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gooselake part 2

Sat, 03 Nov 2007 11:52 EST

PART@! Yup. And so it went hour after hour. Every once in a while I would glance at Joe and when he opened an eye and looked at me...we scared each other...cause he didn't look like Joe and I am sure I did not look like me. Jerry started to look like tweety-bird for obvious reasons. The sun had went down long ago and the music was incredible. I could see the electricity being pulled out of the walls and bent and formed into wonderful, glorious sounds. After what seemed like an eternity I decided to take another look over the side of the van. I crept ever so cautiously to the edge of the roof and looked over.....

"HI WHALE!!!!!!! I'SNT THIS FAR OUT MAN????????"

I could have killed him. Literally. It was Jerry Mitchell...a one time drummer in my bands, and an old friend. His head looked as big as a Mt. Rushmore figure. His homemade afro seemed ablaze...and his eyes were like saucers and cat-like...but I could still recognize him.

"Jesus Christ Jerry....I am trippin' my ass off here and you scared the be-jesus out'a me."

"Hey, I took some pscilocybin mushrooms...sillyasihavbeen in a long time..."

"I gotta get off this van and try to come down. I have been peakin' for a long time."

"Ya wanna go to the trip tent?

"What the hells that?

"It's a big old tent with doctors and helpers that give you downers so you can keep it together till you come down."

"Nah. I can make it now. I feel alittle more in control."

"Hey! I wanna go man...fuckin A number one tweety bird....I can't take it anymore." That would be the other Jerry speaking...

As you might guess our friend, the other Jerry, was ready to slow the party down. I figured we had better do something for him and the rest of us. If he said that "tweet-bird thing" one more time Joe might throw him off the damn van.

"Jerry, what will we tell them at this place...the trip tent?

"Well...I guess we tell them he took Lsd." Now that was painfully obvious.

"Hey guys...I gotta come down. I can't take this anymore."

"AW shut the fuck up...you ain't comin down for hours." Joe had clearly had it and informed or forlorn star warrior. Having a practical thought for the first time in hours I said, "Jerry, how do we get off this van?

"Do we have to get down?"

"No....we'll bring the goddamn tent here." Joe lacked sensitivity...clearly.

"Here put your foot down and I will guide you."

"Which foot?"

"It doesn't matter...the left one."

"They both look left to me."

"Jerry we gotta get down."

"I am on the ground."

"No the other fuckin Jerry...Jesus Christ."

"Fuckin A number one.........................."

We clearly had one to many Jerry's for this confusing affair. Everytime I asked Jerry Mitchell a question...Jerry Wilson answered or vice versa. I was ready to go back to the porta-potty and hide out till morning. We eventually got down and started our surreal trek thru a crowd of thousands to the "trip tent." I will never...ever forget that. We kept the tweet-bird Jerry between us and he kept stopping and wanting to sit down. We kept him going like a horse threatened with colic. Their just weren't any signs on this trip. You made up your own rules as you went along. We had to pass directly in front of the stage and by this time Ten Years After were performing. I could see half-moon like notes coming out of Alvin Lee's guitar. I grabbed my ass again and kept moving.

Eventually we came to an area that had the looks of organization about it. People were going about cooking food and their were emergency vehicles parked nearby. We heard this ominous sound coming from a large Indian style tent.

"OOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

"OOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm."

From the dim light inside we saw a lot of people sitting in a circle. They were all holding hands. They all kept hummin that sound while a man and a woman guided the group energetically.

"OOOOOOOOOMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

The woman coaxed members who looked uninterested, while the man kept pointing to a large blackboard with the word....(bet you couldn't guess)...OM...written on it. Everytime someone seemed to be drifting from this focus the woman coaxed them back to saying OM.

"What the hell are they doing Jerry?"

"They are keeping everybodys shit together."

"Fuckin A..."

"Shut-up Jerry."

"Hey you just asked me what was happening here."

"NO Godammit...I MEAN the other Jerry!"

"Whose a fairy?"

Yeah. There we were. Three friends all communicating on a different spiral...but physically trapped together. I was curious about the tent and what they hoped to accomplish. Jerry Mitchell explained from his perspective and it actually made sense. I am not sure it made any sense at all to Jerry Wilson.

"They keep you in there and give you something to do. When you come down enough to realize what you are doing is really stupid...they let you go."

"Can we commit Jerry...and get him later?" I was thinking Jerry might not want to give up the tweety thing for a mundane OM.

"Hell...if we are not careful they will put us all in there."

"OM."

"Jerry, did Jerry say that?"

"Well it wasn't me."

"Om fuckin tweety-A."

I guess that answered that. We kind of guided Mr. Wilson towards the tent and disappeared into the crowd. We would see him the next day. As we were walking into the flow of people we heard the sonorous tones of a group of voices, in unison, repeating OM. We kind of felt bad deserting out friend...but as Jerry Mitchell later put it..."Dale, if I have 52 cards and you have the same, but I gotta watch out for ten of yours...well...it isn't fair to me." This made sense at the time.

After a long walk we were back in time to see the group Chicago play their set. It was fabulous. Terry Kath had not yet killed himself playing with a gun and the band brought everyone to their feet. Just before dawn they asked everyone to hold up a lighter or match. It was an incredible sight to see 350,000 small flames in that darkness, in that place. I still remember that now long dead guitar player stepping to the microphone and saying....

"People, you sure are beautiful." For a while...we had it right. It wasn't free love, drugs and dirty feet. It was a tribe that emerged in answer to a technical world and war no one understood. It was a time to question values and redefine what was to be our lives. We were swept along a current that became a spark in history. I wish everyone could live in such times...but these things happen at random and you cannot volunteer. We were lucky, the ones that lived thru it.

We eventually found our way back to the two vans. Several people we did not know had joined our group. The Lsd had finally released me enough to reflect on the day and night. I was sunburned from the hours on top of the van and very thirsty. I drank a lot of wine with Dan Brockman. WE sat in the dirt and sparse grass around the white van and passed the bottle back and forth. It had a calming effect on me and all was right with the world. He was from Chicago and his wife Tanya was there. The music shut down about two p.m. Tanya was full of life and wore a bright headband she said was "spiffy." They had been married for three months and were telling me their dream of living in Colorado. Dan was killed one year later in a helicopter crash in Viet Nam. I found this out because I married Tanya's sister...but thats another story, ya know.???

I eventually laid my sleeping bag on the ground next to the van. I was trying to clear my head and sleep. Jerry (not the one we left at the tent...) was talking to a girl next to me. Jerry was horny. I listened to the conversation and it made me smile before I drifted off.

"Where ya from Pam?" I knew he was smiling that lip to ear grin he had when he was warming up to a woman.

"Indianapolis."

"You want to ball?" For those uninformed, thatwas an expression we used for a short time back then for having sex.

"No."

"Why not?"

"My minds moving...but my body's not." That small truth brought a smile to my face and a great deal of disappointment to my friend. Nope. It wasn't all free. It simply WAS.

We were awakened the next morning by the gigantic P.A. system. Teegarden and Van Winkle were the Mc's of the concert and made regular announcements until the live music started in the afternoon. We ate from our rations we had brought with us..canned corn and such. We were a haggard looking group. About that time our friend from the trip tent showed up.

"OM my ass." Jerry Wilson was a large man...very large. He looked even larger with that defiant expression on his face. "How come you left me in that fuckin' tent?"

"It was Jerry's idea." It sounded good to me...besides Jerry had went to look for a toilet.

"You were there too Dale." Clearly Jerry had an attitude about this.

"Yup. But I was in another dimension."

"If I wasn't into all this peace shit, I would put you into another dimension now."

"OM."

"Go to hell Dale. Geeeez. I could use a shower." The sweat was pouring off Jerry's wide forehead. I was painfully aware of my own rancid aroma.

"Hey...I heard everybodies bathing down at the lake(that would be THE Goose Lake) and all the girls are naked!" Joe still only had one eye open. I think it took him longer to adjust to reality than most of us.

"Let's go." Jerry Wilson was looking around in his duffel bag for soap and a towel when Jerry Mitchell showed up.

"How was the tent Jerry?"

"Eat shit and die Mitchell...OMMMMmmmmmmm."

"Where ya guys goin?"

"Skinny-Dippin with 150,000 girls." said Jerry W. Jerry M. just smiled and followed along with the rest of us. We did not have a leader...we kind of "schooled" like fish do...for some unknown reason or cue one of us would turn and the others followed. It was an imperfect system...diametrically oppposed to marching...but in the end effective. We did find Goose Lake. Instead of a patch of beautiful blue water we found a murky brown smudge on the landscape. Instead of thousands of naked women we found a few bikers and their "old ladies" standing in the muddy water. The women's breasts sagged like rocks in a sock and even with our overstimulated juvenile hormones...well...it was just kind of nasty looking.

"Ughe."

That comment uttered by no other than our Om-cum-tweety bird Jerry seenmed to some up the situation. We couldn't tell if they had tatoos our just mud smears on their bodies. Being bikers and all, well, we just hated to stare.

"You all still want to get wet?" Joe was looking wistfully back towards the concert area. I suspect he thought that all it would take is one person to indicate this was not quite what we thought and the rest would fishtail the hell out of there.

"Sure I do." Now that would have been Jerry W. speaking. "All night in the tent has left me feeling a little sticky." He looked at us like he dared anyone to comment.

"O.K., but I am not stripping?" I had my scruples.

"Why not? You got a small dick?" Joe definitely had to work on his sensitivity.

By this time both Jerry's were midway thru taking off all their clothes. I still remember Jerry W's big butt staring at me when he bent over to pull his BVD"S off. Trust me. It was not the moon over Carolina I was looking at. The rest of us took our clothes off and waded into the muddy water. It was tepid, stagnant, and smelled like broth that had been left in a window sill for five days...a very hot window sill. My barefeet touched the mucky bottom and it made me shiver to think what may be living there. All I could thing about was snapping turtles. We had some trophy size snapping turtles in the mid-west. Yeah, some very no nonsense looking fellows that have definitely climbed out of the primordial ooze. That vision prayed on my mind as we soaped ourselves.

gooselake

Sat, 03 Nov 2007 11:49 EST

GOOSELAKE

It was a time. Damn it was wonderful time to live. Yeah, "Fuckin A, number one tweety bird!" If I could go back...for maybe just a day or three, it would be to Goose Lake...that miserable little swamp located just off I-94 outside of Jackson, Michigan in the year 1970....and the month of August, yeah, it was that hottest of fucking months, for three days of music and 350,000 friends listening to what some believed was the continued blossoming of a new, more youthful world, where peace and love was all we needed. We never thought it would degenerate, in just a few years, to the hedonistic scream of "Let's PARTY." We almost had it right. I assure you. But thats for later philosphers and writers to ponder. My purpose here is to tell you the story of some young lions, who rode in two vans to that venerable spot...and of their experiences in a time when music was magic and tribes gathered at these places. We all worshipped there for a simpler, and more truthful world.

"It's a virus. It will have to run it's course." Doctor Robertson seemed professioanlly sympathetic, but I think he found it hard to feel really sorry for this disappointment. "Doc!" "This means I am going to miss the "Strawberry Fields" Rock Festival in Canada. I was supposed to leave tommorrow." The fever was raging now and I felt dizzy as he wrote a prescription. If I just had more time I could throw this thing off. No such luck. I was sick...man...I was sick.

"Dale, you know how I feel about those things. A bunch of irresponsible kids taking drugs and having "free" sex. You need to get your priorities straight."

Well. As far as I was concerned my priorities were in perfect order. I didn't dare tell him his kid was going with a friend of mine. I, on the other hand, preferred to hitch-hike. I just loved that unpredictable freedom...ah, but with this fever the only place I was going to, was to bed. Damn. Three days of music and all the huge bands would be there. Maybe I would be well enough to leave the next day and catch all of the Saturday and Sunday music...if I could make Toronto in a day. You just never knew when you hitch-hiked.

I left the office in a dream-like world. The fever made everything look a bit off and bent. I filled my presciption and took twice the dose of antibiotics just in case it would speed the healing up. My throat was now raw and I had a unique eye-bulging cough. I was convinced it was going to pop a blood vessel in my head before the medicine was even digested. The thought of leaving for the Strawberry Fields Festival now appeared remote. I drove home through a haze of disappointment and a skin crawling fever. I parked the car and looked up the path to my little house. That well worn pet and human highway meandered past my mother's house. I loved my mother...but did not particularly like talking to here when I was sick or in a bad mood. She could be, well irritating comes to mind when I am in a good mood...lets just leave it at that. On this day I was hoping to make the walk unnoticed. I did not want to hear if I had found a good job yet or if I planned on marrying one of the neighbor's nieces. I closed the door of my car and started to do what I called my invisible walk up the path. I found that mom was tuned into brain waves or thoughts...at least that was my theory back then, so I tried to quiet my internal dialogue and pass peacefully by her windows, which seemed to stare at me accusingly........, "WHAP!" Her window slammed open. I was toast.

"Dale, I said....uuuuuuhHHHHH Dale!" I saw her face framed by the screen that kept out the mosquitoes at this time of the year. It gave a fuzzy, dark look to here that made me think I should feel guilty about something. My mom could do that...what a gift.

"Yeah, Mom. Whats up?"

"You know why it's so goddamn hot?"

"No Mom, why?"

"The goddamn Russians are messing with the weather. They got secret satellites you know. Gloria Unger told me all about them." Now Gloria also thought that anyone that drove a Studebaker Lark was a communist because if you spelled Lark backwards and changed a few letters it spelled Karl...and everyone knew that was meant for Karl Marx. She painted all her trees pink a few years before and proclaimed herself a misunderstood genius. My mom collected friends like that. I think it has a lot to do with my outlook on life.

"I guess mom. I am sick. I am going to bed and try to throw this virus off."

"You know why you got a virus Dale?"

It was just better to keep walking. And not to look back. If you got her in the right mood the door could open. Then she would tell you all the things Gloria told her to never tell anyone else.

The next day, the day I should have left I spent on the couch. My mother stopped in for a visit. I heard her voice outside. She never knocked. She always called me the way her mother had called her and my Aunt when they were growing up in Louisville, Kentucky.

"Dale....I say...UUUHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh DALE." The uh part was long and drawn out. I am sure you can imagine.

"Dale, those festivals just have a lot of drugged out kids and sexual orgies. You should be glad you are sick and cannot go."

Goddamn. Nobody was thinking here.

"But mom...I am sure I feel better...I may take off later today or tommorrow and see how it goes. If I get sick I will get a motel room and come home. "

"You are old enough to make up your own mind...remember you are a Duke...and that comes with a responsibility to do the right things."

Yup. I planned on that alright. In the summer of 1970 values were different...I think a lot of it was Vietnam. All of us had friends who never came back or knew a neighbor that had lost someone. Drugs were abundant everywhere. Mostly the psychedlics like LSD or Mescaline....always marijuana. I do not think there will ever be a time quite like it again. We had great educations, money in our pockets, incredible music to listen to, and t.v.'s that showed body counts and people on fire. I guess all this led to discussion for the next generation that was to follow in our parents footsteps. A generation questioned middle class values...the white picket fence, the sales position in a plastics corporation, and said..."Fuck it." And for a while...we fucked it with pleasure.

Day 1

I woke on friday morning feeling a lot better. I told myself over and over I felt better. I heard the phone ringing and picked it up....it was Joe Szady. "Hey man...you gonna go to Goose Lake?"

"Where the hell is that?"

"It's a major rock festival....near Jackson, Michigan. Ten Years After, Mountain, Rod Stewart and the Small Faces, Chicago, John Sebastian and a whole lot more will be there."

" Joe I am glad you told me...I think I can leave by noon."

"If you can get to 6 & 31 we can pick you up. Jerry Wilson is driving his blue van and I got the white Dodge. Keep an eye out for us...o.k???"

"You got it." Now I felt better. It was just a feeling but I knew I was going to have fun. Life was good...now where was that thermometer?

So thats how a one of those big moments in my life got started...my friend from Walkerton called with some information and an idea. Time and chance...rather like the 60's in general, things coming together...yeah, I was in. I hitchiked to the planned meeting spot and was picked up by those long lost friends within an hour. It was about a two hour trip to Jackson. We passed the miles smoking marijuana and listening to eight track tapes. I remember laying down for an hour with a slight fever. I kept getting this girl, who called herself "Rain", to feel my head....it seemed to help. I do that to this day. If I am sick I ask any woman within distance to "feel my head." It's not a demented thing, it really helps. I advise all men to try it. Everyone told me not to worry about getting sick...because the good "vibes" at the festival would run off any bad feelings. I was first and foremost a musician ..secondly a low ranking hippie...I did not put a lot of stock in good vibes. I took two more antibiotics, washed it down with some nameless wine and put my head down on Rain's lap. She absorbed the bumps in I-94...and would check for fever when I asked her. It could have been worse. I never saw or heard of her again..things like that happened in those times.

When we were within a mile of the festival traffic backed up and people were everywhere... walking down the road, sitting beside the road, riding on tops of vans and cars, playing guitars and reciting poetry. Some openly sold drugs such as Lsd and Marijuana, and the police...due to the sheer numbers of crime breakers...looked the other way. They did a good job really...there if someone needed help but not interfering with something obviously bigger than the everyday laws they were there to enforce. All in all it was a peaceful bunch...but goddamn I had to pee. To this day when I see 350,000 people gathered in a great field, without a tree to be seen...I have to pee. My nearest and dearest tell me that if I see five people in a small living room...I have to pee. I think it's a kind of hydro flashback. I know...I know.

It took about an hour to get into the festival site. It was an amazing place. The promoters had built a blue wooden fence around the entire concert area. The rest of the site contained food booths and parking, and portable restrooms that were useless after the first day. They just kind of overflowed and floated away. To this day I shudder when I think I went skinny-dipping in that weed choked patch of tepid water called Goose Lake.

Goose Lake was not Woodstock, but it was close, 350,000 people showed up and we were the only two vehicles allowed in the concert area Joe and Jerry took it upon themselves to drive their vans directly into the giganitic enclosed blue enclosure called "The Goose Nest." There were twin towers about 70 feet in the air that held the lights for the concert..they proved to be a handy reference point in the dark. Other vehicles were in the enclosed area, but for some reason Joe and Jerry parked close to the entrance...it proved to be an ingenious move. As more and more people arrived for the event, more people ignored the parking area and drove directly into the concert area. The promoters kept making announcements over the gigantic public address system, asking all vehicles to move out of the Goose Nest. Finally Festival security had to threaten to cancel the concert unless the vehicles moved out. Our bit of fortune came when security asked us to keep our two vans just inside the entrance and explain to people that vehicles were not allowed beyond ours. Yeah I know. We did a lot of explaining.

It was perfect! We had all our gear close and the best part was by climbing on the roofs of the vans we had a superb view of the artists! Thats where I got my superb view of Linda Smith from Columbus, Ohio. Good God. Orange tank top without a bra and long blonde hair...parted perfectly in the middle. My mouth was hanging open as I watched her. I think that is why she noticed me.

"Hi. Can I sit up there with you?" Her large eyes were bright and friendly. Women always get me in trouble. I am a little more cautious today, but at the age of 20 years, in the year 1971, at a rock festival in Michigan, I was, well....different.

"Cure you san! Want some smoke?" She smiled at my stumbling tongue. I smiled and looked at every part of her I could. She was soon sitting beside me and the hot summer sun shone down on us for the next few hours as we listened to the sounds of that time, and that place. I am now sitting in the loft, of my apartment, in a town in Oregon...but I can still smell her hair and see her face and wish the wish to touch her.

We listened to the lesser bands as the afternoon was still early. Linda looked at me with eyes the size of Jupiter's moons and asked me, "Dale, I have some Orange Sunshine. Would you like some?"

Now I knew that this was LSD. Everyone back then said they had Orange Sunshine...that was purportedly made by a man named Owsley or maybe Kesey... but it was always just some adulterated LSD that was a gentle "trip" for about 5 hours. It did not make dinosaurs appear or the dreaded melted faces effect, nor the toe curling question, "Am I bleeding?" So...without misgivings I said, "Sure I do. Maybe we should take two, they're small."

She looked at me with a patience I have seen on women's faces many...many times since.

"Now Dale, this is really powerful stuff. Have you ever taken LSD before?"

"Sure I have. I went to junior college on the west coast....in Portland, Oregon as a matter of fact. I have had Orange Barrels, Pumpkin Seed Mescaline, Purple Haze, Mr. Natural, Orange and Purple Micro-Dot, and Blotter acid...and by the way did I tell you that you have lovely eyes?"

"I guess you know your psychedelics. Take this...and about the eyes....thanks."

Whew! She gave me that smile I had named "the come on." Oh damn...this was going to be a night!!!!!!

We both "dropped" the LSD at about 4 in the afternoon. I looked at my watch and made a note...a kind of survivor's instinct for the experieced user. You tended to lose track of time. In about one hour I would be feeling the electricty flowing thru my body...in two hours I would be "peaking". In five hours I would be "down." YUP. Nothin' to it. I had done it at least 50 times before this. I would be a lot more fucking careful in the future.

Jerry, Wally and Joe climbed to the top of the van to listen to the music and talk. They brought a wineskin full of Boone's Farm Apple wine. It tasted good and Linda gave them each a tab of "Sunshine." I had never seen so many people in my life. From the top of the van it looked fantastic. The New York Rock Ensemble were playing when I decided I had to pee. It seems whenever I start to have a good time, I have to pee. The porta-pots were still working so I told Linda I would be right back and climbed down off the roof of the van. I noticed a peculiar lightness about my body. It felt like I weighed about eight ounces. I found a blue, plastic outhouse and when my turn came I went in. Everything was going fine till then. When I shut the door it was like I went into another world. The closing of the door turned my concentration into my new world...the world of the portable bathroom. I was totally absorbed with the vents which let shafts of light in that resembled a laser light show long before they were invented. I would probably still be there if someone hadn't screamed, "Hey asshole, you need to see a practologist." WELL. I guess I had better pee. I pulled forth my weenie and gee....that felt really good...which made me think of Linda...which made me try to hurry...which slowed the process up. By this time the guy outside was threatening to push over the pot. I finally shot a puny stream into what appeared to be a lake of burning lava and snapping alligators. Then the stream of urine turned into lightning bolts and I turned into one scared son-of a bitch. I ran out the door holding little elvis in my hand. The sheer look of terror on my face and my penis in a choke hold shut the complainer up real fast. I got it together enough to put it back in my pants and realized I had probably taken the real... Orange Sunshine. That was probably the last rational thought I had for the next 12 hours. All I wanted to do was get back to the van. The music sounded like a choir of angels being directed by Paul McCartney. I could feel the waves as each note pulsed thru my body. When I got to the van I climbed to the roof out of instinct. Seek higher ground when in danger. I had entered another world and the door had slammed shut behind me. Linda was gone. Never saw her again. At the time I did not care in the least. My three friends were still on the roof and I had to push a bit to make room. Joe mananged to say, "Holy fuck, I am loaded, and I am thirsty."

"So why don't you get down and get some pop?" I asked.

"Have you looked over the side lately," asked my friend Joe?

I crawled a few feet over to the edge and looked down. I had just gained purchase to this spot on the van and was amazed at what I had been able to climb. I was seized by extreme vertigo. It seemed we were perched on the edge of a great canyon...literally. It had to be 300 feet to the ground. I moaned softly and closed my eyes. YUP. Thats no good. Extreme hallicinations...that changed and pulsed with the music. When it got scary I would open my eyes....till what I was seeing got scary...then I would close my eyes. I heard Jerry Wilson say..."Fuckin A number one tweety bird." He said that a lot for the next several hours. I have never thought to ask him why he did that. I think it is better that way...'ya know?

"Fuckin A number one tweety bird." You would just have to have been there. Once your ticket was punched on Lsd there was no getting of the bus. I knew this and grabbed my ass with both hands and hung on. I kept telling myself that I would come down and not be stuck in this inverted reality. I tried to check my watch...but it became an unearthly instrument that fascinated me so much I forgot to try to get a foot in reality by seeing what time it was. I was way the fuck out there and the real music was starting. I used to say, "If you are going to play in the mud ya' might as well get dirty." I was wallowing in the mud, on top of a van, at a gigantic festival, and Rod Stewart and the Small Faces were playing music that was quite remarkable.

Stories, Essays and Poetry

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 11:48 EST

AGNES of the BACKSTOP

Her features are rubberized and ugly

She has the look of mental illness...

and is both elegant and awkward.

She has found purpose in her life...

She watches baseball at a Catholic school

and wears a letterman's jacket her brother gave her

that says "94".

She is in her grandfather's charge...

He watches the innings slip by in dog years

Agnes watches the crowd and chases foul balls

She has been to this field many times

She is of this field

A bit of grass...some line chalk

Some DNA and RNA and a foul ball in genetics...

I give you Agnes of the backstop.

I do not think she understands the game

Nor takes any interest in the winner or loser

It's a cool summer day...she has her jacket

She is beautiful and graces this green field.

Stories, Essays and Poetry

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 11:48 EST

I WONDER WHAT MAKES PEOPLE THE WAY THEY ARE?

My aunt used to say that whenever she was confronted by a perplexing personality. She had a few things that she did that mystified me. She was mild mannered and rarely got angry, but she could not abide anyone saying "Do you follow me?" She would stand up and be counted. She would never say why it bothered her, only "I do not like that expression...please do not say it to me again!" She was also fond of the word "intricate". Whenever she was painting or driving in heavy traffic she would tell me, "Now Dale, don't bother me, I am in an intricate spot." She was also married to my uncle Leo.

Uncle Leo was a business man and retired magician that spent the 30's in "Doc Dodo's Medicine Show." He settled into a shoe and clothing store business in our town and managed to raise 5 adopted boys after he and my aunt married. He was also known to the fire department as a "fire bug." Now this is not to be confused with an arsonist. He did not light buildings on fire or tried to do harm to anyone. He just burnt our farm down every spring...we always managed to save the buildings..but the woods and fields sure took a beating...literally. Every year he swore off having a little fire to burn off the dead grass and brush piles. But "fire bugs" are "fire bugs" as the fire chief said...so the family learned to overlook this little flaw in his character. We also learned the number to the fire department before anyone thought of 911.

One day when my mother was working I was in my aunt and uncle's charge while they shopped in town. All in all it could have been a worse day until my aunt stepped in that gum.

I will never forget the look on her face as her shoe peeled slowly off the pavement with each step.

"Leo...this is no good." "Do you have a knife?" she was looking for a place to sit and found a bus stop bench. Always helpful Leo said "Hon...No." I saw my chance to get some points with my aunt and piped up.

"Nina...I have my scout knife!"

"Now theres a good boy, give it here." She took off her shoe and examined the pink glob on the bottom of her heels. My uncle was kind of ignoring the whole thing...I think he was playing with a matchbook as I remember the scene more clearly. My aunt started to try to scrape the glue like gum from her shoe. I have to admit it was a mess. She sweated in the humid heat of August in Indiana and became more and more agitated. It was like someone was humming "Do you follow me?" in her ear as she worked.

"Is it comin off Nina?" I asked hopefully?

"Now Dale, I am in an intricate spot." She was composed and dealing with the problem as only she could.

Thats when I learned a small thing like a gob of gum can ruin an almost perfect day in this world that gives and takes.

"Dale, I have never said a swear word in my life or taken the lord's name in vain..." She was working furiously at the gum now..her mouth was pulled into a sardonic grin and her hat was bouncing around on her head as she scraped...."But if I ever find the dirty $#@-&^-@#$%^ that spit out that gum I'm gonna kill him."

Yup. It's the little things that happen that make us what we are. Would be killers of gum chewer's, chronic brush burner's, writer's and businessmen all inhabit this part of the galaxy..... that seems to be bent.... just a tad off center.

Stories, Essays and Poetry

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 11:47 EST

THE CROSSING

The reflection of city lights

On rain slick sidewalks

Reveal the aperture

of another world.

The rolling of tire or the stepping of foot

Explode the tarns

Into colored droplets

of wet light...

to coalesce and return to a mirror...

Where small fishes seem to school and dive.

Snails crunch under foot

Taxi brakes squeak in the night

Look closely

at what does not try to alert you

To your worlds boundaries...

I know where lost love goes.

I think I see you there

it matters little as I am biding time in this city...

Thinking of crossing over.

Light water...

Deep water...

Mirror pond magic...

the surface tension broken by the passing of traffic...

In that reflection...

I am fading....and vague.

Slowly I am dissasembled.

I know not how

or why...

this all began.

I think of you now......

And on this bench

I drink with a vengence.

I am weak...

withdrawing by breathes...

Smiling at the wet light.

I know where lost love goes.

I will find you there.

A True Story

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 12:18 EST

HARRY GUSTAFSON

An Alphabetical Portrait of a Working Man

My first year as a supervisor was hell in a cage in a hot wooden firetrap of dust and wood called a warehouse in northern Indiana. I was a reluctant supervisor...it was a field commission...the other prospects had dried up or wised up and I was the last man standing. None the less I was now making $1200 dollars more a year and considered on the fast track. The problem for me was big and simply this...I was now in charge of what were my co-worker's. I had to tell them what to do....when to do it...and what was wrong or right with the way they accomplished it. I had become a yardstick and a weigher of human worth.

Within two days I was shunned by everyone I had worked with...and there was one person that was stirring the kettle of discontent with a skilled and ardent hand. I give you Harry Gustafson...a three hundred pound man with a foul mouth and pure disdain for working women, blacks, mexicans, and any word more than two syllables long. I had known him...I had tolerated him...and I had argued with him during the two years we had worked together before my promotion. He found my two years at a junior college a distinct anti-American activity and gave full voice to his concerns. He held court during lunch in the breakroom. He is the only man I have ever known that could play cards and speak confidently on the inferiority of supervisor's and all countries other than the U.S.A. He took supervisor's down...broke them systematically with a proven procedure...he outlasted them, outdistanced them, sometimes he outfoxed them but he never gave into them...because he was Harry.

He was particularly proud of the fact he had been fired three times but never got off the property. Harry wasn't one that had learned the fine art of compromise. His specialty was maintenance, avoiding responsibility and non-cooperation. He was also a reluctant teacher....I learned respect does not come with a title from that man. We both entered an emotional meatgrinder, advesaries clenched in battle, and the end product of meat, blood and soul was a mingling of the best of our characters...but I would tell you this...the mutual and grudging respect was hard won and played out over time and their were victims along the way.

My aunt used to have a saying " I wonder what makes people the way they are?" Since I met Harry I found ample opportunity to mull over that question...and as time inched by in the building by the railroad tracks I started to learn about him and a little about myself.

He was a catchers mit for lifes problems. The IRS mistake was a curve ball for sure. He told me, in that great obnoxious voice of his, "Well I learned the diffference between a lien and a levy." And then there was that time his youngest son climbed the water tower, took one look down, and turned his hands into claws that took the entire fire department to free from that lofty railing. After he let loose it still took a crisis counselor and two fireman to coax him down. That was a wild pitch he had to let by. That boy was a dark star, he had all the promise but just could't catch fire. Then there was the oldest boy...kind of a slider he was....he broke Harry's heart when he decided agains't a career in law enforcement or the marine corp. and decided to go to florist school. He kept that quiet for a while. Harry took a lot of disapointments from life and tried to pass the feeling's along.

The first victin I saw come apart of Harry's first hand was Dave Middleman. A good hardworking farm boy that got fed as fodder to the great one. Dave was in charge of shipping and took a great deal of pride in his work. He loaded boxcars with a crew of 6 that pushed handcarts around the warehouse. Harry called them "F" Troup. Dave wore a green farm hat so he called him "picklehead." It was like that with Harry...constant niggles thrown your way...eventually a few of them would stick, then something else would go wrong, then Harry again...then one day Dave was not there.

Dave's downfall (literally) was kept secret for a week or so, but it eventually got out. It seems he was having bad dreams. One friday night he had a really bad one. He dreamn't the train was coming before the boxcar was loaded. He told me he could hear Harry laughing and yelling, "The trains here and your not ready!!!" Dave did some fast sleep walking out the second story of their farmhouse to stop the train. No one knows how he got that old door open that took you into nothing except a fleeting view of the midwest from 30 feet up.

To make matters worse Dave was in his underwear. On the goodside he managed to land on his feet. On the downside he collapsed both his arches and was off work for a month. He was never really the same after that and quit within a few weeks of his return. He told me he would pray for Harry.

It got to me eventually. Whenever I would direct him to something that needed repaired he would say, "Your the one with the brass nuts...you tell me whats wrong with it!" It's hard to remain supervisory when your relationship runs along those lines...and hell...it was embarrasing. I did not know what was wrong with it and I did not have nor wanted "brass nuts." But I kept coming back everyday...and he kept teaching endurance.

His abusive wit and constant undermining of my authority kept coming in trademark style. I asked my new boss what to do with him and his lack of wisdom echoes down the halls of leadership...."Oh...that's just him...ignore it...." Absolutely impossible from my standpoint...I remember thinking one day on the way to work...Harry Gustafson is not a person I would ever like. My toes curled in my workboots at the thought of another day with Harry.

From management's point of view I was looking like a success story. It had been a year and I was still there. I had the grudging respect of a few key people and there were days even Harry treated me with indifference which was a reward in itself. I had taken to jogging along the railroad tracks during lunch to relieve stress. I was starting to have dreams about work and was hoping to make myself so tired I would not dream (you remember Dave?) Thats when I found out that Harry lived in a trailer court just a half mile from the warehouse. As I huffed along the cinders by the iron rails I saw him tapping on the brake shoe of his pick-up. He had not been to work in a few days. I had taken the calls saying he was sick...he did not look well.

I was surprised when he saw me and spoke, "Hi Duke...What in the hell are ya doin'? Looks like ya could use a bra." His face did not meet my stare with it's usual defiance and something about the loss of fire in his eye's made me think of a catcher's mit. " I thought you were sick...what's up?"

"I got family problems...my wife tried to buy something on credit and they told her she did not have any credit history...now she's all upset...worried that something may happen to me and then what would she do?" He was still gently tapping on that brake shoe...a rhythym of sadness and the sound of a red rust drum.

"So what are ya gonna do?" I was curious about this conversation. Apparently he was opening up to me, or really.....really desperate.

"I am not as worried about that...its ..just...well....I wish she had told me how she felt about.....sex." He whispered the word sex and gave a quick, furtive glance toward the house trailer. Now this was getting good....I could not believe it!

"Sex?" I was kind of embarrassed but damn curious.......

"Yeah....I have been watchin this show on "How to Please a Woman"...it's on cable...she wants me to watch it....I just thought that after 20 years of marriage that sex...well...I really like women, oh you know that.....but in the home....well....goddammit...she's my wife."

I felt sorry for him, this must be like a male menopause thing or something. I could not believe he trusted me with this. I did not let him down. He was at work the following Monday and our relationship was different. Not always good...but we talked about things....work things and life things.

I found out a year later I was being transferred to a plant in Oregon that needed a "good people manager." I was a little worried about accepting the job but Harry told me I would do just fine. Coming from a man that could have made George Patton run home crying I took some courage in his remark. My passage from follower to leader had been very difficult. This misery was not all Harry's fault but he was a gifted antagonist. His contribution's should not go unmentioned and his joy at my discomfort still brings a rueful smile. I think he was an Angel...with a lesson to give me.You earn respect and you pay for it differently with each situation. No magic formula's in a management course for this stuff...just keep coming back everyday. He made sure I learned it well. The last time I saw him I still think I saw a dusty halo about a foot above his head.

It's a tough job...a divine job...teaching the reality of what its like to work. I miss Harry Gustafson and I wish him well. The last I heard he had been fired four times and put one supervisor into therapy.

If we both live long enough....I may just tell him I know about the halo.