Misty welcoming friends to our motorhome.

And now... the news...




NEW JACK AND MISTY LOGO UPDATE!
Thanks to Ann Collins for smoothing the edges! :)
--Jack and Misty.

(P.S.: Click on logo to see it at full size! -- Jerry.)




December 23rd, 2018...





November 26th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


AS CHRISTMAS APPROACHES.

Merry Christmas all you Christians, Jews, Muslims, atheists, rich, poor, 
and let's not leave out the fringe weirdos. 
Merry Christmas I say, to all humans, dogs, cats, 
and miscellaneous living items. 
Warning: I am armed and extremely jolly.

Christmas has been my favorite holiday my whole life, 
and I want to share it with you. 
You don't have to buy me anything but it wouldn't hurt my feelings..
Join me in toasting old Saint Nicholas if he will fit in our toaster.
(Haha. I do get jolly at Christmas.)

Cry with me at the ending of "It's a Wonderful Life".
Let's boo and hiss together at Old Mr. Potter.
We'll get sentimental listening to the Christmas carols at Walmart.
And let's all pray for snow even if we're in Florida.
What time is Charlie Brown on?

Enjoy new times with old friends.
If we don't have any friends, let's make some.
Find somebody who looks down in the dumps,
give them a big smile, and toss them a "Merry Christmas".
If they just look at you funny and walk away, so what?
There are other people waiting to be annoyed with our Christmas glee.

Think about your home town and try to recall the good times.
I think about Buffalo this time of year
because that's where I got all my Christmas spirit to begin with...
shopping downtown, and trimming the scotch pine
with people we loved more than we knew at the time.

I laugh and cry a lot as Christmas approaches.
I even cry at commercials.
I laugh easily at funny remarks, especially mine.
It's embarrassing but I don't care.

Ten minutes after a joke has slipped into the past,
I think about it and start laughing again.
Everybody tries not to notice, but the more I try to stifle it, the more I laugh,
and tears come out of my eyes.
Christmas makes me weak.

So, whatever your religion or non-religion is, Merry Dang Christmas!
You don't have to go to church if you don't want to.
I probably won't, but I might watch Midnight Mass on television,
and I'm not even Catholic.
It's all part of the pageantry that is my holiday,
and I plan to eat too much, mellow out, and enjoy the feeling.

Call me on your holiday and I'll join you, but listen...
What I'm saying to you right now is this:
"Merry Christmas to all good people."

Copyright © November 26, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



November 19th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


IN ONE YEAR AND OUT THE OTHER.

Another year is quickly losing steam,
because like toilet paper,
life goes faster near the end of the roll.
Even though we don't take autumn in Florida,
the northerner inside me
struggles through the annual November self inventory.

I've been busier this year, but less creative.
I've become our agent, manager, and promotion department,
which doesn't leave time for writing songs or playing music...
the things that I think are the essential me.

I didn't know I was going to write that,
but now that I've brought it to my attention,
I plan to drag out the old keyboard and guitar and get back to basics.
As soon as I finish this mastering project promised to a client.
I'm going to write a song even if it's bad.
I need the writing part. I need the music.

I've been worrying about losing those ten pounds all year.
Worrying has kept from gaining more than a couple of pounds.

We don't know of any good bands playing around here,
and we don't like those cheesy new movie theaters,
so we went to the grocery store and back,
and pigged out on Italian food and ice cream.
The life of the recording artist is pure excitement.

I've learned a few small things this year:
1. You can't own a computer. It owns you. 
2. There seem to be a lot more people younger than me now,
and less people older than me.
3. You can get immune to political news.

I'm relieved...that the worst of the hot weather is behind us,
and thankful...for no hurricanes at our house this year.
I'm blessed... to have Misty as a life partner,
and hopeful... that we make our music together for some more years.
I'm lucky...to have so many helpful friends,
many of whom I've never met face to face.

This may or may not be the best year of my life,
but I'm glad to be in it.

Copyright © November 19, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



November 12th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


HOME IS A PLACE IN MY MIND. 

I didn't grow up around Country music, 
but I chose it as a career because I like it, 
because it fits my voice and writing style,
and because I’m too nervous to steal. 

I grew up in a city and was exposed to very little Country music. 
When I first heard Hank Snow, Ernest Tubb, and Lefty Frizzell, 
I was fascinated. 
Maybe you were brought up on Country music, 
but to me it was a whole new thing! 
The imagery in the lyrics attracted me 
because I’d never been to those places. Distant places hold a magic.

Our family took Sunday drives through the countryside.
We loved it, and I even envied the folks who lived there,
even though I knew it wasn’t for me.
I can only take so much peace and quiet.
But I DO have a country home.
It’s in my songs.

A PLACE IN MY MIND.

Home – a place in my mind with summertime snow…
Home – a place in my mind where wintertime flowers grow…
I can go home in the springtime and see the leaves turn gold,
Or just drop in and say hello to my folks,
In a place where they’ll never grow old

Home – a feeling of love that the family gives…
Home – a place in my mind where Grandpa and Grandma still live…
Dad’s gonna shake my hand,
I’ll get a kiss from Mom, I know.
Home – a place in my mind where I sometimes go.

Home – a place in my mind where dandelions blow…
Home – a tree I can climb and look at the world below…
I can sit out on the front porch in that squeaky swing,
Or just drop in to my yesterday house,
Where little sisters often sing.

Home – a place in my mind with a kitchen that’s warm…
Home – by the fireside glow, I’m lookin’ out at the storm…
And when this lonesome traveler’s feeling kinda low,
Home – is a place in my mind where I sometimes go.

Copyright © November 12, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Lyrics to "A Place In My Mind" by Jack Blanchard. 
© Jack Blanchard Songs (BMI).
All rights reserved. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



November 6th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE DYSFUNCTIONAL BAND.

“Synergy” is when a group of musicians make better music together 
than they could do separately.
Killer Turtle was NOT one of those bands.
In fact they had Reverse Synergy.
They were all pretty good musicians but together they stank.

Chuck was a great lead guitarist, but he had one weird fault…
He always thought he was out of tune.
He spent half the time with his back to the audience 
and his ear to the strings, trying to tune up.
Nobody else thought his guitar needed tuning.
They just thought he was nuts.

Matt had fine technique as a drummer, except for one problem…
During every fill, between phrases, he would drag the tempo down a little.
You could hardly notice it at first,
but fast songs would end up slow, and ballads almost came to a stop.
He once tried to commit suicide by throwing himself behind a train.

Herbie was one of the best, as a bass player,
but after playing with the dragging drummer, 
he began rushing the beat to compensate.
The other guys tried to find a middle ground to play in
somewhere between the bass and drums.

Wayne was a genius steel guitar player with a drinking problem.
The more he drank, the more vibrato came into his playing,
until it was hard to tell what key he was in.
You had to take Dramamine to prevent motion sickness.

Jack, the piano man, was over-educated,
and knew too many nice chords for his own good.
He threw them into his music
in the hopes that the other guys would eventually learn them,
but they just thought he was playing wrong,
and dreamed of finding a new keyboard player.

Don was a talented lead singer, 
but he constantly fiddled with the sound system dials,
causing loud squealing feedback,
and making the audience cross their eyes and do a pain dance.

One night two simultaneous miracles happened.
1. A major label talent scout came into the club,
2. The band played one whole song perfectly.
It happened to be the last song of the evening,
and the agent signed them to a big bucks recording contract.

If there were any justice in life Killer Turtle would have been a big flop,
but in the modern recording studio the engineers could correct all of their faults.
Their electronically perfect recordings sounded wonderful and were hits.
On personal appearances they pretended to play and sing,
but actually worked with karaoke tracks.

The moral: You don’t have to be good 
if you can make people THINK you’re good.

Copyright © November 5, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



October 23rd, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


A WINTER MORNING.

By the time you read this it will not be current,
but I'm writing at the kitchen table on Christmas morning.
It's chilly and the steam is swirling up from my coffee cup.
Carolers are singing softly and there are church bells.

I haven't opened the curtains yet
but judging by the grayish light seeping through, it's a winter day.
I haven't heard any snow shovels, but it's still early.
I think I'll plug in the tree lights.

Even through the closed curtains
snow is visible in the corners of the windows.
Holly and candles add color to the room
and the silhouette of a Christmas wreath
can be seen at the front window.

As little as a couple of inches of overnight snowfall
can blow into deep white drifts,
so I feel around under the bed for my high top boots.
The ones with the knife pocket.

And I'd better get out my blue flannel shirt.
The checkered one.
That always feels good and warm on a winter's morning
when the snow is squeaky cold.
We'd better hurry.
We're due at Alan and Vivian's house for Christmas dinner.

Funny, I can't seem to find my high-tops,or the flannel shirt,
or even my sheepskin mittens and earmuffs.
Grandma probably put them away somewhere. I'll ask her.
No, that's right, I can't ask her.
She's been gone a long time.
Sometimes I forget that.

I wonder what ever happened to those old winter clothes of mine.
Seems like I had 'em just the other day.
Or was it many years ago?

Got to go now, we're late for dinner.
Don't forget to turn off the tree lights and the air conditioner.
And, oh yes, the stereo Christmas music.

As I step out the door, presents under each arm,
the white glare makes my eyes water.
It could be snow. It really could!
But I feel the coral rock under my feet
as I step down from our motor home
and I hear the waves slapping against the shore a few feet to my left.

I wonder if they're having snow up home.

Copyright © 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.


 
October 21st, 2018...

From the "In Case I Missed It" Department...

Occasionally, as happens to all websites, your friendly neighborhood
webmeister misses one (or two). This is one. This past weekend, Jack
and Misty appeared on ABC Australia's Saturday Night Country Radio.
But all is not lost... Click on the picture below and you'll be taken right
to it...



Enjoy! (And again, apologies for the delay!)



October 16th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.



SELECTED SHORT SUBJECTS.

It's a beautiful sunny afternoon here in Florida...
a day when a person just can't try to be angry without giggling,

My life is like a bunch of snapshots on a page. 
I remember only snippets of my existence... 
a still shot here, a bit of conversation there. 
Maybe someday I'll get senile and remember it all.

Christmas shopping with my parents 
on snowy evenings in magical downtown Buffalo. 
We didn't need Narnia.
Gentle flurries fell from the dark sky, steam rose from sidewalk grates,
and strangers laughed and spoke friendly greetings to each other.

Misty and I used to stay up all night on the Ralph Emery show on WSM, 
often with Tex Ritter and Marty Robbins.
WSM Nashville a was 50,000 watt clear channel station,
broadcasting to much of the Western Hemisphere.

When we came to buy a place here, the guy said 
"Do you have a criminal record?"
I said, "Is it required?"

Jackie Gleason and I debated spiritualism for 12 minutes on TV.
I let him win. There's a video of it around here someplace.

On TV they showed a soccer player make an impossible goal.
The announcer said, "It's like they're threading a needle with their feet."
Misty said, "I'd rather see that."

I said, "I gotta fix the bathroom light switch," 
Misty said, "More power to ya."

Misty sneezed. 
I said, "Is that our boat leaving?"

I said, "What are we having tonight?" Misty said, "Macaroni."
I said, "Mickey Rooney?" She said, "With cheese."

I said, "I think that thunderstorm is gonna miss us."
Misty said, "That's what it wants you to think."

We were out of raisin-bran so I had to put raisins from a box 
on a bowl of bran flakes.
It's like hiding your own Easter eggs.

ONE WINTER, 
when it was minus 35 degrees and windy in Minnesota, 
Misty and I stayed in a cement floor cabin on a lake shore. 
I heard what sounded like whale sounds. 
It was the frozen lake groaning as it expanded. 
We had recently had such bad times that we were thankful to be there 
with friends  close by at Christmas. We didn't mind the cold.

Misty came in from the porch sniffling. She said, "I'm all stuffed up!" 
I said, "By Elvis Presley."

Misty bought two pretty pink coffee cups at The Dollar store.
I said, "Do they have lead in them?"
She said, "Do you have to take all the joy out of poison?!"

THE LIMO. 
Misty and I once bought a raggedy old limousine for $90. 
We needed transportation and would rather look eccentric than poor. 
To add to the effect, we colored it powder blue with house paint and a brush. 
At a gas station two tough guys said they knew the car 
and we owed big money there. 
We'd never been there before in our life! 
I floored it and sped away at four miles an hour.

ON A DIET. Late last night we were sitting quietly at the kitchen table. 
I lifted my bowl of corn flakes, and said this to Misty: "Beer." 
She lifted her tangerine to me and said: "Ice cream."

I was talking with Grandpa Jones about a mutual friend, a country music star. 
Grandpa was worried that our friend was taking a lot of drugs. 
I said, "He takes drugs?" Grandpa said, "Why, he'd take a overcoat button!"

When I write a new song I sing it to Misty first. 
If she says, "That's really nice" I know it isn't. 
I have work on the song until she gives the right reaction. 
It's sort of an excitement in her eyes... sometimes even a tear. 
She's my final editor.

I said, "Did you wear mittens in the Winter?" Misty said, "Intermittently."

I think the best time in our life was the three years before our first hits. 
We played in the same lounge, had a steady income and hope for the future. 
All we had to do was entertain the crowd and keep them coming in. 
Problems were minor and there was time for fun.

Once I was just standing in a department store... bored... waiting for Misty. 
I was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and hat, a denim shirt, and a leather vest. 
A lady came up and felt the leather of my vest, thinking I was a mannequin. 
I coughed and she did a fright dance.

Misty often keeps glasses on top of her head. 
The birds think she's looking at them.

I was sitting by the window listening to the sound of emptiness. 
This is not like listening to no sound at all, 
because the sound of emptiness contains all the things you hoped would be in it, 
and all the sounds that once were.

Copyright © 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



October 10th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


A LITTLE MIRACLE IN ASHFORD, ALABAMA.

When you're hitch-hiking cross country 
you usually wind up taking circuitous routes, 
getting stranded in places you never knew existed, 
and meeting people who are surprised that you exist.
We were once detained as suspected chain gang escapees,
which is where this story will eventually arrive.

You may be trying to go north,
but find yourself heading east or west,
and happy to get a ride,
to get off the side of a long and often creepy road.

When hitching you see the roads differently.
You notice the gum wrappers, cracks, puddles,
weeds and insects on the shoulders.
You get to know them well, sometimes being there for many hours.

A bend in the highway that cars disappear around in seconds,
is a mystery to you.
Maybe there's a town up there,
or an old gas station where you might get water, or a lucky ride,
or more endless miles of nothing,

Hitch-hiking to a place a thousand miles from where you start
can easily cover almost double the AAA route,
moving laterally as often as forward.
And you can plan on a number of extra days
in the burning sun or cold rain.

This isn't all bad.
Looking back on it It's an adventure.
At the time it seemed like punishment.

Bob Egan and I were trying to get back to Buffalo from Florida,
and got dropped off at nightfall in a tiny southern town
by a bakery truck driver going in for the night.
The two-lane county road traffic amounted to a vehicle an hour,
it was dark and getting chilly,
we hadn't eaten, and were practically broke.

We were in Ashford, Alabama,
at the intersection of US84 (now called Old US 84),
and the road going northward was the narrow County Road 55.
There was a streetlight on the corner, so we stood under it,
trying to look wholesome and non-threatening.

Kids from the town came around to watch us stand there.
We were the biggest thing going on in town.
They were just a few feet from us,
but we couldn't understand a single word they said.
We were from another planet.

After an hour or maybe three,
a dump truck rumbled toward us from the wrong direction.
Shovels were hanging on its sides and clanging.
It stopped and large elderly man in a plaid shirt got out.
He was the sheriff or maybe the constable.

The big man was friendly, but said he had to take us in
because we fitted the description of two chain gang escapees...
two young Yankee fellas, one dark-haired and one blond.
We tried to tell him how innocent and nice we were,
but the report said that they were smooth talkers,
and not to believe anything they said.

We climbed up into the truck cab
and he drove us about two blocks to the police station,
where we sat and were given coffee and a sandwich,
while the sheriff made some phone calls.
The police station was on Main,
which in my memory was an unpaved dirt street.

After a while he said "We don't have a regular jail here,
but we've got a place for you to stay until court in the morning."
Then he drove us to a big wooden house of indeterminate color,
and introduced us to a matronly lady...
the proprietor of this rooming house.
She was as friendly as he was,
but we were surely headed for life on the chain gang,
and that took a little edge off the fun.

We did get some needed sleep and some breakfast in the morning.
The rugged old cop picked us up
and said we had been cleared of all suspicions.
He drove us to the county line.
Like an idiot I said "Good luck catching those guys."
He waved out the truck window and headed back to town.

It only took a few decades for me to figure out what really happened.
He knew we would be stuck all night on that corner.
He could see that we were tired and probably hungry,
and he made the phone call to the boarding house lady
to put us up for the night.

There were no escaped convicts.
Just two young strangers who needed some help.
I have a warm spot in my heart for Ashford, Alabama,
and those good people.

Copyright © October 10, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinrted by kind permission of the author.



October 1st, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


OCTOBER POETRY.

"THE VOICE"
We saw a candle in the window of the chapel in the graveyard,
And it flickered as it slowly moved away.
Was that the wind in the pipes of the old dusty organ,
Or just howling down the hill among the graves?

Then lightning struck the steeple and it rang the chapel bell
That's been rusted into silence many years.
Then the thunder rolled away and the organ starts to play,
And we heard a voice that filled our hearts with fear.

Then the voice called through the night so loud and clear,
"Is there anything at all you'd like to hear?
Though my bones are old and moldy I just love to pick them oldies.
Is there anything at all you'd like to hear?"

So we dug up some requests for him to try.
We shouted, "How 'bout 'Speckled Bird' or 'Jambalay'?"
He said "Maybe I'll ad lib a chorus on my ribs."
Then the voice sang all the songs that made us cry.

Well, the three of us, we sang the whole night long.
He kept pickin' funky organ until dawn...
Till the morning mist was rising on the lawn...
When the sun came up, we knew that he was gone.

Now the first red rays of sun begin to creep,
And the shadows of the graves are long and deep.
We smile and wonder when we'll hear that voice again...
Then we close the lid and sing ourselves to sleep.
Then we close the lid and sing ourselves to sleep.

*      *      *
HALLOWEEN SONG:
"If I knew you were comin' I'd have baked a cat."

Copyright © October 1, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Lyrics to "The Voice": Copyright © Jack Blanchard Songs (BMI). 
All rights reserved. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



September 27th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


WAITING FOR AUTUMN.

We just had the Autumnal Equinox,
so it must be Fall somewhere,
just not yet here in Florida.
I still celebrate my favorite season.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, 
a season of moods. 
The first chill after summer has worn out its welcome, 
that’s when I feel the holidays coming on. 

Not that we do any big celebrating these days, 
but it’s the remembering of celebrations past, 
and those who were with us during good times. 
The empty places at our table. 

I write more songs during the remnants of the year, 
when emotions are nearer to the surface, 
the past is just over our shoulder, 
and old voices whisper in our ear.

One winter, when it was minus 35 degrees and windy in Minnesota, 
Misty and I stayed in a cement floor cabin on a lake shore. 
I heard what sounded like whale sounds. 
It was the frozen lake groaning as it expanded. 
We had recently had such bad times that we were thankful to be there 
with friends close by at Christmas. 
We didn't mind the cold.

We have had a life, so far, full of ultra-highs and ultra-lows...
from homelessness on the street 
to the whirlwind of big time show business.
Now It's quiet.  
And we have enough money to last us the rest of our life,
unless we buy something.

Home is wherever Misty is.

Copyright © September 26, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



September 18th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


WILL CAMPBELL. 

Will Campbell was a singer, songwriter, musician, 
comedian, cartoonist, fireman, and a soldier.
We lost our friend on September 14th. 2018,
*      *      *
Here's an email Will sent me.
"Hey, Jack. "Actually, I didn't really want to go to Korea 
because I'm not as brave and manly as I look. 
But duty called, and I gladly went 
after my government threatened to jail me If I didn't. 
My motto was...'Join the army, meet interesting people, and kill them.' 
"There were three of us who went Into the army at the same time: 
me and the two MP's who were dragging me! I was so excited.

"One of the first things I did in Korea was go for my physical checkup. 
They wanted to find out If I was healthy enough to get shot and killed.
My days in Korea were all about the same...Shoot somebody you didn't know...
and they would shoot you In return, and say things like 'Go Home Yankee.'
I would usually respond with 'Oh, Yeah...Make Me.'
This would really make them mad.

"The commanding officer told me that I was being returned to the states
because none of the men liked my guitar playing or singing.
When I finally got home from Korea,
I was totally ignored and dehumanized,
and made to feel unnecessary, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
*      *      *
Will Campbell sat in Tootsie's Lounge in Nashville. 
Archie Campbell (No relation.) came in and sat next to him. 
Archie said, "How're ya doin'?" Will said, "Kinda tired of sitting on this stool." 
Archie said, "I have just the thing for you", and put a pill on the bar. 
Will said, "Pain Pill?" Archie said, "No. A stool softener." 
Archie took Will for a tour of the Ryman Auditorium. 
Will went to the front of the stage and sang to the empty house. 
He finally sang at the Opry.
*      *      *
Will told me, "When someone cuts me off in traffic,
I roll down my window and yell "YOUR SHOE'S UNTIED!"

Will said. "I leave you with this thought...
Betsy Ross said to George Washington,
'So you don't care for red, white, and chartreuse?'"
*      *      *
I wish I had called him more.

Copyright © September 18, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



Rest in peace, Will. And thanks for all the laughs. - Jerry.




September 12th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


"BACK IN MY DAY" By Uncle Goopy.

You kids are a bunch of sissies.
Back in my day we didn’t have hurricanes.
We just had storms called “What the hell was that?!”

Our houses didn’t blow apart.
They were held together by mold, mildew, and asbestos.
And we LOVED it!

We never wore helmets when we rode our bicycles,
and our bikes were seven feet high and made out of lead.
We fell directly on our heads and were damn proud of it!
You young folks have to wear a helmet when you eat peanuts.

We didn't have rocks.
We had to take the laundry down to the creek
and beat it against our heads.

We couldn't afford shoes.
In the winter we wrapped our feet in barbed wire for traction.

When I was a kid we ate nothing but gluten.
Fried gluten, baked or boiled gluten.
At breakfast we all said, "Gluten morgen!"
My dad thought we were German.”

We didn’t have sex back then. We had neckin’.
If we did have sex, they’d have told me.

My Aunt Maude could jump three feet straight up,
without bending her knees.
You don’t see talent like that these days.

I just yelled "You kids get off my lawn!"
Then I noticed they were seniors on their own lawn.
They gave me the finger and I thought they were saluting the flag,
so I stood up.

So, listen all you youngsters: 
eat a peanut, sniff some mold,
take off your knee pads,
and wear a lead watch.
You’ll LOVE it!

I hope I can get this childproof cap off my Viagra.

Love,
Uncle Goopy.

Copyright © Sept. 11, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



September 5th, 2018...

And now... Duck Tales... WOO-ooh! (Sorry. Couldn't resist. :) )

*A-hem...* Here's Jack...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE GRIM DUCK.

As a kid in Buffalo I loved Halloween.
Being incognito in costumes means you never have to say you're sorry.
Trick-or-treating was lucrative 
because there were at least two families in almost every house... 
upstairs and downstairs flats, and houses just a few feet apart. 

On Halloween night you could find yourself running with a group of  strangers, 
wondering where you lost your own gang. 

Our parents often got us store-bought costumes... 
skeletons, Popeye, Superman, Charlie Chan...like that. 
If it was cold out you had to wear a dumb coat over your costume, 
which took away the charm. 

The masks and false faces were made of stiff starched cloth, 
and after a half hour of breathing through it, 
the nose part would melt and get floppy.

I tried bobbing for apples once and my jaw locked open.
I looked like the painting "The Scream" by Edvard Munch.

Buffalo's a friendly city and the people were very nice to us little creeps,
but lately if I dress up for the occasion it's not in a regular costume...
It's just some flotsam and jetsam from the back of the closet.
I hate it when people ask me what I'm supposed to be.

Nowdays I may be too big to be doing trick-or-treat.
Too bad I don't drink anymore.
Alcohol really helped my Halloween enthusiasm.

My sister Valerie sent us this note:
"I am going to wear a costume
to hand out tricks or treats to the neighborhood kids as I usually do,
however, this year I'm going to have to make do
with half of one costume and half of another, since money is tight.
I have part of a "Grim Reaper" suit and half of a duck outfit
so I'm going as....... 'The Grim Duck'."

Copyright © September 5, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



August 28th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


OUT THERE IN THE DARK. 

He sang the closing bars of the song 
and the audience roared their appreciation. 
He could hear them rising from their seats for the standing ovation, 
but he couldn’t see beyond the stage lights. 
At first he had been elated at the enthusiasm coming from the darkness. 
but now he was beginning to wonder about it. 
Something strange was going on.

He’d opened the show with his latest country record,
and had done two songs since.
Each had evoked whistles, shouts, and standing applause.
At least it sounded like they were standing up.

He looked back at his band for support,
but there was just a sequin curtain behind him.
Where the hell were those idiots?
And where was this backup music coming from?
He hated canned music, 
especially since he was paying his musicians top money.

He had always paid his band and road crew well,
because that entitled him to the power he deserved.
After all, he was the star.

So he got high and made out with one of the wives. 
And who says he doesn’t have a right to yell at them, on stage or off.
A little humiliation kept them in line.
You had to be tough to handle a bunch of ignorant pickers on the road.

He said into the mike, “Well, folks,
they had a livestock inspection at the state line,
and I guess I lost my whole band.”
Laughter washed up from the dark like a tidal wave.

He didn’t think the joke was that funny.
Was somebody pulling a practical joke?
Maybe his own wife had put them up to it.
She was probably still mad over that little black eye.
My God! That was over a week ago!
He was paying all the bills, and it was his damn show!
They'd all better get used to it.

What was the next song?
They were causing him to lose his place in front of his fans.
That was unforgivable. He’d make them all pay later.
He strummed a chord on his guitar, trying to think.
The crowd went wild!
What the hell? One chord brings the house down?

He said, “What’s going on folks? Is this some kind of a trick?”
Quiet now from the dark.
Just a cough from somewhere way back.
“Look, I’m a star and you yokels better not screw with me!”
Quiet again, except for a child softly crying.

A tall man in a dusty tuxedo came out on stage,
and said, “Isn’t this a great show, folks?”
The applause was louder and wilder than ever.

The strange emcee started to walk off,
but Bobby Lee grabbed his arm and said
“What the hell is going on here, pal?

The emcee turned and looked at him with eyes that were just shadows.
He said, “It’s exactly what you’ve always wanted, Bobby Lee.”
Then the shadow-eyed master of ceremonies said: 
“Complete control... forever.”

The crowd roared again...
if that really was a crowd out there.

Copyright © 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.



August 21st, 2018...




From Wayne Hodge and our friends at IndieWorld.com. Thanks, Wayne!
 


August 20th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


LUCKY EDDY AND THE SWAMP CHICKENS. 

Lucky Eddy was an over-the-road car hauler. 
He had a full load of new Ford Fiascos on the trailer... 
and he was headed down the Turnpike toward Miami. 
Naturally, It was a dark and stormy night. 

By pure coincidence, 
Harlan Crapper happened to be driving a truckload of schizophrenic chickens 
northward to Yeehaw Junction, 
where he planned to sell them as Grade A to his cousin Ranier.
He was pleased with his own business acuity.

Harlan liked to brag that he was a direct descendant of Sir John Crapper,
who had changed the world with his plumbing marvel.
It was a lie, but Harlan had told it for so long,
he considered it to be as good as true.

Meanwhile,
Lucky Eddy thought he was either going blind, 
or his headlights were growing dim. 
In the middle of nowhere, his headlights went completely out. 
At the Exit sign he thought it said Holopaw and Yeehaw Junction,
but he didn’t see any town.

He coasted down the ramp, and onto a two lane side road,
where he eased onto the shoulder, and stopped to think.
They don’t give these trucks to chimps.

The idea hit him like a crazed mink.
He climbed up to the new Fords, went to the front car, 
and turned its headlights on.
Back in the cab, he found that he could see okay with the car headlights.
He was pretty proud of himself as he headed on down the road
looking for signs of life.

Unfortunately,
the only life forms headed his way
were Harlan P. Crapper and his crazy chickens.

Harlan was listening to his favorite radio talk show
about Bigfoot, crop circles, and UFO’s.
He was rattling toward Lucky Eddy at his usual 70 mph,
deep in thoughts of alien abductions,
when he thought he saw a plane coming in.
The only trouble was, there was no airport.

As the flying object drew closer
he saw that it had two bright lights aimed right at him,
it looked to be about twenty feet off the ground,
and it was coming for him fast.

“Whoa!” he hollered, and thought “This is it!”
He prayed that the aliens wouldn’t probe any sensitive areas.

When the thing was right on top of him,
Harlan yanked the wheel all the way to right,
and sailed off into the nice safe swamp.

Lucky Eddy couldn’t believe his eyes!
He stopped and walked back to where the chicken truck had flown off.
He shone his big flashlight into the swamp water,
and saw Harlan treading water,
and a bunch of funny acting chickens trying to fly.

There is no moral to this story.
Nobody learned anything from it.

Copyright © August 20, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
reprinted by kind permission of the author.

August 14th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


LITTLE THINGS.

A couple of days ago
I was in a dark mood, sitting on a bench at Publix, 
waiting for Misty and watching people check out.  
A little girl 5 or 6 years old said, "I'm going to sit by you." 
She sat and talked with me for about 5 minutes. 

She held a small black purse with two straps,
and she didn't deal in affectations or childish cuteness,
but looked directly into my eyes and conversed person-to-person.

She said, "Is your mommy here?" 
I said "Yes." 
She said, 'What's her name?" 
I said "Misty." 
She pointed to her mother and told me her name.

She turned and took a closer look and asked "Do you have make-up on?"
I said no and she said, "A beard."
I said "Yep" and she said, "Why?"
I said, "Style, I guess."
She accepted that, and pointed at my longish hair.
I said, "I've got to cut that hair.", 
and she said "No! Long hair is nice.",
running her fingers through her blond hair to illustrate.

A lady shopper stopped and told her, "You're so pretty!"
The little girl just smiled her thanks.

Misty appeared with her shopping cart.
She smiled and said, "I see you have a friend."
The little girl said, "Go!" to me,
as if people should go when their parents are waiting.
I said I'd probably stay seated there. 
(I was having a bad hip day. An old Disco injury.)
She asked, "Why?"
I told her I liked to watch the people, and she thought that over.

Then her mother came by and they walked away. 
She turned and waved and called ""Bye". 
She made me happy! 
I won't forget her.

Copyright © August 13, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

August 8th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


HOMELESS IN MIAMI.

We were living in a cabin in an old motor court on 79th street, 
paying rent by the week. 
We were buying a junky used car, also paying by the week. 
Our rent and our car payment were exactly the same amount.

Just starting out, we had no equipment or instruments. 
At a lounge in Hallandale, I talked the owner into trying us out as a duo. 
We were both piano players so we had a problem.

We went to see Gus Rubin, 
a friendly man who ran a little music store called Ace Music. 
He rented us two mikes and a guitar amp to sing through, and an accordion. 
Neither of us played accordion, but in a pinch we figured we could fake it.
We were the worst duo we had ever heard.

We knew we stank, but we hoped the owner didn't know it.
At the end of the first night he looked at us with pity, 
and told us that our music was “not good”. 
The understatement of the year.

Gus had rented us the equipment on the honor system. 
We were to pay him when we got paid, 
so we took the stuff back, paid him for one night, 
and had exactly enough money left to pay either the rent or the car payment.

The landlord had shut off our water and electricity 
for being an hour late with the rent, 
so we packed all our belongings in the car, 
and drove through the Friday traffic to make the car payment. 

We parked in front of the Intercity Finance office and went in. 
The woman behind the counter took our money and gave us a receipt. 
Just as we were about to leave she asked:
"Why do you have the car packed with clothing and bags?"
I was still young and honest, so I said, 
"It was a choice between our rent and the car payment. 
We decided to pay you".

She asked us to please wait for a moment, 
and went into the back somewhere. 
She came back and said their legal department ruled that without an address, 
we couldn't keep the car. 
We told her we had just given her all our money, 
but she didn't care and wouldn't return it.

This was the help she gave us: 
She would allow us to keep our things locked in the car, at her office, 
until Monday, when they would reopen. 
If we had an address by then we could have the car. 
We were broke, homeless, and with no transportation, 
facing the long weekend ahead.

A few years later we read in the paper 
that she and her whole outfit went to prison for doing bad things to people.
That good news was too late to help us.

We didn't know which way to turn as we went out into the late afternoon heat. 
For some reason we hitchhiked to Hollywood. 
Maybe because we had worked around there,
and might run into somebody we knew. 

The sun went down fast, the way it does in south Florida, 
and we got hungry.
I knew the family that owned Jimmy's Italian Restaurant. 
The son was sort of a friend of mine. 
He gave us dinner and we promised to pay later.

Midnight came and went 
and we were still walking. 
No luck anywhere. 

We were sitting on a bench in the big circle in the center of town. 
Directly in front of us was the old Hollywood Hotel, 
a castle left over from the Al Capone days. 
I remembered that I'd met somebody who told me he was the night clerk there.

We went in and I asked the guy if he had a place we could sleep for free. 
He said "Well it's now 3 AM, the day clerk doesn't come on till seven, 
so I can let you sleep in a room for four hours." 
We took the deal.

Somehow we got through it, 
but things didn't get much better for a long time. 
Just different.

Copyright © August 7, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

August 1st, 2018...

I'll be glad when this heatwave is over, and we can get back to what really
matters: Foosball season! (Or, is that "football season"? The heat's been baking
your poor webmeister's brain something fierce. ..)

In the meantime, we have a special announcement from our peerless leader, and 
here it is:

7/30/18

This is an INTERVIEW I did last night. 
I was on the last half of the show.
Off the Record with DJ Darren is a weekly hour long comedy music radio show 
safe for work and kids hosted by 12 year old DJ Darren. This show can be heard "live" 
every Sunday night from 7-8pm eastern time on 103.3 FM WXOJ in Northampton, MA. 
Click this link to listen:
THIS LINK

Jack

And speaking of Jack, and all things musical...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


FINDING THE HOOK.

(For readers unfamiliar with music business phrases:
A "hook" is a part of a recording that grabs public attention.
All hits have a hook.)
*      *      *
It was ten minutes to one AM in Nashville, by the studio clock.
The pickers were tired and ready to pack up and head out.
They were also bored cross-eyed
by the three songs they had just recorded for the new singer.

The material would have been more interesting if it had been terrible,
but it was just amazingly mediocre...
in fact it should be in the Guinness Book of Records under “Mediocre”.
Now the singer was insisting on getting in one more song,
and there was no escape.
The union says they are hired for the full three hours.

They did one quick run-through on the fourth song,
and the vocalist began to sing.
The harmonica player found it hard to play while yawning.

As they were heading into the second bridge the singer got unexpected gas,
and the rather obscene sound was picked up by the microphone,
in living stereo, with reverb,
and it bled through all 24 tracks.

It did wake the musicians up.
They all looked suspiciously at each other, 
because there was no dog to blame.

The engineers tried unsuccessfully to get the noise out during the mixdown.
In their frustration and excitement, mistakes were made,
and the first three songs were accidentally erased.

The singer was ready to cry,
because he was quickly running out of money,
and his potential career depended on one single track with a fart in it.

The only course he could take was having a few hundred copies pressed
and sending them to radio stations,
hoping they would not notice that part of the record.
A couple of overworked deejays were busy and did let it slip by.
Calls started to come in.

Listeners were asking to hear it again because they couldn’t believe their ears.
Some of the more vulgar ones thought it was funny,
and others could relate to the recording artist’s embarrassment
and gave him a sympathy vote.

This, of course, is how popular records come to be.
Critics argued about it, some saying that it was artistic integrity,
and others condemning it as a bad influence on their children,
who apparently had never heard such a sound.

In some places the song was banned, which is a sure way to get a hit.
Although the real title was “You’re So Sophisticated”,
the public called it “The Fart Song”,
and that’s how it will go down in music history.

The singer had a few more chart entries until he ran out of funny sounds,
and tried to switch to straight ballads.
Nobody took him seriously.

He’s been depressed ever since,
but thanks to that unfortunate little outburst, 
he can sulk while sitting on his yacht.
He'd found the hook.

Copyright © 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

July 26th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE KIDNEY STONE CAPER. 

We were standing in line for the CMA Awards Show in about 1973 or '74,
and talking to friends waiting with us. 

Faron Young was right in front of us,
and he gave Misty a big kiss and hug. I didn't get one.

He had recently been in a car crash, 
and I asked him how he was doing.
He said that he'd split his tongue.
I said, "Can you do any birdcalls?" We all laughed.
That's what we all do when we're not winning that year.
We stand in line and make each other laugh.

George Morgan was just behind us and we got talking to him.
Somehow my kidney stone problem was brought up.
I had been to a doctor because of an abdominal pain,
and he told me what it was, and that I would have a lot of them.
I never did...just that one, but it was a lot of fun.

George told me not to have surgery...
just to buy a case of beer and drink one after the other.
It made a weird kind of sense 
because beer is a diuretic and a sedative.
I should have gone home and followed his instructions.

"Home" was our motorhome, parked in The Music City Campground,
in LaVergne, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville.
After the awards we went home to bed and forgot to buy the beer.

I woke up in agony around 2 AM.
If you're a guy who's never had the thrill of a kidney stone,
it's a lot like giving birth to a porcupine.
I asked Misty to kill me or get me to a hospital. 
She chose the latter,
and took off for the Murfreesboro Hospital at about 60 miles an hour,
with cans and dishes flying out of the cupboards, 
and the TV antenna still up.
I was moaning on the floor in a fetal position, 
hoping to be struck by lightning.

We got to the Murfreesboro city limits when we realized something...
We had no idea where the hospital was.
Just then a cop pulled us over. 
He said, "Follow me", and shot away like a bullet.
Misty tried to keep up, but we lost him.

Somehow, we eventually found the hospital
and the nurses put me on a cot in the emergency room,
and went to the Bahamas. 
A month passed. 
Well, maybe an hour, and no doctor came to see me.
I would have welcomed Kavorkian.

Misty stormed down the hall, 
saw a guy with a stethoscope around his neck, 
and asked him if there was a doctor employed there.
He was miffed that she didn't recognize him as a doctor,
with his new stethoscope and all.
He said, "I'm not going to give drugs to every hippie off the street."
They weren't used to my haircut in those days.

She assaulted him verbally for a few minutes,
and then dragged him out to look at our motorhome,
which had our names and "Columbia/Epic Records" written on it.
He made a couple of phone calls and verified our identity,
and suddenly became a bowing headwaiter.
He quickly gave me a shot and some pain pills,
and put me up for the rest of the night in the children's section.

I woke up at 7 AM to a room with Donald Duck wallpaper,
and cartoons blaring on the TV.
It wasn't the kids running the television,
but another full-grown idiot in the next bed.
I got up, walked out to the parking lot in my gown,
and woke Misty up to go find my clothes.
She'd had a bit of wine after the ordeal and neither of us felt great.
We left the Murfreesboro Hospital in our dust,
and vowed to never pay them.

The pain pills ran out the next evening,
and we got the case of beer George Morgan had prescribed.
I took it like a good boy.
I'd finished twelve or so bottles, and was still feeling some pain,
but I didn't much care.
I went into the bathroom, and in the silence Misty heard "PING!"
And she heard me say "AHA!"
She said "Let the man who is without sin pass the first stone."

Copyright © July 26, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

July 18th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


POTSO.

Potso lived in the gray shingle house two doors up the street from me. 
His real name was Robert Stanley. 
I don't know how he got the nickname "Potso". 
He was Potso when I got there. 
He was a couple of years younger than the rest of us kids, 
and not very good at sports, 
but he tried.

His cheeks were red, and his nose ran a lot,
especially in the winter.
It's hard to be cool when your nose is running.

I don't know who tagged him with "Potso",
but I don't think any of us meant it in a mean way.
Mr. Pennell, a neighborhood dad, made a rock garden in his backyard,
and decorated it with cement imitation stones.
Each stone was engraved with the name of one of us kids.
"Potso" was there in a place of honor.

I can tell you this: If anybody picked on our "Potso",
they'd have to deal with us.

As a couple of years went by,
Potso began suggesting that we call him Robert.
I think it was his mother's idea.
She was a pretty and intelligent lady, 
but I didn't realize that until later.
We tried to remember to call him Robert,
but habits are hard to break.

Robert's father was everybody's handyman,
doing simple chores up and down the street.
My parents said he was "shell-shocked".
He was a sweet, childlike man, who smiled, but never talked much.
He walked with a slightly unsure gait.
The Stanley's were the object of quiet sympathy.
Sympathy can hurt.

One day we were all shocked to hear that Mr. Stanley had died.
Kids aren't used to death.
I don't remember when Robert and his mother moved away.

A few years later,
I got a Christmas season job jumping on and off a delivery truck
while the driver sat in the warm cab,
smoking cigars and drinking something 
from a bottle he carried in a paper bag.

One cold afternoon, we were delivering in a section of town
that was a step or two classier than where I lived.

I went up the porch steps of the two-story brick house,
and rang the upstairs doorbell.
Robert Stanley answered the door.
He looked different.

I think he was on his way out
because he was wearing expensive looking clothes,
with a camel hair fingertip length topcoat.
He still had the rosy cheeks, but his nose wasn't running.

I was happy to see him, and started a conversation.
His mother came down the stairs behind him
and told him he'd better hurry.
She was polite, but I could feel she wasn't really glad to see me.

I felt a little slighted, but after I thought it over I realized this:
They had their new life where nobody felt sorry for them.

She didn't want him to be Potso anymore.

Copyright © July 17, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

July 4th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE CHICKEN COOP.

Here's the way I remember this adventure.

We didn't think they had rednecks in New Jersey.
We were wrong.
We had just finished a concert at the classy Garden State Art Center,
and were looking on the map for our next booking...
a place called The Chicken Coop, in Vineland, New Jersey.

We pulled into the gravel parking lot
and up to a wooden barn-like building.
The lot was almost full of trucks.
The crowd was there... waiting for us.

We went in and I heard somebody say,
"Get a load of this bunch" about us.
We had longish hair and this was 1970.

The stage had a chicken wire screen
so the patrons could not throw anything solid at us.
I sneaked a glance at the crowd
and told our guitar player, Wayne Bridge,
to get out his steel instead of the lead guitar.

People were all either scowling, laughing, or sneering at us,
or so it seemed in my imagination.
We got plugged in
and opened with a fast country shuffle beat.
The folks were surprised but sort of quiet.
We didn't now what to expect.

At the end, the applause was deafening!
One gigantic man in bib overalls yelled "SOOEY"
so loudly that I thought the sound system had shut off.
Nothing hit the screen in front of us.

This bunch was great!
We shook a lot of hands
and they bought up our albums.

The club owner couldn't have been nicer.
He gave us a couple of cases of beer for the road
as a going away present.

We were hoping to go back some time,
but we never got up that way again.
They learned that you can't tell a book by its cover,
and we learned the same about them.

Copyright © July 3, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

June 20th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


A CAT NAMED PIPPIN. 

Misty and I have had 6 dogs and 1 cat in our life together. 
We loved them all.  

Pippin was an Orange Tabby.
He was abandoned by his original owner 
and became the hobo cat of the neighborhood. 
He learned how to beg, 
and which homes offered handouts. 

He was outdoors in all weather, 
and he and I became friends when we met on the streets. 
Then, when Misty and I would go for walks, 
Pippin would trot along with us. 
We took him into our home and he became part of our family. 
We loved him. 

Pippin could be a block away 
and when I called his name he'd run all the way home. 
One morning he died on our doorstep, 
poisoned by an antifreeze leak from a car. 
Life is too damn fragile!
*      *      *

KIRBY STONE.
In the 1980s, when our big country bookings got scarce, 
Misty and I filled the gap by playing jazz clubs and hotels 
around New York State. 

At that time there was a popular vocal/comedy group 
called The Kirby Stone Four. 
They were all over network TV 
and got a Grammy for "Baubles, Bangles and Beads". 

Kirby heard about us 
and was going to book us in a famous NYC hotel lounge 
for lots of money. 
We didn't hear from him for a week so I called his number. 
I was told by his wife that he had just died. 
We felt sorry for her, and a little bit for us.
*      *      *      

TONAWANDA, NY.
One early morning when I was nineteen
a deputy sheriff knocked on my door. 
He wanted me to go with him to "just have a talk with the sheriff". 
My hangover saved the day. 
I must have looked bad because he asked me if I was sick. 
A very creative lie just popped right out of me: "I've got the measles." 
He took a step back. 
Then he said, "Well, come down to the Office when you can." 
I hitch-hiked to Florida.
*      *      *

When I was a young brat 
a lot of the kids in our neighborhood were getting their adenoids taken out. 
It was a war to eliminate adenoids from the Earth. 
I don't think anybody knew what they were, 
but they wanted them gone.
*      *      *     

Before I got into music full time 
I worked in a lot of factories, tried selling encyclopedias, 
dug graves, greased cement mixers, drove a school bus, 
and did a bunch of other jobs. 
I had a perfect employment record: 
I never worked anyplace I could go back to.
*      *      *

MY INVENTION:
A hands-free umbrella for bald guys,
with a plunger on the bottom to hold it on the head.

Copyright © June 20, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

June 12th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


PICTURE AT A RAILROAD STATION. 
(For my dad on Fathers Day.)

The cavernous old railroad station was dimly lit, 
or seems that way in my memory. 
My parents, my sisters, and I headed toward the big doors 
that led to the platform where the trains chugged and waited. 
It was the end of an era. 
One of us wasn't coming back... ever.

We had never been your average family.
My mother had been an artist and a model.
My father was a flamboyant jack-of-all-trades:
A stock broker at times, head of an oil company,
owner of a gambling ship that never sailed, a mortgage broker,
an aviator, and author of a course on aeronautics.

He was a party thrower and the life of every one,
and made every holiday a festival.
He was rich one year and broke the next.
As a young man he was a boxer and a daredevil.

During World War Two he was drafted 
to be General Manager of the Bell Aircraft plant,
at the same time there were rumors
of his involvement with the black market.

I came home from school one afternoon
and couldn't get the front door open.
It was stuck against silver fox furs.
The whole house was knee deep in them.
I don't know where he got them, but I wasn't too surprised.
We all knew him and were ready for anything.
There was a distinguished couple in the living room,
browsing through the pelts, 
a New York State Supreme Court justice and his wife.

He was brilliant in an off-beat way, 
and an adventure as a father.
Then he got sick.
His disease had symptoms similar to Alzheimer's,
and the smart, witty man of the world became like a child.
He couldn't work. He tried.

My mother submitted a resume for him,
and got him a job on his track record as a mechanical engineer.
She dressed him in a suit and tie and took him to the job.
He called a few hours later to be picked up.
He had ordered his crew to put way too much pressure
on a ship's drive shaft they were working on,
and blew it through the factory roof.

The family was broke and had to split up.
My father was to live with his sister in Ohio,
"just until things get better".
The rest of us were to sell all the furniture and belongings,
and move in with my mother's parents in Florida.

Certain memories stick in my mind like clear snapshots
and never go away.
One of those is the night at the railroad station
when we kissed my father goodbye,
and lied to each other that it was just temporary.

I remember pushing through giant swinging doors
that led to the train platform.
The steam from the idling engine puffed out across my knees.
The ceiling was dark and high with sooty light bulbs in it.
And that's all I remember!
The rest is gone.

I do recall seeing him one more time several years later.
I was hitchhiking from Florida or somewhere
and I stopped in Miamisburg to see how he was.
He opened the door, and after a minute he recognized me.
I didn't think he would.

He grabbed me in his strong arms and hugged tight.
One moment in time again... like a photo...
and everything after is blank.

I don't have any memory of hearing of his death, or a funeral.
I have a thing about funerals:
People tell me I was there, but I have no memories of them.

All in all, he was the tailor made father for me.
We had so many good times,
it's funny that this railroad station picture surfaces so often.

After he died 
I kept seeing men who looked like him for several years. 
A car would be ahead of me in traffic 
and I'd see the back of the driver's head. It was him! 
I'd hurry to catch up and it was just a stranger. 
Or was it, I wondered? 
Maybe it was my dad for the minute before I caught up.

Copyright © June 12, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

May 26th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


WHY WE LOVE FLORIDA.

It's only May 
and already tropical storm Alberto is looking at us funny!
Here's what I wrote  on this subject last year.
*     *     *

We're busy packing for hurricane Irma. 
We're throwing each other into plastic bags.

If we pack all our irreplaceables 
Misty will have to leave me behind. 

The stations were out of gas, Publix was out of water, 
but they had Peanut Butter Cups so I had 4 to cheer me up. 
We're going to a local motel Sunday. 
If the storm comes sooner we can't get there. 
All hotel rooms are booked solid.

We're going to be sitting in the hotel lobby 
from midnight Saturday till 3PM Sunday. 
I hope they don't mind our drinking beer, 
smoking cigars, and having sex.

Late night watching the Ch. 2 weather guy, 
I said, "I think he's growing a mustache". 
Misty said, "It's the shadow of his nose."
I said, "That's an old song."

When we were checking into the motel, 
people were sitting around the dining area eating breakfast. 
They were the exact same people from the hurricane last year, 
sitting in the same seats... like some kind of weird painting. 
There may have been dogs playing poker.

I was carrying loads of stuff in the rain. A guy said, "You're all wet."
I said, "I must have sneezed while peeing."

My hands are so swollen I can't get my ring off. 
I'll have to use the can opener.

We heard there was a missing cat in the hotel. 
Later, at the height of the storm, 
Misty said, "I just saw something fly by the window!" 
I said, "Was it a cat?"

We were so tired from all the preparations and loading & unloading 
that we slept through the actual hurricane.

One more hurricane and they're gonna hear from me!

Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

May 17th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


A FEW MUSIC MEMORIES. 

A long time ago, 
Misty and I went to a Christmas party at Charlie Pride's house. 
Waylon Jennings was there in a leisure suit.
This was before we all got to be outlaws.

We were doing a Southern tour with Leroy van Dyke, 
and one place didn't have enough electricity to run our show. 
Leroy offered to let us plug in to his bus generator. 
Merle Haggard used our PA system once when his wasn't working. 
Friends share on the road. 

Walt Disney World put on a Country Cavalcade. 
The three acts were in three sections of the park 
and we alternated show times 
so the crowd would move from one stage to the next.

Roy Clark was at the front by the castle. 
Hank Williams, Jr. was at the opposite end of the Park, 
and Misty and I and our band set up in the center,
near the big merry-go-round. 
Our section was called Vanity Fair. 
It was a great day to be in show business.

We got some celebrities in our club in Orlando. 
Roni Stoneman would come in and play her banjo with us. 
One night she finished an amazing solo 
and the audience stood and cheered. 
She said, "I bet you thought I was just a pretty face." 

Fabian was in the audience a lot, always with a good looking date. 
He didn't sing, but we'd sit and talk with him. 

The first time Ferlin Husky came in he sat at a corner table. 
We loved Ferlin. He was such a classy guy. 
Unfortunately, when we introduced him to the crowd 
he stood up and almost knocked himself out on a TV platform.
We felt bad about it.

In the 1970s we did "The Three Couples Tour": 
with Jack Greene & Jeannie Seely, George Jones & Tammy Wynette, 
and Misty Morgan & me. 
Good times.

Misty and I were on the road in our motor home. 
It was about 2 AM and we pulled in and parked in a Walmart lot, 
and turned out the lights. 
A watchman pounded on our door 
and yelled, "YOU CAN'T SLEEP HERE!". 
We both shouted, "WE'RE NOT SLEEPING!"
*      *      *
I was out walking yesterday.
The neighbors said, "Jack looks so lifelike!"

Copyright © May 16, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

May 10th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE TEAR. 
For Mothers Day.

There's something about a photograph. 
Many people believe 
that having your picture taken steals some of your soul. 
I look at pictures of friends and relatives who have died, 
and I can see that soul, especially in the eyes, 
the expression, and even the body language. 
I have a picture of my mother 
taken at a holiday gathering during her later years. 
She was smiling, and seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. 

I've looked at that picture many times, 
but a few weeks ago, I enlarged it, 
and thought I saw something. 

I hit the 200% button, made it really big, 
and zoomed in on her face. 
The smile was still there, 
but in her eye I saw something unexpected: 
A tear. 

I sat back in shock and took a deep breath. 
What could she have been thinking? 
Was it a tear of joy or sadness? 
Did she know that it may be one of her last family moments? 
I asked her that question aloud, 
but the photograph didn't answer. 

I'm sure we were all enjoying the moment together, 
but at the same time, taking it for granted. 
You always think there will be many more. 
Now I realize my mother was not taking that moment for granted. 

I keep going back to look at the photo, 
even though it's burned into my mind, 
and my heart. 

When I discovered the tear behind her smile, 
I had tears to match hers. 
We spoke to each other beyond the limits of time and space. 

There is soul in a photograph. 

Copyright © May 10, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

May 2nd, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE WINDOW. 

The writer sits by the open window in his comfortable room, 
his feet propped up on the sill. 
He holds a yellow legal pad and a felt tipped pen. 
This is what he writes:
"Twilight in the afternoon. Only two o'clock, but looking more like seven. 
Cold front moving in. 

"Big soft raindrops 
slap down random leaves on the bush that leans against the window. 
The tempo of the rain picks up.
Now the breeze turns to wind, and the trees thrash around. 
It begins to rain on your feet. 
Feeling rugged and outdoorsy. The feet stay!

"Suddenly, lightning, and then thunder! The feet come down.
Rain splotches appear on your writing paper, 
and the blowing curtains drape over your head, 
creating a Mona Lisa effect. 
From somewhere across the lake, a train whistle. 
A sound often described as "lonesome", but more like "unrestful"...
A moving sound, a signal to the wanderer inside us.

"You turn on the lamp and security fills the room.
The sky and lake are a lighter gray now and you reopen the window.
The rain is letting up, mostly just the eaves dripping.
A squirrel checking out the wet garage roof. 
The air smells different: 
Washed vegetation, damp wood, supper cooking. 
And it's colder.
The feet return to the windowsill 
in fuzzy socks from the bottom of the drawer. 

"A storm is not bad from the inside, looking out.
You recall other dark days, in bleak, hopeless places. 
You were alone, cold, and it was no fun."
(That is all he puts on paper. His eyes close as he dozes off.)

The policeman says "Come on. You can't sleep here".
He's lying on cement, covered with a large piece of cardboard.
He opens his eyes and sees the inside of a parking garage.
There are oil spots in the empty parking spaces. It's chilly. 
He says: "What the hell?"
The cop nudges him with his nightstick. "Come on, buddy. Let's go."
He struggles to his feet, aching all over.
"I gotta get home", he says. "My wife's cooking supper." 
The cop says "Uh-huh".

Out on the pavement he tries to get his bearings. 
The unfamiliar street is lined with old warehouses 
and dirty brick buildings. 
Some of the second story windows have old shades,
or shreds of curtain, as though somebody once lived there.

The sky is clouded over gray. 
No telling what time it is. It looks like rain.
He picks a direction at random and starts walking,
collar turned up against the wind, 
hands deep in his pockets in search of warmth. 
A paper cup blows along the gutter.

He thinks about the dream he had before the cop woke him up.
Something about a warm house, and the smell of dinner cooking.
He feels for a wallet, knowing it wouldn't be there.
There is some change in his pocket, and a half-smoked cigarette.
By long habit, he's looking for the edge of the city, 
so he can hitch a ride to a smaller town where help comes easier. 
Big cities don't care.

He's almost across the city when the rain starts and the chill sets in.
He spends some of his change on coffee at a Burger King, 
and is now entering the suburbs.
The storm comes up fast and he ducks into a doorway.
Lightning, and then thunder, almost at once. That was close!
Now he's cold and wet. He's not going to make it out of town tonight.
He's got to find shelter! 

He leaves the doorway and turns down a tree lined side street,
with a small lake on the left, and sturdy old houses on the right.
Lights are on in some of the windows. "It must be nice."
Across the lake he sees some boathouses that might help him get dry.
This street probably winds right around there.

He sees a house that looks strangely familiar. 
Maybe a look-alike from his forgotten past.
Now he notices the first person he's really looked at all day.

There's a guy in an open window with his feet up on the sill.
In this weather! He must be nuts! 
It's been raining on his feet, and he's asleep!
The curtains have blown up around his head like a bandanna.

He turns and walks away, shaking his head at the stupidity,
On a day like this, if you have a window, you should close it.

Copyright © May 1, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

April 21st, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THINGS FOUND IN OUR SHED.

We found a 1978 Armed Forces Radio show Misty and I did.
On the other side of the LP is a show with Ferlin Husky 
and Betty Jean Robinson.
We also did these shows with Don Gibson, Liz Anderson, 
and others. They are on almost worn out acetate discs.

Under a pile of lost left socks,
we found a Jack & Misty Columbia LP album that was never released.

We also found a bunch of songs I wrote, recorded by other people.
One was Billy Joe Burnette singing “Don’t It Look Like Georgia”.
Another was Englebert Humperdink” doing “Second Tuesday in December”, 
and The Ventures playing  “Gemini”. 
Cover records of our "Tennessee Birdwalk", by Buck Owens and Susan Raye, 
Rolfe Harris, and other artists. 
I found one I wrote with Sheb Wooley. 

Willie Nelson is the star of The Florida Strawberry Festival last year.
We were the Strawberry Festival stars 40 years ago.
Willie's coming up in the world.
*******************************************************************************
And a few words found in our songs:

"OLD SONGS."
Mrs. Miller is singing the OLD SONGS
With the nurses at afternoon games.
She remembers the words to the OLD SONGS,
But forgotten her family's names.

The past is just over her shoulder
And the music can turn back the years.
Old times flicker by the corner of her eye
When the OLD SONGS ring in her ears.

So bring up the band and give them a hand.
While we can, let's all sing along
And maybe we'll find lost love in the memories
That live in the heart of OLD SONGS.


"FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BALL."
I'm goin' Down to the roundhouse, And look at the trains.
Up on the rooftop, spottin' airplanes.
Follow the Bouncing Ball, Sing an old song.
I don't mind if you tag along.

Saturday matinee, give away a funny book, free of charge.
Also a Cracker Jack.
Read Red Ryder, Little Beaver.
Trade it for a Dizzy Dean baseball card.

Got no reason, Got no rhyme.
Just kickin' a can down the road o' time.
Follow the Bouncing Ball, Sing an old song.
I don't mind if you tag along.
*************************************************************************
A final thought:
A Wendy's cashier demanded that I prove 
that I'm NOT eligible for a senior discount.

Copyright © April 20, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

April 14th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


OUR BIG NIGHT OUT. (From 2005.)

Last night we went to a little beer and wine joint
to see and hear a 15 piece modern jazz band.
The decor was Early Dumpster, 
and we were the oldest people for miles.
A girl put white bracelets on our wrists at the door, 
in case we escaped.

A lot of the young guys wore long baggy tee shirts
and ankle length shorts, like Charlie Brown.
The girl in front of us had the US map tattooed on her back,
in case she got lost.

They were a small but friendly group. 
Empty heads waiting for information.
You could look into their eyes and see that nobody was driving.
There were no seats, so we stood on the cement floor
We bought a couple of beers 
and put cotton in our ears for safekeeping.

The echo in the room rolled all the sound into one big lump,
so I can’t judge the music with any fairness.
Much of it sounded to me like the mental hospital orchestra
rehearsing “Flight of the Bumblebee”.
I know the band is excellent, which only makes me feel dumber.
They rehearse at this little bar where they charge fans to get in.

During intermission, 
a guy armed with an electric guitar was allowed to play for free.
They should have made him an offer to leave.
He assaulted the strings for an hour on the same three notes, 
without letting go of a single musical idea.
The best part was when he got his thumb caught in the strings.
He eventually stopped, shook the saliva from his guitar, and left.
The patrons drifted back into the room for the next band set.

All in all, we did enjoy the experience. 
Sometimes I just complain to be funny.
This morning is like Old Home Week. 
I’m old, I’m home, and I feel weak.

Copyright © 2005, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

April 4th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


EARL BLANCHARD'S SECRET. 

I enjoyed Uncle Earl's world and I’ve kept his secret all this time. 
Earl died some years back, so I guess it's safe to tell now.
 
Some people have character. 
Earl Blanchard was probably a reincarnated pirate. 
His face, one eyed and scarred, 
wore an expression of jovial roughness. 
His medium height frame carried a stocky mass of muscle, 
which in his middle age was taking on a comfortable roundness. 

He had the big voice, jutting jaw, and bull neck of a football coach. 
I'm sure he could put his head through his collar without undoing the button. 
His hands were pudgy rocks, 
and his artificial leg gave him a distinctive limp. 

The family laughed a lot when he came to visit. 
Tensions were loosened while bottle caps popped and jokes were told. 
I liked him. They used that against me. 

My family thought I was being influenced by my bummy gang of friends. 
They didn't know I was the leader. 
They wanted to get me away from said bums to nip my budding delinquency. 

I should have suspected 
when the laughter from the kitchen turned to whispering. 
They were planning to send me with Earl  on one of his business trips. 

I knew his work involved horse racing, 
which seemed more attractive than the nagging at home, 
and my family was sure he could straighten me out. 

We left at dawn in his beat up station wagon, 
loaded down with horsey gear, blankets, bridles, 
blinders, medicines, salves, and so on. 
The smell of leather was strong. 
I drove while Earl philosophized. 
I thought he was witty and responded with a lot of chuckling. 

We stopped for a beer in a place where everybody knew him, 
and nobody questioned my age. 

At the Hamburg Raceway I learned that Earl was a traveling salesman, 
selling equipment to horse owners on his regular rounds. 
Everywhere we went they smiled and waved when they saw Earl. 
He seemed to care more about socializing than about profit. 
Often they'd just buy a small item from him as a friendly gesture, 
or maybe in payment for the fresh jokes and inside news he dispensed. 

Sometimes they'd whisper about me, 
and I'd get an offer to stay and spend a few days, which I would decline. 
Warm good-byes, and we'd be on our way. 
I wondered if I could ever get used to the smell of stables. 

For some reason we took the old narrow roads across New York State. 
Our route wound through the Catskills, 
the land of Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman. 
It was a peculiarly beautiful area, 
where a strange mist haunted every hollow in the early morning. 

Just outside Saratoga he told me to turn into a gravel road, 
past a "No Trespassing" sign, 
and up a mountainside to a rambling brick house with gingerbread trim. 
We rang the door chimes and heard barking. 

Mrs. O'Hagen was a large white-haired woman 
with harlequin glasses and a brusk manner. 
She and Earl were an unlikely pair, but seemed to hit it off. 

She had two blind Boston Terriers and a foreign maid. 
The dogs ran and played all over the house, 
until one day a new housekeeper moved some furniture, 
and the poor dogs were bouncing off walls. 
I love dogs.

The three of us took off in a Jeep for a tour of the ranch 
in the chilly mountain air. 
We drove for miles through forests and hills, 
without ever leaving the O'Hagen property. 
Groups of racehorses ran wild, to be rounded up later. 

That evening we rode to the racetrack in Mrs. O'Hagen's Cadillac, 
which she drove with a vengeance, 
never once dimming her lights for the oncoming peasants. 
At the track, naturally, everybody knew and liked Uncle Earl. 

I don't think the tour straightened me out, 
but it might have benefited my friends. 

Earl’s secret was this: 
Selling equipment was not his real job. 
He was a race detective, an undercover man for the Racing Association.
His many friends who mourned his passing never knew,
but he was keeping his eye on them. 

Copyright © April 4, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

March 27th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


HAPPINESS IS HARD TO PIN DOWN.

Miami. Early 1960s.  Misty and I were struggling, mostly broke,
and even homeless on the street for a few days.
In the mid-1960s we had a trio on the road
playing small clubs all over the East and Midwest.
Our old car and homemade trailer kept breaking down,
and taking all the money.

Then we got lucky and landed a steady job at a Miami supper club.
That's where we met Richard Nixon and other famous people.
Things were getting better.

We got a one month booking at a lounge in Key West,
and two guys came in and signed us to a four song contract.
We went to Nashville to record.
There were no hits, but our song "Bethlehem Steel" got played,
and Wayside Records signed us.

In December, 1969, 
Misty and I were entertaining crowds at Orlando's Everglades lounge 
and commuting to Nashville to record. 
We had had one Billboard charted single, "Big Black Bird" 
on Wayside Records. 

We had a steady gig, a nice home, and bought a new Corvette.
After struggling for years on the road playing low-pay gigs. 
The stress was off and we were reasonably happy without any hits.

Our song "Big Black Bird" had gotten a Pop Pick in Billboard, 
along with Aretha Franklin and others the same week,
although we considered it Country.
Wayside Records got excited 
and negotiated with Mercury Records for distribution.

Mercury was ready to go with the record,
but the master sent to them by Wayside was faulty.
They had to call Wayside and wait for another master.
Radio stations were ready to play it but had no copies, and the record died.
But now we were on Mercury, a major label.

In early March, 1970, the phone rang.
It was Little Richie Johnson at Wayside.
He said, "You better get packed. We're selling 50,000 a day!"
A month later, on April 4th, "Tennessee Bird Walk" hit Number One,
and our life changed completely.
A week later on April 11th, it was Number One again,
and we were doing a show with Jerry Lee Lewis and Waylon Jennings
at a performing arts center.
Waylon joked, "You're killing my record. Please get off Number One."

That was the wildest year ever.
We were doing major network TV shows, state fairs and festivals,
recording "Humphrey the Camel", "You've Got Your Troubles",
and others, and dealing with big time agents and managers.
We were disoriented, facing new problems, and on the road all the time.
We often didn't know where we were.

The money went through our hands to agents, managers, musicians,
roadies, etc., and for expensive clothes for TV and big live shows.
Our happiest times were in studios, recording with great musicians.
It was a wonderful year, an exciting year, and a grueling year.
A bunch of IRS guys showed up at our house.

Would we do it all again? 
You betcha.

Copyright © March 27, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

March 20th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


THE GANGSTER. 

Very few people are as good or as bad as the first impression. 
We can protect ourselves by being suspicious of new people, 
but our suspicion can bring out a dark side. 
Sometimes they will play whatever roll you write for them.

On the other hand, 
a bad guy can be a saint with us if we don't expect evil of him.
He unconsciously tries to be whatever is expected of him.
I know this from experience.

There was Joe M., a notorious gangster in Miami
who treated me like a son.
He was an elderly man 
who bore a strange resemblance to Edward G. Robinson.
I played piano and managed two nightclubs for him.
He was always more than fair with me.
He even protected me from other mobsters.

I think the secret was this: I'd never heard of him.
He just seemed to me like a nice old man,
and he lived up to that image.

When I heard about his bloody and violent career,
I couldn't just turn off the friendship.
It was like the news stories were about somebody else.
I heard all the stories, 
but he and I never discussed that side of his life.
I kept up the pretense that I didn't know.
We trusted each other.

Joe had a trick he liked to do for friends.
He could take my shirt off with out removing my suitcoat.
I still don't know how he did it.

He was old then and is surely dead by now,
and he will always be a villain in the public memory,
but if they ever ask me, I'll give him a good reference.
He was nice to me.

Copyright © March 20, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

March 8th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


ONE FINE WEEK IN ATLANTA.

Misty and I often did shows with Jerry Reed, Roy Clark,
Grandpa Jones, and Archie Campbell.
One of those shows was a week long booking
at Atlanta's Chastain Park Amphitheater, an outdoor venue.
It was Boots Randolph's show,
and he always treated the artists, musicians, and staff as honored guests,
with long tables of food and drink backstage,
and the party feeling that carried over to the audiences.

Before the first show, Roy stepped out of his bus
carrying a glass of unknown iced beverage.
Misty said "How're ya doin', Roy?"
Roy smiled and said "Gettin' well, honey."

The drinks never caused any real problems,
although a couple of times the emcee tried to take acts off stage
before they were done.
They were innocent mistakes, and kinda funny.
We were all friends.

Like most amphitheaters, it was bowl shaped,
and the bands were pretty much protected from the weather,
but the act out at the front of the stage could get a little wet if it rained.
This can be a thrill if you are hooked up to electrical equipment.

We had just finished our show and were walking off,
when Archie Campbell was heading out to do his act.
I said "It's pretty windy out there, Arch."
Archie ran his hand suavely over his hair and said this:
"I don't have to worry. I bought the casual style."
He was always funny... on or off stage.

The crowds were huge and Saturday night was our closing show.
We all met back at the hotel
where Boots and his manager X. Cosse had us staying.
They had the hotel dining room set up like a king's banquet...
tons of food and anything you want to drink.
It was a party for everybody in the show,
including roadies and friends of friends.

For the first hour everybody was there having a good time,
except Jerry Reed, who was conspicuous in his absence.
He bounced into the room at about 11:30, said quick hellos to the gang,
grabbed a take out box, went through the food table like a lawnmower,
and was gone with the wind and his doggy box of food.

Jerry was on Fast Forward,
and his whole appearance lasted about seven minutes.
Misty went into his bus and got his autograph 
when we worked together at the Citrus Bowl.
We loved Jerry Reed, and he was also my favorite guitar player.

Then, later in the party,
there was some excitement going on at the ballroom door
when some medics rushed in with a stretcher.
We wondered what was up.
Roy Clark grinned, raised his glass, and said goodbye to everybody.
Then he made himself comfortable on the stretcher,
and was carried out to the ambulance and rushed to the airport.
He was late and had a plane to catch.

I've tried to report the week's events exactly as they happened,
down to the finest detail, but remember,
I may have had a beer myself.

The music business used to be more fun than it is now,
and we miss all our old friends a lot,
but we're so lucky to have been part of that wonderful era.

Copyright © March 7, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

February 28th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


TRANSITIONS. 

(From February 28th, 2015. A look back.)

It's a cool gray rainy day here, a transitional day, 
with the remnants of Winter and early signs of Spring. 
Standing under the edge of our carport
I can see almost a mile of tan fields and lines of trees, 
until the landscape gets lost in the mist.

The trees and Spanish moss are moving with the breeze,
as are the flags on our street.
These are mostly World War Two people
and that kind of patriotism doesn't go away,
even though the nation has changed over their lifetime.

I didn't like Florida for a long time after I landed here.
The palms annoyed me.
They were foreign and reminded me that I wasn't home;
that this was all temporary and I didn't belong here.

I could go to almost anywhere up north and not feel like an outsider,
but Florida felt unreal... like a movie.

As I stood just out of the rain today and took in the palms,
the giant oaks in rainy-day colors,
and the Spanish Moss like graceful fringe on a gown,
it occurred to me that I like it.
When did that happen?

I still love Buffalo with it's four seasons
and the energy in the air,
but it's mostly the Buffalo in my memory.
The last time we visited there,
I enjoyed it, but I had a sense of being outside looking in.

The world has changed so much
that maybe we all feel a little like strangers at times,
but this subtropical place has sneaked up on me
and it's started to look right.

Maybe I'm home...
or as close as I'll ever get.

Copyright © 2015, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

February 19th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


A 1971 VISIT TO DISNEY WORLD. 

(From my Orlando newspaper column, 1971.
That was Walt Disney World's first year.)

Saturday afternoon, through no fault of my own, 
I found myself being patted on the butt by the Disney turnstile. 
I had already been forced to memorize "Goofy 746-118B" 
under threat of never seeing my car again. 

I tried to get back out through the turnstile, 
but Misty and our guest took me by the ears, 
and dragged me, sobbing, into The Magic Kingdom. 
The music of a 200 piece rock band 
was being magically forced through a 3-inch loudspeaker.

At a lunch counter we stood in line for a while,
and we were abruptly awakened by a teenage counter girl.
She glared at us silently, waiting for our order.

They must have been out of Mouseburgers,
because all she gave us was a small cardboard box
containing three small cardboard hamburgers.
"The one on top is 'without sauce'", she said.
That was true. None of them had sauce.
I was startled to find she could talk.

At the first big show,
there were several hundred of us waiting in the theater lobby
We were jockeying for position.

A young hostess with the microphone had been waiting for this.
'LAY-DEEZ AND GEN-TUL-MEN", 
she screamed into the P.A. system, which was set at number ten.
A lady in front of me rolled her eyes and collapsed to the floor.
To my left, a businessman clutched his chest
and flung himself over the railing.
A child's voice cried, "I didn't know the Lord was a lady!"

"YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE WITHOUT ME,
so you might just as well stand there and listen to what I have to say!"
The meek dropped like flies all around us.

"When I see fit to open the doors you will quickly move into the theater
and hurry to the opposite end of the room, 
dragging your dead and wounded!
There will be no eating, drinking, smoking...
no talking, no flash cameras, no holding hands, and no giggling!
All right! You may now march into the auditorium
in a quiet orderly manner.
We hope you enjoy our presentation."

Inside, another starlet took over.
She was good, but she couldn't top her ugly sister out front.
She sort of sang her speech:
"Immediately upon the conclusion of our presentation
you will exit swiftly to the left of the herd.
Do not touch or lean on the railings!
They were only constructed to maintain discipline...
blah blah blah oral hygiene and regular dental care."

After the show I said:
"How 'bout a nice relaxing boat ride back to the parking lot?
Fun's fun, but I'm worn out!"

The ferry captain waited till we were away from shore
to do his number on us.
He never once stopped mumbling over the mike,
which sounded like a giant toilet paper tube.
Not one word was in any known language.
It sounded like a Winston Churchill speech played backwards.
His volume was a couple of decibels above the point of pain,
and passengers were leaping ecstatically overboard.

At the main exit we were divided into squares,
and loaded onto people movers.
The conductress of the tram was armed with a microphone.
"IF THERE ARE MORE THAN FIVE OF YOU IN A SEAT,
WE ARE NOT GOING TO MOVE!'
A man behind me said:
"We just got here and they're threatening us already!"
I said; "Yes. Isn't it great?"

"IF THAT CHILD IS MORE THAN THREE YEARS OLD,
HE WILL HAVE TO GET OFF YOUR LAP!"
I got off Misty's lap.

"If you drop a package, a baby, or if your hat blows off
we are NOT allowed to stop!"
The tram began to move.

"We will pass throught the Happy, Dopey, Grumpy,
and Freaky sections of the parking area!
We have twelve thousand cars parked here,
and if you miss your section we can NOT take you back!
So, Lots o' luck. Ha ha."

"This is our first stop.
Grumpy people exit quickly to the driver's right!
Goofy people exit to the left!"

We exited to the right.
We were grumpy people.

Copyright © 1971, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

February 14th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


VALENTINE'S DAY, 1991. 

That was the day of the strong arm robbery. 
We were playing in Jacksonville Florida, 
and Misty wanted to go and buy a red blouse for Valentine's Day. 
She was already wearing a very nice red blouse, 
but I kept my mouth shut. 

We drove to a Pic 'n' Save store on Dunn Avenue. 
I dropped her off near the door and drove to the nearest parking slot. 
It had just gotten dark. 
As I was locking the car door I heard a woman scream. 
I had never heard Misty scream, 
but the sound came from where she ought to be... by the door.

I started toward the building 
and saw a big guy running from the door area,
from right to left across the front of the building,
and carrying a woman's purse.

He was going about 35 mph when he saw me running directly at him.
He shouted: "NOOOOOOO!"
We crashed head on and I knocked him across a bunch of shopping carts.
I spun around, flew a few feet,
and landed on the point of my index finger, like an acrobat.
The finger bent into an "L", and I did a neat landing on my face.

People in the parking lot closed in,
held the guy down and called the police,
while I looked for my glasses and bled from a variety of places.

He had been running toward the high chain link fence
where he was to throw the purse to his brother, 
who was waiting on the other side.
The brother disappeared.

The cops told us that if he hadn't taken at least $400 
they couldn't send him away, wink, wink.
Funny, that's the exact amount we reported.

Meanwhile, Misty, who was also hurt 
from being knocked to the ground by a blow to the ear,
was helping me into the store to get assistance.
Something had gone wrong with my leg and I couldn't walk.

The pharmacist said he couldn't help because it would be admitting liability.
I'm leaning on Misty with broken glasses,
an injured leg, a bent finger, and bleeding like a lawn sprinkler.

I reached across the counter, 
grabbed the pencil out of his pocket,
pushed him aside, took some tape from a shelf,
and made a rough splint for my finger.

The next day we went to a walk-in medical clinic
where the doctor put a splint on my finger backwards,
Later I turned it around.

I was on crutches for a couple of months 
and the crook went to jail.
We sued the store and came out of it with a nice used car.

Since then I don't forget Valentines Day as I used to.

Copyright © February 14, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

February 9th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


STILL MORE ODDS AND ENDS.

THE BALLET EXPERIMENT. 
Business was off at the ballet. 
The theater manager was sharp enough to realize 
that not everybody likes the ballet. 
Some people like trombone playing. 
He did an extensive talent search 
and found a ballerina who could play the trombone. 
He offered her big bucks if she could learn to do both at once.

The house was packed on opening night. 
The ballerina danced "Swan Lake" brilliantly, 
playing the trombone all the way until the last act, 
which called for a pirouette 
and a seventh position trombone lick at the same time.
She tripped over another swan, 
blew her teeth to the audience,
and did an ad lib five minute pain dance.

I know this story is true because I was that ballerina.
********************************************************************************

1957. 
When my Dawn Breakers vocal quartet,were recording for a Detroit label, 
we stayed at an old hotel called The Barlum. 
A lot of traveling show biz people stayed there. 
I found it had a long closed penthouse nightclub with a white grand piano. 
I was up there alone writing songs each night 
and enjoying the view of the city lights.
**********************************************************************************

Miami, 1960's. 
Misty and I were just coming off being homeless, 
when a couple of musicians who had always snubbed us
asked us to fill in on their gig 
because they had something better to do for two nights. 
It was in Hialeah near the race track 
and a winner came in and tipped us $100. 
We almost passed out! 
That was like $1,000 then. 
***********************************************************************************
I wrote, arranged, and conducted the music 
for a government documentary film about The Everglades, 
called "Million Acre Playground". 
It was good experience watching the film 
and getting the live band to synchronize with the scenes. 
I went to the premier in Ft. Lauderdale and sat through 
it just to see my name fly by in the credits.
**********************************************************************************

Starting out, we couldn't afford a Hammond B-3 organ, 
so Misty got a Wurlitzer and tinkered with it. 
She got the keys to pop like a Hammond by putting a switch halfway on. 
The audiences liked to see the sparks fly in the back of the organ.
***********************************************************************************

Over forty years ago 
we were driving in heavy traffic down a six or eight lane highway
near the Pentagon. 
There was a small injured dog trapped in the median. 
When I could stop a few miles later I called the police 
trying to get help for the dog. 
The cop said. "We ain't allowed to shoot 'em." 
Nothing I could do. 
Now, four decades later, I still remember that little dog, 
and the look on his face, and I still feel somehow guilty.
************************************************************************************

The teacher said, "What is it with you? Is it ignorance or apathy?"
I said, "I don't know and I don't care."
* * *
"Bewitch me, darling. Bewitch me."
"I'll bewitch you in a minute. I'm busy."
* * *
A group of rabbits walking backwards is a receding hare line.
* * *
I don't know why the doctor gave me an anti-depressant. ..
unless it's because I had my hands around his throat.
* * *
I'm getting crows feet, but somehow my shoes still fit.

Copyright © February 9, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

January 31st, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


HOW WE RUINED LUNCH HOUR IN DULUTH. 

We were not recording stars, 
and had no idea we would ever have hit records. 
We were just three Florida musicians, Misty, me, 
and our guitar player Doug Tarrant, 
who somehow wound up in the north country in December. 
Our booking was at the Black Bear Lounge in the Hotel Duluth.

Our dog, Brubeck, accompanied us on the tour.
He looked like a Jack Russell Terrier,
but he wasn't anything you could pin down.

Brubeck would not eat dog food.
He would eat cat food 
or a foul smelling liver and garlic concoction that Misty cooked for him.
He would also eat complete motel mattresses,
medium sized linoleum floors, and my better clothes.
We loved him!

Misty felt a need to dress Brubeck up like a rich lady's poodle.
He would be led through the lobby wearing a leopard print dog coat, 
a hat, and four yellow boots,
at least one of which was always turned around
with the toe facing grotesquely backwards.
He would be shaking a rear leg trying to get rid of it.
This gets worse.

The hotel had a classy restaurant which was below ground level.
The sidewalk and snow covered grass
were exactly at eye level with the lunch crowd inside.
The place was packed with business people enjoying their food,
when Misty's legs appeared in the far right window,
then the leash,
and finally what looked like a dog in a pimp suit.

The pimp dog went right up to the restaurant window 
and proceeded with a long overdue bowel movement.
Misty, totally embarrassed at being the focus of every eye in the crowd, 
tried her best to look like she'd never seen this dog before in her life.
It didn't work, and Brubeck went earnestly on and on.
Then she made it worse by trying to drag him away while he was still going.
A lot worse!

The lunch hour business dropped off abruptly after that.

Copyright © 2017 Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted b y kind permission of the author.

January 17th, 2018...


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


GHOST TOWN. 

Somehow we had missed the turnoff to the southern Ohio town. 
We went back to where the highway ought to be 
and found a narrow old road, 
with grass growing up through the cracks in the pavement. 
Could this be the main road to town 
that I remembered from my childhood? 
The sign said it was.

The small city, after slumbering quietly for generations,
had become a boom town 
with the coming of a large chemical company.
For a while the population grew with the influx of labor.

The little corner taverns 
where old cronies had once exchanged worldly wisdom
became juke joints as the town opened up.

Housing became scarce, money became plentiful,
and the townsfolk began a new habit...
locking their doors.

That was the last time I'd seen the place,
and the only memory I had to go by.
I was surprised at the desolate weeded over road
that had once been a main artery.

We turned off the superhighway
and followed the rustic lane toward the town,
trying to spot familiar landmarks.
There were new shabby buildings,
some vacant and boarded up.

There were new gas stations looking aged and toothless
with their pumps gone.

I thought I recognized an old building...
a certain curve in the road...
but the clutter made it impossible to get my bearings.

Drifting into town,
I was relieved to see the railroad station
and its surrounding park untouched by time.

I had often told Misty about the good times at Aunt Bess' house,
where I had spent a lot of my childhood.
Now I was about to show her the actual place where it all happened,
but at first I couldn't find it.

It used to be right there on the corner of Fourth and Maple.
Now there was just a rundown Frankenstein house hiding in the weeds.
We parked while I stared at it for a long time.

I had somehow forgotten... 
They're all gone.
The whole smiling, partying family had died off one by one 
since I'd been gone.
I knew it, I'm sure, but I’d blocked it out.

The small grocery store across the street had a new name 
but looked the same.
I went in and asked,
but they didn't remember who had lived in that corner house.
They didn't recognize my desperately mentioned names,
and they were busy.

Asking around
we learned that the chemical plant had laid off thousands of workers, 
and the government had built a superhighway that bypassed the town,
so it went quietly back to sleep, somewhat the worse for wear.

We searched the town all day,
and it was sunset before we found anyone we knew.
They were all together, as always.

The squeak of the rusty wrought iron gate pierced the evening stillness,
as we entered the old cemetery,
and began brushing away weeds and dust,
to peer at names on tombstones...
names that clicked on familiar faces in my mind.

We drove out of town and didn't talk for a while.
Nobody said goodbye.
If this was a ghost town these new people didn't know it.
We were the ghosts.

Copyright © January 16, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

January 15th, 2018...



WATCH THIS! Amazon is selling our 29 SONG CD new for $200, used for $50 to $100!...
We are offering these NEW CD-Rs, exact duplicates, art work, sound & all, 
personally autographed to you, for $39.95 + shipping. 
Email jackandmisty@gmail.com, or write Jack Blanchard, PO Box 895444, Leesburg FL 34789.

(P.S.: Click on the picture for a slightly larger view.)

January 3rd, 2018...

And a happy new year to everybody out there, and welcome to our
first news page of 2018. (But enough about that.) Here's Jack (but...)


Thousands of intelligent good-looking readers.


ENOUGH ABOUT ME.

Misty Morgan, my wife and partner, 
has a photographic memory for music. 
I call it a "phonographic" memory. 
She can play any piece she hears once, 
even if it's just background Muzak in a store, 
but she does not read music. 
She has never sung a note off key.

Her first underage jobs were with pickup combos 
around Tonawanda, New York.
They played standards, dance music, and a little country.
As a piano single, she played and sang mostly standards,
Broadway, and popular songs.

When I met her she was playing with a country band 
at The Corral Barbecue in West Hollywood, Florida, 
under the name "Mary Male".

One night, when we had only been together a short time,
we went to a club to hear an all female jazz quintet.
Somebody asked her to sit in on piano, and she accepted.
I was embarrassed. I said, "Honey, you don't play jazz."
She just said, "I can do it."
As she went on-stage, I went to the rest room.
I didn't want to see it.

Then I heard this great jazz piano,
a mix of Oscar Petersen, Erroll Garner, and Ramsey Lewis.
I went out and looked and it was Misty.
She brought down the house.
I said, "Where did you learn THAT?!"
She calmly said, "I told you I could do it"

She can play all kinds of music,
and never plays anything the same twice.

She is the first female entertainer I know of 
to play six stacked keyboards onstage.
Sometimes the strings, guitars, fiddles, 
and many other sounds on our records
are really Misty and her magic keyboards.
She can blend them with Buddy Spicher, Johnny Gimbel,
Vassar Clements, and other musicians,
so that you can't tell. unless you were there.

Her ear for sound is a valuable tool I use when mixing sessions.
I can write the songs, 
and we work out the arrangements together,
but she has the final word on the mixdowns.
She was the first woman to produce a Number One country record.

When I write a new song I sing it to her first.
She never says it's bad.
If she says, "That's really nice" I know it isn't.
I have go back and work on the song 
until she gives the right reaction.
It's sort of an excitement in her eyes... sometimes even tears.
She's always right. My final editor.

Everybody remarks about her unusual harmony our duets.
I have no idea what she's doing and I don't want to know.
It just works.

On top of all this, 
she is the perfect straight man to my funny stuff.
She folds her arms and gives me a look that says this:
"Whenever you're through, dummy. 
We're trying to do a serious show here."

The audiences love her, 
and so do I.

Copyright © January 3, 2018 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

December 28th, 2017...

(From sometime in the past.)

Well, here we go again, folks. If you get the feeling you just missed last year
(what was it called, anyway?), you can now find it here!
(And also on the Old News page, of course.) 
Here's to a safe, sane and happy 2018!

Happy New Year, everybody!
Jerry D. Withers, Your Friendly Neighborhood Webmeister™
 




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