It had been 3 weeks since our first date, but when your 17 and smitten love takes over all aspects of your life. I spent the summer before my Senior year in high school working in a factory that made air conditioners (it was ironically not air conditioned), and spending time with Debbie at her parent’s house in the evening. Debbie, at 15 was too young for a job so she spent her days working on her tan and preparing for Cheerleader Camp.
It’s hard to imagine, but in 1978 there were no cell phones, text messages or email, so we had to communicate through conversation. Before kissing Debbie goodnight we would talk about what the next day held in store. “So Deb, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“My mother made me an appointment to see Dr. Marr.”
“Why”
“Nothing really, she’s just overreacting”
Everyone in our little town knew Dr. Marr. He had given me football physicals since 7th grade, or at least a brief interaction that seemed to pass for a physical. An assistant, usually the trainer, would record our vital signs and then the entire team was instructed to strip to our underwear and form a line to wait on Dr. Marr’s arrival. Some years we waited a few minutes, other years maybe an hour, but we always waited for Dr. Marr.
He would straddle a chair at the head of the line, snap on a pair of latex gloves and stick a stethoscope in his ears. The first in line would step up, he would listen to the heart and then growl, “Drop’em”. Tighty whiteys would would be modestly lowered to the knees Read More
“…man, if I ain’t composin’, I’m decomposin’…”
It’s been 25 years since I met Joe and we had only one conversation. Some things stick with you.
I heard him every time I had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home. One of the nurse’s aides told me he played every day, she said that when he was young Joe toured the country with some pretty famous jazz bands.