Rifles, mommies, clothing & Sarah sings Procol

As is plain to anyone with eyes to see, White Bear has taken over all duties and responsibilities concerning firearms. A few years ago, I began buying some older rifles and outfitting them with period scopes (telescopic sights, for the uninitiated). I bought this rifle on my return from Poland in the Spring. It is sixty years old, and still beautiful. The action is a classic, a Mauser (German) design first introduced in the 19th Century, with this particular one manufactured by Fabrique Nationale, a Belgium gunmaker also renowned for well over a century. The caliber, .30-06, first saw extensive use among American troops during World War I. It continues to be one of the most favored of cartridges among big game hunters around the world. The scope is yet a juvenile, only thirty-five or, maybe, forty years old, and one I have had for a couple of years, waiting patiently for a rifle to claim as its own. Now, all this is White Bear's rig. You might notice that the little rascal has more-or-less taken over possession of my Colt Series 70 Gold Cup .45 ACP, too. (That is the pistol on the table in front of him, for the uninitiated.)

To wear or not to wear, that is the question

A few days ago, Peggy asked me if I enjoyed shopping for automobiles. I replied that I did not. That I did not like shopping. That, in particular, I did not like shopping for clothing.

The question was a jolt into the past for me. My mother loved to shop. In addition to shopping in our small hometown and a few regional shopping centers, she would figure out a way to make periodic trips to Minneapolis/St. Paul -- one hundred, fifty miles distant.

Naturally, being her bouncing baby boy and only child, I was "dragged" (yes, sometimes literally) along on every single excursion she made. Sometime around the age of four, I concluded that I did not like these trips. They robbed me of endless hours of playing games with my friends. By the time I was eight or nine, I was ready for open rebellion and to run away from home if I were to be required to go on another shopping expedition.

Now, I should clarify, that she did most of the shopping for herself. Consequently, I was forced to slouch (a boy's style of sitting) for hours in women's dress shops and department stores, watching fat women, skinny women, homely women, beautiful women, short women, tall women ooohhhing and aaahhhing over dresses and purses and jewelry and shoes and, and, and .... usually, I was the only "man" in the shop.

But, even worse was the fact that mommie dearest loved to shop for clothes for me, and would also force me to try on shirt after shirt, shoe after shoe, trousers after trousers, sometimes even hats (!! my god, the humiliation of wearing anything on my head other than a baseball cap) and, of course, long coats and short coats and heavy coats and light coats.

All right. Enough. To the point. Two things were the end result of my childhood under the complete control of my ruthless mother. By the time I was sixteen or seventeen, I discovered my wardrobe had a strange affect on girls. They loved it. Oh, yeh. Here come Pete and Dave and Paul in their jeans and sweatshirts and tennis shoes. Here comes Fram (I almost wrote my real name there) in his dress slacks and cashmere sweater and loafers. These mere pieces of clothing had a magical effect on girls. They loved it. (I guess I already said that. Whatever.) Well, I shall say no more in that regard.

Next, and judge this cause and effect for yourself, for I shall not. This childhood pattern has made me an absolute cripple in regard to clothing. Other than jeans and t-shirts, an occasional jacket, boots and a shirt here and trousers there, I need a woman to tell me what looks good on me and what to buy. Honestly. I must confess. I am a clothing cripple.

“Do I look ok in this?”

“Does this fit me all right?”

“Which of these should I buy?”

I suppose I do this to some degree because I know it pleases the woman I am with to have me demonstrate that I value her judgment, but I also do it because I have no clue what clothing works for me and what does not.

It has evolved into part of the "job description." The companion of Fram must enjoy shopping, and must pick out his clothes for him.

Ah, yes …. the music ....

"A Whiter Shade of Pale," written and originally performed by a 1960s British band called Procol Harum, would fall into my top twenty-five (or thereabouts) list of music no matter what the category. It easily is the band's finest and greatest piece of music. Life was all downhill after it for these boys. I am being factious, but that really is the truth of the matter. In historical terms, this song has "anthem status" in context of the rock era of music. This band never had another song even close to it. Few bands have.

For those who disapprove of rock music, the writers openly acknowledge the influence and inspiration of none other than J.S. Bach, in particular his "Sleepers, Wake!" and "Air on a G String." If you listen to the organ, you will clearly hear the voice of Bach transcending death to reappear two centuries after his earthly existence ended. Listen, and you will hear him. This is Bach alive again. No mistake.

One thing, I think, is certain. This song is emblematic of what Western music was in the last one-third of the 20th Century.

I have posted the Procol Harum version here, maybe twice, in the past. Tonight, I chose the rendition by Sarah Brightman, who easily would fall into my top twenty-five list of women singers. Some say she has the voice of an angel. Since I never have heard the voice of an angel, all I dare to say is that only one other woman's voice rips me into pieces as easily as does the voice of Sarah. And, when Sarah's voice is mingled with this song, I am utterly and completely helpless.

Wanna dance ??