Ship & Save: A Story
I went out to send a package. I came back with a life lesson. Please enjoy the sights & sounds of my flat tire. Click the audio button for the whole scoop!
**This story was recorded after 3 hours of adventures on the side of Charlotte Pike in Nashville, TN. I was talking into headphones while driving home after all the fun so that’s why the sound is so good. This re-telling is dedicated to, JERONE, the hero of this real life adventure.
I THINK THESE PLANTS BELONG TO ISABELLA
THE BATHROOM DOOR AT THIS RESTAURANT OPENED UP INTO THE KITCHEN WHICH HAD SALOON DOORS. IT WAS A REAL SURPRISE.
S&S SHIP & SAVE: WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
OBSESSED WITH THIS GRAPHIC
The Lonesome Scenes of Winter
It’s February and I am sighing a lot. Luckily, I have a bunch of pals that live by the mantra, “There’s no bad weather, just bad clothes,” so we have been hiking a lot. This means I have heard myself say, “DAG, it’s bleak as hell out here,” many, many times.
Last Saturday I was walking with two artists pals, and I asked them about it. “Since ya’ll have the superpower of vision of recognizing tiny shade differences by name and all the warms and cools that contribute to a bleak-ass landscape, how do you feel about all this grey and tan?”
My friend Rachel, whose Nordic palette is moody greys & the colors of a Pacific Northwest seascape, said she loves it. She pointed out some bleak highlights on the landscape, reminding us about the many washed out looking living things that rest in the dark soil until it’s time for their springtime glow-up.
I said, for me, a bleak landscape is kind of like a mood ring. If I’m feeling blue, I read it as confirmation that all the marrow has been sucked from life and my future is a bone-colored path into a horizonless future (hahah, I’m exaggerating, kind of). If I’m feeling good, a bleak landscape is like standing in front of a stack of amps at a doom metal show--100% unapologetic toughness with no apologies. The almost-comic bleakness is inspiring.
One of my favorite ballads ever about this very thing, is Addie Graham’s version of “Lonesome Scenes of Winter,” from Been A Long Time Traveling in the June Appal’s Anthology of Appalachian Music Vol. 1: The Ballad Tradition.
I wouldn’t normally turn to a record with multiple murder ballads and a tune about the death of children for a pick-me-up, but Graham’s version of “Lonesome Scenes” gets you right up under the rib cage. You know, that spot in your spirit that knows that many things in this life are just brutal, must be faced head-on, and accepted for what they are in all their ugliness. I will not insult you with a list of flip examples, but I don’t need to. This is, unfortunately, one universal lesson of human existence.
When I first came out about loving folk music, I was 18 years old and depressed. Punk was the main thing (music, lifestyle, social event) where I lived, so this felt risky. Punk got me interested in vinyl. Vinyl got me interested in folk music. In my countless hours of digging at the thrift store, I picked up a couple of folk revival records that piqued my interest. Some of these artists reference Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music, and after many trips to my local library, well, the rest is history. I went through a two year period of not listening to anything that didn’t have a chicken in the background.
I bought an old autoharp and started learning tunes. I didn’t know about old-time or that young people actually played this music. There was one musician in my area who owned a folk music store in the 70s, and he taught me some basic autoharp repair. My friends’ hardcore bands let me open for them with “L&N Railroad,” and “The Wagonneer’s Lad” (ah, the pure love in local posi punk scenes).
When I sang these ballads, I was not alone. I did not feel depressed (even though most of the songs were depressing). I was taking a turn bearing witness to human suffering.
By the miracle of archivists and libraries etc., I got to pray the same song-prayers that countless other people before me sang when they experienced sadness, depression, despair, & joy. These were songs that mountain women sang as they hung laundry (in warm and cold weather). These Appalachian tunes that I hummed while washing dishes during this difficult time, were hummed by many before me during their difficult times, all the way back to their countries of origin.
What happens to a melody the longer it’s sung? Does it grow spiritual power with every voice?
What I am saying is, bleak sad songs have been healing to me. Graham’s version of “Lonesome Scenes of Winter,” a song about loneliness, unrequited love, threat of poverty, etc. bear witness to the raw toughness of these experiences. The narrative does not stop in the lonesome scene of winter. It doesn’t even stop in the unrequited love. The song continues indefinitely as the slighted lover moves on certain that, though this woman doesn’t love him, “another will.”
The personal experience encapsulated in Appalachian ballads helped me feel connection in a bleak emotional landscape. Performing the deep sadness of others helped normalize my own.
A bleak landscape is a visual representation of this, too, I guess. Yep, things are not lush and green right now. Signs of death are everywhere. There’s no way around it. But the days just keep on coming. And every day (after the solstice), there is a little more light. And eventually, with more light, the life dormant under the surface will emerge again.
Overheard: Shopping at the Dollar General
*****a little moment from a summer before QUAR (from the archives)**
She was looking through the baby onesies, scooting the tiny suits along the metal bar if they didn’t strike her fancy and pulling the ones which did.
A sun smiling wearing sunglasses, its embroidered rays extending out in wavy lines.
A ladybug wearing a hat.
A little suit that said, “What part of take me to grandma’s do you not understand?”
Light pinks and baby blues, an occasional plain white or yellow—in the middle of the summer cookout section at Dollar General.
A tall thin man came in wearing a cornflower blue work shirt. She walked over to him, placing her hands on the racks she passed to steady herself.
“See if you can see these sizes,” she said, “We need them to be 3-6 months.” As she held them up in the middle of the aisle, he read the tiny blue print off the clear plastic hanger,
“3-6 months, 3-6 months, 3-6 months,” he read in a low, calm voice. Maybe she had held so many babies she could eyeball the size without needing to read it? “0-3 months,” he continued.
“No, we don’t want that,” she said.
“Hey,” said a lady in the checkout line. “Hey, Mrs. Barbara.”
“Hey,” said Mrs. Barbara vaguely, turning slightly to see who it was.
“Are you feeling okay,” said the lady.
“Yeah, I’m getting along.”
“Do you know who I am?” said the woman in the checkout.
“I can’t see you too good from here.”
“I’m Charlene,” she said, “Gerald’s girl.”
“Oh sure,” said Mrs. Barbara politely.
“I see your granddaughter down at the CVS,” said Gerald’s girl. “She does a right good job down there.”
“Yes, she’s a good girl. We just had another grand baby born. A girl. That makes 5 grand babies and 5 girls. We’re real tickled about it.”
“Well. . . that’s nice. Congratulations. I’m glad I got to see you,” said the lady. “Take care, Mrs. Barbara.”
The tall man directed me around him and Mrs. Barbara by rolling his eyes to the ceiling and motioning right with his head. He was still reading out sizes when I left.
Poll Worker Saved From Doomscroll by Service
I did okay on election day. Then, at 3pm, I lit the Molotov cocktail of feelings lying dormant in my bod with ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE. BOOM! Spent the ensuing hours trying to get back to earth, refreshing my news feed FREQUENTLY if not OBSESSIVELY at my desk at work.
I went on a walk with my friend Emily yesterday right before our new dusk (DST). We kept getting wafts of warm and cool currents because the park is in a valley and the temperature is dropping so so quickly these days. It made all the earth smells swirl around in like a scent buffet.
I asked Emily how she did on election day and she reminded me that she was a poll worker this year. She said there were a few snafus--the late arrival of the veteran poll worker and a senior member of their team forgetting that he has to turn the building power on every year (even though this is his 15th year OMG).
But mostly, she said, it was so sweet to see all her neighbors (ones she talks to and ones she hasn’t yet). She said she got to help grannies use their little coffee stirrers to choose their candidate because their older hands had trouble getting a grip on the tiny stick. She said people kept saying, “Thank you, baby,” and “Appreciate you.” She said one man voted for “my mothafuckin self” as his write-in candidate (she was not looking on purpose). She said some people were playing music outside and one girl was giving out flowers.
Emily was busy helping people participate in our democracy and so she had little time to worry. I am taking notes on this for the next election.
Goatman Bob & Other Stories
photo by Joy
I just got word that my old friend Brock passed away. I remember him as a beautiful, complicated person and I never forgot his epic stories even though we weren’t the closest.
First, he looked like a model. Second, he was one of my first train hopping crusty friends who was dusty most of the time--which made his insanely perfect bone structure stand out even more.
I knew Brock through my friend Joy who was my first close, crust-punk friend (a woman who has a lifetime full of adventure stories I wish you could hear). She had bones in her hair and stick-and-poke tattoos before it was common. She harvested bonsai from the forest in her spare time and knew how to process roadkill hides before it was cool. I remember brainstorming with Joy about how to make a face mask out of wetsuit material her first summer as an Alaskan fisher woman. Her job was to free the fishnets of jellyfish and she got stung mostly all day.
Joy and Brock trainhopped cross country in 2007 (?), and they got arrested by train police somewhere in the Midwest. They slept outside in the snow (in sleeping bags) and almost froze and they are in my top 5 toughest, most adventurous friends to this day.
Somewhere on this journey, Joy and Brock got a ride from a big-rig driver named Goatman Bob. He was called Goatman because he had his pygmy goat riding shotgun most of the time. Soon after he picked them up, Goatman Bob about scared them to death driving off the paved road onto the open prairie. Bob started shooting prairie dogs out the window of his truck with a big ol’ gun as prairie dusk swirled around outside making it impossible to see. My pals were no doubt thinking about how easy it would be for Goatman to murder them along with the prairie dogs as they struggled to breath in the dust-filled cab. He didn’t, though, and they lived to tell the tale.
One time (after the trip), Brock was house sitting (or cleaning or something) someone’s condo at home in Virginia Beach. Joy and I went to visit him and we all got in the hot tub. I had a bathing suit and they just wore their clothes and it was the first time I felt embarrassed for wearing appropriate-to-the-activity clothing LOL (learning about punk subcultures, amiright?! what a square).
Well, anyway, Brock was explaining how one time he got locked up for stabbing a Nazi. Apparently, he ran into some dumb skinhead who had said something racist about his friend so he stabbed him and then he got arrested. His parent’s Bible study put Brock on the prayer list. He was getting cranked up telling some part of the story and tapping his beer bottle on the side of the hot tub. Finally, it shattered loudly and broke into the water and we all had to jump out. All Brock said was something like, “Aw damn, now I’ve got to drain and clean this hot tub, too.”
There are plenty better stories out there about our friend but these are the ones I’m thinking about today. These stories are from memory and I haven’t heard them in over a decade, so plz give me grace if I got any details wrong. Happy trails, my sweet pal!
Life is Complicated + Crocs
So there I am, sitting in an auto mechanic’s office in Ashland City, TN, watching a car restoration show with a white, country dude in a Blue Lives Matter hat. We are watching with J.T., the Black business owner, and we are tore up that the wooden wheels of the 1918 Ford have rotted and that they would have to reform the wheels without a workable mold to go on (the metal has rusted out beyond repair).
An old man pops in the back door breathing heavily and I am the only one wearing a mask. “Hi Mr. Cliff,” using Mister, even though he himself is a grown man. “OH hey,” says Mr. Cliff, who is asking about a transmission for a 2012 vehicle that his grandaughter drives.
“Mr. Transmission will do it for you,” says J.T., “but all they’re going to do is go to the dealership and get a rebuilt transmission and install it and charge you about $3600 for it. I don’t know anybody in town that can do it really. But I’ve known that old guy a long time, so call up there and mention my name.” “Bye, Mr. Cliff.” “Bye.”
J.T. walks to the door and back and says that, in his opinion, “it ain’t worth putting no $3500 transmission in a 2012 but that’s him.”
A woman comes in in high heels which is unexpected at 8:00AM on a rainy Monday during COVID and asks about the gold truck. “Do you need something out of it,” says J.T. “No, I was just wondering where it was. Cody didn’t want it parked out on the street and I didn’t see it.” “________(name I didn’t catch) took it to his garage at home,” said J.T., “He’s working on it there. It’s about 5 min away.” “Alright,” she said, and clomps by. By then, the whole room smelled like cigs.
On the TV, the auto restorer pulled into a drive-in restaurant that they ONLY have in my home town, and I hollered out from beneath my mask, “OMG that’s where I’m from. That’s my hometown.” And then we talked about Doumars and if guy on the show’s wife would like the black Camaro he refurbed for her (I think NOT because he put HORRIBLE pink flames on it). Then, my brake pads are done and I stand up to pay.
“I never seen no high heeled Crocs,” said Blue Lives Matter. “Hahah they’re so stupid, aren’t they?” I said.
And somehow we all had CROCS and we all talked about our Crocs and how they really are, “So great,” and how glad I was to have found a reliable mechanic and Hat says, “J.T., here, runs the best shop in town.”
And I walked out into the drizzling rain thinking about just how daggone complicated everything is and wondering if the Camaro-restorer’s old lady liked that beautiful paint job with the horrible pink flames.
Stuff Strangers Tell Me: Turned Around in My Spirit
Stuff Strangers Tell Me is a series where I just write down exactly what strangers tell me.
*the following dialogue is 100% real from the best I can recall. Occurred Sunday, September 20, 6:23 PM CST.
Setting:
in line at the grocery store
Scene:
a woman with a baby checking out in front of me
Players
Cashier: mid-50s woman with a small greying hair puff
Bagger: teenage bagger with long braids
Customer: early 40s woman looking tired with eyeliner all the way around her eyes with a baby with a full head of hair in the baby basket.
Me: (pausing my headphones)
Customer: of the baby “Well, he’s deaf and autistic so that’s part of the reason why he’s crying. He wants to be sitting up so he can see.”
Cashier: “Well, the important thing is that’s he’s human.”
Me: (unpausing my headphones to take deep breaths until it’s my turn). it’s my turn--takes off headphones
Customer: “He’s the best little baby in the world.”
Cashier: “Of course, well, make sure to get him sitting up as soon as you can.”
MY TURN
Cashier: “Do you have a Kroger Plus card?”
ME: (types in number)
Cashier: “Kids are intuitive. My daughter was like that when she was a baby. Kids can read people and they know if it’s unsafe. My daughter had that so severely that I had to take her to counseling. She was insulting to strangers sometimes because she refused to interact with them.
Luckily, her counselor was religious and he said she had the gift of discernment and now she’s a counselor. She has seen some stuff. She’s even witnessed a couple possessions. Ohhh, she has seen some stuff. She’s even had little kids come to her in the same way that she was. It [not sure if she mean the discernment or a demon] left her when she was a teenager and then, it came back a couple years ago . . .
But kids know when something’s not right. I saved a child from being kidnapped a couple years ago. The Lord turned me around in my spirit. This little girl was crying and holding this man’s hand, and I went over and asked if I could help.
He said, ‘I’m trying to help her find her Mommy,’ and I said, ‘I work here. I’ll take it from here.’ He said, ‘No, I’ll do it,’ so I said, ‘No,’ and I took that baby from him. When I got her, she squeezed my hand and that’s how I knew I did the right thing., and I said, ‘Don’t worry sweetheart. You’re safe now. Let’s find your Mama.’
It messed me up for a while. What if I had missed it? But the Lord turned me around in my spirit.
Here’s your receipt.”
Nightswimming or “So tell me what you want, what you really, really want”
I live in a pool house that looks like a cabin on a farm property. The pool for which my house is named, is kind of a community place. My landlords’ friends come by, and though there are suggested hours, one of the decided rules is, “Old people swim at any time they want to.”
One night not too long ago, I was cleaning my one-room house and watching Designing Women when I stepped out onto my back porch to sort the recycling. I saw a figure looming in the darkness by the deep end. “OH LORT,” I thought, “Here’s that country ghost I’ve been waiting for.” “HELLO?,” I was able to squeak out.
Now, the figure did it’s looming in my direction and I heard a woman’s voice, talking very fast, come out of the darkness. “I’m Michelle. Didn’t I meet you with Annie? My house burned down around the same time as your (landlords’ names). I used to be a lifeguard for twenty years. I love the water.”
I soaked what I could see of her outfit as she talked: full t-shirt, long cargo shorts, bright blue swim cap, goggles, water shoes.
“HI. WOW. Do you want the porch light on?,” was what I came up with.
“No, I can swim by the light of the fireflies,” she said.
“I have string lights. Would you like them on?” I spoke into the dark void beyond the porch. I mean, it was DARK out there. There are no lights in or around the pool. It was just a slightly shimmering mass of black liquid by this time.
“Well, you can turn the porch light on if you want,” said Michelle.
If I want? IF I want? If I want? This spectre had thrown me a brain teaser. Did SHE want the light on? Was she not wanting to put me out? Was this a test of my ability to overstep what I thought was polite to take a person at her word and believe that what she was saying was true—that she preferred the firefly light but would sacrifice and suffer through the porch light for my sake?”
Then, there we were, kids, in the WTF SPRIAL ZONE. My brain loves to operate in this zone so much that I’ve started taking increasingly long bursts of as-cold-as-I-can-take-it water at the end of my showers. This, the experts say, will give my brain a break from the constant weight of decision-making. The cold water will improve my resiliency. If I can learn to slow my breathing and accept the cold, it’s supposed to shrink the frequency of the chutes and ladders possibilities minefield that pop up in my mind as soon as an unclear social situation presents itself (so basically, all day every day).
You can turn the porch light on if you WANT.
So I went back inside back to the cleaning and The Sugarbakers, but I couldn’t stop wondering how old this person was. How good was her sight? “What if she is VERY old? What if she’s someone’s great grandmother and she is out in the pitch black darkness and she is swimming laps and she won’t be able to see to walk around the edge of the pool which is littered with an unfurled garden hose, beach chairs at different heights, and the infernal detritus of children’s toys as they decentigrate in the summer sun after 3 months of being thrown around willy-nilly and then she breaks her hip and, well folks, that’s the beginning of the end—a slow decent into eternity?”
I made it like 15 minutes and snuck outside to plug in the lights. I could see her figure walking slowly away from me towards the black hole of the deep end under the moonlight. It was not NOT eerie. The second I plugged in the lights my relief was interrupted by a “GAHHH,” from the inky waters.
“Sorry,” I said, “It’s just so dark. I was worried.”
“I can see by the fireflies. You can turn on the porch light if you want,” she said, AGAIN.
This time, I accepted it. I went back inside, and turned on the less bright porch lights and had a good long (deliberate) think about what had just happened. I thought about all the levels of politeness there are out there. In my family, if something costs someone something (in this case effort for turning on lights), a person might decline on first ask, “OH, don’t fool with it if it’s any trouble,” she might say. And then my go is, “Oh, really, shoot, I’d love to,” and then the 2nd person does the thing, and the first person feels valued and cared for. This negotiation has the effect of muddying the meaning of someone’s words, though.
So, when I encounter real-life, grown-ups outside my family, I am also tempted to play this game.
Example 1:
Them: “Do you want a seltzer? There’s one more?”
Me: “Oh no, save it for your lunch tomorrow.”
Them: “Are you sure? I’m going to the grocery store in the morning?”
Me: “No, no, it’s okay. I have the smallest sip of fizzy water here that is now, in-fact, above room temperature and would not taste good to someone lost in the desert. I’m fine.”
Example 2:
Them: “Do you want a Fudgesicle? We have plenty out in the garage.”
Me: “Oh no, don’t worry about it.” (wants Fudgesicle)
So basically, because I’m not truthful with my responses (out of a cultural? familial? a personal definition of politeness), I don’t trust other people to be truthful, too.
But in this case, YES, Michelle made her big entrance in a blaze of mystery and said a lot of words really quickly shrouded in the cloak of night, but also, giving people the gift of my honesty gives them the opportunity to really know me and what I like.
So, anyway, I left the lights on for 10 minutes and then I turned them off which is really, I think, what Michelle was asking for in the first place. OR WAS SHE?! LOL