Monthly Archives: November 2017

At Starbuck’s

Since retiring from the corporate world, a little over three years ago and devoting myself to a lifelong desire to write more, I have probably spent an average of twelve to fifteen hours a week at my local Starbuck’s. It is a small L-shaped space wrapped around the bar with four club chairs, one large table, and half a dozen small tables with chairs. There are another half a dozen tables on the sidewalk outside; a few have umbrellas.
Spring, summer, fall and winter, hot weather or cold, rain or sunshine, in almost all weathers, I usually arrive at my Starbuck’s between 5:30 and 6:00 AM, every Monday and Friday, and sometimes an afternoon in between.
The morning begins with a grande Pike Place no room for cream and either a Blueberry Muffin with Honey and Yogurt (not warmed) or a Sausage, Cheddar & Egg Breakfast Sandwich (warmed). Then I fire up the laptop, clean out the spam filter, read and respond to email, and check the news feeds. Then I get down to business and start writing.
In the last three and a half years, amid the clatter and chatter of customers coming and going, of running into to old friends and making new ones, I have conservatively consumed something north of 100 gallons of coffee while finishing my first novel (120,000 words), a volume of my outdoor adventures (48,000 words), a novella (30,000 words), and any number of mostly forgettable poems. Additionally, I am 68,000 words into a memoir of my junior and senior high years and 17,000 words into a novelized account of 20 years of my grandparents’ lives. Oh, and I blog.
That is a lot of coffee drunk and a lot of words written, mostly at the second table from the front door by the window with the view of the traffic circle in the small shopping center. My window faces east and catches the sun as it rises over the stores on the other side of the traffic circle.
The sun’s rising over the stores’ façades serves as a rough calendar. In the height of summer, the sun rises over Total Wine. By fall it rises over Sun ‘n’ Ski Sports to the south. In winter is rises over Anne Taylor Loft. With the winter equinox the sun begins working its way back north over Sun ‘n’ Ski in the spring and back to Total Wine. On bright days, I must pull the blinds just to see my laptop screen.
From that window I can watch the changing of seasons. As I write this the trees are all clad in autumn browns and oranges, the small patches of lawn are lush and green, swept clean by the yard crew. In winter, my window drips condensation. In the spring, rain cascades and puddles around the sidewalk tables and chairs chasing everyone inside. Heat shimmer rises off of the pavement in midsummer.
My wife, who prefers minimal or no distractions when concentrating, once asked, “How in the world can you write at a Starbuck’s?”
I thought for a moment and replied, “I guess after nearly 40 years in an office with constant noise and interruptions, it just seems normal. If I hadn’t learned to concentrate in that environment, I’d never have gotten anything done.”
Besides it’s not all writing. There is the regular crowd at the first table: Mark, Jim, Butch, Charlie, Mario, William, Gordon, and Larry, to name a few, all engaging and entertaining company, some still in the workplace, some retired. They gather daily, and each arrival is a Cheers moment. I am a peripatetic member, allowed to enter or withdraw from the general conversation at will.
Sometimes an old friend from the corporate world walks in, a co-worker or a vendor with whom I dealt, like Braden or Bob or Mark or Matthew. There is that initial, brief glance, then the flash of recognition as the mental tumblers fall into place. It is a time to catch up on life and families and friends still punching the clock or finding fulfillment in other areas.
And then there are the hours spent on research. Having written one period piece and in the process of writing another, one must purge any modern colloquialisms that might creep into the text and to have some idea of what a cotton farmer in 1905, in Mississippi, might expect to get for a bale of middling, long staple Delta cotton. Then on other days it might be preparing and uploading a manuscript for self-publication or updating my website or trying to generate some activity on social media or blogging or designing a book cover or even trying to find a literary agent, a process yet to yield any fruit.
Through it all, the line for coffee ebbs and flows as the morning progresses. At one table is a business meeting, at another a sales pitch or a Bible study group, or someone just touching down to make a call or to check email at a Wi-Fi hotspot. People shake hands or embrace depending on what brought them to Starbuck’s and with whom they are meeting. People of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors come and go in suits, casual wear, or workout gear, speaking in accents or even languages from far away.
There is also the relentless carousel of baristas. Most are congenial, some more reticent. Some sport piercings or tattoos or hair of hues with which no human has yet been born. For many it is a first job or a second job or a stop-gap job. For a few, it fills idle hours of retirement. Most are well educated. Many have phenomenal memories for customers’ regular orders.
It is a comfortable milieu, a retreat, one on which I have become so dependent that in a life no longer ruled by the alarm clock, I invariably wake up by 5:00 AM on Mondays and Fridays. That is rarely the case on the other five days of the week.
Around noon I am well into my second refill of Pike, and it is time to start wrapping up for the day. There may be an errand or two to run, then back home to Sherrie for a quiet lunch and maybe a short nap, before an afternoon of chores around the house and in the yard.
But I will be back at Starbuck’s in a day or two, maybe for a morning of writing or an afternoon meeting with Scott, my best writing and critiquing buddy, but I will be back to that small hub of familiar faces and friendly chatter, that little writing home away from home, my neighborhood Starbuck’s.

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Filed under Autumn, Uncategorized, writing

Songs of Death and Life

On the second anniversary of my father’s death

 

Let us not delude ourselves with platitudes

The end of suffering

Heaven’s aching need for another angel

Burdens lifted from the living

Joyous reunion

 

No, let us not delude ourselves

Death is a brute, a thief

Who takes from us those we hold most precious

 

Time and distance may separate us

From the beating heart of a dear one

But that heart still beats

That love is still tangible

In the warmth of flesh

In touch and embrace

Needing only to be reunited

If only briefly

But death rips that away

Stills that beating heart

Chills that once vibrant flesh

Erases the gentle smile

On that familiar face

 

Death is an ogre

One whose features are not softened

By familiarity or frequency of visit

Remorseless, it intrudes

With shuddering suddenness

Or lingering expectancy

 

Memory, the cruel consoler

Delivers images of both joy and remorse

Days of burnished beauty

Words that could not be unspoken

 

The faith core within

Affirming that death is not the end

That ultimately even death will be conquered

Is still assailed, battered by the loss

The carnage of shattered souls

Longing

For one last word

One brief smile

One final embrace

 

Let us not delude ourselves

For us, the living

Dark days will alternate with bright

The vivid image of a loved face dims

Some memories fade

While others remain deeply etched

Roiling through the mind

And heart

Bringing an unexpected, fleeting smile

Or a wistful moment of melancholy

 

Let us not delude ourselves

There can be no loss lest first there be love

 

On All Saints Sunday

 

For each name intoned

A single votive is lit

A single bell is tolled

Resonant, the solemn peal diminishes as

Another name is intoned

Another votive is lit

 

The long litany of names

Each another life

Severed from this world

In this last year

Leaving its wake

Of love and sorrow

Laughter and regret

Wistful smiles and soft sighs

The entire arcing panoply

Of human feeling

 

Congregants stand in serried ranks

Solemn array of bowed heads

The soft sheen of tears on cheeks

A quivering lip or shudder

A too firm grip on a pew as

Another name is intoned

Another votive is lit

 

Fresh grief released or stifled as

Their lost one’s name is uttered

Old anguish renewed as

A loved name or face from last year’s list

Or the year before or the year before that

Rises unbidden but embraced as

Another name is intoned

Another votive is lit

 

 

A fellow mourner’s comforting touch or

Firm arm around a shaking shoulder

The questioning face of

An uncomprehending child

Who somehow senses something amiss as

The last name is intoned

The last votive is lit

 

 

Then the other litany

The litany of faith and triumph

The surety of the resurrection of the body

And reunion

Why else conquer death or

Resurrect the body or

Preserve all the things

Body and mind and spirit that

Make each of us ourselves

Except we should praise

Each in our own distinct voice

Arrayed about the throne of the Almighty

Heaven and earth reconciled

See the Lord and each one gone before face to face

And rejoice

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Filed under Death, Life, Loss, Poetry, Uncategorized

ONE MORE CUP OF COFFEE

It was about 5:50 AM in the morning, and I was pulling my laptop out of my daypack when Bob Dylan’s “One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below)” came over the Starbuck’s sound system, a deep cut from his 1976 album, Desire. My head began to subconsciously weave back and forth to Carmen Rivera’s sinuous, seductive violin line. I closed my eyes for just a moment and was transported back to the Reed Green Coliseum on the campus of Mississippi Southern. It was May 1, 1976, and the Rolling Thunder Review was on tour, Bob Dylan and a rotating caravan of musicians including Joan Baez, T-Bone Burnett, Kinky Freidman, and Carmen Rivera. They were performing “One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below)”.

Music in all of its forms had been important to me ever since I can remember. Being born in the Mississippi Delta and growing up close to Highway 61, I may have had no choice. My first musical memory was of fellow Mississippian Elvis Presley on the radio in 1956. I was three-years-old and “Hound Dog” ruled the airwaves. Our family did not have a TV yet, but Mother had the radio on all day long. Early rock-and-roll, country, gospel, and dance music was the background of our lives, but ironically, I never heard Mother sing. She did however make me a cardboard and rubber band guitar so that I could strum along to my favorite songs.

Father, on the other hand, sang constantly, improvising lyrics as it suited him. He taught me all the words to On Top of Old Smokey and The Red River Valley among others. My grandfather, Father’s father led the singing in the small Baptist church they attended in Brazil, Mississippi. I sang my first duet there during revival week. Mother’s father played the fiddle, her mother the pump organ.

I played a drum and sang in the cheesiest pre-teen garage band ever, The Strummers. We were heavily influenced by The Beatles, The Dave Clark Five, The Rolling Stones, and Paul Revere and The Raiders. One of our band members, Johnny, had a younger sister Martha who took us to task for our name. “How can you call yourselves The Strummers?” she asked. “Greg and Peter don’t strum their drums.”

Mike was quick with the absolutely perfect reply, “And The Beatles don’t beat their guitars either!”

Our concerts were held on the back porch where we thrashed our instruments and sang along to our favorite hits, all 45 RPM records, spinning on Johnny’s record player. Cheesy.

I later sang in the youth and adult choirs at Calvary Baptist Church in Tupelo for years and played and drums and percussion in the junior high concert and marching bands. In high school, my friends, Stuart, Vergil, and I would listen to the radio as we rode around, almost always singing along, usually in harmony. In our senior year of high school, we all secured singing and dancing parts in Annie, Get Your Gun, our lone experience in a high school musical.

By the time I entered college, I had been exposed to practically every genre of Western music there was: Delta blues, rock and roll, jazz (both traditional and avant garde), opera, classical, pop, big band, country and western, bluegrass, and hard rock. And I liked it all. In fact, one of my college roommates, Danny, once exclaimed, “Your taste is so broad as to be no taste at all!”

At Mississippi College, I auditioned for and joined the Vesper Choir. In addition, we listened to FM radio, WZZQ “The Mississippi Mutha” which played new albums in their entirety. We knew the drop date of the next Hendrix or Stones album like kids today know the opening day of the next Star Wars movie. Like so many others, I picked up a guitar and began playing and jamming with friends.

With a life so steeped in music, I was immediately drawn to the burgeoning live music scene in Jackson, Mississippi. Memphis, Ole Miss, Mississippi State, Mississippi Southern, and the University of Alabama were within easy driving distance, and were popular tour stops for most of the major acts. We attended every concert we could: The Rolling Stones; Blood, Sweat & Tears; Joe Cocker; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; Yes; Jethro Tull; The Guess Who; Chicago; and on and on. We believed in music and still thought it could change the world.

That May Day of 1976 at The Rolling Thunder Review was not my only visit to Reed Green Coliseum that year. In September, we were back to see The Band, one of our favorites. How a former rockabilly cover band who had backed up Dylan and wrote and recorded music with an old-timey Appalachian feel which was completely out of step with anything else in contemporary music is a story for another day. But we loved them, and we made the trek to Hattiesburg. Ostensibly, they were touring to promote their latest album Northern Lights/Southern Cross, but, unbeknownst to us at the time, it was actually their farewell tour. The Chris Hillman Band opened, fronted by the former Byrd, Flying Burrito Brother, and key member of Stephen Stills’ Manassas. Both their performance and that of The Band were outstanding.

Ten weeks later, The Band would gather with some of their favorite musicians, including Dylan, Neil Young, Doctor John, Van Morrison, and Muddy Waters, on Thanksgiving Day for The Last Waltz concert which Martin Scorsese would film. That configuration of the Band would never perform together live again.

That year, 1976, was not the first time I had seen Dylan, or The Band either, for that matter. No, that had been January 23, 1974, at the Mid-South Coliseum in Memphis, the first time Dylan had toured since his horrific motorcycle accident six years previously. And to top it off, he was touring with, The Band, the same group that had backed him in 1965 when he had gone electric and alienated all his folkie fans. Tickets were a staggering $8.00 each, available by mail order only. You could order a maximum of four tickets. Music fans were in a frenzy. Shows sold out everywhere they played.

The girl I was dating at the time was still a senior in high school and her parents would not let her go to a concert on a school night. That Wednesday afternoon, I along with several friends from Tupelo rendezvoused with my old buddy Vergil, who was at Ole Miss at the time. We joined a cavalcade headed north on I-55 to Memphis.  Unfortunately, as we worked our way into the Mid-South Coliseum, we ran into Vergil’s girlfriend who had turned down his invitation to attend the show with him, apparently so she could go with some other guy whom she was hanging all over. Vergil now believed what his friends had been trying to tell him for quite some time about the nature of her fidelity.

Despite that downer, the show was fantastic. First The Band backed Dylan, then The Band did a set of their own material. With no intermission, The Band turned the stage over to Dylan for a set of solo acoustic numbers, and finally The Band rejoined Dylan onstage to tear the house down. That concert had it all. Probably no group of backing musicians ever pushed Dylan like the guys in The Band. Check out Before the Flood, the live album from the tour for proof.

In addition to backing his 1965-66 going electric tour, Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Richard Manuel, and Robbie Robertson had spent most of 1967 playing with Dylan in the basement of a pink house in Woodstock, NY, documented by their album The Basement Tapes released in 1975. Those sessions also produced Music From Big Pink, The Band’s seminal first album. These guys had played together, a lot, and it showed.

It is arguably the best live concert I have ever seen, and I have seen a lot of great performers. In addition to those mentioned above, I have seen Eric Clapton, Eagles, Paul McCartney, Jerry Garcia, Yes, R.E.M., Springsteen, Dave Matthews, Weather Report, pre-Buckingham Nicks Fleetwood Mac, Bonnie Raitt, and Little Feat, some of them more than once. But I feel especially fortunate to have seen the Band on their two most iconic tours and Dylan on two of his three most historic tours. I had to miss the 1965-66 tour; I was only twelve.

It was just 3:43 minutes of music, but I had been transported back, if only briefly, to those heady and formative days and surrendered to the cascade of life experiences that led to those days. Music must be the most abstract of all art forms. A work of visual art, a book, a play, or a movie, all of which, no matter how profound or moving, seems to enter through eye and ear, then proceed to the brain for processing before making their impression on our hearts. Music, on the other hand, a collection of sound waves, unseen, ephemeral, hovering then fading, seems to proceed, with no cognitive filter, from the ear directly to the heart where it makes its immediate impact.

Of course, it only just seems that way. The mind is surely involved; else why would music make our hearts swell or our pulses quicken? Why would it calm and soother or flood us with sadness or strengthen our spirit? Why would it trigger deep transporting memories as few other things can? Why would we remember every word to every verse of a song we first heard over 50 years ago?

I sat down with my Grande Pike Place, no room for cream, just as “One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below)” ended, the last notes shimmering above the soft clatter of the two baristas. I flipped open my laptop and began to write what you are reading now, trying to encapsulate all the things that had coursed through my mind in those few minutes.

The door sighed open with another customer and a bit of autumn’s chill air. Daylight Savings Time had ended the previous Sunday. Autumn’s colors were barely visible on the trees outside, a muted palette in the dim light of not quite yet morning, less vivid than the memories that one song by Bob Dylan had triggered.

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Filed under Autumn, Memory, Mississippi, Music, Uncategorized

October the seventeenth

At last
The first cool morning of autumn
The first morning to dig out a flannel shirt
Or a sweater

Against a freshly washed morning sky
Still green leaves quiver and shimmer
Burnished gold and bronze
By the low, slanting rays of the rising sun
Foretaste of their impending change

Scattered brown leaves crunch underfoot
Haphazard mosaic
On the newly lush lawn
Harbinger of more, many more to fall

A breathtaking change
After late summer’s many long dry, desiccating days
Then suddenly one day of thick, rolling clouds
And rain

Splashing, soaking, puddling rain
Dripping from leaf to leaf
Washing clean summer’s
Weary and fading verdure
Painting trunk and limb black

Then a nighttime of steady wind
Fleeing clouds and clearing skies
And tumbling temperatures

All leading to this day
October the seventeenth
Sharp, crystalline
As if the cycle of the seasons
The regular, relentless tilting revolution of this old earth
Conspired to produce this one perfect day

This day of chill, brisk air
Ironic, invigorating herald
Of the approaching death, decay, and slumber
Of the shorter days and longer nights of autumn and winter
Yet oddly energizing on this morning
Of breathing deeply

Pondering that ambiguity
For long, languorous moments
Willing that this moment might linger
To hover just a bit longer
Accepting that it will not
Except in memory

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Filed under Autumn, Memory, Poetry, Uncategorized