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Tale 7

 

Ten Thousand a Hole

 

Maybe it was an old Huron Indian tribe trick, mj wondered later, describing it to Sammy Martinez. First you got a tenderfoot fisherman and story-collector like mj lorenzo laughing at your tales. Then while his guard was down, as it almost always was, you made him think there was a big golden Loch-Ness-Monster of a fairy tale out there, with golden gleaming teeth, so it would be easy as pie to hook and catch and haul into the fishing boat. You supplied the gear, paddled your tenderfoot to the spot, and showed him where to cast his line. But you never, ever, ever mentioned that it was bound to drag him to the other world.

 

Or maybe he had done it to himself, mj wondered too, for decades afterward. Bill never said afterward what story he was about to tell at the moment when mj forgot himself and asked:


"So, money was no object at that point in Fred's career?"

 

"Oh!" Bill said. "Money is no object to Fred even to this day the way he spends. It is an object, he does have money problems, but Fred Waring should not be in the position he's in today. Well. I'll show ya, and this is true. I was out one day." He dropped his voice and shifted in his seat, then picked up his martini glass.

 

Even during normal conversation, Bill would rarely rest with a statement alone, such as, ‘Yes, Fred does have money problems’. He was an inveterate, habitual storyteller all day long every day. A reasonable person might rightfully doubt a mere statement, or even a brief example. Plus: the three of them were writing a book. And mj had asked him a very important question; and Bill felt obligated to prove the truth of his answer with a detailed story loaded with concrete, detailed evidence, just as was necessary in any American courtroom or novel; so that mj (and the tape, and the world) could experience the answer as reality, with a level of conviction comparable to Bill Blackburn’s.

 

But a story took more time, of course; so you had to be patient. Even on normal days, the longer and more complicated the argument, the more stories Bill would feel compelled to tell. If the subject were important and complex enough, you might end up listening to stories all night, as they had more than once before this night.

 

But in the U.S.A. normally, people thought storytellers tiresome, Dr. Lorenzo liked to point out; because they took so long to say things, answering short questions with long stories. He himself had felt that way about certain storytelling friends at times, as he did on this important night. He had grown up on TV and movies, which told stories visually, making their points in a flash, more quickly than a story told in words could make a point. TV and movies had caused U.S. American culture to reject the art of oral storytelling as passé, in fact; and Bill Blackburn was one of the very last who still knew and practiced the art, maybe because right up until his mother’s generation, the traditional Native American method of passing on knowledge essential to the tribe’s health and survival had remained oral, for the most part. The tribe did not write, so transmission of critical values from one generation to the next had always required skillful, artful and creative storytellers. And – as mj would learn during his second interview with the Blackburns – Bill’s mother had exposed him every summer to what was left of the tribe (and her Huron family) when he was a kid. And, in the end, his deepest character was shaped probably more by the ideals held by his mother’s side of the family, than by those of his Irish Protestant father’s side, as the Dr. told his audiences over the years.[1]  

 

"I was over at the golf course at Fred’s Shawnee Inn,” Bill began. “I was supposed to see Fred Waring that day. And while I was waiting, I was running around Shawnee, and this guy said, 'Dya wanna go out there with me’? And I said, 'Yeh', and he took me out to the golf course."

 

In the early forties Fred had bought the ‘Inn’ and its adjacent golf course in the charming Pocono Mountains country village of ‘Shawnee on Delaware’. Since the late forties he and Virginia had lived at the Gatehouse, an old horse stable and carriage house they had remodeled at the front gate of the property. By the 70’s when mj and Dlune bought a house at Spring Lake, most people who lived in the area knew all these facts perfectly well, just as every Englishman knew who lived behind gates and walls at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle. And these local people thought Fred Waring was a good and kindly man, an aristocratic, philanthropic man; just as mj lorenzo did from his having been programmed to think such a thing during childhood. The man had faults surely, or moments, like any human, like St. Peter in his youth, for example, or even suffered a bit of artist’s ego occasionally, but mj had never heard anything to make him think that Fred Waring was anyone but the fundamentally benevolent and wise, well-mannered, saintly, and even idolizable person most ordinary people thought him to be: not a clown, but a grand, honored and weighty personage worthy of reverent respect.

 

"And I went up on the hill and he said, 'I have to talk to the guy over there, d'you wanna wait a minute’? I said, 'Alright'."

 

Bill sipped martini. As soon as he stopped and sipped, a fanfare of trumpets blared from behind mj’s back, then the bass violin and guitar did three slow Bwmmm-pluck-pluck's, an ancient dramatic maneuver designed to put an audience in the right receptive mood for an emotionally powerful song, and the trick worked on mj. You were prepared by such a fanfare-and-Bwm-pluck-pluck introduction, to anticipate a meaningful, heartfelt song, not a mere joke, in other words. You were to take the words, and feelings, seriously.

 

In the mirror, a tenor stepped down from risers looking like Sylvester the Cat in a tux. This, traditionally, meant there would be a tenor solo.

 

Mj sipped too. His stomach felt queasy. There was a lot going on.

 

Bill said, "I was standin' up there looking at this beautiful scenery, and here is a fairway and here's this hill." He graphically drew the golf course with sweeps in the air space over the coffee table and let go a laugh. "And there's a lot of trees, and over on this side is a bulldozer crew."[2]

 

The Pennsylvanians behind mj’s back proceeded with one of their standards, "On Top of Old Smokey," except that the magically – or childishly – and maybe even, as some claimed, prophetically – transformed mj lorenzo heard new and un-standard words.

 

     ...On top of Old

Shaaaaaaaaaaaw-neeeee-eeeeeeee,…     (On top of Old Shawnee....)[3]

 

The tuxed Sylvester tenor pined in a high yet male voice that went higher than the highest treetops, an incredibly high male singing voice that was honestly and truly, socks-knockingly-off-ly pretty.

 

In the mirror a band member played violin notes reaching higher and higher, then levitating, and floating toward the Delaware River. The violin solo drifted slowly like a hot air balloon, then lost draft and hung midair near Kittatinny Mountain, whining on violin catgut.

 

It was a magnificent opening, nostalgically magical; sweet; and even a little sad.

 

Mj sipped like nothing had happened. Bill sipped too.

 

"And I'm standing up there and I see this little cart come out," he giggled, "with a fringe around it," he giggled again; "and it didn't look like any other cart out there and I thought, 'That must be Fred's cart. Nobody else would have a cart like that’!"

 

     ...All caaho-vered with

Gaaaaaaah-olf!...                        (All covered with golf...)

 

There was a wispy violin riff.

 

Tippit color cartoon: Fred bouncing wildly in a red
              golfcart with little Amy from Tippit's cartoon strip 

personal gift to Fred Waring from American cartoonist Jack Tippit

(and ‘Amy’ - one of Tippit’s cartoon character creations)

on the 25th anniversary of the National Cartoonists Association

holding their annual June outing at Waring’s Shawnee Inn and Golf Course

 

"And I'm standing up there

and I see this little cart come out," he giggled,

"with a fringe around it," he giggled again;

"and it didn't look like any other cart out there and I thought,

'That must be Fred's cart. Nobody else would have a cart like that’!"

 

"And it comes along and there's this little bitty man in there." Bill dropped his voice and hunched over to steer like Fred, then gave way to shaking head to foot, trying to contain a howl, "Goin' dooga-dooga!" He howled and howled after all, while his audience waited. "And he stops the cart and he gets out of the cart like this." Bill shot up from his chair and paced all the way to the kitchen and all the way back with quick steps and extra heavy stomping weight, "and he's goin'—," Bill frowned frantically side to side.

 

"Wheef!!" Docka wagged.

 

"Eh, that's Fre-e-ed," Betty Ann said mushily.

 

The tenor was inconsolable, singing:

 

     ...I lost my Fred

Waaaaaaaa-reeeing pluck-pluck-

Bwmmm...,                                           (I lost my Fred Waring....)

 

"Then he goes over and he gets this giant hammer and a stake." Bill, standing straight, faced left, then right, like a street mime doing a wound-up toy demigod. "And people are playin' golf out there!!! And he goes over and he goes –." Bill hammered an imaginary stake right through the rag rug and straight into the floorboard with angry determination.

 

"That's de-ar!" Betty Ann reacted. And the strings circled the Poconos on a fresh breeze, tenor singing:

 

     …When he tripped in the

Rouuuugh...       (When he tripped in the rough.....)

 

"So I hear this voice from behind me." Bill acted disgusted: "'Son of a –‘. And I turn around and here's this workman standing there in old cruddy clothes." Bill sighed. "I said, 'Is that Fred Waring’? He says, 'That's him, goddam idiot’. Bill looked shocked. "He's talkin' about his boss! I said, 'What the hell is he doing'?"

 

Bill loomed, playing the loud workman. "'I knew goddam well this was gonna happen. He's been playin' golf here for the whole week, and he's been shootin' that hole bad, and he's gonna change it’!

 

"I says, 'Come on, you're puttin' me on’.

 

"He says, 'No. He was out here playin' with somebody yesterday, and he lost on that hole, and he's gonna change it'!"

 

Several satyrs moaned from huge white oak trees around the Blackburn house:

 

     …To the tune of Ten

Thaaaaaaahou-sand ooooooo-ooooooo.....  (To the tune of ten thousand....)

 

drawing of a satyr: goat ears, horns, goatee and goat
              hind parts on a man's body is a satyr, here dancing
              ecstatically 

     an ecstatic satyr  –  [4]

 

in ancient Greek theater

the singing of the chorus of satyrs commented on the drama on the stage

whereas in a Waring concert

the singing of the chorus commented on the drama of the conductor’s life[5]

and everybody else's


in either case

if you studied the art

you learned deep and meaningful things about the people from whom it came

such as their religion, politics, family life, personal psychology, etc.

and therefore

since Fred’s musical art stretched from 1918 to 1984

it revealed many of the deepest and most important things about the essence of  the USA and Western world

over the course of the whole pivotal, future-shaping 20th century

 

"Well the guy that was with me came back with a cart to pick me up, and I said, 'This guy is tellin' me –'." He said, 'No, that's Fred'." Bill did a true devotee of Saint-Fred-the-King-who-was-declared-Saint-by-the-people, a very, very awed devotee, and almost whispering: "'When he can't shoot a hole right, he changes it'!"

 

It struck a nerve in mj, and he sobbed a laugh.

 

Bill thought it funny too. “I said, 'You're kidding me'. 'No, and it costs ten thousand dollars to change a hole’!”

 

The tenor cried:

 

     ...I went for a-

weeeeeeep (he wept:) oo-oooo, oo-oooo...    (I went for a weep, ooooo...)

 

Poor mj lorenzo thought he saw something important through his tears of levity. He forgot his evening’s goal of The Great Tale, and asked: "How many times has he changed holes out there?"

 

"He changes two, three holes a season!"

 

The interviewer wiped his eyes with his increasingly wet red flannel cuffs.

 

"And that's what drove him to the point of bankruptcy with the Inn. Now if you think I'm lying...."

 

The tenor didn't think he was lying.

 

     ...'Cause a false-heart-ed

Gaahol-fermmmmmmm-mmmmmmmmm...        (‘Cause a false-hearted golfer...)

 

He wailed:

...Is worse than a

Thieeeeeeeeefmm-mmm-mmmmm...          (Is worse than a thief.....)

 

And mj lornezo didn't think Bill was lying either. He said, "That's only thirty thousand dollars a season."

 

Fred Waring had millions, right?

 

Bill nibbled on that line. "Do you know how much thirty thousand dollars is?!"

 

"Heh heh," went Betty Ann. She cleared her throat.

 

But: at which silly man was she laughing?

 

Mj jiggled the bait. The fairy tale was reachable, he believed. To expect it, or ask for it to be delivered on a golden platter, would be unsportsmanlike. The Blackburns had to warm to it. They knew what he wanted. They would get there soon. "I don't know how much thirty thousand is for Fred,” said mj. “That's the point." The back of his neck tingled, his night’s goal felt closer every minute.[6]

 

"W'l I'll tell you what," Bill bit hard on that line of mj’s. "You know what! I'll tell you what I pay ten thousand dollars for. You know what they told me?"

 

Mj hid his spine-tingling glee. One more golden warm-up tale to introduce cantankerous Fred, and then the real tale would begin. It was on the line, swimming closer and closer.

 

"Where the ten thousand comes from?" Bill finished the question.

 

"No, where?" said mj, leaning forward, aiming the recorder on the oak table to reel it in, Golden Tail and all.

 

The tenor whined,

 

     …A thief he will

Raaaahob yoummm-mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

     And take all you

Aremmmmmmmmmm...    (A thief, he will rob you, and take all you are....)

 

One nice thing about storytelling, of course, was that you could interact with the storyteller, unlike TV or movies; and mj lorenzo had grown up during the age of TV and movies. In fact, those two visual technologies for conveying a story must have made him lazy and passive, he thought later. For he had grown up, also, on stories told by his parents; but, if he had ever known how to interact with a storyteller, he had forgotten somewhere along the way, it seemed. The questions he asked resulted from Bill’s steering him with stories, not from his steering Bill where he, mj lorenzo, the interviewer, wanted to go, as his questions should have done. He kept assuming that Bill Blackburn was headed where he, the interviewer, was headed. He assumed that Bill would tell him about Fred’s incredible wealth, moving things closer to the golden tale he wanted. He assumed that the thirty thousand came from a pot so full of gold, it sat at the foot of Fred Waring’s rainbow with a long and multi-faceted, fantastic fairy tale scotch taped to it.


[1]  Dominance of his mother’s worldview over his father’s in Bill’s character makeup would probably have been multiplied by the fact that when his parents broke up, Bill spent more time with his mother than with his father, because he did not like his father. This too would come out during the second interview.

 

[2]  An aerial view of Fred’s golf course and Shawnee Inn is presented within the Dr.'s Exactly How Mrs. Nixon's Legs Saved the White House Christmas Concert. The creek flowing past the Inn and into the Delaware River is Minisink Creek.

 

[3]  The traditional words for ‘On Top of Old Smokey’ are: ‘On top of Old Smokey, all covered with snow, I lost my true lover for courting too slow, For courting’s a pleasure and parting’s a grief.....’  Whereas the words mj hears are: ‘On top of Old Shawnee, all covered with golf, I lost my Fred Waring, when he tripped in the rough.....’   Apologies to the creator of the original lyrics, Mr. Anonymous. This musical arrangement by Stuart Churchill was a Waring perennial favorite, audiences demanding it as an encore whenever Fred left it out of the main program; and the song over the years was always sung by Fred’s highest tenor, whoever that was at the time. The version that informed mj's hearing and seeing the song at this point in the evening can be heard on Decca’s 33 1/3 two-record set, The Best of Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians, the incredibly high tenor soloist being Gordon Goodman.

 

[4]  Portion of a drawing from Ingri and Edgar Parin D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths (New York: Doubleday, 1962), p. 69.

 

[5]  In the mythology of ancient Greece, satyrs were bands of fanatical male devotees of their favorite Greek god, Dionysus. In the religious comedies and tragedies presented in the Greek amphitheaters during the spring Dionysia, meaning days celebrating the god Dionysus, men costumed as satyrs danced and ‘sang’ as a ‘Greek chorus’, located in an area raised up above the action on the stage, a type of ‘chorus’ so historic and famous it has been referred to simply ever since (for four thousand years or more) as ‘the Greek chorus’. Satyrs of the Greek chorus could hurl words of remarkable wisdom and insight regarding the action on the stage, right in the midst of the drama, and they sang or spoke these intense, often shocking, pithy remarks accompanied by drums and other percussion instruments in an extremely complex and emotionally exciting poetic meter known as a dithyramb. Satyrs were almost universally helplessly oversexed and perennially horny, and on Greek vases which were kept in normal homes they routinely performed graphic sexual acts that would have given most of the Sunday School teachers in Fred’s audiences heart attacks immediately fatal (whether they understood the portrayed acts or not). A satyr was human from the waist up, and a very hairy goat below. All of which made perfect sense to the Greeks and still does make perfect sense to certain moderns who have studied ancient Greece thoroughly and have really given it all some serious thought, Friedrich Nietzsche having been the most famous. For more see Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy, a classic in the field of comparative ancient religion which resulted in Nietzsche’s inventing the terms ‘Apollonian’ and ‘Dionysian’, conceptual terms and frameworks which were then used by anthropologists and others to compare and contrast cultures, religions, societies, individual artistic styles, etc. In fact, mj lorenzo himself used the terms throughout the latter chapters of Part II of his first book, The Remaking, in order to compare the personality traits of his ‘Mortimer’ side (Apollonian) with those of his ‘Jack’ side (‘Diionysian’), in an effort to decide which side of his gravely split and hyperpolarized self to honor. By the time of Tales of Waring, as all mj lorenzo pundits said, critics and admirers both, he had clearly become a little more comfortable with his Jackian, or Dionysian, side. (Dr. Lorenzo's references to Nietzsche pop up here and there in The Remaking. Subsections that focus most on Nietzsche's Birth of Tragedy are 223 and 228 in 'seventh attempt' [last section of Part II].)   

  The main point, as all of the pundits agreed, and critics of mj lorenzo too, was that about this juncture in the evening mj was beginning to experience the Pennsylvanians’ music as a kind of ancient Greek chorus commenting on Bill’s stories about their godlike leader, Fred Waring, sometimes doing so blatantly, and at other times, hintingly.

 

[6]  The problem here was that mj lorenzo assumed that the massive cash-wealth of earlier decades which had allowed Fred to buy the Inn and to fund china shop bulls, war canteens and a thousand other philanthropic or publicity gestures was still available to Fred at the time of this 1974 interview. It was an assumption terribly wrong, as Bill wanted to make clear.

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