| wwww.ericluck.net Eric Luck, the website world HQ for self promotion on the www |
|
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| ||||||||||||||||||
|
|
www.flickr.com
|
email me at
eric@ericluck.net
eric@ericluck.net
| October 9, 2008 The Barber Always the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas, even if I am not there, it is where I will always wish to be. Like everything else in life, memory is not perfect. It is not even neat and orderly. It is messy, like life itself. Over time, the things that we once did in everyday life diminish to specks and events of varying importance. But those elements can fade to become impossible to prioritize, even in retrospect. Seemingly significant meetings are sometimes reduced in our memories to chance encounters only to become barely noticed details. Some less meaningful events can emerge as clearly influential moments. Time will enhance some memories and dull the focus on others. My memory of my father’s father serves up an ideal that continues to be difficult to live up to. He was an example to aspire to be like. I always have that in mind. Always. What better legacy could a man leave on this earth? Riding with my grandfather in his car on a Sunday afternoon in 1960, I remembered that my grandmother said he had once declined the offer of a live chicken for his services. He accepted some eggs instead. She said my grandfather “cut many heads for free” when people were down on their luck. He would trade a haircut and a shave for some bacon or some fresh eggs or butter, some shelled pecans or even for just a promise. Her reveal of his generosity involved admiration but with a dash of frustration on top. I think Grandma liked to eat and worried more than Grandpa about how they would keep doing so. Of course, I just thought it would have been great to have a live chicken around the house. I was a city kid. The upholstery of a car made in the 1950s had an odor like old, hot, dry foam rubber and a dirty shirt. Maybe it was the heat of Texas summers that brought out such a smell. There was no air conditioning. Everybody looked for shade and a cool drink or they went for a drive to enjoy air that was in motion. The only way to enjoy air in motion during a Texas summer is to put it in motion once the sun is going down. Texas summer air is heavy, moist and as still as a corpse. My grandfather drove out to a farmhouse where a man was sick and unable to come to him. Not only did he wear his Sunday suit with a white shirt and tie, he always wore a hat. His hats were lightweight and stylish looking. Clearly, he was unaware of hats being in or out of style. He just liked his hats. The inside of his hats always smelled like the flower flavored hair tonic he splashed on me after cutting my hair. I liked Rosewater the best. It smelled like roses and cotton candy which, to this day, I consider an unbeatable combo in the smell department. He always waited until after Sunday “dinner” to visit his shut-ins. In places other than Texas, it is my experience that Sunday “dinner” is usually referred to as “lunch”, although it might be considered by some to be a late lunch. More times than could be counted, my grandfather would give a shave and a haircut to a man who was dying in his own bed in the farmhouse of a cotton farm. This was almost always a man that Grandpa had known for many years. Grandpa said that a shave would especially make a man feel clean and normal for a minute, even in the face of the worst sickness. I have not forgotten. I will not forget. Our arrival was always uncomfortable to me even if I had been there before. But it never seemed so for him and never for the family at the farmhouse. Peoples’ comfort with my grandfather was always evident. He was an easy man to be around. There were almost always young kids in dirty clothes, holding broken toys. Farm dogs and other farm animals almost always came to greet us…except the cows. Cows were always busy chewing. Some cows would look up, but always continued chewing. This is where I formed the unshakable opinion that cows are stupid. Talk was always of the weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. None of this was remotely interesting to a kid like me. All I wanted to do was go outside to play baseball and escape the stale smell of sick. Before going outside to play with kids or animals, I would always watch my grandfather’s preparation for the shave. Even when his preparations became familiar to me, it was a show worth watching. It included easy conversation and easier smiles. My grandfather did not even come close to noticing such trivial things as odors. It is now clear to me that this was simply lack of acknowledgement by him. My grandfather usually opened the window in the bedroom, whether it was the freezing cold of winter or the stifling heat of a Texas summer Sunday. It always surprised me when he would do this. It seemed bold to open someone’s window in their own house. The sick man never appeared to be surprised when my grandfather opened the window. I am now certain that the sick man was busy thinking about important things and opening a window was not an important thing. From a huge, very experienced leather bag, Grandpa pulled out both manual and electric clippers, scissors, towels, a shaving kit with cup and brush, a straight razor and a long, wide leather strap. There seemed to be other things he took out and never used. I have since concluded that taking things out of that worn leather bag was an essential part of the show. The oxygen mask and tubing to the huge tanks were temporary inconveniences. My grandfather moved masks, tubes or any other medical equipment with confidence, as if he was also a doctor and it was clear that it was best to set these things aside for a few minutes. And so it was. Left over in my memory is a pungent, cloudy, stinging smell of tobacco…both stale smoke and the smell of moist chewing tobacco in a spittoon in the corner. As awful as the smell of stale smoke can be, the sight and smell of a spit-stained copper spittoon was worse than the sick smell of any dying man’s farmhouse bedroom. A few times the sick man for that Sunday afternoon was barely awake and appeared unaware of what was happening. After one such shave and when we were back in his car, I asked my grandfather if he had ever shaved a dead man. Whether they ask or not, these are always the questions that occur to a young boy. In the manner that defines my memory of my grandfather, he thought for a minute until I finally looked away from him. There was no surprise on his face as he considered his answer. Once he sensed me looking away, he said, “Many times.” When I looked immediately back at his face there was no more information or reaction available on that spectacular comment. When I asked, “What was that like?”, the only response was talk of weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. As wholly unsatisfying as it was at the time, I can now appreciate that my grandfather was a particularly thoughtful, kind and good man. Having now read extensively about his experiences in Europe during WWI, I am confident that my grandfather saw things and knew things that should not ever be told to any young boy. They never were. The alternating slow and fast slap of the razor being honed on the long leather strap is an audio and visual memory that I consider to be wonderfully unique. Very few things smell as fresh and clean as shaving cream mixed by hand with a stiff horsehair brush. It smells like creamy, fresh soap, but man-soap. No flower perfume smells are involved. My grandfather was sure and unhesitant in his actions. He always appeared to me to be as comfortable as if he was in his barbershop. His clear intent and knowledge is a comforting memory. The shaving cream was whipped in a heavy, white glass cup with a stiff brush. It felt right for him to mix it himself rather than succumb to the convenience of an aerosol can of creamed soap. It was all part of the experience that he offered. All his movements felt so right and they still do. The sick man’s wife usually brought in a teakettle full of boiling-hot water. She poured the steaming water over a fresh, white towel that Grandpa had brought from the leather bag. The sick man always smiled when Grandpa put that steamy towel over his face so only his nose and mouth showed. I was always the only one in the room to flinch at the sight and conjured feeling of such heat on my own face. Even the barely awake sick men smiled. The clear pleasure of such an act always struck me as odd, until I was grown. I can now ponder the trust issues involved with allowing a man to scrape the skin of your face with an amazingly sharp razor. It was not a matter of submission for a sick man to allow my grandfather to do such a thing. There was trust. This truth is clear to me now and it was good. About that time, my thoughts usually returned to me being the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas. Hair was trimmed and oiled. The comb and rosewater tonic finished the job.. The temperature, smell and feeling of the room were changed. Things were a little bit better for a bit. The dark cloud that had been covering hope was blown away for a few moments. My grandfather did some important things in his life. I never saw any money, eggs, bacon, live chickens or anything else change hands in these times. But I always saw smiles and handshakes exchanged. It always smelled wonderful, like a barbershop when we left…like my grandfather’s barbershop |
S
www.flickr.com
|
Amazon.com Barnes and Noble.com
Booksamillion.com PublishAmerica.com
7/20 NOTE: Lately the best prices have been at PublishAmerica.com
Booksamillion.com PublishAmerica.com
7/20 NOTE: Lately the best prices have been at PublishAmerica.com
The barber in the tie is my
grandfather, pictured here
in his barbershop in
Grandview, Texas in
November, 1955. In one of
those chairs, my brother and
I each received our first
haircut.
grandfather, pictured here
in his barbershop in
Grandview, Texas in
November, 1955. In one of
those chairs, my brother and
I each received our first
haircut.
| Get my mystery/suspense novel, "Most Fortunate Son," by clicking on one of the following links: |
| October 28, 2008 South Pacific Apparently, my girlfriend has flitted off to Maui for a few days. This photo is probably about what she was seeing last night, the night before last and the three nights before that…and all the rest of the nights this week too. Me? Oh, I had to stay home to feed the dog. We should all hate her now. Okay, well, she was my girlfriend before becoming my first wife. Then I realized how much she “gets around.” Yes, we all remember her trip to Africa a couple of years ago. It has only gotten worse since she became my ex-wife. No matter what you read about the downtrend of diners at Chili’s restaurants, know that they will be financially propped up for just a bit longer until Bunny returns with my dinner. How is it that I still have to pay for all her trips? Okay, well, maybe she is not so much my ex-wife as she is more like my current wife. But I don't know her that well, since we have only been together a short time...a few years...not really that long...nearly...40. Come home soon, Bunny. Nah, it is not her real name. Thanks for asking. |
