the devious trap sprung from my five year old mind. There would be many a sensuous game of doctor played at Marilyn's house that year. We pronounced each other fit.
 
My first actual hold-her-hand girlfriend was a tough girl from the wrong side of Alhambra Rd. named Tenaya. She was being raised by her mom and they were poor and she was wild. Much of my perspective is in retrospect I suppose.
 
She was pretty and dangerous in the context of a third grader. I was smitten and under her spell. This would constitute my first definition of "in love". I would pick her up every morning and walk her to school holding hands. I was very proud of myself and held my head high.
 
The boys thought I was insane for touching a cootie-infested girl. The girls thought it was romantic and I was the sweetest little boy in the world. That was something duly noted that I would use to my advantage for the rest of my life. It pays to have the ladies in your corner.
 
One day after walking her home she invited me up on her porch. She said, "I want to show you something Michael." She never called me Michael, always Mikey. She spoke softly in a voice that gave me tingles and made my heart beat faster. "Close your eyes." I did so immediately as though hypnotized.
 
She kissed me on the lips. It was soft and I could feel the warmth emanate from her. I slowly opened my eyes and caught her gaze. And for a few moments we just looked at each other drinking in the moment. There is not one detail of it I will ever forget. I suspect that she won't either. For both of us, it was our first kiss.
 

 

An Ember…….Smoldering

 
 
An ember
       Smoldering
       Slowly ignites with a warm breath
                    
                  A gentle force
                            Slowly rocks the slumbered heat
              And the tide
                            Rushes to the shore
                                         Until there no longer is a beach
      
      The very earth trembles
       From the force
       The ground begins to shake
                                 
                         And finally
The tides embrace
Is broken
                     And all nature screams
                                         From the violent retreat

And soon the beach is still
       And empty
All is gone but, an ember……smoldering
 

There would be more kisses in my life and things that at that age I couldn't dream of. I would be more in love than I was at that moment, much more. But, if you ask me if I was in love with her I would tell you that I was. I will tell you now that I still am.
 
The following year my mother and I moved with a new husband to another city in Los Angeles County about thirty miles away. She had this idea along with Grandma Bobo that I needed a father. So, my mother was always on an unfortunate quest to find me one.
 
This was a lovely man who beat her, fed me raw pancakes and threw glass milk bottles at me. It was at breakfast one morning that I was, as always, refusing to eat the raw pancakes, when things reached a head. He threw an iron at me. I suppose it is more lethal than a milk bottle. It is just as easy to duck I can assure you.
 
My mother found it more offensive for some reason and attacked him. She was no match. I wasn't either when I intervened on her behalf. The iron to the side of his head was helpful but not as debilitating as I had hoped. We made enough racket for the neighbors to call the police. I was taken to the neighbor's house while the adults worked things out.
 
There was a girl my age there named Sally that I was pals with. I was used to chaos and not all that shook up to be honest. But, I was not happy to be sure. We were both nine years old. We sat there in her room and she had her arm around me. It was protective. I could feel it.
 
She bent her head leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips. She said, "It will be all right." It was not a romantic kiss. It was not meant to be. But, it touched me in a way that changed my life. It was the full essence of a female right there being made manifest in the most simple way. I sat there in her arms protected and safe. She cared for me in a way that was within her as a natural part of her being.
  
It is something a woman is born with. A woman who doesn't have it has lost it or forgotten it. Or, more sadly has had it taken from her or beaten out of her. A man has to find it and learn it and develop it. I vowed right there in her arms I would try my best. It is why I hang out with women.
 

 

Silly Little Boy

 
 
skinned knee……….climbing tree
                peeking in your window
        falling down…….head hit ground
                maybe there is new sense in me
 
but, you know I want to kiss you neath the pale moon light
and I picked these pretty flowers from the road tonight
and I found a lucky dollar and I really like your smile
don't you think you'd like to spend some time with me awhile?
 
 
soothing touch…………….won't hurt much
                               silly little boy
     always falling hard……………………always in my yard
          what's a girl to do with one like you?
 

Author Notes

Still a work in progress. Completely open to suggestions. Still jumping around. Still not positive exactly what this is.

Chapter 12
Love Pt. 2 Bullies & Reputations

By michaelcahill

In the fifth grade, after my mother left the abusive step-father she had tried to provide for me, we returned home to Curtis Avenue. My grandmother had sold the house and moved up the same street to a duplex. She lived on one side and we lived on the other. This caused me to attend my third school in three years. A new year with new people awaited me.
 
 I was not exactly shy, but rather reluctant to reveal my outrageous side, that people found entertaining and gravitated to. After a while, being center stage becomes a chore and I would just as soon fade into the background. I am seldom allowed that luxury. That aside, I arrived at school, took my seat at the back of the class and tried not to draw attention to myself.
 
I was mostly successful. I made some friends, mostly girls, and they came to know that I was not in the norm in my thinking or behavior. I didn't get in trouble but, I was not at all above causing or creating it. I had a way of suggesting a course of action in an off the cuff manor that would cause havoc and not involve me in any way.
 
 

The Little Blue Eyed Girl
 
 
For the longest of times
my tongue has been tied
and my heart's been hard beating
I am dreaming of meeting
the little blue eyed girl
 
I think I lost all my grace
stared too long at her face
though quick did I look away
she caught me I think today
sweet little blue eyed girl
 
maybe she will be mine
loves fruits on which to dine
souls dancing all through the night
hearts glowing in their own light
that little blue eyed girl
with that lucky green eyed boy

 
My little girlfriend at the time was named Sherry, like the Four Season's song. I would sing it to her and she would blush. Too bad I didn't know what to do about it. Ha! Being quiet and small and passive gave the false impression that I could be bullied. That was a correct assumption to a point. I had a high tolerance for bullying of myself.
 
I was unimpressed with what anyone had to say about me or to me. It was impossible to taunt me or goad me. I lived in a world of it at home and was pre-conditioned to have no reaction. I would not, however, tolerate it happening to anyone else.
 
I suppose there was a built-in empathy born of my own situation. It would be unfortunate indeed to be caught by me, berating or teasing anyone for no reason. I was deadly with my tongue and calm and deliberate in my delivery. That was also a skill practiced and honed over the years, dealing with a home scene, rampant with mental illness.
 
There was one kid that was persistent with his attempt to bully me. He pestered me for months. Poking me in the arm and requesting my presence after school in mortal combat. I indicated my lack of interest any number of times. I explained to him that his opinion of me was of no interest to me and that he was wasting his efforts.
 
My fellow classmates were not fans of him and were of a mind that I should deliver a proper thrashing to him and silence him good and proper. I was not in agreement nor was I "chicken" or lacking any other metaphor relating to intestinal fortitude.
 
I just didn't wish to bother with something I found foolish and worthless. Finally after two months I had reached the point where I had decided that I would answer his challenge. He poked me in my arm a bit forcefully. I grabbed his arm with both hands and brought it down over my knee breaking it.
 
I said, "Is that what you wanted?" It appeared it wasn't. I learned the fickle nature of justice right there in that moment. I was suddenly the bad guy, feared and vilified by the very crowd that had been crying out for the very action I just had taken. I was not picked on again.
 
This left me to my real interest in life, women. Sherry was in the fifth grade with me. At this school, the fifth and sixth grade was combined in one classroom. The sixth grade girls had very little interest in me other than that I was fun and amusing. I, however, had a stirring interest in them. They were already developing rapidly and it was thrilling to observe. I knew that it would be a life-long fascination for me.
 
 
The sixth grade found me back at Park School having moved in with my great aunt Ann who lived in that district. My mother was back in the mental institution as they now called it. Grandma Bobo was working full time I imagine.
 
Aunt Ann was on the mean side and found high heel shoes and pinching to be excellent disciplinary devices in the rearing of a young boy. I was not in agreement. But, I was not in a position where my opinion was considered to any great degree.
 
I knew most of the kids at Park School having gone there from kindergarten through the third grade and part of the fourth grade. So, the transition was easy. Somehow my reputation preceded me as I wasn't picked on here either.
 
Tenaya and I resumed our torrid affair as if the last two years had not existed. But, now there was Rose and Bonnie and Angela and Nancy to consider as well. The world was becoming wonderfully complicated for me.  
 

Love?

 
 
                                     I'm looking at you
 
                                                  Yet, I'm blind
 
                                     I hear you
 
                                                  Yet, I'm deaf
 
                                     I tell you: "I love you."
 
                                                   Yet, I have no voice.
 
 
 

Probably, I'm in love
But, it could be brain damage.

 
 

Author Notes

Poetry from back in the day. Auto biographical sketches. Observations on events. Other things.

Chapter 13
More Love & Bullies & Reputations

By michaelcahill

The very first day of high school afforded me the opportunity to establish my reputation in a lucky but painful incident. The welcoming committee for the incoming freshman consisted of the football team and their mesmerized bleating followers.

Their friendly greeting consisted of shoving the newly arrived freshman into the ivy along the side of the school. It was a most witty and playful introduction to the joys of high school fun and social foreplay.
 
Unfortunately I landed on a sprinkler head which dug directly into the middle of my spine. I am not a fan of hijinks. I am not a fan of bullying. And I am not a fan of pain, especially as regards my own.

I jumped up in, what is seldom seen from me, blind rage. Though small, especially then, I have huge hands and absurdly long arms and I have one helluva punch. I decked this 240 pound football player with one rage and adrenaline fueled punch and then dove on top of him raining blows.
 
It took the rest of the shocked football players to pull me off. It must have looked hilarious. My anger quickly faded and I returned to my passive calm self which only added to the effect. There I stood expressionless, with him on the ground and everyone staring, in disbelief.

I was never bullied in high school. No one that knew me was either. Anyone that I saw being bullied was invited to sit at my table at lunchtime and that was the end of it. The luck of the Irish proven beyond any doubt!
 
High school was an amazing change from grammar school. I went from a couple dozen classmates to hundreds and from a student body of a couple hundred to a couple thousand.

There was a variety of women in high school. There were freshman girls in my class who had changed remarkably over the summer. Then there were the upper class girls that were astonishing to look at. They were beautiful and looked like dreams come true walking through the hallway brushing by me.

I knew that I would like high school. They may be unattainable now but, I would be here next year and the year after that and the year after that. To a fourteen year old boy it was a lifetime. In many ways those years were a lifetime.

They are certainly a time that are unique in life and never repeated. It is a door that little boys and girls enter and young men and women leave through.

But, the whole time while watching the girls go by, my other eye was overseas in Vietnam, wondering when I would have to go.
 
 

Woman, Please Hurry!

 
 
Saucer-eyed little boy colors splashing, rain dancing
Prancing, fancy ladies walking by…oh my! I wink my eye
       
        Bombs away today may be the day…just might
        Uncle Sammy comes a callin' for Don Juan

But, I feel the heat a stirrin' softly whispered somethin' yearnin'
thinkin' darlin' could you be lookin' right this way
Is there magic comin' round the corner this fine day?
       
        But, this could be the day I'm leavin', grievin'
        before I even kissed the prom queen neath the heavens sky
        I've not even pulled the trigger on a gun before dear Uncle
        what in hell do you want me for? I've got no enemies anyway

but, my angel you look sweet better hurry now let's meet
I wouldn't want to die without your memory on my mind
 
 
The year was 1967 and things were heating up in the United States. The war in Vietnam was not going well and there was loud protest against it. There was injustice and racial intolerance against minorities and there was loud protest against that as well.

There was loud protest against any number of things. We listened and joined in. We, fueled by our youthful energy and unbridled idealism, were loudest of all.

Practicality was of no interest to us. Truth and righteousness was our grail and we sought it with the fervor of any brave knight. The details of right or wrong and specifics mattered not.

The point is the essence of who we were and what we carried with us every waking morning as we entered the world. We managed to do all the things that high school students did. We went to football games, proms and classes. We fell in and out of love.

We grew and developed and moved forward, though the future was uncertain for many of us.
 
We were underrated as young people always are. It was wrong to do that. It was wrong then. It is wrong now. I know that I am no different than I was then. I have merely been around longer and have seen more things and experienced more events. I am still me.
 
A lot of my heroes and role models were murdered during my high school years. Indeed, it was almost a certainty, it seemed, that if anyone fired my heart up, that they would soon thereafter be killed.

The list is shocking or, it certainly should be: Martin Luther King…Medgar Evers…Malcom X…Robert F. Kennedy, the list goes on for too long.
 
We heard these men speak. We listened and considered what they had to say. Many of us were inspired by them. I still am. It is a damn shame their voices were silenced. Were they that dangerous? Who was so afraid that they had to have them killed? Well, a topic for a later time.
 
My freshman year was the year of the two Pam's. I loved them both and their parents moved them both away. Such is the life of a young man without options. Hugs to you ladies where ever you are. This is the song I wrote for you:
 

 

Hide Behind the Smile
 
 
 
Hide behind the smile
no one must know
my heart still cries out for you
oh, I realize the wasted time
tears for a memory
 
smile
even though the nights grow cold
even though the dreams are old
the tears cried inside for you
mustn't be seen so I
 
hide behind the smile
and cry alone
you're just a memory
tears that you won't see
you'll never know
smile

Author Notes

In a bit of order lately. That is sure to change. Still open to suggestions. An open form that could go anywhere.

Chapter 14
Duality & Devastation

By michaelcahill

There was always a duality to high school. There was the regular growing up and awakening of young adults, determining a pathway into an awaiting world. Then there was a world unwilling to wait, involving us at a very young age. The two courses were not divergent and crossed and intermingled constantly.

Going to Vietnam was a factor in our love lives. What if we didn't return? It wasn't a cheap ploy to sway a reluctant girlfriend. It was a real truth to consider in a real way. What if your beloved high school sweetheart goes to Vietnam and dies a virgin knowing you could have easily prevented it? I am just thankful that it never occurred to one of us angelic boys to use such a ploy to our advantage.

Well, life continued on in its interesting and confusing way. We were children growing up with all that entails. We were young adults facing situations of a most somber and life altering nature. This occurred at the same time. And somehow with this going on, side by side, we managed to build memories, that years later would bring a smile, when looked back on in a nostalgic moment.

I remember the exhilaration of hearing Martin Luther King say, "I have a dream." It was not an old news reel. It was then and there, being said for the very first time. It was a voice of hope that lifted a people steeped in faith to an epiphany of realized visions.

The truth was in the saying of the words. Once said, they could never return to a whispered desperation hidden in a dark alley somewhere. We all heard them. They were said clearly and loudly without interference. There was no force that could stop them.

They became the new truth that replaced the old shame of a nation that could no longer hide. "All men." His prophecy predicting his own demise would sadly be fulfilled. When the choir of Angels greeted him with "Free at Last" there was at least one man that was struck deaf.
 
 

The Family Tree
 

the market's out of rope today
and kerosene's not in stock
but we got crosses aplenty to bear
if you got the bare backs with the space to share
I know you may be busy with a midnight bar-b-cue
the justice league is out in force
blind and covered too
it's Sunday goin' to meetin' and the sheets are on the line
the kiddies peekin' through the holes to see what they can find
the tree is very sturdy
and the branch seems strong inclined
but, when the rope is swingin'
whose soul will be interred?

 

When he was assassinated the fear of rioting in the south was great and real. White men feared for their lives as irony played a cruel game that day and night. There was one man that could go to the hot streets of a fire waiting to ignite and cool it down. It was a white man. It was Robert Francis Kennedy.

Such was the belief in his sincerity that he alone could walk into the maelstrom and quell it with love and understanding. We just called him "Bobby". It occurred to me many, many years later how strange that was. We called him that not just as a nickname. We called him that as one would call a dear and close friend. That was my feeling towards him.

I was inspired and moved by many during this period in my life both living and long passed on. Martin Luther King, of course, Gandhi and his teachings, The Beatles and their music and even teachers that were special, all influenced my thinking or reinforced it to one degree or another.

But, I would have to say that I loved Bobby. I loved him and believed in him and his ideals. I shared his beliefs and I felt that there was hope for the world with him leading it.

I remember that June evening all too well. It was the night of the California primary. The nomination for the Democratic candidate for President was still in doubt and a victory by Bobby would all but seal the nomination for him.

I was still awake at two in the morning waiting for my candidate to give his victory speech. After a close vote Bobby had indeed won the California primary. The household was sound asleep. It was me and a flickering television waiting for the words that would make this one of the most satisfying nights of my life.

Finally, there he was, smiling, flashing the peace sign and declaring victory and thanking all those that believed in him. His last words thrilled me with their optimism: "Now, it's on to Chicago and let's win this thing!" He waved and exited the podium, leaving a delirious cheering throng. It was joyous.

Then the crowd became disheveled and looks of disbelief came over many faces. Celebration began to be replaced by sadness and grief. There was no need to announce what had happened. I had experienced it too many times. My heart sunk. False notions of "wounded but surviving" entered my numbing brain.

But, I already knew that Bobby had been killed. I watched as the details of that truth played out and even wrote a little song about it. But, it wasn't a clever song that a young adult would write filled with biting satire or anything the least bit adult or clever. It was written by the little boy that sat there weeping for the sudden death of everything dear to him. I have never shown it to anyone ever being embarrassed I suppose by its simplicity.

Bobby announced his run for the presidency eighty five days before he was assassinated. That number stuck in my head. This is certainly nothing deep or earth shaking. But, I offer it for what it is:
 
 

Eighty Five Days
 

Eighty five days
is not such a long, long time
but, enough for us to see
hope for our lives
 
Why did he have to go
leaving only hope
how can we go on alone
now that Bobby's gone
 
his sinking banner must not fall
his hopes and his dreams are left with us all
 
we must carry on
until we reach the sun
but, who can find the dawn
now that Bobby's gone

 

I have two little bits of philosophy that I try to live my live my life by. One is my own. The other is the words of Robert F. Kennedy.

Mikey: To make anyone who meets me better for having known me.

Robert Kennedy: Some men see things as they are and say, "why"?
I see things as they aren't and say, "why not"?
 

Author Notes

Still open as far as direction. Suggestions welcome. Topics can be anything really. Jumping around when it suits the piece.

Chapter 15
More Love, More Mom

By michaelcahill

I was deeply affected by the course of events in the world especially by the wholesale murder of those that I respected and cared about. The images I witnessed on the evening news were a heavy weight on my heart. I knew young men just like the ones in caskets lined up by cargo planes at airports all over the country. The numbers were mind numbing.
 
I wonder if it was a backlash against that terrible weight that caused me to fall in love so hard and so quickly. I have always been a love-at-first-sight man. And once in love, I am blinded to all others. I am by nature monogamous.
 
Once I have my girl I consider that portion of my life blessedly closed. I no longer have to worry about who I kiss good night or who I go to breakfast with. I see no sense in adding any complication to that. I have found that most people find that unusual, especially men.
 
Well, I see what complications gain them and it doesn't seem to work out to well. So, I think I will stick with my little boring plan. The ladies seem to think it is darling. Hahaha!
 
I almost always had a girlfriend from the earliest days of school going back to the third grade and the wild Teneya who kissed me silly on her front porch. She was my main squeeze in grammar school though we were on the outs often due to the fickle nature of adolescents.
 
So, yes, there were some dalliances with a number of comely lasses to pass the time until we came to our senses. Rose comes to mind right away. Rose was the very first girl in grammar school to begin the transformation into womanhood.
 
Now the young gentleman in my class, being of a studious and scientific bent, were most curious about this phenomenon. They were quite taken with the physiological aspects of her transformation and the interesting effect that it had on their own physiognomies. Many a request for a slow dance were proffered to her in an attempt to explore more intimately these burgeoning curiosities.
 
Of course, I had been cutting out paper dolls with Rose since the first grade in anticipation of just such an event. The other boys never had a chance. "I Only Have Eyes for You" never sounded so good as it did with Rose in my arms.
 
I know this, every boy that went to school with Rose remembers her and can tell you her name. If you are a guy, there is a girl that you knew in grammar school in the very same way. The name has already popped into your head.
 
 

Rusting Toy Soldiers
 
me and the little boys playing
toy soldiers thrown at heads now bleeding
laughter as the rocks strike rocket ships while speeding
Johnny Atom's never kissed a girl
but, the world's a safer place while he is in the world
can you come out to play? Oh Johnny, there's fishin' at the creek
are ya home buddy? is that a coffin where you sleep?
 
Do you remember me little girl?
we used to cut out paper dolls, the world was very simple once
I'm lonely now and the water here is deep I miss my home
it is seeping through, it soaks my hope and faith, when I'm asleep
in my dreams I cry, as the record plays a slow song, "You care to Dance?"
Let me bury this old rifle, 'neeth the weeping willows twisted toes
and I'll cling with all my heart and soul to my memories of Rose

 

Behind the scenes and, more often than not in the middle of them, was my mother, followed close behind by her mother, my grandma Bobo, directing the show.  Over-protective was a term used in understatement in description of them.
 
Paranoid was part of my mother's diagnosis. My grandmother was not diagnosed but it was clear to me that she should've been. Between the two of them it was determined that I was a young hellion teetering on the brink of destruction every waking second.
 
Their job was to rescue me from disaster. The result for me was interference with every aspect of my life in every possible embarrassing way. Those that knew me were kind about it and would turn away when they saw the goon squad marching up to rescue me.
 
They would pick me up and I wouldn't say a word. My friends would ignore the whole scene out of kindness and deference to me as though nothing was going on. I still remember the taps on the shoulder alerting me that they had showed up.
 
Suddenly whatever I was involved in would come to a dead stop. It could be talking to friends, rehearsing with a band or kissing a girl. All was deemed to be one thing……lollygagging.
 
The bands I had to quit usually. The girls I refused to give up, though there was usually some unnecessary clandestine aspects to my relationships. The girls would usually go along with it but, sometimes they wouldn't. I understood.
 
My reputation was interesting in high school for it was far from the truth. I was considered a ladies man and a very tough dude not to be messed with.
 
Actually, I was very shy with the ladies when it came to one on one. In a group I was an off the hook life of the party type. I was always the center of attention somehow. But, as the crowd dwindled down and I was left with that one special girl, I became tongue tied and helpless. Fortunately that is not considered a bad thing by most ladies.
 
As far as tough guy goes, other than the one fight on the very first day of school, I never once threw a punch the entire time I was there. I had some pretty choice words delivered with fierce bravado many times. I found it most fortunate that no one ever challenged that brave front even one time.
 
So, just a shy boy that wouldn't harm a fly that was perceived in an entirely different way. Of course, I did nothing to change anyone's perception. Why would I?
 
 

Let's Hide In the Rain
 
The warm sun of summer
will soon leave the sky
but, the last thing I want to
hear is goodbye

CHORUS-                     

let's hide in the rain
ignore the cold
a fire in your heart
I don't want you to go
 
remember the summer
the thought warms the soul
your smile paints a rainbow
that shines on the snow
 
the chill of the winter
foreshadows your sigh
but, remember my love
it's much colder alone
(REPEAT CHORUS-)

 

Not too long after this I was to become what is referred to as "head-over-heals" in love. I was a junior in high school. I was in one of the best bands I was to ever be in with a good friend that was an excellent drummer.
 
We had found an older guitar player that was outstanding and a good base player too. At the time I was stuck behind the keyboards as always. There was nothing wrong with keyboards and I was very accomplished at them. But, I admit I was envious of the guitar player jumping around the stage with abandon playing anything he wanted to the delight of the crowd.
 
Well, amusing tangent aside, my friend introduced me to a girl named Susan. She was the daughter of a stock broker and lived in the very rich community of San Marino, California. It was five minutes from my house in Alhambra but, many economic levels away indeed.
 
She was gorgeous beyond my wildest dreams. As is the case with me I was instantly in love with her. In my mind there was not the slightest chance that I would ever see her again. I was to find out that I was and always have been the luckiest little boy in the world when it comes to love.
 
If I knew why I would probably be unbearably obnoxious. But, to be honest, I don't have a clue. It turns out that Sue thought this little Irish boy was the greatest thing since peanut butter and fell instantly in love with me.
 
We couldn't stop staring at each other and smiling. We were both speechless. My friend was laughing at us. He said, "Usually when people meet, they say hello or something." Then he started laughing.
 
For the longest time after that we would spend every possible moment together. She had the softest lips in the world. It was amazing to kiss her. It was like falling into a cloud.
 
I make very few mistakes in my life. But, when I make one it is always of extraordinary proportions. Her father was a staunch conservative. It turns out she shared her father's beliefs.
 
It came to pass that we were speaking of the war and my possible involvement that my admiration for Bobby Kennedy came up. She informed me as our discussion became heated that, "Your little Bobby Kennedy is just a communist anyway."
 
Stupid Mikey dumped her over that and never saw her again. Well, there would be other girls. But, she was the first that I would say was a true love.
 
Love? That would be redefined again for me in the not too distant future.
 
But, up unto this point I was satisfied that I knew what it was.
 

Author Notes

Still open to any suggestions. Form and direction have officially been banished. This chapter a bit long. But, so entertaining and well worth it!! The artwork is from an obscure artist rumored to live in a cave in the desert in California somewhere.

Chapter 16
Meeting Lenore

By michaelcahill

The school year came to an end and I was off to my own little world again. When I wasn't in school, I had very few friends. It had nothing to do with popularity. It wasn't even a lack of sociability. I was and have always been a loner. I saw friends over the summer. But, I saw to it that it was not an everyday thing.
 
I had viable reasons for not being available that would satisfy my little social obligations to their satisfaction. I ended up my junior year without a girlfriend so, I was as single and alone as I had been in years that summer of 1967.
 
There was my band and my few friends who gave up on me after a couple weeks of failing to tie me down. I spent that summer rehearsing, writing and wandering around alone.
 
 

Looking For Nowhere

 
 

I carelessly walked over bits of broken glass
          shining stars on a cloudless night
I gazed down at two perfect silver streams
          flowing to a point near infinity
                   vowing to reach their end
 
                                      curious surroundings, out of time
                   small brick building                         a flickering yellow light
                                                                   the only sign of life
          the muted sounds of children playing
          on dusty dirt roads in front of condemned houses
          crumbling chimneys pouring out gray smoke
                             happy sounds it seems
 
                                      Crashing through the stillness
                                      A beautiful black beast
                                      Forging its way through the quarter moon night
                                      Defying all, daring an intrusion of its path
                                      Gone…..       leaving a vibration and the faint smell of coal
 
                   I gazed down at the maze of tracks
                   and set down the set least polished
                   the ones that would lead to, I hoped
                   the nearest point to nowhere in particular
 
 
Mostly my thoughts kept going back to a skinny little girl that I met at a party late in my junior year in high school.
 
As always I had to be dragged to the party. My memory of my entrance differs quite a bit from other recollections that I have since heard. Indeed my view of myself back in the day is wildly different than what others I have talked to tell me theirs was.
 
In my view I showed up in my black cowboy hat, guitar over my shoulder with a couple friends. I have heard an alternate version where the door burst open and I appeared with a bevy of beauties clinging to my arms and all eyes were on me as I took my throne in the corner of the room.
 
Well, perceptions aside, I was at this party. I was in my corner strumming my guitar quietly appearing mysterious and unapproachable. There were a couple of young ladies nearby a little intimidated by my charade that were close but not too close. It was a scenario that I had arranged many times before.
 
Bouncing across the room came what I would have to describe as a little girl who proceeded to plop down next to me and ask me who I was. She was tom boyish in demeanor and animated in personality. Her eyes were on fire with life and curiosity. Her smile was one that demanded return and was impossible to refuse even for the coolest dude at the party.
 
She was not the least bit impressed by any of my carefully laid out scenario of mystery and pensive intensity that exuded an essence of powerful male seductiveness. That, of course, delighted me. It unnerved me and perhaps even frightened me but, it delighted me.
 
It enchanted me and drew me to her in the strangest way. It was not romantic. She was after all a twelve year old girl, skinny as a rail in braces with pig tails. But, there was something uncommon about her. There was something about her that appealed to me in a way that I couldn't explain and I couldn't ignore.
 
"What do they call you", she asked.
 
"They call me "Blade" usually", I replied.
 
"What do you, call you?" She responded.
 
"Mike", my stunned response.
 
"Michael", she said in a way I had never heard it spoken.
 
"I'm Lenore", she said with a voice that sounded serious and older than she looked.
 
For a moment our eyes locked. My sixteen year old eyes and her soon to be thirteen year old eyes. The changing of my life was foreshadowed right there. For the time being, I chose to ignore it.
 
I am not sure, but I don't think she did. We proceeded to chat for the rest of the evening. Just two kids at a party making each other laugh. Two kids comfortable with each other's company.
 
I wouldn't see her again until after the summer on the first day of my senior year in high school. It was the first day of her freshman year. She was the first great love of my life. I would love her all of my life, to this very day and, I am sure, beyond.
 
The rest of the summer I thought about that little girl. The one that didn't pay any attention to the intimidating persona that most shrunk away from in fear. I smiled when I thought about her bouncing up to me and plopping down right next to me like it was right where she had been invited to be.
 
I pondered why? Why was I thinking about this little girl all the time? Why was she always on my mind? I had never kissed her or even considered it. There was no romance. I didn't know anything about her but, her name. Well, I had no answers. I know that it didn't bother me. The smile never left my face.
 
 

Lovers Tonight
 

 
It must be the way you smile
makes me want to stay awhile
I know I shouldn't stay
I don't know what words to say
 
but, if my heart could speak to you
it would say what I wanted to do
I would leave the world behind
follow my heart not my mind
but, we can be lovers tonight
 
Morning comes the stars are gone
and you've left with them too
I know the stars will come again
but you won't be with them
 
so, one last kiss must hold me
remembering all that it told me
and that we were lovers tonight
we were lovers tonight

Author Notes

Still open to suggestions. Have established that the form is no form. Lenore is a name in lieu of the real name of any girl that I do not wish to identify, which is most of them. ha!

Chapter 17
Trying To Be Kids

By michaelcahill

Senior year in high school has its own special place in everyone's memory. It is the very last time that we are truly kids. Though it would be a year for me of great worry and personal sorrow, it would be a year of unforgettable dreams come true.
 
There would be no pushing freshman into the ivy on the first day of school this year. I and my motley group of misfits were there to greet the bewildered class of incoming freshman in fine and proper style. By my senior year my legend had grown laughably out of proportion to reality.
 
I, of course, had no problem taking advantage of that. The fear of being properly dealt with by me and my menacing minions kept the drooling dullards despondent and dejected as they sulked off to butt their heads together. One gentlemen decided to stay and challenge my dominion.
 
"What are ya gonna do if I kick one of these punks asses?" he elocuted with alacrity.
 
"I would be most astonished to find a human endowed with more than one ass, of that I can assure you."
 
With that I approached this rather large gentleman and stood before him neither threatening nor retreating. I had discovered that this was the most confusing stance one could take in such a situation. It puts one of limited intelligence in the position of planning his next move completely on his own.
 
"You ain't worth the trouble, faggot." That was his assessment has he turned in retreat.
 
"A brilliant analysis sir, though one your sister might take you to task for." His step had a little halt in it as a response but, his progress in retreat was unimpeded.
 
This was very typical of the exchanges I had throughout high school. The outcome was as well. Over the years the expectation of the outcome made my confidence in it grow to a degree that was probably foolish. Yet, to this very day, no one has ever called my bluff. I suppose crazy is more intimidating than big.
 
 

Not What It Seems
 
 
Goliath just laughed and his belly shook a shimmy, shimmy shake
David kept coming, that fool didn't know his bluff was called
That jiggling giant gasped grasping his noggin. Oh! It's throbbin!
Davey kept slingin' and them stones kept pingin' Giants ears are ringin'
Them ain't angels singin' as he falls face down done damned decomposing dead
 
"Line up them chariots in a circle
Or you're dead where you sit!"
No one listened to Marion Morrison
Now they are all dead.
He was not what he seemed. Yup.

 
 
The world that I look back from now is very small. It is so small that all of these people so far in my past are but a click away in a world that is at my fingertips. My memories can be compared to the perceptions of the very people I formed them with.

I can snap my fingers and ask my little grammar school chums what Mikey was like and they can tell me what they remember. I can ask that football player loathe to tangle with me what it was that caused him to back down from one half his size and he can, of course, make up a suitable lie to soothe his bruised ego!

I must say that my view of myself and the view of others observing and interacting with me are considerably different.
 
If you have followed my little story then you have already encountered accounts of every physical act of violence I have ever perpetrated in my entire life.

There have been two. Once in the fifth grade to silence a bully. Once in high school to silence another bully. Both times I felt no joy in retribution deserved as it was. I was sickened with remorse.
 
If you ask those that grew up with me they will tell you that I knocked out any number of bullies and defended the picked on masses on a regular basis. I did stand up to bullies. But, I never laid a finger on a single one.
 
There were some names that I looked for that I did not locate. They were friends or acquaintances or just names of people that impacted me in some way. I would just like to say a few words about them.
 
Kenny was a trumpet player in the concert band with me. He was a funny guy with a constant smile. We became friends through his sister who was an underclassman that was being picked on. She was chubby and not attractive.

She was one that I had sit at my lunch table. In fact, she sat right by me every day. She was a sweet girl. Her brother came to know me through the band and his sister and we became good friends. He was a year ahead of me and was drafted and shipped off to Vietnam the summer before my senior year.
 
Phil was also in the band and played clarinet in my section. Neither one of us were any good. We both learned clarinet because it was the same fingering as the much cooler saxophone which is what we really intended to play.

Phil was the only black kid in our school. He was like a celebrity. But, he took it with good humor. He was drafted the summer that Kenny was as well. We weren't as close as Kenny and I, but he was hilarious and a good guy.

He used to pretend that he couldn't stop smiling and that he was in pain trying to pull at his face to get rid of it……….You had to be there!
 
Robert was the star running back on a, rare for our school, great football team, the year before. I knew him well enough to say hello and exchange pleasantries. He was also an excellent student and a good guy.

He graduated and was considered one of the most likely to succeed in everything he did in life. He was patriotic and came from a long line of service. His father was a decorated World War Two veteran. He volunteered for duty in that same summer as Phil and Kenny. He became a Green Beret.
 
All three of these fine young men were killed in combat in Vietnam. I knew them. I knew that I would soon face what they had faced.

That is what the kids in my class faced that year. The boys that would have to go. The girls that loved them. The pressure to become adults was intense and we fought it tooth and nail.

Who could fault us for not wanting to grow up and join the world that awaited us?
 
 

To Kiss This Girl

 
 
You don't understand my good friend Slippery Sam
I don't need a long vacation in some exotic land
Your travel plans are yours not mine
I didn't get a vote
                        I didn't even get a drink
                                to wash down the bitter pill

I just want to kiss this girl
You killed my friends already
Wasn't that enough for you?
Did that gain you anything but the same thing?
I just want to kiss this girl
 
        My life you say is your life
        when did that become so?
                I want freedom
                             to kiss this girl
                I want to pursue happiness
                                with this girl           

I am just asking you to stop and see my side with my eyes
        look at those pretty eyes
                oh my
        that hair in the breeze
        that smile- right at me!
                this silly little boy
        the luckiest boy in the world

you have the right to take that from me?
 
I just want to kiss this girl
 

Author Notes

still open to suggestions and opinions and topics I haven't considered. I have been writing about the events that occurred during my school years both in the world as well as my personal life. A lot happened in the world. I am more than willing to speak to anything that you might find of interest that hasn't occurred to me. Marion Morrison was John Wayne's real name.

Chapter 18
Music & John

By michaelcahill

I became a writer. I am a musician. It is perhaps a small distinction. But, it is a huge difference as to who I am. I was listening to music and humming tunes before I could speak. I was fluent in the language of music long before I was fluent in English.
 
I began formal study of piano at the age of four. I was classically trained until I was a teenager. My ear for music was turned elsewhere. I did appreciate the classics and am grateful for the learning of them, as well as the ability to read and write in the language of music.
 
Being able to play a decent Bach fugue was a nice way to put a worried mom at ease when it came to who her precious daughter was about to date. I was well aware of that. But, rock and roll was the music that stirred something in me.
 
It was the music that accompanied my life and the music that I wanted to make. As a keyboard player that could read music, I was in high demand. That meant that I could go to the local music store, buy the sheet music to the latest songs and teach the rest of the band what their parts were.
 
Any band I was in was playing the very latest hits, before any other band. It was a huge advantage when it came to which band got hired, for the best parties or events. I played guitar as well. But, that was a more common skill, shared by many. It was more fun, to be sure, but not nearly as marketable, as my keyboard skills.
 
I was a songwriter, but that was not a great advantage when it came to getting paying jobs. No one wanted to hear original songs. They wanted to hear what they heard on the radio. So, my songs sat, unheard, in a shoebox on a shelf where they remain to this day. I would imagine that somewhere on a shelf is some of the finest music ever written, that no one will ever hear. Is it mine? Maybe. Who knows?
 
 

The Train I'm On
 
The train I'm on
goes in circles ever widening
it has no destination
no purpose for its journey
just lookin' for a change of scenery
It seems as though I've seen it all before.
The stars are still the same ones,
I saw when I was young.
 
"Hey conductor. Won't we ever reach the station?"
"Don't worry son, the train has one destination."
"But, hey conductor. Will we ever reach the station?"
"Don't worry son, we'll all get there before too long."
 
"Let me off I'd get further walkin'"
"Let me off!" But, the train keeps rollin' on.

 
 
My influences are many. Certainly Franz Liszt, with his oversize hands and almost crazed pieces, certainly impacted me and my oversize mittens. I am short but, I have really long arms and overly large hands, for my size. If one would add to that my lack of a neck then, we are left with a perfectly darling and cuddly orangutan. And yes, darlin', you are surely welcome to come back to the zoo with me.
 
Now, where was I? Influences. Musically again, I would have to say all of the popular icons have appeal, Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart and the like. They all, like the pop musicians of today, knew how to come up with a tune that would stick in one's head.
 
There are two aspects to a song though, music and lyrics. Lyrics speak more to the times quite often, though they can be universal also. There is always room for a love song. But, songs of rebellion and political unrest or the horrors of war can become very specific.
 
The two main influences to me musically and lyrically happened to be song writing partners. That would be Lennon and McCartney. John and Paul, as they are known and immediately recognizable as. Paul would be my influence in a purely musical sense, for his ability to produce endless, memorable melodies that remain imbedded in one's memory.
 
The list is endless and without parallel in history. No composer, that has ever lived, including the most revered classicals, has the number of instantly recognizable themes that Sir Paul McCartney does. It is indisputable, like him or not.
 
But, when it comes to the words that mirror my heart and soul, it is John Lennon that has always spoken for me. Even when I was a youngster, and my mind was occupied with growing up and discovering love for the first time, it was John that wrote the words, that most spoke to me.
 
"Half of what I say is meaningless. But I say it just to reach you."
 
"If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true; and help me understand?"
 
"I once had a girl. Or, should I say, she once had me."
 
"Help me if you can, I'm feeling down. Won't you please, please help me?"
 
"Hey! You've got to hide your love away. How can I even try? I can never win."
 
"I read the news today, oh boy."
 
It is endless and often out of context from the song, but words that went inside of me and became a part of who I was and who I would always be.  Later in my life as I grew, he grew as well. As I screamed at a deaf world to consider peace, instead of senseless war, John Lennon sang out for me
 
"All we are saying, is give peace a chance." I am not the least bit embarrassed by the simplicity of that. Nor do I blush, when I nod in agreement when I hear him sing: "All you need is love."
 
John had some wild times in his life. He had some times that he, perhaps, was not all that proud of. I do too. He dropped out of sight for a long period of time in the late seventies. It turns out he decided to turn his back on things that were not good and devote himself to raising his son, Sean; and being a husband to his wife, Yoko.
 
For five years he was completely out of the public eye, baking bread and living life as a house-husband. Finally, with his son now growing and of school age and with his supportive wife's encouragement, it was time to make music again. They would do it together. It would be a Double Fantasy.
 
The first little taste his anxious fans had was a single called "Starting Over". It was joyous! It was so uplifting and rollicking. John was in fine voice and the record was a smash hit. He was returning back to an adoring public and I was one young feeling, smiling part of them.
 
The album fulfilled every promise of that single. There was a beautiful ode to his wife called "Woman" that spoke to women everywhere. It was John pouring his heart out with honesty, asking forgiveness for every foolish thing he had ever done.
 
There was an immortal song written to his son called "Beautiful Boy" with the beautiful line "Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans".
 
The album was a musical and personal achievement that had our hearts and souls soaring with hope for the future. Our dreams and resolve for a better world were renewed as they hadn't been in many a year.
 
Some ignorant son-of-a-bitch shot him dead for no good reason what-so-ever.
 
I wrote one more song after that happened.
 
It would be one of the very few things I would write for the next twenty years. I quit writing. As an artist, I died. As that is what I was, I died.
 
I was at Disneyland when a moment of silence was to be held for John. I was there with a lovely woman and her two young children. One of them was named Jason. He was three years old. As I sat there in silence consumed by grief I watched Jason as he flew by on the merry-go-round with a huge smile on his face.
 
This is the song I wrote. The last song I would write for twenty years:
 
 

Jason's Song
 

And thank you for the afternoon
You've shown me more than you could know
You show me there's room for hope
As long as children like you are around
well, I have peace on my mind
but, you have peace in your heart
 
well, you're only three
but, I wish I were you
it's hard to believe
in dreams
and I need some help
I need someone
I need some help
I need someone like you
 
you see dreams with your child's mind
and let them hold you close
I have love on my mind
but, you have love in your heart
 
so ride on the merry-go-round
my hope shines bright in your smile
and hold on tight with your tiny hands
the world's depending on you

Author Notes

As a musician it is hard to write about my life and not write about music. It is hard to write about music and not write about John Lennon and his influence. He is not the only influence. But, he is a major influence. Still open to suggestions and input as to content and direction. This chapter was a suggestion and one that I was happy to follow. This is a bit longer than normal. But, it had to be. The site was down and I didn't have much reviewing time. So, if you want to wait to review until I can scrape up a little promotion money I fully understand. -smile-

Chapter 19
Hittin' the Flick

By michaelcahill

Back in the day, we used to refer to attending a motion picture as: "Hittin' the flick." Language is a funny thing. I am sure that we had no idea what that even meant or where it might have come from. I know that, at the time, I didn't either. At the time, it just sounded rather cool to say, or so we thought anyway.

Of course, a "flick" comes from the very early days of film and refers to "flicker shows" in which individual images where rapidly flashed through a projector giving the impression of motion. It was like a slide projector but, with the slides zipping through at incredible speed. Okay, wake up, I am done with the little history tangent!

We went to the movies a lot when I was young. I usually took my girlfriend. I was almost always in love or looking for love or getting over being in love. Even though I was always in rock and roll bands, when I wrote songs, they more often than not were little love ballads.
 
 

All You Have To Do
 
All you have to do
is look into my eyes
and see I need you
forget the world and all its answers
I said I want you
 
chorus:
the world will keep revolving
we don't have to spin it
the world will keep revolving
if you and I aren't there
I say ignore it baby I love you
 
let's not waste time
asking questions without answers
forget the riddles and their problems
there's just our embraces
let's just ignore it all baby
I love you

 
 
 
 
The local theater in my little hometown was a major center of both entertainment and social gathering throughout my childhood and early adult years. Going to the show or hittin' the flick was an almost weekly activity in those days.

Television was not the twenty-four hour a day all inclusive mega beast that it is today. There was decent programming from about seven P.M. until eleven P.M. followed by the news and then nothing but static.

There were no computers. Phones were cumbersome all black objects with dials manipulated by index fingers that struggled to fit in little holes designed for Disney characters.

I feel like an old grizzled comedian on a second rate cruise ship bemoaning the way the younger generation has become so spoiled:

"When I was a boy, they didn't have Facebook and all of this fancy social media stuff. We had neighbors and their maladjusted creepy kids.  And they were your friends and you couldn't do a thing about it. You played watching the snail crawl and you enjoyed it!!

We didn't have X-box, we went outside in the rain and played in the mud. We made mud pies and ate them so we wouldn't starve. And they were good too!!

If you didn't come home. There was no sissy "Amber alert". Mom and dad would just make another one and forget about you. We were tough back then!!"

Like so many things in life, one had to be there first hand to be able to describe it from a first-hand perspective. Historians are fine when it comes to analysis and conclusions. But, only a seven year old boy knows what a seven year old boy feels like.

I think of a movie like "2001: A Space Odyssey" and today's reaction to it. Of course, considering the technology that comes to bear on today's movies the reaction is going to be "ho hum".

To a teenage boy that had never seen anything remotely like it before the reaction was a little bit different. Up until that point spaceships were dinner plates suspended on strings hovering on a stick in front of a camera.


The leap forward in technology was astonishing to us. One would have had to have been there to feel the impact of seeing it for the first time.


There were many movies that reflected the times in the sixties. For every heroic film of bravery in battle and patriotism for one's country there was a counterpart espousing the horrors of war and the folly of blind duty without thought to consequence.

There were fine movies that favored both sides of the coin back in the day. The "Green Beret" with the iconic John Wayne starring was certainly a call to patriotic duty. "Easy Rider" was the answer with its anti-establishment call to freedom and a world that should make peace and not war.

In many ways there was comfort in a world that was so clearly defined. Grey is a color that is hazy in nature and difficult to find inspiration in. It promotes malaise. But, it is said that the answers are to be found there. I wonder.


The Alhambra Theater in my hometown fascinated me. I love antiques and history. Alhambra is an old city dating back to the 1800's. There are remnants here and there of its past and it has always been interesting to me to run across them. The Alhambra Theater was such a place.

Along with the modern theater that we all attended was a curtained off abandoned section that was meant to be off-limits to the general public. Of course, that was an open invitation to the more daring of us to sneak in and take a peak.

Daring was something I was noted for. Some would say foolhardy but, semantics aside, it would be a place that I would have to see. It was the original theater, complete with screen, seats, curtain and an old organ that at one time was used, no doubt, to accompany silent movies.

As a writer, I fueled the fires of it being a decidedly haunted and dangerous place to even set foot in let alone actually enter and explore. That certainly added to the excitement of taking a lovely lass into its haunted ambiance for a dalliance.

It was the kind of place that made for unforgettable memories. Somehow the alley behind the local Walmart just doesn't compare.

There were so many movies that I saw in that theater. It would be a list of virtually every major movie from the late fifties thru the early seventies. That was how to see a movie when I was young.

There were no videos back then. Every girl I every loved walked hand in hand with me into that theater. The building has been torn down. They do that to things that become old.

But, memories, they live forever on young and sweet, cherished and never changing.
 
 

The Alhambran

She was a pretty girl
I knew that somewhere dark would be nice
a place where I could hide the shy blush
that flushed my eager cheeks and told the tale
I knew there was a show that day, there always was

The Alhambran never failed me,
The old one behind the curtain where no one goes
"Yes" she said when my stuttered question
tripped right off my tongue. "Care to see a movie darlin'?
Does it sound like fun?"

I grabbed her hand so softly like it had been a trick
I payed the ticket master one handed
what else could I do?
I told her the ghost story; she squeezed a little tighter
I told her I'd protect her, she smiled and followed,
my heart pounding

Later her friends inquired, "What was the movie about?"
She smiled so very coyly and told them,
"It was a love story."

Author Notes

There was a time when television wasn't on round the clock. There was no internet. There wasn't videos or CDs or bluerays. Just the movies. Still open to suggestions. Still writing about whatever occurs to me which might be anything.

Chapter 20
The Greatest: Part 1

By michaelcahill

We all have people that we admire. There are people that influence us in various ways and to different degrees. Truly, every person we encounter is a part of our lives to some degree be it in a very small way or in a way that is life altering. Of course, a mother, father, brother, sister or spouse has a huge impact on the course out life takes.
 
I know that it is a complex puzzle of factors that produced the person that writes these words in the way that I write them. There are a myriad of reasons why I think and feel the way I do. Much of what I believe stems from words and actions of people that I have never met or people that are not even alive.
 
I am influenced in fact by people that never were alive. There are characters that are the product of imagination that nonetheless hold sway in my thinking. I do want to emulate Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
 

Santa
 

Well, if that don't beat all
       Old Uncle Earl told me that Jolly Old Saint Nick
                 isn't any more real than the candlestick
         and Jack didn't jump and Jill hasn't seen a hill
                              since they put her in a home

            but, I see he drinks a bit
   and I say he don't know diddly spiddly spit!

I say to all that want to hear it now
Yes, Mr. Claus is absolutely real, as real can be
and Rudolph too and crafty elves and flying sleds too
 

See, that keen red wagon there?
He left it under that tree
and he left a card that said
"From Santa Claus to me"

 
 
There are many role models that I try to emulate in my life. Some are deep and spiritual and go to the core of who I am and how I want to treat my fellow man. Others are how I might want to be perceived as a human being.
 
Then there are others that simply live life in a way that appears to me to be larger than others and with gusto and fun. I like heart and courage. I like people that go out on a limb. I like true sportsmanship. I like humor and excitement. I love when someone can take something ordinary and make something extraordinary out of it.
 
I love Muhammad Ali. As a writer and an artist I need a story to involve, especially in a sporting story. Simple athletic ability while admirable does not involve me in more than a cursory way. I need an underdog. I need an aging warrior returning to battle for one last glorious hurrah. I need a hero or a villain and a rousing story line to go with it.
 
In 1960 a young boxer named Cassius Clay fought for the United States of America as a light heavyweight boxer. He was brash and unorthodox. He fought with his arms at his sides almost daring anyone to hit him. It was thought that his prospects were dim indeed. He would be in the ring against the very best amateur boxers in the world.
 
To the surprise of all, he won the gold medal for his country and returned home a hero. He was sought after as a potential money making commodity and a group of southern business men put together a package to manage and promote him. It was a time of terrible racial divide in the United States and this out spoken young black man was not the least bit appreciated in the racial powder keg that was the deep-south.
 
The white men that owned his contract didn't seem to mind though, as the money began to roll in. Cassius Clay was a love-him or hate-him individual. One either wanted to see his big mouth shut forever or wanted to see him back up his every outrageous boast. I was amongst the later. I could see the humor and reasoning behind his boasts.
 
I remember so well when he was taunting Sonny Liston, then the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. Liston was a truly terrifying brute that would stare his opponent down often taking the fight out of him before the first blow was actually thrown. He appeared and had been up to that point unbeatable.
 
Now, here was this skinny, for a heavyweight, young man shouting and talking crazy nonsense to him like he was nothing. Clay was reciting poetry about him and calling him "a big ugly bear" while at the same time informing the world about how "pretty" he (Clay) was. "I am the greatest of all time!"  he shouted to the cameras.
 
It certainly was a way for a totally unknown, unheralded boxer to get some instant fame and notoriety. Yes, it certainly was, indeed. What should have been a run-of-the-mill tune-up fight, was now becoming the big sporting event of the year.
 
Could this brash young kid really beat this invincible, fearsome champion? Or, would this heavy-handed warrior shut this loud-mouth up and send him home crying to his momma? The world became very interested in the answers to those questions.
 
I saw it as pure genius. Cassius Clay became my idol right there and I dreamed that he would pull off the impossible. I loved underdogs. I loved the impossible dream. Here was the biggest underdog in the history of professional sports with a dream that redefined impossible. Would my hero win the day and back up his outlandish boasts of victory?
 
Oh Yes! Yes, my friends, he would! That big ugly bear quit in his corner unwilling to face the blazing speed and stinging blows of the new heavyweight champion of the world, Cassius Clay! True to form, when Clay saw that Liston had quit in the corner he began leaping around the ring, acting crazy, shouting, "I am the greatest of all Time!"
 
He made sure that he kept his mouth wide open, so that the cameras would get that shot for the morning papers. Sure enough, that was the photo in every paper across the country, Clay with his mouth wide open and wide eyed and the headline reading: "The greatest of all time!"
 
Pure genius. It was funny, because most people didn't get it. They thought he was really like that. They didn't realize he was just hyping himself and creating excitement. He took his cue from some of the great professional wrestlers that were big at the time.
 
One in particular, Gorgeous George, was famous for entering the ring primping and spraying perfume to a loud chorus of boos and catcalls. Of course, he was also the highest paid wrestler on the circuit by far. Cassius Clay made note of that, he was smart.
 
In the years to come this man, my hero, would come to mean more and more to me as he grew and I grew along with him. There was much more to him than just being a great sports icon. He was also a role model to me as a man of principal.
 
He was a man of courage that cared deeply about other people and did something about it. A hero.
 

Bowling
 

 
                   Bowling?
                          Sure, we could go bowling

I do realize you have superior skills
But, I must warn you, you will not have a chance
It is not possible to defeat me
I never lose, I can't even tell you why

You will step up to the line and you just won't be able
              to bowl like you usually bowl
                     happens every time

Even though I am not that good, I will be this time
              it just works out that way
       You understand I hope
              Nothing personal, my friend but,

 

I am the greatest bowler of all time!

Author Notes

Still open to any suggestions as to direction or topics. Other than John Lennon's death in 1980, have been writing mostly of the sixties. But, I can go back or forward.

Chapter 21
Ali!

By michaelcahill

The defeat of Sonny Liston by Cassius Clay would be the last chapter in the story of Cassius Clay's life. Behind the scenes of this heralded sporting event were other events of a more meaningful nature to this young man. They were events that shaped his views on his fellow man and how they should be treated.
 
They were views on how he should live his life. They were views that would take extraordinary courage to hold true to. This man was a man of extraordinary courage. There would be a maelstrom of controversy that would follow this man throughout his life. It had begun to ripple already.
 
The tsunami deluge was about to begin. The rematch with Sonny Liston was set. There were rumors of criminal involvement and controversy surrounding the first fight. There was a strong contingent of folk that couldn't or wouldn't believe that this skinny young kid honestly beat the brutish bear that was Sonny Liston.
 
There were decided racial overtones as well. A young, loud, irreverent black-man speaking with arrogance and pride was certainly not the role model a great many people in this country were happy to see. That was the public atmosphere, charged and volatile. That charge was soon to receive a major spark indeed.
 
The young Clay had been speaking in private with Malcom X and learning of the Muslim faith. Cassius Clay had embraced it fully and had decided to fully commit to it. He considered his given name to be a name derived from slavery and decided to change it to a name that more befitted his true heritage.
 
Henceforth, like it or not, he would answer only to Muhammed Ali.
 
 

Old Man Clay

Old man Clay was a tillin' the fields
singin' a song of freedom, dreamin' with sweat stingin' his eyes
lookin' to the blue in the sky wonderin' where was his day
his soul knew….his heart knew….more was meant to be
 
A voice called out loud "Ali! Ali!"
Clay stood there for a long while thinking.
"Sir, you mean me, don't you?"
"Not just you son, everybody."

 

The promoters of the fight were beside themselves. They begged Ali to wait until after the fight to announce his name change. They feared a boycott and worse than that a loss of revenue. Muhammed Ali would have none of that. He made his announcement to a stunned world.
 
 
It was not taken well by most. There were some, myself included, that admired him for standing up for his beliefs in spite of what the cost would be. Then there were sports enthusiasts that were interested in his wonderful athletic ability and not all that inclined to other matters as a general rule.
 
There were death threats and vows to boycott the fight and any number of articles and speeches condemning Ali for his stance. There would be opponents in the future that would pay dearly for calling him Clay and refusing to refer to him as Ali.
 
With that in mind, it was fight night. Sonny Liston was in the ring looking like a grizzly bear that had not eaten in a very long while. He stared down the aisle waiting as did everyone else. Some doubted considering the threats on his life that Mohammed Ali would even show up. He did.
 
Looking as relaxed as if he was going to a family birthday party, there he was, larger than life. It was always magic when he made his entrance. That smile, the talk and those eyes filled with life taking it all in as those it was his world for him and him alone. As it would turn out, it was.
 
"Ladies and gentleman. The undisputed, undefeated, heavyweight champion of the world, Muhammed Ali!" So much emotion flowed through a nation with that simple announcement. It transcended sports. There was the thrill of the event itself, of course, always an exciting affair.
 
But, this was about love and hate. Love is easy to express even in a public forum. I have no problem telling you that I love Muhammed Ali. I love that this man in the face of grave danger walked through an atmosphere of vile hatred with his head held high and proud in a triumph of spirit that would never leave my soul.
 
Hate is a different beast though. Hate likes to hide. Hate is not something that one proclaims with pride. It is hidden within festering and rotting eating away at anything good and wholesome as it grows. There was a lot of hatred harbored for Ali: hatred for his race, hatred for his religion and hatred for his brash personality.
 
To a racist the thought of this proud outspoken successful athlete worshipping in his own way was a role model that was the antithesis of what they would want. A Black Muslim that was against the war was certainly not a mainstream icon. He may be a universally beloved hero now, but I can assure you, at the time, opinions varied.
 
He knocked out Sonny Liston in the first round of their rematch. It was a fight that proved to be more controversial than there first fight and is still hotly debated to this day. Before long, Howard Cosell would come along as an acerbic commentator sparring with Ali. Their exchanges were classic and most entertaining.
 
There would be battles of monumental athletic prowess and courage. Ali referred to his third bout with Joe Frazier as the closest thing to death he had ever experienced. He would regain the heavyweight championship at an age when most are washed up with a stunning victory against George Foreman. He was every bit the underdog in that bout that he was against Sonny Liston all those years ago. Once again against all odds he went to the well and emerged victorious. My hero. My idol.
 
As a man my admiration is even higher. Beginning with his choice to risk everything for his beliefs and change his name to honor his faith, his life has been choices that are always based on personal belief. He has never been one to do what will garner him fame or popularity or riches.
 
His conviction to not enter the draft cost him dearly in all those regards. The very prime of his athletic life was lost to his refusal to enter the draft. He could have simply visited some troops, shook some hands and continued his multi-million dollar boxing career beloved by the masses.
 
But, true to his beliefs, he chose to refuse. He was stripped of his championship, not allowed to make a living and generally reviled as a coward by a great number of people. My hero. My idol.
 
Finally, there is that fun loving personality. Those that know me will say that "Oh no, Mikey is going Ali on us again!" That is their way of saying that I have decided that whatever we are doing is boring and I am going to hype it up alla Muhammed Ali.
 
"You call that raking the lawn? Nobody rakes the lawn like me! I am the greatest leaf raker of all time!"
 
You would be surprised how quick the leaves get raked and how much fun it can be to rake the lawn.
 
 

Courage
 
Facing conscription
Fearing conviction
Seeking restriction
Dammit induction
 
Soldier with gun
I didn't run
Hero? Coward?
Which one?

Author Notes

Part two of Ali. Done for now on Ali. Probably more in the future. Still open to suggestions as to topics. Mainly been writing about the sixties and grammar and high school. But anything from the fifties to now that I have witnessed or participated in personally is okay to include. No format or order has been established thought it is somewhat moving forward by age.

Chapter 22
The Last Hurrah!

By michaelcahill

1968 ended with a decided whimper, especially for the supporters of Bobby Kennedy. The assassination of Bobby Kennedy turned our mood from one of jubilation to one of grim resolve. There was no joy in our determination to move forward. We moved forward with a sense of obligation to honor his legacy.
 
We certainly were not pleased in any way to be doing so. Indeed, angered would be a better word. There was almost an undertone of vengeance to our spirit. But there was nothing or no one to direct our vengeance at. There was the Republican candidate, Richard M. Nixon. He would have to do.
 
The strong support for Bobby splintered somewhat with the more practical favoring Hubert Humphrey and the more idealistic and staunch anti-war supporters favoring Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy offered himself as a stand-in for Bobby and ran on his ideals.
 
Humphrey was more mainstream and a life-long politician. He also had the stigma of being the Vice-President in the Lyndon Johnson presidency. In reality Humphrey was a life-long advocate for civil rights and had a long record of standing up for the common man.
 
He was every bit a man we should've supported. But, he was not Bobby Kennedy.  He was not even Eugene McCarthy. I supported him as a man of principal that shared my views and I felt that he would forward them as President.
 
The nation was decidedly not in agreement. Combined with the apathy of the Democratic Party itself, Richard Nixon was elected president. As a young high school student I felt as though my fate had been sealed. This was certainly the man that would send me to my doom in less than two-years-time.
 
 

A Soldier's Gift

 
 
Pretty ribbons tied and splattered red, all red and shiny
              wrapped so tight, so very tight
                                you tell me not to undo the bow
              well it seems my fingers aren't wiggling anyway
                                                         and they are cold
                                                                            so cold
 
 

did I mention that I play the piano?
I could play you a carol or two
just hold my hand so very tight
I can play it with the other one
would that help you maybe decide
would it change what you would do?

 

It is easy to understand why Richard Nixon would not be one of my favorite historical figures. As it turns out, the years of concern and fear about being drafted turned out to be for nothing.
 
I was never drafted. The feelings and the memories of them remain to this day nonetheless.
 
I suppose it was inertia that propelled us forward after the 1968 election. But, we continued to be outspoken and called more loudly than ever for an end to the war and an end to injustice of every kind. We called for a world of peace, love and togetherness.
 
We were often laughed at for it. It is often laughed at even today. I would ask those that find it amusing then, what is it that is so funny? Is a world of war, hatred and division so appealing and comfortable that anything else is found to be comedic?
 
Who wants more sanctimonious ranting from Mikey? A still wind blew through the empty stadium…………..
 
The race for the White House in 1972 was as much against Nixon as it was in favor of McGovern. In truth, it was more about being against Nixon for the majority of his detractors. The staunch anti-war activists favored George McGovern. Much of the wind was out of our sails though.
 
Nixon had scaled back the war and had brought troops home. The fact that I was never drafted, after all, didn't erase the years of anguish and worry. It did remove the actuality of facing the truth of battle. I can never say what I would've done. I can never say what it was like.
 
There are many aspects of that terrible war that I do not have the slightest right to say a word about. The people that were not there have no right to judge the people that were there. To me that is a very simple truth. To the soldiers that fought for their country I can only say a heartfelt thank-you.
 
That aside, we were against the policies that led us to being in Vietnam and that kept us there. Simply put, we didn't feel we belonged there and we didn't feel our young men should be dying there. McGovern wanted to end the war immediately and bring our boys home. His campaign theme in fact was: Come Home America.
 
This would be an election that I could actually vote in. The voting age had been lowered to eighteen. In our minds, all of us new young idealists were going to turn the tide and sweep our man, McGovern, into office.  I knew early, on Election Day, how foolish I was to believe that.
 
I asked my friends who they voted for. Through a drug induced haze they told me: "Dude, we voted for you, man. We think you would make a cool President, bro." In the Presidential election of 1972 I received twenty two votes for President of the United States. I and George McGovern were defeated in a landslide by Richard M. Nixon.
 
McGovern did manage to carry his home state of Massachusetts. I suspect the dudes there thought he would make a pretty cool President. It was the last time I was passionate about an election or a candidate. I participate and I vote. But, I am not inspired. I miss that so very, very much. I only find that feeling in my memory.
 
As it turns out Nixon was up to some shady things in that election. His vice-president was not all on the up and up either. Neither one would complete their terms in office. I will simply say that that Richard Nixon was not my favorite president.
 
I know that I would not want my every word and deed held up to the microscope of public scrutiny.
 
Did I mention I like children and little puppies?
 
I wrote a song as the election returns came in showing McGovern's landslide defeat.
 
I don't recall ever addressing politics in a song again after it.
 
 
 

Is It Over?
 
Is it over?
Have we given up fighting?
Is it over?
Have our dreams turned to night
and our thoughts gone to sleep
our minds counting sheep?
Is it over?
 
When we were younger
we naively thought
that just by fighting
better dreams could be bought
 
the years passed on by
our spirits were bent
we closed our hearts
and kept our dreams in our heads
is it over?

 

In many ways the 1972 election and its results marked the end of my adolescence. I had already entered college and was soon to be married for the first time. I was employed and would be as a necessity for long into the future.
 
The ties to my childhood were broken. It would be decades before I would ever see even one of my schoolmates again.
 
Who I was and who I am today remain one and the same.
 
I am the guy that voted for George McGovern.
 

Author Notes

Still open to suggestions as to topics and direction. In general have been concerning myself with the fifties and sixties. There are other areas of interest there. But, I am not restricted to that. There is not a format so, anything goes.

Chapter 22
The Last Hurrah!

By michaelcahill

1968 ended with a decided whimper, especially for the supporters of Bobby Kennedy. The assassination of Bobby Kennedy turned our mood from one of jubilation to one of grim resolve. There was no joy in our determination to move forward. We moved forward with a sense of obligation to honor his legacy.
 
We certainly were not pleased in any way to be doing so. Indeed, angered would be a better word. There was almost an undertone of vengeance to our spirit. But there was nothing or no one to direct our vengeance at. There was the Republican candidate, Richard M. Nixon. He would have to do.
 
The strong support for Bobby splintered somewhat with the more practical favoring Hubert Humphrey and the more idealistic and staunch anti-war supporters favoring Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy offered himself as a stand-in for Bobby and ran on his ideals.
 
Humphrey was more mainstream and a life-long politician. He also had the stigma of being the Vice-President in the Lyndon Johnson presidency. In reality Humphrey was a life-long advocate for civil rights and had a long record of standing up for the common man.
 
He was every bit a man we should've supported. But, he was not Bobby Kennedy.  He was not even Eugene McCarthy. I supported him as a man of principal that shared my views and I felt that he would forward them as President.
 
The nation was decidedly not in agreement. Combined with the apathy of the Democratic Party itself, Richard Nixon was elected president. As a young high school student I felt as though my fate had been sealed. This was certainly the man that would send me to my doom in less than two-years-time.
 
A Soldier's Gift
 
Pretty ribbons tied and splattered red, all red and shiny
       wrapped so tight, so very tight
              you tell me not to undo the bow
       well it seems my fingers aren't wiggling anyway
                           and they are cold
                                  so cold
 
did I mention that I play the piano?
I could play you a carol or two
just hold my hand so very tight
I can play it with the other one
would that help you maybe decide
would it change what you would do?
 
It is easy to understand why Richard Nixon would not be one of my favorite historical figures. As it turns out, the years of concern and fear about being drafted turned out to be for nothing.
 
I was never drafted. The feelings and the memories of them remain to this day nonetheless.
 
I suppose it was inertia that propelled us forward after the 1968 election. But, we continued to be outspoken and called more loudly than ever for an end to the war and an end to injustice of every kind. We called for a world of peace, love and togetherness.
 
We were often laughed at for it. It is often laughed at even today. I would ask those that find it amusing then, what is it that is so funny? Is a world of war, hatred and division so appealing and comfortable that anything else is found to be comedic?
 
Who wants more sanctimonious ranting from Mikey? A still wind blew through the empty stadium…………..
 
The race for the White House in 1972 was as much against Nixon as it was in favor of McGovern. In truth, it was more about being against Nixon for the majority of his detractors. The staunch anti-war activists favored George McGovern. Much of the wind was out of our sails though.
 
Nixon had scaled back the war and had brought troops home. In fact, I was never drafted after all. It didn't erase the years of anguish and worry. It did remove the actuality of facing the truth of battle. I can never say what I would've done. I can never say what it was like.
 
There are many aspects of that terrible war that I do not have the slightest right to say a word about. The people that were not there have no right to judge the people that were there. To me that is a very simple truth. To the soldiers that fought for their country I can only say a heartfelt thank-you.
 
That aside, we were against the policies that led us to being in Vietnam and that kept us there. Simply put, we didn't feel we belonged there and we didn't feel our young men should be dyeing there. McGovern wanted to end the war immediately and bring our boys home. His campaign theme in fact was: Come Home America.
 
This would be an election that I could actually vote in. The voting age had been lowered to eighteen. In our minds, all of us new young idealists were going to turn the tide and sweep our man, McGovern, into office.  I knew early, on Election Day, how foolish I was to believe that.
 
I asked my friends who they voted for. Through a drug induced haze they told me: "Dude, we voted for you, man. We think you would make a cool President, bro." In the Presidential election of 1972 I received twenty two votes for President of the United States. I and George McGovern were defeated in a landslide by Richard M. Nixon.
 
McGovern did manage to carry his home state of Massachusetts. I suspect the dudes there thought he would make a pretty cool President. It was the last time I was passionate about an election or a candidate. I participate and I vote. But, I am not inspired. I miss that so very, very much. I only find that feeling in my memory.
 
As it turns out Nixon was up to some shady things in that election. His vice-president was not all on the up and up either. Neither one would complete their terms in office. I will simply say that that Richard Nixon was not my favorite president.
 
I know that I would not want my every word and deed held up to the microscope of public scrutiny.
 
Did I mention I like children and little puppies?
 
I wrote a song as the election returns came in showing McGovern's landslide defeat.
 
I don't recall ever addressing politics in a song again after it.
 
Is It Over?
 
Is it over?
Have we given up fighting?
Is it over?
Have our dreams turned to night
and our thoughts gone to sleep
our minds counting sheep?
Is it over?
 
When we were younger
we naively thought
that just by fighting
better dreams could be bought
 
the years passed on by
our spirits were bent
we closed our hearts
and kept our dreams in our heads
is it over?
 
In many ways the 1972 election and its results marked the end of my adolescents. I had already entered college and was soon to be married for the first time. I was employed and would be as a necessity for long into the future.
 
The ties to my childhood were broken. It would be decades before I would ever see even one of my schoolmates again.
 
Who I was and who I am today remain one and the same.
 
I am the guy that voted for George McGovern.
 

Author Notes

Still open to suggestions as to topics and direction. In general have been concerning myself with the fifties and sixties. There are other areas of interest there. But, I am not restricted to that. There is not a format so, anything goes.

Chapter 22
The Last Hurrah!

By michaelcahill

1968 ended with a decided whimper, especially for the supporters of Bobby Kennedy. The assassination of Bobby Kennedy turned our mood from one of jubilation to one of grim resolve. There was no joy in our determination to move forward. We moved forward with a sense of obligation to honor his legacy.
 
We certainly were not pleased in any way to be doing so. Indeed, angered would be a better word. There was almost an undertone of vengeance to our spirit. But there was nothing or no one to direct our vengeance at. There was the Republican candidate, Richard M. Nixon. He would have to do.
 
The strong support for Bobby splintered somewhat with the more practical favoring Hubert Humphrey and the more idealistic and staunch anti-war supporters favoring Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy offered himself as a stand-in for Bobby and ran on his ideals.
 
Humphrey was more mainstream and a life-long politician. He also had the stigma of being the Vice-President in the Lyndon Johnson presidency. In reality Humphrey was a life-long advocate for civil rights and had a long record of standing up for the common man.
 
He was every bit a man we should've supported. But, he was not Bobby Kennedy.  He was not even Eugene McCarthy. I supported him as a man of principal that shared my views and I felt that he would forward them as President.
 
The nation was decidedly not in agreement. Combined with the apathy of the Democratic Party itself, Richard Nixon was elected president. As a young high school student I felt as though my fate had been sealed. This was certainly the man that would send me to my doom in less than two-years-time.
 
A Soldier's Gift
 
Pretty ribbons tied and splattered red, all red and shiny
       wrapped so tight, so very tight
              you tell me not to undo the bow
       well it seems my fingers aren't wiggling anyway
                           and they are cold
                                  so cold
 
did I mention that I play the piano?
I could play you a carol or two
just hold my hand so very tight
I can play it with the other one
would that help you maybe decide
would it change what you would do?
 
It is easy to understand why Richard Nixon would not be one of my favorite historical figures. As it turns out, the years of concern and fear about being drafted turned out to be for nothing.
 
I was never drafted. The feelings and the memories of them remain to this day nonetheless.
 
I suppose it was inertia that propelled us forward after the 1968 election. But, we continued to be outspoken and called more loudly than ever for an end to the war and an end to injustice of every kind. We called for a world of peace, love and togetherness.
 
We were often laughed at for it. It is often laughed at even today. I would ask those that find it amusing then, what is it that is so funny? Is a world of war, hatred and division so appealing and comfortable that anything else is found to be comedic?
 
Who wants more sanctimonious ranting from Mikey? A still wind blew through the empty stadium…………..
 
The race for the White House in 1972 was as much against Nixon as it was in favor of McGovern. In truth, it was more about being against Nixon for the majority of his detractors. The staunch anti-war activists favored George McGovern. Much of the wind was out of our sails though.
 
Nixon had scaled back the war and had brought troops home. In fact, I was never drafted after all. It didn't erase the years of anguish and worry. It did remove the actuality of facing the truth of battle. I can never say what I would've done. I can never say what it was like.
 
There are many aspects of that terrible war that I do not have the slightest right to say a word about. The people that were not there have no right to judge the people that were there. To me that is a very simple truth. To the soldiers that fought for their country I can only say a heartfelt thank-you.
 
That aside, we were against the policies that led us to being in Vietnam and that kept us there. Simply put, we didn't feel we belonged there and we didn't feel our young men should be dyeing there. McGovern wanted to end the war immediately and bring our boys home. His campaign theme in fact was: Come Home America.
 
This would be an election that I could actually vote in. The voting age had been lowered to eighteen. In our minds, all of us new young idealists were going to turn the tide and sweep our man, McGovern, into office.  I knew early, on Election Day, how foolish I was to believe that.
 
I asked my friends who they voted for. Through a drug induced haze they told me: "Dude, we voted for you, man. We think you would make a cool President, bro." In the Presidential election of 1972 I received twenty two votes for President of the United States. I and George McGovern were defeated in a landslide by Richard M. Nixon.
 
McGovern did manage to carry his home state of Massachusetts. I suspect the dudes there thought he would make a pretty cool President. It was the last time I was passionate about an election or a candidate. I participate and I vote. But, I am not inspired. I miss that so very, very much. I only find that feeling in my memory.
 
As it turns out Nixon was up to some shady things in that election. His vice-president was not all on the up and up either. Neither one would complete their terms in office. I will simply say that that Richard Nixon was not my favorite president.
 
I know that I would not want my every word and deed held up to the microscope of public scrutiny.
 
Did I mention I like children and little puppies?
 
I wrote a song as the election returns came in showing McGovern's landslide defeat.
 
I don't recall ever addressing politics in a song again after it.
 
Is It Over?
 
Is it over?
Have we given up fighting?
Is it over?
Have our dreams turned to night
and our thoughts gone to sleep
our minds counting sheep?
Is it over?
 
When we were younger
we naively thought
that just by fighting
better dreams could be bought
 
the years passed on by
our spirits were bent
we closed our hearts
and kept our dreams in our heads
is it over?
 
In many ways the 1972 election and its results marked the end of my adolescents. I had already entered college and was soon to be married for the first time. I was employed and would be as a necessity for long into the future.
 
The ties to my childhood were broken. It would be decades before I would ever see even one of my schoolmates again.
 
Who I was and who I am today remain one and the same.
 
I am the guy that voted for George McGovern.
 

Author Notes

Still open to suggestions as to topics and direction. In general have been concerning myself with the fifties and sixties. There are other areas of interest there. But, I am not restricted to that. There is not a format so, anything goes.

Chapter 22
The Last Hurrah!

By michaelcahill

1968 ended with a decided whimper, especially for the supporters of Bobby Kennedy. The assassination of Bobby Kennedy turned our mood from one of jubilation to one of grim resolve. There was no joy in our determination to move forward. We moved forward with a sense of obligation to honor his legacy.
 
We certainly were not pleased in any way to be doing so. Indeed, angered would be a better word. There was almost an undertone of vengeance to our spirit. But there was nothing or no one to direct our vengeance at. There was the Republican candidate, Richard M. Nixon. He would have to do.
 
The strong support for Bobby splintered somewhat with the more practical favoring Hubert Humphrey and the more idealistic and staunch anti-war supporters favoring Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy offered himself as a stand-in for Bobby and ran on his ideals.
 
Humphrey was more mainstream and a life-long politician. He also had the stigma of being the Vice-President in the Lyndon Johnson presidency. In reality Humphrey was a life-long advocate for civil rights and had a long record of standing up for the common man.
 
He was every bit a man we should've supported. But, he was not Bobby Kennedy.  He was not even Eugene McCarthy. I supported him as a man of principal that shared my views and I felt that he would forward them as President.
 
The nation was decidedly not in agreement. Combined with the apathy of the Democratic Party itself, Richard Nixon was elected president. As a young high school student I felt as though my fate had been sealed. This was certainly the man that would send me to my doom in less than two-years-time.
 
A Soldier's Gift
 
Pretty ribbons tied and splattered red, all red and shiny
       wrapped so tight, so very tight
              you tell me not to undo the bow
       well it seems my fingers aren't wiggling anyway
                           and they are cold
                                  so cold
 
did I mention that I play the piano?
I could play you a carol or two
just hold my hand so very tight
I can play it with the other one
would that help you maybe decide
would it change what you would do?
 
It is easy to understand why Richard Nixon would not be one of my favorite historical figures. As it turns out, the years of concern and fear about being drafted turned out to be for nothing.
 
I was never drafted. The feelings and the memories of them remain to this day nonetheless.
 
I suppose it was inertia that propelled us forward after the 1968 election. But, we continued to be outspoken and called more loudly than ever for an end to the war and an end to injustice of every kind. We called for a world of peace, love and togetherness.
 
We were often laughed at for it. It is often laughed at even today. I would ask those that find it amusing then, what is it that is so funny? Is a world of war, hatred and division so appealing and comfortable that anything else is found to be comedic?
 
Who wants more sanctimonious ranting from Mikey? A still wind blew through the empty stadium…………..
 
The race for the White House in 1972 was as much against Nixon as it was in favor of McGovern. In truth, it was more about being against Nixon for the majority of his detractors. The staunch anti-war activists favored George McGovern. Much of the wind was out of our sails though.
 
Nixon had scaled back the war and had brought troops home. In fact, I was never drafted after all. It didn't erase the years of anguish and worry. It did remove the actuality of facing the truth of battle. I can never say what I would've done. I can never say what it was like.
 
There are many aspects of that terrible war that I do not have the slightest right to say a word about. The people that were not there have no right to judge the people that were there. To me that is a very simple truth. To the soldiers that fought for their country I can only say a heartfelt thank-you.
 
That aside, we were against the policies that led us to being in Vietnam and that kept us there. Simply put, we didn't feel we belonged there and we didn't feel our young men should be dyeing there. McGovern wanted to end the war immediately and bring our boys home. His campaign theme in fact was: Come Home America.
 
This would be an election that I could actually vote in. The voting age had been lowered to eighteen. In our minds, all of us new young idealists were going to turn the tide and sweep our man, McGovern, into office.  I knew early, on Election Day, how foolish I was to believe that.
 
I asked my friends who they voted for. Through a drug induced haze they told me: "Dude, we voted for you, man. We think you would make a cool President, bro." In the Presidential election of 1972 I received twenty two votes for President of the United States. I and George McGovern were defeated in a landslide by Richard M. Nixon.
 
McGovern did manage to carry his home state of Massachusetts. I suspect the dudes there thought he would make a pretty cool President. It was the last time I was passionate about an election or a candidate. I participate and I vote. But, I am not inspired. I miss that so very, very much. I only find that feeling in my memory.
 
As it turns out Nixon was up to some shady things in that election. His vice-president was not all on the up and up either. Neither one would complete their terms in office. I will simply say that that Richard Nixon was not my favorite president.
 
I know that I would not want my every word and deed held up to the microscope of public scrutiny.
 
Did I mention I like children and little puppies?
 
I wrote a song as the election returns came in showing McGovern's landslide defeat.
 
I don't recall ever addressing politics in a song again after it.
 
Is It Over?
 
Is it over?
Have we given up fighting?
Is it over?
Have our dreams turned to night
and our thoughts gone to sleep
our minds counting sheep?
Is it over?
 
When we were younger
we naively thought
that just by fighting
better dreams could be bought
 
the years passed on by
our spirits were bent
we closed our hearts
and kept our dreams in our heads
is it over?
 
In many ways the 1972 election and its results marked the end of my adolescents. I had already entered college and was soon to be married for the first time. I was employed and would be as a necessity for long into the future.
 
The ties to my childhood were broken. It would be decades before I would ever see even one of my schoolmates again.
 
Who I was and who I am today remain one and the same.
 
I am the guy that voted for George McGovern.
 

Author Notes

Still open to suggestions as to topics and direction. In general have been concerning myself with the fifties and sixties. There are other areas of interest there. But, I am not restricted to that. There is not a format so, anything goes.

Chapter 23
Color T.V. Oh My!

By michaelcahill

The sixties were a time of rapid growth for the United States, mankind and for myself. I suppose that perspective is always a determining factor to consider in any personal view. No doubt that one growing up in the fifties would consider that decade remarkable in comparison to the forties. I can understand that perspective. But, I only lived it as a small child.
 
My world then was small and concerned with things contained within walls: the walls of my home, the walls of a classroom or even the walls of the local movie theater. What was outside of those walls had little effect on me in a day to day sense. I remember the fifties and growing up of course. There are events of significance indeed. But, they are all of a personal nature. The world and its events did not factor in, at least in a direct way, that I can recall.
 
The first intrusion of the world, on my little isolated existence, came in 1960. It was the Presidential debates between John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon. I was all of eight years old. I was being raised by a houseful of single woman, surrounded by mental illness. I was being raised under the delusion that I was going to be the next big child star to hit Hollywood.
 
In any case, at that age my perception didn't include any great knowledge of agendas or foreign policies or economic issues. I was in a home that favored Kennedy, so I favored Kennedy as well. It was more than that though.
 
The story, and that is what it was to me, that Kennedy told was much more to my liking than the one that Nixon told. Kennedy spoke of the future and of helping people and teaching people and doing things together. Nixon spoke of things that were boring to me, being afraid and getting ready to fight Communism and not giving things away to those that didn't deserve them.
 
I look back on that little naïve kid now and smile. I say to him, "You were right on the money, kiddo." I liked that Kennedy was good looking with a pretty wife and cute kids. I liked that he smiled and told jokes. I liked him. I just didn't like Nixon. He seemed unfriendly and mean.
 
The history is well known. It was the first televised Presidential debate. That is how I was exposed to it. That was what was on instead of "Lassie" and "Dennis the Menace". Had it not been for television I would not have known a thing about it.
 
It would not be the last time that I would see either of these two men on television in a dramatic way. Little did we know at the time the roles that history had in store for them as they debated in black and white on our flickering screens.
 
 

The Front Door Key
 
Are you going to lock the door?
We are going to be gone for quite a while
"Well now, I don't think I have the key."
Grandma said with a big smile.
 
"I guess we cannot go now
For they might steal Sam the cat
And we'd lose that worthless fur-ball
How could we ever live with that?"
 
With that she fired the Plymouth up
"To Yosemite we are bound!"
We had no need to lock the door
When I was a kid no danger was around

 

At school the debate reached the playground where I was surprised to learn that Nixon had supporters as strong for him as I was for my man. We exchanged witty barbs aplenty at recess and lunch. We never did reach a consensus as to which candidate was more stupid than the other one. But, I believe that history will show that, at least this one time, that my argument was the more persuasive and elegant.  
 
Television had made me aware of a world outside of my own that I am sure wouldn't have occurred to me for another few years. In two short years the world would became small indeed and I would become forever immersed in it.
 
By the time the Beatles arrived in 1964 with some desperately needed hope and entertaining abandon I had become a most oddly serious thirteen year old boy. I had witnessed first-hand the world on the brink of annihilation and the gruesome assassination of our beloved leader.
 
One may read every word ever written about a topic and come to a remarkable and insightful understanding of it. But, it will never be the perspective of experiencing it or witnessing it. That is a perspective only the participants or witnesses have. Television made us all witnesses, each with a unique story to tell.
 
How do we gauge progress? Do we count the cash and put it in a pile? Do we line up the inventions and have a parade? I think that it is a matter of observing where we started and then noting where we ended up. What passed between, that was our progress.
 
It was Sunday night and the entire family was present. It was T.V. night. Television had been around long enough to call it T.V. now. Sunday night was the big night with the best shows. There was "Gunsmoke" a great western, "Bonanza" a family show and also a western and finally "The Ed Sullivan Show" the greatest variety show of all time.
 
I would get up just before 8PM and grab the pliers to turn the broken knob to NBC and wait for the show to begin. In a year or two the festivities would begin at 7PM with "The Wonderful World of Color" the new Walt Disney show that was in full unbelievable color. It was astonishing and looked so real.
 
We had never seen anything in color before. Up until that point television was black and white. This was the typical family evening in the early sixties. It was typical even in a completely dysfunctional family like my own.
 
I take you forward just a few years now to the end of the sixties. Television had improved and color was the norm now. This was a broadcast from 1969.
 
"This is Eagle. We have landed." It is just a matter of moments now people. We are all waiting to hear what the first words will be on this historic day.
 
"That is one small step for man. And one giant leap for mankind."
 
 

We Choose

 
 
Hiroshima
they say that it was necessary
                they say
          they mention Nagasaki too          after         thought
                                in much the same way
        so sorry but, it is what we choose
 
still don't know what a rice paddy is
        not a burger, not a pool
                we should leave that up to you
        but, we don't choose to
 
reservations, ghettos, tents in an alley
                mud under a bridge
        we don't choose to make it better
 
We choose to go to the moon.
 

Author Notes

Still predominately in the sixties. But, open to suggestions as to topics of interest. Seventies, Eighties and beyond. Back to the fifties. Or, a lot happened in the sixties if there is something that is of interest. No format so anything is possible.

Chapter 24
Abuse: Predators & Predation

By michaelcahill

I realize as I try to focus that there are so many different types of abuse that narrowing the topic down is a daunting task. Abuse pervades our day to day in a sad and shocking way. It is a factor in our conversations and demeanor and even our general attitudes at times.
 
Humans are predators. In the animal kingdom prey have their eyes set on the sides of their heads so they are able to have a full field of vision. Predators have their eyes in the front for focus in order to hone in on their intended target for an exact and deadly strike. Humans also have an incredible intellect that aids in the planning and execution or their predation.
 
Unfortunately humans extend this predatory nature beyond the mere need for survival. Indeed, it is an unfortunate aspect of virtually every human endeavor. Keeping in mind that there are steaks packaged and readily available for purchase at the corner market, what is the need for us to hunt?
 
We hunt for pleasure. We are unique in the animal kingdom in that regard. We kill for the thrill of killing. We dominate for the glory of domination. We oppress for the rapture of power.
 
There is a part of that nature that serves us well. Surely in terms of progress and achievement a certain amount of aggression is a needed component. And it is not our only attribute. None in the animal kingdom can boast of our level of compassion or understanding or creativity. But, none can approach our depravity and callous disregard for each other, either.
 
Many aspects of my life would be considered abuse. There were instances of physical abuse. I was beaten on occasion with objects from kitchen implements to high heel shoes. My mother once came after me with a butcher knife. My aunt was fond of pinching me.
 
My freedom was restricted to an absurd degree. I was spied on and humiliated in front of my peers on a regular basis. My grandmother and mother would scoop me up in front of my friends for imagined transgressions and take me home to punishments that were totally unwarranted.
 
But, what was worse was the constant verbal onslaught that greeted me in the morning and didn't cease until I fell asleep. Had I put any stock in their mindless ramblings then I am sure I would've turned out a tortured soul indeed.
 
But, I was smart and I knew full well that their insane ramblings were just that and nothing to take to heart. The rest of it was all survivable and I was committed to doing that and I did.
 
I knew without a doubt that there was no malice in any of it. I could use the facts of my story and garner quite a bit of sympathy I am sure. But, while I am sure it had its effects, it is not something I carry around that causes me any grief.
 
 

Waiting for That Day

 
 
waking up isn't all that it's cracked up to be
        the crack of dawn not such a harmonious symphony
                so out of tune
I miss the moon and the melody of solitude it sings to me
 
sometimes the day goes on and on forever
                the end seems like a story without a plot
        I wish a storm would sweep the players out to sea
                and leave this island empty just for me
 
finally light has left the sky and taken all the noise
        I miss the colors sure, but I have them in my mind
                                when I am alone I can arrange them
        in a picture that I like
                me the moon and everything that is on my mind
 
 
Consider though, if you will, that these are people acting without malice that actually loved the target of their abuse. It is easy to imagine what levels can be attained when malice is a factor.
 
My wife comes from abuse. Her first husband was a physically abusive bastard that left scars and damage that are still, twenty nine years later, not fully healed.
 
I could see the evidence from the moment I met her. She would flinch if I moved too quickly, even to brush the hair from her eyes. Anything that involved my hands anywhere near her, would result in her flinching, or recoiling no matter how gentle the motion.
 
Her response was a reflex nurtured by years of repetitive abuse by her worthless excuse for a first ex-husband. He shattered her sense of self-worth. Her self-esteem was non-existent when I met her, all those years ago.
 
I was a rock musician, playing in a local bar, and she walked in with her mom and sat down to hear the band. We were playing "I'm So Excited" and I am sure that she was! Ha!
 
I saw her sitting there and, being the love-at-first-site-guy that I am, was beginning wedding plans already. All these years later, though, her self-esteem is still an issue with her and the damage from that horrible experience is still a factor in her life.
 
There were many things he couldn't damage. She remains a caring and loving person. She never lost her faith. She never lost her Spirit. It was her courage that saved her.
 
In spite of paralyzing fear she ran for her life. She jumped on a plane and came home to the safety of her grandma's home. It was a while after that when she met me and has been with me ever since. No one will ever lay a finger on her again.
 
Thirty years ago it was even worse than it is now. She had no one to turn to. The police would not involve themselves. It was life and death! They would most likely die if they did not leave.
 
There were no domestic violence laws.
 
There were no shelters for abused women.
 
There was only the courage of heart that a woman could find within herself.
 
Nothing more powerful exists on earth.
 
 

Can't Break This Soul

 
 
Battered smile, eyes don't wink 
        swollen shut, bloody blink
crooked nose, grief's repose
           hear my cries
there's no replies to my pleas
if you please just lend a hand don't turn away
     
now today's just like tomorrow's going to be
      and yesterday's a memory buried deep
your fists like hammers pounding on my heart
      I'm losing who I am forsaking dreams
           
            but, you'll never touch my soul
            that's for me

I will have it for that day
when I'm set free
 

It is the very gift that I have that I must watch at all times in my life. My weapon is words. That is what I find so easy to turn into abuse with such ease.
 
Words can belittle and crush and devastate just as easily as they inspire and enrich. How easy it is for me to be the predator when I know exactly how to put together the perfect phrase.
 
I have done it and regret it. I keep it in mind at all times. We may not be the monster that my wife's ex-husband was but, any kind of abuse is intolerable. We all need to be on guard.
 
I watch for it all the time in others, and especially in myself, where there can be no excuse.
 

Author Notes

Topics still open to anything. Suggestions more than welcome. I have been writing about the sixties mainly and touching on the fifties a bit and the seventies a little as well. However, this piece has no format and any topic is fair game.

Chapter 25
Abuse 2, Going Postal

By michaelcahill

There are many types of abuse. Some are obvious as they manifest themselves in the form of black eyes, bruises, broken bones and even bodies cooling in a morgue.
 
Others are less obvious as they tear at fabric that is not organic in nature. It is the shredding of the very threads that weave together our psyches, with the sharpest of weapons, wielded with the most vicious of intent.
 
Positions of power determine the deadliness with which an attacker may strike. For the victim it is often a matter of what is at stake. Certainly survival is paramount with our species as with any other. It is an instinct that we share with any other animal in much the same way.
 
It is perhaps an instinct that is even heightened by our knowledge of things in general. We know that with survival comes possibilities. Possibilities are limitless things that spur hope to greater resolve.
 
From a personal standpoint I think of the Postal Service as an example of an abusive work environment. At the time I applied for a position as a letter carrier the position's requirements were almost nil. There were some criminal offences that were a disqualifying factor. But, there were little in the way of education or job experience required to apply.
 
The test was quite simple and easy to pass for even the least educated individual. If one was able to read the exam with a rudimentary understanding then it was likely that a passing score would be attained.
 
The end result was a work force that varied greatly in quality. The pay was high so there were workers, like myself, with college degrees and then there were workers with grammar school educations that could barely read.
 
The management style was archaic to say the least. There was a union but, it was certainly not powerful and did little more than collect dues. The letter carriers came in and stood before a sorting case with slots for every address on their route. On the table before them was rows of letters and stacks of magazines and circulars.
 
Their job was simple. Put all of the mail into the slots matching the address on each piece with the address on the slot. There was an expectation as to exactly how many pieces per minute a letter carrier should be able to sort or "case".
 
The supervisors were there to see to it that this was accomplished. For those of us that were sharp the task was simple and meeting the required skill level was easy. For the slower in the group it was a daunting task and a struggle to try and keep up.
 
The managers circled the room constantly berating anyone that was not keeping up to minimum standards. This would go on hour after hour. It was always the same individuals. It was day after day after day. There was no let up and no break and no end in sight.
 
For those unfortunate souls that struggled to keep up the pressure was inhuman. It was painful to watch for those of us that were bystanders meeting our job requirements with ease. We were in no position to intervene.
 
To do so would be considered insubordination and cause penalties to the worker. It would also open the door to petty retribution which was a common practice as well.
 
 

Whistle. You're a Jerk.
 
Whistle you're a Jerk
Daddy doesn't work
School is out
Don't sit and pout
(Get a job we need the bucks!)
The neighbor's look and smirk
 
They've got a brand new car
It beats ours by far
Daddy's drunk
Smells like a skunk
Go get him from the bar
 
Do you call this a check?
Your pops will give you heck
He'll have to work
He'll go berserk
He's sure to wring you're neck
 
No school?
No pool?
Not cool!
You fool! Welcome to the world.

 

I became a part-time supervisor after a year. It was considered a training position and came with a little pay bump on the days I would run the floor. Of course, I used none of the tactics employed at the time.
 
In fact, I came in and said "hello" and left them alone until it was time to go out and deliver their routes. The statistics when I was running the floor where the best in Southern California. Where they pleased with my effort?
 
No. They were beside themselves that I had not written anybody up for a single infraction the entire time I had supervised. That was their concern. That was their mentality.
 
The term "going postal" made perfect sense to me having witnessed the incredible constant pressure that came to bear on some of these workers. Indeed, I was surprised that letter carriers going off the deep end wasn't a more common occurrence.
 
I was involved in on instance while supervising in the Alhambra office. I returned from lunch one day to find the building inundated with police vehicles and cops everywhere. As the supervisor, I inquired as to the cause of all the attention.
 
I was informed that one of the carriers, a Larry Smithson, had the Postmaster at gunpoint in his office and the situation was currently at a stand-off. Typically for me, I had little in the way of a reaction. I knew Larry quite well. He was what I would consider a friend.
 
The Post Master was a man that in truth was an individual that I had no trouble understanding being held at the point of a gun. I told the officer: "I am going in to talk to him. He is my friend. He will listen to me." What possesses me to do things like that I cannot say. For some reason that seemed like a good idea to the Sergeant who was in charge.
 
I knocked on the door to the office. "It's Mike" "Come in." It was like I was stopping by for a weekly poker game. I walked in to a scene that actually made me laugh. There was Larry leaning back in his chair looking bored. The Postmaster was a sweaty mess and looked decidedly more interested in the festivities.
 
Upon seeing me and my laughter, Larry started laughing too. "I believe the Postmaster has soiled himself. I would say that should be enough to make your point." With that, I extended my hand and he placed the gun in it. It was the first real gun that I had ever touched. It was heavier than I had expected.
 
I put it in my coat pocket and motioned for him to follow me out. I went out the door and announced: "He is unarmed and coming out behind me. Everyone is safe. Be calm." I had my arms raised, having been labeled a hippie and and having experienced police reaction to one.
 
Larry came out with his arms raised as well and was taken into custody. I told the first officer I encountered where the gun was and he took it from my pocket. The Postmaster remained in his chair unmoving. I never saw him again. It was rumored that he transferred elsewhere. But, nothing of an exact nature was ever made known to me.
 
Larry was determined to be under stress and put on leave for three months. He returned to work three months later. No charges of any kind were ever filed against him.
 
After the end of the incident I got in my car and drove about two blocks and turned the corner and parked. I sat there with my heart beating rapidly and gripping the steering wheel. The feeling of fear had finally caught up to me. That was the norm for me. I usually felt it long after everything had played out.
 
This is one incident in a little post office in a small town. It turned out well. It could have turned out differently and much worse. It does sometimes. All of the ingredients for disaster are in place just waiting for the slightest push. The Postal Service is an obvious example.
 
But, the necessity of employment creates a stressful environment for every person that is an employee. It is a simple matter of how much stress is applied and what is the breaking point of who it is applied to. How much abuse is dished out? How much abuse can one take before and explosion occurs?
 
Sadly, it doesn't seem to occur to anyone that perhaps these are questions that we don't want answers to in a sensible society.
 
But, then we aren't a sensible society are we?
 
 

sotto voce

 
 
I heard what you said
  
            you said it loud enough
     
                            with intent for me to hear
  
      
         and now I bought this silencer see?
     
not for them                     over there

or these guys over here that over heard

                                what you had them hear
     

I don't want to make a fuss
     
                    this is between us

sotto voce
a clever retort
                            like this…….........
 

Author Notes

Spending a little more time on abuse than intended. A large topic that seems to keep demanding address. Continuing to seek suggestions for topics or direction. Whatever is of interest to you is worth a mention. I have been concentrating on the sixties as a lot happened then. But, not restricted to that.

Chapter 26
More Abuse

By michaelcahill

Abuse isn't always obvious. There isn't always a black eye or a woman slumped in a corner crying inconsolably. Most abuse, in fact, is not evident. It is carried around inside like a bitter acid slowly eating away at the fiber of one's being.
 
It hides behind a warm smile, or a friendly hello. It resides within a successful business person or an artist or an athlete or a high ranking company executive. It doesn't discriminate. Race, income level, gender, age or any other criterion is of no consequence where abuse is involved.
 
Anyone can be a victim. The person sitting next to you, the lady that teaches your child to read, the star of your favorite sports team and even you that reads these words.
 
 

A Walk in the Park

 
 
"Hey, baby nice bod. Yeah, mama make em' bounce for papa!"
                lovin' them joggin' gals
                                (thinkin' she could be my pal for a night)

"What's up with you there chunka lunka? Put that burger down
                                run a lap, see them toes again."
                (cow is spoilin' my view)

"Get a job ya smelly fool. Do I look like a bank to you?"
                (losey bum smellin' up my walk)

"This is my park."
 
 
Almost every pretty girl has been whistled at or has received comments on their various physical attributes. They range from the loveliness of their hair or eyes to the shapeliness of their legs to the size and squeezability of their breasts.
 
The comments can include suggestions as to what they might consider suitable activity to engage in. This could include things like the slapping of one's ass, doing a lucky girl all night long, or even the dubious distinction of being done to death. These are some interesting options to be sure and ones that a woman is, no doubt, surprised to receive from a total stranger.
 
It is sad that this kind of behavior is common. It is especially common in its mildest forms. A man telling a woman she has pretty eyes does seem harmless enough. But, it is not intended to be harmless. It is simply an opening salvo to find out how much farther the dialogue might progress. If that is acceptable, then the next comment is made, then the next. It continues until there is an objection made.
 
It is all part of the same game and it is all abuse. It is not a compliment, it is a guise. I have never told a man, in my life, that he had pretty eyes. I wouldn't have told Paul Newman that and he does. I am only speaking for straight guys, of course, make your own adjustments to the argument as needed!
 
It is a fact that I am going to attempt to meet and try to form a relationship with a woman I find attractive. But, she has the right to refuse at any point without any repercussions of any kind. It is never okay to treat her with anything but respect.
 
It takes a toll on a woman to be considered only as a physical object desirable for only one thing. They are being abused when considered that way. If you treat them that way then you abuse women.
 
There are many homeless people now days. They are everywhere. It has reached a point where they are referred to as a population. I clearly remember many odd characters about town that most of us knew well. They had names, they had friends of sorts and they did not have homes. But, they did not suffer from neglect.  They suffered their share of taunts and cruel remarks and even rare physical abuse. We cared and would not witness such a thing without intervening and offering immediate aid. People had compassion and practiced it. We treated the homeless as unfortunate or down on their luck.  
 
It would never occur to us that a veteran could be living on the streets. How that changed I cannot fathom. Never has the flag been more prominent and waved with more fervor than it is now. Never has the veteran of American combat been treated with less respect. The term itself, homeless veteran, is shameful.
 
As a reality, it is the lowest point of our countries disgrace and disregard. A man or woman that has risked life and limb for this country should never need or want for anything ever again in their lifetime. I'm sorry, but a handshake and a "thank you for your service" just doesn't cut it in my book.
 
It started with the return of the Vietnam Veterans and hasn't improved since then. I recall all too well my very own cohorts lined up, shouting vile things at the veterans as they exited the planes that carried them home. I can never forget the feeling of shock.
 
I never believed that the brave men that fought in that distant land were anything but heroes. I took issue with the policies of our government. We fought to return these men home from a war we believed wrong.

These were the men we wanted returned home to the safety of our nation's warm embrace. In welcoming them, we called them "baby killers" and spat on them.
 
Whatever credibility we might have had was in my eyes and in the eyes of most people damaged forever. My own association with the anti-war movement cost me dearly in my relationships with the brave men that went to battle for me. It still does to this day.

I am still apologizing for the behavier of the anti-war movement even though I would never disparage our soldiers in any way. But, I have no problem offering sincere apologies anyway. Someone needs to.
 
The treatment of our veterans by, so called, flag-waving patriots is abuse of the first order. It is arrogant disregard. To continue to elect such people into roles of leadership, that determines the future of veterans, is an extreme abuse of intelligence, in my opinion.

It is using the very name of the American soldier, as a rally point, while standing on their starving, aching bodies as a platform. Yet, they vote to cut their benefits, but never their own over-blown salaries.  
 
This may not seem auto-biographical in the sense that some of the rest of my little book does. But, my generation came from somewhere and experienced certain things and now we are here in this day and age. I am one of them.
 
All of those things have led me to believe as I believe.
 
I am a part of it, and it is a part of me.
 
 

Rally Round Boys

 
 
Welcome home boys!
                We've been raisin' lots of hell
                                didn't think they should've sent ya
                                                hope you're feelin' well

we're takin' all the credit
                we think we're pretty swell
                                we're so proud that we could save ya'
                ya killers can go to hell!

Now ring that Liberty Bell!
 
 
I wrote that in 1971 after watching in disgust, the Vietnam Veterans being welcomed back, with taunts and jeers. They are abused to this very day. I personally know of two that died in the homeless shelter, right here in Lancaster, California. I wrote about them in one of my short stories.
 
I knew them both personally, as fine men that had medical problems  and a turn of bad luck. They were not bums or drug addicts. They tried to get out of their predicament, until the day they died.
 
The country that they risked their life for, did nothing to help them. They did wave some flags and they called out their names, singing "God Bless America."
 
Abuse is everywhere.
 
It is our responsibility to stand up to it, no one else's.
 

Author Notes

Still looking for any suggestions. Took three chapters to write on abuse. I didn't cover it fully. But, I couldn't spend less time on it that is for sure. If this chapter seems overly sensitive that is fine. I prefer that to being under sensitive. Suggestions most welcome as always.

Chapter 27
Words and Music

By michaelcahill

I should give my background in music; just to provide a sense of what my opinions and views are based on, and where they stem from. I was exposed to music from a very young age. It began with my own fascination with it for as far back as my memory goes.
 
I recall the Ferris wheel I received for my first birthday and the excitement of the lights and movement, of course. But, mostly it was the tune that it played that fascinated me the most. It reminded me of what occurred inside my head at all times.
 
The world sounds like music to me and I always hear it that way, whether it is a waterfall, rain or just traffic on a street, driving by. It is difficult to explain, but I run across others, from time to time, that understand completely.
 
My family were quite taken with Hollywood and the notion that their only child was going to be a star. They were poor and unconnected and had no clue as to how to go about such an endeavor. It was just a fantasy and a far-fetched one at that. But, in many ways it was to serve me well throughout my life.
 
I began piano lessons when I was four years old. That was the first step on the road to stardom, a silly notion to be sure. However, it was something I thank them for from the bottom of my heart. I liked playing the piano. There were certain aspects of it that I was quite good at. I had a good touch and played with feeling. I even had technical skill when I practiced. But, I didn't have drive and I hated practicing.
 
I wasn't ambitious and being the best piano player in the world was not part of my agenda. I could learn pieces of music and play them well. But, I preferred to make up my own. I took lessons for years and became quite skilled playing classical pieces and, when everyone's back was turned, I would play the hit songs of the day, as well as my own songs.
 
With the arrival of the Beatles, guitar was added to the mix. I became proficient, but not great on the guitar. I discovered that by joining the band in school, I could obtain free instruments. So, clarinet was next. From those three basic instruments I learned that I could play anything with a keyboard, anything with strings and anything with reeds, like a clarinet.
 
So, keyboards are obvious: organ, harpsichord, clavinet, even accordion. Strings are more surprising: bass, but also violin, viola, cello, harp, sitar even things whose names I didn't know. If it had strings, I could play something on it. Reeds: saxophone, oboe, bassoon, flute, and some others. The main focus was sax.
 
I wasn't really good at anything but keyboards and fairly good at guitar. But, I could do something worthwhile on all the rest. Composing was something that came naturally as did lyrics. I could read music due to piano lessons so, theory was easy as well.
 
By high school I could read a full score and conduct an orchestra and write a symphony if I wanted to. Of course, what I wanted to do was rock and roll.
 

You Got What I Want
 

Well I'm lookin' right at you baby
not playin' any games
we're not gonna talk to each other
we're not exchangin' names
 
I'm gonna take you right now
we're not gonna pretend
that you ain't lookin' my way
we're gonna help each other mend
 
Cause you got what I want
and I got what you need
 
Well we could get a room
but you know we won't make it that far
we'll gonna learn each other's names
in the back seat of my car
 
Cause I got what you want
and you got what I need

 

Of all the many songs that I have written, that is the one that my friend picked out as the most memorable to my chagrin. She told me that she was humming it while she vacuumed her house. I offer it here because it is impossible to know what it is about a song that makes it memorable. Is this my best song? I sincerely hope not.
 
Our music was just that, our music. It was made by our generation and it was about our generation. It is always a point of speculation as to what influences the other. Does the music influence the times or does the climate of the day bring out a particular form of musical response. I believe they go hand in hand.
 
It is the youth that define the times and the youth that make the music. It is something that grows dynamically together. As with every generation we were concerned with love and we sang about love. We were concerned about the things that affected us and we sang about them.
 
We were touched by songs and singers that reflected our spirit. When Bob Dylan sang that "the times they are a changing" we said "yes, indeed they are, and we are changing them." He didn't tell us what to think. He sang about what we did think.
 
He was also an excellent poet and to be admired simply as one of the finest artists of the twentieth century. There were many great artists that emerged in the sixties. The songwriters Lennon and McCartney were without peer.
 
John Lennon was also a spokesman for my generation, lending voice and word to the very thoughts that burned in our hearts. "All we are saying is give peace a chance." That was all we were saying. Well, it was more complex I suppose.
 
But, in essence peace and love and togetherness or tolerance, if you will, was the message. Even at this age, I will offer that as a solution, lest one thinks that it was merely youthful exuberance. We listened to music that called for people to stand together against discrimination and bigotry. We listened to lyrics that spoke of the insanity of war. We listened to artists that proposed a world that was filled with love and freedom.
 
These are the issues that we cared about. Yes, we also cared about having cool cars and hot dates. We even cared about getting drunk and high and stupid. And, of course, not everyone thought Bob Dylan and the Beatles were the greatest things in the world.
 
There were are a large part of my generation that didn't care for them in the slightest. So, I am not speaking for everyone nor do I claim to.
 
I speak for myself and I imagine that there are those that will agree.
 
 

Say What You Will
 

 
 
 

Laugh if you want to and say what you will
you won't hear me say I'm sorry at all
for it will never be me that want's to kill
so I try to say I offer peace and sweet love's call
 
Shrug your shoulders, frown, cast your gaze forever down
I can't shed a tear for the hatred sent my way
I can only send a smile back and wish stars to light your crown
it is everything that I must do to walk the words I say
 
say what you will
I will what I say

 
 
The music of the sixties is a complex subject that could and has filled volumes. In many ways it was just some kids growing up, reflecting the times that they grew up in.
 
That little song was one of my reactions.
 
It was not my only reaction and it doesn't define me.
 
But, I stand behind it.
 

Author Notes

Continuing to consider various topics of interest pertaining to events and subjects that pertain to my life. I have been concentrating mainly on the sixties but am not restricted to them. Open to any suggestions on any topic from any time period from the fifties until now. This book is not following a particular format and is including poetry and essays on various topics.

Chapter 28
Marriage & Freedom?

By michaelcahill

My Grandma Bobo died in 1970 while I attended my senior year in high school. I felt sadness in many ways. It also experienced relief in many others. It also proved to be an increased burden to me. I did have affection for my family. But, I have never been one to lie when it comes to love. I don't pretend to have had some deep cuddly love for Bobo just because that is supposed to be the case.
 
There are two types of love in my thinking: love that is a feeling and love that is practiced on purpose as a way of living. Feeling love is not a voluntary thing. It simply happens. It is sometimes a wonderful thing like a beautiful marriage that spans decades of happiness. But, it can be tragic as well. It can also be a woman that loves a man that abuses her leaving her a shell of what she once used to be.
 
 Love that is practiced on purpose is what I bestowed on Grandma Bobo. It is my belief that we should treat each other with love. In other words, we should act towards each other as though we are feeling love even though we don't. That is what the meaning of love thy neighbor actually is.
 
The truth is I did not come from a loveable family. I would not call my grandmother a particularly kind woman. I would never refer to her as generous or truthful or very caring either. Years later, as I researched my family tree I discovered things about her past that might offer insight into her coarse personality.
 
But, we all have reasons to be less than stellar people. We all have choices though too as to how we wish to live and treat others. Her death put me clearly in charge of the family. I took on this burden and it came with no benefits.
 
I now at least felt the relief of a life without her constant interference. I say that with no guilt as it is the simple truth and there is no sense in denying it. But, I remembered her in many pleasant ways also, and I did miss those.
 
 
 

Untitled

 
 
she just died
it's strange how people just die
I had a good day…today
but, I had a bad dream
(I guess it's a dream)
and I'll wake up tomorrow
and she'll be alive
she still has one day's supply
of medicine left…….one day's supply
it's odd how well I'm taking this
my first tragedy
I'm not crying……I don't even feel like crying
I can't seem to touch the reality of it
I didn't know death would
be so odd
It wasn't what I expected
I suppose I should go back to bed
death has interrupted my sleep
 
 
My schizophrenic mother managed to hang on through the funeral, after which, she completely broke down. I had to get her in the car and drive her to the County Mental Hospital while her husband and brother stood by watching.
 
Only my girlfriend knew about any of this. Not one of my friends or classmates knew anything about it. I always kept my personal business hidden. I didn't miss any school and I made no mention of it to anyone. My girlfriend knew not to mention it either.
 
 I didn't really talk to her about it either although she was very loving and willing. I didn't want to talk about anything. I didn't see how talking about something would change anything. The war in Vietnam raged on, I had the senior prom, my dysfunctional family, my band and my future to worry about. I had enough to think about. Besides being madly in love made everything all right, it always did for me.
 
Well, I didn't get drafted, I graduated, I went to some proms, I went to college and I left the love of my life to marry an older lesbian that I met in a music class. The end………………..
 
Well, I figured that since I am too wordy and ramble on a bit that I would try to condense things. I do want to jump ahead to my college days though. I planned marriage as my next plan of attack to seek freedom. To do that I would have to make the first extremely stupid mistake of my life.
 
I left my first love to marry a rather cold but pretty, older, by two years, woman and a musician, that I met in college. She had the audacity to inform me that she did not associate with children when I attempted to talk to her. So, of course, to prove her wrong I ruined my young life and married her.
 
But, I did make my point. Yes, darling, but you will speak to this particular clever little boy. I knew very early on that I had made a mistake but, I saw no way out of it. I didn't think I could go back to my real love anyway. So, I moved forward.
 
I would find out forty years later that all I had to do was ask. Did I mention my stupidity? My first wife attempted to control me just like my grandmother and mother did. I was in a band like I wanted to be but, she fronted the band. I will give her credit for being talented.
 
I had more talent and I should've been in the forefront. We spent several years trying to crack the music business and came so very close many times. But, never quite made it. She finally met a girl and left me for a life that made her truly happy. Once again I could only feel relief.
 
My first love had long ago married. I knew where she lived and her new name. I knew how many kids she had. I knew that I had no right to even call her to say hello. I knew that it wouldn't be to say hello. I wanted to call her but, it would've been so wrong and I just didn't have the right.
 
My first marriage lasted ten years, though the last few we endured, just because of the music. How, or why, we stayed together is difficult to say. Turns out that I never quit at anything. I am either very determined or, very stubborn or, perhaps something else. Sometimes though, it serves me well.
 
I have made it all the way into the eighties now, and by this time I have met the woman I would spend my life with. In fact, we have just met about this time. This would be about the time, we would be on our way to a mountain cabin for the weekend. We would never part again.
 
But, there is a lot that has happened in the world and in my life.
 
 In all of it and always on my mind, was Lenore, my first love.
 
At some point I will tell her story.
 
But, if it is my story, then, it is always hers too.
 
 
 

I'll Think of You

 
 

When I'm by the midnight sea

                                                           alone
      
                  with only the light that shines


on the darkened waters

with a splendor that only

loneliness and

emptiness reveal
                    
                         I'll think of you
 

and when I'm by myself

driving on some dusty
      
            lonely dirt road with the summer
             
            sun burning down on me and my daydreams
                                 
                          I'll think of you
 

and as I lay…..awake in my sleep

wandering along the cracks in the ceiling
                                        
                                  I'll think of you
 

and silently wait for the day

our love will bring us together

and wait
                     
                       lonely
      
          for the day we are finally
                    
                       free……
 

Author Notes

Moving forward perhaps. Still open to any suggestions or input. No format means that any direction is possible. The picture is me and my first wife from the band days.

Chapter 29
Growing Up With Racism

By michaelcahill

I did not know of racism for a shockingly long period of time in my life. I grew up in a white community in a suburb of Los Angeles and went to school with white kids. I realize only in retrospect that I also attended with Hispanics and Jews and probably others that would be considered minorities.
 
 At the time I made no distinction and I don't recall anyone in school with me including the teachers making one either. I knew that black people and Chinese people and others existed. I just didn't place any particular meaning or significance on that fact. I did not know anything about it.
 
My first exposure to racism came from television. I watched racism become manifest to me on that little flickering tattle-tale we called T.V. I saw oppression on television and hatred as well. I began to learn a little about the history of slavery in school.
 
I learned a very tame version of what I would discover to be a most horrendous chapter in the land of the free. How ironic that phrase would become to me. How ironic it remains to me even to this day. As a little by boy, I grew up cheering for my beloved Dodgers and their players, Jackie Robinson, Gil Hodges, Duke Snider and Don Newcomb.
 
I didn't know about any controversy concerning black baseball players. I just knew about baseball and the Dodgers. I would have found it absurd to know that being black had been an issue. "What did that have to do with playing baseball?" I would've thought.
 
In the land of the free, a black man couldn't play Major League Baseball until 1947. That would include the countless men that risked their lives in two world wars for the land of the free. For the thousands of black men that died in those wars, of course, it was academic.
 
 

Just a Game
 

It was a dreadful shame and he had no name
and I heard him whisper his goodbyes
to his lady fair and a baby there
that he would never see
there was blood as red as a winter's rose
and it soaked the ground of his last repose
 
his skin was shinning black as night
my brother in arms, he saved my life
and he saved my soul, as I watched his fly
I became a man, like him, and I cried
 
I once was white and blind and proud
now we both were red inside, I found
brothers, in our bones, soul to soul
now, at home, I watch ball at the negro leagues
the majors, to me, are playing just a game

 
 
I became aware of racism when I was about twelve years old following the assassination of President Kennedy. I had heard the term civil rights but had not attached much significance to it. I saw images on television that astonished me. It looked like battle scenes from a war documentary.
 
I saw soldiers with guns lining the streets and black students with books in their arms attempting to go to school. I saw a governor standing on school steps blocking their entrance. It was surreal to me. Reality came to me with the Watts riots in Los Angeles. The world I lived in exploded in fire and violence and death.
 
I felt fear when I saw a black person in my proximity. I didn't feel rationale in my mind with such a reaction. I had that reaction nonetheless. I discovered all of the ugly truths of oppression and discrimination that my country, the land of the free, had kept hidden behind an invisible line called segregation drawn with the ink of ignorance and intolerance.
 
I was outraged and spoke out against it. I rallied behind the brave voices that became spokesman for tolerance and inclusion. I wanted the American dream to be for everyone. Everyone did not agree with my opinion on the matter. Indeed, everyone does not agree to this very day. The irrational fear of equality became deadly.
 
The most outspoken and moving leaders for civil rights for all Americans met their death as payment for their audacious views that all men are created equal. Why does such a way of thinking cause such fervent hatred? Why did the founding fathers of this country write such words in the cornerstone document of our nation? Did they write a lie? Or, do we simply not believe the Constitution to be all that important a document after all?
 
Perhaps we only wish to follow the parts of it that suit our own interests. I regret that I even know that there are different races of humans. I wish that I didn't have involuntary reactions to a person based on that difference. I do and I contend that we all do. I see a black man and in my mind there is an acknowledgement of that fact, whether I welcome it or not.
 
I choose to not have it alter my treatment or perceptions of that individual. But, in a practical human sense it is impossible. I am human, I am influenced and it does alter, even if only the slightest little bit. I would love to say that I don't see color. That is the politically correct thing to say. That is certainly the ideal that we wish we could espouse.
 
Isn't it even more dangerous to pretend that something doesn't exist when it does? It removes the need to work on it if we accept that it does not exist. No, it does exist, even in the most sensitive and tolerant of us. We are the ones that must lead the way with the most naked of honesty and transparency. We must reveal every dark secret and shameful truth, lest it destroy what little progress we might make.
 
I am lucky. I am a white male in a world that is partial to them. My claims of discrimination against myself are laughable. Yes, I have been harassed by law enforcement and even imprisoned, merely for having long hair and favoring a particular political agenda.
 
But, the fact is, I am college educated and literate and socially adept. I can cut my hair, put on a suit and walk into any social gathering, in any setting and fit right in, without a notice. Can a black person change their skin color? So, have I experienced discrimination? Yes. Do I know the first thing about what it feels like? No, not in the slightest.
 
This is my opinion and nothing more. This is the world that I grew up in and my reaction to it. I had the distinct advantage of not being raised by anyone. I was forced to raise myself. Who I am is based on what I saw and my reaction to it.
 
This is simply my viewpoint and how I choose to live my life. It works for me.
 
Everyone must make up their own mind.
 
I offer this only as information to consider and compare with other information that you will run across in your life.
 
 

One in a Million
 

It's a million people marchin'
a million hands to hold
and they're strong in their conviction
secure within the fold
 
and I see your shinin' face
a little girl all alone
and I can't wait for you to grow
and show what you know
what only you know
 
-Chorus-
For one in a million
will march alone
Oh, one in a milliom
will march alone
 
it's a million people marchin'
and I look o'er the crowd
and I look for Martin Luther
and Bobby walkin' proud
and I wonder who among you
will step out to show
what you know
what only you know

-repeat chorus-

 
 

Author Notes

Another topic that could be a book. But, just a view from my life experience. Still looking for input and suggestions on any topic. Any time frame is fine though chronologically I have reached the seventies. But, I have no format and jump around at times. The Negro Leagues were formed for the black baseball players. Blacks were not allowed in the Major Leagues until 1947 when Jackie Robinson became the first black to play in the majors. He was the rookie of the year.

Chapter 30
Another Dylan Song?

By michaelcahill

"This is a new Bob Dylan song off an upcoming album. It's called Wallpaper People." With that introduction our band would launch into my original song, Wallpaper People. "Why the ruse?" one might ask. People wanted to hear the hit music of the day.
 
They didn't want to hear original music from a band that didn't have a hit record. It didn't matter how wonderful it sounded or what a great dance beat it had. If they didn't already know it, they didn't want to hear it. To play one of our own pieces we took to introducing it as a piece from a well-known artist.
 
The audience assumed they should've heard it and never questioned it.
 

Wallpaper People
 

wallpaper people with painted on smiles
dream dreams that run on
for miles and miles

dreams of love and hate and fear
a dream that you are
really what you appear

faded and torn they come to the end
asking for time
which no one will lend

others may look and throw them a smile
but, only when images
there are on trial

 

My family ruined my chances of musical stardom in the sixties. Every time I got into a good band and started to advance anywhere they would yank me out of it. I had great potential in the sixties. I was young and talented. I played several instruments and wrote and read music. I had the ingredients that record executives and bands looked for when recruiting new talent.
 
My main sellable asset was my keyboard ability. I could play the keyboard and I could play better than most available players. I had opportunities to join more than one successful band. My family ruined every one of them. The death of my grandmother gave me freedom to finally pursue a career in music.
 
My first wife ruined that with the same effectiveness that my family had managed. I played in the band. No one pulled me out of the band. I played predominantly in the background in a supportive role. I didn't believe I should've been in that role. My first wife disagreed and I didn't have whatever I needed to have to change that fact.
 
She fronted the band and she did so with a rather cold but talented personality. Her lack of personal magnetism kept an excellent band oozing with talent from making it in the business. We had excellent original songs. We had excellent players and singers. We had everything a band needed for success in an atmosphere that rewarded merit.
 
We didn't have the one critical thing that every band needs, a dynamic front person. Well, we did, but he played keyboard in the shadows and provided background vocals. Our front person was a pretty, but cold, singer with no audience appeal. She couldn't get an audience out of their chairs and to the dance floor.
 
I could and did every time I got the opportunity. For some reason she could never acknowledge that.
 
The closest we came to success began as a phone call from Geffen records. David Geffen called to tell us that he had signed Elton John to a multi-year recording contract. He called us to encourage us to continue our endeavor. It seems that he had chosen us to be his next act to sign when Elton John suddenly became available. That completed his quota of four artists for the year.
 
He told us that he thought we should keep going and to not be discouraged. He said that he would've signed us if not for Elton John. He then closed the conversation with some stunning advice. I will have it ringing in my mind as long as I live.
 
"Be sure and submit a tape next year and let us know when you are playing. But, make sure that you are fronting the band. The female singer has talent. But, you command the stage. The sound is great. But, she doesn't command attention, you do. See you next year."
 
I never told her that and I never fronted the band. I know somehow that I have a flaw in that regard. I don't know exactly what it is. But, I know that it is what keeps me from promoting and furthering myself. It is why I have dozens of songs that no one has ever heard. Being kind and decent and not wanting to hurt anyone are good qualities.
 
But, I know that I go past a point in that regard that neglects myself and my own interests. I honestly don't know what to do about that. The band continued to play various venues and parties on a regular basis for rather good pay. We played all of the hit music of the day and we played it well. I hated it.
 
I don't like playing other peoples music especially if I have to copy it note for note. I would fight all the time to play it my way to no avail. It wasn't enjoyable even though I was getting paid to do what I loved. But, copying other peoples music wasn't what I loved. I loved making up my own music, or at the very least, re-interpreting other people's pieces. I hated what I was doing and I wasn't fond of my wife either.
 
But, it was my nature to endure it so, I did. I had fun sneaking in an original or two, here and there, and got a good response. I would even get an occasional request. "Play that new Dylan tune, dude." Nothing made me happier than that. They may have asked for that Dylan song. I knew that they actually asked for my song.
 
This continued on for the next several years, with varying degrees of success. I wrote songs and worked full time jobs. I put my wife through UCLA and managed to sneak into classes, all over the campus, for two years for a free education, while she got her degree. We recorded her songs, while mine remained on the to-do list, along with my turn at college.
 
Our marriage mostly fell apart, held together by nothing more than convenience and a mutual interest in our music. I wanted a divorce almost the moment I married her. But, I endured for ten long years. We lived together, but had separate lives for the last three or four years. She had her girlfriend and I had my freedom for a change. It worked out well.
 
But, my music suffered and sat on a shelf with my poetry and stories. Somehow I got it in my head that writing it had a satisfaction that would satisfy me, whether anyone heard it or read it, or not. Even I knew, that I deluded myself. Yet, I did delude myself and did nothing about it.
 
Year after year passed by. I met my current wife while playing at a local bar. She walked in and I have been with her ever since. I believe, I may have mentioned, I am a love-at-first-sight boy. For the most part music and writing fell by the wayside as I concentrated on building a new life with my new partner.
 
I still wrote the occasional poem and sang at the occasional wedding.  I had a keyboard and a guitar but, I rarely played them.
 
I essentially abandoned artistic endeavors.
 
It would be many, many years before I would rediscover them.
 

True Eyes
 

blue eyes, brown eyes
blindness holds the storm
within our true eyes
our true eyes
 
I see one kind of clear
from under dark waters
sometimes bitter is better
too much sugar isn't good after all
a figure to a picture
 
I think I just felt your shattered sleeve
brush by my private church
just past my tattered shadow
a non-believer praying anyway
a desperate sword impaling
 
blue eyes, brown eyes
darkness holds the truth
within our new eyes
our true eyes
 
a shabby patch of grass
grows anyway
our memory of a forest deep and green
a chisel to a statue
 
blue eyes, brown eyes
blindness by no choice
our true eyes

Author Notes

Open to suggestions and topics for discussion. World events, my personal life, views on particular subjects of interest or whatever is of interest to you. I am writing about my life and events that occurred during my life. There is no particular format. So, anything goes. Walpaper People: Has a jazz feel to it. True Eyes: A slow pop ballad.

Chapter 31
Watergate, Princess Diana Connected?

By michaelcahill

The Watergate affair, incident, scandal, cover-up, disgrace, tragedy, betrayal, witch-hunt or any number of descriptive terms that have been attached to it, exploded unto our collective minds at the right time. I had witnessed my beloved, anti-war, pro-everything-I-believed-in candidate, go down to the greatest defeat in American history.
 
I felt frustration and anger unlike any that I had known in my young life. I longed for a victory of any kind to hang my hat on. To be honest, I thrilled to the news of alleged improprieties within the Nixon administration.
 

A Room for Seven
 
 
"we'd like a room please.

yeah, seven……

no names…….no……no signing guest lists

we brought our own light…………..we have a key

no luggage……..no……..just a couple hours

never mind…………..we were never here……………….got it?"
 

"Hey Jeebs, who were those guys?"

"Oh, them? Tourists."

"Don't they know they need reservations at the Watergate?"

"Well……..they know people. And, Smedley?"

"Yes?"

"Here's a c-note. They were never here."
 
 
I had an intense dislike and disregard for Nixon and his policies. I can't say in retrospect that I operated with completely level-headed, rational thinking. Even now, I struggle for objectivity and control over my emotional responses.
 
Richard M. Nixon ended the war in Vietnam. He brought our boys home from that distant land, and removed them from danger. The anti-war contingent greeted them with horrific taunts and spat at them.
 
It is, of course, more complex than that. My views and role certainly are. I did not greet our solders with disrespect. I considered Nixon's handling of the Vietnam War politically motivated, and too little, too late. But, the facts are there to consider rationally, if I am able to.
 
The facts of the Watergate Hotel break-in and subsequent cover-up, are well known. I am concerned with reaction and the basic dynamic of what occurred from the standpoint of journalism and its role in shaping opinion. The reporting of the Watergate affair signaled the beginning of a new form of journalism.
 
There are great benefits to it and great drawbacks. The revelation of information is wonderful. A world of secrets and backroom dealings cannot produce anything of a positive nature. In a government that is supposedly in the people's control, the people should have knowledge of its operation.
 
However, it is a journalist's predilection to coerce an opinion to his way of thinking. Writers write to sway, be it an attempt to move a reader to an emotion, or adopt a particular way of thinking. Writers have a desire to persuade.
 
Some have referred to the pursuit of Richard Nixon as a witch hunt. In many ways, vengeance played a prominent role in our zealous search for the truth. We did want to get this man. We had reasons that one would not necessarily refer to as totally rational, such as mere petty retribution for perceived wrongs. We blamed him for what we failed to do: support our man and get him elected.
 
On the wings of Woodward and Bernstein the power of the press took flight and, for better or worse, continues to soar to this day. There is not a public figure that does not feel its sting. There is no one prominent, in any way, that does not fall under the microscopic scrutiny of the media. In the case of Nixon and Watergate it exposed activities that should not remain in the shadows.
 
The President of the United States should be above reproach. Mistakes are made and should be owned. Then we may move forward. Covering up mistakes makes one wonder how many more are undiscovered. Faith is lost and with it trust. Without trust there is no cooperation leaving nothing but self-interest and survival. That is not a nation.
 
Watergate was a vindictive witch hunt in many ways. But, it had merit and was a just pursuit for the most part. In the years to come witch hunts would become more and more the norm and merit would become less and less a component.
 
A picture is no longer worth a million words. A picture has become something we view while awaiting an explanation. When Nixon debated Kennedy, those many years ago, reporters asked the people whom they thought won the debate. The reporters then relayed the information, either on television or newspapers or radio, to the various consumers of those products. They informed us of the consensus of our own opinions.
 
Now we watch the debates and wait to hear the news people tell us who won. I sincerely wonder how many people have formed an opinion beforehand. I am not so sure I would even want to know the answer. There is danger in that way of thinking. It must be resisted lest we lose the ability to formulate our own opinions. If that happens it is over for us. Of what value is free speech if we have nothing to say?
 
The power of the media is something we have allowed. It should not have any power at all. Media should be a tool, an object not an entity. We have personified it and let that personification become reality. It has become a destructive and mean spirited thing.
 
I recall vividly the sad death of Princess Diana. What I recall the most is the attitude and spirit that existed before her untimely death. Somehow no one seems to recall that. Let me remind you. Her every move was reported in the press with pictures taken from under every bush and manhole cover from every possible angle.
 
Every possible aspect of her life was speculated on and discussed and even lied about. If it was salacious and personal all the better. If it was degrading and humiliating it was heaven sent to greedy eyes and ears that couldn't be titillated enough. Do you remember? If only we could have a picture of her naked or having sex, what a wonderful world it would be.
 
I remember it so very well. I also remember the terrible shame I felt for even glancing at such an article when I heard about her tragic death. Here was a woman that did nothing but good things for people. She was a woman thrust into an impossible spotlight that was never turned off.
 
She died trying to escape and find a small shadow to hide in for just a moment. I can only hope that all of those tears shed washed away the guilt.
 
The birth of opinion in the media was one more thing I witnessed first-hand in my lifetime. Information is a wonderful thing. With it educated opinions are formed and discussed. When we abrogate our own responsibilities to do that and bestow it upon a third party we forfeit our freedom.
 
We are doing that. I have never been interested, when talking to someone, in hearing them quote someone else.
 
I am talking to you because I want to know what you think.
 

 

The Peep Show
 
 
Hey, where are you all a runnin' to?

where are you all going?
   
                  with heels smokin' and eyes bulgin'
        
                                             what's a cookin'?
    
             come on my friend…hot as blazes

                                   ….it's the peep show!
 
         a princess and an Arab frog
        
                          and a dancin' bear I think
            
                          the wind might hit her skirt tonight
              
                                                     we might get a peep!
 
 

far off in the distance
I heard the screech of wheels
the shattered glass and metals crunch
the horns shrill sonic blast
the sirens soon cut through the night
their tales would soon be told
Princess Diana lay dead upon
some unfamiliar road

Author Notes

Topics? Suggestions? This chapter was a suggestion to address Watergate and it evolved a bit. Always open to anything.

Chapter 32
The Fifties: A myth?

By michaelcahill

"Red light, green light. Hope to see the ghost tonight!"

The street lights provided light, but shadows abounded and there were hiding places in the dark recesses of alleys and overgrown yards. We played our little game of hide and seek, free from danger or concern.

We, the kids on Curtis Avenue, owned that street from sundown till bedtime.
 
Dennis the Menace was a neighbor. Ozzie and Harriet served milk and cookies every Tuesday night. Andy Taylor and Barney Fife stood nearby, at the ready, just in case Otis happened by, with a snoot-full.  The fire truck was the brightest red and had the neatest horns, sirens and ladders that could reach any cat, in any tree.
 
I remember playing on Curtis Avenue with my little, neighborhood buddies. I remember the feeling of freedom, endless energy and pure enjoyment. It would be a feeling that I would capture again many times in my life, but only in moments. I would never feel it sustained endlessly, as I did in childhood.
 
 
Our childhoods, viewed in retrospect, are complex things that haunt our psyches and shape our thoughts and even bury us sometimes, forlorn and unfulfilled. At the time, it is simple; we exist and grow in a world that can only seem normal to us.
 
It is in the years that follow that comparisons are made and questions are formed. But, pain is pain, is it not? Certainly hurt and abuse enter our being, through pathways that are not intellectual in nature.
 
Playtime always ended in the same strange way. Names were shouted out in the dark, as though some disembodied grim reaper had come to call.
 
"Jimmie!" No one would look, or say a word. But, Jimmie would no longer be there, vanished to a world that we were not privy to. Our world remained on the streets of Curtis Avenue.
 
"Susan Johannson!" It didn't bode well to ignore a friendly calling; a more formal and foreboding demand would soon follow. Little Susie's high pitched laughter ceased to be heard. We played on.
 
"Antonio!" Gone.
 
At some point our game would become a few kids milling about, lollygagging really, chatting and bouncing around, expending endless energy. Finally, the two or three, whose names didn't get called, would head for home. I enjoyed being one of those kids. I enjoyed playing on Curtis Avenue. I didn't enjoy home.
 
Curtis Avenue appeared to be pealed right off the television screen. The Nelsons, Ricardos or Cleavors would be right at home on our quaint little street. It looked to be ideal. The house I grew up in looked like the blueprint for a middle class American home. Once inside some of these homes though, the picture took on a different look.
 
Pop the Sailor, as we called him, lived in the middle of the block. Us kids spent many an afternoon on his front porch, listening to stories and marveling at coin tricks. Some of the kids visited in the evening as well. It is of great benefit to a pedophile when no one tells and no one believes.
 

Locked From the Inside
 
 
Didn't know old Pops was not the guy we knew
should 'a thought about it I suppose
                     
                             but we were kids
                                on our street
            when that was safe or so we thought
   
but Pop the Sailor locked his door from the inside
                                      a silver dollar bought a kid the world

all the candy in Fischer's Market could be yours
                                   so, it was no surprise when kids went in
                  but, they never spoke about a thing they did
   
just a dollar spent was all they had to show
                     and what went on
                                         only them and Pops would know
 
We never locked our doors when I was just a kid
But, some locked them from the inside, they surely did
 
 
Old man Farnsworth a bit farther down the street had a stamp collection he would show the kids before he violated them.
 
Helen and Mimi where two neighborhood beauties that I had many an adolescent dalliance with. I once saw Mimi naked! Though there didn't appear to be anything of interest to observe, I found the experience to my liking and vowed to further explore it one day.
 
Their father under the guise of discipline beat them regularly and their mother too. I told my family who informed me that I should mind my own business. I had formed the opinion that this had to be my business for me to feel the way I did about it.
 
My neighborhood taught me to love woman and to not have a very high regard for men. With a few exceptions, I have seen little in my life that would change my opinion.
 

 
Woman
 
 

Beautiful, to define that forever-more with the certainty of truth
Soft, like a thought of something tender dreamt of barely remembered
Fragrant, to where that alone brings weeping joy to aid a flower's growth
Sweet, that to remember the taste satisfies beyond a slathered honey bath
Powerful, a determination born of conviction unbendable by any force
Loving, senseless as if oblivion entices with a warm caressing embrace
 
and you, a foul and worthless man, would raise your hand to that?
you condemn yourself and confirm every sad suspicion
 
Immortal soul, cherished and exalted, impossible to diminish
Woman

 
 
I returned home to a house filled with insanity and alcohol abuse. I, at a very young age, had to take charge, being the only relatively sane and, certainly, the only sober individual standing. I suffered my share of abuse.
 
I consider most of what I endured as unintentional and a result of the various altered states of those involved. Yes, it did hurt both physically and emotionally. It did feel incredibly unfair. I did want to strike out and fight back with a vengeance.
 
I discovered at a blessedly young age that there are better ways to deal with transgressions against one's self. The best response to insanity, is no response. There is no reasoning with it. There is no overcoming it. Either of those options exacerbate it. I have tried both and know first-hand that the result is escalation. It will dissipate eventually, if you ignore it. That is the practical truth learned, by living with it.
 
The very few times I have responded in kind to violence, have produced no satisfaction for me. It left me feeling only shame and regret. Bullies are cowards, without exception. The true and real threat of retribution is all that is required to back one down. When I step in to defend someone, I do mean it.
 
I have never had a bully step up to the challenge, not once in my lifetime. Believe me, if they were brave, they wouldn't be a bully.
 
Perhaps a bit of a tangent. But, how we grow up and what we experience, play such a role in our development. But, what we do with it and learn from it, determines what we are and how we live.
 
The fifties were not all a myth as some would have you believe. Yes, a world did exist behind closed doors. But, that has always been true for as long as there have been doors.
 
I did wake up in the morning on a summer day and take off with my friends on endless adventures to parts unknown. My family did not worry and had no need to. Our home had doors that didn't have keys with which to lock them.
 
We played "red light, green light", up and down the dark street, unsupervised. Families could buy a house, put food on the table and raise a family. An individual could rise from poverty to riches with hard work and ingenuity. They even taught about art and music in grammar school.
 
I think of myself as a sixties boy, rockin' and rollin' through life protesting wrong and standing up for right.
 
But, the world I long for us to live in, was a little earlier than that, I must admit.
 

 

Duck and Cover
 

Here I am worried about 'Nam baby
I miss being a little boy

when did I become a man?
can't someone please just tell me:

"Okay son, drop down quick,
just duck and cover."

Author Notes

Going way back to early childhood. Still open to ideas for topics and suggestions of any kind. This work is unformatted and not in a particular order. Ozzie and Harriet: A fifties show about the Nelson family. Considered the perfect idealized American family Dennis the Menace: A TV show about a kid that got into a lot of mischief. The Andy Griffith Show: Comedy with characters Sheriff Andy Taylor, Deputy Barney Fife, town drunk Otis Campbell. A comedy about a idealized American town. The Ricardos Where from the I Love Lucy show, a classic situation comedy. The Cleavors were from Leave it to Beaver, a popular comedy.

Chapter 33
The 70s Part 1: The Music

By michaelcahill

The sixties spilled over into the early seventies, for me, by sheer momentum. The inertia of fervor and anger and the last hurrah of hope, came crashing to a halt with the Presidential election of 1972. The crushing defeat of anti-war candidate George McGovern became the defeat of my own interest in the business of politics and causes. I found this to be a consensus amongst my fellows.
 
A new generation emerged from the ashes of our burned out resignation. I still cared, but in a very passive uninvolved and frankly, cynical way. This new generation, though, had plenty of energy and a great deal of admiration for the pioneers that had proceeded them.
 
However, a worthy cause or injustice to bemoan seemed a component lacking in the world of the seventies. The Vietnam War had ended, many advances in civil rights had occurred and prospects in general looked pretty bright for The United States.
 
That left drugs, sex and rock and roll as the main points of interest for the new generation to pursue. With many of their sixties burned out brothers and sisters on board, these concerns received the utmost attention.
 
Of the three main areas of interest, I concerned myself most seriously with rock and roll. I have never found drugs to be a sensible endeavor. I am no angel by any stretch. However, after over indulging in alcohol, one wakes up the next morning sober with options.
 
Most of the available drugs do not provide options. They are consumed and they consume you back. I know of too many people in my life that gave too large a part of themselves over to drugs. Parts that can never be recovered. Some gave everything.
 
Jimi Hendrix gave his life to drugs. He had incredible skill with endless creativity. Drugs ended it. The names and wasted futures are shocking. James Morrison, Janis Joplin and others should have been major voices in the seventies. But, drugs silenced them.
 
I am not promoting alcohol either and understand the devastation of alcoholism. I merely point out my mindset as a musician seeing artists that I looked up to stupidly kill themselves. For one that has never done drugs, it would be hard to believe when reading some of my song lyrics:
 
 
 

Invisible Cyndalina and the Magic Valley
 

Upon a time it happened once
when closed were eyes
but, minds were open
 
I saw her walking
through a valley fair
with flashing eyes
and wind swept hair
Invisible Cyndalina and the Magic Valley
 
Scrapers scratching at the sky
did disappear before my eyes
rails and wheels and things mechanical
turned animal sheepsy
and things botanical
 
that that grew grew unperturbed
she on clouds walked
they undisturbed
 
Invisible Cyndalina and the Magic Valley
A thought away
a happy thought
 

 
I became an excellent musician in the seventies. I reached my highest levels in all aspects of my pursuits. I became as good as I would ever become and I tried to achieve success with as much drive as I ever would in my life.
 
I'm not claiming that I surpassed anyone or comparing myself to anyone other than myself. Whatever talent I possess reached its zenith in the seventies. That is all I am saying. My catalogue of music still sits on a shelf essentially unheard. I have it all recorded on cassette tapes that would hurt the ears of a listener in this day and age.
 
I know that I am one of many, many more that have such a collection. There is no room for bitterness in a field that is so capricious. I am pleased with what I accomplished whether it climbed to number one or not. Everyone that creates something from nothing should be.
 
But, damn, one little minor hit would have been nice. Ha!
 
My wife is a seventies gal, so I have utilized her as a main source of research. I said to her, "Hey darlin', can I utilize you?" I have the feeling she may have been expecting something else. In any case, much of the ambience of the times comes from her recollections as a young girl growing up in the middle of them.
 
Donna, my wife, grew up in Arcadia, a city nearby to my little town of Alhambra. It was also a suburb of Los Angeles. Pasadena, another larger suburb, loomed nearby. This is where the best backyard parties sent sound waves through quiet neighborhoods on many a weekend.
 
Van Halen might be a band that accompanied you and your new found sweetheart to the tune of "Stairway to Heaven". How amusing to me that boos would accompany any attempt to play original music. "No! Please, Eddie Van Halen, greatest guitar player of your generation, don't play your music, we want to hear what's on the radio!"
 
Though not the innovative explosion of the sixties, the seventies had its share of excellent music and artists. If I am to be fair the list of seventies artists is every bit as impressive as the list of sixties artists. When combined with the holdovers from the sixties, still in their prime, the music of the seventies exploded with innovation and variety.
 
I cannot say that I ever attended a disco dance. I did not have a large collection of disco-related music to accompany me as I practiced in front of a mirror. (never) I thought the movie "Saturday Night Fever" was an excellent movie and that John Travolta did an outstanding job of acting and an amazing performance as a dancer. I found the Bee Gees music to be most excellent and memorable. I don't change my opinions because things fall out of favor.
 
Stevie Wonder, Elton John and a truly impressive list including solo efforts by former Beatles made for some memorable music indeed.
 
One of my personal favorites from that era died tragically young, Minnie Ripperton. She died of cancer at a very young age. I used to kick my band off the stage and sing her beautiful song "Lovin' You" to a girl I would pick out of the audience. Just me and an acoustic guitar and a girl that I thought maybe no one ever sang to before.
 
That will always remain the highlight of my musical career. I wrote a lot of songs back then. It is hard to say what influenced me. I love all music. I learned classical as a little boy. I grew up with the Beatles and the British Invasion. But, there are so many other forms that interest me from bagpipes to harps to zithers.
 
I usually end up writing little love songs more often than not.
 
So, I suppose you could say that I am influenced by love.
 
 

Remembering You
 
Was it yesterday I woke up beside you
living a dream for awhile
white ribbons of light
twisting through the night
as the sea came relentlessly on
 
-Chorus-

no that was only me
remembering you
are you remembering me
 

what of that evening you held me so close
your heartbeat next to mine
we pretended to dance,
as though the music
hadn't already stopped for a time
 

-bridge-

open your heart where you are tonight
through midnight dreams I seek one more dance
one more kiss to share and send
away on a wave out to sea
my love will never end


-repeat chorus-
 

 

Author Notes

Music in the 70s and what I was up to. Still open to suggestions for topics as this is unformatted in nature and in no particular order. Input is most welcome.

Chapter 34
The 70s Part 2: The Movies

By michaelcahill

"Oh Lord, have mercy! I'm getting out of here!"
 
That thought occurred to many of us in the theater, that rainy night, at the midnight premier of "The Exorcist". It was 1973 and, living nearby to Hollywood, I was able to attend.  


Celebrities were ushered in thru a side door. It was somewhat common to us, but exciting, and added to the anticipation of the much ballyhooed movie.  For the second time in my life, I was truly scared to death.
 
I dearly wanted to join that large and muscular gentleman, with the strangely high pitched voice, who had run from the theater, at the earliest opportunity. The fear of being considered a coward has always surpassed the actuality of being one with me.
 
Under the semblance of bravery, I remained and watched the most terrifying movie I have ever seen in my life.
 
By the time we reached our car, the streets were eerily empty. I quickly jumped in and turned the key; the engine made no sound. Had I been alone, the terror would have killed me. Ha! Such is the power of film.
 
I learned later to my further horror, that many sound effects were taken from actual exorcisms. I would've been most happy to have not discovered that.
 
I saw the film at the age of twenty one. It is said that the film had no effect on teenage boys who found it amusing. Just an aside, for what it is worth.
 
My first wife lived at the end of a long dirt road in a kind of miniature valley. It was a dark and scary journey after seeing that movie. I never looked into my rear view mirror driving at night on that road. I knew that demonic girl from the movie would be staring back at me. Boo!
 
Going to the movies was a primary form of recreation in the seventies. We had no video rental stores or Netflix. To see a movie, one had to attend a theater or a drive-in. It proved to be great entertainment in a nice dark setting, for couples, that didn't cost a whole lot. A good economic deal when one compares it to what is available today.
 
My life consisted of a miserable marriage and a struggling musical career. I continued to write music and poetry. I usually put the poetry to music as well. I wrote about love, though it was from memory or from what I longed for from a distance.
 
There were mutual desires with some that went mostly unspoken but, I was never one to cheat. Once my wife found a girlfriend though, that gave me the green light and the vehicle was definitely in drive. It was a bad idea to mistreat or disrespect a woman in my presence. You might find her missing the next morning.
 
I don't know if my intervention was wise. But, I know that a man that mistreats a woman shouldn't have one.
 
 

I Saw the Look in Your Eyes
 
You don't say what you want me to know
it's a fear of the fire that might grow
and I'm just as scared girl as you
of the burn from the firestorm we brew
 
I saw the look in you eyes
 
 
you know what I'm feelin' inside
you know that I won't be denied
believe me I'm not hypnotized
 
cause I saw the look in your eyes
 
 
I don't want to take over that space
but I can't stop painting your face
but a painting just can't take the place
I gotta use my fingers to trace
 
the look in your eyes you can't hide
 
 
You pass through me like a ghost in the wind
and I feel you where no one ever's been
and all I can say is hello
cause I can't find the words to explain
 
and I almost have to hide from that look in your eyes
 

 
 
There were some incredible achievements in film in the seventies. There were many that appealed to my sense of social activism. "Apocalypse Now" comes to mind. It spoke of the horrors and senselessness of war.
 
"A Clockwork Orange" was another film that was considered radical in its day and addressed government's role in people's lives. "The Deer Hunter" also, from a different perspective, considered war and how it could alter an individual forever.
 
Movies entertained as well. "Rocky" put a face to hope and determination and the underdog and was a 'feel good' movie. "Network" proved to be a most prophetic look into a future that we are enjoying right now. 
 
Technology reached a new zenith with the release of "Star Wars".  You had to be there, first hand in the theater, to truly understand the impact of that movie. You would have to have seen the movies that came before it and never have seen the movies that came after. Imagine sitting in a dark theater, seeing those letters flowing in front of your wide eyes:
 
"In a galaxy far, far away……."
 
None of us had ever seen anything like that before. It was astonishing. But, it only served as an appetizer. Soon the words "Star Wars" would fill the screen and send vibrations throughout every single body in the theater.
 
The music soared majestically into our souls and would never leave. Then images that transcended anything our imaginations could conjure passed before our incredulous amazed eyes and we soared into a new era, together. You had to be there. It was a moment in time.
 
My wife and I have the same memory of "Star Wars". But, our perspective differs on other aspects. One in their twenties and one in their teens are bound to see things differently. Movies of a political nature did not interest her as they did me. She did not grow up in the tumultuous sixties. She enjoyed movies like "Jaws", "American Graffiti" and "Annie Hall".
 
Sadly, it would be in the next decade that I would meet Donna and become a happy little Mikey again. In the meantime I had my first wife to contend with. One learns wisdom by making mistakes. I became very wise in the seventies.
 
I continued to write. I wrote about love and most of my songs were upbeat and positive. That is the great thing about writers. We are good at making things up.
 
 

Across the Room
 
I see you glance my way
just like yesterday and I wish that I
could be the guy that did not walk on by
because we know, we both know
what we just cannot say
but, she waits for me, and he waits for you
so, as far as you and I, there is nothing we can do
 
-chorus-
but we see each other smiling
and we know there's no denying
that love is what we keep hiding from the world
we keep it to ourselves across the room
deep inside our souls across the room
 
 
at a table set for two, alone with her again
you are over there, seated close to him
and we catch each other's eye and stare
and dream that it was just us there
just to hold you once a kiss or two
one simple moment only me and you
 
-bridge-
our hearts beat as one a lonely rhythm strong and true
I know that there will never be another one like you
and I wish that I could walk to you right across this room
 
-repeat chorus-

Author Notes

A brief look at movies in the 70s from my perspective as a struggling musician in his twenties. Still open to suggestions for topics and areas of interest. This book does not follow a format so it does jump around a bit.

Chapter 35
a little dab'll do ya

By michaelcahill

"Sumitomo, helpin' you to find your dreams."
 
That would be one of the most obscure and meaningless items that occupies space inside what I like to call "my vast, superior intellect". It is the lovely theme song from a California based bank that has not existed for several decades.
 
I stand vigil, a brave and lonely soldier, over its memory. The confines of my brain are indeed mysterious and strangely compelling.
 
The things that we recall are most strange indeed. Commercials are a prime example. More money is spent on selling products and ideas, in many cases, than is spent on developing them. Let's be honest, it didn't take a whole lot of ingenuity to dream up a McDonalds hamburger.
 
A Big Mac, I will give credit due for that. "Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun." How many of you were able to sing that to the jingle that used to go along with it? If I were to inquire, "What do things go better with?" or "Like a good neighbor, who is there?" would you be able to respond with immediate answers?
 
I'm a "Pepper", are you? In some cases, I don’t even recall what product a phrase or jingle was even associated with. I just want to know, "Where's the beef!" and I want it my way too.
 
Commercials connect us from generation to generation in a much closer way then music or politics or ideologies. All of those other things have points of contention. In fact, they often are the defining points of separation between generations.
 
It is almost a call to arms to debate the fifties icon, Elvis versus the sixties icons, the Beatles. But, I am sure we can all agree that Speedy Alka Seltzer was one cool dude. Who has anything but the kindest words for the loveable friend to all, The Jolly Green Giant.
 
Don't get me started if you have a beef with Mr. Clean. "Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean da da da dum da da dada." (something like that) One word against him I am calling 800-325-3535! (whatever that is the number to)
 
Much like the television shows reflected the times, so did the commercials. The fifties shows that featured ideal families, with wives, dressed to the nines, doing dishes and well-behaved children, following sage advice from well to do fathers, were supported by advertisers with a like mind.
 
Rice Krispies with their "snap crackle pop" healthy goodness were portrayed as the perfect breakfast fare for the perfect middle-class family. Black people didn't exist on television or in commercials either.
 
Every appearance of a black person on television in the sixties, when it was first admitted that they existed, was a major breakthrough. That is the sad truth and reality of America to face and deal with.
 
As with any form of entertainment, one needn't dig too deep to find the underlying currents of a society's true nature. As I researched this study, I began in great spirits, highly amused at the results that I ran across.
 
The fun memories that flooded back to me of my childhood and these innocent times brought a warmth to me that it is hard to find in this day and age. That is for me, of course, a white kid growing up in an all-white world, where television is white and everything on it is white and all of the products are for people that are white.
 
I laugh thinking of how loudly we bemoan the lack of honesty that we see on television today. The news is slanted and the commercials are not telling the real truth. The politicians are incapable of anything remotely honest. Everything seems to be one big lie.
 
Oh, for the good old days, the fifties and sixties when truth was the order of the day. I wonder what black people or Hispanic or Native American or Asian or Jewish people think about that.
 
This started out being a fun light hearted piece. Sometimes, the truth just takes you, where it takes you.
 
Hopefully, the next chapter will be more fun and have room for more than one poem.
 
I did find one, I found appropriate.
 
 
 

Not My World
 

 
You are welcome here, I say it's so
if I call you here, it's a place
                        that you can go
            I would never lie to you
                        never try to do
anything to put you in harm's way
            there's just nothing I can do
                        about yesterday
 
if you give me half a chance
            you will see it's just a dance
                        doesn't matter what they say
            it is only you and I and what we want
                                    to share today
 
but, I understand as I see you walk away
sometimes black and white
doesn't come in shades of grey
 
you say it is not your world
maybe it will be one day

I will hold my hand outstretched

                     until you finally stay
 

Author Notes

As sometimes happens, especially with me, a piece doesn't always go in the direction it was planned to go in. That is the case with this piece. As always, this book is unformatted and deals with many topics. It includes poetry and stories about my life. It has my thoughts and opinions on world events. It has my memories of various topics that are of interest to me as well as requests from others. Suggestions are always sought and most welcome. The title comes from a jingle advertising Brylcream and old hair gel product. Summitomo Bank is long defunct. Mr Clean is a cleaning product with a catchy jingle whose lyrics always escape me. 800-325-3535 is a phone number repeated in a jingle that stuck in my head. I don't recall for what company.

Chapter 36
The 70s, the 60s are calling.

By michaelcahill

Captain Kirk kissed Lt. Uhura! Can you believe it! On the lips. For all to see.
 
It caused quite the stir in America. A white man had kissed a black woman on television in front of millions of shocked viewers. Weather bugs scurried to check temperature readings in hell. Relatives clung tightly to each other lest one be raptured away.
 
I am barely exaggerating. When the popular television series Star Trek aired that episode in which William Shatner and Nichele Nichols exchanged television's first interracial kiss, it made for earth shaking news.
 
This became a strange pattern that can be found in the entertainment industry even today. It lags laughingly behind the social consciousness of its audience. It does so out of the abject terror of offending a potential consumer dollar.
 
It is more motivated by greed than anything else. It is certainly racist in application. But, the motivation is predominantly financial. If the sponsors of Star Trek felt that the show would make them more money by featuring more inter-racial liaisons then that would be the order of the day.
 
However, the controversy on the consumer's end, underscored the great social divide that still existed in this country. Racism existed alive and well. I grew up in a world surrounded by individuals that believed in equality for all.
 
I lived in a world, however, that existed within a larger world that didn't embrace me with the willingness that I would embrace them with. I left my little world of the sixties and entered the larger world of the seventies.
 
I listened, naively surprised, to many people that thought it to be an abomination that two different races would associate with one another let alone kiss. My dislike for the world, in general, grew in the seventies.
 
Still, I continued my pursuit of music and wrote quite a bit. Our band made money but, major success eluded us. My first wife lacked stage presence and it hurt out live performances. We sounded good on tape but, it didn't translate to the stage. It did when I was up front, but that was another story.
 
 

Shiverin' To the Bone

 
 
Shiverin' to the bone
              the cold glare slicing the meat away
but, it hangs there nonetheless
              trapped by geometric frost drawings
          
                               just in case a campfire
                               slips over the horizon
                               and you know down deep
                               that a campfire won't do
                      not with a memory
                      of forest fires haunting you
 
sure the match head's hot
           to the fingertips
but, a volcano's lips
           you can't keep that eruption down

fire needs the ignition
                             of an arsonist
but, the tundra never seems to be home
                                     to a fire-starter
           when you're shivering to the bone

but, the damn memory keeps you company
     a cruel friend indeed
when you're shiverin' alone
           to the bone
 

"All in the Family" hit the television screens in the seventies. Before our very eyes, an actual bigot spoke, matter-of-factly, about segregation and matters of race from a racist's perspective.  Archie Bunker entered our homes, as a beloved character that wouldn't let his daughter marry a black man, or have one over for dinner for that matter.

His daughter's boyfriend and Archie's foil, was a liberal, hippie-type Archie referred to as "Meathead". The show achieved popularity on two fronts. There were those of us that delighted in the exposure of this underbelly of society being exposed and put under the spotlight for public scrutiny.
 
For many others, sadly, Archie Bunker became a spokesman, wisely stating their beliefs to an un-understanding, bleeding-heart world that had no decency or values.
 
"Julia" starring Diahann Carrol aired in 1968 and remained on the screen for three years. She played a black nurse in serious dramatic situations.

Though it only touched lightly on social issues, it had a loyal viewership and has its own position as a breakthrough series from that time period.

A show about a nurse that happened to be black, stood alone at that time. It stood out, as well, because of that fact.
 
Debate continues over merit and meaning which is good. There is no denying that these are examples of programs that opened doors. One day a show, like "The Bill Cosby Show", would be accepted by the mainstream and have a long run at the top of the rankings.
 
It has been said that it portrayed a typical black family about as well as Ozzie and Harriet portrayed a typical white family in the fifties. Perhaps that is a good thing, perhaps it is not.
 
I don't speak for my generation, but I imagine that my experiences in the seventies are similar to anyone else's.  My anger over a failed attempt to effect change in the sixties became transformed into a kind of cynicism in the seventies.

It bordered on bitterness for me. I endured an unhappy marriage and a struggling musical career.
 
I worked full-time at various jobs that I didn't find full filling in the least. Most of all, I discovered that the world reeked of ignorance and intolerance and greed. I didn't like it and I especially didn't like the fact that I possessed such a naiveté as to not realize that it existed to such a degree.
 
It is difficult to look at a crowd of anti-war activists, carrying signs and chanting slogans, and think of them as sheltered. They do seem to be right in the thick of things don't they? I believed what I said. I joined with those that were of like belief. I thought that it made perfect sense. I truly thought that everyone would surely agree. I honestly believed that we would change the world.
 
The seventies thrust me into the world that I thought I could change. It exposed me to just how monumental a task that actually was. I met people that hated other people because they had skin of a different color or spoke a different language. I spoke with people that would kill based on their false interpretation of their own religious beliefs. And, most sadly of all, I witnessed individuals that once stood, side by side, with me abandon what we stood for and trade it in for a more convenient lifestyle. That I could not understand and still don't.
 
For me, one year is much like any other. I do the best I can within the confines of what I can live with. I am not ambitious and I have attributes like endurance and patience that may reach a point where they are flaws.  I suppose one can endure too much or be too patient. Well, I am patiently considering that.
 
Usually in the darkest times of my life I turned to artistic endeavors for solace. I wrote a lot in the seventies. I realized recently that this is the first time in my life that I have turned to writing when I was happy.
 
Maybe I have endured enough. Or, maybe my patience is finally paying off.
 
Or, maybe I have just lost my charming little mind. Ha!
 

(Something I wrote for the little church on the corner. They inquired, upon hearing my band rehearsing, "why don't you use your talents for the glory of God?")
 
 
 

Abide With Me
 

With my head hung down so low
shame and sorrow, no place to go
in dark valleys, winds blow cold
don't want to die alone and old
 
long I've traveled down the road
sins a many, heavy load
eyes closed tightly, then you spoke
"Come and dwell in my abode"
 
-chorus-
"Abide with me and have no fear
look by your side I am near
within your heart it's all been clear
right from the start my love so dear."
 
back on the road, my head held high
I'm not alone for you're nearby
I see wings of eagles with them I fly
it's tears of joy shed when I cry
-repeat chorus-
 

Author Notes

Still open to input and suggestions as to topics of interest. This book is unformatted so, anything is potentially fair game.

Chapter 37
the $0.15 burger destroys the world

By michaelcahill

Main Street, Alhambra ruled the whole Christmas shopping scene when I was a little boy. The surrounding cities had nothing to match the lineup of retailers on our street. Decorations hung over the thoroughfare and lined the walkways from one end to the other. A scene both festive and welcoming greeted shoppers and looky-loos, one and all.
 
Anything that one wished to place under a tree existed on Main Street in one of the amazing variety of shops and stores. We had Buffum's and Macys for the higher end shopper. We had J.C. Penny's and May Co. for the more thrifty crowd. We even had Woolworths and J.J. Newberry's for those on a tight budget.
 
The biggest draw, however, were all of the mom and pop stores interspersed along the way. They featured every kind of product imaginable and all available from our very own friends and neighbors. The largest store in town was Leiberg's. It surpassed even Macy's in opulence.
 
I went to school with the owner's son. They were Alhambra citizens and lived in the community. When you shopped in Leiberg's you often spoke with a Leiberg.
 
I found an old poem I wrote when I was thirteen. It spoke of looking back on childhood with older eyes. It amused me that I would write with nostalgia at such a young age. But, it captured a bit of what I feel now.
 
 

My Old Home Town

 
 
It's been a few years
since I visited the old hometown
Changed? And how!
really gone down hill
 
The big department store? a five and dime
Main Street? a two-laner
 
The park? Man alive!
        those old sky scraping trees? gone
                little ones in their place
 
kiddie swings
        took out the slide two
                just a rusty old shorty there now
 
The football field?
        kids must not play anymore
                a patch of worn out weeds
                        too small for any broken field running
 
"Well, Mike! Haven't seen you in years. Yes sir, nothing's changed. You look good. Shot up like a weed. Ha! I used to sit right here on this very bench and watch you kids play football right on this very spot."
 
Hmmm. Never saw him before in my life.
 
 
McDonald's, at the time a walk up hamburger stand, invited shoppers in at the end of the block for a quick burger for fifteen cents. The golden arches loomed at the end of the block as a constant reminder that hunger needn't linger.
 
I visited my old stomping grounds recently. I lived there for fifty years before finally moving. I saw much change over fifty years. The picture today is quite a bit different than the one I recall from childhood.
 
The McDonalds is still there. It is more modern and the fifteen cent hamburger is now a dollar. But, considering inflation, it is a good deal and it is still the same burger. There is also a Walmart super store there. Everything one would want to purchase is inside of it.
 
But, like a McDonald's hamburger, the quality leaves a great deal to be desired. How are the two related one might ask? Or, are they related at all?
 
 
 
I recall living in Downey, California for a brief time during my first marriage. One of my favorite things to do consisted of a trip to the local McDonalds. The Downey location was the oldest McDonalds location in the world and featured the original design instituted even before Ray Kroc took over in the fifties.
 
They kept it original as a tribute to a time long gone. I enjoyed a little trip into the past once in a while. This is where mass marketing found its birthplace. The idea of producing cheap products swiftly came to fruition under the golden arches of McDonalds.
 
The idea took hold and other companies sprung up and modeled themselves after the successful McDonalds blueprint. It began with fast food and spread to other things. Car tune-ups became available at Jiffy-Lube. Super stores like K-Mart sprung up where one could do all of their shopping at one location.
 
The key became convenience and low prices. The low prices were a deception though. The prices had a direct connection to the quality of the merchandise. Like a McDonald's hamburger, a K-Mart shirt lacked the quality of a shirt one would find at a Macy's or even a J.C. Penny's.
 
 
But, as earning power decreased and wealth shifted to the very rich, a cheap K-Mart shirt began to look more and more attractive to the cash strapped consumer.
 
The question posed by the old commercial occurs to me now. "Where's the beef?" That is an easy one, now that I think about it, "We don't care! What is the price?"
 
It is too late to do anything about it now. Walmart and its low quality merchandise is here and the days of community-owned shopping areas are long gone. There are malls with over-priced merchandise and auto-rows to generate tax dollars.
 
Is it any wonder that a sense of community is a scarce commodity?
 
Indeed, money is made these days producing absolutely nothing. Shuffling papers and transferring funds from one account to another while charging a premium seems to suffice as inventiveness now. Well, if that is okay with everyone then what can I really say?
 
I know one thing, I have a question that really eats away at me. Why am I unable to get a McRibb sandwich anytime I want one? What is the deal with the seasonal release? Something should be done about it!
 
I miss going into Luigi's Luggage and chatting with my friend Luigi. He had a great sense of humor. He made beautiful hand-made luggage out of leather and sold it at a very reasonable price. Nothing like it is available anywhere today.
 
I have to settle for the Walmart equivalent with the handles that fall off the first time I pick it up.
 
I suppose Lawrence Leiberg made the ultimate statement in protest of the new direction that business had taken. They found him hanging dead in the toy department of his store one morning just before opening time.
 
He didn't leave a note.
 

Author Notes

Moving right along with no format considering topics of every kind in no particular order. Always open to any suggestions as to topics. All ideas are most welcome and eagerly solicited.

Chapter 38
Freedom

By michaelcahill

Towards the end of the seventies I found myself alone. I achieved a rare state for me, freedom.
 
I rented an empty warehouse behind a real estate company for my band to rehearse in. My wife had moved in with her girlfriend and I lived in the warehouse. I had a key to the back door of the front building which had a bathroom. I purchased a gym membership mainly for the shower facilities.
 
I lived alone with no dependents for the only time in my life. I turned down several housing opportunities in favor of the freedom of living alone. I worked full-time for The Hewlett-Packard Company quite a distance away. The band rehearsed on a regular basis and I wrote songs and poetry on a regular basis as well.
 
Politics didn't interest me nor did any other particular cause or crusade. I didn't follow the latest musical trends or know what movies or books topped the charts at any given time. I have a tendency to drop out of society and what it has to offer in a very complete way for long periods of time.
 
Usually writing and music are casualties as well. I stopped writing in the eighties and didn't begin again until almost the end of the nineties. The time I spent living in the warehouse proved to be the last bursts of creativity I would display for almost fifteen years. But, that is another story.
 
For the time being I would write at a pace that rivaled my high school and college days. I would go to work and return home to either rehearse the band or write music or poetry. I socialized to an extent but not to the extent that most people thought I did.
 
I seem to give the impression that I am a wild ladies man and a party animal. I certainly do enjoy the company of women and I am not averse to some occasional partying. But, I am pretty tame and nothing like what I am given credit for.
 
As always though, I don't discourage those that consider me otherwise. If one thinks me a ladies man, then that might be to my advantage so, think as you will.  
 

Is That What They Say
 

So, you heard that I might be right for a night
when you need a sight for sore eyes for awhile
well, if that's what they say I'm not one to argue today
I won't put up a fight take my hand, turn out the light
if that's what they say
 
it's only me from the house down the street
just an ordinary guy that wishes he could meet you
but, you've heard things been said and it's gone to your head
so you think that you must pursue
and I stand shyly by while you come up to me
and that's all that I have to do

You say that they told you that I'm the guy you want
Is that what they say? Oh, Is that what they say?
Well, I suppose that your friends should know what you need
So, why don't you stay? I say, why don't you stay?

 

That is probably not my all-time best song. I wrote it for our drummer's nephew to sing at his eigth-grade talent show. I understand it went over pretty well. Or, that could be my convenient cover story written out of embarrassment. Ha!
 
I had a mad crush on my wife's sister that began the moment I met her back when I first dated my frosty wife to be. We became close over the years and wrote veiled songs and poems that only we knew were about each other.
 
It wouldn't be within either of our capabilities to do anything about it. My wife's sister suffered through and awful marriage as well. Our friendship helped a great deal in our ability to endure.
 
I spent a lot of time at her house talking and collaborating on songs and both of us tolerated her husband. We had no other choice. I never told her this song was written about her. I suspect she knew but, I suppose it is something I may never know.
 
 

Hold Me Near
 
I see the days drift away
I didn't see them coming
I watched them go, I feel helpless
and the smile you sent my way
soon fades into yesterday
the plans I scheme fade into dreams
and all my hopes a ring of smoke
and you're not here to hold me near tonight

 
 
I didn't know what an acrostic poem was when I wrote the following. I don't know if she was able to decipher my little message or not. She didn't say. "Saying", we never did. But, I am pretty sure she knew.
 
 

Hidden Words
 
Inside where wishes do not lie
Love speaks without restraint
Only I hear the voice that sings
Very softly to you tonight
Even though you won't hear
Yes, it is true
Only kept forever inside
Unspoken for I cannot speak it
Did
I
Ask
Not
Ever

 
The band had a lot of work and made decent money. We pursued recording contracts and possible tours with various higher profile bands. Getting close became the disappointing result.
 
I grew to intensely hate certain songs that I used to love. There is no amount of money that could convince me to ever perform "Jumpin' Jack Flash" by the Rolling Stones again. The only way to sing that song is to imitate Mick Jagger and that is not something that is fun to do for a serious musician.
 
I would prefer to dive into a meat grinder rather than sing "Sweet Caroline" ever again. Nothing against Neil Diamond but, I curse him for writing that song that I had to sing night after night. There are others but, I am getting evil and dark thoughts clouding my mind now. So, I shall move on.
 
Does anyone think that Rosie Perez would find me charming? I know that has nothing to do with my story. But, she is so yummy and I haven't gone off on a tangent yet, so……………
 

Author Notes

Bouncing around with no format. Open to any and all suggestions. A book that includes old poetry, memories and observations on world events and also personal ones. Essays on various topics. And things that don't fit anywhere else.

Chapter 39
Nothingness

By michaelcahill

A writer that doesn't write. A musician and a singer making no music, nor singing no song. How does a poet observe and participate in the world and make no comment?
 
I spent fifteen years in that very condition. I sang at an occasional wedding as requested. I wrote a poem, here and there, to offer comfort to a grieving friend, or family member over a tragic loss.
 
But, I never produced a single thing for my own pleasure. I thought about it and even struggled with it for a while. Eventually it left my mindset completely. I reached a point in my life where I was not an artist of any kind.
 
I remember my last gig clearly. At the time I worked for the post office. I made the horrible mistake of getting together with some fellow postal musicians. They claimed to be quite proficient on their instruments.
 
I played guitar and keyboards and planned to handle the lead vocals. Hector played drums and had a decent kit and ability. Pete had a bass guitar and sang with no skill at either endeavor. Pete brought his friend Waki along to play guitar as well and he could play and had a decent voice as well.
 
It became the worst band I ever associated myself with and I fronted it. I had no idea how to extract myself from it as these were my co-workers. I couldn't very well tell them they sucked and then greet them with big "hellos" at work the next day.
 
It has always been my goal in forming a band to try and make sure, whenever possible, that I am the weakest player in it. I want to struggle to keep up. That way I know that I am in a good band. I let them name the band and they came up with "The Tres Amigos". An excellent name for a four member band. Yep, I cared so deeply that I allowed it.
 
Various methods of my untimely demise began to occur to me. As always, my ridiculous unstoppable will to live negated any fun scenarios of spectacular exiting scenarios.
 
Waki was Hawaiian and got us a gig playing a luau for a relative of his. It would be my final performance as a budding rock star. I had fun actually. I played anything I wanted and the band followed along as far as I knew. I didn't really pay attention to them.
 
I ignored my keyboard and played only electric guitar, turned up rather loud. I played Beatles songs, my own music and whatever requests were shouted out by the audience, whether I knew them or not. If I didn't know them, I made something up.
 
The last song I sang Sweet Caroline would be just that, the last song I sang. Having sung it a million too many times I sincerely despised it. I gave the most incredible hate-filled rocking performance of that song ever given. Neil Diamond appeared from his own dream offstage in tears. The term "Shock and Awe" was born right there. Mikey then left the building.
 
I never sang in a band again. I have sung at a couple of weddings and I have recorded my own songs at home on inexpensive equipment. I play guitar or piano once in a while. I have been dragged into jam sessions with some younger players a couple times when someone has overheard one of my old tapes.
 
I can't play anywhere near as well as I once did. But, I can still play. Why I quit is hard to say. I quit on purpose, I do not pretend that I didn't. At the end of my last gig, I decided that I did not want to play anymore and I never did again.
 
Anger and frustration factored in heavily. I did feel that my abilities outshone my fellow band members to an absurd degree. I had an admitted childish attitude towards the world in general. Yes, like a little spoiled brat, I took my ball and went home.
 
Shall I save you the trouble? "What an idiot! How could you do something so stupid?" I don't truly have an answer. I know that my calm demeanor is a behavior learned over decades of exposure to mental illness and controlling individuals. I am calm but that does not mean I am pleased or content.
 
I would be recognizable to anyone that knew me as my old self. I had the same outgoing personality. I cracked jokes and commanded center stage. I claimed to not wish to be there yet I somehow managed to be there most of the time.
 
Maybe I fooled myself when I said that I didn't really want it. It would take a fellow artist to rescue me. Not even a loving wife truly understands the artists mind, not even her own husbands. It is a part of someone that stands alone independent of everything else. It exists by itself almost as its own living thing.
 
I have had people tell me that I could sing and that I could make good music and that I wrote good songs. It only meant something when it came from a fellow musician or songwriter. I can only be encouraged in my writing by another writer. I don't trust the opinion of one that doesn't write. I appreciate it. It may even make me smile. But, I don't trust it.
 
I found a few things I wrote during this silent period in my life. I don't recall writing them. But, I date my work so, I know that I did write it and when. I have a couple pieces I wrote that were requested for loved one's that had passed.
 
That covers fifteen years of my creativity. Stick of gum?
 
As an only child my brother-in-law became much like a little brother to me. At least in my mind as I had no reference point. He married young and his young wife delivered a son three months pre-mature.

There was no were near the technology back then that there is now. It was a miracle that he even survived birth. Their son lingered near death and fought the good fight for almost two weeks before finally passing away.

It was a heart wrenching ordeal witnessing this young couple trying to find hope within such a hopeless situation.


Most of the family did not feel a funeral would be good for the grieving couple. They refused to plan one or participate. I believed that they should have a service if that was their wish. I arranged it for them. 

They asked me to write some words to be spoken at his funeral.

His name was Devin Michael Sandoval. He was my first nephew, and his second name was in my honor.
 
 
-untitled-
 
 
It is finally time to say goodbye to you
For you the struggle is over
And if we close our eyes
And listen closely
We may hear the happy sounds of
Children playing

Our tears are not for you
For you know happiness not found on earth
We weep for ourselves
For we wanted you awhile longer
We are left to sort things out, to make sense
To understand what you wanted us to know
In your short life

Your message was a simple one
The gift of life is a valuable one
Not to be taken lightly
Surely we are not put on this planet
To simply wait patiently for out creator
To take us away someday

We are here to struggle and fight
And create and help and love
Out times will all come
But, don't pretend to be wise enough
To know when, you're not
We must always be prepared

And as we leave this place
Let us pledge to fight a little harder
And struggle a little bit more
Devin did
We will remember him for it.
 

Author Notes

Open to suggestions. How about some fun upbeat stuff. Perhaps the time I joined the circus? Well, I suppose I am still sticking with things I actually did. However, the day is young. Suggestions for topics or directions are eagerly sought and appreciated. No format so whatever ideas you come up with will be considered.

Chapter 40
Christmas

By michaelcahill

"Come on now! We're going to have the tree!" that would be my mother's annual announcement that the unwrapping of presents would be commencing immediately.

My Uncle Johnny found the announcement rather amusing. "Have the tree? Hmmm. What does that mean? Are we going to eat it?  Have it? Perhaps something naughty, I never thought of that."

I found him amusing and in a strange way he served as more of a role model to me than I would care to admit.

Our Christmas tree transcended anything traditional in nature when it came to decorating style. It looked as though someone had placed all of the lights and bulbs and various extras in a box and thrown them forcefully at the tree. They congealed in a wildly blinking blob a bit off center near the middle of the tree.

A severely mangled star-like object adorned the very top at a precarious angle. I theorized that a sympathetic angel stood vigil.

My mother brought all of her considerable insanity to bear upon her tree decorating skills. She adhered strictly to the guidelines of the schizophrenic tree decorating manual.

The bestowing of presents proceeded with great fanfare and organization with my grandma Bobo in charge parroted to great effect by my mother with an authoritative militaristic voice.

Names would be called out (and parroted) and the named would arise and take their gift and return to their seat. This would continue until all gifts had been passed out. The proper festive attitude and feeling of joy was a requirement at all times. Explaining why one didn't enjoy "the tree" never rode the top of anyone's list.

Finally, opening of gifts commenced in order from left to right one at a time. Oohs and aahs along with appropriate comments, expressing both surprise and appreciation, were required and demanded. I always went first.

I always opened the socks first. Yes, even at the age of five cleverness had befallen me. Wrapping a three-pack of socks loosely with wrapping paper stood no chance against the sharpness of my young mind.

Nonetheless, I feigned surprise and delight having a fit of vapors that would delight a drunken Peter O'Toole playing Juliet in a miscast off-Broadway treatment of Juliet and Juliet. "Oh, these are just what I needed! Thank you!" (next….) I felt so ripped off. For God's sake, you had to buy me socks anyway. Why the cheap ruse? Everyone knows it.

The others followed in kind. My turn again. A shirt. Oh my, how exciting. What young man wouldn't want a shirt? "Oh, it is perfect. Just the style I like. Thank-you Aunt Ann!" "Eight fifty. J.C. Penny's!" She would announce the price of her heartfelt gifts. This proved to be a great idea. It stood to reason that the price tag might not always be noticed dangling from the shirt.

Then a gift from Uncle Johnny. "Oh. One from me? I wonder what that could be? This should be exciting!" Everyone knew he rarely bought a gift and that grandma Bobo (his mother) covered for him every year. It became a running family joke.

For some reason they wished for all of the pretenses to go on anyway. We all knew and yet, we all had to play along. In the strangest way, I miss those crazy Christmases. I suppose it is our nature to miss what is gone forever, no matter whether it seemed all that wonderful, at the time, or not.

Christmas with my first wife's family took on an entirely different atmosphere. Their tree looked like something out of a Christmas dream. The presents spilled out over the living room floor in a welcoming hazard.

I loved my first wife's family. We spent a lot of time at their house. She had seven brothers and sisters. Her mom was an amazing cook and hostess. Her family treated me like gold and it would be a cherished memory for me to enjoy their company for those few years.

I must admit that one of the main reasons that I endured such a terrible marriage lived in that house that we visited so often. If my wife wasn't part of the deal I would've stayed married to the family for sure.

Donna and I always try to have a tree and a normal Christmas of sorts. We are never surrounded by normal people or normal circumstances. We both have the tendency to rescue things, be they animals or people. There is always something or someone under our care.

Donna's grandma moved in about thirty days after Donna did. Her name was Claire, but everyone called her Peachy. She had done a billboard, when she was a child, for a soap company. Her husband called her Peachy for her "peaches and cream" complexion.

Peachy was put in a rest home by her cold, banker son. Donna asked me to intervene. I went with Donna to the home and informed them that I would be taking Peachy home with us. They informed me that I couldn't do that. I invited them to watch me.

Peachy enjoyed living with us and her health improved considerably; she even began walking again. It was a memorable Christmas that year with all of her granddaughters and their husbands, gathered under one roof for the first time in many years.

It would be her last. A lovely and classy lady, like her granddaughter.

Now, we take care of some mentally ill folk and they have become our family. We live in a fairly nice house and have a Christmas tree every year. It would be difficult for an outsider to figure out who is in charge and who are the clients.

That is how I like it. Always keep 'em guessing.

Back in the late sixties I attended the little church on the corner. It was a Nazarene Church and very strict. I didn't exactly fit in. But, I went with them to Tecate, Mexico to work on painting and repairing an orphanage there.

The pastor of my church asked me to write a little Christmas Song for the children there that would be translated into Spanish. I was fourteen.

These are the English words. I must say it sounded awfully pretty in Spanish. I wish I would have recorded it.

I dream that perhaps they still sing this down there to this day.

Christmas Anywhere At All

Doesn't matter who your family is
if you're rich or poor or an orphan lost
whether you've a mom and dad, an auntie,
or a friend who's path you've crossed

-chorus-
Just close your eyes, reach out your hand
Jesus holds it and he won't let you fall
He was born to love you and keep you safe
you'll have Christmas anywhere at all

well, you might feel that no one cares for you
and that the world has passed you by
but, long ago a savior came
to keep a watchful eye

for the day might come
when there would be one
that felt alone as you do
he would be standing there
holding you with care
he's always right beside of you
-repeat chorus-

Author Notes

Seeking any and all suggestions as to topics and points of discussion or areas which you might like me to explore either in my life or in world events. This piece is unformatted so, anything goes. It jumps around and follows no particular order.

Chapter 41
Tropical Paradise

By michaelcahill

In 1987 Donna and I stopped at a small pet shop on Main Street in Alhambra to buy bird seed for "Pilot", her pet cockatiel. It came to our attention that the shop was for sale.

We had converted our garage into a tropical fish business. We had grown tired of the high prices for tropical fish and applied for a wholesale license and ended up with a little side business.

Needless to say we undersold the neighboring shops considerably and had achieved a distinct lack of popularity in the local pet trade.

I have an obsessive personality. I am never satisfied with moderation in anything. One fish tank doesn't do it for me. One becomes two. Two becomes three until it reaches a point that I am selling fish out of my garage.

I am aware of this predilection. It is why I have never done drugs. I know full well that I would have to do every drug on earth if I ever got started. So, I collect stamps or sell fish.

Inglenook Cages sold large wrought iron bird cages and big birds, parrots mainly. The price included cage inventory and good will. Good will included customer lists and connections to bird breeders and an exclusive distributorship for the Inglenook brand of birdcage.

The asking price was sixteen thousand dollars. I worked for the Post Office and was a musician at the time. Donna waitressed part time at a local eatery. We could raise just about that much money but, nothing more.

In a move that would be recognized by those that knew me as typical we went for it. We opened Tropical Paradise on Main Street in Alhambra in 1987. The name came from our garage fish operation which we transferred to our new business.

We had some miscellaneous inventory, a nice supply of cages, a decent amount of display cases and a rather Mickey Mouse set-up for tropical fish. We knew nothing about birds or running a retail business. 

Business as usual for me to be honest. A typical scenario for a stubborn Irish boy. I had no idea that I had put myself in a position to attempt something that could only be described as impossible. We opened the next day with Donna at the helm.

I stopped by after work and during as well. I could do most of the eight hour mail routes in about two hours much to the chagrin of the old time carriers. I had plenty of time to spare. See, what you have always suspected all these years is true. Letter carriers are often paid to do nothing!

We couldn't afford to buy birds so, we found a way to get them on consignment. We took them in from customers wishing to sell them. We took over the hand-feeding of baby birds from breeders in order to have them in our shop for sale.

This turned out to be an excellent move on our part. The customers were delighted to be able to sell their birds in a high profile area while having them cared for and out of their hair. The breeders no longer had to feed baby birds round the clock and had their inventory before the public ready to sell at a very young age.

For us it meant a store full of birds including darling baby birds being hand-fed right before the customer's eyes. A customer could put a deposit down on a baby bird and be there assisting as it grew to an age when it could go home with them.

We had a full-line store that included fish, as I mentioned, reptiles, other exotics such as scorpions and tarantulas and even a pot-bellied pig. We did have the drawback of being animal lovers. Two animal lover's leaves no one left to say "no".

That is how something as impractical as a pot-bellied pig or an African Crown Crane ends up in a local pet shop. We just had to have them. We had toucans, hornbills, exotic finches, African blue jays and several types of mynah birds.

We had almost every kind of parrot you can imagine. We bred endangered species helping to increase their population. We read everything that we could get our hands on about parrots. We became authorities on the care, behavior and breeding of parrots.

Being obsessed with things can be an asset when it is directed in the proper way.

Donna is a shockingly honest person. She would not sell a pet to anyone that she felt would not give it a good home. I bit holes in my tongue more than once as Donna turned down sales to questionable homes.

Owning a business is a round the clock gut wrenching struggle. It means that nothing exists in your life but that business and running it. We literally took it home with us. We had baby birds that we fed round the clock. We seldom had an evening without crying birds needing to be fed.

The book on starting a new business states on the first page that the first thing to do is acquire one hundred thousand dollars. That is your start-up money. You should have enough money in the bank to keep you and your business afloat for six months. The failure rate with that scenario is ninety-five percent in the first year.

We had sixteen thousand dollars and nothing at all put away. We also knew nothing about running a business.

Five years later we re-located to Pasadena and continued in business as Donna's Bird House. But, that is another story.

I read the first page of that book and threw it away.

I am stubborn.

Author Notes

Still looking for suggestions as to topics or directions. Unformatted so anything goes. This chapter is about our first business venture.

Chapter 42
Socrates & Wyatt Earp, a tangent

By michaelcahill

"You love someone when you are unwilling or unable to determine your well-being from theirs."

That is the definition of love, as translated from the original Gaelic, of the great twentieth century, Irish philosopher, Michael Patrick O'Cahill. The tradition of defining a word in exactness to fully understand its meaning originated with Socrates. It is called the Socratic Method.

To fully understand a word one must define in such a way that the definition describes that word and nothing else. I studied music and philosophy in college and have a degree in both. I'm not bragging. It took me forever to get them. I think they awarded them to me to get me to leave the school.

Of all the various philosophers that I studied, it became Socrates, virtually the most ancient, that I would choose to adopt, as my mentor. I appreciated Aristotle and many others but, Socrates for my money had the method to arrive at the fullest understanding of virtually anything.

"Justice is a system of rewards and punishments based on merit." That, of course, only begins the discussion as the question quickly becomes, "Does it exist?" Well, don't leave. This is not an essay about philosophy. I would have sent you for a gallon of vodka and a pint of cranberry juice already.

I merely offer my buddy, Socrates, as a major influence in my life and who I am. Rest assured that when I have an opinion that I have usually thought about it. There are exceptions, of course. If I am engaged in something appearing extremely stupid in nature, then it is a good bet that I have neglected to apply the Socratic Method to it first.

Wyatt Earp captured my attention from the moment I saw him portrayed in a movie. The more I learned about him the more I liked him. I love the movie "Tombstone" which is an account of his life. He never once took a bullet in spite being in the center of peril on numerous occasions. He emerged unscathed many times in situations facing far superior numbers.

There is a key scene in "Tombstone" when Wyatt Earp has arrested the leader of a notorious gang of outlaws. The gang surrounds him and demands their leader's release. It is a serious threat and he appears without choice but to comply. He points his gun at the most vocal of the group and, with steel in his eyes, says, "You die first. The rest may get me in a rush. But, not before I make your head into a canoe." The bad guy calls the gang off and they ride away shouting threats about what they are going to do in the future.

Yes, a thrilling scene in a Hollywood movie. I have read much about Wyatt and I can assure you that it is an accurate portrayal of his methods as a lawman…..as a man.  He is another of my role models. There is an old adage that says that "there is strength in numbers". To that I would add "there is also cowardice."

I have been in similar situations and have used Wyatt's technique. It does work and I recommend it. There is plenty of time, after an incident is over and you are alone, to collapse in shaking terror. Make sure you are alone though, you wouldn't want the bad guys to know that you actually feel fear.

He had the appearance of calm. That is another valuable asset. Displaying uncertainty or anxiety or outright fear is no ally in any situation. Humans are predators and those are all traits that cause the predator to drool. Aggression is not to your advantage either. It is certain to escalate a situation and force a reaction. Remain neutral, neither passive nor aggressive. That is the perfect stance.

Hey! Wake up. I thought you would appreciate a boring self-help lecture.

Now, as I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, Wyatt Earp became a role model to me for many reasons. As a little boy I presented myself, to an adoring public, as one darling, four-year-old Wyatt Earp, complete with holster and cap-gun. Later in life, I would don the black cowboy hat, tilted perfectly to the right and become mysterious and intriguing. It served me well as a great guise for a shy boy that didn't have a clue what to say anyway. Thank you Wyatt Earp.

Did someone shout out: "Tangent!" I agree, perfect time.

This has nothing to do with this chapter. But, I wanted to mention it somewhere, I could spice my little story up a bit, if I was willing to embarrass some people. But, I am not. I have some things I have been involved in with others that would cause difficulty for them. Those I cannot talk about either. There are some things that would hurt others if they were no longer secrets. They will have to remain secrets. I mention this in case I might appear a bit too angelic at times. I am not.

I will try and reveal as much as I am able without injuring anyone else.  I find most of the stupid things I have done rather amusing and don't mind being laughed at in the slightest. I always go for the laugh even if it is at my own expense!

Okay, have you forgotten the topic of this chapter already? Excellent, so have I.

I ran across a children's story I was writing about talking vegetables that I abandoned for some reason. I suppose I thought that it wouldn't draw any interest. I could have called it "Veggie Tales". Well, who would be interested in that? In any case I liked the little song that I wrote for it.

 

Harmony In My Garden

 When I need advice
or I need to smile
I come out to this place
and I stay a while
the ground is soft
and there's so many things to see

-chorus-
there's harmony in my garden
and melody in the breeze
and friendship is growing there
and the moon and the stars are to share

you can keep an eye
on the world out there
for the seeds of life
are growing everywhere
there is room for you
isn't that what it's all about

-repeat chorus-

 

Author Notes

More on the pet shop coming for those that have inquired. Still seeking suggestions and thoughts for topics and direction. Unformatted piece that jumps around and might include anything.

Chapter 43
Donna's Bird House, Part One

By michaelcahill

This continues the story of our first business "Tropical Paradise" from a previous chapter.


The Main Street of my childhood memory continued to deteriorate, before my eyes. Having a business on that street became a burdensome struggle with little reward.

Our little bird store became one of the very few open shops on a Main Street of ghost dwellings.
 
Few shopped on the deserted thoroughfare anymore. Our customers came specifically to visit us. We rarely had a walk-in customer. Location became a non-existent attribute for our establishment.

Moving became the only option to avoid the final collapse of the once proud shopping mecca that Main Street had once been. We had reached a point where struggling would be an optimistic description of our financial state.
 
We looked in Pasadena for a new location. The rents were high and our funds were low. We wanted to find anything that we could put our birds into. They were living beings and that added to the urgency of the matter.

First and foremost, we had to find a safe place to house them. The business, though important, had to take a back seat to that.
 
Funds continued to dwindle. We drove by an old house with a "for rent" sign on the little front lawn. It sat in the business district on Walnut Avenue and looked quite out of place. It came from a time long ago when Walnut must have been a residential area.

The rent, at eight hundred dollars per month, fit our budget perfectly, almost miraculously. The house stood in rather poor condition. But, it had walls and doors and even an enclosed front porch.

It had the distinct advantage of appealing to my strange mental configuration. Some say that I am missing a few marbles. I reply that I have extra marbles. Ha!
 
Donna had said a silent prayer as we drove around looking for a location. "Lord, please find a home for my birds." She never did concern herself much with the business aspects of our enterprise.

I saw her looking at the old house and I said to her, "Welcome to Donna's Bird House." It is interesting that even with extra marbles, it is still easy to hear them rolling around.
 
We had a nice inventory of exotic birds and some supplies, as well. We had enough money to open the doors and welcome customers.

Beyond that, we had absolutely nothing. This had become our proven model for success. We were ready to roll, Cahill style. It amazes me that we aren't rich.
 
We had entered a war zone unknowingly. The age of superstores had dawned and the pet industry became a ready member of the faceless corporations invading the retail market.

When we opened our little bird store there were twenty three pet related stores scattered throughout Pasadena. One could find fish shops, dog shops, full line stores, feed stores and experts in almost any area of pet interest that one might have.

If anyone wanted to know anything about birds the place to go without a doubt would be Donna's Bird House. When one entered the store they would actually be greeted by the real live Donna!
 
Petco and Petsmart waged war on the smaller shops in Pasadena with a vengeance. It turns out that capitalism no longer came into play when large sums of money were involved.

The rules of the game changed and not in favor of the small business person. The smaller individually owned stores fell prey to the mega-stores one by one.

Petco either purchased them outright or forced them out of business with prices that could not be competed with. The small stores soon discovered that their wholesale cost was higher than Petco's retail price.

So much for free enterprise. One by one the mom and pop stores in Pasadena disappeared. Within two years there were three pet stores in Pasadena: Petco, Petsmart and Donna's Bird House.
 
To survive and compete we became specialized. We sold only birds. We knew everything about them. We sold products only available in our store. We carried special blends of seeds and diets. We had toys for birds, custom made by small business people exclusively for our shop.

Almost everything in our store came from outside of the traditional business channels. We even acquired used cages and refurbished them.  

We taught our customers how to breed birds and then purchased the babies from them at a fair price. We guaranteed the health of our birds and required a health check at the local vet to verify good health. A free check-up was a requirement of purchase. We knew our birds were healthy.
 
We arrived every morning and opened the front door. I would wheel all the big birds out onto the front porch where they would spend the day watching the traffic go by on our busy street.

I used to love seeing the angry drivers look over and see the birds and break out with a smile.
 
For many in the neighborhood the shop became a fun hangout. One could sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and pass the time, chatting with some pretty cool and entertaining company. The birds were interesting too!!
 
There were some characters to be sure. I never had it in me to turn anyone away. Chuck led the pack when it came to strange. He suffered from mental illness and seemed harmless.

He often sat on the porch telling me about the birds and how he acquired them. He told me that he would even let me have one if I wanted. I'll never forget handing him an orange. He ate it peel and seeds and all before I could make any suggestions about possible methods of consumption.

I suppose that I may have been in some danger. But, I must have a host of angels assigned as I seem to be quite charmed really.

I suspect there are a couple Irishmen somewhere scratching their heads saying, "Luck? Someone must have received mine. Never had any."


Part two to follow soon.

 

Author Notes

In response to what happened with our bird store on Main Street in Alhambra. This is our second store that we moved to from there. Still open to any suggestions. Lived in Los Angeles most of my life so, witnessed quite a few things first hand. Or, whatever topic you might think of whether a world event or just curious about something in my thrilling life!! The picture is of my favorite bird of all time "Doc". She passed away this year after decades of good health. One the few pets that Donna and I have had that preferred me.

Chapter 44
Donna's Bird House, Bird Walk

By michaelcahill

Our business continued to grow slowly and before long we had moved into a profitable posture. We did not need wheelbarrows for our money, but for once my wallet carried more than my suspended driver's license. (Another story)

We had established a stellar reputation with both our clientele and suppliers. Breeders sought out our shop to place their baby birds on consignment. We had the finest parrots in Southern California. Money did not flow in abundance, but we paid our bills and with some clever dealings with the IRS and the State Board of Equalization (state sales tax), we managed to survive, fairly well.

I don't mean to imply that we were less than honest with our beloved, helpful government. But, I have heard that people actually lied, in shocking ways, to keep their businesses afloat. Of course, I wouldn't know about that. Is it possible to be in business for ten years and not show a profit? I have heard rumors that if it means staying in business or going under, it is possible. But, once again, I would know nothing of such matters.

I would imagine that people in that position would consider the government to be a friend to the large corporation and, therefore, an enemy to the small business person. That is what I would imagine. I suppose an individual in that position wouldn't lose a wink of sleep screwing the government over at every possible opportunity.

Of course, I am just guessing what it would feel like to have the government hand feed money to a giant competitor while one's little business struggles to survive.

"Old money" is the term used to describe many of the Pasadena residents. It looked to be money as youthful as anyone else's to us. There did appear to be decidedly more of it in many cases.

It came to my attention that a bird farm in Fontana, California had come up for sale. "Bird Walk" had an excellent reputation as a must see place for bird lovers. They had a small retail operation and concentrated most of their efforts on the wholesale end. We had acquired several high quality parrots from them ourselves.

It took about an hour of freeway driving to get there. Upon arriving, it dazzled the eyes with black swans, toucans and a host of exotic birds. The trip proved worth it just to sight-see. One of our customer's was a prominent neurosurgeon. Old money and new money found a home in his bank accounts.

I decided that he would finance our purchase of Bird Walk. I don't mean to sound so manipulative. But, I knew he would be interested and how to go about making him interested.

A month later we opened Bird Walk to the public and changed the focus to a more retail-orientated operation. We maintained the extensive collection of breeding stock and continued to supply retailers with high-quality baby birds.

We hired a young couple to run Donna's Bird House and I made regular visits to handle business and touch base. Both operations ran smoothly at first. Bird Walk had great potential.

The Doctor decided to be overly involved. He knew nothing about birds or business. If you needed your brain operated on he would be the guy to see. He just got in the way, other than that. With his help, business began to suffer.

He didn't understand the concept of a fully stocked store and held back on promised funding for necessary inventory. The store looked understocked and unsuccessful. Customers did not want to wait until Friday for their products to arrive. They wanted them now. I agreed.

In the meantime, the couple running our old shop started slacking off and opening late. They had the distinct drawback of not being me and Donna. Business there began to suffer as well.

To top it off our good buddies began undermining our credibility to the good Doctor in an attempt to further their position. The Doctor suddenly proposed that Donna and I return to our shop and that our friends would take over Bird Walk.

My instinct told me to get out of the situation and that is what we did. We took all of our inventory and birds as well as some bonus items and went back to our little shop in Pasadena. Our buddies moved out to Bird Walk.

Within a week Donna's Bird House returned to its normal, well-run status.

Bird Walk slowed to a crawl. The new operators knew very little about birds and even less about business. Donna and I had been there long enough to establish plenty of goodwill. The clientele missed us and didn't take to the new operators at all.

The store became run on an appointment only basis. Within a month the disgruntled customers had taken to shooting out windows in the store at two in the morning. In another month Bird Walk closed.

The Doctor owned some property in Big Bear and decided to have my buddies run his bright idea of a Christmas tree business. They planted countless little trees on his property. When the first rain came they became submerged under about four feet of water.

Donna's Bird House continued to do well. We missed Bird Walk. But, I guess that the good Doctor knew what he was doing.

A main factor underlying his concern had been Donna's reaction to the sudden death of her pet macaw Dodger. A parrot has a social structure that is almost identical to ours. They mate for life. They raise a family of young that leave home when they are of age. They enjoy socializing together, but at the end of the day all return to their individual homes.

They have huge brains and enjoy extremely high intelligence. There are four other species on earth that have the same relative brain size as us humans: dolphins and apes which are commonly known. Pigs and parrots, as well, also enjoy large brains and high intelligence. A macaw has a life expectancy similar to our own.

Her macaw, Dodger, had been raised by us from the egg and greeted visitors to our shop with various remarks and songs. My favorite retort was "I'm human!" I taught him that. He would announce that to people walking up the porch to our shop loudly in a very desperate sounding voice. Or, he would sing "Bad Boys" from the popular T.V. show "Cops".

We had no children. Dodger for all intents and purposes was Donna's child. Animal lovers understand. It is an even more intense feeling with a parrot. There is no expectation of a short life like there is with a dog. A bird is expected to live as long or longer than we are.

Dodger's death was the worst tragedy of either one of our lives. It still remains so to this day.

The Brain Surgeon didn't understand her devastation or why she needed time off of work. He didn't understand why she could not speak on the phone about it without breaking down in sobs. That, more than any other factor, told me to hurry back to our shop and let Bird Walk go to whatever fate that awaited it.

We, and especially my wife, could not work with someone that didn't understand the love one feels for an animal.

I wrote a poem when Dodger died. I haven't read it since that day.

For Dodger

Your lifeless body
              where so much life had just been
cooling even as my heart
              screams out warmth to you
                                    and your mother
                    frozen in the moment

and now….the unthinkable
              our souls remember you
each memory a teardrop
              part of a river of remembered joy
                                          and selfish loss
  
now our eyes must close
                            to see you
our hearts must ache in your memory
we will try to smile as you would wish

we will live
                  you would not understand if not
you were our precious child
                             our love measured in pain
grateful for your life
                  determined to honor it

our beautiful blue and gold bird
                  some will understand
                                 others will not

Chapter 45
Donna's Bird House, part 3

By michaelcahill

With Bird Walk and the brain surgeon behind us we concentrated solely on our little Pasadena business. We now competed with Petco and Petsmart and they couldn't hold a candle to our expertise in our specialty. When it came to the care of birds we had no competition.
 
Folks would still purchase small birds on sale at the mega-stores and then come to us for advice. We gave them advice and helped them as best we could. The birds from the larger stores lacked the quality of our hand-raised babies. A diet of seed alone equated to a human living on French fries. It would keep one alive, but it would not be a very healthy robust life.
 
Birds need fresh food as well as seed. Fruits and vegetables are as good for birds as they are for us. We introduced these food items to our baby birds and they left our facility completely familiar with them. Birds are creatures of habit and it is quite difficult to change their ways. A bird raised on seed is difficult to entice to a more healthy diet.
 
The right bird for the right family is another critical consideration. Each species has its own characteristics and behaviors. An aviary to look at and enjoy needs a nice collection of species that will get along and enjoy each other's company. An aviary full of brawling mismatched unhappy squawking combatants is not the most relaxing thing to contemplate.
 
A pet parrot is a very serious purchase. They enjoy life spans of great length. The larger species have a life expectancy comparable to our own. It is not a hamster that has at most three years to be concerned with. Or, even a dog that might live into its teens.
 
You are looking at decades with a parrot. Your pet parrot may very well outlive you. They have incredible intelligence and need constant stimulus and attention. They are very much like a young child. They are self-centered and smart.
 
Your parrot will not grow up, however. It isn't going to leave home and get a job. It certainly isn't going to take care of you when you grow old. Nope, you are acquiring a very smart child that will never grow up that seeks attention for as long as you live. That is what acquiring a pet parrot is.
 
Before Donna would let a customer purchase a parrot she would make sure they understood that fully. Yes, it did cost us some sales. But, we never had a customer bring a bird back saying they had made a mistake.
 
We slowly and miraculously moved into the black financially. We didn't by any means have a mountain of money to climb, but we paid our bills and had a nicely stocked store and a steady clientele. Growth became steady and solid. It reached a point where it appeared we might even be able to stay in business and retire comfortably one day.
 
This brings us to Christmas Eve of 1996. It had been out finest year to date. Christmas day would be the day folks would come in to pick up their Christmas layaways. We would not be open, but we would be there to complete the transactions for the Christmas birds and send them on their way to their new homes. There were quite a few. We would be in the best financial shape we had ever been in. It would be the best Christmas of our lives.
 
I arrived early Christmas morning and opened the front door and turned off the alarm system. It didn't take long to see that something had gone dreadfully wrong that evening. The cash register was open as were all of the desk drawers beneath it. Next I noticed that most of the cages had open doors and nothing inside of them.
 
A large salmon crested cockatoo named "Sprinkles" sat indignantly on top of a cage staring down at me. My wife's beloved pet bird "Seemore" sat defiantly in his cage. I noticed damage to his door where the burglars had tried to break into it. He had fought them off.
 
In the middle of all of that devastation I thanked God. "Seemore" had replaced Donna's beloved "Dodger" as her new child. I cannot guess the effect on her had he not been there. There were a few other birds that had escaped the burglar's clutches as well.
 
My little pet African grey "Doc" did her little disappearing act and they didn't see her in the corner of her cage. I always laughed that I had to look for her when she was actually sitting right in front of me. This time I cried.
 
"Polly" sat in his old antique cage undisturbed in the corner. Once again thanks to God went out. A loyal customer and friend named Sancho and purchased him in Mexico for fifty-cents thirty years ago. "Polly" had become his only companion in a large and lonely house. The thought of telling him that "Polly" had been stolen still gives me shivers to this day. Once again I thank God for sparing me that task.
 
The rest of the birds, and inventory retailing at over fifty thousand dollars, had all been stolen. We would never see any of them again.
 
One fingerprint implicated a suspect. He got off on a technicality and immediately flew back to his home country. I will never trust our justice system again.
 
I kept the doors open for another year with smoke and mirrors. Donna tried to put on the same brave optimistic brave face that I had. But, there is a point that stubborn becomes foolish. I crossed it. I didn't want to give up or give in.
 
That last year became a living hell of bill collectors and empty shelves. I tried to sell birds I didn't even have. I would attempt to get the money and then get the bird. Occasionally I did just that. But, not enough occasions to get anywhere.
 
Finally I closed the doors for good a little less than a year later.
 
I found that getting a job had become a difficult task for one my age. Apparently being in ones mid-forties is old when it comes to getting a job. I had to hound corporate headquarters just to get minimum wage job at PetSmart.
 
After ten years I had to crawl to the enemy and work under some twenty-four year old know-nothing for minimum wage. Oh well, that is what one does, when one wants to survive and eat and pay bills.
 
It wouldn't be long before I started writing music and poetry again. It had been over fifteen years since I had written anything, but a couple of tributes to lost pets, or pieces for friends that had requested them. I sang at a couple weddings.
 
I am told, that I occasionally had one too many and joined a couple bands on stage.
 
But, I can't imagine a shy little-boy, like me, would do such a thing.
 
 
The Purple Wisteria Vine
 
what if you didn't write a word
who would know
where wandering winsome wisps of song
                once sought singing
                               
that wisteria shed its leaves
                for the longest winter it had known
a bundle of sticks clinging and clutching
                                collecting the sighs of passers by
 
they thought death had surely befallen
                poignant and final
                                perhaps a wreath
the irony of honoring with color
                                where color once had been
 
but, spring arrives when hope has finally left
                for surprise is half the fun
                                a little bud breaks a sticks dry shell
                then a green hue…a leaf….ha!….another
                                                did someone shout…..Purple!
 
weaving words wherever wandering wants
                to go
                                I return
rescued from my own shadows perceived grasp
I finally set it free to run
it was I that grasped tightly

Author Notes

Included some information about parrots as requested by some. Still seeking suggestions. Any topic acceptable. This is an unformated book dealing with various subjects. It is in no particular order. World events or personal events. What would you like to hear about?

Chapter 46
Pets, Part One

By michaelcahill

"Throw the ball Buckshot! Old 'Ort el git it."
 
Sounds like life on some Midwestern Ma and Pa Kittle farm. Well, Kittle is correct. That would be "Uncle" Earl Kittle encouraging me, "Buckshot", to toss the ball to "Old 'Ort, Shorty, the dog. The location being 210 North Curtis Avenue, Alhambra, California. It would be in the mid-fifties and I would be four or five years old.
 
The first pet I recall in my life, as being mine, is Shorty. He had a medium rotund build, with a chopped off little tail. He presented himself in a shade of orange-brown that I have never run across anywhere else on earth even in my imagination.
 
He loved me. That is the term my adult mind assigns now. The child back then only knew that this friendly creature wanted to play with him for as long as he wanted to play. Shorty wanted to do whatever little Mikey wanted to do. Shorty enjoyed anything Mikey enjoyed and he enjoyed it with equal relish.
 
When I came home he greeted me as though I had been gone for the longest time. When I left he mourned as though he may never see me again. I enjoyed his company more than anyone else's. My family consisted of alcoholics and the mentally ill both diagnosed and un-diagnosed.
 
Shorty proved to be the most stable creature in my life at the time.
 
I have an odd theory about animal lovers. I think that those raised with animals in their lives are heavily influenced by the behavior of those animals. I think that toddlers learn a sense of loyalty and faith and even honesty from their interactions with their pets. Certainly the instinct to protect is both born into us and learned.
 
There are brave humans and ones that are not so brave. I have a protective nature even when strangers are involved. No one else in my family is like that. All of my dogs growing up were. Shorty would challenge Godzilla to protect anyone being threatened. Imagine that. A short little pup like that willing to take on anyone or anything to protect the innocent. That is rather inspiring if you ask me. Surely that would influence a young impressionable mind.
 
I rescued many an animal and brought them home. I knew the answer would be no if I were to ask to keep any of them. I had to devise clever deceptions to befuddle my unsuspecting family. "Pud" walked down the middle of Curtis Avenue as though he owned it. He had a garish checkerboard paintjob consisting of a rainbow of colors.
 
His name glowed in bright red across his back. A more handsome sharply dressed box turtle could not be found anywhere to my knowledge. I could see that he, in spite of his nonchalant nature, needed a home. I picked him up intending to provide just that very thing for him.
 
I stashed him in the bushes and went inside.
 
"Joann? Can I have Pud?"
 
"What? What are you talking about? What is Pud?"
 
"Pud. Pud is Pud. I need to have Pud. All good young men have Pud. Can I have Pud?"
 
"I don't even know what Pud is. How can is answer that?"
 
"You don't have to know. You just need to know that I need it. Just say that I can have it and I will stop bugging you about it. It's no big deal. Can I have Pud? Just say yes."
 
"Fine. Yes. Have Pud. Stop bothering me, I'm watching my stories."
 
 That is how I acquired Pud, my pet turtle. Mike and Jim would follow. Yes, I named one after myself. I think it is pretty strange too. Box turtles don't do much. They bounce their heads up and down when they fight. But, the fights never go beyond that. I often try to emulate them when watching television. It is difficult to eat that much lettuce though. So, I substitute popcorn.
 
I brought Sam a mongrel dog home and conned them into keeping him in much the same way. They decided to get rid of him though. It is funny how adults underestimate the intellectual capacity of youngsters.
 
I had reached the age of eight and spoke English while they plotted how to get rid of Sam. They actually thought I didn't know what was going on. I could see their sideways glances and read their pathetically coded dialogue quite easily. I realized I could do nothing about it. I did call them on it though.
 
I arrived home from school and asked where Sam was.
 
"He ran away this morning. He was a stray. He probably won't be back."
 
"Oh? I know that you drove him to another city and dropped him off. You shouldn't think that you are smarter than I am. You are not. What are you going to do if he finds his way back, shoot him?"
 
With that, I walked away and it never came up again.
 
My first wife had very little affection for anything including animals. We had no pets much to my dismay.
 
Donna is worse than I am when it comes to animals. So, the pet brigade began in earnest when we got married. Our policy towards animals is one of prevention to avoid acquisition. We know better than to visit a shelter.
 
Visiting a shelter and coming out empty handed would not be possible for us. So, rule number one, we don't go to a shelter unless it is specifically to find a pet.
 
Rule two, no reading pet ads in papers, that is to avoid bringing them all home.
 
Rule three, blame it on the landlord, we can't bring anymore pets home because the landlord will not allow it. I could talk him into it, but I have just enough of a grasp on reality not to.
 
Our first dog together actually belonged to Donna's grandma Peachy. Peachy had a dog named Sheba, an Australian shepherd. I have mentioned Peachy previously as Donna's grandma that we rescued from a rest home and brought to live with us.
 
Sheba we rescued from her frosty loveless son to be with her beloved owner. They both were in advanced years and in poor health. Peachy passed first leaving us with a rather senile Sheba. Donna and I lived in a house on a hill and the back yard was steep and about an acre.
 
Sheba would awaken me every morning at two A.M. so she could pee. She would saunter out and do her business. I would call her and instead of coming back she would wander off down the hill. I would have to go get her in bare feet on the icy ground. Poor old confused thing. The dog wasn't much better!
 
Much more to come in part two. 

Author Notes

Seeking topics and ideas as always. Unformated piece that jumps around. This chapter is the first on pets beginning when i was a toddler and will go up until the current time. I may get distracted if someone has an idea for a tangent. hahaha. Open to including anything, so feel free to suggest.

Chapter 47
Pets, Part two

By michaelcahill

Sheba finally passed away, after a couple of strokes, of old age. Up until then we had Donna's cockatiel Pilot and a couple of fish tanks. We had been together for over two months. The time had come to make a real commitment.
 
Living together and moving her grandma in showed some good faith. She needed something more concrete from me. She needed to know I would be in it for the long haul. It had become time to acquire our first dog.
 
Let's face it, men are afraid of commitment. Sure, I had met Donna and moved her, her grandma and her grandma's senile dog in with me all in the first month. But, hey, Donna had great legs and we all know what I really had my mind on. If I had to take care of granny well, Donna looked to be well worth the effort.
 
But, it had become time for a real commitment. I approached her trembling and dropped down to one knee. I had seen this in a Cheech and Chong movie and I knew they seemed very content and happy with their lives. She looked surprised at my gallantry.
 
I took her hand in mine and looked into her eyes. I said the words that I knew she longed to hear, "Let's go to the pound." A little smile formed on her face. Honestly it looked to be more of a knowing smirk. I could almost hear the words form in her brain, "Gotcha, you'd better learn how to cook if you plan on eating."
 
She said out loud so very nonchalantly, "Okay, let's go." I knew that inside her heart fluttered with the joy of the moment. No woman could resist the Irish charm of this little boy. I would have sung to her right there, but she had already gone outside and started the car.
 
I thought to myself, "Yeah baby, daddy's all revved up too. He is on his way!"
 
Our first dog saw me and squatted like a girl and peed. I had never had a male do that before. Well, that is a story for another time. I found it strange behavior for an Akita. I named him Magnum in an attempt to give him a name to live up to. It turned out that I didn't have too.
 
He became the greatest guard dog I ever had. He still peed when I walked up to him, but he had a natural instinct to protect his home and the people that lived there. He never bit anyone, but if he didn't know you, it would be a long wait in the corner until I let him know that it would be okay to let you pass.
 
He would just corner a stranger until I said it would be okay to let him by. Then he would immediately go lay down and ignore him. He had one ear up and one ear down. He looked extremely serious no matter what mood he happened to be in.
 
Our next dog looked like a giant ball of sheep's wool. I am not sure what breed it happened to be. It appeared to have some portion of sheep dog in it. It loved to fetch. It had an insane desire to fetch and took it most seriously. We named it Pilgrim having found it on a special holiday and all.
 
Oddly most people didn't get the obvious connection between Groundhog's Day and pilgrims. Magnum used to mount Pilgrim to show dominance. We still refer to the look on people's faces when they are caught in a compromising situation as "the Pilgrim look."
 
We then acquired "Houdini" a Siberian huskie. And finally "Yoko" another Akita which was a beautiful pure bred brindle color. It made us laugh to throw the ball to the four of them. They would all run after it. All of them would run, but only Pilgrim had any interest in fetching and returning it.
 
The other three just looked at him confused. They had no idea what in the world Pilgrim could possibly be picking the ball up for or why he would run back with it. But, they ran with him anyway. Much funnier than it sounds.
 
Yoko became pregnant which thrilled Donna. It didn't thrill me however. I didn't think having another half dozen dogs would be that great an idea. I still had the desire to see those puppies and there was the mystery of paternity to solve. I suspected Houdini.
 
But, it would have raised Pilgrims self-esteem considerably if he had pulled of the task. It might make up for the humiliation that Magnum put him through. It is never a good thing when the look of humiliation comes to be referred to by one's name.
 
Yoko ran away and we never saw her again. We suspect someone in the neighborhood kept her thinking the babies could bring them money. Baby Akita pups went for about five hundred dollars at the time. That left us with the three boys.
 
Pilgrim died from a flea attack. We had taken him to be groomed and treated the day before for fleas. I don't know what happened. When I came home from work I found Pilgrim dead covered in fleas. The other two dogs had zero fleas. I will never understand what happened. The groomer couldn't give me any plausible explanation either.
 
Suing the groomer would be a waste of time. Pets are treated like property and still are to this day. A mixed breed like Pilgrim wouldn't be worth more than twenty bucks on the open mutt market. So, a question without an answer. It still haunts us to this day.
 
We now had the two boys left. Magnum, the wonderful loyal guard dog extraordinaire and Houdini the escape artist and neighborhood skirt chaser.
 
Oh, we had four cats as well. That is for part three.

Part three is posted now, if you haven't had enough charm and wit for one sitting. 

Author Notes

More pets than I realized. This is part two of four. Still seeking suggestions. Any topic will be considered. Writing about my own life as well as observations about world events. This piece has no format and jumps around. So, all suggestions are considered.

Chapter 48
Pets, Part 3

By michaelcahill

I heard the meows from under the old van parked behind our bird store. Donna rushed to the market to buy food. I, being clairvoyant in such matters, began to envision a houseful of cats, sure to end up as my bedmates.

I further realized that any attempt to interject sense into the situation would prove futile. I had become a very knowledgeable man in a very short time. I understood the meaning of the word "husband" in all its nuances and had the training to be in full compliance.
 
Donna strategically placed the food dish on the ground and three little kittens came sauntering out too proud to display any hunger whatsoever. I had a strange sense that there had to be another one under the van.

I laid down on the cold asphalt and extended my ridiculously long arm way back under the van and pulled out a black scratching hissing kitten. That made a total of four lovely grease covered snarling feral kittens that not even a mother could love.

Of course, Donna had that glassy eyed look on her face as she watched her new cats eat their food. "The big white one is named Romeo." She didn't discuss the matter. She knew that I had completed my training. She didn't have too. The smaller white one, a girl, we named Cuttlebone. The big black one, a boy, I named Bear. The little black one, another girl, we gave to our neighbor's little girl.
 
Our fourth cat, Piper, we actually rescued from a pet store. We stopped to look at some fish in a new shop in a neighboring town and saw a rather lethargic looking cat sitting in a large window display with several other cats.

Donna, always the epitome of tact, inquired of the owner, "Hey, do you know you have a sick cat here!?" The owner replied, "She's not sick, that's just her personality, she's shy." "Bullshit, I know a sick animal when I see one. Look how skinny she is. She probably hasn't eaten in weeks!"

Donna has a tendency towards slight exaggeration when animals are involved. "Well, miss, I think we know what we are doing here. It is none of your business anyway." "It is my business if you are abusing animals. I'll shut this ()*&()) place down!" And I think I have a way with words. Ha!   

At this point I intervened. Yes, I am brave and I do save lives. I ascertained the price of the cat and purchased it at cost explaining that Donna's father was on the city council in South Pasadena. It is fun to lie and profitable as well!

Well, two hundred dollars in vet bills later Piper came home and joined the family.
 
Around this time Donna saw an ad for ferrets in the local paper. She had broken one of our sacred rules. I found her huddled behind a dumpster behind a closed Jack in the Box restaurant down the street huddled down with a flashlight reading the ads.

She shivered terribly and the look of guilt didn't hide the look of desperate wanting that gazed out from her dazed expression. I took her home for a bath and a one-sided discussion as to the merits of owning a ferret. They smelled really bad. They were illegal to own in California. They most likely wouldn't like the cats. They were escape artists and known thieves with a disreputable character.

We named our new pet ferret Tinkerbelle. She quickly became the most entertaining pet I ever owned. She bit everyone she met one time. It seemed a form of introduction for her. She never bit me. She stole Donna's shoes every morning and often caused her to be late for work. She would make this darling giggling noise as she ran across the room dragging the shoe behind her.
 
At least at our bird store we could pretend that we had all of those birds for business purposes. Two dogs, four cats and a ferret does not a home business make. That was the population of our home with strict and sensible rules firmly in place. That’s is how many pets we had when trying our very best to not let it get out of hand.
 
The pair of barn owls came to us from an unknown source. We opened our front door one morning and found a large cage with four big eyes staring up at us. They didn't look all that pleased to see us to be candid. I suspect they would have preferred us to be something smaller and edible to be honest.

Just in case it appears that Donna is the only animal nut in the house, let it be known that it never occurred to me to do anything but bring them inside. We had a spare bedroom and that became the owl room while I went about making a suitable habitat in the backyard for them.

I might point out here that I do not have the "handy gene" that most men are endowed with. In fact, I am missing several genetic mainstays of my species. I don't want to hang out with the guys, fix things and make things out of wood or any other material for that matter.

It is not a good idea to bring power tools near me. But, I am determined and set out to build an aviary. Those that knew me well found the concept to be nothing short of hilarious. Plans to sell tickets were put to an end by my loving wife.
 
In the meantime the owls lived in the spare bedroom and made loud disembodied screeching noises at two in the morning. The neighbors thinking it to be me and Donna would whisper and point in admiration when they saw us.

There were a couple gals in the neighborhood that looked at me kind of wistfully when I walked to the market. They should have married an animal lover.
 
Well, looks like part four is coming up. Sorry, Donna just keeps ignoring the rules and I am weak.

Author Notes

This is part three of four about family pets. Still seeking advice and input. Suggestions about topics and areas of interest are most welcome. I have no set format to this piece and jump around quite a bit. So, anything will be considered.

Chapter 49
Pets, Part 4

By michaelcahill

The California woodpecker is a noisy little character sounding and looking just like Woody Woodpecker of cartoon fame. A couple of kids brought a baby woodpecker to our shop one day. It had what appeared to be a broken neck. It still lived though and the kids wanted me to take care of it and help it.
 
Most observers advised me to humanly end its suffering.
 
Any creature that struggles to live should be given that opportunity. Others feel differently and that is fine. There is no malice in either viewpoint. He greedily accepted food and water from an eyedropper. His head tilted decidedly to the right, but living clearly appealed to him.  
 
He wanted to fight for life and that is what he would be assisted to do. People sometimes say, "It is against nature to intervene. Nature should be allowed to take its course." Is that what they say when it is themselves needing help? Over the next few weeks he grew stronger, but his head remained crooked.
 
It improved over the course of months, until about a year went by and it looked perfectly normal. He lived outside, by the back door in a huge cage. All of the neighborhood woodpeckers hung out with him. He achieved a notoriety amongst his fellows as a bird with tales to tell.
 
I named him……….wait for it………..Woody!!  Upon caging him, he started pecking furiously at the side of his cage. It became clear that he would survive. Sideways head or not, he wanted to be a woodpecker. He became one.
 
One spring day, a winsome lass came to call at his abode. He had been eyeing the local bevy of beauties for some time. But, this one had a way about her. He pecked furiously at the wood in his cage. One would swear that electricity and pulleys and gears were involved. His head transformed into a magnificent blur of woodpeckerosity. She couldn't hide how taken she had become with him.  
 
His food door remained open one day with the hope that perhaps his little girlfriend would join him in the cage. But, if he decided to leave with her that would be okay too. He left with his gal and they flew up to a nearby palm tree. The honeymoon began in earnest. The wedding seemed a formality, amongst woodpeckers, not to be concerned with.
 
I remember thinking to myself, "that is one Woody that is going to get a workout!" Laughter and the sound of happy woodpeckers filled Curtis Avenue that fine spring day. That is how the course of nature should go.
 
He came by to visit and would bring his family with him. He came close enough for me to give him a little scratch while his family looked on in amazement. His status as the woodpecker with the tales-to-tell never diminished.
 
Our pets are long lived. Both Magnum and Houdini lived to be eighteen years old. That is very old for a large breed dog. Tinkerbelle lived to be twelve which is double the life expectancy of a ferret. When we moved we left Romeo with the new owners of our old house.
 
I drove by a year ago and he still sat on the front porch in his usual spot. Birds are long lived so I expect Woody and the barn owls are still in the trees nearby as well.
 
Seemore remained our pet throughout all of our ups and downs. He has lived in many places. He has stayed with friends and relatives. No matter what difficulties we endured financially or personally we always made sure that he had good care. We never gave him up or thought about selling him. He considers us his family.
 
Now we live in Lancaster, California which is in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Seemore is here. We have a cocker spaniel named Kelly and a cat named Casey.
 
We actually have a landlord that will not allow anymore. So, for the moment we have a relatively sane household. Well, I am still in it.
 
Kelly is the first animal that I have owned that is not bright. She is loving and cute and I don't hold it against her at all. But, she only understands food and going for a walk. She knows that lifting her paw up is important, so she does that as well. Donna defends her intellectual capacity and informs me that Kelly is the one that poops and that I am the one that cleans it up. A strong argument I must concede.
 
The pecking order is backwards in the house. The macaw is by far the most dominant. Seemore considers Kelly and Casey curiosities at best and completely dominates them. Casey, the cat, dominates Kelly, the dog, and they all dominate Donna. She denies it, of course. They have her trained to jump at every squawk, meow and bark. And I, the supposed alpha male, don't feel the power of that position. They do what I tell them to, but it sure seems like I am the servant.
 
Along the way we had Puff the magic caiman. A caiman is a creature much like an alligator. They grow to nearly the same length and are just about as deadly. We came across Puff as a baby and watched him grow until he was big enough to eat mice.
 
We discovered how intellectually challenged mice were in the process. Puff lived in a tank with water and a land area to dry out on. Diner, consisting of a mouse, would be thrown in the tank. The mouse would climb out of the water and stand in front of Puff drying off and grooming itself.
 
It had no sense that it looked delicious and would soon be the bill of fare at Puff's eatery. Mice are not bright. Puff grew too large for our liking (and safety) and we sold him to a gentleman with a large backyard. He converted his yard into a caiman paradise and Puff grew into a deadly alligator size toothy watchdog. It was not wise to enter the backyard that Puff guarded. He had great speed and one best run when he made his move. At last report he had not consumed anyone. To my credit I have never used my knowledge of his whereabouts to further my lust for vengeance over minor transgressions. It does bother me when my writing is not appreciated………….. Well, thinking tangentially again.
 
We had a tank of piranha that Donna's grandma Peachy dropped her false teeth in. That left an unforgettable picture, in my mind, seeing her trying to fish them out of the tank. "Golly day, Donna! These damn fish won't let me get my teeff."
 
We had a pair of buffo-buffo toads for sale at one point in our shop. These were hallucinogenic if one were to lick them. I always thought that one would have to be hallucinating first to do that. That made them illegal narcotics. So, we briefly trafficked in heavy drugs in our little pet shop.
 
I recall throwing the living room sofa out into the backyard so that we could set–up another large fish tank. This all seemed perfectly normal to us at the time.
 
The worst we ever got came at an animal auction we attended. We had picked up a pair of African blue jays and a pair of Nile monitors. They were exotic but, nothing too far off the deep end.
 
Then the handlers brought a baby camel out to be auctioned. I am sure that somewhere in the universe something cuter exists. But, nothing stood before us that we could bid on then and there. The bidding exceeded our budget quickly and we went out back to check out our blue jays.
 
We came upon two adult camels. The size of these creatures astonished us. They would have looked over the roof of our little house in Alhambra. We had just been bidding on their offspring.
 
We were planning to purchase something as big as a house to put in the backyard in a quiet residential neighborhood.
 
We are not the least bit animal crazy. 

Author Notes

Pets ended up being four parts and I was holding back. So ready for any and all suggestions. Unformated and in no partcular order so, whatever you think of will be considered.

Chapter 50
What to Show the World

By michaelcahill

What does one that has written for fifty years show to the world? What does one that has been a musician for fifty years play for the world? I have asked these very questions of myself and others for quite a while now. It is a dilemma for every artist.

What is good? How do we know when we look at all that we have written which of it is good? How do we know what isn't good? Don't artists ask themselves these questions? For the sake of this piece, I am assuming that artists are reading it.

Don't you wonder which one of your works is your best? Or, do you actually know? For God's sake, if you actually know, could you please tell me how you know? This writer doesn't have a clue.

Watching someone read one of your works is like walking naked through a gym full of body builders. You just know that sooner or later someone is going to notice your pathetic body, point and start laughing. Before long it will be a whole gym full of gorgeous perfectly formed humans laughing hysterically at the most underdeveloped pathetic body they have ever seen in their lives. And then someone is bound to ask you, "Why, with an obviously unattractive hideous physique like that, would you walk naked through a gym full of perfection and display yourself like this?" In other words, would you like to read one of my poems?
 
What if you let someone read one of your pieces and they like it? Does that let you off the hook? Are you now over the hump and ready to get on with your writing life? Well, of course not. That could have been the only good thing you ever wrote. The next thing you show them could expose you for the hack that you are.

"OOPS! I thought you could write. That first piece must have been a fluke".

When have you received enough positive responses to realize that you are good?
 
Well, there is a book case in my room. There are hundreds of poems neatly lined up on it. There are dozens of stories of varying lengths right next to them. There are even recordings of dozens of songs. There are even sketch books full of drawings.

What in the world am I supposed to do with all of it? I am asking this as a serious question and begging anyone that is listening, please, if you have any kind of an answer let me know. I realize if you have made it to this point that you are probably devising anatomically difficult tasks for me to perform. If that is the case, I must warn you that I don't have the flexibility I did even ten years ago. There are several acts as well that although satisfying to imagine me doing are quite impossible even for the most flexible of our species to accomplish. There are things that even a pommel horse expert cannot do.
 
Are stories that are graphic in sexual content unacceptable? How about stories about serial killers that commit hideous and brutal crimes? How about works that condemn sacred things that will raise hackles as well as eyebrows.

I write things sometimes just to raise hell and get a reaction. I write things that I don't personally believe just to throw the idea out there. I write things that are the opposite of what I believe to solidify what I do believe if that makes any sense.

There are pieces on my shelf that are probably shocking in their content. I wrote them because I am a writer so I wrote that. There are pieces that are anti-Christian, anti-racial tolerance, anti-love, pro-war, pro-genocide, pro-you name it and anti-you name it.

They are just words. I don't necessarily agree with them or suggest that anyone else does. But, I think that reading them might provoke thought about them. Am I risking being labeled a racist if I display a racist piece of work?

What if I am just trying to shock someone into the opposite opinion of what I am writing? What if it is just very dark satire that no one is getting as such?
 
Do you remember the Randy Newman song "Short People"? A quick refresher for those that don't. He wrote a song that said in essence that short people have no reason to live and that they are creepy with little beady eyes.

It was an obvious parody making fun of how ignorant racism is. I am a short person and I found it hilarious and a great statement against the stupidity that racism is. Yet, there were many that were hopping mad about the "disrespect being displayed to short people". There were even groups calling for the song to be banned.
 
This is what frightens me when it comes to showing my work. I have a fear of being tarred and feathered or looking out my window and seeing a crowd of people with pitchforks and torches calling me out. What do you think? Is that a reasonable fear?

This is a poorly written piece. That much is apparent. It is nothing more than one long rambling tangent. There isn't even a story that is being strayed from. There is only the straying.

I am using "I" too much. I am asking too many questions without providing answers. And I sound like a little crybaby that needs his bottle. But, the fact remains, I do need my bottle.

So, if any of you happen to have it, let me know. 

Author Notes

A short piece on the frustrations of being a writer and choosing what to present. Perhaps it is just my frustration. I am still anxiously seeking suggestions as to topics or areas of interest. This is an unformated book that skips around. I may include anything in it so, any suggestion will be considered. For those that have requested more pet information, your wish is my command. More to come.

Chapter 51
Pets, Part 5, Mother Nature

By michaelcahill

Since my arm is being twisted, part five as requested.
 
An afternoon picnic with Donna sounded like a romantic adventure. A lake full of fish with geese and ducks, an occasional crane and rumors of a pair of black swans would certainly interest two animal lovers such as ourselves.

The swan rumors were started by myself on the drive over, but that is beside the point. Donna came to be known affectionately as "Mother Nature" by those that knew her well. If an animal happened to have lost its way, Donna would be there to help find it. "Pull over" became a command I responded to instantly. It meant that Donna had spied a stray dog or cat or something more exotic and that we were going to rescue it. It didn't call for a discussion. I knew better than to question it. I would pull over and leap from the car ready for action.
 
As we approached the lake the entire population of geese, ducks and whatever other stray creatures happened to be there emptied out of the lake and headed straight towards Donna. The term Mother Nature began to rattle in my brain. I had never seen anything like it.

It looked to be a fairy tale come to life. They surrounded her while I stood there dumfounded. Though I would come to realize soon thereafter that the loaf of bread she had tucked under her arm had a great deal to do with it, I will never forget the awe I felt witnessing it anyway.
 
I saw this happen at the L.A. Zoo without any tricks. We stood with a large group of observers in front of the mountain gorilla display. The most darling baby gorilla that had ever lived played in front of us and everyone there made the most insane attempts to get his attention.

Faces of a silly nature, including extended tongue action, accompanied by waving hands by the ears, were deployed in earnest. The baby stood there nonchalant, indifferent to the whole scenario.

He then walked straight over to Donna who had her open palm up against the glass and put his palm up against the glass against hers. I had married Mother Nature. The crowd looked upon her in awe. She deserved it. The baby gorilla knew who the nice lady was, a true friend.
 
Keeping in mind that I am not handy, I would like to describe the fabulous duck habitat I built in our backyard. I constructed it out of materials I found around the yard. The pond itself I made out of cement. I had to buy the mix for that.

I mixed that and slathered it over the hole I dug in the ground. I didn't use any fancy tools to see if it was level. I used the eyes that God gave me. It looked pretty level to me. When the cement dried it had hardly any cracks in it. It looked great.

It needed a fence around it and a gate. There were various types of wire and an assortment of wood available to me. I used them all. It looked fabulous when I finished. My wife couldn't stop laughing when she saw it completed. I imagine she laughed at all of those people that thought I couldn't possibly pull it off.

I just stood there basking in the glory of a job well done. I filled the pond in the morning before work and in the evening when I returned home. I don't know where the water went. It must have evaporated.

I never had a pond before so, I suppose replacing the water twice a day is just part of the maintenance. The ducks enjoyed it immensely, especially when it had enough water in it for them to swim in. But, it still kept there feet wet most of the time and they could always squat on those extra hot days.
 
We had a goose named Spruce. Spruce honked very loudly and made a great watchdog, or watchgoose for you purists. She had eight eggs. Donna felt sorry for her especially since one of the eggs happened to be a lemon.

She decided to get her a baby goose and make her think that one of her eggs had hatched. I, of course, had no objection whatsoever to this plan. I endorsed it with a rousing, "Yes dear".
 
Spruce, as it turns out, did not appreciate our subterfuge in the least. She went after the darling baby goose with a vengeance and then after me as I intervened. Donna, always imbued with more wisdom than I, watched from a distance.

The baby goose lived in the house, of course, until we could find it a home. It hardly made any mess at all for me to clean up morning, noon and night. It only honked when it was awake. It never honked when it slept, bless its heart.
 
"Look honey, someone is giving away free hamsters and gerbils in the recycler!" Donna sounded excited. She had broken one of our rules and purchased a paper that offered things for free.

Now she had found something she wanted to add to our household, cages full of hamsters and gerbils. Gerbils are little mice-like creatures that breed like hamsters and happen to be illegal in California. "Yes, dear."
 
There were twenty four cages in all and ninety three hamsters and gerbils including babies. Some of the females were with child. Well, with children. Well, all of the females were with children. We had brought home a hamster and gerbil factory.

Fortunately there would be no place that we could sell any of the gerbils so they would all be ours to keep! I must say that to corner the California gerbil market had been a dream I had always thought to be impossible.

Here I stood, the gerbil master of California. I had arrived!
 
Which means that part six shall follow.

When did I find time to write anything with all of these pets?
 
 

Author Notes

As requested, part five of pets and part six will follow. Ha! You wouldn't believe how long i could go on with this! Still totally open to any and all suggestions. I can take off in any direction. There is no format or restrictions. This is my story and is my opinion or my life or my view on something. So, that includes most anything.

Chapter 52
Pets, Part 6, Pet Crimes!

By michaelcahill

Before long it became clear that the time to do something about our illegal gerbil trafficking enterprise had come. The fact that trafficking didn't exist as a component factored in heavily. We had plenty of product. We lacked a market. We had no customers.
 
The fine for possessing an illegal gerbil rang in at fifteen hundred dollars each. We had eighty seven. One hundred thirty thousand five hundred dollars and no cents in liability and zero prospects for profit and zero value in inventory. It cost about eighty dollars a month in feed. They were nocturnal and enjoyed a nice run on their squeaky wheels at about two A.M. until sun up.
 
We came up with a brilliant plan to rid ourselves of our gerbil empire. Are you kidding? Do you really think Donna would consider that? There isn't very much meat on one anyway.
 
We decided to drive them to Las Vegas where they were legal. They brought almost two bucks a piece on the open market there and they were legal! Wholesale had to be at least fifty cents apiece. We stood to make a cool forty three dollars and fifty cents if we played our cards right! They don't call me the Gerbil King for nothing.
 
The journey would not be without peril. There were roughly two hundred and fifty unfriendly miles between Alhambra, California and Las Vegas, Nevada. It would be a treacherous journey and there wouldn't be a friendly face on the way. We thought about taking Seemore (our macaw) with us for muscle, but he would want to drive and I got tired of arguing with him about it all the time.
 
We loaded the cages full of gerbils in the little pick-up truck. The gerbils were piled into large coffee cans with holes poked into the plastic lids. We were ready to roll. By the time we reached about five miles out of town the gerbils had chewed through the plastic lids and were running all over the the cab of the pick-up.
 
Gerbils don't have mouse personalities. They don't hide or scurry. They are curious and stay out in the open and stare and explore.
 
They were on the dashboard enjoying the view. They were on the seat grooving to The Beatles White Album with us. They were in the back window making faces at the traffic following us.
 
They were signaling truck drivers to blow their horns. They were giving the finger to drivers that cut us off. Hey, they were California gerbils.
 
We left California in a bit of a paranoid state. We had a small fear of being pulled over and perhaps getting into trouble for having a truckload of illegal gerbils. Our paranoia had transformed into a state of excited and enjoyable delirium.
 
We all sang along to the White Album and enjoyed ourselves. Reality? That was for sissies.
 
We made it to Las Vegas and received twenty five cents apiece for the gerbils. Ha! Fools! They could have had them for free. Never mess with the Gerbil King.
 
We had an iguana named Iggy that sat on a stick and ate crickets. The end.
 
The baby hummingbird seemed like an impossible task even to Mr. Eternal Anything is Possible Optimist Mikey. It looked smaller than anything alive could actually be. How could anything that small have actual organs inside of it when it didn't look big enough to even have an inside?
 
He wanted to be a hummingbird, that was apparent. Flying like a little Blackhawk attack unit at nectarous flowers seemed a dream a long ways off for this little guy. But, together we would try.
 
A mixture of sugar water would be the preferred diet and with eye-dropper in hand I set about to feed him. I have huge hands. They aren't clumsy, I am a musician. But, they are rather large and look even more so on my smallish sized body.
 
It looked almost insane when I feed this little bit of a thing with my monstrous mitts. But, we managed. I swear that every two hours when I went to feed him it was with a feeling of dread. There he would be, standing there with open beak as if to say, "Bring it on!"
 
This went on for several days around the clock. About the seventh day I heard this strange buzzing sound. I looked over at his little enclosure and there he was suspended in mid-air. He was hummingbirding! He looked like a little helicopter.
 
It will remain one of the happiest sights I have ever seen in my life. The silly thought, "I made a hummingbird" went through my mind. I yelled out, "Donna!" She came running. She knew. We both knew that tone we would get. She knew what it meant to me and gave me a big hug.
 
"I knew you could do it." she lied. A great wife knows how to lie and exactly when to lie. Within a couple days he joined the world of Curtis Ave. and all the nectar he could drink. He was immortal, I know that. He is the one hummingbird that will live forever. I say it is so.
 

Love Does Not Divide
 
there is no way to measure some things
mothers love their first born child
with all of their heart, all of it
there is not one single part of it
that is not devoted to that beautiful child
 
but, then another child arrives
it is beautiful and it is loved as well
with all of that mother's heart
every little bit of it
 
and then another
and even another perhaps
 
each loved fully
each loved totally
one as much as the other
 
how is this so?
how can a mother love one with everything?
and another with everything?
and still another?
 
because love does not divide
it grows.
 

Then there came the case of the devious fruit bat. In spite of it being a rodent which I am afraid of, it still needed my help. So, I had to put my neurotic tendencies aside and call a truce inside my terrified psyche. These kids brought me a damn flying rat! And they expected me to raise the hideous thing.
 
Well, I got my eyedropper and with my giant circus hands set about to feed the creature that would surely suck the blood out of my neck in my sleep. It was the least I could do. After all he enjoyed biting me so much, why would I deny him anything else?
 
One day I thought it might be getting close to the time to release him back to the wild jungles of Curtis Avenue. I approached his cage and he just laid there looking unwell to say the least. I picked his limp body up and took him to the front porch where the light had been turned on for the evening.
 
As soon as I got out the door he flew out of my hand into the night. I swear I heard him hiss, "Sucker". Being a poet, I answered something that rhymed and wished him well.
 
Damn thing, I had planned to let him go anyway. He just had to make a fool out of me.
 
No wonder I am afraid of rodents. They are hurtful. Poor Mikey.

Author Notes

That should cover pets! Ready for new topics and directions. Any and all suggestions most welcome. Unformated book so, any topic is a possibility.

Chapter 53
Yard Sales & Lincoln's Assassination

By michaelcahill

"How much for everything?" That would be the words that would make Donna cringe. I do not have a problem with garage sales. I just like them. The idea of buying a guitar for five dollars that would cost me two hundred dollars somewhere else appeals to me greatly.
 
A power drill for three dollars? Sold! Pointing out that I lack the necessary skills to operate a power drill smacks of green-eyed jealousy to me. Ha! I saw it first; it is mine.
 
"How much for everything?" is an advanced technique reserved for seasoned veterans like myself. It involves expert timing and uncanny intuition. It must be employed at precisely the right moment. You come upon a sale. The items look to be worthwhile but there is nothing too high end. The proprietor seems a bit weary and frazzled.
 
Hopefully the weather is also a factor. If you are lucky it is too hot or too cold. Rain would be a major stroke of luck. When the time seems right, you walk up to the proprietor and say: "How much for everything?" The shock value shuts down certain logic centers in the brain. A desire to be rid of everything cluttering his yard and driveway kicks in.
 
The thought that he won't have to put all of this stuff away releases mood lifting endorphins into his blood system and onto his brain. In a state of euphoria he throws out a price. It is, more often than not, a price well below the true value of the items displayed.
 
I immediately pay and begin loading my vehicle in earnest. It is important at this point to make no comments or show any emotion. Gloating and reveling in your own genius will come later. You now own all of this cool stuff.
 
I remember the very first time with Donna so clearly. "Yard sale!" Donna seemed a bit startled by my announcement. I discovered that she had never been to a yard sale. My wife to be was a snow white virgin. This would be her first time. I wanted it to be special. My hand trembled as I reached for the car door. She looked a little scared as she stepped out.
 
I squeezed her hand and told her "Everything will be okay, I am here with you and I love you. I will take care of everything." As she approached this new experience I could see that she came to it naturally. She quickly moved with the fluidity of one that had done this a million times. She picked up items and said with her sultry sexy voice, "How much?" It amazed me that this was her first time. I could see that we would be doing this for years to come.
 
To this day we still go to garage sales on a regular basis. We always sing the same silly song on the way. "And the sign said long haired freaky people, need not apply." It's a song called "Signs" from one-hit-wonder band Five Man Electrical Band. We drive around looking for garage sale signs and I sing a rocking insane version of that song. It is a family tradition.
 
Being obsessed with things in general comes in handy when going to garage sales. Knowledge is something acquired over the years based on whatever one has an interest in. I am interested in antiques and anything old that has been a part of history in some way. It doesn't have to be world shaking history either. I enjoy letters from long ago or pieces of furniture made by hand by some forgotten artisan.
 
Marcella Craft sang opera in the early 1900s and achieved great success and notoriety. She isn't remembered in this day and age. She is a footnote that might be found if one were to look specifically for her in some archive devoted to opera. I purchased a shoebox full of letters to her from various people from the early 1900s.
 
The name Stokowski caught my eye on one of the letters. I knew it to be Leopold Stokowski, a famous man of music from that time period. I handed over the five bucks delighted with my little find. Marcella Craft turned out to be a fascinating lady and I enjoyed reading the correspondence sent to her from all over the world.
 
It discussed the world of opera at the time and her lofty place in it. For me she came back to life at least for one more fan. That is the thrill of yard sales for me. I love finding little treasures that no one but me notices. It isn’t for the money. I would never sell any of it.
 
Can you imagine walking into a coin store and finding a letter from a witness to the assassination of President Lincoln? You might be looking through a box of old letters perhaps for an old stamp or maybe an old letter talking about something interesting. Maybe you find a letter with the words "Lincoln Letter" written in pencil lightly across the face.
 
You call out to the shop owner, "How much are the letters in this box?" The shop owner, busy with a customer, calls back, "Three for five dollars, it's written on the box." If you are clever you just pick two other letters and walk up to the cash register and wait patiently.
 
You have six dollars in your hand in case there is tax. The shop owner excuses himself and rushes over and rings up the sale. You hand over the five bucks for the three envelopes you held up. No tax, no inspection and no offer of a bag being made, you leave the store.
 
You actually have the control to wait until you get inside your car to inspect your purchase. You note the date, April 15th, 1865, the day after Lincoln was shot. You reach inside for the letter that you hoped would be inside and gently remove it.
 
"By now you have heard the tragic news. I was in Ford's Theater and a witness to the sad affair…."
 
That is how the letter started. Being written by one that attended the theater it had a well written wording and flow to it. It spoke of the assassin John Wilkes Booth and many other details that were known on that dark morning of April 15th.
 
My Letter from a witness to the assassination of Lincoln is my favorite find. That is why I go to yard sales and thrift stores and antique shops and even coin stores. One never knows what one will find there. I know what I will find at Walmart. It doesn't excite me. 

Author Notes

I think I am done with pets. So, moving along, I am looking for topics and subjects of interest. This is unformatted and jumps around. I can write about anything so, any suggestion will be considered.

Chapter 54
Roderick the Ill-Advised

By michaelcahill

One's ancestry is always a topic of interest. Could I be of royal lineage? Perhaps the Rockefellers are my long lost next of kin. Maybe Rosie Perez is my dear Aunt Rosie who can't wait to give her long lost nephew a big hug. Okay, well that doesn't belong in the discussion.
 
In any case, most of us at one time or another wonder about our roots and where we come from. Most of us are able to go back two or three generations. A good number of us can name our great grandparents or even great-great grandparents.
 
Usually anything beyond that is a mystery or a family rumor. Unless you are the Queen of England there is not much likelihood that you have any immediate access to records of your lineage. In the age of instant information. That has changed considerably.
 
It is no longer necessary to go on long pilgrimages to distant locales and rummage through dried parchments with fading ink searching for clues. All of that information is available at your fingertips. In fact, it has been organized and made easily accessible to you.
 
I use a service called Ancestry.com as my main research and organizing tool.
 
The starting point when establishing a family tree is one's self. The first two branches would be your mother and father. From there you would add their mothers and fathers. From there the tree would branch out into the past growing larger and larger as it expanded into the past.
 
If you consider the simple math involved it isn't difficult to see that after several generations the tree becomes enormous in scope. Yourself, mom and dad, four grandparents, eight grandparents, sixteen great grandparents, thirty two great-great grandparents…..sixty four, one hundred twenty eight, two hundred fifty six……the number gets out of hand quite quickly.
 
It reaches a point where virtually everyone alive at a point in history is part of your direct lineage. I have carefully traced my lineage to Mary Magdalene. It is well documented and accurate. It is likely that most people reading this can reach this same point in their lineage as well.
 
At some thirty generations distant almost everyone on earth is a direct descendant of everyone alive two thousand years ago. It is not quite that simple, but it almost is. Mary the mother of Jesus of Nazareth was Mary Magdalene's cousin. She is also a thirty third great grandmother of mine and probably yours.
 
You that are reading this and I that have written it are of the same blood. It isn't what this piece is about. It is just something that occurs to me as I write it. One of the tangents that I so adore going on.
 
Irish is considered my heritage and is what my family hangs its hat on. But, my research show that Irish is only part of the story. French, German and English are also represented in my family tree. If one looked a bit further back into my tree one would find quite a mix of ethnicities blend together that would end up as my make-up.
 
There are some interesting characters on my family tree. As with most people there are kings and people of fame. Emily Dickinson is a distant cousin which means quite a bit to me. Paul Simon is a cousin as well and not distant for what it is worth.
 
My grandfather was a spiritual advisor to Joseph and Rose Kennedy back in the day. Further back on my tree you will find Charlemagne and still further "Old Kind Cole". Yes, that merry old soul was a real person and once a king that someone wrote a nice catchy tune about.
 
My favorite ancestor has to be Roderick the Ill-Advised. That name just tickles me to death. The actual deeds that earned him that moniker are not documented. He was an Irish king several hundred years ago. His deeds must have been spectacular in their ignominy.
 
I consider doing something so wrong minded as to go down in history titled as "Ill-Advised" a spectacular achievement. It is written that his castle was burned to the ground and he lived out his life banished on an island. He is my sixteenth great grandfather. That is heritage baby!
 
I can only hope that one day my ancestors will find my name listed somewhere as "Mikey the Blatherer" or "Mikey the Great Tangentor". We all have our dreams.
 

Pride
 
Hey, there is a pride parade today
people proud shouting, "Hey, hey
Look at me!" walking hand in hand
this portion of man's fellow man
 
and we found some shoulders broad to stand upon
nothing we did, but still we swell with pride
we raise our voice to sing, there is little of our own song
we look outside for symbols nothing shines inside
 
there's a rally round the flag for only we
just this color for today, that's you and me!
make sure you bring the kids so they can clearly see
they need to stand apart and claim their right to be
 
together we stand alone it's us against the world
we are separated loud we shout
we have our flag unfurled
teach the children well and make them realize
that everyone is different
and who they should despise
make sure you teach the children well
open up their eyes

 
One thing I have learned in studying my ancestry, is the staggering math involved. Some of the facts of the human race are astonishing. At one point we were close to extinction. It is estimated that only twelve thousand humans existed on earth at one point.
 
We all came from that small a sampling. We are so closely related it is ridiculous. To attempt to distinguish one human from another is to try and sort snowflakes. We are virtually identical.
 
Our differences are merely surface and cosmetic. The discussion about race is, in and of itself, embarrassing in its absurdity.
 
A question concerning whether there is a man in the moon or a woman is under consideration.
 
I suggest we devote our time to that much more worthy topic.

Author Notes

See what happens when you don't make suggestions? So, if you have any I am certainly open to them. There is no format. So, any topic or subject of interest will be considered. I have written about events from the fifties, sixties, seventies and beyond. I have singled out world events and personal areas of my life as well. Anything goes.

Chapter 55
Chapter 55: That's You?

By michaelcahill

"That's you?"
 
That is the standard response upon showing an old picture of myself to someone. My, what a lovely compliment that is.
 
"Yes, I have aged so hideously as to become unrecognizable in any way as my younger self. Thank you so much for noticing!"
 
My wife looks exactly like she did in high school. Isn't that lovely. The warmth we all feel grows like a little campfire. We can all burn our current pictures in it. A vintage picture of me and Donna always gets the same response, "Donna hasn't changed a bit. Who's that with her?"
 
Do you wonder how you measure up against your old school chums? Are you aging better than they? Are you more successful? Should you attend that fortieth high school reunion? What kind of lies should you be devising to cover-up the disappointments of your life? It is important to impress your closest and dearest friends unseen in forty years.
 
With the age of technology, access to information is now readily available. We can log onto a social media site, like Facebook, and take a peek. We can even say hello. If you are wondering what ever happened to "the prom queen", log on, and take a look. Of course, if they are wondering what ever happened to "the most likely to have a number one novel", they can do the same!
 
I should have attended my thirtieth high school reunion. I was relatively well-to-do. I still looked young and much like I did in high school. I had the hot wife, of course. It would have been my opportunity to "rule-the-school".
 
Between the thirtieth and thirty fifth reunions age hit me. My face became weary of clinging to my skull and just dropped off. My body angered at my years of neglect wrecked its vengeance upon me. Suddenly if I looked at a picture of food, I gained weight.
 
If I bent over to pluck a flower for my love, I pulled a muscle. If I tried to jump from a height over two feet I discovered that I no longer had shock absorbers installed. Jumping held no difficulty. Landing presented painful problems and required copious quantities of ice.
 
Fortunately I could still tolerate alcohol as well as ever. That worked out well in my new condition.
 
It became necessary at this juncture to develop charm and wit. It has reached a point now where that is all I have to offer. As I like to say, "I look much better in the dark." The early morning screams of horror though are most disheartening.
 
Donna is now using reading glasses. Her vision is getting blurry! God does answer prayer.
 
 
Most bullies, especially ones that are not very intelligent, end up going nowhere. Physical intimidation has very little place in the real world. There is room, however, for bullies that are also intelligent. They have components that can take them far in life. There is no one famous from my high school days. But, the aggressive goal orientated high achievers have done well for themselves in general.
 
The rest of the crowd present a mixed bag. The poor students make for poor citizens for the most part. But, the kids in the middle have surprising success stories. There are many school teachers, nurses and professional people amongst them.
 
There are many that work various jobs on a regular basis and make a living. There are a great many that live below the poverty level and struggle. Some have passed away and some have vanished not to be found.
 
Their perception of me as I reconnect surprises me. It does not match my perception for the most part. My memories are a great deal different.
 
"The last time I saw you, you were doing a crazy dance in front of the Alhambra Theater. You were hilarious."
 
"I remember you. You were always singing some crazy song you made up. Funny."
 
"You were always talking to a crowd of people about some issue. They would listen too."
 
"I never saw you without at least three chicks."
 
None of that sounded familiar or matched my recollection.
 
"You were so quiet and such a loner. You seemed sad."
 
"A melancholy boy, off by yourself playing the guitar."
 
That sounded more like the "me" that I perceived from those days. A few, but not many, saw me that way as well.
 
In the same way, my perceptions of those I contacted received surprise as well. Upon telling someone my recollections of them invariably the response would be, "Really, I never knew anyone saw me that way."
 
The question that has lingered in my mind all these years is, "Why, if these people were such an integral part of your life for four years, did you not contact a single one of them for thirty five years?"
 
The answer is in several parts. First of all, our only connection or bond is the fact that we are all in high school together. Once high school ends, that connection is broken. That eliminates the need to continue contact with most of your classmate's right there.
 
Secondly, graduation is a natural time of moving on in a young person's life. We are entering the world now, to college, to work, to war or to marry and raise a family. Finally, for many of us there is a desire to put high school behind us. We want to close that chapter and move on to new things.
 
That is the case with me. All of those reasons and especially the last one is why I cut all contact with that period in my life. There is one other factor that has occurred to me.
 
The sense of community had altered in this country by 1970, the year I graduated. There was no longer a Liebergs Department Store for Jon Lieberg to go and run on Main Street in his hometown. There was no longer a Pedrini's Music for Vicki Pedrini to take over for her parents.
 
Nor would those shops be there for me to frequent and walk in and say, "Hi Vicki, how's it going?" or "What's up Jon, how's business?" Those shops were gone and replaced with ones whose workers I didn't know.
 
Leo's Ice Cream Parlor was gone. The Alhambra Library with the cool fish pond where we all hung out was gone. There was only a sterile square library there now. No benches or trees or grass or anything that would invite anyone to hang out existed there.
 
I didn't shop on Main Street, there wasn't any place to shop at. I didn't run in to anyone I knew because we weren't there to encounter each other.
 
I peek in on my old friends once in a while to see what became of them. Just curious, I suppose. I imagine they peek in on me too.
 
My forty-fifth high school reunion is coming up soon.
 
Maybe there will be some pictures on Facebook to peek at.

Author Notes

I had been posting this as a book. The previous chapters are posted there. The rest of this will be posted as individual stories. This is a non formatted piece. I consider it a book. It concerns my life though not in any particular order. I am open to suggestions as to topics of discussion. I write about my life or my views on various things.

Chapter 56
Chapter 56 Burt Mustin & Mikey

By michaelcahill

Burt Mustin has to be the poster boy for late bloomers. His busy career as a beloved character actor began in his sixties. He made his first of many movies at age sixty seven. I recall him as a character on The Andy Griffith Show. He played an amusing old character that was much more on the ball than he appeared. Quite funny and memorable with impeccable timing.
 
He enjoyed a long career of over twenty years and worked all the time seldom taking a break. A twenty plus year career is quite an achievement in any field let alone the cutthroat entertainment industry. Did I mention that he STARTED in his sixties?
 
That plays a huge role when asked if I consider myself too old to pursue a career in the arts. I am younger than Burt Mustin was when he began and he did fine.
 
Yet, where was that optimism when I quit all artistic endeavors at the ripe old age of thirty two? We all become fed-up and frustrated from time to time, don’t we? It seems that no one will listen or give your efforts a fair chance. No one will sit down for even five minutes of their precious time and just seriously read or listen to one poem or song and give it its due. Have you ever thought to yourself:
 
"I don't even mind if you hate it as long as you read it and give it your complete attention".
 
"Please listen! Please!"
 
That has always been the desperate plea behind my calm exterior. When I play a little song request for a gathering of friends it is important to me. I am hoping that it is well received. There once was a time that I was lying when I demurred. I couldn't wait to perform.
 
Then one day it wasn't a lie. I did not want to perform and I wouldn't. I did not want to write and I didn't. I abandoned it as completely as I did my high school buddies. I wanted to sing as much as I wanted to see my ex-wife.
 
This wasn't part of an over-all depression that had befallen my life. This related to this one aspect of my life alone. Everything else moved along with the normal ups and downs of existence.
 
Was it childish and foolish and downright idiotic? Yes, it was all of those things and more. It was a denial of everything I was and a cold back turned to the gifts that I had been blessed with. It was something that I would severely admonish anyone else for doing.
 

At Twenty-Five
 
One quarter of a century, I'm quite afraid
and feel quite a mess
a father never seen, a mother always heard
I've been driven inside myself, buried, hidden……..lost
no……..please, not yet
I'm beginning, not ending
if only childish tears would crease my face
I fear the explosion
relax….troubles will subside…..I'll put them away
How? Quite amazing really
Rapier wit….flashing smile…winking eyes
Superstar, come drink at my well, it is always full
forget the nickel, payment not required, I need nothing
I can absorb anything
This is not good, I'm lying
you people are cracking the well
So, now what?
Repair the well.
By yourself? As always.
 
 
Such a morose young man. What would such a young man grow up to be? That doesn't sound like the words of a future optimist. But, many writers have pieces written in the moment that do not necessarily reflect their over-all outlook on existence. A Halloween song doesn't mean I want to cook children and have them for dinner. Of course, it doesn't mean that I don't either. Is there actually enough doubt that I have to add that I am joking?
 

My Unlimited Horizons
 
The number of them does not daunt me
For I choose them all
Each horizon
To pursue at my leisure, one by one by one
My buddy, Time, slathered with ketchup
you are dressing on the sandwich I consume
You are incidental to my immortality.
 

Yep. What a crazy old fool. Crazy like a fox.....in a foxhunt…..hounds…..hunters….. Well, I have my wool coat in case it gets cold. I am a baaaad dude! Now where was I before I so rudely interrupted myself?
 
I came somewhat to my senses about ten years ago when I met a young lady. The lowest point in my life had been reached. My business had been wiped out by burglars. My new employer was graciously allowing me to work with and for people half my age for minimum wage. It was not the best of times.
 
To make a long story short. (I know, you don't believe me) This young girl was a writer. After a bit of chit chat I agreed to listen to one of her stories. She was and is the best writer I have ever heard. What kept going through my mind as her story unfolded was one thought, "I used to be this, I used to be like her."
 
I knew right there that I would return to who I was. I would never stop again. I swore it on her soul. So, I set myself up. I made it so I can't stop no matter how stupid I get.
 
By Burt Mustin rules I stand at the beginning of my career now. Those are the rules we should all follow no matter what our age is. When fifty years old became reality an assessment was in order.
 
My grandmother was sickly at that age suffering from heart trouble and diabetes. My mother at age fifty had survived her first battle with cancer. My father, I learned in retrospect, was already on oxygen for failing lungs. My grandfather had already passed away.
 
I had a concept in my mind of a life that limped along and ended somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. At fifty years of age I had zero health problems and zero health problems in my past. My blood panel was perfect and every aspect of health was perfect. All of that remains true.
 
My whole outlook on life was askew. I was likely to live for a long time. The odd thing was that it scared me. "My God, I could live thirty or forty more years! What will I do?" Those were my thoughts.
 
That is when this strange feeling of youth came over me. It feels a bit strange but, I can't shake it. So, I have just come to accept my youthfulness and surge forward.
 
I plan to make the world forget Burt Mustin!

Author Notes

Looking for suggestions as always. A couple good ones recently. All topics considered. No format or order. My story more or less. But, tangents and rambling are things I have been known to do. So, suggestions for areas of discussion that are a bit off the beaten path are always considered and often embraced.

Chapter 57
Chapter 57: What to Show the World

By michaelcahill

I have written quite a bit in the last few years. Do you look at your stacks of work and wonder, "What do I want the world to see?" Perhaps it is a different question, "What would the world like to see?" Those are two different questions aren't they?
 
We wish that the answers would be the same. Wouldn't that be the answer to our dilemma? If only our favorite piece of work turned out to be the very thing that the world anxiously awaited, wouldn't that be perfect? What if?
 
My standard response to all "What if" questions is: "What if Superman where a Nazi?"
 
My favorite story is about an artist that is at his wits end. He cannot get anyone to read his work or take it seriously. He feels he is getting old and he feels like time is rushing up on him. He takes off on a long walk to come up with a plan.
 
He decides to walk into a police station and announce that he is a serial killer. He imagines that the notoriety will get him the attention he craves. Certainly his work will be read then. The story is about him.
 
But, there is a tie in to a serial killer and he is especially vicious and brutal. The parts of the story that deal with the killer are graphic and there is terrible language and horrific violence described.
 
There are many friends that I wouldn't wish to read it. There are friends that would be offended by it. Not by me necessarily but, by the subject matter. It does matter to me and I do care.
 
Submitting something for review can be a long process when it is fifty to one hundred thousand words long and being submitted one thousand words at a time. Quite a commitment of time and effort. The wrong decision can lead to great frustration and discouragement.
 
There are many other stories to choose from. There are short stories and long. The shorter the story the easier the decision. A two or three thousand word story is posted and reviewed and done within three days tops. Even the most horrific response is past history a few days later.
 
But, it is the great American novel that concerns us. Have we written it? Do we know? Did Mark Twain? Well, if he did, then why did he release his work as a serial piece? Why not publish it and reap the immediate rewards? Did Mark Twain have his doubts too? God, I sure hope so. That would just comfort me like the grandest quilt that granny ever made.
 
Well, back to our favorite topic, me. I am tired of talking about me though. What do you think of me?
 
There is a story about an enchanted wisteria vine. There are ants that can talk that speak to this one person and they talk back and forth about life and their adventures. There are two sections to the vine and two different ant colonies. If an ant leaves the vine or falls off it loses its memory and becomes an ordinary ant. Hahaha. It reads a lot better than it sounds!
 
I have two somewhat epic stories. One is about a woman and a dolphin that form a close friendship. They have enhanced psychic abilities that invade the minds of people on earth. There are two factions trying to take advantage of this research. Of course, one is evil and one is good. The experiments of the evil scientists wreak havoc and a war breaks out. The focus is the friendship though.
 
The other story is about creatures that communicate only through song. They live in only one valley in the world and are very isolated. They are considered a bother to the townspeople and only can communicate with one of them.
 
She befriends them and discovers their language and history and their superior intelligence.  The difficulty with the story is the amount of music that goes with it. The story is long and complex and has a daunting amount of music required.
 
There is another story about a condom salesman named Dickie Dognuts. It's a musical with several aquatic dance numbers in it. I fear the nudity might keep it in the direct to video market though. Just checking to see if you are still reading. Even though you aren't I shall continue to ramble. Not too surprising really.
 
My current focus is that I have become serious. I think that I can write. Publishing and having my writing available to a mass market has occurred to me as a viable option. What a terrifying thing it is to see that in writing for the very first time.
 
I recall vividly the first time I put my writing before a stranger for their inspection. It was a traumatic experience. For someone that has performed on stage before thousands of people you would think that having someone read one of their little poems would be a breeze.
 
The joy upon hearing that my poem was "a nice effort" was thrilling. I know I am noted for joking around a bit. I am not joking now. To be told by a stranger, a stranger that has great writing ability, that my writing is good, is an incredible feeling for me.
 

Unrequited
 
murder might mitigate most maladies
maybe misgivings made manifest mangled
monstrous mountains of mendacity
thus the theory thought
came cascading clearly
upon a usurping unified understanding
of vengeful vapid victory
 
what would we want when wanting was
left leaning and lost longing for love
forgetting forever fates fatuous falsehoods foisted
upon unsuspecting unaware and ultimately
innocent insignificant inhabitants
seeking solely something sought seeking
back
 
If I killed you for your lies, would vengeance satisfy me?
I thought you were my destiny. I only wanted you to love me back.

 
That is my latest poem. I love writing. I love having people enjoy what I write. I hope you do.

Author Notes

I am still looking for topics of discussion and suggestions. This is autobiographical. This is a chapter that is my life at the moment. This is what I have on my mind now. I have no format to this piece so, I may write about being seven years old tommorow. Any ideas?

Chapter 58
Chapter 58 What R You Talking About?

By michaelcahill

There are sacred vows that I made when in my teens. Most of them had to do with not emulating old people. Old people consisted of those that exceeded the age of twenty one. There were exceptions.
 
An individual could be over twenty one and still be considered cool, provided they had not achieved any telltale signs of adulthood. If unemployed, shiftless, irresponsible and generally ill-equipped to function in society in any meaningful way, then you would be considered acceptable.
 
I vowed to never to tell a young person to get off of my lawn. I vowed to never dismiss the music of a young person, as infernal noise. I vowed to never tell a young person, that they looked ridiculous, dressed in their ridiculous outfit, no matter how ridiculous, their ridiculous outfit looked. I vowed to not live past thirty years of age.
 
I vowed to never grow up.
 
Every vow has been kept, but one. Living past thirty is required to write this report. Social security will be fattening my wallet in about a month. That point has been reached without any signs of maturity. Pride would be an understatement.
 
The most difficult stumbling block that separates generations is language. One generation does not speak the same language as the next. Indeed, the language doesn't even wait for the next generation. It changes faster than that. Us sixties kids had no idea what the seventies kids were talking about.
 
"Hey bro, you're good people."
 
Bro? Mother! Why didn't you tell me? I am good people? I…an individual…am good people…several individuals. I had a schizophrenic mother. She was good people. That, I understood. But, me? I was fairly certain that I had not inherited that gene.
 
"Bro, that is some bad guitar playing. Your vocals are pretty bad too."
 
Hmmm. I was considered fairly good back in the day. No one ever criticized my vocals before. Maybe I was getting old. No, I was pretty sure I was as bitchin as ever. They must be in some weird groove or something. Yeah, they're giving me a bad vibe. They are trippin'!
 
Lately I have been informed that my guitar playing is "sick". That is most distressing to me. There is a realization that with age skills have diminished somewhat. But, to have deteriorated to the point of needing medical intervention, is indeed a shocking revelation. I suppose that my dreams of acquiring the "Bling-bling" will have to wait, until I recover.
 
911 (Senryu)
 
send an ambulance
the crowd sez he's sounding "bad"
they say he is "sick"
 
It isn't easy accepting each new generation with open arms. The desire, upon hearing some of the music that young people come up with, to refer to it as a large quantity of something odiferous that belongs in a porcelain bowl of dispensable water, is great.
 
It took some doing for me to embrace rap music. An uneasy acceptance has been established though. That is much better than my parent's rejection of my "heathen jungle music". My friend handed me a small stack of papers with poetry written on it. It was excellent and insightful well-written work.
 
"Wow. Who wrote this? This is outstanding."
 
He smiled, "Tupac Shakur." As an artist, embarrassment washed over me. This is something I had dismissed as crap, without giving it the slightest chance. No attempt to understand it was made.
 
That has been done to every generation and their music and culture. Eminem is hilarious and insightful. He is an excellent writer and artist. He may play on my lawn.
 
Of course, the news isn't all good. Some of each generations offerings are pure crap. My generation sang along to the old standard, "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy". "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I've got love in my tummy." Now that is a lyric with great alliteration and internal rhyme. Just something to point out the next time someone complains that young people sing about "big bootys" to excessively.
 
Have you ever written anything terrible that you wouldn't want anyone to see? I save everything I write even if it is bogus and gnarly. We all write terrible things on occasion, don't we? I never thought I would see a tumbleweed roll across my page like that…… In any case, here is a couple lines from it:
 
I Am As the Sea
 
The sea rolls in
from distant shores
and gently kisses the land
I am as the sea.
 
 
Just pointing out that we, like every generation, have less than stellar work that can be singled out. Of course, displaying it isn't bright. I guess one of the "good people" isn't bright. Oh…….new verse!!
 
The folks have found
the ocean large and
a lovely place to pee
I am as the sea.
 
There is a serious side to all of this. The music and art of a generation is the window to its soul. It is even more specific than that. Within each generation are smaller factions drawn together by various factors. My generation had the specter of the Vietnam War haunting it. There were two sides. It is an obvious example, clearly witnessed in the music of the day.  
 
Historically there are countless examples. The music of slaves toiling in servitude speaks as loudly as volumes of documents and rhetoric. The songs of patriots going to war ring with the pride of country. The music of the poor and neglected aches with hunger and longing. Words and music are what define a generation and a people.
 
To dismiss a generations artistic endeavors is to dismiss them. To be dismissed is the greatest of all transgressions. Is it any wonder that we live in a world of strife? Your music is crap i.e. you are crap. I hate your music i.e. I hate you. What would your reaction be?
 
This has been a groovy and real write. It has been far out at times but, not overly drama queen really. The one thing that has always bugged me, is the drag it is, being white. We are without anything cool to say.
 
Most of my friends are cool. What the hell kind of a nickname is "Mikey"? I have to be the oldest Mikey on the face of the earth. I love my friend "Truth". That is a nickname. Everything he says is cool. "Hold on bro. I left my squares in my ride."
 
What does Mikey say? "Pardon me, everyone. I will return shortly. I have left my package of cigarettes in my automobile. I am going to retrieve them now." I swear, being white ain't all it's crackered up to be.
 
One final thought. My grandmother would've killed me had I pronounced the word "often": off-ten.

Author Notes

As requested, a little bit about language. Still seeking suggestions as to topic and direction. Posting under stories now. The first fifty plus chapters under books. Autobiographical includes poetry, essays and commentary on world and personal events. Things that don't fit anywhere else are likely to be found here.

Chapter 59
Chapter 59: A Mother's Voice

By michaelcahill

I recall clearly being in Toys R Us one day years ago. Shopping for toys never ends whether you have kids or not. Someone has kids. Kids need toys. You will buy those toys. It is law.
 
My wife and I were going about our business looking at bewildering arrays of electronic gadgets that were beyond our skillsets. Between the ages of eight and twelve indeed, they certainly got that right.
 
A voice shouted out loudly, "Michael!" I froze in my tracks in sudden fear. The primal scream of a Mommy's Voice permeated my entire being. It turned out to be another "Michael" that would bear the brunt of her scrutiny.
 
But, in that moment, reversion to my five year old self was immediate. There were other Michaels there caught up in the maelstrom of that voice as well. An elderly gentleman dropped a multi-colored basketball that bounced away like a tumbleweed as he stood there frozen, like Lots wife.
 
A younger, fortyish gentleman spun quickly, hiding a Barbie Doll with accessories behind his back. Guilt enveloped his face. Without asking it was clear to me that we all had one thing in common. We were all named Michael.
 
We all felt relief, as we saw the little boy have his arm grabbed and lifted off the ground, spun over the ladies head, thrown high into the air in a series of twists and turns, finally landing in the child's seat of the shopping cart. There was no shame amongst us. Better him than us. A real man admits these things.
 
There is a difference between men and women. There is no Daddy's voice, at least not one that compares to the female version. Daddy's voice is rooted in a pure physical superiority. There comes a day when that advantage ceases. On that day, the power of the voice goes with it. Mommy's Voice never loses its edge.
 
There is a pretense that I promote of being fearless. For the most part, it is true. There is one thing that is an exception. Women are scary creatures. Their motivations are strange to me. Their commitment is astonishing. They are relentless in their pursuit, if they believe their cause just. We men compromise and light up a cigar and make a deal.
 

A Woman Walking By
 
Indomitable Indestructible
for the child that cries
for the heart needing care
 
ferocious fierceness
with love to spare
and soul to share
 
gracious giving
silly man undeserving
foolish boy with grass stained jeans
 
hopefulness heartsong
fallen outstretched hands
aged eyes needing smiles
 
a woman walking by

 

Woman have other voices also. As long as Mikey or Mike is the name I am addressed as, everything is okay. Michael is not a name I want to hear. There is the factor I have already described, the Mommy's Voice. There is another one that might be as deadly. It is spoken softly in a low tone. It pops up out of the blue.
 
At least with Mommy Voice there is the realization that one is doing something less than intelligent that may have repercussions. The "I love you" voice can come at any time completely out of the blue. It isn't usually those words either.
 
Woman are too clever to be so obvious. "Michael, you are so understanding." "Michael, you are the one person I can talk to." What happened to "Mikey, lets knock back a couple shots of vodka and watch the Lakers."?
 
"Mike, do these jeans make my ass look big? Lie to me."
 
I have one friend that has no maternal instinct whatsoever. It had been my goal to find a drop of it in her somewhere. She didn't want kids, liked kids or even believe kids were viable life forms. She wasn't immoral. She wouldn't turn her back on abuse or allow a child to be injured or lost.
 
She just wasn't one to pick up a baby and say, "Goo, goo, Lady Gaga." I am rather childish to be honest. I know that is a shock to you. But, I have a silly side to my otherwise deeply serious side.
 
We were sitting poolside onetime and I was leaning back in a flimsy chair. She kept admonishing me of the danger involved. "Mike, you are going to fall over. Stop that." My instinct told me that I was on to something.
 
I continued to lean back and made the situation as precarious as I could. I was willing to risk injury. The irritation was growing in her. I could feel it. "Michael!" It was one of the greatest moments of my life.
 
I started laughing so hard that I did fall over. Of course, she found that hilarious and started laughing as well. No, she didn't check to see if I was okay. The brief moment of maternal instinct had passed. But, I knew it was in there now. If I could only get her to whisper "Michael".
 
What is shocking is women that leave children unattended. Even most men have enough instinct not to do that. To run into a store and leave young children in a car unattended should be a crime of the highest order. It indicates behavior of a most unnatural ilk. Having never had children it would be beyond me to do that. A woman that could do that should not have kids.
 

Her Smile
 
She grows life inside of her
what a remarkable thing
I fall back amazed
watching
life springs forth
she helps it grow
I try to assist
not very well
she protects it
with everything she is
as do I
learning from her
she teaches
I gleen
grateful for her
smile

 

My mother was severely mentally ill. She raised me without the aid of medication or counseling. She endured shock therapy as the only means of connecting her with reality. She returned from whatever hell she endured time and time again seeking me out. She returned to take care of her son. She loved me. Was I deprived as a child? No, I wasn't. A woman raised me. She called me Michael.

Author Notes

Suggestions? Topics?

Chapter 60
Chapter 60: Too Much Information?

By michaelcahill

One of the client's under my care passed away recently. It didn't shock me. He had been hospitalized, near death, twice within the last three months. He enjoyed good physical health, when he wasn't drinking himself into a coma. Sadly, his drink of choice was water. He drank so much water that it would deplete the sodium from his body, seriously affecting his heart. He finally drank so much water that it killed him.
 
I found him on the bathroom floor, cold as ice, leaning up against the wall. A sad and unnecessary thing. There are no feelings of guilt. The best care and precautions were taken. Pills to increase his sodium levels were being given, daily. I am not one given to guilt. What happened couldn't be prevented.
 
What concerns me, is my reaction. I had no reaction. There is a scene from the movie, "Silence of the Lambs", that occurs to me. The movie is about a serial killer that is also a cannibal. The doctor of the facility that houses him, is prepping a young FBI agent, about to interview the killer. "Don't get close to him. A nurse tried to take his blood pressure and he did this." The doctor shows her a picture of the nurse with a large portion of her face bit off. He then says, "His pulse never rose above 74, even when he ate her tongue."
 
A strange tangent, I know. But, my pulse didn't rise above 74, upon finding a man that I knew very well and cared for over a year, dead as a doornail, sitting on the bathroom floor. I called 911. I stretched him out and gave him CPR, even though I knew it to be futile.
 
I greeted the paramedics and gave them his medical history. I directed the other clients to remain in their rooms. I was as cool as a misplaced corpse in a morgue. I wasn't just holding it together. I didn't feel a thing.
 
This isn't the first time. My grandmother's death had no effect on me either other than relief. She had ruled my mentally ill mother with totality and thus me as well. Her death provided me with a certain amount of freedom that I was grateful for. I wasn't happy she was dead. Missing her was a component of my feelings for some time thereafter. But, there was no great mourning period to be sure.
 
My reaction to my mother's death was the same. Indeed, I buried my whole family without shedding a tear.
 
I have been hit in the head with a brick without becoming angry. I mean that literally.
 
I once was in a prison race riot. I walked around drinking a cup of coffee while everyone brawled around me. When tear gas flooded the pod everyone was sick and couldn't breathe. I could. I felt fine.
 
This is all to point out that this doesn't seem particularly normal to me. I am completely calm in any kind of crisis or traumatic event. It is not an act. I am that calm. There are many people like that, aren't there? People find the behavior rather strange. Is it?
 
I have plenty of other emotions. Falling madly in love is certainly right up my alley. Getting misty eyed over some maudlin movie? All aboard! You're putting your hands on that woman? You are going to regret that I am nearby. But, I am calm. I am not even going to raise my voice. But, I will mean what I say.
 
It has been mentioned elsewhere in this book that non-reaction is a behavior that I have learned. Mental illness is most effectively handled by not reacting. Could it be that over the many years of practice this behavior on my part has trumped my own instincts? Or, are there people that do not feel fear in a crisis? When people jump in a horror movie, I usually jump too. Being writers, we often see it coming though don't we?
 
Living in Southern California exposes one to the great fun of earthquakes. Personally, I enjoy the majesty of nature shrugging its shoulders, while we fleas roll around in terror. Rather awesome. I was sitting in the Alhambra Theater when a large after shock hit. The theater emptied quickly and it bordered on panic.
 
One person remained there, eating his popcorn and watching the movie. Would that be considered a crazy person? It seemed to me that sitting there was safer than joining a panicked crowd, running into who knows what. Isn't that the more logical and sensible approach? They are all crazy and I am the sane one, correct?
 
It is not required that a woman make a commitment to me. Even my wife was not prompted to recite any kind of vow at our wedding. She did, but that was her decision. She has always been free to go and I have never wanted her to be with me unless, that is what she wanted. That has always been the case with every woman I have ever been with.
 
I don't understand fighting for your mate. I understand pursuing and seduction. I don't understand fighting. If she has chosen someone else, is beating up that someone the way to win her back? Would you really like to know how crazy I am? I figured you did. I feel that if a woman doesn't want me, there is something wrong with her anyway.
 
Yee haw!! Back up the truck boys. Stun guns on high!
 
Hahahaha. Maybe, I should just post this. 

Author Notes

When you leave the topics up to me, I come up with this. Any suggestions? This is autobiographical. Anything from age one until now that I have seen or done or thought about.

Chapter 61
Chapter 61 These People Are Crazy!

By michaelcahill

 

















"You know that Hitler was a cannibal, right?" That is a good question, isn't it? Should one offer correction to such a statement? Does it make much difference if one thinks that such a reprehensible creature as Adolf Hitler was a cannibal? These are the questions that often face one that works in the mental health care field.
 
One of the clients in the facility that Donna and I live in and run asked me that question. My instinct was to correct him. But, that is where the nuances of the job come in to play. There is a whole dynamic involved in correcting his misinformation.
 
Is it a good idea to inform him that he is wrong? How might that affect his mental state? Normally, it would be wise to correct someone, so that they might avoid future embarrassment. Is that the case here? If I don't correct him, he will then, at some future date, list me as a back-up authority to corroborate his thesis, should someone dispute him. "Oh, yes. Hitler was definitely a cannibal, ask Mikey."
 
Well, so what? That was my conclusion, as well. In our household Hitler, amongst other things, was also a card carrying cannibal. The only possible problem could arise, if another mentally ill client disputes these findings. I suppose that the truth will have to finally come out then. Or, perhaps the lie, being more entertaining, will still prevail.
 
My favorite client is the lovely Tonnie. She has adopted me and Donna as her parents. Her background is tragic and there is a serious side to all of the fun that I have at her expense. For all intents and purposes we are all Tonnie has and we don't have it within us to ever abandon her. She witnessed her real mother being stabbed to death when she was twelve years old. She is manic depressive and operates at the level of, perhaps, a nine year old.

She weighs almost three hundred pounds and is very demanding and manipulative. No one in the company can handle her, but me and Donna. She had been in and out of hospitals on a regular basis, until coming under our care. She hasn't been hospitalized since we have taken over her care. Well, none of that is entertaining. I just wanted to point out that, in spite of the fun, there is a serious situation behind it.
 
The looks of sympathy received in Walmart when she calls me 'dad' are priceless. I love standing in line with her. She loves saying "dad" and adds it to every sentence. So, here is little Mikey at barely 5' 7" (I shrunk, isn't that lovely) with this giant, 5' 10", three hundred lb., lazy-eyed, crazy girl calling me "dad". All the ladies in Walmart would dearly love to come over and give poor Mikey a hug. It is better than walking a little puppy. If only I still had my baby face…..
 
 
Tonnie thinks that everything I say is a joke. It is possible to say the most outlandish and sometimes horrific things to her and all she does is laugh and say, "Oh, dad! You're so funny." "Now, Tonnie. I know you're hungry. Wait until we get home. Don't eat any of these nice people in line."

Walmart is one of my favorite places for spontaneous shtick. I should point out that I have no boundaries or sense of propriety and always place getting the laugh above all things. That includes my own dignity and standing in the community if necessary.

 
At one point Donna and I had seventeen clients in a huge eight bedroom house. We had a deal with the parole board and our household had several criminally insane individuals thrown into the mix. We had to feed, medicate, entertain, counsel, keep parole appointments and medical appointments and whatever else came up all of them.

Donna and I have different skill sets that complement each other very well. Donna has honesty and heart. She is respected and loved. Even the most hardened criminal types speak softly and respectfully to her. And it is not because of my presence either. It is out of deference to her. It is an amazing thing to see her give a consoling hug to a big muscle bound parolee. They will talk to her when they won't talk to anyone else.
 
 
They will talk to me as well but, for different reasons. With Donna, it is pure heart to heart. Perhaps for many of them it is the first heart to heart they have experienced in many, many years.

With me, it is more an issue of trust. There is no betrayal of trust where I am concerned. Your secret is safe. Your letter will not be opened. The Christmas gift under the tree will not be shaken or disturbed. A woman's purse? Never. Someone's diary left open by mistake? Now closed and locked.

You can tell me what someone else said about me all you want. But, until I hear it from them, I haven't heard anything. The worst thing that one person can do to another is to falsely accuse them. The benefit of the doubt is something I take to the extreme. It is probably a foolish extreme.

But, no one has ever been falsely accused by me. When it comes time to accuse, I have already gone on to the next step. You either know or you don't know. Anything in between is dangerous ground that should not be tread upon.
 
 
Melvin had the look of a killer. The entire household trembled in fear at the mere sight of him. We didn't buy it. Donna through instinct. I through some instinct and knowledge of bullies as well as simple reading of his criminal record.

It was apparent in his record that he had never actually laid his hands on anyone. All of his charges stemmed from verbal threats and intimidation. Truth be told, more often than not, he appeared to be falsely convicted by virtue of his size and the perception of danger that he projected. Typical of our justice system and another issue.
 
 
Melvin and Russell got into a loud argument over something nonsensical that began to become heated. I knew that Melvin wouldn't strike Russell. However, I knew that Russell would strike Melvin without a doubt. Melvin didn't realize that. He was the aggressor relying on his size to back the much smaller individual into submission.
 
-part two to follow- 

Author Notes

This is autobiographical and in no particular order. This chapter is rather current. However, this piece jumps around and I may be writing about the fifties next. I am always seeking suggestions as to topics and areas of discussion. Anything is considered. This is unformatted and anything goes.

Chapter 62
Chapter 62 These People Are Crazy 2

By michaelcahill

In part one the chapter ended with Russell and Melvin about to have a confrontation. This picks up where that left off.











He was the aggressor relying on his size to back the much smaller individual into submission. In Melvin's experience this was effective strategy. He underestimated Russell and he underestimated me as well. Russell had control issues and sense left for parts unknown when he reached a certain emotional level. Melvin wasn't aware of this.

It looked like I intervened on Russell's behalf. I intervened to protect Melvin. I couldn't confront Russell in the state he was in so, I confronted Melvin who was the aggressor anyway. He backed down quickly muttering some excuse about respecting his elders. My words were, "Shall I bake you a pie?" Non sequiturs are quite effective in these situations. They completely take one out of their game. It tends to short circuit the brain.

Nicknames are effective as well. I call Russell "Mommy". People find this strange. But, there is a good reason for this. Russell though an adult is much like a precocious child that is into mischief constantly. Yelling his name constantly has a nagging effect and does not get the desired results. However, saying "Mommy" gets a smile and a more light hearted response which usually results in the behavior I am seeking.

There is a method behind the madness. He is also called "boy". It is funny when his mom calls and says "where is boy" or is pops calls and asks for "mommy".

Russell has epilepsy and has been treated with kid gloves all his life. There is danger involved with his condition. He recently suffered severe burns to his fingers. He had a mild seizure while washing his hands under the tap. We keep the tap extremely hot for dishes and late night instant coffee. The seizure caused him to blank out with his fingers under the scalding water. One of the other clients pulled him away before it became worse.

This type of danger is always a possibility with him. Mom and dad are understandably over-protective as is Donna. I force myself not to be. It is a conscious choice. Not one staff member would ever allow him in the kitchen let alone permit him to cook. He wanted to cook. He has a great desire to help and is willing to assist with any task.

Once he came under my care the kitchen became his new domain. He had a predilection towards turning the stove into a giant bonfire. But, with time and countless "Mommies!" he learned how to cook. It has reached a point where he is able to cook without supervision and essentially anything that I can cook just as well. It brings him great pleasure and provided a big surprise for his parents when they came over and enjoyed a diner prepared completely by their son.


We live in a small house now with only four clients. These are essentially permanent residents that are planning to live with us long term. They are family now and that is how we live. Medication is passed out and appointments are tended to. But, we would do that for any friend.

I still assist the owner with the other facilities but, this is our home now and our reward for our past service. There are no changes planned to our household. No one has been hospitalized since coming under our care. We are all pretty content and trying to improve our lives with whatever gifts we have as people do.


It has been six years now since we began working for this company and reached this point of security. Donna started out with the firm as a caregiver when it had just opened up on Second Street with five clients. Tonnie and Baston were two of them that remain and are with us now. There was Rhonda that could out blather me. Yes, I know you are shocked!

There was Judy, a tremendous pain in the neck. Finally the wondrous David Vernon McAllister. As he often reminded us, "My name is David Vernon McAllister and I've got rights, dammit!" He became a legend as the worst client we ever had with Judy not far behind. With this group it became a baptism of fire for Donna.


Within a month Donna requested my help and I hired on as well. My favorite pastime was sitting at the table out back with David, Tonnie and Rhonda practicing my endurance skills. They all talked non-stop and none of it covered topics of any interest whatsoever. It was a tsunami of worthless drivel that would wipe out the mightiest shoreline. I can listen to anything now without showing any signs of irritation. There is no storm that I cannot weather.

I will never forget when Rhonda was sitting by herself at the table talking one day. She did not require an audience. She carried on blathering to no one in particular when our bird Seemore shouted out "Shut up!" He was perched by the window right by the table. Rhonda's response was priceless. "Can you imagine that? A bird thinks that he can tell me to shut up. I don't have to listen to no bird telling me what to do. I am not going to stop talking just because some bird tells me to." She never even paused in her blathering. She gave her response to the bird's suggestion and continued on un-phased.


Humor is the greatest weapon in dealing with mental illness. There is a "walking on eggshells" mentality that permeates the field and it rubs off on everyone, the clients in particular. Our clients were so sensitive when we first met them that to use phrases like "patient", "mentally ill" or any form of slang, would elicit a negative response. One honestly couldn't refer to something, even in an off-hand manner, as "crazy" without a noticeable, uncomfortable twitch.



With Donna and me at the helm, "walking on eggshells" was going to cease and it would cease quickly. I became the sacrificial lamb. Referring to myself as "crazy", became the norm, until they got the idea that there was no big trauma attached to it.

As time went by, it was no longer a stigma to be crazy, it was the "in thing" to be. If one was to visit our house and ask, "How's everyone doing?" the group response would be, "We're fine, we're crazy!" It works well for us, though it probably bothers our guests. We aren't taking care of them, however.


A caregiver must be a vocal advocate for those that may not have an effective voice of their own. That might mean confrontations with doctors and professional agencies that wield power and authority. It can be daunting telling a doctor that you think they are incorrect when they have a degree and you have a feeling. But, remember, your feeling is based on round the clock observation and his on a chapter in a book. You know the patient, he does not. Not arrogance, truth. The sound of a doctor's sigh when he sees me in the waiting room tells me, I am doing my job.

When they see Donna, it is more of a shudder. They know not to bother going to battle with her. All they had to do was ask me. Like I said, common sense.

Author Notes

This is part two. Still accepting suggestions for topics. This is autobiograhical. Anything concerning my life or things that i have observed in my life or thought about is potentially a topic. No format so, anything considered.

Chapter 63
The Great Society

By michaelcahill

Author Note:

THIS STANDS ALONE-DON'T NEED TO READ THE WHOLE BOOK

The 1964 presidential campaign featured the incumbent Lyndon Baines Johnson versus Mister Republican, Barry Goldwater. President Johnson had the considerable ghost of John Kennedy looming over his shoulder and the American people stood behind it. This worked to his advantage as far as getting elected, but it must have galled him as far as the policies he had to pursue.

Johnson was not the liberal Kennedy was and victory in southern states stood as the main motivation for including LBJ on the ticket. As a strategy, it worked and helped Kennedy win a narrow victory over Richard M. Nixon in 1960.

As a twelve-year-old it surprises me I felt the need to follow the election at all. I've always thought my interest in politics began in high school as the Vietnam War became an elephant in every room in which I walked. No, now that I think about it, I followed the 64 election with great interest. I think the assassination of John Kennedy awakened me to the world and what existed in it. Television sat in the living room as a window through which I saw a dangerous world and its potential effect on me.
 
Johnson ran an outrageous political advertisement that year. To my knowledge, it was the very first negative political television ad. It stands out in my memory for its outlandish rabble rousing tone. It depicted Goldwater as a war monger with his finger poised over THEE button, which would launch a nuclear attack. Now, in 1964, we believed nuclear destruction of the entire world to be a possibility. The cold war between the super powers, The United States and The Soviet Union, was at its zenith. The ad ended with an image of a nuclear explosion. It implied, or stated in most opinions, Barry Goldwater couldn't wait to get his insane war mongering self into office, begin World War Three and facilitate the destruction of the world.
 
Sure enough, in spite of justified outrage, the ad proved effective. Goldwater acquired this warmonger aura and it certainly helped send him to a landslide defeat. Now, politically I'm somewhat to the left of a folk singer sitting on the back of a caboose even though it isn't attached to a train. Yet, I had no question in my mind Barry Goldwater possessed fine qualities as a human being. Though we no doubt disagreed completely on political issues, I would never say he was a warmonger or a monster of any kind. He was a decent honorable man who loved his country and wished to serve it.
 
It wouldn't be the last time my fellow bleeding hearts would embarrass me. I must admit, I couldn't have been more shocked by the fervor in which the liberal left embraced the notion that Goldwater meant the end of the world. Really? You actually believe that? For God's sake, are you all idiots?
 
Of course, nowadays, thirty-second political ads are the norm. They're all meaningless drivel and say nothing other than the other guy is a monster who will destroy the world. Yep, they work. Yep, everyone seems to believe every word. I wonder if it has anything to do with the miserable lot we have representing us?
 
So, Johnson ran his add, defeated Goldwater in a landslide and then had to pass all of Kennedy's liberal social and civil rights bills. Well, at least he managed to escalate the Vietnam War, get the draft going and make me live in fear for my life for several years. Too bad Goldwater didn't run an ad with Johnson presiding over the funeral of 50,000 young American Soldiers. But, of course, that would be the truth and we're not looking for that.
 
I suppose I can't help but color my perspective with my current mindset. I obviously didn't realize in 1964 that Johnson's actions would lead to our futile efforts and loss of life in Vietnam. At the time, This seventh grader didn't care too much for Johnson and I realize one of the main reasons was, he wasn't John Kennedy. I didn't like a man who picked his cute beagle dogs up by their ears. I didn't care if it supposedly didn't harm them or not. I had no doubt the dogs didn't appreciate it and he was a jackass for doing it. I felt like that then and I still do.
 
The funny thing is, it isn't likely, had Kennedy lived, all of his civil rights and social programs would have passed through Congress. It would have been a mighty struggle indeed. With his death, it became a tribute to our fallen leader. Johnson had no choice but to go along with it. I find it amusing given Johnson's senate record that he was the President in office when all of these liberal reforms passed.
 
That aside, the next four years saw the war in Vietnam escalate rapidly. The sentiment against it was vociferous and we young people with the threat of death ahead of us were the loudest protestors.
 
 

Sure, I'm fit with arms of steel and eagle eyes
you've your enemy whom you despise
yet, that office holds such great appeal
an oval room where you shout with zeal
 
but you wouldn't think of leaving
to honor those who are grieving
not when you can stamp our fate with your seal
the plastic soldiers on your desk aren't real
 
it's your fight, but our might
in your head, but we're dead
you who want this damn war
what are we fighting for?

 

Well, LBJ, you are long gone. But, your legacy lives on. It isn't always simple politics. Sometimes it might be best to vote for the better man. Of course, those aren't choices we have anymore.


 

Author Notes

The political television ad Johnson ran pictured a little girl looking at daisies. In the background a nuclear bomb goes off wiping everything off the screen. It implied that this would be the result of voting for Goldwater. "The Great Society" was the title of the Johnson campaign in 1964. This is an ongoing book of my own experiences. I am not putting it in any order per se. These are events that occur to me and my perspective of them at the time. Of course, I can't help but comment from my current vantage point. But, I recall my feelings at the time pretty well. In general, what I thought when I was young are still my views. I'm always open to topics that might occur to you or suggestions, so feel free. Anything from the fifties until now is fair game. I usually concentrate on my school years. But, this has no format, so anything goes.

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