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by Vance Meyer Knowing that mom had supper on the table was the only good thing about leaving Shirley’s house one humid summer afternoon in 1975.   The two of us had just blown another entire day doing pretty much nothing except swinging too high on the bulky porch swing her dad had built by hand in the back yard. Heading down the long Highland Avenue hill, I was listening to a transistor radio that was Velcroed to the handlebars of my red Schwinn Stingray, while popping wheelies on the uneven cracks in the sidewalk.   Two years later, that same radio would inform me of the death of Elvis Presley.   But today, it was Frankie Valli singing his new hit, “My eyes adored you,” through the low-quality speaker.   I listened to Frankie carry on in song about a girl he knew in the sixth grade and wondered if I might still feel the same way about Shirley when I grew up. Shirley Montgomery was a year behind me at our Marion, Indiana elementary school (She was fifth grade, I was sixt

by Vance Meyer As far as I knew, Tiny Tim hadn’t recorded a recognizable song since “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” more than 17 years earlier.   And his interview on the Marion, Indiana radio station where I worked was only happening because our station manager had generously promised someone in town that we would promote the novelty singer's starring role in a traveling circus performing at our local armory.   But, let’s face it, being an announcer for sister stations WMRI FM and WGOM AM was not exactly chock full of opportunities to meet famous people. Oh, wait, a few months before I had been able to talk by phone with the producer for radio legend Paul Harvey.   The guy was all-business and in a hurry for local “color” to round out a nationally broadcast story about a bizarre thing that had happened in our city.   A  teacher at Riverview Elementary School had gone to Florida and brought home a baby alligator for his students to see, and the crazy thing got loose.   This wa

By Vance Meyer Luckily, our Connecticut church service had not yet started when two nicely dressed elderly women sat down behind Teresa and me.  Still, we were starting to worry that neither of the ladies had any awareness of how loudly they were talking to each other. "Oh rats: It's dip and sip!," the lady directly behind me complained loudly.  Her friend giggled. It did not take a divine revelation to realize that her irreverent comment was aimed directly at the communion table with its brass pitcher, ceramic chalice and loaf of bread.   We celebrated communion on the first Sunday of every month.  Sometimes they served tiny square wafers and miniature glasses of grape juice right to the pew.  This week, the white table cloth and elements indicated that we would using the “intinction” method in which everyone comes forward and dips a small piece of bread into a single chalice.   (Dip and sip.) Any experienced churchgoer might assume that our old friend

By Vance Meyer Halloween is not known as a time for personal reflection.  But for me this year, it turned out to be thanks to my high-school sophomore. Earlier in the week I delivered him to school ahead of time, knowing that he would need a few extra minutes to inflate his seven-foot pickle costume for a campus-wide dress-up day.  As he gathered his things together in the cabin of my truck, more kids began to parade across the manicured campus, and I noticed that none of them were wearing costumes. "Hey, pal.   You want to sit here a while to see what the other kids are wearing?" I asked. "Why would I do that?" he shot back.  Noah was "on" to my attempt to protect him from potential embarrassment or ridicule, and it pressed his button. Ironically, one of the things I love and envy about Noah is that he was born with an allergy to worries or hangups about reputation and conformance.  In fact, I guarantee you he would relish (sorry) the opp