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September 22, 2003
Autumn Time, German Town
I had a blissful weekend on beautiful South Padre island, surrounded by good friends, perfect waves, and the wail of mariachi music on the patio of the motel next door. I couldn’t ask for a better birthday celebration.
And then I got home and checked my email and learned some terrible news.
When I was in high school, I had a really good friend. He had a station wagon with wood paneling on the side (later to be replaced with a little red Gremlin), two very gracious parents with a basement that was constantly wide open to us (along with a refrigerator full of all the Sun-Drop and Miller Lite that we could stomach) and a great capacity for adventure and absolute wackiness. We’ve lost touch, although I know he’s married and expecting a child, which is fantastic news, considering that none of us even knew if he would make it to thirty.
The terrible news concerns his father. He ran a barber shop in our tiny town, where my dad would go get his hair cut every month or so. He was related to almost everyone in town. He had a wife, three kids and a home up the street from my mama. They always had room for us, always let us bang on the drums in the basement or run around like maniacs in the backyard, building fires and drinking rotgut, insane from small-town living, teenagedness and general boredom and precociousness. I remember one summer in particular where my general routine for threee straight months was: sleep ‘til noon. Get picked up in the wagon or Pork ‘N Beans (the carro of another cohort) and head to Wimpy’s for breakfast/lunch. Go swimming in the afternoon. Go work at Vicky’s shitty diner for even shittier tips. Meet back up with my friends to drink whatever we could scrounge up and listen to whatever records were most recently found at Vintage Vinyl. Make it back across the river and stumble into bed. Wake up. Rinse. Repeat.
My friend’s dad was found dead of a self-inflicted shotgun wound last Thursday night.
And I can’t stop thinking about him, the hospitality he offered my weird-ass teenage self and the devastation his entire family must be enduring. I consider many of his nieces and nephews among my good, long-time friends. We went camping, cavorting and canoeing together all the time.
And I don’t know how to make a proper farewell, or offering of respect, or sympathy. I have no prayers to offer. Just so, so much sadness and surprise and all the good and strong wishing in the world, all the the kindest thoughts I can muster for everyone involved. All the gratefulness in the world for this man who was kind to me when he didn’t have to be, and all the wishing I can, hard as hell, to take all of the shock and sadness and loss out of these people that are left behind and throw it into the cold and flurried dashing of the Missouri River, carrying it far, far away, out to sea, and as far from their hearts as can be, so that nothing but the goodness and kindness will remain.
Posted by pogo at 09:40 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 12, 2003
I Don’t Like It But I Guess Things Happen That Way
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there’s a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin’ in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he’s a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you’d think He’s talking straight to you and me.
Well, we’re doin’ mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin’ cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we’re reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought ‘a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin’ for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen’ that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen’ that we all were on their side.
Well, there’s things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin’ everywhere you go,
But ‘til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You’ll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I’d love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything’s OK,
But I’ll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
‘Till things are brighter, I’m the Man In Black.
Posted by pogo at 07:32 AM | TrackBack
