Nostalgia

When I was very young Granny taught me and my cousins to play Canasta. I'm twenty nine years old now and I hardly know a soul that knows what Canasta is, or for that matter would want to play. But it's a good game to play on a cold day - a day that you can concentrate on a hand of cards and look out the window. I love Canasta.

My parents were never much on take out, we seldom had, what I would refer to as a hunt and peck night. Whereas, you just get in the kitchen and hunt and peck for what you can find. But occasionally we would order a pizza or cook a frozen one at home when schedules got really hectic. On those nights that we had pizza we also had plain Lays or Ruffles potato chips and pickles around the table. Naturally, now when I have pizza, which is much more frequent than it was in those days, I love to have a hand full of chips and a pickle to go along with a slice or two. When friends see me doing this they always ask why? My answer never changes, it's just the way I have always done it. That's the way I like it.

When I was really little and was staying at Ami and Gar's house (Aunt and Uncle), Ami would often make Kool Aid for me to drink. She made it in a big plastic pitcher and while she was making it she always let me sit up on the counter and watch her. With the Kool Aid powder in the bottom and the right amount of water she would pull out a orange plastic spoon and stir that batch. She would always spin the spoon around really fast and then let it go. The spoon would stir itself for a while…then I would have to try. I rarely make Kool Aid but every time I do I have to give her old spoon trick another shot. I can't resist.

Nostalgia. The bridge that gaps the past and the present. The silent reminders of a different time and a different place. Smells, sounds, familiar settings and similarities that draw our minds to wonder back through the years. Over the river and through the woods of time to those places that bring back those warm feelings of belonging and entitlement. Back to my family and the faces of my neighbors and friends over the years. The same nostalgia that led me to write this blog and to do so many other things. Why do we need it? It's love…it's the things that we can't necessarily see or touch at the moment but we can always feel. We need this collection of ideas to reassure us on those days that we are not so sure. To guide us through the darkness like a friend along the way. Nostalgia - stay with me.

A Life of Seasons

Things happen every day that remind us that we all have things that we are good at, loved and thought of for. The things that make us unique individuals make us interesting friends and family members. As we go about our daily life we often demonstrate our uniqueness without even knowing that we are doing so.


Henry David Thoreau said:

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. "

Last night I spoke with a friend over the phone about similar schools of thought and this morning I found an e-mail in my inbox from another friend touching on the same ideas. It seems that when such themes are brought up from different angles yet simultaneously, I should take heed. Both encounters became significant reminders that for every season of our lives, be they a few days or a few years, there is a purpose. And during that season there is something we will bring to the table and there will be something that we take away. As these so called "seasons" come and go we will find that as a result of enduring them, good or bad, we will become richer individuals.

It is not always easy to look at life this way. Especially during those periods that are harder than others. During those phases it is important to listen to the music that Thoreau spoke of. Earnestly try to seek out it's beat and as we seek that internal cadence we should prepare to march to its rhythm like we never have before. Rising to every occasion with the confidence in our own persona, knowing that our purpose will guide us on into the next season.

As these words appear on this screen I can't help but think of so many people that I have known throughout my short life. People that I've loved throughout my life and people that I met along the way and grew to love. And as these faces pop into my mind - more than not - I am reminded of times when we had smiles on our faces and were in rooms filled with laughter. I am reminded of kindness and goodness that has been mine. I am reminded of seasons of my own life, now a part of my history that I made it through unharmed. All along the way I asked myself: What is my purpose? What am I hear for? And I didn't find the answer to those questions until the season of which I was a part of at the time was complete. Stepping out of one day into the next, singing to the tune that lingered in my mind at the time, I locked those doors and opened others. Only to find a completely new phase with a new, yet unknown purpose. And years from now when I look back over my life and the seasons within it, I may find that I didn't just have one purpose, but many. The collection of which will have been me.

Beyond the Cut Grass onto a Path

Down a beaten path at the edge of our lawn, a winding and narrow pass through the woods made up of gullies and thickets that were just a stones throw from our back door. Jaunts that I would call a hike now seemed like aimless wondering then. From an early age I drifted onto that path to see what was beyond our yard. Usually finding a stick perfect for the journey, one that would sweep spider webs out of my path, and make idle noises to scare away the snakes, that were undoubtedly around and just out of sight. Warn stones marked the way, maples, pines, oaks , locusts and a score of other swaying trees painted the breeze in those days in that forest. "April showers bring May flowers," and that's the truth; deep in the forest where the light of day is a few shades darker and the smells and sounds are sharper and purer I saw some of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen in my life.


Past the pine tree on a knob hill, surrounded by a briar thicket - a protected watch tower - an imaginations dream this forest was. Just beyond there where the earth gave way to itself, a valley was dissected by a trickling creek that bubbled and passed the leaves from autumn's past to another location in another crook along the way. A rotting timber bridge that must have fallen twenty years before, a deteriorating bridge that fell in just the right place to let me pass over the high end of this stream. And even though an easier passage was just down the way a boy needs a bridge and that is all there is to it. Tiny shade loving wildflowers reared their heads in the spring time and few saw their beauty. A treasure for the single wonderer, and as the leaves crumbled beneath my sneakers my mind was too innocent to realize what I was experiencing. As the bird's calls echoed through that place untouched by time as if to say to me: "inhale this air child, this is your home."

Beyond the bubbling creek and the old access road made by lumber jacks who's graves were marked long before I pilfered there the squirrels practiced acrobatic acts in Sycamores and Birch trees. Barking to be tune of the next acorn falling to the forest floor only stopping to notice where I was and where I was going and in this memory I see more that I can explain. The greens and browns that inspired the idea of camouflage, a play ground for creatures that inspired glass menageries in lit curios tucked away in parlors with musty damask drapes and drop leaf tables. A place that brought validity to my Grandmother's Ray Harm prints…an untouched zoo that I knew it all too well.

Muddy sneakers and beggars lice were all souvenirs of the days adventure and with each stride there was something to be seen. As my mind drifts back there I realize that it is not only a place for me but a moment in time. A place just as sure as the world that could compare to the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows," but I didn't know to appreciated it that way then and maybe that is good. With wide eyes and my trusty stick I walked longer and farther day by day searching for what was beyond that forest and I suppose I have found that out time and time again, over the years. And though my foot prints have been erased a million times and new things grow in their place I was there. I was on that path in those woods and I know that place like the back of my hand. Just beyond a gray house with white shudders I crossed winding paths while ground hogs scurried to nearby holes and mosquitoes buzzed. And now that I have seen what was beyond the forest I realize it's monumental significance. This that is a memory now may only be a brick in the foundation but that brick is there and an import part of the solid rock upon which I stand. When I look back there this morning I realize that I was walking through a portion of Heaven, a reminder of why the hunter takes to the field and the forest even though his table is already set. The reason is so apparent as to why the fisherman longs for the open water or the riverside. I now know why the hiker seeks the far off regions and the jetsetter must find a serene place to take a load off. And with another blink I see my the back of my father's canvas chaps covered in cuckoo barrows and beggars lice, following dogs all across the country side and I followed too, my stride downtrodden from the journey. I know why.

I never understood then the importance of the feeling. Tied up in my own ancient history I realize that these memories just beyond my old back door are worth more than a gold bar or a bag of pearls. If I live to be one hundred and memories dart in and out of my mind like bats in the moonlight - I hope my memory allows me to go back there. Back to the bubbling brook of my youth, back to the pine tree that became a lookout tower and even though I have jumped from one metaphor to another, this memory is as sound as the timber that creaks within it. Knowing all the while that Faulkner, Welty and Frost among others shared these memories - I mean really shared them. I know why. I know why because I too was there in the shade of natures ceiling, a place that housed as many living things as do the concrete jungles that dot the globe. I know why I go back there and I know why you do too. Beauty may be for the eye of the beholder, but beauty, whomever beholds it, is in escapable. And although I was not along a path that "diverged in the yellow wood," I speak that language.

One day I will return to that very place - it will be different then. It will have been the scene of another young boys paradise, I am confident in that. Like my father and his father and all those that go back into a line that can be drawn across the mountains and hills and then across the seas - deep within us all there is the sense of adventure. I pray that that sense is one within me that is never extinguished.

The Impressive: Minton Sparks

A phone call from a friend recently brought up old laughs, old memories and a smile to my face. Who knew that losing my iPhone could reconnect me with so many folks that for some reason or another I had gotten out of touch with. Life is busy for me and before I know it one month ends and it is on to the next, and the list of people in my mind that I can't wait to talk to goes from one page on the calendar to another - they'll understand. Right? And then there is Facebook, which keeps me from calling so many people because I feel as if I have already talked to them. After all, I have seen their faces in photos from their latest post, clicked "like" on so many comments and wished them Happy Birthday's on their wall's. However, no matter what Facebook does to help us network with one another, there is nothing like hearing that friend's voice. Sometimes it helps you to remember why you are friends in the first place. Regardless, my friend Molly and I had a good enough excuse for our hiatus from phone chats. We had taken a break from long phone talks over a glass of red wine earlier in the year as she was leaving Nashville on an international music tour in Europe for three months. We had our bases covered and I was thrilled to keep up with her travels via Facebook as well.


Nevertheless, we laughed, caught up and reminisced a couple of nights ago for an hour or two. During that time she brought to light a name of an artist that has since intrigued me. I am a storyteller. I love to listen to a good story and I love to tell them. My Papaw and my Step-Grandfather Buddy are and were storytellers, among many other members of my family, friends, and mentors. I have been intrigued by this art all my life and this is precisely why I was so interested in the work of Minton Sparks. Ms. Sparks is a storyteller too, a poet, a character actor, author, songwriter - among other things. After looking over her website and viewing some of the videos posted there of her performances I was completely wowed by her art form. Sparks unique art is different from anything that I have ever seen. Although different, it could only be comparable to some of the few great "one-man/one-woman" shows I have seen. Including "Elaine Stritch at Liberty," Bea Arthur, Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Carrie Fisher and others have done these sort of theatrical numbers…but not like this.

Minton Sparks reaches into her mind and pulls out a part of the South that only the true Southerner has seen. She knows the combination to that safe and when she reels into her music backed soliloquies she takes you down the street, around the corner, and into whatever room she is describing. You feel as if you were right on her heels. Using phrases and language that are all too familiar to me made me eager to hear more of her twangy charm. Minton Sparks' diction and syntax, aligned with impeccable timing are not only intense, but moving, realistic and often hilarious. Honestly, I could not get enough. I am eager to see if and when Ms. Sparks will be performing around Austin anytime in the future, if so I am sure to be in the audience!

Check out her work at:

http://www.mintonsparks.com/

A Documentary Lover's Treasure: Must Read After My Death

With a crisp and sharp New England accent the verbiage of a woman, a wife, and an intellectual in her own light, tells the story of a marriage and a life. Recently on the recommendation of a friend I purchased and viewed the documentary "Must Read After My Death," by: Morgan Dews.

Looking for closure or solutions to the everyday problems that a growing family faces, Allis, the true author of this record keeping masterpiece - tells it like it is. When the demands of Allis's husband Charly's work take him abroad for long spans of time, the use of recording devices seemed to be an idea that would keep a husband and wife - father and children in closer communication . I don't think that this is what she accomplished but the result of the process leaves behind a chilling grip on the reality that lies beyond many closed doors in our society. Speaking early on in her recordings she mentions her lack of interest in collecting these audios for posterity, but indeed does just that. All those who view this will come to know the cushioned chaos of an upper-middle class family revealed after the death of their matriarch. A lifetime of memories and secrets found in a shed labeled "Must Read After My Death."

This film leads my mind on a path through this family's life. A life that seems to explore an open relationship between a husband and wife in the 1950s and 1960s - an idea - which seems to me would have been extremely uncommon if not unheard of. The film's narrator discusses various psycho analysis' made of herself and her family. The intensity of this tale, although chilling does not involve much violence, there are no Hollywood style adventures or fairytales. Just an American family struggling to make things right in their world. Unfortunately, this story is one that is not unheard of, just most commonly not discussed. Not solely making Allis' family unique, just making them the whistle blowers and setting them apart due to other such families reluctance to expose such familiar chaos. It leads one to wonder what deductions can be made from the items found in their own shed…

Check this out.