Of all the residents spending time at the Parker Park nursing home, Mr. Perry was the oldest. He clocked in at 103. Can you believe that? Man that guy was healthy. He claimed his longevity was due to this philosophy: always keep your mind and legs moving simultaneously. Cute for the nursing staff but I knew better. I knew it had everything to do with that plain blue “music” box next to his bed.
It was an unassuming little cube; small and wrapped like a gift with a bow on top. It wasn’t that noticeable sitting there between a vase of flowers, water glass and medications. There was a wind-up key on its side but oddly, when you wound it, no music played. Not a sound. But there was a gleam in old Perry’s eye when he would look at it. It was a secretive childlike look, as if he had just pocketed money from some unsuspecting purse. I’d visit with him every so often and I’d see his wandering gaze settle on it. He thought I didn’t notice but I did.
When the “music” box went missing, well, that was the day old Perry’s health started to decline. He lay in bed, raving about his missing music box, refusing to eat and then refusing to speak. Very quickly, he began to look that 103. Man, the whole place went nuts trying to find that box. Funny thing was, they weren’t sure what to look for. “What is it?” from the nursing staff. “A music box?” from the orderlies. Everyone claimed they’d never ever seen such a thing. But soon, there were several suspects. There always are with things like this. By the end of the day, it had narrowed down to a short list. There was talk of a happily humming nurse walking off with it. Fingers were pointed at one orderly whose last name unfortunately happened to be ‘Fingers’. Man, it got crazy as every resident on the floor became a suspect, even Mr. Kern across the hall in Room 3 who suffered from throat cancer but for the past two months, slept quietly in a coma.
Of course, all who could deny ever taking it did but man, I won’t. I can admit it now; I took it. No, that’s not quite accurate. I borrowed it for a while. I’m always up and down these halls and I look in on every single one of these folks daily. I took the “music” box, wound it and put it under old Mr. Kern’s pillow across the hall there in Room 3. The next day, well, old Perry was up and around, crowing that he’d found his music box again, right where he’d left it, there between his vase of flowers, water glass and medications. He was his old self again. The stunned staff wasn’t paying much attention to him though as they were all gathered in Room 3 with Mr. Kern. He was sitting up rubbing his throat, saying, “Can you feel that? Can you hear that?” I’m no doctor but man, I surely can.
Aug 7, 2010
Apr 27, 2010
Murderer’s Road
The road ran an empty mile, straight to the Gulf of Mexico. North, it sandwiched neat between prehistoric land where snarled tangles of branch filled a landscape of dune and swamp. A thousand burned sticks, tall and barren rose to a burning blue sky.
Nuketown, Sillinger mumbled. He shifted slightly on his seat and leaned against the van door. Beyond his windshield, he watched convicts lay sod.
There were four of them dressed in baggy prison gray. Jim Davis, a black, Walt Henley and Johnny Watt, trailer-whites and Hector Chochu, an Indian or mexican maybe. Sillinger fired up another cigarette and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine.
Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. He’d lost track of the years, four… five, sitting screw-ups who landscaped and constructed nothing in the middle of swampland. Saved taxpayers money, they said. Big money. He started to drift. His eyes were heavy, just another minute, he thought. Convicts weren’t going anywhere. They were ‘shorty’s’ doing lesser times for their aggravated crimes-- assault, robbery, drugs and trafficking. No murderers slipping away here, nowhere to run to anyway.
His thoughts shifted to Brenda. Darlin’ Brenda, love of his life. They’d been adrift for months. It didn’t help she was away much of the time.
It’s DEA Ray, she had said. The Sabina case is my case. What do you want me to do, quit? This case means a lot; it’s everything.
A Federal agent, she spent much of her time in Coyoacan securing the deal for drug lord Eduard Sabina and his family members and it was almost done. She had trailed the accounts, the deals and was now ready to move on him. Just a few loose ends, she had said. Then it’d be over.
This ain’t no Boy Scout outing.
Sillinger jumped. His eyes popped open to Jerry Remy, scowling at him through the open cab window. Remy’s eyes were black and dead, his ruddy pockmarked face expressionless. He wore an ivory white handlebar mustache that dripped down below his chin; a tight red bandana surrounded the top of his head, a pump-action shotgun at his side.
These boys need an ass kickin’, he said. You might want to get off yours and give me some help.
Sillinger crushed his cigarette and climbed out of the cab. They stood side by side and watched convicts kick dirt and lay sod. A single hawk flew low over them, its shadow crossing like a dark omen. It would turn out so.
What time is it?
Nine-o-three, Sillinger said, eyeing his watch.
Get these pricks moving then. Truck‘ll be here soon.
Remy eased across the road. He nodded at the mexican.
Get that barrow over on this side, then added in a mocking tone, mucho pronto amigo.
Without expression, Chochu dropped his rake and picked up the waiting wheelbarrow holding broken soil and a busted spade shovel. Sillinger made his way down the road toward the others, kicking the ground absently. Only Remy seemed to notice the car slowly creeping down the road toward them from the north.
He’s sleeping with her, Sillinger thought, shuffling through the dust. That much he knew about Jerry Remy. He had no proof, only a feeling. But he knew. Ahead, Watt and Henley unrolled sod sections in the simmering morning heat, stomping them haphazardly into place. Davis was further up raking debris off to the side. Cicadas and blue jays chirped relentlessly from the surrounding swamp, a chaotic distraction, a warning. Watt stopped and looked up the road toward Davis, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Sillinger looked up to see the car approaching, a sleek black Lincoln Continental that stopped next to Davis. As Sillinger approached, he was surprised to see his wife Brenda’s smiling face perched behind the wheel.
She watched Sillinger. My husband, the fool, she thought. That Remy too, swaying and grinning just beyond like death in a withering heat haze. Remy had believed her about everything; about ridding herself of Sillinger, the easy access to the Sabina drug money, springing the guy for a big payoff. It was all setup. She had slept with Remy to secure his participation, to get them isolated, to seal the deal. But now there would be another deal.
Davis stepped off toward the ditch as Sillinger leaned in the open window on the passenger side.
What ya doin’ here, Bren?
He scanned the interior.
Where in hell ‘ya get this car?
I bought it for me, she said smiling. It's a bonus from the Sabina case.
I brought you something too.
A delayed smile crossed Sillinger’s face. He glanced back at Remy who had not moved. His dark eyes appeared to shine. What is she doing here, he thought?
He never saw it coming.
Brenda was quick. The blue silver revolver fired two shots through Sillinger’s head, wiping the confused smile from his face. The first bullet dropped him to his knees like a sinner on Sunday. The second removed his left cheek and ear but he was already dead. He toppled over backward and was still. Remy grinned. He was impressed. He had been sure that when it went down, she wouldn’t pull the trigger but she had, quite easily and it was his last sure thought. The broken shovel handle entered the base of his neck just above the top vertebrae. The broken point exited his throat and he grasped it with his right hand. Remy’s dead black eyes were alive. They bulged from their sockets and he half turned, dropping his shotgun and gurgled nothing to Chochu standing there. Then there was no more. Chochu squatted and picked up the shotgun. Both Henley and Watt were running and he methodically took them down. Davis hadn’t moved from beside the ditch. He smiled up at the open cobalt sky. He didn’t say a word. Brenda squeezed the trigger, emptying the gun into him.
Hector "Cho" Sabina stepped over Sillinger and got in the car.
How you doing baby? Brenda said.
I see my father got you the money and our ride. Drive.
The Lincoln’s wheels spun shards of gravel and stone as they fishtailed down the road. Two hawks flew high above them, sitting silent on the wind.
Nuketown, Sillinger mumbled. He shifted slightly on his seat and leaned against the van door. Beyond his windshield, he watched convicts lay sod.
There were four of them dressed in baggy prison gray. Jim Davis, a black, Walt Henley and Johnny Watt, trailer-whites and Hector Chochu, an Indian or mexican maybe. Sillinger fired up another cigarette and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine.
Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. He’d lost track of the years, four… five, sitting screw-ups who landscaped and constructed nothing in the middle of swampland. Saved taxpayers money, they said. Big money. He started to drift. His eyes were heavy, just another minute, he thought. Convicts weren’t going anywhere. They were ‘shorty’s’ doing lesser times for their aggravated crimes-- assault, robbery, drugs and trafficking. No murderers slipping away here, nowhere to run to anyway.
His thoughts shifted to Brenda. Darlin’ Brenda, love of his life. They’d been adrift for months. It didn’t help she was away much of the time.
It’s DEA Ray, she had said. The Sabina case is my case. What do you want me to do, quit? This case means a lot; it’s everything.
A Federal agent, she spent much of her time in Coyoacan securing the deal for drug lord Eduard Sabina and his family members and it was almost done. She had trailed the accounts, the deals and was now ready to move on him. Just a few loose ends, she had said. Then it’d be over.
This ain’t no Boy Scout outing.
Sillinger jumped. His eyes popped open to Jerry Remy, scowling at him through the open cab window. Remy’s eyes were black and dead, his ruddy pockmarked face expressionless. He wore an ivory white handlebar mustache that dripped down below his chin; a tight red bandana surrounded the top of his head, a pump-action shotgun at his side.
These boys need an ass kickin’, he said. You might want to get off yours and give me some help.
Sillinger crushed his cigarette and climbed out of the cab. They stood side by side and watched convicts kick dirt and lay sod. A single hawk flew low over them, its shadow crossing like a dark omen. It would turn out so.
What time is it?
Nine-o-three, Sillinger said, eyeing his watch.
Get these pricks moving then. Truck‘ll be here soon.
Remy eased across the road. He nodded at the mexican.
Get that barrow over on this side, then added in a mocking tone, mucho pronto amigo.
Without expression, Chochu dropped his rake and picked up the waiting wheelbarrow holding broken soil and a busted spade shovel. Sillinger made his way down the road toward the others, kicking the ground absently. Only Remy seemed to notice the car slowly creeping down the road toward them from the north.
He’s sleeping with her, Sillinger thought, shuffling through the dust. That much he knew about Jerry Remy. He had no proof, only a feeling. But he knew. Ahead, Watt and Henley unrolled sod sections in the simmering morning heat, stomping them haphazardly into place. Davis was further up raking debris off to the side. Cicadas and blue jays chirped relentlessly from the surrounding swamp, a chaotic distraction, a warning. Watt stopped and looked up the road toward Davis, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Sillinger looked up to see the car approaching, a sleek black Lincoln Continental that stopped next to Davis. As Sillinger approached, he was surprised to see his wife Brenda’s smiling face perched behind the wheel.
She watched Sillinger. My husband, the fool, she thought. That Remy too, swaying and grinning just beyond like death in a withering heat haze. Remy had believed her about everything; about ridding herself of Sillinger, the easy access to the Sabina drug money, springing the guy for a big payoff. It was all setup. She had slept with Remy to secure his participation, to get them isolated, to seal the deal. But now there would be another deal.
Davis stepped off toward the ditch as Sillinger leaned in the open window on the passenger side.
What ya doin’ here, Bren?
He scanned the interior.
Where in hell ‘ya get this car?
I bought it for me, she said smiling. It's a bonus from the Sabina case.
I brought you something too.
A delayed smile crossed Sillinger’s face. He glanced back at Remy who had not moved. His dark eyes appeared to shine. What is she doing here, he thought?
He never saw it coming.
Brenda was quick. The blue silver revolver fired two shots through Sillinger’s head, wiping the confused smile from his face. The first bullet dropped him to his knees like a sinner on Sunday. The second removed his left cheek and ear but he was already dead. He toppled over backward and was still. Remy grinned. He was impressed. He had been sure that when it went down, she wouldn’t pull the trigger but she had, quite easily and it was his last sure thought. The broken shovel handle entered the base of his neck just above the top vertebrae. The broken point exited his throat and he grasped it with his right hand. Remy’s dead black eyes were alive. They bulged from their sockets and he half turned, dropping his shotgun and gurgled nothing to Chochu standing there. Then there was no more. Chochu squatted and picked up the shotgun. Both Henley and Watt were running and he methodically took them down. Davis hadn’t moved from beside the ditch. He smiled up at the open cobalt sky. He didn’t say a word. Brenda squeezed the trigger, emptying the gun into him.
Hector "Cho" Sabina stepped over Sillinger and got in the car.
How you doing baby? Brenda said.
I see my father got you the money and our ride. Drive.
The Lincoln’s wheels spun shards of gravel and stone as they fishtailed down the road. Two hawks flew high above them, sitting silent on the wind.
Dec 1, 2009
Fireworks
The sound comes; a distant thumping, the dull falling of running feet, a low voice barking, then feet on the veranda, then John exploding out the screen door slamming:
“YOU COMIN’ OR NOT!!!”
I lean awkwardly into the heavy wooden lawnmower and turn to watch John vanish around the side of the house. I look back to the veranda, half expecting to see the old man’s chair roll up but no one comes. Sweat streaks down my red face, my stiff stubby fingers tight and cramping on the handle. The lawnmower sits silent, patient in the morning heat, its shadow long on the grass and dandelion. Above, the sun burns a white coin.
Down the lane, I catch up to John. He’s stopped to pick up small red racket that has fallen from his pockets. The air smells of mint and over-packed garbage cans, the heat of the day starting to take hold of the waste.
“You got matches?”
John pulls a small box from his waistband and hands them to me.
“I brought this too,” he says.
He holds out a bright yellow pool ball. He presses the side. A spark. Again. A flame.
“Pop’ll kill ya if he finds out.”
“He woan,” John says. “Here, I got some string too.”
We cross the road to Higgins field and wade through the waist-high grass, thistle-burrs hitching to our socks and jeans. We climb a long slow hill. Below lies open land, sporadic trees to the west, the town a brown cluster in a wheat yellow patchwork. We lurch in the morning heat, and then come to Pinkers, the stink smoldering at the top of the hill. Somewhere off, a dog barks but nothing else stirs. We kick through fly mounds of trash and debris, old furniture, boxes, paper, black plastic.
“Here,” John says. He picks up a cracked glass jar. Inside are a few green plastic soldiers, a blue bowlegged cowboy, a faded gray aluminum horse, stubby bits of used crayon.
“Yeah these. Let’s do these.”
In a shallow dirt ditch next to the field, he dumps the contents of the jar in the dirt. I sit, pulling the box of matches and string from an oversized pocket.
We blow up everything. John handles the fused red shells with precision, his hatchet face shiny, jubilant, blasting foam cups, tin cans, soldiers, and crayons. When the matches are done, we switch to the pool ball lighter, its flame orange and pointed. We set fire to a small village of milk cartons. We watch an old cigar box full of derby ticket stubs burn and smolder. We blow apart a bald plastic doll. Later, with our artillery exhausted, we lay still in the ditch, surrounded by mangled Marines and a now blackened horse. I flip through the odds and ends of bundled colored paper from the cigar box; quinellas, exactas, stained paper like a foreign currency.
“We goin’ to the parade?” I say, handing John our spoils of war.
“Naw. There’s not much of a show ‘less you like lame fireworks. It’s the old man’s thing down at the firehouse anyway.”
The heat of the day simmers in the dirt around us. John paws the sweat from his thin face. He slowly rotates the lighter in his hand. “You ‘wan any of this stuff?” he says, nudging one of the fallen green Marines with his toe as if it might be somehow alive.
“These here ain’t too bad. I used to like them. Tough guys.”
I pick up the plastic cowboy. A leg has melted to a twist. “This one’s pretty banged up. Kinda like Pop’s.”
“Shut up,” John says. “It ain’t like that at all.” He stares at the lighter. “It ain’t.”
We sit in silence and watch the horizon. A light wind now moves over the wheat fields below. I cup a hand over my brow and squint at the sun.
“It’s gonna be some h…”
WHUMPT!
The grass behind us suddenly shoots up, orange and white crackling fast. Fat smoke plumes gray then turns black. The wind picks up and the fire explodes. I jump, stepping back as John leaps away, dropping the lighter.
“Pop’s gonna kill us.”
“He woan find out,” John says. “We weren’t here.” The flames leap higher.
“Ya hear’n me. I wasn’t.”
I watch as John races down the hill, his own shadow chasing after him as he plunges and disappears into the tall dry chaff. As I turn to run, I step on something hard. The lighter. Jamming it in my pocket, I run into the dump, a shadow myself, quickly swallowed whole by Pinker’s smoldering landfill.
On the road, the engines go up the hill, their red racket rumbling, their sirens blaring around the melting morning sun.
“YOU COMIN’ OR NOT!!!”
I lean awkwardly into the heavy wooden lawnmower and turn to watch John vanish around the side of the house. I look back to the veranda, half expecting to see the old man’s chair roll up but no one comes. Sweat streaks down my red face, my stiff stubby fingers tight and cramping on the handle. The lawnmower sits silent, patient in the morning heat, its shadow long on the grass and dandelion. Above, the sun burns a white coin.
Down the lane, I catch up to John. He’s stopped to pick up small red racket that has fallen from his pockets. The air smells of mint and over-packed garbage cans, the heat of the day starting to take hold of the waste.
“You got matches?”
John pulls a small box from his waistband and hands them to me.
“I brought this too,” he says.
He holds out a bright yellow pool ball. He presses the side. A spark. Again. A flame.
“Pop’ll kill ya if he finds out.”
“He woan,” John says. “Here, I got some string too.”
We cross the road to Higgins field and wade through the waist-high grass, thistle-burrs hitching to our socks and jeans. We climb a long slow hill. Below lies open land, sporadic trees to the west, the town a brown cluster in a wheat yellow patchwork. We lurch in the morning heat, and then come to Pinkers, the stink smoldering at the top of the hill. Somewhere off, a dog barks but nothing else stirs. We kick through fly mounds of trash and debris, old furniture, boxes, paper, black plastic.
“Here,” John says. He picks up a cracked glass jar. Inside are a few green plastic soldiers, a blue bowlegged cowboy, a faded gray aluminum horse, stubby bits of used crayon.
“Yeah these. Let’s do these.”
In a shallow dirt ditch next to the field, he dumps the contents of the jar in the dirt. I sit, pulling the box of matches and string from an oversized pocket.
We blow up everything. John handles the fused red shells with precision, his hatchet face shiny, jubilant, blasting foam cups, tin cans, soldiers, and crayons. When the matches are done, we switch to the pool ball lighter, its flame orange and pointed. We set fire to a small village of milk cartons. We watch an old cigar box full of derby ticket stubs burn and smolder. We blow apart a bald plastic doll. Later, with our artillery exhausted, we lay still in the ditch, surrounded by mangled Marines and a now blackened horse. I flip through the odds and ends of bundled colored paper from the cigar box; quinellas, exactas, stained paper like a foreign currency.
“We goin’ to the parade?” I say, handing John our spoils of war.
“Naw. There’s not much of a show ‘less you like lame fireworks. It’s the old man’s thing down at the firehouse anyway.”
The heat of the day simmers in the dirt around us. John paws the sweat from his thin face. He slowly rotates the lighter in his hand. “You ‘wan any of this stuff?” he says, nudging one of the fallen green Marines with his toe as if it might be somehow alive.
“These here ain’t too bad. I used to like them. Tough guys.”
I pick up the plastic cowboy. A leg has melted to a twist. “This one’s pretty banged up. Kinda like Pop’s.”
“Shut up,” John says. “It ain’t like that at all.” He stares at the lighter. “It ain’t.”
We sit in silence and watch the horizon. A light wind now moves over the wheat fields below. I cup a hand over my brow and squint at the sun.
“It’s gonna be some h…”
WHUMPT!
The grass behind us suddenly shoots up, orange and white crackling fast. Fat smoke plumes gray then turns black. The wind picks up and the fire explodes. I jump, stepping back as John leaps away, dropping the lighter.
“Pop’s gonna kill us.”
“He woan find out,” John says. “We weren’t here.” The flames leap higher.
“Ya hear’n me. I wasn’t.”
I watch as John races down the hill, his own shadow chasing after him as he plunges and disappears into the tall dry chaff. As I turn to run, I step on something hard. The lighter. Jamming it in my pocket, I run into the dump, a shadow myself, quickly swallowed whole by Pinker’s smoldering landfill.
On the road, the engines go up the hill, their red racket rumbling, their sirens blaring around the melting morning sun.
Jul 11, 2009
Muddled Thoughts of Woodstock Remembered
Twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
oh hello, didn’t see you there. I was just flubbing around here on the old guitar trying to remember that song by that group… what was there name? They were at Woodstock. Country Joe and something. Canned Tuna?
A Tin of Tuna? Mmmm.. that sounds delicious.
Something about a fish. I forget how it goes. twang…buzz…
This guitar here, I’ve had it for over forty years. It’s the size of a baby cello. twang…bzzz...twang. Cliff, one of my friends in high school, made it in shops class. He wasn’t very good at math or deciphering scale measurements. He was more of an abstract thinker. Psychedelics I remember. I’ve been practicing this opening riff to the old Who song, “I’m Going to Explain” or whatever it was called. “I’ll Explain Later”, that’s it. Remember…Bah!…Bah-ba!… Bahhh! Bah-ba! I think they did it at Woodstock.
Oh boy, yeah Woodstock. August 1969. twang…twang…buzzzz…
This year is the 40th anniversary but it seems like it was just yesterday. Or the day before. What is today, by the way? Wow those memories come seeping back man. Three days of peace, music and mud. A lot of mud. That’s what I remember…the mud. And the music, it was something else. It was muddied too and distant but I still heard them all… Jimi, Janis, the Who, Canned Tuna, Santa Anna, the Doors, Dylan. twang…twang…hummm…
I was, let’s see, ha, the mind seems to be slipping some these days, oh about eighteen back then…. twang…twang…
I do remember looking up through my parent’s basement window and seeing my best friend, Jorge on his knees growling, “hey Desieldorfor, grab some dough and a sleeping bag. Yasgur’s farm awaits!” I was puzzled because it looked like a large cat with a rat’s face peering in at me. I had just dropped some acid. “Farm?” Okay I told him.
We took off with some guy Jorge knew from school who had wheels. I think his name was Roscoe or Rothco, something like that. Off we went on this unplanned adventure to New York and an ‘Aquarian Festival’. It was the ‘Age of Aquarian’ or some crazy thing. Remember that song?… twang…twang…hummm… it is a drowning of the age of Aqu…anyway, it was a chance to get away from the SS back on the home front there in North Dakota. The ol’ Herr Fuhrer and Frau never said anything. I don’t think they knew I was gone. I did say bye to my little brother Mark who came chasing up behind Romeo’s car with my sleeping bag. Thanks Mark. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about the trip having just dropped that acid. twang…twang…twang…buzz… We dropped another tab just as we were leaving the city.
I do remember lying in a field and it was raining pretty hard. I was trapped in my mudbag, damn that cheap bag and zipper… twang… and I could hear music playing off somewhere down a hill. Mostly I recall some farmer guy plowing by in a tractor, zig-zagging around a couple of us sleepy people. He was yelling at us, “fuck hippie, git outta here!” then,“OOOOH SHIT.” The rest is foggy. Twang…twang…buzz…
I guess Woodstock was a huge happening and there were drugs and music and plenty of bands to see and a ton of them got even more famous but I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anybody. We never did get to Yasgur’s farm.
We got as far as old farmer Rawley’s potato field about five miles from my house. Appears that acid was a real mind-bender.
I remember waking up in a rather comfortable bed…my own. And there was little Mark standing beside it holding my muddy sleeping bag. He told me I had been gone a day. twang… twang…Old Rawley had called the cops. Seems he ran over Jorge in his sleeping bag. The ground was so wet and mucky; he sunk into it like a log in quicksand. He was okay. Not a dent. And apparently all that music I heard…KCSN-92.5 FM blaring from Roy’s car, which had somehow found its way into Rawley’s ditch. Man those were some crazy times but I think most of us turned out all right. Twang…twang…buzz…twang
My little brother Mark called last week and asked if I wanted to go out to New York to celebrate the 40th anniversary. A lot of things have changed since the 60’s but not Mark. He’s still looking out for me. He’s like that Who’s song, “The Kid is Alright”. He even bought me that Woodstock DVD for Christmas. He said he didn’t want me to ever forget the experience. twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
I’m now just a regular family man and I don’t need too many drugs these days to enjoy myself. I mostly get my high at my job landing airplanes. Maybe Mark’s right. We should go to the celebration and I’ll bring along Janine and the kids too. And when they ask, “Gee, were you really here?” I’ll pull out this baby cello and twang that wonderful old riff from that Who song, “I Can Explain”.
I really can.
Twang…twang…buzz… Twang…twang…buzz…
oh hello, didn’t see you there. I was just flubbing around here on the old guitar trying to remember that song by that group… what was there name? They were at Woodstock. Country Joe and something. Canned Tuna?
A Tin of Tuna? Mmmm.. that sounds delicious.
Something about a fish. I forget how it goes. twang…buzz…
This guitar here, I’ve had it for over forty years. It’s the size of a baby cello. twang…bzzz...twang. Cliff, one of my friends in high school, made it in shops class. He wasn’t very good at math or deciphering scale measurements. He was more of an abstract thinker. Psychedelics I remember. I’ve been practicing this opening riff to the old Who song, “I’m Going to Explain” or whatever it was called. “I’ll Explain Later”, that’s it. Remember…Bah!…Bah-ba!… Bahhh! Bah-ba! I think they did it at Woodstock.
Oh boy, yeah Woodstock. August 1969. twang…twang…buzzzz…
This year is the 40th anniversary but it seems like it was just yesterday. Or the day before. What is today, by the way? Wow those memories come seeping back man. Three days of peace, music and mud. A lot of mud. That’s what I remember…the mud. And the music, it was something else. It was muddied too and distant but I still heard them all… Jimi, Janis, the Who, Canned Tuna, Santa Anna, the Doors, Dylan. twang…twang…hummm…
I was, let’s see, ha, the mind seems to be slipping some these days, oh about eighteen back then…. twang…twang…
I do remember looking up through my parent’s basement window and seeing my best friend, Jorge on his knees growling, “hey Desieldorfor, grab some dough and a sleeping bag. Yasgur’s farm awaits!” I was puzzled because it looked like a large cat with a rat’s face peering in at me. I had just dropped some acid. “Farm?” Okay I told him.
We took off with some guy Jorge knew from school who had wheels. I think his name was Roscoe or Rothco, something like that. Off we went on this unplanned adventure to New York and an ‘Aquarian Festival’. It was the ‘Age of Aquarian’ or some crazy thing. Remember that song?… twang…twang…hummm… it is a drowning of the age of Aqu…anyway, it was a chance to get away from the SS back on the home front there in North Dakota. The ol’ Herr Fuhrer and Frau never said anything. I don’t think they knew I was gone. I did say bye to my little brother Mark who came chasing up behind Romeo’s car with my sleeping bag. Thanks Mark. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about the trip having just dropped that acid. twang…twang…twang…buzz… We dropped another tab just as we were leaving the city.
I do remember lying in a field and it was raining pretty hard. I was trapped in my mudbag, damn that cheap bag and zipper… twang… and I could hear music playing off somewhere down a hill. Mostly I recall some farmer guy plowing by in a tractor, zig-zagging around a couple of us sleepy people. He was yelling at us, “fuck hippie, git outta here!” then,“OOOOH SHIT.” The rest is foggy. Twang…twang…buzz…
I guess Woodstock was a huge happening and there were drugs and music and plenty of bands to see and a ton of them got even more famous but I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anybody. We never did get to Yasgur’s farm.
We got as far as old farmer Rawley’s potato field about five miles from my house. Appears that acid was a real mind-bender.
I remember waking up in a rather comfortable bed…my own. And there was little Mark standing beside it holding my muddy sleeping bag. He told me I had been gone a day. twang… twang…Old Rawley had called the cops. Seems he ran over Jorge in his sleeping bag. The ground was so wet and mucky; he sunk into it like a log in quicksand. He was okay. Not a dent. And apparently all that music I heard…KCSN-92.5 FM blaring from Roy’s car, which had somehow found its way into Rawley’s ditch. Man those were some crazy times but I think most of us turned out all right. Twang…twang…buzz…twang
My little brother Mark called last week and asked if I wanted to go out to New York to celebrate the 40th anniversary. A lot of things have changed since the 60’s but not Mark. He’s still looking out for me. He’s like that Who’s song, “The Kid is Alright”. He even bought me that Woodstock DVD for Christmas. He said he didn’t want me to ever forget the experience. twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
I’m now just a regular family man and I don’t need too many drugs these days to enjoy myself. I mostly get my high at my job landing airplanes. Maybe Mark’s right. We should go to the celebration and I’ll bring along Janine and the kids too. And when they ask, “Gee, were you really here?” I’ll pull out this baby cello and twang that wonderful old riff from that Who song, “I Can Explain”.
I really can.
Twang…twang…buzz… Twang…twang…buzz…
Mar 25, 2009
30A Series
I live in Santa Rosa Beach, a wonderful beach resort area situated on the Gulf Coast along the Florida Panhandle. The area is strung together with small seaside communities- Blue Mountain, Grayton Beach, Alys Beach, Rosemary Beach and Seaside which was featured in the Jim Carrey movie, 'The Truman Show'. The scenic highway running through it all is County Road 30A.
The icons I've created are available for purchase- there are 2 sizes; 11x14 digital prints are $30 and the 24x36 digital prints are $120. Shipping is additional (rolled and sent in a tube)
From left to right- Click images to enlarge
Red Heron - Seaside Church
Alys Beach Architecture
Alys Beach Fonville Press - Heron Moon
Pelican - Rosemary Beach Pensione Hotel
Watercolor Clocktower - Alys Beach Cone
Rosemary Beach Town Hall - Rosemary Beach Barbados Pool
If you're interested, just email me at metheothertwin@aol.com
The icons I've created are available for purchase- there are 2 sizes; 11x14 digital prints are $30 and the 24x36 digital prints are $120. Shipping is additional (rolled and sent in a tube)
From left to right- Click images to enlarge
Red Heron - Seaside Church
Alys Beach Architecture
Alys Beach Fonville Press - Heron Moon
Pelican - Rosemary Beach Pensione Hotel
Watercolor Clocktower - Alys Beach Cone
Rosemary Beach Town Hall - Rosemary Beach Barbados Pool
If you're interested, just email me at metheothertwin@aol.com
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