2 posts tagged “memories”
Recently I happened upon an episode of The Chris Isaak Show that featured Glen Campbell.
Did you know that he is 73 and still going strong?
After that I got curious about other aspects of Glen's life and went Google searching.
Right away I noticed that all the biographers skipped over the events of Glen's very early professional experiences.
I say that because in the dim recesses of my feeble memory, it seemed I recalled Glen Campbell being on a rock and roll TV program in the mid sixties called "Shindig." I also recalled that he and the program's host, one Bobby Sherman, had what appeared to this viewer, a running battle for the public's favor. Sherman was the official host but Glen was quickly growing in the public's favor; viewers were screaming for more of Glen and less of Sherman, thus a conflict ensued and led to difficulties for the program's producers.
That's the way I remember it and I'm sticking with what I recall.
I finally discovered some reinforcement for my facts during one search in which I found an article that was published in one large, LA Newspaper and felt vindicated and satisfied that my memories were more accurate than all the biographies I've read online thus far. That article was published in 1991 and it appears that from that point in time, everyone else simply didn't dig deep enough during their research while composing their Bio on Glen Campbell or did discover those facts and deemed them unimportant. HEY! All the facts are important to someone.
And to think...all this from an old curmudgeon whom often has trouble recalling what he had for breakfast that morning.
I wonder; how many of you remember "Shindig?"
For that matter, how many of you even saw a black and white TV?
“Tis the season to be jolly” everyone says. As for me, I'm about as jolly as I get. My attitude about Christmas is such that I have classified myself "A Scrooge". As I sat in the kitchen, nursing a quickly cooling, cup of coffee, I pondered the question, "Why am I a Scrooge?"
I didn't need to struggle in an effort to conjure up memories of Christmas's past; they came in like a flood, so many that I was having trouble sorting them out chronologically.
Just what was it that made the Christmas's of my youth so much more enjoyable than the ones in my recent past? One by one, I would evaluate my most vivid memories. They were so well remembered, I could plainly recall the aroma of apples, tangerines and bananas, the sweet smell of chocolate, which coated the chocolate drops, the strangely soothing hint of pine resin, extracted by the heat of the bulbs in the strings of lights which adorned the tree in the corner of the living room. The smells didn't end there. The atmosphere in every room was permeated by a tinge of sulfur from the coal burning in the wrought iron, grated fireplaces.
We didn't need night-lights; the glow of the banked embers in those fireplaces cast a dim glow through out every room that had one. As the embers cooled, a dark coat of ash would blanket the whole top surface of the grate. From time to time, the gases that seeped from the spent lumps of coal would ignite into dancing, fingers of flame that cast eerie shadows on the walls. A childish imagination could see Santa's Elves scurrying about, arranging presents, and filling stockings that were hung below the mantel of the fireplace. All I know is, somehow, on Christmas morning, every stocking would be filled from toe to top and not once did I witness the actual event. Sleep always overcame me; no matter how determined I was to stay awake to see Santa Claus arrive.
On Christmas Eve, someone always read "Twas the night before Christmas". Try as I may, not once was I able to force myself to dream of "Sugarplums". I didn't really know what one looked like, how was I supposed to dream about them. I'm not sure, but once I think I heard Santa's sleigh land on our roof. There was a definite thud and a sound I associated with prancing reindeer feet. Real or imagined, I knew that I had to keep my eyes closed. Santa could tell if you were asleep we were told, and if you witnessed his decent down the chimney, he would simply turn around and leave and no one would get any presents. There were Christmas's when there was nothing under the tree for us and I knew the reason. Someone was awake. I made accusations, but no one would admit their guilt.
On those kinds of Christmas mornings, I wondered why Mom and Dad were so quiet about the turn of events. They never tried to find out who the guilty party was; they just seemed to be overcome with a deep, serious sadness. Of course, we always had our gifts from other family members to open. They gave us socks; underwear, handkerchiefs, and other badly needed items of clothing but no toys and games, dolls and other luxuries. I'm glad to say that that kind of Christmas’s was rare. As bad as it made us feel; there was always next Christmas to look forward to.
I remember Christmas's when everyone must have been extra good. Presents were hidden all over the house. Dolls and dollhouses, erector set and a bow and arrow, cowboy outfit with two cap guns, a train set and more family games than you could shake a stick at.
One Christmas morning, I got a real scare. Everyone else had found and opened up their gifts. I was the only one without a present. I reached the point where I had to look back over the year past and try to remember something terrible I must have done, but Dad encouraged me to keep looking. Finally, in the corner, directly behind the tree, I spied the tip of a new fishing rod. My arms were too short to reach it, so I got down on hands and knees and crawled under the tree. It's a good thing I did, for I might have missed the tackle box that was on the floor. It was a six-foot Pfleuger rod and reel, a matched bait casting, level wind rig, with jewel bearings on the line spool. The tackle box had all the basic necessities, line, hooks, sinkers, floats, and stringer. It was a gift I used and treasured for many years.
My Christmas gifts matured, right along with my increasing age. Whamo Slingshot, Blowgun, 22 Rifle and 16 gauge Shotgun and a 24 inch Schwinn Bike. If you were to ask me the date of the year or how old I was when I transferred my expressions of thanks from Santa Claus to my parents for the Christmas gifts I received, I don't think I could. Most of the glitter and magic of Christmas vanished for me after that. My expectations became realistic and logical as Christmas time approached. If Dad had been working steady, we could all expect a good Christmas, if not, then we would take our belts up a notch and go on.
Christmas became a Holiday, a time of no school or no work; a time for stuffing one's face with good food and enjoying the company of good friends or seldom seen relatives. The real reason for Christmas never crossed my mind. I only knew that my spirit seemed a little lighter during that time of year. Sure, I went to Church with my Mother and participated in our Church Christmas Play each year. The part you were asked to play was a status symbol. The longer and more involved the lines were, the more important you were as a person. Commit your lines to memory and practice alone or go to rehearsals and run through the whole play once or twice. What was dramatic talent? No one in our plays seemed to have any. It was like a bunch of robots or puppets were up on the platform. Stiff and formal, words were said in turn, with no feeling. If someone did attempt to inject feeling into his or her lines, it only made everyone else's part a more glaring defect in the whole production.
Jesus was the doll in the straw filled manger; Mary and Joseph were his parents. Of course, there were the animals, the Shepherds, the three Wise Men, the star in the sky and the Angels, but none of that ever clicked in my youthful mind and made the connection between God and myself as an individual. They were characters in a story and when Santa Claus became disconnected from Christmas for me, so did the characters in that Christmas story.
