WHISTLE STOP

The water tower is dry and one business, the bank is still in business on the square. Hickory, Mississippi was never a "Destination" but it must have been busy, at least, once upon a time. If you pay attention, there are tell-tale signs that people come and go, still care. The lawn in the middle of the square is groomed and the parking lot at the Baptist church is freshly sealed. Unoccupied store fronts around the square have dusty, dirty windows but sun faded, pastel paint on their brick fronts leave not a clue to their stories. Clean, well kept homes nest under great old trees while just down the street, abandoned houses with darkened windows sag under the weight of kudzu vines and long fallen tree limbs. There is a small furniture show room just off the square and trains come through several times a day but they don’t stop. There was a time when Hickory was a Whistle Stop town but it’s all freight now and they pass through without slowing down. Once a few years ago, on the siding by the square, they parked two engines, engines idling there for several days. 

I’m in Hickory for the long weekend. The 4th of July here yesterday; there were a few fire crackers but it was celebrated more profoundly by woodpeckers drumming in the afternoon, horn blaring trains rumbling through town and the clanging-flashing crossing guard at the Main St. crossing. My friend has a house here. She bought it as a retreat, a place to get away, to go when hurricanes threatened her home in New Orleans. Now she’s put it on the market. We are scraping and painting, trying to improve the curb appeal. The wasps that live in the eaves don’t like us but the mosquitoes do. The house is over 100 years old, built by the town doctor. The sunroom was his reception area and he saw patients in what is now the living room; in through the side door and out the front. If you need a doctor now, her office is out on the old highway to Meridian. If you really need civilization, it’s a good 5 minutes out to the Interstate and another 20 minutes to Meridian with an air port, national guard armory, box stores, shopping malls and connections to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and Birmingham, Alabama. 

Go the other way and it’s only 10 minutes to Newton, Mississippi where they have stop lights and a Wal*Mart. But then, who needs Wal*Mart? Up on the highway, across from the Dr.’s office is a new building with a yellow and black sign - DOLLAR GENERAL. It’s what Wal*Mart used to be; a place to get whatever you need, at a low price. It’s where you find the locals. I’ve been there 4 times in 3 days and there has always been a line at the checkout. You can get yogurt, bug spray, paint, kids underwear, soft drinks, laundry detergent and things you didn’t know you needed. 

Hickory is not unique. Wherever Interstates bypass small towns, the culture changes. Little villages wither away and their stories with them. But I know Hickory and the stories that I’ve missed here are irreplaceable. I’ll just have to make up a few, maybe start up at Dollar General. 

PICNIC

Sharing food is the second most intimate act that people can fulfill, at least that’s my understanding. That’s what we did the other day, a hand full of us from a high school class, long, long graduated, careered and for most of us, retired. On a windy day, under sunny skys, we took cover in a shelter house, rubbed elbows, held eye contact and rejoined a universal journey. 

On my computer accounts I am required to update security questions. Last year, one of the questions was, “Who is your oldest, childhood friend?” I typed in, “Carl.” From the 3rd or 4th grade, far flung and many years, I have always considered Carl my friend. He was there with his wife. While the girls chatted, we stood arms folded like wizened sages and discussed a wide range of issues and current events. Our beliefs and ideals play out in opposite directions but we were not there to champion a cause or find fault. We met at the core of our experience, family and friends. We share the same concerns about being prepared for old age. My dad told me when he was 87, “Long life is better than dying young but you lose your friends and then need help zipping up your pants.” That used to be out on the horizon but now it’s just a stone’s throw. 

In Alaska, salmon start out as smolt, juvenile fish no bigger than your thumb. They swim down stream and out to sea where they earn a living. Many are lost to predators and fishermen. After 4 or 5 years, survivors find their way back to the streams they were hatched in and return to complete the life cycle. For days, weeks, hundreds of thousands of fish congregate in Cook Inlet, just outside the mouth of the Kenai River. They are waiting for some signal that it’s time to go home. We’re not much different than the fish. Some get the call sooner, others go home later. So we rub elbows, share food and wonder about the ones who didn’t show up. Our voices and mannerisms hadn't changed enough to notice and that long-seasoned familiarity was comforting. Shared memory and good will are a magical pairing. We hug and shake hands, drive off in different directions with all good intentions of meeting up again, someday soon.

SOLSTICE 2014

People, collectively, 7 billion of us and multiplying; we have a pretty high opinion of ourselves. Most of us believe that we have been chosen by a higher power, to rule the earth. Some simply believe that we are passengers on a bus that takes a year to complete its loop around the neighborhood. In their opinion we are not only, not rulers, but like the pilgrim from the old, Eagles classic, Hotel California,      “. . . you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” They have a much broader view of creation, where possibility trumps tradition. I am one of those passenger types. But I certainly take liberties. I hang out the windows trying to snag leaves off trees, the wind in my face, mouth open, not knowing if I’ll experience a thrill or just swallow bugs. I’d climb on top if I could.

Summer Solstice is today. Nine years ago today I celebrated Winter Solstice in Ushuaia, Argentina; it depends on which end of the earth you find yourself. Today, in the north, the sun rises earlier and sets later than any other day; the longest day of the year. Primitive, ancient people understood this and incorporated it into their religion. There was something very special about the way things cycle, from the arc of the sun to phases of the moon, time to plant and time to harvest, life itself. In human terms, it took a very long time for us to evolve to our present form and the same elements that drew our ancestors to Pagan beliefs still pull against our science and western religion. I feel the pull today. 

An old biological theory is that of Recapitulation, paraphrased; Ontogeny Recapitulates Phylogeny. That meant that during gestation, we went from little mollusks to arthropods, then through reptiles and so on until we acquired human form and function. The theory had been discredited but still, it opens another window. Mystics, as well as other credible minds believe there is a universal knowledge that we can all access. Just how that works is beyond me but still, speculation leads me to the possibility it may be inherent in nucleotide and codon, DNA.  It suggests that we have a real, tangible link to the star dust from whence we came. It might cast light on why the turning of the tides, the way migratory birds navigate, the last glimmer of the setting sun and solstice, why they move me like they do. I’ll find a high point this evening and hope for a clear sky, watch the sun sink out of sight and marvel at how privileged and how insignificant I can be, all in the same breath. 

VROOM-VROOM

My son took me to the races last night. I used to take him, his brothers and sister when they were little. We would sit up high, at the end of the 4th turn where you can see the whole field and you’re right there, at the dash to the finish line. In the 70’s, down by the Indiana border, corn was everybody’s business but come Saturday night, everybody went to the races. I had a friend who built and drove his own race car, an old coupe with open wheels that ran in the “Modified” class. You didn’t have to pay extra to go into the pits before the race so we did that. Paul would let my kids sit in his car and turn the steering wheel, make the vroom-vroom sound, making believe it was them sliding high into the corners and coming out like a sling shot. By night’s end, the air was full of dust and the smell of fuel alcohol, my kids were caked with grit and mustard stains where mustard aught not go. Nobody was in a hurry to get home. The pits would open up again and we could go down to see racers and mechanics checking for broken parts and making little fixes. My boys would pull little chunks of mud off a roll bar or a tire and slip them in their pockets: treasures. 

The ride home was about 45 minutes and they would be asleep long before we pulled in the drive. Too late for a bath, we peeled the boy’s clothes off and hosed them down in the driveway, a bath could wait until morning. Sarah was her mother’s baby and she got to clean up inside before bed. It was my job to empty pockets and shake dirt off clothes before they went in the hamper. They were all asleep before their heads hit the pillow but not before their favorite, match box race cars were in hand or stowed within reach. Kids grow up fast, or maybe they just get big. 

Last night our roles were reversed. I went and did what I was told. It’s more business and less an event now. You can’t take any food or drink inside the track. Whatever you eat or drink, you have to buy there and a pit pass is expensive. So we sat in the cheap seats, but they were up high up, at the end of the 4th turn. I kept the mustard off my face but couldn’t keep the grit out of my hair. Twenty six monsters, all belching over 700 horse power make noise we couldn't imagine in the 70’s. Last time I went to the races, my ears hurt for days after. I said, “When I go again, I’ll have ear protection.” I now have a high tech set of shooter's, ear protectors; look like gorilla ear muffs, got ‘em just for going to the races. You can still hear the vroom-vroom but the pain of a bazillion decibles going straight into your brain is just a memory. You have to read lips during the race but then, not much talking. It’s all body language, wide eyes and big grins. Maybe I was right when I was just trying to sound clever, maybe we just get bigger. 

OFF THE ROAD

A closet full of clothes, unpaid bills and a yard that needs mowed, that’s what you get when you come back home. The closet part isn’t so bad, you reacquaint yourself with stuff you forgot you had. Living out of a suitcase and back pack does simplify choices. Finding the balance between clean and dirty is never complicated. But one has to rediscover an appetite for common, day to day routines. I have a stack of bills that I’ll get around to, maybe tomorrow; and the house gets dirty whether I’m home or not. Thunder and lightning remind me that tornado season runs concurrently with graduation parties so you do both, hoping for the best. Once the jet stream and cool air stay up north, we will settle into warm nights and grilling on the patio. 

This last trip to South Korea and New Zealand has dumped some of the wind out of my sails. That’s lots of hours at 35,000 ft. and many meals I’d just as soon have fixed for myself. I’ll never complain about being on the road; something about being in motion that cures what ails me. But it’s also nice to know the car is just a few steps away and my telephone works again. When I got back from Argentina & Chile in 2005, my daughter Sarah picked me up at the airport. The photo she took says a lot. Last Sunday the scene was much the same except it was my son Jon doing the duty. Getting off the last airplane, knowing you don’t have to scurry to make the next connection or find a temporary bed is a well earned relief and I can pass a couple of months in domestic tranquility before I loop back into road culture. 

My granddaughter graduates from high school tonight. I taught school for 34 years and graduation was both a duty and a celebration. ‘School’s out, school’s out; teacher let the monkeys out.” Still, by the end of summer it has a way losing its luster, little more than history and life doesn’t look back. Something new will fill the void. Best friends will go their own ways, little siblings will inherit better rooms but endure closer scrutiny from parents. College or a full time job, September will offer new challenges to both graduates and their families. I’m out of that loop too. But come September I bet I’ll be on the road again, anticipating the way home and my own bed again. 

APPLES & PEANUT BUTTER

Music is as much a part of my experience as food. If I’m out of earshot, the DJ inside my head kicks in, synthesizing rhythms and melodies that I know by heart. I never got to be in a school band or study music theory. Sheet music is like Morse Code to me, easy concept but just never took the time. It’s always been the stories; 2 to 4 minute, syncopated stories that begin and end, dance with a melody like Gene Kelly, “Singing In The Rain.” Without a story to know where you’re going and where you’ve been, it’s little more than satisfying noise. So when I’m on the road, I do the best I can. My computer is full of great music and I usually fall asleep, sinking into my I-Tunes library. Head phones and ear buds let you do that, even in a crowded air terminal. 

I’ve dabbled with guitars enough that I know which chords work together and how to transition from one key to another. My singing leaves a lot to be desired but then I sing for my own satisfaction. If I know the words and can shape chords to fit the melody, I can entertain myself for hours. If nothing else, I can retire from the real world and let that DJ in my mind do his thing. I’ve been into love songs lately, making a list of my favorites. The list is only five songs deep but that may be enough. Then I hear a great blues piece and can’t get it out of my head. In 2012, the Kennedy Center Awards honored, among others, Buddy Guy. On that stage, Jimmy Vaughn & Gary Clark Jr. performed together, “Things I Used To Do.” With YouTube available; no reason for anybody not to have seen this, several times. Then, if it’s not Marcia Ball or Kermit Ruffins, you never lose with Barbara Streisand or Neil Young. 

The road is winding down. Waiting at airline gates and double checking flight status are more the business than the places I didn’t get to see. I’m leaning more on my music and less on road maps. For all the great food I encounter, my universal pantry is stocked in my suit case, enough to get me home; apples and peanut butter. Don’t leave home without them. I’m listening to Don McLean in my head; maybe the best love sone ever: “And I love you so, people ask me how; how I’ve lived till now, I tell them I don’t know.”

HOSTEL

Everybody knows hotels and motels but hostels are cut from different cloth. People on the road need a place to shut down and unwind. Inn keepers around the world host them, meet that need, for a price. On the other hand, hostels are similar but it’s a communal process where strangers share a dormitory space, sleep in bunks, end around the room. Genderless bathrooms with doored shower stalls and toilets accommodate travelers who prefer the collective rather than privacy. Cooking in common kitchens and gathering around a big screen T.V., watching programs subtitled in English or German, for those who don’t speak Japanese or Italian; that’s what you get at a hostel. Of course, the price makes travel affordable for students and wanderers who long to see the world before it passes them by. American comedian, Jonathan Winters once said, “I couldn’t wait for success so I went on without it.” He would have stayed in hostels. I can hostel in Auckland, New Zealand or Mendoza, Argentina for a week on the money it would take for one night in a hotel or motel there. 

I remember a rainy day in Valdivia, Chile; back in 2005. When my bus arrived in the middle of the day, I took the cheapest dorm room, threw my stuff on one of five beds, put on my rain coat and took off to see the town. A few miles down stream, the river emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Bull seals were stationed stream side along the pilings at the fish market. They knew exactly where fish mongers would throw the next fish head and were there to snap it up. When I got back to the hostel, someone was rolled up in a blanket on another bed. I saw eyes peering out at me and I asked in my best English, “And, who might you be.?” I didn’t expect to be understood. Not much English spoken down there. Her name was Esra Moogle, a Turkish Jew in her 40’s, just sold her business in Istanbul and traveling. Fluent in 9 languages, she informed me (after a brief introduction and conversation) that we would travel together for a few days. The next night we were at a hostel in Puerto Varas, Chile, hanging out with two young women, one European the other a mestiza, both lawyers from Buenos Aries. There was a young, particle physicist from San Paulo who loved the blues and his beautiful companion. They were married but not to each other. That’s how it has to work in South America where the church forbids divorce. If you can afford to get away, you steal away cross the border and  take your forbidden fruit with you. I cooked, Esra translated, we all sang and told stories. The next day the lawyers went south with us, into Argentina and the lovers headed north. Something about hostels that overcomes modesty and makes everyone equal. 

In Auckland, NZ, Nomad’s Hostel is just off Queen Street, a couple of blocks from the harbor. It’s an old, 5-story building nested down between tall, glass and steel towers in the country’s largest city. There is a bar on the top floor with an open ceiling, like sports stadiums in the States except this open dome didn’t have a closable roof. When it rained, the dance floor got rained on and you had to walk around the room to get to the bar. Up and outside, the lights from office buildings modeled starlight with a pseudo Grand Canyon feel. Most of the backpackers were young, looking for whatever they look for. I talked with an old timer, probably not as old as me but certainly more weathered who thought everything was going to hell. He said, “We used to go alone and met everybody, learn about everything. Now they come and go in two’s and three’s, with their smart phones. They watch the t.v. and text their girl or boy friends back in Germany, or Skype their mothers back in Israel. They have more money and it’s all about them. Nobody talks, it’s like zombie land compared to the 80’s and 90’s.” I couldn’t speak to the 90’s but just ten years ago, technology in Chile and Argentina was a blurry, old, 14” computer at an internet cafe for $1.50 and check your email.  

I didn’t stick around. He was right and if you didn’t bring along your own companion, you might as well be on an iceberg somewhere. I went to a guitar jam at the Thirsty Dog, on Karangahape Street. When I arrived, I knew one person. I met Tony at the Unitarian Church the day before. He is a 70-something, Irish transplant. He doesn’t play guitar but he sings. The guitars find his key and slip in under him. He promised someone would loan me a guitar and I could get my turns at the mic. Closing time we had made a lot of music and I was invited back. I did St. James Infirmary Blues and Over The Rainbow. Then when my turn came around again, I asked for help, in the key of E. I laid down a 12-bar blues rhythm and they all took turns noodling blues licks and riffs. It was a great evening and Tony drove me back down town, to Nomad’s. In the lounge, there were 20 or so young people laying all over the furniture and beanbag pillows on the floor, watching Arnold Schwarzenegger on the t.v., venting destruction with a rocket launcher in one hand and a flame thrower in the other. Except, some of them had dozed off and others were texting their boy or girls friends across town or across an ocean. I showered and went to bed. The music from the club under our window, down on the street was loud but that’s what you get. If you don’t like it, you can throw down $140 and take a cab over to the Best Western President Hotel. They will guarantee your privacy.