Daily Blues & Views

 I've never had a nickname.  Although, for a brief period, during my Little League years I was called "greenie" for a time.  That didn't stick into adolescence and adulthood.  There was, however, another brief moment in time when I actually did have a nickname.  Here's the story. At age 20, in my junior year of college, I became obsessed with the Blues.  Blues music, blues history, blues singers, blues records.  It was a perfect unity of aesthetic experience that created this passion.  The first ethnic studies classes offered at UCLA played an important part.  My midterm for what was then called "Negro History" was to write a paper on a topic relevant to the coursework.  I chose the subject of the Blues and how it reflected import events and experiences in African American history and culture.  At the time, the burgeoning folk and rock music scene was also evolving.  Being in Los Angeles helped too.  At a small, now iconic...

 In 1957, when I was ten years old, Disneyland opened to the public.  Living in Southern California at the time, every kid on my street couldn't wait for the opportunity to ride in the jungle boat in Adventureland, drive the Autotopia cars in Tomorrowland, and sit in the stagecoach exploring Frontierland.  Two of my neighborhood friends were among the first to have these experiences.  Their father worked at Technicolor and the first days of Disneyland were reserved for families of those who worked in the movie industry.  They returned from their privileged visit to the Magic Kingdom with home movies to show all the envious kids in the neighborhood.   Shortly after that time, my front yard was transformed into something much better.  Actually it was my entire neighborhood block.  We had Sewerland.  I know it doesn't sound exciting, or even something to praise, but Sewerland was the best thing to happen to 10 year old kids.  Our little pos...

 It's been 58 years since The Doors lit up the summer of 1967 with their classic recording of "Light My Fire." As a young man age 20 in Los Angeles back then, I vividly recall the many times I heard that song on the radio.  That's because there were two versions.  One was about 3 minutes long and fit in perfectly with the Top 40 format  of most LA stations.  There was, however, a longer version that ran about 6 and a half minutes. I was working as a mail clerk for a large corporation that summer and my workmate and I always timed our daily run to the post office to coincide with hearing the long version on station KRLA.  They often announced, " At the top of the hour, the long version of "Light My Fire."   I could already hear the organ introduction in my head.   The Doors hailed from a part of LA where I spent a lot of time.  They have roots that stem from Venice, to the UCLA campus.  The music scene flourished and morphed during those ...

 Sometimes, when I'm trying to get back to sleep on a restless night, I'll think about the street where I grew up.  Though it's changed radically in the last 65  years, the homes on that small block remain the same.  Their appearance, and the people who inhabited them are no longer the same, but as I go up and down the block of this post-war little suburban neighborhood, I can still fill the houses with the names and faces that inhabited them back then.  Of course there were always a couple of homes where I drew a blank.  Either they had no kids or their inhabitants were far more transient than everyone else.   The last time I did this roll call of names and faces, I remembered an older couple, Doris and Henry, whose kids were grown and on their own.  I recalled how they took my sister and me to the circus when I was ab out 8 or 9 years old.  They must have asked our parents and missed taking their own kids on some level.  In any event, ...

 For the last month, I've been teaching a writing class at my local community center.  It occurred to me after meeting many retirees in a Tai Chi class that many of these folks have great stories to tell and that doing so would enhance memory and social interaction.  The later, of course, is vital in these post COVID years.   I've been pleasantly surprised at how this little class is going.  I figured that if  took all the best practices and prompts from my teaching career and offered them in an non-threatening manner, that there would be interest in spending an hour a week meeting and then doing a little homework to rekindle the declining art of "creative writing."  Of course, all writing is creative writing, but people sometimes need permission or at least a vehicle to go ahead and indulge in the practice. At our age, we write to save our lives, literally and figuratively. At our last meeting we read and discussed models where we write about our fami...

 I've been reading Imani Perry's fascinating collection of essays called Black In Blue, which is a brilliant meditation on the color blue in Black culture.  Aside from the many historical references and anthropological connections between the significance of the color blue in African and African American culture, Perry delves into many areas that might not be well known to those outside the culture.  For example, the way we know where the graveyards for many who were enslaved were is through the presence of periwinkles on the ground, planted there.  Former slaves were not allowed to have grave markers (imagine that!) so their descendants marked the sites with blue periwinkles so they could be located and remembered.  Another thwarted attempt to erase the past and strip people of their identity. The book goes into important explanations of blue notes in the development of the blues and jazz music.  But there are other connections present that extend all the...

 They are soft.  That makes them feel good on your feet.  These palomino colored moccasins are custom made.  When you go to the shop, you take off your shoes and they trace the shape of your foot on paper.  This blueprint for your pair begins the process.  The leather is seductive.  It's hard not to stroke it.  It's tactile, like the softness I once felt inside a horse's ear.  They lace up and afford ankle support.  I love that they go perfectly with blue jeans.  I wear them daily from Spring 1967 to early 1969, when I alternate them with Frye boots.   "Moccasins by White Hawk", were made by artisan Win Fairchild, owner of Fairchild Woodcraft, a Blackfoot Indian crafts store in North Hollywood, California in the 1960s-1970s. These Moccasins make a statement.  They are part of the uniform that says I work for the counter culture.  They say count me in as one who values social change and social justice. I'm aware o...

 Next week I start a new adventure.  I'll be teaching a writing class for Seniors who want to write about  some of their most memorable experiences.  "Writing from Memory" will be offered at my local community center and is open to people 60 years of age or older.  I decided to offer this class because in recent years I've met a number of older folks in my neighborhood and this idea has always been met with a positive response.  Aside fro teaching some writing skills and providing a platform for reading and getting feedback to their work, my main goal for this small group of "students" I will have is to simply have fun.   One of the introductory activities in this class will be to write a personal writing history.  This will serve to introduce us to each other and inform me and my students what experiences, issues, skills, and expectations are in our little group.  Like everything else, I will complete each task and prompt with everyone. ...

 Tomorrow is the memorial for my mother-in-law, Betsy Minkler, who passed about a month ago.  She lived to be 100, and died shortly thereafter, as if that marked the finish line.  A perfect 100.   When a person lives to be 100 or more, their life becomes a paradigm for the century they experienced.  Born in 1925, the Roaring 20s were in full force.  One could easily argue that the 2020s are shaping up to be quite memorable in their own way.   Betsy's century on earth was marked by World War, a "Great Depression," the development of Television, modern cars, space travel, global warming, the rise, and dare I say, the domination of technology in all phases of our lives.  Betsy rode in all manner of cars, from the early Fords to the electric Toyotas.  She dialed phone numbers and she spoke on phones where she need only touch one number to be instantly connected with a friend.   And friends...she had many.  Betsy was a people person, onc...

 Like many in this country, I made my way to last Saturday's rally and march to speak out against the Trump regime's attempt to capsize democracy.  Thousands joined me at Naito Plaza in Portland.  Similar  marches were taking place in every major city in this country.  It was time, again, to take to the streets and put our bodies on the line. I went by bus with a group of friends and neighbors from North Portland.  We were soon separated by the huge crowd, but no matter, we were prepared for that and made sure everyone knew how to get back home and felt free to exit the large crowd whenever we felt necessary.  At 78, my marching days go back to the late 1960s and it's hard not to compare experiences.  Of course the technology has had a major impact.  I noticed that all the speakers at the rally held a cell phone from which they occasionally referred to for notes on their comments.  People were constantly snapping pictures or making video...

 There was a time, not all that many years ago, when you wore your politics like clothing.  If your hair was  or wasn't a particular length, then it could be assumed that you supported or didn't the U.S, war in Vietnam.  If you wore beads around your neck, or shunned button-down  shirts or suits, then you must think this way.  Even your age, or there appearance of maturity would cause people to assume things about your values or beliefs.   This is still true in some ways, especially for younger folks  sporting tattoos, or piercings, or wearing certain styles of clothing.   With age, though comes liberation.  Case in point.  A couple of weeks ago I came to this realization on a freezing cold morning as I traveled alone across Oregon and on down to the Bay Area.  I'd spent the night in a cozy mountain lodge of a motel in Shasta City, the small town in the shadow of breathtaking Mount Shasta.  Anxious to get going the next mo...

 "It's in the blood."  That's what a horseman once told me when I asked how he got started training race horses.  I knew exactly what he meant because it's in my blood too.  Now, I don't train horses but my interest and enthusiasm for them is certainly far beyond the norm.   People often find that mystifying when they learn of this strong interest of mine.  "I wouldn't have expected that you'd be into horse racing,"they frequently say.  People make assumptions, don't they? I think, too, that many of their assumptions about horse racing are wrapped up in stereotypical beliefs and the tab ops of gambling.  For many folks, you can't be interested in race horses, unless you gamble on them.  Not so.  But then, I do bet a few bucks from time to time.   "If there were no betting on horse races, I'd still watch them," I tell them.  I don't really think they believe me, but it's really true.  My interest in horse racing a...

 Community is a word with mostly positive connotations.  Despite the fact that its root also produces such loaded words lime commune and communism, people generally feel good about belonging to a community.  A sense of community is regarded as a good thing.  We all belong to several communities.  I suppose there is a community of bloggers, just as there is a community for most subcultures in this world.  I know people who work in the horse racing community have a strong sense of their shared values.  It's an alternative universe and like most communities, they take care of their own.  Most people only see the frontside of a racetrack, that is, the grandstand, turf club, bleachers, and apron in front of the racing surface.  But over in the barn area is the "backside" aka "backstretch" where dozens of grooms live and work alongside vets, trainers, exercise riders, and vendors of feed, tack, and even food.  Clearly a small town.   In t...

 Among the things that the current "wood chipper" administration is eliminating, is the penny. That's right, the shiny copper-colored 1 cent coin will be no more.  Its lowly amount has no place in our lives any longer and the Emperor, despite wearing no clothes, has called for its elimination.   True, it has become mostly an irritation to most folks, but the U.S. penny one has many uses and was often a welcome addition to our pockets, change purses, and glass coin saving jars.  On occasion, people were paid solely in pennies if the person doing the paying wanted to make a statement to the recipient of the debt.  That might not be possible for too much longer.  But the fact that millions of pennies lurk in the corners of our homes and inside couch cushions and coin banks, their need may one day emerge.   When it costs 3 cents to make 1 cent, the logic of continuing to mint pennies seems ridiculous.  Hence, the penny's demise. But the penny once had...

 I continue to deal with the question of what to do with all the material things one manages to collect during a lifetime. I have downsized a bit, but there is always more.  What I'm finding is that it's much more difficult to throw away letters, cards, and photographs than objects. I want to give them some sort of ceremony before I put this ephemera in a trash can.  Burning things in a fireplace seems like the way to go, but that's not possible these days.  Tearing up things I would rather nobody read or see seems rather crude and cruel.  Sure, nobody will know, but it's difficult to destroy art and notes that were originally filled with love and concern. To make matters worse, I've recently been sent envelopes of similar things that once belonged to a good friend of mine.  After he died, his partner began sending me records, books, and some of his fly fishing gear.  Now I'm getting newspaper clippings, cards, and bits and pieces of his books, chapboo...

 Play is the work of childhood.  So the experts tell us.  But a child's play is no longer what it once was.  Child psychologists have recently expressed concern that children today are losing valuable skills because their play and playtime has been rapidly changing.  These changes include more adult supervision and less time outside.   One of the consequences of this seems to be the inablility to solve conflicts on their own.   This got me thinking.  How does children's play today differ from what was play in my childhood.  One obvious difference is that children rarely play outside in their neighborhoods any more.  Gone are in the street baseball games and summertime classics like "red light, green light."   To be sure, the rise of computer technology has a lot to do with this.  Combined with the fear of childhood abduction, it's easy to see why the neighborhood issue quiet outside these days.  What a tradeoff.   It'...

 While the country waits for another Super Bowl, the slow moving coup we're undergoing inches along.  The Constitution quakes, splinters, and seems less relevant every day.  Its unbroken record is serious threatened.  This is no bank crisis that Andrew Jackson faced, this is no civi war, not yet because the house is divided.  This is no Watergate.  This is raw power in the hands of a sociopath and a tech billionaire somewhere on the spectrum.   Congress needs a refresher course on Separation of Powers.  Why are many in both houses so willing to offer up their share?  The Trump juggernaut rolls over everything in its path.  Where is the outrage from his own party? The guy hasn't read a book in years.  That's why he can so easily revert to imperialism to back up his strong leanings toward racism, colonialism, and condescension.  He's a walking mess when it comes to understanding history and other cultures.  That's why we can...

 I'm sitting in a sunny room with my mother-in-law on the eve of her 100th birthday.  Everyone is either gone or busy, as we two converse in between snippets of her favorite TV show: Call The Midwife. She has poor vision and hearing, but never misses this program.  In fact, she often watches the re-runs because she can't remember having seen them earlier.   I notice how alert she sits when watching the large-screen High-def TV. Another baby is successfully born on the screen.  I wonder what goes through the mind of a Centenarian watching a birth? Her husband, Don is gone 18 years now. He was an ob-gyn. "What do you think Don would have thought of this program," I ask. "Oh, he would have loved it, especially because they deal with so many important issues," she replies. Tomorrow she will wear a tiara and a sash that says "Today is my Hundredth Birthday." Her children and their children, and their children will all make appearances in the next few da...

c2007 Bruce Greene      The price tag reads $1,000.  The piece is from the artist’s “1980-87 first period.” I stifle a chuckle.  That’s what the gallery description says.  “A rendering of the New Orleans Superdome.”  Pre Katrina, the deep maroon colored stadium appears on the horizon surrounded by lime green cactus-like trees floating in the sky.  Red flowers blossom from spindly branches.  The documentation concludes with “ Untitled, markers on stretched canvas.”  The piece is unsigned but attributed to New Orleans folk artist Willie White. First period, I think.  The words rattle around and will not leave me alone.  First period, I mutter the sound of that phrase before speaking out loud.  “I remember a period before that…the real first period.”  Perhaps it was the only period. In any case, it remains a permanent marker in my mind. My bittersweet relationship with New Orleans will always be measured by the ni...