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.