heart of the matter-soul theft

photo of the year

My friend, Tom Stratton(a fellow traveler on one or two misadventures) sends out a weekly music email. It is safe to say all that receive the weekly missive enjoy and depend on it. This week's edition ended with his selection of the photo of the year. He said, "this shot...won light-sticks-up. They(the judges) further decreed no red-eye reduction editing, which, they reasoned, could result in stealing the subject’s soul."

I responded with the following that I just decided I might as well throw up here and see if it sticks.

my note to Tom

...so ironic that you should bring up soul stealing...long story short, bingo, been there, done that, not fun.

By way of explanation. 14 years ago yesterday I allowed a crazed little fat man with pudgy little fingers that can work miracles inside the chests of small babies to have at me with a saw, lots of ice water, spare parts from my right leg and sharp pointy cutty things, clips and clamps, his magic machine and other stuff I was told I didn't want to know about. The gas passer had assured me I'd be as drunk as a hillbilly and wouldn't feel a thing. All I had to do to earn this big treat was prove I could spell my surgeon's name...K-A-L-A-F-I!  I'd practiced and practiced cause I wanted to get it right.

The next seven hours were a blur until I woke up in ICU with a big damn plastic tube down my throat and what seemed like a roomful of auntie Ems and farmhands all come to check on Dorothy which in reality was just family wanting to know how I felt. I can remember thinking, "Just how do you think?" I felt like six kinds of burnt donkey.... I begged and hoped I would nod back into my morphine haze which I found over the next few days my tolerance to and desire for shocked & amazed more than a couple of bewildered medicos. Fast forward to the soul snatching.

I spent most of my ICU time not seeing anybody. Five minutes every several hours was it. I had 5 hoses draining my chest and what felt like a garden hose crammed into my poor little urethra. When folks trotted into visit I surrendered any and all dignity I might have once processed. About dark time I first noticed my unofficial visitor and friend. I was never sure just what size he was. He looked like the smoking jester of death the 'Dead featured in album art work. He hovered near the TV waiting for me to invite him over to feast on my soul. I'll admit I almost let him. I remember thinking now I know why my dad cashed in his chips a couple of days after his bypass. With each ticking second it made more and more sense.  I begged my nurse to leave the TV set on all night to keep him warm. That first night in ICU I woke up repeatedly to check on him. He rested up on the TV and gave a playful wave when I looked his way.

Tuesday, Dec. 30, was only incrementally any better. I was forced to sit up, eat delicious jello and overly salty broth. I was introduced to the respiratory torturer trained to keep my lungs working right and ward off pneumonia. My little friend watched me from his perch. They wanted me to wear my glasses, but I insisted I could see just fine.

Sometime in the evening I nodded off. Toward midnight I woke to quite a bit of noise in the room to the right of me. I was able to piece together some of what was going on. A young person, not out of high school had been involved in a gang related "incident." The previous evening when it all  happened another victim wasn't so lucky and never needed the services of the ICU. My neighbor it seems had taken a turn. I remember very clearly my friend took note. Listening closely he waited for a signal. Aunt and grandmother were brought in for a last visit. A doctor came and explained the particulars, what had happened, what the chances were or actually weren't. I thought, geez, give it a rest, take 'em to another room I don't want to hear this. If you hadn't noticed I'm next door with my own struggle and the play by play and sadness ain't doing me any good.

Rightly or wrongly I feared for my own life. I was 42 with two small children. One of them hadn't even said daddy yet. I was giving it my best shot but due to the trauma to my body, mixed with still unresolved issues involving my father's death after bypass barely three years earlier and facing my own mortality a smidgen before I thought it was fair...I was in an understandably pissy mood. Besides all that, I had the gotdang angel of death blocking my view of Letterman and smacking his lips while he mentally undressed me and sucked up my soul with the straw he'd stolen from my water cup, the rat bastard. I wasn't putting my lips on that again five second rule or not.

Sad to say, I remember thinking he was in a gang. Wasn't all of this even remotely expected? Finally after listening to heart felt and heart wrenching goodbyes and apologies the family left. In the quiet that followed I reminded myself that my situation no matter how terrible it seemed to me...well, I was in a better place than my neighbor. Finally a nurse walked by and closed the sliding door partially dulling the sound some but not enough

In and out of my fog, sometime later the same day/night I awoke to the sounds of monitor alarms, rapid near silent footfalls, the swooshing of scrubs and chatter, commands, responses I knew all too well from those days as an EMT. Things were not going well for my neighbor and that fact hadn't been lost on my friend who seemed to be struggling in his attempt to follow the story of whatever late night yarn was spinning on the TV and salivating in a Pavlovian response to the excitement next door. The poetry slam of urgency halted when a time was called and repeated. Activity ceased in a rapid controlled shut down as one reality melded with another new set of familiar duties. Actions I think we all acknowledge yet seldom thank the providers of. 

As an info-mercial for an amazing life changing product now forgotten began, my friend looked to me and whispered or planted the impression of his message in my brain, "well, that's my cue, gotta run, maybe next time" and with his special flourish he slithered through the gap in my door and was gone.

For the rest of the week I kept an eye out for him and kept the TV on so he'd have a warm place that wasn't me. 14 years he hasn't been back. Maybe I need to keep some light sticks close by, just in case, to distract him.

occupyXmas

 

My 2011 Christmas Music Mix*

(click on the URL's to hear versions of many of these songs)

Ever one influenced by current events, pop culture, flights of fancy, personnel obsessions and misc trivia each year coming up with my Christmas tunes list can be pretty exciting stuff even if only for me.

Over the years if there has been any recurring theme to my annual song lists it must be the non-duality of the season. My oft repeated tale of growing up in a church that although “Christian” didn’t celebrate Christmas and coming from a family(both sides) that most certainly did, attempts to explain my ambivalence when I hear of (factually non-existent) liberal organized Wars on Christmas, the danger of handing out candy canes, or arguments about who celebrates Christmas the most correctly.

I cry bah humbug on all that. Why bicker about something that in the end doesn’t impact your personnel family celebration? It doesn’t matter what you hear on television or radio in the end you and your family will celebrate the holidays however you want to, while upholding the traditions you wish.

There is a very wise teacher with a wonderful laugh who teaches that since we all have such a great deal in common we should focus on that instead of concentrating on how we differ. To him it is only logical that we would want to strive to do that which helps the greatest number of people to know happiness. Makes sense to me.

In the last few months we’ve watched the media focus on the Occupy movement. It isn’t my goal to start a discussion about the possible merits or non-merits of their arguments or their treatment. It’s Christmas time. However, just to help me focus I’m using the notion of “political action as conceptualization of philosophical construct intended to more importantly illustrate concept than gain redress.” (Zeno’s Paradigm) as the muse for my selection of songs. After all, we are the 100%-ers, those folks that deserve to be happy and have a Merry Christmas.

We are all part of the occupyXmas movement. We are the 100 percent. As a loosely organized aggregation of citizens we have no official platform or agenda other than recognizing that there are those among us that just might not wish goodwill toward man. Our goal is to keep Christmas, make merry, and assist(however we define assist) other 100%-ers to have a happy Christmas as well. We plan to occupy the holiday season and if possible continue to allow the Christmas Spirit to occupy us year round.

Power to the 100%!

In which I present my song selections with occasional explanations and/or ramblings. I picked songs that fit my theme of , "occupyXmas" and ones I could  imagine being played and sung around a campfire at my imaginary occupyXmas encampment on a cold Christmas Eve. All you compadres are there.  Your friends that have spent the last few weeks  mentoring to the world by their actions and example a proactive system of spreading holiday cheer. Together you've faced setbacks, opposition and yet you've seen the glimmer of hope when a small child smiled and whispered, "I believe." Now the evening before the big day seated around a flaming yule log the members of the circle in turn sing or play a song, share a poem, a story, a holiday joke. Holiday spirits are passed and shared. These are the songs I'd include.

Sol Invictus  from  Strange Communion  by Thea Gilmore

I discovered Thea Gilmore on a Uncut Magazine tribute CD to the Clash. Recently she recorded her own take on one of the classic Dylan albums, "John Wesley Harding," which is well worth of listen. In 2009 she released her excellent album of non-tradition of holiday songs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-aic4qHQWA
 

The Christmas We Hoped For  from The Christmas We Hoped For  by Vanessa Peters
Sadly I know basically zip about this singer but I do like the song. I read she recorded the record last summer in Austin w/o the A.C. on. For that reason alone we owe it to her to listen to her music.
http://vanessapeters.bandcamp.com/track/the-christmas-we-hoped-for-2















Getting Ready for Christmas Day from  So Beautiful or So What  by Paul Simon
When the new record came out I knew I’d finally heard a song that captures the frantic excitement of the upcoming holidays. I like the stomp and response. The sermon is sampled from1941 pre-war speech by American Christian preacher and gospel singer, Reverend J.M. Gates. Gettin' Ready!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DA81JjI40V0



Twas on a Night Like This from  Traditional Christmas Carols by  Pete Seeger

There had to be a Seeger song. I learned many of the Woody Guthrie songs I know from records by Pete, Burl Ives and an old live Woody album. This Seeger album is a classic and so is the song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpizGdABJkI

There Is No Silent Night by Rant Maggie Rant

I stumbled across this song on some blog with a link to it.  It was the last song picked but it seemed perfect for what I was trying to communicate. The band does an annual string of holiday concerts back home in Canada. Rant on!
http://rantmaggierant.bandcamp.com/track/there-is-no-silent-night

1913 Massacre by Woody Guthrie
Can’t remember when I first heard Woody sing this. The true story has always haunted me. Terribly sad and even more so because it is a true story. I remain convinced it would make a a moving Christmas film directed by someone like John Sayles. The image of the children taken back upstairs and laid around the tree is heartbreaking. When I make up songs that will only be sung one time while I'm driving by myself I like to think, maybe this is what Woody did, well, his were more listenable, sounded more like songs, and most importantly were remembered long enough to get written down. I still think a song of his should be our national anthem.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxxKWGTtjNM

Which Side Are You On? from  Union Town EP by Tom Morello

I'm guessing it  never has been thought of as a Christmas song for good reason. If you stop and think about though, the sentiments of the song might have been felt back at that first Christmas. How many people really wanted to travel far out of the way to pay a tax to a king they didn’t respect? Whenever I think about the season and its genesis I can't escape thoughts of a change coming and a chance for a new direction. Morello has made a point of singing songs in support of movements he supports. Are you with the 100 % or not?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCRrDpj194Q
Silver Bells from A Very She & Him Christmas  by She and  Him

Here’s something to lighten the mood.  I can imagine it being played and sung around a campfire in a cold lonely Hoover-ville.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dY3q20F1Dg

Christmas Card  by  Bob Walkenhorst

Lead singer of KC’s The Rainmakers of Gov’t Cheese fame. He has written several excellent non traditional holiday songs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GN1zZNHr7HM

Silent Night, All Day Long by John Prine

One of my favorite songs of all times is, "Hello in There." Prine can do thoughtful as well as funny (Dear Abby & Illegal Smile) He can do Christmas too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZD9yTAFLaSM

Christmas Morning from 40 Odd Years by Loudon Wainwright III

Always a favorite of mine( someday I WILL stage my musical Dead Skunk) with his wry observations that hit the mark.As I was finding photos for this it dawned on me that lots of these folks are artists that have effected me on deep levels or that their songs are literally part of the soundtrack for my life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXswquyz4QQ


Sweet Bells from Sweet Bells by Kate Rusby

Kate Rusby is a British singer/songwriter active since the ’90’s. I’m sorry, but English people seem like they were born to sing Christmas songs. Christmas Carol-y I guess.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwyOnLeyk6I

Fairytale Of New York  from Have Yourself A Very KT Christmas by KT Tunstall

Hand in glove, depression and the holidays. The Pogues wrote the song but ever since I heard Tunstall sing her version with Ed Harcourt the song just seems that much more sincere and honest. For me the English equivalent of “Merry Christmas, Baby.” Both capture the feeling of loneliness that many feel at holiday time. If you've ever spent Christmas far from family and loved ones you know what I talking about. If you haven't just listen to the song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b01FoO4ZDcY

Nothing But a Child by Steve Earle

Earle's music helped get me through the bypass. I walked to El Corazon daily, very slowly 'round and 'round inside our house in Jacksboro. I’ve always loved Kathy Mattea’s version of this song too. I went with the songwriter here to stick with notion of rebel songwriter and singers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnYvqjRQx1o


Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream from  Live- Carnegie Hall  by Johnny Cash

The song was written in 1950 and has been recorded in over 76 languages. Cash does a haunting version on his last record, Ain’t No Grave. His live version from the late ’60’s including the introduction seems more fitting, and more likely played on a cold winter night. I met him in April of 1968. Still one of the highlights of my musical life.(and a heckuva show from the rebel in black)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZwTfPKW6v0


The Rebel Jesus from The Next Voice You Hear: The Best…  by Jackson Browne

From the early '70's until... last week, songs by Jackson Browne have stirred up memories of many of the emotional high & low points of my life.  I first heard Jackson Browne sing this on the Chieftains Christmas album. What a strong song and I think an honest look at an aspect of the story sometimes overlooked and forgotten.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYbUVJJm2ZU&feature=related


He Was A Friend Of Mine by Dave Van Ronk

Never knowing just who he was singing about I decided I’d make the leap and decide for him, well at least for me. The Cohen Brothers are prepping a movie based loosely on Van Ronk's life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=754sRFIHIrA

Maybe This Christmas by  Cissi Wallin

I love this song written by Ron Sexsmith. I just wish I knew more about the singer. She does a great job. I know she’s Swedish and she does a radio show and her tweets are in Swedish which I can't read. For all I know she may post some really sick stuff. I'm just going to be thanking for her wonderful version of this song. Who knows...maybe this Christmas?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYaOXuGTSq4

Wasn't That a Mighty Day FROM  The 25th Day of December by the Staple Singers

For me there is a quality to the Staple's sound that touches me on a very deep level. Maybe the sound of that simple yet emotional guitar. One of my all time favorite Christmas albums and for a multitude of reasons, yes it certainly was.

Christmas Rebel Waltz by  Joe Strummer  the Clash

The Clash and Joe Strummer hit me as hard as the Beatles. My reaction to their music occurs on a gut level. I remember a cold night in January 1980 sitting outside at Mad Dog and Bean's with Crager and listening to a preview of London Calling. This message from Joe who was a huge fan of camp outs and campfire gatherings which he saw as a perfect chance to sing and swap songs around a fire. He was known for painting Christmas cards to give to friends and seldom passed a homeless person without finding some change. Like Joe says, "Without people we are nothing."

Auld Lang Syne from  A New Possibility - John Fahey's Chr… by John Fahey

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne* ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQXgb_AIAA0

Have a Merry Christmas no matter how you celebrate it!

* Chesterfields and Christmas...for some unknown reason cool weather sometime after Thanksgiving would send me searching for a pack of the world's finest smoke, Chesterfields. I quit smoking Jan. 5, 1990, I haven't smoked since, not even a cigar, and luckily they quit making Chesterfields. Not sure how I'd react if I were to smell one today. Nothing says the holidays like a half dozen Chesterfields and a hot cup coffee with maybe a hint of something extra. Again, Happy Christmas!

spud

Well, that time of year is here again. Time to start throwing Christmas Potatoes. The site I had up for the last 3 years went dark because 100 bucks a year was stretching the budget. I will do my best to provide some more resources like PDF versions of the story and spud notes. 2010 marks the 29th year for the fact of throwing potatoes. Kinney's telling of the tale has been around since 1984.

I found out also that someone else published a book for children called "The Christmas Potato." The author even has a Facebook page. As far as our two stories I don't think they are anything alike. I wish her the best

Our version of the story is meant to be shared and the tradition passed from generation to generation and friend to friend much like a mug of weasel broth on a frosty winter's morn.

The Story of the Christmas Potato
as told by Kinney Isaacs

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Riley. He lived in a town called Topeka, which means, "a good place to dig potatoes."
Riley had three favorite things, and as long as he had those three things he would always be happy.








El Beano was one of Riley's favorite things. El Beano was a green toy army truck that Riley got for Christmas when he was two years old. Riley never had a pet when he was growing up. He didn't need one. He had El Beano. Riley played with him every day. El Beano was better than a pet. He didn't talk back. He never had to go outside. He would play whatever game Riley wanted to.






When Riley wasn't playing with El Beano the little truck rested on Riley's bed with Pepper, the teddy bear, and Riley's three lucky pillows.



Another one of Riley's favorite things was his toy space helmet. More than anything else in the world Riley wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. Back then no one had gone to the moon, and the space shuttle was just something out of a science fiction movie. At night Riley dreamed of life as an astronaut. He imagined visits to strange and weird planets. He dreamed of beings from other worlds and visits from the alien saucer people from outer space. Riley dreamed of saving the day and of the hero's kiss he would receive from Annette who was his favorite Mouseketeer.


If Riley couldn't be an astronaut he wanted to work in his grandfather's grocery store.

Riley's number one favorite thing wasn't a thing at all. It wasn't something you could have every day.












It was something you had to wait almost an entire year for. You could dream about it, but you still had to wait.






You had to wait all the way until Thanksgiving. It wasn't turkey. Riley's number one favorite thing was a feeling, and only one thing caused it.















Christmas lights! Every Thanksgiving meant it was time to flip the switch that meant a whole month of Christmas lights.











Christmas lights made Riley feel his number one most favorite thing. One time Riley tried to explain to his big sister and his little brother how the Christmas lights made him feel.

"Well it's like this," he said, "a lot of different things all mixed up. You know how you feel when you hug Mom or Dad, well, it's like that and more. It's like when you wake up from a good dream or eat a big hunk of fudge. It's like lying in front of the fan or jumping off the fence. It does to your brain what songs do to your ears. It's all the best things jumbled up together into one big ball of stuff. It's just that Christmas feeling."
When Riley tried to explain they just looked at him. He knew they understood even if they didn't think they did. They must.












Once the Christmas tree was decorated, Riley didn't need TV or books or relatives. With the lights on the tree all you had to do was stare,and your brain took over. The lights let Riley see the feeling and not just feel it.

Riley would place one of his lucky pillows under the tree and don his space helmet. Clutching El Beano Riley would gaze up into the tree and watch the lights. Thoughts would flood his brain. Plain and simple he just liked to looked at those lights.


Sometime before Christmas the whole family would go for a car ride. When Riley saw the lights all over town he wished there was some way he could say thank you to all the people who put up lights and let him feel his favorite thing.












The best way to say thank you would be to march up to the front door, knock, and tell the people. Because he was little boy, Riley didn't think his parents would let him do that.







If his handwriting was better than a C- he could send thank you cards. But even if people could read his handwriting, who would pay for all the stamps?
Riley wouldn't admit it to anyone, but for once in his life he was stumped. Every year at Christmas time Riley would try to think of a way to say thank you only to give up and say instead, "Maybe I'll figure something out next year."














Years came and went and Riley kept getting older. He lost El Beano and traded his space helmet for a movie camera. Riley found out that his life was different than he planned. He accepted it. But no matter what happened Thanksgiving came and brought with it the lights that Riley loved to watch. At least that didn't change and Riley never forgot about wanting to say thank you.

Then one November as he was driving home from work, he saw the first Christmas lights of the year. It was like getting hit in the head with a hammer or having a big rock fall on you.



If, when you got a good idea, a light bulb really formed above your head, Riley's light bulb would not have fit in the car-the idea was that good.







Riley thought, "Why not a potato?" And that's when the potato part of the Christmas potato started. Why not throw a potato into the yard of a house with pretty lights?







Riley realized that if someone came out in the morning and found a potato in the yard it would be a mystery. The people would say, "Who put this potato in my yard?"














So that people would know what the potato meant Riley made little Christmas cards that explained he just wanted to say thank you and "Merry Christmas." He wrapped the card and the potato in plastic wrap and tied each end with ribbon.



On Christmas Eve Riley filled a basket with potatoes and drove all over town. When he saw a house with Christmas lights he threw a potato into the yard. Finally, after years and years of trying and never really giving up Riley had found a way to say thank you.




Today, Christmas lights still give Riley that "Christmas light" feeling. Each year more and more children and adults around the country throw Christmas potatoes so that friends, neighbors, and even strangers know that their unselfish efforts during the holiday season are appreciated.
A big part of Christmas is letting people know how we feel. Wouldn't the world be a better place if some of our "Christmas feelings" stayed around all year long and spread to everybody? Maybe we can all work on that one next.

So, remember, if some morning you wake up and your yard is full of potatoes, it's just people saying, "Thank you and Merry Christmas."
Peace.
The note we attach to the spuds goes something like this:

No one is quite sure how the tradition of the Christmas Potato began. Many believe it began in the later half of the 20th century when a young man tossed seasonal greetings wrapped around uncooked potatoes into the yards of houses decorated with Christmas lights. It was his way of saying thank you and Merry Christmas.
Before the advent of the Christmas Potato there was no way to easily thank those who brighten our holiday season with their unselfish efforts. Now each year children and adults alike look forward to the annual pitching of the holiday spud.
But why a potato? The young man grew up in a town called Topeka which means a good place to dig potatoes.

In my opinion...

Today would be my mother's 84th birthday. She died back in '94. I'm not sure I will ever fully understand the relationship between my mother and her children. For each of us it was a different ride, yet always that "A" ticket. Looking back I always think it should be the stuff of a great movie or book. Maybe everybody feels that way about their folks. I know I can guarantee I saw some stuff, experienced some things that none of my friends did. Likewise, I'm sure stuff happened to them too that I've never thought about.

Late last night, while shivering without a working furnace, I put some thoughts down. Why I feel the need to share them I don't know. Maybe I think that if I just start that unpublished book or non-produced screenplay will show up in the future. Trust me, if I ever got it done it would be a bestseller, not because of anything I did being the conduit that got the story told, but because of the story and character that was my mother. I never met anybody else like her. Let me just say, we were close, very close for almost 9 months, and from then on I was pure aggravation for her.

Happy birthday, Mom!

.

My mom was... an enigma, a will-o'-the wisp, A flibbertigibbet!, A clown! Cut the clown part.(Mom if you are checking this, note that I said very clearly cut the clown) That does not describe her at all. Still, she was as much a conundrum as Maria ever thought about being. Trying to be one of her kids was an adventure. A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E, right here in River City, and that rhymes with P and that stands for...

Looking back I think I can say I knew 10 or 11 different mom(s). There was:

Prior to State Hospital Mom, Mom until Kansas Farmer, Kansas Farmer Mom, Capper’s Weekly Mom, Austin Mom, Post Cancer Mom, Dialysis Mom, Understandably Bitter Mom, Widow Mom, then of course the late Mom. Late mom segues into Saint Mom, which happens to most normal people when they die.

Casual sainthood occurs when we finally forgive those we love for all the perceived slights and peevish behavior that always made us so mad at them. True, there are folks who are truly unforgivable and they don’t get that benefit of a cleaned slate after death. I have a cousin, he and I are never hesitant to critique or criticize our fellow family members, we talk often and joke about the family habit of “beatification” of the dead. Complain and moan about them all the time when they are alive and as soon as the heart has stopped beating time to treat them like a saint and forget all the bad.

Thinking about Mom there is so much I’d like to say about her. Lots of stuff I’d like to talk to her about. I could talk about how she always favored my brother and sister over me or how she could be so pig headed with her strong opinions or how she and Dad fought just to pass the time of day. And what was the deal with her pills, there were so many of them...okay, she had no control over that and as much as helping her with her pills would frustrate me then, now I consume more than she ever did every single day. My years of training at the edge of her pill can prepared me for dealing with the handful I take each day. As I think about the aspects of Mom that frustrated me I am forced to admit, cliched as it might be, that those traits that bothered me the most, that drove me nuts, are behaviors I see in myself.

I got so much from my parents. Yes, there is both good and bad when I review my list of “gifts.” I remember the good the most, although I’ve never shied away from discussing the negative. It all goes into the whole of what folks mean to us.


my mother, Sammy, not Sammie or Samantha, but Sammy

I cannot recall that she was ever wrong about anything, in my opinion

Help is gift we offer no matter when, where, who, why, or what, in my opinion

Doctors and garbage-men should be paid the same, in my opinion

If it is a book, read it, in my opinion

Support the arts, experience them, in my opinion

Take walks with children, in my opinion

Be respectful, gracious, kind, say thank you, in my opinion

Read the paper, keep up with current affairs, express ideas, use reason, defend positions, in my opinion

Be only intolerant of intolerance, in my opinion

Take notes, wear powder and lipstick so you won't look like a ghost, in my opinion

Hope to not be disappointed, in my opinion

Be nicer to your siblings, in my opinion

If you wash feet, change socks, they won't smell so bad, in my opinion

Avoid electro shock if you want to remember French, in my opinion

Always say, in your opinion, in my opinion

In my opinion she remains an iconic character who deserves to have her story told, she was a scraper, a fighter, time traveler, a champion of lost causes and souls, she always asked the question others steered clear of, she was short tempered, used profanity artistically, believed in the truth, she was filled with indignant rage at times, a saint to have lived forty plus years with my father. When I saw her after I was an adult I could count on being told, "Rile, you are crazier than hell!"

She was forced to face the trials of a she-Job and kept going, she was that pink rabbit on television until finally that last weekend’s family gatherings in Graford zapped and drained the battery, she was tired, worn out, whipped and I'm thinking when she got in bed that night she prayed the prayer of the supplicant seeking relief,

Dear God, it has been a good life, I’ll give you that. I'm tired, very tired. I really don't want to take all those pills and fight the battles I do. You try dialysis for nearly a decade, and cancer, depression, living with that...s.o.b., god I miss him, Forgive me, but could I just get a break. Just one, I just want to go to sleep and rest. I mean really rest, I mean rest the rest of the just and head on to into the sunset and take on what's next in the fullness of time. If I've done my job, and I think I have, god only knows, I mean I hope you are aware that I've tried, those I leave behind can handle what they have to face and if they can't by god, they ought to. I just hope they aren't disappointed. So, let me rest. If that isn't workable, well okay. but think about it. I will keep doing what you want me to. Amen

My mother, she never gave up.
My only regret is that while she was living I never did anything right, in HER opinion.
I tried.

Her headstone stands at McAdams as the last memorial to her life
An unmovable stone she must share with my father, her husband, when she and everyone else knows she should have gotten her own
She deserved at least that
I think it is pretty decent as headstones go
a Doig quote, "here lies all of them that could die"
a sentiment I find comforting
one minor detail
her birth-date is off by one year
once again I failed her
I mean the mistake is etched in stone
It seems fitting that even at the very end, it is always something, a screw up, a hassle, a trial
She didn't complain, she accepted it and moved on
So far, at least, she hasn’t said anything to me about it

Her name was Sammy
she was the only mother that could love a son like me,
in my opinion

the last of the bear...

the last of the bear...

Today, marks 17 years to the day that the Bear checked out, went on, ambled away, passed, died. September 29, 1993, my father, Jack Couger, died 3 days after bypass surgery. It was just about two weeks after a massive heart attack during a simple hernia surgery. He was a month shy of 71. Sadly, for a man of science, a verterinarian, an Aggie, somebody who knew better, he neglected to tell his surgeon about the chest pain he'd experienced the previous Sunday while mowing the yard. It was a mistake that very literally cost him his life.

It always pissed me off that he had to endure the trauma and pain of bypass surgery, the cracking and spreading of the chest, the ice cold water poured into the open chest cavity, the attachment to the heart/lung machine, only to wake up up hurting like hell in ICU. Don't let anybody tell you that it is easy. There are some hassles but it is a remarkable feat. When I had my own bypass 4 years later I got some measure of relief because, even though I hated it, wished I'd die, lived with that guilt of wanting to give up, in a month's time I could walk 4 miles again with no discomfort. My anger about my father's anguish was eased to an extent.

His last words to me were, "Not if I die first." I'd spent a week in Austin trying to follow his directions and take care of things for him during the week they waited for him to get strong enough to endure future procedures. His heart attack was on a Tuesday and by that Friday I was called in the middle of the night and told to get the family there. Somehow he pulled through and by the next Monday was in a room waiting. At the time I credited his ventilator, a machine labeled Bear 2000. My father was called Bear for 2 reasons. He claimed his friends gave him the nickname after marching behind him and/or seeing him the shower. That always made sense to me.

As I left the last morning I saw him alive I'd said, "Well, I'll see you next weekend." There was no way to know his last words would be so accurate.

I still remember that 29th vividly. I was in a team meeting of 4th grade teachers. From out of nowhere I knew my father had died. I tried to tell myself that the premonition was silly. I was being dramatic. I didn't really focus on what was being said and instead watched the clock. When the bell rang I left the room headed for the office hoping I was wrong.

I remember entering the office and being ushered into what was then called, "the phone room."
Crager was on the phone, calling from Austin, doing his best to convey a message that few want to express and even viewer wish to hear. Haidee entered the room figured out what was going on when I said into the phone, "So, Crager, what you are telling me is that Dad is dead." Haidee, almost 6 months pregnant with Isaac lost all color and began stomping her feet like a small child, repeating the word, "no" over and over. The pain of watching her reaction, knowing she felt that much fear, anger, and depression all at once almost equaled the pain of knowing my father was dead.

Within minutes, Clarence Holliman, our former principal and friend, came and sat with me until we were able to leave. In my office he held my hand and said a pray. At that point in my life I didn't really have everything sorted out. Mr. Holliman's words comforted me in ways I had learned as a child. I was resolved to discover just how I felt I fit into this world.

In America we have become spoiled when it comes to death and dying. We have seen medical marvels keep people alive beyond what might be in their best interests. Advances in medicine have allowed those that would have died earlier just generations prior to live on at a high price. Too many of us have never taken the time to square ourselves with the reality that each and everyone is gong to die. It is going to happen. We can prepare ourselves or not. For me it took reading a book by Thich Nhat Hanh to piece together and express what I felt I understood. After reading his, No Death, No Fear, I experienced a personal clarity that has helped me almost a decade in dealing with the deaths of those close to me.

Understand, I don't suggest that the book will benefit anyone but me. I don't suggest my views aren't subject to change or that my answers are any more valid than what anyone else might claim. It works for me. The finger is pointing at the moon. However you find to come to grips with the subject is fine by me. I just think folks ought to get that taken care for no other reason than it might help when you face it.

During the last week I spent with my dad he reminded me of what he had told barely a month earlier as we worked on the house in Graford. I had asked him if he was serious about his often voiced request to be cremated and his ashes spread in the Brazos beneath the dam at Possum Kingdom. He laughed and told me he was just, "popping off." Whenever he said it he got such interesting reactions he just couldn't stop saying it, but he wasn't serious. During the days between his death and the funeral I was reminded of his "wishes" by too many folks to recall.

I was a rookie when it came to dealing with the death of someone you couldn't imagine dying. Even with the two week notice of his impending passing I didn't force myself to confront all that goes with death. Maybe I was lazy, in denial, or just to scared to try and wrap my head around death.

I remember thinking that there was no way I could survive without my father in my world. Okay, true, when I was a kid I hated his guts. I couldn't wait for him to need to go out of town so there would be peace in the house and a little quiet. My father was an emotional man, big emotions to match his big persona. For such a short guy he seemed larger than life. He was the Bear. He was very physical, both in a loving way and in a mean way. One of my proudest moments as an adolescent was when he broke his foot kicking me in the ass. I thought that would teach him. It didn't. When he died I asked my mom for his Aggie ring. I told her I had an indention on my forehead from being backhanded with it so often.

By 1980 when I was 25 I had matured and I was friends with my dad again. The last 13 years of his life we shared many adventures. He gave me Big Bend. He needed a driver to cart him down there on Government business when his cataracts made him afraid to drive long distances or at night. It changed my life forever. I got lots from him. I got a temper, a love of profanity and vulgarity, the inability to shut up and just not say what is on my mind, the ability to shout, but he also taught me an amazing thing that is hard to describe.

Looking back I remain amazed that somehow he was able to manage and juggle life with three kids and a wife who was "mentally ill" before it was fashionable. There were great chunks of time when he relied on family and friends to get by. My mom wasn't just crazy she was state hospital crazy and it seems to me to be a defining factor in how I grew up. She gave me some of the best lessons I learned because of her situation. Dad did too. I might not have appreciated them until much later, but there is nothing that makes me prouder than to say I am the son of Jack and Sammy. With all that was against them they made it.

After the Dad's funeral Haidee and I saved flowers from the casket and the arrangements. We dried them and filled a mason jar, a quart one, with the dried petals. On October 29, 1993, what would have been his 71st birthday, we drove out to the bridge beneath the dam at the lake. It snowed that day. I'm not joking. It was cold and the wind was blowing. By the time we got to the lake it actually was sticking to the grass. They were big giant flakes, wet and special, coming down hard, blowing frantically in the headlights at dusk. Both a trick and a treat and it wasn't even Halloween, yet. We spread the dried petals in the Brazos and said a prayer for my father as they floated away during an excellent McCabe and Mrs. Miller kind of day.

The Bear was something. His life and his death blessed my own life. His genes jacked me up big time, but I'm not holding that against him anymore. Facing what I have with the heart and lungs has made me a much better happier person so I guess I owe him. I love him and my mom too much to get mad about it now. In 1994, 14 months later Mom died after teaching us a lifetime worth of lessons in such a short time. I still see them all the time in my dreams. Just last night I saw Dad. He was giving me grief about cleaning up a mess at Granny's he thought Paul and I made trying to feed Armadillo World nachos to a bunch of little kids we were watching. Last time I saw Mom she still hoped I wasn't disappointed. I never was.

Here's my poem about Isaac and Winfield and the FreeState InterFaith Council and the wind that couldn't beat us

This photo taken by Sam Stratton just moments before we blew that pop stand and flew to Ark City. The shot is looking north toward out oncoming adventure. Needless to say, none the awnings or flags were standing when we got back.





WINFIELD BOUND

Winfield bound,
by wind
and rain
and mud, oh, the river of mud
the tenacity of the one that laughs
yet panics in reasonable acknowledgment
at first sight of the fury and force, power, and pride
of extreme Kansas weather playing late summer
last practical jokes on the unsuspecting

Later, after reluctant tangled wet acceptance of those things we cannot change
mute late night desperation tempered by Midwest determination and commitment
as if to say, “That William Clarke Quantrill shall NOT destroy nor steal of the soul of this town!”

Sleeping not sleeping soaking
on beds of moisture chilled by the despair of sodden hopes
first light’s inspection demands coffee fuel to forge ahead with determined re-encampment
melded minds seeking uneasy complicated solutions to undeniable frustration

and then...
as elder statesmen pontificate
a voice seldom heeded speaks with Mr. Smith’s Washington resolve
Listen...
I have...
HEY!
Listen, just listen to me, QUIET

heads turn
focus
the youngest moist survivor speaks
Our tent is finished, gone, done
over the rabble he states the only logical possibility
If we trash our tent, release it from the frame, the fly remains, stable enough to stand
and if and when...
until the other wagons arrive
at least we have some shade of sorts and the larder, the liqueur, and the ammo stays dry

And it was done
for some the longest 48 hours of relaxation ever known

By nightfall, the adventure team was settled, prepared, and waiting
Exchanged looks prior to dispersement to lands charted
yet annually unknown
having been challenged by winds of disheartenment, responding with resolve
as if by signal
the team scatters to the grove, grounds and beyond
leaving behind this lone exhausted old grandmother
now silent, sitting among what was, then was not , and now, is once again
remembering the night prior
his only salvation a late night campgrounds jam gifted by travelers from not Georgia, but South Carolina
waiting to find energy enough
to rest, play, nap
willing to watch
contemplate
cogitate
record
as others fly
Winfield bound