blog

Blogsvilla

Our experience together

was one of formation

rotation, be damned.

over loaded,

I gave you too

much information, I suppose.

I'd apologize

with no regret

forget the wiles

that made me forget

somehow an accomplice

when the story ends

somehow,

nervous but dauntless

tie up all the loose ends

Blogsvilla is a spot to opine, orate pass up, deflate. 22nd class, 3rd rate, mox nix, expectorate, come down, go up, relax, pump up, sin tax, syntax, modulate, come early, stay late. frolic too, boxcar blues, rode hard, put up wet, hard road, light load, won't forget.

April 6th 2008 You never know who reads these things- I have not made an entry for a long time. A new day job, (which I like very much) and computer issues (solved by Jerry the computer guru) kept me away...

We are finishing the longest winter ever and today is a beautiful WARM spring day granddaughter Alyssa's birthday; she requested grampa's Lasagna so I am off to the newly renovated kitchen to start cooking as soon as I reintroduce myself to this website...

I'm starting work on CD #3 soon- I realize I've done absolutely no promotion on #2 Continued- you did know it was available? How would you? So, maybe.... big maybe, I'll be doing more Joe shows, since my tenure with RC is drawing to a close. This means scheduling that is my doing... earlier shows, less 1 in the morning honky tonk closing time gigs.. it's time.

August 10th 2006- My birthday is a bit over a week away- we are playing at a brand new lounge, grand opening. Way far off in west Omaha. A foreign country. Benson is having a street dance that night, I will have to miss that. I hope it turns out well.

I was reading the next two mini articles in this blog- written nearly two years ago. Please take them with a grain of salt?

September 1st, 2006---- I am being inducted into America's Old Time Country Music Hall of Fame. I was nominated by an old friend, Danny McElroy. This eases some of the sting that may be apparent in the lines below. I am also beginning work this September on CD #2 Continued. All acoustic this time. I'm working with Tim Tague and Behind the Mule productions.

The award will be presented at the National Old Time Country and Bluegrass Music Festival. This event is put on by Bob Everhart. He has done more for promoting this time of music than anyone in the Midwest. I first met Bob at Florence Days around 1970? He had a big wide old Stetson hat and a 12 string guitar with harp. He looked like an old time river gambler. Began going to the Missouri Valley Festival in the mid 70's when it was at Westfair in Council Bluffs. Things were a little wild and wooly in those days. Next Bob had a successful stint in Avoca, Iowa. Nearly 20 years worth. Now the festival has moved to Mo Valley which is an easy commute from Big O. Bob still can be seen motoring about the grounds in an old red golf cart, or singing with wife Sheila and assorted pickers, still the riverboat gambler.

A word about Rhythm Collective, 10-31-06 yes Halloween and my bride and I will sit on our front porch in our costumes- the same every year head to toe black- gloves and shoes topped by a black mask you can see out of but not into, and a big black Stetson to top it off. Oh, and we don't speak. We are shadows of the anti-mime. We live on the longest street in town without a side street. Nearly 8 blocks. It is Trick or Treat heaven--

We've gone through some big changes this last year. I think more changes are on the way. It's been a great run. We need to get back in to the studio. It's time to take a step forward.

The change occurred- Soup is gone, our new drummer is Ron Chandler (Cymbolton)- he sings, produces, ministers, talks to the crowd!!! What's up with that!!! Wow... the changes that occur. Ron is long gone, we have a new drummer,Jason Weyerman who is doing a great job. and RC continues to roll on..... until September, when I am retiring, and there will I am sure be a new version of RC, which I hope you will continue to support. 11 years, wow what memories....

November 27th, 2006- Happy Holidays to all! May many blessings come your way.

People who know me know that I have never met my biological father. He does not know of me. I have tried to get someone to intercede for me, to give me advice, to arrange a meeting. No one returns my letters. The roman church, which handled my adoption, says it needs a notarized document giving permission from my biological mother. She will not do it. Why? I have no idea.

It is in God's hands. If I never meet him, I am reconciled with that. I have to be, I cannot make this meeting occur.

Winter is at the door. There was freezing rain in the air this morning, geese were winging down the Missouri valley, there could be snow before morning. I am giving up some old things this winter- things which no longer serve me, things which no longer fit, relationships which go in circles with no point- no rhyme or reason.

Bluegrass music is the sound of a runaway coal train, hurtling down a 32 degree grade, hissing steam, blowing clouds of coalsmoke up the valley all the way to Mount Pilate, those mountains ring and echo, with a stillness on the edges, those places where few humans live, and hawks watch from treeline clearings. half yell and half yodel,

high lonesome.

I don't get a chance to play it anymore. Here in the Midwest there is no call for it. This is oompah oompah land, (No, not those diminutive orange guys that make the chocolate) Nebraska was settled by immigrants who brought their tubas and accordions. Their descendents eschewed these instruments along with their Kolache recipes in favor of rock and roll, nothing wrong with that, the general populace here in Nebraska is just not interested in Hillbilly twang, rural acoustic banjo and mandolin jazz. You can't sell it, and when you are offered a job there is usually a pregnant pause from the client, "Oh, you want to be paid to play at my cowboy themed bar mitzvah? I didn't know you played for money."

You don't, if you are a Nebraska bluegrasser. You carry on traditions, yes, although most of your meager audience couldn't give a rat's ass about that, you feed a fire that is difficult to keep stoked in the heartland. Or you move to Kentucky or Arkansas, or follow the festivals (none of which are here in oompah oompah land) in a Winnebago.

Or, you give up, like I did and play something commercial. Sell out? I'm a city kid. I don't really know what drew me to bluegrass in the first place. I miss it, but realistically, the bluegrass purists have short term memories like slices of Swiss cheese. I am forgotten, they are in limbo, praying for another shot in the arm from Hollywood- The Coen brothers actually raised bluegrass music to a tiny little blip on the music radar screen here- oh, it faded so quickly. So, bluegrass cowboy that I am, I'll ride off into that sunset, with a trace of sadness, and some relief- I'll never have to wait to start a tune while the banjo player incessantly tunes.

PS- I got a chance to play bluegrass Saturday night. At a party way out in the country, with my guitar, David's mandolin and fiddle, and John on his bull fiddle, positioned beside a roaring bonfire throwing sparks as an old Farmall tractor puttered by behind us with a load of city folks reveling at being out in old primitive backwater Nebraska creation, unearthly quiet without the noise of man, only crickets, tree frogs, and the occasional farm dog, no coyotes this time, but only because they had something to do on the other side of the hill.; a full moon and a 70 degree late September night. It doesn't get much better than that- if that sounds like a beer commercial so be it- we fueled ourselves with a few of those as well. Helps to lubricate that high lonesome sound.. I know of nothing as fun to play out in the sticks, and pulling up without amplifiers, without PA- just the way it was done in our grandparents time before the dawn of radio and TV- Well, it works for me. Maybe it's better without the money.

Now, country music-- Don't get me started. I love the fact that we finally seem to realize that country is not just Nashville, not just a formula, and Lyle Lovett can co exist with Lucinda Williams and Hank Williams the 3rd. Punk Country, why not? It's just that none of it will play here in Omaha. And it's far worse if you are a country music singer living in Omaha. Might as well be an untouchable unless you pretend you are something else and sneak up on them while they are not paying attention. And that is easy. (I do like Gretchen Wilson-- that video, "When I think about Cheatin'" That is Hot!)

I've played more country gigs in this town and the Midwest than anybody. Thousands of jobs. No one remembers me. That's OK. Country music fans and media are the most bullheaded, insufferable, near sighted (Meaning, if you come to Omaha from somewhere else, anywhere else, on a bus, you might be good. I guess the driving somehow improves the show) misplaced ( surely the only thing worse than being a country singer in Nebraska is being a DJ here, it's as far away from the national country scene as the Sahara desert.) and confused. Try to promote a local country record. Oh, didn't know there were any? How would you? They would never give airplay to a local act. Unless you are willing to go to Nashville and beg your way into the Bluebird Cafe, which by the way in spite of being the songwriter's Mecca, has all the charm of a Burger King, they won't listen. It's like becoming a heating and air conditioning guy- if you don't know someone in management you won't get a job.

If you are from here they will never notice you. Why? I have no idea. For 25 years I didn't care. It was enough to play the music and live within my alter ego- Bighat- I liked his fondness for Honky tonks and liquor. I enjoyed the fact that most people disliked what I did or misunderstood it. That's fine for a cynic, but I grew out of the role. Now I just play music. If it sounds country I will tell you, "No. It isn't country. Couldn't be. I'm from Nebraska and there is no country music in Nebraska."

October 24th 2006. An old friend asked me, at the Missouri Valley festival, "How come you haven't added to your Blogs?"

"I didn't know anyone read them, to tell you the truth. How do you know?"

Things are good. I get to play music. RC is playing this weekend at Trovato's- Halloween there is a regular gig for us. You'll see wookie soundmen, the lady who forgot her britches, star troopers and space cadets. I still like the party crowd. Is it always good for me? Gosh no.

You write because you enjoy it- what possesses you to post it for the cyber world to see? Is it ego? Probably. It is nice to know old friend someone enjoys these ramblings... I'll try to keep them up.

I look forward to the winter. It is the time to get some writing done. The need to play real loud in front of large groups of mammals- balanced by the frozen silences and the sun in the prism.

March 2005-- this bog is elastic, it may jump and spin, it does not purport to have a chronological order. I find that comforting. I had a conversation with two musician friends this past weekend. We all three have projects in the works, new songs on the way, wives and kids and living day to day, playing when we can, with gratitude. It was interesting we all agreed on a subject which seemed an odd thing to discuss. "I believe these songs will take off after I am gone."

"They will get recognition while you are here. they are good tunes."

"No, really. It is just the way it will work. When I leave, they will become important."

"I feel it too. I don't know why it should be that way. Interesting that all three of us see that happening."

"It doesn't mean of course that I am going to do anything differently. that is the joy of music. It's transience is it's beauty."

"Be nice to have some of that gravy now." said Otto as he pushed back from the table. "I'm going to go tune up. I've got little ones at home."

"Do you want to walk into places and have people recognize you? Is that what you want?"

"Makes no difference what I want. Posthumous, that's the way it will be."

The second set was different that night. There is something about mortality that takes you to the invisible republic

When I was a young man, after a gig I could not go to sleep, music opened up whole vistas- new angles and views, feelings and emotions- my brain would dance and flirt with specters, I could not sleep because I had not learned how to turn off the cinema switch in my mind that newsreel, that cartoon, that music video DJ strumming cacophonous reverberating tremolo what if why not when then sinking rising

liking

January, 17nth, 2005. On this blog- following this entry- there are several references to political occurrences and views. I now regret this. I can see how pointless it is to include these; the old adage about discussing politics in polite company is true. I will refrain from it henceforth, having no qualifications besides being a concerned American citizen. I realize now the animosity it stirs up is not worth it- and we cannot change another human soul in any way besides the example we set. I leave these posts where they are- only because what is written deserves to stay written. Take them with a grain of salt.

This morning I awake to a beautiful Nebraska early autumn day, the sun just poking above the horizon as I watch my wife, Christine go off to work. She is in her 25nth year of reading meters for the local utility company. She has her share of bad dog stories. Our daughter Sara is the first one off in the morning going to classes at College of St. Mary, studying to be a nurse, or off to work at Immanuel Hospital. So, grand daughter Jade, 2 and a half years old is in their apartment in the basement. I make a phone call to West while I wait for her to wake up, trying to talk to an actual human on the line, to ask why I an being charged for a 24 dollar, 10 minute phone call to the United Kingdom. I explain, "I don't know anyone there. No one in this house does. And even if I did I never talk on the phone for 10 minutes to anyone."

I hear Jade start to stir. She calls, "Poppa?"

"I'm coming."

We go through our ritual. "Mommy?"

"She is at school." I explain as I change her diaper and start getting her clothes for the day on.

"Mammon?"

"Mammon is at work. We are going to Jean's house." Jean watched Sara when she was this age.

I get Jade situated in the car seat and step in fasten my seat belt and.... calorific.. Now just last week my wife said to me, "We should probably think about putting a new battery in that car. It's nearly three years old." I should listen to her. So, I get the stroller out of the garage and take Jade out of the car seat. Our sitter fortunately lives just a few blocks away. We enjoy the beautiful day and sing some songs as we take our walk. I drop her off and think, "There is an auto parts store 2 blocks from here. I can buy the battery, put it in the stroller and wheel it home." So, I push this empty stroller through the neighborhood to busy 60nth and Ames. I park it in front of the parts store, buy the battery, tell the guy I'll bring the old one by in the afternoon, load up the battery and proceed to stroll. As I wait for the traffic light to turn a guy in the car right in front of me rolls his window down. He leans over. With a sly grin he says. "Missing something, aren't you?"

I laugh. I pull the towel covering the battery back. "Traded that noisy baby for a battery."

He looks at me rather oddly as he pulls away. I wheel that battery into the Burger King for biscuits and gravy, and take off for home. Now, I am no car repairman. I can do the basic stuff. I get my tools out and know that usually battery post bolts are a #10 metric socket. I find that and there is a rusty bolt wedged so deep in the socket I pull out of my toolbox I cannot get it out. I know the last one to use that socket was Christine's son. "Demit." I get my bike out of the garage. climb aboard and ride back to the auto parts store for a socket.

Back at home with the proper tool I install that baby and take a deep breath. Some days are just unpredictable.

Journal-July 12nth 2004--I am at the Dingy cave (re: Interstate Printing. The name Dingy cave was given by my wife who would occasionally read the meters here. Poor girl, always needs to be shown where the gas meter is---- nod, nod, wink, wink.) It is 10 minutes until 2PM, an interminably long afternoon of cutting paper, and I am consumed with a summer cold, complete with cough, sore throat, muscular aches, and phlegm up the wazoo. But I am here. I am working anyway. Tough old coot. I have one month to go. On August 13th, one week before my 50th birthday, I say goodbye to this place, this life, the print shop, the time clock punching. I am ready. It is time for a change.

This was written 3 months ago. As I write this on the 4th of October, I am in semi retirement. I play the music, collect one years worth of unemployment, have my first novel coming out around Thanksgiving, have the retirement (meager) the 401K, and watch my grand daughter, who is sleeping downstairs as I write this. I end 32 years of blue collar, hard working, semi dead end jobs, which nonetheless defined what I was. There is nothing wrong with being a simple working man. I liked the discipline, the stability. We need more of them. Someone has to build, to repair the infrastructure of this great country, to print the books, build the cabinets, store the freight, deliver the groceries, and paint the walls. We can't all sit in front of white collar computer terminals. It just won't be me anymore, unless it is on the rather extensive honey-do list I have for this Fall. I hesitate to use the word pride in reference to my varied career, because I don't believe pride is something we should get too wrapped up in, but there is a satisfaction going back in my mind over all those years from my place here-- writer and singer songwriter now in total, what I have always dreamed of being, to walk across the hall way in the morning, to spend the morning deep in editing or phone calls, recording, arranging lyrics, answering mail, or a hundred things that were always pressed into the early morning or late evening hours- I have a huge amount of gratitude for my wife who said, "It is time. It is time to see if your dreams will fly."

The bottom line of course is believing. We do. Sometimes I see her longing to have this freedom. It's coming. I just need to walk the line, to live up to a different set of responsibilities.

Written November 1985, and revisited August 2004 as Ted Kooser from Nebraska is installed as the national poet laureate.

"I met your poet, he loaned me his lariat.. I told him about my first pheasant hunting trip. It seemed the kind of thing he wrote about. He had just finished reading his words on a crowded urban college campus, he would not be out of place at your family picnic.

It was when I was 18. 1972. My dad had lost interest in hunting and had never taken me, so I went with beer swilling friends, my head foggy after a Friday night spent in the bars of Grand Island. One of them had relatives north of there. The town was called Boelus. It is famous for a saloon which specializes in Rocky Mountain Oysters.

We hunted with a big group of people. They wanted to limit out so they could get back to the bar and watch the Nebraska Oklahoma game. We walked across huge Milo fields, 14 or 15 of us spaced every 70 or 80 feet, 2 more blocking the end. The November sun rose through morning mists, the fields stretched on and on, much bigger than back towards Omaha, this is the edge of the sandhills, wide open country. The birds ran before us, occasionally growing impatient and bursting skyward with a small explosion that never ceased to make the short hairs on the back of my neck raise up. I took the first bird too close. "Let them get out a ways, you'll ruin the meat." Good advice from Harpo who is hunting next to me. I'd practiced with my new shotgun. I took two more, my limit, stuffing them in the back of my hunting coat after wringing their necks. I was done for the day and it wasn't 9 o'clock yet. We pushed on across that endless field. We came over a swale and saw dozens of Magpies chasing a hawk, against a bone steel sky, a front moving in.. I asked Harpo, "What are those things?"

"Magpies. They don't always hang out this far east. Sometimes you won't see them till the Wyoming border." Must not. I'd never seen them before. Camp robbers. Noisy gaudy birds.

We walked till noon. Like infantry. Some of our party were still without birds. The last field was a Milo field and I'd been passing up shots. Lots of birds. I was hunting next to Curly, a large, loud, abrasive one eyed man who was wired all the time. He'd made one of our party so mad he vowed never to hunt again. He'd sensed this guys weak spot and drove the shaft home till he cracked; elemental psychology. I liked watching it in a nihilistic way, perhaps because for some reason he didn't pick on me. He was walking this last field blowing on a duck call with his patch over the wrong eye.

I left formation. Must have been all the noise. I followed a small creek, keeping the others in sight, timing my progress so I would get to the end of the field when they did, our blockers just dots up on the road beside their pickup. I walked over a blowout and there 10 feet away were three coyotes, prairie wolves, fighting over a rabbit. They stopped and gave me their full attention, their fur grown out to winter length making them seem much larger. They weren't afraid of me, just cautious and curious, and I city kid though I was did not feel any fear either. I had a gun. I knew there was a bounty on these bad boys too. But I couldn't, no, wouldn't shoot, this was all wild America looking at me with big yellow eyes. They tired of watching me and took off for the creek, disappearing almost, eerily.

At the edge of the field I saw a few birds trickle out, our blockers must have had their limit too, they let them go, when we passed the last few yards the field erupted and (My estimate) 500 pheasants took off, something I've not seen before or since."

"You should write about it." said poet man.

That was 19 years ago. Now we have a Nebraskan as our poet Laureate. I'm proud of him, of us. We won't make a big deal of it. He wouldn't want us to. He was described as an everyday guy. More power to him, and the rest of the everyday guys of this world. We are not stereotypes, we are not one dimensional, we are not going to disappear and we are sure of ourselves and don't care if we are off your radar screen. So I'll go back someday and have a beer at the Boelus bar for average Joe's and our poet Laureate.

Wednesday September 2nd 2004. Christine and I watched the Republican convention.. I am a lifelong Democrat, I suppose following in the footsteps of my father, who was a Roosevelt Democrat, a union man, a WW2 vet, and a child of the great depression. I voted for the first time in 1972, for George McGovern.

I watched the evenings proceedings with mixed feelings. It was like spying on the camp of the enemy, although I had resolved to vote for George W. Bush soon after 9-11. I grew to trust the honesty of the man even if I did not always agree with him.I believe we need his leadership at this point in history.

When Zell Miller got up to speak we had almost shut the TV off. I did not know anything about him. I suppose we decided to stay tuned when Jim Lehrer stated he was a Democrat. "A Democrat giving the keynote speech at the Republican convention? Did I hear that right?" We were enthralled. We laughed, we yelled "Right on!" We were taken back to an old style of political rhetoric, mixed with a little southern Baptist fire and brimstone. "They are going to rake this guy over the coals tomorrow."

Christine said, "I believe him. I know the truth when I see it."

"Look at us, two old Democrats who are both voting GOP for the first time in our lives." Zell Miller touched my soul. He said, "I'll be a Democrat till the day I die, but this is not the party of my youth." It's not. It's unrecognizable. I am not going to change my party affiliations either, but a big change would have to occur for me to vote Democrat in a presidential election again.

Analyst George Stephanopolous said, " Since the majority of Americans oppose this administrations policies..."

Do they? What poll says that? I think the rank and file American, the average Joe's and Jane's still keep some of the old values. They still see some things as sacred. Perhaps in his social circle (ie: the media) that is true, but not in down home America, wherever it may be. Maine to Oregon, Louisiana to North Dakota. Certainly not here in Heartland Nebraska.

I have a good friend who I exchange books with. I am a compulsive reader, liking nothing better than to lose myself in a book. Used to be, any book. I've become a little more selective to avoid wasting time, and reading recycled ideas. Right now I am reading Patrick O'Brians wonderful series about Captain Jack Aubrey. My friend has gone on various searches for meaning- in the end the books he gives me reflect his aimlessness- here is my e-mail about our book exchange.

Dear ----,

I am reading Wicked, the life and times of the witch of the West. (You of course know I was once married to the wicked witch of the North, but that is another story) I am enjoying it, as well. It is interesting to me how close this book and the last one you loaned me, Naked, are in philosophy. An author can never hide his basic perception of the world in his work, whatever he writes, fantasy, sci-fi, or wild west thrillers, the credo, the core beliefs will surface in the course of the story. Both of these authors are clever; wonderful story tellers, inventive, and funny. Both are stuck in a metaphysical limbo because neither of them really believe in anything.

Dr. Gillimond, (the murdered goat prof) talks of finding life's essence. He is murdered for it. He speaks of a connection between science and creation theories. All this is speculation. Good reading, but in a sense, trivial. Of course they are connected. There is nothing at odds between these two theories, they fit together because they are in fact a single theory, and they prove each other, science in it's infancy, and Spirit ancient and waiting for science to catch up. Einstein knew it. Could it be that is the unification theory? Science and creation, united, one and the same. That is why the physicists cannot answer the big question. It is too simple. They want it complicated.

You see, my friend, everything is connected. Can you feel it? The questions we ask, about the universe, our conjectures, are brought about by our feeling a part of this- if we felt lost and disowned, disenfranchised, we would not ask these questions. We would not care. This whole universe might be the size of an atom. Each atom a separate universe. I might be in your perception of the universe and not in someone else's. The changes you cause in your perception of the universe, which of course is YOUR universe, are true changes, because that is the only true perspective you will ever have. Your eyes only ----. Filtered through your touch and especially your mind, which is where the universe really is. The soul of it, all of it as ephemeral as this life, this stage of the Spirit's existence. When you daydream, or enter (as Freud would call it) the subconscious, (he would enter here during hypnosis,) you are effectively in a parallel universe, you are on another spiritual plane. Could this be reality, and the conscious a dream?

I watched Nova last night, and a group of scientists were tracing the origins of the universe back to the Big Bang. They explained how all this complicated matter just sort of drifted together and started growing life. Astounding. There was no mention of a Creator. Just happened, I guess. That is absurd. Apart from the fact that I have personally felt the movement of the Spirit, I simply do not wish to be associated with such a haphazard, unwieldy, lifeless, soulless, universe. Those scientists and the two writers we are discussing however should be right at home in a Godless universe. They can have it.

Both of these writers write like men, (themselves primarily) are all it is. I don't think the scientists want a Creator because it makes them feel important to figure this stuff out (wrongly) all by their little human selves. Man shapes a destiny based on his tiny mind. It's bigger than that. It really is, and faith in the Creator is the only answer to these questions they pose.

There is either faith or speculation. If you are like most people you will veer back and forth over an imaginary line. At some low point depression will slide in and the descent will begin..

Prosperity would not come for me, because I wanted it for the wrong reasons, and understood that. How many times have you had the facts of the matter all lined out, knew it to be true and yet still went the other way. Everyone, every child of God..I'd think, "I'll show those so and so's. " I wanted to right wrongs that only existed in my imagination.

Then I realized I was the one holding me back. For all the right reasons, which are not always the right reasons but the only ones I considered at the time. The answer was simple. Release the anger and the spite, the willful day the darkest night, let your heart take flight..

October 6th, 2004. I have been writing letters back and forth with an old friend. In the old days we were very close. We needed a dialogue. Our questions brought us back to the river, as always. This, in essay form, journal, and foundry, some dirty laundry, boats that won't sail, shoes on the rail, broke. (Work in progress)

Dear Milo,

I appreciate your input. I think perhaps the poem, Big Muddy, should be the basis for a larger work. I would like it to call to mind the neighborhood we grew up in. My house was a 10 minute walk from the river, 2 minutes in a car. It pulled me then, it does so still. I have journals full of notes from riverwalks.

excerpt--- "The day was bonesteel cold. Gray. There were the round pancake chunks of slush ice twirling down the current. we were right on the channel side. Deep water, used to tie up rock barges.

I could see it was going to happen several seconds before it did. It was interesting to watch, one of those things you are powerless to stop once the motion gets going.

The rifle propped against the tree. Leaning into the middle of the path. The dog tearing along, hunting, his nose down in the dust, his shoulder connects, the shoulder clipping the gun, the graceful arc the curve of blurred blue steel and the icy splash.

It was cold. November. I did not hold the loss of the gun against the dog..I bought another 22 rifle. The river claimed that one, too."

We would follow the path just north of the Corps of Engineers to the river. There were two shacks along the river bank, ramshackle, tin and plywood, cardboard patches. These two old river rats had one skiff between them and had moved to this squatter's paradise in the 50's, selling what they could net off the big bar up around the bend, taking what was offered, (I never saw them beg) and taking the time to sit with us kids as we passed by. Whitey had been in the big war. He had schooling and a transistor radio. He kept up. His partner Muley talked little, was afflicted with a deep stupidity, did most of the grunt work and smiled every blessed minute of the day, dirt poor, his tongue poking out over rows of stub teeth, black and eroded, I thought, "What does he have to smile about?"

In 1975 the city bought that land for a park. I heard Whitey was living down on north 16th street in a decrepit room on his soldiers pension, and that Muley had died confined in the county hospital, not able to readapt to life in the city. North 16th street, Milo. A stench, a grating noise, is that Steinbeck? I digress.

North 16th street starts at Capital- when the city planners got a chance to build a Hilton Hotel in the early 70's they set it smack dab in the middle of 16th, tore down the old post office a block north and effectively sheltered the rest of the city from the wasteland that was north 16th. Sols pawnshop and Petitt pastries, the red truck with the sandwiches, open door missions and street people wandering around because there is nothing to do but walk, the old Storz brewery with it's 300 foot smokestack, a salvage yard, now, and always the river, the cottonwoods on it's banks visible from most of 16th street because it exists on a shelf that was cut by the river in it's unchanneled days.

The print shop I worked at for 18 years, is on 16th and Grace. An odd name for that derelict street.. 20 blocks north of downtown, on the site of the 1898 Trans-Mississippi exposition, which drew a million people to old River City. (All that is left now is a gazebo on Locust street) behind the print shop was the mansion of Nebraska's territorial governor, torn down, another example of Omaha's preserving their heritage. Just north of the print shop is the first apartment complex built in Omaha, Strehlow terrace. There is a garage across the street where carriages were brought up for the gentry who lived there- still an impressive building with Spanish tile roofs and archways, it has been used for low rent housing and now is boarded up, home only to pigeons and winos. (With the new Quest Center in the neighborhood, this will someday become valuable property. That time has not yet come- who knows if the new neighbors will want a smelly old print shop in their neighbor hood. I've driven down Grace street up to the plant while they were running a glue job. A line of glue is applied to the paper before it goes through an oven which is around 300 degrees- with that and the silicone when it goes out the roof vent in a hot smoky steam it has a burnt toxic adhesive smell you can smell down on the river. 10/15/04).

This brings us to Daley's package liquor. On welfare check day the line goes right out the door. There are rumbles in the parking lot, customers from the crack house across the street, chicken wings fresh every half hour, panhandlers and beer truck drivers two wheeling cases of Colt 45 and Olde English 4000, (our print shop joke was, "Hey, somebody do the 40 ounce dash down to Dailey's!") and JB behind the counter when I'd stop for coffee in the morning.

"Ain't seen yo boss in here fo a while."

"No- they told him not to come back.."

"Damn. He'd come in here, 2, maybe three times a day. Buy a pint of Smirnoff. Wearing a suit. Excuse me."

JB was a big man. He couldn't take any crap off of anyone and still do his job. "Git yo ass out of here. I done told you not to come in here." He followed an elderly black man with matted hair and a ragged sports coat out into the lot. "Git."

"Trash." He took my change. "In a suit he'd come in here. Might's well put a sign on his back- rob me."

"Yeah. We'd watch him leave through the mail room. Kept it in the bottom drawer of his desk."

He passed away last week. 51 years old. Chronic, acute alcoholism. He used to call the plant on Saturday mornings, sloppy drunk already and yammer on for hours about- you name it. I was getting time and a half, 21 an hour. It was his dime. I'd sit there as long as he wanted to ramble on. There were some hard feelings. I had a brick on my check for my child support. I preferred it that way because it came out of my check. He was divorced himself with 2 kids. He called me in his office. I think he was drunk. "I don't keep people on with bricks on their check."

"Tom it's for my kids."

"I don't give a ----."

He really didn't. When he was in a certain mood- stay out of his way because he would dump his anger, his sorrow, his frustration out on you. We had a Polak working there who was Tom's whipping boy. He wasn't able to stand up. Tom ran all over him. Cussed. He took it.

I did not go to the funeral. I think that really happened a long time ago.

I spent 7 years working at 3701 north 16th street. A wholesale grocer. I pedaled groceries from there. A Teamster, I saw big chunks of the Midwest, always arriving back there in the ghetto, a place that has it's own rules, it's own pace, a sense of living and dying so removed from the pastures of plenty, the idyllic rivers, the hard working small townspeople- a different planet. So, 7 plus 18 is 25 years spent working on this ghetto highway. It is a part of me. Someday soon I will decide and motivate myself (not always an easy job) to work at the soup kitchen down at St. Francis house. I still feel a need to stay in touch here, to work here, to give something back.

My friend Chester lives in a trailer court farther north on 16th street. 5300 north. He is one of the people I based the character Harpo (Raincrow) on. I say one, because some of my characters are composites. We sat on his deck recently enjoying a cup of hot coffee and the autumn colors shining in brilliant October sunshine. His small yard is surrounded by a wooden privacy fence where Chester hangs his scrap, his icons, and his tools.

"The lady next door, an Omaha Indian woman, had some bad spirits in her house. She called me on the phone;"You might want to watch this, I've got a shaman, a medicine man, coming down from the rez to get rid of these spirits." I walked over."

Chet and I had been particular friends with the Gilpin Brothers. They grew up on the Omaha rez, 90 miles north of Omaha, and their dad Joe was a big wheel in the Native American Religion, used to keep sacks of peyote buttons in the closet, took us to pow wows in sweat lodges. We were both fascinated by this culture.

"When I got there this guy was pulling up in a big Cadillac. A 75. Big old boat. Pretty nice shape. He's wearing a black cowboy hat with an eagle feather, a concho belt, a leather vest and cowboy boots. He looks to be about 70, medium height and a big fat belly. No assatall. He gets a possible bag out of the trunk and stops at the front of the house. He pulls out an eagle's wing, perfect and long, no adornments on it, and crouches down, beginning a ritual dance, singing as only an Omaha can, brushing the foundation of the house with his eagles wing, all the way around, singing, inviting, coaxing. When he completed the circle. he put the eagle wing back in his sack and drew out a bundle of sage. He whipped out a Zippo lighter lit and blew on it till it was smoking good. He repeated his dance, with a different song, gesturing with his right hand.."

"Incense."

"He get's around to the front of the house again. Start's to stub out his fire and put his stuff away. He says something to the old woman in what must have been Omaha. I look around me and notice there are a couple hundred crows in the trees around her place. They weren't there when he started. I followed him out to his car.

"Hey old timer."

"Washte."

"Right. Hey, I was just wondering about these crows." I looked back over my shoulder as a dozen more crows wheeled in."

Chester paused. He's a great story teller. "They joined the others, a raucous... murder? It's a murder isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

"The old Indian opened his car door. He took out a pack of smokes, offered me one. I took it. He smiled at me.

"That's where I send them." .

16th street eventually runs to the river. It dead ends at the levee which was built in the 1950's after a great flood on the Missouri threatened the bottomland. If you park your car there, next to the railroad tracks which feed the power company's north Omaha station with loads of Wyoming coal, an area of warehouses and grain elevators, marine contractors and freight outfits, you'll climb the path to the levee and cross over. You'll see a barge path that runs clear down south to airport lands, and a platform where barges would tie up, an old iron structure 40 foot tall perched on top of it with an operators shack on the top. An old rope used to hang from there; the bravest of our crowd would swim there, right in the reckless channel, undertows at the bow of the barges there anchored. Or you could just swing out over the river, coming back in a dizzying arc over the cold water.

I lived up north all my life. This was a featured stop on our river rambles for decades. When I reached my thirties I raised a family in this same neighborhood. After I tucked the kids into bed I would take out my bicycle (Kiddy seat attached) and ride for miles through the quiet old neighborhoods of my youth, quietly flashing past dozens of old memory places, dwelling for a while on the good ones, passing the bad ones through and out quickly, as we must do with all things we have no control over. My bike would usually wind up at the rivers edge. To spend a few moments in silence and let the current deposit those memories, like always.

One Saturday night I rode along the levee, watching a big glow from the barge platform a long way off. I rode along and listened to shouting which became an argument, figures on the dock getting closer, gesturing wildly, 4 of them. I slowed down when I got right above them, looking down at their big fire and locking eyes with as crazy violent wild a pair of eyes as I have ever seen. He immediately crossed the catwalk and began to run up the levee towards me. His friends started chasing him. I froze for a second. I don't scare easily. I had as much right to be in this place as they did. I was astraddle a bike, which is not a place to fight from, so I slowly started pedaling, looking over my shoulder, and bouncing over the crushed rock roadway.

"Danny- stop. Come back"

He omitted a growl. No words, and yet something like words, a roar, if you will. He stopped and picked up a handful of rocks.

His buddies grabbed him. He was big, he was ferocious. I don't know what he was stoned on, a teenage party gone bad, but he was unhinged and only barely human, and his buddies knew it. "Calm down.." They were restraining him; drunk themselves I could see, but not like their demented partner. It was touching to see their concern. I pedaled harder. He broke loose and ran after me, roaring. There is a fence across the levee there. At the bottom are the railroad tracks. I couldn't ride down there in the dark. I stopped. He slowed down. I said, "Whoa. I'm not your enemy." I put my hand's up.

His buddies caught him again, saying, "Mister, you better clear out."

I started towards the slope. He broke loose again and loosed a handful of rocks. I ducked behind the plastic kiddy chair which took most of the stones except two which glanced off my back. I took off down the levee and to hell with the tracks, I was gone.

So Milo, we are removed. By time, by space, by experience. Yet I go back. I always will go back. I do not want to change too much.

I have never met my biological father. I know his name, John Paschall, age, 71. place of residence, Chicago, was going to Knox College, Galesburg Illinois when he conceived me. Unknowing. My mother never told him.

I know he is of French descent, and that I mailed him one correspondence (complete with pictures) that in hindsight is the vaguest letter I have seen. Indecipherable.

So, if anyone should arrive at this minute place in cyberspace, contact him. Find out what kind of man he is. Let me know. It would be a blessing to us both. Thank you. Joseph

November 3rd, 2004. W. He did it. This is a reaffirmation of the values and the common sense of this country. We Americans defined ourselves. I believed this would happen even though I was staggered by the vehemence of people I come in to contact with, every day. I hope they will forget their animosity and pull together behind George W. Maybe lay off some of the extreme left wing columns, cartoons, jokes, (alright, I know it's not going to happen. It is just on my wish list.)

Look, I don't agree with everything the man does. But, I trust him. I hope he won't listen to a lot of bad advice.

I went to a party the Sunday before the election. Perhaps 30 people were there. I know these people through our Reggae band Rhythm Collective. They are all counter culture Bush bashers. They are also my friends. I left the house for a while when things got overly vitriolic. They were getting into it. When I came back we talked of other things, enjoyed the pot luck. I had my little reply all worked up, in case someone got jiggy wit' it- "Look, _____ I've never tried to change your thinking, spiritually or politically, have I?"

"Well, no."

"Then I have the right to my opinion, without arguing."

Turns out they were gracious enough not to go there. That is what I like about us Americans.

A week later... We are being called ignorant. Those of us who voted for W are ignorant. What do you do? Get angry? Doesn't do any good. I can't explain, to someone who has so much hatred, why it seemed important to me. I can't explain, to someone who won't listen, how what they tell me are facts, are, in fact, merely their spin, what they've been told, what feels right in their clique, influenced by an anger which is fueled more from a bi partisan realization that American culture is the real problem. Those jobs that are leaving America are influenced far more by Sam Walton than by a political figure. The deficit spending (and I take this from an interview I saw with Peter Peterson on Bill Moyers NOW program on PBS, He states that without major reforms, we will owe more money then we can ever pay back, he points out that as our baby boomer generation ages, we face the truth, Social security with the deficit spending and depletion of our infrastructure, lack of engineers and blue collar stiffs, the people who made this country powerful )is out of control beyond anything this present or past administration has caused; we are on the way to becoming a debtor nation if we don't reel in our economy. This is bi-partisan, it is merely the bill for our obese, unruly, affluent, lifestyle. Coming due. This country is an experiment, people. It can go down just like the Greeks or the Romans or a dozen other cultures. The experiment can fail.

We need to become more involved, work with what we've got instead of whining, think of ways to buy American, produce American, educate, American, inform, American.

Work in your neighbor hood. Volunteer. At the hospital, at the nursing home. On your block- in your home. Remember the values, we voted for them. Truth, love, faith, hope, knowledge, children raised to know the difference between right and wrong., Adults who stand up for what they know is right.

. Milo 8-19-1975 Milo was distraught. Not a happy camper. He had taken to stopping by my house right after the bars started closing on Friday and Saturday nights. I didn't mind. I was usually up, or had just gotten home anyway. We'd put on some music and it would calm us down.

Tonight he is really wound up. Milo has this tendency to take off his belt and whap it around all over- while growling like a jungle Cat. He came in. He had another buddy with him, Zach Sprague who was obviously quite drunk, and not in control of his faculties. "Gruggle wallen usk lamp."

"What was that Milo, old man, I didn't quite catch it, it sounded like, sodden musk lump rat, but I'm sure it couldn't have been. That is Swahili."

Milo sits down. Zach immediately falls asleep on the sofa. Milo has that effect on people. He wears them down.

"Whaddya say that for?"

"Milo, you called me a chameleon. I appreciate that. However you choose to be an ostrich with it's head buried in the ground about your own unhappiness."

"You are a chameleon."

"I'm warm blooded, and I do not change my colors nearly as often, or as well as they can."

He is angry, but he's not sure what he's angry about. Doesn't matter really, anger just wells up, might's well let it ride when it comes, don't focus it, just let it lap up on everyone.

Milo has been here all of 12 minutes. We are listening to Don Bowman sing Tom T Hall's "She gave Her Heart to Jethro, and Her Body to the Whole Dang World". He stands up shakes the heck out of poor Zach passed out on the sofa, say's "I'm gone." Out the front door he goes..

"Hey, wait!" I call.

Milo is mumbling something under his breath. It is a hot soupy summer night, the sky watery, with stars looking like they are floating. He walks through my yard to the sidewalk. He starts up the street.

"Where is his car, Zach?"

"I don't know."

" How can you not know?"

"I don't." I grab him by the arm.

"Get in that Jeep." I go in the house to get my keys.

"What's going on out here?" My wife say's, peering around the corner of the dining room in a pink bathrobe and a puzzled concerned look.

"Nothing, dear."

"Why do you have your keys? Where are you going?"

"Got to round up a couple lost souls, dear."

I run to the Jeep. Zach is already asleep in the back. I twist her tail (1973 CJ5, nice ride, the top is off and the window is down- typical for the summer) I get to the corner and can see Milo's form, white T shirt, Levi's, engineer boots. He's walking home. I pull along side him as he walks. "Hop in." Milo growls.

"Get in, we've got to find your car." He climbs in (although he's messed up, he still knows riding is better than walking) We start in concentric circles. A 1 block radius, three circles, three blocks away and I see a car. 28th street is dirt and gravel here, it runs along the old railroad tracks, bumpy and hardly ever used. We pull up alongside. Milo is either pretending he doesn't see it or truly doesn't see it, or at least see the need to get in it and drive it somewhere. I get out. Zach, in spite of being bounced around pretty good is still out in the back seat.

First off, the car is running. The top is down, this is a 74 Pontiac convertible. All four doors are wide open. The tape deck is playing break on through to the other side by the Doors at full volume. All the lights are on, too. Milo is standing beside me. "Thanks."

"For what?".

January 1st 2005 I thought some comments to begin the year might be in order. First, I hope whoever you are, if you are reading this, you are well, happy, content. I hope this will be a great year for both of us. Christine and I saw the New Year in at the Saddle Creek bar- Rhythm Collective played there, our 3rd year in a row- there are a lot of memories there, we shared a kiss at midnight, folks danced up a storm, we sounded good, the Mashers opened for us, they sounded fine.

If you have read my book, Raincrow, you know there is a chapter that may be based on my kids- not a positive situation. All kinds of animosity reared up this week in the form of angry e-mails. My kids have one version of the events down the years, I have another. My son says, "There is only one truth. Mine. You are wrong." At 14 we are so sure we have all the answers.

I replied, "That is your truth, son. I'll stick to mine. It is as valid as yours, and better informed." So, we may never repair this huge void between us. I am resigned to that. The truth comes in many forms. Negative and positive truth, malignant misguided truths, myopic, half truths and little white lies, denial and stubborn youthful truth founded on a parents mental unbalance and hatred. There is a greater truth, however. It is the mirror of the divine, the litmus test of faith- it does not stagger blindly in impotent revengeful truth- that, is the one truth- the Creator. Truth born in denial and rage, negative truth, can never really be truth at all.

My oldest son, 19 now, has decided to toe the party line and sever his ties with me. I thought we were communicating. I see now he was probably acting all this time- playing a role for a variety of reasons. I will miss him and his feigned sincerity. He is my blood. But he will have to learn his own lessons. grow up his own way- and if I am not in his future- sadly, it will have to be that way.

So, say a prayer for this severely dysfunctional, divided family. You can change, remember that. You are not locked in to sorrow and anger forever. Let it go.

February 15th, 2005 My oldest son's 19th birthday is coming. We no longer speak. His decision.

My friend e-mails me; indignant, self righteous- he feels an uneasiness- "The wrong people are in office, how can you be conservative and complacent, it is time to be up in arms, to rebel, to reshape our Democratic party, our democracy- don't I see..." and on, and on. I see. I see the futility. Assuming we have the clarity of mind to grasp part of the truth, the big picture, as it were- it is not a problem of partisan politics. It is a much bigger problem than that. It has grown, like the military industrial complex, like the exorbitant debt that may make us a debtor nation, like the disregard for the values and the basics that were to be the focus of this new nation, our preoccupation with technology and our couch potato isolationism. (It took a tsunami to make us think of others in our world with a degree of compassion) The Bottom Line- it's gone so far I'm not sure we can get it back or repair it. I pray we can, but the enormity of the problem- I don't have a solution beyond compassion and values.

So, I will sing my little songs, when I can. I will continue to write, in a hopeful and positive manner and urge my brothers and sisters to work and care and love- so while we go where we are going we give what we can.

Friday, January 14th 2004. I started playing in the back up band on Thursday nights at Mick's in Benson- it's the Crosswords Poetry Slam. Bad Andy and I play some little tunes- watch the poets read- recite one of our own, occasionally. Most of these poets are young. Most of the topics could not have been brought up in polite society even a few years ago. They seem obsessed with circumcised men, sex craving women, masturbation, Herpes, and politics. left wing style, of course. I just get to kick back and let all this wash over- do the music. My poems are nothing like that. I am impressed by their candidness- if I am unimpressed by their judgement. I feel hopelessly old fashioned, up there on the stage. This youngest generation is so totally different from ours- their goals their values. I will not criticize them. I accept that I could not change them by railing about old times and getting back to basics. They will never understand that. And perhaps those things are out of place for the world they will inherit. Or at least they will think so. It's all the same.

PS- I stopped doing this gig after a period of a few weeks. The emcee sent me an e-mail saying he was going to "tweek" the show and try it without live music for a while, which means, "people are paying too much attention to the music and not enough to me, and I need to cut out any part of the show that draws the focus away from ME" I understand where he is coming from. I've been in this business a long time. No hard feelings. I sent him a message saying, "It was OK working with you, I won't miss the weekly bombardment."

January 24th, 2005. Went to the funeral of a close friend today.. She was 75, laid to rest close by where I may be, not far from my father's grave. 52 degrees on a bluebird day. The first time I met her, I said something I regret. She never held it against me. We eventually came to an understanding. I would be nice to her and she would of course be nice to me, because that is how she was made. A blessing. By then we could kid each other. We relished it.

Leaving the church which was full of family and friends, a church where I had worshipped sporadically for years, been married, been turned down for a second marriage, spoke a eulogy at my mother's memorial service, and set a poem about dreams and passing- I watched the procession to the cemetery forming, I went instead to the river. What a pull it has. I watched two redtails circle, eyes trained on things I could never see.

In three days it will be my mothers birthday. That old church is a block away from where my mother lived for 20 years.

I think of her.

Later, I drive through the cemetery and pay a silent respect. I do not stop. I will tell my friend another time, how kind his mother was to me. Some women just radiate, they brighten your day. Claire was one of them.

An angel?

Do we have angels to look after us? Absolutely. You may even be an angel yourself, for someone else. Don't you feel it sometimes?

When I graduated from high school in 1972, the guys who followed, class of 75 through 78, had a tough row to hoe. They had temptations I never even knew about. One of the partners in the traveling bowling ball sales inc. shut himself up in his parents basement with an AK47. There was a full moon, and although that part of town is unfortunately used to that kind of small arms fire, now in 2005, it was not at all usual then. He put a full clip up though the floorboards, out through the windows, all the while sitting without saying a word.. Snipers never make noise.

His classmate went to the marina north of Flatwater on the river, after driving around the park for a while, they parked near the boats and decided to take a boat ride. There was a 36 foot Bayliner docked with the keys in the ignition, gassed up and soon weaving slowly out towards the narrow channel They made it out onto the river and headed north. They were nearly to Startup before the Taylor county sheriffs got a boat in the water and pulled them over. They just smiled. They grinned from ear to ear. They had a nice ride. The deputy could.not understand this lack of concern for doing some jail time, headed for big trouble, for sure. "Don't you know what you've done?" He packed them in the cruiser.

"Had a boat ride." They chuckled.

"That is grand theft."

"It certainly was grand.." They enjoyed the ride to Caeser and were processed and left to spend the night. Their parents were there in the morning after a trip downtown to the bail bondsman.

One friend of mine has never really left adolescence. Although he is 42 now, living in his deceased parents home, and certainly smart enough to have, what we call, "a normal life." He has no interest in it. He would not trade with you and your 6 figure job, shiny happy kids, SUV at the soccer game, trophy husband or wife, and that 20 room house set on 20 landscaped acres looking out over the river valley. (an anecdote: time was- as a disciplined writer I would not so flagrantly digress- but somehow since I turned 50 I don't care as much about the restrictions I have always put on myself-- Angeline and I went to a wedding once there at that mansion. Two women were getting married. They had just flown back from New England. One of them took yoga from Angeline. She was a high power union busting lawyer and the owner of this palace was her boss. We toast the two of them. My lovely wife says, "God Bless you."

They say, "We are goddesses." They dance to that. It is a beautiful party, cut flowers and caviar, shrimp, and cabernet sauvignon, we pass through the kitchen to sit on the deck and watch the sun set over the Moosejaw river.

The trophy wife is overseeing the servants. She unties her apron, Blonde, with a new millennium June Cleaver smile, diamonds and pumps. "There you are. I hoped you'd come." She brushed up close to me and gave me a hug. She sniffed my neck. I always wear patchouli. Some women don't like it. The ones that do, really do. She kind of nibbles my cheek. Angeline stands there. She is waiting for an introduction.

"Where have I seen you?"

"At the company party at the Belgian room. You play with those island boys." She smiles and laughs. I remember her now. She turned my head that night too. "So,"

My wife pushes between us. "I'm Angeline. His wife. " She extends her hand.

"I'm sorry; Angeline this is..... What is your name?"

"Lovely. You are the yoga teacher Suzi talks about."

"Right. Goodbye." Angeline pulls me on to the deck. We don't speak. The deck is filled with guests. The sun sits right on the rim of the earth sinking towards Colorado and the jet trails and high thin clouds glow orange red against that impossibly blue Nebraska sky, already violet back toward Iowa. At one end of this monstrous deck the owner of the house is smoking a cigar with some associates. They laugh. My wife looks at me, walks over there, and begins to flirt. He is a big guy, supremely confident, used to getting what he wants. Angeline says something I don't catch. Outside of a moment, she is rubbing his crew cut head and he considers groping her.

She walks across the deck back toward me. "Touche." We learn something about each other, and ourselves, that night.)

He doesn't need any of that. And you would need to know him the way I do to see, that in his own way, he is happy- because your idea of happiness means nothing to him.

6-22-05 Summertime. It was my least favorite season as a child. The heat was sometimes too much for a nonstop child. Now as a 50 year old I crave it. I relish it. Summer is my favorite now, and I realize why it should always have been. It's my Birth day, my fire sign, my lion Leo,

We watched Frontline on PBS last night. My wife and I do not have cable tv, do not watch much on Tv- except of course English comedies, reruns of Seinfeld. Still the funniest sitcom of all time in my estimation. Oh, and we rent a movie now and again. But you can rely on us to watch Austin City Limits, Red Green, Mystery, Nature, and the occasional old Black and White film. Last night on Frontline the topic was, The Private War, about civilian contractors in Iraq. Excellent journalism; you left one thing out. Why do we have these huge encampments inhabited by Halliburton? To rebuild the country. As Americans, do you think we would leave them with what they had, what they still face until every roadside bomber is silenced?

They asked William Westmoreland before he passed away if we should destroy our nuclear capability in an effort to appease the world community. He replied, "Put down the big stick when the dogs of the world, those who would kill women and children, are circling and moving? I think not."

After the program my wife asked me, "Why do people treat each other that way?"

I fluffed my pillow, in this land of the free, this home of the brave. I thought of how we as American's had come to this place, all of us with our different ancestor's the melting pot of Ellis Island, the Native American's crossing an Ice Bridge across the Bering Strait.. Slipping across the border in El Paso to work on the roof across the street, because none of our American young people want to do it. We are all from somewhere else, a slave ship from Dahomey that landed on the wharf at Savannah, the people miserable from that awful crossing.

So, we Americans must pull together. We are all brothers and sisters. It is essential we remember this.

2-02-06 I am sneaking up on 52. We have just completed the warmest January since they began compiling records. Is it global warming? Another dust bowl? Should I ask Groundhog boy? here in Omaha they call them Woodchucks. We had a family of them in the backyard until last summer. disappeared. Where did they go? More questions unanswered. Oh well. I don't need to know everything. I can't.

Also sneaking up on the end of my second year of retirement. what a great time. I have been blessed. Any of you who have read to this point, or scrolled - you denizens of cyber space, friends-- Happy 2006 to you- I hope you accomplish whatever it is you want to- I hope your children are well- I hope they avoid the pitfalls of life- I hope they see their children grow.

2-22-06 I go back to work on Monday. I welcome it. I need some structure. I thought I'd make some observations on these last 2 years of retirement. Thanks to any of you who wander through these stories. It has been fun. Who would think you could walk into your study- type a bit- and whooosh!! Off across cyber space. Amazing. Such a tool. My recordings are played more often in Belgium than here. What's up wit dat?

I enjoyed every second of it. I thank my wife who said go for it. What a blessing. Got a lot of work done, learned a thing or two (yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks.)

wrote cajoled erato kate

wouldn't you expect this late

to put a veil of tears

before the open door

I wouldn't ask

I wouldn't wait

stuck to the task

don't change the rate

sing; like I will never

see me do again

went on forever

went on without end

saw the new day coming

went to see it shine

might blister your eyeballs

might rise in time

I will miss this writer's silence. sshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh---------------------------------

May 8th 2007. Why would I bury this new post here? Why not. I have posted the song lyrics from Continued on my home page.

Reactions? Boy howdy. An old friend asks.. "Why did you write that song, Salieri? Isn't that a bit obscure?"

I think the inference was that the song somehow did not deserve to be written. I was surprised by this. Some dear old friends have this picture of me, situated and securely fastened in a box that does not even exist. "Did I think of you when I wrote that song? No. Is it a viable song? Yes. Do I like it? Yes. Is that enough? Yes." Like I would erase it? If a song spills out kicking and wobbling it will be presented to the light of day. It deserves to be born.

Walter (troll #2) sent me an e-mail. He decided for whatever reason that the song Mr. Elemeno was about him. Even if that song was about someone he used to be, isn't it an egotistic trespass to claim it now? You don't know me. I don't know you. It is just a song, alright? If you don't like it, don't listen to it.

The e-mail I recieved ended with Walter telling me to F off. It's like a mantra. I don't like it F off- I don't understand- F-off- My opinion differs from your's- F-off---------That word has no power- do you realize that? Do you know it is a last ditch resource for the terminally powerless? You want power? Write your own tune. Create your own poem Write your own story. I am not the cause or the focus of your unhappiness. You will be just about as happy as you allow yourself to be. I am writing fiction, whether you like it or not; whether you want to jump in rain on my parade feed off my power kill the empty hours------------------- Do something. Your own damn self. Quit carping.

March 18th 2006 played a marathon St. Patricks day set with RC at Clancy's. 1:30 in the afternoon til 7 in the evening. Reggae music on St. Patty's day? I don't get it. I'm feeling it in my bones today. The day before that, Thursday, at 10 am in the morning I informed the nice lady supervisor at the call center that I was going to put my coat on and head out that door, thank you very much. I hated it.

I very much admire someone who can function in that atmosphere. God Bless you. I could not. So for the present I'm still the in residence writer musician grandpa- for now.

March 21st 2006 Spring is here with 17 inches of snow. My lower back is feeling all that shoveling. On my web site I posted a link to my son Walter's website. I checked it recently- Son, I assume you read some of this- I like your web site. I liked your photoshop rendition of me ( I've never looked lovelier.)

I removed it. Why? Do you ask? Why not. I intend to keep the silence, you've imposed.

Now, do you judge me?

Son's-- I'll be 52 this summer. How would you feel if I passed from this place? Closure? Anyone?

The theory of

Accent on the theory. Just because the writer and his source propose this as scientific fact. Does not make it so. It is theory, gentlemen. The Big Bang. Starting the universe with an explosion devoid of any divine intellect in which compassion naturally occurs like bricks landing in perfect order to build a home. Science in it's infancy- the Divine in it's antiquity.

There are incredible forces in the universe. They are not easily wrapped up and presented in a neat little package. Both good and evil transcend scientific theory.

Which scientific theory produces Love... by the way? Married couples stay together 50 years- we wish the best for our children and grandchildren; is this because of some endorphin that happens to zap us? Day after day, year after year? If we allow it--it's more than that.

Miracles are mass hallucinations? Do all the villagers get together before bedtime to discuss what they will mass halucinate about? "OK-- tonight is Tuesday, so..tonight is swamp demons, the garden variety. " (this is done in an intelligible dialect- over the ritual sacrifice of a pig- a Bar BQ it would seem--)

C'mon guys-- if this is 100% true-- and I am not doubting it is an indisputable scientific fact--- to you, Does it not follow that all antisocial, evil behavior- is caused by a chemical imbalace in the brain?

Both of these theories are absolutes.

Can God be dismissed or explained, rationalized in such a way? What is the inherent risk in doing that?

I would hear Debby singing around the house. Beautiful voice. She would not sing with me. Why? I'll always wonder about that. There was always music around the house.

4/4/06 Some of my favorite people are April Babies- they are a fire sign- as am I. My own adoption date was April 14th.

I am seeking to contact my birth father. He does not know I exist. For a long time I've just let it go- but when I tried to pursue a reunion I ran into red tape and denial. The catholic Social Service will not act without a notarized statement form my birth mother. And she will not give it to them. What is up with that? If anyone who reads this knows of a path to reconciliation- advise me- gitrjoe@msn.com