I was remembering the smell of my cornet case....ancient spit, valve oil, second-hand cigarette smoke, and an accumulation of potato chip funk....
Then there were visual flashes...the scuffed exterior, grungy, stained red velvet interior....
And then with a smile, I thought of Werlein's, a huge music store...an "old school" business, back when stores aspired to greatness....
I remember a gray stone building with columns going up three stories...accented in forest green around the windows. I also remember the gush of air conditioning that hit me on hot summer days... (Those big Canal Street stores were always a good place to be in the summer months.)
Werlein's was about six blocks from the Canal Street ferry, and across from Waterberry's Drug Store where folks caught the Magazine trolly...and not far from D. H. Holmes.
There was something in Werlein's I wanted.....EVERYTHING.
Everything was a big order for a kid like me, but I never left that big store without a smile and some little thing to add to a very personal, very private dream.
One thing that just hit me: I don't think that anyone ever went to Werlein's with me. Like many things I did, it was very private, very personal, and I was very alone.
For a time, my trips to Canal Street were never complete without a pit stop at Werlein's, but I didn't know how deep my love for the store went until, on a trip to New Orleans years later, I noticed that it had closed....just like everything else on Canal Street, it had withered and died as the soul of New Orleans drifted off to the malls.
Soul doesn't come easy!
The connection between my horn and Werlein's is hard-wired into my brain....probably because I started going to Werlein's when JoAnn Young generously put that old, funky, Old's cornet into my life.
The horn created a whole new set of needs, and that meant that I had a whole new set of needs....
First, there was valve oil that JoAnn said was a must if the valves were ever going to quit sticking....
Then there was the Big M Song Book that Miss Tisdale, my elementary school music teacher said I needed....
A bit later, she said that the wad of paper I was using to plug up one of the horn's spit valves would not do.
Pilgrimages that I made to my music heaven on Canal with a light heart.
Mr. Tweety suggested I get a Bach 7C mouthpiece....
I loved it! These were all reasons to go to Werlein's when the money turned up.
That felt good, something concrete to baby and pamper and dream on.
I remember hanging around outside the store just to watch kids coming down the street or exiting the street cars on the neutral ground carrying instruments for repair at the store...or for private lessons.
These kids were obviously well-healed.....
Cases without scars and scuffs meant new instruments, their clothes indicated a whole different social level than mine, and they walked with a confidence and assurance.... I never had confidence or assurance, just a lot of nerve.
But I always felt that there was something in them that we shared... The music.
Music was something that I soaked up, and there was so much inside that it oozed out of me....
Sometimes it gushed.
What really got my attention were the adults of all colors, some with gray hair, coming down the street carrying their instruments.... I had some of these folks pegged for professional musicians...maybe even jazz musicians?
How cool was that!
It was magic to see all these guys! People that had more in common with me than most of the adults I knew.... people I wanted to know because they would understand what I was about and give me their blessing.
It felt right to be near them.
I quickly learned to identify the instrument by the case, and if I was unsure, I was nervy enough to ask people what they were carrying.... flutes, guitars, trombones, oboes, bassoons, violins, French horns, cellos, flutes.... occasionally a big bass fiddle.
As I entered the store, there was a huge glass case that seemed like it went on for miles and miles...and God knows how patient the clerks behind the counter were with me!
There were so many things I wanted to touch and know, especially the instruments.....
And then there were the countless questions I had!
Kazoos, Jew's harps, various rhythm instruments, guitar strings.... That display case was a wonderland!
I remember a Martin trumpet on display that had two interchangeable bells...one straight and the other pointed upward to direct mighty blasts into heaven....like Dizzy Gillespie's.
Straight back from the entrance, on the far wall, was where they kept all the sheet music.
One reason to go there was to be by all the musicians buying music. I will confess to going out of my way to be seen handling something that I thought to be very complex and challenging to play....especially if there was some cute girl close by. I absolutely loved the girls in those dark blue or plaid skirts, knee length socks, and white blouses from the Catholic schools, but I also got turned on to composers and their works by thumbing through those stacks of sheet music the way that some boys flipped through girlie magazines.
It tripped me out to see 64th notes for the very first time...and all those exotic time and key signatures! I would see some gnarly piece of music that would sober me up for days....and humble me.
(Who would have thought?)
The second floor had small rooms for private lessons and a huge showroom for pianos. One afternoon I paid a kid a quarter to teach me to pick out "I Dropped My Dollar in the Dirt".
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
I asked my dollar if it hurt.
It said, "No, it didn't hurt."
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
It seemed like 25 cents well spent at the time!
There was more serious business on Werlein's third floor because that's where there were craftsmen with the ability to restore instruments that seemed beyond hope.
These were sweet guys who tolerated a short, chubby little kid standing around watching them work their magic....tolerated my endless questions as they hammered, soldered and pried unplayable horns.
There was hope here for even my dented, corroding horn if the money ever turned up. Hope for the dented and abused is important to a poor kid...hope that can become part of a dream.
Many nights these dreams would keep me wide-awake envisioning what it would take for me or my horn to be brought around into something wonderful....something to be valued and admired. We're talking about a dream of possible beauty or greatness when everything seems broken and ugly.
These gentle men had that calling, and they so willingly shared their knowledge with me....showed me what was possible to do with products of unavoidable wear or carelessness.
I loved them.
"Werlein's for music!" That was their slogan, and I have JoAnne Young to thank for getting me inside with my need.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Werlein's
I was remembering the smell of my cornet case....ancient spit, valve oil, second-hand cigarette smoke, and an accumulation of potato chip funk....
Then there were visual flashes...the scuffed exterior, grungy, stained red velvet interior....
And then with a smile, I thought of Werlein's, a huge music store...an "old school" business, back when stores aspired to greatness....
I remember a gray stone building with columns going up three stories...accented in forest green around the windows. I also remember the gush of air conditioning that hit me on hot summer days... (Those big Canal Street stores were always a good place to be in the summer months.)
Werlein's was about six blocks from the Canal Street ferry, and across from Waterberry's Drug Store where folks caught the Magazine trolly...and not far from D. H. Holmes.
There was something in Werlein's I wanted.....EVERYTHING.
Everything was a big order for a kid like me, but I never left that big store without a smile and some little thing to add to a very personal, very private dream.
One thing that just hit me: I don't think that anyone ever went to Werlein's with me. Like many things I did, it was very private, very personal, and I was very alone.
For a time, my trips to Canal Street were never complete without a pit stop at Werlein's, but I didn't know how deep my love for the store went until, on a trip to New Orleans years later, I noticed that it had closed....just like everything else on Canal Street, it had withered and died as the soul of New Orleans drifted off to the malls.
Soul doesn't come easy!
The connection between my horn and Werlein's is hard-wired into my brain....probably because I started going to Werlein's when JoAnn Young generously put that old, funky, Old's cornet into my life.
The horn created a whole new set of needs, and that meant that I had a whole new set of needs....
First, there was valve oil that JoAnn said was a must if the valves were ever going to quit sticking....
Then there was the Big M Song Book that Miss Tisdale, my elementary school music teacher said I needed....
A bit later, she said that the wad of paper I was using to plug up one of the horn's spit valves would not do.
Pilgrimages that I made to my music heaven on Canal with a light heart.
Mr. Tweety suggested I get a Bach 7C mouthpiece....
I loved it! These were all reasons to go to Werlein's when the money turned up.
That felt good, something concrete to baby and pamper and dream on.
I remember hanging around outside the store just to watch kids coming down the street or exiting the street cars on the neutral ground carrying instruments for repair at the store...or for private lessons.
These kids were obviously well-healed.....
Cases without scars and scuffs meant new instruments, their clothes indicated a whole different social level than mine, and they walked with a confidence and assurance.... I never had confidence or assurance, just a lot of nerve.
But I always felt that there was something in them that we shared... The music.
Music was something that I soaked up, and there was so much inside that it oozed out of me....
Sometimes it gushed.
What really got my attention were the adults of all colors, some with gray hair, coming down the street carrying their instruments.... I had some of these folks pegged for professional musicians...maybe even jazz musicians?
How cool was that!
It was magic to see all these guys! People that had more in common with me than most of the adults I knew.... people I wanted to know because they would understand what I was about and give me their blessing.
It felt right to be near them.
I quickly learned to identify the instrument by the case, and if I was unsure, I was nervy enough to ask people what they were carrying.... flutes, guitars, trombones, oboes, bassoons, violins, French horns, cellos, flutes.... occasionally a big bass fiddle.
As I entered the store, there was a huge glass case that seemed like it went on for miles and miles...and God knows how patient the clerks behind the counter were with me!
There were so many things I wanted to touch and know, especially the instruments.....
And then there were the countless questions I had!
Kazoos, Jew's harps, various rhythm instruments, guitar strings.... That display case was a wonderland!
I remember a Martin trumpet on display that had two interchangeable bells...one straight and the other pointed upward to direct mighty blasts into heaven....like Dizzy Gillespie's.
Straight back from the entrance, on the far wall, was where they kept all the sheet music.
One reason to go there was to be by all the musicians buying music. I will confess to going out of my way to be seen handling something that I thought to be very complex and challenging to play....especially if there was some cute girl close by. I absolutely loved the girls in those dark blue or plaid skirts, knee length socks, and white blouses from the Catholic schools, but I also got turned on to composers and their works by thumbing through those stacks of sheet music the way that some boys flipped through girlie magazines.
It tripped me out to see 64th notes for the very first time...and all those exotic time and key signatures! I would see some gnarly piece of music that would sober me up for days....and humble me.
(Who would have thought?)
The second floor had small rooms for private lessons and a huge showroom for pianos. One afternoon I paid a kid a quarter to teach me to pick out "I Dropped My Dollar in the Dirt".
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
I asked my dollar if it hurt.
It said, "No, it didn't hurt."
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
It seemed like 25 cents well spent at the time!
There was more serious business on Werlein's third floor because that's where there were craftsmen with the ability to restore instruments that seemed beyond hope.
These were sweet guys who tolerated a short, chubby little kid standing around watching them work their magic....tolerated my endless questions as they hammered, soldered and pried unplayable horns.
There was hope here for even my dented, corroding horn if the money ever turned up. Hope for the dented and abused is important to a poor kid...hope that can become part of a dream.
Many nights these dreams would keep me wide-awake envisioning what it would take for me or my horn to be brought around into something wonderful....something to be valued and admired. We're talking about a dream of possible beauty or greatness when everything seems broken and ugly.
These gentle men had that calling, and they so willingly shared their knowledge with me....showed me what was possible to do with products of unavoidable wear or carelessness.
I loved them.
"Werlein's for music!" That was their slogan, and I have JoAnne Young to thank for getting me inside with my need.
Then there were visual flashes...the scuffed exterior, grungy, stained red velvet interior....
And then with a smile, I thought of Werlein's, a huge music store...an "old school" business, back when stores aspired to greatness....
I remember a gray stone building with columns going up three stories...accented in forest green around the windows. I also remember the gush of air conditioning that hit me on hot summer days... (Those big Canal Street stores were always a good place to be in the summer months.)
Werlein's was about six blocks from the Canal Street ferry, and across from Waterberry's Drug Store where folks caught the Magazine trolly...and not far from D. H. Holmes.
There was something in Werlein's I wanted.....EVERYTHING.
Everything was a big order for a kid like me, but I never left that big store without a smile and some little thing to add to a very personal, very private dream.
One thing that just hit me: I don't think that anyone ever went to Werlein's with me. Like many things I did, it was very private, very personal, and I was very alone.
For a time, my trips to Canal Street were never complete without a pit stop at Werlein's, but I didn't know how deep my love for the store went until, on a trip to New Orleans years later, I noticed that it had closed....just like everything else on Canal Street, it had withered and died as the soul of New Orleans drifted off to the malls.
Soul doesn't come easy!
The connection between my horn and Werlein's is hard-wired into my brain....probably because I started going to Werlein's when JoAnn Young generously put that old, funky, Old's cornet into my life.
The horn created a whole new set of needs, and that meant that I had a whole new set of needs....
First, there was valve oil that JoAnn said was a must if the valves were ever going to quit sticking....
Then there was the Big M Song Book that Miss Tisdale, my elementary school music teacher said I needed....
A bit later, she said that the wad of paper I was using to plug up one of the horn's spit valves would not do.
Pilgrimages that I made to my music heaven on Canal with a light heart.
Mr. Tweety suggested I get a Bach 7C mouthpiece....
I loved it! These were all reasons to go to Werlein's when the money turned up.
That felt good, something concrete to baby and pamper and dream on.
I remember hanging around outside the store just to watch kids coming down the street or exiting the street cars on the neutral ground carrying instruments for repair at the store...or for private lessons.
These kids were obviously well-healed.....
Cases without scars and scuffs meant new instruments, their clothes indicated a whole different social level than mine, and they walked with a confidence and assurance.... I never had confidence or assurance, just a lot of nerve.
But I always felt that there was something in them that we shared... The music.
Music was something that I soaked up, and there was so much inside that it oozed out of me....
Sometimes it gushed.
What really got my attention were the adults of all colors, some with gray hair, coming down the street carrying their instruments.... I had some of these folks pegged for professional musicians...maybe even jazz musicians?
How cool was that!
It was magic to see all these guys! People that had more in common with me than most of the adults I knew.... people I wanted to know because they would understand what I was about and give me their blessing.
It felt right to be near them.
I quickly learned to identify the instrument by the case, and if I was unsure, I was nervy enough to ask people what they were carrying.... flutes, guitars, trombones, oboes, bassoons, violins, French horns, cellos, flutes.... occasionally a big bass fiddle.
As I entered the store, there was a huge glass case that seemed like it went on for miles and miles...and God knows how patient the clerks behind the counter were with me!
There were so many things I wanted to touch and know, especially the instruments.....
And then there were the countless questions I had!
Kazoos, Jew's harps, various rhythm instruments, guitar strings.... That display case was a wonderland!
I remember a Martin trumpet on display that had two interchangeable bells...one straight and the other pointed upward to direct mighty blasts into heaven....like Dizzy Gillespie's.
Straight back from the entrance, on the far wall, was where they kept all the sheet music.
One reason to go there was to be by all the musicians buying music. I will confess to going out of my way to be seen handling something that I thought to be very complex and challenging to play....especially if there was some cute girl close by. I absolutely loved the girls in those dark blue or plaid skirts, knee length socks, and white blouses from the Catholic schools, but I also got turned on to composers and their works by thumbing through those stacks of sheet music the way that some boys flipped through girlie magazines.
It tripped me out to see 64th notes for the very first time...and all those exotic time and key signatures! I would see some gnarly piece of music that would sober me up for days....and humble me.
(Who would have thought?)
The second floor had small rooms for private lessons and a huge showroom for pianos. One afternoon I paid a kid a quarter to teach me to pick out "I Dropped My Dollar in the Dirt".
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
I asked my dollar if it hurt.
It said, "No, it didn't hurt."
I dropped my dollar in the dirt.
It seemed like 25 cents well spent at the time!
There was more serious business on Werlein's third floor because that's where there were craftsmen with the ability to restore instruments that seemed beyond hope.
These were sweet guys who tolerated a short, chubby little kid standing around watching them work their magic....tolerated my endless questions as they hammered, soldered and pried unplayable horns.
There was hope here for even my dented, corroding horn if the money ever turned up. Hope for the dented and abused is important to a poor kid...hope that can become part of a dream.
Many nights these dreams would keep me wide-awake envisioning what it would take for me or my horn to be brought around into something wonderful....something to be valued and admired. We're talking about a dream of possible beauty or greatness when everything seems broken and ugly.
These gentle men had that calling, and they so willingly shared their knowledge with me....showed me what was possible to do with products of unavoidable wear or carelessness.
I loved them.
"Werlein's for music!" That was their slogan, and I have JoAnne Young to thank for getting me inside with my need.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Shadow Memories
Some things I hold as precious are like wisps of smoke... like some of my shadow memories... things that may have never happened in exactly the way I recall them, but they are mine because I need them. The need that I have for my father, Eugene, causes me to hold fast to scant things, wisps of a reality long ago.
In Philly, we lived for a time on Hunting Park Avenue. Here I attended Cleveland Elementary School for two years and learned to ride a bike without training wheels.
It was Hunting Park where I planted seeds from an apple in the gray, hard-packed dirt between our stoop and the sidewalk not long before we moved to an apartment on Cambridge Street. I would dream about these seeds for many years, wanting to return and see if they ever took root. I took joy in this shadow memory, thinking that just maybe something I had done there would be permanent... something that I could return to and claim.
I smile at all this now, These shadow memories...memories of warmth.
On one corner of our block there was a Linton's Cafeteria... and the stop where Eugene, my father, would step off the bus in filthy khakis smelling of roofing tar in the afternoon. For a time I took to waiting for him there....
While I waited, I would study the black carbon patterns on the wall of the huge coke plant across the street...watching people go through the revolving door of the cafeteria or checking out the trolley cars in the barn across the avenue.
I would wait at the bus stop, and as he stepped down, I would throw myself at his legs and hug him tightly.
This became such a routine that after a while I would not even look up. The soiled khakis were enough to identify him and the warmth and the strength I so badly needed.
So it happened that one afternoon I threw myself at this man stepping off the bus.... "Daddy!".... and then sensed something was wrong.... Looking up I saw a confused, smiling stranger instead of Eugene. Why is this man such an important part of the shadow to me? And how could two men could have soiled khakis so similar?
On Friday nights there would be a kitchen full of men playing pinochle , eating pizza, drinking beer, and swearing when they caught bad cards...I would hear them from my bed and feel safe and happy.
When Eugene was working, things were good....
There were nights when he would send me down to the corner bar by the fire station for roast beef sandwiches...there were walks in the summer with my parents to get lovely lemon water ices from an Italian vendor...there were trips to Fairmont Park to swim and ride the merry-go-round....
I remember walking down the street in Philly with my father when we came upon men working down under the sidewalk. The manhole cover was off to the side, and I bent down to see what the workmen were doing...leaning over more and more and more.... Suddenly,I was falling head first into the hole....
In that split second, Eugene caught me by my right ankle.
This memory casts a huge shadow that spans a half century. My father saved me...deliberately extended my life.
I need that memory...need that hero, that savior quick and strong. Eugene....
Some of the rest seems so trivial and small, but I need these too... these shadow memories....
I remember him showing me how to make pancakes....waiting for all the little bubbles to appear before turning them.
I remember him taking me in the back yard to pose in my boxer shorts while holding a broken table leg like a club.
I remember him caring for me when I was sick.
Throughout my early childhood, my parents fought occasionally. These were bad fights where there was pushing and shoving, punches were thrown, and things got broken.... But I thought all mothers and fathers did that, although I never saw it happen on TV...
Within a short period of time it would all blow over... Peace, for a time, was restored. The badly broken pieces of ceramics wound up in the garbage, but some were salvaged... These I remember handling years after, remembering the things done in anger to hurt....and hurt bad.
The bust-ups between my mother and father...when we separated as a family...all this began going down in New Orleans. I'm not really aware what all the fighting was about, but one issue was Eugene not working.... and then there were time times my father got rip-roaring drunk...nasty, mean drunk.
As a child, my New Orleans was full of broken promises... promises of houses we would never live in, ponies I would never ride... a family life that would never exist outside of the dreams and promises of Eugene.
My mother's family despised Eugene, said he was a bum, and a "bullshitter", not be be trusted. But it was growing up in New Orleans' Irish Channel that I learned the uneasy peace I would be driven to make with virtually every member of my family as they lied, cheated, stole, and abused one another in a scrimmage of selfish survival.
Eugene had a really good line and lived his life chasing down the smooth deal, the fast buck....a hustler hunting down something for nothing. Somewhere in me, possibly on a genetic level, I inherited some of this in the way that breeds of dogs share traits.
Broken people break one another....
It was in New Orleans that I began chasing down my own dreams that ...dreams of wholeness and healing.
And Eugene? Well, he lives in my shadow memories.
In Philly, we lived for a time on Hunting Park Avenue. Here I attended Cleveland Elementary School for two years and learned to ride a bike without training wheels.
It was Hunting Park where I planted seeds from an apple in the gray, hard-packed dirt between our stoop and the sidewalk not long before we moved to an apartment on Cambridge Street. I would dream about these seeds for many years, wanting to return and see if they ever took root. I took joy in this shadow memory, thinking that just maybe something I had done there would be permanent... something that I could return to and claim.
I smile at all this now, These shadow memories...memories of warmth.
On one corner of our block there was a Linton's Cafeteria... and the stop where Eugene, my father, would step off the bus in filthy khakis smelling of roofing tar in the afternoon. For a time I took to waiting for him there....
While I waited, I would study the black carbon patterns on the wall of the huge coke plant across the street...watching people go through the revolving door of the cafeteria or checking out the trolley cars in the barn across the avenue.
I would wait at the bus stop, and as he stepped down, I would throw myself at his legs and hug him tightly.
This became such a routine that after a while I would not even look up. The soiled khakis were enough to identify him and the warmth and the strength I so badly needed.
So it happened that one afternoon I threw myself at this man stepping off the bus.... "Daddy!".... and then sensed something was wrong.... Looking up I saw a confused, smiling stranger instead of Eugene. Why is this man such an important part of the shadow to me? And how could two men could have soiled khakis so similar?
On Friday nights there would be a kitchen full of men playing pinochle , eating pizza, drinking beer, and swearing when they caught bad cards...I would hear them from my bed and feel safe and happy.
When Eugene was working, things were good....
There were nights when he would send me down to the corner bar by the fire station for roast beef sandwiches...there were walks in the summer with my parents to get lovely lemon water ices from an Italian vendor...there were trips to Fairmont Park to swim and ride the merry-go-round....
I remember walking down the street in Philly with my father when we came upon men working down under the sidewalk. The manhole cover was off to the side, and I bent down to see what the workmen were doing...leaning over more and more and more.... Suddenly,I was falling head first into the hole....
In that split second, Eugene caught me by my right ankle.
This memory casts a huge shadow that spans a half century. My father saved me...deliberately extended my life.
I need that memory...need that hero, that savior quick and strong. Eugene....
Some of the rest seems so trivial and small, but I need these too... these shadow memories....
I remember him showing me how to make pancakes....waiting for all the little bubbles to appear before turning them.
I remember him taking me in the back yard to pose in my boxer shorts while holding a broken table leg like a club.
I remember him caring for me when I was sick.
Throughout my early childhood, my parents fought occasionally. These were bad fights where there was pushing and shoving, punches were thrown, and things got broken.... But I thought all mothers and fathers did that, although I never saw it happen on TV...
Within a short period of time it would all blow over... Peace, for a time, was restored. The badly broken pieces of ceramics wound up in the garbage, but some were salvaged... These I remember handling years after, remembering the things done in anger to hurt....and hurt bad.
The bust-ups between my mother and father...when we separated as a family...all this began going down in New Orleans. I'm not really aware what all the fighting was about, but one issue was Eugene not working.... and then there were time times my father got rip-roaring drunk...nasty, mean drunk.
As a child, my New Orleans was full of broken promises... promises of houses we would never live in, ponies I would never ride... a family life that would never exist outside of the dreams and promises of Eugene.
My mother's family despised Eugene, said he was a bum, and a "bullshitter", not be be trusted. But it was growing up in New Orleans' Irish Channel that I learned the uneasy peace I would be driven to make with virtually every member of my family as they lied, cheated, stole, and abused one another in a scrimmage of selfish survival.
Eugene had a really good line and lived his life chasing down the smooth deal, the fast buck....a hustler hunting down something for nothing. Somewhere in me, possibly on a genetic level, I inherited some of this in the way that breeds of dogs share traits.
Broken people break one another....
It was in New Orleans that I began chasing down my own dreams that ...dreams of wholeness and healing.
And Eugene? Well, he lives in my shadow memories.
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