Nuns have always been part of the scenery here in Dubuque. From an early age I recall seeing these women enshrouded in black going about their business around town. Good lord, we are home base to three orders not to mention smaller enclaves which taught at the many Catholic schools. Today they are impossible to pick out from Jane Ordinary Citizen for they no longer are required to wear the medieval habit. And to make it more difficult to sense the presence of a nun; they act and think like ordinary women. Imagine that! They actually have their own thoughts, pursue careers (Sister Carolynn Farrell, Dubuque's mayor from 1980 - 1982) http://www.encyclopediadubuque.org/index.php?title=FARRELL%2C_Carolyn, and can dress in scarlet and wear make-up if they choose (the first time I saw a nun with her ears pierced; well that was truly shocking). What's the world coming to? Seriously, I'm glad for their sakes, especially with the temperatures soaring into the 100's this summer; wouldn't want to have to scrap off my sidewalk a melted nun, kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West melting in the Wizard of Oz. Come to think of it TWW of the W reminds me of my third grade teacher, mmmm.
Whats with the hat?
Nuns behind Nativity Church, circa 1965
On a more serious note the Vatican, headed by that fallible old fart Benedictus of Romulus, has come down hard on some of these venerable sisters. In the secular world that's comparable to chastising mom and apple pie. I mean talk about disrespect. And whats all the fuss about? I guess those old goats at the Vatican just can't stand the idea of nuns making their own choices (they're still reeling over the change of habit). One of the many articles I read states: "Many bishops were angered when LCWR and Network, along with the Catholic
Health Association, endorsed President Obama's health care reform over
the bishops' objections." I sense (women's intuition) that its not so much about Obama's health care reform but rather the whole deal reeks of "over the bishops' objections." How dare these women support something the bishops object to. I mean, c'mon Jesus was male and being God (in the eyes of the church), well that just shows you right there.Women are indeed inferior in their eyes and heaven help you if you fall somewhere in between their two female models: madonna or whore--either one or the other; no exceptions allowed.
Its been decades since I answered to Catholicism; holy mother of god, I'm not even a christian (I hope no one in Dubuque reads this after writing that declaration) but all I can say is, "you go girls (ladies)."
"Dubuque has had a lot of racial tension since the eighties when Mayor Brady and the Dubuque hierarchy got the brilliant idea to go out and recruit 100 minorities and find them a place to live and jobs. (There wasn't a 100 jobs for unemployed Dubuquers trying to find work) What followed was cross burnings, KKK involvement, increased crime and national media attention. Since then, Dubuque has been trying to shake the racism tag and you don't read near as much in the paper about the racial violence and crimes taking place. However it is still very real as listening to a scanner or having police friends will attest." http://www.city-data.com/forum/iowa/267017-dubuque-v-cedar-rapids-3.html
I've spent my life here in the Key City, aka Dubuque, IA. As Iowa's oldest city, it mantles the bluffs which rise above the mighty Mississippi. As a child the town was predominantly Catholic; people boasted that each neighborhood accomodated a church and a tavern; we do have the honor of having "the second highest alcohol consumption per capita in the world" http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dubuque (I did not author the second comment although I do emphasize).
Growing up amidst the mainly blue collar population I recall only seeing three persons of African American descent in Dubuque. The first time occurred when my big sister and I were walking down University to the library. Behind the billboards at the junction of Hill and University were a fewdilapidated structures which housed Dubuque's few black families. Standing on a grassless patch I guess one could call a front yard stood a little girl, probably four or five years of age, staring at us as we stared at her. I remember she was barefoot and her hair was fixed with many braids which stuck out all over her head. I think we posed a stranger site to her than she did to us. We walked quickly by for this was something totally out of our scope of comprehension. A few years later my good hearted however naive aunt and next door neighbor, Maryann, signed up for a program which allowed her to care for a black child from Chicago's inner city for a portion of the summer. Roy was a hyperactive ball of fire; small and thin for his age but extremely agile and fast. He gave my aunt a run for her money. I remember my cousin Ann, myself and Roy sitting in the rear seat of their station wagon and all of us looking at each other's bare feet and being amazed that the bottom of his feet were white. And also his palms. Wonders of wonders. I also remember one day watching Roy as he stood in the front yard looking over at Allison Henderson Park across the street. The expression on his face mirrored pure awe. Roy was sent home early due to behavioral problems beyond my aunt's control, but I do remember him coming back for a visit and my aunt hugging him as he struggled to get away (even though he was smiling). I think he enjoyed receiving her physical affection but was embarressed by it. Next year my aunt, willing to give it another go, thought perhaps a girlchild would be easier to accomodate. Ha. One day she picked up the phone and heard the young woman plotting with an accomplice to rob them blind. She quickly came over to our house, quite shaken, to make the phone call to have the young lady escorted home, asap. My next encounter with black persons occurred in Chicago. My sibs and I could not quit staring and finally my father told us to knock it off. We were a little apprehensive for there seemed far more of "them" than us.
Back home life went on within my little village on the river. Then in the early ninties I found I needed to go back to work for raising two little ones on my own was difficult on many fronts, especially the financial. I took a job at a call center where I spent my days taking orders over the phone for various catalog companies. I recall a "head" catalog which gave me the pleasure of talking to interesting although sometimes weird people from all over the country. Another catalog was from a vitamin/health company which was not as much up my alley. Oh well, it paid the rent. And the orderees couldn't see me so how would they know that while they asked my advice on different products and as I swore up and down that I used them every day, therefore talking them into ordering vast supplies of ginkobinko or whatever (bigger paycheck for me) I was guzzling Coke and sucking on Nacho Cheese Doritoes (yes I suck all the spice off them first) and watching the minutes tick by till my next cigarette break. Back then we had a smoking breakroom IN THE BUILDING; the offices were housed in the IBM Building or is it now back to the Roshek Building? Just can't keep up with the name changes these days. One morning I turned into my row of cubicles and what do I see? A black woman, nappy hair standing out all over her head; major bedhead in my book, sitting on the end looking at me looking at her. What the fu..? She looked tired though no trepidation registered anywhere on her person. Being a curious sort the first chance between calls I had to start a conversation for I was dying to know what planet she dropped out of the sky from. Over the course of that day I found out that she was living in a women's shelter until she could make enough money to rent an apartment with the aid of the housing department so she could send for her kids who still resided with her mother in the infamous Cabrini - Green Housing Projects, Chicago Housing Department's unscrupulous answer to the post-war exodus of Blacks to the North looking for jobs and hoping to escape Jim Crow. Tragically many found themselves flung from the frying pan into the fire. Belinda and I became fast friends and spent our days gabbing between calls and trying to make each other laugh while taking calls. One day she was a few minutes late returning from her break therefore making me late for my break and I reamed her a new one and she just laughed and said, "girl, I'll never ever do that again cause you sure have a temper." Nicotine addiction can make monsters out of genteel white women. She's a good lady. One of the first courageous African Americans to set foot in this then racist town and hang onto her dignity and sense of humor. And she took a lot of shit. Today, after perseverance and hard work she posesses a degree in social work. However she is unable to find a job here in that paraticular field so therefore has taken in foster children; heart of gold encased in steel and I love her.
Writing on the wall right behind my old apartment on Alpine
Dubuque, we have a problem. No problem with people sincerely hoping to better their lives for themselves and their children; hey this is amerika, remember? Unfortuately many have brought along gang members, pimps, drug dealers, murderers and thieves. Now, Mr.Brady, what do you suggest we do, sir? The drug epidemic here in the heartland mirrors that of inner cities of Chicago and Milwaukee. Families have been run out of their neighborhoods and decent folk cannot walk along the city part of Heritage Trail without the real possibility of being robbed, or worse, stabbed or shot. Unfortuantely in this type of situation a few bad apples ruin it for everyone. I for one am all for rolling out the welcoming mat for those who come to escape the violence of their former homes but please leave it there. My father is 88 years old, loves to walk but due to present circumstances carries a gun (a sharpshooter in the Marines and freakin' fearless and still able to shoot to kill if need be). How sad it has come to this. We need more Belindas (my friend from my call center days) along with more Ruby and Lynn Suttons (life long Dubuquers) and many others whose names I do not know but work hard and courageously to quell the violence that has blatently entered our town. And its not only those of color but us whites too have joined in the criminal activity. White landlords not excluded. I despise those who make money off the system and show no respect for those who are responsible for their government housing checks. I was shopping the other night and at a particular store running the cash register was a beautiful black woman whom when I gave her my debit card asked me if I was related to... I said sorry to say I was thru marriage however am divorced (still smacking myself in the head for not legally reclaiming my maiden name at the time of my divorce; to do so now would cost me $. Anyway she asked me "What can I do? I've taken pictures and taken them down to the housing department but they won't do anything (shocking news). I tell her he is scum and will get away with whatever he can to milk every cent he can out of those who struggle; getting rich off his government payments for renting uninhabitable apartments that he can't even do the courtesy of cleaning, repainting and recarpeting pissed on carpets and walls, and then using them as tax write-offs. I attempted to soothe her with, "well, he may not have to pay in this life but he will in the next." She flung her head back, laughing and said, "You're right there, cause God don't like ugly." As I was gathering my bags she said, "Someone may hurt him some day." That brought a big smile to my face cause that sob sure has it coming (and while someone accomplishes this act of justice may I give them his brother's address, my exhusband, cause he definitely falls in the same greedy inconsiderate catagory and I would love to see someone hurt him). I know, nonviolence is the preferred route to take, but a little theraputic fantasy never hurt anyone. Now, as an antidote to writing (I always get hyped up when I write) I'll go relax and watch Pulp Fiction; Quentin Tarantino, pure dialog genius!
I have an affinity for all living things. Even snakes; not
that I would want to pick one up, but I respect it’s right to be. As a matter of fact I prefer the company of
animals over people. Not all people share this trait with me. Consequently I
find myself presently in dispute over
this principle. I recently did something I swore I would never do again; that
is rent from a landlord who lives downstairs; another creepy middle aged male
landlord who thinks I care to allow him to invade my privacy (which I hold
sacred) and jabber on and on about things I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about.
For example, calling me on the spur of the moment and saying “I need to get
into the attic for this or that.” That may very well be true, but I would
appreciate a heads up and perhaps at least a half hour notice. And after you
get your gadget please don’t feel at liberty to stand there and go on and on
about the most humdrum subject matter on the face of the earth. And especially
when I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee of the day and/or cigarette (yes,
I know it may be afternoon, but to me it’s morning). And please don’t invite me
to sit around your fire pit and have a “friendly” beer with you. It ain’t gonna
happen.
The yahoo I rent from presently has a vendetta against squirrels.
Okay, I know they can damage homes; these clever little critter’s razor sharp
claws can whittle away an entry and therefore chew on wiring; but then fix the
holes and cracks in your property and maybe the little critters won’t be so apt
to find a way in. I have lived in many places, in many neighborhoods, and have
yet to have come across a squirrel trap. And to make matters worse this trap
sits right on the landing of the stairs leading up to my back porch. This porch
may look to most people like a dilapidated off the kitchen mishap, a space to perhaps
keep your recycling bin in but to me it lodges a sacred space in my home; the
windows are screened, (however torn, which to me is a good thing (cause the
bees that find their way in can find their way out). The indoor/outdoor carpeting has seen better
days ( I pondered calling the building inspector’s office one day when I was
vacuuming and accidently hit the wall with the hoover and I thought it was
going to cave in), but I thought I didn’t want to “rock the boat”, or perhaps I
should say “rock the porch.” I didn’t for they would have to come up and invade
my privacy and that would be intolerable. So I gingerly sit on my porch,
praying that it does not collapse as I ponder the mysteries of the universe
(okay, maybe as I ponder what I’m going to eat when I feel the urge to get up
and fix something).
The other morning one of these “innocent” creatures had the
misfortune of being trapped within the steel wiring of squirrel prison. All he
did was venture up the steps, see nuts, and go for it. Not a crime in the
squirrel judicial courts. I was sitting on my porch, enjoying the gorgeous
foliage always present before my eyes, counting, let’s see, five gold finches
and two swallows, but am interrupted by a sound of a frenzied commotion. I get
out of my chair and look down the steps and see the confined squirrel. He is
going nuts (no pun intended) and to make matter worse he struggles in the noon
day sun. So I do what any animal lover (not quite PETA card carrying yet) would
do, I let the damn thing out. A few hours later I am out and about, check my
phone (which I usually keep on silent) and see I have a message which I listen
to. It’s from my landlord, and he asks that I call him back, which I do. Pappy’s
not too happy when I tell him, yes, I let the squirrel out, the great outdoors is squirrels' natural habitant; I felt it was
cruel, etc. Well, I might as well talk to the freakin’ squirrel; he would be
more apt to understand. The landlord (god, I hate that title; this guy is
nothing near a “lord”) is going ballistic, I fear (no, I hope) he will go into
cardiac arrest and I will have to hang up and dial 911 (maybe). I hang up on
him and then call him back and tell him he does not need to speak to me in that
tone of voice; if he can’t have an “intelligent” conversation, don’t bother me,
and by the way don’t even think of evicting me cause I will haul your ass to court.
He hangs up on me and I call him back, he does not answer, I leave a message
with the words, I didn’t think you would answer however, don’t ever speak to me
in that manner and leave me alone unless it is something important regarding
the apartment and visa versa, and no more of this spur of the moment, “I have
to get in” bullcrap cause I have rights as a tenant. Amen. Well, that’s that, I
think. The trap remains so when he’s not home I spray it with Mr. Clean (with
Febreeze) hoping the scent will repulse the little guys (and girls).
This morning I wake up and see the little red light on my
phone flashing. Hark, there is a message. Guess who? Yep. He asks me if I know
anything about his trap, the trap that no longer sits on the steps. And honest
to God, I don’t. I try to convey to him this (I can understand why he considers
me the main suspect). I really did not take the trap. I added that perhaps the
DNR came by and nabbed it (I did look up the rules). I asked him if he had a
valid trapping or hunting license. The tone of his voice changed and I detected
a bit of fear when he asked if I called the DNA. I said no (and I didn’t).
Anyway I actually thought last night when I checked
the trap (something I do a few times a day) and saw that it was gone that he good
naturedly moved it so I would not be disturbed. Evidently I gave the jerk more
credit than he deserved. I almost said, “Maybe a bunch of squirrels carried it
off”, but then thought it best be left unsaid. He did thank me for returning
his call and I said, “You’re welcome.” Forced civilized conversation, to say
the least.
It’s very likely that one of the many kids running wild in
the neighborhood took it cause to a kid it would be a pretty neat toy. I really
don’t know. I like to think Providence stepped in but then I might be considered
a candidate for Two West (wouldn’t be the first time). Oh, well, I hope it remains a mystery to both
the landlord and me and that “DNR” comment may avert him from purchasing
another one.
“Compassion for animals is intimately
connected with goodness of character and it may be confidently asserted that he
who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man.” Arthur Schopenhaur
I have been delving into local American Indian history lately. The Upper Mississippi Valley speaks volumes regarding the saga of tribes such as the Meskwaki, Potawatomi, Sauk, Santee Sioux, Ojibwe, and many others who most likely were pushed west or south by the burgeoning pioneer movement. When I say this land speaks volumes I don't mean just written testimony but more of a spiritual telling; cruise or hike to any of the many wooded locales of the area and just "be". If you are very quiet and open you may perceive on some level the existence and practices of the people who were blessed with this land milliniums ago by the Creator.
Most accounts of yesteryear regarding Indians were written by white people; therefore a bit one sided, to put it mildly. Indians, for the most part, relied on oral testimony or on white people who not always transcribed the exact words spoken by the narrator, unfairly and unethically putting their own spin on the course of events. Some transcribers were "fair and balanced" (as Bill O'Reilly claims to be) and translated and recorded the sagas as truthfully and accurately as possible. So if one takes the time to search thru the annals of history one will indeed get a picture of what conditions were really like for the tribes once the Europeans assaulted their land and their lives.
I like to daydream; sometimes this endeavor can be quite a wonderful escape from the mundaneness of reality. The other day I spent a good amount of time imagining that the Indians prevailed over the white colonist and sent them packing; after a few centuries or so of battles. I imagined visiting Galena, a small (big tourist) town across the river in Illinois. It certainly wouldn't be called Galena and draw rich Chicagoens who stroll down Main Street in hordes, buying overpriced merchandise and dining at Chicago-priced restuarants. Rather it would most likely be a rich ndn town, maybe not rich so much in monetary terms but rather in land and traditions. Modern times most likely would have crossed the pond and Indians, being human beings, would have succumbed to the wonders of technology. We white folks could visit and perhaps apply for a visa to stay awhile and perhaps citizenship if we proved ourselves worthy. I think how now when I stroll up among the residential hills of the town I see signs every now and then proclaiming the place a "lookout" area during the Black Hawk War, where white men could gaze along the hills and valleys for miles for any trace of "injuns". Maybe those signs would be replaced with stones or trees, commemorating positions where Black Hawk and his warriors surveyed sight of the European invader.
Chief Black Hawk
Apple River Fort, a few miles east of Galena, would not exist. This fort was hastily erected in fear of Black Hawk who did attack on June 24, 1832. Black Hawk wanted his tribe's land back, angered that what was ceded to whites in 1828, done hastily and without the full approval of the rightful tribal leaders. He sorely stated as an elder looking over the events of his life: "whites were in the habit of saying one thing to the Indians and putting another thing down on paper." Black Hawk and his braves did retreat when they realized the fort was too heavily armed and manned (and womanned). Of course the white folks prevailed and now the fort is immortalized. Presently the whole area between Elizabeth and Galena resonates with the sounds of the rich and sometimes famous (I know someone who visits the dump on a regular basis, finds "treasures" that these wealthy folk throw out and sells it on Ebay; I tell him, "I'll see you at the dump one of these days, we'll fight over the spoils"). http://www.lakelubbers.com/apple-canyon-lake-1217/
Food for thought: Joseph Podlasek, executive director of the American Indian Center of Chicago ponders, "How come every time native people win it's a massacre, and when we lose it's just a war?"
The middle of June has crept up on us and I find myself
thinking about what gift I should get my dad for Father’s Day. Mother’s Day
this year was an absolutely gorgeous, picture perfect day whereas Father’s Day
alludes to storms. Usually Mother’s Day, cemented in May, comes cloudy, cold,
or rainy and my dad jokingly says, “God is mad at you mothers (if he only
realized what it sounds like when he says “you mothers”). Well this year our
Creator smiled upon us mothers and just may rail violently at you fathers; so
there.
When I buy my dad something he “scolds” me and tells me he
doesn’t need anything, which he doesn’t. So after grave consideration I decide
to bake him pumpkin white chocolate muffins and a batch of cranberry oatmeal
cookies. I have one day to do this for I worked all week and work the weekend,
leaving me only Friday off. However Friday finds us embroiled in July-like heat
and humidity (I think we are a month ahead of schedule weather- wise so I’m
hoping come August Mother Nature will gift us with fall); on the other hand we
may be in the grips of global warming (very mild winter this year). Whatever
the reason it is hot and humid and I live on the second floor, kitchen
not airconditioned. No sweat, I say. Ha, during this endeavor I am mopping copious
amounts off my entire body. I tell myself I am getting the toxins out of my
system. I put my meat thermometer on the counter and it registers exactly 100
degrees. As for the dew point, well never mind, I would rather not know. But I endure it
cause it’s for my dad. Every now and then I go out on the little porch outside
my kitchen and catch a breeze along with a birds’ eye view of a game of
basketball being played at our little hilltop park (hence called Hilltop Park).
Man, all these young men of color out there showing off their moves with their
shirts off. I think, “where are my binoculars when I really need them?” This
game, I think, almost equals the Championship game played last night; “my” team
isn’t in the running this year, they won last year (worth it just to hear Dirk
sing We Are the Champions). I usually root for the underdog, which is Oklahoma
City but these days anything having to do with that state I detest so I find
myself cheering on Lebron and the Heat. But as my loser ex-husband use to say,
I digress.
My dad. Man, the memories come flooding back. I recall
sledding down the hills across the street at Allison Henderson Park. One winter
wonderland day my dad, my little brother Al and I (age six) were coasting down
on our Flexible Flyers. We took turns going down with dad; Al was way too young
to handle these babies on his own so having to show my little bro that I was up
to the challenge I decided to give it a go solo. I started zooming down the
hill, tether ball pole right dab middle in my path, glimpsing my dad and
brother going full speed ahead of me and hearing my dad yell, yabba dabba doo;
well that’s all I remember cause I hit that pole pretty damn hard. Knocked me
out. I remember coming to momentarily, my dad holding me as we crossed
Grandview Avenue, blood spouting from my nose on to his shoulder. He must have
had Little Al (yes, that’s what he was called) by the hand and left the sleds
at the park. I don’t know; I blacked out again. At home I remember sitting in
the big red rocker on the back porch and my Uncle Gordy sitting in front of me
with this weird look on his face as he studied my face. I don’t recall what
they did for me, probably just wiped the blood off and iced the swelling and
bruising. Years later as an adult I went to the ENT doctor for sinus problems
and he said, “Did you know you have a broken nose?” No, I did not know that
however I have a pretty good idea when and where it occurred.
I remember as a child my dad reading to us (my little brother
Al and I, we were good buds) many books. We would climb upon Dad’s lap and that
man would never get tired of reading to us. Such literary gems as The House
That Jack Built (which I could recite by memory) and other favorites. I
remember one winter evening my dad was varnishing something in the upper back
porch. I adored him so I sat there with him and read and reread a book I had
chosen, Corporal Crow. He listened to that damn thing over and over; and never
once told me to go away. Talk about patience of a saint.
Then there were the many nights at the Drive-in movies. He
would pack all us kids in the GMC, along with a cooler of pop and beer and
grocery bags of popcorn that my mom popped for us (she stayed home, a night of
peace and quiet) and we would watch many a Disney flick in our big metal
theatre. There was plenty of room for horseplay; and I don’t remember my dad
ever telling us to be quiet. Most of these time we had half the neighborhood
kids along with us and he was still patient and never raised his voice (when we
went to see James Bond movies with him the other kids didn’t come because,
heaven forbid, their parents would not allow their kids to go to those kinds of
movies that were always on the list at the back of the church rated B or C).
My mother, as many women of her generation, did not drive
(her life revolved around house, hearth, and family so where would she possibly
need to go without her husband)? But she loved to go for rides. She would say to me, “Ask
your dad to take us for a ride,” and I would comply and off we would go in the
convertible down country lanes and usually to an ice cream joint before heading
back home. I remember when my kids were young and I did not have a car;
therefore my dad would take us grocery shopping. One time he had just gotten a
brand new car, picked us up (this was an adventure for my kids; grandpa would
whiz them around the store as they hanged onto the cart shrieking with
pleasure). Well five minutes into our journey my daughter,
Samantha, who was probably around two at the time pukes up enough stuff to fill
a couple gallon jugs. And what does my dad do? Patiently and quietly takes us
home. As I clean up Samantha my dad takes his car home and cleans it up
(goodbye new car smell) and comes back and takes my son and I to the store
while grandma babysits Samantha. He never said a word other than something
like, “well, that’s what little kids do.”
He and my mom never hesitated to take my kids when I had an
appointment or when I was working. My kids, especially my son, spent many an
afternoon with my dad. And it shows; my son is very much like his grandpa and I
am very proud of him-- he even walks like him. I remember when my dad was in
his 70’s and my kids would brag to their friends what an awesome roller blader
their grandpa was; which reminded me of all the ice skating capades we kids
shared with my dad over at Allison Henderson ice rink. He could glide across
the rink like butter, leaving us kids in his “crystals”.
I could go on and on ad infinitum regarding my dad, but
instead I will end this with one simple phrase:I would sweat buckets for my dad any day. Happy Fathers’ Day, Dad.
My son Luke has been going through a rough time. I don't want to spill all the unpleasant details however I will say that his anguish has been caused by a romantic entanglement that has run its course, one of those "beating a dead horse" situations. Albeit being Luke he blames himself and rather than beating a dead horse beats himself up mentally. His nature, like his grandfather's (who has had a big influence on his life from the get go), encompasses compassion. However, unlike his grandfather , who is more cool and detached, he is emotional and at times wears his heart on his sleeve.
Luke stopped over at my place last night to share the latest chapter in this sad saga. My heart bleeds for him but I didn't want him to know that. I possess a hardness that comes with life so I told him that life is full of grief and what we all have to find ways to navigate thru the hard times cause life sure is chalk full of them. He knows my passion for the blues so I brought up music which along with writing glides me over the bumps scattered amid the avenues of life. This reminded me of something Marie Dixon (Willie Dixon's widow) said when asked, behind the scenes at Crossroads Festival 2007 in Bridgeview, IL, why is the blues so important to America? Mama Dixon answered, "Because blues is the facts of life. In everybody's life there is the blues. Ah, it is the root of all American music. They named it the blues but its really the facts of life." Wisdom of the ages. This one's for you Luke (Sonny Landreth). Check out the lyrics:
Her daddy's doorbell was a ringin'
When I called on the telephone
He was the one to answer me
So I told him what was goin' on
Sir I love your daughter
But we don't get along
Now sir I love your daughter
But we don't get along
In fact it's true to tell
She's been givin' me hell at home
No sir she ain't ailin'
'fact she's still goin' strong
No sir she ain't ailin'
'fact she's still goin' strong
Now she's alive and well
And just givin' me hell at home
I said your moody little angel
Done packed her bags and gone
I said your moody little angel
Done packed her bags and gone
Now she's a ringin' your bell
And gonna be givin' you hell at home
Last winter I had the not very pleasant experience of dating a man who like me grew up here in Dubuque. As a child he lived on West Eighth, one of our many steep peaks in town. During one of our conversations I brought up James Kinds, a local blues musician, and he said, hey, James moved into his old family home. I kept this information stored in my frontal lobe for future reference. A few months ago I moved, just a few blocks from James’ abode. And then I thought of James. I drove past the house and was baffled to see a couple of young white woman on the cluttered porch; young children aplenty. I thought, no, this must be the wrong address. I rechecked and even went online to search for James and that was the correct address. However when I called the number listed as his current number on the site a woman answered and when I asked for James she didn’t sound too pleased and said, Jim? I said no, I was looking for James Kinds and this was the last phone number listed for him. She said no one lived there by that name and “don’t call this number again.” Okay. About ten minutes later I was waiting in the Wendy’s Drive Thru and my cell rings and it’s “Jim” asking if I was looking for him. Again I explained I had found this number listed for James Kinds online and evidently it no longer was his. Than wifey got back on the line and told me in no uncertain terms not to call Jim again and being peeved cause some dumb shit was taking way too long ordering I let her have it. I do feel sorry for Jim, probably some poor hick with a big fat wife who obviously has no trust in her man. She hung up; she must have figured she was no match for my mouth when I get going. I still have the number in the phone and one of these nights I’m going to have me some fun.
But back to James. Years ago, in the early 2000’s I worked for one of our local hospitals in the homecare department. James’ wife Marilyn suffered from several debilitating illnesses and hence was a client. I spent a lot of time at Marilyn’s and James’ apartment, then on West Locust. And it was always my pleasure. Marilyn was a sweetheart, however addicted to many prescription drugs. Usually when I would visit she would be feeling no pain, and god bless her, I don’t blame her. She suffered greatly and thank god she had a man like James because he cared for her solicitously. Many times I would visit and Marilyn would say just take my vitals but skip the bath; you work too hard and you need to rest. We’ll just say you did. So I would sit and visit. James was usually present and I had the enjoyable opportunity to converse with him. James too was usually feeling no pain, and perceiving a rough life I made no judgments; as if I had room to judge on in that department! James told me he and Marilyn were from Chicago via Mississippi. I really blew James’ mind when I started talking Chicago blues versus Memphis blues; he was surprised this white woman here to take care of his wife knew so much of this genre. You know, I don’t know if they were ever legally married; Marilyn claimed they were and proudly wore the beautiful rings James had given her among many other jewels. But I knew she and James had an “arrangement”, Marilyn being so ill was unable to make love with her man therefore James was free to pursue whoever. And James didn’t hide this from her or anyone else; typical musician. Poor Marilyn, when her scripts didn’t provide enough relief she was compelled to pawn her valuables thus not always having her full regalia on display. She maintained her ebony skin beautifully and her bone structure, especially her long fingers, could put a hand model to shame and when she had possession of all her rings, necklaces, and bracelets she was a sight to behold. The household also sustained various youngsters, progeny of Marilyn’s children who would come and go, leaving the young ones with Grandma. One of her daughters had recently been released from prison and at first she intimidated me. One day I just verbally gave it back to her and she started talking to me in a more amicable manner. I would see her downtown towing her brood and she would always ask me for a cigarette and I would pull out my pack and give it to her (very small token from one who comes from opportunity and privilege to one who had virtually nothing from the get go). She would say, go visit mom, she would love to see you (this was after I left the nursing service). I remember her giving me Marilyn and James’ new address and recall West Eighth Street. I never did go over and I have sorely regretted it since; Marilyn passed away a few years back and I miss her. I stopped visiting her because she made me angry one day. On a day off I offered to take her shopping and out to lunch which she happily agreed to. She asked me to drive across the bridge to East Dubuque, IL so she could pick up some cash from a friend who owed her. I obliged but once over there realized good old Marilyn was selling her Oxycontin and being an “accessory” albeit unknown (try telling that to the judge) I just might have been sent up the river for a few years (my kids were still small at the time; a nightmare I did not want to live) shit, possession with intent to deliver across state lines. So I decided I was through with Marilyn for the time being.
I continued to see James at various venues in Dubuque. His band, The All Night Riders, was popular on our local music circuit for a few years. And man, could James deliver. And then all of a sudden he was gone. Well today my search ended for I know now where James Kinds resides. I inadvertently found this info out today when I visited our local “head shop” and saw James’ last CD on the shelf. I exclaimed, “I’ve been looking for James.” One of the clerks told me he moved back to Chicago to live with his son and use to visit Dubuque and stay at the motel he works at every now and then but not recently. I asked him if James was still playing and he said, probably not, he was in no shape; “under the influence, if ya know what I mean.” Yeah, I know what you mean, pal. I purchased the CD http://www.nodepression.com/profiles/blogs/review-james-kinds-love-you (along with two Johnny Winter bootleg cd’s) and couldn’t wait to get in my car and give James a “spin.” Yep, James Kinds, alright. His voice (and guitar playing) brought him back full force. Track four, Mason Dixon Line Blues, kindles my soul, followed by Crack Headed Woman which is pure jive. Track 8, Take A Look At Yourself throws me back to Soul Train. This CD showcases Jame's versatility; by far my favorite of all of his CD's. I can still see him playing behind the Mississippi Mud on balmy summer nights. One night he was playing in a bar and of course being Dubuque the clientele was mostly white. James would get to feeling good while up on stage and come down and sing to the ladies. One night a table consisting of two white men and what must have been there fat middle aged wives left in a huff. How dare a black man woo white women like that-- What a couple of assholes. One of the men was my insurance man, but no more. James liked to have fun and not only was he able to play and sing the blues superbly he also was a genteel man who liked to kid around and have fun. So James, wherever you are I send you good thoughts and pray some day we meet again.
July 2, 2012 - I received an email from a person who who wishes to remain anonymous. When one comments anonymously then the author of the blog has the choice to publish the comment or not. I choses to publilsh this and then "explain" my statement regarding James having "been under the influence" This information regarding James' state of health saddens me tremendously; I think European audiences would love James and give him more of the recognition he deserves. I pray that he recovers his health. To me James is not only a fantastic musician and singer (been playing his most recent CD every time I get in my car and his voice cuts right thru my soul) but more importantly a generous and wonderful human being. When I would "visit" he always took time to talk with me and would always, always, be most gracious. I apologize if my blog was taken "wrong"; what I wrote is something that happened along my journey in this world; its my blog and thats what I do. What I wrote was a testimony to how I felt about James and Marilyn; I had much affection for the both of them and feel I have put that across in what I wrote. As for the "under the influence" statement I heard via a clerk at Moondog; well, I'm sorry that comment is all his young mind could perceive of James. I personally did not witness James visiting Dubuque in recent years "under the influence" and in the blog I sarcastically reply to the clerk's statement (I know what ya mean, pal) was meant with sarcasm, for I personally know what under the influence means; unfortunately written prose via the internet can be easily misinterpreted. It was certainly not meant to be a "subtle" reference to James state of mind but rather what was told to me (and I'm sure to others as well) and hence, my SARCASTIC answer. But thats not important; whats important is that we all keep James in our hearts and prayers cause he gave so much of himself to everyone he came in contact with--Amy
I just finished reading Ethan Frome, a romantic novel set in New England circa early 1900’s. It blew me away; the heart wrenching tale along with the author’s superb down to earth prose advocates why the author, Edith Wharton, was awarded the Pulitzer prize. Today I looked at the New York Best Seller's List and see Fifty Shades of Grey ranks numero uno; and furthermore, the leftovers of this “trilogy are number two and number three, not respectfully (I’m sitting at the library writing this post cause I can’t get a connection at home and what do I overhear, a young woman asking the librarian if this particular book is stocked and the librarian says, yes but it’s out and there’s a waiting list of 60+ for it. Christ, go online and you can probably find a used one cheap cause after one reads this trite tale they most likely will try to collect a bit of their money back before trashing it (hey, that’s a good idea, just go through peoples’ garbage, just might find one there). E. L. James sure is racking in the bucks. But can you blame her?
Oscar Wilde
I guess I live in the wrong era. Put me in a time machine--please. I’ll put up with long skirts and petticoats, and even a corset, sweltering in the heat and humidity; no wait, I’ll live in England and put up with cold and dampness--anything, please, just to be alive when the Romantics thrived. Yes, there was eroticism, and plenty of it, naughty and nice, but it was enshrouded in modes and manners long forgotten, brazenly tossed to the wayside and replaced by today’ self- indulgence and instant gratification. Reading reviews of certain literary works written in the last decade you would think “soft porn” was something recently “invented”. Good god, none of these works have anything over Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Jane Austin, Edgar Allen Poe, Nathanial Hawthorne, William Wordsworth (love that surname), Mary Shelly and John Keats (recently saw Bright Star, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0810784/ These authors are indeed able to set my jaded imagination on fire. And good ole Oscar Wilde, he can still raise an eyebrow or two. With that said I will leave y’all with a tiny piece of a whopping poem by poor tragic Oscar:
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Dear Dad,
Another Memorial Day has come and gone and I thank the Creator that you are still with us and able to enjoy life at eighty-seven years young unhindered by many of the physical and mental maladies that afflict your peers. I know that the reason for this is part discipline instilled by the Marine Corp many years back; you yourself have said that if it wasn't for the Corp you would most likely would have led a different life. Also you have kept your mind active all these years thru your voracious reading (I and my other sibs are forever indebted to you and mom for passing this trait on to us inherently) and games such as Scrabble which you still reign over us "youngsters" as Supreme Champion Unsurpassed. Memorial Day 2012 found me home, a holiday off. The day was cool, sunny, and pleasant; a perfect day to stand on the sidelines of Main Street with fellow citizens and honor our veterans as they rode in open vehicles sandwiched between local school bands boogying to John Philip Sousa. My heart use to swell with pride when your motorcade would pass by; "There's my dad everybody, there's my dad!" But this year, dad, I could not go and I think no matter what I say, well, you won't understand. So when I saw you at supper that night I mumbled something about "convalescencing" after a hard week at work. And I was tired, but never too tired to see my dad. Especially being offiially escorted down Main Street. But my heart grieves for what this country did to the native people who inhabited this land millinieums before our European ancestors used up all their timber and sought to find a land that would allow them to practice their beliefs as they chose. And tragically and in heinous fashion they did not grant these same freedoms to those who honored and respected this land first. And then even after these European "christians" wrote up a declaration of independence they smelled profit; however attainable only thru the backbreaking toil of African people they kidnapped and transported brutally across the ocean. They whipped and beat these human beings into submission; they raped the women and took children from their weeping mothers. I cannot come to terms with this, dad. Yes, it was in the past and you tell me all land everywhere was "taken" by someone else but that does not ease the shame in my soul for these despiable deeds. And dad, these deeds aren't buried just in the past but these very deeds still reverberate today within the hearts and lives of the descendents of all these tribes. They suffer, dad, not only by not having the opportunities us whites have, but by pain in their very core which haunts them night and day. This pain erupts into anger; then turns into depression and isolation which tragically spirals so many into drugs and alcohol for escape. And then so many of our race who grow up with unbounded opportunity look at them and shake our heads and call them "lazy" and "weak" and looking for "handouts."
Years ago you and mom spent three weeks driving west with five unruly kids. I remember the black hills. I did not know at the time that this is sacred ground to the Lakotah: Paha Sapa.http://www.republicoflakotah.com/2009/k%c8%9fe-sapa-and-paha-sapa-russell-means-response-to-david-swallow/ I remember staying overnight in a camp site deep in this land. We could see the profile of George Washington lit up thru the hills. Before leaving this land we went and saw the imposing work on the sculpture of Crazy Horse. I never forgot this, dad, and have an inkling now as a parent what a sacrafice and job this was to show your children so much of this country in this manner. I'm sure I never told you and mom back then how much this trip meant to me, probably moreso now than then, so I belatedly thank you and mom now.
I won't be down at the river this year either for fireworks. Last year I knew I wouldn't return. I could not join in with the other revelers, drunk or sober, because dad, you instilled such a love for history in me that I have sought out the truths regarding the beginnings of this land. Today I am ashamed to be an "american" but I am proud of you for all you have given to your family and your people thru the years. And this has nothing to do with Uncle Sam, dad. We could have been born and raised in Siberia, but with you as our father, well, us kids still would have had the dad that was voted yearly as "The Neighborhood's Best Dad." I love you, Marine Corp and all. Amy
This morning I was watching/listening to Crossroads 2007.
This dvd features THE guitar festival that Eric Clapton has staged three times
(2004, 2007, and 2010) to present some of the finest guitar players alive. All
proceeds for these events go to Crossroads Center, a drug treatment center
founded by Clapton. To paraphrase Sir Clapton, “cause is a simple one....people
who use to drink like me....alot of my heroes didn’t have that option….maybe
they wouldn’t have….” Watch the YouTube video and hear his statement in its entirety
(along with his take on Robert Johnson’s If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day).
This got me thinking about The List, the Greatest Guitarist
List put out by Rolling Stone Magazine, or I should say compiled by some pretty
impressive musicians gathered for this task by Rolling Stone Magazine. And I
thought, why does this society feel the need to rate everything under the sun?
You cannot say one guitarist is “better” than the next--can’t be done. I look at
the list as just that; a list. Just because one is rated number 12; well, that
doesn’t mean he is any better or any worse than number 13 or number 11. When I
make out my grocery list just because I may have listed apples first and
bananas second; okay let me do that over—I may list Milky Ways first and
Doritoes fifth but that doesn’t mean Milky Ways are better. It’s just a list
and next week Milky Ways may be replaced by Snickers, depending on my mood.
Maybe that’s just what it is, a list. But being the
competitive race we are we automatically assume those listed towards one end
are better or worse than those in between. Well, I say bullcrap. They are
all awesome and have interjected pieces of their souls through their
instrument. And god only knows, there may be some unknown guitar genius
somewhere in rural China right now as I write who could outplay them all and we
will never know about it; and therefore never make the list. “If a tree falls
in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
My introduction to the pop music scene of the early 60’s was thru my older sister, Dawn. The Beatles, Petula Clark, Dave Clarke Five, Roy Orbinson, Simon and Garfunkle and even that rockin’ mama, The Singing Nun, are just a few of the flood of artists, talented and not so talented, that serenaded me thru childhood. My cousin and next door neighbor Ann Marie and I dug up Jerry Lee Lewis’ Great Balls of Fire out of an attic trunk (remnant of my dad’s youngest brother, Roger) which we played over and over again on my sister’s little blue record player. Man, we rocked.
As I matured so did my tastes; Jim Morrison, Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Steppenwolf, Cream, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, ZZ Top, Bob Dylan (electric), et cetera. , I consider The Stones, Exile on Main Street, my favorite album, especially the double CD put out a few years ago. Within each track you can feel, even smell the wasted decadent strung out condition of the band and their entourage. If you have ever seen the dvd Exile on Main Street you will not only hear but see what I mean. Yet they record a magnificent LP; the instrumentals alone can blow your mind--the horns are amazing! Musicians who are willing and able to bare their souls to their listeners reveal pure genius in my book. Enough of this intro; I will attempt to convey what the blues mean to me.
In eighth grade I received for Christmas the greatest gift ever, a Magnavox hi fi stereo furnished with an AM/FM radio. At this time FM stations were beginning to generate a following for they could play the long versions of songs and entire albums without commercial interruption. While playing with the dial one night I hit upon KUNI out of Cedar Falls, IA. The most haunting, gut wrenching sounds flooded my room, raw guitar licks and harmonica solos that stroked my even then old soul, vocals that reverberated with a pain centuries old. I did not know that I was listening to authentic blues at the time--not the white boy British version, but the real deal. Through Bob Door I was initiated into the Blues Only Program and introduced to such raw genius as Lightnin Hopkins, Muddy Waters, Willy Dixon, Big Mama Thorton, T-Bone Walker, Robert Johnson, Buddy Guy, Koko Taylor, Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Albert King, BB King, Freddie King, and on and on and praise gawd on and on. Every week night at 9pm Bob would further my education for a half hour and on Saturday nights for a whole magnificent hour and a half. Nothing, not even god almighty and his chorus of angels, ever touched me like this “race” music born of spirituals sung by slaves down in the cotton fields of Dixie. Even to this day I get goosebumps listening to the haunting primitive sounds of Robert Johnson. Koko Taylor can rev me up like no other and Muddy Waters will titillate my soul till the day I die.
I have lived thru my share of shitty times; the last two weeks have been a rough go. But when I feel overwhelmed I put in my earphones and sail away to a state of mind that no drug can imitate. There is a power, to me as powerful as another’s “holy spirit” that can lift me out of the ruts of this life and imbue in me the strength to go on. And if there is anything I am able to understand regarding the plight of the black man and woman in this country, well I know it was their ability to express their pain along with their pleasure thru the music that they were compelled to create to ease their troubled minds, bodies and souls. Long live Blues Power.
I
should be packing up the rest of my stuff; I made the big move last night and
am currently back at my old place (literally-- built in the 1870’s) gathering
all the little things that we were too tired to deal with last night. Also I
have a load of cleaning; underneath all the furniture subsisted whorls and swirls,
entire vortexes of cat hair. However, I find so many more fun things to do,
such as stuffing my face with last night’s pizza and going on YouTube. Mind
you, my initial purpose was to listen to some background music as I toiled over
my multitude of tasks, but my back badly needed a break. Tomorrow is another
day indeed.
I planned on having Buddy Guy distract me from my aches and pains. But
I struck gold and landed this version of Sweet Home Chicago, my favorite blues
tune. Now that Mr DaveyGie reads my blog I will add that every time I hear
this I think of James Kind cause he use to always play it for me whenever I
would catch his show (I do pander to my fan base except for those who refuse to
admit who the best guitar player ever was and IS). Within seconds of my viewing
pleasure all I could think is that when I die I hope this is what heaven is
like. Wow! Check out Johnny Winter, another favorite Texan geetar-player of mine.
I am moving next week so I awoke this morning at 6:30am to procure boxes. The last time I was conscious at that ungodly hour I was leaving work. I prefer that when I see the sun in the east I am heading for my bed rather than leaving it. So there I stood, at the customer service counter of the closest mega-mart at 8am talking to some bright-eyed and bushy-tailed clerk. She told me that I would have to come in earlier in order to obtain boxes; otherwise they are crushed. Earlier? So I hatched a plan. I will call the stock people tonight, long after the mainstream clerks have left, and make arrangements to pick up boxes before I go to bed, like at 3am. I even have a connection, Jason, a coworker’s son. Hey, my mama didn’t raise no fool.
After battling early morning traffic I find myself back home, copiously caffeinated, with nothing to do. I had planned on spending the morning packing, but now what? I usually don’t wake up till eleven so my most important email of the day hasn’t arrived yet. I send him one before going to bed in the wee hours and expect one in the morning before responding. Even though he awakes at the crack of dawn (yes, a day person) he knows he can wait till midmorning, but today is an unusual day for me so I am peeved that it is not there. Why did he have to be born in Oklahoma and me in Iowa? http://mapq.st/HLNloO Finally at 8:45 it arrives, allowing me now to put my mind to other matters. What men put us women through and visa versa.
I’ve pretty much retired from the cooking/baking scene. After twenty odd years of at least one big meal on the table each day and a never ending supply of homemade cookies, well I’ll just say it’s not an essential part of my day although I do spend considerable time leafing through culinary magazines; it’s in my blood. Nevertheless I am antsy so I decide to whip up a batch of pumpkin white chocolate muffins. I complete that task (yes, it was a task; I would rather have been packing). While waiting for them to bake I find myself on my laptop checking out my sister’s latest blog—“Damn Sixty.” Ha, I knew someday there would be more pros than cons to being the little sister. And then I make the mistake of clicking on the little “next blog” button. I have done this a few times in the past and usually end up totally bored by the antics of either christian moms and their unending pictorial plethora of their ever-proliferating progeny (don’t they know pedophiles cruise these sites?) or blogs of young self-absorbed women flaunting their latest make-up/hair/fashion techniques.
Before I continue I would like to add a “rider” to this commentary. When one puts something on the internet it becomes, in essence, public property. Therefore I have the right to quote, interpret, and/or make crap out of anything I peruse online; just as anyone has the right to quote, interpret and/or make crap out of anything I submit online. Fair is fair.
Is this cake for real or did someone spike my Coke
The first click brings me to “Posy Partycakes-- photos recipes and reviews by the cupcake cutie.” Wow. I gorge on Posy’s vivid photos of multihued gastronomic goo. Incredible. I click on my Favorites button and add it to my incessant list. My eyes feast particularly on the many photos devoted to Double Rainbow Cake. Regarding this cake that takes the cake she states, “Next time I'll pay attention to which way is up and hopefully won't end up with upside down rainbows! I don't think she noticed though” (she inserted pics of her young daughter-- no Posy, no). I don’t think anyone else noticed either; so screw it, Posy, and just relax. It's a party, have a few beers, or I suspect you prefer wine-- whatever. Damn it, I became so engrossed in the genius of Posy that I burned my first batch of muffins.
After that treat I click and honest to god, cross my heart and hope to die, stumble upon thewilliamsfamily5.blogspot.com entitled, Loving My Life. I shake my head and silently utter, “why me, lord?” as I read and process the title of the first post, “With My Hands Lifted High.” Ms. Williams (I presume) posts, “It has been a few weeks since I have gone to church and this morning I was wanting nothing more than to surrender myself during worship. And so”…I never find out anything more for I quickly click the next blog button. Praise the lord for high speed internet.
Next up is “Popular Enthusiast, Bringing tomorrow's ideas to the forefront of today's late afternoon.” I scroll down and read “I’m gone. Catch me at popularenthusiast.com. So I do and within a few seconds I am reading: “Roentgenizdat is the practice of imprinting an audio track on to discarded x-ray plates to then be played on a record player or gramophone, developed by underground music pirates in the Soviet Union during the 1950s until it was made illegal by the Kremlin in 1959. The name roentgenizdat comes from the combination of roentgen ray (another word for X-ray) and samizdat (“self-published”, or underground literature). As well as literature, much western music (including rock and jazz, etc.) was banned… X-ray records were of poor quality and seldom lasted for more than a few months, but they still contained the precious forbidden music, and as such were treasured by all who could get their hands on them”—Whoa! That’s pretty damn interesting. I dedicate this one to my Russian readers.
Bear with me, it does get better (well maybe; Posy is hard to beat). On to putumchas.blogspot.com who also must have had some hassles with blogspot because he launches off with: “Moving”-- No, its not the song. Today I am writing 'cos crazydrop's had some issues with blogger and is moving to wordpress (same name)." This sucks cause he had posted a youtube video of Led Zeppelin performing “Since I’ve Been Loving You” and when I click on it I receive the message: “This video is no longer available because the uploader has closed their YouTube account.” Bummer. Oh well, I go to his new blog address and sadly see that he has not included this particular oldie but goodie. However he does have many other artists so I click on “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus, thinking I’m going to sit back and see some good old kick ass Sid Vicious type punk. Wrong. Wheatus appears to be nothing but upper class white college kids spreading their wings. Maybe later I’ll spend some time perusing Zeppelin and Sid via YouTube. Ah, the good old days.
Now I’m getting a little excited for today’s blog search has been more interesting than usual (except for Ms. Williams, but that’ll happen). At my next click I come to, “Creation, Passion, Clarity, Serenity. . . I always wanted a blog...somewhere to release all the tension that people seem to accumulate on a daily basis. Writing is my release. Even if it's just for me, and no one else sees it, it's a need, not a want.Let's see where this goes...” I read her first post and as I come to, “Lately, I've been feeling so lost. I don't feel that I have any more direction or purpose, but the reasons behind my melancholy have become clear. I recently got a metaphoric slap in the face by the most unlikeliest of places. So I plan on making some changes, or at least traveling down the road of less negativity and more positivity. Let's see where this goes...” Scanning hurriedly down her blog I see such titles as “Emotionally Exhausted”, “Falling Off The Edge”, “Broken Heart”, “The Things That Hurt Me The Most.” Enough, I think, and by the way, acquirea sense of humor….pleeze. (or maybe a trip to the doc for antidepressants).
Which brings me to the blog, “My Little Notepad-- the musings of a nineteen year old with too much time and love of the written word,” She continues with “I have lived a sheltered life” and “everything is getting real now. I don’t like it.” All I can think about this is, welcome to planet earth and if you can’t handle your little pink cotton candy existence I would be happy to send you the means to end it all. God, I’m mean.
Am I having fun yet. . . yes indeed. Lizzyhizzy writes, “I write everything down. I make food to pay the bills (points in her favor). My kitty is the most loyal man I’ve ever met (many points in her favor). My favorite color will probably always be purple.” Give this girl an A+!I continue reading and all I can think is Janis Ian is alive and well. Enough said.
Last, but certainly not least on today’s journey thru blogland I stumble, rather click on Honorificebilitudinitatibus (well, as we use to say, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to you, young man) who tells us he is “putting this blog on indefinite hiatus until the semester is over.” I skim over his prose and am pretty impressed with the gist of his writing assignments he must work on. He leaves me with one little golden nugget, “I’ve been a big fan of the Tintin series for years, and I’ve been excited to see it come out for a long time." Tintin Rocks!
I spent my weekend off sick; never fails, the first beautiful weekend of Spring I get sick with a hell of a cold. I don’t know if this has something to do with the pollen carousing through the air in search of prime plants to fertilize and mistaking my moist nasal passages for stigma; flowers growing out of my nose, now that would be something to see. Whatever the reason I found myself weakened, therefore spending most my time prone on the couch.
Between catnaps with my cats I spent my time streaming Netflix and perusing youtube.The inane and insane antics of the cast of “The Office” took my mind off my misery for hours on end. In one of my more serious and able to focus modes, I watched a few movies, most notable, Goya’s Ghosts (can never get enough of Javier Bardem, damn you Penelope). At one point during my various youtube excursions I stumbled upon a gem: Jerry Lee Lewis along with Chuck Berry, Keith Richards, and my favorite guitar strummer of them all, Stevie Ray Vaughan; I thought for a moment I died and went to heaven. Watch Stevie in this, he's outplaying everyone of those cats (except for The Killer on the piano).Even ole Keith is looking at him for direction.
SRV never lived long enough to establish himself within the mainstream of guitar greats. If he had lived a few more years he most assuredly would have become a “big fish in a big pond”. At the time of his death (returning to his hotel in Chicago from a concert with guitar gods Eric Clapton and Buddy Guy in southeast Wisconsin, the helicopter he was riding in crashed against a hill within the Alpine Ski Resort) he stood on the verge of this. Being a humble man he would have most likely shirked this off and just played cause that’s what he was driven to do.
Stevie’s devoted followers consider him #1 within his sphere. I dare say so do many of the guitar greats alive today (Below a clip of Eric Clapton speaking of SRV and than playing Stevies Ain't Going To Give Up On Love at Stevie's memorial concert May 11, 1995). A day never passes for this blues- southern man lovin’ woman that does not include a bit of Stevie. His spirit resides forever within the scorching and riveting chords of his music.
I have inserted Stevie himself doing his take on the song he created just to make this point: truthfully, now Clapton fans, who is "God" when it comes to the guitar?
Suicide 
“Compassion for animals is intimately
connected with goodness of character and it may be confidently asserted that he
who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man.” Arthur Schopenhaur
I could go on and on ad infinitum regarding my dad, but
instead I will end this with one simple phrase:
I would sweat buckets for my dad any day. Happy Fathers’ Day, Dad. 
Memorial Day 2012 found me home, a holiday off. The day was cool, sunny, and pleasant; a perfect day to stand on the sidelines of Main Street with fellow citizens and honor our veterans as they rode in open vehicles sandwiched between local school bands boogying to John Philip Sousa. My heart use to swell with pride when your motorcade would pass by; "There's my dad everybody, there's my dad!" But this year, dad, I could not go and I think no matter what I say, well, you won't understand. So when I saw you at supper that night I mumbled something about "convalescencing" after a hard week at work. And I was tired, but never too tired to see my dad. Especially being offiially escorted down Main Street. But my heart grieves for what this country did to the native people who inhabited this land millinieums before our European ancestors used up all their timber and sought to find a land that would allow them to practice their beliefs as they chose. And tragically and in heinous fashion they did not grant these same freedoms to those who honored and respected this land first. And then even after these European "christians" wrote up a declaration of independence they smelled profit; however attainable only thru the backbreaking toil of African people they kidnapped and transported brutally across the ocean. They whipped and beat these human beings into submission; they raped the women and took children from their weeping mothers. I cannot come to terms with this, dad. Yes, it was in the past and you tell me all land everywhere was "taken" by someone else but that does not ease the shame in my soul for these despiable deeds. And dad, these deeds aren't buried just in the past but these very deeds still reverberate today within the hearts and lives of the descendents of all these tribes. They suffer, dad, not only by not having the opportunities us whites have, but by pain in their very core which haunts them night and day. This pain erupts into anger; then turns into depression and isolation which tragically spirals so many into drugs and alcohol for escape. And then so many of our race who grow up with unbounded opportunity look at them and shake our heads and call them "lazy" and "weak" and looking for "handouts."
Years ago you and mom spent three weeks driving west with five unruly kids. I remember the black hills. I did not know at the time that this is sacred ground to the Lakotah: Paha Sapa.http://www.republicoflakotah.com/2009/k%c8%9fe-sapa-and-paha-sapa-russell-means-response-to-david-swallow/ I remember staying overnight in a camp site deep in this land. We could see the profile of George Washington lit up thru the hills. Before leaving this land we went and saw the imposing work on the sculpture of Crazy Horse. I never forgot this, dad, and have an inkling now as a parent what a sacrafice and job this was to show your children so much of this country in this manner. I'm sure I never told you and mom back then how much this trip meant to me, probably moreso now than then, so I belatedly thank you and mom now.
Next up is “Popular Enthusiast, Bringing tomorrow's ideas to the forefront of today's late afternoon.” I scroll down and read “I’m gone. Catch me at popularenthusiast.com. So I do and within a few seconds I am reading: “Roentgenizdat is the practice of imprinting an audio track on to discarded x-ray plates to then be played on a record player or gramophone, developed by underground music pirates in the Soviet Union during the 1950s until it was made illegal by the Kremlin in 1959. The name roentgenizdat comes from the combination of roentgen ray (another word for X-ray) and samizdat (“self-published”, or underground literature). As well as literature, much western music (including rock and jazz, etc.) was banned… X-ray records were of poor quality and seldom lasted for more than a few months, but they still contained the precious forbidden music, and as such were treasured by all who could get their hands on them”—Whoa! That’s pretty damn interesting. I dedicate this one to my Russian readers.
