Vic and Me

Melissa Selby burst into my life in a flurry of orange polyester and purple cowboy boots. Within months, my booted toe kept time beside hers as we shared a raised platform in the hospital cafeteria. She strummed and I harmonized through “Blue Christmas”. The talent show had no winners. It wasn’t a competition. I already had my prize…

Over the next several months, Melissa insisted I keep singing, and soon there was a separate space in my closet for “stage clothes”. I favored blacks and brocades and even bought a new pair of boots.

Saturday afternoons were reserved for “practice”; a completely unorganized gathering of uninvited and enthusiastically welcomed musicians who appeared to happen by on their way to somewhere else. I preferred to arrive early, just as the morning sun began to glint off the fronts of a collection of guitars occupying one wall of Melissa’s tiny living room. She tuned as I curled up in the corner of a well-worn sofa on the opposite wall. I often sat there for hours as musicians came and went; sometimes stopping to play for a while on their way to the kitchen, or just long enough to comment on a particularly well-crafted chord. Melissa handled her instruments familiarly, knowing what to expect from each one of them. Her friends, though, showed her guitars reverence, tentatively touching as though asking permission of the strings before strumming.

Often, Saturday afternoon practice bled into Saturday night, and the ever-ready pile of logs in Melissa’s backyard. The flow of people in and through the house grew as I traded the couch for an out-of-the-way spot close to the fire. I talked with people whose names I never knew, accepted bottles of beer from faceless hands, and listened. Impromptu notes followed wisps of smoke to tops of trees.

I felt him before I saw him. More accurately, I felt the energy evoked by his presence before I saw his frayed, knitted, skull cap or the bend of his back against the vinyl of his wheelchair. A dark figure steered the vagabond into our circle before handing down his guitar. Forever bent fingers found their place among the strings, punctuating his speech as he greeted those around him while laughing with those who called on him to share a story. I found myself wishing someone would say his name…

A disembodied voice sang a song he knew and he played along. His voice rose, a distinctive whine through a crooked smile of camaraderie, washed down with a beer provided by the figure behind his chair. From the moment he arrived he became the focal point of our gathering. I experienced this phenomenon every time I was in the presence of Vic Chesnutt.

Before Melissa left us for the wilds of Colorado, she held one final show at The Shoebox, a tiny club with an unmarked entrance on a downtown Athens side street. I can’t remember which songs I sang, but I remember being grateful for the temporary blindness afforded by the stage lights and wondering if my jacket fit too tight. All of Melissa’s friends joined us that night, but none on them evoked the hush that amplified the squeaking wheels of Vic’s wheelchair as a burly man in a black t-shirt placed him stage-left. It seemed he never changed his clothes, though I’m sure he did. The knit cap was still in place along with the tattered corduroy coat he wore to bonfires. The next time I saw him was at the movies…

While watching his memorable cameo performance in the movie “Slingblade”, I nudged my companion. “I know him! That’s Vic Chesnutt! I shared a stage with him!”

Terri Gross interviewed Vic on NPR’s Fresh Air last month. A friend alerted me, and I listened on my way into work. The voice was the same. Irony still echoed in his laughter. He spoke with characteristic frankness of what was for him a daily struggle to survive life, and his failed attempts at giving up. He concurred with Terri’s description of his latest CD as an admission that there was still joy to be had in living, despite the threat of lawsuits due to unpaid medical bills. Paraplegia at age eighteen left Vic uninsurable, and his kidneys were failing…

Now he is dead. Vic Chesnutt was a sweet soul who, though dealt a bum hand, played it until he couldn’t anymore. I am better for having experienced him. Sleep well, Vic…

“someone should call his family a sister or a brother
they’ll come to take him back home on a bus
and he’ll always be a problem for his poor mother
and he’ll always be another one of us”

from Snowblind by Vic Chesnutt

By Hook or by Cook

Long before the advent of “The Food Network”, foodies were relegated to grainy public broadcasting channels to get their gourmet fix. My mother watched Natalie Dupree, Justin Wilson, and of course, Julia Child. I watched, too. Well, because it was all that was on. There was only one television in the house. Julia became a sort of lead-in to “American Bandstand”.

As far as I can tell, my mother never actually took anything away from her hours of observation. She never grew her fingernails outrageously long like Natalie Dupree or surreptitiously doused our dinner with several extra shots of hot sauce like Justin Wilson…I gar-on-teeeee! And, the only sauces she served were made from packets she purchased at the grocery store. Despite Julia’s efforts to the contrary, my mother retained the title “Queen of Convenience”.

Given this background, I was delighted to see the first trailers for “Julie & Julia”, and couldn’t wait to see the movie. Unfortunately, my go-to companion for chick-flicks went without me, so wait I did. Until yesterday…

We made a deal, my son and me. I would watch “Up” with him if he would watch “Julie & Julia” with me. We each snuggled under a blanket in our favorite chair and settled in for an afternoon of movies. “Up” was delightful. We both enjoyed it very much. And after a short break during which we broke out a tin of Christmas cookies, we re-tucked our blankets for “Julie & Julia”.

No one ever told me this was a movie about a girl with a blog. No one. I find this incredible since everyone knows I am a girl with a blog. It seems at some point it might have come up in a discussion of the film. But, it didn’t. We even blog on the same site, Julie and I, and still no one made the connection. This irony occupied several frames of film. I’m sure I missed something…

As Julie crafted her first post, I found myself silently critiquing the writing. It was far too familiar, folksy, and awkwardly constructed. Within minutes she had sixty-five hits on a single post! I don’t have a meter on my blog. The idea seems somewhat narcissistic and desperate; as though the purpose of writing is to generate hits. But, I feel certain that I’ve never enjoyed that kind of traffic. And, to date, I’ve never made the Top 10 on Salon.com.

If you’ve seen the film, then you know that Julie’s blog goes on to open other doors, resulting in a book/film deal. And, all the while, I’m doing the math. As disappointing as it is to admit, envy stymied my enjoyment of the film.

I could do a food blog. I’ve considered it several times. I love food, and I’m a good cook. According to the film, matching these talents with my writing skills should produce a one-way ticket to fame.

But there are so many food blogs, and just one Julie Powell. Albeit unwittingly, what Julie had was a hook. Naturally this got me to thinking…

A friend and fellow blogger admonishes “Be a storyteller, not a storyseller”. I hope to find a way to do both.

Godsmack

When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.