The babe looks up
and doesn’t know.
The child sees the
sunshine and believes all.
The boy runs ahead
and ignores the peril.
The girl sees the future
but keeps her hope.
The woman knows better
and carries on.
The old man rests
and finds peace.
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
as time goes on…
…colour my world with hope of loving you.
— james pankow, Chicago
It was a grey day, fitting for a place like Dolly Sods.
It’s not easy to get there.
It’s not easy to climb over the rocks.
It’s not easy to stand there, braced against the cold wind, and take in the views.
The best things in life are seldom easy.
Dolly Sods Wilderness is part of the Monongahela National Forest in north-central West Virginia.
sunday afternoon
at the home on top of the hill,
the first of two.
trying to make small talk
with the neighbor we never really knew.
but he can’t speak
and the effort is unrewarding
for any of us.
down the hall
we smile at the new faces,
say hello to the old.
the old man who used to
believe he owned the home
and offered help to visitors
now sits and mumbles to himself
and stares ahead.
our friend is awake
but looks so frail.
she remembers and talks
though all is not clear.
we offer snacks and she says
put them in the drawer
which is now full of unopened
packages and soft drinks.
thanks for coming,
and we leave.
we drive two hours
to the top of a mountain
where these homes always seem to be.
an alarm whistles and never stops.
down the hall a man screams
and screams
and screams
ignored by all because
nothing can be done.
my brother asks for a cola
which we have brought,
and applesauce and pudding.
on the other side of the curtain
a football game is in double overtime.
a man in bed watches,
his son sits in his wheelchair.
a lady also sits in a wheelchair
not knowing if she belongs there.
and down the hall the man screams.
it’s an hour before supper
and meds are being distributed
and laundry dropped off
and cleaning, always cleaning
of the spills on the floor.
we leave the room and pass doorways
where sounds and smells and sights
we don’t want to experience
gently assault.
through the over-sized door
and into the courtyard
that is seldom used
because in this courtyard
you can’t light a cigarette.
there are plants and flowers
and hummingbirds and sculptures
and the quiet hum of the air conditioners.
there are no smells no desperate souls no screams.
a breeze blows in from the mountains
and there is peace and
we pray and give thanks
for all that is good.
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
close your eyes
so you don’t see
the browning leaves
or the yellow ones
that have fallen
and
cover your ears
so you don’t hear
the dry grass
or the leaves crunch
beneath your feet
and
ignore the scents
of the pumpkins
and spice
that sing of
the last days of harvest
and
feel the warmth
of another summer day
that burns the skin
and brings forth sweat
so late in its glory
and
dream again
of all that is possible
and what you can do
and who you can love
in this gift of a day
and
think little
of the secret
hidden in the breeze
from the mountains
which portends the future
and
worry not
of the chill that will be
or the winds that will howl
for today it is warm
and that is enough
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
Remember when you used to sit and listen to music with your headphones on, the 12″ x 12″ album cover in your hands as you went track to track? You’d be mesmerized by the cover art. You’d study the liner notes. You’d follow along if the lyrics were printed on the cover. After a few days, you’d know every song by heart.
No. Most of you don’t remember because that was before your time.
But back to our story.
The festival was over. The boys were planning for a fall.
Something’s up. Then we’re introduced to the ringleader.
He was standing in the doorway, looking like the Jack of Hearts.
Back in the golden age of vinyl, songs didn’t have be under three minutes. And everyone knew that serious music, serious songs, ran at least five minutes. Those were the songs you never wanted to end. American Pie comes to mind. Chicago’s Ballet for a Girl from Buchannon ran a glorious thirteen minutes.
Backstage the girls were playing five card stud by the stairs.
Lily drew two queens, she was hoping for a third to match her pair.
It was always best if you were alone. Total absorption into the music.
Big Jim was no one’s fool, he owned the town’s only diamond mine.
If you wanted to hear a track again, you’d have to wait. You can’t (or shouldn’t) pick up the tone arm and place the stylus in the same groove that had just played. You’d risk distorting the vinyl and degrading the sound quality. You had to let the grooves cool.
Rosemary combed her hair and took a carriage into town.
You had to let the grooves cool.
You couldn’t wait to play the song again, but you had to. Made you want to hear it that much more.
The hanging judge came in unnoticed and was being wined and dined.
The drilling in the wall kept up, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.
And those songs would tell a story as good as anything you ever read in a book. No music videos, you had to paint the scene in your head. You were the casting agent, the set and costume designer, the director. It was all yours. You just had to follow along.
The story I’ve been telling is a Bob Dylan classic, Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts, more than eight minutes long. It had hidden in my memory until it came up on my Pandora station during a four-hour trip yesterday. It’s a great driving song.
I won’t tell you what happens. If you want to know, click the link below. But wait until you can listen without distraction. It’s just better that way.
She was thinking about her father, who she very rarely saw.
She was thinking about Rosemary, she was thinking about the law.
But most of all, she was thinking about the Jack of Hearts.
My old school. No, not my class. I’m old, but not that old.
I spent half of my first grade year at the old Central School, which was an elementary school by then. In the photo above, it was the high school in my little town of St. Albans, West Virginia.
Freshmen Nuts, the banner says. Kids being kids, trying to be outrageous for their class photo. Front and center is Sarah Wilson, dressed like a baby with her baby bottle. The others I can’t really figure out. Behind Sarah is someone in what used to be called a “dunce” hat, which was sometimes used to humiliate misbehaving students. Oh, the psychological carnage inflicted in those days. To left of the dunce, a student is very proud of whatever he (she?) is holding. Wish I could see it. I’ll bet it’s good.
Then there’s the fiddle player. Kind of looks like a girl to me. She’s holding the fiddle comfortably, knowingly, as if it’s more than just a prop. Like she’d be tearing into Turkey in the Straw at the square dance on Saturday night with her guitar playing father and banjo picking brother. Her friends would think she’s odd and make fun of her. Then, in her senior year, a new family from Huntington would move to town to help build the railroad. The oldest son, Harry, is Clara’s age. (Yes, her name is Clara. How do I know that? I’m a writer. I think Clara suits her.) The other kids don’t want much to do with Harry because he’s new and he comes from money. And then there’s Harry’s good looks. He’s just intimidating. Except Clara doesn’t care. He’s the new outsider. She’s been an outsider as long as she can remember.
There’s something about Clara. You can see it in the photo. Harry sees it. She’s no-nonsense. Straightforward. Not afraid to speak her mind.
“You play the violin very well,” he says.
“It’s a fiddle.”
“Yes, of course. I took piano lessons when I was young. Learned a little Brahms. Some Liszt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you ever play any classical music?”
“I’m a fiddle player. I don’t care much about those guys.”
“Uh-huh.”
On the platform behind her, her father plays the first three chords of the next song.
“Got to go.”
She turns to take her place, fiddle under her chin. She looks back.
“Can you dance?”
Before he can answer, she’s ripping off the intro to the next song, smiling at Harry.
.
Then again, it’s entirely possible that the person in the photo is a guy. But that’s another story.
new york
you want to be
where the lights are so bright
where life lives on
through the night
and songs fill your heart
with delight
oh Savananh
is that where you’ve gone
my Savannah
i’ll see you at dawn
carolina
i know the sand
and the beaches call for you
the warm sunshine
and soft breezes, too
a time to reflect
and renew
oh Savananh
is that where you’ve gone
my Savannah
i’ll see you at dawn
i’ll pack my bags and be on my way
drive all night and into the day
grab some coffee, put gas in the car
if i could find out where you are
california
where dreamers go to find
what might be
and watch the sun set
by the sea
leave their troubles behind
and be free
oh Savananh
is that where you’ve gone
my Savannah
i’ll see you at dawn
i’ll pack my bags and be on my way
drive all night and into the day
grab some coffee, put gas in the car
if i could find out where you are
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
If you’re a runner, and you want to shave a few minutes off your 5k time, slow down. I know this is counterintuitive, but if you want to run fast on race day, slow down on your training runs. Take it easy. And those long runs you’ve been putting in on Sunday mornings don’t do you any good either. Sleep in. Save your energy. Then on race day, you’ll be fresh and run faster than you ever have before.
Train smart, not hard.
No, not really. I’m lying.
If you want to run fast, you have to train fast. Not everyday, but you’re going to have to run fartleks or intervals or speedwork at the track. And yes, you still have to get up early on weekends and put in the extra miles. That’s the truth, kiddos. It’s hard work to run fast. It’s no walk in the park. More like torture in 90 degree heat, lungs about to burst. Or slogging through the rain or fighting the wind. Aching legs that keep you up at night. Is it worth it all just to run fast? That’s for you decide.
But if you want to be good at something, you have to train hard. There ain’t no shortcuts. And you have to want it pretty bad.
Photo credit: iStock Photography
Joseph E Bird 