tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48150555147200725132024-03-21T19:53:32.779-07:00Silverspoon (The Greatest Band Nobody Ever Heard) plus Book 2 "Life After Silverspoon"jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-46333852081835748432024-02-12T13:04:00.000-08:002024-02-12T14:14:14.895-08:00Still Moving's First Single Release 2/22/24<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvI27YIITuQrsIzGWhqjINSv5x2eL0y3pXeXe1o5yJAbCAwYB2q4QuHvb0NcOrXGwfp0dnoGS-1sxjpQBQLChI5qb24nxfkQH0pVrEmjWmWUeRXF7fuXsNDE6KGv2kr7_qQfOBZAkbPFA1_mMl4Ws-hMDNJ2eJKCIreWpCSpiE_e63gARp9W3zhP8Vdug" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="3648" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvI27YIITuQrsIzGWhqjINSv5x2eL0y3pXeXe1o5yJAbCAwYB2q4QuHvb0NcOrXGwfp0dnoGS-1sxjpQBQLChI5qb24nxfkQH0pVrEmjWmWUeRXF7fuXsNDE6KGv2kr7_qQfOBZAkbPFA1_mMl4Ws-hMDNJ2eJKCIreWpCSpiE_e63gARp9W3zhP8Vdug=w355-h372" width="355" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My first single from the new album, Still Moving, is being
released on February 22. Hey, that’s really soon!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s my first studio album in, dare I say, 14 years? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Produced by my long-time friend and cohort, Chas Sandford,
It is the most rock record I've ever done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Please follow this link to stream it on Spotify, or most
other streaming services.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/jameswesleyhaymer/supermans-rocket">https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/jameswesleyhaymer/supermans-rocket</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<br />jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-91598931107989478872023-12-04T08:41:00.000-08:002023-12-04T13:34:47.077-08:00Looking Forward to Going Back - Again<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes
you must look backwards to move forward. I have been going back over these
chapters, updating and editing them from the beginning. I am proud to say that
this blog was used as a ref</span>erence in Kenneth Womack’s new book entitled <i>Living
the Beatles Legend, the Untold Story of Mal Evans</i>. So, I’ve got to get it
right. What an honor to be mentioned in a book (even though I’m called Jimmy) about
the Beatles road manager and trusted friend. I am tempted to put all these
chapters together and publish it as a book. I am also in the final stages of my
fifth record called <i>Still Moving</i>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Love
to all,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">James
Haymer</span><o:p></o:p></p>jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-47989085558078808242020-02-04T15:26:00.003-08:002023-11-18T05:56:21.473-08:00Chapter Four - The Good Pings In Life <br />
<h1>
</h1>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It's been a long time since I have posted but here goes . . . </div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[endif]--></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
Man created the smart
phone. Now you have a decent portable compact computer at your fingertips. I got
this new Iphone 5c — it’s new for me but it is five or six phones behind. But
for a hundred and fifty bucks on eBay with a year warranty I’m finally entering
into the twenty-first century. Now a phone was more than a phone. Morgan, My
youngest son, helps me set it up, and after download the Uber and Waze apps I’m
good to go. I buy a cheap car-phone stand that attaches to your windshield at
the new Spring Hill Wal-Mart for about ten dollars plus tax and a two-way in – one-way
out adapter for my cigarette lighter. Morgan lets me borrow his Garmin GPS as a
backup. I still haven’t returned it. He says he uses Google maps or Waze on his
Iphone so I could keep it.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
My first ping is
unremarkable. All I can remember is that I am a little nervous and I try to
concentrate on where I’m going while getting used to the Uber app. I’m a pretty
good driver when I have to be. I used to be reckless in my twenties and
thirties, but now I’m older and much more careful, especially with the
exponential growth of idiot drivers here. You practically have to be psychic to
avoid a wreck. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The first day ends without any major catastrophes; except
there was one time I make a wrong turn onto Interstate 24 West and had to
double back to the 40 East. The woman is stressed out about being late for a
job interview at Plus Park on Briley isn’t making it any easier. I finally get
her there at 8:35 only losing five minutes with that errant turn. She gets out
and closes the door an aggressive manner. I apologize and tell the old it’s my
first day line, even so, I know I am going to get a bad rating from her. When I
get home in the afternoon, I check my rating. I had three five stars, two four
stars, and a three star which averaged out to a 4.3. Now, you’d think that
would be a pretty good rating. If it were a hotel or a restaurant that would be
commendable, but not with Uber. I hear that if you fell below a four they can
lock you out. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I call my neighbors, Mark and Ashley, a couple with a
farm across the road. It’s where we get our eggs. Mark is a guitar player
originally from Indiana. He’s also a great photographer and graphic designer. He
helped set up both of my novels and even took the back cover photo. He also
sells ukuleles, classic watches, iron skillets and handcrafted wooden bowls on
Etsy. A real modern –say Renaissance man. He calls Ashley, a local girl from
old money, his farm wife. A gentle soul, she lets Mark walk all over her. He
drinks a lot of beer; at least he did at the time. Ashley agrees to letting me
Uber her to the grocery store and back. I tell her I will reimburse her but she
wouldn’t think of it. She gives me five stars. I now have a 4.43 rating. Good,
but not good enough. When Donna gets home I explain the situation. I ask if she
could let me Uber her for a couple of miles and give me five stars. She says we
could use some stuff at Kroger after the traffic dies down. I tell her about taking
Ashley already. She laughs. I download the Uber app on her phone and show her
how to use it. She’s worse than me with computers. After getting home from
Kroger at around eight-thirty and she had ended the ride, and five-star later I
was now a 4.5. That’s enough for one night. The ride costs us seven or eight
backs, but it was worth it to sleep tonight with peace of mind. I find out
later that Uber waits until you have completed one hundred rides before they
take the ratings seriously. That’s good to know.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;">
The first ride that I would consider memorable was on the
Friday morning of my second week. I receive a ping for a Ben at one of the
older subdivision in Spring Hill. I wait in from the address on the app, and it
is taking a long time for Ben to show. Eight minutes later a tall young man in
his late teens or early twenties struggles to make his way down his driveway. I
think there might be something wrong with him so I get out of my car and help
him into the front passenger seat. I look at the Uber app and his address has
disappears from my phone.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ben, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It looks like you cancelled the ride.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s gone from the app. Maybe it was some kind of
glitch. Why don’t you try again?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
He takes out his phone
from his jacket pocket and holds it up, I’m not exaggerating, two inches from
his left eye and tries to log on to Uber. He’s having a lot of trouble. I ask
him if he needs any help but he says he’s got it. His phone pings. Mine
doesn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It looks like you got a driver, but it isn’t me.” A
minute later another Uber driver in a black Toyota Camry pulls up. I get out of
my car and try to explain to the Uber driver that I had this ride. They always
ping the closest driver, and my car couldn’t be any closer; he was logging on
from inside my car. The Camry driver, a young man wearing a turban drives off
in a cloud of dust. He’s pissed off.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where you going, anyway?” I ask Ben.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Down by the Opryland Hotel. They’re shooting an episode
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nashville</i>, and I signed on as an
extra.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cool. Try requesting a ride again.” The other rider must
have cancelled enabling him to hit the request a ride button again. This time
my phone pings. It comes up Music Valley Road, right by the Fiddler’s Inn. It’s
a good thirty-five miles which will net me thirty or more dollars. I’m happy
we‘d sorted things out, but I feel bad for the Uber driver in the Camry. Ben
turns his head to the left as far as it would rotate and looks at me with his
right eye. “You’re James right?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got it. There’s gonna be a lot of traffic and it may
take an hour to get there? Are you okay with that?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As long as we get there by nine.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll do my best.” I knew there was something wrong with
his vision but I thought it could have been a temporary thing so I ask him,
“Don’t you have a car?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t drive. As you may have noticed my vision isn’t
so good. I’m blind in my left eye.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, I’m sorry man.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can see well out of my right eye but my left is toast.
It called retinitis pigmentosa. It’s like tunnel vision. I have no peripheral
vision on my left side. They do make special mirrors, but they’re really
expensive. I’d rather take an Uber.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Isn’t there some kind of operation they can do to fix it?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They can, but my insurance won’t cover it. It would cost
half-a-million dollars. My parents can’t afford that. Maybe someday.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think if that were my kid I would beg, borrow or
steal to get the money to pay for an operation. I don't know all the facts,
though. You can never really judge other people’s situation. Every story has
its own story.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was an extra in LA a long time ago and I did a stint
at the old prison in here West Nashville near Centennial Boulevard. It’s was
for that Redford movie, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Castle</i>.
I had a blast,” I say. “How did you get this gig?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I joined this agency here. They got me three days on
this show. It’s my first day today.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The traffic is at its usual crawl going up the one lane
road on Hwy 31 at 8:45, but it begins to thin out once we make it past the
light at Thompson Station Road. After another two miles we’re on the 840 east
and two miles after that, the 65 north. The traffic is doable moving about
thirty-five to forty miles per hour. After living in LA this kind of traffic is
a breeze.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So Ben, do you go to school?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nah, I graduated high school a year ago and I’ve been,
you know, just hanging out trying to figure out what’s next. I was thinking
about going to some kind of trade school. Diesel truck mechanic or something. I
just don’t know how I could afford it with all the Ubers twice a day.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t want to bring up his parents helping him again;
I knew that was a sore spot with Ben. “Have you thought about going to
community college? They have a great one, Columbia Community College here in
Franklin. It’s dead cheap.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know. Maybe.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could go for two years and by then you may figure
out what you want to do. If it’s a mechanic, then you could do that after. You
know what I mean? The first two years of college isn’t anything more than
general study anyway.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s right. I heard some of my friends talk about
Columbia, they really seem to like it.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There you go. Maybe one of your friends could carpool
with you or help with an Uber. It’s a thought, anyway.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll talk it over with my parents. But I don’t think
they’ll go for it.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why not?” I didn’t mean to pry, but these parents of him
were beginning to piss me off. Ben was an intelligent, good looking kid. Just
because he had a handicap doesn’t mean they should treat him like an invalid.
“I don’t mean to pry, but do your parents own that house In Spring Hill?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, why?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know interest rates are the lowest they’ve been in
years. They could maybe refinance and use some of that money to send you to
school. It’s just a thought.” He got real quiet after that. I hoped I hadn’t
touched on a nerve. “Listen, Ben, I’m sorry if I got out of line but I really
like you and I think you could have a great future if you give yourself a
chance. Hey, if you need someone to talk to about this or anything else, give
me a call. I’ll give you my number when we get there. Okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure, that would be great.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Exiting Briley Parkway we make a right on Music Valley
Road. I can see a crowd of young people dressed in Nashville hipster garb
standing in front of a makeshift nightclub. I pull into a parking space and put
the car in park. I hand Ben one of my business card I keep in my tip hat with a
printed out sign reading—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I tip my hat to
you for the gratuity</i>. I thought that was pretty clever when I printed it
out on my computer and tacked it on with double sided duct tape the week
before. I get out of the car and help Ben with his stuff. It was nine o’clock
exactly.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Looks like it’s just getting started. Have a good one,
Ben, and remember if you feel like talking, give me a call. If you get the
voice mail leave a message. I’ll call you back.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks again, James. I will.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had an urge to check out the set and see if I could
sign on as an extra but I didn’t want to deal with all the red tape I would
probably have to go through. Just not worth it, besides, I could make more
money in half the time with Uber. Still, it could have been fun. I watch Ben
walk toward the crowd and, after a minute or so, he enters the building. I hope
the kid calls. It seems like he needs some guidance, an older voice to talk
with. If nothing else, someone to listen to him. I didn’t think his parents did
much of that. Ben never called. Not yet anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<br />jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-28496248514476333242018-09-26T12:05:00.001-07:002018-09-26T12:05:33.584-07:00Chapter Three -Who’s Your Caddy – Part Two<br />
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<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
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<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After waiting a week or so, I found out I had made it to
the caddy qualifying stage at Richland. I was to report to the caddyshack at seven
am sharp and begin walking the course with the other dozen or so prospective
caddies. I once again drove my Alfa but this time I headed up the proper drive
way and parked in a space far enough away from the members. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not only was I going to walk the course I was to caddy
for the asshole. The first three holes at Richland are impossible—straight uphill.
I tried my best to keep ahead of the golfer but I was already lagging behind.
Let’s face it, I was at least twenty years older than the second oldest caddy,
I was trying my best but time was not my friend. By the time we reached the
ninth hole Daniel the demonstrative was on my case. He was constantly
correcting me for calling the flagstick a flag and that I wasn’t quick enough.
Now when I look on TV and see the professional caddies, they seem to be walking
at a moderate pace and staying behind the golfer. When I pointed this out to
Daniel he said. “This is a private club and I expect you to be perfect. I f you
want to apply for the PGA Tour, good luck to you, but it’s never gonna happen,
so you might as well get with the program—my program. Let’s see how you do
tomorrow, but I have a feeling this job is not in your future. I hope you can
prove me wrong.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next day I was going to caddy for two players, Daniel
and Mike. That meant I had to carry two heavy bags. One was bad enough, but
two! I knew it was going to be a struggle. I went home and grabbed two golf
bags from my closet and filled them with the correct amount of clubs (fourteen)
and weighed them down with dozens of golf balls. They roughly seemed the same
weight as the bag I had been carrying earlier in the day. When I placed the two
bags on either shoulder, I had a hard time keeping the straps from falling down.
I knew tomorrow was going to be a disaster.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I arrived back a Richland it was a beautiful day in
early spring without a cloud in the sky. That soon changed. Storm clouds were
rolling in fast. Daniel and Mike told me to follow them out to the first tee
and we would try to get nine holes in before the rain came. The two golfers
teed off and I grabbed their two bags and placed them on either shoulder. I was
doing alright as long as I walked at a medium pace but as soon as I tried to
get in front of them (which is what I was required to do) they began to sip
down my arm. I was getting dirty looks from Daniel, but Mike seemed to be a
little understanding of my dilemma. I was watching the other caddy, probably
thirty years my junior having no problem at all. What was I thinking when I
applied for this job? I knew I loved gold and I thought it was going to be
breeze carrying a bag, handing out the proper club and reading putts, (something
I am very good at) but it wasn’t working out like I had planned. Daniel and I
were in the ninth fairway when he said, “You know James, of the nine holes we
played today, you only did well on one. I’m going to give you one more chance
at the green. If you don’t hold the flagstick properly, read the putt correctly
and not make any mistakes, you can try again tomorrow.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Daniel’s
clubs were resting on the fairway about three yards from a fast moving stream.
Now the old me would have picked up that golf bag and nonchalantly thrown them
into that body of water. Thank God I had grown up a little. Instead I let him
have it verbally. “Look Daniel, I have been trying my best to do all the things
you said but I guess I’ just not cutting it. I love the game of golf, but if I
kept on going with this caddy thing. I would soon learn to hate it. I don’t
want that to happen so I quit. I thought at sixty years of age I was not too
old to handle caddying, but I guess I was wrong. Imagine what it would be like
in the ninety degree heat with a hundred percent humidity. I would literally die.
So it’s best we nip this thing in the bud.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you
sure, James?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you
kidding me, Daniel? You don’t want me here anymore than I want to be here at
the moment.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s not
exactly true.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh come on.
Hey, by the way, you know that five star restaurant in Napa Valley? I checked
it out on the internet, and there is no way in the world you could have had a
four figure meal unless you ordered everything on the menu twice . . . and
those truffles? I think you were exaggerating the cost just a trifle. Hey, trifle
truffles, I like that. So what I mean to say is, you are completely full of
shit. So as Johnny Paycheck so aptly coined in song—take this job and shove it.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
walked off the ninth fairway and headed to my car in the parking lot without
turning around. I didn’t have to; I could tell exactly what the expression on
his face would be. Shocked. I felt vindicated. So it was back to the drawing
board. My sister had mentioned Uber. I had no idea what Uber was, but it was
going to play a part in my future. Once again Susan came through. Yes!</div>
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<br />jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-83211483130621054592018-02-08T13:15:00.000-08:002018-02-08T13:15:32.718-08:00Chapter Two - Who's Your Caddy - Part One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGarZ2TBpPTcLJT81FyB7QjszuTjE9BT8mEnBDSv08ftCCN2tbstkgW3tuDIp-kWB_lqBUHeId3LkUuKFPr910ExloKHzNco8LVdeENHQD76uyRpYtP9CnOOgHzxAY37FUWlixYOTr7k/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGarZ2TBpPTcLJT81FyB7QjszuTjE9BT8mEnBDSv08ftCCN2tbstkgW3tuDIp-kWB_lqBUHeId3LkUuKFPr910ExloKHzNco8LVdeENHQD76uyRpYtP9CnOOgHzxAY37FUWlixYOTr7k/s640/003.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Well,
it was back to the old drawing board. There was no way in the world I was ever
going to be a postal worker again –that’s for damn sure. But what was I going
to do? I had written two books, available on Amazon, but the sales aren’t
lighting the world on fire, hell, they aren’t even igniting the small town of
Thompson Station. I wasn’t even in to playing my guitar that much anymore, and
I didn’t want to tackle another book although I had started writing a story
about my relationship with my old girlfriend, the German one, the one that
broke my heart, but that was too painful for me to relive. I was looking on
Craigslist and, of all things; I saw an ad for a caddy at Richland Country Club.
I can’t remember the name of the company but it could have been something as
generic as Caddys ‘R Us, or Who’s Your Caddy Inc. I responded to the ad and set
up an interview at ten am the next morning.</div>
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I woke up early, as I usually do, and took
a long, hot bath with my cup of coffee resting on the stool beside me. I
decided, since it was a beautiful late February morning, to drive my 1990 Alfa
Romeo Graduate with the top down. I gave myself plenty of time to traverse the
twenty or so miles to Oak Hills and I arrived a good twenty minutes early. I
missed the first left turn into the county club so I took the next left which
happened to be the maintenance entrance. As fate would have it, I found myself
on the cart path, where those expensive little golf carts zip up and down next
to the corresponding golf holes. I knew I needed to turn around, but that would
have been hard to do without backing up and driving onto one of the fairways.
Not a good thing to do. I noticed up ahead there was a gate that seemed to lead
to the main entrance so I ventured forth. By the time I got to the gate I saw
that it was padlocked closed. The only thing I could do was the reverse down
the cart path and get the hell out of there before one of the workers saw me
and reported me to the higher-ups. What mystified me was—where were all the
golfers? I mean it was ten o’clock on a beautiful Tuesday morning and was
driving through one of the most prestigious golf courses in Middle Tennessee
and it was virtually deserted. Something was not right.</div>
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While backing up I veered a little too far
toward the fifth tee box and ran over the curb. I then put the car back into
first gear and eased my way forward but the car wouldn’t move. I turned off the
Alfa, got out of the car to see what was impeding my forward progress. My left
two wheels were on the cart path and the right two was on the grass. That
wasn’t the problem. I saw the problem. To my amazement, the frame of the car in
front of the passenger side rear wheel was lodged against the curb. I got back
in the car, tried to rock it to the left. Nada. Then to the right. Nothing. I
was stuck. What was I going to do? I couldn’t call AAA and have a tow truck
pull me out in the middle of a very exclusive golf club where members pay over
a hundred grand a year for membership dues. So I walked around looking for a
worker or somebody to discreetly help me dislodge my car from the curb. As I
walked toward the clubhouse, I saw four young golfers finishing up their putts
on the fourth green. When they all putted out I asked if they could help me. It
knew they were heading for the fifth tee box where they would see an
unusual-looking golf cart in the shape of a black Alfa Romeo, so I headed them
off at the pass. I explained my situation and they kindly offered to help. I
got in the car, started it up while the four of them rocked me back and forth
and then left and right. It wouldn’t budge and the back wheels were making a
terrible divot not even Tiger Woods could make with a sand wedge. Then I had an
idea.</div>
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I noticed the back right wheel was only four
or five inches from the curb. If somehow we could lift the rear end of the Alfa
and move the tire onto the curb my frame would be in the clear. The car
couldn’t have weighed any more than eighteen- or nineteen-hundred pounds so I
thought with a little elbow grease it could be done. Between the five of us, we
were able to jimmy the car to the left and after about five or six tries, the
wheel was resting comfortably on the curb. I thanked them profusely and pulled
the hell out of Dodge. When I reached the gate I saw the padlock wasn’t
fastened so I turned off the car, put it in gear, since the Alfa was parked on
a steep incline and my parking brake wasn’t working, got out, opened the gate,
and in a matter of seconds I was back on the main road to the clubhouse. I
pulled through the main gate and parked the Alfa in the visitor’s lot and made
it to the interview at five minutes after ten. Those four young golfer really
save my hide. I hoped they wouldn’t say anything, but I knew that if they did I
would be out of the interview before they finished their round. Not an
auspicious start. I should have known then that this was not going to work out
well.</div>
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The room had three-inch-thick red pile
carpeting, oak-laden walls (the real stuff not that cheap wood paneling), high
ceilings and a long banquet table with a lined table cloth in the middle.
Seated around the table were six or seven applicants, all of whom were in their
twenties and thirties. I knew, at the ripe old age of sixty-three, I was a out
of my element. At the head of the table was appeared to be the manager and his
assistant. The manager, whom I later found out was named Daniel, was
pontificating about how pristine the golf course was and how, if accepted in
this caddy program, we had to follow the rules, be quick, polite, always walk
at least ten paces in front of the golfers and be ready to hand the golfers
their club of choice. The assistant nodded his head and smiled. He was a lackey
but a pleasant one, not like his boss, Daniel, whom I could tell was a complete
asshole.</div>
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“Good service,” Daniel said, “was the most
important feature of a caddy. “When I was in Northern California last year, I
took my wife to a five-star restaurant where, I must say, we had the most
amazing dinner of our entire life. It was a sixteen-course meal and the piece
d’ resistance was the truffles they grated on our salad. Some of these truffles
I hear can cost up to a thousand dollars an ounce. The meal was fantastic, but
what impressed me the most was our water glasses. As soon as they got near
empty, there was a waiter on hand to refill them. Now that was service! The
check was in the four-figure range, but it was worth every penny.” This guy was
so full of himself boasting about truffles and spending thousands of dollars
for a meal. Every time he said something he thought was clever or impressive,
he would punctuate the word or phrase by arching his eyebrows and bugging out
his eyes. I disliked the man intensely.
Besides, I thought it was all bullshit, but still I smiled and tried to
look interested.</div>
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I filled out the rest of my application
while the assistant, I think his name was Steve, told us, if our application
checked out, we would get a call in the next few days to begin the training. It
was a non-paying training but caddies could make up to two or three hundred
dollars a day in tips, if they did a good job. I liked the sound of that. How
hard could it be? I loved golf and I would get a lot of exercise. The best part
would be playing this amazing course. Yeah, but I had heard that one before.</div>
jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-5072579529602689052017-07-01T07:10:00.000-07:002017-07-01T07:25:37.943-07:00Part Three - Chapter One – Going Postal<h2>
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In July last year, the Tennessee
Haymers all flew back to Los Angeles for the marriage of my niece, Emily, to
another Max (Boigon). Meanwhile, Max Haymer’s wife, Amy, was almost nine months
pregnant. Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone and be there when she
popped. We got our wish. On the day before we flew back to Nashville, Amy and
Max Haymer had a little baby girl, Lucy, and, of course, she is the sweetest
little thing on earth. How about that, I’m a great uncle. Well, maybe not so
great, but really good.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Jonathan, our oldest son, came back
from China that same month and met us in Los Angeles and was able to attend the
wedding and be there for the birth of little Lucy. The timing couldn’t have
been better. I was so happy to see him – we all were. He looked great even
though his hair was almost military short. At this time, he was in his last
month of college at MTSU. He changed his major from engineering to global
studies since the classes he took in China reflected that course of study. Being
so sick of school; he wants it to be over as soon as possible. Just wait until
you get out into the real world of business, my son, and you will miss the
comfort and security of being in school. I hope he finds a great career using
his skills as an entrepreneur and a lad almost fluent in Mandarin.</span></div>
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In September, with the book
completed and my musical career at a standstill, I decided to get a real job.
It had been long enough. Donna had been carrying the financial burden for way
too long and it was time for me to contribute. Better late that never. I had
gone to the local post office here in Thompson Station and after talking to
Brad, the man at the counter, about job opportunities. He suggested I go online
and check out the USPS website. I did, and got a job a month or two later.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At first, the job seemed all right.
I was in training and helping Emily, the fifty-something, stressed-out, postal
lady on route 25. It covered two subdivisions, Canterbury and Tollgate. I don’t
know how she did it in the time allotted, which was 8.4 hours. If it weren’t
for me helping with the Amazon packages, I don’t thing she would have finished
the route in less than twelve.</div>
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Before I got my postal legs, I had
to train in the Nashville facility for a few days. I didn’t mind, they not only
paid fifteen buck an hour in the classroom, but also for the mileage to get
there and back. I thought it might be a sweet deal. Boy oh boy, was I ever
wrong about that!</div>
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In the training, they stresses
safety this and safety that. Safety, as you probably guessed, was the main
priority. Not so! Since they didn’t have a postal van for me to drive, I was
notified that I had to use my own vehicle, a Toyota Sienna minivan, sit in the
passenger seat and drape my left arm and leg across the console. This, in my
humble opinion, isn’t the safest thing in the world. I was advised to get a
“suicide knob” for my steering wheel, that way I could do broad turns with my
left hand. I went to Tractor Supply, bought one for twelve bucks, and installed
it right away. I also purchased a flashing light which attached to the roof by
magnets. I was all set.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since the USPS made a deal with
Amazon to deliver their packages, you wouldn’t believe how many there were;
especially over Christmas. Sometimes I had to make three, even four trips from
the post office to my route. With just the packages alone, I was out more than
ten hours. I couldn’t imagine doing this route for real, even if I started at
dawn I would never make back until dark.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let me explain something about
being a postal carrier. Do you think it’s just delivering mail and packages?
Wrong! The first thing you do is remove the trays of mail and bring it to your
little three-by-five foot cubby hole. Fortunately, the mail is sorted by
address, and if your really good, you can take the trays right to your vehicle
(with the packages, magazines and flyers, and what-have-you) and go right to
your route. Very few carriers can do this since you are sorting and driving at
the same time. Safe? I don’t think so. You think texting and driving is bad,
this takes the cake. So, most carriers sort the mail into the hundreds of
addressed slots, add the periodicals, magazines and flyers, and then put color
coded markers where a package or registered letter corresponds to that
particular address. This could literally take hours and you still have to pull
all the mail, magazines etc., and markers down and put them in order back into
the trays. By now, more than half the day is gone and then you go out to your
van and load it all up. Not a fun day.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
To make matters worse, the
postmaster that hired me retired just before Christmas and a new postmaster
came to town. Let’s call him Fat Albert. Fat Albert was a four-hundred pound butterball
that liked to push his weight around. He had his sights on me, since I was the
last carrier to leave for my route. Emily was on vacation, and it was now up to
me to do her whole route (previously I had only covered one subdivision at a
time and she did the other; now I had to do both). The day before my trial by
fire, Fat Albert wanted to see if I could sort mail in another cubby hole, I
think it was for route 22. I had no idea where anything went. The mail slots
are not linear and cross streets interrupt the direct flow of the addresses, so
nothing was a straight shot. You had to memorize the streets. That was the only
way.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
FA told me I was working too
slowly. I told him I was doing the best I could. He asked me again when I was
going to be through. I looked at the stack of magazines (maybe four hundred
more) on the table and said, “When hell freezes over.” That didn’t go over to
well. Then I said, “Since you have been working for the post office for what I
assume years, why don’t you show me how it is done so I could learn from your
expertise?” He said he was not going to sort my stuff just to prove a point. He
knew as well as I, he wouldn’t have been able to do any better.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I also made suggestions heard by
deaf ears. Government job. Need I say more? One such suggestion was that there
should be a dedicated Amazon package delivery person to lighten the load of the
mail and magazine delivery. He told me that instead of trying to change the way
the post office does things, why didn’t I concentrate on doing my job better.</div>
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The day finally came when I had to
do the complete route. It was a nightmare. I didn’t get back into the post
office until nine pm. I then told Fat Albert that I couldn’t do the job
anymore. I quit on February 5, 2016. He looked shocked.</div>
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One final note. I found out they
had taken my advice and hired a full time package person. Too late. I was
already gone.</div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-65040342949827548922015-08-26T16:23:00.002-07:002015-08-26T16:26:21.719-07:00Champion of Lost Causes - now available!<br />
My new novel, Champion of Lost Causes is now available on Amazon for $2.99 (Kindle) and $14.95 for a hard copy. Go to the link below to check it out.<br />
<img src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51JXvxDCutL._SX341_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" /><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TE29O0W" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/dp/<wbr></wbr>B00TE29O0W</a>jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-13285835426355245252015-03-24T08:34:00.000-07:002015-03-28T16:09:26.771-07:00Chapter 72 – Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As March of 2015 comes to a close, I think about the future as well as the past. In the last month, I have visited Florida twice, one for SleuthFest in Deerfield Beach and the other a family vacation in Miramar Beach. It was a miracle the Sienna made it to the white sands of the Gulf Coast and back with the check engine light on. The van has 238,000 miles on it. Miracles and wonderment!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jonathan missed that vacation. I miss him terribly. We haven’t seen him in person since he left for Hangzhou, China in September of 2013. That’s two of his birthdays, two Christmas/Chanukah’s, two New Year’s come and gone without him here. Yes, we are planning for the future, when my niece, Emily is getting married in L.A. and my nephew, Max and his wife, Amy, are expecting their first child. This is all supposed to happen in mid-July—the same week. Jonathan is planning to join us there and, hopefully he will decide to stay in Tennessee after that, and finish his schooling. On the other hand, he may decide to go back to China and finish things up there. Daniel will graduate high school in May with honors, and will soon be going off to college at UT Chattanooga. Morgan, our youngest, is going to be a junior in high school soon, and is well on his way to being a film editor. He is so talented—movies are his blood. You should see him do what he calls “tricking”. It is basically extreme martial arts mixed with gymnastics. He can flip (what he calls a dub) with the best of ‘em. In two years we will be empty-nesters. But, as always, the future is uncertain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was at SleuthFest, I had a pitch session with an agent from ICM in New York about my new book, <i>Champion of Lost Causes</i>. The novel is a fictionalization of my band, Silverspoon, wrapping around another story of Blake Lilly, a talented but troubled recording engineer who looks me up on Facebook after forty years. The Blake Lilly character is based on a true story. This guy actually contacted me on Facebook. He said he listened to my music and wanted to hire me, even pay me double scale, to play guitar on some tracks for a band he was producing. I had the feeling he was blowing smoke up my wazoo, and Donna thought he had trouble with the truth. She told me to ignore the guy. It was going to lead to trouble or, at best, disappointment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The guy would call me up and tell me to meet him at SIR rehearsal studios the next day. Just as I was getting ready to leave, he would tell me the session was canceled. This went on for weeks. Then he give me this hard luck story of how his briefcase with all of his money, ID and a very expensive microphone had been stolen. I felt bad for the guy. It seemed like he had no friends. I offered to lend him some money to get him through the hard times. I just wanted to do something altruistic—like I did when I was younger before the harsh realities of life began to beat me down. It was only a hundred bucks. I wired him the money. Two days later, he told me his roommate was going to throw his ass out on the street if he didn’t come up with another seventy-five dollars. I knew I shouldn’t have done the first hundred, but now another, seventy-five? I told him all I could do was fifty and would wire it directly to his roommate. After that he was on his own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I finally made it down to meet him and the band. He was a no-show. I went out to lunch with the band’s manager and some of the musicians and they told me some of this guy’s war stories. The guy finally gave up and moved back to L.A. To this day, more than a year later, I haven’t even met the guy. But he did send me a check for $170 a few months ago. I guess I guilted him into it. Unfortunately, the check didn’t clear. I called him back to tell him this and he said it was a bank error. I tried it again. It still didn’t clear. His local branch manager of Wells Fargo Bank in Los Angeles figured out that when the guy had changed to an interest checking account, it was a different account number. What a numb-nut. The manager finally okayed the check and I cashed it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This led to my book. Since I never met the guy, I had to make up his backstory. That was the fun part. Since the agent at ICM passed (it only took her a week to send me a very nice rejection letter), I have decided to spruce and tighten up the novel. I met a very informed and experienced writer at SleuthFest (in fact she is one of the founding members) who is helping me to get the book in what she calls “ready for prime time” shape. Thanks, Victoria. It should be finished by summer. I hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, is this going to be the final chapter of Life After Silverspoon? I’m actually not sure about that either. Life continues, and I’m sure there will be stories to convey. Jonathan’s return to America, Max and Amy’s baby, Emily and Max (yes, her fiancée’s name is also Max) wedding and who know what else. It has been a long and winding road, as Sir Paul would say, and I have enjoyed writing it (most of it anyway). I appreciate all the support along the way from readers like you, and especially my wife, Donna. She has been a saint to put up with, not only this blog, but my retelling the story of Justin Goodman, Blake Lilly and the colorful cast of characters in my newest novel. I will let everyone know when it’s finished. If it every really gets finished. Writing books is hard work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I haven’t written a song in over a year. Maybe when the book is done, I’ll get back to it. I hope so. I miss recording, but I will have to buy a new Mac since my older workhorse finally took a dump. I hope my Protools will load up and all my files are safe on my back up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If nothing else, my life had been interesting. I never made a million or two. I did sell a couple of songs, some to major recording artists, but never had a hit. I do have four solo CDs that I am very proud of. Now, I rarely play guitar, and when I do, it’s with my middle boy Daniel, who is extremely talented—smart too. Smart enough not to go into the music business.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d like to leave you all with a song.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background: white;">Life is just a bowl of cherries</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Don't take it serious,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Life's too mysterious</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">You work,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">You save,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">You worry so</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">But you can't take your dough<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">When you go, go, go</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">So keep repeating "It's the berries."</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The strongest oak must fall</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The sweet things in life<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To you were just loaned</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">So how can you lose<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">What you've never owned</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">Life is just a bowl of cherries</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">So live and laugh, aha!<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Laugh and love<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Live and laugh,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Laugh and love,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Live and laugh at it all!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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When I look over at the face of an angel next to me in repose, the woman I had asked to share my life-book— together through each chapter, each page, each sentence, each word and even the spaces in between the words, I feel lucky, truly blessed. And my kids, Jonathan, Daniel and Morgan. I couldn’t have asked for three better sons. God, I love them all so much! I couldn’t imagine any other life as sweet. Why not end with another song? One that I wrote called <i>Song for My Sons</i>. It’s the last track on my <i>Timing is Everything</i> CD. You can also find it on my Reverb Nation page: <a href="http://www.reverbnation.com/jameswesleyhaymer">http://www.reverbnation.com/jameswesleyhaymer</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, it dropped straight down and hit you on the knee,<o:p></o:p></div>
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So if you want to grow up and be like me, you’ve got to learn to play your song.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m your dad, so take my advice, go lead yourself an honest life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t burn the candle at both ends, be good to yourself and all of your friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You don’t fortune, you don’t need fame, all you got to do is play the game.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Find a good partner to be your mate, give a little more back, son, then you take.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, I love you so,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I take you with me wherever I go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Find someone to be there when you’re down, and tell you the truth when there’s no one around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So listen when she talks, at least for awhile, you’ll make it through the smiles and crying times.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do what you love, and love what you see, and try not to live beyond your means.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stand up for the week and keep the land free, have compassion, strength and dignity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, I love you so,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I take you with me wherever I go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes you feel like giving up when your best shot isn’t good enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But remember that failures need apply only to the ones who fails to try.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is what I’m leaving to you, you don’t need to listen, don’t need to approve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just do what you love, and love what you do, and let God’s true light pull you through.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love you more than I love the sky, and all the planets passing by,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Be kind to your brothers, and treat ’em like gold,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Might be all that’s left when you get old.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, I love you so,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I take you with me wherever I go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I got a good home (wife) and family, I love my babies one and two and three.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And you don’t need eyes to clearly see, true love will last an eternity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Take it for what it is, judge for yourself, but I found fortune beyond any wealth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I eat when I’m hungry, and sleep when I’m tired, and most of the time I’m satisfied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, I love you so,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I you’ll take me with you wherever you go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-70420369453023045212015-03-09T07:06:00.000-07:002015-03-09T07:06:28.205-07:00Chapter 71 – Meet the Taylors<br /><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<o:p> Jason Saks, me, Donna and Nicky Saks</o:p></div>
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First, a little backstory. I had no idea that I had any relatives my age in England until Jason Saks, my cousin, appeared at my parents door in 1977. He had been doing a little research about the Flieg/Sacks/Haymer connection and figured out that my dad, Johnny Haymer of <i>M*A*S*H </i>and<i> Annie Hall</i> fame was his uncle. Jason was working for Redken at the time and was in California for a brief stint. As soon as I saw his Aston Martin DB-5 parked outside and his dark curly-headed locks and oversized shnoz, I knew he was family. When Donna first met Jason on our way to Scotland (we had stopped in Manchester while driving up in 1990) she laughed at how, with the tea drinking and doilies covering the food, my relatives seemed more British than her family. No wonder I thought I was destined to be a second generation Beatle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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More recently, Jason’s brother, Jonathan, had been doing some research on a newly discovered relative, and here is the truncated version of the story. My great grandfather (nobody remembers his name, but let's just call him Mr. Zachnovitch or more simply, Mr. Z), was married two times, and the year that my Grandma Betty (and Jason’s Aunt Betty Ann) left for America in 1911, Jason's father, David, came into being from the second wife. Well as it turn out, there was a younger sister of Betty's from the first wife. Her name was Minnie. She had also come to America, St. Louis to be exact, and stayed with my grandparents, Joe Flieg (who I am named after), and his wife, Betty in 1914 or so. The hard thing to figure out is: Why had I never heard of Minnie? She had seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. She supposedly left St. Louis and headed to New York City with a musician named George Tilson, who later changed his named to George Taylor. They had a son in the early ‘30s and called him George. <o:p></o:p></div>
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George Taylor Jr. is now 81 years old (or thereabouts) and is the first cousin of my dad, and my second cousin once removed, and I never knew he existed until the night Jason called me from England. He said he and his wife, Nicky and their two kids, Joe and Hannah were going to Orlando over Christmas and New Year’s of 2011/2012 and invited me and my family to join them on a sojourn to meet our long lost relatives. How could we refuse? Whenever I hear talk about family trees and tracing the ancestry of relatives, my head spins. I know you’re your head is a whirling dervish right about now. Right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, we made it down to Orlando and the tolls on the Turnpike were outrageous. Welcome to The Las Vegas for children. Heading southwest to Kissimmee to the township of Celebration where our Orbit One Vacation Villas awaited us a few miles from the Saks’s who were staying in a nearby vacation villa called the Bahama Bay Resort.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From the outside, Orbit One looked like it once was a thriving monument to Space Mountain, but now it was a bit rundown from neglect, bad management, or lack of funds. At least there was a nice pool, a putting green, tennis courts and a game room filled with arcade games and a pool table that were all in fairly good condition. Surprisingly, the condo looked a lot better from the inside. There was a Jacuzzi in the main bathroom and skylights in the living room and in the master bedroom. There were three televisions (one of them being a flat screen in the living room so the boys could hook up the PlayStation 3). Jonathan, who would turn twenty-one in March, was hogging the PS3, and stayed up until the wee hours of the night playing Skyrim and watching movies on HBO.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Sakses and Haymers were in communication by cell phone. Since they had a cell phone with a UK number, Donna had arranged to get on the world connect plan with our phone company before we left which brought the cost down to twenty-eight cents a minute and texts to fifty cents each. I think it was around nine or ten at night when I called Jason from some rip-off supermarket owned by Indians (the Eastern kind), and he told me he and his family were nearby. I ran out of the market leaving Donna and the boys to finish up being gouged by the outrageous prices at shop and told them to meet up at the entrance to our condo as soon as they were done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I approached the gate, I saw a silver SUV of some kind and long haired people with British teeth waiving from the interior. As I got closer I could see a swarthy, dark curly-headed man in the driver’s seat next to a slim woman with medium length brown hair, and two kids with noses pressed against the glass. It was them. Jason flung himself out of the van and ran down to meet me with open arms. I ran toward him, and we embraced like cousins who hadn't seen each other in over five years would do. Walking back towards the Silver Dodge SUV, I saw Nicky waiting for a hug and I was more than happy to oblige. Then Hanna and Joe exploded out of the wan and were not shy about getting their fair share of embraces. Pictured below: Daniel Haymer, Jonathan Haymer, Joe Saks, Hannah Saks and Morgan Haymer.</div>
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Donna and the boys drove up within a few minutes and she put the car in park and they all got out. It was a Kodak moment if ever there was one. Daniel, who was 15 at the time, noticed the fourteen-year old Hannah was tall and thin and he gave her a conciliatory hug followed by Jonathan (almost 20) and then Morgan (12) who seemed to be embarrassed by all show of affection. I knew he would warm up to them as soon as food was served. Then Joe, eleven years-old and no more than 4-feet-7-inches tall, introduced himself to his strange exotic relatives all the way from America. The strangest thing to fathom for my boys was the Saks’s thick Manchester accents. We agreed to have a little meal in the condo, which brought out a half-smile on Morgan’s face. Jonathan got back in the Saks’s van and directed them to our room in the Saturn building - number S24, which was on the top of three floors. It was nice of them to bring some groceries (or messages as Donna would call them), some beer, wine, coffee, milk, cereal and bananas I think? we had already bought some Fruit Loops and paid a whopping $4.99 for the box. Still, it was really great to see Jason and Nicky again, and of course their two progeny who we hadn’t seen since 2005 when we stopped in Manchester for the second time on our way to Scotland. Scott Taylor pictured below.</div>
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On New years Eve we made plans to meet up with the long lost relatives at George's son, Scott Taylor’s home in Ocoee, a mere 15 miles from where we were staying. Driving in with the Saks's right in tow, our Toyota Sienna approached the gates of Ocoee Gardens. We parked the Sienna next to the small strip of grass by the mailbox in from of the semi-circular house in Ocoee Gardens. Jason and his clan, and The Haymers together numbered nine. Nine strangers were going to be walking into a mysterious house in a gated community in Central Florida. Nine strangers, who claimed to be family, were knocking on the door of Mr. and Mrs. Scott Taylor. What if they thought we were crazy (which we are)? What if they were? What if they were boring and we were going to waste a perfectly good New Year’s Eve on people we couldn’t wait to be as far away from as a tsunami? We had to devise some sort of signal. I always used the brushing of the side of your nose with your index finger, so we decided to go with that one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I knocked on the door with Morgan and Daniel beside me. The rest of our gang meandered up as the front door opened and . . . there they were. It was Scott who opened the door, and I could see the rest of his clan peeking behind him in the foyer. Scott is tall, around six foot two with dark curly hair and a bit of a hook nose that points slightly to the ground just like mine. Mine’s a bit bigger; I guess it had ten more years to grow. Scott introduced me and the rest of the combined clans to his wife Pam, a cute little round thing, not Melissa McCarthy round, mind you, but pleasingly so. She was no more than 5 feet tall in heels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dan, with lighter brown hair than Scott looked more like a working class dude. He had the typical 50 year old spread around the middle something that I was fortunate to avoid, so far , anyway. Scott, who also managed to avoid the beer belly, was in pretty good shape (he’s in real estate so he has to keep up appearances) but complained about his back and knees. Then there was George—George Taylor himself. Looking at him with his Clark Gable mustache and a good amount of dark gray hair, I knew for certain he was definitely a family member. Scott's son Jake was in also from from South Florida. He is a little younger than Jonathan about 19, I guess. While the “grown-ups” were in the house reminiscing, Jonathan, Daniel and Morgan were led to the lake by Jake. It was a modern-day Huckleberry Finn scene.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The thing that really blew me away about the Taylors, something that was hard at first to wrap my head around was: they were Baptists. I mean, I never knew that anyone in my family was anything other than of Hebrew descent. They explained that Minnie, when she married George Tilson (later Taylor) had converted to Protestantism and never looked back. Another interesting thing about George Sr., was—he was a musician and had his own band. I’d asked George Jr. if they ever made any records, but he said he didn’t think they did. Too bad. I would have loved to have heard something. No doubt about it, music runs in the family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I asked them point blank the reason they never knew about us, or for that matter, any other relatives. They said that Minnie told them that all her brothers and sisters had died in the war (WWII), and she was the only one that had survived. They had no idea about the Sakses or Haymers or Fliegs or Flegs or anybody other than their small family unit of Taylors. One can only speculate what the reasons were. Did she have a falling out with her family? Was she working in an undesirable profession? Was it because she had married a non Jew that, if revealed, would alienate her from her strict Orthodox Jewish father? We’ll never know because my Aunt Minnie, who I had never heard of before a year ago, had died a few years back. It’s a shame. I would have really liked to have met her and find out about her strange and obviously intriguing life. If nothing else, we have a much larger family that before and, if things go as I hope, there will be many more family reunions in the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It turned out to be a wonderful New Years. We weren’t bored, they weren’t crazy (we’ll at least not the serial killer or drooling village idiot crazy) and if they ever come to Tennessee, it is guaranteed that they will not only have a place to stay, but will have to sample my Chicken Parmesan or Spaghetti with Clam Sauce ala Haymer. Maybe even play a little music. <o:p></o:p></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-22577835685543031612015-02-23T05:36:00.000-08:002015-02-23T05:36:22.089-08:00Chapter 70 – Scammed Again<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
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A little background on me and BRC (sounds
like a Kristofferson song). As I wrote before in an earlier chapter, Billy Ray Cyrus
had come to my house, or so I was told since I was incapacitated with a
horrible flu, dressed as Santa Claus bearing gifts for my two boys (Morgan
wasn’t to come into existence for a few years later). My next association with
Billy Ray was when I played pedal steel guitar on a track of his written by my
friend Chas Sandford (which twenty years later became the title track of his
record, <i>The</i> <i>Distance</i>). My third encounter with the King of Achy-Breaky was not
so auspicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My son Daniel had lent his Queen CD to one of Billy Ray’s sons who had refused to return it. As I was
driving my MG Midget on Thompson Station Road one extremely hot and humid day
at the end of May, I realized I was behind the school bus with Daniel and
Morgan inside. When the bus came to a stop to let out some of the children, my
two boys exited and got into my tiny sports car (Morgan was seated in the small
area behind the driver’s seat not really meant for a passenger). Since we were
only a mile or so from our house, I figured it would be safe enough if I took
it easy. Then I remembered that Billy Ray would be waiting by the iron gate of
his palatial mansion for his son to get off the bus. I thought it would be the perfect
time to finally meet BRC face to face and mention the CD and hopefully he would
give his boy a good talking to.</div>
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Billy Ray seemed nice
enough as we conversed, but he stayed safely behind his protective gate. He
said he would let his son know that I had talked with him and the CD would be
returned promptly. We then talked about music, and how I had some songs he
might be interested in and he told me to drop them off someday and he would
have a listen. As we were talking, I noticed him acting a little nervous, like
maybe I had stepped over the line by mentioning my music. It seemed as if he
was looking off to his left, as if there was a hidden camera there and he was
giving signals to some unknown entity. A minute later, I saw a police car drive
by heading toward my house. Then I noticed that the cop had pulled over in a
driveway not more than a hundred yards from my driveway.</div>
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I got back into the
Midget with Daniel in the passenger seat and Morgan in the back area, which, of
course had no seatbelts. As I turned the corner past the police car, I saw the
red and blue light flash on in my rear view mirror. I pretended I didn’t see
them and continued on into my driveway and parked my car in its usual place.
The cop, who looked like a teenager with short blond hair and a wispy moustache
had followed me in, got out of his cruiser and approached me with an attitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“License and
registration,” he demanded. I showed him my license but told him my car
registration was in my office and I would go grab it and be back in two shakes
of a pig’s tail. He began to write something. I knew it wasn’t his memoirs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What are you doing?” I
asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Writing you a ticket for
neglecting to have seatbelts, no child seat and not having your car
registration available.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I told you its in the
house. It just came by mail and I forgot to put it in my car with the rest of
the paperwork.” I knew that ticket could cost me five hundred dollars or more
so I wanted to make sure I would find the paperwork pronto.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,” said the cop, “if
you can produce the registration before I finish writing this here ticket, I
might let that part go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here I was on my own
property being made to jump through a hoop of fire for this little Nazi
stormtrooper. I rushed into the house, found the registration in less than a
minute and ran back out to the so called officer of the law, a man who was
sworn to protect and serve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sorry, you’s a tad too
late,” he said smugly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meanwhile Morgan and
Daniel stood by the front door of the house watching the scene with morbid
curiosity. I said to the cop as he handed me the ticket, “Are you through?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He nodded his head and
moved back toward his cruiser. Now as I said, I was on my own property, and
sometimes a man can get a false sense of security when he feels he is in the
right and standing in front of his castle. I then said, “Okay then, now would
you kindly get the fuck off of my property!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was it. He rushed
toward me and threw me up against the Toyota minivan parked right in from of my
side door while Morgan and Daniel and my wife, Donna who had come outside to
witness the commotion, watched with shock and horror. The fascist bent my arms
back behind my back and tried to handcuff me, but I wasn’t making it easy for
him. Then I thought, resisting arrest would not help my case so I acquiesced. I
figured I could explain things to the higher-ups when I arrived at the jail in
downtown Franklin, ten miles to the north.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While lying on my side in
the back of the cruiser, I heard the cop having a phone conversation with what
I thought was Billy Ray Cyrus. He was verifying the story I told him about the
CD and how I was only trying to get back what belonged to my son. He asked BRC
if we talked about my own CD and it seemed like Billy was corroborating my
story to the T.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were two nice
things about being in the holding cell that day. One, I was fortunate to be in
and empty cell, and two, it felt cool to lie down on the stainless steel bench
with the temperatures outside in the high nineties. The cop had written his
report and handed it in to the desk sergeant, and I was waiting to see what
would happen next. About an hour later the stormtrooper approach my cell. “This
must be your lucky day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It just so happens it’s
my birthday and I’m feeling a might generous. We’ve decided to let you go.” He
unlocked the barred door and let me out and then said, “If you want me to give
you arid back home—“<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No that’s alright,” I
said. “I want to walk home and think about things if it’s all the same to you.”
There was no way in the world I was going into that police car again with that
asshole. A block outside the jail, I called Donna on my cell phone and she told
me she was already only a mile or so away. Fifteen or twenty minutes later I
was back home. No charges were ever filed, the ticket was torn up and I have
never seen that cop anywhere again. I guess he got a good bawling out from his superiors,
who must had told him he was out of line for harassing a home owner with no
police record.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, after writing that
letter about the song-plugger. I was hoping that Billy Ray had forgotten about
the CD incident and the cop, or if he remembered, he felt guilty for being
apart of it. He answered me back quickly. The email read: <i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Hey James. Just got this.
Never heard of the songs or got to hear them sorry to say. I bet they were
good. Back at that time when I worked with * * * *, Disney and their A and R
team handled all the material unless it was something I wrote. I'm gonna make a
new record in the fall so I'll reach out then. Maybe it was meant to be until
now. All the best. B R.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So there it was. He never heard it, but I wondered how long
it had been since he worked with this particular representative. He sent him a
follow-up email:</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thanks for responding. I have
the feeling this song-plugger was making things up and wrote a bunch of
nonsense on his report to us. These kinds of people (if this is what he is
doing I will have to confirm it with other artists and A&R people before I
can know for sure) should not be allowed to exist in the music business. It has
a bad enough reputation already. Any time you want to hear these songs, and
they are good and perfect for you esp. "Got It Too Good" let me know
and I'll send you an MP3. Or if you in town you could drop by. Thanks again
Billy, I always liked you and I hoped that you were still an all right guy. You
ARE! </span></i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There is one more thing I forgot to ask and
before I start accusing anyone I need, as Jack Webb said, “just the facts”. You
intimated that you are no longer working with * * * *. Did your association
with him end before Nov. 2012?</span><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thanks, James</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He replied:</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Yes. Way
...like ...2008 or 2009.</i></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; line-height: 150%;">It was time to tell Larry that my intuition was
right and the song-plugger was pulling stats out of his ass. Larry and I
constructed a letter advising this scumbag that we were going to not only sue
him, but go to all the TV stations and make a public spectacle of him. He
returned all the money within a week as long as we promised not to share his
little secret. I’ll never know it any of the other artists were legitimate, but
I highly doubt it. If it weren’t for the fact that I had a country star living
right across the street from me, and was able to contact him, the ruse could
have perpetuated for months . . . maybe even years. I wish I could mention his
name but I don’t want to get sued for libel. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh yeah, a side note: Since the writing of this blog, Larry,
because he felt I didn’t give him his due credit for winning a Cleo award for
his musical contribution to the advertising game and not mentioning his solo Cd
of instrumental music, he has not returned any of my calls and had remained
completely out of touch for over a year now. <i>C’est la vie say the old folks/ it goes to show you never can tell.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Another side note: The Queen CD was returned to Daniel the
next school day after the incident.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-58599742346707428832015-02-16T07:03:00.000-08:002015-02-16T07:03:56.277-08:00Chapter 69 – Long Distance Production<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4-unOqypT4fFMM4bzvbFrCIIgepaNL4UA5tWcv3SOAkQavtPp3KMoQytAo1vFIkE111lgCbjr34_Q5_flUxO11iLRrW_SuA4BHCqPnDrOHCQ2UrHdOSlWiHtETNcAmj6Zh6xNZPbmOI/s1600/two+guys+from+van+nuys+promo+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4-unOqypT4fFMM4bzvbFrCIIgepaNL4UA5tWcv3SOAkQavtPp3KMoQytAo1vFIkE111lgCbjr34_Q5_flUxO11iLRrW_SuA4BHCqPnDrOHCQ2UrHdOSlWiHtETNcAmj6Zh6xNZPbmOI/s1600/two+guys+from+van+nuys+promo+shot.jpg" height="640" width="560" /></a></div>
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A few years ago, while I put ideas for my
record <i>Timing is Everything</i> together,
Larry Harrison and I began to rekindle our songwriting over the phone and the
internet. There was a song called <i>After
All</i> on my first solo CD (<i>See You
Around</i>) that I recorded in a Willie Nelson style and Larry insisted that it
should be done differently. He believed in that song and told me I was one of
the best songwriters he had ever had the privilege of working with. I’m not
sure I believed him and wondered what he was up to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He thought the song
should be done in a contemporary ballad style a la Michael Bublé or something similar. I
thought, why the hell not. He then expressed an interest in publishing that
song as well as another song from that record of mine, <i>Got it Too Good</i> and would compensate me with some dollars. I needed
the money so I did the deal. I would still retain 100% of my writer’s
royalties, but Larry Harrison was now my publisher, of at least those two songs
anyway. Larry had put together a state of the art recording studio in his home
and had also assembled a crew of musicians at his beck and call. I told him to
run with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The recordings came out
pretty nice. He had hired a few different vocalists to sing <i>After All </i>to see what would work the
best for the song. The first vocalist sang the song in a Tom Waits style, which
I really liked but Larry thought it wasn’t commercial enough for radio. Whatever.
He then got an amazing soul sister to sing it and it was so riffed out I couldn’t
even recognize the melody anymore. Then it became a duet with the vocal being
shared with a black dude. It was better, but I still liked the Tom Waits
version better. But the ball was in his court, and since my preference didn’t amount
to a hill of coffee beans, I went along with his decision (which seemed to
change hour to hour). At least we had three different versions of the song and
we could let the powers that be (whomever they were) decide its fate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The second song, <i>Got it Too Good</i>, needed to be straight
ahead country. Larry was going to use Randy, the same guy that sang the Tom
Waits version of <i>After</i> <i>All</i> (he could sound like anyone from
Hank Williams or Buck Owens to Merle Haggard or Alan Jackson ). I told him I
knew a guy who could sing the ever-loving crap out of it, and he happens to
live right here in Music City. His name’s Sean Patrick McGraw. I met Sean years
ago in L.A. when we both were attending a music writing workshop. We ended up
meeting up ten years later and began penning some songs together when I first
came to town. My original track of <i>Got it
Too Good</i> sounded like it could have been right off of John Lennon’s <i>Rock</i> <i>and</i>
<i>Roll</i> record from 1975, or maybe even
one of Elton John’s releases from the eighties. Now, even though I didn’t care
too much for country music (at least what country music had become), the track
was as country as your mom’s apple pie. Sean recorded a stunning vocal and even
laid down three part harmonies and then sent them off. Larry was thrilled, and
even I thought the song sounded great, and commercial to (cowboy) boot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There was a song I had
written called <i>Running Around the World</i>,
which was published by Curt Boettcher in 1986 and ended up on Mike Love’s solo
record, <i>Looking Back With Love</i>. Larry
came up with the idea to change it from a Beach Boys style to country. The tag
line at the end of the chorus was: trying to catch up with my favorite little
girl. He suggested that instead of “little girl” it should be “country girl”. I
was okay with that. The song was now entitled, <i>Favorite Country Girl</i>. The track was really great and Sean did his
usual outstanding vocals. I really thought that between the three songs, at
least one of them was destined to be a hit, or at least get us some action in
the marketplace. Larry was on a roll and recorded five more songs from our old
duo’s (Two Guys from Van Nuys) catalogue. They turned out nice, but they
weren’t as commercial as the previous three. Now the question was: how in the world
were we going to sell these tunes?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Larry, being so far
removed from the scene since becoming a stock broker/ insurance man (even
though he recorded a moody solo record of instrumentals and was recording
commercials for some Fortune 500 companies), he though with me living in
Nashville, I should be the one to carry the ball into the playing field. This,
as most people who know me would agree, is not my strong point.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remembered my friend
Chas Sandford had told me about a song-plugger that I almost did business with
when I released <i>Timing is Everything, </i>but
I couldn’t afford his fee. When I mentioned it to Larry, he thought it might be
a way to go. He said he would pay the $200 a month (the cost of promoting one
song which we decided should be <i>Favorite</i>
<i>Country</i> <i>Girl</i>). Since the cost of two songs was only and extra hundred
bucks, we added <i>Got it Too Good</i> to
the presentation. We signed the contract with this song-plugger in November of
2012 and in exchange for our money, said song-plugger would shop our tune, send
us a monthly report of which artist were being “pitched”, who represented the said
artist, and the status of the song (either it was “kept” or “passed”). When we
got our copy of the first report it looked very promising. Out of the fourteen
pitches half of them had kept either one of the two songs. We were batting
five-hundred which any hitter in the major leagues would be ecstatic about.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a little ironic
that my heart was not really into this partnership with Larry. If it would have
happened a few years earlier I would have been over the moon, but now I was
more interested in writing my first novel, <i>Mulligan’s</i>
<i>Tour</i>, and couldn’t give the proper
amount of energy and dedication needed to really get that ship launched out of
the harbor. Larry would call me up two, sometimes three times a day asking me
what I thought about this musical part, or this lyric change and, to tell you
the truth, I couldn’t wait to get him off the phone and get back to editing my
manuscript. But now that the song-plugger had the tunes in his grubby little
hands, it was out of mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So the reports came in
monthly with more of the same result. The artists or their reps were either
passing or keeping the songs but nobody had made any commitments to record
them. I started to have a bad feeling about this song-plugger. Deep in my gut I
felt that he was pulling these statistic out of thin air. Larry thought I was
being paranoid. I didn’t think so. Funny enough, one of the artists on the list
was Billy Ray Cyrus, who just happens to live right across the street from me
in Thompson Station. I thought it would be ironic if my neighbor (who I could
have thrown the CD over his gates) would end up cutting one of my songs from a
song-plugger who lived thirty miles away. Then I had an idea. Maybe I should
giver old Billy Ray a call, better yet send him an email to see if he ever
actually heard these songs. I got his email from Chas, who had been working the
the king of Achy-Breaky off and on for a few years. Actually, BRC recorded a
song of Chas’s called The Distance (I mentioned this in a previous post) which
became the title track of his last record. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I sent him the email
which read:<span style="color: #222222;"> <i>Dear
Billy Ray, Hi, I am your neighbor on Thompson Station Road. You might remember
the time you came over dressed as Santa Claus about fifteen years ago. I have a
big favor to ask of you if you could find it in your heart to help me
straighten something out. You may or may not know that I write songs with my
partner Larry Harrison and about six months ago we hired a local song-plugger
to pitch some of our tunes for a nominal fee. It’s funny that he pitched *******
three of our songs, two of which your team had kept for more than three months,
maybe four. The first song you kept was Favorite County Girl and the second was
Got It Too Good. Our song-plugger sends us a spreadsheet report every month
indicating who has kept or passed on the song. The frustrating thing is— we
have no way of verifying his actions. What I am asking of you, Billy, is if you
have ever heard these songs or if **** has even heard them? I am sure you can
understand my dilemma, being a songwriter yourself and how hard it can be to
break in to the community. At this point we have ceased our relationship with
the song-plugger even though there are about ten different artists who have
kept, and are still to my knowledge, keeping some of these songs. If you could
help a neighbor out and let me know if you have any knowledge of these songs or
no knowledge of them whatsoever, I would greatly appreciate it.</i></span><i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I didn’t hear back right away. Ten days later I sent the email out
again. He replied within an hour. I was blown away with his response.</i> To be
continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-68694175897890968602015-02-02T07:10:00.001-08:002015-02-02T07:10:24.037-08:00Chapter 68 – Aileen - Part II<br /><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3h-JGD5mhjp7QywZZ8rR8LviAbQS_AhF6GokIjRi40I-en-755AyGDtCT4hvMpOMoq2A_CfJvnAuD9TtZt9GNdhYic8j9LlYuziX-jm6uiKhP1V7F498eaFUoZ5m7aH3maVGBVVvN_90/s1600/aileen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3h-JGD5mhjp7QywZZ8rR8LviAbQS_AhF6GokIjRi40I-en-755AyGDtCT4hvMpOMoq2A_CfJvnAuD9TtZt9GNdhYic8j9LlYuziX-jm6uiKhP1V7F498eaFUoZ5m7aH3maVGBVVvN_90/s1600/aileen.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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The animal shelter in Franklin did a
thorough check of my history as a pet owner after I have filled in the adoption
papers for Aileen. They knew that I had two other dogs and one surviving cat
(after my favorite black cat, Mowgli passed away a year earlier). They also
knew that they were delinquent in their shots and I would have to have all of
their inoculations current in order to proceed with the adoption.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Although Aileen was doing
much better and had been de-liced and flea bathed, she still limped badly and
they though she might had been hit by a car since her right ear tilted in a
funny way and her right eye seemed unresponsive. I knew nobody else was going
to adopt her but still, the thought of her being put to sleep after what she
had been through seemed senseless and unnecessary. I put a call out to Todd, my
cohort in Aileen’s rescue. Todd, a dour man who, to this day, I don’t think
I’ve had ever seen smile (if you look up dour in the dictionary I’m sure his
picture would be there), and I left a message about my travails with the animal
shelter. When he called back we made a deal. He would fill out the paperwork
and pay for the adoption fees, but I would keep her at my house in Thompson’s
Station. I knew my wife, Donna, would be too happy about it, but what else
could I do? I told her I would try and find a home for Aileen but in my heart I
knew she would be spending her final days in the Haymer household.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQZMf6iDPS0260VK8sTGptnHi7U6xCVCJXSstikPYVlp1MWmJbceUlBdoNleYqtOS_pH1Gut1h0rc4BTSIp1daJukwr7ie0FagGVj5Kb9eqZWSmy8v5NntjT27sjJOxTbw8HRGlkvLd0/s1600/IMG_2029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQZMf6iDPS0260VK8sTGptnHi7U6xCVCJXSstikPYVlp1MWmJbceUlBdoNleYqtOS_pH1Gut1h0rc4BTSIp1daJukwr7ie0FagGVj5Kb9eqZWSmy8v5NntjT27sjJOxTbw8HRGlkvLd0/s1600/IMG_2029.JPG" height="358" width="640" /></a></div>
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At this time, Jonathan,
my oldest son, was preparing to leave for China. He had been granted a full
scholarship to study in Hangzhou at the Confucius Institute and was scheduled
to leave in September, in two months time. Jonathan was ecstatic about being
selected (only four students had that honor at MTSU), and we were all helping
him get ready for his trip with passports, shots, luggage, you know, the usual.
He was going to be gone for a year and my heart was sinking, but I knew it was
going to be a great opportunity for him. In a way it was payback. I had married
Donna in 1990 and taken her away from her mum and dad and now it was my turn to
fell the sense of estrangement. Thank God for things like FaceTime and WeChat.
At least I would be able to see him as well as hearing his voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ashley had agreed to lend
me the cage and I placed it in the back of the house behind the mudroom where I
could keep an eye on her. It was hot that summer so I kept an electric fan
propped up beside her and filled a bucket with plenty of cool water. She wasn’t
eating too well, so I would mix in some chicken and turkey breast along with
her dog food. It seemed to have done the trick. I then erected a makeshift
fence with some old chicken wire I had from before and bought some more metal
fence posts so she could have an enclosed area. The first week or so she would
goosestep nervously around the small area, but after a while she seemed to
settle down. I felt bad about keeping her outside, especially at night, but the
cage was left open and had plenty of soft blankets and the fan, which I kept running
24/7.<o:p></o:p></div>
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About a week and a half
later, we<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> had given Aileen a cool shampooing outside in her fenced area
by the spigot in back and I cut all of the tightly knit clumps of hair matted
together with who knows what in the downstairs bathroom. She was more agreeable
to it than I had imagined she would be, but I think she trusted me as much as
she could trust any human. I could tell she had been abused and after living in
the wilds for so long I knew it would take the patience of a saint to bring her
around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The night of
June, 26<sup>th</sup>, Aileen was in bad shape. I thought, if she can make it
through until morning it would be a miracle. I stayed up until almost three in
the morning with her, playing my acoustic guitar in the adjoining room, and
watching Under the Dome, a television adaptation of a book by Stephen King that
was featured on demand. When she had settled a bit I finally went to bed and
woke up about two hours later to check to see if she was all right. She was in
a bad way. I had to wait until seven am to call Dr. Woody at Animal Health
Center, and they told me the first available appointment was at three-thirty. I
couldn’t wait that long—I had to bring her in. I took her outside and I could
see something moving under her thick coat near her right shoulder where there
was a growth of some kind. Maggots—tons of them had burrowed their way into her
skin and were sucking her dry. No wonder she was so dissipated and struggling
to survive. She was at her eleven and a half hour and fading fast. Ashley had
come over to help me remove the parasites with a toothbrush and tweezers, and I
think we picked out over a hundred of the little beasts. I even tried apple
cider vinegar and Cutter bug spray (which worked better than the vinegar and
didn’t make here whimper). I swore to myself if she made it through this ordeal
she would stay in the mudroom from then on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Dr. Woody gave
her some Capstar, a medication that
kills the fuckers and is taken in pill form. It had done the trick and in two
days time she was maggot free. As the summer turned into autumn, Aileen was not
really improving. She was totally incontinent and every morning I awoke to the
familiar smell of feces and urine. At least that room was closed off from the
rest of the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By the end of
November I knew things were going downhill rapidly for the poor old girl. She
would whimper in the night and sometimes I would have to stay up all night by
her side trying to comfort her. We took her back to Dr. Woody’s and he
prescribed some medication for pain and something the help with her back legs
which were practically paralyzed. I knew she wouldn’t last too much longer, but
I didn’t want to give up. I figured Aileen was about twelve or thirteen, but it
was really hard to determine since she was in such terrible shape. Usually you
can judge by the shape their teeth are in, but she had been on survival mode
for so long and could have been eating anything to stay alive and some of it
would be pretty hard on the teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Was this the
day? It is Thursday December 5, 2013 and I was most likely going to have poor
Aileen euthanized. She couldn’t walk anymore and cried all night (the nights
were always worse). I knew the pain killers and anti-inflammatory meds were not
really helping anymore (the night before I had give her three times the normal
dose and still she cried out). It was
hard, but I had to admit that it was time. I had grown quite attached to her
and I kept trying to stall the inevitable, but I reminded myself that she was
not going to get any better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was 7:40 am
and I was waiting for a call back from Animal Health Center. Maybe I’ll lose my
keys like I did when Ginger had to be put to a dreamless sleep. I did that the
other day when I thought it was time...but I found them. They were in the
pocket of my robe. I still thought it was a sign and decided not to take her in
to end her earthly struggles. I wish she could talk and tell me what she wanted
me to do. I had to read it in her eyes and her whining groans. Now she was
calm, but the mornings are always better for her. She still dragged her
flailing back legs along and pulled herself in concentric circles. It was truly
pathetic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I removed one
of the back seats from the Toyota Sienna and placed her gently on a blanket and
closed the sliding door. She seemed to sense what was going on, but was still
in a state of peace or calm. When I arrived at the vet’s they directed me into
an examination room and they helped me place her on the metallic table. They
gave me a few minutes with her to say my goodbyes. I looked around at the room
with the borders with cats and dogs in play and I hoped that Aileen had
experienced some joy in her life. At least the last six months, although
painful for her, had been in a home with people who loved her and took good
care of her. I did all that I could do and now it was in the hands of the big
Dog in the sky. Dr. Woody came back with the two injections. The first was a
sedative to relax her and the second, the more ominous one, would be the one to
send her on her way. He injected the first shot and her breathing became
shallow and she seemed to let go of her pain. I stroked her bent little ear and
told her I loved her and how much I was going to miss her. Then came the second
shot and at ten minutes after ten she slowly closed her eyes and was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Afterwards they
wrapped her in a white sheet and helped me load her body back into the can. I
stopped a t a Home Depot on the way home and bought some peat moss and sand.
Alone in the backyard pet cemetery, I dug a large hole next to Bailey’s grave
and placed her there with her nose pointing east and then said a prayer as I
shoveled the dirt and then built up a mound of peat moss and sand. It looked
like a dome. I surrounded the grave with rocks and put the largest one where
her head was. I will never forget her.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-3761908083763732572015-01-26T13:45:00.001-08:002015-01-26T14:44:02.876-08:00Chapter 67 – Morgan’s Turn - Aileen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CIlMLZV-EMR_cpzqPy4i2cQ210DAgYEWbhQ-Lhd12sW8o7EbmFbiV88B0wbRQcbLWtupcuRcd7N2fmE0YzoULe8nUM-ecye0rKL-asBdn0akdp9UA8shyphenhyphenuUbYNt3xtdut4FsrxgHKcE/s1600/DSC00979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CIlMLZV-EMR_cpzqPy4i2cQ210DAgYEWbhQ-Lhd12sW8o7EbmFbiV88B0wbRQcbLWtupcuRcd7N2fmE0YzoULe8nUM-ecye0rKL-asBdn0akdp9UA8shyphenhyphenuUbYNt3xtdut4FsrxgHKcE/s1600/DSC00979.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.3in;">Now with the
painting sold we had enough money to splurge on the last of the Haymer Bar
Mitzvahs – Morgan’s.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.3in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.3in;">It was slated for
May 12, 2012, the day after his thirteenth birthday. His Torah portion was
Emor, or the story of an eye for an eye, which, I thought, was diametrically
opposed to his demeanor and to my own beliefs. It sound too much like revenge
and what does that kind of behavior ever get you? I believe more in the laws of
Karma; what you reap you will sow, and all that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Donna and I were
getting to be old hands at this Bar Mitzvah stuff and the nerves were under
check. Even Morgan was his usual cool, laconic self and came off life a real
pro. I was saddened that my parents, and even my Uncle Ellis (who had come to
Jonathan’s Bar Mitzvah) was not there.
But I could very well imagine they were looking from wherever they were at the
time, with pride and love. Of course, my sister, Susan, my brother, Robbie and
his wife, Carol, and their two grown-up progeny, Max and Emily had made if over
from California. Once again Donna’s parent’s, David and Olive Smollett and their
youngest daughter, Heather, flew in from Scotland. They had made it to all
three – a long way to go. Even my cousin Bobby Graff drove down from Detroit.
He, I was happy to say, had brought his golf clubs and we played nine holes at
Forrest Crossing the day he arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After the
service, the party was to be held at a small restaurant in Franklin called The
Mercantile not far from the square. The owner told us it was their first Bar
Mitzvah, and I could believe it since, when we arrived at the place, the
marquee announcing the event read: Morgan Haymer’s Bar Mitsfa. We didn’t bother
to correct them and when my brother saw it, he almost fell down laughing.
Welcome to Tennessee, brother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The party, even
though it was pissing down rain outside, couldn’t have been warmer and toastier
inside. We did the usual routine with lifting the chair high with the bar
Mitzvah boy (now a man) supported by four strong shtarkers. After he got down,
other brave souls took their turn in the hot seat. Since I had a recent bout
with vertigo the month before, I declined the event. I never really liked all
that bouncing around anyway. It was a grand event and was declared a huge
success by all, but I was glad it was over and didn’t have to go through
another one. The next big celebration, I knew, was going to be a wedding (but
not too soon, I hoped).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaS0gQCJvdZ-n4UGEsvCvBQ3F1r3fFpYJfwvERftcS5HRPTAsBn3grOc3U4y8wRJNRz9jXfamOKTH4xuYNbT-C217291Mvq-qplL2a7rRWYTW1ZuWd-nov5uqGrS65uwnTRXiNG2KX7Gc/s1600/aileen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaS0gQCJvdZ-n4UGEsvCvBQ3F1r3fFpYJfwvERftcS5HRPTAsBn3grOc3U4y8wRJNRz9jXfamOKTH4xuYNbT-C217291Mvq-qplL2a7rRWYTW1ZuWd-nov5uqGrS65uwnTRXiNG2KX7Gc/s1600/aileen.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Several months later in the Spring of 2013, I had been hired by the </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">a fore</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> mentioned golf course, Forrest Crossing,
to work one day a week on a volunteer basis as an ambassador. The main perk
being that I got virtually free golf. I knew that was going to save me three to
four hundred dollars a month, so it was well worth the six hours a week I had
to meet and greet golfers at the first tee and smile (I am not exactly the most
politically correct individual in the world, as many people will attest to). I
must say that although one out of ten of the golfers were extraordinary, most
of them sucked.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> It
was painful to watch.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On my third week working as an ambassador on the
first hole, I noticed the morning shift starter wasn’t there. I walked into the
clubhouse and asked the young kid where the guy was, and he told me he was
helping Todd, (the head honcho manager of the course) trying to guide an old,
crippled dog off the course on hole number five. I didn’t need to hear anymore.
I was off like a lightning bolt in my golf cart with my walkie-talkie buckled
to my belt. I turned up the volume as I drove to hole five , but I didn’t see
anything out of the ordinary except golfers finishing up their putts—definitely
no dog. I pushed the button on the walkie-talkie and asked where Todd and the
dog were. A scratchy voice came back to me sounding like the speaker from an old
drive-in movie screeching that Todd and the dog were over at hole number two,
the eastern-most part of the course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> I had seen a
dog a few months back on the same hole when I was playing golf that looked to
be in pretty bad shape. She was limping excessively and her hair was matted. I
went back after my round, but she was gone; now five months later, I wondered if
this could be the same dog. Was it possible?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When I arrived at the second hole, I didn’t see
anything at first, so I drove the cart all the way to the raised green, then
pulled the cart behind it. There they were. Todd was trying to coax what
appeared to be a badly injured dog into his cart with a few hot dogs. It wasn’t
working. When I looked closely, I saw that she had the same limp (only worse)
as the dog I saw in February, and her markings were pretty much as I’d
remembered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I pulled my cart behind Todd’s and tried not to make
any sudden moves that might scare the poor creature. As I got closer, I could
see she was in pretty bad shape. Maybe she was hit by a car on the interstate
since it bordered the hole on the east. There were workers repairing the road a
few months ago, but they had finished in April. Since she didn’t look
emaciated, I figured it was possible
that not only the neighbors, but one or more of those workers had been feeding
or taking care of her—maybe not. I knew that dog couldn’t hunt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I tried to help Todd guide the dog back to the
clubhouse but she kept moving away from us in large circles and staying close
to the two bunkers on the north side of the second green. She obviously was
afraid of the human animal (who could blame her?). There was a tournament
starting in less that half an hour and Todd was getting antsy because he knew
the dog had to be moved as soon as possible off the field of play. Then I had
an idea. I needed a rope or a leash, but since none were immediately available,
I took the black strap used to secure the golf bags to the cart and removed it
from its riggings. It was held in place by two plastic fasteners—the kind you
might see on a Toyota or Honda used to fasten the carpets to the floor and when
stretched out measured about six feet long. At first, I tied a slip knot at the
end of the strap and then eased it over her head and pulled the makeshift rope
gently. Not liking that one bit, she wrestled her way out of the knot in no
time. I knew the only way I was going to get her into the cart was to tie a
slip knot in the middle of the strap and have both hands free to pull the knot
tight around her neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I told Todd to get his cart ready and to flank her
from the left while I tried to guide her towards him. I crept up behind the dog
(who was now in the bunker), and stroked her head with the loop of the strap
trying to ease her worries. When the
right opportunity arose, I slipped the strap around the area between her neck
and chest and then pulled. On the count of three I was going to lift her in.
All Todd had to do was stay close to her to prevent the poor dog from missing
her mark. One…two…three…I pulled her up in less time than it takes to say
Constantinople, and she was on the floor of the passenger side of the cart.
Todd drove her back to the clubhouse with me running alongside so she wouldn’t
be tempted to jump out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Todd was having trouble getting the dog,(which
looked like a mix of German shepherd and Blue Heeler, or Australian Shepherd)
out of the cart, but luckily someone had brought out a couple of hamburgers and
had broken them up into bite sized pieces. Todd put them onto a paper plate and
tried to inch it back towards him while she nibbled, but every time she got
close to the edge she would freeze. I knew what I had to do. Sneaking up behind
her, I gave her a gentle tap with my right foot and she took the plunge and was
now on the ground. Todd said, “Jeez, Haymer, you have no second gear.” I said,
“Sometimes you have to act and not dilly-dally around.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In less than five minutes I was guiding the dog
through the double doors of the clubhouse, through the pro-shop and into Todd’s
office which was located in the back of the pro-shop just past the Nike and
Callaway golf club displays. Todd followed us into his office and asked me if I
knew anyone that had a cage. I thought for a moment and then a light bulb went
on in my head. Mark and Ashley, my neighbors across the street who had a small
farm with goats, donkeys and chickens (not to mention dogs), would have one. When
I reached Ashley on the phone, she said she would be glad to bring the cage and
a decent sized leash by the golf course. What a sweetheart! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While Todd was in his office with the dog, I went
down to the first tee and assumed my post as the Starter for the tournament.
While on duty, I had a good view of the parking lot and was keeping a watchful
eye for Ashley to pull up in her black Ford truck. About half an hour later she
arrived and I helped her unload the cage and carried it into Todd’s office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After the golfers teed off, I had about six or seven
minutes until the next group arrived at the tee giving me a few minutes to come
upstairs and check in on her. She seemed to have calmed down and was drinking
water and eating the remnant burgers from the clubhouse restaurant. I had never
heard her growl or bark, but I could still see that she was a bit skittish. She
did give me a lick on the hand after I heedfully stroked her behind her one
floppy ear, Todd remarked, “She really seems to like you, James. They’re
calling you ‘the Dog Whisperer’ around here now.” I smiled, thinking, if he
only knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Of course it
was Sunday, and after calling all the animal shelters and rescue hot lines we
knew she would be spending the night inside the cage in the middle of Todd’s
already cluttered office. She could do a lot worse, especially after what she
has been through. Don’t forget, this dog has been out there a long time; at
least five months that I know of, and had survived. She needed someone to get
her to a vet or the animal shelter as soon as possible. That would have to wait
until Monday, though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Monday morning arrived without incident and she was
holding her own, and by noon Aileen (I had named her that because of her
pronounced lean) was being transported in Mark and Ashley’s cage to the
Williamson County Animal Shelter in Franklin. They said they would have to keep
her there for nine days before she could be ready for adoption. At least the
tested her for any diseases and de-wormed her, but they said that her injuries,
although not initially fatal, were serious. I would visit her every day and
take her out on a leash for walks. I knew nobody in their right mind was going
to adopt Aileen, but I couldn’t let her be put to sleep. I knew one person who
could save her. Who in the world do you think that was going to be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-52507072681954552462015-01-19T03:55:00.000-08:002015-01-19T03:55:12.671-08:00Chapter 66 – Red Toreador – Part III – Empty Frame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jVEeMtz-7c_JHtOJNcEAKCBgPsQeHifqR7i3QkE1PVZu0RcML1TWXu2d5C2X53ZL4z2S8INr0__SBuNJ5MjO1e4Pir7XAmRhhPrU0gw6_6b2J9s5668CScY9TIxZEEd-6aUwRF2GSe8/s1600/empty+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jVEeMtz-7c_JHtOJNcEAKCBgPsQeHifqR7i3QkE1PVZu0RcML1TWXu2d5C2X53ZL4z2S8INr0__SBuNJ5MjO1e4Pir7XAmRhhPrU0gw6_6b2J9s5668CScY9TIxZEEd-6aUwRF2GSe8/s1600/empty+frame.jpg" height="562" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I was in a bookstore in Greenwich Village. I had heard the
Bob Dylan song, <i>I Feel a Change Comin’ On</i>, and in the song Bob talks
about how he is listening to Billy Joe Shaver and reading James Joyce. Since I
had already heard Billy Joe Shaver plenty of times but hadn’t ever read
anything by Joyce, I decided to buy a copy of <i>Ulysses</i>, his powerful and
banned book about one day in the life of two main characters, Stephen Dedalus
and Leopold Bloom. That day was June 16, 1904.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After
reading the book I was fascinated by it, but really only understood ten, maybe
twenty percent of the novel. I did a Google search on ‛Ulysses’ and found Frank
Delaney’s podcast/blog called Re:Joyce at frankdelaney.com. Mr. Delaney is the
utmost authority on everything Joyce. Every week he dissects one or two
paragraphs in ten-minute narrative, claiming it will take twenty-two years to
complete this herculean endeavor. I was immediately hooked. I still listen
religiously every Wednesday. Oh, how much I have learned. Thank you so much,
Mr. Delaney!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I got
an idea: If Mr. Delaney can do it, so can I. That’s when I started my blog, jwhaymer.blogspot.com.
In that blog, I wrote a chapter a week about my band, Silverspoon. Now it is
called <i>Life After Silverspoon</i>, (this
will be the 126<sup>th</sup> chapter to date).
I found that I was enjoying the written word almost as much as I had
ever enjoyed songwriting. Then I remembered I had written a screenplay called <i>Mulligan’s
Tour,</i> which sat in a drawer, screaming to get out. I decided to adapt that
screenplay into a novel, and my first book was born.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzq47SjFKoorDqgOq6xgwF2HDSAwMSpG-sGFzB5_492xArQhA0ov0r5AjDOwNZg3_A4NguBhGjv4hOLm6zuKvblcj1_fbg7nakC0HeCghoP9OIXwGD2YvKK5l93qPPNL0T9L0FORMTFF8/s1600/james-cover_mulligan's_tourwith%2Bcaption.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzq47SjFKoorDqgOq6xgwF2HDSAwMSpG-sGFzB5_492xArQhA0ov0r5AjDOwNZg3_A4NguBhGjv4hOLm6zuKvblcj1_fbg7nakC0HeCghoP9OIXwGD2YvKK5l93qPPNL0T9L0FORMTFF8/s1600/james-cover_mulligan's_tourwith%2Bcaption.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know it
may seem like a backassward way to do things, but when I gave the narrator in
the book my father’s voice, it took on a whole new dimension. I liked the idea
of Johnny Mulligan (my Dad) being a pro golfer who did a little acting, and the
main character (Mark Mulligan) was a golfer, too, who played a little music. Now, I figured, if somebody wanted to adapt
the book into a screenplay, they could. Maybe it will even be me someday. If
you have a screenplay and it never gets made into a movie, what have you got? Bupkiss!
But, on the other hand, if you have a book, even if nobody reads it, its still
a viable commodity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While all
this was going on, I was doing research on the LeRoy Neiman painting that was
still in my possession. When I was in New York, I had met with Phebe Carter,
one of the assistants to Alex Gleason, the buyer at the Franklin Bowles
gallery. She seemed very interested in the painting and wanted to know how much
I wanted for it. I threw out a number off the top of my head. It was $27,500. I
knew that was much more than I would ever get, but I needed to have her know
that I wasn’t just some Tennessee hillbilly that just fell off the turnip
truck. “I’ll pass that figure on to Mr. Gleason and get back to you,” she said,
without blinking an eye. I knew then I would be going home with the painting,
but I needed to be sure I really wanted to sell it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When</span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I got back to Tennessee
with the painting still intact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A few days later, I got a call
from Alex Gleason who was in the Bowles gallery in San Francisco. He said, “I
am not going to give you the 25,000 dollars which you are asking.” (I had told
Phebe Carter 27,500, but I let that one slide). “I am though prepared to give
you 18,000 for it.” Hmm, that was more
than I expected as a first offer. I said something like—okay or that's
interesting, something not too emotional as not to give myself away. So he
continued, “As you know with Neiman's the older ones have a tendency to pucker
and crack and if it were a larger painting and say it was in a corner or
something like that, it wouldn't be so bad. Bit in your little painting,” (I
noticed how he kept saying ‘little painting’ like it was less important than a
big one, a bit condescending, I thought.) I told him I would think about it and get back
to him within a few days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Donna and I decided it would be best to get
some more appraisals. I wrote and email to Sotheby’s and a few days later I got
a return email which read:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Dear
Mr. Haymer,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thank
you for contacting Sotheby’s. Your
request has been forwarded to me.
Our auction estimate would be $5,000-7,000. We would be very pleased to have your
painting in one of our auctions and appreciate the time you took to send us a
request. Our auction on 5 April
needs property to be at Sotheby’s by the end of this week. You can easily ship the work through a pack
and ship company such as UPS for overnight delivery. The auction after the 5 April auction is in
late September. If you are
interested in consigning to either sale please let me know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thomas
Denzler</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sotheby’s
New York</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Vice President, Fine Arts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">1334 York Avenue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">New York, New York 10021<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Are
you kidding me? I was pacing now and I had to call Donna. No answer on both the
work and personal cell phone. I called Thomas Denzler and he answered the phone
directly. I was trying to have him clarify what he meant by five thousand -
seven thousand. “Oh that's the low and high end of what we predict the painting
would sell for. Are you sure you know that this is a painting and not a
serigraph?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Trying
to hold back the anxiety in my voice, I responded. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then I told
him I already had a legitimate offer much higher than his. I lied and told him
it was ten thousand. “Anything north of ten grand and I would jump on it,” he
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My next call was to my CPA. I
wanted to have an idea how much tax I would have to pay if I accepted Mr.
Gleason’s offer of 18 grand. She surprised me with her answer. She told me her
husband was a collector of sorts and might be interested in buying the painting
for more. I was dumbfounded. I said he would have to make up his mind quickly.
She said she would know something by the next day. Well, the next day came, and
the day after that without a word. I was becoming restless and called her back
the day after that. She then told me they were going to pass. I had wasted
three days with this woman. I was pissed and knew I was going to get an new CPA
after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then I began to panic with the
idea that the painting, the one that had been in my family for over fifty years
was going bye bye. I sent a return email to Alex Gleason stating the following:
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Dear Mr. Gleason,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After careful consideration of your offer I have decided to pass
on it. When I came to the gallery I told Phebe that my price was $27,500 not
$25,000. Although your offer of $18,000 is tempting is it the first legitimate
offer we have had, but I don't think it is enough for me to part with such a
fabulous work of art that has been under the radar for over 50 years, not to
mention a part of my family for the entire time.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thank you for your interest,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">James Haymer</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What Had I done? Did I really
just pass up all that money? Two more estimates after that and it made me
reconsider the offer I had just rejected. One came in at seven grand and the
other a little more than that. 18,000 was starting to look pretty good. Was it
too late?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I decided that my mom, even
though we would probably get more for the painting down the line if we waited until after LeRoy
passed, would have wanted me to take care of my wife and family most of all.
With Morgan’s Bar Mitzvah looming and not having been on a vacation with Donna
in years, I decided to give Alex a call to see if he was still interested. I
asked for $19,500. He offered $18,250. We
finally agreed to the tidy sum of
$18,500.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On March 20<sup>th </sup>, I packed
up the painting again and shipped it of Fed Ex. With mixed emotions. I tried to
justify the sale thinking I had never really noticed it hanging on the wall
until we started painting the house’s interior a few months earlier, plus we
needed the money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="DefaultCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I was saddened by the news of
LeRoy's passing in a New York hospital on June 20<sup>th</sup>, exactly three
months after I sold the Red Toreador. The world had lost such an incredible
icon, but more than that, it had lost a wonderful spirit. I will never forget
the hour I spent in that room with him, and. Even though I don’t have the
painting, at least I have that memory to
take with me for as long as I can remember. God bless LeRoy Neiman!<sup><o:p></o:p></sup></span></div>
<br />
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-25647903328430634112015-01-05T09:02:00.000-08:002015-01-05T09:02:08.403-08:00Chapter 65 – Red Toreador- Part II<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The day had
come at last. Just after 12 o’clock noon, I dressed warmly while rolling my
carry-on valise with the painting securely locked away, I headed west on 75th
and turned left on Columbus and walked the nine short blocks to number 1 67<sup>th</sup>
Street and there it was. <span style="background: white;">The Hotel des Artistes </span>was
a glorious old building built in<span style="background: white;"> 1917, with a
Gothic-style facade featuring charming gargoyles of painters, sculptors and writers.
Designed by the architect George Mort Pollard, the building has been home to
many of the famed and illustrious, including Noel Coward, Isadora Duncan,
writer Fannie Hurst, New York City Mayor John V. Lindsay, Alexander Woollcott,
and Norman Rockwell not to mention LeRoy Neiman.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">As I stood in the balustrade, thoughts
that maybe I should run as fast as I could ran through my head. I noticed, as a
peered through the pebbled glass door that the concierge had spotted me so I
opened the heavy door and walked into the lobby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Can I help you, sir?” The
portly man in the red uniform with gold buttons as big as eggs said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Yes, I have an appointment
with LeRoy Neiman.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">He smiled at me, but his eyes
were not matching his painted on grin. “Name sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“James Haymer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I’ll be with you directly
sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">He waddled over to the phone
behind an ancient desk. I heard him say, “yes ma’am” and saw him nodding his
head. It looked like I was going to be admitted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Mr. Haymer, Mr. Neiman’s personal
assistant will be down momentarily. She will take you up to the third floor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">Not more than a minute after
he had uttered those words, I saw the elevator open and a tall, slender woman
in her mid to late forties approached. She extended her hand and I shook it
lightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Mr. Haymer, if you would
follow me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I got into the old fashioned
elevator and watched her shut the iron gates. It seemed like the elevator was
standing still but a minute later it had stopped, so I guessed that it had to
be moving. After she reopened the iron gates, I followed her out. Walking down
the exquisite hallway with hardwood oak or walnut floors, we came to room #307.
She opened the door with a key and I followed her in. It seemed to be an office
of some kind. There were art supplies, copy machines, paper cutters, and a
large table in the center of the room with piles and piles of neatly stacked
papers and pallets of some unknown material.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Do you have it with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Excuse me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“The painting. Is it in there?”
She said, pointing to my carry-on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Yes, yes,” I said nervously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I propped the case on the corner
of the table, opened it and brought out the white gift box. After carefully
unwrapping the box I showed her the Red Toreador.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Ah yes, this is something, I’m
not sure what, however. Mrs. Neiman will be down in a minute to evaluate the
artwork. Please have a seat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Uh, thanks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I didn’t sit since I was too
nervous. Instead, I perused the artifacts in the room. I wondered how many
people had had the pleasure of being in the position I was in. How many other
artists, actors, musicians, sports figures had graced this room and the room next
door which, after peeking my head through the cracked doorway, I could see was
the studio; the place where all the magic happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">About ten minutes later, an
attractive elderly woman, thin but not frail, walked briskly up to me with the
Red Toreador in her hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I’m Janet Neiman, and you
must be Mr. Haymer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Yes.” I took her hand and
once again shook it. I was surprised at her handshake. It was firm and
self-assured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I am sorry to put you through
all this trouble, Mr. Haymer, but we have had many people come to us claiming
to have original paintings by my husband and only a rare few were
authenticated. But, I must say, I think this is one of his. There was a series
of painting LeRoy did in the late fifties and they were featured in <i>Playboy</i> magazine. This seems to be one
of them. How did you acquire it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I explained to Mrs. Neiman the
story of how my mom and dad met LeRoy at a party in Manhattan back when I was a
toddler and I could see she was amused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I see. Come let’s have a
better look, shall we?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">She walked over to the table
and turned the painted over. “Yes, I can see by the cut of the board, it’s definitely
one of LeRoy’s. He used to be so impatient when he cut them, there was always a
splinter or a rough edge to it. See?”<br />
She showed me the right edge of the painting, how it looked a bit jagged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I see. So you’re saying it’s
real?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Yes. And the signature is
most definitely his. Lynn will be bringing my husband down in a minute. Now I
have to warn you, Leroy has been very ill and very rarely if at all receives
visitors. But, after I told him you had come all the way from Nashville,
Tennessee to meet him he became excited. He loves Nashville and had always
planned on painting the skyline and some country stars, but never got around to
it. You will have to speak very loudly, though. He has one of those amplifier
things, but hates to use it. But I always insist that he does around people. If
you like you can wait in the studio.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Thanks, that would be great.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I opened my carry-on and
bought out one of my CD’s and some pictures of my mom and dad from the fifties.
I thought maybe, if he wasn’t too far gone, he might remember them. The room
was beyond belief. The floors were splattered with paint with every color
imaginable. I was thinking that the floor could be sold a s a work of art for
millions of dollars. There were some original paintings on the wall. One with
Mohammed Ali, one with a gangster I thought could be Al Capone. On the other
wall was a painting of various jazz musicians, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane to
name a few. Under that painting were his art supplies and brushes. God, I felt
honored and lucky to be there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">While I was staring at the jazz
painting, I heard the sound of wheels rolling and then I saw him. LeRoy was in
a wheelchair and I could see his right leg had been amputated at the knee. I
tried not to focus on it, though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Mr. Haymer, this is my
husband, Le Roy. LeRoy, this is Mr. James Haymer. He has come all the way from
Nashville to meet you and he brought the Red Toreador.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">LeRoy had a perpetual grin on
his face and I wasn’t sure if he was getting any of it. I figured he had some
kind of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">Even though I tried not to
look at the leg, Janet Neiman picked upon it immediately. She was a sharp as a
tack, that woman. I realized how difficult that was for her, being 87 and
having all of her faculties, while her husband, once so vital, was wasting
away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“LeRoy had a nasty infection
in his leg and the doctors felt it was going to kill him if, you know, so he
had it removed. I’m sorry if it comes to a shock to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“No, no. I understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Hello, Mr. Neiman.” I pointed
to the Al Capone painting. “I really love that painting. Is it Al Capone?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I love gangsters,” he said in
a creaky voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Me too,” I said with a smile
I couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to hide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">I opened my folder with some pictures
of my mom and dad and showed them to him thinking maybe it might spark some kind
of memory. He stared at the one of my father for a bit and then said, “I see
him around sometimes. I see my brother, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">Janet Neiman whispered in my
ear, “His brother has been dead for twenty years.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;"> I nodded my head knowingly. Then I brought out
one of my CDs and gave it to him. He looked genuinely pleased.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Would you like an autograph,
Mr. Haymer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Yes, that would be lovely.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">She walked over to the shelf
and brought down a six by nine inch cardboard flyer announcing an art showing
at the Franklin Bowles Galleries, one in San Francisco on May 12<sup>th</sup>
and the other here in New York on May 19<sup>th</sup>. I was hoping he would
still be alive to attend. On the front of the flyer was a photo of LeRoy from
the sixties or seventies wearing a navy blue Pea coat and a gray scarf with his
trademark cigar in his right hand. I was sure he didn’t smoke anymore. His wife
gave him a pen and he signed the card, but he left off the “an” in Neiman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“LeRoy, you didn’t finish the
signature.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“The signature, LeRoy.” She
then held his hand and guided the final two letters of his last name which
almost matched but was slightly tilting downwards. It would have to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I’m afraid my husband has had
enough excitement for one day. Now if you will excuse us.I must get him back to
his room. It was a pleasure meeting you. By the way, are you planning on selling
the painting?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“I’m not sure . . . maybe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Well if you are, there is a
gallery in the Village that handles all of LeRoy’s art. The name is on the back
of that card. If you like I could put a callin and they might be able to see
you while you are in town.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“That would be great, thanks,
Mrs. Neiman.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Oh, please call me Janet,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">“Thank you, Janet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white;">A minute later Lynn was
wheeling LeRoy out of the room and I knew it would be the last time I would
ever see him again. What a rare and glorious honor it was. Truly blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-60768574952488787012014-12-29T04:15:00.000-08:002014-12-29T04:15:07.127-08:00Chapter 64 – Red Toreador – Part One<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeh0XL-8pH7D_qL-91UPcxz_B8EIy50jzDzQjwbCybCZMVt7iivFZdepLzdPHpN8nCPt-X_20SEM1eJtVzME0szk0aqzoWM3iZBRdrY2oxOKmZt0nfNosBhyVbYAijw2YsfzP4zd7uLQA/s1600/redtoreador1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeh0XL-8pH7D_qL-91UPcxz_B8EIy50jzDzQjwbCybCZMVt7iivFZdepLzdPHpN8nCPt-X_20SEM1eJtVzME0szk0aqzoWM3iZBRdrY2oxOKmZt0nfNosBhyVbYAijw2YsfzP4zd7uLQA/s1600/redtoreador1.jpg" height="640" width="508" /></a></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In
the fall of 2011, I noticed a 9 by 12 inch painting of a red toreador
in the foyer I hadn't really paid attention to for some time. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I
can remember it hanging on the living room wall in Jericho fifty
years ago, and can can still vaguely recall my parents telling me how
they had met LeRoy Neiman at a party in Manhattan in the early
sixties. I was eight, nine maybe. It could have been even earlier
than that because it seemed like it had always been there. My mom
said she never really liked that painting in the least. Even though
it looked like someone had eaten a whole set of Crayola crayons and
then threw them up onto a poster-board, I still liked it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> So
times being what they were, rotten, financially anyway, my wife
started researching the painting on the internet. Couldn't do that
thirty years ago. She found LeRoy Neiman's official website and
emailed a very sweet and concise letter. I was surprised that they
had emailed back so quickly. They said they would like to see a
picture of it, so we took two photos without a flash and tried to fix
the brightness on the Kodak program. I did the best I could, and sent
it off to Lynn, who is some kind of go-between to the man himself who
was 90 years old at that time, if he was a day.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> So
then the waiting game began. A week went by without a response and I
decided to check in with an inquiry email. I had heard back within a
few hours. The email read:</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Dear
Donna,</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Yes
we have been studying it. There was a Toreador that Mr. Neiman
painted that was reproduced in Playboy Magazine in "Man At His
Leisure", Mr. Neiman feature in Playboy for over 15 years. Your
painting is almost identical to this image but not as realized.
Within the past few years we received an inquiry regarding a painting
that was presented to us for verification. It looked very much like
yours. Mr. Neiman at that time said he did not believe it was his. If
you are confident it is an original LeRoy Neiman painting, we
recommend you contact an appraiser to verify that this is an original
work by the hand of LeRoy Neiman. We can direct you to a respected
individual who is a certified appraiser and has worked with Mr.
Neiman's original art for over 20 years. If you care to ship it to us
Fed-Ex we will be more than happy to authenticate the painting. You
can contact Jane St. Lifer at bla-bla-bla for all the details.</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sincerely,</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lynn
Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> You
know how when you stick your neck out into the cosmic consciousness
it always sends you little affirmations. I was just thinking about
the whole painting biz, when I pressed the info button on the movie
on HBO. It was called <i>Picture Perfect</i>. I thought, “Now that
<i>is</i> perfect.” There was no way in the world I was going to
ship that painting. What if it got lost? Even with insurance, the
painting hadn't been appraised or authenticated and there was no way
to tell what its true value was. I decided right then and there that
I was going to NYC, and if they wanted to see the painting, they were
going to have to see me, too. I sent another email explaining how I
wanted to have their local people appraise the painting, and part of
the deal would be, if they would be so kind, to give me a chance to
meet the man himself—LeRoy Neiman! Later that week I received a
follow-up email:</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Dear
Mr. Haymer,</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>We
have many pressing obligations between now and the New Year. Would
you be able to travel here in January or at some time convenient for
you in early 2012? I understand how you feel about shipping your
painting. Even though it will be in your hands, make certain that it
is wrapped carefully. Let us know when you can arrange to bring
the painting to the studio in New York. Once a date and time is set,
we will give you the address which is very near Lincoln Center. If
you don't mind using email to communicate, we prefer not using the
telephone as LeRoy Neiman is 90 and his wife Janet is 87 years old.
The studio shares the same telephone line and we try not to
inconvenience them in case we happen to be out.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>We
ought to solve this mystery together.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Warm
regards,</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lynn
Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman</i></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Upper West Side, Manhattan,
January 11, 2012.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgO0uszq4wYewuto8OO7BzbZsyCxJSsVIBPCJ18BJ0XOJ81rt5rVK-qMBnuBn81SL-70JbmlDbsCjhh1A9e1_OYG4f9TCVhWz6s_PrG3vb0ZP67ELRZsiX-gph-fZcU3H-AcdTHbA_bY/s1600/DSC00790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgO0uszq4wYewuto8OO7BzbZsyCxJSsVIBPCJ18BJ0XOJ81rt5rVK-qMBnuBn81SL-70JbmlDbsCjhh1A9e1_OYG4f9TCVhWz6s_PrG3vb0ZP67ELRZsiX-gph-fZcU3H-AcdTHbA_bY/s1600/DSC00790.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Seventy-three, seventy-four, At
last! I turned left on seventy-fifth street and was looking for
number twenty-four. There's eight. Ten. God, these numbers are so
close together. There was a young woman coming out of the door on
number twenty-four. It was Amy Sterling, Max's girlfriend. I think we
recognized each other at the same time and she gave me a hug which I
returned quickly because I had to piss like a racehorse. I saw Max
standing on the wooden floors in the living room of this small but
nice apartment. We hugged for a sufficient amount of time and I asked
to use the bathroom. Thank God it was just to the left of the front
door as you were walking in. Oh relief is such a good thing. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #222222;">I
sat down on the black vinyl love-seat. Max sat next to me with Amy on
the chair next to the console Story and Clark piano that he had
purchased for four hundred dollars because of a broken leg that was
an easy fix. He still had the broken piece taped to the scarred leg.
I laid out the photos I had taken with me of my mom and dad. There
were two shots of Robbie an Dad in St. Louis back in the early
eighties. They did a show together called </span><span style="color: #222222;"><i>Tribute</i></span><span style="color: #222222;">
about a father and son. Excellent casting. I showed Max and Amy the
copies of the Woody Allen skits I had also brought with me. Woody
Allen had written some material for my dad, who was a stand-up
comedian in the late fifties in Tamament, a Jewish resort up in
northern Pennsylvania. There was a body of water called Scroon Lake.
It must have been a pleasant enough day, so Woody and his first wife,
Harleen, had decided to take my sister and me out on a rowboat. Well,
as the story was relayed to me, since I was too young to remember,
the boat sprang a leak and was sinking. It was soon spotted by the
Coast Guard and we were eventually rescued. I can just imagine Woody
ranting and raving and pulling out his ginger hair (which he had a
lot more of at the time), and then screaming to his wife about how he
was going to drown, or worse, be responsible for the deaths of two
kids under the age of five.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-size: small;">Let's
see the Neiman,” Max and Amy said in unison. I unpacked my case an
unzipped the special compartment and was happy to see the white 12 x
14 inch gift box looking no worse for wear. I placed the box on the
glass coffee table carefully removed the Scotch tape on the corners.
I opened the box. Off with the bubble wrap, off with the tissue paper
and there it was, back in the same city where my parents first laid
there hands on it. It looked vibrant in the soft track lighting and I
was overcome by a sense of guilt and remorse. Maybe I should keep it
after all? It's funny how something you had looked at all your life
and mostly taken for granted all of a sudden takes on new beauty. I
was connecting more and more to the small work of art and dreaded
having to part with it; I knew that, in the end, I probably would.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When I
woke up around five the next morning, I tried to be as quiet as
possible. Even though the bedroom downstairs had its own bathroom, it
didn't have a door. I ground the coffee quickly in their souped up
grinder and tried to figure out how the coffee machine worked, but I
couldn't, so I decided I would brave the elements a little later and
go looking for a Starbucks. I went into the bathroom, took a quick
bath to clean up, shave and pass the time. I did a nice number two in
the toilet and flushed. Not going down. Uh oh. I flushed again, this
time water had overflowed and was spilling out all over the floor. I
wiped up most of it with the bland guest towel they had given me to
use, and then searched for a toilet plunger. Unfortunately, there
wasn't one in this bathroom. I checked the front closet, but nothing
but coats and woman's shoes in a plastic rack attached to the inside
of the door. I said to myself, “I'll bet its in the downstairs
bathroom, but I can't disturb my nephew and his girlfriend. Damn.
I'll just have to go out and find one.”</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-WVxMvPpDzdVRkalKCpPvlHJhpMHWPEEHIqP4YvHo9grTC0Vzru8zP-b4C34qRqoVAtj0u0QYZvyUZR9QBL1BE40UV2Fqlp8piXfOTmWTjM7nWHh1PTNWeDU5myIWSdrQUJe6e6fIVU/s1600/nyc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-WVxMvPpDzdVRkalKCpPvlHJhpMHWPEEHIqP4YvHo9grTC0Vzru8zP-b4C34qRqoVAtj0u0QYZvyUZR9QBL1BE40UV2Fqlp8piXfOTmWTjM7nWHh1PTNWeDU5myIWSdrQUJe6e6fIVU/s1600/nyc1.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had
been given a set of three keys, one for the front door of the
building and two for the apartment's front door. I locked the door of
their apartment and ventured out into the crisp Manhattan morning.
The sun was starting to peek through the buildings on the upper east
side with rays of light illuminating the tower of the Chrysler
building, one of my favorite edifices. Walking at quick pace, I saw a
Starbucks on Broadway and 72nd. It was starting to rain pretty
heavily now so it was a good place to seek shelter. I took my coffee
to go and went looking for a place that might sell a cheap toilet
plunger. I new Max and Amy weren't going to be up for awhile, so I
had time to peruse the area.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I found
a pharmacy of some kind that had all sorts of do-dads and whatnot’s,
but there weren't any toilet plungers. I asked the African/American
gentleman at the counter where I might find one so he suggested
someplace on Broadway past 73rd where I might be lucky enough to find
one. It was pouring now and I got caught at the center island in the
middle of Broadway trying to cross the street. Cars speeding by and a
classic thing happened. It was like the scene in <i>The Mask, </i>where
Jim Carrey's character is waiting to get into the Cocoa Bongo to meet
up with Cameron Diaz, but gets splashed by a speeding car near the
curb. That's exactly what happened to me, except for the Cameron Diaz
part. I went off on a mission to find a trusty toilet plunger.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The
store I was heading to looked closed, so I traveled north on Columbus
to the Upper West side. Great, another Starbucks! Waiting outside the
locked door of the single occupancy restroom, a big African Queen
exited and I rushed in. During my pee I noticed, yes, it was a toilet
plunger behind my left foot. What else could I do but hide the grungy
thing under my gray overcoat and walk out. It must have looked like a
rifle or something to anyone passing by. Thank God it was early in
the morning and raining so the streets were relatively empty. This
would be something that would happen to Larry David in the show <i>Curb
Your Enthusiasm</i>, except he would probably get busted trying to
return it. It was a good fifteen blocks to the apartment and I began
walking at a furious pace. Upon entering the building and into their
flat, it was still as quiet as when I had left, so I knew they were
still asleep. I plunged and plunged again. Success! I later told Max
and Amy the story and the toilet was snaked the very next day by the
landlord. In two days time I would have my meeting with the master.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">To be
continued.</span></div>
jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-80725706944489523722014-12-22T06:40:00.000-08:002014-12-22T06:40:50.436-08:00Chapter 63 – Out To Pasture <div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhThVuw7qSIOyH5xc5_qYOrc9xNtvv5m771UfA7DH-t9NuvV40cLKx4sgx8TEGuc_AVkDA7ptczyaet-OdZ8BgDmYJYuQLwKxqX43auWY3BHS2hKi5pv9-Vn7IaEdFQAPS5A7oVUOZpJZM/s1600/Bailey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhThVuw7qSIOyH5xc5_qYOrc9xNtvv5m771UfA7DH-t9NuvV40cLKx4sgx8TEGuc_AVkDA7ptczyaet-OdZ8BgDmYJYuQLwKxqX43auWY3BHS2hKi5pv9-Vn7IaEdFQAPS5A7oVUOZpJZM/s1600/Bailey.jpg" height="448" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">While Donna was going
through her bi-weekly bouts with chemotherapy and radiation treatments we had
lost another member of the family—one of our three dogs, Bailey. We weren’t
exactly sure how old he was, but he must have been at least fifteen since we
had found him (on Bailey Road) a year or two after we had moved to Middle
Tennessee. Bailey was a great dog, very independent and one of the smartest dogs
I had ever had the privilege of living with. We never had him “fixed”,
therefore, he used to wander from time to time. Sometimes he would be gone a
week or ten days before we would hear his claws scratching on the side door to
come inside. Bailey was a reddish-brown miniature Golden Retriever mix weighing
in at about twenty-five pounds. He must have been part collie too, having
strands of black hair running down the sides of his long floppy ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After having
lost Bridget and Ginger a few years back, Bailey was the first of the Tennessee
dogs we had to say goodbye to. It was the morning of July 26<sup>th</sup> 2010.
Now there is some discrepancy of the date because Donna remembers it
differently. I was getting ready to take the boys somewhere that morning. Donna
thought it was school, but it was the middle of summer so it must have been the
Kids on Stage camp. I have always been pretty good with dates and I remember it
was Mick Jagger’s birthday. Nevertheless, Bailey was struggling and we knew he
wouldn’t last long. The night before he was moaning and whimpering so badly I
had to give him a Tylenol with codeine to pacify him. It seemed to help, but we
were up most of the night trying to comfort the dog and planned on taking him
to Dr. Woody’s in the morning as soon as I got back from taking the boys to
camp. Donna said it happened while I was starting up the car. By the time I had
gotten back he was gone. Now the surviving animals were Bruno, the black lab,
Mowgli, the black cat, Josie, the tortoise shell and calico mixed cat, and
Piper, the Cairn terrier I had found the year before.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc1uPx01mpr5VwS8XA51VO9EJyukIKYTTQzg6a0SJIRWxaIRJT_FZbI9Dd_j_QTyPURQ3VtfVgm0_vFrohPZOKMSI0ikwjSTvMKMUwEtxtdZu7Gm1FM_jCoN2QGlx61HIk15b86nUcC0/s1600/piper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc1uPx01mpr5VwS8XA51VO9EJyukIKYTTQzg6a0SJIRWxaIRJT_FZbI9Dd_j_QTyPURQ3VtfVgm0_vFrohPZOKMSI0ikwjSTvMKMUwEtxtdZu7Gm1FM_jCoN2QGlx61HIk15b86nUcC0/s1600/piper.jpg" height="538" width="640" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One morning
before the cancer took hold while Donna was at work and the kids were in
school, I saw something out in the yard crawling through the high grass. I
squinted up my eyes to see what in the world it was. At first I thought it was
an injured rabbit or cat but as I ventured closer I saw it was a small dog with
thick white hair that looked like Toto from the <i>Wizard of Oz.</i> I puckered my lips and called her over and watched
the dog inch its way toward me. I could see the dog had been out in the
wilderness of Thompson Station for quite some time by the tangled and matted
hair, but she didn’t look starved, in fact she was a bit plump. I coaxed her
into the house and gave her a drink of water and some dry food which she went
after ravenously. I called Donna to tell her I had found what I thought was a
purebred and her first reaction was, “Oh no, not another one.” I told her she
was probably lost and would go around to the neighbor’s houses and inquire if
they had lost a wee doggie. After exhausting my search without any luck, I
decided to put up a few signs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When Donna and
the boys came home, they saw the wee dog which I had named Piper and were
enchanted, even loved the name. I noticed that Piper had a wide gap between her
nostrils and thought she might have a cleft palate. On further inspection I saw
there was a pinpoint hole there like a third nostril. Very unique. I also had
the sneaking suspicion, because of her bulging tummy and swollen nipples, she
was pregnant. After taking her in to Dr. Woody’s, my suspicions were
confirmed—she was pregnant. He said it was too late for an abortion and would
be having the puppies shortly. I constructed a birthing box from an old TV
carton and put blankets and pillows inside of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One morning I
came down to check on her and she was in the process of giving birth. The puppy
was half-way out of her and didn’t seem to be coming out. When she finally
released the poor puppy, it was still born. I didn’t know what to do, but
thought she might have more to come. It was obvious that the still born puppy
and been much too big and I figured Piper had mated with a much larger dog than
she was. I called Dr. Woody and left a message. When he called me back, I told
him what was going on and he said to bring her in immediately. Of course it was
a Sunday. They did an emergency C-section to remove the remaining puppy and
sadly that one was also dead. The bill came to over $900. We rationalized it by
saying it would have cost that much to buy a purebred Cairn terrier. Poor Piper
was now the newest addition to the Haymer household since nobody else had
claimed her. One of the saddest and most pathetic sights I had ever witnessed
in my life, was when Piper had befriended a toy doggie about the same size as
one of her lost babies. She would snuggle up to that little white toy dog with
the brown spots and pretend to nurse it. It never left her sight. I guess it
helped her through the mourning and grieving process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Now it was time
to bury Bailey. There wasn’t room in the backyard pet cemetery behind the patio
fence anymore so we had to start a new one. There was a small area next to my
putting green more than a hundred yards from the side door of the house that
seemed right. I dug a hole in the clearing between two trees and covered him up
with some sand and peat moss. I made a sign from some scrap wood and painted an
inscription. After surrounding the grave with fieldstones I place the sign
close to where his head was and we all said goodbye to Bailey. As I am writing
this, sadly to say, four other animals have joined Bailey in that pet cemetery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On a lighter note,
before Bailey’s illness, I had seen a sign posted that two softball leagues
were starting up. One was a men’ team and the other a co-ed. I wondered, at the
age of fifty-eight, if I could still manage to play the game I had loved so
much as a kid, a young adult and a thirty-something. The last time I had played
the game, I had broken my ankle sliding into home plate on Labor Day in 1987.
Yes, I was safe but was out of commission for months. But now I was the oldest
player on the team, or the next oldest as most of the players on the men’s team
were in their late twenties or early thirties, but I surprised myself at how
easily I was able to move around the bases. Although I couldn’t bend down as
low for those hot ground balls to second, I made only one or two errors the
whole season. The format was slow pitch where the ball had to sail an arc
between six and twelve feet high. I alternated between playing second base and
pitcher, the same two positions I used to play in Little League when I was a
kid. One of my best pitches back then was a knuckleball and I thought I could dust
off the cobwebs on that pitch and see if it would translate to underhand. I
remembered the time when I used to employ that pitch back in the old days I had
a tell. When I used to dig my fingernails into the seams of that ball I would
inadvertently bite my lower lip. The batters, after a while, had seen that tell
too, and would know what pitch was coming and wait on it like it was a
giftwrapped birthday present. My catcher approached the mound and told me what
I was doing. After that I would purposely bite my lip and then throw the
fastball. It worked like a charm. Now, to my surprise as a gripped the seams
and let go a floater, I saw that I still had it. I was amazed that, even in
slow pitch, I was able to strike out a few of the weaker players.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The next year,
at fifty-nine, I was going to give it another go. My goal that year was to get
through the season without an injury. I ended up on the blue team where I was
at least twenty, maybe even thirty years older than most of the team except for
Coach Tom, who was the pastor at the Thompson Station Baptist Church. Over the
years, I had watched the church transform from a quaint one story building into
a “megachurch” with three or four outbuildings as big as a WalMart. I was
mildly upset that I didn’t get to pitch that year since Pastor Tom did most of
the pitching. That really didn’t bother me as much as what happened after every
game. All the players would line up on the pitcher’s mound, take off their hats
and say a prayer to Jesus. I guess I could think of worse things to do after a
game, but still I felt uncomfortable. Who was I kidding? I was living in rural
Middle Tennessee where there are more churches per square mile than gas
stations, markets, golf courses, swimming pools and restaurants combined. The
closest Jewish synagogue was thirty miles away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> One evening, one of the players requested a
special prayer for the brother of one of the players that was struggling with
alcoholism. The team all held hands, closed their eyes and prayed that this
individual would see the light and Jesus would take away his desire to drink. I
remembered how, when I and some of my friends had problems with the drink, we
would go to an AA meeting and work the twelve-step program. I thought I would
suggest this to the players so I spoke up saying, “Excuse me but, in addition
to praying, has the guys ever thought of going to an AA meeting? It seems to
work for a lot of people.” Twenty pairs of eyes looked at me like I was the
anti-Christ. I felt the top of my head wondering if I had grown horns. The guy
next to me poked me with an elbow and said, “Don’t be rude.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Rude? I was
only saying that AA is not such a bad idea.” I knew I was speaking to deaf
ears, so I bit the bullet and waited for the prayer to conclude. What planet
was I on? I, as everyone who knows me well knows, have nothing against Jesus,
but to assume that all people on earth have the same beliefs as you is a
misnomer. They acted as if AA was a cult and was diametrically opposed to
Christianity; after all most of the steps in the 12 step program talk about a
higher power. The small-mindedness of these folks astounded me. Well, our team
ended up winning the division, but that night after that prayer meeting, I had
decided to hang up my cleats. At least I had made it through the season without
an injury, which was my goal. I was getting into golf again anyway, and thought
about getting a job at Forrest Crossing as an ambassador where by working one
day a week you could get free golf. I was already playing two or three times a
week with my newest and best golfing buddy, Sunset Slim. But it was costing too
much. If I got that ambassador job, think of all the money I would save! I went
down there that fall but they said they were full up and would probably be
hiring again in the spring. I didn’t get the job in the spring, but I would get
eventually be hired the following year. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-34465287505362391262014-12-15T04:37:00.002-08:002014-12-15T04:37:39.442-08:00Chapter 62 – Timing is Everything<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xQe27wWYY8mHDH2KzJURNbZSDsIvAljS0Rg6v5tj1FgIuY6ncVrmuhfQIHpSWxFxN0uJbrxobd-AN5BgI5JJaDEUBdc2mFvjXbPkasKmw4P62fmC1zbCaIW31IigLmbvtj6Sr5rSY2g/s1600/Timing+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xQe27wWYY8mHDH2KzJURNbZSDsIvAljS0Rg6v5tj1FgIuY6ncVrmuhfQIHpSWxFxN0uJbrxobd-AN5BgI5JJaDEUBdc2mFvjXbPkasKmw4P62fmC1zbCaIW31IigLmbvtj6Sr5rSY2g/s1600/Timing+Cover.jpg" height="612" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">By February of 2010,
twelve songs were chosen out of the fifteen to make the cut on my newest
record, <i>Timing is Everything.</i> This
was the first album I had made where I used outside musicians and an outside
recording studio. Fortunately, I still had my Protools setup at home, so after
the basic tracks were finished, I would take the files home and overdub my
guitar, pedal steel and any other strange instruments I fancied. The vocals I
would record at the studio. Seven of the tracks were recorded at Switchyard,
and the other eight at a new place in Hermitage, Shadow Lane Studios owned and
operated by Phillip Wolfe, a pretty decent utility player in his own right (or
as John Lennon had coined –<i>In His Own
Write</i>). Phil would actually paly some Hammond organ on a few of the tracks
and he always had a plethora of guitars I could use to overdub. One I
especially liked was a Gibson 12-string from the sixties. Nice!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The record was
in the mixing stages now and, although they sounded good, they weren’t great.
Something was wrong and I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I had my friend
Chas Sandford attempt to mix the songs, but even though he is a great producer,
it was sounding too brittle and booming, especially the drums. I wanted a
warmer, live sound and it was not translating correctly, for my ears anyway.
Chas had invited me to a party by Old Hickory Lake one night where a lot of
singer’ songwriters would gather around the campfire and pass the guitar around
and sing some of their compositions. I sang a few and this Australian guy
approached me. He said he really liked my tunes and asked if I had a record
out. I told him yes, I had a few and was in the process of mixing my fourth.
When I asked him what he did, he said he was a musician, producer and recording
engineer. Luke Garfield (a nice presidential name) and I were getting along
famously and, instinctively I thought, he might be the right guy to give my
record a try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Luke had a great
little setup in his living room of a small house next to a church in the Berry
Hill section of Nashville. I would stop by in the mornings, bring over some
coffee, and we’d get to work. It was sounding great, especially when he ran the
mixes through some of his vintage plug-ins. By the end of February we had
twelve songs mixed and mastered. The last song on the record was one I had
recorded live in my home studio, and I think it is the best one on the album. It’s
called <i>Song for my Sons</i>, in which I
postulate my life’s lessons to my boys. Here’s a snippet:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The apple didn’t fall too far from
the tree; <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It dropped straight down and hit
you on the knee,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So if you want to grow up and be
like me, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">You’ve got to learn to play your
song.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m your dad so take my advice <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Go lead yourself an honest life.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And don’t burn the candle at both
ends<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Be good to yourself and all of your friends.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">You don’t need fortune, you don’t
need fame—<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All you got to do is play the game.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Find a good partner to be your
mate—<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Give a little more back, son, than
you take.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh I love you so, and I take you
with me, wherever I go.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK47oWkxqB7v5sXMuNqYt52yO4a_v03NhOvHk91pCKt39x7UsHmsTEUFJfYjNeUdYZ1DNbML9PsSZ3QOyTqRUL6lm0YOVedkzadiHe1R9wreFCMMHAF1EMPPwlUAtZGXjxlRvstCP5vrw/s1600/03+10+cpbyholly+038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK47oWkxqB7v5sXMuNqYt52yO4a_v03NhOvHk91pCKt39x7UsHmsTEUFJfYjNeUdYZ1DNbML9PsSZ3QOyTqRUL6lm0YOVedkzadiHe1R9wreFCMMHAF1EMPPwlUAtZGXjxlRvstCP5vrw/s1600/03+10+cpbyholly+038.JPG" height="428" width="640" /></a></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In March, I had
booked a photo session with Holly, the same photographer that took the photos
at Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah. It was a cold day and the snow was partially covering
the railroad tracks by the Thompson Station town hall. There is an old
fashioned railroad car positioned on a small bit of track adjacent to the rail
line. Across the street was Thompson Station Grille which, at one time, had
been the original country market where the railroad workers would get off and
buy their breakfast—a real whistle stop. We decided this would make a great
location to shoot the album cover. I had brought my youngest son, Morgan, with
me and had planned to use him as one of the band members. He had an old WWII
bombers jacket and a tweed flat brimmed cap, like Ben Hogan used to wear. He
looked great. We were waiting for the rest of my band to show up but they were
beyond late and I was getting worried. When I finally reached Tom, the bass
player, he informed me that his mother-in-law was experiencing chest pains and
he and his wife had to rush her to the emergency room. I think that Rudy, the
drummer was with him at the time was the one driving them. I knew then that the
two of them were not going to make the photo shoot, which I understood
perfectly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Meanwhile, with
Holly already there and my pockets full of cash to pay her with, I saw Ronnie,
the local homeless man hanging out by the train car. When I first met him, he
was sitting on a director’s chair in front of the old bank building on the
corner across the street from the railroad car. It was an tiny, old brick
building built over a hundred or more years ago, and I was told it used to be
the local bank. Now it was a hair salon owned and operated by a woman, Suzanne.
She let Ronnie sweep the hair off the floors for a few dollars. When I went in
to get my haircut, Suzanne introduced me to him. When he went outside, she told
me that Ronnie was illiterate and a young girl by the name of April was
teaching him how to read and write. She didn’t want anything in return; just
the satisfaction of knowing that she was helping a “good Christian” was payment
enough for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Now in
preparation for the photo shoot, I had brought a change of vintage clothing, a
few guitars and a snare drum, some harmonicas and some clocks (one was a Hofner
bass with a clock face in the center) and plenty of hats. I asked Ronnie if he
would like to pose for the photo as one of the guitar players. I said I would
give him twenty bucks and he was over the moon with excitement. He hadn’t seen
that much money in one place since he had a job at the convenience store a few
years back. Ronnie was a paper thin man in his late fifties with long, stringy
gray hair and a ruddy face. We were still one man short to complete the band
ensemble. I went over to the Thompson Station Grille and convinced the cook to
pose as the drummer. I gave him a three cornered hat and positioned him behind
the snare drum. Morgan threw on the accordion and I had a ukulele while Ronnie
slung on my old, black Harmony Stratotone guitar. We were an eclectic, but
interesting looking band that ranged in age from eleven to almost sixty.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpLoNhytoanM1rMgDGcubL-g1ZkEO_4E4xLT4rGUN2ALKXkV2PU6UERUxbDfGcz0tumbDlgfrTfHJ1SZN3_DEt5JZfk5t3SKucj5u_a0s53lKdaXSZAB7-wV0vjbGxeqNcsQ_VBstnuQ/s1600/03+10+cpbyholly+076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpLoNhytoanM1rMgDGcubL-g1ZkEO_4E4xLT4rGUN2ALKXkV2PU6UERUxbDfGcz0tumbDlgfrTfHJ1SZN3_DEt5JZfk5t3SKucj5u_a0s53lKdaXSZAB7-wV0vjbGxeqNcsQ_VBstnuQ/s1600/03+10+cpbyholly+076.JPG" height="640" width="428" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">About a year
later, I was saddened to hear that Ronnie had gotten an incurable case of liver
cancer and was dying. He was living in a shed behind the car repair place down
the street from the train. There was no heat in his eight by ten wooden shack
but there was an extension cord which powered and old TV and a VCR. I went over
to visit him from time to time and remembered that I had a bunch of old video
cassettes I was going to sell on Ebay. I gathered them up and drove down to his
shed with over thirty good movies and a C harmonica. He was very thin and could
hardly talk but his eyes were still okay. I knew he was glad to have those
tapes and I was told, after he died that January in the home of a local
resident who had taken him in and took care of his needs, he would watch them
all the time. I don’t think, however, he ever played the harmonica. I also gave
him an autographed copy of my CD and when he saw his picture on the back cover
he smiled. He knew now that his image would go on, even if his body wouldn’t.
At least he spent the last few weeks of his life in the warmth of a guestroom
and was eating, to the best of his ability, good, healthy food and drinking hot
tea and coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The funeral was
at the Baptist church in Spring Hill, the neighboring town. I was amazed how
many people were there, probably over a hundred. Ronnie had touched the lives
of more people than I had thought possible. I heard so many inspirational
stories of Ronnie’s life from the people who knew and loved him. Thompson
Station had lost its one and only homeless person but it would be a long time
before he was forgotten. Someone had erected an old lawn chair with a sign
reading Ronnie’s Place outside the BP gas station where, from time to time, he
would sweep the blacktop parking lot for cigarette money and food. As I drove
past his shrine, I had thought about the day we took those photos. I miss that
guy and I think of the lyrics to an old Bob Dylan song: Only a hobo but one
more is gone/ leavin’ nobody to sing his sad song/ <span style="background: white;">leavin' nobody to carry him home</span>/ <span style="background: white;">Only a hobo, but one more
is gone. The only difference, there is somebody to sing his sad song. Me. His
name was Ronnie Johnson and for one brief moment in time he was a part of the
James Wesley Haymer band that cold March afternoon in Thompson Station, a small
town where he lived his fifty-nine years and the same town where he slipped
away silently in the night.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-20439382965102090402014-12-08T05:03:00.000-08:002014-12-08T05:03:45.541-08:00Chapter 61 – Mixed Celebration<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QsCE7Fub-6wuvouZl9bFggdqnZcuSPpfuDpsr76FmQp_uvc_kbnu8yXuHRWZxIhA9FI8MiVXxM8TNPCZjgGrjrBQFAVrJtQk-UV_LeItDGVV9hyqjm_M63UtnzYgeWMOHDuWAa8HqIE/s1600/Daniel's%2BBar%2BMkitzvah%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QsCE7Fub-6wuvouZl9bFggdqnZcuSPpfuDpsr76FmQp_uvc_kbnu8yXuHRWZxIhA9FI8MiVXxM8TNPCZjgGrjrBQFAVrJtQk-UV_LeItDGVV9hyqjm_M63UtnzYgeWMOHDuWAa8HqIE/s1600/Daniel's%2BBar%2BMkitzvah%2B2.jpg" height="380" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On the ninth of October
(John Lennon’s birthday) Donna’s chemotherapy began. She had timed it perfectly
after the doctor said her hair wouldn’t fall out for a couple of weeks.
Although the chemo would compromise her energy level greatly, she would still
have plenty of hair for the bar Mitzvah. I knew I would have to take the ball
and run with it, but I also knew that Donna would be right there keeping things
together as usual. She wouldn’t let a thing like cancer stop her from fully
experiencing one of the most important days in her (and my) middle son’s life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Donna was scheduled for six rounds every two
weeks of what they called the ominous “red” drug. After that she would be
tapered down to four rounds every three weeks of the “yellow”. As I said
before, the treatment would begin on Thursdays. She would have to come back on
Friday to get a shot to replenish the good cells after the red had destroyed
everything else (hopefully the cancer cells, too). This shot was expensive (a hundred dollars a
pop even after insurance) and one time she had forgone the shot hoping she
could get by without it. Unfortunately, her blood count was too low for the
next treatment. It goes without saying that she continued with the shot from
then on after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That
first chemo day a week before Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah, I was beside myself with
anxiety (I could only imagine what Donna was going through, but I knew she was
keeping a brave face). They sat her down in a vinyl recliner and administered the
IV with the “red”. Surrounded by sickly people (some so old that it seemed a
shame they had to be subjected to such agony), that I began to lose it. I
actually had to leave the room and head for the lavatory to cry. I wanted to
punch the paper towel dispenser in a fit of rage, but stopped myself at the
last second. It would have caused a disturbance and that was the last thing I
wanted to do at a time like that. I washed my face in the sink and returned to
my wife’s side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On
the following Tuesday her Mum, Dad and her younger sister Heather arrived from
Scotland, and I went alone to pick them up at the airport since Donna wasn’t
feeling quite up to snuff to tag along. I told them that their amazing daughter
was hanging in there and just needed to rest up for Daniel’s big day in four days’
time. With the arrival of all the out of town guests, it turned out to be a
blessing (in disguise?). The distraction of engaging in conversation with
Donna’s and my family proved to be worth its weight in gold. Now it was
Daniel’s turn to shine and we were spending every waking moment to make sure
the event went smoothly. Still, I couldn’t help but think and dream of what
sinister incubus had inserted its infected hands into the physiognomy of my
wife. How did it happen? How long had it been there? Could it be put in check?
These were questions that invaded my mind and I couldn’t let on that they were
preying on my conscious and subconscious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Two
days before the Bar Mitzvah, I had emptied my office of all its junk and
valuables, ripped up the carpet, rented a professional sander from Home Depot,
and began the unenviable task of refinishing the hundred year old wooden
floors. All the landlines had to be disconnected (something we hadn’t thought
of since the mains were in that room). It was lucky we all had our cell phones
to keep in touch with the throngs of people that were arriving and scattered
around the Franklin and Nashville area. The floors looked incredible, though,
and Donna was as pleased as punch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">October
17<sup>th</sup> came at last and we caravanned our way to Congregation Micah,
and by 8:30 we had arrived. All the guests began to file in, all except the
photographer. Fortunately, we all had our cameras, cell phones and plenty of
decent pictures resulted from these devices. At the last minute, Holly, the
photographer arrived and had apologized profusely for her tardiness blaming it
on the traffic. We took it all with a grain of salt, and before you can say
“cheese” the professional pictures were snapped.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-0uVQCqjPDuD_HaHrg3bzeqQaJrgkJ5O7DxilZV_3Yi_iUvgov5frMnKi99sRXw0xKmoW02xb_lYoCZpLtLTfGnrpoi77LJK1oomNl1-WXzJyh4SMCrPa4FjyCF9Rx7w4jnQsKm5IxA/s1600/Daniel's%2BBar%2BMkitzvah%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-0uVQCqjPDuD_HaHrg3bzeqQaJrgkJ5O7DxilZV_3Yi_iUvgov5frMnKi99sRXw0xKmoW02xb_lYoCZpLtLTfGnrpoi77LJK1oomNl1-WXzJyh4SMCrPa4FjyCF9Rx7w4jnQsKm5IxA/s1600/Daniel's%2BBar%2BMkitzvah%2B3.jpg" height="538" width="640" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Daniel,
I must say, was amazing. He spoke clearly and elegantly, reading his Torah
portion with a single flub or mumble. I was the proudest father in existence. I
looked over at his mother, who was also beaming. She looked so beautiful then,
and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for her after the chemotherapy’s
effects reared its ugly face. The least of my worries was her losing her hair.
Small potatoes. I had the wig anyway, lying in wait on the Styrofoam head in
the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After
the service, we all went back to the house in preparation for the party which
was to be held at a restaurant by the name of Stoveworks in the Factory, a
converted mattress factory now a mall in Franklin. This time, instead of a live
band, I hired a deejay I found on Craigslist, who did an admirable job until he
mistakenly played a rap song with the F-bomb in the lyrics. I didn’t really
care, but most of the Christians (and Jews) and some of the stodgier old folks
objected. I had to go over and give the deejay a good talking to. Fortunately,
he recovered nicely with a few Beatles songs. All was soon forgiven, but not
forgotten. I myself had forgotten what it was like in Middle Tennessee, not
like L.A. where the f-word was part of the everyday vernacular.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxYrsB-gNP88woT_I8FqRXlxpUd7MqK6vOu3yzo42SN955dl53DdEEjuszzlI_ZKDMp-W1WevSdjAAlXb7vkDHTImYAorFcr4C98Wlk9dEEXF2RY-nL1ls3JdYiYyP7M4VWF0CBjGlQg/s1600/Daniels's%2Bbar%2Bmitzvah%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxYrsB-gNP88woT_I8FqRXlxpUd7MqK6vOu3yzo42SN955dl53DdEEjuszzlI_ZKDMp-W1WevSdjAAlXb7vkDHTImYAorFcr4C98Wlk9dEEXF2RY-nL1ls3JdYiYyP7M4VWF0CBjGlQg/s1600/Daniels's%2Bbar%2Bmitzvah%2B1.jpg" height="470" width="640" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Life
tried to continue as normal as possible. Soccer games were played, the boys
went to school, meals were cooked (mostly by me, some still by Donna). The week
after the Bar Mitzvah, Donna’s hair began to fall out. We had cut it shorter in
preparation, but how can one really prepare for something like that? It was
thin and straggly when she came out of the bathroom. I said it would be better
just to go with the Sinead O’Conner look—completely bald. I got out the
electric dog clippers and shaved her beautiful cranium. She actually looked
great, and after trying on the wig again, it fit a lot better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
weeks dragged on after that, and, I have to say, most of it was a blur. I do
remember taking Jonathan to Chattanooga in mid-November to visit the college on
a Saturday, two days after Donna’s chemo. I don’t know how, but she managed to
take the other two boys to their respective soccer games while we were gone.
Maybe she was getting used to it? I doubt it, but life continued on in spite of
her travails. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By
January, I began a new album project with musicians I had met in my usual
way—Craigslist. My session leader was a wonderful bassist names Tom D’Angelo
who charted out the music and helped me find a studio. Tom was very helpful
finding other musicians too. Rudy Miller, who shined on drums and Chris Tuttle,
a master madman on keyboards. We recorded at an amazing studio in Antioch
called Switchyard owned and operated by Michael Saint-Leon. It was a wonderful,
but temporary distraction from the nightmare. I knew that I couldn’t devote too
much time away from home, so the sessions were long and spaced at times when I
knew it was okay to be away. One of the songs I wrote, called <i>Empty Chair,</i> was taking on new meaning.
I contemplated not recording the song thinking it might be tempting fate. I had
written the song a year earlier before we even knew about the dreaded disease
that would attack my wife some months later. It was really about a relationship
going through a hard and incommunicative time. The lyrics of the first two
verses and chorus are as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Feel like I’m sitting
in an empty chair.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m at the head of the
table but there’s nobody there.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And it it’s true why do
I care,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If I’m sitting here in
an empty chair.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Feel like I’m sleeping
in a lifeless bed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And I gave up on this
skin I shed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who is that man lying
in my stead,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With you every night in
my lifeless bed?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Life can be sweet, an
easy street,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You can take it as far
as you can.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Heaven help me help
myself to your love again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Donna
was staying positive, I know that, but she really couldn’t hide the worry,
especially at night when we lie in our bed. She was keeping a brave face for
the boys, though, and I was amazed at how she could do it. I definitely married
a strong, beautiful woman. The best decision I ever made, leading to the next
three best decisions we both made: Jonathan, Daniel and Morgan Haymer. God
bless my family and keep them safe!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-55485157595872862252014-11-17T03:52:00.002-08:002014-11-17T03:52:34.663-08:00Chapter 60 – The Big C<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLurJjakcRvgsN5Y4Fr3NvfgMFIOsu-z7Y0xSYkb5k56hdJSJGJbHlH4In3zwlKqckpFW73uZHfh7KJO0C7lLKID7bI7RAsWMOgj1kEWQnnritXKjf-AMu0gm2WuhxmzPsuhEN2BSXho/s1600/donna+in+bandana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLurJjakcRvgsN5Y4Fr3NvfgMFIOsu-z7Y0xSYkb5k56hdJSJGJbHlH4In3zwlKqckpFW73uZHfh7KJO0C7lLKID7bI7RAsWMOgj1kEWQnnritXKjf-AMu0gm2WuhxmzPsuhEN2BSXho/s1600/donna+in+bandana.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Between the songs I
posted on Fame Games (doing quite well, I might add), the gigs at Kimbro’s, the
buying and selling of rare musical instruments on Ebay, I was keeping busy. The
next mountain to climb was Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah slated for October 17,
2009—another year to go. His mother and I traded off taking him to Congregation
Micah on Sundays and we knew he would do great when the time came for his torah
portion. Morgan was anticipating the second ceremony knowing his would be not
only the next Bar Mitzvah, but the last one. It must be hard being the youngest
of three boys. Both of his brothers had a one-on-one experience with me on our
trips to L.A., and soon it would be his turn. Unfortunately, with the expense
of the Bar Mitzvah looming, it was going to be impossible to leave that summer,
when he, as his brothers had been, ten years old. Little did I know, the
ominous news I would soon receive would put a damper on everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the middle of
August 2009, Donna was lying in bed next to me with a worried look on her face.
I asked her what was wrong and she said she wanted me to check something on her
left breast she had noticed a week ago. She ran my hand over a lump the size of
a half dollar and I screamed, “HOLY SHIT! How long has that been there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The next morning
Donna made an appointment at her GYN, and the next thing we knew she had
another appointment at a surgeon at Williamson Medical Center. Ironically she
was recovering from chemotherapy from a stint with lymphoma herself and when we
met her, she had a bandana covering her head. This damned disease is rampant!
The doctor asked Donna if she was busy tomorrow since she wanted to bypass the
biopsy and remove the lump. Benign or malignant, it would be best to get rid of
the thing. On August 20<sup>th</sup>, my good friend, Doug Fieger’s birthday
(who had been diagnosed with cancer some years earlier but seemed to be on the
road to recovery) I was outside the hospital waiting on news from the surgeon.
I was so nervous I was smoking a cigarette (a roll-your-own) when the phone
rang, the surgeon told me in no uncertain terms that it was a tumor and was
malignant. I looked at the cigarette in my hands and felt disgusted that I
should be smoking when I heard the news that my wife had breast cancer. I
tossed the ciggie down and crushed it under my boot. I wanted to cry but
couldn’t—I guess I was in shock. I think I stayed that way for at least a year
afterwards. The prognosis was scary since the tumor had gone beyond the margins
which means that it was spreading and they had also found a second in the same
breast. She had to have surgery to remove the breast—maybe both.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How could this
be happening to her? There is no history of cancer in her family. If anyone
should have it (knock on wood ten times) it should be me. My mother and father
both had breast cancer, and my father had died from a sarcoma of the lungs in
1989, two months shy of his70<sup>th</sup> birthday. I tried to think of all
the reasons why. Maybe it was in the plastic bottles she would drink from
everyday? It couldn’t have been her diet, and she didn’t smoke. What the hell!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In a letter to
her sister on September 1, Donna wrote: <i><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Saw the plastic surgeon today who will
do the reconstruction. He spent a lot of time with us and explained the whole
procedure and explained which option is best for me. It's going to be more
lengthy than I thought as immediately after the mastectomy they have to put in
an expander which stays in for about 4 months and is gradually inflated by
injecting saline every week or two. They have to stretch the remaining skin and
muscle to make room for the implant and then when it's the right size they
remove the spacer and put in the permanent implant. It looks like the
surgery will be Sept 16<sup>th</sup> or 17<sup>th</sup> as the 2 surgeons can't
coordinate it until then. I see the oncologist on Fri so I won't have any more
new information until then. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact my
hair's going to fall out but I've talked with a couple of people who have just
gone through it and they said the chemo wasn't as bad as they thought it would
be.</span></i></span><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Donna was going
to lose her hair from the chemotherapy (scheduled to begin after the surgery in
late September), that was a given, so to lessen the shock I bought an auburn
Joan Collins bob style wig on Ebay—not some cheap thing, but a nice one from
real human hair. The plastic surgeon, Dr. Behar, was a guy from my neck of the
woods, New York, and we hit it off right away. There were times when we were
talking so much about the east coast, and what it was like being a Jew in the
Bible-belt in his office, Donna had to interrupt while pointing to her chest,
“Uh guys, I’m the patient here, remember?” We both looked sheepishly at each
other with guilt. Want to know what kind of woman Donna is? She was planning on
scheduling her chemo on Thursday afternoons so she could miss only one day of
work (Friday) and be back at it by Monday. I don’t know how she could do it. I
would tell her later, she didn’t have to go back until she felt better or until
the chemo was over but she said, “I just want to go back to my normal routine,
all of this cancer stuff will only get me down if I have to sit around the
house all day dwelling on it. Plus, I hear working can be the best thing you
can do to get on with things.” How could I argue with that? I mean, she has got
to be the toughest person I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t think I could be
that strong. What a hero! The hardest part for her was how she was going to
tell the children. Before the surgery we sat the three boys down in the den and
I said that there was some very upsetting news, but that everything was going
to be okay. I can’t remember the exact words but we told them that their mother
had cancer and that the doctor was going to cut out the bad stuff and would
have medicine to fight anything that was left in her body so it wouldn’t
spread. She has the best doctors we could find and they think your mom will be
fine after awhile. “She is going to be very weak boys, so anything you can do
to help out around the house will be appreciated. Please try not to worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All three of
their reactions were different. Jonathan became tearful since he was the oldest
and knew the dangers of the dreaded disease. Daniel asked if all her hair was
going to fall out with a concerned look on his face. Morgan, the stoic one,
said nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The surgery on
the 17<sup>th</sup> went well and after a day in the hospital she was released.
I tried the best I could to wait on her hand and foot while taking care of the
boy’s needs. I had no idea she did so much and I was exhausted by bedtime and
fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In a second
letter to her best friend, Irene, on September 30, Donna wrote: </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hi, here's the latest
news on this weeks appt's. I'm feeling well and doing better every day.
Beginning to work on getting my shoulder movement back and using it a bit more.
It's amazing how much you use your shoulder and chest muscles for driving,
especially parking. We went to a "College Night" at Jonathans high
school last night and I drove there but had James drive back as I was a bit
sore, probably from the doctor appt earlier that day and having drain removed
and expanding process started.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here's
the plan:-<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Wed
30... nothing except Bar Mitzvah work/planning.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thurs
1... day surgery to have port placed under the collar bone and into a vein to
have IV chemo through.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fri
2...Daniel birthday, whole body PET scan, 2 soccer practices.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sat
3... Haircuts for the boys, 2 soccer games (both at same place at 9am luckily).<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sun
4... Hebrew Sunday School.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mon
5... nuclear medicine Heart scan at the hospital (I'm beginning to glow in the
dark!!)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tues
6th...plastic surgeon appt, school soccer tryouts for Daniel.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Wed
7th... Nothing as yet except Bar Mitzvah stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thurs
8th...Start chemotherapy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Haven't
anything else planned beyond that at this point except for the the Bar Mitzvah.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
In between all this we (or rather James) is trying to paint, do some
tiling, steam clean carpets and I'm trying to organise (</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">she
spells it the British way<i>) a Bar Mitzvah
and party for 100 people. The house is a wreck and my mum, dad and you arrive
on the 13th, Susan on the 15th and Jonathan's friend Sam the 16th. Robbie and
Carol are coming on the 14th but they're going straight to Memphis to do a
little sightseeing and then back to Nashville. They're staying in a hotel and
so are Max and his girlfriend and Emily. We're just trying to take it day by
day just now and hoping everything falls into place.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Today is also Daniel's birthday. It's hard to believe he's 13 already but
in some ways he seems very grown up. You wouldn't recognize him. When all 3 of
the boys are together they are told that they are like the Jonas Brothers. (do
you know them?). Of course they hate that as they say they are a girl band.
They'd much rather look like Ozzie Osborne. YUCK.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Anyway, hope you booked enough time to read all this. Hope you're
staying well, staying happy and staying busy. Too much time on your hands is
dangerous and bad for you. At least that's what I tell James when I need him to
do something! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Talk with you soon. Thanks again. Love you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Donna XXX<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To
be continued . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-45724111084744869572014-11-10T05:28:00.000-08:002014-11-10T05:29:30.918-08:00Chapter 59 - Daniel’s Turn<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-5xc6SG8nliT7FeCozV4n2fluu0qbuKTUKPPrZ86EmMiKlZednQC5BATumsdOqirR1_da7r_hq2jRd3MkBsL1_j5NmBH_CPN3BZkj_G8Bbunbo0OJTO6lio8bdWGeMLmBsmQe2HHRHE/s1600/Field+recordings0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-5xc6SG8nliT7FeCozV4n2fluu0qbuKTUKPPrZ86EmMiKlZednQC5BATumsdOqirR1_da7r_hq2jRd3MkBsL1_j5NmBH_CPN3BZkj_G8Bbunbo0OJTO6lio8bdWGeMLmBsmQe2HHRHE/s1600/Field+recordings0002.jpg" height="536" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Daniel in 2002</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzelyv-rDTx-PvB_5JlbRn77pjdPbxRSrLfJS8FA63EMePM2LMb5mcZmms4RqLUXrZD9jcDWJZnTUekF54_FZga6UC39UATaio8wGif-qRA88Pws9R_VIp7Lmp7nD7OpSs14fL_7KwwU/s1600/daniel+bearded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzelyv-rDTx-PvB_5JlbRn77pjdPbxRSrLfJS8FA63EMePM2LMb5mcZmms4RqLUXrZD9jcDWJZnTUekF54_FZga6UC39UATaio8wGif-qRA88Pws9R_VIp7Lmp7nD7OpSs14fL_7KwwU/s1600/daniel+bearded.jpg" height="640" width="456" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel now at 18</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My niece, Emily, was graduating
from Harvard-Westlake High School, and all the Tennessee Haymers made the
excursion. My brother, Robbie and my sister-in-law, Carol were living up in the
Encino Hills at the time in a huge gated house with Emily (Max was living down
in Orange County, a junior now at UC Irvine). There was a nice kidney-shaped
pool in the backyard and a Weber grill on the patio. We made good use of both
those accoutrements— believe you me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It
was a beautiful late-spring day in May as we drove our rented Chevy Impala to
Harvard-Westlake. I had never seen so many Jaguars, Rolls Royces, Mercedes and
Porsches since I graduated Beverly Hills High School in 1970. When I saw Steven
Spielberg escorting his son, Theo, and Denzel Washington arm-in-arm with his
daughter, Katia to the tune of the Pomp and Circumstances March I flashed back
to that day thirty-six years earlier. The only difference, instead of the
graduating class wearing black armbands to protest the war in Viet Nam, the
class of 2006 were wearing Armani suits, diamond earrings and shoes that cost
more than three nights stay at the Chateau Marmont. Maybe some of the students
had thoughts of protesting the war In Iraq, but I didn’t see any evidence of it
at all. Maybe they had matured enough to know the time and place for such
demonstrations, and graduation ceremony wasn’t such a time. When they called
Emily’s name and she came to the podium to accept her diploma, I knew it was
the passing of the torch, another reminder that time was marching on for all of
us. Nonetheless, I was so proud of her and wondered what joys, trials and
tribulations she would face in the real world (after college, of course). After
going on a tour with her mom of many colleges and universities, she had settled
on the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor and would be attending that
remarkable center of learning the following September.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After
the graduation, we decided a trip to Las Vegas would be fun. I had my usual
system in mind—to start with blackjack, play a little craps where I would try
to find some fat-cat with a pile of chips and emulate his betting. We stayed at
the Luxor, the hotel on the south side of the strip built in the shape of a
pyramid. I would have had a great time if I hadn’t had lost all my money within
the first twenty minutes. After that, I hung out by the pool, drank
non-alcoholic beer and cokes and worked on my tan. I couldn’t wait to leave,
but tried not to show my impatience with the ultimate city of sin (being one to
wear my heart on my sleeve, it wasn’t working.) I think everyone else had a
pretty good time but I swore I’d never to go back the Vegas again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On
the drive back to my sister, Susan’s house in Nichols Canyon (where we would be
staying at the tail-end of our trip), we stopped at Lake Arrowhead and walked
around my old stomping grounds. I remembered going there in 1970 with my first
girlfriend, Debbie Taylor, whose father had a cabin called Gypsy’s Hideaway
about a ten minute drive from the lake. We would light candles and sit by the
roaring cedar wood fire listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash and James
Taylor’s, <i>Sweet Baby James. </i>Although
it sucks to be getting older, I feel sorry for people who missed those days,
especially the sixties; we had The Beatles, The Stones and Bob Dylan (in their
hey-day), The Animals, The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Buffalo Springfield and we were
part of a scene that will probably never repeat itself again. It was an iconic
time! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">During
the trip, Daniel kept asking when his turn would come to do a one-on-one with
me to L.A. He was worried that since we were already here, this vacation would
supersede our trip. I promised him the second installment of the 10 year-old
father/son sojourn to L.A. would become a reality. The trip would coincide with
a Senior Recital performance by my nephew, Max, in Winifred Smith Hall at UC
Irvine in June 2007, four months before Daniel’s eleventh birthday. We had
plenty of time to plan things out—one thing for sure; we weren’t going to Las
Vegas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It
was finally Daniel’s turn, since I had made two trips to L.A. with Jonathan—one
when he was six to drive my Mom’s Toyota Camry back to Tennessee and the second
for his participation in WACK (Wild and Crazy Kids). In June of 2007, Daniel
and I flew to LAX and stayed our first night at the Fleg’s (my cousin and his
wife, Richard’s house) they shared with their daughter, Amanda (born three days
after Jonathan in March of 1992). Daniel really liked the company but his
favorite creature was their long-haired dachshund, Milo. He really loved that
little guy and I could tell I was going to have to get a dog like him when we
got back to Tennessee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On
our second day in town, we rented a couple of bicycles in Venice and rode those
puppies all the way to the near edge of Malibu. We both were exhausted by the
time we made Sunset Beach and we parked our bikes in the sand and headed for
the ocean. We didn’t have out swimming trunks on so we waded in the cool water
chasing the breakers back to the shore just in time before we got out clothes soaked.
It was the highlight of the trip for both of us. That night we met Robbie,
Carol and Susan at a Japanese restaurant and I could tell Daniel was feeling a
bit out of sorts. He had his head down on the table after the meal and wasn’t
very talkative (not like him at all). That night we stayed at Susan’s house in
Nichols Canyon. I could see she still had the blown up poster of Mom on an
easel in the living room. Susan, still devastated by the loss of our mother
(not that I wasn’t), and seeing that photo up there made me miss her terribly.
I asked Daniel if he remembered the days when she used to paint watercolors
with him in the guest room in Thompson Station. He said he did and having the
pictures of her all over Susan’s house brought the memory home to him. That
made me happy. It was a shame he never got to meet my father, none of my kids
did—they would have loved him. At least they got to see him on the TV from time
to time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Daniel
was looking pale as a ghost that evening. I checked his temperature and he was
running a low grade fever. I asked Susan if she had something that might reduce
his fever and all she had was some Sudafed or Tylenol. Daniel, being used to
that horrible tasting liquid, hated taking medicine. But he had never really
taken pills and wasn’t sure how to do it. I demonstrated the process by taking
a vitamin and he began to get the idea but still was unsure how to get that
large oblong object down his throat without choking. After about fifteen
minutes of balking and refusal, he finally was able to take his medicine. He
went to bed and was asleep in no time. Susan and I sat in the living room
talking and hoping Daniel was going to be able to make the trip down to Irvine
the next day for Max’s performance. After awhile, I went into the middle room
we were sharing and checked his head. He was still warm, was perspiring his
sheets were clammy. I thought it was a good sign—maybe he would sweat it out.
One could only hope. I was wishing that Donna had been there, but this was a
father/son trip and good old dad was going to have to take the reins. I didn’t
even call her that night knowing I would have spilled the beans about his
illness—I didn’t want to worry her. I went to bed on the big chair watching him
sleep on the daybed next to me and I finally drifted off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
next morning I awoke at the crack of dawn. I let Daniel sleep and went into the
kitchen to make a pot of Trader Joe’s French Roast coffee. Susan must have
smelled the aroma of those savory beans and came in to the kitchen as the sun
was peeking through the sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony. She
asked how Daniel was feeling and I told her he was still asleep and it would be
best to let him sleep as long as possible. It was going to be a long day and I
hoped he would be able to make it without a trip to the doctor or emergency
room if things took a turn for the worse. When he woke up around eight, he was
soaked. I ran a hot bath for him and gave him another Tylenol after he picked
at his cereal. He did much better with the pill that time. I made him a cup of
herbal tea and he drank it while he was bathing. After that he was feeling
better and was watching the Power Rangers on the TV. I thought he was going to
make it after all. With Susan in the passenger seat and Daniel resting in the
back, I drove the rented Mustang down to Irvine and we got to Chakra, the
Indian restaurant, in time for appetizers. Daniel didn’t take too kindly to
spicy food but did like the Nan bread and Tandoori chicken. Still, it was
obvious he wasn’t up to snuff. Carol said she knew he was coming down with
something after his behavior in the Japanese restaurant two days earlier. She
thought it was probably a virus that would run itself out in a couple of days.
I was hoping she was right. Mothers seem to know best about these things. I
think eating that spicy food had done the trick since by the time the meal was
over, Daniel’s fever had broken and he seemed ready to face the music—Max’s
music. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
performance at Winifred Smith Hall was brilliant and the <i>pièce de resistance </i>was his duet with his professor, Kei Akagi.
They performed <i>Senor Mouse</i>, by Chick
Corea, and I must say I was overwhelmed by the magic of the moment. Max was
brilliant and I knew (even though I was a bit envious) he had a brilliant
future ahead of him. Even Daniel was impressed. I was so relieved he was
feeling better. The trip was winding down and we spent the last night back at
Richard and Sue’s house in Cheviot Hills, the closest to the airport. Daniel
said he had a great time and was sorry to leave, especially Milo, but he missed
his mom and brothers. That made me a little tearful knowing that he was close
to his siblings. Donna and I must have done a few things right. Maybe more than
that!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-80109951449383008662014-11-03T06:54:00.001-08:002014-11-03T16:51:18.184-08:00Chapter 58 – Stuck Inside of Motown with the Nashville Blues Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjii2ww5nWKRHk2nUlSxIorrLHyCY08qAZDPs7dyG2ve1cVPQo2xHh5Va9_4GzC_d7XLUI-u8WZvz6oaMMx38s1YJtni4UzKQX9P8IZxVzYBHc0vBBeJJWLy91I-I4au2su4TIlUpmD1ZQ/s1600/dfest04.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjii2ww5nWKRHk2nUlSxIorrLHyCY08qAZDPs7dyG2ve1cVPQo2xHh5Va9_4GzC_d7XLUI-u8WZvz6oaMMx38s1YJtni4UzKQX9P8IZxVzYBHc0vBBeJJWLy91I-I4au2su4TIlUpmD1ZQ/s1600/dfest04.gif" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I was gearing up for another
Americana Tonight showcase in August 2006 and the monthly gig at Kimbro’s
proved to be a great warm-up gig. I was auditioning a second guitar player so I
could concentrate on my vocals. It was back to Craigslist. First there was a
guitar player, Ray, that lived out in Ashland City. After meeting up with him
at the local Starbuck’s and giving him a CD, I decided to get together with him
at his house to go over some of the material. Driving the winding road to his
cabin in the hills, I thought I was going to get sick (my vertigo was a concern
for me but hadn’t kicked in to its full capacity yet). Upon arrival he pulled
out an old Harmony semi-hollow body guitar, much like my old Harmony Rocket,
the first guitar I ever had. He played the songs competently enough but nothing
that really knocked my socks off, still he was a contender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On the way back
down the hill, the curving road got to me. I didn’t know if I could make it
with my nausea and double vision. I pulled over to the side of the road and
open the window. It wasn’t getting any better. I had one of three choices. One:
I could tough it out and try and make it down the hill and vertigo be damned.
Two, I could call my wife and have her pick me up, but she would probably get
lost and I didn’t want to worry her. Or three, I could wait it out. Since it
was getting dark and after waiting a half an hour or so, I chose option one. I
felt like I was drunk, even though I hadn’t had anything to drink and was
taking the curvy road with one eye close while taking deep breaths to alleviate
the nausea. Somehow I made it to the flats and by the time I got on I-40, I was
almost back to normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I, being the
type of person who looks for signs and meanings in things that most people
would just ignore, decided that the vertigo came about by a combination of the
winding road and the music created from Ray and myself. I must have meant that
Ray was not the person for the gig. Stupid, I know, but it was that kind of
thinking that seemed to influence my decisions. I kept looking for another
guitar player.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I got a response
from a singer/ songwriter named Joe Rathbone. Joe was one of those musicians,
like I was, that could play many instruments but his guitar playing was too
much in a rhythm style and I felt that it didn’t really make the sound the way
I imagined. He told me he could try playing bass, but I wasn’t ready to give up
on Greg yet, even though he kept making the same mistakes over and over again.
Still Greg was solid when he was on top of his game. It became a moot point
since Joe found out he had another gig on August 16<sup>th</sup> and wouldn’t
be able to make the gig at Douglas Corner anyway. I guess things always work
out for the best. Joe later had separated from his wife and ended up moving in
with Josh, the drummer. They became good friends and Josh even began playing
bass (a new instrument he was learning) in Joe Rathbone’s band a few months
later. I still needed a guitar player and ended up hiring a guy named CJ that
played minimally. Sometimes I had to stop playing completely to hear what he
was doing. It was actually quite good. Since time was running out, beggars
couldn’t be choosers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The second
installment of Americana Tonight went over well enough but I still wasn’t happy
with the band’s configuration. I thought I would keep looking while playing our
monthly gigs at Kimbro’s, The Family Wash and a few other local hot spots in
Nashville. One day when I was playing golf at Forrest Crossing in Franklin, I
paired up with another golfer by the name of Gary Geier (he told me it was like
Geiger without the G). He was a half Hawaiian dude with greasy black hair that
kind of reminded me of Wayne Newton, and his golf skills were on a par with
mine. I think we either tied or I lost by one stroke. I got his phone number
and we made plans to play again the following week. On our second round
together, he told me he was also a singer that was trying to make it in Music
City and was looking to put a band together to do some county hits mixed with
songs from the 80s. I told him to stop by my gig at Kimbro’s to check out my
guitar playing but he said it wouldn’t be necessary since he knew I could
handle his county/80s gig coming up in two weeks time. He emailed a list of
songs and I got to work right away to learn the material. It kind of sucked,
but it paid fifty bucks—not bad for an hour’s work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had a feeling
there was something sleazy about Gary. He would use gamesmanship and tried to
psyche me out to throw me off my golf game. He would stop me in the backswing
of my putt and say, “I’ll bet you two dollars you can’t make that putt.” I had
to regroup after taking the bet and go into my routine again while he tried his
best to vibe me into missing. It was beginning to piss me off. Gary had a job
in some fly-by-night sales company selling time shares or something like that,
and one day he invited me to play golf with his boss and another one of his
co-workers. These guys were beyond sleazy. His boss even took wide stance,
unzipped his pants and relieved himself on the green. I guess after two six
packs of beer something had to give (or take as the case may be). This was a
sacrilege to me and golf in general. This was bad enough, but what happened
next was a personal affront that I could never forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">While I was
learning those banal county and 80s songs I began to wonder why I hadn’t heard
from Gary. He had stopped by Kimbro’s a few nights before and saw my band and
me playing our little hearts out. He seemed impressed and began chatting away
with all the band members, especially CJ—the other guitar player<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The night before
the gig I was getting concerned. I still hadn’t heard from Gary and he wasn’t
returning my phone calls, not even an email to give me the address of the place
we were supposed to play. Did he cancel the gig, or find another guitar player
and not even have the decency to notify me? I kept practicing anyway thinking
that he would get in touch at the last minute with the details, but no call or
email ever came. I had nothing else to do but blow it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">At next Kimbro’s
performance a week or two later, I found out from CJ that Gary had hired him to
play guitar at his gig. I couldn’t believe it. I really didn’t blame CJ. Most
likely Gary hadn’t even told him that he promised the gig to me. Still, it left
a bitter taste in my mouth for both Gary and CJ. It just seemed disloyal and I
fired him. It wasn’t long after that when Greg Bailey separated from his wife
and decided to move to Mississippi. I knew the band, as it was was over. Now
with Josh playing bass and drums with Joe Rathbone and Greg and CJ gone, I was
on my own again. I played a few solo gigs but I really missed the power of the
band and soon made plans to find more players.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the meantime,
Joe was preparing for a couple of gigs in Detroit. One was a radio show hosted
by Motor City’s local hero, Mitch Albom, a best-selling radio personality, author,
screenwriter and musician best known for his book, <i>Tuesdays With Morrie</i>. Joe needed a steel guitar player to perform live
on the radio show. The second gig was at a Dylanfest at the Blind Pig in Ann
Arbor a day later. Man, that was my cup of tea. I was going to sing lead on two
Dylan songs, <i>Tonight I’ll be Staying Here
With You </i>and<i> Stuck Inside of Memphis
With the Mobile Blues Again</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before Joe, Eve
Fleishman (a wonderful jazz and torch singer) and I headed up north in Joe’s
old Nissan Maxima with over 250,000 miles on it, I had contacted some local
bass players and drummers on Craigslist and we were set to go. Hopefully these
guys could cut the mustard, but in my experience, Detroit musicians are some of
the best in the country. I had heard their stuff on the internet and was
confident in their abilities. The main problem was Joe. He and I didn’t exactly
see eye to eye on many things. Joe, another brooding Scorpio, was going through
a hard time with his separation from his wife and two-year old daughter. In
fact all three of us are Scorpios and it’s a wonder the car didn’t just implode
from the vibes. When we were lost somewhere near Cincinnati, I asked a Highway
Patrolman parked next to us for directions. After I got the info and we pulled
away Joe read me the riot act. He must have had some bad experiences with the
police and I couldn’t understand why he was getting so irate about me asking
for simple directions. We had nothing to hide—no dope or open containers—so
what was his problem?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The next
incident happened when he couldn’t get his car to start. We checked the battery
and it was fine. I looked at the plugs and they were okay to. Then I happened
to look at the gas cap and noticed a crack. That was it! All he needed was a
new gas cap. I found an AutoZone and paid twelve dollars out of my own money
for a new cap. I thought that would smooth things over between us. It didn’t.
After calling up my cousin Bobby Graff who lived in nearby Troy (he came out to
the Dylanfest along with my niece Emily who was attending the University of
Michigan in Ann Arbor) to meet us at a local Mongolian BBQ restaurant, Joe was
really putting out the vibes. I couldn’t take it anymore and stepped away from
Bobby and Eve (Bobby was quite taken with Eve and was busy chatting her up)
confronted him right there and then. Although I didn’t want it too, I felt it
could have come to blows. Joe was at least four inches taller than me but I
think we weighed about the same. I hadn’t been in a fight since elementary
school but enough was enough. He backed down, but never came clean about what
was bothering him. The rest of the trip I ignored him and spent most of the
time talking with Eve. By the time we made it back to Nashville, I knew Joe and
I were not going to be friends—not even business associates. At least I had the
memory of playing live in Detroit and pretending to be Bob Dylan for a few
minutes. I had a blast and I think out of the twenty Dylan acts, we were one of
the best. But now it was time for me to gear up for my new album and find some
new musicians. This time I would try to capture a live feel in the studio as
opposed to playing all the instruments myself as I had done with my previous
three records. I wanted a killer drummer, a rocking keyboardist and a bass
player who could play the upright. I knew they were out there it was only a
matter of putting out the word. Oh well . . . back to Craigslist!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-73307014544591279662014-10-27T04:17:00.002-07:002014-10-27T04:17:30.091-07:00Chapter 57 – Michael Kennedy Remembered<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb5Xauo2KiIQCgfk0QGzW282TA-3AnDaKCrzgyEkmRk96GXL5C65yWx8SPTfJ4IBNqjEYi1uLUcLWk38PYU6Z1OiXVrMw_k3XmxoT0TgXVbkpEpBZEgveHdZdYDc3GqKF78cYWUWWWRo/s1600/MK1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb5Xauo2KiIQCgfk0QGzW282TA-3AnDaKCrzgyEkmRk96GXL5C65yWx8SPTfJ4IBNqjEYi1uLUcLWk38PYU6Z1OiXVrMw_k3XmxoT0TgXVbkpEpBZEgveHdZdYDc3GqKF78cYWUWWWRo/s1600/MK1.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Michael in the early seventies with his Gold-top Les Paul</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C1KiCfEyeR831s3ae96dsUc2KWprXD0YIWOl0Oy5OLzWLvf1yBKgBqXcdJ_nqfF8R05Tx_h6Lc3JAfg4349RKp_u8GlMimrHtfieUJuOqSuiw9M-CBcKNMh911duVnm21-OUIaGbitA/s1600/MK@2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C1KiCfEyeR831s3ae96dsUc2KWprXD0YIWOl0Oy5OLzWLvf1yBKgBqXcdJ_nqfF8R05Tx_h6Lc3JAfg4349RKp_u8GlMimrHtfieUJuOqSuiw9M-CBcKNMh911duVnm21-OUIaGbitA/s1600/MK@2.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> Mitch Mitchell, Michael Kennedy and Chas Chandler</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In Chapter 26 of <i>Silverspoon, the World’s Greatest Band
Nobody Ever Heard</i>, the one called <i>Michael’s
Abrupt Departure,</i> I touched on the last few years I communicated with Michael
Kennedy, but I didn’t really do it justice. There was so much more to the
story. I don’t remember exactly how he found my address, maybe it was from
Larry Harrison, but I don’t know how he would have found him since he moved
around as much as I did. It could have been Stephen, but I doubt it. I know for
a fact it wasn’t BJ— he hated BJ’s guts (the guy could hold a grudge). Anyway,
one day, out of the blue, I get a letter in blue aviator stationary with a
Philadelphia postmark. I think it was early 2002 because the aftermath of
nine-eleven was still fresh in the air, still a major topic of conversation,
news articles and CNN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I,
at the time, was not a letter writing kind of guy, but I did keep phone numbers
(I still have a dot-matrix printout address book that I still refer to in my
office). I noticed that the address on the letter was the same one he had back
in the seventies, in Jenkintown, so I figured he had the same phone number—I
was right. I called him and when I heard that same East-Coast, Philadelphian
whine answer on the other end of the line, I knew I had gotten the right
number. We talked for over an hour about all the things that had happened to
both of us since 1976: When he left L.A. after marrying Larry’s girlfriend,
Cynthia, he told me the marriage, officially annulled after three weeks, which
I already knew from Larry, but it was nice to finally have his side of the
story. He said he had been checking the charts for my name over the years
thinking that I should have been a star. He was disappointed when I said that I
hadn’t achieved the success we felt I should have reached, but I did have two
solo records under my belt at the time and had gotten some good reviews. He
asked me why I moved to Tennessee; was I into country music now? I told him I
liked where country music was going in 1994, but now it was so banal and
stupid, I couldn’t stand it (it’s gotten worse, if that’s possible). I also
said I had picked up the pedal steel guitar, which was not the easiest
instrument in the world, and he was impressed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After
that conversation, Michael continued to send me letters and gift boxes. He
included Beatles memorabilia, tapes of his stuff that he was working on or had
completed over the years, guitar parts I told him I was looking for (one was a
pickup ring for a 1964 Gretsch Anniversary I had been searching out for years).
He became my mentor in the guitar and amplifier world and helped me find rare
and exotic deals on Ebay and other musical sources. In fact, he helped me find
the Hofner Beatle Bass on Ebay that I still have sitting under my piano (when I’m
not playing it). It was the Fourth of July and he made me aware of a listing
for a 1970 Hofner on Ebay that was closing in a few hours in my neighboring
town of Franklin. It had no bids and I was a bit skeptical of the legitimacy of
the ad. So, I emailed the address on the listing and the guy and he said the
bass was real and used to belong to Les Paul’s son. He had cut a small hole in
the back for a battery pack, therefore it reduced the overall value, but hey,
it was still an early Beatle bass. I bid $500. I guess since it was a holiday,
everyone was out barbequing or setting off fireworks. I won the auction at five
bills. When I went to pick the bass up at his house, I thought the guy looked
familiar. He was in L.A. at the same time I was and was at the most outrageous
party at Mickey Dolenz’s house in the mid-seventies where Phil Spector, Doug
Dillard, most of the Monkees and to top it off, Brian Wilson in his bathrobe at
the organ doing his best Carl Wilson impersonation for hours upon hours (it was
kind of sad, actually). The guy also played the pedal steel and recorded the
steel part on Stephen Bishop’s On and On (he and his brother were in Bishop’s
band). The guy’s name? Billy London. He and I are still good friends to this
day, but I’m not going to sell the bass back to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
George W. Bush declared victory aboard that aircraft carrier in 2003, Michael
was as appalled as I was about it. We had already collaborated on two songs by
mail and over the phone (he would send cassettes and later CDs, I would upload
them on Protools and add my touches, then send it back to him and so forth, it
was a tedious process but it was great to be able to create with Michael, a really
brilliant guitarist). When he sent a track with a screaming guitar and
interesting chord changes, I wrote lyrics about a town in eastern Afghanistan,
where a lot of fighting was going on by the name of Jalalabad. It was an
imaginary first person account of Osama Bin-Laden hiding out there (or in
Yemen).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Got to make a
break tonight, Mo.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They’re closing
in so I really gotta go.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There’s a heavy
with a hot-wired van.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He’s gonna meet
us tonight at midnight sharp<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Outside the
gates of Jalalabad.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After
completing the recording, I became a little paranoid, thinking that government
agents would be knocking on my door thinking I was a terrorist or something. I
know it was stupid, but that’s the kind of fear the government was instilling
in the American public at the time (still are). Michael told me there was a
guy, another Larry, that had a small record company in Philly that wanted to
buy the song outright. Since I didn’t want to have my name associated with the
song, I agreed. Got a thousand bucks and that was that. Now I think it might
have been a hasty decision, since it was the last thing I ever did musically
with Michael, and it was pretty good considering what I had to work with when I
got the initial recording. The guitars (although rocking) had an annoying
high-pitched feedback which I had to squash with compression and equalization
to keep under control. I will send a link to the song on my reverbnation
account if I can find it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As the years progressed, Michael became
(what I thought) clinically depressed. He told me he wanted to shoot himself. I
was livid. First of all suicide is a major no-no in my book and I hate fucking
guns. I tried to talk him down from the metaphoric building, and when that
didn’t seem to work. I said that I would never have any respect for a person
that took the easy way out. I said his legacy, in my book, would be thoroughly
tainted. We had harsh words and didn’t speak after that until I got the email.
The heading was MK END. He wrote on September 12, 2006:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> I couldn’t swallow. blocked.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br />
<span style="background: white;"> had
a scope put in to look.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> they
called a helicopter to rush me to a big hospital that did cancer surgery.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> in
hospital for 1 month. took 2 months to get up after that stay. another month to
drive a bit.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> feel
weak and bad now.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> don’t
call on phone ‘til im up to it. Not this week for sure. I’m on meds.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> We
will def speak next week. I’ll let you know when im up to it.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> thanks,
m<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wrote
back:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Michael
- just wanted to say I think you are one of the best rock n'</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="background: white;"> roll
guitarists I've had the privilege to know. GOD bless you and I</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> hope
you have PEACE my brother. I love you.</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> James</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On
10/26/2006 he wrote another email:</span><span style="background: white; font-family: Geneva, serif;"> in hospice now</span><span style="font-family: Geneva, serif;"><br />
<span style="background: white;"> end
soon</span> - <span style="background: white;">have Lennon and red ric 12 w/ me</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> see
ya around</span><br />
<span style="background: white;"> mk<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">That was the last time I ever heard from him. He
died on November 18, 2006. It was the seventeenth anniversary of the day my
father died. Bad day!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1WQBLLI94xF7NgHzmIJQxnTISaG8wPeKX9vTzkttHBoy-xDkjzX90cnG9pqz0Mz1sNoY3pH0Dsiw9Xmq2DTCpcgrAXK24j7zSdkkUvoSbYuLAtEtQFc1Rzne_dW2iiwic0D5UaFmCRU/s1600/voxBeatles0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1WQBLLI94xF7NgHzmIJQxnTISaG8wPeKX9vTzkttHBoy-xDkjzX90cnG9pqz0Mz1sNoY3pH0Dsiw9Xmq2DTCpcgrAXK24j7zSdkkUvoSbYuLAtEtQFc1Rzne_dW2iiwic0D5UaFmCRU/s1600/voxBeatles0001.jpg" height="640" width="514" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I still have some of the letters and recordings from Michael. I have the
gift boxes, (at least some of the contents) including the wooden Martin
coasters made from the part of the guitar they cut out to make the sound holes.
I have the VHS tape of Titanic, the Beatles posters and records, the Vox
adverts (pictured) from the sixties, but most of all I have the memories. It’s
too bad there was such a long gap in our friendship (more than twenty-five
years), but at least we got to record together again (even if it was courtesy
of the U.S. Postal Service). Michael did make it into the Rock Encyclopedia
with his old band, Horsepower and sang on the Beatles song, <i>Piggies</i>, from the movie, <i>Helter Skelter </i>in 1976 with our band,
Silverspoon. See You Around, Michael; someday maybe, I’ll see you around.</span>jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-62913395416006737742014-10-20T03:37:00.000-07:002014-10-20T03:37:39.516-07:00Chapter 56 – Boomtown<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAJDPtkfVFSAbhv__n5w7y4c4uwfNvpv0MviHrQe_pjMVUn0ayv65kriWcc129qqaXcKcWH6vHtVxHDHqrZDPp6vPWzBywNVjcT0929k1iQZN9C91It60QPKwlYzZKL4RnKYnbg5XB_M/s1600/Boomtown0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAJDPtkfVFSAbhv__n5w7y4c4uwfNvpv0MviHrQe_pjMVUn0ayv65kriWcc129qqaXcKcWH6vHtVxHDHqrZDPp6vPWzBywNVjcT0929k1iQZN9C91It60QPKwlYzZKL4RnKYnbg5XB_M/s1600/Boomtown0001.jpg" height="314" width="640" /></a></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Oh my God what is happening?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Everyone I know is struggling to
believe.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And why is there so much pain in
the world?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">God only knows, but He’s not
telling me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">-
God Only Knows </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">- JWH<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I was at a soccer coaches meeting (since
I had volunteered to coach my son’s team) in the Williamson County facility on
August 28<sup>th</sup>, 2005. There were reports of a devastating hurricane
approaching the New Orleans area and it looked like it was going to be a direct
hit. I was speaking with another coach, Ann Rice, whose daughter Katrina’s
birthday was the next day. I thought it was ironic—something the little girl
would never forget if the predictions were accurate of the damage this
hurricane would wreak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The next morning
I was watching CNN, as most people I imagined were doing, and the scenes that
they captured were beyond belief. Hundreds of thousands displaced from their
homes. People stranded at the Superdome, daring rescues in the deluge, you name
it, and it was all there. I happened to watch a report of a guy, Dwayne Jones,
who told a reporter that there were thousands of people at the Convention
Center also stranded and that he should gather his team of cameras and go
there. They were in dire need of help. This person, Mr. Dwayne Jones, was not only
a hero but after that report of all these people discovered at the Convention
Center, nobody, as far as I know, heard a thing about him again. He, like so
many others, was the unsung hero of Hurricane Katrina.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
was inspired and wrote a song aptly entitled <i>Dwayne Jones.</i> With a new collection of songs in my arsenal, and a
regular gig at Kimbro’s and The Family Wash in East Nashville, I thought a new
record was brewing. I had my anthem, <i>God
Only Knows </i>(<i>But He’s Not Telling Me</i>),
<i>Somebody’s Father, Somebody’s Son </i>and<i> You Don’t Know Jack </i>in the can and now
I was inspired to write <i>Evacuation Plan</i>,
which was a what-to-do-in-an-emergency pamphlet put to music. I had actually
taken most of the lyrics from the Red Cross website and rearranged them into
lyric form. Once again, I then wrote the title track, Boomtown, about unwanted
progress coming to the neighboring small Southern town and projecting after the
boon, the place would be on the decline (like most of America these days, I’m
afraid). Once again, I played all the instruments on the record and by the
beginning of 2006, the record mastered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
was working for selling advertising for a music magazine in Nashville and my
only sale was to a CD duplicating company. Instead of a commission, I traded it
for them to reproduce 300 copies of my record. Not a bad deal! One day, Larry,
the owner of the said music magazine company had found a small black and white
Lhasa Apso dog and was trying to find a home for her. He said he was going to
take her to the pound when I said I would take her instead. I named her Bagger
after the movie <i>The Legend of Bagger
Vance</i>, because she like to shag golf balls. I knew Donna wouldn’t be too
happy about having another dog, since we already had Bailey and Bruno and a few
cats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">One
day I was speaking with my neighbor and casually mentioned that I might be
looking for a home for wee Bagger. Sometimes I should learn to keep my mouth
shut because I was beginning to grow attached to the dog. She said she would
take her and I thought she was serious but I hadn’t really committed to giving
her up yet; at least that’s what I thought. The next day I had let Bagger out
for a pee and I couldn’t find her anywhere. I thought maybe she’d run away or
had gotten hit by a car. I checked the yard and the streets—nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
night I thought I saw her in my neighbor’s yard, but she looked different. She
had her hair cut and styled. I moseyed over to ask Debbie (my obnoxious
neighbor) if that was Bagger and she said, yes. “You told me I could have her
and I jumped on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well,
I guess maybe I did mention something of that sort, but I had no idea that you
would take her without asking me. To tell you the truth, I wanted to keep her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Sorry,
but I took her to the vet and spent over a hundred dollars having her “fixed”,
not to mention the haircut. She’s mine now!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">What
could I do? Sure, I could have insisted on taking the dog back, but I figured
she was right next door and I could see her anytime I wanted. Besides, Donna
wouldn’t have to worry about another poor animal to take care of, even though I
think she had grown rather fond of the dog, too. Neighbors! Jeez. I guess
that’s why the Robert Frost wrote in <i>The
Mending Wall</i>, Good fences make good neighbors. I would love to prescribe to
the adage of love thy neighbor and mostly I do, but these people are too much.
I don’t know what it is about that property. The people that lived there before
were weird and had a kid named Drew (one of Jonathan’s friends at the time),
who I’m sure has aspirations to be the next Unabomber. Makes you wonder. Is the
the house that attracts the people or vice versa? One day I will build that fence, or maybe
they’ll move, but I know some family as bad, if not worse will move in. Maybe
we’ll move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We’ve
been in Middle Tennessee for over ten years and I still hadn’t gotten used to
it.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Nashville
was a growing city, though it had never prepared itself for the extreme amount
of development it had experienced in such a short time. Streets are too narrow
and can’t accommodate the overabundance of commuters. Traffic is almost as bad
as in Los Angeles—worse sometimes, when you considered the lack of alternate routes.
There’s no real transportation system in place: no passenger trains or subways,
just a limited number of bus routes. Most folks still took their cars and
trucks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Did
I say Trucks? I’d never seen so many Ford F-150s, Chevy Silverados, Dodge Rams
and GMC Sierras in my life. It was only the damn Yankees, like me, who drove
foreign sports cars. You know what they say down here: A Yankee was a
northerner who came south; a damn Yankee was one who stayed. And churches? <i>Fahgettaboutit</i>!
The first thing they asked you when you came down here was, “What church do you
go to?” When I told them I was Jewish, Nashvillians want to either convert me
on the spot, or simply say, “My, isn’t that interesting! You ought to come down
on Sunday and talk to our pastor.” For others, it was a little less
confrontational: “I had a good friend once who was Jewish.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
once quiet and unassuming Southern town of Spring Hill (the neighboring town to
the south) had grown up in a big way. Unfortunately it grew in places like
Burger King’s MacDonald’s, Wendy’s and Pizza Hut. At least they built a Home Depot and a Lowe’s
but no Bank of America or Wells Fargo so I still have to trek to Franklin (ten
miles to the north) to do my banking. That’s why I wrote the title track to my
new CD.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Another
one goes up<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Another
one comes down<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
I don’t recognize this sleepy Southern Town<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">They
got those big ideas and dreams of steel and gold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now
I realize all the pretty things pockets just can’t hold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
it’s sundown on this boom town<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
it’s sunrise in my little darling’s eyes. - </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><i>Boomtown </i>- JWH<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Where
would we go anyway? Back to LA? Not with the traffic, crime and general malaise
mixed with aggression in the attitude of most people there. Oshkosh Wisconsin?
Probably a very nice northern town but the winter? I don’t think I could handle
that. What about Seattle? Too rainy. Phoenix? Too hot (even though it’s a dry
heat.) Scotland? A strong possibility, but we would have to quarantine all of
our animals. Looks like I’m kind of stuck here. Oh well, I guess it could be
worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4815055514720072513.post-58554769182741682122014-10-13T05:48:00.000-07:002014-10-20T03:43:57.769-07:00Chapter 55 – Man o’ Americana<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsF_wTryLnNJRyTAWOwiOsLP2TLuZeT54gcZgeELOQpSB5lcziNe7UmFXKYh9xIFy7WQ-pL3nRBzfqU6L171whbbCAY5Gm3Bt2XY85gmHZSm3T51Df6PhWl7kwAXeJzRiel3CdixWJvA/s1600/Americana+Tonight0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsF_wTryLnNJRyTAWOwiOsLP2TLuZeT54gcZgeELOQpSB5lcziNe7UmFXKYh9xIFy7WQ-pL3nRBzfqU6L171whbbCAY5Gm3Bt2XY85gmHZSm3T51Df6PhWl7kwAXeJzRiel3CdixWJvA/s1600/Americana+Tonight0001.jpg" height="640" width="428" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.3in;">In late December 2004, the Tennessee Haymers made
their way back to Scotland. It would be the first time my children and me would
ever experience the old country in the winter. I knew Christmas would be a
blast . . . and the New Year . . . who knew what that would be like, except
there would be a lot of drinking, hugging, kissing, and general tomfoolery. I
even was crazy enough to bring my golf clubs—I wasn’t about to go to the home
of golf without them. On one of the warmer days (about 40 degrees) I went down
to Thornton Golf Course while Donna and the boys were at an aquarium called
Deep Sea world in Queensferry near Edinburgh. I was at my own amusement park.
The weather was cold but I dressed in layers (it was hard to swing the club
around all that clothing but I managed). The course was beautiful and
challenging but the management wouldn’t allow anyone to hit off the fairways
without placing the ball on these little plastic mats, 8”-by- 3”. It thought it
was ridiculous but I guess they did it to preserve their grass since a divot
wouldn’t grow back until spring. I could see their point. I made sure to hit
the ball in the first cut of roughs so I could avoid the stupid mats. It worked
out well.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My instincts about New Years Eve was right on the
money. They have a tradition called <i>first
footin’</i> where at the stroke of midnight everyone goes outside and knocks on
all the neighbors doors with a bottle of whiskey, lager or whatever and the
true craziness really begins. I was a bit more than six years sober, so I
didn’t partake in that part of the festivities, but I got to see the locals
make fun-loving fools of themselves. Because they were all drunk, everyone
assumed I was as drunk as they were. It was hilarious to be the only sober
person among fifty or more staggering Scots. It was a great trip but Donna and
I knew with three children now, it was going to be awhile since we could afford
to head back over there. I haven’t been back since and, I must say, I really
miss it—especially the golf and the wild assortment of characters— but the
local food . . . well (except for the Indian restaurants which are some of the
best in the world) I can leave that alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We were back in America in the beginning of January
and with six months left go until Jonathan’s Bar Mitzvah at the end of June we
were all beginning to sweat from nerves, apprehension and plain old exhaustion.
The only one that was keeping it together was Jonathan. He’d only been studying
Hebrew for a little over a year and was doing amazingly. I don’t know how he
could learn such a difficult language so easily, but I guess that’s where his
aptitude lies. When I first asked Jonathan why he wanted to be Bar Mitzvah, a
year back he said, “Dad, I want to do something meaningful with my life and
learn about my Jewish heritage.” How could I argue with that? I remember my
main motivation when I was thirteen was the money, and the party. What a great
kid!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On the morning of June 25, 2005 all the relatives
were wandering in to the temple. Donna’s Mom and Dad, and her baby sister,
Heather, had come from Scotland. My Uncle Ellis and Aunt Enid, my sister,
Susan, brother, Robbie and his two almost grown kids, Max and Emily, my Cousin
Richard and his wife, Sue and their daughter, Amanda who is three whole days
younger than Jonathan all made it in from California. The Amazon woman, Vange,
her husband Howard and I think eight of their soon to be ten children had arrived,
the only one who was late was the photographer, Holly, but she made it ten
minutes before the shebang clicked into gear. I got to say Jonathan was a star
that day and I was so proud of him I could have <i>plotzed</i> right then and there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On the musical front, I was sending out my record,
Field Recordings to radio stations all over the world getting contacts from the
Indie Bible, resource and reference book that lived up to its name. Radio
stations were actually playing my songs in places like Germany, Britain,
Australia, France, Holland, Denmark, Japan and the good old USA. I had the
playlists to prove it. I felt like I was back on the map again, and hadn’t felt
that way since Silverspoon was recording at The Record Plant with Mal Evans and
Bob Merritt, not to mention the Keith Moon record soon after that. The reviews
I got were very promising. Lord Litter, one of Germany’s top deejays wrote to
me saying, “Very cool “reduced” music—I will definitely play.” Gerd Strassen,
also from Germany’s “Ems-Vechte Welle radio FM 95.6 said, “Thank you so much
for sending me “Field Recordings” I really enjoyed it. My faves are <i>Making Ground, Eternity’s Waltz, This Song, </i>followed
by<i> Experimenting Peace </i>and<i> Monday Morning Memory</i>.” Not bad, I
thought, that’s more than half the record.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I thought the overall best review was from Eddie
Russell, a deejay in Texas. He said, “Greetings James . . . my goodness . . . .
I sure enjoyed my initial review of your pure rootsy CD Field Recordings
yesterday . . . where all holds together on the whole with staggering
magnitude. Thanks again for the great inspiration due to your job well done . .
. . Eddie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Eddie was instrumental in referring me to a plethora
of the afore mentioned radio stations and I only hope that he is still around
somewhere spinning those CD’s or MP3s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">With momentum moving in a positive direction, I knew
I needed a band. I began auditioning bass players, drummers and second
guitarist from ads I found on Craigslist. My ad was fairly specific and the
responses well received. My routine was this: I would meet the prospective band
members at the closest Starbucks and give them a CD and I would accept any
CD’s, tapes or links to music they played on. We would feel each other out and
if we were still interested in taking it the next step, we would get together
and play. The whole process took a little more than a month and by the end of
the summer I had a four piece band. It was Josh Fuson on drums, Greg (It’s a
Wonderful Life) Bailey on bass, and Grant (Big Smoky) Johnson on second guitar
and pedal steel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There was a new venue called <i>Americana Tonight</i> hosted by Mark Wehrner to be held at Douglas
Corner in Nashville on November 11<sup>th </sup>(see picture. Notice how my middle name is spelled W$esley). It was a major
showcase in Nashville for up-and-coming acts in the genre. We rehearsed in my
living room for a couple of weeks and ended up doing five songs. It was pretty
darn tight and we got a great reaction. Soon after that I booked a gig at a
local club in Franklin called Kimbro’s where we played once a month on Friday
nights for about six months. In the meantime, I was inspired to write and I had
nearly twenty-five new songs to record. With the radio stations playing my
songs and a new band I had ideas of booking gigs oversees and I was making
inquiries to get going in that arena. I thought it was time to make a new
record now with three CDs under my belt, there would be an arsenal that nobody
in his or her right mind could turn down; at least that’s what I thought. Time
would tell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 189.0pt; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The biggest stumbling block was money. Nashville,
(like Los Angeles and New York) is an impossible place to make a living playing
music unless you’re playing the big venues. Everyone wants you to play for free
and if you complain about it, the club owners tell you to get lost since plenty
of kids are lining up around the block to have their music heard. I still had
to pay my band members and the only way to do that was to sell CDs or with
tips. But how many CDs can you sell if only ten or twenty patrons show up at
the gig? Frustrating business! I needed something magical to happen, but it
seemed like I had used all the alchemy I was able to conjure when I was in
Silverspoon. I mean things were going okay, but I felt like I was all alone in
a strange town that really didn’t get me, not like they did when I was In LA,
or maybe it was because I was younger then and everything seemed fresh and
there always somebody around willing to promote, wine and dine and dole out the
powdered refreshments. I just wasn’t there anymore and I was relatively sober
(except for a few joints once in a while). It was all about the money now and if
you had a young band and could write songs about sexy, redneck girls drinking
beer on the tailgate of their pick-up trucks you stood a chance. What’s an old
man o’ Americana gonna do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />jwhaymerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09792371360482979492noreply@blogger.com0