|
"Howard
Hughes Is Alive
and Well and Living in the San Fernando Valley"
Chapter 17 of a mystery
by Claude Hall
Soon, I began to wonder
if I hadn't been tossed
something else. Because after about an hour, I was
still waiting. And beginning to wonder. Two hours
later, I wasn't wondering anymore.
Ah, Herman! I had thought better of you.
I wondered why I hadn't expected something like this.
But, of course, I was wondering too much at the moment
when, instead, I should have been wandering.
You're even wondering probably why I wasn't afraid.
Me, too. I should have been screaming in fright and
running around bumping into things. Here! Lost! All
of my loved ones gone. But, come to think of it, I
didn't have many real loved ones, per se, and that
included a fickle cockerspaniel named Nepi who more
than likely was nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie
now and not thinking about me. Everyone gone. A few
trillion miles beyond the next Burger King with French
fries and a milk shake. Make that the next In and
Out. Better burger, I think. And I wondered when, if
ever, I might be able to eat another one. But then I
told myself that wondering wasn't getting me anywhere
and I'd better start scouting around for
somewhere...wherever it might be.
The going was pretty rough. I was wearing some good
hiking boots, but even so the possibility of turning
an ankle on the rubble scattered everywhere was pretty
good. So I had to be careful with every step. Slow
going.
Without a compass -- I didn't even know if a compass
would work on this planet even if I had one -- I
resorted to an old Indian trick. Well, actually, I
read about it when I was in the Boy Scouts in the "Boy
Scout Handbook." That made me realize that I might
need one of those handbooks. Well, if I ever got back
to where you could buy an In and Out hamburger, I'd
make it a point to obtain me another "Boy Scout
Handbook."
After I reached a goodly distance, but was still
within sight of that pillar with the cute little flag,
I swept a clear space with my hand and placed some
pebbles in a little makeshift arrow on the ground to
show the direction I'd taken. This little Indian
trick was to show where I'd gone as well as show me
how to get back if I had the chance to get back. I
wasn't all to sure about the return trip, as you might
expect. Because I had some food in the backpack,
which was more like a knapsack, but probably only
enough for three or four days if I stretched it out.
The real reason I wasn't screaming in fright? Many
years ago I'd had to face death a few times. Once
you've faced it and realized that you could be dead
and you weren't, then you sort of get the idea that
there's a reason you're still hanging around. I
didn't know what the reason was, and that's a fact,
and I didn't know who or what had decided the reason,
but I was grateful anyway for the few extra days. The
few extra days turned into years, but I never again
made the assumption that I had years...I always
calculated that I just had days and maybe not even
that...maybe just a few hours. This kind of rationale
provided you with a wonderful perspective and, really,
a sense of absolute delight in trying to figure out
what was just over the next hill or just around the
next bend.
That's what I was doing now...heading just over yonder
to see what was on the other side of that hill. The
hill was bluish green rock, but that didn't do
anything except spice my excitement about getting
there and looking further out yonder.
All I discovered, as you might have expected, was
another bluish green rock on further and several more
that looked just about the same off to either side.
Undaunted by this small setback of geology, I pursued
the next skyline.
The road -- well it wasn't actually a road, of course
-- grew a little easier for walking within the next
hour and I had witnessed some very excellent and
wonderful things. Eventually, old Herman and Maudell
could open up this planet as a tourist site...charge
people to come out and watch the wonders. More
exciting than a Knicks basketball game. Of course,
that wasn't really basketball they were playing; they
didn't know what it was. The Spurs and the Nets
played basketball. The Lakers once played something
called Shack, a kid's game.now just Kobe, an even more
childish game. What the Knicks played, no one ever
figured out.
Anyway, I was soon strolling along about as pleasantly
as if I were walking along Redondo Beach in
California. Without, naturally or unnaturally,
depending on your point of view or lack of it, the
myriad weirdos trying to attract attention in their
tight mauve shorts and sunshades zooming past on
in-line skates and the old women being led by poodles
that looked amazing just like they did and both poodle
and master hoping that the weirdos would notice them.
Here, no one noticed me, but I think that would have
also been the situation had I worn some in-line
skates. This would be a fairly great place for
in-line skating. In the clearings anyway.
I wondered where the rubble came from. The little
pebbles and a lot of the larger pebbles, too, were
usually scattered around the vents that gushed flame.
The pebbles were sometimes pretty. Like a marble that
I had owned as a kid with different colored swirls. I
picked up a few and placed them in my knapsack so I
could examine them in detail later.
As I strolled over the crest of a hill that was
virtually pockmarked with roman candles shooting green
and yellow balls into the sky, I noticed something
white in the distance. Then the smoke fell around me
again and I found it difficult to see more than a few
yards in front of me.
However, I was able to make my way along a ridge that
circled the hill and came out into a valley. That is,
it wasn't really a valley. Just a low sink about as
wide as the parking lot of a shopping mall. On the
other side several red and yellow plumes of flame
danced together -- it appeared to be a tango or
something similar. For several minutes, I stood
still, enthralled. They really danced well. The
entire group. Red and green, some of yellow, against
a green background of sky. An absolutely beautiful
setting! Like a weird dream. Or a hallucination.
I wondered if this entire planet - Cow -- was merely
an hallucination. Could be, you know. Dancing fires?
Had to be hallucination. Couldn't be anything else!
Because two of the yellow and red plumes repeated one
of their dance steps.
I found that not just interesting, but downright
intriguing! You see an obvious pattern repeated, the
probability is quite strong that you're either nuts or
somebody did something on purpose.
My immediate question, of course, was whether the
plumes of flame repeated the pattern or someone
controlling the flames created the choreography...much
as someone programs a display fountain. There was a
fountain like that on the Strip in Las Vegas. The
dance steps of the shooting towers of water are played
like someone on a piano.
I walked over, as close as I dared, and said, "Hello."
The person playing the flames did not answer. Either
that person was very coy or they didn't exist. That
left me with one conclusion. I said "Hi" and again
nothing happened. Which I thought was rather strange.
But I tried it again and nothing happened then
either.
"You don't talk," I said. And that was almost proof
positive they, whoever they were, didn't talk because
I received no answer to that either. However, the
intricate dance pattern was repeated again. The two
plumes both sort of bowed to the right, then bowed to
the left.
This motion immediately set up a chain of free
associations and one possibility led to another and
all of them led exactly nowhere. I needed to do some
contemplation, which, as you know, is much more
serious than just ordinary plain and fancy thinking
and far beyond just idle musing.
As an experiment, I bowed to my left and then to my
right. The result was astonishing! The two plumes
began a furious dance just as if something exciting
had happened. And it hadn't, I assure you!
"Smitty," I told myself, "you're definitely
hallucinating." Had to be something like that.
Either that or I'd gone completely bonkers. Bonkers,
of course, was a very likely and quite reasonable
explanation. Here I was, lost on a strange planet
named, of all things, Cow, somewhere a few trillion
miles from an In and Out burger and I had no idea
where I was in space nor if I'd ever get back from
wherever this was.
Thinking about a hamburger caused me to realize that I
hadn't eaten anything in a long, long while, so I
found a flat rock a few yards away from my tango
dancers and took out a can of tomatoes from my
knapsack. A minute or so later, I'd opened the can of
tomatoes with my knife and was sipping at the juice.
The two tango dancers stopped, of course, to watch me
with considerable interest. That is, they weren't
actually watching, per se, so far as I could tell, but
they seemed interested in whatever was going on. One
even seemed to be conferring with the other. I made
that assumption because of the rippling effect on each
of the dancers.
This assumption, naturally, led to various other
assumptions as well as a hell of a lot of questions.
How do you suddenly learn to communicate with a
species of being that converses with motions. The
idea of teaching them something such as semaphore
didn't seem feasible at the moment. Because first,
I'd have to teach them the alphabet. And for some
reason the thought occurred to me that a very serious
problem could develop if one or the other of us
misspelled a word. Especially a word such as
gefeltafish, which I didn't know how to spell and had
never learned to spell because I didn't like the
stuff.
"Ah, Smitty, you're definitely hallucinating! No, not
hallucinating. You're just plain bonkers. Really
bonkers. And, above all, talking to yourself."
I wondered if there existed something such as fancy
bonkers. Probably not.
After I finished sipping all of the juice up in the
can, I finished opening the top and ate the tomatoes.
I'd read about tomatoes in an old Owen Wister novel.
Of course, there weren't any new Owen Wister novels.
Probably dead of old age. Unknown to Roy Rogers and
Gene Autry, because they'd probably never had the
problem, cowboys used to carry cans of tomatoes in
their saddlebags. First, for water if they got thirsty
and there wasn't any pleasant stream nearby. Second,
for food if they got hungry. The water was the most
important. Contrary to western movies, there were not
a hell of a lot of pleasant little streams flowing
around in the old west. You get out around San
Angelo, Texas, and it might be thirty or even fifty
miles to the next water. Thus, a can of tomatoes
sometimes came in handy. Like now. I wondered what I
was going to do for water. Food, too. Not an In and
Out hamburger stand in sight. And, quite frankly, I
was still hungry. Those cowboys way back in the wild
and woolly west might have had the right idea about
canned tomatoes, I do not know, but as far as I was
personally concerned, they were not enough. An In and
Out burger really would have tasted pretty good about
now. And maybe a strawberry milkshake.
I held up my empty can, without moving from my sitting
place on my comfortable rock, and waved it slowly back
and forth like a flag.
Suddenly, a tongue of flame, increasingly yellow,
reached out, obviously with specific intention, and
carefully touched the empty can in my hand. Ah,
communication! An innocuous move in appearance. Or
perhaps a gesture? But, more than likely, merely
doing research.
I turned the can upside and peeked inside, shook my
head from side to side, and placed the emply can on
the ground beside me.
This created some consternation between the two
flames. Not agitation, I think. But definitely some
form of concern.
Thus, I could make some more assumptions to add to my
list of assumptions. First, they were intelligent
enough to make decisions...not merely just capable of
mimicking my actions. Second, not only were the
flames -- obviously some life form -- intelligent, but
rational to the extent of involvement with other life
forms, i.e., me. And they didn't seem afraid of me
either...just interested.
The green plume reached out in my direction again and
this time it was me who had to make a decision.
Quickly.
But, of course, there really wasn't much of a decision
to be made. As I mentioned, I was a long, long way
from an In and Out burger and, while I had two more
cans of tomatoes, I sincerely believed that two wasn't
going to last me a whole bunch of long. Either the
green plume could help, or it couldn't. I didn't have
much choice either way.
The flame was cool and that was surprising! When I'd
stepped too close to the flames on the other side of
the hill, they seemed slightly warm.
With almost the gentleness of a mother touching a
baby, the green plume twined around my shoulders. I
found the touch soothing. Slightly terrifying, of
course, because when you do something for the very
first time, whatever it is, there's always fear
involved. Like jumping off the diving board at the
swimming pool the first time. After the first
contact, though, I felt no fear. Just a hell of a lot
of curiosity.
Then the plume of green flame withdrew and retreated
back to its usual flickering position beside the
yellow flame.
That was quite curious! Not the two plumes of flame
waiting there, seemingly expectant, but me. I don't
think I was hungry anymore. I couldn't be sure about
something like that. Because college students,
whether really working on a Ph.D. or faking work on a
Ph.D., are always hungry. I think I saw a law about
it back when I was an undergraduate at The University
of Texas.
I wasn't even thirsty!
I rose to my feet and bowed from the waist in the
direction of the two plumes of fire.
And they bowed back!
Progress! Communication!
"Great!" I said.
But one of the major problems with intelligent flames
is that they don't have any ears. Or at least none
that I could see. I sat back down on my rock and
thought about this for a while and the flames
evidently were thinking about the situation, too,
because none of them were dancing.
However, my immediate problem, that of hunger and
thirst, had evidently been solved for the moment. So,
I had plenty of time, maybe more than I wanted, to
think about my other problems. If you thought the
problem of Cow -- or Fountain as it might be -- was
primary on my mind, you're wrong. I never think of
the particular topic or situation that might be
bothering me. Not at first anyway. Best to think
about something else. Let the old subconscious have a
chance before the rest of the mind tackled the
whatever.
So, I thought about my Ph.D. program sprawled fallow
and gathering dust at The University of Texas. My
mentor, the sage and quite astute Dr. Lou Dorren, had
been threatening me with murder and even more severe
punishment if I didn't come back and conclude the
research. All of the class work was more or less
completed. The degree was mine if I came back and
conducted the research and wrote the dissertation. I
don't know why I wasn't eager to get the doctorate
completed. Might be nice to walk around, having
everyone greet me with the words, "Hello, Dr. Smitty."
And, then again, perhaps not.
That psychiatrist...Pretzel...should have thrown that
in my face instead of the silly stuff about
rattlesnakes...should have asked me why I was so
reluctant to finish up my degree. I liked Austin,
too, and I got along swell with Dr. Lou Dorren. I
even liked The University of Texas Longhorns football
team.
"You're a very strange person, Smitty," I told myself.
"You definitely need fixing."
My expression, maybe the way I twitched my nose of
blinked my eyes, must have given me away...reveal some
form of distress for a tongue of flame began,
tentatively, twining in my direction.
I brushed it off with a wave of my hand.
Was I distressed? Not really, I don't think. The
statement about needing "fixing" had been merely, I
hope, a rhetorical expression, not a statement of
fact.
Oh, I probably had a lot of flaws, personal and
otherwise, but I sort of liked the way I was and I
don't think I seriously wanted to change anything
about me. Not at the moment.
I sat there for a moment, wondering if I really did
have any flaws. I didn't think so. Always thought,
in fact, that I was just about as close to being
perfect as you could get. Women liked me. Some of
them, for example that blonde over in Arizona, just a
little too much. I had money. Enough. Although I'd
donated that "ranch" in the Hill Country of Texas to
the Boy and Girl Scouts, I'd kept a few acres crowded
with oak on a hill with a phenomenal view and one day
thought I might build a house there. At present, it
was a good place to park my camper when I needed to
get away from the rest of the world. And I was
reasonably intelligent. Maybe a genius, but maybe not
and I was afraid that I might not be as smart as I
thought so I wasn't about to take an I.Q. test. I'd
taken an AFQT once -- the almost legendary and quite
despised Armed Forces Quotient Test civilians took
just about the time they were becoming soldiers -- and
scored one hundred percent and finished early. But,
of course, that didn't mean much because most guys
about to become cannon fodder tossed the damned test
off; that fact, too, was legendary.
Others, maybe, might think I was a bit too sarcastic.
I wasn't. Others might think I was too much of a
liberal. I wasn't. There were other things like that
they might think but I'd never cared much what anyone
else thought about me and, in fact, never let it
affect me one way or another.
Yes, I was just about perfect. I didn't need
"fixing."
But Herman? The same great curiosity that had caused
him to turn the Spruce Goose around that day, when all
he'd planned to do was see if it would float...maybe
check the engines by taxi'ng a few yards on the
water...then said "To hell with it" and turned the
giant hunk of wood around and took it into the
air...now that guy would just be the kind to test one
of these flames.
All of the great scientists always based their
opinions, for the most part, on Earth and our galaxy,
perhaps. I'd read an article once, by someone who
supposedly knew what they were talking about, that any
species that developed in outer space would more than
likely have two legs and two arms and a head. The
someone explained in quite logical detail why this was
some kind of law of nature, including the opposable
thumb, that would allow a species to become more than
animal. Horror writers, of course, came up with
beings that had tentacles and all that stuff. And
both Amazing Stories, a pulp magazine that was quite
popular in the 50s, and Leigh Brackett, one of the
writers of the "Star Wars" movies, thought of beings
who were worms with hands and even weirder creatures
that talked. Intelligent beings, too.
However, if a supreme being of some kind pulled the
trigger on the Great Bang, then I was perfectly
comfortable -- well not really perfectly, but I could
accept it -- different kinds of beings entirely. On
Cow, you had something very different. I don't think
there were two legged creatures within light years and
the opposable thumb wasn't necessary, thank you!
These things weren't flames, of course. I wondered if
Herman had decided what to call them. That is, if
he'd bumped into one of them. And then, by simple
induction, I knew. The planet wasn't called cows.
The curious plumes were the cows. And that alone was
quite curious. Maybe an allusion to the fact that
cows give milk, provide butter. Meat. Clabbermilk,
too, but let's forget about that. Sour cream, yes.
And the cows here on this planet were sort of kind and
giving like that. Cows. Plain, but fitting in many
ways.
Cows. An intelligent species totally unimagined in
science fiction movies or horror films. So far as I
knew. At least Robert Heinlein had never written
about cows. Goats, perhaps. Cows? Well, there was
that one book called "Starbeast." No, that wasn't a
cow. Had more legs. Six or was it eight?
I wondered how many legs you'd find on the cows on
this planet. Interesting thought. No, that was a
very stupid idea. A man of your caliber and
intellectual expertise should have more-elevated
thoughts than that, Smitty, I told myself and then
wondered if I were really listening.
This led, eventually, because I don't believe I was
functioning with my usual capacity of brilliance, to
the conclusion that this planet was, indeed, having an
effect on me.
After a while, since I wasn't hungry or thirsty and
there wasn't anything else to do anyway, I thought I
would do some more exploring. Exploring doesn't take
a whole bunch of brilliant thinking...I mean, you can
do it on a single hemisphere...that is, if Marshall
McLuhan, the late sage of mass communication, was
right about the brain having double hemispheres.
About some people, I'm not quite sure that McLuhan was
right because if he was right, then sometimes some
people didn't seem to be functioning even on half a
hemisphere.
You take Cactus at the moment. Definitely, he wasn't
all there. Sometimes, of course, a woman will do that
sort of thing and, yes, I've been in that quite
desirable situation myself or more than one occasion.
A woman will definitely befuddle your mind. Herman,
he probably had at least an extra hemisphere and all
of his hemispheres probably operated at fully
capacity.
Tricia? Good question. I doubt if she had more than
two hemispheres and probably neither of them got
befuddled much. I mean, heck, she might love Winston
Starbuck, but she probably kept her head about it.
Right now, I'd bet a used toenail clipping that she
was storming about making all kinds of dastardly plans
to gain back control of the gasoline industry that she
surmised had been robbed from her. A lot of money in
the energy business and especially in the oil
business. She married Starbuck thinking she was going
to be rich. And I suppose she was rich. At least,
she had a lot of money at hand because California had
community property laws and all she'd have to do is
divorce Starbuck to rake in about half of everything
he had, including the boots on his feet. Must be
greed back of everything. She probably thought that
her share of everything was going to be bigger than it
actually was. Hard to determine what was really in
the back of her mind, of course.
The kid? Now that was something I couldn't predict
for you. Kids, by and large, don't get anything out
of a deal like this. Maybe she was along just for the
adventure.
Finally, having decided nothing, solved nothing, I
rose to my feet, bowed as a way of thanks to the cows.
They bowed back. Then I was merrily on my way once
again to explore the planet Fountain, which to me, was
nothing close to that particular fountain like the one
which Ponce de Leon sought.
Earlier, I noticed something white in the distance.
That was as good a direction as any. Occasionally,
the smoke cleared as if curtains had been drawn back,
and I thought I saw something off to my right that was
white. I couldn't be sure about it, though. And a
pale yellow gully bordered on the other side with a
pale yellow ridge prevented me from going toward it.
So, I continued ahead, meandering around vents,
stepping over the narrow crevices that cut across my
path, drifting slowly to the right. I tripped once on
some pebbles, all unusually round, the size of marbles
and quite pretty, like a collections of favorite
agates. I'd picked up some stones earlier, just a
couple, and I picked up a few of these, too, and
placed them in my knapsack. Souvenirs, I hoped, of an
unusual journey to a distant planet. Assuming, of
course, that I wasn't merely daydreaming all of this.
The white thing that I'd seen a few moments ago turned
out to be just a white thing, a scar in a rock face
that was so green it almost hurt the eyes. Geologists
would have a field day here. Field day? Was that the
correct term to use? Probably not.
Funny thing about the white thing; it was crying.
Some kind of liquid crept out of the surface of the
white rock area, all over more than anywhere else as
the old cliché goes, and oozed down just like little
white tears. I took a piece of paper out of my
knapsack and touched the edge to a tear. Nothing
happened. Not acid then. That was sort of good news.
And I needed some good news, even trivial good news.
I then touched my finger to the liquid. Slightly
oily, I think. A really good chemist might have a
field day here, too.
That caused me to ponder a moment about why there
wasn't any day here. No shadows to indicate any sun.
The plumes of "flame" created a form of light, I
suppose, and helped you to see things. Even strange
marbles that really didn't look like marbles and tears
that appeared to be oily rather than of water. You
could make the assumption, if you wished, that the
planet was rotating because there was gravity. Don't
think there'd be much gravity without some kind of
rotation. I could have been wrong about that; what do
I know about planets. I know a hell of a lot about
Marilyn Monroe; more than I wanted to know, in fact.
And I knew about Elvis Presley and even Tex Ritter and
Howard Hughes. Very little, however, about planets.
I was, after all, only a pop culture guru. I wondered
if there were such things on the earth--not this
planet, of course, but the real earth--as scientist
gurus. One might come in handy about now.
A scientist would never have tasted one of the oily
tears oozing out of the rock without analyzing it
seven years from Sunday. No scientist could be that
dumb, right?
I touched another tear and then put my finger to my
tongue. Just a little salty. Nothing else. No
startling effect. So much for being a scientist guru
anyway. Frankly, I thought being a pop culture guru
was much more exciting. And, considering my present
circumstances, even more dangerous.
Because, you see, I'd already reached the conclusion
that my being out here, stranded as it were, in this
psychedelic landscape, had more than likely been
planned by Herman who was, almost more than likely,
more of a counterfeit Jew rather than the real thing.
He certainly wasn't kosher. Kosher would never have
done this sort of thing to a nice guy like me.
(continued next week)
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com
|
December 17, 2007
Commentary
by Claude
Hall
Barbara Hall, left, with
Karen and Ernie Hopseker at the Hall Palatial
Estate, Apricot Orchard, and Hummingbird Palace in Las Vegas, Dec.
12, 2007. Like most radio people, Ernie, engineer deluxe, worked
everywhere once or twice, including Las Vegas. He and his wife now
live in Oregon. I was tempted to ask him to fix my 35-year-old old
Sansui amplifier which needs a new cord on the radio tuner (have you
ever taken an old amplifier to a repair shop and been sneered at?),
but
then told myself: "Claude, you don't ask a guy who can build an
entire
radio station to fix your radio!" (Photo by Claude Hall)
Scott Miller: "The name of that Herman
Spero TV show
was 'Upbeat'. The original name was the Big 5 Show,
as it aired at 5 p.m. Saturdays on channel 5 in
Cleveland. Growing up in Cleveland and loving the
music, this show was not to be missed. It was hosted
by a fellow named Don Webster. He might still be at
the station for all I know. I remember he eventually
became General Manager. Anyway, here's the video-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWctNqdzbN8
Believe me, this show was a lot better than this promo
would indicate."
John Hall, esq.: "Tom Russell was performing as part
of a yearly series of concerts held at the Lobero
Theater in Santa Barbara called SINGS LIKE HELL. I
suspect that in your Los Angeles days if the series
had existed you would have been making regular trips
up to Santa Barbara to see the concerts. It was
damned cold up there in Santa Barbara. I was wearing
my down jacket to keep warm when I was walking around
to get a bite to eat. My stomach is still bothering
me and I would be honest if it wasn't for the long
drive, I was tempted to go back home and suffer in
private. The opening act was entertaining. The
singer was Eilen Jewell (sp). She had a sultry voice
at times and had one hell of a good guitar player in
her band. Tom Russell was joined on stage by only one
member of his band who switched back and forth from a
mandolin to a guitar. He was amazing and had the
crowd in his hands He played the new songs that he
has recently released on his new Wounded Heart cd.
One of the songs Mom will really love deals with the
immigration hoopla with common sense and humor. Tom
had the ability to communicate to the audience while
on stage, joking around and the like. He mentioned
that he graduated from UCSB and even had a master's in
criminology which was the basis for a humorous song
about the times in his life that he had a gun pointed
to him. Well, I did say hello to him after the show.
I mentioned that you were my Father and he
immediately recognized the name and said you were a
good man. After that, I did not linger as it was a
long drive home. I did not get home until after
midnight, but it was worth it. I did pick up a couple
more cds while I was there. I bought his newest and
THE MAN WHO cd. I also picked up his dvd.
Tom Quigley: "Great pic of Lloyd Thaxton and Bobby
Vee. Don't know how many people are aware of it, but
Lloyd has his own blogsite with a lot of great
information about his career, the 60s music scene and
what it's been like to work in Hollywood in general
all these years. The link is:
http://www.lloydthaxton.blogspot.com/.
Also got some news about Roger Mcguinn last week. He
slipped on a patch of ice while in Nebraska for a gig
and in attempting to break his fall with his right
hand, broke his right wrist instead. I emailed him to
offer my best wishes for a speedy recovery and he
replied back saying the he can still play 'but the
stupid cast gets in the way!' His blogsite is
http://rogermcguinn.blogspot.com/ in case anyone wants
to catch up on what he's been doing lately. Best
Wishes to you and Barbara for the holidays."
CHRISTMAS MATTERS
All of you reading this have been and still are a very
important aspect of my life. Because of you, an old
boy born in Brady, TX, and raised in Winters, TX,
became more or less a worthwhile citizen and perhaps
accomplished a few good things and got to help a few
others along the way. I wish all of you the best of
the holidays. Though this past year was fraught with
ills for both Barbara and me, we seemingly have
weathered through and this is going to be a phenomenal
Christmas for us. All three of my sons - John,
Darryl, and Andy - will be home for the holidays. My
brother-in-law Richard Schwartz always treats us to a
Christmas Eve dinner.again this year at Tillerman's.
My brother Buddy Hall may show up (he has just given
Barbara and me a phenomenal cruise.the kind of cruise
you dream about). It will be a warm and pleasant time
here. The Good Lord has been good to me and mine.
I emailed a few Christmas wishes and here are a couple
of the responses. The poem regarding Chuck Blore
mentioned below was printed in Commentary a few weeks
back. I don't remember anything about any sketch at
Martoni's. And, of course, that's Bobby Vee Scotty
mentions; they've been close friends for many, many
years.
Scotty Brink: "And a Merry Christmas and Joyous New
Year to you and you wonderful family as well. I've
been meaning to write you a note to tell you that I
spent some time with my dear friend Chuck Blore a
couple of weeks ago (and will again next week). Chuck
read me your poem, which he justifiably treasures. Of
course, your sketch of him (at Martoni's?) is another
of your wonderful creations which he cherishes.
You're a gifted man, Mr. Hall. We will be in Southern
California through Christmas, then we hope to go to
Branson and visit with Bobby for our New Years
celebration. Again, the best holidays ever to you and
yours."
Robert Fleisher; "A every nice Christmas Season to you
and your Family as well. All is crazy here too. I
moved to Miami after 25 years in NYC. My family is
here as is the best light of my life to paint with. I
miss NYC though but like Miami. I will be visiting
the City a couple times a year. Joey Reynolds'
daughter Kristen's wedding was fabulous. Couple of the
ol' timers were there, your name, as a few others,
came to our minds. Always my Best!"
Just FYI, Robert Fleisher is one of the world's great
artists. His painting of the Beach Boys should be
hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York
City. Have you ever wanted a copy of a painting so
much that your muscles hurt? Robert's paintings do
that sort of thing to you.
BILL STEWART MATTERS
Sharon Sharpe is the daughter of a good friend. The
late Bill Stewart. The late L. David Moorhead used to
comment that without a Bill Stewart, there more than
likely wouldn't have been a Todd Storz and a Gordon
McLendon, both in the NAB Hall of Fame. Well, Gordon,
of course, was already a legend as the Old Scotsman.
But when it come to Top 40 radio, Moorhead was
probably correct. The tale of Bill Stewart has been
documented in "This Business of Radio Programming."
Except for the matter of his first marriage when he
was in classical music radio in Boston. This email
from Sharon is merely to augment the legend of her
father.
Dear family, friends, my brother Ralph Stewart passed
away after receiving a liver transplant and struggling
with many other ailments. He died in his sleep at Our
Lady's Residence, a Catholic nursing home near
Atlantic City. He is missed by many who knew him and
spoke at his funeral yesterday. He had 36 years of
sobriety in AA and NA and many he sponsored and helped
achieve the same were there to show their love for
him. I spoke for Ralph's Louisiana 'family' that loved
him and treated him like he's always been part of us.
Dad had been married and divorced from Ralph's mother
(many years before he came to New Orleans and met mom)
while he was a classical music DJ in Boston and
attended Emerson College. Ralph's mother shared some
wonderful stories and photos of my dad while I'm up
here with my niece and nephew. I told them Ralph was
sure to have become a true southerner, having spent
two winters with us in Slidell before Katrina closed
the Tulane transplant center. He eventually got a
liver at the Mayo clinic in Jacksonville, FL. Ralph
went to NA meetings while in Slidell and it wasn't
long before I'd hear "Hi, Ralph, Hi, Ralph" from guys
everywhere we went who he knew from the program. He
took the bus into New Orleans and knew where he could
find a Jesuit saying morning Mass or a deacon from
Slidell who would give him a ride back after Mass at
St. Patrick's. And of course, he had his spot at the
donut place on Gause. At 6'6" he was larger than life
and came down and helped me when we went out on our
own, giving me advise and counsel that helped me get
on my feet. He had been looking for his dad and found
me. I'm glad he did. He was my friend and brother.
Thanks to all of you for accepting him. He was at
peace knowing that there was a family that had loved
his dad and extended the same to him. It is sleeting
ice here. We bury him today in Pennsylvania.
POETIC MATTERS
Contingency
WHEN every step - even the way you think - is
contingent on something else, even someone else
YOU pause in thought and others may consider you old
and slow and weak when you are none of these
INSTEAD, you have merely mellowed as you've fought
against the fray of the years and dreams come and
dreams gone, some good and others not so good
YET, you are still here and still standing while many
have bid goodbye and gone and some may have wished you
well and others not and that matters not
INDEED, here no last wave by as you contemplate the
years you've weathered and all the good times gone and
good friends gone and things that might have been
FOR all the contingencies then and now and yet to be
encouraged muscles against the foe and victories, such
as might have been, you've found quite kind.
- c. hall, 12.2.07
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com |
