Advance Praise for Philco
“If there was ever a ranking of ‘Top 100 Most Interesting Lives in History,’ Ken Mansfield would be on it. In Philco, he brings his experience and imagination to bear for you. This is a story that will stay with you forever.”
—Andy Andrews, New York Times bestselling author of
The Traveler’s Gift and The Noticer
“Reading a book by Ken Mansfield is always an adventure. Like any adventure, you never know where it’s going to take you, or where you’re going to end up. The one thing you do know is that it’s going to be good. Now I have to go through that peculiar ‘withdrawal’ that I experience every time I finish a great book. I highly recommend Philco!”
—Kerry Livgren, founder, lead guitarist, songwriter of Kansas
“Dust in the Wind” and “Carry on Wayward Son”
“Philco is a very original work by one of the most original minds I know: Ken Mansfield. He is one of my favorite American writers and no one is better equipped to write about the subject matter at hand—a great country that lost its identity when God was asked to leave. It is a world that existed for Mansfield as a boy growing up alongside the Nez Perce Indian reservations in northern Idaho, and now, luckily for readers, those days live again in this special book.”
—Marshall Terrill, author and executive producer Steve McQueen:
The Life and Legend of an American Icon
“Today’s times are constantly being redefined by the impact of culture under the auspices of technology, progress, and political correctness. Philco is a powerful journey back in time to what once was, and maybe, what could come to be, if we only learn to dream again. Ken Mansfield is the dreamer and Philco is the path to that dream…and deep down inside we all just want to get back to that place in our heart called home. Bravo, Ken!”
—Frank Sontag, host of The Frank Sontag Show 99.5 FM KKLA,
Los Angeles (Salem Media)
“Philco is a dream-like memory of an earlier, gentler America when the days of ‘In God We Trust’ echoed through time and eternity. Intriguing characters take Philco on a journey that causes him to find within himself the mystery he’s been looking for, after having lost his identity. This book will warm the hearts of the young who have missed the simplicity of people grounded in principle and integrity; and perhaps will grant them permission to aspire to the nobility of the infinite.”
—Jessi Colter, author, The Lady and the Outlaw,
recording artist/songwriter
Also by Ken Mansfield
The Beatles, The Bible and Bodega Bay presents two portraits: The young man in London on top of the Apple building (and on top of the world!) watching The Beatles perform for the last time, and the older man on a remote Sonoma County beach on his knees, looking out to sea and into the heart of his Creator. Considered one of the top three best Beatles books of all time according to the rock editor’s list on Amazon.com.
—Amazon.com (Gail Hudson): “It is his writing talent and depth of personal story that make this memoir rock.”
The White Book invites readers to know the characters of The Beatles and the musicians of their time—the bands that moved an industry and a culture to a whole new rhythm. This engaging and unusual account spans some of the most fertile and intense decades in music history.
—Barnes&Noble.com: “There is something quite Lennonesque about Ken Mansfield’s soul searching—his tales are astonishingly clear and vivid.”
Between Wyomings is a modern-day Ecclesiastes tale, where with his wife, Connie, and a van named Moses, Ken metaphorically recreates the travels that took him into the homes and careers of entertainment legends. Readers are called to reflect on the highways of their own lives, the turns and detours that press them into the heart of a Creator who has been there all along.
—Publishers Weekly: “Mansfield’s prayerful musings are quite extraordinary.”
Stumbling on Open Ground is a story of trial and faith like those found in the books of Esther and Job. It’s a private dialogue between Ken, his wife Connie, and the God who transformed them in the middle of a heartbreaking disease.
—Bernie Leadon, founding member of The Eagles:
“Ken is jarringly honest about everything—life, success, fame, disillusionment, faith, cancer.... This book might make you a little uncomfortable, but that’s probably why you should read it.”
Rock and a Heart Place is a raw, sensitive, and unforgettable journey from sex, drugs, and rock and roll to sweet salvation. Ken takes readers on a mesmerizing journey alongside members of some of music’s most iconic bands, including Kansas, Ozzy Osbourne, Korn, Prince, The Turtles, and The Byrds, just to name a few. Their recollections of the way things were offers a backstage pass into a bizarre world that in the end reveals the bigger picture of God’s purpose for our lives.
—Ken Abraham, New York Times bestselling author:
“This fascinating and fun-to-read book is loaded with inside stories of some of our favorite music-makers. It is a classic reminder that regardless what messes our family or friends might encounter, the Creator is greater; nobody is beyond hope, and there is no need to give up on anyone!”
Once Upon Another Time There Was This Place,
But You Can’t Get There Anymore…
From Here
A POST HILL PRESS BOOK
Philco
© 2018 by Ken Mansfield
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1-68261-570-6
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-571-3
Cover art by Christian Bentulan
Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect
Published in association with the literary agency, WTA Services LLC, Franklin, TN.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Post Hill Press
New York • Nashville
posthillpress.com
Published in the United States of America
Journey of Content
Once Upon Another Time
1.Sepia
2.Prairie Air
3.Man Words
4.The Palace Hotel
5.Pier Pressure
6.Just Desserts
7.Foot Work
8.Old Blue Pete
9.Deli Cut Balance
10.Garland of Flowers
11.Bar None
12.One Size Fits All
13.Old School
14.Toby Harley
15.Wood Winds
16.Rainbow Drops in The Air
17.Center Stage
18.Three Chords and An Attitude
19.Exodust
20.Where Forever Begins
21.Evaporate
Closing Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
ONCE UPON ANOTHER TIME
THERE USED TO BE this very nice place—America—a faraway place in time. People said corny things about it like: “The land of the free,” “The home of the brave,” and “The land that I love.” It was easy to find then; it was everywhere, “from sea to shining sea.” Then, God was asked to leave and it has never been the same.
One day, while walking in our beautiful Sierra Nevada foothills, I began thinking about this change, and I
became very sad. I was brought up in the traditions and faith of our country. I lived in its small towns among its hardworking people—people who took care of their own and asked little in return. Our expectations were small and demands were few. We were brought up knowing if we plowed in the cold we would eat at the harvest. We were united in purpose and enjoyed our differences. We never thought of averaging out, living off the sweat of our neighbor’s brow, or drinking from vineyards we never planted.
I miss that place, a place that actually existed in my lifetime. It was a “let me help you with that tire ma’am,” “honest day’s work for an honest dollar” kind of place. We now find ourselves at a bizarre point in time where each day we are told of some new and peculiar change that is taking place; changes that good and common people can’t begin to relate to or comprehend.
Once again, a tree has fallen in a garden of plenty. It made a lot of noise; but, whether the people were in the forest or on a freeway, it appears no one was listening. The surviving fractured limbs that emanate from that point forward are excruciatingly hard to grasp, leaving us hanging on today for dear life.
I get lost in remembering how America looked, felt, and smelled once upon another time; and, in my meandering, I strain to hear the sweet sound of its heartbeat. I begin drifting, floating off and back into that somewhere else that became a part of me in the process of being nurtured at my mother’s bosom. When I enter into these reflections I lose my earthly identity and my spirit melds into the fabric of God’s nature and purpose. The people in these stories are real—I have wrapped their stories in the warm jacket of my imagination for the journey.
My memories become ethereal, time traveling to another dimension.
The wind is at my back and my heart is crying out—I want to go home.
I let go and become that other part of me…
—Ken Mansfield
SEPIA
[PHILCO]
SAM HENRY SLAMS on the brakes, reaches across my lap, opens the door and points in the direction of the emptiness outside my side of the truck. His instructions are brief: “Git.” He sits there, still as stone, staring straight ahead, one hand folded over the other on his left knee, waiting to hear my exit instead of watching it.
I get out. He drives away without looking back, leaving me standing in the middle of nowhere in a cloud of dust. Looking around, it becomes clear I have been dropped off in a very lonesome place, but it is hard to know if I feel lonely when I have nothing to compare it to.
The man driving that old, beat up, dirt-stained pickup said people call him Sam Henry, but his proper name was Henry J. Samuel III. As I stand here trying to figure out what just happened, I can still feel his presence. There was something mysteriously familiar about him; he made me feel extremely uncomfortable because he kept asking questions about my life, my beliefs, and my intentions…but, I couldn’t answer any of them. In fact, I couldn’t remember anything before he picked me up.
“Well what’s your name? You do know that, dontcha?”
It was in that moment when I realized I didn’t know who I was. There was such intensity in his voice that I knew I had to come up with something quick. I looked at the center of the dashboard. Philco was stamped on the radio dial.
“They call me Philco.”
He said a person would have to be very lost to be in a place like this. But, I didn’t know I was lost. I was dressed proper, looked clean, and there was a nice leather bag sitting in the weeds beside me on the roadside. I know seeing me had to be strange because it wasn’t even a highway, and I wasn’t hitchhiking when he came along. I was just standing there looking down a rutted dirt road, watching him drive toward me from out of the distance. You see these kinds of paths and wonder about them as they branch off and away from a long county road into a scrubby nowhere—a trail that obviously leads to a remote ranch or someplace that is no longer somewhere. I don’t know why he stopped to give me a ride. I am not sure why I got in. I guess I got in because he opened the door. The most peculiar part about all of this is that when I saw that moving, faraway speck of dust, I knew he was coming for me.
Everything about his features suggested scorched earth, cold winters, eternal matters, and lonely places. Most of all, there was something about him that seemed timeless.
“Philco…hmm.”
He talked non-stop from the moment I got in, tapping the steering wheel in broken rhythm to punctuate his words. His voice sounded like warm wind coming down a dry creek bed. The ride didn’t last long though, and after a few bumpy miles of a one-sided conversation, he finally pulled over and told me it was time to get out.
I watch that dirty old truck disappear into the distance becoming once again that tiny speck that found me only minutes ago. I feel abandoned in an emptiness that has no edges for me to grasp in order to discern any meaning about this moment in time. Nothing about standing here as the dust settles around me makes any sense to me either.
I am certain though that his words, this place, and our brief encounter were by design. It’s almost as if his questions were not based on curiosity but on some form of ethereal impartation.
I look down at the ground; my boots are shiny beneath the dust. My pockets are empty except for something bulky and very heavy in my right front. I reach in and pull out a handful of silver dollars—they sparkle in the sun like flattened diamonds. I put them back, walk over to a long sloping rock, sit down, and pull my leather satchel on my lap. I open it up and find neatly folded clothing—one pair of socks, one shirt, one undershirt, one pair of underwear, one pair of pants, a wind-breaker and a folded baseball cap. A separate section in the satchel holds toiletries.
A photograph is tucked into a side pocket. I carefully slide it out and find a worn sepia picture of a boy standing barefoot next to a gentle woman, her head tilted, her face drawn, yet pretty. The background is vast, sweeping fields of stubble and faded mountains that lie in the distance. Between the boy, the woman, and those mountains, a man stands alone leaning against a scrawny tree. I wonder if the boy is me, but I have no idea what I look like. Something about her is warm and familiar. Something about him is like where he is standing in the picture…distant. I turn it over and find a message scrawled in pencil on the other side. The handwriting is feminine yet there is a tension in the flow.
Go. You will know what to do.
You will understand when you find it.
It’s still out there where it used to be.
You must go back…it’s not here anymore.
I carefully put it back into its place as if it is sacred. These images, the crusty guy in the pickup, this road, and some handwritten words are all I know. I am tired from not knowing and feel misplaced but I don’t have enough stuff in my head to become confused. I throw the satchel strap over my head so it crosses my chest and hold my only possessions close to the other side. I lean back against the rest of the rock and close my eyes. A soft wind touches my face.
I drift off into a dream that begins dreaming me.
PRAIRIE AIR
[PHILCO]
JOLTED AWAKE BY THE SILENCE I leap to my feet, clutching the satchel to my chest. I must have dozed off. I still have no idea where I am, but it is obviously the edge—a place very far away from the center of anything. I feel as though I have been zeroed out, like dust after it has been stirred and spread to new places, and I like the sensation.
This must be a prairie.
My surroundings tell me it is only lightly beautiful. There is so much of nothing to take in here; yet, I have to admit there is a subtle charm in its rough expanse. For miles in every direction I find that the sameness of the landscape gives this stretch an uncanny appearance of being unapproachable and inviting at the same time. The smell of my surroundings is reminiscent of parched potpourri with a touch of grit.
I walk toward what appears to be the tops of buildings on the horizon. In the far-
off distance, way beyond these supposed structures, there are various levels of mountains stacked like jagged dominos against a clear blue sky. I am alone in this hushed place so I laugh out loud into the silence—a sound-check of sorts. There is no echo, only prairie and its dogs blinking.
“Hey!” I yell into the distance. Still nothing…and I don’t recognize my own voice.
I come upon a path—a weed-lined corridor—fortunately pointing in the direction I intend to travel, I join its course and discover that I really like this emptiness. I find myself softly energized by the stillness of the windblown feel that surrounds me. As I draw closer to my once remote destination, I can see that this is, in fact, a town I am approaching. Its appearance gains in definition, and I hear music riding on the breeze as it passes through the shanty-boarded buildings in the near distance inviting me to enter. A tumbleweed rolls out to greet me.
I walk up to the town’s edge and into its outer limits. Something from the left side of my brain moves to the right of center, noting the oddity—the sensual whiplash—of a town beginning so abruptly out of the barrenness surrounding it. I stand in the middle of a street that runs the length of the town, bordered by a long row of storefronts on each side. I move off center, to my right, and step up onto the boardwalk that trims the lower edges of the buildings. My footsteps sound disproportionately loud as they reverberate down the street and seem to exit through a portal at the other end of town.
“Hello!”
Nothing…
The sun is hot and hovers directly overhead, offering no shadow to my form. I stop, stand very still, and stare into the blank reflections of darkened windows on the weather-beaten buildings before me. The place is empty except for an old man sitting on a wooden bench outside the entrance to the Palace Hotel. He looks up and I know I am supposed to sit down beside him. He begins talking without introduction or acknowledgement and I am immediately drawn deep into stories of another time when this was, as he claims, “a thriving city.” A dusty, crinkled cowboy hat, drawn down over a shock of red hair, conceals the face defined by crags and whiskers. His gnarled hands, one folded over the other, rest on his left knee. His voice and vacant stare fuse into muted hues that match so closely I can’t tell them apart as he paints faded watercolor pictures of the past. Something about him reminds me of Sam Henry…maybe it’s the hands. Without looking away he reaches down to his side and picks up a bone-handled buck knife and a roughly carved stick—a natural segue into the art of whittling with one fluid motion—and begins whittling attentively while he talks.
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