Monthly Archives: September 2012

JB’s Album (Minnesota Woman) and JB Lite (the yard party) music


For those of you visiting my website for the first time, I hail from a little prairie town in South Dakota where we were entertained by the local, homegrown entertainers, circa 1978. The local, hard working  people always had a place to go and enjoy a part of life so few know today. It was an innocent time where laughter flowed as free as the people. I was fortunate to be in the middle of this and will forever be thankful!

Ronald Douglas Drobeck

highlight the album (newer computers)                                                                                  

Minnesota Woman (whole album)

or (for older computers) highlight the individual track!

So Close and Yet So Far Away (written by Joe Campbell)

My Way

Wonderful World


I Want You, I Need You, I Love You

Minnesota Woman (written by Joe Campbell)

I Can’t Help Falling in Love

Fools Rush In

Send in the Clowns

You’ll be Cryin’ When He Leaves (written by Joe Campbell)

His players:

Guitar:  Joe Campbell, Dave Austin, Jerry Berens

Bass:     Joe Campbell, Bob Lavoy, Dave Austin

Drums: Ron Drobeck, Cheri Austin, Denny Comfort

Piano and Organ:     Bob York

Vocals:  Jerry Berens, Joe Campbell

Ron Drobeck, Jim Thomas

Sherry Austin, Bob York

JB Lite

Courtesy of Debi and Chuck Corkins, and thank the Seaton’s for this is a recording done at their house party. It was just JB and me enjoying ourselves! Vintage 1983 Loveland, Colo.

Once upon a time in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, there were two minstrels…..

Until the Last Teardrop Falls

Go Away Little Girl (we’d never done this one before!)

Cab Driver

Hot Apple Pie (written by Jerry)

Old Rivers

Elvira – with Chet Corkings (Chuck) doin the Uum papa mow mows!

Who’s Sorry Now/All of Me (I only have a partial)

How Great Thou Art

Ghost Riders

Suspicious Minds Medley

If I Had a Bat Like Reggies

El Paso

Amarillo By Mornin’ and Getting Drunk on Jesus

Rindercella and Mariah (from ‘Paint Your Wagon’)-Ron

That’s What It’s Like To Be Lonely


My Walkin’ Stick

JB at ‘The Mad Russian’


On a quiet evening in 1984, The Mad Russian invited us to play at his place. His place was a 18 hole golf course, and a beautiful supper club. He had the finest chefs, preparing wonderful food that basically outclassed the clientele. His supper crowd had gone home, there were a few people at the bar (dining room help that no longer was on duty I think). He knew these nights were slow, but he, The Mad Russian, liked our music, so we played. He closed the club in the late 80’s due to the economic downturn, but the club is now re-opened under new ownership, and is classified as an ‘Event Center’.

On this evening, Chuck and Debi Corkins (Loveland),  showed up with their VHS Sony and started filming sometime after the first set.

The piano player and the base player had only been with us one other night. JB and I didn’t have a base player so we took them on. They were from Bozeman, Montana, out on their great adventure, sleeping in their van, and needed gas and food money.

Elvis Presley Montage

Kansas City-Ron Drobeck

In Heaven There Is No Beer

Ghost Riders

Runaway-Ron Drobeck

Hot Apple Pie-JB original music

Long Tall Texan

American Trilogy

Juke Box Saturday Night

You Were Always On My Mind

Mack the Knife (Ron)

Amarillo by Mornin’

My Way

The Friendly Bartender/Save the Milwaukee-JB (Music)


I wrote ‘Save the Milwaukee’ while tending my cash register during the noon rush at my restaurant! LOL

Jerry added a verse when we needed to meet the time criteria.

JB wrote ‘The Friendly Bartender’ while bartending. I think he had just about used up all of his ‘friendly’ that day!

The Friendly Bartender (I’m Bill, the guy at the bar)

Save the Milwaukee                                        77

Jerry Berens Live at the Town House 1984 music


I have had the only tape of JB and Soda that I own, remastered. It sat in a drawer with batteries and magnetic things, odd keys, pieces and bits of life.

Remember, this was done live on a Wednesday night, with a stereo reel to reel, and two microphones hanging from the ceiling over the dance floor. There was no board, and no one manning the tape recorder. You can hear JB turn away from his microphone to look at the Db meter.  There is also some fade from the years that have gone by.

Play it through some decent speakers so the ‘bottoms’ come out.

I’m trying to locate more music and some film, so if you have some to share, I’ll try to get it on this site.

And Now

Once upon a time in a small prairie town, there were three minstrels……

Falling In Love With You  jerry

Almost Like a Song jerry berens, me hitting the highs

Statler Bros. Trilogy jerry, doug, me

Come With Me doug, me hitting the highs

You Gave Me a Mountain jerry

You Mean All the World to Me me

My Way jerry

Blue Suede Shoes jerry

The Last Farewell jerry

Cab Driver (my little daughter, Jaime, over-recorded in one spot)

The Rose me trying to sing it in the original key

Love the One You’re With doug

Every Now and Then jerry

Runaway me

American Trilogy jerry, doug, me

Goodbye Everybody!

Time Passing in the Canyon


An Award Winner! 9/22/12


Last night in the year 1540, Hernando de Alarcon, along with twelve sailors and two Indian guides, turned their two ocean oriented long boats southward on the Colorado River. They were attempting to navigate through the Grand Canyon in supply loaded boats after an unsuccessful attempt to deliver those supplies to Francisco Coronado and his land trekking explorers in the north.  A sudden thunder and lightning storm swelled the river and caused the destruction of one boat, the loss of its cargo, and the death of four sailors.

 The survivors of the destroyed boat joined the members of the second boat and all safely floated to the river’s inlet in the Gulf of California and rejoined their Spanish sailing ship.

 The sailors brought a tale back home with them. It was officially recorded as a side note in the margins of their map of the river, but spread to the public as a sea tale told at the docks and in the pubs by the returning explorers, a yarn that surely grew on the voyage home, and in the telling.

 The sailors told of meeting a young couple that was travelling on the Red River (Colorado River) in a boat that undulated on the water like a serpent. The couple wore strange clothes and footwear and carried their food in marvelous containers. In the bag the couple lost, there was a device that held a beam of light, another which brought things closer to the eye when you looked through it. There was a small vial that made fire when it was struck, and a metal blade so sharp it cut a man when he touched it.

 The tale goes on to say, the sailors witnessed the overturning of their strange boat and how the two survived the cascade down the rain swollen rapids. It told about recovering the couples lost paddles, food supply, and strange contraptions.

 Not knowing whether or not these two were the children of Gods or Gods themselves, the party returned the articles to them as a favor and out of respect. The extremely superstitious Spanish sailors found that appeasing the Gods ensured a safer voyage home. There would still be storms and monsters on the sea blocking their voyage home, they didn’t need problems with other peoples Gods.


“Marsha!” I yelled as loud as I could while choking on the water running out of the corner of my mouth.

I could feel and hear the gravel rolling against the side of my face. It sounded like glass marbles grinding on each other. The small waves caused by the rapids were slowly rolling my body forward and back again parallel against the gravel bar I had come to rest against.

I had not drowned, but the river was treating me as if I had. I began to command limp muscles to contract, which caused my legs to lift my trunk first. This drove my face deeper into the gravel triggering my arms to start working. I had pain down deep inside, and my skin burned while, at the same time, I could feel the cold water.

I remember shouting, “Marsha”.

My adrenalin kicking in, I attempted to stand so I could look for her. The rounded gravel gave way, and I collapsed back down to one knee. Learning, I tried again, compensated for the poor footing, and succeeded in standing up!

“Elliot, I’m over here!” The voice said.

I was facing the wrong direction, and with the roar of the whitewater, plus the echo in the canyon, I found the source of the voice, not by sound, but by motion. She had a hold on the raft by the external safety line that threaded all the way around the raft. Her other hand was attempting to wave while wrapped around a snag downstream from me. We were, fortunately, on the same side of the river!

Now that I knew she was alive, my priorities changed slightly. I took stock of myself. My ribs hurt a little; there were some red, skinned patches on my arms and a thigh. I had left some of my hide on the rocks at the bottom of that rapid.

My shirt was torn, and I was missing a water moccasin. I didn’t think anything was broken.

I began to move downstream toward Marsha.


Our adventure had started out nicely, driving the distance between L.A. and Flagstaff in two days. We were slowed by rain most of the trip, but the skies cleared as we reached Flagstaff. The rain stayed north of our end of the river the following day, which helped the preparation for our trip down the Colorado River easier.

 This was not our first trip down the river. We’d rafted with a large group in 2010 and a smaller group 2011. This year, we decided to do things differently.  Today was our third anniversary. We thought it would be romantic if we travelled by ourselves.

The outfitter at Marble Canyon told us, he would pick us up at the bottom in three days, and with a little warning about the water surge from the rain up north the night before, he smiled and told us to enjoy ourselves. He told us, this late in the season, we should have the river all to ourselves.

We launched, waved to our outfitter, and then didn’t say a word for the next fifteen minutes. The only sounds left to us after that time were canyon sounds, the gurgling of the water as it was pushed away from the raft, a low rumble off in the distance, and the slight rush of the water as it passed around rocks and boulders.  It was now us and the river. We felt like pioneers as the canyon seemed to take us back in time.

Marsha spoke first. She said she could see someone on the shore ahead. The river’s natural currents took us close enough to see men in trapper’s skins and fur hats. There were two dressed as Indians. All stopped what they were doing and watched as we drifted silently by. I nervously lifted a hand in the air but did not wave. It was a tentative greeting at least. One on the bank did the same.

So much for our alone time!

Around noon, we stopped for a shore lunch. Every meal was neatly wrapped, compartmentalized, and waterproof.  This first stop was simple fare, rye crackers with goober jam, red eye made with filtered river water, and raisins. It was perfect and fast. We had a moment to sit still, lean back on a rock next to each other and take in the scene.

That wooden river boat passed by, four men pulling oars, four or five riding and a rudder man standing tall in the stern, all looking our way.


 I struggled in the current a bit getting over to Marsha.

The surge from the rainstorm had caught up with us, sweeping us into a boil of water. It pulled the bow of the raft under, and it filled with water, and then tipped over. I fell out and was swept away, but Marsha held on.  A food and equipment rucksack and the paddles were lost.

We had the spare, collapsible, emergency paddle in the pouch of the raft, and we still had the bag with the map, so with these, we knew we could make it through to our next layover and some rest.

With the current and steering with the one paddle, we carefully floated for the next hour and a half. We had to stay on the right side of the river, to find the campsite.

Marsha spotted it first, a pillar of smoke ahead. The sun was about to disappear behind the Grand Canyon’s steep banks. When that happens, twilight lasts about two minutes, and it gets cold quickly.

The smoke was right where our campsite should be. We landed and pulled our raft up on the sand. There was not a sound. We’d both expected to find our riverboat friends there, but there was no one.

The pillar of smoke hung directly over a freshly made stack of wood in the stone fire ring. As we walked up to the circle, I put my hand to the wood stack and found it cold.

There, next to the fire ring was our rucksack, my moccasin, and the two paddles.

In the quiet of this moment, we heard someone yell across the water, from down river as we watched two torchlights disappearing into the black night.

“Dormir a bien esta noche jóvenes dioses! (Sleep well tonight young Gods!)

Walking in the Rain Poem (#1 of 3)


I’ve composed a Rain Walking trilogy inspired by the Good, Better, Best products in catalogues. Here is the one I classified as Good.

I freely admit, I am no poet. Dabbler yes, poet no. I appreciate those that can paint with words better than I….rdd

Walking in the Rain  (Attempt #1 of 3)

I finally found someone
To rain walk with me.
After all this time,
How great it could be!

I had run into
An old girlfriend of mine,
Who said she’d aged
Like a fine bottle of wine.

So I took her along,
And it went well for a block.
She said the rain relaxed her
And, she started to talk.

She talked about her past life,
And what troubles she had,
Her mother in jail,
And the sins of her dad.

Then the wind came up,
And she began to complain
About her runny nose,
And the wet of the rain.

Now the only vehicle
Moving in town that day,
Hit the biggest puddle,
And threw it my way!

My shorts soaking wet,
Cold to the bone,
I’d had an earful so,
I took her home.

Never, never again,
Will I take someone along!
How could something so sweet,
Have gone so wrong?

© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Walking in the Rain Poem (#2 of 3)


Rain Walking Poem (Attempt # 2 of 3)

So now I am older
the rain beckons me.
Does it still have that old magic?
I think, I shall see.

My new friend is a dog,
A Water Spaniel named Ralph,
But he won’t go out in the rain,
So I’ll go by myself.

I put on my galoshes,
Button up my raincoat,
Then wrap a knitted scarf,
Around my bare throat.

On my naked head,
I place a wide brimmed hat,
to run rain off my shoulders
and not down my back!

I opened the door
Went out on the stoop
Took a great nose breath in
that smells like dog poop.

Taking one more step down
while cursing my mutt
I slipped on the wet step
and fell on my butt.

Limping back into the house,
I de-dressed myself,
then sat by the heat duct
With my best friend Ralph.

Now, I have decided to
stop walking in the rain.
It just takes too long
to get warm again.

The End (Ta Da)

My Sincere ‘Walking in the Rain’ Poem Really!


My Sincere Walking in the Rain  (#3 of 3,) Really!  The Best of the Good, Better, Best trilogy.

From leaves the rain would pour,
And rap my cap with a pop.
It sounded like bare knuckles
On an oak table top.

First one drop, then two,
Then a bunch in a row,
And an uncountable shower,
When the chill wind would blow.

Along with the rain,
The leaves came cascading down.
The red yellow leaves flutter,
Then stick to the ground.

It’s the everywhere rumble,
That shakes loose the drizzle.
It’s the rhythm of wipers,
And tires when they ssssizzle.

The message is clear
With this autumn weather,
An end of one time,
And the start of another.

I waited all summer
For the feeling it sends,
Have to admit, I’ll
Be sad when it ends.

© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Anna’s Apple Pie (short story)


The smells would overwhelm quickly as you exited the large, cross embossed glass doors of the American Lutheran Church. The reward only seemed right after the maroon and gold robed choir had finished the classic harmonies that ended with Aaaaamen.

The reverend was done with the before script, the parable, that was sandwiched in the middle, and the after script followed with “Amen”. I’d know that it was getting near the end because of the congregation’s enthusiastic “Amen”, and everybody stood. It was like a wake-up call, and I’d start to anticipate.

“Turn to the hymn on page 171” a voice from ‘up front’ would boom. I never could see where it came from when everyone was standing, and I’d never sat up there!

“Amen,” would come from the whole congregation, in harmony. I would do the “Amens” loudly. It seemed that whatever note I hit was a terrific one!

There were those times when I’d start to awaken at this point, only to be fooled by that slick salesman. Before I realized what was happening, the pastor would be teaching a lesson outside of The Book. He would look at the congregation, and in a friendly tone, would remind us of something that had happened locally. No names would be mentioned, but enough was said so everyone knew what and whom he was talking about. Once in a while, I’d get a little nervous, hoping, it wasn’t going to be about me! It never was.

He would give his Christian opinion of what had happened and what our attitudes should be. As I matured, I realized that we were watching, and he was watching, and HE was watching us in our daily lives. Be good. Amen!

Turn to the hymn on page 133.

Script. “Amen.”

The congregation would march out in an orderly fashion. The people in the front would be first to walk down the aisle and out into the, now open to the outside, vestibule. That’s a fancy word for the space between the inner glass doors, and the symbol embossed glass doors to the outside. This is the space where, when the pastor stood, at the outside door, to shake hands, people jammed up, and the line down the aisle between the pews would slow to a crawl.

If you got caught in the people jam, and you are only four feet tall, it was hard to breath. Everyone had different smelly stuff on. Down at my level, it all combined and created a stink. The stink would drive out the good breathing air I needed. The need for “fresh air” drove me to be creative and make a change. It had something to do with “He only helps them that help themselves,” or something like that.

There was a side door in the kitchen that emptied into an alley which took me in the right direction. There was another door to the outside down a short hallway that went passed the pastor’s study. That one made me feel guilty until I was outside and closed the door behind me. I never remember feeling guilty as I walked past the people shaking hands with the pastor!

What I do remember is wondering what the people, leaving that stinky entryway, thought about the heavenly smells coming from up the street. My grandma’s house was only one half a block away. I lived with them.

I was floating toward that smell, barely remembering touching the sidewalk. I could see the house as I rounded the corner of the church. I could see the place where that smell was coming from. I knew the people going to their cars knew where it was coming from, too.

I was so lucky!

I knew that they knew it was Anna’s apple pie. How many excellent sermons ended with that smell? To me, it seemed like the end of something and the actual start to what promised to be a fantastic week.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Don’t Bother Me, I’m Imagining Things


I want you to know, I have established new rules of the road since becoming Sixty-three.

For instance, if I go to the bank and approach one of those rope and obelisk mazes that they use to keep customers in order and place, and no one is in it, I bypass it. I used to proceed through it when I was a factory worker. My whole life was following orders and procedure. Now, not so much!

If I’m standing in line at Super Cheap Mart, and I’m forced to stand too long, I relax. I might even snore so loud, I wake myself up. I usually look around quickly, startled; to see if anyone noticed my two second nap.

One time, I had drifted off, deeply thinking, and a checkout counter opened up in front of the one I was in line at. Off in the distance, I heard someone say, “Sir.”……. “Sir!”

It took a moment to realize I was the “Sir” she was addressing. I looked up to see the teller looking at me in wonder. She was wondering, as was everyone else in line, if I was deaf, or visiting Mars. If they only knew, I was thinking about Mars. So did Edgar Rice Burroughs!

Of course, I embarrassed myself! In my own defense, all I could think of was to say, “Don’t bother me, I’m imagining things!” I didn’t tell them I was a fiction writer and I often go off…….

If I continued with this, I would have been better off just putting down my stuff and slowly walking away. I didn’t want to add ‘babbling’ to my account.

Instead, I only sounded insane to the common standers by.

I could see by the “understanding” half smiles, that I was being accepted as an “old fart” that had momentarily reflected and recovered. There were a few parents who pulled their children in closer to them. Some even moved their families to other lanes.

Some only thought, “Poor guy, he’s probably earned it!”

The little bit of drool navigating down a left chin wrinkle was a little disgusting. I’m sure glad I didn’t have any chewing tobacco in there today. I would have looked like “the Penguin” in that Batman movie. That even bothered me.

I wiped my chin with my shoulder, which left a wet spot.

Speaking of “old fart”, I’m reminded of what happened to a lady one day on the second floor of the Mall.

Being a writer, I try to keep my bubble large and pay attention to all sights and sounds quite a distance out there. I try to imagine stories about people, young and old.

I noticed what I thought might be a snowbird, farm woman from the Midwest somewhere, maybe Wisconsin or Minnesota.

She was standing in front of a store’s display window. The window was so reflective, it was worthy of vanity checks from most passersby. At this moment, the reflection of this strong girthed, Bohemian woman was dominant. If you looked close, I could be seen in the background next to the rail.

Having come from the Midwest myself, I imagined I knew this woman well. Underneath that large girth, was probably a six-pack attached to a body that had exceptional shoulders and biceps. All had been developed from years of buckets of chicken scratch, milking, kneading bread, and raising children.

I appreciated her, she looked like my grandma and earned her time here; out of the cold, even though she looked as if she had stepped into the wrong painting.

As she turned to leave, a large bag in each hand, she walked with a hip roll created by the full milk buckets she carried for decades.

Right in the middle of a hip-roll, a noisy demon ripped from her backside. It was so loud, it made her jump. She skipped a little, which turned her toward the mirror reflection, and the reflection of the wide eyed me, looking directly at her. With a look of surprise and embarrassment, she spun to find me gone. It scared me too, and I didn’t stick around.

She’d earned it!

I’ve also found that intersection Red lights are another place I have to establish new rules. Fortunately, most drivers give me the one, or two or, three short horns to bring me back. It’s as if they knew who I was.

Unfortunately, some anxious people hit me with the long blast. They just don’t realize that startling me may result in a muscle memory shift to reverse and acceleration. What do they expect from someone who’s just returned from Mars? They don’t have stop signs there. You just change altitude and go around!

Speaking of Mars, did I tell you about the two hitchhiking Plutons I met on one of my trips?

‘They were college students thumbing their way to Earth. Their Master’s Degree assignment was to write a fifty-thousand word essay on the various warlike societies of this planet and how it has slowed human development, and project the time (in Pluton years) it will take earthlings, in their current learning curve, to reach a level of competence high enough to join The Alliance.’

“Snortpffftqkkk”. “Ah, um, ah, I’ll take two cheese burgers with king fries and a Diet Dew, please.” Gees, I hope I said that right, and didn’t just think it. Oh good, she’s pushing the buttons for my order! I’m good.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.