IF I COULD FLY

Sitting in a coffee house is nothing new for me. Today I’m at CC’s, on Coursey Blvd., in Baton Rouge. It’s rained more here in the last two weeks than it rained all of September in Halifax; and they set a record then. It’s really flat here, almost no gradient so with nowhere to go, the streams and bayous just fill up and run over. But I got to spend some time on the beach, over on the Florida/Alabama coast. Cloudy or not, a warm day on the beach is better than any rainy day in a coffee shop. 

It doesn’t matter if it’s a thousand black birds, rising up in close formation over a grain field or a lone pelican, riding an updraft like a surfer on an endless wave; they all get my attention. I’ve loved birds and wings for as long as I can remember. They’re all special but the ones that left me open mouthed and wide eyed were the ones that soar. They find columns of up-rushing air and hover there like an acrobats, hand standing on top of a flag pole. Most times, they are either too high or far away to see much. But on the beach they are feeding and it brings them down, suspended over the shallows, maybe just a few yards away and low enough to see feathers spread like fingers, flutter in the wind. 

It was windy; gulls would find a good spot and hang suspended there for a while, then float off to one side, turn back into the wind and take off like a kite. The sweet spot wouldn’t stay vacant for long: like a game of musical chairs, they took turns there. I watched a gull arc up in a climbing loop and streak away. Looking back to see who would take its place, I was amazed to see a big, heavy bodied bird; too big to be a gull. No mystery, just a surprise: pelicans are unmistakable. This one did a little fan dance there that stretched from 10 to 20, to 30 seconds; enough time for me to hatch the idea, reach around for my camera and check its settings, take time to steady myself and frame the image. Shutter-click and pelican rotated its wings just enough to act like sails and rebound up and away as if on a long stretched rubber band. Saints have visions, Prophets have revelations and Moses had his burning bush. I have close encounters with birds; wouldn’t want it any other way. 

SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE . . .

Nine stories up, looking out over the balcony at Alabama’s sandy shore and the warm Gulf, lapping up on the beach. It’s New Year’s Eve with about six hours left to celebrate its passing. The plan is to wander Gulf Shores and Orange Beach, listen to music, sip a little vino and not eat too much. 

Funny how we single out today and tomorrow for the sole purpose of wrapping up one story and beginning again, fresh and new. I find myself celebrating the end of every day, even when I get bad news or break things. They are milestones that, at my age, take on more and more significance. The wake-up is equally sweet, with bed-head and stiff joints I smile at myself in the mirror. We get to play this game another day. But 2012 has been a remarkable year. Besides multiple road trips to Dallas, New Orleans/Baton Rouge, Chicago, Michigan and Ohio, I spent three months in Nova Scotia: swam a couple of hundred miles and lost twenty pounds. My doctors are all happy with my numbers, my friends still talk to me and every day is full of Story & Music. My children and grandchildren are well and I have a delightful new daughter (Pete & Betsy married on 12/21). So for tonight: Here’s a hand my trusty friend, give back a hand of thine, we’ll raise our spirits and the cup, for days of auld lang syne.

TICK TOCK

Waking up this morning, can’t be sure if it was a dream or low level consciousness. Maybe it started out one and stretched into the other but I was aware enough to wonder what time it was. The mantle clock began it’s hourly report as if it knew I was listening. Seven chimes and I knew, it was a good time to get up. 

I got the clock nine years ago, at an antique shop in Ludington, Michigan. It was  over a hundred years old, in great shape and everything worked. When I got it home I discovered that it only worked for a day or two, then stopped. After some searching I discovered “Bryant’s Clock Restoration”. John Bryant is a relatively young man in a traditionally, old man’s trade. He restores old, “Tick-Tock” clocks. He’s old enough to have experience and young enough you would think he’ll be around another twenty years. His shop is in Kansas City's north end. It used to be known as “Little Italy” but Columbus Circle is now home to Asian and Haitian families as well. The place screams of ethnicity but the faces and the architecture just don’t seem to go together. 

I took my new, antique, intermittently working clock to John. He told me he had a six month back log and then treated me to a short course on clock repair. With old clocks, cheap short cuts yield temporary results and then you have the same dilemma all over again. So I left my clock with him. Just over six months and $400 later, I got my clock back. All of the shafts were nested in new, oversized bushings; in newly drilled holes, with new springs and rebalanced gears. I’ve got it tweaked so it only needs a reset about every other week; and then only a few minutes. 

So, 7:00 and I’m up for the day. But I’m far, far away from any bed that I would normally sleep in. My clock and I are in Dayton, Ohio to celebrate the wedding of my son Pete and his delightful, darling Betsy. The clock has been with me long enough that I can bear to let it go. I want to give them something that suggests a tangible and enduring legacy. My mantle clock is the best I can do. 

We take time for granted, but it’s a human construct. Everything about us, all of our experiences are qualified within that framework. Was it last year, or has it only been ten minutes? How long can I hold my breath? When will you call? Time! Somehow, the ticking clock gives measure to experience and centers us in the moment. In fact, time is nothing more nor less than a way to order experience. We are stuck in the present, able to remember and to anticipate but only able to act in the moment.  

The clock is real, with a practical purpose and a story of its own. Whose home moved to its rhythm a hundred years ago? Who woke up to its chime? The hand that turned the key, wound the spring; we are without a clue but that doesn’t alter its story. At most, it’s just not for us to know. For the past nine years, this striking mantle clock has been on my dresser, reassuring me in the middle of the night and reminding me from the other end of the house. Life is moving on, with memories in its wake and a thin veneer of possibility for its future. We will celebrate a wedding this evening; in another seven hours or so. 

POW WOW

I’m not a “Tribal” kind of guy but when the whole clan is present at the same table, it’s time to Pow Wow. Sarah, in from Soldotna, Alaska; Pete & Betsy in from Dayton, Ohio and we celebrated Sarah’s birthday a couple of days early, just because we could. Jon & Jay, with their families, their mother and myself; we ate too much, played with grandchildren, told lies, tall tales, and tried to not miss a thing.

“Bedlam” is defined as, the condition of wild uproar and confusion. I remember all too well, in the 70’s & 80‘s the six of us at the same table and it was bedlam. But now they hang on each other’s words and laugh at when they made each other cry. Grandkids are well, and doing well. We must have done something right. About kids, Gibran said, “. . . you can house their bodies but not their souls. Their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow and we can’t go there; not even in our dreams.” But I get to peak in the window, the house of tomorrow, the tomorrow after that and they look like good places to be. If I was still faster than a speeding bullet and leaping tall buildings in a single bound, this growing old thing wouldn’t be bad at all. But I’ve slowed down some and my best days are watching my kids and grandkids reinvent the world.

Pete & Betsy are actually getting married next week, 12/21/12, in Dayton, OH. These two have been working on this for almost three years; trying to get their jobs in the same town and only one house between them. Looking good; I’ll be there. 

L to R - Front {Jon & Stacy's Little girls.} Cecilia, 6 and Mahala, 8 

Big girls - Stacy, Betsy, Sarah, {J.D.’s - Alexa, 12} & Granny Odis

Back row - Pete, {J.D.’s - Bailey, 16}  Jon, J.D., and me, the Poohbah.

R.H.S. CHRISTMAS PARTY

On the 1st Saturday of December, for the past eight years, old Eagles from Ruskin High School, Kansas City, classes from the 50’s & 60’s get together for a holiday party. I learned about it last year, was the only person there from my class. I saw a few people I knew and met some people who said they knew me. 

The party is paid for by anonymous alumnus: great ribs, sausage, potato salad, baked beans, finger food and beer. So we’re all going around, squinting at hard to read name tags, making jokes about growing old, trying to remember fifty year old history. The paramedics only had to come take care of one person.

This year there were four of us from '57 and it was really good to see them, find out how they are doing. Carl {on left} and I go back to the 3rd or 4th grade. Mary and Janet {next to me} back to the 9th grade. There was plenty of hoot and hollering when the classes checked in and some big “Party” talk. But by 9:00, everybody was partied out and I’m home in time to write and watch the news. We’re hoping we can get enough class mates next year to fill up a table. I can see it in my mind: dancing on the table tops and food fights until we fall asleep, or 9:00, whichever comes first. If Santa's watching, all he'll see are good little boys and girls. 

2012 THANKSGIVING

Oh my . . . my kitchen is a mess; but the food was worth it. As long as I take food somewhere else to eat, I can get away with it. When folks come to my house to eat, I have to clean up behind myself and it’s not easy. I tend to be, either - or: create or clean up, but not both at the same time. So my sink is full of dirty stuff and counter tops are cluttered with other stuff that made it only that far. I don’t mind cleaning up but it can take a while before the urge moves me.  

I’m not a traditionalist. Usually, when friends or family want to conform to tradition, because it’s tradition, I jump out of line and be something different. My mother was a great cook but holiday meals were special because of who you sat by and the great stories that were created in the process. So abandoning the Turkey tradition is easy for me. I’ve spent the last two decades rubbing shoulder and breaking bread with Cajun cooks, from New Orleans to the back waters of the Atchafalaya Basin. In the process, I paid attention and now have a few “Killer” recipes committed to memory. I wouldn’t call it tradition, more like “Just do the very best you know how.” 

There is something about cranberries, pecans, honey and orange zest that stands alone, has nothing to do with tradition; so I made cranberry sauce. Caramelize thin sliced onions and brussel sprouts in butter for a green vegetable and mixed up a little apple salad; it was coming together. I know; it’s Thanksgiving and you need a main dish that everything else can rally around. Gumbo is always a good choice but today I chose Shrimp & Grits. Recently, since I’ve been back in the mid-west, when I mention Shrimp & Grits someone is bound to tell me about South Carolina Shrimp & Grits. Down there, they serve creamy grits; which is O.K., I suppose. I prefer baked, cheese grits and there is no comparison. Throw in ‘dem shrimps with a little Cajun Trinity {onion, celery & bell pepper}, cook ‘em down, juicy with as much cayenne pepper, paprika and garlic as you can stand. 

Sipped on a glass of Pinot Noir and fed my face. Now I”m full and there’s pie in the refrigerator that will have to wait. This life sure is good and I’m Thankful as I can be, every day. I don’t eat like this every day but I am thankful every day: hope Y’all are havin’ a wonderful holiday.

BELLA NAPOLI

Bella Napoli is a bonafide, Italian Coffee Shop, Deli, Restaurant in the Brookside neighborhood of Kansas City, MO. Depending on the time of day, table trappings evolve from coffee cups and muffins to panini’s in styrofoam boxes and then linen napkins and a pedigree wine list. I hang out there with a morning coffee klatch that has been meeting every day, except Sunday, for a very long time. I was allowed to sit and join in a couple of years ago. They are used to me disappearing for weeks or months at a time so when I return, it’s a happy, fun time. 

Attendance generally runs 6 to 8 through the morning but then some days it gets crowded, like today, there were thirteen of us. I think the record is seventeen. We have an understanding with management to put chairs back and go away by 11:00. Good friends are treasures and these characters are the real deal. This round table is missed when I’m on the road; not enough to keep me in the zip code but I do miss the good conversation, the wide range of interests and expertise. It’s difficult to be in house and not learn something new. 

Swimming is going well. I get my laps in early now and write later but the day unwinds about the same. I still have to discipline myself to do guitar work in the evening but it will come. It’s harder to do work when you have friends who want to play. This life is getting tougher all the time.