I know a man, Part 1

I know a man who is the grandson of a barrel maker, the son of a a boiler maker, the father of a flint knapper, the grandfather of a mixed martial arts fighter, and the great-grandfather of a precious little thing whose name means "so be it".

I'll give you a hint.  His name is not Bojangles, although his eldest son has a name that resembles the famous tap dancer's.

For those familiar with my blog (see Islands in the Stream), it may be of interest to note that people riding on the fame of Bojangles also got into fried chicken.  It wasn't just Kenny Rogers.

But back to the man I know.  He stoked his Bucket a Day with anthracite coal, and inhaled lead dust from the local paint factories.

He keeps a whiskey barrel made of oak staves in his garage.

He also has a moving barrel (ex Philadelphia Quartz),

with an address in married student housing that used to contain industrial chemicals and now houses cast iron toys (a red ice wagon and yellow fire engine pulled by a team of 8 horses) and rubber quaits and copperplate handwriting models from an old time slate and a telescopic tent pole and the well preserved remains of the Bohnenberger family Bible.

As the son of a barrel maker, the man I know showed me how to pick the spring form clasp holding the lid in place with the flick of a hatchet on the moving barrel.  Once sprung, the hoop clanked on the concrete.  All but one of the hoops of the whiskey barrel were already off--they had done the hula all by themselves.

He also points out that the Bucket a Day was for heating dish water and hand washing water.  For a bath you needed the kettle--in fact, lots of kettles, and the youngest and cleanest bathed first, and the boiler maker bathed last.  It was all about the economy of hygiene.

His boiler maker father didn't have boiler maker's ear--even if he himself does.  Perhaps it was from listening to too many prairie politicians, who were always radio evangelists anyway.  Bible Bill Aberhart, Ernest Manning (Presto's father).

When he wasn't stoking his Bucket a Day, he was hanging around The Bucket of Blood (the Cambria Athletic Club) with the rest of his Cedar and Letterly gang, in the Badlands of North Philly.  The most they ever did was to plan to roll another gang at the candy store, hardening their fists with rolls of pennies--poor man's brass knuckles.  Always good to have an ace of spades up your sleeve!

I don't know, maybe Hobbes was right when he said Clubs are Trumps.
Surely as it is in a game of cards, so it must be with caveman-like clubs in a modern day political donnybrook.  Here's a set of knuckles that even looks like the stylized club on playing cards.

What else can you do with an iron fist in a velvet glove?

Ah, I know, have breakfast at Tiffany's.

The man I know is a phenomenologist in the tradition of High Digger and God Damner, who invites you in and makes an open and Schutz case He was certainly right when he said "words are mere counters; wise men do but use them".

Now the man I kow ponders futures with the Foresight Group.  Planning is planning, after all.

Providence comes from the Latin Pro Video, and Locke's apple pickers, who used the work of their hands and the labour of their bodies to put up preserves and set aside wealth were nothing if not provident.

The man I know was known to his gang as The Professor.  It might have helped that his cousin was Golden Gloves champion, but he didn't count on it.  Penny fists were perfectly serviceable, and his cousin probably could'd arrive as fast as an ambulance.  Still, there is something to be said about iron fists in velvet gloves, or piggies in a blanket (what they used to call breakfast links rolled in pancakes at Denny's), or brass in pocket.

I knew a man, Bojangles, and he'd dance for you.  With silver hair, a ragged shirt, and baggy pants, he'd do the old soft shoe.  Will it be Sammy Davis, Jr?

He grabbed his pants and bettered his stance and jumped so high, clicked his heels.  Will it be the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band?

Or will it be brass in pocket again?

As Chrissie Hynde says:

I, I'm gonna make you see
There's nobody else here
No one like me

Amen, so be it.
All inaccuracies--factual or interpretative--the fault of the writer.  Artistic license is taken in the time honoured tradition of irony.  Ironic detachment or double vision is not reserved only for those who wear prescription eye glasses; it is a basic survival skill.  Names withheld to protect the innocent.  Tarnish to the reputations of those still living is neither intended nor implied!  To be continued as and when material becomes available.  My source is presumed reliable and has not dried up, not that I am aware of, anyway!