I’m not one for signs. But coincidences draw my scrutiny. The other day when I was talking about Jimmy with Erika, she said she did not remember the song “Whiskey In The Jar” by Metallica. It’s not a typical Metallica song. But I love everything about it. Several people reached out to me with stories about Jimmy. This morning when I needed it, I scanned stations to get away from the talk shows. The radio station The X came up. And guess what was playing? Whiskey In The Jar. As I cranked the volume, it certainly felt like the universe was talking to me.
I wanted to share one of the stories with Brianna about her dad Jimmy.
Jimmy was spoiled beyond belief. As an older cousin, I benefited immeasurably from this. He had all the toys, games, and add-ons that can make a childhood full of play. Because my immediate family was so poor, I’d never get the chance to experience those things if it weren’t for Jimmy and my Aunt Ardith and Uncle Buck. But I’m not exaggerating when I tell stories about Jimmy’s legendary spoiledness.
Uncle Buck was an accomplished musician. He had the chance to ‘be’ someone in the music field but chose to do it as a side gig and hobby instead of pursuing it. He gave Jimmy record players and an endless supply of 45s and LPs. Some of these I remember well because Jimmy played them until you couldn’t help but to have the songs burned into your ears. Stories like the one I’m recounting take on an unlikely meaning when you consider that Jimmy dived deeply into Pantera and his beloved group Metallica as soon hair began to grow on his face. Rock and heavy metal gave him a voice like nothing else had before. The year Jethro Tull won the grammy over Metallica, I wondered if Jimmy might go off the deep end permanently. “Effing Jethro Tull!” he said at least two million times in the next month. “Bands with flutes are NOT rock music!”
Whether it was “Devil Goes Down to Georgia” or other songs, none of my memories eclipse 1977’s “You Light Up My Life” by Debby Boone. Jimmy was about seven when the song premiered. He thought the song was the best he’d ever heard – and that Debby Boone was an angel. For those who don’t know, this song was EVERYWHERE and #1 for ten weeks. Jimmy played that record so many times that I wondered if it would ever fade into the background. Jimmy had the song memorized in five plays. He played it twelve million more times just to be certain. When Jethro Tull won the Grammy years later, I reminded him that “You Light Up My Life” had a flute in it. He got pissed off, but then in typical Jimmy fashion, he laughed. “You’re right! Damn it, you’re right!” He added the phrase, “Damn flutes!” to his repertoire of mumblings for a while.
When I hear “You Light Up My Life,” which is a rare thing now, I can’t explain how odd it is to think of Jimmy, Metallica, and Jethro Tull in the same thought. Jimmy’s been gone now for slightly less than ten years. 1977 is forty-six years ago.
So, Brianna, if you want a moment to connect with Jimmy, take a minute and look up “You Light Up My Life” and think of Jimmy standing in his living room with the song playing. He’d sway and badly sing the lyrics over and over. He was happy in those moments. Later, Metallica supplanted Debby Boone. Every once in a while through the years, I’d tease him and say, “Well, they are no Debby Boone, Jimmy!”
As for Jimmy, I hope those damn flutes are playing somewhere. With Metallica’s drums and shredded guitars accompanying them.
Jimmy’s hairstyles followed those of Metallica. The picture looked nothing like him for the last half of his life. But it’s tucked away in my collection to remind me.
I’ve never been one to worry much about how I look.
At 55 years and 11 months, I honestly don’t care if I have to strip down naked at the Farmer’s Market. I don’t know why that would happen, but I’m ready either way.
If something bothers me, I will fix it. And if I can’t, like my hair, I embrace it and laugh. You can mock me for short hair or no hair all you’d like. It doesn’t offend me. It’s like holding me responsible for the blue jay screeching outside your window on a Sunday morning.
I can look anyone in the eyes and feel like they’re equal. I’m not fooled and not plagued by insecurity.
All the titles, ranks, and positions are illusions. We’re human beings, even if we’ve devised an artificial method to separate and distinguish ourselves.
I know what you’re thinking during the day and when you lay down at night. And sometimes you want to curl up and read a book or binge-watch terrible tv. Or you are irritated at your person but just want someone to put their arm around you and enjoy the comfort of someone beside you. Trips to exotic places are fantastic, but life is comprised of smaller pleasures like the first cup of coffee, laughing, or watching people fall off ladders in online videos.
And all of us, no matter what we’ve done or the accomplishments we’ve achieved, pay the same price.
I would have been dangerous with this knowledge at 20.
Unstoppable.
If you’re reading this and you’re young, listen to me, please.
You are as good as anybody you’ll meet. If you put your mind to it, you can run a mile in 4 minutes. You can learn another language, or you can master calculus. You can find someone to love, have a family, or bury yourself in a career.
But you’re going to have to choose your time wisely. It’s not unlimited.
But whatever you want to achieve, whether it’s money, education, or fame, you are as likely as anyone you’ll meet to achieve it if you want it and dedicate your time and energy towards it. You’re looking at many people thinking that they possess some alchemy, intelligence, or energy that you don’t. They don’t.
It’s 100% illusion.
I don’t look at young people the way most people my age do.
I remember what it was like to be scared. And to feel the pressure of my entire life in front of me. I had the disadvantage of trauma and ignorance to overcome.
Maybe to feel like I wasn’t handsome enough or smart enough. The secret is that most of us are average in the literal sense. Embrace it. Joy is when someone finds something that they excel in. It just takes one thing to feel fulfilled.
If you want love, there’s someone looking at you right now with hungry eyes. Yes, there’s also someone looking at you, thinking, “Lord, what a doofus!” You can be happy in a world in which there are both.
If you want to be educated, witty, athletic, or a hermit, you can do that too. Whether you’re 22 or 55. None of us know where our finish line sits.
Modesty test. Erika found a mid-century Airbnb house on the fringe of Fayetteville. 12 acres, encompassing an entire deep valley, complete with a meandering stream. It’s an aging, gargantuan beauty, a multi-level labyrinth. Lots of eccentricities. Towering glass, no shades or curtains. The light-flooded interior recedes to the enveloping darkness in the valley at sunset. I’m certain the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere, although just on the fringe of the city, would run some people’s imagination into weird quarters. I climbed onto the apex of the roof, with a long view of the sloping property, stream, and emerald pond on the opposite side. I felt like I was 12. The master bedroom and accompanying bathroom is not for the timid soul. If you bathe or shower, if any wandering soul were to jaunt down the long serpentine driveway to the house, they could easily see what God gave you. When I showered, it evoked a laugh. I felt like Chris Farley in his infamous Chippendale dancer skit with Patrick Swayze. I’ll leave it to you to capriciously decide which character I felt like.
I used one picture of Erika from a bird’s eye perspective after I descended from the roof. As always, she’s reluctant to let people see her the way I do. Her hair was illuminated like soft fire in several of the pictures I took surreptitiously. She reluctantly stood next to me and let me take a picture of her with a backward view of the valley and pond below.
The sun finally made its way above the towering valley ridge. Everything is backlit with it and amber orange bloom.
I would describe it as beautiful, but it’s a fragile cliché compared to being present and witnessing it.
I thought the job of Cat Sitter was something else entirely. Erika took the picture. It’s one of the best pictures of her cat Acorn I’ve seen.
The second picture is of Güino frolicking in the snow. I let him play quite a while yesterday.
The third picture is Güino taking a rest in the cat castle after a hard day’s play.
This morning, I stood on the landing watching the moon. I heard arguing and shouting approaching. Even though it was 3:30 in the morning, two people were staggering down the sidewalk after a night’s festivities. Their conversation was so nonsensical that it reminded me of a presidential debate. They finally made it past and their voices faded. Güino was sitting at my feet. I could have sworn that even he shook his head in disapproval.
Even though it was cold and windy, I had to take a walk. This is a coffee and beer place next to the trail. The colors are stunning.
This is a picture heading back to my apartments. There’s color everywhere if you know where to look. We all need more of it in the winter.
Driving to work on the abandoned snow-covered roads this morning was beautiful. An urban landscape. The drive was easier than yesterday, when each of us looked out and hoped that the weather would show us mercy. I stopped, exiting my vehicle. The crisp echo of my feet on the accumulated snow reminded me of tiny packing bubbles. The sound was louder than the footsteps of an inebriated teenager attempting to quietly enter the house without waking anyone. I wanted to let the cold embrace me and take a long walk. I’m sure I looked a little odd, walking fast on the road. For a moment though, the road, perhaps for a mile in either direction, had only me on top of it. I returned to my car, and drove to work, resenting that I couldn’t pass an hour exuberantly walking the solitary streets. Though I’m doing my relentless paces here, I’m still out there, looking up at the luminescence that only snow can bring to 2:00 a.m. When you’re young, those kind of moments seem preposterous. And when you’re older, you just accept them as the rare though mundane moments that they are.
PS Each of us probably nicknames our neighbors. Erika and I nicknamed one of ours Shirtless Dad. If you’re guessing he acquired the moniker because he does indeed walk about shirtless, you would be right. And no, he definitely is not Brad Pitt. Late yesterday afternoon, when I walked back over to my apartment for a moment, I saw that he was going to check his mail. He remembered to take his postal key, but forgot his shirt. It tickled me so much that I called Erika on Alexa. That’s what prompted her to go sit on the landing barefoot and take a video. She didn’t capture his lunacy. That was another small and stupid moment that tickled me. You take your moments where you can find them.
I darted out of Harps, pushing my cart in zigzags in case a sniper watched me from the roof. Yes, I’m nine at heart. Since I prefer to park my little car at the end of the lot, I passed several cars to my left. Inside one of them, I noticed an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat. Her car was nice. Passing it, I looked back. She sat immobile, which seemed odd. I saw that her front passenger tire was very low. I put my stuff in the alleged trunk of my car. I couldn’t shake the need to ask if the woman in the car knew her tire was dangerously low.
I walked to the passenger side, knocked lightly on the window, and stepped back. The woman was older than I initially thought. Though it was unseasonably warm, she wore a scarf around her neck. The passenger window went down.
“Ma’am, your front tire is low. Would you like me to air it for you? I have a portable air pump in my clown car over there.”
When she spoke, her voice surprised me. It was deeper than I anticipated, and I couldn’t quite pin down her accent. Most people’s voice loses their natural depth after a certain age. “It wasn’t low when I left, but the dashboard light started blinking a minute ago. I just had the tires replaced a few days ago.”
I nodded. “I’ll bring my car around to the front. You don’t have to do anything, okay? I just hope the pump doesn’t explode like last time.” I smiled.
She laughed, which was a good sign. People who get my idiotic sense of humor are always appreciated.
I returned to my car and drove to the other side of the diagonal spaces. Because my car is short, I knew the pump would easily reach her tire. After connecting the pump, I waited for the absurdly loud thump to start.
I wasn’t going to talk. Not because I didn’t want to, but to make her feel comfortable. She started the conversation.
“Is there a nail in my tire? I just had new tires put on.”
I hunched down and looked, running my fingers over the surface.
“No, no nail, but this pocked knife probably shouldn’t be sticking out of the tire like that.”
She laughed again.
I said, “Since they’re new tires, I bet you have free flat care included. Those tires are expensive.”
“You’re right! Thank you. I’ll drive over there if it inflates.” Her voice still sounded almost acoustic.
“I can show you how to use the pump and let you take it with you if you want to.”
She smiled. “Well, that’s quite nice of you. I’ll stop at a station if I need to on the way. What’s your name?”
“X. The antepenultimate letter. Just X.”
“I haven’t heard that word used in conversation in years. That’s an interesting name. X. I assume you’re literate, though, using a ten-dollar word like that.”
“What’s your name,” I asked. “I bet it’s something lyrical, like Apropos.”
She laughed. “No, it’s Angeline.”
“Nice to meet you, Angeline. I’ve been in jail for a few years, so I haven’t met many people.”
Again, she intuitively knew I was joking.
“I was arrested once, a long time ago. Long story, but it was fun. Back when things were different.”
I wanted to ask for an explanation. It’s the kind of response that evokes curiosity.
“Assuming you’re retired, what did you do for a living? Your voice sounds like someone who should be in radio.”
She paused. “I was a singer, all kinds of music. I’d sing anywhere to earn a living. I’ve been all over the world. And I’d do any job in between.”
“Aha!” I thought to myself. That explains the voice.
“I wish I could sing. Sing well, I mean.”
“It didn’t stop many people from doing it who had no ability.” She laughed.
I wondered who she had in mind.
“I’ve got a passport but haven’t used it in years.”
“What’s the use of a passport if you don’t use it? Starve if you have to, but get out there and see people.”
“The starving part is what stops me.”
“I wasn’t fond of making ends meet either, never knowing for sure I could many times. Now those times seem like the best I had.”
“Nostalgia certainly erases the discomfort, doesn’t it?
She smiled and nodded.
I looked down and saw that the pump indicator was almost 35 psi. I disconnected the pump, unplugged it from my dash, and walked back to her car.
“Do you want to take this pump? I don’t mind. I’ve given one away before.”
“That’s so kind, X. I’ll be okay.”
Because I was curious, I asked her, “How old are you? I like to be rude and just ask.”
“You should always ask. Rudeness and courtesy are overrated. I’m 83.”
I pretended to whistle. “Wow, that’s REALLY old!”
I got yet another laugh.
“Yes, I remember thinking 60 was over the hill. Can I pay you for helping me?”
“Of course not. Just a few minutes of my day. My probation officer will ask where I’ve been, though.”
“Are you sure? I won’t be offended either way.”
Because I’m wired to catch people off guard, I said, “How about a keepsake, like something ridiculous to repay me?”
“I have just the thing. Let me extract it from my purse.” She moved her purse from the passenger seat and rummaged through it. She removed a coin holder and opened it. As her fingers came out, I thought she pulled out a large coin.
“Here, take this. I’ve had it for years. It was given to me by someone I used to sing with.”
I reached in, and she put a round disk in my hand. I looked at it. It had, at one point, been on a necklace. On its face was a star of David and two Hebrew letters.
“This looks personal. Are you sure you want me to have it?” I felt just a tinge of guilt for having joked about her paying me with a keepsake.
“It is personal. It’s sat in my coin purse for a long, long time. It’s time it had a new home.”
“Thank you, Angeline. Do you need anything?”
“No, but I do appreciate it. And you.”
I stepped away from her car and saluted. It seemed like the thing to do. She smiled.
As I went to my car, I realized I had many questions about a total stranger. I had the sensation that I’d met someone with a fascinating life and story. I put the amulet in my pocket. As I backed out of the parking spot, I waved to her like Gump.
. . . I still haven’t figured out what the coin inscription says. I showed it to Erika. When I said, “How do you know it’s from Israel?” She laughed, “Because it says ‘Made In Israel’ on the back.” I hope it says something preposterous like, “Drink Coke.” But I have wondered more than once who the woman was and who gave her the amulet. I can’t shake the idea that it was much more meaningful than a polite conversation would have permitted her to disclose. I didn’t write this anecdote down because I thought I’d find out what the inscription says before I did. Now, I appreciate the mystery of not knowing.
The short talk I had with her reminded me that the word “sonder” is us. We’re like an undulating mass of birds in the sky, all of us invisibly moving in unison, believing that we are choosing our own direction.
I rendered my walk goal as a cube root, expressed in miles. Think of it as a GED test for an exceptionally warm winter Tuesday afternoon. (I did the base number wrong on purpose, just to make the math not be even.) 70° in January? Mother nature must have had a glass of wine.
During this beautiful and energetic walk, I was imagining the most brilliant mathematics teacher. The hair would be in a mess, socks unmatched, and their communication ability equivalent to a horse tapping out Morse code. They probably know everything in the world about math. People looking at them and listening to them would be so distracted by their presentation that they would erroneously conclude that they couldn’t possibly be intelligent.
Which leads me to point out that people can have a surprisingly vast knowledge about something. But those around them don’t appreciate it. Or can’t see past whatever visual or auditory filter that’s blocking them.
It’s too bad y’all weren’t walking with me this afternoon. One of you could have carried the six pieces of chalk I exhausted on the various surfaces around me. We could have shared the music too. It was divine.
Even now I have to double check that it’s not spring.
I climbed a pretty good-sized tree too. But the thicket that scratched and pulled at me that I traversed was much more interesting.
Pretty damn good day.
More than I have a right to ask for, but one for which I’m grateful.
Oof! To burn this bright all the time would be my demise. I awoke at 2:30 this morning, already feeling that sensation of otherworldly lightness. And so I navigated my day at work, my feet boundless. Even after work, both my mind and my feet were creative and I did a few projects as if I were two people, one focused on the task at hand and the other in my head, writing. But the sunlight streamed through my large front windows and the prisms danced and cast rainbows all over me and across the new rainbow light I made today.
So I decided to get 5 miles over my normal amount for the day. I grabbed my keys and headed out, even though I still had on my work shoes from 12 hours earlier. Lord, what a good decision it was. The breeze, sublime, the sun just warm enough, several dogs to stop and pet, and some good music. Though I am unlike most of my contemporaries and enjoy a lot of current music, I opted for ’80s rock. And the very first song was “Sweet Child Of Mine.” I had no choice but to sing part of it, my ears encased in prehistoric headphones. Had someone stopped and said, “You sound terrible,” I would have said, “…at least I don’t LOOK like Axl Rose these days.”
It made me think of my cousin Jimmy. He loved Metallica and copied most of the hairstyles of the band as it transitioned. He would have shaken his head at me and asked me to please stop the screeching. I of course would have ignored him. At which point he would have joined in, his voice equally absent any trace of singing ability.
There’s no doubt I don’t sing well. There’s equal certainty I enjoy a good day. I tend to have a lot of energy. Even when I’m sitting still. It’s why I annoy people and say I don’t get bored. I have to really work at it to feel the sensation.
But I walked and walked and watched the brilliant sunlight grow longer and cast increasingly somber shadows.
I can’t say that tomorrow I will burn as bright. I am fond of saying though, that I can own the moment and memory no matter what.
Maybe there’s a word to describe a simultaneous lightness of being rendered as a chameleon of nostalgia.
I can’t walk forever. And even so the number of days ahead of me is certainly much fewer than those ahead. If this were to be the last photo of me,.. even though I took it myself, it’s fitting. Please don’t “at” me for triggering any possible morbid connotation. Having lived it, no one can tell me that it’s impossible that it might be so.
Earlier, the urge to walk in this beautiful weather overwhelmed me. Erika wasn’t as enthusiastic about the idea, but I sold her with the insistence that once we started walking, it would be both beautiful and enjoyable. My 5-minute Rule seldom lets me down in terms of procrastination and enjoyment. We went to the Carol Scypc Trailhead in Johnson. It’s proximate and like the rest of the trail, it’s gorgeous. For fans of dapper Don Moore, that’s where you’ll likely see him walking his dog Diego.
A couple of weeks ago as I entered the apartment, my cat Gùino overzealously ran in front of me to get to the anticipated plate of cat juice that he knew would be waiting for him. I had to let go of everything in my hands because of the certainty I was going to faceplant. My favorite coffee cup lost the battle with the ensuing collision with the floor. Pieces flew in every direction. On a whim I collected and kept the pieces. When the motivation struck me, I glued it inexpertly back together.
With that in mind, on today’s walk, I took the repaired cup and a piece of wire with me on the walk. The cup is one I made myself, inscribed with the reminder of, “Choose Your Hard.” I owe that one to my cousin Lynette. Her picture is also on the cup. The choose-your-hard motto simply put is a reminder that you’re going to have to put the work in one way or another, either at the front end when it’s easier, or after, when you face the consequences of poor decisions.
When Erika and I were most of the way back, we stopped at the last bridge junction so that I could hang the cup in a tree near the bubbling creek. I think she sometimes grows weary of me telling her how striking she is when the sun hits her face and shoulders. For those of you familiar with the trail, it’s near the spot where two ancient pickup trucks sit at the perimeter of the trail. It’s also where I placed a keepsake watch of mine a few months ago. I hated to let the cup go and sometimes that’s when I feel most satisfied when I part with something. Everything is going to go one way or another. It’s good practice. And I hope that people will look at it quizzically and with enough curiosity to occasionally walk over to it to investigate. I’ve placed dozens of things along the trails and the places around here in Fayetteville. Some obscured, some in plain sight.
A cup, a reminder, and a beautiful January Saturday afternoon.
Was it worth it to venture out and have the experience? Hell yes. Such a simple thing.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 