GROUPIE

 I received a friend request the other day. I recognized the name but wasn’t sure if the request came from the person or was a way for some hacker to enter my account. So, I wrote to the person and asked him a question. He was unable to give me the answer but gave enough on other topics to convince me the request was okay. Contact with Tom Seamens was welcome after such a long time.  

In 1966 I began high school. Everyone knows how difficult fitting in can be. I wasn’t sure where I belonged. Unfortunately, I picked up the smoking habit that year, so I was a “smoking pit” guy. I knew most of the popular folks through church or cub scouts, so I might have been able to wedge myself into that group. Back then, Ball Camp was looked upon as a poor, working-class neighborhood with plenty of farms. So, I was also a member of that bunch as well. I played trumpet in the band, so I was a band geek, but I also played football, which made me part of the jocks, although anyone who knows me can verify my lack of athletic talent.  

No wonder high school is such a torturous time of life. Figuring out who I was and where I fit in consumed my time. Little did I know that all of that stuff didn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. Yet, because of some older teens who befriend me, I fell into comfortable and entertaining groups. 

The name of the band escapes me, but in it were Susie Turner, Danny Shinpaul, Danny Britton, Steve Landon and Tommy Seamens. They practiced in Susie’s garage, and during one session I walked to her house, which was in the subdivision behind ours.  I don’t recall how I “wormed” my way into their practices, but before long, I was a full-fledged “groupie.”   

The band played at sock-hops around the area, and I managed to find transportation to most of the events. The playlist of the group was wide enough to keep everyone happy. “Stand By Me” was the last song of each sock-hop, and a good mix of fast and slow songs gave couples plenty of chances to knock around and cuddle on the dance floor.  

I knew my favorite song was coming at some point in the evening. Anticipation wore on me, and I swore that the band held it back to mess with me. As soon as the opening chords were played, a smile crossed my face. Tommy Seamens was the best crooner in Knoxville as his smooth voice glided over the lyrics. The song was a 1963 release by The Showmen. The title was “39-21-40 Shape.” 

I loved that band and can still hear them playing clearly. That was 57 years ago. I searched for the song without knowing who had performed it. About two years ago, I found it and now play it when I work out or write. Reconnecting with Tom was a bonus. He continued his singing career for several years and performed in local clubs and other venues. He has since changed his performances to Christian music. At 74, he’s still active in appearing at churches and other Christian events.  

As we messaged each other, I asked if he had known Peggy Hawkins and her son Steve. Tom indicated he had worked with her at one point in his career. I told him that Peggy’s maiden name was “Rector” and that she was my half-sister and Steve was my nephew.  

I spend little time on Facebook other than scrolling through to see what friends and family have to say. I’m thrilled that Tom Seamens used it as a means of renewing our friendship. He brought back good memories from a time long ago. I thought of things we did, the girlfriends that I dated, and the groups that I chose to join. Best of all, I can still see through the fog of time Tom singing that song about a woman with a shape that seems impossible. I loved being a groupie with that band from right here in Ball Camp.  

JUST A LITTLE ADJUSTMENT

 Everybody likes a feel-good story. I’m a sucker for one. The slightest good-news item can bring a tear to my eyes. YouTube has sucked me in, and I spend too much time going down rabbit holes for UFC clips, Karen stories, and drum and bugle corps competitions. However, nothing can hold my attention more than stories about folks doing kind things for others.  

I’ve realized that the American people are actually pretty good. In the realm of donations, Americans gave almost $288 billion in 2017. For the most part, we are soft-hearted when it comes to giving. Of course, commercials for organizations such as ASPCA and St. Jude's immediately have us reaching for our wallets. Children and pets are important to most of us, and we can’t stand the thought of either of them hurting.  

I clean our building at least a couple of times each year. Items have been stuffed into the small space, and when no walking room is available, the time has come to empty the contents. Like most folks, we have much more than we need, so those items in storage are delivered to organizations that give them to those in need. Some use the receipts from their contributions to help with taxes. These days, we just drop off a load and say thank you. What people don’t realize is that our give away items are precious items to less fortunate families.  

Individual always do a good job or reminding me that Americans aren’t so bad. I always enjoy watching videos of men who stop at an overgrown yard and mow it for free. It’s a way that they can give back. An individual stops for a minute to speak to a homeless person or hands him a bag of food is something else that makes me smile. 

It seems to me that the only thing that brings out the bad sides of folks are politics and race. Many people won’t speak to another person who is from a different political party. Nice guys become viscous monsters when someone dares to speak ill of a politician or a candidate for office. Battle lines are drawn and attacks on one’s foes are swift and bloody. Lifelong friendships dissolve in seconds over political debates. Neither person is willing to listen to the ideas of the other.  

The same thing happens when racial matters arrive. Our prejudices take center stage in our lives, and words and deeds turn ugly. Most of the problems with racial matters are a lack of understanding. We simply don’t understand how the other race lives. We have no concept of their culture, and I believe that they have no concept of ours. We fear what we don’t understand. To others, our actions look like calculated ones to gain the upper hand.  

No matter what political affiliations we have or what race we are, the people of America a basically good. That’s been hard to believe over the last few years. I wish that we would decide to look to the good in each other instead of focusing on the differences. The truth is that 100 years from now, no one will know or care about those things. However, if Americans accept each other as equal creations by a loving God, our impact on the future can be acknowledged for generations to come. Let’s give it a chance and see. 

NOT INTERESTED IN DRIVING

 I’m forever amazed by the differences between generations. We old folks remember our first television sets and the introduction to color television. Amy and I finally bought a color tv after we married. Our children have always had tv’s, and now they and us have devices in several rooms. My childhood home had one phone on the wall in the kitchen. Now, we all have one stuck in our pockets. I remember watching the landing on the moon with my mother and brothers, and I wondered how much more the feat meant to her since she was born in 1917 when planes were rare sightings. The children of today require even more spectacular things to rouse them. 

We used to go outside and find something to do. Sometimes sports took up our time; in other instances, we built with scrap lumber, bricks, or limbs. Some of our best times were spent inside a lean-to made with pine branches cleared from the woods. We drove imaginary jeeps made with sticks and bricks from battle to battle. Adult supervision wasn’t necessary, and the only time a parent might intrude on play was if a child needed a Band-Aid or mercurochrome for a scratch or scrape. The rules were simple: stay outside until it was time to eat supper or when daylight gave way to darkness. 

Playing is demanding on the entire family these days. Children join teams in leagues. They practice! What’s practice? Parents pay out big bucks for uniforms and equipment, and some families spend small fortunes as children play on traveling teams. What used to be games are now serious commitments for extended periods of time. 

What bothers me most about today’s children is their detachment from the world. From the moment that they pick up that first controller and turn on the video games, children lose interest in the outside world. Before long, those little ones become teens, and when they obtain that first phone, their necks begin to develop that strange curvature. Instead of discovering the wonders of this world, they keep their eyes downcast to view the latest social media nonsense.   

Too many young people have little ambition. They don’t work a part time job that could put a bit of extra money in their pockets; parents will dole out cash when needed. Serving others rarely occurs unless such acts earn points for clubs or look good on a college application.  

Most appalling to us oldsters is how uninterested so many teens are in earning a driver’s licenses. Those games of war or building a city are much too enticing for high schoolers. They are just as happy having parents chauffeur them to parties, friends’ homes, or school activities. Kids from the 60’s lived for the day they could get a driving permit to sit behind the steering wheel whenever the family car started.   

I can only guess how different the children of this teenaged population will be. Of course, first of all, these teens must be more interested in making a child than building the perfect society or killing the most monsters on the computer screen. I wonder if all of these teens will look for jobs where they can sit at home and work from their desks. Maybe today’s kids will just continue to live with parents and rely on their largesse for survival. We old people would rather have lived in a shack and have eaten beans than to live with parents. It’s a different time, and Baby Boomers are no longer in charge. In our way of thinking, the world is halfway to hell in a hand basket. The results are still being created.