LIVE MUSIC

My big brother sang and played guitar. When I was 13 or 14, he would take me along on summer nights to the Ace of The Highway, a truck stop up on old US 71 Highway, at the end of Prospect Ave. Pretty soon, some of his friends would show up; we would feed nickels into the juke box and drink coffee until our money ran out. It was a short drive, down by the lagoon in Swope Park where we sat on the curb, under a street light. Guitars and mandolins seemed to magically appear. There was smoking and joking, sometimes a beer to pass around but there was always music. We sang the songs we had been listening to at the Ace. Hank Williams, Little Jimmy Dickens, Hank Snow, Ernest Tubb: we sang them all. “Pour me another cup of coffee; for it is the best in the land; and I’ll put a nickel in the juke box; and play the truck driving man.” A few years later, he was playing rhythm guitar in a country band, playing sleazy little beer bars down in Cass County. I got to go with him a few times; had to stay on the band stand where they could make sure I wasn’t drinking any beer. Old ladies, must have been in their 30’s came up and teased me: “Hey sugar boy, where’s your guitar?” I wouldn’t pick up a guitar for another 45 years but I was hooked on the music. I’m a story teller and I use my guitar. I don’t play it, more like, play with it. I can’t sing, just tell my songs: gotta be a story in there somewhere. And, I love real, live music.   

After I got out of the army there were rock & roll shows but the trend was going to big names putting on a full length show: the first one I saw was Peter Paul & Mary at the Municipal Auditorium. I still sit and listen to street performers; drop a dollar in their jar, ask ‘em about chord progressions and who they listen to. Records and CD’s are great but there's nothing like a live performance. The music itself may be more perfect, coming out of studio but the chemistry of the moment is not there. Anything can happen at a concert. My son and I went to see Bonnie Raitt at Sandstone. Everything was going great;the seats in front of us were unoccupied and we thought we had it made. In the last minute, as the band was coming on stage, two women with huge hats came down the isle and we knew from a distance, exactly where they were going to sit. The show was great but it was shift left and shift right all night long, trying to get an unobstructed look at the stage. It was a great concert, nothing but good memories.

Then, a few years later, when he was at University of Michigan, we stood for an agonizing hour, waiting for Ike Turner {who had lost his mojo} to finish. He was opening for Shemekia Copeland, who we really wanted to see. He kept begging the audience to call for more and he just wouldn’t quit. When he did, Shemekia was late getting started. Three songs into her set, the sky opened up and it poured. We would have stood there in the rain but the wind blew rain under the canopy. When smoke and sparks started arcing from the lights and amplifiers, they stopped the show. Even with great performers, things go wrong. 

A few years later, my other son and his wife took me back to Sandstone on my birthday. James Taylor played for almost three hours, plus an encore. After the band left, the crowd stood there and kept cheering to a dark, empty stage. Five minutes later, James came back out without the band, played and sang solo for a while. I had hoped to hear my favorite J.T. song but it never came up on the play list. Then, sitting with with one leg hanging over the edge of the stage, he did a familiar finger roll and began: “There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range; his horse and his cattle are his only companions. He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons, waiting for summer, his pastures to change.” My favorite song: Sweet Baby James. I waited all night for it; thought it was over and then there it was. After all, sometimes it doesn’t get any better. 

Last night I went to Meijer Gardens, in Grand Rapids, MI to hear Lyle Lovett & The Large Band. The grassy, amphitheater only seats 2,000 and the sound is perfect. My companion was Nancy, who I met in 1973, she shared a play pen with my daughter Sarah (sisters by other mothers) when our families got together. We sampled grapes and smoked salmon, cheese and crackers. I’ve been a LL fan for decades and the old music was blended in with the new. A warm summer afternoon had mellowed out and this evening couldn’t have gone better. He has way-too-many hits for them to play all my favorites. He talked to and with the audience just enough, saved my favorite song until near the end. It made me remember the James Taylor concert so long ago. LL didn’t disappoint: “If I had a boat, I’d go out on the ocean. And if I had a pony, I’d ride him on my boat. And we could all together, go out on the ocean: Me upon my pony, on my boat.” All I had was my smartphone and the shot is fuzzy. If you haven’t noticed; cherries still have pits and s*#t still happens but this life is pretty good.

THREE LITTLE FISHIES

“Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool, swam three little fishies and a mama fishie too. Swim said the Mama Fishie, swim if you can . . . and they swam, and they swam, all over the dam.” Back in 1939, a few months before I was born, the most popular song on the radio was “Three Little Fishies.” My mom got so tired of hearing it she shut the radio off every time it played. My uncle was 13 or 14 and he sang it just so she would yell at him. When I was little, he taught me the song and told me to go sing it for my mother. She sang along with me. It didn’t bother her any more but she told me the story. It was hot summer and she was uncomfortable. I was kicking and moving around, just about ready to be born. It didn’t take much to ruffle her feathers. 

After the verse, the chorus goes; “Boop boop, ditem datem whatum choo, Boop boop, ditem datem whatum choo: and they swam, and they swam, right over the dam.” In the second verse they leave their mother and swim out to sea. In the third, they are scared by a whale and swim back over the dam. It’s a fun song. 

This summer I went fishing for halibut, out in Cook Inlet, Homer, Alaska. The water was deep and the fish were big. When I had a bite and started reeling my fish in, I started singing “3 Little Fishies”. It takes a long time to get a 30 pound fish up 200 feet from the bottom and I had time to sing all three verses and the chorus. The little fishies I caught never made it back to their mother; they are frozen in my freezer and we’ll have a fish fry one of these days. 

I know some other fishies; three little ones and their Mama Fishie too. They live in St.Clair, MO. and belong to a swim team in Washington, MO. They really know how to move it up and down the pool. Their Mama Fishie is a friend of mine. I’m in Ohio now but I had breakfast with them this morning (French Toast.) Next time I’m in St. Clair I’ll get the guitar out and we will sing the whole song.  

JUST PLAY THE GAME

A month ago I was in Seward, Alaska. It occurred to me that I was only a month away from a birthday but when asked, the familiar, comfortable, waning 73 still felt right. This morning, reading a silly birthday card, I had to reboot my odometer. I’m 74 now but birthday was just another day. Weighing days has always been less threatening than years. So I’m only a few days older than I was the other day. Still I take advantage of any excuse to celebrate almost anything so birthdays are great. Wouldn’t it be great to live well, deep into the 21st Century and set a record for birthday candles on a cake? But the whole idea there is “...live well.” Longevity by itself is just a yardstick, an empty vessel that can be filled with anything.

Back in the early 80’s, teaching school and coaching, I had a friend who helped me with my wrestling team. We looked a lot alike and many people thought we were brothers. He was more animated, more outgoing and his energy was certainly a boost to our program. Ray used an expression when referring to people who experienced failure or misfortune: “Better him than me...” You could count on hearing it several times a day. If I suffered a screw up or setback he would laugh when he said it: “Better you than me...” One night, after a wrestling match, he suffered a heart attack and died. He was 39. 

I might acknowledge it with a nod but never used that phrase, it was his. After his passing, when the situation was right, it would occur to me that had Ray been there, he would have defaulted to the “Better him . . .” remark. I could almost hear him speak the words. It still happens; when someone gets bad news, his words scroll up in my mind but in all this time they have never crossed my lips. I try not to be superstitious but it would feel like a curse and I don’t want to tempt fate. When something breaks or I lose money on a deal; when I’m sick or my best plans go to south, I remember there will be another day and that things work out. It’s been a life lesson: Don’t take comfort in the fact that you dodged someone else’s bullet. It was never about you. The other half of the lesson is, “What goes around, comes around.” I’ve conditioned myself to play the cards I have and be grateful that I’m in the game. In college, my mentor had many favorite quotes. One I remember best is by Branch Rickey. Rickey broke major league baseball’s color barrier in 1947 when he brought Jackie Robinson up to play for the Dodgers. He said, “If you can’t afford to lose, you can’t afford to play.” The lesson I took there is cliche but never the less: it’s not about a destination, it’s about the journey. I want to win but win or lose, I want to play. 

So I”m 74, still in the game. I have over over twenty seven thousand wake-ups My car has more miles than that and it’s only a couple of years old. Twenty seven thousand wake-ups doesn’t sound like a lot but but naps don’t count and it takes a while to get there. I put a lot more stock in wake-ups than I do in years or birthdays. It’s one of those “Bird In The Hand . . .” things. Wake-ups are within your grasp. You get a day to play with, to take as far as you can or let it slip away in winks and blinks until you don’t know where it went. You just take stock and be glad; you fall asleep and maybe dream something that isn’t too scary, maybe leave you with a smile. 

I had a happy birthday. Friends and family remembered and wished me well. I broke bread, spent the afternoon with a friend and we went our own ways. Today is a new day and we’ll see where it goes.

GREAT AMERICAN PASTIME

I had been in Alaska for nearly two months and it was time to start thinking about the road home. The fish had either been consumed or in the freezer, a ton of photos were in the can, had seen so many bald eagles they didn’t draw a second glance. All that was left was to have dinner with some friends, get a good night sleep and pack the truck. The difference going back was that I wasn't pulling a camper. I didn’t have my bed on wheels; foraging every night for a place to sleep. The first 900 miles retraced the original route but after that it took a long, low swoop through British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies, down into Montana, not knowing how I’d find my way back from there. 

With just a few days left, the weather was balmy and we went to the ball game. Alaska has a Baseball League with six teams. It’s a developmental league for college athletes who come north for the summer and live with sponsor families. Anchorage has two teams, the Buc’s and the Glacier Pilots. They were playing each other; when they do that they take turns being the home team and last night the Buc's had the home dugout on the 3rd base side. We had box seats, behind the 1st base dugout. 

There were several young women next to us who took fan enthusiasm to a new level. They knew all the players by name, where they were from and kept up a stream of chatter and encouragement. "Hey Collin, you can do it." "Come on guys." "Yea, yea; alright." Directed at the players, but it would translate more accurately, "Hey boys, look up here, look at us." I had a movie flash-back, deja vu moment. It was Bull Durham, all over again. The hometown girls were putting a rush on the new boys in town. It reminded me of an old Jack Lemon movie. There was one nice looking girl and her friend who was on the south side of way too many calories; they just loved baseball. They liked all the Blue-shirted Pilots and in particular, the Buc’s. #33, a tall kid named Collin from California.  None of the players looked up or showed any sign that they were listening but the girls kept it going without a rest.

In the end the boys in blue won 8-5 and they were happy, high 5’n and fist bumpin’. The girls transitioned straight from baseball to their smart phones, texting, thumbs a blur. All the way down the stairs and out to the parking lot, they never looked up. I played in college but there were no hometown cuties behind our dugout, just a couple of old guys smoking cigars, with clip boards and stopwatches. I think there should be a Summer Texting League for young women. Junior High boys could cheer from the bleachers and of course the girls would ignore them. 

GOOD OLD DAYS

I slept in a bed last night; didn’t wake up once. Sometimes I wake up not knowing where I am, what day it is, even what year it is. It is a short lived revelation and when I rediscover myself it’s hard to believe I’m really that old. This morning I knew exactly where I was and age, well, it is what it is. Yesterday was a driving day, south across Wyoming to Colorado’s front range. I’m still taken with the images of old, abandoned buildings, snow fences and hay fields. Something about the way they say, “People come and go and they leave their things behind.” It’s hard to find natural settings that haven’t been touched by civilization, even if it’s just a high flying jet’s vapor trail. We leave things with repeating patterns, hard lines and straight edges and somehow, they assimilate and look almost natural. I take photographs, and right now I can’t resist snow fences and hay fields.

Dr. Martin Strand is a retired, surgeon who lives in the hills above Denver. He has stories that challenge the imagination, unraveling both the noble and the dark side of the Human Journey. He and his wife Joan are my hosts. They fed and entertained me, sitting on the deck, sipping wine, watching hummingbirds arc and dive around us. I knew Martin a very long time ago, when we occupied adjacent lockers in high school, sat next to each other in history class and made small talk across the lunch table. We weren’t best friends but we laughed at the same foolishness and shared a common path, life was pretty good. I was standing at his front door when he called my name. I turned to see him coming across the drive, behind me. After 56 years, the short, red hair had given way to a shock of white hair sweeping down over his forehead and the way our bodies evolve over half a century was evident but I recognized my old classmate without reservation or hesitation. We’ve been in a loose, informal mode of contact since our 50 year class reunion, six years ago. He didn’t attend but he was located and has contributed to the class news letter that grew out of that celebration. He had made a standing offer that any of us who might be passing through, to stop for a visit: and here I am.

I’ll turn east, across Kansas today and I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. But the short visit and warm hospitality will not dull or diminish soon. There is something empowering about reaching back in time and filling in empty space with fond memories and good will. Martin and Joan will be heading out to Iceland in the near future, about the same time I take off for Michigan and Ohio. I added a few extra miles to be here and it has been more than rewarding. Our culture is hard to resist. It’s so easy to slip into old, predictable ways but I think it’s something Martin and I can agree on; these are the good old days.

TRUCKSTOPS

Sheridan, Wyoming: 6:00 a.m. and I wake up maybe a minute before the alarm on my smart phone jingles its  “Wake Up!” How do I do that? Did it the day before yesterday too. But then sleeping in the truck cab is a lot about waking up, often. You scootch around like a puppy, making a nest on your dirty clothes and then you sleep for a while. After a while, you need to straighten out or stretch and collide with the steering wheel or the brake pedal and you wake up. It’s a closed loop that keeps repeating, until your alarm goes off and the sun tells you, “It’s a new day.” In between wake-ups, you get some sleep. I don’t recommend it but sometimes it’s the best option. I feel better when I think about the five or six dollars a shower costs and the six or seven hundred dollars I didn’t spend on motels between Soldotna, Alaska and Wyoming this morning. 

I pulled in at 10:30 p.m. last night; took an hour to decompress, do house keeping and get to sleep. In the morning, when you walk, bleary eyed, into the truck-side desk, you are just another driver who needs a little TLC, a shower and coffee. I’ve never been poorly treated or found a dirty shower at a busy truck stop. So here I am, a couple of days out of Kansas City, sitting in with professional drivers, doing correspondence and journal before looking for that coffee and moving on down the road. 

Today I’ll make Denver and go visit with a guy I haven’t seen since high school. Martin was a quiet, unassuming kid who always had his homework done and didn’t hang out much with the cool clique. We graduated and you know how that goes: scattergram all over the world and by the time your 10 yr. reunion comes around, some of the players have dropped off the radar. Martin was out there somewhere but none of us knew just where. By the time the 50 yr. reunion rolls around, somebody with persistence and desire keeps looking, checking old sources and finds most of those rolling stones. Martin had spent the past 40 years as a Trauma Surgeon in Emergency Rooms in California and Colorado. He didn’t attend the reunion but we did locate him and continue to keep in touch via our class news letter and e-mail. He is a seasoned traveler and we have many common interests. Now that the sun’s high enough that I won’t have to deal with it in my eyes, it’s that time.

DOROTHY, WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

I’ll be crossing the border in an hour or so at Sweet Grass, Montana. Spent four days and nights with Canadian wilderness but once you get back out onto the plain, it’s just watch road signs and keep between the lines. The Cassiar Hwy. frames you in a remote setting and it’s certainly worth the drive. But my overall impression is that it was oversold, overrated. I had some really, really high expectations. The countryside and scenery were awesome but views were mostly obscured by roadside forest. 

The drive from Prince George to Banff was a pleasant surprise. It puts you back in touch with civilization and the views are rich. It’s first cutting time and hay fields were either in wind rows or dotted with big, round bales. I got started taking photos of green and gold hay fields against mountain sides and blue skies and couldn’t stop. Jasper, Alberta to Banff was through their national park with it's wonderful, ice field-scenery. The nuisance of swarming tourists, strategically placed gift shops, roads clogged with rented motorhomes is the price you pay to be there. Maybe that’s how you transition back into the consumer culture.

This trip is for the most part, in the can. I need to drive the last few legs, finding ways to make familiar sights and uninspiring views, inspiring. Marcel Proust said, adventure doesn’t require travel to exciting places, just seeing with new eyes. So I’m dialing in new eyes for the rest of the ride.