SALUDA LIFESTYLES - JUNE

EVEN WHITE GIRLS GET THE BLUES.

 

     I MISS MY FRIEND HELEN.  SHE HAS PASSED  ONE LIKE SO MANY OF MY OTHER FRIENDS.  SHE WAS A GREAT PIANO PLAYER...LOVED TO PLAY THE BLUES.  SHE WAS BORN IN GEORGIA AT A TIME WHEN IT WAS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR NICE WHITE GIRLS TO BE HANGING OUT IN JOOK JOINTS AND PLAYING THE BLUES.  BUT SHE DID IT ANYWAY.

  

     SHE ALSO PLAYED THE PIANO AT THE TOWN MOVIE HOUSE WHEN THEY SHOWED SILENT MOVIES.  SHE DIDN'T PLAY POPULAR SONGS BUT ACTUALLY COMPOSED MUSIC TO FIT THE ACTION ON THE SCREEN.  THAT WAS O.K.

WITH HER DAD AND MOM.  BUT THEY DIDN'T LIKE IT AT ALL WHEN SHE WANDERED DOWN TO THE JOOK JOINT TO LISTEN TO MUSIC ON SATURDAY NIGHT...AND EVEN WORSE WHEN SHE JOINED IN TO PLAY.  THEY TOLD HER SHE WOULD GO TO HELL, BUT SHE WAS WILLING TO GO THERE IF THAT'S WHERE THE GOOD MUSIC WAS BEING PLAYED. 

 

     I DON'T THIN\K SHE'S IN HELL.

 

     SHE COULD PLAY CHURCH MUSIC, TOO.  AND DID.  THAT'S HOW I MET HER.  SHE USED TO COME ONCE A YEAR UP TO MARYLAND TO VISIT HER TWIN DAUGHTERS.  WHEN SHE CAME ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS WOULD FIND AN OLD HYMAL AND WE WOULD HAVE A PRAYER MEETING,  HELEN WOULD FIX US A REAL SOUTHERN DINNER...BLACK EYED PEAS, FRIED CHICKEN, COLLARDS.  AND THEN SHE WOULD PLAY FROM THE HYMNAL....AND WE WOULD ALL SING,  EVEN THE CATHOLICS...OR THEY DIDN'T EAT.

 

     YEAR AFTER YEAR, SHE WOULD RETURN AND FIX ME A SOUTHERN DINNER.  WE BECAME GREAT FRIENDS,.

 

     SHE TOLD ME WHEN SHE FIRST MARRIED SHE WOULD PLAY THE PIANO AT HER BIG HOUSE AND A BLACK WOMEN WOULD COME ONCE A WEEK TO DO THE WOODEN FLOORS.  HELEN WOULD PLAY BLUES AND THE BLACK WOMAN WOUILD DANCE AND CLEAN.  THE BLACK WOMEN REFUSED TO TAKE ANY MONEY  SHE AND HER HUSBAND MOVED TO WASHINGTON, D.C.  SHE SOON HAD  TWIN GIRLS TO PLAY THE PIANO FOR.  IT STILL WAS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR WHITE WOMEN TO PLAY THE BLUES BUT HELEN CONTENTED 'EVEN WHITE GIRLS GET

THE BLUES.' AND INDEED THEY DO.

 

      YEARS PASSED AND HELEN MOVED BACK TO GEORGIA ON HER OWN.  SHE HAD A ONE ROOM  APARTMENT

IN A MANSION THAT HAD BEEN CONVERTED TO APARTMENTS.  IT WAS ABOUT TEN BLOCKS FROM THE TOWN LIBARY.  SHE LOVED TO READ AND I TOLD HER ABOUT BIG PRINT BOOKS  BECAUSE SHE WAS HAVING TROUBLE WITH HER EYES.  THEN I CONVINCED HER SHE SHOULD START GIVING CONCERTS AT THE LIBRARY.  SHE WAS A BIG HIT, EVEN PLAYING THE BLUES.

 

    SHE HAD A BLACK MAN WHO WAS A TAXI DRIVER TO COME TAKE

HER TO THE LIBRARY AND TO BRING HER HOME.  SHE TIPPED HIM EVERY TRIP.  BUT THEN AT CHRISTMAS, HE HAD TIED UP ALL THE TIP MONEY IN A NICE HANDKERCHIEF AND GAVE IT BACK TO HER AS A GIFT.  SWEET MAN.

 

    THE LAST TIME I SAW HELEN SHE WAS VISITING THE TWINS IN S.C.  SHE MOTIONED ME OVER WHERE SHE WAS SITTING AND SAID, "COME SIT BY ME.'  I SAT THERE FOR A FEW MINUTES AND

SHE FINALLY SAID, 'YOU ARE THE CRAZIEST PERSON I KNOW.' I ASKED HER, ' IS THAT A COMPLIMENT?'  HELEN SAID, 'YES, YES OF COURSE.'  \

 

     IT IS ONE OF THE NICEST THINGS ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO ME. 

 

     HELEN DIED SOON AFTER THAT.  HER DAUGHTERS WERE VISITING AN OLD BLACK GRAVEYARD AND HAPPENED TO SEE A

WREATH MADE UP LIKE A GRAND PIANO.  THE FLOWERS HAD DIED

BUT THE FRAME SHAPED LIKE A GRAND PIANO WAS STILL THERE.

THEY DECIDED TO TAKE IT AND RECYCLE IT FOR THEIR MOTHER'S

MEMORIAL SERVICE.  THEY SAID IT WAS THE HIT OF THE GRAVEYARD AND THAT YOU COULD ALMOST HEAR HER BLUES MUSIC BEING PLAYED. 

 

     SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOT. COMING FOR TO CARRY ME HOME,.

 

 

JOE ADAMS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saluda Lifestyles , May

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Goldfish Never Graduate From High School

 

     It's not because they can't get a cap and gown to fit, although that could be a problem if they ever made it to high school.

 

     The problem is much simpler.  They are fairly dumb.

 

     The goldfish are gorgeous.  And they swim better than Esther Williams.  But they are dumb as a stump.  They only have a memory span of 30 seconds according to scientists.  I have no idea how they know this but they claim that whatever you tell them goes in one ear and out the other.  If they have ears.  That might be the problem since I've never seen fish ears.

 

     Goldfish rarely get beyond first grade.  They can't hold a pencil, poor things.  Even if they knew the answer, they couldn't write or tell the teacher.

 

     "Hold up your fingers," she would yell.  "Blow four bubbles."

 

     There are other problems other than the pencils.  They can't tie their shoes.  No wonder.  No feet.  And getting on the schoolbus is a major feat.

And once they are on the bus, they tend to slide from one end to the other.  If their mothers were thoughtful enough to put them in a sealed baggie with water, some of the bullyboys start playing toss with the fish.

 

     I sympathize with the goldfish.  I really do.  They're not going to get a good job unless they graduate from high school.  I am retired so I don't have to worry about getting a good job.  I worry that I am turning into a goldfish.  I can't remember anything I'm told more than 30 seconds ago.  Sometimes not

then.  Of course, maybe I just don't care.  Maybe the goldfish don't either.

Saluda Lifestyles, April - 2011

I Saw Grandpa Picking His Nose.

 

My great grandaughter has been living in St. Louis for a while with her Dad, but she just recently returned to Hilton Head Island to live with her grandmother.  We are glad to have her back, but I don't get to see her that often.  She's very observant and is a real

blabbermouth.  She tells everything.  She told my daughter recently, "I saw Grandpa picking his nose."

 

My daughter asked her what I did with the boogers.  She said, "Sometimes if they are big, he feeds them to the dog.  The dog

seems to love them.  Other times he picks one side of his nose, then if he has no place to put it, he sticks it in the vacant side.  It is

so sick and disgusting."

 

My daughter wanted to know if I ever flicked them  or stuck them anywhere.  But I was not quilty.

 

I confronted Ellie why she was telling stuff like this.  She said it was what girls do.

I asked her why she said I picked my nose.  I also pick apples, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries...but she never tells that,  She said they don;t come out of my nose.

I tried to convince her that we had two "picking" fingers just for getting boogers...that was what God gave us those fingers for.  But she wasn't buying  .it, 

She said he hade the so called "Picking" fingers  to keep your place while reading and to paint so they look pretty. 

 

I doubt that I will be able to stop after all these years.  Unless she starts smacking my hands.  Then I might have to flick the boogers at her, sweet as she is.

\

 

 

October Lifestyles Article

I FOUND MY THRILL ON BLUEBERRY HILL

And also my breakfast! I love blueberries. A friend of mine who
lives in Candler found a spot on the Blueridge Parkway that has a
hillside of wild blueberries. He's not giving out the location, but
that's o.k. because he picks and brings me blueberries. He said he
noticed an old graveyard by the roadside. The headstones had become
overgrown with moss. But when he was looking around, he noticed the
blueberries bushes; some up to
fifteen feet high. So he started picking,..filling up whatever
containers he had in his car.
He said it was so easy to pick because there were so many blueberries.
He now makes regular weekly trips to Blueberry Hill and picks enough
to have bowls of blueberries three times a day. He's kind enough to
bring me a few, but he gives more to his girlfriend. (Wouldn't you?)

He claims that blueberries are the healthiest fruit you can eat. He
says they are "brain
food", although I haven't noticed my brain kicking in any faster. And
they are only 80 calories a cup. The wild blueberries tend to be
smaller but I think they are more delicious than the plump ones that
you get at the store for $3.50 for a little cup full.

A few years ago I tried starting my own Blueberry Hill in my backyard
at Lake Sheila. I met a couple at the Pickins Flea Market who sold
all kinds of plants. They had a sign that they specialized in
blueberry plants but you had to order them at a certain time of the
year. I placed my order for l2 plants and went to see them down at
Traveler's Rest.
(I love the name of that little town.) I had cleaned out my car,
expecting some big plants.
As it turned out, they looked more like "cuttings" I was fairly
disappointed but they assured me they would take off and grow really
fast. So I took them home and planted them along a walkway from the
house to the lake. I only have two left. Unfortunately I
didn't warn the yard man and he mowed down ten of them. But two of
them are flourishing. One is more than 6 feet high and usually loaded
with blueberries. I have to fight the birds for them and the birds
are winning. Not only do the early birds get the worms, they also get
the blueberries.

I spent a summer once in the northernmost county in the U.S.....in
Maine. It's the largest producer of wild blueberries in the country.
But the plants are really low to the ground...little more than a
groundcover. I noticed the blueberries first because the hills were
turning blue in color. Literally. Then I noticed busloads of migrant
workers who had been brought up to pick the blueberries. I had a
bunch of blueberries growing where
I was staying in a national forest. I picked blueberries every day,
but I wouldn't want it as a job. Unless of course I was very short.

I PRAY. YOU PAY.

I've read a couple of times that Catholic organizations here in
America are outsourcing prayers to India. People donate money to have
the Church pray for them, but they have so few priests nowadays, they
turn around and outsource the prayers to some Indian monks who pray
really cheap. I guess it doesn't matter. But I was thinking this
might be
a good thing for an old retired guy to do. I could pray for people.
Since I get Social Security I wouldn't have to charge a lot. And I
have a perfect place to pray on my backporch overlooking beautiful
Lake Sheila...a Heavenly view if there ever was one.
Actually I already pray for quite a few people that I don't know
personally. I pray for Zsa
Zsa Gabor. She's 93 and recently had to have hip replacement surgery
after she fell out of bed. I saw her on TV being put into an
ambulance.Her husband, the Prince, was taking her home from the
hospital because he thought she could recuperate faster at home with
the friendly faces of her staff. She had hospital hair instead of a
wig...no jewels...no make-up. I wouldn't have recognized the poor
thing. I don't ask her to pay me. The prayers are complimentery at
this point.
I'm very organized with my praying, too. I have various
sections...the Extreme Elderly, where I pray for Zsa Zsa and others
that are over 85...Those In Need of Healing...Loved
Ones...Soldiers...Road Warriors, those who make their living driving
around. I also have a section for animals. Mainly dogs. I don't
know that many cats. I pray for Tallulah. a black poodle that travels
with my friend Elwyn who drives for Federal Express. She's seen more
of America than I have. Elwyn takes her to Dog Parks when he can find
one in the
town they are visiting. It's very thoughtful of him, but I suspect
that he takes her there thinking he might meet some nice women for
himself. (He's looking for a wife in case anyone is interested.)
I'm aggressive when I pray. I'm not a Whiner. If you whine when you
pray, I think they put you through to a recording.
So? You need any prayers?
Let Us Pray.

Saluda Lifestyles Article for August

THE BINGO BOYS

The Bingo Boys of St. Peter's are having a reunion. This is a group
of guys who worked at St. Pete's Bingo games back in 1950's. We were
teenagers then and it was a great way to make some extra money and
learn to charm older ladies. Most of The Bingo Boys
have passed on. I think there are only three left. I'm not going to
the reunion.

St. Pete's is in Washington, D.C. They had bingo games on Monday
nights and, at first, they charged one dollar a card. Then they got
raided by the Internal Revenue Service. It
was against the law to make people pay for bingo gambling. But then
they continued to have bingo games. Instead of collecting at the
door, people entered and found their table.
Then they had a cadre of handsome young teenagers that would go around
to the people
as they sat at the tables. We would ask how many cards they wanted
and hand them out.
Then we would shake a basket at them to get their "donations".

I was flabbergasted at how often they tried to shortchange me. They
would take l0 cards
but only put in a couple of one dollar bills. I was told to watch
carefully and if they didn't
put in the proper amount of one dollar per card, I was to keep shaking
the basket at them
although I couldn't actually ask for more.

We made our money by being charming...running to get sodas or hot dogs
for our table
guests. If they won, they often gave you a tip. If they won big, you
could make some real money. Gratuities were our income. Or so I
thought.

Two years ago I was with some of The Bingo Boys and we were talking
about the good old days. One guy said, "I would never have been able
to get by financially without stealing that money at bingo every
week."

"Stealing?" I asked. I was shocked. I never stole a penny. But all
the others admitted that they stole regularly.

I said, "You stole from your church?" They claimed it wasn't really
the church...it was bingo money.

I was the only Bingo Boy that wasn't Catholic. I was a Methodist who
ran around with Catholics. But I was the only one that wasn't
stealing.

I envied my Catholic friends because when we went out on Saturday
nights, they would run into the church and go to confession. I always
wanted to know what they confessed
but they were vague about it. Whatever they confessed, we went out
and did the same things they had done the week before. And they could
confess again.

When you are a protestant, you talk directly to the Lord. I could ask
for forgiveness but
you never got an answer back so you had mounting guilt. I wanted a
voice to come back
and say: "You're off the hook, kid.". But it never did. I didn't
have a lot to confess anyway
because I certainly didn't steal at bingo or even know that the other
boys were doing it.
I have a feeling that a lot of them are still in Purgatory, burning
like a 3-hour log. That's another thing about the Catholics that I
liked...the idea of Purgatory. A place to go for a while short of
Hell. I think I read that they don't believe in Purgatory any longer.
That's a shame. It was an attractive part of their religion. Almost
as good as confessions.

Do You Have a Shy Bladder?

Well, according to doctors who specialize in these things, 7 percent of adult males have Shy Bladder.  Basically it means you can't go wee-wee in public toilets

 

How do professional trained medicine men come up with this crap?  I'm sure if they cross checked their research, they would find that 7 percent of adult males have tiny penises.  That's why they have a Shy Bladder.  If they had one the size of a pork loin, they would have no trouble in poppimg it out at a urinal....maybe even outdoors. 

 

I would be embarrassed to be a doctor that specializes in Shy Bladder.  Can you imagine being at a cocktail party and when someone asks you, "And what do you specialize in, Doctor?"  Then you have to tell them "Shy Bladder".  And then everybody in the room laughs out loud as you explain how you have to take your patients by the hand into public toilets.  Come on!  Nobody would want to shake hands with you after that.

 

The medical profession seems to be overrun with strange maladies.  Think about it.  We read nowadays about Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  It's just a spastic colon which has been around forever but now they call it Irritable Bowel Syndrome to give it a modern name.  Your bowel is yelling, "I am pissed!  I mean it.  I am angry and I'm not going to let you go more than two feet from the toilet today."

 

I'm sure it's not funny if you have either one of these maladies....ooops, I've got to go.  My bowel is growling.  I hope there's no one in the toilet.  I'm shy.

 

 

Adopt Me, Sandra.

Sandra Bullock's got rid of her sleazy husband, Jessie James.  Now she has adopted a little 2 l/2 year old boy.  Sweet.  But I just wonder why these movie stars always adopt little kids.  Why can't they adopt an old guy like me?  If she adopted me and Betty White, we would keep her laughing all the time.  I wrote to her on her Facebook page.  It already had more than 2,000 messages.  All of them  were probably asking to be adopted.  I should be faster; get in line first.  She wants her new son to learn about every corner of New Orleans so I

gave her the name of a neat cafe called Seimolina's, a place that makes 50 different kinds of pasta....including cheeseburger pasta and a macaroni and cheese pie.  I miss going to New Orleans.  I used to know most of the "corners" as Sandra calls them.  I'm sure I could find them again if they are still there after the big flood.  They might be covererd in oil this time.