Written by Dave Rowe – Well, it’s 5:45 in the evening and I’m at – where I always seem to be at – the supermarket. I’ve got this wife Doris (blond but by no means a Doris Day) and whenever I get home from my day at Cleveland Commerce she’s on the phone. “Oh hon,” she’d said over-top the pink receiver, “be a dear and run to Hinton’s for a can of sardines – I need them for the seafood salad I’m making for the PTA luncheon.”
So here I am in aisle 6 – canned meats and fish. As I walk toward the section where the sardines might sit, something catches my eye and causes me to stop – a can of Vienna Sausages. I gaze at the little blue cans of the truncated wieners and I , well, I think back.
Think back about 40 years, to four cans-worth of Viennas boiling in a pot over top a robust campfire, supper for me and five of my 12-year-old buddies, members of Beaver Patrol Troop 117 Boy Scouts of America. We’re camped out in remote southeastern Ohio and what has our attention is the transistor radio.
It belongs to Fred Talbot, tallest and skinniest of our bunch, and he’s located a not-too-stat icy station that plays top 40. “Oh man,” says tow-headed Jim McDibb when the lyrics “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” spew forth, “that’s Three Dog Night – I saw them on Rock Concert and man are they cool.”
Next comes the Beatles, “Let it Be.” “Now THIS is cool” comes the comment from George Wilkins, chubbier and wiser than the rest of us. “This might be their last record.”
Silence, except for the crackling of the fire, fills the air for an instant then it’s Cher, “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” The talk, it turns, well, to the opposite sex. “That Donna Krieger,” says Fred Duckett, whose older brother Tom has just made Eagle, “she’s so stuck up; I bet she stuffs.”
“No she doesn’t,” counters Ted Johnston, captain of the Grayson Middle School basketball team.
A “so how would you know?” comes from Fred
“Been down there, that’s how.”
Tales of going’s ons outside the auditorium after Friday night dances follows then does a discussion of who best to put the moves on following the next one. Then, on the radio comes the Rolling Stones, “Honky Tonk Women.”
“Boys,” comes a voice from behind the trees, “you’ve got good taste in music.” It’s Bill Offenbach, a rotund late 20-ish semi-official assistant scoutmaster. He’s clutching a brown paper sack and he holds it up. “Tonight,” he announces, “I’m going to teach you to become men.”
He reaches in and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, Camel Filters. Solemnly he distributes a smoke to each of us. “Now I know you guys have probably smoked grapevine but this is different – you’ve got to suck in the smoke and hold it down in your lungs – you’ll cough at first but you’ll get used to it.”
It turns out he’s right about the coughing; Tommy being the exception due to the occasional pilfering of a Kent from his father. The Camels get puffed then Bill reaches in his sack and produces a bottle, Tequila. “Now this boys, is Tequila, a man’s drink.” He passes out Styrofoam cups and fills each one half-way. “Now just sip it – sip it slow. You’ll feel a warm glow inside your head and then the ground might start to spin – don’t worry; you’ll be getting loaded.”
Again, coughing ensues and from George comes a belch then some upchuck. “Don’t feel bad son,” says Bill, “it’s your first time. Speaking of first times, wait till you boys get sex – my first time I’ll never forget. It was in the back seat of my daddy’s Chevrolet with Dinah, a girl who was stacked. Stacked – does anyone know what I mean by that?”
Tommy is aware of the terminology and supplies the definition in no uncertain terms.
From there, Bill goes on to recount more carnal escapades. “My favorite time came when I was in the Navy, stationed in Norfolk,” he says. “boys, let me tell you..”
We, well, we let him tell us and by this time for me the ground is spinning fast.
Now, nights with Doris I sometimes get some crazed notions and some Friday nights I come home with Jose Cuerva instead of the Pabst’s
So here I am in the parking lot, inside my Toyota, waiting for the cigarette lighter to pop out and I’m second-guessing myself – why didn’t I toss a couple cans of Viennas in my basket? And then I think of Paul, my ten-year-old son. Next year he’ll be eligible, but there’s the Y, there’s soccer camp, there’s church youth groups – there are some alternatives here.”
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I’m a native Clevelander who moved here about 12 years ago, taken by the scenic beauty and the eclectic lifestyle. I’ve worked as a journalist and as part owner of a janitorial business and now I concentrate on music and once again writing. I wrote Blues West End in part to spotlight the bluesman Robert Jr. Lockwood who in my opinion never got his due.
