Hey, Wendy:

Don't mind if I do (although I'll pass on the Danish pastry.) I ate so many that I was in danger of becoming one, being Danish and all.

I'm taking this writing class and the teacher encouraged me to come up with a title for my book of memoirs, photographs and songs. Something catchy. I was having a conversation with Elmer Fudd and he mentioned how much he enjoyed my comment about my father never learning to tie a necktie. And a title presented itself. And a Forward to the book. This is it: first draft.

No Ties In Heaven

I grew up in the land of Oshkosh B'Gosh. The only bibs that you'd see at the kitchen table were on overalls. And people stil said "gosh," and "gollee." When my Father was really impressed about something, he'd say "Goll!" and drop the "ee."

When it came time for me to have my high school graduation picture taken there was only one problem. I didn't own a white shirt or tie. Worse yet, I had to stop and think for a minute who knew how to tie a necktie. My brother-in-law Ed came to the rescue. He grew up in Milwaukee where they wore ties, and he taught me the intricacies of getting a nice, tightly-tied knot on a tie. I tried to pass that new-found knowledge on to my Father, but he never got the knack of it. Once a tie was tied, he couldn't see any sense in untying it. He'd just loosen the tie and slip it over his head and hang it up, ready to wear the next time an occasion arose to wear it.

Friday nights, walking the streets of Janesville, Wisconsin where I grew up, you'd see a sea of blue jeans. The young men argued endlessly about which jeans were better: Levi's or Wranglers, while the farmers and the men who worked at "The Plant," (General Motors) preferred Oshkosh B'Gosh bib overalls. There were no "Dress Down" Fridays. Life was "Dress Down."

Walking down those same streets these days, you won't meet many people. They'll all be out at the Mall, or at the local Walmart or Target out on the "strip" on Milton Avenue. And any kids you see will be slouching along in clothes six sizes too big, inadvertently "Mooning" the people on the street every time they lean over. Occasionally, you'll see someone in bib overalls with a snow white crew cut. They'll most likely be having breakfast at McDonald's with the "boys", where they linger over a McMuffin and a paper cup of coffee, wisecracking and harmlessly flirting with the "girls" who are having their own little Koffee Klatch within earshot.

Over the years, I've talked with family members, long-since gone now, about what it was like when they were growing up. I've tried
to capture the sights and sounds of those days on paper and in songs. I wasn't interested in casting a nostalgic sheen over those times, or glamorizing the "Good Old Days." As I wrote in a song "For the good old days are still to come, though the hard times are not over." I just wanted to remember how life was like in the slow lane when milk was delivered by horse and wagon and ice boxes graced every kitchen.

And I think about my Mom and Dad and the times that they grew up in. I know that Mom was overjoyed to finally make it to Heaven to be reunited with her Mother and my Father. And Dad must have been relieved to find out that they don't wear ties in Heaven.

Jerry