This is Where I’ve Been

  Week Twenty-eight: Iris And I don’t want the world to see me ‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand When everything’s made to be broken I just want you to know who I am I just want you to know who I am I just want you to know who I am I just want you to know who I am --Goo Goo Dolls, Iris, from the album City of Angels: Music from the Motion Picture For some time I have considered writing a memoir, but besides the fact that I had no idea how to do that, certain essential questions blocked my road. Why would I? Why tell my stories, and if I did which stories would I tell? To whom would I tell them? What things deserve to remain private? Elie Wiesel once wrote “I will say with memoir, you must be honest. You must be truthful.” But by being truthful might I cause injury? I might reveal things that could damage essential relationships or at the very least my reputation. William Faulkner once wrote “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” I think that’s true. I live with my memo

  Week Twenty-seven: Hymn 43 Our father high in heaven Smile down upon your son Who’s busy with his money games Or his women and his gun Oh, Jesus save me If Jesus saves, well, he better save himself From the gory glory seekers who use his name in death Oh, Jesus save me —Jethro Tull, Hymn 43, from Aqualung (In light of the assassination attempt on the life of the former president, I am compelled to say that I am relieved that he was not killed. Regardless of my feelings regarding the former President, no one deserves to be shot by a bullet from a high powered rifle, not third graders, not anyone. My condolences to the families of the dead and wounded in that attack.) Hymn 43 is a song that I don’t hear often enough, but it is a song I’ve heard literally hundreds of times (because I wore out my copy of Aqualung along with my parents’ tolerance for loud music). Although I first heard this song in 1971, the words and warning are as relevant today as they ever could have been. Recently

  Week Twenty-six: Eyesight to the Blind  You talk about your woman I wish you could see mine --The Who, Eyesight to the Blind , from Tommy  (adapted from Born Blind, Sonny Boy Williamson I) Years ago with my 18 year-old granddaughter and her gentleman caller in the backseat of my car, we could see Gwaz walking from the mailbox toward us. I immediately started singing the thought that came to mine. That was followed soon after by finding The Who’s slightly more melodic version on my iPhone. You talk about your woman I wish you could see mine After 51 years in close proximity, she still does it for me (so to speak). And whether I am sitting across from her in a quiet living room as we gather enough energy to start our day or waiting for her in the car, well, like I said. Quite often I think about how fortunate I have been. In fact, I’ve said many times that I was born lucky, and I was. From grandparents who loved me to parents who worked their whole lives on my behalf to the fortunate c

  Week Twenty-five: Under African Skies This is the story of how we begin to remember This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein After the dream of falling and calling your name out These are the roots of rhythm And the roots of rhythm remain --Paul Simon, Under African Skies , from Graceland  In the past few weeks I have been reading some autobiographical “stories” by Alice Munro and Margaret Atwood. I say “stories” but the truth is what I read was not fact or fiction. The ‘stories” were more of recollections that I imagine were reconfigured to make them more interesting than they might have been if they weren’t. I suspect that my own memory does something similar. At about age 12 or 13 the responsibility to empty the majority of the contents of the septic tank fell to me. Having assisted or watched my brother since I was able to lift the heavy steel pipes we used to redirect the sludge, when the job became solely mine, I was more than familiar with every aspect of it, including

  Week Twenty-four: Once Upon a Time in the West Yes, it’s no use saying that you don’t know nothing. It’s still gonna get you if you don’t do something. Sitting on a fence that’s a dangerous course. Oh you could even catch a bullet from the peace-keeping force, Even the hero gets a bullet in the chest. Oh yeah, once upon a time in the west. —Dire Straits, Once Upon a Time in the West , from Communique There are countless references to not learning one’s lessons; you know, something like “First time the dog bites you it’s his fault; the second time it’s yours.” And there’s “once bitten, twice shy,” which is more where I am these days. Years ago a friend of mine was embroiled in a nasty, nasty divorce made that way through his own selfish behaviors. I was party to it all from both sides. At one point or another I was consulted. Both of them called on me. Both of them deputized me. Things were so bad, that it seemed like no matter what either of them said or did, the other objected. The