Moments in the Life of Charles Dailey
This page revised: 10/19/02

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Queenie and Me
An important companion of my earliest years was my dog Queenie. She was part German Shepherd and part German Police. She served very well as a watch dog, making lots of noise if someone unapproved approached the door or gate. She could bite, but rarely did.

I taunted her almost daily with "Queenie can't catch a flee." She barked, jumped and showed her readiness to play immediately. It was an automatic turn on.

Mother Dailey was not wealthy, but had been a person of some means following the death of her husband, Frank. That wealth was all in a Saving and Loan company in Sacramento. Following the collapse of Wall Street in 1929, many financial institutions failed, including that one.

In Mother Dailey's mind, it was the fault of President Herbert Hoover, unaffectionately known at our house as "old Hoover." It was the heart of the Great Depression and every evil and inconvenience was his fault. The savior that was getting things back together was Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was well remembered for his radio fireside chats. His talks were soothing and persuasive.

Mother Dailey at
a happy moment
It took me a few years to get a better view on what had happened. In the mean time, we had a scape goat that could not defend himself.

Growing up during the depression years was not a great burden since I had nothing to compare. Our income during those earlier years was $22.50 per month. It was later increased to a whopping $30.00. Meat was a once-a-day item. I had what I needed and the limitations didn't leave me scarred for life but maybe a little more appreciative than those who have always had ample.

Toys from Tender Years
Lois retrieved some of my toys and put them out for display on dark glass. Perhaps there was a connection between what I played with and my later interest in matters military.

The items were all carefully painted and the car had good tires, but their deterioration reflects the deterioration of their once youthful owner. Where are the evolutionists? The world that I live in is running down, not up.

The Violin
My life-long love-hate relationship with the violin began when I was about five years old. A door-to-door salesman sold mother on a series of beginner violin lessons for me. And with the vast experience of a five-year-old, I agreed.

I was duly equipped with a half-size violin and began the lessons and the torture of practicing every day. It seemed that painful progress never stopped.

I moved from group lessons to playing in the grade school orchestra. Beyond that, there were private lessons from professional musicians. Playing the instrument by ear was on a level with eating from garbarge cans, so I played (and memorized) only music written for the violin.

Escape from the rigors of violin practice came when I was about 12. I botched a memorized concerto at an upscale recital across the street from the California State Capitol.

The violin stayed in its case for several years until Albert Orsillo persuaded me to play by ear and accompany his mandolin for a sing-a-long at church. My early training said this was low-brow, but I did it.

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