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.