Posted by Mark David Manders
Sun, 04 Feb 2007 11:30:00 GMT
My earliest recollection of a Knights of Columbus hall is back when I was probably seven or eight years old. All I remember was a dark, cavernous room, a long table crowded with casserole dishes and vegetables, a priest in a funny shaped hat, and beer, lots of beer. If memory serves me right the KC hall was located off of Northwest Highway near Flag Pole Hill in Lake Highlands. I don’t remember why our family was there, but I would guess that it was either a fundraiser for our church or a wedding reception.
Apparently not much has changed since I was a kid, at least as far as KC halls go. When we arrived at the Gainesville Knights of Columbus Friday night I walked in the back door by the stage and I felt as if I had stepped back in time thirty years. There was a large dance floor in front of the stage, a bar at the other end of the room, and the smell of home-cooking everywhere.
Food, however, was not an immediate concern for me at that point. When Patsy Henry asked me a few weeks earlier to play a benefit for Saint Mary’s Catholic school she said she wanted to have us over for dinner before the show. She said, “Don’t bother with the food at the KC Hall. I want to cook chicken fried steak for the entire band.”
So who’s Patsy Henry? It’s kind of a long story, but I met her through her son, Brian, last spring. Brian asked if I would sing a song for his brother’s wedding reception and it just so happened that we were playing nearby on that day. When Patsy arrived, fresh from the wedding, she gave me a huge hug and kissed me on the cheek as if I were one of her own kids. From that point on I started calling her by her nickname, “Mama Henry”. I have been in love with her ever since.
After we loaded in Friday night Brian showed up and drove us all over to his parent’s house. There was an ice chest full of beer on the front porch and Mama Henry was fast at work in the kitchen. She had enough chicken fried steak to feed an army and all the fixins, including gumbo. We all sat down and ate until we couldn’t eat any more.
After dinner we loaded up and headed over to the Knights of Columbus Hall for the show. There were a few bands playing before us so I made my rounds meeting people. I ran into a few folks I had met before, including Luana Wiesan from the Gainesville Sheriff’s Department. I was awkwardly introduced to Luana while playing an outdoor show last April. I won’t go into the details but I will offer up a little advice to festival goers: when hanging out backstage always use the Port-a-potty, you never know who is in the camper next to you.
At one point before the show Mama Henry grabbed me by the arm and took me to meet Father Murphy, who runs Saint Mary’s. A large, stocky man, Father Murphy looked more like a football coach than a priest. At one point during our conversation he actually let a cuss word slip out, giving me a whole new meaning to the phase, “Holy Shit!” Father Murphy explained that he had spent twenty years teaching at a boy’s school on the south side of Chicago and tough talk was one of the few ways he could communicate with the troubled kids. I had a long talk with the Father and afterwards he even blessed my guitar. I played the show that night without breaking a single string.
We took the stage somewhere around ten o’clock. The crowd was a mix of old and young, but my attention was focused on two little, old ladies who danced to every song we played. It reminded me of the American Legion Hall I used to sneak into as a kid. At one point toward the end of the night the younger party-goers let loose. I forget which song we were playing, but you couldn’t fit another person on stage with us. I’m not sure how long we played, but everyone there that night, including us, had a blast.
After the show we said goodbye to our friends, old and new, and started down that long road home.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Fri, 10 Nov 2006 12:30:00 GMT
“There’s wrinkles on his face, wrinkles in his clothes. And he wears a little thinner as each day unfolds…”
It is a common misconception that men do not do laundry, or at least do it properly. I beg to differ. Most males are very accomplished in the art of washing and ironing clothes. Whether his experience comes from four years in college or simply living alone as a bachelor, the average adult man has, at one time or another, learned to master this basic household trait.
Then there is the husband. Most husbands, I will concede, leave the laundry to their wife, whether she works or not. It’s almost as if as soon as a man says, “I do” his mind erases all prior domestic knowledge. A line is drawn in the sand. He thinks, “Your job is to tend to inside chores and mine is to take care of the yard, vehicles, and minor household repairs.”
Not the case in our family. Do you have any idea how many dirty clothes we accumulate in the span of one week? The triplets are eight now and capable of making their own breakfast, walking to school, and, of course, dirtying up at least five pairs of jeans each per week, not to mention socks, underwear, and the ever-dreaded washing machine space killers- towels. If Kathryn and I slack for even a day in our laundry routine we are overwhelmed and spend the rest of the week playing catch up. Laundry around our house is a constant threat which requires the complete attention of both adults.
So you can imagine my panic when Kathryn called me last week and said, “Honey, the dryer quit working.” This was on Monday. I was on my way back from Sugarland and I only had one day to address the problem before leaving again for the Terlingua trip. I told her to call our neighbor, David, and see if we could use his dryer until I could either repair or replace ours.
It was a risky proposition. David had given us an extra key about a year ago to look after his house while he visited family in Louisiana. A few months back David mentioned to me that his supply of Patron had mysteriously dwindled. I tried to place the blame on Shawn, our other neighbor who also had a spare key, but deep down inside I knew David still had his suspicions. Fortunately, he agreed to let Kathryn and I use his dryer and thus began the new routine of carting wet clothes across the alley.
Now anyone who’s ever done laundry knows that the washing machine is much faster than the dryer. The average load takes only thirty minutes to wash, but at least forty-five to dry, and even longer for jeans and towels. This presents a problem when you’re toting basket after basket to your neighbor’s.
So I devised an ingenious solution. Actually, I borrowed on an almost forgotten technique that would make most grandmothers teary-eyed as they reminisced of bygone laundry days- the clothes line. You know, the summertime center of housewife social activity. In the days before fences and home owners associations, moms throughout the neighborhood would hang out their laundry to dry on two elevated wires using an ancient accessory, the clothespin. As they hung their linen out to dry they would chat with the neighbors and catch up on the local gossip. It was similar to the present male form of information exchange- mowing the lawn on Saturday, except it normally didn’t involve having a beer in one hand.
Anyway, the weather Monday and Tuesday was perfect for drying clothes, highs in the upper seventies and sunny. I rummaged through the garage cabinets and found a coil of wire that I used for staking my trees, repairing the James’s drum set, etc; kind of the urban equivalent to bailing wire. I then strung the wire from a fence post out back to the gymnastics bar that I had made for Jessica for her birthday. I knew the makeshift clothesline was a little lower than most, but at the time it didn’t bother me.
So my routine was this: I would wash a load of jeans, hang them on the clothesline until the next load was done, then take the slightly moist load to David’s for final drying, replacing the jeans with the next load of clothes. I didn’t have any clothespins so wind was a factor. Fortunately there was only a slight breeze Monday evening and Tuesday.
By Tuesday evening I had laundered at least seven or eight loads, enough to keep the kids clothed until Kathryn and I returned from the Terlingua trip. We were to be gone for five days and the last thing I wanted to do was send the kids off to my mom’s house with dirty underwear.
Kathryn and I returned from Terlingua around three in the afternoon this Monday only to find that in our absence the master bathroom toilet didn’t work and the kitchen faucet wouldn’t shut off. (My grandmother had always told me that things happen in threes.) So, after I picked up the kids from school, I got on the internet and ordered parts for the kitchen faucet. I then drove down to Elliott’s Hardware and bought the replacement parts for the toilet. By the way, this was the third time the toilet had acted up. Apparently the replacement crap they sell you at Home Depot only has a life-expectancy of only three months. Elliott’s, my favorite mom and pop hardware store (possibly the only mom and pop Home Depot hasn’t run out of business in the D/FW area), may be a little more expensive, but they actually carry brass replacement parts instead of that cheap, plastic garbage offered by the larger chain.
Monday evening I repaired the master bathroom toilet. On Wednesday the replacement parts for the kitchen faucet arrived. Within a few minutes the sink was fully operational again. I then set my sights on the dryer.
Our washer and dryer are made by White Westinghouse. In the past few years I have replaced the agitator, timer, and several knobs on the washing machine, but until this week I had not attempted any repairs on the dryer. Now I like to pride myself in the fact that I can, at least I believe I can, fix anything and everything that breaks in our house. (I often bring up this point when Kathryn gets upset at me for buying new and sometimes exotic tools.)
On Wednesday, however, I ran into a problem with the dryer- I couldn’t for the life of me remove the outer panel to get inside the unit. There were two screws located just below the control interface that I swear were impossible to get at with any type of screwdriver. I exhausted every method known to man to remove the screws, but to no avail. After three hours I gave up, thinking I would have better luck the following day. In the meantime, laundry was once again piling up.
That evening Kathryn and I decided to cook out on the grill. It was dark and I forgot to turn on the flood lights as I made my way out back to light the grill. I was moving along at a pretty good clip when all of the sudden my makeshift clothesline caught me under the chin and damn near ripped my head off. It was all I could do not to drop our steaks as my knees buckled and I fell to the ground.
OK, there comes a time when even the most stubborn of men finally admit defeat. Now I’m sure that I could have repaired the dryer. I am almost positive that all the dryer needed was a new belt; all I had to do was find a way to get inside. It may have taken a few weeks, but I could have done it. But you know, when it becomes a grudge match between man and machine, nine times out of ten the machine will win.
The only thing left now was to save face with Kathryn. I couldn’t let her know that with all my fancy tools I was unable to fix the dryer. So I lied. I told her that the dryer was beyond repair and that I’d have to buy a new one in the morning. I’m not sure if she believed me or not, but right now I don’t care. My back yard is no longer booby-trapped, my neighbor likes me again, and right now I’m folding dry clothes in the comfort of my own home.
How does the commercial go?
“Steaks not dropped on the way to the grill- $16.95. New Maytag dryer- $279.00. One hundred percent machine dried clothes- priceless.”
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Tue, 07 Nov 2006 09:00:00 GMT
Home sweet home! I have been gone for seven of the last eight days and I cannot tell you how good it is to be home again. The annual trip to the Terlingua World Chili Championship is by far my favorite weekend of the year, steeped in traditions, but it can take its toll on you.
Here was the plan last week. Russ, Lafon, and I had a gig Wednesday at the Texas Tavern in Brenham. On Thursday we were to drive to Angelo for a show at Blaine’s Pub where Grant, Kathryn, Kim, and Sarah were to meet us followed by Bret who drove separately. From there we’d all head out Friday morning for the six-hour drive to Terlingua. We were scheduled to play Saturday night, and normally we would head back home on Sunday, but this year we decided to take our time on the way back.
Our friends, Barry and Dee Johnson, decided to follow us to Brenham Wednesday in their urban assault vehicle, a cross between a van and an RV. Barry and Dee have been our friends for quite a while and it wasn’t until this weekend that we finally gave them an official title- Head of Entourage Security. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the acronym for their position is HOES.
We had a great time at the Tavern Wednesday. Since it was the day after the big Halloween party the crowd was fairly light. Hunter, the owner, told us when we arrived that he couldn’t stay out too late that night because he threw down a little too much the night before. In fact, just about everyone who showed up looked hung over. We didn’t care; we just kept on playing.
On Thursday morning we loaded up for the drive to San Angelo. We stopped for lunch at the City Meat Market in Giddings and feasted on steak, ribs, and sausage. It had been quite a few years since I’d eaten there, but the food was just as I had remembered it. Even better, I had a huge rack of ribs and an iced tea for less than ten bucks. I’d definitely rank the City Meat Market in my top ten all time BBQ joints.
We arrived in San Angelo around 5:00 in the afternoon. I dropped the guys off at the HoJo and went down to the YMCA to work out. Grant and the girls hit town an hour later, followed by Bret who arrived around seven.
After a quick sound check we began the show. We had a good crowd for a Thursday and this time there were no fights. It was Dee’s birthday, so we got her up on stage to do “Three Fingers Tequila” with us. Believe it or not, we actually quit playing at a decent hour. I think we made it back to the hotel and to bed by 1:30 or 2:00. That might be a record for us.
Friday morning we met up with Barry and Dee and took off for the six-hour drive to Terlingua. There were, of course, stops to be made along the way. The most important was the Coors Distributorship in Alpine. When we arrived we found that Bob Ritchey, who runs the Terlingua Golf Tournament, had beaten us to the punch on the Keystone Light. He had made off with sixteen cases before we got there. That’s it, next year we’re leaving on Wednesday and heading straight to Alpine just to make sure we get there before Bob. It wasn’t a total loss; the fine people there at the distributorship gave us Coors Light bottles and a few cases of Miller.
Grant made good time, no, great time, on Highway 118 between Alpine and Terlingua, pulling into the campgrounds around three that afternoon. Everyone unloaded and began setting up camp. For Barry and Dee that meant throwing it in Park and turning off the engine. For the rest of us it meant putting up tents and stowing gear.
This year, like the year before, we camped directly behind Ted Hume, not far from the Blaine’s Pub cooking team. I think this site has pretty much become our home at Terlingua. We are close enough to Ted’s campfire to hear the late night jams and still not too far away from the Angelo camp where the food is unbelievable.
That evening Kathryn, Dee, and I got in as margarita judges with a little help from our friends Emily and Erin. There were thirty entries and, even though you only take a sip of each, it is no easy task to make it to the end. A few of the margaritas tasted good; others weren’t worth mentioning again. I mean, who makes a margarita that tastes like coconut? I thought that drink was called a pina colada. Anyway, once the judging let out I took a badly needed nap.
Max Stalling played that Friday night and we got a chance to catch up a little before and after his show. He went to bed around midnight because they had a gig somewhere around Corpus the next day. Kathryn and I remained at Ted’s campfire where we listened to music until we couldn’t stay awake any more.
Saturday morning I set out with one goal- to find a shower. This is not always an easy task in Terlingua; after all it is in the middle of the desert. Fortunately Dan from the Angelo camp had a hotel room in town and offered us a key. He was going to play golf that morning and told us that we could use his shower while he was gone.
Afterwards Kathryn and I drove over to the CASI site to try and locate our friend, Lloyd. For those who have never been to Terlingua, there are two cook-offs. One is called “Behind the Store” and the other is “CASI”, the Chili Appreciation Society of America. I’m not sure how long ago it was, but somewhere down the line the two factions split and went their separate ways. I have always attended the Behind the Store cook-off. This year was my first time in fourteen years to visit the CASI site.
The CASI campground was crowded. I mean there were people camped within a foot or two of each other. I wasn’t used to being so closed in and Kathryn and I had a hard time maneuvering down the congested roads. We never did find Lloyd, so we left.
Instead of heading back to our campsite, I took Kathryn down to see DOM. (If you don’t know who DOM is or you haven’t seen the movie, “Fandango”, I suggest you read my News from the Road entry dated Sunday, November 6, 2005.) After a few pictures we returned to the cook-off. I wanted to slip down into Mexico for a while, but we didn’t have time because I had to judge finals chili at 2:00.
The turn-ins this year were among the best I’ve judged to date. I think there were only two chilis that I ranked as mediocre. The rest were top-notch. As is always the tradition at the finals table, there were tequila toasts and pleasant banter, as well as the inevitable nap which soon followed.
The awards ceremony began later that afternoon, I think around four, and we all went down to see if any of our friends had won. Ted Hume took home quite a few trophies. I think he said he was just two points away from winning the overall prize. My friends from the Angelo camp didn’t fare as well which is a shame. I tried some of their chili afterwards and it was excellent.
I got a surprise during the awards ceremony that knocked me off my feet. Kathleen Tolbert-Ryan, one of the head hanchos, called me up on stage and awarded me the Terlingua VIP plaque for all the years I’ve been playing the event. I can’t tell you what an honor it was to receive the award. When I first started doing the music thing I set goals of places I wanted play. My top three were Willie’s 4th of July Picnic, Gruene Hall, and the Terlingua Chili Cook-off. Getting recognized by the powers that be at Terlingua made my weekend.
We had a great show that night, going on after Gary P. Nunn. They were recording the show for a live CD and originally we were just going to play a 75 minute set. I think we ended up playing for over two hours.
Sunday morning we all loaded up and drove into the National park. Bret said “Good-bye” and went off solo on a two-day float trip down the Rio Grande. The rest of us kicked around the park for a while before heading in the direction of San Angelo again. On our way we stopped in Marathon and checked out where they filmed yet another scene from the movie, “Fandango”. It was the gas station scene where Kevin Costner and crew ended up bathing in a car wash. Another photo-op.
We arrived in San Angelo later that afternoon and got cleaned up. Kathryn and I headed up to Blaine’s for a drink but didn’t stay too long. We were worn out and returned to the hotel for a good night’s sleep in a real bed.
Monday was rather uneventful. We made it home around three in the afternoon and began the arduous task of unloading. All in all we had covered over 1600 miles, from the southeast part of the state to the extreme southwest, and then back home.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Tue, 31 Oct 2006 08:30:00 GMT
Have you ever found yourself taking a longer than usual time to get ready just because you have a special event to attend? I’m talking about going that extra mile to look good. You know, trimming your fingernails, ironing your jeans, etc; things you normally wouldn’t do when getting dressed for an average day. This is exactly what I found myself doing Sunday morning. But before I get into that I’d better back up a few days.
Now I realize that I haven’t been updating my “News from the Road” as frequently as I should. One reason is that we have been busy, really busy. I know; that excuse doesn’t hold a lot of water. Another reason is my camera has been broken for the last seven weeks. I won’t get into all the details, but if you ever buy a camera from Circuit City and the salesperson offers you the two-year extended warranty, tell them to stick it. FYI- Circuit City will NOT replace your camera on the spot if it is damaged or broken, I don’t care how much you pay for the accidental policy.
Anyway, I have a hard time writing my “News from the Road” without pictures to look at, so you imagine my frustration two weeks ago when Jim Slaton called and asked if I wanted to go to the Stones concert in Austin. The show was on Sunday, October 22nd, and there was no way I was going to miss it. I called Circuit City to inquire on the repair status of my camera; they referred me to Olympus, who neglected to return my call. That was on a Wednesday, I believe. I had no other option other than to cross my fingers and hope my camera was shipped to me before the 22nd. It never made it.
To make a long story short, the Stones put on a hell of a show, even covering a Waylon Jennings song during the performance. Afterwards Jim and I stopped by Antone’s to catch Blondie’s set. All in all it was an adventure-packed twenty-four hours with no pictures to remember it by.
I flew home early Monday on about two hours sleep and met up with the band. We then headed to Fort Worth to the Mira Vista Country Club to play for Tim Crabtree’s Alliance for Children benefit. During load-in I had a little accident involving a nine-foot, glass door and a monitor speaker. That’s a whole ‘nutha story. I’m still waiting on the verdict from both insurance companies, but whatever the outcome I’d like to apologize to Mira Vista for the extremely large pool of blood I left there at the scene.
After playing the benefit we all headed over to Tim’s house for our annual “after-party”. As usual, the party wound up at his neighbor’s, George’s house. We had intended to stay only for the first half of the Monday Night Football game but ended up leaving much later.
I woke up Tuesday morning to the sound of the UPS guy knocking at my door. I signed for my long-lost camera, explaining to the uninterested delivery man that he was day late.
I spent the rest of last week unsuccessfully trying to recuperate.
On Saturday night we played a show at Gilley’s so Kathryn got a babysitter and joined us. Blacktop Gypsy was playing a few blocks down at Poor David’s Pub and after the show we all went down to say “Hi” to Heather and the band. We ended up at Max Stalling’s house where we stayed until the late hours of the night. Kathryn and I got home around 3:00 in the morning (which by now was really 2:00 in the morning because of the time change), hoping the kids would let us sleep in the next day.
On Sunday morning, around 8:30, first the home phone rang followed immediately by my cell phone. Kathryn and I tried to ignore the calls but both numbers kept ringing one after another. Kathryn finally got up and checked messages. She came back into the bedroom and said, “I think you might want to listen to this.”
The message was from the Republican Party committee in Houston wanting to know if we’d be available to play a party the next day in Sugarland, Texas. I returned the call and found out that the event was a get-out-the-votes rally for Shelley Sekula-Gibbs, a write-in candidate running to replace the district seat vacated by former House Majority Leader, Tom DeLay. I asked who the keynote speaker was and the reply was none other than President George W. Bush.
Now I don’t care what your political persuasion may be, but if you are invited to play a gig for the most powerful man in the world, “no” is not a part of your vocabulary. I called and woke up the guys and told them the news. Everyone was available except Bret, who had already taken off work for the Terlingua Chili Cook Off this coming Friday. I made a few more calls and finally got a hold of Chris Lancaster in Paris, who agreed to drum for us. I then took a shower and began that ritual of “super grooming”.
We had to leave that very same night (Sunday) in order to unload our equipment at the venue so the Secret Service could inspect it. We left Dallas around 7:30 and arrived in Sugarland just before midnight. After checking into the hotel we met up with Kevin Lyndley, who was in charge of organizing the event. He rode with us over to the Sugarland Regional Airport where the rally was to be held.
Have you ever seen the movie, “Strange Encounters of the Third Kind”? That is exactly what the scene looked like as we pulled into the airplane hanger where the stage was set up. I had an eerie feeling as we unloaded our gear, knowing that there were untold numbers of snipers perched on hangar rooftops watching us through their crosshairs as we went about our business. Henry, the sound man, jokingly said to us, “Don’t be alarmed unless you notice a little, red dot on your chest.”
The stage was set up on the west side of the hangar with a bandstand for VIP’s located directly behind it against the wall. In front of the stage were two seating, or should I say standing areas, the closest for gold ticket holders with the cheaper, blue tickets in the rear. Forming a semicircle in between the gold and blue sections were three smaller band stands, one for the White House press core, one for news cameras, and the third for still photographers. On the ceiling above the stage hung a huge Texas flag and the walls of the hangar were dotted with several election posters. I have to say, it was quite an impressive set up.
Once our equipment was in place we returned to the hotel to rest up before the big day. Morning came early, and after a quick shower and a light breakfast, we loaded up and drove back to the airfield. We arrived a little after ten and, to my surprise, we had no difficulty proceeding past the security checkpoints to our destination.
A few volunteers were putting the final touches on the stage as we arrived. I noticed that someone had placed a large podium center stage during the night and I asked one of the volunteers if it was an “official” White House pedestal for the president. My question was referred to one of the plainclothes Secret Service agents who was installing bulletproof panels in front of the podium. He replied that, yes, it was an official White House prop; in fact, one of nineteen nicknamed “The Blue Goose” for the blue, velour cover that protected during transport. Grant and I wasted no time in getting our pictures taken at the podium. The agent didn’t seem to mind.
OK, so this was my first encounter with a Secret Service agent and there were to be several more throughout the day, but let me stop here and give a general observation of these men. I have always had an image in my mind of the Secret Service as a group of stern, rigid, emotionless men, kind of like the Buckingham Palace guards, who never spoke, just stood in the background observing the crowd through dark sunglasses.
Was I ever wrong. Most of the Secret Service agents on site, and there were countless numbers of them, didn’t even wear sunglasses. Sure there were a few in suits, but there were also uniformed agents and agents wearing casual clothes to blend in with the crowd. They were approachable, friendly, and courteous. Don’t get me wrong, these men are probably some of the most deadly law enforcement officers in the world, but they were human, very human, and I enjoyed talking to them.
At 11:45 AM we were instructed to leave the hangar for about an hour while the Secret Service did a “sweep” of the premises. (“Sweep” was one of the cool, new Secret Service terms I learned yesterday. It sounds so much hipper than inspection or shakedown.) We secured the trailer door and drove down the road to a little convenience store to get a snack and gas up.
When we returned there was already a large crowd gathered at the entrance to the airport. The gates didn’t open until 2:00, so we waited outside the metal detectors area for about an hour until Kevin came to lead us back to the stage. A few minutes later the crowd began to file into the hangar. What happened next seems like a blur.
The rally began with us doing a couple of songs to get everyone in the partying mood. Now this was not easy. First of all, this was a non-alcoholic function. Secondly, I was not allowed to sing any songs which mentioned alcohol. In fact, I was prohibited, not only from lyrics which mentioned alcohol, but from singing any songs that vaguely implied lying, cheating, drinking, or smoking, as well as any songs that might be deemed offensive or violent. So we started off the day with an instrumental, which we call the “Lafon Shuffle”.
After we played our two songs, the evocation was recited followed by the National Anthem, the Pledge of Allegiance, and the Texas Creed. Next up were speeches from a few Republican candidates running for office in the Houston area. One of these was, believe it or not, a man named “Jim Murphy”. I kid you not. I met Jim just before the rally started and I explained to him that I had a song called “Jim Murphy”. We both got a big laugh out of it and I promised to send him a copy of the CD when I got home.
During the speeches, Stan Chapman approached me and asked if the guys and I would like to relax on one of the White House staff busses parked just outside the hangar. I had met Stan the night before while loading in. He is another one of those guys that, when you first meet, you feel as though you have known him all your life. He would kill me for screwing this up, but I can’t remember what his exact title is. I know it has something to do with either the White House or the Republican Party and that “Protocol” is in the title.
Anyway, Stan led us outside to where the three White House staff busses were located and we made ourselves at home while waiting for our next curtain call. Once again, Grant and I took the opportunity to get a few snapshots.
At 3:09
PM (I’m telling you, they plan everything down to the minute.) we were led back to the stage and performed for about half an hour. It was quite a challenge for me to concentrate on my lyrics while singing. Actually it was a lot of fun. I’d start off in a song that the band knew contained alcohol in the lyrics, and then I’d change it up.
For example:
”I just dropped by to pick up my keys, and one more Bloody Mary please”
became
”I just dropped by to pick up my keys, and one more cup of coffee please”
and so on.
No one in the crowd knew what was going on, but we had a blast.
I’m not sure what the final numbers were, but the Secret Service told me that there were between 6200 and 6500 in attendance yesterday. If anyone is good at estimating a crowd, I would imagine they are. I didn’t know how I would feel playing in front of so many people who didn’t fit our normal audience demographics, but once on stage everything just felt right. Thirty minutes went by like three and we were done. We finished our last song, struck our gear, and exited stage left.
The next speaker was Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison. Now I had played a private party at Mrs. Hutchison’s house about three years ago, but I never thought she would remember me. But to my surprise the Senator Hutchison took the time to thank us during her speech. She said, “I would like to thank Mark David Manders and his band for taking the time to play for us this afternoon. Mark is an excellent Texas singer/songwriter and a strong Republican.” My jaw hit the floor.
Senator Hutchison then introduced Shelley Sekula-Gibbs. Shelley gave a short speech before turning the mic over to the emcee. Once again, my apologies for not remembering names or titles, but this guy’s last name was Yoakum. All I know about him is that he is a famous NASCAR announcer. Mr. Yoakum took the next fifteen minutes and whipped the crowd into a frenzy while the sound man played selected music in the background.
Then it was show time. Over the PA I heard a song which sounded like it ought to have been in a Star Wars soundtrack; it might have been. I don’t know. Then a helicopter appeared coming from the west side and landing one hundred feet from the entrance of the hangar. It was followed by another, then another, and yet, still another. They were big, green jumbo helicopters and they landed in a rectangular formation on the tarmac. Then Marine 2, a Blackhawk helicopter painted green and white, landed inside the rectangle a little east of center. Finally Marine 1, carrying the president, came into view. It touched down about fifty feet from the stage, right where our suburban was parked the night before.
The president stepped off Marine 1 and made his way to the podium while six thousand plus people went wild. OK, I do have one criticism here. It took Marine 1 a while to land and the president a while to get to the stage. In the meantime, the Star Wars sounding song ended. So what song does the sound guy play over the loudspeakers? “East Bound and Down”. Not only does that song seem in bad taste for introducing the President of the United States, but it mentions alcohol! Remember the lyrics:
”Folks are thirsty in Atlanta, and there’s beer in Texarkana, and we’ll get it there no matter what it takes…”
So anyway, President Bush took the stage and delivered a fiery speech. I know a lot of people make fun of George W. for his lack of rhetorical charisma, but I have to say that he looked at home there in Sugarland yesterday and he spoke very well.
I tried to get a few photos of the president from the White House press bandstand, but most of them came out blurry. I am not a great photographer. I did, however, make the acquaintance of a guy named Kevin from the Houston Chronicle, and he promised to send me some of his shots.
After the president finished his speech the music kicked on again. Mr. Bush made his way through the crowd of people in the gold ticket area, shook a few hands, and then boarded Marine 1 for the flight back to the air force base (I forget which one) where Air Force 1 was waiting to take him back to Washington or wherever he was heading next. As Marine 1 took off fireworks exploded in the distance. Within a few minutes the president was gone.
After the adrenalin finally wore off I realized that I had been on my feet for over eight hours. I decided to step outside the door on the north end of the hangar just behind the press bandstand to have a cigarette and relax for a while. As I sat down on a table outside I noticed a utility truck with a crane lifting a workman’s bucket to the roof of the hangar. I asked one of the agents if he was retrieving a sniper and he said, “Several.” I sat there and watched three snipers, one by one, as they loaded their rifles and climbed into the bucket for the ascent to the grass below.
Grant and the rest of the band appeared as the last sniper was leaving his perch. We sat and chatted with the Secret Service for another fifteen minutes before even thinking about fighting the traffic in the parking lot where our truck was located. One uniformed agent in particular, a guy named Kevin from the D.C. area, was very friendly. I said, “So when do you guys finally get a chance to relax?” He replied, “Wheels up.”, referring to the president’s departure. I smiled as I filed away another cool, new Secret Service term.
SIDE NOTE: While proofing this article I received a phone call from Stan Chapman. He informed me that his official title is, “State Department Protocol”. Sorry, Stan; I was kind of close.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Wed, 27 Sep 2006 08:30:00 GMT
At Home, 8:30 am
It has been quite a while since I have written.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and reflected on anything. What can I say? It has been a crazy summer. Kathryn and I chose to keep the kids out of day care this year and it was my responsibility to entertain them when I wasn’t on the road. The result was one of the best summers I’ve ever had, three months spent in tank tops and flip flops, days at the community pool and evenings at the YMCA.
There is no greater joy than watching your kids grow up.
Fall is generally a very depressing time for me. As the weather turns cooler I look with dread upon the approaching winter, a time of cold and gloom.This year, however, I have not been affected as bad in years past thanks mainly to dove season and football.
Grant turned me on to a dove hunting spot about two miles north from my house, and now that the kids are older, shooting birds has become a family pastime. Kathryn even went out and bought a hunting license this week.
On the music front we slowed down a bit in September after a busy summer of gigging. It was nice to have a little time off before the October schedule kicks into full gear.
I have been working on some new material as well as auditioning drummers and fiddle players, so look for some new faces in the not to distant future. We have also been spending time in the studio arranging and recording songs. That’s right, it’s time to get another CD out and every spare moment I have is spent writing.
I’d like to go into more detail about all the shows we’ve played this summer and all the people we’ve met, but, to be honest with you, I don’t have the time and even if I did I wouldn’t remember half of the stories. I guess I’ll let the pictures do the talking for me.
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