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Arts, Entertainment and Sports: Everyone has a favorite performer, actor, artist, genre of music, sports team, sport or sports hero. This is the place to share your likes and dislikes with others.

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Nutbush City Limits

About an hour outside Memphis, Gerald and I stopped at a rest area. As I came out of the restroom, I noticed a large picture of Tina Turner adorning the wall. The picture proudly proclaimed that we were outside of Tina Turner's birthplace, Nutbush, TN.

Gerald and I have always loved Tina and when he came out of the restroom, the lobby was very crowded. I pointed to the picture and recited in a conversational voice:

"I heard she left a good job in the city."
Gerald answered, just as matter-of-factly, "I heard she was workin' for The Man every night and day."
I continued: "And I heard she didn't lose one minute of sleepin"
Gerald continued: "And I heard she didn't worry about the way things might have been".

Gerald is usually not prone to this kind of exhibitionism, although I will erupt into song nearly any place or any time, but we both started singing in unison:

"Big wheel keep on turnin'
Proud Mary keep on burnin'
Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river."

Others in the lobby joined in singing and began clapping!

We continued:

"Cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis,
Pumped a lot of 'tane down in New Orleans,
But I never saw the good side of the city,
'Til I hitched a ride on the riverboat queen."

We "oooh, oohed, oohed" on our way back to the car and then Gerald said, "Well, you know, it would have been more appropriate to have been singing "Nutbush City Limits!" I answered, "But I don't know those lyrics!"

TINA TURNER LYRICS

"Nutbush City Limits"

A CHURCH HOUSE GIN HOUSE
A SCHOOL HOUSE OUT HOUSE
ON HIGHWAY NUMBER NINETEEN
THE PEOPLE KEEP THE CITY CLEAN
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

TWENTY-FIVE WAS THE SPEED LIMIT
MOTORCYCLE NOT ALLOWED IN IT
YOU GO TO THE STORE ON FRIDAY
YOU GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

YOU GO TO THE FIELDS ON WEEKDAYS
AND HAVE A PICNIC ON LABOR DAY
YOU GO TO TOWN ON SATURDAY
BUT GO TO THE CHURCH EV'RY SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

NO WHISKEY FOR SALE
YOU CAN'T COP NO BAIL
SALT PORK AND MOLASSES
IS ALL YOU GET IN JAIL
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

LITTLE OLD TOWN IN TENNESSEE
THAT'S CALLED A QUIET LITTLE OLD
COMMUNITY
A ONE-HORSE TOWN YOU HAVE TO
WATCH
WHAT YOU'RE PUTTIN' DOWN IN OLD
NUTBUSH
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

PS: Click HERE to watch a performance of Tina Turner doing Nutbush City Limits.

Sue Raypole, January 19, 2011: Submit Comments

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The Headless Horseman of Cherry Hill

I wonder when the last time the headless horseman was seen at “Cherry Hill” around here? An article published in 1976 said it was 80 years ago, which would have been 1896. Legend has it there was a spooky spot right here in Fayette County.

A little moraine about 15 feet high and 200 feet across on the east side of State Route 38, a mile south of Yatesville used to be called “Cherry Hill.” It was so named for the numerous cherry trees that stood on the hill years ago.

Strange folklore stores were connected to Cherry Hill throughout the years, including murder, ghosts and counterfeiting. One of the first courts was held in a house on Cherry Hill, according to legend. 

The first Methodist church in the county was located a short distance south of this historic hill, which hill was later carved away for the gravel it contained.

There used to be an old Inn on the hill, and folklore has it that a land buyer with lots of money stopped at the Inn and during the night he was murdered. His horse was found in the woods a mile away. 

Descendants of the innkeeper told that a federal agent was probing counterfeit activities of the famous Funk family, when one of the Funks was the innkeeper. Once the identity of the federal agent was known, he was also murdered. When the murderer’s wife discovered her husband disposing of the body, he threw an axe at her putting a large gash across her breast. 

Soon after the murder, ghost stories began circulating that told of a headless horseman seen riding about the hill at night. So lurid were the stories that the place was shunned and people passing at night fearfully galloped their horses to pass the “haunted hill.”

No one would stay in the Inn and it was abandoned. Later lights could be seen through the boards of the roof and it was told that ghosts walked at night and men played poker at the Inn, according to legend. 

The Inn was torn down leaving only the large stones and foundation logs which remained for several years. 

Little by little, the ghost scare subsided. The last sighting of the headless horseman was told by a man living on the William Selsor farm, a mile east of the hill. He was returning home late one night with a little too much booze in his system. After opening the gate, the man led his horse through and saw the headless man standing with arms outstretched. He yelled, his horse ran away and he ran into the house.

A few days before, some boys had placed a piece of fence rail across the decaying top of a gatepost near the gate through which the man had to pass. The man never believed he saw a gatepost with a fence rail across, but always believed he saw a ghost. 

Gail Allen, January 10, 2011: Submit Comments

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Shelter Dogs; a review by Linda Fugate

Shelter Dogs by Traer Scott

Merrell Publishers Limited NY; London 2006

Books attract us for different reasons.  Maybe the interest is the author or the genre, or the fact that it is on the New York Times bestseller list.    Occasionally, the cover alone beckons, urging us to look closer. Shelter Dogs fits one or all of those categories. 

Shelter Dogs can be a challenge to read, but it is not a challenge in the sense it is epic in page count.  There are only ninety-six pages.  It is not difficult because of the technical jargon defining the secrets inside.  There is none.  In reality, there are very few words in it at all - six pages of text in front and six in back with a smattering of short descriptions mixed in.  The rest of the book contains portraits.  Some are soulful; some are funny.  Others look wise beyond their years, and many hopeful.  And while the portraits reflect many differences, they mirror the similarities.  Each portrait is a visual character study of a shelter dog. What happened to them?  The back pages reveal their fate, whether happy owners claimed their lost canine companions, if they found homes with new ones, or met worse fates.

Traer Scott, the photographer, spent most of her childhood caring for and loving animals.  This book is a work of love for the shelter where she volunteers.  Her purpose is to bring the plight of those animals that, for whatever reason, are forced into these facilities. 

Every area has a humane society or animal shelter that could use assistance from the citizens it serves.  Highland County has both.  Consider giving them a hand, financial support or a few supplies to ease the work of caring for these homeless animals.  A visit will often warm your heart.  An old cotton blanket will warm the heart of a dog or cat waiting for the forever home.  And who knows, you may fall in love.

Linda Fugate, December 16, 2010: Submit Comments

Editor's Note: Shelter dogs available for adoption in Highland County may be seen by clicking HERE! This is a great way to make both yourself and man's best friend happy!

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For Serious Students of College Athletics

I received the following from former McClain Marching Band director, Bob Sims. Bob is an avid sports fan and connoisseur of college athletics. He said he realized that I didn't "give a rat's @#$" about sports but would it be okay to publish his thoughts? Certainly it is...the purpose of this blog is to provide  a variety of topics and sports is certainly enjoyed by almost everyone. I gave this a quick read and have to admit that it was all Greek to me. But, I'm sure for all you Buckeye fans out there it will make sense. Thanks Bob and please send your comments to: Visitor Comments Page

Bob Sims, December 14, 2010: Submit Comments

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The Einstein we Knew

The last year or so had been a tough one.  My father had passed after a ten-year health battle and our lovely neighborhood-ruling cat Sox had also succumbed to cancer.  We were missing something.  My younger son announced he wanted a dog.  I wasn’t sure, but gave him the go ahead to research breeds and behaviors.  He would also have to plan paying for it himself.  At thirteen, he took up the challenge enthusiastically.  Over the course of the next few months my young teen would go from shoveling walks to mowing lawns, saving as much allowance as he could, and probably skimping on his lunches at school.  All the while, he scoured the newspapers and free papers.  In June, he read an ad for full blood beagle pups.  We scheduled a visit. 

When the big day arrived, Aaron sat in the passenger seat wordlessly and nervously.  We pulled into the drive and were met by the owner.  Around to the back of the house we went.  The next few moments were chaotic at best.  There was yapping, barking, howling and posturing. While his brothers and sisters cowered and bristled at us, curiosity overcame one. He came to us with an air of confidence, a hop, trip, and roll and landed sitting with on my foot.  The decision was sealed; the brave little canine would head home with us. Aaron paid for him and cradled him in his arms all the way home.  He was in awe.  Little did we know of the excitement that tiny beagle would bring into our lives.

There was the whining, crying and howling the first few nights away from his comfortable mom and siblings.  That was one of the saddest sounds in the world.  There was the housebreaking, because Einstein, as he would be named, was to be a housedog instead of a hunter.  Add the combustible combination of an energetic puppy, a teenage boy, and bouncing and rolling balls in the house and yard.  Priceless.  Or the fact that his puppy barking was so volatile it caused him to lift completely off the floor. 

When school resumed in September Einstein chose to make it clear he did not like being alone.  There is a workshop attached to the barn behind the house, and I regularly went there to work, returning every couple of hours to check on the pup.  One particular day I returned to the house and walked into the living room to find the beagle had killed.  The recliner was dead.  There were mountains of shredded foam, fiberfill and fabric scraps everywhere.  The seat to the chair was whittles down to the wood and metal frame.  Einstein was still in the process of winning the battle against the monster when I screamed his name.  He stopped abruptly, looked at me, and jumped down from the remains of the cushion.  There was a look of glee on his little puppy face.  He was victorious.  This escapade landed him in lockout from the living room unless accompanied by a human companion.

As often is the case with children, Aaron went on to college and Einstein stayed home.  During holidays, the hound would be in doggie heaven again; his boy was back.  For days after holidays were over Einstein would search in all the rooms and yard looking for him.  Aaron’s later move to a far off state made us Einstein’s permanent parents. 

As the years passed, Einstein calmed, quieted and slowed.  No longer did he chase cats in the yard, or try to use baby bunnies as squeaky toys, or kill snakes in the yard.  Anyone could knock on the door and he would ignore them.  We left the light on at night because he could not see in the dark.  He wanted to be with by our side all the time.  A discussion with a very wise woman enlightened me to what was to come.  Her words were, “He will tell you when he is ready to go.”  October 10^th, four months after his sixteenth birthday, he told us.

Love comes in all types of packages.  The great one in our life happened to have had a wet nose, a howl heard a block away, and be about 16” tall. Now, again, something is missing.

Rest, Einstein, you have earned it.

Linda Fugate, November 16, 2010: Submit Comments

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The Back Story to Blank Spaces

I have ask Brenda Conaway, the author of Blank Spaces, to participate in this blog in whatever way she would desire. In response Brenda has submitted a lengthy back story into the process by which she arrived at her story.

She has also provided insight into what is involved in the self-publishing of a literary work in today's digital and online environment.

Instead of printing the entire piece on this page I have created a separate page for you to visit and read at your leisure. I thought this would be of interest to those of you who may be involved in the process of writing and wanting to publish your works.

Click HERE for Brenda's Bland Spaces Back Story.

September 15, 2010

Blank Spaces, a synopsis by Brenda Conaway

As reported on www.greenfield-ohio.com, McClain graduate Brenda Everhart Conaway has published her first novel, Blank Spaces. In doing so, Brenda has become one of a growing list of Greenfield produced authors. I have ask Brenda to submit a synopsis of her novel for publication and it is posted below. Blank Spaces may be purchased online at Amazon and other major book chains.

Melissa Morgan is a young woman who desperately wants to remember her childhood.  Her brother, Stephen, would rather she didn’t.  Her childhood was filled with tragedy.  Stephen remembers, and he can see no reason for Melissa to remember, to the point that he will do anything to keep her from remembering.

Melissa is kidnapped, and she starts having nightmares about her father.  Even after being rescued, she continues to have nightmares.  Her roommate, Lacey, suggests getting professional help.

  Jesse Taylor is stunned to see Melissa on the evening news.  There, on TV, is the only person who can clear his name from a crime that he did not commit.  Is this a sign that he is to go to her? 

  Wanting to get his name cleared, Jesse asks Melissa to help him.  Melissa has no idea why he is asking for her help until he tells her the truth that she is the only witness to her father’s murder.

  Now Melissa must remember her childhood to help Jesse.  Stephen is adamant that she not remember.  But Melissa wants to fill in the blank spaces in her mind even if it means destroying her mind completely. 

Brenda Everhart Conaway, August 28, 2010: Submit comments

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Me and My Guitars; A Brief History

Just read a blog titled, Why I Love my Guitar, and it prompted me to write a few words on the subject.

I've been interested in guitars since being a teenager in the 1950s. At the time, however, I didn't have the money to buy one until my senior year in high school. My first box was a Harmony acoustic with a body totally composed of some sort of inexpensive Asian tropical wood. It didn't have the appearance of the more traditional acoustic so my buddies nicknamed it The Pineapple.

Like most cheap guitars it wasn't the easiest thing to play. The neck was so warped it was almost impossible to play below the first three frets. Of course, that's where most folk and country players performed at anyway. I'm pretty sure it was jazz guitarists who first discovered there were more frets on a guitar than three.

When I moved to California The Pineapple was sitting on the back seat of my 1960 Chevy Biscayne. At some point I traded it for a Regal 12-string acoustic which was a step up but very difficult to play with other players. Because of the extra tension on the body caused by additional strings the instrument had to be tuned one note lower than normal. That meant if others were playing in C you had to transpose or use a capo.

The Regal eventually gave way to a Gibson single pickup hollow body electric. This was a great instrument and if I had any foresight or understanding of appreciation of value, would have kept it. I sold it for $200 and today it is worth several thousand dollars.

During most of my California years I was a college student and couldn't afford any new music makers. A cheap Saturday activity was hanging out at local music stores and ogling all the high end guitars in stock. Somehow I became convinced that the only thing that was keeping my talent contained was the quality of the guitar I owned. As good as my Gibson was, I wasn't a good player. Solution? Get a better guitar.

After graduating from college and selling my Gibson, years passed before I picked up another guitar. In fact, it was my son finding a cheap 12-string I had bought at a flea market hiding in the closet that got me interested again. We had it restrung, bought an electronic tuner, and together tried to make decent sound come out of it.

Sometime following that I decided I now could afford some of the instruments I could only dream of in the 60s. So, with the help of Ebay I began buying famous guitars. Every day UPS would drop off a box or two and I would spend several evenings strumming and admiring my new Les Paul, Gretsch Chet Adkins Country Gentleman, Epiphone Sheraton, Fender Stratocaster and/or Telecaster, Martin D-whatever, and a seemingly unending list of others.

All in all I must have had sixty or more guitars go through here. I didn't keep any of them very long, after a few days I'd put them back on Ebay and out the door they went. Some I made money on, some I broke even, but mostly I lost a little. I just considered it the affordable cost of having a very pleasurable experience. Certainly less expensive than playing golf a couple of times a week.

It was great to have them, to touch them, to admire the craftsmanship as well as the great tones they were capable of. However, none of them made me a better player. It seems that talent involves something far more than just a good instrument.

I still have several nice guitars but none are overly expensive and unfortunately none gets played very often. I broke a shoulder several years ago and my arm movement was such that it was too painful to play. Things are better today and I recently pickup up a Yamaha classical guitar that has been sitting next to my desk for several years, tuned it up, and played a couple of simple rifts.

My ability to dance the light fantastic on the strings still doesn't exist, but it never did. For someone who has played the guitar for almost fifty years it's amazing how poor I am at it.

In the end, it doesn't make any difference whether I can play well. All that really matters to me is that I love listening to guitar music, truly appreciate those who are genuinely gifted, have accepted my own limitations, and just simply love having a nice guitar sitting around to stare at and admire. That's my version of having a Monet or Matisse hanging over the sofa.

Larry Chapman, June 21, 2010: Submit Comments

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Grandma's Quilt

Touching the edge of the binding, Melana’s mind raced. The treasures of kings and queens may be displayed in great museums, but her treasure was right here, in her own quaint little bungalow. Grandma Nora’s legacy to her was a quilt. The assembled Dresden blocks, bold yellow center surrounded by faded prints, stripes and plaids of the past, were pieced and quilted by hand.

Melana wondered what great-grandma’s thoughts were where when she worked, needle in hand. No one living knows its history. If made during World War I, her thoughts may have been of sons far away in France. Did she meet the postman daily to hear word from them, feeling her boys would soon return but fearing they would not?

Perhaps it was a creation of the Great Depression, and the lighter pieces were merely remnants of worn clothing. Who wore the green print and who the brown stripe? Did they belong to Melana’s great-grandfather, great uncle or aunt? Maybe there was an old housedress included, worn from the scrubbing and gardening and cooking necessary to maintain a large family.

Was the quilt made during World War II, after Nora’s husband of forty years had died and she was alone? Did she reminisce about their life together? Or did she think of her grandsons, off to fight in yet another war for their country?

Maybe the quilt’s creation was not as sad as textbook history. Grandma Nora might have put pieces together while foot rocking the cradle of an infant child or grandchild. She may have been resting on the front porch, her morning chores completed, enjoying the summer breezes and sunshine. Melana also envisioned her great grandmother sitting near a window on a rainy day, squinting in the cloud filtered light at every stitch. It may have offered Nora warmth on winter evenings as she stitched it.

 Melana could only imagine. She would never know her great-grandmother’s thoughts or feelings. She could only feel the nearness of her through the soft and aged fabric. That would have to be enough.

Linda Fugate, May 17, 2010: Submit Comments

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As the police arrived, drivers of the two illegally parked cars ran to their vehicles and left. I, in turn, backed my rig into traffic then pulled forward into the turn, jumping the curb onto the sidewalk and squeezing past the adjacent building to complete the turn.  

As I sent the message calling upon a higher power, I whispered to myself: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" 

Jeff Pollard, April 20, 2010: Submit Comments

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The time passed slowly for me.  I wanted to go visit the little pup, but knew I should wait.  When the big day came, I arrived with a towel and a pet carrier.  The pet carrier was a small one, about the size one could put a cat in if one worked at it.  Patch was so tiny he would fit inside a cardboard paper towel tube.  He had plenty of room to move around in the carrier.   

At home I put him in the big aquarium in the kitchen.  The first thing he did was run to the cardboard tube to hide and peek out at us.  He was quiet for the first day or so.  We would pick him up, pet him, put him on the sofa to run loose, and give him lots of attention.   He was amusing to watch as he tried the fresh foods that we gave him.  Carrots and apples were a favorite.  Grapes were okay.  Bananas he didn’t like at all, and would throw them out of his bowl.  It became a game; put the banana in, Patch throws it out.  Any lettuce, spinach and cabbage were high on his favorite list, along with broccoli and cauliflower.  After being with us a few weeks he could figure out where his treats came from and would make the guinea pig wheek sound when you opened the refrigerator door.  Patch could be very vocal when he wanted something. 

Over time we introduced Patch to the other four-legged resident in the house, a beagle named Einstein.  Beagles are often considered hunting dogs and are left outside in pens.  Einstein was an exception.  He was a housedog with his own private entrance to the yard.  And he was the only furry kid at home.  Naturally, he was curious about the strange new smell and the movement in the aquarium.   

Gradually the two began to accept each other.  I would put Patch’s cage on the floor and Einstein would just watch him.  Then he would edge closer.  Eventually they could lay side by side, perfectly content with only the cage dividing them. 

As spring turned to summer, I decided to try putting Patch outside.  But how to do it safely was a dilemma.  I was afraid to turn my back and let him go, fearing he would run somewhere I could not reach him.  We had tried putting him in a little fence, but he was able to escape.  I then remembered the old dog crate we used for Einstein as a puppy.  It was an open wire crate with a removable metal floor.  I pulled it out of the barn, scrubbed it up, and put it in the yard without the floor.  Next, his new four inch diameter security tunnel, food bowl and water bottle were added.  It was time for Patch.   I carried him into the yard, put him in the cage, and shut the door.  He scooted straight into his tunnel and peeked out at his new surroundings.   

Einstein would mosey out and look, sniff, and lay down beside the crate.  He had decided he would be Patch’s guard dog, able to fend off cats, large and small, with a single bark.

This human-dog-guinea pig relationship continued throughout Patch’s time with us.  In the spring of his seventh year it was obvious he no longer felt well.   He had stopped greeting us when we came home.  He no longer squealed when we opened the refrigerator door, no longer wanted his favorite foods and often cried out in discomfort. I knew it was his time to leave.  Patch was held in a warm lap most of his last day and night. He passed away in his sleep. 

The Tea-Olive Bird Watching Society by Augusta Trobaugh (a review)

The last will and testament of Love-Devine Brockett King was very generous. She left thirteen wooded acres to establish King’s Wood Bird Sanctuary, and the Tea-Olive Bird Watching Society’s current and future members would be the owners. The remainder of her estate was designated for the library of Tea-Olive, Georgia, with the condition that should the library cease to exist, the funds would then revert to the town for use as they chose.

The citizens of Tea-Olive were a genteel group with ancestral Southern values. The locally born masculine population is named after men in the Bible, while the women’s names reflect titles from the Baptist hymnal. Beulah, Wildwood, Sweet, Zion, Love-Devine, and the foreign-born Memphis were not only the best of friends, but also the entire Society membership.

A buyer found for Love-Devine’s estate, the bird watching society members watch with interest as repairs and alterations take place to the farm. The new resident, an outsider – or foreigner – is a retired judge from upper New York state. Honorable Hyson Breed charms his way into positions of power and the heart of one of the society members. Is he the upstanding citizen the community believes him to be? When the couple returns from their honeymoon and Sweet exhibits a badly bruised face, friends of the mature bride fret for her safety. She is continually more isolated from her community and friends and begins to turn against them. Sweet seems submissive to the judge’s demands, even if they go against her former interests.

Zion and Beulah conspire to save their friend and rid the community of the judge. As they carry out their plot, they meet obstacles that may do Sweet more harm than good. The judge is suspicious of all Sweet’s friends and moves forward with his efforts to gain control of her inherited property.

The Tea-Olive Bird Watching Society is light fiction. The antics of the concerned friends offer humor and thoughtfulness. The character personalities are somewhat stereotypical, yet pleasant.

Linda Fugate, March 12, 2010: Submit Comments

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The Minnow Bucket

Salty streams of sweat rolled down his forehead then burned his eyes as he struggled down the steep bank toward the creek, grabbing jutting rocks and tree roots with his right hand to keep from falling, and clutching a small tackle box and short fishing pole with his left. 

Already at the water's edge and placing a "chub" minnow on a hook was his stepfather, Ralph, who was tall, lean and long-legged. 

Jeff was a chubby, short-legged eight-year-old who loved to go fishing with Ralph, who had treated him as a son as long as Jeff could remember. 

 It wasn't just the challenge of out-smarting the fish each time, although that was important. But Jeff also enjoyed the small talk, which often resulted in lessons learned. 

Ralph would share his youthful experiences, like the time he and boyhood friend Bill Miller strung a dozen snakes on the family clothesline and got into a heap of trouble. 

From his mother, Ralph learned, harshly, not to bring scary things home. From his father, he learned that, for the most part, snakes are our friends in nature. It is actually good to have a Black Snake as a neighbor. It will control varmints, including rats. 

 "See that big tree over there, the one with the little nuts hanging down?" Ralph asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he would teach. "That's an oak tree with acorn nuts. Look at the leaves and the bark. See how they are different from the other trees." 

 "When we go squirrel hunting this fall, we'll sit near one of those trees and Mr. Squirrel will be there or nearby. If we sit very still and be very quiet, Mr. Squirrel will sneak out onto a limb and have an acorn lunch, than we'll have Mr. Squirrel for dinner." 

 When the fish weren't biting, Jeff and Ralph might sit at the water's edge for hours, just talking. 

Always, when they returned to the car, Ralph would ask two things: "Good time today?" and "Learn anything?" 

Today was a good day. Ralph caught a couple of nice catfish. Jeff caught one. It was enough for a family meal, so Ralph said they would take them home. 

 More often, the fish would be returned to the fishing hole, so they could make more fish to be dinner in he future. 

"Pack up," Ralph said, signaling the end of today's adventure. 

"I'll carry the rods and fish. You get the minnow bucket and your tackle box." 

Off he strode, those long, adult legs taking him toward the car quickly. 

Of course, Jeff was far behind. His legs were strong, but stumpy. His steps were short. 

He, again, struggled at the embankment. He slid back down the bank a couple of times as his feet and hand slipped. The minnow bucket was very heavy, and one hand couldn't hold it plus the tackle box. 

He was left with the challenge of grabbing rocks and roots with three weak fingers as he struggled up the hill. 

Ralph was casually smoking a cigarette as Jeff reached the car. Jeff was wringing with sweat, not an unusual situation for him. 

The trunk of the car already was open, but Jeff sat the minnow bucket and tackle box on the ground, then leaned against the car, panting. 

Ralph gently sat the tackle box inside the trunk, rearranging a bit. He then opened the lid of the minnow bucket, looked inside, then dumped the two gallons of water onto the ground. 

They had used all the minnows! Into the trunk went the empty bucket. Into the front seat went the two anglers., 

 "Good day today?" Ralph asked, as always. Jeff nodded, weakly. 

"Learn anything?" 

"Yes," Jeff responded slowly. "Always look inside the minnow bucket first." 

Years later, Jeff reflected back upon how many times the minnow bucket lesson applied to so many situations, and how fortunate he was for having someone who was so willing to be a teacher as well as a father.

Jeff Pollard, March 11, 2010: Submit Comments

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The fictional story line twists through the hill country of Tennessee, painting a gray picture of depravity and ignorance fueled by a drug income.  There are a many subplots occurring in this volume.  Missing persons and dead bodies are scattered in the works, but the author does not resolve all the issues, leaving the reader wondering if there would be a sequel to answer the open issues.

Linda Fugate, February 26, 2010: Submit Comments

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Ninty-Four and Still Shoutin' the Blues

 David "Honeyboy" Edwards has been shoutin' the blues since he was a young child in rural Mississippi. Today, Edwards is 94 and he is still shoutin'. Most recently his decades of contributing to the blues were recognized with the granting of a Lifetime Achievement Grammy.

I didn't see the Grammy Awards program but my son did and reported that amongst all the glitz scant few seconds were allocated to recognizing Edwards as he sat in the audience. One would think that someone who played such an important and long role in the creation of a musical genre that gave birth to about all that followed, including jazz and rock, would have been granted more than just a swipe by of the camera.

I wonder if any of those young performers on stage that evening understand that if it hadn't been for the sacrifices and efforts of people like Honeyboy Edwards, they might still be playing the Chitlin' Circuit for less than minimum wage?

I think we all need to take a little time to reflect that we all stand on the shoulders of those who paved the way for us.

Larry Chapman, February 23, 2010: SuSubmit Comments

 

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 True Fans: A Basketball Odyssey, a review

Author Dan Austin, along with brother Jared and best friend Clint Ewell set out on bicycles to cross the country and deliver a basketball to the NBA Hall of Fame in Springfield, Massachusetts.  The trio intended to have those who unwittingly assisted them along the way sign the NBA issued ball, and at journey’s end, ask it be enshrined in the Hall as a symbol to the goodness of the everyday Americans they met. 

Each young man added his own special talent to the mix.  Dan intended to film the journey as a documentary.  Jared was the planner and plotter, keeping the group on course and budgeting their minimal funds.  Clint was the basketball fanatic who had used the sport to work his way through and overcome difficult situations he could not control in life.
 
 The group started their pilgrimage from Venice, California with a bicycle trailer called the Ark of Covenant in tow.  The trailer carried staples of peanut butter, camping equipment and the tent that would often become home for the one hundred day journey.  It also protected the glorious basketball. 

Their travels carried them up and down mountains, across the prairies, and through sprawling metropolises.  They slept in parks, in churchyards, and along riverbanks, and battled both natural and manmade opponents.  Sprinklers were one of their most dreaded foes.  In addition to peanut butter, they subsisted on what they named “True Fan Sludge” – a concoction of dehydrated instant soup and any other carbohydrate they could afford.  Recipe variations are located in the final pages of the book.

The original media for True Fans: A Basketball Odyssey was a documentary.  The print version followed six years later. In print, the author occasionally adds details of other “pilgrimages” enabling the reader to relate further with the personalities of the characters.  Throughout the story, the reader begins to feel the faith and inspiration Dan, Jared and Clint maintained throughout the long journey.  This is not a basketball story.  Pickup games or faraway courts are rarely mentioned.  It is, instead, a story of the goodness of a nation and of how obscure and random acts of kindness can touch others.   

A review by Linda Fugate, February 18, 2010;  Submit Comment
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Hairlip "Sweet Pepper" Hayes, Ukulele Blues

When people think about blues music the instruments that normally come to mind are the guitar and harmonica. I was doing a little research today and came across a rare video of a guy named Hairlip "Sweet Pepper" Hayes who made the blues festival circuit back in the 70s. His specialty was picking out  blues on a ukulele. Because of his affliction he didn't sing but rather whistled the melody of the tune he was playing.

I suppose playing blues on a uke isn't all that strange since most early blues players resorted to whatever was at hand to make their music. Poverty usually dictated their choice of instrument.

B.B. King, and many others, began playing on screen door wires strung between two nails on the front porch post. They would insert a tin can under the string to act as a resonator. A fancier, and more portable, version of this became known as the "diddley bow."

Also, an important part of the blues is the use of the finger slide. The resulting sound is in many ways similar to the sound of Hawaiian music played on a slide guitar.

The following film footage was shot in Louisville, KY in 1968, while Hayes was practicing his version of "The A Train Blues."

By the way, Hairlip's mother must not have been a too kind lady since his true given name was Hairlip.

NNOTE: Hairlip is not spelled correctly and is not a nick name. It is the name his mother had placed on his birth certificate.

Larry Chapman/, strong> February 15, 2010: submit comment

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The Rise and Fall of the Boys of Summer

BREAKING NEWS!!!! Mark McGwire used steroids!  Quite the attention grabber, isn't it?  Not sure that something that the bulk of the population was certain of for half a dozen years or so qualifies as news,but that is exactly what dominated the headlines in the sports world for a majority of the week.  Like most things do as I get a bit older, it allowed me to reflect on what was once considered Americas Pastime and what it meant to me.

 

My first thoughts were of McGwire's 62nd home run.  In most sports fans lives, it was a moment that you will always remember where you were when it happened.  I was with my then-girlfriend-now-wife  at a friends house.  Every at bat was on television for a few weeks during the chase of history.  It was a season following a terrible strike and a canceled World Series.  It brought a bitter American public back to Major League Baseball.  I was very excited to watch history unfold.  I look back now, with all that we know, with a bit of sadness.  I see it as if the moon landing was fake.  Such an exciting moment in American pop culture was basically manufactured in a lab.  Kind of a punch in the gut. 

But my reminiscing didn't stop there...I remember watching Game 4 of the 1990 World Series at the Homecoming Dance in the New Gym lobby.  Wire to Wire.  I also remember a much smaller Mark McGwire on that Oakland team...along with Mr. Canseco...the blockhead who actually ended up being the person who blew the lid off the steroid loaded 90's. 

But it didn't stop there.  I remembered back to warm summer nights as a child.  I used to love listening to Marty and Joe call the Reds games with Dad.  We either listened together or he had his headphones on as we watched television...giving me his own play by play.  Some of the greatest players of all time graced the evening air as we listened to Marty describe what a virtual Hall of Fame line up was doing.  That same man no longer listens to those headphones...turned off by greedy players and owners, strikes and scandals.  Those are the fans baseball should have...and needed to keep.

So in my reflections, I came up with some tough truths.

1. Pardon my grammar, but baseball ain't what it used to be!

2. Americas pastime is played on Saturdays and Sundays in the fall

3. Baseball fans have always cared WAY more about the game than the game ever cared about the fans.

4. The steroid era in baseball has led me to question the outcome in all sports and performances of athletes in those sports.

5. And maybe most importantly...if it seems to good to be true it probably is!

In closing, in 1998, I looked forward to having the home run race to look back on with excitement and a sense of being part of history.  Now that the time has come to look back...the disappointment I feel is as strong or stronger than any joy I got from it. 

Thanks for the jip Big Mac!

Mike Miller, January 16, 2010, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com

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The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope

by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Meale, William Morrow, 2009 

William Kamkwamba opens his story as a child in the village of Masitala, Malawi in Africa. Masitala is what one typically envisions as an African village.  The homes are small huts consisting of few rooms with a roof lined with plastic and covered with thatching.  An outhouse is also home to snakes and spiders.  There is no electricity for any other than very rich, and it is notorious to blackouts.  There is also no running water. 

The community is traditionally comprised of generation after generation of farmers. Culturally, the villagers have a foot in both the present and the past.  The culture still embraces the superstitions of the ages and to some degree, still believes in the power of magic and spells. 

William’s father believed his only son was worthy of an education past grammar school.  Traditionally, only the affluent were able to afford such a luxury.  William’s father worked hard to provide the tuition, books and supplies for his son’s needs.  This was an extravagance not to be a continued as the rain does not come and drought sets in and famine becomes the norm for the country.  Unable to pay the steep tuition any longer, William returns to his father’s fields.  His desire to continue to learn becomes even stronger, and he frequents the area library for anything to entertain his restless mind.  During these many trips the young teen’s interest in science is born.  He repeated checks the same books, learning and trying to understand all he can from them.  His fascination with the windmill is born.  

William regularly frequents a scrap yard looking for materials to use in his attempt to build his own windmill.  His efforts meet with the ridicule and scorn of fellow villagers, and his parents endure it silently.  Many label him crazy. Others believe he is at fault for the conditions of his country.  Through perseverance and self- study, William’s dream becomes reality.  

The Boy Who Harnessed The Wind is non-fiction.  Kamkwamba’s explanations of traditions, superstitions and life styles of his people offer understanding of the culture one may never see.  The young man William is not so old at the time of this writing that he has forgotten his feelings and fears from childhood.  Nor has he forgotten the hunger and anguish of his fellow tribesman.  His creation was not selfish folly – it was for his fellow villagers and compatriots.  This book, like the young man it features, is a study of hope for a nation. 

A review by Linda Fugate, January 11, 2009, Comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com 

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Time Bandit...a review by Linda Fugate

Bering Sea crab fishing has gained popularity through the reality shows of television.  Time Bandit: Two Brothers, the Bering Sea, and One of the World’s Deadliest Jobs is a product of this newly found fame.  The Hillstrand brothers, along with the expertise of Malcolm MacPherson, have related their adventures both on and off shore in this volume.  

The book intertwines the past and present to give a picture of the lives of these daring men.  Living was an adventure and a challenge to all five Hillstrand brothers.  Their family life was often broken and abusive, making one wonder if their adventures were an emotional outlet. After their parents separated, their time was divided between their grandmother’s home in Homer, Alaska and the mainland home of their mother and stepfather. The toys of choice were often skiffs, boats, rocks, and knives. 

A tale in the present unfolds in the portrayal of Johnathan.  While on the sea in the Fishing Fever, a small one-man vessel equipped for red salmon fishing, the boat loses power.  When Johnathan does not return to fishing camp that evening, childhood friend and fellow fisherman Russ Newberry becomes uneasy.  His attempts to contact the pilot and vessel by cell phone and radio are unsuccessful.  Russ’s Alaska to Indiana communication with Andy proves equally fruitless, but sets in motion the contents of this book. 

Brother Andy reveals his relationship with John as well as his occasional irritation toward him. He discloses his views of their formative years, and his life of contrast on the sea compared to his horse ranch in Indiana.  Johnathan reflects upon several of the positive and negative aspects of his life, and a few of the lessons he has learned along the way.  Both have questions about where commercial fishing will lead them in the future. 

The book uses a variety of technical sea terms that may be unfamiliar to the reader, but do not disrupt the flow of the prose.  It describes some of the difficulties men of this caliber face daily.  Are they adventurers?  Are they social outcasts?  Their lives as fisherman is what they know, and what they live.  Reading this book will give insight into their world. (Ballentine Books, 2009) 

Linda Fugate, January 4, 2010, Comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com

 

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Is the Oasis of the Seas Too Big?

Oasis of the Seas, a brand new, 220,000 ton cruise ship from Royal Caribbean with the capabilities of hosting 6,219 guests is the “World’s Largest Cruise Ship”.  But is it too big?  The predominant comment I have gotten prior to sailing and after sailing, is “Oh, I think that ship would be too big”.  I’d like to use this space to give my opinion on that.

My wife Connie and I, were recently guests aboard the Oasis of the Seas on a promotional sailing from her home port of Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with about 4,000 other travel agents, Royal Caribbean dignitaries and some cast and crew filming live from ABC’s Good Morning America.

Driving up to the pier, you can tell the Oasis from the other ships in port immediately, her stacks and upper floors dominate the landscape.  Much as new Yankee Stadium in New York and Cowboys Stadium in Dallas, the Oasis of the Seas was planned in an era and economy of pretty lavish excess and she doesn’t disappoint.

The “World’s Largest Cruise Ship” begins with what I have to believe is the “World’s Largest Cruise Terminal”.  It’s purpose built for the Oasis, very well done, and, as with the Oasis, everything is very automated, very 21st century.  Large overhead video boards direct guests to the proper place, and embarkation goes very smoothly.  As with everything about the Oasis, it begins with the waiting terminal -- stick with the plan.  Stake out an area and stay with it if you don’t want to be overwhelmed.

Your stateroom is typical Royal Caribbean.  There are very few insides or ocean views.  Most have verandahs that  either traditionally face the ocean, or more contemporarily, overlook Central Park or the Boardwalk/Seaside Theater area.

The Oasis of the Seas has seven neighborhoods that makes this ship very manageable to navigate.  So much of this ship is made up of staterooms, that the public areas, large as they might be, need to be your primary focus for getting around the ship.  There is a flow into and out of them, using your knowledge of fore and aft that you’ll gain rather quickly (Seaside Theater is in the aft, the Opal Theater is in the fore).

Plenty of elevators fore and aft will handle the bulk of the ship’s guests.  At many points, there is an interactive “Compass” listing the events of the day, their place, and a map to the event from where you are.

The Promenade is not the complete length of the ship, rather the middle third.  The shops and small clubs on each side are well appointed.  It will be interesting to see when this ship is full, how the smaller clubs accommodate the more popular events.

One of the striking qualities about Central Park and most of the Boardwalk to me is that they’re in open air, but almost completely shaded because of the six or seven floors of staterooms on each side that look into the neighborhoods.  The sun only for a short time is directly on you.  Makes both of these areas very tolerable.

Some bar areas have definite unique qualities. The Tides Bar rises from the Promenade deck 5 to the 8th deck and Central Park and back down, seemingly as the tide “rises and falls”.  Dazzles overlooks the SeaSide Theater and the stern, and is very large with a couple of decks, but all seats have a terrific view.

Royal Caribbean has incorporated their standard novelty items on this ship, the rock climbing wall, two flowriders, an ice rink, the Crown and Anchor Club and more.  If you’ve cruised Royal Caribbean before, you’ll feel very comfortable with these areas.

So is it too big?  I was expecting to be overwhelmed.  I was expecting not to be able to see the whole ship in a short period of time.  Both of these comments we’ve heard from clients and local Lauderdale residents.  I will say that I was neither overwhelmed, nor did it take an inordinate amount of time to tour the whole ship and enjoy her amenities.

As I mentioned, we were with Travel Agents and Royal Caribbean execs on this sailing.   These were all people who knew and appreciated the Royal Caribbean product.  Two shirts I saw that stuck out to me was one that featured the Voyager of the Seas (entered service in 1999, 138k ton, 3,114 guests) and one that featured the Freedom of the Seas (entered service in 2006, 160k tons, 3,634 guests) Both had the same caption -- “World’s Largest Cruise Ship.”  I do think the Oasis of the Seas will retain her title longer than both of these ships, for a number of reasons -- most of them economical in nature.

The Oasis of the Seas is very manageable to navigate, provides wonderful opportunities for a cruise vacation, and underscores the thought of your ship as your destination.  I think she’ll have problems (I thought the Windjammer Cafe was too small, I worry that the Royal will be pushing their “extra charge” restaurants) that will be worked out as they arise -- everything new does.  

From a guest standpoint, she’s a terrific cruise destination.  It will be interesting to see how the coming months and years treat her.  I would recommend a cruise on her in a heartbeat.

Bob Sims, December 15, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com 

About the author:

Bob Sims (mailto:bob@simsfamtrav.com) is a CLIA Accredited Cruise Counselor and co-owner of Sims Family Tours & Travel (http://simsfamtrav.com), a home-based travel agency concentrating on group and individual cruise vacations. Bob is also a former band director at McClain HS in Greenfield, OH.

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Skipping Christmas by John Grisham, a review

Luther and Nora Crank just waved goodbye to their only child, Blair, as she boarded a plane.  Armed with her master’s degree and no job prospects, she joined the Peace Corps for a year and was heading to the jungles of Peru.  For any parent this is a worrisome moment.  Her departure just a few weeks before Christmas nearly sends Nora over the edge. 

Luther launches a scheme to distract Nora and ease her heartbreak.  With figures in hand, he realizes they could take a cruise and skip Christmas altogether, and save money doing so.  He books Christmas day passage through a travel agent and plans his attack on Nora’s vulnerable state.  Nora is accepting, though often shows signs of weakening.  There is pressure from neighbors to conform to the traditions, from community organizations touting their fundraisers, from retailers awaiting the Krank’s typical holiday orders, and from both Nora’s friends and Luther’s co-workers.   This leads to entertaining give-and-take as the couple attempts to avoid conflict with all parties.  

The morning of Christmas Eve Blair calls with news.  She will be arriving that evening – with a guest.  Her plan is to show him the traditions of Christmas her family shares.  Nora refused to tell her of the cruise, and chaos ensues as the couple scramble to try to pull together the traditional party, dinner, decorations and friends.  How to accomplish it may be impossible since they have alienated everyone with their bah-humbug attitude.  

Skipping Christmas is a work of fiction, is lighthearted and humorous, not the standard John Grisham fare.  It is brief, so would fit nicely into a bustling holiday season as a moment to relax.

Linda Fugate, December 11, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com

 

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The Death Artist 

The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer HarperCollins, 2002:   Kate McKinnon Rothstein is an art historian and community focused socialite, author of a bestselling art book, and former host of a popular PBS art series. Her primary charitable interest is “Let There Be a Future”, a scholarship foundation for the education of up and coming young artists and performers. Kate’s husband Richard is an attorney who garnered financial affluence in defense of questionable CEO cases. Life was not always so easy for either of them. Richard’s name became household conversation when he defended and won an unpopular civil rights case. Ten years prior, Kate was a former cop, focusing on runaways and missing children. One of the foundation’s graduates is found murdered in her New York apartment. The victim’s friend and fellow graduate, Willie, made the grisly discovery, and Kate arrives in time to summon the police. Much to the disdain of Richard and investigating officers, she is drawn into active duty when the similarity to art works is noted, a second body is found, and images of famous paintings the killer has mimicked appear in her handbag, newspaper and later, in her mail. The trail takes one into Kate’s and Richard’s past and to remote destinations. It soon becomes clear who the killer’s real target is as life – or death – reflects art and Willie’s dreams become reality. Jonathon Santlofer’s thriller is full of intrigue, but not blood and gore. There is some profanity and a few sexual references in the book. The author’s area of expertise is art, with acclaimed exhibitions held internationally. This is his first written work.

Linda Terwilliger Fugate, December 10, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com  

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Playing for Change...The Power of Music

As far as my wife and I are concerned there are no entertainers more enjoyable than street entertainers. Our best vacations have been those where we were able to experience a variety of good street performers and one of the best places for such is the French Quarter of New Orleans.   

I’ve been to NOLA many times and each visit is spent mostly sitting in Jackson Square watching and enjoying the street people. In 1996 my daughter Jennie and I spent a week in New Orleans and we witnessed one of the best acts ever. It consisted of a young man who played blues guitar and sang, accompanied by an elderly gentleman who appeared blind and played the mouth harp and sang vocals.  

They were absolutely fantastic and I ask if they had any tapes or CDs. Sadly the answer was no. I never forgot that experience and on each subsequent trip I walked, without success, all over the Quarter looking for them.   

About a year ago I was watching the Bill Moyer’s program on PBS and he did a bit about an organization called Playing for Change. The idea was to produce a documentary about trying to break down the walls of cultural difference by demonstrating that music is a universal language that could help unite us.  

A segment of the documentary presented a performance of the song, Stand by Me, by a group of  street musicians from all over the world. Each was taped individually and then edited into a synchronized music video. It was simply breathtaking.   

The piece begins with a street performer in California and shifts to Jackson Square in NOLA. And behold, there was my old blind man playing the harmonica and belting the lyrics in his solid but gravely blues voice. His name is Grandpa Elliot and he’s been performing on the city’s streets for over fifty years.  

To my amazement, the persona is fabricated. He is a gifted and somewhat classically trained musician who is not blind and has never sought a career outside of being a street entertainer in the city he loves. He is easily recognized by his floppy straw hat, full white beard, missing front teeth, red shirt and denim bib overalls. My wife commented that Elliot was a black me which I took as a compliment. I could only hope that in some way I am as talented as he.  

Recently we were watching a segment on Norman Lear and discovered he has become involved in Playing for Change. As part of the segment they showed a new video and it featured a NOLA street performance that included, among others, Grandpa Elliot. Afterwards I got on PforC’s website and discovered that in the past year they have produced a number of similar videos and most can be seen on YouTube or on their website. I enjoyed it so much I decided to purchase the combo CD and DVD which will both sooth my soul and help them a little in turn.   

If any part of what I’ve just written interest you, then you absolutely have to visit the PforC site and check out their artistic creations.

www.playingforchange.com 

P.S. The singer leading out the video of Stand by Me is Rodger Ridley, a street singer in Santa Monica, CA. I was just doing a little reading and discovered that Mr. Ridley passed away in 2005. He did leave behind a CD containing a number of his takes  on songs that will be very familiar to most adults. You can hear snippets of the CD at www.cdbaby.com/cd/rogerridley 

Larry Chapman, October 13, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com    

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The Blues Isn't Just Some Old Dusty Artifact

Lastnight I was on the phone with a technical support person in Mississippi. While waiting for my satellite system to reset I began questioning this young lady, who had a distinctly black Southern dialect, if she liked blues music. Her reply got me thinking.  

She said, “I know what it is but I don’t really listen to it. My grandparents really like it and get excited about it but I don’t pay much attention to it. We studied it in high school history and we listened to examples but that’s about all I know about blues.”   

I have spent lots of time listening to blues, watching videos of past blues performances, talking about blues, reading about blues, trying to learn how to play blues on the guitar, going to meetings, symposiums and seminars about blues history, driving to Mississippi to feel closer to the birthplace and beginnings of the blues and…! Here is a young person, very bright and delightful personality, who grew up and lives within an hours drive from Clarksdale, MS, and doesn’t know a lot about the very seed of a musical form loved and performed all over the world.    

Muddy Waters sang a song in which he claimed, “The blues had a baby and they named it rock and roll.” Well, while there is truth in that, the blues had several children. One was named rag-time, another swing, one called Dixieland, and one with a cool personality named jazz. Furthermore, there may a few other, not so legitimate, children of the blues.   

Most musical historians agree that few things have affected the development of American musical genres as much as the influences of the blues. I’ve heard it said several times that all American music evolved from the blues. But, it does go back further. The blues didn’t just suddenly appear; it too evolved and can trace its genealogy back to Africa. Along with millions of slaves, those slave ships also brought the traditions of African culture including its music and rhythms.   

I’ve witnessed B.B. King speak, with mixed feelings, about what could have, and may still, happened to the music that made him famous. The early 50s were a heyday for blues musicians. They were getting air play on radio, their records were selling, and their live performances sold out. The bulk of their audience was black but there was a growing audience of whites who were “crossing over.”   

Then along came Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and other white entertainers selling a “new” sound called rock n’ roll. It really wasn’t anything new and often it was mere covers of standard black blues tunes. Elvis’ first hit, That’s All Right, was written and first performed by blues man, Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup while Hound Dog had been a hit by blues woman, Big Mama Thornton. Haley’s Shake Rattle and Roll had been recorded and performed earlier by Big Joe Turner.   

Didn’t matter though, the radio jocks started playing for pay (Payolla) and blacks were out and whites were in. Rock and roll was here to stay and things turned sour for the blues and all who were making their living off it.   

Ironically, though, while it was white teens that had killed the blues, it was white teens who breathed new life into it. Beginning with the folk era of the late 50s and continuing with the British coming ashore in the middle to late 60s the blues was rediscovered. While American teens were going bonkers for Fabian and Frankie Avalon, young Brits, like Keith Richards, Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton were spending their last tuppence on American blues records and aping every guitar lick contained therein. The first thing many of the British rock groups wanted to do when they arrived in America on concert tour was to meet their blues heroes and sit in on some sessions.   

The point I want to make from all this background is, it was white musicians who brought black music to the larger white audience. The rock heroes of the 60s and 70s were playing blues and incorporating blues into their own creations. To their credit, they reintroduced their black musical heroes to their white fans and B.B., Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters and scores of others found their musical careers rejuvenated.  

Today, the greater audience for the black genres of jazz and blues remains white. And unfortunately, like the young lady I spoke of from Mississippi, some of the most important contributions black culture gave America are now something taught in history class as if it were some old dusty artifact rather than something to be appreciated, enjoyed and made a part of our lives.   

Larry Chapman, October 8, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com   

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Autumn, a Time to Remember my Father

Remembering a really great man and a poem from October 9, 1969…  

The 60’s were quite a time.  A time of hippies, tie-dye, Woodstock, Vietnam, peace, a man on the moon, and a nation seeking its dream.  The Cincinnati Enquirer Newspaper, where my father was head of the copy desk, was abuzz with activity in those years.  Forty years ago, the daily paper was 10 cents and mostly printed in black ink.  The headlines on Thursday, October 9, 1969 were about the Cincinnati Reds ball team “Didn’t Win”…Says Bristol” and “Nixon Sticks With Choice” and a poem on the right hand side of paper with orange leaves in the background entitled simply “…Autumn.”  I have the copy of this paper framed and hanging in my office at home.  You see, my dad was the author of that poem.   

Every year about this time, I pull out this old clipping and re-read this poem.  Forty times now, maybe more.  I find a sort of comfort in my father’s words.  Dad was a simple man himself.  He was a former English teacher at Greenfield McClain HS, who started working at the paper in the summer for a little extra cash.  Dad caught the newspaper bug and when my sister and I were in High School, he went full time at the Enquirer.  He drove sixty miles one way to that job.  But dad didn’t mind so much.  Perhaps it was on one of these drives in the fall, when he pulled over to the side of the road and penned this poem.  

…Autumn 

By William Trutner Of The Enquirer News Desk

You turn onto the gravel road, round a bend and the world you know disappears in a swirl of dust. You stop, get out of the car.  The stillness is overpowering.  

You fill your lungs with the sharp, clean air and look about.  Clusters of orange – red bittersweet cling to the sagging wire fence.  Beyond the fence, heads down, a dozen white-faced cows mow their way on the grassy hillside. And atop the hill a grove of sugar maples blazes scarlet against the blue of the sky.  You lean back against the car, breathe deeply again.  Ecstasy.  You realize that Thoreau had the right idea.  Would that you had a Walden of your own.  

Here’s where it is, Autumn seems to say.  Here’s where you find peace, tranquility, freedom from care. And she’s right.  You sense a sort of earthy nirvana, a feeling of belonging, of being in tune.  

You start and turn at the sudden intrusion of a machine sound.  Below the road, a cornfield stretches as far as your eye can see, its rows tall and straight, its leaves faded yellow, rustling ripe.  The rumbling sound you heard comes from within the field.  It crescendos and a monster corn picker surges into view devouring two rows at a time, snapping off the ears, ripping loose the husks, sending the golden harvest tumbling into a wagon behind.  The farmer smiles, waves a friendly greeting and disappears back into the field.  

Autumn makes her message clear.  Work hard, she says.  But relax too. 

Appreciate beauty where you find it.  Love life.  And, when you feel the walls closing in, come ride with me.  

Dad passed away four years ago on October 5, 2005.  I shared this poem with the hundreds gathered in the church during his memorial; former students, our neighbors, several newspaper men, many friends and family all sharing memories.  Dad’s poem standing the test of time, a man remembered and loved by many, and a season he dearly loved.  As I re-read yet again this poem, I am reminded of my dad and his gentle way of viewing the world.  While much as changed since the sixties, I would like to think that dad is right.  Work hard, appreciate life.  But sometimes, you have to pull over and get out of the car. And, when you take the time and listen with your heart, you’ll be sure to find a Walden of your own.  

Written by William Everett Trutner of Leesburg, Ohio Published in the Cincinnati Enquirer Newspaper on October 9, 1969 Submitted by his daughter... 

Ann (Trutner) Anderst of Snohomish, Washington, October 7, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com

 

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Highway 61...The Blues Highway

Highway 61 begins in New Orleans, LA and never strays too far from the Mississippi River winding its way north to Wyoming, MN. Ask most people what they know about Highway 61 and they may tell you it had something to do with one of Bob Dylan's albums. While Dylan may have put Highway 61 into the lexicon of America the highway's history and importance predates Dylan by many decades. 

Before the Interstate System,  Highway 61 was a major north-south blood vessel serving the travel and commercial needs of millions who inhabited middle America. It is considered to be an iconic roadway because of the multitude of events and persons associated with it. 

In Louisiana some call it the Airline Highway and claim that one time Governor Huey Long ordered it built so he could get to the bars and pleasure houses of New Orleans faster. Move ahead a few decades and the highway's Sugar Bowl Court Motel witnessed Jimmy Swaggart in the arms of a prostitute. 

In the history of blues music 61 is devoutly referred to as the Blues Highway. Blues is the product of Mississippi's delta region and Highway 61 runs smack dab up the middle of the delta. It was on the large cotton plantations and the small cotton towns that blues was born, nurtured and matured. 

One of these communities was/is Clarksdale, MS and if any town deserves being called the birthplace of the blues, it is Clarksdale. Get a map of Mississippi and draw a twenty-five mile circle around Clarksdale. Then begin reading biographies of the most famous performers of early blues music and you'll quickly discover that the cream were either born, raised, lived, learned, performed, labored or were incarcerated inside that circle. In fact, the work has already been done. Many of the local shops in Clarksdale sell what is know as the Blues Map and it displays exactly what I'm describing.

Near by Clarksdale and Hwy. 61 is Tutwiler, MS and it was in this small town that W.C. Handy first observed a black field hand playing the "weirdest music" he'd ever heard. Handy, who once lived in Clarksdale brought the genre to the world's attention and became famous for his renditions of blues tunes. 

It was Highway 61 that carried Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson II, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy and countless other unknown dirt poor black musicians north to Memphis and Chicago searching for something better than wasting away on some backwater delta plantation choppin' cotton. 

Paralleling Highway 61 is Highway 49, another major north/south artery. The two roads merge in Clarksdale at a place world renowned as The Crossroads. It is claimed, inaccurately, that it was here that the great blues genius Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his amazing talents with the guitar. The notion of a crossroad where strange things occur is deeply rooted in blues mythology. 

It was also these two highways that brought B.B. King north and to becoming the world's most famous and possibly best blues man ever.

Highway 61 carried a lot of poor folks to the promised land "up north" but many never achieved the freedom and equality they hoped existed there. It was both the road of dreams come true and dreams broken. The great blues singer Bessie Smith was but one of those who's dreams ended on the road. In 1937 she was involved in a car accident and eventually bleed in a segregated Clarksdale hospital.  

Memphis, TN is another stop along the Blues Highway. Memphis was the point of destination for many blacks seeking a better life. The Beale Street area became a favorite neighborhood for blues musicians plying their trade and seeking out a living in the clubs, bars, brothels and out in the street.  

Legendary blues and soul musician Rufus Thomas once said about Beale Street, "If a white man could be black for just one Saturday night on Beale Street, he'd never want to go back to being white." 

Memphis is where Riley B. King ended up playing in talent shows and running errands for a local radio station. The job got him a job as an announcer and on-air talent and earned him the nickname Blues Boy; later shortened to B.B.

It was in Memphis in 1968 and just a couple of blocks off of Highway 61 that Dr. Martin Luther King was murdered while trying to help local sanitation workers improve the conditions of their employment. 

Map of the two great Mississippi Blues Highways, routes 49 & 61.

Today, much of what existed of the Blues Highway is beginning to disappear. In recent years cotton in the delta has given way to casinos. The original two-lane road has been paved over or paralleled with a new four-lane artery that witnesses a steady flow of gamblers from middle America headed for the slots and crap tables of Tunica and Vicksburg. 

As the economy shifted away from agriculture and as agriculture became more mechanized cities and towns, such as Clarksdale began to crumble. In recent years there have been some gallant attempts to breath new life into the burgs along Route 61 by renewing their musical heritage and birthright. 

Blues has become a major international art form and each year thousands of foreign

The Mississippi Delta, birthplace of the blues.

 visitors arrive in the delta to search out the birth of their favorite music. They visit the graves of Rice Miller and Robert Johnson, drink canned beer in one of the few remaining Juke Joints while listening to blues men such as T-Model Ford or James "Super Chikan" Johnson. 

A few even book a room at the Riverside Hotel which in a former life was the hospital where Bessie Smith passed. By the way, it has been claimed that it was in the hotel's basement that Ike Turner recorded what many consider the first rock and roll song, Rocket 88. 

 I  suppose a history about any road or highway could be written. Many have been written describing The Mother Road, Route 66 and my children gave me one about US Route 50. It was both those that carried me to California in the 60s and changed my life forever. I didn't discover 61 until many years later but in doing so, my life has been enriched.  

Larry Chapman, August 13, 2009, comments to greenfieldohio@gmail.com

 

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Notes on R.L. Burnside

A few weeks ago Larry posted a couple of videos from recently deceased bluesman R.L. Burnside.  When I mentioned that I had worked with R.L. at a small venue in Mississippi, Larry asked if I would be willing to write about my experiences.  If there’s a positive response to these recollections I’ll write a series of stories recounting some of the places I’ve been and the people I’ve worked with during my life as a theatre artist.

In 1996 I discovered Mississippi.  Sure it had been a state for a couple hundred years, but I tend not to trust maps until I’ve set foot in a place.  I was hired to work at a professional theatre in Jackson, and I stayed there until it all but closed in the economic turmoil after 9/11.  I did a bit of everything during my years at New Stage from electrics to production management and acting to directing.  I never considered Mississippi home, but it was a good place for me and I met a lot of people that are still friends.

In 2000 a local bar owner, Malcolm White, approached the theatre about hosting concerts.  Malcolm was something of a local legend having helped organize the annual Sweet Potato Queen parade and Bacchanalia as well as promoting other concerts in his bar and around the city.  He was interested in New Stage because he wanted to bring in smaller acts that would have a limited audience into a space that could feature the music.  The first concert was guitarist Richard Thompson.  The second was a dual bill of Mississippians Mose Allison and R.L. Burnside.

Because I had worked with Malcolm occasionally when I was the director of a local improv comedy group, he asked if I would run the venue for these concerts.  It wasn’t a big job, basically I’d get the space ready for the rental equipment and serve as contact for the artists and/or their managers. For the first concert I did very little.  Thompson came in late in the afternoon, played his gig very well, nearly killed a sound operator, and left with little more than polite greetings.  He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t have much need for striking up conversations with people he wouldn’t see again after a couple of hours.

The second concert was completely different.  R.L. arrived early in the afternoon, before anyone else and was accompanied by a twenty-something white kid that looked more like a frat boy fan of Hootie’s than a manager for a seventyish year old bluesman.  Even the designation of manager led to a lot of confusion.  Over the course of the afternoon R.L. must have asked me to find his manager a dozen times and each time I would dutifully find the man that had been introduced to me as R.L.’s manager.  At some point, still a few hours before the show, R.L. blew up, yelling at me that he didn’t care where his manager was, he wanted to know where his “manager” was.  You can see my confusion.  It wasn’t until the woman that was R.L.’s personal dressing room guest held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels that I understood what he meant by manager.  It wouldn’t be the last empty bottle of Jack the woman would hold up.

R.L. was one of the most unhealthy people I’ve been around.  He was borderline obese, drank epic amounts of straight Jack Daniels, and couldn’t walk without great assistance.  His speech was nearly incoherent, but profanity always seemed to be privileged with his clearest enunciation.  His vaguely defined “woman” that stayed in his dressing room all day served as translator, rickshaw, and bartender.  R.L. had every appearance of a man trying to speed up his inevitable death.  I spent less than twenty minutes total with R.L., but that was enough for me to worry that he wouldn’t be able to perform.

Later in the afternoon Mose and his band arrived and promptly set up and went through a few songs.  Mose was roughly the same age as R.L., but a casual observer would have guessed he was at least twenty years younger.  He was quick, precise in his movements and in command of his music and his band.  Most of all, Mose was smooth.  I can’t define smooth for you, but I know it when I see it.  Mose was at the theatre for maybe an hour before he left for dinner with some friends.  Dinner was at a local diner, The Elite, that most of us Yankees would pronounce E-leet, but Jacksonians pronounced E-light.  It was one way that I always stamped myself as being, “one of them”.

Mose returned with just enough time to get ready before the show started.  He changed clothes into an outfit that looked to me like an exact copy of what he’d been wearing previously, and told tales, seemingly a mix of fact and fiction, about his day s in Mississippi as a child.  He never went into R.L.’s dressing room and R.L. never came out.  When it was time to begin I gave him some water and led him to the stage.  As he was going on he turned to me to ask how long his set was and I told him sixty minutes.

Mose’s music is a mix of Mississippi blues and New York jazz, like a great chef’s take on classic southern cooking.  Most of all the music is smart, not “I know more than you”, but, “If you listen to me I’ll tell you something unexpected.” If you haven’t heard of him, and I suspect most of you haven’t, check out the video link below and look him up on Wikipedia, you might be surprised by his influence.

Mose played without a set list and without a clock.  After a song finished He would call off the next song to his band and they would go immediately into the tune.  He talked a little, but mostly it was a steady stream of uninterrupted music.  When he walked off stage after his encore I checked the clock and he’d finished less than thirty seconds short of one hour.  While R.L.’s manager, the real one, handled the instrument changeover, Mose politely thanked everyone backstage and left.

R.L. had to be escorted onto stage and into a chair by his, “woman” and his manager.  He carried his guitar and a large cup full of straight Jack.  He mumbled something into the mic that I’m not sure anyone understood, and began his set.  For everything that Mose’s music was, R.L.’s was the opposite.  R.L. was rough, with lots of missed notes, and unrefined.  Where Mose was intellectual, R.L. was all passion.  His music was soul food.

He was also scheduled to play for an hour, but his set lasted closer to two.  After every song there was a break for him to drink another half cup or so of whiskey and when his cup was empty he’d hold it up saying, “I’m all out.  There must be a hole in my glass.”  Each time he ran dry his manager would fill him up with his “manager” and he’d say, “Well spank you very much.” As he played his alcoholic fog seemed to clear, his voice became clearer and his playing became cleaner.  At one point he even stood on his own and danced around the stage until he was corralled by his manager and forcibly reseated.  (Who wants their first manager experience to end with your star performer breaking a hip?)

R.L.’s simple, emotional songs lifted the 350 or so people in the theatre out of their seats.  The area between the first row and the stage was crowded with bodies, and I decided to leave the confines of backstage to experience the show with the rest of the crowd.  Security was practically non-existent for a small show like this and more than once people jumped on stage to dance near or on one occasion with R.L.  I don’t remember a single song he played that night, but the experience of being in that space at that moment still sticks with me.  Those of you that know me understand why the intellectual side of Mose’s music would appeal to me, but for as much as I liked Mose and his music, the visceral experience of R.L. is what I most cherish about that night.

Eventually R.L. stopped playing and returned to his dressing room.  By the time I got backstage his Cinderella moment had passed and he had turned back into the stumbling, incoherent drunk I had seen that afternoon.  I helped his manager load up the instruments and he disappeared unannounced with his “woman”.  I locked the theatre and checked in with Malcolm, who said he couldn’t afford to do anymore concerts for such a small audience.  And that was the end of my concert experiences.

 

James Phillips, September 14, 2009, comments togreenfieldohio@gmail.com  

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