EVOLUTION

It starts out simple but evolution isn’t satisfied with simple. Last spring, I was killing time just before heading out for Alaska. I decided I wanted a bird house in one of my back yard trees. My mother had wrens every spring in a little bird house, in the apple tree outside her kitchen window. They sang and flitted around outside while she flitted around the kitchen and sometimes talked back. One of the nice things about a wren house is, the hole is too small for other birds so you won’t get any bigger, nuisance birds. A wren house sounded like a good thing for my tulip poplar. I went down into the basement, found some scraps of wood and glued up a box with a hole in it. After the glue set, I painted it and hung it in the tulip poplar. When I got back in August, I had wrens. Fast forward through fall and winter; I’d been in Florida and came home to snow and freeze. My little green wren house did not survive the windy cold. It lay in several pieces in the snow. So much for throwing things together.

I liked having wrens so I started thinking about another bird house. This time I researched plans on the internet but didn’t like what I found. I had an idea, a small box with roof boards like cabins and barns you make with Lincoln Logs. I couldn’t do it all with glue, had to drill pilot holes and nail small brads to make the roof boards overlap. The first one didn’t look too bad, at a distance, but it was full of flaws and bad design. So I gave it away and made another one. It was better. I gave it to my son and daughter in law in Ohio. They had wrens in it right away. Each wren house I made got better. By trial and error, process of elimination, changes begat more change and the “Right” wren house was evolving. One of those evolutionary constructs is home for a wren family right now, in that same tulip poplar. 

I’m happy to announce that the bird house I finished today is “Right.” I’m sure evolution will keep provoking changes but this one is good enough that I burned my storytelling logo onto the side. If someone wanted to buy one, I’d take their money and feel like we both got a good deal. My friends tell me I should make up a batch and take them to a crafts show. Wouldn’t that be something? I will give what I have on hand away in the next few weeks as I will be traveling. Wisdom says to beware of Greeks bearing gifts. But I’m not Greek and my little boxes are too small for soldiers to hide inside. 

EVINRUDE

Yesterday I was driving on U.S. 63, west from Jonesboro, Arkansas. I was trying to avoid heavy thunderstorms that I could see in the distance, coming down from Missouri. The northern counties and Missouri’s boot-heel were under a severe weather warning and I didn’t want any part of the high winds and hail that were in the forecast. So, with cruise set at 65, good road and clear sky ahead of me, Van Morrison was making the music while I was putting down the miles. 

I recognized the sound immediately but the shadow crossing over took me by surprise; I guess I wasn’t paying attention. The land is flat and soil is fertile. Farm fields stretch as far as you can see and it takes a squadron of crop dusters to keep the pests in check. The yellow monoplane was on top of me before I heard it and I couldn’t find it until it was a quarter mile away, in a steep, climbing turn. I’m still a kid when it comes to airplanes, especially when they are loud and close to the ground. Crop dusters are the Hotrods of the sky, over powered and highly maneuverable. In the next mile I saw two more planes working different fields. I thought, if I don’t take a photo I’ll regret it, so I stopped and took the photo. 

The Bernoulli Principle is magic and it never grows old, the way air rushing over a curved surface creates lift. The small fuselage and deep, wide wings allow the plane to dive, climb and turn like a swallow, even at very slow speeds. I watched as it made a pass close enough to the deck to be mowing, then at the end of the field with only a hundred feet to spare, pull up to clear power lines. A split second later the pilot had the plane back down on the other side of the highway, a few feet above the vegetation. When you are at the right angle and distance, the combination of prop wash and engine noise give up that growling rumble that you would otherwise have to go to an old, WW2 movie to hear. So I wait for him/her to make the turn at the other end of the field, come back and I listen again. 

Watching the air show from the side of the road, something clicked in my head and I thought of Evinrude. Back in the 70’s, there was an animated Disney movie, (The Rescuers). The plot was predictable; little orphan girl gets kidnapped. Two mice and a cast of other creatures band together to rescue her. One of those characters was Evinrude, a dragonfly. He operated a ferry service on the bayou; his boat was an oak leaf that rolled up on the sides like the hull of a boat. Its petiole/stem curved up and back. Evinrude perched on the end of that stem and drove it like an air boat in the swamps. He changed speed and direction with such abrupt maneuvers it almost threw his passenger out. Every time the yellow plane lurched up or down, left or right, I wanted to believe there was a big dragonfly behind it, pushing on the tail and a mouse inside, trying not to fall out. I love my movies. In ’03, Robert Duvall and Michael Caine teamed up in a movie (2nd Hand Lions) about a couple of over-the-hill adventurers and their several-generations-removed nephew. They had an old, fabric covered, Stearman bi wing that they flew under bridges, terrorizing motorists and locals. In the end they died in the crash when Duvall tried to fly through the hayloft of the barn. The little yellow, Arkansas duster was turned up on a wing tip, coming back my way. 

I knew a crop duster in Michigan, back in the 80’s. He landed, refueled and topped of his chemicals at a rail spur just down the road from my house. He said it was just a job but when he explained how he gaged altitude and distance, how he managed the G’s, so close to the ground, his face would go through little, shape shifting distortions and end up in a grin where his eyes were laughing and I could see all of his teeth. So there you are; I was minding my own business, driving up U.S. 63, trying to stay ahead of the rain. Then, like a blue crab in the shallows when a heron shadow moves across him, the shadow was all the crab could think of. All day now, I’ve been thinking about Bernoulli, dragonflies, movie stars, the rhythm of straining propellers and that guy’s grin. I am of another generation, where we learned to entertain ourselves. This life has too many great stories and simple segues for me to be bored. 

THE AIR'S SO THICK AND SWEET

The song lyrics go;

I come back to New Orleans ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been,

where the air’s so thick and sweet it feels like lovin’ arms around me.

Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening,

to music oozing out of every door.

It’s like my heaven made to order, inside the border of the Quarter,

ain’t like no place I’ve ever been before.

The song was written by Owen Davis, a friend of mine who lived next door when we were kids. His devout Baptist upbringing led him to music and he followed its call to Nashville where he discovered Jack Daniels, loose women and life in the fast lane. He made a living there writing, performing and working a day job, as so many talented musicians must do. Most minor league baseball players understand they will never make it to the big leagues but forsake the security of a hum-drum, work-a-day life in middle America just to live on the margin, in the moment, just to be there and to have a toe in the water, even if they never get full wet. Some give up and go home after a few years but others hang on for as long as someone will give them a uniform and a turn at bat. Musicians are the same and Nashville is full of awesome artists who could prosper elsewhere but they hang on to their dream instead. Owen died three years ago. I was there, with his ex-wife, song-writing friends and his brother. His wife Deborah pulled strings and called in favors to spring him away from Hospice for a day. We ate ice cream, made music and relived old adventures and better days. John Mark Stone sang Border Of The Quarter and we all came in on the bridge; Owen sang along. That night we got him back to Hospice House just in time for him to slip away.

I was in the Quarter yesterday. It was hot, really hot, but that’s what you get in July. I walked Decatur Street, sat on a bench in the shade at Latrobe Park; Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville gift shop is closed now with a “space for rent” sign in the window. His restaurant was still going strong but I ate down the street at Misparrow’s. I went to all my favorite places and when it was too hot, ducked inside a gift shop for the air conditioning; bought trinkets in the French Market and took some photographs. The French Quarter isn’t really all that French. Napoleon couldn’t manage his wars in Europe and his business in French Louisiana at the same time so he agreed to let Spain administer New Orleans and its adjacent territory. Fires frequently destroyed large sections of the city and buildings that replaced the original structures were of Spanish architecture. The iron work and balconies are more, “Que pasa hombre?” than, “Cherchez la femme.” 

What I like most about the Quarter is its transparency. Tourists are what they are, spending money on everything from junk to diamonds, booze and spicy food. The locals are there to help them with a lot of charm but no mercy. Their purpose in life is to separate strangers from their money, but they like to leave you smiling. At Jackson Square, mimes pose motionless in the sweltering heat, in unnatural stances, making money the hard way. With their skin and costumes painted metallic gold or silver, they can’t sweat under the paint but they roast in the sun and notice every passerby. Occasionally a child will beg a mom or dad for money to put in the bucket. It’s all about putting money in the bucket. They block Royal Street off so musicians can sit there under big umbrellas and play Dixieland or Jazz in the middle of the street. Crowds stand in the shade, whichever side of the street the shade is on. But there is no pretense. “We are giving you what you came here to see, so put some money in the bucket.” I start with a handful of $1’s in my pocket so I can do that. Counter culture is entrenched here; so many provoking, bad tattoos, piercings and hair bombs you actually appreciate how your parents raised you but it’s their Quarter too. They come from all over the world just to put their toes in the water. 

By mid afternoon I’ve walked all I’m going to walk. This time I found some new Mardi Gras beads to hang on the hook in my living room and a couple of T-shirts. The slick, smooth, fresh dressed people from the morning have either melted into street urchins or taken refuge in air conditioned bars or hotels. I asked a lady, tour guide about her mule and buggy tied up at the water trough; “Hot enough?” She said, “This ain’t nothin’, wait ‘til August.” Well, I’n not going to wait ‘til August, but I will come back; ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been, where the air’s so thick and sweet, it feels like lovin’ arms around me. Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening, to music oozing out of every door. 

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.