On A Cool Summer Evening...

Not long ago I came across a folder. It was tucked into a desk drawer and long forgotten. Inside the folder were a number of things I’d written years ago. There were small snippets of lyrics for songs I never finished and pieces of poetry.   

I read through some of what I’d written thinking that I might find something that I could share here. That was my intent, but in reading, I came to two conclusions. The first is that I really don’t care for the person that I was at that time. Most of what I wrote was reflective of a young man looking for something or someone - a young man frustrated, stumbling through life, waiting. I suppose it was a stage I had to pass through. 

The second thing I concluded is that what I thought was good poetry then, and remembered as being good poetry, is, in reality, not very good at all. It seems rather sophomoric now and causes me to wonder how someone filled with such angst could not have composed something better. Even so, I can find the odd line or passage here and there that doesn’t seem so bad. I don’t know. Perhaps I am an extremely bad judge of what constitutes good poetry.

I thought I might share just a small excerpt from a piece I wrote in 1987. The full text of the poem is a remembrance of an evening spent with good friends at a Crosby, Stills and Nash concert. The venue was the now shuttered Starwood Amphitheater. The weather was a quite pleasant for a July evening. The best word to describe the atmosphere is, hippie. It was a memorable evening and I closed my poetic telling of it with this.

          When all has been said,

          and my time comes to pass. 

          Lay me down gently, 

          on a carpet of green grass.

          Play music softly,

          and bring the stars closer too.

          On that cool summer evening,

          with the band and you.

Again, I really don’t know what is good poetry or what is bad poetry. Much like art, I know what I like and I like these lines. 

The young man who wrote those came through. He is now just beyond middle age and has experienced much in life. He has been blessed with a wonderful, a loving family and some of the best friends a person could ever hope for. 

Now I look back at words I wrote 25 years ago yesterday. The setting is much different, but the sentiment is the same.

~ Greg

The Railroad Bridge

In my hometown there is a stretch of U.S. Highway 62 known as East Malone Avenue. It runs between downtown Sikeston and Interstate 55. About half way between the two, the highway passes over a small stream known as St. John’s Ditch. To my knowledge, the Ditch serves no real purpose though I imagine it provides water to irrigate the adjoining fields.

Bear with me here.

Sikeston is a town that stays under the radar for the most part. The university town to the north, Cape Girardeau, gets more attention. I guess that is fine for the locals. Still, it has some things of note; both famous and infamous. First the infamous. In 1942, Sikeston was the scene of the last lynching in Missouri as a mob broke into a state jail and murdered Cleo Wright. Somewhere in between famous and infamous is the Bootheel Rodeo, a tradition for 60 years now. The famous? Well, the famous is the original Lambert’s Cafe “Home of the Throwed Roll.” Also home to the best Chicken Fried Round Steak that I have ever eaten.

There is one event that leads us back to St. John’s Ditch. On May 17, 1948, former President Bill Clinton’s father, William Jefferson Blythe, Jr. was in an accident that threw him from his car. He landed in the ditch where he drowned. This was three months before Clinton’s birth.

So, this brings us back to the Ditch and why it holds a small place in my memory. I spent my freshman year of high school living with my grandparents and attending school there. During that year I renewed my friendship with Stephen Rogers. Stephen and I were born four days apart at the Missouri Delta Community Hospital. I was the older one. During family visits we would sometimes see each other at the church his parents and my grandparents attended.

But during this school year, we became best friends and Sikeston was our playground. Our bikes took us just about everywhere we wanted to go. The music shop and library on N. Kings Highway were frequent stops. On that same street was Kirby’s Sandwich Shop, where we’d have burgers and fries. In those days Kirby’s served Coke-Cola out of glass bottles and we’d try to keep track of how many different locations the bottles came from. We saw our fair share of movies at the Malone Theater on Front Street. We would set in the back at church. We’d always try to sing the bass line of the songs and we played paper football on the hymnals during the sermons. From time to time, we found ourselves in a bit of trouble.

One afternoon we were riding our bikes around in the neighborhoods just south of East Malone, near the Ditch. There on the south side, crossing over the water was a narrow , cast iron, black pipe. It was not too wide, but wide enough for us to challenge each other to see if we could walk across the pipe to the other side. Dicey. So we steeled our courage, and in turn, we both made it across. The trouble was, our bikes were back on the other side. We need to get back across. So, up to the road we go.

The easy thing would have been to walk the few yards down the highway, get our bikes and be on our way. But really, where is the adventure in that?

You see, just across the highway are railroad tracks. And across the Ditch is a suspended, iron encased, railroad bridge*. Ah, something to be explored! So instead of turning west and walking to our bikes, we sprint across the highway and up to the bridge. Without much effort we were down the bank and climbing out into the bridge.

Is was quiet under the railroad; for a short time. It wasn’t long until we felt the bridge begin to vibrate. It started as a slight vibration but grew steadily over a few minutes. Then, we heard it. The sound of a train horn, not too far off. There was train on the track and it was headed straight for us! It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were in trouble. We were half way across the bridge, over the water, and there was not enough time to get back to the bank. So we positioned ourselves as low in the bridge as we dared and wrapped our arms around the iron girders. Then we held on for dear life hoping to not be shaken loose and thrown into the drink.

It was a long train!

We just stood there for a few moments after the train had passed. Not really sure why. Perhaps we were too scared to move. Or maybe it was a quiet moment of thanksgiving  realizing we were alright. I can’t remember. But after awhile we crawled out from under the bridge and crossed back over the highway. We got our bikes and were on our way again. Only, we would be hard pressed that day, or any other, to find another adventure equal to what just happened.

I seem to remember not sharing this story with my grandparents; not that night at dinner, not that year. It would be years before they knew what had happened that day. I wanted be sure that enough time had gone by and the possibility of their grounding me had long since passed.

There are times that I miss my hometown. It has been a few years now since I have gone home and I need to visit there again soon. But any time I have gone back, I am sure to stop by Kirby’s for a burger and fries and Lambert’s for the Chicken Fried Round Steak. I drive down the cobblestone street where the old Woolworth’s used to be; where my grandmother worked. I stop and browse through the White Elephant and spend a few moments sitting on a bench in the American Legion Park. Remembering. 

On my way out of town I’ll drive down East Malone and cross over the St. John’s Ditch. In that moment I forget about everything else Sikeston was or is or may be. For that moment, I think about a Saturday afternoon in the Spring of 1972 when my friend Stephen and I felt the rumble of rails like never before. 

I smile a sly smile.

Greg

Postscript:  A few years ago I learned that Dolan Rogers, Stephen’s dad, died. The date was October 1, 2008. Reading his obituary in the hometown paper, I discovered that Stephen tragically died earlier that year in Carbondale. He was 51 and he was my friend.


* The photo of Kirby's and the railroad bridge across St. John's Ditch was grabbed from Google Maps.

Margins III

There are a few musicals that have caught my attention. But, my single all-time favorite musical is Meredith Willson's The Music Man. I remember seeing it on stage in the early Sixties with my mother and uncle in the campus theater at Southern Illinois University. In the years before video tape machines, I'd set my alarm and wake up in the middle of the night to see old reruns with Robert Preston as Harold Hill and Shirley Jones as Marian Paroo, the Librarian. Even now, it's playing here beside me as I write. For me, the Fourth of July holiday is not complete without "Ya Got Trouble", "Wells Fargo Wagon", "Till There Was You" and "Seventy-Six Trombones."

In my journal, in the margins, is a quote from the musical:

"Pile up enough tomorrows and you'll find you've collected nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays."

                  ~ Professor Harold Hill

Have a safe and Happy July 4th!

Coffee and Lipstick

My flight arrived late. I got a taxi at the stand and gave the driver the address near 8th and W 48th.

I walked into a crowded hotel. A few minutes earlier a fire alarm sounded and the whole hotel emptied into the lobby and out onto the street. No one was being allowed upstairs. Thinking anything would be better than standing shoulder to shoulder with total strangers, I left my bags with the doorman and went outside.

The night air was warm. Nice for walking. I set out to explore some of the streets in the area. The next few days would allow a lot of time to explore and experience, but I thought why wait. This area of the city is always busy and I felt that seeing it late at night would be interesting. A different perspective perhaps.

After awhile, the long day and the flight started to catch up with me. I picked up a few things at a corner market and walked back to the hotel. I picked up my bags, checked in, and took the elevator upstairs.

The room was nice. A corner room with a comfortable bed. I turned on the television, changed my cloths and laid down on top of the bed hoping that a sound sleep would be just a few minutes away. It was not.

I laid there, awake, for the longest time. It wasn’t the sound of the television; I like a little ambient noise when I travel. No, my mind was racing. It wasn’t anything specific. My thoughts were simply all over the place and it made falling asleep difficult. Finally, after a few hours, I drifted to sleep. But only for a few hours. My mind fixed on something and I was awake again.

It was no use trying to fight it. I got up, pulled on my jeans and a tee shirt and went downstairs. I found my way to the restaurant. It was a French restaurant so I knew the coffee would be good. I took a table next to a window and ordered coffee and a basket of breakfast breads. 

I took out my journal and started to write; nothing important, just random thoughts. Mine is not a great journal but it serves my purpose. It reminds me of things. Things I am doing, have done or wish to do. I must have been deep in my thoughts when I was startled by the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor.

I looked up and saw a lady. She looked at me and without saying a word, she hung her  bag across the back of the chair and sat down across from me. She motioned for the waiter and ordered coffee. Nothing else.

She was an attractive woman, not what I’d call beautiful, but not simply cute. She wore her hair straight and cut just above the shoulder. Her makeup was simple and complimented her complexion. She wore jeans, a white blouse and a short jacket.

We sat there in silence, me writing and she waiting.

A few minutes later the waiter arrived with her coffee. He refreshed my cup and then left.

She raised her cup and made a motion as if to say, “to your health.” I closed my book and returned the gesture. She bent her lips down to the cup and took a single sip, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim. She placed the cup on the saucer and laid a five dollar bill on the table beside it. Then, without saying a word she stood up and walked out the door.

Outside, she paused and looked in the window. She looked at me. She looked at the nearly full coffee cup. Then looking back at me, she smiled, turned and started down the sidewalk.

I set there, still in silence, wondering who she was. Where did she come from? Where is she going? What are her hopes; her dreams? And why a single sip of coffee? These are questions that I’ll never be able to answer. Trying to is only a game. 

Whoever she is, she left me with three things. Mystery, coffee and lipstick.

I took a sip of my coffee, opened my book and started writing again.

Considering Art

“Why buy art, when you can create art?” This, from a text conversation with my daughter-in-law. We both have a passion for photography.

It reminds me of a favorite line from Neil Simon’s, The Goodbye Girl. Near the end of the film the character Elliot Garfield is approached by the film director Oliver Fry. Fry asks, “We won’t keep you. There was just one question that I wanted to ask. Would you be interested in a movie?”

Elliot responds, “You mean making one?” 

Fry then replies, “Or we could go to one, but I think working is much more fun.”

These lines have had meaning in my life on a few occasions. When I was heavily involved in theater I always felt it was much more fun to be involved in the creative process than to set in the audience and watch the product of the process. Consequently, when I stepped away from acting and directing, I also stopped going to theater. This was not necessarily the right thing to do, but it was what I did nonetheless.

The same is true of music. There was a time when I was playing nearly every day.  Now, I couldn’t tell you when was the last time my guitar has been out of its case. It sets in a corner of a room, a relic of something I once did while the decals on the case remind me of places I once visited. From time to time I think about taking it out and playing for a few minutes. But it rarely happens. Again, not exactly the right thing, but it is the way things are presently.

But now, let’s consider art. This year I have been compelled to rediscover art. Both to view art and to create art. I have done fairly well with the former, but not so, the latter.

Gerrie and I have visited a few museums and attended a few festivals this year. We’ve spent hours in the Art Institute of Chicago and have walked the galleries of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Last weekend we spent several hours going from exhibitor to exhibitor at the American Artisan Festival in Nashville and have returned from the Wild Goose Festival in North Carolina. This festival was filled with art, music and film. Next month we will renew our membership to the Frist Center for the Visual Arts and will become members of the Cheekwood Botanical Garden and Museum of Art. 

We have made an effort to view art. This is ongoing. But, “why buy art, when you can create art?” It is now the time to begin the creative process. Part of that process is simply getting to the place that I am now.

This year has been the beginning of a journey for me. I have looked my life up until now and realized that I was missing so much while trying to reach a destination. I came to understand that it is the journey, this trail that I am on, that is what my life should be about. We are never assured of reaching a specific destination in this life and our efforts to do so can cause us to miss the beauty before us. This beauty is part of the journey and I have overlooked so much it as I have made my way in life. 

Being creative, I feel, has always been a part of who I am. Whether is was acting, playing music, drawing, whatever, it was a part of my life. Yet, for some reason I have  not celebrated that part of my life in quite some time. This is about to change. My trail has found a bend in the road.

Having looked at art, and seeing what others can do, I think, “I can do that.” I don’t mean that I can create something and become great; that is not the point. The intent is to find a sense of fulfillment that comes from using my creative nature; a gift given to us all. I have no illusions. I don’t create with any intent of being exhibited in any place other than my own home. Granted, I wouldn’t mind if that opportunity presents itself, but it is not the aim of what I’ll do. To be creative is simply a challenge myself to give expression to my experiences and to find fulfillment in life.

So here I sit. It is mid-year and the journey is well underway. This weekend I get home from the Wild Goose, clean and pack the camping gear away, get some rest and get back to work. Next weekend; next weekend I begin to clean and organize the garage. I will take inventory of what I have that is still any good, and then, I get to work. Who knows where this will take me. I don’t.

There was one artist I met at the American Artisan Festival, Sarah Bean, who builds mixed media collages. She begins with pages and photographs from old books and adheres them to the canvas using a clear acrylic paint. This is her base. On this base she then builds stories using paper, water color washes, oils and anything else she feels fits the piece. I was fascinated by her work! 

For me, I may work in wood. I’ll definitely work with oils. Perhaps pencils and watercolors from time to time. I wonder what happens when you mix wood shavings and sawdust with oil? Does is look better being applied to canvas or on a rough piece of plywood? What if I add a few pieces of scrap paper here and there? I don’t know. But I do know it is exciting to think about and the boundaries are as far and wide as my imagination.

It is exciting, this journey. You never know what will happen from one day to the next. But it sure makes you want to get up in the morning to find out.

Greg

Margins II

"A man is not old until his regrets take the place of his dreams."

                                                                                  ~ Proverb

By these standards, I am not old.

Note:  John Barrymore is credited with saying something very similar to this. But I prefer giving credit to the proverb.

Being Outdoors

It has been a long time since we’ve gone camping. Mind you, camping is not something that we ever did that often, but something that we’ve thought about doing more often than we have. We talk about every so often. The conversations are the same and usually end with one or the other of us saying, “We need to get out more and visit the state parks.” Or, “You know, if we camped in the Spring or Fall, it wouldn’t be so bad.” We have these discussions then promptly file them away until the next time.

It has been so long in fact, that we’ve had to purchase some new gear to add to the older gear. We’ve spent a part of yesterday and will spend more time this afternoon familiarizing ourselves with a new tent and learning how to set it up, so that we will not look like complete buffoons when actually get to our destination on Thursday. We have been sorting through the old gear, washing what needs to be washed and cleaning other things as needed. And, all of it is needed. We are making such an effort that it demands we try to camp a bit more often as time goes on.

That is one of the blessings we have living in such a beautiful state. I am reminded of something Peter Jenkins said. After walking across America, a journey he chronicled in his books, A Walk Across America and The Walk West, he returned and settled in Tennessee. I have tried to find the exact quote, but can’t. It may be on a dust jacket lost years ago. Still, what he said was something to this effect. He said that after walking across America he came to settle in Tennessee because it was one of the most beautiful places he visited during his walk.

We have enough state parks to keep us busy for a while. Some are fairly close to our home and others will require a bit more effort. We’ve even thought of starting off down the Natchez Trace for a few days and finding places to camp along the route.

Being outdoors would cause us both to do something that we need to do badly; that being slow down some. Life seems to be constantly busy. Some of what keeps us this way is very good, but other times it seems we run for runnings sake. We have so much that we love to do; things that need to have more attention paid to them. If we were to take a weekend now and then to get away, to get outdoors, then we have put ourselves in a place where we can read more, write more and draw more. It is an opportunity to be creative.

We know this is important. We simply have to make it the priority is deserves to be. It would give us time to enjoy creation and experience some of those things that God has given us to enjoy.

As I look at the year so far, it seems that 2012 is becoming a year for going to new places and to trying new things. We’ve had our horizons stretched and our minds broadened. This week the adventure will take us outdoors as we travel to Shakori Hills, North Carolina to attend the Wild Goose Festival. The wild goose is a metaphor in Celtic Christianity for the Holy Spirit and the festival “at the intersection of justice, spirituality and art.” It offers music, discussion, art, film and time to reflect on ones personal journey. We expect to be challenged and we know that we’ll come away with a deeper, and perhaps, a more expressive walk with God. We expect to be able to look back  on those few days and cherish the time to be outdoors and to focus our hearts, minds and spirits on what it means to be a believer. 

Being outdoors. It is something, when we think about it, that needs to happen more often. There is always something to be sought after, to be enjoyed and appreciated, if one will simply take the time to walk out the front door. It is all a part of the journey.

Greg