Three Bruces and Two Jerrys

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October 6, 2023- As the band bantered, this evening at Rafter Eleven, a hand drummer joined and was promptly christened “Jerry, from a band of one two many Bruces”. The context was never explained, but it gave rise to this little story, in my head.

There were once two musically-inclined cousins, Bruce and Jerry. They grew up, close to one another, in Swarthmore, PA, home of a “Little Ivy League” college-which gave the town its name. Bruce wasn’t much of a student, in the usual sense, but he could read music from the age of 3. Jerry, on the other hand, couldn’t tell a G clef from an B sharp, but he could make his guitar sing-from the time he got it, at the age of 5. He was also a book worm, and would make up song lyrics from the things he read-having been first inspired by “Zippity doo dah”, from Walt Disney’s “Song of The South”. He kind of hit a brick wall, when trying to make songs about the Periodic Table of The Elements. That’s where a second Bruce came in. Bruce A. was a classmate of Jerry’s, having moved to Swarthmore with his family, from a small town in Alabama, called Eutaw. Coming from a family of Blues musicians, Bruce A. would sit in on the cousins’ jamming and lend his vocal talents to Jerry’s lyrics. B. A. made up his own songs about hydrogen, oxygen, and neon-and krypton, where his Blues aria about Superman had the Man of Steel tossin’ whole planets around. That brought in Bruce # 3, who was actually a girl.

Brucella Mantooth was a Choctaw girl,from “somewhere in Oklahoma; I think it starts with a T.” That turned out to be Tahlequah, where most everyone else was Cherokee. The reason the Mantooths came to Swarthmore was that B’s mom was a Professor of Native American Studies, at a time when everyone referred to the First Americans simply as “Indians”. Work opportunities for First Nations scholars were few and far between, even in Oklahoma, which used to be called Indian Territory. Swarthmore wanted to make a mark for itself, so the N.A.S. Baccalaureate and Master of Arts programs were started.

Bruce M. could play seven types of drums, from a big “powwow-type” drum to little bongos. She added a dramatic flair to the Superman songs that came from Bruce A.’s head. There were regular jams, in the back yard or garage, of one cousin or another, from the time they were all seven, until they were ten.

One day, Jerry came to a realization: There were one too many Bruces- and only one Jerry. He quietly fussed and fumed about the situation, not letting it get in the way of the band’s activities. Brucella, though, was intuitive-and determined she would find a solution to the problem, without making a big fuss. So, one day, she walked in with a new friend.

Geraldine Spector came from the city-Philly, and not just from anywhere, but from Old City. She was from an old time rock and roll/rhythm and blues family-her uncle invented the “Wall of Sound”, but Jerry was into country music, of all things. It started when she was learning to ride horses, first English style, then Western. With the latter style came a fascination with cowboys, and their music. When Jerry met Bruce M., at a mini-rodeo, the tapes played by Brucella’s Dad in his truck, left the slightly older girl hooked on the genre. The two girls, a year apart in age, became inseparable, and so, the band got its second singer, who could also play a mean keyboard.

As ten and eleven became thirteen and fourteen, the kids’ voices changed, there was a hiatus for that sort of discomfort to pass, and then the group took off again-being a staple at local high school dances-and small music festivals around Philadelphia. They came up with a dance, “Philly Dog”, which got cachet when mentioned in the hit song, “Land of A Thousand Dances”. They did soaring, rock-opera type songs, twangy country tunes about love and loss-and to placate Jerry S’s family, some covers of her aunt’s girl band classics.

There was still one little burr in the saddle: One two many Bruces.

(DISCLAIMER: Any relationship between the characters in this story and real people is purely coincidental.)

Fourth Quarter- Frost, Frolics and Fastidiousness

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October 1, 2023- The air is supposed to be chill, tonight and tomorrow, followed, later in the week, by a few days of AUG-tober. Then the silly weather will subside, and we may expect that Home Base-Prescott, and hereabouts, will have a more conventional tenth month.

I will be at work, all week, helping two special needs children at a nearby elementary school. There will be other events awaiting in the evenings: Ecstatic dance (online), which I can join for an hour or so; a Healing Devotional; a Red Cross meeting; the tail-end of a Study Circle that I have been facilitating; and another early evening devotional. Saturday will see a Harvest Festival, as well as regular service activities.

Then comes the fourth journey of 2023- The Philippines, by way of California and Taiwan. More details will be shared, as the sojourn unfolds. Long story short, it will dominate October, and take me away from service activities here. This bothers some people, but my life has been about following messages from my spirit guides. Sometimes, that has meant staying in one place and being fastidious in meeting the needs of a few. Since 2011, though, it has meant being willing to go to certain places, connect with specific people and perform designated functions, from running Red Cross shelters here and there, to keeping children safe on Halloween, serving dinner to homeless people and sponsoring a child or two, in disadvantaged communities.

One such youth will be a focus of my time in the Philippines. Faith-based activities will take up much of the rest of my time there. My biggest hope is that a bond between Prescott and those blessed islands may be forged.

November and December will bring more work around here, holidays spent with family(Thanksgiving) and friends (Christmas and New Year’s) and another trip around the Sun completed. The Fourth Quarter is never dull-stay tuned.

Wildness and Woolery

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September 30, 2023- The duo paid no mind to the wind that, off and on, gusted through the patio and blew a paper, a napkin or a ball cap away from its owner. The Bourbon Knights, at least the two remaining members, were too busy cranking out solid, vintage rock, to pay attention to such a mundane phenom as wind.

Their preference was playing the classic tunes of The Who, and when they got into the late riffs on “Baba O’Riley”, I half expected to see one of them break into an imitation of Pete Townshend’s Kazotsky kick. Alas, too much of their signature drink had found its way down their gullets, and they were content with their musical offerings, which remained solid. They also ranged from Stevie Nicks to Tom Petty.

This was the wild part of the evening at Rafter Eleven, where I went to close out the bittersweet month of September. Today would have been Penny’s 69th birthday, and true to form, not only one, but two Baha’i events got my attention, back to back. The Worldwide Celebration of Unity, of which I have written before, has taken its place in my Saturday morning routine. Only when I am not in a place where WiFi is accessible, do I beg off the task of co-hosting. The other event, which followed straightaway, was the annual Unit Convention, where Baha’is living in a designated area meet to elect a delegate to the National Convention, set for the following Spring, and consult about issues of import to the region and to the national community. I feel fortunate that the first event was able to be held at the Convention site, courtesy of the electoral tellers, who let me use their meeting room. Penny’s spirit, and my other ethereal guides, see to it that what needs to be done, finds a way.

A woolery is a place where the heavy cloth may be spun, carded and woven into the heavy cloth that is so comforting in cold weather. Our spiritual woolery is the Source of the guidance that comes from following those Spiritual Teachings that afford us protection, in the cold of challenges, tests and setbacks that are so commonly experienced in this life. So it was, both physically and emotionally chilly, at different times today, giving me reason to wear a woolen jacket, given me as a thank-you, by a once homeless man, who I helped for a time, nine years ago-and to seek solace in the Teachings of Baha’u’llah, when feeling the annoyance of people I normally help on Saturdays, who were left on their own today.

The day, and the month, ended well though. Even the country got a breather, from the political clashes that have played out, these past several weeks.

Here, for the curious, are The Who, and “Baba O’Riley”, though sans Kazotsky.

The Tight Little Circle

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September 24, 2023- As I placed my portable chair down, amongst strangers, at this afternoon’s Peacebuilders concert, a pair of familiar faces zoomed past me, delighting in the warmth of an early autumn afternoon. The little boy, in an open shirt, with a smile as wide as the Atlantic, shrieked in delight, whilst his slightly older sister, in a proper full-length dress, was looking more towards re-joining her newborn brother on the family’s blanket. They didn’t recognize me, though somehow, their toddler sister did; it’s been almost two years since we’ve seen each other.

I have always been drawn to loving families, but they have not always been drawn to me. The brood in question is of a couple who are welcoming of older people, on occasion, but are very suspicious and formal, much of the time. We quietly drifted apart, two years back, and this was the first time I’d seen them all together, along with the children’s equally reticent nanny, since the last time I was at their residence. At that time, there was nothing to indicate I’d offended them, in any way. The distancing was just one of those happenstances that come about, for God knows what.

The gathering itself had the energy of “You came alone, so sit alone”. I broke free of that barrier, towards the end of the concert, and bounced, sore toe and all, to a lively German polka-offered by a group who are themselves very much welcoming to all who attend. Basically, though, New Age people here are a rather reticent, tight-knit tribe, perhaps because they find themselves surrounded by Cowboy Culture and a machismo that would deny free-thinkers their due. It takes almost as much energy to make friends among neo-Hippies as it did befriending people in small-town Maine. When one goes away for a time and comes back, as I do, it’s almost necessary to start all over again.

I will nonetheless keep showing up at community events, and performances at The Raven or Elks Theater, and let the New Agers’ energy flow, as it will. Sooner or later, the hermetic circle will melt, of its own. They will see that I mean them no harm.

Humanity Isn’t Minimized

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August 23, 2023- In August, 1974, a family visiting from Montreal had taken a cabin at a resort, in western Maine, where I was working for the summer. A fire was built in the hearth, then thinking that it would be secure and burn itself out-in the hearth, the family went to bed. At 2 a.m., the older daughter, 13, smelled smoke and got her parents and sister up and out of the cabin. I was one of the volunteer firefighters who did the best we could to extinguish the fire-and did keep it from spreading. Many of the other crew members were year-round residents of the village. Their own homes would have been at serious risk, in short order, had the blaze spread.

Tusayan is a small town, of about 6,000 people, most of whom work in service industries connected to Grand Canyon National Park’s South Rim. There are also those who serve the servers: The Coconino County Sheriff’s Substation, the Grand Canyon Unified School District and the Town of Tusayan’s government.

Yesterday, much of the town’s populace, and many visitors, were evacuated, due to unusual flash floods. While clean-up will take time, and there is an ongoing threat of more rain, through Friday, the main road-AZ Highway 64, has been re-opened, from the South Rim’s entrance to Williams. The eastern section, from the entrance to Cameron, did not need to be closed, though in taking that road last night, due to a commitment at a school in Prescott, today, I noticed that a severe hail storm had struck the eastern part of South Rim, earlier in the afternoon.

This is yet another in a series of wake-up calls for the tourism industry, and for travelers in general, that the places being visited are inhabited by people who are essentially the same as those who have left their homes to take a rest, be served or to just enjoy a change of pace from home sweet home. Lahaina is the largest, and worst, such tragedy, in a series spanning several years. Gatlinburg, Big Sur, Talkeetna and dozens of small forest encampments all over the continent-and across the globe, have seen fire and flood drive those involved in hospitality lose house and home.

There are many reactions to a tragedy in a vacation-oriented area, as I discussed last week. It has been reported that at least one tourist raged about his dinner reservation being canceled by the Lahaina fire’s burning down the restaurant. We are all on a journey away from self, and towards seeing “all humanity created from the same stock”, as Baha’u’llah wrote in a prayer, 150 years ago. Some of us have, in all sincerity and from a place of generosity, gone to the suffering area and purchased a vacation package, thinking that THIS is the way to help the people in the afflicted community know that the world stands with them. Others have sent large supplies of goods, often without checking as to what is actually needed. These are good-hearted people, who have just not taken the time to hear from the victims themselves, or from their spokespeople. Thus, some want to go to Maui, anyway. Others will go to Tusayan, and expect that business as usual has resumed, because the highway is open. The clean-up will continue, for some time.

Humanity isn’t minimized by where someone lives, or by which economic group they occupy. Yes, paying for a service does mean that one gets a product for one’s money. It is also true, in this age when nearly every place on Earth has something of interest to offer, that we are all both visitors and visited, servers and served.

I find that it is the deep connecting with those who live in a community, that makes visiting the locale worthwhile in the first place.

An Eclectic Gathering

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August 12, 2023, Lake Havasu City- The ebullient young man practically burst through the front door, carrying his crock pot full of macaroni with three cheeses-his contribution to the festive birthday gathering. I took a spoonful and can attest that it is among the best “mac and cheese” I’ve ever had, and told him so, which made his effusiveness that much keener.

I came to this city that exists almost in isolation from the rest of Arizona, with wilderness as its California neighbour, to attend a friend’s 31st birthday. Arriving at 6 p.m. made the most sense, given the two activities to which I needed to attend earlier, back in Prescott. It also made sense, temperature wise: Lake Havasu City sits squarely in the western sector of the Sonoran Desert, and temperatures here have hit close to 120 F-as recently as last month. It was 102, when I arrived at the party site, where I am also spending the night.

I knew only three people, the birthday celebrant and his father, who live at the party location, and a friend from Bullhead City, 1 1/2 hours north northwest of here, when I first arrived. I still would characterize most of the rest of the crowd as pleasant acquaintances, as I came to know very little about them, but this does rank among the most convivial of gatherings, in recent memory. The conversations ranged from Lahaina- on nearly everyone’s mind, these days, to a guest’s unusual medical condition and another guest’s recent loss of a loved one. The common thread, though, was the deep concern people have for one another. No one who expressed a personal issue or health concern had it glossed over, by the group.

Here were several workers from the local hospice, stay-at-home mothers, teachers, gym attendants, an architect, two high school students, a retired surfer, a deep sea fisherman (also retired, given the fact that the water here is in a fresh-water lake, and it’s a long way to his former haunts in Sitka, AK) and a couple of ten-year old boys, who were mostly focused on the video game that was on the wide screen in front of them. The high schoolers were the mac and cheese chef and his girlfriend, who served delectable soft chocolate chip cookies. “She’s a fabulous baker!”, boyfriend proudly crowed. I would agree that that the two of them have a fine future ahead, in the culinary arts.

So went the evening, and one of my rare summer forays into the Sonoran realm. With reliable air conditioning, in both Sportage and this house, being out in the warm desert evening air was actually pleasant. Tomorrow, I will stay here long enough to host a late-morning Zoom call, then head back towards Home Base, and stay tuned for what the week shall bring.

Jitterbug, with The Munchkins

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July 28, 2023, Carson City– The cast was set to dancing and jumping about, in this version of the spell cast by a cheekier version of the Wicked Witch of the West. W3 did not feel like even hinting at opium being an acceptable diversion and so came the Jitterbug, whose weapon was getting everyone to dance until they dropped from exhaustion. The classic dance marathon, instead of deadly poison, was a tad more family friendly-but W3 still asked Scarecrow if he wanted to play ball.

“The Wizard of Oz” first came into my consciousness when I was about nine, and we started watching it, as a family, once a year. When I hit my mid-teens, the watch party shifted to a gathering of friends-still a time for laughs and feigned fright. Seeing that it has not lost its appeal is re-assuring. There is much that is not ersatz about our culture, and these are the totems that I hope will remain.

Children and teens are almost universally dear to my heart. One of the dearest was on stage as a Munchkin, her time under the klieg lights about five minutes of play time and a few minutes at the end. In our pre-play conversation, I re-assured her that this is how just about everything starts. The first jobs are almost always the equivalent of a small role, with few lines. It is approaching the task with aplomb, with the confidence that one is going to do the small stuff well and move up the ladder, to a place that is deserved, that makes the dream become reality.

So she did her small role well, being visible and audible from where I was sitting, with her grandmother, in the second row. Afterward, the three of us went to a fast food place and each got an orange cream shake. We talked of the importance of agency, which she has already stood for, as she described an incident in which she asked that officials remove a poster she finds offensive. She heard us say: “Good on you and keep standing for justice, even when-especially when, it’s hard.”

I will always stand beside her, her brother, cousins and any other young person who is looking at being hazed or subjected to injustice.

Floating and Flowing

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July 8, 2023- The young couple with whom I work on Saturday afternoons entered the Raven, as a mutual friend was playing the opening set for tonight’s joyful noise. Preferring the rooftop patio to the stage-side seating, they floated on upstairs, to enjoy their date night, while I went with the flow in the main room.

Life and friendships are like that now. Other than marriage and the parent-young child relationship, the strongest of bonds do not need constant physical presence, in order to thrive. It is actually a throwback to the days of my mid-to-late twenties, when many gatherings were of friends happy to just be doing their own things, and connecting as those activities naturally intertwined. Back then, though, I didn’t really understand, and often felt like I was on the outside, looking in. These days, it all makes more sense. I know I can count on friends, when they are needed-and vice versa.

Earlier to day, I covered for an old friend who was unable to host his weekly online group. Things started slowly, and yet as the hour continued, people floated in to the call. Some stayed, others were on for only a few minutes, while still others came in place of those who left. It was, all in all, an unpredictable, but delightful spiritual session.

My afternoon work, with the Farmers Market team, also started off with each of us doing separate tasks. Before too long, though, we were helping one another, coming up with more efficient ways that each work station could be completed. This makes two weeks in a row that the Market was closed up within ninety minutes of the vendors and patrons leaving.

At tonight’s concert, people floated between tables-and I found myself enjoying the company of the opening artist, and a few friends of the main artist, then sitting alone after they all left, just enjoying the rest of the performance. After a fashion, leaving the table, so that the band’s videographer could have the right vantage point to do his work, and taking a single seat by the piano, to take in the rest of the concert, worked just fine.

Going with the flow has actually made life a whole lot more joyful.

Intensity

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June 24, 2023- The day started in earnest, right around 8 a.m., with a quick visit to Farmer’s Market-stocking up on microgreens for the week and getting two bulbs of garlic and some flowers for a friend’s birthday dinner, later in the day. Running out of cash and tokens, I gave one bulb back to the farmer, then went back to HB, catching a half hour or so of the Celebration of Unity Zoom call.

Next, it was off to a Red Cross Blood Drive, where my role was to staff the registration table-checking people in and making sure they had completed all preliminaries, prior to their donation. This was a fairly busy five hours, and I felt successful and bushed at the end.

After changing clothes and leaving my Red Cross “uniform” at the apartment, it was off to a Farmer’s Market volunteer appreciation gathering, at a salubrious Willow Lake ramada. I was still a bit tired, heading up there, and briefly inconvenienced a tow truck driver, at an intersection. He got in his protest, and that was all. I do my level best, most of the time, on the road, but never will claim perfection. The gathering was exactly what I needed, after an intense work shift, and the company of young mothers and children afforded a unique and most essential take on our collective life.

Finally, after a run to Costco, to replenish the supply of flavoured water for upcoming gatherings of children and adolescents, it was time for the aforementioned birthday party. Four of us enjoyed fresh salad, vegan chili and fresh cherries, covering a wide range of topics in conversation. Wild animals in our midst, the right and responsibility of adults to conduct their own affairs and associating with people with whom we disagree were all covered amiably.

After the intensity of the day, I gladly relaxed at HB, viewing a light episode of a streamed program, then turned out the lights. Tomorrow could be just as intense, if I let it be. I think, though, that won’t be how it turns out.

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A Broken String

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May 27, 2023-Of course, it happened just as Rick was getting into an extended riff, for his last song of the evening: A string broke, on his electric guitar. With a shrug of his shoulders, the craftsman and artist took out a new string and replaced the errant interrupter, in less than two minutes. Then, he resumed playing a rendition of Eric Clapton’s “Old Love”, from where he had left off-no mean feat of memory. The Bluesman has a limited playlist, but it is surely larger than mine, since I don’t play anything other than a hand drum and a few chords on a piano. He never fails to entertain, this one-man band.

Last-minute events never fail to either aggravate or astonish. Certainly, the buzzer-beating shot by Derrick White, giving the Celtics the win in this evening’s NBA East Semifinals Game 6, will rate among the great turnarounds in professional sports history. Boston teams have done it before-the Red Sox, in 2004 and the Patriots, several times. It was actually the New York Yankees, Penny’s favourite team, who perfected the art of Last Minute Charlie-hood- often coming from behind, in the last half of the ninth inning, and more than once, with two outs.

Mickey Spillane, Al Capone and Dame Nelly Melba said it best, if in a politically-awkward, and in Dame Nelly’s case, self-deprecating, way: “The show’s not over until the fat lady sings”. Nothing is truly over until its last element has transpired. The lengthy tussle over the national debt ceiling is about to come to at least a two-year respite. Let’s hope there is no last-minute broken string.