Subscribe now

Here’s my submission for this week’s song prompt.

For What It’s Worth, a protest anthem written by Stephen Stills and recorded by Buffalo Springfield in 1966.

Thanks to MJ Polk and Phillip Slater.

Lyrics in bold italics.

Stories from the Jukebox

For What It's Worth

Calling all Poets, Fiction, or Non-Fiction writers and readers that love music — Subscribe now…

Read more

a month ago · 7 likes · 2 comments · MJ Polk

Last night was calm and relatively quiet.

Plenty of people milling around,

but nothing to indicate what was on the horizon.

Not even a hint of what was to come.

There’s something happening here.

Today, the streets tell a different story.

They are on fire…

with people,

fervor,

passion.

There’s costumes…

and music blaring.

The atmosphere is almost carnival-like.

Although, there’s an edge…

an acridness in the air.

But, what it is ain’t exactly clear.

The crowds are everywhere.

People overflowing from every nook and cranny.

So many people.

Hordes weaving in and around cars,

and buildings and barricades.

A thousand people in the streets.

Emotion charging the air,

with intense enthusiasm,

and opinions.

Everyone seems to have one,

and everyone is voicing it.

Hey, what’s that sound.

The buzz in the air is steady…

discordant,

raucous.

I hear songs,

clever chants,

folks straining to make their voices heard.

Singing songs and carrying signs.

The banners and signs are everywhere.

Literally.

In hands on every corner.

Some are funny.

Some are savage.

It doesn’t take long to figure out which side someone is on.

It’s either red,

or, it’s blue.

Mostly say, hooray for our side.

For now, it’s peaceful.

But, as the day wears on,

nerves will fray,

and patience will begin to wear thin.

The heat and the hatred will take over.

The sun and the moist air will see to that.

What a field day for the heat.

The hostility is already ramping up.

Groups are congregating.

Staking out territory.

A streaming mass of humanity split in two…

right down the middle.

There’s battle lines being drawn.

Blue over here, red over there.

Both sides equally confidant of where they stand.

Neither side willing, or even able,

to give an inch.

Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.

Adults are starting to yell at each other.

Screaming obscenities in each other’s faces.

Small kids are even getting in on the action…

trading cheap shots as they pass in the crowd.

Children what’s that sound?

So much turmoil,

vitriol,

and venom.

A gang of teenagers roaming, looking to stir up trouble.

Rowdy, riled up, and ready to go at a moments notice.

Young people speaking their minds,

are getting so much resistance from behind.

Each loudly shouted comment brings a more aggressive one in return.

A minor skirmish grabs my attention.

Two adult males getting a little frisky.

Alcohol is playing a part in this battle of wills.

Security personnel step in to clear things up.

There’s a man with gun over there,

a-telling me I got to beware.

No major incidents…

yet.

But, the passion is rising.

The steam is building.

The pot is boiling.

There’s something happening here,

But what it is ain’t exactly clear.

This wildly roiling mob,

of two distinct colors,

now moving in mass as one.

Raging…

and ready.

Everybody look what’s going down.

It’s time to head into the arena.

The Iron Bowl is almost here.

The annual gridiron skirmish between the University of Alabama and Auburn University.

The Crimson Tide versus the Tigers in a battle between two of the most heated rivals in college football.

A street fight disguised as a football game.

Time for the fans to take a step back,

and let the teams settle it on the field.

Thanks for reading!

Please check the archive for more stories.

“I can be mean too, don’t forget that.”

My wife made that comment a couple of days ago.

I responded,

Not like me.

“Um, yes I can.”

No, you can’t.

“Oh, I can.”

Nope, you can’t.

“Yes. I. Can.”

No. You don’t have it in you, Jo. You just don’t.

“So, you are going to argue about who can be the meanest?”

Yes, yes I am.

She walked away with a shrug of indifference, muttering something that sounded curiously like, “Okay, weirdo.”

That strange bout of mean-mugging had me thinking about the things we say to each other, and how the words we choose to use have such amazing power.

Once those syllables escape our lips, they can’t be taken back.

The words we say have the power to amaze, amuse, bother and confuse.

They can be forgotten in a minute or stay with us…

forever.

Years ago, I was embroiled in an argument with a business competitor who was attempting to steal a piece of our equipment. In the middle of the row, my thieving sparring partner, an English chap, nonchalantly threw out three words.

“Calm down, Sunshine!”

That last, seemingly innocuous word, had me fit to be tied.

That muppet slagging me off in the King’s English with near-perfect diction, threw me totally off my game.

It was only a load of codswallop, but in a moment of smoldering frustration, I tried to return the vitriol by calling the daft bloke the first thing that popped into my head.

Moonbeam.

Yep.

I know.

It didn’t quite land the way I wanted it to.

Or, needed it to.

In fact, it didn’t land at all, and England Dan was chuffed to bits.

Which, led to a serious bout of cussing, bellowing and general consternation.

I was pretty salty.

He remained steady on.

When the argy-bargy was all over, he returned the equipment, and we both went on our merry way.

But, it did not alter the fact that I let that surly geezer from the old country get totally under my skin with one measly word.

At times, the right words at the right time can make a big difference in diffusing a confusing situation.

At a Todd Snider show in Cincinnati years ago, a loud, rowdy patron was rapid-firing a bevy of song requests at the singer.

Finally, Mr. Snider’s patience wore thin and he paused the show to speak to the gentleman.

“Um, sir… yeah, the one yelling, um… if you could, if you don’t mind, maybe just write your song requests on your beer cans and quietly slip them up onto the edge of the stage. I think that may work out better than just screaming words at me that I cannot understand. I’ve got lights shining at me, and monitors, and things in my ear and all kinds of shit going on up here.

“I mean, like… I hear you, but I don’t. Know what I mean?”

Then, he calmly and succinctly wrapped it up.

“I thank you for your time in addressing this matter.”

The entire crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, and the shouter was never heard from again.

No doubt, Bob Dylan would have handled things a bit differently. But, instead of tossing him out or berating him, the barefoot troubadour from Oregon decided to go a different route, and it worked like a charm.

Speaking of confusing, some words seemingly have that trait as their impetus.

Now, I’m not a hunter, and I don’t want to tick off all the folks I know who are, but I have to draw the line at hunting in my neighborhood.

A neighborhood full of kids, dogs, cats, horses and cows running amok.

My wife had a friend who brought her hubby over to meet us one day. He seemed nice enough, but as he was leaving, he had a question for me.

“Hey, would it be all right if I came over to hunt?”

I pondered.

Um… where?

“Right here.”

Like, in my… yard?

“Yeah, you have some land don’t you?”

Some… yeah… but, no! You can’t hunt in my yard.

I guess I could have answered,

Yeah, sure! As long as I can come over and fish in your kids aquarium.

The question that day was apparently a warning shot, because a short time later, another young buck snuck into our neighborhood and shot a deer on the edge of my land.

Okay, it was a human that shot a buck, but the sound of that close shot scared the hell out of my wife and I.

When I found the culprit, he was so garbed up in camo gear, I had to stay focused to be absolutely sure I was cussing him and not the tree he was standing next to.

He thought he had the answer.

“Yeah, I’ve got permission to hunt on this land.”

Until, I asked him a few questions.

Who’s land? The land your left foot is standing on or the one where your right foot is currently residing? Because that foot is in my yard, and the deer is straddling the line. You trying to hunt half a deer?

Crickets…

I try not to use ‘bad’ words, as a daily habit, but in the midst of watching basketball or soccer, or smashing my finger with a hammer, or dealing with road-raging drivers, those ten or fifteen terms we all love and loathe, do have the ability to make me feel a wee bit better.

Some of those words, I feel, were tailor made for unaware people.

I’ve written about the unawares and my normal inclination to smack them upside the head.

I know you can’t go around smacking people, and even if I followed through with that fun-sounding fantasy, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

I’ve been known to throw thousands of hints at unaware people, and still, they remain unaware.

Unaware, that I’m giving hints.

Unaware, that I’m talking about them.

Unaware, that I want to smack them in the head.

Unaware, sometimes… that I’m even speaking.

Remember, unaware peeps are always unaware they are unaware.

Yes, I know we all have blind spots, and we can all exhibit unawareness in certain situations, but some individuals seem impervious to being aware.

Like it’s in their genes.

During my son’s soccer-playing days, I met a guy who was in a league of his own.

Which fit, because he happened to be the league president.

If the man met you, he would tell you he and his wife were sitting on seven college degrees between the two of them.

And, then, he would smile at you.

A long, weird, wide, beaming smile.

I was never sure how to properly respond to that.

Like, I mean, that’s commendable, but what do you say?

Yippee!

Or,

Well, look at you dawg!

Or,

Well, I’ll be damned! You two are just totin’ around a veritable cornucopia of sheepskin in those big ol’ noggins, aren’t you?

Usually, I just smiled back, thinking… yeah, I’ve heard that.

Maybe I should’ve called bullshit on him.

Damn, all of those B.A.’s and you still spout all of this B.S.!

Over the course of a soccer season, the guy would remind you of his academic prowess over and over again.

Like, that’s clearly THE point he wanted to get across to everyone.

He also claimed he was great at trivia.

Now, wouldn’t that be a load of…

fun?

Trivia, with seven degrees of separation…

from reality.

I’m not really sure what all of those degrees were actually for, and I’m not saying they weren’t legit. I’m just saying he was the obvious poster child for oblivious people…

and one goofy bastard.

Words can be used to make the world better or add to the vitriol.

Like online, where some people love to argue and harangue.

And like me, I guess, out here calling people goofy bastards…

but, I digress.

My Mother chose to use her words for better things.

She was a bright shining light in my life, and I have her fingerprints all over my soul to prove it.

Her calm demeanor warmed my troubled days like the sun’s beaming rays.

She had a phrase she always used when she knew something was bothering me.

She would just say,

“Don’t worry, honey.”

That’s it.

Simple, and to the point.

She never said it in a flippant way.

She just wanted me to understand that worrying does nothing to alleviate the problem.

I will shamefully admit, for most of my life, I didn’t take her advice to heart as I should have.

But now that I’m older, with so many worrisome scenarios on the horizon…

deep, heavy things…

I listen.

And when one of those heavy things lands nearby,

I can still hear her saying,

“Don’t worry, honey…

While I think to myself,

I’m trying not to, Mom.

I really am.

I’m trying.

Thanks for reading!

Please check the archive for more stories.

Here’s my submission for this week’s song prompt, There’s a Place by The Beatles. Thanks to MJ, and Theresa Greene for this week’s prompt. Song lyrics in bold.

Stories from the Jukebox

There's A Place

Calling all Poets, Fiction, or Non-Fiction writers and readers that love music — Subscribe now…

Read more

2 months ago · 6 likes · 6 comments · MJ Polk

I hear the rental car pull into the driveway, so I put a kettle on the stove and a roast in the oven.

Hey Son! It’s so good to see you, Look at that beard…

“Hi Mom! Yeah, Celia talked me into it. And, look at you. I don’t think you’ve had hair this long since I was a kid.”

Yeah, I’m just experimenting, but I kind of like it, too.

“Hey! Is that a new painting?”

Ah, just something I was working on down at the park.

“So, you paint at the park?”

Yes, I do. I walk over to the park by the lake. It’s so peaceful out there.

“Are you okay, Mom? Everything good?”

Sure Son, why?

“Well, Mrs. Krantz got in touch with Celia. She told her she was worried about you.”

Oh my, Mrs. Krantz… I guess she’s been keeping an eye on me.

“She told Celia you haven’t been acting the same lately.”

No, No I haven’t Ian. And, with good reason, you know?

“I know, Mom. I know it’s been a tough couple of years. That’s why I wanted you to come over to Ireland and stay with us for a while.”

That’s so sweet, Ian, but I’m better now.

“I… I just thought some time away might be good for you. Celia would love it. You two always get along so well.”

It’s funny Ian. After your dad left, I didn’t hear from anyone. No calls or visits. People were even ignoring me at the supermarket. Your father was so loved around here. I guess you can’t be a baby doc in a small town without getting to know everyone. But, now, all of a sudden, they’re worried?

“Sometimes, I think people just want to give you some space. They don’t really know what to say.”

I suppose. Your Aunt Tammy called from Florida the other day. Said a little birdie told her I wasn’t well, and yesterday, Mrs. Thomas stopped by. Said she missed me, even though we haven’t talked in years.

“They’re just concerned.”

Maybe so, Son.

“Mrs. Krantz said you’ve been doing some peculiar things.”

Peculiar things? Is that how she put it? That’s so funny. So, that’s why you flew across the ocean to see me. You wanted to see if I had joined a cult?

“No, Mom, I know you’re not in a cult. I had some business to take care of, but, yeah, they had me concerned too.”

Who else have you talked to?

“Just Uncle Don, and Taylor.”

Taylor?

“Yeah, his mom had heard some things, too.”

Well, word travels fast. I guess I’m just the talk of the town now. Maybe I’d better start behaving, or they might want to lock me away somewhere.

“You seem like your old self to me. You look healthy and fit. Have you been walking?”

Yep, every day, and I try to get out in the fresh air as much as I can.

“That’s excellent!”

By the way, there’s beer in the fridge. Your favorite IPA!

“Avery? Awesome! I’ve had all the Guinness I can handle for a while.”

During dinner, Ian tells me all about Ireland.

Then, we sit by the fireplace and play a game of rook.

I taught him that game when he was tiny and he’s loved it ever since.

I look at him, so big now, and all grown up.

He looks so much like his father.

When it was time for him to leave, he put his arm around me and walked me to the door.

“Well, Mom, I told Taylor I would go with him to see a late show down in Fort Collins. I’ll just stay with him tonight, and tomorrow I’m meeting Dad down in Colorado Springs. I’ll spend the night with him and then see you on Monday afternoon. Maybe we can watch a movie and make a pizza.”

Oh, I would love that, Son.

“Are you absolutely sure everything is okay, Mom?”

It is, Ian. It is. I promise.

“That’s good… it’s just that… you know, people were saying you…

I know what they were saying, Ian. I hear it. They even say it out loud sometimes. Like I’m deaf, dumb and blind. But, don’t worry. People around here are just so uptight. Anything out of the ordinary, and the lips start flapping. I used to think this was the wild west, you know? Everyone just doing their thing. But, it’s not like that anymore.

“Taylor said his mother’s friend saw you dancing down the street.”

She probably did, Ian. Is there something wrong with that?

“No! No, it’s just so out of character, I guess.”

Yeah, well, that character’s long gone. And, she’s not coming back. At least, I hope she isn’t.

“Celia said Mrs. Krantz also heard someone say you were singing loudly at the park.”

Oh no… singing loudly… and, in public even. The shame! It’s all just so funny to me.

You know, my world was rocked, son.

And, rolled right away from me.

You and Celia move off to Ireland. My only real friend in town passes away… God rest her soul. And, I wake up one day, and your father tells me he doesn’t love me anymore. Straight to my face.

I. Don’t. Love. You. Anymore.

Then, he just turned and walked away like it was nothing.

It was all so shocking. So difficult to comprehend.

“I know, Mom. I know how hard it’s been. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t have to be sorry, Son. You didn’t do anything wrong. You are my shining light. I was just so devastated.

“Sure you don’t want to come over to the land of green and Guinness?”

No buddy, I’m in a better place now. It just took me a while to get here.

“All right, if you say so.”

I’m sure people don’t understand, but, it’s my life. You know? I mean, you get me, but I’m not sure anyone else does. Especially, now.

I wasn’t sure I would ever get over what your father said, and what he did to me. But, I finally realized I don’t need your father to complete me. I just need me. The real me. The me I hid away for all those years.

You know, Son, at sixty years old, I thought life would be running smoothly. On auto-pilot. But, life has its own plans. Its own way of doing things. It tossed some heavy stuff my way, and I had to find ways to adapt. I didn’t know if I could. But, I did. And, now, I’m finding my way to happy again.

I’m sorry you’ve been worried about me, but I haven’t lost my marbles. I still have a few left. And, I’m not going crazy.

I’ve just found a place.

A place I was desperately seeking.

Now, there is a place, where I can go, when I feel low, when I feel blue, and, it’s my mind… and, there’s no time when I’m alone.

I’ve found my place.

My peace.

It was two wicked years. I had so many scary thoughts, Ian. So many places I didn’t want to go to, but my mind took me there anyway.

But, now, I’ve come to terms with it.

I’m finding my footing again, and it feels so good.

Can you believe it? I’m painting again, and I’m decent at it, if I do say so myself. And, I sing. I sing like I used to sing to you. At the top of my lungs. And, I dance, Ian. I do the things I love to do.

I don’t worry about what the busybodies think. I just don’t care, anymore. Don’t you see, son? I paint at the park. I sing on my walks. I dance in the yard. I’m just being me.

“I love that, mom. As long as you’re happy. I’m glad you don’t worry about what people might think. Just keep doing what you do. I’m so happy for you. I knew you would figure it out. I’ve always had faith in you.”

You know what? Yesterday, a pretty handsome chap walked by smiling at me, and then he turned around and told me how much he loved my painting.

I think I blushed.

And, you know what else. We danced!

Right there in that darn park. We danced to What a Wonderful World.

Three times in a row!

“Oh wow!”

Yep, his name is Maxwell, and he told me he would see me soon…

Ian gave me a huge bear hug and told me he was proud of me.

I opened the curtains and watched him drive away, waving the entire time.

Then, I walked over to the stereo and put a Staple Singers record on…

and, I sang…

and I danced…

and, I let Mavis take me there…

to my place.

Thanks for reading!

Please check the archive for more stories.

The world today requires you to move on.

Minute to minute.

Hour to hour.

Day to day.

Keep your head down.

Keep plodding.

Momentum.

If you get it, keep it.

But, now that I’m older, my mind says to the world, hold on.

Wait just a minute.

Let me check this out.

Life unfolds at a breakneck pace, when you are in the middle of the race.

Blazing along like time is running out.

Although, when time really and truly is running out, your soul puts on the brakes and says slow down, dummy.

What’s the hurry.

These days, when I see things, I look beneath the surface.

I happily notice the tiny bluebird poking its head out from under the tangle of tall grass and weeds and thistle and vine, and wonder what it’s doing down there.

I truly appreciate the genuine smile on the face of the checkout girl, trying her best to give her best, to the worst of us, and realize how difficult that actually is.

I also see the lady pushing the shopping cart filled with all that’s left of her life, down a lonely road to nowhere and think about where she’s headed… and, where she’s been.

I ponder.

These beautiful wings, sweet things, and desperate scenes.

I know some folks have a rudimentary, mechanical take on most of life’s situations.

Their normal reply is no response.

A base take with no mental kickback.

Certain minds just run on a different circuit.

I can’t compartmentalize like that.

I see things and they stay with me.

They burn.

Here’s my submission for this weeks . Carnival by Natalie Merchant. Thanks to MJ and primalbeat. Lyrics in italics.

Have I been hypnotized, mesmerized,

by what my eyes have found

in that great street carnival.

My wife and I, are standing at the window of a hotel room in Kentucky, gazing out at a calm Sunday afternoon.

Below us, the view is about to change.

We watch incredulously, as a large tanker truck pulls into the small hotel parking lot.

What follows is absolute insanity.

Irrational obsession.

Irritability.

Instability.

Unreasonableness.

Paranoia.

Delusion.

And, rage…

bordering on lunacy.

I’ll admit, it’s a lot to take in.

A whole load to decipher.

The driver of the tanker attempts to back the truck into an area to tuck it away from the incoming and outgoing traffic.

It doesn’t work.

The truck pulls forward.

The truck backs up.

Forward.

Backs up.

Forward.

Back.

He can’t seem to position the truck where he wants it.

Where he needs it.

He pulls forward again until a curb and a medium-sized tree block his progress.

The truck stops at the curb.

The driver attempts to open his door.

The tree does not allow it.

It’s limbs are too close.

The truck backs up.

A man steps out.

Walks up and looks at the tree.

Studies it.

Stands back, stares at it.

Then, attacks it.

He tussles with and rips a limb completely off of the tree and throws it down on the ground.

He, walks back.

Stares at it again.

Decides to tackle another limb.

Then, another…

and, another.

The tree is proving to be a worthy opponent.

It’s limbs are not coming down easily.

The pugilist looks down at his hands and his arms.

He returns to the cab of the truck.

Takes another stab at parking.

Still can’t do it.

He gets out again.

And, again… glares at the tree.

He rips off another limb and throws it down triumphantly.

Then, goes back to the truck and takes out a rolling suitcase and another small bag.

He takes a few steps toward the hotel lobby.

But… stops, reconsiders, decides he’s not quite done with the tree, just yet.

He walks back to stare at it again.

This time, he goes after a bigger limb.

The large limb is sturdy.

Ornery.

He finally breaks it loose and rips it down, tossing it onto the growing pile of success…

and wretched excess.

He walks back toward his bags.

Recants, changes course… once again.

Heads back to the tree.

A tree mixed up in the middle of a fight it never asked for.

He stares up at his unlikely sparring partner.

Sizes it up.

Gives it another menacing glare.

I pause to think about what could have possibly happened before this man decided to enter a parking lot not made for trucks.

What kind of day he must have had.

And I’ve walked these streets

in the madhouse asylum

they can be

Well I’ve walked these streets

in a carnival

of sights to see.

On an earlier walk, I noticed plenty of room on the surrounding streets to park a big truck.

It looks to be the normal procedure for the area.

But, this man did not care.

Something in his mind clicked, and it was over.

He barreled into this lot on a mission.

A mission to freak the truck out on an unsuspecting tree.

The fight has gone on for a few rounds now and it’s looking like a draw.

But, to this man, it’s not over yet.

He’s not finished.

He glares.

The tree braces for the next round.

During the entire skirmish, I’m keeping a wary eye on our vehicle which happens to be sitting very close to the action at hand.

I ponder the ramifications of where this is headed.

A confrontation with a crazed lunatic is not out of the question.

Nothing new about that.

I’ve been involved in a few of those over the years.

At times, I was the crazed lunatic.

You know what they say.

Takes one to know one.

But, I’ve never had a hankering to take on a tree and bring it down limb by limb.

And, anyone who does gives me major pause.

A call is placed to the front desk of the hotel.

As the man returns once again to the cab of the truck, a hotel employee wanders up with an inquisitive look on her face.

I’m guessing the first question had to be something like, “What did this tree do to you?”

After a short discussion, the employee walks away shaking her head while the man picks up his bags and slowly follows her in a walk of shame.

In the midst of roiling rage, common sense tends to take a hike.

He apparently never considered someone coming along to inquire about his scuffle with a tree.

The referee had seemingly called the fight a draw.

I’m not sure he agreed with the decision.

The pile of green on the ground would seem to bolster his argument.

But, the tree is still standing.

That, has to be galling.

He gave the tree one last glance.

Second thoughts maybe, about going to battle with a tree that had done nothing but offer up a spot of shade on a warm and humid summer day.

We look at each other… unsure what to think.

Not exactly comprehending what we had just witnessed.

I initially entered the hotel with a goal of checking on the day’s World Cup scores, but the game playing out in front of us had taken precedence.

Of course, we behaved like gawkers at a roadside accident.

Confused.

Intrigued.

Stunned.

Repulsed.

I’m still lost in thought when I notice the truck driver walking back out of the hotel.

Heading for his truck…

We breathe a sigh of relief in unison as he walks past the truck and his deep-rooted nemesis.

He passes them by and keeps on walking right out of the parking lot and then completely out of sight.

We sit back down.

Share a few opinions on the skirmish.

Then, return to our day.

A few hours later, I head to bed…

still thinking about that tussle on the tarmac

between a sap and a sapling.

Have I been lost?

Inside myself and my own mind?

Hypnotized, mesmerized

by what my eyes have seen.

From Merriam Webster online:

carnival

2 b: an instance of riotous excess

Thanks for reading!

Please check the archives for my other stories.

Here’s my submission for this week’s song prompt. Gangsta’s Paradise by Coolio. Thanks to for this song prompt series and for the song choice.

“No way Vito, I’m not giving up my cake.”

“C’mon, one hand, five card stud, for the slice.”

“Nope, not doing it! Lemon Chiffon’s my favorite cake.”

“Look Vito, you know Eddie, he wouldn’t trade that cake for a brand new 44 magnum.”

“No, but I bet he would trade it for a plate of cacio e pepe.”

“No, boss, I wouldn’t. I can make that myself. I’m not making a lemon cake.”

“I’ll have to admit, it looks pretty tasty.”

“Yep, all of the food here is good. You can’t beat three squares a day plus ice cream and cake.”

“Better than three hots and a cot.”

“You got that right.”

“The new chef is top notch.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy that the last cook got all uh… choked up.”

“Yeah, but Vito tried to help. He gave him the Heimlich maneuver.”

“He just didn’t know his own strength. Crushed his ribs.”

“Yeah, and, everything else.”

“I did what I could boys, but if you can’t even make a respectable linguine…

“Damn! That lady over there with the pink sun hat is gorgeous.”

“That’s Mario Bulgar’s ex-wife. She’s high class.”

“Yep, dressed to kill, just as I like ‘em.”

“You like ‘em any way you can get ‘em, Sal.”

“Well, beautiful women are everywhere down here.”

“What’s Bulgar doing lately?”

“Maintainin’ just like us.”

“You talked to him lately?”

“A couple of times. He’s laying low, staying clear of the limelight.”

“So, he’s going straight. Leaving the business?”

“I don’t know about that. He’s just chillin’ for a while.”

“I heard there’s a party over at the Coco Cabana tonight. Terry and the Tazers are playing. Think I might check it out, see what’s shaking.”

“You better be careful Sal, That’s Sonny Smitherman’s place. He’ll remember you.”

“I haven’t thought about that guy in years. He owns the Cabana now?”

“Yep, and a chain of banks, too.”

“Hey! What about his old side man… Yeagers… was that his name?”

“Yeah, Billy Yeagers. What a piece of shit.”

“We owe him, boss. He cut himself in on our business a time or two. Stole a few g’s from us early on. Acted like he was the baddest man in the Bronx.”

“Well, he wasn’t. He’s a poser. Would probably fold like a cheap suit if he ran up on us now.”

“Maybe we should just take him out, you know… for old time’s sake.”

“Maybe…

“If we do boss, Sal is still our best marksman.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I could even hit a target now. Maybe I could hit it… just not where I need to. I might wing ‘em, get an arm or a leg though.”

“Well, you know that’s not good enough, Sal. You need to get out to the range more. You’re just out of practice.”

“You’re right. I’ll scope Yeagers out tonight. Maybe, have a lil’ fun with him.”

“Be careful, he’s a slimy bastard. Maybe, you could catch him out alone one evening and just handle it your way. Like you used to.”

“Yeah Sal, put him in that sleeper hold and he’ll be gone in minutes. Then, all you have to do is toss him in a dumpster.”

“But, Smitherman will know we did it.”

“So…

“Do we want that heat on us?”

“What heat? Smitherman? He thinks he’s a big-time businessman now. He’s getting soft. Even if he knows it’s us, he’s not doing anything. He’s the one that doesn’t want, or need, the heat. If you do the deed, just remember to stay along the coast. We have friends out here.”

“It’s nice to have the district attorney in your back pocket, huh boss.”

“He’s my cousin, Eddie. He always wanted to join the gang. Now, he gets to play along.”

“Hey, why didn’t we just whack Yeagers back in the day?”

“Because we were just getting this thing of ours going and he was a lightweight, so I gave him a pass. Didn’t ever really seem like much of a threat. Smitherman and I had a little talk about him, though. I told him to keep his boys out of my neighborhood and I would keep mine out of his. Never saw him again for all these years until Vinnie and I ran into him over at Coco’s one night last month.”

“Yeah, we had a little fun with him. Vito gave him the stare a couple of times. Scared the shit out of him. He looked nervous all night long.”

“I got a chuckle out of it. I’ve never forgotten what he did back in the day, though.”

“I was begging Vito to let me take him outside.”

“Ah, we were just messing with him. We had a couple of ladies sitting with us. Didn’t want to spook anybody.”

“You guys should have taken him out on a boat. Like that guy down in Miami.”

“You mean Lenny the Loser?”

“That’s him! Lenny the Loader… what a dumbass. Told everybody he killed so many folks that he was constantly loading his gun.”

“He was all talk. Thought he was a ladies man. Always flirting with the babes. I warned him, and then he stared at my wife one night at an event in over Philly, so I had to teach him a lesson.”

“You took him out deep sea fishing didn’t you boss?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You gave him the cement shoes?”

“Nope! I fed him to the sharks… while he was still alive. He was hurtin’ pretty badly but he was still breathing.”

“Damn! That’s wild Vito!”

“Oh yeah, the sharks loved it. Like a big ol’ tuna to them.”

“So, we gonna feed Yeagers to the fishes?”

“Nah, we’ll keep it clean and easy. Sometimes the situation calls for a barrage, and sometimes it just calls for a nice little tweak of the neck, right, Sal?”

“That’s right Boss.”

“Hey Vinnie, you like hanging out at the Cabana, you wanna tag along?”

“Not tonight, this heat is killing me. I think I’ll get a bottle of wine and watch a movie. Turn up the a.c. and order a pizza. Maybe hit up Artie Rizzo’s new place. I saw him at the pool yesterday. Told me he bought a pizza parlor over off Palmetto Park.”

“I didn’t know he was down here.”

“Yep, he told me the previous owner had a boating accident while they were out on the water. Said he was close by, but couldn’t get over there to save him. Said it was sad… and unfortunate… then he smiled.”

“That Artie man… he’s a trip.”

“All right, I’ve had enough of this heat today. Man, what I wouldn’t do for a nice cool breeze.”

“What, Vinnie? You don’t like it here?”

“Sure boss, it’s fine. Guess I’m just used to the weather up North.”

“You can always head back to New York at any time. Just know that it’s a one-way ticket.”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m just kidding with you.”

“Hey! Sal! We may have to take care of that jerk Roselli, too. You know him. Tall, slim, eye patch, wears a fedora.”

“Hey boss, what did Roselli do?”

“He took my lounger last week and kept it for the rest of the day.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, Yes it is. You can’t just take my shit.”

“I think they’re open to anyone boss.”

“I know that, but I had my sandals and my towel and my sunglasses lying on it. My towel has my name on it. That’s a sign. A sign that I was still using it.”

“Yep, and a sign that you’re gonna be fed to the fishes.”

“Or put to sleep.”

“And, boys… don’t drink too much tonight and try to get some rest. I need you fresh in the morning. The first rat-a-tat-tat starts at noon.”

“Oh man, a mid-day hit. It’s gonna be warm. Better wear some loose clothing.”

“Who’s up first, boss?”

“Sal, I guess.”

“Aw, why me, Vito?”

“Because you’re our best shot.”

“I’ll go if Sal’s scared. I’ll get that shit started off right.”

“No, Sal’s good. Just don’t forget your balls. And, no talking bullshit. Keep it buttoned up tight. Act like you’ve been there before. No matter what they say, keep your cool.”

“We’ve got this, boys. We can do it.”

“Those fellas won’t know what hit ‘em by the time we’re through with ‘em.”

“You know Vito, sun, sand, babes, lemon chiffon cake…

and Pickleball tournaments.

You were right… The Palms at Boca is a Gangsta’s Paradise… now, lets go get that trophy tomorrow.”

Thanks for reading!

Please check the archives for my other stories.

This is my submission for this week’s prompt, Mountain Jam by the Allman Brothers Band. Thanks to and Bob Beatty from . Bands in bold type. Song titles and lyrics in italics.

A lot of my stories touch on music, so for this prompt, I almost ran a story I first posted back on June, 16, 2025 titled Elixir - Music Moves Mountains.

I thought it would fit nicely but it’s a little too long, and when it comes to music… and mountains… the stories go on forever.

The neighborhood I lived in as a child, was located a couple of miles from the base of a small mountain.

I later lived on top of that same mountain.

A creek meandered through our neighborhood and then spilled over a waterfall about a mile downstream.

Back in 1979, I attended a music festival in the woods near those falls. The headliner that evening was Louisiana’s LeRoux, on tour promoting their hit single New Orleans Ladies.

My friends and I spent most of our free time in those days rambling around on mountain roads while listening to artists like the Marshall Tucker Band and the Allman Brothers.

The searing guitars of the Allman Brother’s long instrumental Mountain Jam, and the dreamy lyrics of the Marshall Tucker Band’s song Fire on the Mountain fueled a bevy of aspirations for me and my pals.

There’s fire on the mountain, lightning in the air, gold in them hills and it’s waiting for me there.

I just didn’t realize at the time, how prophetic that line would turn out to be.

These days, I live near another one of the mountains at the end of the Appalachian chain.

For years, that mountain hosted a cool little Hippie Fest in the woods, with a stage set up in front of a large boulder at the bottom of a naturally sloping bowl. It wasn’t quite Red Rocks, but it was quite a serene scene to check out live music and get close to nature.

Watching the Charlie Hunter Trio work their magic on a crisp fall afternoon was nothing short of sublime.

Seeing Zach Deputy rip it up under a cramped pavilion full of dancing wooks, as a frosty rain cascaded down, is another cool memory of that small mountain jam.

A couple of years before the pandemic, My wife and I attended a show in the high-altitude Chautauqua community above Boulder, Colorado. The show was staged in an old wooden auditorium next to the Flatirons, the massive sandstone formations fronting the eastern slope of Green Mountain.

After a brief opening set from Satsang, Trevor Hall took the stage and wowed the crowd with his fusion of reggae and roots rock.

In keeping with the mountain theme, one of Trevor’s most well-known songs is the stirring anthem, Green Mountain State.

The fans were seated for most of the show, but the slow simmering groove eventually took hold and got everyone up on their feet and raised the old wooden roof.

A crabby group of joy-killers sitting in the row directly behind us were not at all happy about the arena-wide dance party and eventually left in a huff.

I tried to offer up a few encouraging words on their departure… something along the lines of ‘See ya’ later alligator’ or ‘After while crocodile’ but Jodie’s dancing had me hemmed in.

The show ended on an ethereal note with the crowd singing along to a soft, hushed version of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide as the lights dimmed.

A lump-in-the-throat rendition that had fans reaching for the tissues.

An emotionally touching end to a scorching night beside the Flatirons.

The Flatirons

Trevor Hall in Tennessee performing his song Green Mountain State

In late 2021, just as the pandemic was finally and mercifully ending, another show across the country proceeded to take our breath away.

A concert deep in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina featuring The Hip Abduction and Joe Samba, led to an explosion of joy unlike anything I had ever witnessed.

The crowd in Asheville, North Carolina, that evening, wasn’t the largest or loudest I’ve ever experienced, but it was by far, the happiest.

From the time we arrived you could just tell.

There’s something in the air tonight.

After spending months hunkered down, far away from the lights and the stages, music fans were chompin’ at the bit to get out and cut loose. And, that is exactly what they did that night in Asheville.

The room was on fire.

That entire show bordered on bedlam.

And, damn… it felt good.

Scratch a mountain… and you’ll find music.

In the East, the people of the Appalachians latched onto the roots of Irish music, fused it with early American Blues and Jazz, then added in a little mountain spirit, to form Bluegrass.

While in the West, the long legacy of legendary live musical performances at Red Rocks, one of the world’s premier venues on the edge of the Rocky Mountains, lives on.

Something special happens when you mix musical melodies with cool mountain air.

It turns magical.

Like mycelium.

Mycelium is nature’s underground network of highways, connecting all types of living things.

Music has a similar feel.

All of those songs, live shows and mountain jams swirl their way up into the atmosphere, crossing mountains, oceans and continents, linking music fans together into one big happy family.

Back to that mountain I grew up on.

One of my mother’s long-time neighbors was a local singer-songwriter named Albert Simpson.

One of Albert’s early gigs, was in a band named Highly Kind which featured Duane Trucks on drums. Duane is the nephew of Butch Trucks, and the younger brother of Derek Trucks, both of the Allman Brothers Band.

The Allman Brothers were an absolutely amazing live band. A sturdy group of phenomenal players all operating on the same wavelength.

Derek Trucks is now carrying the torch.

He and Susan Tedeschi’s band, the Tedeschi Trucks Band, is widely considered one of the world’s best bands.

The very first show my son attended was a Tedeschi Trucks Band and Trombone Shorty show at the Alabama Theater in downtown Birmingham.

That show in that beautiful hall, sent him straight down the all-encompassing rabbit hole of music.

And, he’s never looked back.

The same thing those old rock songs did for me many years ago.

I have traversed this country’s musical kingdom from one end to the other.

From St. Petersburg to Mission Bay, with plenty of stops along the way.

From a music festival on a mountaintop next to a waterfall, all the way to a music festival on the edge of another mountain some 40 years later.

Those two mountains sit just 20 miles apart.

But, in between those festivals, sits an entire lifetime of music.

I guess the Marshall Tucker Band was right.

There was gold in them hills… and it was waiting for me there.

Thanks for Reading!

Please check the archive for my other stories.

“Hey! Chuck! Wake up! Let me in!”

“Okay, okay, dang…

“What’s going on bud?”

“Nothing man, just sleeping it off.”

“Sleeping what off?”

“I don’t know… life I guess.”

“C’mon dude, get up. Let’s get moving.”

“Nah man, I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired. You’ve got to stop doing this Chuck.”

“Doing what?”

“Drinking so much. Drinking so much you pass out. Every time I’ve been here lately, you’re either sloshed or sleeping it off. We’ve got to get you out of this daze.”

“I'‘m good, I’m good. Just struggling to get my head right, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Ever since you and Carson split up. You just can’t keep living like this. I’m telling you, it’s gonna kill you if you don’t stop.”

“Look Rob, I know I always call you the big brother I never had, but I’m fine. Damn! Close those curtains.”

“No can do, brother. It’s 2:45 in the afternoon. Let’s go get some food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“When is the last time you ate?”

“Uh… I think I had a couple of eggs yesterday morning.”

“That’s what I thought. Put on some clothes, I’ll be outside.”

-One hour later, at the local diner:

“Damn, I thought you said you weren’t hungry?”

“Guess I was.”

“Look Chuck, I’m tired of seeing you like this. Your cousin Cindy called me yesterday. She said you got all mad and hung up on her.”

“Yeah, well… she was bugging me.”

“She just cares about you, like I do. We all do. You’ve got to find another job. Working construction a day here and a day there, isn’t gonna cut it.”

“Yeah, I’m tired of that shit anyway.”

“What about writing again? You were so good at it. I was telling everybody you were going to be the next Cormac, and then you just up and quit.”

“I didn’t have anything else to say.”

“But, you do have things to say. Look, I know you miss Carson, but, she’s gone. Moved back to Cali. I heard she’s already dating someone.”

“That’s cool… it figures.”

“Chuck, you guys just drifted apart. No shame in that. You can’t blame her. You told me you were ready to move on.”

“I guess I lied.”

“No dude, You can do this. We just have to get you interested in some other things. Like writing. What about Substack? Everybody is getting on Substack. Why not give it a try? Get the old literary juices flowing. Get that Charles Colter brand up and running again.”

“I don’t have anything to write about, and I wasn’t that good anyway.”

“Bullshit! Don’t pull that on me. You’re a great writer. You were top of your class. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but what if you write about drinking?”

“What?”

“You know, get real, go deep. Talk about how hard it is to quit. I think it could be cathartic for you. People may really respond to that. They’re craving something real right now. You could really help people that are struggling. It could help to slow down your own habit, too. You can spend more of your time writing instead of drinking.”

“I don’t know, man. I’ve been in a funk about pretty much everything. Not sure I could pull that off.”

-Phone conversation, ten days later:

“How’s it going, Chuck? I saw the new Substack. That’s so awesome. You’re gonna kill it. I can’t believe you used an alias, but I like it. Chuck’s Ruckus. Has a nice ring to it.”

“I though you would like that. Since you always call me Chuck lately.”

“Yep! You haven’t been acting like Charles. Charles kept it together. Always did what he had to do. Helped other folks. You’ve been acting like a Chuck. I refuse to call you Charles again until you get your shit together.”

“All right, Robert.”

-Two weeks later, at Chuck’s house:

“Well, I see you cleaned up the house. Looks good!”

“Yeah, thought it was about time.”

“Your cuz said you got a part time job at the new music venue. What do you think about it?”

“It’s cool. Saw Wilco and Gary Clark Jr. last week. The pay is pretty good and the boss lady is nice.”

“Great! That’s what I wanted to hear. How about the writing, how’s that going?”

“Super, actually. I’ve been hammering home the framework and everyone seems to dig it. My numbers are growing so fast I’ve farmed out some of my set-up stuff to AI.”

“Woah, you’re kidding. I thought you hated that shit?”

“I do, but man, it helps me time-wise. I’m still doing most of the writing.”

“Have you cooled your jets a bit on the drinking?”

“Yeah, for sure, but not according to my stories. I was talking to a pretty well known author the other day and he gave me some great tips. He told me I can’t quit.”

“What?”

“Well, he was just saying If I kick my habit, I’ll have to find something else to write about. He made a good point, though. People seem to eat this shit up. I’m rising up the non-fiction charts so fast, it’s crazy. But, yes, in my real life, I’ve got a handle on it. I’m drinking a lot less, but online… I’m still having a ripper every single night.”

“That’s wild. Just keep your nose to the grindstone. You’ve got this.”

-Three weeks later, back at the diner:

“If there’s a better patty melt in the world, I’d like to see it.”

“You’ve been eating those things since we were kids, Roberto.”

“And, I’m still not tired of ‘em… Charles, Hey, I saw that story you posted yesterday. It was a little different from your normal posts. Had me a little worried. Thought you were heading in the wrong direction, again.”

“Nah man, I’m just letting AI do the heavy lifting now.”

“I knew it didn’t read the same. I’m sure it helps but it feels kind of dry. Your stuff is always so passionate.”

“I know, but I just don’t have the time. The thing blew up so quickly. I can’t even answer all of the comments and I got three e-mails this morning wanting me to do collaborations on other Substack publications. Oh, and they moved me to full-time at work. The Alabama Shakes are playing this weekend. I can get tickets if you want to go.”

“No, but thanks. Trae has a soccer tournament down at the beach. That should be a killer show, though. Tess and I are heading out to Arizona in a couple of weeks. Gonna do some primitive camping. Trae’s staying at his grandmother’s house. We’re going to unplug and live like animals.”

“You better be careful out there. I know what you’re like in the wild. I hope Tess is ready.”

-One month later, at the supermarket:

“Hey Chuckie, what’s happening?”

“Just grabbing some veggies… and that’s Charles, to you… remember? How was the trip to the desert?”

“Hot! Hot as hell! Fun, though. Tess was wanting to go home after a few days, but she hung in there.”

“She always does.”

“Yep! She’s a trooper. How are things going? Everything good?”

“Yeah, sure… I guess. Still working at the amphitheater. Been doing a little bartending.”

“What about your Substack? I haven’t checked it out lately.”

“Well…

“Well, what?”

“That gig is up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I closed down my site.”

“Why did you do that? I thought it was going great.”

“I was snubbed.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah! I was so busy, I just started letting AI write my stories. But, in one of my stories last week, it killed me off.”

“What?”

“Yep! I just kept feeding it so much info about how I couldn’t stop, and drinking was just a monster eating me alive, and the story that came out last week, had me in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Apparently, I was in bad shape and had a bad reaction to some meds and went into cardiac arrest, and didn’t make it.”

“That is crazy, man.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to do. But, I thought about it, and just decided to go with it. I ran the post posing as a friend. I used the name Roberto, can you believe that? I just said, ‘Well, I guess that’s it. Chuck couldn’t quit, and in the end, it took him down.’ The last line was a killer, pardon the pun. ‘Don’t let this happen to you!’ That last post got thousands of likes and a ton of comments. Can you believe that shit?”

“So… let me get this straight. AI erased you from your own life story?”

“Yep.”

“Damn…

Wandering through bookstores and libraries takes a degree of patience.

There are so many choices.

Where do you begin?

Usually, you scout for favorite authors or subject matter or genres, but you can get a little dizzy if you’re just roaming the aisles looking for something to catch your attention.

Take fiction for instance.

If you’re not sure what you are looking for, the hunt can be tricky.

So many rows of so many shelves stacked tightly with so many books.

A cover, of course, can beg for your attention.

You can also scan the inside cover, the acknowledgments on the back cover, or flip through the pages, but what you are getting is still a mystery.

It’s sort of like a literary scavenger hunt.

If you are like me, you better block off some time, you may be there for a while.

I posted a story titled Wandering and Wondering last year, on my very first day of writing on Substack. A short story about rambling around in bookstores. Here’s the link if you want to check it out.

Birmingham, Alabama, earned the moniker The Magic City early on, thanks to it’s rapid growth as an industrial center.

The Magic City is known for lots of different things.

-A brutal history of race relations.

-A once-roaring steel industry deemed The Pittsburgh of the South.

-An early jazz scene that played an integral part in America’s finest musical genre.

-The Heaviest Corner on Earth.

The intersection of 20th Street and 1st Avenue North downtown was given the name in the early 1900’s, as four of the South’s tallest buildings were erected over a ten year period.

-U.A.B., The University of Alabama-Birmingham. Alabama’s largest employer has been moving up the ranks of the nation’s elite colleges

The campus also anchors what has become a world-class medical destination that covers a substantial portion of the downtown area.

U.A.B. Hospital is the fifth largest hospital in the United States and is listed on Newsweek’s prestigious ranking of America’s Best Hospitals.

-Children’s of Alabama Hospital has been ranked for 16 consecutive years in U.S. News and World Report’s annual survey.

-A wildly underrated restaurant scene loaded with James Beard Award winners like Frank Stitt, Chris Hastings, Adam Evans and Dolester Miles.

-The nearby, world-class, Barber Motorsports Park.

-A massive Vulcan Statue that stands watch over a city full of great neighborhoods, restaurants, breweries, coffee shops, bookstores, theaters, museums and parks.

The Vulcan is the largest cast iron statue in the world, reflecting the city’s roots in the iron and steel industry.

There’s a lot of um, scuttlebutt… if you will, regarding the back view of the Vulcan’s bum, but it does give visitors a cheeky fun topic for dinner conversations.

Birmingham is also a fun place to whet your literary appetite.

A few years back, while perusing the long aisles filled with thousands of books at 2nd and Charles, a large discount bookstore located in Hoover, a spine happened to catch my eye.

For some odd reason, I was drawn to Grow Old Along with Me, The Best is Yet to Be, a book edited by Sandra Martz, and published by Papier Mache Press in 1996.

I grabbed it and a few others and looked around for a comfy chair.

When I opened the book, I found a sweet little note written on the inside cover.

To Delora, who will always be forever young and beautiful. Love, Ebbie Thomas.

Just reading that inscription gave me goose bumps.

Apparently, Ebbie had decided to give the book to Delora, but not before tacking on a heartfelt note of affection.

Can we say serendipity?

I think we can.

Even though, the book is only thirty years old, the cover, and especially Ebbie’s hand-written note to Delora, make it seem much older.

Grow Old Along with Me focuses on issues for the elderly, like falling in love after being widowed, retirement, and late-life opportunities for growth.

I put the book back on the shelf, but not before taking a few pictures.

You never know what you’ll find while scavenging for books in the literary wild.

Finding a special book is like finding a pearl in an oyster.

I ran across a copy of The Pathos of Distance, a 1913 collection of essays by James Huneker recently at Stash, a spacious antique emporium in the downtown area.

Huneker was one of the influential American critics of his time. The essays in this book cover his thoughts on an array of topics including art, literature, music and philosophy featuring iconic works from Matisse, Dostoevsky, Wagner and Nietzsche among others.

This highly significant book was selected by scholars for being culturally important and is a part of the public domain.

I found the book on an old unassuming bookshelf tucked up against a back wall.

My wife found a copy of Captain from Castile by Samuel Shellabarger on a nearby shelf.

This historical adventure novel published in 1945, follows Pedro de Vargas on his journey fleeing the Spanish Inquisition all the way to joining Herman Cortes’ conquest of Mexico and then his return home to Spain.

We were both pretty happy with our haul.

Two legendary books on one visit to an antique store.

A lovely library in the woods is located just off of a major thoroughfare that cuts directly through the center of the ’Ham.

In fact, the official name is Library in the Forest, located in the Vestavia Hills community.

A library doesn’t have to be stunning.

It just has to have books.

This library has books, and is also stunning.

The 35,000 ft. library situated on 9 acres has comfy couches, a fireplace, floor to ceiling glass walls allowing for super views of the forest, a large outdoor deck, shaded benches, a 1.3 mile walking trail and yes, books.

An oasis of literature, located on the edge of the woods, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the nearby streets.

If you wander into Jim Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories on 3rd Avenue North in downtown Birmingham, you may want to make sure you have some time available.

“To call Reed Books an ‘old bookstore’ is a bit like saying the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel has a good paint job.” - Allen Johnson Jr., author

From the store’s website, jimreedbooks.com.

Book lovers from throughout the world enjoy visiting author Jim Reed at his rare-book loft, Reed Books. Jim, a popular inspirational columnist and gentle gothic humorist, has authored several books, including Dad’s Tweed Coat: Small Wisdoms, Hidden Comforts, Unexpected Joys.

This is an absolutely incredible bookstore filled with all kinds of wonders. Books, posters, records, tapes, and a proprietor that knows the book business inside and out.

In addition to being a book dealer, Jim Reed’s varied career has also included acting, narrating, broadcasting, lecturing, writing and creating.

He also has a podcast called Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary.

Specializing in rare and vintage books, a visit to Jim Reed’s will slow down your mood and your day, and set you off on a winding excursion through an amazing maze of books and oddities.

I picked up a copy of Jack Kerouac’s, On The Road, on my last visit.

You can be sure to always find something interesting lurking on the over-packed shelves at Reed’s.

A visit sure to leave you with fond memories and an urge to return.

Other bookstores in the Birmingham area worth checking out are The Little Professor and The Alabama Booksmith, both located in Homewood; Thank You Books in the Crestwood community; and Enjoyer Books, a company currently building a mobile bookstore in a bus.

At The Alabama Booksmith, every book in the store is signed, and you don’t have to deal with spines as every book is displayed face out.

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of another bookstore where every single copy is signed.

Here’s a testimonial from their website:

Signed books make the best gifts!!! Alabama Booksmith has the best curated collection handpicked by book lovers you can trust! Signed books, by artists you love, just makes the communication and connection that much more personal and special! – Christopher from Alabama.

Reading the comics in the local newspaper while my father sat nearby reading the important stuff is one of my favorite early memories.

I quickly moved on to the sports pages and box scores, and then, to actual books.

The very first book I remember reading as a kid, was Joe Namath, by Joe Devaney, published in 1972. It was, I believe, the first book written about Joe Willie Namath, the football quarterback, playboy, and actor.

This book may have been my second.

Pistol Pete Maravich by Bill Gutman, The Making of a Basketball Superstar, also published in 1972.

It is strange, but I guess I owe both comic strips and sports a debt of gratitude for introducing the art of reading into my young life.

It would be a lot cooler and definitely more romantic to say it was a classic like Moby Dick, or The Count of Monte Cristo, or The Odyssey.

But, it wasn’t Melville or Dumas or Homer. It was Broadway Joe, Pistol Pete, and the Sunday funnies.

Sports, and the absurd humor of the shortest little stories available to me at the time, were all it took to get my literary engine up and running.

They gave my imagination wings, and my love for reading took off like a jet plane.

And, hasn’t landed yet.

Thanks for Reading!

My lab Dudley is a curious boy.

He loves to sit on the porch and watch the world roll by.

Every now and then, when the questions mount up, he will hop up into a chair to sit beside me.

The nimbleness required to do this without turning over the chair is wild.

My last lab couldn’t have done that. He would have just dragged the chair out into the yard, torn it limb from limb and peed on it.

But, Dud’s different.

He doesn’t tear things up. Or, dig holes in the yard. Or, growl at people.

In a lot of ways, he functions more like a human than a dog, and when something’s gnawing at him, I can tell.

He’s looking for answers.

A few days back, while sitting on the porch marveling at how quickly pollen can color the world a mustardy shade of yellow, he popped up beside me with a golden stare and a fresh round of questions on his mind.

Me - Hey Dud, what ya’ got, bud?

Dud - Pops, you know those words you use when you watch those bouncy ball games on that screen?

Me - I do.

Dud - I was just wondering why you shouted them at that nice man in the woods? He was only making more sticks for me to play with.

Me - Well, Dud, that guy wasn’t thinking about you. He was ripping up those trees so he could sell the timber, and I was just making sure he was legit. For some reason, he didn’t appreciate my line of questioning and got a little persnickety.

Dud - Did you find out if he was legible?

Me - Legit. It means on the up and up, and no, not really. We just cussed a bit, stared at each other for a minute, spit a few times, and let it be.

Dud - I do like all of the new sticks lying around.

Me - I thought you would.

Dud - Now, back to that bouncy ball thing you watch in the wintertime. All those people running around, crashing into each other and acting like that bouncy ball is made out of bacon or something. What even is that?

Me - That, Dud, is basketball. We play it in the driveway sometimes. Remember? I always compliment your rebounding skills. You just need to pass more. You can be a little selfish when you have the bouncy ball.

Dud - I guess, but I still don’t understand why all of those humans sitting around the sides aren’t chasing the bouncy ball? Are they stupid or something?

Me - Well, sure, some of them are, but they can’t. That would interrupt the game on the floor and those people pay lots of money to sit and watch those games.

Dud - Why would anyone want to sit and watch a game when they could go outside and play one instead?

Me - That, Dud, is a good question. A very good question, indeed.

Dud - You sure get worked up watching that stuff.

Me - Yes, sometimes I get a little angry at things I see happening on the court.

Dud - But, you shouldn’t. You get all red-faced and your blood pressure goes through the roof, and that bothers me. You scare me sometimes.

Me - I know I shouldn’t, but Dud, when a guy dribbles the bouncy ball off of his foot with fifteen-seconds left and we’re only down one, I just can’t take it. Down one and he dribbled it off of his shoe, Dud. His damned shoe!

Dud - Okay, okay.

Me - Sometimes, I just want to sit with that anger, Dud. Just sit with it and stew in it. But, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I’m just mad.

Dud - I can tell. I would rather you watch that other bouncy ball thing. The one with that team with the cool name. Liver something or other. It reminds me of liver treats. I love liver treats.

Me - That’s soccer Dud, or, futbol. We like to watch our favorite team, Liverpool.

Dud - I think I like that bouncy ball game better.

Me - You like it because it’s played on grass.

Dud - I think all bouncy ball games should be played on grass.

Me - Most are, but you’re forgetting about tennis. You love chasing the green bouncy balls around the court.

Dud - Good point! Okay, so what about the guy that comes over sometimes and never pets me? I mean, like ever. Who is he?

Me - Well Dud, that guy is my brother, and I’ll just go ahead and say it… he dumb. No, I’m kidding. He’s just not a dog person.

Dud - WHAT?

Me - Don’t take it too hard, Dud. He can get all worked up and googly-eyed over a slobbering little baby, but…

Dud - Ooh, I too, so love a slobbering little baby. They smell like milk and apple sauce.

Me - I know, I know you do Dud, and I do too. But, for some reason, my bro just isn’t the type that can get all down in his feelings with the canines.

Dud - You know, I don’t really think I can get down with his type either.

Me - Understood.

Dud - All right, This one, I’ve been wanting to ask for a while.

Me - Okay, let’s hear it.

Dud - So, why don’t we go to those drive-thru food places more often. I say we should go to one every single day. I love those places, and I love those people. They always give me stuff. Like a tasty treat, or a chicken nugget or even one of those pup cups filled with cool whipped cream to tickle my tummy. Oh, and that one lady even gives me animal crackers. Can you believe that? Animal crackers? I like the cats the best.

Me - I bet.

Dud - And, the giraffes. I like to bite off their heads. Oh, and the donkeys, I love…

Me - Okay, Dud, settle down, and let me answer the question. We try not to eat drive-thru food, as you call it, too often. That stuff is not very good for you. It can make your tummy feel bad

Dud - Oh, it never makes my tummy feel bad.

Me - Yes, I can see that, but hardly anything makes your tummy feel bad. Not even cat poop.

Dud - Hey…

Me - It’s true. You have a thing for feline feces.

Dud - I can’t help it, Pops. The smell just draws me in. I don’t know why but it’s just so hard to resist. Must be one of those things you said was inane, or uh, insane.

Me - That’s innate Dud, but I guess inane and insane would work too. You just have a pestering proclivity to eat things off of the ground you shouldn’t. Bird poop wasn’t meant for eating.

Dud - I know, but I always think they put it there just for me.

Me - Just try to use a little discernment.

Dud - Okay… there was something else I wanted to ask… oh yeah, the other day, when Mom asked you to come outside and you went a little ape shi… um… crazy on that little squirmy thing on the driveway. I saw what you did to it and that wasn’t very nice.

Me - I know Dud, but that little squirmy thing was a snake. A baby snake, but a snake none-the-less. You should know that I have absolutely no control over what I do when I see one. They scare the absolute shit out of me.

Dud - Hmm… you could have just left it alone.

Me - I could have, but that was a dangerous one. You need to stay away from those. They can sneak up on you. One night a few years ago, I walked into the garage and found myself face to face with a huge snake on top of a tall box, trying to get to a bird in a nest.

Dud - What was he doing? Was he going to eat it? A bird? Yuck!

Me - Yes, yes he was, but I didn’t stick around to watch.

Dud - What did you do?

Me - Well, I ran out of the garage and down the driveway screaming those words I use when I’m watching bouncy ball games, and then steered clear of the garage, and the neighbors… for a very long time.

Dud - Okay, can we talk about the zoomies for a minute?

Me - Sure.

Dud - You know, the zoomies are just… exhilarating. They make me feel so good. The hackles on the back of my neck stand up and I get all tingly.

Me - I can tell.

Dud - But, you and mom always seem to get a little peeved when I get zoomy, ‘cause I mess up the plants and all.

Me - Your mother does a lot of work on those flower beds.

Dud - I know, but I just can’t help myself. It feels so good. You should try it.

Me - I have other ways to feel good, Dud.

Dud - Yeah, I know. I also know that a bottle of wine sure gets you and mom feeling pretty chummy… and maybe even a little zoomy. Dogs don’t need artificial stimulation. We can get good and wound up without all that.

Me - Well, I guess, but it usually takes your mom or I saying the magic words.

Dud - You’re right, but when you guys say, “I’m gon’ getcha Dud!” Man, I really believe you are gonna get me. Every single time.

Me - The zoomies are fine on occasion, just watch out for the plants.

Dud - I’ll try but I can’t promise anything. I’ll do better with the plants if you guys stop shutting me out of the bedroom.

Me - Well, we have to do that sometimes. It’s for your own good.

Dud - Yeah well, you don’t do it near as much as you used to.

Me - Hey…

Dud - What are you two doing in there anyway?

Me - Just straightening up the room a bit, that’s all.

Dud - Um hmm… seems a bit selfish to me… but, what do I know?

Me - You know a lot Dud, a whole lot.

Dud - Thanks Pops. But, there are also so many things I don’t know. Like coding, and quantum physics, and gene sequencing, and why that punk dog down the street attacked me two different times!

Me - Yeah, I can’t help you with the first three, but the dog down the street was just a straight up bitch. I hate to say it, bit it’s true.

Dud - And, why isn’t every yard filled with bouncy balls? And, why don’t we have a pool? And, why does the doctor stick his finger…

Me - Okay Dud! Yeah… we’ll talk about some of those another day.

Dud - All right, well, what’s up with that stuffed toy dog you guys brought home? It’s kind of creepy. He looks just like me.

Me - It’s just something for you to play with, but I saw what you did to it the other day. Talking about not nice…

Dud - What? What did I do?

Me - You tried to… uh, um, lets just say you treated it very poorly Dudley.

Dud - I did? Dang! I don’t remember doing that. But, I don’t remember a lot of things you say I do.

Me - Trust me on this one.

Dud - Okay, here’s the last one for today. When we go out to a festival or a brewery, why does it always seem like I’m the life of the party? Why do they think I’m so special?

Me - People like you, Dud. You’re handsome, and you’re sweet, and you’re soft.

Dud - Yeah, I know that, but… so many hands rubbing on me, and patting me, and little kids putting their sticky hands on my face, and staring at me, and poking me, and yelling in my ear and telling me I’m a good boy. How do they know I’m a good boy? I could be a bad boy doing zoomies all over the flowers. They don’t know.

Me - They can just tell by your sweet face, Dud. They know you are a good boy.

Dud - Well, apparently the dogs don’t think that. Those fools are crazy. I mean, a sniff of my butt or a lick on the face is fine, but all they want to do is bark. Bark, bark, bark. Then, they nip at my tail or my ears and act all big and bad. Even, those little bitty baby bruisers start frontin’ on me.

Me - They’re just jealous of the attention you’re getting, that’s all.

Dud - I guess so. Well, that’s all I’ve got for now. Wanna go fling the frisbee so I can make some acrobatic catches? Those hounds next door love to watch me run. And, then, maybe I can get one of those big pizzle things for being such a good boy. I love pizzles. What are those things anyway?

Me - Um, just a snack, Dud, a snack for dogs. Let’s go find the frisbee.

Thanks for reading!

This is my submission to this week’s song prompt on . This week’s song is Don’t Look Back in Anger by Oasis. Thanks to for this prompt series, and for the song choice.

I look at you, and I see things…

in my head.

Don’t look back in anger, they sing.

And, I don’t.

I could wish so many bad things for you.

Horrible things.

But, I don’t.

I could wish for you to get lost deep in the woods.

I could hope you get food poisoning, and keep it for the rest of your life.

I could tell everyone you know, terrible lies about you.

I could stash drugs in your car and call the police.

I could wish for an army of ticks to run roughshod over your body.

I could hope everything you ever eat, tastes like shit.

I could wear a scary costume and hide in the shadows, everywhere you go.

I could drop you into a rat-infested sewer.

I could wish for a falling star to land directly on the top of your ugly little head.

I could hope you get entangled in a road-rage battle with an MMA fighter.

I could tie you up and stake you to the ground, on top of an ant hill.

I could lead you out into the desert and leave you there, with the scorpions and the rattlesnakes.

I could wish for a tried-and-true flat earther to move next door to you.

I could hope you lose everything, gambling in Vegas.

I could take you miles out into the ocean, at night, and toss you overboard.

I could douse you in honey and tie you to a tree, as a snack for the Smoky Mountain black bears.

I could wish for you to stumble face-first into a hornets nest.

I could hope the river rises and your boat sinks.

I could take you to Yellowstone and throw you to the wolves.

I could make you listen to Oasis twenty-four hours a day.

I could do all of these things…

and more.

But, I don’t.

I choose not to.

Because, I don’t look back in anger.

But… I do think about them.

All of them…

and, more.

I think about them,

and smile.

I think about you getting fired from your job.

I think about you buying a house at the beach just in time for the next big hurricane.

I think about you on a camping trip, snuggled up and snoozing in your sleeping bag, as the tent catches fire in the middle of the night.

And, I think about you sitting there with that turntable, listening to Oasis sing Live Forever, for ever and ever.

I think about these things because I don’t look back in anger.

Instead,

I look forward to your demise every single day.

Because, I’m not full of regret.

I’m an optimist…

and, a nice guy…

and,

I don’t look back in anger.

Here’s my submission for this week’s . Thanks to for the series and for this week’s song prompt, Peace Somehow by Avi Kaplan. Song Lyrics in Bold type.

I’m sitting in a light rain,

high on the mountain, at the top of the Rockies,

focused not, on the stupendous view,

but on the mindless hordes of selfie-taking scoundrels

dropping cigarette butts and selfishness with wild abandon.

The scene is gnawing at me,

diverting my attention,

obstructing the view we all came to see.

I’m walking through the woods,

deep in the trees,

a brisk breeze rustles through,

the limbs shake and the leaves sway.

A pine cone drops

lands at my feet,

next to a hunter’s discarded waste,

as my mind wanders off trail.

I’m in a kayak,

I flow with the river,

my hand over the side

dragging through the cool, choppy water.

Shaking my head,

at the mountain of trash

floating along beside us,

leaving a too-deep impression.

It catches my eye

as I fly on the breeze,

a neighborhood blighted by time

and indifference.

Soon, I’ll be over other neighborhoods,

realms of opulence and wealth,

a striking contrast,

shameful in its audacity.

When I notice a man lying in the alcove,

with his mate cuddled up next to him,

both covered with a thin, stained blanket

that can’t possibly be enough,

I stare into a night I can’t imagine,

at a life I cannot comprehend,

and then walk away,

like the inglorious bastard I am.

Real world problems seemingly without solutions,

in a land of plenty,

and a society hooked on hearings,

that never listens.

Aging isn’t aways about sleepless nights, or bodies breaking down, or thoughts trailing off…

It’s not always about regret, or gratitude.

It’s also about sad scenes of sad things,

begging for our attention and assistance.

Scenes that twist and turn,

and gnarl and grate and grind our gears,

as we search for answers

that just aren’t there.

We absorb the constant gut punches like a prizefighter drunk on pain.

Scenes that should embarrass us, only expose us,

perpetually warping our view of humanity…

and hope.

Back on the mountaintop,

I wrangle with the angels, and dig at the devils…

searching for a gleam of sunlight peeking through the rain,

to take the toil and the pain away.

A spirit is calling through the wind on the pine,

in an attempt to heal the heart and free the mind.

I breathe in, I breathe out,

and I try to find the peace… somehow.

Here’s my submission for this week’s prompt, Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles. Thanks to MJ for the series and Rick for the prompt. Beatles song titles in bold. Here Comes the Sun lyrics in bold italics.

Lance kept sawing.

The pile of wood was dwindling, his pace was not.

He never even heard the truck pull up. Or, the gate open. Or, the beer top pop. He just kept at it.

“Damn, looks like you’re on a mission.”

“Hey Trey, sorry… didn’t see you. You made it back?”

“Yep, we got in last night. Want a beer?”

“Sure, what’s happening?”

“Nothing really, Beth’s over at her sister’s, thought I’d see what you were up to. She told me Dave hasn’t seen you all week.”

“Yeah, I just thought I’d take a few days off and get some more firewood ready. I think we’ll have another cold spell after this little heat wave moves on.”

“You’ve got your own firewood factory here.”

“Yep, all the wood I’ll ever need right outside my back door.”

“So, what’s going on, Lance?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been working with Dave for over twenty years, he says you won’t even answer your phone.”

“I’m just tending to some things.”

“I know, but what else is going on?”

Logs were crackling in the fire behind Lance as he kept sawing.

He finally stopped, laid the saw down, picked up a beer and stared off into the distance.

“I saw something strange in the woods the other day.”

“What was it?”

“A dead dog at the base of the mountain. Out past Miller’s pond. It was beat up… bloody. Something about it didn’t seem right.”

Lance stood looking, staring up at the mountain.

“What’d you do with it?”

“Nothing. Left it where it was.”

“Hey, where’s Bo?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? That… that dog wasn’t….”

“No, it wasn’t Bo. He was with me.”

“Okay, damn.”

“Yeah… something weird is going on out there, though. Bo loves that pond, but lately, he won’t go anywhere near it. Gives it a wide berth every time we get close. Same as that day, he just headed toward the house when I went to check on the dog. Then, when I got home, he wasn’t there. Haven’t seen him since.”

“When was that?”

“Tuesday”

“Wow, four days.”

“Yep.”

“Have you looked for him?”

“All day, every day. I’ve asked everyone in the area and I’ve looked everywhere I know to look.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

“I don’t know. He’s never done this before.”

“Hey, my sister is selling Labradoodle puppies, kind of pricey, but what if I get you one? I’ll pay.”

“Trey, you know you can’t buy me love. If I can’t have my lab, I don’t want it… sorry.”

Trey headed back home, where he told Beth about his conversation with Lance.

“Oh no! I hate to hear that. He loves that dog like nothing else.”

“Yeah, after Sally died, he turned all of his attention and affection to that pup.”

“You’re right, he spends eight days a week with that dog. I haven’t seen him without Bo since last Spring.”

“Lance just didn’t look right, Beth. Something seemed off. He’s all helter-skelter. I’m worried about him.”

“We need to come together for him. What’s that song? With a little help from my friends. I’ll get some posters printed up and you can put ‘em around town.”

Trey stopped by Lance’s house again on Saturday and found him working in the garden.

“Any sign of Bo?”

“Nothing. I got up early this morning and hiked around on the mountain. I’m gonna go farther out this afternoon.”

“Beth had posters made with Bo’s picture on ‘em. I put them everywhere.”

“Thanks Trey, tell Beth I appreciate it.”

“What do you think happened to the dog by the lake, Lance? Bear, maybe?”

“I don’t know, it’s gone now. Maybe a bear dragged him off. I went over to check it out this morning and it’s gone. Like it was never there. No signs. No blood. Nothing.”

“Damn!”

“Yeah man, creepy. All the more reason to move on.”

“Aw dude, don’t make any rash decisions. We like having you around here.”

“I don’t know… you think you could get Beth to stop by and see if she wants any of Sally’s things? Trying to downsize in case I head off somewhere.”

“Where would you go?”

“Don’t know, maybe I’ll follow the sun.”

“Maybe we need a fishing trip down to Reidsville. Get a cabin, stay on the water for a couple of days.”

“Not sure I’m up for that. Can’t pull my head out of the dark, you know? It’s been a long, cold, lonely Winter. I miss what I used to have. It feels like years since it’s been here.”

On Sunday morning, Trey got up early to go back out and search. He was worried something bad could have happened to him, which would be devastating for Lance.

Mid-afternoon, he was driving on Railey’s Trail, an old logging road about five miles from Lance’s place when he pulled over to give him a call.

“Hey Lance, anything on Bo?”

“No. I’m headed back home, I checked over the mountain and down Trace Road… didn’t see anything. But, I found out what happened to that other dog.”

“What was it?”

“A damn alligator.”

“What?”

“The idiot that moved into Pat’s old place across the lake, brought a little gator with him when he moved up from Louisiana.”

“The kid that only stayed around for a couple of months?”

“Yep! When he moved on he must have left him behind. A wildlife tracker told me they had tried to catch him but haven’t had any luck yet. He said a few folks caught a glimpse of him over by the pond.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah, doesn’t give me much hope for Bo.”

“Well, hang in there, bud, I was just checking in. Have a good evening. I’ll see you soon.”

Trey dropped his head into his hands, thinking the worst.

After a few minutes, he got back on the road and headed south to the very last place he could think to check.

A little later, as the sun was beginning to set, Trey called Lance.

“Hey, Lance, you home?”

“Yeah, just got here.”

“Good! I’m gonna stop by. See ya’ in a sec.”

Trey pulled into the driveway as Lance was walking outside. He parked, walked around the truck and stopped before opening the passenger door.

“Hey Lance… it’s all right, here comes the sun.”

He opened the door and Bo bounded down and made a beeline for Lance.

Lance couldn’t believe his eyes.

“BO! Oh my God! BO!”

Trey leaned back against the front of his truck just in time to watch one of the sweetest stretches of a day he could remember.

Bo ran so hard he knocked Lance backwards onto the ground and then got busy licking every single inch of his body. Lance was crying tears of joy the whole time.

Trey was wiping away a few tears of his own as he pulled his phone out to call Beth.

“Hey, Babe. Guess what? It’s a good day sunshine. I found Bo.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Is he okay?”

“Oh yeah! He looks like he’s had a hard days night. He’s a little skinny and dinged up a bit, but he’s fine. I’m sitting here watching him with Lance. It’s a pretty damn cool reunion. So good to see the smile’s returning to the faces, on both of them. I haven’t seen Lance this happy in a long time.”

“Well they say, all you need is love, and now he’s got it. Maybe he’ll get back to being his old self. Where on earth did you find Bo?”

“Do you remember last year when Sally died, Lance and Bo went out to Todd’s old hunting cabin? They stayed out there for weeks, until Mick and I talked him into going back home. It was the last place I could think of to check.

“When I got there, I eased up slowly and saw something moving on the porch. I was thinking, please, let it be him. He was just lying there in the sun. It took a little prodding to persuade him to get up and then to hop in my truck. It was like he was waiting on Lance.

“I guess he was traumatized seeing that dog by the lake. Lance always says he’s a really sensitive pup. Maybe that’s all he knows to do when sadness is around and the chips are down. I guess Lance never thought about checking that place.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah, I’ll be home in a minute. I’m gonna leave these two lovebirds alone. Give ‘em their moment in the sun. I’ll tell him where I found Bo later. See ya’ in a bit.”

Trey grinned mightily at Bo and Lance rolling around on the ground, then got back into his truck, dialed up his favorite Beatles song, and drove off singing

Here comes the sun

and I say

it’s all right.

(Pour Painting by Jo Snow)

Life can be confusing.

As a young child, I could never understand why the barber shop, with that classic, twirling red, white and blue pole out front, scared me so.

It is possible, I guess, that the barber nicked my ear a time or two. Or, who knows? Maybe I just didn’t like his face.

As a participant in youth sports, I didn’t understand why some parents would lose their minds over kids playing a game.

Now, I realize some of those parental units were attempting to relive their glory days, and others were just too emotionally involved. I’ll have to say, years later, watching my son play, the confusion cleared itself up. Those contests feel so important as a parent. They aren’t, but in the moment, they sure feel momentous.

As a teenager, the mere sight of girls brought a smile to my face and a whole new dimension to the confusion illusion.

A dimension I have yet to decipher.

When I moved to Atlanta in my early twenties, the confusion followed me.

I had no idea of what to do with my life. I was working on a buddy’s construction crew while a large bustling city stared right back into my face.

I could see a multitude of paths shooting off in all directions, I just didn’t know which one to take.

I decided to delve into some of those other possibilities by interviewing for a ton of different jobs.

One of those, was for the distinguished position of salesman at a firm that sold cheap costume jewelry.

The newspaper listing was a little murky and I didn’t realize what the job entailed, until I was seated in a puffy chair across from a man who appeared to be very nervous. He was sitting behind a low slung desk with loud rock music blaring in the background and bargain-basement jewelry lying around everywhere.

He looked small… and slimy.

His office was in an old warehouse that smelled like weed, perspiration and desperation. I was more than a little apprehensive about what in the hell I was getting myself into.

His very first question was, “How big is your trunk?”

I looked around for the exit sign.

Sometimes, a question without context can be extremely perplexing.

I’m pretty sure that firm was not on the up and up, and I’m quite sure that selling costume jewelry out of my car would have led me to starve, but at that particular point in time, I was just a ball of confusion.

I didn’t have a plan for the future all mapped out. In fact, I probably didn’t even have the next day mapped out.

Some people have a strict, linear, plan for the days of their lives. They plan the work and then work the plan. Good for them, but my life has rarely, if ever, followed any type of a script.

My circuitous path through the world has been anything but straight. If drawn, it would look more like the path of a pro soccer player’s movements over a 90-minute game plus two overtime periods, which is fine by me.

That straight line looks pretty damn boring to me now.

Certain things have always mystified me.

Like:

- Really unaware people.

So unaware that they are unaware.

- Litterers.

Trashy people doing trashy things.

- People who never pet their dogs.

It’s in the name dummy. Pet!

- Weirdos that don’t like music.

I’m guessing these cretins also lie, cheat and steal, love clowns and mimes, and hate themselves.

- Social media sermonizers and keyboard warrior trolls.

The most wrong, always right, people on the planet.

- Home Owners Associations.

Don’t get me started.

- Judging an entire group of people because of the actions of a few.

A little discernment, please.

- American’s who say they hate soccer.

What in the absolute hell? You waste your hate on a sport? Just ignore futbol and find something more serious to hate on. Dodgeball, anyone?

- Getting all worked up over what someone else is wearing, or purple hair, or if a shirt is tucked in, or if a hat is worn backwards.

Why on earth would any of that bother anyone? Have those people ever once considered that, maybe, the folks they are incensed about don’t like looking at them either?

Nope! There they are, unaware people being totally unaware.

I know we all have certain things that puzzle us.

Heck, I get as confused about my own self as I do anything else.

Whenever I come close to figuring out exactly who I am, I go and do something that changes the entire equation.

Over the years, I’ve been called many things.

Horrible things.

Things I wouldn’t call my worst enemy.

Okay… that’s a lie, I would and I have.

The difference is, they deserved it.

At times, family and friends have referred to me as, a recluse, anti-social, feisty, both laid back and high strung, and complicated.

As for being a recluse or anti social, I love people, I just prefer the company of strangers.

I feel like I’m feisty when I need to be, and its true, I can be laid back or high strung, depending on the day.

So, yeah, I guess complicated fits.

Or, confusing.

So many things in this world just leave me shaking my head.

Like, the sheer number of fast food restaurants, mattress stores and vape/smoke shops doing business in our communities.

If you dropped in from Venus, you would think all we do is sleep, smoke blueberry stuff, and eat greasy, shitty food.

Well, I guess that is, sort of what we do.

We also spend an inordinate amount of time online. One current phenomenon that has me totally flummoxed, is the massive number of internet influencers.

Complete strangers telling you what to wear and how to wear it.

Informing you of what is popular and what is not.

So many babbling heads in boxes telling you what to think about almost everything.

As far as fashion goes, I guess those folks don’t realize it but influencers have been around for a very long time.

I call them mirrors.

Taking a glance at it influences you one way or the other. Either, you are good to go, or you change.

Simple.

Wearing only what is popular to others has always confused me, as there’s a library of formerly fresh trends hanging in every style-follower’s closet.

I still have things lurking in my own closet that make me question my entire existence.

- Black combat boots.

The closest I’ve ever come to actual combat is wrestling my Christmas tree out of the house each January.

- Silk shirts that have the seventies written all over them.

Strange graphics that look like an acid trip’s worst nightmare.

- Cut-off blue jean shorts.

‘Nuff said.

- Bowling shoes.

Okay, not really bowling shoes, but green, orange and tan oxfords.

Mere words cannot explain that purchase.

I once even owned a pair of dandy red shoes that I bought without any influence, except for maybe a substance or two, or mushrooms, or… I don’t know, I’m a little fuzzy on that time frame, but I will tell you a story about those scarlet kicks in a bit.

I have definitely had my fair share of fashion snafus, like the red shoes, a slick pair of white boots I owned and those out of the ordinary oxfords.

Style and I just seem to have a dubious connection. There’s really no method to my madness.

I even had one phase where I wore two shirts at the same time, although everyone else was wearing the usual one shirt.

Yep, sometimes the head shaking is directed right back at myself.

I do have a lot of respect for people who break out of the monotonous pack.

I’ve always admired one of my cousins and his wife, for the cool sense of style they exude. They just do their own thing and it always works. They look hip and stylish, no matter what the influencers are jabbering on about.

Speaking of the monotonous pack, a few years back, my wife and I attended a local function that absolutely blew my mind… and confused the hell out of me.

The event itself was fine, fun even. But, the dress code that evening was something else. I say dress code, because apparently there was one and nobody bothered to tell me.

If there were 100 guys at the event, at least 87 of them were wearing the exact same thing. Only the colors were different.

Polo, golf shorts and loafers. That’s it! That was the uniform du jour for the evening.

A few brave souls dared to buck the trend but the creepy clothing cluster ducks were out in full force.

I thought about hiding, thinking the organizers might try to kick me out, but I was sort of hoping they would.

I had never felt so embarrassed.

Almost sad, even…

for, those 87 guys.

I saw a couple of old friends in the crowd and wanted to go over and say hello, but I wasn’t sure I could find them again. It would have been like trying to locate Waldo at Team Canada’s Olympic dorm.

Anyway, about those rad red shoes.

Back when I was much younger and dumber and living in Atlanta, I bought myself a pair of fancy red high top boots.

Like I said, I can’t tell you why I purchased them. I have no earthly idea what that was all about. Maybe I was just jealous of the pope and his little red silk slippers.

Anyway, one evening my wife, Jodie (who was my girlfriend at the time), and I took some visiting friends out to a dance club in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.

A buddy mentioned that he liked the red shoes he found in my closet and asked if he could wear them. I answered in the affirmative, appreciating his appreciation of my fine taste in menswear. It also gave me the chance to wear the fancy white boots.

Later on that evening, while we were all out in the middle of a packed dance floor, my red-shoe-clad buddy and I were all of a sudden, swapping fiery words back and forth with some guys dancing next to us.

I’m not sure why, but apparently the disco lights reflecting off of our boots were blinding them, because one of them took a poke at me that missed entirely.

As I said, we were young and dumb, so, game on.

I was pretty inebriated and after a couple of wild swings of my own, I grabbed the guy by his shirt and wrestled him around the dance floor. He was about the same size as me, and it quickly turned into a complete standoff, or stand up.

Nobody in the entire club even intervened, as I believe most of them probably thought we were just dancing.

I managed to maneuver him across the floor to a waist-high railing where another standoff occurred. At this point, we were locked into a weird pretzel-like knot with his head pointing toward the ceiling while mine was facing straight down at the floor.

In the midst of that mighty struggle, something groovy caught my eye.

And, that was my girlfriend Jodie, who was in the midst of stepping all over my fellow combatants glasses that had fallen off of his face onto the dance floor.

Really, it wasn’t a step, as much as a jump-on-and-smash.

A really sweet gesture, if you ask me.

While standing there all tied up and trying to figure out my next move, those glorious red high-tops from my closet also made an appearance.

Those cherry red Keds stirred something in me and with that renewed sense of power, and an extra set of hands, my friend and I managed to chunk the dude up and over the railing and onto the floor below.

And then, of course, the manager of the club decided to chunk the whole lot of us out of the establishment.

An early ending to a confusing evening.

My buddy and I were confused as to why those guys started the fight in the first place.

The rest of our heathen friends were confused about what exactly had happened.

And, the girls were confused by our decision to give in to our pugilistic tendencies by wrestling around with a couple of preppy punks, instead of dancing with them.

During the slow and humiliating procession of shame walking back to our cars, I mentioned to no one in particular, “Dang, was I glad to see those red shoes!”

What I didn’t say, was how I really thought those shoes were our problem in the first place.

I mean, if you’re a looking to pick a fight, why not pick it with the guys wearing the bright and shiny disco boots?

Author’s Note:

In the states, a long, cold Winter drags on.

Some of us use this time to remember and to reflect, which can be a much needed resetting. For others, it can be a sad and difficult time with depression and anxiety settling in.

Our overnight hours, recently filled with sweet sugar plum dreams, can quickly turn dismal and bleak. A wicked jolt of our emotions, from joy and merriment straight to Siberia in a New York second.

Fighting off your demons can be an exhausting endeavor.

Music is an underused resource.

It can help to move you in a different direction… lighten your load and soothe your soul.

This prompt series by provides a fresh new look at old songs and lyrics.

has written stories for this series that contain a myriad of song references, and usually has a mixtape of songs listed at the end of her posts.

has provided us with a terrific song prompt this week with Send the Sun, by Nikki Lane.

Stories from the Jukebox

Send The Sun

Calling all Poets, Fiction, or Non-Fiction writers and readers that love music — Subscribe now…

Read more

7 months ago · 14 likes · 19 comments · MJ Polk

With a nod to these four wonderful writers, here is my submission for this week’s .

I pulled into my Dad’s driveway on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

He hadn’t answered my phone calls so I thought I would stop by to check on him.

I pulled up under a massive oak tree and noticed him out on the porch, perched in an old wooden chair with an oversized cushion behind him.

“Hey Dad! How’s it going? You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Yeah, I probably left it inside on the kitchen table.”

“What cha’ doin’?”

“Well son, strangely enough, I’m writing a letter to myself.”

“To yourself?”

“Yep! A letter to my younger self.”

“Wow!”

“I know, no one writes letters anymore, so I just figured I would give the young fellow some of the tips I’ve learned over the years.”

“That’s funny.”

“No, really, I just thought it may help someone, someday… your kids, or their kids, or even you.

“Son, if your world gets to be too much one day and you’re searching for something, whatever that is, I hope you will pull this letter out and read it to yourself.”

“Sure dad, You want to read it to me, now?”

“Well… I guess I could.”

A Letter to Myself

“Hey you!

Its me.

I just wanted to say hello.

I hope you are doing well.

I thought I would check in and tell you about some of the stuff it took me a lifetime to figure out. Some things that may help you out when life gets hard.

It’s good to have some weapons in your arsenal to help fight back. These tips may sound strange, but there are two simple, overlooked, things that can really help you when the chips are down. Two things you can find almost anywhere.

Music and sunlight.

Of course, there are many other avenues you could take to help with your problems, but I can only offer what I know. I think these two could benefit you on the surface level, before the claws sink in too deep.

Music is a nice resource to help you through the toughest of times and sunlight really is the best disinfectant.

First, music.

When the dark clouds roll in, try using music to stave them off.

Take the time to listen to some cool tunes, like What a Wonderful World, or Dream On, or Three Little Birds.

Find a happy song like Walkin’ on Sunshine or Bright Side of the Road and try to write a story about it. It’s a fun exercise and it will put you in a different frame of mind.

Or, put your records on, and get jiggy with it, get down on it, dance and shout and boogie oogie oogie til you just can’t boogie no more.

My cousin once told me she was taught to sing her troubles away. I thought that was a beautiful idea and I hate it for the neighbors, but she was right, it works.

You could even pick up a musical instrument and try to figure out how to play. It is a known stress reliever.

Listen to music, play music, go see live music, dance and sing your troubles away.

All of it works.

During the long run of life, the hard times are usually few and far between, but there will be times when you need to dig down deep and have a little faith.

The kind of faith John Hiatt sings about.

And when your back’s against the wall

Just turn around and you, you will see

I will catch you, I will catch your fall

Have a little faith in me

See, I need you to have a little faith in me… in yourself, when storms are on the horizon.

And, those storms will come.

Sadly, bad things are going to happen to your family, to your friends, and to yourself.

You will see horrible stories about horrifying events on the news.

You won’t be able to look away from the hordes of homeless people living on the streets of one of the worlds most prosperous countries.

You will notice the disparities and the unfairness all around you… and these things will gut you, but you have to stay above the fray. You have to keep moving forward, for you, for those around you, for those who love you.

Whenever a situation feels bleak, think about this simple phrase from the song The Search for Optimism, by The Main Squeeze.

We’re gon’ make it, we’re gon’ work it out

That’s it.

And, that’s enough.

Because that’s what we’re going to do.

Every single time.

I don’t want to give away too many surprises, but things are going to work out for you… they are.

Your days will be filled with so many wonderful things you don’t want to miss out on.

You are going to laugh, and love, and live like you won’t believe.

Water tower in Makanda, Illinois

Now, for the sunlight.

When the dark seeps in and tries to crowd out your light, remember these lyrics by John Denver.

Sunshine

On my shoulders

Makes me happy…

If I had a tale

That I could tell you

I’d tell a tale

Sure to make you smile…

If I had a wish

That I could wish for you

I’d make a wish

For sunshine for all the while

Don’t just sit around in the dark.

Go out and get yourself some cheap sunglasses, and step into the light.

The light is where the seeds sprout, the grass grows, and the clouds part.

And, don’t forget, good times usually follow the bad times.

I think the Beatles may have said it best.

Here comes the sun

I feel like the sun is finally melting

Here comes the sun

And, I say, it’s all right

At times, you will have to roll with the punches and get up and move.

When you do, don’t waste your time chasing the setting sun.

Chase the rising one, instead.

Remember, when those long dark shadows come for you, let the words of Nikki Lane and her song Send the Sun, give you a reprieve.

I’m gonna send the sun your way

Wake you up with a dawn full of golden rays

I want you around

So don’t let the darkness get you down

So wherever you are, just know,

I’m sending you the sun.

Always.

And, when life gets heavy and you’re working on you,

please…

don’t let the sun go down on me.

“Dang, Dad, that’s awesome. Thanks for reading your letter to me. A lot of good advice in there.”

“Thank you for listening, bud.”

He looked over at me with a warm smile on his face as he folded the letter and laid it on his lap.

We sat in silence, staring out at a deep blue sky, framed by the golden glow of the mid-day sun.

Painting by artist Grant Nelson.

Jecky Peck was a curious little guy.

In many ways he was like any other twelve year old boy growing up in America’s heartland.

He was a model student and always helped the teachers set up the classrooms at the end of summer break. He cleaned up on Friday afternoons when school was in session and even advised friends on their most difficult homework assignments.

Jecky also played the trumpet.

Man, could Jecky Peck play the trumpet.

He blew that horn like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Jecky’s family was as traditional as they come and couldn’t quite understand his fascination with blowing the bugle.

His father Mortimer, was the area’s top investment banker and also a scratch golfer. He was a member of the city council, a deacon at his church, and a big money donor to his alma mater, the state’s largest university.

His mother Marabelle, was the quintessential American housewife. She kept her large home, manicured gardens, and white picket fence that surrounded the perfectly square yard, in tip top shape. She played bridge at the club every Friday morning and often volunteered to host special events.

She loved socializing with the more respected wives in town and always attended the club’s monthly workshops devoted to pertinent and scintillating topics like:

- A Day in the Life of a Socialite

- New Ways to Make Your Fabulous Home Inviting

- Living Your Picture Perfect Life

- How to Attempt to Engage with People Who Look and Act Nothing Like You

Jecky’s older brother Stanley was an absolute model child. He was tall, handsome, articulate and dedicated. He finished high school two years early and headed off to a prestigious university at the ripe old age of sixteen, graduating after only three years. Stanley was now comfortably ensconced at a job in his chosen field of engineering, at the large auto manufacturing plant on the outskirts of town.

The Peck family was a tight unit. They lived in an idyllic small town in the Midwest, named Wonderville, and each and every Sunday afternoon, the entire family would walk down the street together for lunch at a popular steakhouse and to discuss the prior week’s activities.

The automotive factory employed most of the town’s commoners who worked on the production lines, maintenance crews and cafeteria staff, while a small number of choice citizens ran the everyday operations.

A small mountain was the backdrop for a busy main street and a picturesque river flowed right through the center of town. The crime rate in Wonderville was noticeably low and the happiness quotient high. It was the perfect place to raise a traditional family.

The townspeople went about their daily lives quietly and contentedly without having to worry about the problems more modern cities have to deal with.

In a local survey, residents claimed the top two reasons for living in their community, were the willingness of the leaders to do things as they have always been done, and the proliferation of conventional thinkers.

The talk of the town usually revolved around whatever new and exciting event happened to be taking place at the time, and new and exciting events were always taking place in Wonderville.

Like, the cool but smelly, chicken parts rendering plant the town’s leaders attempted to shove into a neighborhood full of kids and pets.

Or, the brand new golf course planned for a spot right next to the perfectly good old one.

Or, the annual cemetery stroll to extoll the virtuous, selfless and caring nature of the ancestors of the upper crust.

Or, the numerous campaign debates between the mayor and the former mayor.

Mayor Jejune, a nephew of the state’s former Governor, was the current mayor. He and the former mayor had swapped the office back and forth between themselves for the last 36 years. Nine straight elections decided by only a handful of votes in the most tightly contested parts of town.

The upper east side of town always preferred Mayor Jejune, who had attended the state’s flagship university, and always tailored his message to resonate with the fans of the school’s football team. He was known to be thin skinned, unaware, and a little slow, but had inherited some mighty heavy name recognition from his famous uncle.

The citizen’s living on the upper west side usually voted for Mayor Bland. He had been schooled in the prestigious Ivy League and was known for being a little patronizing and petty, but those traits were usually overlooked as plenty of locals could always be counted on to cast their votes for him. They seemed to really appreciate his long and articulate speeches.

The other parts of town didn’t attract as much attention during the riveting campaigns, as most of those areas were populated by the unwashed rabble who didn’t really factor into the local political equation.

Both campaign teams were known for putting large, gaudy, and expensive campaign signs up all around town. They never even removed those signs after the elections because a new one was always just around the corner.

In previous years, the politicos had also begun to put a large photo of themselves on each campaign sign and bumper sticker, which led to some abnormally large signs and stickers.

The politicians weren’t the only ones who used pictures for promoting themselves.

In fact, almost every single important person in town had their names and pictures plastered on billboards as a noble gesture to help citizens delineate the current social and cultural pecking order.

Jecky didn’t really care for politics. He just wanted to play the trumpet.

He hardly even noticed all of the signs because he was too busy blowing his horn.

He had friends, but they never really understood what Jecky was all about. They couldn’t fathom how someone could be so out of step within his own community.

They often wondered aloud about his lack of interest in most school activities and would argue over whether Jecky would even bother to vote in the exciting and riveting mayoral elections once he turned eighteen.

The horrifying general consensus was that he would not.

They also could not believe his lack of interest in trying out for the school’s football team.

He attempted to explain that standing around holding a helmet for four hours at a time didn’t really sound much like fun. Although, the other kids seemed to understand their role, which was to be used as tackling dummies during practices and to fill out the sidelines during the games and to also supply fresh water bottles and towels and tape for their teammates.

They were also amazed to learn that Jecky didn’t even care to attend the fancy dances at the swanky club up on the edge of the mountain.

Most people around town had never even had the opportunity to see the panoramic views from those huge ballroom windows. Mortimer was on the club’s board of directors, but even he, could never get Jecky to visit.

Instead, Jecky spent most of his time playing his horn, leading his parents to worry about him being cast out into the world as just another starving artist.

His mother Marabelle had even attained the starring role for her son in the schools most recent play, but was distressed to learn Jecky gave that stage spot up to the Mayor’s nephew, after deciding he wanted to play his horn down in the orchestra pit instead.

Marabelle spent that entire evening mired in distress and shame at her son’s oddly divisive decision, but Jecky realized that he had a chance to play his horn for a large audience and he wasn’t about to forfeit that golden opportunity.

And, Jecky played that horn like there was no tomorrow.

On that fateful evening, even the neighbors in the next town over could hear that old horn wailing. In fact, the sound was so loud that some folks worried it might be the old air-raid siren up on top of the mountain coming to life again.

Stanley, who spent most of his off time putting out campaign signs and listening to speeches, couldn’t quite understand Jecky, either.

Stanley loved movies and made a weekly trek to see the newest blockbuster at the only theater in Wonderville, but Jecky was never interested in tagging along. The city council had recently mandated only one theater in town, which is all they needed, because everyone usually just wanted to see what everyone else in town also wanted to see.

Marabelle was so wrapped up in community activities, she didn’t have much time for Jecky, and had recently told friends that her son’s horn habit was becoming a bit embarrassing for the rest of the family.

She told Mortimer about the peculiar looks at the day-spa, and encouraged her husband to have a talk with Jecky to see if he could gently urge him to get with the program.

Mortimer was worried about Jecky’s future.

He had a good handle on the job prospects around town and knew there was no need for a trumpet player. In fact, the only music club in town had recently closed down because the emotional heft of live music could lead to curious and questionable choices.

To help alleviate the problem, the local radio station WSUS, now only plays tunes by AI artists, like Bizzy Boldtrain, Syd Delicious, and The Blowing Bones.

The council knew all too well, that too much emotion or feeling in a song could lead to distress and unrest, and that distress and unrest could lead to an unstable environment, and that an unstable environment could lead the town’s youth down an uncertain and unpredictable path.

Instead of them embarking on a shilly-shally path, the town needed a strong backbone of conforming students to eventually become laborers, as those drudgers were needed to work hot, hard jobs and then spend their tiny paychecks around town so the rest of the citizens could live comfortably and in peace.

In fact, Mortimer didn’t think the workers out at the auto factory really understood just how much the town needed them and had imposed a solution to rectify the situation.

He had been instrumental in implementing a plan to help those workers get an extra day added to their one week of vacation time per year. That massive perk would be made available to them for every five years they worked at the plant. To Mortimer, it was a steal of a deal for normal folks, thanks to his own herculean efforts and the benevolence of the factory’s owners.

Mortimer was horrified by the thought of Jecky ending up as a supervisor at the plant. That kind of work was not becoming of a Peck. Be it Gregory, Josh, Orville or Mortimer’s offspring. So, he agreed with his wife that a talk with Jecky was definitely in order.

He told Marabelle he would talk to him over that Sunday’s lunch at The Trough - Steak and Seafood House.

“Marabelle, if a thin ribeye and a bushel of juicy popcorn shrimp can’t loosen a boy’s thought process, then, I don’t know what could.”

Jecky didn’t really like razor thin steaks or gamey tasting seafood. He had once said that the shrimp in a frozen dinner tasted better than the rubberized version at The Trough, a comment that mortified Mortimer. He chastised the boy and pointed out that the longtime chef at the restaurant had recently received a fifteen cent raise, proving he must know something about cooking tiny little shrimp.

Jecky eventually recanted and vowed to eat the small chewy creatures with a smile on his face from that point forward.

Only Jecky would know the smile was fake.

So, on the next sunny Sunday afternoon after listening to one of the Mayor’s speeches in lieu of the regular sermon at the only church in town that mattered, Mortimer decided to talk to his boy.

During that week’s familial lunch session, Mortimer first regaled Jecky with the story of his own wonderful life and all of its entitlements.

He then told the story of the first time he met Marabelle over at the Mayor’s ball. He also reminded him of the Peck’s standing in the community and about the important things in life that you must do to be successful.

That talk touched on all of the tantalizing tenets, like networking with the right people, wearing the right clothes, saying the right things, going along, getting along, putting up campaign signs, listening to speeches and staying away from the riff-raff.

“Jecky, we just don’t understand your fascination with that trumpet. It’s just an old metal horn. That thing is for kids. Your brother here, has been working on some amazing things as a design engineer lately, haven’t you Stanley?”

“Oh yes, this week I’ve been trying in vain, to choose between two types of pleather to see which would be the most springy for a seat cushion. The entire process has been fascinating and I am very proud of my progress.”

“Don’t you see Jecky,” Mortimer emphatically declared as the table behind the Pecks gave Stanley a quiet round of applause. “We just want you to have a full, quality life, free of worry.”

Marabelle chimed in with, “Yes Jecky, we just know, I mean, want, what’s best for you.”

Jecky gazed off into the distance for a moment and then sat straight up in his chair and said, “Okay guys, sure! I think I get it now.”

Mortimer looked over at Marabelle, who looked over at Stanley, who looked back at Mortimer, who looked over at Jecky with a big beaming smile on his medically chiseled face.

“I knew you would finally get it Jecky, I just knew it!”

Jecky smiled back at his dad as he got up from the table and walked toward the door.

“Mortimer, looking puzzled asked, “Hey Jecky boy, where are you going, son?”

As Jecky moved over to the side of the entrance to avoid getting trampled by the ravished hoard of Sunday afternoon diners heading inside, he looked back at his father and declared, “I’m going home to grab my trumpet and then I’m going to take it back to the music store.”

Mortimer’s retort was loud and proud, “That’s my boy, Jecky!”

Mortimer then stood up and proposed a toast, as three tall glasses of milk crashed together over the small table and the nearby patrons erupted into a furious frenzy of clapping and hugging.

“To the future, Jecky!”

Stanley looked toward the door and shouted, “Hey Jeck, try to get top dollar for that trumpet now, you hear?”

Jecky, with a smugly self-satisfied grin on his chubby little face, turned around and loudly proclaimed,

“Oh, I’m not selling it Stan.

“I’m trading it in.

“From now on,

“IT’S NOTHING BUT THE SAX FOR ME!”

Painting from ‘Waltzing with the Muse’ Collection, by James Michalopoulos. Ogden Museum of Southern Art, New Orleans.

Thanks to , and his publication Stories from the Jukebox, for asking me to host this week’s song prompt. Keep an eye on MJ. In addition to , and Stories from the Jukebox, he is also involved in a brand new project called the .

I chose Right Place, Wrong Time, by Dr. John for this week’s prompt. The first song on the 1973 album In the Right Place, from the funky New Orleans Night Tripper.

Stories from the Jukebox

Right Place Wrong Time

What a way to kick off the New Year! Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s song prompt, Mirror, by Rick West. This was the first time that our song has been written by a Jukebox Band Member and it turned out amazing! There were so many great submissions …

Read more

8 months ago · 2 likes · MJ Polk

My oldest brother played college baseball in New Orleans, so I received an early introduction to the Crescent City’s music, food, architecture, people and culture. It is an amazingly unique city with no equal.

Dr. John, was a totally different kind of musical animal, worth checking out. If you are unfamiliar, I recommend listening to - Marie Laveau, or, How Come My Dog Don’t Bark (When You Come Around), to get a feel for what the good doctor’s music is all about.

(Lyrics in bold italics.)

“Sure, I’ll have another Sazerac, please.”

It was the third and last day of my fact finding mission in New Orleans and I was feeling fine.

My good friend Jim, who manages a brand new hotel and restaurant in the French Quarter, recently offered me a job as bar program manager for the property.

I’ve been mulling over the offer for a couple of weeks and finally decided to come down and check it out. I haven’t been here in years, but I’m actively looking for a change of scenery.

My wife Lana, flew the coop about ten months ago and I’ve been in a funk since that day.

Lana always wanted to be someone.

She wanted plenty of money. She wanted things.

She apparently wanted more than me, so she ran off with an old high school chum after reconnecting at her 25th high school reunion, last summer.

Twenty-three years of marriage, gone in the blink of an eye, but we can all rest easy, because the quarterback and the head cheerleader are back together again.

Maybe, if I had gone along with her, it never would have happened. Who knows? A friend offered me a free ticket and a chance to see my favorite hockey team, the Boston Bruins, in my hometown of Nashville.

That decision drastically changed my life.

Right place, wrong time

Its fine though, I hear the newlyweds are already having issues. Seems the big-shot quarterback lost his job and the forever high-schoolers are having all kinds of money problems.

As for me, I’ve worked in the hospitality business for over twenty years, as a sommelier, an events coordinator and a bar program coordinator.

I spent my entire first day in New Orleans meeting with the owners and management team.

Yesterday, I did all the New Orleanian things. Beignets at Cafe Du Monde, muffuletta at Central Grocery, a visit to a voodoo shop and dinner at Atchafalaya.

After more meetings today, I’m now sitting at the hotel bar having a few drinks, before catching up with Jim on Frenchman Street to watch some live music.

The absinthe is starting to do a number on me, so I pay my tab and head over to The Spotted Cat.

It’s almost ten o’clock and the place is packed, so I grab a spot at the bar and order a whiskey and water. James Andrews and the Crescent City All Stars are on stage, so I settle in while downing a couple more drinks. During the first break at a little after eleven, I see Jim over by the door heading outside, so I follow him.

“Hey Jim, where ya’ headed?”

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been waiting on you.”

“You said ten o’clock, right.”

“No, eight.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry.”

“No big deal, I have to work really early tomorrow. Stop by and see me before you head back to Nashville.”

Right place, wrong time

While strolling around, a wild trumpet solo from The Blue Nile catches my ear and I step inside just as The Soul Rebels are cranking up. I slip through the crowd to a spot by the stage, and find myself standing next to a very attractive lady.

I exchange small talk and try to work in a few smooth lines, and it seems to be going pretty well, until she starts flirting with the young guy standing directly behind me.

I’d have said the right thing, but I must have used the wrong line

My head is throbbing, so I head back toward the hotel.

As I turn the corner onto Dumaine, a pretty lady walks straight up to me and asks,

“Well, hello! How are you?”

She is tall, blonde, absolutely gorgeous, and has an uncanny resemblance to a doll I picked up at Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, just yesterday.

She’s wearing a loose, billowy, dress and is carrying a large silver chalice in her hand. That’s all pretty normal for New Orleans, I guess, but the flowing blue gown and yellow flowers painted around her eyes make her look like something out of a fairy tale.

She doesn’t even look real.

I rub my eyes to make sure she is.

When I look up, she’s flashing a wicked grin.

“Uh… I’m fine.”

“You wanna have some fun?”

“Um… sure.”

“Well, allons-y.”

“Excuse me.”

“C’mon, silly!”

She flows down the street, almost like she’s hovering.

I’ve had so much to drink, I rub my eyes again to make sure I’m not hallucinating. When I look up, sure enough, she’s gone.

I start walking again and the mystery lady appears right at my side.

“Where were you? You’re like… a ghost.”

She hands me the chalice.

“Here, have a sip.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t worry, love. It’ll do you good.”

I take a sip.

It tastes like rainwater and bon temps. Like, lavender and lagniappe.

She grabs the chalice back.

“Not too much, it’s really strong.”

She glides up ahead of me with an air of sophistication and grace.

All flowers and lace.

She turns around and extends her hand.

“C’mon, I won’t hurt you.”

“Where are we going?”

“You just need a little brain salad surgery.”

“A little what?”

“I’m kidding, c’mon. We have to cure this insecurity.”

I check for the time on my phone, which, all of a sudden, is dead.

I look up to see my new paramour already on the opposite side of the street.

As I marvel at how she does that, I see a golden mask hanging in the window of a gift shop that looks like it’s glowing.

I hurry away wondering what in the hell is in that cup.

She turns the corner up ahead and as I reach the end of the street, she’s vanished once again.

A swift breeze rustles through the trees as I notice I’m standing next to a creepy old cemetery filled with ancient, above-ground tombs dripping with Spanish moss.

Refried confusion is making itself clear

Wonder which way do I go to get on out of here

Slipping, dodging, sneaking, creeping,

hiding out down the street

See my life shaking with every who I meet

When I turn around, she’s right in front of me.

I shudder and step back when I feel her cold hand on my arm.

“Don’t be shy, here, have another sip.”

My head is still pounding and I definitely don’t need anything else to drink, but still, I take a big sip of the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

My head was in a bad place but I’m having such a good time

“So, um, who are you?”

“I’m Trini.”

“What’s going on here, Trini?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here, hanging out with me?’

“Well, I know you’ve had a hard time lately and I’m just here to make you feel better.”

“How did you know that?”

“I just know things. I guess you could say I’m a spirit. A good spirit, sha.”

“Sha?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just what I call people I like.”

I’ve been running trying to get hung up in my mind

Really got to give myself a good talking to this time

I spot a bench and take a seat. She sits down and kisses my cheek. Her face feels soft and cold on my skin.

“I don’t know, Trini, this is all pretty wild.”

I stare at her beautiful face.

I close my eyes and lean in to return the kiss but only feel air, and then lose my balance and fall completely off of the bench.

My mystery lady is gone again.

A three-second burst of a loud siren startles me as I drag myself up and notice a police car with lights flashing.

An officer heads my way.

“You got identification?”

“Yes sir, uh, sure.”

I fumble around trying to find my driver’s license while he tells me he could have me arrested for public intoxication.

I took the right road

I must have took a wrong turn

I took a right move

But I made it at the wrong time

The officer has a change of heart and instead, drops me off at my hotel with a warning.

The next morning, I call Jim to tell him I’m taking the job.

He lets me know the salary will be twice what I’m currently making.

“Wow! Awesome! Thanks Jim. Hey, do you happen to know anyone named Trini, a tall, silvery-blonde, uh… mysterious, um… spirit, I mean, lady?”

“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

The very last thing I do before heading back to Tennessee, is send a text to my ex, letting her know about my new job.

A job paying double what I was making back in Nashville.

I just figured she should know,

she was in the right place all along…

but, it must have been the wrong time.

This story is based on a prompt from MJ Polk’s wonderful publication, . This week’s song prompt is I Still Miss Someone by Johnny Cash, the Man in Black, first recorded in 1958. (Lyrics in bold italics.)

At my door the leaves are falling.

A cold wild wind has come.

I stand looking out at a drab, gray day.

Snow is coming, but an angry wind is already here.

The thin plywood door to the shed is flapping, calling out to the squirrels and rodents and birds that stayed behind, beckoning them to slip inside for a spell.

A lone wolf howls. A haunting wail breaking through the silence.

I hear the bathroom door down the hall open and then shut.

Mary’s up.

She sleeps late these days.

Doesn’t care to face the daylight anymore.

Prefers a blanket, and a pillow, and her own company.

Used to it, I guess.

Sometimes, she gets up and wanders around for a bit, and then lies back down.

I take her breakfast in bed, sometimes lunch.

Eggs and toast, or a melted cheese sandwich with crackers.

She doesn’t eat meat anymore.

Something scared her off.

Doesn’t eat much of anything.

She looks more frail by the day.

She hardly ever speaks.

Never smiles.

Neither do I.

Mary slips into the kitchen as I close the screen door.

I leave the wooden door open, hoping a brace of frigid air can blast the lumbering grief and stale sorrow right back out of the house.

The air remains heavy and hot in here, like it has for years.

Seeping around, diving down into nooks and crannies, coaxing harsh memories back out into the open.

So the worst of my days can slap me in the face, again and again.

I keep the television on to mask the sounds of silence, and I leave all of the lights on, all the time, to hide all of the darkness.

It would help if the boys would come around.

But, they don’t.

Decades of disaster and despair do that.

They’ve seen so much that they can’t unsee.

They’ve watched tub after tub of filthy water flow out of this house, on its way to the drainage ditch and then on to hell.

And, then, back again.

It always comes back.

Mary sits down at the tiny table.

I pour her a cup of coffee.

She warms her hands over it.

She takes a sip. Looks at me.

I’ve never gotten over those blue eyes.

Eyes that shined with the brightness of a thousand suns.

And, two sons.

They’re not as blue now.

I don’t think.

Maybe I wore the color right out.

And, the joy, too.

She’s cried so much for so long, her sharp edges have completely worn away.

Takes everything in stride now. Whatever it is. Like that’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

And, I guess, it is.

Time has taken a heavy toll on this little family in this little house.

The world is different, now.

For her.

For me.

The music doesn’t play.

The records won’t spin.

The world stays muted.

Somber.

Stone-faced.

I light a cigarette.

Mary frowns.

“I thought you stopped, again.”

“I did, for a day or two.”

“That’s gonna kill you, you know?”

“It might. If my mind doesn’t do it first.”

The art of shame is shameless.

I should know.

I practiced it over and over again.

Until I perfected it.

Like a hamster on a little wheel, goin’ round and round.

Round by round.

A heavyweight fight with collateral damage.

It takes a while for me to learn a lesson.

Can’t see the trees until I’m completely out of the forest.

I kept waiting, hoping, praying to the God’s of goodness, to come and make it all right again.

To make it work.

Somehow.

Some way.

But, they never came.

We sit in silence.

For a long time.

I pour warm coffee into her cup.

The steam rises, curls its way up and disappears.

Like everything.

“Could you close the door, please? It’s so cold.”

I get up and see a couple of young sweethearts walk by together on the street.

They are all huddled up, hugging, talking…

I look back to Mary.

I miss those arms that held me, when all the love was there.

I wonder if she’s sorry, for leavin’ what we’d begun.

She left so may times.

So many times I acted a fool.

So many times I told her I didn’t need her.

So many times, I was wrong.

I needed her.

Mary heads slowly back down the hall, to her room, and closes the door.

I stare at the empty chair and the empty coffee cup.

I put my cigarette out and walk over to pull the kitchen door back open.

I stand and stare off into the distance.

At a cold wind blowing.

At the deep blue clouds rising up over the shed.

At the leaves falling.

A tear runs down my cheek…

and, I still miss someone.

Syd

Syd peered out from behind a large blue trash dumpster and saw two people walking toward him. He waited patiently, listening to their conversation on the other side of the receptacle. A few minutes later, as the pair said goodbye to each other, he heard the unmistakable sound of a beer can rattling around inside the metal bin.

After the two cars started their engines and drove out of the lot, he could still count twenty or so vehicles scattered around the parking area of BlueZoo, the new tech startup founded by a local businessman. The company was the largest tenant in the relatively new and mostly empty Barrington Heights office park.

Syd had only one job that evening.

His task was to find a way inside the office building without being detected. It was 9:00 p.m. and from the sound of it, the party was still raging on. He thought back to last year’s holiday bash that lasted until almost midnight.

The plan was to make it inside before the doors were locked for the evening. There were things inside that he wanted and desperately needed. He had people counting on him.

Jabo

Across town, Jabo was also sitting quietly and watching.

From his seat on a park bench across the street, he could see straight into the back door of Saint, the new fine dining restaurant in the River District. The evening’s holiday crowd was out in full force and the valet parking lot across the street was almost full as were all of the spaces located along the street.

He watched as BMWs, Mercedes and Armadas circled the block searching for a parking space. It was the day before Christmas Eve and the entire area was bustling with festive and happy people. That fact did not jazz Jabo.

In fact, it made him sad.

The holidays were not his favorite time of the year, although he was certain this night would be different. He was ready to do whatever he had to do to make the plan work. He felt like it was his only choice.

Wade

Over at Waymore Junior College, Wade was waiting, too.

He had already made it through one of the toughest tests of the evening, by winding his way through the sprawling campus to the large concrete building without being noticed. He was crouched down low behind a row of thick shrubs on the inside of the fence surrounding the facility.

He waited until the coast was clear, and then made his way over to a spot beside a delivery truck parked behind the building. He felt good about his position.

Arriving just after dark and wearing a baggy sweat shirt and a ball cap pulled down low on his head had made his entry easy. He was concerned about the timing but was more than ready to wait for an opportunity.

Over the next hour or so, he watched as a couple of students made repeated trips from the back door out to a red cargo van in the parking lot. They were loading white rectangular boxes into the van with the school’s logo on the doors. Wade, realized he needed to be a little closer to make his move.

Syd

Although it was only 10:00 p.m., Syd was starting to get sleepy.

He was tired of worrying about the plan he had concocted and wondered if it was even going to work. He had been pondering the heist in some form or fashion, since stumbling upon the company’s Christmas party the year before.

He surveyed the scene that evening, making sure to take mental notes of doors, times and the surrounding terrain. He had discovered a couple of new places to hide while casing the property over the last couple of weeks. He was convinced both of them had enough cover to keep him from being noticed.

At 10:15 p.m., he moved from his spot behind the dumpster over to a landscaped area just off of the back patio. There, he could shuffle between a large air conditioning unit and a shipping container to get a view of either the entry foyer or a window that looked directly into the main conference room. The cars in the parking lot were dwindling and three separate groups of people departed in quick succession shortly after he shifted spots.

Syd remained focused on making sure he had time to grab everything he needed. Moving around quietly and stealthily wasn’t a problem because the life he lived required that on a daily basis.

What worried him was the alarm system and the multiple cameras placed around the property. Cameras had been installed all over the town and their presence was making it difficult to do anything without being detected. He was wearing a hoodie over his head and a large face mask to help keep his identity hidden.

Jabo

Jabo was sitting on pins and needles as patience was not a part of his makeup. He was known to be jittery and paranoid most of the time.

From his perch on the bench across from the restaurant, he observed the time it took for diners to enter and then exit the premises. Saint only accepted reservations and unless there was a large group dining together, the average dining time seemed to be about an hour. He also kept an eye on the two valets out front as they shuffled around waiting on customers.

He had a direct view into the alley behind the restaurant and was surprised when he saw the back door open. He watched as two workers pushed a large rolling trash receptacle down the alley while the door remained wide open.

Jabo took that as a cue and quickly stood up and walked across the street and headed for the alley.

Wade

Wade didn’t have the luxury of worrying about getting caught. He had to have what he came for. He had been casing the building for three straight Saturday evenings from a spot behind the fence. He had found a way through the thick woods and would sit and study the work schedule and all of the vehicles involved.

The van was parked in the exact same spot beside the building each week. The loading process took thirty minutes or so with students milling around the parking lot during the process. Those details gave him all of the information he needed to decide when to strike.

Syd

There were only two cars left in the parking lot at BlueZoo as Syd kept an eye out from his hidden vantage point beside the patio.

While peering through the window, trying to get an idea of how many people were left inside, he observed an older man and a younger lady getting chummy with each other. He watched as they walked down the hall and then entered the conference room. They closed the door behind them and turned out the lights.

Syd could sense it was now or never, so he made a command decision and headed for the door.

He turned the handle, slipped inside and took a right turn down the hallway. He peeked into a couple of darkened offices and then noticed another room across the way with the lights on. He could hear the couple in the conference room laughing as he hurried by on his way to the other room.

He looked inside and knew he had hit the mother lode.

Jabo

Over in the River District, Jabo was still playing the waiting game.

His plan to slip in the back door was foiled when he saw the two kitchen workers heading back up the alley. He quickly moved over to a small brick wall and leaned against it as the workers headed back inside while closing the door behind them.

A few minutes later, he saw a man and what looked to be his daughter, leave the restaurant and walk over toward the brick wall. The man’s hands were empty but the lady was carrying her purse tightly under her right arm while also holding a large white paper bag with both hands.

She set the bag down on the brick wall and then turned to hug the older man.

Wade

Out in the suburbs, Wade Williams was getting into position.

As one of the students walked out to place yet another box into the van, Wade moved quickly and stealthily toward his target. When the kid went back inside, Wade’s quick walk across the parking lot turned into a full on sprint.

He headed straight for the van.

He opened the side door and quickly pulled three old grocery bags from his pants pocket. He started opening boxes and hastily filling them with brownies, homemade fudge and an entire half of a roasted chicken. He gabbed a handful of tiny sandwiches and stuffed them into the large pockets of his camouflage pants. He also picked up a small cooler and headed for the fence. He tossed the cooler over and then quickly climbed the fence and raced into the woods.

He tried to look as inconspicuous as he could as he made his way back to the camp by the railroad tracks a couple of miles away. He kept a good pace as he attempted to hide his beaming smile and his booty stuffed pockets.

When he saw his girl Cissy, poking around at the fire, he started an all out trot.

“Cissy! Cissy! Look at this!

His girlfriend for the last three months, turned around with her eyes wide open as she saw Wade pulling food out of every single pocket.

“What in the hell Wade! Are you kidding me? I was wondering where you went. Where did you find all that?”

“Just set us up a table on those old tires baby and I’ll tell you the whole story. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry, Wade. I can’t believe this. You’re amazing! You’re gonna have all kinds of critters trying to get into your pockets tonight.”

“Well, maybe we’ll leave some for them, too.”

Jabo

Back at Saint, Jabo knew it was time.

He snuck up behind the couple as the lady was giving the old man a big hug, and reached over and grabbed the paper bag from the wall and headed down the alley before the she could even turn around. He then ran frantically down the street searching for a safe spot.

He was so giddy with anticipation that he plopped down on the ground behind a trash can on the corner to take a peek inside the bag. He let out a huge sigh when he smelled the aroma and immediately realized he had hit pay dirt. The bag was full of plastic containers that were still piping hot. He pulled out two bowls of French onion soup with crackers, a ham and cheese croissant, and a massive slice of Italian wedding cake.

Jabo hadn’t eaten anything in over three days, only surviving on a few bottles of water, a candy bar, a partially eaten apple and a half can of beer. He took his time packing everything back up neatly and headed for the park along the river, jazzed to the gills for a barnburner of a solo picnic down in the lower River District.

Syd

Over at the office park, Syd snagged every bit of food he could find from the company kitchen.

He grabbed a white box containing a half-eaten red velvet cake, a pan with a bunch of vanilla cupcakes in it and four unopened bags of potato chips. He ran back down the hall and put it all by the door. He went back to the fridge and pulled out two catering trays containing 10 or 12 deli sandwiches and then snatched a six pack of soft drinks and 3 bottles of wine from the refrigerator on his way back to the door.

He picked up all of the food, opened the door and put it on the ground and then hurried over to the dumpster to grab the rolling cart he had taken from a commercial greenhouse earlier in the evening. He raced back to the pile of food and threw all of it into the cart as fast as he could.

He then pushed the cart through the streets for over twenty blocks until he reached the bridge over the Toms River.

Syd pulled the precious cargo down the narrow path to the river and then turned it back around and pushed it along the rocky trail until he reached a small homeless encampment filled with cardboard boxes, wooden pallets and makeshift tents.

He pushed the cart into the middle of the camp and then scrambled up onto a large rock with a message for his mates.

“All right boys, Santa Claus is here and he knows you’ve all been good for goodness sakes!”

All of a sudden, six scruffy men in shabby clothing rumbled around and began to appear out of nowhere.

“I sure hope you’re all hungry because old Santa is starving.”

The instantaneous joy that statement brought began to spread through the camp like wildfire.

Slim Sam Smalls was almost 77 years old and couldn’t move very well, but he hadn’t seen anybody that looked like Santa Claus in a very long time. When Syd pulled the dark green beanie off of his head and shook out his long white hair, Sam raised both of his hands and danced a little jig.

Harlan James ran over to give Syd a huge hug just as Slim Sam was in the midst of planting a big kiss right smack on his forehead.

Between the huge bites and the long sips and the crazy dancing and the whooping and the hollering, a previously silent night quickly turned into the jolliest holiday party the camp had ever seen.

The joyous festivities on the banks of the Toms River roared on until the wee hours of the morning, when the food and the drink were all gone and everyone was bedded back down, except for Syd.

Syd was headed back out on a long walk to return the rolling cart to the greenhouse he had borrowed it from earlier in the evening. Fueled by the sugar and the calories and the wine, he had a new pep in his step and a smile on his face

He placed the cart back where he had found it and then made the long return trip back over to his new family under the bridge.

When he arrived back at the camp, he was tickled to see the entire gang asleep, knowing that dreams of sugar plums and candy canes and vanilla cupcakes would keep them all warm until morning.

On a cool winters evening, two nights before Christmas, while still experiencing a natural high from all of the revelry, Syd thought for a minute and figured the only appropriate thing to do, was to sing a holiday song.

So, before heading off to bed, he stood up and dedicated an old holiday classic to his fellow campers.

He cleared his throat, looked to the heavens, and then smoothly regaled his slumbering camp mates with a soft, yet powerful, version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

A fitting and beautiful ending to a marvelous evening, at the most wonderful time of the year.

This story is based on a prompt from MJ Polk’s publication, . This week’s song prompt is What a Wonderful World, recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1967.

Stories from the Jukebox

What a Wonderful World

Thank you Phillip Slater for headlining “Heroes” Week, by David Bowie! I’m also thankful for all the writers who submitted — our readers who liked, commented, and shared those terrific stories! Readers remember, these stories live on in the comments section, and can be revisited at any time. Writers, you can always add yours to the batch too! How would you like to pi…

Read more

9 months ago · 13 likes · 18 comments · MJ Polk

I posted Elixir back on June, 16, which ended with this paragraph:

Just yesterday, I was sitting on the porch looking out at the world while wondering and pondering where my life was headed and where my wife happened to be, until I glanced up to see her streaming down the street on her bicycle, with her headphones in and her long blonde hair floating on the breeze, and I thought to myself…

What a Wonderful World.

When I realized this week’s prompt is my all-time favorite song, I thought back to this paragraph about my wife and how she makes me feel.

I have to admit, life has been a little tough lately.

A lot of bad things happening to a lot of people close to me.

I’m fully aware that’s how it works as we grow older, but the onslaught can be vicious when the bad news comes in relentless pounding waves.

At times, it can be difficult to shake off the worrisome dew of the mourning rain.

When times get tough, I try to keep pace by remembering the lessons I learned during a rough stretch of my own about fifteen years ago.

A string of events sent me straight into a tailspin.

Unsettling things stacking up all neat and tidy, making a mess of the place.

These lines in Making the Pain Last, a song by Bob Schneider, lay out where my head was at the time.

I watched the leaves turn green

and then brown

Sat in my living room

I let the world spin me around

I tried to make the pain last

As long as I could

I watched the sky turn black

And then blue

And then black

And then blue

It made me think of you

In a daze.

A brutal haze.

While the world moved on around me.

The nights and the days ran together in one never-ending loop.

Like a really bad song stuck on repeat

I couldn’t find what I needed to get up off the mat.

My wife was the hero I needed during that period.

I named that story Elixir, because I truly believe music has magical powers.

It can help and it can heal.

If you don’t believe it, go check out ’s Substack, and see what he and his organization have been up to. You will absolutely be blown away.

Marc uses music to help people with disabilities, dementia and mental health issues.

His charity T.I.M.E., (Together in Musical Expression) is based on the belief that music is for everyone.

Who could argue with that?

I’ve also learned that Gratitude is an elixir.

Especially in sad times.

As you grow older, it becomes imperative to be grateful.

Nothing can cure all ills, but gratitude can get you back on the road to recovery

Gratitude is where the joy hangs out. If you are looking for joy, gratitude is where you’ll find it.

MJ couldn’t have picked a better week to showcase What A Wonderful World.

Most people celebrating Thanksgiving have spent the past week thinking about the things they are thankful for.

As for me, I am thankful for so many things.

Sunsets, smiles, stories, music, art and nature.

Kind, caring and sympathetic people, like my son.

Babies and puppies, like my good boy, Dudley.

The food we eat, the air we breathe and, my wife Jodie.

That last one is the main reason I’m here.

Without her, in my thinking, there’s no me.

The way I see it. The way I believe it.

She’s my rock and my roll.

She’s helped me through so many difficult times, including the one mentioned above.

She has consistently done that by being who she is, every single day.

Wherever she’s at, she’s present, even when I’m absent.

She shows me the way by showing me the way.

I, like a lot of folks, feel things very deeply.

My life has been a bit of a rollercoaster.

Really high ‘highs’, followed by really low ‘lows.’

Some people are monotone, even keeled.

That’s, not me.

I’m not complaining, because I couldn’t do the Even-Steven if I wanted to.

I just don’t have it in me.

I will endure those deep ruts to get to the top of the mountain, every single time.

I like the feel from up there.

The payoff, to me, is worth it.

What a Wonderful World is a song that preaches gratitude and thankfulness.

For the trees of green and red roses too

For the skies of blue and the clouds of white

For the rainbows in the sky

And on the faces of people going by

My wife gets that.

She has tamed my temper and slowed my roll, on too many occasions.

She’s pumped me up and she’s held my feet to the fire.

She consistently shows me how wonderful my world is even when I have a hard time seeing it.

She just seems to come through in the clutch, when the chips are down, and when the rubber meets the road.

I will give you one funny, albeit wild, example of the rubber meeting the road.

On a long ago family trip when our son was just a wee chap, we were driving along on a desolate highway with evening fast approaching.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a car full of young guys with mischief on their minds, pulled up beside our car to play high-speed games.

There were very few cars on the road and the situation quickly turned dangerous, with them riding our bumper and then jumping in front of us to slam on their brakes, again and again.

Flummoxed by the behavior and not wanting to pull over in the middle of nowhere, I was trying furiously to come up with a plan when I took a quick glance over at my mirror.

What I saw, stunned me.

A thick, white, creamy, substance flying through the air and landing smack dab on the instigator’s front windshield.

Wipers were activated, which only smudged the mess into an opaque mass of confusion, as they pulled over, screeching to a halt on the side of the road.

I turned to Jodie to tell her what I had just witnessed, and noticed an empty baby bottle in her hand and a curious look on her face.

“What?”

“You didn’t?”

She flashed a sheepish grin.

“I couldn’t see if it hit them”

“Oh, it hit them. That was the most picture-perfect case of high-speed, formula-emptying in the history of highways.”

I wanted to pull over and kiss her crazy lips, but not until I put a little distance between us and the maniacal milk duds, so we drove on.

We were safe, although my son seemed a little agitated that his dinner had been used as road-rage weaponry.

Jodie has a wicked sense of humor.

Recently, during an evening that had gotten completely out of hand, (in a good way, if you know what I mean) I said to her,

“Look, dude, we need to chill. The way we’re acting, the cops are gonna show up.”

Jodie, (who does play a little bass) never missed a beat, replying “Well, at this point… I’d be disappointed if they didn’t.”

The sentiment of Louis’ beautiful song rings true for all of us.

Even my family, as…

I have watched my baby cry

I have watched him grow.

And, yes, he learned much more than I’ll ever know.

I appreciate this prompt, MJ.

Today, instead of hauling out a load of regrets, I’m bringing in the gratitude.

I’m thankful for this song.

I’m thankful for the opportunity to write out my thoughts.

And, even more thankful that anyone would take the time to read them.

So, today, Substack reader, I am thankful for you.

And, I’m thankful for my lovely wife.

Who took a brutish lout and made a man out of him.

Who gives me advice, just by living her life.

Last night, at an Allen Stone concert in Atlanta, I watched her dancing and singing in the middle of a huge crowd, and I saw the exact same spirit and joie de vivre that tamed my wild heart over 38 years ago.

What a wonderful world, indeed.

“You can do it like it’s a great weight on you or you can do it like it’s part of the dance.” - Ram Dass

At times, Jodie says things to me that are deep and insightful.

She also tells me things that are simple enough to dent my thick skull.

She told me once, “Just let that shit go!”

And, together, we live, happily ever after.

This story is based on a prompt from MJ Polk’s publication, Stories From The Jukebox. This week’s prompt is, Heroes, the 1977 song by David Bowie. Thanks to MJ for the opportunity. (Lyrics in italics)

“Hey, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Gonna hike around up near Fern Grotto for a while. Got a lot on my mind. Anything I can do for you, before I go?”

“Not that I can think of. Just be careful Lance, I’ve been reading about coyotes attacking dogs around the area.”

“Sunny’s out back sleeping. I’m taking the bike.”

“Okay. We should make ravioli for dinner. I’ll start some red sauce. See ya’ in a bit.”

I hopped on my Harley and rode toward a trail I call Heaven’s Gate, A curvy and difficult path known for stunning views of the ocean at the very end of the trail.

My mind was filled with nagging thoughts I just couldn’t shake. I was wondering about my life and why it wasn’t where I thought it should be.

Crissy and I had a big argument a couple of days back that was still lingering. It was my fault. I was in a foul mood and decided to take it out on her.

Riding through the hills and hiking up mountains are two things I can usually count on to clear my mind, only lately, the rides weren’t doing it. On my last bike ride, I had driven so recklessly, it almost didn’t feel real. Like I didn’t even care if I made it back home.

This time, I parked at a lot near the trail head and strapped on my hiking boots, grabbed my U.C. Santa Barbara ball cap and headed up the path.

Crissy and I have been hiking together since our college days and we try to get out to the local trails at least two or three times a week. Crissy’s a runner, so sometimes, it’s like I’m hiking alone.

The passing of both of my parents in the last year has been hard on me. Losing them made me realize I had been running though my days so fast for so long, that I had neglected some of the more serious aspects of my life.

Like my relationship with Crissy.

She had needed me to be present on so many occasions recently and every single time, I was absent. Just totally tapped out. She deserved so much more than I had been giving her.

On sunny days, the locals head out to the trail to view the sunset from a spot called Bold Rock. A massive flat boulder stuck straight into the side of the mountain at the edge of a cliff. There aren’t any safety rails or ropes so you have to be extremely careful when you’re near the rim.

As I rounded the bend that leads to the cliff, I heard a low hum and figured it was a group of hikers up ahead of me. When I reached the clearing in front of Bold Rock, I saw an abnormally large group of people huddled around talking and pointing toward the cliff.

I looked over and was startled to see a man sitting on the mountain’s edge with his feet dangling over the side.

I had never seen anyone that close to the edge and I was stunned by the sheer sight of it. As I got closer, I noticed it was an older man with long white hair.

A young couple told me the gentleman had been flailing around in the crowd a little earlier, acting erratically.

He told everyone he was tired of life and all that it entailed. When someone tried to calm him down, he headed straight out to the bluff, eased up to the edge and sat down.

Watching the tense scene gave me a knot in the pit of my stomach. The man kept shaking his head and waving his arms around. He clearly didn’t seem capable of making rational decisions.

You could hear the still-gathering crowd whispering while watching him out on the edge of the ledge. Some folks were praying and a few were actually taking pictures.

We were all surprised when we saw another man walk slowly out toward the bluff.

A group of older ladies in running gear turned around to inform us the man was Ben Downs, the retired surfer and local celebrity.

I watched as he stopped about twenty feet away from the edge and started talking to the man.

I almost felt a sense of shame at watching the man’s personal drama unfolding out in front of us. The tension hung in the air like a thick fog. The silence was deafening.

More than a few gasps could be heard a few minutes later, when the surfer sat down and scooted up to the edge. He was now sitting directly beside the old man on the very edge of the massive cliff.

The man standing next to me whispered,

“This is crazy, isn’t it? The thing is, Ben Downs has been all over the news lately because his daughter was killed in a boating accident down at Lake Havasu a couple of months back, after his wife had passed away with cancer just last year. Now, here he is trying to save someone’s life on the edge of a mountain. What a story.”

A brisk wind was whipping through the surfer’s billowy blue shirt and the old man’s long thin gray hair. The sight of those two in that setting seemed like a scene from an action movie.

Ben Downs eventually put his arm around the fellow and we were shocked to see the old guy do the same to him.

I sat there with my head in my hands wondering what on earth the two men could be talking about. What would Ben Downs say in a situation like that? What would I say? Would I even go out to the ledge to save someone I didn’t even know?

Those thoughts had Crissy running through my mind again.

I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been doing what a husband is supposed to do. She needed me, but even the simple things had escaped my grasp. I was having trouble locating the energy I needed to get back in the game.

I was brought back to consciousness when I heard people mumbling again and I looked up to see both men slowly scooting back from the edge. There was a light sprinkling of spontaneous applause from the onlookers.

I watched as Mr. Downs stood and then reached down to help the man up. They both walked back from the edge toward a strand of trees, where they stood talking.

I turned to head back down the trail, but only after spotting a smile on both of the men’s faces.

On the slow ride back home I thought about the scene I had just witnessed.

Something had that guy contemplating his entire existence on this earth, even had him thinking about checking out for good.

And then, a man who had recently experienced a spate of unthinkable tragedies in his own life, had the mental fortitude to forget about himself and walk out to that precipice, in that wind, to save a man’s life.

That’s heroism.

That’s the stuff of legend.

It figures, I guess. Facing monstrous waves in oceans around the world requires a different type of dude. A stout soul.

When I returned home, Crissy was on the couch reading a book.

“Hey babe, I just saw the craziest thing.”

I slowly explained the whole scenario as Crissy sat mesmerized.

“Ben Downs has been in the public eye for a long time. He can swim like the dolphins, and he’s a hero to young surfers everywhere, but his competitive days are over. He’s no longer that guy. But, he made damn sure that a complete stranger’s life was safer, just for one day. He beat whatever that guy was facing, just for one day. He stole time, just for one day.

“I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting lately, Crissy. I’ve been caught up in my own head. I’ll do better. I promise.”

“Well, just so you know Lance, I’m not looking for a hero, but if I was, It would be you.

“Do you remember, back in college, when that gunfight broke out at a bar across the street from us?

I can remember

Standing by the wall

And the guns shot above our heads

And we kissed as though nothing could fall

“That’s who you are, You are bold and brave. You can handle anything.

“Whatever it is, whenever those demons are in your head, just know, we can beat them for ever and ever.

“We can do it together. We’re a team!

“The next time you feel like that, just know this.

We could steal time just for one day…

we can be heroes for ever and ever…

what d’ya say?”