folksong lyric — Take Two

Take Two
by Job Conger

(introduction)
For months President Bush fed us lies
Served by pious, righteous cronies sleek and wise.
Some of us didn’t care to dine on their siren soup du fear
.Now digestion time is over, and the truth is odiferously clear . . . .

He’ll sing and dance like few Yale frat brats can
When W’s feces of lies hit the fan.
Though he sold us a war, second guessing is a drag.
It’s amazing what some folks take home when you wrap it in a flag.

He has stained our proud Stars and Stripes true
With new colors of brown, black and blue.
Those who saw through his blow,
We ain’t real Americans no mo
As W’s feces of lies hit the fan.

Front yard PATRIOT signs are the rage
Like armband fashions of an earlier age.
The feared weapons are as real as “the emperor’s new clothes.”
The facts should be clear to all who breathe through their nose.

The Congress feasted on pork barrel pie.
The “sounds of silence” was their battle cry.
They stayed cool and well-fed
While soldiers brave died and bled
And W’s feces of lies hit the fan.

Now he tells us “Saddam had to go!”
“Nobody ever really liked that guy, you know.”
Though the U.N. tried hard, they could not find a trace,
So the “compassionate conservative” threw war in their face.

So, as we hold noses tightly and pray,
It’s time to send CHIEF INSPECTOR O.J.
For gasless, germless blue skies
Can’t match a PRO’s alibis
As W’s feces of lies hit the fan. 

—– written June 26, 2003
================

The song was my “mantra” during W’s ‘rain of you know what,” but even songs, like wars, don’t seem to move folks the way they used to. I will play/sing Page Two in public for the first time in years at Springfield Poets and Writers Group’s Open Mike Night, March 20 at Robbie’s Restaurant on Adams Street — Springfield’s South Side of the Square along with my songs “Watching the Tide Go Out” and the song I wrote about my early days of treatment for my separated kneecap repair at Memorial Medical Center. I’ll also recite a favorite Vachel Lindsay poem as always. There will be talent and awesomeness a plenty, so please attend if you can. The fun begins at 6 pm. I hope to see you there.

live long . . . . . and proper.

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Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts, part 1

I had been on the train to Chicago about two hours before I toot the first picture.   The burned out  building across the track from our stop at Pontiac, Illinois  was typical of the mood of the rainy, dark and drab morning since leaving the Springfield Amtrak station at 6:32. The land tells a tale of woe in winter. The one ray of sunshine that entered my picture was a young woman who boarded the coach class car a few minutes after me, who approached as asked if the aisle seat beside my window seat was taken. “It is if you would like to sit in it.” is what I should have said, and whatever I said worked because  she sat down. From that point on, as the Number 305 began to roll, I knew I was one of the luckiest passengers on the train.

I was in no rush to be chatty, and neither was she; a good thing.  Thanks to the rainy sky and hour of the new day, the whole car seemed hushed. A few passengers, obviously aboard since St. Louis or before had taken advantage of the seats with spare empties and stretched, to occupy both in blissful slumber through the night. There would be ample time for talk in the coming 3 1/2 hours. I glanced peripherally in her direction as she pulled out a Sports Illustrated, thumbed through it, stopping to read an article, it seemed, then looked over some papers from a computer printer. This took about an hour and a half.  I stared out the window at the darkness, mildly perturbed that the seat was positioned awkwardly behind the closest window. To take pictures when the sun rose to the occasion, I’d have to lean forward. It was really going to crimp my modus operandi, but as the light began to creep into the morning, I knew I wasn’t going to photograph anything significant anyway with the rain drops all over the window. There was no point in gazing into the dark so I began to read a small biography of Wolfgang Mozart I had brought for such a glum circumstance.

My trainmate sat still, eyes closed, no doubt, dozing. I know this because people don’t open their months slightly when they are meditating or feigning slumber. When I first noticed, her head faced pretty much forward, but over the miles it rolled to her left. I know this seems crazy to confess, but I felt I was watching something sacred as she slept. I glanced at her probably five times over that quiet hour, and never for more than a few seconds at a time. I didn’t want her to awaken to see me watching her. After her nap we began to lob remarks back and forth, and gradually began to converse. The entree to what would be civil, convivial patter for the rest of the journey was my asking her, “Are you a dancer? I noticed you reading the Sports Illustrated when we started, and I thought you might be with a ballet or something.”

No, she was not a dancer although she volunteers for an arts organization in Quincy, Illinois where she lives and works. She was coming to Chicago to go shopping and take a break from the home town. We chatted about Quincy and the times I had enjoyed there when on the road selling Encyclopedia Britannica. I was surprised she had not yet visited the Quincy museum, across the street from what used to be the Lincoln-Douglas Hotel where I used to stay, now a home for senior citizens.  I introduced myself; told her my name is Job and asked her first name.
She was Anna Lee. BEAUTIFUL name! Later, after we had talked awhile, I asked if I could take her picture. She said “yes.”

When I boarded the train, I had put my laptop computer carrying bag in the overhead luggage, but had placed my guitar, soundbox to the bottom and neck up, between my legs. Eventually, it entered the dialogue as I explained I was going to entertain at the Christmas party of some Chicago friends, Peter and Byung who had been visiting the Vachel Lindsay home State Historic site in 2010 when I was featured speaker at an event there.

As we rolled along I snapped a few pictures of the scenery outside, but my heart wasn’t in it. The weather was not my friend.  I recognized a lot of the scenery from my trip last year when I spoke, recited and sang at Chicago’s College of Complexes, thanks to the invitation and hospitality of my new friends Peter and Byung. I took probably three more pictures, and, two days later,  after reviewing them, decided none were fit to share.

As the train began to pull away from the Joliet station, I remembered to call Peter to let him know I was this far into the trip so he could start out for Union Station to meet me curbside by the CVS Pharmacy, I dialed his number.  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . .   and discovered no answer and no voice mail! DANGIT! Peter had lost his cell phone and had told me earlier in an e-mail he’d be borrowing his wife’s on Saturday morning. I called her number five times. The only result was that I learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his charming wife, Byung, had not set up voice mail! I had noticed Anna Lee using an Android or something like it earlier, so I asked if she could access e-mail with it. She could. And did. I gave her the information and we found Peter’s e to me in which he had given me Byung’s cell number. YES (surprise!) I HAD copied it correctly! I tried a few times more. NOTHING! Back to Anna Lee . . . Could she go back to that e-mail from Peter since all his e-mails include his home and office phone numbers. Maybe he had found his phone and didn’t tell me. . . . I called both numbers  . . . twice! No joy.  Anna Lee suggested she could e-mail him a note to call me on my cell. At least I would answer it. So we e-mailed him something cryptic with my cell number. . . . . . . . And in five minutes or so my phone rang.  WHHHHEEEEEEW!

Okay, all was set. No worries.  I gave Anna Lee my “Balladeer For Rent” folksinger card, and to my surprise and delight, she gave me her business card with an e-mail address.  As the train entered the dark part of the station, slowing to a stop, Anna Lee rose to get her luggage, and asked if she could pass me my laptop case. “Absolutely,” I said, and reached into one of the pockets, removed a copy of my book Confluence of Legends about my visit to Urbana, Ohio where I read a Vachel Lindsay poem and played/sang folk songs.  I explained I would wait for most of the passengers in our car to depart before following with my bulky guitar thanked her profusely for being such terrific company! She indicated the same satisfaction from our serendipitous encounter and went happily down the aisle.

My laptop case was full of my books: the afore-mentioned Confluence, plus Minstrel’s Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois and Bear’ sKin, two of my  three poetry books and Springfield Aviation from Arcadia publishing. I had also brought copies of some Vachel Lindsay poems (I recite what I’ve memorised at the drop of a hint) and the Mozart biography. In one pocket were my hair brush, a bottle of after-shave from a grocery store. I had forgotten my toothbrush and toothpaste, though I had brushed before leaving Springfield. Finally, I had packed a pair of clean shorts, Fruit of the Looms, for the return trip the next day. I needn’t have bothered.

The trek into the station up the escalator and over to the CVS to wait for Peter was a breeze, in light rain. I would have been as happy to be walking in magnificent downtown Chi’ if it had been raining cats and dogs. I had packed light, I had my guitar, some great memories from the trip with Anna Lee. I was looking forward to seeing Peter and Byung again. I wasn’t merely Springfield folk slinger; I was frikking James frikking Taylor! I was a frikking STAR! I was absolutely where I wanted to be!

. . . Coming next on “Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts” part 2: I meet Peter and tour an art house preparing for a silent auction and the FABULOUS MAJOR University of Chicago Art Gallery!

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

 

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Syncopated Sunshine

Since January, I have stopped being a poet so that I could pour my heart and soul into a major project at AeroKnow Museum. Most readers will laugh and then sigh as I explain the obsession has been the consolidation of less-than-whole page (8.5 x 11 inch) scraps of information into single-page amalgams of information. I finished the project last Thursday.

Last January I started pulling scraps from every file in the museum’s Research Room: — 15 file cabinets — filling 12 (case-of-reams-of-office-copy-paper-size) boxes with them, and then setting them aside in the Intake Room to be further processed through two of the three requisite tasks leading to the return of the information removed back to the Research Room. In the meantime, too much of the rest of my life as ceased to exist.

The task was time-consuming to be sure, but it was made easier, thanks to my almost completely walking away from good people in this community whom I have known and appreciated for years. Most of this walking away has occurred since last August when I  started coming to grips with the angst of my frail mortality as I approached my 65th birthday. I’ve attended far fewer poetry and visual arts events than I attended before launching AeroKnow Museum at the airport.

I have completely walked away from Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site. For almost three years, I had been inviting the site director — who, through her occupation connection to history might have (logically) enjoyed seeing it — to visit AeroKnow MUSEUM. Until August I invited her every time I attended an event at the Lindsay landmark. Until November, I had renewed my membership in the Vachel Lindsay Association and attended the annual meetings. Not any more. I have not walked away from my appreciation of Vachel Lindsay and his poetry. I will continue sharing my Vachel Lindsay program and reciting his poems for anyone who will have me. My profound disappointment with the  “Lindsay elite” would be harder if my treasured Lindsay scholar and friend Dennis had not taken his own life about a year ago as Vachel’s birthday approached. The positive outcome of all this is that I better understand what I believe Vachel was experiencing before he took his own life in early December 1931. Springfield killed the poet pretty deliberately and well. The people of my own hometown Springfield (“this, the city of my discontent” — Vachel Lindsay from his poem “Springfield Magical”) killed my friend Dennis pretty well. I will not allow myself the incapacity to live, an incapacity I have felt looming in their company. They will not kill me.

The last poem I wrote this year was inspired by a painting displayed at a gallery in October. I was delighted to have had the opportunity to write the poem “We Wander” and delighted to share it with an attentive audience, excellent people who delighted in hearing it — and other fine poems from poets inspired by other fine paintings. I WANT to be writing more poetry. People who read it, like it. So why the HELL have I not thrown myself into the pursuit of becoming the next Rod McKuen or Henry Gibson? Because I reap more direct reward from aviation and the few friends I have come to know from that on a daily basis than I have reaped from the SEVERAL (but not many) friends I have come to know, since about 1989 with my poetry and songwriting/performing. The  poetry connecting — now that I must work Saturdays for an employer whose last paycheck was given t me almost two months ago — comes once a month TOPS. Sometimes not even that. The aviation affirmation comes every day of my life.

Meanwhile, back at the airport, since last spring this year, at least two or three days a week, I arrive at the museum office between 5 (when the host business opens for the day) and 5:30 two or three times a week, and darn near every day but Sunday before 7. On Sunday, I sleep late and arrive by 9 without fail.  My consciousness is what I call “water seeking its own level.”

I am wrapped up in the web of what I call “syncopated sunshine” — a rhythm of life that is inconsistent and hard to swing to.

On days I shower, I roll out of bed at 4, and arrive at the museum at 5, sometimes a few minutes before, and eight of 10 times, the early arriver is already there at the occasional 4:55 and the building’s front door is unlocked. Other times, I am out of the sack at 4:30, teeth brushed, (no time for coffee) dressed and out to the museum by 5 or close to it.

In theory, I should be able to do this consistently by hitting the hay by 9, if not 8:30. I need no more sleep than six and a half hours’ worth. In reality, I am ALLOWING  the travails of my workplace to figuratively “tie one hand behind my back.”  I leave work at 5 — and go directly to the museum until 6:30 to avoid the rush hour traffic going home. I ALWAYS find something to work on. No big surprise there.  But, if I’ve had a really rotten day at work,  I go by to see if there is a Wall Street Journal I can have. The FBO that provides fuel and maintenance to local and transiting aircraft receives a State Journal-Register and three Wall Street Journals daily. Pilots and passengers departing the FBO after landing to refuel may take a WSJ to read about their airplanes in transit elsewhere. If there are any left when I arrive after work, the counter crew may approve me taking one or they may indicate a few more flights are scheduled for the evening, and all WSJs on hand need to stay until those flights have come and gone. THEN they will slide one under my office door.  WSJs are important to the museum because I read every issue I get and clip anything related to aviation so I can file it upstairs.

On a good night I’m home by 7, but if the day at work was better than typical, and my outlook is good, I will work at the museum until 8, sometimes until 9 and on really good days until 10. They close at 11 pm.

On a good night, I’m eating dinner by 7:15 and washing it down the hatch with cheap Burgundy. I am trying to drink more iced tea and less burgundy, but it’s not working out very well. Regardless, even with iced tea, I am exhausted from semi-combat at my employer. I am often asleep in my recliner by 7:40, and awaken most frequently around 11 when I turn off the lights and go bed, but even that isn’t easy. Late night radio before midnight totally stinks. Last night it was so bad, I listened to a “sports radio” station as my head hit the pillow, not because I’m a sports fan but because the only other two stations I can receive clearly in the bedroom are right-wing diatribe and financial advice (two separate radio stations). At least I’m not offended by sports radio.  Getting to sleep is easy. I don’t drink more wine when I wander in after the early evening “nap” because I’m already half asleep.

Getting back to sleep after AWAKENING at 2 am is the problem! It is pure, freaking purgatory. I DON’T want to get up and do something. What the hell is there to do in my house?  I have begun to work on AeroKnow tasks at home just to stay awake after dinner. Sometimes I delay dinner because I know I won’t go to sleep before I eat.  I REALLY want to confine museum work to the museum and my employer who doesn’t complain if he sees aviation material on my showroom desk because he knows my FIRST PRIORITY while I am there is MY EMPLOYER. That’s as it should be.  I am HAPPY to earn my pay  . . . whenever . . . he decides . . . . to pay me.

My home computer is an old laptop I purchased about two years ago with a small screen. I cannot work with the small screen, even with a full-size keyboard plugged into it. Sooooooo I am committing my resources to a new desktop computer for HOME this Christmas, but not before. In fact I will  go shopping for one AFTER Christmas because I expect prices to be lower then.

With the desktop computer at home I HOPE to sleep solidly for at least six consecutive  hours a night by not napping. If I’m tired after dinner with or without wine, I will to to the frikking bedroom after turning off the lights and the thermostat to 55. Then I will use the time from whenever the hell I do awaken to write poetry or songs or whatever, even AeroKnow Museum tasks.

The real hard part? Holding onto things until January. That will be the hard part.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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Report from Precinct 50

DATELINE: Springfield, Illinois

The parking lot at Westminster Presbyterian Church, Walnut at Adams, was so dark when I drove into it at 4:50 am November 6 that even with my vehicle lights on, I could barely see the painted lines on the black asphalt. Parking next to a pickup truck on the far edge ensured that if I stopped close enough that I could open my door and had not feltt my front bumper hit anything, I’d be set for the day. One light over the side entrance to the church, where I had voted two years ago, was good for my pedestrian approach, and after I buzzed the custodian from the vestibule, it soon became apparent we were the only ones there. I understood the importance of the day, having been a  Precinct 50 judge for the previous 6 presidential elections and being pretty sure, this would be this would be history worth engaging for the duration of the day.

The  spacious all -purpose room that would be home to polling places for precincts, 43, 46 and 50 had been set up the night before with voting “booths on the far west wall, and  tables for 43 and 46 judges on the south wall and 50 on the north, next to the kitchen. The acoustics, thanks to the tight-weave “kitchen” carpet would prove superb over the next 16 hours, a major improvement over the previous site of Precinct 50 activity which had a tile floor and what appeared to be painted cinder-block walls. After chatting with the custodian a few minutes, I began removing materials from Precinct 50′s “big grey box” for the next hour’s set up of our part of the venue. Other judges began arriving closer to the designated 5 am, and by 5:20, 14 of the expected 15 judges were occupied in compliance with the election manual which describes, in great detail, what is to be done and in what order. We had all attended three hours of Election  Judge School as recently as two weeks ago, most of us had served during earlier elections, so things went without problems until we discovered that the ballot tabulating machine was not operating as required.  Election Board  technician Jacqui arrived very fast, and fixed the problem 10 minutes before the polls opened at 6:00.

First voters,  a married couple, had arrived about 5:45 and waited patiently in the warm and spacious church lobby until we opened the doors to the all-purpose room. During the previous off-year election, he had been living/voting in New York City, and she had voted in New Jersey across the river.  They were delighted to be in Springfield, and I was delighted to welcome them. 

From my position at the end of the Precinct  50 judges tables, I examined each ballot to be sure it had been initialed in our precinct’s red ballpoint pen. The  ballot handed my way was from judge Dave on my left. I  inserted it into a secrecy sheaf, handed it to the voter, reminded each that the ballot was printed on both sides, and pointed to the ballot box nearby.

Before the voter reached me each  has spoken first with judge Frieda who checked the person’s name and address with her  list recently printed by the election office. Those that were on it took two steps to the next judge who removed a voter application from a binder and asked the potential voter  to sign it. If the signature matched a signature recorded and displayed in that binder and both a Republican judge Dave and Democrat   judge Christy  agreed  that it matched,  Dave initialed the allot and passed it to me. We were short one judge at our precinct, so Dave was doing double duty as signature verifier and ballot initialer.  I kept an hourly tally of voters receiving ballots. Between  6 and 7 we greeted 15.

Those whose names and addresses did not match ours were given  every opportunity to vote. Frieda and Chrisy mad many calls to the election office for clarification and instructions. Several learned they had not come to the right  polling place and were directed to where they could vote. Many provisional ballots were given on site so those requiring them could vote. Later, records would be further cross-checked and vote counted or not.  Those who did not meet residency requirements for county and city candidates and issues were given Federal Ballots that included only candidates for election to federal offices in the D of C.  We issued two November 6.

From 7 to 8, we welcomed 23 voters. . . . .From 8 to 9 — 44 . . . . .From 9 to 10 — 30 . . . .From 10 to 11 — 31 . . . . From 11 to 12 –  38 . . . . From 12 to 1 — 31 . . . .From 1 to 2 — 39 . . . . 2 to 3 — 37 . . . . . 3 to 4 — 24 . . . . . 4 to 5 –  45 . . . . 5 to 6 — 28. Half an hour before the polls closed,  eight more hand voted, and from  6:30 to 7, five more.  I announced to everyone in the polling area at 6:57 tat polls would close in three minutes, and there were no voters and no one waiting to vote  at 6:59.

Lunch for the judges was purchased by respective precinct committeemen, or  “committeepersons,” if you prefer. Republican precinct committeeman George Tinkham sent a friend of his  to visit the two Precinct 50 judges who asked for pizza. No one knew the name of the Democrat Precinct 50 committeeman. Tim Moore, Precinct 45 Democrat committeeman generously purchased  sandwiches for the two Democrat Precinct 50 judges. Several of us had brought food which  we placed in the church kitchen, and all judges from all precincts and parties were invited to help themselves. I brought donuts and grapes, Burnel Heineke brought  a crock pot of home-made chilli and an incredible pineapple upside down cake. Another judge from home-made pumpkin bread.  Delicious! No judge ended the day hungry. 

I had brought a book to read during slow times (The West-Going Heart by Eleanor Ruggles, about Vachel Lindsay), but there was absolutely no time to read, and almost no time to eat. There was more than an hour passing between bites of pizza in early afternoon. Absolutely essential for every judge at Precinct 50 was the mandate to be alert, focused on The VOTERS, and dropping everything to greet all comers with a friendly, welciming attitude. We were all amazed and thrilled by the very large response from voters in all precincts.  I was particularly happy to greet many friends who live in our part of Springfield.

Precinct 50 had begun the day with 800 ballots, and at 7:00 pm, we had used 387. Two ballots had been mistakenly been declared SPOILED before they were tabulated (counted) so we know that 385 voters successfully voted in Precinct 50. Total  ballots successfully processed by the three precincts totaled 1,309.

The greatest challenge of the day came after we closed the doors and it was time to process  ballots. A common single ballot box using a wonderful computer that read each ballot inserted presented the judges with 1,309 ballots that had to be sorted by precinct and then verified VALID.  We were looking for ballots that had not been initialed, that were damaged, that kind of thing. Once the sorting was done, each precinct counted ballots. Simply put, the goal — if say 350 Precinct 50 ballots were counted, we would count 450 unused ballots. If we counted 355 ballots and we then had counted 450 unused ballots, we would know “something’s rotten in Denmark, ” so to speak.  A time-consuming hiccup occurred when after counting, we discovered one more ballot than  we should have had.  We also learned that another precinct was short one ballot. All four Precinct 50 judges had counted our ballots twice, and there was no disputing the number. Early into the process of re-examining every ballot we had, we discovered the missing ballot from the other precinct. Despite each precinct initialing its approved ballots  with different-color ink, we had missed it in the separation and counting process!  The  wayfaring ballot  was returned to its rightful “home” across the all-purpose room, and a silent, but palpable YAHOO we felt by the nine judges from precincts 50 and 46!

The rest of the evening was spent putting all ballots into a special ballot box with a  special seal we would  sign and attach to the box. The rest of the materials were returned to be “big grey box” I had opened at the start of the day. The “big  grey” was placed into the trunk of Republican judge Dave’s car, and Democrat judge Christy carried the ballots out to he car. They would receive extra pay for driving to the Sangamon County Building where a hardy team from the election office would remove the “big grey box” from the trunk. They would then park the car near by, and both Republican Dave and Democrat Christy would deliver the  ballots tot he Ejlection Commission Office inside. They  would sign their names as “delivers” of Precinct 50 ballots for processing.   I left the church at about 855 after carrying the “big grey box” to Dave’s trunk.  One precinct was still processing the goods when I departed. The other had exited 10 minutes earlier.  Dave and Christy would likely be home by 9:45, in time for a late dinner and the 10:00 news.

The parking lot lights showed me what I had missed at 5 am. It had been rainy and misty all day, and it was moderately cool, downright refreshing to be outside after 16 hours inside. At home, I enjoyed the dinner I had purchased the night before for this occasion: a store-made chef salad,  fully half of te store-baked apple pie and all the Carlo Rossi Burgundy I cared to quaff. 

When I crawled under the covers about 11:30, Ohio vote counts were still not tallied, but it looked like things were going in favor of the Democrat candidate for president.  When I arose from six good hours of slumber to head out to the airport museum today, the outcome was  no longer in doubt.

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Visitor From an Advanced Planet

A friend from an advanced planet visited my home and my city last weekend. His name is Peter Pero, and the advanced planet is Chicago, which is my way of saying “it’s another world.” I know because I visited the city, his home and his charming wife Byung earlier this year when I was invited to share the story of Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay, his poetry, my poetry and s0me of my songs at Chicago’s College of Complexes, a club for citizens who like to think and learn. It was a fab weekend, I wish to bejeebers I could visit and perform there again, and if anybody’s interested, the full story of my visit can be found in my Honey & Quinine posts around March of this year. Peter wanted to learn more about the Lindsay fanatic, my city and  my aviation museum.

Friday night we had dinner at Casa Real on North Grand, not far from Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport. The place was packed, and noisier than some jet engines I have stood next to. The food and service were excellent. After, we drove to a Shop’N'Save across the street and bought a few six packs of Michelob Premium Amber Ale. There was most of a gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy already at home in case that proved insufficient.

Peter was impressed with my collection of vinyl records. They seemed as rare as arrowheads to him. He was delighted to find my Phil Ochs album “All the News that’s Fit to Sing” in the rack. Phil was a passionate folksong writer/performer whom Peter remembered when Ochs sang at the Art Institute of Chicago some weeks before he committed suicide. Peter had not heard Ochs’ song “The Thresher” which I’ve been playing and singing since about 1968, and it was as much an education for him as his memories of the man were for me. I introduced him to one of my fave musician songwriters who lightened the sky like a Roman Candle and sadly faded to oblivion: pianist Biff Rose. I saw Rose twice on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, bought all three of his albums and mourned is sorry fade to ignominy. We listed to all three albums, plus some Basie, The Dillards, a Mike Nichols and Elaine May comedy album; also part of an album by Southern regional comedian Dave Gardner (who played Springfield’s Lake Club in the 60s; my father met him when he visited Roberts Bros. downtown to buy some clothes). The evening was a hoot, and it was a late night for the both of us: lights out about 2:30.

I respect the wishes of my house guests in the main — the worst exception being “Lenore” of the spring of 2009. I could write a book consisting mostly of my regrets about that wonderful encounter that went south faster than the Titanic, but with no permanent fatalities beyond the death of a dream. I’ll spare you the details –  and Peter recommended commencing the rest of the morning at 9:00 am. I was happy to oblige, but my morning commenced in my home office at 7, which is late for me.

A visit to the restored Lincoln-Herndon Law offices downtown was item #1 on the day’s itinerary. Unfortunately, the place was short-staffed, and the one person there was in he middle of a scheduled group tour. We heard him advising the gentleman at Tinsley Dry Goods souvenir shop, accessible through an open door at the back of the visitor orientation area on the Law Offices’ ground floor. Tinsley is a terrific gift shop for anyone seekiln’ Lincoln. We looked around; nothing lightened our wallets.

We went next door to Prairie Art Alliance’s Gallery II, delighted it was OPEN a little after 9:30 and equally delighted to encounter my friend, manager Jennifer Snopko at the welcoming desk.

Jennifer Snopko, proof positing that not all works of art hang on walls

I had not been there since playing and singing at their First Friday gallery reception, and it was great to see so much new art.

Peter Pero, visitor from an advanced planet at Prairie Art Alliance Gallery II.

watching tourists from other planets outside Gallery II

view from the front desk at Gallery II

With the permission of their chaperones, the young ladies outside Gallery II posed for Obewan Cameraguy.

The group tour was still underway upstairs at the LHL Offices, so we boogied across the street and half a block south to

 

 

The Golden Frog Cafe, which, sadly ceased operations seven days after our Saturday visit, offered some terrific souvenirs, among them this.

The Golden Frog where the creative thinkers group Writers Bloc was certain to be in session. Since I must work most Saturdays, this was my first opportunity to visit the new meeting venue.. The writers are all long-time friends of mine, and it was great fun to introduce my friend from an advanced planet.

We enjoyed a light breakfast and coffee, all prime chow and caught up with the peoples’ lives. Peter wisely decided to try a third time to visit the Lincoln-Herndon under-staffed Law Offices while we natives jabbered away in the usual way, and he returned later appearing satisfied with  his good fortune visiting the upstairs main event over there.  He was just in time to savor, following his return, the sounds of Bossa Azul, a local “bossa and jazz” trio I am happy to call friends.

Bossa Azul at play (and song) October 20 at The Golden Frog Cafe.

briDEEP, briDEEP, briDEEP

We stayed for a set of their scintillating strains before taking off to the airport.

Peter visits the Research Room at AeroKnow Museum

AeroKnow Museum is best seen in daylight. Yes, there are lights there, but daylight is the best time to see the six rooms upstairs. We were also less rushed than then previous evening when he arrived, parked his car for the entire visit  in the free parking lot, and I became host and tour guide in my pickup truck.  He seemed to appreciate the collection. Too bad he doesn’t live closer to Springfield. A friend who might want to help is a terrible thing to waste.

considering a model of a Japanese torpedo bomber in the Kits Room

It was at that point that the battery in my Sony Cyber-shot ran out of juice. To give it time to recharge, we departed for lunch at the restaurant Galery II’s jovial Jennifer had recommended for Peter’s first HORSESHOE SANDWICH (choice of meat on open-faced toast — white, whole wheat or rye — and smothered with french fries and an incredibly well-prepared cheese sauce), a Springfield landmark like Lincoln and Lindsay. The Brickhouse is located on west side of 5th Street between Adams and Monroe. Jennifer was absolutely RIGHT about their horseshoe sandwich. There were many customers, but the ambiance was commendably quiet, absolutely terfiic!  I was blown away by the sprinkling of chive on the top and the mildly “warm” seasoning of the sauce. I am not a hot sauce fan, but I totally enjoyed the treatment of the sandwich. It was too “hot” for the visitor from an advanced planet. When he asked for a simple lettuce salad, our server brought an AMAZING production of greens and a plethora of additional items (carrots, olives . . . all sorts of salad “fixin’s”) Peter was knocked over by its appearance, and so was I. He didn’t even want dressing on it; just wanted it to tame the seasoning of the cheese sauce. He gave half of it to me, which went home in a “doggie bag,” and I enjoyed it with dressing, with dinner Sunday night. I can’t wait to go back to The Brick House for another horseshoe.

We returned to the airport to retrieve my camera with battery charged, and then it was back to town to tour the Illinois State Museum.

outside the entrance, a happy surprise

 

I don’t know WHAT this is, but it was great to see the words of Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay and the artistic creation of my friend Felecia Olin!

information about the creation at the base

It was as interesting as always, and Peter was impressed.

posing with a creature that was native to these parts, even before Abe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Then we drove out to Washington Park to hike off some of the horseshoes we were digesting.The walk was excellent. Lots to see and photograph.

 

 

 

 

 

Foreground: Peter Pero. Background: Washington Park’s Thomas Rees Memorial Carillon during the annual PumpkinFest.

 

 

 

 

 

view of the carillon in late afternoon

 

Peter and inspiring sculpture

My friend Felecia Olin was having a one-woman gallery showing at The Pharmacy (visual artists organization) Warehouse,, walking distance from my home. We walked over there and spent about an hour. Because my Cyber-shot was out of battery again, I took my Canon EOS 20D SLR with a telephoto lens. I knew I would photograph everything  at atleast 70mm and up to 300mm, it was my only choice, and I thought it would be  great fun to play with it. I was right.

Around the gallery, people come and go, talking of Feliciangelo. (Sorry TSE)

 

a painting by Springfield artist Felicia Olin

 

visitors to FeliciaWorld, a terrific event

We walked home drank more ale on the front porch. Joining us was my guitar. We serenaded the lawn grubs for about two hours in the perfect autumn-crisp air and turned in early.

The next morning I occupied myself in my home office for two and a half hours waiting for 9 am, and it was time well spent. Then we walked over to my favorite breakfast restaurant a few blocks away and enjoyed another fantastic meal before heading out to the airport where Peter was reunited with his car, and he motored home to an advanced planet.

The visit was great fun. I felt like I was on VACATION.  As soon as Peter can find me a place where my songs and poetry — and reciting Vachel Lindsay’s poetry — are welcome for the cost of train fare, I intend to return north, and Peter hopes to bring an aviation enthusiast friend to Springfield, probably next year.

Thanks again to Peter Pero for the memorable visit and to you, the cherished reader of Honey & Quinine for reading this post. If you are into poetry, guitar, aviation or Lincoln and want to visit my town and stay at a semi-famous house where a visitor from an advanced planet slept two nights on a parlor sofa, let me know. I’d likely love to welcome you too.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Approaching 65 — #11 — Growing Pennies in a Burgundy Bottle

When I took the last sip of Carlo Rossi Burgundy in the duplex I was renting in about 1989, I had no inkling that I”d have that bottle with me in a duplex I owned 22 years later. It moved when I moved: from 326 S. MacArthur to 521 S. Glenwood to 1213 Interlacken to 428 W. Vine, and today it moved to my WELCOME Room office of AeroKnow Museum at the airport.a bottle of good cents

a bottle of good cents

It came to the airport  because the thought of someone breaking into my home and stealing this investment of time and memories was more than I wanted to live with. At best the burglar would have taken it. At worst, he or she would have dropped it to the floor from where it sat on my bedroom chest of drawers since 1997 and left me to filter the valued metal alloy from the shards of broken glass — pretty much what I’ve been doing recently, metaphorically speaking, as I approach the big SIX FIVE.

It came to the airport also because putting every penny I brought home from purchases here and there was not filling the bottle fast enough for me. I was determined that I would not go to a bank and exchange a $20 bill for the equivalent in pennies. That would be cheating.

At this time in the blog I concede there is nothing artistic about the process, I do not intend to write a poem or folksong about it, proclaim the name of Cheeses (when I talk to myself I call myself Cheeses as in CHEESES, that was stupid of me!), talk about restaurants, silver dollars,  Facebook, how much I love Chicago or Fort Monroe or Ft. Wayne, Indiana or Manitowoc, or the Shymansky family (my sister Dorothy’s side) Johnny Appleseed or Vachel Lindsay, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin and yardcare. I’ve been ticking off these items on my categories list so I can suggest to readers this post is about them . . . . . and thus court additional readers who pay attention to blogs when these categories are mentioned. NOW . . . . . . . where was I?

the bottle and the barefoot boy with cheek of tan

Oh, yes, I remember. . . . The photograph of the boy behind the bottle is of the same boy ahead of it when the picture above was taken.  If I was three years old, the year was 1950. I will post more about the picture as I approach September 5. Suffice to say now that I show that picture to darn near every visitor to AeroKnow Museum. My goal, starting this morning, is to give visitors who don’t care to share heavy dough-re-mi with the museum will lighten their pockets of pennies. I want to fill this the bottle by my birthday.

There’s a nearby donation jar for those who care to be extra-nice with larger coins and folding money.

So if you find yourself of mind and spirit to see this bombastic enterprise in the weeks ahead, please bring pennies. The dollars . . . . almost . . . . won’t . . . . matter.

Live long . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Approaching 65 — #3

I took a small step toward fewer hours of employment  last week when I signed up for the “level payment plan” with the utility that supplies my home with electricity and water. With just 3.5 hours of air conditioning with my only working window unit this year, I was told my bills for the next year on the level pay plan would be only$80 a month. I still buy natural gas to heat my water, but thanks to fewer social activities, I’ve cut back on my showers.  Not to worry. I always bathe (shower) on days when I KNOW I will be face-to-facing with more than a few AeroKnow Museum visitors. My employer’s air-conditioned showroom is airy, and I never get close enough to  customers for my aroma to cost me a fabricated natural stone sale or return visit. The net result is that I can cut my hours at employer — who is driving me NUTS for reasons I shan’t belabor here — by at least a DAY IF he will allow me to do it, and tomorrow I will talk to him about how to make it happen. It has taken me a month and a half to be given permission (from him) to deposit one of the paychecks he wrote to me for labor I completed as far back as the second week of June.

Welcome to my world.

So, tomorrow I will run errands and deposit that paycheck, and I will work from 2 to 5 pm . . . . . and though I seldom see him most afternoons, if I do, I will talk to him about fewer hours.

There’s a two-way benefit generated when a mule who can hardly walk straight convinces the unhappy rider, driven to distraction by his  incessant braying wayfaring ways and total incapacity to walk a civil path, that negotiations toward reducing the time on the saddle are in order. True, it benefits the saddle-sore rider . . . .
but it also benefits the mule.

I conclude this post with a poem by Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay whose poems I have admired and recited at the drop of a hint for a few years . . . . I don’t remember the title, but I remember the words . . .

The moon is a monk, unmated
Who walks his cell, the sky.
His strengths are those of heaven-vowed men
Whom all life’s flames defy.

They turn to stars and shadows.
They go like snow or dew,
Leaving behind no sorrow;
Only the arching blue.

===
Live long . . . . . . . . and proper

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Approaching 65 – 1

Months ago, I began following a blog by a nice fellow approaching his 40th birthday — or as too many handi-challenged people around Springfield say, his 40th year annual birthday. He promised to write a post a day until the big day arrives, and I must say his consistency has been most impressive though not perfect. I’m approaching my 65th birthday, being handi-challenged in ways that have nothing to do with language sloth. Of my own deficiencies, I have a list as long as my arm. In fact, my left  arm is one of the items on my list. I’ll save the details for later. I’m starting what will be daily posts until the big day comes, and on September 5, I will celebrate that I don’t have to post here at Honey & Quinine after a run of a month and two days.

I do not look forward to turning 65. My turning 65 and living will signify that I can live 65 years, a man can be incredibly lucky and yet fail at almost every milestone the male hummin’ bean seeks to attain. On balance, I concede I have been successful at being incredibly lucky.

Still a piece of me wants to get my chest tattooed with three big letters:  DNR. I know I won’t, of course, but I haven’t ruled out a short note to keep in my wallet.

An advantage savored by my friends who moved away, whose names I cherish today thanks to Facebook contact — Douy, Robert, Annie — is that they don’t often encounter the scenes they knew when they lived in their home town. Places of triumph and tragedy. Others who have stayed in town have triumphed to contentment earned by discipline, diligence and devotion and deserving. Most sweetly I cherish those known since high school and almost as, those I have appreciated in the years after> They have been many: acquaintances AND years. No names for these and the wonderful sense of family given me by relatives of Mom and Dad and kin of my brother Bill who have blossomed brightly over the past few Facebook years. Frankly, I would be happier with fewer of these hometown reminders I see as I transit the streets of Springfield.

That’s one reason I so stridently cling to the positive aspects of my life today: the museum at the airport, significant recognition for my songwriting, poetry and knowledge of an internationally known poet Vachel Lindsay who found the fame he merited but died soon after his 52nd annual birthday anniversary.  I don’t have any trophy friends. I never wanted any. I’ve had some thrills with beautiful people who demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was not marriage material though there were only two women I wanted to marry and one who would have said “yes” if I had asked.

I live and move in a world of acquaintances today.  I want better, but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards, not on my income and most definitely not in my line of work. I thank God/Jehovah/Yaweh for what I have,  having learned — to play on what  Star Trek Voyager’s (with Captain Jean-Luc Piccard, the BEST Star Trek) nemeses the Androids might say, “Persistence is futile.”

So here I yam, approaching the conclusion of this first ramble, glad that others are witnessing whatever this is, a self-indulgent, self-serving confessional. This will be no sharing of what I’ve learned because I believe we all learn what we must in ways we must. But no one reading this far will ever say anything like — Oh hey, that Jobb Conjur — always kept pretty much to himself. Funny guy though  . .

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.

 

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Gig at Gallery II

About noon last Monday or Tues, Jennifer Snopko, manager at Prairie Art Alliance’s Gallery II — on Adams, just west of Sixth Street, Springfield, Illinois — posted a plaintive plea for a music man to play at their First Friday open gallery June 1. I saw her Facebook post three minutes after it was posted, and  I offered to play/sing if I was still on the organization’s list of approved talent.  The good news: I am.

The bad news: I am.

Sometimes when I perform my songs and traditional folk songs at most any “reception” it’s like reciting The Gettysburg Address at midnight from the pitcher’s mound at most any Little League Ballpark in a driving rain: nobody listens.  But that’s okay. One gets used to it, and I can always use the practice. And I seldom get wet.

I knew when I responded to Jennifer’s green light that I could fill the two hours with songs I had written and words and music from acoustic Bob Dylan (the good years) , Peter Paul and Mary, Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Doc Watson and Huddie Leadbetter (a/k/a, d/b/a “Leadbelly.” But when two friends expressed special enthusiasm for my music, I did something extra special to prepare, hoping, anticipating they would come to the occasion: I practiced.

I also decided to use a music stand, even if I had to buy one.  A very unhappy experience at The Rock Shop Wednesday, where I had purchased my newest guitar (my “trophy guitar”) last Christmas, and a guitar strap for that guitar, and a pickup cord earlier in the day precluded my buying a music stand there. When I mentioned my plight where I “work” my friend Jessie offered to give me his. It had been given to him, he doesn’t use it anymore, and it was mine. Whatta GUY! Thank you again, Jessie! It was exactly what I needed to display my typed lyrics to my eyes off to the side.  I don’t like standing behind anything when I’m singing or reciting poetry. Jessie’s gift renewed a little hope that I still might connect with success ($$$$$) in this town.

truck full of geetars, ready to roll

In the past, if I wanted to take more than one guitar to a performance, one had to ride in the pickup truck’s cabin with me, and the other(s) had to ride in the open cargo bed in back. I had tried placing one guitar flat on top of another, but they would not fit under the dashboard. This time I had the bright idea to arrange three guitars (“trophy guitar” Ibanez, 12-string steel Epiphone and nylon-6-string Epiphone) tilted in the cabin so their extended but narrow necks fit under the dashboard.   I added the foldable music stand, a bag of my books to offer for sale, and I had a cozy cabin, but it WORKED

Employer commuted my sentence and allowed me to leave “work” early, in time to set up at Gallery II. By the grace of God, I found a parking place just half a block to  the G, and I delivered everything in only two trips: one carrying three guitars and one with the rest.

the view from inside, flipped horizontally

I arrived about 4:45. Jennifer welcomed me smiling (always a good sign) and Prairie Art Alliance executive director Janet Seitz Carlson came over as I was arranging instruments and we chatted a few friendly minutes.

tres guitarras, arrnged and tuned

Before I began playing, I walked around the gallery and took a few pictures of creations I thought YOU should savor as well, perhaps even purchase . . .

looking toward the south side of the Old State Capitol mall

view from the inside looking toward the Illinois Building across Sixth Street

The Epiphone 12-string was first into my hands when I began singing a little past 5:00. It’s fashionable in this city to begin whatever you’re intending to do fashionably later than the appointed minute. This way the performing artist can create anticipatory tension. This is particularly true and effective after visitors begin arriving. I wanted to play the 12 when my hands were strongest, though I sang strictly strumming tunes. The one exception was “The Midnight Special,” written in the late 40s by “Leadbelly” and performed by him about that time. There were many activities going on downtown at 5-ish, and the gallery did not fill as rapidly as usual. And since few of the few were drifting back to where more fine artistic creations and the folkslinger were, I changed guitars after 20 minutes, skipping over my “trophy guitar” and playing the Epiphone 6 which I most enjoy playing because I can finger pick better and have more fun.

As I warmed up with the instrument, visitors began trekking from the beverage array and friendly voluntee purveyor of libations to the tempting finger arranged not far from me.  A local attorney and patron of Gallery II in recent months paid attention as much to my music as to the food, and over the course of more than an hour stayed within earshot of even the lyrics. We chatted between songs, and I began to feel I was talking to the equivalent of Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Austrian Emporer. He liked my songs and expressed a desire to me, the management and passing new acquaintances, that I should perform more frequently at Gallery II and beyond. This was incredibly affirming patter, and the more we talked, the better I played.

As we talked a woman I had met during a Gallery II event last fall approached with her husband and 10 year old son. She had been very impressed with my poem “It was a Younger T0wn” and Katherin Pippin Pauley’s delightful mixed media creation which my poem inspired. When I asked her son what was his favorite tune, he was a little shy and hesitant to answer. I asked if he knew about the magic dragon named Puff, the three of them smiled in recognition, so I played Peter, Paul and Mary’s arrangement of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” They even stayed for another few songs.

Also — and strangely surprising — was the reaction of several artist acquaintances whom I had met, even written about for Illinois Times and others whose faces and creations I had photographed dozens of times at receptions over the years. They wandered by withhout hesitating to listen and returned to the front of the gallery so fast my lyrics had to hurry to catch up with their escaping back sides. Two happy exceptions were Kitty and Delinda who exceedingly graciously chatted with me for several minutes and listened to several songs. They were delightful.

Visitors continued to waft into the Gallery, and I stayed in music mode until 8:00 when Jennifer and dedicated volunteers began picking up things and turning off lights.  I hated to see the evening end.

One of the last to depart was my friend Hugh Moore who took this picture of me with my new Sony Cyber-shot. THANKS, Hugh!

Thanks too to Gallery II for a reason to practice and have fun. I’m going to spend more time with strings instead of things with wings. Jennifer knows I am eager to gig again “at the drop of a hint.”

I hope YOU know that too.

Thanks to Prairie Art Alliance and Gallery II for a memorable evening.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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A Poem in Celebration of Poem In Your Pocket Day

I didn’t realize it was Poem In Your Pocket Day (Don’t laugh; I understand there is a week for recovering Republicans) until my friend Dick Henthorn reminded me this morning. Earlier in the day I had posted three lines that an exceedingly charitable friends might consider a “poem” on my Facebook status report — first “poem” I’ve written this year. During PIYPD, we poets and friends of poets are MANDATED  to put a poem into a pocket and share it with friends and associates.

I walked next door to my friends at Parkway Printers, 3755 N. Dirksen Parkway, Springfield, Illinois on the edge of the world, and recited a poem written by internationally renowned Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay because I wanted to share a poem I KNOW is good instead of one of mine, some of which I SUSPECT are good. I carry a lot of poems by Lindsay and me in my brain, which too often seems to be in my pocket, so it was no trouble to explain to Chuck and Joel why I was there, that I would generate MAXIMUM PUBLICITY FOR THEIR EXCELLENT PRINT SHOP in Honey & Quinine, and they would become rich men from my initiative.  This is a poem I sense that Vachel wrote about me, though he likely did not know it at the time.  I forgot the title of the poem, but you could look it up. It does not go “like this” because it’s not a freaking simile like “a moon is like a star, only with fewer consonants.”  The poem’s words are as follows . . . .

by Vachel Lindsay

The moon is a monk, un-mated,
Who walks his cell, the sky.
His strengths are those of heaven-vowed men
Whom all life’s flames defy.

The turn to stars or shadows.
The go like snow or dew,
Leaving behind no sorrow;
Only the arching blue.

==============

Happy Poem In Your Pocket Day, readers!

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

The moon

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