Lamp Land

"Did you hear about Kenny Lamp?" sister Beth had turned to me and asked not too much longer after I'd found her in an uncrowded arena.

Below us on the bright gym floor we watched Russ, her husband, and Heidi, their oldest daughter, getting ready for the night's round ball contest. Russ is an assistant coach. Heidi, a guard, is one of the starters. Wearing the dark red away uniform for Visitors, the Lady Cardinals sought to extend their unbeaten streak they'd strung like a tight wire over the grid of a couple seasons from 40 to 41 games.

A very good girls' basketball team from the Northeast corner of the state, the Redbirds, at home or away, were fun to watch. Scoring over 100 points in each of their first three contests, they're well worth salty popcorn and flat pop and admission price a few a few miles drive across the river in the cold and dark to watch. Beth and Russ and their children would yet be on the road long after our family had turned in for the night. The team's conference stretches along the river and into Nebraska hills. Yellow school buses roll for hours through long winter evenings.

Usually about state tournament time in February, the Cards are rediscovered.

"No," I said. "I didn't." My ears were especially attuned. Between picking and planting, not long before huge hog confinements with a zillion pigs began to enter farm lexicon and landscape, there'd been a slug of unplanned funeral arrangements and farm foreclosures up in our neck of the woods.

Indeed, venerable townsfolk fell like gigantic memories, like family members: grown used ta seein' 'em wheeze an old tractor up the hills or throttle a new truck down main street, grown used ta seein' em holdin' up a prize apple pie at the booth ad the country fair, their kids havin' just shows a calf or seein' 'em openin' doors for Church service for townsfolk just like themselves. Now, they were gone for good.

It fact, just a little over a year ago, news was piped down river about a farmer who'd stumbled in front of a moving silage cutter. Warren'd tried to direct Bill, who was runnin' the tractor-a farm neighbor for decades-away from looping onto the neighbor's cornrow and chewin' up $50 worth of corn. Warren's cordial gesture wasn't successful.

I hated to think: was there another fatality to report?

"Well," Beth said. "He was at a wedding reception and he was dancing with his daughter, the bridesmaid."

nodded. The Lady Cards and the Lady Lynx-the Home team from Council Bluffs-pirouetted up and down the court sometimes pushing, sometimes dribbling, sometimes shooting an orange round object at a bright cylinder from which a bright white net dangled.

We watched Heidi spin then take a jumpshot near the arc. "C'm on Heidi!" we yelled in unison. The ball caromed off the rim. It was rebounded by a teammate. She laid the orange sphere carefully up against the Plexiglas like a hot drink on a square table. It went in. 'Way to go, Cards!" we yelled in unison. In the first few minutes of play, the Cardinals had jumped to a 6-2 lead.

Beth turned and faced me, not a streak of gray in her wispy shoulder-length jet-black hair, her wide blue eyes widened. Her simples have deepened over the years. The year before last, she was very good as Glenda, the good witch, for the school's performance of The Wizard of Oz.

"He was dancing with his daughter," Beth continued. "And then he went and sat down."

"Yeah, mmmhm," I said, watching an opponent's ball being tipped away, Cardinal arms flailing, full-court press four quarters a trade-mark. Not only do they have good leaping ability, their timing is adept and precise. They're a hard team to score on.

"But then he went and sat and put his head down on the table. Then they heard a crash." 'C'm on, Kenny, get up' but then that saw he wasn't kidding around-died right there of a heart attack."

The Redbirds kept the pressure on. Soon the score was 12-2. The Lady Lynx had trouble getting the ball past mid-quart. Their cheering section was soon taken out of the game.

"Oh really? Is that right?" I said. This news was hard to fathom in the bright gym and polished wood floor and squeak of 20 tennies.

"Yep," Beth confirmed. "Just like that. Nobody had any idea."

I could just see Kenny dancing midst pairs of cowboy boots and dress shoes and heels high on the dark wood floor at the Legion Hall smack dab in the middle of town. He'd be out there in the middle, pawing and punching away at the air, his large body cutting an uneven swath across the floor, his face getting red, his cheeks glowing. What Kenny lacked in grace and style, he more than made up in unbridled exuberance. While the band, usually a concoction of local boys whose dads were carpenters or restaurant owners-and therefore finding time to practice and take music lessons-not a farm boy in their midst-performed on the little state slightly elevated in the corner of the old building, the dance floor Kenny commandeered was full. There was nary a wallflower; Kenny'd got 'em all out there. The floor pulsated and sprang and it carried them through the night, the music running out the doors of the sweaty hall and onto main street and out to the fields were a tractor silent sat.

The local boys played on.

"When she comes around here, /Just about midnight/She makes feels so good/She makes me feel all right."

Like many Midwestern towns, the Legion Hall had been a celebration/ceremony place for years. Proms, homecomings, weddings, Frontier Days, Modern Days, Western Days, Hog Roasts, it didn't matter. Somebody'd bring the coke and somebody'd latch onto a pint of Sloe Screw like a farmer with a rope and suddenly mixed drinks would somehow be in the making, young dancers spiraling everywhere, young old in-between. Soon it wouldn't be too much longer and Kenny Lamp'd be sizzling and swimming and sweating, towering above the rest. There'd be a combination of the Swim and the Fish and the Mash Potato like this was prep for American bandstand appearance just a ways west over the hills.

"And her name is G-L-O-R-RRIA/G L O R I A, GLORIA, /I'm gonna shout it all night/G-LO-R-I-A/I'm gonna shout it every place/GLORIA, G-L-O-RI-A, GLORIA

Out the door of the white clapboard farmhouse not too terribly far from town Kenny'd come, away from the curved road and tall hills and fence lines that bordered Lamp Land, tractor engine finally cooled, the sunset. Kenny'd be getting hot.

"Hey watch it now, man/Watch it, watch it/now/Hattie told Mattie it's the thing to do/Get yourself a filly/To pull the wool with you/Wooly Bully, Wooly Bully/Wooly Bully, Wooly Bully/Wooly Bully

"Really," I said, not quite believing my ears, but like the account of Warren's untimely departure, knew it was true.

"Yep," Beth said. "Had a heart attack. Nobody knew it was coming or anything."

"Yeah," I said, speaking slowly, trying to spin my mind back to the small hilly town that sat on the border of three counties and where a depot used to be and trains run through with passengers from Omaha to Sioux City or Sioux City to Omaha. Sometimes loads of livestock traversed the county line. "I can remember out there dancing on the dance floor and there'd be Kenny Lamp, all sweaty and short blond hair face flushed, smilin' and dancin'."

"Yep," Beth confirmed. She smiled, dimples deep, "that's Kenny." She put her hands on her knees and leaned slightly forward and watched Heidie tip the ball away to a teammate who drove for the basket, leaping high in the air. "C'm on, Heidi, come on Cardinals!"

It'd been awhile since I last saw Kenny. Beth and me, like many Nebraskans, for one reason or another, usually don't stick around the small town and its endearing foibles. Any visit you might see yourself in the reflection of a mile from a car mirror and a wave replaced with glances from people or kids or vehicles you don't know.

"What happened to me last night, /That girl of mine, she loved me so tight/She loved me so hard and she loved me so right, /I nearly passed out in her front yard/It was another shot of my baby's love"

Therefore, it was equally true that Beth hadn't seen Kenny v. much over the years. I fact, she prob'ly was just a little girl when Kenny'd be first rockin' on the dance floor at the Legion Hall. She may not have know, also, the white dazzling days in the gradually sloping main street when those farm boys would come to town Saturday night and parade on the promenade that was main street, gunning their cars up and down with their four-wheeled war whoops getting ready for the dance.

"I'm glad they don't bottle the stuff, /It's another shot of ma baby's love."

See, there'd be a dance up in the Legion Hall, flag unfurled. I was such and such and so and so's wedding reception or so and so's 20^th class reunion. As the heat of the day vanished over the hills and into the night, part of it was pumped into the dance floor by the fumes and engines, swapping sounds with the band.

The polished high cars would come roll rollin' down the main street: banks and a hardware store and a few bars between grocery stores on one side, feed stores and gas station between implement dealers and feed stores on the other.

Another shot of my baby's love, yeah yeah yeah/'Nother shot of my baby's love/My heart says it's had enough/Another shot of my baby's love

Kenny, like all farm kids, had been in his field of dreams-Lamp Land-earlier that day from sun-up to sundown. Dizzyingly resplendent were the days lasting 'til the cows come home. They would now, in town, like their tractors in the field that marched single file up and down the row, down and up the row were no up and down down and up the street file single like a carefully rehears and orchestrated parade. This turn by the viaduct over the silent depot you'd give 'er a little gas (before lite beers and diesel's and sport's utilities that never'd broke the dust of a farm lane) cuz she's a little grade and in the field only hours before you'd turned the big tractor on a dime, raising up the implement in timing perfect.

The drive up and down down and up main street was relaxed and circumspect. Unlike the field, where they'd usually pocket their change of hours with turns to the end, spiraling ever that way to the fence and thus Father Time, it was always the same route down main street and ever so lovely, Impalas and '57 Chevy's and GTO's and Malibu's and Fire Birds all prettied up for the night on the town, music blaring from the opened door, father's with tooth pics in their mouths, talking to the constable.

"Little GTO, start it up, start it up, little GTO."

A constellation of cares, like stars in the night, different colors, shapes and sizes. Some of them were muscle cars, run the night with a tank of gas from the pump at the farm. If they so chose, some of them could outrun that ole town cop of Sheriff Clyde Story who'd just come back from a squabble at the Indian reservation with a dinger and a few hubcaps gone.

"She's real fine my 409, /She's real fine my 409/My 4 0 9"

But they were easy and relaxed and they're hangin' out the window with their elbows stuck out, the white short-sleeve shirt, speckles of sun in their hair, their girlfriend on the passenger side chewing gum and blowing bubbles and leaning out the window and talking to friends she's seen, like their boyfriends, just hours ago but it was like they hadn't seen each other for years.

Muscle cars that would be the envy of any car collector aficionado.

So my friend, if ever you're heading through a Midwestern town and there's a Legion Hall and the door's open and few cars are parked and a flag waving and if you think you hear a band then you'd better stop in-pint of Sloe Screw and a desire to dance on the wood floor by Kenny the only ticket you'll need.

"G-l-o-ria, Gloria, G-l-l-ria, Gloria/I'm gonna shout it all night/Gloria/I'm gonna shout it every place/Gloria/G-l-o-r-i-a/Gloria/G-l-o-ria/Gloria/Makes me feel all right."

That's what you'll hear before you even get into the building. The guy at the door will nod as he'll see the top of the paint and wave you through and you'll be shy because you don't know anybody but there'll be a wave from a big man with curly blond hair in the middle to come on in and do a little of the Funky Chicken.

"No, a no, no no,/No no no/No one can to the shingaling like I do/No one can do the shake/Like I do/No one can do the bugalloo/Like I do/Let me tell you nobody/Nobody but me..."

And you'll feel a little tingle in the back of you head and your feet will propel you on to the dance floor cuz there's this girl you've never seen before, sitting. She smiles. Are those dimples? She's been waiting for you all night. You'll look over at her and she'll look at you.

You'll go up to her and say,

"Wanna dance?"

And she'll say.

"Sure.

I keep on dancin'/Hey shake shake shake it baby/Let me show you how to work

And then you'd be out there on the dance floor, suddenly a path is open for you and there you'll almost be within arm's reach of the Big Man Kenny a dancin' away, smilin', face getting' read, cheeks flushed, barreling that big body down and carrying you through the evening to Lamp Land and drive by the silent tractor in the field where it's been parked right angle to the fence.

And know you'll come back another day...it's all in the Cards...we won going away.