Reflections From The World...neon signs

The Christopher Bryson Series

Neon signs 

Most times when I pass these signs it is near dark, or coming out of night. Even when I saw them for the first time I felt that I had seen them many times before.

I know the name is French, after Guillaume Tujague, but I see Tijuana, 1976, the Frontón Palacio and the diner across the street, the constant reminders of Revolución, then the free road south past the bullring, playas, lost and salty coastal days, Todos Santos, the cove and the lobster in foil, Ensenada nights, the neon of Hussong's, and the more intimate cantinas with names I don't recall: Piso Rojo, Manuel's, Abierto 24 Horas, and like that. Street taquitos at 25 cents, diesel-fueled Margaritas in a champagne glass for fifty. The night the contrabandistas offered me pesos for my wife—and when I refused, they sweetened the deal with a wooden box of cigars from Havana. Not believing them, I still refused, and the man with the gold tooth told me that they would take her to their boat if they really wanted her. Under the bar, he showed me a bone-handled cuchillo. I believed him. And the ceiling fans chopped the air like helicopters and deep heartbeats as we eased out of the place, ran like children under the neon light, scared, then later, laughing.

Neon in darkness is a visual cliche, but it remains compelling to me—its shape, its blurred sharpness, color. It can remind me of what has happened, where I have come from, and somehow holds promise for something more in the secret excitement of night.

Tujague's, Bar

Decatur Street

New Orleans

March 4, 2017

Reflections From The World...Sean Dietrich

TENNESSEE WALTZ

THE SEAN DIETRICH SERIES

He talked about creeks, mud cats, frog gigging, bush hooks, and running barefoot through pinestraw and Cahaba lilies.

Mister Vernon died last night. He went easy.

You never met him, but you knew him. He was every white-haired man you’ve ever seen.

He spoke with a drawl. He talked about the old days. He was opinionated. He was American. Lonely.

Miss Charyl, his caregiver, did CPR. She compressed his chest so hard his sternum cracked. She was sobbing when the EMT’s took him.

Caregiving is Charyl’s second job. She’s been working nights at Mister Vernon’s for a while.

She arrived at his mobile-home one sunny day. Mister Vernon was fussy, cranky. A twenty-four carat heart.

She listened to his stories—since nobody else would. He had millions.

He talked about creeks, mud cats, frog gigging, bush hooks, and running barefoot through pinestraw and Cahaba lilies.

And he talked about Marilyn. Marilyn was the center of his life once. His companion. But she was not long for this world.

He talked politics, too. Charyl and he disagreed. Mister Vernon would holler his opinions loud enough to make the walls bow.

He was a man of his time. An oil-rig worker, a logger, a breadwinner, a roughneck. He helped build a country. And a family.

Each day, he’d thumb through a collection of old photos. His favorite: the woman with the warm smile.

Marilyn. The woman who’d helped him make his family. Who’d turned his kids into adults. Adults who had successful lives and successful families. They live in successful cities, they do successful things.

“He sure missed his kids,” says Charyl. “They hardly came to see him. They were so busy.”

Busy.

Last night, Vernon asked Charyl for a country supper. She lit the stove and tore up the kitchen. She cooked chicken-fried steak, creamed potatoes, string beans, milk gravy.

“Marilyn used to make milk gravy,” he remarked.

She served him peach cobbler. Handmade. The kind found at Baptist covered-dish suppers.

“Marilyn used to make peach cobbler,” he said.

After supper, he shuffled to his easy chair. He watched the news with the volume blasting. He got tired. He shut off the television.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

Charyl helped him into cotton pajamas. She washed his face. She laid him in bed. She tucked the corners of the quilt beneath his shoulders.

“Sing to me,” said Mister Vernon.

“Sing?”

“I wanna hear a song.”

“Dunno what to sing, Mister Vern.”

“How ‘bout the ‘Tennessee Waltz?’”

Charyl cleared her throat.

She sang from memory. Eyes shut. It was more than a melody. It was the favorite song of a man with busy kids. It was his song. His era.

It was girls in faded floral-print. Men in boots. A generation of dirty hands, cutting timber, pigging pipes, and striking arcs.

When she finished, Vernon’s eyes were closed. She kissed his forehead. He was cold.

“I love you, Vernon,” she whispered.

He breathed a sigh. His chest rose and fell just once.

Marilyn was waiting at the gate.

Vernon might be the most average elderly man anyone’s ever heard of.

But America will not be the same without him.

Neither will his successful kids.

Enjoy your weekend in Ease and Peace...

Doc

https://youtu.be/zzDUi_L6MzA

Reflections From The World...daddy’s house

She sits on the porch of her daddy’s house

But all her pretty dreams are torn

She stares off alone into the night

With the eyes of one who hates for just being born ...B Springsteen 

Medium by Ann George

Entry Notes To Self...renewal

Our Being Series

My morning walk

Yellow and White Daffodils 

Journal Entry: 1/27/18

I first noticed it yesterday on my drive up from the country. Open fields, now turning a brilliant green carpet of clover. On each ridge in a distance, you could see beautiful patches of yellow and white jonquils. Each showing proudly where families once stood. A not so distant pass, but forgotten still. Generations that were connected to nature and all that sustained that in their lives. Think how connected to nature our Native Americans were. The last totally connected civilization in our history.

On my walk this morning, I felt like Spring today. A time when nature’s renewal is just beginning. Especially near the back of my neighborhood, where Nature meets civilization. Walking the edge between two worlds that depends one on the other. Nature and Civilization...a codependent relationship that has existed from the beginning.

Nature with... her chaos, randomness and patience and on the other side this ordered and impatient but beautiful arranged gardens. Each house displaying their purple and yellow (mostly) rows of pansies, and their dogwood trees with swollen buds. The Society Garlic are standing tall with just a scent of their intentions. So many varieties pushing their way out of their winters pain and emerging into light. All are just ready to surprise you any day now with their new multi colored robe. Spring, the arrival of renewal.

I don’t know why this story keeps sticking with me this morning, but I keep thinking about a news story from a small village where I spend my summer days. Let me tell it as best as I can.

”There were two alerts sent out on Saturday, that a man and women had been missing. Francis, suffering from dementia, had gone missing from her home around noon on Friday. Robert, a 70 year old, was last seen riding his red bike out of his driveway around noon on Thursday headed south on A1A near Flagler, Florida.

After an extensive and sometimes frantic search Robert was found. Seems he had cancelled his phone service on Thursday, called the local service companies and disconnected his water, power and his cable services. Small details, but it was obvious he did not want to burden his family with clearing the details of his life.

He wrote a final goodby note and left it on his nightstand, right next to seventy three cents in change and a receipt from the local pharmacy. Robert mounted his red bike and rode about four miles to a secluded beach near an area called Bings Landing. Out of sight, and at the edge of the Inter Coastal Canal, Robert took the pills he had been saving and thought his last thoughts.

What was it like in that last moment? I suppose it was like going to sleep and never waking up.

Around noon on Saturday, a man on a red bike was spotted and oddly his name was Robert, but not our Robert.  It as around 4:30 p.m. that the Sheriffs office received a ping from Robert’s cell phone. AT&T was able to activate his service and triangulated the location of his phone. It  was left in the messenger bag on Robert’s old red bike.

I found it interesting that he even took his phone with him. No longer working, except for the camera and saved photos. Perhaps he took one last glance. Perhaps not, but those saved memories rode with him to his final moments.

I remember something that my Father told me once. He had been suffering from a long illness and I asked him in one of those moments of pain, “How do you hold on?”

”Never give in to the pain.”

What is it like in that last moment of humanity when one can no longer defend against the Pain? What makes one so deliberate without any notice of return from their sorrow?  That feeling of something more intense than deep sadness. What was it like in that last moment?

 ”Was it like the feeling of falling to sleep and never waking up?”

A reporter asked Roberts son, who lives in Philadelphia, if his father had ever had thoughts of suicide? “Not to my knowledge,” he replied.

Within hours on Saturday morning, the authorities found Francis and returned her to her family. Safe and unharmed.

Our humanity...ever so fragile and delicate. Always walking that line in civilization and trying to stay connected in this Spring of renewal.

I can’t get over how beautiful my first day in spring really IS.

Doc

From InsideThe Sane Asylum...changing latitudes

The Following Wind

Changing latitudes 

Journal Entry: 3/6/18

There was this year back in the 80’s...early eighties, I charted the sail boat named Molly B. Her home Port was Houston, Texas but she was docked and ready for charter in the bay around St. Petersburg, Florida. The first thing that popped into my mind when I saw her name was a tune by Molly Bee, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. The Molly B, however, sang a much different tune. She sang a song of passion and strength, yet, gentle at times. Especially at night with just you, The Sea, and the Molly B.

With Molly B came this Sea faring Captain. His name was Jacques. A full white bearded Dutchman. He called Amsterdam his base, but he liked to change latitudes quiet often and called the open seas his home. 

He looked at me and asked, “Which direction do you want to go?”

“South seems reasonable.”

“Then pull up her anchor. She can’t change latitudes if she ain’t moving.”

It was a great adventure...sailing with Jacques... on the Molly B. 

I recaptured my soul on the Molly B. I saw the Milky Way brighter than I had ever imagined. The intensity and focus I felt in a storm, hearing desperate mayday calls on the radio. The skill of Jacques as he plotted our dead reckoning course, just after we lost our navigational system off the coast of Marco Island. Four hour watches of aloneness, just the night sounds, 75 miles from land. 

Jacques had calculated our waypoints for about four hours stretches. This would allow us a course change at the beginning of each shift. On the second morning out, I had the early morning shift, and if Jacque’s reasoning and calculations were correct, we should be close to a spot in the sea called Smiths Sholes. 24° 43.1'-81° 55.3' W. Just a small marker in the sea with a bell on it. It separates the sea from waters of safe sailing to the warning of: “beyond the dinging of my bell is a military bombing range and the shallow reefs.”

That foggy damp morning... and the faint sound in the distance. Traveling low in the water...Ding-ding, ding-ding. Jacques was right on point.

There was this pirate we encountered while anchored at Marquis Island. It was a brief layover for a little sleep before turning East toward Key West. I heard Jacques calling, “Hey, Doc. Stay below, and what ever happens, he ain’t to board Molly B.” And so it was. 

How about the overnight in Key West after too much rum. Jacques chasing chickens down Duval Street and a mad chicken owner chasing Jacques. The freedom I felt passing Cuba in the night. Seeing the lights on the horizon and only hearing the night sounds of the sea and Molly B as we came about to 280 degrees and entered the warm Gulf Stream. I remember Jacques’ words as I took the helm. ”Keep her at 280 degrees, in he fair wind, until you see the sunrise on your starboard. Our next waypoint, 25.7617° N, 80.1918° W.”

Footnote: Well it is time to change latitudes for a while. I’m headed back to the East Coast for a few months and I need to spend a little more time with some who need more time. 

Fare well. Keep the wind at your back and remember, “You have to pull anchor before you can change latitudes.” So says the Molly B.

Check back often...see you soon.

Boats drinks to all,

Doc

Life Inside The Sane Asylum...resolve

Life Inside The Sane Asylum

Resolve 

Journal Entry: 3/3/18

Yesterday, while-visiting a friend in the hospital ICU, I picked up this little pamphlet. I had the choice between one entitled #REPENT or this one. Hell, I repent all the time. Well almost. But I do say I am sorry when I’m wrong. I’m not sure I would get bonus points for that answer but maybe I should get 1 or 2? So, in my estimation, I have some Repenting skills and besides, the fact that a young person would be walking a picket line with the protest message, Are You A Good Person, is timely.

I have been intrigued watching these young people and their resolve to see change. I remember that resolve. The young people of the sixties had that resolve, along with the resolve to get High and participate in a “free sex” kinda thing. We needed a little diversity with our resolve.

All seriousness aside, we were a pretty stirred up resolve back then. Resolve lasted for a spell and the older generation was appalled. Those lazy, self centered hippies are good for nothing. Yes, we were good for nothing but we mixed in a little music with the resolve and somewhere a long the way we dropped our resolve and keep our music alive. We invented Music Fest. Well not really invented, but as my friend says about the LSU tailgating parties, “we may not have invented tailgating, but we perfected it.”

I hear a lot of comments about the youth of today. All the old cliche’s are familiar ones. Last night I overheard this conversation:

Older Man: ”Our generation apologizes to the young people of today for leaving you a world that is in such a mess.”

Young Boy: ”We accept your apology, and now we are going to fix the F####d up mess you left us.” 

Resolve

I have always had this thing about being a good person.  Think it was from being raised around good people. There was a certain standard of goodness that was the norm. I remember well those affirmations of goodness about others. You noticed that goodness and told others about it. The word spread around and when you would attended their funeral years later, they were acknowledged for their goodness. What resolve.

Well, I glanced through this little pamphlet and noticed there were degrees or levels of goodness. You can score yourself. I have never really thought about scoring myself on a scale of goodness, but here it is, right in front of me. I guess it is like being half way pregnant?

I knew I should have picked up that #Repent one...

With great resolve,

Doc

Are you a good person?

Step 1: Read these stories and decide what you would do.

You are walking down the hall when a $20 bill falls to the floor at your feet. Looking up, you realize that “Mr Money Bags” is in front of you digging through his pockets. He already has everything: will he never miss twenty dollars?

What would you do?

Take the money and run: 0 points

Donate it to charity: 2 points

Give the money back: 4 points

Uh-oh. You forgot about today’s math test and did not study. Luckily, you sit beside “Miss Know It All” and her answers are just begging to be looked at. Your teacher walks out of the room. Here’s your chance to “borrow” some answers.

What would you do?

Copy the whole test: 0 points

Use a few answers: 2 points

Do your own work: 4 points

The school bully is walking through the cafeteria with a tray full of chili and pudding. He is about to walk past you when you notice the backpack in his path. If he trips over it, things will get messy. You have to act fast.

What would you do?

Grab your camera: 0 points 

Yell “Look Out!”: 2 points

Move the backpack: 4 points

Step 2: Add up your points 

If your score is...

4 points or less: you should really try harder.

6 or 8 points: A good score, but it could be better.

10 points or more: Way to go! You are a very good person.

Step 3: Resolve to be a good person unless you scored 10 points or more, then I guess you are already one. Unless you were untruthful?

I wonder...how many points do I need to go to Heaven? Do we get to collect our points along the way and have this Heaven Mileage Account? Kinda like my Air Miles card? So many questions left to answer...;)

Footnote: Just as I am writing this, a news clip came across my phone...Breaking News: man shoots himself in the head in front of the White House. Another form of resolve...I suppose.