Tales of the Southwest: Welcome to Albuquerque

  It’s 2019.
  This year marks 30 years since I arrived in New Mexico.
  I landed in Albuquerque with everything I owned crammed in a 1970’s station wagon and $900 in my pocket. I had decided to move to the Duke City after much thought and falling for public relations stuff that painted Albuquerque as a big city where everyone worked and lived in harmony.
  I read up on Albuquerque including crime statistics. New Mexico’s largest city had a crime rate similar to New Orleans. I thought that since people flocked to The Big Easy every year for Mardi Gras then the crime rate may not be as bad as the statistics showed. “So how bad can it be in Albuquerque?” I thought.
  In life I have learned when I utter the fateful words, “How bad can it be” I find out, whether it’s breakfast, lunch or a place to live. Its kind of like comedian Jeff Foxworthy’s joke, “What’s a redneck’s last words? ‘Hey, watch this.’”
  I quickly settled in to a cheap apartment off Central Avenue…an old motel where the rooms had been converted to studio apartments…then got right to work finding work. I went to a shop that offered a place to get my mail along with a voicemail service.
  Remember, this was 30 years ago, before cell phones were all over the place.
  Then it was time to get cleaned up for the job hunt. I went to a nearby barber shop to get cleaned up for a job interview. It was your average barber shop in an average strip mall somewhere in the vicinity of Louisiana and Montgomery in the Duke City’s Northeast Heights.
  So there I was sitting the barber chair with the barber apron on. I was looking through the shop’s plate glass window at the Sandia Mountains when I noticed a young man with his back to the glass. I watched as he raised his hands up above his head. He had a brown bag in one hand and a pistol in the other.
  I was trying to make some sense of what I was seeing when I looked out into the parking lot and saw several Albuquerque police cruisers with policemen standing in a familiar pose like on TV shows. You know, the one where they’re hunkered over and holding their pistols with both hands, each cop aiming at the suspect.
  But this was real, not TV, and the suspect was on the other side of that pane of glass right in front of me.
  “Guys,” I said with a raised voice, “I think something’s going on outside.”
  The barber and the customers looked up. It took them a few moments to take it all in too.
  Then came the megaphone voice.
  “PEOPLE IN THE BARBER SHOP, MOVE TO A BACK ROOM.”
  “I think we all better get in the back room,” said the barber. He lead the way and ushered us all into what was basically a large closet…me still wearing my haircut apron.
  A few minutes later a booming voice echoed in the barber shop. “Albuquerque police,” the voice echoed, “It’s okay, everyone can come out now.” We eased out of the closet to find a cop standing in the shop.
  “What happened?” asked the barber.
  Mr. Policeman told us how a customer walking into the bank across the parking lot saw this kid getting out of his car and reaching under the seat for a pistol. This was back in the late 80’s when the Duke City was seeing an average of two bank robberies a week. So the customer called the cops.
  But the kid wasn’t after the bank, nope, the kid had bigger fish to fry other than the bank: The pizza joint next door to the barber shop. When the kid popped out of the pizza joint, pistol and bag of cash in hand, the cops were out in the parking lot waiting for him.
  “Welcome to Albuquerque,” I thought to myself.

-30-

That High Dollar Job Moving Bodies

We wanted to move to Florida so back in the late summer of 2015 The Lady of the House and I said “adios” to eastern New Mexico and “hello” to Pensacola, Florida.

The Lady of the House grew up there. Well actually she grew up in Fort Walton Beach about 30 miles east of Pensacola. Jobs seemed more plentiful and real estate was cheaper in Pensacola. Looking back I wonder if we would’ve had a better Florida experience if we’d moved to Fort Walton Beach instead.

Me? I lived in many places growing up…New York City, Honolulu, Baltimore…I’d ripped myself up and landed in Albuquerque and Phoenix with no job prospects and was doing well within a few weeks. In other words I never had a problem in moving to a new city.

Until Pensacola.

I suppose if I’d done some research I might have discovered wages in the area were low and the city was dominated by a class of people who sought to monetize every human encounter they had.

I have never been so quantified, scrutinized and rejected in my life when it came to landing a job. Pensacola is a young person’s city. Oh, and you damn well better have your college degree if you want a decent job there.

A car dealership hired me. I sold six cars the first two weeks I was there. Then the next month when I didn’t do jack in the first two weeks I got fired. The Lady of the House and I went and bought a box of fried chicken, had a picnic on the beach and pondered my next move.

My career has been in media…radio, newspaper. It was my lifelong work yet that experience mattered little to the folks who ran those things in Pensacola.

So while I kept looking for a gig in media I kept looking for a job in other fields to pay the bills.

I gave a shot at being a call center automaton…that lasted three weeks.

I had a fun gig driving cars back and forth between car dealerships and the local auto auction but it only paid minimum wage and the schedule was just for 20 to 30 hours a week.

Then came the interview with a Pensacola funeral home…a job that paid the princely sum of $10 an hour.

This wasn’t the first time I’d ever kicked around working at a Pensacola funeral home.

There was that time I put on a suit and tie and went just a few blocks down from my west Pensacola house to the funeral home right on the boulevard.

I walked right in and noticed right away that I was the only Anglo guy in the place.

Everyone else was African-American.

“Hi,” I said to a fellow in a suit and tie at a desk handing him my resume’, “I’d like to apply for a job.”

The dude reared back in his chair and looked at me like I had just farted loudly or something.

“One moment please,” he said. He got up and disappeared down a hallway, my resume’ in hand.

Moments later the fellow reappeared.

“Sir, if you’d come right this way,” he said.

I followed the guy down the hall where he pointed to an open door.

Inside, standing with the help of a cane was an elderly woman.

I stuck out my hand and shook hers.

“Hello, my name is Grant McGee.”

“Yes Mr. McGee, I have your resume’ here,” she said, “My name is Mrs. Miller.”

I was talking with the owner, I reckoned. It was called “Miller Funeral Home.”

“Close the door, Mr. McGee,” she said.

I closed the door.

“Have a seat,” she said as she went around to sit behind her desk.

“We do have an opening for a night receptionist,” said Mrs. Miller. “Someone to greet the deceased’s family and friends when they come in.”

I nodded my head.

“Mr. McGee, I’m going to speak off the record here…”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You DO know this is regarded in town as Pensacola’s premier black funeral home.”

“No ma’am,” I said. “I’m looking for a job and I live a few blocks west of here. My wife and I moved here from New Mexico a few months ago.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Miller. “Well, you speak pretty good English for someone from Mexico.”

I thought about correcting her but then I thought about that old saying, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Like I said, Mr. McGee, I’m going to speak frankly here,” said Mrs. Miller. “You don’t see anything wrong with a white man working in a black funeral home?”

“No ma’am,” I said. “Who we are in terms of race is just all about where our ancestors came from…Africa, Europe, Asia and such. Besides, I think one of the most overlooked news stories of 1997 was that the human genome shows no markers for race, per se. We are basically all human.”

Mrs. Miller looked me right in the eyes for a few moments.

“Well, Mr. McGee, your view is refreshing,” said Mrs. Miller, “But while you may not have a problem with being the only white man at an African-American funeral home my customers and their families and friends just might.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I can understand that.”

“But now this is just you and I talking. You having been in management understand that I’m not actually allowed to talk about this with you. But I wanted to be honest with you about this.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Mrs. Miller stood up as did I. She extended her hand. I shook it.

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Mr. McGee. I will give this some thought.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

I went on back home where I found The Lady of the House in the kitchen.

“What happened at the funeral home?” she asked.

“They want a night receptionist.”

“Night receptionist?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s like that time I worked the front desk of a hotel. Same clothes too…a nice sport coat, khakis, nice shirt, tie.”

“You’re not really serious, are you?”

“Sure, you know, people would walk in and I’d smile and say, ‘Good evening, welcome to the funeral home…yes he’s right down the hall’ and I’d escort the visitors down to the parlor. I’d answer phones and make sure the coffee is made and all that stuff.”

“You? Working in a funeral home?”

“Sure. You know, if someone says, ‘She looks like she’s asleep’ or ‘He looks like he could sit right up and talk to ya!’ Or I might say, ‘Yes, here at the funeral home we do mighty fine work.’”

Mrs. Miller never called me for a job. The Lady of the House predicted she wouldn’t call and she was right.

So I kept looking for work. People couldn’t understand why a man of my age didn’t have my own business. Others thought I was overqualified and yet others thought I was underqualified for their management positions.

I was doing this while I waited for the local newspaper to call me telling me they were bringing me on board in the advertising department. I interviewed with them in October, I interviewed with them in November and again in December. They kept telling me they were working on deciding when they want to hire me. By the way, I never got that job.

Anyway, back to the $10 an hour funeral home job…

It was an ad in the Pensacola paper: “Drivers wanted” it read. “Flexible hours” it read. I thought it would fit nicely with the part-time gig I had delivering cars.

I put on my sport coat, tie and all the other stuff that is “de rigueur” for a job interview and showed up at the funeral home on time.

“Do you have any problems lifting?” asked the funeral dude as the interview began.

“How much will I need to lift?” I asked, I was looking for a poundage figure.

“That depends,” he said. “Some people can be pretty big.”

“Oh,” I said. “You’re talking about moving bodies.”

“Yes,” said The Funeral Dude, “That’s part of the driver’s position we’re hiring for.”

I flashed back to an incident when someone died where I worked. And yes, it was the funeral home dudes who showed up and had to take him away. I mean, SOMEBODY has to do it.

“Well how many people are sent out on the job?” I asked.

“Two people can usually handle the task,” he said.

“What about decomposition?” I asked.

He sat back for a moment. I don’t think he was expecting that question.

“I knew of this guy who was working for a funeral home in New Mexico,” I said. “Someone had died in the middle of summer in a mobile home and wasn’t discovered for days. When they went in to get the body they opened the door and the stench was incredible awful. Then they stepped through the door and the carpeting was squishy…that was from where the body’s fluids had oozed out and soaked the carpet.”

“We have body bags for that,” he said.

“And the drivers have to load the body bag?” I asked.

“It’s all part of your training,” he said.

“So when people die they express urine and feces, don’t they?” I asked.

He sat back for a moment. I don’t think he was expecting that question either.

“Well,” he said. “That happens but not that often. Our black body bags are for those who have decomposed or expressed shit because they have a deodorizing element built into them.”

It turns out it was an on-call job. When the funeral home got the call to come pick up a body the driver was expected to be at the funeral home in about 20 minutes. Attire for a body pickup was expected to be a sport coat and tie. Transporting a body to Orlando for those folks who donated their bodies to science was casual attire. And for those days when I’d be asked to drive a hearse or the flower van I was expected to dress in a suit….something I did not own.

I could be watching my favorite TV show and be called out to move a body. I could be enjoying a day at the beach and be called out to move a body. I could be grocery shopping with The Lady of the House and be called out to move a body. I could be enjoying a sound sleep and get the call. All for 10 bucks an hour.

The opportunity to take the job was on the table.

I told the funeral dude I’d get back with him.

And I did.

“Hey, thanks for your time,” I said over the phone. “But I need something with more structured hours. Thank you for your time.”

That was part of the reason I didn’t take it.

The other part was I didn’t feel like forking out over a hundred bucks for a suit for a 10-dollar-an-hour gig.

I eventually found a job in Pensacola in my career field for the princely sum of $11.84 an hour. My years of experience meant nothing, that pay rate was low… comparable to what I made when I started out in the broadcasting business. I put up with that for over a year until we had enough of the low wages and that unfriendly, money-hungry city in general.

We left Pensacola in September 2017 to return to eastern New Mexico.

I’m damn glad we did.



-30-

It Happened One New Year's

As I have moseyed through life I was delighted to find that I was not the only dumb-ass ever born.

I should explain.

I have missed many “signs” in my life…signs in the form of “red flags” to warn me of people or situations I should’ve avoided, hints that I should have taken or signs that I just flat-out missed.

I don’t know how this happened, how I didn’t come equipped with something to see what the hell is actually going on.

I have offered up the excuse that I played by myself a lot as a child.

Maybe I'm just an idealist or i just don’t know what “normal” is. And then again, maybe I was supposed to learn this stuff as I went along.

Case in point: An encounter with a young woman at a New Year’s party at the dawn of 1976.

Some friends of mine and I had rented a huge function room at a hotel in the old hometown for “The Big Event.” Matter of fact that’s what we called it, “The Big Event.” We had even gotten rooms so we wouldn’t have to drive home that night. Friends I didn’t even know I had showed up for this big deal.

People strayed into our party dressed up for other parties in the hotel, they told me it looked like we were having more fun at our big bash. And they said the music was better. As usual I was the guy playing the music with a disc jockey setup.

Just after midnight this lovely young lady who was dressed in (what was to me) a dreamy Stevie Nicks-ish style came up to me.

Back then Stevie Nicks was the new lead singer for the band “Fleetwood Mac.” She arrived on the scene with an enchanting voice, winsome smile, dressed in shawls and flowy things and she danced round and round on the stage as the band played on.

She looked like she'd taken fashion hints from Stevie Nicks...

So here was this young lady at the New Year’s party and it looked like she had dressed for the occasion by taking some fashion hints from Stevie Nicks.

I mean I’d never seen her before and she was absolutely stunning.

To me, anyway.

After all I was a teenage boy and, at the time, thought all young women were stunning.

“Can I have the key to your room?” she said, looking me right in the eyes.

This was weird: why would she want the key to my room?

“Sure,” I said, “How come?”

“I…umm…need to use your bathroom,” she said, biting her lip, smiling slightly and looking off to the side.

“OK,” I said. So I gave her my key and she sauntered off.

Well, about a half hour passed by and I realized this girl had not returned with my key. I got my buddy Dax to take the DJ seat and I went up to my room.

The door was cracked open a bit and it was dark inside.

I pushed open the door and flipped on the light. And there…on my bed…in her clothes…lay this young lady. Obviously she had been waiting in my room in the dark.

“Hi, what’s up,” I asked.

She smiled at me, “I don’t feel like going anywhere tonight.”

With that she stretched out on the bed and put her arms back behind her head.

I guessed she was tired or something so I said, “Well, there are still plenty of rooms here in the hotel, they’re cheap tonight too…special rate.”

She sat bolt upright, looked at me and said, “I don’t believe it,” got up and left.

I watched her sashay down the hall.

“You really just wanted to use my bathroom?” I asked loudly.

She turned around and then was walking backward down the hall.

“You don’t look like a dumb-ass. I guess dumb-asses can look normal,” she said as she turned around and kept walking down the hall.

“You’re kinda weird,” I said loudly.

She stuck her hand in the air and flipped me the bird as she kept walking. It was a good bird too, knuckles forward, pointed at me.

I went back to the party to play some more tunes. Then by about 130 it was time to call it a night.

Afterward I was winding down, sitting around shootin’ the shit with my pals Dax and Dave.

“Man,” I said, “There was this weird chick…”

I then proceeded to tell them the tale of the girl in my room.

I finished the story.

My two pals just stared at me.

Then Dax started laughing, Dave was shaking his head.

“Dumb-ass,” said Dax, still laughing. “Does someone have to hold up a sign? She wanted to have sex…dumb-ass.”

“Man!” laughed Dave, “Offered up to you on a silver platter and you didn’t even realize it….MAN! I think she came to the party with Laura Whatshername. I think that was Laura’s cousin from around DC. You know I’ve heard about that. Chick comes up to you and asks for your room key you’re just supposed to KNOW, man.”

“Dumb-ass,” said Dax.

They stood up, still laughing, and walked on to their rooms.

I sat there for a few minutes by myself and thought about what I may have missed out on. I mean I MAY have missed out on a good time or I may have missed getting into trouble. I would never know.

I smiled…

It wasn’t the first time I’d missed out on “signs,” it wouldn’t be the last.

I don’t know if it’s a lot of people who miss hints, red flags and signs or just a few…

But since that New Year’s eve long ago I’ve found out at least I’m not the ONLY one.

-30-

*All names changed as a “cover my ass” maneuver…

The Best Christmas

To me, a good Christmas is about lifting your spirits.  A good Christmas is about smiles and sharing and stuff.  The presents, the food and all the other Christmasy things are just icing on the cake.

What was your “Best Christmas Ever”?

While I’ve had some great Christmases I’d have to say my best Christmas ever was 34 years ago. 

It was right after one of my famous trainwrecks.

Well, my trainwrecks aren’t exactly widespreadedly famous, just “famous” amongst my kin.

If life is like a river, well, I’ve paddled my canoe through some pleasant passages.  And then there were some treacherous stretches full of rapids and whitewater.  That “Best Christmas Ever” came at the end of a year where my li’l “canoe of life” had gone over a waterfall and all my supplies were lost, so to speak:  I had totaled my car in a wreck...taking a mountain curve at 60 mph when I shoulda took it at 30...went flying into a creek...ripped a hole in my butt cheek.  And because my gig was a traveling salesman I lost my job.  With no job I couldn’t pay my rent so I lost my apartment. 

.           I figured I could go home until I pulled things back together.

            Boy, was I wrong.

            I called my folks.  My mom answered the phone.

            “Hi mom,” I was smiling.  “Can I come home, I’m in a bit of a mess.”

            “Well,” she said, “you’ll need to talk to your father.”

            She put my dad on the line.

            “Hi dad, can I come live with y’all till I get on my feet?”

            “No, son.”

            Wow, I was amazed at how fast he answered me.  I think they knew I’d be calling.

            I was dumbfounded.  It took a few seconds to gather my thoughts.             I gave a nervous laugh.  “I-I thought that’s what home is for, dad.  A place to come back to when it all goes down the tubes.”

            “Well, son, we believe if you stay out there and pull yourself up by your own bootstraps you’ll be a lot stronger.”

            Now that I look back on it I don’t think I would have let me come back home to live either. 

Things started looking better, though. 

Mom and Dad did let me come home for the weekend, the same weekend my aunt and uncle came to visit from Ohio.  They had stopped on the way and picked up a local paper from a couple of hundred miles up the road.  There was an ad in that paper for a job and the guy to contact was a dude I knew.

I called the guy and got the job over the phone.  Soon I was settled in to a new town and some new digs…the second floor of an old 1920’s house.  No fridge, no stove, no furnace, no furniture, no TV, but I had four big rooms, an enclosed second-story porch that faced the sunny south, a sleeping bag, a trunk, my stereo and all my record albums.  What more could anyone ask for?

The job didn’t pay much.  What I did make went for bills, rent and setting aside some bucks to get a car.  I cooked ramen noodles on a hot plate…lots and lots of ramen noodles.  And there was toast, lots of toast.  Nowadays, when I look at a pack of ramen noodles I get a queasy feeling.

Folks at work would be having burgers and fries and stuff for lunch...I wondered if a jury of my true hungry peers would convict me for attacking a co-worker for some fast food.

Winter came and my apartment turned into a fridge.  When I filled a tub for a bath the cold, cold porcelain would sap the heat from the water.  One room was so cold for a couple of weeks I could keep ice cream in it.  One subfreezing morning I even woke up with frost in my moustache.

Looking back on that time I realize I was just a step up from living on the street.

            Then I got a call…my folks were coming to see me for Christmas. 

Mom and Dad were taking me to dinner and they had a surprise.  It was a good feeling, knowing they were coming.  Plus I’d get something other than ramen noodles and toast to eat.  I was happy.

            Mom and dad took me to eat at one of the nicest places around.  We laughed, talked and I caught up on what the rest of the family was doing.  My folks brought presents too, new clothes; new shirts, new pants.  Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad about my circumstances.  Before they left my dad told me not to feel so bad about having to start all over.

            “Yeah, but you’re not eating ramen noodles and toast every day,” I laughed.

            He had some other tidbits of wisdom to share before they left that day, including that it wasn’t the end of the world if I didn’t have a car.  He was right, plus I found the walk to and from work kind of relaxing.   

            My father wasn’t with us much longer after that visit, that’s another reason I remember that Christmas.

            The following February he started having trouble standing on his right leg.  A trip to the doctor revealed a big ol’ brain tumor in his head.  By August he had “gone on to Glory.”

I always remember that December get-together.  I can still see my dad smiling from the driver’s seat as he and mom were about to drive away.

            “Things are a little tough for you now, son,” I remember him saying, “But someday you’ll look back on all this and laugh, maybe even write about it.”

            And so I have.

-30-

True Tales From The Mountains

"He waited up in a tree with his rifle, waited for Ol' J.I. to get home..."

I find it strange how some folks don’t give a whit about their ancestors…what they did, how they lived, what they accomplished.

I once had a friend who had no idea of her ancestry or family tales of long ago and she didn’t care. I thought that was just sad.

When I think about “my people” who lived long ago…their genetic material still vibrates within us…I think how we are the culmination of those who have gone before. I believe we honor them by knowing a bit about them.

I learned a lot about some of my ancestors from my grandmother. My father’s mother was a great storyteller.

Grandma was one of seven children of an iron ore mining company manager that lived in the Appalachian Mountains in western Virginia near the West Virginia border.

Grandma was a cigarette-smoking, Bible-quoting, stern yet fun Virginia mountain “girl.”

My folks shipped me off to live with my grandparents for my last couple of years of high school. That’s how I came to hear Grandma’s tales.

It being Christmastime I got to remembering my Grandma.

One Christmas when I was a teenager my brother and sister didn’t come home for Christmas. It was just going to be my mom, dad, grandmother and grandfather.

I woke up Christmas morning and things were strangely quiet, not noisy and busy like many Christmases before.

I walked downstairs and found my mother and father sitting at the table having breakfast like any other day.

“What’s going on? Where’s Christmas?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” said my father.

“There’s no noise, nothing’s cooking, there’s no smell of bacon or coffee,” I said.

“We’re waiting for your grandmother to get up. Why don’t you make a pot of coffee and take it in to her and wake her up?” said Mom.

So I made a pot of coffee, unplugged the percolator and walked into her bedroom where she was sound asleep.

My plan was to wave the spout of the coffee pot with teenage accuracy right underneath her nose thinking that the aroma would wake her up.

I waved the pot under her nose not remembering it was a pot full of hot coffee. I didn’t give it much thought because this was the first time I’d made a pot of coffee.

So the waving action brought hot coffee up and out the spout into her ear.

Grandma sat bolt upright in bed holding her ear and yelling.

Grandma was a storyteller. She would sit in her easy chair smoking her filter-less Raleigh cigarette, watching her soap operas and offering up stories and opinions during the commercial breaks.

“You’ve got a double cowlick on your head, boy,” she told me. “You’re going to be bald when you’re grown.”

You know what? She was absolutely right.

My Grandma also believed that the wild weather she saw in her last years was because of the rockets we sent into space.

“We’re poking holes in the sky and we’re messing things up,” she would say.

Grandma told me of her mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Hill. That’s what they called each other, he called her "Mrs. Hill” and she called him “Mr. Hill."

Grandma told the story of her youngest brother, Teddy, who died in an awful industrial accident in the mine.

“The day Teddy died, his dog sat out in the back yard and howled, nobody at home knew anything had happened but my daddy knew it was an omen. He heard that dog howl and he turned to my momma and said, “Mrs. Hill, I don’t believe our boy is coming home anymore.”

About that time the booming klaxon horn from the mine went off, telling everyone for miles around there had been an accident.

Grandma talked about meeting my grandfather when he came to work as a bookkeeper for the mine. She said when she saw him come she knew she was going to marry him. They were married Christmas Day 1912.

Grandma told the story about their big wedding day. After the ceremony they dashed out the door and hopped in their one-horse buggy.

Somewhere in the rush of things my grandfather dropped the reins and the horse took off with them. “I yelled and yelled at him all the way down the road,” said my grandma.

“What’d you yell?” I asked.

“It didn’t matter,” she said, blowing smoke in the air. “He deserved it.”

My grandma yelled at my granddaddy a lot, it might’ve been where I got the notion in my early years that yelling at each other is a perfectly normal part of marriage.

Well, that and my mom and dad were always arguing and yelling.

Grandma told more stories of life in a mining town in the 1910’s, how “the meanest man in the county,” a fellow named J. I. Jones, met his death in 1913. Word was that Jones had killed two men. The son of one of the men waited in a tree at Jones’ place for the man to return home and when he did he gunned him down.

The area around the mining town was full of immigrants from Europe who worked in the mine. Grandma told the story of the time that she and my grandfather were out for a leisurely afternoon in a rowboat on the James River and as they rounded a bend witnessed two men kill another man for his money.

There was the story of the time the town doctor was called to a miner’s home, the whole family was sick. He finally got around to asking them what they’d been eating when the wife went outside and came back in holding a dead “American chicken” by the legs: A turkey vulture.

Then came the flu epidemic of 1918. By that time my grandparents had two baby boys…one was my dad…who wasn’t quite a year old. Grandma said my dad and the town doctor were the only two people who didn’t get the flu. Grandma believed the town doctor didn’t catch the flu because he had a drinking problem and my dad didn’t catch it because he crawled around chewing on chunks of coal from the fireplace.

The doctor would walk up and down the streets of the town, yelling into houses, asking what folks needed. He’d come back later and walk down the town’s main street throwing a chicken in the open window of a house here, some cans of food in another house there and so on.

I suppose the point is that no matter how small a story might seem to someone it may be a gem to someone else. It fires the imagination. It puts relatives, ancestors in a more real light.

I find it sad when a person knows nothing about their ancestry. Oh, not the kind that requires research and such, that’s more of a hobby. Just to know a little about those who have gone before. Their journeys are a significant part of how we got here.





-30-

Mountain Stories My Grandma Told Me

My Grandma's home region...western Virginia

I find it strange how some folks don’t give a whit about their ancestors…what they did, how they lived, what they accomplished.

I once had a friend who had no idea of her ancestry or family tales of long ago and she didn’t care. I thought that was just sad.

When I think about “my people” who lived long ago…their genetic material still vibrates within us…I think how we are the culmination of those who have gone before. I believe we honor them by knowing a bit about them.

I learned a lot about some of my ancestors from my grandmother. My father’s mother was a great storyteller.

Grandma was one of seven children of an iron ore mining company manager that lived in the Appalachian Mountains in western Virginia near the West Virginia border.

Grandma was a cigarette-smoking, Bible-quoting, stern yet fun Virginia mountain “girl.”

My folks shipped me off to live with my grandparents for my last couple of years of high school. That’s how I came to hear Grandma’s tales.

It being Christmastime I got to remembering my Grandma.

One Christmas when I was a teenager my brother and sister didn’t come home for Christmas. It was just going to be my mom, dad, grandmother and grandfather.

I woke up Christmas morning and things were strangely quiet, not noisy and busy like many Christmases before.

I walked downstairs and found my mother and father sitting at the table having breakfast like any other day.

“What’s going on? Where’s Christmas?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” said my father.

“There’s no noise, nothing’s cooking, there’s no smell of bacon or coffee,” I said.

“We’re waiting for your grandmother to get up. Why don’t you make a pot of coffee and take it in to her and wake her up?” said Mom.

So I made a pot of coffee, unplugged the percolator and walked into her bedroom where she was sound asleep.

My plan was to wave the spout of the coffee pot with teenage accuracy right underneath her nose thinking that the aroma would wake her up.

I waved the pot under her nose not remembering it was a pot full of hot coffee. I didn’t give it much thought because this was the first time I’d made a pot of coffee.

So the waving action brought hot coffee up and out the spout into her ear.

Grandma sat bolt upright in bed holding her ear and yelling.

Grandma was a storyteller. She would sit in her easy chair smoking her filter-less Raleigh cigarette, watching her soap operas and offering up stories and opinions during the commercial breaks.

“You’ve got a double cowlick on your head, boy,” she told me. “You’re going to be bald when you’re grown.”

You know what? She was absolutely right.

My Grandma also believed that the wild weather she saw in her last years was because of the rockets we sent into space.

“We’re poking holes in the sky and we’re messing things up,” she would say.

Grandma told me of her mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Hill. That’s what they called each other, he called her "Mrs. Hill” and she called him “Mr. Hill."

Grandma told the story of her youngest brother, Teddy, who died in an awful industrial accident in the mine.

“The day Teddy died, his dog sat out in the back yard and howled, nobody at home knew anything had happened but my daddy knew it was an omen. He heard that dog howl and he turned to my momma and said, “Mrs. Hill, I don’t believe our boy is coming home anymore.”

About that time the booming klaxon horn from the mine went off, telling everyone for miles around there had been an accident.

Grandma talked about meeting my grandfather when he came to work as a bookkeeper for the mine. She said when she saw him come she knew she was going to marry him. They were married Christmas Day 1912.

Grandma told the story about their big wedding day. After the ceremony they dashed out the door and hopped in their one-horse buggy.

Somewhere in the rush of things my grandfather dropped the reins and the horse took off with them. “I yelled and yelled at him all the way down the road,” said my grandma.

“What’d you yell?” I asked.

“It didn’t matter,” she said, blowing smoke in the air. “He deserved it.”

My grandma yelled at my granddaddy a lot, it might’ve been where I got the notion in my early years that yelling at each other is a perfectly normal part of marriage.

Well, that and my mom and dad were always arguing and yelling.

Grandma told more stories of life in a mining town in the 1910’s, how “the meanest man in the county,” a fellow named J. I. Jones, met his death in 1913. Word was that Jones had killed two men. The son of one of the men waited in a tree at Jones’ place for the man to return home and when he did he gunned him down. 

The area around the mining town was full of immigrants from Europe who worked in the mine. Grandma told the story of the time that she and my grandfather were out for a leisurely afternoon in a rowboat on the James River and as they rounded a bend witnessed two men kill another man for his money.

There was the story of the time the town doctor was called to a miner’s home, the whole family was sick. He finally got around to asking them what they’d been eating when the wife went outside and came back in holding a dead “American chicken” by the legs: A turkey vulture.

Then came the flu epidemic of 1918. By that time my grandparents had two baby boys…one was my dad…who wasn’t quite a year old. Grandma said my dad and the town doctor were the only two people who didn’t get the flu. Grandma believed the town doctor didn’t catch the flu because he had a drinking problem and my dad didn’t catch it because he crawled around chewing on chunks of coal from the fireplace.

The doctor would walk up and down the streets of the town, yelling into houses, asking what folks needed. He’d come back later and walk down the town’s main street throwing a chicken in the open window of a house here, some cans of food in another house there and so on.

I suppose the point is that no matter how small a story might seem to someone it may be a gem to someone else. It fires the imagination. It puts relatives, ancestors in a more real light.

I find it sad when a person knows nothing about their ancestry. Oh, not the kind that requires research and such, that’s more of a hobby. Just to know a little about those who have gone before. Their journeys are a significant part of how we got here.

-30-

The Best Job...

Mountain Lake Hotel, Giles County, Virginia

Dang, has it been 42 years?

Yes, it was 42 years ago, the summer of 1976, I was a desk clerk at Mountain Lake Hotel in western Virginia.

The probability is high that you’ve seen Mountain Lake Hotel. Most of the movie “Dirty Dancing’’ was filmed there. It’s a resort on the south shore of the highest natural lake east of the Mississippi. Here in the future the lake’s levels fluctuate wildly…for a bit a few years ago it was totally dry.

Mountain Lake wouldn’t be famous for “Dirty Dancing” until about 11 years in the future from the time I was there.

I had always wanted to work at the hotel from the first time I saw it. It was miles from anything and on the cool top of a mountain. For $66 a week I got place to live (I had to share a room with the bellhop), three meals a day and one day off a week.

The hotel was so rustic. The main building was made of native stone. There were wooden cabins scattered around the property. There was only one television in the place and it was in the drawing room off from the lobby.

I greeted guests, took reservations, sent out material on the hotel and ran the switchboard — an ancient wires and plugs affair.

My roommate was Chad the bellhop who spent his idle hours reading comic books. I spent mine wondering when I’d meet the girl of my dreams. We spent the summer having almost nightly parties with the rest of the staff. I worked from 3 in the afternoon until 11 at night when I’d get off duty, hop in my car, zip down the mountain, buy “party supplies” (read that as booze) and return. In the morning I’d wake up and swim in the lake.

On staff were a hippie or two, girls from the town at the foot of the mountain who were the hotel maids and an assorted cast of characters.

For instance there was Phil the Chef who was hired at minimum wage and prepared all of his meals step-by-step from a Betty Crocker Cookbook. Phil had told us that he had been in the Vietnam War and that he was supposedly legendary for his nightly bow-and-arrow raids on the Vietcong across enemy lines.

There was Karen the hostler…the horse handler. This was a big, strong woman, from Pennsylvania the likes of whom I had never seen before. She lead the guests on horseback rides. She often stunned my southern-born sensibilities by walking around with little if any clothing on.

There was the time I had fallen asleep on the boat dock after work and was awakened by Karen’s big toe in my ear. I opened my eyes and there was Karen standing there totally nude in the night…she was ready to go skinny dipping.

“Wanna join me?” she asked in her big voice.

I smiled back, “No, thanks, I’m kinda tired” and I was, so I started walking back up to the employee’s lodge. I may have missed some kind of significant life moment there but I was just flat-out tired.

It was a summer of lots of memorable moments like when Chad and I chased bats out of the lobby with badminton racquets, or working with a guy I called “The Bard of the Blue Ridge,” a fellow who had once lived a staid middle-class life, lost it all in a swindle and became a vagabond, a storyteller, a bullshitter. He worked at the hotel as gardener and maintenance man.

It was a great place to spend the summer…most days were mild on the mountaintop, not hot at all.

You know what “They” say, “All good things must end.” So it was with the best job I ever had.

I’d say about 95 percent of the people who came to Mountain Lake enjoyed it. That disgruntled 5 percent, ah, I let them ruin my summer with their mean-spiritedness.

I had been yelled at, cussed at, grabbed by the collar and subjected to obnoxious condescension.

I knew it was time to leave when a lawyer and his traveling party from outside Washington, D.C. came in one cloudy August afternoon. He had reservations and wanted to see his room before he checked in. He came back down and proceeded to tell me how awful the place was...going down some kind of mental list he had made up: That the hotel was like a “class C” roadside motel, there was no television in the room, the room was dingy, the window faced the mountainside, he expected he’d have rooms with a view of the lake because, after all, we should’ve known who he was and that he was worthy of the best rooms in the place.

I’d heard stuff like this all summer and had to put up with it with a smile and a “Yes sir”/”No sir.” But on this day I’d reached my limit. So in an uncharacteristically loud voice I looked Mr. Attorney right in the eyes and yelled, “LOOK ASSHOLE, IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT HERE WHY DON’T YOU JUST GET THE HELL OFF THE MOUNTAIN!!!!!”

I composed myself and apologized for what was truly an uncharacteristic outburst.

I took a sheet of hotel stationary and a pen, presented it to Mr. Attorney and asked him if he’d like to write a note of complaint to my boss.

“Yes I would, young man,” he said. “And in it I will recommend that you should be terminated.”

“That’s your right, sir,” I said.

He finished his note and I called down the mountain to a nice motel with a golf course and made reservations for him and his party.

A couple of hours later the boss got back from his trip down the mountain.

“Something happened while you were in town,” I said and I handed him the note from the lawyer.

He stood there and read the note.

He laughed.

“Hell,” he said, “I might’ve done the same thing.”

He handed the note back to me.

“Just don’t do it again,” he said.

I felt bad after the incident though and two weeks later I packed up my stuff and left the mountaintop.

I liked that work…I even gave serious consideration to being a resort hotel worker, in the mountains in the summer and south Florida in the winter… “working the circuit” it was called back in the day.

I don’t even know if “the circuit” exists anymore.

And desk clerk jobs? I’ve been watching kids do that kind of work these days and “laid back” is not a term that comes to mind when I see them go about their work: They are far more tasked with multi-tasking than “back then” and they do that thing that I so don’t dig here in the future…trying to monetize every human interaction.

As the years would go by I’d call it the best job I ever had. Some would say that was because there were no responsibilities. Others would understand: The simplicity, the camaraderie, the mild summer days, the peace.

Isn’t it something how others can even mess that up.

-30-

*All names changed…