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I put this together this winter. Warbs thought you might enjoy remembering Bud for a few minutes. Enjoy!
Steve
Bud Pinto Never Sang Until Midnight
He was a huge, strapping fellow with pot-marked cheeks and a big, lumpy nose. I always thought it was a cancer. He had a huge belly and a huger heart, warm and open to all. During the day, he lumbered about, his back bent, the labor of 40 years of hangin’ steel evident in every hobbled step. It took him three tried to get out of a chair most times. He used to lie that the first couple were for practice, just to get his knees ready to go to work. We all knew better.
His suspenders were always bright and gaudy. He had a special pair for every season and holiday, too. He didn’t mind the suspenders and figured that they would offset his less than dashing visage. “I never grew cheeks, so belts don’t do nuthin,” Bud liked to say. He wore a baseball cap, too. But this steel worker from New Jersey couldn’t wear just any cap. His was a Goofy hat, with long droopy ears and a plastic dog snout for the bill. Nobody had the heart to tell him how stupid it looked, so he kept wearing it through all of the years that I knew him As it grew tattered and worn, nobody needed to tell him anymore. It just looked right on everybody’s Uncle Bud.
During the day, Bud wandered around about the pits and told lies about all of his friends. That’s how you knew he liked you, when your name suddenly became involved in one of his grand stories. He had a good one for anyone that would listen, even if they weren’t listening. Bud was an old boat racer after all, and that’s just what old boat racers do. If they aren’t racing a boat, they’re telling tales. Bud sometimes told his lies when he was in his boat, too. Seemed like he was afraid of silence because when he was around, there never was any.
I can’t say that I ever saw Bud win a boat race. He didn’t seem to care, either. His great size was a great handicap, but he was at the races every weekend. He raced boats because he didn’t know anything else. It’s just what he did. That’s the way boat racers are, after all.
Bud never seemed to get mad. (Except maybe for that time when Glasses Neely threw him in the water and stole his case of Rolling Rock and drank it all, but he got over it pretty quick when Glasses bought him a 6-pack to make up for it.) He just seemed so jolly and care-free all of the time. He would let you know if he wasn’t happy with something, but always in a gentle, threatening manner. Most of the time, he would have a giant arm around your neck when he did.
Around 7 pm, just when the boats were put away on Friday and Saturday evenings, Bud would be the first to appear with a cold one. Sometimes he got started a little early, maybe around noon or so. He would wash the first six-pack own with a few brats and go back for seconds. By 10, his cheeks would be glowing and his nose just about on fire. About then, somebody always started at him with something like, “Come on Bud, sing a little.” Bud wasn’t very courageous with his voice. At least not his singing voice. Mostly, it took a bunch of cajoling and a bunch more beer for him to find it. Maybe he was just shy; maybe he was another Mr. Tanner. It doesn’t really matter much because sooner or later, you would hear his pipes start loosening up a little; he just couldn’t help it. Then, with a little more arm-twisting and a bunch more beer, Bud would sing.
From this great giant of a man, the sweetest sound would come. His hands were calloused mitts that outgrew the rest of his body many years before. His back was broken over and his knees were largely dysfunctional from 40 years of hanging steel and pounding across waves. But his voice was pure and steady, with the lilt of a teen. It might have been the only part of him that wasn’t worn out or broken somehow.
The only song he knew was “Danny Boy.” And when you heard him, you realized that he didn’t need to sing anything else. His rendition was soft, but it glowed in the night and hushed everyone around the campfire. And allthe world seemed right and well.
Bud Pinto never sang until midnight. And after he did, he lumbered off to bed.
Steve
Bud Pinto Never Sang Until Midnight
He was a huge, strapping fellow with pot-marked cheeks and a big, lumpy nose. I always thought it was a cancer. He had a huge belly and a huger heart, warm and open to all. During the day, he lumbered about, his back bent, the labor of 40 years of hangin’ steel evident in every hobbled step. It took him three tried to get out of a chair most times. He used to lie that the first couple were for practice, just to get his knees ready to go to work. We all knew better.
His suspenders were always bright and gaudy. He had a special pair for every season and holiday, too. He didn’t mind the suspenders and figured that they would offset his less than dashing visage. “I never grew cheeks, so belts don’t do nuthin,” Bud liked to say. He wore a baseball cap, too. But this steel worker from New Jersey couldn’t wear just any cap. His was a Goofy hat, with long droopy ears and a plastic dog snout for the bill. Nobody had the heart to tell him how stupid it looked, so he kept wearing it through all of the years that I knew him As it grew tattered and worn, nobody needed to tell him anymore. It just looked right on everybody’s Uncle Bud.
During the day, Bud wandered around about the pits and told lies about all of his friends. That’s how you knew he liked you, when your name suddenly became involved in one of his grand stories. He had a good one for anyone that would listen, even if they weren’t listening. Bud was an old boat racer after all, and that’s just what old boat racers do. If they aren’t racing a boat, they’re telling tales. Bud sometimes told his lies when he was in his boat, too. Seemed like he was afraid of silence because when he was around, there never was any.
I can’t say that I ever saw Bud win a boat race. He didn’t seem to care, either. His great size was a great handicap, but he was at the races every weekend. He raced boats because he didn’t know anything else. It’s just what he did. That’s the way boat racers are, after all.
Bud never seemed to get mad. (Except maybe for that time when Glasses Neely threw him in the water and stole his case of Rolling Rock and drank it all, but he got over it pretty quick when Glasses bought him a 6-pack to make up for it.) He just seemed so jolly and care-free all of the time. He would let you know if he wasn’t happy with something, but always in a gentle, threatening manner. Most of the time, he would have a giant arm around your neck when he did.
Around 7 pm, just when the boats were put away on Friday and Saturday evenings, Bud would be the first to appear with a cold one. Sometimes he got started a little early, maybe around noon or so. He would wash the first six-pack own with a few brats and go back for seconds. By 10, his cheeks would be glowing and his nose just about on fire. About then, somebody always started at him with something like, “Come on Bud, sing a little.” Bud wasn’t very courageous with his voice. At least not his singing voice. Mostly, it took a bunch of cajoling and a bunch more beer for him to find it. Maybe he was just shy; maybe he was another Mr. Tanner. It doesn’t really matter much because sooner or later, you would hear his pipes start loosening up a little; he just couldn’t help it. Then, with a little more arm-twisting and a bunch more beer, Bud would sing.
From this great giant of a man, the sweetest sound would come. His hands were calloused mitts that outgrew the rest of his body many years before. His back was broken over and his knees were largely dysfunctional from 40 years of hanging steel and pounding across waves. But his voice was pure and steady, with the lilt of a teen. It might have been the only part of him that wasn’t worn out or broken somehow.
The only song he knew was “Danny Boy.” And when you heard him, you realized that he didn’t need to sing anything else. His rendition was soft, but it glowed in the night and hushed everyone around the campfire. And allthe world seemed right and well.
Bud Pinto never sang until midnight. And after he did, he lumbered off to bed.
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