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Down and Out, Up and About. Rinse. Repeat

Posted on April 24, 2016 by Jim

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Down and Out, Up and About. Rinse. Repeat

“Huh, huh, huh! Cough! Huh!” The enormous woman sitting at the diner is in the loud throes of ecstasy or pain, her face contorted, eyes squinted, mouth agape. I look at the server and ask, “Does she need help?” not knowing whether tragedy has announced itself through the electronic device she is holding in her palm. The clerk glances to the side, sighs, and says, “No, she’s just laughing at something on the internet.” Turns out, she’s an employee on break and he is accustomed to her public uninhibited outbursts.

This day is like that–one moment I’m apprehensive, the next moment, I’m relieved. Each instant can turn from happy to sad to hopeful to depressing at the snap of a kismet or two.

At the shop, Peter Blackstock, senior editor at Grove Press in New York, tells me his assigned author, Viet Thanh Nguyen, has just this week won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. He’s elated and I’m thrilled to meet such a literary personage. Moments later, I’m informed via terse memo that I can no longer park my car in the store’s adjacent parking lot because the new owner just doesn’t want to lease space to merchants. One second I’m elated, the next moment I’m handed a new stressful challenge to find fresh parking digs. The peculiar thing is, on a cosmic scale, each of these contiguous events means absolutely nothing to much of anybody–that is, whether I’m happy or sad is nobody’s concern. But my body does not know the difference between meaningful and meaninglessness.

In a matter of seconds, I’m up and about, then down and out.

How do I shake off this tiger whose tail is super-glued to my hand, without getting disoriented about life?

Later on, a customer brings two enormous 19th-century illustrated books for appraisal. I am delighted to see the books and equally delighted to see the customer, with whom I graduated from school a century ago–or so it seems. But while examining the books, a sour-demeanor visitor enters and loudly proclaims–as if nobody else is conversing–that the Birmingham Arts Journal has made a serious mistake that must be corrected immediately before the Earth can continue rotating. As a Journal editor, I try to explain how publishing works, and how the problem can be addressed, while at the same time I attempt to keep the customer happy and engaged in the appraisal process. The visitor closes his mouth but hovers within inches of my customer and me while I explain the books and their values.

Again, up and about, down and out, repeat themselves. All I can do is hang on to the tail, since the entire day goes on like this.

Down and out. Up and about.

I recall an old Madison Avenue advertising tale about the marketing of a hair shampoo. One Don Draper-type, searching for a way to increase sales, suggests that the instructions on each bottle be changed from, “Lather. Rinse Thoroughly.” to “Lather. Rinse Thoroughly. Repeat.” Turns out that, once implemented, these instructions helped double the sales of shampoo, and Draper lived to carouse another day.

Where are my instructions for getting through the up-and-down days?

“When Down and Out, Get Up and About. Repeat.”

In other words, there will forever be hills and valleys. I just have to keep in mind that over each hill there will be valleys, above each valley there will be hills. Navigating them is just part of each fractured day of a life well lived.

Even if life isn’t always that well-lived, pretending that it is can go a long way

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The Sing-Song Woman Under the Rainbow

Posted on April 17, 2016 by Jim

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THE SING-SONG WOMAN UNDER THE RAINBOW

The stilled afternoon breeze of Southside Birmingham is broken by a new sound.

Somewhere off in the distance you can hear something not quite like the other sounds of the street.

Not a car un-muffled, not a dog howling against the city’s loneliness, not a baby crying cribless.

It’s another sound, and it’s coming closer.

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…

It’s becoming clear now. It’s a flat, rounded-tone voice, and it’s very precise and methodical.

It’s the sing-song woman.

She walks by a time or two a day, singing a different song each time.

If you knew Suzie like I know Suzie

Oh, oh, oh what a gal…

The songs are all old. But they are the songs you don’t easily forget once you’ve heard them clearly. The phrases are simple and clever, the thoughts are easy to grasp, and the voices that used to record them were not drowned out by highly amplified instruments and heavy beats.

Singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feeling I’m happy again…

At first when you hear the sing-song woman, you feel your day has been intruded upon. The song is loud, and you can’t ignore it and go on about your work. The sing-song woman knows most of the words correctly, and you even learn a few more by listening to her.

That old black magic has me in its spell,

That old black magic that you weave so well…

There she is, now. Her head is down. She dresses plainly and walks slumped and straight ahead. But her voice sounds out huskily and methodically.

First you say you will and then you won’t,

And then you say you do and then you don’t,

You’re undecided now, so what are you gonna do?

I don’t know anything about the sing-song woman. She’s like many others who wander around Southside Birmingham going no place in particular. Like many of the others, she doesn’t look around. But she doesn’t bother anybody, either.

I’m laughing at clouds so dark up above,

The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love.

The heart inside this weathered woman is still ticking. The spirit rises above her body and sings on its own:

Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place,

Come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face.

Whatever life has meted out to this Southside denizen, there’s something inside her that won’t stay down. She’s a bag lady whose bag is a wonderful lyric.

I’ll walk down the lane with a happy refrain,

And singin’ just singin’ in the rain.

Is this woman’s entire life lived in an old tune written by long-forgotten composer?

Why am I smilin’ and why do I sing?

Why does December seem sunny as Spring?

Why do I get up each morning to start

Happy and het up with joy in my heart?

Why is each new task a trifle to do?

Because I am living a life full of you.

The lover to whom she sings the song is not with her on these daily treks. Perhaps her lover no longer lives. Perhaps her lover never was.

But it is obvious that to the sing-song woman, her lover is as real as her song in the afternoon breeze

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Curvature of the Attention Span

Posted on April 9, 2016 by Jim

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Curvature of the Attention Span

I am peering into the crowds of people surrounding me, somewhat lamenting the lost art of gazing into each others’ eyes.

In days far gone, people used to make momentary eye contact in passing, just long enough for a nod of recognition, a glimpse of friendliness, a symbol of trust and well-being.

Now, I am a stranger in a strange land.

No-one in sight is observing the world around them. They are all absorbed, focused, imbedded, part of the electronic devices they hold in their palms. Ignoring partners and friends, they are always Somewhere Else. Their bowed heads and bent spines pave the way for future professionals to minister unto them…chiropractors, orthopaedic surgeons, physical therapists, masseuses, masseurs, all will benefit from these aging technolusters who wonder how they became prematurely stooped, their thumbs arthritic, their distance vision awry, their observational powers limited by metal and plastic blinders.

Rooms full of people who are Somewhere Else. Stadiums of people who are Not Quite Here. Families filled with relatives all gazing navelward.

As I say, I am a stranger in a strange land, grateful for occasional moments when I meet other strangers who for some mysterious reason are not wedded to their palms, strangers who, like me, wish to engage and share and laugh with each other instead of laughing into a virtual unreality on a tiny screen.

Where do I find the happiness, the inspiration I seek, in a world of people who have gone away?

Well, it’s all there. All I have to do is what every artist, every writer, every poet has always done: Look around and examine everything that everybody else is ignoring.

The fact that pod people are self-absorbed leaves the rest of the world unobstructed for those of us who like to NOTICE. It’s actually kind of nice, being alone in a world full of people. I get all the time I need to peruse and browse and…NOTICE.

While much of the populace is busy text-shaming strangers, gossiping aimlessly with imaginary friends, conducting snarky conversations about nothing of any particular importance, expressing opinions they’ve cut and pasted from others’ opinions…I get to have all the fun.

Thanks, you behemoth media empire, thanks. You’ve freed up my time to observe more, write more, share more. You have provided me with my own space, space that is filled with actual people who are much larger than tiny screens and limited-character diatribes.

I get to see you as you are.

Do you ever see me as I am, I wonder

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Two Queues in the Villages of Birmingham

Posted on April 3, 2016 by Jim

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Two Queues in the Villages of Birmingham

These two snapshots keep queuing up in my mind lately, so I have to own up to the lessons they are attempting to teach me. I do not yet know what they mean, but they are begging to be set free. Here they are:

First queue: I am standing in line behind two women at the thrift store check-out counter. I forget the old maxim that states the short line is always the slowest. Now I remember.

These two customers are standing next to shopping carts piled head-high with dozens of items, mostly clothing and shoes and household goods. The patient and unapologetic clerk takes her time methodically examining each item, entering a price in the register, calling for help from above when something is not priced, removing hangers, carefully rolling everything into bunches to be stuffed into white plastic bags, which the women move to the side in a protected heap.

This is taking a long time and my impatience is beginning to rise up. But on this particular day I remind myself that I can either enjoy this experience or make myself miserable. I opt to relax and observe. The petite women are very happy with their purchases and seem proud of their trove. After a while they look at the total tab, pull out rolls of cash and pay for everything in full. They leave the shop, laden with goodies and heading for a waiting van.

The clerk begins totaling my purchases while I ask her what all that clothing at one time is all about. “They are sending everything to their families in Mexico,” she said, for the first time smiling.” “Oh,” I say, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for being fidgety.

I leave the shop, wondering what those families will feel when they receive all these super gifts, what their expressions will be like as they sport their new old togs in a village far away from this particular Alabama village.

Second queue. I am again in line behind two women whose carts are brimming with clothing and household stuff and baby items. The male clerk is slowly handling each item, removing hangers, making ad hoc bargains for those unmarked, focusing on doing a proper job. The women are chatting merrily. The first in line pays the clerk and remains at the counter while her companion begins handing things to the cashier.

Suddenly loud, funky and fun music emanates from her purse as she gropes for wallet and phone. I look over her bent head at the first customer and we spontaneously grin at each other, which inspires me to start faking some dance moves. She starts undulating, too, and her friend is now multi-tasking, taking in the dance, counting her money and answering her call. We can hear the male voice at the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” he barks.

“At the Piggly Wiggly,” she answers, causing her, the other customer, the clerk and me to crack up while stifling our guffaws.

“How much you spending?” he snarls.

“Oh, nothing,” she grins.

The conversation is over. The dance is done. The chuckles are mollified. The merchandise is paid for. The women leave.

The clerk and I watch them leave, each of us making up the sequel to a story we will never actually see.

I pay up, lift my bags, wish the cashier a great weekend. He returns the salutations.

I head from this village to the next village, ready for the next adventure

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The Easter Egg the Easter Worm and Me

Posted on March 27, 2016 by Jim

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The Easter Egg the Easter Worm and Me

There is a glistening, squiggly brown earthworm hiding just under the Easter egg I’m grabbing from the damp red clay near my grandparents’ home in Peterson, Alabama, this bright sunny Sunday in Alabama, circa 1946.

Suddenly, my zeal in finding more treasure than cousins and siblings is placed on hold. Standing frozen, clutching the aqua-dyed hard boiled condiment in one hand and a small hand-woven basket in the other, I squint at the alien creature and wonder what it will do, now that I’ve exposed it to a larger reality.

I am regarding the earthworm, but I wonder whether it is regarding me.

It curls and stretches and begins burrowing into a deeper earth, so I decide that it has no interest in me and my Easter egg.

Which end is front, which is back? How does it eat? How does it even see?

I can’t help pondering during this extended moment. I know something special has happened, but I cannot quite express what that something special is.

Suddenly, I become the worm and begin feeling the soft red clay sliding past my extended exterior. It is getting darker as I leave the sunshine behind and head for home. Is my family waiting for me to relate my adventure? How will I explain my excitement? How will I describe objects that I cannot name?

“Ma, this gigantic roundish object was on the ground, and I thought I would hide beneath it for a time, but suddenly these five pudgy pale pink worms came down from the sky and just missed squashing me. They lifted the big round thing up to the sky and disappeared!”

What will Ma say when I tell her this? Will she dismiss the whole thing as something I dreamed up? Will she curl around me and comfort me till I settle down? Can she actually see in the dark?

“Jimbo! C’mon over here and let’s count your eggs,” cousin Jerry yells. I snap out of my tiny worm world and run over to other relatives and family to continue the Easter egg hunt.

Later that night, Mother gives me permission to eat the aqua-colored egg. As I crack and peel away the shell, the soft shiny white surface reminds me of the shiny earthworm family I’ll never get to know.

I silently nibble on the egg and pay secret respects to the critters that surround my small world…the worms that may become fish bait, the fish that may become food, the egg itself that might have become a baby chick…and the worms that, a few decades down the road, may become the diners rather than the dined

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Falling Up the Stairs for Fifty Years or So

Posted on March 13, 2016 by Jim

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Falling Up the Stairs for Fifty Years or So

Just checking a list of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

It’s the 1960′s, and I’m standing in the poolside doorway of my apartment in Alberta City, Alabama. To be exact, I live at Claymont Apartments just behind the bowling alley that is boldly called Leland Lanes. To the far right side of the obligatory chlorine-fragranced swimming pool I can see a small human figure swaying in the twilight shadows, silhouetted against the picture windows of each living unit.

I can make out who this human is, just from the way he holds himself. It’s Bill, the Tuscaloosa city planner who resides here. Normally, Bill is an engaging and lively conversationalist who takes his day job quite seriously. But on the weekends, and particularly on Saturday nights–this happens to be one of those Saturday nights–Bill pickles himself with a steady flow of beverages of the alcohol-content type. When Bill drinks, he remains sociable and smiling and harmless, but the lively discussions may wander about with less focus than usual.

Anyhow, this evening, Bill is weaving toward the stairs that lead to his second floor nest. His aim is true despite the meandering, and he raises his right foot to place it on the first step. He’s not holding onto the banister because his hands are protectively preoccupied with one bottle and one tumbler hugged to his chest.

Bill leans forward onto his right leg and raises his left leg, aiming to achieve either the same step or, optimistically, the second step. At this point, his leaning takes the appearance of toppling forward, face rapidly plunging toward the concrete surfaces. But then, a magical moment occurs. Instinctively cuddling both containers, Bill quickly raises his right foot in order to engage a third stair, thus saving his face but in the process failing to stabilize his downward fall. Rapidly struggling to remain erect, Bill lifts his left leg and manages to plant it on the fourth step just fast enough to again refrain from falling flat upon stairs and glassware.

Magically, Bill continues to fall forward at the same rate that his legs effect the ascent and, like a slapstick comedian, he eventually arrives at the top of the flight, still wobbling, but vertical and unharmed.

I realize that time has stood still during this event. I haven’t breathed or averted my gaze. It happens so quickly that it takes me a while to absorb the physics of what I’ve just witnessed.

Bill wends his way toward his apartment or the next second-story party that he can find. I resume breathing and going about the business of hunkering down for the evening. Life goes on for another fifty years. Memories like this keep falling forward into my mind like a drunken friend, unable to self-destruct, unable to become forgettable.

I smile to myself and check the list to see what other funny reminiscences are hiding in stacks of notes and dictations.

There’s got to be a funny pony somewhere in there

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One More Glance at Childhood

Posted on March 2, 2016 by Jim

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One More Glance at Childhood

You can tell that it hurts her to bring me all this beautiful and nostalgic grammar

school stuff now and then.

You can tell that it hurts her because she lingers after I’ve paid her for today’s trove,

she lingers and looks around at my walls and at my floor where the detritus of

humanity’s creative genius lies in stacks and piles and boxes and crates, stacks and

piles and boxes and crates of wonderful colorful playful deadly serious materials

from every generation since before and after the printing press.

She smiles and looks longingly at the school materials she has just sold me: readers

and primers and felt figures and punch-out pieces that have never been punched out,

posters and circus banners and lovely lovely children’s items long disdained by

everybody but overgrown children like you and me.

She no longer has enough room to store these glorious objects, and she wants to get

them into the hands of someone who’s more than a dealer/less than a dealer,

someone who will appreciate them and respect them and try to get them into the

right hands, and she has carefully chosen me as her heir, as her medium for passing

on the joyful notes of childhood.

I pay her what I can afford to pay her, sometimes more than I can afford to pay her,

because I want her to keep coming back, coming back to see and pay respect to me,

coming back to bring me more surprises in the form of first-experience rushes to the

face as I open her treasure chests.

And, too, I can tell that it hurts her to bring me all this beautiful stuff because she

tells me it hurts her, she tells me it hurts her, not in a whining voice, not in a sad

voice, but in a voice full of wisdom she has attained after a certain number of

unnameable years, wisdom she attained by being first stimulated and encouraged by

this vast array of paper ideas and paper feelings and paper joys and paper

ponderings.

Our transactions are sacred and ceremonial.

I never thank her enough, she never stays long enough for one more extended and wistful goodbye to childhood

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Butterfly Mummies, Long Ago Love Affairs and Four-Leaf Clovers

Posted on February 28, 2016 by Jim

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Butterfly Mummies, Long Ago Love Affairs and Four-Leaf Clovers

A lone customer sits huddled in the shadow of the old post office in the Museum of Fond Memories. She peers intensely at the open letter in her hands, a letter dated in pen and ink, “August, 1909.”

The carefully structured letter recounts, in several pages, a day in the life of the long-gone author, a narrative intended for the eyes and heart of the reader, who is simply named James. It’s a love note.

Earlier, the customer finds a postcard dated 1899, with “Wish you were here!” cheerfully signed by Alice, who is visiting St. Louis. One small notebook reveals a four-leaf clover, pressed there in 1933. A butterfly wisps its way through the air and onto the floor. It is perfectly preserved inside a pamphlet on Manners, dated 1889. A 1952 telegram in the letter box announces with regret the death of a family member, an old dance card lists the signatures of men who once whirled the light fantastic with a seventeen-year-old girl, an envelope yields its contents–one silky bookmark with tassel, a tattered photograph from 1922 forever freezes in place the smiling faces of two young swim-suited moms at the beach with kids amok.

The customer, now lost in time, is in her third hour of trolling the generations. She is beginning to feel hunger, she knows there is much else to do outside this old bookstore, but she is reluctant to leave, now that these foundlings are begging to be adopted and nurtured.

She adds the love letter to her small affordable stack of paper ephemera, stands up to stretch, folds the metal chair and leans it in its place, then walks dreamily to the counter where the elderly proprietor awaits.

Her smile is sad and jubilant. “I love these things. I wish I could buy them all!”

The shopkeeper glows. “I’m so glad you appreciate these lives, and I’m even more glad that you plan to adopt them and keep them safe”

It is an idiosyncrasy of the owner that he views the contents of his shop as orphans awaiting the protection of adoptive parents. He is grateful that at least this one customer “gets” it.

The woman pays for her selections and clutches package and purse to her chest as she slowly heads for the front door. As she moves, she tenderly touches and examines other old memories, a frayed book, a newspaper clipping, an ancient valentine…and eventually exits the shop.

The proprietor walks over to the metal post office boxes, straightens up their corner a bit, moves a couple of potential obstructions, and thus prepares the area for a new customer.

He wonders what the next dreamer will be like

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Listen to the Mockingbirds Among Us

Posted on February 21, 2016 by Jim

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Listen to the Mockingbirds Among Us

When the Mockingbird passed this week, Atticus Finch and a host of other heroes, fictitious and actual, lined up to remind me of their importance in my life. Here are some thoughts about a few influential characters to whom attention must be paid:

My grandfather bought a house in the tiny coal mining town West Blocton, Alabama, around the turn of the century. On Easter Sunday in the year 1909, my father, Tommy, was born in that house. Since there were seven or so brothers and sisters ahead of Tommy, my grandfather Jim placed the infant in an Easter basket and announced to his brood that the Easter Bunny had delivered this pink, noisy package.

Back then, kids believed that sort of thing.

Now, to know my father, you’d have to know the people he admired, since men in his generation weren’t much for sitting around telling you about themselves. No, you just had to look around and pay attention to the men whose lives they emulated.

In my father’s case, I can remember who some of his heroes, both literary and real, were:

Sergeant Alvin York, who never accepted a dime in trade for the exemplary heroism he’d shown for his country in World War I.

Preacher Josiah Dozier Grey and Uncle Famous Prill, the heroes of Joe David Brown’s Birmingham novel/movie, Stars in My Crown, men who never wavered from belief in family and neighbors and principles. They were forerunners of Atticus Finch and other strong Southern heroes of fact and fancy.

Harry Truman, who dispensed with nonsense and tried to do the right thing, even when it was not popular. He was in a long line of no-nonsense leaders, such as John L. Lewis and Eric Hoffer, people who thought for themselves and never followed a posse or a trend.

Jesus Christ, who, like my father, was a carpenter, and a principled man.

And so on.

Now, it’s important to understand this one thing about my father—to look at him, to be around him, you’d never know he was a hero. He was a working-class, blue-collar, unassuming person you’d probably not notice on the street, unless you noted that he limped from an old coal mining injury received when he tried to save another man’s life. It was his very invisibility that made him a true hero, because he did the kind of thing that nobody gets credit for: he loved unconditionally and without reward. That’s right. He was a practitioner of unconditional love for family, the kind of love that seeks no return, no attention. You would have embarrassed Tommy Reed if you had tried to thank him for his acts of kindness, because you were not supposed to notice.He gave money in secret to relatives in need. He grimaced and bore silently the abuse of those who forgot to appreciate or thank him. And he never announced his good deeds. You just had to catch him now and then in an act of kindness.

His heroes were all men who didn’t need adulation.

What my father needed was a hard day’s work at an honest job, a few moments of privacy after a good meal, time to read a book or watch television with a child or grandchild on his lap, and an occasional hug from his wife, my mother.

You could do worse than have a father like Preacher Grey and Joel McCrea, Uncle Famous and Juano Hernandez, Gregory Peck and Atticus Finch, Eric Hoffer, John L. Lewis, Harry Truman, Sergeant York and Gary Cooper, and Jesus.

Do they make ‘em like that any more? You bet they do, but you won’t know about it for a while, because they don’t have press agents. What they do have is the appreciation that takes years to grow and make itself known, the appreciation we come to have after we, too, have been called upon to commit an occasional act of unrewarded kindness.

Take another look at your heroes, both silent and palpable. Listen to what they have to say through actions and words.

They are to be cherished