St. Vitus Dance — and Other Fond 1960s Memories

Does anyone remember life before television remote controls? In our house, I was the remote.

When my dad was watching TV, he’d say, “Son, put it on channel thirteen.” I’d hop off the floor, crouch in front of that big old television, and grab the dial—the one that clicked like a beetle when you turned it. I’d crank it from channel six to thirteen. If nothing caught his eye, I’d flip the top dial to UHF and make sure the bottom one was set to channel forty-two, the only UHF station we had in Birmingham back then. That was it: six, nine, thirteen, and forty-two. If you were born after 1970, I’m sure this all sounds made up.

But that’s not really the story.

The story is about St. Vitus Dance. No tuxedos, no dance floor. St. Vitus Dance—also known as Chorea—is a childhood neurological disorder that causes involuntary movements and coordination problems. I didn’t know any of that at the time. I just knew something wasn’t right.

One Sunday night, after The Wonderful World of Color ended, Dad asked me to check channel six. I crouched down, reached for the dial—and fell backward. When I tried to stand, I couldn’t keep my balance. Dad had me try a few simple tests: touch my nose, then his finger. I couldn’t do it. What I hadn’t told him was that this had been happening for weeks.

A rushed visit to Dr. Davis led straight to Children’s Hospital. I don’t remember most of the tests, but I remember the diagnosis—and being told I was one of only two children in the state with Chorea at the time. Lucky me.

I spent several months in the hospital on antibiotics and phenobarbital, then stayed on the medication for months after coming home. Regaining coordination was slow and frustrating. I couldn’t even tie my own shoes until I was around fifteen. That didn’t play well with neighborhood bullies, and I often had to ask someone, very politely, to tie my shoes for me.

I came home just before Christmas, and Dad decided music might help rebuild my coordination. He bought me a Vox guitar and amp and hired a neighborhood musician, Steve Keith, to give me lessons. Steve tried hard—harder than I ever would have—but it just didn’t click. I kept at the guitar for years, but it never loved me back.

By high school, I had no interest in football and no talent for basketball, so I ended up in front of Mr. DeWitt Self, the band director at Leeds High School. After a few aptitude tests, he declared I was meant to be a drummer. He was right.

Band became a home for me—marching band, concert band, jazz band. Mr. Self wasn’t just a great teacher; he was a mentor and a friend. I spent many afternoons in his workshop while he repaired televisions and electronics, learning more than I realized at the time. Those were good days, and I still cherish them.

I could go on about life in the band—but it’s late, and I’m very old. I’ve stayed up well past my bedtime to write this.

Good night.