Dave Williams is a radio news/talk personality originally from Sacramento, now living in Dallas, Texas, with his wife, Carolann. They have two sons and grandsons living in L.A.
Bobbi Ercoline died a few days ago. She was 73. Nick, her husband of 53 years, paid her a simple yet powerful tribute:
“She lived her life well and left this world a much better place. If you knew her, you loved her.“
I never heard their names before this week but suddenly realized I do know Bobbi and Nick, I’ve known them most of my life. They’re the kids on the cover of the iconic Woodstock soundtrack album published 54 years ago.
The picture of Nick holding Bobbi in a blanket on Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York, freezes a moment in time that symbolized my generation’s place in history; we were naively idealistic kids who believed we could end war and hatred by simply declaring we’d have nothing to do with them.
They called us the Peace & Love generation.
“We are stardust, we are golden We are billion-year-old carbon And we got to get ourselves Back to the garden”
– Woodstock: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Peace is elusive but Bobbi and Nick found lifelong love on a wet hillside in August of 1969.
“At old age, one realizes that life is truly a dream.” — Michael Bassey Johnson, The One Ironauts Body
I was looking for a pithy quote about aging and this one struck me right.
How many times have I thought and written that the past comes back to me in fleeting memories as old black-and-white photos? I know the people in the pictures. I know the places existed and the captured moments actually occurred but they are no more real to me now than barely remembered bits of an old movie I saw a lifetime ago.
Recently I’ve thought a lot about getting old. I don’t feel old but as often as you insist, “You’re only as old as you feel”, the numbers are stunning.
Two of my friends turned 60 yesterday. That’s a significant number in the story of one’s life, I remember it well.
I turned 60 alone, in a high-rise apartment in Chicago. CarolAnn and the rest of the family were home in California. She was getting ready to join me in the Windy City.
August 6, 2011. It was a good day. I didn’t have a lonely birthday pity party. I watched some baseball on TV, talked with my wife and kids on the phone, and then walked to a nearby fancy seafood restaurant and treated myself to a birthday dinner. I went to bed that night wishing I could have celebrated with my loved ones, but knowing there would be next year and many more birthdays to come. And there were.
That was twelve years and seven months ago, and yet just a couple of weeks past. I’m 71 now and my newly 60-year-old friends seem like kids.
Suddenly it occurs to me that there may not be “many more birthdays to come.” My definition of “many” is now questionable.
I remember celebrating my dad’s 60th birthday. It looks like a fuzzy black-and-white picture that spilled from the shoebox.
I think of the older friends and family members I’ve had who lived into their late 80s and 90s. But I also have a list of very dear friends I lost when they were much younger than I am now.
Sharmayne was older than me but she never reached 65.
I always thought of Jerry Grisham as a second father. He died long before 71.
Dad was 72, almost exactly a year older than I am now.
Remember when you were a kid on the Ferris wheel? After many wonderful loops past the stars, the operator suddenly stops the wheel when you reach the bottom, and opens the bar. It’s time for you to leave. And you think, “But those other people got on before I did.”
That’s how it must feel.
At times I lean toward being overly morose about all of this but I shake myself loose thinking it’s just part of the never-ending process of growing up. And then I remember my school friends who died decades ago, some so young they never even had a chance to fall in love.
That shames me back to my reality.
I’m fine, I really am. I’m healthy and happy. I’m convinced that joy is the key to long life. No pity parties for me.
The only thing is, in my mind’s eye I can see the end of the road for the first time in my life. It’s not so much depressing as it is a curious wonder, a totally new experience.
I don’t have many new experiences these days, so this is good. I’ll wrap my head around it soon.
But yes, at some age it will occur to you that life is truly a dream.
Today would have been my mother’s 91st birthday. She died three years ago. I wish I could talk with her today because I have an epiphany to share:
Nostalgia is sweet but stifling. It clutches, refusing to let you go.
She would have been happy for me because the idea makes me happy, but I doubt she would have agreed.
Mom and all her kids
My mother was the dearest, kindest, most giving person I’ve ever known. She was also very smart. She lit every room she entered in a sweet way, laughing and gracious, never commanding. I loved her for all of that.
Mom taught me many important lessons but the one I always remember best is something she told me when I was a very young child:
“This can be a good day or a bad day. It’s up to you.”
She wouldn’t remember that but I think of those words nearly every single morning. They empowered me to be happy. Sadly, it was advice she couldn’t always embrace for herself.
Mom had four children and she doted on us to the point of annoyance.
“All I want is to have all of my kids together with me again.”
That’s what she always said when I’d visit as an adult. As she grew older her sharp humor and wonderful outlook never faded, yet her nostalgic despair grew deeper. It was a deep sadness she masked with her dazzling smile and a small, pretty laugh.
“I just wish we were all still living in Loomis together Those were such wonderful times.”
As I remember it, we loved that home and each other but it was far from wonderful. My dad was overseas much of the time and when he was home he and Mom were both unhappy. They had argued a lot for years; Loomis was the beginning of the end of their marriage but Mom lovingly created and preserved her memories in a photo album of the heart, as we all do. She chose to hold onto the good and forget the bad, bless her. I learned that from her, as well, and I’m grateful for it. The problem was, she embellished her happy memories and lived in them.
Over the past few days, I’ve stumbled across some old family pictures that warm my heart but they also seem distant and foreign. I feel like I’m looking at an old home movie, snips of this and that mixed in a confusion of time. It all seems like several lifetimes ago. My emotions respond but my sense of reality can’t quite connect.
What I see in the past now is how far I’ve come, how much I’ve learned, and how more deeply I love the people and places of my life that made me who I am.
I hold onto the good times and feelings. They excite me about today and tomorrow.
Nostalgia is a nice place to visit but you can’t live there, you can only die there or keep it stashed in your heart and move on.
Fred Bonetti when he was young, a serious actor at Pasadena Playhouse.
“Confucius said, ‘A day spent in idle conversation is a day well spent.’“
Fred was drunk when he told me that.
I was drunk too, so I believed him.
Well, what’s not to believe? It’s a cool observation attributed to one of the supercool philosophers in history.
Problem is, Confucius didn’t really say it, apparently. I’ve Googled the shit out of it. I think Fred made it up.
Fred and I talked a lot of philosophy during our late night conversations. After the onstage curtain calls and the final theater patrons had left the building, out came the large bottle of Albertsons vodka and a couple of cans of Diet Sprite. From that moment into the wee hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning Nietzsche and Schopenhauer were our bitches.
I couldn’t quote philosophy but I could understand the concepts, sorta. Fred could quote famous thinkers word-for-word and explain what they meant. Sometimes he even took issue with the likes of Kant and Kierkegaard. He considered Descartes a fool merely for being French.
Fred has been gone for almost twenty years. I miss him, even though he was irascible and often insufferable. He was also one of the funniest men alive. He could noodle on a piano with a four-inch ash dangling from his “ciggy-poo”, as he called it, while reducing his fellow comic actors to puddles of laughter with his bawdy jokes, his rubbery face and his exquisite sense of timing. He was the master in a house full of funny people.
Most of my dear friends from Stagedoor Comedy Playhouse are gone now, as is the building itself. I loved that time of my life and though I’m not inclined to be overly nostalgic I do enjoy basking in fond memories from time to time.
I miss the laughter and my drunken conversations with Fred.
I took this picture near our home in Texas. It’s a big place with small beauties.
I’m starting a week of vacation tomorrow. I like my job but it forces me to focus on the world’s problems and there’s never a shortage of them.
Today I’m checking out from the big world of bad news. Putin, the pandemic, politics and the price of gas will swirl on without me for a few days. I’m on time-out.
I just came in from the patio where I drank coffee and watched the dogs rush back and forth chasing birds thirty feet above them.
It’s a beautiful day. Spring isn’t far off.
We sprang forward last night. I don’t like time changes but I’m not going to fuss about it right now.
Photo by my uncle, Michael Webster. He sees things the rest of us look past.
CarolAnn is having a fun day out with one of her girlfriends. (“Girlfriends” sounds kinda silly at their age, but I’ll never admit I said that.)
I’m sipping coffee, listening to classic country, thinking happily of my kids and theirs.
Cora, the cat, just plopped down beside me and begged for a chin scratch.
The world is a mess, but at this level it’s still filled with miracles and joy.
It was 72 degrees in North Texas yesterday. Today we’ll top out at 36. Windy as hell. I love Texas weather.
Nick Nolte, 1986
Picking away at a novel I have been picking at for 34 years, I needed a character description for my protagonist. Nick Nolte sprang to mind because I like him. Not the 80 year-old Nick Nolte, the one most of us remember from 1986, which is when my story is set.
That made me try to remember a particular movie he did with Barbra Streisand. I went to Google. It was called The Prince of Tides, premiered in 1991 based on the novel by Pat Conroy. I liked both, the book and the movie.
Gosh, they were gorgeous!
The book was published in 1986. Perfect.
Then I realized I haven’t heard much about Nick Nolte or anything at all about Barbra Streisand in recent years except for an occasional political outburst that I generally consider nutty. But who cares? She’s Barbra and she sings like an angel.
I Googled Barbra.
My first thought was, wow… why is she trying so hard to retain her youthful beauty instead of gracefully looking her actual, beautiful age? She’ll be 80 in April. I think looking 80 would be better than looking 80 trying to look 40.
Barbra recently. (No specific year given.)
My second thought was that I should be ashamed of myself for my first thought, judging her appearance. Still, I wondered what she’s been doing since her last semi-memorable movie, Meet the Fockers, which came out in 2004.
Say what you will about Barbra, she’s one of the few true superstars in our lifetime who is so blessed with talent that she’s immediately recognized by just her first name. She is an exquisitely gifted actress, both dramatic and comedic. Her voice is angelic, her ability to interpret lyrics with refined passion is unequaled. Her voice simply takes me away.
I can overlook Babs’ nutty politics. And hey, if she likes what she sees in the mirror, good for her.
After noodling around on Google some more, I’m thrilled to report that Barbra is still singing as beautifully as ever! Here’s her latest, released just last August. (Notice, she’s not seen in the video. Just sayin’…)
And now you know how I can spend 34 years writing one-third of a story.
This morning I took my almost-four-years-old grandson to school.
His parents are out of town and though he spent the night with his maternal grandparents they both leave for work very early. So, I had the honor of driving to their home at 4:30 AM and being on hand when Tyler awoke around 7:00.
He was very pleased to see me.
“Oh, yeah!”
Still wiping the sleep from his eyes he had suddenly remembered that I would be here for him this morning. He flashed a drowsy grin and ran to me, bare feet slapping the wood floor, his favorite soft baby blanket slung over one arm. His arms went up as mine went down and I lifted him high over my head. We hugged and smiled as is our habit and standard greeting.
I guess he thinks I’m sort of special.
At first, I just sat on the couch and held him on my lap, allowing him to wake up gently.
I don’t like brisk, lively beginnings to a day. I like slow, quiet starts and I think Tyler does, too. At least this morning he did. I held him in my big, bear-like grandpa arms and spoke to him softly.
“Did you sleep good?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you ready for a great day?”
“Yeah!”
February 10, 2009
We talked like that for maybe ten minutes, me asking leading questions designed to put him in a happy frame of mind, him responding affirmatively and with increasing animation. Finally, we decided it was time to get dressed and off to school with a stop at McDonald’s for breakfast.
And that’s the way my day began. No big deal and yet quite remarkable.
As I look back on nearly sixty years of life I am amazed at how little of it I remember with any degree of detail or certainty. I remember the big things but not much of the ordinary and that just makes sense, really.
On a cold, dazzling-bright February morning Tyler and I ate hotcakes and sausage at McDonald’s surrounded by old men in ballcaps sipping coffee and solving the world’s problems.
I took this picture of our grandson, Isaiah, ten or eleven years ago when he presented himself to me in our kitchen, wearing his skivvies on his head, proclaiming himself Captain Underpants.
Today is his first day at boot camp in the U.S. Navy as Seaman Recruit Isaiah Daniel King.
We got to talk with him on the phone yesterday before he took his oath to tell him we love him and are proud of him. He said he wasn’t nervous but I don’t believe it. When I was 19, as he nearly is, I was scared to death going to Air Force basic training but I didn’t tell him that. I told him some funny stories about my days in basic and he enjoyed them. “You’ll work very hard and be very tired but before you graduate,” I said, “you will be proud of the man you’re becoming.”
He told his Nana he was excited because they told him he’ll get paid his first day in the Navy. When she told me that later I laughed my ass off.
“Yeah, they’ll pay him,” I explained. “Then they’ll march him to the base barber and he’ll have to pay to have his head shaved. After that they’ll march him to the base exchange and give him a long list of personal items he is required to buy with his new money: toiletries, mostly. No snacks, no toys, just gear. Then they’ll march him into a building where he’ll be ordered to strip down to his underwear, give him new underwear and basic training uniforms for scrubs to carry in his arms as they they send him through a gauntlet of people who will inject both arms multiple times with vaccines to ward off every disease known to man, most of which you’ve never heard of.”
I’ve told these stories as endearing memories I’ve kept for more than fifty years. It won’t be funny to Isaiah tonight but I assured him it will be, eventually.
When Isaiah gets back to his barracks today they’ll call him outside for his first day of torturous physical conditioning. They’ll yell him into the chow hall, yell at him to hurry up eating and yell at him some more before yelling it’s time to go to bed. He’ll fall into his “rack” next to fifty other kids as the lights go out. Some of them will be sniffling and crying as quietly as possible in the dark but he’ll hear them.
The next morning will arrive hours before sunrise with the demon sergeant throwing on the stark overhead barracks lighting and yelling at him to wake up, make his bed and fall out.
I suppose things have changed in 50 years but I hope not too much. This is how the military turns boys into men. They know what they’re doing and they almost always get excellent results.
They’ll work his butt off, shouting at him all the way, for the next eight weeks. He’ll be dog tired all the time, collapsing on the floor to sleep next to his bunk because he doesn’t want to mess up the bed he was ordered to make with crisp hospital corners so tight that a drill instructor can bounce a coin off the top blanket.
But there is fun to be had along the way. In memory, at least, if not at the moment.
I told Isaiah of the time our basic training flight (that’s what they call a group of scrubs in the Air Force) was marching down the street with our drill sergeant screaming in our faces the whole way. Everybody had knit sphincters, not least of all a young man from Metairie, Louisiana, named Dawson. He was a pure Cajun kid who talked funny and couldn’t keep in step with the rest of us. The harder he tried the worse it got and the more he was yelled at. He had one permanently crossed-eye that flicked every which way but the right way as he tried in vain to follow directions. I was marching next to him as the beast with four stripes screamed at him barely inches from his terrified face.
“DAWSON! GET IN STEP! DON’T LOOK AT YOUR FEET, LIFT YOUR HEAD, SHOULDERS BACK, GET IN STEP! EYES STRAIGHT AHEAD, DAWSON! EYES STRAIGHT AHEAD!…BOTH OF THEM!”
When Sergeant Tenorio said “both of them!” six of us collapsed in hysterics. That’s what he was aiming for. He screamed at all of us to get the hell out of his flight and march in shame behind the rest of the group.
Isaiah laughed. That’s what I was aiming for.
He’s a good boy and now he’s becoming a good man.
Here’s my first chapter in the Captain Underpants story, written 11 years ago. It includes the origin of the name.
A group of these critters is called a herd of cattle. What’s the word for just one of them? Give up?
Nothing. There is no word for just one.
It’s shocking.
American is the most common form of the English language spoken worldwide. Depending on who you ask it’s composed of 750,000 to a million words, yet not one of them describes a single animal of the bovine species.
But get this: there actually is a term to describe such a word that has no singular form: cattle is what’s known in pointy-head language circles as an “uncountable noun”.
I suppose you think this doesn’t matter a hill of beans but it’s the sort of thing that can keep me awake at night.
I fancy myself a writer. Consider this sentence I just made up:
While riding right flank on the herd Slim noticed one animal that appeared to be limping badly and falling behind.
That’s fine as far as it goes but if I’m forced to come up with a synonym in the next paragraph or two to avoid the redundant noun, “animal”, I’m screwed.
The thing is, to identify a single animal (see what I mean about redundancy?) in a stockyard you have to know its age, gender and personal sexual history.
Ridiculous.
A cow is an adult female that has birthed calves. A cow that isn’t yet a mommy is called a heifer, but if she has had one calf, she’s sometimes referred to as a first-calf heifer.
A heiferette (swear to God, I’m not making this shit up) is a heifer that has calved once and can’t calve again – probably had her tubes tied after that first ordeal – while a maiden heifer refers to an animal that isn’t pregnant and presumably never had the pleasure of the opportunity to become so.
(I haven’t done enough research yet but I assume, given a few more years of celibacy, this poor beast will be referred to as an old maid heifer.)
Don’t these terms seem a lot more specific than necessary when we’re just looking for a generic word for a single animal without bothering to give each of them their own names and count the notches on their bedposts?
Before you roll your eyes and explain that these terms are strictly used in the cattle trade, I get it. But they trade horses, too, and a single horse is a horse regardless of its private parts and romantic past.
A young bull being transformed into a steer is what cowboys call, “nut-cutting time.” I’m sorry. I should have posted a warning.
Studly males, of course, are bulls who escaped the ignominy of becoming steers, those poor young dudes who never had the opportunity or pleasure and never will.
Young ‘uns are variously called calf, yearling, short and long-yearling. (What, no toddlers?)
You may also come across the term springer. This can be used to describe a cow or heifer that is close to calving. I don’t know why.
When a female is born as the twin of a bull she will usually be infertile. In these cases, the animal will often be referred to as a freemartin. I have no clue where the hell that came from and now I don’t care a hill of beans, either.
CarolAnn and I have two female dogs and a female cat, known independently by their names or the simple, singular nouns, dog and cat.
None of them has ever had the opportunity or pleasure either, but with all due respect that is none of your business.
With apologies to David Clarke, who inadvertently provided the excellent definitions used in this piece from his page: Understanding Cattle Terminology.
Sacramento’s Stagedoor Comedy Playhouse was my home away from home in the 80s and 90s. For several of those years between marriages, it was my home instead of home.
I was Felix to Dave Grosby’s Oscar in Neil Simon’s “The Odd Couple” Gosh, we were terrific.
I don’t have an exact count but I’d guess I performed in some 20 plays at Stagedoor and directed another ten or so. I wrote a few, too. After each performance, the cast and crew would gather around the beer and wine bar in the lobby and relive the glories and horrors of that night’s show. We drank and laughed while learning the fine points of our craft, of action, reaction and timing, through our shared experience. We kept at it until the wee hours, then reluctantly headed to the parking lot with the happy promise that we’d all get together the next night and do it all again.
I was in my thirties then and thoroughly immersed in my life as a single father and my blossoming radio career. But I still had dreams of a different, distant future.
“When I get old,” I told my theater family, “I’m going to get acting jobs in movies and TV. All the young, hot bodies are fighting for stardom. I’ll wait until they’ve all burned out,” I said. “Then I’ll just scoop up all the old man character roles.”
Remember this old man? Burt Mustin. He was on every big and small screen in the 1950s and 60s.
It was my retirement plan. Seemed like a good idea at the time when TV shows all featured the same two or three old men playing minor roles and window dressing, actors who had been around forever learning technique and aging into the life experience needed for old man character roles.
Forty years have slipped away. I guess it’s time.
I just filled out a form for a casting agency to appear as an extra in a TV series filming in the Fort Worth Stockyards. It’s a prequel to the hit series, “Yellowstone”, called “1883”.
I love Westerns. I’ve eaten dust on horseback.
I loved playing cowboy 60 years ago and I loved being on stage 20 years later. Maybe I’m ready to saddle up again, or just walk down a wood plank sidewalk as a body comes flying through the swinging doors of a saloon.
