The house is in order, the firewood is stacked. The windows are trimmed. Nebraska winter. Traveler's, come to Nebraska in the winter. No kidding. It is beautiful. There is a quality of light here on the high plain that is beautiful and rare. Afternoons near sunset with the sun way down in the south, a glowing red, a sailor's warning; You do have to risk freezing your buns to see it. Of course that is one of the things Nebraskans like about our state. We have a longer life expectancy than nearly any other state, because we are tough out here. I am half Swedish. I can deal with the cold. Come hike our rivers when they are icy and gray,
Is there ever a day that is not beautiful? Seriously. I've heard people say that gray days just make them shrivel up. Gloomy. BS. I love them the best. The trails are empty, like a winter park you have all to yourself, no shouts of feral humans through the trees- Escaped trail ride horses running amok, northern mallards riding down before a front, the deer at the refuge so thick they have to reduce the herd by half, the graze line apparent even on the trees, when they are eating bark, times are tough, the wild dogs who are tossed out of their cars on the river road and try to make it through the winter, packing up with other outcasts, they will not be there when the spring comes, dwindling slowly; I always carry a big stick with me, they would not attempt an attack, I believe, but I feel better with a staff, like a shepherd, I guess, a half wolf drover, the duck blinds are under construction, goose season starting soon, might have to move them if they drop the water up at Gavins point. There are a few old men who come to the river every day, have for decades. I talk to them. I am becoming one of them. A time will come when I will not head for the rough trails. That day must be postponed, I want to be a 90 year geezer with a bit of fire left in my eyes, a sign of growing still apparent, a love of the river undiminished.
April 17th, 2009 April showers. A fogbound hazy warm flowery.... bursting morning. It is Saturday. I come to write. To listen to show to keep the resistance to measure the fill the pass. Alas. How do I know my youth is all spent? My get up and go has got up and went.
January 2nd, 2009 Happy New Year to any pilgrim who comes to this site. I am starting on book #2. Winter always seems to be the time to tackle something big. I'm on page 56 and have some other sections to cut and paste in. So much easier than writing in the old days. I almost went out to see if I could find an old used typer the other day. It would be nice to hunt and peck analog again.
What is it about? The stuff I know. I tried to write a mystery set in the future.... couldn't make it plausible. So I'll stick to the familiar characters doing the things remembered and put aside.
The print shop where I work let me have this day off... No work. It will pick up this month I know, but when people are leary of the economy the money they put in to advertising and print work goes down. Of course the whole industry is cahanging as well. Aren't they all.. So I was glad to have the day. It's going to be sunny and 40 degrees this afternoon. Could be a good day to walk the river. Could be a good day to finish up the honey do list. The Christmas decorations need to go away for another year, The pump in the fishpond has been acting up, and this writing can be done.
I had another old friend refer to something I had written. He actually finds these new writings tucked away amongst the driftwood. It's nice to know people read. He was raised an Iowa farmboy on a farm which was on the river just across from the haunts I had as a boy. Down along the levees south of Stink Creek, clear to the airport land. I always thought someone was over there fishing or just wandering like me. ( of course a river is the best place to take a walk) Could be there was. Now he's a guitar player who prefers picking around a campfire or a living room- or the river of course- he still lives there. I agree.
PS-New Years Eve I was NOT off in some faraway place til 2:30 AM. In fact I was asleep by 10 PM.
November 22nd 2008 Ahh.... the river, again. There is skim ice on the ponds, the junco's are here, and there is snow in the air, although they say it could get to 50 tomorrow.
I've mentioned Benson before, across this website. Downtown Benson has become a musical hot spot. Most every night there are six or seven venues (all with a hippy youthful inner city vibe, young musicians, a youth movement) I'm sure it's good music. I would not know, however. I don't go out. I never have really. I played in clubs, I never really hung out in them. Besides, I've played music somewhere almost every weekend for the last 36 years. Enough, already!
It's not that I don't like live music, I do. (although, when I see a live band, it makes me want to play. I can't usually sit and enjoy)
I guess I am just tired of the venues. Musicians are often glorified beer salesman. I never used to mind that. I just needed to play,music; the circumstances were ignored. That incredible focus you have when you're young.... stamina too, a purpose? I sometimes miss it. Sometimes.
Last night there was a showcase in four different venues for the Omaha Entertainment awards. 20 acts. Great exposure. What happens is the clubs make out like a bandit. the promotor's make out like a bandit, the media has their stories and a paycheck and ad revenue, Benson gets famous, and what do the musicians get( besides that exposure, I mentioned earlier) They might get a free beer. I say might, because the last one of these I played I had to pay for a beer, but I got in free so it was a wash. Money? No. Satisfaction? Sure. In short, because Benson is a hot scene right now musicians usually play for nothing. Thst's cool. I understand paying your dues. I understand semi paid practice.
I've paid the dues. I don't have band obligations anymore; unless I want to fire up some pickers and book the Missouri River Boys somewhere... Just don't expect too many freebies in Benson. It's only a 5 minute walk from my home ... ( I don't care for cliches, but been there, done that pretty well sums it up- oh and the real money is in selling a song that charts- you don't need to stay out til 1 am for one free beer to get there.
When I moved to Benson 10 years ago it was thrift store heaven. There was very little music. The artists were there. the vision was possible. My wife had been pestering people for years about an artists scene, it was a natural, We worked on it. People gradually came on board. Places opened, places closed. New blood came in. It works. Every relationship is evolving. Where I fit in Benson is a mystery to me; I'm OK with that. The gig will have to fit. I will see you all there hanging around, some day.
November 29th, 2008 It is Saturday night. A cold blustery snowy Saturday night, that I do not have to go out in. I'm sitting here remembering all those years, many bands, many solo gigs, many Saturday nights off making the joyous noise moving people's feet on the dancefloor, touching lives with a song. It started off with Cottonmouth. (not the Kings) I was 18, and we had been practicing on my front porch on Minne Lusa Blvd for a couple of months. I did not mind band practice then, I've learned to dislike it as I've grown older, but that comes from a feeling of wasting time. (I should be writing, recording, working on my own stuff instead of learning other peoples music: the memory part of it is harder too. Those lyrics do not stick like they used too. Oh, I can remember the lyrics to a song I haven't heard in 30 years- but learn new lyrics? Tough. It's tough remembering the words to my own songs)) We really were not old enough to be in a beer joint; but our first gig was atThe Frontier in Florence. 1972. There were lots of people there, a lot of them our crowd. We were asked to do a half hour set during the house bands break. They were Marion and the Valley Raiders, hell of a country singer, years later I did some gigs with them. My learning curve. Cottonmouth did a lot of Creedence, Grand Funk, Ten Years After, Eagles, and some country stuff. The other singer, Steve Hinsley couldn't stand the country- he was a rock and roll man. I was impressed by Steve, he was already writing songs. I was not getting anywhere song writing at the time. His songs weren't bad either. One was called Pacific Coal Mine- loosely based on the Bee Gees New York Mining Disater 1941- it was one of our best tunes. We tore the place up. We went on to the sock hop circuit, proms and homecoming dances, and later, when Nebraska conveniently changed the drinking age to 19 (the same year I turned 19- a blessing? I thought so then) we played weekends at a local night club that was hot at the time. ( a note to all you young musicians- today's hot spot is tomorrows distant dim memory) We broke up. I really don't remember why. It's not easy keeping a group of young people on the same page.
The next band was called the Clippers. We spent six months practicing in a photography studio owned by the flute saxophone player. It was in a loft, high ceilings, (freight elevator for the keyboard players 300 pound Hammong B3 and Leslie) downtown in an old warehouse. We got pretty good, worked up a lot of Steely Dan, Traffic, Bad Company, and Steve Miller. It was time to put it out there and see if it worked live. Our first gig (also our last, coincidentally) was in downtown Ralston at the Town Hall, opening for local favorite the Rats. No, really. I had just had a big fight with my girlfriend and was in a lousy mood. ( I was too much of a novice to shake it off. I'd learn that over the years) I had a Fender amp that was a monster. It was a Super Six- six ten inch speakers. Clean as a whistle. Except clean was not what I was after. I was after dirty. I'd never seen a distortion pedal Didn't really know much about gear. Amp, guitar, chord.... voila! I know I played way too loud. It brought everybody's volume up. Terrible loud. The monitors were not up to the task. You couldn't hear the vocals over all the racket. I loaded my stuff up and never went back to practice.
It was about then that I put my electric in mothballs and studied Doc Watson, flatpicking, finger picking, Bluegrass, and those great songwriters of the 70's, Guy Clark, John Prine, Michael Murphey, Jerry Jeff, Willis Allen Ramsey, lots of great music. I started playing coffee houses and festivals, the occasional bar gig and open mic's. That's the way to learn the trade. I decided I really didn't want to go back to the band thing.
It took Waylon to get me back to the Honky Tonks. In 1976 I thought he was the best. Attitude and good songs and a thumping country rock beat. I bought a Tele. Soon I was putting a band together to get in on that rocking country vibe. Fast Freight. May be the best band I was ever in. the Outlaw country and Urban Cowboy scene meant tons of work the musicians every one were top notch and the mix we had of western Swing, Waylon and Willie, Honky tonk hard country and country rock songs by The Flying Burrito Brothers, Buffalo Springfield, and the Byrds. ( we did a killer version of Chestnut Mare) Too much work. It wore us down. Always does. There are some recordings floating around of that band and some posters I wish I could find- oh well. That time and place will not come again.
I worked in other peoples bands for a time. I thought I'd never write my own songs. This made me sad. The music was good, and bad, the musicians I worked with were good and bad, depending on the night..... I decided to go back to the acoustic stuff and in 1986 Shady Grove was born. It was the right fit for a long time. I started writing my own stuff, finally. What a relief. RC came along as SG was winding down. I needed the challenge, it was good for a long time- but it was still someone elses songs.
So now on Saturday night I watch the wind blow snow down the street and the time I would have to leave to make it to the club and set up comes and goes. I'm tucked in warm with my wife, a glass of Zinfandel and a Cary Grant flick to watch. I don't miss it. Maybe I'll get motivated again.... It doesn't seem like it will happen, though
November 2nd, 2005. All Souls day. It is the tradition today to think of someone who is departed, someone who raised you, nourished you, talked of important matters with you.
I wanted to discuss the Internet. A valuable tool, certainly- the ability to post a message like this and instantaneously reach potentially every cyber traveler in the world. Amazing. Type something in to Google and have access to every encyclopedia ever written- Marvelous. Order a book or a CD, buy a car! Incredible. But oh the chaff you have to winnow through- My wife and I visited an Internet chat room when we first got this computer- We were first shocked at the content- but then a IM popup appeared.
"What is that?"
"It's a message."
"From who?" Now, my wife is asking me, a guy who is notorious for spending an hour revising a piece and suddenly losing all traces, a guy who tries to change the computers sound scheme and winds up turning off the sound entirely.
"Could be one of the people on this forum."
"What do you do with it?"
"Click on it."
"Do it." I click. We are barraged, assaulted by an endless stream of porn sites- I try clicking on windows shutting them off and they reappear fast as I click and more besides. ""Turn it off!"
"I'm trying." Finally the computer screen freezes up and I have to reboot. These completely vicious companies will launch spyware, they will freeze up your hard drive, like the Windows 1 platform that eroded so severely in one year that I had to replace it with the Windows 2 platform, which thankfully offers better protection against these goons and gargoyles.
So now I really only visit one forum. It is sort of a composite for me- it is moderated so the posers who are completely out of line (there are many) can be removed. It is devoted to comments and discussions about Bob Dylan. ( my favorite song writer) Go to www.expectingrain.com and click on discussions.
The downside of this is, of course, the futility you sense in the lives these poster's lead. They squabble back and forth, pretend to be intellectuals, (some of them are, but without direction it is a curse for them)
One asked what is happiness? Had no idea. A young man, very bright.
So I do not go there so often. Left wing zealots who advocate assassinating the president of the United States, right wing loonies who see conspiracy everywhere- moderation. We cannot change the world in a day. We can only contribute as we can, to our neighborhood, our church, our families. Live in the now. Be simple. Dragging the dead weight of yesterday, and attacking the ghosts of tomorrow. Pointless. Futile.
If you find yourself blaming and excluding- you have lost the balance. and that is where happiness lives.
I'm preaching. where does that come from?
July 14th is my biological mother's birthday. She is the character, Ellen Erickson in Raincrow. Happy Birthday Mom. Why don't we talk anymore?
11-17-05 There is snow on the ground. My 51st winter. My wife asks me- "What is the purpose of leaving music on, in the study, when there is no one to listen to it?"
Good point. I am tempted to say, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?"
Which of course is baloney. I like baloney.
It is my white noise. Having that aural space occupied ; even when I am off- grocering, raking, de-icing, somnambulating, circumnavigating, postulating, pontificating, or putting the house in order. As I see fit. My vision of order is of course different than hers- or yours, or anyone else's. that is the way of it. I subscribe to chaos theory with some embellishment- relief, as it were. Clutter? The depths of my soul, might be clutter to someone.
I'm old school/ I want the old time feeling. this world is morphing to a place that is unrecognizable to me. Will I be left behind? I hope so. I'm OK wit dat. I want to play Hank and the Stanley Brothers. my tunes- my buckets got a hole in it. I want the old school- It is not a sacrifice, it is inevitable.
A Mr. George C. Looney sent me an e-mail and pointed out that Baloney is spelled Bologna. He is of course quite right. However, on this web site the baloney contained within is baloney baloney, not bologna baloney. My baloney is my baloney, whereas your bologna is your bologna- and never the twain shall meet.
November 30th, 2006. Last day of November. A biting cold morning, 10 degrees. The beginning of winter. There is skim ice on the city park lagoons- I used to go ice skating on them. I recall years when they were frozen over with thick enough ice to skate by Thanksgiving. Old man stories. I remember I used to go places with my dad and be so embarrassed as he began to tell these lengthy stories to total strangers we met at the boat ramp or the bar or the golf course. I'd cringe as they went on and on. I didn't understand grownups. What could be interesting about their old stories. Why did they listen to old Harley anyway?
Well, I've become him, for better or worse. Mr. Storyteller.
I talk to old friends. Some of them are from the hood. They ask me about my kids. "How long has it been since you've talked to them?"
"Five years for the oldest and youngest- 2 years for my middle boy." Hell he's not a boy anymore. He turns 21 next February.
"No! You can't be serious? 5 years?"
"Yeah. Not my decision."
Sugar Baby- Love and Theft- Bob Dylan
I got my back to the sun 'cause the light is too intense
I can see what everybody in the world is up against
You can't turn back- you can't come back, sometimes we push too far
One day you'll open up your eyes and you'll see where we are
Sugar Baby get on down the road
You ain't got no brains, no how
You went years without me
Might as well keep going now
October 4th, 2008
"Yes and of course since I live somewhere in the middle of the country that's as far as I got; by third grade I was married to my sister. Out here amid the great unwashed multitudes thinking my lowly thoughts- since of course there must not be any universities out here and our witch doctors operate with sticks and all our men are just such a way and all our women are ignorant and we desperately need...what? You! A stereotype-nihilistic east coast liberalall black and white no grey areas elitist inbred intellectual hatemonger. You could enlighten us! Except we don't like you any better than you like us. Pity.
You should consider one of two things- see America with an open mind, or make sure that only people like you read your claustrophobic opinions.
Why is it only you among so many other idiot posters, piss me off? Is it because I think you really should know better? Is it because you really are so insulated and clueless I'd like to feel sorry for you but cannot because you revel in your ignorance? Yes you read that right. If you can accuse my people of it, back at you.
Oh wait, there's a third thing you might want to consider- a bit of balance- your world is not 100% perfect; mine is not 100% bad. What a concept."
A post I sent to the web site I mentioned above. They have a seperate area for political discussion ( read: slamming and bashing) which I really need to avoid, but get pulled in to occasionally by morbid curiousity. This poster assumes that everyone living outside NYC is ignorant. So although the inference is to politics- she spreads it around to socio- economic, cultural bias. It made me mad. I wrote this rather sarcastic tome in a fit of anger which I later regretted- I try to avoid sarcasm... no, really I try. You see what got me is this person claims to be a teacher. Scary.
Another regular poster answered applauding not my opinions but the fact that I "cut some major ass there, didn't I?" I'm not proud of that. I don't like to use words to hurt. I'd take it back if I could- and yet; here I am opening it up for you to see? What does this mean? A personality plurality? The two faces of Joe? I'm not sure. Isn't that odd that we can reach a semi advanced age, and still not know ourselves?
10-4-08
Returned from a day trip to Brownville Nebraska. The easiest way to get there is to cross over into Iowa and take completely flat I-29 down to Rockport Missouri and then cross in to Nebraska. Brownville is an old river town that time seems to have forgotten.
