Old Ties

April 1992
Old Ties
By Bob Coskrey

I like old people and old things, and I’m not even going to laugh when my “humor-in-everything” alter-ego interrupts with the remark, “aren’t they one and the same?” Because of course, they’re not, no more than young people are young things or middle-aged people, middle-aged things. I like the old things because they inspire my imagination. My grandmother’s rocking chair, even though it’s been reupholstered twice, still reminds me of her. I can “see” her rocking and crocheting in it, a few feet from me, as I am writing this.

My grandmother: Bobby, are you doing your homework?

Me: No, Da-da. (That’s what her grandchildren called her because, I think, that’s the first sound her initial grandchild uttered when he saw her.) I’m writing an article for a magazine called OMNIBUS.

Da-Da: Oooo, look how smart my Bobby is. He’s a writer for a big magazine.

Me: No, Da-da. It’s nothing like that. OMNIBUS is not a big magazine. In fact, I guess you could say it’s an almost esoteric little publication read mostly by a limited group of oddball people, or perhaps, an oddball group of limited people.

Da-Da: Ooooo, my Bobby is a little joker. (Laughing and resuming her crocheting marathon.)

Old people are full of old, cherished memories that tey love to talk about. But if there is a dearth of old people in your life, as in my case, then you have to opt for the “old things” and rely on your intellectual inventiveness and ability to recall.

I can remember Da-Da telling me about seeing a brick wall around her yard crumbling down during the great earthquake of 1886. She was 16 years old then. If she were alive now, she’d be 122, but unfortunately, she’s not, so I’m forced to resort to the “old thing” evoked, imagination-embellished memories. Aside from some aunts who don’t live in Charleston, I don’t have any other elderly family members who can mesmerize me with their personal remembrances. But I am fortuitous enough to know an elderly lady—a good friend’s mother—who is more than willing to regale my wife and myself with her always interesting recollections replete with visual aids: albums and hundreds of photographs. We don’t even know most of people in the albums, but it doesn’t matter at all. It’s somehow, quite fascinating to look at these old pictures of strange people standing next to their now antique Hudsons and Desotos, picnicking on the beach in their white shirts, wind-flapping gabardine pants, and all-concealing sunsuits. The dates written on the backs of the pictures—1920, 1923, 1930—so long ago you feel, illogically, that not only was everything so simple then, but that maybe it was actually black and white as well. You want to go home afterwards, take all the chromatic photographs you’ve saved over the past 30 years and mail them to Woody Allen for decolorizing.

There are probably thousands of these older citizens around, brimming over with interesting stories to tell, especially in an intriguing city like ours. I’ve interviewed some of them for a magazine, I’ve read about them in the paper, such as Philip Simmons, the venerable blacksmith and wrought iron artist. But being famous is not a requisite. One of the most interesting older persons I’ve known—though I knew him only in my childhood—was my cousin Jimmy’s uncle. Uncle Jack, we called him. He had served in World War I and had been a world traveler. He owned an ordinary little paint shop on King Street, but he had a room in his house on Charlotte Street that rivaled the Old Charleston Museum in the variety of its artifacts. The walls were festooned with spears, helmets, guns and other weapons that sent an impressionable 10-year-old like myself into pre-Disney World rapture. That entire house, for that matter, had a Smithsonian aura, with its dark, dank hallways, distant ceilings, unclaimed echoes and sarcophagean mustiness. Uncle Jack was a veritable artesian well font of stories. And although he had a more than adequate inventory of “old things” to stimulate my fantasizing faculties, his colorful narratives were always the main attraction.

Uncle Jack, however, did have one “old thing” that fascinated me beyond the others, and that was an old leather Morris chair. For the younger readers, a Morris chair is nothing more than an easy chair with an adjustable back and footrest. Presently, I guess we call them recliners, and having evolved to a plateau of décor chicness somewhat nearer to rattan than beanbag chair, I had just as soon have a plastic Elvis bust in my den than a recliner. But in those days, to sit—with Uncle Jack’s permission—in that old tan leather monstrosity, push the little button on the side and suddenly find oneself lying supine instead of sitting up, was as close to space age technology as anything I had ever encountered.

But Uncle Jack dies many years ago, and the old house has been restored by the present owners with the relics from Uncle Jack’s room, no doubt, being scattered among various family members. And I hope none of his “old things” have ended up in antique shops or worse, flea markets. Although, I enjoy browsing through these establishments and inhaling their exhilarating mustiness (after all, what better places to find “old things”?) I have mixed feelings about them.

There’s something a little melancholy about finding an old Captain’s Chair that somebody’s father sat in, a dining room table that a family of eight spent pre-radio and television hours swapping stories at, an old grandfather clock that bonged triumphantly on the day that a daughter got married. Even more agonizing are the abandoned cradles and toys, but without a doubt, the most devastating—at least to me, and I will admit that my thoughts and feelings are not always representative of the norm—are the antique picture frames of wood, leather, various metals, and even at times, silver. It’s not the frames themselves, but the actual photographs of actual people, as David Letterman might quip, that are the source of my consternation. Pictures of loved ones that should be on someone’s bureau or mantel. Parents and children, uncles, aunts and cousins, even pets, in poses ranging from strained acquiescence to unabashed devotion suddenly wrenched from the nurturing warmth of a home and put on freakish display in an alien environment to be leered at by boorish tourists or fondled and dropped by brattish children. A picture of an adoring mother with her baby juxtaposed next to a tobacco tarnished spittoon, an august and stern-faced grandfather next to a porcelain bed pan. It’s all a bit too much for me to stomach, and of course I always exacerbate my indignation by imagining that someone will purchase one of these pictures, unceremoniously discard the photograph and refill the exquisite frame with a color-tinted snapshot of Patrick Swayze or Dolly Parton.

There is a laser thin ray of hope, however, I recently discovered, as I was rescued, at least temporarily, from my “slough of despond” (“Pilgrims Progress,” John Bunyan, 1678) by “Cheers” Kirstie Alley. No, I am not hallucinating. Kirstie Alley, interviewed at her home on a Barbara Walters Special several weeks ago, was asked by Ms. Walters about a lovely, old, handsomely framed photograph of a wholesome, attractive woman on a cheat in her bedroom. It was a picture apparently taken in the late 40s and 50s. Ms. Walters: And this very attractive lady is your mother, no doubt?”

Ms. Alley’s matter-of-fact response, I’m sure, resulted in perhaps millions of American viewers spewing out their Budweisers and popcorn:

“No, that’s just a picture of a lady I bought because she looked like my idea of a mother.”

I, of course, was exultant. Here was a person, who quite obviously was affected by these old pictures just as I was. But instead of schlucking around in a self-absorbed morass of misery, as I had done, she had taken positive action, she had answered Hamlet’s question, she had “carped the diem.” She had recognized the heinous atrocity of forsaking the picture of a once-cherished loved one to the soul-less eternity of an antique shop, and she had righted the wrong by adopting the picture for her own.

So every Saturday now I pursue the confines of Charleston’s myriad antique shops and flea markets—yes, even the one in Ladson—purchasing pictures of these discarded and disenfranchised family photographs, and my rooms are filled with old photographs of “adopted” relatives.

Shopkeeper: A very nice selection, sir, probably the nicest frame in the house. Note the intricate acanthus designs in the corners. Shall I remove the photograph for you?

Me: Remove the photograph? Are you deranged? Look at the subjugating smile, those concerned brow furrows. This, sir, is my Uncle Tobias!

Shopkeeper, somewhat shocked: You mean this was an actual relative of yours. What a surreal coincidence!

Me: No, he was not a relative. I have never met him before, but I have just made him my uncle Tobias.

Shopkeeper: Very good sir. (Quickly wrapping the picture and fumbling anxiously with my change.) Have a nice day.

Me, leaving the shop: See you next Saturday, maybe.

Shopkeeper: Uh, we…we will be uh…closed next Saturday, sir. It’s us…uh…Michael Dee’s birthday.

But I don’t care they think. I have my mission now. In fact, I’m on the veritable “rool.” I have placed an ad in the “personals.”

“Elderly people desiring to share their memories, please write Bob, c/o OMNIBUS Magazine. Albums and old photographs a plus.”

I did receive a minor setback last week:

“Dear Mr. Coskrey:
Although we loved your very original idea for one of our shows to be called “People Who Like Old People And Old Things And Who Go Bonkers Over Abandoned Antique Family Photographs,” I am afraid we will not be able to produce the show. Our staff could not locate a single person in the entire US with similar interests, except, oddly enough, Kirstie Alley, and a guy in an institution, who is too highly medicated to be interviewed.
Thank you for your interest.
Sincerely,
Oprah Winfrey.
I am not discouraged. I still haven’t heard from Geraldo.

Predictions for 1998

January 1998
Predictions for 1998
By Bob Coskrey

We ask you gentle readers to indulge our flights of fancy as we take pen in hand to make prediction for the upcoming year. While you may well laugh at our predictive efforts, it is only in hindsight that we may be proven worth of lacking in this, our first psychic foray.

1. In a bold move to level the economic playing field between the Lowcountry and the Upstate, Mayor Joe Riley will annex the cities of Greenville and Spartanburg.
2. Prince Charles will try to reconcile with Earl Spencer in a pathetic attempt to gain access to his “little black book.”
3. Continuing to display evidence of its homophobic attitude, Myrtle Beach will pass an ordinance outlawing any LPGA events, based on the mistaken belief that the acronym stand for the Lesbian Professional Golf Association.
4. The sexual mores portion of the U.S. Census Survey will contain the question, “Did you make love to Madonna in 1997?” (It will be posed to both sexes.)
5. A Goose Creek native will pen a novel about a murder that takes place in his home town—“Midnight in the Defoliated Lot of Hubcaps and Trailers.”
6. Relatedly, the ecstatic Mayor of Goose Creek will declare a city-wide holidy to celebrate the discovery of a resident who is able to read and write.
7. Rush Limbaugh’s EIB (Egomaniacs in Broadcasting) Network will declare bankruptcy. In the resultant collapse of the enormous radio personality’s even more enormous ego, scores of Dittoheads will suffer minor injuries.
8. Remarking that “If they love Jerry Lewis they will love anybody,” President Clinton will name the recently retired Beavis and Butthead as Ambassadors to France, with their mission being “to make France laugh again.”
9. From now on, Frank Gifford will make only the first two selections from a flight attendant’s “coffee, tea, or me” offering.
10. Taking advantage of his Clark Kent comparison, Al Gore will start making his fund-raising calls from phone booths.
11. A courageous Attorney General Charles Condon, in an effort to “drive depravity from the House of God,” will outlaw church bingo nights.

February 1998
**Letters About the Article “Predictions for 1998” and the Response**

Dear Editor:
I am writing in reference to Predictions for 1998 on page 4 of the January issue of the East Cooper. As a resident of Goose Creek, I am highly offended by your pathetic attempt at humor.

Prediction 5- A Goose Creek native will pen a novel on murder that takes place in his hometown-“Midnight in the Defoliated Lot of Hubcaps and Trailers.”

I’m sure that you did not realize that Goose Creek zoning regulations do not allow for mobile homes to be located anywhere inside the city limits other than in the one existing park. Also, the city has a full time Code Enforcement Officer, and I can assure you that you will find no more hubcaps in Goose Creek than anywhere else East of the Cooper.

Prediction 6- Relatedly, the ecstatic Mayor Goose Creek will declare a city-wide holiday to celebrate the discovery of a resident who is able to read and write.

First of all, I believe that you meant to print “Mayor of Goose Creek” instead of “Mayor Goose Creek.”

Secondly, I’m sure that you did not realize that last year, students at Goose Creek High School were awarded $1,467,860 in academic scholarships and that the number of four-year college graduates in Goose Creek grew 251% between 1980 and 1990 according to the 1990 Census.

My recommendation to you is to take less time putting your nose in the air and take more time getting the facts straight.

Sincerely,
Rebecca Mayberry, Goose Creek


Dear Mr. Coskrey:

As a resident of Goose Creek, I was offended by your “Predictions For 1998” article. I fail to see the humor in your article. When you decide to make derogatory comments about a town or city, I suggest you first do some research. In reference to “prediction 6,” be informed that the 1997 Goose Creek High School graduating class received approximately 1.4 million dollars in academic scholarships.

In reference to “prediction 5” does the residential area only become unsightly if the homes are valued under a certain dollar amount? (FYI: mobile home lots are clear cut for safety reasons.)

I consider myself to have a good sense of humor and enjoy a good “joke” as long as it is not originated out of arrogance and prejudice.

Mr. Coskrey, I feel you and East Cooper Monthly owe the residents of Goose Creek, and Mayor Michael J. Heitzler, Ed., D., an apology.

Sincerely,
Donna Hicks, Goose Creek, SC


Dear Editor:

Congratulations on your January issue of East Cooper Monthly! I am sorry to say, however, that I did not completely read the entire issue. After reading your predictions for 1998 page, I trashed the rest.

As a resident of Goose Creek, I am, of course, offended by your remarks but I am also saddened by your obvious ignorance of our splendid community. Our Mayor and City Council have worked hard to change this city into a truly great place to live.

For your information, there is only one trailer park in the city limits of Goose Creek and it is mandated by strict community appearance codes and ordinances. Our Mayor, Dr. Michael J. Heitzler, is, and has been, the principal of Westview Elementary for nearly 20 years and the education statistics of that and other Goose Creek schools rival those of East Cooper. My six year old son, a student at Dr. Heitzler’s school, can read, write and spell quite well, as can I, as you can plainly see.

Let’s see if The East Cooper Monthly has the good taste to apologize for their nasty comments. Whether you do or not, the citizens of Goose Creek will handle your ignorance and prejudice in true Southern fashion. We forgive you.

Sincerely, Sherry Ferguson, Goose Creek


RESPONSE

Dear Irate Goose Creek Residents:

First, allow me to apologize to you and your mayor for having offended you with my comments. My humor was not intended to be mean spirited. I was only trying to elicit laughter through the use of exaggeration. I have poked fun at many communities, including the East Cooper area (see comments about Myrtle Beach in the Jan. issue), over the years.

The fact you provided about the number of 4 year college graduates living in Goose Creek having increased by 251% (1980-1990) is very impressive, and as far as my not having my facts straight about trailer parks, you could be right. I may have been thinking about Hanahan.

Sincerely Up Goose Creek Without a Paddle,
Bob Coskrey

SNL "Dead"

In each of my many trips to NYC, I have always managed to spot a celebrity, from humorist Roy Blount, Jr., to Whoopie Goldberg. It’s not that I prepare for the trip by logging onto Stalk-a-Star.com, then lurk creepily, or creep lurkily, whoever you prefer, around their apartment buildings, rifle through their garbage, or spend hours walking around the theater district. It’s simply that a lot of them either live in or visit NYC, and since I usually spend at least five days there annually, the chances are good that I’m going to run into one sooner or later. And even when there may have been the possibility of an autograph, I have never asked for one, because I feel it would be the first step toward qualifying for membership in that group of people who inevitably will be interviewed by one of “The Daily Show’s” fake reporters, with Rob Cordry asking me, straight-faced, questions such as, “How long did it take to cover your Camaro with 8x10 Jackie Chan glossies?” “How do you know that’s really Clay Aiken’s underwear?” or “Tell me again how you were able to obtain the cellulite left over from Carnie Wilson’s liposuction to make that swell paperweight?”

However, my faux pride hasn’t prevented me from indulging in the harmless-I-tell-myself game of making it a personal goal to see at least one celebrity on every trip in the same spirit that children on long trips count red convertables or Neocon body pods on the side of the highway. Of course, the challenge is mitigated significantly by allowing myself to count B, D, or lower list ones if the pressure is on, such as the time I resorted to skullduggery by going to the “Hello Deli” on my last day, where I knew I would likely see the owner, Rupert Gee, of the “David Letterman Show” fame. And thn, there was the year when, out of pure desperation, I bestowed celebrity status on John McEnroe’s parents, whome I had seen walking in Central Park. I quickly rationalized my decision, in a manner that would earn me a tip of Dubya’s Stetson, by proclaiming that this is my game and I’ll make the rules.

Of course, I’m not including seeing them in their natural environment, or else I would list Robin Williams doing his act about 15 feet from me as certainly the most exciting celebrity encounter. He made an unscheduled appearance at a comedy club shortly after 9/11, and his wildly manic performance was as therapeutic as it was hilarious. He sprayed perspiration onto my drink napkin twice, which I later had freeze-dried and framed. It now has the place of honor in my “Bob Coskrey’s Tribute to Comedy Room.”

Without a doubt, my most interesting celebrity sighting happened on my trip of last November when I went to one of New York’s multifold Irish bars, this one named “Rocky Sullivan’s,” where I had read in a magazine they were going to broadcast a show called “Satire for Sanity” on the new liberal radio network, “Air America.” This was after the election, so I was looking forward to a joyous evening of jocular, cathartic conservative-bashing with my beer-swilling brethren. It was supposed to start at 8 p.m., so I arrived about 45 minutes early to make sure I got a good seat. It was a typical looking old New York tavern, with a long wooden bar, a smoky mirror behind it, and about a dozen bar stools, half occupied. It was dark and dingy, which is the way I like my bars—no Ficus Benjaminae, coruscated brass, or mocha frappe latte martinis for me. There was some obligatory Gaelic paraphernalia on the wall and maybe four other people sitting at tables. The bartender was a young girl somewhere between 21 and 30. For some reason, when you reach my age, everyone from 15 to 30 looks the same, but then, on the other hand, when I was in that age group myself, I can recall that everyone between 55 and 70 looked the same, but that’s because my sagging, gray-haired, prune complexioned, ear-hair-sprouting, jumpsuit-wearing, Appleby-eating demographic group actually does look alike.

I sat at the bar patiently awaiting the start of the show, and noted the small stage and microphone near the back, as I found my way to the elbow-use only bathroom, and upon returning to my stool, I noticed a guy at the other end, who looked like one of the SNL performers of the past, but I couldn’t remember his name. I asked the bartender and found out my hunch was right. He was A. Whitney Brown, who was a featured performer/writer in the late 80s and mid 90s. He would always be introduced by the “Weekend Update” announcer, and would read something that was literate, but always very funny. I always liked him, partly because I figured, “Maybe I could do that.” In fact, I have always been a staunch SNL fan, even through the lean years, and it has been a much too easily dissipated 30-year pipe-dream that I would one day, through some sort of divine intervention specially set aside for agnostics, get a job there as a writer. As I got closer and closer to the possibility of introducing myself to Mr. Brown with each Heineken, it became apparent that the show was about two hours late starting. Then I heard of the group around Mr. Brown say something like “Jack’s not here, so we’re not going to have a show tonight.” Shocked, but not necessarily awed, I said semi-seriously to one of the group, “I came all this way from a red state liberal enclave, and now you’re not going to have the show? This is an outrage.” Immediately after making this Heineken-imbued statement, I had the frightening thought that maybe this was a Conservative ambush. Ingenious liberals were lured here by false advertising, and we would soon be attacked by Neocon goons with nightsticks and tasers, then become the bottom part of a naked, all-male triangle. However, my reverie of horror was interrupted by Mr. Brown offering his apology for the show’s cancellation. He then introduced himself to me and asked where I was from, giving me the opportunity to repeat my red state liberal enclave line. I told him I had always enjoyed his SNL performances, and even spilled forth my 30-year desire to be a writer on the show.

Then it happened, the HMS Karma was easing up to my dock after a half-life voyage: “Why don’t you send me some of your stuff?” Mr. Brown uttered nonchalantly. Trying not to appear too excited, I replied phlegmatically, “Yeah, I could do that,” then added, to eschew any notion that I might be getting self-conscious and gushy, “By the way, what are you doing now?” “I’m looking for a job I’m unemployed.” The HMS Karma has hot one of those glaciers released from the Arctic by global warming and is sinking fast. All I remember after that is Mr. Brown saying something about being from Michigan and my walking the long 25 blocks back to my hotel, with the somewhat presumptuous thought running through my head: “Sure, I’m going to send my stuff to you, so you can use it to launch your SNL comeback.”

I confess that I looked up A. Whitney Brown’s address in the phone book the next day, rationalizing that maybe we could team up and write a sitcom or something. But I haven’t done anything about it. I think maybe it’s best that celebrities be seen and hot heard—at least in my case.