Category Archives: slum culture

Heavy Metal.

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The man was a breed apart.

Ray* had spent his entire adult life head of maintenance, for the local General Electric plant. He swept floors, it’s true; but, he also repaired just about everything when it broke. Trained as a welder, this included soldering thick pipes.

Always resourceful, Ray taught himself to use a sewing machine. Most of the shirts he wore he’d made himself, complete with top stitching, buttoned cuffs, and added pockets. He also built a deck on the back of his house, and inlaid floor tile.

Outside of work, the man had a rich, cultured experience. He’d met his wife, a native of Rome Italy, at Karate – where they each achieved the 3rd degree black belt, and could both break brick. She a tax accountant, during her off season the two of them would travel the world on expensive cruises, usually for two weeks at a time. By the time Ray reached retirement age, he’d been just about everywhere.

Nevertheless, Ray wanted to learn cello. His goal was to play for the angels someday, in the realm to come. A lofty aspiration, no pun intended, I decided he deserved the opportunity to prepare.

Unlike most beginners, he’d had no musical background. No singing, in school. No church, in childhood. No rhythm sticks, hand bells. No records playing, at night before falling asleep. No piano lessons.

By contrast, I had been surrounded by music making since infancy. Its aural patterns played in my head, regularly and easily. How to get these into Ray’s cranium would become MY ultimate challenge.

Apparently, he’d played for a few years already before we met; Ray came to me after all three of his preliminary teachers had, for one reason or another, set him aside.

So, we began at the beginning. Solid first position set up. Bow arm trajectory. He had the basics well established, mechanically; minus a tendency to play finger to finger, all Ray really needed was an ability to hear and match pitch.

This would prove his ultimate contender.

The man was my most devoted student. Everything I advised he do, he did – to the absolute best of his ability. A self described “slow” learner, nobody knew better than Ray how much effort and repetition would be required to master the tasks set before him.

He’d been my adult cello student, for over ten years, before – post pandemic – Ray spontaneously lost the hearing in one ear. We both postulated that, surely, exposure to continuous loud interior shop noise was the likely culprit.

The ENT examined him. His ears, the doctor declared, were fine.

An MRI was scheduled, next. I kept mum my encroaching concerns; auditory tumors were not uncommon, anymore. He’d be sure to inform me, of the results of the scan.

The day came. Ray described with his customary, easygoing narrative his experience at the MRI test. The technician, he said, kept coming back out to check him – for metal. No; no earrings, nose rings, implants. No metal. But, there was metal, the tech said. In his head.

The test complete, there was no metal on Ray’s body. But, there was metal in. his. head.

Ray wracked his tired, aging brain. He’d never been in the military. Never shot a gun. Never endured a traumatic, penetrating head injury. All he could blame were those days at the G.E., welding pipes. Had he inhaled metal dust, and had particulate reached his brain?

This made sense, to both of us. To me, it explained much. Jay, always struggling to both grasp and retain teaching concepts, would make exhaustive effort to get them into his longterm memory. Even then, if enough time elapsed, invariably he’d need to relearn some of what he had already demonstrated.

Yet, when taken as a whole person, simply put: Ray was not a slow learner. He’d reached the maximum skill level, a master of the art of self defense. He’d made half of his own clothing. He could still fix whatever broke. This was evidence of giftedness – not a feeble mind!

Rock and roll music evolved, in my lifetime. From simple chord progressions topped off by an innocent melody, life and its increasing assaults would birth a genre devoid of nourishment – angry, screaming, pounding, thrashing. Called heavy metal, this was music for the abused and poisoned.

Now, Ray fights back, against the very infiltrate of this evil residue.

May the angels reserve his seat.

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*to respect his identity, my student’s name has been changed for this account.

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Copyright 3/13/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. No RSSing copies. All rights those of the biographer, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not via RSS feed. Thank you for respecting the true stories told by others.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Recipe Card.

addiction, contemplation, creative writing, drama, Good Food, human behavior, psychology, Recipes, relationships, short stories, slum culture, sociology, truth, Uncategorized

CHAPTER 50.

His was a gourmet’s gift. The slurries, alone, always subtley balanced. The rubs, same. You never wanted for naming a dominant spice; rather, the synergy.

And, he loved the prospect of a new “dish.” Let the plan gel, and then heartily get to it.

Yet, the scenario this time was different. A certain clarity pervaded the usually hazy atmosphere. The house had been cleaned, recently, reorganized too. No longer the customary chaos usually accompanying his binges when she rang the doorbell, unannounced, on a night he’d learned to expect her to be otherwise occupied giving private music lessons.

She’d lost count how many times over the years there’d been, oh, two bowls instead of one, an odd wine glass, fried chicken all but gone in the skillet. Then there was the bright yellow stethoscope draped hastily over the livingroom chair, as if somebody other than she had entered via the rarely used front door.

No; this time, the pizza stone nearly empty of more slices than even a fat man could consume, the large, antique China salad bowl oddly cleaned of its contents but, what was this?

A recipe card. For “Linguini Salad”.

Sitting alone, on the opposite counter. Handwritten, in rather large, round, legible script and clean, as if just penned that very day. Not a speck of cooking grease, not a corner turned, fresh as morning. And she, with her annoying visual memory, immediately identifying the writing as unrecognizable.

It had come from his ex-wife, he slurred. Oh; really. All those thirty odd years ago, still untouched by so much as a drop of oil.

And, calling for artichokes and “Paul Newman’s Own” dressing, the latter underscored with proud emphasis.

Why a natural chef would choose a salad recipe from the ex-wife which called for pasta and bottled dressing, to accompany a mammoth flatbread homemade pizza. Why, indeed.

Moving through the livingroom to the bathroom ( in search of the stash of Ivermectin ) and, re-emerging sooner than he was ready, she caught him stuffing something under the sofa cushion and then, spying her, deftly acting to smooth its surface.

Ah. What had we here, then. Black Nike workout pants, far too narrow for his overdeveloped calves. They were his, were they. Would he put them on, to see if they fit? No; he would not. Nor would he tell her how he’d spent the afternoon. He owed her nothing. In nearly six years of endless forgiveness for countless infractions, she had earned no explanations of any kind.

Two degrees of separation, and swift resolution: No; the ex-wife had never used Paul Newman’s Own dressing. On anything.

(Sorry, Paul.)

They say the secret is always in the sauce.

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Thus endeth the lesson.

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Copyright 1/18/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole, part, or by translation, permitted; sharing by blog link, exclusively, and not via RSS. Thank you for being honorable in a sea of filth.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Guns: Lapel Pin of the Powerful Elite.

blog site access problems for littlebarefeetblog.com, civic commentary, commentary, education, human behavior, political commentary, politics, psychology, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, WWII, , , ,

I have a brass lapel pin in the shape of a cello.

In earlier years, the sterling silver eighth note or Treble clef populated these accessories, bestowed by the aspiring or devoted student, and my jewelry box is peppered with several.

( However, I can’t say whether I have ever actually worn any of them. As a working professional, I guess the doing always trumped the wearing; after all, musicians don’t generally feel the need to bear labels. They just show up and play. )

What we pin to our chest is a moniker. It tells the world of affiliation pride. From the American flag to the Masonic cross, so many associations and clubs require them of each member. But, what of such symbolism, and its affect on the subconscious?

Those who “pack” don’t wear theirs on the lapel. But, they might as well.

Because to these, the weapon is a mark.

They are part of the collectors’ culture. Some do use their rifles, to kill game in sport. Others place value on the history of the guncraft, its material detail and design, much as that of the fine wristwatch or other outmoded accoutrement.

To such afficionadi, history is what drives their interest. But, the lines blur here. Historian > politician……….many a retired general, on a visit to the officers’ club, might discuss his latest acquisition with those from whose social circle he or she seeks acknowledgement. Unfortunately, these are those whose power over legislation holds sway, and which has brought us to the scrutiny of the world stage.

Why? Because another “club” has arisen in our society, born and bred in its underbelly, populated by the disenfranchised, remotely located, and easily alienated. The anarchy of assault weapon acquisition is a burgeoning subculture, and poses a palpable threat to our social stability.

In fact, there are more assault weapons available in the United States per capita than anywhere else on earth. And, every time a lone shooter has massacred innocents, from Parkland to Uvalde, the assault weapon has been chosen to accomplish the deed.

The disparity between the culture of the elite collector and that of the stockpiling insurgent must be vanquished. Laws governing ownership are antiquated, and serve only the former while emboldening the latter. Those in leadership must recognize to which group they might belong, and legislate accordingly. And, the time to do so waits for no man, woman, or child.

My cello pin has a tiny, engraved bridge, set of strings, and protruding post known as the endpin. My real cello’s endpin is, when fully extended, almost two feet of sharpened steel, a weapon in itself. I know the difference.

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Copyright 5/29/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying in whole or part, including translation; sharing permitted via direct blog link, exclusively. No RSSING. Thank you for respecting authenticity.

littlebarefeetblog.com