Post #23

Thought for the day:

You may give without loving, but you can’t love without giving.

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This thought for the day reminds me that there are many reasons to give—pity, guilt, peer pressure, love—and, as the Bible tells us, the greatest of these is love. I bring this up because Grandma and I are so proud of our kids and grandkids, and the love they are demonstrating with their lives. All are deeply involved in activities and lifestyles that exemplify real love. Depending upon which individual you might pick, their love is shown by the commitment and respect they have for their spouses, the upbringing of their children, the concern and care they have for the disabled—both human and animal—and their heavy involvement in the church.
Chelsea, our oldest granddaughter, has been deeply touched by the reports of cruelty and poverty in the third world countries—Africa in particular. A year or so ago, Chelsea traveled with a team of young people to the country of Zimbabwe to minister to orphaned and destitute children there. That experience left her with a love of the country and a passion for the people. This coming Wednesday—May 27—Chelsea will return to Africa, this time to Uganda. She and Raquel, one of her close friends, are leaving from San Francisco airport, very excited despite the prospect of the 19- or 20-hour trip to that far off land. They will be met there by other young people from all parts of the United States, and will spend the next four weeks giving the same love to Uganda’s children that they gave to those in Zimbabwe.
Chelsea’s trip is just typical of what’s happening in our family. Oh, it’s true that not everyone’s activity is as high profile as hers, but that’s the beauty of love: we don’t need celebrity in order to demonstrate it to others—we can demonstrate it in everything we do.
If Grandma and I sound proud, it’s only because we are; not just of Chelsea, of course, but of all members of the family. We are proud of all of them for the love they are giving to each other, as well as for the love their lives are demonstrating to the world.
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Hey! How long has it been since you answered someone’s riddle? Probably a long time, if you’re older than ten. Well, it’s time to get back into the riddle game right now. Each new posting—or at least, some of them—will have a new riddle (new, that is, to me but maybe not to you). Try this one:

What wears shoes but has no feet?

So, let me know what the answer is (if there is one).
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As a kid, I always wanted to be able to play the piano. That seems like a reasonable enough desire but the truth is that the economy of those days was…well…it was kind of like it is today--depressing. That is, people didn’t have a lot of money for things that weren’t just absolutely necessary and learning to play the piano didn’t fall into that “necessary” category.
“Well, Ralph,” my 8-year-old mind said to me, “if you aren’t able to do one thing you want to do, maybe you should try something different.” So I did! I saved my pennies and bought a small Honer Harmonica. more commonly referred to as a mouth organ (at least that’s what it was called in Arkansas, where we lived at the time). As I recall it cost about 15 or 20 cents. I didn’t know how to read music then, and still don’t but I could pick up a tune by ear and then play it pretty well on my old Honer. That instrument and I played together for many years, but then one day I made a fatal mistake: I played it just after I had eaten and just before I had brushed my teeth. Well, you don’t have to be Jerry Murad to know that stray food particles blown into a mouth organ will clog up the reeds so no identifiable sound can come out—let alone a tune. (For those readers who have no idea who Jerry Murad is, let me explain. In the mid-1940s well into the next decade there was—and maybe still is—a wonderfully talented group of harmonica players called “The Harmonicats.” Jerry Murad was the main guy in the group. Their rendition of “Peg o’ My Heart” is a classic and in my opinion it should be played on every radio station throughout the world at least once a week).
But I digress.
Without my good old harmonica, I couldn’t carry a tune, so to speak, so I began looking and saving for a replacement. That went on until I was 11 or 12 years old when I saw an advertisement for a fancy chromatic harmonica. The chromatic harmonica has a thumb-operated valve that lets the player play sharps and/or flats clearly, without trying to get that effect by mouth manipulation.
Are you still with me here?
Well, to make this long story even longer (apparently) I somehow or other saved-raised-stole-begged the necessary $9.00, gave it to the music man (no, no, not the Music Man) and rushed home to show my dad and mom. Mom said, “That’s a beauty, son. It looks pretty expensive.” When I told them the cost, my dad, only half-smiling, said “That’s a lot of money to blow in.” (Honest, he actually said that).
Though I never did get good at playing the thing, that little beauty--which I called "Henry" after a friend in Arkansas--was my pride and joy and it went with me most everywhere I went. Then in 1945, I made another mistake, actually, a lot of mistakes, but only three related to the mouth organ:
Mistake #1 -- I took Henry with me when I went into the army.
Mistake #2 -- I played old Henry in the barracks one night. After the first few notes, one of the guys listening groaned, “Give that thing to someone who can play it! Give it to Billy over there; he’s fooled around with those things all his life.” Well, I gave it to Billy (actually named Billy Bob) who broke into a rendition of “Orange Blossom Express” that sounded almost as good as the same tune played by my friend Henry Davies, the man old Henry was named for. I won’t say that I was humbled, but it’s a fact that I didn’t play it again if there was anybody within earshot.
Mistake #3 -- I took it to the Philippine Islands with me where the humid weather caused its temperamental reeds to get all corroded, and of course, that made it unplayable.
When I returned to the States, I tried every concoction known to man to get those reeds clean, but it was a hopeless cause. I finally gave up and gave old Henry a proper burial in the trashcan.
Soon after Grandma and I got married in 1947, the haunting desire to be able to play something other than the radio came back to me. Then one night as we were watching our fancy new television with its 12-inch screen, I saw and heard Arthur Godfrey play the ukulele. I liked the sound, and he made it look like there was nothing to playing it—just strum down, strum up, strum down—anyway, how difficult could it be? So, soon after that I bought one, along with a couple of primary lesson/song books. (Stay with me here, we’re getting close to the end).
I suspect Grandma thought I had lost my senses when right after dinner I retired to the bedroom and started trying to learn my new hobby. Actually, the four-string ukulele is pretty easy to learn and within just a few minutes I had mastered a few basic chords. By “mastered” I mean I memorized the chord diagrams. Translating those diagrams from my brain into finger placements, though, was something else. I fooled around with it a little bit almost every day, though, and before long I was playing (chording) a lot of the old favorites—and pretty well too, if I do say so myself. Over the years I added a baritone uke and a banjo uke to my collection. I didn’t sound any better on them than I did on the small uke, but no worse either, and it did give me some variety.
Soon after we moved into our new house in 1961, I was working in the garage late one night making bookcase headboards for each of the kid’s beds. I was using a dado blade on my power saw when something distracted me for just an instant. Zinggg! that blade grabbed the index figure of my left hand and spread the tip of it all around the garage. Well, you can pretty well bet that that ended my ukulele career; you might even say that it was cut short. (You might say that, but if you did, everyone would groan and say “ohhhh,” like they always do when some makes a brilliant pun).
Well, that’s the sad story of my musical career. Ever since then, the only music I’ve been involved with comes directly from the radio, a CD, or the television—or perhaps a chorus or two of “Peg ‘o My Heart” as I sing in the shower.

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