A Savior Awaits

 They are using all the superlatives today.  His performance was breathtaking.  You don't see this very often.  This could be the horse of a lifetime.  

After Flightline won the Malibu Stakes opening day at Santa Anita, the pundits and old-timers, the youthful and the addicted gamblers, the occasional fan, and the newbie were all stunned by his performance.   It wasn't merely good, it was off the charts.  This horse has the potential to be beyond something special.

The veterans of the sport, who have seen it all before,  know it's way too early to get this excited.  Still, given the current state of affairs in this difficult, if not miserable world today, the possibility is there.  It's a good thing that Flightline's trainer, John Sadler, has handled horses of this caliber before.  That helps because patience with a capital P is often the key.

These days, when I watch a horse race, it's at home and by myself.  I often talk to myself.  That comes from years of watching races with my friends, racetrack buddies, or in a pressed box when I worked as a turf writer.  Yesterday, as Flightline took the lead and stretched out displaying that extra gear that the great ones have, I muttered, "He looks like Seattle Slew out there."

This morning when I went to check his pedigree, Surprise! (actually no surprise) Slew is his great grandfather.  

Could this be the one?  Could we be in the presence of another Seattle Slew, or Secretariat, or perhaps Seabiscuit?  The latter made his presence felt in the depths of the Great Depression,  We certainly need this kind of equine savior now.  Maybe this is how it works.  

So, in this time of predictions for the new year, barring any injury or unforeseen circumstance, we are looking at the prohibitive favorite for the 2022 Kentucky Derby? No! In a few days he’ll be  4 year-old, so he’s too old for the Triple Crown.  Maybe Flightline can do some Public Service Announcements urging people to wear a mask and quit complaining.  Get vaccinated and tested and realize once and for all that we are in the big middle of a full-tilt pandemic.  

Maybe we will all have something to bring us together throughout the coming year.  Stranger things have happened.  All maybes aside, we are surely going to have something to look forward to in the coming months.  A Savior awaits.

Not Forgotten

 I knew the day would come.  But it conveniently was so easy to put off.  Yet, these days of pandemic boredom and too much time on my hands brought the inevitable forward.  I've got a job to do.  A very sensitive job, but one that very few care about.  Still, it's time.

I have a very small family.  I could probably fit everyone in my living room.  Just one cousin on my mother's side, a sister, and nobody on my father's side.  Most are gone, and within 20-25 years half of those left will be too.  

Yet their lives in photographs, ephemera, a few personal items, and miscellaneous objects remain.  To this, I can add my personal collection of journals, watercolor paintings, books, poems, photographs, memorabilia, and 30 years of classroom odds and ends from my teaching career.  

What to do with this stuff?  That is the question.  It wouldn't be such a big deal if only there were a few more relatives or my own children to pass it all on to.  Not so.  I have no qualms about getting rid of the stuff, it's just how?  That's what bothers me the most.

I've researched this conundrum.  People prefer fire.  There is something clean about burning things you want to leave no trace.  If some of these items are completely reduced to ashes then there is no chance of them falling into the wrong hands.  We owe that much respect to our ancestors.  We can protect some of our innermost thoughts from becoming public knowledge that way too.  

There is another side of the coin to this too.  Very talented artists sometimes like to make collages or displays of all sorts with these old photos and objects of decades past.  Some I have could actually go to museums because my folks were young and productive in the 1930s and 40s and I have a few items that came in handy for a history teacher discussing the Great Depression with kids who were often entranced with everything from kitchen items, ration books, and clothing from the 1940s.  Since they owned and operated a small-town general store, complete with a soda fountain for a while, I also have a few Coca-Cola artifacts like an ice pick and one of those coveted Coke trays.

I will move some items on by way of a garage sale or online marketplace.  Some will make someone happy and receive new life.  Others demand some sort of ceremony.  That I'm still figuring out.  Any ideas?

Another Love Story

 My reading this week has taken me from the frying pan into the fire.  I'd better be careful with these fiery metaphors because it's easy to be misunderstood or offend when writing about grisly topics such as the Holocaust or lynchings in America. Nevertheless, I'll proceed.  

Having just finished The Tattooist of Auschwitz,  I then picked up the new biography of Malcolm X called The Dead are Rising, by Les Payne and his daughter Tamara Payne. Both, in their own ways, are love stories, and that ironic twist makes them even more fascinating to contrast.  The latter is also another kind of love story in that Tamara Payne finished the book after the untimely death of her father, Les. For Les Payne, this book was a labor of love that saw him through to the end of his days.  He felt so strongly about filling in the gaps from various media distortions over the years, that the book is meticulously researched, hence his near 30 year stretch working on it.

If we look at the overarching themes in these works we see that people devise ways to feel good about themselves and thrive even in the midst of wickedly cruel environments.  For one it is the attraction to a beautiful inmate of Auschwitz that keeps his sanity and hope alive despite losing everything as a result of the attempt to erase him from time and memory.  The attraction to self-identity and one's own worth and abilities are what helped to motivate the young Malcolm Little in his quest to liberate both himself and his people.  

We live now in a time of malaise...when dark forces surround us and it is difficult not to fall into pessimism and depression.  These stories help us cope and inspire us with the reminder that the human mind can overcome even the deepest abyss.  They are also our stories because they belong to our shared experiences.  Who hasn't read of the oppressed without feeling a sense of oppression?  I think we both know who.

In this season of giving, these two volumes would make excellent gifts.  That is not my purpose here, but they both serve as reminders of the strength of the human will.  

Our society and culture seem paralyzed right now.  Perhaps that is what is necessary to re-examine our core values and find the common ground so strikingly absent from our national institutions right now.

Black Boots

 I think I'll sell my cowboy boots.  They are lightly used and a damn good pair.  Originally priced at $300, I'd take $20 for them.  Someone who wears a size 10 and likes a solid black leather boot will be very pleased.  These boots have a story.  They come from one of the best boot makers in the country (Texas) and represent a victory in the Kentucky Derby that a friend of mine enjoyed and passed along to me.

Here's what happened.  Frankie befriended me when he saw me reading a copy of Bloodhorse magazine in our local Bay Area coffeehouse.   "Pardon me," he said,  "Do you think I could take a look at that, for a minute when you are done?"  Of course, he could.  I said something like, "be sure to read the article I wrote too."  Thus began our unlikely friendship.

Frankie worked with his hands; I worked with my head.  He was a recovering alcoholic, I never drank more than two beers or two glasses of wine at a time...ever.  Frankie was pure East coast, I was then a native Californian.  But... we both loved horses, especially thoroughbreds.

In the months that followed that initial meeting, Frankie would accompany me to the racetrack on days when I had a major race to cover.  He always dressed impeccably and usually spent his time in the Turf Club.  We'd prearranged a time to meet at the end of the day after my post-race interviews were complete.  

When the Kentucky Derby rolled around that first year I knew Frankie he was unable to watch the race on the TV screens provided by our local track.  He never revealed too much about his personal life, but I think he'd either had a setback, or a woman he knew from his AA group had.  He called and asked to meet me at the coffee shop an hour before I left for the press box.  

Frankie liked a horse.  Sea Hero to be exact.  He never said exactly why but gave me $200 to bet for him. I was to put $100 to win and make five $10 Exacta boxes with Sea Hero and five other horses.  He wrote it all down.  I made his bets early in the day, lest for some unknown reason I got stuck in line or there was a technical delay.  

You know where this is going.  Yes,  Sea Hero flew down the stretch and won the Derby.  Frankie also hit the exacta.  His winnings totaled just over $3,000. 

The next morning I loaded a wad of cash into my inside coat pocket and met Frankie at the coffee shop.  Feeling a bit like a drug dealer, I pulled out a fistful of $100 bills and said the obligatory, "It's all there." Frankie, smiled and calmly peeled off 3 $100 bills and said thank you.  I'd forgotten that 10% was the customary tip for one who carries a bet for another.  This world was new to me, but I didn't complain.

The following Friday, I made a detour home from work and went to the best Western wear store in the East Bay.  They had just what I wanted.  In the years that followed, I wore those boots to a couple of horse auctions, a few Kentucky Derby parties, and occasionally to the racetrack at dawn.  The backside or backstretch of a track in an alternate universe and for horse lovers, it's mystical. magical place full of promise, rumors, and beauty.

Now, it's time that those boots bring someone else some pleasure.  There are many miles left in them and, they are made for walkin'.

Enough

 I imagine you

     Thinking of me,

Across a bridge of decades,

     I was alone

With a way forward,

     Cleared to live in the moment,

People always find me when I appear lost, 

     Wandering a grocery store,

Some idle checker will offer...

     But what I seek is not on a shelf,

Sitting on a stoop, I have met saviors,

     As they chanced to pass,

Eyes looking upward,

     Our time together was brief

But powerful,

Years do not diminish your memory,

     Or is it my memory?

I am buried by these bridges,

     But no longer in need,

Just the thought of your face,

     As it was,

As it might be now,

     Is enough.     

Say Your Name

 

"Those who see giants are still looking at the world through the eyes of a child."

                                                                                                       -Anais Nin

I love this quote by Anais Nin.  The reasons for my admiration will be forthcoming, but for now, let's consider Ms. Nin, herself.  There was a time back in the early 1970s when it seemed as if there was hardly a young woman who wasn't reading one or more books of The Diary of Anais Nin.  Her personal journals were both fascinating and informative.  he was known as a writer and friend and confidant of some fairly famous folks in the literary circles of her time.  But, it took years of writing erotica under an assumed name or two just to pay the rent and eat.  

Anais Nin's perceptions and musings are riveting at times but her wisdom is what shines through.  When your literary friends include Henry Miller and Kenneth Patchen, it makes for a very unpredictable and stimulating life.  These folks often wrote letters to one another.  Real letters.  I don't really see the "collected emails" of some of today's most popular writers as being a possibility someday.  Perhaps I'm wrong, but in the day and age of Anais Nin, that was the way writers communicated.

In the early 1970s I was working at a residential treatment center for kids who were classified as "emotionally disturbed." The facility had a Jungian foundation and the young staff of couples and conscientious objectors to the Vietnam War formed a kind of literary community. Most of the women there, both counseling staff and office workers carried a copy of Ms. Nin's diary.  Discussion groups formed and Nin became a "giant" in their eyes.  Her admirers seemed to look to her for everything.  That's why when she came to speak on the UC Berkeley campus, the agency bought a block of tickets right in front, center aisle.  Her presentation was gentle and thoughtful.  She appeared more like someone's still wrapped, grandmother.  Her smile was soft and sincere.   At one point she was asked about the pronunciation of her name.  Most people I knew said A ni is.  But she quickly corrected that and said it is Anna eis.

After her presentation, she graciously agreed to sign her books that were available for purchase.  I'd bought a small volume of her poetry, so I stood in line.  When my turn came, I quietly walked the few steps to where she stood.  

"And what is your name and what do you do?" she asked. I told her my name and said that I was a poet too.  "To Bruce the poet," she wrote.  It was all very peaceful and satisfying.  She seemed genuine. 

I'm not sure I still have that book.  In the 50 years since that night, somebody perusing my bookshelf must have been attracted to the erotica.  Perhaps I lent it to someone, I really can't remember. What does stay with me is how revered she was and probably still is.  Definitely a giant in the mind of so many.

Parental Power

It is fascinating to watch people who have strong feelings about something they know nothing about.  I'm talking about all the fuss about "critical race theory" being taught in schools.  Most who think they oppose this idea don't seem to know what it is much less that it isn't being "taught," 

By way of definition, critical race theory refers to the practice of viewing history through the lens of race.  Imagine teaching the history of this country any other way.  Since its inception, race and the social pyramid that sees one race on top of the power structure and others below has been the state of play.  If you support changing that narrative, then you support both a skewed view of history and a dishonest one.  

My decades in public education tell me that there is no way any person or body, public or private can prevent a dedicated teacher from suppressing the truth.   When the door closes and the discussion begins it's only the students and their teacher.  No public forums are there.  They grouse about what they think is going on, but they rarely are present to see for themselves.

I'm especially amused by the right-wing folks who constantly spread fear about how teachers are brainwashing their sons, daughters, and transgendered children.  What a joke.  As if teenagers were so easy to convince.  As one observer has pointed out, if we could do that, then perhaps we could "brainwash" them to do their homework, keep up with their reading and attend class every day.  

Let's get into the heads of those who would prevent their children from learning the truth.  Yes, the truth.  The racial attitudes and resultant policies and conditions in this country were brutal.  It's well documented.  Why not examine this reality critically.  What choice do we have?  Who are we protecting and most importantly why?  

Some parents say they don't like the way teaching and discussing these difficult topics make their children feel.  OK, but wouldn't you rather they feel something than ignore or avoid something?

A sidebar to all this is the fact that a recent loss by a Democratic candidate can be laid at the feet of a remark he made shortly before election day.  "Parents shouldn't tell teachers what to teach," he said.  Mistake.  If you know public education, then you know that at the end of the day, it's the parents who have the power.  That's a given that some have to learn the hard way.

The Envelope Please

My other uncle was a New Yorker.  Born and bred.  He was a world traveler because of his job.  As a reporter for King Features Syndicate, he covered all kinds of news stories from a Miss Universe Pageant to political news.  If I'm not mistaken he may even have covered the major events of WWII.  He revealed himself to me through the U.S. Postal Service.  That's because he'd meander into the darkroom at work and pick up 8x10 glossy black and white photos that hit the cutting room floor and send them to me.  90% of what he sent were baseball action shots or famous baseball players posing for news stories.  He knew I was a Giants fan, thus many photos were of the classic Giants teams of the 1950s.  

His manilla envelopes were easy to spot.  My name was boldly scrawled in his almost illegible handwriting. One cardboard stay and the words "Do not Bend" accompanied these coveted gifts.

Uncle Murray had one daughter.  When he assumed other duties as a purchasing agent, other gifts followed.  But the best one of all was a batch of ticket books to Disneyland which was brand new back then. With a letter of introduction, my family was able to enjoy the Magic Kingdom early on.  That was definitely something we couldn't afford.  I took my Brownie camera and went crazy in Jungleland, mapping pictures of attacking hippos and elephants, giraffes, and other automated wildlife.

I met Uncle Murray once.  He'd come to California to cover the Miss Universe Pageant in Long Beach.  He appeared in our neighborhood in a taxi and whisked my parents off to a night on the town.  He was a most generous person.  

When I was about 14, a most uncharacteristic gift came from Uncle Murray.  It was a 22 rifle that he thought a teenage boy in the wilds of the San Fernando Valley might covet.  My mom thought no.  I struck a deal with my folks that I could have the rifle when I was 16.  

Some of the older kids in my neighborhood used to go out to the Mojave desert to target shoot and stalk an occasional jackrabbit.  Of course, I wanted to go too.  That eventually did happen, but after a few trips, I lost the desire to kill rabbits.  By age 18 I began to examine violence in my life and my world.  

The rifle leaned against a back wall in my closet for  about 5 years.

Ridin' On the Freeway

 I had two uncles.  One was on the East Coast and the other on the West Coast.  But geography was far from the differences they shared.  My East Coast uncle was a newspaperman, world traveler, and the husband of my mother's sister.  The Californian had married my father's sister during WWII and post-war they settled, along with my family, in the San Fernando Valley.  

At that time the Valley was full of all manner of migrants, clean air, mountain vistas, and affordable homes.  Uncle Cleary, and Aunt Dorothy lived about 10 miles from my family home. We did Christmas, they did Easter, for the first 16 years of my life.  We saw them, occasionally, too on special trips like Sunday afternoon drives, Disneyland, and perhaps a neighborhood birthday or anniversary party.  

My Uncle Cleary was always a bit of a mystery to me.  He looked, dressed, and talked unlike my parents or other relatives.  That's because his roots were in Montana and his livelihood came from carpentry and woodworking skills unknown in my family.  His real name was Clerman, but I never heard anyone use it except his mother or my aunt.  Aunt Dorothy had to be either a little tipsy or very angry to use his full name.  

Uncle Cleary wore suede jackets, smoked a pipe that always smelled good to me, and always drove a Cadillac.  As my childhood consumed the 1950s, my uncle's cars usually had fins.  About 1:30 pm every Christmas day that Caddie would swing into our driveway.  After gifts were exchanged and the afternoon meal consumed, I wander outside to see neighborhood friends.

"Can you find the gas tank on my uncle's caddie, " I'd question?  Often, they knew it was inside the tail light.  But if they didn't, I'd press the round knob on the red tail light that stood at the end of each fin, and it would pop open.  Surprise and delight all around.  

I clearly remember riding in the back seat of those Cadillacs at night,  Falling in and out of sleep leaning against my mom's arm, watching the LA skylights at night.  Smooth ride, comforting sleep.

Uncle Cleary had a dark side I'd soon discover.  He worked at a number of bowling alleys refinishing lanes. In the 1950s bowling was huge in Southern California and the alleys were big entertainment with a nightlife, lounge, restaurant, and very competitive bowling leagues.  Professional bowlers could make a good living, not unlike golfers.  It was regularly televised and the best of the best were household names, unlike today.  

One day Uncle Cleary appeared in the morning on a weekday.  He parked his Caddie in our driveway and proceeded to open the cavernous trunk.  Inside were 4 boxes loaded with used bowling pins. He'd told my parents that the splintered, aging pins made excellent firewood.  All that winter we burned them in our fireplace.  But not before my sister and I pulled 10 of the pins in the best condition.  All the kids in the neighborhood congregated in our backyard that summer as we  played "bowling alley." We set up the pins in the opened garage and kids would take turns using my basketball to roll it down the driveway into the pins.  As it was summer, and warm outside we set up a"bar" and drank our fill of water all afternoon.  My uncle was not particularly fond of kids but I wonder if he ever knew how happy he made the neighborhood bunch in my hometown.

At one of the last Thanksgivings, I spent at my Aunt and Uncle's place I was returning from the bathroom and chanced to pass the den in their house.  I looked inside the room and noticed that the piano usually in there had been replaced by a large Hammond organ.  Uncle Cleary occasionally played the piano and my sister and I once sat at the dinner table on his piano bench.  I was older on this day and just beginning to learn and listen to traditional blues and jazz music.  On the bench were a number of sheet music pages.  I found songs and compositions by Fats Waller and Duke Ellington, among others.  I regret I never got the opportunity to discuss his musical tastes with him. 

I knew that my uncle was very different than most of my family.  He ran with a rougher crowd that frequented bars and values conspicuous consumption.  He and my Aunt's marriage was more like the "Bickersons" than Ozzie and Harriet.  As he aged and his job skills were no longer in demand and his self-esteem declined.  There is something particularly tragic about an aging man in his aging Cadillac.  

One afternoon from the 23-year-old days of my life I returned to the Valley to visit my dad.  That's when I learned of the passing of my uncle.  Apparently, beset by personal problems and depression, my uncle went for one last ride in his Cadillac. This time he parked out by a remote lake and attached a hose to the exhaust pipe.  It was his last ride.

Slow Moving Coup

     It's called a slow-moving coup.  The term seems to have now entered the political lexicon.  TV comedian and political commentator Bill Mahr seems to have been the one who coined the term,  but it has now entered the discussions over network and cable news stations. Of course, this new phenomenon refers to the handiwork of one Donald J. Trump in his one-man mission to dismantle the U.S. Constitution and regain the White House.  Slow-moving because it trudges alone here in 2021 and will gain momentum until the next presidential election in 2024.  By that time the coup will have in place all the necessaries to question the results, sue the appropriate public servants, deny the vote to as many non-followers as possible, and gin up the troops for another go at storming the Capital.

    It would be laughable if it weren't so right on the money.  This is really happening to us...in real-time.  The trouble is, that most folks in this pandemic-ridden, consumer culture don't care.  Instead of marching in the street and hollering, "this is what democracy looks like" we're confronted with "this is how democracy looked.  Past tense.  Finis.  

    And if I survive to a hundred and five, as the song goes it thing most notable will be how the leadership in the Republican party caved in.  How not only were they complacent, but they continue to display a complete lack of ethics.  Power not only corrupts, but it also intoxicates. 

    Our Congress has become the perfect example of an institution that perpetuates itself.  It perpetuates its ineffectiveness with leadership (and I use the term loosely) structure that is both feckless and paralyzed. 

So the coup plods on.  The Nazi-like rallies continue and the Republican party continues to drool over their self-appointed leader.  They have lifted the art of hypocrisy to new heights. 

To be fair, the Democratic party has its own leadership gap to overcome as well.  As one pundit recently observed, "Democrats don't know what to do when they have power; they don't know how to handle power when they have it."  

    Here's what we know for sure: in order to stop the slow-moving coup, the Biden Administration has to get a few things done.  Bills passed, lives impacted, actual legislation on the books.  Given how and where most folks in this country get their news...their version of the news, the coup has a reasonable chance of engulfing this democracy and replacing it with a true American dictator.  Dictatorships, I would remind you, accomplish things quickly because they destroy all opposition.  They move quickly.

Muhammad Speaks

 c2021BLGreene

He was unknown the first time I saw him.  He wasn’t supposed to be on television that night.  But, an unexpected early knockout left the Friday Night Fights telecast with some time to kill. 
It was a four-round bout.  Two skinny’ young Black men, teenagers really’ took turns landing big shots on one another.  This frenzied bout saw both hit the canvas before the kid named Cassius finally prevailed.  He said nothing after the fight.  No interview.  Just another Gillette Blue Blade commercial and a quick sign-off.  

The two fledgling warriors I’d seen were a guy called Curly Lee and his opponent Cassius Clay.  The record doesn’t reflect this fight. Maybe it was an amateur or Golden Gloves bout?  Still, I swear this is who I saw.  As sure as I can still repeat the lyrics of the Gillette commercials, (Look sharp! Feel sharp! Be sharp)! Lee vs. Clay was the extra fight that night.  Far as I can tell, it was sometime in the late 1950s during the 10-year-old days of my life.  The days when everything televised was black and white.  Mostly white, though because the only Black people on TV were either athletes or stereotyped servants, entertainers or buffoons, mostly from old movies. 

By the early 1960s and high school, Mr. Clay had mustered an impressive record winning 19 in a row.  He’d made the main event now.  His 1962 bout against the wiley veteran Archie Moore, was a turning point in his career.  Archie was a favorite of mine, but I knew he was no match for this young up-and-comer.  The world hadn’t seen a heavyweight with this combination of power and speed. The fight gave young Clay another chance to shoot off his mouth and predict the outcome with his biting rhymes. 
“Moore will fall in four” was the operative phrase for this latest venture.  This10th grade poem of mine inspired by my new hero tells the tale:

     Cassius Clay came to town,

     His job, one thing, to put more down.

     “Moore in four,” said Clay, I’ll do,

     And Moore went down, right on cue,

     So if you ever doubt him, better take this tip,

     Never underestimate the Louisville Lip

Ten extra credit points ensued.

When the 1960s became rife with Civil Rights demonstrations, an unpopular, if not illegal war, and full-blown counter culture, it was not difficult to follow that young, successful boxer.  When he changed his name to Muhammad Ali, became a member of the Nation of Islam and defied the draft, I found more reasons to identify with him.  Though he explained his new name, many sportscasters from the good-old-boy network resisted an accurate call.  Those Afro-centrist days saw other high-profile Black athletes join Ali.  I was in the room in Haines Hall in 1967 when young Lou Alcindor told Ron Takaki’s first Black history class that his name was now Kareem Abdul Jabbar.  He held up a Life Magazine with his picture on the cover.  Because he was 7 feet tall we all saw the picture easily.

  By 1968 things heated up with the assassinations of King and Robert Kennedy and the anti-war movement and the Black Panther Party responding with renewed energy.  Ali was in the forefront of media coverage when he refused induction, in Houston, Texas telling a frenzied press corps, “No Vietnamese called me nigger.”  His power and influence outside the ring were beginning to crystalize. Soon afterward, Ali was stripped of his title and his case was languishing in court.  

That’s when Ali began a national speaking tour.  He was especially fond of speaking at college campuses where he usually got an enthusiastic welcome. Late in 1968, he was scheduled to speak at UCLA. It had been quite a roster of guest speakers that year.  The list included presidential candidate Eugene McCarthy an openly anti-war candidate, and the likes of James Baldwin and H. Rap Brown, one of the founders of the Black Power movement.  When Muhammad Ali was announced as a speaker, people knew the seating would be limited and the campus was abuzz with expectations. 
I chanced to ask a friend of mine who was on the student committee produced these events what time I needed to go to Pauley Pavillon to attempt to get a seat.  

Leo, my friend was aptly named for his lionesque appearance.  He was a Jewish-Italian with an enormous golden brown natural.  I could pick him out of large crowds easily and often did at music and political events.  

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bruce,” he said, “but perhaps I can help. Why don’t you meet me in the student union at 12:30 on that day and you can come in early with me?” I jumped at the chance.  

The speech was to begin at 3:00 sharp.  Doors would open at 2:00 p.m..   I met Leo at the appointed time and we made the short walk over to the arena.  

“Just walk aside me and keep talking to me,” Leo said.  “They know me and won’t question you if we enter together.”

The campus police barely blinked and we entered Pauley Pavillon easily. Leo showed me a place where I could hang out until the audience arrived.  The arena had been cut in half, which is divided down the middle with a large curtain blocking the right half which would remain empty.  Still, thousands of people were expected to fill the remaining half.  As instructed beforehand, I brought some reading material to occupy my time and found a spot on the bottom row of seats off to the side.  Workers scrambled around me setting up the sound system and generally sweeping up and setting the stage with a couple of seats.  A ring of campus police surrounded the periphery, but they never questioned me and I expect they were equally as excited to hear what Ali had to say.  By 1:30, most of the prep work had been completed and the arena fell into an uncommon quiet.  A few people occupied their positions but I was essentially alone in my spot on the floor. 

That’s when I looked up and saw two figures appear across from me at the opposite end of the arena.  Slowly they made their way forward, stopping now and then to take in the size and scope of their surroundings.  As they neared me I became unmistakably aware that it was Muhammad Ali accompanied by his manager Herbert Muhammad.  I recognized Herbert from all the films and articles I’d ever seen or read about Ali.  If they were aware of this student sitting on the floor with a book in his lap, I couldn’t tell.  I think not.  Of course, I had the impulse to ask for an autograph but quickly quashed any notion of interrupting or speaking to them.  I decided, instead, to keep my head down but my ears open.  

Fortune gave me its fickle smile in that moment.  In this horrendous year of division, war casualties, unprecedented violence and political upheaval, Muhammad Ali was standing right in front of me.  That’s when he and his manager stopped and surveyed their surroundings one last time.  Ali turned to Herbert and smiled broadly before speaking.

“Look at this beautiful building, he said. “In a few minutes, it will be filled with thousands of college students and their professors.  They are coming here to hear me speak.  Me, who barely finished high school, and they all want to hear me speak.”  Herbert Muhammad nodded but said nothing.  They continued walking until they were met by a representative of the university and taken to the temporary green room.  

Of all the things that Muhammad Ali said to his adoring fans that day, that brief moment in time where he hovered right in front of me remains the clearest.  He spoke about the current political malaise, he gave his oft-repeated remarks about the Vietnam War and he reinforced the burgeoning “Black is Beautiful” rhetoric so important during this time.  He was witty, incredibly funny, and very poignant when he wanted to be.

I knew that Ali was often sensitive about not being college-educated, that he’d been an indocile student, if not a class clown, but I was really taken by his observation in that brief moment.  As I followed his career after his title was reinstated I never forgot that day sitting on the floor of Pauley Pavillon. Ali’s career and later life are almost common knowledge now. He’s gone from pariah to cultural icon in the last 10 years. His legacy is firmly in place but there is something else I feel compelled to say.  Although thousands saw and heard him that day, he had an impact on countless millions more. Not just the boxers that dreamed, or the brothers and sisters that struggled with their own cultural heritage and identity.  But with the young men and women who agonized with the moral and ethical questions surrounding participation on a brutal war.  No wonder he filled arenas worldwide.  One final thing needs to be said.  From my perch that day, as he was standing just a few feet away, I could see that yes, He was an extremely good-looking man. In my book, he could say, “I’m so pretty,” all he wanted. He certainly was.  

Absorption

 A certain TV commercial currently has my attention.  It's an ad for General Motors and features two guys out in nature, either camping or fishing, or both.  But the rugged scenery accompanied by a rugged truck is not the story here.  What is particularly fascinating is the background music.  A catchy little ditty that most viewers will not recognize but is utterly mystifying is not lost on me.  

The background song is none other than "Haywire" Mack McClintock singing his renowned hobo song "Big Rock Candy Mountain."  Of course, the lyrics are heavily edited with only the simpler, more acceptable non-political verses are heard...briefly.

So what's the big deal?  Well, friends that song, like its author, is heavily associated with the Industrial Workers of the World, the radical left labor union of historical fame.  The IWW, better known as the Wobblies, were advocates of one big union, and their efforts at organizing played a major role in the labor history of this country. Because many of its members rode the rails as itinerant laborers, the Wobblies are heavily associated with hoboes and rail-riders.  In fact, the image of the big rock candy mountain is itself a vision of heaven or paradise for the lowly hobo or tramp who was continuously hassled by the railroad bulls,(police) and often arrested for vagrancy.  Thus the enormous irony.  The fact that General Motors would use this song is an affront to those pioneers who gave their lives for so many of the things working people take for granted, like the 8 hour day, paid vacations, and the whole concept of weekends!

Nobody will raise a fuss about this commercial because most who take the time to listen to the song will find its imagery cute or harmless.  The lemonade springs, a mountain made of candy, and a place where you don't have to change your socks. 

This appropriation of folk culture by advertising agencies is hardly new.  I remember when I saw the Pillsbury doughboy playing some mean blues on a harmonica.  A clear attempt to reach my generation who in the late 1960s embraced the blues genre heavily.  I know I did.  So just when we are the right age, with homes and families of our own we might purchase a product that is suddenly associated with something we love.  Smart move, definitely, but still something is not quite right here. 

Perhaps the Berkeley Barb, one of the original underground papers said it best.  One Friday back in the early 1970s I picked up a copy and saw on the front page a photograph of a mannequin in the local J.C. Penny.  The imitation fashion model was wearing a very nice wool v-neck sweater. Around her neck hung a shimmering peace symbol on a chain.  The headline read, "THEY'VE ABSORBED US!'

Bigger Minds

 How do you change someone's mind?  There are lots of theories, tricks, and subtle strategies, but nothing is certain.  All told, the gentle work best. Nobody likes to be bullied into thinking against their will.

In the U.S. today, we could use a good dose of mind-changing.  We have a pandemic of the unvaccinated that continues to have a major impact on all our institutions and is slowly eroding our economy, educational system, and what's left of our democracy.  

We have a few million people who are determined not to be vaccinated against COVID19 and who continue to throw fits about any sort of mask mandate.  They resist all attempts to do what is necessary for this critical time, so are in need of mind-changing.  But how to reach them?

Clearly, this is a value conflict of the first magnitude.  They value their right to not be forced to do these things over their obligation to public health.  Apparently, the concept of a "social contract" was lost on them somewhere along the way.  When the Republican party base politicized the treatment offered by a vaccine, the war was on.   

The President speaks like an angry patriarch.  A scolding grandfather promising fines and jail time, if the kids don't get with the program.  But as the old saying goes, "you catch more bees with honey."  All the President is catching are bee stings so far.  

Here's where the mind-changing should begin.  When the outcome is truly a matter of life and death, the resistant folks need to be reached.  How best to do this?  Play on their fears, but assuage and empathize with them instead of going against the grain.  The best examples with the most favorable outcomes all involve having those most obstinant listen to people they truly identify with or admire.  In this case, we'd need to find people who those feeling persecuted by their government would listen to.

Many of these folks are so sensitive to their understanding of the science involved or the true intention of the most vocal politicians that they roll up into a defensive ball.  CNN, the news network recently did a piece on people living in the Ozarks, in Arkansas.  The resistance is s strong there that even those who are vaccinated are refusing to admit that in public.  So what would it take to convince these rural holdouts to change their minds and adjust their attitudes?  More accurately who would it take?  

In the classic novel, The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield is told by Mr. Antolini, his teacher, "Maybe someday, you'll find out just what size mind you have."  In my view, for the U.S.A. that day has come.

Texans and the Taliban

People are beginning to make the comparison.  They see the obvious.  Reactionary politics is the same whether it's Afghanistan or Texas.  But this week, when the state of Texas passed a version of a law that would not only ban abortion but penalize any person or organization that would aid in helping a woman secure one, the concept was obvious.

The irony of the unevolved having much in common seems to be lost on very few.  Yet, the optics are remarkable.  Out of one side of the right-wing newscaster's mouth comes the barbarity of the Taliban, out of the other comes the same notion of control of women with the approval and belief in a barbaric law.  

So what accounts for this paradoxical symmetry?  At the bottom, as a common denominator is a belief in fundamentalism.  Both the cowboy and the terrorist are unable to change with the times.  They cling to archaic notions and are determined to hold their dwindling power until the end.  But the end is near.  People and cultures evolve with or without their majorities.  

The numbers tell it all.  If this rapidly warming planet survives, sanity and the common good will prevail.  More will evolve and be willing to adapt so that survival and decency will guide the way.

It's often said that the political spectrum is not flat.  That it bends around so that the far right and the far left almost touch each other.  If Fascism and Communism are at opposite ends, at what point do they overlap like a Venn diagram?  Is there any difference between thousands saluting Hitler and thousands raising little red books in front of Mao Tse Tung or marching to the orders of Kim Jong-un?

Unexplained

 The unexplainable has always fascinated me.  Mostly because I tend to be a skeptical person.  I want my history based on evidence and facts, just like it's a necessity in my writing.  When I was grading entrance exams for the University of California, I recall one of the rubric points... Abundant use of specific examples.  That's a no-brainer for effective prose,  

But every now and then, something comes along that defies explanation.  One of life's mysteries that is essentially un effable.  My favorite kind is the mystical variety.  Like a good Zen koan, it must be pondered for a lifetime, with no guarantee of understanding.  

We've all had these experiences.  Unexplainable coincidences? Are there coincidences?  Synchronicity?  Perhaps.  Sometimes the only alternative is to just enjoy such experiences and sit back and let life happen.

I recall one such powerful experience right before I graduated college.  It was mid-June of 1969 and I had been accepted as a VISTA Volunteer. With a plane ticket to Texas in hand, and just one more final exam to go, I was closing a meaningful chapter in my life.  I had a girlfriend that was only a Freshman at the time and we both knew there would be no guarantee we'd ever re-connect again.  In fact, she was dating someone else at the time, but I sensed he was a jerk and placed no faith in the fact that it was a serious relationship.  So, like I had done so many times before, I wrote her a poem.  A farewell kind of piece that was probably much too sentimental but nonetheless made me feel good about our parting.  I needed to get some sort of closure on this relationship and a poem was my chosen method.  Besides, she liked my poetry and always enjoyed receiving it in the past.

As was popular in the 60s, I wrote my draft on some extra special paper with a matching envelope and sealed it with some red sealing wax.  What can I say, I was listening to a lot of Donovan at the time!

With the poem posted, I forgot about all things interpersonal and prepared for my exam and then my first flight out of California. A real adventure.  Two days later, I arrived on the UCLA campus about an hour early before the 8 am final. It was an overcast, windy day as is often the case in LA in June. I went to a favorite spot and sat beneath a tree to review my notes.  A gust of wind broke my attention and while following the path of some blowing leaves, I chanced to see a small patch of red hiding underneath a leaf pile.  Walking slowly over to that red spot, I knelt down only to retrieve the envelope with the red seal I'd sent a few days earlier.  Immediately I wondered about the whys and wherefores.  How could this be.  Was my girlfriend so unimpressed with my poem that she tossed it in the garbage?  

Breaking my promise to myself not to call her, I did just that.  
She told me she'd been on campus near that tree just the day before.  She was reading the poem and had it in a book she was studying when she fell asleep.  The wind must have blown it out of her open book as it fell from her lap.  She was genuinely overjoyed that I would meet her that afternoon to return the poem.  There is an interesting postscript to this that I'll write about on another occasion.

Yet, what remains unknown to this day, how, on a campus of over 30,000 was I the one to recover my poem?

Anticipation

 It has a name. It’s called anticipation and it’s the first phase of the teaching cycle. This special time of the year for teachers of all levels is one of the most enjoyable.  That manic time before the school year actually starts when teachers have the luxury of thinking ahead and getting excited about the coming year. 

All those things you are planning to do differently. The new ideas that you’ll try for the first time. A roll book and a grade book that’s empty and pristine. And those classes you are anxious to meet. The first few weeks in a school year are all about anticipation. 

Even though the last couple of years, with virtual teaching and the COVID restrictions calling the shots have taken their toll, this is the time of year that teachers feel the pull of starting over. It’s a good pull. It’s fun to set up a classroom, prepare for those first few days, and meet new people. That includes new colleagues and students. Right now a first year teacher will soon experience live bodies in the same room for the first time. A 30 year veteran will be thankful to get back to what they know best. Both will relish the fact that they will be able to talk to real people and not screen images. Their outlook will change because a measure of consistency might emerge.

Of course, the fight over mask mandates or the lack of them will soon complicate matters. This anticipation will come to include being able to stay in the classroom, plan activities for rooms full of young voices, young energy and curiosity. Will it last? How long? 

I feel for these teachers. I can only imagine how my preparations for beginning another school year would be going we’re I still in the classroom. Either way I certainly hope the new year offers civil conversations about how complicated all this has become. Excellent teachers everywhere of every subject and level will incorporate all this into their lessons. Let the anticipation begin. Let it last a little longer this year. There is plenty of time for the disillusionment to follow.

Unforgettable

 The Reader's Digest magazine used to have a feature called "My Most Unforgettable Character." Maybe it still does, but I haven't picked one up in years.  I don't think waiting rooms have them anymore.  I never considered writing a piece by that title because I always thought it was something best done in the later years of life.  Now that I've arrived at that distinction, here goes.

His name was Bob DeWitt.  We first met at his place in Mariposa, California.  He had a ranch in those Yosemite foothills where he'd built a little barn theater he called the "Feedback Theater." Bob's connection to the outside world was through the Pacifica radio station KFCF in Fresno, Ca.  He'd heard some excerpts of a show that my friend Lenny Anderson and I were doing called "An Evening with Woody Guthrie" and invited us to do the program at his venue.  Apparently, local ranchers, folkies, and interested people from far and near often attended these performances.  This one would be very different for us because Bob had been a friend of Woody Guthrie and some of his fellow musicians in their heyday in the 30s and 40s. Apparently, Mr. Dewitt had owned land in Topanga Canyon in Southern California, sold it for a nice profit, and re-settled in the Central California hills. 

Bob Dewitt was an original nature boy with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and brimming with creativity. He'd been a dairy farmer in his younger years and still kept a couple of milk cows on his ranch, along with assorted goats, chickens, cats, dogs, and who knows what else.  

Aside from Woody, Bob had known and loved the famous Lord Buckley, the original hipster and in a way resembled him in many ways.  We played the show at this little barn theater but from the get-go, we knew it was going to be different.  With no word of warning, Bob positioned himself behind us and proceeded to accompany each dust bowl ballad on his bongo drums.  Whatever, it's his home, his theater, and his guests all knew this was the way it was.  

Over the next few years, we visited Bob at his ranch with our significant others, sometimes their kids, and sometimes other musicians.  Bob's place had a couple of lakes and large ponds where everyone skinny-dipped and sometimes fished.  They were loaded with bass and bluegill, so it was great for the kids.  I usually regress to a 9-year-old under those circumstances, so it was always a memorable time.

Once I decided to interview Bob because he's known so many interesting people that were friends as associates of Woody Guthrie.  I'd ask him about Cisco Houston, Sonny Terry, and Brownie McGee, and others.  But interviewing Bob was no simple task.  He rarely sat still.  Ultimately I just put my tape recorder on record, slung it over my shoulder, and followed him around one morning.  As he has done so many times before to the uninitiated, he paused from talking to me while milking a cow and shot the stream of warm milk directly into my face.  His cackle followed. I  was now an official member of Red Mountain Ranch.

Dewitt was known for his art, ceramics, and deep commitment to environmental causes by his friends and neighbors.  He gave me a wonderful cup with an impish face, typical of his ceramic work.  Others were fond of a series of characters made of clay that adorned his barnyard.  They were brick red, wild male figures always in a state of sexual arousal.  

We corresponded for a few years after I first met him.  His letters came in envelopes that he's drawn on.  Bob liked to nick-name people and because I did narration in the Woody show he dubbed me "deep throat." That was both humorous and dangerous, but that was Bob.

I heard he died some years ago.  He must have been in his 90s by then.  There is so much more I could say, but nothing tops what happened the last time I actually saw him.  It was somewhere around 1985.  I'd heard he was in the hospital at UC Medical Center in SanFrancisco and his prognosis was not good.  One afternoon, I went over to see him there thinking this might be the last time.  I found him in a weakened state, far from home, and really scared.  We exchanged pleasantries and then he called me close to him. 
"Deep throat, I'm not a religious person at all, but I'm praying.  If I ever get out of this alive, I think I'm going back to the Catholic church."  Bob was desperate.  I only stayed a few more minutes because he was having surgery the next day and was told to rest.  I asked if his wife or others were coming that night and he told me that Doey, his wife, was going to be there and that a Sioux Indian friend was going to do some ceremony for him in the room that night.  I left.

That night there was a terrific rainstorm with intense thunder and lightning all over the Bay Area.  It was unusually strong.  I thought of Bob and the ceremony that was supposed to take place in his room that night.  That must have been something, I thought.  The next day I called the hospital and couldn't reach him but someone answered the phone in his room and told me he was fine.  Apparently, his illness had to do with his gall bladder.  They'd removed it and he'd made a complete recovery.

It's Here Now

 I just finished The Four Winds, a novel by Kristen Hannah.  My sister recommended the book to me because it's a dust bowl story, and she knows I've studied that period of history for many years and taught both history and English classes using materials, books, artifacts, and films of the period.  This novel is important because it is from a woman's perspective.  That's a criticism that Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath has long withstood.  Were I still in the classroom today, there's no doubt I would pair these two novels for a richer and more accurate picture of the people and issues that have been so poignantly been portrayed in this culture.

Like the existing literature on the dust bowl, The Four Winds includes the bloody labor struggles of the period.  So many of the things we take for granted, like weekends, minimum wage, and paid vacations, came from those labor wars.  The author doesn't shy from the collusion between the big growers and the politicians and their enforcers aside from law enforcement.  

In so many ways, these same issues are with us today.  Any trip down the main thoroughfare in most big cities will show you the tent cities of people living on the margin.  Like the 1930s, people are scrabbling together shelters from shopping carts, sheet metal, tarps, and pieces of cardboard.  Some 85 years later and we still have differences of opinion about what constitutes minimum wage, who can live where, and how to find a meal when one has no resources.  People still hop freight trains, they still hitchhike or walk, or bum rides to keep moving.

We're pretty good these days at hiding the downside of the American Dream.  But these days it seems to be surfacing more and more.  My local supermarkets all have families that stand outside the doors asking for money for food and housing.  Finding a person asleep in a doorway or at a bus stop is also a daily occurrence.  If dust bowl refugees were the norm back then, today it's climate refugees.  As the wildfire season begins to gear up earlier and earlier each year, we're beginning to hear about the new migrants, the "climate refugees."  This is primarily why Idaho is the fasting growing state in the union right now.  

It's becoming clearer all the time that the big issue of our time is now water.  Historic drought and global warming have given us record high temperatures and restrictions on water use.  It's not coming, it's here. I hope I never see a book titled The Four Fires.

Writing Your Name

 I remember the day.  My colleague who taught right next door to me came over to see me a few minutes before the first afternoon class that day.  She'd been assisting some of the counselors with programing for next year so I wasn't too surprised with her request.  

"Is it possible," she asked, "for me to pull out your students one at a time to check in with them about their programs for senior year?" 

I had no problem with that.  It was a 90-minute block class and my American Lit students were finishing up an assignment, after which we'd share responses and discuss the play we were currently reading.  My only concern was that everyone is back in the room by the last 15-20 minutes of the period.  She assured me they would.

So, that's what happened.  Students were called one at a time and they quietly exited and reentered the classroom until all 30 or so were finished.  Marilyn, my neighbor, popped her hear inside the door, thanked me, and then went on her way.

I thought nothing more of this until the last week of that 2004 school year.  That's when I found out what they were really doing.  A handful of students in that class got the idea of burning in their names to a student desk and presenting it to me so that I would not forget them.  The concepts of personal identity, alienation, and immortality had been big ideas in much of the literature we read and discussed that school year.  Of particular interest was an Arthur Miller quote about immortality.  In describing Willy Loman's desire to be known and liked, Miller once said, "It's like writing your name on a cake of ice on a hot July day."  Obviously, that resonated with this group.  

I've kept this student desk and recently removed it to my garage, where I now use it to sit and chat with my neighbors as we share a drink and catch up with each other.  Since the pandemic, we've been having these outside, in the courtyard get-togethers in front of our garages.  I have the perfect seat, complete with a built-in table.  Recently I put a picture of the desk on Facebook and heard from many former students as well as friends.  These former students are now in their mid-30s and many are parents of high school students themselves.  The signatures they left me are in fine shape.  Burned in with a wood-burning kit, there are also some small messages.  I'm not sure that this gesture will insure immortality, but I do know that the desk will be here long after I'm gone.  It won't melt either,

Deny This

 Portland is doing its best imitation of Death Valley today.  Another record falls today.  As I write today it's currently 108 on its way toward 112 or 113.  Just for curiosity's sake, I checked on Death Valley.  It's 120 the same temperature it was on the day I visited that marvel of a landscape about 40 years ago.

While many in the Pacific Northwest are strangers to this kind of oppressive heat, I grew up in Southern California and recall days in July as a Little Leaguer when 3 digit temperatures threatened to cancel our games. They never did. Coming home to a cool shower and some cold watermelon were always waiting and made for a most relaxing end to the day.

When I lived in Texas, the heat was laced with humidity.  Same for the time I spent in Louisiana.  I remember one Sunday morning in New Orleans when I was meeting some friends for brunch in one of those old Garden District homes converted into a restaurant.  It was only about a half-mile from where I was staying so I decided to walk along St. Charles Ave. instead of taking the streetcar.  I'd showered and put on a clean, freshly pressed dress shirt that was dripping wet by the time I arrived at my destination.  I'm not a big sweater, so that's humidity.  

I can sit on my float tube, covered up, of course, in the sun for hours in direct sunlight.  The polaroid sunglasses help with glare, and if a slight breeze comes up, it doesn't matter if the temperature of the air is in the 90s.  If the water gets above 49, though, it's time to go home.

But today is really oven-like.  I just went outside to get my mail.  The wall of heat is just sitting and waiting for anyone to come along.  It is eerily quiet in my neighborhood.  No lawnmowers or leaf blowers. Very little traffic.  No dogs or cats around.  Even the birds and squirrels seem to have disappeared. 

Fortunately, we are supposed to go back to the high 80s or low 90s tomorrow.  A few clouds will return in a day or two and I might even venture out to my favorite lake to see if the fish are still laying low.

There is not much that can be done on or about a day like today.  I would, however, like to encounter a climate denier.  Not a leg to stand on in this heat.  

From the Corners

 The past few years I've been thinking about memory more and more. What gets retained, and what does not? What drifts away and what finds its way back with a little help from our friends? Lately, too, I've been finding that not only does my memory play tricks on me from time to time, but some things that remain crystal clear in my mind are no-shows in the memories of close friends of mine.  Close friends who were right there with me at the time.

Loss of memory with age is to be expected.  It comes with the territory.  But what I'm talking about here is the loss of various experiences that one would expect to be saved, if not permanent.  This may have to do with the emotions felt at the time.  

In my introductory psychology classes, I often asked students to think about their first memories.  What is your earliest memory?  On occasion, there would be a handful of students who can't recall anything before the age of 5 or 6.  Conversely, there are a few who recall experiences from their first year of life.  Here's where emotion comes into play.  Research shows that the emotions tied to various experiences have a big impact on what we remember. Times that were fearful are remembered more easily than those that were not. Trauma, we know, goes deep and can be highly impactful or erased through repression.  

Like my peers, as I age, I seem to be focused on events of the past more and more.  With retirement, comes some loss of identity, so it seems natural for us to live in that familiar territory as long as we can.  

A couple of instances I've experienced in the last few years illustrate what I'm trying to say.  Two years ago, at the 50-year reunion of my VISTA Volunteer service, I spent a weekend with people I hadn't seen in decades.  Our memories proved a valuable resource, but we found that where some of us remembered precisely the names of people and places, others were lost in the fog.  I've always had a fairly good memory, but it is not infallible.  On occasion, I find that I have confused two similar but separate things. This seems especially true for names or last names.

My longtime friend Lenny Anderson and I were in a show about Woody Guthrie's life and music for about 10 years in the 70s and 80s. A year or so ago at a music jam we both attend I suggested we do Woody's "66 Highway Blues."  Lenny said he had no memory of the song.  When I handed him the lyrics, he repeated them but not to the correct tune.  How can he not recall a song we did on stage many times, I wondered?  Maybe it wasn't important to him, I mused.  Then that theory about memory and emotion kicked in.  I recalled that I enjoyed doing that tune so much because I had a little bluesy harmonica solo on it.  My first such performance.  The nervousness I carried to the stage with me the first few times we did the song might have emblazoned it in my memory.  Whereas, Lenny did many songs in that performance, songs that were much more challenging too.  That may account for why he had no initial memory of the tune.  

Recently at our music jam group, Lenny suggested we do "66 Highway Blues." I was pleased and surprised.  We fell into our old comfortable routine with guitar and harmonica.  Then the others joined in with mandolin, guitar, and fiddle.  Never sounded better! Sometimes all that's necessary to jog a memory.

Got It Bad

 We hit the road a couple of days ago.  The first driving marathon since before the pandemic.  I can still do a 12-hour stint, though I don't advise that for anyone.  But when the temps in the Central Vally are three digits and there is a good bed awaiting you in the next state over, nice to know it's still doable.

From Portland to the California line is a beautiful stretch.  Still very green this time of year, but also showing the scars of last year's awful wildfires in parts.  Somewhere between Cottage Grove and Roseburg a melancholy song came on the radio.  It was Dinah Washington's version of "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good." I was reminded of how smooth and distinct her voice was.  Katie asked if that was Billie Holiday and I said that while that was certainly a good guess, I thought it was Dinah Washington because there are subtle differences.  I wouldn't be surprised if Billie recorded a version of the same tune because it's definitely in her wheelhouse to sing a song about abuse.  But Dinah, it was and then I got to thinking.  There was, at first, something incongruous about listening to this performance and looking at the beautiful countryside outside my window.  It was a very urban song, in a very rural setting.  Or was it?  It then occurred to me that hearing this recording in the middle of the year 2021 while passing small town after small town in Oregon was a tribute to both the tune and its iconic singer.  It suddenly felt great to realize that future generations will stop and wonder about that beautiful and rare voice.  Dinah Washington will always be here.  Even in smalltown Southern Oregon.  

Maybe all this nostalgia is the result of the pandemic or a sign of coming out of it.  It reminded me too about that special phenomenon of hearing a particular piece of music in a particular kind of environment.  I used to love it when I had Bluegrass music playing in my car and I"d be driving through East Oakland.  Or Shubert playing as I exited the high school faculty parking lot.  Hank Williams often accompanied me through a Chicano barrio, or some Chicago blues or a Delta blues master wailing as I drove to an alpine lake.  We make these soundtracks, and then use them repeatedly to make other meanings.