I wish you a river

 

We humans are a needy bunch.  When you compare us to our friends of feather or fur, we are high maintenance creatures, always on the prowl for another bauble to weave into our nests or secure our burrows.  And that’s okay.  We are an ebb and flow society, dependent on the persistence of supply and demand.  

In these last many months, I suspect that you, much as myself, may have noticed your demands turning inward, toward your human essence, your soul.  Once you had stacked your shelves to toppling with paper goods, canned foods, and disinfectants, you might have taken the opportunity to contemplate those things in life beyond physical needs and comforts.  Things a little less sanitizing and a little more sanctifying. And understand this.  I’m not accusing anyone of not embracing emotional and spiritual necessities before this pandemic.  I know I did, though I wonder if your balance has shifted as mine has.  From my hands to my heart. Less about what I need to grab and more about what grabs me.

With all the uncertainty of the present and future, perhaps today you are visiting the past more often in search of comfort.  An inner connection.  A touch of healing.

We all require spiritual sustenance.  And I’m not referring to a formal religious experience as much as I am something more basic, yet something certainly as divine.  Something that’s difficult to communicate. But when you do experience it, it heals you, at the times you most need the healing.  

This happened recently.  We decided to drive out into the country, to get out of the house, waylay our sheltering-in routine for a few hours.  It was one of those special early autumn days.  You know the ones, when everything comes together – the sun, the sky, the clouds, the breeze, the spice of earth and air.  One of those days when the tilt of the globe is right near plumb.  A time when you experience familiar places, but now, everything carries a subtle difference.  The routine takes on fresh life.  A sheen and shimmer, the way objects catch and spread the light.  A cemetery of faded stones bearing dear and familiar names.  An old train depot laboring through its last gasps, its fading yellow paint fighting valiantly to stay relevant.  A field of cotton bursting from its bolls, stretching all the way to the silent woods, tiny white clouds on stiff, brown stems, patiently awaiting the picker.  A two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, perched on its simple throne of land, reminiscent of when it was a poor man’s palace of chestnut logs crowned by a wood shake roof.   All these things.

And a river. 

It was the river that got me.

It’s called the Elk, a reluctant gift from the Chickasaw as they retreated farther south into Alabama prior to being herded west.  The river my ancestors stumbled upon in the early 1800s and decided that here was a good place to stop.  To settle.  It was the Elk that started my healing yesterday.  A few precious moments standing on a bridge staring down at that old river.   A river that ran long before I was born and will run long after I’ve moved on.  A river I’ve walked and fished and rested beside, asking difficult questions and sometimes finding difficult answers in the rush of its water against root-heavy banks and implacable sandbars.  

When I was a kid, I trot-lined the Elk with my father and uncles, my job being to sit in the back of the little boat and paddle till my arms fell off.  While Uncle Joe sat up front and “ran” the lines, slinging off old minnows and replacing them with fresh, live ones, and dip netting onto the floor of the boat a mess of twisting and flopping yellow cats and Mississippi blues that had been kind enough to stay hooked until we could get to them.  But what I remember most about those days and nights were the moments when I could rest the oar on my legs in that sacred space between lines, when the river would take over and float us to the next spot, with the entire world framed between those opposing banks.  The sounds of the slow water slapping against the boat, the incessant buzz and hum of katydids and treefrogs, and, late afternoon, the sun, and at midnight, a waning crescent moon, their reflections shimmering in the dingy mirror of water. Just a couple of fishermen submerged in air that struggled between humid and dry.  Between sweaty and sweet.  Between warm and cool.  Nothing but the anxious trill of a pileated woodpecker breaking the spell.  If there was a time when my existence and the whole of creation felt perfectly seamless, it was then.

Many years ago, I wrote a short story called “The Drowned Boy.”  Set on this same river, it was my first published story since my college years, and the process of writing it informed me much more than the many hours I spent in classrooms. It was also the first time I realized how important that long flow of water was to me.  In truth, the river wrote that story.  One wide bend, one foaming rush of shallows at a time. I just transcribed the words it whispered in my head late into the night. And while the point-of-view voice was that of a young boy coming of age because of unthinkable tragedy, the real voice of the story was the river. It was then that I realized how crucial it is to have a connection and how you might not even know you need it until you find it.  Or it finds you.  That a connection to the rest of the universe is sometimes the only thing that works.  To heal you and take you beyond all the chaos and clamor and uncertainty that bullies its way into your world.  

I wish you all a river. 

And you’re welcome to share mine if you like, for there’s plenty of it to go around.   But you have to be willing to accept the haunting with the blessing, the questions with the truth.  The rapids with the calm. And I wish you all fine autumn days like the one I had, whether it’s the autumn of the year or the autumn of your life.  Or both.  I wish for all of you a connection.  A healing. When your life wobbles a little and takes you out of sorts, out of plumb.  When circumstances have you adrift and the way back is clouded.  When you need a river to point you home.

For several weeks now, a bonded pair of mockingbirds has been following the old adage to go forth and multiply.  A bush that sits just on the inside perimeter of the pool fence, right beside the "Beware of Dog" sign, has been the center of their world:  first in an amazingly industrious effort to build the nest, then a slight lag while eggs were laid, and, before this week,  an absolute frenzy of activity to feed a nest of hatchlings.

Now they are frantically flying back and forth between the nest and the closest limbs of nearby trees.  Always within sight of the bush that holds the nest and close enough to be heard as they call out in staccato bursts.  I assume they're trying to coax their babies from the nest, get them to take that first short flight, the one that is necessary to sustain those young birds, in particular, and the family line in general.

I envy them.

Listen, I have no desire to be exposed to the elements of a stormy spring and summer and spend every waking hour attempting to raise young-uns.  I don't want to work even nearly as hard as those two birds in order to individually survive and provide sustenance to others.  I can't imagine, in bird hours, how much time, and what percentage of their overall lifespan, has gone into these last four or five weeks.

I can barely comprehend the amount of the courage, energy, and steadfastness that goes into their efforts.

They say that mockingbirds rank pretty high on the bird intelligence scale.  I don't know who studies these things, but I'm willing to take this information at face value.  They supposedly can distinguish between humans, recognizing the ones who pose a threat and the ones who don't.  Their ability to mimic others birds is astonishing.  The human theories vary on why they do this though I'm certain they know exactly why and are fine with it.

So they're smart, hardworking birds.

But that's not why I envy them.

I envy their faith.  Many will say the driving force behind these creatures is pure instinct rather than faith.  Hey, that's okay because I don't think there is anything wrong in being instinctually faithful. Faith is a good thing however you manage it.   Those who would concede that birds are, well maybe, capable of displaying faith would then insist that it's blind faith.  If faith is indeed "hope of that which is not seen," then all faith has a hint of blindness.

I might argue that these two mockingbirds are operating on truth.  Truth that is steeped in the reality that hard work, tireless energy, and implicit trust of the universe will be rewarded.  And that the universe is equipped like a Cy Young award winning pitcher with every pitch in the book:  curve, slider, fastball...but every pitch is hittable with enough preparation seasoned with inspiration and perspiration.

Then there's love.   Yeah, I know.  They're birds.  Even those people who would allow that dogs, and in a rare case, cats, demonstrate love, probably wouldn't go so far as to ascribe that emotion to birds.  But let me tell you something.  I've had a little time during this pandemic to observe.  To look and listen.  And it's difficult to do much observation without a good deal of thought as well.  And there's no way I could have sat there and watched these two mockingbirds over the last several weeks and not believe something more than instinct was driving them.  In fact, I've seen more evidence of faith, truth, and love in these two tiny creatures than I've seen in many of my fellow humans lately.  And maybe that suggests we should look outside of our own flawed species in these difficult times and to some of the other creatures we share this globe with, great and small.

And here's the thing.  Once those fledglings have been coaxed out of the comfort of their nest and began their own contribution to the cycle of life, those two adult birds will start all over again.  Another family this summer, maybe two.  Working in accord with each other and through storms and sunshine alike.  United on the wings of something that looks a lot like truth, faith, and love.  And thankfully oblivious of pandemics and politics and a nation of humans spending too much time mocking each other across the landscape of social media.

A rose isn't always a rose

It took almost eight weeks, but I finally snapped.

Don't get me wrong, I've been quarantined with maybe one of the most affable humans ever created.  She would make Melanie Hamilton look like a shrew.  And the friends who know us will tell you without hesitation, I would be the one who eventually caved in to the pressure of these difficult days. It being my nature and all.   But I'll tell you right now, I'm not ashamed and I'm not apologizing.  No way.

I'll keep the backstory brief.  My wife and I have been ordering our groceries on-line from Walmart for the duration of our sheltering-in period.  Easy process, pick a day and time, order much more food and other junk than you need or could ever eat in three pandemics, and go pick it up.  You pull into a designated slot in the parking lot and someone wheels out a dolly with all your provisions and loads them into your vehicle.  The only issue you might encounter is that sometimes an item is out of stock or an item is substituted.  It is the latter of these two that led me to come unglued.

My wife was doing Armageddon inventory control last week and announced, with some trepidation, that we were down to 48 rolls of toilet paper.  I had discovered weeks before that she wasn't interested in the proper manners and protocol around toilet paper purchases, such instruction just causing her to stare more intently into the screen of her smartphone.  Likewise, my math and science detailing the half-life of a mega roll of bathroom tissue, with my certainty that we had enough for the two of us to manage until Christmas, had no impact on her and her wishes.  So, like any good husband, I added it to the list, 98% certain that like all the other times, it would be out of stock.

The appointed time came and the deliverer rumbled out with a loaded dolly and announced that the only item out of stock was the asparagus and the only substitution was the toilet paper.  I tried to question the nice lady as to the differences between what we ordered and what we received, but was silenced by a sharp look from my wife.  Not a problem.  The question answered itself when we got home.

Think about this:  you're ready for a new dog in your life and you decide you want a German Shepherd.  A big, beautiful sleek hero of a canine, one that will carry his own weight and bring you years of loyalty and companionship.  You spend weeks waiting for the blessed day to arrive, you are giddy as you drive to the Humane Shelter, and when you get there, instead of this fine, noble German Shepherd, they bring a yipping, squirming little chihuahua to the car.  (Listen, no insult intended for you chihuahua lovers, I'm just trying to create a reasonable analogy here.)  And you spend the entire drive home wondering how in the world you are going to adjust your dream to this reality, and when you get there, you discover the chihuahua has peed all over the back of your SUV and his incessant whining causes your hearing aids to feedback.

Well, picture my dismay when I unload the groceries and I find our "substitution."  First of all, my original order was for twelve rolls of Charmin, the version that's the size of a temporary spare.  The paper that you need a pulley and fulcrum to yank off the roller.  You know the ones I mean, I'm sure you've had sheets separate on you from the weight of that monster roll more times than not.  And, in the new math of the toilet paper industry, those twelve rolls are equivalent to forty-eight "regular" rolls.  So what do I find?  Twelve beautiful, hefty, substantial rolls of my name brand choice?  Nope.  Not nearly.  Instead, scattered through the back of our vehicle are forty-eight pitiful, scrawny, single rolls of a generic bathroom tissue with the consistency of pond scum.  Twelve four-packs of imposters.  I proudly bring my discovery to the attention of my smug wife, who takes one look at it and says, "It's fine.  I'll use it."

Fine?  Really?  You have forty-eight rolls of something just slightly thicker than a hot July breeze and you're okay with it?  "Well," I say.  "I'm not."  And I proceed to tell her right there in the driveway why I wasn't okay with trying to find a spot somewhere in our house for forty-eight rolls of something that has the gall to call itself toilet paper, or bathroom tissue, or whatever sham of a name it was going by.  That it was an insult to all of the legitimate rolls of toilet paper and to the entire woodsy heritage of the toilet paper industry.  How this crap was going back to Walmart so fast its cardboard tube would spin.  Oh, man, let me tell you.  I wore my indignation like a crown! I preened and crowed and puffed up large!

"Well," she said, snatching up a 4-roll package, "I'm keeping this much of it.  I'll use it and you can take the rest back."

I was shocked.  A compromise, huh?  For the ninety-eight cents plus tax cost of one four pack, we could both get some level of satisfaction out of this uncomfortable situation.  And I have to admit that I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with myself.  In fact, I wondered if maybe this was an early sign of starting to slip over the edge.  So, tightening my mental hinges, I headed back to Walmart with the imposter paper.  When I got there, I called inside and let them know I had an exchange.  A lady came out and started loading the reprobate tissue into a cart.

"Sorry for the trouble," I mumbled.  "I just didn't think it would work out."

In the rearview mirror, I saw a big smile come on the lady's face, and I watched it until the gate closed her from my view.   She knew, I thought.  She knew!  I wasn't being petty or difficult, after all.  No matter what my wife thought, this nice Walmart lady knew I was right.  Everybody probably returned that awful stuff.  I felt light and strong at the same time. All of my doubts had been cleanly wiped away.  I nodded at those wise eyes that stared back at me in the mirror, put my car in reverse, and, a freshly redeemed man, I drove home.

The Peckerless Chicken

Calm down.  It's not what you think.

Just a recollection of simpler times.

I suppose I was 8 or 9.  My paternal grandmother and grandfather lived in a little house surrounded by tall hedges and sat catty-corner to the church. Across the road, train tracks ran beside the house, and, twice a day, an eastbound train rattled by.  An older gentleman in railroad overalls would toss brown paper bags of candy from the deck of the caboose.

The house was a simple two-story.  Reasonably warm in the winter and tolerable in the summer with the windows open and a fan going.   Pa had about a football field commute to his general store and Mammy held down the fort, cooking, cleaning, and taking an occasional break with a Redbook magazine and a Kool.

There was a stretch of bare ground in the back of the house, bordered by the smoke house, the hen house, and a couple of sheds.  But this grassless yard, it was the chickens' yard.  All day long, they clucked and cackled and chased bugs.  I suspect it was a pretty good life for a chicken, certainly a much better life than what current-day chickens have.  And it seemed that for every bug a chicken wolfed down, you'd receive a disproportionately larger amount of chicken poop from the other end.  Which was the source of the endless admonition upon entering the enclosed back porch from the chicken yard, "Wipe your feet!"

Those of you familiar with having chickens know that they weren't pets.  They were your eggs for breakfast and your go-to entree for Sunday dinner.   And though even today I cannot speak to the lifespan of a chicken, I do know that the flock had to be renewed every so often.  And that renewal consisted of bringing in a new flock of baby chicks - a whole boxful that you could spill out into the yard and watch immediately acclimate to life on their own.  Their cluck was just a peep, their cackle was yet to be developed, but they already had a handle on pecking at the ground for whatever there was to eat and commenced to do so "right out of the box," as they say.

I was visiting on a day that a new batch of baby chicks arrived.  Pa Gray rolled up in his old green Chevy truck, fetched a perforated cardboard box out of the bed, and set in on the ground.  He headed back to his store, leaving Mammy and me to gaze down upon a roiling wave of yellow feathers and a symphony of peeps.

All you had to do was tip the box on its side and the chicks proceeded to do what they were supposed to do.  Peck at the ground for feed, seed, and a stray bug or two.  And all the new arrivals did just that.

Except for one.

You see, there was one little fellow who, to put it simply, didn't have a pecker.  At the end of his face was just a hint of keratin.  Born without a beak.  But not without a brain and that brain still registered hunger and the automatic impulse to peck at the ground to find it.  Unfortunately, in his or her case, with no satisfaction.

The baby chick banged its face against the ground a couple of times and then I swear to this day he looked straight up at me, his little black eyes imploring that I help him.

It liked to have killed me.

I asked my grandmother what we could do to help and she just smiled and shook her head.

"We can't help the little fella," she said.  "He was born that way."

I asked what would happen to him.

She told me that the chick would have to adjust or it wouldn't survive.  How it was impossible to change its circumstances.  And if it couldn't figure out how to handle what life had dealt it, it would have no future.

Guess what?

It adapted.  I watched it over the next several weeks and it managed to tilt its head in a certain way and sort of roll the food into its mouth and down its throat.  Same process at the water pan.  It thrived as well as the rest of the flock, and, except for the obvious physical difference, in a few weeks, it was a full-fledged chicken, doing what full-fledged chickens do.

It could have protested and pouted and fumed and cried and screamed till the chickens came home, and it wouldn't have changed a thing.

You may not believe this story; it's your prerogative.  But I was there and, all these years later, it remains one that stuck with me.  And then there are those of you who have already taken that little trip to the dark side and imagined that for all that chick's ingenuity, all it got was a trip to a hot skillet.  Maybe so, but at least it got that far.

As I think about that story today, I think about how resiliency and adaptability seemed to be second nature to our parents and grandparents.  And I can't help but wonder if any of that "took" with us, and, if it did, are we passing it on to our children and grandchildren?  Are we giving them what they need to not only survive, but to prosper as well, when life throws them a curve ball?   When life fails to equip them with what they need to manage life in an uncertain world.

Today is March 29, 2020.  I doubt there is a single person who doesn't know where I'm going with this.  There has not been a time in the history of 99% of the people pecking away on this globe today when it has been more critical that we adapt.  We have to adapt to the horrific problem at hand as well as to a lifestyle that will most certainly be altered in decades to come.  And I doubt it will be an easy transition, but I also know it will be far from impossible. Very likely the quality of the lives of our future generations depends on how creative, cooperative, and adaptable our current society is.   This isn't an invitation to a pity party.  It's just one tiny slice of a lifetime of memories that scratched itself to the front of my brain today.  Don't ask me why because I couldn't tell you.  And I wish for everyone the power to evolve and adapt not just to survive, but to succeed and prosper well beyond any aspirations you may have had before we entered these trying times.  Like that little fellow in my grandmother's back yard, find a way.  It's really that simple.

And I can assure you there's one thing that certainly will not be on my lunch menu today.

The gift

                                                       

A friend gave me a pencil recently.  To be specific, she gave me Blackwing Palomino #602.  Personally adorned with a winding of washi tape of stunning orange, yellow, and green to keep someone else from mistaking it for their Blackwing Palomino #602.  But it wasn't just a pencil, you need to understand.  It was a gift - spontaneous, thoughtful, without pretense, and with nary a shadow of quid pro quo.  A gesture from the heart.

Geri and I attended a writers conference in Orange Beach late last fall and were happy to reconnect with a young lady we met at the same conference the year before.  Since she probably wouldn't want  the attention, for simplicity's sake, I'll just call her "Amy."  We were sitting at the same table during the conference keynote dinner and, while most people were thumbing away at their smartphones capturing items of note, Amy was recording her thoughts in prehistoric fashion:  pencil on paper.  And what a pencil it was!  Even without the colorful Washi tape, it was a handsome instrument of aromatic cedar wood painted medium grey  and topped with an eraser that looked like it had been run over by a Subaru.

I had barely finished expressing my admiration of that fine writing instrument when she pushed it toward me past delinquent crumbs of yeast rolls and through small pools of water from our condensating water glasses.

"What?" I said.

"It's yours," she answered.

Well, I told her that I couldn't possibly take her pencil, especially since she had gone to the trouble to dress it up with the nice tape and all.  It was obviously special to her.

"I have another," she said with a look of triumph, digging in her bag and extracting a second Blackwing Palomino #602.  (Much shorter and undecorated, I noticed, and I was already gloating over the fact that my new pencil was the obvious superior of the two.)

(I know just about now that some of you are getting ready to speed-read the rest of this blog because a:  you're just really not all that into pencils or b: there's paint drying somewhere that needs your immediate attention...but, if you will, bear with me just another couple of minutes.)

What was just a germ of thought at the time and has since bloomed large and loud:  the simplest kindnesses in life are always, always, going to pack the biggest punch.  And people really aren't all that complex and in need of big, cinematic moments.  In this current environment of personal and social warfare, from the real violence that bangs and stumbles its way out into the streets to the passive-aggressive spit-fights of memes and words in the alleyways of social media, simple gestures of camaraderie and friendship carry a lot of weight.  Enough weight, in fact, to squash so much of this spiteful silliness that we are exposed to day in and day out.  And whether either of us knew it at the moment, what Amy did meant a great deal to me.

In fact, I used that Blackwing Palomino #602 to create the first draft of this blog.  Its graphite lead eased my words on paper like silk on suede while its eraser absolved me of my original sins of syntax.  My words waltzed out of that suave devil.  Having finished, I decided I wouldn't use that pencil again.  One and done.  I would preserve it, save what was left so that it would always have plenty of life left in it, its needle-sharp point ready to strike at moment's notice.  A souvenir, a keepsake.  Maybe put it on my desk to be sucked into the black hole of clutter that resides there.  Then better judgement vanquished that thought and I decided that, doggone it, I will write that pencil right down to its gnarly little stub and rub at that eraser until its metal ferrule mutilates the paper.  That's why it was gifted to me and I would be doing the giver and the pencil an injustice if I approached it differently.

I suspect all gifts are meant to be used right down to the nub, right to the very end.  Gifts of talent, skill, and proficiency passed down from the Supreme Gifter as well as a friend's gently used number two pencil, with a few light bite marks providing an extra dose of character.  Gifts are meant to be used for the good they bring and the joy they create.  Gifts come in all shapes, sizes, and usages, and you never want to look a single one in the mouth.  Gifts aren't meant to be hidden or saved for later.  What would the point be?  If Amy's gift to me works out the way I wish, it will bring at least a brief respite from the written and spoken violence we are often exposed to.  A counterbalance to spite and ugliness.  A shading, if you will, of soft graphite offerings on brand new pages, toward something a little better.  An olive branch bobbing on the flood waters.

Just the right words can do that you know.

The Old Man

I caught the old man looking at me this morning. Caught him out of the corner of my eye. Just in my peripheral. Who was he, you ask.  What does it matter? He was an old man. An old man. He looked like he had just gotten up, clumps of grey hair rebelling against a balding scalp, eyes still swollen from sleep. Tall, but without the stoop I usually notice in some men his age. (Give it a few more years, old guy.) And in those eyes a look of surprise that slowly gave way to one of recognition. Yeah, he knew who I was and I knew him. Hey there, old man, I thought. I know you. We smiled simultaneously - big grins actually - just before I stepped from his view.

I have taken on the duty of telling anyone who will listen (and that group is dwindling) my theory, which I'm certain is shared by some, that our soul finds an age it's comfortable with and commences to squat right there. While the face, the body, all those outwardly exposed things, age at what seems to be exponentially, the soul refuses to budge.

The country megastar Toby Keith talks about when he was sharing a cart with Clint Eastwood at a charity tournament in Pebble Beach when the actor related that filming would begin on The Mule in a couple of days. When Toby asked the actor well into his eighties how he keeps going, Eastwood gave him that trademark glare and told him that he just gets up every morning and goes out. And  "I don't let the old man in."

Perfect advice.

I believe that women do a much better job than men in barring the door against their aging selves. Of course, they do enlist a little help.  She wouldn't like me telling it, but when we travel, my wife needs a separate piece of luggage for her "cosmetics."  For the longest I tried to encourage her to just pack a few essentials in her regular luggage, but she always managed to resist that well-intentioned suggestion.  Now, I just go with the flow and recognize the fact that this extra piece of luggage being included is more essential than...well...than me being included.

But before I ignite a war of sexes, let me get back to my point.  And that it is essential we all keep the old men and women from elbowing their way in.  Oh, we can't do much about them lurking around all the blasted mirrors, or photo-bombing us by replacing their bodies and faces with ours in group photos and selfies.  We can't keep them from breathing heavily every time we overextend ourselves physically or wrenching our knees and shoulders after a long day battling the house or the lawn.

But we can respect all the trouble our souls go through to stay rooted at a much younger age.  My soul chose thirty-five and I'm perfectly happy with that.  An age when I was old enough to know better but young enough to still do stupid things from time to time.  An age when I wasn't tied to blood pressure medication and knee braces.  An age when sunrises glow like heaven afire and sunsets spread across the sky like melting strawberry sundaes.

Listen.  I love you, old man, and I'm more than happy to let you eat over the sink in my kitchen and take naps on my couch.  You can creak around the house and make annoying comments to my wife. We can even watch some college football together on autumn Saturday afternoons.  But I'm not ready for you to come in.  Sorry, you sweet old fellow you, but in that regard, you're just not welcome.  And one more thing, while you're at it, stay away from my mirror!

Eagle Morning

Just after crossing Dickey Bridge at the Elk River this morning, an eagle, close enough to reach out and touch, swooped toward our truck.  Well, maybe not quite that close, but I could see the division of the feathers along his wings and the light glinting off the shiny brownish yellow of his beak.  He was flying west along the riverbank across a field of freshly planted corn.  It was still early enough in the morning that the sun was a melting glob of butter against the blue, cloud-streaked sky and dew lit up the green pastures like diamonds.  

He, and I say “he” but it could have just as easily been a “she,” rowed his way toward a place where the Elk takes a sharp meander, his wide wings slicing huge swaths of air, as methodical as a scythe in orchard grass, commanding land and sky.  As he shrank in the distance, a second eagle burst from a treetop to join my eagle in a short ritual of flight, for moments gliding concentrically above a common area of trees, before disappearing into the thick canopy of leaves. 

It was a dance of sorts, those two eagles, a celebration of return, equal parts joy and relief, the closest thing to a welcoming hug they could manage.  I have no doubt they shared a nest and in that nest were a couple of hungry fledglings, screaming in anticipation of a breakfast of trout or squirrel. It hasn’t been an easy spring for the pair, there on the banks of the Elk.  The heavy rains and strong winds of an unusually grumpy spring presented its challenges and there were many cold and rainy days and nights when their warm bodies were the only buffer between their eaglets’ life and death.  And where they could usually depend on dry ground to land and hunt, the angry brown water of a river out of banks swirled below them.

I’m happy for them that this is a good day.  The chilly May morning has settled into a comfortable warmth and a short reprieve has shouldered its way in between the spring storms that the west side of the country insists on sending our way every week.  Maybe the young eagles will take their first short flight today. Or maybe their stomachs will be so full that they will wait another day or two.  Hey, that’s just part of the freedom of being an eagle. 

 And they can’t know how thankful I am for the sixty seconds those majestic creatures shared with me this morning.  They have no earthly idea how high that little happenstance I witnessed this morning will allow me to soar.  Each and every time I think about it.

Hail to Michigan!

A decree, if you will!  2018 will heretofore be noted in my college sports history as my debut year as a Michigan fan.  Part of the Big Blue Nation.  A Wolverine, baby!

People who know me and my football leanings will tell you that I change college teams about as often as Henry the Eighth changed wives.  And with just about as much ceremony.  (And, by the way, King Henry Ocho really had only three wives.  Three other marriages were annulled.  As were a few of my college football allegiances.)

For most of my life I was a Tennessee fan with the most satisfying memories being the Bill Battle, Johnny Majors,  and Phil Fulmer eras.  I even hung in during the short and sweet Kiffin and Dooley seasons, though I believed the handwriting appeared on the wall pretty darn early those particular years.  I took a shot at being an Alabama fan but decided that was WAY, WAY too much pressure.  A bad game, or jeepers, a LOSS even, and the season was pretty much over.  As well as the coach getting a moving van dispatched to his home with a one-way ticket to the Brazilian rainforest.  I took a shot at being a Razorback before discovering that, much like Bama fans, you have to be born into that dynasty...one-state-removed neighbors need not seriously apply.  So, weary of searching for a college football home, and since I already had a bunch of Volunteer gear, I returned to Tennessee during the early part of the Butch Jones era.  Though I was pretty sure that now the handwriting wasn't on the wall but thickly sprayed in deep orange on the massive walls of Neyland Stadium in font as looming as the hills of Knoxville.

This year, I wanted to venture out.  I wanted to spread my wings.  And since my wife had for so many  years suffered right along with my SEC football exploits, I decided to go north, back to her homeland, and adopt the Michigan Wolverines.  A chance meeting with a fan and alumnus at our favorite hangout in Huntsville introduced us to the "North Alabama University of Michigan Fans" group and, in August and in earnest, our journey began.

It's been a good year.  Even with an opening game loss to Notre Dame.  And I believe it important to post this blog before what is likely the biggest game of the season:  at Ohio State. The dreaded Buckeyes, where the ghost of Woody Hayes menacingly roams the sidelines, anxious to trip a breakaway running back or a fleet wide receiver.   If I waited until after the game, either giddiness or sorrow would most certainly influence my writing.    So it's best to post now or forever hold my peace.

Of course, I hope that Michigan and Ohio State fight like a pack of starving wolverines on a colony of heinous honey badgers.  (Allow me my poetic license, but I had to assign an animal to Ohio State.  I don't think "a pack of wolverines on a bushel basket of buckeyes" has nearly the visual effect.) This is always a historic game and I would hope that everyone, on both sides, would want to see both teams fight like there's no tomorrow (and, in the CFB playoff world, there isn't).  Of course, I want to see the U of M take the "W" and go on and dispose of Northwestern and then plow through two more teams for the National Championship.

(Okay.  Come on doubters.  Why would I not want that?  It might be my first year as a Michigan fan but what law says I have to work my way up to a National Championship?)

So, to the couple of hundred of folks who will eventually find their way to my obscure little blog:  I know that many of you have been my friends for years and are chuckling away at my newest "new team."  Hey?  Have I ever led you, in the many years past, to expect any fan loyalty from me?  Have many of you not called me, on more than one occasion, a "fair-weather fan?"  Some of you have known me for only a few years and have noted often that I may have the most diverse college football fan wardrobe you have  encountered.  And then there are those of you who have known me only a short period of time but believe it's perfectly okay for a grown man to change college football allegiances as often as underwear.

I will say this.  Win or lose from this point forward, it has been a great experience being a Michigan fan this year.  And I intend to keep my maize and blue gear in a very accessible place in my closet.  I find my fellow Michigan fans to be loyal without being insane, to be vocal and verbal without being vile or vulgar, to be optimistic with a healthy dose of realism, and to welcome newcomers and outsiders with just the slightest of scrutiny, wariness, and doubt.   (Come on, I've seen a few looks askance from time to time.)

As we enter the crunch time of this great college football season, I wish the best for all of you, whomever your teams may be.  May your teams play tough, stay safe and strong, and, if they must lose, may it be in the 15th period of overtime.  To my Crimson Tide friends, yes, I do understand that Nick Saban is still "no Bear Bryant," but I have to say I sure would like to see a 'Bama/UofM game on the schedule in a few weeks.  To my good, ole Rocky Top friends, I know it's definitely been rocky and you're nowhere near the top, but, yes, I do acknowledge that "there's always next year."  And, yes, "it does take time to rebuild."  P.S.  If any of you would like some slightly used, extra-large, UT gear, hit me up.

So, that being said, Happy Thanksgiving to all and "Hail to the conqu'ring heroes!  Hail, hail to Michigan!"

"GO BLUE!"

The Concert

A few weeks ago, it seemed a splendid idea.  A big name concert only a half hour from our home.  Jumping on-line for tickets, I toyed with the idea of the VIP package: seats somewhere in the first four rows on the floor, an officious looking badge to hang around our necks, and a backstage meet-and-greet with the celebrities.  Then, naw.  Just get the best floor seats you can find and eagerly await the evening.

Which we did.  And, in due time, the eagerly awaited evening arrived.

It would serve no purpose to name the performers.  They are of the "country" genre, to the extent that modern "country" can claim a genre.  Plus, I now believe that the concert experience is pretty much interchangeable, regardless of the genre on the stage.  The mind-blowing noise and chaos is, I now believe, a common concert experience.

Mind-blowing?   It truly is.  Though a recent nightmare, I struggle to express it.

 I'll do my best.

The entire evening wasn't a total loss.  The drinks and appetizers at a restaurant near the arena were excellent.  Staying planted right there on our barstools for the next four hours would have been an grand decision.

The venue was easy to navigate.  Small, compact - maybe even cozy - seats simple to find and claim.  And being one to embrace protocol, we arrived an hour before the first act. ( Hey, that's what it said on the internet!)  Though we wondered if we were in the right place because, at six o'clock, it was basically us and the ushers.  But we moseyed our way to our floor seats (more on floor seats later)  and sipped our bottled water in the library quietness of the auditorium.

A l-o-n-g hour later, the lights flickered and dimmed, a red spotlight hit the drummer of the opening act, and...

all hell broke loose.

Imagine, if you will, being a medieval knight preparing for the most daunting battle of your career...encased in armor as thick as Wally Cox's glasses, head to toe, not a single hair or pore exposed.  Pretty much a solid steel mannequin.  And then imagine four guys the size of The Mountain in Game of Thrones showing up and whaling on your armor with sixteen pound sledge hammers.  Again, and again, and again. Infinitum.  Rhythmically, I'll concede.  But endless.

 That, my friends, is how a concert starts.

I never knew that clothing could vibrate.  But, I assure you, it can.  And it did.  I watched hypnotically as the front of my shirt pulsed to the drumbeat.  My pant cuffs slapped my socks like high tide.  No one in the building needed a pacemaker.  All the pace you could ever want or  need was being launched out of suspended speakers the size of New Hampshire.

My hearing aids left home without leaving a note.  We're out of here!  they said.  I didn't blame them.  I looked at Geri and her eyes were squeezed shut and her hands were clapped over her ears.  And here's the kicker, between the first and second songs, she removed her hands and showed me the wads of Kleenex jammed in each ear.  She said, "I don't think I can stand this."  I'm serious, folks.  It was that loud.

After a cacophonous twenty minutes with a gal whom I'm pretty sure painted her pants on with a black magic marker (not complaining, just reporting),  relative quiet settled around us.   We noticed that this was when all the smarty, non-compliant concertgoers finally began to show up and claim their seats.

More time limped by and eventually the second act's drummer starts jackhammering away, with the obvious goal of making the opening act's drumming sound like rain falling gently on a tin roof.  Another band I never heard of with a front man who could have been the offspring of Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly.  If Elvis and Buddy could have engineered an offspring.  As with the first act, the deafening drums and cavernous guitars ruled the show.  I'm pretty sure that there was some singing happening, but singing wasn't the focus.  Drumming was.

I could go on and on.  Like those drummers.  I even hesitate to mention the spotlights obviously salvaged from Alcatraz that swept over the room and into our eyes with the sole purpose of inflicting migraines and temporary blindness.

I barely remember the headliners.  By the time they appeared, with the auditorium truly beginning to fill up with the most recalcitrant of the attendees, who had failed to read the clearly stated attendance etiquette from the internet, we were SO over it.  SO, SO, SO...over it. By then we had been there for three hours and we would have been on our last nerve if we had any nerves left.  Or eardrums, or retinae.  So, I won't tell you what we did after about six songs into the main act.  But you can probably guess.

One last thing before I bring this piece to a close.  Let's revisit those floor seats that I was so proud to have nabbed.  Listen, they are only "seats" until the concert starts.  After that, they are the blunt objects protruding into the back of your knees as every single fan in "floor seats"  rises from their chairs to stand, sway, dance and shimmy, while hoisting sloshing cups of beer toward the ceiling, shouting and screaming every single freaking word of every single freaking song.  So loud and off-key that you have no idea if the performers paid to sing are actually doing more than simply moving their lips and planning a quick exit should things get any nuttier.

Hey, listen.   I'm not one to look down my nose at a party.  I just didn't know that buying a floor ticket was an invitation to said party.  As I didn't know that a floor ticket meant you were in an area where it's a stigma to use your chair as a seat.  They really should print that on the tickets:  "Please refrain from sitting in your seats."

Let me say this.  I'm happy that thousands of people had a grand, old time that evening.  And they sure didn't ask for a couple of senior citizens to crash their party.  A "older couple" who seemed clueless that it's more fun to stand for hours than sit at a concert, that act like they've never had a little bit of Bud Light accidentally dribble on them, a couple of near-septuagenarians with wads of facial tissue protruding from their ears and horror-stricken eyes searching desperately for the red exit signs.

It wasn't their fault that we believed we had received way, way, way more than our money's worth about five songs into the main act.

                                                                     ******

When we finally scuttled out of the auditorium and into the parking lot, we were mesmerized by the quiet of the evening.  Quiet had never been so...well...quiet.  The moon was bright and full and when we looked back at the building, it appeared to be alternately rising from and settling back on its foundation.  A pulsing mushroom.  Above the heavenly sawing of the crickets and the sleepy, steady hum of tires on the four-lane, we heard what sounded like a strong heartbeat emanating from the roof.  We knew it was a drummer, inside that brightly lit, quivering building, whaling away with abandon.  We supposed by now the floor inside was gluey with margarita and whiskey sour residue and that all the various colognes and perfumes were battling a growing gale of beer breath.

Outside and apart from all of that, two extremely grateful concert-goers make an escape to their car, two moon-drawn shadows, hand in hand, breathing the breath of freedom and agreeing that the next concert they attend would likely not be a concert at all.  Nope.  Not by a long shot.   They were, indeed, quite certain it would be a concerto.

On jellyfish and waxing moons

I found that I cannot stroll the beach without a thousand random thoughts buzzing around my head like heat seeking missiles.  Today was no exception.  The afternoon was extra bright, as if the sun had turned up its intensity a few billion lumens.  Or maybe because the days leading up to this one had been uncharacteristically cloudy and rainy.  But today?  Bright, hot... perfect ocean, perfect sky, perfect everything.  Even a waxing quarter moon plugged into the brilliant afternoon sky like a shard of bleached shell peeking out from the sand.

Folks on the beach were busy, or not busy, doing, or not doing, the things folks on the beach do.  Or don't do.  Umbrellas of dark primary colors sprang from the sand every several yards, providing shade for drowsy parents, one eye closed, the other eye trying to keep up with adolescents charging the ocean or packing pail-shaped columns of sand into castles.  More than a few people were engrossed in books, made-for-the-beach thrillers and romances - books with actual covers and pages- while a few squinted away at Kindles, tilted at odd angles, attempting to outwit the glaring sun.  A few offered themselves up as human sacrifices to thirsty Ra, willfully ignoring decades of dermatological education in hopes of achieving a skin shade and texture somewhere between burnt toast and freshly laid asphalt.  The breeze smelled of salt and simmering sunscreen.  But still, it was that rare and sought-after perfect day.

Almost.

About halfway into my walk, I happened upon a jellyfish which had suffered the misfortune of being washed up by the surge of high tide only to be left beached, high and dry, by the lowering tide.  It glistened a bright shade of purple, reminding me of the dollop of grape jelly I had allowed myself at breakfast that morning.  Perhaps, I thought, it's a grape jellyfish.  Actually, I knew it was a Portuguese  Man o' War, with a reputation for being pretty darn unforgiving once it got its barbed tentacles attached.  Actually, it's not a true jellyfish but close enough.  And with venom strong enough to paralyze or kill small fish and make humans wish they were dead.  And I already know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that idiot saved that horrible creature.  He returned it to the sea, putting it in a position down the road to sting some poor unsuspecting swimmer.  Even a helpless, innocent child, perhaps.

I stared at it a moment, watching its clear bladder slowly puff up and deflate, puff up and deflate.  Then I backed away and continued my walk.

A half hour later, on my return trip, I was surprised to see the Man o' War still trapped in the sand by the slowly ebbing tide.  What an interesting turn of fate, I thought.  Certainly that much-maligned creature didn't wake up this morning and imagine that by the middle of the afternoon, it would be stuck on the beach like Tom Hanks in "Castaway."  With its Man o' War wife (a Woman o' War?) nervously awaiting his return while all their little Babies o' War whined and flagellated, wondering when Daddy was coming home.  It just didn't seem fair.  And I couldn't help but wonder if this was another of those Surprise Pop Quizzes of Life staring up at me with its breath continuing to get increasingly shallow.

It was a dilemma in more ways than one.  But after I had disposed of the dilemma of whether or not to save the creature,  I began working on the dilemma of how I was going to manage to get it back into the ocean and safely on its way, without wreaking pain and havoc on myself.

Here's what I did.

There wasn't a stick or rigid piece of seagrass in sight.  No kid's discarded shovel.  No suitable piece of indestructible styrofoam or plastic.  Nothing natural or man-made to protect my hands from what I imagined was pain that was light-years beyond my level of tolerance.  Then it came to me.  I knelt before that horrible little creature with my vulnerable knees inches away from its weedy tentacles,  and, with both hands cupped together, I scooped deeply into the sand beneath his violet, gelatinous body.  I slowly rose to my feet with him firmly in my hands, encrusted in plenty of thick, wet sand, I walked him into the ocean waist-deep.  When the next large wave broke, I flung him.  Like Ernest T. Bass, I pitched that little sucker as far as I could.  Ha!  You knew it, didn't you?  You knew I was going to do that from the very beginning, didn't you?   I saved that horrific one-eyed,  purple people-eating monster.  Then I turned and high stepped my way back to shore with the incoming waves breaking against the back of my legs and my ankles.

The very same waves that decided to speed my little buddy back toward the beach, directly at me, allowing him to wrap himself around my left ankle, his little balloon of a head grasping my ankle clockwise while a dozen or so sticky tentacles tightly wrapped my ankle counter-clockwise.  I did not budge.  I.  Did.  Not.  Breathe.

I just closed my eyes, gritted my teeth,  and waited for the pain.

That never came.

When the next wave broke at my feet, the Man o' War unwrapped himself, freed my grateful ankle, and nonchalantly floated away beneath the waves and back out to sea.

Not even a good-bye kiss.

You know what?  That creature didn't ask to be a Man o' War.  He was born one, and having burst upon this world as what he was, he had no choice but to do what Men o' War do.  To get by.  And, on this bright sunny day, with the perfect sky and the perfect ocean and the perfect clouds, you'll never convince me that he was anything but the victim of an indifferent, waxing moon upon the conspiring tides.  Just a random pull without a random push.  And I figured that if I was ever the victim of a poorly timed marriage of moon and tide, and needed a little boost to straighten things out, there would be someone or something that would come along and be my advocate.  An unexpected, unassuming hero or heroine, if you would.  And I'd like to think that maybe, just maybe,  I'll be rewarded for having even that most minuscule drop of influence in the vast, stormy ocean of nature.

Either that or I'll get stung so badly tomorrow I'll have to go on a week of bedrest.

What's that sound?

In 1966, Stephen Stills, while jamming with Buffalo Springfield, wrote "For What It's Worth."  And now, a half century later, I stumble upon an article in the Wall Street Journal informing me that, according to Pew Research Center, almost half of Americans get their news from Facebook.  And when they finish getting their news from Facebook and other social media sources, they share and comment on it in increasingly prodigious quantities.  What do these pieces of information have to do with each other?  I don't know for sure.  Maybe nothing.  Maybe something.

First things first.

 It's been 50 plus years, a half century, since "For What It's Worth" peaked at number 7 on the Billboard Hot 100 Chart.  Five decades since Dick Clark's American Bandstand previewed this very undanceable song.  Yet another half century before, World War I, the war to end all wars, was being waged.  But in 1967, an additional war to end all wars behind us,  to an eighteen year old like me with a fresh, unfettered draft card, 1917 was ancient history.  Really ancient.  So I have to suppose that an eighteen year old today spending any time at all thinking about a song from 1967, a wobbly vinyl disc revolving on a dinner plate of a turntable at forty-five rounds per minute, would seem just as ancient.  Real old-people stuff.

But stay with me because there is something there.  Something there in that song.  Something there in our current state of affairs.

"There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind."

I recall the battle lines in 1967.  When you think of what happened within a year of this song, you can't help but see it as eerily prophetic.  Within two months of each other in early 1968, we would lose Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy to the bullets of assassins.  Disenchantment with the Vietnam War would accelerate and all of it would take on a apocalyptic tenor weeks later in Chicago at the Democratic National Convention.  And all of my young, long-haired, hippie contemporaries were right smack dab in the middle of it.  Getting clubbed and kicked and generally pummeled by every law enforcement adult in reach.

Thank goodness we had no social media to fan the flames in those days.  We might have seen the Second Civil War or the third war to end all wars.

"What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side."

We don't need to carry signs now.  We can post our signs on our timelines daily.  We can tweet and Instagram support for our side at the speed of a Jefferson Starship.  Hey...forget the signs...an appropriate emoticon will do just fine.

"Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away."

"We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down."

I believe there is much to be optimistic about today.  I really do.  But I also believe we are living in an era of unprecedented paranoia, from our national leadership all the way to the man and woman on the street.  Or rather, the man and woman on-line.

You know, I started this particular blog a few months ago and had pretty much dispatched it to the "Saved" column.  The place where many well-intentioned blogs go to spend their last days, and, ultimately, to be transferred to that electronic trash bin in the sky.  But things happen.

Minor and major.  (And really, who's to define what's minor or major?)

This morning I was cruising Facebook (shame on me) and witnessed the sudden and apparent end of a long-term friendship.  All because of - yep, you guessed it -  a difference of opinion around something political in nature.  And I really have to question the "political" part.  Forgive my assumption, but most of the division and derision and frustration today stems from whether one chooses to strongly support, or wishes to quickly deport, our current head of state.  We can throw around all the cliche-ish tags like conservative or liberal or gun-toting or snowflake or blah, blah, blah...till our strained eyes glaze over.  We can claim our rightful and righteous place as a Democrat or a Republican.  We can be blue or red or whatever other color we choose to represent our biases.  But if there is a battle line drawn (and there is), the President of the United States is soft-shoeing and thumbs-upping right in the middle of it.  Self-inflicted or not.  Deserving or not.  Believe it or not.  And as I witnessed this increasingly tense exchange between these two ladies, both of whom appear to be very nice and intelligent people, I realized, at best, a huge crack erupted in their friendship, and, at worst, a knife pierced it through the heart.

Sad.

Two other headliners since the time I first considered this blog:  the horrific school shooting in Florida and the brain-numbing Waffle House murders in Antioch, Tennessee.

Unimaginable.

"There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware."

"Stop children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down."

Before you jump to conclusions, this piece isn't about guns, the Constitution, or the President of the United States.  It's not about keeping score or winning.  I promise.  This piece is about humanity and its future.  Period.

If you know me and have read my blogs, you know I would much rather write about animals or trees or wax sentimentally about my childhood.  I would rather make you smile than cause you wrinkles.  And my goal is always to entertain.  But there is something happening here.  Social media is changing the fabric of our lives.  And it's not a slow evolution, one patiently rendered cross-stitch at a time.  No, no, no.    It's a seam-busting, cloth-ripping, button-popping change.  It's louder than the Titanic getting filleted  by that iceberg.   Listen.  I'm as endeared to whole connection process as you are.  I like virtual visits as much as you do.  I like knowing what's going on around the world in warp-speed time.  And I can embrace (most of the time) the new voyeuristic spin on friendship.

But we have to heed Buffalo Springfield's fifty year old warning.  There is something going down.  Never before have school children's ears had to be on alert for certain sounds.  The rack of a bullet entering the chamber.  The staccato swarm of a beehive of hot lead.  The muffled thuds of sneakers tearing down the hallway.  Never before have battle lines been so deeply, so distinctly, so seemingly irrevocably drawn.  Not even in my beloved 1960s did I see adults brutally ostracize young people for speaking their minds and acting upon their preferences.  Vilifying children for having the audacity of an opinion.  It's been a long time since I've seen "so much resistance from behind."

Metaphors shouldn't be mixed, we're told.  And I probably shouldn't mix Stephen Stills with T.S. Eliot (cue the sound of dozens of folks hitting their "Escape" button).  But we all should be wondering what "that sound" is, exactly.  Maybe it's many sounds.  Maybe it's gunshots.  Maybe it's voices, being increasingly raised above the others.  Or doors slamming on  long-term friendships.  Maybe it's simply the thundering silence of growing tensions.

In  Eliot's "The Hollow Men," published almost 100 years ago, the ending verses are these:

"This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper."

Take a few minutes and read the poem.  I consider it a prophecy just as I consider "For What It's Worth" a prophecy.  And what is a prophecy, if not a warning?  And what is a warning, if not an opportunity for change?  Or, in this case, an opportunity to stop detrimental change.

As usual, I don't have the answers.  Just the observations.  So now I'll let this little blog simmer for at least 24 hours.  And, when I revisit it, I'll make the decision as to whether I want to share it with the few dozens who don't mind tuning me in for a few minutes.  If you're reading this, you know that I chose to let it see the light of day.  If you're not, well, your none the worse for wear and probably out there cruising Facebook land, discarding unreasonable, old friends and making new, agreeable ones.

Whichever, I'm not ready for the world to end with either a bang or a whimper.  I'm not ready for us to be divided by something that has a finite shelf life, if we can just wait it out.  And I certainly believe that the mental and moral price of continuing down this forked path is much more than we are willing to pay.  I am ready for us to move on to more important things.  Like dogs, and trees, and the glorious days of youth.  And for a future that embodies harmony and rejects discord.

For what it's worth.

This morning in the living room

"Lose" and "lost" are tough words.  They can be horrid, given half the chance.  Four-letter words that can bring night crashing down in the middle of the most gloriously sunny day.  If there were a contest to choose words to ban from language, those two certainly would be in my top ten.

And I'm not talking about some uses of the word.  Like "they lost the ballgame."  So what.  "I lost my car keys."  Certainly a problem but not irredeemable.  Or Ronnie Milsap's "Lost in the Fifties."  That's actually a nice kind of lost.

What I'm talking about is losing someone close to you.  People and pets.  And, yes, I'm going to include pets right up there with people, acknowledging that there is a significant difference, but also maintaining that when a living thing is lost, it hurts pretty bad.

Plus, if I didn't lump them together, I wouldn't be writing this particular piece.  I wouldn't want to.

Okay.  A little disclaimer or maybe a bit of an early revelation here.  I don't intend this to be a "down" piece.  Maybe not a pleasant little jaunt along one of life's merry paths, but certainly not a big, ole downer.  It's just that I had, or re-had, an early morning revelation, a wee hour epiphany, and I need to get it down on paper, as they say.

I've lost both parents.  I've lost my brother, my only sibling.  Grandparents, aunts, uncles...along with a fair amount of friends.  I suppose that living isn't only loving.  It's also losing.  You live long enough and the loving and losing pile up.  Thank goodness that the loving is there to keep us afloat during the losing.

Yet, with all those human losses, it is the recent loss of pets, and most particularly our two wonderful pooches, that impacts me most this day.  And, in order to get to the point in as short of a time and in as few keystrokes as possible, I'll cut right to the chase.

Geri and I awoke early this morning as we have in the last many mornings.  Morning, as defined by time, and not by light.  It was still full dark when we went into the living room, which up until a few days ago was just simply an extension of our dog house, by virtue of almost every piece of furniture having been covered with sheets and towels.  By virtue of the fact that we are the type of pet parents who will apologize to guests for there being very little space for them to sit because, after all, our house is just a very large, centrally heated and cooled, dog house.  And it is, as they say, a "living" room.

This morning, as in a handful of mornings past, there are no sheets and towels on the living room furniture.  Each piece is exposed in all its pre-dog glory.  Geri washed all the towels and sheets, folded them, put them into bags, and we donated them to the local animal shelter.  As we did the unopened bags and cans of food and the boxes of treats.  Baylee's outdoor bed was loaded and delivered in hopes that some little temporary orphan would have a dry place off the ground.  Emerald's barely used purple halter (he really looked sharp in purple) may help someone lead their shelter dog to a forever home.  That would be nice.

But, anyway, back to the reformed living room.  Geri got comfortable on Baylee's couch and I settled into Emerald's super-sized chair with my feet up on the ottoman that was his favorite place to sun.  Picture windows, nearly floor to ceiling, face the south.  I read for awhile, periodically watching the southern sky lighten and the stars fade into the blooming light blue expanse.  Except for one.  The morning star, I figured it was, and it seemed to brighten and blaze as the morning continued to dissolve the night.  

I gained surprising solace from that single star.  I would read for a few minutes in the absolute quiet and glance out the window and watch that huge star flare and glimmer like an indefatigable angel.  And, on this morning, it made me think of Emerald.  Of his energy and his spirit.  Of his intelligence and his loyalty.  Of his humility and his hopefulness.  And I was comforted.  Until...

I paused to look for the star and it was gone.  That friendly, comforting morning star had evaporated, right before my eyes.  What? I asked.

And then it came to me as clearly as if someone had stepped up right next to me and spoken.  You know what I'm talking about.  One of those voices you hear in your head rather than in your ears.  And the voice said, "I'm still here.  You just can't see me."  I must have look confused because the voice in my head repeated, "I'm still here.  You just can't see me."

Wow.

I often wonder how many times we must be taught the same lesson.  I wonder how many times God needs to tap us on the shoulder with the obvious.  I should have known - immediately - that the morning star didn't go anywhere.  Whether it's a planet or a star, it's still out there, as big and blazing and glorious as it always is.  Moving, but not leaving.  Shifting, but not dissolving.  Changed, but not lost.

If I wanted to go all scientific on you and talk about the first law of thermodynamics, I could tell you that it states that energy is neither created nor destroyed; it can only be changed from one form to another.  But I don't want to do that.  

All I really want to do is share my little, wee-hours-of-the-morning shoulder tap from an all-knowing, all-loving, wise-cracking God.  Who loves to be cute and watch our reactions.  

We don't really "lose" those and that which are close to us.  Nothing is really "lost."  There are just shifts or moves or changes.  All is well.

And we don't want to lose sight of that.

Ode to the Mockingbird

It's been a long winter.  Not a frigid winter, maybe a little on the wet side.  And, is it just me, but do the winters seem to get longer the older one gets?  Unfortunately, this was a winter of loss.  Many of my friends left this corporeal plane this winter.  I also lost a truly great four-legged fur friend of thirteen years.  And while I don't suppose any season is a good time to lose someone, winter seems to add extra heft and chill to a loss.  However...

Spring is, as they say, around the corner.  Robins continue their reign as the iconic first signs of spring, and, I suppose there have been several around, but I'm not impressed with the robin, as a whole.  Sort of a plain bird that shows up after a drenching rain to snag the worm on top of the ground.  Lazy, if you ask me.  Sort of a starling with a red breast.  Just not a whole lot there.

My first sign of spring is the return of "my" mockingbirds.  I hear them before I see them, their song kicking the world wide awake.  Loud and brilliant.  This morning, I spotted them.  They have a favorite bush they like to build in.  It's protected by those irritating, sharp-as-needle leaves, and, on top of that, it's inside the cat-proof fence around the pool.  No dummies, my mockingbirds.

They will spend the next few days taking turns grabbing grass and straw, some loose string, maybe a wad of paper...whatever they can spot...to prepare their nest.  They're monogamous, you know.  Marriage is a lifetime proposition for them.  So this isn't their first rodeo.  They've built nests together for a few years now so they're pretty comfortable with each other's work habits and engineering abilities.  I can stand at my kitchen window for hours and watch them work together, seeming to know the exact meaning of their partner's tip of the head, shake of shoulders, flap of wing.  Seeming to know instinctively  exactly what their mate is going to do seconds before it's done.  Synchronicity at its best.    They never seem to disagree or argue.  If they do, it's out of sight and in mockingbird talk, so I wouldn't be able to understand it anyway.

(Now, usually, it's just about here when I  start building an analogy.  Trying to tie in this  limited subject with life in general - trying to expand the small into the large, the mundane into the magnificent.  Going for the BIG PICTURE.)

Sometimes it works.  Sometimes not.

Well, not today.  Today is different.  In 1965 - now that was a very good year - Hal David hooked up with Burt Bacharach and composed "What the World Needs Now Is Love."  Thankfully for you, I'm not going to try to draw an analogy to that.  That would be corny, wouldn't it?  And predictable.  You would expect me to quote parts of the song that I think apply to current times, like "What the world needs now is love, sweet love; it's the only thing that there's just too little of."  And then you'd want me to make a big deal of "...not just for some but for everyone."  I know you.  You expect me to be the usual sentimental fool I've always been.  You want me to draw comparisons to cornfields and wheat fields and sunbeams and moonbeams.  Admit it.  You want me to be smarmy.  So you can just sit back and cluck to yourselves and say, "That Doug...he's a smarmy character, isn't he?"

You just aren't going to get your way today.  Now...while I do believe that what the world needs is some love...I'm not going to go there.  What I really believe is that the world needs more mockingbirds.  You can have your robins.  In fact, I'll give you a dozen robins for a single mockingbird.  If we could just saturate our world with mockingbirds, their songs would drown out all the silly noise that surrounds us everyday.  With more mockingbirds, we could raise our heads from our electronic devices and observe how creatures work together for a common good.  With more mockingbirds, we could ponder the many strengths born of natural integrity and simple, similar, but important, goals.

More mockingbirds would bring less stress, less worry, and less infatuation with the mundane of this planet and things we simply can do nothing about.

But, like I said...no analogies for you today.  If you want analogies, cook up your own.   I do have one small request, though.  Sometime today...

...listen to the mockingbird.

The first stone

                                          

This whole social media phenomenon sometimes overwhelms.  It has accelerated the pace of hate in the world.  It is a Petri dish for anger and discord.  It gives us the perfect vehicle for our inherent divisiveness.

Some good does emerge.  For example, I will post this blog on Facebook and a couple of hundred of you will read it.  Some will enjoy it, some will not.  Some couldn't care less.  But I can at least share, on occasion,  my meager thoughts.

But this isn't a blog about social media.  This is a blog about that "first stone" that we've always heard about and how it sits there waiting for someone to grab it and cast it.  It's always been there.  Smug, complacent.  Calmly anticipating a blameless hand.  Confident it's not going to get chucked anytime soon.

Because, to cast it, you must be without sin. And just because it's unlikely that anyone stands a snowball's chance of grabbing that sucker and slinging it like Ernest T. Bass doesn't mean that you can't attempt to live and behave in such a way that you can at least contemplate its power.  That you can't imagine it sitting there in a glass case atop a fancy dais in all its rocky ordinariness.  About the size of a baseball, imperfectly round, worn smooth by centuries of time and inertia.  Centuries spent awaiting a sin free hand.

But to even have the privilege of contemplating it, I think you have to at least direct your  life in a positive direction.

I'll give you a couple of examples.

The world reels today from the murder and mayhem in Las Vegas.  Facebook is already speculating that the shooter may have been spotted at a certain political rally, may have just converted to Islam, may have been just one in a group of people plotting this massacre.

Guess what?  I don't care.  Sorry, but as I sit here at this very moment, I can't recall his name and I have no desire to do so.  He is a non-entity to me.  That's how we should regard innate hate.  As a non-entity.

What I do care about are all those lives cut short in the blink of an eye.  Ripped from this earth and their families and loved ones as suddenly as a muzzle flash.  I care about those fellow human beings who this day are suffocating in a bottomless pit of grief,  reeling from what they can only describe as a hellish nightmare.  I care about the mothers, the fathers, the sons and daughters, the husbands and wives of all of these people who have lost a huge piece of their heart and move about their days as if they are underwater.

I hurt for those who had bullets or shrapnel rip through them but still hang onto life.  I know that there is for them now a brief flash of time that will forever haunt the days, months, and years to come.  I regret the pain - mental, physical, and emotional - that they suffer.  I pray for their full recovery and that sometime, somehow, they will be able to delegate this nightmare to an unreachable corner of their brain and never allow it to see the light of day.

I don't care how Mr. Evil obtained his weapons, whether they were automatic or semi-automatic, who he voted for, what church or mosque he prayed at, or what his family or next door neighbors think of him.  I have no room in my existence to give the slightest of a damn about him.  So don't bother sharing with me any of the plethora of social media facts, fictions, or opinions around him and his life.  Don't yell at me from atop your gun- issue soapbox, regardless of your leanings.  Do not make me a party to your decision to politicize this tragedy.  At times like these, I choose to empathize, not socialize.

Getting mired up in speculation gets me no closer to being able to run my fingers across that unique stone.  None of that allows me to imagine the heft of that stone in my hands, maybe even tossing it back and forth just to feel its weight and texture.  In fact, it inspires to spin me in the opposite direction.

Which leads me to my other issue.  Listen, I love football.  I manage to tolerate the other sports while waiting for spring training or early drills or pre-season.  Baseball may still be America's pastime, but football is my pastime.  And guess what?

I don't care whether the patriotism of the professional players matches my patriotism or not.  Many of you think that there is no such thing as degrees of patriotism.  You're either a patriot or you aren't.  Well, thank God we're free to think that way.  And, so far, we don't need a constitutional amendment to think.  Do I respect your personal views around patriotism?  Absolutely.  In fact, we may be pretty much aligned there.

But that doesn't mean that I have to care how a football player or anyone else chooses to show his patriotism.  Whether it's a wide-open, standing at attention, helmet in one hand and the other over his heart, lip-syncing the words to the National Anthem with tears in his eyes.  Or standing with his arms linked with his team, or kneeling on the artificial turf, or sitting out The Star Spangled Banner in the sweaty, littered confines of the locker room.  His job, in my world, is to run, throw, kick, catch, and block like a professional.  It's to go out onto that field and give 110% for the game.  To earn his keep.  And like Mr. Evil, I don't care where he goes to church, who he voted for, whether he believes in concealed carry, or how he chooses to demonstrate his national pride.  And if he is breaching a clause in his work contract, then that's between him and his employer.

I do care about whether he is a good person, whether he is charitable, whether he sets a strong positive example as a husband, father, brother or son, and if he believes in obeying the law.  I would like to think that he has a solid personal relationship with his Creator.  I care about whether he conducts himself in such a way as to move closer to being able to cast that first stone.

So spare me the pundits.

Social media is rampant with modern day scribes and Pharisees.  Always just dying to discredit you, to tempt you into saying something that they can capitalize on, to lure you to their political and social webs, to insult or outrage you into a senseless, endless argument, and to stick their feet out so you trip and fall square on your butt.  The scribes and Pharisees of social media are sometimes your friends.  That's usually when their shenanigans hurt the worst. Sometimes they are total strangers who you believe you just have to confront and counter. You know them.  You "chat" with them everyday.  They're usually sitting with their fingers hovering over their keyboards or their thumbs at ready on their smartphones.

You know, I've vowed to temper my social media behavior before.  But I've always underestimated the power of the scribes and Pharisees.  I don't have the DNA of The Man.  I don't have the ability to squat, draw my finger through the dust, and quietly contemplate my next move.   I haven't had the power to just let the rotten bait dangle there and move on to calmer waters.  Sometimes I just don't have the power to shut the hell up.

And until I do, me and Ernest T. Bass can only dream of that granite beauty, that perfect rock, that elusive "first stone." That chucker to end all chuckers.  We can only dream of a day when the scribes and Pharisees all link arms around the common causes of goodness and beauty and spin golden threads across the social media highway.   We can only dream of a time when Evil loses its grip and careens back into the black pit from which it first slithered.  In the meantime, I'm hoping me and Ernest T. Bass can both work to overcome our own little self-indulgent urges.  Him breaking windows like a backwoods banshee and me conquering the deliciously recurring temptations of living with a endless pile of plain old common rocks in a glass house.