Back in December 1956, when I was just a boy, LaVern Baker and the Gliders took it to No. 17 on the pop chart. The second time around, in 1974, the group Black Oak Arkansas peaked at No. 25 with their version.

It was a goofy little song whose verses made little or no sense, not unlike a lot of the stuff that was popular around those times — or today, for that matter. But it had a catchy chorus that stuck in my head.

“Jim Dandy to the rescue!
“Jim Dandy to the rescue!
“Jim Dandy to the rescue!
“Go, Jim Dandy! Go, Jim Dandy!”

Well, some things change, some things never do. The words to that musical number are what they are and they won’t change. But after my experience last week, there’s a new twist to them, in my mind at least — a change I never thought I could, or would, admit.

From now on, my rendition will be:

“Sam Graves to the rescue!” etc., etc.

And that will come as much of a surprise to those who know me as it has to me.

So, as Paul Harvey says, here’s the rest of the story:

A couple of months ago, Ed Cummins, a friend since elementary school, and I had made plans to visit a military school friend from Panama whose health is not the best. Ed got the tickets and we were ready to fly away June 30. Before going, I had been briefed by Joe and Ella Corneilson on what to expect, based on their background and experiences there, and so I was all set.

Everything went without a hitch, at least until almost everything turned to  — well, you know.

We got the Houston’s Bush Intercontinental Airport in ample time for the regular boarding hassles, as well as the extra “international flight” mess. Ed ran his passport through the automatic machine that checks that stuff and issues a boarding pass. No problem.

I swiped my passport through the same automatic machine, and swiped it again, and, “Houston, we have a problem!”

Those little green letters that embarrass you when you try to take more money out of the ATM than you have in the bank blinked, “PASSPORT INVALID,” — both times, which attracted the attention of several in official capacities.

As time sped by, we decided that Ed would get while the getting was good and I would remain there (well, that wasn’t really my decision) until the situation could be rectified.

Rectification was complicated by the fact I had intentionally left my cell phone and laptop at Ed’s. That was my second mistake. My first: not being versed in international law sufficiently to know that when your passport expires in October, it actually becomes worthless in April, and that’s no joke. No travel within six months of the expiration date, even with a confirmed reservation to return before week’s end.

A quick call to our host in Panama, who is somewhat well connected there, proved fruitless. “Are you telling me, Lord, that I just ought to stay home?”

Another call to the U.S. immigration office’s customer service number was equally frustrating: no appointments to apply for a new passport until two days hence, even though there is an office right there in Houston. “You are telling me, aren’t you, Lord, to stay home.”

Then came my epiphany! I had once heard a senator from Montana jokingly say it seemed as though his staff spent half its time on constituents’ passport problems. “Call Baucus’ office” flashed through my mind, just before “but you don’t live there any more.” Oops.

Then came the really hard part. Since his days in the state legislature, I have not been a Sam Graves fan. Just haven’t; but like a dying man’s confession, I was immediately converted.

There is this wonderful staff person in Graves’ Liberty office who knows passports, and obviously has connections in the immigration hierarchy.

“I can help you, Mr. Fall,” she said confidently. “Call me back in 30, 45 minutes.”

“Mr. Fall, go downtown to the passport office in the Federal Building (a $50 cab fare) and ask for Jose Padraza,” Rachel (I didn’t catch her last name) instructed me when we reconnected. I got there just before noon, when Mr. Padraza must have been at lunch. But shortly after 1, he came over to where I was sitting, with my luggage, in the crowded waiting area and told me to meet him at Window 1 (of maybe 15).

Two basically simple form completions and $135 later, he passed a receipt beneath an apparently bullet-proof shield and told me to “go to those windows over there at 2:30.”
“Thank you, sir, so very much,” I mumbled in awe of what I had just seen happen. The time required to secure a passport had been reduced from maybe as much as six to 10 weeks to less than three hours, after I finally got things started.

Gleaming new ticket to anywhere in hand, I returned to Bush (cabbies get their fares going and coming), secured my seat for the next morning’s flight, and was off to my reunion in Panama City.

“Sam Graves to the rescue. Go Sam Graves.”