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There was a tinge of green, right around where gills would be if the Teahead had been a fish. But of course, the Teahead of the August Moon was a fully mammalian human, and the concoction on his face was the latest attempt to correct an unfortunate complexion that periodically oozed zits.
One of the "Big Mysteries of Life" at the Folkie Palace was how we came up with the rent every month.
was preparing to take out the recycle bin when this "dead soldier" caught my eye. The bottle is an empty jug of spiced rum that powered my don't drink and then drive fruitcake. Momentarily I was transported to my early days. I took the cap off and began blowing an accompaniment to Washington at Valley Forge, a perennial favorite of 1960's jug bands.
It may have been the Monk who got it into his mind that cleaning the apartment for the New Year's was a good and worthy thing to do. " a new broom sweeps clean for a New Year," he stated. Most of the other habitues of the Folkie Palace just looked at him as though he was crazed.
I've been off the side of the road for a long time now. No more hell rides through mysterious countrysides, no more insinuation into the improbable, and certainly no more sleeping in damp woods till daybreak.
What advice would I offer to my eighteen-year-old self?
When I decided to get my act together at the beginning of the 1970's I faced some challenges—education beyond high school costs money and friends' attitudes. The GI Bill solved the first. There was a program to assist vets in getting their high school diplomas. The nice part was that using the program would not count towards my available college benefits.
Bob and Chris had a large family. My friend and I often got included in the count at their home due to our frequent visits. We claimed spare space in their home for our regular appearances, and during the sixties, were well known by the kids; their eccentric uncles.
Being a folksinger was not easy. You had to practice your material, be unafraid of deadly silence from displeased audiences, and come up with clever patter between songs. You wanted to avoid embarrassing silences between songs that might invite your audience to depart midway in your set. Moreover, being eighteen meant that you could not wow them with tales of your daring rides across the country in the dust bowl riding the rails. You had to be subtle.
Arthur was an unsuccessful writer of dramatic tales. His plotlines involved so much obfuscation that you needed a guide to wade through the story.
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