THE RAGGED PEOPLE

“I am just a poor boy though my story’s seldom told, I have squandered my resistance, for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises.” Sometimes story pairs itself perfectly with melody and you get a song that never wears thin. Sometimes it will take you and leave you where without the song you would not have found your way. ‘The Boxer’ is a moving lament, written by Paul Simon, recorded in 1969, or was it 1970? You get the message. Bad decisions can be like flat tires, only flat on one side, or the world is a difficult place and in spite of hard work and best intentions, you can deepen your own distress. 

Of necessity, song writers strip everything down to bare bones. They must frame a story in two or three short verses, a bridge and a chorus. Melody holds it together but the audience has to flesh it out from within their own experience. The listener supplies the untold part so it becomes more than just clever word play. Early this morning, waking up in the dark, Simon’s words came to me from some long-lost bittersweet.

In 1970 I was in graduate school. I don’t remember why but my niece came to visit for a long weekend. She was at that terrible, pre-teen stage, presumptions, intolerant and rude. My music (Simon & Garfunkel) was not what she wanted to hear. Her cryptic comment was, “Where have you been all your life?” In that same vein, with a little more humor and not so much venom, I would chide the person who doesn’t move to Paul Simon’s ‘The Boxer’, “Where have you been the past 50 years?”  In 2001, in the last few months before he passed, my dad spent most of his time trapped inside his own mind, not knowing who was holding his hand or even that someone was there. I would give his hand a gentle squeeze and he might return one of his own. That day he squeezed first, turned his head my way and in a clear but troubled voice; “I’m just a poor boy and someone's after me. Please, can you help me?” I said I would help but that window closed again and he was unavailable.
        Some parts of your story are expendable and you let them go. Some of it you hold onto and some of it winnows away, unawares. Then, ready or not, a lost recall can blow up like an umbrella in a gale. For 30 years my favorite part of the song had been the part, “Lying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know.” I’ve always had this identity thing with the "Ragged People". Then I got the message again, "I am just a poor boy." I think we're all Poor Boys but the song writer accommodates everyone, leaving space for whatever makes you feel better. "All lies and jest; still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest." 

PALETAS

This month has just about come undone. I’ve been on the road, away from cold weather for two months, almost; another 3 days it will be 2 months exactly. It’s kind of like when the flight attendant  reminds you to return your seat back and tray to the upright position. I would rather have another destination or just some open road with a question mark but it’s time to maintenance possessions, pay bills and start calculating taxes. So I’m reflecting a little bit. 

In the last few days I did some good work in the kitchen. A box full of mangos at the open air market left me with the task of preparing them. I had never cut open a mango so I learned. Sufficiently ripe and properly peeled, I set about to make wine poached mangos as a desert. It’s not difficult but I think it’s important to use the right wine. I used a cheap, white Moscato which was perfect. Half an hour in the boiling bubbly rendered it tasty enough but some vanilla ice cream took it over the top. Two days later I made mango chutney, to be eaten with baked salmon. I didn’t have all the ingredients so I improvised. Raisins, red bell pepper, brown sugar, coconut oil, vinegar, curry, ginger, crushed red pepper, a little salt & pepper and of course, two diced mangos. It called for pineapple juice that I didn’t have so it just cooked covered over a low fire. When everyone takes seconds you know it’s alright. 

We did more of the corn on the cob. The vendador at the market suggested we cook corn in the microwave with the husks left on. What a great way to do roasting ears! At about 2 minutes per ear, (6 min for 4) turning every few minutes. When finished you peal back the husk, one at a time. It gets hot and hard to handle but the husks are a handy handle. At the end, the silk comes off clean and easy in one firm motion. While we’re in a culinary mode, the first thing we craved when we pulled into Baton Rouge yesterday was a deep fried, oyster po-boy which really hit the spot. Then we drove across town to the Mexican mercado for desert. Paletas are Mexican popsicles but they use something to make them creamy. I have trouble choosing between coconut, pineapple and mango; I did the coconut and unpacked the car feeling full. It is mid morning and I’m not hungry yet. Afternoon will change that I’m sure but right now, nothing sounds good. 

BEFORE YOU FEEL FULL

Estero, Florida: something about travel, staying with friends that is crucial to the good life is that you not over-stay your welcome. I understand that from both sides and while on the road I think about it. It’s like stop eating before you feel full and take a nap before you feel tired. It’s time to move on before you get too comfortable. I’ll move on tomorrow.

Ten or twelve years ago I was telling story wherever I went, never making enough money to pay bills but it gave me an identity and a reason to be on the road. I did a several story gigs here in south Florida. Immokalee is a little, gritty town in central, south Florida where they grow tomatoes and corn and egg plant and oranges and people are almost all, all of them, Mexicans. I told story at the elementary school in Immokalee, I even had a story I told in Spanish. The kids loved it because they knew I was struggling with their language the same way they struggle with mine in the classroom. We went back to Immokalee yesterday, to the open air fruit and vegetable market. I gave $4 for a box of 7 large mangos and $3 for a dozen ears of corn still in the husk. 

Last night, watching Olympic skiers and snow boarders plummet down hill we had fresh corn on the cob. The vendador selling corn told us how to fix corn Mexican style with mayonnaise and lemon pepper. We tried it that way and it was good but I think it has to grow on you. Next time I’ll try the lemon pepper but with butter and see how that goes. Not that the mayo was bad but some things take time to acquire. We are going to poach mangos in white wine and serve with ice cream tonight. I had that in Chile in 2005 and it was so good I decided to do that for myself. How complicated can it be? The trip to Baja has left me with a much greater affinity to things Mexican than I expected. Asi que lo seguiré y veré a donde me lleva. (I’ll follow it and see where it takes me.)

DOOMED TO REPEAT

I went to the movies last night. Something to remember about movies; movie makers are story tellers and they want to leave you with something that transcends the plot. Fleshing in the space between facts makes the difference between an academy award winner and a flop. One would think by now I would see it coming, avoid that ego feeding insult.  I woke up today both disillusioned and if even only a tiny bit, at least a tiny bit hopeful. The movie was ‘Post’, with two megastars driving it. In 1971 the Viet Nam war was a bottomless disaster but the Government was committed to it.  The stream of  pro war propaganda coming out of Washington was relentless.  A federal employee leaked top secret documents to the press that rocked the nation with reverbs that went all the way to the Supreme Court and still makes us uneasy.  ‘Post’ was that story. 

The movie’s makers were true to the facts, they had no choice. But the under story was about people, their personalities, their motivations and the way they saw their place in both their own story and history.  The director clearly took sides. News paper people were cast as high minded, patriotic heroes while government leaders, bankers, corporate moguls and well paid lawyers couldn’t escape their own legacy of ugly, ruthless, self interest.  Near the end, Robert McNamara, former Secretary of Defense (Bruce Greenwood) confides in Kay Graham, owner of the Washington Post (Meryl Streep) that for the last 25 years America’s policy in South East Asia had been nothing more than to contain China. The war in Viet Nam was unwinnable, they knew it but kept sending troops (over 58,000 fatalities) rather than admit to their sins or suffer the consequence of losing a war. They lied to the nation and to congress. His admission convinced her to go ahead, against the advice of her lawyers, board members and consultants, and threats from the Justice Dept. with charges of treason; she chose to run with the story. The movie ends with a clip of then President Nixon on the phone, ranting about revenge against the Washington Post and flashlights rummaging through files at the Watergate break in. 

So this morning I’m still chewing on feelings I went to bed with. No longer a quote, a widely held axiom tells us, those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I have my own idea on that. The warning is nothing more than an affirmation of human nature. Leaders have always struggled with responsibility that accompanies power and using it to gain more power. I loved the movie because I knew exactly how it would end, the way I would have it if it had been fiction. But the similarity between power in Washington then and power there now is too great to blow off with a movie. Today’s history is still being written and the movie, when it comes out, could be a bust. I’ll find something else to chew on, soon. Mardi Gras came and went. I’m well fed, getting organized for a simple road trip.  That will require the full extent of all my powers and they come on a short leash, with road slick tires and a lot more responsibility than authority. If I can’t affect the outcome, I don’t want to lose sleep over it. 

FAT TUESDAY

Mardi Gras will come and go before most folk get the news. If you don’t live on the Gulf Coast it can go unnoticed all together. There have been parades and blowouts for over a week but things got serious yesterday. Krewe Endymion dodged the rain last night in New Orleans with their big parade. In the next two days the other big ones will revel to big crowds. Trash barrels along the route will overflow like lava from volcanoes and beads will hang from every tree branch on the route. Krewes Thoth, Bacchus, Zulu, Morpheus, Isis and Rex to name a few, they will all follow suit. In Baton Rouge the Spanish Town parade was dampened with light rain yesterday but plenty of energy from the floats as well as spectators. It’s the “R” if not “X” rated parade. With past themes like, Loose Screw, Slippery When Wet, Blows & Wiki Leaks, this year’s Game of Thongs lived up to expectations. 

Still, ask anybody, Mardi Gras is a Christian, religious holiday. On the last day before Ash Wednesday and Lent, the lead up to Easter, tradition would have it everyone clean out the pantry of all the good, tasty, fat food (red meat), to eat it all so there is nothing good left. That’s what they intend to sacrifice, to go without in preparation for the holy holiday, until Easter. But they went a step farther; they drank all the booze too, which led to revelry and otherwise unacceptable, uninhibited behavior. To keep their debauched identity a secret, revelers wore masks. The next day everybody prayed forgiveness and all was forgiven.  Not much has changed except you don’t have to be a Christian to revel, you don’t have to give up anything and forgotten is even better than forgiven. 

The best story I’ve found for Carnival tradition around the world goes back, way, way back. Kings and generals ruled without much oversight but when the gods got angry, somebody had to die and not just a common criminal or peasant. So the high mucky-mucks with their mucky muck queens, princess and concubines designated children of high birth, at birth, every year or so to be the literal, sacrificial designees. They needed a perfect, righteous person, the right age, trained and skilled for some important purpose, knowing that if and when the gods got pissed off, one or more of this special group would be sacrificed in a show stopping, high profile ceremony. They had a holiday marking their importance as royal blood, aware of their royal fate, sacrificed for the sake of kings and generals who didn’t really want to die just yet. To get broad support from their subjects they included a special day when commoners would be forgiven for acts and excess that were otherwise punished. Infidelity and inebriation would be tolerated by the king but spouses might not have been so forgiving. So people who colored outside the lines on that day wore masks. What a revelation, to discover that your masked partner in lust and drunkenness was in fact your cheating spouse. Great story. It was long with lots of loose ends, some of it traced either to or through the Gypsy line, from Eastern Europe to India before that, over 1,500 years ago. One researcher thought the practice was common in many cultures and modern Carnival tradition is a fusion of them all. 

I like to be in the French Quarter for Fat Tuesday. People dress to the 9’s in Mardi Gras colors with feathers, sequins, plumes, top hats, crowns, plunging neck lines and they behave like high mucky mucks. Not many bare chested ladies but the drunks are hard to miss. I like to take photographs. If I get one or two that go over the top, that’s a great day. If I put away an oyster po-boy and a few pralines, that’s great too. In Baton Rouge at Spanish Town parade, I collected so many strings of beads I couldn’t carry them all home. The miniature sex toys and sexy thong underwear that came with the beads are neat but I don’t have cause to keep them. What will aliens think when they dig into Louisiana land fills? 

WHO TAKES CARE OF YOU

Baton Rouge, Louisiana - I just got back from a short road trip up the coast to Florida’s panhandle. My niece lives there, two of them in fact, twins. She in particular echos her grandfather’s oft expressed sentiments, inherited by me as well that blood is thicker than water. You don’t get to choose your blood relatives but you are stuck with them either way. You share an irreversible, genetic footprint. Back in those really, really early days when everyone in your clan was blood related, it meant more than now but in my upbringing, blood is still thicker than water. 

My niece and my immediate family are close now. When my brothers and I were young, when sibling rivalries and our wives moved in their own best interests, those “Thicker than water” loyalties were stretched. For a while, we might as well not have been related. Looking back in time, up stream in DNA, I am her only surviving blood relative now. So we get together when we can, hug and break bread. We laugh at the funny and commiserate our undoings. In primitive, unconscious rituals, our common forbearers get some attention, some respect. It is the seed from which all religion took root.  I still honor that really, really old kind of religion. I know it for what it is and continue in its practice. 

We’ve come a long way in the last 40,000 years. Civilization, technology in particular has leapfrogged exponentially and we have learned to trust and value friends who lack our genetic markers. Lisa learned from her father, my brother, blood is thick. But she learned from her mother, from a different gene pool: Take care of yourself first, then take care of those who take care of you.” She vacillates between the two but it’s still a great leap for mankind. The blood thing is about what emotionally driven tradition wants to forever-ize and the, who takes care of you thing is insightful, tapping the intellect. I like the later. A human lifetime is short, incredibly short in the full scope of our kind. I’m far closer to the end of mine than the beginning so I accept what I can’t change and look for the joy, whatever my circumstance. I’ve been patiently waiting for the Golden Rule to kick in but so far it’s only cheap talk for hypocrites, meeting their temporary need. Even then, it only applies to blood relatives or someone who takes care of you. . . I’m starting to ramble. . . sign of advancing age or maybe just run out of things to say.

CAFÉ

I started drinking coffee in the army, in Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, in December, 1958, in the field, cold enough you could see your breath. Rolled and folded around our field packs was a shelter half, one half of a two man, canvas pup tent. In inclement weather we paired off with someone to make one complete tent from the two halves. That together with canvas sleeping bags and a thin, wool liner made the day's work more desirable than sleeping on the cold ground. 

Any time of day, on the firing range, on long marches, building or disassembling pontoon bridges, a coffee break was appreciated. We would march around a bend in the road or through some trees and a mess truck would materialize. Gasoline heaters hung on the side of metal trash cans like outboard motors. With 40 gallons of hot coffee in each can, we lined up with our canteen cups, grateful for anything hot. At first all I did was warm my hands and hold the cup close to my face. Before long you sip a little sip and then you sip some more. The closer to the bottom of the barrel, the more grounds in your cup. Some guys spit out the grounds and complained but most of us were happy to drink it all down.  

My mother drank coffee so hot you couldn’t hold the cup in your hand, she pinched the little handle between her thumb and finger for good reason. I liked the smell but never got the habit. Something to do with stunting my growth or maybe she just didn’t want to share. It wouldn’t come back around until I was off to see thee world. Now, a lifetime later, I’m not a coffee freak but I do like coffee; strong and black, the way I learned to like it. In recent years I add a shot of honey, not for the coffee sake but as a way to work honey into my diet and for the sweet surprise in the last swallow. At the coffee shop I don’t wait for a barista to fabricate a frothy concoction; capuchino is for wusses and expresso for masochists, I just take my cup to the Dark Roast tap and fill it up. In Mexico last month, for three weeks I enjoyed strong, black, local coffee. Café Baja Sur is the brand I bought at the local mercado. The word ‘Café’ can mean either a coffee shop, the coffee itself or the color brown; español has almost as many complications as English. Baja Sur comes by the half pound in a plastic bag, folded closed and sealed with a piece of tape. The aroma is so pungent that’s all you could smell in that end of the store and it was good. 

I’m speaking English again but yesterday I found an authentic, Mexican cocina/mercado on Sherwood Forest Blvd. in Baton Rouge. I was surprised at the check out when the cashier had trouble with my English. I shifted to my weak, broken español and we got along fine. They had paletas; creamy, fruity popsicles. I like both the coconut and the pineapple; tough decision. I didn’t think of it at the time but I’ll go back to for more paletas and check on their coffee selection. I could only squeeze 5 bags of Baja Sur into my suitcase so I’ll be going cold turkey long before I make it south of the border again. 

WHEN I GET IT RIGHT

This is my second wake-up in Estados Unidos después 3 semanas en Mexico. I’m slow to let go the Baja influence. Toast with avocado & banana for breakfast was all I wanted this morning: made fish tacos last night and will again sometime today. It was so natural without any of the Gringo television-network news; I didn’t realize how much I have to think about avoiding it on this side of the ‘Wall’. I love my country but not so much the people. I know both Mexico and Canada have their problems and that many of their residents think being an American would be so, so wonderful but I still tend to like them better, as a people, than I do the American stereotype. 

‘Dog-in-a-manger’ is a metaphor that dates back to ancient Greece. It alludes to a dog, lying on top of grain in a feed trough. The dog can’t eat it but it doesn’t want the horse to have it either. The metaphor depicts spiteful selfishness. It shouldn’t surprise me, people are both spiteful and selfish when their experience and their attitudes move them that way. The man with a loaf of bread and 6 potatoes is more alarmed by and more suspicious of the man with a loaf of bread and 5 potatoes than he is with the king. The most serious, perceived threat to one’s security is the person who is positioned to displace you in the pecking order, and that threat almost always comes from below; not from a falling star, but from a rising one. As a people, we have little or no pity for the man with only 5 potatoes. So when I’m in Canada or Mexico, or Argentina or even on Division Street in Grand Rapids, Michigan I’m looking for a common thread that makes us more alike than looking for a rank order discrepancy that creates hierarchy.  Sometimes I fall short, behave like a typical, arrogant American but when I see that in myself, I feel ashamed and change my act. I don’t like picking on America or Americans. I wish, I really do, that we as a people would set the bar for tolerance and inclusiveness a little higher. They say that travel is the best education and I think so. But if one never leaves the luxury of the resort and views working class natives as feral people, it’s nothing more than biased Bull Stuff.

Can you believe it’s Ground Hog Day already? When I realized the date I started getting a visual loop of sight-bites with Bill Murray defaulting straight to suicide to reboot the day and try something different than what wasn’t working at the moment. I loved it when he drove the car off a cliff, the look on his passenger’s faces. I’ll hate myself later but sometime soon, I’ll have to watch it again. Still, if you want a different distraction, February 2 is also “Wear Red Day”. It’s “Sled Dog Day” and “World Wetlands Day” as well as  “Candlemas” a Christian holiday celebrating Jesus youth; just what an old heretic needs. There is “California Kiwifruit Day”,  “Bubble Gum Day” and “Work Naked Day”, and it’s all going on today. At some point, age or otherwise, being naked in pubic changes from showing off to being made fun-of. When you get there, you don’t have to be reminded. 

I’m happy to be back where my smart phone and credit card work without glitches. I’m happy to see gasoline prices down and drivers actually stop at stop signs and lights, where cars have tail lights and use turn signals. I’m happy that I can make the correct change at the check out in a few seconds rather than make a reality show of it. Still, in a week or two I’ll be ready to jump off again, who knows where! My Español has bumped up a notch or two and I love it when I get it right.