What fascinates me about Buddy is his colorful past. He was a traveling musician, playing "one nighters" in the mid-west. He worked with big bands and played the type of music rarely heard today. His instruments were the piano and trombone, both of which he played with skill and creativity.
When I knocked at his door, he opened it a crack to peer at me. Once I identified myself, he unlatched several locks to let me in. The first thing I noticed was the shiny organ which dominated the living room. He said he was ashamed of himself for not playing it more than a few times a month. (His piano was in the basement where he used to teach classes to young students.)
I originally wanted to write this article about one of low-income elderly clients who is receiving services they so desperately need. But, though Buddy's house is in disrepair and things were a bit cluttered, he's such a stately old gentleman that I nearly failed to see where he needed anyone's help.
Buddy's legally blind now and keeps in touch with only a rare friend or two. He welcomed my visit and for over an hour regaled me with stories of his travels. He reminded me of several popular local night spots: The Flamingo Club which stood where our fairgrounds are now. Snider's Iroquois Gardens out by the park, the old Madrid Ballroom on Third and Guthrie and the Colonial Gardens across from Iroquois Park. (He said that the street car made a loop right across the street from Colonial and many folks came from town to dance there.) He told me of the time when he played over 1,000 straight nights, going from club to club in Louisville. He explained to me how he and the bands traveled on the road: often in the backs of trailers, sleeping from one town to the next. Though he is a teetotaler and never smoked, he spoke of drug use and alcohol consumed by band members. He talked lovingly of his wife who was a nurse and worked nights so they could be together when he came home.
He answered my questions quickly, with a bright mind and a quick smile. (Though he wouldn't share with me some pranks that he and other band members pulled while playing on college campuses. He began to chuckle in remembrance and I had the feeling he may have been a bit of a scamp in those days.)
Reluctantly, I left my new-found friend, eating his "gourmet" lunch (fries and a hamburger from a fast-food place) - he was happy I'd brought them.
I'd felt I'd just touched history and knew I would go back again to travel through his youth with him.
In order to protect his privacy, "Buddy" is a fictitious name. If you know of a senior citizen, particularly one who's homebound like Buddy, who has an interesting story to tell, let me know. I'd be happy to find a new friend to share.
This article appeared in a St. Matthews area publication in the late 1980's or early 1990's. St. Matthews is a section of Louisville, Kentucky. The subject of the article is Peter Eisenbeis (1911-1994). In spite of the reference to "he opened (the door) a crack to peer at me", Peter was totally blind after 1971.
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