"EL SOL"

     Have you ever wondered what it is about sunrise and sunset that makes us stop and gaze, stop and feel not quite so civilized, somehow less important than when we had control over something? I was up early, on the road just as the sky went gray in the east.  On the interstate, tail lights ahead of me were obscured in the glare of all the head lights coming at us on the other side. To the left of those head lights, just off the highway, 80’ to 100’ trees were thick against the horizon. Occasionally, when the trees were not so tightly set, there was a flash of orange/red and it was gone; after all, I was stretching the speed limit just to keep up and all I got was a glimpse. 

     So you pay attention to the driving: you have to do that or you get too close to the semi squeezing on your left or you don’t notice brake lights flashing, several cars ahead. You drive. People all around me have made a conscious decision to bypass New Orleans; stay north of Lake Pontchartrain on their way to Mobile or maybe Tallahassee. I’d be getting off soon, turning north. I stay in the truck’s shadow for what seems like an eternity. I wonder, what happened to the guys up in the fast lane; I don’t need a semi with an attitude just two feet off my shoulder. Somebody get out of this guy’s way. At least the day was dry; no spray coming up off tires and no thump-t-thump of wipers, smearing the glass because nothing would have slowed them down. We would still be racing up the road and I’d have done better to sleep in, to go later in the day. Traffic eased and the truck rolled on, leaving me with space, nobody in the fast lane. I glanced across the median and the sun was topping the trees. Three quarters of “El Sol” was nested on top of those dense treetops. In just a mile, another minute, I’d be able to see a clear, defined space between sun and trees and my day would be delivered. 

     When the air is dry, low humidity, the sun turns bright, white/yellow, shortly after it clears the horizon and you can’t look right at it. On humid days, with haze up high and fog hanging on the bayous, the sun comes up wearing a red/orange shirt and you can gaze right at it for as long as you like, the same with sunset. Just a few weeks ago I was on the beach, Lake Michigan, for sundown. One of my favorite places, I have lots of photos from there but I keep going back. The day was windy and clear, high pressure, high sky. I was hoping for some haze and an orange sunset but it would be white/yellow, right up to the last few minutes. I waited, like waiting on water to boil, for the sun to sink down and nest behind or beside the light house. My patience paid off. The sun turned orange and the sky behind it went red. The edge between them was sharp and clean. I got several good shots in those last minutes, then I let the camera hang on its strap and just watched El Sol sink into the lake. 

     Driving east on Interstate 12 it came to me and it was easy: everything should be that easy. I know why we stop and gaze, stop and feel small; why the sun on the horizon moves us like it does. It's then, for just a few short minutes: if you like the metaphor, we can stare straight into the eye of God. We've been conditioned to look down or away for fear of burning our eyes. Something primal about it, mysterious yet comforting. The fact that someone is waiting for you to call or come through the door is irrelevant. Sun rise, sun set; we really do take it for granted. El Sol neither rises nor sets, it just hangs out there like it has for billions of years. It’s people who go in circles, on a planet that revolves and rotates in circles. We study the science and master the math but you don’t have to be educated or even smart to wait patiently with the naked eye for the horizon and the sun to close the gap. Then: there it is and there you are.

FRENCH QUARTER +1

The French Quarter is a great place to hang out. Hot & steamy or with a damp chill, the place is a reality show with characters ranging from Mormon missionaries to pierced and tattooed rebels; from tourists flaunting their hometown sports team logo to local street musicians; each one looking to the other for something they can take home. There’s a break in the early morning when last night’s derelicts run out of fuel and melt away, and the working class reclaims the new day. It’s a brief lull in the dance, like an intermission between acts. Shakespeare said that all the world is a stage and that we are the actors; and no place is that more apparent than the French Quarter. 

So I walk and look for anything that stirs my imagination. I studied storefront doors with their heavy chains and monster pad locks. In this world of tweets and cyber security, the Quarter it’s still the middle ages with old world chains and pad locks. It’s as much about a message as it is about security. “We are closed. The street may belong to you but what’s behind this door does not. Mind your own business.” By midmorning, an ordinary person has turned the key and taken the chain inside. The door opens and they turn on the music. We are welcome to come inside and trade dollar-bills for a t-shirt or some hot sauce. In front of St. Louis Cathedral, the mystics have set up their Tarot card tables, waiting for the first tourist to have their fortune told. They sit together and enjoy a chat, a cigarette and finish their coffee. One lady noticed my “Michigan” baseball cap and asked if I was a Michigander. I said I was and she confessed she was too: from Auburn Hills. It would have been rude not to let her know where I called home: “Grand Haven,” I said, before she had time to ask. “Have a good one.” She smiled a genuine smile, not normal for panhandlers and such and came back, “You too.”

Restaurants that serve breakfast were starting to open and I wanted to try one that was new to me. Walking on Charters Street, I noticed a simple, hand painted sign over the door of a hole-in-the-wall place: Fleur de Lis Restaurant. My server, Ophelia, had a great smile and her eyes were smiling too. I noticed as I was waiting that she moved quickly yet gave her customers an undivided attention. Thru the window, in the kitchen, the cook Chris was busy. A tall guy with big arms, he could have been playing drums in a band the way he was moving food. My french toast was sliced thick and a little crunchy, I was happy. Everybody working in the Quarter has to smile and be what you want them to be: it’s just the way it is. It’s a hard place, often the smiles are shallow and mask something darker than you want to know about. I got the feeling that Fleur de Lis was a good place and it’s people were the real deal. Next time you’re on Charters Street, stop in, try the french toast and leave a good tip. Tell ‘em Frank says “Hey.”

FRENCH QUARTER

When I go places I don’t call it  “Travel.” I’m not a traveler, as that suggests a “tourist” connotation. I go simply because I want to, and I can. There is something about being in motion, seeing things go by that meets a need. Besides the motion, I like to discover new places and make new friends, so I go. Never been one for itineraries or tours, I usually go by myself, interact with working people and learn by doing rather than from programs, brochures or being told. I can’t think of anyplace I’ve been that I regret the going and I’ll never get to all the places I want to see. But then there are other places where I’ve been, where I keep going back, again and again: like the French Quarter. When I talk about New Orleans I assume that others have been there and know what I’m talking about. I can’t imagine a civilized adult who can drive a car or find their way to an airport who hasn’t been to the Big Easy, The Crescent City. It was founded of necessity, in a terrible location, a swamp where everything either floods or sinks. The Indians thought the white men were nuts: imagine that. But that’s another story.

This morning I got up early and went down to the Quarter while the tourists were sleeping in, while the drunks were still strung out and before the heavy chains and pad locks were removed from storefront doors. I had my camera, always looking for good lines and edges, looking for rich colors, taking advantage of low angle light that you only get, early and late. People were coming to work, sweeping, hosing down sidewalks and cleaning windows. A trash truck was making it’s last stop, leaving barrels clean and empty for the French Market. The unofficial measure of success for business in the Quarter is how much trash they haul off at the end of the day. Then you know, the day doesn’t end until just before the next one begins. I was there this morning on the bubble, the start of a new day. 

There are homeless people: some by chance and others by choice. By day they blend in; part of the atmosphere. They usually find a place to crash for the night, out of sight, often together with a dog for safety. One night, walking to my car from a jazz club on Frenchmen Street, I noticed a big roll of cardboard behind the iron fence in Washington Park. In better light I made out six feet sticking out of one end. This morning, walking Decatur Street; couldn’t mistake the human form on the sidewalk, wedged up against a wall. He was young, on his back with a black beard and his mouth open; one arm arched over his head. Nobody would lie down like that: somebody got him up and out of the street but left him there. 

They all have a story but nobody seems to care. Today’s sidewalk hero may have had a bed somewhere, just shut down before he made it home but either way, it’s a hard way to go. When I was little and later when I was grown; when someone had bottomed out, whether we knew their story or just thought we knew, my mom would set everything straight. In her soft, patient voice of authority she would say: “There but for the Grace of God go I;” then look me in the eye and amend, “and you too.” I took it to mean that even the best intentions can take you to a bad place, and if you are in a good place it’s as much about being blessed as it is about you. I watched him long enough to see he was breathing alright, then a little longer just to be sure. His story was a mystery to me but he was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, somebody’s friend and I wasn’t his judge. 

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.