×

St. Johnny the Redeemer

When they talk about biologist Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, many people refer to it as “only the strong survive.” While that might be true in some cases, it misses Darwin’s main point, which is “the most ADAPTABLE members of a species survive.”

F’rinstance, while we often make fun of people being afraid of the dark, we shouldn’t. Aside from the rottenness of mocking others’ fears, there seems to be a sound evolutionary basis for it. In the millions of years of human and proto-human history, a night out didn’t have the same connotations it does now.

“A night out” now implies some special entertainment, maybe a delicious meal. “A night out,” say 250,000 years ago, probably would’ve been a special entertainment or a meal — but not for us. Uh-uh.The entertainment and meal would’ve been enjoyed by the big cats who were prowling about, licking their chops at the prospect of a midnight snack of Caveman Tartare.

Thus our ancestors who were afraid of the dark would’ve holed up from dusk till dawn, when their odds of avoiding a sabre-tooth tiger munching improved considerably. And thus they would’ve survived and passed on their — pardon the expression — scardy-cat genes.

Likewise, because we evolved as night-avoiding creatures, we became daylight-friendly ones. After all, before artificial lighting, to accomplish anything, it had to be done between dawn and dusk. And so most people hop outta bed early in the A.M., ready to greet the day.

This is why, had I been around in 200,000 BC, I wouldn’t have been around long: I can’t stand going to bed early, and I positively LOATHE getting up early (“early” being defined in my dictionary as any time before at least 0930).

Of course, when I worked I got up early — way, way early. Not only do I hate mornings, but I can’t function in them. So in order for me be on my teaching game, I got up 2 1/2 hours before my first class. But in spite of that, I couldn’t go to sleep early, usually lying in the arms of Morpheus sometime no sooner than midnight. This left me sleep-deprived during the week. But I pretty much made up for it by sleeping in on the weekend, getting up due only to pressure from my moggy or my bladder.

None of this is due to an act of will on my behalf — I’ve ALWAYS been like that. It’s why, till I retired, the high point of my life, sleepwise, was before I went to kindergarten.

The cold cruel world

Ah yes, my idyllic pre-K life on McClelland Street. I was put in bed early, of course, but stayed up quite a while, thinking my wee poppet thoughts. Then I woke up when I wanted, ate a leisurely b-fast, then lounged around all day, or romped with my homies, till it was time to either fill one tank or empty another. It was like being retired, except without aches, pains, liver spots and Welschmertz.

But the fall of ’51 kindergarten put the kibosh on Little Bobby in the Lap of Luxury. Once I became a full-fledged member of Mrs. Eldrett’s class at the Broadway school, it was all downhill.

It wasn’t Mrs. Eldrett’s fault. As my fellow kindergartner and lifelong pal Robin Smith said, Everyone loved Mrs. Eldrett. And it was true. But that alone wasn’t enough for me. To get up at some God-awful hour and shlep my sorry self to hours of confinement made me feel less like a student than a recruit in the French Foreign Legion.

After kindergarten, everything changed — for worse. If kindergarten was the FFL, first grade was Devil’s Island. No longer did we get to play with blocks or get congratulated for not picking our snot lockers. We were doing hard time. Not only did we have to actually LEARN things, but we did it under the gaze and lash of Miss Starr. And worst of all, in order for me to undergo those trials, I was first torn from my warm cozy lair thrown into the cold cruel world of the Petrova school, with half-closed eyes and barely functioning mind.

And everything stayed that way for the next 12 years. I’ve often thought I might’ve won a Pulitzer, maybe even an Nobel Prize, if school had started at noon.

Going to pot

There was, however, one redeeming feature of those ghastly mornings — Johnny Garwood.

Who was Johnny Garwood? Honestly, I don’t know, since I never met him. But I sure was exposed to him, since he was the early morning DJ on WNBZ.

Keep in mind, back then WNBZ was the only game in town: There was no such thing as cable or WIRD, so our radios — which were always on — were tuned to good ole 1240 on our dial.

A couple things about Johnny Garwood. One, he was always but always referred to as Johnny. Two, while he hosted the morning show, he never sounded like a morning person. Au contraire. So I liked listening to him because he sounded like I felt. Or to put it another way, one of my old guy pals, who was a good man with a bottle, once told me when he got up he liked to hear Johnny because he knew Johnny was the one guy in town who felt worse than he did.

Johnny was also one of My Home Town’s beloved characters, and there was a story about him I heard in my youth but never knew if it was true. It wasn’t till my adulthood that I found out the truth. And I heard it from the horse’s mouth — Jacques Demattos, himself, who with his wife Jean owned WNBZ.

The story took place on a Sunday and it was time for Johnny to put on a recorded church service. He did it with something called an elapsed play record. They were huge 33 1/3 records — about as big as a pizza pan — which lasted at least a half-hour or 45 minutes. So Johnny had a morning reprieve: All had to due was put the record on the turntable, give it an intro and spin it. Then he was free to go across the street to Bernie’s, where he could drink coffee to his heart’s delight and shmooze with his fellows till it was time to go back, take off the record, and get on with other radio biz.

But this one Sunday there was a glitch.

About halfway through the record the needle hit a scratch. And when it did, it got stuck and one word was repeated endlessly. Appropriately enough, that word was Jesus. Or more exactly, Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…

Johnny was at the counter, having a good old time, oblivious to what was going on in the station and over the airwaves, till one of the kitchen workers sprinted to the counter and told Johnny about it. Johnny — now wide awake and on full alert — hauled back to the station and moved the needle.

Meanwhile, unknown to him, people had been calling the station, but to no avail, since no one was there. So, this being Saranac Lake in the Glory Days, they started calling Mr. Demattos at home.

Mr. D. threw on street clothes, tore out to his car and peeled into town. When he got to the studio, Johnny was back at the controls, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“OK, Johnny,” said Mr. Demattos, “what happened?”

“It was horrible,” said Johnny. “I had fish for dinner last night and it musta gone bad. I got food poisoning or something. Been on and off the pot all morning.”

So what action did Mr. Demattos take?

None, that’s what.

Mr. Demattos knew it was a lie, of course. But in addition to being one sharp cookie, he had a great sense of humor and proportion. He also was an excellent raconteur, with a huge store of tales he loved to tell about our local characters.

So there he was, in the studio with Johnny lying out both sides of his mouth at the same time, and he had two choices.

One was to play the boss and reprimand Johnny.

The other was to play the man, shake his head in mock disappointment, and leave with one more great story in his repertoire.

It was, in short, no choice at all.

NEWSLETTER

Today's breaking news and more in your inbox

I'm interested in (please check all that apply)
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper? *

Starting at $4.75/week.

Subscribe Today