Life

Poets: The Craft of Rhyming Words

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Last night I picked up an old book of poetry that I have had for many years.  The small red book was published in 1933 has the odd title of “Additional Poems to the Golden Treasury”.  There are at least a dozen small little pieces of torn paper that bookmark pages where some of my favorites are.  I thumbed through the book and absorbed again some old favorites which lead me to pick up two other poetry books in my library and thumb through their bookmarked pages.  From a little less than an hour last night I have typed here this morning parts of some favorites I wanted to share.  I feel a little like I am cheating in putting up this blog today as it will be mostly filled with the work of others.  Yet, I am doing so with great respect and gratitude for these famous writers whose even meter and rhyme sprinkle my spirit with joy each time I read their work.  

From When You are Old by W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 

From I Love You by Sara Teasdale
When April bends above me
and finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.
 
From The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

From Two In The Campagna by Robert Browning
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path for rhymes.
 
From A Word to Husbands by Ogden Nash
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.

From A Poison Tree by William Blake
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

From Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

From If by Rudyard Kipling
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Last lines of The Star-Spangled Banner by Francis Scott Key
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

From A Match by Algernon Charles Swinburne
If love were what the words are,
And love were like the tune
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon.

From A Birthday by Christina Georgina Rossetti
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.

From A Man’s Requirements by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Love me Sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing;
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.

Well written poetry that is smooth and even in the way it is crafted can move me deeply.  I know from trying to write poems myself how difficult it is to mold words in this manner.  Also, I realize the talent needed to write poetry I either do not possess or else have never brought it forth in a satisfactory way.  This makes me all the more grateful to those who paint  beautiful portraits with words.

He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life.  George Sand

Davy Crockett, Albert Einstein and my Grandfather

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

One of my earliest memories comes from somewhere in my third year when I received a pair of Davy Crockett gloves with fringe on the cuffs.  When I had them on I thought I was almost as cool as my hero of the moment, Davy himself, who wore gloves like mine on the Walt Disney show.  I loved those gloves and would walk around with my arms out front so people could see tassels move as I moved. 

Most every boy has sports figures in his hero lineup.  My football hero was Johnny Unitas of the Baltimore Colts (I have never gotten completely comfortable to this day putting Indianapolis in the name even though the team was moved there in 1984).  When it came to baseball my hero was Willie Mays.  The reasons I remember looking up to Mr. Mays was his home was less than a hundred miles from where I grew up in Alabama, he hit lots of homeruns and had a great warm and inviting smile.  

By the time I hit High School it was Albert Einstein and James Bond I looked up to.  As for the Bond thing, all I can say is I read all the books, saw all the movies (even had a family member end up with a bit part in one of them) and thought James was the ultimate in cool.  Good ole Albert died when I was a toddler, but as my interest in the sciences grew he became my “poster god” for science.  At 14 years of age I was convinced I was going to be a physicist just like Albert.  

Starting somewhere around the age of ten, Paul McCartney of the Beatles was elected to my internal realm of hero.  He always seemed to be enjoying himself and I loved his singing voice.  The respect I have for McCartney has grown over the years as I have come to believe he was the most talented of the Beatles. 

Constant from my days of looking up to Davy Crockett until today there is another hero who I have never wavered in my love for.  He was my grandfather, my mother’s father, who I called “Paw Paw”.  His given name was Huel and his friends often called him “H.T.” (short for Huel Thomas).  Those outside out family usually called him Uncle Huel as he was the unofficial caretaker of the entire rural valley where he lived. 

Paw-Paw never learned to read.  Early in the 1st grade he had to stay home and help my great-grandmother with the garden and the younger kids.  My great-grandfather had accidently knocked a shotgun over causing a leg wound that resulted in the loss of his leg.  The recovery and learning to get around again took years during which time my grandfather shouldered responsibility as the oldest healthy male in the house. 

While my grandfather could sign his name, my grandmother had to read him legal documents and other important things.  However, when it came to numbers and math he was a self taught wiz and could figure any sort of weight and measure.  I imagine the lack of reading ability must have been difficult for Paw-Paw at times, but I can’t remember a single instance of it ever getting in the way.  He somehow learned how to “get by”.  

I even recall his frustration with jacking a pickup one day when he just lifted the back vehicle off the ground with his bare hands so a guy who worked for him could mount a tire.  I thought Paw-Paw had a little Superman in him!  The fact that he made a living his entire life on his farm says “superman” to me just as well.   

What made my grandfather an even more real hero to me than most others was I knew he had faults and one or two were not small ones.  One was he liked to drink and on holidays was usually “happy as a hootey owl” as folks down south used to say.  Another was he had a wandering eye and at least once was caught with another woman when I was eight.  At that time I recall he and my grandmother went into their bedroom for about 8 hours and did not come out.  I heard voices, loud at times but could not understand what was being said.  All I know is when they came out the matter was settled and was not talked about again. 

What I did know was how my grandfather treated people in general.  He was soft spoken, quite and polite usually only speaking when spoken to.  He had an easy going manner and would help anyone at any time unless you had wronged him.  Someone could knock on his door at 3am, say they were stuck in a ditch up the road and he’d go get one of his tractors and pull them out. Even when offered he’d refuse money for the kindness.  It was just his way to help people and when someone helped him his verbal expression of thanks was almost always the phrase “much obliged”.  

Oh, I forgot to mention that I was the oldest grandson within a bunch of grandkids.  I forgot until now to write that he had me on a tractor riding with him between his legs on that big John Deere when I was two years old.  I don’t recall Paw-Paw ever telling me he loved me, but I knew he did.  It was the way he held me and played with me when I was little.  It was how he’d put his big hand on my shoulder when I was a boy as he introduced me to a stranger.  And it was that he always let me go with him to town and to go “see a man about a horse” as he always called it.  

There is no doubt in my mind I have embellished and improved beyond fact my memory of my grandfather.  That’s OK.  He left me with some basic ideals and a standard for treating people that are innate within me.  Paw-Paw looked a little like John Wayne I always thought and even had that kind of sideways gait when he walked just like Mr. Wayne.  Paw-Paw, you are my hero and even today you live within me and in the stories I am proud tell about you.  I love you and am grateful to be your grandson.

How important it is for us to recognize and celebrate our he-roes and our she-roes!  Maya Angelou 

Hanging Out with Thoreau at Walden

/ James Browning

I was in the 11th grade when I first came in contact with “Walden or Life in the Woods” by Henry David Thoreau.  I recall little about the book from then except reading it was an assignment and I had to do a report on it.  At that age my mind was a swirling mass of girls, cars, grades, dreams and hopes seasoned with a screwy home life.  Absorbing what Thoreau was saying and the depth of his message were wasted on the teenage version of me.  I re-discovered “Walden” about a decade ago and it is now one of my top ten books and one I have read cover to cover three times.  I often pick up a well worn copy I have and randomly open it to read a page.  Wisdom usually finds me each time I do.

“Walden” is today considered to contain some of the first American writing about transcendental thinking.  One of Thoreau thought’s about his two years living in the woods in a self built cabin was to find out just how much a man needed to work to supply the basic essentials of life.  I recall that his conclusion was an estimate of about six to eight weeks of labor each year.

Thoreau said his intention was to  “live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”  There in the 1850’s on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s property at Walden Pond, he lived in a one room cabin furnished with castoffs.  Thoreau found his food in the woods around him, in the lake beside him and in the field near him where his garden was.  He scavanged for lumber and nails and worked barter fashion with farmers for supplies, seed, food, and other things he needed.

Thoreau told time by the train whistle from the nearby tracks which he thought often disrupted his contented existence.  He preferred the sounds of whip-poor-wills, owls, loons, frogs, chattering squirrels and distant crowing roosters.  Thoreau spent much of his time observing everything from the seasonal changes of trees and plants to the activity of the animals around him.  He spent hours with self-assignments such as with a rock and string ascertaining the depth of Walden Pond to a degree that he could map the entire bottom of the lake.

Some of my favorite passages I have underlined in my most worn copy of “Walden” are:

“I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.” 

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”  

“However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.”  

“A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of any prince”. 

“As for the pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs”. 

“Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life… When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence, that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality”. 

“Every man is the builder of a temple called his body…We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones”. 

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment”.  

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is”. 

“Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, how ever measured or far away”. 

Today I eagerly express my thanks for the work that Henry David Thoreau left behind for me to discover.  It served a large role in my “awakening” starting around ten years back.  It was then that I began to uncover the real meaning and purpose of my life.  While a difficult journey, I am deeply grateful for the discoveries I have made since that initial inspiration.  Further, there is much thankfulness within for the 14 years of life I have already had beyond that of  Thoreau’s time on Earth.

My writing is far below the caliber of his work.  My thoughts are not as original and deep.  However, I do hope in a small way I am showing my deep gratefulness to Mr. Thoreau for his impact on my life by playing forward his original thoughts of 160 years ago.

A good book has no ending.  R.D. Cumming

Benefits from a Golden Rule

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

Today finds me at LaGuardia Airport in New York waiting at the gate for a flight to another major hub that hopefully will connect me to a second flight to home.  We have been told there are storms in the Midwest that is affecting flights in and out of Chicago where my connection is, but so far my flight is listed as only leaving a few minutes late.  The second leg of my travels currently is showing it will depart 25 minutes late.  With a little luck I will get home fairly close to when scheduled.

As I sit here close by people in line at the counter are grumbling at the gate agents as they try to re-route some people whose flight delay will cause them to miss a connection.  Two have been down right rude.  Once upon a time I might have been one of those people, but something that happened about 20 years ago taught me better.

I had flown from Denver to Los Angeles for the day concerning a job interview.  Upon arrival I got a rental car and drove to my appointment which went well, but long.  Traffic in LA is always a variable and driving to the airport I was concerned that I might not make the flight home.  I hustled through the rental car return and security then ran to my gate.

Upon arriving all sweaty from running to the gate I saw five angry people unloading on the gate agent.  He saw me and asked if I was on the flight to Denver which I confirmed.  He said “Sorry Sir, the flight is overbooked.  I’ll get you rebooked as soon as I can”.  I responded with something like “that’s OK.  Not your fault.  It’s been a hectic day.  I am gonna sit down, cool off and read for a while.  Motion to me when you’re ready to work on getting me on a different flight”.

With that I sat down, got a book out of my bag and began reading.  Over about 10 minutes the gate agent either got people on different flights or else sent the rudest ones to the main desk for rebooking.  As the gate cleared out the gate agent came over to me and said “Sir, come with me quickly!”  We trotted to the jetway door; the agent input a code to open it as he said “There’s one seat in the very back of the plane.  You have a safe journey home.”  I smiled at him and said “I am really grateful.  Thank you”.  The seat was in the very back of the Continental flight in one of those seats that did not recline.  I did not care though.  I was headed home on time.  I only got the gate agent’s first name and wrote a letter to the airlines thanking him for his good service to me.  I hope at the least he got a pat of the back.

Had I not been so tired that day in LA I could easily have been one of those being abrupt and terse with the gate agent.  By not acting that way I benefited from my treatment of the gate agent.  He could have selected any of the other people bumped from the flight in that seat toDenver, but he put me there.  The moral of the story:  Gate agents have no control on flight schedules and being mean to them gets you no where.  If you are cordial and patient many, if not most, gate agents will do their best to help you.

At least a half dozen times since the first episode I have benefited from treating airline workers as I would like to be treated.  A year ago I had three gate agents working to reroute me at one o’clock in the morning.  In spite of being exhausted I smiled, told a joke and socially interacted positively with the agents.  They ended up calling a supervisor over who bumped someone from a sold out flight.  I regret someone got bumped but grateful I made my destination in time the next day for a critical business meeting.  The airline employees did not have to help me as they did.  At the end the agents told me the only reason they did what they did was that I was an exceptionally patient and understanding passenger.

Rarely is being unkind, angry or mean to anyone a benefit.  I read once that being angry at someone is akin to taking poison and expecting the other person to die.  To me that explains it all.

Being nice does not always work and there are times where stating your piece pointedly will help.  I consider it a last resort.  I am convinced that nice guys (and girls) finish ahead more often than not by simply treating others the way he or she would like to be treated.  I am grateful for that lesson I learned long ago at LAX.  That wisdom has served me well.

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone,

Kindness in another’s trouble,

And courage in your own.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Simple Joy of Cool Air

/ James Browning

The age of air conditioning is considered to have begun in the 1950’s.  It wasn’t until 1969 or a little over 40 years ago that a little more than half  (54%) of new cars came with air conditioning.  The majority of homes did not have AC until 1978.

Today I wonder how we’d get along without it!  There is nothing like a 98 degree day to make one appreciate having air conditioned comfort at home, at work and in the car.  Here in early June I have tremendous gratitude for my AC this year.  The upper 90’s came early!

In the 1950’s and prior it was not unusual for offices and factories to shut down during some of the hottest parts of summer.  It was just unbearable to work at times.  Then starting in the middle of the 20th century businesses began to cool workspaces with water cooling towers and refrigerated units.  From there cooled air moved into homes and cars.

There are parts of our country that would be difficult to live in without cooled air.  Imagine Phoenix or Las Vegas in July or Orlando or south Florida in August without AC!  Air conditioning in the last 60 years has been a major contributor in shifting population in the United States.  Since 1950 the population of Phoenix has grown +255% and Las Vegas population has increased by 1843%!  The city of Jacksonville,Florida has 279% more people living that than in 1950.  In the same time frame Houston has grown 238% and Dallas 179%.

Sixty years ago the largest population centers were in the northern parts of the USA in large part because of summer weather there being more bearable.  Since 1950 and the growing use of air conditioning the populations of Cleveland and Detroit have decreased by 50%.  There are almost 30% less people living in Minneapolis, Philadelphia and Boston than lived there six decades ago.

I grew up in the south eastern part of the country where a 98 degree day was often matched by a humidity  percentage around the same number.  I was an adult and out on my own before I had an air conditioned place.  Growing up I do remember getting sweaty at night, but the back and forth of the oscillating fan and open windows made it bearable as I recall.

I was lucky to have visited the South American Amazon about 10 years ago.  The main camp where we stayed did have buildings with a roofs and floors, but there was no electricity which meant no AC.  I recall it being hard to go to sleep, but the jungle cooled  off at night.  As long as there was a breeze, by 10pm the night was bearable to try and get some rest in.

I sit here typing this at my desk with freshly cooled air pouring in my home office from the floor vent.  Soon I will be in my car driving with the air conditioning going.  From there I will be in offices and other businesses all during the day that I know will have units cooling the air to a comfortable level.  Being one who sweats like a faucet, I am more grateful than most to live in an age with air conditioning.  I can’t imagine living with out it.

Now that I stop and think about it I realize how very grateful I am for something I always take for granted.  I have been reminded of it by times when there were issues with AC units in my home or car or at work.  I remember how thankful I was when the failing units were repaired and cooling again. The more I pay attention to things I am grateful for, the more I realize I have to be thankful for.

               Whatever we think about and thank about we bring about.                 Dr John F. Demartini


Purveyors of Love

/ James Browning

There are probably few men who truly enjoy a good love story more than me.  For movies a few favorites off the top of my head are: Casablanca, Time Traveler’s Wife, Pretty Woman, City of Angels, Before Sunrise, Hope Floats, Sommersby, Notting Hill, and The Lake House.

Love stories unfolded in books I have enjoyed include:  The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, The Bridges of Madison Country by Robert James Waller, Love Story by Erich Segal and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

Then there are the poets whose delicate weaving of language and love have touched me.  A few of them are Emily Dickenson, Lord Byron, Wendy Cope, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sara Teasdale and William Butler Yeats.

However, there is nothing filmed or published that stirs my soul more than the love story of Victorian poets Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. Barrett received a telegram from an admirer named Robert Browning. He wrote, “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett…”   This began a secret courtship, conducted primarily in frequent letters back and forth, that was kept from Elizabeth’s wealthy father, who did not approve.  Elizabeth and Robert eloped and were married on September 12, 1846.  As soon as he learned of the wedding, Elizabeth’s father promptly disinherited her.

The marriage was happy and Robert fawned over his wife, encouraging her work and taking care of her. While she never completely recovered from an illness that began in childhood, Elizabeth’s health improved a great deal during the 15 years of their marriage.  On June 29, 1861, Elizabeth Barrett Browning died at the age of 55 in the arms of her husband.  Robert was devastated and for a long time was inconsolable.  He lived another 28 years and never remarried.

There is a two volume set of the letters between Elizabeth and Robert published by their son in 1898.  The majority of  the content of the letters is written about day to day life and people they knew, often in what I would call “old-speak”.  But also contained are expressions of emotion that seem contemporary even today 160+ years after they were written.

Elizabeth to Robert Sept 25 1945:  You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me.  Hence forward I am yours for everything but to do you harm…

Robert to Elizabeth on Oct 30, 1845:  This is my first song, my true song, this love I bear you.  I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that name – love.  I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me:  they are not earnest enough; so far true enough.  But this is all the flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your feet…

Elizabeth to Robert on Nov 27, 1845: You have come to me as a dream comes, as the best of dreams come…

Robert to Elizabeth Dec 20, 1845:  I do not, nor will not think, dearest of ever ‘making you happy’.  I can imagine no way of working that end, which does not go straight to my own truest, only true happiness…

Elizabeth to Robert Jan 9 1846:  If you were to leave me even, to decide that it is best for you to do it, and do it, never should I nor could I regret having known you and loved you…

Robert to ElizabethJan 26, 1846:  My love for you was in the first instance its own reward…

Elizabeth to Robert Feb 16, 1846:  I was decided from the first hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really I am more thine than my own.  It is a literal truth and my future belongs to you.  If it was mine, it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given…

Robert to ElizabethApril 18, 1846:  I do adore you, more and more, as I live to see more, and feel more… 

Elizabeth to Robert August 26, 1846:   How I wish for two hearts to love you with, and two lives to give to you, and two souls to bear the weight worthily of all you have given to me.  But if one heart and one life will do, they are yours.  I can not give them again…

Today and as I sit here and write it is the gratitude for the purveyors of the sentiments of love that I feel.  When I have doubted if love was real or possible or suffered most from the pain of loving they are the ones who have kept the spark in my heart.  There is much thankfulness within me for the authors, actors, letter writers and poets who have picked me up when I needed it.  It is they who enabled me to keep my belief in love from withering and dying.

What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Into the Sunset

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

What do the following people have in common?  Ed Asner, Jim Backus, Ralph Bellamy, Charles Bronson, John Carradine, Robert Culp, Bette Davis, Bruce Dern, Angie Dickinson, Sam Elliott, Harrison Ford, Jodie Foster, Anne Francis, Dennis Hopper, George Kennedy, Martin Landau, Strother Martin, Ricardo Montalbán, Harry Morgan, Leonard Nimoy, Nick Nolte, Kurt Russell, Burt Reynolds, William Shatner, Tom Skerritt, Loretta Swit, Lee Van Cleef, Jon Voight, Lesley Ann Warren,  and James Whitmore.

They were all were on the TV show Gunsmoke at one time or another along with at least a hundred other faces most people 35 and above will recognize.  Gunsmoke started in the mid-50’s in black and while and moved to color about half way through its twenty year run.  It became the longest running, prime time series of the twentieth century.

Growing up in the 60’s and early 70’s I remember well the cowboy shows on television:  Wagon Train, Rawhide, Maverick, Bonanza, The Rifleman, Have Gun Will Travel, The Virginian, Wild Wild West and many more.  But there was only one Gunsmoke.   Doc,  Festus, Chester and the unrequited love between Miss Kitty and Marshall Dillon.  Even today I watch reruns occasionally on cable’s Encore Westerns.  Seeing it is as comforting and American as “Mom and apple pie”.

I am grateful for the many hours of entertainment Gunsmoke gave me.  There is also gratitude within for the basic morals and standards the show portrayed.  Yes, people got shot fairly often, but it was the embellished “old west” and as a kid I knew it was all make believe.  Yet, I knew the “fiber” of the show was real.

The star of Gunsmoke and a childhood hero of mine, James Arness, died yesterday at the age of 88.  I feel like I have lost a family member like a distant great-uncle.  Mr. Arness wrote this letter to be released upon his death this past Friday, June 6, 2011:

Hi friends, 

I decided to write a letter to you for Janet to post on our website in the event I was no longer here. 

I had a wonderful life and was blessed with some many loving people and great friends. The best part of my life was my family, especially my wife Janet. Many of you met her at Dodge City so you understand what a special person she is. 

I wanted to take this time to thank all of you for the many years of being a fan of Gunsmoke, The Thing, How the West Was Won and all the other fun projects I was lucky enough to have been allowed to be a part of. I had the privilege of working with so many great actors over the years. 

I was honored to have served in the army for my country. I was at Anzio during WWII and it makes you realize how very precious life is. 

Thank you again for all the many letters, cards, emails and gifts we received from you over the years. You are and always have been truly appreciated. 

Sincerely,

Jim Arness 

The gratitude Mr. Arness expresses in his letter is touching.  I always thought he was that kind of guy and it does my heart good to know in reality he really was.

The very first episode of Gunsmoke was introduced by John Wayne:

Good evening. My name’s Wayne. Some of you may have seen me before; I hope so. I’ve been kicking around Hollywood a long time. I’ve made a lot of pictures out here, all kinds, and some of them have been Westerns. And that’s what I’m here to tell you about tonight: a Western—a new TV show called Gunsmoke. No, I’m not in it. I wish I were, though, because I think it’s the best thing of its kind that’s come along, and I hope you’ll agree with me; it’s honest, it’s adult, it’s realistic. 

When I first heard about the show Gunsmoke, I knew there was only one man to play in it: James Arness. He’s a young fellow, and maybe new to some of you, but I’ve worked with him and I predict he’ll be a big star. So you might as well get used to him, like you’ve had to get used to me! And now I’m proud to present my friend Jim Arness in Gunsmoke. 

So now Marshall Matt Dillon has ridden off into the sunset to join Marshall ”Rooster” Cogburn.  To both gentlemen:  thank you both for all the wonderful hours I wandered the old west in spirit with you.  And Marshall Dillon… I hope you and Miss Kitty finally can get together now!  Thank you Mr. Arness.  I will not forget you.

I know it’s hard but please don’t cry

Fer I’m now ridin’ God’s trails high up in the sky

(from “A Cowboy’s Last Request by Terry Ike Clanton)

High School Memories Revised

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

“I can’t believe that!” said Alice.  “Can’t you?” the Queen said in a pitying tone.  “Try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”  Alice laughed.  “There’s no use trying,” she said.  “One can’t believe impossible things.”  “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen.  “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day.  Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

Real life can sometimes be akin to the experiences of the Queen in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.   I am in the process of discovering and overturning some personally fabricated untruths from my growing up years.  While the initial realization is a little disconcerting, the newly realized truth is freeing.

My home life was troubled growing up (father left when I was 7, a young and preoccupied with herself Mother, a nasty stepfather who arrived in my 10th year, verbal, mental and some physical abuse at home, etc).  Further, I have carried the belief that my junior and high school life was troubled also.  Now I realize I took with me to class what was at home and painted my school experience with it.

I did remember previously that academically I always did well and had no issues with classes or teachers.  I recalled being picked on some here and there.  The memory of being left out of the “in” group at times was clear.  I recalled feeling “not good enough” because I did not have the cool clothes many did.  However, there is nothing unique about me having those type memories of my school years.  Most all have those feelings growing up, at least at times.

Two nights ago I did an on-line search for an old classmate and ran across a listing of people in my hometown who were buried in a particular cemetery. A few were people I went to school with. I dug out four high school annuals I have paid almost no attention to in 40 years to try and connect name to face for two people.  Doing so caused a strong bit of a nostalgic feeling and I began to slowly read through two of the yearbooks.  I ended up reading  how people had signed my yearbooks for the first time in probably 40 years.  What I found was almost a perfect conflict with the memory I had planted in my head about school.

 To one of the cutest, sweetest and most charming boys I have ever known.  You are a good friend I will always remember with pleasure.  May God provide you with the best life has to offer.  Beth 

To a good friend who was the only one at the first of school.  A friend.  Mike 

To one of the cutest, sweetest boys I know.  You have a lot of class. May we always be friends.  Kaye 

Best of luck to a real nice boy!  Stay the same and you’ll really go places.  Will 

To one of the nicest boys and cutest I know.  May we be best of friends.  I will always remember you.  Love Linda 

To a good boy and a very good friend. May God be with you.  David 

You are one of the best looking boys I have ever known.  May you always be as sweet as you are now.  Love ya, Joan

To a real nice friend.  I hope you really have the best in everything you ever do.  Good luck.  Jon 

To a good looking guy with a great personality.  May we have some fun some time.  Love and kisses.  Loretta (I hope your girl don’t crown me!) 

On and on the written comments went.  Between the two yearbooks comments of somewhere around 100 people were there.  All were positive, caring, encouraging and friendly.  There was not a single negative hinted at.  A little of what was written may have been the tendency of people to just say something nice.  However, even considering that, what I read was overwhelming.

After all these years, my made up memories about school faded away.  I suddenly recalled that school was one of the good things about my growing up.  I had many friends, was accepted in all “groups” and popular in most.  Girls liked me and reading the comments now I realize I missed the chance for several girlfriends.  Even the boys thought I was a good guy.

While this is a difficult lesson, I am grateful through the emotions of the moment to know that some of my memory is untrue.  Somehow I mixed up some of this and some of that to create “impossible things” like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland.  Now I know I have denied myself the knowing of some wonderful things about my life.

What a relief!  What a gift!  To suddenly find wonderful memories that I had locked away behind a door of other grief and pain is both humbling and astonishing.  What I was feeling inside at the time did not allow me to accurately experience and remember the school part of my youth.  I suppose it is human nature to diminish the good and amplify the bad, but from this day forward it is my intention to reverse that tendency as much as possible.

With great gratitude for what has happened,  I am suddenly refreshed and renewed at a soulful level.

Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.  Richard Wright

“Mornin’ Mack. How you doing?”

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Frequently I say “Mornin’ Mack.  How you doing?” when I walk by the photo above that hangs in my office.  At other times I have been known to say “I know Mack, I shouldn’t have done that” or simply “I miss you man”.

Mack Jones Pettigrew was one of the best friends of my life.  He died in 1994.  We met when we both worked at the same place in 1975 and for the next 19 years we became closer and closer friends.     The time we became the closest was during his illness.  In typical Mack J. style he made that time uniquely memorable.

The time is clear in my mind when in 1988 I met Mack for lunch on a workday as I frequently did.  He was quieter and less animated than usual and mentioned he did not feel well.  Close to the end of lunch Mack looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said something like “I’m really sick man.  I gonna to die and I haven’t told anyone until now.  Not even my Mama.  I’m scared”.  I was dumbfounded and did not know what to say but asked “what’s going on”.  He proceeded to explain that it had all started with sickle cell anemia and now had turned into full blown leukemia of an incurable type.  I wanted to know if there was treatment that could help and Mack said there were only things that could buy him time.  Nothing else.

To know the man that Mack had been prior to his illness would be to describe a good man with some bad habits.  Frequently cash flow challenged he cut corners that were not always legal but never of the sort that gets a person in serious trouble.  His life was also a constant flow of women.  He had been married for a few years to someone he truly loved and the union produced a child that was dear to him.  His bad habits caused the downfall of the marriage and at the time he became ill he had been single for close to 10 years.  I knew his faults and I knew his heart too.

Over lunch the day he told me he was sick, he explained that the Doctors told him he had 12 to 18 months to live.  But, if he would clean his act up, stay on a strict diet and get serious daily exercise he could buy himself time.  And buy himself time is what Mack did.  He became extraordinarily picky with his diet and he committed even more to working out.

Three years passed and it was hard to know Mack was ill.  He seemed so healthy and normal except when his pancreas would be hurting and he’d put his hand over that spot.  He became a serious body builder and as you can see from the photo above he was handsome with his rippling muscles and killer smile.  Mack went on to take every state of Ohio title for body building for 40+ men.  I remember sitting in the audience watching him flex and show off on stage looking so vibrant and filled with vigor.  I knew what others in the audience did not know:  My friend was dying.

Mack became one of the most loving, caring and gentle souls I have ever known during the seven years he lived from the onset of his illness.  That’s almost 4 times what the doctors originally predicted!  During those years he always hugged me when he first saw me and again when we parted.  Mack also always told me he loved me each time just before we went our separate ways.  It was with him that I adopted that habit where today I hug those men and women dear to me before leaving.  It is an enduring legacy of my friend who taught me it’s OK to show how I felt.

During those years of his illness we had some long and deep conversations that I learned so much from.  Once he said to me something similar to “You will never know what it’s like to be black.  Every day I am reminded what color I am and it’s been going on since I was little.  Some days it’s how people look at me or how they treat me.  Other days I remind myself when I look in the mirror and notice the color of my skin”.  He gave me that perspective and much more I would never have acquired had Mack not been my friend.

The last year of his life he took a job down south and I only saw him once.  We talked on the phone every 2 or 3 weeks and he always told me he was doing well. Even though I knew he was ill, it just seemed like Mack was going to just keep going and going.

That’s what I thought until I got a call on Wednesday March 16, 1994 from his ex-wife who said he had been in the hospital for over two weeks and had come home to die.  I learned she was breaking her word to call me as Mack had made her promise not to until he was gone.  He did not want me to worry and be upset. She said she knew how close we were and just couldn’t keep what was going on from me any longer.  I broke every speed limit getting to the hospital and when I got there my old friend was no longer conscious.  But when his wife called his name and told him I was in the room he moved and tried to raise his head even though he was unconscious.  He knew I was there.

So for the next few hours I sat on one side of the bed and his wife on the other (he remarried her in the hospital so she could receive benefits).  I held Mack’s right hand and she was held his left as he struggled for breathe.  To glance at the man who lay there all rippling with muscles it was difficult to grasp what was going on.  Over about three hours the breaths became slower and slower until there were no more.

Mack was as an MP in the army when he was young and was always proud of his service.  It came as no surprise that he had told his wife that he wanted to be buried in a Veteran’s Cemetery.  And so he was on Monday, March 21, 1994.  Rest in peace my dear friend. The tears I have shed writing this are for the joy of having known you and for what you taught me with your courage and caring.  I will love you always and be grateful for the gift you were to my life.  Happy Memorial Day Mack.  “Ciao, ciao”

Pettigrew, Mack Jones, b. 06/20/1951, d. 03/16/1994, US Army, PVT, Res: Fairborn, OH, Dayton National Cemetery- Plot: 25 0 862, bur. 03/21/1994

Miss Annie Maude Upchurch

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

Many people have made a positive impact on my life, but few as much as a handful of teachers.  I don’t remember college professor’s names particularly, but there are several teachers I recall fondly from grades 1-12.  In those preteen and teenage years, the whole world was unfolding before me and I was witnessing it with new eyes for the first time.

The year I was eleven I was in 6th grade taught by a young guy. Mr. Farr was only in his late 20’s and we all thought he was so cool.  Always in a good mood, played guitar and piano and just seemed to always enjoy us kids.  To this day he is still one of my heroes.  The opportunity to visit him and his wife to say thank you came about a dozen years after I graduated high school. During that time together I showed him I wore my watch “upside down” just like him.  To this day the watch on my left arm has the face on the inside of my wrist and the clasp on the outside.  This is my habit and my tribute to a great teacher who I loved like an uncle.

In Junior High I was very interested in science and Mrs. Levi taught that class and encouraged me to enter a regional science fair.  When the actual competition came around at a college about 50 miles from where I lived, she was the one who drove me there.  I remember her having more interest than my family did in my effort.  I was surprised (and so was my family!) to win the Zoology category and to this day that achievement is one of my proudest as a kid.  Without Mrs. Levi it would never have happened.

And there was the teacher who had much to do with the waking my romantic soul.  Miss Annie Maude Upchurch was not far from retirement when she taught the English classes of my high school years.  She was a very strict teacher, but also one respected by students and known generally as a kind woman.  Miss Upchurch was something of a local legend and had taught my Mother when she went through the same school.  Most in town knew her story like one would know the background of a famous star.

What was known:  Miss Upchurch took care of a sister whose health was somewhat frail and weak.  The two of them traveled to New York City for a week each year to get their annual dose of Broadway.  But what was most known is she never married, but wore an engagement right on her left hand.  Her husband-to-be had lost his life in Word War II and she had never moved on beyond him.

The story seemed to usually be told in a sad way by the adults, but for us teenagers hers was a true tragically romantic story we found inspiration in.  MIss Upchurch’s life seemed to be of the bittersweet type found in some of the literature she had us read.  It was her love of poetry from which the roots of my love of rhyming words sprouted.

From Miss Upchurch’s class I learned about “The Road Not Taken” By Robert Frost:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference.

Then there was the beautiful poetry by the guy with the funny name.  Algernon Swinburne  in a poem called “The Match” wrote:

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather
Blown fields or floweful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf

And it was Miss Upchurch who introduced me to Elizabeth Barrett Browning whose work I fell in love with then and carry that sentiment with me toward her work still today.  My bookshelves have at least a dozen antique books of her work and several newer ones.  Even after my personal experiences of the joy and disappointment of love I still swoon over the mystery and hope Mrs. Browning expressed in “Sonnets from the Portuguese”:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

All my teachers have my sincere gratitude.  Without them it would be impossible for me to be able to express myself here.  Among them all there was that special one who taught me about the beauty of words, how to find the feeling behind poetry, and how to harvest the wisdom found in stories.  Thank you Miss Upchurch.  Rest in Peace.

A good teacher is like a candle – it consumes itself to light the way for others.  Author Unknown