Hearts of Gold/Feet of Clay

I have great admiration and, dare I say, Gratitude for Brene’ Brown. She took the stage looking like everybody’s Mom at her first TED talk, and wowed us with her homespun brilliance. Brene’ Brown took what we’d always suspected was true and wove it into a beautiful tapestry we all want to be part of. Unless you follow her regularly, you probably don’t know about the current controversy around her podcast. It’s her first controversy of this magnitude and entirely of her own making.

Joe Rogan and Brene’ Brown both joined Spotify in September of 2020. I remember hearing about the deal and being impressed by the company’s obvious aggressive plan to become more than just the cool place to find and play music. It wasn’t lost on me that the two acquisitions represented two completely different audiences. Spotify came to play.

Fast forward. It’s two covid-filled years later. We’re tired. We’re cranky and we’re looking for some place to dump a boatload of angst. Joe Rogan and his contrived…well…everything seemed like a good place to put it. Our angst, though, is over-flowing. I’ll Be Whatever I Need To Be To Cause A Stir Joe, despite his efforts to the contrary, just doesn’t feel big enough, important enough to hold our dissatisfaction. Cue the Gladiator extras! Let’s get Spotify!

Though a wonderful songwriter, Neal Young’s voice rivals nails on chalkboard for chills on my spine. Willies aside, I found it kind of precious when he threatened to pull his music from Spotify in protest of Joe Rogan’s content. The last time I considered Young relevant had nothing to do with music. In 2012, he announced he had stopped smoking weed. He was just too darn old and no longer had the brain cells to burn or something like that. I was quick to bring this to the attention of a couple of aging “heads” in my orbit in hopes that they, too, might decide to preserve whatever bandwidth they had left for their dotage. That had the same effect as Neal Young pulling his catalogue minus Joni Mitchell’s “me too”.

In walks Brene’ Brown wearing a pantsuit fit for parent/teacher conferences, her kitschy earrings, and her “this is the best I could do” hair.

I have that hair. Me, Brene’, and Hillary Clinton. It’s a thing.

Brene’ wrote a clear, insightful piece explaining that she’d paused her podcast to ponder a few things. The piece was everything we’ve come to expect from the grounded theory researcher cum pop sociologist and respected author.

One week later, she posted again. This piece began by reminding the reader of her “multiyear, exclusive contract with Spotify”. She should have stopped there. Instead, the word salad that followed left many of us feeling like she was saying something without really saying it and, that’s a bitter pill coming from the authenticity guru. Not to say the whole thing was without merit. She offered up a metaphor involving a high school cafeteria in which one has no say as to her table mates. Let me stop here to say, I, personally, never found that to be true. In 7th grade, as the new girl whose mother still sewed all her clothes using fabrics that did not necessarily complement my man-style, plastic rimmed eyeglasses, I was very clear as to the tables on which I could place my tray. Later, while laughing with my tribe at our table, I could feel the protective barrier we created with our camaraderie. Joe Rogan would have never dared penetrate that energy field.

Brene’ Brown wrote that Rogan’s content made her “physically sick” and that her contract with the same company sharing that content amounts to an assigned table in the Spotify lunchroom where she sits with all content creators, including Joe Rogan.

Here’s where it gets weird. Brene’ closed the metaphor by saying she isn’t willing to invite us to lunch with Joe, and goes on to describe her podcast content going forward which clearly can only be heard by sitting at that table,

in that lunchroom,

with Joe Rogan,

and his sickening content.

Do you see the problem?

Full disclosure, I’m with Joni. I deleted the Spotify app from my phone as soon as an artist I care about spoke up. It was an empty act, though, since the only reason I had one was because my son wanted to share a song with me and, when I mentioned Apple Music, where all my music lives, he gave me a look akin to a pat on the head, took my phone and downloaded Spotify. I haven’t opened it since and never paid money for it. (Yes, that felt just like it does when I tell people we only use cloth napkins and we grow things whose sole purpose is to feed bees.)

Pre-covid, when I spent several soul-crushing hours a day in what has been described as the worst rush-hour traffic in the world, podcasts were everything. I did what I had to do. Brene’ did too. I get that. I just wish she hadn’t stomped all over her integrity on the way to the cafeteria.

Requiem

This was your place, Dad.

This was the place you took your family every summer.

Where mother turned “brown as a berry” while dripping sandcastles with your daughters

who would only trade their seat in the sand for a ride on a float with you at the helm.

And the waves rocked us and the sun baked us and love filled us.

This is the place I brought my family

and where my family brought their families

because Josh only wants to go to “our beach”.

And we never did what tourists do because we weren’t tourists.

We were home.

This is the place I came when we knew something was wrong,

when you refused to stay in the hospital because you “weren’t sick”.

You’d never been sick.

Not even a headache.

But you were and you went.

The beginning of the end.

This place is still yours.

I feel you everywhere.

In the blue and green of the ocean

and the whitest sand of the “prettiest beaches I’ve ever seen”.

In the wind near the surf and the sidewalks along the beach road where you walked until you couldn’t.

There are some places I can’t go yet,

where walking in the door opens an empty space

where the sound of people calling out your name should be

and there will be empty barstools where we should be sitting

and you would order grits and hug the chef

and squeeze my hand, at least once while we were eating.

Devastating heartbreak comes from love born inside you

that will always be with you

until it isn’t.

What you thought you couldn’t lose walks away.

Time passes and unanswered questions burn a hole in your heart,

and the rain falls, the trees bud, flowers grow and you,

watered by your own tears, do too.

You aren’t what you thought you were,

you’ve been given the space to be more.

Unintended Consequences

I don’t make resolutions. A resolution is a promise in a business suit and, as the saying goes; promises are made to be broken.

For years I met my best friend every Saturday morning for breakfast and, for years, she ‘d ask me to pick up a newspaper on my way. My response was always the same, “I can’t promise.” It drove her crazy. She accused me of being stubborn. I wasn’t stubborn, I was busy. I had three kids, 1 husband, 2 dogs, and a job to tend to. My friend’s newspaper wasn’t likely to make the top of my to-do list. If I make a promise, it’s a sure thing, and there aren’t very many of those.

I do, however, set intentions. It’s not a formal thing. I don’t write anything down, light candles, chant, or tell people. My intentions usually arise from something I feel strongly about, or some kind of character issue I want to change.

2014 was Shane’s last year to play football. With that in mind, I decided to involve myself wholly. I joined committees, went to meetings, and attended every event possible. I stuffed goodie bags, decorated lockers, cooked meals for coaches, and danced while waving pom-poms in front of a bonfire to the tune of “Bang Bang”.

That’s right…”Bang Bang”.

My goal was to prevent regret. I didn’t want to look back a couple of years from now and think, “I wish I’d done that.” I accomplished that goal.

Somewhere along the way though…without my even noticing or giving permission…the goal became secondary. Once it was over, after tears were shed over hugs that said “Thank you for making these memories with me.”, I realized the true gift of my involvement.

I thought I’d done well. People tell me that all the time. They marvel at how well I’m doing “under the circumstances”. They remark on my strength and the way I carry on despite the death of my son. It wasn’t until recently though, after spending lots of time with beautiful, strong, smart women whose sons also play football, that I realized I hadn’t actually been “doing” at all. I was “being”…and there’s a big difference between doing and being.

Starting in August, I spent many hours over several days every week in the company of women who know how to wear a hat, and run a business, in boots up to her knees. Some of them travel to places I’ve only dreamed of, while others join me in a daily commute. They are teachers, and accountants, and “family managers”. They are readers, and tennis players, and dancers. They are mothers, and daughters, and grandmothers, and sisters. And they gave me back a part of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

It showed in my professionally manicured nails, in my new haircut, and in my face. My step was quicker, full of purpose, and accompanied by an occasional swing of my happily shrinking hips. Meetings and events meant fewer evenings spent in pajamas and more opportunities to change shoes. I had to step up my game! Instead of searching for excuses not to go out, I found myself planning what I’d wear while imagining who I’d see and what we’d do when I got there.

I’ve known some of them longer than others. Many of the boys have played together since they were six, and many of their mothers brought flowers or food along with condolences when my son died. Others in our group have no idea, but it didn’t matter. All of them contributed to my healing and I am filled with gratitude.

Today I’ll set new intentions for the coming year while keeping in mind that the true gift sometimes comes when we aren’t even paying attention, and always after we get out of the way. I’ll also put the first note in my new gratitude jar. It’ll be a long one. I am blessed.

Of Trees and Music

I covet my neighbor’s willow tree. I always wanted one, but the roots contain some kind of homing device causing them to make a beeline for the septic tank, resulting in “thousands of dollars in costly repairs.”

Or at least that’s what the man said.

My neighbor’s willow sits right on the corner, next to the street. I drive past the tree every day on my way to work. In winter, her barren branches droop gently, forming a frosty crown. In spring she sprouts cotton candy that melts into the lush green of summer.

Yesterday, cool breezes blew through my opened car window and the willow’s branches, taking green and yellow leaves with it. As I passed, I noticed the uppermost branches were already bare. I saw patience in her droop, a studied tolerance under a swirl of green and yellow ovals. Soon she would be regal again.

Something about the scene moved me. It might have been the empty branches, or the way those unruly leaves mocked her on the way down. It could have been her beauty.

But, it might have been the music.

Yesterday, as I passed the tree, Dionne Warwick warbled.

If you’re under the age of 40, you’re probably confused. You’re marveling, I’d guess, to think that the host of TV’s “Psychic Friends” also sings. I know how you feel. I haven’t stopped shaking my head ever since I heard she was hosting a television program featuring washed-up soap opera stars pretending to telephone psychics. What a concept…

Dionne Warwick was the mouthpiece of one of the greatest songwriting duos of the 20^th century, and it wasn’t until I heard her sing the leaves out of a tree that I realized how much that music meant to me.

Burt Bacharach and Hal David originally wrote “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again” for the Broadway show “Promises, Promises” in 1968. In 1970, Dionne Warwick took it to number one on the charts. I STILL know every word.

Hal David was 91 when he died on September first. To commemorate his life, Terri Gross replayed her interview with him on “Fresh Air”. I’m sure he told stories and shared anecdotes. At one point, Terri asked him about a supposed riff with writing partner Burt Bacharach. David swept it under the rug, along with any suggestion of Dionne as Diva. And that was just fine with me. Enough with the talk! Let’s hear some music!

I heard a snippet of “Alfie” which I didn’t realize originated from a film of the same name until I saw the remake in 2004. I went to see Jude Law. I left humming Bacharach’s tune.

Then she played “Do You Know The Way To San Jose”. This wasn’t my favorite…but I still get sucked in. Every time it plays I find myself singing the accompaniment “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoawhoawhaowhaowaho, whoa”.

What I didn’t realize until Terri played a montage of their hits was that Dionne didn’t have to sing it for me to love it.

In 1965, our parents bought Tom Jone’s album “What’s New Pussycat”. A few years later, me and Judy Witcher played it over and over and over again…”You and your pussycat nose…”.

The highlight of Christmas day, 1970, was waking up to the sight of The Carpenter’s album, “Close to You”, among Santa’s gifts.

And Dusty Springfield’s “The Look of Love” still seduces me.

The music, and the tree, and the leaves, and the breeze all came together in a tiny moment in time called Joy.

And I felt it.

What a gift!

A Face For Hats

Despite the fact I only read it last year, on Tuesday I couldn’t remember the name of one of my very favorite books.

But, on Saturday, burying a hand trowel into earth made forgiving by Spring rains, I remembered being eight and being dubbed “Messy Bessie” by my brownie leader.

I forgot to buy an onion at the supermarket.

But every time I see a hat, or a lady wearing a hat, or even a hat-rack, I remember being twelve and standing in the millinery department at Macy’s. My sister and I were accompanied by my grandmother in what was an annual After-Christmas walking tour of Perimeter Mall. I call it a walking tour because, while occasionally an item was returned, nothing was ever actually purchased.

My sister and I donned hats. Both of us posed in front of mirrors.

“Laura!”, my grandmother called. “Laura, you don’t have a face for hats. You need a plain face to wear a hat.”

There was a slight pause as we looked at one another for an answer to the question neither of us would ask before she provided it.

“Stacye…”, it was a statement. “Now, Stacye has a face for hats.”

At work on Monday, I panicked at the idea of creating a whole new set of contracts, only to discover I’d already done it, weeks before.

Wednesday night, as I reclined against the cold ceramic part of the bathtub not filled with warm water, I remembered John O’Conner turning in his desk to ask in his most sardonic voice “Was that really necessary?”, before I even had a chance to lower the hand I’d raised, in vain, to prevent the burp from escaping my fourteen-year-old lips.

I sometimes struggle to remember which son was born on what date. Although in two different months, their birthdates are just two weeks apart. Which one was born in April and which in May?

And, just the other day, as I pinched dead blooms from pansies’ heads, the image of long, yellow hair swirling around my sister’s snarl flashed across my brain. Anger reddened her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything in the world!”, she growled.

The toddler at my feet pressed her back against my legs as instinct tightened my hold on the baby in my lap. We all shrank.

They come in quiet moments, reflections of mis-steps, things I’d rather forget. They’re etched there, burned onto the surface, easy to retrieve. They come unbidden.

They are not who I am but they are, in part, what makes me, me.

Political Shoes

My parents were political people. My mother worshipped the ground Hubert Humphrey walked on, and felt deep affection for the Johnsons, Lyndon and Ladybird. My father held Richard Nixon in high esteem, which I found incredible for many years, until maturity provided me the eyes to see the man behind the mistakes. Even before I was old enough to cast my own, I understood that my parents’ politics effectively left our family without a vote, as the two usually cancelled each other’s out.

There was one exception. The venerable Senator Sam Nunn held sway with both my parents to the extent that, even today, I tend to hold him in high esteem despite knowing little of his career besides his stint as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Everyone in Georgia loves Sam.

I was a senior in high school, surrounded by friends in a noisy lunchroom, when a group of middle-aged men and women dressed in sensible suits invaded our space. One of them tapped the top of a live microphone several times before explaining they had come to register eighteen-year-olds to vote. The room filled with the sound of chair legs scraping against industrial tile, as a line formed in front of two tables usually reserved for cheerleaders hawking spirit ribbons. A smiling polyester-encased woman handed me a cardboard square on which she’d scrawled my precinct number before I signed my name. I felt so…American.

By the time I registered, Jimmy Carter was already president and his legacy already apparent. He didn’t have “the stuff”. He was too nice, too honest, too moral, to effectively lead the free world. I actually felt sorry for him.

1980 presented me with my first opportunity to cast a ballot and make a choice; Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan. And, that really wasn’t a choice at all, was it? Jimmy hadn’t the cojones, and his opponent was little more that a “B” actor with the gift of gab and the physique to fill out a suit. And, hair. No one can say Ronald Reagan didn’t have good hair.

My father oozed Reagan. Not a day passed in which he didn’t sing the praises of “The Gipper”. His orations had the affect of scrunching my mother’s facial features into a mask of complete disgust. She remained loyal to our native son as did I, despite knowing ours was a lost cause. What followed was a number of dispiriting years featuring Reaganomics, walls torn down, and “a thousand points of light”. For me, the high point of this time period was the American invasion of Grenada. There was such power in that. Imagine the audacity of a nation proclaiming “I’m coming for you!”, and enjoying success, despite taking days to actually arrive! That was ballsy! That was American!

Though it took me years to get to this point, I’ll admit now that my passion for Bill Clinton had little to do with politics. He came to Atlanta for a book signing several years ago, and I chose not to attend out of fear of my own inappropriate behavior. Fainting in public is so unattractive. The man was a rock star. I was only too happy to cast a vote for him, and I did so twice, making November 1996 the last time I went to the polls confident in my choice for president.

I won’t belabor the Bush years. Anyone who reads me knows that it was during this time that I effectively closed my eyes and thought of England. My decision to shut down came after hours of arguing with my Republican cohorts, secure in the knowledge that I had just to find the right words, the correct phrasing, the appropriate example, and he or she would see reason. It never happened, and the realization that it never would provided me with as much relief as it did frustration. I stopped participating in political discussions. I resisted the bait, no matter how tempting, when a co-worker threw an inaccurate statistic, or out-of-context quote in my direction. I replaced radio news programs with books-on-tape and newspapers with novels. In the end, I came out relaxed and well-read. How’s that for making lemonade?

Last week I was ambushed. Having hurried through my salad, I headed outside with my book under my arm. I had just twenty pages left to read of “The Help”, and as reticent as I was to let the characters go, I was determined to finish. The sun was warm, and I was sure I could squeeze in a nap. As I approached the door, a coworker held it open for me. I thanked him with a smile and turned towards the lawn.

“Well, I think it’s becoming pretty clear to everyone that Obama isn’t interested in what the people want.”

His opening shot caught me right between the shoulder blades, just as my foot met the grass.

In retrospect, it’s surprising how easily I fell back into old habits. A retort flew from my lips, complete with statistics, as though I’d studied for the debate. I turned to face my aggressor, the book now dangling off of one arm. Mentally, I resigned myself to the fact that I’d probably have to finish it later that night. In an effort to achieve at least one of my goals, I looked to the sky to determine the position of the sun, and adjusted myself in such a way that I might soak up as much vitamin D as possible.

Even as we argued point after point, my inner dialogue continued. Silently, I congratulated myself for the quietly measured tones with which I spoke. I’ve been known to rant. Sometimes, I pace. Once I threw a super-sized iced tea to the floor with such force as to splash a person sitting twenty feet away. Some might say that was my intention…

Forty minutes virtually flew by in a flurry of controlled thrusts and parries with an occasional sardonic laugh thrown in for good measure. The time I was wasting began to weigh on me, and I took a departing step.

“What if…”, my opponent wasn’t done. I turned to allow him to finish.

“What if before a person could register to vote he or she had to…”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”, I answered before he could finish.

“With what?”, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t have a problem with requiring a year’s service. That’s what you were going to say, right? I don’t have a problem with it. I think everyone should serve in some capacity.”

“Ok, but you’re assuming they would serve in something like the Peace Corps, right? And, that’s all well and good. But, suppose they TOLD you it was the Peace Corps, but it was really something else.”

I couldn’t imagine where he was going.

“You know Hitler did the same thing. He required kids to join a group so they could be indoctrinated as Nazis…”

“Wait a minute!” I stopped him. “Wait a minute! Don’t tell me you believe Obama is planning to force people to join groups in order to make Nazis of them. Tell me you don’t believe that!”

His face reddened slightly as his eyebrows rose with his hands, palm up. I stood in silent regard. It was the Hitler reference that got me.

“You know, I’ve been known to use Hitler myself. I used him several times in reference to our last president, and each time I was shushed as though I’d uttered an epithet. I get it. I think your argument completely irrational, and it saddens me to know that a reasonably intelligent person could believe something so ridiculous. At the same time, I get it. I believed the Bush administration capable of anything and none of it good.”

I turned towards the door.

“In the end, it really all comes down to which shoes you are wearing, doesn’t it?” I turned to see he had pocketed his hands. “It’s really all about the shoes.”

He followed me inside without a word.

We Are Not A-Mused

I’ve literally spent hours trying. How many hours, I don’t want to know.

This morning I’m sure I’ve sat here for an hour and a half, hoping for the inspiration to write. I started a couple of things. I opened something I started several days ago, but found I had nothing to add.

I’m not upset about it, although I do feel a tiny bit of concern that I’m not upset. That counts, right?

It wasn’t so long ago that I thought of writing as an obligation. Not a chore, mind you, but an obligation, almost like homework or piano practice. And, I think that feeling of responsibility led to improvements. I feel I’ve found my voice.

Unfortunately, that voice just doesn’t have a lot to say…

Oh, I could share my joy in chicken farming. My four birds are just spectacular. I’m amazed at how much I enjoy caring for them. Given the length of my attention span, I should have lost interest by now, as the electric keyboard in the top of the playroom closet, and the paints and easels stored in the garage will attest. But I haven’t. I love visiting them, feeding them scraps of tasty left-over morsels, and collecting my bounty. I get eggs everyday. I’ve even started giving them away, which has led me to dream…

Suppose instead of giving them away, I sold the flowers and vegetables from my gardens and the eggs from my hens. The idea was originally Shane’s, upon first hearing of my plan to raise chickens. Excitement spewed from the upper register of his little-boy voice as he talked of “having our own business”.

I can conjure a roadside stand; a wooden one, very rustic, with hand-painted lettering. I’d hang flowers in aluminum buckets on either side. There’d be towers of large, red tomatoes, bowls of beans, handfuls of herbs, and cartons of softly-shaded green, pink, and brown eggs. I don’t know…maybe.

I could share the details of the wedding reception I’m holding for my son. But, let’s face it, unless you’re related to the participants or have mistaken this for one of the hundreds of wedding blogs I’ve skimmed over the last several weeks, you probably wouldn’t be interested.

My grandson came to visit. He stayed a week, and stole my heart all over again. He’s coming back for the reception. I can’t wait. And while that’s nice to know, it’s not particularly interesting.

I know what the problem is. Over the course of the last couple of weeks, it’s become blatantly apparent. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to the same malady that killed Paula Cole’s singing career. Paula sang at full volume, and I sang along, “Where have all the cowboys gone?…ah woooo”. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Yeah! I remember that song! Whatever happened to that girl?”

I’ll tell you what happened to that girl. That girl got happy. Ok, she also “found” God. But, mostly, she just got happy. Finding God is not such an accomplishment. After all, God’s usually not the one who’s lost. Getting happy, is a whole other thing, especially for women like Paula and me.

Getting happy takes you outside yourself. Getting happy demands participation and encourages activity. Getting happy turns the dimmer switch up a notch or two, brightening even the dark recesses where muses tend to nest.

My desk sits opposite a bank of windows that look out on my front yard. The view is never more beautiful than it is this time of year. The greens are greener. The trees are taller, flowers bloom, bushes burgeon, and wild things scamper from one growing thing to another.

It is through these windows that I sometimes see what’s on my mind. Once, when it snowed, I found a poem. The cherry tree on the corner of my lot sparked a short story. Sometimes I see through the scenery and find feelings.

Lately, as I watch birdhouses for signs of inhabitants, I notice the way sunlight hits the tops of tree leaves, artfully spreading shadow beneath. For now, there is no angst hiding in those shadows. For now, the road in front of my house isn’t a way to get away, but rather the way I came in. And, I’m happy to stay.

It’s good to be home.

Ugly Americans

By now, everyone must have heard, or heard of, Pat Robertson’s ignorant appraisal of the horror wrought upon the tiny island of Haiti by a massive earthquake. As I am neither a CBN viewer nor a fan of television news, word came to me second-hand. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Pat Robertson had said something I might find distasteful. I almost always disagree with Mr. Robertson’s point of view. But, upon witnessing the magnitude of my friend’s disgust, I turned to my go-to source for all things surreal and/or distasteful. I went to youtube.

As Mr. Robertson haltingly explained the way in which we might perceive the tragedy as a blessing, I understood why people were offended, but I felt something else. I felt I was listening to a doddering old man. Watching him reminded me of visiting my ex-husband’s elderly uncle, who had apparently left something more than shoe leather on the beaches at Normandy. I was warned, ahead of time, that he “wasn’t quite right”, which is a southern phrase often substituted for the colloquialism “touched”, so it didn’t surprise me when he described people by race rather than name or relationship. He was old, he was southern, and he was touched. I think the same can be said of Mr. Robertson.

What did surprise me was the response of Pat Robertson’s co-host in the second segment of the video, in which he told the tale of the Haitians’ pact with the devil. The woman standing beside him appeared neither old, southern, or touched, and yet she nodded her complicity as Mr. Robertson told his sordid tale. Occasionally she murmured “yes” or “uh-huh”, as though sitting in a pew on a Sunday morning.

What went through her mind? Did his words shock her? Did she struggle in her response? As he stumbled through his mythology lesson, did she worry about her job?
I can’t begin to answer. I only know that she, and her response, offended me much more than Mr. Robertson’s unfortunate fairy-tales. He’s old, he’s southern, and he’s touched. Just as though he were an elderly uncle, she should have nodded her head, patted his hand, and diverted his attention by asking him about his collection of World War II airplane models.

More offensive to me than Story Time at the 700 Club was an email I received later that day. I’ve known the sender since we were in elementary school. I know her to be good, kind, intelligent, and giving.

She began her note by explaining her relationship to the subject of an article she had attached. Her friend had begun the process of adopting a young Haitian boy. She was weeks away from bringing him home when the earthquake struck, and though she had received the news that he was alive and well, she was anxious to bring her son out of the horrific aftermath. My friend ended with these words:

“Please take the time to write or call your senator or congressman to request help in getting all the children who are in the process of being adopted from Haiti out of the country.”

I actually held my breath as I reread the sentence.

I have to believe that love for her friend blinded her to the selfishness of her request. I have to believe that. She’s my friend. She can’t have meant that children who have piqued the interest of American benefactors are more valuable than the hundreds of others who haven’t the same fortune…could she?

As so often is the case, human experience sparks a literary memory. My mother didn’t allow the use of Cliff Notes. I didn’t really mind until I noticed all the cool kids, even the really smart ones, brazenly carried Cliff Notes into literature class.

Today I am grateful. Today I can recall the look on Hester Prine’s face as she turned one shoulder inward in an effort to hide the scarlet letter. I remember the horror suggested by Dorian Gray’s ruined visage, and Caesar’s pain upon learning his most trusted friend had betrayed him. And I remember, vividly and with great sadness, “The Ugly American”.

The reminders are everywhere…

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