The Times of Our Lives: Fall 2008 ... Turn! Turn! Turn! ... and The Color of Ugly....

Autumn Leaves, painting by John Everett Millais (1856)

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.

Nicki and I have written recently of the transition of Summer into Fall, our favorite season. It has indeed been a glorious Fall (at least weather-wise) so far ... beautiful, bright cooler days, the beginnings of changes in the color of leaves, the low insistent sense of urgency that things should be completed and brought to order before the onset of cold, dark winter. And I have found myself pondering the meaning and import of those words from Ecclesiastes (set to music by Pete Seeger in the 1950s as the song Turn! Turn! Turn! and made popular by the Byrds in October 1965).

I last published a post on the blog on September 22, at the advent of autumn and amid the building excitement for the Class of 1963 (and All-School) Reunion in Childress October 3-5. Some might think it strange that I've gone so long between scribblings ... see, I do occasionally shut up!!! (grin) ... but various considerations have kept me from writing again until now. So to catch up on some of the events and thoughts which have occurred between that post and this one....

A time to be born and a time to die; ...
a time to kill and a time to heal ...

Not the least of my recent considerations has been Yahn's health, which has not been the best lately, and which of course prevented my attending the much-anticipated reunion. In addition to his problems with breathing ... COPD, asthma, etc. (apparently also suffered by our recently deceased classmate Reed Lockhoof) ... we have been confronted with some loss (we hope temporary) of Yahn's cognitive abilities ... a very scary situation, and one of particular concern for those in our age group.

In addressing these problems, Yahn's doctor first took him off some of his medications which may be causative of memory loss. The first to go was Ambien, prescribed to help him sleep; the second was hydrocodone, a strong pain killer, which helped alleviate his discomfort from arthritis and restless leg syndrome; then Lipitor (as we have learned in our research, all of the statin drugs given to regulate cholesterol can cause cognitive difficulties). And, while I must say that some of his cognition has returned, there are still lapses of memory ... the largest one recently being that he completely forgot our last appointment with his doctor ... had no memory of it at all, even though she took more than an hour with us. This week the doctor has ordered an MRI and an MRA to see if there are indices of (the dreaded word) Alzheimer's, or possibly past mini-strokes, sufficient to disrupt his thought processes but otherwise without outward signs.

I know there are some who fear to have such tests ... or tests for breast or colon or other cancers, or for other potentially life-threatening or -altering conditions ... but I have always believed in the old saying that "forewarned is forearmed." If we find the worst as a result of these tests ... at least we will know and can prepare. There are treatments and therapies which can alleviate or delay the progression of many diseases.

If the tests do not indicate Alzheimer's or mini-strokes, then we can proceed with trying to identify and isolate the cause of the problems ... but we will know that we need not concern ourselves with those particular fears ... at least not at this juncture. And knowledge is among the most important weapons ... if not the most important weapon ... that any of us can possess.

Please ... take care of your health ... physical and mental. See your doctor regularly ... have necessary diagnostic tests ... eat right and exercise ... stay involved in life ... keep reading and learning. Do it for yourselves and for your loved ones. You are important ... and we want to see you at the next reunion!!!

Since I last wrote, Paul Newman, actor and philanthropist, succumbed to cancer at age 83 ... and with his passing we lost another icon of our youth. While it was our dear Joby (JoAnn Neel Lathram) who had the killer crush on Newman when we were at CHS, I daresay most of us (male and female) saw a number (if not all) of Newman's films and were moved by them to one degree or another. Just yesterday, while Turner Classic Movies was doing an all-day tribute to Newman, I watched Exodus (again) ... crying a good deal of the way through it, of course. While it was certainly not Newman's best film (nor was it as good a film as it might have been), the "connection" I have had since high school with the book, the song, the movie is still alive and strong. Newman was not only a true giant of the silver screen, he also stood tall in his personal life, and dedicated a good deal of his time and effort in later years (along with all of his profits from his "Newman's Own" line of products) to charitable endeavors, seeking to make the world a better place. It is a pity there are not more like him.



Falling Autumn Leaves, painting by Vincent Van Gogh (1888)

a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance ...

I was thrilled to see the pictures from the reunion ... thanks to the pooled efforts of Nicki, Driscilla and Clara ... and to read Nicki's posts on both our class dinner at K-Bob's and the All-School Reunion. (If you haven't yet checked out Nicki's slide show on the Show and Tell blog, don't miss it!) I marveled as I saw each different face, and I lingered over the pictures for a long time, savoring memories from CHS, but also recalling the updates Nicki and I have received from so many during this past year.

I have been privileged to see some of those who attended the reunion "up close and personal" in recent years ... dear Joe Don (at the Wimberley Weekend in October 2001, and twice in 2002), Jack Petty (the last time I saw Jack, in May 2002, we engaged in an a capella impromptu duet of our "official" class song Sooner or Later), Mike Spradley (and his sweet wife Ada, also at Wimberley, and since), Doug Greer (at the time of Paula's funeral in May 2002), Jim/Willie, Don Meek (Class of 1960) ... of course my beloved sister-women Raenell and Joby and Shirley and Nicki and Clara.

The pictures of those I haven't seen in many years were true revelations and delights. Don Morgan and Kay Eatherly Whitten seem definitely deserving of the appellation "Forever Young" ... and how wonderful to see Sharon Molloy Kelley and her Ray (Class of 1961), and Driscilla, and Bettye Shahan Bagley and Max McClendon.

I got such a rush of wonderful memories thinking about how Max's mother "Sis" and my grandmother were BFFs ... on the golf course and around the bridge table and at church. Jettie Hicks Huff and Bobby still make a great looking couple ... and I couldn't help but remember how Jettie was one of my mother's favorite students when mother taught at the Community Center school for a while. It was also great to see John Steed, my old Sunday School buddy, and J.R. Bell and his talented wife Jan, and Beth McKee Gore and Gayle Whitten.

Even though they didn't attend the reunion in Childress, I want to acknowledge that I have been immeasurably blessed over the years with continuing contacts with so many friends like Linda Kay and Lynn and Pat and Linda Sally and Sheila. And the mini-reunion with Phil Tutor and Joe Warren (who did make it to Childress) and others in April was delightful.

Nicki tells me that she's had e-mails from some who did not attend this reunion, indicating that they are definitely interested in attending the next reunion ... oy vey! Folks, I think Nicki and I, and Joe, are all willing ... but if we are to plan such a thing (possibly for our 50th?) we would certainly like some input from as many of you as possible as to when, where, etc., which we would anticipate might ensure a better turn-out. It occurs that perhaps a reunion not in conjunction with the All-School Reunion in Childress might be better for planning time for all of us to visit with each other. We've also speculated that it might be nice to hold a reunion somewhere other than Childress ... someplace in Texas (home to most of us, I believe) like Dallas, or Austin, or San Antonio, or even Amarillo or Lubbock. Of course, right now all of this is in the realm of conjecture ... but we are still interested in any thoughts you may have on the subject ... and volunteers to work on a future reunion are sought and gratefully accepted.



Leaves in autumn

a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.

The past few weeks since my last post have also witnessed some scary history in the making for ourselves and our country ... the roller-coaster of the financial markets, the largest plunge in stocks since the Great Depression, the heart-breaking foreclosures, the Presidential campaign which looms so large amid all the trauma and tribulation and fear. Whoever is chosen by we the people to lead our country in the next few years must bear a great burden in trying to get our society, with all its diverse population, back to times of prosperity and hope for the future ... with a shared sense that we are all in this together and that we will likely accomplish more by working together, rather than dividing into armed camps.

It seems that for the past few election cycles there has been talk of that particular election being the most important in years ... but I feel that it may actually be true in this instance. I so hope you have all registered to vote ... and that you will exercise your right and obligation to do so on or before November 4. This is no time for fence-sitters ... nor for people who in a fit of pique choose to "throw away" (yes, I said "throw away" for that is what it amounts to) their votes on some specious, questionable, inarguably doomed third-party candidate.

But when you vote ... however you vote ... please make certain that your vote is based on actual issues, not fear or hate-mongering or mindless bigotry. Frankly we should all be waaay more concerned by the poisonous color of "ugly" than by any other "colorful" considerations....

Fall is assuredly a time for recollection and reflection ... the season to take stock of the things we have done, the things we should have done, and the things we wish we had done ... to plan and dream and hope for the future. And yes, the future still beckons. Abraham Lincoln said "The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time." There is a lot of life and living in the days (each and every one of them) ahead for the Class of 1963 ... and it is up to each of us to determine how we will live those days ... whether we will look back on them fondly and cherish the memories ... or view them with telescopic regret at lost opportunities and dreams denied.

It is in our power to determine whether we will inhabit a feral, darkling tangled garden haunted by shades and shadows and sorrow's sighs, or whether we choose to walk in light and love and eager anticipation of the days that remain to us. For me, the choice is easy ... and clear. I hope it is for all of you.

)O(

Autumn Equinox ... the Woman in the Moon ... and Joss the Morkie....

Mid-Autumn (Moon) Festival celebrations in Victoria Park, Hong Kong, China

Autumn has officially arrived, courtesy of the yearly equinox (twindred phenomenon to the vernal equinox of Spring). I speak of course of the actual season, not of the figurative "autumn" of our lives, discussed recently on the blog, which came to visit all of us a while ago, I believe. Of course, as far as I am concerned, Fall really begins the day after Labor Day ... always has ... various calendars and lunar/solar calculations notwithstanding.

Just preceding the 'nox we enjoyed a wonderful heraldic spell of Fall weather ... soft, cool mornings, pleasant afternoons suffused with a sweet, golden light, the full Harvest Moon brilliant and pregnant with promise in a clear sky on September 15, foreshadowing the bright Hunter's Moon on October 14 and the Beaver Moon (!) of November 13, before the advent of Winter and the Cold Moon which will rise in snow-white splendor on December 12.

Perhaps it is my retro-pagan nature (and being occasionally under the influence of Guinevere the Druid Goddess, about whom more later) but the Fall moons have always been the most beautiful to me ... ascending like round orange flame, then paling to polished translucent alabaster as they climb, seemingly close enough to reach out and touch, so clear and distinct, haunting and enchanting.

The philosopher Matsuo Basho wrote of

the moon so pure
that a wandering monk
carries it across the sand

BTW ... I have always seen a "Woman in the Moon" rather than a man ... a delicate profile of a lady, as if carved on yellow onyx or tangerine soapstone. Oh, I can tilt my head and look at the moon another way and see the "Man" of legend, but the first image I see is that of a woman. Interestingly, the idea of a "Woman in the Moon" is not particularly common to European cultures, but is found primarily in the lore of Asia, Polynesia and Native Americans.

The Esquimaux tell the tale of a great magician who ascended to the heavens and became the sun, taking with him his beautiful lady. However, the lady eventually angered the magician sun (probably deemed by him as being too "uppity"), who then burned one side of her face with his fire to punish her, leaving her disfigured. The lady, not without powers of her own, fled and became the moon. The sun has been in pursuit of her ever since ... but even though he sometimes comes near, he will never overtake her. When the moon is new, the burnt side of her face is toward the Earth; when the moon is full, the reverse is true.

The Chinese celebrate Chang'e, the Goddess of the Palace of the Moon, their counterpart to the Western notion of the Man in the Moon. Although there are so many variations to the story that it can become overwhelming, briefly: Chang'e was the beautiful wife of Houyi, a loyal servant of the Emperor who, for services rendered, was given a pill that would make him immortal. Unfortunately, before he could take the pill, Chang'e found it and took it, and then floated weightlessly up to the sky, where she landed on the moon, the home of the Jade Rabbit, who became her companion.

It is said that Houyi grieved so for his lost wife that the Jade Emperor in Heaven granted him the boon of allowing him to ascend to become the sun, and so Chang'e and Houyi became the visible symbols of the concept of yin-yang (陰陽), a unity of opposites according to the Taiji ... two opposing but complementary aspects in diametric equilibrium. Yin-yang is a philosophy of duality. (As an example, winter and summer would represent the yin-yang of the year. It is interesting to note that in yin-yang metaphysical thought, the ideas of "good" and "evil" do not apply ... darkness is neither good nor bad ... it is "good" if one is trying to sleep, but "bad" if one wants to read.)

There is also an old folk legend that the Woman in the Moon is Mary Magdalene and the "spots" around her are her tears. But I digress....

Saturday I went to the Farmers' Market here after a lovely al fresco breakfast, a favorite thing to do on weekends, particularly in the cooler weather of Fall, and just enjoyed walking among the stalls with their wonderful fresh produce. Of course there was a plethora of colorful seasonal gourds including huge pumpkins, and fabulous butternut and other squash, profuse crowns of broccoli, fat juicy peaches ... a cascade of colors in variegated shades of green and yellow and gold and magenta and orange. I happily loaded up the car with the bounty, including wonderful organic locally raised chickens and grass-fed beef (I prefer to be a locavore whenever possible) and then came home and prepared a ragout ... the first of the substantial fall and winter soups that Yahn and I so love. I feel a pot of chili comin' on soon ... and a great beef brisket, slow cooked and falling apart when touched by the fork, perhaps for the Cowboys' game next weekend with Washington (mega-mega rivals ... boo 'Skins!).

And how about the 'boys' first ever victory yesterday at Lambeau Field against the Packers??? Yee-haaa!!! I guess you can take the girl out of Dallas ... and sometimes put her back ... but the Cowboys go on and on ... with a small tear in memory of the great Tom Landry.... Fall of course denotes the return of football (fu'ball, as I called it in an old As You Like It column waaaaaay back in the CHS day) ... Friday Night Lights, and Saturday afternoon and night college games, and all the Pro games, creatively scheduled whenever the networks think they might make a buck.... But again I digress....

Although Yahn had breakfast with me, we felt the trek to Farmers' Market might be too much for him, so I was accompanied by our new little baby ... Joss the Morkie, so-called because he is a Maltese-Yorkshire mix. Joss (Chinese for "luck") came to us through our good friend Chris Watts at Petropolitan, who sent us pictures and told us the little guy was in need of rescuing. Even though we were still grieving our baby Noah, we were so taken by the pictures that we adopted Joss right away ... and he is already enriching our lives with his sweet nature and unstinting love. Noah would approve, and he and Joss would have been great friends, I feel sure. Joss has his own little bed and "blankie" ... but he is particularly fond of snuggling up to Yahn when Yahn is sleeping. I sense a great relationship here ... like the one I was fortunate enough to have with Noah....

Joss the Morkie

Although Nicki and I both embrace Autumn as our favorite time of the year, it has often been seen by some as being a time of melancholy. Yes, there can be sadness in the season ... as the fiery funereal pyre of colors heralds the waning of the light, the seasonal death of green fresh leaves and hothouse romances. But I've always been fond of Albert Camus' observation: "Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf's a flower." And Percy Bysshe Shelley was definitely onto something when he wrote:

There is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky
Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

And I believe author Hal Borland caught the feel, and feeling, of autumn when he penned:

Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity, but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?



Personification of Autumn, Currier & Ives Lithograph (1871)

Between engagements, Guinevere the Druid Goddess sent a note in fire-writing (tricky to open), in response to my wishes to her for a glorious equinox and my inquiry regarding the egg-balancing tradition:

Just poofed back in and found your message....

Ah yes ... the equinox ... the day the sun enters the Goddess' own personal astrological sign of Libra ... the embodiment of balancing.... A little busy, trying to apparate to all those cairns in the hills at Loughcrew ... with a poof poof here, and a poof poof there ... here a poof ... there a poof ... everywhere a poof poof. Poofed is more like it after a few of those....

Burning the ceremonial Wicker Man ... and on that subject, let me tell you that Burning Man festival in Nevada is a hoot and a half.... Then gotta give a nod to the Wiccans and Mabon ... and a shout-out or two at Higan-e in Japan ... then the celebration of the Wine Moon (I think you call it the Harvest Moon), when the grapes are harvested and pressed for wine (hic! double hic!) ....

But as for balancing those eggs on end, who can find the time ... or the stamina ... well, maybe sister Triple Goddess Brigid while she's waiting for Bres to sober (er, wake) up. After taking part in all the revelry, the ceremonial toasts and quaffs, obeisances to Cardinal Puff, it's all I can manage just to balance a bunch of really festive celebrants dancing and cavorting within the sacred circle. Now that takes goddessly talent!!!! And you want balanced eggs??? Sheeesh!!!

Still, we must observe the traditions ... so many traditions ... so little time....

Poo ... (hic! hic!) ... Poof!!!!

A joyous first day (and all the rest) of Fall to all....

)O(

Long Year's Journey to Reunion ... Regrets (I've Had a Few) ... and 千里之行，始于足下 ...

Prom memories (from the movie Carrie, reproduced here citing "fair use" provisions of U.S. copyright law)

... or as my old friend Laozi said, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step (to borrow a title which I liked from the original Las Vegas reunion blog). Actually, a more correct translation from the original Chinese would be "The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet." Unfortunately, my Chinese is not sufficient to add (in brush-stroked characters) that any journey actually begins with the desire to embark upon it.... What comes after that goes under the heading of "means to end"....

[Sidebar: There are some who credit the "journey of a thousand miles" quote to Laozi's contemporary Confucius; however, my research seems to point indeed toward Laozi, a/k/a Lao Tzu, the "Old Master" instrumental in the establishment of, and revered by, the Taoist religion. But I digress....]

In two weeks a number (literally) of the Class of 1963 will gather again in Childress for its 45th reunion. At last headcount, there were approximately 20-25 of our classmates (our actual classmates ... not counting spouses and/or significant others who will accompany them) who indicated that either they will be there or might be there ... a little exercise in legal terminology illustrating (if you think about it) why it is so important to be cognizant of (and precise in) the meanings of the words you use ... and in your interpretation of words directed to or concerning you. Interestingly, the number of those who say they will or may attend is about the same as the number of those who were committed (to one degree or another) to attending the reunion if it had been held in Las Vegas, as it was originally conceived.

Nicki and I have been disappointed that even though we moved the reunion to Childress, partially in hopes that it would result in a larger turnout, the number remains essentially unchanged. There are some names common to both sign-up lists ... although some few have indicated that while they would attend a reunion in either Las Vegas or Childress, they would not travel to the other place for whatever reason. Some have said that the weekend of October 17-19 (as originally planned) would have been fine ... but there is some problem with the weekend of October 3-5 (designated by the Childress All-School Reunion Committee). Nicki and I have talked on more than one occasion about how little response we have had from those who actually live in Childress, or within a few miles thereof. So, truly immutable or unforeseen circumstances notwithstanding (and there are always some) ... the bottom line is that for the most part, those who want to be there will have found a way to manage it ... and those who don't, won't.



Laozi leaves China on his water buffalo.

Most of those who've said they are not coming have indicated some other pressing engagement. Some are apparently afraid they may be confronted with an idea or ideology with which they don't agree. And some have also said that they don't want to come because they don't much care to revisit those high school days when we all were so young, and insecure, and needy and/or desirous of approval and acceptance (even some of those we considered the popular cool people who comprised the top of the social food chain) ... or who feel they may be ignored and left to sit by themselves at a table in K-Bob's or the Elks Club. It is worth noting a bit of wisdom expressed by Bertrand Russell, who sagaciously wrote: Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd. Sad to think that some still feel that fear 45 years later on the long road out of Childress (with a nod to the Eagles).

I've written previously on the blog that not all my memories from high school are happy ones. And yet, over the nearly half-century since May 1963, as I've learned and grown and pondered and embraced my still-evolving spiritual beliefs, learned to listen to the vibrations and the resonances, I have found great benefit (and balm) in being able to put the bad things into perspective ... to acknowledge the immaturity and the sometimes mindless, contagious wolf-pack cruelty common to those adolescent years ... to come to grips with the fact that some of my own actions were causal catalysts ... to understand the unthinking, uncaring and occasionally vicious attitudes of some, and to apprehend that some went along not because of meanness or indifference on their parts, but because they themselves were afraid to go against the herd ... to recognize and regret those instances when I was less than charitable to another wandering, groping soul ... and to forgive not only those people who hurt me, through acts of commission or omission, but also to forgive myself for all the things I did wrong.

I have learned that sometimes bad things happen to us for necessary reasons ... that even if the events are painful, they are meant to (and do, if we are wise) teach us life lessons that we must learn before we can successfully traverse the terra incognita between the lives ... that we must transcend before we can ascend. Understanding and forgiveness are among the most important of life's lessons, I believe ... and I don't think one can achieve forgiveness (of oneself or of others) until one has become a frequent flier (with reward miles!) in the realms of understanding and regret and empathy.

Since I got over myself ... stopped nursing old hurts both real and imaginary, or sometimes just inflated by the hot air of adolescent angst ... refused the mantle of the victim ... started contemplating and comprehending that some of those who hurt me may have done so because they in fact were in mortal pain from their own demons ... I have found a "new" world of fond memories ... memories to be cherished and cultivated ... memories to drive away the dark nights and the dark hours and the dark thoughts and strip the curtains from the metaphoric windows of the mind to allow the light to nourish and quicken the dormant soil and quiescent flowers of my soul.

On occasion I have been tempted to regret that I did not reach this "enlightenment" sooner, that I let so much time elapse ... but then I know, with a complete, deep certainty ... that I learned (and am still learning) this life's lessons when I was supposed to ... that subject to my own choices and the choices of others, things happened as they were supposed to happen, as they had to happen ... that I was incapable of absorbing the lessons before I did and could not have learned many of them without the accompanying pain ... and that rather than regret not learning sooner, I should rejoice that I learned at all ... that it was not too late when knowledge came, too far along in this existence to become applicable. I have been blessed by that knowledge ... and by the new "old" friends I have found, and the old "old" friends I have rediscovered ... and I still anticipate reunion with those with whom I may yet "reconnect".


A Taijitu, the main symbol of the Taoist spirituality.

I don't know whether you were the teacher's pet or the class goat ... the homecoming queen or the prom king ... maybe one of those like Janis Ian, who "learned the truth" At Seventeen and "knew the pain of Valentines that never came" ... wore a letter sweater (your own or one bestowed by your boyfriend for affection and/or services rendered) or envied those who did ... made good grades or barely squeaked by (perhaps because they didn't know much about dyslexia and other learning disabilities then) ... were "good" or "bad" (as defined by the times) or more likely "confused" and just desperate to fit in ... a "nice" guy or a James Dean wannabe. High school marked a significant rite of passage in all our lives ... and we each are deserving (and in need sometimes) of a congratulatory and/or accepting hug, an elevation of spirit generated by a bright welcoming smile, the quiet benediction inherent in the knowledge that we successfully ran that gauntlet of taunts and insults and uncertainty ... and we survived to tell the tale! We survived ... mostly better, and wiser I think (I fervently hope) for the experience.

We're not in high school any more, people. We've all traveled different life paths, with diverse experiences, to become the people we are today. While it is likely that most of us have retained some of the "core" essentials of those adolescents we were at CHS, I firmly believe that our life lessons have honed and burnished our present personalities, our souls if you will, like a skilled diamond cutter ... although unfortunately, in a few instances, it must be acknowledged that the master jeweler apparently struck the stone poorly and left it fractured, shattered ... bereft of light and knowledge and radiant enlightenment. In fairness to the master jeweler, it should also be noted that some stones themselves may have harbored deep, hidden flaws rendering them incapable of being polished or refined. Those unfortunates, I fear, will have many more journeys, much longer than a thousand miles...

A reunion can be and should be a celebration of all our life journeys and the sometimes quite divergent roads that we chose ... as well as a joyous commemoration and remembrance of birthday parties and Birthday Clubs and Friday Night Lights and Saturday nights dragging the highway, or date nights at the old Palace Theater ... a shared commonality of feeling and circumstance, and a sharing of all the singularly unique experiences which we bring to reconnection ... an ephemeral eulogy to our former selves and times, and an encomium and festive appreciation for all we have lived through, and learned through, to reach the caravanserai where we choose to pause temporarily to rest and refresh for our further travels.




The Three Pure Ones

A reunion is not a place to take offense over small, petty, long-ago or even contemporary disagreements, or perceived (possibly erroneously perceived) slights ... or to belligerently insist that everyone march to the beat of one particular drummer (or another). If we have grown and are wise, we will have learned that everyone does not have to look like us, or think like us, or believe like us, or act like us ... that we all traverse this world, this life, all our many lives, as we should, as we are supposed to, so that we may all reach the state of understanding and grace required to move on to our next existence ... and that those who are dogmatic, and dictatorial and seek to bend others to their will and mindset ... even these will eventually arrive at satori ... but it just may take a while.... (grin) And in the meantime, the rest of us can practice understanding, empathy, acceptance, sympathy and certainly pity for the difficult journeys these people will have ... because they've got a lot of livin' (and lives!) to do.... (Cheshire grin)

All of that having been said ... and here I am reminded of the Rolling Stones singing "You can't always get what you want" ... it is with regret that I must write that I will not be able to attend the reunion in Childress. Sometimes, despite the best laid plans and great desire, the universe has other things in store for us. In my case, Yahn's doctor has told him that because of some health problems he has had recently, she doesn't believe he should make the trip ... and I cannot, should not and will not leave him home alone. I had been looking forward to seeing many of you ... but I must remember that I have been blessed to come together with many of you over the past year (and years), and that with joss (luck), there will be more such opportunities in the future.

I have tried my best to think of some reasonable scenario which would allow me to get away for a couple of days ... and Yahn himself has encouraged me to attend the reunion ... but in the end, it comes down to the fact that he does not need to be left alone right now ... and so my decision is made, and clear. Of course there is disappointment ... but also the certainty that I am doing what I should be doing at this time, in this season.

So, on Friday evening, October 3, I will lift a glass in salute to the CHS Class of 1963 ... to all of those who attend the reunion, and all who don't, and all who are no longer able to attend ... and I will smile at the good memories. And that slight disturbance in the air around you will be my whispered wishes to all of you that you may have the very best of everything in this "autumn" of our lives, and in the future ... as I recall Mark Twain's words that "Death is the starlit strip between the companionship of yesterday and the reunion of tomorrow." L'chaim!

)O(

It's Yesterday Once More....

Traces, faded, folded pencil sketch ca. 1974-1975

I was recently taking my usual afternoon ride with little Noah ("our" ritual), singing along with the radio (Noah is indulgent and sometimes even enthusiastic) and beginning to ponder just what I might do to mark the August 27th anniversary of my initial topic post on the blog (Blue Room, Hot Wheels, Purple Prose and the No. 4 Chili Cheeseburger..., although my first comment was published on August 15 in response to Nicki's inaugural post of August 13, Reflections on a Teacher at CHS). As Noah and I cruised the local drag (yes, I still do that), while I was contemplating possible "takes" ... the crystalline voice of Karen Carpenter (dead at 32 of anorexia nervosa) filled the car with the haunting words:

When I was young
I'd listen to the radio
Waitin' for my favorite songs
When they played I'd sing along
It made me smile.

Not only did those particular lyrics, that specific song, make me smile then, they conversely and concomitantly brought tears to my eyes, along with that breathtaking tug on my heart as so many years instantly fell away ... like those pages falling off calendars in old Hollywood movies to indicate the passage of time. So many different years, so many diverse images ... volatile times, kaleidoscopic places, memorable faces, a beloved twindred soul ... impossible to actually count or relate just how many memories (some good, some not so much) crowded my mind in the space of only a few moments....

I prudently had the presence of mind (and the opportunity) to swing into a convenient Sonic Drive-In just ahead, order a cherry limeade (another memory trigger) and then close my eyes and let the rest of the song work its wistful, beautiful, sometimes bittersweet magic.




Karen Carpenter (1950 - 1983) and her brother, Richard

Anyone who has read some of my blog posts, or who otherwise knows me well, apprehends that music has always been important in my life. Some of my most wonderful memories are bound in silken, sensuous chords or silvery, sussurous words, sometimes intricately woven, mellifluous, moving slowly like warm aural honey through the canyons of my mind ... soaring, close harmonies ... psychedelic screams or insensate mumbles symbiotically clashing with primitive percussion and ripped guitar riffs to savage the senses ... cry-in-your-beer but ultimately soothing and cathartic country ballads plaintively detailing love and loss, or the efforts by some Desperado to hide his Lyin' Eyes, or ...Make It Through the Night to another Tequila Sunrise with some Angel of the Morning, or to hang in just a little longer For the Good Times without thinking of What Might Have Been. (It is worth noting here that recent scientific studies have indicated that crying in response to sad songs is indeed therapeutic and should actually be encouraged as a means of feeling better, as many who have spent time drowning their sorrows and feeding the jukebox in some dark, smoky places can attest.)

I've always had a broad appreciation for sometimes startlingly different types of music ... I remember as a small child listening to Big Band music and the songs which were popular in World War II at home with my Daddy, who also introduced me to purported Peruvian/Inca exotica performed by Yma Sumac of the five-octave vocal range; hearing my mother (a wonderful pianist) play from her sheet music and sing; and watching Your Hit Parade every week with either my parents or grandparents, and with my brother Scott. But I must note that it is often our old music ... oldies, if you will ... the music that was being born and growing to maturity at the same time I was beginning to sense the inchoate yet questing nature of my own soul ... which moves me most.

And there was so much coool music those years after the advent of Elvis in the mid-'50s (see The Times of Our Lives: August 16, 1977 ... Elvis ... and Heartbreak Hotel ..., published August 15, 2008) ... Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Frankie Lymon, Little Anthony and the Imperials, the Flamingos, the Marcels, the Five Satins, the Mystics, the Platters, the Crests (an unusually integrated group for that time, consisting of one Italian, two blacks and a Puerto Rican, who nailed the classic 16 Candles), the great Roy Orbison, the super-great Ray Charles and so many others.

Those were such happy times
And not so long ago
How I wondered where they'd gone
But they're back again
Just like a long lost friend
All the songs I loved so well.



Statue in Ray Charles Plaza, Albany Georgia

I remember Carl Lee and Truett Ball (both CHS Class of 1962) and later Jerry Huddleston (Class of '64) when they DJ'd at 1510 KCTX Radio in Childress ... as I recall, their shift was 3:00 p.m. until sign-off (which was dependent on when the sun set ... when so many of us then changed the dials to 1520 KOMA in Oklahoma City) ... and I remember singing along with the girls (or often just by myself) in the car to Patsy Cline, the Shirelles, the Drifters, the Ronettes, Jackie Wilson and Jerry Butler and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and Peter, Paul and Mary and the Beach Boys ... feeling an absolutely spiritual connection and uplift whenever I heard Ferrante & Teicher's powerful instrumental Theme from Exodus ... sighing softly along with ethereal instrumentals like A Summer Place (Percy Faith and Orchestra), Wonderland by Night (Bert Kaempfert and Orchestra), Moon River (Henry Mancini and Orchestra), Stranger on the Shore (Acker Bilk) and Sleepwalk (Santo and Johnny) ... and groovin' and movin' to Green Onions (Booker T. and the MG's), Midnight in Moscow (Kenny Ball and the Jazzmen), Washington Square (the Village Stompers), Rebel Rouser (Duane Eddy), Wipe Out (the Surfaris), Walk, Don't Run (the Ventures), Misirlou (Dick Dale and the Del Tones) and the truly cooooool Pipeline (done by the Chantays, only one of any number of one-hit wonders).

Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines.
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they're startin' to sing's
So fine.

I have such vivid (and verbatim!) memories of so many old songs ... from grade school and Junior High School, from my years at CHS and in college, through all the intervening years and the intermittent tears ... the genuinely warm glow spreading throughout the body, or the quick stab to the heart, when a particularly strong mnemonic suddenly sparks a half-forgotten or half-buried moment or a day in the life. Memory ... the kind that lights the corners of [the] mind ... is a true gift, though not unlike the gift of rain in that whether it is ultimately good or bad depends on how it is used or deployed. When coupled with the honest assessment of your actual feelings and thoughts, proper use of these keys may help determine your future path, and may help clear obstacles you may encounter otherwise.

Bearing in mind the strong, killer karmic injunction not to cause pain to the innocent, I nevertheless think failing and/or refusing to quietly look at and discreetly examine the past is a profligate waste of the gift, perhaps even a thwart to destiny ... and further begs the question(s): If you don't remember who you truly were at some certain significant time(s) of your life ... what you really felt ... if it has been colored or distorted by outside influences ... then how do know who you really are now??? How do you contemplate who you may be(come) in the future???

I remember the love songs that meant (and still mean) so much to me ... I remember all the words and the melodies ... I remember all the ephemera detailed by the Classics IV ... the Faded photographs, covered now with lines and creases/Tickets torn in half, memories in bits and pieces/... souvenirs of days together/... pages from an old love letter ... so many things gone now in ritual cleansing flames or in the natural attrition of almost half a century encompassing moves and spring cleaning ... and still there remain old totems and anonymous traces like a ballpoint pen, an empty cigarette pack, champagne corks, pressed flowers, hotel receipts, matchbooks ... things that when I stumble across them, I smile to think that I kept such innocuous things, which mean absolutely nothing to anyone but me ... but to throw them out would be somehow to throw away or devalue the memory. And that I will never do. I am reminded that if we cannot or will not remember, we cannot know ... we struggle to learn ... we impede our own progress....

When they get to the part
Where he's breaking her heart
It can really make me cry
Just like before
It's yesterday once more.

[Sidebar: I've always loved the 1966 song Elusive Butterfly, by folksinger/songwriter Bob Lind (another one-hit wonder), which as someone once said to me was the closest thing to pure poetry I ever heard set to music. ... "You might wake up some morning ..." and it goes on from there, making as concrete as is humanly possible all those intangible, surreal (yet so very real) moments of stasis in the midst of constant flux that we call love.... Sidebar Addendum: I almost wrecked the car the other day (perhaps a slight exaggeration, but not much) when the female afternoon drive-time DJ on the usually wonderful Platinum 96.7 station here played the gorgeous, evocative Grammy-winning Misty (recorded by Texas-born Johnny Mathis and released in 1959), and then went on to state oh so erroneously that the song was specifically written for the movie Play Misty for Me, starring and directed by Clint Eastwood (his directorial debut), released in 1971 ... a twelve-year gap. Jeez! Do a little research, for god's sake!!! I cringe to think of the people who will now tell other people that the song was written for the movie.... And I hate disinformation, even in such small matters.... Grrrrrr.... But I digress....]



Cairns Birdwing, the largest butterfly in Australia

I think (and have ventured to say on the blog) that memory ... revisiting times and places and things and people who were once (and may still be) important to us ... is vital as we continue to grow and learn in this life. If we cannot "tap into" the person we were at age 16, or 25, or 34, or 43 ... then how in the world do we comprehend not only whether we have changed, but the extent and nature of the change ... whether the change has been good or bad for us and our ultimate spiritual growth ... instructive or stunting in the development of our lives and our souls ... a comfortably-padded and well-accoutred prison or a true liberation allowing us to be all that we can be? I know some people will immediately think "Oh, but you can't live in the past" ... and of course that is true. It is dead and gone ... but not forgotten ... and I am certainly not proposing that anyone try to dwell in that ghost town, to the exclusion of the present and the future. But ... but ... I believe remembrance and true, unclouded examination is as necessary for our eternal, living souls as air and water and food are for our temporary, temporal bodies....

Lookin' back on how it was
In years gone by
And the good times that I had
Makes today seem rather sad
So much has changed.

One of the greatest things (in my mind, at least) about the blog is that in addition to contemporary topics and catch-ups and reunions ... here in this small space in the vast ethereal universe ... it is ... it can be ... it has been ... yesterday, once more. The blog provides an impetus, if not an imperative, for us to return to a place and time, now vanished except in memory (I am reminded of Margaret Mitchell's halcyon fever-dream of the Old South), to revisit things that happened to us then and in the years thereafter, and to analyze them ... both the beautiful and the painful ... in the light of the knowledge we have gained in our life journeys since then. It provides a place for us to reach out to each other, when a saving hand might be welcome, or necessary, or easy to to proffer.

I had an e-mail exchange with Clemi Higley Blackburn shortly before her shockingly swift and untimely death this past February. Despite an estrangement between us, I had e-mailed her to verify some information for my December 31, 2007 post Bobcat Treasure: Jade ... Candles ... and Auld Lang Syne..., and Clemi graciously answered my e-mail and those questions she could. Always looking (with Nicki) for "new voices" on the blog, I wrote again to Clemi, asking if she might be interested in doing a topic post for us, and she e'ed back that she didn't have a clue what she'd write about even if she was interested in undertaking such a project. And so I answered: "Oh, just whatever might be of general interest, or some happy memories you have from school, or something like that." And I felt a literal, physical pain when she wrote back: "I don't have any happy memories from high school, so wouldn't be able to write anything that would be of interest to your readers."

I was absolutely stunned. No happy memories from high school??? Zip, zilch, nada? I had some pretty ugly, painful memories of my own from those days ... as did many of us. But to say you had absolutely no happy memories? That you had not managed to separate and salvage the good from the bad??? Clemi and I were not good friends in school, but we did take dance lessons together for some years, and we worked on The Corral together my Junior and her Senior year, and I was frequently at her house visiting with her mother Carol during my last year of high school (and after) ... and I know that there were happy memories that she might have found there, if she had chosen to access them ... had made the effort to look ... if someone might have reached her ... if she had been able to consign the bad memories to the black hole where terrible memories should go. But as it was, less than two months before she died, Clemi said and remembered she had no happy memories of high school after 45 or so years. And that made me cry ... then and soon thereafter, when I heard of her death.

It was songs of love
That I would sing to then
And I'd memorize each word
Those old melodies
Still sound so good to me
As they melt the years away.



Spider lily and butterfly

The blog gifts us with visions and memories of yesterday, once more. It is a place to come together to share our lives and our thoughts and our acquired wisdom and compassion ... to reach out to each other in these years when love and friendship may be more important than ever. The blog gives each of us the opportunity to reconstitute the complex, layered individual essence of our past, present and future ... it helps us perfect the essential "blending" of the florals and woods and ambergris and spices acquired as we've walked through this life ... to meld the strong but fleeting "top notes" (aromas which are apparent immediately upon application of a perfume but dissipate soon thereafter) with the "middle notes" (the "heart" or "core" scent which begins to emerge as the top notes fade), and the more subtle but deep and rich "base notes" (formulated to emerge as the middle notes begin to fade, but also to pair with and sustain the middle notes to engender the lingering signature of the essence) ... our quintessence, if you will.

All my best memories
Come back clearly to me
Some can even make me cry
Just like before
It's yesterday once more.

I have been privileged to be Nicki's partner on the blog during this past year and I thank her so much for her invitation, for her trust in me and for her support. I have enjoyed sharing my thoughts with you, have been delighted by your comments, and I look forward to the future with anticipation. And, even if some of us don't always agree, I believe we may continue with an adult respect for diverse opinions. I am humbled and so stoked by some of the wonderful thoughts and insights many of you have shared, whether or not it was for publication on the blog. I remain hopeful that more of you will find your own "voices" here, either in topic posts or comments. And I am fortunate and truly blessed to have been able to "reconnect" after so many long years....

And as ever, I so hope that we each are able to take something from here ... to cherish the good things, and consign the "bad things" to the darkness, to build and plan for days to come ... that we may continue for a long time to share our past and present lives, our commonalities of history and circumstance, and our dreams for the future.

Thank you for all ... for everything ... for oh so much ... you have given me ... and for the eternal, immortal connection....

)O(

The Times of Our Lives: August 16, 1977 ... Elvis ... and Heartbreak Hotel....

Elvis Presley in his 1968 Comeback Special,
reproduced here for informational/educational purposes only,
citing "fair use" provisions of applicable U.S. Copyright Law

Well, since my baby left me,
Well, I've found a new place to dwell
Well, it's down at the end of Lonely Street
At Heartbreak Hotel....

In 1956, a true, culture-bending/shattering phenomenon burst onto the American music scene. His name was Elvis Presley ... a poor boy from poverty-stricken Tupelo, Mississippi, transplanted to Memphis, Tennessee ... and he would be a major factor in altering the face and tenor (no pun intended) of American music, and the relationship of kids, adolescents, to their own brand of music, actually a new concept ... forever.

Some have posited that the Beatles had the most profound effect on the world of music in the 20th Century ... but I must respectfully disagree. There was nothing like Elvis ... before or since ... nothing like the absolute liberation and joy and sense of unfettered abandon and all the possibilities and dreams he brought to our music and our lives.

Some may contend That's All Right Mama and Blue Moon of Kentucky, recorded under the aegis of the legendary Sam Phillips at Sun Records studios in Memphis on July 5, 1954 were the true rhythmic harbingers of the coming youthquake. Others wax absolutely rhapsodic over the nuances and influence of Mystery Train and I Forgot to Remember to Forget, recorded at Sun July 11, 1955 and released in December of that year. Aficionados or specialists in Elvisiana will hold that "the (once and forever) King" first impacted the national consciousness in a significant way with the releases of his cover of Big Mama Thornton's Hound Dog and Don't Be Cruel, recorded at RCA Studios in New York City and released in July 1956.

But IMHO ... in my memory and my judgment and personal preference ... Elvis was forever seared into the folds of our collective brains, engendering a mass media mindmeld, with the release of the hot, heavy, mournful but edgy, sexually charged Heartbreak Hotel, recorded at RCA Studios in Nashville and released in January 1956. (I must add here that I've always been very fond of Lawdy, Miss Clawdy, released by RCA in August 1956 ... which my brother Scott, all of five years old at the time, used to wail in a pretty good imitation of Elvis while "strumming" a tennis racquet at the Saturday morning Birthday Club talent competitions at the Palace Theater. Some of you will remember.... But I digress ... for the moment....)

Those smoldering, piercing eyes ... that curling, promissory yet cautionary lip ... those unbelievable hips rolling and those legs shaking as if they were somehow separate entities from his body ... all seemed to explicitly guarantee that this mad, bad and dangerous man would indeed take you down a honky-tonk road to that hotel for the broken and the broken-hearted ... that you would gladly take the ride ... and that you would love the trip ... if possibly poetically and tragically regretting it later when your seducer had moved on to new conquests.

I was nine years old when Elvis "hit" with the 1956 records (I would turn 10 in October of that year, just before he wiped us out again with the release of Love Me Tender in November) ... and yet he spoke to me ... and to my friends ... in a visceral, primordial language ... and we felt the power, even if we couldn't have articulated very well then just exactly what it was we felt.

Until the day she died in 1983 (also in a relatively young ... age 56 ... tragic, needless, substance-abuse related death), my mother never tired of telling the story of how that one year ... 1956 ... only one of several that the girls and I participated in Camp Fire Girls ... that one year that mother and Neysa Davenport (Pat's mother) decided to sponsor our troop ... that one year of maternal sacrifice on her part ... just had to be the ELVIS YEAR. (As if it had been preternaturally and specifically arranged that way as a personal affront to her and her intermittent, fitful motherly instincts....) It frustrated mother and Neysa to no end that they could not, despite dire threats and wheedling entreaties, get us to work on Camp Fire projects ... all we wanted to do was listen/dance to Elvis Presley records. I don't even have to close my eyes to visualize all of us now, in our Camp Fire blue skirts and white blouses and neck scarves, dancing dancing dancing to record after record, and then repeating and repeating the records, in Pat's living room ... and mother and Neysa pleading with us to please turn off the record player and come work on our scrapbooks, or whatever. I am not exaggerating this ... Yahn heard my mother tell the story many, many times ... always in the same tones of aggrieved consternation and disapproval, tinged ever so reluctantly with a subtle acknowledgment of the overwhelming nature of the Presley mystique.

My grandmother was 56 when Elvis initially appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. (I think it is worth noting here that in early 1956, Sullivan stated unequivocally: "I wouldn't have Presley on my show at any time" ... before introducing Elvis to his audience for the first time on October 28, 1956.) I think my grandmother developed a bit of an innocent, matronly crush on Elvis. I know she always liked him after that original cropped-at-the-waist outing ... always called him "that sweet boy" ... always made time to watch when he was a guest on someone's TV program, or later in his televised specials including the black leather "Comeback Special" in 1968 ... and the Elvis: That's the Way It Is documentary special released November 11, 1970 ... and the Aloha from Hawaii special in 1973.

My grandmother, who lived almost two years after Elvis died, was saddened by his untimely demise ... and despite his much-publicized problems in the years before and after his death, she always retained a soft spot for "that sweet boy" ... always enjoyed the special magic of his music.

In many ways, my grandmother was a "better" Elvis fan than I, certainly more constant, because I somewhat condescendingly put him aside when he was no longer as "hot" ... or "cool" ... as he once was ... after a string of truly egregious movies negotiated by his manager, the wannabe "Colonel" Tom Parker (ne Andreas Cornelis Dries van Kuijk) ... after a string of marginal and downright bad records ... but Mamaw remained steadfast in her appreciation for him.

It was with Mamaw that I sat down to watch the 1968 special ... and found myself captivated once again by the sheer talent and inimitable musical styling ... the sight of that black leather, and that bad-boy hair and hunka-hunka snarling lip, that promise of danger and the unknown ... that seminal rebirth combining pop and gospel music, and including the wistful Memories, as well as the moving and hopeful If I Can Dream ... which was actually substituted for the more wonderful and now standard I'll Be Home for Christmas.

It was after I "came back" that I developed enough maturity and compassion to look at the man as well as the stratospheric/Stygian career ... to celebrate and acknowledge the undeniable talent (and yes, he was sui generis) while beginning to comprehend how the pain inside him helped drive him to the heights he attained and the depths he plumbed ... without the mental or emotional supports he needed to navigate the rocky terra incognita of fame.

Oh, although it's always crowded,
You still can find some room
For broken-hearted lovers
To cry there in their gloom....

[Sidebar: There was one bit removed from the "comeback special" which was deemed too risque by NBC network censors ... a segment set in a bordello featuring a pretty much unknown song titled Let Yourself Go.... Though the first airing of the Burbank recording sessions comprising the "comeback special" aired in December, only one seasonal song, the haunting and truly classic Blue Christmas, was included ... and that was replaced when the show was rerun in 1969. Further, it is worth noting that some believe the "comeback special" was the model for the later MTV series Unplugged....]




Elvis in 1970, reproduced here citing "fair use" provisions of U.S. Copyright Law


If anyone is interested in a complex, thorough analysis of Elvis and his career and his music, I recommend Peter Guralnik's wonderfully researched and written duo Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley (published in 1994, and the better of the two books, IMHO) dealing with Elvis's early career, and Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley (published in 1999), chronicling the later, darker side of his life ... both much better, more factual and more insightful than some of the scurrilous and self-serving biographies of so-called friends and/or the "Memphis Mafia" which have been written for selfish (largely pecuniary) reasons.

Of the day Elvis died ... August 16, 1977 ... I am sure there are many in our class ... our generation ... generations either side of ours ... who can tell you where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news (although it was certainly not in the same category as the JFK assassination on a "shock and horror" level). I was in my office, drafting a presentation for submission to a governmental regulatory authority, listening to the radio as I did throughout my working life (which is one reason it was always helpful to have my own office ... grin) when the announcer interrupted the record to say that Elvis was dead.

As is usual in such moments (the death of Marilyn Monroe August 5, 1962 springs readily to mind), the initial reaction was complete and total disbelief. No way!!! Not Elvis!!!! (Nor Marilyn, nor....) He was young! He was an absolute icon! He was part of our lives and our youth! He was Elvis, for god's sake ... therefore ipso facto immortal!!! If he could die, we could die!!! It simply could not happen!!!! (And under no possible imagined scenario could the King have died falling off the toilet after a drug-induced cardiac arrest ... how gross!!! ... but we would have to wrap our heads around that later....)

Now, the bellhop's tears keep flowin',
And the desk clerk's dressed in black
Well, they been so long on Lonely Street
They'll never ever look back....

While many of us may not have felt ... or come to feel ... the identification and affinity with Elvis that others of us did ... I would still speculate that there is at least one Elvis song (and probably more) which resonates individually with the majority of us in the Class of 1963 ... and the Class of 1962, and 1964, and other years ... which threads through the intricate tapestry of our memories and reveries and dreamscapes ... that there is at least one song rendered in that honeyed, melting caramel-smooth, stroking-stoking voice ... at least one song that compels you to recall kissing your girl or guy for the first time ... for the last time ... for a long time ... that you got engaged, or broke up, or yearned for someone to get engaged to or break up with ... in other words, there is at least one Elvis song ... somewhere, over all the years of his remarkable career ... that meant something in your life.

And I would wager that you will all think of that one song which is special to you ... or more than one, if applicable ... during the televised shots and stories this weekend from Graceland, at the culmination of another Elvis Week in Memphis, a true American cultural happening that has taken root in the years since Elvis's death ... arguably making him a bigger star ... and inarguably making him richer ... in death than he ever was in life.

Elvis week ... and particularly August 16 ... is always unusually difficult for me. Not only do I have all the cultural, aural baggage and touchstones which weigh on me with regard to the King ... not only is Elvis a formerly living, breathing and now real gone allegory for many of the problems which have beset our generation ... but there are more personal connections and memories which are triggered for me as well. My brother Scott ... my only blood sibling ... a talented musician in his own right, a singer with a strong voice and a "magic" understanding of how to play many musical instruments ... brought to grief and premature death by immaturity and substance abuse and addiction, as was Elvis ... also died on August 16 ... in 1981 ... at the age of 31.

Scott played and sang with bands around the Childress area for years, but despite a couple of efforts was never able to break away from that area of the Panhandle and the bonds which tied him there to seek a wider audience. Some of you (I know some of my friends) heard him play and sing and knew that he had a special talent ... perhaps not as incandescent and otherworldly as Elvis's ... nevertheless, a true talent for music.

I loved Scott very much, despite the usual cliched sibling rivalry ... but he was in many ways a sad, tragic figure ... and I really had not-unwarranted (valid, as it turned out) concerns about his prospects for surviving to middle age. Nevertheless, when he died, it was a complete shock and surprise ... ultimately mystical, in truth, and perhaps ordained as the universe is sometimes wont to do such things, as Scott's death (and relative, relevant occurrences) helped set me firmly on the metaphysical path that I have traveled since, where I believe I am meant to go. But that is another story ... and I digress....



Elvis in the Aloha from Hawaii special, 1973,
reproduced here citing "fair use" provisions of U.S. Copyright Law


The deaths of Elvis ... and Scott ... did help teach me ... solidify in my mind ... one of life's greatest lessons, which has been articulated several ways by different people, but I will posit thusly: Don't judge anyone else ... how they've lived or died ... until you have literally walked that metaphoric mile in their shoes ... inside their head ... until the same demons which may have been their frequent companions are on a first-name basis with you. Otherwise you lack understanding ... comprehension ... empathy and compassion ... anything which might possibly and broadly be construed as giving you any sort of right to judge someone else. As a historically-noted Jewish carpenter with a vision is said to have taught: Judge not lest ye be judged....

Well, if your baby leaves you
You got a tale to tell
Just take a walk down Lonely Street
To Heartbreak Hotel

Where you will be
You'll be so lonely, baby
Well, you'll be lonely
You'll be so lonely you could die....

Today ... August 16 ... once again I will listen to the radio and the ubiquitous Elvis tributes ... and I will watch the television news programs do their stories featuring Elvis Week and the annual candlelight ceremony at Graceland ... and I will let the music and the feelings wash over me, and through me, and carry me to someplace outside myself for just a little while ... and I'll think of long, long ago when I was young and hopeful and not too cynical ... and of a sometimes confused man-boy who yearned for and sang about and knew of love, and loss, and need, and the quest for the perfect complementary soul ... and I will remember ... mostly the good things, because I think if we are wise these are the memories we choose, and not the ones of crushing, crippling sadness....

I wish you good memories this weekend ... even if they sometimes bring a quick, illuminating, purifying tear ... and every other day....

)O(