It’s a cool evening.
The sky is clear.
We sit together
watching stars.
No words.
Just the sounds of the night.
Crickets.
Tree frogs.
Cars.
No mountaintop,
just our driveway.
No plush recliner,
just lawn chairs.
No obsidian sky,
just pale gray.
No telescope,
just our aging eyes
to see.
Antares.
Cassiopeia.
Orion.
I know the names,
but not the stars.
Doesn’t matter.
They’re just
candles in the sky
for me and you.
tripping down the sidewalk
in the lower part of town
going to the guitar store
my e-string’s come unwound
a tune is humming in my head
for words i’ve yet to write
and then i see you through the glass
all dressed in bakers white
ohhh mercy, sakes alive
i slow my steps and strain to look
without giving it a thought
i see you, and you see me
i know that i’ve been caught
maybe i should walk on by
be a gentleman this day
the heck with that, i’ll take a chance
this boy, he came to play
ohhh mercy sakes alive
just look at what you’ve gone and done
when i see you roll those buns
hot bread baking in the oven
but it’s you, oh girl, that i’m lovin
your hair is pulled back in a net
there’s flour everywhere
you glance at me and knead the dough
i barely take in air
you got that look that speaks to me
and yeah, i speak to you
together we can bake all day
have our cake, and it eat, too
ohhh mercy, sakes alive
just look at what you’ve gone and done
when i see you roll those buns
hot bread baking in the oven
but it’s you, oh girl, that i’m lovin
my legs are weak, can’t wait to eat,
but it’s you, oh girl, i’m lovin’
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
Editor’s Note: In his Noble Prize acceptance speech, Bob Dylan said his work is meant to be sung, that it’s not complete as a simple rhyming poem. Same here with my so-called songs. Of course I ain’t no Robert Zimmerman, but I am, in fact, fooling around with music for these little ditties. Someday I may present them as fully imagined. Probably not, but you never know.
Joe Higginbotham was a great writer. In 2010 he wrote a piece about his father, who had just passed away. In doing so, he not only managed to tell us what was special about Emery Higginbotham, but he also took us inside the world of professional music and back in time to the British Invasion of the 1960s. It’s timely, inasmuch as we are currently celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
If you want to know what good writing looks like, click the link below.
From the Charleston Gazette-Mail is this:
Joseph Higginbotham, 62, of St. Albans, died Friday, June 2, 2017. If you are a family member or know the whereabouts of any family member of Mr. Higginbotham, please contact Bartlett-Chapman Funeral Home, St. Albans (304) 727-4325.
Joe was a friend for many years.
We had so much in common; we had very little in common.
At one time we shared a common faith.
And he taught me.
He taught me about theology.
About church history.
About caring for other people.
He was a great mentor, teacher, friend.
Things changed.
I don’t remember how or why.
We were all young and when you’re young,
life is constantly changing.
He moved away.
After many years, he became
whatever happened to?
I found him living in Lexington.
He had married.
He had divorced.
He had changed.
Our views of faith had diverged.
He no longer believed
as I believed.
Nonetheless, our friendship persevered.
I was writing a novel.
So was he.
And he taught me.
He taught me about story structure.
About voice.
About having something to say.
He moved back to St. Albans.
I was involved in community development.
He had been involved in Lexington.
And he taught me.
He taught me about the dynamics of community growth.
About seeing things from a different perspective.
About looking beneath the surface.
He was always doing that.
He had a great analytical mind.
He could provide so much insight.
He could be funny.
He could be maddening.
But he would always be your friend.
In his last years, we had diverged too far.
Conversations became more stilted.
So we just quit trying.
Maybe we shouldn’t have.
He deserves more than an obituary
that says nothing.
While we wait,
I’ll tell you about
Joseph Higginbotham.
GIVE THANKS for the blessings of youth. It’s good to remember the old days, to think about those on whose shoulders we stand, who made us who we are today. To look back at all the grainy black and white photos.
But there is pure joy in youth and in witnessing the cycle of life.
The newborn crying one moment, and wide-eyed with wonder the next.
The toddler taking those first precarious steps.
Then there’s the challenge of adolescence. Maybe we’ll just skip over that. But all that angst makes us who we are.
And then the flower blossoms fully. It’s a sight to behold.
The photo is of Hannah, my niece. I could have chosen any of my nieces. Or nephews, for that matter. They all represent the best of life. But this is a great picture. Absolute contentment in the moment.
Here’s hoping we can all find that peace wherever we are and in whatever we do.
By the way, Hannah is the pre-teen deftly balancing a piece of cake while helping my mother on rollerblades. Photo credit (I think) goes to Hannah’s brother Micah, an award-winning filmmaker. Micah is the toddler in the crazy shorts also helping my mother.
When was the last time you went roller skating?
When was the last time you ran?
When was the last time you rode a bike?
When was the last time you threw a ball?
When was the last time you swung on a swing?
When was the last time you danced?
When was the last time you told a knock-knock joke?
When was the last time you flirted with someone?
When was the last time you watched Bugs Bunny?
When was the last time you flew a kite?
When was the last time you did a somersault?
Pick one.
Do it.
While you can.
When I was born, my great-grandmother, Tida, was 72. By the time I was old enough to form any memories about her, she was well into her 80s. I’m sure she had the usual trouble remembering things that older people have, but she had no problem performing at least one amazing feat of memory.
When she was a child in the late 1800s, she learned many things by simple repetition, what they used to call rote. When she was in her 90s, she would sit on her porch swing on a hot summer day and, recalling her lessons of decades earlier, entertain her great-grandchildren with the story of Nanny, a poor girl who ate too much. In today’s culture, we are more sensitive to eating disorders and those who struggle with controlling their weight. And really, the story of Nanny is more about greed than it is about being overweight. Nonetheless, my apologies to anyone who may be offended by this old school-house poem. My presentation of this is not intended to be any kind of commentary about eating or obesity. It’s about my great-grandmother’s amazing mind.
Again, she was in her 90s when she would recite this entire frightening poem by memory. Thanks to Adele for transcribing the poem.
Greedy Nan
Nanny was a glutton,
not a pretty word, oh well.
But the actions of a glutton
are even worse to tell.
Perhaps there are some children
who know the meaning not.
Well, a glutton is a person
who eats an awful lot.
Nan was fat and chubby
as folks should be who eat.
Her cheeks were like big apples
and she had fat hands and feet.
At the table Nanny always
ate up her own large share.
Then she would eat her brother’s
and hang around his chair.
If anything was left,
twas eaten up by Nan.
All her family said of her,
We don’t see how she can.
She’ll make herself quite sick some day,
her family all said.
She eats of every kind of food,
rather than wholesome bread.
One day some guests her mother had.
She cooked a supper good.
Then she set the table,
and placed on it the food.
But ere the guests should sit them down,
in ran greedy Nan.
She gathered all the nice food up,
and put it in a pan.
Then to the barn she ran away
and hid behind the gate.
She put the big pan in her lap,
and ate, and ate, and ate.
Her mother came and found her,
and sent her off to bed.
“I would not care if shadowbees
came after you,” she said.
As silent on the bed
lay greedy, greedy Nan.
She heard a voice say loudly,
“Get up now, if you can.”
She looked around,
her room was full of many shadowbees.
She wondered much what she could do,
their anger to appease.
“We’ll have to stop you. Hurry up!
This greed we cannot stand!
You are the greediest girl
there is in all the land.”
They put her in a towering room,
and filled it up with food.
“Stay here until you eat it all,”
cried they in language rude.
Now Nan was nothing loath to eat,
so straightway she began
to nibble doughnuts, cakes, and cheese,
and bread bespread with jam.
Till all at once the sight of food
made her so very ill.
“I never can eat all this up.
I never, never will.”
“Go on and eat!” cried shadowbees.
“You must eat more and more.
You haven’t made a passage yet,
but halfway to the door.”
“If I eat more, I’ll surely die.”
“Eat on!” cried shadowbees.
“While you’re eating your way out,
we’ll dance beside the sea.”
So Nan was forced to eat and eat.
She grew so very stout.
That when she reached the little door,
she hardly could get out.
“The time has come,” cried shadowbees.
“To roll her out like dough.
We cannot leave her as she is,
she’s much too fat, you know.”
So off they hurried luckless Nan
and down upon the plain.
They laid her like a heap of dough
to be rolled flat again.
They took a huge, huge rolling pin.
They rolled this way and that.
They rolled her up, the rolled her down,
til she was smooth and flat.
“We’ll round her off about the size
she really ought to be!”
The King said, “I’ll attend to that.
Please leave it all to me.”
So he rounded Nanny off, nice and trim and clean.
She jumped up with a scream,
and found that all this wretched tale,
was just a horrid dream.
“Oh, shadowbees, oh shadowbess,
I will, I wll give heed
to this dream that you have sent me,
I will stop this horrid greed!”
— Author Unknown
She flies.
All grace, flowing and free.
For a moment she is splendor.
She will always be
a dancer.
She flies.
Into his arms, sure and strong.
Together they are elegance.
She will always be
a dancer.
She flies.
Strength, beauty, trust.
One voice, one spirit.
She will always be
a dancer.
She flies.
copyright 2014, joseph e bird
We can’t talk dance, without talking about Misty Copeland.
I wish I could write.
I wish I could play the guitar.
I wish I could sing.
I wish I could draw.
I wish I could take beautiful photographs.
I wish I could make people laugh.
I wish I could tell an interesting story.
I wish I could make a difference.
I wish I could dance.
Like this:
Joseph E Bird 