This came to mind after a telephone call today. It was a group sing, played on cassette tape, traveling on I-71, in transit on visitation weekends. There is great delicious naughtiness when young boys can sing, out loud “And kiss my ass goodbye!”
Levitation
Except for it atop my HoA directed six inch thick, leaf free, pine straw a la golf course sterile landscaping in front of my town home, this one looked just like the one that greeted me upon arrival home from Saturday shopping chores.
And it held the same pose during four trips past it with groceries. Okay, there was a stop at Total Wine and that trip wasn’t groceries.
Having stowed all away, I peeked later and saw it gone. So with some outdoor leisure time before evening meal prep, I have a story.
Somewhere in the very early 1960’s, there were some large open fields in easy walking distance of home. Before the developers scraped them clean for sub-divisions. In an after school afternoon, I found and picked up by hand, a beautiful Blue Racer Snake, probably 3+ ft long. I draped it around my neck and handled it gently as it explored it’s new and temporary environment.
My guess is, it was about 4:30 in the afternoon, before Dad got home from work. Mom had dinner simmering on the stove as I came through the kitchen. I walked through that now impossibly small bungalow to where she was trying to nap. Her days were long, something I only realized much later.
In the dim light of the bedroom, sunlight diffused and reduced by a window shade, I proudly and brightly said “Hey Mom, look what I’ve got!” and I lifted the snake for her to marvel at.
She opened one eye and I swear “Levitated”. My reptilian conquest was immediately returned to its site of capture.
Maybe September
This is not my photograph. Wish it was. Whoever made it, knew their stuff, as did she. It’s the cover photograph of the Shirley Horn Album/CD “May The Music Never End”.
I’ve written here before, about my admiration of her music. Which I’m listening to now, between dinner prep chores and refilling my wine glass. Grace and medicine for the wounded heart.
On the Album/CD, she tortures you with relentless, hard cadence on “Everything Must Change”. Until melodic relief. And gentle heart.
Aware of the news, I confess to have never heard a Taylor Swift song. I wonder if she ever listened to Ms Horn. And so it goes.
A Reason To Believe
I don’t know what year this was, image metadata was washed out when I made the Jpeg. And I’m not about to abandon the comfort of a gorgeous spring day to go back indoors to dig into an image archive. What I’m certain of, it’s a dress rehearsal at the Cary Arts Center.
The instructor moved away later, from a lobby full of hugs and tears. Years after, while I still had a LinkedIn account, she was very kind in response to my request for pre-ballet dance school recommendation in the greater Atlanta area.
As an artist, this was my Superbowl Fifty Yard Line. Why I made photographs.
Sunday Afternoon
This album was recorded in 1960. And listening to it now, while the oven performs its magic on Sunday dinner, with wine and windows open to a sunny afternoon is wonderful. Trust me on this, buy a copy.
Cathedral Al Fresco
There is safety and satisfaction bringing in groceries on a jewel like Saturday. There is comfort knowing you will eat. Arriving home, I saw an immature Eastern Tiger Swallowtail flash by. And after putting all where they should be, it was time to take the air.
On deck with Bourbon & Beer, I watched a mature, male Eastern Tiger Swallowtail navigate and inspect newly opened Beech leaves. Mid April in North Carolina, the deck is littered with Oak Catkins, bathed in cool blue shade and set off by brilliant, golden sunlight. Beech, White and Red Oak leaves are fresh and limp, vivid yellow green against a radiant Cerulean Blue sky.
Out front, Iris Blossoms are tightly furled but ready. The Butterfly Bush hosting the female Eastern Tiger Swallowtail above, won’t bloom for awhile yet.
Somewhere around adolescence I went, by myself, on a Saturday afternoon to Catholic Church, to make my confession. To be in a state of grace to receive Communion at Sunday Mass. I guess I was early, as there was no Priest yet in the Confessional. And I was alone, for a good while. And it was a new to me way to be in a state of grace. Like today. I went home then, without confession, as I have ever since.
My last visit to a Catholic Church was as a tourist, to Notre Dame in Paris. Before the fire. Leaving, I emptied my pocket of Euros and gave them to the Little Sisters of The Poor. They stood silently, for humanity.
Sixty plus years after my teenage epiphany, I am at peace with the Great Spirit.
All That Jazz
This is a photograph that stays in memory. I made it during a sound check for a Nnenna Freelon performance with my Cary Citizen Media Pass. CAC was like a home to me, shot the very first performances there (Brussels Chamber Music Orchestra) with a “Wet Paint” sign on the stage and a Certificate of Occupancy that still had wet ink on it.
Been awhile, but the pianist, bassist and drummer were in from NYC, percussionist was local. There was a communion of spirit that transcended everything but making music. I did my best to be invisible. And they let me shoot, as they let each other play.
Sleepless, about 2 AM, kJazz88.1, played a track from his new album. Serendipity.
Essentials
One of the benefits of fathering an Officer of Marines is that, at TBS, these are essential. And the knowledge passed to me, an old Bubble Head, aka Submariner, has been, useful.
Mine has out lasted 2 Timex Ironman Triathlon Watches. It works, no batteries. Good in the dark, when you are in peril. No app or phone required.
Constant Companion
There is a comfort in listening to WCPE, via antenna on a radio receiver
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