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Joseph E Bird

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Writing

A young woman sits at a table.

A young woman
sits at a table.
She is not alone.

A young man
sits at a table.
He is not alone.

He glances her way.
Again and again.
She notices.

She smiles.
He smiles.
There it is.

Her friends don’t see.
His friends don’t see.
But they see.

Do I know you?
Have I seen you?
Maybe running?

She learns his name.
He learns hers.
And that is all.
.

A young woman runs
along the river.
She is alone.

A young man runs
along the river.
He is alone.

He sees her.
His pace is quicker.
His strides are longer.

He is almost beside her.
He’s not sure.
He glances her way.

She hears his steps.
She doesn’t see.
But somehow she knows.

She answers the question
which he never spoke.
Yes, it’s me.

A young man runs.
A young woman runs.
They are not alone.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

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A Young Woman

A young woman

works at a fast food joint.
One of the old brands,
struggling to stay relevant.
It’s not hip.
It’s not cool.

A woman who looks like
she could be her grandmother,
who looks like a grandmother
wearing an unflattering fast-food uniform,
is her manager.

The young woman
wears a similar uniform,
but she is different.
She is blessed with features
that could grace a magazine cover.
A smile that is perfect,
and eyes that match.

She is friendly.
As if she knows me.
But she doesn’t know me.
Not at all.
No,
you can’t have a soft drink,
she teases.

If I weren’t old and wise,
I would think she flirts.
But she doesn’t.
It’s just her way.

I won’t charge you
for the drink, she says.
I’m confused.
Is she teasing?
Charge me, I say.
She laughs.
She says,
I owe you a penny,
as she hands me my change.

If I weren’t old and wise,
I would think she flirts.
But she doesn’t.
It’s just her way.

A child approaches.
The young woman smiles
her priceless smile.
Would you like to work here?
she asks the child.
You could make lots of money,
she says.
The child says, yes,
I think I would.
The child is smiling.
We could hold you by
your feet and you
could clean all of the
tiny spaces.
The child thinks.
Maybe not,
she says.
They both laugh.

The child and her grandfather leave.
They wave.
See you next time,
the young woman says.

She brings my food.
Again she smiles.
Have a good day.

I’m old and wise.
She doesn’t flirt.
It’s just her way.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

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He don’t have good sense.

It was an early evening.  The wife and I had been too busy for dinner at home, so we drove to KFC for something to go.

I don’t like the drive-through of any restaurant.  The lines are usually long and I get quicker service by going inside.  And with the drive-through, you don’t get to see the menu until you’re up to the speaker.

But it was past the dinner rush and there was no line at the drive-through so I pulled up to the speaker.  On the menu board, KFC was pushing their Georgia Gold Chicken. Now I’ve seen the ads on television with the latest incarnation of the Colonel covered in gold praising the new Georgia Gold Chicken, but I still didn’t know what it was.  It went something like this:

KFC Speaker Person (female): “Welcome to KFC.  Would you like to try our chicken pot pie?”

Me: “No thank you.”

At this point I pause.  I want to ask about the Georgia Gold Chicken but I’m not sure what I want to ask.  I see that there is no one ahead of me and I thought it might be easier to have a conversation about chicken face to face with the KFC representative.

Me: “Can I come up to the window to talk to you?”

Wife: “Joe!!!”

There is a long, long pause from the Speaker Person.  And then,

Speaker Person: “No, you can just order at the speaker.”

Wife: “I can’t believe you said that.”

Me:  “What?  I just want to talk about chicken.”

When I tell this story in person, it’s at this point that everyone’s eyes are wide in disbelief.  They can’t believe I said such a thing to the poor Speaker Person.  Everyone has had the same reaction.

So I order the Georgia Gold Chicken and pull up to the window.  The window slides open and the female Speaker Person, now the Window Person, tells me how much I owe her, and the Colonel, without making eye contact.

Me:  “I’m sorry. My wife says I shouldn’t have asked to come up and talk to you.  I just thought it would be easier that way.”

Window Person: “That’s ok. We never know what kind of people are in line.  We have to be careful.”

I apologized again, took our chicken, and went home.

Here is what I’ve learned: I don’t have good sense.

I still don’t see why asking to talk at the window is a big deal.  I obviously have poor judgment.  And that makes me question everything else I do in the public realm.  I may be committing other social transgressions without realizing it.

Such as complimenting someone’s tattoos.  When I do so, it’s because I really like your rose tattoo, not because I’m trying to put any moves on you.  I will refrain from complimenting tattoos in the future.

Or telling someone who passed me at the end of a race that they ran well.  That’s what friends and relatives are for.  Not creepy strangers.  I will refrain from offering encouragement to sweaty people.

Or commenting on a blog post of someone I don’t know. Yes, I know people put their posts out there so others will notice, but when my comments are ignored, I wonder if they think I’m a stalker. I’m not.  I’m just trying to be encouraging.  But I will refrain from commenting on blogs of people I don’t know.

There’s more, but you get the point.  He don’t have good sense.  Apologies to all.

And the chicken wasn’t all that good.

 

 

 

 

 

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another song

this is exceptional songwriting.

3

Appalachian Spring

Larry Ellis posted this over at Home Economics. It’s a great description of where we live, in the heart of Appalachia.

At the end a character is introduced and then left standing there. The story of Jack Sampson is told in Larry’s award-winning novel, In the Forest of the Night.
_________________________________________________________

His ancestors settled in the central Appalachians without a thought for aesthetics. They came not for the beauty or value of this place, but only to escape from servitude and second-class citizenship in those cities to the north where their own forebears had landed as indentured servants. This new land to the south was steep, overgrown and not particularly amenable to the plow, but it was away from those engines of commerce and social institutions that had benefitted those to whom they were beholden and had just as certainly kept them a class away from full participation in the new nation’s economy.

The weather here was no more inviting than the soil. The winters were long and damp and made of days and weeks of snow so deep that travel was nearly impossible and in the summers the heat and humidity and insects were relentless. No one who had the luxury of considering the comforts a location might afford would have chosen to live here. There were no beautiful waterfronts and no rolling, thousand-acre spreads of black soil. All of life was closed in to narrow valleys and closed off to the flow of goods and information common to the new cities on the coast.

Those who came to escape the cities paid no heed to the hardships the land and the weather imposed, but lived their short lives together on subsistence farms, learning how to hunt and what to gather in the vast forests that surrounded their villages.

The generations brought change, of course. When those in the north learned that this land was rich in coal, oil and gas, industry came to Appalachia and the tiny villages became small towns and small cities and some made enough money to move themselves back into the mainstreams of commerce and society in the cities of the eastern plain..

It was, and is, an unromantic place. There are no ancient gardens or master artworks on display. There are no homes of famous artists or statesmen and no classic myth to fill the air with mystery.

But in the spring, something happens that no one who settled here saw coming and no one who has not lived here knows of or could even imagine. There are days in April when the scent of the blossoms all over the forests – the tulip poplar flowers, the lilac buds, the honeysuckle, the white blooms of the apple and plum trees, the new buds of the sycamore and the birch – all are lifted from the mountainsides in the softest breezes and the new warmth of the spring sun dries the stones on the edges of the creeks and branches and sends into the air cleansing mineral aromas and the trees on every hillside unfold in new green and soft rains fall and the forest floor thaws and releases the essence of the earth into the air. There are a thousand varieties of tiny plants that sprout under the canopy of the forest in these days. Only the Shawnee knew them. Only the Shawnee had given them names. They are tender and live only for days and in those days they release their own perfume, each a different, subtle taste. The clouds part and the grey of winter disappears and the sky is clear and high above the hawks soar and wheel on the gentle, warm thermals. The sun glistens on the rivers and those rivers run for those few days green and blue like the purest emeralds and sapphires. It is a season all its own, hidden from those who give names to such things, and in those few days the romance of this rugged place is enough to fill the longings of men’s souls and to ignite in their hearts even deeper longings.

It was in this time, in the middle of these days, that Jack Sampson fell in love.

Copyright 2017, Larry Ellis

2

The garage.

I recently attended the Design and Equipment Expo in Charleston and met a local photographer, Emily Shafer, who specializes in industrial photography. She has a creative sensibility and transforms ordinary images from the blue collar world in to works of art. Like a set of greasy Craftsman tools.

The next day I walked across the street to the mall and saw signs outside the Sears store announcing its closing. I went in and browsed a little, but there wasn’t much left. Empty shelves where the Craftsman tools used to be. With all of that, I couldn’t help but think of a scene I had written in my novel, Heather Girl.

Heather is traveling to Texas to see her father, who has just been paroled. She stops for gas in Montgomery, Alabama and has car trouble. A man and his son are watching (and eventually offer to help). As she’s trying to figure out what the problem is, she remembers learning about cars in her father’s garage.

She turned the key and the engine turned slowly a couple of times but didn’t start. She turned the key again. Same thing. And again.

She popped the latch on the hood and got out of the car. The boy looked up, then looked away. She opened the hood and looked at the battery.

Always start with the battery.

Her father’s voice. What was it now, thirty years ago?

Easiest thing to check, easiest thing to fix.

The smells of the garage came back to her. Warm, oily smells. There was a gas heater on the back wall and in the winter, there was always a hint of unburned fumes, but most of the time it was tools and parts and greasy rags that made the garage feel heavy and comfortable. The same garage that now is more of a storage locker. Her father’s tools went with him when her parents moved across town, then were sold when they moved south to escape the cold winters of the mountains. She and Robert bought the family home.  Robert took over the garage as his own workshop, complete with a table saw and other carpentry tools. His tools are still there, but are never used. Boxes of boys’ forgotten toys and yard sale finds make it nearly impossible to even see them. She keeps the lawnmower by the door, along with a few garden tools, and every spring makes the same promise that she’ll never keep to throw out the junk and put some order to the mess.

Despite everything, she found it hard not to think back to when the garage was truly a place for parking the family car, and for the weekend project of rebuilding the brakes or cleaning the carburetor or putting in a new radiator. Her dad had a natural genius for such things, part of the reason he was a good engineer. She loved being around him when he was working. It was when he seemed most content. Anything could be fixed.

She learned by watching, and when it became apparent that her brother Wayne had more interest in music than cars, she became her father’s tomboy grease monkey. She never learned enough to really diagnose a car’s problem, but she could change the oil, put in new spark plugs, and even tinker with the timing. She also learned why he enjoyed that kind of work so much, aside from the peace of the garage. Parts that didn’t work properly were thrown out, never to be seen again. Repair manuals didn’t lie. And the tools were always faithful.

If she had one of those old crescent wrenches, maybe the big one that had been used so much that the brand imprinted on the handle had worn away, she could tighten the nuts on the battery terminal. Though she knew that wasn’t the cause of the problem. She looked at the engine and tugged at the battery cables. They seemed tight. Not much corrosion. More than likely the battery was dead.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

6

Goodbye, Sears.

Sears 1

Sears 2

We’ve all heard the news. Sears is closing stores. These photos are from the Charleston Town Center store. Four more days and it will close forever.

Do you remember when Sears was the place to go for tools?  For vacuum cleaners?  For back-to-school clothes?

I can’t tell you how many things I’ve bought in this store. How many hours I’ve spent roaming the aisles. To see it so barren is haunting and sad.

Remember the Sears catalog?  It was a precursor to internet sales. Thumb through the catalog, find what you want, fill out the order form and mail it in. I bought a guitar from Sears that way. I bought skis that way. Now I simply click.

Which is why Sears is closing stores. Retail isn’t changing, it has changed. There will be fewer actual stores in the future. But I don’t see them going away completely. Some of us still want to see how clothes fit before we buy them. We want to run the vacuum cleaner over carpet. And we want to see how the tool fits our hand.

One more photo. It’s a sign in what’s left of the clothing department. It may be the only sign left in the store.

metaphor

2

Music of my day.

guitar 2-6-16 for web

Listening to the music of the Wonder to escape
Digging words and stories cause he always tell it straight
Life be scarred and dogs bite hard, to that I can relate
Soulful grooves, the spirit moves, tells me it ain’t too late

Driving horns lay down the tune, I’m hearing now the Tears
David Clayton Thomas sings, it’s not the dying that he fears
Spin the wheel, cut the deal, find wisdom in the years
Blues sung hard, and hope stands guard, a triumph for the ears

Singing with a nasal twang and tangled up in blue
The poet tells his story ‘bout the people that he knew
Stars are crossed and loves are lost, his heart we see straight through
A simple song to sing along, to change our point of view

A banjo picks the intro with a groovin’ upright bass
A nice and easy song of love, till the breakdown sets the pace
Toes are tapping, hands are clapping, the cello plays like grace
They sing of love and God above, our worries are erased

I play the C, I play the G, play the A chord in the minor
I write the words, scratch out a tune, plan it out like a designer
Find the truth, a touch of youth, up the beat to make it finer
But truth is cold, cause it ain’t gold, I know I ain’t no rhymer

Thank God for voice and stories told and those who came to play
The soft piano soothes the soul and carries us away
They give the beat and words complete, to speak what we can’t say
Turn it up and fill my cup, play the music of my day.

Copyright 2017, Joseph E Bird

6

jazzing up a classic

Editor’s Note:  I’ve been on a jazz kick lately and I remembered this post from a couple of years ago. In case you missed it the first time.

Dig it.

There’s a club in London called the Troubadour. It was founded in the 1950s and has hosted legendary musicians through the years. It’s also famous as a hangout for writers and artists and coffee-house poetry.

Finger snap.

Picture this: Stanley Kubrick had a favorite table at the Troubadour back in the early 60s. He comes in, sips espresso, takes in a poetry slam, and works on his screenplay for 2001: A Space Odyssey.

In 1968, his seminal film is released.

“Open the pod bay doors, HAL.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Far out.

Featured in the film was the music of Richard Strauss, specifically, Also Sprach Zarathustra, which, interestingly, is a tone poem. Look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls (Laugh-In reference).

In 1972, the jazz musician Deodato put out his take on the classic, which was later featured in the Peter Sellers film, Being There.

“As long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden.”

Heavy, man.

So for all you poets out there, put on your black turtleneck and beret, go back in time, and tap your toes to the groovy, jazzy, coffee-house version of Also Sprach Zarathustra by Deodato.

Dig it.

 

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