Search

Joseph E Bird

Let's talk about reading, writing and the arts.

Open Search
Tag

literary writing

I don’t have a passport.

That pretty well sums up what kind of traveler I am.

Don’t misunderstand. I wish I had a passport. I would have liked to have traveled around the world. See the sights. Meet people. Learn about their culture. But that’s not my reality, for reasons that aren’t important for this discussion.

I’m just not a world traveler. But I have a lot of friends who are.

I have a friend in Singapore who corresponds with me on a regular basis. Another musician friend in the UK who travels the countryside with his wife and dog and guitar. A friend down under shares her amazing photos of the places she visits. Amos, a writer, goes to Lisbon for inspiration. Want real life in Sydney or New Zealand?  Check this out.  And my good friend Lily treks all over Canada with her husband. Oh, Canada. I could go on.

People will ask if I have any travel plans for the summer. My running joke is that we plan to take a trip to Marmet, a wide spot on the road about 20 miles away.  While Marmet is a fine community, it’s not on anybody’s list of places to vacation.

In my travel fantasies, there are places I would have liked to live. Not just visit for a day, or even a week, but actually live there. Get a job. An apartment. Shop for food. Cook meals. Get to know people. Get to know their culture. Live in the country. Again, I know people who do this. But for me, it’s just a fantasy.

So my travels are typically much closer to home. And I’ve discovered there is much to learn about the different people and cultures within my own country, and within my own state. Not to mention some truly spectacular places.

This week, we’ll travel to some of these places. It won’t be glamorous, but it will be fulfilling.  More tomorrow.

4

did you solve the riddle?

The other day I wrote about finding special moments throughout the day in piece called ninety nine miles.  At the end, while travelling back home, the narrator finally finds some relief as Scott sings, Salina, I’m as nowhere as I can be.  

Did you Google?  Did you figure it out?

Who is Scott?  Answer, Scott Avett, of course.

The song, Salina.  It starts out as just another nice Avett Brothers song about being away from home. Then near the end, the music takes on a symphonic quality.

Click the link and stay with it.  No video on this clip, just great music for a rainy Saturday night.

1

The Ballad of the Boy from Quincy

Quincy RR yard-1917 adjusted
Railyard at Quincy, WV, circa 1917

He hopped a train out Quincy way
Rode with his brothers, to earn the pay
Stayed in the city, and worked all day

That’s how it was back then
And he’d do it all again

Just to spend his life with her.

.

She lived a ways on down the road
But went to town, to pay what’s owed
Ate lunch with pie, a la mode

At the big department store
She left there wanting more

Hoping he would come her way.

.

One day he rode the train past town
Jumped off the car when it slowed down
Hurt his leg when he hit the ground

And limped across the street
Saw a bench and had seat

And waited for the pain to fade.

.

The people gave him looks of scorn
His shirt was dirty, his pants were torn
They didn’t like him, he could have sworn

He held his eyes down low
Hoping it wouldn’t show

That he was just a kid from the sticks.

.

Down the way was the streetcar stop
Next to a tiny soda shop
He thought he just might get a pop

And then be on his way
Forget this maddening day

And go back to his home in the hills.

.

She was standing on the other side
Asking what he had in mind
He knew right then she’d be his bride

As crazy as it was
That’s just what true love does

Because their story had just begun.

.

What happened to you, you fall off the train?
You look to be in quite some pain
You kinda slow? Don’t have much brains?

At that he simply smiled
You’re wrong a country mile

I’m the sharpest man you’ll ever meet, today.

.

He bought a drink to quench his thirst
Not sure which was best, or which was worst
His bold approach was unrehearsed

He’d never met a girl like her
His mind was such a blur

But somehow, he’d make it work.

.

He found his wit, they were matched so well
He had fallen, to her spell
Her beauty, he couldn’t wait to tell

To all his friends back home
And he’d never be alone

It was just a matter of time.

.

They were wed for sixty years
Through the laughter and the tears
And then his greatest fear

She was gone in dawn’s first light
And lonely was the night

And his heart would never heal.

.

Now he’s left, he’s gone back home
Not to Quincy, not to be alone
No more trains, no more to roam

They’re walking side by side
Their love again his pride

Together evermore.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

6

ninety-nine miles

cropped-mountains-for-web.jpg

Not quite dawn.
Early morning drive
to get to where i’m going.
Which is where?
Doesn’t matter.
Just another destination

The gray skies start to lighten.
No dramatic sunrise.
Just light, and a little more.
Ninety nine miles down the road.
Around the bend.
Down the valley.
Up the hill.

Then the golden streaks
shining on the brilliant greens.
Bright highlights and deep shadows
and fog nestled
in the forest.
For a moment
maybe two.
.
A meeting.
Just business.
Keep the project moving.
What city?
Doesn’t matter.
Just another job.

They go their way.
I go mine.
Looking for lunch.
Walking the streets.
A pawn shop.
Liquor store.
Check cashing.

The next block is different.
A coffee shop.
A Mediterranean restaurant.
Great food and friendly server.
It doesn’t get any better.
For a moment.
Maybe two.
.
Day is dimming.
The tires are humming.
Got to get back home.
Where?
Doesn’t matter.
Home is home.

The radio is droning.
Two hours of talk
numbs the mind.
Even the music
that always brings relief
has been playing
much too long.

Then Scott sings.
Salina,
I’m as nowhere as I can be.
The most beautiful music.
And all is well.
For a moment.
Maybe two.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

1

Gliding over the miles.

Along the road, on the shoulder.
Her strides are even
Her pace is steady
She is young, in her prime,
and I envy her energy.

Along the road, on the shoulder.
Her hair bundled together
bounces from one side to the other.
Of course she catches my eye.
She’s a confident athlete.

Along the road, on the shoulder.
She dodges a pothole with a stutter step
and then she’s running again.
She’s so relaxed
And makes it all seem effortless.

Along the road, on the shoulder.
She’s a runner, not a jogger.
She’ll get taunts and catcalls
But she’ll keep running.
Because it’s all about the running.

My prime is a memory as I run
along the road, on the shoulder.
yet there are those days when my
strides are long
and my pace is quick
and time is a myth
and I run as she runs
gliding over the miles
as if
I could run
forever.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

0

Probably not.

He came to me, this poor man.
Poor in the sense of having nothing.
He was dirty.
His pants were ripped.
He was ashamed of his appearance.
He was ashamed of his life.
I wish I could say he was rich in other ways.
But no. Probably not.

Another stopped me on the elevator.
He studied my face, as if he knew me.
His mind had betrayed him.
It was why he was there, in this hospital.
Reality had left him long ago.
Then he knew. I was Stevie Ray Vaughn.
You might think that such folly is liberating.
But no. Probably not.

A woman on the sidewalk
Said she needed some money.
Fifteen dollars for the bus pass.
Not just the spare change pitch.
She seemed sincere, if a little desperate.
She got her fifteen dollars.
And fifteen minutes in prayer.
It could just be another con job.
But no. Probably not.

Do my pennies make me rich?
Do your dollars make you poor?
Who is wise and who is foolish?
Do we know the way of truth?
Are you righteous in your mind?
Does evil stain your thoughts?
One could say that all is vanity.
But no. Probably not.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

Note:  These are true stories, and it pleases me to tell of the kindness that others have shown to those in need.

0

North Wind

fog for web

talk to me now like you are my friend
talk to me now let the stories begin

we walked through the storm till we saw the bright sunshine
kicked sand in our shoes and we danced on the coastline
we talked of our dreams and slept under white pines
took a train to the city and sang songs to the skyline

but the cold north wind, it came in like a thief
blew away all my trust and broke my belief
and i don’t care
i don’t care
i can’t care
anymore

.

talk to me now like you were my friend
talk to me now let the lying begin

it’s not what it seems, what you see it ain’t true
you said give it a chance, but I knew we were through
the things that you did i just couldn’t construe
then you tossed me aside like a ragged old shoe

and the cold north wind, it came in like a thief
and chilled my old bones and left me in grief
and i don’t care
i don’t care
i can’t care
anymore

.

talk to me now i said to my friend
talk to me now i can trust you again

i’m older and wiser and now i am strong
we try to do right but we know we’ll be wrong
whatever we have it won’t be for long
and love only lasts when it’s sung in a song

and the cold north wind, it came in like a thief
but i bundled up warm, cause you’re my relief
and i don’t care
i don’t care
i can’t care
but i do

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

Note: Again, not autobiographical. Just another somebody done somebody wrong song.

1

Galveston

pier for web

Heather is on her way to Houston to see her father, who she hasn’t seen in ten years. On her way, she took a detour to Galveston to try to find the pier that was the scene of her mother’s death. In Galveston, she is befriended by Lucas, a no-nonsense oil rig worker probably 20 years older than she is.  He helps her through a medical crisis and in their brief time together, they become close. In this scene, Lucas is driving her from the hospital to her car, where she will continue her journey to Houston.

Lucas drove a Jeep. Of course he did. The hospital was only a couple of miles from the shore and they rode silently, the only sound the buzzing of the tires on the wet roads and the flip-flap of the windshield wipers.

All necessary information was exchanged back at the hospital. The doctor had been in before Lucas had arrived, so she told him everything, as if he was her parent. It was comforting to talk to an older man, one who seemed gentle and kind and wise. Naivete had left her on a warm Fourth of July evening thirty years ago and she knew that Lucas had an attraction to her and that being with her was more than just an act of kindness. But that was ok. She had a similar attraction to him, despite his age. But she knew and he knew that their relationship, however brief it would turn out to be, was founded on something deeper than a superficial physical appeal. Even so, just as the setting sun can bring a moment of pleasure, or the taste of freshly baked bread can offer a passing contentment, so it is with the inexplicable feelings that simmer just beneath the surface when the ancient instincts draw one to another, despite all logic and reason. Sometimes it’s just there, not to be acted upon, but to savor in the moment and to store away as a memory for the lonely, hollow days that surely lie ahead. And as they stood in the rain and hugged, Heather knew that it was more than a courteous embrace that they shared. Maybe she could stay a little longer. Maybe she could return to Galveston when the business with her father was complete. When she kissed his cheek, she thought it was a real possibility. It wasn’t until she was driving along the Gulf Freeway that reality started to nibble at the edges of the romantic vignette that she had allowed her imagination to paint.

He had to be in his sixties and though he appeared healthy, heart disease or cancer or some other ailment was likely lurking around the corner. His future was short. Not that hers was any better, and she was already showing signs. Hers would be a lingering illness; his, one and done. Not a very promising future, for either of them.

She drove west, knowing she would never return to Galveston.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

0

Not so tough guy.

to The Gang

That’s me. Back row in the middle. Me and the boys. The gang.
Real tough guys, we was, although you might think differently after you hear this story. One more trip in the way-back machine.  This time, it’s my freshman year in college. Let’s set the scene.

I had just turned 18 and I’m off to school to set the course for the rest of my life.  At least that’s the theory. To illustrate how far off base that concept can be, the major I chose was Agronomy, the study soil and crop science, with the idea that I was going to be a farmer. About halfway through my freshman year it dawned on me that I didn’t come from a farming family, had no prospects of ever owning a farm, and I was afraid of cows.

I didn’t quite have my act together at that point.

Fortunately, the administrators of higher education understand that 18 year-olds can’t be left completely on their own. It would be better to let them get acclimated to this new semi-adult world by living in a dorm under the supervision of 20 year-old Resident Advisor.

The dorm.  Fifty guys on one floor, sharing one common area with one television, and two giant shower and toilet rooms. That took some getting used to. We were supposed to be students, but it was more like one, long endless party. It’s not as fun as it sounds, especially if you not a big partier. I wasn’t. I loosened up a little in my later years in school, but as a freshman, I was pretty much intimidated by everything.  Which probably explains my Lord of the Flies moment.  Except that it was much more than a moment.

I kept to myself as much as I could, but I had a tormentor.  He wasn’t the biggest guy on the floor. He wasn’t the meanest.  He wasn’t the funniest.  He was just a guy with a permanent smirk. I never would have even noticed him if he hadn’t started calling me names.

Now some guys I know would have taken a stand right there. Smacked him down and put an end to the insults. But besides a few harmless tussles with friends when I was growing up, I’ve never really been a fighting guy.  So sticks and stones.  I did my best to ignore him.

Which, of course, meant that he never let up.  Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.  I acted like it didn’t bother me, but it bothered me a lot.

Then one weekend, a friend came up to see me.  This friend, being as immature as I was, brought with him a rubber monster mask. Why?  Who knows. We went out with our other friends, one of us wearing the mask, just to see if anybody noticed. As college hijinks goes, it was pretty lame.

Later that evening we were back at the dorm. I was wearing the mask and roaming the halls, just for kicks. He sees me, and even with the mask on, he knows its me.

“Hey, that’s a big improvement on your looks,” he said.  Then the names.

At this point, I need to explain a guy thing. When guys get together, they will sometimes play fight. Kind of shadow box, throwing fake punches that are not intended to land. It’s all just posturing and it’s always done in fun.

So I’m wearing the mask and he’s calling me names.

I start to shadow box.  Slow motion punches in the air.  He does the same.  Nothing’s going to come of this.

But he keeps calling me names. Mean names. Hurtful names. Really bad names.

And that’s it.

I flick a jab and hit him in the face. Then another one. He’s stunned. I hit him again before he hits back. He lands a punch to the side of my head. Then he clinches so I can’t hit him again.  We wrestle around a little, and then both of us decide we don’t want it to go any further. We separate, breathing hard. His lip is bleeding.

He is still stunned. He’s angry. Partly because I hit him, but I think more because I refused to play his game by his rules. He was a bully and I’d had enough.

It’s an embarrassing story, though. I shouldn’t have let it get to the point that I lost my cool and started throwing punches. I should have found a better way to defuse the situation earlier.

I still encounter bullies. We all do. The person who is so insecure that they think they build themselves up by tearing other people down. Or are too scared to let someone else do something their own way. We just need to figure out how to deal with them in a civilized way.

After my freshman year, things settled down. I found a bit more confidence and some really good friends.  The tough guys in the photo?  Yeah, we’re all posers, as if you couldn’t tell.

I think about my tormentor from time to time. Wonder if he ever felt bad for being a bully. Wonder if he ever changed. People change. I’ve changed. I hope he has, too.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird

5

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑