It was 1964 and a win at a local “Battle of the Bands” got this group of six young Northern Virginia musicians some studio time at a DC recording studio. Surf music was big and surf music was the kind of music they liked to play.
The band was called the Apollos.
Apollo was the Greek God of Music and masculinity too. But the name also came from the space program that had recently been designed to land humans on the moon. What a crazy idea that was.
Their demo consisted of four songs including That’s the Breaks their most popular song and a version of the Beach Boys Dance, Dance, Dance with drummer Wayne Groves also providing lead vocals on that track.
Fast forward fifty three years or so and Wayne Groves stands by his workbench in Berryville Virginia, his work apron on, looking a bit older than those Apollos days yet still with the somewhat familiar look of a musician who had grown up in the 60’s. His voice is soft and his demeanor calm. The drumsticks he relied in those early battles now replaced by leather tools.
“I brought you something special” I said to him on the day I brought in my early 70’s blonde square toe Frye boots, “these are old.”
Wayne had already been tested on three other pairs of my cowboy boots by that day, some of those going back to the mid-80’s.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way” he responded, “but everything you have brought me so far has been old!”
I laughed, but he was right about that. I’ve walked a lot of miles in those boots.
His hands moved over the skin of my boots like Baffert checking the ankles of his new Triple Crown prospect or Clapton sizing up the neck of a fine new Telecaster for the first time.
“These boots have a story,” he said as his hands skillfully pulled back the leather and he examined the challenge I had just placed in his care.
He was right about that too those boots did have a story. I was in high school when I got those boots; hopefully, he’s not “the boot whisperer.”
“What did you want to do when you grew up?” I asked Wayne one day.
“A musician,” his wife Barbara chimed in before he could respond.
“Really,” I said, “tell me about that.”
And so that’s when I learned the story of the Apollos, and the battle of the bands, and how they almost made it. Wayne played the drums but did also get to do that lead vocal on Dance, Dance, Dance.
He learned to be a leather craftsman by apprenticing sort of in the early days with Georgetown Leather. He learned to restore boots and shoes from a third generation Italian shoemaker.
As for my early 70’s blonde square toe Frye’s:
“I picked all these stitches out by hand, you can see where others before me had chewed up the edge,” he told me one day when I stopped in to check on his progress.
“I almost didn’t want to do them” he confessed the day I went to pick them up, “but the further I got into them, I had to finish.”
They looked fantastic, almost 45 years of abuse by me and some less talented and surely less concerned leatherworkers, now restored by a true artisan.
When I asked Wayne about retirement he just laughed a little.
I think I understand. How do you walk away from something that’s been so much a part of your life, like music I guess, you never just put it down. Great artists don’t retire they just get older and keep creating.
And as the Apollos song says, that’s the breaks.
But I don’t think those breaks were anything regrettable.
As for that music, old dreams don’t die easy and those drumsticks weren’t put down either. In August Wayne will be attending a music camp down south with some of his old band mates from the Apollos.
Wayne and Barbara’s shop is called Tricks of the Trade. Originally located for many years in Great Falls Virginia, it now resides in Berryville Virginia at 101 East Main Street. If you have something leather that needs created, repaired, or restored I recommend you make the trip to Berryville. Or maybe you have some new patches for your motorcycle jacket or vest; or a pair of vintage cowboy boots that need servicing, or maybe five pair like I did. Stop in and see Wayne and Barbara then go down the road a bit and have a glass of wine at the Veramar Vineyard and winery.
Then wait a week or two and do it again when you go pick up item.
You won’t regret it.
If you don’t live in Northern Virginia, call Wayne or send him an email, maybe you can ship your treasures.
And if you want to hear some vintage Apollos and Wayne cooking on the drums, just google The Apollos, garage band, you will find some of their music on YouTube or look them up on Ebay.
The mailman just delivered my vinyl copy of Round 2 The Battle of the Bands with The Apollos Live, 1966.
I’m good.
Tricks of the Trade:
101 East Main St.
Berryville, VA 22611
540-955-3565
email: groove1way@aol.com
Barbara and Wayne Groves (Photo courtesy of the Clarke Daily News)My early 70’s blonde square toe Frye’s, check out that stitching
Last week on the day after Thanksgiving, as is my family’s tradition, we put up our Christmas tree.
This year was a little different however because after many years of having an artificial tree, we went back to a live tree. On the way home from having Thanksgiving dinner with the family in Western Pennsylvania, we stopped at the Moose Apple Christmas Tree Farm in Berryville, Virginia and cut down an unusual Danish Blue Ice Christmas tree.
We made a second stop along the way home to buy a new tree stand because I had thrown out the old one vindictively years ago.
And once that awesome tree was up in the living room I couldn’t help but think about the last time we had a live tree.
And why we had changed to an artificial tree.
And why I had thrown out that tree stand in disgust one day many years ago.
Then I remembered I had written about the events of that last live Christmas tree at the time, and went back in my files to find it.
So here is an edited version of the events of the day that ended the live Christmas trees in my house until last week.
Twas the weeks before Christmas… and here we go…
(The following was written December 2007 and edited December 2016)
The following story is something that was forwarded to my wife in her email that she shared with me:
Saying Grace in a Restaurant
Last week, I took my children to a restaurant.
My six-year-old son asked if he could say grace.
As we bowed our heads he said, “God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food, and I would even thank you more if Mom gets us ice cream for dessert. And Liberty and justice for all! Amen!”
Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby, I heard a woman remark, “That’s what’s wrong with this country. Kids today don’t even know how to pray. Asking God for ice cream! Why, I never!”
Hearing this, my son burst into tears and asked me, “Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?”
As I held him and assured him that he had done a terrific job, and God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table.
He winked at my son and said, “I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer.”
“Really?” my son asked.
“Cross my heart,” the man replied.
Then, in a theatrical whisper, he added (indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), “Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes.”
Naturally, I bought my kids ice cream at the end of the meal. My son stared at his for a moment, and then did something I will remember the rest of my life.
He picked up his sundae and, without a word, walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, “Here, this is for you. Ice Cream is good for the soul sometimes; and my soul is good already.”
(Source unknown)
I have always been taught that when you pray, you should ask for whatever you want. So what is wrong with asking for ice cream?
December 4th (2007) was an interesting day. I had a meeting at 2:00 pm in Fairfax (Virginia) and since this put me closer to home, I decided to finish working out the day at my house.
This particular day was very windy. As I arrived at my house I was greeted by my relatively new, $350.00, full glass storm door hanging by one hinge, bent, and swinging back and forth in the strong winds. Angry over the loss of my new door, I removed it from the door frame, carried it around back, and leaned it on its side against the deck.
Now in the back yard, I see that the Christmas tree I had put up in the garden next to the Koi Pond, with all its decorations and lights, was also laying on its side; with half the tree, the lights and star top, in the Koi pond. Cold and discouraged, I went inside to finish my work.
Around 4:30 pm I received a frantic call from my youngest daughter Savannah on my cell phone. She was coming home from her second day of working in the Merrifield (Virginia) area and got on the Beltway heading south towards the Wilson Bridge and Maryland, instead of getting on the inner loop heading north as she should have. While I was trying to talk her through getting turned around on the Beltway, my wife calls me on the house phone also frantic, because neither Savannah nor I am picking up her calls. So I am now standing in the kitchen with the house phone to one ear with Kim, and my cell phone to the other ear with Savannah, when the cats begin to fight with each other.
The cats zoom by me into the living room and get up under the Christmas tree that we had just set up and decorated over Thanksgiving weekend.
There I stand, in the kitchen with a phone to each ear, having two conversations at once, while I watch in horror as the cats topple over the Christmas tree. To make matters worse, this year I had found the “the bomb” Christmas tree stand… The one that cost a bunch of money; the one with the foot operated ratcheting jaws that allows you to stand holding the tree straight while you ratchet down the jaws around the tree trunk with your foot.
The tree stand that in addition to all those other cool things holds four gallons of water and like the Titanic, is “untopple-overable.”
Now I am the one who is frantic, so I told my wife I had to get off the phone while I righted the tree, but I still had to get Savannah turned around on the Beltway.
Now in the living room with the Christmas tree in one hand and the cell phone to my ear in the other, the doorbell rings. Then it rings again.
It’s the UPS guy.
He is persistent because his delivery requires a signature. After some initial hesitation, I lean the tree against wall, I tell Savannah to call me back in couple of minutes, and I answer the door.
The UPS guy is a nice guy, but he likes to talk. As we stood in the doorway now without a storm door, I told him about the door, and the cats, and the Christmas tree. I was trying to get him to realize that it was bad timing and I was in a hurry. Of course he wanted to share his cat stories too, and told me he thought he remembered a storm door on the house; then he laughed a little. Me, not finding anything funny, and Savannah now calling back, I finally just told him I had to go.
With Savannah now heading in the right direction on the Beltway, I get a call on my cell phone from someone from work needing to discuss some important work stuff. While on that call, still concerned about Savannah, the house phone rings again and thinking it might be her I answer it while still on the cell with my co-worker. Now for the second time today, I am in the kitchen with a phone to each ear. This time it is not Savannah however, it is Alexa (oldest daughter, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she has a problem, or maybe better said, thinks she has a problem).
“Alexa can I call you back,” I asked hurriedly.
“Well ooookaay” she said obviously not happy.
Feeling bad, I said, “Look Alexa; the Christmas tree fell down, I have 4 gallons of water in the carpet, the storm door blew off, and I am on the phone with somebody from work…Is there something really wrong?”
“Yes” she said. “I have a big problem!”
“Is it an emergency? Are you bleeding? Can it wait a few minutes???” I pleaded.
“Noooo, it’s not an emergency” she said with a heavy sigh.
“Okay please let me call you back”
Having heard all that, my co-worker realizes it’s probably not the best time to be talking to me about work problems and she hangs up the phone too.
Now I have a moment with no one on the phone. I begin to clean up the busted antique ornaments, the keepsakes from the kids’ first Christmas’s, the shattered Steelers ornaments and the other colored balls, when my wife comes home.
Seeing that I am all worked up and dramatic, she acts like it’s no big deal and says just what I didn’t need to hear:
“Honey, it’s just a Christmas tree, they are just some ornaments, and it’s just a door that I didn’t like anyway, so get over it!”
“I hateit when she says stuff like that…she wasn’t here…she doesn’t know…you don’t just get over it,” I said to myself dejectedly.
Feeling defeated, I get out the wet vac, pull up the carpet, suck up the water, start blowing air under the carpet, vacuum the rest of the mess, and move the tree to the other end of the room.
Then, on top of all that, I make dinner, because Savannah, who is now finally home from her Beltway adventure… is hungry.
Sitting down at the table ready to eat, I ask my wife to say The Blessing because I am too beaten and broken and apparently way to dramatic to be thanking anyone for anything.
And her prayer went like this:
“Dear God,
Thank you for this food we are about to eat.
Thank you for getting us all home safely from work.
Thank you for caring for all those who we know who are sick.
Thank you for the wind that blew the door off the house because I didn’t like that door any way and now I can get a new one.
Thank you for the cats who knocked over the Christmas tree and spilled the water and ruined the carpet because now I can get the wooden floors I want.
Thank you for everything.
In your name we pray,
Amen”
“Amen” …I said…
The End
And that is how it happened now nine years ago today.
Like the little boy praying for ice cream in the opening story I am sure God wasn’t mad at Kim for her prayer (though He may have been a little mad at me for my behavior).
Though Kim never got her wooden floors in that room, she did get her new door.
And like my wife said nine years ago, “it’s just a Christmas tree, they are just some ornaments;” I guess that is not what Christmas is all about anyway.
Because like a little ice cream, Christmas is good for the soul too.
And it doesn’t really matter whether it’s a live tree or an artificial tree at all.
And I suppose I still need to get over that…because I don’t really know if my soul is good already!
I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas!
Pulling my tree on a sled after cutting it down at the Moose Apple Christmas Tree Farm in Berryville, VA
