Don’t Be Hard-Boiled; Keep On the Sunny-Side Up

It’s a tough question, but an appropriate one to ask this time of year:

Q: Why did Humpty Dumpty have a great fall?

A: to make up for a lousy summer.

Our man Humpty tried his best to be a good egg, but frequently suffered from shell shock.

Don’t mean to scramble your thoughts or egg you on, but you may have guessed by now that this Virginia ham is about to shell out another onerous omelet of poached pundemoanium and wisecracks. For egg-sample …

In equations with square numbers I can never find the root of the problem.

Nepotism is okay as long as it’s kept in the family (is that putting on heirs?).

He made a slow start in the sport of weightlifting but picked it up eventually.

If you actually look like your passport photo, you aren’t well enough to travel.

The builder, who was retiring, said to his son, “This is all yours now, son.” The son replied, sadly, “I dunno, dad. You’re a hard hat to follow!”

This is the price you pay for reading these eggscrutiating puns . . .

Pepper: Price of a pick me up.

Peract: Price of part of a play.

Percent: Price of a penny.

Perforate: Price of holes.

Permute: Price of silence.

Where did the little king keep his armies? Up his sleevies!

Under the full moon, Hamlet turned into a werewolf. Gazing up at the beautiful moon he came up with the famous line, “To bay or not to bay…”

And, if all the world’s a stage, be careful you don’t trip over a prop.

I hate the price of candy at the movie theater. They’re always raisinette.

I tried wrapping Christmas presents, but I didn’t have the gift.

A rule of grammar (your mother’s mother): double negatives are a no-no.

Jim: “Welcome to Walla.”

Bob-Boy: “I thought it was Walla-Walla.”

Jim: “It’s not half the place it used to be.”

For the record: While colporteur is a peddler of religious books, rapporteur is not a peddler of modern urban song CDs.

I didn’t want to buy leather shoes, but eventually I was suede.

John Deere’s manure spreader is the only equipment the company won’t stand behind.

I’m drawn to art (and draw flies in the process).

I met the woman of my dreams at the base of Mount Vesuvius. She is the lava my life.

I’m feeling a little hoarse by now (neigh!), and definitely not that stable. Here’s proof . . .

Equipoise: A self-assured horse

Equidistant: A far-off horse

Equivocal: A talking horse

Equinox: A nightmare

Equilibrium: An equine book collection.

When making butter, there is little margarine for error.

How do two snails settle their differences? They slug it out (in slow motion, however).

Bacon and Eggs walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and snarls, “We don’t serve breakfast!”

Which leads to this eggciting conclusion . . .

During the Revolutionary War, the British sympathizers among the colonists were known as Tories. Some would work hand-in-hand with the Redcoats to try to foil the battle plans of the Continental Army.

After a certain skirmish, a group of General Washington’s men tracked one of these sympathizers to a farm, which they searched for hours without success. A militiaman then came up with the idea to release a hen into a barn where they suspected the fugitive might be hiding. Sure enough, loud cackling and commotion quickly ensued, and the soldiers were finally able to take their prisoner into custody. This was the first known instance where someone had a chicken catch a Tory.

Please don’t fire me until you see the whites of my eyes. (The yolk’s on you).

Hens forth, no more puns! But they’re capuns! I think it’s time to I call an eggs ban edict and make my eggsit.
 
 

Jim (Eggo-maniac) Bishop scrambles word pictures as public information office at Eastern Mennonite University. Egg him on at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Listen … remember? They’re playing our song

“While listening to the radio just now I heard an instrumental rendition of ‘This is My Father’s World,’ and, when I hear that song, I picture our (late) mother standing up front, leading rows of children in singing that particular song when she was in charge of music during Vacation Bible School at the Doylestown (Pa.) Mennonite Church. She used large posters (with the lyrics on them) that sat on an easel.”

My brother Eric, of Souderton, Pa., wrote these lines in a recent e-mail exchange with us Bishop siblings, reflecting on associations and connections that are triggered by songs when we hear them.

Brother Bob of Doylestown responded: “That same song is imprinted in my mind but from another setting – the apple packing house adjacent to the Pinto (Md.) Mennonite Church. I attended Summer Bible School there. Aunt Lois (Dayton) was our teacher and led that song.”

That led to a shared memory from Elmwood first south residence hall (in 1967, my senior year of college when I roomed with Bob, a freshman): Floormate Sandy Burkholder playing The Mamas and the Papas songs over and over again. Sandy, from Newport News, Va., lost his life in a hunting accident some years later.

Bob then continued: “Joe Jones’ ‘You Talk too Much” – a No. 1 hit in 1960 – was playing on the jukebox in a diner in Sullivan County, Pa., when Frank and Jerry Troester and Dad and I were having breakfast prior to going grouse hunting early one fall morning. I shot my first and last grouse that day with a single shot 4/10.” Frank Troester and my dad, neighbors for many years, are both gone – greatly missed, certainly not forgotten.

I think of my dad every time I hear The Coasters’ top ten hit from 1959, “Yakety Yak.” I can still hear Dad cry out, “Yakety yak . . . don’t talk back,” and then proceed to imitate King Curtis’ saxophone instrumental bridge in the middle of this good-time tune.

As Eric noted in a follow-up message, “These song associations don’t have to be sentimental, just indelible in our memories.”

I’ll slip my Jamie 45 rpm copy of “Maybe You’ll Be There” by Billy and the Essentials on to the JVC turntable and the hands of time turn back to 1962. I’m sitting in a booth at the R&S Diner along Rt. 309 with fellow musketeers Jerry Troester, Dick Meyers and Jack Gross.

Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons’ “Rag Doll” comes on the radio, and once again I’m playing miniature golf at a course along Rt. 611 in Cross Keys, Doylestown, on a warm summer’s eve in 1964.

Speaking of 1964, I had my first date on Oct. 4 that year with the fair young damsel who is now my beloved wife of 43 years. We doubled with college classmate Henry Rosenberger in his pea-green Corvair (with the blackened rear end – his car, that is).

While inching down Skyline Drive on a cold, foggy, rainy Sunday afternoon, Henry’s car radio (WHBG, 1360 in the Land of Dixie) played Darlene Love’s “Today I Met the Boy I’m Gonna Marry.”

I should add – or maybe I shouldn’t – that I bedazzled Anna during this close encounter by playing Roger Miller’s “Chug-a-Lug, Chug-a-Lug” on my baritone ukulele. I ‘m forever grateful to ole Rog for his luminous lyrics that I’m sure helped impress this sweet young thang, because it took three years for Anna to hear and respond to the Darlene Love tune.

I can’t hear or sing “Be Still My Soul,” based on Jean Sibelius’ “Finlandia,” without getting choked with emotion. This hymn was sung at my dad’s funeral in early 1998, led by brother Michael with him soloing while the congregation hummed in four-part harmony.

I hear “Twilight is Stealing,” from The Temple Star song book published in Singers Glen in 1877, and similar sentiments rise to the surface. The melody, perhaps more than the words, brings to mind my late mother, Ann Dayton Bishop, who left this life in December, 2009. We brothers four sang this piece at her funeral. I’m surprised how buoyed I felt in having the opportunity to pay this musical tribute to her life and legacy.

For me, singing a variety of hymns of faith is the most energizing aspect of weekly worship. Similar to Eric’s recollection, many songs transport me to my childhood congregation, the Doylestown Mennonite Church, and visions of the late Millard Detwiler leading the flock Sunday after Sunday in selections from the black “Mennonite Hymnal” and gospel numbers from the red “Life Songs No. 2.” The service always closed with the “Doxology.” I cherish those memories and the experiences tied to these musical roots.

I question whether much of what passes for contemporary music will have the same persuasive, memory juggling or even restorative powers, say, 20 years from now.

Move me, soothe me, O wondrous music . . . and thanks for the memories.
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Dusty discs activate cobwebbed recollections

I felt so “blown away” I was glad I was sitting down at the time. I popped the CD in the player and turned back the hands of time 55 years (man alive!). It seemed like only yesterday once more.

There was still background noise that sounded like someone sharpening a knife on a revolving cutting stone and an occasional “hic,” but the overall sound quality was much improved.

Some time back my brother Eric sent me a Soundcraft 45 rpm-speed metal disc that the J. Vernon and Ann Bishop family had made in 1955, wondering if it’s possible to salvage the original recording, in pretty bad condition from years of play and languishing in storage.

I gave the dusty disc to my friend Charles Graves at WSVA radio, who enjoys the challenge of trying to bring back to life that which some would declare near death. He ran the corroded record through a computer software program on to a blank CD.

I listened to the restored copy and almost choked on my feelings – good emotions. In my mind’s eye I can still see our family gathered in the cozy dining room of our domicile next to the Doylestown (PA) Mennonite Church. Dad arranged for someone to come with a one-track reel-to-reel tape recorder as we put together a five-and-a half-minute compilation of representative family activities.

On the recording, I played two short piano selections, one titled “In Church,” sister Becky recited “The Lord’s Prayer,” then brother Bob sang the Malotte version of the same biblical text – reminiscent of Alfalfa’s struggling to hit the high notes in the “Our Gang” comedies. It concludes with the song our family frequently sang around the supper table, “In My Heart There Rings a Melody.”

I still remember traveling into Philadelphia with Dad to load up a Blasius & Sons upright piano that he found at a reduced price; it might have been a giveaway. The massive instrument produced a marvelous sound, even when this young lad sat at the bench and hit wrong notes in practice which I did nightly – whether I felt like it or not. The piano sported genuine ivory keys too, but was dead weight. It didn’t budge once situated in the corner of our dining room.

I think of my weekly visits – some anticipated when I was prepared, dreaded when I hadn’t adequately prepared – to my teacher, Mr. Partch. I liked him. He seemed genuinely interested in me and affirmed my potential as a student of the keyboard even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick with it.

I knew that my teacher was biased toward classical music, which is largely what I learned week after week (by the fifth year I was playing heavy duty Tchaikovsky), and Mr. Partch was less than thrilled when I brought sheet music for Roger Williams’ “Autumn Leaves” and Duane Eddy’s “The Lonely One” to class.

My regret to this day is dropping piano lessons when I chose to attend Christopher Dock Mennonite High School, some 25 miles distant, instead of Central Bucks. My parents couldn’t afford to continue the lessons and cover tuition at Dock. Fortunately, the piano background served me well when I took up the baritone ukulele in college and the acoustic guitar shortly after graduation. I still have this six-string companion, get it out and play occasionally.

The homemade recording ends with Mom stating, “This record was made Feb. 28, 1955. The children’s ages are Jimmy, 9, Bobby, 7, Becky, 5.” Eric, now 53, and Mike, 51, were not even a gleam in my parents’ eye then.

“Dr. Charles” went the second mile and performed digital surgery on two more 7-inch, 45 rpm vinyl discs from my collection – Bill Hayes’ “Ballad of Davey Crockett,” introduced on “Disneyland” on TV and soared to No. 1 for weeks in 1955, and a Capitol 45 that I thought too far gone to be resuscitated, “Daffy Duck Flies South.”

The wacky but ingenious story line with Mel Blanc’s voice characterizations and inspired music by Billy May has Daffy flying south for the winter (it sounds like a jet plane with coughing spasms when he takes off and comes in for “a perfect three-point landing – my two knees and my nose”).

Daffy winds up by accident in “Backwards Land,” where the local native says goodbye when he means hello, the cow moos backwards and the children in the little red school house are instructed by the teacher to “Sing we’ll now, children” and they respond collectively, “Clothes our wash we way the is this, clothes our wash, clothes our wash. . .”

Because he’s stuck in Backwards Land, Daffy has to take off flying backwards and winds up right back where he started from. A moral here, perhaps?

“Oh, well,” he reasons, “I may not be the first duck south, but I’ll bet I’m the first duck back north.” We Bishop kids participated vicariously in these fantasy adventures for years, courtesy of our heavily-used phonograph player and our vivid imaginations.

That’s NOT all, folks! Thanks to some amazing technological advances, our vintage family recording and other childhood memoirs will live on.
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: On not despairing when life needs repairing

I saw it coming, but pretended it wasn’t happening. Eventually, the problem caught up with me.

Technology – specifically, nearly-outdated technology – stopped me in my (recording) tracks, mid-sentence and mid-music selection. I went back and started over repeatedly over a two-day period and finally told myself, “Houston – or Harrisonburg – we’ve got a problem.”

For more than 10 years, I’ve trudged up the hill every week to the former WEMC radio studio and pre-recorded the “Friday Night Jukebox,” an hour of music of the 1950′s for broadcast on, obviously, Friday night, on 91.7 FM (now on-line as well at www.wemcradio.org).

I’ve taken great pleasure in this musical rite. It’s a proven escape valve, a regular reprieve from the more routine aspects of my job of cranking out news releases and other materials for various web and print projects at my workplace.

But now, here I am, unable to record this week’s program. I leave my script, stack of CDs and several vinyl albums smoldering in the control room and shuffle back to the office, feeling a tad dismayed.

The question is: should effort even be made to discern the problem is with the malfunctioning equipment, given that it has been on its “last leg” for\ some time? And if the cause is identified, does it merit repairing or replacing, since no one but me uses this production studio anymore?

The same day, while continuing to fret over my technical dilemma, I took my personal camera, a Canon Rebel, to the repair shop. At work, I use an excellent digital camera, but still hang on to this 35 mm. camera because it works so well, takes sharp photographs and affords much satisfaction as I give prints to people. But with digital cameras the order of the day, should I bother having it fixed?

I did, and the repair bill was minimal. I’m back in business, surprising people who come up and pop the usual question, “Getting a lot of good pixs?” I reply, “I think so. I’ll let you know soon.” Nevertheless, even buying the type of film I like is becoming a hassle, and I expect to go digital in due course.

Later the same afternoon, I took the office digital camera to record a special little ceremony at Virginia Mennonite Retirement Community. Resident Margaret Martin Gehman, 88, was donating her 1967 VW Beetle with some 176,000 miles on the odometer to Eastern Mennonite University. Dr. Martin is professor emerita of art, having served with distinction on the faculty from 1944 to 1987.

After snapping some shots of Margaret handing the keys and title to development officer Phil Helmuth, I asked her why she opted to part with her trusty, albeit rusty, mechanical steed.

“Well, the decision wasn’t easy, but when I need transportation, to church or other places, someone is available to take me,” she said. “But more importantly, I wanted to stop driving before I cause an accident or someone unintentionally runs into me.”

I admired Margaret’s unhesitating response. Surrendering driving privileges has to be a difficult decision for anyone who has enjoyed long and fruitful years on the road. Concluding any long-time activity that provides special meaning and purpose suddenly marks the end of a significant chapter of life. It means bidding farewell, letting go and moving on.

The end of the week, I sent off material, articles and photos to an annual college guide, knowing this was the last time to do this particular project as I continue moving through the final year at my workplace. Other similar projects and activities will follow in the days ahead.

I’m certain that my regular radio sprees, column writing, photography and other free-lance projects have helped keep me energized, plowing ground in the same journalistic field for nearly 40 years – 44 if one counts a previous related post – and all these years.

But, like it or not, certain routines we follow and equipment and other devices we use wear out . . . and so do we.

That reality was reinforced as I entered the weekend and attended the funeral of an uncle, 83, and a former work colleague, 72. There was much letting go and, as difficult and painful as it is, moving on. Life does not slow down to allow us to adequately catch our corporate breath.

I am taking the experiences of this past week – the production room breakdown, my interaction with Margaret Martin Gehman, and the two moving funeral services I just attended as signs from above that the time has come for the world’s second oldest teenager to unplug the colorful jukebox.

Perhaps this decisive act to close one door will help open some new window of opportunity. And, even if for me it’s the day the music died, like the hymn declares, how can I keep from singing?
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Where the elite meet to eat

Amazing how a certain setting, conversation or sudden encounter can trigger nostalgic mental images of another time, another place.

Recently in a gathering of friends I was ticking off eating places in the greater Harrisonburg area that I once frequented but no longer exist. Some favorites included:

- The Old Virginia Ham cafe, the space now occupied by the Rockingham court complex, one of the best places for breakfast that I recollect.

- Kenny’s, the only fast-food restaurant in town during my college years along Rt. 33 east, about where L’Italia now stands. I’d order a juicy hamburger on a Sesame seed bun, fries and a soft drink and get change for my dollar. Circling the place in vehicles was discouraged, but many did so anyway;.

- Lloyd’s Steak House on Rt. 11 south with its white tablecloths, linen napkins and fast, friendly service by grandmotherly waitresses. Their specials included “steak for two” with baked potato and salad at a reasonable price. I also remember their sign at the cash register: “In God We Trust. All Others Pay Cash.”

- The Rib & Sirloin Room at the Belle-Meade Restaurant, where I took a fair young co-ed whom I wanted to impress for a steak dinner with potato, sides and beverage for about $3.98, a lot of money for an impoverished college student to shell out.

- M.D’s “Chicken in the Rough” at New Market. It was hard to beat the generous portions of fried chicken garnished with string fries and dinner rolls served without utensils, just a cup of lemon water to dip your sticky pinkies in. The décor might be described as “early plastic,” with assorted flowers and fruit hanging from the ceiling and walls.

Jess’ Lunch, Klines and the BBQ Ranch on Rt. 11 north always were, and I hope always will be.

As I was leaving the group, a lady at the next table said she overheard my comments about Chicken in the Rough and said, “Don’t forget – they also served honey for the rolls, which made your fingers even stickier.”

She also reminded me that the Harrisonburg Howard Johnson’s served “all you can eat” fried clams every Friday night. (I would always order a clam roll those magical times our family stopped at one of those orange-roofed plazas along the Pennsylvania Turnpike).

Every time that I yield to temptation and pull in to Klines Dairy Bar I’m reminded of special eating establishments from childhood days.

I think my favorite special Kline’s flavor is black raspberry because every luscious lick takes me back to a drive-in spot on Rt. 611 just a few miles south of Doylestown, Pa., that specialized in frozen custard made in vintage ice cream machines. They always had soft-serve raspberry on hand.

I can still visualize our family pulling into the crowded parking lot on a muggy summer’s night, the confectionary delight soon melting down the cone and dripping onto my t-shirt or shorts.

A Frosty Cup affair a bit farther from home, along Rt. 309 near Souderton, Pa., offered the ultimate taste bud treat – a hot dog off the rotisserie grill and a soft-serve ice cream cone washed down with A&W root beer served in chilled frosted mugs.

Other local but long-gone places included Mary’s and the Red Rooster, which served the best Philly-style cheese steaks I’ve ever consumed.

My family wasn’t that well off, but somehow we managed to eat out frequently. What great culinary encounters followed when Dad pulled into Ed’s diner in Doylestown – ooh, could we afford fried shrimp stuffed with crabmeat? – or Goldie’s Diner in Dublin. The best part of the dining experience at Goldie’s were the times someone plunked a coin into the colorful Wurlitzer jukebox – six plays for a quarter – and I watched the 78 rpm platter rise from the depths of the machine, the turntable start to spin and Miss Patti Page warbled, “How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”

Of course, going to such “fancy” places required that we all dress up. Does anyone do that anymore?

Today, virtually every fast-food and chain eatery has settled into the ‘Burg. I go out with my backyard neighbor, Harold Huber, for supper every couple weeks, and we have fun sampling the wares at a place we’ve never been before.

But, every so often, I find myself yearning to drop by Doc’s Tea Room across S. Main Street from the former Madison College, if only for an order of ketchup-drenched greasy French fries and a fountain soft drink.

It remains a joy – and privilege – to eat out occasionally and, along the way, to recall some former eating places and certain menu items that many years later still leave a pleasant taste in my mouth.
 
 

Jim (Bon Appétit!) Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Working on job reflections without belaboring the point

Ah, wherefore didst the summer goeth? I ask my dazed person.

Ich weiss nicht, you may reply, if German is your language of preference. For many, I suspect summer isn’t departing soon enough, given it’s been among the hottest and driest on record.

For the most part, I haven’t minded, since, as noted before, I’m one of those weird persons who think hot weather is cool. I start feeling wistful as soon as the air turns cooler and leaves become tinged with color, meaning that my least favorite season, winter, will again bestow its hoary breath on the Valley landscape.

With the recent return of welcomed moisture, our huge backyard garden, consisting of six Better Boy tomato plants, is producing more luscious fruit. Few gastronomical delights can surpass chomping down rows of Silver Queen sweet corn kernels dripping with real butter supplemented with a side of sliced homegrown tomatoes.

As the late Nathaniel Adams Coles (Nat King Cole) enjoined, “Roll out those lazy, hazy crazy days of summer . . . I wish that summer could always be here. . .”

Well, guess that’s possible, if we all moved to Florida or Arizona or the tropics, but I suspect I’d eventually yearn for the variety that the four seasons affords (apart from the kind of snow shoveling performed repeatedly last winter). I’ll be satisfied for the present to pop Vivaldi or Frankie Valli into the CD player and experience the four seasons vicariously.

The main concern with this particular weekend: for years, I’ve labored on Labor Day because of my workplace situation; it would be disruptive if everything shut down for the day about one week into fall semester classes.

I take some solace in the fact that more people work on Labor Day than have a paid holiday. The hardest part for me is that my schoolteacher spouse and my immediate family members are off and I’m not, making it difficult to do any kind of special activity together before plunging back into our work or school obligations.

In the 44th year of my vocational career, I’ve only worked two places – four years in a writing-editing assignment in Elkhart, Ind., and in my public information officer role in Harrisonburg since the summer of 1971. On occasion I ponder how my life would be different today had I stayed longer at my first “real” job since college graduation. Would I still be at that same place and in what position? How might our family life have unfolded differently?

I often contemplate what it might be like to go to work and dreading another day of “mindless drudgery.” I thank God regularly for the privilege of being in a setting that maximizes my abilities and interests and continues to provide stimulation and satisfaction – not without its challenges and discouragements, mind you – these many years. I’m thankful for the free-lance projects and radio programming that have come along to help energize and round out the more routine daily tasks and demands.

Every job should include at least one activity that is just plain fun, something one looks forward to, that helps let off steam or offset the routine tasks and predictability that most occupations entail (here I conjure up the mud pits with Moses (Charlton Heston) and the children of Israel making bricks for the Egyptians (man, this really sphinx, I can hear them saying). This was pretty much their lot until Pharaoh finally permitted the exodus, then quickly changed his mind when he realized he’d suddenly lost a major supply of cheap labor.

Just as one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor, what constitutes work for one person is a stress-relieving, recreational pursuit for another. For me, mowing the yard, working in flower beds, taking photographs or spinning tunes on the air fall into the recreational pursuit category. Writing, filing things, even playing golf (unless it’s miniature golf) for me is just plain hard work.

Sometime this Labor Day weekend, pause and give thanks for the ability to work and, hopefully, find happiness and fulfillment in what you do for a livelihood.

And, taking a cue from the memorable tune in Disney classic, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” whistle while you work so you don’t become Grumpy.
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Neither shy nor retiring – not yet, anyway

Admittedly, I felt a bit weird several times . . .

. . . sitting in the back of Martin Chapel, surveying a swirling sea of backs of heads, many familiar-looking, some not. Some are losing their hair and compensated by growing beards, while others sport speckled-gray or flowing silver manes.

Time may heal all wounds, but it also seems to nibble away at our vitality, deflate our egos and increasingly thwart attempts to fully pursue our first loves and passions.

Such anxious thoughts reverberated in my own cobwebbed noggin as I watch a Power Point of new faculty and staff members who have joined our learning community as another school year is about to unfold. It will be my last time to partake of this annual ritual that signals the countdown to the start of the new school year at my workplace, Eastern Mennonite University.

As I listen to the conference keynote speaker, a number of references she makes to persons and events that occurred while a student here in the late 1960s I suspect are lost on a goodly number of the attendees. Some who weren’t even born then now enter this academic arena in similar fashion as I did nearly 40 years ago.

Some persons, on learning that I’m in my 40th and final year at EMU, as much as ask outright: Isn’t it tempting to back off, to go with the flow, disengage the mental cogs and coast to the finish line?

Yes, I confess that notion has knocked me up side the head a number of times, but I don’t intend to yield to that enticement.

I truly want this 2010-2011 year to be among my best. I’ll try to engage in some campus activities and causes that in the past have not been priorities. I’ll take a lot of photographs of people and events to document the year for my own personal record.

I didn’t want to take on one more thing when asked last semester to be a mentor to a first-year honors student, but agreed to do so first because it was an honor to be asked and secondly – even though it sounds a bit selfish – this involvement will give added flavor to the year and, hopefully, help contribute to the student’s maturation.

In the midst of much change – especially as I perform certain tasks and write certain articles and stories for the last time – I will continue to adhere to a long-standing resolve to only attend and contribute to those committee meetings and related gatherings that I absolutely have to. I will steer clear of taking on any more assignments in this final go-round.

I haven’t sent messages, or better yet, given face-to-face words of affirmations to my workplace colleagues to the extent that I should have. I intend to do more in this last year of my vocational career. I’m also asking persons who have recently retired or are about to for counsel on how to maximize this year and what I can do now to make the transition to retirement less traumatic.

Former Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda reportedly said, “Choose a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

I’m grateful that, apart from sitting in too many meetings or writing hometown news releases, I can resonate with that observation.

Over the years, I’ve received more than I’ve ever been able to give at this place. Despite a share of sweat and tears, setbacks and regrets, the joys, satisfactions and accomplishments have far outweighed the burdens and disappointments.

One of the biggest challenges for me, day in and day out, especially at this life stage, is living with unrelenting deadlines. Practically everything I do must be completed, usually to meet others’ expectations, in a certain time frame or rendered useless (some would say everything I write meets that criterion). Weekly radio programs and a newspaper column add to the workload.

At the same time it’s been an incredibly valuable discipline to force me to get a lot done in often short time spans. I worry already that I’ll get lazy after leaving this place, wanting to continue a high level of

journalistic output but knowing I no longer have to do it. Will I find myself slipping away from the computer and getting hooked on that vast creative wasteland of daytime television?

Interestingly, as persons find out that both Anna and I are in our last year of active employment – she a kindergarten teacher starting her 29th year in the Rockingham County School System – they seem more concerned about “what next” than we are. While we appreciate everyone’s interest in our welfare, the usual response is: we have more concrete plans in mind than we’ll ever be able to accomplish. I breathe prayers of petition that both of us will have sufficient physical and mental health and stamina to be able to pursue them.

It’s been a good, exhilarating journey, albeit fraught with potholes and obstacles along the way, I entreat God that I’ll have sufficient resources to pay the fare after exiting the toll road.
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Threading the phonograph needle

Do clothes make the person? I don’t think so, but songs about articles of clothing sure made a closetful of hit records over the years.

This was certainly the case in the mid- to late 1950s. The recipe was simple: identify a random clothing item, make a fashion statement about it in about two minutes and wrap the lyrics around a catchy melody, typically with a lengthy instrumental bridge in the middle.

This awareness hit me anew as I played “Black Slacks,” a top 20 hit for Joe Bennett and the Sparkletones in1957, on my weekly “Friday Night Jukebox” ’50s music show on public radio station WEMC-FM.

“Black slacks with a cat chain down to my knees, I ain’t nothin’ but a real cool breeze, black slacks . . .” the groovy group intoned. Anyone know what a cat chain is? If so, don’t pussy-foot around – admit it – a long watch chain worn by hep cats and zoot-suiters.

The formula worked well the first time, so the group followed up with a musical footnote, “Penny Loafers and Bobby Socks.” This footloose effort stopped in its tracks at #42.

The same year, the late Marty Robbins tore up the charts with his ballad of unrequited love, “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation,” peaking at #2. I’ve often thought, if everyone in the country drove a pink car (picture that!) the US would indeed be a pink car nation.

The Royal Teens popped the musical question, “Who wears short shorts?,” in 1958, the lyrics apparently written on someone’s coffee break. Today, it’s obvious that short shorts have made a comeback. The group’s follow-up quasi-hit informed us that if you didn’t wear a “Big Name Button” then “you’re a square and you’re really nowhere.”

Remember the sudden but (fortunately) passing craze for the sack dress and the chemise? Singer Gerry Granaham protested with his 1958 song, “No Chemise, Please,” declaring whoever came up with this designer travesty “must have been a woman- hater . . . Take back the sack and hang it on the rack, bring the sweater back.”

Bobby Pedrick, Jr., a 12-year-old with a squeaky tenor voice, gave us “White Bucks and Saddle Shoes” in late 1958. He renamed himself Robert John and had a top 3 hit in 1972 with a remake of the Tokens’ “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and topped the charts in 1979 with “Sad Eyes.”

Frankie Avalon vocalized on the syrupy “Bobby Socks to Stockings” (#8 in 1959), a song one can hardly imagine being interpreted on a music video some 50 years later.

Clothing songs continued to help promote certain styles. In 1959, Dodie Stevens sang the praises of her fashion plate boyfriend Dooley, who wore tan shoes and “Pink Shoelaces” (#3), a polka-dot vest and a big Panama with a purple hat band . . .” Dooley worked for the Barnum & Bailey circus, I believe. The “I’ve Had It” group, the Bell-Notes, sported “White Buckskin Sneakers” the same year.

That good-time group, The Coasters kept me in stitches in 1960 with their “Shoppin’ for Clothes,” a “spoken” story of a dude checking out jazzy threads against a funky sax backing. Alas, once he selected a suit, the would-be Dapper Dan’s credit “didn’t go through,” and he sulks out the door, despondent and saying out loud, “That suit’s pure Herringbone . . . ”

A novelty song about minuscule clothing item became a #1 hit in 1960 for 16-year-old Brian Hyland, “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” The KAPP record label was reluctant to even release the disc because it might “lower the image” for its middle-of-the road artists such as pianist Roger Williams and singer Jane Morgan. Hyland went on to have a #3 hit in 1962, “Sealed With a Kiss.”

I look at what teenagers/young adults wear today and shake my head, then remind myself that our parents responded similarly to what we wore back in Medieval times.

My all-time favorite cool cat ensemble, circa 1958, consisted of the following: black slacks with a belt in back and pegged cuffs; a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled back one time; a pullover sleeveless, v-neck charcoal sweater, a thin, shiny plastic belt; a red bow tie (“they say me oh my”) and white buck loafers (with not a single scuff mark). I was ready to dance the night away to the jitterbug, the bop, the stroll and my favorite, the slow dance.

In the early ’60s, I was proud – and oblivious to what it looked like – to wear a boatneck shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and clamdigger slacks that rode down over my calves. By then my hair style had morphed somewhat, still a precision flat top but with flowing long sides. It took a special barber, a cut above the rest, to make it look just so.

These days, I’m just about the only person who wears a tie to my church, and that’s okay. I’ve found over the years that if I keep my skinny and paisley neckwear it’ll eventually be in style again. That’s also been the case for many of the sports shirts in my limited collection.

Well, that about covers it for this tuneful treatise on clothes, except to add this musical advice from the late Carl Perkins: “You can do what you want, but lay off of my blue suede shoes.”

Postlude: You can hear most of the aforementioned “fashionable oldies” on the next edition of the “Friday Night Jukebox,” 8 p.m. Aug. 27 on 91.7 FM, WEMC, online at www.wemcradio.org.
 
 

Jim (Fashion Plate) Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: And now for something completely different …

I am unique, just like everybody else, the saying goes.

Don’t we all want to be considered unique, distinctive, to stand out from the crowd?

When we perceive or call someone else “different,” usually it’s not meant as a compliment. More often, it translates as weird, odd, peculiar, even bizarre, and we take steps to avoid them. Yes, but different compared to whom or what? Who decides what is the norm?

It gets more complex when you’re plunked into another culture. Then what is the measuring standard? Who is different? Who needs to adjust?

So, who wants to be considered different?

I’ll speak for myself: I do.

I don’t want to follow the herd instinct, but still desire to be heard. It’s not difficult to be ostracized or discounted for holding a minority view on certain issues or advocating an unpopular cause, dressing a certain way or refusing to jump on the latest fad bandwagon.

I grew up being different. I knew it then and didn’t mind it. As a youngster, while my peers were out riding bikes or playing ball, I was at my parents’ roller desk, using a fountain pen to create stories and sketch drawings of the comic book characters I’d created of Hamey Humbug and his gang.

Or, I had my ear literally glued to my Silvertone 6-transistor radio, grooving to this strange new sound of rock ‘n’ roll emanating from a tinny speaker (or earplug when I was tuned in during classes).

My first car, purchased for $300 in 1962, was one of a kind, much like its crazy driver, I liked to think – a BMW Isetta 300. The miniature motorcar opened in the front to let in its occupants, had a 12-horsepower, 1-cylinder engine, got 53 miles to the gallon and delivered me where I wanted to go, albeit more slowly than my distracters.

Today, if I didn’t already have a vehicle that serves me well and I had the cash in hand, I’d be driving a Mercedes SmartCar, a modern-day replica of the Isetta but with more safety features and more horsepower than a washing machine motor.

I also like hot weather (this summer a case in point), as long as I can be swimming or crusin’ and playin’ the radio (with prehistoric tunes from the 1950s; thank you, Mr. Berry) while others huddle near the air conditioner and complain about the heat.

The central question to ask in this discussion, I believe, is not so much how (ital.) one is different but why (ital.) – what is the bottom line motivation? Is the impetus largely to say, “I’m different,” just for the sake of being different, refusing to be squeezed into the mold of uniformity?

Or, does that drive arise from a higher calling – to challenge the status quo, to offer some alterative ways of looking at things or even offering a prophetic word, however unpopular, amid the myriad voices of uniformity?

I enjoy interacting with some – not all! – persons whom I see as “different.” We may not agree on many issues and have different tastes, personalities, mannerisms and outlooks on life. But isn’t this what helps keeps life intriguing, unpredictable, challenging, as long as we’re willing to listen to and learn from each other?

Part of what keeps life fascinating for me and the person closest to me in this life, my spouse Anna, are those differences that could erect walls between us if we’d allow it but instead we determine to respect and celebrate as channels for growth in our journey together.

This doesn’t mean we don’t change, however.

Recently, while returning from a quick trip out of town, Anna remarked, “Are you getting soft in your old age? You filled the car with gas before we left instead of waiting until we’re running on vapors, you stopped at a convenience store for me that required a left turn across the roadway and since my bunion surgery you’ve been walking beside me instead of a step or two ahead as you used to do.”

Just trying to become a little different from the old me, wifey.

To be or not to be . . . different or unique . . . that is my ongoing question.
 
 

Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Be thou my vision – the eyes have it

“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone . . .” proclaims the 1972 hit by Johnny Nash, and I am more than delighted to second that emotion.

Well, almost. I had just completed my annual visual exam with my long-time ophthalmologist Dr. Capstack and given an “all clear” signal for another year but, thanks to drops administered to dilate my favorite pupils, everything appeared rather blurred and muddy.

I put on sunglasses, stepped outside and was “blinded by the light,” a la Manfred Mann (the 1977 song written by Bruce Springsteen, by the way). I sat in the car awhile until I felt more adjusted to the brilliant scenario.

En route to my office, I closed my eyes – waiting at intersections, not while driving busy E. Market St. – and breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the gift of good eyesight, especially at this elder life stage.

A year ago, I was told that my eye pressure was “slightly elevated” and that the doctor wanted to keep an eye, as it were, on my situation. One year later, I’m told that my eye pressure was “within acceptable range,” that my eyeglass prescription didn’t need changing and a test found no sign of glaucoma, which runs in my family history.

I am making notes for this column on a yellow legal pad while waiting for the dilating medicine drops to take effect and am having some difficulty deciphering what I’ve written (and reading my handwriting is a challenge even under normal conditions – for myself and others who have the unfortunate task of trying to interpret my hieroglyphics).

Yes, I need to wear glasses, bifocals, if you will, but again am grateful that these corrective lenses ensure sharp images both at a distance and for close-up reading. More recently I’ve had to enlarge the font size on computer screen copy,, especially for email texts, but that’s a small price to pay for easier reading even though many messages translate into more work to do.

Seeing clearly, even if our vision isn’t perfect, is truly a gift too easily taken for granted. (When it comes to hindsight, we all are 20/20).

Ever done the exercise where you are blindfolded and someone else leads you around, trying to direct you verbally towards a certain object or destination? You begin to get an idea of what persons face every day who have deteriorating vision or are totally blind. They learn to compensate and attain remarkable levels of achievement, but it takes special effort.

Of course, some persons with perfect vision quickly learn to act as though they’re blind towards other people and needs around them.

At checkout, the staff assistant asked if I wanted to schedule another eye appointment a year from now. “Sure,” I said, “Can you make it for as soon as you open at 8 a.m.? I like to take care of this and then go directly to work.”

The little white card reads 8 a.m. 8/02/2011. Only after leaving the eye doctor’s office did it hit me: “Uhhhh, a year from now will it matter that the appointment is first thing in the morning? I’ll most likely be stumbling around at 8 o’clock telling myself to put my pants on before my shoes and wondering what’s for breakfast. I’ll be retired. It won’t matter what time of day the appointment is.”

That’s a reality that’s just now slowly sinking into my thick skull. The bigger issue then will be, will I have adequate coverage to pay for regular eye exams and other health-related care?

Each of us needs to care for our eyes and other vital organs with regular checkups, especially as we age. While you’re at it, consider becoming an organ donor and make sure that designation appears on your driver’s license.

On this point, may we all see eye-to-eye.
 
 

Column by Jim Bishop. Jim can be reached at bishopj@emu.edu.

Jim Bishop: Thank you for being a friend

“Friend, I will remember you,
Think of you, pray for you …”
- John Denver (Friends With You)

A friend I heard described as “someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.” I seem to be forgetting a lot of words these days, Not only am I verbally challenged, but am having difficulty remembering where I’ve parked my car, placed the greeting cards that I purchased on vacation and have promptly disappeared and deposited my cell phone (it was under the car seat last time).

When these hapless events arrive, sooner for some than others, I need friends more than ever to help rejoin those lapses in the mental synapses, offer counsel and words of encouragement – and if needed – to just let me know, “I’m here for you . . . and expect the same from you.”

Little surprise, then, to say that my companion of 46 years, my loving spouse Anna, is my best friend. That’s a long time span, yet it seems like only yesterday that I cast my first longing gaze across the college dining hall at this petite, dark-complexioned lass and thought to myself, “Who is this fair young damsel? Would she even give me the time of day – if she knew my persona and checkered past?”

I hasten to add that this “best friend” concept this wasn’t immediately apparent when we first wed that stifling hot July night in 1967. (Ah, the infamous summer of love; it was for us, and neither of us wore flowers in our hair).

We all need other persons around us, not only to call our friends but also to put in a good word for us when we’re not around.

Part of the process of finding friends is you first have to be one yourself, to be open, somewhat vulnerable, and genuinely interested in getting to know new people. It’s easier to run with the pack, always talk with the same persons in whatever social setting you find yourself, but a bit of risk-taking may result in building a friendship with someone whom you initially thought you’d have little commonality with (maybe open the conversation by asking him or her whether a sentence can end with a preposition).

I’ve found over the years that one way to find out who your friends really are is when you’re flat on your back because of an illness, injury or surgery. See who responds without even being asked to and doesn’t just say, “Let me know what I can do” but just goes ahead and does it.

Here’s a quotable note: “A friend is one who understands your past, believes in your future and accepts you just the way you are.” While that’s true, I would add that a true friend isn’t satisfied with the way I am but will go out of his or her way to help me sharpen my gifts and encourage me to use them to not only help others but to help mold me into becoming a better person.

Wife Anna and I settled in the ‘Burg and have remained rooted here some 39 years. That has certainly helped in developing new friendships but at the same time has made it more difficult to bid farewell to certain persons whom we deemed some of our best friends over the years. The emergence of electronic mail has helped us get back in touch, but meanwhile, I stubbornly refuse to become anyone’s “friend” on Facebook.

Life is not an easy road but the journey is heightened and its trials are lightened when we have friends to join the fray along the way. Social media networking has its place, but for me, nothing can replace a touch of grace from someone extending the hand of friendship.

This simple song from childhood sums it up: “What a friend we have in Jesus, all our griefs and sins to bear . . .” Now there’s Someone who knows the song in my heart even before I forget the words.
 
 

Column by Jim Bishop. Jim can be reached at bishopj@emu.edu.