40 Years, Give or Take: Senior Year, Part II

My senior year was a blur of activity.  Football games, marching band contests, jazz band contests, and—well yeah, school work.  But what a time it was to be a Jeff City Jay! 

Musically, when we entered our senior year at JCSHS, Paul McCartney had launched a successful solo career apart from The Beatles, and “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” was number one the first week of September in 1971.  By October, Don McLean’s epic “American Pie” took over the number one slot.  Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” followed in December.  America’s “Horse With No Name” came next, and Roberta Flack provided the ultimate makeout song our senior year in 1972, with “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”. 

Going into our senior year, at the theaters we were watching “Billy Jack”, “Dirty Harry”, “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”, “Play Misty For Me” (the screen debut of  Roberta Flack’s “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”), and “Summer of ‘42”.  By 1972, and the last few months of our time at JCSHS, we saw the now-classic “Godfather”.  There was John Wayne’s “The Cowboys”, and Ryan O’Neal and Barbra Streisand in “What’s Up, Doc?”  We saw Liza Minnelli in “Cabaret”, and Woody Allen’s “Play It Again, Sam”.

And there were memorable moments in the halls and classrooms at JCSHS.  These are some of my bullet point memories, in no particular order, from my senior year, 1971-1972. (Your bullet points may vary.)

• Talent show with Jeff Devereaux’s dance team – I played trumpet in the band that played “Shaft” for the dancers, and it was reported in the Red & Black as “backed up by some members of the Jazz Band.”  I gave Jeff grief over that, but all was forgotten when Jocelyn King gave me a kiss when the winners were announced.  In fact, a LOT was forgotten with that kiss from Jocelyn King!

• Winning the Traveling Trophy at the SMSU (now MSU) marching band contest in Springfield, MO. – It was a trophy the approximate size of Jerry Hoover himself, and if you won it 3 times in a row, you got to keep it.  We kept it that year.

•  The Aida 8 Trumpets – These were the Herald Trumpets that began each half-time show with fanfares from trumpets with long bells and banners tied to them.  (“The Aida 8 Are Great!”)

• Carl Burkel asking me why I never tried out for Chorale – During a graded audition, he heard me sing and sat for a moment with his mouth open, then asked me that.  Singing was just something I did, like in church for most of my life, and I never thought much about it.  To this day, I consider that one of the biggest compliments I have ever received.

• Paul Adams and I doing a Vaudeville act for the band’s entrance in the school festival fundraiser – The band put on a sort of Vaudeville nightclub show, with the Jazz Band as the “house band”, the Majorettes  (?) as dancers, and Paul wrote a comedy duo for he and me, based on old Vaudeville comedy with purposely bad jokes like “I was born in Chicago.”  “Before the fire?”  “No, in back of a barn.”  Then Nancy Basinger would do a Barrump-Ching on the drums after each really bad punchline.   For one joke, I was supposed to say “Do you have a fairy godmother?”  And Paul would answer, “No but I got an uncle I’m not too sure about.”  Barrump-Ching.  However, during one of the shows, we stumbled, lost our timing, and I forgot the line.  Paul looked at me and said, “Ya know, I have a fairy godmother.”  Well at that point, timing was lost, the line was lost and there was nowhere to go.  I looked at him and said, “Really?”  And he said “Yes.”  Barrump-Ching.   Side note: while trying to drum up business for the band room’s entry in the festival, Paul and I stood outside with our Vaudeville costumes on, chewing on cigars (real ones, and I was sick as a dog by the end of the evening), and Paul was trying to coax in a couple of kids, about 9 or 10.  Paul said, “We’ve got magic, comedy, and dancing girls!”  This kid looks at Paul and says, “Do they strip?”

• Mobile, Alabama Jazz Band Contest (Spring Hill Junior College, Mobile) – That was just an incredible time, actually beginning after graduation, and from which a good portion of the 1971-1972 Jazz Band album “What’s Goin’ On?” was recorded.  One of the amazing moments was Pat Coil winning the outstanding soloist award.  In addition to everything he did with keyboards, during a free-form improv number, he improvised on Tuba and Fender Rhodes---at the same time.  In harmony. 

• New Orleans – The Jazz Band’s first stop on the way to that Mobile, AL contest.  Standout moments included playing in Jackson Square in the middle of the day, being seen there by Gregory Hines and invited to their show (Hines, Hines, and Dad) that night at the Roosevelt Hotel as their guests; playing at Preservation Hall with saxophonist Al Beletto at midnight.

• Buzz Watts class –  On the first day of his class he said to us, “…and don’t ever argue with me.  You will always lose.”  I raised my hand, and said, “Why?”  He never liked me much after that.

• Miss Bish typing class – I had my first encounter with technology: an IBM Selectric typewriter

• English class with Mrs. Brakke – Lana Enloe sat in front of me, and after her PE class, she would have baby powder in her hair.  I liked English class. 

• Carousel Musical – I was in the pit orchestra, and rehearsals were just stupid fun.  That was my first introduction to Pringles.  Neatly stacked potato chips in a tube.  How cool was that?

• Laura Burkhardt actually spoke to me.

 These are just a few of the bullet points from 1971-1972 at JCSHS.  This is a snapshot of my senior year.    It was a great time of growth for me, and a year of experiences I would never forget.  Obviously.

Cataloging Christmas

Signals. . .Wireless. . .What On Earth?. . .Brookstone. . .Orvis. . .Sharper Image. . .Hammacker—Hamhock—Hammock-Slimm----L.L. Bean.  At my house, these are the signs of the season.

The catalogs start coming in September and pick up through October.  By the middle of November I’m getting 2 and 3 a day.  It’s my own fault.

I can’t seem to resist buying something from these catalogs.  And not just silly stuff.  I mean, sure, I was sucked in by the soap dish shaped like a frog—and I don’t even use bar soap.  And who can resist the complete DVD collection of the lost episodes of “Blossom”?  Maybe a visor with the built-in spiky hair wig, and a Christmas ornament in the shape of the human brain.  But there are some good gift ideas in there, too!

So, I buy a cool electronic gadget to give as a gift.  Next thing I know, I’m on yet another catalog list.  And sure enough, when another catalog shows up, I look through it.  And then, before you can say “opt out,” UPS brings me a yard ornament shaped like Spock.  And another catalog.

I must say, though, that all those catalogs have helped me get on top of my Christmas shopping.  I used to be really bad.  One year I gave my family pictures of what I was going to get them in February.  Or March.  Now, I can actually get shopping done before the holidays are over.  And, bonus, I don’t have to go to the mall.  I haven’t been to the mall since 1989.

It’s good to get my Christmas shopping done early for a change.  I still can’t compete with one of my sisters.  I remember one year, I met her in February while she was shopping for the next Christmas, and I was shopping for the gifts that matched the pictures I gave my family the previous Christmas.

Catalogs can be good.  There are just so many of them.  And if you don’t order anything from one for say, 7 years, they send you a note with the next one saying “This could be your last catalog!”  It never is. 

But with so many catalogs, you can usually find that one unique gift for that person who is really hard to shop for.  Like last year, for example, I got my sister a fake rock that hides a spare house key.  The look on her face said it all.  She was speechless. 

This year, I got one of my other sisters something special from one of those catalogs, but I don’t want to say what it is in case she reads this.  But, I can tell you that it---well, let’s just say she won’t be needing to buy a winged cat gargoyle garden sculpture!  Plus, I signed her up for the catalog.  So, guess who’s getting extra family points this Christmas?

And for those of you who are wondering, the answer is yes.  I do keep the SkyMall catalogs when I fly.

40 Years, Give or Take: Senior Year, Part I

I now had a year at JCSHS on my resume.  I was a Jay. 

The summer between my junior and senior year was busy.  Jerry Hoover, band director, had pushed me to do more musically; to at least try; to learn more; to stretch my musical boundaries.   I’m still not sure what he saw or heard in me, but for some reason he made it his business to help me achieve more.  

So, that summer, he had me taking trumpet lessons from Mike Matheny (brother of renowned jazz guitarist, Pat Matheny, and an incredible musician in his own right).  At the same time, Mr. Hoover had me teaching trumpet to an incoming freshman.  I was learning.  I was stretching.

He had arranged a “scholarship” for me to attend Lakewood Music Camp that summer.  Wow.  Talk about guerrilla training!  We had approximately 6 hours of music rehearsal each day.  I was learning jazz styles, symphonic styles, and also picking up some very useful tips in some of the greatest stunts ever pulled in the name of mischief by young teenaged boys in a summer camp environment.  I learned from the best. 

Before long, it was time for early morning marching band rehearsals.   I had done most of the previous season as part of the marching band my junior year, and I was never more proud in my life.  Not only because of the legendary band, of which I was honored to be a part, but because I was a part of something much bigger.  I was a Jay, and as such I felt a part of every good thing that came out of the school system.

I can still feel the cold early fall wind on my face as I drove my ’66 Volkswagen Beetle to school to get there before 6:30 every morning, my head hanging out the window like a Retriever because the windshield was still frosted over.  (Anyone who has ever owned one of those old bugs can tell you that the heaters never worked in the first 30 minutes of driving.)

I can still see King Shollenberger, hands in his pockets to ward off the brisk morning air, walking along the top of the ridge above the parking lot that served as our practice field, smiling as usual, and encouraging us, sometimes with a wink to me personally that said, “Aren’t you glad you decided to march?” 

All the while, Mr. Hoover gave directions through his ever-present megaphone, and guided us through formations and step-two drills.  I swear, I will not be surprised if “knee-lift and swagger!” are my dying words.

During my “Integration Period” late in my junior year into my senior year, I was introduced to more musical styles than I knew existed.  It was during this time that I became aware of a burning desire to learn more musical styles.   If a song had a trumpet, I wanted to be able to play it.  If it had lots of guitar, I needed to learn the chords.  If it had trumpet and guitar, well…that was heaven.   Then came “Chicago”, and “Blood, Sweat, & Tears”, and “Chase”.   I was OD’ing on music! 

I mean, think about it…has there ever been a time when music was in such transition as 1971-1972?  There was Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young, and John Denver.  There was The Who with “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, but also in the same Top 100 was Perry Como’s “It’s Impossible”.   There was Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” in the same Top 40 as Tom Jones’ “She’s a Lady”.  The Billboard Top 100 was occupied by both Rare Earth’s “I Just Wanna Celebrate” and the Carpenters’ “Rainy Days and Mondays” simultaneously.

I was growing musically, maturing as a person, and discovering who I was amidst a climate of an unpopular war and a generation dedicating itself to changing things. 

School started and I could not wait.  I knew who Jefferson City Senior High School was now in the world of high school sports.  I had learned who Pete Atkins was and what he had built there.  It was my senior year and Stan Horn was to be our starting quarterback.  It was my senior year and I knew what a Concert Eb scale was.   I was no longer scared.   And I no longer felt alone. 

40 Years, Give or Take: Junior Year

Feeling alone in a sea of new faces, I tried my best to blend in during the first few weeks of my junior year at JCHS in 1970.   I was so confused by the order of things and all the extra processes involved, that when “M through Z” was called to come down for class pictures, I walked up to the photographer, gave him my name, and ended up in the 1971 Marcullus with the rest of the---sophomores?  Yes, I had my school picture taken with the sophomores instead of the juniors. 

Music was my common tie from Eugene to Jefferson City, so I decided to immerse myself in the band program.  But as I have said, I felt like I was starting out several yards behind the other band students.

 

The first day in the band room, during warmups, director Jerry Hoover called for a "concert Eb scale."  I had no idea where to even start playing that scale on my trumpet!  I had never even heard the term "concert Eb scale!"  Then, Mr. Hoover stopped the entire 180+ member band, looked at Jon Scott (class of '71) seated next to me, and said, "Show him the concert Eb scale."   So much for blending in.

I opted out of marching band, not because I didn’t want to be a part of it, but because I felt completely inadequate.  For one thing, there was the whole move-from-tiny-school-to-big-school thing.  But I also have this thing with my leg.  One leg is a bit smaller than the other due to a slight case of polio when I was a baby.  (Remember, we were born prior to the Salk vaccine!) I have this limp, and that made me somewhat self-conscious when trying to march in a band I considered as close to professional as a school band could be! 

But Mr. Hoover wasn’t having any of it.  Where I thought I was doing him a favor, he was determined not to let me miss out on an opportunity.  That would be a pattern with him for the next two years. 

So, I ended up in marching band.  And what memories I have from those experiences during my junior and senior years!    The band trips, the early morning marching practices, Mr. Shollenberger pacing the sidelines with that ever-present grin.  Some specific memories from Jazz Band and the Marching Jays will be covered in the next few installments of this blog.

My junior year was a blur.  There were so many firsts, it’s hard to pin them all down.  Not to mention that the passing of 39 years has crowded a lot of memories together.  And I’m old…er.

There was my first high school football game.  Now, how cool is it that the very first high school football game I ever saw was as a Jeff City Jay?!  Then there were the Majorettes!  (sigh)  The first band contest, practices, school musicals, the Jayettes, and of course walking 2 miles farther between classes than I ever had to at Eugene.  And then there were the Majorettes! 

I picked up guitar, thanks to the inspiration of Paul Duke (class of ’71), and became involved with a folk group from First Baptist Church with Paul and Jim Ailor (class of ’71), Greg Morrow, Greg Hernandez, Donna Haldiman, and several others.  It was a great time!  

I was actually beginning to improve my musical skills, so I felt less inadequate.  I was actually growing!  And there were opportunities there at JCHS that  I would never have had in a smaller school.

I slowly began to fold in to the rest of the school, and the more I became involved with music, the more I felt I belonged there at Jefferson City Senior High School.  I was becoming a Jay.   

40 Years, Give or Take

I have recently been informed that June of next year, 2012, will mark 40 years since I graduated high school.  That sentence is huge in terms of "bulging with back-story."  (For those uninitiated in literary terms, that's a literary term meaning "bulging with back-story.")

First, I received this news via a postcard from the reunion committee.  Secondly, I reconnected with these people via facebook.  Wow.  Hello, 19th Century meets 21st Century!  I mean we went from stamp to social networking in the blink of an age-dimmed eye!

Of course, all this contact with folks whom I hadn't talked to or seen since 1972 brought back a flood of memories--and a few traumatic life experiences--from those formative years.

There were 459 young idealistic souls who graduated that year.  True, there were many of those whom I never had contact with during school, and most of them probably didn't know me from Adam.  Nonetheless, we walked the track together, and we graduated together, on June 1, 1972.

With that in mind, these next few blogs (note the current, trendy, and somewhat hip terminology I now incorporate into my everyday spoken language) will be devoted to those life-shaping years, leading up to my graduation from Jefferson City Senior High School.

Please note that any and all names used from this point forward have NOT been changed to protect the innocent, nor anyone else who may have wandered into that era.

Let's begin where it all started. It was the summer of 1970.  I had just finished my sophomore year at Eugene Cole R-V High School in Eugene, Missouri.  Now, my family was moving into the Jefferson City school district. Three years earlier, my father had resigned his position as high school principal and Social Studies and Speech teacher there at Eugene and taken a position with the State Department of Education as Transcript Review Supervisor.

By 1970, he had moved his family closer to Jefferson City, and the Jefferson Building in which was his office. And of course, I would be attending Jefferson City Senior High School. Thus was I initiated into the "big city" school system of Jefferson City Public Schools.  I turned 16 just a couple of weeks before school started the first week of September, 1970.

I had one major school activity to which I could tie my Eugene and Jefferson City school experiences: band.  I was a trumpet player.  I went from a school band with 20 members to one with 180.  That was about three times the number of my entire sophomore class.

I went from a school in which the music teacher made me play 3rd trumpet because there weren't enough players to cover the parts, to a school that had way more than enough to cover all parts, with several students left over.

I went from a school band in which I was taught music by the teacher singing my trumpet part to me (and so I learned music more by ear than by theory), to a school in which my grades were dependent upon my reading music.

I went from a school that had such a small band that, when we marched in the Jefferson City Christmas Parade, I was asked to play cymbals because there weren't enough students in the percussion section to cover the cadence.  I declined because I was a trumpet player!  (That year, by the way, the Eugene Cole R-V Schools Marching Band was placed in the parade between the Jefferson City Senior High School Marching Band and the Lincoln University Marching Band.  As I recall, we played a lame arrangement of "Good King Wenceslas", and I lost my mouthpiece somewhere between humiliation and embarrassment, and wished I had agreed to play cymbals.)

I went from a school that, during registration, handed out a sheet of paper for the student to fill out to choose classes for the coming year, to a school that used data punch cards, and had a labyrinth of different lines to go through to register for classes.

The first day of classes came, and I didn't have a clue. I roamed the halls trying to find my locker, Rex Adams looking at me like the principal in Napoleon Dynamite looking at Pedro.

I had no idea what was in store for me.  But I knew I was scared.  And alone.

PK: Preacher's Kid vs. Deacon's Kid

Preacher’s kids, if of the male variety, have a reputation for being, at the very least, rowdy and rambunctious, and at worst, something akin to Children of the Corn (note: insipid movie reference).  If the PK happens to be a girl, “spunky” seems to be a catch-all.   That’s not fair, but it is what it is. 

My older sisters were—are—spunky.  My oldest sister is less spunky, but she is the Perfect Sibling; the Why Can't You Be More Like Your Sister sibling; the I Make Perfect Grades sister.  None of us like her very much.  The next oldest is spunky.  With a capital ‘spunk.’  But, she is married to a preacher and they have two PKs, so, you know. . .payback.

The Senior Pastor of my church has kids.  His youngest, a daughter we’ll call “Natalie,” because that is her name, is spunky.   From my observations, she occasionally crosses over from spunky to rowdy.  Maybe even, at times, rambunctious.  I have even wondered if she hasn’t walked out of the cornfield a time or two herself (repeat insipid movie reference).  But even then, it’s considered “cute.”  A guy could never pull that off.  I know, that sounds sexist, but whatever, it’s the truth. 

If you’re a guy, and a PK, you are trouble.  This is true, or there wouldn’t be so many Preacher’s Kid jokes out there, the vast majority of which are male-oriented.  There are websites devoted to the subject.  There are facebook pages for PKs.   Whether you’re rowdy, rambunctious, Damien incarnate (note: second insipid movie reference), or “spunky,” the fact is PKs have a rep.  And it’s usually not that positive.

But to get to the point of this writing—and the title, why are there no Deacon’s Kids jokes?  Why no facebook pages for Deacon’s Kids?  There are 592,000 entries in a Google search for “Preacher’s Kid”.  There are less than 3,000 for “Deacon’s Kid.”  Why is that?  I mean, besides the fact that they are less interesting.

Deacon’s Kids get away with everything.  And that includes the trouble they start and then inflict on PKs simply because they can.  Because they know that popular opinion is on their side.  I know this from personal experience, having been inflicted upon and popular opinioned against by Deacon’s Kids.

As you have no doubt already figured out, because you are a bright reader, I am going to share a few of those inflictions I have suffered at the hands of Deacon’s Kids to prove my thesis.

Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, a rural community church not far from Jefferson City, Missouri, is where I spent most of my growing years.  I say that because my father was the pastor of that church, and the church was right next door to the parsonage, where we lived.  Consequently, this is where I spent most of my time, and where most of the malfeasance by Deacon’s Kids took place, the consequences of which I bore more than they.  I’m serious.

Consider the Case of the Initials Carved in the Pew.  I always tried to sit in the pew with the initials carved in them.  This is because, during my father’s sermons, I would pretend that the pew I was seated in was reserved for members of the Royal Air Force.  See, the initials carved in the pew were “RAF”.  Not my initials.  However, they were the initials of the eldest son of one of the deacons.  I got in trouble for daydreaming and tracing the initials with my fingers during the sermon.  Did the Deacon’s Kid who carved his initials in the pew get in trouble?  Nooooooooo, never a mention.  But I got in trouble for merely looking at them!  (The perpetrator later married my oldest sister.  And my father performed the ceremony.  Is there no justice?)

Then there’s the Case of Rock, Paper, Scissors.   It’s a Sunday night.  (Yes, back then, we went to church on Sunday nights.  And Wednesday nights.  And, I believe, 8 more nights per week.)  A Deacon’s Kid seated next to me decides that my father’s sermon provides the perfect backdrop for a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.  About four “rock beats scissors” and “paper covers rock” later, I hear the voice of my father cutting through, from the pulpit. 

“Keith, I want you to move up here to the front row where I can keep an eye on you.” (For those uninitiated in the unspoken social etiquette of the Baptist church, the front pew is never occupied.  It is reserved, apparently, for the Trinity.  Or for rowdy PKs.)  My father looked ill, which is always how he looked when he was embarrassed by one of his children.  Then he said, “I’ll take care of you later.”  From the pulpit he said that! 

With that statement, my fate was sealed.  I was dead.  I hadn’t even had a girlfriend yet, and I was going to die.  You have to have known my father to know that the last thing he wanted was to have negative attention drawn to himself or any member of his family.  Particularly his offspring.  And so, having had to “call me down” from the pulpit was the last resort for him.  This equated to certain death for me.

Ever watch a football game and seen one player shove another player, and then the player who gets shoved first shoves the shover back (still with me?), and the guy who got shoved in the first place is the one who gets penalized simply because the ref didn't see the first guy, the shover, instigate the whole thing?  It's kind of the same thing.  The Deacon’s Kid who instigated the Rock, Paper, Scissors game, and who made the most overt gestures and who made the most noise slapping each rock, paper, or scissors in his palm, he gets off penalty-free.  And I’m going to die without a girlfriend.  Tell me that’s fair!

Finally—and I say “finally” only because I don’t want to over-tax your attention span by listing case after case after case to prove my point, but just know that I could—there is the Case of the Herald Trumpet That Didn’t.  And this, my friends, is the piece de resistance.  This story alone proves my case.

It’s Christmas, and as we did every year, Pleasant Hill Baptist Church is putting on a Christmas program.  Because I had begun playing trumpet in the school band, obviously I had to have a part in the Christmas program.  

I should stop here and explain the Musical Requirements for my family.  See, my family is very musical.  My father played clarinet in school band, and he sang—well at least could carry a tune; my mother played cornet in school band, played piano, and had a very nice voice.  All of us kids sang, played an instrument in school band, and in the case of my sisters, played piano.  Therefore, we all had to sing/play in church.  That was the Musical Requirement.  From the time I was old enough to stand on my own, I sang, and later played in church.  My older sisters developed a beautiful 3-part harmony thing and were quite the hit with their trios.  My father loved to have what was called “special music” whenever he preached.  If none was available—or if he was hit with an idea from the pulpit, he might call on the girls to “bring special music.”  And so it followed that, as soon as a new musical instrument was picked up by one of us, it must be incorporated into a church service. 

So, back to the Christmas program.

This program called for a Herald Trumpet to fanfare the announcement of the Heavenly Host to the shepherds in the field.  Right after, “…And ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger…” the Herald Trumpet was to blow a fanfare, leading into the next verse in Luke 2, “…And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host…”  I was the Herald Trumpet, and all I had to do was play a short fanfare.  (For the musical among you, it was nothing more than a “dut duh-duh-dahhhh”, a G to a C.) 

My cue came, as I heard the narrator say “…and lying in a manger.”  From the back of the sanctuary, I raised my trumpet to my lips, and blew. 

“Pfffffftttt” is what came out.  I looked at the mouthpiece of the trumpet as if to say, “How dare you!” 

I positioned my embouchure perfectly on the mouthpiece and blew correctly, more forcefully.

“PFFFFFFFFmmmmRRRRRRFFFFFFTTTT” was the sound that wafted across the sanctuary.

I was not a bad trumpet player, even at the young age of 12.  I knew enough about the instrument to know that whatever was wrong, the problem lie with the instrument itself and not my technique or even my nervousness.

I could feel rather than see the burning stare of my father from the darkness between me and the stage area.

“AND YE SHALL FIND THE BABE, WRAPPED IN SWADDLING CLOTHES, AND LYING IN A MANGER…”  The voice of the narrator boomed.  (Oh yeah, that was the problem, I just hadn’t heard the cue.)

“PFFFFTT-MMMMM-FFFFF-PRRRFFFFFFF” came bursting forth in all its muffled brassy glory from the bell of the trumpet. 

The program moved on without the benefit of the Herald Trumpet to herald the event.

It was then that I noticed two Deacon’s Kids laughing in the corner close to me.  Until that moment, it had not occurred to me to inspect the horn for possible sabotage. 

I had already removed one of the valves to make sure it was seated correctly, so it wasn’t that.  Then it hit me like a—well, like a trumpet heralding the event.

“Dut duh-duh dahhhhhh!”  The bell of the trumpet.  Look in the bell.  Sure enough, stuffed into the bell as far as it could go was a wad of toilet paper.  My discovery of the terrorism only made the two Deacon’s Kids laugh harder. 

I was finally able to convince my father that I didn’t do it to purposely blow up the Christmas program.  I think he knew me well enough to know that I would never have deliberately caused myself embarrassment musically, let alone him and the entire church.

But did the Deacon’s Kids get in trouble?  No.  Even though I was quick to throw them under the bus (hey, it was life and death, me or them, that whole “fight or flight” thing, and I wasn’t taking the fall for them.  After all, they had caused me humiliation at the one thing that I could consider myself fairly good at!), and I told my father exactly who did it.  Still, they got off as free as OJ Simpson.

And in any case, all they had to do, if questioned by their parents, was say, “No, it wasn’t me!  We told him not to do it, but he thought it would be funny!” and their parents would probably have believed them. 

After all, I was the Preacher’s Kid.

PK: What It Means to Be One

“He can’t have no fun!”  The bigger kid sneered as he looked around to the other boys for affirmation of his observation so eloquently stated. 

“He can never do nothin’ fun, ‘cause he’s a preacher’s kid!” He continued, eliciting nods of agreement from the group.

“I can too, I can do anything I want!” I shot back, lying like a rug. 

I had to respond, even if it was a lie.  It’s the Law of the Playground.  The Elementary School Boys Code.  And while it was a lie—I couldn’t do anything I wanted to do—I could have fun.  I had fun all the time.  Just not doing whatever bad thing the bigger, bad kid wanted me to do.  Truth was, I didn’t even want to.  But at that moment, in that pressure cooker environment facing the gang mentality of some of the boys from Eugene Cole R-V elementary school, I really hated being a preacher’s kid—a PK.

I have been a PK for all but the first three years of my life.  (More on those first three years in a moment.)  During that time, I have heard it all—good and bad.  I have heard every preacher’s kid joke and told a few of my own; I’m pretty sure that I’ve been spanked twice as hard and twice as often as other boys simply because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve been held up as the “Why Can’t You Be Like Him” ideal to other kids because I was a preacher’s kid.  To be fair, I’ve also been held up as the “Whatever You Do, Don’t Be Like Him” model because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve had many moments when I was so very proud to be a preacher’s kid.  But those playground experiences can be especially tough on a 10-year old boy, and during those exchanges, it was the last thing I wanted to be. 

“Then why doncha do it!?”  The bigger kid taunted, elbowing the boys next to him, relying on the ages-proven concept of peer pressure.

And that’s when I saw my chance.  I pulled the hammer back and fired my best come-back at him, confident of a kill shot.  “’Cause you’re not my boss!”

A brief, rapid-fire exchange followed, wrapping up the entire affair in a matter of seconds.

“’Cause you’re chicken, ‘cause you’re a preacher’s kid!”

“Nuh-uhh, ‘cause you can’t make me!”

“Can’t make a monkey twice!”

“That’s so funny I forgot to laugh!”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up I grow up and when I look at you I throw up!”

The recess bell rang.  Battle over.  Score one for the PK.

Being a preacher’s kid carried a sack full of responsibilities that I never asked for.  You have to be polite.  You have to be nice.  You can’t cuss.  You have to keep your clothes looking nice.  You have to set a good example for the other kids.  You have to go to church every time the doors open.  You can’t cheat.  You can’t---well now that I think about it, Mr. Eloquence from the playground was right.  You can’t have no fun. 

 

On the other hand, there is a priceless advantage to growing up in a spiritual environment and in church, being raised by loving Christian parents.  It is grounding.  It is a compass that stays with you through all the storms of your life and always points true, always to what is right. 

And there is an inherent and intangible coolness in the fact that your Pastor is also your father.  His stories seem funnier; the truths he speaks from the Bible seem truer; his altar calls—the invitation, even more earnest.  And no preacher I’ve ever heard could take an old "Knight’s Illustration" and make it more personal and relevant than my dad.   In short, he made being a PK more bearable—even for a boy constantly subjected to the Law of the Playground and the Elementary School Boys Code. 

Besides that, the alternative to not being a preacher’s kid in my family was unthinkable.  And that brings us back to that first three years of my life.  See, my father was an alcoholic.  I was too young to remember, but my older sisters remember all too well.  So does my mother. 

My father gave his heart and his life to Jesus and asked God to save him when I was three years old.  Within days, he had surrendered his life completely and answered God’s call to the ministry.  I have heard the stories from my sisters and my mother, about his life before that life-changing moment and since.  So let me think, I could’ve been “Red Wilson’s boy—you know Red, that ol’ drunk.”  Or I could be “R.V. Wilson’s boy—you know Brother Wilson, that preacher who tells such good stories over there at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church!”  Being a preacher’s kid doesn’t sound like a bad deal at all. 

I’d love to be able to tell that to the bigger kid from the playground today.  I think it might go something like this:

“Remember me?”

“Yeah, you’re that preacher’s kid who never could have no fun.”

“You were wrong.  Fact is I’ve never had so much fun, being Brother R.V. Wilson’s kid—growing up as a PK…And I wish I would’ve told you that back then.  But we were just kids.”

“You were.”

“You were another one.”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up, I---“

PK: What Not to Take to Church

The preacher stopped in mid-sermon as the sudden, mysterious rattling sound commanded the attention of both congregation and himself. It did not take the fifty or so congregants and the preacher very long to determine the source of the sound, even if they could not determine what it was that caused the odd sound.

A young boy, sitting toward the front to the left of the preacher, sat frozen, as though his self-induced catatonic state might throw the spectators off suspicion. His beet-red ears, clearly visible to all those behind him because of their prominence, pointed directly to him as surely as a neon sign flashing above his head reading “HE DID IT!”

It took several seconds for the rattling sound to subside. In the meantime, the preacher resumed his sermon, hoping to draw the attention of the revival attendees at the small Baptist church back to more important matters. He was marginally successful. From the rouge shade of his own ears, it was clear that his level of discomfort was almost as great as the boy's, and he would deal with the young miscreant after the benediction was rendered.

When you are 9 years old, it's a pitifully short flash that streaks across your mind's eye when you know you are going to die. I knew I was dead the moment the plastic box flipped open unexpectedly as I tried to pry it open. I knew it when I saw, in slow motion, the tiny lead spheres spray in every direction, each landing with a series of bounces as it struck either the hardwood seat of the pew or the hardwood floor. That wooden floor, slanted toward the front of the sanctuary peculiar to old rural churches in that day. The little lead balls were everywhere—and still bouncing. And I would be dead before the evening was over. Or wish I was. I could see that much in the face—and ears—of my father as he tried to continue his sermon.

The plastic box, closed securely, had held two 20-Gauge shotgun shells worth of Number 8 Bird Shot lead pellets. I had carefully cut the shells open, poured out the pellets into the plastic box (which I am sure I had secured from one of my sisters, and which had most likely previously held something stupid and useless like hairpins—we called them “bobby pins", or maybe curler picks). I know there were two shotgun shells worth of pellets, because that's how much gunpowder it took to form my initials, KW, on the concrete floor of our basement—the parsonage, which I then lit on fire to burn the letters onto the floor. (How brilliant was I? “No, Mother, I didn't do that...I don't know whose initials those are!”).

Why I kept the bird shot in a plastic box I do not know. Why I put that box in my pocket and took it with me to that revival meeting, I do not know. Why I decided, during my father's sermon, to take that box out of my pocket and try to open it...Well, that is a question for the ages.

The message that evening seemed to end sooner than normal. When we were in the car, my father said simply, “You're going to get a whippin' when we get home.” He may as well have beheaded me then and there. I would rather he had. The car ride was a sentence and execution in itself.

Now, my father very rarely administered the whippin's. That was left to my mother. After delivering the testimony, the evidence, and the verdict, my father would retire and my mother would begin searching the kitchen and/or yard for the implement of my sentence. Any one of the items used to spank me with over the course of my childhood would be enough to make a government employee of a Children's Services department faint and fall in it today.

Yet somehow I survived. And somehow, the revival attendees had the opportunity to “revive” their spiritual relationships, in spite of the distraction and interruption caused by the preacher's kid. And we all moved ahead.

And what did I get in trouble for? This nine-year old boy did not get in trouble for playing with shotgun shells; for cutting them open and lighting gunpowder on fire in the basement of the parsonage. No, this P.K., this "Preacher's Kid" got in trouble for “acting up” in church and causing a disturbance. And of course, for embarrassing his father in front of all those people. 

But somehow I survived. Somehow, without government involvement, without years of therapy, without blame and psychological explanation, I survived.  My parents managed to raise me. They managed to survive me, and I them.

After that fateful night at that little Baptist church in the country, I never took another plastic box of lead bird shot to church with me again. Ever. Lesson learned. Oh, it didn't stop me from cutting apart shotgun shells, and I still burned my initials on the floor in gunpowder. I just never saved those tiny pellets to take to church. 

I took them to school.

On Being Humorous

Disclaimer: I will be using Mark Twain as a reference here.  Please do not assume that I am comparing myself with Mark Twain.  Except maybe for my hair, which seems to be getting whiter.  And my rumpled clothing.  And my rural Missouri upbringing.  And perhaps even my own warped sense of humor and odd way of looking at life.  And my disdain for governmental bureaucracy.  But as a humorist, there is a thin minority of those who could compare.  I am in the majority.  I am not even a humorist.  I'm just strange. Having therefore disclaimed all things that might be incriminating, I push ahead using the format most preferred by those of us who could not otherwise be published: the vanity press of facebook and the Internet.

If one has a sense of humor, particularly if it is warped, and one has lived one's entire life in that enterprise, one risks being taken as a sort of court jester or class clown who, even though adulthood--advanced adulthood--has clearly landed upon one, finds it difficult to be taken seriously.  This is particularly true when one continually refers to oneself as "one."

Mark Twain, perhaps the greatest American humorist, because he was not only a great writer but also a gifted lecturer and entertainer, suffered this malady.  It is told that, during a lecture at a prestigious women's university, he intended to read a poem he had written, at the insistence of a friend.  He announced, "And now ladies, I am going to read you a poem of mine."  This was greeted by an outburst of laughter from the audience.  "But this truly is a serious poem," he insisted, only to be answered by even more laughter.  Put off by this response, he put the poem back in his pocket and said, "Well, young ladies, since you do not believe me to be serious, I shall not read the poem," at which the audience almost went into convulsions of laughter.

Mark Twain once said, "It is a very serious and a very difficult matter to doff the mask of humor with which the public is accustomed, in thought, to see me adorned.  It is the incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist, however serious his vein." [emphasis added]

I have been told, throughout my own life, that "it is impossible to take you serious."  I have been told, by more than one woman, "I just can't think of you that way--I would always be expecting a joke."  I have even been told, after writing a serious piece, that "it wasn't that funny...not your best effort."

So while I cannot possibly sit on the same bench as Mark Twain, I do understand his statement of the "incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist..."

I'm not sure how Mr. Clemens handled it, late at night when no one was watching or listening.  But I've decided that it's worth it.  Besides, at this point in my life, I have found it very convenient to say "I'm too old to change now."

My apologies to any who thought there was still hope for me.