I was 15
years old and had an obsession with mother
nature. I had spent some 2 1/2 years
bird-watching. I recorded the date and
location of every species I had spotted. I was so thorough in my recorded
observations that LSU's Life Sciences Dept head
designated me a qualified Boy Scout BIRD STUDY merit badge counselor,
the youngest on record.
One day
while biking back home from a dental appointment I witnessed a small commotion
on the side of the road. I was traveling
along Seven Oaks Ave in Baton Rouge next to Goodwood Park. There was a dry
ditch and I saw some roots moving along the wall of this ditch. I stopped, got off my bike to gain closer
inspection and discovered an adolescent squirrel attempting to free himself from
this tangle of roots.
Well, being
the animal humanitarian that I fancied myself as, I reached into this tangle of
roots and proceeded to free him. His freedom costs me. He managed to get his teeth into my right
forefinger knuckle. At this point I decided the little boogger was going to go
home with me. I hung on to him until I
got home (about 1 1/2 miles).
When I
inspected his food bowl at the end of his second day of capture, I was
distressed to see that he had not eaten any of his food. Dad said not to worry. He'll settle in and start eating in a day or
two. He was right. The next day his bowl
was empty. My Dad asked if I had named him. I thought for a moment and came up
with a real winner: "Squirrely".
Squirrely
afforded me a distraction from a broken heart.
Several days prior to my Squirrely rescue I was slowly biking down
Audubon Av when this late model Mercury pulled along beside me. The electric window opened and Bernie Lee
said "Hi Jerry". She was (or
rather HAD been) my girl friend. Driving
the car was Warren who I never did like and now I liked even less. Not wanting
to appear distraught or jealous I merely returned the greeting with "Hi". She then said "See ya", then closed the window and Warren spun out
burning rubber like the asshole everyone knew him to be. It was readily obvious that Bernie simply
wanted to show me my competition. But it hurt nonetheless. So I vowed then and there that he would no longer be competition because she was no longer my girl.
I went home
deciding not to show any emotion or clues that I had been hurt. I would simply
act like everything was just fine. When I went in the house I greeted my Mom
and Dad, then proceeded to the bathroom. Upon leaving the bathroom I went into
the kitchen and my Mom asked "Are
you alright?" I said "Yes,
why?" "Because you don't look very happy." Then my Dad chimed in with "Girl troubles?" Then at that
point I had to ask: "Does it show that much?" I was then greeted with
the classic platitude "Remember, son, there are plenty of fish in the
ocean." Wow, did that really perk me up.
I excused myself, went to my room and proceeded to suffer in silence.
Since finding out that there were plenty of fish in the ocean, I vowed to
escape this funk that I was in, and forget about Bernie Lee and get on with my
many other diversions. Wasn't easy, but I knew I would never be dating her
again. And I didn't.
The squirrel
bite on my forefinger afforded me an opportunity to skip a few days of
accordion band practice. Yep, you read
it right ... accordion band. Several
months earlier my parents had fallen prey to a scam (or what appeared to be a
scam). Sacred Heart elementary school's
principal had succumbed to this marketing ploy to gain the attention of willing
/and gullible parents. Sacred Heart had now become the not-so-proud sponsor of an
accordion band. WOW! Parents merely had to purchase a basic 12-base
accordion and their off-springs could then make mom and pop proud (hmmm).
"Our child is a member of the Sacred Heart accordion band." Oooh oooh!, can't wait!
Part of the
"come-on" was the inclusion of weekly band practices conducted by a
member of the accordion-marketing company. And of course inclusion in the band
was itself not without a fee. I wanted OUT!
The band sessions never included basics like learning to read music
scores or chording or harmonizing. We
"dazzled" our parent audiences with bland, melody lines of nursery
pieces that turned shrugging heads to one another producing a silent chorus of
"What the hell is this all about?"
I wanted
OUT! I told my parents I wanted
OUT. But they told me to be patient and
give it time. "TIME FOR WHAT?! JUST
CONTINUED EMBARRASSMENT? I'D JUST AS SOON TAKE PIANO LESSONS."
Well, those
were the magic words .. PIANO LESSONS. They went out and purchased a used upright
piano and hired Mr. Julius Leon, an itinerant piano instructor, to come to our
home once a week to provide one hour of piano lessons. Mr. Leon was very
eccentric; he didn't drive nor did he own a car. But he was very familiar with the City Bus
Line and its route schedules. When the weather was cold, Mr. Leon would don
huge fur-lined and fur-covered mittens which were each equal in size to a large
waffle griddle. 
Then on TV
one evening there appeared the Polish American classical pianist, Arthur
(Artur) Rubinstein in concert with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. The selection was Grieg's Piano Concerto in A
Minor. OH MY GOD! His performance was
pure perfection. I was mesmerized. I said to my parents that I had to have a
copy of that recording if it was available and also a copy of the score. They were delighted that I had taken such an
interest in learning piano and within a week I had a 33 rpm LP recording and
within 2 weeks they had managed to find a copy of the orchestral score. 
I listened
and re-listened to the recording until it was beginning to show wear. I had timed the concerto from start to finish
(34 minutes and 39 seconds). I was in
love with Grieg's piano concerto but embarrassed that I knew NOTHING about
reading music scores much less FULL BLOWN orchestral scores. So the score was of little value at that
time.
I was now
entering LSU and chose music as my minor.
I didn't want to take any more piano lessons because I had managed to
master keyboarding with the aid of Grieg's concerto. I enrolled in music theory
where I dedicated myself to scoring and reading music. I hated having to admit that I could never
learn to "sight-read" scores, but my keyboarding mastery continued to
improve. Because I had managed to learn
the first movement of the Grieg concerto, I was able to adapt classical styling
to my rapidly evolving ability to play by ear.
Back in the
mid and early 50s popular music was primarily of the easy listening genre which
would explain why I had trouble sight-reading scores. Most of the scoring arrangements for popular
music were very basic and elementary and I preferred classical styling
arrangements (born of my Grieg keyboarding mastery). Some of the popular songs of that era for
which I created piano arrangements were "Autumn Leaves",
"Dancing in the Dark", "Unchained Melody",
"Tenderly", "La Vie En Rose", "Ebb Tide" and many
others of that ilk.
Anyhow, I
was in hog's heaven. Not only was I wowwing people with my piano artistry, my
parents had bought me a used Studebaker for my transportation to LSU. I would
no longer need to make that trip on my
single speed bike AND I was no longer taking piano lessons from Mr. Leon. I was agreeing to perform at various public and private functions (United Way fund raisers, Rotary Club meetings, etc.). Miss Baton Rouge and Miss Louisiana contest entrants would book me for their piano accompaniment needs. And I would spend my noon hours
...until the
day Squirrely escaped. I was devastated. He had managed to patiently take
advantage of a small tear that had formed in his cage area. He obviously pulled
at that opening over a period of several months until he was able to get
through it. I was heartbroken. He and I
had bonded (at least I thought we had) and I couldn't understand why he would
leave and not respond to my coaxing efforts.
My dad said he wanted his freedom, that he loved me, but loved freedom
more, it was part of his natural instinct.
One day
after accustoming myself to his absence I heard a chirping in the yard. I looked up and perched on a limb high in our
oak tree was Squirrely. He was talking to
me. I tried to coax him down, but he
wouldn't budge. My dad came out and said
he could get him down. I asked
"How?" I owned a Benjamin pump pellet rifle and he said he will just graze him and ..." But I chimed
in with "NO, NO, just let him go" But dad was confident he could just
stun him and I would only have to catch him when he fell. I still protested, but dad took aim and I did
catch Squirrely, but sadly the shot was an inch off and Squirrely was dead. I didn't chastise my dad for taking the shot,
but he felt terrible. I tearfully tried to ameliorate his guilt. But his
spirits could not be lifted. My own grief at the loss of Squirrely then
transformed into compassion for the quilt my dad was suffering.
I got over
the loss of squirrely and continued to accept piano performance engagements
until Radio station WIBR's Raving Dave Davidson heard of my piano mastery and
asked if I would come to the station on Saturday mornings between 9 and 11 and
perform live for his listening audience.
I was delighted to oblige him. I
was in my late teens and Dave was part of a committee that created "Teen
Town Rally". In its infancy I
managed to perform at Teen Town until WBRZ produced the "HIT or MISS" program. I became a part of HorM and my
life changed once again.
Meanwhile my
Dad, still grieving over his failed attempt to save my precious Squirrely,
asked me one day to join him in the backyard.
He had a surprise for me. I
escorted him behind his business workshop/garage and he presented me with a
large chicken wired cage that held a dozen pigeons. Pigeons?! PIGEONS!? Why pigeons? He said that since Squirrely was no longer
with us, I would probably enjoy raising pigeons. Oh my God! I didn't have the heart to tell him how
desperately UNinterested I was in raising pigeons, so I feigned excitement. His
conscience was now clear, but now I had to learn to care for pigeons. Yuck!
Because I
felt a need to resume piano lessons, but at a more advanced level than I was
getting from Mr. Leon, my parents once again came through.
Anyway, when
Dr. Carazo learned of my keyboarding
skill, he would pop out his violin and I would accompany him on current
popular pieces. We would simply engage in a 2 piece combo session ... much
fun. But when my parents learned that my
lessons consisted only of accommodating Carazo's hunger for violin
accompaniment, my lessons were terminated.
While I was
disappointed in this termination, I got over it because WBRZ's HIT or MISS had
brought me on as a regular weekly performer and this "gig" along with
my part-time employment at LSU's Hill Memorial Library AND my p.t. Proof
Machine job at City National Bank kept me at a pretty comfortable income level
while a full-time LSU student.
Though I had
a car for school, I still used my old brown single speed bike for nature/bird
watching excursions. One day while bird-watching in the "100 acre
wood" (reminiscent of Winnie the Pooh) near the intersection of Seven Oaks
Ave and Thibodeaux St I once again found myself succumbing to curiosity about
some movement in a bush. I delicately
opened a gap in the bush and there, looking up at me with very soulful eyes was
this adolescent Raccoon. He showed no
fear and appeared to be inviting my friendship.
After
spending some 10 to 15 minutes sweet-talking him, I sensed that he would
probably allow me to pet him. I slowly
reached down and gingerly stroked his back. He was receptive. After another 10 or so minutes I reached
down, lifted him up, cradled him in my right arm, mounted my old single speed
bike and rode home with him. He never
once attempted to squirm loose unlike my Squirrely experience several years earlier.
Still
cradling him on my right shoulder I arrived home and proceeded over to the rabbit hutches, but
upon passing by the pigeon pin I decided instead to let him share the cage with
the pigeons. I named him Coony ... of
course. As I entered the pigeon pin,
Coony slipped and as he fell he grabbed my neck to prevent his fall. His sharp claws ripped through my neck as he managed
to thwart his fall. I nonetheless
released him with the pigeons. Coony
seemed quite at home with his new feathered friends though it appeared that the
pigeons were not nearly as
receptive.
As I watched
this bonding attempt between Coony and the pigeons, I became re-aware of my
neck injury. I placed my hand on the
affected area and realized I was bleeding rather profusely. I went in the house and my Mom asked what
happened. I told her and she said
"You're going to the doctor."
I was given a Tetanus shot, bandaged and sent on my way.
It was dark
when we got home, so I didn't check on my "new" friends until the
following morning.
When I got
to the pigeon pin, I was greeted with Coony lying contentedly in a corner while
pigeon feathers continued to float all around. All were dead and 2 or 3 had
obviously served as Coony's evening meal or maybe his early morning breakfast.
Expecting my
Dad to come unglued once greeted with this mess, I was quite surprised at his
indifference. He admitted that he realized that the pigeon idea was not one of
his better contributions to his attempt to satisfy my yearning to care for
nature's critters. After breathing a
sigh of relief I was able with a clear conscience to begin cleaning and repairing what had
now become Coony's living quarters.
My father
was a tile contractor and Coony's new "residence" was adjacent to my
Dad's workshop / storage facility. Coony would not likely escape since his
adjacency was a concrete block wall...... or so I thought.
My mother
said I had too many hobbies and special interests. That I needed to eliminate some of these for
the betterment of those I truly preferred to concentrate on. I essentially told her "Easier said than
done, Mom. I love all of these hobbies. I love working out at Alvin Roy's, I love HIT
OR MISS, I love my library job, my bank job, I love school, I love my piano
adventures, I love my animals. I just don't want to give any of this stuff up." My mom said she understood, but simply asked
that I try to better manage my time.
This she was right about. I was
spread thin and truly needed to better organize myself.
She reminded
me of the time some 3 or 4 years earlier when no one was home and I had
answered the phone. The calling party was the sister of my late step
grandfather, Mr. Morrison. None of us had known his first name because he was
simply known to all the family as "Mr Morrison". Anyhow Mr Morrison had passed away a couple
of years earlier and his sister (calling from Kittanning, PA) simply wanted to
inform everyone that her and Mr Morrison's mother had just passed away. I thanked her for the call and
said that I would let everyone know.
My mother reminded me that I was just as busy and disorganized back then as I still was today.
My mother reminded me that I was just as busy and disorganized back then as I still was today.
Anyhow a
couple of weeks after speaking to Mr. Morrison's sister my parents decided to
have everyone over for Sunday dinner.
The conversation was quite general until my grandmother said "I
wonder how Ms Morrison is getting along.
She's been ill and I haven't heard anything about her condition
lately." I felt the blood drain from my head and I blurted out: "She's
dead". WHAT!? My mother asked
"Jerry, how do you know this?" I explained how I answered the phone 2
weeks prior when Mr. Morrison's sister called and asked me to tell everyone,
but I forgot. My grandmother gasped
with "Oh my God, they must think we're awful." I was the one who felt awful.
Anyway,
mom's reminder of this serious memory lapse further convinced me that she was
right. I had to better organize my time
and activities.
Then some 2
weeks later late one night we heard a crashing noise coming from Dad's workshop. All three of
us rushed outside. Dad, holding his Colt 45, unlocked the workshop. He told us to stay out until he could
determine what was happening. We then heard another crashing sound. Dad came
out cursing a blue streak. "That damn coon has made its way into the shop
and the little shit has knocked down 2 boxes of Italian ceramic tile." I
knew how valuable this Italian Ceramic tile collection was. These boxes were leftover from his contract
job some 13-14 years earlier when he completed the now famous bell dome atop
Baton Rouge's Sacred Heart Church, a masterful undertaking that received national wide
acclaim.
Now for the
father/son counseling: "If you have to stay out here all night I expect
you to do something with that little shit, either get rid of him or fix his pin
so he CANNOT repeat this. I expect you to take care of this TONIGHT."
Coony was
gone, nowhere to be found. But I had my marching orders. I did work on the problem for about 2 hours
until I was confident that Coony, wherever he was, would NOT be able to regain
entry into the workshop.
Over the
next year or 2 I busied myself with the HIT OR MISS program along with my
intern work with WBRZ and I put aside my passion for nature. I guess I was "growing up". I had
my appendix removed, then went to work for the Louisiana Division of Employment
Security (today's LaWorks). I was an Employment Interviewer, a position which
would prove quite fateful resulting in the START of my life.
Interviewing
candidates for employment was very routine until the day when I went up to the
reception desk to pick up a routing slip with the name of the next job seeker
candidate and I called out "Gloria Gartman?" This gorgeous and sexy young lady (she
was 19) came forward and, well you might say "... the rest is story". Gloria became the START
to the rest of my life. I was cast in the role of Stanley in STREETCAR NAME DESIRE at the BATON ROUGE LITTLE THEATRE AND eleven months
later we were married and 10 months after that ... bam -- our first child. Then In 1960 another big streak of good luck: My introduction into the world of film making.
Oh, I nearly
forgot. Coony did return, but I put him
in my car and returned him to the 100 acre wood. Dad thanked me.
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