Stories We Can Tell

"Deciduous Man..." Thanks, Shane Bullard for a little inspiration on this one. A few years ago, Shane was playing some good tunes here on social media...just strumming his 6-string and singing some great old country songs. I haven’t heard much from him in a while. I sure hope he starts playing again. For now, he sits and thinks about the fight. The good fight. Emerging slowly from a darkness That got hold of him last night. Oh, whether you’re a man of means or measure, Or just a wolf in black sheep’s clothing.How pathetic to be stuck there In self-pity and self-loathing. And what we’re falling for.But he rallies. Gazing out upon the Flag, he sings a line or two from Hag— "Today I started loving you again. And I’m right back where I’ve really always been…" His mind goes walking, across the Edmund Pettus bridge, Walking on the moon. Walking into death in Normandy that June. Through dust and fires, Across rivers running red with blood. Down deep, the music plays, Bad news on the doorstep, Bud. His faith returns against all reason. In spite of, in the face of, because of, and for the grace of, everything that’s happened. Despite the wrecking force of greedAnd the weight of sorriness gone to seed,He still believes in goodness, though.Honor, strength, and courage—And other stuff, you know.In those who swim against the stream,Who refuse to think alike,Alice Paul and Lucy Burns waging hunger strikes. Woody Guthrie fighting fascists with two chords on his guitar.Samuel Clemens sitting, Cooly smoking a cigar While birthing Huckleberry Finn.Jefferson writes the Declaration while he plays the violin,John Coltrane and Einstein were probably there to hear it—Living out the mystery of the cosmos, The science and the Holy Spirit.And there’s more.Let him tell you about Austin and the Bakersfield sound, And half a million on a farm, outside a little New York town, Giving peace a chance.Tell me, what’s the matter with a bit of song and dance? In the mud, Dave.Jump in the mud.But then here comes the blues, trying to pull us underWith all the dark and somber news of pillaging and plunder.History talk— Of railroads and boomtownsAnd gold and silver riches foundFrom Comstock in NevadaAnd the Black Hills of Dakota—No more buffalo, James, no Lakota.And never mind the sixty bucks he paid to fill up on the way,He rails against the offshore rigsAnd spills in Prudhoe Bay.Now, we fight the Keystone lineAcross the Plains, today.The question comes, though not the first, Not about the vain attempts to curb our thirst, Just “Hey, what’s the use of knowing all the worst?”“I don’t know,” he just may say,And he probably doesn’t know.He’s not the lion anymore, But that won’t stop the preaching, just listen to him roarWhen he speaks of schemes of thugs and parliaments of whores.He can’t forget old Howard ZinnWho talked about the mortal sin,Of going along to get along, Giving up and giving in.The world has suffered most,Not from chasing Don Quixote’s ghost, Not from deviance and defiance, But from unresisting, unthinking, obedience and compliance.Gazing out again upon the Flag, he hears those favorite lines from Hag,And he’s right back where he’s really always been…In spite of, in the face of,Because of, and for the grace ofEverything that’s happened. Everything we’ve done.At the end of the day, he’s headed home to his sweet dogs.The river on the left is calm and clear, there is no fog,He can see all the way across.Greeted at the kitchen door,By the Shepherd and the Labrador—Joyful and hungry. He feeds them well and then himself.And leaves the Irish on the shelf.He makes a cup of teaAnd sips it slow.Accompanied by birdsong, To Kristofferson’s devil, singing low,A line from a song a brother taught him fifty years ago.“I don’t believe that no one wants to know.”Gone, for now, is whatever got hold of him last night.His faith returns against all reason.A greater fool for any season.

"Pool builders, Steamfitters, and Pilots"-a story about heroes and heroic tendencies...The old black man sat in a sliver of shade smoking a cigarette. He seemed puzzled by my fascination with his work. He must have wondered why this skinny kid was so intrigued by hard labor.“What’s your name, jitterbug?” he asked.I told him, but I did not ask him his. He was the darkest man I’d ever seen. He seemed ancient, yet his body looked chiseled from stone.“Jimmy?” he said, repeating my name as he stood up slowly and climbed back down into the hole.The way they built swimming pools a half century ago was a sight to behold. It was grueling, monotonous work—especially in the Florida summer sun— but to witness its construction was watching an artist at work. I was amazed by the old man’s meticulous efforts. His tender dumped a wheelbarrow full of fresh cement in the bottom of the hole, and with a square-point shovel, the man would start slinging it against the wire mesh on the walls. Two-thirds of the mud would slide down to the bottom, but never mind, he had already scooped up another shovel full and slung it, too, and of course, much of the cement slid back down. He continued the work for hours and this ten year old sat mesmerized. What seemed to be a terribly wearisome process began to take shape, as he formed the corners and edges with that square-point shovel, only stopping for a few cigarette and water breaks. I had no idea then about the dealing of cards and how they could be stacked against him. I didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me a lesson I would not forget. I never saw the man again, but I’ve spent many a day digging my own holes, slinging mud against the walls...

her, on our first evening walk on the beach together. And before Kay could say

anything, I started singing it to her as we strolled along, holding hands. And

that was the beginning. Little did we know how this pirate troubadour/jester

would serenade us as we moved through our lives.

stories, his images. And a funny thing happened: his words started coming to me

in bits and pieces—so quickly, I had to brush them away from my face. I wrote

them down furiously and this little story came out it.

Atlantic, the Gulf, and the intracoastal waterways. …through celebrations, road-trips,

trials and tribulations, and even a wake or two. We’ve been blessed by so many

great voices in our lives, and we don’t spend a whole lot of time ranking or

rating them, but Jimmy holds a  special

place. Kay and I both were Florida born and bred, and he provides a saltwater

soundtrack, if you will—blue skies and ultraviolet rays.

 magic, mystery and mischief in everyday

life, spirituality in natural beauty, and liberation in laughter. His lessons

on the art of “noticing” our surroundings pick 

up where Hemingway and Alice Walker left off.

visceral reminder to live in the world, as Muir said, and not

just on it.

that night in Montana with no room for doubt, to the corner of Walk and Don’t

Walk, just sipping coffee from Café du Monde. A journey past the channel

islands out into the cosmos, singing “Mother, mother, ocean,”  from a hymn he taught me at an early age.

described as an escape, but it’s not an escape, exactly. He gives our spirits

lift when we are too much burdened by troubles, worries, and obligations. Challenging

us to try to live happily ever after every now and then.

in my wake,” he says, and so we do.

there are the four guitars. He Strums and picks, Stirring sparks with

stars." (a whole lot of folks show up in this one--from Tom Waits and

George Jones to Coltrane...and a dog that howls at A Minor)

to the Les Paul electric

up another cigarette,

This is the final draft of something I wrote, before the name came to me. I really like this version. You can find the finished work in "Sabal Palm," a compilation I recently published. Copyright 2023 by Jim McGinnis. Hope you enjoy it

Reading "Good Dog Loose," -for kids of any age- brought to life by Tamara's illustrations (she's pretty good) -available on Amazon