Looking at Old Photos

On the back was scrawled "Janice, 1979? Where?"

With a faded pale blue cover this photo album clearly was an old K Mart special. It was one of those with pages consisting of a cellophane cover sheet that sat atop the photos. The cellophane would make a slorpping sound if you pulled it back to remove a photo. Each page had thin lines of adhesive goop that held onto the backs of the pictures . Over the years, the adhesive had yellowed and lost grip.  As a result, as he turned the pages, pictures became dislodged and fell  out. 

 

He stared at one stray picture that had fallen out of that aged cheap photo album into his lap. An old black and white taken by probably an old Nikon 35mm. The image was captured on a clear day. That afternoon must have been cool for she wore that bulky seaman's sweater that she loved. The shot was taken looking north and west toward open water on the rocky Oregon coast. Or maybe it was Washington. Or maybe it was BC. Forty years passed so quickly.

 

She was standing barefoot on the beach her right arm holding her shoes. Her back was to the camera. Her head was turned so the features of her face were visible in the clear crisp light of that day. Her brunette hair blew in the breeze and she smiled that smile she gave when she was happy, when she was delighted. After a long trip across the plains, she clearly enjoyed her reward, bare feet on wet sand looking out at the mighty Pacific. 

 

Her expression and body language conveyed pure joy and contentment. It was as if all her worries and troubles had melted away, leaving only bliss in the moment the camera had captured. Seeing her like this stirred up a mix of emotions in him - nostalgia, sadness and maybe a longing to reconnect with her if just for a few moments

 

So many questions. Why didn’t he remember taking this shot? Why was this shot in an album containing pictures of his family curated by his late mother? He didn’t think he had given his mother any of their pictures. What had he done wrong that separated them for so many years? Finally, where was she now? Was she living or dead? Did she ever think of him? Did her memories return to that trip? 

 

With his forefinger and thumb, he held the picture close to his eyes. He wanted to see if he could see anything along the beach that might yield a clue as to where they had been when he took the shot. A couple of rock outcroppings were visible but nothing that screamed you were at Table Rock in Bandon, Oregon, or on Rialto Beach near Forks up in Washington. It had to have been taken soon after they hit the coast. This had to have been at a spot near the Washington/Oregon border where the Columbia River empties into the ocean. He smiled as he remembered staying with her in that mom-and-pop motel under the bridge in Astoria. After the long road trip it had been so nice to sleep in a comfortable bed. So many questions.

 

He tucked the picture inside the deep interior pocket of his jacket. There was no reason the picture should be in the album with pictures of Uncles Jack and Fred. God rest their souls. He was taking the picture. No doubt he paid for the picture to be processed. He had paid for gas and the car for the trip. There's no question, at least in his mind, that the photo belonged to him forever and ever.

 

He promised himself that later when he got home he would take out his Sam’s Club atlas and try and trace the route they took to the left coast. Maybe with a map in front of him he could figure out where the photo was taken.  He also promised himself a few minutes with a search engine to see if she was still alive. He started whistling Bob Seger’s night moves and then flipped to another page in that old book of images.

Savor Sunday

A lightly overcast late May morning easily distracts one from weighty thoughts. I am so glad. Instead of thinking about life’s brevity and the meaning of it all, I am simply concerned with where on this slow Sunday morning can I get some pancakes? Instead of dwelling on Hegel and Heidegger, I am concentrating on fried batter cakes.

The Baptist choir from across the courtyard sings How Great Thou Art in Portuguese. Their voices flat and sharp, on key and off, blend together and filter through the echo chamber of the courtyard becoming transcendingly beautiful. As I look towards the church my mind ponders great mysteries like do I need syrup or will fruit and crème fraiche do?

Within four blocks of my apartment are five brunch places. You can choose between red velvet pancakes topped with ice cream or toast with lox and cream cheese. You can opt for a good coffee and a pastry if you so desire. Me, I am focused on pancakes. When I suggest to my mate we have breakfast out there is no argument at all, none, not even a sigh.

Off we go and head down the hill. It is a funny thing really; all of the breakfast places are down the hill on a zig-zag route from my dwelling. We look at the first place and the prices shock the conscience, well at least my conscience. We pass the place with the Scandinavian name but it and its menu don't catch my attention today. Don't get me wrong it is an excellent place and we have eaten there before and will again, only not today. We walk on by and we walk on down.

The street becomes crowded with trees and old buildings. We look into a couple of places but uh …um…I am not sure. Finally, we stop at a café with outdoor seating and check the menu using our smart phones and QR codes. Remnants of the pandemic will last for years, if not always. And when I see the duck waffles I know we will eat here.

I will not get the duck waffles but my wife will. And they have a fruit covered waffle with coffee flavored whipped cream to top it off. Hell, what is a waffle anyway except a dimpled pancake, right? In a space near a major road but in a quiet location hidden around the corner, this place is inviting. Canopied by the bright green leaves of so many trees I find a bit of Sunday morning joy. My fork cuts through the waffle's brown crispness, spears a blackberry and drags some coffee-flavored whipped cream toward my mouth.

A quiet space on a not too warm, not too cool morning sitting at an outdoor café, is pretty damn close to heaven. In a world that often feels chaotic and overwhelming, finding joy in simple moments like sitting at an outdoor café on a quiet Sunday morning can be a reminder of the beauty that exists in the everyday. Here in this place, I momentarily detach from my worries and savor the flavors of fried dough and ripe fruit.

  

PGHS Class of 1974 Farewell Tour

 

From the Cambridge Online Dictionary:

farewell

noun [ C ]   formal

US  /ˌferˈwel/ UK  /ˌfeəˈwel/

 

An occasion when someone says goodbye.

 

tour

noun

US  /tʊr/ UK  /tʊər/

 

A planned visit to several places in a country or area made for a special purpose, such as one made by a politician, sports team, or group of performers.

Just the other day I was reading my newsfeed and came upon an article where Vince Gill talked about the joy of being in the Eagles. (I probably shouldn’t have used “the” but so it goes    https://americansongwriter.com/behind-the-band-band-name-eagles/). Gill was asked to ruminate on this being the Eagles' Farewell tour. Really I don’t remember his answer but it got me to thinking about how many bands that were major parts of the soundtrack of my teens and twenties were doing, or had finished, Farewell tours in the last year or two, Elton John, Dead and Company, and numerous more.  (Here is a link to a list of who farewelled it in 2023 https://ultimateclassicrock.com/farewell-tour-tracker/). (Here is a link to who is farewelling in 2024 https://www.aarp.org/entertainment/music/info-2024/final-live-band-tours.html). 

It is not that difficult to understand why these bands are calling it quits. Clearly, the band members are old and time has taken its toll. I saw Gordon Lightfoot a few years before he died and his voice was shot. Same for Dylan when I saw him a couple of years ago. There comes a point where your voice sounds terrible even in a lower register and backup singers can only help so much. About the only singer from that era who held onto his voice is Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music. I am 68 and so most of the band members of my era are in their mid to late 70s. Bodies wear out. And the question of whether it is still the band when only the drummer and bass player remain from the original quintet looms large.

In less than a month I will be at my 50th high school reunion. Hmm? “A planned visit … made for a special purpose” matched up with “An occasion when someone says goodbye”. What are the chances I will see more than a handful of people from the upcoming event again?  Pretty darn low if you ask me. So, seeing them in the banquet hall is really an occasion where, even if we don’t speak the words aloud, we will say goodbye. Yup, I guess I am going on a farewell tour. Odds are slim, although not nonexistent, that I will ever return to Jersey. My guess is that for many people this is also their farewell tour of New Jersey, or at least of Penns Grove.

My thought is that it will be all of our greatest hits that get played. Stories will come out about well-known events, public nudity for some of us, and less well-known events. Confessions will be made and secrets revealed. We will all have to confess who we were with at Bridget’s party and talk about the madness we saw there. Hopefully all the ancient grievances will be forgotten or at least apologies will be offered and amends will be made. Kind acts will be honored. 

It saddens me that a number of the members of the band, in other words, the class of 1974, won’t be present because they are no longer with us. But we can still make joyous, audacious and loud noises just like the E. Street Band without Danny Federici and Clarence the Big Man. We will remember the missing and talk about the solos they took over the years. Yeah, it’s a farewell tour and as such it is bittersweet.  Don’t get me wrong I am looking forward to this just as much as I would be if I had a ticket to the current Bruce Springsteen world tour, or the Eagles last stand. Hopefully we will put on one last great show before we depart into that good night.

 

 

Why I Write

When I was in high school they tried to teach me how to write. They failed. 

My 9th grade began in September 1970. Americans had just experienced a decade of change, radical change. Teachers were facing demands that the content in classes be current, relevant, and less rigid. So, while they still taught Silas Mariner they also taught Kurt Vonnegut and Jack Kerouac. Run on sentences abounded. Cartoon blobs served as punctuation marks. Contemporary literature in the 1970s was a very confusing genre.

I remember a few lessons about writing a paragraph. You know it should coalesce around one idea, have and opening sentence that gave the focus of what would follow and a summation sentence. Vague memories persist of a day of one teacher drawing lines on the chalkboard trying to show us how to diagram a sentence. For me it didn’t sink in. Comparedto reading Cat’s Cradle or On the Road learning grammar was dull. And also, I was stoned. One's ability to comprehend structured intellectual concepts when stoned is compromised. But now and then some content seeps in.

But I come from a family with a long history of oral story telling. You know, maybe the better term is confabulating. If you have seen Tim Burton's Big Fish you have seen the kind of narrative I heard growing up. There were stories about bears peering into cabin windows and people taking lightning hits and living. I was always afraid of lightning. When I gotnervous my grandmother would show me a scar on her arm from surviving a lightning strike and tell me not to be afraid.

As I grew up I gathered my own tales of drunken canoe rides, of luging in Norway, and of having the most wonderful time driving through the Rockies. There are stories of sitting on stage for a Muddy Waters show and in front of the stage at an early Bruce Springsteen show. How did that happen? Well it was just because of the shirt I was wearing. I mean how great is it that I can honestly tell you of my personally insulting Tim Burton?

When I began to work for the state of Michigan in 2000 I took my breaks at a coffee shop. As one does over coffee I would talk to the baristas and the other patrons and we would swap stories. One of my friends repeatedly told me to write these tales down. Finally, I listened to her.

With poor spelling, atrocious grammar and words too big for my own good I started a blog. Over the years I have kept writing. Sometimes I step back and edit older stuff because with the new AI powered grammar checking I can make some tales more readable. But I am still creating new stuff because I am constantly having adventures and fun. Once I started down the storytelling path I couldn’t stop.

Oh yeah and my writing hero is, drum roll please, Jean Shepherd. I think the tale about his old man riding the salt and pepper shaker at the county fair is one of the classics of American short story literature. You can have little Ralphie from A Christmas Story. Tell me the story of drunken guys trying (and failing miserably) to assemble a Sear’s house any day.

As long as my brain works, I will keep typing stories about my recent and past experiences. We humans have a traditionof sitting around campfires and telling long tales intended to entertain and impart wisdom. So my plan is to throw another log on the fire as I sit by Gitchegumme and wave my arms about in the firelight talking of life's hilarious and heartfelt moments.

A note about the following video.  As I was working up this post I decided I needed a song that involved writing.  First thing that came to my mind was Richard Thompson's Tear Stained Letter. I simply typed in the title and came up with all sorts of folks singing songs called Tear Stained Letter. As one might guess there are several distinct and different songs by that title.  When I came upon this one I never knew Jo El Sonnier had ever covered Richard Thompson's song let alone made a music video for it.  The video is so weird it is hilarious. It has been a minute since I watched anything with Judge Reinhold in it. 

July 1975 Night Ride Home

There is a smell to the ocean that is unique. There isn't just one smell that you sense. Each bay, cove, and bit of openshoreline has its own scent. The sea grasses that hold the dunes in place in North Carolina smell different than the various reeds and runners that serve the same function in New Jersey. Every beach after a storm smells different than during a hot dry 10 day stretch. Still the smell is very visceral, very primal. When I travel I can tell when I am about 10 miles from the beach because the air changes palpably. I don’t know if everyone senses this but I can feel the shore approaching.

One of the strongest memories I have of the years on the beach was of the smell and feel of the sea air at midnight. After I closed down the store, Kurly Kustard to be precise, I would get on a 10 speed bike and wheel down the wet boardwalk. It was about a twenty minute ride home. 

Shutting down the store wasn’t instant. It took a while to break down the store. You had to disassemble the custard machines and drop the blades and gaskets and knobs into the sanitizer. You blended the sanitizer earlier in the evening if you were smart. All remaining dairy products had been drained and put away for the night in the walk-in cooler. The fountain heads had been removed from the soda fountain and the store's awning rolled up. The windows had been slid across the service counter's boardwalk opening and locked into place.

After stashing the cash I would go out the back door. At the base of the back steps I would pick up my bike. If I was lucky and had a roach, I would burn it up, crushing it at the very end and swallowing the remaining small bit of cigarette paper. I was a weird fucker that way. It just seemed better to get all the THC in me and not leave any evidence on the ground. I mean just in case the gendarmes were in the vicinity. I would throw my chain and lock into my backpack and off I would fly.

The boardwalk rules prohibited me from riding my bike on it at that hour. A few blocks down south of the store the cops stopped enforcing the rules. Reaching there I was free to leave the surface streets and tool down the damp and sometimes quite wet boards at whatever speed I deemed safe. On the right night I was free and I was flying.

On a late summer night under the influence of cheap assed Mexican reefer if the moon was up the ride became a religious service with its own sacraments. My muscles flowed smoothly and the bike was just an extension of my desire to be moving. Riding wouldn’t require thinking it would just require being. On those nights as I swooshed down those blocks elevated over the ghostly illuminated white sands of the beach I would glance out at the reflection of the sun’s little brother over the water. The air was cool but comfortable as I split its molecules on my ride.

Thursday Afternoon Train Ride

I've been feeling stir crazy lately. Decided to take a short run out of Lisboa. Flipped a coin to decide north or south and chose south. Took the Fertagus train to Palmela. Got to say, not much is observable from the station. Plus, the station while relatively new is in disrepair. All three WCs were out of action due to vandalism. Thought about taking a bus into town and then decided to say the hell with it and took the next train into Setúbal. Had to wait ten minutes. 

Sometimes you just got to get out because you have been puttering around for too long. Even a small change of scenery can refresh mind and spirit. Using a metro pass to ride urban and suburban rails is not the freedom and adventure of driving a $50 car from Michigan to the Oregon coast. But that was a half century ago and predated a host of maladies. But waving the yellow and black Navigante pass over the sensor that opens the turnstiles allows us to break free from our daily routines and explore unfamiliar surroundings.

Setúbal is an enjoyable beach town and I always delight in spending time there. This time our timing was off.  We got there after lunch and walked along the shoreline. After walking a couple of miles, we got hungry. However, our hunger arrived nowhere near dinner time. When we looked for food and nothing was open. Well, the kiosks were there, but I wasn't really looking for a glass of wine and three oysters for 9 euros. Also, we didn’t want to stay until everything opened at 7 pm. Thank goodness for Pingo Doce and its Menu 4. A ham and cheese croissant, a nata, a juice and a coffee for less than three bucks. Not the seafood feast I wanted but it hit the spot. 

Instead of the Fertagus train back we took the CP (Comboios de Portugal) local up to the ferry. At six pm more people are heading back from Lisbon than are traveling to Lisbon so there weren’t many passengers. The seats were more spaciousthan those on the Fertagus train. It seems to me that the cars of the very modern rolling stock of Fertagus are structured so you don’t fall asleep and never feel comfortable. Little things like the placement of the window bays of the Fertagus trains make it impossible to lean against the outside wall of the car and get relaxed. Hey, I am probably just being a cranky old man but the ride back was just way more relaxing.  Also, the ferry was comfortable and fast.

Tomorrow is our 39th anniversary. It's time to head north and find a great dinner and a comfortable overnight stay. Some may say reaching a 39th anniversary is a testament to a relationship's strength and commitment. Others may say that inertia ruled. Maybe it is a bit of both. Whatever, it's an opportunity to celebrate and laugh at the madness of more than four decades on this particular caminho da loucura.