The Sins Of The Fathers Shall Be Visited Upon The Sons

"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 few dilapidated 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! 

Squirrel Saga

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

Can You Hear the Beat of the Drums?

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?"

My Champion, My Dad

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.

The Facts of Life

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

One of a Kinds

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

Fifty Shades of Shit

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!