These Eyes

 These eyes are deep brown,

They've seen for decades.

Sights include:

Those who hate (heard too)

Emotional darts thrown at the vulnerable.

Poverty from aging wooden homes,

Whose walls have child-eyes,

Empty kitchens,

Clothes long gone,

cheap highs in the gutter,

Catatonic, clinging survivors,

unemployment waiting rooms,

unnecessary wars,

Prime of life interrupted,

Friends gone too soon.

Then too, 

meadow streams,

Alpine lakes,

Crystal rivers,

Love returned,

isolation,

watercolor worlds,

gleaming coat of a thoroughbred,

Black spotted golden Redside trout,

Fluorescent blue/pink spotted Brook trout,

Black/tan Brown trout,

Willie Mays play,

100,000 people in the street,

Iron gate at the White House,

Coffins on the Capital steps,

Texas, Montana, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Newark, New Orleans, Baltimore, Portland, Atlanta, Dallas, Los Cabos, Mex. from above,

Son House, Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf, Elvis, Arthur Crudup, Miles, Brownie and Sonny, Big Mama, Donovan, Dylan, 

Appreciation

Seeds planted.

Intelligence harvested.

Free Concert

 It was a moment in time.  Something that could hardly happen again.  Imagine going into a place to look at and probably buy some records of some of your favorite artists, and seeing one or two of them right next to you in the store.  

In the late 1960s I spent a lot of time in and around the famed LA folk/blues club, the Ash Grove.  It was where I could see performances by legends like Son House, Howlin" Wolf, Elizabeth Cotton, and Big Mama Thornton.  The place was a living museum and gave me an opportunity to see many influential performers in the last years of their lives.  People like Sleepy John Estes,  Yank Rachel, Lightnin" Hopkins, Hedy West, and Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup all played there.  Crude was the bluesman who wrote and recorded "That's Alright" in 1947, well before a young Elvis Presley took it and added a rockabilly beat and soon became the "King" of Rock and Roll." If Presley was the King, Crudup was the Father. Presley made millions, Crudup, virtually nothing.  

If the Ash Grove was a premier folk/blues club, it was also a book and record store.  Back then there was a counter in the front where a small selection of books and records were available for purchase.  On the counter, from time to time, was a clip board where people could fill in, "Performers you'd like to see here."

In 1967, during my Jr. year at UCLA, I'd drive from the Westwood campus every Sunday after studying all morning,  to the Ash Grove on Melrose Blvd, to check out the records and pick up a flyer of coming events.  One Sunday after 4 hours in the research library, I arrived and heard music coming from the empty club.  In the darkened room, with the reflection of a ceiling fan painting shadows on the floor, was a  very young Taj Mahal giving guitar lessons to an even younger but eager student.  Every now and then, after showing his pupil some lick or blues run, Taj would just continue on by himself and play riff after riff completely enraptured by the music radiating from his National steel-bodied guitar.  It was like a free concert where I was the only one in the audience.  When that ended I returned to the foyer of the club and began to scroll through the blues records.  To my right, was a large woman in bucket hat, blue jeans and plaid shirt.  When she turned around I saw it was Big Mama Thornton.  She'd come in to sign a contract to play at the club and wanted to check out the records before going home.  

Before I left, I ran into a friend of mine who was pondering who to add to the clipboard requesting  possible performers.  He asked me if there was anyone I wanted to see.  I had just started playing blues harmonica and I quickly responded, "Sonny Boy Williamson II.  Rice Miller, the second one, not Sonny Boy I, John Lee Williamson."  I knew he was no longer alive.

"He Dead." Sonny Boy II died." I turned to see Taj Mahal.  "Yeah, he died a while back, I'd love to see him too, but we can't now."

I thanked Taj, and left the clipboard blank.  Anyway the Ash Grove was doing a pretty good job of booking people already.

Don't Mock Me

 As the clock winds down on the 2024 Presidential election, the mood is tense and foreboding.  It wasn't always this way.  Still, a quick look at the history of our elections shows some striking similarities.  This election is the most crucial in our lifetime...they all say.  As a 7th grader in Jr. High I recall how the Nixon/Kennedy race of 1960 was described that way.  The week before the vote the popular sit-com "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis even ended its program with a giant question mark.  If we only knew how both those candidates would end up taking their place in history!  You can watch that episode here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvV8xaL8TIY

I recall, too, how we debated the issues in my classes.  Those activities were spirited, to be sure, but nothing like the climate today.  Back then we all took Government classes with a big-ass textbook.  We learned about the 3 branches of government, the various intricacies of our national government, and, of course the history of electoral politics.  Most every kid then knew their elected representatives and even a bit about the electoral college.

In the 1970s-the 1990s, I taught a few Senior Government classes.  By that time, much of the emphasis was on local politics and the intersection of law and justice.  No longer were those big textbooks checked out to each student.  Some remained in the classroom for reference, but eventually, they were replaced by GOOGLE.  In my Social Science Department, we did a mock Congress in these classes.  An elaborate  role-play, students took the roles of various national lawmakers and wrote bills and then tried to get then enacted into law.  All the popular national leaders were represented and students looked forward to playing the role of popular politicians like Ted Kennedy, John McCain, John Lewis, and Nancy Pelosi. 

I often wonder, given the make-up of the current Congress, how dong a simulation  like that would go.  Congress is so dysfunctional and many of the personalities so sociopathic that it just might be impossible.  My students were often motivated to write a piece of legislation and struggle to get it through the Congress.  That's how they learned about things like the filibuster, conference committees, the veto, and how to build a coalition.  

One thing I know for sure: Come November 6th, the day after the election, teachers will be challenged to keep the lid on their discussions in class.  Hopefully, the days of the Mock Congress will return to our classrooms and our students will compete to play the roles of stable, sane, intelligent, and hard-working law-makers who know how to get things done.

Dart Board

He said it was like a dart.  Like being hit by a dart.  He was talking about being on the receiving end of a racial epithet or being the recipient of prejudice when someone speaks.  I concur.  I find dart to be a perfect metaphor because it probably won't kill you to be hit by one, but it stings, it's sharp, and you've become a target.  

When Trump uses terms like "poisoning the blood," and "vermin," he's throwing darts.  Today we call them "dog whistles" but darts is a better term because they stick, they cause pain, and they are meant for specific targets.  

Ever been hit by a dart like this?  If so, you know the sting never leaves.  I recall a few very specific darts thrown my way during childhood.  Once, while walking home from Elementary school, a girl in my neighborhood announced she had a $10 bill.  To a 9-year-old, in the 1950s that was a small fortune.  Apparently her parents were getting divorced and her father had recently explained to her that he would no longer be living in the family home.  He gave her $10 before he said good-bye.  After we got over the shock of seeing a real $10 bill, this girl, Donna Dye, was her name, then announced that she was going to spend it all on candy.

On our way home was a small drug store with a large candy counter.  In those days it was still possible to buy candy for a few pennies.  Some were two for a penny, or 3 cents a piece.  Major candy bars were a nickel and deluxe candy bars were a dime.  The nickel and dime bars were usually out of our reach.  

So, gonna Dye goes in the store and talks to Bonnie, the clerk there.  We all knew her because she lived on my sweet and her son was just a year older than me.  Bonnie asks Donna if she really wants to spend the ten bucks on candy?  She does.  

Donna exits the store with a brown paper bag full of candy.  Given the prices then, she has about 150 pieces of candy.  She offers candy to the three of us waiting for her.  The first kid takes a tootsie roll, a tootsie pop, and some Smarties.  The bag is then pointed my way.  I peer inside and see the gold foil of the  one candy item I never had, I never afford.  The Rolo.  The roll of caramel filled chocolate pieces had always eluded me, so I took it.  Then came the dart.

"Only a Jew would take that candy."  The dart was thrown by Dennis Miller.  A classic bully type, Dennis making a remark like that was hardly a surprise.  Now, I did not come from a particularly religious family and never identified as Jewish, nor did I deny my ethnicity.  No matter, Dennis threw the dart based in some internal need to reinforce a stereotype.  The day that happened, I knew little of anti-semitism or its roots.  I only knew I was instantly made the "other."  In the years that followed, through Jr. High and High School I would learn more, experience more too.  

Jr. High was particularly cruel.  Aside from hazing rituals and general fear mongering and violence, some kids at my Jr. High had a habit of throwing pennies at kids they deemed Jews.  These "others" were thought to be miserly and money grubbing, hence the penny-dart.  Once I heard one kid ask another if he knew why Jews had such big noses.  "It's where they put all the pennies," he replied.  They enjoyed a good laugh.  The kind of laugh whereby they don't know the laugh is on them. 

I survived all that and more, hearing myself labeled a "Jew" on various occasions.  The darts still flew, but now through my teen years and early adulthood they were thrown by people who assumed I had no problem with their racist views.  Hearing the N word used casually in conversation can have the same impact.  It might even be worse because we know we should not just listen. We should say something.  There are times when I'm still not sure how to react.  Case in point.  A few years ago I was having a conversation with a woman in her nineties.  She was describing something she bought at a garage sale and how much she had to pay for it.  "I tried to Jew "em down," she said matter of factly.  I could only smile and figure she wasn't long for this world anyway.  

Sticks and stones will break bones but words can pierce the psyche like darts.

Fit To Be Tied

 I walked down to the Post Office this morning.  It's about half a mile round trip from my house or a couple thousand steps on the ol' step-tracker.  As I crossed the street behind my home and approached the main drag in my little section of North Portland, I noticed that the guy who regularly sleeps on the sidewalk was there, but just in front of him, another guy was bedded down.  Usually they just lay on or in sleeping bags, but this morning they had built a couple of little shelters from large cardboard boxes.  In fact between them they had about 4 little cardboard rooms.  

There is a motorcycle dealership that specializes in Vespa scooters across the street.  They often receive their new vehicles in large cardboard boxes and then put them on the curb for recycling.  I've no doubt that's where the "cardboard bedrooms" came from.  

I stepped deftly around the sidewalk sleepers and went on my way, but a thought struck me. My first reaction was that it's a real shame that people in what so many call the "greatest country in the world" have to sleep on the sidewalk.  Of course it's more complicated than most would admit, but nevertheless, in this land of the free and home of the brave, thousands are without the basics of living. These makeshift structures reminded me of the many "Hoovervilles" that existed during the Great Depression."  Named for President Herbert Hoover, they popped up all over the country.  People living in piano crates, cardboard boxes, and all manner of temporary shelters.  History rhymes, doesn't it?

A few more blocks of walking later, and I began to think of the history of homelessness.  I recall a college professor of mine lecturing on the concept of Social Darwinism.  In an attempt to explain the poverty, and squalor of the early 20th century, this philosophy developed in an attempt to explain and subsequently deal with these issues.  To explain the human condition by means of Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept still resonates with some parts of the political spectrum today.  Things are the way they should naturally be.  Only the fittest will survive and thus improve the condition of mankind.  It's a good excuse not to feel empathy or not to do something to alleviate the struggling conditions many have to endure.

"But it's a false equivalency," my professor said.  "Because not just the fittest survive.  Those that are merely fit, also survive.  They may not be very fit, but they survive, any way they can."  

Makes sense to me.  Those that are not the fittest, don't just evaporate, they survive, sometimes barely.  It's human nature to meet your needs.  Walk around on this planet and you find things.  Things to eat, places to  sleep.  Sure it's dangerous, and not very fun, but it happens every day in the USA.

I'd love to see this discussion make its way into the current political climate.  In fact, perhaps a question on Social Darwinism in one of the debates would shed some light on how much empathy those who would lead actually have.  Sure they'd say all kinds of things to appear sensitive to the needs of "all Americans," but I'll bet some would get all twisted up in their rough rhetoric about ridding the nation of vermin.

The weather in my hometown is changing day by day.  The rain is about to begin and the last days of warm weather are definitely over.  Pretty soon, even that deluxe cardboard won't be enough to ward off the dank, wet, weather.  But those two guys I saw this morning will be somewhere.  If not on their present spot, perhaps another that is closer to a heating vent, or a fire pit.  But one thing is for certain, they will survive.

Wonderful Mouth

 With the recent passing of my lifelong friend, Ken, I started thinking of some memorable times we had together.  Ken was an artist and extremely well read.  He unabashedly love living in Los Angeles.  He knew the city well and was a frequent visitor to galleries, museum shows, and concerts.  In high school we both shared one art class together.  It was an elective called Art Crafts taught by a rather quirky teacher.  In this class we created various projects, some required and some left to our own devices.  I remember discovering the tedium and magic of a crow quill ben and India ink in this class.  I took a photograph of the bark of a dead oak tree and painstakingly drew a tree whose truck was composed of thousands of little squiggly lines.  I got lost in the minute patterns, even writing a message of love to my girlfriend that was hidden in the fine patterns. Halfway through that school year John F Kennedy was assassinated and I vividly recall walking to that art class during the most silent passing period imaginable at a large, 3000 student high school.

But the one project that both Ken and I were required to do was a mixed media self-portrait. Many turned out like Bob Dylan's painted self portrait which later became an album. (Pictured below) However, we were not allowed to use paint We had scraps of wood, yarn, buttons, crayons, and many other "objects" with which to construct our self-images.  When completed, we would bring our creations up to Mrs. Norvell, who sat at the front of the classroom.  She would evaluate our efforts in front of the entire class, giving out criticism and suggestions.  It was during this project that Ken displayed his true contrary nature.  She somehow felt that his efforts were not reflective of his ability.  She had higher exceptions for him, perhaps because of his innate ability.  Ken would do what he was going to do no matter what.  After all, this is the guy who wore a coral colored tuxedo to the Jr. Prom while the rest of the guys stayed true to our class colors of powder blue and black. 

When my turn came to bring my project forward to Mrs. Norvell, I stood next to her chair as she gave it the once over.  Eyes and eyebrows passed muster. Nose, my most sensitive feature being larger than most, was OK.  Then came the depiction of my mouth which was rather thin and linear.  

"No," exclaimed Mrs. Norvell, "This is not your mouth! You have a wonderful mouth."  

Soon I was back at my seat ripping off the offending mouth and wondering what to replace it with and what it might be made from.  I went home that day vowing to take a good look at my mouth.  After standing in front of a mirror far too ling, I saw that my lips were indeed fuller than what I had portrayed.  Maybe my mouth was glaringly different than how I had constructed it.  Next day I created what I thought looked like a "wonderful mouth" from strips of leather and yarn.  I gave myself a sly smile and Mrs. Norvell approved.  But the damage had been done.  When she first declared to the class that I had a wonderful mouth, Ken and my other friends in the class wouldn't let me forget it.  For weeks afterward, they'd greet me with, "You have a wonderful mouth."  Laughter ensued, but in reality, I found that my self esteem improved.  The following year, I ran for Senior Class President and won!  Could it have been that wonderful mouth?

Write Now

 I've been thinking of offering a writing workshop for older adults.  My peer group now.  It occurred to me that many of the prompts I used over a 35 year teaching career would work well with mature writers.  I think that's because aside from stimulating the memory and offering some critical thinking opportunities, writing helps one save their life...literally and figuratively.  There are other simple benefits too. Even writing by hand helps maintain fine motor skills and of course, writing helps people process their thoughts.  In the words if one if my favorite quotes, "How will I know what I think until I see what I say."  Just substitute write for say and there you have it.  I don't think E.M. Forester would mind.

I'd decided to start with a simple writing strategy I'll call a childhood table of contents.  If you look at the table of contents of many books, the chapter titles are often fascinating...a world in themselves.  In my classroom, we used the Table of Contents from the popular Sandra Cisneros book, The House on Mango Street.  Most of these titles are so intriguing that you know there is an interesting story there at once.  

Take a look at this portion of the Table from the Cisneros book.  Which ones jump out at you so that you are dying to know more?

For me, it's titles like Hair, and Those Who Don't that make me want to know more.  They just sound intriguing.  

So, the next step is to think about your own childhood events and experiences and what a table of contents for that might look like.  My own personal Table  contains the titles, Do You Want To Practice Kissing, When He Robs Them, and Becks.  Anything peak your curiosity.

If that exercise is successful and my little group of reluctant writers want more, I'll follow that up with some descriptive writing activities to build some skills in writing fresh similes and metaphors, and possibly take a look at some models of various genres.  Trying to emulate some of the styles and skills of our favorite writers is always worthwhile.  Aside from building more skills, it serves to remind us how skilled there writers are and hopefully we retain fresh appreciation for them.

The longer we live, the more our memory plays tricks on us.  I'm sure working with memory will bring many confusing or contradictory experiences to the surface.  That's OK.  Writers of memoir don't have to be exact.  We are not trying to recall every exact detail from something 50 or 60 years ago.  We are retelling and recreating the emotions felt.