Morning Assignment

LATE LAST FALL, I was tossing back shots from steamy mugs of coffee with a few old chums, who, like me, are former members of the Fourth Estate. Just chatting and strolling down Geezer Lane, trying to outdo one another on stories we had covered and the quirky reporters and editors we had worked with in our previous lives.

 

The talk somehow got around to great American writers and authors and the predictable lament about how there few or none anymore. Such subjective snobs we can sometimes be. So, we focused on the past: All of us agreed, in general, about the undeniable greats: Poe, Melville, Twain, Harper Lee, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Alcott, and so forth and so many.

As the discussion winded down, it came down to one question: Who is the best American author you have ever read? When it was posed to me, I had an immediate answer. The fellow I had in mind was no novelist. He was real writer.

Joe Aaron.

He was the author of giant works such as A Pig In The Gray Panel Truck, A Dandelion in Winter, Day of a President, Just a 100 Miles From Home and The Journey in the Red Jalopy. I have them all in my library, each signed by him, thanks to my Mama – one of his greatest fans. All were collective works and vignettes from the body of his works.

Rodgers' last stand

BEGRUDGE AN OLD ARMY VETERAN of the long-ago “New Army” – who served  in the early 1970s as our nation gradually shifted from a draft to an all-volunteer status – to recall a few snippets of my transition from a lowly civilian puke to an exalted soldier of STRAC status. The latter reference being slang for any raw recruit with acceptable spit-polished boots, pressed uniform and reasonable knowledge of when to salute an officer and make the fast transition from the position of attention to at ease.

In that early winter of my great expectations and discontent at Fort Jackson, S.C., I learned right away – from arrival at the reception station and having my head shorn like a forlorn sheep and getting our uniforms and initial gear – the best course of action was to fly under the radar. Do what you have to and avoid having the drill sergeants remember your name because of some misstep or screw-up. The true mark of success was measured by graduating and your drill sergeant not knowing your name.

And for good reason: If you weren’t measuring up in a particular way during the first three weeks, you didn’t always get a pat-on-the-back and a bus ticket home.

Life, imagination and a toy truck

WAS JAWING ON THE PHONE the other night with my daughter JoAnna about our unique, mundane matters of the day such as work and this, that and the other. In the background, I heard the staccato chatter of my 3-year-old grandson John in the background. He wanted to get in on the action and tell me about his day. Or at least the latest moments of it.

Playin’ with my truck! Papaw! he proclaimed after his Mama handed him the cell. It go weeeeeeeeeel fast – see!!!!

Obviously, I couldn’t see it since our common technology didn’t connect us that way. But when your grinning toddler greets you with such news there’s only one response: Course, I do, buddy. Wow! That truck is really flying!

A day or so later I recalled and chuckled about that brief conversation with John, as I have in similar instances with my other grandchildren and my now-adult daughters when they were younger. He was sharing a moment with me and assumed I could see it as clearly as he could, and it wasn’t necessary for me to be there.

Imagination: How soon the world does its best to pound and stomp it of you at such an early age.  Even that most-revered Einstein, a giant of science that still baffles us once said, Imagination is everything. It’s the preview of life’s coming attractions.

Born to be mild?

SHE SLIPPED INTO THE ROOM, made her way to my Dad’s bedside and stealthily took his vitals. He stirred a bit and an eyelid strained open a bit to observe this early morning invader, recognizing her beyond the haze of his sedation and a smile weakly blossomed on his face.

Sorry to bother you, George – I mean Buck – but I gotta get this information for the charts. What can I do for you? she asked, gently touching his forehead and peering into that sliver of an eye looking back at her. Okay, let’s move you a bit and let you get a look outside, okay. It’s cold but it’s a pretty day outside coming your way?

A shift of a few centimeters gave the man a glimmer of a salmon-colored sunrise erupting beyond his window. His visitor reached for his hand; she smiled and winked at me as she left the room. Other cases to evaluate; other patients to see. And I suspect each received the same respect and level of care, and the depth of comfort that my Dad had received.

About a week later, he was gone. Just like that on a late Sunday night. It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and I was grateful my Dad finally was at peace.

But I recall most clearly those final few weeks when he drifted between this world and the next marking time in his room with my Mama, sibs and close family and friends. It didn’t occur to me then as it does now. Curing disease often doesn’t happen in this dimension, but it always does in the next. The human body comes only with a limited warranty. That is why the Manufacturer installs us with souls, I believe.

Stretching the bounds of kidhood

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME, back in the summer of 1964. One afternoon, my older brother and I didn’t have much on our itinerary, so we decided to play that time-honored game called “Stretch.” A rather ordinary diversion for boys in our neighborhood.

 

Here’s how it works: You borrow a steak knife from the utensil drawer in the kitchen and go find a decent piece of turf to begin. Then you and the other player take turns throwing the blade to alternate sides of both feet. Perhaps a few inches or maybe a foot. The goal, of course, is to make the other spread their stance to the point where they topple over. If you fall first, you loose. But there was another strategy; alternate the distances between long and short. Really gets into your opponents head.

If you were a true gladiator, you played “Stretch” barefoot. I have a few scars on the top of both feet to prove it.

Our game was going fine until one of us speared the knife into a hard surface and the blade broke. Uh-oh. We got some serious explaining to do now.

Words on words

THE PARTY WILL BE OVER IN A FEW HOURS. Mardi Gras will wind down and transform into the sobering observance of Lent. A 40-day journey of Christianity leading up to the betrayal, execution and resurrection of a humble carpenter's son.  Earlier this morning as I slugged down my first much-needed cup of coffee, I pondered briefly on what this season means. For some, it's a time to give up some pleasure or pledge some temporary sacrifice geared walking a more focused path to the Creator.

After my routine scanning of news sites and the wires, it occurred to me how powerful words can be. In myriad ways, words can encourage, build others up, inspire and energize us to strive to be better folks. In other ways, words can tear down, hurt and devastate. 

And then there are those seemingly innocent words all of us use; the quietly delivered unsubstantiated "secrets" we share from time to time: Gossip.

Got me to thinking about an old Hebrew bit of advice I once read: What you don't see with your eyes, don't witness with your mouth. Suffice it to say that Mosaic memo about bearing false witness against your neighbor was not a suggestion.

Mid-way through John Patrick Shanley's play "Doubt," one of the lead characters, Father Brendan Flynn, is delivering his Sunday homily. It comes at a time when the affable priest's church and community are caught in the swirl of change of the early1960s. The good padre, too, finds himself under suspicion and attack by the disciplinarian principal of the church's school, Sister Aloysius. The harsh headmistress suspects him -- without any shred of evidence -- of having an inappropriate relationship with the school's newly admitted and first African-American boy.

The music of garages

BLACK FRIDAY – THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING.

 I’d rather eat my pancreas and climb Mount Everest naked than venture near to any shopping center or mall on that day. But there I was in Greenwood, Ind., with Robyn hitting a fabric store for gifts she would make for Christmas 2010. Knowing there was a slight possibility of escape, I took the rational course of action and ducked into the Guitar Center next door.

Love that place, and I go there from time to time. Mostly to dream.  It’s like stepping into a Holy Sepulchre of Telecasters, Strats, Martins, Gibsons and other Excaliburs for any squire shouldering a guitar.  Not to mention myriad accessories that any self-respecting ax-swinger seeks to stuff into his or her gig bag. And if you’re a non-musician without talent – say a person who plays keys or drums – it’s a pretty fascinating place, too. The GC caters to all.

On that dismal, dark November day a few months ago, I sought refuge. I did my usual entry, walking past the advertised specials and made my way over to the amp area, all surrounded by wall-mounted well-strung cornucopia.
The seduction is made easy: Select a guitar, plug it in and do your thing. And the store is wise enough to leave out picks.


Strum, play, -- do whatever Muse might strike you. Then move on and try more.